Herbert's prayer had been granted, inasmuch as the horrible ravings that he feared repeating never passed his lips. If he had gone down to the smoke of Tartarus to restore his sister's lover, none of its blacks were cleaning to him; but whether conscious or wandering, the one thought of his wasted year seemed to be crushing him. It was a curious contrast between poor Mr. Fuller's absence of regret for a quarter of a century's supineness, and this lad's repentance for twelve months' idleness. That his follies had been guileless in themselves might be the very cause that his spirit had such power of repentance. His admiration of Lady Tyrrell had been burnt out, and had been fancy, not heart, and no word of it passed his lips, far less of the mirth with the Strangeways. Habit sometimes brought the phrases of the cricket-field, but these generally ended in a shudder of self-recollection and prayer.
The delirium only came with the accesses of fever, and when sensible, he was very quiet and patient, but always as one weighed down by sense of failure in a trust. He never seemed to entertain a hope of surviving. He had watched too many cases not to be aware that his symptoms were those that had been almost uniformly fatal, and he noted them as a matter of course. Dr. Easterby came to see him, and was greatly touched; Herbert was responsive, but it was not the ordinary form of comfort that he needed, for his sorrow was neither terror nor despair. His heart was too warm and loving not to believe that his heavenly Father forgave him as freely as did his earthly father; but that very hope made him the more grieved and ashamed of his slurred task, nor did he view his six weeks at Wil'sbro' as any atonement, knowing it was no outcome of repentance, but of mere kindliness, and aware, as no one else could be, how his past negligence had hindered his full usefulness, so that he only saw his failures. As to his young life, he viewed it as a mortally wounded soldier does, as a mere casualty of the war, which he was pledged to disregard. He did perhaps like to think that the fatal night with Gadley might bring Archie back, and yet Jenny did not give him the full peace in her happiness which he had promised himself.
Joanna had suffered terribly, far more than any one knew, and her mind did not take the revulsion as might have been expected. Her lighthouse was shining again when she thought it extinguished for ever, but her spirits could not bear the uncertainty of the spark. She could not enter into what Miles and Julius both alike told her, of the impossibility of their mother beginning a prosecution for money embezzled ten years back, when no living witness existed, nothing but the scrap of paper written by Herbert, and signed by him and Margaret Strangeways, authorizing Julius Charnock to use what had been said by the dying, half-delirious man. What would a jury say to such evidence? And when Julius said it only freed himself morally from the secrecy, poor Jenny was bitter against his scruples, even though he had never said more than that he should have been perplexed. The most bitter anti-ritualist could hardly have uttered stronger things than she thought, and sometimes said, against what seemed to her to be keeping Archie in banishment; while the brothers' reluctance to expose Mr. Moy, and blast his reputation and that of his family, was in her present frame of mind an incomprehensible weakness. People must bear the penalty of their misdeeds, families and all, and Mrs. and Miss Moy did not deserve consideration: the pretensions of the mother had always been half scorn, half thorn, to the old county families, and the fast airs of the daughter had been offensive enough to destroy all pity for her. If an action in a Court of Justice were, as Miles and Julius told her, impossible,-and she would not believe it, except on the word of a lawyer,-public exposure was the only alternative for righting Archie, and she could not, or would not, understand that they would have undergone an action for libel rather than not do their best to clear their cousin, but that they thought it due to Mr. Moy to give him the opportunity of doing the thing himself; she thought it folly, and only giving him time and chance for baffling them.
