In Vain

Chapter I

Fortune stands at her Wheel Blindfold. It is a madness to make Fortune the mistress of events, because in herself she is nothing, but is ruled by prudence. Deyden. 1TRS. GREGG still lived. Few of us seem to J. die at the most suitable time. Yet who can dare to say that any time is unsuitable ? We may wait tdl we know how best to live, be fore we try to determine when best to die. And then perhaps all times will be equally happy. All Mrs. Gregg's experience, and her peculiar development of character since the birth of Wynbert, had tended to induce in her an extra ordinary sensibility to the influence of those she loved. The loss of Wynbert's sympathy in her spiritual life, and then the division of his VOL. III. B IN VAIN, affection, as she felt it, between herself and Eveline, had brought near to death the sufferer weakened with the anguish of twenty years.

Then, at the last, the strong expression of her son's love, and the tenderness of the clergyman, poured new forces into her life, and made it possible for her to survive. Immediately Mr. Haughton. left Gorse-hill House on the morning Mrs. Gregg bade him her farewell till another life, Mrs. Filmore made her way eagerly to her son's room, and knocked for admittance. That gentleman was no early riser, and told his mother that he would see her in a quarter of an hour. The interval afforded her an opportunity for reflection. " I 'do not think I could have been mistaken in what they said. How strange it was that I felt so much curiosity, just as if I had known there was some dreadful mystery; and how fortunate that I happened to hear it. Yet I don't know. It would be a dreadful shame to the family if it got public ; a dreadful blow to my poor cousin too.

How he will wish, perhaps, that he had married me. My Robert would have been a better son to him than Wynbert — not his son at all ! Oh, dear ! So good and pious as she seems, too ! How dreadful it makes it ! Lord, how true it is that one IN VAIN, half the world don't know how the other half lives ! and need not want to know, it seems to me. But really it seems true ; that is why she likes reading those melancholy books, and why she has always been so wretched. Well she might be ! Then, to think of it, Wynbert does not look at all like Mr. Gregg, and so much like — the other. Dear me, what a trouble may come ! I wonder whether I had better have no thing to do with it. Why should I be meddling? But there is Robert ? Perhaps he would not like to have Matilda now? Or he might want to do something — to stop its ever being found out.

There is no knowing, only if I do not tell him, he might be dreadfully angry afterwards if anything went wrong. So I suppose I had better tell him, and leave him to do what he thinks will be best." Filmore came without much delay to his mother's room ; she found some difficulty in impart ing her information. " I do not know how I can tell you, Robert, what I want to," she said nervously; "it is so dreadful — and it may be of so much conse quence — and besides, I am not quite sure." " Never mind how you tell it, mother," repli eel the son with a slight air of authority; "only B IN VAIN, let me know what it is, and I will put it straight. What is it about?" " It is about Mrs. Gregg, and — Wynbert," said Mrs. Filmore, sinking her voice to a whisper. " Yes, Mrs. Gregg and Wynbert," he repeated slowly, to give his mother time to arrange what she had to say.

" About her will," he thought, " or possibly an opposition to my marriage." " Mrs. Gregg has seemed very miserable lately," proceeded Mrs. Filmore, "and somehow I think I began to wonder about it, and felt anxious to know the cause." " Very natural indeed," said the son encour agingly, " especially as you know it might in terest me with Matilda. Well ?" " Well, at last it really seemed that she was going to die. The doctor had said all along that in her state of extreme weakness there was no knowing when she would go off. So this morning, quite early, she sent for Mr. Haughton." "For the clergyman; yes, quite natural. I suppose he had been there before." " No, I think not. At least, not all the time I have been here. -But, Robert, there, was a reason, I think, why they should never have been seen much together ; — a dreadful reason."

She paused. Robert drew his chair nearer IN VAIN, that she might speak as low as she chose. He glanced for a moment at her face, but meeting a look of great perplexity, bent his eyes down that he might not disconcert her. " They talked about something very dark in the past — some sin — and he tried to comfort her that she would be forgiven ; and then they talked about Wynbert — and " " Yes, mother ; do not be afraid of telling me. It is far better that I should know." " Why, it seems — only I am not sure that I understood rightly ; I hope I did not — but it seems that Wynbert is not — Mr. Gregg's son at all." Filmore started ; a strange look passed over his face of surprise changing into satisfaction. " Whose, then ?" he asked almost eagerly. " The clergyman's." " Mr. Haughton ! — and Mrs. Gregg is the mother?"

