CHAPTER XLVIII.--WHEREIN THE READER DIVERGES INTO A NEW BRANCH OF “THE

RAILROAD OF LIFE” IN A THIRD-CLASS CARRIAGE.

Lewis, bruised and wearied after his skirmish with the housebreakers, flung himself on a sofa in his dressing-room, to try if he could obtain a few hours’ sleep ere fresh cares and duties should devolve upon him; but sleep demands a calm frame of mind, and in his spirit there was no peace. One thought haunted him--in his brief and agitating interview with Annie, had he betrayed himself? Sometimes, as he recalled the words he had spoken, and the feelings which had as it were forced them from him, he felt that he must have done so; and then he regretted that Hardy’s bullet had flown wide of its mark, and wished that he were lying there a senseless corpse rather than a living man endowed with power to feel, and therefore to suffer. Then he bethought him how alarmed and confused Annie had appeared, and he conceived that she might have been too thoroughly preoccupied and self-engrossed to have marked his words, or to have attributed to them any meaning save friendly interest. One thing was only too clear: of whatever nature might be Annie’s feelings towards him, his affection for her was love--deep, fervent, earnest love--a passion that he could neither banish nor control. How then should he act? flight had now become the idea that most readily occurred to him: again, the possibility of leaving Walter presented itself to his mind, and this time not as a mere remote contingency, but as a step which he might at any moment be called upon to take, if he could not recover his selfcontrol so entirely as to endure Annie’s presence; nay, to receive marks of her gratitude and esteem, or even, on occasion, to share her confidence, without betraying his feelings. Then in his self-tormenting he caught at the expression which he had half thought, half uttered, to “_endure_” her presence--to endure that which he idolised, the presence of one for whom he would sacrifice friends, family, the love of adventure, his ambitious hopes, nay, as he had but now proved, life itself. A wild idea crossed his mind: if love were thus all-powerful with him, a strong-minded, determined man, might it not be equally so with her, a young, impulsive girl, whose very nature was an embodiment of tenderness; might she not secretly pine to sacrifice rank, station, riches, for the sake of love and him? Sacrifice--ay, rather rejoice to cast off such trammels! Should he strive to ascertain this? Should he tell her how he loved her with a passion that was undermining the secret springs of his very existence, and implore her to fly with him to some fair western land, where the false distinctions of society were undreamed of, and the brave, true-hearted man was lord, not of his servile fellows, but of the creation which God had destined him to rule? The picture, seen by the false glare of his heated imagination, appeared a bright one, the lights stood out boldly, and the shadows remained unheeded till the first gleam of returning reason brought them prominently forward, and he shuddered to think that he could have entertained for a moment a project so completely at variance with every principle of honour and of duty. Thus feverish alike in mind and body, he tossed restlessly on his couch, till at length, thoroughly exhausted, he fell into a deep sleep, and dreamed bright dreams of happy love, to make the stern reality appear yet darker and more drear on waking.

