27 Fortune Brings In Some Boats That Are Not Steered

IT is the afternoon of a raw and rainy October day. An express is thundering rapidly Rome-ward in even more of a hurry than usual, for it is trying to make up half an hour of lost time. In a compartment there sits by himself a man, bearing upon him, from head to foot, the stamp of steady travel. He is big, he is brown, he has dark resolute eyes—eyes at once gentle and strong, kindly and keen. The mouth suits the eyes; it is square-cut, determined-looking, with just that upward curve at the corners that tells you it would not be necessary to explain the point of a joke to him. His hair is profuse and dark, sprinkled a little with gray, though he looks no more than forty, and is inclined to be kinky and curl. His square, broad shoulders and erect mien give him a little the look of a military man. But he is not; he is only a successful speculator, coming to Rome after a prolonged sojourn in Russia and the East. A few days ago he landed at Marseilles, now he is speeding along at a thundering rate toward the Holy City, and a certain greatly esteemed young friend he expects to find there.

“Rene won’t know me with all the beard off,” he thinks, stroking from custom the place where a heavy mustache used to be. “It was a pity, but it had to go. It was so confoundedly hot there in Cairo I would have taken off my flesh as well, if I could, and sat in my bones. Let us hope no one who ever knew me in the old days will be loafing about Rome. If so, I shall be found out to a dead certainty.”

For it is Paul Farrar, minus that silky black-brown beard and drooping mustache that became him so well. The change alters him wonderfully. It is the George Valentine of two-and-twenty years ago; somewhat bigger, somewhat browner, much more manly and distinguished-looking, but otherwise so much the same bright, boyish-looking George that any one who had ever known him in those old days—before he was drowned in the Belle O’Brien—must have recognized him now, despite that melancholy fact, almost at a glance. “If I were going to the New World now,” he thinks, half smiling, as they fly along, “instead of the very oldest city of the old world, it would never do. I don’t covet recognition at this late day. No good could come of it. I am unforgiven still, and everything is disposed of, as it should be, to the little one. Pity she married Sir Vane—never will be half good enough for her, let him try as he may. But I don’t think he will try. Rene would have suited her—pity, again, they could not have hit it off. Not that madame would ever have consented—her hopes and ambitions are the same to-day as they were when her only son disappointed her, like the headstrong young fool he was. Ah, well, these things are written in Allah’s big book—it is all Kismet together. Whom among us is stronger than his fate?”

The train stops at a station and Mr. Farrar gets out to light a cigar and stretch his legs. A drizzling rain is falling, a chilly wind is blowing, he pulls down his felt hat, pulls up his coat collar, and strides up and down the platform during the few minutes of their stay. Doing so he glances carelessly into the carriages as he passes. One, a first-class compartment, holds two elderly women, a lady, evidently, and her maid. The lady, a grand looking personage, of serene mien, and silvery hair and face, rests against the cushions with eyes half closed. The servant sits near the window and gazes out. At sight of these two Mr. Farrar receives such a shock that for a moment he stands stock-still, a petrified gazer. His face pales startlingly under his brown skin, he looks as though he could not believe his own sense of sight. The woman looks at him, sits up, looks again, with a low, frightened ejaculation, and glances at the mistress. A second later, she looks out again—in that second he is gone

“What is it, Tinker?” asks, wearily, Madam Valentine.

“Oh, madame! my dear mistress, I saw a man, only a glimpse of him, but it made me think of—of—”

“Well?” pettishly.

“Master George. It was that like him. Dear heart! what a start it did give me, to be sure.”

“Nonsense,” madame says, sharply. “How can you be such an old idiot, Tinker. You should have more regard for my feelings than to speak that name in that abrupt way. Does it still rain?” wearily. “Tinker, I wonder where my dear child is by this time?”

“In better weather than this, poor lamb, wherever it is,” responds Mrs. Tinker, with a shiver. “Lawk! my lady, I feel chill to the bone. I do hope now Anselmer will see to the fires all through the house. It would be the very wust thing that ever wus, for you to go into damp rooms after such a journey as this.”

