CHAPTER XXX.
This first day is a sample of Esther's new life; the other days werelike it--not a jot better, not a jot worse. The same thing happened atthe same time each day: no two things ever changed places. It was alife that provided all the necessaries of life--that demanded no hardmanual labour, no overworking of the brain. The intellectual facultiesthat it called into play must have been possessed by any moderatelyintelligent seven-years' child. No one bullies Esther; no one oppressesher; no one troubles their head much about her. So as she performs hermonotonous, easy, tiresome little duties towards them, the old peoplehave no sort of objection to her enjoying life, _if she can_. Withthe aged, comfort and happiness are interchangeable terms: continuouswarmth of body, pleasant-tasted meats, a profound stagnant quiet aroundtheir arm-chairs, much sleep--these are their _summum bonum_. They havehad love, and have outlived it--excitement also, and grief: they haveoutlived all but the elemental instincts that refuse to be outlived.Looking back from the vantage-ground of dotage on the fought battleof life, they wonder that any one can long to be in the thick of it.In this life of Esther's there are no hardships to be borne--none ofthose sufferings, the enduring of which with self-conscious complacentheroism almost compensates them. It has none of the elements oftragedy: there is nothing very noble in bearing with respectablepatience the trifling annoyance of making yourself hoarse roaring theprice of wheat, and the pros and cons of disendowment, into an oldman's ear; there is nothing grand in picking up the countless droppedstitches in an old woman's knitting. In it there is nothing to endure,nothing to enjoy; it is essentially negative, flat, stale, sterile. Itwould be all very well if any end were to be seen to it; if it werenot a sort of small Eternity in life; if there were to be distantholidays to be looked forward to, when the few saved pounds might bepoured, with the joyful generosity of the very poor, into some strickenparent's lap--might go to buy boots and shoes for needy little brothersand sisters. But
"Fatherly, motherly, sisterly, brotherly Home she has none."
All her life seems crowded into the seventeen years behind her;there seems to be nothing left to happen in the fifty or sixtyyears ahead. She has nothing to look forward to but huge cycles ofnewspaper-reading, footstool-carrying, message-running; of lending allher useful organs of sight and hearing and touch to others; of keepingfor herself only her suffering, aching, empty heart!
"Every succeeding year will steal something away from her beauty."
People pity her now, because she is so young and pretty--not reflectingthat the possession of the two best gifts under heaven makes her somuch the less worthy a subject for compassion. Twenty years hence, shewill probably be a "companion" still--will be not near so young, nornear so touching, and infinitely more to be pitied.
The snow lies long--longer than it generally does at this time of year.Ordinarily the old Cheshire saying holds good:
"If there's ice in October as 'll hould a duck, All the rest of the winter 'll turn to muck!"
But this October there has been ice enough to hold many ducks; but yetthe rest of the winter shows no signs of, as the homely saw phrasesit, "turning to muck." In the little flower-garden, round three sidesof which the ivied buttressed house is built, only a white heap here,and a white depression there, show where bush or bed were wont to be.Over the fair wide park, with all its mimic hills and valleys, copsesand spinneys, God has laid a great sheet--great as the one that was letdown by its four corners on the housetop to the fastidious Apostle--asheet purely, crisply, miserably white. In the park Esther, in theearly gloaming, after the daily drive, so literally a promenade _envoiture_, takes long walks; ruins her boots, discolours her petticoats,and makes her crape crimp with snow-water: strolls listless and aloneunder the old bare trees that have stripped off all their clothing--nowat the very time that they seem to need them most; traces the slenderfootprints of the famished birds--the little delicate tracks crossingand recrossing one another. And always the leading thought--displacednow and then by lesser thoughts, that flit like travelling swallowsthrough her mind, but ever, ever returning--is, "Where is Jack? Wherehas my boy gone to? Where is he _now, at this moment?_" If some trustymessenger could but come to her, with sure tidings, saying, "It is wellwith him!" Has she any reason for believing him to be in heaven, beyondthe vague confidence that most people seem to feel that their relativesmust be there, on the principle, I suppose, of the French Duke, of whomhis kindred remarked, that "God would certainly think twice 'avant dedamner une personne de sa qualite!'"
Jack's death had been most unlike the deaths of the shining Evangelicallights in Bessy Brandon's books, whose whole lives had been buttrifling prologues to the jubilant drama of their death. Death hadbeen to them an ecstasy; they had died with words of confident raptureon their lips, with strains of welcoming music in their ears: hehad departed painfully, sadly, almost dumbly; no sound of triumphantclarions greeted him from beyond Death's deep ford. Is he, then, in_hell?_ Oh blessed doctrine of cleansing purgatorial pains! if ourfaith would but admit of you! Which of us does not seem to himself somuch too bad for heaven, so much too good for hell?
