The Gateless Barrier
Page 13
XIII
Of the first twelve keys, some slipped round without effect, some stuckand were withdrawn with difficulty. But the wards of the thirteenth bitinto the lock, and the bolt gave with a click. Laying hold of thecylindrical front of the escritoire, Laurence pushed it up and back.Within, a row of arcaded pigeon-holes was disclosed; and on either sidethese, a range of little drawers, the pale, bright wood of whichretained its pristine polish, while the colours of the paintedmedallions adorning them were very fresh though frail. The cupids, thelittle figures of lover and mistress, courtier and prince, were instinctwith vivacity and grace--the heedless vivacity, the artificial grace ofthose over-ripe, luxurious periods which carry in their womb the seedsof revolution and social catastrophe. Laurence was moved, observing itall. Evidently the bolt had not been shot, the rounded front run back,and this mimic world of fine-fanciful elegance displayed for many years.And then this pretty toy of a thing seemed so slight and incongruous areceptacle for the storage of momentous secrets. Yet that the secrets itheld were momentous, dealing with problems of life and death, subtletransformations of flesh and spirit, the young man--notwithstanding thesoothing influences of a healthy night's rest, and the pre-eminentlyunexciting ones of a grey, wet, March afternoon--felt no doubt. For hehad given in, as he believed, finally, to the adventure; and with thatgiving in, his faith in the magnitude of it suffered, by naturalrebound, serious increase.
So reverently, and as one who approaches a long disused shrinecontaining promise of strange and precious relics, he opened the shallowdrawers and examined their contents. The first three were filled withpackets of letters, written on thin, discoloured paper, and tied, somewith pink, some with yellow, sarsenet ribbon. Each packet was neatlydated, the dates ranging, as Laurence gathered in a first hasty survey,from the year 1802 to the year 1805. The remaining drawers contained acollection of objects, miscellaneous in character but united in thethought (as he divined) of whoso placed them there, side by side, bysome exquisitely tender sentiment.--A man's paste shoe-buckles, squareand bowed, the silver settings of them tarnished to blackness, reposedbeside a woman's striped, waist ribbon, cinnamon and white, embroideredin buds and scattered full-blown roses. Here were seals cut fromenvelopes, the cracked and blistered wax of them impressed with theRivers's arms and crest; and a store of semi-transparent, delicatelytinted shells, spoils of some far-distant, southern coast. There weretrinkets, too, rings and bracelets of intricate Indian workmanship; anda cluster of coral charms, of Neapolitan origin, with the tiny goldenhand, first and fourth fingers stiffly extended, which keeps off theEvil Eye. Next, little posies, such as a lover might pluck and hismistress might wear for an evening, pinned, to please him, in the bosomof her dress. These last were pressed and flattened, the several hues ofthe once radiant blossoms faded to an ashen uniformity of tint. Theywere sadly brittle, too; and though Laurence raised them with carefulfingers, crumbled to nothingness under his touch. Then he lighted on aman's watch, a great, gold warming-pan of a thing, with a guard ofblack lustre ribbon and a bunch of heavy seals attached. The back of thecase bore the Rivers's crest--a bird of doubtful lineage, its wingsextended for flight, its talons holding something, which to Laurencealways appeared to bear humorous relation to a fool's cap. The case wasalso engraved with the initials L. R. in flowing and ornate lettering.
And over these initials Laurence paused. They piqued his curiosity. Theyalso, somewhat to his own amusement, provoked in him a feelingsuspiciously akin to jealousy. They were his own; yet he could not butimagine that they were also those of a person closely connected with thesweet and mysterious companion, who had walked the lawns and gardenalleys with him during the small hours, fled and vanished at cock-crow,two nights back. A very definite purpose of learning more about thissame person--of whom, he divined, this pathetic store of objects to begifts or memorials--possessed Laurence. Had he wronged the gentle ladyin life, so causing her after sorrow? Or had some tragic happeningparted him from her, without fault of his? And what manner of man hadhe been, while a dweller here, in ordinary fashion, upon earth? Itbecame of great moment to Laurence to answer these questions. Perhapsthose packets of discoloured letters would tell. Meanwhile, thereremained another shallow, painted drawer to be searched.
It contained, wrapped face to face, in a lace and lawn handkerchief, twovery exquisite miniatures by Cosway. And then, though he courtedsurprises, agreeing with himself to expect nothing save the unexpected,and to accept all possible extravagance of improbability that mightarise with as little dislocation of mind as one accepts theextravagancies of a dream, Laurence stood for a moment speechless,absolutely confounded.
