Dawn

by H. Rider Haggard

  CHAPTER LXXI

  Just as Angela was engaged in finishing her long letter to Arthur--surely one of the strangest ever written by a girl to the man sheloved--Mr. Fraser was reading an epistle which had reached him by thatafternoon's post. We will look over his shoulder, and see what was init.

  It was a letter dated from the vicarage of one of the poorest parishesin the great Dock district in the east of London. It began--

  "Dear Sir,

  "I shall be only too thankful to entertain your proposal for an exchange of livings, more especially as, at first sight, it would seem that all the advantage is on my side. The fact is, that the incessant strain of work here has at last broken down my health to such a degree, that the doctors tell me plainly I must choose between the comparative rest of a country parish, or the certainty of passing to a completer quiet before my time. Also, now that my children are growing up, I am very anxious to remove them from the sights and sounds and tainted moral atmosphere of this poverty- stricken and degraded quarter.

  "But, however that may be, I should not be doing my duty to you, if I did not warn you that this is no parish for a man of your age to undertake, unless for strong reasons (for I see by the Clergy List that you are a year or so older than myself). The work is positively ceaseless, and often of a most shocking and thankless character; and there are almost no respectable inhabitants; for nobody lives in the parish, except those who are too poor to live elsewhere. The stipend, too, is, as you are aware, not large. However, if, in face of these disadvantages, you still entertain the idea of an exchange, perhaps we had better meet. . . ."

  The letter then entered into details.

  "I think that will suit me very well," said Mr. Fraser, aloud tohimself, as he put it down. "It will not greatly matter if my healthdoes break down; and I ought to have gone long ago. 'Positivelyceaseless,' he says the work is. Well, ceaseless work is the onlything that can stifle thought. And yet it will be hard, coming up bythe roots after all these years. Ah me! this is a queer world, and asad one for some of us! I will write to the bishop at once."

  From which it will be gathered that things had not been going wellwith Mr. Fraser.

  Meanwhile, Angela put her statement and the accompanying letter into alarge envelope. Then she took the queer emerald ring off her finger,and, as there was nobody looking, she kissed it, and wrapped it up ina piece of cotton-wool, and stowed it away in the letter, and sealedit up. Next she addressed it, in her clear miniature handwriting, to

  "Arthur P. Heigham, Esq., "Care of Mrs. Carr, "Madeira,"

  as Lady Bellamy had told her; and, calling to Pigott to come with her,started off to the post-office to register and post her preciouspacket, for the Madeira mail left Southampton on the morrow.

  She had just time to reach the office, affix the three shillings'worth of stamps that the letter took, and register it, when thepostman came up, and she saw it stamped and bundled into his bag withthe others, just as though it were nothing, instead of her whole lifedepending on it; and away it went on its journey, as much beyondrecall as yesterday's sins.

  "And so you have been a-writing to him, Miss?" said Pigott, as soon asthey were out of the office.

  "Yes, Pigott," and she told her what Lady Bellamy had said. Shelistened attentively, with a shrewd twinkle in her eyes.

  "I'm thinking, dearie, that it's a pity you didn't post yourself,that's the best letter; it can't make no mistakes, nor fall into thehands of them it isn't meant for."

  "What can you mean?"

  "I'm thinking, miss, that change of air is a wonderful good thingafter sickness, especially sea-air," answered Pigott, oracularly.

  "I don't in the least understand you. Really, Pigott, you drive mewild with your parables."

  "Lord, dear, for all you're so clever you never could see half an inchinto a brick wall, and that with my meaning as clear as a haystick ina thunderstorm."

  This last definition quite finished Angela. Why, she wondered, shoulda haystack be clearer in a thunderstorm than at any other time. Shelooked at her companion helplessly, and was silent.

  "Bless me, what I have been telling, as plain as plain can be, is,why don't you go to this Mad--Mad--what's the name?--I never can thinkof them foreign names. I'm like Jakes and the flowers: he says thesmaller and 'footier' they are, the longer the name they sticks on tothem, just to puzzle a body who----"

  "Madeira," suggested Angela, with the calmness of despair.

  "Yes, that's it--Madeiry. Well, why don't you go to Madeiry along withyour letter to look after Mr. Arthur? Like enough he is in a bit of amess there. So far as I know anything about their ways, young menalways are, in a general sort of way, for everlasting a-caterwaulingafter some one or other, for all the world like a tom on the tiles,more especial if they are in love with somebody else. But, dear me, asensible woman don't bother her head about that. She just goes andhooks them out of it, and then she knows where they are, and keepsthem there."

