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HomeMy WebLinkAboutThe Huron Signal, 1881-05-27, Page 2THE HURON SIGNAL, FRIDAY, MAY 27, 1881. A LIFE FOR A LIFE. BY BUM MVLOCI CHAPTER ZXXIV. sax PTOer. "I should nut like anything iuched in my lifetime, but, should I die -not that this is likely; I believe I shall live to be an old woman -still should I die, you will know where these things are. Do with them exactly what you think best. And if money is wanted for—" She stopped, and then, fur thefirst time. 1 heard her pronounce his name, dis- tinctly, like any other name, "tor Fran- cis Charteris, or any one belonging to him ---sell them. Yuu will promise ?" I promised. Mrs. Granton, dear soul ! asked no questions, but took the necklace, and gave me the money, which I brought to my sister. She received it without a word. After this, all went on as heretofore; and though sometimes I have felt her eye upon me when I was opening your letters, as if she fancied there might be something to hear, still, since there never was anything, I thought it best to take no notice. But Max, I wished of- ten, and wish now, that you would tell me if there is any special reason why for so many weeks, you have never men- tioned Francis 1 I was telling you about Penelope. She has fallen into her old busy ways --busier than ever;'indeed. She looks well too, "quite herself again," as Mrs- Grarfton whispered to rete, one morning when - wonderful event -I had persuaded mysis- ter that we ought to drive over to lunch at the Cedars, and admire all the prepa- rations for the reception of Mrs. Colin next month. "I would not have liked to ask her," added the good old lady; "but since you did come, I am glad. The sight of young folk's happiness will not pain her? she has really got over her trouble, you think ?" "Yes, yes," I said hastily, for Pene- lope was coming up the green -house walk. Yet, when I observed her, it seemed not herself but a new self -such as is only born'of sorrow which smiled out of her poor thin face, made her move softly, speak affectionatelj, and listen patiently to all the countless details about "my Colin" and my daughter Em- ily" (bleu the dear old lady, I hope she will find her a real daughter.) And though most of the way home we were both more silent than usual, something in Penelope's countenance made me, not sad or anxious, but inly awed, marvell- ing at its exceeding peace. A peace such as I could have imagined in those who had brought all their earthly possessions and laid them at' the apostles' feet; or holier still, and therefore happier -who had Left all, taken up their cross, and followed Him. Him, who through His life and death, taught the perfection of all sacrifice, self-sacrifice. I may write thus, Max, may I not ? It is like talking to myself, talking to you. It was on this very drive home that something happened, which I am going to relate as literally as I can, fur I think you ought to know it. It will make you love my sister as I love her, which is saying a good deal. Watching her, I almost -forgive, dear Max ! but I almost forgot my letter to you, safely written over -night to be posted on niy way home from the Cedars; till Penelope thought of a village post office we had just passed. "Don't vex yourself, child, ' she said, "you shall cross flee moor again; you will be quite in time; and I will drive round, and meet you just beyond the ponds." And, in my hurry, I uttetly forgot that pottage you know, which she has never yet been near, nor is aware who lives in it. Not until I had posted my letter, did I call to mind that she would he passing Mrs. Cartwright's very door. However it was too late to alter plans, so I resolved not to fret about it. And, somehow, the spring feeling came over me; the smell of tho furze-bloaioms, and of green leaves budding; the vague sense as if some new blessing were coming with the coming year. And, though I had not Max with ine, is admire my one stray violet that I found, and listen to my lark ---the first, singing up in his white cloud, still 1 thought of you, and I loved you ! With a love that, I think those only feel who have suffered togeth- er; a love that, though it may have known a few paina,hu never, thank God, known • single doubt. And so you did not feel so very far away. Then i walked on u fast as I could to meet the pony carriage, which I saw crawling along the mad round theturn- pest the very cottage. Myheart beat so. But Penelope drove quietly on, looking straight before her. She would have driven by in a minute, when, right acro the read, in front of the pony after a dog or something, i sew run a child. How