Michael put his hand to his head.
"Everything has come at once," said Wentworth. "I have you again. And I have her. I"ve nothing left to wish for."
Michael did not leave the prison in the gondola which had brought Wentworth, and which was waiting to take them both away. The excitement of his brother"s arrival had proved too great, and he fell from one fainting fit into another. Wentworth was greatly alarmed, but the doctor was rea.s.suring and cheerful. He said that Michael had borne the news with almost unnatural calmness, but that the shock must have been great, and a breakdown was to be expected. He laughed at Wentworth"s anxiety even while he ministered to Michael, and a.s.sured him that no one in his experience had died of joy.
But later in the evening when Wentworth, somewhat pacified, had returned to Venice for the night, the doctor felt yet again for the twentieth time that the young Englishman baffled him.
It seemed to him that he was actually relieved when the kind, awkward, tender elder brother had reluctantly taken his departure, promising to come back early in the morning.
"Do not distress yourself, you will be quite well enough to leave to-morrow," the doctor said to him many times. "I expected this momentary collapse. It is nothing."
Michael"s eyes dwelt on the kind face and then closed. There was that in them which the doctor could not fathom.
He took the food that was pressed on him, and then turned his face to the wall, and made as if he slept.
And the walls bent over him, and whispered to him, "Stay with us. We are not so cruel as the world outside."
And that night the dying convict in the next cell, nearly as close on freedom as Michael, heard all through the night a low sound of strangled anguish that ever stifled itself into silence, and ever broke forth anew, from dark to dawn.
The next morning Michael went feebly down the prison steps, calm and wan, leaning on Wentworth"s careful arm, and smiling affectionately at him.
CHAPTER XXVI
Les caracteres faibles ne montrent de la decision que quand il s"agit de faire un sottise.--DANIEL DARC.
A week or two after the news of Michael"s proved innocence had convulsed Hampshire, and before Michael and Wentworth had returned to Barford, Aunt Aggie might have been seen on a fine May afternoon walking slowly towards "The Towers." She had let her cottage at Saundersfoot for an unusually long period, and was marking time with the Blores. Whatever Aunt Mary"s faults might be she was always ready to help her sister in this practical manner, when Aunt Aggie was anxious to add to the small, feebly frittered away income, on which her muddled, impecunious existence depended.
In spite of the most pertinent remarks to the contrary from her sister, Aunt Aggie believed herself to be an unsurpa.s.sed manager of restricted means. She constantly advised young married couples as to the judicious expenditure of money, and pressed on Magdalen the necessity of retrenching in exasperating directions, namely, where a minute economy entailed a colossal inconvenience.
In her imagination she saw herself continually consulted, depended on, strenuously implored to give her opinion on matters of the utmost delicacy, fervently blessed for her powerful spiritual a.s.sistance of souls in jeopardy, and always gracefully attributing the marvellous results of her intervention to a Higher Power of which she was but the unworthy channel.
These imaginary scenes were the unfailing solace of Aunt Aggie"s somewhat colourless life, and the consciousness of them in the background gave her a certain meek and even patient self-importance, the basis of which was hidden from Lady Blore.
Aunt Aggie had also another perennial source of chastened happiness in recalling the romance of her youth, those halcyon days before the Archdeacon had been unsuccessfully harpooned and put to flight by Lady Blore.
Her clerical love affair perfumed her conversation, as a knife which has once a.s.sociated with an onion inevitably reveals, even in estrangement, that bygone intimacy.
No one could breathe the word Margate without Aunt Aggie remarking that she had had a dear friend who had evinced a great partiality for Margate. Were the clergy mentioned in her presence with the scant respect with which the ministry and other secular bodies have to put up, Aunt Aggie vibrated with indignation. _She_ had known men of the highest talents holding preferment in the Church.
But in her imagination her affair of the heart had pa.s.sed beyond reminiscence. Far from being buried in the past it remained the chief factor in her life, colouring and shaping the whole of her future.