On his return to Broadhirst, General Grant expressed his most unqualified admiration at the gallant defence of his house, property, and daughter (we quote his own “table of precedence”) by Lewis and the man-servant. On the former he bestowed a sword (presented to him in bygone days by some Indian potentate) to replace the weapon broken in the struggle, together with a handsomely-bound copy of the “Wellington Despatches”; the latter he rewarded by promotion to the post of butler, _vice_ Simmonds (in a fair way to be) transported, together with a douceur of twenty pounds; which piece of good fortune so elated the youthful Robert that he publicly declared he should like to have his head broken every night, and wished the house might be robbed regularly twice a week till further orders. The wounded men recovered rapidly, with the exception of Hardy, whose case assumed a very alarming character: owing to the state of his constitution, impaired by a course of intemperance, to which, since his escape from prison, he had given himself over, erysipelas supervened, and in a few days his life was despaired of. On receiving this intelligence Lewis rode over to H----------, and calling at the hospital, requested to be allowed to see the man whose life he had been the involuntary instrument of shortening. The permission was readily accorded, and he was conducted along several passages to the room, or rather cell, for it was little else, in which, for the purpose of security as well as to separate him from the other inmates of the establishment, the burglar had been placed. As soon as Lewis had entered the door was closed and fastened on the outside. Noiselessly approaching the truckle bed on which Hardy lay, the young tutor paused as his glance fell upon the prostrate figure of his former antagonist. Stretched at full length upon the couch, his arm and shoulder swathed in bandages, and his muscular throat and broad, hairy chest partially uncovered, he looked even more gigantic than when in an erect posture: his face was pale as death, and an unnatural darkness beneath the skin betokened to any one accustomed to such appearances the speedy approach of the destroyer; while a small hectic spot of colour on the centre of each cheek gave evidence of the inward fever which was consuming him. When Lewis approached the bed his eyes were closed, and his deep breathing at first led to the belief that he was asleep; that this was not the case, however, soon became apparent. Opening his eyes, he accidentally encountered those of Lewis fixed upon him with an expression of mingled pity and remorse: as their glances met Hardy gave a start of surprise, and gazed at him with a scowl which proved that his feelings of animosity against Lewis were still unabated; while a puzzled look evinced that his mental powers were so much weakened that he doubted whether the figure he beheld were real or a creation of his morbid fancy. Advancing to the bedside, Lewis broke the silence by inquiring whether he suffered much pain. As he began to speak, the confused look disappeared from the sick man’s countenance, and glaring at him with an expression of impotent rage, he exclaimed in a low, hoarse voice--

“So you’re come to look upon your handiwork, are you? I hope you like it!”

“I am come to tell you that I am sorry the blows I struck you in self-defence should have produced such disastrous consequences, and to ask your forgiveness, in case the means employed for your restoration to health should prove ineffectual,” replied Lewis.

“Restore my health!” repeated Hardy bitterly. “Do you mean that you expect these doctors can cure me? Do you think these wounds, that burn like hell-fire, can be healed by their plasters and bandages? I tell you no! You have done your work effectually this time, and I am a dying man. You want me to forgive you, do you? If my curse could wither you where you stand, I would and _do_ curse you! If priests’ tales be true, and there be a heaven and a hell, and by forgiving you I could reach heaven, I still would curse you, in the hope that by so doing I might drag you down to hell with me.”

The vehemence with which he uttered this malediction completely exhausted him, and falling back on the pillow he lay with closed eyes, his laboured breathing affording the only proof that he was still alive. Throwing himself upon a chair by the bedside, Lewis sat wrapped in painful thought. The reflection that hatred to him for acts which circumstances had forced him to commit might cause the unhappy being before him to die impenitent, and that he might thus be instrumental to the destruction both ot his body and soul, was distressing to him in the extreme; and yet how to bring him to a better frame of mind was not easy to decide. At length, following out his own train of thought, he asked abruptly--

“Hardy, why do you hate me so bitterly?”

Thus accosted, the poacher unclosed his eyes, and fixed them with a piercing glance upon the face of his questioner, as though he would read his very soul. Apparently disappointed in his object, for Lewis met his gaze with the calm self-possession of conscious rectitude, he answered surlily--

“Why do you come here to torment me with foolish questions? It is enough that I hate you with just cause--and you know that it is so. I hate you now, I shall hate you dying, and I shall hate you after death, if there is a hereafter. Now go. If by staying here you think to persuade or entrap me into saying I forgive you, you only waste your time.”

“Listen to me, Hardy,” returned Lewis, speaking calmly and impressively. “You are, as you truly say, a dying man. In this life we shall probably never meet again. The reality of a future life you appear to doubt: I believe in it; and I believe that your condition there may be affected by your dying with such feelings in your heart as you have now expressed. It is therefore worth while to discuss this matter, and see whether you have such just cause to hate me as you imagine.”

