CHAPTER XXXII
Arthur arrived in town in a melancholy condition. His was atemperament peculiarly liable to suffer from attacks of depression,and he had, with some excuse, a sufficiently severe one on him now. Dowhat he would he could not for a single hour free his mind from thesick longing to see or hear from Angela, that, in addition to themental distress it occasioned him, amounted almost to a physical pain.After two or three days of lounging about his club--for he was in nomood for going out--he began to feel that this sort of thing wasintolerable, and that it was absolutely necessary for him to gosomewhere or do something.
It so happened that, just after he had come to this decision, heoverheard two men, who were sitting at the next table to him in theclub dining-room, talking of the island of Madeira, and speaking of itas a charming place. He accepted this as an omen, and determined thatto Madeira he would go. And, indeed, the place would suit him as wellas any other to get through a portion of his year of probation in,and, whilst affording a complete change of scene, would not be too farfrom England.
And so it came to pass that on the morrow Arthur found himself in theoffice of Messrs. Donald Currie, for the purpose of booking his berthin the vessel that was due to sail on the 14th. There he was informedby the very affable clerk, who assisted him to choose his cabin, thatthe vessel was unusually empty, and that, up to the present time,berths had been taken for only five ladies, and two of them Jewesses.
"However," the clerk added, by way of consolation, "this one,"pointing to Mrs. Carr's name on the list, "is as good as a cargo," andhe whistled expressively.
"What do you mean?" asked Arthur, his curiosity slightly excited.
"I mean--my word, here she comes."
At that moment the swing doors of the office were pushed open, andthere came through them one of the sweetest, daintiest little womenArthur had ever seen. She was no longer quite young, she might beeight and twenty or thirty, but, on the other hand, maturity had butadded to the charms of youth. She had big, brown eyes that Arthurthought could probably look languishing, if they chose, and that evenin repose were full of expression, a face soft and blooming as apeach, and round as a baby's, surmounted by a quantity of nut-brownhair, the very sweetest mouth, the lips rather full, and just showinga line of pearl, and lastly, what looked rather odd on such aninfantile countenance, a firm, square, and very determined, if verydiminutive chin. For the rest, it was difficult to say which was themost perfect, her figure or her dress.
All of which, of course, had little interest for Arthur, but what didrather startle him was her voice, when she spoke. From such a womanone would naturally have expected a voice of a corresponding nature,namely, one of the soft and murmuring order. But hers, on thecontrary, though sweet, was decided, and clear as a bell, and with apeculiar ring in it that he would have recognized amongst a thousandothers.
On her entrance, Arthur stepped on one side.
"I have come to say," she said, with a slight bow of recognition tothe clerk; "that I have changed my mind about my berth, instead of thestarboard deck cabin, I should like to have the port. I think that itwill be cooler at this time of year, and also will you please makearrangements for three horses."
"I am excessively sorry, Mrs. Carr," the clerk answered; "but the portcabin is engaged--in fact, this gentleman has just taken it."
"Oh, in that case"--with a little blush--"there is an end of thequestion."
"By no means," interrupted Arthur. "It is a matter of perfectindifference to me where I go. I beg that you will take it."
"Oh, thank you. You are very good, but I could not think of robbingyou of your cabin."
"I must implore you to do so. Rather than there should be anydifficulty, I will go below." And then, addressing the clerk, "Be sokind as to change the cabin."
"I owe you many thanks for your courtesy," said Mrs. Carr, with alittle curtsey.
Arthur took off his hat.
"Then we will consider that settled. Good morning, or perhaps I shouldsay _au revoir_;" and, bowing again, he left the office.
"What is that gentleman's name?" Mrs. Carr asked, when he was gone.
"Here it is, madam, on the list. 'Arthur Preston Heigham, passenger toMadeira.'"
"Arthur Preston Heigham!" Mrs. Carr said to herself, as she made herway down to her carriage in Fenchurch Street. "Arthur is pretty, andPreston is pretty, but I don't much like Heigham. At any rate, thereis no doubt about his being a gentleman. I wonder what he is going toMadeira for? He has an interesting face. I think I am glad we aregoing to be fellow-passengers."
The two days that remained to him in town, Arthur spent in making hispreparations for departure; getting money, buying, after the manner ofyoung Englishmen starting on a voyage to foreign parts, a large andfearfully sharp hunting-knife, as though Madeira were the home of wildbeasts, and laying in a stock of various other articles of a uselessdescription, such as impenetrable sun-helmets and leather coats.
