“Upon my honour, sir, I daren’t,” said Gimblett, who was not without his good points. “You know what authority is, sir.”
North was in despair, but a bright thought struck him–a thought that, in his soberer moments, would never have entered his head–he would buy admission. He produced the rum flask from beneath the sheltering cloak. “Come, don’t talk nonsense to me, Gimblett. You don’t suppose I would come here without authority. Here, take a pull at this, and let me through.” Gimblett’s features relaxed into a smile. “Well, sir, I suppose it’s all right, if you say so,” said he. And clutching the rum bottle with one hand, he opened the door of Dawes’s cell with the other.
North entered, and as the door closed behind him, the prisoner, who had been lying apparently asleep upon his bed, leapt up, and made as though to catch him by the throat.
Rufus Dawes had dreamt a dream. Alone, amid the gathering glooms, his fancy had recalled the past, and had peopled it with memories. He thought that he was once more upon the barren strand where he had first met with the sweet child he loved. He lived again his life of usefulness and honour. He saw himself working at the boat, embarking, and putting out to sea. The fair head of the innocent girl was again pillowed on his breast; her young lips again murmured words of affection in his greedy ear. Frere was beside him, watching him, as he had watched before. Once again the grey sea spread around him, barren of succour. Once again, in the wild, wet morning, he beheld the American brig bearing down upon them, and saw the bearded faces of the astonished crew. He saw Frere take the child in his arms and mount upon the deck; he heard the shout of delight that went up, and pressed again the welcoming hands which greeted the rescued castaways. The deck was crowded. All the folk he had ever known were there. He saw the white hair and stern features of Sir Richard Devine, and beside him stood, wringing her thin hands, his weeping mother. Then Frere strode forward, and after him John Rex, the convict, who, roughly elbowing through the crowd of prisoners and gaolers, would have reached the spot where stood Sir Richard Devine, but that the corpse of the murdered Lord Bellasis arose and thrust him back. How the hammers clattered in the shipbuilder’s yard! Was it a coffin they were making? Not for Sylvia–surely not for her! The air grows heavy, lurid with flame, and black with smoke. The Hydaspes is on fire! Sylvia clings to her husband. Base wretch, would you shake her off! Look up; the midnight heaven is glittering with stars; above the smoke the air breathes delicately! One step–another! Fix your eyes on mine–so–to my heart! Alas! she turns; he catches at her dress. What! It is a priest–a priest–who, smiling with infernal joy, would drag her to the flaming gulf that yawns for him. The dreamer leaps at the wretch’s throat, and crying, “Villain, was it for this fate I saved her?”–and awakes to find himself struggling with the monster of his dream, the idol of his waking senses–“Mr. North.”
North, paralysed no less by the suddenness of the attack than by the words with which it was accompanied, let fall his cloak, and stood trembling before the prophetic accusation of the man whose curses he had come to earn.
“I was dreaming,” said Rufus Dawes. “A terrible dream! But it has passed now. The message–you have brought me a message, have you not? Why–what ails you? You are pale–your knees tremble. Did my violence—-?”
North recovered himself with a great effort. “It is nothing. Let us talk, for my time is short. You have thought me a good man–one blessed of God, one consecrated to a holy service; a man honest, pure, and truthful. I have returned to tell you the truth. I am none of these things.” Rufus Dawes sat staring, unable to comprehend this madness. “I told you that the woman you loved–for you do love her–sent you a message of forgiveness. I lied.”
“What!”
“I never told her of your confession. I never mentioned your name to her.”
“And she will go without knowing–Oh, Mr. North, what have you done?”
“Wrecked my own soul!” cried North, wildly, stung by the reproachful agony of the tone. “Do not cling to me. My task is done. You will hate me now. That is my wish–I merit it. Let me go, I say. I shall be too late.”
“Too late! For what?” He looked at the cloak–through the open window came the voices of the men in the boat–the memory of the rose, of the scene in the prison, flashed across him, and he understood it all.
“Great Heaven, you go together!”
“Let me go,” repeated North, in a hoarse voice.
Rufus Dawes stepped between him and the door. “No, madman, I will not let you go, to do this great wrong, to kill this innocent young soul, who–God help her–loves you!” North, confounded at this sudden reversal of their position towards each other, crouched bewildered against the wall. “I say you shall not go! You shall not destroy your own soul and hers! You love her! So do I! and my love is mightier than yours, for it shall save her!”
“In God’s name–” cried the unhappy priest, striving to stop his ears.
“Ay, in God’s name! In the name of that God whom in my torments I had forgotten! In the name of that God whom you taught me to remember! That God who sent you to save me from despair, gives me strength to save you in my turn! Oh, Mr. North–my teacher–my friend–my brother–by the sweet hope of mercy which you preached to me, be merciful to this erring woman!”
North lifted agonized eyes. “But I love her! Love her, do you hear? What do you know of love?”
“Love!” cried Rufus Dawes, his pale face radiant. “Love! Oh, it is you who do not know it. Love is the sacrifice of self, the death of all desire that is not for another’s good. Love is Godlike! You love?–no, no, your love is selfishness, and will end in shame! Listen, I will tell you the history of such a love as yours.”
North, enthralled by the other’s overmastering will, fell back trembling.
“I will tell you the secret of my life, the reason why I am here. Come closer.”
Chapter XV.
The Discovery
The house in Clarges Street was duly placed at the disposal of Mrs. Richard Devine, who was installed in it, to the profound astonishment and disgust of Mr. Smithers and his fellow-servants. It now only remained that the lady should be formally recognized by Lady Devine. The rest of the ingenious programme would follow as a matter of course. John Rex was well aware of the position which, in his assumed personality, he occupied in society. He knew that by the world of servants, of waiters, of those to whom servants and waiters could babble; of such turfites and men-about-town as had reason to inquire concerning Mr. Richard’s domestic affairs–no opinion could be expressed, save that “Devine’s married somebody, I hear,” with variations to the same effect. He knew well that the really great world, the Society, whose scandal would have been socially injurious, had long ceased to trouble itself with Mr. Richard Devine’s doings in any particular. If it had been reported that the Leviathan of the Turf had married his washerwoman, Society would only have intimated that “it was just what might have been expected of him”. To say the truth, however, Mr. Richard had rather hoped that–disgusted at his brutality–Lady Devine would have nothing more to do with him, and that the ordeal of presenting his wife would not be necessary. Lady Devine, however, had resolved on a different line of conduct. The intelligence concerning Mr. Richard Devine’s threatened proceedings seemed to nerve her to the confession of the dislike which had been long growing in her mind; seemed even to aid the formation of those doubts, the shadows of which had now and then cast themselves upon her belief in the identity of the man who called himself her son. “His conduct is brutal,” said she to her brother. “I cannot understand it.”
“It is more than brutal; it is unnatural,” returned Francis Wade, and stole a look at her. “Moreover, he is married.”
“Married!” cried Lady Devine.
“So he says,” continued the other, producing the letter sent to him by Rex at Sarah’s dictation. “He writes to me stating that his wife, whom he married last year abroad, has come to England, and wishes us to receive her.”
“I will not receive her!” cried Lady Devine, rising and pacing down the path.
“But that would be a declaration of war,” said poor Francis, twisting an Italian onyx which adorned his irresolute hand. “I would not advise that.”