In Time to Come. A novel

Front matter

a f.obti by ELEANOR HOLMES tL Wait : my saith is large in Time, AnJ that which shapes it to some perfect end " IN TWO VOLUMES Vol. I. Xonoon: MARCUS WARD & CO., 67, 68, CHANDOS STREET AMD AT BELFAST AND NEW YORK CONTENTS. l-HAP. PAGE I.— In the Cathedral, .... 7 II. — A Golden Sunset, . . . 14 III. — Thorns and Briars, . . . .27 IV. — Half-Sick of Shadows, ... 48 V. — Through Selfish, Stormy Youth, . 74 VI— The Golden Key, .... 87 VII. — The Meeting of the Waters, . .106 VIII— Mirage, 120 IX — Sad Memories, . . . . .137 X. — A Taming Process, . . . 175 XL— The Heart's Desire, . . . .198 XII. — Leanness Withal 209 XIII.— "De Profundis," . . . .222 XIV— A Word Fitly Spoken, . 232 XV— A Twice-told Tale, . . . .246 XVI— It was a Dream

Chapter I. In The Cathedral

J'errais seul l'autre jour Quand j'aperijus un auge. THE Cathedral doors were standing wide open, and the sun was pouring its golden light into the grand old building. It lit up the shadowy aisles with a strange mysterious glow, it flung exquisite colours through the stained-glass windows down on the stone pavement, and brought out each massive pillar into distinct relief against the dim background. It had been beating fiercely all day on the street outside ; it was only when its race was nearly run that it entered the Cathedral, which until now had lain cold and dank in the shade. Nevertheless, the place was almost de serted at this the most peaceful, blessed hour of all the twenty-four. All traffic in the town had ceased ; the French soldiers had long since marched back to their barracks, after their unfailing afternoon drill ; the world was at its dinner, and at the Cathedral door there remained only a small knot of peasants, who stood and listened to the music which was sound ing down the aisle, and, like the wonderful sunlight, filling the whole church with its delicious harmony.

" Where did it come from ? Who was playing?" they asked each other in surprise. " Had not the organist gone home hours IN THE CATHEDRAL. 9 ago ? and who then was making this beautiful music ?" There was only one who did not join her voice to the general murmur. This was a woman whose dress, plain and even poor as it was, betrayed her to be some grades above the company in which she found herself. She stood a little apart from them, and where they gaped in vulgar curiosity, she listened with rapt attention. One by one they entered the empty building, and sprinkled themselves with the holy water. She, though she followed them in, remained still apart, and watched their gestures of devotion with a look of undis guised contempt. Apparently the Eomish faith, with all its subtle, half-sensuous, half spiritual allurements, had no power over her.

One or two of the peasant women presently drew forth their rosaries and knelt down. She, however, seated herself half-way up B the aisle, and listened to the music with a thirsting: eagerness which betokened a craving, and perhaps also a wholly unsatis fied nature. And a glance at her face would only have confirmed such an impression, for Time had written sad and bitter things upon it. One might have found there the traces of some desperate grief, unsoftened by that peace which yet lies sometimes at the heart of pain — of longings unfulfilled — of a self sacrifice which had spent itself apparently in vain — of a love which had mourned over its nearest and dearest. Neither was it free from a certain hardness, that seemed fiercely to question the wisdom or justice of such a lot as had been dealt out to her.

Life had been hard to her, that was evident ; perhaps also she had taken it hardly, and kicked against the pricks. Meanwhile, the organ sounded on, and IN THE CATHEDRAL. 11 one by one the occupants of the Prie-Dieu chairs wTent out again into the open air, with that curious lagging, aimless gait peculiar, from the days of Cæsar downwards, to the inhabitants of Cherville. When the last footsteps had died away, the woman rose, and, glancing hastily round to be sure that she was unobserved, dropped upon her knees and covered her face with her hands. Perhaps the music had touched the chord of some past sorrow — perhaps it had brought back to her with a strange vividness the memory of her dead. Be that as it might, something had moved her powerfully, for low, tearless sobs broke from her, that seemed like a dumb prayer going up to heaven.

When at last the storm which had been raised in her heart died away, exhausted by its own violence, she rose from her knees to find that she was not alone. A lady was standing in the aisle near her, who must have witnessed all her passionate emotion ; and at the first consciousness of this the woman flushed up angrily, and turned away her face from the tender, compassionate eyes that met hers, with a look half of shame, half of haughty defiance. The lady sighed and moved away, while the other, feeling perhaps a pang of remorse at having thus rudely repelled her silently offered sympathy, followed her with her eyes as she walked down the long nave. Some instinct made her quicken her own footsteps, that she might once more catch a glimpse of the first face which had looked kindly on her for many a long day.

