CHAPTER XVII.

_WHAT THE STORM BROUGHT._

I said that I was dying. God is good: The heavens grow darker as they grow the purer; And both as we do near them; so near death The soul grows darker and diviner hourly.

The storm that had looked so wild among the streets and terraces of London broke in absolute fury over the northern ocean. The waves were lashed into violence under the fierce rushing of the winds, the great yellow clouds sent out vivid flashes that lit up the desolate scene, and ever and anon came the sullen crash of thunder through the darkness.

The sun had gone down, the twilight had passed into the storm-darkness; it was about the time when Adele and Arthur had been discussing the mental effects produced by tempest in the closely-curtained library, and sending out the warm compassion of their young souls to the world's great army of mourners. Margaret Grey sat beside her parlor-window looking out upon the storm. She looked very desolate in the silent, half-dark room, with its white curtains and ghostly holland draperies. Her hands were folded listlessly, her eyes were full of sadness. She had been much happier and far more hopeful since Arthur's visit, but on this evening, she could not have told why, the deep depression from which his presence and her own strenuous exertions had aroused her seemed to be settling down upon her once more.

She felt so absolutely alone and uncared-for in the dreary tumult upon which she gazed that she began to feel as if it were impossible for anything but this to be her lot. Every sweet human tie that had once rejoiced her had been loosened, and she told herself she only was to blame, and therefore they might never, never be reknit. It was a curse upon her, and she could not believe it would be removed.

She bowed her head upon her hands as she thought of the past--as she felt within herself the rich, boundless capabilities of loving--as she looked out upon her own desolation.

And while she was brooding the darkness gathered. In the distance the white foam of the waves gleamed through it, and from time to time it was disturbed by the lightning; but for that it was deep indeed. A dark night has terrors for the imaginative: Margaret looked out with a shudder.

"It was into such a darkness that he went out," she murmured. "Oh, my darling! my darling!"

And then she turned, and began to feel with a certain creeping sense of uneasiness that the house was very still. She drew down the blind with a hasty impulse. The outside world made her think too painfully of that wanderer in his first desolation. Alas! he would have recovered from that--perhaps he was even rejoicing in his liberty. The thought was too bitter. She felt her overstrained mind must have relief. A book might bring it, so she rose to ring for lights.

But before she could reach the bell-handle the door opened slowly, stealthily, as if ashamed of its own creaking, and a figure that in the half darkness she did not recognize crossed to the window, and taking a seat gazed at her across the interval of shadow. There was something defiant in the action, and for a moment Margaret was frightened. Who was this that had dared to intrude upon her?

But she and her landlady were alone in the house. Her fears, she told herself, were puerile; crossing the dark room, she looked her intruder in the face. By the faint light which still struggled through the window-blind she recognized Jane Rodgers. But could she be right? Was not this rather a distorted creature of her own imagination that had taken the landlady's face and features to mock her? This being was very unlike the quiet and eminently respectable landlady, for the face was so livid that it seemed to gleam out of the darkness, the eyes were wild and lurid, and the lips and tongue seemed to be moving convulsively, as though the woman were agitated with burning thirst.

Margaret started back in momentary alarm; but she was naturally brave--she would assure herself that this was no dream conjured up by a diseased imagination, but actual, living flesh and blood. She put her hand on her landlady's shoulder. "Jane," she said, "is this you? My good woman, what is wrong? Has the storm alarmed you?"

Her touch was flung off with such violence that she staggered and nearly fell, for the torrent of this woman's wrath and hatred had been so long suppressed that now no bounds would hold it. "Leave me alone!" she cried. "How dare you put a finger on me? No," with a wild laugh as Margaret retreated quietly to the door. She thought the woman was mad, and so Jane was in a sense. "I've turned the key. We're alone together, at last, my fine lady; you shall hear me out; you shall know what's in my power--what I'll do, by ----! It's a fine night, dark as pitch; a body could be easily put out of the way--made quiet and then tossed out there!"

She lifted the blind, and even as she did so came a lurid flash. It showed the outside tumult, the black, restless waves, seeming in their unrest to hunger for a victim, and for one moment it showed in bold relief what was more dreadful still, a dark human face distorted with hideous passion. The eyes of the landlady seemed to be starting from their sockets, her strong sinewy hands were clenched, her body was stooping forward; the attitude was that of a cat about to spring upon its prey. Margaret saw and shrank back in sudden terror, the sight was so repulsive. But she recovered herself. They were woman to woman. Why should she fear? Again she touched the landlady on the shoulder. "Jane," she said in a low voice that trembled in spite of her strong effort to be calm, "you must be mad or dreaming. What does all this mean?"

"It means ----." The woman hissed _one_ word into her ear, and then for the first time Margaret realized her position. She had not much physical strength, for the severe mental struggles through which she had been passing had slowly but surely sapped at the springs of her life. Alone! She had thought of it with sadness only a few moments since; now she felt herself alone, and in the power of a hatred rendered strong and brutal by human passion. In the presence of the dark reality her small remnant of strength deserted her. She felt weak and faint with sheer terror of what might be before her.

