'The tender heart beat no more; it was to have no more pangs, no more doubts, no more griefs and trials: its last throb was love! —Pendennis. The Harbingers are come: see, see their mark! White is their colour.... —G. Herbert. Frank, accepted Lady Henley's invitation and arrived at Henley Court just before dinner-time one day. The place lies beyond Pebblesthwaite, on the Smokethwaite road. It was a more cheerful house than Ravensrick—a comfortable, modern, stone-piled house, built upon a hill, with windows north and south, and east and west, with wide distant views of valleys and winding roads and moors. Through one break of the hills, when the wind blew south, the chimneys of Smokethwaite stood out clear against the sky; at other times a dull black cloud hung over the gap. The garden was charming: on one side a natural terrace overhung the valley; a copper beech rustled upon the lawn; and a few great chestnut-trees gave shade in summer to the young people of the house, to the cows browsing in the meadow, who would come up to the boundary fence to watch Miss Bell's flirtations with gentle curiosity, or the children at play, or to listen to Sir Thomas reading out the newspaper. He had a loud voice and a secret longing for parliamentary distinction. When he read the speeches he would round his periods, address Lady Henley as 'sir,' and imagine himself in his place, a senator in the company of senators. He was a stupid man, but hospitable, and popular in the neighbourhood, far more so than Lady Henley, who was greatly disliked. Bell was fast, handsome. Norah was a gentle, scatter-brained creature, who looked up to everybody; she especially adored her sister, Mrs. Boswarrick, who had captivated Captain Boswarrick one evening at a York ball, where she had danced down a whole regiment of officers. The captain himself was a small and languid man, and he admired energy in others. If Sir Thomas was fond of thundering out the debates, Captain Boswarrick had a pretty turn for amateur acting and reciting to select audiences. Some one once suggested private theatricals. 'Never while I live,' said Lady Henley, 'shall there be such mummeries in this house. If Alfred chooses to make a fool of himself and repeat verses to the girls, I have no objection, so long as he don't ask me to sit by.' 'I never should have thought of asking you to sit by, Lady Henley,' drawled Alfred. When Frank was announced, he found the young ladies in fits of laughter, Captain Boswarrick declaiming in the middle of the room, with Squire Anley and Mr. Redmayne for audience. Everybody turned round, and the performance suddenly ceased when he entered. The Squire nodded without getting up. 'How d'ye do?' said Mrs. Boswarrick, holding out half-a-dozen bracelets. 'Mr. Raban forgets me, I can see. Sit down. Alfred hates being interrupted. Go on, Alfred!' Captain Boswarrick's manner would quite change when he began to recite. He would stamp, start, gesticulate, and throw himself into the part with more spirit than could have been reasonably expected. And now, with a glance at his wife, he began again with a stamp, and suddenly pointing— That morn owd York wor all alive Wi' leal an' merry hearts; For t' country foalks com' i' full drive I' gigs an' market-carts, An' girt lang trains, wi' whistlin' din, Com' w-w-whirrlin' up. The little captain, suiting the action to the word, raised his arm with some action to represent the train. It was caught from behind by a firm grasp. Frank had not seen that he had been followed into the room by a stout little man in bran-new clothes, who joined the circle. 'Take care,' said the stranger,—he spoke with a slight Yorkshire accent. 'What are you about, yo'ng man? What is all this? Very fascinating, very brilliant, very seductive, very much so, but leading to—what?' with a sudden drop of the voice, and the hand he held. Bell went off into a shriek of laughter. Captain Boswarrick flushed up. He might have resented the interruption still more if he had not been somewhat mollified by the string of compliments. 'Leading to——You would have heard all about it, Mr. Stock, if you had not stopped him,' said Mr. Anley. 'Shall I make my meaning plainer?' said the little man, not heeding the interruption. 'Shall I tell you what I mean? Social intercourse, music, poetry,—dazzling, I own. I, too, have experienced the charm; I, too, have studied to please; but I have also discovered the vanity of vanities; so will you one day. A fact, though you don't believe me.' 