Kitabı oku: «Chambers's Journal of Popular Literature, Science, and Art, No. 709», sayfa 2

As the party met and got their breath, tongues were unloosed, and the serious concentrated look that had sat on most faces hitherto, melted under the influence of mutual congratulations. Eleven in all, without counting Deebee and an assistant Indian, were gathered on the 'Head;' sitting, standing, lying on that patch of black soil which Claude Penthé spoke of for the first time nearly ninety years ago. The sheet of lead for inscribing the names of the 'visitors' was there, but of a tin box which was known to have been left, not a trace remains; some passing hurricane has probably spirited it away. The descent was safely made, though it is perhaps more awkward than the going up. Some photographs were taken from the 'Shoulder,' on so narrow a shelf that it was necessary to place a man at each leg of the tripod to prevent the camera toppling over; a final glass drained to the health of the old gray rock; and about four o'clock in the afternoon, La Laura and the pleasant sugar-cane fields were reached without a single mishap.

It may be thought worthy to record the names of this the largest party that ever made the ascent of Pieter Both. He is not likely to be visited again for some time to come, and long before this account appears, the whole eleven will be scattered far and wide – miles distant from that strange, eerie trysting-place. They are: Lieutenants MacIlwaine, Creswell, Bayly, and Midshipman Elwes of H.M.S. Undaunted. Major Anderson, Captain Bond, Lieutenants Phillipps, Hammans, Sillery, and Saunders of H.M. 32d Regiment; and Captain Montague, Brigade Major. A pole was rigged up, and the Union-Jack hoisted and left flying, as a remembrance of the day, and as a sign to the many watchers in town that the ascent had been successful. These told us afterwards that through a telescope our movements had been perfectly traced; the passage of the 'Saddle Rock,' where the rope stretches round the face of the mountain opposite Port-Louis, having caused the strongest sensation, as our bodies, dwarfed to the size of spiders, came out against the sky.

W. E. M.

THE LAST OF THE HADDONS
CHAPTER XXXIV. – TWO LETTERS

After arranging everything else, I sat down to write my farewell letters, commencing with one to Philip, and being very careful to allow no tears to fall upon the paper.

'Dear Philip – I ought to have told you what I am about to write, when I bade you farewell this morning; but I wanted our parting to be, as it was, a happy one. Had I had the courage to tell you, instead of writing, I know you would not have yielded to me; perhaps you would not even have listened. When you read this, your blame cannot reach me; and until you can forgive me, we shall not meet again. Dear Philip, I cannot be your wife. I must bear all the blame of not making it known to you until now, as best I may; but I cannot marry you. The conviction has only become absolutely clear to me since you so much pressed me to make no longer delay.'

'Ah Philip, may you never suspect how it was made clear to me!' I mentally ejaculated, breaking down for a few moments in an agony of suffering. But I sternly called myself to order, and was presently bending to my task again.

'I have chosen a different life, and only delay explaining what that life is, and why it now seems more congenial to me than being a wife' (to the man who loves another woman, was in my thoughts), 'until you have quite forgiven me. Indeed, it is the belief that that time will come, which gives me the courage to act as I am doing. But there is one way, and only one, by which you can prove that your forgiveness is sincere, and give me the comfort of believing that I have not shadowed your life. If I hear that you are able, by-and-by, to find some other woman more appreciative than I' —

I dropped the pen, and bowed my face upon my hands again in the bitterness of grief. 'More appreciative than I!' But I forced myself to my task again, and left the words as they were. If he once suspected that it was a sacrifice, would he accept it, however willingly it were offered? Loved he not honour more? Besides, this must be a letter which he could shew to Lilian; at anyrate by-and-by, and no suspicion of the truth must reach her.

