Works of Ellen Wood

by Ellen Wood

  “Lucy, my dear,” broke in the invalid’s voice, always so plaintive, “I do not pretend to fathom this trouble of yours. It is beyond me. I can only think it must be some difference between you and your husband—”

  “And if it were?” interrupted Lucy, recklessly.

  “If it were! Why then, I should say to you, above all things, bear. You do not know, you cannot possess any idea of the bitter life of a woman at real issue with her husband. I know a lady — but she does not live in these parts, and you have never heard of her — who separated from her husband. She and my own mother were at school together, and she married young and, it was thought, happily. After a time she grew jealous of her husband; she had cause for it: he was altogether a gay, careless man, fond of show and pleasure. For some years she bore a great deal in silence, the world knowing nothing of things being wrong between them. Papa could tell you more about this time than I: I was but a little child. How he and my mother, the only friends who were in her confidence, urged her to go on bearing with what patience she might, and trusting to God to set wrong things right. For a long while she listened to them; but there came a time when she allowed exasperation to get the better of her; and the world was astonished by hearing that she and her husband had agreed to separate. Ah Lucy! it was then that her life of real anguish set in. Just at first, for a few weeks or so, perhaps months, she was borne up by the excitement of the thing, by the noise it made in the world, by the gratification of taking revenge on her husband — by I know not what. But as the long months and the years went on, and all excitement, I may almost say all interest in life, had faded, she then saw what she had done. She was a solitary woman condemned to an unloved and solitary existence, and she repented her act with the whole force of her bitter and lonely heart. Better, Lucy, that she had exercised patience, and trusted in God; better for her own happiness.”

  “And what of her now?” cried Lucy, eagerly.

  “Nothing. Nothing but what I tell you. She lives away her solitary years, not a day of them passing but she wishes to heaven that that one fatal act of hers could be recalled — the severing herself from her husband.”

  “And he, Margaret’?”

  “He? For aught I know to the contrary, he has been as happy since as he was before; perhaps, in his complete freedom, more so. She thought, poor woman, to work out her revenge upon him; instead of that, it was on herself she worked it out. Men and women are different. A separated man — say a divorced man if you like — can go abroad; here, there, and everywhere; and enjoy life without hindrance, and take his pleasure at will: but a woman, if she be a right-minded woman, must stay in her home-shell, and eat her heart away.”

  Lucy Andinnian sighed. It was no doubt all too true.

  “I have related this for your benefit, Lucy. My dear little friend, at all costs, stay with your husband.”

  “I should never think of leaving him for good as that other poor woman did,” sobbed Lucy. “I should be dead of grief in a year.”

  “True. Whatever your cross may be, my dear — and I cannot doubt that it is a very sharp and heavy one — take it up as bravely as you can, and bear it. No cross, no crown.”

  Some of the school children came in for a lesson in fine work — stitching and gathering — and Lady Andinnian took her departure. She had not gained much comfort; she was just as miserable as it was possible to be.

  The church bell was going for the five o’clock evening service. Since the advent of St. Jerome’s, Mr. Sumnor had opened his church again for daily service, morning and evening. This, however, was a Saint’s day. A feeling came over poor Lucy that she should like to sob out her heart in prayer to God; and she slipped in. Not going down the aisle to their own conspicuous pew, but into an old-fashioned, square, obscure thing near the door, that was filled on Sundays with the poor, and hidden behind a pillar. There, unseen, unsuspected, she knelt on the floor, she lifted up her heart on high, sobbing silent sobs of agony, bitter tears raining from her eyes; asking God to hear and help her; to help her to bear.

  She sat out the service and grew composed enough to join in it. The pillar hid her from the clergyman’s view; nobody noticed that she was there. So far as she could see, there were not above half-a-dozen people in the church. In going out, Mr. Sumnor and Mr. Moore’s sister, Aunt Diana, came up to join her.

  “I did not know you were in church, Lady Andinnian,” said the clergyman.

  “The bell was going when I left your house: I had been to see Margaret: so I stepped in,” she replied. “But what a very small congregation!”

