The Last Hope

by Henry Seton Merriman

  CHAPTER XXVII

  OUT OF THE MOUTHS OF BABES

  Miriam's manner toward him was the same as it had always been so long ashe could remember. He had once thought--indeed, he had made to her theaccusation--that she was always conscious of the social gulf existingbetween them; that she always remembered that she was by birth andbreeding a lady, whereas he was the son of an obscure Frenchman who wasnothing but a clockmaker whose name could be read (and can to this day bedeciphered) on a hundred timepieces in remote East Anglian farms.

  Since his change of fortune he had, as all men who rise to a great heightor sink to the depths will tell, noted a corresponding change in hisfriends. Even Captain Clubbe had altered, and the affection which peepedout at times almost against his puritanical will seemed to have suffereda chill. The men of Farlingford, and even those who had sailed in "TheLast Hope" with him, seemed to hold him at a distance. They nodded to himwith a brief, friendly smile, but were shy of shaking hands. The handwhich they would have held out readily enough, had he needed assistancein misfortune, slunk hastily into a pocket. For he who climbs will losemore friends than the ne'er-do-well. Some may account this to humannature for righteousness and others quite the contrary: for jealousy,like love, lies hidden in unsuspected corners.

  Juliette do Gemosac had been quite different to Loo since learning hisstory. Miriam alone remained unchanged. He had accused her of failing torise superior to arbitrary social distinctions, and now, standing behindher in the fire-lit dining-room of the rectory, he retracted thataccusation once and for all time in his own heart, though herjustification came from a contrary direction to that from which it mighthave been expected.

  Miriam alone remained a friend--and nothing else, he added, bitterly, inhis own heart. And she seemed to assume that their friendship, begun inface of social distinctions, should never have to suffer from thatburthen.

  "I should like to hear," she repeated, seeing that he was silent, "allthat has happened since you went away; all that you may care to tell me."

  "My heritage, you mean?"

  She moved in her seat but did not look round. She had laid aside her haton coming into the house, and as she sat, leaning forward with her handsclasped together in her lap, gazing thoughtfully at the fire which glowedblue and white for the salt water that was in the drift-wood, her hair,loosened by the wind, half concealed her face.

  "Yes," she answered, slowly.

  "Do you know what it is--my heritage?" lapsing, as he often did whenhurried by some pressing thought, into a colloquialism half French.

  She shook her head, but made no audible reply.

  "Do you suspect what it is?" he insisted.

  "I may have suspected, perhaps," she admitted, after a pause.

  "When? How long?"

  She paused again. Quick and clever as he was, she was no less so. Sheweighed the question. Perhaps she found no answer to it, for she turnedtoward the door that stood open and looked out into the hall. The lightof the lamp there fell for a moment across her face.

  "I think I hear them returning," she said.

  "No," he retorted, "for I should hear them before you did. I was broughtup at sea. Do not answer the question, however, if you would rather not.You ask what has happened since I went away. A great many things havehappened which are of no importance. Such things always happen, do theynot? But one night, when we were quarrelling, Dormer Colville mentionedyour name. He was very much alarmed and very angry, so he perhaps spokethe truth--by accident. He said that you had always known that I might bethe King of France. Many things happened, as I tell you, which are of noimportance, and which I have already forgotten, but that I remember andalways shall."

  "I have always known," replied Miriam, "that Mr. Dormer Colville is aliar. It is written on his face, for those who care to read."

  A woman at bay is rarely merciful.

  "And I thought for an instant," pursued Loo, "that such a knowledge mighthave been in your mind that night, the last I was here, last summer, onthe river-wall. I had a vague idea that it might have influenced in someway the reply you gave me then."

  He had come a step nearer and was standing over her. She could hear hishurried breathing.

  "Oh, no," she replied, in a calm voice full of friendliness. "You arequite wrong. The reason I gave you still holds good, and--and alwayswill."

  In the brief silence that followed this clear statement of affairs, theyboth heard the rattle of the iron gate by the seawall. Sep and his fatherwere coming. Loo turned to look toward the hall and the front door, dimlyvisible in the shadow of the porch. While he did so Miriam passed herhand quickly across her face. When Loo turned again and glanced down ather, her attitude was unchanged.

  "Will you look at me and say that again?" he asked, slowly.

  "Certainly," she replied. And she rose from her chair. She turned andfaced him with the light of the hall-lamp full upon her. She was smilingand self-confident.

  "I thought," he said, looking at her closely, "as I stood behind you,that there were tears in your eyes."

  She went past him into the hall to meet Sep and his father, who werealready on the threshold.

  "It must have been the firelight," she said to Barebone as she passedhim.

  A minute later Septimus Marvin was shaking him by the hand with a vagueand uncertain but kindly grasp.

  "Sep came running to tell me that you were home again," he said,struggling out of his overcoat. "Yes--yes. Home again to the old place.And little changed, I can see. Little changed, my boy. _Temporamutantur_, eh? and we _mutamur in illis_. But you are the same."

  "Of course. Why should I change? It is too late to change for the betternow."

  "Never! Never say that. But we do not want you to change. We looked foryou to come in a coach-and-four--did we not, Miriam? For I suppose youhave secured your heritage, since you are here again. It is a great thingto possess riches--and a great responsibility. Come, let us have tea andnot think of such things. Yes--yes. Let us forget that such a thing as aheritage ever came between us--eh, Miriam?"

  And with a gesture of old-world politeness he stood aside for his nieceto pass first into the dining-room, whither a servant had preceded themwith a lamp.

  "It will not be hard to do that," replied Miriam, steadily, "because hetells me that he has not yet secured it."

