Complete works of hall c.., p.60
Complete Works of Hall Caine, page 60
The storm had passed away; the stars struggled one by one through a rack of flying cloud, and a silver fringe of moonlight sometimes fretted the black patches of the sky.
Hugh Ritson sat alone in the old hall, that was now desolate enough. His face rested on his hand, and his elbow on his knee. There was a strange light in his eyes. It was not sorrow, and it was not pain; it was anxiety, uncertainty, perturbation. Again and again he started up from a deep reverie, and then a half-smothered cry escaped him. He walked a few paces to and fro, and sat down once more.
A servant crossed the hall on tiptoe. Hugh raised his head.
“How is your patient now?” he said, quietly.
“Just breathing, sir; still quite unconscious.”
Hugh got up uneasily. A mirror hung on the wall in front of him, and he stood and looked vacantly into it. His thoughts wandered, and when a gleam of consciousness returned the first object that he saw was the reflection of his own face. It was full of light and expression. Perhaps it wore a ghostly smile. He turned away from the sight impatiently.
Sitting down again he tried to compose himself. Point by point he revolved the situation. He thought of what the lawyer had said of his deserted wife and lost son of Lowther. Then, taking out of an inner pocket the medallion that Mr. Bonnithorne had lent him, he looked at it long and earnestly.
The inspection seemed to afford a grim satisfaction. There could be no doubt now of the ghostly smile that played upon his face.
There was a tall antique clock in the corner of the hall. It struck eight. The slow beats of the bell echoed chillily in the hushed apartment. The hour awakened the consciousness of the brooding man. At eight o’clock Mr. Bonnithorne was appointed to be there to make the will.
Hugh Ritson touched gently a hand-bell that stood on the table. A servant entered.
“Send Natt to me,” said Hugh.
A moment later the stableman shambled into the hall. He was a thick-set young fellow with a short neck and a full face, and eyelids that hung deep over a pair of cunning eyes. At first sight one would have said that the rascal was only half awake; at the second glance, that he was never asleep.
Hugh received him with a show of cordiality.
“Ah, Natt, come here — closer.”
The man walked across. Hugh dropped his voice.
“Go down to Little Town and find Mr. Bonnithorne. You may meet him on the way. If not, he will be at the Flying Horse. Tell him I sent you to say that Adam Fallow lies dying at Bigrigg, and must see him at once. You understand?”
The man lifted his slumberous eyelids. A suspicious twinkle lurked beneath them. He glanced around, then down at his big, grimy boots, measured with one uplifted hand the altitude of the bump on the top of his bullet head, and muttered, “I understand.”
Hugh’s face darkened.
“Silence!” he said, sternly; and then he met Natt’s upward glance with a faint smile. “When you come back, get yourself out of the way — do you hear?”
The heavy eyelids went up once more. “I hear.”
“Then be off!”
The fellow was shuffling away.
“Natt,” said Hugh, following him a step, “you fancied that new whip of mine; take it. You’ll find it in the porch.”
A smile crossed Natt’s face from ear to ear. He stumbled out.
Hugh Ritson returned to the hearth. That haunting mirror caught the light of his eyes again and showed that he too was smiling. At the same instant there came from the inner room the dull, dead sound of a deep sob. It banished the smile and made him pause. He looked at the reflection of his face — could it be the face of a scoundrel? Was he playing a base part? No, he was merely asserting his rights; his plain legal rights — nothing more.
He opened a cupboard in the wall and took down a bunch of keys. Selecting one key, he stepped up to a cabinet and opened it. In a compartment were many loose papers. Now to see if by chance there existed a will already. He glanced at the papers one by one and threw them aside. When he had finished his inspection he took a hasty turn about the room. No trace — he had been sure of it!
Again the deep sob came from within. Hugh Ritson walked noiselessly to the inner door, opened it slightly, bent his head, and listened. He turned away with an expression of pain, picked up his hat, and went out.
