“I have no reason to fear, sir,” answered Barbara Simmons, lifting her faded eyes to the young man’s eager face, with a gaze that seemed to say, “I have done no wrong, and I do not shrink from justifying myself.” “I have no reason to fear, sir; I was piously brought up, and have done my best always to do my duty in the state of life in which Providence has been pleased to place me. I have not had a particularly happy life, sir; for thirty years ago I lost all that made me happy, in them that loved me, and had a claim to love me. I have attached myself to my mistress; but it isn’t for me to expect a lady like her would stoop to make me more to her or nearer to her than I have a right to be as a servant.”
There was no accent of hypocrisy or cant in any one of these deliberately–spoken words. It seemed as if in this speech the woman had told the history of her life; a brief, unvarnished history of a barren life, out of which all love and sunlight had been early swept away, leaving behind a desolate blank, that was not destined to be filled up by any affection from the young mistress so long and patiently served.
“I am faithful to my mistress, sir,” Barbara Simmons added, presently; “and I try my best to do my duty to her. I owe no duty to any one else.”
“You owe a duty to humanity,” answered Edward Arundel. “Woman, do you think duty is a thing to be measured by line and rule? Christ came to save the lost sheep of the children of Israel; but was He less pitiful to the Canaanitish woman when she carried her sorrows to His feet? You and your mistress have made hard precepts for yourselves, and have tried to live by them. You try to circumscribe the area of your Christian charity, and to do good within given limits. The traveller who fell among thieves would have died of his wounds, for any help he might have had from you, if he had lain beyond your radius. Have you yet to learn that Christianity is cosmopolitan, illimitable, inexhaustible, subject to no laws of time or space? The duty you owe to your mistress is a duty that she buys and pays for––a matter of sordid barter, to be settled when you take your wages; the duty you owe to every miserable creature in your pathway is a sacred debt, to be accounted for to God.”
As the young soldier spoke thus, carried away by his passionate agitation, suddenly eloquent by reason of the intensity of his feeling, a change came over Barbara’s face. There was no very palpable evidence of emotion in that stolid countenance; but across the wooden blankness of the woman’s face flitted a transient shadow, which was like the shadow of fear.
“I tried to do my duty to Miss Marchmont as well as to my mistress,” she said. “I waited on her faithfully while she was ill. I sat up with her six nights running; I didn’t take my clothes off for a week. There are folks in the house who can tell you as much.”
“God knows I am grateful to you, and will reward you for any pity you may have shown my poor darling,” the young man answered, in a more subdued tone; “only, if you pity me, and wish to help me, speak out, and speak plainly. What do you think has become of my lost girl?”
“I cannot tell you, sir. As God looks down upon me and judges me, I declare to you that I know no more than you know. But I think––––”
“You think what?”
“That you will never see Miss Marchmont again.”
Edward Arundel started as violently as if, of all sentences, this was the last he had expected to hear pronounced. His sanguine temperament, fresh in its vigorous and untainted youth, could not grasp the thought of despair. He could be mad with passionate anger against the obstacles that separated him from his wife; but he could not believe those obstacles to be insurmountable. He could not doubt the power of his own devotion and courage to bring him back his lost love.
“Never––see her––again!”
He repeated these words as if they had belonged to a strange language, and he were trying to make out their meaning.
“You think,” he gasped hoarsely, after a long pause,––”you think––that––she is––dead?”
“I think that she went out of this house in a desperate state of mind. She was seen––not by me, for I should have thought it my duty to stop her if I had seen her so––she was seen by one of the servants crying and sobbing awfully as she went away upon that last afternoon.”
“And she was never seen again?”
“Never by me.”
“And––you––you think she went out of this house with the intention of––of––destroying herself?”
The words died away in a hoarse whisper, and it was by the motion of his white lips that Barbara Simmons perceived what the young man meant.
“I do, sir.”
“Have you any––particular reason for thinking so?”
“No reason beyond what I have told you, sir.”
