CHAPTER III. HER STORY.
Friday night.
My Dear Max,
You have had your Dominical letter, as you call it, so regularly, that you must know all our doings at Rockmount almost as well as ourselves. If I write foolishly, and tell you all sorts of trivial things, perhaps some of them twice over, it is just because there is nothing else to tell. But, trivial or not, I have a feeling that you like to hear it—you care for everything that concerns me.
So, first, in obedience to orders, I am quite well, even though my hand-writing is “not so pretty as it used to be.” Do not fancy the hand shakes, or is nervous or uncertain. Not a bit of it. I am never nervous, nor weak either—now. Sometimes, perhaps, being only a woman after all, I feel things a little more keenly than I ought to feel; and then, not being good at concealment, at least not with you, this fact peeps out in my letters. For the home-life has its cares, and I feel very weary sometimes—and then, I have not you to rest upon—visibly, that is—though in my heart I do always. But I am quite well, Max, and quite content. Do not doubt it. He who has led us through this furnace of affliction, will lead us safely to the end.
You will be glad to hear that papa is every day less and less cold to me—poor papa! Last Sunday, he even walked home from church with me, talking about general subjects, like his old self, almost. Penelope has been always good and kind.
You ask if they ever name you? No.
Life at Rockmount moves slowly, even in the midst of marriage preparations. Penelope is getting a large store of wedding presents. Mrs. Granton brought a beautiful one last night from her son Colin.
I was glad you had that long friendly letter from Colin Granton—glad also that, his mother having let out the secret about you and me, he was generous enough to tell you himself that other secret, which I never told. Well, your guess was right; it was so. But I could not help it; I did not know it.—For me—how could any girl, feeling as I then did towards you, feel anything towards any other man but the merest kindliness?—That is all: we will never say another word about it; except that I wish you always to be specially kind to Colin, and to do him good whenever you can—he was very good to me.
Life at Rockmount, as I said, is dull. I rise sometimes, go through the day, and go to bed at night, wondering what I have been doing during all these hours. And I do not always sleep soundly, though so tired. Perhaps it is partly the idea of Penelope's going away so soon; far away, across the sea, with no one to love her and take care of her, save Francis.
Understand, this is not with any pitying of my sister for what is a natural and even a happy lot, which no woman need complain of; but simply because Francis is Francis—accustomed to think only of himself, and for himself. It may be different when he is married.
He was staying with us here a week; during which I noticed him more closely than in his former fly-away visits. When one lives in the house with a person—a dull house too, like ours, how wonderfully odds and ends of character “crop out,” as the geologists say. Do you remember the weeks when you were almost continually in our house? Francis had what we used then to call 'the Doctor's room.' He was pleasant and agreeable enough, when it pleased him to be-so; but, for all that, I used to say to myself, twenty times a-day, “My dear Max!”
This merely implies that by a happy dispensation of Providence, I, Theodora Johnston, have not the least desire to appropriate my sister's husband, or, indeed, either of my sisters' husbands.
By-the-by—in a letter from Augustus to papa, which reached me through Penelope, he names his visit to you; I am glad—glad he should show you such honour and affection, and that they all should see it. Do not give up the Trehernes; go there sometimes—for my sake. There is no reason why you should not. Papa knows it; he also knows I write to you—but he never says a word, one way or other. We must wait—wait and hope—or rather, trust. As you say, the difference between young and older people is, the one hopes, the other trusts.
I seem, from your description, to have a clear idea of the gaol, and the long, barren breezy flat amidst which it lies, with the sea in the distance. I often sit and think of the view outside, and of the dreary inside, where you spend so many hours; the corridors, the exercise-yards, and the cells; also your own two rooms, which you say are almost as silent and solitary, except when you come in and find my letter waiting you. I wish it was me!—pardon grammar—but I wish it was me—this living me. Would you be glad to see me? Ah, I know!
Look! I am not going to write about ourselves—it is not good for us. We know it all; we know our hearts are nigh breaking sometimes—mine is. But it shall not. We will live and wait.
What was I telling you about?—oh, Francis. Well, Francis spent a whole week at Rockmount, by papa's special desire, that they might discuss business arrangements, and that he might see a little more of his intended son-in-law than he has done of late years. Business was soon dispatched—papa gives none of us any money during his life-time; what will come to us afterwards we have never thought of inquiring. Francis did, though—which somewhat hurt Penelope—but he accounted for it by his being so “poor.” A relative phrase; why, I should think 500L. a-year, certain, a mine of riches—and all to be spent upon himself. But as he says, a single man has so many inevitable expenses, especially when he lives in society, and is the nephew of Sir William Treherne, of Treherne Court. All “circumstances'!” Poor Francis; whatever goes wrong he is sure to put between himself and blame the shield of “circumstances.” Now, if I were a man, I would fight the world bare-fronted, any how. One would but be killed at last.
