Chapter XXXIII: A Rest by the Way

My story draws to a close. I linger only yet a little by the way--a balmy breathing space, a last restful interlude between the acts--before I rally to the final struggle.

Before the inquest could be held, my unhappy mother’s complaint had so increased upon her that it became an imperative necessity to remove her to the asylum from which her poor broken spirit was only to be released by death. The whole painful business, with the material difficulties it entailed upon me at a crucial pass, was undertaken for me by Mr Shapter (acting on my good Johnny’s private instructions) with the most feeling tact and helpfulness. These are matters to be touched upon with no less delicacy than was shown in their accommodation. Never has man been blessed with a finer and more generous-hearted friend than I.

Yet, conscious of a hundred unmerited graces, a blight as of abandonment by all the world seemed to fall upon me as I left the room where the inquest had been held. The inquiry was over; the last flicker of its excitement was dead for me; the madhouse and the unhallowed acre had closed upon the scene. The Jury, equal to Inspector Jannaway’s faith in them, had brought in a verdict of Justifiable _felo de se_; and, with the snap of that final spark, the curtain had fallen, committing me to a profound gloom.

That, in its essence, no doubt, was fruit of the inevitable reaction from long nervous tension. In the exhaustion following any such prolonged struggle, one is always apt to make a selfish grievance of one’s state--to resent the self-imposition of one’s burden as a duty enforced upon one by the callous egotism of one’s fellows. The disease of ungraciousness soured my vision, and painted the world to me a bilious yellow. True, my friend had very handsomely provided the material means to my success; but why, in the justice of things, should Fate have imposed upon _me_ the necessity of securing that success at all? A dozen issues were involved in the question, and I knew it; but my reason was clouded under the sense of personal desertion, at the crisis, by those who appeared to think that their moral sympathy with me at a distance was all-sufficing. In fact, and to end the matter, I had not heard from the two dearest to me for a week and more, and the shadow of that silence was obscuring my mind, and peopling it with a hundred spectres of apprehension.

And so, returning to the “Black Dog,” I found a telegram awaiting me:

_If possible be at lodge in Caddle three-thirty this afternoon. Particular business Gas and Gaiters. J. D._

It was like finding a bottle of champagne in a glooming wilderness. At the first gulp the clouds lifted, a crevice opened in them, and sunshine poured into my heart. Cryptic as ever, there was no telling Johnny’s meaning; but, Johnny being Johnny, and all things equal, helpfulness shone in some sort potential.

I looked at the clock. With barely time to keep the appointment, I started, with a bounding heart, on my way.

Reaching near to the wicket at last, I was aware of a station fly loitering along the road ahead, as if in waiting for a discharged fare. I hesitated an instant, then, passing through the gate, plunged into the wintry coppices, and went resolutely for the lodge. I had not once entered this old hermitage of mine since my return. I had felt it, indeed, morally barred to me while the great question was at issue. But now I could not resist the sudden recall, since, as I told myself, I was visiting it an invited guest.

How familiar and yet strange it looked, as I drew near, viewed in the light of my wider experiences--a dark and lonely little tenement, but haunted by what wistful ghost at last, a spirit more potent than all its old-time spectres of melancholy and decay. Whatever might come to be, it was hallowed for evermore in the memory of that possession. My heart was very full as I approached it, and entered by the open door, and stepped softly into what had been my sanctuary.

“Ira,” I whispered, half choking--“if only it could be Ira!”

“O, Richard! it is me.”

Sweet imperfection of sweet lips and slips! What has love to do with grammar? With a sob I had her in my arms. I could not help it--this dream, this rapture--and I was overwrought.

The gentle lovely child! How she understood, and quieted my quivering face with her soft hand, and spoke to me in murmurs of heavenly pity as if I were her child, her baby, the first-born of her heart. And I bent to her in an ecstasy of submission, until I felt the manhood in me rise and strike for conquest.

* * * * * * * * *

“And it is all over, Richard?”

“All over, Ira; and he is dead; and she is mad for ever, I fear.”

“Is it not better so? O, my dear! if she should live to realise what she had done!”

“I hope she will die.”

“It is best to hope it.”

“Everything shall be best now--now that I have you again. I have been afraid, Ira.”

“Afraid of what, Richard?”

“I had not heard from you for so long. I was troubled.”

“Troubled?”

“I imagined things. My mind has been in such a state.”

“What things, bad boy? Poor, poor little fellow! There! he shall be told the worst at once and get it over. Miss Christmas, sir, has been offered a husband by her guardian.”

“What husband?”

