CHAPTER VIII. HIS STORY.
Treherne Court, Sunday night.
My Dear Theodora,—
The answer to my telegram has just arrived, and I find it is your sister whom we are to expect, not you. I shall meet her myself by the night train, Treherne being quite incapable; indeed, he will hardly stir from the corridor that leads to his wife's room.
You will have heard already that the heir so ardently looked for has only lived a few hours. Lady Augusta's letters, which she gave me to address, and I took care to post myself, would have assured you of your sister's safety, though it was long doubtful. It will comfort you to know that she is in excellent care, both her medical attendants being known to me professionally, and Lady Augusta, being a real mother to her, in tenderness and anxiety.
You will wonder how I came here. It was by accident—taking a Saturday holiday, which is advisable now and then; and Treherne's mother detained me, as being the only person who had any control over her son. Poor fellow! he was almost out of his mind. He never had any trouble before, and he knows not how to bear it. He trembled in terror—thus coming face to face with that messenger of God who puts an end to all merely mortal joys—was paralyzed at the fear of losing his blessings, which, numerous as they are, are all of this world. My love, whom I thought to have seen to-night, but shall not see—for how long?—things are more equally balanced than we suppose.
You will be sorry about the little one.
Treherne seems indifferent; his whole thought being, naturally, his wife; but Sir William is grievously disappointed. A son too—and he had planned bonfires, and bell-ringings, and rejoicings all over the estate. When he stood looking at the little white lump of clay, which is the only occupant of the grand nursery, prepared for the heir of Treherne Court, I heard the old man sigh as if for a great misfortune.
You will think it none, since your sister lives. Be quite content about her—which is easy for me to say, when I know how long and anxious the days will seem at Rockmount. It might have been better, for some things, if you, rather than Miss Johnston, had come to take charge of your sister during her recovery; but, maybe, all is well as it is. To-morrow I shall leave this great house, with its many happinesses, which have run so near a chance of being overthrown, and go back to my own solitary life, in which nothing of personal interest ever visits me but Theodora's letters.
There were two things I intended to tell you in my Sunday letter; shall I say them still? for the more things you have to think about the better, and one of them was my reason for suggesting your presence here, rather than your eldest sister's.—(Do not imagine though, your coming was urged by me wholly for other people's sakes. The sight of you—-just for a few hours—one hour—People talk of water in the desert—the thought of a green field to those who have been months at sea—well, that is what a glimpse of your little face would be to me. But I cannot get it—and I must not moan.)
What was I writing about? oh, to bid you tell Mrs. Cartwright from me that her daughter is well in health and doing well. After her two months' probation here, the governor, to whom alone I communicated her history (names omitted) pronounces her quite fitted for the situation. And she will be formally appointed thereto. This is a great satisfaction to me—as she was selected solely on my recommendation, backed by Mrs. Ansdell's letter. Say also to the old woman, that I trust she receives regularly the money her daughter sends her through me; which indeed is the only time I ever see Lydia alone. But I meet her often in the wards, as she goes from cell to cell, teaching the female prisoners; and it is good to see her sweet grave looks, her decent dress and mien, and her unexpressible humility and gentleness towards everybody.—She puts me in mind of words you know—which in another sense, other hearts than poor Lydia's might often feel—that those love most to whom most has been forgiven.
Hinting this, though not in reference to her, in a conversation with the governor, he observed, rather coldly, “He had heard it said Doctor Urquhart held peculiar opinions upon crime and punishment—that, in fact, he was a little too charitable.”
I sighed—thinking that of all men, Doctor Urquhart was the one who had the most reason to be charitable: and the governor fixed his eyes upon me somewhat unpleasantly. Anyone running counter, as I do, to several popular prejudices, is sure not to be without enemies. I should be sorry, though, to have displeased so honest a man, and one whom, widely as we differ in some things, is always safe to deal with, from his possessing that rare quality—justice.
You see, I go on writing to you of my matters—just as I should talk to you if you sat by my side now, with your hand in mine, and your head, here. (So you found two grey hairs in those long locks of yours last week. Never mind, love. To me you will be always young.)
I write as I hope to talk to you one day. I never was among those who believe that a man should keep all his cares secret from his wife. If she is a true wife, she will soon read them on his face, or the effect of them; he had better tell them out and have them over. I have learnt many things, since I found my Theodora: among the rest is, that when a man marries, or loves with the hope of marrying, let him have been ever so reserved, his whole nature opens out—he becomes another creature; in degree towards everybody, but most of all to her he has chosen. How altered I am—you would smile to see, were my little lady to compare these long letters, with the brief, businesslike productions which have heretofore borne the signature “Max Urquhart.”
I prize my name a little. It has been honourable for a number of years. My father was proud of it, and Dallas. Do you like it? Will you like it when—if——No, let me trust in heaven, and say, when you bear it?
Those papers of mine which you saw mentioned in the Times—I am glad Mr. Johnston read them; or at least you suppose he did.
I believe they are doing good, and that my name is becoming pretty well known in connection with them, especially in this town. A provincial reputation has its advantages; it is more undoubted—more complete. In London, a man may shirk and hide; his nearest acquaintance can scarcely know him thoroughly; but in the provinces it is different. There, if he has a flaw in him, either as to his antecedents, his character, or conduct, be sure scandal will find it out; for she has every opportunity. Also, public opinion is at once stricter and more narrow-minded in a place like this than in a great metropolis. I am glad to be earning a good name here, in this honest, hard-working, commercial district, where my fortunes are apparently cast; and where, having been a “rolling stone” all my life, I mean to settle and “gather moss,” if I can. Moss to make a little nest soft and warm for—my love knows who.
Writing this, about the impossibility of keeping anything secret in a town like this, reminds me of something which I was in doubt about telling you or not: finally, I have decided that I will tell you. Your sister being absent, will make things easier for you. You will not have need to use any of those concealments which must be so painful in a home. Nevertheless, I do think Miss Johnston ought to be kept ignorant of the fact that I believe, nay, am almost certain, Mr. Francis Charteris is at this present time living in Liverpool.
