IN FOUR CHAPTERS.—CHAPTER IV.

I will pass over the misery of the days that followed; days stretched by anxiety and suspense to double their ordinary length. The woman succeeded only too well in proving the truth of her story; and knowing how useless it would be, Mr Hammond did not attempt to deny that she was his wife. Nor did he endeavour to justify his conduct, which was truly inexcusable. Yet in after-years, when our indignation had cooled, and we were able calmly to reflect upon the history thus revealed, we could not help pitying the unfortunate young man. He had not been much past twenty when, on a visit to Wiesbaden, he had made the acquaintance of a woman several years older than himself, whose brilliant beauty and fascinating address had fairly bewitched him. She was a gay adventuress, who, living by the chances of the gaming-table, and tired of such a precarious livelihood, had fostered the young man’s passion, and then condescended to marry him.

Alas! Frederick Hammond had not been long married before he bitterly regretted the step he had taken. His wife proved the bane of his life. She had contracted the habit of drinking to excess, and her intemperance destroyed all hope of happiness in domestic life. Her husband’s love changed to hatred, and unable to control her vicious propensities, he deserted her. In one place after another he took refuge, hoping to elude her search; but again and again she succeeded in tracking him to his place of concealment, though she was willing to leave him to himself when he had satisfied her demand for money. But at last for a long time he heard nothing of her; and as the months passed into years, the hope sprang up within him that his wife was either dead, or else had lost all clue to his whereabouts. Weary of residing abroad, he returned to England, and finding it difficult to obtain other employment, was glad to accept the post of village schoolmaster, for he thought the little country village might prove a secure hiding-place. And here becoming acquainted with Miss Sinclair, he basely yielded to the temptation to act as though the hope he cherished that his wife was dead were already a realised fact. He dared not openly ask Rose’s hand of her guardian; but he sought by all the means in his power to win her love, and did not rest till he had won from her a response to his avowed affection, and gained her consent to a secret engagement. It was a cruel selfish proceeding, for which his past misfortunes offered no excuse; and thankful indeed were we that his scheme of eloping with Rose had been frustrated.

But poor Rose! Bitter indeed was her distress when she found we had no comfort to give her. The shock was too great for her physical strength, and ere many hours had elapsed it was evident that a severe illness would be the consequence. For days she lay tossing in feverish delirium; whilst we kept anxious watch by her bedside, much fearing what the issue might be. But our fears were mercifully disappointed; the fever turned, and soon the much-loved patient was pronounced out of danger. But the improvement was very gradual, and after a while almost imperceptible. Extreme exhaustion was accompanied in Rose’s case by an apathetic indifference to everything around her, which formed the chief barrier to her recovery. She felt no desire to get strong again, now that life had no longer any great attraction for her.

‘If we could only rouse her to take an interest in anything, she would soon be well,’ the doctor said to me one day.

A possibility of doing so occurred to me at that moment, and I resolved to try, though I could scarcely hope to succeed. In the evening, when I was sitting by Rose’s couch, and knew that Mr Aslatt had gone out, and would not be back for an hour or two, I said to her gently: ‘I think you feel a little stronger to-day; do you not, darling?’

A heavy sigh was the only response to my question.

I knelt by her side, and gently drew her head upon my shoulder as I whispered: ‘I wish you could unburden your heart to me, dear Rose. Would it not be a relief to tell me the sad thoughts that occupy your mind?’

No answer but by tears, which I was glad to see, for I knew they would relieve her heavy heart. After a while, words followed. She told me how little she cared to get well again; what a dreary blank life appeared to her, now that he whom she had so loved and trusted had proved unworthy; how it seemed to her she was of no use in the world, and the sooner she were out of it the better for herself and every one else. And a great deal more in the same strain.

I reminded her of her guardian’s love for her, and his great anxiety for her recovery, and urged her to try to get well for his sake. But she only shook her head despondingly. ‘I have never been anything but a trouble to him,’ she said; ‘he would be happier without me. If I were out of the way, I daresay he would marry. I used to make plans for his future as well as for my own, you know; but now everything will be different.’

‘I do not think Mr Aslatt would have married,’ I ventured to say.

‘Why not?’ asked Rose.

I was silent, and she did not repeat the question.

‘I have a story to tell you, Rose, which I think you may like to hear,’ I said presently.