" Yes ; I think this is what they meant. But I am not sure. I might easily have been mistaken. I happened to be standing at a distance — they did not know I was there. I am afraid it was wrong of me — and perhaps wrong to speak of it." Robert's brain was very busy ; with difficulty he could notice Mrs. Fdmore's personal reflec- VAIN. tions at all. After a pause he answered, in a tone of great confidence, " You wrere entirely right, mamma, of course. You are just now Mrs. Gregg's companion and friend, and for the treatment of her health it is better to know what is on the mind of your patient. Besides, as a mother, you must have my interest at heart more than any one else's. You were per fectly right. Now, as to what is to be done next. That is the difficult question. We must not move hastily.

You told me, I think, that Mrs. Gregg is rather better again, and not so likely to go off at once ?" " Yes, Robert. She seems much relieved in body and in mind. Need we do anything at all?" " I do not know yet. What a dreadfully bad affair !" " But it may not be true ?" " Nothing more certain ! I wonder I never saw it before ; it has been plain enough. But you see, ma, you and I are such simple souls, we judge other people after our own standard, and never dream what dark secrets there may be unless something excites our attention." " But I do not see that it is plain at all, or how any one could have guessed it?" Mrs. Filmore was accustomed to regard her son as a miracle of intelligence, but the insight to which IN VAIN. 7 he now laid claim seemed to her too super natural. " You have only to think a little, mamma," he replied wdth easy confidence.

" Matilda was born four years before Wynbert ; during all this time you have told me Mrs. Gregg was on bad terms with her husband ; not at all as she is now. Then when Wynbert was born she be came extremely pious — quite right, of course, and very happy for her ; but, you see, it was the natural action of conscience. She has been a most land and attentive wife ever since — conscience, too ; and regret ; and a fear of the world guessing the secret if she did not appear a loving wife. Yet, little as I have been here, I have seen for years past that the husband and wife are wholly unHke, and have no common sympathies. WeU, then, see how devoted she has always been to the boy — with a jealousy nnd tenderness that have gone far towards ruin ing his character. Everything corresponds. And the likeness !

There is no look of Mr. Gregg's about him, nor any of his character in him." Robert was speaking more to himself than his mother. He added, glancing towards her, " There can be no doubt of it, ma." "It is very bad; I wish we had not known it," she said, with a vague regret. IN VAIN " We were meant to know it," said the son in firm tones, " and we shall have our part to do. Such a fearful crime wdl be sure to bring a terrible punishment." " Perhaps it has already," said Mrs. Filmore in alarm at her son's words. " I think Mrs. Gregg has been suffering all these years dreadfully. " Is it not right that she should ?" returned the son. "And no doubt the clergyman has too. Why, surely he ought to have suffered a hundred times more than she ! Just think, ma, of his daring to continue a minister of the Gos pel, and allowing himself to be called ' the holy minister.' Could there be any worse deceit, any grosser wickedness in the world?

One would expect something fearful to fall on him, in this world or in the next !" " But, dear, we are not to be judges and exe tioners." " No, indeed, mamma. I am thinking of no such thing. It seems to me, as I reflect on the whole matter, that our duty is to keep it quite hidden. You must not breathe a word of it to a living soul." " No, dear ; certainly I wdl not. And you wdl not either?" " Surely not," returned the son with empha sis, but with an internal reservation. " And IN VAIN, 9 you must be careful not to let your conduct ap pear at all different. Take care not to seem to be hiding something. You had better, in deed, forget all about it, or leave it wholly with me, — or, better stdl, think it was all a mistake in your hearing. Can you manage this, ma, dear ?" " I think perhaps I may be able."

" And I can, too, I have no doubt." " The cards fall to me wonderfully," reflected Filmore, as he walked up and down his own room after the interview with his mother. " With these honours and face-cards I ought to make a lot of tricks. I can ensure this marriage; at least, I can compel the concurrence of Mrs. Gregg. But may it not be weU to play for a higher stake ? Why not for once ran a risk greater than usual for an extraordinary prize ? But I hate the anxiety of high play. Small ex citements suit me better. Yet I should like to win the stake ! — and I think there is a possi bdity, even without a great risk. I must see my way clearly, though. And first I must make absolutely sure of Matilda's devotion to me. I flunk the ghl is capable of a deep love — and it wdl be as prudent as it will be happy to excite this."

