The Three Clerks Part 59

'We shall all be proud of you, if you will resolve to turn away from childish things now that you are no longer a child--your faults are faults which as yet may be so easily relinquished.

But, oh, Charley----' and then Mrs. Woodward paused and looked wistfully into his face. She had now come to the point at which she had to make her prayer to him. She had resolved to tell him the cause of her fears, and to trust to his honour to free her from them. Now was the moment for her to speak out; but now that the moment was come, the words were wanting.

She looked wistfully into his face, but he did not even guess what was her meaning. He knew the secret of his own love; but he did not know that Katie also had her secret. He had never dreamt that his faults, among all their ill effects, had paled her cheek, made wan her arm, silenced her voice, and dimmed her eye.

When he had heard Katie cough, he had in nowise connected the hated sound with his own arrest. He had thought only of his own love.

'Oh! Charley--I know I can trust you,' said Mrs. Woodward. 'I know you are gentle and good. You will be gentle and good to us, will you not? you will not make us all wretched?'

Charley declared that he would not willingly do anything to cause pain to any of them.

'No--I am sure you will not. And therefore, Charley, you must not see Katie any more.'

At this time they had turned off the road into a shady lane, in which the leaves of autumn were beginning to fall. A path led over a stile away from the lane into the fields, and Mrs.

Woodward had turned towards it, as though intending to continue their walk in that direction. But when she had reached the stile, she had sat down upon the steps of it, and Charley had been listening to her, standing by, leaning on the top rail.

'And therefore, Charley, you must not see Katie any more.' So much she said, and then she looked into his face with imploring eyes.

It was impossible that he should answer her at once. He had to realize so much that had hitherto not been expressed between them, before he could fully understand what she meant; and then he was called on to give up so much that he now learnt for the first time was within his reach! Before he could answer her he had to a.s.sure himself that Katie loved him; he had to understand that her love for one so abandoned was regarded as fatal; and he had to reply to a mother's prayer that he would remove himself from the reach of a pa.s.sion which to him was worth all the world beside.

He turned his face away from her, but still stood leaning on the stile, with his arms folded on it. She watched him for a while in silence, and at last she saw big tears drop from his face on to the dust of the path on the farther side. There they came rolling down, large globules of sorrow. Nothing is so painful to a woman as a man in tears, and Mrs. Woodward's heart was wrung to its very core. Why was he not like Alaric or Norman, so that she might make him welcome to her daughter's heart?

She leant towards him and put her hand caressingly on his arm.

'It shall be so, shall it not, Charley?'

'Oh, of course, if you say so.'

'I have your word, then? If I have your word, that will be a perfect bond. I have your word, have I not, Charley?'

'What!--never see her in my life?' said he, turning almost fiercely on Mrs. Woodward.

'That, you know, is more than you can promise,' said she, very gently. 'It is not to the letter of the promise that I would bind you, but to its spirit. You understand well what I mean; you know what I wish, and why I wish it. Say that you will obey my wish, and I will leave the mode of doing it to your own honour. Have I your promise?'

He shook her hand off his arm almost roughly, though unintentionally, and turning sharply round leant with his back against the stile. The traces of tears were still on his cheeks, but he was no longer crying; there was, however, a look on his face of heart-rending sorrow which Mrs. Woodward could hardly endure.

'I do understand you,' said he, 'and since you demand it, I will promise;' and then they walked home side by side, without interchanging a single word.

When they reached the house, Mrs. Woodward went to her room, and Charley found himself alone with Katie.

'I hope you find yourself better this evening,' said he.

'Oh, I am quite well,' she answered, with her sweetest, kindest voice; 'I am quite well, only sometimes I am a little weak.'

He walked up to the window as though to pa.s.s on to the lawn; but the season was too far advanced for that, and the window was locked. He retraced his steps, therefore, and pa.s.sing out of the drawing-room into the hall, stood at the open front door till he heard Mrs. Woodward come down. Then he followed her into the room.

'Good-bye,' he said to her suddenly; 'I shall start by the early train to-morrow, and shall not see you.' She pressed his hand, but he in nowise returned the pressure. 'Good-bye, Linda; good-bye, Katie; good night, Captain Cutt.w.a.ter.' And so he went his way, as Adam did when he was driven out of Paradise.

Early on the following morning, the cook, while engaged in her most matutinal duties, was disturbed by a ring at the front door.

She, and she only of the household, was up, and as she had not completed her toilet with much minuteness, she was rather embarra.s.sed when, on opening the door, she saw Mr. Charles Tudor.

'I beg your pardon, cook, for troubling you so early; but I have left something in the drawing-room. I can find it myself;' and, so saying, he hurried into the room, so as to prevent the servant from following him.

Katie had a well-worn, well-known little workbox, which, in years now long past; had been given to her either by Alaric or Harry.

Doubtless she had now work-boxes grander both in appearance and size; but, nevertheless, whether from habit or from choice, her custom was, in her daily needlework, to use this old friend.