As Hardy made no reply, Lewis continued: “It is true that on a former occasion I secured your capture when perhaps I was stepping beyond my regular path of duty to do so; but in this last affair I merely acted in self-defence, as I overheard from my open window your scheme for my destruction. You discharged a pistol at me ere I attacked you: had the ball gone half an inch more to the right I should have been a dead man. Whatever may be your faults, you are brave; and that quality alone should prevent your bearing malice against one who met you in fair, open fight. It was a game for life and death, and it is unjust to hate me for winning it.”

“Boy, you will madden me,” exclaimed Hardy passionately, raising himself on his elbow as he spoke, though the pain the action caused him forced a groan from his compressed lips. “Do you suppose I care for your paltry blows? If they had not finished me, brandy or my own hand would soon have done so; for life has long been a curse to me, and had become unbearable since--may the torments I shall soon endure, if there be a hell, fall upon you for it!--since you and the titled scoundrel, your accomplice, stole my daughter from me.”

“I!” exclaimed Lewis in astonishment. “Do you imagine me to have had any share in that wickedness? Why, man, I never saw your daughter save on two occasions; and on the second of these I warned her--unfortunately without effect--against the designs of the villain who betrayed her.”

As he spoke Hardy gazed eagerly at him, and when he ceased, exclaimed--

“Tell me when and where was it that you did this?”

“It was on the morning after the electioneering ball at Broadhurst. I was shooting with the gamekeeper--met your daughter by accident in the grass field by the larch plantation--and witnessing her parting with Lord Bellefield, I took the opportunity of telling her his true name and character, and warning her against his probable designs. But, unluckily, she had observed a disagreement between us on the previous evening, and supposing me to be actuated by malicious motives, discredited my assertion.”

“You are not deceiving me?” questioned Hardy eagerly. “You could not, dare not, do so now!”

“You do not know me, or you would not doubt my word. I have spoken the simple truth,” returned Lewis coldly.

“Here!” continued Hardy, producing from beneath the pillow a small Bible which the chaplain had left with him: “you tell me you believe in this book. Will you swear upon it that you are not trying to deceive me?”

Lewis raised the book reverently to his lips, and kissing it, took the required oath. Hardy watched him with a scrutinising gaze, and when he had concluded, held out his hand, saying--

“I have wronged you deeply, Mr. Arundel, and must ask--what! never thought again to ask at the hand of man--your forgiveness. I have sought your life, sir, as the wild beast seeks his prey; and chance, on one occasion, and your own courage and address on others, have alone preserved it.”

He then went on to relate how, his suspicions having been excited by hints from the neighbours, he had learned that his daughter was in the habit of meeting some gentleman by stealth. How he watched for this person constantly, without success, till the day after the great party at Broadhurst, when, lying concealed in the larch plantation, he had been attracted by the sound of voices, and creeping beneath the underwood, had witnessed, though not near enough to overhear what passed, the interview between Lewis and his daughter, when he naturally concluded the young tutor to be the individual against whom he had been cautioned. He then went on to relate that the opportune arrival of the gamekeeper had alone prevented him from shooting the supposed libertine, but that he had determined on his destruction, and that his subsequent capture by Lewis and the General had alone hindered him from executing his design. It was not till after his escape from H-------- gaol that he first heard Lord Bellefield’s name coupled with that of his daughter, which information complicated the affair; but still feeling convinced that Lewis was guilty, either as principal or accessory, he joined in the scheme for robbing Broadhurst, in order to be revenged on the young tutor, as well as on General Grant, against whom he had long nourished feelings of animosity, on account of his poaching persecutions.

