I looked at that fine, melancholy, energetic face as if he had saved me. I could not thank him. I turned and entered our room again, and told Nelly to be of good courage, that the doctor was come. “And, oh! please God, he’ll do you good, my own darling, darling — precious darling!”
In a minute more the doctor was in the room. My eyes were fixed upon his face as he talked to his poor little patient; he did not look at all as he had done on his former visit. I see him before me as I write; his bald head shining in the candlelight, his dissatisfied and gloomy face, and his shrewd light blue eyes, reading her looks askance, as his fingers rested on her pulse.
I remember, as if the sick-room had changed into it, finding myself in the small room opposite, with no one there but the doctor and Miss Grey, we three, in the cold morning light, and his saying, “Well all this comes of violating directions. There is very intense inflammation, and her chest is in a most critical state.”
Then Miss Grey said, after a moment’s hush, the awful words, “Is there any danger?” and he answered shortly, “I wish I could say there wasn’t.” I felt my ears sing as if a pistol had been fired. No one spoke for another minute or more.
The doctor stayed, I think, for a long time, and he must have returned after, for he mixed up in almost every scene I can remember during that jumbled day of terror.
There was, I know, but one day, and part of a night. But it seems to me as if whole nights intervened, and suns set and rose, and days uncounted and undistinguished passed, in that miserable period.
The pain subsided, but worse followed; a dreadful cough, that never ceased — a long, agonised struggle against a slow drowning of the lungs. The doctor gave her up. They wanted me to leave the room, but I could not.
The hour had come at last, and she was gone. The wild cry — the terrible farewell — nothing can move inexorable death. All was still.
As the ship lies serene in the caverns of the cold sea, and feels no more the fury of the wind, the strain of cable, and the crash of wave, this forlorn wreck lay quiet now. Oh! little Nelly! I could not believe it.
She lay in her nightdress under the white coverlet. Was this whole scene an awful vision, and was my heart breaking in vain? Oh, poor simple little Nelly, to think that you should have changed into anything so sublime and terrible!
I stood dumb by the bedside, staring at the white face that was never to move again. Such a look I had never seen before. The white glory of an angel was upon it.
Rebecca Torkill spoke to me, I think. I remember her kind, sorrowful old face near me, but I did not hear what she said. I was in a stupor, or a trance. I had not shed a tear; I had not said a word. For a time I was all but mad. In the light of that beautiful transfiguration my heart was bursting with the wildest rebellion against the law of death that had murdered my innocent sister before my eyes; against the fate of which humanity is the sport; against the awful Power who made us! What spirit knows, till the hour of temptation, the height or depth of its own impiety?
Oh, gentle, patient little Nelly! The only good thing I can see in myself in those days is my tender love of you, and my deep inward certainty of my immeasurable inferiority. Gentle, humble little Nelly, who thought me so excelling in cleverness, in wisdom, and countless other perfections, how humble in my secret soul I felt myself beside you, although I was too proud to say so! In your presence my fierce earthy nature stood revealed, and wherever I looked my shadow was cast along the ground by the pure light that shone from you.
I don’t know what time passed without a word falling from my lips. I suppose people had other things to mind, and I was left to myself. But Laura Grey stole her hand into mine, she kissed me, and I felt her tears on my cheek.
“Ethel, darling, come with me,” she said, crying, very gently. “You can come back again. You’ll come with me, won’t you? Our darling is happier, Ethel, than ever she could have been on earth, and she will never know change or sorrow again.”
I began to sob distractedly. I do really believe I was half out of my mind. I began to talk to her volubly, vehemently, crying passionately all the time. I do not remember now a word I uttered; I know its purport only from the pain, and even horror, I remember in Laura Grey’s pale face. It has taken a long and terrible discipline to expel that evil spirit. I know what I was in those days. My pilgrimage since then has been by steep and solitary paths, in great dangers, in darkness, in fear; I have eaten the bread of affliction, and my drink has been of the waters of bitterness; I am tired and footsore yet, though through a glass darkly, I think I can now see why it all was, and I thank God with a contrite heart for the terrors and the mercies he has shown me. I begin to discover through the mist who was the one friend who never forsook me through all those stupendous wanderings, and I long for the time when I shall close my tired eyes, all being over, and lie at the feet of my Saviour.