Is it wrong of me to write to you so freely about Francis? I hope not. All mine are yours, and yours mine; you know their faults and virtues as well as I do, and will judge them equally, as we ought to judge those, who, whatever they are, are permanently our own. I have tried hard, this time, to make a real brother of Francis Charteris; and he is, for many things, exceedingly likeable—nay loveable. I see, sometimes, clearly enough, the strange charm which has made Penelope so fond of him all these years. Whether, besides loving him, she can trust him—can look on his face and feel that he would not deceive her for the world—can believe every line he writes, and every word he utters, and know that whatever he does, he will do simply from his sense of right, no meaner motive interfering—oh, Max, I would give much to be certain Penelope had this sort of love for her future husband!
Well, they have chosen their lot, and must make the best of one another. Everybody must, you know.
Heigho! what a homily I am giving you, instead of this week's history, as usual—from Saturday to Saturday.
The first few days there really was nothing to tell. Francis and Penelope took walks together, paid visits, or sat in the parlour talking—not banishing me, however, as they used to do when they were young. On Wednesday, Francis went up to London for the day, and brought back that important article, the wedding-ring. He tried it on at supper-time, with a diamond keeper, which he said would be just the thing for “the governor's lady.”
“Say wife at once,” grumbled I, and complained of the modern fashion of slurring over that word, the dearest and sacredest in the language.
“Wife, then,” whispered Francis, holding the ring on my sister's finger, and kissing it.
Tears started to Penelope's eyes; in her agitation she looked almost like a girl again, I thought; so infinitely happy. But Francis, never happy, muttered bitterly some regret for the past, some wish that they had been married years ago. Why were they not? It was partly his fault, I am sure.
The day after this he left, not to return till he comes to take her away finally. In the meanwhile, he will have enough to do, paying his adieux to his grand friends, and his bills to his tradespeople, prior to closing his bachelor establishment for ever and aye—how glad he must be.
He seemed glad, as if with a sense of relief that all was settled, and no room left for hesitation. It costs Francis such a world of trouble to make up his own mind—which trouble Penelope will save him for the future. He took leave of her with great tenderness, calling her “his good, faithful girl,” and vowing—which one would think was quite unnecessary under the circumstances—to be faithful to her all the days of his life.
That night, when she came into my room, Penelope sat a long time on my bed talking; chiefly of old days, when she and Francis were boy and girl together—how handsome he was, and how clever—till she seemed almost to forget the long interval between. Well, they are both of an age—time runs equally with each; she is at least no more altered than he.
Here, I ought to tell you something, referring to that which, as we agreed, we are best not speaking of, even between ourselves. It is all over and done—cover it over, and let it heal.
My dear Max, Penelope confessed a thing, for which I am very sorry, but it cannot be helped now.
I told you they never name you here. Not usually, but she did that night. Just as she was leaving me, she exclaimed, suddenly:—
“Dora, I have broken my promise—Francis knows about Doctor Urquhart.”
“What!” I cried.
“Don't be terrified—not the whole. Merely that he wanted to marry you, but that papa found out he had done something wrong in his youth, and so forbade you to think of him.”
I asked her, was she sure no more had escaped her? Not that I feared much; Penelope is literally accurate, and scrupulously straight forward in all her words and ways. But still, Francis being a little less so than she, might have questioned her.
“So he did, and I refused point-blank to tell him, saying it would be a breach of trust. He was very angry; jealous, I think,” and she smiled, “till I informed him that it was not my own secret—all my own secrets I had invariably told him, as he me. At which, he said, 'Yes, of course,' and the matter ended. Are you annoyed? Do you doubt Francis's honour?”
No. For all that, I have felt anxious, and I cannot choose but tell Max; partly because he has a right to all my anxieties, and, also, that he may guard against any possibility of harm. None is likely to come though; we will not be afraid.
Augustus, in his letter, says how highly he hears you spoken of in Liverpool already; how your duties at the gaol are the least of your work, and that whatever you do, or wherever you go, you leave a good influence behind you. These were his very words. I was proud, though I knew it all before.
He says you are looking thin, as if you were overworked. Max, my Max, take care. Give all due energy to the work you have to do, but remember me likewise; remember what is mine. I think, perhaps, you take too long walks between the town and the gaol, and that maybe, the prisoners themselves get far better and more regular meals than the doctor does. See to this, if you please, Doctor Urquhart.