For one miniature represented his fairy-lady, her lovely eyes and lipssmiling with discreet gladsomeness, her expression an enchanting unionof sprightliness and of content. An azure ribbon was threaded throughthe soft masses of her elaborately-dressed hair, little curls of whichstrayed down on to her forehead. The string of pearls was clasped aroundher throat. She wore her transparent, white, frilled cape and rose-red,silken gown. Her graceful head and slender figure--to the waist--wereseen against a background of faint dove-coloured cloud. The painter hadpainted fondly as a friend, it would seem, as well as a master of hiscraft.--And the other miniature, by the same hand, showing the samedelightful sympathy of artist with his subject, touched by the samepoetic insight and grace, was a portrait of whom? Well, ofhimself--himself, Laurence Rivers, not as he was to-day, but as he hadbeen, ten years ago, at one-and-twenty. With astonishment, borderingvery closely on alarm, he observed that colouring, features, the squarecutting of the nostrils, a certain softness in the lines of the mouth,the shape of the head, the straight set of the shoulders, all these wereperfectly exact. While the countenance was instinct with that inimitablecharm of unsullied youth, that fearlessness and happy self-confidence,the attractive power of which he had only fully realised as they hadbegun to fade out of his aspect in the course of his passage from earlyto maturer manhood, while the boundlessly generous aspirations ofinexperience were in course of being discredited by increasing knowledgeof the standards and habits of this not altogether noble or virtuousworld.
Laurence took the miniature in his hand, and considered it closely, witha twinge of self-abasement. Endowed with so ingratiating a personality,so admirable a physical equipment, he ought surely to have made adefinite name and place for himself in contemporary history! And what ofmoment had he to show, after all, for his thirty-one years of living?Practically nothing, he feared. And the young man of the miniature madebetter play with his handsome person, and the qualities and talentswhich might be expected to accompany it? He had been a sailorapparently, for he wore the dark-blue, naval uniform of the early yearsof the century, his brown hair being tied back into a queue. But forthese details the resemblance to himself was absolute. And then,suddenly, with a sense of faintness as though his identity were slippingaway from him, and his hold on actuality loosening as he imagined itmight loosen in the moments immediately preceding death, Laurenceremembered that he had worn a precisely similar costume--that of anaval lieutenant of the time of Nelson--at a fancy dress ball given inhis honour, at the country house of certain of his mother's relations,on the eve of his twenty-first birthday. He had been mightily chaffedabout his good looks and air of assured conquest upon the occasion inquestion; and had laughingly replied that he, too, intended to fight hisbattle of Trafalgar and win it, only that he should take jolly good carenot to fall in the hour of success, but to survive and thoroughly enjoythe fruits of victory.
The miniatures were oval, each set in a plain gold band. Laurence turnedthem over in search of a possible inscription. Upon the reverse of theone were engraved the words--"Agnes, a gift to her dear cousin," and thedate, "August 1803." Upon the other--"Laurence, a gift to his dearlove," and the same date.
Rain had followed on the stormy splendours of the preceding evening; andas the young man raised his eyes absently and stared out of the greatbay-window, he became sensible that the outlook was c
omfortless enough.The gardens and the distant view were blurred and blotted by drivingmist; while, in the room itself, there reigned a singularly blear andcheerless light. A damp, earthy odour, moreover, pervaded theatmosphere, as though the moisture prevailing out of doors had gainedaccess to the house. Carefully, rather sadly, Laurence laid the twominiatures side by side upon the filmy handkerchief. The radiant,pictured faces, the two graceful, young heads turned slightly towardseach other as in mutual tenderness and sympathy, offered, he thought,pathetic contrast to the melancholy of this tearful morning. That thisyoung man had in no way wronged the fair and gentle woman, he now feltassured. But that assurance, so perverse is human nature, did not serveto elate him. Far from it. As he looked first at the charming pair, andthen at the driving mist, a sense of great loneliness, almost ofdesolation, came over him; while the word spectre--which, when employedyesterday by his lively hostess Mrs. Bellingham, had seemed of suchmeagre and even vulgar significance--now occurred to him with a new andimmediate meaning. Spectral--that this room was in the present drearylight. While, if the idea called for further and concrete presentiment,he could--looking on the fearless and hopeful countenance of that otherLaurence Rivers--offer it in his own person. Involuntarily he shivered,since, for the moment, his tenure of name, person and individuality,seemed so questionable, a matter of sufferance merely--amounting to nomore, in fact, than a remote reversionary interest in another man'sgoods.
At random he picked up a couple of packets of letters off the top of theescritoire, where he had laid them, and moved across to the window. Itwas not wholesome to look at those happy faces--one his own--any longer.The letters tied with a pink ribbon were in a woman's hand, sloped andpointed, but with a peculiar elegance of lettering and evenness of line.Then for an instant he debated, questioning whether he could withoutbreach of honour, and of the respect in which all decent-minded personshold the dead, open and read these letters. The position wasextraordinary to the point of abrogating accustomed rules of conduct;yet he felt a certain delicacy in reading a woman's letters andsurprising the secrets of her heart. But as he turned them over,glancing at the first page of each, he perceived that in every case theywere addressed to himself; for at the top corner of each waswritten--"To Laurence Rivers, Esq.," and below either "Dear cousin" or"Dear love." Then the irony of the thing taking him, he smiled tohimself and said:
"Oh, well, come along, surely I have a right to the smooth as well asthe rough. If I am such a very second-hand affair any way, with not somuch as a name or face of my own to be proud of, I'll at least have theadvantages of my disabilities. I will know how my other, first-hand,self was made love to and made love."
