Chapter X.

We left Grant, as usual, at his daily labour; but on the last occasion of referring to him he had been sent by his employer on a journey, which took him nearly the whole of two days. He had so often been away that it created no uneasy feeling in his mind; for, so far as Clara was concerned, he had the fullest confidence in her, and never for a single minute did he apprehend any harm befalling her. He knew well by proof what kind of man Hobart was, but he did not dream of his being about to leave the Colony; and he was under the impression that he would not attempt anything while there, as, of course, he knew the secrets of his marriage, information that he fully estimated the value of. However, on the second day he completed his business, and, after having returned to his employer, made his way straight to his home, full of the joyful thoughts of again meeting his only child. Was she not his only joy and hope in this world? and, after so much undeserved punishment, she was his only consolation. In due course he reached his hut, and, to his surprise and horror, found it empty, and nothing to guide him to her he sought—only the note, which was worth less than nothing, for it simply said: "Father, I go to save you." To save him; and from what? This was to him, of course, unintelligible. He knew he had been guilty of no wrong, and for hours the unfortunate old man sat immersed in thought.

"Will she ever return?" he at times asked himself; but there was nothing to give any idea of an answer, and it was far page 77into the night before he roused himself, and when he did it was to rush out of his now lonely hut and wander, he knew not and cared not where. He seemed to solace himself with the idea that he was seeking for her, his only hope, his only joy, but no sign did he see or hear. On, on, he wandered; the country through which he walked was thickly timbered, and he had long since left the paths; but he still kept on. At every sound he would turn and run, until at last, fairly worn out with the fatigue of the day and the night, he sank upon the ground, powerless. How long he remained there he knew not, but he must have slept, for when he came to himself he was in an unknown spot. At last, with difficulty, he rose, for he was stiff from the exertion of the previous night.

The sun was shining brightly, and seemed to mock his soreness of heart. After a time he attempted to retrace his steps; but look and search as he would he could find no paths or other indication to guide him. In this state he rambled on, ever hoping to find some signs of civilisation, but none came. After a time thirst began to tell upon him, for it was now long past mid-day. He thought of the anxiety of his employer; this was to him a new trouble, for he feared it would be thought that he had endeavoured to make his escape. In this state of mind he sat for a time; and then, again, he would start to his feet and try to run. His strength, however, was fast failing him, and several times in his endeavour he stumbled and fell. Evening arrived, and with it hunger, which, until now, had never been thought of by him, for other subjects had occupied his thoughts.

"Clara, Clara, my girl, come to me!" he cries out in anguish-stricken tones, "I will not be angry with you. Come, if only to let me tell you of him, the villain. Ah, she will not come; she has ceased to love her poor old father."

Onwards he staggers rather than walks, for he knows not whither he is going. His senses, too, are fast leaving him; and page 78in this at least there is mercy, for he will soon know no more of his troubles. Presently he stops and exclaims, "Ah, God, Thou art a just God, for now I see paradise. Yes, 'tis paradise, the fields are bright and green, and the crops look beautiful, and the sun shines bright." As he says this he staggers and falls, and all is still. The sun gradually goes down, and presently the moon peeps from behind the hills, the night birds warble their song; but there is no sign of civilisation, and far away into the night all is quiet.

The Perrymans are busy with preparations for Maud's birthday party, which is to take place on the Friday. Miss Hobart, by her brother's account, is still quite unfit to go out to any such gathering; and Frank is the most anxious of all parties concerning her health. Each morning immediately on Hobart's arrival does Frank ask after her, and on every occasion does Hobart feel as though he would like to return some evasive reply, if he dared to do so. Maud, too, shows kind solicitude for Clara's convalescence; each day she either goes to see her or sends her enquiries. It is now Wednesday, and Maud and Louie have just returned from visiting Clara. They are all seated in the drawing-room at Perryman's; Mrs Perryman is also there, when Frank returns. "Oh, Frank," says Maud, "I have been to see Clara Hobart, at least Louie and I, and she states she is nearly sure she will not be able to accompany her brother to my party."

Frank at this piece of news looks anything but pleased, for has he not been the means of getting up the party, so that for a few brief seconds, or perhaps longer, he may be able to enjoy Clara's company, as ever since the signing of the deed Clara seems to be either away or ill.

"I am sure I am sorry," says Frank, "for I should have liked to see her very much; but, of course, if she cannot come we page 79must live in hopes of seeing her on some future occasion. Does she look very bad, Maud?"

"Well, no, Frank; I can scarcely notice any difference, with the exception that she is much paler."

"Does she seem cheerful? and to have all she requires?"

"No, she certainly does not seem cheerful, Frank; but as to whether she has all she requires, I, of course, cannot tell that."

"How would it do, Maud, considering Hobart's scruples about living above his income, and all that, to invite her to come and stay here for a week or so? You can ask her, you know, as from yourself and mother."

"Well, Frank, I do not know. What think you, mother?"

"Well, my dears, this house always was very healthy until your poor father died, but I have lost confidence in it ever since; but, of course, Frank, if you would like Miss Hobart to come and live here, I will ask her."

