Part 41 (1/2)
”Great heaven, no! 'Twas entirely my own folly and accursed fate. I've no one to blame but myself. Wine was an easy way of drowning my troubles.”
”You've no need to remind me of that, Mr. Vane,” put in Lavinia hastily.
”I beg your pardon for going over my sins, but open confession's good for the soul, they say.”
”I'd rather not hear about your sins, Mr. Vane. I don't want to listen when you talk like that. Tell me something of the other side.”
”I doubt if there is another side,” he rejoined in deep dejection. ”I've had to come back to my father. He's vicar of a parish not far from here.
You see my stay in Newgate and my trial ruined me. The publishers refused me employment and even my old companions turned their backs upon me.”
”That was no loss.”
”Perhaps not, but it convinced me I was done for in London.”
”What do you intend to do, then?”
”I can't tell. Nothing, I suppose. I had my tragedy returned, and I've no heart to write another--except, maybe, my own, and that will have to be the task of somebody else.”
”What do you mean? You're talking in riddles. How can anybody else write your tragedy?”
”Anybody who knew the facts could do it. You could. No one better. The end's the difficulty--for you, not for me. But sooner or later you'd hear what the end was.”
Lavinia grasped his wrist tightly, and looking into his face, saw his lips twitching convulsively.
”I understand,” she burst out, ”you mean to take your own life. Oh....”
”A tragedy must have a tragic finish or it isn't a tragedy. What have I left but for the curtain to come down?”
”You're talking nonsense. Think of your father--your mother, if you have one.”
”The best in the world, poor soul.”
”Very well, that settles it. You're more fortunate than I am. My mother's about the worst.”
”Anyhow, one must die sooner or later. I was within an ace of death two months ago. The gallows wouldn't have been worse than a Hampstead pond.”
”You're more foolish than ever. I won't listen to you. Swear to be sensible and think no longer of the miserables. I don't believe you're much more than a year older than me. Life's all before you.”
”Life? A very little bit of it, and what a life! Waiting for death.
Shall I tell you what Dr. Mead, the great physician, told my father who asked him to see me? 'That young man hasn't long to live. I give him a year. Killed by the Newgate pestilence.' Now, what do you say, Miss Fenton?”
”Don't call me Miss Fenton,” cried Lavinia, her voice quivering. ”It makes us seem miles apart. You poor fellow! But doctors aren't always right.”
”This one is. I feel it. But I don't care so long as you forgive me and make me believe I'm no longer a stranger. You do pardon me, don't you, Lavinia?”
”Oh, yes--yes--let us forget everything but our two selves,” she cried impulsively. Her heart was overflowing with pity. She held out both her hands. He seized them and raised them to his lips.
”May I meet you to-morrow?” he whispered. ”The only thing I would live for is the joy of seeing you, of hearing your voice. It will be but for a short time.”