The night was very dark. He strode a few paces down the lonnin and then back to the porch. Uncovering his head, he let the night wind cool his hot temples. His breath came audibly and hard. He was turning again into the house when his eye was arrested by a light near the turning of the high-road. The light was approaching; he walked toward it, and met Josiah Bonnithorne. The lawyer was jouncing along toward the house with a lantern in his hand.
“Didn’t you meet the stableman?” said Hugh in an eager whisper.
“No.”
“The blockhead must have taken the old pack-horse road on the fell-side. One would be safe in that fool’s stupidity. You have heard what has happened?”
“I have.”
“There is no will already.”
“And your father is insensible?”
“Yes.”
“Then none shall be made.”
There was a pause, in which the darkness itself seemed full of speech. The lantern cast its light only on an open cart-shed in the lane.
“If your mother is the Grace Ormerod who married Robert Lowther and had a son by him, then Paul was that son — the heir to Lowther’s conscience-money.”
“Bonnithorne,” said Hugh Ritson — his voice trembled and broke— “if it is so, then it is so, and we need do nothing. Remember, he is my father. It is not within belief that he wants to disinherit his own son for the son of another man.”
Mr. Bonnithorne broke into a half-smothered laugh, and stepped close into the cobble-hedge, keeping the lantern down.
“Your father — yes. But you have seen to-day what that may come to. He has always held you under his hand. Paul has been the old man’s favorite.”
“No doubt of that.” Hugh crept close to the lawyer. He was wrestling in the coil of a tragic temptation.
“If he recovers consciousness, he may be tempted to recognize as his own his wife’s illegitimate son. That” — the low tone was one of withering irony— “will keep her from dishonor, and you from the estates.”
“At least he is my brother — my mother’s son. If my father wishes to provide for him, God forbid that we should prevent.”
Once more the half-smothered laugh came through the darkness.
“You have missed your vocation, Mr. Ritson. Believe me, the Gospel has lost a fervent advocate. Perhaps you would like to pray for this good brother; perhaps you would consider it safe to drop on your knee and say, ‘My good brother that should be, who has ever loved me, whom I have ever loved, take here my fortune, and leave me until death a penniless dependent on the lands that are mine by right of birth.’”
Hugh Ritson’s breath came in gusts through his quivering, unseen lips.
“Bonnithorne, it cannot be — it is mere coincidence, seductive, damning coincidence. My mother knows all. If it were true that Paul was the son of Lowther, she would know that Paul and Greta must be half-brother and half-sister. She would stop their unnatural union.”
“And do you think I have waited until now to sound that shoal water with a cautious plummet? Your mother is as ignorant of the propinquity as Greta herself. Lowther was dead before your family settled in Newlands. The families never once came together while the widow lived. And now not a relative survives who can tell the story.”
“Parson Christian?” said Hugh Ritson.
“A great child just out of swaddling-clothes!”
“Then the secret rests with you and me, Bonnithorne?”
“Who else? The marriage must not come off. Greta is Paul’s half-sister, but she is no relative of yours—”
“You are right, Bonnithorne,” Hugh Ritson broke in; “the marriage is against nature.”
“And the first step toward stopping it is to stop the will.”
“Then why are you here?”
“To make sure that there is no will already. You have satisfied me, and now I go.”
There was a pause.
“Who shall say that I am acting a base part?” said Hugh, in an eager tone.
“Who indeed?”
“Nature itself is on my side.”
The man was conquered. He was in the grip of his temptation.
“I am off, Mr. Ritson. Get back into the house. It is not safe for you to be out of sight and sound.”
Mr. Bonnithorne was moving off in the darkness, the lamp before his breast; its light fell that instant on Hugh Ritson’s haggard face.
“Wait; put out your lamp.”
“It’s done.”
All was now dark.
“Good-night.”
“Good-night.”
With slow whispers the two men parted.
The springy step of Josiah Bonnithorne was soon lost in the road below.
