The Last Miracle Part 14

"Yes, that's strong. But you still speak of this? You still hope for such a thing of me, really?"

"But may I not? Only to be allowed to take you----"

"_To Styria?_" she repeated: "oh, Arthur, the colour of your eyes and mine don't match, you were not fas.h.i.+oned to be the father of a houseful of sons, they would all squint. Deus meus! doesn't the enthronisation of Archbishop Burton take place to-morrow, and will you not be going to Styria the day after, or the day after?"

"I do not know that," I said: "we are waiting for a letter from the authorities there."

"But if no letter comes? Will you not be going? Will you let Aubrey go alone?"

"I am far from certain that Aubrey is going! There are pits and perils----"

"He shall go," she said, "though they pierce my side, too, so that out of it gush blood mingled with tears; he will go of himself, because he should, and he shall go, because I will tell him to."

"I know that he will if he should," I answered; "but should he? What has Aubrey to do with the world's trouble? As for me, I tell you, Emily, that I care for nothing in the wide earth----"

"But care you must! Kitty-wren has come, the gripe's on," said she, "and if she hath a devil we must nourish a G.o.d in us, to match it. There is no escape, we are under orders, and care we must, go he shall, and you with him, though they crucify him and you, and though they fix every muscle of me to a different tree."

"But why did this bird come to _us_?" I thought then in my pity: "there was the world for her, and she came to Swandale"; and some despair in our friend's face seemed to say to me, "yes, she came to us, to me, to you, not to others, but to us: it stands recorded, two G.o.ds are in it."

Her face showed wannish in that twilight against her violet velvet and her furs, for the shades of night were gathering, and we looked aside through the window upon the darkling oblong of water in silence, since I could find nothing to answer her, nor any way out of the entanglement in which my feet seemed to be engaged; anon her large plush hat touched my face, anon she fingered the chords of the harp, while the bird on her shoulder twittered its song. At last I said to her: "let it be as you wish, Emily: but is a journey to Styria such a great matter? We will go, and we shall return. Nothing shall be strong enough to restrain me from returning, if you say that my ordeal shall then come to its conclusion."

She looked with sorrowful eyes over the water, and after some minutes she murmured: "only return safe with him, and I may be fond to you, Arthur."

We dallied there a goodly time after this, till some of the star-glints were lit all amid the lilies of the pool; the little bird became sullener or sleepy, and barely lisped anon; I saw a tear steal down the cheek of our friend, as she commenced to hum, and then to sing wistfully, and to tw.a.n.g out on the harp one of those artificial little hymns of her brother, whose austere, sad music had long been dear to our hearts: it was his Serenade, already at that time set to music by the many-minded Ambrose Rivers of "New Church" notoriety:

"In its dash Showers down the rill, Raving of the hill (Graves are on the hill), May its streams Mingle with thy dreams.

Rove with Robin, love: Mumble in thy brain Murmurs of the main.

For the c.o.c.k Drawleth as a-yawn, Dreaming of the dawn (h.o.a.rily a-dawn), And a-mount Showereth the fount.

Almond-drugged the garth, Showery besprayed, h.o.a.rily arrayed.

And of G.o.d Worthy is the sight, Worlds are in the night (Walkers of the night), And He calls Westwardly His thralls; Gorgeous large they glide, Wardedly like sheep, Walkers in a sleep.

And a brawl Craveth in this breast, Craving thee and rest (G.o.d in thee and rest), And a roar Droneth to the sh.o.r.e.

Das.h.i.+ng raves the rill, 'Lazily they lie, G.o.d it is to die.'"

Her rendering of it was berippled all the while by the whispering tongue of the wren, and when she finished I said to her: "you see, the water-lilies have heard at least you once more, Emily, and there is hope, for Mercy is only in Cuckoo-town in so far as Cuckoo-town is in heaven. But we should go back to the cottage now, for the stars are looking out in crowds, and it is beginning to grow cold."

She came with me, and we paced back by the margin of the pool, through the wood, and up a dell, to the cottage. All laughter had gone now from her lips, her steps were laggard, for she was easily wearied and emptied now; and I held her poor hand all the way.

As we entered upon the bridge, there stood Langler at a door of the cottage, a letter in his hand, which, when we had gone into the dining-room, he handed to me openly before Miss Emily. It was the letter from Upper Styria come at last, signed by a certain Oberpolizeirath Tiarks, whose face I was destined one day to see. I read it with a greed which I could not hide. But it consisted mostly of a gorgeous heading, the writing being in two lines only, and these cold enough but for their salute of "high-born sir!" It merely acknowledged the receipt of our "honoured but somewhat insubstantial [ungegrundet!] communication"; and there it ended.

It was for this that we had waited! The paper was actually perfumed.

It had upon me an effect of gloom, and I felt now that our departure was about to be, but nothing was said of the letter at dinner, nor was it till near ten in the night that we three met to talk of it in Langler's study. Miss Emily closed the shutter, we felt like plotters, and laid our heads together with low voices. Our friend seemed now quite business-like and herself: she proposed that we should leave England in four days' time, our purpose of going being kept quite secret meantime, and that I should start first, to await Langler in London. All this was arranged; also that Miss Emily should stay mainly with the Misses Chambers during our absence, and it was not till towards one in the morning that, at the third knocking of a nurse, we rose and parted to go to bed.

After all this I was naturally not a little surprised to hear Langler say the next morning to his old butler, Davenport: "Davenport, I am about to take a long voyage from home, as you will soon see for yourself!" It was _a propos_ of nothing! The old fellow had brought in some sour milk, and was retiring, when Langler stretched back his neck and made the remark! No one, indeed, could be safer than old Davenport, but still, the confidence seemed so needless.... "But it is a secret, Davenport," I said pointedly.

