The Battle of Life. A Love Story

“I don’t know I’m sure,” said Clemency, blowing her tea, to cool it. “Bless you, I couldn’t tell you if you was to offer me a reward of a hundred pound.”

He might have pursued this metaphysical subject but for her catching a glimpse of a substantial fact behind him, in the shape of a gentleman attired in mourning, and cloaked and booted like a rider on horseback, who stood at the bar-door. He seemed attentive to their conversation, and not at all impatient to interrupt it.

Clemency hastily rose at this sight. Mr. Britain also rose and saluted the guest. “Will you please to walk up stairs, Sir. There’s a very nice room up stairs, Sir.”

“Thank you,” said the stranger, looking earnestly at Mr. Britain’s wife. “May I come in here?”

“Oh, surely, if you like, Sir,” returned Clemency, admitting him. “What would you please to want, Sir?”

The bill had caught his eye, and he was reading it.

“Excellent property that, Sir,” observed Mr. Britain.

He made no answer; but turning round, when he had finished reading, looked at Clemency with the same observant curiosity as before. “You were asking me,” he said, still looking at her —

“What you would please to take, Sir,” answered Clemency, stealing a glance at him in return.

“If you will let me have a draught of ale,” he said, moving to a table by the window, “and will let me have it here, without being any interruption to your meal, I shall be much obliged to you.”

He sat down as he spoke, without any further parley, and looked out at the prospect. He was an easy well-knit figure of a man in the prime of life. His face, much browned by the sun, was shaded by a quantity of dark hair; and he wore a moustache. His beer being set before him, he filled out a glass, and drank, good-humouredly, to the house; adding, as he put the tumbler down again:

“It’s a new house, is it not?”

“Not particularly new, Sir,” replied Mr. Britain.

“Between five and six years old,” said Clemency: speaking very distinctly.

“I think I heard you mention Doctor Jeddler’s name, as I came in,” inquired the stranger. “That bill reminds me of him; for I happen to know something of that story, by hearsay, and through certain connexions of mine. – Is the old man living?”

“Yes, he’s living, Sir,” said Clemency.

“Much changed?”

“Since when, Sir?” returned Clemency, with remarkable emphasis and expression.

“Since his daughter – went away.”

“Yes! he’s greatly changed since then,” said Clemency. “He’s grey and old, and hasn’t the same way with him at all; but I think he’s happy now. He has taken on with his sister since then, and goes to see her very often. That did him good, directly. At first, he was sadly broken down; and it was enough to make one’s heart bleed, to see him wandering about, railing at the world; but a great change for the better came over him after a year or two, and then he began to like to talk about his lost daughter, and to praise her, ay and the world too! and was never tired of saying, with the tears in his poor eyes, how beautiful and good she was. He had forgiven her then. That was about the same time as Miss Grace’s marriage. Britain, you remember?”

Mr. Britain remembered very well.

“The sister is married then,” returned the stranger. He paused for some time before he asked, “To whom?”

Clemency narrowly escaped oversetting the tea-board, in her emotion at this question.

“Did you never hear?” she said.

“I should like to hear,” he replied, as he filled his glass again, and raised it to his lips.

“Ah! It would be a long story, if it was properly told,” said Clemency, resting her chin on the palm of her left hand, and supporting that elbow on her right hand, as she shook her head, and looked back through the intervening years, as if she were looking at a fire. “It would be a long story, I am sure.”

“But told as a short one,” suggested the stranger.

“Told as a short one,” repeated Clemency in the same thoughtful tone, and without any apparent reference to him, or consciousness of having auditors, “what would there be to tell? That they grieved together, and remembered her together, like a person dead; that they were so tender of her, never would reproach her, called her back to one another as she used to be, and found excuses for her? Every one knows that. I’m sure I do. No one better,” added Clemency, wiping her eyes with her hand.

“And so,” suggested the stranger.

