CHAPTER III
"THE DEAD AND THE ABSENT ARE ALWAYS WRONG"
I myself was not greatly disturbed over the turn things had taken,for I had begun to be suspicious of my thrifty Scot in Greek Street,and, as I had left behind me neither papers nor effects which couldcompromise myself or others when he laid his dirty claws upon them,I turned my back on him without regret.
The hour was late to enter upon a search for new lodgings withoutarousing suspicion, and this determined me to try the sempstressindicated by Lady Jane.
I found the street without difficulty, and, what was better, withoutquestioning, and soon discovered the little shop with a welcomegleam of light shewing through the closed shutters. The street wasempty, so I advanced, and, after knocking discreetly, tried thedoor, which, to my surprise, I found open, and so entered.
In a low chair behind the counter sate a solitary woman, sewing bythe indifferent light of a shaded candle. She looked at me keenlyand long, but without alarm.
"Madam," said I, closing the door behind me and slipping in thebolt, "have no fear. My name is Captain Geraldine."
"That is a lie," she said, calmly, raising her face so the fulllight of the candle should fall upon it.
Great heavens! It was that of my wife!
I sank down on a settle near the wall and stared at her, absolutelyspeechless with surprise and horror, while she continued her sewingwithout a second look, though I could mark her hands were tremblingso she could hardly direct her needle.
"Good God! Lucy! Is it really you?" I cried, scarce believing theevidence of my senses.
"I am she whom you name."
"And you know me?"
"I know that you are Hugh Maxwell," she answered, in the same steadyvoice.
"And you know that I am your husband."
"I have no husband. My husband is dead."
"Lucy, do not break my heart! I am not a scoundrel! Do you thinkfor a moment I could abandon the girl who trusted and married me?I had the most positive intelligence of your death. Lucy, Lucy,for God's sake speak, and do not torture me beyond endurance. Tellme what has happened."
But the trembling hands went on with their task, though she neitherraised her head nor spake. My brain was in a whirl, and I did notknow what to think or how to act, so I preserved at least an outwardquiet for a time, trying to imagine her position.
I was but eighteen when I had married her, a tradesman's daughter,but my uncertain allowance, as well as the certain wrath of myfamily, prevented me acknowledging her as my wife, and no one excepther mother knew of our union.
As I sate trying to find some light, I heard the cry of a lustychild: "Mother! Mother!" At this her face contracted as with suddenpain, and saying only, "Wait where you are," she left the shop.
I noticed she had still the same quick, light way of moving, "likea bird," I used to tell her in the old days: it was but the dull,ungenerous colour and shape of her stuff gown that hid the daintyfigure I had known, and only some different manner of dressing herhair that prevented the old trick of the little curls that wouldcome out about her ears and forehead.
While she was away I thought it all out, and my heart melted withpity for the poor soul, forced to these years of loneliness, tothis daily struggle for the support of herself and her child--ourchild--and, more than all else, to the torturing thought that thelove which had been the sum of her existence was false. What shouldI do? Could I be in doubt for a moment? I would make up to her, bythe devotion of a heart rich in feeling, all the sorrows of thepast.
Here she entered again, but now collected and herself as at first.I rose and advanced to meet her, but she waved me off, and took upher sewing again in her former position.
"Lucy," I said, standing over her, "does not the voice of ourchild--for I cannot doubt it is our child--plead for me? Listen amoment. When I returned from that ill-starred Russian voyage, Iflew at once to join you. You had been in my heart during all myabsence, and my return home was to be crowned with your love. But,to my consternation, I found strangers occupying the old rooms,and the woman told me with every circumstance of harrowing detailthe story of your death by typhus, and that your mother followedyou to the grave scarce a day later. Heartbroken as I was, I neversought for further confirmation than the nameless graves she pointedout to me by your parish church. She told me, too, your effectswere burned by order of the overseers, and I took it for grantedshe had stolen anything of value that might have been left. WhenI found at my banker's that a lieutenancy in Berwick's was awaitingmy application, I only too eagerly seized the opportunity of escapingfrom a country where I should be constantly reminded of my ruinedpast, and since that day I have never set foot in London till thepresent. Oh, Lucy! Lucy! I see it all now. The birth of our childwas approaching. You, poor soul, were an unacknowledged wife; Iwas wandering, a shipwrecked stranger beyond all means ofcommunication, and you fled from the finger of shame that cruelhands would hare pointed at you. Why that hag should have gone tosuch lengths to deceive me I cannot even guess. But now, my dearlove, my dearest wife, it is at an end! I have a position--at leastI am a captain, with fair chance of promotion--I no longer have afamily to consider, and once I get out of this present trap I willacknowledge you before the whole world, and we will wipe out thecruel past as if it had never existed."
