Pandora's Portion. A story of hope

Front matter

TO MY AUNT, MARGARET JAMES, AND MY COUSINS, EFFIE AND HENRY FELLOWS., I INSCRIBE THIS TALE, IN TOKEN OF MUCH KINDNESS AND ENCOURAGEMENT. % j$i<n"g of Pope BY AUSTIN CLARE AUTHOR OF <£A CHILD OF THE MENHIR," "THE CARVED CARTOON,'' "A WOMAN'S DOWER," &C, &C Pandora. — " What else remains to me?" Epimetheus. — " Youth, hope, and love : To build a new life upon a ruined life, To make the future fairer than the past, And make the past appear a troubled dream." Longfellow — The Masque of Pandora. LONDON T. FISHER UNWIN 26, PATERNOSTER SQUARE 18S8 CONTENTS.

Prologue

. chapter page- I. — Young Epimetheus 12 H. — The Olive Leaf 28 III. — Wild Waltzing 36 IV. — Disenchantment 5° V.— One Word 60 VI.— Something Between 72 VII. — In the Shadow of Hope 82 VIII.— A Bride Bereaved 93

"HOPE MAKETH NOT ASHAMED." I. — Nothing Between 271 II. — A Perilous Plan 281 III.— A Demoiselle Errante 287 IV.— The Old Oak Chest 30S V. — Retribution 321

Epilogue

. Paht I. HOPE TOLD A FLATTERING TALE." " Hope ! when I mourn, with sympathising mind, The wrongs of Fate, the woes of humankind, Thy blissful omens bid my spirit see The boundless fields of rapture yet to be. " Campbell — Pleasures of Hope.

PROLOGUE.

. It is midnight. The clocks of London are striking twelve, some together, some apart ; some going before, some following after, telling the great city, in many and various voices, the same news — that another day is dead. Like a great stone dropped into a deep, dark pool, falls each stroke of Big Ben upon the sleeping air; vibration after vibration, deep, musical, sonorous, booming, crescendo^ diminuendo, passing, like the wide circles upon broken water, into stillness. Gravely, solemnly he speaks the word — " The day is dead ! " Tenor, treble voices mingle,. follow — some sorrowful, some triumphant, some indifferent ; but all saying the same thing — " The day is dead ! " Dead! Alas ! yes, I cannot disbelieve them. It is all too true. Past, past, for ever gone, this day, to which I have looked, as to the red initial ot a new glad •chapter in the book of my life.

The day is gone, it is dead. My happiness, too, is dead with it, and the book of life seems to have closed for ever. I sit in my room, desolate and alone, though thousands are sleeping quietly in the great city around me. None watch with me, not even those of my own household ; nor would I have it other wise, since I cannot have the one, the only one that I desire. A long blue beam of moonlight falls through the uncurtained window. It touches something white and gleaming upon the bed. A shroud ? No — and yet, yes. That is the shroud of my dead happiness — my wedding-gown . A wife, but ot one day's standing, and already forsaken. That is my position. Can you imagine a more wretched one ? A wife but this morning — the happiest wife, as I had fondly imagined, in all the world — and yet, to night, I sit alone, worse than a widow.

So it is. But, nevertheless, deep as is the mystery that enwraps my husband's flight, I trust him still. Though he seems to have forsaken me, I love him, dearly as ever. Appearances are all against him but I will believe nothing to his hurt. Kenneth ! Kenneth ! Why could you not have trusted me, as I trust you r Do you not know that I would Prologue. 11 willingly sacrifice everything, even life itself, for your sake ? Ah, Hope, Hope, Hope ! They say thou art immortal, canst never die. Is it indeed so \ Will there be a rising again from the darkness, even for me ? Alas, poor shattered, crushed, down-beaten Hope ! My heart is very full, and yet there is no one to whom I can unburden it. No one believes in Kenneth as I do. All shake their heads if I try to exculpate him. Do they not know that some hearts speak or break ? Kind hearts unknown, I turn to you. Will you listen to my story ?

