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Chapter XXVIII

The letter which Delamer had tossed upon the table when leaving did not for the moment attract Raleigh's attention. He had been so often disappointed of late, and had received so many unfavourable replies to his correspondence, that he had almost ceased to look for good news from any quarter and had brought himself rather to dread the arrival of the mail, as only a source of recurring vexation. As was his wont, he continued to pace quickly up and down the confines of his little parlour, wearing down to a threadbare state a narrow strip of his carpet, while revolving in his brooding mind the miserable exigencies of the situation and the perplexing problems of the future. The tidings which his friend had just brought had relieved him from a load of anxiety, and somewhat raised his hopes, but still he felt troubled and depressed in his inmost soul, and haunted by a mysterious dread of impending misfortune. The sunshine of his existence had passed away, the sky remained overcast, and his path was shrouded in gloom. He had no one to cheer his solitude, to take him by the hand and indicate a way out of his difficulties. He could form no plan of action for immediate requirements, he had not even decided whither to direct his steps on the morrow. He had no definite purpose in life. In his mind's eye he saw himself drifting about on an unknown sea, buffeted by adverse winds, carried away by treacherous currents, or stranded on a desolate shore. His heart was a blank, he had lost faith and hope; there was no star on high to guide his course.

Thus, notwithstanding the cheering diversion that Delamer's visit had occasioned, he felt the old melancholy mood gaining upon him, and the old misgivings returning.

He paused in his agitated cage walk, rested his hands on the table, sighed deeply, and asked himself for the thousandth time, ‘What is to be done?’

Then his eye caught sight of the letter. He picked it up and examined the post mark. He noticed that it came from the seat of government, and that the address was in an unknown hand. After pondering for a few moments as to the possible contents of this doubtful missive, he decided the matter by breaking the envelope. It was a short communication from the Editor of The Monitor—the page 314 Government organ for the time being—to whom he had lately forwarded a couple of articles on ‘The Native Question’.

Not having received any immediate reply he had jumped to the conclusion that his contributions had been rejected, and that nothing was to be hoped for from that quarter. To his surprise he now read that his articles had been accepted, and that they would shortly appear in print.

It was further intimated that the management was desirous of more of the same kind, and would be glad to have the subject treated at greater length, and the articles expanded into a series.

The letter concluded as follows:—‘With regard to your intimation that you would like to become a regular contributor to this journal, and upon the recommendation of Hon. Mr Brindsley who has spoken to us about you, we would be pleased to know if you would be prepared to accept a permanent engagement on our staff. We should require your services in the first instance as leader writer, and the remuneration would not be less than two hundred a year; but, in the event of the engagement proving satisfactory, we expect to be able to offer you, in the course of a few months, the position of sub-editor at an increased salary. Kindly reply at your earliest convenience.’

Raleigh was transported with joy at this simple proposal. It seemed to him as if at one magic stroke the evil fortune which hung over him had been dispelled, that the sky had cleared, and that his path lay straight and radiant before him. His fears vanished, his heart began to throb with renewed hope and ardour; he read the letter a dozen times over with almost childish glee, and pranced about the room shaking the paper with uplifted hand, as if waving on high a flag of triumph. The literary career, upon which he had set his heart, had suddenly been opened to him; the distinction which he most coveted was granted to him.

Certainly, he thought to himself, he would close with the offer without a moment's consideration; he even resolved to telegraph his acceptance, on account of the delay which had already occurred with the letter, and he decided to start the following morning for the scene of his future triumphs.

Yet, after the first flush of excitement at this new prospect had a little subsided, and that the young man had set himself down seriously to consider the position, he could not help feeling amused and slightly ashamed at this extravagant outburst of enthusiasm. Pleased as he was with the offer he had just received, yet it seemed after all a trivial circumstance to justify such a complete change of front, or upon which to build a brilliant superstructure of ideal happiness.