  “People don’t care to attend on week-days, and that’s the truth,” put in Miss Moore — a middle-aged, stout lady, with her brown hair cut short and a huge flapping hat on. “And the young folks are all off to that blessed St. Jerome’s. My nieces are there; I know it; and so are your two daughters, Mr. Sumnor. More shame for them!”

  “Ay,” sighed Mr. Sumnor, whose hair and face were alike grey, and his look as sad as his tone. “Their running to St. Jerome’s, as they do, is nothing less, in my eyes, than a scandal. I don’t know what is to be the end of it all.”

  “End of it all,” echoed Aunt Diana, in her strong-minded voice. “Why, the end will be nothing but a continuation of the folly; or perhaps worse — Rome, or a convent, or something of that kind. I truly believe, Mr. Sumnor, that heaven above was never so mocked before, since the world began, as it is now by this semblance of zeal in boys and girls for religious services and worship. The true worship of a Christian, awakened to his state of sin and to the need he has of God’s forgiveness and care, of Christ’s love, is to be revered — but that is totally different from this business at Jerome’s. This is hollow at the core; born of young men’s and young girls’ vanity. Does all the flocking thither come of religion, think you? Not it.”

  “Indeed no,” said Mr. Sumnor.

  “And therefore I say it is a mockery of true religion, and must be a sin in the sight of heaven. They run after Mr. Cattacomb himself: nothing else. I went to St. Jerome’s myself this morning; not to say my prayers; just to watch my nieces and see what was going on. They had all sorts of ceremonies and foolish folly: three of the girls had been there beforehand, confessing to the Reverend Guy: and there was he, performing the service and turning up the tails of his eyes.” —

  “O Miss Diana,” involuntarily exclaimed Lucy, hardly knowing whether to laugh or reprove.

  “It is true, Lady Andinnian. Mr. Sumnor here knows it is. Why does Cattacomb go through his service with all that affectation? Of course the girls like it: but they are little fools, all of them; they’d think anything right that was done by him. I fancy the young man has some good in him; I acknowledge it; but he is eaten up with vanity, and lives in the incense offered by these girls. Ah well, it’s to be hoped they will all, priest and children, come to their senses sometime.” —

  She turned into her home as she spoke, after wishing them good-bye. Lucy stayed to shake hands with the clergyman.

  “Miss Diana is given to expressing herself strongly, but she is right in the main,” said Mr. Sumnor. “St. Jerome’s is giving me a great deal of trouble and sorrow just now, in more ways than one. But we have all something to bear,” he added, after a pause. “All.

  Sometimes I think that the more painful it is, the more God is caring for us. Fare you well, my dear young lady. Give my kind regards to Sir Karl.”

  Lucy walked homewards, a feeling of peace insensibly diffusing itself over her afflicted soul. The clergyman words had touched her.

  Verses of Holy Writ and thoughts connected with them kept rising in her mind like messages of consolation. In her misery, she felt how very weak and weary she was; that there was nothing for her but to resign herself to Heaven’s protecting hand, as a helpless child. The cry for it broke out involuntarily from her lips.

  “Lord, I am oppressed. Undertake for me!”

  CHAPTER XXI.

  Hard to Bear.

  DINNER was waiting when
Lady Andinnian entered, and the first person she saw was her husband. He met her in the hall with outstretched hand, his face clear and open, showing no signs of shame or guilt. “Did you think I was lost, Lucy?”

  She suffered her hand to touch his; for Hewitt and the tall footman, Giles, were standing in the hall, looking on. Sir Karl saw how red her eyes were.

  “I meant to have returned by an earlier train; but as I had the day before me I took the opportunity of seeing after a few things I wished to purchase — and the time slipped on,” said Karl. “How have you been, Lucy?”

  “Oh, quite well, thank you.”

  “Whom do you think I travelled down with, Lucy? My old friend, Lamprey. He had to come to Basham on some matter of business: so I have brought him here to dinner. Make haste,” he added, as she turned to the staircase: “I think it must be ready.”

  “I will be down directly,” she answered.

