Part 17

"The scene changed. Vera was beside him even as he had seen her that day in all her beauty. They were sitting together on the deck of a vessel; the sun shone brightly, the sea was calm, and the gulls floated over them, moving splashes of glistening white against the deep blue of the sky. Yet even as they thus sat dreaming of love, and surrounded by calm and sunlight, he felt that they were sinking, and that no power could save them. Slowly the blue line of water rose till it was on a level with the deck, but still the motion of the vessel held the water in check. It rose to the bulwarks, and glistened in a dark steely line above it. Fear held them from moving, save that Vera threw her arm around him, pleading for a protection which none could give. The line broke in foaming torrents over the deck. There was a moment of struggle, and then darkness. From the midst of the darkness he heard a voice saying, 'Look up, for the hour of judgment is at hand.' Then he looked up, and behold hell lay open before him, the hell of human tradition in all the ghastly horror which man, in the deformity of his imagination, has conjured up out of his instinctive cruelty to make part of the creation of love. There lay Vera, condemned to eternal torment. The terrible anguish of her expression as I saw it through the medium of his distorted brain haunts me even now. Her white child-like arms thrown out in hopeless supplication, as she cried aloud to him in pitiful tones to save her, or at least to come near in this awful solitude of suffering; but he was unable to move or speak. The terrible realistic flames enveloped her; flames which none can quench, which violate every law of nature save one, which neither purify nor set free nor stay corruption, but only cause the pain which is their note of warning. Nor was this all. As if one torment that must necessarily absorb all powers of feeling which we know on earth--nay, which merciful nature would stay at once by her opiate of insensibility--were not enough, other horrors of man's imagination were added which are too revolting for words, yet which had all at one time been taught to this wretched man as essential parts of the Gospel of God, the good news of love. Had he not been mad such a picture must have been a revelation; if he, selfish as he was, could be thus overwhelmed with remorse and horror, what of the Father, the Creator who for ever must watch his child; who, being almighty was not bound; who being the Creator of all things was the Creator of this! As it was, the strain of anguish roused him from his dreams. He sat up in bed and cried aloud, 'My God! My God! It is not too late! I will save her! Though I die--though I be damned for ever! Vera, oh, my love, I will save you from this!'

"And even as he spoke, I was conscious that we were surrounded by a great company, and that the sweet sound of spiritual praise that no earthly ear can hear passed on, for ever vibrating through the universe of God. But the first chord was struck by a woman's love, for the mother now knew that her son was saved."

*CHAPTER XV*

"After breakfast on the following morning, Captain Frint found an opportunity of asking Vera not to say anything to either the Major or Amy of their plans, but to leave all to him. He was standing in the girl's sitting-room dressed for shooting, and had his companion been more observant she might have noticed the strange fire which burned in his eyes, and the suppressed excitement of his manner.

"'You are going out then, to-day,' she said. 'Well, perhaps it is better. It might seem strange if you did not; and after all we shall soon have as much time as we like together; so much that I expect you will soon get tired of me.'

"He was unable to answer; but before leaving he bent over and kissed her on the forehead. Had she seen his face she must have known the truth--for love, self-sacrifice, pain, and madness were written there.

"About two o'clock in the afternoon a mournful procession returned to Somerville. Captain Frint was dead. No fault or suspicion could rest on any of the party, for the accident had happened in the sight of Mr. Soudin and four of the beaters. The Captain, before getting over a stile, had placed his gun on the opposite side to avoid danger, and while leaning over to do this, some obstacle had caught the trigger, and the contents of one of the barrels had entered his heart.

"Fortunately a messenger had been sent on to break the news, and when the body arrived Vera was lying insensible on her bed; nor did any one see her again for many days. But at night, when all had gone to rest, she got up, and taking a light, crept softly to the room where they had placed the body of the man she loved.

"It lay upon the bed, the hands folded, the head raised as though in sleep upon the pillow. The eyes were closed. Never in life had that face looked so noble as it now appeared in death. The lines of thought, of passion, of pain were gone: the expression of the mouth was that of a contented child. There was no smile on the lips; nor have I ever seen, nor should I like to see, that smile which we so often read of on the face of the dead. When the spirit goes away and leaves the body, the features no longer under control fall back into the natural position of perfect rest, which is only partially noticeable during the sleep of grown-up people, but sometimes perfectly represented during the same condition in childhood. I have seen a dead child, that, save for the whiteness of the skin and lips, showed no change of expression other than that which I had often noticed during slumber.