Yet no sooner had he begun to read, than he became aware that he knewthat already. For as he perused the thin, deeply-creased pages, he felt,with a certainty independent of and passing all proof, that he had readthese sweet effusions, these innocent chronicles of home life, ofmeetings and partings, pretty pleasures and junketings, not once butmany times already. He remembered them. He could almost tell what wordswould meet his eye as he straightened and turned the fluttering sheetsof paper.
"--I am much concerned," wrote Agnes Rivers, "that so many months mustelapse before I can again receive news of you. I preach Patience tomyself; but that virtue, though a good servant, is but a sorrowfulmaster. I am pursued by fears on your account, which often move me totears when I am alone, or have retired to my chamber at night. You willreprove my feminine weakness and bid me take courage. Yet I defy you tomaintain such fears are wholly misplaced, in face of the wild scenes oftempest and of battle which you may be called upon to witness."
Again--"It grieves me that I cannot write to you of my affection withthe freedom dictated by my heart. But my means of communicating with youamid the convulsions of the present terrible war are so uncertain, thatI constantly tremble lest my letters should fall into other hands thanyours. My good Mrs. Lambert, who, as you will remember, is eversolicitous for the maintenance of propriety, impresses this danger uponme, and urges reticence and circumspection. I therefore entreat you,dear Laurence, not to measure the depth of my regard by my presentexpression of it. Recall, rather, all the happy and unclouded hours wehave enjoyed together, and let them speak for me."
And again--"Your brother Dudley, though, I grieve to say, not less harshand imperious towards others, continues to treat me with all brotherlyconsideration and courtesy. He is very thoughtful of the improvement ofmy mind, and we still follow our studies in the Italian and Spanishlanguages. His great knowledge and intelligence are of incalculableadvantage to me, and I trust that I prove a docile, if not a verybrilliant, pupil. I own my thoughts at times wander, though I strive, ingratitude to my kind preceptor, to keep them fixed upon my tasks. Mrs.Lambert is, unfortunately, as much alarmed by Dudley's opinions andconversation as ever. I could myself wish that he would express himselfwith less violence on the subject of politics and of religion. But hisearly travels in the unfortunate country of France, and his intimateassociation with Mr. Robespierre and other leaders of her sanguinaryrevolution, have, I much fear, permanently warped his mind andprejudiced his judgment. Yesterday, at dinner, he entered into adiscussion with our new rector, Mr. Burkinshaw--a scholarly andestimable person--upon the Rights of Man, and the nature and attributesof the Deity, asserting subversive and atheistical views with so muchheat and intemperance of language, that Mrs. Lambert fled from table intears, while Mr. Burkinshaw was, I could not but see, seriously offendedand hurt."
Once more--"The weather recently has been continuously wet and stormy.Dudley reports great destruction of timber in the park. I have beenunable to leave the house, and have spent many hours in the eastparlour, which your brother kindly bids me regard as my exclusiveproperty. I have read much, I trust with profit. Nor have I neglected mymusic, though the melancholy character of the season and ever-presentfears for your safety have rendered me but a joyless performer. For thesongs you most admire, I cannot find voice. Indeed, I struggle with myweakness, and make every effort to present a serene exterior. But Memoryis never, perhaps, a more sorry companion than when she speaks of happyscenes."
And finally--"My own dear love, your packet from Madalena has at lastreached us. What can I say to you save that my heart dances withrapture? I cannot sit still, but must needs run from place to place forvery gladness. Mrs. Lambert reproves my lack of occupation. But she ismistaken. I am fully occupied in reading and re-reading your letter, andin thanking our Merciful Creator for this unhoped-for assurance of yoursafety. I have retired to the stone bench beneath the lime-trees. Theyare in blossom now, and their agreeable fragrance fills the air. Here Iwrite to you, while the sun shines, and summer winds play lightly withthe leaves. Do you remember our sitting here the evening you stole thenew black ribbon from my embroidered bag with which to tie your hair?Dear love, now I am convinced that you will be permitted to return tome, and that we shall add yet other happy hours to those alreadytreasured in our hearts. All will be well. Nay--what am I writing?--allis well already. But for my past anxiety and all my cruel fears, Icould not have known the rapture of the present. My heart overflows. Iwould not have one unhappy creature breathe to-day. I have emptied mypurse to a beggar; and have expended unpermitted dainties upon mycage-birds, and Dudley's horses and dogs. The servants smile upon me,rejoicing in my joy. Ah! my love, I am half ashamed to wear so gay aface. Dudley has withdrawn to the library. He is preoccupied and silent.Mrs. Lambert, for all her affection, regards me, I fear, withdisapproval. But how can I feign indifference? You are safe. You willreturn to me. In six months I shall attain my majority, and then yourbrother Dudley can no longer, as my guardian, legally prohibit ourmarriage. Of that dear union, the consummation of all our prayers andhopes, I can scarcely dare trust myself to--"
And here Laurence found himself forced to cease reading. The page wasblotted, the writing obliterated, by rusty stains of the nature of whichhe could be in no doubt. The further record of Agnes Rivers's purepassion was smothered in blood.