No wonder that all my inquiries about him in London failed. He has just been discharged from this very gaol. It is more than likely he was arrested for liabilities long owing; or contracted after his last fruitless visit to his uncle, Sir William. I could easily find out, but hardly consider it delicate to make inquiries, as I did not, you know, after the debtor—whom a turnkey here reported to have said he knew me. Debtors are not criminals by law—their ward is justly held private. I never visit any of them unless they come into hospital.
Therefore my meeting with Mr. Charteris was purely accidental. Nor do I believe he recognised me—I had stepped aside into the warder's room. The two other discharged debtors passed through the entrance-gate, and quitted the gaol immediately; but he lingered, desiring a car to be sent for—and inquiring where one could get handsome and comfortable lodgings in this horrid Liverpool. He hated a commercial town.
You will ask, woman-like, how he looked?
Ill and worn, with something of the shabby, “poor gentleman” aspect, with which we here are only too familiar. I overheard the turnkey joking with the carman about taking him to “handsome rooms.” Also, there was about him an ominous air of what we in Scotland call the “down-draught;” a term, the full meaning of which you probably do not understand—I trust you never may.
You will see by its date how many days ago the first part of this letter was written. I kept it back till the cruel suspense of your sister's sudden relapse was ended—thinking it a pity your mind should be burthened with any additional care. You have had, in the meantime, the daily bulletin from Treherne Court—the daily line from me.
How are you, my child?—for you have forgotten to say. Any roses out on your poor cheeks? Look in the glass and tell me. I must know, or I must come and see. Remember, your life is a part of mine, now.
Mrs. Treherne is convalescent—as you know. I saw her on Monday for the first time. She is changed, certainly; it will be long before she is anything like the Lisabel Johnston of my recollection, full of health and physical enjoyment. But do not grieve. Sometimes, to have gone near the gates of death, and returned, hallows the whole future life. I thought, as I left her, lying contentedly on her sofa, with her hand in her husband's, who sits watching as if truly she were given back to him from the grave, that it may be good for those two to have been so nearly parted. It may teach them, according to a line you once repeated to me (you see, though I am not poetical, I remember all your bits of poetry), to
“hold every mortal joy
With a loose hand.”
since nothing finite is safe, unless overshadowed by the belief in, and the glory of, the Infinite.
My dearest—my best of every earthly thing—whom to be parted from temporarily, as now often makes me feel as if half myself were wanting—whom to lose out of this world would be a loss irremediable, and to leave behind in it would be the sharpest sting of death—better, I have sometimes thought, of late—better be you and I than Treherne and Lisabel.
In all these letters I have scarcely mentioned Penelope—you see I am learning to name your sisters as if mine. She, however, has treated me almost like a stranger in the few times we happened to meet—until last Monday.
I had left the happy group in the library—Treherne, tearing himself from his wife's sofa—honest fellow! to follow me to the door—where he wrung my hand, and said, with a sob like a school-boy, that he had never been so happy in his life before, and he hoped he was thankful for it. Your eldest sister, who sat in the window sewing—her figure put me somewhat in mind of you, little lady—bade me good-bye—she was going back to Rockmount in a few days.
I quitted them, and walked alone across the park, where the chestnut-trees—you remember them—are beginning, not only to change, but to fall; thinking how fast the years go, and how little there is in them of positive joy. Wrong—this!—and I know it; but, my love, I sin sorely at times. I nearly forgot a small patient I have at the lodge-gates, who is slipping so gradually, but surely, poor wee man! into the world where he will be a child for ever. After sitting with him half an hour, I came out better.
A lady was waiting outside the lodge-gates. When I saw who it was, I meant to bow and pass on, but Miss Johnston called me. From her face, I dreaded it was some ill news about you.
Your sister is a good woman and a kind.
She said to me, when her explanations had set my mind at ease:—
“Doctor Urquhart, I believe you are a man to be trusted. Dora trusts you. Dora once said, you would be just, even to your enemies.”
I answered, I hoped it was something more than justice, that we owed even to our enemies.
“That is not the question,” she said, sharply; “I spoke only of justice. I would not do an injustice to the meanest thing—the vilest wretch that crawls.”
“No.”
She went on:—
“I have not liked you, Dr. Urquhart: nor do I know if my feelings are altered now—but I respect you. Therefore, you are the only person of whom I can ask a favour. It is a secret. Will you keep it so?”
“Except from Theodora.”
“You are right. Have no secrets from Theodora. For her sake, and your own—for your whole life's peace—never, even in the lightest thing, deceive that poor child!” Her voice sharpened, her black eyes glittered a moment, and then she shrank back into her usual self. I see exactly the sort of woman, which, as you say, she will grow into—sister Penelope—aunt Penelope. Every one belonging to her must try, henceforth, to spare her every possible pang.
After a few moments, I begged her to say what I could do for her.
“Read this letter, and tell me if you think it is true.”
It was addressed to Sir William Treherne; the last humble appeal of a broken-down man; the signature “Francis Charteris.”
I tried my best to disguise the emotion which Miss Johnston herself did not show, and returned the letter, merely inquiring if Sir William had answered it?
“No. He will not. He disbelieves the facts.”
“Do you, also?”
“I cannot say. The—the writer was not always accurate in his statements.”
Women are, in some things, stronger and harder than men. I doubt if any man could have spoken as steadily as your sister did at this minute. While I explained to her, as I thought it right to do, though with the manner of one talking of a stranger to a stranger—the present position of Mr. Charteris, she replied not a syllable. Only passing a felled tree—she suddenly sank down upon it, and sat motionless.
“What is he to do?” she said, at last.
I replied that the Insolvent Court could free him from his debts, and grant him protection from further imprisonment; that though thus sunk in circumstances, a Government situation was hardly to be hoped for, still there were in Liverpool, clerkships and mercantile opportunities, in which any person so well educated as he, might begin the world again—health permitting.
“His health was never good—has it failed him?”
“I fear so.”
Your sister turned away. She sat—we both sat—for some time, so still that a bright-eyed squirrel came and peeped at us, stole a nut a few yards off, and scuttled away with it to Mrs. Squirrel and the little ones up in a tall sycamore hard by.
I begged Miss Johnston to let me see the address once more, and I would pay a visit, friendly or medical, as the case might allow, to Mr. Charteris, on my way home to-night.
“Thank you, Doctor Urquhart.”
I then rose and took leave, time being short.
