CHAPTER XXXIX
ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL
'Bell! Bell! do not give me up.'
'I must, Gabriel; it is my duty.'
'It is your cruelty! Ah, you never loved me as I love you.'
'That is truer than you think, my poor boy. I thought that I loved you,but I was wrong. It was your position which made me anxious to marryyou; it was your weak nature which made me pity you. But I do not loveyou; I never did love you; and it is better that you should know thetruth before we part.'
'Part? Oh, Bell! Bell!'
'Part,' repeated Bell, firmly, 'and for ever.'
Gabriel's head drooped on his breast, and he sighed as one, long pasttears, who hears the clods falling on the coffin in which his belovedlies. He and Bell Mosk were seated in the little parlour at the back ofthe bar, and they were alone in the house, save for one upstairs, in theroom of Mrs Mosk, who watched beside the dead. On hearing of herhusband's rash act, the poor wife, miserable as she had been with theman, yet felt her earlier love for him so far revive as to declare thather heart was broken. She moaned and wept and refused all comfort, untilone night she closed her eyes on the world which had been so harsh andbitter. So Bell was an orphan, bereft of father and mother, and crushedto the earth by sorrow and shame. In her own way she had loved herfather, and his evil deed and evil end had struck her to the heart. Shewas even glad when her mother died, for she well knew that the sensitivewoman would never have held up her head again, after the disgrace whichhad befallen her. And Bell, with a white face and dry eyes, long pastweeping, sat in the dingy parlour, refusing the only comfort which theworld could give her weary heart. Poor Bell! poor, pretty Bell!
'Think, Gabriel,' she continued, in a hard, tearless voice, 'think whatshame I would bring upon you were I weak enough to consent to becomeyour wife. I had not much to give you before; I have less than nothingnow. I never pretended to be a lady; but I thought that, as your wife, Ishould never disgrace you. That's all past and done with now. I alwaysknew you were a true gentleman--honourable and kind. No one but agentleman like you would have kept his word with the daughter of amurderer. But you have done so, dear, and I thank and bless you for yourkindness. The only way in which I can show how grateful I am is to giveyou back your ring. Take it, Gabriel, and God be good to you for yourupright kindness.'
There was that in her tone which made Gabriel feel that her decision wasirrevocable. He mechanically took the ring she returned to him andslipped it on his finger. Never again was it removed from where heplaced it at that moment; and in after days it often reminded him of theone love of his life. With a second sigh, hopeless and resigned, he roseto his feet, and looked at the dark figure in the twilight of the room.
'What are your plans, Bell?' he asked in an unemotional voice, which hehardly recognised as his own.
'I am going away from Beorminster next week,' answered the girl,listlessly. 'Sir Harry has arranged all about this hotel, and has beenmost kind in every way. I have a little money, as Sir Harry paid me forthe furniture and the stock-in-trade. Of course I had to pay f--father'sdebts'--she could hardly speak the words--'so there is not much left.Still, I have sufficient to take me to London and keep me until I canget a situation.'
'As--as a barmaid?' asked Gabriel, in a low voice.
'As a barmaid,' she replied coldly. 'What else am I fit for?'
'Can I not help you?'
'No; you have given me all the help you could, by showing me how muchyou respect me.'
'I do more than respect you, Bell; I love you.' 'I am glad of that,'replied Bell, softly; 'it is a great thing for a miserable girl like meto be loved.'
'Bell! Bell! no one can cast a stone at you.'
'I am the daughter of a murderer, Gabriel; and I know better than youwhat the world's charity is. Do you think I would stay in this place,where cruel people would remind me daily and hourly of my father's sin?Ah, my dear, I know what would be said, and I don't wish to hear it. Ishall bury my poor mother, and go away, never to return.'
'My poor Bell! God has indeed laid a heavy burden upon you.'
'Don't!' Her voice broke and the long-absent tears came into her eyes.'Don't speak kindly to me, Gabriel; I can't bear kindness. I have madeup my mind to bear the worst. Go away; your goodness only makes thingsthe harder for me. After all, I am only a woman, and as a woman I mustw-e-e-p.' She broke down, and her tears flowed quickly.
'I shall go,' said Gabriel, feeling helpless, for indeed he could donothing. 'Good-bye, Bell!' he faltered.
'Good-bye!' she sobbed. 'God bless you!'
