Clara Vaughan, Volume 2 (of 3)
Page 22
CHAPTER II.
London! London! was still the cry of my heart; and was I not summonedthither by duty long ago? What might become, during all this time, ofthe man whom I was bound to watch at every turn, and whom I was now in abetter condition to deal with? My first visit, every morning, was to myparents' graves, and neither of them would be there but for his ruthlesshand. As I sat there how lonely I felt! how sadly forlorn in the world,be my lot wealth or poverty, victory or defeat!
One morning as I sat there my spirit was moved by dreams of the nightbefore, and I vowed, in that bodily but invisible presence, that none,except one whose name I whispered, should ever kneel on that turf handin hand with me.
Borne out of my usual vein by the deed myself had done, I entered theancient church, always left open for me, and, kneeling at thealtar-rails, with many a Vaughan supine in prayer, pennons, helms, andtrophies round me, stately dames in marble white, and old crusadersclutching still the cross--there I made my vow upon the knee-cuppedstones, that if he claimed me not, the race should end with me.
It was a presumptuous and unholy act, with all around me quelled bytime, with ages laid aside in dust, with many a stouter heart and largermind than mine, helpless even to superintend the wasting of histenement, with all his bygone bliss and woe, stanchest love anddeadliest hate, less eloquent now than the fly whom the spider hascaught in his skull.
Returning across the park, after a warm interview with "Tulip," whoinsisted mainly upon having his ears well scratched, I found my uncle inhis snug wheel-chair, waiting near the side-door for me to help andaccompany him forth. This was our best way to take him out, because ofthe steps at the front-door. He had not yet been in the open air sincehis terrible illness, but, judging by my own experience, I thought thathe pined for the breeze, and, after long council, it was resolved totrust him forth this day. With all his heart he was longing to be out;but, instead of expressing impatience, smiled gratefully at me. I nowobserved that he had a sweet and winning smile--a gift bestowed notrarely on faces of a sombre cast.
In return for it I kissed him, and we sailed smoothly out. How herevelled, to be sure, in the first clear breath from the lips of heaven!Stretching one poor arm forth--the other he could not move--he tried tospread himself like a flower to the sun. Then he drew long draughts ofliquid freedom, and was for a time as one intoxicated. In the gloriouscrystal bath he seemed to float away from earth. Coming to himself atlength, he looked at me, and said, "Now John may go, if he pleases." Ayear ago he would have said, "Go, John," and no more. But illness is agreat refiner. When John was out of sight he allowed free vent to thetears of joy and gratitude, whereof, in my opinion, he had no call to beashamed. I kissed him many times. My warm impassioned nature alwaysfelt for and delighted in any touch like this. Then he placed hisbetter hand on the cold and rigid one, lifting this with that, andpoured forth silent thanks to the Giver of all things.
"Clara, darling," at length he said, "how can I ever show you athousandth part of my gratitude for all the lovingkindness you haveheaped on me? Coals of fire, indeed! and they have warmed my selfishheart. With loathsome death before your face, in all the pride andbloom of early youth and richest--"
I will not repeat his words, because it would not become me; but I amforced by all that has happened to show what his feelings were.
"And all this for me--me who have been your bitterest enemy, who haveturned you out of your father's house, and caused your mother's death!"Here I stopped him, lest he should be overcome.
"Dear uncle, talk no more of this--never even think of it. The faultwas all my own. You know I would not stop, often as you asked me.There always was a bar between us, and it was my obstinacy."
"No, it was my pride. Clara, in my better mind I loved you all along.How could I help admiring your truth and courage and devotion to yourfather? Although I own that you were very bitter against me, yet, if Ihad only used the proper means, I might have got the better of it. If Ihad told you all my story, you would have pitied more even thancondemned me. But my pride forbade, and I made the common mistake ofregarding you as a child, because you were that in years. I forgot toallow for the forcing powers of grief. Even now, pulled down as I am,and humbled by the wisdom of Heaven, I cannot tell you my strangehistory without the acutest pain."
"Then I am sure, uncle, I will never let you do it."
"Yes, it is my duty, and the sooner done the better. Rescued though Iam, for the present, by your wonderful courage and skill, I feel thatone more blow, even a slight one now, and time for me is ended. But ifit were God's will to cut me off to-morrow, I should die in happiness,having made my peace, and won your kind forgiveness."
