The Interpreter: A Tale of the War
CHAPTER XV
BEVERLEY MERE
What contrasts there are in life! Light and shade, Lazarus and Dives,the joyous spirit and the broken heart, always in juxtaposition. Hereare two pictures not three miles apart.
A pale, wan young man, dressed in black, with the traces of deep griefon his countenance, and his whole bearing that of one who is thoroughlyovercome and prostrated by sorrow, sits brooding over an untastedbreakfast; the room he occupies is not calculated to shed a cheeringinfluence on his reflections: it is a long, low, black-wainscotedapartment, well stored with books, and furnished in a curious andsomewhat picturesque style with massive chairs and quaintly carvedcabinets. Ancient armour hangs from the walls, looming ghostly andgigantic in the subdued light, for although it is a bright Octobermorning out-of-doors, its narrow windows and thick walls make AltonGrange dull and sombre and gloomy within. A few sketches, evidently bythe hand of a master, are hung in favourable lights. More than one arespirited representations of a magnificent black-and-white retriever--thesame that is now lying on the floor, his head buried between his huge,strong paws, watching his master's figure with unwinking eyes. Thatmaster takes no notice of his favourite. Occasionally he fixes hisheavy glance on a picture hanging over the chimney-piece, and thenwithdraws it with a low stifled moan of anguish, at which the dog raiseshis head wistfully, seeming to recognise a too familiar sound. Thepicture is of a beautiful foreign-looking woman; its eyes and eyebrowsare reproduced in that sorrow-stricken young man. They are mother andson; and they have never met. Could she but have seen me then! If evera spirit might revisit earth to console the weary pilgrim here, surelyit would be a mother's, bringing comfort to a suffering child. How Ilonged for her love and her sympathy. How I felt I had beenrobbed--yes, _robbed_--of my rights in her sad and premature death.Reader, have you never seen a little child, after a fall, or a blow, orsome infantine wrong or grievance, run and hide its weeping face in itsmother's lap? Such is the first true impulse of our childish nature,and it is never completely eradicated from the human breast. Thestrong, proud man, though he may almost forget her in his triumphs andsuccesses, goes to his mother for consolation when he is overtaken bysorrow, deceived in his affections, wounded in his feelings, or sad andsick at heart. There he knows he is secure of sympathy and consolation;there he knows he will not be judged harshly, and as the world judges;there he knows that, do what he will, is a fountain of love andpatience, never to run dry; and for one blessed moment he is indeed achild again. God help those who, like me, have never known a mother'slove. Such are the true orphans, and such He will not forget.
Bold loses patience at last, and pokes his cold, wet nose into my hand.Yes, Bold, it is no use to sit brooding here. "Hie, boy! fetch me myhat." The dog is delighted with his task: away he scampers across thehall--he knows well which hat to choose--and springing at thecrape-covered one, brings it to me in his mouth, his fine honestcountenance beaming with pride, and his tail waving with delight. Weemerge through a glass door into the garden, and insensibly, for thefirst time since my father's death, we take the direction of BeverleyManor.
This is a dark and sadly-shaded picture; let us turn to one of brighterlights and more variegated colouring. The sun is streaming into abeautiful little breakfast-room opening on a conservatory, with flowers,and a fountain of gold-fish, and all that a conservatory should have.The room itself is richly papered and ornamented, perhaps a little tooprofusely, with ivory and gilding. Two or three exquisite landscapes inwater-colours adorn the walls; and rose-coloured hangings shed a soft,warm light over the furniture and the inmates. The former is of a lightand tasteful description--low, soft-cushioned _fauteuils_, thin canechairs, bright-coloured ottomans and footstools, Bohemian glass vasesfilled with flowers--everything gay, vivid, and luxurious; a good fireburning cheerfully on the hearth, and a breakfast-table, with its snowycloth and bright silver belongings, give an air of homely comfort to thescene. The latter consists of four persons, who have met together atthe morning meal every day now for several weeks. Constance Beverleysits at the head of the table making tea; Ropsley and Sir Harry, dressedin wondrous shooting apparel, are busily engaged with their breakfast;and Miss Minim is relating to the world in general her sufferings fromrheumatism and neuralgia, to which touching narrative nobody seems tothink it necessary to pay much attention. Ropsley breaks in abruptly byasking Miss Beverley for another cup of tea. He treats her with studiedpoliteness, but never takes his cold grey eye off her countenance. Thegirl feels that he is watching her, and it makes her shy anduncomfortable.