Gabriel, with a sick heart, moved slowly towards the door. Just as hereached it, Bell rose swiftly, and crossing the room threw her armsround his neck, weeping as though her overcharged heart would break. 'Ishall never kiss you again,' she wailed,'never, never again!'
'God bless and keep you, my poor darling!' faltered Gabriel.
'And God bless you! for a good man you have been to me,' she sobbed, andthen they parted, never to meet again in this world.
And that was the end of Gabriel Pendle's romance. At first he thought ofgoing to the South Seas as a missionary, but his father's entreatiesthat he should avoid so extreme a course prevailed, and in the end hewent no further from Beorminster than Heathcroft Vicarage. Mr Leigh dieda few days after Bell vanished from the little county town: and Gabrielwas presented with the living by the bishop. He is a conscientiousworker, an earnest priest, a popular vicar, but his heart is still sorefor Bell, who so nobly gave him up to bear her own innocent disgracealone. Where Bell is now he does not know; nobody in Beorminsterknows--not even Mrs Pansey--for she has disappeared like a drop of waterin the wild waste ocean of London town. And Gabriel works on amid thepoor and needy with a cheerful face but a sore heart; for it is earlydays yet, and his heart-wounds are recent. No one save the bishop knowshow he loved and lost poor Bell; but Mrs Pendle, with the doubleinstinct of woman and mother, guesses that her favourite son has his ownpitiful romance, and would fain know of it, that she might comfort himin his sorrow. But Gabriel has never told her; he will never tell her,but go silent and unmarried through life, true to the memory of therough, commonplace woman who proved herself so noble and honourable inadversity. And so no more of these poor souls.
It is more pleasant to talk of the Whichello-Pansey war. '_Bellamatronis detestata_,' saith the Latin poet, who knew little of the sexto make such a remark. To be sure, he was talking of public wars, andnot of domestic or social battles; but he should have been moreexplicit. Women are born fighters--with their tongues; and anillustration of this truth was given in Beorminster when Miss Whichellothrew down the gage to Mrs Pansey. The little old lady knew well enoughthat when George and Mab were married, the archdeacon's widow would useher famous memory to recall the scandals she had set afloat nearlythirty years before. Therefore, to defeat Mrs Pansey once and for all,she called on that good lady and dared her to say that there was anydisgrace attached to Mab's parentage. Mrs Pansey, anticipating an easyvictory, shook out her skirts, and was up in arms at once.
'I know for a fact that your sister Ann did not marry the man she elopedwith,' cried Mrs Pansey, shaking her head viciously.
'Who told you this fact?' demanded Miss Whichello, indignantly.
'I--I can't remember at present, but that's no matter--it's true.'
'It is not true, and you know it is an invention of your own spitefulmind, Mrs Pansey. My sister was married on the day she left home, and Ihave her marriage certificate to prove it. I showed it to BishopPendle, because you poisoned his mind with your malicious lies, and heis quite satisfied.'
'Oh, any story would satisfy the bishop,' sneered Mrs Pansey; 'we allknow what he is!'
'We do--an honourable Christian gentleman; and we all know what youare--a scandalmongering, spiteful, soured cat.'
'Hoity-toity! fine language this.'
'It is the kind of language you deserve, ma'am. All your life you havebeen making mischief with your vile tongue!'
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bsp; 'Woman,' roared Mrs Pansey, white with wrath, 'no one ever dared tospeak like this to me.'
'It's a pity they didn't, then,' retorted the undaunted Miss Whichello;'it would have been the better for you, and for Beorminster also.'
'Would it indeed, ma'am?' gasped her adversary, beginning to feelnervous; 'oh, really!' with a hysterical titter, 'you and yourcertificate--I don't believe you have it.'
'Ask the bishop if I have not. He is satisfied, and that is all that isnecessary, you wicked old woman.'
'You--you leave my house.'
'I shall do no such thing. Here I am, and here I'll stay until I speakmy mind,' and Miss Whichello thumped the floor with her umbrella, whileshe gathered breath to continue. 'I haven't the certificate of mysister's marriage--haven't I? I'll show it to you in a court of law, MrsPansey, when you are in the dock--the dock, ma'am!'
'Me in the dock?' screeched Mrs Pansey, shaking all over, but more fromfear than wrath. 'How--how--dare you?'