Edward Arundel bent his head, and walked away to hide his blanched face. He tried instinctively to conceal this mental suffering, as he had sometimes hidden physical torture in an Indian hospital, prompted by the involuntary impulse of a brave man. But though the woman’s words had come upon him like a thunderbolt, he had no belief in the opinion they expressed. No; his young spirit wrestled against and rejected the awful conclusion. Other people might think what they chose; but he knew better than they. His wife was not dead. His life had been so smooth, so happy, so prosperous, so unclouded and successful, that it was scarcely strange he should be sceptical of calamity,––that his mind should be incapable of grasping the idea of a catastrophe so terrible as Mary’s suicide.
“She was intrusted to me by her father,” he thought. “She gave her faith to me before God’s altar. She cannot have perished body and soul; she cannot have gone down to destruction for want of my arm outstretched to save her. God is too good to permit such misery.”
The young soldier’s piety was of the simplest and most unquestioning order, and involved an implicit belief that a right cause must always be ultimately victorious. With the same blind faith in which he had often muttered a hurried prayer before plunging in amidst the mad havoc of an Indian battle–field, confident that the justice of Heaven would never permit heathenish Affghans to triumph over Christian British gentlemen, he now believed that, in the darkest hour of Mary Marchmont’s life, God’s arm had held her back from the dread horror––the unatonable offence––of self–destruction.
“I thank you for having spoken frankly to me,” he said to Barbara Simmons; “I believe that you have spoken in good faith. But I do not think my darling is for ever lost to me. I anticipate trouble and anxiety, disappointment, defeat for a time,––for a long time, perhaps; but I know that I shall find her in the end. The business of my life henceforth is to look for her.”
Barbara’s dull eyes held earnest watch upon the young man’s countenance as he spoke. Anxiety and even fear were in that gaze, palpable to those who knew how to read the faint indications of the woman’s stolid face.
CHAPTER X. THE PARAGRAPH IN THE NEWSPAPER.
Mr. Morrison brought the gig and pony to the western porch while Captain Arundel was talking to his cousin’s servant, and presently the invalid was being driven across the flat between the Towers and the high–road to Kemberling.
Mary’s old favourite, Farmer Pollard’s daughter, came out of a low rustic shop as the gig drew up before her husband’s door. This good–natured, tender–hearted Hester, advanced to matronly dignity under the name of Mrs. Jobson, carried a baby in her arms, and wore a white dimity hood, that made a penthouse over her simple rosy face. But at the sight of Captain Arundel nearly all the rosy colour disappeared from the country–woman’s plump cheeks, and she stared aghast at the unlooked–for visitor, almost ready to believe that, if anything so substantial as a pony and gig could belong to the spiritual world, it was the phantom only of the soldier that she looked upon.
“O sir!” she said; “O Captain Arundel, is it really you?”
Edward alighted before Hester could recover from the surprise occasioned by his appearance.
“Yes, Mrs. Jobson,” he said. “May I come into your house? I wish to spe
ak to you.”
Hester curtseyed, and stood aside to allow her visitor to pass her. Her manner was coldly respectful, and she looked at the young officer with a grave, reproachful face, which was strange to him. She ushered her guest into a parlour at the back of the shop; a prim apartment, splendid with varnished mahogany, shell–work boxes––bought during Hester’s honeymoon–trip to a Lincolnshire watering–place––and voluminous achievements in the way of crochet–work; a gorgeous and Sabbath–day chamber, looking across a stand of geraniums into a garden that was orderly and trimly kept even in this dull November weather.
Mrs. Jobson drew forward an uneasy easy–chair, covered with horsehair, and veiled by a crochet–work representation of a peacock embowered among roses. She offered this luxurious seat to Captain Arundel, who, in his weakness, was well content to sit down upon the slippery cushions.
“I have come here to ask you to help me in my search for my wife, Hester,” Edward Arundel said, in a scarcely audible voice.
It is not given to the bravest mind to be utterly independent and defiant of the body; and the soldier was beginning to feel that he had very nearly run the length of his tether, and must soon submit himself to be prostrated by sheer physical weakness.
