Collected works of j s f.., p.88
Collected Works of J S Fletcher, page 88
“I don’t know what you mean,” he said, looking at her in some astonishment.
“I mean that you may not like me to stay here,” she said.
“No — no!” said Hepworth. “Don’t say that, Elisabeth, I shouldn’t like you to think of me in that way. I want you to regard me as your friend. Would that be a friendly action? Come — come, don’t talk like that.”
“You’re very kind, sir,” she answered. “I’ll serve you, Mr. Hepworth, faithfully, as long as you like to employ me.”
“That will be as long as you like to stay, Elisabeth,” he said.
He went across the room and held out his hand to her. She took it timidly, and looked at him with something of nervous shyness in her eyes. “Elisabeth,” said Hepworth, still holding her hand, “I can’t forget — what I told you to-night, you know. It’s all true, that, aye, and more true now than it was when I first spoke. But, of course, it’s no good now.”
“No, sir,” she answered in a low voice.
“I thought to be your lover,” he said, “and in time your husband, Elisabeth. Oh, my dear, I love you as truly as ever a man loved a woman in this world. And now, as I can’t be either husband or lover, let me be your friend, Elisabeth. Let me help you if I can. Will you?”
“Yes,” she said. “I will. Why shouldn’t I? There’s no one else. You’re all the friend I have.”
“Good-night, Elisabeth,” he said.
“Good-night, Mr. Hepworth,” she answered.
He released her hand and she turned away. At the door she stopped and looked at him.
“I am grateful,” she said, “and I wish — I wish for your sake that — that I could do what you wish.”
Then she disappeared and Hepworth was alone. He sat down by the dying fire and thought. Usually he smoked a pipe of tobacco before going to bed, but that night he forgot it and sat staring listlessly at the red ashes. It seemed to him that years had gone by since he said good-night to the last of his rustic guests. The last hour had seemed like years, and he felt, with a dim, vague consciousness, that its passage had been accompanied by the flight of something within himself that he had no power to define or to analyse. The man who now sat by the dying fire was not the man who had entered the room an hour previously. All his life had flowed with smooth purpose to that point, and there it had encountered new forces and had become — what? He tried to think what the events of the evening meant to him, but could decide nothing. All he knew was that he loved Elisabeth with a keen, strong, passionate devotion, and that her confidence in him had intensified that devotion ten-fold.
He sat while the fire died out and the parlour filled with gloom, still thinking. He recalled her voice, her manner, her attitude as she told him her story; he re-lived the moment when she burst into tears and he himself was seized with a fierce desire to take her into his arms and bid her sob out her sorrow on his breast. He had never loved her so much as at that moment, and he began to wonder why. But while he wondered, it never occurred to him that it was because of his great pity for her. He was unskilled in analysis of motive and character, despite his moody brooding over his own heart, and he had no thought within him of the foundations of his own love. It was enough for him that his heart had gone out to this particular woman.
Hepworth suddenly recalled the words which Elisabeth had spoken as she left the room. She had wished — for his sake — that she could do what he asked: he wondered if that meant that she would have married him if she had been free. He leaped at the notion as a drowning man at a passing straw. If she had been free? — might it not be that she was free? She had said that her husband might be alive or might be dead, and that if she only knew him to be dead, her mind would be at ease. And if her mind were at ease, why should she not eventually love him, Hepworth? He strode about the room, thinking it over, and at last went to bed, hopeful with new ideas. It seemed to him that his love was so great that nothing could stand in its way.
Upon the following day Hepworth detained Elisabeth in the parlour and spoke to her on the matter. He said that he was loth to re-open a subject so painful to her, but he had thought over her story and had come to the conclusion that it would be well for her peace of mind if she found out whether her husband were alive or dead.
“To live in doubt,” he said, “must be terrible, Elisabeth; you said so, yourself, last night.”
“Yes, sir,” she answered; “but then I live in hope, too.”
