A New Year's Gift
by Francis Derrick, author of "The Kiddle-a-Wink," "Mildred's Wedding," etc.
Originally published in Belgravia (John Maxwell) vol.1 #3 (Jan 1867).
Part I.
I am one of a group standing before a painting in the Academy. It represents a little child—a prisoner. His cell is a garret, whose narrow window gives no outlook save a glimpse of a stormy sky. A broken chair and stool piled beneath the lattice tell of the child's attempt to reach it; perhaps in some wistful hope of release; perhaps only to be a little nearer the pale sunshine; or likelier still, in the fear of loneliness, and desire to look beyond his doleful prison. But he has given up all effort now, and sits upon the ground despairing. Darkness gathers round him, and the little light that enters the dusty panes is mingled with shadows of clouds, which fall on his clasped hands, or beckon from the wall like swiftly-rushing ghosts. On his right hand a long pale door swings hideous, showing within a dim recess hung with dead garments. These seem full of whisperings and horrid shapes, that come and go, rustling and muttering in the wind, as they peep and peer upon the lonely prisoner. There is no food, no fire in the gloomy room, no book, no toy; but at the child's feet, with a string fastened to the handle, there lies an empty porringer. Perchance with this and his leaden spoon he may at some sunnier hour have manufactured for himself a drum. But now all attempt to wile his solitude is relinquished; his imagination is full of terrors; his eyes are fixed and glazed with fear; his ears are strained to catch the last footfall of the passers-by in the reeking court below—his rare playground. His thin small hands clasp each other tightly, as though each little skeleton finger sought to find comfort in contact with its fellow. His pale hair—it would be golden if he were happy—falls on his cheeks uncombed; his wan face is tearless, but on its smooth young skin there is a look of age and woe that might have made an angel weep. He weeps not; he knows it useless. For him there is no love, no pity, no place in any human heart.
This is his portrait. Yet he is not all comfortless. The spirit of some little child, dead long ago, is drawn by his sorrows from the sky, and amid the stormy clouds, her spirit-face, bathed in soft light and tears of pity, looks down upon him lovingly.
"It is a terrible picture," said one of the group. "What is it?"
"The catalogue tells you—" Fatherless, and hated of his Mother; and the painter is Mark Stewart, an artist unknown to fame."
The speakers moved away, and then I—Mark Stewart the painter—saw standing before my picture the figure of a young girl. She stood as though shrinking from notice—her head bent down. Nevertheless I perceived that she was weeping. Now, this "Neglected Child" was not only my picture, but my portrait—an image of my childhood, drawn from memory; and these tears were a delicious flattery, a joy to me unspeakable.
I longed to address her. I drew nearer—hesitated—stopped. My step disturbed her reverie. She turned hurriedly, and I saw her face—the face that haunted me—the spirit-face that in my picture looked down on the desolate child in his garret. Our eyes met, and hers were full of recognition—of love. Startled, and trembling in spirit, I held my hand towards her, as we do to a friend; but letting her veil fall over her now crimsoned cheeks, she hurried away, with a gesture that was both an adieu and a greeting.
I am a dreamer, not a man of prompt action; so I stood still bewildered, and let her hide herself among the crowd. But the moment she was gone, a passionate desire to pursue her seized me. I hurried from room to room. The gallery was filled with the fashionable world. Here were lovely faces,—a Belgravian stamp upon them,—foolish faces and learned faces, beaming faces and weary faces; but the face of my dreams had vanished.
To escape from my sick thoughts, I started up and rushed out into the street. I wandered purposeless till nightfall; and even then I was still so moved by the apparition of this face, that I cared not when they told me my picture was sold, and for a good price.
I haunted the Exhibition every day, but she never came again.
My picture was sent to a banker's in London, and it was he who gave me the cheque for its price.
Soon after this I had ceased to be a painter. I had come into a fortune and a name, and my studio was given up for ever. My new position brought me many friends; and for two years I led a London life, accepting eagerly every invitation that Belgravia or Tyburnia extended tome. Every ball was to me a hope, finishing in disappointment; for her face never appeared among the dancers, till at length I began wearily to think that she was—what she had ever been to me from boyhood—a vision, a creature of my dreamy brain.
I went down to Linton in Devonshire—to that wild country where the red deer still linger. I went for the stag-hinting. One day I reached Exmoor too late for the meet. I drew rein under shelter of a small covert, and standing in my stirrups, my vision swept the whole bleak horizon, without seeing a single human creature.
This unexpected loneliness weighed upon my spirit like a leaden hand. The wild weird aspect of the scenery; its passing mists, its desolate haunted look, speaking of chilled ghosts wandering at night, and impish shapes of wood and fen—all surged upon me in a cold wave, bringing heavily to my brain those imperfect memories, and that sense of solitude, hatred, fear, and love lost, which made up that madman that I, Mark Stewart, now Mark Penolvor, kept mostly in safe chains beneath my sanity.
Surely the spirit of this wild waste and the spirit of my childhood were one, and their desolation was in and around me. I pressed my hand to my brow to shut out the vision of a child praying to God, with wild eyes, for reason; and as I, the man, uttered the same prayer amid the breathless silence of the waste, which counted the fall of a leaf and the rustle of an insect's wing, there rose up to heaven a piercing cry.
It was the voice of a woman; and in a moment a rider, at a blind gallop, her horse maddened by terror, appeared on the other side of the copse and dashed past me across the moor. Hers was the slight figure clinging to the reins, hers the young face, white with fear, that rushed by me like a vision. For an instant I stood like one distraught; then I gave the reins to my startled hunter, and followed her.
We were on the confines of the moor, near the rugged rocks and gorges of the Lyn, and the horse had dashed towards a narrow pathway with a wall of rock on one hand, a precipice on the other. To strive to pass her here would be death to one, or both; so I could but hold in my hunter and watch breathlessly, as the frantic animal skirted the gorge, while the form of the slight young rider swayed with horrible danger over the brink.
I could not bear the sight. I took a sudden and desperate resolution. I turned my horse's head, and scarcely even choosing a spot for my descent, I dashed down over the loose rocks and brushwood of the gorge. It was a perilous, mad descent; but I reached the bottom safely, and followed the course of the stream. I put my horse to his utmost stride, counted my distance, shot a-head, and then remounted the slope and gained the road.
I heard the furious beat of her horse's hoofs, and rode forward to meet it. Close at the turn was one of the worst precipices of the pass. Here, on the outer edge, the feet of my hunter touching the brink, I placed myself; and here, with every nerve strained, I waited—waited one breathless moment; and then the frightened creature, specked with foam and blinded by its own mad race, dashed up against me. I seized the bridle; the beast swerved, reared. I was jerked to the ground; and at the same instant my noble hunter, overcome by the shock, was forced beyond the brink, and beating the air for one wild moment with his fore feet, rolled over, and fell dead on the rocks below. I had dropped my own bridle, but my grasp on that of her horse was not relaxed; and holding it now with double strength, I flung the foaming brute on his haunches, and in the next instant I lifted his rider safely from the saddle.