  "Oh, Pigott, never mind all these reflections, though I'm sure I don'tknow how you can think of such things. The idea of comparing poor dearArthur with a tom-cat! But tell me, how can I go to Madeira? Supposingthat he is married?"

  "Well, then you would learn all about it for yourself, and nogammoning; and there'd be an end to it, one way or the other."

  "But would it be quite modest, to run after him like that?"

  "Modest, indeed! And why shouldn't a young lady travel for her health?I have heard say that this Madeiry is a wonderful place for thestomach."

  "The lungs, Pigott--the lungs."

  "Well, then, the lungs. But it don't matter; they ain't far off eachother."

  "But, Pigott, who could I go with? I could not go alone."

  "Go with? Why, me, of course."

  "I can hardly fancy you at sea, Pigott."

  "And why not, miss? I dare say I shall do as well as other folksthere; and if I do go to the bottom, as seems likely, there's plentyof room for a respectable person there, I should hope. Look here,dear. You'll never be happy unless you marry Mr. Arthur; so don't yougo and throw away a chance, just out of foolishness, and for fear ofwhat folks say. That's how dozens of women make a mess of it. Folkssay one thing to-day and another to-morrow, but you'll remain you forall that. Maybe he's married; and, if so, it's a bad business, andthere's an end of it; but maybe, too, he isn't. As for that letter, aslikely as not the other one will put it in the fire. I should, Idoubt, if I were in her shoes. So don't you lose any time, for, if heisn't married, it's like enough he soon will be."

  Angela felt that there was sense in what her old nurse said, thoughthe idea was a new one to her, and it made her thoughtful.

  "I'll think about it," she said, presently. "I wonder what Mr. Fraserwould say about it."

  "Perhaps one thing, and perhaps another. He's good and kind, but hehasn't got much head for these sort of things, he's always thinking ofsomething else. Just look what a fool Squire George (may he twist andturn in his grave) made of him. You ask him, if you like; but you beguided by yourself, dearie. Your head is worth six Reverend Fraser'swhen you bring it to a thing. But I must be off, and count the linen."

  That evening, after tea, Angela went down to Mr. Fraser's. He wasdirecting an envelope to the Lord Bishop of his diocese when sheentered; but he hurriedly put it away in the blotting-paper.

  "Well, Angela, did you get your letter off?"

  "Yes, Mr. Fraser, it was just in time to catch the mail to-morrow.But, do you know, that is what I want to speak to you about. Pigottthinks that, under all the circumstances"--here Angela hesitated alittle--"she and I had better go to Madeira and find out how thingsstand, and I almost think that she is right."

  "Certainly," answered Mr. Fraser, rising and looking out of thewindow. "You have a great deal at stake."

  "You do not think that it would be immodest?"

  "My dear Angel
a, when in such a case as this a woman goes to seek theman she loves, and whom she believes loves her, I do not myself seewhere there is room for immodesty."

  "No, nor do I, and I do love him so very dearly; he is all my life tome."

  Mr. Fraser winced visibly.

  "What is the matter? have you got a headache?"

  "Nothing, only a twinge here," and he pointed to his heart.

  Angela looked alarmed; she took a womanly interest in anybody'sailments.

  "I know what it is," she said. "Widow James suffers from it. You musttake it in hand at once, or it will become chronic after meals, ashers is."

  Mr. Fraser smiled grimly as he answered:

  "I am afraid that I have neglected it too long--it has become chronicalready. But about Madeira; have you, then, made up your mind to go?"

  "Yes, I think that I shall go. If he--is married, you know--I canalways come back again, and perhaps Pigott is right; the letter mightmiscarry, and there is so much at stake."

  "When shall you go, then?"

  "By the next steamer, I suppose. They go every week, I think. I willtell my father that I am going to-morrow."

  "Ah! you will want money, I suppose."

  "No, I believe that I have plenty of money of my own now."

  "Oh! yes, under your marriage settlement, no doubt. Well, my dear, Iam sure I hope that your journey will not be in vain. Did I tell you Ihave also written to Mr. Heigham by this mail, and told him all I knewabout the matter?"