i got to the spot i hardly know; bow the child escaped i know still leas; I took him from her; abs was still too bewildered to observe him much; be- sides, a child alters so In sic m utka "He is all right, you see. Run away, little man." "Stop 1 there is kis mother to be thought of," avid Penelope; "where does he lived whose and is he ?" Before I could answer the grandmother ran uut, calling, "Pranky ' ?hanky '" It was all over. No ooncealment was possible - I made my sislu sit down by theroad side, and there, with her head on my shoulder, she sat till her deadly paleness paased away, and two tears slowly rose and rolled down her cheeks; but she said nothing. Again I impressed upor. her what a great comfort it was that the boy had escaped without one scratch; for there he stood, having once more got away from his granny, staring at us, finger in mouth, with intense curiosity and en- joyment. "Off with you :" I cried more than once. But he kept his ground; and when I rose to put him away my sister held me. Often I have noticed that in her harshest days, Penelope never dislik ed nor was disliked by children. - She had a sort ot instinct for them. They rarely vexed her, as we, or her servants, or her big scholars i. - ways unhappily contrived to do. And she could always manage them, from the squalling baby that she stopped to pat at a oottage door, to the raggedest young scamp in the village, whom she would pick up after a pitched battle, give a good scolding to, then hear all his tribulations, dry his dirty face, and send him away with broad grin upon it, such as was upon Franky's now. He came nearer, and put his brown little paws upon Penelope's silk gown. "The pony," she muttered; ' Dora, go and see after the pony." But when I wu gone, and she thought herself unseen, I saw her coax the little lad tb her side, to her arms, hold him }here and kiss him; oh ! Max, I can't write of it; I could not tell it to anybody but you. After keepingas practicable, y gone, and up and down; her voice and "old- maidish" qui ut a sob at the rd concerning o Leaving h e, Ijust ran in sure her no possible h sitting over t I ever expect Did you k ad- vice he came e in coming ? a whim -just I Anywhere of have recognizedis shabbiness; e d be something m his utterly b is look of hope? s- content;the Seeing me, n the child, Francis blushes'n laughed. " he has not fua little, which t people. Hey 1 Come along, t e'en make th Franky, no hugged him e neck, and bre ant "Ha : ha and kissed hi Then, some e easier to spa - and whether 1 Ahorsein a now. Nothin the end of tho boy "Ha! ha: h He seems "Oh yes; h sighed. I am hard at the set And pity ---I k pis Isaid lhad away as long as w I returned, to find Frank my sister walking slowly her veil was down, but h step had their usual smear -if 1 dared, without heart, even think that neo our Penelope ! er to get into the carriage, to the cottage to tell Mrs Cartwright what had happened, and as- sure the child had received arm; when, whom should I see he fire bus the tut person ed to see in that place. now it t Was it by your a ? What could be his motive or was it done merely for ike Francis Charteris. alga I believe I could n him. Not from h von in rags Francis wool of the gentleman; but from broken-down appearance, h was indifference, settled dis- content; of a man who has tried all things and found them vanity. he instinctlively set done who clung to his knees streaming loudly to " i)sddy. " violently, and the The brat owns me, you see forgotten nie; likes me also cannot be said for most day, no getting rid of him then, young man; I mus e best of you." thing loth, clambered up smotheringly round th ke into his own triumph- ! ha His father turned m. how, I felt as if it were speak to Francis Charteris. On- ly a word or two -inquiries about his health, how long he had left Liverpool ie meant to return. "Of course. Only a day's holiday.- niill-that is what I am g for it but to grind on to chapter -eh, Franky, my a!" screamed the child with another delighted hug. fond of you,- i said. e always was." Francis sure nature was tugging fish pleasure -loving heart. know it was not wrong;, Max! -was lhlig sore at mine. heard of his illness in the winter, and was glad to find him so much recovered; how • long had he been about "How long? indeed, I forget, 1 am so apt to forget things now. Ezospt" - he added bitterly -"the clerk's stool end the office window, with the spider -webs over it, and the thirty shillings • week. That's my income, Dora -I beg your par- don, Mise Dors-I forget i was no loieg- • gentleman, but a clerk at thirty •hil- e ngs a week." i said i did