As I felt the slight form yield to my arms, a violent bound of the heart thrilled my frame. All the fleeing flitting shadows of my mind, so intangible till now, seemed suddenly grasped, embodied in this fair flesh and blood lying within my clasp. Involuntarily I tightened my embrace, while a hurried exclamation sprang to my lips: "Have I found you at last?" As I spoke, the blood mounted swiftly to her white face. She was trembling exceedingly; yet she disengaged herself from my arms, and stood alone, drawing back timidly, like one in fear.
"Thank you for my life," she said softly. "You have saved it at the risk of your own. Your horse, I fear, is killed."
The fear of death through which we had both passed, and the excitement of the time, deprived me of presence of mind. There was a mist over my brain, else I should not have obeyed her gesture and replaced her on her panting hunter. I cannot tell what I said, but I remember her answer.
"He is quiet and weary now; I can ride him without danger."
She had a sweet low voice. I could have listened to her for ever.
"May I not see you safely home?" I asked.
"I have friends who will do that. I shall find them on the moor."
The look of pain on my face arrested her words. She held out her hand to me with sudden frankness:
"I owe my life to you," she said; "and I am glad to owe it to you. Do not come any further with me; for your own sake, do not. I will not answer for what might happen if you are seen with me."
I could make nothing of this speech, or of her manner, in which there was a singular mingling of familiarity and fear. Puzzled, yet flattered, I held her hand more closely.
"How can I leave you," I pleaded, "when I have longed for so many years to see your face?"
She looked distressed; nevertheless her eyes were full of tenderness as they fell beneath mine.
"O, do stay here," she said, "and let me ride away. Believe me, it is better for us both."
To obey was to lose her again, perhaps for ever—and that was madness. I was about to say, "Tell me your name;" but at this instant a single horseman dotted the horizon, standing out against the gray sky that hung low over the moor. Evidently she recognised him, for with eyes full of fear she turned to me, saying in a hurried tone:
"For pity's sake, let me go; don't let him see you. If you value my life, stay here while I gallop away."
She snatched her hand from mine in passionate haste, and gathering up the reins, cantered swiftly towards her friend. Bewildered and sad, I stood still and watched till she had rounded the head of the gorge and joined the solitary horseman on the moor. I turned towards Linton, hating the man.
But what is this fluttering over the precipice just where my brave bay fell and died? Only a handkerchief; but in the corner, in dainty embroidery, is her name—"Amy." Curiously enough, the sound of this word, as I uttered it lovingly, filled my heart with shadows—sad phantoms, that came and went like wings of swift birds, passing too rapidly for vision to shape their form. How could I discover who she was? What could I do in that wild country save walk to Linton, and there taking another horse, mount and ride for hours on the moor—seeking her. The hounds, the stag, the hunters had gone towards Porlock. I met some of the men returning, weary and mud-stained. "Had they seen a lady?" I asked.
"O yes, many."
"A slight fair lady, with curling ringlets on her neck, and eyes of a violet hue?"
"What was her name?"
I shrugged my shoulders, and rode away. For a fortnight more I went to and fro, haunting that wild country, asking questions of squire and peasant, till a laugh greeted me, and a mocking whisper passed from lip to lip.
I heard no tidings of her. She had come and gone like a shadow. I might have deemed her a cruel phantom sent to torture me, only I had held her hand, I had felt her heart beat, I had touched her cheek. Before this I had loved her as spirit loves spirit; now I loved her as man loves woman; and I was sad even unto death.
Part II.
I went abroad. I flirted at Paris, I danced at Vienna, I feasted at Berlin; and thus time went by with me feverishly, till the sands of two years were wasted in weariness. Then a great shame seized me, a fire of remorse, a desire to redeem this waste and look my fate in the face without regret. I would visit my own place and people; I would inhabit the mansion whose ancient name my generous friend had given me, and see if I could make a home there.
I came; and one week after my arrival at Penolvor, as I row my boat to and fro in the clear waters near the beach, there rises out of the calm depths the face of Amy; a very shadow, and yet herself, clad in white, her pure face untroubled in the clear deep of the Cornish sea. For a single speck of time my eyes are chained on the shadowy Amy, shining on me beneath those wondrous crystal waves; then I turn them in amazement, hope, fear upon the cliff; and there, far above, looking down as angels might, stands the real Amy—the woman I had clasped. She stood a little space, her white robe fluttering against the blue sky; then, without a glance of recognition, she passed on, white, and cold, and passionless as marble.
I could have wept for grief and joy. I had sought her in many lands wearily; and lo, she was here at my threshold! her feet bruised the perfume of home flowers, and her shadow fell at my portal. It was like a fairy tale; and even if a griffin forest stood between us—
"Never look for fossils on this coast, Mr. Penolvor; we are on the granite here."
I turned and greeted our rector—an antiquarian, a geologist, a searcher into dead words, dead stones, dead roots. "Indeed I was but digging into the sand idly; I was not thinking of ancient bones."
"Sand, sir? Examine a handful, and you will find, not sand but shells, myriads of tiny shells. The caves here are full of them. The Cornish call them, not caves but fogous; the ancient word is vooga—a cavern."
"Whence, perchance," said I, smiling, "comes fogy, a creature of a cavernous and ancient aspect. Tell me who is the lady you passed but now in your walk?"
"A fair neighbour of yours, Mr. Penolvor; a Miss Caithewood."
"Caithewood!"
"Yes, that is the name the old man bas given her. It is appropriate. The word is a corruption from the Cornish, Caethiwed—bondage; and hers is bondage indeed."
"Of what old man do you speak? You forget that I am a stranger at my home."
"I am speaking of Mr. Pencarow of Concryack."
He pointed across the bay to the gray turrets of an ancient mansion.
"He is near enough to be a good neighbour," said I. "What kind of a man is he?"
"He is a madman or a devil. Ask the doctor, he will tell you the first; ask the peasants, they will affirm the latter. And herein is shown the excellence of the ancient Cornish tongue; the villages and mansions here have names of meaning: Concryack is corrupted from Conerioc—mad; and truly all the Pencarows are a mad lot."
"A devil or a madman!" and she lived with him. What did this mean?
"And Miss Caithewood," I faltered; "is she a relative of this madman's?"
"None in the world. He adopted her long ago, when a child. He has been a lonely man. I will tell you his story one day. He is well called Pencarow—bereaved; or literally, the Mount of Bereavement. Good day; I must gossip no more." And so Mr. Raven and I parted.
A month went by, and I gave a ball, and sent cards to Concryack, with an elaborate letter, in which I spoke of neighbourly love, my desire for friendliness, and I know not what. Alas, every word of my letter betrayed chagrin and love. My cards came back to me in a blank envelope. Utterly enraged, I mounted my horse, and rode over the bare hills to the Land's End. On my return home late, a servant handed me a letter. "Brought just after you left, sir," he said. I tore it open, and read this:
"I go out this evening in a little sailing-boat, alone. Meet me at five in Polurrian cove. You are ruining all by your mad attempts at friendliness. Cease these, I implore you, and trust always in—Amy."
