A Living Epitaph

Prologue

What's clone is done, and she is dead beside, Robert Browning. On a winter evening long ago, the strong Atlantic waves, made fierce and big by a mighty gale, were dashing in against the wild, broken coast of the West of Ireland. In the line of harsh, defiant rocks that Ireland shows to the sunset are spaces where the land gives away before the sea, and the water, flowing in, finds bays and creeks wherein the shore bends down to meet it in gentle slopes. One of these bays is dotted with a hundred islands that look like little children of the land, and, like children, fearing to venture far away, lie all within the shelter of the bar. One only, rising high out of the water, stands, bold and solitary, ex posed to the full force of the open sea ; yet, lonely as it is, is hardly more lonely than the steep and desolate headlands that, jutting out from the mainland, guard the entrance to the bay on either side.

On the southern headland on that bygone winter B EriTAPH evening, about a hundred and fifty yards from the edge of the cliff, stood a low, one-storeyed building, in ruins now and uninhabited for many years, but used then as an inn by summer travellers, and strong in the strength of its thick stone walls to resist the power of the wind. By the cliffs white mists of whirl ing spray rushed upwards out of the darkness, but no moon showed the lonely landscape, and the light that came from the, windows of the little inn was the only touch of brightness in all the black wildness of the night. By-and-by, as the hour grew later, the lights dis appeared : only one remained, and still burnt on and on, like a little ray of hope that would not die. Inside, in the room where the light was burning, two women listened silently to the sound of the storm ; the one seated by the peat fire that burned on the hearth, the other lying still in the bed.

Occasionally the woman by the fire started as a fiercer burst of wind yelled past the window and shook the house ; now and again she turned and glanced towards her quiet companion. At last she rose, went across to the bed, and bent over it. ' Clara ! ' she said, ' Clara, are you awake ? ' At the words the other woman opened her eyes, but she did not speak. ' Are you better ? Are you any stronger, Clara ? ' The head on the pillow moved feebly, but still the woman did not answer. Her face was very pale : a xV LIVING EPITAPH young face it was, and a beautiful one, but worn and thin. Presently, as the elder woman still leaned over her, she spoke in a faint voice. ' I am dying,' she said ; ' it will not be long.' The watcher by the bedside raised the white hand that lay on the counterpane ; she placed her fingers on the wrist ; then, after a minute, she laid the hand softly down again. ' Clara ! ' she said, ' once more I ask you.

Tell me before it is too late.' The face on the pillow was very weary, but the lines of the mouth were firm, and the eyes that looked up met the eyes that looked clown with a gaze full of determination. ' No,' said the feeble voice, ' I will never tell. Let me ' — the voice grew fainter yet — ' let me die in peace.' The elder woman clenched her teeth. ' No,' she said, ' you shall not die till you have told me. I have a right to know ; it is the only repa ration you can make.' ' I can never make it, I will never make it ; no good could come — let my sin die with me,' ' Your sin, yes ; but the other, the greater sin ' ' Shall die too ; that is my wish and my resolve.' Then the weary eyes closed, and the dying woman lay very still. Outside the wind howled angrily, and the massive waves still dashed themselves into foam against the rocks.

For a space the two women remained without speaking or stirring, while moving shadows cast by the flickering light played over the bed and all about the room. At last the younger one spoke with feeble utterance. ' Will the day break soon ? ' ' Not yet, it is hardly past midnight.' ' Then I shall not see the light.' The low voice paused, but went on presently with momentary strength : ' The child — you will care for him, love him always — for my sake ? ' The woman standing with clasped hands by the bedside, hesitated, and her lips trembled ; but her voice answered hard and firm. ' It will be my duty to care for him — for his father's sake.' Suddenly she sank upon her knees, and kissed the still hand resting on the bedclothes with passionate tenderness. ' Oh, Clara, I have loved you so ! ' she cried ; ' I cannot bear it — that you should have all the suffering, all the blame, and that ' The younger woman smiled. ' I am glad,' she said, ' that I can bear all the blame.' ' Then it is no good, Clara ? ' ' No, it is no good.