not see why that should oke him lees of a gentleman; and again? true man- llaah across the fedora upset w Ch of poor Fraucis art n'. I would have liked to stay and talk to him, end said so, but my sister was out- side. "IIs she? will she be curving in here f and he shrank nervously into his comer."I have been so in, you knew." He need nut be etraid, I told him; we should have dein (grin two minutes. There was net the slightest dunes of their me'Wts; in all human probability he would never te esest her mo. "Never meow!" I had not thought to see him s mueh d. affecte "You were right, Dora. I never did deserve Penelope, yet there is some- thing I should like to have said to her. Stop, hold back the curtain; she cannot set me sitting here(' "No." So, u face she slowlypassed,Franciswatch- ed her. I felt more than glad -proud - that he should see the fawhich he had known blooming and young, and which would never be either one or the other again in this world, and that he should see how peaceful and good it was. "She is altered strangely." I eked, in momentary fear, did he think her looking out of health? "Oh, no, it is no that: I hardly know what it is;" then, as with a sudden im- pulse, "I must go and speak to Pene- lope." And before I could hinder him he wee at the carriage side. No fear of a "scene." They met -oh Max, can any two people so meet who have been lovers for ten years ? It might have been that the emotion that the last few minutes left her in state when no occurrence seemed unex- pected or strange, bet Penelope, when she saw him, ugly gave a slight start,and then looked at him straight in the face for a minute or so. "I am sorry to see that you have been ill." That one sentence must have struck him, as it did me, with the full convic- tion of how they met -as Penelope -and Francis no more -merely Miss Johnston and Mr. Charteris. "I have been ill," he said, at last, "almost at death's door. I should have died, but for Dr. Urquhart and -one other person, whose name I discoved by accident. I beg to thank her for her charity." He blushed scarlet in pronouncing the word. My sister tried to speak, but he stopped her. "Needless to deny." "I never deny what is true," said Penelope, gravely. "I' only did what I considered right, and what I would havedone for any person whom I had known so many years. Nor would 1 have done it at all, but that your uncle refused." "I had rather owe it to you -twenty times over he cried. "Nay; you shall not be annoyed with gratitude; I came but to own my debt -to say, if I live, I will repay it; if I aie She looked keenly at him. "You will not die." "Why not ? What have I to live fur -a ruined, disappointed, disgraced man ? No, no; my chance is •over for this world, and I do not care how soon I get out of it." "I would rather hear of your living worthily in it.' "Too late -too late." "Indeed, it is not too late." Penelope's voice was very earnest, and had a slight falter that startled even nie. No wonder it misled Francis -he who never had a particularly low opinion of himself, and who for so many years had been fully aware of a fact which, I once heard Max say, ought always to make a man humble rather than vain -how deeply a fond woman had loved him. "How do you mean ?•" lie asked,eager- ly. "That you have no cause for all this despair. You are a young man still; Tour health may improve; you are free from debt, and have enough to live upon. Whatever disagreeable' your po- sition has, it is A beginning; you may rise. A long and prosperous career may lie before you yet; I hope so." "Do you 1" Max,Itrembled for he looked at heras he used to look when they were young. And it seems so hard that to believe that love ever can die out. I thought, what if this exceeding calmness of my sister should be only the cloak which pride puts on to hide intolerable pain 1 But 1 was mistaken. And now I marvel, not that he, but that I, who know my sister as a sister ought, could for an instant have seen in those soft, sad eyes any- thing beyond what her words expressed -the more plainly, as they were such extremely kind and gentle words.ram Francis cae closer, and said some- thing in a low voice, of which i caught only the Iset sentence: "Penelope, will you tree! me regain r I wonld have slipped away, Mrt my stet detained ins; tightly her tinrs de need "n mine, Mit sheanewered Francis cc, mpneedly. '1 do not quite eompreheed you." "Will you forgive and forget t Win arry me r' "Frames !" i e:ehtimed, indignantly, Prnslope pat hew hand on my month. er li m it wen •linnet a miracle. Prat there stood bro Penelope, w,th the little fellow in her ing arms He was unhurt not even fright- owsetf I I ken down es he was -sitting crouch - over the fire, with his sickly cheek preseed against that rosy one --I fancied OA something of the man the hones* Ica Mies* 1^A anti" ,.