Buch lesen: «Heartsease; Or, The Brother's Wife», Seite 13
‘Surely she had the anxiety all the same?’
‘There is a good deal spared by not being on the spot.’
‘How can he think so! said Violet to herself. I can’t imagine how she lived as long as she did. ‘Did you not see her at all when you were ill?’ she said.
‘Yes, we had one great treat that winter when I was at the worst. It was one of my father’s especial pieces of kindness; he wrote to her himself, and sent Simmonds to fetch her to Martindale.’
‘And were you able to enjoy having her?’
‘It was inflammation on the chest, so all my senses were free. She used to sit by me with her sober face, at work, ready to read and talk to me, and left sayings and thoughts that have brought refreshment at every such time. It was indeed a blessing that she could come that first time to teach me how to bear illness.’
‘How long did she stay?’
‘Only three weeks, for her absence only showed how little she could be spared; but she left an influence on that room of mine that it has never lost.’
‘How solitary it must have been when you were recovering.’
‘I had her letters. I will show you some of them some day. She used to write almost daily.’
‘And it was when you were getting better that you took the great journey in the East?’
‘Yes; Percy had just left Cambridge, and was ready to take the care of me on his hands. Those two years went pleasantly by, and what a happy visit it was at Elsdale afterwards! You can’t think how this talking over our travels has brought it back. As long as Mrs. Percival lived we did pretty well. She made Helen take care of herself, and I could go and stay there; but after her death the poor old man grew more childish and exacting. I once tried staying at the curate’s, but it did not answer. He could not bear to have her out of his sight, and had taken an unhappy aversion to me, fancying me some old admirer of his own daughter, and always warning her against me.’
‘How distressing! How wretched! It would have killed me long before! How did she bear it? I know it was patiently, but I cannot understand it!’
‘Her letters will best show you. It was the perfect trust that it was good for us; but what she underwent in those last three years we never knew. Her brother was at Constantinople. I could not go to Elsdale, and there was no one to interfere. We could not guess from her cheerful letters how she was wearing herself out, bearing his caprices, giving up sleep and exercise. I knew how it would be the first moment I met her, when I went to Elsdale to the funeral; but it was supposed to be only over-fatigue, and her aunt, Lady Fotheringham, took her home to recover. She grew worse, and went to London for advice. There I met her, and—and there she herself told me she had disease of the heart, and could not live a year.’
Violet gave a sort of sob.
‘She held up to me that cross—that first gift—she bade me think of the subjection of wills and affections it betokened. Little had we once thought of that meaning!’
‘And then?’ asked Violet, with face flushed and hands clasped.
‘Lady Fotheringham took her to Worthbourne.’
‘Could you be with her?’
‘Yes. One of the especial subjects of thankfulness was that I was well enough to stay with her. She was perfectly happy and contented, chiefly concerned to soften it to me. It was as if she had finished her work, and was free to enjoy, as she sank into full repose, sunsets, hoar frosts, spring blossoms, the having me with her, her brother’s return—everything was a pleasure. I can hardly call it a time of grief, when she was so placid and happy. All the wishing and scheming was over, and each day that I could look at her in her serenity, was only too precious.’
‘Was there much suffering?’
‘At times there was, but in general there was only languor. She used to lie by the window, looking so smiling and tranquil, that it was hard to believe how much she had gone through; and so peaceful, that we could not dare to wish to bring her back to care and turmoil. The last time she was able to talk to me, she showed me the cross still round her neck, and said she should like to think it would be as much comfort to any one else as it had been to her. I did not see her again till I was called in for her last look on anything earthly, when the suffering was passed, and there was peaceful sinking.’
Violet was crying too much for words, until at last she managed to say, ‘How could you—what could you do?’
‘My illness was the best thing that could happen to me.’
‘How sorry you must have been to get well.’
He replied,
‘Her wings were grown,
To heaven she’s flown,
‘Cause I had none I’m left.’
‘Those lines haunted me when I found myself reviving to the weary useless life I spend here.’
‘O how can you call it so?’ cried Violet. ‘How could Arthur and I do without you?’
