Complete Works of Bram Stoker (274 page)

‘The enclosed should be in your hands.  It is possible that it may comfort you to know that it is safe.  Whatever may come, God love and guard you.’

For a moment joy, hot and strong, blazed through her.  The last words were ringing through her brain.  Then came the cold shock, and the gloom of fear.  Harold would never have written thus unless he was going away!  It was a farewell!

For a long time she stood, motionless, holding the letter in her hand.  Then she said, half aloud:

‘Comfort!  Comfort!  There is no more comfort in the world for me!  Never, never again!  Oh, Harold!  Harold!’

She sank on her knees beside her bed, and buried her face in her cold hands, sobbing in all that saddest and bitterest phase of sorrow which can be to a woman’s heart: the sorrow that is dry-eyed and without hope.

Presently the habit of caution which had governed her last days woke her to action.  She bathed her eyes, smoothed her hair, locked the letter and its enclosure in the little jewel-safe let into the wall, and came down to breakfast.

The sense of loss was so strong on her that she forgot herself.  Habit carried her on without will or voluntary effort, and, so faithfully worked to her good that even the loving eyes of her aunt  —  and the eyes of love are keen  —  had no suspicion that any new event had come into her life.

Not till she was alone in her room that night did Stephen dare to let her thoughts run freely.  In the darkness her mind began to work truly, so truly that she began at the first step of logical process: to study facts.  And to study them she must question till she found motive.

Why had Harold sent her the letter?  His own words said that it should be in her hands.  Then, again, he said it might comfort her to know the letter was safe.  How could it comfort her?  How did he get possession of the letter?

There she began to understand; her quick intuition and her old knowledge of Harold’s character and her new knowledge of Leonard’s, helped her to reconstruct causes.  In his interview with her he had admitted that Leonard had told him much, all.  He would no doubt have refused to believe him, and Leonard would have shown him, as proof, her letter asking him to meet her.  He would have seen then, as she did now, how much the possession of that letter might mean to any one.

Good God! to ‘any one.’  Could it have been so to Harold himself . . . that he thought to use it as an engine, to force her to meet his wishes  —  as Leonard had already tried to do!  The mistrust, founded on her fear, was not dead yet . . . No! no! no!  Her whole being resented such a monstrous proposition!  Besides, there was proof.  Thank God! there was proof.  A blackmailer would have stayed close to her, and would have kept the letter; Harold did neither.  Her recognition of the truth was shown in her act, when, stretching out her arms in the darkness, she whispered pleadingly:

‘Forgive me, Harold!’

And Harold, far away where the setting sun was lying red on the rim of the western sea, could not hear her.  But perhaps God did.

As, then, Harold’s motive was not of the basest, it must have been of the noblest.  What would be a man’s noblest motive under such circumstances?  Surely self-sacrifice!

And yet there could be no doubt as to Harold’s earnestness when he had told her that he loved her . . .

Here Stephen covered her face in one moment of rapture.  But the gloom that followed was darker than the night.  She did not pursue the thought.  That would come later when she should understand.

And yet, so little do we poor mortals know the verities of things, so blind are we to things thrust before our eyes, that she understood more in that moment of ecstasy than in all the reasoning that preceded and followed it.  But the reasoning went on:

If he really loved, and told her so, wherein was the self-sacrifice?  She had reproached him with coming to her with his suit hotfoot upon his knowledge of her shameful proffer of herself to another man; of her refusal by him.  Could he have been so blind as not to have seen, as she did, the shameful aspect of his impulsive act?  Surely, if he had thought, he must have seen! . . . And he must have thought; there had been time for it.  It was at dinner that he had seen Leonard; it was after breakfast when he had seen her . . . And if he had seen then . . .

In an instant it all burst upon her; the whole splendid truth.  He had held back the expression of his long love for her, waiting for the time when her maturity might enable her to understand truly and judge wisely; waiting till her grief for the loss of her father had become a story of the past; waiting for God knows what a man’s mind sees of obstacles when he loves.  But he had spoken it out when it was to her benefit.  What, then, had been his idea of her benefit?  Was it that he wished to meet the desire that she had manifested to have some man to  —  to love? . . . The way she covered her face with her hands whilst she groaned aloud made her answer to her own query a perfect negative.