'I dare anything to stop your wicked tongue. Everybody hates you; somepeople are fools enough to fear you, but I don't,' cried Miss Whichello,erecting her crest; 'no, not a bit. One word against me, or against Mab,and I'll have you up for defamation of character, as sure as my name'sSelina Whichello.'
'I--I--I don't want to say a word,' mumbled Mrs Pansey, beginning togive way, after the manner of bullies when bravely faced.
'You had better not. I have the bishop and all Beorminster on my side,and you'll be turned out of the town if you don't mind your ownbusiness. Oh, I know what I'm talking about,' and Miss Whichello gave acrow of triumph, like a victorious bantam.
'I am not accustomed to this--this violence,' sniffed Mrs Pansey,producing her handkerchief; 'if you--if you don't go, I'll call myservants.'
'Do, and I'll tell them what I think of you. I'm going now.' MissWhichello rose briskly. 'I've had my say out, and you know what I intendto do if you meddle with my affairs. Good-day, Mrs Pansey, and good-bye,for it's a long time before I'll ever cross words with you again,ma'am,' and the little old lady marched out of the room with all thehonours of war.
Mrs Pansey was completely crushed. She knew quite well that MissWhichello was speaking the truth about the marriage, and that none ofher own inventions could stand against the production of thecertificate. Moreover, she could not battle against the Bishop ofBeorminster, or risk a realisation of Miss Whichello's threat to haveher into court. On the whole, the archdeacon's widow concluded that itwould be best for her to accept her defeat quietly and hold her tongue.This she did, and never afterwards spoke anything but good about youngMrs Pendle and her aunt. She even sent a wedding present, which wasaccepted by the victor as the spoils of war, and was so lenient in herspeeches regarding the young couple that all Beorminster was amazed, andwished to know if Mrs Pansey was getting ready to join the latearchdeacon. Hitherto the old lady had stormed and bullied her waythrough a meek and terrified world; but now she had been met andconquered and utterly overthrown. Her nerve was gone, and with it wenther influence. Never again did she exercise her venomous tongue. To usea vulgar but expressive phrase, Mrs Pansey was 'wiped out'.
Shortly before the marriage of George and Mab, the tribe of gipsies overwhich Mother Jael ruled vanished into the nowhere. Whither they wentnobody knew, and nobody inquired, but their disappearance was a reliefboth to Miss Whichello and the bishop. The latter had decided that, torun no risks, it was necessary Mab should be married under her truename of Bosvile; and as Mother Jael knew that such was Jentham's realname, Miss Whichello fancied she might come to hear that Mab was calledso, and make inquiries likely to lead to unpleasantness. But Mother Jaelwent away in a happy moment, so Miss Whichello explained to her nieceand George that the name of the former was not 'Arden' but 'Bosvile.''It is necessary that I should tell you this, dear, on account of themarriage,' said the little old lady; 'your parents, my dearest Mab, aredead and gone; but your father was alive when I took you to live withme, and I called you by another name so that he might not claim you. Hewas not a good man, my love.'
'Never mind, aunty,' cried Mab, embracing the old lady. 'I don't want tohear about him. You are both my father and my mother, and I know thatwhat you say is right. I suppose,' she added, turning shyly to George,'that Captain Pendle loves Miss Bosvile as much as he did Miss Arden!'
'A rose by any other name, and all the rest of it,' replied George,smiling. 'What does it matter, my darling? You will be Mab Pendle soon,so that will settle everything, even your meek husband.'
'George,' said Miss Bosvile, solemnly, 'if there is one word in theEnglish language which does _not_ describe you, it is "meek."'
'Really! and if there is one name in the same tongue which fits you likea glove, it is--guess!'
'Angel!' cried Mab, promptly.
George laughed. 'Near it,' said he, 'but not quite what I mean. Themissing word will be told when we are on our honeymoon.'
In this way the matter was arranged, and Mab, as Miss Bosvile, wasmarried to Captain Pendle on the self-same day, at the self-same hour,that Lucy became Lady Brace. If some remarks were made on the nameinscribed in the register of the cathedral, few people paid anyattention to them, and those who did received from Miss Whichello thesame skilful explanation as she had given the young couple. Moreover, asMother Jael was not present to make inquiries, and as Mrs Pansey had notthe courage to hint at scandal, the matter died a natural death. Butwhen the honeymoon was waning, Mab reminded George of his promise tosupply the missing word.