There was a sound up-stairs, and she started to the door, ran up, but came down in a few moments. ‘He is awake and better,’ she said. ‘I cannot come down again, for Sarah must go to supper. Good night; thank you for what you have told me;’ then, with an earnest look, ‘only I can’t bear you to say your life is useless. You don’t know how we look to you.’
‘Thank you for your kind listening,’ he answered. ‘It has done me a great deal of good; but do not stay,’ as he saw her evidently longing to return to her child, yet lingering in the fear of unkindness to him. ‘I am glad he is better; you and he must both have a good night.’
John was indeed refreshed by the evening’s conversation. It had disclosed to him a new source of comfort, for hitherto his grief had never known the relief of sympathy. His whole soul had been fixed on one object from his boyhood; the hopes of deserving Helen had been his incentive to exertion in his youth, and when disabled by sickness, he had always looked forward to a new commencement of active usefulness with her. It had been a life of waiting: patient, but without present action, and completely wrapped up in a single attachment and hope. When that was taken from him he had not failed in faith and submission, but he had nothing to occupy him or afford present solace and interest; he had no future save lonely waiting still, until he should again rejoin her who had been his all on earth.
However, the effort made to reconcile his brother with the family had produced an unlooked-for influence, and enlarged his sphere of interest. At first came languid amusement in contemplating the pretty young bride, then liking and compassion for her, then the great anxiety in her illness, and afterwards real affection and solicitude for her and her child had filled his mind, and detached him from his own sorrows; and he now became sensible that he had, indeed, while trying to serve her and his brother, done much for his own relief. What she said of their dependence on him was not only a pleasure to him, but it awoke him to the perception that he had not been so utterly debarred from usefulness as he had imagined, and that he had neglected much that might have infinitely benefited his brother, sister, and father. He had lived for himself and Helen alone!
He tried to draw out Helen’s example to teach Violet to endure, and in doing so the other side of the lesson came home to himself. Helen’s life had been one of exertion as well as of submission. It had not been merely spent in saying, ‘Thy will be done,’ but in doing it; she had not merely stood still and uncomplaining beneath the cross, but she had borne it onward in the service of others.
CHAPTER 7
Sweeter ‘tis to hearken
Than to bear a part,
Better to look on happiness
Than to carry a light heart,
Sweeter to walk on cloudy hills,
With a sunny plain below,
Than to weary of the brightness
Where the floods of sunshine flow.
—ALFORD
One morning John received a letter from Constantinople, which he had scarcely opened before he exclaimed, ‘Ha! what does he mean? Given up his appointment! Coming home! It is just like him. I must read you what he says, it is, so characteristic.’
‘You must have been provoked at my leaving you all this time in doubt what to do with our precious tour, but the fact is, that I have been making a fool of myself, and as the Crusaders are the only cover my folly has from the world, I must make the most of them. I give out that my literary affairs require my presence; but you, as the means of putting me into my post, deserve an honest confession. About six weeks ago, my subordinate, Evans, fell sick—an estimable chicken-hearted fellow. In a weak moment, I not only took his work on my hands, but bored myself by nursing him, and thereby found it was a complaint only to be cured by my shoes.’
‘Shoes! exclaimed Violet. John read on.
‘It was a dismal story of an engagement to a clergyman’s daughter; her father just dead, she reduced to go out as a governess, and he having half nothing of his own, mending the matter by working himself into a low fever, and doing his best to rid her of all care on his account. Of course I rowed him well, but I soon found I had the infection—a bad fit of soft-heartedness came over me.’
‘Oh!’ cried Violet, ‘he gives up for this poor man’s sake.’
‘I thought all peace was over if I was to see poor Evans enacting the enamoured swain every day of my life, for the fellow had not the grace to carry it off like a man—besides having his business to do; or, if he should succeed in dying, I should not only be haunted by his ghost, but have to convey his last words to the disconsolate governess. So, on calculation, I thought trouble would be saved by giving notice that I was going home to publish the Crusaders, and sending him to fetch his bride, on whose arrival I shall bid a long farewell to the Grand Turk. I fancy I shall take an erratic course through Moldavia and some of those out-of-the-way locations, so you need not write to me again here, nor think of me till you see me about the end of August. I suppose about that time Theodora will have finished the course of severe toil reserved for young ladies every spring, so I shall come straight home expecting to see you all.’