Frank at this speech first half-laughed, and then coloured visibly, and said: "I don't know, mother, that I have any particular wish for her to come here, more than that I think we should, as friends, be as considerate for her welfare as possible, as it would not inconvenience us at all."

"No," said Mrs Perryman, "it certainly would not inconvenience us. We have plenty of room; and then, you know, there is that garret up-stairs if she likes solitude."

This caused a general laugh, but Frank soon looked serious again, and said: "Then, mother, will you call on her as soon as possible, and I will speak to Hobart in the meantime."

The day after the interview between Fixer and Hobart, Clara rises, as usual; and before Hobart leaves the house, after each page 80having taken breakfast in their own rooms, she sends him word not to leave before she sees him. Hobart, at this news, is in ecstacies, and walks up and down the room impatient for her coming. Presently she enters, and he rushes to meet her, endeavouring to take her hand, which she withdraws, saying as she does so: "I think, Mr Hobart, that is quite unnecessary. When your conduct alters entirely, then I shall be able to understand your change in this respect. I have seen you this morning because the present system of deception is so very distasteful to me that I have decided to make some alteration, and hence this interview."

"Clara, why do you persist in this course with me? You know, you must know, that I love you. I admit that I have, at times, been harsh; but then there are many reasons lately for my not being as gentle to you as I would wish. I have admitted my fault; and when, as now, I ask your forgiveness, why do you withhold it?"

"You say you love me; that I must know you love me. Now, how could I ever come to such a conclusion, Mr John Hobart? My views on this subject are evidently very different to yours. I speak from experience. I have loved, and do love, my father. I would gladly die to-morrow were it but to save him pain; in fact, I have already done more for him. But to associate cruel treatment with love, under the guise of outside annoyances, is too absurd. I have," she continued, "loved you; why, I know not. But when I attended your every wish that was to me more than a command—because it was impossible to disobey the object of my love. No, John Hobart, talk not to me of love, for I have learnt too well to know the meaning you attach to that word."

"Clara, dear Clara," he replied, "then all I can say in extenuation—for your arguments are too conclusive to gainsay—is that hitherto I have not loved; that I but deluded myself with the idea; but now, Clara, I do love; and, to prove it by your page 81own words, ask of me anything, and you shall see that I, too, can make sacrifice."

"I have not come here to make requests; at least, I do not look upon my purpose in that light. What I came for was to say that I can no longer occupy the position I have formerly; and as my staying here will necessitate my doing so, I have, therefore, decided that it is better I should go."

"Go, Clara? Where? Go from me? Say not so, for without you, brute as I have been, I could not, would not, care to live. I will do aught you may ask of me; but talk not of leaving me."

"John Hobart, you speak of sacrifices, and you ask me not to go; on one condition I will stay."

"Name it, and if practicable, it shall be done."

"'Tis most practicable. You and I, for I wish not to screen myself, have been both base and mean to one of the most generous-hearted of men—I mean Frank Perryman. Now," Clara continued, "what I ask of you is to tell him all, either yourself or in my presence. The latter I prefer—and, with me, ask him to forgive us. He may, nay, will scorn me; for how could he do aught else? but I shall, at least, have the satisfaction of knowing that in this respect I shall sin no more."

At the mention of the name of Perryman all the base part in this man's nature arose in conflict, his cheek paled, and his eyes flashed; and again for the time he was the very impersonation of evil. But before her, as she spoke, he cowed again, for he had lost all control over himself; and, approaching her, he said: "Clara, spare me this. 'Tis too much to ask one's rival for forgiveness."

"Spare you!" she replies, "why should you or I be spared, when to spare us means to sacrifice him? No, John Hobart, it must be so. If you will not do it, you prove yourself again what you have too often before; but I will, and must."

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Hobart knew that Clara would do as she had spoken, and that he had no power to prevent her carrying out her purpose.

"Clara," he said, "I know not if madness be coming upon me, and I care not; but if you will not stay otherwise, I will marry you, and then—and then—I will defy all."

"Too late," she replied, "too late. Earlier in the day, John Hobart, this would have been to me good news; but not now. I must henceforth suffer, as others who are better have done" As she ceased speaking her bosom heaved; and, half sitting, half falling on the sofa, she buried her face in her hands, and sobbed aloud.

Hobart started towards her, but at the sound of his footfall she turned a face upon him full of indignation and scorn.

"Clara," he cries, "if I tell him, will you then forgive, and marry me?"

"Forgive you? I have already done that; but marry you, I will never. I will try to be to you as nearly a sister as possible; but any more, do not ask of me. To-morrow if you do not make the confession I ask of you, I shall. My future movements will be guided by circumstances."

"Will nothing else satisfy you?" he asked. "Must I do the very thing which of all others I would sooner not do? Oh, it is bitter, but now do I know that at least I deserve all."

"Aye, we both deserve all, for we are equally to blame; but we can make reparation, and it must be. Go now, John Hobart; I will give you until this time to-morrow to decide; but then if you will not do as I ask, I must, at least, perform my part." With these words, she arose and left the room, taking no heed of the endearing epithets showered upon her, save that when she had reached the door of her chamber she turned and said:

"The past, John Hobart, cannot with me ever return or be effaced."