Tell me more about those poor prisoners, in whom you take so strong an interest—your spiritual as well as medical hospital. And give me a clearer notion of your doings in the town, your practice and schemes, your gratis patients, dispensaries, and so on. Also, Augustus said you were employed in drawing up reports and statistics about reformatories, and on the general question now so much discussed,—What is to be done with our criminal classes? How busy you must be! Cannot I help you? Send me your MSS. to copy. Give me some work to do.
Max, do you remember our talk by the pond-side, when the sun was setting, and the hills looked so still, and soft, and blue? I was there the other day and thought it all over. Yes, I could have been happy, even in the solitary life we both then looked forward to, but it is better to belong to you as I do now.
God bless you and keep you safe!
Yours,
Theodora.
P.S. I leave a blank page to fill up after
Penelope and I come home. We are going into town together early to-morrow, to enquire about the character of the lady's maid that is to be taken abroad, but we shall be back long before post-time. However, I have written all this overnight to make sure.
Sunday.
P.S. You will have missed your Sunday letter to-day, which vexes me sore. But it is the first time you have ever looked for a letter and “wanted” it, and I trust it will be the last. Ah! now I understand a little of what Penelope must have felt, looking day after day for Francis's letters, which never came; how every morning before post-time she would go about the house as blithe as a lark, and afterwards turn cross and disagreeable, and her face would settle into the sharp, hard-set expression, which made her look so old even then. Poor Penelope! if she could have trusted him the while, it might have been otherwise—men's ways and lives are so different from women's—but it is this love without perfect trust which has been the sting of Penelope's existence.
I try to remember this when she makes me feel angry with her, as she did on Saturday. It was through her fault you missed your Sunday letter.
You know I always post them myself, in the town; our village post-office would soon set all the neighbours chattering about you and me. And besides, it is pleasant to walk through the quiet lanes we both know well with Max's letter in my hand, and think that it will be in his hand to-morrow. For this I generally choose the 'time when papa rests before dinner, with one or other of us reading to him, and Penelope has hitherto, without saying anything, always taken my place and set me free on a Saturday. A kindness I felt more than I expressed, many a time. But to-day she was unkind; shut herself up in her room the instant we returned from town; then papa called me and detained me till after post-time.
So you lost your letter; a small thing, you will say, and this was a foolish girl to vex herself so much about it. Especially as she can make it longer and more interesting by details of our adventures in town yesterday.
It was not altogether a pleasant day, for something happened about the servant which I am sure annoyed Penelope; nay, she being over-tired and over-exerted already, this new vexation, whatever it was, made her quite ill for the time, though she would not allow it, and when I ventured to question, bade me sharply, “let her alone.” You know Penelope's ways, and may have seen them reflected in me sometimes. I am afraid, Max, that, however good we may be (of course!) we are not exactly what would be termed “an amiable family.”
We were amiable when we started, however; my sister and I went up to town quite merrily. I am merry sometimes, in spite of all things. You see, to have everyone that belongs to one happy and prosperous, is a great element in one's personal content. Other people's troubles weigh heavily, because we never know exactly how they will bear them, and because, at best, we can only sit by and watch them suffer, so little help being possible after all. But our own troubles we can always bear.
You will understand all I mean by “our own.” I am often very, sad for you, Max; but never afraid for you, never in doubt about you, not for an instant. There is no sting even in my saddest' thought concerning you. I trust you, I feel certain that whatever you do, you will do right; that all you have to endure will be borne nobly and bravely. Thus, I may grieve over your griefs, but never over you. My love of you, like my faith in you, is above all grieving. Forgive this long digression; to-day is Sunday, the best day in all the week, and my day for thinking most of you.
To return. Penelope and I were both merry, as we started by the very earliest train, in the soft May morning; we had so much business to get through. You can't understand it, of course, so I omit it, only confiding to you our last crowning achievement—the dress. It is white moire antique; Doctor Urquhart has not the slightest idea what that is, but no matter; and it has lace flounces, half a yard deep, and it is altogether a most splendid affair. But the governor's lady—I beg my own pardon—the governor's wife, must be magnificent, you know.
It was the mantua-maker, a great West-end personage employed by the grand family to whom, by Francis's advice, Lydia Cartwright was sent, some years ago, (by-the-by, I met Mrs. Cartwright to-day, who asked after you, and sent her duty, and wished you would know that she had heard from Lydia),—this mantua-maker it was who recommended the lady's-maid, Sarah Enfield, who had once been a workwoman of her own. We saw the person, who seemed a decent young woman, but delicate-looking; said her health was injured with the long hours of millinery-work, and that she should have died, she thought, if a friend of hers, a kind young woman, had not taken her in and helped her. She was lodging with this friend now.
On the whole, Sarah Enfield sufficiently pleased us to make my sister decide on engaging her, if only Francis could see her first. We sent a message to his lodgings, and were considerably surprised to have the answer that he was not at home, and had not been for three weeks; indeed, he hardly ever was at home. After some annoyance, Penelope resolved to make her decision without him.
