by Fergus Hume
The next day Hagar left the shop in charge of Bolker, and took the silver teapot to a jeweler in the adjacent thoroughfare. He soon melted the solder, and opened the lid. Within, beneath a pile of dried rose-leaves, she found the packet of letters, tied up with a blue ribbon. There was something sacrilegious to her imaginative mind, in thus disturbing the relics of this dead-and-done-with romance; and it was with reverent care that Hagar carried the teapot and its contents to the house in Carby’s Crescent. After thirty years of moldering under the rose-leaves, these letters, yellow and faded, were restored to the light of day; and the woman who had written them when young and fair was now lying withered and dying in the winter of her age. Hagar was profoundly moved as she sat by that humble bedside with the ancient love-letters on her lap.
“Read them all,” said Margaret, with the tears running down her face; “read the letters of John in which he told me of his love thirty years ago. Thirty years! Ah, dear God! when I was young and fresh! Oh, oh, oh! Youth and love!” she wept, beating the bedclothes with trembling hands—“love and youth! Gone! gone!—and I lie dying!”
Steadying her voice with an effort in the presence of this sacred grief, Hagar read the letters written from India by the absent lover. There were ten or twelve of them—charming letters, full of pure and undying love. From first to last there was no sentiment but what breathed devotion and trust. The writer spoke tenderly of his poor blind love; he promised to make her her path with roses, and in every way to show himself worthy of honor and affection. Up to the twelfth letter there was not a hint of parting or of a desire to break off the engagement; only in the thirteenth letter—two curt lines, as Margaret had said—came the announcement, with the swiftness and unexpectedness of a thunderbolt. “It is better that our engagement should end,” wrote John, coldly; “therefore I return you the thirteen letters you wrote me.” And that was all. This unexpected communication, coming so suddenly after the fervor of the dozen letters, took away Hagar’s breath.
“Excepting in the last I do not see anything cruel or cold in these letters, Miss Snow,” said Hagar, when she had ended her reading.
Margaret put up one thin hand to her head. “No, no,” she stammered, confusedly; “and yet I am sure John wrote cruelly. It is so long ago that perhaps I forget; but his last letters were cold, and hinted at a desire that we should part. I remember Jane and Lucy reading them to me.”
“I don’t see any hint of that,” replied Hagar, doubtfully; “in fact, in the last two or three he asks, as you have heard, why you wish the marriage postponed.”
“I never wished that!” murmured Margaret, perplexed. “I wanted to marry John and be with him always. Certainly I never said such a thing when I wrote to him. Of that I am sure.”
“We can soon prove it,” said Hagar, taking up the other packet. “Here are your letters to John—all of them. Shall I read them?”
Receiving an eager assent, the girl arranged the epistles in order of dates, and read them slowly. They were scrawled rather than written, in the large, childish handwriting of the blind; and most of them were short, but the first six were full of love and a desire to be near John. The seventh letter, which was better written than the previous ones, breathed colder sentiments; it hinted that the absent lover could do better than marry a blind girl, who might be a drag on him, it said.
“Stop! Stop!” cried Margaret, breathlessly. “I never wrote that letter!”
She was sitting up in the bed, with her gray hair pushed off her thin, eager face; and turning her sightless eyes towards Hagar, she seemed almost to see the astonished face of the girl in the intensity of her desire.
“I never wrote that letter!” repeated Margaret, in a shrill voice of excitement; “you are making some mistake.”
“Indeed I read only what is written,” said Hagar; “let me continue. When I finish the other five letters we shall discuss them. But I fear — I fear ——”
“You fear what?”
“That you have been deceived. Wait—wait! say nothing until I finish reading.”
Margaret sank back on her pillow with a gray face and quick in-drawn breathing. She dreaded what was coming, as Hagar well knew; so the girl continued hurriedly to read the letters, lest she should be interrupted. They were all—that is, the last five or six—written in better style of handwriting than the former ones; and each letter was colder than the last. The writer did not want to leave her quiet English home for distant India. She was afraid that the engagement was a mistake; when she consented to the marriage she did not know her own mind. Moreover, Jane Lorrimer loved him; she was ——
“Jane!” interrupted Margaret, with a cry—“what had Jane to do with my love for John? I never wrote those last letters; they are forgeries!”