  Aglaé was waiting; and in five minutes Lucy came down again, dressed. Captain Lamprey was introduced to her — for it happened that they had not been personally acquainted when at Winchester — and gave her his arm into the dining-room. Miss Blake fell to Karl. —

  But in Lucy’s heart-sickness, she could scarcely be cheerful. Her tell-tale eyes were heavy; there arose ever and anon one of those rising sobs of the breath that speak most unmistakably of hidden grief: and altogether Captain Lamprey felt somewhat disappointed in Lady Andinnian. He remembered how beautiful Lucy Cleeve used to be: he had heard of the renewed gaiety of heart her marriage with Karl brought her: but he saw only a sad woman, who was evidently not too happy, and whose beauty was marred by sadness and paleness. Karl was more cheerful than usual; and Miss Blake seemed not to tire of inquiring after Winchester and its people. But in the midst of all his observations, Captain Lamprey never suspected that there was anything but perfect cordiality between Sir Karl and his wife. And the dinner came to an end.

  After coffee, Captain Lamprey set off to walk to Basham. Karl went out with him, to put him in the right road and accompany him part of it. Miss Blake had gone to Vespers. Lucy was alone.

  It seemed to her to be dull everywhere; especially dull indoors, and she stepped out to the lawn: turning back almost immediately to get a shawl for her shoulders, in obedience to an injunction of her husband’s. On the Sunday evening, when he found her sitting out of doors without one, he had fetched one at once, and begged her not to be imprudent or to forget her ague-fever of the previous year. She remembered this now and went back for the shawl. Some wives, living in estrangement from their husbands, might have studiously set his commands at naught, and have risked ague, or what not, rather than obey them. Not so Lucy Andinnian. She was meek and gentle by nature. Moreover, in spite of the ill-feeling he had caused to rise up between them, in spite of her sense of wrong and insult, she loved him in her heart, and could not help it, as truly as ever. Visions would steal over her in unguarded moments, of the present trouble being hushed to rest; of all that was amiss being done away with, and she and he reconciled and at peace again. Unhappily for the demands of pride, of self-assertion, Lucy was by no means one of your high-spirited and strong-minded heroines, who rashly overlook all interests to indulge in reprisals and revenge.

  She folded the shawl about her — one of substantial white silk crape — as carefully as Karl could have folded it; and she stayed, she knew not how long, in the open air. Pacing the lawn; sitting amidst the flowers; standing under the shade of the trees; always in deep thought. The nightingale sang, and the tears gathered in her eyes as she listened to the strain. “What a sweet place this would be to live in,” thought Lucy, “if only we could but have peace with it!”

  But the nightingale’s song and the oppressive thoughts, together with the falling dusk, brought back all her low spirits again. “There will never be any more happiness for me in this world, never, never,” she sighed, and the tears were dropping as she went up to her own room.

  By and by Sir Karl returned. Not seeing his wife downstairs, he went up and knocked at the door of her little sitting-room. He had not had an opportunity of speaking a private word to her since his return. There came no answer, and he entered. The room was empty: but as he stood for a moment in the deep silence of twilight, the sound of sobs in Lucy’s bedchamber smote his ear. He knocked at it.

  “Lucy!”

  She had indeed once more given way to all the abandonment of grief. Which was very foolish: but perhaps its indulgence brought a kind of relief, and indeed her spirit was very sore. The knock startled her: but she had not heard the call. —

  “Who’s there?” she asked, stepping to the door and stifling her sobs as she best could.

  “I want to speak to you, Lucy.”

  She dried her eyes, and unlocked the door, and made believe to be calmly indifferent, as she stepped into the sitting-room.

  “I beg your pardon, Sir Karl. I was busy, and did not hear you.”

  “You are looking very ill, Lucy,” he said, with grieved concern. “I thought so when I first saw you this afternoon. Then, as now, your eyes were red with weeping.”

  She strove for calmness; she prayed for it. Her determination had been taken to bury in haughty silence all she had learnt of the London journey, its despicable deceit, and insult to her. She could not have spoken of it; no, not even to reproach him and to bring his shame home to him: it would have inflicted too much humiliation on her sensitive spirit Besides, he must know what she suffered as well as she did.