Hardly ever at home! What a lively life Francis must lead: I wonder he does not grow weary of it. Once, he half owned he was, but added, “that he must float with the stream—it was too late now—he could not stop himself.” Penelope will, though.
As we drove through the Park, to the address Sarah Enfield had given us—somewhere about Kensington—Penelope wishing to see the girl once again and engage her—my sister observed, in answer to my remark, that Francis must have many invitations.
“Of course he has. It shows how much he is liked and respected. It will be the same abroad. We shall gather round us the very best society in the island. Still, he will find it a great change from London.”
I wonder, is she at all afraid of it, or suspects that he once was? that he shrank from being thrown altogether upon his wife's society—like the Frenchman who declined marrying a lady he had long visited because “where should he spend his evenings?” O, me! what a heart-breaking thing to feel that one's husband needed somewhere to spend his evenings.
We drove past Holland Park—what a bonnie place it is (as you would say); how full the trees were of green leaves and birds. I don't know where we went next—I hardly know anything of London, thank goodness!—but it was a pretty, quiet neighbourhood, where we had the greatest difficulty in finding the house we wanted, and at last had recourse to the post-office.
The post-mistress—who was rather grim—“knew the place, that is, the name of the party as lived there—which was all she cared to know. She called herself Mrs. Chaytor, or Chater, or something like it,” which we decided must be Sarah Enfield's charitable friend, and accordingly drove thither.
It was a small house, a mere cottage, set in a pleasant little garden, through the palings of which I saw, walking about, a young woman with a child in her arms. She had on a straw hat with a deep lace fall that hid her face, but her figure was very graceful, and she was extremely well dressed. Nevertheless, she looked not exactly “the lady.” Also, hearing the gate bell, she called out, “Arriet,” in no lady's voice.
Penelope glanced at her, and then sharply at me.
“I wonder—” she began; but stopped—told me to remain in the carriage while she went in, and she would fetch me if she wanted me.
But she did not. Indeed, she hardly stayed two minutes. I saw the young woman run hastily in-doors, leaving her child—such a pretty boy! screaming after his “mammy,”—and Penelope came back, her face the colour of scarlet.
“What? Is it a mistake?” I asked.
“No—yes,” and she gave the order to drive on.
Again I enquired if anything were the matter, and was answered, “Nothing—nothing that I could understand.” After which she sat with her veil down, cogitating; till, all of a sudden, she sprang up as if some one had given her a stab at her heart. I was quite terrified, but she again told me it was nothing, and bade me “let her alone.” Which as you know, is the only thing one can do with my sister Penelope.
But at the railway-station we met some people we knew, and she was forced to talk;—so that by the time we reached Rockmount she seemed to have got over her annoyance, whatever it was, concerning Sarah Enfield, and was herself again. That is, herself in one of those moods when, whether her ailment be mental or physical, the sole chance of its passing away is, as she says, “to leave her alone.”
I do not say this is not trying—doubly so now, when, just as she is leaving, I seem to understand my sister better and love her more than ever I did in my life. But I have learned at last not to break my heart over the peculiarities of those I care for; but try to bear with them as they must with mine, of which I have no lack, goodness knows!
I saw a letter to Francis in the post-bag this morning, so I hope she has relieved her mind by giving him the explanation which she refused to me. It must have been some deception practised on her by this Sarah Enfield, and Penelope never forgives the smallest deceit.
She was either too much tired or too much annoyed to appear again yesterday, so papa and I spent the afternoon and evening alone. But she went to church with us, as usual, to-day—looking pale and tired—the ill mood—“the little black dog on her shoulder,” as we used to call it, not having quite vanished.
Also, I noticed an absent expression in her eyes, and her voice in the responses was less regular than usual. Perhaps she was thinking this would almost be her last Sunday of sitting in the old pew, and looking up to papa's white hair, and her heart being fuller, her lips were more silent than usual.
You will not mind my writing so much about my sister Penelope? You like me to talk to you of what is about me, and uppermost in my thoughts, which is herself at present. She has been very good to me, and Max loves everyone whom I love, and everyone who loves me.
I shall have your letter to-morrow morning. Good night!
Theodora.
CHAPTER IV. HIS STORY.
My dear Theodora:—
This is a line extra, written on receipt of yours, which was most welcome. I feared something had gone wrong with my little methodical girl.
Do not keep strictly to your Dominical letter just now—write any day that you can. Tell me everything that is happening to you—you must, and ought. Nothing must occur to you or yours that I do not know. You are mine.