“Stay, one word if you please. In that visit, you will of course say, if inquired, that you learnt the address from Treherne Court. You will, name no other names?”
“Certainly not.”
“But afterwards, you will write to me?”
“I will.”
We shook hands, and I left her sitting there on the dead tree. I went on, wondering if anything would result from this curious combination of accidents: also, whether a woman's love, if cut off at the root, even like this tree, could be actually killed, so that nothing could revive it again. What think you, Theodora?
But this trick of moralizing, caught from you, shall not be indulged. There is only time for the relation of bare facts.
The train brought me to the opposite shore of our river, not half a mile's walk from Mr. Charteris's lodgings. They seemed “handsome lodgings” as he said—a tall new house, one of the many which, only half-built, or half-inhabited, make this Birkenhead such a dreary place. But it is improving, year by year—I sometimes think it may be quite a busy and cheerful spot by the time I take a house here, as I intend. You will like a hill-top, and a view of the sea.
I asked for Mr. Charteris, and stumbled up the half-lighted stairs, into the wholly dark drawing-room.
“Who the devil's there?”
He was in hiding, you must remember, as indeed I ought to have done, and so taken the precaution first to send up my name—but I was afraid of non-admittance.
When the gas was lit, his pale, unshaven, sallow countenance, his state of apparent illness and weakness, made me cease to regret having gained entrance, under any circumstances. Recognizing me, he muttered some apology.
“I was asleep—I usually do sleep after dinner.” Then recovering his confused faculties, he asked with some hauteur, “To what may I attribute the pleasure of seeing Doctor Urquhart? Are you, like myself, a mere bird of passage, or a resident in Liverpool?”
“I am surgeon of ————— gaol.
“Indeed, I was not aware. A good appointment I hope? And what gaol did you say?”
I named it again, and left the subject. If he chose to wrap himself in that thin cloak of deception, it was no business of mine to tear it off. Besides, one pities a ruined man's most petty pride.
But it was an awkward position. You know how haughty Mr. Charteris can be; you know also that unlucky peculiarity in me, call it Scotch shyness, cautiousness, or what you please, my little English girl must cure it, if she can. Whether or not it was my fault, I soon felt that this visit was turning out a complete failure. We conversed in the civillest manner, though somewhat disjointedly, on politics, the climate and trade of Liverpool, &c., but of Mr. Charteris and his real condition, I learned no more than if I were meeting him at a London dinner-party, or a supper with poor Tom Turton—who is dead, as you know. Mr. Charteris did not, it seems, and his startled exclamation at hearing the fact was the own natural expression during my whole visit. Which, after a few rather broad hints, I took the opportunity of a letter's being brought in, to terminate.
Not, however, with any intention on my side of its being a final one. The figure of this wretched-looking invalid, though he would not own to illness—men seldom will—lying in the solitary, fireless lodging-house parlor, where there was no indication of food, and a strong smell of opium—followed me all the way to the jetty, suggesting plan after plan concerning him.
You cannot think how pretty even our dull river looks of a night, with its two long lines of lighted shores, and other lights scattered between in all directions, every vessel's rigging bearing one. And to-night, above all things, was a large bright moon, sailing up over innumerable white clouds, into the clear dark zenith, converting the town of Liverpool into a fairy city, and the muddy Mersey into a pleasant river, crossed by a pathway of silver—such as one always looks at with a kind of hope that it would lead to “some bright isle of rest.” There was a song to that effect popular when Dallas and I were boys.
As the boat moved off, I settled myself to enjoy the brief seven minutes of crossing—thinking, if I had but the little face by me looking up into the moonlight she is so fond of, the little hand to keep warm in mine!
And now, Theodora, I come to something which you must use your own judgment about telling your sister Penelope.
Half-way across, I was attracted by the peculiar manner of a passenger, who had leaped on the boat just as we were shoved off, and now stood still as a carved figure, staring down into the foamy track of the paddle-wheels. He was so absorbed that he did not notice me, but I recognized him at once, and an ugly suspicion entered my mind.
In my time, I have had opportunities of witnessing, stage by stage, that disease—call it dyspepsia, hypochondriasis, or what you will—it has all names and all forms—which is peculiar to our present state of high civilization, where the mind and the body seem cultivated into perpetual warfare one with the other. This state—some people put poetical names upon it—but we doctors know that it is at least as much physical as mental, and that many a poor misanthrope, who loathes himself and the world, is merely an unfortunate victim of stomach and nerves, whom rest, natural living, and an easy mind, would soon make a man again. But that does not remove the pitifulness and danger of the case. While the man is what he is, he is little better than a monomaniac.
If I had not seen him before, the expression of his countenance, as he stood looking down into the river, would have been enough to convince me how necessary it was to keep a strict watch over Mr. Charteris.
When the rush of passengers to the gangway made our side of the boat nearly deserted, he sprang up the steps of the paddle-box, and there stood.
I once saw a man commit suicide. It was one of ours, returning from the Crimea. He had been drinking hard, and was put under restraint, for fear of delirium tremens; but when he was thought recovered, one day, at broad noon, in sight of all hands, he suddenly jumped overboard. I caught sight of his face as he did so—it was exactly the expression of Francis Charteris.
Perhaps, in any case, you had better never repeat the whole of this to your sister.
Not till after a considerable struggle did I pull him down to the safe deck once more. There he stood breathless.
“You were not surely going to drown yourself, Mr. Charteris?”
“I was. And I will.”
“Try,—and I shall call the police to prevent your making such an ass of yourself.”
It was no time to choose words, and in this sort of disease the best preventive one can use, next to a firm, imperative will, is ridicule. He answered nothing—but gazed at me in simple astonishment, while I took his arm and led him out of the boat and across the landing-stage.
“I beg your pardon for using such strong language, but a man must be an ass indeed, who contemplates such a thing;—here, too, of all places. To be fished up out of this dirty river like a dead rat, for the entertainment of the crowd; to make a capital case at the magistrate's court to-morrow, and a first-rate paragraph in the Liverpool Mercury,—'Attempted Suicide of a Gentleman.' Or, if you really succeeded, which I doubt, to be 'Found Drowned,'—a mere body, drifted ashore with cocoa-nut husks and cabbages at Waterloo, or brought in as I once saw at these very stairs, one of the many poor fools who do this here yearly. They had picked him up eight miles higher up the river, and so brought him down, lashed behind a rowing-boat, floating face upwards”—
“Ah!”