“And so,” said Clemency, taking him up mechanically, and without any change in her attitude or manner, “they at last were married. They were married on her birth-day – it comes round again to-morrow – very quiet, very humble like, but very happy. Mr. Alfred said, one night when they were walking in the orchard, ‘Grace, shall our wedding-day be Marion’s birth-day?’ And it was.”

“And they have lived happily together?” said the stranger.

“Ay,” said Clemency. “No two people ever more so. They have had no sorrow but this.”

She raised her head as with a sudden attention to the circumstances under which she was recalling these events, and looked quickly at the stranger. Seeing that his face was turned towards the window, and that he seemed intent upon the prospect, she made some eager signs to her husband, and pointed to the bill, and moved her mouth as if she were repeating with great energy, one word or phrase to him over and over again. As she uttered no sound, and as her dumb motions like most of her gestures were of a very extraordinary kind, this unintelligible conduct reduced Mr. Britain to the confines of despair. He stared at the table, at the stranger, at the spoons, at his wife – followed her pantomime with looks of deep amazement and perplexity – asked in the same language, was it property in danger, was it he in danger, was it she – answered her signals with other signals expressive of the deepest distress and confusion – followed the motions of her lips – guessed half aloud “milk and water,” “monthly warning,” “mice and walnuts” – and couldn’t approach her meaning.

Clemency gave it up at last, as a hopeless attempt; and moving her chair by very slow degrees a little nearer to the stranger, sat with her eyes apparently cast down but glancing sharply at him now and then, waiting until he should ask some other question. She had not to wait long; for he said, presently,

“And what is the after history of the young lady who went away? They know it, I suppose?”

Clemency shook her head. “I’ve heard,” she said, “that Doctor Jeddler is thought to know more of it than he tells. Miss Grace has had letters from her sister, saying that she was well and happy, and made much happier by her being married to Mr. Alfred: and has written letters back. But there’s a mystery about her life and fortunes, altogether, which nothing has cleared up to this hour, and which – ”

She faltered here, and stopped.

“And which – ” repeated the stranger.

“Which only one other person, I believe, could explain,” said Clemency, drawing her breath quickly.

“Who may that be?” asked the stranger.

“Mr. Michael Warden!” answered Clemency, almost in a shriek: at once conveying to her husband what she would have had him understand before, and letting Michael Warden know that he was recognised.

“You remember me, Sir,” said Clemency, trembling with emotion; “I saw just now you did! You remember me, that night in the garden. I was with her!”

“Yes. You were,” he said.

“Yes, Sir,” returned Clemency. “Yes, to be sure. This is my husband, if you please. Ben, my dear Ben, run to Miss Grace – run to Mr. Alfred – run somewhere, Ben! Bring somebody here, directly!”

“Stay!” said Michael Warden, quietly interposing himself between the door and Britain. “What would you do?”

“Let them know that you are here, Sir,” answered Clemency, clapping her hands in sheer agitation. “Let them know that they may hear of her, from your own lips; let them know that she is not quite lost to them, but that she will come home again yet, to bless her father and her loving sister – even her old servant, even me,” she struck herself upon the breast with both hands, “with a sight of her sweet face. Run, Ben, run!” And still she pressed him on towards the door, and still Mr. Warden stood before it, with his hand stretched out, not angrily, but sorrowfully.

“Or perhaps,” said Clemency, running past her husband, and catching in her emotion at Mr. Warden’s cloak, “perhaps she’s here now; perhaps she’s close by. I think from your manner she is. Let me see her, Sir, if you please. I waited on her when she was a little child. I saw her grow to be the pride of all this place. I knew her when she was Mr. Alfred’s promised wife. I tried to warn her when you tempted her away. I know what her old home was when she was like the soul of it, and how it changed when she was gone and lost. Let me speak to her, if you please!”

He gazed at her with compassion, not unmixed with wonder: but he made no gesture of assent.

“I don’t think she can know,” pursued Clemency, “how truly they forgive her; how they love her; what joy it would be to them, to see her once more. She may be timorous of going home. Perhaps if she sees me, it may give her new heart. Only tell me truly, Mr. Warden, is she with you?”

“She is not,” he answered, shaking his head.