In the intervals between his professional occupations he took walks over
the sand-flats near, or among the farms which were gradually
overspreading the country in the vicinity of Cape Town. He grew familiar
with the outline of Table Mountain, and the fleecy 'Devil's Table-Cloth'
which used to settle on its top when the wind was south-east. On these
promenades he would more particularly think of Viviette, and of that
curious pathetic chapter in his life with her which seemed to have wound
itself up and ended for ever. Those scenes were rapidly receding into
distance, and the intensity of his sentiment regarding them had
proportionately abated. He felt that there had been something wrong
therein, and yet he could not exactly define the boundary of the wrong.
Viviette's sad and amazing sequel to that chapter had still a fearful,
catastrophic aspect in his eyes; but instead of musing over it and its
bearings he shunned the subject, as we shun by night the shady scene of a
disaster, and keep to the open road.
He sometimes contemplated her apart from the past--leading her life in
the Cathedral Close at Melchester; and wondered how often she looked
south and thought of where he was.
On one of these afternoon walks in the neighbourhood of the Royal
Observatory he turned and gazed towards the signal-post on the Lion's
Rump. This was a high promontory to the north-west of Table Mountain,
and overlooked Table Bay. Before his eyes had left the scene the signal
was suddenly hoisted on the staff. It announced that a mail steamer had
appeared in view over the sea. In the course of an hour he retraced his
steps, as he had often done on such occasions, and strolled leisurely
across the intervening mile and a half till he arrived at the post-office
door.
There was no letter from England for him; but there was a newspaper,
addressed in the seventeenth century handwriting of his grandmother, who,
in spite of her great age, still retained a steady hold on life. He
turned away disappointed, and resumed his walk into the country, opening
the paper as he went along.
A cross in black ink attracted his attention; and it was opposite a name
among the 'Deaths.' His blood ran icily as he discerned the words 'The
Palace, Melchester.' But it was not she. Her husband, the Bishop of
Melchester, had, after a short illness, departed this life at the
comparatively early age of fifty years.
All the enactments of the bygone days at Welland now started up like an
awakened army from the ground. But a few months were wanting to the time
when he would be of an age to marry without sacrificing the annuity which
formed his means of subsistence. It was a point in his life that had had
no meaning or interest for him since his separation from Viviette, for
women were now no more to him than the inhabitants of Jupiter. But the
whirligig of time having again set Viviette free, the aspect of home
altered, and conjecture as to her future found room to work anew.