‘Home; does that mean Martindale?’ said Violet.
‘Yes. He has never looked on any place but Brogden as his home.’
‘You don’t think he repents of what he has done?’
‘No, certainly not. He has seen what a long engagement is.’
‘Yes; I almost wonder at his writing to you in that tone.’
‘He banters because he cannot bear to show his real feeling. I am not anxious about him. He has £300 a year of his own, and plenty of resources,—besides, the baronetcy must come to him. He can afford to do as he pleases.’
‘What a noble character he must be!’ said Violet; ‘it is like a story. How old is he?’
‘About nine-and-twenty. I am glad you should see him. He is a very amusing fellow.’
‘How clever he must be!’
‘The cleverest man I know. I hope he will come soon. I should like to have a little time with him before my winter migration. We have not met since he was obliged to return, a fortnight after her death, when I little expected ever to see him again.’
This prospect seemed to set John’s mind more than ever on Helen, as if he wanted to talk over her brother’s conduct with her, and was imagining her sentiments on it.
He spoke much of her in the day, and in the evening brought down a manuscript-book.
‘I should like to read some of this to you,’ he said. ‘She had so few events in her life at Elsdale that her letters, written to occupy me when I was laid up, became almost a journal of her thoughts. I copied out some parts to carry about with me; and perhaps you would like to hear some of them.’
‘Indeed, I should, thank you, if you ought to read aloud.’
He turned over the pages, and seemed to be trying whether he could bear to read different passages; but he gave up one after another, and nearly half-an-hour had passed before he began.
‘February 20. It was the winter after her coming to Martindale.’
‘This morning was a pattern one for February, and I went out before the brightness was passed, and had several turns in the walled garden. I am afraid you will never be able to understand the pleasantness of such a morning. Perhaps you will say the very description makes you shiver, but I must tell you how beautiful it was. The frost last night was not sharp, but just sufficient to detain the dew till the sun could turn it into diamonds. There were some so brilliant, glancing green or red in different lights, they were quite a study. It is pleasant to think that this pretty frost is not adorning the plants with unwholesome beauty, though the poor little green buds of currant and gooseberry don’t like it, and the pairs of woodbine leaves turn in their edges. It is doing them good against their will, keeping them from spreading too soon. I fancied it like early troubles, keeping baptismal dew fresh and bright; and those jewels of living light went on to connect themselves with the radiant coronets of some whom the world might call blighted in—’
It had brought on one of his severe fits of coughing. Violet was going to ring for Brown, but he stopped her by a sign, which he tried to make reassuring. It was worse, and lasted longer than the former one, and exhausted him so much, that he had to rest on the sofa cushions before he could recover breath. At last, in a very low voice, he said,
‘There, it is of no use to try.’
‘I hope you are better; pray don’t speak; only will you have anything?’
‘No, thank you; lying still will set me to rights. It is only that these coughs leave a pain—nothing to mind.’
He settled himself on the sofa, not without threatenings of a return of cough, and Violet arranged the cushions, concerned at his trying to thank her. After a silence, he began to breathe more easily, and said,
‘Will you read me the rest of that?’
She gave him the book to find the place, and then read—
‘The world might call them blighted in their early bloom, and deprived of all that life was bestowed for; but how different is the inner view, and how glorious the thought of the numbers of quiet, commonplace sufferers in homely life, like my currant and gooseberry bushes, who have found their frost has preserved their dewdrops to be diamonds for ever. If this is too fanciful, don’t read it, but I go rambling on as the notions come into my head, and if you only get a laugh at my dreamings, they will have been of some use to you.’
‘How beautiful!’ said Violet; ‘how you must have liked receiving such letters!’
‘Yes; the greatest blank in the day is post time.’
He held out his hand for the book, and found another passage for her.
‘I have been thinking how kindly that sentence is framed: “Casting all your care on Him.” All, as if we might have been afraid to lay before Him our petty perplexities. It is the knowing we are cared for in detail, that is the comfort; and that when we have honestly done our best in little things, our Father will bless them, and fill up our shortcomings.