“Ah!” he said, “you are hoping that he will come back to you?”
“Yes,” she said. “Yes — I am. But — oh! I’m afraid it’s no use.”
“Then why not find out all that you can?” he asked.
“I’m afraid to hear that — that he was killed,” she said, “Sometimes I have a feeling that I shall see him again, and it gets so strong that I feel quite happy, and even light-hearted. And yet — I’m sure it’s only because I wish that it could be so.”
“Would it not be better for your peace of mind if you knew the worst or the best?” he said.
“The worst or the best?” she repeated. “Yes, sir, perhaps it would. But, oh! what if it’s the worst, Mr. Hepworth, what if it’s the worst?”
Hepworth said no more of the matter at that time, but after some days Elisabeth referred to it, and told him that she had been thinking it over, and had decided that it would be well to gain definite news if possible. Hepworth was secretly pleased that she should come to this decision. He felt that it might make matters plainer between them. After talking the matter over with Elisabeth, he wrote on her behalf to the governor of the convict prison in which her husband had been confined, and asked him for full information as to Verrell’s fate.
Elisabeth passed the next few days in an anxious suspense which was fully shared in by Hepworth. At last she brought him his letters one morning with one lying uppermost which bore an official appearance. He looked from it to her face, and then gave it into her hands.
“Go away and read it,” he said. “It’s yours, Elisabeth. Tell me afterwards what news it contains.”
Elisabeth came back after what seemed a long interval, during which he had sat staring at his untasted breakfast. He dare not lift his eyes when he heard her enter the room. She came to his side and laid the open letter before him.
“I know the worst now, sir,” she said. “He is dead — there is no doubt.”
She turned away and left the room. Hepworth read the letter, and knew why her voice had seemed so full of hopeless sorrow. The news it contained left no room for doubt. Elisabeth was free. He strode about the parlour thinking over it. Later he gave her the letter to keep, and from that time never mentioned it to her again.
The winter months went by, and at last the first faint tints of green appeared on the hedgerows, and spring came with new life. All that time Hepworth made no reference to his love, but at last he determined to speak once more. During the long days of winter time had gone for him with almost unobserved quickness — it dragged but yet hastened; circumstances seemed to pull it back, but love drove it forward, and at last Hepworth felt that he must speak all that was in his heart. Meeting Elisabeth one afternoon by the roadside outside the farmstead, he stopped her and asked her to marry him. “I will give all my life,” he said, “to making you forget your sorrow. You shall be happy with me, Elisabeth.”
She searched his face with earnest eyes, and then suddenly gave him her hand. “Yes,” she said, “I can be happy with you; and I will try to love you.”
Hepworth walked home with her. It seemed to him that a new world was opening with the new spring.
PART THE THIRD. THE EVE OF THE WEDDING
CHAPTER I. A HEART’S FIRST LOVE
HEPWORTH RODE OUT of the narrow lane leading from the farmstead to the highroad, and began to whistle merrily as his horse struck into a canter. It was high summer, and the morning was full of lusty life. The long stretch of flat country to the eastward lay wrapped in dreamy mist that was even then slowly melting before the hot sunlight. Far away across the level land, towering high above the mist that wrapped their feet, rose the Wolds, a faint line of deep blue colour against the lighter tints of the sky beyond. In the foreground lay red-roofed farmsteads, thick woods newly clothed with fresh green, with the spires and towers of many a quiet village peeping above the belts of elm and beech that fenced them in. Hepworth saw the picture, and thanked God for its loveliness. It was in accord with his mood. That day, he thought, must needs be a day of sunlight and gladness, for it was the day before his wedding. On the morrow he was to call Elisabeth wife. On the morrow all life’s sweetness was to be blended into perfect happiness for him. He had risen early that morning, for there was a long day’s work before him. There were preparations to make, and important matters to attend to. It gave him a curious sense of pleasure to feel that everything that had to be done that day was in strict necessity of the coming event. There was no detail that did not bear some relation to it. Because he and Elisabeth were going away for a few days there were instructions to impart to Mally and admonitions to the foreman. Because the wedding-feast was to be held at the farm consultations were necessary, between Hepworth and the women. To every detail and arrangement he gave his own personal attention, not merely because Mally was cumbered with much serving, but because it pleased him intensely to feel that what he did was bringing him nearer to the happiness that he desired. It seemed to him that all the joy on earth, all the sweetness of life was being compressed by time into one perfect day, to which even a day like this was but a faint prelude. As he cantered through the lanes or across the meadows, there was within him a consciousness that every bird swinging on the slender hawthorn sprays, or flitting from one hedge to another, cried to him “To-morrow!” and that his horse’s footfall echoed the same word.