  "All in good time--all in good time," said Marvin, with that faith insome occult power, seemingly the Government and Providence working inconjunction, to which parsons and many women confide their worldlyaffairs and sit with folded hands.

  He asked many questions which were easy enough to answer; for he had noworldly wisdom himself, and did not look for it in other people. And thenhe related his own adventure--the great incident of his life--his visitto Paris.

  "A matter of business," he explained. "Some duplicates--one or two of myprints which I had decided to part with. Miriam also wished me to seeinto some small money matters of her own. Her guardian, John Turner,you may remember, resides in Paris. A schoolfellow of my own, by theway. But our ways diverged later in life. I found him unchanged--a kindheart--always a kind heart. He attempts to conceal it, as many do, undera flippant, almost a profane, manner of speech. _Brutum fulmen._ But Isaw through it--I saw through it."

  And the rector beamed on Loo through his spectacles with an innocentdelight in a Christian charity which he mistook for cunning.

  "You see," he went on, "we have spent a little money on the rectory.To-morrow you will see that we have made good the roof of the church. Onecould not ask the villagers to contribute, knowing that the children wantboots and scarcely know the taste of jam. Yes, John Turner was very kindto me. He found me a buyer for one of my prints."

  The rector broke off with a sharp sigh and drank his tea.

  "We shall never miss it," he added, with the hopefulness of those who canblind themselves to facts. "Come, tell me your impressions of France."

  "I have been there before," replied Loo, with a curtness so unusual as toma
ke Miriam glance at him. "I have been there before, you know. It wouldbe more interesting to hear your own impressions, which must be fresher."

  Miriam knew that he did not want to speak of France, and wondered why.But Marvin, eager to talk of his favourite study, seized the suggestionin all innocence. He had gone to Paris as he had wandered through life,with the mind of a child, eager, receptive, open to impression. Suchminds pass by much that is of value, but to one or two conclusions theybring a perceptive comprehension which is photographic in its accuracy.

  "I have followed her history with unflagging interest since boyhood," hesaid, "but never until now have I understood France. I walked through thestreets of Paris and I looked into the faces of the people, and Irealised that the astonishing history of France is true. One can see itin those faces. The city is brilliant, beautiful, unreal. The reality isin the faces of the people. Do you remember what Wellington said of themhalf a century ago? 'They are ripe,' he said, 'for another Napoleon.' Buthe could not see that Napoleon on the political horizon. And that is whatI saw in their faces. They are ripe for something--they know not what."

  "Did John Turner tell you that?" asked Loo, in an eager voice. "He whohas lived in Paris all his life?"

  And Miriam caught the thrill of excitement in the voice that put thisquestion. She glanced at Loo. His eyes were bright and his cheekscolourless. She knew that she was in the presence of some feeling thatshe did not understand. It was odd that an old scholar, knowing nothingbut history, could thus stir a listener whose touch had hitherto onlyskimmed the surface of life.

  "No," answered Marvin, with assurance. "I saw it myself in their faces.Ah! if another such as Napoleon could only arise--such as he, butdifferent. Not an adventurer, but a King and the descendant of Kings--notallied, as Napoleon was, with a hundred other adventurers."

  "Yes," said Loo, in a muffled voice, looking away toward the fire.

  "A King whose wife should be a Queen," pursued the dreamer.

  "Yes," said Loo again, encouragingly.

  "They could save France," concluded Marvin, taking off his spectacles andpolishing them with a silk handkerchief. Loo turned and looked at him,for the action so characteristic of a mere onlooker indicated that themomentary concentration of a mind so stored with knowledge that confusionreigned there was passing away.

  "From what?" asked Loo. "Save France from what?"

  "From inevitable disaster, my boy," replied Marvin, gravely. "That iswhat I saw in those gay streets."

  Loo glanced at him sharply. He had himself seen the same all throughthose provinces which must take their cue from Paris whether they will orno.

  "What a career!" murmured Marvin. "What a mission for a man to have inlife--to save France! One does not like to think of the world without aFrance to lead it in nearly everything, or with a France, a mere ghost ofher former self, exploited, depleted by another Bonaparte. And we mustlook in vain for that man as did the good Duke years ago."

  "I should like to have a shot at it," put in Sep, who had just despatcheda large piece of cake.

  "Heaven forbid!" exclaimed his father, only half in jest.

  "Better sit all day under the lee of a boat and make nets, like SeaAndrew," advised Loo, with a laugh.

  "Do you think so?" said Miriam, without looking up.

  "All the same, I'd like to have a shot at it," persisted Sep. "Pass thecake, please."

  Loo had risen and was looking at the clock. His face was drawn and tiredand his eyes grave.

  "You will come in and see us as often as you can while you arehere?" said the kindly rector, as if vaguely conscious of a change inthis visitor. "You will always find a welcome whether you come in acoach-and-four or on foot--you know that."

  "Thank you--yes. I know that."

  The rector peered at him through his spectacles. "I hope," he said, "thatyou will soon be successful in getting your own. You are worried aboutit, I fear. The responsibilities of wealth, perhaps. And yet many richpeople are able to do good in the world, and must therefore be happy."

  "I do not suppose I shall ever be rich," said Loo, with a careless laugh.

  "No, perhaps not. But let us hope that all will be for the best. You mustnot attach too much importance to what I said about France, you know. Imay be wrong. Let us hope I am. For I understand that your heritage isthere."

  "Yes," answered Loo, who was shaking hands with Sep and Miriam, "myheritage is there."

  "And you will go back to France?" inquired Marvin, holding out his hand.

  "Yes," was the reply, with a side glance in the direction of Miriam. "Ishall go back to France."