Hugh Ritson stood for awhile where the lawyer left him, and then turned back into the house. He found the cabinet open. In the turmoil of emotion he had forgotten to close it. He returned to it, and shuffled with the papers to put them back in their place. At that moment the door opened, and a heavy footstep fell on the floor. Hugh glanced up startled. It was Paul. His face was plowed deep with lines of pain. But the cloud of sorrow that it wore was not so black as the cloud of anger when he saw what his brother was doing and guessed his purpose.
“What are you about?” Paul asked, mastering his wrath.
There was no response.
“Shut up that cabinet!”
Hugh turned about with a flushed face.
“I shall do as I please!”
Paul took two strides toward him.
“Shut it up!”
The cabinet was closed. At the same moment Mrs. Ritson came from the inner room. Paul turned on his heel.
“He is thinking of the will,” said the elder brother. “Perhaps it is natural that he should distrust me; but when the time comes he is welcome to the half of everything, and ten thousand wills would hardly give him more.”
Mrs. Ritson was strongly agitated. Her eyes, red with weeping, were aflame with expression.
“Paul, he is conscious,” she cried in a voice that her anxiety could not subdue. “He is trying to speak. Where is the lawyer?”
Hugh had been moving toward the outer door.
“Conscious!” he repeated, and returned to the hearth.
“Send for Mr. Bonnithorne at once!” said Mrs. Ritson, addressing Hugh.
Her manner was feverish. Hugh touched the bell. When the servant appeared, he said:
“Tell Natt to run to the village for Mr. Bonnithorne.”
Paul had walked to the door of the inner room. His hand was on the handle, when the door opened and Greta came out. She stepped up to Mrs. Ritson and tried to quiet her agitation.
The servant returned.
“I can’t find Natt,” she said. “He is not in the house.”
“You’ll find him in the stable,” said Hugh, composedly.
The servant went out hurriedly.
Paul returned to the middle of the room.
“I’ll go myself,” he said, and plucked his hat from the settle, but Mrs. Ritson rose to prevent him.
“No, no, Paul,” she said in a tremulous voice, “you must never leave his side.”
Paul glanced at his brother with a perplexed look. The calmness of Hugh’s manner disturbed him.
The servant reappeared.
“Natt is not in the stable, sir.”
Paul’s face was growing crimson. Mrs. Ritson turned to Hugh.
“Hugh, my dear son, do you go for the lawyer.”
A faint smile that lurked at the corners of Hugh’s mouth gave way to a look of injury.
“Mother, my place, also, is here. How can you ask me to leave my father’s side at a moment like this?”
Greta had been looking fixedly at Hugh.
“I’ll go,” she said, resolutely.
“Impossible,” said Paul. “It is now dark — the roads are wet and lonely.”
“I’ll go, nevertheless,” said Greta, firmly.
“God bless you, my darling, and love you and keep you forever!” said Paul. Wrapping a cloak about her shoulders, he whispered: “My brave girl — that’s the stuff of which an English woman may be made.”
He opened the door and walked out with her across the court-yard. The night was now clear and calm; the stars burned; the trees whispered; the distant ghylls, swollen by the rain, roared loud through the thin air; a bird on the bough of a fir-tree whistled and chirped. The storm was gone; only its wreckage lay in the still room within.
“A safe journey to you, dear girl, and a speedy return,” whispered Paul, and in another moment Greta had vanished in the dark.
When he returned to the hall, his brother was passing into the room where the sick man lay. Paul was about to follow when his mother, who was walking aimlessly to and fro in yet more violent agitation than before, called on him to remain. He turned about and stepped up to her, observing as he did so that Hugh had paused on the threshold, and was regarding them with a steadfast look.
Mrs. Ritson took Paul’s hand with a nervous grasp. Her eyes, that bore the marks of recent tears, had the light of wild excitement.
“God be praised that he is conscious at last!” she said.
Paul shook his head as if in censure of his mother’s feelings.
“Let him die in peace,” he said; “let his soul pass quietly to its rest. Don’t vex it now with thoughts of the cares it leaves behind.”