In one moment it all seemed to flash upon her--the horror, the mystery, the sickening details. She closed her eyes and instinctively cried out for help to the one Presence that alone was near her in this awful moment. The lightning flashed in again upon the strange scene. It showed her kneeling, with clasped hands and calm face and eyes raised up to heaven.

Heaven! God! We think of them little in our hours of peace and gladness, but in the storm-sounds, in the terrors of darkness, in physical weakness brought home to our souls, perhaps we are all somewhat alike. Weak women and strong, self-dependent men instinctively look up, involuntarily call on the awful name. How often, how often, the Name has proved a Power! Even in this case it seemed for a moment effectual.

The woman with the deadly purpose in her eyes shrank back, awed by the secret witness evoked by prayer. But darkness hid the calm, resolute face, and the cruel heart was steeled once more. "What's the use of praying?" she cried in a transport of fury; "them as prays should practice--that's _my_ creed; and, look you here! if there's a heaven and hell, as the pious says, you've killed my soul, for I was never wicked till _you_ came our way; and _curse_ you for it, I say, with your milk-white face and your smooth ways and your pride! But I'll do for you yet. I didn't intend it," she continued, her voice rising almost to a shriek, "leastways, not to-night; but the look of you, the feel of you, makes me _mad_." She had seized Margaret's delicate wrists and was holding them in a vice-like grasp as she glared into her eyes. "Your fine young gentleman suspects me--you haven't that confidence. I was insolent, was I? but not nothing to be afraid of. Perhaps you'll cry another cry now, if I let you cry at all."

She laughed a savage laugh that made Margaret shiver, but she had not lost all her power; with a sudden wrench she threw off the woman's grasp, and springing to the window unloosened and opened it. It was on the ground floor, but even a fall would have been better than this life-and-death struggle in the darkness. The cool, keen night-air was refreshing. She drew a long breath and threw herself forward. It was in vain.

Jane had recovered from the momentary paralysis which Margaret's unexpected effort had caused her. She caught her round the waist, and dragging her back into the room threw her down upon the ground.

Then for a moment Margaret's consciousness deserted her. With a deep sigh she closed her eyes, but not even her weakness would come to her relief. Horror kept her senses alert. She opened her eyes to feel the cool night-air bathing her face, and to see the face of her enemy very close to her own.

Jane's knees were on Margaret's chest, her hand was uplifted to strike, but her victim opened her eyes and the hand fell. "You're not quite gone," she said--"only a sham, like t'other night. No more shams for you, fine lady; but, listen! a big one for me, and it'll help your last moments to hear it. You've destroyed yourself is to be my story to-morrow when the neighbors inquire--went out in the storm unbeknown to me--wasn't heard of no more."

Margaret closed her eyes again, but no cry for mercy came from her lips.

Jane Rodgers waited. It would have been a triumph to have heard the passionate prayers for which she had prepared herself to answer with mocking reference to former times. She stooped down. "Have you nothing to say?" she asked.

Still not a word, only the dark eyes opened, and the pure spirit seemed to look out calmly on the passionate, sin-stained mortal.

And still Jane waited. It seemed almost as if an invisible power had held back her hand.

In the moment given her Margaret was preparing to die. She looked her position calmly in the face. She could not struggle. All her strength seemed to have gone out of her in that last effort. Nothing was left but submission. It was hard. For the sake of others, for the sake of the future which was beginning to take fairer colors, she would have wished to live; and then in this kind of death there was something so revolting. To be put out of sight, to be cast like a dog into the waters, to leave behind her as a memory either the stain of self-destruction or the horrible nine days' wonder of a sickening murder. But would not words be thrown away? and strength she had none.

She could only pray with passionate intensity for help. With the prayer came calmness, and after it a strange thought that utterly absorbed her.

For the moment Margaret Grey forgot herself, forgot even the horror of her situation. She looked up into the haggard, desperate face bending over her, and her very soul was filled with a deep, boundless pity. Her thought was no more to save herself; it was to save this woman from the commission of a crime. A sudden sense of responsibility seemed to crush her down, a feeling that if this woman's soul were lost she would be to blame. It was a madness, a noble madness, but it gave her strength.

With an irresistible force she threw off the knees that were pressing out her life, and rising to her feet looked in her turn into the eyes of her bitter foe--a look that so astonished Jane as to render her for the moment helpless, for she saw her mistress's face as the face of an angel. Through the semi-darkness of the room those kind, sad eyes looked into hers, and seemed to draw away half her venom.

Then Margaret spoke in a soft, low tone that contrasted strangely with the fierce, savage words to which she had been forced to listen: "Poor foolish woman! why do you hate me so?"

Her words fell clear and unanswered in the silence. She went on gently, "If I have suspected you wrongfully, if I have caused you any kind of evil, I am heartily sorry; but oh, for your own sake, for the sake of all you hold dear, pause now before you do a deed that can never, through all eternity, be undone."