'If that time comes, and I earnestly desire that it may, I shall be able perhaps to justify myself to my own conscience. I know only one whom I should consider worthy of you, one not to be easily won, but worth the labour of a lifetime to win. I dare not name her – I am almost afraid to write of her. But, dear Philip, if it could be – if she whom I love above all other women could be in time won to make up to you for the loss of me, I shall have nothing to regret. I can only repeat that nothing but the knowledge of your happiness will give me the courage to hope for your forgiveness and to meet you again. Meantime, I can only beg you to try to believe in your loving sister

Mary.'

I read the letter through with not a little dissatisfaction, though I could not see how to amend it. It had been so difficult to say sufficient to serve the purpose without giving some clue to the truth. I could not help a little bitter smile at the reflection how very different would his judgment of that letter have been if he loved me! How scornfully would such excuses have been swept away if I had been the woman he loved! How angrily he would have taunted me for being what in fact I should have been had I deliberately wronged him! Alas! I was writing to a man whose love for me was dead, and who yet desired to act honourably towards me. He would not be inclined to be unkindly critical about my manner of setting him free, if I could only contrive to make him believe that I wished to do so.

To Lilian I wrote in a somewhat more jaunty strain. Better that my letter should seem to be written even flightily than sadly. But I had been so little accustomed to this kind of diplomacy, that I was astonished as well as saddened to find how close one might keep to the truth in the letter, whilst departing so far from it in the spirit. Neither to Philip nor to Lilian did I dare to tell the truth, and yet I could write all this without appearing to depart from it! Fortunately this kind of diplomacy blinds none who are not inclined to be blinded.

'My dear Sister – You must try not to be very angry with me for running away without bidding you farewell in some better fashion than this. But by acting as I am doing, I avoid your scoldings, or perhaps I had better say pleadings. It is really no use arguing with a person like me, as I think you have discovered before now. And as I have very deliberately made up my mind, there really is nothing to be done. You have, I know, been a great deal puzzled of late to account for the change which you have perceived in me, and as I could not explain it without shocking you, I have waited to get out of the way first. Dear Lilian, I was not in jest when I told you I had begun to suspect that marriage is not my vocation; and I have at length come to the conclusion to obey my instincts, which tend in another direction. I believe that you will in time agree with me in thinking that I have done for the best; though I fear you will be very angry with me at first, not being able to see all my motives. Please get dear Mrs Tipper to ask Philip to come down sometimes, and try what you both can do to cheer and comfort him. He knows so few people, and he will be so terribly lonely. I must trust that in time he will come to acknowledge that I may not be altogether so selfish and inconsiderate as I must appear to be to him and to all of you in the first moments of disappointment. I will say this much to you, dear sister – I feel, and the feeling is not altogether of sudden growth, that I am too old for Philip; or perhaps I ought rather to say he is too young for me. At anyrate I have chosen a different life, and only wait until I feel sure that you have all forgiven me, to prove to you that I am happy in it. Say all that is kind to dear Mrs Tipper for me. I must hope to be able to prove my gratitude to her by-and-by. Ah Lilian, my sister, if I dared to write about my hopes! I can only say that if Philip is in time fortunate enough to find some good woman willing to make up for the past to him, my gratitude towards her will be very great. I am going away because I think it is best for us all that I should go, and because the persuasions which your love might prompt you to use would not induce me to alter my decision. I have begged Philip to try to believe in a sister's love, and I ask you too, dear Lilian, to believe in the love of your sister

Mary.'

Little as I was satisfied with these two letters, I knew that I should not be able to improve upon them, however much I might try to do so. The fault was that I could not be explicit; and that would be apparent to myself if not to the others, however elegantly my sentences might be turned.

I put the letters aside until they should be required, and then lay down for a few hours' rest. Thank God it was rest! I fell into a deep dreamless sleep, and only awoke when Becky came to call me in the morning. There was still the same expression in her face, half sorrow, half pity, as though she saw cause for both as she looked at me.

'Now, Becky, you must not look at me in that way, to begin with. I am going to depend a great deal upon you, and it will not do to let your face tell all you are thinking about, as it is doing now.'

'I can't help it shewing, because – O Miss Haddon, dear, I know you are not so happy as you pretend to be – I know it! And it's ever so much worse to see you look like that, than as if you were crying and sobbing!'