Chapter I. Young Epimetheus

"Have I dreamed? Or was it real?" Longfellow. Hope Hilliard, that is my maiden name. I am an orphan, an heiress, and my own mistress. Though still quite young, I have been my own mistress for years ; for my parents died when I was but a child, and Uncle Tom, my guardian,. with whom I live, has never tried to control me. On the contrary, since I grew up I have been the mistress of his house, and ruled him. Dear, kind, easy Uncle Tom ! It is not your fault if I have grown up something of a spoilt child ; for what could an old bachelor like you do to prevent it ? Rich, my own mistress, and fair to look upon (as they say I am), you will not be surprised to hear that I have had many suitors ; yes, and eligible ones too, as the world calls them. Men of position in the city have aspired to the rich merchant's rich niece.

Poor gentlemen with fortunes (to patch up) have done the same. More than one title has been laid at my feet. If the gilt were a little rubbed off the ginger-bread, what of that ? Was not my gold enough to re-gild it thicker than ever ? But, city men or aristocrats, they were all the same to me. I cared for none of them. All their eligible offers were refused in favour of one altogether in eligible ; or rather, of one which would never have been made at all, as I believe, had not I myself invited it. Yet he loved me ; deeply, truly, I can answer for that, long before the offer was made. Yes, I passed over all my suitors, quite heart free, till Kenneth Farquhar came. Then, at once, my heart bowed to him, as to its lord. I loved him, at once and for ever. And yet, what was Kenneth ? A clerk in my uncle's counting-house, nothing more.

And who was he ? "A nobody," everyone said; but who that nobody was, nobody knew. " Better have taken poor Will than a fellow like that," said Uncle Tom, when I told him of what I intended. " One knows, at least, who he is, — a cousin of your own and my nephew. There's no mystery about him." What Uncle Tom said was quite true ; there certainly never had been any mystery about Will Geraldson. " Honest Will," as he was generally called in the counting-house, had nothing at all romantic about him ; and therefore, perhaps, he failed to take my fancy, fond of me as he always was. Kenneth Farquhar and he were opposites in every way ; and Kenneth had everything that was wanting in Will. Let me tell you about our first meeting, for I must make you know and love him as I do — (no, not as /do, that is impossible for more than one woman) — but know him and love him you must, if there is to be any sympathy between us.

" I am going to ask some of those fellows in the office to dinner this evening, Hope," said Uncle Tom, who was always kindly towards his depend ants; "it's Christmas time, and some of them get but little cheer, poor lads ! There's that Scotchman we took on a while back — young Farquhar ; he looks as though he had never smiled ! You must try what you can do this evening, Hope, to light up his gloomy countenance. But even you won't succeed, I fancy, in conjuring up a smile, though there are few that can resist you." " Come now, uncle, what will you bet ? ' " Bet ! When you see this knight of the sorrowful countenance you'll hardly think him a fit subject for bets. But have it your own way. I'm pretty safe, anyhow — a pearl ring to a box of cigars, shall it be?" " Done ! " I cried, merrily striking hands, and then Uncle Tom went off to his counting-house.

Uncle Tom had awakened my curiosity in some degree, but not sufficiently to make me look forward to the evening with any great impatience. I had often before had the task of entertaining some of the business staff, and had not hitherto found the game at all paid for the candle, so far as I was concerned. Stiff old business fogies and shy young business fags were equally uninteresting to me. They came, and I went with Miss Plimpsoll — my old governess and present companion — to the drawing-room to receive them, shaking hands with this one, bowing to that ; looking about, meantime, for the knight of the sorrowful countenance. But he was not to be seen. All the others were early, as they generally were when invited to dine in Portman Square ; but when the gong sounded he had not yet appeared.

