XLI
Three years passed away, and Swithin still remained at the Cape, quietlypursuing the work that had brought him there. His memoranda ofobservations had accumulated to a wheelbarrow load, and he was beginningto shape them into a treatise which should possess some scientificutility.
He had gauged the southern skies with greater results than even hehimself had anticipated. Those unfamiliar constellations which, to thecasual beholder, are at most a new arrangement of ordinary points oflight, were to this professed astronomer, as to his brethren, a fargreater matter.
It was below the surface that his material lay. There, in regionsrevealed only to the instrumental observer, were suns of hybrid kind--fire-fogs, floating nuclei, globes that flew in groups like swarms of bees,and other extraordinary sights--which, when decomposed by Swithin'sequatorial, turned out to be the beginning of a new series of phenomenainstead of the end of an old one.
There were gloomy deserts in those southern skies such as the north showsscarcely an example of; sites set apart for the position of suns whichfor some unfathomable reason were left uncreated, their places remainingever since conspicuous by their emptiness.
The inspection of these chasms brought him a second pulsation of that oldhorror which he had used to describe to Viviette as produced in him bybottomlessness in the north heaven. The ghostly finger of limitlessvacancy touched him now on the other side. Infinite deeps in the northstellar region had a homely familiarity about them, when compared withinfinite deeps in the region of the south pole. This was an even moreunknown tract of the unknown. Space here, being less the historic hauntof human thought than overhead at home, seemed to be pervaded with a morelonely loneliness.
Were there given on paper to these astronomical exercitations of St.Cleeve a space proportionable to that occupied by his year with Vivietteat Welland, this narrative would treble its length; but not a singleadditional glimpse would be afforded of Swithin in his relations with oldemotions. In these experiments with tubes and glasses, important as theywere to human intellect, there was little food for the sympatheticinstincts which create the changes in a life. That which is theforeground and measuring base of one perspective draught may be thevanishing-point of another perspective draught, while yet they are bothdraughts of the same thing. Swithin's doings and discoveries in thesouthern sidereal system were, no doubt, incidents of the highestimportance to him; and yet from an intersocial point of view they servedbut the humble purpose of killing time, while other doings, more nearlyallied to his heart than to his understanding, developed themselves athome.
In the intervals between his professional occupations he took walks overthe sand-flats near, or among the farms which were graduallyoverspreading the country in the vicinity of Cape Town. He grew familiarwith the outline of Table Mountain, and the fleecy 'Devil's Table-Cloth'which used to settle on its top when the wind was south-east. On thesepromenades he would more particularly think of Viviette, and of thatcurious pathetic chapter in his life with her which seemed to have wounditself up and ended for ever. Those scenes were rapidly receding intodistance, and the intensity of his sentiment regarding them hadproportionately abated. He felt that there had been something wrongtherein, and yet he could not exactly define the boundary of the wrong.Viviette's sad and amazing sequel to that chapter had still a fearful,catastrophic aspect in his eyes; but instead of musing over it and itsbearings he shunned the subject, as we shun by night the shady scene of adisaster, and keep to the open road.
He sometimes contemplated her apart from the past--leading her life inthe Cathedral Close at Melchester; and wondered how often she lookedsouth and thought of where he was.
On one of these afternoon walks in the neighbourhood of the RoyalObservatory he turned and gazed towards the signal-post on the Lion'sRump. This was a high promontory to the north-west of Table Mountain,and overlooked Table Bay. Before his eyes had left the scene the signalwas suddenly hoisted on the staff. It announced that a mail steamer hadappeared in view over the sea. In the course of an hour he retraced hissteps, as he had often done on such occasions, and strolled leisurelyacross the intervening mile and a half till he arrived at the post-officedoor.
There was no letter from England for him; but there was a newspaper,addressed in the seventeenth century handwriting of his grandmother, who,in spite of her great age, still retained a steady hold on life. Heturned away disappointed, and resumed his walk into the country, openingthe paper as he went along.
A cross in black ink attracted his attention and it was opposite a nameamong the 'Deaths.' His blood ran icily as he discerned the words 'ThePalace, Melchester.' But it was not she. Her husband, the Bishop ofMelchester, had, after a short illness, departed this life at thecomparatively early age of fifty years.
All the enactments of the bygone days at Welland now started up like anawakened army from the ground. But a few months were wanting to the timewhen he would be of an age to marry without sacrificing the annuity whichformed his means of subsistence. It was a point in his life that had hadno meaning or interest for him since his separation from Viviette, forwomen were now no more to him than the inhabitants of Jupiter. But thewhirligig of time having again set Viviette free, the aspect of homealtered, and conjecture as to her future found room to work anew.
