"If I have I would rather not speak about them now. Jim, dear Jim, let us drop the subject and talk of something else."

He was walking by her side, with his hands in his coat pockets. She drew out one of his hands; he did not return the pressure, and presently released himself.

"I thought you were to be my intellectual companion. I have heard you say yourself that a marriage which is not a marriage of mind is no marriage."

"But, Jim, is there nothing in the world to think about but this?"

"There is nothing so important. Are we to be dumb all our lives about what you say is religion?"

They separated and soon afterwards the engagement was broken off. Jim had really loved Elizabeth, but at that time he was furious against what he called "creeds." He waited for three or four years till he had secured a fair practice, and then married a clever and handsome young woman who wrote poems, and had captivated him by telling him a witty story from Heine. Elizabeth never married.

Thirty years pa.s.sed, and Jim, now a famous physician, had to go a long distance down the Great Western Railway to attend a consultation. At Bath an elderly lady entered the carriage carrying a handbag with the initials "E. C." upon it. She sat in the seat farthest away from him on the opposite side, and looked at him steadfastly. He also looked at her, but no word was spoken for a minute. He then crossed over, fell on his knees, and buried his head with pa.s.sionate sobbing on her knees.

She put her hands on him and her tears fell.

"Five years," at last he said; "I may live five years with care. She has left me. I will give up everything and go abroad with you. Five years; it is not much, but it will be something, everything. I shall die with your face over me."

The train was slackening speed for Bristol; she bent down and kissed him.

"Dearest Jim," she whispered, "I have waited a long time, but I was sure we should come together again at last. It is enough."

"You will go with me, then?"

Again she kissed him. "It must not be."

Before he could reply the train was stopping at the platform, and a gentleman with a lady appeared at the door. Miss Castleton stepped out and was at once driven away in a carriage with her companions.

He lived three years and then died almost suddenly of the disease which he had foreseen would kill him. He had no children, but few relatives, and his attendant was a hospital nurse. But the day before his death a lady appeared who announced herself as a family friend, and the nurse was superseded. It was Elizabeth: she came to his bedside, and he recognised her.

"Not till this morning," she said, "did I hear you were ill."

"Happy," he cried, "though I die to-night."

Soon afterwards--it was about sundown--he became unconscious; she sat there alone with him till the morning broke, and then he pa.s.sed away, and she closed his eyes.

ATONEMENT

"You ask me how I lost my foot? You I see that dog?"--an unattractive beast lying before the fire--"well, when I tell you how I came by him you will know how I lost it;" and he then related the following story:-

I was in Westmoreland with my wife and children for a holiday and we had brought our dog with us, for we knew he would be unhappy with the strangers to whom we had let our house. The weather was very wet and our lodgings were not comfortable; we were kept indoors for days together, and my temper, always irritable, became worse. My wife never resisted me when I was in these moods and the absence of opposition provoked me all the more. Had she stood up against me and told me I ought to be ashamed of myself it would have been better for me. One afternoon everything seemed to go wrong. A score of petty vexations, not one of which was of any moment, worked me up to desperation. I threw my book across the room, to the astonishment of my children, and determined to go out, although it was raining hard. My dog, a brown retriever, was lying on the mat just outside the door, and I nearly fell over him. "G.o.d d.a.m.n you!" said I, and kicked him. He howled with pain, but, although he was the best of house-dogs and would have brought down any thief who came near him, he did not growl at me, and quietly followed me. I am not squeamish, but I was frightened directly the oath had escaped my lips. I felt as if I had created something horrible which I could not annihilate, and that it would wait for me and do me some mischief. The dog kept closely to my heels for about a mile and I could not make him go on in front. Usually the least word of encouragement or even the mere mention of his name would send him scampering with delight in advance. I began to think of something else, but in about a quarter of an hour I looked round and found he was not behind me. I whistled and called, but he did not come. In a renewed rage, which increased with every step I took, I turned back to seek him.