“Your wife!” cried Hester eagerly. “O sir, is that true?”
“Is what true?”
“That poor Miss Mary was your lawful wedded wife?”
“She was,” replied Edward Arundel sternly, “my true and lawful wife. What else should she have been, Mrs. Jobson?”
The farmer’s daughter burst into tears.
“O sir,” she said, sobbing violently as she spoke,––”O sir, the things that was said against that poor dear in this place and all about the Towers! The things that was said! It makes my heart bleed to think of them; it makes my heart ready to break when I think what my poor sweet young lady must have suffered. And it set me against you, sir; and I thought you was a bad and cruel–hearted man!”
“What did they say?” cried Edward. “What did they dare to say against her or against me?”
“They said that you had enticed her away from her home, sir, and that––that––there had been no marriage; and that you had deluded that poor innocent dear to run away with you; and that you’d deserted her afterwards, and the railway accident had come upon you as a punishment like; and that Mrs. Marchmont had found poor Miss Mary all alone at a country inn, and had brought her back to the Towers.”
“But what if people did say this?” exclaimed Captain Arundel. “You could have contradicted their foul slanders; you could have spoken in defence of my poor helpless girl.”
“Me, sir!”
“Yes. You must have heard the truth from my wife’s own lips.”
Hester Jobson burst into a new flood of tears as Edward Arundel said this.
“O no, sir,” she sobbed; “that was the most cruel thing of all. I never could get to see Miss Mary; they wouldn’t let me see her.”
“Who wouldn’t let you?”
“Mrs. Marchmont and Mr. Paul Marchmont. I was laid up, sir, when the report first spread about that Miss Mary had come home. Things was kept very secret, and it was said that Mrs. Marchmont was dreadfully cut up by the disgrace that had come upon her stepdaughter. My baby was born about that time, sir; but as soon as ever I could get about, I went up to the Towers, in the hope of seeing my poor dear miss. But Mrs. Simmons, Mrs. Marchmont’s own maid, told me that Miss Mary was ill, very ill, and that no one was allowed to see her except those that waited upon her and that she was used to. And I begged and prayed that I might be allowed to see her, sir, with the tears in my eyes; for my heart bled for her, poor darling dear, when I thought of the cruel things that was said against her, and thought that, with all her riches and her learning, folks could dare to talk of her as they wouldn’t dare talk of a poor man’s wife like me. And I went again and again, sir; but it was no good; and, the last time I went, Mrs. Marchmont came out into the hall to me, and told me that I was intrusive and impertinent, and that it was me, and such as me, as had set all manner of scandal afloat about her stepdaughter. But I went again, sir, even after that; and I saw Mr. Paul Marchmont, and he was very kind to me, and frank and free–spoken,––almost like you, sir; and he told me that Mrs. Marchmont was rather stern and unforgiving towards the poor young lady,––he spoke very kind and pitiful of poor Miss Mary,––and that he would stand my friend, and he’d contrive that I should see my poor dear as soon as ever she picked up her spirits a bit, and was more fit to see me; and I was to come again in a week’s time, he said.”
“Well; and when you went––––?”
“When I went, sir,” sobbed the carpenter’s wife, “it was the 18th of October, and Miss Mary had run away upon the day before, and every body at the Towers was being sent right and left to look for her. I saw Mrs. Marchmont for a minute that afternoon; and she was as white as a sheet, and all of a tremble from head to foot, and she walked about the place as if she was out of her mind like.”
“Guilt,” thought the young soldier; “guilt of some sort. God only knows what that guilt has been!”
He covered his face with his hands, and waited to hear what more Hester Jobson had to tell him. There was no need of questioning here––no reservation or prevarication. With almost as tender regret as he himself could have felt, the carpenter’s wife told him all that she knew of the sad story of Mary’s disappearance.