"Any news, Ropsley?" says Sir Harry, observing the pile of letters athis friend's elbow; "no _officials_, I hope, to send you back toLondon."
"None as yet, thank Heaven, Sir Harry," replies his friend; "and notmuch in the papers. We shall have war, I think."
"Oh, don't say so, Mr. Ropsley," observes Constance, with an anxiouslook. "I trust we shall never see anything so horrid again."
Miss Minim remarks that "occasional wars are beneficial, nay, necessaryfor the welfare of the human race," illustrating her position by thefamiliar metaphor of thunderstorms, etc.; but Ropsley, who has quite theupper hand of Miss Minim, breaks in upon her ruthlessly, as he observes,"The funds gone down a fraction, Sir Harry, I see. I think one ought tosell. By-the-bye, I've a capital letter from De Rohan, at Paris. Youwould like to hear what he is about, Miss Beverley, I am sure."
Constance winced and coloured. It was Ropsley's game to assert a sortof matter-of-course _tendresse_ on her part for my Hungarian friend,which he insisted on so gradually, but yet so successfully, as to givehim the power of making her uneasy at the mention of "De Rohan's" name.He wished to establish an influence over her, and this was the onlymanner in which he could do so; but Ropsley was a man who only asked toinsert the point of the wedge, he could trust himself to do the rest.Yet, with all his knowledge of human nature, he made this one greatmistake, he judged of women by the other half of mankind; so he lookedpointedly at Constance as he added, "I'll read you what he says, or,perhaps, Miss Beverley, you would like to see his letter?"
He had now driven her a little too far, and she turned round upon him.
"Really, Mr. Ropsley, I don't wish to interfere with yourcorrespondence. I hate to read other people's letters; and Count deRohan has become such a stranger now that I have almost forgotten him."
She was angry with herself immediately she had spoken. It seemed so likethe remark of a person who was piqued. Ropsley would be more than everconvinced now that she cared for him. Sir Harry, too, looked up fromhis plate, apparently at his daughter's unusual vehemence. The girl bither lips, and wished she had held her tongue. Ropsley saw he had markedup another point in the game.
"Very true," said he, with his quiet, well-bred smile: "old playfellowsand old school-days cannot be expected to last all one's life. However,Victor does not forget us. He seems to be very gay, though, and ratherdissipated, at Paris; knows all the world and goes everywhere; ran ahorse last week at Chantilly. You know Chantilly, Sir Harry."
The Baronet's face brightened. He had won a cup, given by LouisPhilippe, from all the foreigners there on one occasion, and he liked tobe reminded of it.
"Know it," said he, "I should think I do. Why, I trainedFlibbertigibbet in the park here myself--I and the old coachman. Wenever sent him to my own trainer at Newmarket, but took him overourselves, and beat them all. That was the cup you saw in the centre ofthe dinner-table yesterday. The two-year-old we tried at Lansdowne washis grandson. Ah! Ropsley, I wish I had taken your advice about him."
Ropsley was, step by step, obtaining great influence over Sir Harry. Hereturned to the subject of old friendships.
"By-the-bye, Miss Beverley, have you heard anything of poor Egerton? Ifear his father's death will be a sad blow to him. I tremble for theconsequences."
And here he touched his forehead, with a significant look at Sir Har
ry.
Constance was a true woman. She was always ready too vigorously todefend an absent friend, but she was no match for her antagonist; shecould not keep cool.
"What do you mean?" said she, angrily. "Why should you tremble, as youcall it, for Vere?"
