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Wilfrid Cumbermede by George MacDonald

G >> George MacDonald >> Wilfrid Cumbermede




'Not one atom,' I returned. 'She cured me of that quite. There is no
danger of that any more,' I added--foolishly, seeing I intended no
explanation.

'How do you mean?' he asked, a little uneasily.

I had no answer ready, and a brief silence followed. The subject was
not resumed.

It may well seem strange to my reader that I had never yet informed him
of the part Clara had had in the matter of the sword. But, as I have
already said, when anything moved me very deeply I was never ready to
talk about it. Somehow, perhaps from something of the cat-nature in me,
I never liked to let go my hold of it without good reason. Especially I
shrank from imparting what I only half comprehended; and besides, in
the present case, the thought of Clara's behaviour was so painful to me
still that I recoiled from any talk about it--the more that Charley had
a kind and good opinion of her, and would, I knew, only start
objections and explanations defensive, as he had done before on a
similar occasion, and this I should have no patience with. I had,
therefore, hitherto held my tongue. There was, of course, likewise the
fear of betraying his sister, only the danger of that was small, now
that the communication between the two girls seemed at an end for the
time; and if it had not been that a certain amount of mutual reticence
had arisen between us, first on Charley's part and afterwards on mine,
I doubt much whether, after all, I should not by this time have told
him the whole story. But the moment I had spoken as above, the
strangeness of his look, which seemed to indicate that he would gladly
request me to explain myself but for some hidden reason, flashed upon
me the suspicion that he was himself in love with Clara. The moment the
suspicion entered, a host of circumstances crystallized around it. Fact
after fact flashed out of my memory, from the first meeting of the two
in Switzerland down to this last time I had seen them together, and in
the same moment I was convinced that the lady I saw him with in the
Regent's Park was no other than Clara. But, if it were so, why had he
shut me out from his confidence? Of the possible reasons which
suggested themselves, the only one which approached the satisfactory
was that he had dreaded hurting me by the confession of his love for
her, and preferred leaving it to Clara to cure me of a passion to which
my doubtful opinion of her gave a probability of weakness and ultimate
evanescence.

A great conflict awoke in me. What ought I to do? How could I leave him
in ignorance of the falsehood of the woman he loved? But I could not
make the disclosure now. I must think about the how and the how much to
tell him. I returned to the subject which had led up to the discovery.

'Does your father keep horses, Charley?'

'He has a horse for his parish work, and my mother has an old pony for
her carriage.'

'Is the rectory a nice place?'

'I believe it is, but I have such painful associations with it that I
hardly know.'

The Arab loves the desert sand where he was born; the thief loves the
court where he used to play in the gutter. How miserable Charley's
childhood must have been! How _could_ I tell him of Clara's falsehood?

'Why doesn't he give Mary a pony to ride?' I asked. 'But I suppose he
hasn't room for another?'

'Oh! yes, there's plenty of room. His predecessor was rather a big
fellow. In fact, the stables are on much too large a scale for a
clergyman. I dare say he never thought of it. I must do my father the
justice to say there's nothing stingy about him, and I believe he loves
my sister even more than my mother. It certainly would be the best
thing he could do for her to give her a pony. But she will die of
religion--young, and be sainted in a twopenny tract, and that is better
than a pony. Her hair doesn't curl--that's the only objection. Some one
has remarked that all the good children who die have curly hair.'

Poor Charley! Was his mind more healthy, then? Was he less likely to
come to an early death? Was his want of faith more life-giving than
what he considered her false faith?

'I see no reason to fear it,' I said, with a tremor at my heart as I
thought of my dream.

That night I was sleepless--but about Charley--not about Mary. What
could I do?--what ought I to do? Might there be some mistake in my
judgment of Clara? I searched, and I believe searched honestly, for any
possible mode of accounting for her conduct that might save her
uprightness, or mitigate the severity of the condemnation I had passed
upon her. I could find none. At the same time, what I was really
seeking was an excuse for saying nothing to Charley. I suspect now
that, had I searched after justification or excuse for her from love to
herself, I might have succeeded in constructing a theory capable of
sheltering her; but, as it was, I failed utterly, and, turning at last
from the effort, I brooded instead upon the Quixotic idea already
adverted to, grown the more attractive as offering a good excuse for
leaving Charley for a little.