Was I in my senses? What did this inexplicable girl mean by writing thus? Was she at the same time frank and reserved, bold and shy? I had never spoken to her of love, never presumed to ask for a meeting; and yet she wrote as though I had done both. Alas, it was true; I did love her, and she was driving me mad.
In fifteen minutes I was in my boat, careening across the Bay of Mullion. "She will be gone," I said to myself feverishly. "Her note says five; it will be seven soon. O, what a madman I was to ride!" But the wind was fresh, and blew me swiftly on; and soon the boat's keel grated on the sands of Polurrian. I sprang ashore; but there was nothing there save solitude and silence, and the dying splendour of the setting sun. With eager eyes strained on glorified rock and glistening sands, and waves flashing purple and gold, I gazed myself heart-sick; with eager ears strained for the sound of a voice or a footfall, I hearkened till hope died. There was not a sound save the roll of the sea, not a living thing save the hovering sea-bird, glancing in the dusk like winged shadows.
"O Amy, Amy! why not have waited for me?"
Clash! across the gathering darkness rang out the bells of Gunwalloe—that gray belfry by the sea, divorced for ever from its ancient church; and as the weird chime touched my ears, there flashed before my sight the word "Amy." It was written on the sands in old English letters. She had been here, and she was gone! The sun sank beneath the sea with this desolate thought; the glory on the waters shivered and died; all things grew gray around me, and the skies wept. As the chill rain fell, I launched my boat, and sailed away across the waves.
Again I had lost her! What would she have said had we met? Would she have held out her hand to me? might I have touched her cheek, heard her voice, felt the joy of her presence? O, the madman I was to ride! She would think I did not care to come; I, whose heart beat wildly for her, whose blood bounded, whose brain throbbed at her thought. Had I met her in this solitude, I would have wrung from her a promise of faith and love. Amy! Amy!
O, how I hated myself for that afternoon ride!
Night and clouds fell around me, and then a cold wind blowing from the north, before which my bark bounded like a bird. The wind swept by in gusts, but I steered my tiny boat with safety. Lights flashed from window to window at ancient Concryack, guiding my way; lights gleamed in the tower of Penolvor like a beacon, and for this I steered. But suddenly my boat struck sharply against some obstacle unseen, and staggered beneath the blow. I lowered the sail with rapid hand, while the object against which I had struck floated away. Taking up the oars, I followed it, and in a moment reached a little boat, filled nearly to the gunwale, and sinking. Bending forwards, a ghastly fear curdling my blood, I read in white letters on the stern the word "Amy." As I read, the moon broke out brightly, and the little skiff went down, down, and the moonbeams danced over her.
"She is drowned!" I said; and my heart stood still. Then I shrieked her name aloud to the raging waves. Amy! Amy! Amy! The winds shrieked back an answer: Dead, dead, dead! I had killed her. She had waited for me till the storm came, and I had killed her. Even now my boat might be passing over her dead white face. At that thought a ghastly coldness crept upon my veins, and I flung myself down, not caring whither my bark drifted.
I know not what happened after this; but when I awoke I was in my own room at Penolvor, and faces I knew were round my bed. I had had a fever, they told me—a fever brought on by exposure through a night in an open boat. Some fishermen had found me in the morning, and I was already delirious. It was a miracle my boat had lived through the storm—a miracle I had lived myself through this sad fever.
"How are my friends, my neighbours?" I asked.
"All well." And cards, letters, visits, all testified their solicitude for me.
"And old Mr. Pencarow, the eccentric man, the mad squire, how is he?"
"0, well; but wickeder than ever; a very demon now."
Had the death of Amy thus affected the old man? I seized nurse Honour by the arm: "Tell me, is she found, and—and buried?"
"My poor boy," whispered old Honour, smoothing my thin hand; "you're roadling again."
"Honour! my dear Honour! I am not wandering. Is her corpse found?—why do you force me to say the dreadful word?—or does it lie out in the cruel sea? Drowned, drowned! Nurse Honour, I killed her."
"Master, there is no one drowned," said nurse Honour. Here the curtains were drawn aside, and the doctor's finger touched my pulse.
"I am better," said I feebly. "You may safely tell me the truth."
"What is it you wish to be told, Mr. Penolvor?"
"Is she found? Have they given her Christian burial?"
"You are dreaming still, my poor lad; there is no one lost, or dead, or buried."
"Not drowned! Amy—Miss Caithewood not drowned!"
"I saw her but yesterday. 'Tis strange that the visions of your sick brain should picture this lady to you as drowned."
"Perhaps master heard she was out on the bay on the day of the storm," said nurse Honour; "but seeing it coming on, Miss Caithewood rowed into Poldhu and walked home, leaving her boat moored there. It broke loose though, and was dashed to pieces,—the pretty little boat."
I sank back on my pillow, gasping for breath; the sudden joy was too great for my weakness. And with the joy there came a sick longing to see my love; to be comforted by her presence, tended by her hand, soothed by her voice. O, to feel her touch once, only once, upon my brow! O, if her tears might fall on my face; if her eyes might look into mine; if, bending down over my aching lids, her lips might breathe a word, one single word of love, then I could die! I could send forth my soul in a cry of joy, and sink into darkness for ever.
"Drink this," said the doctor. And he looked at me suspiciously, as my longing eyes gazed wistfully into his rubicund and jolly visage. Not a face for love-sick eyes to fall on; ah, no. So he gave me his nauseous drinks, and thought me mad, as he turned away with pursed-up lips and wise shake of bewigged head.
Youth loves to suffer, and to live. I got well, revelling in the thought that I should suffer more.
One November day I sat out on the rocks, the warm western sun, the clear Cornish sky above me, the blue waves at my feet; and from out of the sea there sprang up music, and the sound of oars moving gently as impelled by a dainty hand. I looked up listlessly, and lo! a little boat sailing by, and in it Amy, singing, one oar in her white hand, to help the lame sail that flapped in the breezeless air like a wounded bird. She went by singing—she who had caused my pain—singing heartlessly, like a cruel siren who willed my death.
Still singing, she dropped her oar, and without a glance towards me, she flung upon the beach a shell—a pink sea-shell that she had picked up idly in the sun, on some strange sands far away. Why fling this at my feet—this memento of happy hours not spent with me? I hated even the sun that had shone on her then. I would not stoop to gather up the gift she flung so carelessly. But as the oar dipped in the water again, as the sail flapped and the prow of the barque turned away from Penolvor, my passion broke the chains of pride and silence, and I ran down to the water's edge and into the waves knee-deep, and stretched out my arms with a cry of pain. "Amy, Amy! stay and speak to me, or I shall hate you."
She bowed down her head and wept:
"O, Mark, Mark! I did not think you were ungrateful."
