34 Not Thus In Other Days We Met

IT is four hours later. The down express from London leaves one traveler at the village station, and thunders away again into the yellow sunset. A foreign gent, the loungers at the station set him down; very dark, with a long black mustache, and a certain undefinable air of cities and travel about him. His only luggage is a black portmanteau, also of foreign look, and well pasted with labels. He inquires, in perfect English, with only the slightest possible foreign accent, the way to Valentine Manor. A barefoot rustic lad undertakes, for sixpence, to show him thither, and afterward carry his bag to the Ratherripe Arms, and together they set out.

It is the hour “between the gloaming and the mirk,” the hour of Ave Maria in the fair, far-off land whence this stranger and pilgrim has come. The fields across which his guide takes him, by a short-cut, lie steeped in sheets of gold-gray light; overhead there is a gold-gray sky, flecked here and there with crimson bars. The sleepy cows lift slow, large eyes and regard them as they pass. A faint, sweet, warm wind stirs in the tree-tops, and the dark, watchful eyes of the stranger drink it all in—the quiet beauty of the twilit landscape.

“At the eventide there shall be light,” he dreamily thinks. “One might be happy here, if rural peace and loveliness were all.”

They pass a last stile, and the youthful guide pauses and points to the zig-zag path between the trees.

“Keep straight up yon,” he says, “t’ house is at the t’other end.”

The traveler hands the promised sixpence, and the lad scampers away. The footpath is a continuation of the short-cut across the park, and ends at one of the Queen Anne flower gardens. The Manor is in sight now, and he pauses to look at it, something more than mere curiosity in his gaze. With the full flush of the crimson and gold west upon it, gilding climbing rose, and trailing ivy, and tall honeysuckle, softening its decay, mellowing its ugly angles, it is a quaint and picturesque old house indeed, from an artistic point of view, with its top-heavy chimneys and mullioned windows, and antique-timbered porches. Hitherto he has met no one, now the flutter of a lady’s dress catches his eye. A robe of soft “hodden gray” color, dear to the artist eye, a touch of deep crimson, a gleam of creamy lace, the sheen of braided yellow hair, a face in profile under a straw hat—that is what he sees. And for a moment the man’s heart within him stands still.

“Therewith he raised his eyes, and turned,
And a great fire within him burned,
And his heart stopped awhile—for there
Against a thorn bush fair
His heart’s desire his eyes did see.”

She is seated on a knoll, her head resting against the rough brown boll of a tree, her white hands lying loosely in her lap, without work or book, and so still that at first he thinks she is asleep. But coming closer he sees that she is not; the blue eyes are looking with a strange sort of vacancy straight before her, at the red and amber light in the sky. She does not hear him; he treads lightly, and the elastic turf gives like velvet; she does not see him, she seems to see nothing, not even the lovely sunset light on which her blank eyes gaze. He is by her side looking down on her as she sits, his whole passionate heart in his eyes. “Snowball!” he says. She almost bounds, soft as the sound of his voice is. She springs to her feet, and stands looking at him, her lips apart, her eyes dilated, mute with amaze. “Snowball!” he says, and holds out both hands, “I have startled you. But I had no thought of coming upon you like this. I was going to the house when I chanced to see you here.” He stops. She does not answer, does not take the eager hands he holds out; she only stands and looks, too dazed by the shock of surprise for welcome or for joy.

For Rene, a terrible pang pierces him. Is this Snowball—bright, laughing, radiant Snowball—so full of impulsive gladness and happy greeting always—this pale, silent, stricken shadow?

“Rene!” she says, at last, almost in a whisper, “Rene!”

And then, slowly, a great gladness fills the blue eyes, a great welcome, a great joy. She gives him her hands, and tears well up and fill the blue, sad eyes. “Rene! Rene!” she says, and there is a sob in the voice; “I never thought to see you again.”

He clasps the hands, wasted and fragile, and looks at her, and says nothing. He thinks of the last time when he came upon her thus suddenly, among the Roman hill tops. How brightly beautiful had been the joyous young face then!—how impulsively eager and joyful her greeting then!—how different from this! Now—he has it in his heart to invoke a curse on the head of the man who has changed her like this. “How white you are!” he says—” like a spirit here in the gloaming, my Snowball. You do not look well. Have you been ill, Carina?”

“Ill? Oh, no,” she answers, wearily; “I am never ill. Do not mind my looks—what do they signify?—tell me what has brought you to England?”

“Sit down again, then,” he says. “You do not look fit to stand.”

She obeys him, sinking back on the grassy knoll, hardly yet believing the evidence of her ears and eyes. “Rene, Rene—here—how strange!”

“What is it?” she asks. “You look as if you had something to say. Why are you in England—at Valentine? It seems so strange.”

“That sounds slightly inhospitable, Lady Valentine,” smiling. It is an effort to call her by this name her husband has given her, but it helps to keep in his mind, what there is some danger of his forgetting, looking in that pallid, wistful, too-dear face, but even while he says it, he hates it and him.