CHAPTER LII.


LILITH MEETS WITH A MISFORTUNE.

The next day, leaving a note to inform Charley that I had run home for
a week, I set out for the Moat, carrying with me the best side-saddle I
could find in London.

As I left the inn at Minstercombe in a gig, I saw Clara coming out of a
shop. I could not stop and speak to her, for, not to mention the
opinion I had of her, and the treachery of which I accused her, was I
not at that very moment meditating how best to let her lover know that
she was not to be depended upon? I touched the horse with the whip, and
drove rapidly past. Involuntarily, however, I glanced behind, and saw a
white face staring after me. Our looks encountering thus, I lifted my
hat, but held on my course.

I could not help feeling very sorry for her. The more falsely she had
behaved, she was the more to be pitied. She looked very beautiful with
that white face. But how different was her beauty from that of my
Athanasia!

Having tried the side-saddle upon Lilith, and found all it wanted was a
little change in the stuffing about the withers, I told Styles to take
it and the mare to Minstercombe the next morning, and have it properly
fitted.

What trifles I am lingering upon! Lilith is gone to the worms--no, that
I _do not_ believe: amongst the things most people believe, and I
cannot, that is one; but at all events she is dead, and the saddle gone
to worms; and yet, for reasons which will want no explanation to my one
reader, I care to linger even on the fringes of this part of the web of
my story.

I wandered about the field and house, building and demolishing many an
airy abode, until Styles came back. I had told him to get the job done
at once, and not return without the saddle.

'Can I trust you, Styles?' I said abruptly.

'I hope so, sir. If I may make so bold, I don't think I was altogether
to blame about that book--'

'Of course not. I told you so. Never think of it again. Can you keep a
secret?'

'I can try, sir. You've been a good master to me, I'm sure, sir.'

'That I mean to be still, if I can. Do you know the parish of
Spurdene?'

'I was born there, sir.'

'Ah! that's not so convenient. Do you know the rectory?'

'Every stone of it, I may say, sir.'

'And do they know you?'

'Well, it's some years since I left--a mere boy, sir.'

'I want you, then--if it be possible--you can tell best--to set out
with Lilith to-morrow night--I hope it will be a warm night. You must
groom her thoroughly, put on the side-saddle and her new bridle, and
lead her--you're not to ride her, mind--I don't want her to get
hot--lead her to the rectory of Spurdene--and-now here is the point--if
it be possible, take her up to the stable, and fasten her by this
silver chain to the ring at the door of it--as near morning as you
safely can to avoid discovery, for she mustn't stand longer at this
season of the year than can be helped. I will tell you all.--I mean her
for a present to Miss Osborne; but I do not want any one to know where
she comes from. None of them, I believe, have ever seen her. I will
write something on a card, which you will fasten to one of the pommels,
throwing over all this horsecloth.'

I gave him a fine bear-skin I had bought for the purpose. He smiled,
and, with evident enjoyment of the spirit of the thing, promised to do
his best.

Lilith looked lovely as he set out with her late the following night.
When he returned the next morning, he reported that everything had
succeeded admirably. He had carried out my instructions to the letter;
and my white Lilith had by that time, I hoped, been caressed, possibly
fed, by the hands of Mary Osborne herself.

I may just mention that on the card I had written, or rather printed,
the words: 'To Mary Osborne, from a friend.'

In a day or two I went back to London, but said nothing to Charley of
what I had done--waiting to hear from him first what they said about
it.

'I say, Wilfrid!' he cried, as he came into my room with his usual
hurried step, the next morning but one, carrying an open letter in his
hand, 'what's this you've been doing--you sly old fellow? You ought to
have been a prince, by Jove!'

'What do you accuse me of? I must know that first, else I might confess
to more than necessary. One must be on one's guard with such as you.'

'Read that,' he said, putting the letter into my hand.

It was from his sister. One passage was as follows:

'A strange thing has happened. A few mornings ago the loveliest white
horse was found tied to the stable door, with a side-saddle, and a card
on it directed to _me_. I went to look at the creature. It was like the
witch-lady in Christabel, 'beautiful exceedingly.' I ran to my father,
and told him. He asked me who had sent it, but I knew no more than he
did. He said I couldn't keep it unless we found out who had sent it,
and probably not then, for the proceeding was as suspicious as absurd.
To-day he has put an advertisement in the paper to the effect that, if
the animal is not claimed before, it will be sold at the horse-fair
next week, and the money given to the new school fund. I feel as if I
couldn't bear parting with it, but of course I can't accept a present
without knowing where it comes from. Have you any idea who sent it? I
am sure papa is right about it, as indeed, dear Charley, he always is.'