"As Vera looked upon her dead lover, the spirit of life, which is the spirit of true love, was for the first time born in her heart. The Angel of Death was to her, as to so many, the winged messenger of God bearing the germ of eternity. As some fair blossom, differing not in appearance from others, that have already been made fruitful, will for some reason remain long barren, so many natures linger here, fair it may be in form, but missing the pollen of fruition. To some it is borne by the fairy butterfly of love; to others only by the death's-head moth of suffering. Some, as the barren flowers, fall and die, having, perhaps, made the earth more beautiful by their presence, yet leaving no fruit. Their harvest-time is yet to come, but under other circumstances and beneath other skies.

"It did not occur to Vera, as she bent over the dead man, that he had died to save her. She thought that an accident had separated them; that God, in His anger, had punished their sin.

"'Oh! that I might have died instead of you!' she murmured. 'Oh, God! it was my sin--not his--my fault. Why did you spare me and slay him?'

"Could she have looked upon the picture of herself there would have been no reason for answer; fear, anguish, and desolation were written on her face--what a contrast to the peaceful expression of the dead! Her eyes were strained with weeping, her swollen throat ached so that she could scarcely speak, and though she stood barefooted, and with only her thin night garment to cover her, yet every limb burned as though with fever. Her beautiful hair hung in tangled tresses down her back, and waved in wild disorder round her forehead and neck. As she knelt upon the bed and kissed the dear dead face, she seemed almost to cover the body with a pall of golden silk.

"'I want you, Albert,' she whispered. 'Oh! come back--come back, my love, my love!' And when she had said this she fainted.

"I carried her back to her own room, for I did not wish that any one should know her secret. And having done this, I returned once more to where the dead lay, and bent over and kissed the face of the man who had died to save from harm her whom we both loved.

"Captain Frint's death necessitated the breaking up of the shooting party, and Amy and Major Jackson took the opportunity thus afforded of carrying out their plans. They left England in the yacht, and travelled for some time together; but as is nearly always the case under such circumstances, instead of finding happiness, they tasted the fruit of selfishness, which is pain and disgust. It says a good deal for the girl's cleverness that she was not left entirely destitute in some foreign country; for with a forethought which showed that she had not altogether overlooked the possibility of desertion, she, before leaving, made her lover settle a considerable sum upon her. When he eventually left her in America, less than a year after the elopement, she was consequently fairly well provided for. She had one child, a girl, and not caring to return to England, she settled in New York, and soon afterwards married a clever scoundrel, named Halcome, who, though at the time badly off, succeeded eventually in making a moderate fortune. At his death, Amy returned with her only child to England, where she was soon received into good society."

"The man she married was called Halcome," I said. "Was not that the name of the girl we met at Sir James Folker's dinner on the night of the spiritualistic performance?"

"Yes," he replied; "she has always passed as Miss Halcome, for her mother, who is now dead, kept the secret of her birth even from the girl herself."

"Was the man whose face I noticed the Major's legitimate son?"

"Yes. After a life of horrible dissipation and vice, Major Jackson, by this time Sir Henry Jackson, died, and his son came into the property. Jackson acknowledged his wife soon after leaving Amy, and the awful life which he led this unfortunate woman has often made my heart bleed. I interfered on the evening to which you refer, partly in the hope of saving her further trouble, and partly because I knew the terrible secret of the young people's relationship."

"Is Miss Halcome like her mother in appearance?" I asked.

"Yes; she bears a most remarkable resemblance both in manner and face to what Amy was at her age, though if you had seen Mrs. Halcome a few years back you would hardly have believed it possible; she had grown coarse, and stout, and lost all her good looks, for this style of girlish beauty wears badly. She, however, retained her bright and pleasant manner to the end, though her temper in private was bad. Before Sir Henry's death she was more than his match, and by threats of exposure she managed to extort a considerable sum of money from her former lover. But she did it so discreetly that no breath of scandal was ever whispered against her. She, moreover, never revealed to any one her maiden name, and her family have no idea that she returned to England."

"I am surprised that Jackson cared for any scandal after the life he had lived," I said.

"It would have been the last straw. He was at the time seeking a valuable Government appointment, and though his life was notoriously vile, this did not prevent him obtaining it; but a public scandal in Court is quite a different thing. The conscience of the people of Britain, who know only what the papers tell them, is more sensitive than that of their rulers. I am, however, glad to be able to close this unpleasant account; those chiefly interested are dead. They sowed to the flesh, and of the flesh they reaped corruption and pain. But we must not forget that they are still children of the great Father, loved by Him, though still wandering in the dark and fighting against the law of order and love which can alone bring happiness. Let us hope that now, when they have been freed from the bodies they degraded; their spirits, reclothed, may be purified through the pain which is bound to follow them; for _whatsoever_ a man soweth, that shall he reap, and neither repentance, prayers, nor tears can alter the inevitable harvest."

"Do you not, then," I asked, "believe in repentance and the forgiveness of sins?"