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‘What has become,’ he mentally exclaimed, ‘of all my boasted philosophy? What good purpose has it ever served? Has it protected me against “the ills that flesh is heir to?” Has it ever afforded me patience and fortitude in adversity, raised me above the petty worries and vexations of daily life, guarded me against temptations, or consoled me in adversity? We fancy ourselves; we almost claim to be a sect apart, to plane in a higher atmosphere. We spend years in studying the lives and teaching of the wisest of men, we enlarge our minds to embrace the universe, we assimilate all the wisdom of the ancients, we fortify ourselves with safe maxims, and we look down with lofty commiseration upon the grovelling multitude; but in what way do we show ourselves really superior to ordinary mortals? Do we overcome the fear of poverty, or wince the less at its privations? Judging from myself I should say not.

‘Do we bear up more bravely against the injustice of the world, the cruelty of fate, the desertion of friends, or the sad loneliness of existence?

‘Judging from myself, I should say not. No! Here am I; at one moment, cast down to the lowest depths, and groaning under fancied ills; the next moment elated to the skies and exulting over the most visionary prospects. And all for what? A chance word or two from a passing acquaintance. The news that a drunken reprobate who has been trying to kill himself for years past, instead of getting drowned in a water-hole has tumbled into a shaft and picked up a big nugget. Not that I care two pins for the abject creature, but because I was accidentally connected with his supposed end.

‘Another refreshing piece of news; that I may be able to recoup myself for foolishly squandering my means on an utterly undeserving object by extorting from the Government an excessive price for a waste piece of land.

‘Lastly, a business letter, offering me a very ordinary position, that I am not by any means sure of being able to fill with credit, at a very ordinary salary, upon which I can hardly expect to live with comfort.

‘And yet these trivial things have cleared my mental atmosphere, buoyed me up with sanguine hope, restored the sunshine to my clouded existence, and started me on my way rejoicing. And such is life! Heavens! ‘Tis pitiful. I feel taken down a peg—lowered in my self-esteem—so I do!’

The fact was that his melancholy sprang from another source, although he knew it not.

It was not the shifting news of his worldly prospects that affected page 316 him so deeply, although his anxious mind kept reverting to these passing topics and magnifying them to undue importance; it was really the painful void in his inmost being; his intense craving for communion and sympathy; and, above all, his love for Alice Seymour, which only grew more ardent under this forced separation, and tortured him with useless repinings.

He nourished the harrowing fear that she had also forsaken him in this evil hour, or that by his misguided conduct he had forfeited her esteem and affection for ever.

There was madness in that thought. If only she would remain true, if only she would stand by him in his misfortune, he felt that he would be inspired with strength to combat every adversity, to overcome all obstacles. But without her benign and guiding influence he felt lost and utterly disheartened.

He realised that he was morally afflicted—very ill, indeed—and that the hidden complaint was beyond the reach of mere outward changes or worldly benefits to cure.

It was the heart that was affected.

While in this troubled state of mind, that was constantly recurring, he left the narrow confinement of his room, with its close atmosphere, and sallied forth into the little strip of garden adjoining the cottage.

The sun had set, but a soft glow hung over the sky, and was reflected in the tranquil landscape. The shingle roofs of surrounding houses gleamed forth with metallic brightness in the sombre setting of shady groves, the young trees shot upwards like tall standards amidst the flitting shadows of the darksome plains, the winding outlines of roads and hedges were dimly traced, and all seemed enveloped in a mysterious haze. The air was delightfully balmy, and a thrilling silence reigned over the peaceful scene.

The young man walked slowly to the end of his small paddock, and there remained, leaning on a stile by the roadside.

Yes, his heart was sad. Notwithstanding the good news, notwithstanding the hopes revived, and the promising career opened to him, yet his heart was sad.

It was to be his last day at Sunnydowns; he felt the breaking with all his former associations keenly; the leaving of his cosy bachelor home, endeared to him by so many tender memories, was not to be accomplished without a bitter pang; he felt also all the sad loneliness of his position.

He had no one to turn to in his distress, not a friend to confide in, not one loving soul to share his fate or to cheer him onwards.

His prospects might improve, Fortune might even smile upon him, page 317 wealth and distinction might possibly be granted to him in the future, but his soul would remain cast down, the solitude and dreariness of his lot would oppress him to the end. For a merely selfish purpose in life inspired him with no enthusiasm, and he looked forward to the constant struggle for existence without a spark of emulation. In Love, in Love alone, could he find salvation! Then the charming figure of his dear Alice would flit before him and cheer his drooping spirits with a smile, but only to disappear again the next moment in the gathering gloom, and to leave him more disconsolate than before.