Suddenly I came upon him lying dead by the roadside. Never shall I forget that shock--the reproach, the appeal of that poor lifeless animal! I stroked him, I kissed him, I whispered his name in his ear, but it was all in vain. I lifted up his beautiful broad paw which he was wont to lay on my knee, I held it between my hands, and when I let it go it fell heavily to the ground. I could not carry him home, and with bitter tears and a kind of dread I drew him aside a little way up the hill behind a rock. I went to my lodgings, returned towards dusk with a spade, dug his grave in a lonely spot near the bottom of a waterfall where he would never be disturbed, and there I buried him, reverently smoothing the turf over him. What a night that was for me!

I was haunted incessantly by the vivid image of the dead body and by the terror which accompanies a great crime. I had repaid all his devotion with horrible cruelty. I had repented, but he would never know it. It was not the dog only which I had slain; I had slain Divine faithfulness and love. That G.o.d d.a.m.n YOU sounded perpetually in my ears. The Almighty had registered and executed the curse, but it had fallen upon the murderer and not on the victim. When I rose in the morning I distinctly felt the blow of the kick in my foot, and the sensation lasted all day. For weeks I was in a miserable condition. A separate consciousness seemed to establish itself in this foot; there was nothing to be seen and no pain, but there was a dull sort of pressure of which I could not rid myself. If I slept I dreamed of the dog, and generally dreamed I was caressing him, waking up to the dreadful truth of the corpse on the path in the rain. I got it into my head--for I was half- crazy--that only by some expiation I should be restored to health and peace; but how to make any expiation I could not tell. Unhappy is the wretch who longs to atone for a sin and no atonement is prescribed to him!

One night I was coming home late and heard the cry of "Fire!" I ran down the street and found a house in flames. The fire-escape was at the window, and had rescued a man, his wife and child. Every living creature was safe, I was told, save a dog in the front room on the ground-floor. I pushed the people aside, rushed in, half-blinded with smoke, and found him. I could not escape by the pa.s.sage, and dropped out of the window into the area with him in my arms. I fell heavily on THAT foot, and when I was helped up the steps I could not put it to the ground. "You may have him for your pains," said his owner to me; "he is a useless cur. I wouldn't have ventured the singeing of a hair for him." "May I?" I replied, with an eagerness which must have seemed very strange. He was indeed not worth half a crown, but I drew him closely to me and took him into the cab. I was in great agony, and when the surgeon came it was discovered that my ankle was badly fractured. An attempt was made to set it, but in the end it was decided that the foot must be amputated. I rejoiced when I heard the news, and on the day on which the operation was performed I was calm and even cheerful. Our own doctor who came with the surgeon told him I had "a highly nervous temperament," and both of them were amazed at my fort.i.tude. The dog is a mongrel, as you see, but he loves me, and if you were to offer me ten thousand golden guineas I would not part with him.

LETTERS FROM MY AUNT ELEANOR {180} TO HER DAUGHTER SOPHIA, AND A FRAGMENT FROM MY AUNT'S DIARY.

January 31, 1837.

My Dearest Child,--It is now a month since your father died. It was a sore trial to me that you should have broken down, and that you could not be here when he was laid in his grave, but I would not for worlds have allowed you to make the journey. I am glad I forced you away. The doctor said he would not answer for the consequences unless you were removed. But I must not talk, not even to you. I will write again soon.

Your most affectionate mother,

ELEANOR CHARTERIS.

February 5, 1837.

I have been alone in the library from morning to night every day. How foolish all the books look! There is nothing in them which can do me any good. He is NOT: what is there which can alter that fact? Had he died later I could have borne it better. I am only fifty years old, and may have long to wait. I always knew I loved him devotedly; now I see how much I depended on him. I had become so knit up with him that I imagined his strength to be mine. His support was so continuous and so soft that I was unconscious of it. How clear-headed and resolute he was in difficulty and danger! You do not remember the great fire? We were waked up out of our sleep; the flames spread rapidly; a mob filled the street, shouting and breaking open doors. The man in charge of the engines lost his head, but your father was perfectly cool. He got on horseback, directed two or three friends to do the same; they galloped into the town and drove the crowd away. He controlled all the operations and saved many lives and many thousands of pounds. Is there any happiness in the world like that of the woman who hangs on such a husband?