  "That is very kind and thoughtful of you; it is just like you,"answered Angela, gently.

  "Not at all, not at all; but you have never told me how you got onwith Lady Bellamy--that is, except what she told you about Mr.Heigham."

  "Oh! it was a strange interview. What do you think she wanted to teachme?"

  "I have not the faintest idea."

  "Magic."

  "Nonsense."

  "Yes, she did; she told me that she could read all sorts of things inmy face, and offered, if I would give myself up to it, to make me morethan human."

  "Pshaw! it was a bit of charlatanism; she wanted to frighten you."

  "No, I think she believed what she said, and I think that she has somesort of power. She seemed disappointed when I refused, and, do youknow it, if it had not been for Arthur, I do not think that I shouldhave refused. I love power, or rather knowledge; but then I loveArthur more."

  "And why is he incompatible with knowledge?"

  "I do not know; but she said that, to triumph over the mysteries shewished to teach me, I must free myself from earthly love and cares. Itold her that, if Arthur is married, I would think of it."

  "Well, Angela, to be frank, I do not believe in Lady Bellamy's magic,and, if its practice brings people to what she is, I think it is bestleft alone; indeed, I expect that the whole thing is a delusionarising from her condition. But I think she is right when she told youthat to become a mistress of her art--or, indeed, of any noble art--you must separate yourself from earthly passions. I owe your Arthur agrudge as well as Lady Bellamy. I hoped, Angela, to see you rise likea star upon this age of insolence and infidelity. I wanted you to be agreat woman; but that dream is all over now."

  "Why, Mr. Fraser?"

  "Because, my dear, both history and observation teach us that greatgifts like yours partake of the character of an accident in a woman;they are not natural to her, and she does not wear such jewels easily--they put her outside of her sex. It is something as though a manwere born into the world with wings. At first he would be very proudof them, and go sailing about in the sky to the admiration of thecrowds beneath him; but by-and-by he would grow tired of flying alone,and after all, it is not necessary to fly to transact the ordinarybusiness of the world. And perhaps at last he would learn to lovesomebody without wings, somebody who could not fly, and he wouldalways want to be with her down on the homely earth, and not alone upin the heavenly heights. If a woman had all the genius of Plato or allthe learning of Solomon, it would be forgotten at the touch of ababy's fingers.

  "Well, well, we cannot fight against human nature, and I daresay thatin a few years you will forget that you can read Greek as well as youcan English, and were very near finding out a perfect way of squaringthe circle. Perhaps it is best so. Lady Bellamy may have read a greatmany fine things in your face. Shall I tell you what I read there? Iread that you will marry your Arthur, and become a happy wife and ahappier mother; that your life will be one long story of unassumingkindness, and that, when at last you die, you will become a sacredmemory in many hearts. That is what I read. The only magic you willever wield, Angela, will be the magic of your goodness."

  "Who knows? We cannot read the future," she answered.

  "And so you are going to Madeira next week. Then, this will be thelast time that we shall meet--before you go, I mean--for I am off toLondon to-morrow, for a while, on some business. When next we meet, ifwe do meet again, Angela, you will be a married woman. Do not start,dear; there is nothing shocking about that. But, perhaps, we shall notmeet any more."

  "Oh, Mr. Fraser! why do you say such dreadful things?"

  "There is nothing dreadful about it, Angela. I am getting on in life,and am not so strong as I was; and you are both young and strong, andmust in the ordinary course of things outlive me for many years. But,whatever happens, my dear, I know that you always keep a warm cornerin your memory for your old master; and, as for me, I can honestlysay, that to have known and taught you has been the greatest privilegeof a rather lonely life."

  Here Angela began to cry.

  "Don't cry, my dear. There is, thank God, another meeting-place thanthis, and, if I reach the shore of that great future before you, Ishall--but there, my dear, it is time for you to be going home. Youmust not stop here to listen to this melancholy talk. Go home, Angela,and think about your lover. I am busy to-night. Give me a kiss, dear,and go."

  Presently, she was gone, and he heard the front-door close behind her.He went to the window, and watched the tall form gradually growingfainter in the gloaming, till it vanished altogether.

  Then he came back, and, sitting down at his writing-table, rested hisgrizzled head upon his hand and thought. Presently he raised it, andthere was a sad smile flickering round the wrinkles of the nervousmouth.

  "And now for 'hard labour at the London docks,'" he said, aloud.