"Une Anglaise bien sure" she murmured to herself, as she reached the door, and marked the tall, slim figure and stately step. There the lady, moved also doubtless by IN THE CATHEDRAL. 13 some strange and unaccountable instinct, turned sharply round, and in that moment two souls, each wearied with its own burden, looked intently out of their respective windows, each at the other — storm-tossed, passionate, resentful, the elder ; undiscip lined, perplexed, embittered, the younger. Despite the difference of age and class, there was much they had in common, and in the mind of each was this thought about the other, " She too has suffered." It was but a moment later that the English girl bent her head with courteous dignity, and in a low, sweet voice said, " Good evening," while the other replied more gently than was her wont, "Bon soir, Madame." But in that moment two souls had met and recognised each other, and who could say that this was but a chance meeting ?

Chapter II

A GOLDEN SUNSET. " Ye weep for those who weep V she said. " Ah fools ! I bid you pass them by. Go, weep for those whose hearts have bled What time their eyes were dry." EVERY man, woman, and child in the Place Louis XI. knew Madame Inez, for she had gone in and out among them daily for more than seven years past. Yet few among them had ever got beyond this her somewhat peculiar Christian name, or knew the details of her past history. She was a dressmaker who worked by the day, chiefly among the English residents of Cherville, a class with whom she seemed on the whole to get on better than with any other, though she professed no small con tempt for their narrow insular views, and execrable taste in dress. Everyone knew her sad, stern face and plain black garb, but no one ever penetrated into her garret chamber except her land lord, a man whose republican principles were, if possible, more advanced than her own, and who professed the greatest admira tion for his lodger's esprit — a word not easily rendered into English.

If the opinion of the Place concerning her had been canvassed for, it would have been found that a few liked her, a few more felt themselves infinitely indebted to her, and the rest accorded her that kind of half grudging respect which, perhaps more plainly than anything else, proved that she was a being of another order than theirs. In their prosperity, I doubt much whether her neighbours needed the presence of Madame Inez. She was not often bidden to a wedding ; but let anyone be lonely, sick, or in distress, and she was with them at once, ready to take all burdens on her own massive shoulders. No sooner, however, had such a sufferer recovered, than Inez withdrew again behind her usual armour of brusque reserve, shutting herself out entirely from the every-day working life of her poorer neighbours ; and thus it came to pass that among them all she had but one friend, though several grateful dependants on a charity which yet lacked the divine spark of " brotherly love."

This evening she returned to her home a little earlier than usual, which fact was at once com mented on by her landlord, a garrulous old shoemaker, who occupied the room beneath hers. "Bon soir, Voisine," he said, as she toiled wearily up the crazy staircase, and passed by his open door. "You are early to night; how goes it?" "Much as usual," she replied, with the unfailing shrug of her nation. "Work all day, sleep and dreams in the night, and a little eating in between times — that is my life." " Courage, neighbour ; better times are coming." " So they tell me, but they are long in coming," quoth Madame Inez, as she went her way. The same light which had been pouring its golden rays into the Cathedral was flooding her poor garret chamber when she entered it ; and its wealth of sunshine and gorgeous colouring might have spoken peace to her sad heart if she would have listened to it.

No king's palace could have been more richly illumined than her poor dwelling, where the window stood wide open to the delicious sun-lit, life-giving air. She did not linger in her room, however. With the restless impatience which charac terised her slightest movements, she flung off her bonnet and shawl, crossed a dark tiled passage, and entered the garret facing her own. It was bare and poor enough, but kept scrupulously neat and clean, and on the snowy-white bed lay an old woman who had attained to her fourscore years, and found them, alas! to be "but labour and sorrow." She was paralysed, and utterly alone in the world — reason enough for Madame Inez to devote herself to her, and to come nearer loving her than anyone else in the world, inasmuch as "pity is akin to love." Doubtless, if the Mere Robinet could have been restored by a miracle to the use of her limbs, she would have found Inez slipping out of her life in a most unaccount able manner ; but as it was, there was no likelihood that the tie between them would be dissolved otherwise than by death.

"You are early to-night, my daughter," she said in a tone of pleasure. " Well, yes, Madame. You see I had heard our landlady say she was going to the theatre this evening, and I feared lest your dinner might be forgotten in consequence. "You never forget anything !" exclaimed the old woman, following the rapid move ments of Madame Inez with languid satisfaction, as she brought forth platter, cup, and spoon from the cupboard, and proceeded to arrange them on a tiny table beside the bed. "Ah! what will you?" answered Inez, with a heavy sigh. " Of whom have I to think in all the world except myself?" "Most people find tbat more than enough." "So much the better for them; -they are all the happier, I daresay. Now, Madame, if you are ready for your dinner, it is ready for you." The Mere Robinet replied by crossing herself devoutly, a gesture which, by reason of her great age, Madame Inez tolerated in her, and then proceeded to receive her food bit by bit from the hands of the younger woman, chatting to her the while very cheerfully of all that had taken place during her absence that day.