She paused a moment to gather strength: "I did not intend to ask you to spare me, but as I lay there helpless it came into my mind that if I suffered this deed to be done your blood-guiltiness would be on my head. You cannot hurt me much," she continued with a noble truthfulness, "for what is death? I have looked it in the face more than once--a bitter pang, no doubt, but a short one. I plead not for _my_ sake, but for yours--for your poor soul, which is perishing this night. In God's name I beseech you to spare it. Be wise in time, or at least--for the long night is before us--take an hour to consider. I will not escape--I will sit here in your sight. You were mad for the moment--these feelings of hatred had taken possession of you--God would not suffer--" She broke off suddenly, "Hark! what is that?"

"A knocking at the gate," said Jane, turning very pale. "Now's your time. You have gained time with your false tongue. I sha'n't be able to escape. You will have your revenge."

"Stop," said Margaret, holding her back, and there was heavenly forgiveness in her face. "Believe that I wish you no ill. Look at me, Jane. Do you see hatred or vengeance in my face? Forget these few awful moments. I will forgive, and we shall both thank God for ever for having saved as from an unspeakable horror. This is His hand; go down an your knees and thank Him."

"It is--it is!" said Jane, shivering, for her superstitious nature had been touched by the strange coincidence. Governed by a stronger will than her own, she knelt, while the tears rained down her face.

But the knocking began to grow desperate.

"You had better go," said Margaret quietly; "our visitor is impatient."

Obedient as a child, the woman who but a few moments before had been foaming with rage got up and went out. The cause of the noise was soon explained. A chaise was standing at the gate, the sound of whose approach had been unheard in the tumult of the night: an elderly woman had dismounted.

"Sae ye're not all deed and buried," she said briskly as the landlady showed her scared face at the gate. "I was rating the laddie here for misguiding o' an auld wife that micht hae bin his mither, for, thinks I to myself, sure and certain there's not a soul within, and a awfu' nicht it is to keep a body outside"--the old woman spoke quite reproachfully--"but noo I think on't," she continued, "ye're not living here your lane. One Mrs. Grey is lodgin' wi' you, for, as I tak it, you're the landleddy."

Jane was scarcely able to speak, but as silence gives consent the old woman proceeded to pay the boy, to gather up her parcels and to walk rapidly along the garden-path.

"An' here _is_ Mrs. Grey her ainsel', as I canna doobt," she continued cheerfully, for Margaret had lighted the hall-lamp and was standing underneath it.

The old Scotchwoman looked round her scrutinizingly as she passed into the lighted hall. There was a certain appearance of repressed excitement about both Margaret and the landlady that did not escape her shrewd old eyes. "Bless me, how wild they look!" was her mental ejaculation, but she refrained from all expression of her feelings.

Mrs. Foster understood her manners. She prided herself on this, that she knew a lady the moment she set her eyes upon her. Whatever Mrs. Grey might turn out to be, old Martha was satisfied at once that she was a lady, and she acted accordingly. She dropped a little old-fashioned curtsey, and the excitement of her first arrival having in a measure passed, brought forward her best English to do honor to the occasion:

"You'll be astonished, madam, and with reason, to see an old woman drop down from the skies, as we may say, and at this hour of the night, too. But I've brought my credentials with me, and, like mony anither, my young gentleman likes to do everything in a hurry. Here's the letter which will explain a sight better than I can."

"Come in, come in," said Margaret; then to Jane, who was looking at her in a strange scrutinizing manner, "Bring the candles into the parlor, Jane; then come in and consider how we are to provide for our guest. I am sure she is heartily welcome, for I see Mr. Forrest has sent her."

Margaret's words had the desired effect. They set Jane's mind at rest. She saw it was not her mistress's intention to make any revelation about the scene that had preceded the old woman's arrival. Bewildered and dazed, she found her way to the kitchen, mechanically did as she was told, and returned to the parlor to find the old woman quietly divesting herself of bonnet and shawl and looking round with the air of one who had taken possession.

Old Martha seemed in fact to be the only capable person in the house, for Margaret had fallen back on the sofa white and trembling. Up to the moment of the old woman's arrival she had been sustained by her overpowering excitement. In the pleasant, warm security she began to feel a certain reaction, a sudden collapse of power.

And the landlady, notwithstanding her vigorous efforts to recover her self-possession, looked rather scared. It was such a contrast--from the horror and darkness to the light and pleasant security. But our life is strange; the common things seize and silence the dramatic crises, and we drop naturally into the old channels. The first access of alarm over, Jane Rodgers put on her apron, smoothed back her hair and set about the common tasks of relighting the kitchen fire, preparing tea and airing sheets for the old woman's bed, just as if that awful night's experience had never been. And Margaret swallowed a glass of wine, fought down her longing for tears, and found herself in a few moments looking with tranquil pleasure at her old treasures, the rings and bracelets which Martha Foster had returned, and listening quietly to the old woman's lively description of Mr. Arthur's babyhood and early youth. Martha never imagined this could be anything but interesting, and to have begun so soon on her pet subject was a high mark of the old woman's favor.

Margaret believed she had conquered Jane Rodgers's fierce hatred--for the moment at least--yet it was with a feeling of devout thankfulness that she noticed how, of her own accord, the landlady had arranged for Martha Foster to sleep in the little closet which opened from her bedroom.

They all retired early, and the stormy evening closed in peace.