And yet '—in a whisper the words came — ' and yet it is very good.' The woman by the bedside rose from her knees ; the fire had nearly burned away ; she went slowly towards it and put on more peat, then stood and gazed at the reviving flame. At last she went back to the bed. She looked with determined face at the white face below her, and as she looked she started. The face was very peaceful and the eyes were open ; but the mouth had dropped a little, and all the life had gone out of the eyes. In the West of Ireland the storms, as they rage, seem to reach their highest pitch of fury in the dead of the night ; and now the sound of the wind was like the wild cry of a conscious savage force as it swept along the cliffs, inland over the desolate country, and past the strong, great mountain, that, disdainful of the power of any blast, raises its cone-shaped head high above the many other mountains that stretch in bold, uneven shapes around it ; and still the only touch of brightness in the dark was the ray of light that came from the window of the little inn.

Book I

Bright else and fast the stream of life may roll, And no man may the other's hurt behold; Yet each ivill find one anguish— his own soul Which perishes of cold. Matthew Arnold.

Chapter I

In a quiet street in an old-fashioned town lived Miss Letitia Letherbarrow. The street was a short one, very little frequented, generally silent, and with that air of faded gentility about it that clings to places as well as to people, and lends to both a sort of pitiful dignity. The houses were grey and sad-looking ; the windows, for the most part, tall and straight ; the street doors oak, unpainted, but dark with age. The house belonging to Miss Letitia Letherbarrow stood near the end of the street, and was faced by the high wall of an old garden ; into which, from her upper windows, Miss Letitia could look, if she were so minded, and watch the budding, the growth and the decay of each year's leaves and flowers. But Miss Letitia did not take much interest in the old garden : she spent most of her time in her parlour downstairs, the window of which, unlike the other windows of the house, was not straight and narrow, but bulged out into a sort of bow, such as may be seen sometimes in old-fashioned country inns ; and when she glanced at the square panes, shielded half-way up by a wire blind, it was not so much to see into the outer world as to satisfy her careful eyes that there was neither dirt nor dimness on the shining glass.

A long June day was drawing to its close, and the tender light of the sunset was fading into grey. Miss Letitia Letherbarrow sat in her parlour sewing, and stitched and stitched away till the waning light would serve her no longer ; then she folded her work with pre cise neatness, put it in a cupboard in the wall by the fireplace, and drew near the window. The window was open, and through it came sweet scents from the garden opposite and from hayfields beyond the town : a tiny breeze puffed gently through the wire blind that covered the open space, and Miss Letitia bent lier head to catch the coolness and the fragrance that were wafted inwards. As she stood there in her plain stuff dress and her cap with the bow of purple ribbon, her wide, pale, faded face, her dim blue eyes, and her hair that was rather colourless than grey, made her seem like an embodiment of the twilight.

She drewa chair to the window, and sat looking out into the silent street and at the branches of the -tall trees in the garden opposite, showing ever more and more faintly against the evening sky, till the sound of swift footsteps, drawing nearer and nearer, caused her to stir slightly and bend her head and listen. . , ' It sounds like — but he was only to come back to-day,' she said aloud ; and as she spoke a man's figure, tall and strongly built, turned into the quiet street. ' It is — it is Mr. Ashe,' said Miss Letitia ; and she went out of the room into the little square hall and opened the street door. ' How do you do, Mr. Ashe '? ' she said, as the man, who had reached the door just as she opened it, took off his hat and held out his hand. ' I am very glad to see you, and all the more so that I did not expect you to-night.' ' Thank you,' answered the man. ' I came — I ought to apologise for coming so late — 1 came because, as usual, I want your help.' ' I am very glad to see you,' repeated Miss Letitia with an air of prim courtesy.

She led the way into the parlour and pulled for ward a stiff-backed arm-chair. ' Before you tell me anything else,' she said as she signed to her visitor to seat himself, ' tell me if you are better, really better.' 'Yes,' the man answered, 'I am really better, perfectly well. You have only to look at me to see : my face states the fact so clearly that he who runs may read.' •It is too dark to read your face,' said Miss Letitia. She rose from her chair, took two tall silver candlesticks from a high mantelpiece, and, having lighted the candles they held, placed them on the round sub stantial table that stood in the middle of the room. ' Yes,' she said, as the light fell on the man's face, - yes, I can see that you are better. I am very glad, Mr. Ashe.' ' Thank you,' the man answered absently, looking round the sombre room. ' Everything is just the same,' he added presently. ' You make no changes, Miss Letitia.' ' No, I make no changes.