I felt Charteris shudder.
You will, too, my love, so I will repeat no more of what I said to him. But these ghastly pictures were the strongest arguments available with such a man. What was the use of talking to him of God, and life, and immortality? he had told me he believed in none of these things. But he believed in death—the epicurean's view of it—“to lie in cold obstruction and to rot.” I thought, and still think, that it was best to use any lawful means to keep him from repeating the attempt. Best to save the man first, and preach to him afterwards.
He and I walked up and down the streets of Liverpool almost in silence, except when he darted into the first chemist's shop he saw to procure opium.
“Don't hinder me,” he said, imploringly, “it is the only thing that keeps me alive.”
Then I walked him about once more, till his pace flagged, his limbs tottered, he became thoroughly passive and exhausted. I called a car, and expressed my determination to see him safe home.
“Home! No, no, I must not go there.” And the poor fellow summoned all his faculties, in order to speak rationally. “You see, a gentleman in my unpleasant circumstances—in short, could you recommend any place—a quiet, out-of-the-way place, where—where I could hide?”
I had suspected things were thus. And now, if I lost sight of him even for twenty-four hours, he might be lost permanently. He was in that critical state, when the next step, if it were not to a prison, might be into a lunatic asylum.
It was not difficult to persuade him that the last place where creditors would search for a debtor would be inside a gaol, nor to convey him, half-stupefied as he was, into my own rooms, and leave him fast asleep on my bed.
Yet, even now, I cannot account for the influence I so soon gained, and kept; except that any person in his seven senses always has power over another nearly out of them, and to a sick man there is no autocrat like the doctor.
Now for his present condition. The day following, I removed him to a country lodging, where an old woman I know will look after him. The place is humble enough, but they are honest people. He may lie safe there till some portion of health returns; his rent, &c.—my prudent little lady will be sure to be asking after my “circumstances”—well, love, his rent for the next month at least, I can easily afford to pay. The present is provided for—as to his future, heaven only knows.
I wrote, according to promise, to your sister Penelope, explaining where Mr. Charteris was, his state of health, and the position of his affairs; also, my advice, which he neither assents to nor declines, that as soon as his health will permit, he should surrender himself in London, go through the Insolvent Court, and start anew in life. A hard life, at best, since, whatever situation he may obtain, it will take years to free him from all his liabilities.
Miss Johnston's answer I received this morning. It was merely an envelope containing a bank note of 20L. Sir William's gift, possibly; I told her he had better be made aware of his nephew's abject state,—or do you suppose it is from herself? I thought beyond your quarterly allowance, you had none of you much ready money? If there is anything I ought to know before applying this sum to the use of Mr. Charteris, you will, of course, tell me?
I have been to see him this afternoon. It is a poor room he lies in, but clean and quiet. He will not stir out of it; it was with difficulty I persuaded him to have the window opened, so that we might enjoy the still autumn sunshine, the church-bells, and the little robin's song. Turning back to the sickly drawn face, buried in the sofa-pillows, my heart smote me with a heavy doubt as to what was to be the end of Francis Charteris.
Yet I do not think he will die; but he will be months, years in recovering, even if he is ever his old self again—bodily, I mean-whether his inner self is undergoing any change, I have small means of judging. The best thing for him, both mentally and physically, would be a fond, good woman's constant care; but that he cannot have.
I need scarcely say, I have taken every precaution that he should never see nor hear anything of Lydia; nor she of him. He has never named her, nor any one; past and future seem alike swept out of his mind; he only lives in the miserable present, a helpless, hopeless, exacting invalid. Not on any account would I have Lydia Cartwright see him now. If I judge her countenance rightly, she is just the girl to do exactly what you women are so prone to—forgive everything, sacrifice everything, and go back to the old love. Ah! Theodora, what am I that I should dare to speak thus lightly of women's love, women's forgiveness!
I am glad Mr. Johnston allows you occasionally to see Mrs. Cartwright and the child, and that the little fellow is so well cared by his grandmother. If, with his father's face, he inherits his father's temperament, the nervously sensitive organization of a modern “gentleman,” as opposed to the healthy animalism of a working man, life will be an uphill road to that poor boy.
His mother's heart aches after him sorely at times, as I can plainly perceive. Yesterday, I saw her stand watching the line of female convicts—those with infants—as one after the other they filed out, each with her baby in her arms, and passed into the exercising-ground. Afterwards, I watched her slip into one of the empty cells, fold up a child's cap that had been left lying about, and look at it wistfully, as if she almost envied the forlorn occupant of that dreary nook, where, at least, the mother had her child with her continually. Poor Lydia! she may have been a girl of weak will, easily led astray, but I am convinced that the only thing which led her astray must have been, and will always be, her affections.
Perhaps, as the grandmother cannot write, it would be a comfort to Lydia, if your next letter enabled me to give to her a fuller account of the welfare of little Frank. I wonder, does his father ever think of him? or of the poor mother. He was “always kind to them,” you tell me she declared; possibly fond of them, so far as a selfish man can be. But how can such an one as he understand what it must be to be a father!
My love, I must cease writing now. It is midnight, and I have to take as much sleep as I can; my work is very hard just at present; but happy work, because, through it, I look forward to a future.
Your father's brief message of thanks for my telegram about Mr. Treherne, was kind. Will you acknowledge it in the way you consider would be most pleasing; that is, least unpleasing, to him, from me.
And now, farewell—farewell, my only darling.
Max Urquhart.
P.S.—After the fashion of a lady's letter, though not, I trust, with the most important fact therein. Though I re-open my letter to inform you of it, lest you might learn it in some other way, I consider it of very slight moment, and only name it because these sort of small unpleasantnesses have a habit of growing like snow-balls, every yard they roll.
Our chaplain has just shown me in this morning's paper a paragraph about myself, not complimentary, and decidedly ill-natured. It hardly took me by surprise; I have of late occasionally caught stray comments, not very flattering, on myself and my proceedings, but they troubled me little. I know that a man in my position, with aims far beyond his present circumstances, with opinions too obstinate and manners too blunt to get these aims carried out, as many do, by the aid of other and more influential people, such a man must have enemies.