Your last letter I do not answer in detail till the next shall come: not exactly from press of business; I would make time if I had it not; but from various other reasons, which you shall have by-and-by.
Give me, if you remember it, the address of the person with whom Sarah Enfield is lodging. I suspect she is a woman of whom, by the desire of her nearest relative, I have been in search of for some time. But, should you have forgotten, do not trouble your sister about this. I will find out all I wish to learn some other way. Never apologise for, or hesitate at, writing to me about your family—all that is yours is mine. Keep your heart up about your sister Penelope: she is a good woman, and all that befals her will be for her good. Love her, and be patient with her continually. All your love for her and the rest takes nothing from what is mine, but adds thereto.
Let me hear soon what is passing at Rockmount. I cannot come to you, and help you—would I could! My love! my love!
Max Urquhart.
There is little or nothing to say of myself this week, and what there was you heard yesterday.
CHAPTER V. HER STORY.
My Dear Max:—
I write this in the middle of the night; there has been no chance for me during the day; nor, indeed, at all—until now. To-night, for the first time, Penelope has fallen asleep. I have taken the opportunity of stealing into the next room, to comfort—and you.
My dear Max! Oh, if you knew! oh, if I could but come to you for one minute's rest, one minute's love!—There—I will not cry any more. It is much to be able to write to you; and blessed, infinitely blessed to know you are—what you are.
Max, I have been weak, wicked of late; afraid of absence, which tries me sore, because I am not strong, and cannot stand up by myself as I used to do; afraid of death, which might tear you from me, or me from you, leaving the other to go mourning upon earth for ever. Now I feel that absence is nothing—death itself nothing, compared to one loss—that which has befallen my sister, Penelope.
You may have heard of it, even in these few days—ill news spreads fast. Tell me what you hear; for we wish to save my sister as much as we can. To our friends generally, I have merely written that, “from unforeseen differences,” the marriage is broken off. Mr. Charteris may give what reasons he likes at Treherne Court. We will not try to injure him with his uncle.
I have just crept in to look at Penelope; she is asleep still, and has never stirred. She looks so old—like a woman of fifty, almost. No wonder. Think—ten years—all her youth to be crushed out at once. I wonder, will it kill her? It would me.
I wanted to ask you—do you think, medically, there is any present danger in her state? She lies quiet enough; taking little notice of me or anybody—with her eyes shut during the day-time, and open, wide-staring, all night long. What ought I to do with her? There is only me, you know. If you fear anything, send me a telegram at once. Do not wait to write.
But, that you may the better judge her state, I ought just to give you full particulars, beginning where my last letter ended.
That “little black dog on her shoulder,” which I spoke of so lightly!—God forgive me! also for leaving her the whole of that Sunday afternoon with her door locked, and the room as still as death; yet never once knocking to ask, “Penelope, how are you?” On Sunday night, the curate came to supper, and papa sent me to summon her; she came downstairs, took her place at table, and conversed. I did not notice her much, except that she moved about in a stupid, stunned-like fashion, which caused papa to remark more than once, “Penelope, I think you are half asleep.” She never answered.
Another night, and the half of another day, she must have spent in the same manner. And I let her do it without enquiry! Shall I ever forgive myself?
In the afternoon of Monday, I was sitting at work, busy finishing her embroidered marriage handkerchief, alone in the sunshiny parlour, thinking of my letter, which you would have received at last; also thinking it was rather wicked of my happy sister to sulk for two whole days, because of a small disappointment about a servant—if such it were. I had almost determined to shake her out of her ridiculous reserve, by asking boldly what was the matter, and giving her a thorough scolding if I dared; when the door opened, and in walked Francis Charteris.
Heartily glad to see him, in the hope his coming might set Penelope right again, I jumped up and shook hands, cordially. Nor till afterwards did I remember how much this seemed to surprise and relieve him.
“Oh, then, all is right!” said he. “I feared, from Penelope's letter, that she wa a little annoyed with me. Nothing new that, you know.”
“Something did annoy her, I suspect,” and I was about to blurt out as much as I knew or guessed of the foolish mystery about Sarah Enfield, but some instinct stopped me. “You and Penelope had better settle your own affairs,” said I, laughing. “I'll go and fetch her.”
“Thank you.” He threw himself down on the velvet arm-chair—his favourite lounge in our house for the last ten years. His handsome profile turned up against the light, his fingers lazily tapping the arm of the chair, a trick he had from his boyhood,—this is my last impression of Francis—as our Francis Charteris.
I had to call outside Penelope's door three times, “Francis is here.”
“Francis is waiting.”
“Francis wants to speak to you,” before she answered or appeared; and then, without taking the slightest notice of me, she walked slowly downstairs, holding by the wall as she went.