There is one change going on always — that we grow older and shabbier, the furniture and I ; but that is a change that makes itself — I take no active part in it.' Miss Letitia smiled faintly ; then : ' You must have enjoyed being abroad and travel ling about again,' she went on. ' I think you told me that you had not been abroad for many years ? ' * No, not for many years.' - 1 should like to hear about your travels. I hear very little about the outer world now.' ' I will tell you about them some other time. Just now I am in a state of perplexity, and I want to know — I wonder if you will help me, Miss Letitia '? ' ' I will help you if I can,' Miss Letitia answered. The man took from his pocket a letter and handed it to her. It was addressed to Nicholas Ashe, Esq., Winderwiss Cottage, Langton ; and the postmark bore the date of the fourteenth of May. ' I found that letter when I came home to-day,' said Nicholas Ashe. ' You will see from the postmark that it ought to have reached me a month ago.' ' Yes,' said Miss Letitia. ' Then was it not sent after you ? ' ' It was after me all the time, but it never overtook me.

It followed me from place to place, and finally, as I had left my home address at Geneva, and as I myself stayed a day or two in Paris, it came back to the cottage again just a day before I did.' ' And it is important — the letter ? ' ' Yes, I think it is important. Perhaps you will read it, Miss Letitia ? ' Miss Letitia drew one of the candlesticks nearer to her, shaded her eyes with her hand, and read the letter : ' Dear Sir, — I dare to write to you, not because I have claim upon you, but that I heard often of your great goodness to the miserable. I die, sir, a foreigner in a strange country, without one friend. Of that I make no complaint ; to die alone is only sad ; it is to live alone that is terrible. And, sir, I leave my only daughter, my much-loved one, to live alone in a world that is full of wickedness.

I leave her without friends, without money, quite alone. Oh, sir ! if you are kind and good, as I have heard related of you, you know what I would ask. Help my child and save her from the wickedness of the world. I have brought her from London, I have come to die in the country ; for surely it is better, I think, to leave her in the country than in the town. The people of the country are simpler, kinder, I tell myself ; but all the world seems hard and lonely to me as I die. ' In a time long ago my husband said he knew you once, he had done a benefit for you. If that was truth, for the sake of that time be good to his child ; but, if true or false, I make my prayer still only for the love of God. Sir, I die soon. I beg you write me a little word of comfort, of hope. It is for you to decide if my last breath is of blessing or despair.

Sir, I dwell at Mrs. Bay's, Fellwood, Haychester ; and my name is ' Coralie Dane.' Miss Letitia Letherbarrow read the letter, and after she had read it sat for a minute or two with her eyes cast down, thinking. Presently she looked up and handed the letter across the table to Nicholas Ashe. ' Well ? ' she said. ' The letter was written a month ago,' said Nicholas. ' It is a month too late to help the mother ; I hope it is not too late to find the girl. I shall go to Fellwood to-morrow.' ' Did you ever know anybody of the name of Dane ? ' asked Miss Letitia. She rose as she spoke, went over to the window, shut it and pulled down the blind. 'Yes.' ' And he did you a service ? ' ' He did me — I consider myself bound to do what in me lies to benefit his child.' ' And what do you intend to do ?

The Home, I know, is full.' ' I did not think,' said Nicholas Ashe slowly, ' of putting her in the Home.' He passed his hand over his eyes. ' If I can find her,' he went on, ' and I think that I shall find her, I intend to treat her as a child of my own.' Miss Letitia Letherbarrow came back from the window. ' A child of your own ! But how — where would she live, Mr. Ashe ? ' ' That is my difficulty. I am so much away that she could not live with me ; and besides, there are many reasons why that would not do. But in any case I can decide nothing, arrange nothing, till I have seen her. I had promised to be in London to-morrow, and I must certainly go as soon as possible — as soon, that is to say, as I have found this girl. But when I have found her, and before I go to London, I must have some place where I can leave her — where she will be safe till I can decide what it will be best to do.' Nicholas Ashe paused and looked across the table at Miss Letitia.

Her eyes met his, but she said nothing, and presently he went on speaking. c ' For the last eight years, ever since I have known you,' he said, 'you have helped me and backed me up in all that I have done. Is it too much to ask you to take this child into your house for a few weeks ? Is it asking too much, Miss Letitia ? ' The colour came slowly into Miss Letitia's faded cheeks, and she hesitated. ' I have always lived alone,' she said. ' I — I am not accustomed to children and their ways.' She smiled her little, half melancholy smile. ' I am quite an old maid, as you know, Mr. Ashe ; my canary and the cat — I am used to no other company.' Nicholas Ashe answered the smile. ' I never heard a child make much more noise than your canary,' he said ; ' as for the cat — I do not pre sume to criticise anything so respectable.