His penitence for the wrong he had done him by his unjust suspicions were so sincere and spontaneous, that Lewis imagined he recognised, amid the ruin of a naturally generous disposition, that “seed of the soul” which remains in almost every nature, however the rank growth of evil passions uncontrolled may have checked its development. Taking advantage of an expression which Hardy used, that “he thanked God he had not added to his other sins the murder of one who had sought to befriend his child,” his companion observed--

“You say you thank God for preserving you from an additional crime: now, does not the fact of your involuntarily making use of that form of speech tend to convince you that the belief in a God and a future state is natural to the mind of man?”

Hardy seemed struck by the force of this remark, and Lewis, pursuing the subject, had the satisfaction of perceiving that he had excited the wounded man’s interest, and ere he quitted him he obtained his promise to listen to the exhortations of the chaplain, whose advances he had hitherto angrily repulsed. Pleased with the result of his visit, Lewis on his way home called upon the clergyman who fulfilled the duties of chaplain to the hospital, and mentioning to him Hardy’s improved frame of mind, begged him to see him again as soon as possible, to which request the chaplain willingly acceded.

Three days after this interview Lewis received a note from this gentleman thanking him for his hint, and informing him that its results had been as satisfactory as in such a case was possible. Hardy appeared sincerely penitent, willing to embrace and anxious to profit by the truths of religion, as far as his weakened faculties enabled him to apprehend them. He added that he was sinking fast, and had expressed the greatest desire to see Lewis again before he died, as he had some request to make to him. On the receipt of this information Lewis immediately set out for H--------.

A great alteration had taken place in Hardy’s appearance in those three days. His cheeks had become still more hollow, the unnatural brightness of his eyes was replaced by a dull, leaden look, and the hectic colour had faded to the pale, ashy hue of approaching dissolution, whilst the hoarse, deep tones of his voice were reduced almost to a whisper through weakness. But the most remarkable change was in the expression of his features; the sullen scowl, which betokened a spirit at war alike with itself and others, had given place to a look of calm resignation; there were indeed traces of bodily pain and mental anguish about the mouth, but the upper part of the face was in complete repose. Lewis gazed upon him with deep interest, and the idea suggested itself that thus might have appeared the demoniac when the words of power had gone forth, “Hold thy peace, and come out of him.” Nor was the comparison inapt, for if ever the mind of man was possessed by an evil spirit, that of Hardy had been so by the demon of revenge. As the dying man perceived his approach his features lighted up.

“I knew you would come, Mr. Arundel,” he said. “I felt that! should not die without seeing you again.”

“Do you suffer much pain now, Hardy?” inquired Lewis kindly.

“Scarcely any since six o’clock this morning, sir,” was the reply; “but I know what that means--that’s mortification coming on. I’ve seen men die from sabre wounds before now. I was a soldier once--at least I was farrier to a troop of cavalry, which is much the same thing; but this was not what I wanted to say to you.” He paused from exhaustion, and pointed to a glass containing some strengthening cordial. Lewis held it to his parched lips; having drunk a portion of it, he appeared considerably revived.

“I am going fast,” he resumed, “and must not waste the minutes that remain. You have treated me with kindness, sir--one of the few who have ever done so; you are a bold foe and a warm-hearted friend, and that is a character I understand and can trust. Moreover, you tell me you showed poor Jane” (as he mentioned his daughter’s name tears stood in his eyes and his breath came short and fast) “her danger, and strove to warn her against the villain who has wronged her, and this shows you are a good man; therefore I am going to ask you to do me a favour. When I am dead, I want you to find out Jane and tell her whatever you may think best to induce her to leave this man. And when she hears that I’m dead, if she seems to feel it very deep and take on about it--which likely enough she will, for she did care for me once--you may tell her that I forgave her before I died. I never thought to do so, for she has finished what her mother began; between them they’ve first made me the devil I have been, and then--broken my heart.” He paused, and when he had sufficiently recovered breath, continued, “When I married her mother, five-and-twenty years ago, I was a different man from whatever you’ve known me. I’d been brought up to my father’s trade of a blacksmith, and worked steadily at it till I was able to lay by a fair sum of money, besides keeping the old man as long as he was alive. However, in the village where we lived was a farmer, well-to-do in the world, and his daughter was far the prettiest girl in those parts; she’d had a good education, and gave herself airs like a lady, and looked down upon a rough young fellow like me; but I bore it patiently, for I loved her, and determined I’d never marry anybody but her. For a long time she would not look at me, but I persevered; any man that come a-courting her I picked a quarrel with and thrashed. I found many ways of making myself handy to the old man, her father, and somehow she got used to me like, and grew less scornful; and just then a sister of my father’s, who had been housekeeper at Broadhurst, died and left me £300, and I’d saved about £200 more, and the old man wanted help to manage his farm. And the long and short of the matter was I married Harriet Wylde, took a farm next her father’s, and gave up blacksmithing.