Like a sigh, her voice came across the sea, soft and low; then, with a wave of her hand, a swift stroke of the oar, she rowed away.
I took up the shell because her hand had touched it; and as I held it lovingly, my caressing fingers found hid within its hollows a note.
"My poor Marx,—Your illness has grieved me sorely, and, like a stranger, I have had to ask about you with careless words, lest any should guess the truth. Do you love me still, Mark? Then love me always, and trust in me ever; but do not seek to see me, or to speak. You would ruin all, and destroy your hope utterly. You know not what madness, what violence I bear for your sake every day.—Your true Amy."
Inexplicable woman! Why write with this open, cruel affection? If she were not to me even as a very shadow, it might destroy my love; but unattainable as she is, fleeing spirit-like from my grasp, the outspoken frankness of her written words only maddens me.
Part III.
Two months pass slowly. It is the end of the old year, and there is silence between my love and me—silence as dead as these dry leaves beneath my feet. I have not even seen her ghost go shadowy by in gliding boat, or on phantom horse black as night, on which she sits in stillness beneath the pines, in the gleaming moonlight, with pale face turned towards Penolvor.
Meanwhile strange tales reach me of the old man's madness, his hate, his ravings against an enemy unforgiven—once his son. At times the neighbours tremble for her life, and tell of cries of terror breaking through the night silence.
Was I to bear all this for ever? or was I, with my man's heart and hand, to set her free, disobeying all her own behests?
In the depth of my perplexity there came to me a visitor—a little dried man, with legal face, and voice piped out of tune, and nervous hands twitching to tie and untie papers. He had much to tell, he said. Firstly, did I know myself?
"As much as man could," I answered.
Then who was I? what my name and age?
I was Mark Penolvor, and my age was twenty-three on this the shortest day of all the year.
Right as to age; but my name—had that always been Penolvor?
"No; I was once plain Mark Stewart; but four years ago, a kindly gentleman—a stranger—had left me his name, his lands, and the old goodly mansion of Penolvor."
As I spoke, the legal face looked up keenly, and the long thin hands drew forth a packet. I trembled,—'tis pleasant to be rich,—and the man's ways conjured up a dismal vision of legal heirs disputing an eccentric will.
"Fear nothing," said my visitor; "I bring you news of greater riches: riches to which this manor of Penolvor is as a handful of dust. Now, tell me all you know of yourself."
"I remember a cold home, a cruel mother, then a sojourn with a good couple, no kin to me, a painter's studio, and help sent by an unknown friend, and lastly, Mr. Penolvor—he was the friend—dies, and makes me rich. That is my life till now."
"By heaven, I have left out my love, the very fire and fibre of my life," I thought, smiling to myself.
"You have begun your life at six years old," said my legal friend; "have you no memory of that earlier time?"
"I can dimly remember a richer home, and a man who loved me well."
"Your grandfather!" cried the lawyer in triumph. "Now let me relate your history. I tell you, you know nothing of yourself. Your father was an only son, idolised by his widowed father; wherefore he grew up wilful. When still a boy, when other youths are in the trammels of a school, he broke loose and married. His wife was without name, without gentle nurture, without much truth or goodness; prettiness—that was all she had. But your race is prone to love rashly, plunging wildly into love's flame at first sight."
I winced, but was silent. He went on:
"The old man should have remembered this, but anger blinded him. He cast off his son, and refused him all but the smallest pittance. Five years went by, the girl wife was weary and sick, the boy husband angry and worn. There was not much love between them now; bitterness on his side, disappointment on hers, had long trampled out the feeble childish flame that lighted their marriage. But now there dropped upon their misery a hope. A child would be born to them, and surely this would soften the inexorable man they had wronged. The young husband sent the news to his father, and counted the days till an answer came.
"The reply was grim and cruel. If a son was born, the grandfather would adopt the child, and grant the parents a competence, on condition they lived abroad, and never sought to see his face. If they had a daughter, they need not even write to tell him of her birth.
"There was a long, a bitter struggle; but the condition was accepted. The son yielded through his wife's influence; she cared nothing to see her father-in-law's face, she wanted his money only, and the unborn child had no hold upon her worldly heart. But when you, an infant, were carried from your mother's dingy lodgings to your grandfather's mansion, she felt a mother's longing for her child; and as a comforter, she took with her when she went abroad a little sister, born but a week before yourself.
"Thus things stood for five years more, and then your mother's mother, a buxom woman of forty-five, hostess of a village inn, died of a lingering illness. Soon after her death, a letter from your grandfather reached the exiles; he would see his son's wife, if she came without her husband, and brought her little sister with her,—the child who had comforted her for the loss of her boy.
"The woman came, hoping to reap some profit for herself, as doubtless she did, in her low secret way. But an unlooked-for event grew out of her visit. Your grandfather, who had hitherto loved you dearly, transferred his love to the flattering child she had brought with her. And eccentric in all he did, he soon proposed to abandon his grandson, and adopt this girl instead.
"Take back your boy, and give me this little sister of yours, and I will double your income,' he said.
"She consented. Do not be startled; I have told you hers was a low, selfish nature; and now it showed itself base indeed, for she sold her child's birthright, and rejoiced over the bargain she had made. She returned to her husband with her disinherited boy, leaving with the foolish old man her wheedling sister. A great, a lasting quarrel sprang up between her and her husband: they parted; he went to sea, and was lost on his first voyage; and she, struck by some strange pining sickness,—maybe remorse,—died in a year or two. She died in wretched London lodgings, for she had fallen into bad hands; and the ruffian band that ruled her stole her funds. Your grandfather, hearing of the lawless set she lived among, forced her to abandon his son's name. She would do anything for money. She called herself and boy Stewart."
"When your mother died, you were scarcely in your senses; a dull silent boy, sickly in mind and body. About this time Mr. Penolvor came to me. 'Would I find you,' he said, 'and rescue you; not letting his name be known?' I did this, and placed you with the good painter and his wife. The rest you know, save that at intervals I have had letters from that cunning girl your aunt, asking for you with feigned solicitude. I have replied to these with caution. The old man your grandfather has grown a tyrant, a very fiend, I hear. At times he raves, and even lifts his hand against her; yet, in her greed of gold, she bears all this, hoping by patience to rob you of your lands."
I shrugged my shoulders. "A vile woman," I said; "a flatterer, a fawner from her birth. What chance have I against her wiles?"
"The chance of near kinship. You have not heard all. Your grandfather has written—nay, I must not show the letter; he forbids it—to say that he will see you, and justify himself. You are to accompany me to his house on the last day of the old year. You will come?"
"Yes; but tell me—"
"I must tell you nothing. Ask no questions till the day arrives. And until then, farewell."
Left alone, I thought painfully over this story; and breaking through the lingering hours there came dull gleams of memory that maddened me.
Amy! Why did Amy flit across these dark clouds that hid my child-life? why did I feel her arms comforting me, as I thought of that day when, with dulled brain and tearless eyes, I stood by the deathbed of my careless mother? And in that earlier, happier time when, a spoilt boy, I played in my grandfather's mansion, why still did Amy's sad loving face seem ever close to mine?