Be not afraid, love—mine are few; and be sure I have given them no cause for animosity. True, I have contradicted some, and not many men can stand contradiction—but I have wronged no man to my knowledge. My conscience is clear. So they may spread what absurd reports or innuendoes they will—I shall live it all down.
My spirit seems to have had a douche-bath this morning, cold, but salutary. This tangible annoyance will brace me out of a little feebleheartedness that has been growing over me of late; so be content, my Theodora.
I send you the newspaper paragraph. Read it, and burn it.
Is Penelope come home? I need scarcely observe, that only herself and you are acquainted, or will be, with any of the circumstances I have related with respect to Mr. Charteris.
CHAPTER IX. HER STORY.
A fourth Monday, and my letter has not come. Oh, Max, Max!—You are not ill, I know; for Augustus saw you on Saturday. Why were you in such haste to slip away from him? He himself even noticed it.
For me, had I not then heard of your wellbeing, I should have disquieted myself sorely. Three weeks—twenty-one days—it is a long time to go about as if there were a stone lying in the corner of one's heart, or a thorn piercing it. One may not acknowledge this: one's reason, or better, one's love, may often quite argue it down; yet, it is there. This morning, when the little postman went whistling past Rockmount gate, I turned almost sick with fear.
Understand me—not with one sort of fear. Faithlessness or forgetfulness are—Well, with, you they are—simply impossible! But you are my Max; anything happening to you happens to me; nothing can hurt you without hurting me. Do you feel this as I do? if so, surely, under any circumstances, you would write.
Forgive! I meant not to blame you; we never ought to blame what we cannot understand. Besides, all this suspense may end to-morrow. Max does not intend to wound me; Max loves me.
Just now, sitting quiet, I seemed to hear you saying: “My little lady,” as distinctly as if you were close at hand, and had called me. Yet it is a year since I have heard the sound of your voice, or seen your face.
Augustus says, of late you have turned quite grey. Never, mind, Max! I like silver locks. An old man I knew used to say, “At the root of every grey hair is a eell of wisdom.”
How will you be able to bear with the foolishness of this me? Yet, all the better for you. I know you would soon be ten years younger—looks and all—if, after your hard work, you had a home to come back to, and—and me.
See how conceited we grow! See the demoralizing result of having been for a whole year loved and cared for; of knowing ourselves, for the first time in our lives, first object to somebody!
There now, I can laugh again; and so I may begin and write my letter. It shall not be a sad or complaining letter, if I can help it.
Spring is coming on fast. I never remember such a March. Buds of chestnuts bursting, blackbirds singing, primroses out in the lane, a cloud of snowy wind-flowers gleaming through the trees of my favourite wood, concerning which, you remember, we had our celebrated battle about blue-bells and hyacinths. These are putting out their leaves already; there will be such quantities this year. How I should like to show you my bank of—ahem! blue-bells!
Mischievous still, you perceive. Obstinate, likewise; almost as obstinate as—you.
Augustus hints at some “unpleasant business” you have been engaged in lately. I conclude some controversy, in which you have had to “hold your own” more firmly than usual. Or new “enemies,”—business foes only of course, about which you told me I must never grieve, as they were unavoidable. I do not grieve; you will live down any passing animosity. It will be all smooth sailing by-and-by. But in the meantime, why not tell me? I am not a child—and—I am to be your wife, Max.
Ah, now the thorn is out, the one little sting of pain. It isn't this child you were fond of, this ignorant, foolish, naughty child, it is your wife, whom you yourself chose, to whom you yourself gave her place and her rights, who comes to you with her heart full of love and says, “Max, tell me!”
Now, no more of this, for I have much to tell you—I tell you everything.
You know how quietly this winter has slipped away with us at. Rockmount; how, from the time Penelope returned, she and I seemed to begin our lives anew together, in one sense beginning almost as little children, living entirely in the present; content with each day's work-and each day's pleasure,—and it was wonderful how many small pleasures we found—never allowing ourselves either to dwell on the future or revert to the past. Except when by your desire. I told my sister of Francis's having passed through the Insolvent Court, and how you were hoping to obtain for him a situation as corresponding clerk. Poor Francis! all his grand German and Spanish to have sunk down to the writing of a merchant's business-letters, in a musty Liverpool office! Will he ever bear it? Well, except this time, and once afterwards, his name has never been mentioned, either by Penelope or me.
The second time happened thus—I did not tell you then, so I will now. When our Christmas bills came in—our private ones, my sister had no money to meet them. I soon guessed that—as, from your letter, I had already guessed where her half-yearly allowance had gone. I was perplexed, for though she now confides to me nearly everything of her daily concerns, she has never told me that. Yet she must have known I knew—that you would be sure to tell me.
At last, one morning, as I was passing the door of her room, she called me in.
She was standing before a chest-of-drawers, which, I had noticed, she always kept locked. But to-day the top drawer was open, and out of a small jewel-case that lay on it, she had taken a string of pearls. “You remember this?”
Ah, yes! But Penelope looked steadily at it; so, of course, did I.
“Have you any idea, Dora, what it is worth, or how much Sir William gave for it?”
I knew: for Lisabel had told me herself, in the days when we were all racking our brains to find out suitable marriage presents for the governor's lady.
“Do you think it would be wrong, or that the Trehernes would be annoyed, if I sold it?”
“Sold it!”
“I have no money—and my bills must be paid. It is not dishonest to sell what is one's own, though it may be somewhat painful.”
I could say nothing. The pain was keen—even to me.
She then reminded me how Mrs. Granton had once admired these pearls, saying, when Colin married she should like to give her daughter-in-law just such another necklace.
“If she would buy it now—if you would not mind asking her—”
“No, no!”
“Thank you, Dora.”
She replaced the necklace in its case, and gave it into my hand. I was slipping out of the room, when she said:—
“One moment, child. There was something more I wished to say to you. Look here.”
She unlocked drawer after drawer. There lay, carefully arranged, all her wedding clothes, even to the white silk dress, the wreath and veil. Everything was put away in Penelope's own tidy, over-particular fashion, wrapped in silver paper, or smoothly folded, with sprigs of lavender between. She must have done it leisurely and orderly, after her peculiar habit, which made us, when she was only a girl of seventeen, teaze Penelope by calling her “old maid!”