“Do you think she looked happy, Tinker, when we left?” pursues madame, unheeding the weather, absorbed in thought of her resigned treasure. “She cried, of course, at the parting, but do you think she looked happy, and as a young bride should? I grow afraid sometimes—afraid——”

“Well, ma’am, to speak plain truth, Sir Vane ain’t neither that young, nor that pleasant as he might be. I always thought him a molloncholy and sad gentleman, myself. But tastes differ. Maybe Miss Dolores is happy.” Mrs. Tinker’s face, as she says it, is dismal beyond expression. ” I’m sure I hope and pray so, poor sweet young lamb—no more fit to be used bad than a baby. But——” She breaks off as her mistress has done—unfinished sentences best express their fears. Both are filled with foreboding and vague regret, now that the deed is done beyond all recall. Her darling is not happy—she sees that at last. And the fault is hers—she who would give the remnant of her old life to make her so. She has, indirectly at least, forced her into a loveless marriage, with a man double her age, a man ill-tempered and mercenary, a man no more capable of valuing the sweetness, beauty, youth, he has won, than he is of doing a great, a generous, an unselfish deed. Her child wished to remain with her, and she forced her from her—thrust her into the arms of Vane Valentine. And now that remorse, and sorrow, and fear, come upon her, it is too late—for all time, too late!

The train rushes along on its iron way; evening is closing, foggy, and windy, and wet. She dozes a little as she lies wearily among the stuffy cushions, but she is too filled with unrest to sleep. It is three weeks now since the wedding-day, and she and her faithful old friend are journeying back to Rome, there to spend the winter. Next spring the newly-wedded pair are to go to Valentine; in the summer she is to join them for a prolonged visit. That is the programme, if all is well. But all will be well, be happy. The look of pale, shrinking fear of him, with which her darling clung to her, just at the parting, haunts her—will haunt her night and day, until they meet again. Is she afraid of Vane Valentine?

“Oh! my dearest, my sweetest!” the poor old lips murmur in the darkness, “if I had you back—all my own once more—no man should take you from me, unless you went with a glad and willing heart.” And then there rises before her a man’s face—a dark, delicate head, a grave smile, deep, serious brown eyes, a slender, strong young figure, a broad, thoughtful brow, altogether a face unlike Sir Vane’s, a fitting mate, even in beauty, for the golden-haired heiress.

“She loved him,” madame thinks, with a pang; “and he is worthy of her. If I had given her to him, she would have been happy. And I might have had her near me always—always! What will life be like without her? Poor? Yes, he is poor; but he has talent; he will win his way; and as she said to me with her pretty, baby wisdom—is money everything? My little love! why did I give you to Vane Valentine? But he will not dare to be unkind to her. No; the fortune is hers; there is too much at stake.”

But this is sorry comfort, and her heart is very heavy, as they speed along through the wet, wild night, and the windy darkness, toward the many towers, and palaces, and bells of Rome. Suddenly—what is it? There is a swaying of the carriages, a dull, tremulous vibration, the sound of many voices, of women’s screams, a shock that is like earth and heaven striking together, and then—nothingness.

*                         *       *          *          *          *          *

“Clear the way! let me through!” cries out an impetuous voice, and a man strides between the affrighted throng, suddenly huddled here on the wide Campagna.

Overhead there is the black, wind-swept sky; beneath there is the sodden, rain-swept grass, the wrecked train, women and children, terrified, hurt, talking, sobbing, screaming—confusion dire everywhere. Those who are safely out are trying to extricate those who are still prisoners, foremost among them this tall, sunburned man, who forces his way to one particular wrecked carriage, and wrenches open the door.

“Mother!” he cries; “Mrs. Tinker! Are you here? For God’s sake, speak!”

There are groans; they are there, but past speaking. Mrs. Tinker is not past hearing, however. Through all the shock of pain and fright, she hears and trembles at that call. Help comes, they are brought out, both hurt, Madam Valentine quite insensible. Mrs. Tinker looks up through the mists of what she thinks death, and tries to see the face on which the lamp-light shines, the face that is bending over her mistress.

“Bid him come,” she says, faintly; “bid him speak to me again before I die! It was the voice of my own Master George!”

He is with her in a moment, holding her in his arms, bending down with the handsome, tender face she knows so well. “My dear old friend!” is what he says.

“Master George! Master George! my own Master George! Has the great day come, then, and the sea given up its dead, that I see and hear you this night?”

“Dear old nurse—no. I never was drowned, you know. It has been a mistake all these years—it is George Valentine in the flesh. Do not talk now—lie still—we will take care of you. I must go back to my mother.”