Now, if my grandfather took me back to his heart, and discarded this low cunning relative of mine, would Amy be my bride? Would my wealth win her strange guardian's consent? 0, that I might dare to hope!
Fevered by thought, I placed my chair by the open window; the weather was soft and sunny, and dallying with a book, I slept, while the myrtles of the west and the breezes of the southern sea fanned me gently.
I awoke with a start. A spirit had touched my hand; shining hair had swept my brow; a breath had passed over me. A cry burst from my lips. "Amy! come back, come back!"
I had been dreaming of her. She ever haunted my sleep. It was horrible to awake from dreams and find that she was herself a dream—a vision perhaps of my heated brain, more real when I slept than when I called thus upon her shadow dreamily.
But what is this lying on my book? Violets and primroses tied with a purple ribbon. And between their scented leaves a note in Amy's writing.
"Dear Mark,—I obey your wish. I will see you. Come to Concryack on the last day of the old year. Ask at the door for 'Amy.' I shall expect you at eight in the evening. I send you the last flowers of the dying year—spring flowers in every county but this—so accept them as emblems of the hope I feel.—Yours ever, Amy."
I gathered up the flowers and kissed them.
Part IV.
"Mr. Penolvor, are you ready? I have s carriage at the door; but before we start, I have a grave word to say."
It was my legal friend who spoke: I had forgotten him.
"Speak!" I answered impatiently.
"The purport of your grandfather's letter, which I would not show, was this: you must take a wife of his choosing at once—he will have no more low blood mingled with his race—or renounce for ever all hope of seeing his face."
"He is mad!" I exclaimed angrily.
"He is eccentric. Do you consent?—will you come? Yes or no?"
"No. Go to the old man, and say I am ready to give him affection and duty, but I will love and choose a wife for myself."
"At least come with me: we will try—we will conciliate."
"Is it a long journey? Can I be back by seven o'clock?"
"Certainly you will not be home by seven, or perhaps by midnight."
"Then I will not go. I have another appointment."
The man of law raved and protested. I was a fool, he said, to fling away thus a fortune. But I was rock and ice; and at length he threw himself into his carriage and drove away.
"He loses his inheritance for some mad appointment with a girl—wilful blood! wilful blood!" he muttered as he went, furious. I was half-remorseful. I could have gone with him but for Amy. I would have seen my grandfather and softened him: I would have faced this low girl who cheated him in his dotage, and perhaps have triumphed over her—but for Amy. It was all yielded up now; every hope of my grandfather's returning love, every hope of my ancestral lands—all given up for Amy.
I sprang upon my horse and rode away to Concryack. I went by the bridle-road on the cliff; the breakers shone white beneath in the glistening moonlight, and the wind swept my path in fury. The old year was dying in tempest, and the wild sea sang its requiem.
I rode through the driving mists like a phantom, and phantom-like I passed silently over the dead leaves of the dark avenue at Concryack.
It seemed like a dream, this gray old mansion and its battlemented towers, its ancient porch and huge oak-door, rich with carvings. Either I was mad, or I had seen this place in visions—visions that had come in loneliness, in darkness, fear, and pain—visions that shone through the rain of tears, and a long dull longing for love.
It needed not to open the heavy door; I saw the hall before the carved oak swung on its hinges. This picture of the armed knight with the gloomy eyes had frowned upon me in my lonely garret; this gentle Virgin with the Child she loved nestled in her arms had mocked my solitude; even this odour of faded roses exhaling from these tall purple vases had visited my dreams. In spirit I had stood beneath this painted, panelled ceiling many times, looking up through my garret roof on these winged minutes flying forth from the chariot of Aurora; and now that I stood here in the flesh, this seemed the vision, and that the reality. Mechanically, as one in a dream, I obeyed the servant's voice, following his steps, though I knew my way. And as I entered the long low room: looking out upon the sea, I could have wept for grief. There was a little child with me, and it was for him I was sad. His phantom here was bright and rosy with joy, and he was going to such dull deadly misery, to such cold—
Good heavens! what is this? Here stands the boy in the bare, dark garret, just as I had painted him from faithful memory. I put my hands over my eyes bewildered, sad as night, yet joyful.
"Mark! my dear Mark! O, thank God you are here at last!"
I turned and saw her. She was by my side; her eyes shining with radiant tears, her hand touching mine—she was no spirit. I caught her in my arms and strained her to my heart. I covered her cheeks, her eyes, her lips with kisses. I breathed forth burning words of love, mingled with reproaches, blessings, tears. I was mad for very joy.
"Amy! my Amy!" I cried; "all my life long I have loved you; and surely you have loved me, else why is this picture here? Yet tell me; I hunger to hear the words from your own lips."
She drew back from my embrace with crimson cheeks.
"Surely, Mark, you know I love you. You must have known it all this dreary time."
She looked up reproachfully; but the ardour of my gaze, the flame of love that fell from my eager eyes, confused her suddenly. She stopped, then smiled, and held out her hand frankly. I seized it and covered it with kisses.
"My dear Mark," she said with petulance, drawing her hand away, "be reasonable. Sit down and let us talk."
"You said you loved me," I expostulated, "and yet you refuse me the privilege of a kiss upon your hand: surely it is but a small thing to ask. O Amy, I have suffered so much!"
The cry broke from me, I knew not wherefore, and, like a child, I fell down upon my knees, and clasping her in my arms, I bowed my head upon her lap. I felt her hand caressing my brow softly, with loving words and falling tears, and then she stooped and kissed me. Upon this my lips were lifted to hers, and starting up into a man again, my arms clasped her fondly to my beating heart.
"Mark, Mark!" she cried; "why this frenzy? Do you forget that I am Amy?"
She trembled as she spoke, and blushes covered her face like a sudden veil of roses. There was sorrow in her look, and a fear newborn that gave me joy, a shame that enraptured my gaze.
"How can I forget that you are Amy? Have you not haunted me for years like a cruel dream? And now that you confess you love me, you answer my caress with a reproach!"
There was a moment's silence, and then Amy grew from rosy-red to ashy-white; she sank down into a chair, and put her hand upon her heart. I would have drawn near—I would have implored her pardon; but with a gesture she waved me back; then from her trembling lips there fell words which struck upon my soul like a death-knell.
"Mark, you do not use language fitting our near relationship."
"Amy! Relationship!" I clutched the chair on which I sat, and stared at her with wild eyes. "Not near; say not that, for the love of mercy, Amy! Do you know that I love you—have loved you ever since I saw you weeping before my picture? No; long before that I loved you! O Amy, tell me when I have not loved you!"
I stretched my hands towards her, but she was weeping and saw me not. And now I dared not take a step towards her—dared not comfort her—dared not wipe her tears away.