CHAPTER IV.
MY FATHER.
Forth sped Laura Grey’s letter to mamma. She was then at Roydon; papa was with her. The Easter recess had just sent down some distinguished visitors, who were glad to clear their heads for a few days of the hum of the Houses and the smell of the river; and my father, although not in the House, ran down with them. Little Nelly had been his pet, as I was mamma’s.
There was an awkwardness in postoffice arrangements between the two places then, and letters had to make a considerable circuit. There was a delay of three clear days between the despatch of the letter and the reply.
I must say a word about papa. He was about the most agreeable and careless man on earth. There are men whom no fortune could keep out of debt. A man of that sort seems to me not to have any defined want or enjoyment, but the horizon of his necessities expands in proportion as he rises in fortune, and always exceeds the ring-fence of his estate. What its periphery may be, or his own real wants, signifies very little. His permanent necessity is always to exceed his revenue.
I don’t think my father’s feelings were very deep. He was a goodnatured husband, but, I am afraid, not a good one. I loved him better than I loved mamma. Children are always captivated by gaiety and indulgence. I was not of an age to judge of higher things, and I never missed the article of religion, of which, I believe, he had none. Although he lived so much in society that he might almost be said to have no domestic life whatever, no man could be simpler, less suspicious, or more easily imposed upon.
The answer to Miss Grey’s letter was the arrival of my father. He was in passionate grief, and in a state of high excitement. He ran upstairs, without waiting to take off his hat; but at the door of our darling’s room he hesitated. I did not know he had arrived till I heard him, some minutes later, walking up and down the room, sobbing. Though he was selfish, he was affectionate. No one liked to go in to disturb him. She lay by this time in her coffin. The tint of clay darkened her pretty features. The angelic beauty that belongs to death is transitory beyond all others. I would not look at her again, to obscure its glory. She lay now in her shroud, a forlorn sunken image of decay.
When he came out he talked wildly and bitterly. His darling had been murdered, he said, by neglect. He upbraided us all round, including Rebecca Torkill, for our cruel carelessness. He blamed the doctor. He had no right, in a country where there was but one physician, to go so far away as fourteen miles, and to stay away so long. He denounced even his treatment. He ought to have bled her. It was, every one knew, the proper way of treating such a case.
Than Laura Grey, no one could have been more scrupulously careful. She could not have prevented, even if she had suspected the possibility of such a thing, her stealing out of bed now and then to look at her sick sparrow. All this injustice was, however, but the raving of his grief.
In poor little Nelly’s room my father’s affectionate nature was convulsed with sorrow. When he came down I cried with him for a long time. I think this affliction has drawn us nearer. He was more tender to me than I ever remembered him before.
At last the ghastly wait and su
spense were ended. I saw no more strange faces in the lobbies; and the strange voices on the stairs and footsteps in the room, and the muffled sounds that made me feel faint, were heard no more. The funeral was over, and pretty Nelly was gone for ever and ever, and I would come in and go out and read my books, and take my walks alone; and the flowers, and the long summer evenings, and the song of birds would come again, and the leaves make their soft shadow in the nooks where we used to sit together in the wood, but gentle little Nelly would never come again.
During these terrible days, Laura Grey was a sister to me, both in affection and in sorrow. Oh, Laura, can I ever forget your tender, patient sympathy? How often my thoughts recall your loved face as I lay my head upon my lonely pillow, and my blessings follow you over the wide sea to your far-off home!
Papa took a long solitary ride that day through the warren, and away by Penruthyn Priory, and did not return till dark.