“My dear mistress! is she much hurt?”

“Very much, I fear; she is senseless. Take this stimulant, and keep quiet. You are not going to die—do not think it.”

But Mrs. Tinker only groans and shuts her eyes. She is bruised, and broken, and crushed, and hurt, but no bones are broken, and her injuries are not serious. She is so stunned and bewildered with fright and pain, that she can hardly wonder or rejoice to find her Master George after all these years alive.

The accident, after investigation, turns out to be comparatively slight. A few persons are hurt more or less, all are badly scared. Madam Valentine appears to be the only one seriously injured. That she is seriously injured there can be no question. She lies, while they travel slowly into Rome, in her son’s arms, without signs of life. They reach the great city, and she is driven slowly through the streets to the Casa Valentine, but all the while she lies like one dead. Mrs. Tinker so far recovered already as to be able to sit up, chafes her hands, and cries and moans dully to herself, and alternately watches Master George. “Grown such a fine figure of a man, God bless him!” she thinks admiringly.

Anselmo, the major-domo, awaits them; the rooms are warm, beds are aired, all is in order. Madame is undressed and put to bed, the best medical skill in Rome is summoned, and when the sun is two or three hours high, she opens her eyes and moans feebly, and struggles back painfully out of that dim land of torpor, where she has lain so long. Struggles back to life, and pain, and weariness, and a sense of stifling oppression that will not let her breathe. Madame’s life is drawing to its close—”it is toward evening, and the day is now far spent.” She will never look upon her darling’s face in this world again. Mrs. Tinker sits by her side—it is on that tear wet face her eyes first fall. A glint of sunshine steals in between the closed jalousies—it turns the rose silk curtains to flame, and bathes in a ruby glow the marble face of the figure, “At the Shrine.” Her eyes leave Mrs. Tinker, and rest on that.

“My darling!” she whispers, “never again—never in this world again.” For she knows the truth. She is quite calm, and a sort of smile dawns on her lips, as she looks at the weeping servant by her side.”

“My good old friend,” she says, “you will see the last of me, after all. I used to wonder sometimes, Tinker, which of us would go first.”

“My dear mistress, my dear mistress!” the old servant sobs.

“A hard mistress, I am afraid, sometimes—an imperious mistress.” She sighs, glances at the statue, looks back wistfully. “I should like to see that young man before I die,” she says, “I liked him.”

“Mr. Raynay, ma’am? The young gentleman that made that?”

“Yes; send for him, Tinker, will you? Tell me”—a painful effort—” how long—how long do these doctors give me? I see them in consultation in the room beyond.”

“Oh! my dear mistress,” crying wildly, “not long, not long—till to-morrow, they say,” sobs choke Mrs. Tinker, “till to-morrow, maybe.”

A spasm crosses the strong old face. She shuts her eyes, and lies still. Then she opens them again with the same earnest, wistful gaze. “Tinker, it is strange, but just at that time, when the crash and the darkness came, I seemed to hear a voice, and it called me—it said mother! It was the voice of my son, Tinker—my dear dead son.”

Mrs. Tinker is on her knees by the bedside, with clasped hands and streaming eyes. “Not dead, mistress! Oh, praise and thanks be. Not dead—not dead! Living al I this time, and with us now. It was his voice you heard call—his own dear living voice. Mistress! mistress!” with a scream of affright, “are you dying? Have I killed you?”

She has fallen back among the pillows, so white, so death-like, that Mrs. Tinker starts from her knees with that ringing shriek. The doctors fly to the bedside. It is not death, but a death-like swoon.

“I told her, Master George, I told her, and the shock killed her a’most. Oh! do’ee go away, before she comes to again. The sight of you will kill her outright for sure.”

“But George does not go. His mother’s eyes open at the moment, and rest on his face—rest in long, solemn, silent wonder. “Mother,” he says, gently, “dearest mother, it is I—George. Do you not know me? Mother!”

“My son.” She lifts one faint hand by a great effort, and lays it in his hand. She lies and looks at him with wide, dilating eyes, that have in them as yet only solemn, fearful wonder—no joy.

“Dear mother,” he kisses the other hand, lying on the quilt,” are you not a little glad. I love you, mother, I have wanted to come back all these years, but I was afraid—I was afraid I was not forgiven. Dearest mother, say you forgive me now!”