Was it, then, to save her from the evil of marrying Leonard in case he should repent of his harshness, and later on yield himself to her wooing?  The fierce movement of her whole body, which almost threw the clothes from her bed, as the shameful recollection rolled over her, marked the measure of her self-disdain.

One other alternative there was; but it seemed so remote, so far-fetched, so noble, so unlike what a woman would do, that she could only regard it in a shamefaced way.  She put the matter to herself questioningly, and with a meekness which had its roots deeper than she knew.  And here out of the depths of her humility came a noble thought.  A noble thought, which was a noble truth.  Through the darkness of the night, through the inky gloom of her own soul came with that thought a ray of truth which, whilst it showed her her own shrivelled unworthiness, made the man whom she had dishonoured with insults worse than death stand out in noble relief.  In that instant she guessed at, and realised, Harold’s unselfish nobility of purpose, the supreme effort of his constant love.  Knowing the humiliation she must have suffered at Leonard’s hands, he had so placed himself that even her rejection of him might be some solace to her wounded spirit, her pride.

Here at last was truth!  She knew it in the very marrow of her bones.

This time she did not move.  She thought and thought of that noble gentleman who had used for her sake even that pent-up passion which, for her sake also, he had suppressed so long.

In that light, which restored in her eyes and justified so fully the man whom she had always trusted, her own shame and wrongdoing, and the perils which surrounded her, were for the time forgotten.

And its glory seemed to rest upon her whilst she slept.

CHAPTER XX  —  CONFIDENCES

Miss Rowly had received a bulky letter by the morning’s post.  She had not opened it, but had allowed it to rest beside her plate all breakfast-time.  Then she had taken it away with her to her own sitting-room.  Stephen did not appear to take any notice of it.  She knew quite well that it was from some one in London whom her aunt had asked to pay Leonard’s bills.  She also knew that the old lady had some purpose in her reticence, so she waited.  She was learning to be patient in these days.  Miss Rowly did say anything about it that day, or the next, or the next.  The third-morning, she received another letter which she had read in an enlightening manner.  She began its perusal with set brow frowning, then she nodded her head and smiled.  She put the letter back in its envelope and placed it in the little bag always carried.  But she said nothing.  Stephen wondered, but waited.

That night, when Stephen’s maid had left her, there came a gentle tap at her door, and an instant after the door opened.  The tap had been a warning, not a request; it had in a measure prepared Stephen, who was not surprised to see her Aunt in dressing-gown, though it was many a long day since she had visited her niece’s room at night.  She closed the door behind her, saying:

‘There is something I want to talk to you about, dearest, and I thought it would be better to do so when there could not be any possible interruption.  And besides,’ here there was a little break in her voice, ‘I could hardly summon up my courage in the daylight.’  She stopped, and the stopping told its own story.  In an instant Stephen’s arm’s were round her, all the protective instinct in her awake, at the distress of the woman she loved.  The old lady took comfort from the warmth of the embrace, and held her tight whilst she went on:

‘It is about these bills, my dear.  Come and sit down and put a candle near me.  I want you to read something.’

‘Go on, Auntie dear,’ she said gravely.  The old lady, after a pause, spoke with a certain timidity:

‘They are all paid; at least all that can be.  Perhaps I had better read you the letter I have had from my solicitors:

‘“Dear Madam,  —  In accordance with your instructions we have paid all the accounts mentioned in Schedule A (enclosed).  We have placed for your convenience three columns: (1) the original amount of each account, (2) the amount of discount we were able to arrange, and (3) the amount paid.  We regret that we have been unable to carry out your wishes with regard to the items enumerated in Schedule B (enclosed).  We have, we assure you, done all in our power to find the gentlemen whose names and addresses are therein given.  These were marked ‘Debt of honour’ in the list you handed to us.  Not having been able to obtain any reply to our letters, we sent one of our clerks first to the addresses in London, and afterwards to Oxford.  That clerk, who is well used to such inquiries, could not find trace of any of the gentlemen, or indeed of their existence.  We have, therefore, come to the conclusion that, either there must be some error with regard to (a) names, (b) addresses, or (c) both; or that no such persons exist.  As it would be very unlikely that such errors could occur in all the cases, we can only conclude that there have not been any such persons.  If we may hazard an opinion: it is possible that, these debts being what young men call ‘debts of honour,’ the debtor, or possibly the creditors, may not have wished the names mentioned.  In such case fictitious names and addresses may have been substituted for the real ones.  If you should like any further inquiry instituted we would suggest that you ascertain the exact names and addresses from the debtor.  Or should you prefer it we would see the gentleman on your behalf, on learning from you his name and address.  We can keep, in the person of either one of the Firm or a Confidential Clerk as you might prefer, any appointment in such behalf you may care to make.