But beyond the simple fact that she was a widow he for some time gainednot an atom of intelligence concerning her. There was no one of whom hecould inquire but his grandmother, and she could tell him nothing about alady who dwelt far away at Melchester.
Several months slipped by thus; and no feeling within him rose tosufficient strength to force him out of a passive attitude. Then by themerest chance his granny stated in one of her rambling epistles that LadyConstantine was coming to live again at Welland in the old house, withher child, now a little boy between three and four years of age.
Swithin, however, lived on as before.
But by the following autumn a change became necessary for the young manhimself. His work at the Cape was done. His uncle's wishes that heshould study there had been more than observed. The materials for hisgreat treatise were collected, and it now only remained for him toarrange, digest, and publish them, for which purpose a return to Englandwas indispensable.
So the equatorial was unscrewed, and the stand taken down; theastronomer's barrow-load of precious memoranda, and rolls upon rolls ofdiagrams, representing three years of continuous labour, were safelypacked; and Swithin departed for good and all from the shores of CapeTown.
He had long before informed his grandmother of the date at which shemight expect him; and in a reply from her, which reached him justprevious to sailing, she casually mentioned that she frequently saw LadyConstantine; that on the last occasion her ladyship had shown greatinterest in the information that Swithin was coming home, and hadinquired the time of his return.
* * * * *
On a late summer day Swithin stepped from the train at Warborne, and,directing his baggage to be sent on after him, set out on foot for oldWelland once again.
It seemed but the day after his departure, so little had the scenechanged. True, there was that change which is always the first to arrestattention in places that are conventionally called unchanging--a higherand broader vegetation at every familiar corner than at the former time.
He had not gone a mile when he saw walking before him a clergyman whoseform, after consideration, he recognized, in spite of a novel whitenessin that part of his hair that showed below the brim of his hat. Swithinwalked much faster than this gentleman, and soon was at his side.
'Mr. Torkingham! I knew it was,' said Swithin.
Mr. Torkingham was slower in recognizing the astronomer, but in a momenthad greeted him with a warm shake of the hand.
'I have been to the station on purpose to meet you!' cried Mr.Torkingham, 'and was returning with the idea that you had not come. I amyour grandmother's emissary. She could not come herself, and as she wasanxious, and nobody else could be
spared, I came for her.'
Then they walked on together. The parson told Swithin all about hisgrandmother, the parish, and his endeavours to enlighten it; and in duecourse said, 'You are no doubt aware that Lady Constantine is livingagain at Welland?'
Swithin said he had heard as much, and added, what was far within thetruth, that the news of the Bishop's death had been a great surprise tohim.
'Yes,' said Mr. Torkingham, with nine thoughts to one word. 'One mighthave prophesied, to look at him, that Melchester would not lack a bishopfor the next forty years. Yes; pale death knocks at the cottages of thepoor and the palaces of kings with an impartial foot!'
'Was he a particularly good man?' asked Swithin.
'He was not a Ken or a Heber. To speak candidly, he had his faults, ofwhich arrogance was not the least. But who is perfect?'
Swithin, somehow, felt relieved to hear that the Bishop was not a perfectman.
'His poor wife, I fear, had not a great deal more happiness with him thanwith her first husband. But one might almost have foreseen it; themarriage was hasty--the result of a red-hot caprice, hardly becoming in aman of his position and it betokened a want of temperate discretionwhich soon showed itself in other ways. That's all there was to be saidagainst him, and now it's all over, and things have settled again intotheir old course. But the Bishop's widow is not the Lady Constantine offormer days. No; put it as you will, she is not the same. There seemsto be a nameless something on her mind--a trouble--a rooted melancholy,which no man's ministry can reach. Formerly she was a woman whoseconfidence it was easy to gain; but neither religion nor philosophyavails with her now. Beyond that, her life is strangely like what it waswhen you were with us.'
Conversing thus they pursued the turnpike road till their conversationwas interrupted by a crying voice on their left. They looked, andperceived that a child, in getting over an adjoining stile, had fallen onhis face.
Mr. Torkingham and Swithin both hastened up to help the sufferer, who wasa lovely little fellow with flaxen hair, which spread out in a frill ofcurls from beneath a quaint, close-fitting velvet cap that he wore.Swithin picked him up, while Mr. Torkingham wiped the sand from his lipsand nose, and administered a few words of consolation, together with afew sweet-meats, which, somewhat to Swithin's surprise, the parsonproduced as if by magic from his pocket. One half the comfort renderedwould have sufficed to soothe such a disposition as the child's. Heceased crying and ran away in delight to his unconscious nurse, who wasreaching up for blackberries at a hedge some way off.