"Let Faustus live in hell a thousand years, A hundred thousand, and at the last be saved!"
Where is he, then?--where is he? She takes counsel of the mute forcesof nature--of the clouds, the snows, and the blasts. But of what use?They knew not of his story; or, if they did, they were forbidden totell of it: silence was laid like a seal upon their lips.
It is not in the most edifying books that the grandest sayings are tobe found. What can be nobler than this of Rousseau's dying Julie: "Quis'endort dans le sein d'un pere, n'est pas en souci du reveil?"
The wearier in body she can return from these long, sad rambles,the better pleased is Esther; for is not weariness the father ofsleep--sleep, the one impartial thing under heaven; sleep, the radical;sleep, the leveller, that leaves a king's arms to embrace a tinker? Butof what use is it to sleep, if in sleep one hear--
"False voices, feel the kisses of false mouths, And footless sound of perished feet?"
And worse even than such dream-tortured slumber is fear-torturedwaking. Constitutionally timid, a weakened body and broken spirithave made Esther pitiably nervous. Jealousy, remorse, and fear run adreary race for the palm of extremest suffering; and I am not surethat fear does not win. The poor child suffers the torments of thedamned in her huge hearse-bed in the far-off, rat-haunted, ghostlyold chamber. She dreads falling asleep, for fear of waking to find thelow fire playing antics with Burke's long nose and spectacles, withPitt's maypole figure on the screen; flickering over the malignantfleshy Cupids on the wall; waking to see, looking in upon her throughthe curtains, Jack's face--not kind, _debonnaire_, smiling, as she usedto see it in the study at home (for _that_ could frighten no one), butsolemn, stiff, with closed eyes and bandaged chin, as she had lastseen it. Sometimes she sits up in bed, a cold sweat standing on herbrow, as some noise, distincter than usual, sounds through the room;"thud, thud," as of some falling object; an unexplained rustling inthe passage; a little clicking in the door-lock--sits up, listeningwith strained ears, thinking, "Can _that_ be rats?" Momently sheexpects to see some crape-masked burglar enter the door or window.And if such burglar did enter, it would be useless to scream forhelp; she is too far off from the rest of the household to be heard:it would be of no use to ring the bell, for it rings downstairs,miles away, and everybody is in bed and asleep upstairs. So she liesquaking--her terror now and then rising to such an uncontrollable pitchthat she feels as though, if it lasted a moment longer, she must gomad: listening with intense impatience to the leisurely "Tick-tack,tick-tack, tick-tack" of the cuckoo-clock outside; listening withinexpressible longing to hear it say, "Cuckoo, cuckoo, cuckoo, cuckoo!"four times. At four o'clock she will be safe, she thinks; at fouro'clock cocks begin to crow, dairymaids to get up, the bodiless deadreturn to their churchyard homes, night's unutterable horror to pass.What wonder if, after the agony of such vigils--agony ca
useless, youwill say, unreasonable, but none the less real, none the less acutefor that--she comes down in the morning wan, nerveless, with haggardcheeks, and great dark streaks under the unrested beauty of her eyes?
"The time is near the birth of Christ."
"Stir-up Sunday" is past; people have bought their raisins, and suet,and citron, and begun to mix their Christmas puddings. Turkeys liedead, thick as autumn-leaves in Vallambrosa. The snow is gone, but notwithout leaving Miss Craven the legacy of a very bad cold, derived fromcountless soaked stockings and neglected wet petticoats. She has had ita fortnight, and her weakened, lowered frame seems incapable of shakingoff the trifling ailment. For a week her voice has been almost gone,and she has consumed many sticks of liquorice, many boxes of blackcurrant lozenges, in the endeavour to bring it back to the requisiteshouting pitch for the inevitable daily newspaper reading.
It is afternoon: heavy rain, following the thaw, has prevented theinvariable drive to Shelford. Mrs. Blessington and the two girlsare sitting in the great room hung with battle-pieces, which isold-fashionedly named "the saloon." It is a mercy that it is a greatroom--else the fire, piled halfway up the chimney, and the never-openedwindows would render it unendurably close. As it is, the atmosphere,though less stifling than that of the interior of the family-coach, isfustier than is altogether agreeable.
