Dawn: Chapter 57
Chapter 57
That night Arthur dreamed no evil dreams, but he thought he heard a
sound outside his door, and some one speak of fire. Hearing nothing
more, he turned and went to sleep again. Waking in the early dawn he
felt, ere yet his senses fully came, a happy sense of something, he
knew not what, a rosy shadow of coming joy, such as will, only with
more intensity, fall upon our quickened faculties when, death ended,
our souls begin to stir as we awaken to Eternity.
He sprang from his bed, and his eye fell on a morocco case upon the
dressing-table. It contained the diamonds which he had had re-set as a
wedding present to Angela. They were nothing compared with Mildred
Carr's, but still extremely handsome, their beauty being enhanced by
the elegance of the setting, which was in the shape of a snake with
emerald head and ruby eyes, so constructed as to clasp tightly round
Angela's shapely throat.
The sight of the jewellery at once recalled his present circumstances,
and he knew that the long hour of trial was passed--he was about to
meet Angela. Having dressed himself as quickly as he could, he took up
the jewel-case, but, finding it too large to stow away, he opened it,
and, taking out the necklace, crammed it into his pocket. Thus armed
he slipped down the stairs, past the open common room where the light
shone through the cracks in the shutters on a dismal array of sticky
beer-mugs and spirit glasses, down the sanded passage into the village
street.
It was full daylight now, and the sun never looked upon a lovelier
morning. The air was warm, but there was that sharp freshness in it
which is needful to make summer weather perfect, and which we always
miss by breakfasting at nine o'clock. The sky was blue, just flecked
with little clouds; the dewdrops sparkled upon every leaf and blade of
grass; touches of mist clung about the hollows, and the sweet breath
of the awakened earth was full of the perfect scent of an English
June, which is in its way even more delicious than the spicy odours of
the tropics. It was a morning to make sick men well, and men happy,
and atheists believers in a creative hand. How much more than did it
fire Arthur's pulses, already bounding with youth and health, with an
untold joy.
He felt like a child again, so free from care, so happy, except that
his heart swelled with a love beyond the knowledge of children. His
quick temperament had rebounded from the depths of unequal depression,
into which it so often fell, to the heights of a happy assurance. The
Tantalus cup was at his lips at last, and he would drink his full, be
sure! His eyes flashed and sparkled, his foot fell light and quick as
an antelope's, his brown cheek glowed--never had he looked so
handsome. Angela would not forget her promise; she would be waiting
for him by the lake, he was sure of that, and thither he made his way
through the morning sunshine. They were happy moments.
Presently he passed into the parish of Bratham, and his eye fell upon
a neat red brick cottage, a garden planted with sunflowers, and a
bright gravel path running to the rustic gate. He thought the garden
charmingly old-fashioned, and had just entered a mental note to ask
Angela who lived there, when the door opened, and figure he knew
emerged, bearing a mat in one hand and a mopstick in the other. He was
some way off, and at first could not quite distinguish who it was; but
before she had come to the gate he recognized Pigott. By this time she
had stepped into the road, and was making elaborate preparations to
dust her mat so that she did not see him, till he spoke to her.
"How are you, Pigott? What may you be doing down here? Why are you not
up at the Abbey?"
She gave a cry, and the mat and mopstick fell from her hands.
"Mr. Heigham!" she said, in an awed voice that chilled his blood,
"what has brought you back, and why do you come to me? I never wronged
you."
"What are you talking about? I have come to marry Angela, of course.
We are going to be married to-morrow."
"Oh, then it's really _you_, sir! _And she married yesterday--oh, good
God!_"
"Don't laugh at me, nurse--please don't laugh. It--it upsets me. Why
do you shake so? What do you mean?"
"Mean!--I mean that my Angela _married her cousin, George Caresfoot,
at Roxham, yesterday._ Heaven forgive me for having to tell it you!"
Reader, have you ever mortally wounded a head of large game? You hear
your bullet thud upon the living flesh, and see the creature throw up
its head and stagger for a moment, and then plunge forward with
desperate speed, crashing through bush and reeds as though they were
meadow-grass. Follow him awhile, and you will find him standing quite
still, breathing in great sighs, his back humped and his eye dim, the
gore trickling from his nostrils. He is dying--but be careful, he
means mischief before he dies.
Any great shock, mental or physical, is apt to reduce man to the level
of his brother beasts. Arthur, for instance, behaved very much like a
wounded buffalo as soon as the stun of the blow passed away, and the
rending pain began to make itself felt. For a few seconds he gazed
before him stupid and helpless, then his face turned quite grey, the
eyes and nostrils gaped wide, and a curious rigidity took possession
of his muscles.
The road he was following led to a branching lane, the same that
Angela was turning up that misty Christmas Eve when she saw Lady
Bellamy glide past in her carriage. This lane had in former ages, no
doubt, to judge from its numerous curves, been an ancient forest-path,
and it ran to the little bridge over the stream that fed the lake--a
point that, by travelling as the crow flies from Pigott's cottage,
might be reached in half the time. This fact Arthur seemed at that
dreadful moment to suddenly realize, more probably from natural
instinct than from any particular knowledge of the lay of the land. He
did not speak again to Pigott, and she was too frightened at his face
to speak to him. He only looked at her, but she never forgot that look
so long as she lived. Then he turned like a mad thing, and went
_crash_ through the thick fence that hedged the road, and ran at full
speed towards the lake, diverging neither to the right nor to the
left, but breaking his way without the slightest apparent difficulty
through everything that opposed him.