‘A story!’ she said in surprise.

‘Yes, darling, a story.’

‘Many years ago, a gentleman was passing through the streets of Vienna. He was a man about thirty years of age, but he looked older, for he had known sorrow and disappointment, and life appeared to him then nought but vanity and vexation of spirit. Yet many would have envied his position, for he possessed much of what the world most values. He was walking listlessly along, when his attention was attracted by a group of musicians, who were performing at the corner of a square. In the centre of the band stood a pretty little fair-haired girl about six years old. She was poorly clad. Her tiny feet were bare, and bleeding from contact with the sharp stones with which the roads were strewn; and tears were in her large blue eyes as, in her childish voice, she joined in the song. Her pretty yet sorrowful face and the plaintive tone in which she sang touched the stranger’s kind heart. He stood still to watch the group, and when the song was ended went forward to place some money in the child’s upturned palm. “Is this your little girl?” he asked the man by whose side she was standing. He replied in the negative. The little girl was an orphan, the child of an Englishman, who had formerly belonged to the band, but who had died some months before, leaving his little daughter entirely dependent on the good-will of his late comrades.

‘Well, darling, you must know that they did not object to keeping her with them, as her appearance was calculated to call forth pity, and thus increase their earnings. But it was a rough life for the child, and she suffered from the exposure to all weathers which it entailed. Her father, who it was believed had seen better days, had never allowed her to go out with the troop, and had done his utmost to shield her from hardships. But now there was no help for it; she could not be kept in idleness. Moved with pity for the child’s hapless lot, the gentleman inquired where the musicians resided, and returned to his hotel to consider how he might best serve the little orphan. After much reflection his resolution was taken. He was a lonely man, with no near relative to claim his love. His heart yearned with pity for the desolate child, whose pleading blue eyes and plaintive voice kept appealing to his compassion, to the exclusion of all other considerations. He determined to adopt her, and provide for her for the rest of her life. With this intention he sought the street musicians on the following day, and easily induced them to commit the child to his care. After handsomely rewarding the musicians, he took her away with him that very day, and ever since she has had the first place in his heart. His loving care for the orphan child brought its own reward, for in striving to promote the happiness of little Rose he found his own.’

I was interrupted by a cry from my companion. ‘Rose!’ she exclaimed excitedly. ‘What are you saying, Miss Bygrave? Tell me—was I—am I that little child?’

‘You are, darling; and now you know how truly you are the light of Mr Aslatt’s life. He has no one to care for but you, and you alone can make him happy.’

‘And I have really no claim upon him, am in no way related to him, as I thought! I knew I owed him much, but I had no idea to what extent I was indebted to him. But for his goodness, what should I be now? Oh, if I had only known this before! How ungrateful I have been to him, how wayward and perverse! Oh, Miss Bygrave, I cannot bear to think of it!’

‘Do not trouble about that, dear,’ I said, trying to soothe her, for her agitation alarmed me; ‘it is all forgiven and forgotten by Mr Aslatt.’

‘But I shall never forgive myself,’ she exclaimed passionately. ‘To think that I have been receiving everything from him for years, living upon his bounty, and yet making no return, evincing no gratitude, taking all his kindness as a matter of course, just because I imagined I was dear to him for my parents’ sake!’

‘Nay; you are too hard upon yourself, dear Rose,’ I said gently. ‘To a certain extent you have been grateful to him; you have again and again acknowledged to me your sense of his goodness; and now that you know all, you will clearly prove your gratitude, I have no doubt.’

‘But how?’ exclaimed Rose. ‘How can I express—how can I shew my deep sense of all that I owe him?’

‘In the first place, by getting well as soon as possible, and by letting him see that you once more take an interest in life. For his sake, I know you will strive to bear bravely a trial, the bitterness of which he fully appreciates. And Rose, I must beg you not to attempt to express to Mr Aslatt your sense of indebtedness. He feels a morbid shrinking from hearing such words from your lips, and has implored me—in case I ever revealed to you the secret of your early life, as I have been led to do this evening—to assure you that you are under no great obligation to him, for he considers that he has been fully repaid for what he has done for you, by the happiness your companionship has given him.’

‘But I cannot bear to go on receiving so much from him, and yet give no expression to my gratitude,’ said Rose.