Mrs. Ritson let go his hand, and dropped into a chair. A slight shudder passed over her. Paul looked down with a puzzled expression. Then there was a low sobbing. He leaned over his mother and smoothed her hair tenderly.
“Come, let us go in,” he said in a broken voice.
Mrs. Ritson rose from her seat and went down on her knees. Her eyes, still wet, but no longer weeping, were raised to heaven.
“Almighty Father, give me strength!” she said beneath her breath, and then more quietly she rose to her feet.
Paul regarded her with increasing perturbation. Something even more serious than he yet knew of was amiss. Hardly knowing why, his heart sunk still deeper.
“What are we doing?” he said, scarcely realizing his own words.
Mrs. Ritson threw herself on his neck.
“Did I not say there was a terrible reason why your father should make a will?”
Paul’s voice seemed to die within him.
“What is it, mother?” he asked feebly, not yet gathering the meaning of his fears.
“God knows, I never dreamed it would be my lips that must tell you,” said Mrs. Ritson. “Paul, my son, my darling son, you think me a good mother and a pure woman. I am neither. I must confess all — now — and to you. Oh, how your love will turn from me!”
Paul’s face turned pale. His eyes gazed into his mother’s eyes with a fixed look. The clock ticked audibly. Not another sound broke the silence. At last Paul spoke.
“Speak, mother,” he said; “is it something about my father?”
Mrs. Ritson’s face fell on to her son’s breast. A strong shudder ran over her shoulders, and she sobbed aloud.
“You are not your father’s heir,” she said; “you were born before we married.... But you will try not to hate me, ... your own mother.... You will try, will you not?”
Paul’s great frame shook visibly. He tried to speak. His tongue cleaved to his mouth.
“Do you mean that I am — a bastard?” he said in a hoarse whisper.
The word seemed to sting his mother like a poisoned arrow. She clung yet closer about his neck.
“Pity me and love me still, though I have wronged you before God and man. I whom the world thought so pure — I am but a whited sepulcher — a dishonored woman dishonoring her dearest son!”
The door opened gently, and Hugh Ritson stood in the door-way. Neither his brother nor his mother realized his presence. He remained a moment, and then withdrew, leaving the door ajar.
Beneath the two whom he left behind, the world at that moment reeled.
Paul stood with great, wide eyes, that had never tear to soften them, gazing vacantly into the weeping eyes before him. His lips quivered, but he did not speak.
“Paul, speak to me — speak to me — only speak — only let me hear your voice! See, I am at your feet — your mother kneels to you — forgive her as God has forgiven her!”
And loosing her grasp, she flung herself on the ground before him, and covered her face with her hands.
Paul seemed not at first to know what was happening. Then he stooped and raised his mother to her feet.
“Mother, rise up,” he said in a strange, hollow tone. “Who am I that I should presume to pardon you? I am your son — you are my mother!”
His vacant eyes gathered a startled expression. He glanced quickly around the room, and said in a deep whisper:
“How many know of this?”
“None besides ourselves.”
The frightened look disappeared. In its place came a look of overwhelming agony.
“But I know of it; oh, my God!” he cried; and into the chair from which his mother had risen he fell like a wounded man.
Mrs. Ritson dried her eyes. A strange quiet was coming upon her now. Her voice gathered strength. She laid a hand on the head of her son, who sat before her with buried face.
“Paul,” she said, “it is not until now that the day of reckoning has waited for me. When you were a babe, and knew nothing of your mother’s grief, I sorrowed over the shame that might yet be yours; and when you grew to be a prattling child, I thought if God would look into your innocent eyes they would purchase grace for both of us.”
Paul lifted his head. At that moment of distress God had sent him the gracious gift of tears. His eyes were wet, and looked tenderly at his mother.
“Paul,” she continued, quite calmly now, “promise me one thing.”
“What is it?” he asked, softly.
“That if your father should not live to make the will that must recognize you as his son, you will never reveal this secret.”