Ropsley put on his most provoking air, as he answered, with a sort ofplayful mock deference--
"I beg your pardon, Miss Beverley, I am continually affronting you, thisunlucky morning. First, I bore you about De Rohan, thinking you _do_care for your old friends; then I make you angry with me about Egerton,believing you _don't_. After all, I said no harm about him; nothingmore than we all know perfectly well. He always was eccentric as aboy--he is more so than ever, I think, now; and I only meant that Ifeared any sudden shock or violent affliction might upset his nervoussystem, and, in short--may I ask you for a little more cream?--end intotal derangement. The fact is," he added, _sotto voce_, to Sir Harry,"he is as mad as Bedlam now."
He saw the girl's lip quiver, and her hand shake as she gave him hiscup; but he kept his cold grey eye fastened on her. He seemed to readher most secret thoughts, and she feared him now--actually feared him.Well, it was always something gained. He proceeded good-humouredly--
"Do we shoot on the island to-day, Sir Harry?" he asked of his host."Perhaps Miss Beverley will come over to our luncheon in her boat. Howpretty you have made that island, Sir Harry; and what a place for ducksabout sundown!"
The island was a pet toy of Sir Harry's; he was pleased, as usual, withhis friend's good taste.
"Yes, come over to luncheon, Constance," said he. "You can manage theboat quite well that short way."
"No, thank you, papa," answered Constance, with a glance at Ropsley;"the boat is out of repair, and I had rather not run the risk of anupset."
"You used to be so fond of boating, Miss Beverley," observed Ropsley,with his scarcely perceptible sneer. "You and Egerton used to be alwayson the water. Perhaps you don't like it without a companion; pray don'tthink of coming on our account. I quite agree with you, it makes allthe difference in a water-party."
Constance began to talk very fast to her father.
"I'll come, papa, after all, I think," said she; "it is such a beautifulday! and the boat will do very well, I dare say--and I'm so fond of thewater, papa; and--and I'll go and put my bonnet on now. I've got two orthree things to do in the garden before I start."
So she hurried from the room, but not till Ropsley had presented herwith a sprig of geranium he had gathered in the conservatory, andthanked her in a sort of mock-heroic speech for her kindness in soreadily acceding to his wishes.
Would he have been pleased or not, could he have seen her in the privacyof her own apartment, which she had no sooner reached than she dashedhis gift upon the floor, stamping on it with her little foot as thoughshe would crush it into atoms, while her bosom heaved, and her dark eyesfilled with tears, shed she scarce knew why? She had a vagueconsciousness of humiliation, and an undefined feeling of alarm that shecould not have accounted for even to herself, but which was veryuncomfortable notwithstanding.
The gentlemen put on their belts and shooting apparatus; and Ropsley,with the sneer deepening on his well-cut features, whispered to himself,"_Pour le coup, papillon, je te tiens_."
Bold and I strolled leisurely along: the dog indulging in his usualvagaries on the way; his master brooding and thoughtful, reflecting onthe many happy times he had trod the same pathway when he was yet inignorance of the fatal secret, and how it was all over now. My life washenceforth to be a blank. I began to speculate, as I had neverspeculated before, on the objects and aims of existence. What had Idone, I thought, that I should be doomed to be _so_ miserable?--that Ishould have neither home nor relatives nor friends?--that, like the poorman whose rich neighbour had flocks and herds and vineyards, I shouldhave but my one pet lamb, and even that should be taken away from me?Then I thought of my father's career--how I had been used to look up tohim as the impersonation of all that was admirable and enviable in man.With his personal beauty and his princely air and his popularity andtalent, I used to think my father must be perfectly happy. And now tofind that he too had been living with a worm at his heart! But then hehad done wrong, and he suffered rightly, as he himself confessed, forthe sins of his youth. And I tried to think myself unjustly treated;for of what crimes had I been guilty, that I should suffer too? Myshort life had been blameless, orderly, and dutiful. Little evil had Idone; but even then my conscience whispered--Much good had I leftundone. I had lived for myself and my own affections; I had not trainedmy mind for a career of usefulness to my fellow-men. It is not enoughthat a human being should abstain from gross, palpable evil; he mustfollow actual good. It is better to go down into the market, and runyour chance of the dirt that shall soil it, and the hands it shall passthrough, in making your one talent ten talents, than to hide it up in anapkin, and stand aloof from your fellow-creatures, even though itshould give you cause, like the Pharisee, to "thank God that you are notas other men are."