“Indeed they look like it,” said Hagar, examining the letters; “the handwriting is that of a person who can see—much better than the writing of the early letters.”
“I always wrote badly,” declared Margaret, feverishly. “I was blind; it was hard for me to pen a letter. John did not expect—expect — oh, dear Lord, what does it all mean?”
“It means that Jane deceived you.”
“Deceived me!” wailed Margaret, feebly—“deceived her poor blind friend! No, no!”
“I am certain of it!” said Hagar, firmly. “When you told me your story, I was doubtful of Jane; now that I have read those forged letters—for forged they are—I am certain of it. Jane deceived you, with the aid of Lucy!”
“But why, dear Lord, why?”
“Because she loved John and wished to marry him. You stood in the way, and she removed you. Well, she gained her wish; she parted you from John, and became Mrs. Mask.”
“I can’t believe it; Jane was my friend.”
“Naturally; and for that reason deceived you,” said Hagar, bitterly. “Oh, I know well what friendship is! But we must find out the truth. Tell me the exact address of Mrs. Mask.”
“For what reason?”
“Because I shall call and see her. I shall learn the truth, and right you in the eyes of John.”
“What use?” wept Margaret, bitterly. “My life is over, and I am dying. What use?”
Feeble and hopeless, she would have made no effort herself; but Hagar was determined that the secret, buried in the silver teapot for thirty years, should be known, if not to the world, at least to John Mask. These many days he had deemed Margaret faithless, and had married a woman who, he believed, gave him that love which the blind girl had refused. Now he should learn that the wife was the traitress, that the rejected woman had been true and faithful even unto death. Hagar made up her mind to this course, and forcing the address from the unwilling lips of Margaret, she went the very next day to the stately mansion in Berkeley Square. So came Nemesis to the faithless friend after the lapse of thirty years. The justice of the gods is slow, but it is certain.
Margaret lay weeping in her bed. As yet her feeble brain could not grasp the truth. John, whom she had believed faithless, had been true; and in his eyes all these years it was she who had been cruel. To her all was confusion and doubt. Not until the afternoon of the next day did she learn the truth for certain. It was Hagar who told it to her.
“I went to the house in Berkeley Square,” said Hagar, “and I asked for Mrs. Mask. She was out, and I saw the housekeeper—none other than your former servant, Lucy Dyke; Mrs. Jael now,” added the girl, contemptuously—“well off, trusted, and comfortable. That is the reward of her treachery.”
“No, no! Lucy—surely she did not deceive me?”
“I made her confess it,” said Hagar, sternly. “I told her of the letters in the teapot; of your hard life, and of your dying bed. At first she denied everything; but when I threatened to tell Mr. Mask the wretch confessed the truth. Yes, my poor Miss Snow, you were deceived— bitterly deceived—by your friend and your servant. They made a sport of your blindness and love.”
“Cruel! cruel!” moaned Margaret, trembling violently.
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“Yes, it was cruel; but it is the way of the world,” said Hagar, with bitterness. “It seems that Jane was in love with your John; but as he was true to you, she could not hope to marry him. Determined, however, to do so, she bribed Lucy with money, and the pair resolved to part you from John by means of lying letters. Those you wrote to India never reached him. Instead of your epistles, Jane wrote those which I read to you, urging a breaking-off of the engagement, and hinting at her own love. John thought they came from you, and wrote back—as you have heard now—asking why you wished the marriage broken off. When Lucy or Jane read the letters to you thirty years ago, they altered the sense so that you should think John cruel. But why explain further?” cried Hagar, with a burst of deep anger. “You saw—you know how they succeeded. John broke off the engagement and sent you back your letters. For that your treacherous enemies were not prepared. If Lucy had been in the house, you would never have received the packet. No wonder she wanted you to burn the letters, seeing that the forged ones were amongst them. Had you not hidden them away in the silver teapot, Lucy would have found means to destroy them. However, you know how they have been perserved these thirty years, to prove the truth at last. Revenge yourself, Miss Snow! Jane is the honored wife of John; Lucy is the confidential housekeeper, comfortable and happy. Tell John the truth, and punish these vixens!”
