“What! you don’t think it gentlemanly to enlist as a private? Well, it would be a bore, having to associate with the Common men—not that I’ve any false pride about me, but a gentleman can’t help being a gentleman, and I own I should feel out of my element. I have it—I’ll work my way out as a sailor to Australia, and go to the gold-fields—eh? Gold is what I want you know. I’ll dig up enough to pay my debts, and keep a decent coat on my back for a year or two, and then I’ll come home, and be a credit to you yet—why won’t that do?”
“Think of our poor mother, Fred; it would break her heart! She is so wrapped up in you—has always loved you the best of all her children; think of all she has upon her now—you would not add to her distress! Oh no, you must give up all such wild thoughts, it would be too cruel!”
As she spoke the boy paused in his impetuous walk, and murmuring, “I shall break her heart any way, miserable wretch that I am!” he flung himself on the sofa, and gave vent to an outburst of mingled shame and contrition.
Kate’s unhappiness at witnessing his grief—which she could soothe, indeed, but of which she was powerless to remove the cause—may readily be imagined. Having after a time succeeded in subduing his extreme sorrow, of which unavailing self-reproach formed the sharpest sting, Kate gave him three out of her five pounds, to provide for his immediate necessities, and dismissed him, promising to take advantage of any symptoms of relenting which Mr. Crane might evince, again to press her suit; and the poor boy departed, in some degree re-assured by hopes of which, even as she expatiated upon them, she perceived the probable fallacy.
As soon as he had quitted her, she sat down and fell into a train of gloomy and bitter reflections. This wealth that surrounded her, of what use was it in her trouble? None! She could not convert it into money to save her brother; and its possession had hardened the heart of him to whom she should naturally turn for assistance—her husband! And as she pronounced the name, an involuntary shudder came over her. She had sold herself to a man she despised, for the good of her family; sold herself to save them from the curse of poverty; and now, at her utmost need, her self-sacrifice proved unavailing—the money she required was denied her—her earnest pleadings were disregarded,—the evil she dreaded had come upon her in its bitterest form, and she was powerless to avert it. Was it for this, then, that she had stifled the voice of affection in her heart—was it for this she had thrown aside the priceless love of Arthur Hazlehurst, and embittered his life and her own by so doing? And now the harrowing doubt which, from the first hour in which she had conceived the project of marrying Mr. Crane, to this moment in which the conviction of its fruitlessness was forced upon her, had never ceased to haunt her, recurred with redoubled vigour. In so acting, had she indeed deceived herself?—had she, instead of performing an act of generous self-sacrifice, committed a sin against her better nature, for which she had no justification, and of which she was now paying the bitter penalty? As she thought it over, the conviction forced itself upon her, more and more strongly, that she had rebelled against the decrees of Providence, and sought to free herself and her family from the cross He had seen fit to lay upon them, by unlawful means; that, blinded by the proud and haughty spirit which precedes a fall, she had done evil that good might come: she had sown the wind—what wonder that she should reap the whirlwind! It was a cruel discovery to make now, when it was too late to remedy the evil; but, fortunately, Kate had a strong brave spirit for good, as well as for evil; and though this new aspect in which she regarded her past conduct occasioned her the deepest remorse, though it displayed her faults of pride and overweening self-confidence in their worst and most repulsive aspect, yet she did not shrink from the scrutiny, but honestly sat in judgment on herself; and where, weighing herself in the balance, she was found wanting, she recognised the deficiency, and unhesitatingly acknowledged her transgression. Yes! she saw it clearly, now it was too late—in the deep, earnest, tender affection of Arthur Hazlehurst, Heaven had bestowed upon her an inestimable blessing, which she had no right to cast from her. By so doing she had inflicted the bitterest wound man can receive, on him who thus had given her his all of love—a wound which time indeed may heal superficially, but which continues to throb and bleed internally while life remains;—that death-blow to hope which the heart receives, when the conviction is forced upon it that the idol enshrined in its inmost recesses is unworthy of such holy sanctuary.
Well, she had chosen her lot, and must abide by it; repining was worse than useless; all chance of happiness she had forfeited by her own act; but there still remained to her the possibility of resignation, which, persevered in, might produce contentment. Could she gain that, and the self-approval of her own conscience, life might become endurable after all. But, to obtain this, one path alone was open to her—the rigid path of duty. She had done Mr. Crane sufficient wrong in marrying him without affection, and for the sake of expediency: if she could not love and honour him—as at God’s holy altar she had falsely sworn to do—she could at least obey him, and strive to render his life as easy and comfortable as in her lay: she would alter her cold manner towards him; she would refrain from the covert sarcasm which lurked under every word she had hitherto addressed to him, and which so thinly veiled the contempt she felt for him, that occasionally even his dull perception penetrated it. Oh, how as the clearer light in which she now regarded her past behaviour fell upon each separate fault and error, did she abhor herself! with what bitter tears of unavailing contrition did she bewail the thoughts, words, and actions, which could never be recalled!—unavailing contrition! yes, unavailing as regards the irrevocable past, but the past only, for there was One who witnessed her true penitence, who has declared, in His gracious mercy, that “a broken and contrite heart He will not despise.”
How long she thus sat, reviewing and grieving over her past errors, and forming good resolutions for the future, and imploring strength from above to enable her to carry them into effect, Kate Crane knew not; but she was startled from her reverie by a knock at the house-door; and ere she had time to banish the traces of her late emotion, a light footstep bounded up the stairs, and Horace D’Almayne entered. Assuming as composed a manner as she was able, she began—
“You are an early visitor to-day, Mr. D’Almayne; so early, indeed, that Mr. Crane has not yet returned from the city.”
“I am aware of that fact already, my dear Mrs. Crane, having parted from my good friend scarcely an hour since, when I left him engaged at Lloyd’s, going into the details of his losses on the unfortunate East Indiaman. I was on my way to visit a friend in Belgravia, when a circumstance occurred which induced me to alter my destination, and take the chance of finding you disengaged; in which case I ventured to hope you would allow me a few minutes’ conversation.”
Rather surprised at his mysterious manner, though by no means so much so as if she had been unacquainted with his habit of making a mountain of any molehill he might happen to stumble upon, Kate motioned to him to be seated, resumed her own chair, and wondered what was to come next.