  “I have had rather a tiring day,” she answered, leaning sideways against the open window. “There was the elaborate luncheon with General and Mrs.

  Lloyd, and the flower-show afterwards. The weather was very warm and oppressive.”

  “That may account for your being tired and not looking well: but not for the weeping, Lucy. As I stood here waiting for you to answer my knock, I heard your sobs.”

  “Yes,”

  “she said, rather faintly, feeling how useless it would be to deny that there had been some weeping. “I get a little low-spirited sometimes in the evening.”

  “But why? wherefore?”

  “Is life so pleasant with us just now that I can always be gay, think you?” she retorted, after a pause, and her voice took a tone of resentment.

  “But the unpleasantness is of your making; not mine. You know it, Lucy.”

  “Then — then it is right that I should be the one to suffer,” was her impatient answer — for his words were trying her almost beyond endurance. “Let it go so: I do not wish to speak of it further.”

  Karl was standing at the opposite corner of the window, facing her, his arms folded. On his part he was beginning to be a little out of patience too, with what he deemed her unreasonable caprice. For a few moments there was silence.

  “What I want to tell you is this, Lucy. My visit to London was connected with that wish which you seem to have so much at heart — though I cannot exactly understand why—”

  “I have no wish at heart,” she resentfully interrupted.

  “Nay, but hear me. The wish you expressed to me I think you must have at heart, since on its fulfilment you say depends our reconciliation. I speak of the removal of — of the tenants of the Maze,” he added, half breaking down, in his sensitive hesitation. “Since my conversation with you on Saturday, during which, if you remember, this stipulation of yours was made, there occurred, by what I should call, a singular chance, only that I do not believe anything is chance that affects our vital interests in this life — there occurred to me a slight circumstance by which I thought I saw a possibility of carrying out your wish—”

  “You said then that it was your wish also,” again interrupted Lucy. “Or affected to say it.”

  “Your wish for it cannot be as hearty as mine,” he impulsively answered. “I pray for it night and day.”

  And Lucy could not well mistake the emotional earnestness. She believed him there.

  “Well, I thought I saw a chance of it,” he res
umed, “and I went to get some information, that I fancied might help me, from Plunkett and Plunkett—”

  “Is it fitting that you should give these details to me?” she haughtily interposed.

  “I wish you to understand that I am doing my best. Plunkett and Plunkett could not give me the information: but they directed me to some people where I might obtain it. To enable me to see one of these people, I had to stay in town all night; and that was the reason of my not getting home.”

  Lucy had taken a spray of jessamine from her waist-band, and stood pulling it to pieces, listening with an air of indifference.

  “I do not really know more than I did before I went to town, as to whether or not the Maze can be left empty,” he went on. “But I have a good hope of it. I think I may be able to accomplish it, though perhaps not quite immediately. It may take time.”

  “As you please, of course,” answered Lucy coldly. “It is nothing to me.”

  Karl Andinnian had one of the sweetest tempers in the world, and circumstances had taught him patience and endurance. But he felt grieved to his very heart at her cutting indifference, and for once his spirit rebelled against it.

  “Lucy, how dare you treat me so? What have I done to deserve it from you? You must know and see what a life of tempest and apprehension mine is. There are moments when I feel that I could welcome death, rather than continue to live it.”

  She was not ungenerous. And, as he so spoke, it struck her that, whatever her wrongs, she had been petty and ungracious to him now. And perhaps — Heaven knew — he was really striving to rid himself of Mrs. Grey as earnestly as she could wish it. Her countenance softened.

  “I am as a man tied down in a net from which there is no extrication,” he resumed with increased emotion. “My days are so full of care that I envy the poor labourers at work by the road-side, and wish I was one of them — anything in the world, good or bad, but what that world calls me — Sir Karl Andinnian. And my wife, whom I have loved with my heart’s best love, and whom I might have fondly hoped would pity my strait and comfort me — she turns against me. God forgive you for your harshness, Lucy.”