CHAPTER XXVI
One Saturday morning, when May was three-parts gone, Philip announcedhis intention of going up to London till the Monday on business. Hewas a man who had long since become callous to appearances, and thoughArthur, fearful lest spiteful things should be said of Angela, almosthinted that it would look odd, his host merely laughed, and said thathe had little doubt but that his daughter was quite able to look afterherself, even when such a fascinating young gentleman as himself wasconcerned. As a matter of fact, his object was to get rid of Angela bymarrying her to this young Heigham, who had so opportunely tumbleddown from the skies, and whom he rather liked than otherwise. Thisbeing the case, he rightly concluded that, the more the two were lefttogether, the greater probability there was of his object beingattained. Accordingly he left them together as much as possible.
It was on the evening of this Saturday that Arthur gathered up hiscourage and asked Angela to come and walk through the ruins with him.Angela hesitated a little; the shadow of something about to happen hadfallen on her mind; but the extraordinary beauty of the evening, tosay nothing of the prospect of his company, turned the scale inArthur's favour.
It was one of those nights of which, if we are lucky, we get some fiveor six in the course of an English summer. The moon was at her full,and, the twilight ended, she filled the heavens with her light. Everytwig and blade of grass showed out as clearly as in the day, butlooked like frosted silver. The silence was intense, and so still wasthe air that the sharp shadows of the trees were motionless upon thegrass, only growing with the growing hours. It was one of those nightsthat fill us with an indescribable emotion, bringing us into closercompanionship with the unseen than ever does the garish, busy day. Insuch an hour, we can sometimes feel, or think that we can feel, otherpresences around us, and involuntarily we listen for the whisper ofthe wings and the half-forgotten voices of our beloved.
On this particular evening some such feeling was stirring in Angela'sheart as with slow steps she led the way into the little villagechurchyard, a similar spot to that which is to be found in many acountry parish, except that, the population being very small, therewere but few recent graves. Most of the mounds had no head-stones torecall the names of the neglected dead, but here and there were dotteddiscoloured slabs, some sunk a foot or two into the soil, a few lyingprone upon it, and the remainder thrown by the gradual subsidence oftheir supports into every variety of angle, as though they had beensuddenly halted in the maddest whirl of a grotesque dance of death.
Picking her way through these, Angela stopped under an ancient yew,and, pointing to one of the two shadowed mounts to which the moonlightscarcely struggled, said, in a low voice,
"That is my mother's grave."
It was a modest tenement enough, a little heap of close green turf,surrounded by a railing, and planted with sweet-williams and forget-me-nots. At its head was placed a white marble cross, on which Arthurcould just distinguish the words "Hilda Caresfoot," and the date ofdeath.
He was about to speak, but she stopped him with a gentle movement, andthen, stepping forward to the head of the railing, she buried her facein her hands, and remained motionless. Arthur watched her withcuriosity. What, he wondered, was passing in the mind of this strangeand beautiful woman, who had grown up so sweet and pure amidst moraldesolation, like a white lily blooming alone on the black Africanplains in winter? Suddenly she raised her head, and saw the inquiringlook he bent upon her. She came towards him, and, in that sweet, half-pleading voice which was one of her greatest charms, she said,
"I fear you think me very foolish?"
"Why should I think you foolish?"
"Because I have come here at night to stand before a half-forgottengrave."
"I do not think you foolish, indeed. I was only wondering what waspassing in your mind."
Angela hung her head and made no answer, and the clock above themboomed out the hour, raising its sullen note in insolent defiance ofthe silence. What is it that is so solemn about the striking of thebelfry-clock when one stands in a churchyard at night? Is it that thehour softens our natures, and makes them more amenable to semi-superstitious influences? Or is it that the thousand evidences ofdeparted mortality which surround us, appealing with dumb force tonatural fears, throw open for a space the gates of our world-sealedimagination, to tenant its vast halls with prophetic echoes of ourend? Perhaps it is useless to inquire. The result remains the same:few of us can hear those tones at night without a qualm, and, did weput our thoughts into words, they would run something thus:
"That sound once broke upon the living ears of those who sleep aroundus. We hear it now. In a little while, hour after hour, it will echoagainst the tombstones of _our_ graves, and new generations, comingout of the silent future, will stand where we stand, and hearken; andmuse, as we mused, over the old problems that we have gone to solve;whilst we--shall we not be deaf to hear and dumb to utter?"
Such, at any rate, were the unspoken thoughts that crept into thehearts of Arthur and Angela as the full sound from the belfry thinneditself away into silence. She grew a little pale, and glanced at him,and he gave an involuntary shiver, while even the dog Aleck sniffedand whined uncomfortably.
"It feels cold," he said. "Shall we go?"
They turned and walked towards the gate, and, by the time they reachedit, all superstitious thoughts had vanished--at any rate, fromArthur's mind, for he recollected that he had set himself a task todo, and that now would be the time to do it. Absorbed in thisreflection, he forgot his politeness, and passed first through theturnstile. On the further side he paused, and looked earnestly intohis beloved's face. Their eyes met, and there was that in his thatcaused her to swiftly drop her own. A silence ensued as they stood bythe gate. He broke it.
"It is a lovely night. Let us walk through the ruins."
"I shall wet my feet: the dew must be falling."
"There is no dew falling to-night. Won't you come?"
"Let us go to-morrow; it is later than I generally go in. Pigott willwonder what has become of me."
"Never mind Pigott. The night is too fine to waste asleep; besides,you know, one should always look at ruins by moonlight. Please come."
She looked at him doubtfully, hesitated, and came.