•. v... s- ...�....,..... - _._ ti . wr+n .•..sss>Fsss► aur 'w. :n• • 4 - .pe.......«.. "That L right. Don't listen to Doors; she always hated we. Listen to me. Peuelupe, you shall make use anything you choose; you would be the saving of me -that is, if you could put up with auk a broken, sickly, ill-tempered wretch." "Pour Francis !" and she just toeched him with her hand. He caught it and kept it. Then Pene- lope seemed to wake tip as out of a drwara "You must not," she 'said, hurriedly; "you must not huld my hand." "Why notr' "Because I do not love you any more." It was so, he could not doubt it. The vainest cwt alive must, I think, have discerned at onoe that my sister spoke out of neither caprice or revenge, but in simple sadness of truth. Francis must have felt almost by instinct that, wheth- er broken or nut, the heart so lung his, was his no longer -the love was gone. Whether the mere knowledge of this made his own revive, or whether, find- ing himself in the old familiar places - this walk was a favorite walk of theirs - the whole feeling returned in a measure I cannot tell; I do not like to judge. But 1 am certain that, for the time Fran- cis suffered acutely. "Do you hate me, then(" said he at length. "No; on the contrary, I feel very kindly toward you. There is nothing in the world I would not do for you." "Except merry me." "Even so." "Well, well; perhaps you are right. I, spoor clerk, with neither health, nor in- come, nor prospects— He stopped, and no wonder, before the rebuke of my sister's eyes. "Francis, you know you are not speaking as you think. You know I have given you my true reason, and my only one. If we were engaged still, in outward form, I should say exactly the same, for a broken promise is lees wick- ed than a deceitful vow. One should not marry -one ought not -when one has ceased to love." Francis made her no reply. The sense of all he had lost, now that had lost it, seemed to come upon him heavily, over- whelmingly. His first words were the saddest and humblest I ever heard from Francis Charteris "I deserve it all. No wonder you will never forgive me." Penelope smiled -a very mournful smile. "At your old habit of jumping at con- clusions! Indeed, I have forgiven you long ago. Perhaps, had I been less faulty myself, I might have had more in- fluence over you. But all was as it was to be, I suppose; and it is over'noM. Do not let us revive it." She sighed and sat silent for a few tnoments, looking absently across the moorland; then, with a sort of wistful tenderness --the tenderness which, one clearly saw, forever prevents and exclu- des love -on Francis. "I know how it is, Francis, but you seem to me Francis no longer -quite another person. I cannot tell how the love has gone, but it is gone -as comple- tely as if it had never existed. Some- times I was afraid if I saw you it might come back again; but I have seen you, and it is not there. It never can return again any more." "And so, from henceforth, I am no more to you than any stranger in the street ?" "I did not say that -it would not be true. Nothing you do will ever be in- different to me. If you do wrong -oh, Francis, it hurts me so ? It will hurt me to the day of my death. I care little for your being very prosperous or very happy -possibly no one is happy; but I want you to be good. We were young together, and I was very proud of you; let me be proud of you again as we grow old. " "And yet you will not marry nie 1" "No, for I do not love you; and never could again, no more than I could love another woman's husband. Francis," speaking almost in a whisper, "you know as well as I do that there is one person, and only one, whom you ought to marry." He shrank back, and, for the second time -the first being when I found him with his boy in his sons -Francis turn- ed scarlet with honest shame. "Is it you -is it Penelope Johnston who can say this 1" "It is Penelope Johnston. "And you say it to me ?" "To you." "You think it would be right?" "I do." Than were long pauses between each of these questions, but my ester's answers were unhesitating. The grave decision of thea seemed to smite home -home to the vary heart of Francis Charteris, When his confusion arid snrpnse abated, he It....a with eyes east down, deeply pondering,. "P.