" Is young Farquhar not coming ? " asked Uncle Tom, turning to Will. Will shrugged his shoulders and lifted his heavy eyebrows. " Don't know, uncle, I'm sure," he answered,. carelessly, as who would say, " I'm not his keeper." " Well, well, we won't wait for him, anyhow," said Uncle Tom. " Business men should be punctual, if anyone is." And we went to the dining-room. I felt disappointed. The company, to me, was heavier than ever, the conversation more unappetis ing. Uncle Tom was a wine-merchant; and, whenever the staff came to dine, I was kept au fait as to the best vintages and the prospects, bad or good, of all the principal vineyards in Europe. I felt inclined to vow, on each of these occasions, to become a teetotaler and never taste again the juice of the grape, under any brand whatever, so sick was I of the sound of its name.

The vinous talkers were, of course, the older men of the establish ment ; the younger ones contented themselves with making small talk over their wine instead of about it; but their conversation was hardly more interesting than that of their elders. They alL with the exception of Will, looked more or less shy of me, and I am sure they were all relieved when Miss Plimpsoll and I rose to retire. She went upstairs, I went to the drawing-room. The lamps had been lit there, but were not turned up to their full height, and the room looked pleasantly dim and warm, with the glow of a ruddy fire. I went in and turned to a little recess by the door, to get a book I wanted, intending to sit and read by the fire in quiet, till the wine-bibbers should tire of their stock-in-trade. A slight movement in the room startled me, however, and, looking up, I saw a tall man standing on the rug, with his arm resting on the mantelpiece.

A moment's thought told me who it must be, and I came forward to greet him. " Mr. Farquhar, I think "Yes, Miss Geraldson," he answered, bowing. "I must beg your pardon ; but I came so late that I did not like to disturb you at dinner, and the servant showed me in here to wait." The deep, low-toned voice, the quietness with which he made the announcement, struck me by its contrast with the mingled self-assertion and self consciousness of the company in the other room. None of my uncle's staff, with the exception of Will, could exactly be called gentlemen ; though, of course, there was not one of them who would not have been indignant if denied the title. But this man struck me as something more than an ordinary gentleman ; in fact, I thought I had never seen another who could compare with him in that certain something which we call high breeding for want of a better name; a something which comes by nature, and is, generally, the inheritance of a line of well-born ancestors.

I had not expected to find it in my uncle's new clerk. I looked at him with some curiosity, as he stood there in the fire-light explaining to me the reason of his lateness — some unexpected telegram at the office, which he had been detained to attend to, I think it was. I saw a man over the middle height in stature, slight and rather thin ; but well propor tioned in every way, from the set of the head on the shoulders to the finely formed, long-fingered hand which rested on the warm marble of the mantelpiece. He was very dark ; short, dark, wavy hair shaded his forehead, which was high to a fault, but slightly wanting in breadth. He had deep, dark- E grey eyes — I thought them black at first — deep-set in the head, and full of a strange intensity. His mouth was one of the most sensitive I ever saw — too sensitive, I thought, for one who had to face the world in a position like his.

His chin was small and a little wanting of what is called character ; but both that, the nose, and the whole contour of the face might have served as a model for a sculptor. They would have been perfect in marble, though not, perhaps, so happy in flesh and blood. He wore a small dark moustache on his short upper lip, the downward droop of which helped to accentuate the intense melancholy of the whole countenance. Yes, Uncle Tom was right. Kenneth Farquhar looked as though he had never smiled, and never could. I am somewhat of a physiognomist, as you may have guessed from my description, and I read that in the face before me which nearly brought the tears to my eyes. A man with a face like that could not have been born to happiness. He spoke with a slight peculiarity of accent. It was not provincial ; and yet it showed that he had not been brought up in London, or, indeed, in England at all.