He pressed his hands against his face, so as to shut out the sunset glow from his eyes, and thus he remained for a few minutes, leaning heavily against the fence, and absorbed in melancholy reflection. All at once he was roused from his reverie by the sound of a horse's feet close by, and a dark shadow fell across him. He looked up, with startled surprise, and there, before him on the road, and almost within touch, stood the graceful figure of a young lady on horseback. Her head was slightly bent forward, and her dark lustrous eyes were turned upon him with an earnest and tender gaze that transfixed his soul. With an involuntary start he fell back a step or two; then, with an exclamation of delight, held out his arms, as if to welcome to his heart the enchanting vision, which he could hardly bring himself to believe was not a fiction of his excited brain.

For it was Alice Seymour, his beloved Alice, and the winsome smile with which she greeted his transport instantly restored him to his sober senses.

‘Have I frightened you?’ she exclaimed merrily, as she held out her gloved hand to him.

He advanced to clasp it in his own. For the moment he was speechless, but he kept the gentle hand that was offered him, slowly withdrew her riding glove, and pressed the sweet, soft, little fingers to his lips with passionate emotion.

She did not withdraw them, and when he looked up into her face again, he saw that her eyes were moist with tears, and that she continued to gaze upon him with a look of infinite tenderness and compassion.

‘I am so glad you came,’ he muttered at last, ‘for I leave here to-morrow, and I feared that I should not see you again.’

‘And I was in mortal fear that I should be too late,’ she replied hurriedly, ‘for I heard that you were leaving at once. I only returned home this afternoon, and the letter you wrote to me so long ago has only just reached me. It followed me about from place to place, was mislaid for a week, and, at last, was sent on to Glenmoor. I had page 318 ridden thirty miles this morning, and was rather tired, but when I read your letter on arrival I could not rest; so I had Jessie saddled, and, to every one's surprise, darted off again—at the risk,’ she added, with a slight blush, ‘of outraging the proprieties, and becoming myself an object of this unsavoury gossip. But I was bound to see you, if only to tell you myself that … whatever you may have done … whatever people may say about you … wherever you may go, I remain your friend, your true friend … that you can always rely upon me … that … that …’

He held out his arms to her again, as entreating her to alight from her steed, and to come to him. But she shook her head rather fearfully.

‘No,’ she cried, ‘I cannot stop even for a moment, I must return home at once, for it is getting quite dark. It was only to tell you this. I could not let you go away without telling you this. Now you have my message, and that's all.’

‘Alice dear, you read my letter through?’

‘Yes.’

‘You know everything then; you have had my confession. You will give me an answer.’

A strange sweet smile flitted across her face, as she bent her head once more towards him.

‘You silly boy; you have had your answer.’

‘Since when, then?’

‘Oh! since … long ago.’

‘Alice, I am going away to-morrow—away to Wellington, where I have just been offered an appointment on the staff of The Monitor. I am launched upon a new career, one after my heart, one in which I may hope to make my way, and soon to be independent. Then, Alice, shall I see you again? … may I hope——.’

‘We too!’ she exclaimed gleefully. ‘We too! Papa has accepted a nomination to the Legislative Council, and must attend there within a month. He will, I am sure, soon make his mark in politics. As for Glenmoor, dear old Glenmoor, we may have to part with it. We are poor people now, Cousin Richard, pretty well ruined, like so many others with this awful depression. But that doesn't trouble me much.’

‘So we shall meet again in a few weeks,’ he cried, with excitement, ‘and then, Alice?’

‘Till then,’ she replied playfully, as she tightened the reins, and waved him a graceful farewell with her riding whip, ‘till then——au revoir!’

But he rushed in front of her horse and barred the way.

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There was evidently no passing on without paying the toll. So with a look of placid resignation she bent her face down to his.

The next moment the clatter of a horse's hoofs resounded on the hard road, but her form had vanished in the evening shadows.

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