So, I thought, it is Francis who has vexed her after all, and determined to leave them to fight it out and make it up again—this, which would be the last of their many lovers' quarrels. Ah! it was.
Half an hour afterwards, papa sent for me to the study, and there I saw Francis Charteris standing, exactly where you once stood—you see, I am not afraid of remembering 'it myself, or of reminding you. No, my Max! Our griefs are nothing, nothing!
Penelope also was present, standing by my father, who said, looking round at us with a troubled, bewildered air:—
“Dora, what is all this? Your sister comes here and tells me she will not marry Francis. Francis rushes in after her, and says, I hardly can make out what. Children, why do you vex me so? Why cannot you leave an old man in peace?”
Penelope answered:—“Father, you shall be left in peace, if you will only confirm what I have said to that—that gentleman, and send him out of my sight.”
Francis laughed:—“To be called back again presently. You know you will do it, as soon as you have come to your right senses, Penelope. You will never disgrace us in the eyes of the world—set everybody gossipping about our affairs, for such a trifle.”
My sister made him no answer. There was less even of anger than contempt—utter, measureless contempt-!—in the way she just lifted up her eyes and looked at him—looked him over from head to heel, and turned again to her father.
“Papa, make him understand—I cannot—that I wish all this ended; I wish never to see his face again.”
“Why?” said papa, in great perplexity.
“He knows why.”
Papa and I both turned to Francis, whose careless manner changed a little: he grew red and uncomfortable. “She may tell if she chooses; I lay no embargo of silence upon her. I have made all the explanations possible, and if she will not receive them, I cannot help it. The thing is done, and cannot be undone. I have begged her pardon, and made all sorts of promises for the future—no man can do more.”
He said this sullenly, and yet as if he wished to make friends with her, but Penelope seemed scarcely even to hear.
“Papa,” she repeated, still in the same stony voice, “I wish you would end this scene; it is killing me. Tell him, will you, that I have burnt all his letters, every one. Insist on his returning mine. His presents are all tied up in a parcel in my room, except this; will you give it back to him?”
She took off her ring, a small common turquoise which Francis had given her when he was young and poor, and laid it on the table. Francis snatched it up, handled it a minute, and then threw it violently into the fire.
“Bear witness, Mr. Johnston, and you too, Dora, that it is Penelope, not I, who breaks our engagement. I would have fulfilled it honourably—I would have married her.”
“Would you?” cried Penelope, with flashing eyes, “no—not that last degradation—no!”
“I would have married her,” Francis continued, “and made her a good husband too. Her reason for refusing me is puerile—perfectly puerile. No woman of sense, who knows anything of the world, would urge it for a moment. Nor man either, unless he was your favourite—who I believe is at the bottom of this, who, for all you know, may be doing exactly as I have done—Doctor Urquhart.”
Papa started and said hastily, “Confine yourself to the subject on hand, Francis. Of what is this that my daughter accuses you? Tell me, and let me judge.”
Francis hesitated, and then said, “Send away these girls, and you shall hear.”
Suddenly, it flashed upon me what it was. How the intuition came, how little things, before unnoticed, seemed to rise and put themselves together, including Saturday's story—and the shudder that ran through Penelope from head to foot, when on Sunday morning old Mrs. Cartwright curtsied to her at the churchdoor—all this I cannot account for, but I seemed to know as well as if I had been told everything. I need not explain, for evidently you know it also, and it is so dreadful, so unspeakably dreadful.
Oh, Max, for the first minute or so, I felt as if the whole world were crumbling from under my feet—as I could trust nobody, believe in nobody—until I remembered you. My dear Max, my own dear Max! Ah, wretched Penelope!
I took her hand as she stood, but she twisted it out of mine again. I listened mechanically to Francis, as he again began rapidly and eagerly to exculpate himself to my father.
“She may tell you all, if she likes. I have done no worse than hundreds do in my position, and under my unfortunate circumstances, and the world forgives them, and women too. How could I help it? I was too poor to marry. And before I married I meant to do everyone justice—I meant—”
Penelope covered her ears. Her face was so ghastly,-that papa himself said, “I think Francis, explanations are idle. You had better defer them and go.”
“I will take you at your word,” he replied haughtily. “If you or she think better of it, or of me, I shall be at any time ready to fulfil my engagement—honourably, as a gentleman should. Good-bye; will you not shake hands with me, Penelope?”
He walked up to her, trying apparently to carry things off with a high air, but he was not strong enough, or hardened enough. At sight of my sister sitting there, for she had sank down at last, with a face like a corpse, only it had not the peace of the dead, Francis trembled. .
“Forgive me, if I have done you any harm. It was all the result of circumstances. Perhaps, if you had been a little less rigid—had scolded me less and studied me more.—But you could not help your nature, nor I mine. Good-bye, Penelope.”