“For four years I was as happy as man could be; everything seemed to prosper with me. My wife had one child, a girl; a proud man was I when she was first placed in my arms, but had I known what was to be her fate I would have smothered her in her cradle! There was a young gentleman lived near us--his father was a rich baronet--I had been accustomed to break in horses for the son, and when I took the farm we used to shoot together. He was a frank, generous-hearted man, and treated me like a friend and equal. On our shooting expeditions he would often come and lunch at my house; on one occasion he brought his younger brother with him. This young fellow had just returned from Italy, and brought foreign manners and foreign vices with him. My wife was still very good-looking, like poor Jane, but handsomer; and this heartless villain coveted her beauty. I know not what arts he used; I suspected nothing, saw nothing, but one evening on my return my home was desolate. I obtained traces of the fugitives--he had taken her to a seaport town in the south of England, meaning to embark for France--I followed them, and in the open street I met him; the bystanders interfered between us, or I should have slain him where he stood. He was taken to an inn, where he kept his bed for some weeks from the effect of the punishment I had administered to him. I was dragged off to prison; the law which suffered him to rob me of her whom I prized more dearly than house and goods punished me for chastising the scoundrel with six months’ imprisonment. I consorted with thieves, poachers, and other refuse of society; and in my madness to obtain revenge upon the class which had injured me, I listened to their specious arguments till I became the curse to myself and others which you, sir, have known me. Well, society sent me to school, and society has had the benefit of the lessons that were taught me. I came out of gaol a bad and well-nigh a desperate man, to learn that my wife had returned to her father’s house and died, giving birth to a boy. In my anger I refused to acknowledge the child, but the old man took care of it. Time passed on: the elder of the two brothers quarrelled with his father and died abroad, the younger one married; but God visited him for his sin. His wife saw by accident in an old newspaper an account of my trial for the assault; the shock brought on a premature confinement; she also died in childbirth, and the child remained an idiot. Yes! you start, but you have guessed rightly--the boy to whom you are tutor is the son of the man who wronged me. The ways of God are very wonderful: had the boy possessed his proper senses you might never have come here, and I might not now be lying on my death-bed.”

Again Hardy broke off from weakness, and again Lewis administered the cordial to him and wiped the cold dews from his brow.

“Little more remains to tell,” he added after a few minutes’ pause; “and ’tis well that it is so, for death comes on apace. I do not fear to die; I have long wished myself dead, life was such deep misery, yet now I should be glad to live, that I might undo some of the evil I have caused. Since I saw you last I have felt more like my former self than I have ever done from the time my wife left me. Poor Harriet! Do you think we shall meet in the world of spirits, Mr. Arundel?”