'But in the meanwhile, Mr. Stock, don't grudge us our fun,' said Bessie Boswarrick, coming to the rescue. 'I don't grudge it; far from it,' said the stranger; 'I was just like you all once: now—I am not afraid of ridicule—I can give you something better than that; better than that, better than that. You can choose between us: his poetry, my plain speaking. I'm a plain man,—a very plain man; he, brilliant, highly educated.' Captain Boswarrick scarcely knew how to accept all these compliments and in what sense to take them. Mr. Anley listened with the profoundest gravity. Bell giggled and stuffed her handkerchief into her mouth; but everybody was glad when the door opened and Lady Henley came in, making a diversion. The scene was getting embarrassing. 'After dinner, dear Mr. Stock,' said Joanna, courteously, 'we shall be glad to hear anything you may have to say. Let us leave them to their folly, Mr. Raban. Do you know your neighbour?—our excellent friend and minister?' Frank was quite prepared to make Mr. Stock's acquaintance—he was an amateur preacher, a retired cavalry officer, living not far from Ravensrick—but he found himself carried off by Sir Thomas. The baronet had been in town that week, and was in a communicative mood. He had seen the ladies at Church House, who had asked after Raban. The Admiral had been heard of from Gibraltar. 'He has been writing in the most ill-judged way to know the exact state of affairs between Dolly and my nephew Robert,' Sir Thomas said confidentially. Sir Thomas always reflected the people with whom he had been living. 'I found my sister greatly overcome—hers is a nervous susceptibility, almost amounting to genius, but not under control.' And then, dropping his oratorical tone of voice, he went on to say that they all seemed much disturbed and greatly in want of cheering; that he had promised to run up again. 'Lady Sarah still lingering, poor thing,' he added. 'She has a most devoted nurse in my young niece.' Frank asked as indifferently as he could how Miss Vanborough was looking. 'Not so blooming as I could wish,' said Sir Thomas. 'Far from it. My wife is anxious that our friend, Mr. Stock, should impart some of his admirable ministration to her, but we cannot expect her to leave home at present.' Mr. Stock's ministration seemed to have won over the simple baronet, whose conversation was deeply interesting to Frank, for he went on alternately praising Mr. Stock and talking about Dolly. Sir Thomas was not the discreetest of men. 'I had a—some painful explanation with my niece,' he continued, lowering his voice (people seem to think that is a sort of charm against indiscretion); 'to you, who are such an old friend, I may safely say that I do not like this vagueness and uncertainty in a matter which so closely concerns Dolly's happiness. The engagement seems to be neither on nor off.... She tells me that Robert is free, but she seems to consider herself bound.... I have thought it best to write to him plainly on the subject.... My wife, as you know, wishes the engagement entirely broken ... at least I think so....' The baronet suddenly stopped short, and looking rather foolish, began to talk of Mr. Stock again. Lady Henley was not so absorbed in her conversation that she had not overheard Sir Thomas's too candid confidences. She was shaking her head at her husband over her shoulder. Frank moved away, and went and stared through one of the windows. Once more hope came to dazzle him. In some moods people grasp at faintest dreams. There was everything smiling, shining, every ridge seemed illuminated; there lay the happy valley flooded with sunlight, life, brightness. Children's voices reached him, and meanwhile the recitation had begun again. 'Yan morn in May,' the Captain was saying. But a loud dinner-bell brought it all to a close. The sun had set, they had all done dinner. Norah used to feed the cows of an evening with oat-cake prepared for Sir Thomas, and she now came out into the twilight, calling to her favourites, who stood expecting with their horns rearing against a golden streak. One bolder than the rest was making a hissing noise to attract attention, as Norah came out with her oat-cake. She called her favourites by name and softly stroked their long noses over the railings. Mr. Redmayne followed soon after, advancing with some precaution. 