I laid down the letter, and, full of mortification, went walking about
the room.

'Why didn't you tell me, Wilfrid?'

'I thought it better, if you were questioned, that you should not know.
But it was a foolish thing to do--very. I see it now. Of course your
father is right. It doesn't matter though. I will go down and buy her.'

'You had better not appear in it. Go to the Moat, and send Styles.'

'Yes--that will be best. Of course it will. When is the fair, do you
know?'

'I will find out for you. I hope some rascal mayn't in the mean time
take my father in, and persuade him to give her up. Why shouldn't I run
down and tell him, and get back poor Lilith without making you pay for
your own?'

'Indeed you shan't. The mare is your sister's, and I shall lay no claim
to her. I have money enough to redeem her.'

Charley got me information about the fair, and the day before it, I set
out for the Moat.

When I reached Minstercombe, having more time on my hands than I knew
what to do with, I resolved to walk round by Spurdene. It would not be
more than ten or twelve miles, and so I should get a peep of the
rectory. On the way I met a few farmer-looking men on horseback, and
just before entering the village saw at a little distance a white
creature--very like my Lilith--with a man on its back, coming towards
me.

As they drew nearer, I was certain of the mare, and, thinking it
possible the rider might be Mr Osborne, withdrew into a thicket on the
road-side. But what was my dismay to discover that it was indeed my
Lilith, but ridden by Geoffrey Brotherton! As soon as he was past, I
rushed into the village, and found that the people I had met were going
from the fair. Charley had been misinformed. I was too late: Brotherton
had bought my Lilith. Half distracted with rage and vexation, I walked
on and on, never halting till I reached the Moat. Was this man destined
to swallow up everything I cared for? Had he suspected me as the
foolish donor, and bought the mare to spite me? A thousand times rather
would I have had her dead. Nothing on earth would have tempted me to
sell my Lilith but inability to feed her, and then I would rather have
shot her. I felt poorer than even when my precious folio was taken from
me, for the lowest animal life is a greater thing than a rare edition.
I did not go to bed at all that night, but sat by my fire or paced
about the room till dawn, when I set out for Minstercombe, and reached
it in time for the morning coach to London. The whole affair was a
folly, and I said to-myself that I deserved to suffer. Before I left, I
told Styles, and begged him to keep an eye on the mare, and, if ever he
learned that her owner wanted to part with her, to come off at once and
let me know. He was greatly concerned at my ill-luck, as he called it,
and promised to watch her carefully. He knew one of the grooms, he
said, a little, and would cultivate his acquaintance.

I could not help wishing now that Charley would let his sister know
what I had tried to do for her, but of course I would not say so. I
think he did tell her, but I never could be quite certain whether or
not she knew it. I wonder if she ever suspected me. I think not. I have
too good reason to fear that she attributed to another the would-be
gift; I believe that, from Brotherton's buying her, they thought he had
sent her--a present certainly far more befitting his means than mine.
But I came to care very little about it, for my correspondence with her
through Charley, went on. I wondered sometimes how she could keep from
letting her father know: that he did not know I was certain, for he
would have put a stop to it at once. I conjectured that she had told
her mother, and that she, fearing to widen the breach between her
husband and Charley, had advised her not to mention it to him; while
believing it would do both Charley and me good, she did not counsel her
to give up the correspondence. It must be considered, also, that it was
long before I said a word implying any personal interest. Before I
ventured that, I had some ground for thinking that my ideas had begun
to tell upon hers, for, even in her letters to Charley, she had begun
to drop the common religious phrases, while all she said seemed to
indicate a widening and deepening and simplifying of her faith. I do
not for a moment imply that she had consciously given up one of the
dogmas of the party to which she belonged, but there was the
perceptible softening of growth in her utterances, and after that was
plain to me, I began to let out my heart to her a little more.