“Oh, what shall I do? What can I do?” cried Margaret. “I do not want to be cruel, but they ruined my life. Jane ——”
“She is coming to see you; and John also,” said Hagar, rapidly. “The two will be here in an hour. Then you can denounce the treachery of Jane, and show John those letters to prove it. Ruin her! She ruined you.”
Margaret said nothing. She was a religious woman, and nightly recited the Lord’s Prayer; “Forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive them that trespass against us.” Now—and in no idle fashion—she was called upon to prove the depth of her belief—the extent of her charity. She was asked to forgive her bitterest enemies those two women who had ruined her life, and who had built up prosperous existences on such ruins. It was hard to say “Go in peace” to these. Hagar was implacable, and urged revenge; but Margaret—weak, sweet soul—leant to the side of charity. Waiting the arrival of her false friend, her lost lover, she prayed for guidance and for strength to sustain her in the coming ordeal. It was the last and most painful phase of her long, long martyrdom.
Mrs. Mask arrived an hour later, as Hagar had announced, but alone. Her husband had been detained by business, she explained to the girl, and would come on later. Like herself, he was anxious to see their dying friend.
“Does he know the truth?” asked Hagar before admitting the visitor.
Jane was now a large and prosperous woman, with an imperious temper, and in an ordinary case would have replied sharply. But the discovery of her treachery, the knowledge that her victim was dying, had broken her down entirely. With a pale face and quivering lips, she shook her head, and signed that she could not bring herself to speak. Hagar stood aside and permitted her to pass in silence. She would have lashed the perfidious woman with her tongue, but deemed it more just that the traitress should be punished by the friend she had wronged so bitterly. Mrs. Mask entered the room, and slowly walked over to the bedside. The blind woman recognized her footstep: yes! recognized it, even after these many years.
“Jane,” said Margaret, reproachfully, “have you come to look at your work?”
The prosperous lady recoiled as she saw the wreck of the merry, happy girl she had known thirty years before. Tongue-tied by the knowledge that Margaret spoke truly, she could only stand like a culprit beside the bed, and like a culprit await her sentence. Hagar remained at the door to listen.
“Have you nothing to say?” gasped Margaret, faintly—“you who lied about me with your accomplice—who made my John believe me faithless? My John! alas, he has been yours—won by dishonor—these thirty years!”
“I—I loved him!” stammered the other woman at last, goaded into defending herself.
“Yes, you loved him and betrayed me. For years I have suffered hunger and cold; for years I have lived with a broken heart, alone and miserably!”
“I—I—oh, I am sorry!”
“Sorry! Can your sorrow give me back thirty years of wasted life— of long-enduring agony? Can sorrow make me what I should have been— what you are—a happy wife and mother?”
“Margaret,” implored Jane, sinking on her knees, “forgive me! In spite of all my prosperity, I have suffered in secret. My sin has come home to me many a time, and made me weep. I searched for you when I returned to England; I could not find you. Now I am willing to make what expiation you wish.”
“Then tell your husband how you tricked him and ruined me.”
“No—no! Anything but that, Margaret! For God’s sake! I should die of shame if he knew. He loves me now; we are old; we have children. Two of my boys are in the army; my daughter is a wife and mother. What you will, but not that; it would destroy all; it would kill me!”
She bowed her head on the bed-clothes and wept. Margaret reflected. Her revenge was within her grasp. John was coming, and a word from her would make him loathe the woman he had loved and honored these many years—would make him despise the mother of his children. No, she could not be so cruel as to ruin the innocent to punish the guilty. Besides, Jane had loved him, and it was that love which had made her sin. Margaret raised herself feebly, and laid her thin hand on the head of the woman who had martyrized her.