The strange thing was, that not only when she argued with the two brothers, but when she brooded and gave way to these thoughts as she kept her watch, it probably made her less calm-for an access of restlessness and fever never failed to come on-with Herbert. Probably she was less calm externally, and the fret of face and manner communicated itself to him, for the consequences were so invariable that Cranstoun thought they proved additionally what she of course believed, that Miss Joan could not be trusted with her brother. At last Jenny, in her distress and unwillingness to abandon Herbert to Cranky's closed windows, traced cause and effect, and made a strong resolution to banish the all-pervading thought, and indeed his ever-increasing weakness and danger filled her mind so as to make this easier and easier, so that she might no longer have to confess to herself that Rollo was a safer companion, since Herbert, with a hand on that black head, certainly only derived soothing influences from those longing sympathetic eyes. And he could not but like the testimony of strong affection that came to him. The whole parish was in consternation, and inquiries, and very odd gifts, which he was supposed to 'fancy,' came from all over Compton as well as from Strawyers, and were continually showering upon his nurses, so that Mrs. Hornblower and Dilemma spent their lives in mournful replies over the counter, and fifty times a day he was pronounced to be 'as bad as he could be to be alive.' Old servants and keepers made progresses from Strawyers, to see Master Herbert, and were terribly aggrieved because Miss Bowater kept them out of his room, as much for their sake as his; and Mrs. Cranstoun pointed to the open lattice which she believed to be killing him, as surely as it gave aches to her rheumatic shoulder.
Julius thought almost as much as Jenny could do of the means of recalling Archie; but it was necessary to wait until he could communicate with Mr. Moy, and his hands were still over-full, for though much less fatal, the fever smouldered on, both in Wil'sbro' and Compton, and as St. Nicholas was a college living which had hitherto been viewed as a trump card, it might be a long time going the round of the senior fellows.
Julius had just been at poor Mrs. Fuller's, trying to help her to put her complicated affairs in order, so as to be ready for a move as soon as one daughter, who had the fever slightly, could be taken away, and he was driving home again, when he overtook Mrs. Duncombe and offered her a lift, for her step was weary. She was indeed altered, pale, with cheek-bones showing, and all the lustre and sparkle gone out of her, while her hat was as rigidly dowdy as Miss Slater's.
She roused herself to ask feebly after the remaining patients.
"Cecil is really getting better at last," he said. "Her father wants to take her to Portishead next week."
"And young Bowater?"
"No change. His strength seems to be going."
"I wouldn't pity him," sighed Bessie Duncombe; "he has only seen the best end of life, and has laid it down for something worth! I'm sure he and your brother are the enviable ones."
"Nay, Mrs. Duncombe, you have much to work for and love in this life."
"And I must go away from everything just as I had learnt to value it. Bob has taken a house at Monaco, and writes to me to bring the children to join him there!"
"At Monaco?"
"At Monaco! Yes, and I know that it is all my own fault. I might have done anything with him if I had known how. But what could you expect? I never saw my mother; I never knew a home; I was bred up at a French school, where if one was not a Roman Catholic there was not a shred of religion going. I married after my first ball. Nobody taught me anything; but I could not help having brains, so I read and caught the tone of the day, and made my own line, while he went on his."
"And now there is a greater work for you to do, since you have learnt to do it."
"Ah! learnt too late. When habits are confirmed, and home station forfeited-What is there left for him or my poor boys to do?"
"A colony perhaps-"
"Damaged goods," she said, smiling sadly.
"Then are you going?"
"As soon as I have seen this fever out, and can dispose of the things here. I have just been to Moy's office to see about getting rid of the lease."
&n
bsp; "Is Mr. Moy come home?"
"Yes. Have you not heard?"
"What?-Not the fever?"
"No. Worse I should say. Gussie has gone off and got married to Harry Simmonds."
"The man at the training stables?"
"Yes. They put up their banns at the Union at Brighton, and were married by the Registrar, then went off to Paris. They say it will kill her mother. The man is a scoundrel, who played Bob false, and won largely by that mare. And the girl has had the cheek to write to me," said Mrs. Duncombe, warming into her old phraseology-"to me!-to thank me for opportunities of meeting, and to tell me she has followed up the teaching of last year."
"What-the rights of women?"
"Ay. This is a civil marriage-not mocking her with antiquated servile vows," she says. "Ah, well, it was my doing, I suppose. Clio Tallboys held forth in private, I believe, to poor Gussie, on theories that were mere talk in her, but which this poor girl has taken in earnest."