About this time also I began to read once more the history of Jesus,
asking myself as if on a first acquaintance with it, 'Could it
be--might it not be that, if there were a God, he would visit his
children after some fashion? If so, is this a likely fashion? May it
not even be the only right fashion?' In the story I found at least a
perfection surpassing everything to be found elsewhere; and I was at
least sure that whatever this man said must be true. If one could only
be as sure of the record! But if ever a dawn was to rise upon me, here
certainly the sky would break; here I thought I already saw the first
tinge of the returning life-blood of the swooning world. The gathering
of the waters of conviction at length one morning broke out in the
following verses, which seemed more than half given to me, the only
effort required being to fit them rightly together:--

Come to me, come to me, O my God;
Come to me everywhere!
Let the trees mean thee, and the grassy sod,
And the water and the air.


For thou art so far that I often doubt,
As on every side I stare,
Searching within, and looking without,
If thou art anywhere.


How did men find thee in days of old?
How did they grow so sure?
They fought in thy name, they were glad and bold,
They suffered, and kept themselves pure.


But now they say--neither above the sphere,
Nor down in the heart of man,
But only in fancy, ambition, or fear,
The thought of thee began.


If only that perfect tale were true
Which, with touch of sunny gold,
Of the ancient many makes one anew,
And simplicity manifold.


But _he_ said that they who did his word
The truth of it should know:
I will try to do it--if he be Lord,
Perhaps the old spring will flow;


Perhaps the old spirit-wind will blow
That he promised to their prayer;
And doing thy will, I yet shall know
Thee, Father, everywhere!


These lines found their way without my concurrence into a certain
religious magazine, and I was considerably astonished, and yet more
pleased, one evening when Charley handed me, with the kind regards of
his sister, my own lines, copied by herself. I speedily let her know
they were mine, explaining that they had found their way into print
without my cognizance. She testified so much pleasure at the fact, and
the little scraps I could claim as my peculiar share of the contents of
Charley's envelopes grew so much more confiding that I soon ventured to
write more warmly than hitherto. A period longer than usual passed
before she wrote again, and when she did she took no express notice of
my last letter. Foolishly or not, I regarded this as a favourable sign,
and wrote several letters, in which I allowed the true state of my
feelings towards her to appear. At length I wrote a long letter in
which, without a word of direct love-making, I thought yet to reveal
that I loved her with all my heart. It was chiefly occupied with my
dream on that memorable night--of course without the slightest allusion
to the waking, or anything that followed. I ended abruptly, telling her
that the dream often recurred, but as often as it drew to its lovely
close, the lifted veil of Athanasia revealed ever and only the
countenance of Mary Osborne.

The answer to this came soon and in few words.

'I dare not take to myself what you write. That would be presumption
indeed, not to say wilful self-deception. It will be honour enough for
me if in any way I serve to remind you of the lady in your dream.
Wilfrid, if you love me, take care of my Charley. I must not write
more.--M.O.'

It was not much, but enough to make me happy. I write it from
memory--every word as it lies where any moment I could read it--shut in
a golden coffin whose lid I dare not open.




CHAPTER LIII.


TOO LATE.

I must now go back a little. After my suspicions had been aroused as to
the state of Charley's feelings, I hesitated for a long time before I
finally made up my mind to tell him the part Clara had had in the loss
of my sword. But while I was thus restrained by dread of the effect the
disclosure would have upon him if my suspicions were correct, those
very suspicions formed the strongest reason for acquainting him with
her duplicity; and, although I was always too ready to put off the evil
day so long as doubt supplied excuse for procrastination, I could not
have let so much time slip by and nothing said but for my absorption in
Mary.

At length, however, I had now resolved, and one evening, as we sat
together, I took my pipe from my mouth, and, shivering bodily, thus
began:

'Charley,' I said, 'I have had for a good while something on my mind,
which I cannot keep from you longer.'

He looked alarmed instantly. I went on.

'I have not been quite open with you about that affair of the sword.'

He looked yet more dismayed; but I must go on, though it tore my very
heart. When I came to the point of my overhearing Clara talking to
Brotherton, he started up, and, without waiting to know the subject of
their conversation, came close up to me, and, his face distorted with
the effort to keep himself quiet, said, in a voice hollow and still and
far-off, like what one fancies of the voice of the dead:

'Wilfrid, you said Brotherton, I think?'

'I did, Charley.'

'She never told me that!'

'How could she when she was betraying your friend?'