‘“We have already sent to you the receipted account from each of the creditors as you directed, viz. ‘Received from Miss Laetitia Rowly in full settlement to date of the account due by Mr. Leonard Everard the sum of,’ etc. etc.  And also, as you further directed, a duplicate receipt of the sum-total due in each case made out as ‘Received in full settlement to date of account due by,’ etc. etc.  The duplicate receipt was pinned at the back of each account so as to be easily detachable.

‘“With regard to finance we have carried out your orders, etc.”‘  She hurried on the reading.  “These sums, together with the amounts of nine hundred pounds sterling, and seven hundred pounds sterling lodged to the account of Miss Stephen Norman in the Norcester branch of the Bank as repayment of moneys advanced to you as by your written instructions, have exhausted the sum, etc.”‘  She folded up the letter with the schedules, laying the bundle of accounts on the table.  Stephen paused; she felt it necessary to collect herself before speaking.

‘Auntie dear, will you let me see that letter?  Oh, my dear, dear Auntie, don’t think I mistrust you that I ask it.  I do because I love you, and because I want to love you more if it is possible to do so.’  Miss Rowly handed her the letter.  She rose from the arm of the chair and stood beside the table as though to get better light from the candle than she could get from where she had sat.

She read slowly and carefully to the end; then folded up the letter and handed it to her aunt.  She came back to her seat on the edge of the chair, and putting her arms round her companion’s neck looked her straight in the eyes.  The elder woman grew embarrassed under the scrutiny; she coloured up and smiled in a deprecatory way as she said:

‘Don’t look at me like that, darling; and don’t shake your head so.  It is all right!  I told you I had my reasons, and you said you would trust me.  I have only done what I thought best!’

‘But, Auntie, you have paid away more than half your little fortune.  I know all the figures.  Father and uncle told me everything.  Why did you do it?  Why did you do it?’  The old woman held out her arms as she said:

‘Come here, dear one, and sit on my knee as you used to when you were a child, and I will whisper you.’  Stephen sprang from her seat and almost threw herself into the loving arms.  For a few seconds the two, clasped tight to each other’s heart, rocked gently to and fro.  The elder kissed the younger and was kissed impulsively in return.  Then she stroked the beautiful bright hair with her wrinkled hand, and said admiringly:

‘What lovely hair you have, my dear one!’  Stephen held her closer and waited.

‘Well, my dear, I did it because I love you!’

‘I know that, Auntie; you have never done anything else my life!’

‘That is true, dear one.  But it is right that I should do this.  Now you must listen to me, and not speak till I have done.  Keep your thoughts on my words, so that you may follow my thoughts.  You can do your own thinking about them afterwards.  And your own talking too; I shall listen as long as you like!’

‘Go on, I’ll be good!’

‘My dear, it is not right that you should appear to have paid the debts of a young man who is no relation to you and who will, I know well, never be any closer to you than he is now.’  She hurried on, as though fearing an interruption, but Stephen felt that her clasp tightened.  ‘We never can tell what will happen as life goes on.  And, as the world is full of scandal, one cannot be too careful not to give the scandalmongers anything to exercise their wicked spite upon.  I don’t trust that young man! he is a bad one all round, or I am very much mistaken.  And, my dear, come close to me!  I cannot but see that you and he have some secret which he is using to distress you!’  She paused, and her clasp grew closer still as Stephen’s head sank on her breast.  ‘I know you have done something or said something foolish of which he has a knowledge.  And I know my dear one, that whatever it was, and no matter how foolish it may have been, it was not a wrong thing.  God knows, we are all apt to do wrong things as well as foolish ones; the best of us.  But such is not for you!  Your race, your father and mother, your upbringing, yourself and the truth and purity which are yours would save you from anything which was in itself wrong.  That I know, my dear, as well as I know myself!  Ah! better, far better! for the gods did not think it well to dower me as they have dowered you.  The God of all the gods has given you the ten talents to guard; and He knows, as I do, that you will be faithful to your trust.’