IN VAIN. AU the day was still before the members of the household at Gorse-hill. The early morning seems the least suitable of all times for any great discovery — even when it is eminently pleasurable. The day is put so out of the ordi nary ; the usual avocations are made so absurd. The sooner a night comes the better, to cement in the new experience with the routine of our days. Robert Filmore was scarcely of a poetical na ture, bnt as he met the others at the breakfast table, he could not resist a small access of senti mentality. What a difference would be wrought in the lives of all present, and of the sick wife upstairs, through one single word, were it only spoken aloud. And this word could now be uttered at pleasure by him — sitting among them as of no consequence. It was a novel and de lightful experience to find himself a Jupiter in disguise, with the disastrous thunderbolt resting innocently in his grasp.

Filmore flattered his pride pleasantly with the thought, and was certainly as complaisantly amiable as usual. A paragraph in one of the morning papers caught his attention. " Permit me, Mr. Wyn bert," he said, hi a careful tone of frank deference, " to congratulate you on the progress of your works in Harbourby New Park. I was YAIX. 11 there a few days ago in the company of an artist friend ; we were both greatly charmed with the idea of the new temple half-hidden in the trees, with the natural stream running through it." " Only in part my idea, though," answered Wynbert. " The praise of it is due to Lady Eveline." " It will be a proud clay — the opening," said Filmore, with apparently a sincere pleasure. " Yes, indeed, to all of us," put in Miss Ma tilda, from her usual position at the urn ; " es pecially now that it seems poor dear mother will soon get better, and be there with us."

She glanced towards Mrs. Filmore, who was occupying herself with the sumptuous breakfast with her usual quiet enjoyment. " Mrs. Gregg is wonderfully improved," said the lady appealed to ; " it seems to have been the crisis of her sickness in the night, and now she has taken a decided turn for the better." Wynbert knew of this, and, with the others, was more cheerful than usual at the breakfast table. Filmore glanced towards Mr. Gregg. " Did you happen to notice, sir, this paragraph about the inauguration of your gift to the people? They mention the date as a month from hence." " Ah ! yes !" exclaimed the merchant, looking VAIN. up from a paper also. "I daresay they are about right ; but we must ask Wynbert. It is, you know, his affair, much more than mine." " How kind you are always to say this," re phed Wynbert, proudly ; " but the town will be wise enough to know that it is you who render it this noble service."

"Well, Wynbert, I don't think it matters which of us the town thinks of," returned Mr. Gregg; complacently. " What we want is that they shall honour our name. When you get into Parliament, my dear boy, and make your great speeches, I can tell you I shall not stop constantly to remember that it is my son every one is praising ; I shall content myself that it is our name." " I hope, if I have the honour of being in Parliament with you, Mr. Wynbert, we shall generally be found in the same lobby," said Robert Filmore, quietly. Wynbert looked across the table at Filmore without any surprising interest, and with a slight suspiciousness. Mr. Gregg's glance was more to Filmore's liking. " Do you mean that there is any probabdity of your entering Parlia ment ?" he asked. " I am happy to say yes," answered Filmore, with deference.

"It has long been my ambi- IN VAIN. tion, and now it begins to seem possible. You know, sir, a literary man has some advantages — political as well as social — in some compensa tion for the disadvantages of his profession." " What disadvantages ?" asked Mr. Gregg, with more regard in the tone than Filmore had ever noticed before. " For one, sir, literature is not apt to yield great fortunes. Yet there are exceptions ; and I — like all young men, I suppose — am apt to hope that I may be one of the exceptionally fortunate." " Where do you hitend to stand ? — and be fore a general election?" inquired the merchant. " I wdl gladly tell you all the particulars, Mr. Gregg, at a very early date ; and I should be very happy to consult with you, if I might ven ture to trouble you ?" "Certainly, I shall be very willing."

Mr. Gregg could not understand why the name at least of the constituency should not have been mentioned, but forbore to press his question. " I may presume, I suppose," he continued, " that our politics are much the same ? I do not think wre have had much conversation on this subject?" " Not yet," replied Filmore smilingly ; " I fancy you have regarded me, a romancist, as of IN VAIN too unpractical a character for such affairs ; bui I venture to hope that you will somewhat alter this opinion, sir, if I have the pleasure of a con versation with you. I think, sir, I may fairly put myself — in a lower position, but in the same side with Mr. Wynbert — in the philosophical liberal party." Wynbert felt somewhat perplexed at the sud den notice of his cousin's appearance in a new character. " Pray do not put me down in such a high-sounding category," he said.