“His eyes, his voice, his words. It is my George my George—my George!”

“You are glad then, mother? You will say it, will you not? If you only knew how I have longed all these years for the words ‘I forgive you.’ Let me hear you say them now.”

“Forgive you!” she repeats. “Oh! my God, it is I who must be forgiven. I have been the hardest mother the world ever saw. Forgive you! My best beloved, I forgave you long ago. I forgive with all my heart. Oh! to think of it, to think of it! a wanderer and an exile all these years, and all the while, my own son, my heart has been breaking for the sight of your face. If it is death that has restored you to me, then death is better than life. My son! my son! kiss me, and say you forgive me!” He does as she bids him, and his tears fall on her face. “I can die now,” she says ; “tell them all to go, while we bless God. ‘For this my son was dead and is alive again, was lost and is found.'”

It is noontide of another day. They are again together, there in that darkened room. The rose light floods the pure, passionless, marble face of Dolores. The dying woman so lies, propped up with pillows, that she may see it to the end. For even the son who sits by her side cannot drive out of her heart her other darling.

“And then it is only loving you in another way, for she is yours,” she says. “I love her for your sake as well as for her own, my George.”

He says nothing. His brows contract a little—there is something he would like to say, but the end draws very near now, she is fitted for no new shocks. And she loves the child. No, he will not speak.

“That reminds me,” she says, faintly, “you are the baronet, not Vane. I did not think of that before.”

“Do not think of it now. What does it matter. Let it go.”

“It does matter. It shall not go. Right is right,” some of her old imperious command flashes in her dim eyes, rings in her feeble voice. “You are the baronet, not he. You must claim your right, George. Promise me you will when I am gone.”

“Mother, is it worth while——”

“It is worth while—a thousand times worth while. Right is right, I say. He is a just man with all his faults; he will acknowledge your superior right. He has no shadow of claim on the title while you live. And the fortune is yours too–your daughter will resign it. It must be so, George—promise me.”

“Mother——”

“Promise me, if I am to die content. Through my fault, through my cruelty, you have lost both title and fortune. Let me do what I can to repair it. Before those doctors in the next room, before my lawyer, my servants, I have already acknowledged you; promise me you will make the world acknowledge you, that you will resume your rightful name and rank, your place in the world. Promise me before I die. You cannot refuse the last request of a dying mother.”

No—he cannot, but he looks infinitely disturbed as he reluctantly gives the pledge. “I promise—to let Do lores know,” is what he slowly says.

“You hear this?” she asks, appealing in terrible earnestness to the two silent witnesses of the scene—Mrs. Tinker, kneeling beside her, Rene Macdonald, standing at the foot of the bed. “You are listening, Monsieur Rene? You will witness for me that he keeps his pledge? He must assert his rights. Dolores is your friend—I commission you to tell her this. She will do what is right I know—it is a heart of gold. And it is her own father. How glad the child will be. You will love her very much, George, and care for her? Do not let her husband be unkind to her. He is a just man Vane—but hard, and a little grim. When I am gone, Monsieur Rene, go to England, and tell the little one. She will gladly give up a fortune and a title for her father’s sake.”

“My dear mother, you do wrong to agitate yourself in this way. Do not talk. Rene is going now. Will you say good-by to him, and try to sleep?”

“To sleep, to sleep,” she murmurs, heavily. “I shall sleep soundly soon, my son—soon, soon. I am sorry to leave you. Do not go away, stay here with me until the end.”

“I am not going, mother—it is Rene.”

“Addio, signore,” she says, with a wan smile, “I like you, I always liked you. And you will tell my little one when I am gone. She liked you, too—she liked you best. I know it now. Do not tell Sir Vane; he would not like it. Yes, she liked you best.”

“Her mind is wandering,” her son says, hurriedly, but he glances questionly at Rene as he says it. In the dim gray-green light of the death-room, he sees the profound pallor of the dark face. So, poor Rene!

They watch by the bedside during the long, slow hours of the afternoon. She rambles sometimes, and murmurs broken sentences—generally, though, her mind is quite calm. George sits by her side, holding her hand, administering stimulants and medicines, watching every breath. And so death finds her when it comes, quite peacefully and painlessly, her last smile, her last look, her last word for him. When Ave Maria rings out in the pearly haze of twilight, Katherine Valentine lies dead.