"O Mark, am I destined always to work you woe? This love is madness: it is not love—you deceive yourself—it is but affection. We have loved each other from children, Mark ; this love, as you call it, is but memory,—the remembrances of childhood returning to you across that scarred, gloomy time—that bitter time, which, alas, I brought on you when I took your place here—innocent usurper that I was. Come, Mark, take my hand, and let us talk of old times. Do you remember Concryack? Have you forgotten your grandfather? I touched his heart, Mark, with that sad picture: he has loved you always. I probed his soul with stories of your hapless boyhood. And at last—O, thank God!—at last he listens, he consents to see you. Every moment I expect the summons that will call you to his room. Are you not glad? Do you believe in my truth, my affection, unshaken through these long years? Am I your loving true Amy? Mark, Mark! speak to me; do not break my heart."
Speak to her! Call her by a hated name! Amy, my love! No, never; it was midsummer madness to do it. She was no relative of mine; she was my love, and I would only speak of love.
"If you are indeed so nearly of my blood, pray that I may hate you," I said. "Why did you come to me, if to love you is a curse?"
She answered me through fast-falling tears:
"Mark, I thought you knew me from the first. Indeed I did. And when I wrote, surely you should have remembered me then? And 'Amy,' your childish word for me, did not that tell you?"
"It only brought me dreams—more dreams of you. Amy, do not torment me with these proofs of a kinship I abhor."
My gaze had a world of sorrow in it, and perhaps of love; for a swift blush covered her cheeks, and she turned away her eyes from me, the man, and fixed them brimful of tears on me, the child, "Fatherless, and hated of his Mother."
'So you have wisely changed your mind, and you are come," cried a sharp voice. It was my legal friend. I smiled, and pointed to a chair.
"He plays the host already, Miss Caithewood." He flung himself easily into a seat, turned, and saw her tears.—* Miss Caithewood, I am grieved you are distressed.—Mr. Penolvor, I have greatly wronged this young lady. She has acted a noble part,—a disinterested, generous part. It is to her you are indebted for your grandfather's returning kindness. Mr. Penolvor, you have reason to be grateful to your mother's sister; you owe to her fortune and happiness."
"Cease, for pity's sake, man; will you drive me mad?"
The lawyer, astonished, shrugged his shoulders.
"I spoke ill of Miss Caithewood to you, being ignorant then of the facts. I speak now that her goodness—"
"Speak of her again, and I will kill you!" I cried, starting up in frenzy.
"My master wishes to see Mr. Penolvor in his room," said a servant standing at the door.
"After you, if you please," observed the lawyer, following me out; "I never walk before madmen."
I dared not glance at Amy; but I heard her sob as I closed the door.
Silently we went up the great staircase, whose carved balustrades and dim statues had come dreamily and shadowlike into many a weary hour of my childhood; and at length we stopped at a door I knew. Here the man of law laid his hand upon my arm.
"You are furious against Miss Caithewood. You are wrong; she is an angel. A word in your ear; say nothing against her to him."
He pointed within the room, and left me. As I stood within the shadow of the curtained door, my heart beat again like a little child's. A thousand memories thronged hot about me; a sea of tenderness rushed over my spirit; a mist came to my eyes. And through this mist I looked down upon the worn face of a worn man, who with keen gaze looked up to mine.
"Mark!"
It was but a word, a voice, but like a flood of light it lifted the darkness from my dulled brain, my clouded memory; the past came back to me, and I fell upon his neck and wept.
"O, my father, why did you forsake me? What is there left for the man whose childhood has been stolen from him? By cruel neglect and loneliness my brain was dulled, till I grew to think my life here was a dream."
Mr. Pencarow grasped me by the arm, and gathered himself up to his full height. His eyes were dry, his harsh features haggard and stern.
"Mark," he said, "we have both our wrongs; listen to mine. I had one child; I had but him in the world; for his mother was dead, and I gave him no stepmother. I loved him as only the lonely can love. At nineteen years of age he deserted me for a low woman, of so base a nature that I knew communion with her would lose me my son for ever. I dared not give myself the torture of contact with her baseness; I yielded up my boy to her, and lived childless and forsaken. You say your sufferings have made you dull and dreamy; you have heard that mine have made me fierce. Picture to yourself my pain, as I felt that the wiles of a wicked woman had sundered the tenderness of years, snapped the chords of virtue in my son's heart, and flung away all the fruits of gentle nurture and home love. When I looked to gather in a rich harvest from my son's affection, he gave me dead ashes, and laughed at me from a wanton's arms. I bore it uncomplaining; but the world said I grew eccentric and harsh. You have heard how, after five years of loneliness, I took their child, and in return made them rich. I was glad to have the boy; I poured upon him all the pent-up flood of love that froze at my son's marriage. I told myself I was quits now with this base woman. She had my child, I hers. So he had a double love—a father's, and a doting grandfather's as well. Yes, I loved the boy. There is a world of suffering in the words—I loved him. For five years he twined about my heart, a little prattling comforter, a daily companion, with tiny soft hand in mine, and pretty ways, and loving voice tuned to happiness. Mark, give me your hand: you cannot bring me back that little child. You return a man; but the little innocent who prattled of heaven is gone for ever. You have thought me a stern tyrant, unnatural, without heart, without justice. I abandoned my grandson to the world; you shall hear, you shall see justice done now. O, I might have known there was no truth in that base woman! The boy, you see, had twined about my heart for five years, when on her deathbed my daughter-in-law's mother wrote that he was none of my blood, but a child of hers.
"Ah, Mark, you start, you clutch my hand; but it is true. They had basely cheated me—mother and daughter; they had changed children. My true grandchild was a girl. But I loved the boy; you will not forget I had been cheated into loving the boy. I went to the woman, and took her dying deposition. When I returned home I dissembled. I wrote to my son's wife, and prayed her to come hither with her young sister. For months I bore sullenly with her presence, hoping to love my grandchild, the girl—hoping to wean my heart from its love for the innkeeper's child, the boy. Meanwhile the children played together, and loved each other as children will. He called her Amy, a childish word for aunt; her name was Agatha."
Lifting my bowed head, I would have spoken, but Mr. Pencarow checked me with his hand.
"Let me finish; I am weary of the tale. My cunning daughter-in-law had thought at first to win me by her wiles; but beating vainly against my hardness, she saw at last I knew her, and then she grew sullen and vindictive. And one day, when I thrust the child Agatha from my presence a little roughly, the truth burst from her in fury. The day, which I had weakly delayed, was come; I must break my heart-strings now, and send the boy away. After her confession, I could not keep the son of the village host as my heir.
"I showed her her mother's deposition; I crushed her to the earth; I reminded her that I had said, that if she had a girl I would give her nothing; so I denied that this child had any claim on me, and I commanded her to tell no one the truth. My pride could not brook that the world should hear the tale of my dotage for a boy of her base blood.
"She answered me that her husband knew not of the cheat; and, greedy for money, she promised to obey me in all things. I saw she loved her child; so even as she had measured to me, I meted out to her. I parted them forever. I planted in her flesh the sting she had thrust in mine. I told her to kiss her child and go. 'And take your boy with you,' I said. 'Confess that he is not your son, and I transport you for your crime. You know I have the proofs.'