'No no!' he cried, with a strange mixture of command and entreaty;
'don't say that. There is some explanation. There _must_ be.'

'She told _me_ she hated him,' I said.

'_I know_ she hates him. What was she saying to him?'

'I tell you she was betraying me, your friend, who had never done her
any wrong, to the man she had told me she hated, and whom I had heard
her ridicule.'

'What do you mean by betraying you?'

I recounted what I had overheard. He listened with clenched teeth and
trembling white lips; then burst into a forced laugh. 'What a fool I
am! Distrust _her!_ I will _not_. There is some explanation! There
_must_ be!'

The dew of agony lay thick on his forehead. I was greatly alarmed at
what I had done, but I could not blame myself.

'Do be calm, Charley,' I entreated.

'I am as calm as death,' he replied, striding up and down the room with
long strides.

He stopped and came up to me again.

'Wilfrid,' he said, 'I am a damned fool. I am going now. Don't be
frightened--I am perfectly calm. I will come and explain it all to you
to-morrow--no--the next day--or the next at latest. She had some reason
for hiding it from me, but I shall have it all the moment I ask her.
She is not what you think her. I don't for a moment blame you--but--are
you sure it was--Clara's--voice you heard?' he added with forced
calmness and slow utterance.

'A man is not likely to mistake the voice of a woman he ever fancied
himself in love with.'

'Don't talk like that, Wilfrid. You'll drive me mad. How should she
know you had taken the sword?'

'She was always urging me to take it. There lies the main sting of the
treachery. But I never told you where I found the sword.'

'What can that have to do with it?'

'I found it on my bed that same morning when I woke. It could not have
been there when I lay down.'

'Well?'

'Charley, I believe _she_ laid it there.'

He leaped at me like a tiger. Startled, I jumped to my feet. He laid
hold of me by the throat, and griped me with a quivering grasp.
Recovering my self-possession, I stood perfectly still, making no
effort even to remove his hand, although it was all but choking me. In
a moment or two he relaxed his hold, burst into tears, took up his hat,
and walked to the door.

'Charley! Charley! you must _not_ leave me so,' I cried, starting
forwards.

'To-morrow, Wilfrid; to-morrow,' he said, and was gone.

He was back before I could think what to do next. Opening the door half
way, he said--as if a griping hand had been on _his_ throat--

'I--I--I--don't believe it, Wilfrid. You only said you believed it. _I_
don't. Good night. I'm all right now. _Mind, I don't believe it._'

He, shut the door. Why did I not follow him?

But if I had followed him, what could I have said or done? In every
man's life come awful moments when he must meet his fate--dree his
weird--alone. Alone, I say, if he have no God--for man or woman cannot
aid him, cannot touch him, cannot come near him. Charley was now in one
of those crises, and I could not help him. Death is counted an awful
thing: it seems to me that life is an infinitely more awful thing.

In the morning I received the following letter:--

'Dear Mr Cumbermede,

'You will be surprised at receiving a note from me--still more at its
contents. I am most anxious to see you--so much so that I venture to
ask you to meet me where we can have a little quiet talk. I am in
London, and for a day or two sufficiently my own mistress to leave the
choice of time and place with you--only let it be when and where we
shall not be interrupted. I presume on old friendship in making this
extraordinary request, but I do not presume in my confidence that you
will not misunderstand my motives. One thing only I _beg_--that you
will not inform C.O. of the petition I make.

'Your old friend,


'C.C.'


What was I to do? To go, of course. She _might_ have something to
reveal which would cast light on her mysterious conduct. I cannot say I
expected a disclosure capable of removing Charley's misery, but I did
vaguely hope to learn something that might alleviate it. Anyhow, I
would meet her, for I dared not refuse to hear her. To her request of
concealing it from Charley, I would grant nothing beyond giving it
quarter until I should see whither the affair tended. I wrote at
once--making an appointment for the same evening. But was it from a
suggestion of Satan, from an evil impulse of human spite, or by the
decree of fate, that I fixed on that part of the Regent's Park in which
I had seen him and the lady I now believed to have been Clara walking
together in the dusk? I cannot now tell. The events which followed have
destroyed all certainty, but I fear it was a flutter of the wings of
revenge, a shove at the spokes of the wheel of time to hasten the
coming of its circle.

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