“You know what I mean?” she says, simply. “I am not afraid of being misunderstood by you, Rene. You did not come all the way here simply to see me. You would not have come for that. It is something else something important. What is it?”

“Shall I tell you?” he looks at her anxiously, in doubt. “You do not look well, and it will—it must shock you, Snowball. Yes—I have something to tell you, something distressing, and very, very strange. I hardly know how you will believe it—you may not—and yet it is true. I have felt it rather hard from the first, that I should be the one chosen to bear the evil tidings, but fate has thrust it upon me. It is a long story, and I should like to tell you immediately. Are we likely to be disturbed here?”

“No in the least likely. No one ever comes here. It is the most secluded spot in the park. I choose it always for that reason. Now what, I wonder, is this amazing revelation you have to make?”

“It is amazing. It is the story of the dead alive. Dolores, listen—here—George Valentine has risen from his grave!”

“What!”

“He never was drowned, you know. It was all a mistake—that old story of long ago. He was not drowned. He is alive to-day!”

She sits and stares at him, trying to take this in. A flush sweeps over her face, “Rene! Oh, Rene, think what you say! My father——”

“And he is not your father—that is where the trouble comes. He left his wife—your mother—within a year of their marriage. For five years she heard nothing of him—when she did it was what others heard—that he was drowned. And she married again. Your parents are both dead, as you always, until of late years, thought but George Valentine lives. You are no kin of his—no drop of Valentine blood flows in your veins.”

She sits and listens, and looks pale with consternation and amaze—though slowly it dawns upon her, this that she hears. “Then grandmamma was deceived, I was not her granddaughter after all—not her heiress. Oh, Rene! Rene! if she—if I—if he—Sir Vane—had but known that!” She stops and covers her face for a moment with her hands. Not Madam Valentine’s heiress—if she had but known that! She might have been free to-day, or Rene’s wife.

“If we had but known,” Rene echoes, sadly. “It has been a fatal mistake. It would have been better, I sometimes think, if, at this late day, it were unknown still. But George Valentine lives, and what he has lost may be his again. It was Madam Valentine—not he—who commissioned me to come here and tell you this. Nothing short of a pledge to the dying could have made me do it. It is a singular story, this, I have come to tell.”

And he tells it—the story of Paul Farrar, the change of name and identity, the escape from shipwreck, the after life, the return to Rome, the railroad tragedy, and the recognition. He softens every detail that he can—of her mother; of her father, of course, there is nothing to tell. died. His biography is of the briefest. He was—and he died. He repeats Madam Valentine’s dying words—her conviction that Vane Valentine will resign the fortune and the title to which he has no shadow of right. And Dolores listens to it all, with a half dazed sort of comprehension, feeling giddy with the effort to take it in, but convinced that it is true, because Rene is convinced, and because M. Paul is the lost heir, and because “grandmamma” wished it on her dying bed.

There is silence for a little when he has done. The gray evening shadows are creeping up, and the ruby fires of the sunset are paling fast. She sits and looks at that dying light, some of the rising gray shadows seeming to darken her face. Is she sorry—is she glad? She hardly knows; she feels apathetic; poor or rich—what does it matter? George Valentine’s daughter, or the child of this unknown man whose name was Randall what does it signify now? She is still—come else what may—Vane Valentine’s wife. No change can change that. Other things are nothing, less than nothing. For her the world has come to an end—such things as Rene tells her of are outside the one vital interest of her life. If she could but be free again? But she is in bonds and fetters for all time. Let rank and wealth then come and go as they list.

“Well,” Rene breaks in upon her dreary reverie, after a long pause. “You are silent. You look strangely like a ghost, almost, in this half light. What is it, Carina mia?”

“I can hardly tell you,” she answers, dreamily, “it is all so strange. I am trying to realize it. M. Paul Farrar—George Valentine! Well it is easy to believe anything of M. Paul—he was always like an exiled prince. And his mother knew and forgave him at the last! and he made her dying hours happy! Ah! that is a good hearing. But the fortune—the title—does he think—his cousin will give them up?”

“No, Dolores; he does not.”

“Nor do I,” she says, simply, and her large eyes look at him earnestly; “I am sure he will not. Will the law compel him, Rene?”

I think so. I feel sure it would eventually, if George Valentine should choose to resort to law. But he will not?”

“No! Then why——”

“He has no hope, Snowball, of getting his own back again; and he does not much care, I think. If you were happy as mistress here—as that man’s wife——”

She makes a sudden motion, and he stops. She feels she cannot trust herself on this ground; it is best not to tread on it at all.

“Leave me out of the question,” she says; “it is a point of honor—of simple right and honesty—not of feeling. If George Valentine lives, we—I have no right here. Perhaps I wrong my husband—who knows? At least we will not prejudge him. He shall know all, and thus——”

They sit silent; they know so well what Vane Valentine’s decision will be.