"Certainly," he replied. "Without repentance there can be no upward progress, no hope of salvation; and the Father's forgiveness waits only on our ability to receive it and become conscious of His love. But though the moment we receive our Saviour's lesson and accept the fatherhood of God we know that we are cleansed from all sin, it will not alter the inevitable law of retribution; we must suffer, either now or hereafter. For every sin that we commit, we shall have to give account when the Day of Judgment comes--it may be to-day, or after many years. Of all the detestable doctrines that were ever taught, the creed that a man can sin and by repentance do away with the painful consequences of that act is the most degrading and the most dangerous. It is the outcome of a low animal instinct, which recognizes forgiveness as a purely material quality. As soon as man is brought to understand that by every deed of cruelty, by every mean action, he is raising a lash for his own back, and that as surely as it is raised so shall it fall--not because God wishes to hurt him, but because he is wilfully going out of God's light--then, and not till then, will he learn to love order and strive to follow its rule. The intention which many persons cherish of a future repentance is simply a contemptible form of selfish cowardice, and what is called repentance itself is often little or no better. I have more respect and hope for the man who dies cursing God as he has lived to curse Him, than for the blubbering, repentant sinner who, having by his selfishness fought all through life against his Maker, and having been the damnation of those who crossed his path, thinks to propitiate an angry deity by saying he is sorry. Yes, he is sorry--sorry that he can sin no more, and that the whip is waiting--sorry even, perhaps, that he ever sinned, for he has found out that even in this life it did not pay. But would he take the trouble to repent if he knew that it made no difference to his future happiness or sorrow? If this is so, he is no better than the dog which grovels on its back at the sight of an uplifted cane. Which is the better animal, the one which stands up to take the blow, or the one that lies at your feet? Does the wise master spare the coward and thrash the braver animal? No; if he hits at all he will hit both for their own good; and the one on his back will probably get the worst of it; and so will the repentant sinner.

"But come, we have wandered far enough out of the way, and I have by far the pleasantest part of my story yet to tell. I will go back to the truly repentant sinner whom we left weeping, not for herself or for her own pain, but because she had harmed the man she loved, and God, as she thought, had punished him by death.

"I will pass over some months, during which little of importance happened. Mr. Soudin, always a weak man, and having now little to occupy his time, fell more and more into the habit of drinking. He had for years taken more than was good for him, but not in a way to cause remark, his head suffering less than his body. But now, being much alone, he frequently overstepped the line of orthodox sobriety--a line which society draws in this case, as in all others, where its own convenience is affected.

"Fortunately for Vera she had at last found a companion who was in every way worthy of her affection. Agnes Thomson was at this time about thirty, and had little physical beauty, though her eyes and expression redeemed her from plainness. She possessed one of those natures which seem created from birth to minister to others, and are never so happy as when occupied in relieving distress, or in making the lives of those around them brighter. When in the presence of such we are unconscious of effort, see no strain of renunciation; they minister to those around them, as the bird feeds its young--because they want to. Such persons, though often imposed on, are seldom appreciated at their true worth, on account of the high quality of their natures. I have even heard it said, 'Oh, there is no merit in such unselfishness--she cannot help it.' But what an unconscious tribute to the soul is this! And what has such a spirit passed through before it so perfectly reflects its Maker!

"It was chiefly owing to my action that this girl went to Somerville. She had broken down while looking after an orphanage in Manchester, and the doctor had said that it was absolutely imperative that she should give up all work for some time. She dreaded the idea of parting from the little children, and struggled as long as possible; but the body at last gave in, and I was then able, by indirect influence, to bring her and Vera together. As soon as Agnes came to live with the beautiful young girl, she loved her as she had loved her orphan children, and indeed as she would have loved any man, woman, or child, good or bad, fair or ugly. She saw that her companion was suffering, and had little difficulty in drawing from her the story of her life; and Agnes wept with her, feeling all the time as if she had been in the young girl's place. When she came to think over it afterwards, what she called her conscience reproved her for not having even remonstrated. How wrong it all was! And she felt that she ought to have given reproof. Fortunately she never acted down to her conscience, which being an illuminated reflection from the creed of lesser minds, would only have retarded her influence. She taught her lessons, without knowing it, by the example of her own life.

"Two months after she came, Mr. Soudin was taken dangerously ill, and as his body had of late exhausted all its power in trying to digest four times as much food as it required, and had also been drenched with alcohol, he sank rapidly from weakness, dying the common death of starvation through excess of nourishment which so often takes the form of either diabetes, gout, or dropsy. As the death of each man is felt through loss of sympathy, he was but little regretted, and even his daughter, after the shock, was unwillingly conscious of relief.