'Is it goose?' she asked playfully.
'No, my sweetest, although it ought to be!' replied George, pinching hiswife's pretty ear. 'It is Mab Pendle!' and he kissed her.
Brisk Dr Graham was at the double wedding, in his most amiable and leastcynical mood. He congratulated the bishop and Mrs Pendle, shook handswarmly with the bridegroom, and just as warmly--on the basis of alife-long friendship--kissed the brides. Also, after the weddingbreakfast--at which he made the best speech--he had an argument withBaltic about his penal conception of Christianity. The ex-sailor hadbeen very mournful after the suicide of Mark, as the rash act had provedhow shallow had been the man's repentance.
'But what can you expect?' said Graham, to him. 'It is impossible toterrify people into a legitimate belief in religion.'
'I don't want to do that, sir,' replied Baltic, soberly. 'I wish to leadthem to the Throne with love and tenderness.'
'I can hardly call your method by such names, my friend. You simply ruinpeople in this life to fit them, in their own despite, for their nextexistence.'
'When all is lost, doctor, men seek God.'
'Perhaps; but that's a shabby way of seeking Him. If I could not beconverted of my own free will, I certainly shouldn't care about beingdriven to take such a course. Your system, my friend, is ingenious, butimpossible.'
'I have yet to prove that it is impossible, doctor.'
'Humph! I daresay you'll succeed in gaining disciples,' said Graham,with a shrug. 'There is no belief strange enough for some men to doubt.After Mormonism and Joseph Smith's deification, I am prepared to believethat humanity will go to any length in its search after the unseen. Nodoubt you'll form a sect in time, Mr Baltic. If so, call your disciplesHobsonites.'
'Why, Dr Graham?'
'Because the gist of your preaching, so far as I can understand, is aHobson's choice,' retorted the doctor. 'When your flock of criminalslose everything through your exposure of their crimes, they havenothing left but religion.'
'Nothing left but God, you mean, sir; and God is everything.'
'No doubt I agree with the latter part of your epigram, Baltic, althoughyour God is not my God.'
'There is only one God, doctor.'
'True, my friend; but you and I see Him under different forms, and seekHim in different ways.'
'Our goal is the same!'
'Precisely; and that undeniable fact does away with the necessity offurther argument. Good-bye, Mr Baltic. I am glad to have met you;original people always attract m
e,' and with a handshake and a kindlynod the little doctor bustled off.
So, in his turn, Baltic departed from Beorminster, and lost himself inthe roaring tides of London. It is yet too early to measure the resultof his work; to prognosticate if his peculiar views will meet with areception likely to encourage their development into a distinct sect.But there can be no doubt that his truth and earnestness will, someday--and perhaps at no very distant date--meet with their reward. Everyprophet convinced of the absolute truth of his mission succeeds infinding those to whom his particular view of the hereafter is acceptablebeyond all others. So, after all, Baltic, the untutored sailor, maybecome the founder of a sect. What his particular 'ism' will be calledit is impossible to say; but taking into consideration the man'sextraordinary conception of Christianity as a punishing religion, themotto of his new faith should certainly be '_Cernit omnia Deus vindex!_'And Baltic can find the remark cut and dried for his quotation in thelast pages of the English dictionary.
So the story is told, the drama is played, and Bishop Pendle was wellpleased that it should be so. He had no taste for excitement or fordramatic surprises, and was content that the moving incidents of thelast few weeks should thus end. He had been tortured sufficiently inmind and body; he had, in Dr Graham's phrase, paid his forfeit to thegods in expiation of a too-happy fortune, therefore he might now hope topass his remaining days in peace and quiet. George and Lucy werehappily married; Gabriel was close at hand to be a staff upon which hecould lean in his old age; and his beloved wife, the companion of somany peaceful years, was still his wife, nearer and dearer than ever.
When the brides had departed with their several grooms, when the weddingguests had scattered to the four winds of heaven, Bishop Pendle took hiswife's hand within his own, and led her into the library. Here he sathim down by her side, and opened the Book of all books with reverentialthankfulness of soul.
'I called upon thy name, O Lord, out of the low dungeon.'
'Thou drewest near in the day that I called upon thee: thou saidst, Fearnot!'
And the words, to these so sorely-tried of late, were as the dew to thethirsty herb.
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