Aunt Aggie could at any moment dip into a kind of sequel to that early history. In the sequel the Archdeacon"s wife was, of course, to die; but, owing to circ.u.mstances which Aunt Aggie had not yet thoroughly worked out, that unhappy lady was first to undergo tortures in some remote locality, nursed devotedly--poor thing--by Aunt Aggie. The result of her ministrations was never in doubt from the first. The Archdeacon"s wife was, of course, to succ.u.mb, calling down blessings on the devoted stranger at her bedside, with the enigmatical smile which spoke of some sacred sorrow.
Aunt Aggie had shed many delicious tears over that deathbed scene, and the chastened grief of the saintly Archdeacon, quite overshadowed by his boundless grat.i.tude to herself. At this crisis his overwhelming desolation wrung from him--with gross disloyalty to the newly dead--a few disjointed sentences which revealed only too clearly how unsuited to him his wife had been, how little she had understood him, how lonely his wedded life had been. She had evidently been one of those tall thin maypoles of women who have but little tenderness in them.
Aunt Aggie, after giving the children a sample of what a real mother could be, was to retire to her little home at Saundersfoot. Here the real joy of the situation was to begin.
After a decent interval the Archdeacon was to be constantly visiting Saundersfoot, was to be observed visiting Aunt Aggie at Saundersfoot, singling her out from among the numerous spinsters of that watering-place to make her the object of reverent attentions. Others younger and better looking than Aunt Aggie--especially Miss Barnett, the doctor"s sister, who, it was whispered, wore an artificial cushion from Douglas"s under her hair--were to set their caps or cushions at the dignified Archdeacon, seen pacing the sands. But it was all of no avail.
He had eyes for no one but the gentle, retiring Miss Bellairs. Aunt Aggie was to become the object of burning jealousy and detraction on the part of the female--that is to say almost the whole--population of Saundersfoot. But she herself, while envious calumny raged round her, went on her way calm and grave as ever.
But the proposal long warded off could not be parried forever. The frenzied pa.s.sion of the Archdeacon was at last not to be restrained.
Aunt Aggie had in her mind a set of proposals, all good, out of which it became harder and harder as time went on to select one. But her answer was ever the same, a pained but firm refusal. She was happy in her lot.
She was greatly needed where she was. She did not wish to marry. She was no longer young. This last reason was an enormous concession to realism on Aunt Aggie"s part.
Then came the cream of the whole story. The Archdeacon was to pine secretly. His work was to be neglected. He was to be threatened with a nervous breakdown. He was to confide his sorrow to the paternal bosom of his Bishop. When Aunt Aggie was in her normal state it was the Bishop in whom the Archdeacon was to confide. But sometimes in the evenings after a gla.s.s of cowslip wine, her imagination took a bolder flight. The Archbishop himself was to be the confidant of the distracted cleric.
This presented no real difficulty after the first moment, for the Archbishop was in the flower of his age--the Archdeacon"s age--and might easily have been at school with him. Aunt Aggie had once seen Lambeth from a cab window as she pa.s.sed over Westminster Bridge. Under that historic tower she heard the first subject of the King urge his brother prelate to take heart, promising a.s.sistance.
We will pa.s.s over Aunt Aggie"s amazed reception of a cordial invitation to stay at Lambeth, her hesitating acceptance, her arrival, the magnificent banquet, crowded with ministers and bishops, the fact that the Archbishop himself singled her out as the object of courtly though somewhat anxious attentions. And then after dinner Aunt Aggie, in her plum-coloured satin, was to be unconsciously but skilfully withdrawn from the glittering throng by the Archbishop. And in his study he was to make a great, a fervent appeal to her. Aunt Aggie had bought a photograph of him in order to deaden the shock of this moment. But nevertheless whenever she reached this point she was always really frightened. Her hands really trembled. The Archbishop was to ask her with tempered indignation how much longer she intended to nullify the labours of his ablest colleague, how much longer her selfish predilection for celibacy was to wreck the life and paralyse the powers of a broken-hearted man. Her cruelty was placed before her in glowing colours. She was observed to waver, to falter. A tear was seen in spite of her marvellous self-control to course down her cheek. The eye of an Archbishop misses nothing. With an e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.i.o.n of profound relief he beckons to a distant figure which appears in a doorway. The Archdeacon in his evening gaiters rushes in. Aunt Aggie gives way!