"She wept and raved; but she was at my mercy, and she yielded. She left Concryack with the boy I loved, leaving me the girl I hated. Again I was bereaved by her vile arts, but I hugged myself in my revenge, and bore my pain unflinchingly. She loved her child. I taught her how the bereaved feel. I made her understand the bitterness of parting. My son died, and rumours soon reached me that his widow greatly ill-used the little child, my grandson. I sent the vile woman word that what she made the boy suffer, her child should suffer. She did not believe me; but hark you, Mark, I kept my word."
"Sir, Mr. Pencarow! No, it is too horrible; you cannot have made Amy endure such torture!"
"What matters it to you, Mark, what she suffered? I told her it was what you bore, and she seemed to feel it was only justice. A strange child, always pleading for you. She brought that picture of yours, and hung it up before my eyes, imploring me to bring you home. I thought she might be like her mother, so I tried her to the utmost. I have never called her grandchild, never given her my name. Brought up here as a dependent, she has never guessed the truth, that hers were all the rights, yours none. For years I hated the sight of her fair face; I was always looking to see the mother break out in her in some low meanness; but she has passed through the ordeal—a cruel one, Mark—and come out nobly. I have been harsh, irritable, mad at times; yet she has borne it all; her greatest trial, I truly think, when I told her of your sufferings, and said it was through her you suffered, since her sister hated you, and loved her only. Then, to try her more, I forbade her to mention your name, or plead your cause, under pain of beggary, expulsion. That did not silence her; she only ceased her prayers when I threatened to disinherit you if she held not her peace. This is her history; and she is my grandchild, Mark! After years of distrust and hatred, I give her that name in my heart. Through all her sorrowful childhood I treated her as her mother treated you. I gave her justice there, but in nothing else have I been just to her. I am old; the shadows of death creep gray about me. I must speak now; I must acknowledge her to the world. Mark, in my will I have given you a child's portion, but Agatha Pencarow must have Concryack."
"O, give her all, my father; it is hers. What right have I to steal her inheritance? I who stole her name and your love. I who have heaped miseries upon her, and in my morbid selfishness proclaimed to the world that I alone, of all children, had suffered grief, pain, loneliness. And she all this time lived an outcast, where she should have found a home; lived hated, where she should have been loved; lived nameless, where she should have been most honoured. O my father, I will take nothing from your hand that should be hers. Give her all your love too, for my sake."
I was so exceedingly moved that I wept aloud; and my grandfather—alas, not mine, hers!—laid his hand upon my head tenderly, and his eyes glistened as with joy.
"Mark, I will do all you wish," he said. "Call her hither."
I went for her. As I descended the great staircase, I gasped for breath, thinking of the change that had come over me since I mounted the steps so dreamily, in the pride of heirship, an hour ago; now, I the alien, the man of common blood, awake to myself at last, descended in the light of a great humiliation to seek the heiress, the woman I had cheated of name, place, and love. In my passion for her, hoping then to make her my wife, I had thought I did her great honour. I had dreamed of her as my humble, loving slave. I trembled now as I entered her presence; and the fire-light, as it shone over her bowed head and gleamed in her golden hair, seemed in my eyes a halo, laid there by an angel's love. With reverential touch I took her by the hand.
"Amy, your grandfather asks for you. Come."
She looked at me with tearful frightened eyes.
"Not mine; yours," she said. "He has hated me these many years. I would not have lingered a dependent on his bounty, only I could talk to him of you. But now that he owns you, I shall be free to go."
"And whither will you go? what will you do, my Amy?"
"I will go to my relations. I will not be ashamed of them, though they are but poor common folks."
I laughed, and let her hand drop. It was a grim jest to hear this girl of ancient blood talking thus to me, the plebeian. It was scarcely fit her fingers should rest in mine; and I could not be glad she shared somewhat my lowness of blood, the kinship was so bitter.
Hurt by my manner, she passed silently up the great staircase, and I, half ashamed of my meanness, followed. The chamber was full of witnesses; and knowing what they were to hear, a shiver of pain passed over my flesh: yet I was glad, for they would hear too of her nobleness. The man of law was here, the steward, the antiquarian rector, and all the head servants of the household.
Mr. Pencarow sat upright, and glanced around with his harsh, eccentric features pale and rigid.
"My friends, you know I am a man who loves to do things his own way and at his own time. For years you have expected me to call home my heir—the child to whom I denied my name, and whose appellation is unknown to you. The world has called me hard, cruel, eccentric; but the world's abuse has not hastened this time by a single hour. The heart knows its own bitterness and its own purpose, and hate and slander could not move a man like me. What matter the stings of insects, if the serpent's tooth be in the flesh? Twice have I been bereaved by the same hand; twice have I been left childless. Yet, in my blind, hard, grim way, I have striven to do justice; and, man-like, in that name I have committed wrong. Friends, for years I have disowned, disclaimed my grandchild—the only child of my only son; to this child I have refused home, love, name, inheritance. Before I die, I desire to do justice, to implore pardon."
Amy glanced at me with beaming face of triumph; I smiled sadly back, and turned my eyes away.
"Friends, this outcast child, this disowned heir, is present among you now—" Sycophant eyes gazed at me with fawning smile, and eager hands stole forward with a too ready greeting—"and I desire here, in presence of you all, to confess my cruelty-to my son's child, my unnatural hatred and neglect: I desire to do tardy justice, and to take you as witnesses of my acknowledgment of my grandchild's claims."
Here Amy stole her hand into mine, and strove to put it into her grandfather's, while she whispered—"He is here, sir—Mark is here!"
Mr. Pencarow took her hand and mine together, but mine releasing hers fell upon the carved chair, while her slight fingers he retained in a firm grasp. Then, as he drew her towards him, his harsh face gleamed radiant, and his voice rolled and swelled in the old power of manhood. He stood up proudly.
"Friends and household, I here present you my granddaughter Agatha Pencarow, the only child of my deceased son Launcelot Pencarow. Every certificate and paper relating to her birth are in the hands of my good friend Lawyer Seale. If you will descend with him to the library, all may read them that choose. In my will I bequeath the whole of my real estate to my granddaughter and heiress. I am an eccentric man—not a soft or amiable man, but I know how to do justice. Now, friends, leave me in peace. One word more: this gentleman, Mark Penolvor, has not one drop of my blood in his veins; he is in no way of my kin; and if in his boyhood he and I loved each other, believing we were parent and child, the fraud thus wickedly put upon us was neither his nor mine."
With uplifted eyes and hands of amazement the crowd departed, following the lawyer; that bundle of papers beneath his arm being the decoy that drew them with flaming curiosity after his step.
As Mr. Pencarow disclaimed me, I glanced at Amy. She was white as death, and her wrung hands bespoke an unutterable sorrow.