“Nobody took much notice of me, sir, in the confusion of the place,” Mrs. Jobson continued; “and there is a parlour–maid at the Towers called Susan Rose, that had been a schoolfellow with me ten years before, and I got her to tell me all about it. And she said that poor dear Miss Mary had been weak and ailing ever since she had recovered from the brain–fever, and that she had shut herself up in her room, and had seen no one except Mrs. Marchmont, and Mr. Paul, and Barbara Simmons; but on the 17th Mrs. Marchmont sent for her, asking her to come to the study. And the poor young lady went; and then Susan Rose thinks that there was high words between Mrs. Marchmont and her stepdaughter; for as Susan was crossing the hall poor Miss came out of the study, and her face was all smothered in tears, and she cried out, as she came into the hall, ‘I can’t bear it any longer. My life is too miserable; my fate is too wretched!’ And then she ran upstairs, and Susan Rose followed up to her room and listened outside the door; and she heard the poor dear sobbing and crying out again and again, ‘O papa, papa! If you knew what I suffer! O papa, papa, papa!’––so pitiful, that if Susan Rose had dared she would have gone in to try and comfort her; but Miss Mary had always been very reserved to all the servants, and Susan didn’t dare intrude upon her. It was late that evening when my poor young lady was missed, and the servants sent out to look for her.”
“And you, Hester,––you knew my wife better than any of these people,––where do you think she went?”
Hester Jobson looked piteously at the questioner.
“O sir!” she cried; “O Captain Arundel, don’t ask me; pray, pray don’t ask me.”
“You think like these other people,––you think that she went away to destroy herself?”
“O sir, what can I think, what can I think except that? She was last seen down by the water–side, and one of her shoes was picked up amongst the rushes; and for all there’s been such a search made after her, and a reward offered, and advertisements in the papers, and everything done that mortal could do to find her, there’s been no news of her, sir,––not a trace to tell of her being living; not a creature to come forward and speak to her being seen by them after that day. What can I think, sir, what can I think, except––”
“Except that she threw herself into the river behind Marchmont Towers.”
“I’ve tried to think different, sir; I’ve tried to hope I should see that poor sweet lamb again; but I can’t, I can’t. I’ve worn mourning for these three last Sundays, sir; for I seemed to feel as if it was a sin and a disrespectfulness towards her to wear colours
, and sit in the church where I have seen her so often, looking so meek and beautiful, Sunday after Sunday.”
Edward Arundel bowed his head upon his hands and wept silently. This woman’s belief in Mary’s death afflicted him more than he dared confess to himself. He had defied Olivia and Paul Marchmont, as enemies, who tried to force a false conviction upon him; but he could neither doubt nor defy this honest, warm–hearted creature, who wept aloud over the memory of his wife’s sorrows. He could not doubt her sincerity; but he still refused to accept the belief which on every side was pressed upon him. He still refused to think that his wife was dead.
“The river was dragged for more than a week,” he said, presently, “and my wife’s body was never found.”
Hester Jobson shook her head mournfully.
“That’s a poor sign, sir,” she answered; “the river’s full of holes, I’ve heard say. My husband had a fellow–’prentice who drowned himself in that river seven year ago, and his body was never found.”
Edward Arundel rose and walked towards the door.
“I do not believe that my wife is dead,” he cried. He held out his hand to the carpenter’s wife. “God bless you!” he said. “I thank you from my heart for your tender feeling towards my lost girl.”
He went out to the gig, in which Mr. Morrison waited for him, rather tired of his morning’s work.
“There is an inn a little way farther along the street, Morrison,” Captain Arundel said. “I shall stop there.”
The man stared at his master.
“And not go back to Marchmont Towers, Mr. Edward?”
“No.”
Edward Arundel had held Nature in abeyance for more than four–and–twenty hours, and this outraged Nature now took her revenge by flinging the young man prostrate and powerless upon his bed at the simple Kemberling hostelry, and holding him prisoner there for three dreary days; three miserable days, with long, dark interminable evenings, during which the invalid had no better employment than to lie brooding over his sorrows, while Mr. Morrison read the “Times” newspaper in a monotonous and droning voice, for his sick master’s entertainment.
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