"My dear," says Mrs. Blessington, shivering, "pick up my shawl; Ireally must have sand-bags to those windows; there comes in a wind atthem that positively nearly blows one out of one's chair."
Esther complies, and then resumes her occupation of holding a skeinof wool for Miss Blessington to wind. As often as she can do sowithout positive rudeness, she takes long looks at her companion'sface--immovably polished, like a monumental angel's: looks at her,half out of that sheer love of beauty in any form, from a man's to abeetle's, which is innate in some sensuous natures; partly, and muchmore, because each frosty-fair feature of her face, each trinket almostupon her person, is linked indissolubly in her mind with some look orword of St. John. Association, they say, lies stronger in a smell thanin aught else--stronger than in anything seen or heard; and so now theslight subtle scent floating from Constance's perfumed hair recallsto the sad young "companion," with a thrust of sharpest pain, her oneday's betrothal; that one day for whose sweet sake she does not regrethaving endured the calamity of existence; that day when they sowed--
"......Their talk with little kisses, thick As roses in rose harvest."
It is odd how often, when one is musing dumbly on some unspoken name,the people in whose company one is give utterance to that name, withoutany former conversation having led up to it.
"My dear Constance," says Mrs. Blessington, her slow old thoughtshaving at length travelled from draughts and sandbags, "do you thinkSt. John has any fancy as to what room he has? Young men are sometimes_faddy_. I depend upon you to tell me, and I will give Franklin ordersabout it."
St. John's room! He is coming here, then! The wool that she is holdingdrops forgotten into Esther's lap; the old delicious carmine that usedto make her so like a dog-rose springs up suddenly lovely into herface. Love is as hard to kill as any snake:
"Now, at the last gasp of love's latest breath, When, his pulse failing, passion speechless lies; When faith is kneeling by his bed of death, And innocence is closing up his eyes: Now, if thou wouldst, when all have given him over From death to life, thou mightst him yet recover."
"Unless you hold the skein differently, Miss Craven, I'm afraid Ireally cannot wind it," says Constance, a slight shade of contemptuousdispleasure in her voice.
Esther jumps back to reality, to find Miss Blessington's icy,unescapable eyes riveted upon her. She cannot turn away her head, nordive under the table for an imaginary lost handkerchief; she cannotlift her hands to hide her face; her occupation, which keeps bothruthlessly employed, forbids it. She can only sit still, plainlycrimson, and be stared at.
"Thanks, very much, aunt," Constance says, in her ladylike, pianovoice, beginning again to turn the scarlet ball swiftly through herlong pale fingers; "but I don't think he has any fancies. I could notthink of letting you spoil him by supposing he has; I'm sure he will bevery happy, wherever you put him."
"The blue room, in the west gallery, is one of the warmest in thehouse," rejoins the old lady, gathering her wraps closelier about her:"it is next but two to Miss Craven's; it has the same aspect. Yours iswarm--isn't it, my dear?--and there is a bath-room opening out of it."
"Is Mr. Gerard coming here?" asks Esther, tremulously, resolute to showMiss Blessington that she _can_ mention his name.
"Yes, my dear--to-morrow. Do you know him? Oh no! of course youcannot," replies the old lady, looking a little inquisitively at thetender rose-face of the girl.
"Miss Craven met him at Felton, last autumn," Constance answersfor her--no faintest gust of feeling apparently agitating the evenindifference of her voice. "He was most good-natured to her; ridingand walking, and altogether making a martyr of himself. St. John makeshimself very useful, flirting with all the young ladies that come tothe house: he really is invaluable in that way!"
Esther stoops her head low down, choked with indignation. "Perhaps Idon't come under the head of a 'young lady,'" she says, almost in awhisper; "but he certainly did not flirt with me."
"Didn't he?" Constance replies, carelessly. "Oh, if I recollect right,he amused himself a little--he always does. I often take him to taskabout that manner of his; it might give rise to unlucky mistakes;people who don't know him don't understand it."
Esther bites her lips, but has the sense to allow, with vastdifficulty, this last observation to pass unquestioned.
"His horses have arrived already," continues Constance, placidly; "hehas actually been unconscionable enough to send four of them: he isevidently going to test uncle's and your patience to the utmost bymaking a perfect visitation."
"Felton is such a good hunting country, that I wonder Mr. Gerard canbear to leave it now, just as the frost has broken up," remarks Esther,almost composedly; a dim, exquisite hope flashing up in her mind thathe has heard of her being at Blessington, and is coming to ask herto forgive him--to forgive her, rather; to ask her to kiss and makefriends.