Immediately after the day upon which Elisabeth consented to become his wife, Hepworth decided that she should forthwith leave the farmstead and take up her residence in the neighbouring village until the time for their marriage arrived. It did not please him to think that his future wife should any longer serve him in a menial capacity. This view of the case he concealed from Elisabeth: to her he said that she would no doubt have many preparations to make for her marriage, and would be in a better position to make them in rooms of her own. Elisabeth objected on the ground that she was not in a position to afford the expense. She was somewhat independent of spirit, and preferred to feel that she was not indebted to anyone, and especially to the man who was about to become her husband. To this Hepworth replied that she was already his promised wife, and that obligations between them were impossible. Everything that he had was hers, and therefore it was impossible that there could be any indebtedness between her and him. Elisabeth, woman-like, was scarcely able to follow the logic of this reasoning, but she gave in to Hepworth with an eager desire to please him in everything, and allowed him to carry out such arrangements as he desired. She was therefore presently installed with nothing to do but prepare for her marriage. Hepworth was desirous that the ceremony should take place before harvest, and they accordingly fixed upon a day towards the end of July. This gave Elisabeth three months in which to complete her preparations.
This time was to Hepworth the most delightful that he had ever known. He now approached Elisabeth on equal terms. She was no longer his servant, but his dearest and nearest friend, the woman whom he honoured and loved. She became his constant companion — there was not a day passed without a meeting between them. They explored the woods and fields together, and Elisabeth, quick to learn, became something of a proficient in the simpler arts of husbandry which Hepworth explained to her. This experience created a new bond of sympathy between them. It pleased her to feel that she was taking an interest in Hepworth’s daily concerns; it gave him satisfaction to see the interest which she showed. Upon several occasions when he had an engagement to preach in some neighbouring village chapel she accompanied him to and fro. His sermons were now of a tone that harmonised with the newer colour of his life. He was full of love and compassion towards humanity; the warmth of his own heart seemed to flow out to all the world. Elisabeth marvelled as she heard him; it seemed to her that on these occasions he was carried to great heights, and spoke like the old prophets upon whose mysticism he largely fed his soul. She began to look forward to Sunday evening as the white-letter day of the week, for then there was always the whole afternoon in Hepworth’s company, and the walk to some distant village later on, and later still, in the twilight hush, while the red afterglow faded in the western sky, and the last dreamy songs of the birds sounded from every coppice and hedgerow, the walk home again, and the confidential talk that seemed to bind her closer to the man of whose great love she was now assured.
It was Hepworth’s nature to feel deeply in all things, and in the passion which Elisabeth had inspired within him, he arrived at a depth of emotion of which he could never have conceived himself capable, had he thought about the matter in earlier days. To him the woman of his choice became idealised. He invested her with charms, graces, and powers. She became the centre-piece of humanity — there was not a thought within him that did not turn towards her, or spring from her influence. Elisabeth found all this out with a woman’s quick intuition. She was frightened at it, and yet she was pleased. Something of youth’s light-heartedness was coming back to her life, and the pride and joy which fills a woman’s heart when she finds that one man is ready to crown her queen of his soul began to re-assert themselves within her. Nevertheless, Hepworth’s love for her made her anxious and half-afraid. It seemed too great, too deep for reality, and she was conscious that in everything it was far beyond the love she could give him in return. This grave, lonely, middle-aged man inspired her with respect, esteem, and a feeling that was full of gratitude, but not with the passion of love. The latter she knew, for it was still in her heart for the dead man whose life had been so full of tragedy. There was nothing of its full pulsations, its sweet emotions, its unashamed desire, in the feeling that she had for the man whom she was now to marry. Because of its absence she felt afraid.