She sat, impassive; even when with a sort of involuntary tenderness, he seized and kissed her hand; but the instant he was gone—fairly gone—with the door shut upon him and his horse clattering down the road—I heard it plainly—Penelope started up with a cry of “Francis—Francis!”—O the anguish of it!—I can hear it now.
But it was not this Francis she called after—I was sure of that—I saw it in her eyes. It was the Francis of ten years ago—the Francis she had loved—now as utterly dead and buried, as if she had seen the stone laid over him, and his body left to sleep in the grave.
Dead and buried—dead and buried. Do you know, I sometimes wish it were so; that she had been left, peacefully widowed—knowing his soul was safe with God. I thought, when papa and I—papa who that night kissed me, for the first time since one night you know—sat by Penelope's bed, watching her—“If Francis had only died!”
After she was quiet, and I had persuaded papa to go to rest, he sent for me and desired me to read a psalm, as I used to do when he was ill—you remember? When it was ended, he asked me, had I any idea what Francis had done that Penelope could not pardon?
I told him, difficult and painful as it was to do it, all I suspected—indeed, felt sure of. For was it not the truth?—the only answer I could give. For the same reason I write of these terrible things to you without any false delicacy—they are the truth, and they must be told.
Papa lay for some time, thinking deeply. At last he said:—
“My dear, you are no longer a child, and I may speak to you plainly. I am an old man, and your mother is dead. I wish she were with us now, she might help us: for she was a good woman, Dora. Do you think—take time to consider the question—that your sister is acting right?”
I said, “quite right.”
“Yet, I thought you held that doctrine, 'the greater the sinner the greater the saint;' and believed every crime a man can commit may be repented, atoned, and pardoned?”
“Yes, father; but Francis has never either repented or atoned.”
No; and therefore I feel certain my sister is right. Ay, even putting aside the other fact, that the discovery of his long years of deception must have so withered up her love,—scorched it at the root, as with a stroke of lightning—that even if she pitied him, she must also despise. Fancy, despising one's husband! Besides, she is not the only one wronged. Sometimes, even sitting by my sister's bedside, I see the vision of that pretty young creature—she was so pretty and innocent when she first came to live at Rockmount,—with her boy in her arms; and my heart feels like to burst with indignation and shame, and a kind of shuddering horror at the wickedness of the world—yet with a strange feeling of unutterable pity lying at the depth of all.
Max, tell me what you think—you who are so much the wiser of us two; but I think that even if she wished it still, my sister ought not to marry Francis Charteris.
Ah me! papa said truly I was no longer a child. I feel hardly even a girl, but quite an old woman—familiar with all sorts of sad and wicked things, as if the freshness and innocence had gone out of life, and were nowhere to be found. Except when I turn to-you, and lean my poor sick heart against you—as I do now. Max, comfort me!
You will, I know, write immediately you receive this. If you could have come—-but that is impossible.
Augustus you will probably see, if you have not done so already—for he already looks upon you as the friend of the family, though in no other light as yet; which is best. Papa wrote to Sir William, I believe; he said he considered some explanation a duty, on his daughter's account; further than this, he wishes the matter kept quiet. Not to disgrace Francis, I thought; but papa told me one-half the world would hardly consider it any disgrace at all. Can this be so? Is it indeed such a wicked, wicked world?
—Here my letter was stopped by hearing a sort of cry in Penelope's room. I ran in, and found her sitting up in her bed, her eyes starting, and every limb convulsed. Seeing me, she cried out:—
“Bring a light;—I was dreaming. But it's not true. Where is Francis?”
I made no reply, and she slowly sank down in her bed again. Recollection had come.
“I should not have gone to sleep. Why did you let me? Or why cannot you put me to sleep for ever and ever, and ever and ever,” repeating the word many times. “Dora!” and my sister fixed her piteous eyes on my face, “I should be so glad to die. Why won't you kill me?”
I burst into tears.
Max, you will understand the total helplessness one feels in the presence of an irremediable grief like this: how consolation seems cruel, and reasoning vain. “Miserable comforters are ye all,” said Job to his three friends; and a miserable comforter I felt to this my sister, whom it had pleased the Almighty to smite so sore, until I remembered that He who smites can heal.
I lay down outside the bed, put my arm over her, and remained thus for a long time, not saying a single word—that is, not with my lips. And since our weakness is often our best strength, and when we wholly relinquish a thing, it is given back to us many a time in double measure, so, possibly, those helpless tears of mine did Penelope more good than the wisest of words.
She lay watching me—saying more than once:—
“I did not know you cared so much for me, Dora.”