Often and often had Charley played with it many wicked pranks.

Once, while Katie had as yet no pretension to be grown up, he had put a snail into it, and had incurred her severe displeasure. He had stuffed it full of acorns, and been rewarded by being pelted with them round the lawn; and had filled it with nuts, for which he had not found it so difficult to obtain pardon. He knew every hole and corner in it! he was intimate with all her little feminine nicknacks--her silver thimble, her scissors, her bit of wax, and the yard-measure, which twisted itself in and out of an ivory cottage--he knew them all, as well as though they were his own; and he knew also where the workbox stood.

He closed the door behind him, and then, with his quickest motion, raised the lid and put within the box, just under the bit of work on which she was employed, a light small paper parcel. It contained the purse which she had worked for him, and had given to him with such sweet affection at the Chiswick flower-show.

CHAPTER x.x.xI

HOW APOLLO SAVED THE NAVVY

About the middle of November, the Woodwards went to Torquay, and remained there till the following May. Norman went with them to see them properly settled in their new lodgings, and visited them at Christmas, and once again during their stay there. He then went down to fetch them home, and when they all returned, informed Charley, with whom he was still living, that he was engaged to Linda. It was arranged, he said, that they were to be married in August.

On the whole, the journey to Torquay was considered to have been successful. Katie's health had been the only object in going there, and the main consideration while they remained. She returned, if not well, at any rate not worse. She had got through the winter, and her lungs were still p.r.o.nounced to be free from those dreadful signs of decay, the name of which has broken so many mothers' hearts, and sent dismay into the b.r.e.a.s.t.s of so many fathers. During her sojourn at Torquay she had grown much, and, as is often the case with those who grow quickly, she had become weak and thin. People at Torquay are always weak and thin, and Mrs. Woodward had not, therefore, been greatly frightened at this. Her spirits, though by no means such as they had been in former days, had improved, she had occupied herself more than she had done during the last two months at Hampton, and had, at least so Mrs. Woodward fondly flattered herself, ceased to be always thinking of Charley Tudor. It was quite clear that she had firmly made up her mind to some certain line of conduct with reference to him; she never mentioned his name, nor was it mentioned in her hearing by either her mother or sister during their stay at Torquay. When Norman came down, she always found some opportunity of inquiring from him as to Charley's health and welfare; but she did this in a manner which showed that she had succeeded in placing her feelings wonderfully under control.

On that Monday morning, on which Charley had returned to town after his early visit to her workbox, she had not failed to find the purse. Linda was with her when she did so, but she had contrived so to conceal her emotion, that nothing was seen and nothing suspected. She felt at once that it was intended that all intercourse should be broken off between them. She knew instinctively that this was the effect of some precaution on her mother's part, and with a sad bosom and a broken heart, she acquiesced in it. She said nothing, even to herself, of the truth and constancy of her love; she made no mental resolution against any other pa.s.sion; she did not even think whether or not she might ever be tempted to love another; but she felt a dumb aching numbness about her heart; and, looking round about her, she seemed to feel that all was dark and dismal.

And so they sojourned through the winter at Torquay. The effort which Katie made was undoubtedly salutary to her. She took again to her work and her lessons--studies we should probably now call them--and before she left Torquay, she had again learned how to smile; but not to laugh with that gay ringing silver laughter, ringing, but yet not loud, which to Charley's ear had been as sweet as heavenly music. During this time Uncle Bat remained at Hampton, keeping bachelor's house by himself.

And then while they were at Torquay, Linda and Norman became engaged to each other. Their loves were honest, true, and happy; but not of a nature to give much scope to a novelist of a romantic turn. Linda knew she was not Norman's first love, and requited Norman, of course, by telling him something, not much, of Alaric's falseness to her. Norman made but one ungenerous stipulation. It was this: that in marrying him Linda must give up all acquaintance with her brother-in-law. He would never, he said, be the means of separating two sisters; she and Gertrude might have such intercourse together as their circ.u.mstances might render possible; but it was quite out of the question that either he, Harry Norman, or his wife, should ever again a.s.sociate with Alaric Tudor.

In such matters Linda had always been guided by others; so she sighed and promised, and the engagement was duly ratified by all the parties concerned.

We must now return to Charley. When he got back to town, he felt that he had lost his amulet; his charm had gone from him, and he had nothing now left whereby to save himself from ruin and destruction. He was utterly flung over by the Woodwards; that now was to him an undoubted fact. When Mrs. Woodward told him that he was never again to see Katie, that was, of course, tantamount to turning him out of the Cottage. It might be all very well to talk to him of affection and friends.h.i.+p; but it was manifest that no further signs of either were to be shown to him. He had proved himself to be unworthy, and was no more to be considered as one of the circle which made the drawing-room at Surbiton Cottage its centre. He could not quite explain all this to Norman, as he could not tell him what had pa.s.sed between him and Mrs. Woodward; but he said enough to make his friend know that he intended to go to Hampton no more.