Hepworth was also afraid because of his love, but his fear sprang from a different feeling. Once he had spoken of it to Elisabeth as they walked homeward one summer night from a distant village. He had been silent for some time, and she had asked him, half-playfully, of what he thought. He stopped and looked at her.
“Elisabeth,” he said, taking her hand within his own, “do you know that I love you so much that I am afraid.”
“Afraid?” she asked. “Of what?”
“Nay, that is what I do not know. Have you never known that feeling, Elisabeth? A sort of feeling that you are too happy — that a happiness so great cannot last? It seems to me sometimes that I am living in a dream, and that I shall wake and find that all my happiness is gone.”
Elisabeth stood looking at him wonderingly. She did not altogether comprehend his meaning. But she suddenly smiled: her woman’s wit suggested an answer.
“I am real enough,” she said.
“Yes,” he said. “You are real, Elisabeth. But even then — there, I can’t explain what it is that I feel. If I were a boy perhaps I should feel light-hearted. But you see, Elisabeth, I am a man, and it seems to me that when a man loves, he loves with a passion which is terrible in its strength. Just to think — a year — nine months ago, I did not know you, and now — now—”
He broke off abruptly, and stood holding her hands and looking down at her.
“My God!” he said, suddenly. “If I were to lose you, Elisabeth; if I were to lose you.”
Elisabeth was afraid of so much love. It seemed to her that it must lead to sorrow.
“Sometimes,” she said, as they walked on, “I wish that you did not love me so much. Of course a woman is proud and glad that a man should think so much about her, but it is possible to think too much, and to estimate a person at too high a value, isn’t it?”
“That,” answered Hepworth, “is a question that I can’t reply to, Elisabeth. What do I know of love, except that I love you?”
“Yes,” she said, “I know you love me, and I like to know it — it pleases me. But I’m not sure that I like you to love me as you do, because I think I shall disappoint you. You do see what I mean, don’t you? Perhaps, I can’t express it properly, but I mean that if you have such a high opinion of me you are bound to be disappointed.”
“I don’t think I ever think of anything like that,” he replied. “Love, I should think, doesn’t allow people to calculate as to future events. It’s just enough for me to know that of all women in the world you are the one to whom my heart goes out, and that therefore I am bound to exalt you into everything that seems perfect.”
Elisabeth sighed.
“That’s nice,” she said, musingly. “A woman can’t help liking to be told things like that. But, you know, it makes me anxious lest I shouldn’t come up to the standard that’s in your mind.”
“I don’t know how it may be,” Hepworth answered. “I know so little of these things, but it seems to me that that’s impossible. Perhaps love is a dream, and a dream from which one never wakes. Let us never be awakened, Elisabeth.”
“I will try to make you happy,” she said, suddenly turning to him. “Such love as yours deserves love in return.”
But she knew beyond doubt that the fierce passionate love within him found no answering echo in her own breast, and therefore she was afraid. She wondered as she walked by his side if she would ever come to love him with the same devotion which he showed towards her. It might be, in time, she thought; and with the thought she comforted herself. Her life seemed identified with this man’s: they had met in the strangest fashion: it could not be that blind fate had thrown them together for aught but good purpose. Elisabeth was somewhat fatalistic in her notions — it appeared to her that she had purposely been led to Hepworth, and with this reflection she comforted herself for the future.
