perhaps Mr. Beach was right when he told him that he, Leonard, was both selfish and impertinent, since was it not a selfish impertinence in him to ask any woman to link her fortune with his in the present state of his affairs?
Let us therefore make excuses for his words and outward behaviour, for at heart Leonard had much to trouble him.
When the cloth had been cleared away and they were alone again, Tom spoke to his brother, who was moodily filling his pipe.
“What shall we do to-night, Leonard?” he said.
“Go to bed, I suppose,” he answered.
“See here, Leonard,” said his brother again, “what do you say to having a last look at the old place?”
“If you wish, Tom, but it will be painful.”
“A little pain more or less can scarcely hurt us, old fellow,” said Tom, laying his thin hand on his brother’s shoulder.
Then they started. A quarter of an hour’s walking brought them to the Hall. The snow had ceased falling now and the night was beautifully clear, but before it ceased it had done a welcome office in hiding from view all the litter and wreckage of the auction, which make the scene of a recent sale one of the most desolate sights in the world. Never had the old house looked grander or more eloquent of the past than it did on that night to the two brothers who were dispossessed of their heritage. They wandered round it in silence, gazing affectionately at each well-known tree and window, till at length they came to the gun-room entrance. More from habit than for any other reason Leonard turned the handle of the door. To his surprise it was open; after the confusion of the sale no one had remembered to lock it.
“Let us go in,” he said.
They entered and wandered from room to room till they reached the greater hall, a vast and oak-roofed chamber built after the fashion of the nave of a church, and lighted by a large window of ecclesiastical design. This window was filled with the armorial bearings of many generations of the Outram family, wrought in stained glass and placed in couples, for next to each coat of arms were the arms of its bearer’s dame. It was not quite full, however, for in it remained two blank shields, which had been destined to receive the escutcheons of Thomas Outram and his wife.
“They will never be filled now, Leonard,” said Tom, pointing to these; “curious, isn’t it, not to say sad?”
“Oh! I don’t know,” answered his brother; “I suppose that the Cohens boast some sort of arms, or if not they can buy them.”
“I should think that they would have the good taste to begin a new window for themselves,” said Tom.
Then he was silent for a while, and they watched the moonlight streaming through the painted window, the memorial of so much forgotten grandeur, and illumining the portraits of many a dead Outram that gazed upon them from the panelled walls.
“Per ardua ad astra,” said Tom, absently reading the family motto which alternated pretty regularly with a second device that some members of it had adopted—“For Heart, Home, and Honour.”
“ ‘Per ardua ad astra’—through struggle to the stars—and ‘For Heart, Home, and Honour,’ ” repeated Tom; “well, I think that our family never needed such consolations more, if indeed there are any to be found in mottoes. Our Heart is broken, our hearth is desolate, and our honour is a byword, but there remain the ‘struggle and the stars.’ ”
As he spoke his face took the fire of a new enthusiasm: “Leonard,” he went on, “why should not we retrieve the past? Let us take that motto—the more ancient one—for an omen, and let us fulfil it. I believe it is a good omen, I believe that one of us will fulfil it.”
“We can try,” answered Leonard. “If we fail in the struggle, at least the stars remain for us as for all human kind.”
“Leonard,” said his brother almost in a whisper, “will you swear an oath with me? It seems childish, but I think that under some circumstances there is wisdom even in childishness.”
“What oath?” asked Leonard.
“This; that we will leave England and seek fortune in some foreign land—sufficient fortune to enable us to repurchase our lost home; that we will never return here until we have won this fortune; and that death alone shall put a stop to our quest.”
Leonard hesitated a moment, then answered:
“If Jane fails me, I will swear it.”
Tom glanced round as though in search of some familiar object, and presently his eye fell upon what he sought. A great proportion of the furniture of the old house, including the family portraits, had been purchased by the in-coming owner. Among the articles which remained was a very valuable and ancient bible, one of the first ever printed indeed, that stood upon an oaken stand in the centre of the hall, to which it was securely chained. Tom led the way to this bible, followed by his brother. Then they placed their hands upon it, and standing there in the shadow, the elder of them spoke aloud in a voice that left no doubt of the earnestness of his purpose, or of his belief in their mission.
“We swear,” he said, “upon this book and before the God who made us that we will leave this home that was ours, and never look upon it again till we can call it ours once more. We swear that we will follow this, the purpose of our lives, till death destroys us and it; and may shame and utter ruin overtake us if, while we have strength and reason, we turn our backs upon this oath! So help us God!”
“So help us God!” repeated Leonard.
Thus in the home of their ancestors, in the presence of their Maker, and of the pictured dead who had gone before them, did Thomas and Leonard Outram devote their lives to this great purpose. Perhaps, as one of them had said, the thing was childish, but if so, at the least it was solemn and touching. Their cause seemed hopeless indeed; but if faith can move mountains, much more can honest endeavour attain its ends. In that hour they felt this. Yes, they believed that the end would be attained by one of them, though they guessed little what struggles lay between them and the Star they hoped to gain, or how strangely they should be borne thither.
On the morrow they went to London and waited there a while, but no word came from Jane Beach, and for good or ill the chains of the oath that he had taken riveted themselves around Leonard Outram’s neck.
Within three months of this night the brothers were nearing the shores of Africa, the land of the Children of the Mist.
CHAPTER III
AFTER SEVEN YEARS
“What is the time, Leonard?”
“Eleven o’clock, Tom.”
“Eleven—already? I shall go at dawn, Leonard. You remember Johnston died at dawn, and so did Askew.”
“For