‘That dressmaker must have been a happy woman, who never took home her work without praying that it might fit. I always liked that story particularly, as it shows how the practical life in the most trivial round can be united with thus casting all our care upon Him—the being busy in our own station with choosing the good part. I suppose it is as a child may do its own work in a manufactory, not concerning itself for the rest; or a coral-worm make its own cell, not knowing what branches it is helping to form, or what an island it is raising. What a mercy that we have only to try to do right from moment to moment, and not meddle with the future!’
‘Like herself,’ said John.
‘I never thought of such things,’ said Violet. ‘I never thought little matters seemed worth treating in this way.’
‘Everything that is a duty or a grief must be worth it,’ said John. ‘Consider the worthlessness of what we think most important in That Presence. A kingdom less than an ant’s nest in comparison. But, here, I must show you a more everyday bit. It was towards the end, when she hardly ever left her grandfather, and I had been writing to urge her to spare herself.’
Violet read—
‘You need not be afraid, dear John; I am quite equal to all I have to do. Fatigue never knocks me up, which is a great blessing; and I can sleep anywhere at the shortest notice. Indeed, I don’t know what should tire me, for there is not even any running up and down stairs; and as to spirits, you would not think them in danger if you heard how I talk parish matters to the curate, and gossip with the doctor, till grandpapa brightens, and I have to shout an abstract of the news into his ear. It is such a treat to bring that flash of intelligence on his face—and it has not been so rare lately; he seems now and then to follow one of the Psalms, as I read them to him at intervals through the day. Then for pastime, there is no want of that, with the two windows looking out different ways. I can’t think how you could forget my two beautiful windows—one with a view of the back door for my dissipation, and the other with the garden, and the varieties of trees and the ever-changing clouds. I never look out without finding some entertainment; my last sight was a long-tailed titmouse, popping into the yew tree, and setting me to think of the ragged fir tree at Brogden, with you and Percy spying up, questioning whether golden-crest or long-tailed pye lived in the dome above. No, no; don’t waste anxiety upon me. I am very happy, and have everything to be thankful for.’
‘“My mind to me a kingdom is,” she might have said,’ observed John.
‘She might indeed. How beautiful! How ashamed it does make one of oneself!’
So they continued, he choosing passages, which she read aloud, till the evening was over, when he asked her whether she would like to look through the book?’
‘That I should, but you had rather I did not.’
‘Yes, I do wish you to read it, and to know Helen. There is nothing there is any objection to your seeing. I wrote them out partly for Percy’s sake. Your reading these to me has been very pleasant.’
‘It has been so to me, I am sure. I do not know how to thank you; only I am grieved that you have hurt yourself. I hope you are better now.’
‘Yes, thank you; I shall be quite right in the morning.’
His voice was, however, so weak, and he seemed so uncomfortable, that Violet was uneasy; and as Brown lighted her candle in the hall, she paused to consult him, and found that, though concerned, he did not apprehend any bad consequences, saying that these attacks were often brought on by a chill, or by any strong excitement; he had no doubt this was occasioned by hearing of Mr. Fotheringham’s intended return; indeed, he had thought Mr. Martindale looking flushed and excited all day.
Never did charge appear more precious than those extracts. She had an enthusiastic veneration for Helen, and there was a youthful, personal feeling for her, which made her apply the words and admire them far more than if they had been in print. As she dwelt upon them, the perception grew on her, that not only was it a duty to strive for contentment, but that to look on all trials as crosses to be borne daily, was the only way to obtain it.
Helen’s many homely trials and petty difficulties were what came to her chiefly as examples and encouragements, and she began to make resolutions on her own account.
Yet, one day, when Arthur was expected and did not come, she conjured up so many alarms, that it was well that consideration for her companion obliged her to let him divert her mind.
The next day John led her to the beach, and set her to find rare sea-weeds for his mother. The charm of the pursuit, the curling tide, the occasional peeps at Johnnie as he was paraded, serene and sleepy, in Sarah’s arms, made time speed so fast that she was taken by surprise when voices hailed them, and she beheld Arthur and his father.