"Very sad earnest she may find it, I fear. Can I do anything for you?" as they reached the gate of Aucuba Villa.
"No, thank you, unless to get the house off my hands."
"You are alone. Will you not come and spend the evening with us?"
"That is very kind, but I have too much to do, and besides, Sister Margaret is coming to spend the night with me."
"I am glad to hear it."
"Yes, Mr. Charnock, I trust I have learnt something in this spell of work. I've not been for nothing in such scenes with those Sisters and young Bowater. I'm more ignorant than half the poor things that I've heard talk of their faith and hope; but I see it is not the decorous humbug it once looked like. And now that I would have learnt, here I go to Monaco."
"You will learn. You have a work before you that will teach you."
"My boys are young enough to start with on a different tack," she said. "You will tell me-no-I'll not hinder you now. I shall see you again."
Julius was too anxious to get home to refuse to be released, much as he felt for this brave woman. The day before, Herbert had been frightfully faint and exhausted by the morning's attack of fever, but had been so still ever since that there was a shade of hope that the recurrence might not take place; and this hope grew stronger, when Jenny came into the outer room to say that the usual time for the fever was passing so quietly in a sort of sleep that Dr. Worth seemed to think rally possible, if only there was no fresh access.
They stood over the fire, and Julius asked, "Can't you lie on the sofa, Jenny? I can stay."
"No," said Jenny, restlessly. "No, I can't. I know you have something to tell me."
"Moy has come home, Jenny. He is in terrible trouble. His daughter has eloped with young Simmonds at the training stables."
"The most appropriate end of her bringing up," said Jenny, in the hard tone it was so difficult to answer-it was so unlike herself- and her thought was that weak pity and forbearance would hinder exertions in Archie's cause. "Generous at other folks' expense," said she to herself. "Sparing the guilty and leaving the innocent to exile!"
But a moaning murmur, and Cranstoun's movement at once summoned them both to the bedside.
Alas! here was the attack that the doctor had evidently apprehended as likely to be fatal. Hour after hour did sister, nurse, and friend stand watching, and doing their best, their piteously little best, while consciousness, if there was any, was far out of their reach.
Late into the night it went on, and then followed the collapse, with locked teeth, which could hardly be drawn asunder to put the stimulus hopelessly between them, and thus came the tardy December dawn, when the church-bell made Jenny bid Julius not stay, but only first read the commendatory prayer.
"I thought there was a little more revival just now," he said; "his hands are warmer, and he really did swallow."
The old nurse shook her head. "That's the way before they go," said she. "Don't ye wish him, poor lamb, it makes it the harder for him."
Julius prayed the prayer, and as he tenderly laid his hand on the brow, he wondered whether he should find the half-closed eyes shut for ever on his return.
But as he went, there was a quiver of lip and flicker of eyelid, the lightening, as Cranky called it, was evidently gaining ground. Herbert's faint whisper was heard again-"Jenny!"
"Dearest!"
"The Lord's Prayer!"
She began,-his fingers tightened on hers. "Pray it for old Moy," he said; and as she paused, scarce hearing or understanding, "He-he wants it," gasped Herbert. "No! One can't pray it, without-" another pause. "Help me, Jenny. Say it-O Lord, who savedst us- forgive us. Help us to forgive from our hearts that man his trespasses. Amen."
Jenny said it. Herbert's voice sank in the Amen. He lay breathing in long gasps; but he thus breathed still when Julius came back, and Jenny told him that a few words had passed, adding-
"Julius, I will say nothing bitter again. God help me not to think it."
Did Herbert hear? Was that the reason of the calm which made the white wasted face so beautiful, and the strange soft cool hush throughout the room?
CHAPTER XXXIV. Silver Hair
And how should I your true love know From another man?-Friar of Orders Gray
"Please God, I can try again."
Those were the words with which Herbert Bowater looked into his Rector's face on awaking in the evening of that same December day from one of a series of sleeps, each sweeter and longer than the last, and which had borne him over the dreaded hours, without fever, and with strengthening pulse.