I saw that it was no use trying to throw dust into Becky's eyes.

'Well, suppose I am not very happy, Becky, and suppose I have some good reason for pretending, as you call it, to be so. Suppose that I do not wish to grieve your dear old mistress and Miss Lilian by allowing them to see that I am unhappy. It is of great importance that I should appear cheerful to-day; and I want you to help me as much as possible to make them think that I am, for – Becky, I am going away, and they must not know I am going.'

Becky threw up her hands. 'Going away!'

'Hush! No one but you must know that I am going.'

She was on the carpet clinging to my feet. 'Take me with you; do, pray, take me, Miss Haddon, dear; no one will ever love you better, and I can't stay without you!'

I made her get up; and taking her two hands in mine, murmured in a broken voice: 'Try to trust me, Becky. If I could take you with me, it would be very selfish of me to do so. It is your duty to stay here, as it is my duty to go. But I shall not be so far away as I wish them to believe I am – recollect, as I wish them to believe; and I may be able to see you frequently, if I find that I can trust you to keep my secret.'

'You may trust me, Miss.'

'I am sure I can, or I would not ask you to help me. I must not break down this last day, Becky; for the sake of others as well as myself, I must not.'

She dried her eyes; and presently the expression I wanted came into her face.

'Please forgive me; I won't shew it any more; and I will do anything you tell me.'

'First, and above all, you must earnestly do what you can to assist me to make it appear that I am feeling neither sorrow nor anger to-day, Becky.'

'I will,' she replied, simply and honestly.

'And next, I want you to contrive to carry that small portmanteau into the wood for me at dusk this evening, when some one will meet you, and bring it to me. You must contrive it so that no one will know that you have helped me. The best time for you to take it will be whilst the ladies are at tea. If you take in tea at the usual time, precisely at seven, you would have a spare half hour, which would be time enough. Slip out the back way, and carry it anyway. I cannot take it myself, as there must be no good-bye.'

'Very well, Miss. This one?'

'Yes. It is not too heavy for you, I hope?'

'O no, Miss; it is not that;' lugubriously.

'Now, Becky, please do not forget. That is not looking cheerful, you know.'

'No, Miss Haddon, dear; I won't forget, when I'm down-stairs.'

Fortunately, she helped me to get up a smile, to begin with, at the breakfast-table. How shall I describe the expression of Becky's face when she came in with the coffee, &c. Her mouth was distended with a grin, which was in strange contrast with the sadness in her eyes, and her whole face reminding one, as Lilian said, of an india-rubber one pulled out of shape!

Whenever she entered the room there was the same grin on her face. In fact, in her anxiety to be loyal to me, she was overacting her part, and it culminated, when, after looking at her in some astonishment, Lilian inquired if she had received any good news.

'Yes – no. It's only because I'm so happy to-day, Miss,' returned Becky, with a still more alarming distension of her mouth.

I think Mrs Tipper had occasion afterwards to congratulate herself upon Becky's 'happy days' not coming very frequently.

'She has broken two plates and a cup already, my dears,' anxiously said the little lady to Lilian and me. 'And I can't find in my heart to be angry with her about it, when she says it's through being so happy; but really, you know, it is a most unfortunate way of shewing her happiness.'

Lilian and I made a merry little jest at it, advising her to look sharply after such household treasures as Windsor Castle, &c.

'I wouldn't let her dust them to-day for the world, my dears!' ejaculated the little lady, hastily trotting off to the kitchen again.

I did not allow Lilian to make her escape afterwards. I smilingly decided that there was to be no French history to-day, and that she and I were to spend the morning together in the old delightful fashion of the past. Philip was not coming for a day or two; and we would go over some of the old work, which had been somewhat neglected of late, with the exception of music and singing. A little steady work, and the consultations over it, was bracing for us both, and set us at our ease as personal talk would certainly not have done. We were not, either of us, strong enough just then to talk about ourselves. Moreover, I begged Mrs Tipper to make it a fête-day, and treat us to one of her famous lemon puddings; and she was enjoying herself to her heart's content in the kitchen, only too delighted to be asked to treat us, and bent upon shewing that a lemon pudding was not enough to constitute a feast in her estimation. The only disturbing influence was poor Becky's hilarity.