"And, my daughter, while I think of it, I must tell you that Madame Beauchene sent down this afternoon to beg of you to call to-morrow at the Marronnerie, to arrange about working for a young English lady who is living there." " I hate making for the English," exclaimed Madame Inez, rather petulantly. " They have such flat bodies and wide waists, one might just as well dress a plank at once." " Not all, surely," remonstrated the Mere. " Well, not quite all, perhaps. There was one whom I saw in the Cathedral this evening who would be worth dressing. Yes, I should not object to work for her." " What was she like, my daughter ?" " She was beautiful, with eyes the like of which I have not seen since I lost my beloved MUede Bellegarde ; but she looked very sad, and seemed to have lost all elan, though she was still young."

" I daresay if she had been gay and smiling you would not have looked at her twice." " Perhaps not ; but at all events it is some time since she has smiled. Her eyes looked weary, not so much perhaps with weeping as with having kept back the tears. She was tall and majestic also, but not haughty ; and though I am sure she must be an aristocrat, yet she did not seem to look upon me as of another flesh and blood than her own." "Did she speak to you?" " Only to wish me good-night, and her voice was as sweet as an angel's, and her look — ah, mon Dieu ! you will think me an old fool, Madame, but I assure you my heart leaped when I saw her beautiful eyes gazing at me so kindly. It was as though a friend had come back to me from the dead." "I do not think you a fool at all, my daughter. You have need of love in your life ; perhaps she is sent to bring it to you.

And she is English, you say ?" "Ah yes! for certain." "Not American, you think?" " Heaven, 110 ! I tell you her clothes were English !" "And you saw her in the Cathedral?" asked the Mere Robinet, this time in a tone of uo small surprise. "Ah yes I you ask yourself what brought me into the Cathedral ?" replied Madame Inez, with rather a grim soiile. " Well, as I went past the open door, I heard music — uot dreary, monotonous chanting of Latin hymns that nobody can under stand, but real music ; so beautiful, that I am sure it must have been a heretic Protestant who was playing it — and I went in." 'Is she a Catholic, do you suppose?' inquired the old woman, smiling at Madame Inez's last words, to the bitter tone of which she was probably not unaccustomed. " I hope not, with all my heart, Ah no !

I remember now she made no curtsey as she went out, nor did she cross herself ; and you know, when the English are Catholics, they are more bizarre and exaggerated about all these senseless gestures than we are ourselves." " Why are you not a Protestant, my daughter, if you despise the Catholics so entirely ?" asked the Mere Robinet, rather sadly. " Dame ! I know nothing about religions," responded Inez, with a shrug of the shoulders. " There is something wrong with most of them, as it seems to me — less, perhaps, in the Protestants, but they are so cold and lifeless. Now, Madame, I must wish you good-night. You think me a sad pagan — is it not so ? — and you will without doubt say an Ave Maria for me as soon as I go out of the room. Why do you not pray to God Himself, since you believe in Him?"

" I do, my daughter, very often ; and so do you, if you would but own it." "And does He hear you?" inquired Madame Inez, ignoring these last words. " If He does not now, He will some day." " Humph ! I don't fancy He troubles Himself overmuch about either you or me," said Inez, as she moved towards the door. But the old woman had the last word after all, for she called out, as loud as her feeble strength would permit — " He cares for me assuredly, for He has sent you to take care of me, and who knows whom He may yet send to you, all in good time — perhaps even la belle Anglaise." Here the door closed behind Madame Inez, and she went back again into her own room. The sunshine was all gone now, but the twilight was calm and peaceful, soothing even to this poor storm-tossed, loveless, aching heart. c She crossed over to the open casement, knelt down beside it, and looked out on the river which was rushing swiftly and silently down to the sea.

On the other side of the town flowed another stream not less rapidly, and joined the river far below, not to be parted from it again till they should both lose themselves in the immensity of the ocean. But here, where Madame Inez was looking out, they were flowing miles apart. Could either know anything of the other ? Even so, she knew nothing of the life which was now fast approaching hers, to be bound up with it for ever. Yet in the dark chaos of her being, the Spirit was already moving over the face of the waters. Who could say when the word might go forth, "Let there be light"?