When he did, he sent for me. I found him in the room which, in the oldfashioned style, was called the oak parlour. A log-fire — we were well supplied from the woods in the rear of the house — lighted the room with a broad pale flicker. My father was looking ill and tired. He was leaning with his elbow on the mantelpiece, and said:
“Ethel, darling, I want to know what you would like best. We are going abroad for a little time; it is the only thing for your mamma. This place would kill her. I shall be leaving this tomorrow afternoon, and you can make up your mind which you would like best — to come with us and travel for some months, or to wait here, with Miss Grey, until our return. You shall do precisely whatever you like best — I don’t wish you to hurry yourself, darling. I’d rather you thought it over at your leisure.”
Then he sat down and talked about other things; and turned about to the fire with his decanter of sherry by him, and drank a good many glasses, and leaned back in his chair before he had finished it.
My father, I thought, was dozing, but was not sure; and being a good deal in awe of him — a natural consequence of seeing so little of him — I did not venture either to waken him, or to leave the room without his permission.
There are two doors in that room. I was standing irresolutely near that which is next the window, when the other opened, and the long whiskers and goodhumoured, sensible face of portly Wynne Williams, the town-clerk and attorney of Cardyllion, entered. My father awoke, with a start, at the sound, and seeing him, smiled and extended his hand.
“How d’ye do, Williams? It’s so good of you to come. Sit down. I’m off tomorrow, so I sent you a note. Try that sherry; it is better than I thought. And now I must tell you, that old scoundrel, Rokestone, is going to foreclose the mortgage, and they have served one of the tenants at Darlip with an ejectment; that’s more serious; I fancy he means mischief there also. What do you think?”
“I always thought he might give us annoyance there; but Mandrick’s opinion was with us. Do you wish me to look after that?”
“Certainly. And he’s bothering me about that trust.”
“I know,” said Mr. Wynne Williams, with rather gloomy rumination.
“That fellow has lost me — I was reckoning it up only a day or two ago — between five and six thousand pounds in mere law costs, beside all the direct mischief he has done me; and he has twice lost me a seat in the House — first by maintaining that petition at King’s Firkins, a thing that must have dropped but for his money; he had nothing on earth to do with it, and no motive but his personal, fiendish feelings; and next by getting up the contest against me at Shillingsworth, where, you know, it was ten to one; by Heavens! I should have had a walk over. There is not an injury that man could do me he has not done. I can prove that he swore he would strip me of everything I possessed. It is ever so many years since I saw him — you know all about it — and the miscreant pursues me still relentlessly. He swore to old Dymock, I’m told, and I believe it, that he would never rest till he had brought me to a prison. I could have him before a jury for that. There’s some remedy, I suppose, there’s some protection? If I had done what I wished ten years ago, I’d have had him out; it’s not too late yet to try whether pistols can’t settle it. I wish I had not taken advice; in a matter like that, the man who does always does wrong. I daresay, Williams, you think with me, now it’s a case for cutting the Gordian knot?”
“I should not advise it, sir; he’s an old man, and he’s not afraid of what people say, and people know he has fought. He’d have you in the Queen’s Bench, and as his feelings are of that nature, I’d not leave him the chance — I wouldn’t trust him.”
“It’s not easy to know what one should do — a miscreant like that. I hope and pray that the curse of — — “
My father spoke with a fierce tremble in his voice, and at that moment he saw me. He had forgotten that I was in the room, and said instantly:
“You may as well run away, dear; Mr. Williams and I have some business to talk over — and tiresome business it is. Good night, darling.”
So away I went, glad of my escape, and left them talking. My father rang the bell soon, and called for more wine; so I suppose the council sat till late. I joined Laura Grey, to whom I related all that had passed, and my decision on the question, which was, to remain with her at Malory. She kissed me, and said, after a moment’s thought:
“But will they think it unkind of you, preferring to remain here?”
“No,” I said; “I think I should be rather in the way if I went; and, besides, I know papa is never high with any one, and really means what he says; and I should feel a little strange with them. They are very kind, and love me very much, I know, and so do I love them; but I see them so little, and you are such a friend, and I don’t wish to leave this place; I like it better than any other in all the world; and I feel at home with you, more than I could with any one else in the world.”