Nor was it a foreign accent, though it sounded like it. It puzzled me at the time, as it puzzled many others. Will Morris called it Scotch ; but neither was it what is generally known by that name. I found out, afterwards, that it was the accent given to English by one whose native tongue is the Gaelic. So much occupied was I in studying the countenance of my new acquaintance — I could do that in the large mirror which surmounted the fireplace without needing to stare him rudely in the face — that I neglected to ask him to sit down. Suddenly I remembered my omission, with a rush of colour to which Iwas quite unaccustomed ; and, to cover my confusion, I asked him why he had called me Miss Geraldson. He looked a little surprised. " You are Mr. Geraldson's daughter, are you not r " he said. " His niece ?

Well, I beg your pardon. But anyhow, I have seen you before." " When r " " When ? " He too changed colour a little, as at a sudden recollection. "In a dream, I think," he added, after the slightest pause, looking at me with a curious expression of face. In a dream ! What did he mean by that ? Was he laughing at me ? No. He had taken the seat I offered him, and was turning over the pages of an illustrated book, which lay upon a little table close by. His answer had startled and surprised me ; but I felt I could not question him, and he evidently did not wish to pursue the subject. The book he was looking at seemed to have absorbed his whole attention. I watched him furtively as he turned over its pages. It was a strangely powerful poem, recently brought out by a new writer, with his own illustrations.

Only a few copies had yet been printed for private circulation, one of which I had been fortunate enough to obtain ; but, if I am not mistaken, that poem will make a noise in the world some day. The author had called it " The Son of Epimetheus," and it was a continuation of the old heathen legend of " Pandora's Box," with a Christian light upon it. Do you know the story ? Jupiter, wishing to punish Prometheus for filching fire from Heaven in his zeal for the enlightenment of mankind, causes Vulcan to fashion a fair woman, whom he presents with a box containing every evil, with Hope concealed beneath them. This woman he brings to Prometheus, hoping that he will make her his bride, and with her become possessed of her fatal dowry. Prometheus, however, is not to be tempted ; and his brother Epimetheus falls a captive to her instead.

Moved by Eve-like curiosity, Pandora opens the mysterious box, and the pair become a prey to the evils which fly out to attack them, Hope, alone, remaining undiscovered at the bottom. This box, with all its fatal contents, becomes, according to the modern interpreter of the legend, the dread inheritance of a son, who is born of this ill-fated union. Young Epimetheus thus comes into the world, cursed by the unfortunate father who has begotten him. He is the fruit of that father's misfortune, the inheritor of ail his sufferings. In him he sees the witness of his own fatal folly, and the child is hated accordingly of the father. Innocent though he is of any offence, he is driven from his home with no provision but the ill omened box, the source of all the evil. In vain he seeks to cast this from him.

He cannot rid himself of it. Shunned, homeless, and proscribed, he wanders alone, from place to place, again and again hunted away because of his fatal possession. At last he wanders to the snowy regions of Mount Caucasus, dogged, under various hateful forms, by the evils of the box, which he no sooner vanquishes and imprisons than they escape to torment him again. A thick mist descends upon him from the mountain tops, and, worn out with his struggles, he lies down on the rocks, calling on death to come and deliver him. An answering voice comes to him from behind the mist. " Who is it that wishes for death ? Who is it that is so faint of heart that he cannot bear the evils of life for the sake of the hope that lies beyond ? " The mist clears, and young Epimetheus beholds his father's heroic brother Prometheus, chained to a precipice, with outstretched arms and fettered hands and feet, while a vulture, commissioned by Jupiter, feeds for ever upon his defenceless body.

The sight of this hero, suffering, with patient courage, pains beyond description, is a rebuke to young Epimetheus. The youth is dying, while Prometheus has no hope, as yet, of any such issue from his torments. And the suffering man, bearing the penalty of heiping others, helps yet another by pointing to the sure Hope which underlies all the evils of life. As the youth listens, drinking in his words, a sudden radiance shines from around the tortured hero. His form changes, and, for one brief moment, there is a vision of Christ upon the Cross. Then the mist closes in again, and the sufferer is hidden from sight. But, in that moment, Hope awakens from her long sleep. A vapour rises from the fatal box, takes the shape of a radiant angel, and bears the dying son of Epimetheus aloft, on tender pinions, beyond the evils of this world to the realms above.