But you go to the Home sometimes, Miss Letitia ; j"ou see the children there.' ' Yes, but they do not like me. I have not the right way with them. I do not understand them or they me.' Miss Letitia looked round the room at the stiff solemn furniture and the dark panelled wall. ' It seems a dull home to bring a child to,' she said. Nicholas Ashe too looked round the room, but he did not speak. Presently Miss Letitia rose from her seat and came towards him. ' Mr. Ashe,' she said, her voice trembling a little, ' you were a friend to me when I had no friends ' ' I have done nothing, you owe me nothing,' broke in Nicholas Ashe. ' I owe you this, that you have put interest and kindliness into my life. You have done more. Until I knew you my experience of the world had taught me that men were mean and selfish ; you have shown me ' Again Nicholas Ashe interrupted her. ' For pity's sake don't compliment me,' he said abruptly ; ' I can't stand it.

Tell me only, will you do this thing that I ask ? ' Miss Letitia went back to her chair. ' I was coming to that,' she said. ' Yes, Mr. Ashe, if you wish it I will take the child.' Nicholas Ashe rose from his seat and held out his hand. ' Thank you,' he said. ' I am very greatly obliged to you, Miss Letitia.' Miss Letitia made no answer ; she stood with her dim eyes looking past him at the dark wall beyond, and her grey face very still. ' Good-night, Miss Letitia.' ' Good-night. And you will let me know when she will be here — the child '? ' ' I will let you know. I will write, or if necessary I will telegraph.' Nicholas Ashe was already half through the doorway ; in another minute Miss Letitia heard his footsteps on the pavement outside, and she sat down c by the table and listened to them till they died away.

Then, when there was nothing more to listen to, she still sat on and thought, while outside the warm June tlight grew darker, and on the far-off border of the summer sky the moon rose peacefully. EPITAPn CHAPTEE II Across a wide and lonely plain a road ran in straight monotony. Beyond the plain low hills rose up and barred the view, and at the foot of the hills a village lay amongst sheltering trees. The sunlight lay bright on the plain and the hills and the tree-tops as Nicholas Ashe walked over the hot, weary length of the unshaded road ; and it glistened on the cottage roofs and rested on the graves around the church as, heated and dusty, he paused before the door of the village inn. He tapped with his stick on the stone step ; a woman looked over the little red blind that draped the window of the bar, and then came out into the passage and dropped a curtsey. ' What might you want, sir ? ' she said. ' I want to know where Mrs. Bay lives.' ' You must go on, sir, past the church, and take the lane that leads up acrost the hill.

Mrs. Bay lives a bit out of the village.' ' She had a lodger, a Mrs. Dane. Is — she there still?' ' Dead this three weeks, and not enough money to bury her. The parish 'ad to be called in, and the parish '11 'ave to take the girl ; for Mrs. Bay can't keep on a keepin' of 'er ; nobody couldn't look for it.' ' Then she is still at Mrs. Bay's — the girl '? ' ' Yes, sir, for it seems she told Mrs. Bay, the mother did, as 'ow she'd wrote to a friend, and as 'ow the friend 'Id come for her ; but there ain't been no friend yet, and poor people can't afford ' Suddenly the woman's face lighted up with eager curiosity. " Maybe you 'Id be the friend yourself, sir ? ' she asked with a quick change of tone. ' Yes,' said Nicholas Ashe, ' I am the friend ; and I will go on now and find Mrs. Bay. Good-morning.' He turned away and w-alked on up the village street, past the church and beyond the borders of the village, till he came to a narrow shaded lane that wound upwards to the right.

He paused for a moment and then turned into the lane, which ran with many twists and turns between high banks, whereon thick hedges grew in untrimmed luxuriance. All at once he stopped and stood quite still and listened. A low sound was wafted towards him, a sort of gentle crooning that was almost like singing, yet was not quite a song. The air was very still, and in the quiet lane, where the sunlight lay only in tiny patches here and there, the sound as it came to Nicholas Ashe seemed full of a strange pathos. He stood for a few minutes listening, then, with quickened steps, moved on round a bend in the lane. The sound was very near him now, and again he paused and looked up in the direction whence it came. On the top of the bank, in a little recess where the hedge had been partly broken away, a young girl was sitting.

