CHAPTER XLV.

NOT ALL A DREAM.

“Where are the sounds that swam along

The buoyant air when I was young;

The last vibration now is o’er,

And they who listened are no more;

Ah! let me close my eyes and dream.”

W. S. LANDOR.

The idea of Helstone had been suggested to Mr. Bell’s waking mind by his

conversation with Mr. Lennox, and all night long it ran riot through his

dreams. He was again the tutor in the college where he now held the rank

of Fellow; it was again a long vacation, and he was staying with his

newly-married friend, the proud husband, and happy Vicar of Helstone.

Over babbling brooks they took impossible leaps, which seemed to keep

them whole days suspended in the air. Time and space were not, though

all other things seemed real. Every event was measured by the emotions

of the mind, not by its actual existence, for existence it had none. But

the trees were gorgeous in their autumnal leafiness—the warm odours of

flower and herb came sweet upon the sense—the young wife moved about

the house with just that mixture of annoyance at her position, as

regarded wealth, with pride in her handsome and devoted husband, which

Mr. Bell had noticed in real life a quarter of a century ago. The dream

was so like life that, when he awoke, his present life seemed a dream.

Where was he? In the close, handsomely furnished room of a London hotel!

Where were those who spoke to him, moved around him, touched him, not an

instant ago? Dead! buried! lost for evermore, as far as earth’s for

evermore would extend. He was an old man, so lately exultant in the full

strength of manhood. The utter loneliness of his life was insupportable

to think about. He got up hastily, and tried to forget what never more

might be, in a hurried dressing for the breakfast in Harley Street.

He could not attend to all the lawyer’s details, which, as he saw, made

Margaret’s eyes dilate, and her lips grow pale, as one by one fate

decreed, or so it seemed, every morsel of evidence which would exonerate

Frederick, should fall from beneath her feet and disappear. Even Mr.

Lennox’s well-regulated professional voice took a softer, tenderer tone,

as he drew near to the extinction of the last hope. It was not that

Margaret had not been perfectly aware of the result before. It was only

that the details of each successive disappointment came with such

relentless minuteness to quench all hope, that she at last fairly gave

way to tears. Mr. Lennox stopped reading.

“I had better not go on,” said he, in a concerned voice. “It was a

foolish proposal of mine. Lieutenant Hale,” and even this giving him the

title of the service from which he had so harshly been expelled, was

soothing to Margaret. “Lieutenant Hale is happy now; more secure in

fortune and future prospects than he could ever have been in the navy;

and has, doubtless, adopted his wife’s country as his own.”

“That is it,” said Margaret. “It seems so selfish in me to regret it,”

trying to smile, “and yet he is lost to me, and I am so lonely.” Mr.

Lennox turned over his papers, and wished that he were as rich and

prosperous as he believed he should be some day. Mr. Bell blew his nose,

but, otherwise, he also kept silence; and Margaret, in a minute or two,

had apparently recovered her usual composure. She thanked Mr. Lennox

very courteously for his trouble; all the more courteously and

graciously because she was conscious that, by her behaviour, he might

probably be led to imagine that he had given her needless pain. Yet it

was pain she would not have been without.

Mr. Bell came up to wish her good-bye.

“Margaret!” said he, as he fumbled with his gloves, “I am going down to

Helstone to-morrow, to look at the old place. Would you like to come

with me? Or would it give you too much pain? Speak out, don’t be

afraid.”

“Oh, Mr. Bell,” said she—and could say no more. But she took his old

gouty hand, and kissed it.

“Come, come; that’s enough,” said he, reddening with awkwardness. “I

suppose your aunt Shaw will trust you with me. We’ll go to-morrow

morning, and we shall get there about two o’clock, I fancy. We’ll take a

snack, and order dinner at the little inn—the Lennard Arms, it used to

be—and go and get an appetite in the forest. Can you stand it,

Margaret? It will be a trial, I know, to both of us, but it will be a

pleasure to me, at least. And there we’ll dine—it will be but

doe-venison, if we can get it at all—and then I’ll take my nap, while

you go out and see old friends. I’ll give you back safe and sound,

barring railway accidents, and I’ll insure your life for a thousand

pounds before starting, which may be some comfort to your relations; but

otherwise, I’ll bring you back to Mrs. Shaw by lunch time on Friday. So,

if you say yes, I’ll just go upstairs and propose it.”

“It’s no use my trying to say how much I shall like it,” said Margaret,

through her tears.

“Well, then, prove your gratitude by keeping those fountains of yours

dry for the next two days. If you don’t, I shall feel queer myself about

the lachrymal ducts, and I don’t like that.”

“I won’t cry a drop,” said Margaret, winking her eyes to shake the tears

off her eyelashes, and forcing a smile.

“There’s my good girl. Then we’ll go upstairs and settle it all.”

Margaret was in a state of almost trembling eagerness, while Mr. Bell

discussed his plan with her aunt Shaw, who was first startled, then

doubtful and perplexed, and in the end, yielding rather to the rough

force of Mr. Bell’s words than to her own conviction; for to the last,

whether it was right or wrong, proper or improper, she could not settle

to her own satisfaction, till Margaret’s safe return, the happy

fulfilment of the project, gave her decision enough to say, “she was

sure it had been a very kind thought of Mr. Bell’s, and just what she

herself had been wishing for Margaret, as giving her the very change

which she required, after all the anxious time she had had.”