The boat was to sail at noon on Friday, and on the Thursday evening heleft Paddington by the mail that reaches Dartmouth about midnight. Onthe pier, he and one or two other fellow-passengers found a boatwaiting to take them to the great vessel, that, painted a dull grey,lay still and solemn in the harbour as they were rowed up to her, verydifferent from the active, living thing that she was destined tobecome within the next twenty-four hours. The tide ebbing past heriron sides, the fresh, strong smell of the sea, the tall mastspointing skywards like gigantic fingers, the chime of the bell uponthe bridge, the sleepy steward, and the stuffy cabin, were all apleasant variation from the every-day monotony of existence, andcontributed towards the conclusion that life was still partially worthliving, even when it could not be lived with Angela. Indeed, so muchare we the creatures of circumstance, and so liable to be influencedby surroundings, that Arthur, who, a few hours before, had beenplunged into the depths of depression, turned into his narrow berth,after a tremendous struggle with the sheets--which stewards arrange ona principle incomprehensible to landlubbers, and probably onlypartially understood by themselves--with considerable satisfaction anda pleasurable sense of excitement.
The next morning, or rather the earlier part of it, he devoted, whenhe was not thinking about Angela, to arranging his goods and chattelsin his small domain, to examining the lovely scenery of Dartmouthharbour--the sight of which is enough to make any outward-boundindividual bitterly regret his determination to quit his native land--and to inspecting the outward man of his fellow-passengers with thaticy stolidity which characterizes the true-born Briton. But the greatevent of the morning was the arrival of the mail-train, bringing thebags destined for various African ports, loose letters for thepassengers, and a motley contingent of the passengers themselves.Amongst these latter, he had no difficulty in recognizing the twoJewesses, of whom the clerk in the office had spoken, who wereaccompanied by individuals, presumably their husbands, and veryremarkable for the splendour of their diamond studs and the dirtinessof their nails. The only other specimen of saloon-passenger womankindthat he could see was a pretty, black-eyed girl of about eighteen, whowas, as he afterwards discovered, going out under the captain's careto be a governess at the Cape, and who, to judge from the intensemelancholy of her countenance, did not particularly enjoy theprospect. But, with the exception of some heavy baggage that was beingworked up from a cargo-boat by the donkey-engine, and a luxuriouscane-chair on the deck that bore her name, no signs were there of Mrs.Carr.
Presently the purser sent round the head-steward, a gentleman whomArthur mistook for the first mate, so smart was his uniform, tocollect the letters, and it wrung him not a little to think that healone could send none. The bell sounded to warn all not sailing tohurry to their boats, but still there was nothing to be seen of hisacquaintance of the office; and, to speak the truth, he was just alittle disappointed, for what he had seen of her had piqued hiscuriosity, and made him anxious to see more.
"I can't wait any longer," he heard the captain say; "she mu
st come onby the _Kinfauns_."
It was full twelve o'clock, and the last rope was being loosed fromthe moorings. "Ting-ting," went the engine-room bell. "Thud-thud,"started the great screw that would not stop again for so many restlesshours. The huge vessel shuddered throughout her frame like anawakening sleeper, and growing quick with life, forged an inch or twoa-head. Next, a quartermaster, came with two men to hoist up thegangway, when suddenly a boat shot alongside and hooked on, amongstthe occupants of which Arthur had no difficulty in recognizing Mrs.Carr, who sat laughing, like Pleasure, at the helm. The otheroccupants of the boat, who were not laughing, he guessed to be herservants and the lady who figured on the passenger-list as Miss Terry,a stout, solemn-looking person in spectacles.
"Now, then, Agatha," called out Mrs. Carr from the stern-sheets, "bequick and jump up."
"My dear Mildred, I can't go up there; I can't, indeed. Why, thething's moving."
"But you must go up, or else be pulled up with a rope. Here, I willshow the way," and, moving down the boat, she sprang boldly, as itrose with the swell, into the stalwart arms of the sailor who waswaiting on the gangway landing-stage, and thence ran up the steps tothe deck.
"Very well, I am going to Madeira. I don't know what you are going todo; but you must make up your mind quick."
"Can't hold on much longer, mum," said the boatman, "she's getting wayon now."