“O, not you, sir--don’t think it. It is Lord Sycamore. He is very tall, and very silly, but only fairly well off; and he has no roof to his mouth, or to his head--I forget which; but anyhow, if it was the dome of St Paul’s, I shouldn’t want him.”

“I should hope not. And Lord Skene thinks to impose this ass on you?”

“Richard, don’t shout so. Yes; and he is enormously angry over my refusal.”

“I owe a debt to my grandfather for it. He seems determined to add to my obligations to him. And Lady Skene, Ira?”

She answered very softly, the dew of love in her eyes:

“She is not angry, Richard. I think, if one knew, she is your friend now. She is very quiet and unself-assertive--always now since she came back to us. Once I saw her looking so strangely at me, and I hurried to her, and knelt and took her hands in mine without a word. ‘Be a good wife to him,’ she whispered suddenly; ‘he has suffered such wrong from us all’--and she was crying, Richard, as she got up and left me. And afterwards, as I passed the nursery door, she was sitting huddled on the floor by baby’s cot; and I could not see her face because her hands were held quite still to it, and the firelight was dancing in her beautiful hair. She has grown so humble, it makes me cry. And, Richard, I think Uncle Charlie feels the change in her; and it has made him more masterful--more peremptory. Once Mr Pugsley came, and he would not let him see her, but got rid of him without ceremony, and she did not say anything when she heard. It is as if she knows that she has forfeited her right to a voice in the conduct of her own affairs.”

“I have no quarrel with her, Ira; and now less than ever. She will always be my mother in my heart--God forgive me, and her. But with Lord Skene it is another matter. He knows how I stand with you, and this persecution of his only shows his determination to resist all natural claims of mine on his consideration.”

“He scoffs at the whole story, Richard. I think he looks upon it as the fabrication of a pretender.”

“He chooses to look upon it so, dear. A son, an old man’s Benjamin, stands in my way. Well, if it were not for the vile insult implied to my father, I think I could almost honour his infatuation, and be content to waive my claim for--for that? I was going to say for a younger brother; but things have altered. Just imagine it, Ira; that little cradle creature is my uncle.”

That set her off laughing.

“And you are asked to make room for him, dear. Doesn’t it sound like that horrible vulgar song? You should hear Lord Sycamore drone it out--it is one of his most admired performances--with the little brays to give it tone:

“‘Richard, make room for your uncle--haw!
There’s a little de-ar--haw!’”

She buried her face against me, and withdrew it for a moment, flushed and half weeping between laughter and indignation.

“I am ashamed to tell you such nonsense, dear. But it has really been very painful--you see, I am not of age yet--and so--and so, I have got something to confess.”

“Confess away. Your lips, you know, can always make their own bid for absolution.”

“You wicked priest. But it’s nothing very dreadful--at least I hope you don’t think it so--only that things became so unbearable in the end that I thought it best to go on a visit. I wonder if you can guess where?”

“Tell me.”

“Why, to the Dandos. I wrote to your friend--was it very unmaidenly of me? and the invitation came back directly. O, Richard, what a glorious little man he is, loving you so, and, I think, attached to me too--but of course you told me that.”

“Did I? So you went? And what did you think of Mrs Dando?”

“Now, Richard! I won’t answer you as you want. She is immense.”

“Enormous.”

“I didn’t mean that. To hear the way they both spoke up for you.”

“Did she too? But I really had no reason to suppose she would--may her shadow never grow less. But Johnny, of course.”

“Of course. He is mad about the way you are being treated, and insists on seeing you through to the end, and establishing your claim before the world.”

“I am so blessed in my love and friendship, darling, that I live in a perpetual fools’ paradise about myself and my merits. And so that is the explanation of this escapade, I suppose.”

“Yes; he brought me.”

“_Who_? Johnny?”

“I hope you don’t mind. He’s waiting in the fly to take me back when we’ve done.”

“I shall go with you. I’m finished here.”

“O, Richard! Will you--will you?”

“Clasp your hands to me, baby. You look as if you were all made of tinted sugar, and I’ve a business not to eat you. There. In spite of everything my heart sings to choke me. How can I ever let you go again! Yes. I’ll telegraph to Shapter when we get to town. An hour ago I felt as if the world had done me; now I feel like a giant for rounding on it. What is your particular power, you weak little thing? Give me your hand. Don’t you remember how I made it carry that pailful of water, beast that I was! It would have served me right if you had dumped it on my toes. Ira, supposing I never made good my claim?”

“What, to me?”

“To you, conceit? No, to the title, I meant, of course.”

“O! I had forgotten. But what does it matter, Richard, so long as we have one another?”

What did it matter, indeed? I ring down the curtain on that unanswerable query.