'You know who he is, of course?' said Mr. Torkingham, as they resumedtheir journey.
'No,' said Swithin.
'Oh, I thought you did. Yet how should you? It is Lady Constantine'sboy--her only child. His fond mother little thinks he is so far awayfrom home.'
'Dear me!--Lady Constantine's--ah, how interesting!' Swithin pausedabstractedly for a moment, then stepped back again to the stile, while hestood watching the little boy out of sight.
'I can never venture out of doors now without sweets in my pocket,'continued the good-natured vicar: 'and the result is that I meet thatyoung man more frequently on my rounds than any other of myparishioners.'
St. Cleeve was silent, and they turned into Welland Lane, where theirpaths presently diverged, and Swithin was left to pursue his way alone.He might have accompanied the vicar yet further, and gone straight toWelland House; but it would have been difficult to do so then withoutprovoking inquiry. It was easy to go there now: by a cross path he couldbe at the mansion almost as soon as by the direct road. And yet Swithindid not turn; he felt an indescribable reluctance to see Viviette. Hecould not exactly say why. True, before he knew how the land lay itmight be awkward to attempt to call: and this was a sufficient excuse forpostponement.
In this mood he went on, following the direct way to his grandmother'shomestead. He reached the garden-gate, and, looking into the bosky basinwhere the old house stood, saw a graceful female form moving before theporch, bidding adieu to some one within the door.
He wondered what creature of that mould his grandmother could know, andwent forward with some hesitation. At his approach the apparitionturned, and he beheld, developed into blushing womanhood, one who hadonce been known to him as the village maiden Tabitha Lark. SeeingSwithin, and apparently from an instinct that her presence would not bedesirable just then, she moved quickly round into the garden.
The returned traveller entered the house, where he found awaiting himpoor old Mrs. Martin, to whose earthly course death stood rather as theasymptote than as the end. She was perceptibly smaller in form than whenhe had left her, and she could see less distinctly.
A rather affecting greeting followed, in which his grandmother murmuredthe words of Israel: '"Now let me die, since I have seen thy face,because thou art yet alive."'
The form of Hannah had disappeared from the kitchen, that ancient servanthaving been gathered to her fathers about six months before, her placebeing filled by a young girl who knew not Joseph. They presently chattedwith much cheerfulness, and his grandmother said, 'Have you heard what awonderful young woman Miss Lark has become?--a mere fleet-footed,slittering maid when you were last home.'
St. Cleeve had not heard, but he had partly seen, and he was informedthat Tabitha had left Welland shortly after his own departure, and hadstudied music with great success in London, where she had resided eversince till quite recently; that she played at concerts, oratorios--had,in short, joined the phalanx of Wonderful Women who had resolved toeclipse masculine genius altogether, and humiliate the brutal sex to thedust.
'She is only in the garden,' added his grandmother. 'Why don't ye go outand speak to her?'
Swithin was nothing loth, and strolled out under the apple-trees, wherehe arrived just in time to prevent Miss Lark from going off by the backgate. There was not much difficulty in breaking the ice between them,and they began to chat with vivacity.
Now all these proceedings occupied time, for somehow it was very charmingto talk to Miss Lark; and by degrees St. Cleeve informed Tabitha of hisgreat undertaking, and of the voluminous notes he had amassed, whichwould require so much rearrangement and recopying by an amanuensis as toabsolutely appal him. He greatly feared he should not get one carefulenough for such scientific matter; whereupon Tabitha said she would bedelighted to do it for him. Then blushing, and declaring suddenly thatit had grown quite late, she left him and the garden for her relation'shouse hard by.
Swithin, no less than Tabitha, had been surprised by the disappearance ofthe sun behind the hill; and the question now arose whether it would beadvisable to call upon Viviette that night. There was little doubt thatshe knew of his coming; but more than that he could not predicate; andbeing entirely ignorant of whom she had around her, entirely in the darkas to her present feelings towards him, he thought it would be better todefer his visit until the next day.
Walking round to the front of the house he beheld the well-knownagriculturists Hezzy Biles, Haymoss Fry, and some others of the same oldschool, passing the gate homeward from their work with bundles of wood attheir backs. Swithin saluted them over the top rail.
'Well! do my eyes and ears--' began Hezzy; and then, balancing his faggoton end against the hedge, he came forward, the others following.