February 10, 1837.

I feel as if my heart would break if I do not see you, but I cannot come to your Aunt's house just now. She is very kind, but she would be unbearable to me. Have patience: the sea air is doing you good; you will soon be able to walk, and then you can return. O, to feel your head upon my neck! I have many friends, but I have always needed a human being to whom I was everything. To your father I believe I was everything, and that thought was perpetual heaven to me. My love for him did not make me neglect other people. On the contrary, it gave them their proper value. Without it I should have put them by. When a man is dying for want of water he cares for nothing around him. Satisfy his thirst, and he can then enjoy other pleasures. I was his first love, he was my first, and we were lovers to the end. I know the world would be dark to you also were I to leave it. Perhaps it is wicked of me to rejoice that you would suffer so keenly. I cannot tell how much of me is pure love and how much of me is selfishness. I remember my uncle's death. For ten days or so afterwards everybody in the house looked solemn, and occasionally there was a tear, but at the end of a fortnight there was smiling and at the end of a month there was laughter. I was but a child then, but I thought much about the ease and speed with which the gap left by death was closed.

February 20, 1837.

In a fortnight you will be here? The doctor really believes you will be able to travel? I am glad you can get out and taste the sea air. I count the hours which must pa.s.s till I see you. A short week, and then- -"the day after to-morrow, and the day after to-morrow of that day," and so I shall be able to reach forward to the Monday. It is strange that the nearer Monday comes the more impatient I am.

March 3, 1837.

With what sickening fear I opened your letter! I was sure it contained some dreadful news. You have decided not to come till Wednesday, because your cousin Tom can accompany you on that day. I KNOW you are quite right. It is so much better, as you are not strong, that Tom should look after you, and it would be absurd that you should make the journey two days before him. I should have reproved you seriously if you had done anything so foolish. But those two days are hard to bear.

I shall not meet you at the coach, nor shall I be downstairs. Go straight to the library; I shall be there by myself.

DIARY.

January 1, 1838.--Three days ago she died. Henceforth there is no living creature to whom my existence is of any real importance.

Crippled as she was, she could never have married. I might have held her as long as she lived. She could have expected no love but mine.

G.o.d forgive me! Perhaps I did unconsciously rejoice in that disabled limb because it kept her closer to me. Now He has taken her from me. I may have been wicked, but has He no mercy? "I would speak to the Almighty, and I desire to reason with G.o.d." An answer in anger could better be borne than this impregnable silence.

January 3rd.--A day of snow and bitter wind. There were very few at the grave, and I should have been better pleased if there had been none.

What claim had they to be there? I have come home alone, and they no doubt are comforting themselves with the reflection that it is all over except the half-mourning. Her death makes me hate them. Mr. Maxwell, our rector, told me when my child was ill to remember that I had no right to her. "Right!" what did he mean by that stupid word? How trouble tries words! All I can say is that from her birth I had owned her, and that now, when I want her most, I am dispossessed. "Self, self"--I know the reply, but it is unjust, for I would have stood up cheerfully to be shot if I could have saved her pain. Doubly unjust, for my pa.s.sion for her was a blessing to her as well as to me.

January 6th.--Henceforth I suppose I shall have to play with people, to pretend to take an interest in their clothes and their parties, or, with the superior sort, to discuss politics or books. I care nothing for their rags or their gossip, for Lord Melbourne, Sir Robert Peel, or Mr.

James Montgomery. I must learn how to take the tip of a finger instead of a hand, and to accept with grat.i.tude comfits when I hunger for bread- -I, who have known--but I dare say nothing even to myself of my hours with him--I, who have heard Sophy cry out in the night for me; I, who have held her hand and have prayed by her bedside.