'Miss Norah,' he said, 'Mr. Stock is putting the drawing-room chairs in order—he evidently expects a large congregation. A Miss M'Grudder has come. Is it absolutely necessary that one should be present, or may one stop here and feed the cows?' 'I must go in,' said Norah, demurely. 'Here is the oat-cake, Mr. Redmayne,' and so saying she put the remains into his hand and tripped hastily away. Mr. Redmayne, however, preferred to follow Miss Norah. Frank came out as the two went in together—he did not want to be present at the oration. He was distracted and thinking of many things. Those few words of Sir Thomas had given him a strange longing to go back, if only for a day, to see Dolly again. He thought of his old friend also lying stricken. He had been very forgetful all these days past, and his conscience reproached him, and his inclination spoke too. There was an early train from Smokethwaite—he had business in town; why should he not go? Cruel girl! was she sad, and could he do nothing to help her? As Frank walked up and down in the twilight, he would hear the boom of Mr. Stock's voice through the open drawing-room windows. When they started a hymn, the cows, who are fond of music, all crowded up to listen. As for Frank, he was in charity with all men, and prepared to believe that all that people did was good. If Mr. Stock liked to give a peculiar expression to the faith which was in him, Raban for one had no mind to quarrel with it. His own was a silent belief: it seemed growing with happier emotions that were overflooding his heart, but it found its best expression in silence. He took leave of his hosts that evening when he went upstairs to bed. The servant had put Frank into Jonah's room. It was a mistake—and Lady Henley did not know of it. There were the poor boy's pistols, his whips, on the wall boxing-gloves and foils. He had somehow got hold of one of those photographs of Dolly of which mention has been made, and hung it up over his chimney. There were a few books on the shelf, Captain Mayne Reid, Ivanhoe, a few old school-books and poetry-books, and Frank took one down. Frank thought very kindly of poor Jonah as he looked about at his possessions. He was a long time before he could get to sleep, and he got up and lighted his candle and read one of the books off the shelf—it happened to be Kingsley's Andromeda—till he fell asleep. Then it was only to dream a confused dream: Jonah fighting desperately with some finny monster, like that one on Lady Sarah's tiles, Dolly chained to a rock, and calling for help, while Mrs. Palmer and the Admiral stood wringing their hands on the shore. Was this George coming to their help? The monster changed to mist, out of which came lightning and thunder—the lightning was the gleam of a sword. The thunder shook the air; the mists parted; George, pale and wounded, stretched out his hand and gave Raban the sword; he looked weary with the fight; Frank in his dream rushed forward and struck wildly; the monster gave a horrible scream. He started up wide awake. He had left his window open; the morning mist had filled the room, but the scream was a real one; it was in his ears still. It came from the room below; there was a stir of voices, then all was silent again. When Frank came down to an early breakfast in the big dining-room he asked the butler if any one had been ill in the night. 'I heard a scream,' he said. 'It is my lady in her sleep,' the man answered. 'She often do scream at night since Mr. Jonah left.' 'I want my man called,' said Frank; 'I am going to town by the early train.' As Frank was changing carriages at one of the stations, the London train went by, and he thought he saw a glimpse of a familiar face; a grey kid glove was waved. Surely it was Mrs. Palmer, on her way to Henley Court!