Very soon he came to the little bridge, and here, struck by some new
instinct, he halted. He did not appear to be out of breath, but he
leaned on the rail of the bridge and groaned like a dying man. His
ghastly face made a blot in the mimic scenery of the place, which was
really very pretty. The bridge commanded no view, for the little creek
it spanned, and into which the stream ran, gave a turn before it grew
into the neck of the lake; but it was hedged in by greenery, and the
still pool beneath it was starred with water-lilies, turning their
innocent eyes up to the blue sky, and looking as peaceful as though
there were no stormy winds or waters in the world to toss them.
Amongst these water-lilies a moorhen had built her nest, and presently
she came clucking out right under Arthur's feet, followed by ten or a
dozen little hurrying black balls, each tipped with sealing-wax red.
She looked very happy with her brood--as happy as the lilies and the
blue sky--and the sight made him savage. He took up a large stone that
lay by him and threw it at her. It hit her on the back and killed her,
and Arthur laughed loud as he watched her struggle, and then lie
still, while the motherless chicks hurried, frightened, away. And yet
since he was a boy he had never till now wantonly injured any living
creature.
Presently, the dead water-hen floated out of sight, and he roused
himself, straightened his clothes, which had been somewhat torn and
deranged, and, with a steady step and a fixed smile upon his lips,
went forward, no longer at a run, but walking quietly up the path that
led to the big oak and shaded glen. In five minutes he was there.
Again he paused and looked. There was something to see. On one of the
stone seats, dressed in black, her face deathly pale, her head resting
on her hand, and trouble in her eyes, sat Angela. On the other was her
constant companion, the dog which he had given her. He remembered how,
a little more than a year before, she had surprised him in the same
way, and he had looked upon her and loved her. He could even smile at
the strange irony of fate that had, under such curiously reversed
circumstances, brought him back to surprise her, to look upon her, and
hate her.
She moved uneasily, and glanced round, but he was hidden by a bush.
Then she half rose, paused irresolutely, and, as though struggling
against something foolish, sat determinedly down again. When Arthur
had done smiling, he came forward a few steps into the open, feeling
that his face was all drawn and changed, as indeed it was. It was the
face of a man of fifty. His eyes were fire, and his heart was ice.
She turned her head, and looked up with a shrinking in her eyes, as
though she feared to see something hateful--a shrinking which turned
first to wonder, then to dread, then to a lively joy, and then again
to awe. She rose mechanically, with a great gasp; her lips parted, as
though to speak, but no words came. The dog, too, saw him, and
growled, then ran up and sniffed, and leaped upon him with a yelp of
joy. He waved it down, and there was something in the gesture that
frightened the beast. It shrank behind him. Then he spoke in a clear,
hard tone--not his own voice, she thought.
"Angela, is this true? Are you _married?_"
"Oh, no;" and her voice came stealing to his senses like half-
forgotten music; "that is, yes, alas! But is it really you? Oh,
Arthur, my darling, have you come back to me?" and she moved towards
him with outstretched arms.
Already they were closing round him, and he could feel her breath upon
his cheek, when the charm broke, and he wrenched himself free.
"Get back; do not dare to touch me. Do you know what you are? The poor
lost girl is not fallen so low as you. She must get her bread; but, at
any rate, I could have given you bread. What! fresh from your
husband's arms, and ready to throw yourself into mine! Shame upon you!
Were you not married yesterday?"
"Oh, Arthur, have pity! You do not understand. Oh, merciful God----"
"Have pity! What need for pity? Were you not married yesterday?" and
he laughed bitterly. "I come--I come from far to congratulate the new-
made wife. It is a little odd, though, I thought to marry you myself.
See, here was my wedding present;" and he tore the diamond necklace
from his pocket. "A snake, you see; a good emblem! Away with it, its
use is gone!"
The diamonds went flashing through the sunlight, and fell with a
little splash into the lake.
"What! are you not sorry to see so much valuable property wasted? You
have a keen appreciation of property!"
Angela sank down on her knees before him, like a broken lily. Her
looks grew faint and despairing. The stately head bowed itself to his
feet, and all the golden weight of hair broke loose. But he did not
pause or spare her. He ground his teeth. No one could have recognized
in this maddened, passion-inspired man the pleasant, easy-tempered
Arthur of an hour before. His nature was stirred to its depths, and
they were deep.
"You miserable woman! do not kneel to me. If it were not unmanly, I
could spurn you with my foot. Do you know, girl, you who swore to love
me till time had passed--yes, and for all eternity, you who do love me
at this moment--and therein lies your shame--that you have killed me?
You have murdered my heart. I trusted you, Angela, I trusted you, I
gave you all my life, all that was best in me; and now in reward--
degraded as you are--I must always love you as much as I despise you.
Even now I feel that I _cannot_ hate you and forget you. I _must_ love
you, and I _must_ despise you."
She gazed up at him like a dumb beast at its butcher; she could not
speak, her voice had gone.
"And yet, when I think of it, I have something to thank you for. You
have cleared my mind of illusions. You have taught me what a woman's
purity is worth. You did the thing well, too! You did not crush me by
inches with platitudes, bidding me forget you and not think of you any
more, as though forgetfulness were possible, and thought a tangible
thing that one could kill. You struck home in silence, once and for
all. Thank you for _that_, Angela. What, are you crying? Go back to
the brute whom you have chosen, the brute whose passion or whose money
you could prefer to me, tell him that they are tears of happiness, and
let him kiss them quite away."
"Oh, Arthur--cruel--Arthur!" and nature gave way. She fell fainting on
the grass.
Then, when he saw that she could not understand or feel any more, his
rage died, and he too broke down and sobbed, great, gasping sobs. And
the frightened dog crept up and licked first her face and then his
hand.
Kneeling down, Arthur raised her in his arms and strained her to his
heart, kissing her thrice upon the forehead--the lips he could not
touch. Then he placed her on the seat, leaning her weight against the
tree, and, motioning back the dog, he went his way.