'My dears, it really is not natural,' the little lady confided to us at dinner. 'No more like smiling than a baby in convulsions. I was almost frightened at the strange faces she made just now in the kitchen; and if it goes on, I must make her take some medicine.'

I begged Becky off that infliction, persuading her anxious mistress to wait a few hours.

Kind Becky! she would very soon be able to look as she felt. There would be nothing unnatural in her regret at my departure, after having known me so long a time. On the whole, I was more successful than I had dared to hope for in the way of leaving a pleasant impression upon the minds of Mrs Tipper and Lilian – just the impression I wished to give them.

They believed that I was happier than I had been for some time previously, and I know now that they attributed my happiness to the fact of the date being at length fixed for my wedding to take place. They had seen just enough to perceive that some disturbing influence was at work with me; and the sudden change in my bearing seemed to them to imply that my doubts and fears were now set at rest. It did me real good to witness the unfeigned relief in Lilian's face; the unselfishness which could rejoice in my happiness though her own might be wrecked. I know now how much she had suffered from shame and dread – how terribly afraid she had been lest I should divine any part of the truth; lamenting over what she considered to be her disloyalty to me, and blaming herself as she certainly did not deserve to be blamed.

'Dear Mary, it seems quite like old times again; does it not?' she said, looking up into my face with the nearest approach to happiness in her own which I had seen there for some time, as I bent over her with a playful criticism upon a bit of foliage she was doing.

'It has been a pleasant day, has it not, dearie?' I returned. 'All the pleasanter for French history being kept out of the programme, I think. You know I never did take kindly to that.'

She flushed up, nestling closer to my side. 'There shall be no more of it, Mary,' she whispered.

I replied with a tender kiss; then lightly said: 'I really feel quite kissably inclined this afternoon!' turning to my dear old friend, and giving her two or three hearty good-bye kisses, then back again to Lilian with a last hug.

'And now, I must run off again;' adding as I reached the door: 'Do not wait tea for me. I shall not be able to get back by then.'

'To town! Mary?' asked Lilian. 'And I am not to be permitted to accompany you again. I feel sure there must be something very mysterious going on!'

But she was smiling, and I believe that both she and her aunt were now quite at ease about it, having made up their minds that their first surmise – that I was preparing some pretty surprise for them – was a correct one.

I ran up to my room, hastily indicated to Becky where she was to find the two letters in a couple of hours' time, put on my bonnet and cloak, gave a quiet embrace and warning look to the faithful girl, sobbing under her breath, then went down-stairs again. I dared not venture to go into the little parlour for a last word, lest some tender speech of Lilian's should cause me to break down; so little would do it just now, when every nerve was stretched to its utmost tension.

I passed swiftly out, and down the garden path, only venturing to give one look back to nod and kiss my hand, when I reached the gate, and then sped on as fast as my feet would carry me. I was just turning into the lane which led towards the stile, when suddenly I found myself face to face with Robert Wentworth.

'Where are you going to at that rate, Mary?'

I shrank back, for a moment incapable of uttering a word; eyeing him desperately, almost defiantly, for I felt in my misery as though he had suddenly presented himself in my path to bar my escape – a new power to strive against, when my strength was almost spent. He could always see deeper than any one else; and he had come upon me when I was so unprepared. I had just dropped the smiling mask which I had found it so difficult to wear all day, and was beginning to feel sufficiently secure from observation to be less careful as to what my face might tell. I caught in my breath, shrinking farther away, but facing him like an animal at bay. For a few moments he stood gazing at me, apparently as much at a loss for words as I was myself, then his eyes fell upon my muffled hand, and he asked: 'Have you hurt your hand, Mary?'