So that point was settled, and next day papa took leave of me very affectionately; and, notwithstanding his excited language, I heard nothing more of pistols and Mr. Rokestone. But many things were to happen before I saw papa again.
I remained, therefore, at Malory, and Laura Grey with me; and the shadow of Mr. Carmel passed the window every evening, but he did not come in to see us, as he used. He made inquiries at the door instead, and talked, sometimes for five minutes together, with Rebecca Torkill. I was a little hurt at this; I did not pretend to Laura to perceive it; but in our walks, or returning in the evening, if by chance I saw his tall, thin, but graceful figure approaching by the same path, I used to make her turn aside and avoid him by a detour. In so lonely a place as Malory the change was marked; and there was pain in that neglect. I would not let him fancy, however, that I wished, any more than he, to renew our old and near acquaintance.
So weeks passed away, and leafy May had come, and Laura Grey and I were sitting in our accustomed room, in the evening, talking in our desultory way.
“Don’t you think papa very handsome?” I asked.
“Yes, he is handsome,” she answered; “there is something refined as well as clever in his face; and his eyes are fine; and all that goes a great way. But many people might think him not actually handsome, though very good-looking and prepossessing.”
“They must be hard to please,” I said.
She smiled goodnaturedly.
“Mamma fell in love with him at first sight, Rebecca Torkill says,” I persisted, “and mamma was not easily pleased. There was a gentleman who was wildly in love with her; a man of very old family, Rebecca says, and good-looking, but she would not look at him when once she had seen papa.”
“I think I heard of that. He is a baronet now; but he was a great deal older than Mr. Ware, I believe.”
“Yes, he was; but Rebecca says he did not look ten years older than papa, and he was very young indeed then,” I answered. “It was well for mamma she did not like him, for I once heard Rebecca say that he was a very bad man.”
“Did you ever hear of mamma’s aunt Lorrimer?” I resumed, after a little pause
.
“Not that I recollect.”
“She is very rich, Rebecca says. She has a house in London, but she is hardly ever there. She’s not very old — not sixty. Rebecca is always wondering whom she will leave her money to; but that don’t much matter, for I believe we have more than we want. Papa says, about ten years ago, she lived for nothing but society, and was everywhere; and now she has quite given up all that, and wanders about the Continent.”
Our conversation subsided; and there was a short interval in which neither spoke.
“Why is it, Laura,” said I, after this little silence, “that you never tell me anything about yourself, and I am always telling you everything I think or remember? Why are you so secret? Why don’t you tell me your story?”
“My story; what does it signify? I suppose it is about an average story. Some people are educated to be governesses; and some of us take to it later, or by accident; and we are amateurs, and do our best. The Jewish custom was wise; every one should learn a mechanic’s business. Saint Paul was a tent-maker. If fortune upsets the boat, it is well to have anything to lay hold of — anything rather than drowning; an hospital matron, a companion, a governess, there are not many chances, when things go wrong, between a poor woman and the workhouse.”
“All this means, you will tell me nothing,” I said.
“I am a governess, darling. What does it matter what I was? I am happier with you than ever I thought I could be again. If I had a story that was pleasant to hear, there is no one on earth I would tell it to so readily; but my story —— There is no use in thinking over misfortune,” she continued; “there is no greater waste of time than regretting, except wishing. I know, Ethel, you would not pain me. I can’t talk about those things; I may another time.”
“You shan’t speak of them, Laura, unless you wish it. I am ashamed of having bothered you so,” I kissed her. “But, will you tell me one thing, for I am really curious about it? I have been thinking about that very peculiar-looking old gentleman, who wore a chocolate-coloured greatcoat, and met us in the Mill Walk, and talked to you, you remember, on the Sunday we returned from church that way. Now, I want you to tell me, is that old man’s name Rokestone?”
Complete Works of Sheridan Le Fanu (Illustrated) Page 618