It then came into my mind, that as wrecked people cling to the smallest spar, if, instead of her conviction that in losing Francis she had lost her all, I could by any means make Penelope feel that there were others to cling to, others who loved her dearly, and whom she ought to try and live for still—it might save her. So, acting on the impulse, I told my sister how good I thought her, and how wicked I myself had been for not long since discovering her goodness. How, when at last I learned to appreciate her, and to understand what a sorely-tried life hers had been, there came not only respect, but love. Thorough sisterly love; such as people do not necessarily feel even for their own flesh and blood, but never, I doubt, except to them. (Save, that in some inexplicable way, fondly reflevted, I have something of the same sort of love for your brother Dallas.)
Afterwards, she lying still and listening, I tried to make my sister understand what I had myself felt when she came to my bedside and comforted me that morning, months ago, when I was so wretched; how no wretchedness of loss can be altogether unendurable, so long as it does not strike at the household peace, but leaves the sufferer a little love to rest upon at home.
And at length I persuaded her to promise that, since it made both papa and me so very miserable to see her thus,—and papa was an old man too. we must not have him with us many years—she would, for our sakes, try to rouse herself, and see if life were not tolerable for a little longer.
“Yes,” she answered, closing her heavy eyes, and folding her hands in a pitiful kind of patience, very strange in our quick, irritable Penelope. “Yes—just a little longer. Still, I think I shall soon die. I believe it will kill me.”
I did not contradict her, but I called to mind your words, that, Penelope, being a good woman, all would happen to her for good. Also, it is usually not the good people who are killed by grief: while others take it as God's vengeance, or as the work of blind chance, they receive it humbly as God's chastisement, live on, and endure. I do not think my sister will die—whatever she may think or-desire just now. Besides, we have only to deal with the present, for how can we look forward a single day? How little we expected all this only a week ago?
It seems strange that Francis could have deceived us for so long; years, it must have been; but we have lived so retired, and were such a simple family for many things. How far Penelope thinks we know—papa and I—I cannot guess: she is totally silent on the subject of Francis. Except in that one outcry, when she was still only half awake, she has never mentioned his name.
There was one thing more I wanted to tell you, Max; you know I tell you everything.
Just as I was leaving my sister, she, noticing I was not undressed, asked me if I had been sitting up all night, and reproached me for doing so.
I said, “I was not weary; that I had been quietly occupying myself in the next room.”
“Reading?”
“No”
“What were you doing?” with sharp suspicion.
I answered without disguise:—
“I was writing to Max.”
“Max who?—Oh, I had forgotten his name.”
She turned from me, and lay with her face to the wall, then said:—
“Do you believe in him?”
“Yes, I do.”
“You had better not. You will live to repent it. Child, mark my words. There may be good women—one or two, perhaps—but there is not a single good man in the whole world.”
My heart rose to my lips; but deeds speak louder than words. I did not attempt to defend you. Besides, no wonder she should think thus.
Again she said, “Dora, tell Doctor Urquhart he was innocent comparatively; and that I say so. He only killed Harry's body, but those who deceive us are the death of one's soul. Nay,” and by her expression I felt sure it was not herself and her own wrongs my sister was thinking of—“there are those who destroy both body and soul.”
I made no answer; I only covered her up, kissed her and left her; knowing that in one sense I did not leave her either forsaken or alone.
And now, I must leave you too, Max; being very weary in body, though my mind is comforted and refreshed; ay, ever since I began this letter. So many of your good words have come back to me while I wrote—words which you have let fall at odd times, long ago, even when we were mere acquaintances. You did not think I should remember them? I do, every one.
This is a great blow, no doubt. The hand of Providence has been heavy upon us and our house, lately. But I think we shall be able to bear it. One always has courage to bear a sorrow which shows its naked face, free from suspense or concealment; stands visibly in the midst of the home, and has to be met and lived down patiently, by every member therein.
You once said that we often live to see the reason of affliction; how all the events of life hang so wonderfully together, that afterwards we can frequently trace the chain of events, and see in humble faith and awe, that out of each one has been evolved the other, and that everything, bad and good, must necessarily have happened exactly as it did. Thus, I begin to see—you will not be hurt, Max?—how well it was, on some accounts, that we were not married, that I should still be living at home with my sister; and that, after all she knows, and she only, of what has happened to me this year, she cannot reject any comfort I may be able to offer her on the ground that I myself know nothing of sorrow.
As for me personally, do not fear; I have you. You once feared that a great anguish would break my heart: but it did not. Nothing in this world will ever do that—while I have you.
Max, kiss me—in thought, I mean—as friends kiss friends who are starting on a long and painful journey, of which they see no end, yet are not afraid. Nor am I. Goodbye, my Max.
Yours, only and always,
Theodora Johnston.