"Come on, mum; I won't let you in," said the man of the ladder,seductively.
"Oh, dear, oh, dear, what shall I do?" groaned Miss Terry, wringingthe hand that was not employed in holding on.
"John," called Mrs. Carr to a servant who was behind Miss Terry, andlooking considerably alarmed, "don't stand there like a fool; put MissTerry on to that ladder."
Mrs. Carr was evidently accustomed to be obeyed, for, thus admonished,John seized the struggling and shrieking Miss Terry, and bore her tothe edge of the boat, where she was caught by two sailors, and, amidstthe cheers of excited passengers, fairly dragged on to the deck.
"Oh! Mrs. Carr," said the chief officer, reproachfully, when MissTerry had been satisfactorily deposited on a bench, "you are lateagain; you were late last voyage."
"Not at all, Mr. Thompson. I hate spending longer than is necessaryaboard ship, so, when the train got in, I took a boat and went for arow in the harbour. I knew that you would not go without me."
"Oh, yes, we should have, Mrs. Carr; the skipper heard about itbecause he waited for you before."
"Well, here I am, and I promise that I won't do it again."
Mr. Thompson laughed, and passed on. At this moment Mrs. Carrperceived Arthur, and, bowing to him, they fell into conversationabout the scenery through which the boat was passing on her way to theopen sea. Before very long, indeed, as soon as the vessel began torise and fall upon the swell, this talk was interrupted by a voicefrom the seat where Miss Terry had been placed.
"Mildred," it said, "I do wish you would not come to sea; I ambeginning to feel ill."
"And no wonder, if you will insist upon coming up ladders headdownwards. Where's John? He will help you to your cabin; the deck one,next to mine."
But John had vanished with a parcel.
"Mildred, send some one quick, I beg of you," remarked Miss Terry, inthe solemn tones of one who feels that a crisis is approaching.
"I can't see anybody except a very dirty sailor."
"Permit me," said Arthur, stepping to the rescue.
"You are very kind; but she can't walk. I know her ways; she has gotto the stage when she must be carried. Can you manage her?"
"I think so," replied Arthur, "if you don't mind holding her legs, andprovided that the vessel does not roll," and, with an effort, hehoisted Miss Terry baby-fashion into his arms, and staggered off withher towards the indicated cabin, Mrs. Carr, as suggested, holding thelower limbs of the prostrate lady. Presently she began to laugh.
"If you only knew how absurd we look," she said.
"Don't make me laugh," answered Arthur, puffing; for Miss Terry was byno means light, "or I shall drop her."
"If you do, young man," ejaculated his apparently unconscious burdenwith wonderful energy, "I will never forgive you."
A remark, the suddenness of which so startled him, that he very nearlydid.
"Thank you. Now lay her quite flat, please. She won't get up againtill we drop anchor at Madeira."
"If I live so long," murmured the invalid.
Arthur now made his bow and departed, wondering how two women sodissimilar as Mrs. Carr and Miss Terry came to be living together. Asit is a piece of curiosity that the reader may share, perhaps it hadbetter be explained.
Miss Terry was a middle-aged relative of Mrs. Carr's late husband, whohad by a series of misfortunes been left quite destitute. Her distresshaving come to the knowledge of Mildred Carr, she, with the kind-hearted promptitude that distinguished her, at once came to her aid,paid her debts, and brought her to her own house to stay, where shehad remained ever since under the title of companion. These two women,living thus together, had nothing whatsoever in common, save that MissTerry took some reflected interest in beetles. As for travelling,having been brought up and lived in the same house of the same countytown until she reached the age of forty-five, it was, as may beimagined, altogether obnoxious to her. Indeed, it is more thandoubtful if she retained any clear impression whatsoever of the placesshe visited. "A set of foreign holes!" as she would call them,contemptuously. Miss Terry was, in short, neither clever nor strongminded, but so long as she could be in the company of her belovedMildred, whom she regarded with mingled reverence and affection, shewas perfectly happy. Oddly enough, this affection was reciprocated,and there probably was nobody in the world for whom Mrs. Carr cared somuch as her cousin by marriage, Agatha Terry. And yet it would beimpossible to imagine two women more dissimilar.