It would be wrong, perhaps, to describe Charley as being angry with Mrs. Woodward. He knew that she was only doing her duty by her child; he knew that she was actuated by the purest and best of motives; he was not able to say a word against her even to himself; but, nevertheless, he desired to be revenged on her--not by injuring her, not by injuring Katie--but by injuring himself.

He would make Mrs. Woodward feel what she had done, by rus.h.i.+ng, himself, on his own ruin. He would return to the 'Cat and Whistle'--he would keep his promise and marry Norah Geraghty--he would go utterly to destruction, and then Mrs. Woodward would know and feel what she had done in banis.h.i.+ng him from her daughter's presence!

Having arrived at this magnanimous resolution after a fortnight's doubt and misery, he proceeded to put his purpose into execution.

It was now some considerable time since he had been at the 'Cat and Whistle;' he had had no further visit from Mrs. Davis, but he had received one or two notes both from her and Norah, to which, as long as he had Katie's purse, he was resolute in not replying; messages also had reached him from the landlady through d.i.c.k Scatterall, in the last of which he was reminded that there was a trifle due at the bar, and another trifle for money lent.

One night, having lashed himself up to a fit state of wretched desperation, he found himself at the well-known corner of the street leading out of the Strand. On his journey thither he had been trying to realize to himself what it would be to be the husband of Norah Geraghty; what would be the joy of returning to a small house in some dingy suburb and finding her to receive him. Could he really love her when she would be bone of his bone and flesh of his flesh, the wife of his bosom and the mother of his children? In such a case would he ever be able to forget that he had known Katie Woodward? Would those words of hers ever ring in his ears, then as now--'You will be steady, dear Charley; won't you?'

There are those who boast that a gentleman must always be a gentleman; that a man, let him marry whom he will, raises or degrades his wife to the level of his own condition, and that King Cophetua could share his throne with a beggar-woman without sullying its splendour or diminis.h.i.+ng its glory. How a king may fare in such a condition, the author, knowing little of kings, will not pretend to say; nor yet will he offer an opinion whether a lowly match be fatally injurious to a marquess, duke, or earl; but this he will be bold to affirm, that a man from the ordinary ranks of the upper cla.s.ses, who has had the nurture of a gentleman, prepares for himself a h.e.l.l on earth in taking a wife from any rank much below his own--a h.e.l.l on earth, and, alas! too often another h.e.l.l elsewhere also. He must either leave her or loathe her. She may be endowed with all those moral virtues which should adorn all women, and which, thank G.o.d, are common to women in this country; but he will have to endure habits, manners, and ideas, which the close contiguity of married life will force upon his disgusted palate, and which must banish all love. Man by instinct desires in his wife something softer, sweeter, more refined than himself; and though in failing to obtain this, the fault may be all his own, he will not on that account the more easily reconcile himself to the want.

Charley knew that he was preparing such misery for himself. As he went along, determined to commit a moral suicide by allying himself to the barmaid, he constrained himself to look with his mind's eye 'upon this picture and on that.'

He had felt of what nature was the sort of love with which Katie Woodward had inspired his heart; and he felt also what was that other sort of love to which the charms of Norah Geraghty had given birth.

Norah was a fine girl, smart enough in her outward apparel, but apt occasionally to disclose uncomfortable secrets, if from any accident more than her outward apparel might momentarily become visible. When dressed up for a Sunday excursion she had her attractions, and even on ordinary evenings, a young man such as Charley, after imbibing two or three gla.s.ses of spirits and water, and smoking two or three cigars, might find her to be what some of her friends would have called 'very good company.' As to her mind, had Charley been asked about it, he would probably have said that he was ignorant whether she had any; but this he did know, that she was sharp and quick, alert in counting change, and gifted with a peculiar power of detecting bad coin by the touch.

Such was Norah Geraghty, whom Charley was to marry.

And then that other portrait was limned with equal accuracy before his eyes. Katie, with all her juvenile spirit, was delightfully feminine; every motion of hers was easy, and every form into which she could twist her young limbs was graceful. She had all the nice ideas and ways which a girl acquires when she grows from childhood to woman's stature, under the eye of a mother who is a lady. Katie could be untidy on occasions; but her very untidiness was inviting. All her belongings were nice; she had no hidden secrets, the chance revealing of which would disgrace her. She might come in from her island palaces in a guise which would call down some would-be-censorious exclamation from her mother; but all others but her mother would declare that Katie in such moments was more lovely than ever. And Katie's beauty pleased more than the eye--it came home to the mind and heart of those who saw her. It spoke at once to the intelligence, and required, for its full appreciation, an exercise of the mental faculties, as well as animal senses. If the owner of that outward form were bad or vile, one would be inclined to say that Nature must have lied when she endowed her with so fair an index.

Such was Katie Woodward, whom Charley was not to marry.