"Steady, Bold! Heel, good dog, heel! You hear them shooting, I know,and you would like well to join the sport. Bang! bang! there they goagain. It is Sir Harry and his guest at their favourite amusement. Wewill stay here, old dog, and perhaps we may see her once more, if onlyat a distance, and we shall not have had our walk for nothing." So Boldand I crouched quietly down amongst the tall fern, on a knoll in thepark from whence we could see the Manor House and the mere, andConstance's favourite walk in the shrubbery which I had paced with herso often and so happily in days that seemed now to have belonged toanother life.
They were having capital sport in the island; it was a favouritepreserve of Sir Harry; and although artificially stocked withpheasants--as indeed what coverts are not, for that most artificial ofall field-sports which we call a _battue_?--it had this advantage, thatthe game could not possibly stray from its own feeding-place and home.Moreover, as the fine-plumaged old cocks went whirring up out of thecopse, there was a great art in knocking them over before they werefairly on the wing, so that the dead birds might not fall into thewater, but be picked up on _terra firma_, dry, and in good order to beput into the bag. Many a time had I stood in the middle ride, andbrought them down right and left, to the admiration of my oldacquaintance, Mr. Barrells, and the applause of Sir Harry. Many a happyday had I spent there, in the enjoyment of scenery, air, exercise, andsport (not that I cared much for the latter); but, above all, with theprospect of Constance Beverley bringing us our luncheon, or, at theworst, the certainty of seeing her on our return to the Manor House.How my heart ached to think it was all gone and past now!
I watched the smoke from the sportsmen's guns as it curled up into thepeaceful autumn sky. I heard the cheery voices of the beaters, and thetap of their sticks in the copse; but I could not see a soul, and wasmyself completely unseen. I felt I was looking on what had so long beenmy paradise for the last time, and I lost the consciousness of my ownidentity in the dreamy abstraction with which I regarded all around. Itseemed to me as if another had gone through the experiences of my pastlife, or rather as if I was no longer Vere Egerton, but one who hadknown him and pitied him, and would take some little interest in him forthe future, but would probably see very little of him again. I know notwhether other men experience such strange fancies, or whether it is butthe natural effect of continued sorrow, which stuns the mental sense,even as continued pain numbs that of the body; but I have often feltmyself retracing my own past or speculating on my own future, almostwith the indifference of an uninterested spectator. Something soonrecalled me to myself. Bold had the eye of a hawk, but I saw her beforeBold did; long ere my dog erected his silken ears and stopped hispanting breath, my beating heart and throbbing pulses made me feel tookeenly that I was Vere Egerton again.
She seemed to walk more slowly than she used; the step was not so light;the head no longer carried so erect, so naughtily; she had lost thedeer-like motion I admired so fondly; but oh! how much better I lo
ved tosee her like this. I watched as a man watches all he loves for the_last_ time. I strove, so to speak, to print her image on my brain,there to be carried a life-long photograph. She walked slowly downtowards the mere, her head drooping, her hands clasped before her,apparently deep, deep in her own thoughts. I would have given all I hadin the world could I but have known what those thoughts were. Shestopped at the very place where once before she had caressed Bold; shegathered a morsel of fern and placed it in her bosom; then she walked onfaster, like one who wakes from a train of profound and not altogetherhappy reflections.
Meanwhile I had the greatest difficulty in restraining my dog. Good,faithful Bold was all anxiety to scour off at first sight of her, andgreet his old friend. He whined piteously when I forbade him. Ithought she must have heard him; but no, she walked quietly on towardsthe water, loosed her little skiff from its moorings, got into it, andpushed off on the smooth surface of the mere.