I have lost the dream of Doing, And the other dream of Done, The first spring in the Pursuing, The first pride in the Begun. THE belle Anglaise, meanwhile, who had so keenly excited the interest of Madame Inez, had turned her steps in a widely different direction. After lingering a few moments on the steps of the Cathedral, watching the birds as they flew in and out among its two spires, she went swiftly down the street, past sundry noisome alleys and ill-paved lanes, past the great barracks, where her tall queenly figure excited no small admiration in the stumpy little sentinel who stood carelessly lounging against his box, and finally out into the open quay, where a suspension bridge spanned the river. There she breathed a sigh of relief, as though her English nostrils had suffered from the unsavoury odours — no less than her English feet from the execrable pavement — paid down her sou at the tollgate, and stepped on to the somewhat ricketty bridge, in expectation of a rare treat to her artistic, beauty-loving nature.

The scene was one which Turner himself would not have despised as a model for his glorious sunsets. On the east, the river wound its way, its broad silvery breast spotted here and there by numerous little shady islands ; on the west were visible the towers and spires for which the city was famous, flooded at the present moment, together with the great stone bridge and the monastery of the Sacred Heart, in one sea of rose colour. On the one hand, all this gorgeous colour ing ; on the other, the hills overhanging the river, clad in the soft, tender verdure of young May : it was no wonder that she should linger on the bridge, and drink in the beauty of the scene before her, in what she herself would have termed a very luxury of melancholy. Let me paint her for you as she stands there, leaning on the parapet, and watching the clear waters as they hurry past beneath her feet.

The picture that Madame Inez had drawn of her was by no means exaggerated. She was a beautiful woman — not lovely, perhaps, because there was a certain shade of hard ness in her face which it was possible time might develop, but beautiful with a triumphant, conquering kind of beauty that no amount of criticism could do away with. It was in vain that people sought to pick her to pieces, and proved conclusively that she had high square shoulders which nar rowly missed being downright ungraceful, that her cheek-bones were angular, her eyes small, her nose a shade crooked. One glance from those brown eyes, small though they were, was enough to convince the most cold blooded critic in the world that she was beautiful. In them, surmounted by pen cilled eyebrows like those of a Gainsborough beauty, and a low, square, white forehead, over which wandered at will delicious little rippling curls of bright auburn hair, re sided a power of fascination and empire, nearly as dangerous to its possessor as to those over whom she wielded it.

And so, criticised, depreciated, all but denied, as it might be, her beauty remained triumphant, and wherever she went, whether among rich or poor, old or young, men bowed to its silent force, and looked after her in speechless admiration. She knew all this right well ; perhaps in her heart of hearts the knowledge still thrilled her with a secret delight ; but of late she had begun to weary of the dominion of her beauty, exercised during the past eight years, and resulting too often in wounded hearts, and shattered faiths, and marred, unprofitable lives. There was an inexpressible sadness in her eyes to-night, as she leant over the bridge watching the splendour of the rosy sunset with a kind of wistful, sorrowful satisfaction. Perhaps in the rapidly-fading colours she saw a likeness to her own passing youth and brightness, and grieved over it with that curious self-pity which always carries a deceitful sweetness with it — a sweetness that, later on, is apt to turn desperately sour.

At twenty-six, in the zenith of her beauty and power, life seemed to offer her nothing that she did not know already, while the one thing she longed for was withheld with a persistency that might have proved to her, if she would only have believed it, her own unfitness to possess it. Not till the pink glow had faded entirely from the sky did she rouse herself from her mournful reverie, and hurry along the quay in the direction of a quaint castellated house overhanging the river. It was almost like the feudal castle of the middle ages, with its square towers, its fortified terrace, and stone seats, from which one looked down on the road some thirty feet below. On one of these sat a lady, quite pic turesque, and pretty enough to match her surroundings, though she had left her youth far behind her, and with it all selfishness, whether in joy or sorrow.

To her the girl cried out, as she looked up and caught sight of her — " Aunt Laura, it is too late for you to be sitting out." " It is not cold, my child ; and I wanted to see you before you went in. I won't sit, if you don't wish it ; but let us walk about the garden a little — it's too fine to go in just yet." " Oh, let us walk, by all means ; I ask nothing better," said the girl, who had by this time scaled the somewhat steep hill that led up to the house, and now stood beside her aunt, slightly flushed and panting from the effort of climbing. " Isn't it rather late for you to be walking alone ?" said Mrs. Taylor, glancing in tender solicitude at the imperial-looking figure so calculated to call forth remarks from all beholders. "Oh, I don't know; nothing ever happens to me." "But you are so — well, voyante — and I am always afraid lest people should talk of you.