The poem, of whose contents I have given a brief summary, seemed to have a strange fascination for my guest. I watched his sensitive countenance, as he bent over it, looking at the spirited etchings which interspersed its pages. Poor, haunted Epimetheus, with his constant following of evil shapes ! Pandora, gifted with a beguiling fairness to tempt men to their ruin ; the shadowy form of the Evil Genius, who presided over the progress of the tragedy; the hero, grand in the midst of pain, suffering torments for his kind, yet with a spirit which ills could vanquish, — looking at these, my uncle's clerk seemed utterly to have forgotten my presence, and to be living in those old heathen times to which the legend belongs. Deep interest, a great horror, an added expression of melancholy, showed themselves by turns upon his face as he turned the pages over.

Suddenly he looked up, and saw me watching him. The blood showed itself for a moment under his dark skin. " I beg your pardon, Miss Hilliard," he said, " it was very rude ! " " Oh, it does not matter," I returned hurriedly, vexed to have been caught watching him. " You have not read the book ? " " No. Might I — would you " He hesitated to make the request ; but I guessed it, and came to his rescue. " Will I lend it to you ? Oh, yes, certainly ! and you will tell me what you think of it, won't you r " He paused a moment before answering. I thought he was going to say something more than the simple " Yes, if you wish it," which actually came. Had he heard the dining-room door open, I wondered ? He must have, I think, for his whole manner suddenly changed. A sternness and reserve, a certain " guess-my-thoughts-if-you dare " expression, came over his face.

His mouth and eyes, so sensitive a moment before, hardened, and the gloom which had lifted a little from his face settled upon it again. He laid aside the book. It was as though he were preparing himself to face something. The door opened, and, heralded by the sound of " Chateau Margaux " and Chateaux this, that, and the other, the wine merchant and his guests came pouring into the room. " What, Farquhar, you here, after all r Why didn't you come to us in the dining-room and have some wine, man, if you were too late for dinner ?" asked Uncle Tom's genial voice, never so genial as after he had been tasting his own wares. Not that Uncle Tom ever exceeded, do not let me insinuate that; but on the occasion of a dinner with his staff he always made a little more free than usual, under the excuse of having to taste with his colleagues the last new samples imported from abroad.

His voice was always mellow-toned ; it became more so then. " I don't take wine, sir, thank you," said Mr. Farquhar quietly, and was going on to explain his lateness as he had done to me, when Uncle Tom broke in upon them with a laugh — " Not take wine ? In the wine trade and a tee totaler ! Never heard of such a thing. It's a flat contradiction of terms. Come, Farquhar, you're joking, surely. Come back with me and have a glass, while you tell me about this telegram." It was not the best taste in Uncle Tom ; I felt that and was vexed, more especially as I heard a laugh go round the other men. But I was surprised •at the effect on Mr. Farquhar. Such a look came into his dark face ; his eyes flashed fire, and I saw his slender right hand clench itself together. But all this showed itself only for a moment ; the next, and his countenance was as imperturbable as before.

" I will go and explain the telegram ; but no wine, thank you," he said, with quiet firmness, yet with a certain haughty distance which checked any further remark from Uncle Tom. They left the room together, and no sooner was the door shut than Will burst out with — " Plague take that fellow's pride ! What does he .mean by it ? " "By what?" I turned and gave him a look which made him change colour. " I beg your pardon, Hope," he said, " I forgot you were there. But, surely, I only said ' Plague take it,' didn't I ? " His look of frightened uncertainty as to whether he had used a worse word in my presence made me smile in spite of myself; and poor Will brightened immediately, as he always did at a smile from me, and begged for a song, a request in which the other men joined. I sat down to the piano, and took up the song which lay uppermost on the stand beside it.