•.r little soul he muttered. "So f„red ,.f me. t... -fold sad faithful. She would be faithful to me to the end of my days "i believe she would. answered Penelope. Haws arose a piteous ery ot "Daddy, daddy ' end ';tile Franky horn , frum the cottage, came and threw him- self un a perfect paroxysm of joy upon his father. Then 1 understood clearly how *good and religious woman like our Penelope could not possibly have continued loving, or thought et marry- ing, Francis Charteris, arty more than if, as she said, he had beeuanotherwoman's husband. "Dora, pray don't take the child away. Let him remail} with his fath- And from her tone, Franco himself must have felt -if fartlher confirmation were needed -that now and henceforth, Penelope Johnston could never view hint in any other light than as Franky's father. He submitted-- it always was a relief to Francis to have things decided for hien. Besides, he seemed really fond of the boy. To see how patiently he let Franky clamber up him, and finally mount on his shoulder, riding astride, and making a bridle of his hair, vave one a kindly feeling- nay, a sort of res- pect for this poor sick man whom his child comforted, and who, however er- ring he had been, was now, nor was ashamed to be a father. "You don't hate me, Franky 1” he said, with a sudden kiss upon the fond- ling face. "You owe ine no grudge, though you might, poor little scamp ! You are not a bit ashamed of me; and, by God !" at was more a vow than an oath) "I'll never be ashamed of you-" "I trust in God you never will," said Penelope, solemnly. And then, with that peculiar s.,ftneu of voice, which I now notice whenever she speaks of or to children, she said s few words, the substance of which I re- member Lisabel and myself quizzing her for years ago, irritating her with the old joke about old bachelors' wives and old maid's children -namely, that those who are childless, and know they will die so, often see more clearly and feel more deeply than parents themselves the heavy responsibilities of parent- hood. Not that she said this exactly, but, you could read it in her eyes, as in a few simple words she praised Fr•nky's beauty, hinted what a solemn thing it was to own such a son, and, if properly brought up, what a comfort he might grow. Francis listened with a reverence that was beyond all love, and a humility touching to see. I, too, silently observ- ing them both, could not help hearken- ing even with a sort of awe to eve word that fell from the lips of my mist Penelope. all the while hearing, in cave fashion, the last evening song my lark, as he went up merrily into h cloud -just as I have watched him, rather his progenitors, numberless times when along this very road, I used to behind Francis and Penelope, wonderers what on earth they were tacking abou and how queer it was that they rev noticed anything or anybody except on another. Heigho ! how times change : But no sighing. I could not sigh. did not. My heart was full, Max, b Francis walked along by the puny - carriage for a quarter of a mile or toots. "I must tura sow. This little man ought to have beat 1a bed an hour or more; he always used to be. Ills moth- goo, oth- Fraaais stopped -"I bag your pardon." Then, bugging the boy in a suddeu passion of reatoos, he said, "Penelope if you want your revenge, take this. You cannot tell what a mut feels, who, when the hsvdey of youth is gone, longs for • home, • virtuous home, yet knows that he never call offer or re ceive unblemished honor with his wife never give his lawful name to his first- born." This was the sole allusion made openly to what both tacitly understood was to be. and which you, as well as we, will agree is the best thing that can be, un der the eircumstancea. And bete I have to say to you, both from my sister and myself, that if Fran cis desires to make Lydia Cartwright his wife, and she is willing, tell them both that if she will conte direct from the jail to Rockmount, we will receive her kind- ly, provide everything suitable for her (since Francis must be very poor, and they will have to begin housekeeping on the humblest scale), and take caro that she is married in comfort and credit. Also, say that former things shall never be remembered against her, but that she shall be treated henceforward with the respect due to Francis's wife; in some things, poor loving soul, a bet- ter wife than he deserves. So he left us. Whether in this world he and Penelope will ever meet again, who knows? He seemed to have a fore- boding that they never will, for, in part- ing he asked, hesitatingly, if she would shake hands? She did so, looking earnestly at him - her first love, who, had he been true to her. might have been her love forever. Then I caw her eye wander down to the little head which nestled on his shout- o der. "Will