" I content myself with the old title of reformer." " Oh ! that title we shall all claim as soon aw there is any extensive reform agitation," returned Filmore. " I venture to think we must take our names rather from the manner hi which we w^ould make the reforms." " I am not sure that Filmore is not in the right," said the merchant ; " and if anyone in Parliament will deserve to be called philosophi cal hi his ideas of reform, I am' sure it will be my son. I hope you will get in," he said, turning affably to Fdmore ; " and when in, work on the same side with Wynbert." Mrs. Fdmore said nothing to show the plea sure this conversation gave her; and Miss Ma tilda was prudent enough to express her satisfac tion with but a glance as they rose from the table-. IN VAIN. Wynbert went away to sit for a time with his mother, greatly to her delight, and then proceeded to Garwood Hall with the agreeable newrs of the change in her health.

Robert Filmore took his usual morning place in a room fitted with book-cases opening on to a handsome drawing-room. He had never felt a greater desire to acldeve some success in his novels, and took advantage of his unusual ex citement of feeling to write the concluding chapters in one of his volumes. Three hours passed, and Miss Matilda came in. "How very bright you look, Robert, this morning," she said pleasantly. He threw down the quill to leave the romance of the paper for a more personal one. " I am so glad that you thhik so ! And you are the cause, dear Tilly. I am a new man, younger, fresher. happier altogether, since the dear little words you said to me." He rose up as he spoke, and held out grace fully his two hands to the young lady, and pressed tenderly the hands she timidly placeel in them.

" Dear Tilly," he continued, gazing into her eyes with much feeling, " how very fair and happy you look this morning ! You grow always more charming. I could not have believed how IN VAIN. much more I should love you, when I found that you could love me back." " It makes me very, very happy to think this," said the girl. " May I show you what I have been dohig ?" resumed Filmore, taking up the paper still wet with ink. " Oh ! yes, please !" "Let me read you one scene, then, dear? It ought to be good, Tilly — I say tbis without egotism — I was flunking of you all the time, and it should show the traces of a great inspiration." There was no disbelieving Fdmore's eyes; besides, Matilda had no wish to disbelieve ; it was much more agreeable to exercise faith. He read the scene — a passionate declaration of love occurring in a somewhat startling situation.

Matilda became interested — that was natural ; but even excited— some small proof, Filmore fancied, that the scene was well-written. " It is wonderful !" she exclaimed, " and so beautiful ! I am so proud that you can write like that ! How happy it will be for us when you are quite celebrated. It will dispose father so much in your favour." " Yes, dearest. And I think it quite certain that I shall have success. Do you not think your papa was pleased this morning?" IN VAIN, 17 " Yes, I am sure he was. I was so glad !" " Matdda !" exclaimed Filmore, with new ani mation, " I have never been so ambitious as now. I could do anything, dare anything, to ensure the concurrence of your father; — and yet, at the same time, I feel I could be the happiest of men — with you — even in the utterest poverty — except for the pain it would cause me on your account."

Matilda raised one hand to his shoulder, and then rested her head on this hand. " I am so glad to hear you speak so. I think we shall be very happy together. I am beginning to grow so proud of you, Robert, dear, and to be quite hopeful of our future." " Dearest Tilly, you can't tell how much this encourages me ! I feel that we shall be one, whatever the future brings. Shall we not ?" " Oh, yes, yes ! Do you know the days seem quite changed to me now? So much more happy!" "You would not change them' back again?" " Oh, no !" " Nor tire of me ? — nor relinquish me ? — nor love me any less when you come to know me more ?" " How could you think this of me ? Oh, pray do not ever misjudge me so !" Tears started to her eyes. " I give up my heart to you wholly. VOL. III. C VAIN, And, besides, I always love you and admire you more."

" How proud you make me, dearest; and how happy ! I will try with all the power of my nature to be more worthy of you, and to prove this to the world." They stood together a few moments longer, exchanging their love kisses. Filmore could not think of anything more that he wished to say at present, and became not unwilling to vary the scene. His eye fell on the piano through the folding-doors. " Sing me just one verse, will you, darling?" " Yes, indeed, if you like. But I wish I coulcl sing better." " But, Tilly, it altogether pleases me." They moved to the piano. With a little hesi tancy she opened a piece she had been practis ing in private a good deal lately. Filmore con siderately hid a shght sense of amusement, and seemed only to smde with pleasure at her tune ful declaration, " Roberto, o tu che adoro, a cui donai mia fe."