She spread the tiny sail, and the boat rippled its way slowly throughthe water. The little skiff was a favourite toy of Constance, and I hadtaught her to manage it very dexterously. At the most it would hold buttwo people; and many an hour of ecstasy had I passed on the mere in "TheQueen Mab," as we sportively named it, drinking in every look and toneof my idolised companion: poison was in the draught, I knew it well, andyet I drank it to the dregs. Now I watched till my eyes watered, for Ishould never steer "The Queen Mab" again.
A shout from the shore of the island diverted my attention. Sir Harryhad evidently espied her, and was welcoming his daughter. I made outhis figure, and that of Barrells, at the water's edge; whilst the reportof a gun, and a thin column of white smoke curling upwards from thecopse, betokened the presence of Ropsley among the beaters in thecovert. When I glanced again at "The Queen Mab," it struck me she hadmade but little way, though her gossamer-looking sail was filled by thelight breeze. She could not now be more than a hundred and fifty yardsfrom her moorings, whilst I was myself perhaps twice that distance fromthe brink of the mere. Constance rises from her seat, and waves her handabove her head. Is that her voice? Bold hears it too, and starts up tolisten. The white sail leans over. God in heaven! it is down! Vividlike lightning the ghastly truth flashes through my brain; the boat iswaterlogged--she is sinking--my heart's darling will be drowned in myvery sight; it is ecstasy to think I can die with her, if I cannot saveher!
"Bold! Bold! Hie, boy; go fetch her; hie, boy; hie!"
The dog is already at the water-side; with his glorious, God-giveninstinct he has understood it all. I hear the splash as he dashes in; Isee the circles thrown behind him as he swims; whilst I am strainingevery nerve to reach the water's edge. What a long three hundred yardsit is! A lifetime passes before me as I speed along. I have evenleisure to think of poor Ophelia and her glorious Dane. As I run Ifling away coat, waistcoat, watch, and handkerchief. I see a whitedress by the side of the white sail. My gallant dog is nearing it evennow. The next instant I am overhead in the mere; and as I rise to thesurface, shaking the water from my lips and hair, I feel, through all myfear and all my suspense, something akin to triumph in the long,vigorous strokes that are shooting me onwards to my goal. Mute andearnest I thank God for my personal strength, never appreciated tillthis day; for my hardy education, and my father's swimming lessons inthe sluggish, far-away Theiss; for my gallant, faithful dog, who hasreached her even now.
"Hold on, Bold! her dress is floating her still. Hold on, good dog.Another ten seconds, and she is saved!"
* * * * *
Once I thought we were gone. My strength was exhausted. I had reachedthe bank with my rescued love. Her pale face was close to mine; herlong, wet hair across my mouth; she was conscious still, she never losther senses or her courage. Once she whispered, "Bless you, my braveVere." But the bank was steep, and the water out of our depth to thevery edge. A root I caught at gave way. My overtaxed muscles refusedto second me. It was hard to fail at the last. I could have savedmyself had I abandoned my hold. It was delicious to know this, and thento wind my arm tighter round her waist, and to think we should sleeptogether for ever down there; but honest Bold grasped her once more inthose vigorous jaws--she bore the marks of his teeth on her white neckfor many a day. The relief thus afforded enabled me to make onedesperate effort, and we were saved.
She fainted away when she was fairly on the bank; and I was so exhaustedI could but lie gasping at her side. Bold gave himself a vigorous shakeand licked her face. Assistance, however, was near at hand; theaccident had been witnessed from the island; Sir Harry and the keeperhad shoved off immediately in their boat, and pulled vigorously for thespot. It was a heavy, lumbering craft, and they must have been toolate. Oh, selfish heart! I felt that had I not succeeded in savingher, I had rather we had both remained under those peaceful waters; butselfish though it may have been, was it not ecstasy to think that I hadrescued _her_--Constance Beverley, my own Constance--from death? I, theungainly, unattractive man, for whom I used to think no woman could evercare; and she had called me "_her_ brave Vere!" HERS! She could notunsay that; come what would, nothing could rob me of _that_. "Fortune,do thy worst," I thought, in my thrill of delight, as I recalled thosewords, "I am happy for evermore." Blind! blind! _Quem Deus vult perdereprius dementat_.