'Says I to myself as soon as I heerd his voice,' Hezzy continued(addressing Swithin as if he were a disinterested spectator and nothimself), 'please God I'll pitch my nitch, and go across and speak toen.'
'I knowed in a winking 'twas some great navigator that I see a standingthere,' said Haymoss. 'But whe'r 'twere a sort of nabob, or a diment-digger, or a lion-hunter, I couldn't so much as guess till I heerd enspeak.'
'And what changes have come over Welland since I was last at home?' askedSwithin.
'Well, Mr. San Cleeve,' Hezzy replied, 'when you've said that a fewstripling boys and maidens have busted into blooth, and a few marriedwomen have plimmed and chimped (my lady among 'em), why, you've saidanig
hst all, Mr. San Cleeve.'
The conversation thus began was continued on divers matters till theywere all enveloped in total darkness, when his old acquaintancesshouldered their faggots again and proceeded on their way.
Now that he was actually within her coasts again Swithin felt a littlemore strongly the influence of the past and Viviette than he had beenaccustomed to do for the last two or three years. During the night hefelt half sorry that he had not marched off to the Great House to seeher, regardless of the time of day. If she really nourished for him anyparticle of her old affection it had been the cruellest thing not tocall. A few questions that he put concerning her to his grandmotherelicited that Lady Constantine had no friends about her--not even herbrother--and that her health had not been so good since her return fromMelchester as formerly. Still, this proved nothing as to the state ofher heart, and as she had kept a dead silence since the Bishop's death itwas quite possible that she would meet him with that cold repressive toneand manner which experienced women know so well how to put on when theywish to intimate to the long-lost lover that old episodes are to be takenas forgotten.
The next morning he prepared to call, if only on the ground of oldacquaintance, for Swithin was too straightforward to ascertain anythingindirectly. It was rather too early for this purpose when he went outfrom his grandmother's garden-gate, after breakfast, and he waited in thegarden. While he lingered his eye fell on Rings-Hill Speer.
It appeared dark, for a moment, against the blue sky behind it; then thefleeting cloud which shadowed it passed on, and the face of the columnbrightened into such luminousness that the sky behind sank to thecomplexion of a dark foil.
'Surely somebody is on the column,' he said to himself, after gazing atit awhile.
Instead of going straight to the Great House he deviated through theinsulating field, now sown with turnips, which surrounded the plantationon Rings-Hill. By the time that he plunged under the trees he was stillmore certain that somebody was on the tower. He crept up to the basewith proprietary curiosity, for the spot seemed again like his own.
The path still remained much as formerly, but the nook in which the cabinhad stood was covered with undergrowth. Swithin entered the door of thetower, ascended the staircase about half-way on tip-toe, and listened,for he did not wish to intrude on the top if any stranger were there. Thehollow spiral, as he knew from old experience, would bring down to hisears the slightest sound from above; and it now revealed to him the wordsof a duologue in progress at the summit of the tower.
'Mother, what shall I do?' a child's voice said. 'Shall I sing?'
The mother seemed to assent, for the child began--
'The robin has fled from the wood To the snug habitation of man.'
This performance apparently attracted but little attention from thechild's companion, for the young voice suggested, as a new form ofentertainment, 'Shall I say my prayers?'
'Yes,' replied one whom Swithin had begun to recognize.
'Who shall I pray for?'
No answer.
'Who shall I pray for?'
'Pray for father.'
'But he is gone to heaven?'
A sigh from Viviette was distinctly audible.
'You made a mistake, didn't you, mother?' continued the little one.
'I must have. The strangest mistake a woman ever made!'
Nothing more was said, and Swithin ascended, words from above indicatingto him that his footsteps were heard. In another half-minute he rosethrough the hatchway. A lady in black was sitting in the sun, and theboy with the flaxen hair whom he had seen yesterday was at her feet.
'Viviette!' he said.
'Swithin!--at last!' she cried.
The words died upon her lips, and from very faintness she bent her head.For instead of rushing forward to her he had stood still; and thereappeared upon his face a look which there was no mistaking.
Yes; he was shocked at her worn and faded aspect. The image he hadmentally carried out with him to the Cape he had brought home again asthat of the woman he was now to rejoin. But another woman sat beforehim, and not the original Viviette. Her cheeks had lost for ever thatfirm contour which had been drawn by the vigorous hand of youth, and themasses of hair that were once darkness visible had become touched hereand there by a faint grey haze, like the Via Lactea in a midnight sky.