Not long after they had left Dartmouth, the afternoon set in dull, andtowards evening the sea freshened sufficiently to send most of thepassengers below, leaving those who remained to be finally dispersedby the penetrating drizzle that is generally to be met with off theEnglish coast. Arthur, left alone on the heaving deck, surveyed thescene, and thought it very desolate. Around was a grey waste oftossing waters, illumined here and there by the setting rays of anangry sun, above, a wild and windy sky, with not even a sea-gull inall its space, and in the far distance a white and fading line, whichwas the shore of England.
Faint it grew, and fainter yet, and, as it disappeared, he thought ofAngela, and a yearning sorrow fell upon him. When, he wondered sadly,should he again look into her eyes, and hold that proud beauty in hisarms; what fate awaited them in the future that stretched before them,dim as the darkening ocean, and more uncertain. Alas! he could nottell, he only felt that it was very bitter to be parted thus from herto whom had been given his whole heart's love, to know that everyfleeting moment widened a breach already far too wide, and not to knowif it would again be narrowed, or if this farewell would be the last.Then he thought, if it should be the last, if she should die or deserthim, what would his life be worth to him? A consciousness within himanswered, "nothing." And, in a degree, his conclusion was right; for,although it is, fortunately, not often in the power of any singlepassion to render life altogether worthless; it is certain that, whenit strikes in youth, there is no sickness so sore as that of theheart; no sorrow more keen, and no evil more lasting than thoseconnected with its disappointments and its griefs. For other sorrows,life has salves and consolations, but a noble and enduring passion isnot all of this world, and to cure its sting we must look to somethingbeyond this world's quackeries. Other griefs can find sympathy andexpression, and become absorbed little by little in the variety oflove's issues. But love, as it is, and should be understood--not thefaint ghost that arrays itself in stolen robes, and says, "I am love,"but love the strong and the immortal, the passkey to the happy skies,the angel cipher we read, but cannot understand--such love as this,and there is none other true, can find no full solace here, not evenin its eart
hly satisfaction.
For still it beats against its mortal bars and rends the heart thatholds it; still strives like a meteor flaming to its central star, ora new loosed spirit seeking the presence of its God, to pass hencewith that kindred soul to the inner heaven whence it came, there to bewholly mingled with its other life and clothed with a divine identity:--there to satisfy the aspirations that now vaguely throb within theirfleshly walls, with the splendour and the peace and the full measureof the eternal joys it knows await its coming.
And is it not a first-fruit of this knowledge, that the thoughts ofthose who are plunged into the fires of a pure devotion fly upwards assurely as the sparks? Nothing but the dross, the grosser earthly partis purged away by their ever-chastening sorrow, which is, in truth, adiscipline for finer souls. For did there ever yet live the man orwoman who, loving truly, has suffered, and the fires burnt out, hasnot risen Phoenix-like from their ashes, purer and better, and holdingin the heart a bright, undying hope? Never; for these have walkedbare-footed upon the holy ground, it is the flames from the Altar thathave purged them and left their own light within! And surely thisholds also good of those who have loved and lost, of those who havebeen scorned or betrayed; of the suffering army that cry aloud of theempty bitterness of life and dare not hope beyond. They do notunderstand that having once loved truly it is not possible that theyshould altogether lose: that there is to their pain and the dry-rot oftheir hopes, as to everything else in Nature, an end object. Shall thesoul be immortal, and its best essence but a thing of air? Shall theone thought by day and the one dream by night, the ethereal star whichguides us across life's mirage, and which will still shine serene atthe moment of our fall from the precipice of Time: shall this alone,amidst all that makes us what we are, be chosen out to see corruption,to be cast off and forgotten in the grave? Never! There, by theworkings of a Providence we cannot understand, that mighty germ awaitsfruition. There, too, shall we know the wherefore of our sorrow atwhich, sad-eyed, we now so often wonder: there shall we kiss the rodthat smote us, and learn the glorious uses and pluck the glowingfruits of an affliction, that on earth filled us with such sicklonging, and such an aching pain.
Let the long-suffering reader forgive these pages of speculativewriting, for the subject is a tempting one, and full of interest forus mortals. Indeed, it may chance that, if he or she is more thanfive-and-twenty, these lines may even have been read withoutimpatience, for there are many who have the memory of a lost Angelahidden away somewhere in the records of their past, and who are fain,in the breathing spaces of their lives, to dream that they will findher wandering in that wide Eternity where "all human barriers fall,all human relations end, and love ceases to be a crime."
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