Dolly, who had written thus far, looked up, for old Sam came into the room with a card. 'It's Mr. Raban, Miss,' said he. Dolly blushed up crimson. 'I—I can't see him, Sam,' she answered. 'Aunt Sarah is asleep. Say I am engaged.' Sam came back with Frank's card. 'Mr. Raban is in town till Monday, Miss.' 'Put down the card, Sam,' said Dolly, and she bent her head over her letter and went on writing. Frank walked away disappointed. 'She might have spared five minutes to a friend who had come a hundred miles to see her,' he said to John Morgan that evening, as they walked back together to Frank's hotel. The waiter met Frank with a note, which had been left during his absence. Raban suddenly brightened up; he read a few words, very stiff, very shy. 'Lady Sarah heard he had called, and wanted to see him; would he come the following day at five o'clock? 'It was signed, 'Yours truly, Dorothea Vanborough.' 'Well,' said John Morgan, 'that is Dolly's writing, isn't it?' 'Yes,' said Frank. 'Lady Sarah wants to see me. As for Miss Vanborough, she seems to be studying the art of keeping old friends at a distance.' 'Nonsense,' said Morgan, 'since she asks you to go. What is the matter with you?' The second time old Sam let Frank in at once, and showed him into the drawing-room. 'My lady will be ready directly,' he said. Frank waited his summons; when he was tired of waiting he stepped out upon the terrace, attracted by the beauty of the autumnal evening, and wondering what inexpressible charm the old home had for him. Ravensrick, with all the graces of possession, did not seem to him so much like home as this silent old house where he had no right, no single stake; where the mistress lay stricken, and parting from this world; where Dolly lived, but where her heart's interest was not. Already strangers were speculating upon the fate of the old house, and wondering who would come there after Lady Sarah's death. And yet Frank Raban, as he paced the terrace, felt a tranquil satisfaction and sense of completeness that existed for him in no other place. When Dolly came into Lady Sarah's room to tell her that Frank was there, Marker, who had been sitting in a corner, got up gently and left the room. Lady Sarah was not asleep; she was sitting up on her sofa by the window, of which the sash was half raised to let in the air. Her grey hair was hanging loose; grey though it was, it fell in shining silver curls about the withered face. 'Is that you, Dolly? I have had a dream,' she said, a little wildly. 'Your father was standing by me and we were looking at a river, and George was a child again, and I held him in my arms, and when I looked into his face it was like the face of that Raphael child at Dresden. Look out,' she said, beginning to wander again, 'and tell me if the river is there.' Dolly unconsciously obeyed, and looked out at the garden, in its shifting, changing lights and tremulous tones of radiance and golden-sombres. She could almost have imagined her aunt's dream to be true if Frank Raban had not been walking on the terrace. She looked back. 'Dear Aunt Sarah, it is the sunset that made you dream.' 'It was a dream,' said Lady Sarah, 'but I think I have sometimes seen that river before, Dolly. Christian and Christiana and all the company have crossed it.' Then, smiling: 'I am afraid I have been a tiresome old pilgrim at times.' She pushed back her grey hair and lay looking into the girl's face. 'It is nearly over now,' she said. Dolly tried to speak, but some sudden tears seemed to choke her, and Lady Sarah stroked her hand. 'Try to be a thankful woman, Dolly,' she said. 'God has blessed you and given you love and trust in others. I see now where I failed.' Then, in her usual tone, she said, 'I should like to see Frank Raban again.' Dolly was beginning to say that she would go for him, when Lady Sarah suddenly cried,—'Open the window wide! open! let the river come in.' Dolly, frightened, threw open the pane, and, as she did so, some evening bell began to ring from a distant chapel, and a great flight of birds passed across the sky. The next minute Frank from the terrace below heard a cry. It was Dolly calling for help. 'I am here,' he answered, and, without waiting to think, he sprang up the old oak staircase, and hurried along the passage to the door of Lady Sarah's room. It was all dark in the passage, but the sun was in the room. Dolly was holding up her aunt in her arms; her strength seemed to be failing. Frank sprang to help her, and together they raised her up. A little soft breeze came in at the window, and Lady Sarah opened her eyes. She was still wandering. 'Is this George?' she said. 'I have been waiting for you, dear.' Then she seemed to recognise Frank, and she let his hand fall upon his sleeve. 'Ah! he will take care of Dolly,' she whispered, 'for this is——' A quick silent brightness came into her face: it may have been some change in the sunset lights. She was dead—lying in a serene and royal peace. |