Even now, she paused more than once, to re-fold or re-arrange something—tenderly, as one would arrange the clothes of a person who was dead—then closed and locked every drawer, putting the key, not on her household-bunch, but in a corner of her desk.
“I should not like anything touched in my lifetime, but, should I die—not that this is likely; I believe I shall live to be an old woman—still, should I die, you will know, where these things are. Do with them exactly what you think best. And if money is wanted for—” She stopped, and then, for the first time, I heard her pronounce his name, distinctly and steadily, like any other name, “for Francis Charteris, or any one belonging to him—sell them. You will promise?”
I promised.
Mrs. Granton, dear soul! asked no questions, but took the necklace, and gave me the money, which I brought to my sister. She received it without a word.
After this, all went on as heretofore; and though sometimes I have felt her eye upon me when I was opening your letters, as if she fancied there might be something to hear, still, since there never was anything, I thought it best to take no notice. But Max, I wished often, and wish now, that you would tell me if there is any special reason why, for so many weeks, you have never mentioned Francis?
I was telling you about Penelope. She has fallen into her old busy ways—busier than ever, indeed. She looks well too, “quite herself again,” as Mrs. Granton whispered to me, one morning when—wonderful event—I had persuaded my sister that we ought to drive over to lunch at the Cedars, and admire all the preparations for the reception of Mrs. Colin, next month.
“I would not have liked to ask her,” added the good old lady; “but since she did come, I am glad. The sight of my young folk's happiness will not pain her? She has really got over her trouble, you think?”
“Yes, yes,” I said hastily, for Penelope was coming up the greenhouse walk. Yet when I observed her, it seemed not herself but a new self—such as is only born of sorrow which smiled out of her poor thin face, made her move softly, speak affectionately, and listen patiently to all the countless details about “my Colin” and “my daughter Emily,” (bless the dear old lady, I hope she will find her a real daughter). And though most of the way home we were both more silent than usual, something in Penelope's countenance made me, not sad or anxious, but inly awed, marvelling at its exceeding peace. A peace such as I could have imagined in those who had brought all their earthly possessions and laid them at the apostles' feet; or holier still, and therefore happier,—who had left all, taken up their cross, and followed Him. Him who through His life and death taught the perfection of all sacrifice, self-sacrifice.
I may write thus, Max, may I not? It is like talking to myself, talking to you.
It was on this very drive home that something happened, which I am going to relate as literally as I can, for I think you ought to know it. It will make you love my sister as I love her, which is saying a good deal.
Watching her, I almost—forgive, dear Max!—but I almost forgot my letter to you, safely written overnight, to be posted on our way home from the Cedars; till Penelope thought of a village post-office we had just passed.
“Don't vex yourself, child,” she said, “you shall cross the moor again; you will be quite in time; and I will drive round, and meet you just beyond the ponds.”
And, in my hurry, utterly forgot that cottage you know, which she has never yet been near, nor is aware who live in it. Not till I had posted my letter, did I call to mind that she would be passing Mrs. Cartwright's very door!
However, it was too late to alter plans, so I resolved not to fret about it. And, somehow, the spring feeling came over me; the smell of furze-blossoms, and of green leaves budding; the vague sense as if some new blessing were coming with the coming year. And, though I had not Max with me, to admire my one stray violet that I found, and listen to my lark—the first, singing up in his white cloud, still I thought of you, and I loved you! With a love that, I think, those only feel who have suffered, and suffered together: a love that, though it may have known a few pains, has never, thank God, known a single doubt. And so you did not feel so very far away.
Then I walked on as fast as I could, to meet the pony-carriage, which I saw crawling along the road round the turn—past the very cottage. My heart beat so! But Penelope drove quietly on, looking straight before her. She would have driven by in a minute; when, right across the road, in front of the pony, after a dog or something, I saw run a child.
How I got to the spot I hardly know; how the child escaped I know still less; it was almost a miracle. But there stood Penelope, with the little fellow in her arms. He was unhurt—not even frightened.
I took him from her—she was still too bewildered to observe him much—besides, a child alters so in six months. “He is all right you see. Run away, little man.”
“Stop! there is his mother to be thought of,” said Penelope; “where does he live? whose child is he?”
Before I could answer, the grandmother ran out, calling “Franky—Franky.”
It was all over. No concealment was possible.
I made my sister sit down by the roadside, and there, with her head on my shoulder, she sat till her deadly paleness passed away, and two tears slowly rose and rolled down her cheeks; but she said nothing.
Again I impressed upon her what a great comfort it was that the boy had escaped without one scratch; for there he stood, having once more got away from his granny, staring at us, finger in mouth, with intense curiosity and enjoyment.
“Off with you! “—I cried more than once. But he kept his ground; and when I rose to put him away—my sister held me.
Often I have noticed, that in her harshest days Penelope never disliked nor was disliked by children. She had a sort of instinct for them. They rarely vexed her, as we, or her servants, or her big scholars always unhappily contrived to do. And she could always manage them, from the squalling baby that she stopped to pat at a cottage door, to the raggedest young scamp in the village, whom she would pick up after a pitched battle, give a good scolding to, then hear all his tribulations, dry his dirty face, and send him away with a broad grin upon it, such as was upon Franky's now.
He came nearer, and put his brown little paws upon Penelope's silk gown.
“The pony,” she muttered; “Dora, go and see after the pony.”
But when I was gone, and she thought herself unseen, I saw her coax the little lad to her side, to her arms, hold him there and kiss him;—oh! Max, I can't write of it; I could not tell it to anybody but you.
After keeping away as long as was practicable, I returned, to find Franky gone, and my sister walking slowly up and down; her veil was down, but her voice and step had their usual “old-maidish” quietness,—if I dared without a sob at the heart, even think that word concerning our Penelope!
Leaving her to get into the carriage, I just ran into the cottage to tell Mrs. Cartwright what had happened, and assure her that the child had received no possible harm; when, who should I see sitting over the fire but the last person I ever expected to see in that place!
Did you know it?—was it by your advice he came?—what could be his motive in coming? or was it done merely for a whim—-just like Francis Charteris.
Anywhere else I believe I could not have recognised him. Not from his shabbiness; even in rags Francis would be something of the gentleman; but from his utterly broken-down appearance, his look of hopeless indifference, settled discontent; the air of a man who has tried all things and found them vanity.