No wedding-day being in the case, Arthur had gladly put off his coming on a proposal from his father to accompany him, see John’s menage, and be introduced to his grandson.
Much more warmly than in former times did Lord Martindale greet his daughter-in-law, and quickly he asked for the baby. In spite of the doctor’s prognostications, the little fellow had begun to mend, and he looked his best, nearly hidden in hood and mantle, and embellished by his mother’s happy face, as she held him in her arms, rejoicing in the welcome bestowed on the first grandson.
Violet had never been so comfortable with Lord Martindale. There was the advantage of being the only lady, and he unbent more than he ever did at home. He had come partly to see what was to be the next arrangement. Five weeks of London had been almost too much for Lady Martindale, with whom it never agreed, and who had found a season with her unmanageable daughter very different from what it had formerly been, when her aunt arranged everything for her; and the family were about to return home. Arthur was to bring his wife to Martindale as soon as his leave began—but this would not be for a month; and his father, concerned to see her still so delicate, advised him not to think of her return to London in the hottest part of the year, and proposed to take her and the baby home with him. John, however, declared that he should prefer staying on at Ventnor with her; the place agreed with him, and he liked the quiet for finishing Percy Fotheringham’s work besides, it suited Arthur better to be able to come backwards and forwards. The only doubt was whether she was tired of his dull company.
Arthur answered for her, and she was well satisfied, thinking it a great escape not to have to go to Martindale without him, but afraid John was giving up a great deal to her, when she must be a very tiresome companion; at which Arthur laughed, telling her of John’s counter fears, and adding, that he had never seen his brother in such good spirits in all his life—he was now actually like other people.
Lord Martindale also feared that John found his undertaking wearisome, and talked it over with him, saying it was very kind of him, very good for Arthur’s wife; but was she society enough? ‘Would he not like to have Theodora to relieve him of the charge, and be more of a companion?’
‘Thank you,’ said John, ‘we shall be very glad to have Theodora, if she likes to come. It is a very good opportunity for them to grow intimate.’
‘I’ll send her next time Arthur comes.’
‘But you must not think it an act of compassion, as if Violet was on my hands. She is a particularly agreeable person, and we do very well together. In fact, I have enjoyed this time very much; and Theodora must not think herself obliged to come for my sake, as if I wanted help.’
‘I understand,’ said his father; ‘and of course it will depend on what engagements they have made; but I should be very glad she should be more with you, and if she saw more of Arthur’s wife, it might detach her from those friends of hers. I cannot think how it is Theodora is not disgusted with Mrs. Finch! It is a comfort, after all, that Arthur did not marry Miss Gardner!’
‘A great one!’
‘This girl has simplicity and gentleness at least, poor thing,’ continued Lord Martindale; ‘and I am quite of your opinion, John, that marriage has improved him greatly. I never saw him so free from nonsense. Strangely as it has come about, this may be the making of him. I only wish I could see her and the poor child looking stronger. I will send your sister, by all means.’
So Lord Martindale returned, and proposed the plan to his daughter. At first, she was flattered at being wanted, and graciously replied, ‘Poor John, he must want some variety.’
‘Not exactly that,’ said her father. ‘They are so comfortable together, it is a pleasure to see them. I should like to stay there myself, and it is a very agreeable scheme for you.’
‘I was considering my engagements,’ said Theodora. ‘Of course, if I am really wanted, everything must be put aside.’
‘John desired you would not think it an act of charity,’ said her father. ‘He says he finds her a most agreeable companion, and you need only look upon it as a pleasant scheme for all parties.’
‘Oh,’ said Theodora, in a different tone.
‘He said you were not to put yourself out of the way. He would be very glad of your company, and it will be very good for you all to be together.’
‘Oh! then I don’t think it is worth while for me to go,’ said Theodora. ‘I am much obliged to John, but I should only interfere with his course of education.’
‘Not go?’ said her father.
‘No, there is no occasion; and I wish to be at home as soon as I can.’
‘Well, my dear, you must decide your own way, but I thought you would be glad of the opportunity of being with John, and I should be glad, too, that you should see more of your sister. She is a very engaging person, and I am sure you would find her a more satisfactory companion than Mrs. Finch.’