After this final feat of the imagination Aunt Aggie generally felt so worn out by emotion that food was absolutely necessary to her.
On this occasion she sat down quivering on a heap of stones by the roadside, and drew forth a biscuit which she had secreted at luncheon at the Vicarage an hour before. It must be owned that she was fond of food, though not in the same way that most of us are addicted to it. She liked eating buns out of paper bags at odd moments in the open air, and nibbling a sponge cake half forgotten and suddenly found in a drawer with her handkerchiefs. But in justice to her it ought to be added that she seemed only to care for the kind of provender which yielded the largest increment in the way of crumbs.
As she sat and nibbled an uneasy recollection stole across her mind.
This recollection was becoming more disconcerting day by day. And yet she had acted for the best. That fact did not insure to her immunity from blame on the part of that awful personage, her sister Mary. Good intentions had never yet received their due as extenuating circ.u.mstances in Lady Blore"s sweeping judgments.
If a certain secret chivalrous action of Aunt Aggie"s "turned out wrong," she knew well the intonation in which Lady Blore would ask her why she had been such a fool. Nevertheless she, Aunt Aggie, had only done with consummate tact what Mary herself had contemplated doing in her rough way, and had been persuaded not to do.
Some weeks ago Aunt Aggie had concocted in secret, recopied about twenty times, and had finally despatched a letter to Lord Lossiemouth anent Magdalen. It had been the boldest action of her life. At first, even after she had seen that she was the only person able to deal adequately with so delicate a matter, she had feared that she would not have the strength to perform her mission. But strength had apparently been lent to her for the occasion. The letter had actually been posted.
The moment it was irrevocably gone Aunt Aggie fell into a panic.
Supposing it failed in its object, and that Algernon or Mary discovered what she had done. She could not even face such a possibility. But then, supposing on the other hand that her missive united two loving, estranged hearts, and that dear Magdalen owed her happiness--and a t.i.tled happiness--to her. Then Algernon and Mary would be forced to admit that she had shown a courage and devotion greater than theirs. "We only talked, you acted," they would both say, and she would thenceforth be recognised in her true light, as an incomparable counsellor, and a judicious, far-seeing friend.
But three weeks had elapsed since Aunt Aggie, stealing out alone, had dropped that momentous letter into the village post-box. Nothing had happened. She had not even received an answer. She was becoming frightened and anxious. _Was he secretly married?_ She wished she had thought of that possibility before she posted the letter.
Many simple-minded men of disengaged affections, cheerfully pursuing their virtuous avocations, would be thunderstruck if they knew the dark suspicions harboured against them in spinster bosoms, that they are concealing some discreditable matrimonial secret, which alone can account for their--well--their _extraordinary_ behaviour in not coming forward!
It has actually been said that real life is not always like a novel.
This feebly false a.s.sertion was disproved forever in Aunt Aggie"s mind by the sight of a dog-cart coming rapidly toward her from the direction of Lostford. She glanced indifferently at it as it approached, and then her pale eyes became glued to it. In the dog-cart sat Everard Constable, now Lord Lossiemouth. She had not seen him for fifteen years, but nevertheless she recognised him instantly. There was no doubt it was he: thickened and coa.r.s.ened, but still he. He whirled past leaning back in his seat, looking neither to right nor left.
Aunt Aggie"s heart gave a thump that nearly upset her equilibrium. The biscuit dropped onto the road, with a general upheaval of crumbs from all parts of her agitated person.
Lord Lossiemouth!
Going in the direction of Priesthope!
Her letter!
She nearly swooned with joy and pride.
Now Mary and Algernon, now everyone would believe in her.