Matilda's voice was not a rich one, nor particularly accurate of the notes. He had heard Meyerbeer's passionate cavatina sung many times — sung to him, too — -and by some very exquisite voices. All this, however, he generously forgot, and with a warmth of feeling VAIN. that surprised even himself, put still another kiss on the girl's blushing cheek. " It is worth the trouble — well worth it all," he said to himself afterwards ; " the dear good girl wull soon love me deeply, and will not give me up even if the father should wish at first to exercise some stress upon her. And, as I want to be happy, our marriage may as well be one of real affection. I will only show my know ledge of the secret in the last extremity ; and Tilly shall never know anything about it at all." c2

Chapter II

A Dead Past thinly Buried. But God has wisely hid from human sight The dark decrees of future fate, And sown their seeds in depth of night : He laughs at all the giddy turns of state, When mortals search too soon, and fear too late. Dryden. MR. HAUGHTON remained expectant all day to hear of the death of Mrs. Gregg. He could not have regretted this. For more than twenty years this had seemed to him an event only less desirable than his own death. It was mysterious to him that two lives so spoilt and darkened, and the third feeble life come from theirs so fashioned for pain, should have been suffered to last on, while multitudes of happy lives were broken off in theh beauty. But the clergyman had been too pious, too philosophical, and also too awe-struck in conscience, to suffer himself to repine.

VAIN. 21 " I know that God is good, and that His work in the world is good, however painful it may appear to us," he would reflect. "We know no more what life is and its effects, than we know what death is and its consequences. But at least I own that no pain I can suffer in life can be excessive. What do I want more than the subduing and elevation of my nature? Whatever means the Divine worker takes for this, must be well." The deep shadow over his life strangely affected his experience. He never refused to ac knowledge to himself the sin, but it was not this that principally distressed him. He was not conscious of any sophistry — it would have been remote from his character to have palliated his wrong — but yet his way of regarding the dark past would have appeared sophistical to a plain-minded person.

" Eleanor is surely in God's sight my wife, and mine only. I had loved her from girlhood, and have never loved another. And she loved me as deeply, and certainly has never loved John Gregg. Unholy, miserable marriage of such a woman with such a man ! But my fault far more than hers. Surely it was right of us to have felt that notwithstanding the tie that bound her for tins life to the man, we were IN VAIN. made for one another, and that eternity would prove us to be one ? — and right of us to cherish a spiritual attachment ? Ah ! how sweet were those old days, when all her soul was mine, but her pure soul only. When my counsels helped her in her duty to her husband. But how dangerous ! How little can we mortals see ! — how blindly we misjudge ! When — through this very husband, too — she secured St. James's for me, how it seemed as if God, pitying our torn hearts, had brought us toge ther to let our lives be lightened with a spiritual sympathy.

And we never dreamt of danger. If we might but have known ! — if we might but have had a prevision of these twenty years of martyrdom ! How should we have shrunk from the mere word, the mere glance, that seemed so full of consolation to us then ? And the mere glance, the mere touch, was so innocent ! Why could we not guess that any spark, even of the purest fire, might prove like a brand from hell ? Or did we guess, and chose to disregard, hoping presumptuously in the special grace of God ? Did we dream that the fires were ex tinct in our nature because she at last, as well as I, had turned to the Ught of Use ? Ah ! how mad it was ! Two lives, that might have been so fair, desolated in a sudden moment ! And IN VAIN. 23 the stain still on us — deep, black, ineffaceable, damning all the pureness of our thought — all the peace and hope of life !

Horrible ! One stain to blot so deep, and widen through twen ty years ! And how can it pass away even in eternity? Could either of us bear to stand amongst God's pure ones with the trace of it left, or even with the consciousness that it once dishonoured us ? Would it be any comfort that others there were once stained as foully, or worse? — some that once gloried in their shame ? But we not, Ah ! Eleanor, Eleanor, so pure, so high-souled ! — who would rather have died than have done a deed to blush for ! And I, made of the same nature, for us to sink so low ! Were it not better to go out of existence for ever than remain the memorials of such a past, even though washed white in the dirine blood? Ah ! that it were possible for the past to be un made ! But can even God do this ?" But Haughton's profoundest distress was oc casioned by the thought of that which Mrs. Gregg endured.