Yet to those who had eyes to understand as well as to see, the chastenedpensiveness of her once handsome features revealed more promisingmaterial beneath than ever her youth had done. But Swithin washopelessly her junior. Unhappily for her he had now just arrived at anage whose canon of faith it is that the silly period of woman's life isher only period of beauty. Viviette saw it all, and knew that Time hadat last brought about his revenges. She had tremblingly watched andwaited without sleep, ever since Swithin had re-entered Welland, and itwas for this.
Swithin came forward, and took her by the hand, which she passivelyallowed him to do.
'Swithin, you don't love me,' she said simply.
'O Viviette!'
'You don't love me,' she repeated.
'Don't say it!'
'Yes, but I will! you have a right not to love me. You did once. Butnow I am an old woman, and you are still a young man; so how can you loveme? I do not expect it. It is kind and charitable of you to come andsee me here.'
'I have come all the way from the Cape,' he faltered, for her insistencetook all power out of him to deny in mere politeness what she said.
'Yes; you have come from the Cape; but not for me,' she answered. 'Itwould be absurd if you had come for me. You have come because your workthere is finished. . . . I like to sit here with my little boy--it is apleasant spot. It was once something to us, was it not? but that waslong ago. You scarcely knew me for the same woman, did you?'
'Knew you--yes, of course I knew you!'
'You looked as if you did not. But you must not be surprised at me. Ibelong to an earlier generation than you, remember.'
Thus, in sheer bitterness of spirit did she inflict wounds on herself byexaggerating the difference in their years. But she had neverthelessspoken truly. Sympathize with her as he might, and as he unquestionablydid, he loved her no longer. But why had she expected otherwise? 'Owoman,' might a prophet have said to her, 'great is thy faith if thoubelievest a junior lover's love will last five years!'
'I shall be glad to know through your grandmother how you are gettingon,' she said meekly. 'But now I would much rather that we part. Yes;do not question me. I would rather that we part. Good-bye.'
Hardly knowing what he did he touched her hand, and obeyed. He was ascientist, and took words literally. There is something in theinexorably simple logic of such men which partakes of the cruelty of thenatural laws that are their study. He entered the tower-steps, andmechanically descended; and it was not till he got half-way down that hethought she could not mean what she had said.
Before leaving Cape Town he had made up his mind on this one point; thatif she were willing to marry him, marry her he would without let orhindrance. That much he morally owed her, and was not the man to demur.And though the Swithin who had returned was not quite the Swithin who hadgone away, though he could not now love her with the sort of love he hadonce bestowed; he believed that all her conduct had been dictated by thepurest benevolence to him, by that charity which 'seeketh not her own.'Hence he did not flinch from a wish to deal with loving-kindness towardsher--a sentiment perhaps in the long-run more to be prized than lover'slove.
Her manner had caught him unawares; but now recovering himself he turnedback determinedly. Bursting out upon the roof he clasped her in hisarms, and kissed her several times.
'Viviette, Viviette,' he said, 'I have come to marry you!'
She uttered a shriek--a shriek of amazed joy--such as never was heard onthat tower before or since--and fell in his arms, clasping his neck.
There she lay heavily. Not to disturb her he sat down in her seat, stillholdin
g her fast. Their little son, who had stood with round conjecturaleyes throughout the meeting, now came close; and presently looking up toSwithin said--
'Mother has gone to sleep.'
Swithin looked down, and started. Her tight clasp had loosened. A waveof whiteness, like that of marble which had never seen the sun, crept upfrom her neck, and travelled upwards and onwards over her cheek, lips,eyelids, forehead, temples, its margin banishing back the live pink tillthe latter had entirely disappeared.
Seeing that something was wrong, yet not understanding what, the littleboy began to cry; but in his concentration Swithin hardly heard it.'Viviette--Viviette!' he said.
The child cried with still deeper grief, and, after a momentaryhesitation, pushed his hand into Swithin's for protection.
'Hush, hush! my child,' said Swithin distractedly. 'I'll take care ofyou! O Viviette!' he exclaimed again, pressing her face to his.
But she did not reply.
'What can this be?' he asked himself. He would not then answer accordingto his fear.
He looked up for help. Nobody appeared in sight but Tabitha Lark, whowas skirting the field with a bounding tread--the single bright spot ofcolour and animation within the wide horizon. When he looked down againhis fear deepened to certainty. It was no longer a mere surmise thathelp was vain. Sudden joy after despair had touched an over-strainedheart too smartly. Viviette was dead. The Bishop was avenged.
Thank you for reading books on BookFrom.Net Share this book with friends