Julius had not ventured to leave the sick-room that whole day, and when at last he went home and sank into the chair opposite Terry, for the first time through all these weeks of trouble and tension, he burst into a flood of tears.
He had hardly made the startled lad understand that life, not death, had thus overcome him, when the door flew open, and in rushed Rosamond, crying, "Julius, Julius, come! It is he or his ghost!"
"Who? What?"
"It is your hair! At Mrs. Douglas's grave! He'll be gone! Make haste-make haste!"
He started up, letting her drag him along, but under protest. "My dear, men do come to have hair like mine."
"I tell you it was at our graves-our own-I touched him. I had this wreath for Raymond, and there he was, with his hat off, at the railing close to Mrs. Douglas's. I thought his back was yours, and called your name, and he started, and I saw-he had a white beard, but he was not old. He just bowed, and then went off very fast by the other gate, towards Wil'sbro'. I did call, 'Wait, wait,' but he didn't seem to hear. Oh, go, go, Julius! Make haste!"
Infected by the wild hope, Julius hurried on the road where his wife had turned his face, almost deriding himself for obeying her, when he would probably only overtake some old family retainer; but as, under the arch of trees that overhung the road, he saw a figure in the moonlight, a thrill of recognition came over him as he marked the vigorous tread of the prime of life, and the white hair visible in the moonlight, together with something utterly indescribable, but which made him call out, "Archie! Archie Douglas! wait for me!"
The figure turned. "Julius!" came in response; the two cousins' hands clasped, and there was a sob on either side as they kissed one another as brothers.
"Archie! How could you!-Come back!" was all that Julius could say, leaning breathlessly against him and holding him tight.
"No! Do not know that I have been here. I was sent to London on business. I could not help running home in the dark. No one must know it. I am dead to them."
"No, Archie, you are not. Gadley has confessed and cleared you. Come home!"
"Cleared me!" The two arms were stretched up to the sky, and there was the sound of a mighty sob, as though the whole man, body, soul, and spirit, were relieved from an unspeakable burthen. "Say it again, Julius!"
"Gadley, on his death-bed, has confessed that Moy and Proudfoot took that money, incited by Tom Vivian."
Archie Douglas could not speak, but he turned his face towards Compton aga
in, strode swiftly into the churchyard, and fell on his knees by his mother's grave. When at last he rose, he pointed to the new and as yet unmarked mound, and said, "Your mother's?"
"Oh no! Raymond's! We have had a terrible fever here-almost a pestilence-and we are scarcely breathing after it."
"Ah! some one in the train spoke of sickness at Wil'sbro', but I would ask no questions, for I saw faces I knew, and I would lead to no recognition. I could not stay away from getting one sight of the old place. Miles made it all burn within me; but here's my return- ticket for the mail-train."
"Never mind return-tickets. Come home with me."
"I shall startle your mother."
"I meant my home-the Rectory. It was my wife who saw you in the churchyard, and sent me after you. She is watching for you."
Archie, still bewildered, as if spell-bound by his ticket, muttered, "I thought I should have time to walk over and look at Strawyers."
"Joanna is here."
"Julius! It is too much. You are sure I am awake? This is not the old dream!" cried the exile, grasping his cousin's arm quite gainfully.
"I am a waking man, and I trust you are," said Julius. "Come into the light. No, that is not Jenny on the step. It is my Rose. Yes, here he is!"
And as they came into the stream of light from the porch, Irish Rosamond, forgetting that Archie was not a brother, caught him by both hands, and kissed him in overpowering welcome, exclaiming, "Oh, I am so glad! Come in-come in!"
There he stood, blinking in the lamplight, a tall, powerful, broad-chested figure, but hardly a hero of romance to suit Terry's fancy, after a rapid summary of the history from Rosamond. His hair and beard were as white as Julius's, and the whole face was tanned to uniform red, but no one could mistake the dazed yet intense gladness of the look. He sank into a chair, clasped his hands over his face for a moment, then surveyed them all one by one, and said, "You told me she was here."
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