Well, I left Alresford for London that evening, and from the next morning, the 27th--the morning after Dr Burton was enthroned--set to work to gather all the information which would be useful to our undertaking: I engaged an agent, named Barker, to accompany us, I wrote letters, did business, relearned German and the map of Styria, kept clear of friends, and even bought a number of things, including some revolvers. On my second morning in London I got a letter from Langler, and another the next morning, with a note from his sister: he said that he was ready, and would be with me at three P.M. of the 29th.

During the evening of the 28th, I being at home alone, reading, a letter was handed me, consisting only of the three words: "_All is known_,"

scribbled across half-a-sheet of note-paper, with a criss-cross for crest. After much reflection I made up my mind not to write of it to the Langlers, but it robbed me of sleep that night.

At three P.M. the next day I was at the station to meet Langler, but he did not come, and from then I underwent the keenest anxiety till six, when I got a telegram: "About to start now"; and near nine Langler, thick in furs, stood smiling before me, with the words: "_eh bien, me voici_."

"The luggage below?" I asked.

"No, I took it direct to Victoria."

"Oh, but I thought, Aubrey, that you were to bring it here, as the safest way?"

"Well, to save a double nuisance...."

"All right: I hope it doesn't matter. And as to Emily?"

"Well, thank G.o.d, and strong in heart."

"And you, how do you feel after the voyage?"

He smiled in his wistful way.

"Well, let us dine," I said, pulling the bell. "I mean to have you in bed by eleven, after no more than two pipes, for our train starts as the clock strikes nine in the morning."

I had kept back dinner for him, and we were soon at table. We were eating fish when my man brought me in two telegrams, and the moment I saw them in his hand, before ever I opened or touched them, my heart sank: for I think that only the farther future is quite unknown, but we know a moment hence, as when a heavy weight is to drop we feel it beforehand. Tearing open one of the telegrams, I glanced at the sender's name--"Lizzie Chambers"; she had written: "Emily ill, don't go away"; I tore open the other: it, too, was from Miss Chambers, and she wrote: "Emily's other hand has been nailed."

Into the gloom of my mind grew the understanding that the milder of the telegrams must be for Langler's eyes, the sterner for mine alone: but I showed him neither, I left him there at the table, and in another room called out upon Almighty G.o.d for help and strength. When I returned to the outer room I could speak.

But I showed him neither of the telegrams, for I had not the heart, and he slept in peace that night. The next morning I told him when he came to my bedside that I feared I should not be able to go to Styria, since I was ill; and indeed I was very ill.

CHAPTER XVI

"DISEASED PERSONS"

What happened now I do not find it easy to tell, for my next weeks were pa.s.sed in a state like to De Quincey's "tortures of opium": I cannot clearly remember telling Langler what had happened, or showing him the telegrams, and he had to return to Swandale alone, in what sort of state I do not know, for I was in a bad dream, flushed with fever, nor was I able to go out of doors till the 25th of April. It was a Sunday, towards evening, I was accompanied by a friend, and we happened to go into St Clement Dane's, where the preacher referred to Miss Langler, and expressed the wonder of the world at the outrage; but what makes that service stand out in my memory is a little thing that happened to myself, for I was sitting with my head bowed during the Kyrie when a priest who was pacing about came and pushed me rudely on the back, saying: "_kneel, kneel_." I never was more astonished.

The next day I stood at last by the bedside of our friend. She knew me, I think, though not very clearly, but I understood that she had received such a shock this time that she would never more be strong, even if she did not die, for she had been still frail from the first woe when again she was torn. Langler stood with me and watched her, for his self-control was at all times fine, though I don't think born with him, but won by strict schooling of himself; but after a time when we saw her tossing her head from side to side, so acquainted with misfortune, we had to turn from her. She had been especially unlucky, since she had _meant_ to be on her guard, never to be out of doors alone, during her brother's absence; but in pa.s.sing from her carriage at the park wall of Dale Manor to the house, it had come upon her. I remember spending that evening of my arrival on my back at a window, staring up at a poplar which looked like a fountain of leaf.a.ge shot up to a point on high out of the ground; sometimes its top seemed to be sailing against the sky, as toppling to fall; and the breaths of the wind rocked its branches, roughing up the under-white of its foliage with a chaunting like the psalm of Time; and a starling flew up to her charming home on high in it: and this somehow calmed and consoled me.

I could stay only three days then, and for the next six weeks was to and fro between Swandale and London on dates of which I have no record, spending most of my time in a sort of political pool and uproar of things, which perhaps did me good. Those were Diseased Persons days, and well I recollect the thrill that ran through England on the night of its virtual throwing out by the Lords in Committee. Burton and Edwards were now at their death-grips, on the side of the archbishop being all the awe of the nation, on that of the minister all its reason, its secret sympathy, for it seemed that even G.o.d, howling from heaven, could not quite bring it about to clericalise the modern world. I had just telegraphed the throwing out to Langler, and was gossiping about it with some men in one of my clubs--it was late, after the theatres--when I was aware of Baron Kolar's presence: he had come in with three men, and his eyes, swimming round, found me out. He walked straight to me. "Miss Langler," were his first low words--"how is she?"

The _cheek_, and also the hearty concern, of the question confounded me.

"Miss Langler is, of course, gravely ill," I answered.

He groaned, with a look of ruth, of care, on his face: nor did it occur to me to suppose it feigned, since I very well knew that the man was no hypocrite; yet I was sure too, in my heart, that here was the man who was the undoer of Miss Langler.

"But surely she will recover?" said he: "let me hear now that she will."