Seeing me, he instinctively set down the child, who clung to his knees, screaming loudly to “Daddy.”
Francis blushed violently, and then laughed. “The brat owns me, you see; he has not forgotten me—likes me also a little, which cannot be said for most people. Heyday, no getting rid of him? Come along then, young man; I must e'en make the best of you.”
Franky, nothing loth, clambered up, hugged him smotheringly round the neck, and broke into his own triumphant “Ha! ha! he! “—His father turned and kissed him.
Then, somehow, I felt as if, it were easier to speak to Francis Charteris. Only a word or two—enquiries about his health—how long he had left Liverpool—and whether he meant to return.
“Of course. Only a day's holiday. A horse in a mill—that is what I am now. Nothing for it but to grind on to the end of the chapter—eh, Franky my boy!”
“Ha! ha! he!” screamed the child, with another delighted hug.
“He seems fond of you,” I said.
“Oh yes; he always was.” Francis sighed. I am sure, nature was tugging hard at the selfish pleasure-loving heart. And pity—I know it was not wrong, Max!—was pulling sore at mine.
I said I had heard of his illness in the winter, and was glad to find him so much recovered:—how long had he been about again?
“How long? Indeed I forget. I am so apt to forget things now. Except “—he added bitterly—“the clerk's stool and the office window with the spider-webs over it—and the thirty shillings a-week. That's my income, Dora—I beg your pardon, Miss Dora,—I forgot I was no longer a gentleman, but a clerk at thirty shillings a-week.”
I said, I did not see why that should make him less of a gentleman; and, broken-down as he was,—sitting crouching over the fire with his sickly cheek passed against that rosy one,—I fancied I saw something of the man—the honest, true man—flash across the forlorn aspect of poor Francis Charteris.
I would have liked to stay and talk with him, and said so, but my sister was outside.
“Is she? will she be coming in here?”—And he shrank nervously into his corner. “I have been so ill, you know.”
He need not be afraid, I told him—we should have driven off in two minutes. There was not the slightest chance of their meeting—in all human probability he would never meet her more.
“Never more!”
I had not thought to see him so much affected.
“You were right, Dora, I never did deserve Penelope—yet there is something I should like to have said to her. Stop, hold back the curtain—she cannot see me sitting here?”
“No.”
So, as she drove slowly past, Francis watched her; I felt more than glad—proud that he should see the face which he had known blooming and young, and which would never be either the one or the other again in this world, and that he should see how peaceful and good it was.
“She is altered strangely.”
I asked, in momentary fear, did he think her looking out of health?
“Oh no—It is not that. I hardly know what it is;” then, as with a sudden impulse, “I must go and speak to Penelope.”
And before I could hinder him, he was at the carriage side.
No fear of a “scene.” They met—oh Max, can any two people so meet who have been lovers for ten years!
It might have been that the emotion of the last few minutes left her in that state when no occurrence seemed unexpected or strange—but Penelope, when she saw him, only gave a slight start;—and then looked at him, straight in the face, for a minute or so.
“I am sorry to see that you have been ill.”
That one sentence must have struck him, as it did me, with the full conviction of how they met—as Penelope and Francis no more—merely Miss Johnston and Mr. Charteris.
“I have been ill,” he said, at last. “Almost at death's door. I should have died, but for Doctor Urquhart and—one other person, whose name I discovered by accident. I beg to thank her for her charity.”
He blushed scarlet in pronouncing the word. My sister tried to speak, but he stopped her.
“Needless to deny.”
“I never deny what is true,” said Penelope gravely. “I only did what I considered right, and what I would have done for any person whom I had known so many years. Nor would I have done it at all, but that your uncle refused.”
“I had rather owe it to you—twenty times over!” he cried. “Nay—you shall not be annoyed with gratitude—I came but to own my debt—to say, if I live, I will repay it; if I die—”
She looked keenly at him:—“You will not die.”
“Why not? What have I to live for—a ruined, disappointed, disgraced man? No, no—my chance is over for this world, and I do not care how soon I get out of it.”
“I would rather hear of your living worthily in it.”
“Too late, too late.”
“Indeed it is not too late.”
Penelope's voice was very earnest, and had a slight falter that startled even me. No wonder it misled Francis,—he who never had a particularly low opinion of himself, and who for so many years had been fully aware of a fact—which, I once heard Max say, ought always to make a man humble rather than vain—how deeply a fond woman had loved him.
“How do you mean?” he asked eagerly.
“That you have no cause for all this despair. You are a young man still; your health may improve; you are free from debt, and have enough to live upon. Whatever disagreeables your position has, it is a beginning—you may rise. A long and prosperous career may lie before you yet—I hope so.”
“Do you?”
Max, I trembled. For he looked at her as he used to look when they were young. And it seems so hard to believe that love ever can die out. I thought, what if this exceeding calmness of my sister's should be only the cloak which pride puts on to hide intolerable pain?—But I was mistaken. And now I marvel, not that he, but that I—who know my sister as a sister ought—could for an instant have seen in those soft sad eyes anything beyond what her words expressed the more plainly, as they were such extremely kind and gentle words.
Francis came closer, and said something in a low voice, of which I caught only the last sentence,—
“Penelope, will you trust me again?”
I would have slipped away—but my sister detained me; tightly her fingers closed on mine; but she answered Francis composedly:
“I do not quite comprehend you.”
“Will you forgive and forget? will you marry me?”
“Francis!” I exclaimed, indignantly; but Penelope put her hand upon my mouth.
“That is right. Don't listen to Dora—she always hated me. Listen to me. Penelope, you shall make me anything you choose; you would be the saving of me—that is, if you could put up with such a broken, sickly, ill-tempered wretch.”
“Poor Francis!” and she just touched him with her hand.
He caught it and kept it. Then Penelope seemed to wake up as out of a dream.
“You must not,” she said hurriedly; “you must not hold my hand.”
“Why not?”
“Because I, do not love you any more.”
It was so; he could not doubt it. The vainest man alive must, I think, have discerned at once that my sister spoke out of neither caprice or revenge, but in simple sadness of truth. Francis must have felt almost by instinct that, whether broken or not, the heart so long his, was his no longer—the love was gone.