you kiss my boy, Penelope?" My sister leaned over, and touched Franky's forehea9 with her lips. "God bless him! God blew you all" These were her' last words, and how- ever long both may live, I have a con- viction that they will be her last words - to Francis Charters. He went back to the cottage; and through the rosy spring twilight with a strangely solemn feeling, as if we were entering upon a new spring in another ry world, Penelope and I drove home. er And now, Max, I have told you all a about these. About myself— of No, 1'll not try to deceive you; God is knows how true my heart is, and bow or sharp and sore is this pain. Dear Max, write to me; if there is any lag trouble I can bear it; any wrong -sup - g posing Max could do ire wrong-i'll t, forgive. I fear nothing, and nothing er has power to grieve me. e Your faithful TRI000rt1. P. S. --A wonderful, wonderful thing I -it only happened last night. It hardly ut not with pain. For I am learning to understand what,you often said, what I suppose we shall see clearly in the ne ife if not in this -that the only pe manent pain on earth is sin. And, loo ng in my sister's dear face, I felt ho blessed above all mere happiness, is th peace of those who have suffered an vercome suffering, who have been sin ed against and have forgiven. After this, ' when Franky, tired out roped suddenly ,asleep, as children d, father and Penelope talked a good while, she inquiring, in her sensible, practical way, about his circumstances red prospects, he answering, candidly nd apparently truthfully, without any hesitation, anger, or pride; eery now red then looking, down, at the least movement of the pretty sleepy face; file a soft expression, quite new in rancie Charteris, brightened his own. There was even a degree of cheerfulness red hope in his manner, as he said, in reply to some suggestion of my sister's, "Then you think, ee Dr. Urquhart did, that my life is worth preserving -that I may turn out not such a had man after 1 ?" "How could a Iran be anything but a d man, who really felt what it is to the father of a child 1" Francis replied nothing, but he held his little son closer to his breast. Who knows but that the pretty boy may be heaven's messenger to save the father's ul ? Yuu see Max, I still like, in my old moralising habit, to "justify the ways Ood to men," to try and perceive the of pain, the reason of punishment; 1 0 n d h R I a a a n w F T A m all"; l g« be i n ea so i. of use xt r- k - w e d feels real yet. Max, last night, after I had done reading, papa mentioned your name of his own accord. He said Penelope, in asking his leave, as we thought it right to do, before we( sent that message to Lydia, had told him the whole story about your goodness to Francis. He then inquired abruptly how long it was since I had seen Dr. I rquhart? , I told him never since that day in the '. library, now a year ago. "And when do you expect to see him?" "I do not know." And all the bitter- ness of parting -the terrors lest lire's infinite chances should make this part- ing perpetual -the murmurs that will rise, why hundreds and thousands who care little for one another should be al- ways together, while we -we -Oh, Max! it all broke out with a sob, "pupa, papa, how can I know?" My father looked at nie as if he would read nie through. "You are & good girl, and an honora- ble one. He is honorable, too. Hewould never persuade a child to disobey her father." "No, never!" "Tell him" --and paps turned his head away, but he did soy it, I could not mistake, "tell Dr. Urquhart if he likes to coria over to Rockmount, for one day only, I shall not see him, but you may Max, come. Only for one day of holiday rest. It would do you good. There are green leaves in the garden, and sunshine and larks in the moorland, and -there is rase. Ooesel • (m as c'owmnnte. ) and to feel, not only by faith, but ez penenoe, that, dark as are the ways M Infinite Mercy, they are all safe ways. "All thing's work together for t• •d t„ then Viso Love Him." Ami s watching these two, talking so quietly sod friendly t.,Kether, i thought how glad my Max would be; 1 remembered all any Max had done - Penelope knows it now; I told her that night. And, cad and anxious as i sin ahnut you and many things, there tame over my heart one of those sudden sua- ahiny reefs of peace, when we feel that wt osther ..r not all is hanpv. all is well Crap, that dins dissent hes M its terrors t., those who Yellow Oil at fend. Yellow Oct Ioarts Sore Thous, �:._�ssestieti rani Indani mati.on rho "carr• Naga Isthe season t" Keard aping swain diessew. 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