She was leaning forward, her chin resting on one hand and her elbow supported on her knee, and she sang to herself the low monotonous song that had seemed to Nicholas Ashe like some mysterious out come of the summer beauty. As her eyes fell upon him she ceased her song, but she did not move ; and he, too, remained motionless, looking up at her in silence. At last, as from a distant field the sound of bleating sheep broke in upon the stillness, Nicholas Ashe took a step forward and spoke. ' I think you must be— are you — Miss Dane ? ' he said. The girl rose slowly and came clown the bank ; then, standing in the road before him : ' I am Miranda Dane,' she said. She was very slightly made ; her brown hair, that reached hardly to her shoulders, hung in waves and curls about her face ; she was dressed in a scanty white frock, too short in the skirt and too short in the waist ; round her throat, above the low collar of her dress, was a piece of worn black ribbon ; her head was bare. ' I have come — I came to find you,' said Nicholas Ashe. ' Did you expect me ?

Do you know who I am ? ' I think,' said the girl, ' that you must be Mr. Nicholas Ashe.' ' Yes,' answered Nicholas. ' Then you thought that I would come ? ' ' Will you sit down while we talk ? ' said the girl. - It is very hot, and you are tired, perhaps, with walking.' She went back to the bank and seated herself about half-way up its steep slope. Nicholas Ashe sat clown beside her, with his feet in the ditch. ' You thought I would come ? ' he repeated. The girl turned on him a pair of wide brown eyes. ' Mama n said that perhaps you would come,' she answered. As she spoke her eyes grew dim ; then her lips quivered and two big tears rolled down her cheeks. 'You must not cry,' said Nicholas Ashe. ' I am not going to cry.' The girl drew herself up. ' I never cry,' she said, ' except when I am by myself.' She was silent a minute, and the two big tears fell down upon her frock. ' Are you going to take me away ? ' she went on. ' Maman said that if you came you would take me away from here.' ' Yes, I have come to take you away.' ' Where to ? ' ' To London, first of all.' < Then I will not go.' ' You will not come with me ! but it was your mother's wish that ' 'I promised Maman that I would not go back to London, and I will not.

I would rather go to the parish.' Nicholas Ashe smiled half sadly. ' I don't think,' he said, ' that you would get on well with the parish.' ' Mrs. Bay said,' Miranda continued, ' that if you did not come soon the parish would have to look after me. I should not like it, because I should have to live in the workhouse ; but I would bear it, for I can bear a great deal.' ' How old are you ? ' asked Nicholas Ashe. ' Sixteen,' answered Miranda. ' And you ? ' ' I am forty.' ' Maman was only thirty-six,' said Miranda. ' You shall not go to London if you do not wish it,' said Nicholas presently. ' But I thought — you ought to have a black frock.' The colour came into Miranda's face, and she bent her head. ' I know,' she said. ' I have not many clothes,' she went on after a pause, ' and my frocks, except this one, are coloured.

But there is a cloak ; I could wear it to go with you ; it belonged to Maman. Mrs. Bay took Maman s clothes instead of money ; there was nothing else to give her ; but I think she would let me have the cloak.' ' I think that your mother would have been willing for you to go to London with me,' said Nicholas. ' I think she only meant you to promise that you would not go there alone. If she could trust me to take care of you, she could trust me to take you to London or anywhere else.' Miranda sat still and thought awhile ; then she rose to her feet. ' I will go,' she said. ' We had better tell Mrs. Bay.' Nicholas Ashe came down from the bank, and side by side he and Miranda went on up the winding lane.

Chapter III

The station at Langton lay a little way out of the town, and it was on a road white with dust and crossed here and there by long shadows from wayside trees, that Nicholas Ashe and Miranda Dane began the last stage of their journey to the house of Miss Letitia Letherbarrow. Miranda was dressed in black, and her hair was brushed back from her small, pale, oval face. She looked up now and again into the face of Nicholas Ashe, and once or twice touched lightly with the tips of her fingers a small, flat trunk that he carried in one hand. A carriage came round a bend in the road, and as it passed him Nicholas Ashe raised his hat. A lady in the carriage looked round and called to the coach man ; the carriage drew up, and Nicholas, going back a few paces, stood beside it. - So you have really come back ! ' said the lady. ' Any new fads ? or perhaps you have got rid of some of your queer notions ? ' 'I don't think my notions have altered much,' answered Nicholas Ashe. ' And whom have we here ? ' said the lady, turning round and looking at Miranda. ' The daughter of an old friend.' ' Ah ! another protegee, a new edition of your pet fad.