“I forgive you, Jane. Go in peace. John shall never know.”
Jane lifted up her face in amazement at this God-like forgiveness. “You will not tell him?” she muttered.
“No. No one shall tell him. Hagar, swear to me that you will keep silent.”
“I swear,” said Hagar, a little sullenly. “But you are wrong.”
“No; I am right. To gain forgiveness we must forgive others. My poor Jane, you were tempted, and you fell. Of Lucy I shall say nothing; God will bring home her sin to her in—Ah! dear Lord! Hagar! I—I—I die!”
Hagar ran to the bedside, and placed her arms round the lean frame of poor Margaret. Her face was gray, her eyes glazed, and her body fell back in the arms of Hagar like a dead thing. She was dying; the end of her martyrdom was at hand.
“Give! give ——” she whispered, striving to raise one feeble hand.
“The teapot!” said Hagar. Quick—give it to her!”
Jane seized the teapot—ignorant that it contained the letters which proved her guilt—and placed it in the hands of the poor soul. She clasped it feebly to her breast, and a smile of delight crept slowly over her gray face.
“John’s gift!” she faltered, and—died.
A moment later the door was pushed open, and a portly man with gray hair entered the room. He saw Jane sobbing by the bedside, Hagar kneeling with tears in her eyes, and on the bed the dead body of the woman he had loved.
“I am too late,” said he, approaching. “Poor Margaret!”
“She has just died,” whispered Hagar. “Take your wife away.”
“Come, my dear,” said John, raising the repentant woman; “we can do no good. Poor Margaret! to think that she would not marry me! Well, it is best so; God has given me a good and true wife in her place.”
“A good and true wife!” muttered Hagar, with irony.
With Jane on his arm, the former lover of Margaret moved towards the door. “I shall of course see to the funeral,” he said in a pompous tone. “She shall be buried like a princess.”
“Indeed, Mr. Mask!—and she lived like a beggar!”
A faint flush of color crept into the man’s cheeks, withered with age. “That was not my fault,” he said, haughtily; “had I known of her wants, I would have helped her; though, indeed,” he added, bitterly, “she deserves little at the hands of one whom she wronged so deeply. I loved her, and she was faithless.”
“Ah!” cried Hagar, and for the moment she felt inclined to tel
l the truth, but the memory of her promise restrained her; also a glance at the white face of Jane, who thought that her secret was about to be revealed.
“What do you say?” asked John, looking back.
“Nothing. But—the silver teapot?”
“My gift. Let it be buried with her.”
He passed through the door without another word, leaving Hagar alone with the dead. Had he known of the contents of the teapot which the dead woman held clasped in her arms, he might not have departed with his wife by his side. But he went out ignorant and happy.
Hagar looked at the retiring forms of the married pair; at the white face of the dead woman at the bare, bleak room and the silver teapot. Then she laughed!
CHAPTER VIII. THE SEVENTH CUSTOMER AND THE MANDARIN.
THERE was something very queer about that lacquer mandarin; and something still queerer about the man who pawned it. The toy itself was simply two balls placed together; the top ball, a small one, was the head, masked with a quaintly-painted face of porcelain, and surmounted by a pagoda-shaped hat jingling with tiny golden bells. The large ball below was the body, gaily tinted to imitate the official dress of a great Chinese lord; and therefrom two little arms terminating in porcelain hands, exquisitely finished even to the long nails, protruded in a most comical fashion. Weighted dexterously within, the mandarin would keel over this side and that, to a perilous angle, but he never went over altogether. When set in motion the big ball would roll, the arms would wag, and the head nod gravely, a little red tongue thrusting itself out at every bow. Then the golden bells would chime melodiously, and rolling, wagging, nodding, the mandarin made all who beheld him laugh, with his innocent antics. He was worthy, in all his painted beauty, to be immortalized by Hans Andersen.