It happened to be Adelaide Procter's beautiful "Doubt ing Heart." It has been well set to music, and the changeful major and minor chords of the accompaniment fit in well with the changeful spirit of the words. Each verse begins in despair and ends with hope. " Where are the swallows fled ? Frozen and dead, Perchance upon some bleak and lonely shore. O doubting heart ! Far over purple seas they wait in sunny ease The balmy southern breeze To bring them to their northern homes once more. " Why must the flowers die ? Prison'd they lie In the cold tomb, heedless of tears or rain. O doubting heart ! They only sleep below the soft white ermine snow, While winter winds shall blow, To breathe and smile upon you once again. " Fair Hope is dead, and light is quenched in night. What sound can break the silence of despair ? t) doubting heart !

Thy sky is overcast, yet stars shall rise at last More bright for darkness past, And angels' silver voices stir the air." Such is the song, and there is a refrain after each verse, repeating the last line and calling " O doubting heart ! O doubting heart ! " as though to say " Doubt no longer. Believe and hope." The door had opened just as I sang the first verse, and I felt rather than saw that Mr. Farquhar was again in the room. As the last words died away I heard a strange sound beside me, like a catch of the breath ; and,. looking round, I saw my uncle's " Scotch clerk,'' as they called him — though, whether he were really Scotch or not, I do not think anyone actually knew — sitting in a dark recess beside the piano, with his hand shading his eyes. Poor fellow ! Was there something in that song which spoke to a sorrowful and lonely heart ?

They said he had no friends in London. To cover what I guessed to be his emotion, I hastily dashed into a merry new ballad. He rose, almost at once, and moved away, as though the contrast jarred on him. I rose also when I had finished my song, asked a musical man in the company to take my place, and went to the fire, where Uncle Tom and Mr. Farquhar were standing together. " Farquhar's going, dear," said my uncle, as I came up, " unless, indeed, you can persuade him to stay any longer ? " I was beginning a few polite words ; but he stopped me. " Not to-night, Miss Hilliard, thank you He seemed to say the last words with eyes as well as with tongue, then, with a pressure of the hand, he was gone. My " Epimetheus " went with him.

Chapter II. The Olive Leaf

" By what name shall I call thee ? " Longfellow — The Masque of Pandora. About a fortnight afterwards I went to, skate with some friends on the Serpentine. It was a perfect winter's day, a keen, crisp, hard frost making the air as bright as a diamond. The trees in Kensington Gardens were crystallised to the tips of every twig, the very grass was starched with hoar frost, and the sun shone from a hard blue sky which reminded one of lapis lazuli. The pretty winding river was covered with splendid black ice, with the exception of a space beneath the upper bridge which had been kept open for the water-fowl. A crowd of skaters glided over the ice, and the air was filled with the sharp ring of the steel blades, and the merry voices of those who were enjoying the exhilarating pastime. I am very fond of skating ; I suppose because I can do it easily and well, and because it gives an outlet to a certain craving for something outside the cramped conventionality of •everyday life.

You are not expected to keep con stantly by the side of your friends when you are skating, or to go at the pace another measures for you. You may be eccentric without exciting surprise or shocked looks. You may dart away, and skim like a bird over the slippery surface, which never tries to stay your foot or hamper your movement. In short, a skater is as free on the ice as is a bird in the air. I did not care much for the so-called " friends " I was with, and availed myselt a good deal of the skaters' privileges, joining them at times, of course, but making many excur sions. During one of these I found myself in the neighbourhood of the bridge, on which a troop of children had assembled to feed the water-fowl. One little fellow, a ragged street -arab, had betaken himself to the ice beneath the bridge, and was busy rescuing the pieces of bread which fell wide of the mark, and transferring them to the water, under the shrill directions of the little aristocrats who stood above.