The story-book ending, "Lived happy ever after," is running throughher brain, when her reverie is broken, gently, but very effectually,as reveries are apt to be, by a simple speech of Miss Blessington's,spoken with a little smile:
"It is evident that Miss Craven has not heard our news, is not it,aunt?"
"What news?" inquires the girl, eagerly.
"Nothing of much interest to any one but ourselves, I suppose. It isonly" (speaking with slow triumph, and narrowly watching the effect ofher words) "that St. John and I have made up our minds to marry oneanother!"
The knife cuts as clean and clear as she could have wished; the divinehappy rose-flush slips away suddenly out of the poor blank faceopposite her; a grey ashy-white takes its place. She had thought thatpain and pleasure were buried with Jack on the slope of Glan-yr-Afon'smountain graveyard; but that moment of raging agony undeceives her.For an instant the table and chairs seem dancing round; a humming buzzsounds dully in her ears; then the faintness passes; the table andchairs stand still again; the buzz ceases; and she is sitting on an oldgilt chair: her arms still moving mechanically, with the outstretchedwool upon them, while Constance goes winding, winding on--winding awayhope and pleasure and joy; while the ball, growing larger under herhands, seems to have stolen its red colour from Esther's heart-blood.
"Our friends have really been very disagreeable to us about it," saysMiss Blessington with a subdued laugh; "they tell us that it is themost uninteresting marriage they ever heard of, for that they had allforetold it, heaven knows how many centuries ago!"
"It is very seldom," replies Mrs. Blessington, shaking her head slowlyto and fro, "that a young man shows the sense St. John Gerard has donein coming into his parents' views for him: in the present day they aremostly s
o headstrong and resolute to pick and choose for themselves,which generally ends in their selecting some worthless person utterlyunsuited to their rank and fortune."
"How long have you been engaged?" asks Esther, presently, framing herwords with as much difficulty as though they had been spoken in somelittle-known foreign tongue. Worse to her than the loss of St. John isthe consciousness that that loss is written in despair's grey colourson her faded face, right under her rival's victorious eyes.
"How long? I really forget," answers Constance, with affectedcarelessness. "Oh, no! By-the-by, I recollect; it was almostimmediately after you left Felton. I daresay" (with a smile) "that youwere among the ranks of the prophets; lookers-on proverbially see mostof the game."
"Indeed--no!" cries the girl, with a passionate disclaimer, the agonyof loss made sharper by the humiliation of defeat. "Nothing ever struckme as more unlikely!"
"Indeed! And why, may I ask?"
The skein is finished; Esther lifts one hand to her face, and feels aslight relief in the partial shade.
"Why, pray?" with a slightly sharpened accent.
"Because--because," she answers, in confusion, "you had been brought uptogether from children; because Mr. Gerard's manner seemed so much morelike a brother's than a--a--lover's."
The word so applied half chokes her.
"We dislike public demonstrations of affection, both of us," rejoinsthe other, coldly displeased; "we leave those to servants and_savages_."
A footman enters with tea in handleless red dragon cups, costly as age,brittleness, and ingenious ugliness can make them.
Esther leans back in her chair, idle, staring vacantly at the pane,blurred with big rain-drops.
After a pause, "You have not congratulated me, Miss Craven," Constancesays, sipping her tea delicately; her madonna smile relaxing theseverely correct lines of her Greek mouth.
Esther gives a great start. "I? Oh, I beg your pardon! I--I forgot;I--I--I congratulate you!"
"I was just going to write and tell you the news," says Constance,graciously--"I thought it might interest you, as you had been with usso lately, and seen the whole thing going on--when we heard of yourbrother's sudden death."
Esther rises abruptly, and walks to the window, with that painfulhatred in her heart towards Miss Blessington that we feel towardsthose who lightly name our sacred dead to us.
"Was he your _only_ brother, my dear?" inquires Mrs. Blessington, withlanguid interest.
"Yes."
"Dear--dear! Very sad--very sad! And what did he die of? Consumption?"
"No--diphtheria."
"Ah! A very fatal complaint, my dear, especially among children. Ihave always had a great horror of it. In my younger days it used to becalled sore throat, but I suppose it killed just as many people then asit does now that it has got a fine long Latin name. I suppose your poorbrother suffered a great deal--didn't he, love?"
No answer, except a stifled sob, a rush from the room, and the sound offlying feet upon the hall's stone floor.
There are some things past human endurance; and to hear Jack'sparting agonies--agonies whose memory she herself dare as yet hardlycontemplate in her heart's low depths--lightly discussed by a gossipingold woman, is one of those things.
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