"Agatha," said her grandfather, "I have done justice. I have listened to your pleadings at last. Are you satisfied? You and I have led a sorrowful life together; your mother's sin cursed us."
She sank down by his side, seized his hand and kissed it. Her tears fell fast, her voice shook.
"You have always loved Mark," she sobbed; "your hatred of me was but love for him. I understood that, and so your dislike came to me softened by joy. Mr. Pencarow—grandfather"—how timidly the word fell from her lips!—"gratify your affection still: it would be only justice to him; he thought himself your heir, and he has suffered so much, and—you love him. Give him this inheritance."
She broke down here, and hid her face on his knees, weeping. The old man glanced at me, and his look of triumph seemed to say, that in this too he recognised his own blood, and there was none of her mother in her—O, none!
"I would not take it, Amy," I said—my poor common heart could be noble too—"I have no right to my grandfather's—to Mr. Pencarow's lands or love."
It hurt me to the heart to disclaim his love; and turning away my face, I wept.
"Give me the old name, Mark: you are my boy yet."
Mr. Pencarow put forth his hand and took mine; he laid it on Amy's.
"Agatha, I cannot alter my will, but I have given you Concryack on a strange condition. It is yours only if you marry the man I have chosen for you."
As he spoke my hand clasped hers convulsively, and my heart gave a leap of agony. O, this accursed relationship!—must I bear to see her a wife?
She started to her feet, and spoke in hurried accents.
"I cannot marry—I will never marry. I will not take your lands on such terms. Let me go in peace—give them to Mark!"
"Give them to Mark yourself, Agatha," said Mr. Pencarow.
"May I? may I give them?"
"And yourself with them. Mark is your husband."
I heard; but my brain was bewildered, my hands were nerveless, my speech benumbed.
"Children, will you not clasp each other's hands?" asked the old man querulously. "Mark, she has loved you all her life."
The blood rushed to my face; I rose angrily. Was this man indeed a tyrant, playing off a bitter jest upon us? or was he so mad, that he laughed at laws.
"Mr. Pencarow," I cried, "this is too much. If you are jesting, cease. You know that Amy and I are related—our blood is one."
"Ah! truly; I had forgotten that. Agatha, leave us for a while."
I led her to the door, and kissed her on the brow—a brotherly, friendly kiss—a kiss full of sorrow. She was trembling like a leaf; her grandfather's words had moved her very soul; her cheeks were icy cold and white.
As I closed the door and hid her slight form from my aching eyes, I would have given worlds of wealth and oceans of old blood if she and I had been two poor common folk, nameless, undowered, free to love and marry.
The workings of my face told the anguish of my soul; but Mr. Pencarow looked on me with a grim smile upon his lips and a joyful rubbing of his hands together.
"You love her, Mark, I see. Well, do not grieve for your birth: Agatha will not mind it. I have a tale to tell you. When my son's wife died, my neighbour Mr. Penolvor came to me in perplexity, and told me a strange story. He had loved a lady, and wedded her in some sudden, rash, illegal way, but dared not claim her from her friends on such a marriage. He was very poor then; his miser uncle had Penolvor. Let me leave the details, Mark; your fiery impatience heeds them not now. Enough that his wife hid her childish unwise marriage, and wedded wealth and title.
"The blow struck her young husband into fever. It had been done so quickly that he—down here in Cornwall, striving to soften a miser's heart—never heard a rumour till the marriage was made. He was too generous to molest her jewelled tranquillity; he bore his fate silently.
"Five months passed. Then there reached him a letter blotted by tears:
"'Save me! save our child!'
"Hurriedly he went to the address she gave, and found she had quitted her husband's house, on pretence of visiting a friend. She had hidden her condition from him and from her father. Her terror of both was pitiable to see. She flung herself in agony on the man she had deserted, imploring aid and safety. He was generous—he gave both.
"In secrecy, in obscure lodgings, a son was born to her. Mr. Penolvor knew my daughter-in-law— knew her a woman not over-scrupulous, a lover of money. He went to her, and asked her to take the child. He found her in deep grief: a boy—her mother's child—was just dead; it lay upon her lap—a tiny white corpse. She was rejoiced to take the motherless babe—a goodly sum with it; and this boy she foisted on me as hers and my son's."
"And I am this child? I am no kin to Agatha? I am not the son of her mother's mother!"
"You are Mr. Penolvor's son. He left you his estate and his name. For your mother's sake he never named you, never told you—"
I could not stay to hear another word. I kissed his hand; then I ran, I flew from room to room, calling, "Amy, Amy!"
I found her in the south room, that looked out upon the moonlight sea. She stood by my picture; her hands were clasped, her face wet with tears.
I had her in my arms in a moment. I rained down kisses on her tears. I would not give her time to speak—to breathe.
"Mark, Mark!" she cried at last, struggling to be free, "this is madness. Let me go!"
"And is this madness?" I answered, kissing her again—"and this? and this? My Amy! my wife! my love! If I am mad, it is with joy. I am no more of kin to you, Amy, than is the great Gog, the giant of London."
"No!" she cried; and she rested her hands upon my shoulders, and looked into my eyes in wonder. For love, for amazement, for joy, she could not speak; but as she looked—remembering all her words, her letters, and her long, long love—shame seized her, and swift blushes came and went, and grew and grew, till neck and face were all a-flame. I could have wasted with her in this love-talk all the hours of the night; but I checked my selfishness.
"Come, Amy; he waits for us!"
When we entered Mr. Pencarow's room, we found the rector there, the staid housekeeper, the man of law, and many others. My love would have started back, but I held her fast.
"Agatha, will you give Concryack to Mark, with your heart and hand?"
Amid a breathless silence she answered, "Yes;" and as her faint low whisper died away, it seemed as though the very air was filled with joy; for there broke upon our ears the sudden clash of bells, ringing out to sea and land the birth of the year.
"A happy new year! a happy new year!" burst forth from all lips joyously. "There are years of life yet in the old squire. Long life and happiness to him and the young couple, his children!"
Silence again at last; and then my grandfather—I call him mine now—slowly drew forth from the large book before him a printed paper. On his harsh eccentric features there rested a triumphant smile.
"Friends, you see I must do things my own mad way. Mr. Raven, is this license correct?"
"Quite so, sir."
"By this special permission you can marry by night or by day, in church or in chamber?"
"Yes, certainly; and such licenses cost dear. They were not needful till the passing of the Marriage Act, some hundred years ago. The English married when, how, and where they would in the old times."
"Let the old times be, Mr. Raven. This is the first hour of a new time, bringing fresh hopes, happy faith, and warm love to us all. Don your surplice, and put your blessing on it. And, Mark, let me give you, as a new year's gift, my daughter, your love Amy."
A moment's hesitation, a sudden paleness, then my love yielded; and while the bells clashed out their welcome to the year, mingling their wild sound with the surge of the wild sea, ever rejoicing round Concryack, we knelt, and I received from Mr. Pencarow's hand his New Year's Gift, my love Amy.