“Is M. Paul in England?” she asks.

“He is not; he remains in Rome. He is strangely sensitive and abhorrent of all notoriety. Half a score of fortunes would not make up to him for the pain of telling his story to the world. That is why a question of birthright, easily enough proven, I should fancy, becomes a question of honor. If, in the face of the evidence he is prepared to show, Vane Valentine persists in keeping what he has got, through you, then keep it he must. George Valentine will never tell the story of his reckless, erratic life to the world through the medium of an endless Chancery suit.”

“It is like him,” she says. There is another pause. “Where are you stopping, Rene?” she inquires, suddenly.

“At the inn in the village. I am going up to London, however——”

“No,” she interrupts; ” do not for a day or two. My husband is in Cornwall; I will write to him to-night, and tell him what you have told me. Wait here until I receive his answer. Who knows? We may wrong him. ‘When the truth is fully known to him——”

“Who is that lady?” asks Rene, abruptly, “there between the trees—in the pink dress. She has been watching us for the last five minutes.”

“In a pink dress? Miss Routh then, of course,” her delicate lips curling; “it is her metier to watch me always. Yes, it is Camilla Routh, and she sees that we see her.”

The pink dress emerges, its wearer advances. Who is this olive-skinned, dark-mustached, extremely handsome young man, with whom her cousin’s wife talks so long, so earnestly, so secretly, under trees, in hidden places in the park? It is her duty to see into this, and curiosity is nearly as powerful as sense of duty with Miss Routh. So she comes forward, gathering field flowers and ferns as she comes, humming a little tune—fair, sweet, artless, unconscious, a picture of blonde, patrician British beauty. But she is not destined to be gratified—it is the rudest repulse perhaps Miss Routh has ever received in her life. As she draws near, Lady Valentine deliberately rises, eying her full, passes her hand through the arm of her picturesque-looking cavalier, and turns her back upon her enemy. Rene is rather aghast, but there is nothing for him but to follow Dolores’ lead. It is the most cutting of cuts direct. Miss Routh stops stunned.

“Do not come up to the house, Rene,” Dolores says, her pale cheek flushing painfully. “I cannot ask you. And do not come here again either. I fear that woman. When I hear from—him—I will let you know. I believe what you tell me—say so to Paul—whatever the result may be. Until then—adieu and au revoir.”

Miss Routh, watching afar off in speechless, furious anger sees her hold out her two hands, sees him take them, and hold them in a clasp that is close and long. Oh! that Vane, that Dorothy, that Colonel Deering were but here now! She cannot hear a word they say—more is the pity—making a second assignation, no doubt. Before she sleeps Vane shall be written to of this, shall hear it with all the additions and embellishments that malice and hatred can add. A dull glow of horrid triumph fills her in the midst of her rage. Let her look to it after this! It is the young French—Canadian sculptor, no doubt, of whom Vane is already jealous. She has lost no time in sending for her old lover, now that her husband is out of the way! It is a coarse thought, but the fair Camilla’s thoughts are mostly coarse. Let her look to it! the insult has been deadly—the reprisal shall be the same.

They part. Rene returns to the village—the two ladies, by different paths, to the house. Miss Routh does not appear at dinner; she is busy over a letter, every word of which is freighted with a venomous sting. She likes her dinner, and has it brought up to her, but she likes her revenge better. My lady writes a letter too, before she sleeps, also a long one; it takes her until past midnight, and is a carefully and minutely-worded repetition of the story Rene has told her under the trees. There is more than the story—an earnest protestation of her belief in its truth, and her perfect willingness to resign the fortune, to which she has never had a shadow of right.

“I do not fear poverty,” she writes, “trust me, Vane! I was never born to be a lady of rank and riches—both have been a burden to me, a burden I will lay down, oh! so gladly. This ‘burden of an honor unto which I was not born’ has weighed upon me like an evil incubus from the first. Oh, my husband, let us give back to George Valentine his birthright. He will act generously—more than generously, I know, for I know him and for me, I will go with you, and be in the day of disaster more faithful, more fond, more truly your wife, than I can ever be weighted down with wealth to which neither of us has a claim.”

But while she writes—her whole heart in her pleading words—she knows she writes in vain. More of her woman’s heart is in this letter than she has ever before shown to the man she has married. Apart from the misery of dwelling under the same roof as Camilla Routh—with the right done nobly for the right’s sake—far away from this place in which she has been so wretched, poor and obscure, if it must be, she feels that a sort of happiness is possible to her yet. If her husband is capable of an action at once honest and noble, then her heart will go out to him—freely, fully. The very thought of his doing it seems to bring him nearer to her already. If he will but do the right—if he will but let her, she may care for him yet.

Next morning, by the earliest mail, two very lengthy, very disturbing epistles, in feminine chirography, go down to Sir Vane Valentine, Bart., among the mines of Flintbarrow.