"I have no past," she said, quietly.
"Then, Lucy darling, as truly as I am your husband I will make youa future."
"I have no husband," she answered, in the same quiet tone: "myhusband died the day my boy was born."
"But, Lucy, my wife, you have love?"
"Not such love as you mean. My love, such as it is here, is for myboy. All else is for something beyond."
"But, Lucy, have you nothing left for me? Surely you do not doubtmy word?"
"No," she answered, slowly. "You have never deceived me that I knowof. Until to-night I believed you had left me, but I know now, itis I who have left you. There never can be anything between us."
"Why, Lucy? Tell me why! Do not sit there holding yourself as ifyou were apart from me and mine."
"You have just said the very words which explain it all," sheanswered. "I am indeed 'apart from you and yours.' Your explanationnow makes clear why you did not seek me out on your return, and Iaccept it fully. But think you for a moment that this wipes outall I have suffered through these years? Can you explain away, byany other statement, save that I was 'apart from you and yours.'the cruel wrong you did when you left me, a helpless girl withoutexperience, in a position where I was utterly defenceless againstevil tongues in the hour of my trial; so that what should have beenmy glory was turned into a load of disgrace which crushed me andkilled my mother? To say you intended to return is no answer, nodefence. You knew all about a world of which I was ignorant, andyou should have shielded me by your knowledge.
"Do not think I am unhuman, I am simply unfeeling on the side towhich you would appeal. I have lived too long alone, I have sufferedtoo much alone, to look to any human creature for such help or suchcomfort as you would bring. I know you were honest, I know you wereloving and tender, but that has all passed for me. You do not comeinto my life at any point; I can look on you without a throb of myheart either in love or in hate--"
"But, Lucy, I am not changed. I am the same Hugh Maxwell you knew."
"You are Hugh Maxwell--but there is no question of likeness, ofbeing the same, for there is no Lucy. She is as really dead to youto-day as you thought when you mourned her six years ago. The'Mistress Routh' who speaks now is a widow, by God's grace a memberof the Society of Methodists, and you need never seek through herto find any trace of the girl you knew. She is dead, dead, dead,and may the Lord have mercy on her soul!"
It was like standing before a closed grave.
Against this all my prayers, my tears, my entreaties, availednothing, until at last I ceased in very despair at the firmness ofthis unmovable woman, whom I had left a pretty, wilful, changeablegirl a few years before.
The cand
le had long since burned itself out, and the gray of themorning was beginning to struggle in at every opening when I gaveup the contest.
"Mistress Routh," said I, smiling at the odd address, "I have beenoverlong in coming to my business. I am a proscribed rebel with aprice set on my head, and I seek a new lodging, my old one beingunsafe. I was directed here almost by chance. Can you give me suchroom as you can spare? There is but little or no danger in harbouringme, for I am reported to be in Scotland with the Prince, 'the YoungPretender,' if you like it so. I will be as circumspect in mymovements as possible. Above all, I will never shew by word or signthat I knew you before, even when we are alone, nor will I betrayyour secret to our boy. You are free to refuse me, and should youdo so, I will seek shelter elsewhere; but whether I go or stay, Igive you my word of honour as a gentleman that your secret restswhere it lies in my heart until such time as you see fit to proclaimit yourself. Will you, then, consent to let me have a room underyour roof until such time as I can get over to France?"
After a little she said: "Yes; I can take your word. But remember,from this night you are a stranger to me. You will pay as astranger, and come and go as a stranger."
And so this unnatural treaty was ratified. My hostess made suchpreparation for my comfort as I would allow, and when alone I sateon my couch trying to put my thoughts in order.
It was only then that Margaret came back to me. During my longstruggle with my poor wife no thought of another had entered mymind, my whole endeavour being directed towards making such amendsfor the cruelties of an undeserved fate as were possible; but now,when alone, the realisation of what it meant in my relation towardsMargaret overwhelmed me. All unwittingly I had been playing thepart of a low scoundrel towards the fairest, purest soul in thewhole world; I had been living in a Fool's Paradise, drinking thesweetest draught that ever intoxicated a human soul, and now,without an instant's warning, the cup was dashed from my lips.
Poor Margaret! Poor Lucy! Poor Hugh! My heart was aching for themall.