"You shall not tell me now at any rate. And I won't have you talk so,uncle. Mind, I am head-nurse still. Now come and see how lovely theranunculus are getting."
I began to wheel him over the grass and gather flowers (which "he playedwith like a child), to change, if possible, the current of his thoughts.Stupid thing! I took the wrong way to do it.
"Oh, uncle dear! you will laugh at me, and say I am as bad as ever; butas soon as you get better I want to be off again, kind and good as youare to me."
He trembled so violently, that I feared the chair would be upset.
"What, Clara, can't you live with me even now? Everything shall beyours, as it ought to be. I will never meddle with you in any way, butkeep to some lonely corner, and not see you very often. Oh, Clara! dearClara! don't go away! You know I am quite helpless, and I can't livelong, and you are all in all to me, and I am so proud of you, darling!But it is not for myself I care. I cannot tell, much less can you, whatmischief may be done if you leave this house again. That low, craftywoman will be back again directly--she who made cowards of all thehousehold, and acted the coward herself, who left me to die in my lonelybed, while she took all my keys. If her treachery succeeds, I shall risefrom my grave. And I know she will poison me yet, if she gets thechance, and can make anything by it."
It was the first time he had spoken to me of Mrs. Daldy, and I wasamazed at his bitterness, for I had heard of no quarrel between them.What on earth did it mean?
"Don't go, Clara!" he implored me, with the cold sweat on his forehead,and every line in his poor thin face a-quivering. "Don't go, mydarling, blessed Clara! I have had none to love for years and years, andto love you is so sweet! If you go I must die at once, and, worse thanthat, die wretched in the knowledge that you will be robbed."
He fell back in the chair, from which, in his excitement, he had strivento rise, and for some minutes there he lay insensible. When I hadsucceeded in bringing him to himself, he looked at me so piteously, withso much death in his eyes, that I promised, with a sinking heart, neverto leave him more, except upon absolute necessity, until he should bewell, or need my care no longer.
He even tried to persuade me not to go to London for the things I hadleft there, but to send a trusty person to pack and bring them home. Tothis, however, I could not yield, feeling, as I did, that, after all mylove for Isola, and all her kindness to me, I was bound to see her andsay farewell; and what harm could there possibly be in so short anabsence? My uncle wished me to bring her down for a good long visit,but this at such a time could not be thought of. Moreover, lively,impulsive Idols would have grown very long-faced in a dull sick house,which ours must be for the present. It was settled at last that Ishould go to London the following Monday, stay there one entire day, andcome back the day after with all my trifling chattels. One thing moremy uncle proposed which I would not hear of. It was, that he shouldtransfer to me, by deed of gift, all the estate, both real and personal,reserving only a small annuity for himself, and a sum of 10,000*l.* forsome special purpose, which he would disclose to me at leisure. Thus,he said, he should feel as if justice had been done, and there would besome security against Mrs. Daldy's schemes. Of the latter I felt nofear whatever, and thought it the effect of a shaken mind that heattached so much im
portance to them. Under no circumstances would Ithink, for a moment, of allowing him so to divest himself. Money, to anyamount, I could have, though I wanted very little, seeing that now, oncemore, a solemn duty would withdraw me from my long pursuit, and from allthe frivolities which many girls delight in. I begged my uncle toappoint an honest steward for the estate, and to assign me a moderateyearly allowance, which would save much trouble. To this he at lastconsented, and proposed for me so large a revenue, that, after removingthe last cipher, I had more than I knew how to spend. The first thing Idid was to send the kind farmer the residue of the sum he had lent me,together with interest at ten per cent., which did not seem excessive,considering that he had no security.
And now, with the utmost anxiety, I looked forward to the time when mypoor uncle should be strong enough to tell me, without risk, thathistory of himself which he had distinctly promised me. Surely it mustshed some light on the mystery of my own. This thought, as well as thesense of duty, reconciled me in some measure to the suspension of mylife-long search. He would have told me everything then and there, inhis warm gratitude for my undertaking; but I durst not let him. He wasalready fatigued with so much talking, and when the stimulus of thefresh air was gone, he suffered a serious relapse.