“These are things God alone knows,” replied Lewis gravely. “He has not seen fit to reveal to living man the secrets of the grave!” After a short silence, in which Hardy appeared to be collecting strength to finish his relation, he continued--

“After my release from the prison I took to drinking to banish reflection. Drinking is a vice which brings all others in its train. I soon fell into bad company, became involved in debt; and at last, in a drunken fit, enlisted in the----th Dragoons, my height attracting the notice of a recruiting party from that regiment. I served ten years, at the end of which time my wife’s father died and left his little property between the two children, with the exception of a sum to purchase my discharge if I chose to come and take care of them. The confinement and regularity of a soldier’s life did not suit me, and I availed myself of the opportunity thus offered, returned home, and lived on a certain income set apart for the maintenance and education of the children. This was a fresh chance for me, and had I conducted myself properly I might have yet known some peaceful years; but a craving for excitement haunted me. I sought out some of my old companions, joined a Chartist association, took to habits of poaching--and this has been the end of it.”

“What became of the boy who was left to your care?” inquired Lewis. Hardy uttered a low groan.

“That is another sin I have to answer for,” he said. “I never liked the child--I doubted whether it was mine, and the sight of it recalled the memory of my wrongs; accordingly, I treated the boy harshly, and he repaid me by sullen disobedience; and yet there should have been sympathy between us. He was brave even to rashness, and copied my vices with an aptitude which proved his power of acquiring better things. By the time he was thirteen he could set a snare, hit a bird on the wing, thrash any boy of his own weight, and alas! drink, game, and swear as well as I could myself. One night I had been drinking he angered me, and in my rage I struck him. For a moment he looked as if he would return the blow; but the folly of such an attempt seemed to occur to him, and he glanced towards a knife which lay on the table; then his sister threw her arms round him, and he refrained. He waited till she had gone to bed, sitting sulkily without speaking. When we were alone he looked up and asked me abruptly, ‘Father, are you sorry that you struck me that blow?’ There was something in the boy’s manner that appealed to my better feelings, and I was half inclined to own myself wrong, but a false shame prevented me, and I angrily replied ‘that I would repeat the blow if he gave me any more of his impertinence.’ He looked sternly at me, and muttering, ‘That you shall never do,’ quitted the room. From that day to this I have never seen him. My poor Jane, who was dotingly fond of him, was broken-hearted at his loss. She told me he often threatened to run away when I had treated him harshly, and that his intention was to go to sea. I have no doubt he contrived to put it into execution. Perhaps if her brother had remained with her the poor girl might not have left her home so readily. God help me, my sins have brought their own punishment!”

An attack of faintness here overpowered him, of so severe a character that Lewis thought it advisable to summon assistance. When Hardy had in some degree recovered, Lewis, on consulting his watch, found that he must return without further delay; he therefore prepared to depart, bidding Hardy farewell, and promising to see him again on the following day. The dying man shook his head.

“There will be no to-morrow for me in this world,” he said; then pressing Lewis’s hand, he added, “God bless you, Mr. Arundel; you have done me more good by your kind words than your sword has done me evil; nay, even for my death I thank you; for had I lived on as I was I should only have added crime to crime. You will remember your promise about poor Jane?”

Lewis repeated his willingness to do all in his power to carry out the dying man’s wishes; and Hardy added, “It may be that the poor boy I told you of is still alive. If he should ever return, I should like him to know that I have often grieved for my bad conduct to him. I have left a letter for you with the clergyman in case I had not seen you,” he continued; “it only contains the request I have now made, and one or two other particulars of less consequence; he will give it to you when I am gone.” He again pressed Lewis’s hand feebly, and closing his eyes, lay more dead than alive.

As Lewis quitted the room the surgeon met him and informed him that it was not probable Hardy would survive through the night, but promised that every attention should be bestowed upon him. Lewis’s thoughts, as he rode back to Broadhurst, naturally ran upon the history of sin and shame and sorrow to which he had just listened, and he could not but wonder for what purpose a frank, generous nature, such as Hardy had originally possessed, should have been so severely tried. A like question may have occurred to many of us, and we may have felt that the safest course is to look upon such things as mysteries to be regarded by the twilight of a patient faith, which waits trustfully till all that now seems dark shall be made clear in the glorious brightness of the perfect day.