If you were only a little less tall and " "Remarkable looking," said Clare, mis chievously. "It's most amusing at times to hear their audible remarks about me. I heard a small boy to-day pointing me out to a still smaller brother and saying, 'Est elle jolief and no compliment ever gave me more unfeigned satisfaction, because I felt it was so entirely sincere." Mrs. Taylor laughed at the girl's naive vanity. " I sent down to the Place Louis XI. and asked for the dressmaker," she said, after a moment. "Well, I hope she is coming," observed Clare, as she balanced herself on the wall and began to pluck the rose-buds from a bush close by. "In my worst moods I can always console myself with the idea of new clothes." " Child, why will you make speeches so entirely at variance with your real self ?

If anyone heard you say that, who did not know you as I do, what would they think?" "I don't mind what anyone thinks who does not know me, and there is a certain satisfaction in saying things one does not mean that you good people could never imagine. By-the-bye, I had a tiny adven ture to-day, Aunt Laura, as I came out of the Cathedral." "An adventure!" exclaimed Mrs. Taylor, looking rather alarmed at the idea. O " Don't be uneasy," said Clare, laughing. " It was only that I met a kindred spirit — a woman, not poor exactly, but what you would call a very respectable person, who was listening to some music in the Cathedral this evening. I felt drawn to her — I could not tell why, exactly, unless it were that she seemed nearly as puzzled as myself at finding herself in such a cross world." " Clare, my darling, I wish so much that you would try and look at life a little less bitterly."

"One must look at it as one sees it, I suppose. It goes wrong with most people, sooner or later ; I have had the pleasure of being desillusionee a little sooner, that's all. At any rate, there was no doubt about its having gone very wrong indeed for this poor soul, and I felt quite grieved for her, especially when I saw how the music over came her. I should have spoken to her, I think, if she had not caught me looking at her, and given me a frown which said as plainly as possible that I had better mind my own business." "Well, did you reply by a bewitching smile ?" " No, I fled ; and then, like a true woman, she repented, for I found her following me out of the Cathedral, and when I turned round, her face was sweet enough to encourage me to wish her good-evening." "And did she respond?" " Oh yes ; she said, ' Bon soir, Madame,' and sent me on my way rejoicing.

I should like to see more of that woman. She looks as if she had a story about her. "Perhaps you will see more of her. I think that those involuntary, unreasoning attractions are generally meant to lead to something." "I should think so, perhaps, if I hadn't remarked long ago that very few beginnings in this world ever have an end." " It is rather early for you to talk about the end, my child ; you haven't done with the beginnings of life yet." "My dear Aunt Laura, if these are the beginnings, I don't thank you for the end." " Wait, my dearest, the end may be nearer than you think. Something has happened this afternoon while you were out which may, perhaps, make you see things in a different light." " I knew there was something ; your face was all aglow with it when I looked up from the road;" and Clare sprang up from her perch on the wall, and kissed Mrs. Taylor with a winning, impulsive charm that never failed to atone for all her naughty speeches.

" Now, what is it, Aunt Laura ? It is about Harry, I am sure." "Yes; how can you tell that?" " It is written on your face. Harry has heard about Ernest's sudden appearance on the scene, and our scornful disbelief in him as my brother, and he is writing to place the whole of his fortune at my disposal in case I go to law, not knowing that by this time the thing is amicably arranged, and Ernest established as my natural pro tector. Now, Aunt Laura, have 1 guessed rightly ?" " He shall speak for himself, my child. This letter came for you in mine after you had gone out this afternoon;" and Mrs. Taylor produced an envelope bearing an Australian stamp. "He is coming home," she said, gently, as she handed the enclosure to Clare. " It seems only the other day that he wont out," observed Clare, with a calm composure which augured ill for any hopes that Mrs. Taylor might have entertained.

As ahc turned the sheet, a smile was visible uu her face, which gradually widened till she reached the end, when she laid it down, and burst into a merry ringing laugh that had a decided tinge of mockery in it. Mrs. Taylor gazed at her in astonished displeasure, and at last said coldly — " If that is the only comment you can make, I am sorry that he should have wasted his time in writing to you." "Don't be angry, Aunt Laura," said Clare, hastily, resuming an expression of decent solemnity when she saw how distasteful her mirth was to Mrs. Taylor ; " but really Harry's letters are too simple. He writes exactly like a child of three. There isn't a woman in the world who could be won by a letter like that. Just read it for yourself." " He may not know how to turn a period, but he has a heart of gold for which a woman would be the richer all her life," said Harry's mother, when she had finished reading the despised epistle.