‘You cannot do otherwise,’ I replied; ‘unless you wish to make him very unhappy, and that would be a poor return for all his goodness. Do all you can to please him; be as bright and cheerful as possible; but do not, I beseech you, let him see that you labour under a sense of painful obligation to him.’

‘I will act as you desire,’ said Rose. ‘But is there really no other way in which I can prove my gratitude?’

‘Not at present,’ I replied. ‘But perhaps at some future time you may be able to give him what he will consider worth far more than all he has ever bestowed upon you; but it would not be acceptable to him if it proceeded only from the promptings of gratitude.’

‘I do not understand you,’ said Rose, though her cheek flushed.

‘Perhaps you may some day,’ I answered. ‘But now, darling, you must be still, and not talk any more, else I am afraid you will not be so well to-morrow.’

I had hard work to persuade her to be quiet, and though after a time she refrained from talking in obedience to my repeated injunctions, I could see her thoughts were dwelling on the communication I had made to her. Only good results, however, followed from the excitement of that evening. There was a tinge of pink on Rose’s delicate cheek the next day; her countenance was brighter, and her manner more animated than we had seen it for some time. Mr Aslatt was delighted at the change, and encouraged by it, he began to talk to Rose of the plans he had formed for taking her to Italy as soon as she felt strong enough to travel. He was overjoyed to find that she made no objection to his proposal, but even entered cheerfully into his plans, and declared that she should be quite ready to start in the course of a few weeks. And so it proved, for she gained strength with a rapidity which shewed the truth of the doctor’s words, that she only needed to be roused in order to get well.

We started for the continent at the end of October. It was thought that residence abroad during the winter months would promote Rose’s restoration to health, and afford that diversion of mind which was so desirable after the trying experience she had passed through. The result was most satisfactory. There was no return of the apathetic melancholy which had been so distressing to witness; and her enjoyment of the various entertainments her kind friend provided for her was unassumed. I began to hope that, after all, her attachment to Mr Hammond had not been very deep, but merely a romantic fancy, kindled by the thought of his misfortunes, and fanned into a flame by the breath of opposition. A thousand little incidents strengthened this conviction of mine. Every day it became evident that Rose was learning to appreciate her guardian’s character more highly than she had done before. She took a growing delight in his society, and indeed never seemed quite at ease if he were absent.

When in the spring we returned to England, Rose’s health and spirits had so completely returned, that she appeared little different from the radiant girl whose loveliness had charmed me when I first looked at her, save that her manner was gentler, being marked by a winning humility and patience which her former bearing had lacked.

I did not long remain at Westwood Hall in the capacity of Rose’s companion, though I have frequently visited it since as her friend. One day soon after our return from Italy, she came to me with a bright and blushing countenance, and whispered that she had a secret to tell me. I had little doubt what the secret was, and could therefore help Rose out with her confession, that Mr Aslatt had asked her to be his wife, and that she had consented, though with some reluctance, caused by a sense of her unworthiness.

‘I could not do otherwise,’ she said, ‘when he told me that the happiness of his future life depended upon my answer; though I know how little I deserve the love he bestows upon me.’

‘But Rose,’ I said, anxious to be relieved of a painful doubt, ‘you have not, I trust, been led to a decision contrary to the dictates of your heart? You know nothing would be further from Mr Aslatt’s desire than that you should sacrifice your own inclinations from a mistaken notion of his claims upon you. He would not be happy if he thought you had only consented that you might not make him unhappy, and not because your own happiness would be promoted by the union.’

‘I know that,’ murmured Rose, as her cheek took a deeper tint; ‘but it is not so. I feel very differently towards Mr Aslatt from what I did when you first knew me. I think him the best and noblest of men, and I shall be proud and happy to be his wife; only I wish I were more worthy of him. O Miss Bygrave! I cannot tell you how ashamed I feel, when I think of the infatuation which led me to deceive so kind a friend, or how intensely thankful I am that you saved me from a wicked act which would have caused unspeakable misery for us both! I pity poor Mr Hammond, and forgive him for the injury he so nearly inflicted upon me; but I must confess to you that I never really had such confidence in him or cared for him, as I now care for and trust the one whose love I have slighted and undervalued so long.’

It only remains to add that shortly after that terrible scene at the Priory, Mr Hammond disappeared, and it was thought, went abroad; but of him and his wretched wife not a scrap of intelligence has ever reached us.