Whether the mere knowledge of this made his own revive, or whether finding himself in the old familiar places—this walk was a favourite walk of theirs—the whole feeling returned in a measure, I cannot tell; I do not like to judge. But I am certain that, for the time, Francis suffered acutely.
“Do you hate me then?” said he at length.
“No; on the contrary, I feel very kindly towards you. There is nothing in the world I would not do for you.”
“Except marry me?”
“Even so.”
“Well, well; perhaps you are right. I, a poor clerk, with neither health, nor income, nor prospects—”
He stopped, and no wonder, before the rebuke of my sister's eyes.
“Francis, you know you are not speaking as you think. You know I have given you my true reason, and my only one. If we were engaged still, in outward form, I should say exactly the same, for a broken promise is less wicked than a deceitful vow. One should not marry—one ought not—when one has ceased to love.”
Francis made her no reply. The sense of all he had lost, now that he had lost it, seemed to come upon him heavily, overwhelmingly. His first words were the saddest and humblest I ever heard from Francis Charteris.
“I deserve it all. No wonder you will never forgive me.”
Penelope smiled—a very mournful smile.
“At your old habit of jumping at conclusions! Indeed, I have forgiven you long ago. Perhaps, had I been less faulty myself, I might have had more influence over you. But all was as it was to be, I suppose and it is over now. Do not let us revive it.”
She sighed, and sat silent for a few moments, looking absently across the moorland; then with a sort of wistful tenderness—the tenderness which, one clearly saw, for ever prevents and excludes love—on Francis.
“I know not how it is, Francis, but you seem to me Francis no longer—quite another person. I cannot tell how the love has gone, but it is gone; as completely as if it had never existed. Sometimes I was afraid if I saw you it might come back again; but I have seen you, and it is not there. It never can return again any more.”
“And so, from henceforth, I am no more to you than any stranger in the street?”
“I did not say that—it would not be true. Nothing you do, will ever be indifferent to me. If you do wrong—oh, Francis, it hurts me so! it will hurt me to the day of my death. I care little for your being very prosperous, or very happy, possibly no one is happy; but I want you to be good. We were young together, and I was very proud of you:—let me be proud of you again as we grow old.”
“And yet you will not marry me?”
“No, for I do not love you; and never could again, no more than I could love another woman's husband. Francis,” speaking almost in a whisper; “you know as well as I do, that there is one person and only one, whom you ought to marry.”
He shrank back, and for the second time—the first being when I found him with his boy in his arms—Francis turned scarlet with honest shame.
“Is it you—is it Penelope Johnston who can say this?”
“It is Penelope Johnston.”
“And you say it to me?”
“To you.”
“You think it would be right?”
“I do.”
There were long pauses between each of these questions, but my sister's answers were unhesitating. The grave decision of them seemed to smite home—home to the very heart of Francis Charteris. When his confusion and surprise abated, he stood with eyes cast down, deeply pondering.
“Poor little soul!” he muttered. “So fond of me, too—fond and faithful. She would be faithful to me to the end of my days.”
“I believe she would,” answered Penelope.
Here arose a piteous outcry of “Daddy, Daddy!” and little Franky, bursting from the cottage, came and threw himself in a perfect paroxysm of joy upon his father. Then I understood clearly how a good and religious woman like our Penelope could not possibly have continued loving, or thought of marrying, Francis Charteris, any more than if, as she said, he had been another woman's husband.
“Dora, pray don't take the child away. Let him remain with his father.”
And from her tone, Francis himself must have felt—if further confirmation were needed—that now and henceforth Penelope Johnston could never view him in any other light than as Franky's father.
He submitted—it always was a relief to Francis to have things decided for him. Besides, he seemed really fond of the boy. To see how patiently he let Franky clamber up him, and finally mount on his shoulder, riding astride, and making a bridle of his hair, gave one a kindly feeling, nay, a sort of respect, for this poor sick man whom his child comforted; and who, however erring he had been, was now, nor was ashamed to be, a father.
“You don't hate me, Franky,” he said, with a sudden kiss upon the fondling face. “You owe me no grudge, though you might, poor little scamp! You are not a bit ashamed of me; and, by God! (it was more a vow than an oath) I'll never be ashamed of you.”
“I trust in God you never will,” said Penelope, solemnly.
And then, with that peculiar softness of voice, which I now notice whenever she speaks of or to children, she said a few words, the substance of which I remember Lisabel and myself quizzing her for, years ago, irritating her with the old joke about old bachelor's wives and old maids' children—namely, that those who are childless, and know they will die so, often see more clearly and feel more deeply, than parents themselves, the heavy responsibilities of parenthood.
Not that she said this exactly, but you could read it in her eyes, as in a few simple words she praised Franky's beauty, hinted what a solemn thing it was to own such a son, and, if properly brought up, what a comfort he might grow.
Francis listened with a reverence that was beyond all love, and a humility touching to see. I, too, silently observing them both, could not help hearkening even with a sort of awe to every word that fell from the lips of my sister Penelope. All the while hearing, in a vague fashion, the last evening song of my lark, as he went up merrily into his cloud,—just as I have watched him, or rather his progenitors, numberless times; when, along this very road, I used to lag behind Francis and Penelope, wondering what on earth they were talking about, and how queer it was that they never noticed anything or anybody except one another.
Heigho! how times change!
But no sighing: I could not sigh, I did not. My heart was full, Max, but not with pain. For I am learning to understand what you often said, what I suppose we shall see clearly in the next life if not in this—that the only permanent pain on earth is sin. And, looking in my sister's dear face, I felt how blessed above all mere happiness, is the peace of those who have suffered and overcome suffering, who have been sinned against and have forgiven.
After this, when Franky, tired out, dropped suddenly asleep, as children do, his father and Penelope talked a good while, she inquiring, in her sensible, practical way, about his circumstances and prospects; he answering, candidly and apparently truthfully without any hesitation, anger, or pride; every now and then looking down, at the least movement of the pretty, sleepy face; while a soft expression, quite new in Francis Charteris, brightened his own. There was even a degree of cheerfulness and hope in his manner, as he said, in reply to some suggestion of my sister's:—“Then you think, as Doctor Urquhart did, that my life is worth preserving—that I may turn out not such a bad man after all?”