"Thus Vera was left alone with her companion, whose bright influence day by day made itself felt, and revealed to her the lesson which is so hard to learn, that happiness on earth comes but by reflection. Pour out joy on others, and it shall overwhelm you. Forget yourself in others, and the tormentor strives in vain to harm you. See good in all things, and hell cannot hold you.

"But it is time that I told you something of Vancome. I had made him a fairly liberal allowance on condition that he did not try to interfere with his wife's freedom. As soon as he returned to England and the conditions were explained to him, he consulted his solicitor with the hope of being able to get hold of Vera and her fortune, but his adviser gave him little prospect of success, and he decided, at any rate for a time, to accept the offer. He was the more willing to do this owing to his superstitious dread of some fiendish power which he believed me to possess. It is a curious fact that evil natures always regard an exhibition of force incomprehensible to them as some eccentric trick of the devil. The most superstitious men will be found among those who profess atheism. They scoff at the idea of God, while trembling at the shadow of Satan; and dread a dinner party of thirteen while denying the Last Supper.

"For a year Vancome followed much the same dissipated life as he had done previously to his marriage. He gambled, at first with caution, for he was no longer desperate, and for a time was successful, being thus enabled to indulge all his other extravagant tastes. But about the time of Mr. Soudin's death his luck turned, and he began to lose heavily. One night while playing piquet at the W---- Club he was caught cheating. He had been suspected for some time, and a trap was laid into which he fell. As there was no room for doubt he was expelled from the Club, and no longer dared to show himself in society. His future, all the future that he cared for, was ruined, while his title only assisted to advertise his shame. For days the papers increased their circulation at his expense, and the scandal in high life was placarded on every station and shouted through every town. His wife was commended for her forethought in having refused to live with him, while the more scurrilous papers exhausted their energy in raking up as many past scandals in his life as they could discover, feeling that there was little danger of an action for libel.

"It was during this outburst that I decided to see him. I had no longer any bitter feelings towards this man, and though while feeling certain that he would think at first I had come to gloat over his misery, I hoped to show that this was not the case, and that my desire was to help him. I found him sitting alone in his chambers; he had been drinking heavily for some time to drown his misery, and as I came in he looked up with dull glazed eyes which at first showed no sign of recognition. But suddenly they changed; his face became livid with anger.

"'Fiend!' he cried. 'It is your doing--and so you have come to see the end of your work! But you are mistaken--we will go down to hell together--you shall not escape me this time!'

"He took up a revolver which I had noticed lying on the table, and pointed it at me.

"'There are five chambers,' he said, 'and one is enough for me--I can spare you the other four!'

"I looked him in the face for a moment, and then said, 'Vancome, you cannot kill me, and for the present you shall not kill yourself, for at the moment you are not responsible for your actions.'

"'I will kill you!' he cried. 'Damn you! I will!' And he strove with all his might to pull the trigger, but was powerless. His right hand sank slowly down till it lay by his side, and his revolver dropped between his fingers on to the rug at his feet. He staggered back to his chair, and I went up to him, and placing my hand on his burning forehead made him sleep.

"At this moment the door opened, and a young, showily-dressed girl entered.

"'Oh!' she cried. 'Goodness, what is the matter?'

"'Lord Vancome is ill,' I said, 'and will have to be carefully watched. Is there any one here who could look after him?'

"'Ill,' she laughed, and her laugh, as her speech, told her origin and life. 'D. T. ay? Well, I was a-thinking of cutting it just now--that settles the business!'

"'Wait a moment. Lord Vancome is not suffering from _delirium tremens_.'

"I said this, not because I wished for her services, but because there were enough reports about already without her adding a false one.

"'Who are you?' I asked.

"'My!' she said. 'Well, you are a beauty! Where do you hang out not to know Totsey Ben of the ---- Theatre?'

"I was not previously aware of Totsey Ben's existence, but though she did not give me the details in words, I now knew that she took a very minor part in a comic opera being played at that rather disreputable theatre. I could see also the vile and filthy slum in which she had passed her childhood, and many of the coarse and revolting experiences connected with her early life before she blossomed out into a ballet-girl. Nor were the visions connected with this transformation scene much more entrancing.

"This girl, and such as she, without refinement, possessing only the coarse animal attractiveness, had been the chosen associates of Vera's husband, a man who had been brought up surrounded with all the delicate associations of noble birth and culture. It takes many centuries to create a gentleman and refined taste; but sometimes only a few years to revert to the lowest order of civilized brutishness.

"'Well,' I said to the girl, 'I do not fancy you would be of much use as a nurse, so perhaps you might as well pack your things and go.'

"'I reckon you're about right," she answered. 'But before I clear out, I will have my money or know why.'

"She went up to Vancome and shook him.