"What do you want to see?" she said presently, with as near anapproach to irritation as he had ever heard her indulge in. "That isthe famous window that Mr. Fraser always goes into raptures about."
"It is beautiful. Shall we sit down here and look at it?"
They sat down on a low mass of fallen masonry some fifteen paces fromthe window. Around them lay a delicate tracery of shadows, whilst theythemselves were seated in the eye of the moonlight, and remained for awhile as silent and as still as though they had been the shades of thepainted figures that had once filled the stony frame above them.
"Angela," he said at length--"Angela, listen, and I will tell yousomething. My mother, a woman to whom sorrow had become almost aninspiration, when she was dying, spoke to me something thus: 'Thereis,' she said, 'but one thing that I know of that has the power tomake life happy as God meant it to be, and as the folly and weaknessof men and women render it nearly impossible for it to be, and that is--love. Love has been the consolation of my own existence in the midstof many troubles; first, the great devotion I bore your father, andthen that which I entertain for yourself. Without these two ties, lifewould indeed have been a desert. And yet, though it is a grief to meto leave you, and though I shrink from the dark passage that liesbefore me, so far does that first great love outweigh the love I bearyou, that in my calmer moments I am glad to go, because I know I amawaited by your father. And from this I wish you to learn a lesson:look for your happiness in life from the love of your life, for thereonly will you find it. Do not fritter away your heart, but seek outsome woman, some one good and pure and true, and in giving her yourdevotion, you will reap a full reward, for her happiness will reflectyour own, and, if your choice is right, you wi
ll, however stormy yourlife may be, lay up for yourself, as I feel that I have done, aneverlasting joy.'"
She listened to him in silence.
"Angela," he went on, boldly enough, now that the ice was broken, "Ihave often thought about what my mother said, but until now I havenever _quite_ understood her meaning. I do understand it now. Angela,do _you_ understand me?"
There was no answer; she sat there upon the fallen masonry, gazing atthe ruins round her, motionless and white as a marble goddess,forgotten in her desecrated fane.
"Oh, Angela, listen to me--listen to me! I have found the woman ofwhom my mother spoke, who must be so 'good and pure and true.' You areshe. I love you, Angela, I love you with my whole life and soul; Ilove you for this world and the next. Oh! do not reject me; though Iam so little worthy of you, I will try to grow so. Dearest, can youlove me?"
Still there was silence, but he thought that he saw her breast heavegently. Then he placed his hand, all trembling with the fierce emotionthat throbbed along his veins, upon the palm that hung listless by herside, and gazed into her eyes. Still she neither spoke nor shrank,and, in the imperfect light, her face looked very pale, while herlovely eyes were dark and meaningless as those of one entranced.
Then slowly he gathered up his courage for an effort, and, raising hisface to the level of her own, he kissed her full upon her lips. Shestirred, she sighed. He had broken the spell; the sweet face that hadwithdrawn itself drew nearer to him; for a second the awakened eyeslooked into his own, and filled them with reflected splendour, andthen he became aware of a warm arm thrown about his neck, and next--the stars grew dim, and sense and life itself seemed to shake upontheir thrones, for a joy almost too great for mortal man to bear tookpossession of his heart as she laid her willing lips upon his own. Andthen, before he knew her purpose, she slid down upon her knees besidehim, and placed her head upon her breast.
"Dearest," he said, "don't kneel so; look at me."
Slowly she raised her face, wreathed and lovely with many blushes, andlooked upon him with tearful eyes. He tried to raise her.
"Let me be," she said, speaking very low. "I am best so; it is theattitude of adoration, and I have found--my divinity."
"But I cannot bear to see you kneel to me."
"Oh! Arthur, you do not understand; a minute since _I_ did notunderstand that a woman is very humble when she really loves.
"Do you--really love me, Angela?"
"I do."
"Have you known that long?"
"I only _knew_ it when--when you kissed me. Before then there wassomething in my heart, but I did not know what it was. Listen, dear,"she went on, "for one minute to me first, and I will get up" (for hewas again attempting to raise her). "What I have to say is best saidupon my knees, for I want to thank God who sent you to me, and tothank you too for your goodness. It is so wonderful that you shouldlove a simple girl like me, and I am so thankful to you. Oh! I havenever lived till now, and" (rising to her full stature) "I feel asthough I had been crowned a queen of happy things. Dethrone me, desertme, and I will still be grateful to you for this hour of imperialhappiness. But if you, after a while, when you know all my faults andimperfections better, can still care for me, I know that there issomething in me that will enable me to repay you for what you havegiven me, by making your whole life happy. Dear, I do not know if Ispeak as other women do, but, believe me, it is out of the fulness ofmy heart. Take care, Arthur, oh! take care, lest your fate should bethat of the magician you spoke of the other day, who evoked thespirit, and then fell down before it in terror. You have also calledup a spirit, and I pray that it was not done in sport, lest it shouldtrouble you hereafter."
"Angela, do not speak so to me; it is I who should have knelt to you.Yes, you were right when you called yourself 'a queen of happythings.' You are a queen----"
"Hush! Don't overrate me; your disillusion will be the more painful.Come, Arthur, let us go home."
He rose and went with her, in a dream of joy that for a momentprecluded speech. At the door she bade him good-night, and, oh!happiness, gave him her lips to kiss. Then they parted, their heartstoo full for words. One thing he asked her, however.
"What was it that took you to your mother's grave to-night?"
She looked at him with a curiously mixed expression of shy love andconviction on her face, and answered,
"Her spirit, who led me to your heart."
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