After this speech, Theodora would have suffered considerably rather than have gone.
‘They will soon be at Martindale,’ she said, ‘and I cannot stay longer away from the village.’
‘I wish at least that you would go down as I did for a day with Arthur. You would enjoy it, and it would give them all pleasure. Indeed, I think it would only be a proper piece of attention on your part.’
She made no answer, but the next time Arthur was going, she instantly stopped all her father’s arrangements for her accompanying him, by saying she was going to a lecture on electricity; then, when Lord Martindale began asking if Arthur could not change his day, she majestically said, ‘No, Arthur would not disappoint Mrs. Martindale on my account.’
‘If you would go, Theodora,’ said Arthur, eagerly, ‘Violet would not mind waiting. She would be specially pleased to show you the boy. It is very jolly there.’
The first time he had spoken to her of his three months’ old son. If she had not been in a dire fit of sullen jealousy, it would have softened as much as it thrilled her, but she had the notion that she was not wanted, except to do homage to the universally-petted Violet.
‘I cannot spare a day.’
So Arthur was vexed, and the frost was harder. John had not much expected Theodora, and was more sorry for her sake than his own. The last month was still better than the first, the brother and sister understood each other more fully, and their confidence had become thoroughly confirmed. The baby had taken a start, as Sarah called it, left off unreasonable crying, sat up, laughed and stared about with a sharp look of inquiry in his dark eyes and tiny thin face, so ridiculously like his grandfather, Mr. Moss, that his mother could not help being diverted with the resemblance, except when she tormented herself with the fear that the likeness was unpleasing to Arthur, if perchance he remarked it; but he looked so little at the child, that she often feared he did not care for him personally, though he had a certain pride in him as son and heir.
Violet herself, though still delicate and requiring care, had recovered her looks and spirits, and much of her strength, and John walked and conversed more than he had done for years, did not shrink from the society of the few families they were acquainted with, and seemed to have derived as much benefit from his kind scheme as the objects of it. In fact his hopes and affections were taking a fresh spring—the effects of his kindness to Arthur and Violet had shown him that he could be useful to others, and he thus discovered what he had missed in his indulged life, crossed in but one respect—he saw that he had set himself aside from family duties, as well as from the more active ones that his health prohibited, and with a feeling at once of regret and invigoration, he thought over the course that lay open to him, and soon began to form plans and discuss them with his ever ready listener. His foreign winters need no longer be useless, he proposed to go to Barbuda to look after his mother’s estates—indeed, it seemed so obvious that when he once thought of it he could not imagine why it had never occurred to him before; it would save his father the voyage, and when he and Violet began to figure to themselves the good that could be done there, they grew animated and eager in their castles.
That month sped fast away, and their drives were now last visits to the places that had charmed them at first. Their work was prepared for Mr. Fotheringham’s inspection, and Violet having copied out her favourite passages of Helen’s book, returned it on the last evening. ‘I don’t think I half understand all she says, though I do admire it so much, and wish I was like it.’
‘You will be, you are in the way.’
‘You don’t know how foolish I am,’ said Violet, almost as if he was disrespectful to Helen.
‘Helen was once seventeen,’ said John, smiling.
‘Oh, but I have no patience. I fret and tease myself, and fancy all sorts of things, instead of trusting as she did. I don’t know how to do so.’
‘I know how weakness brings swarming harassing thoughts,’ said John; ‘it is well for us that there are so many external helps to patience and confidence.’
‘Ah! that is what shows how bad I am,’ said Violet, despondingly. ‘I never keep my mind in order at church, yet I am sure I was more unreasonably discontented when I was not able to go.’
‘Which shows it is of use to you. Think of it not only as a duty that must be fulfilled, but watch for refreshment from it, and you will find it come.’
‘Ah! I have missed all the great festivals this year. I have not stayed to the full service since I was at Rickworth, and what is worse, I do not dislike being prevented,’ said Violet, falteringly; as if she must say the words, ‘I don’t like staying alone.’
‘You must conquer that,’ said John, earnestly. ‘That feeling must never keep you away. Your continuance is the best hope of bringing him; your leaving off would be fatal to you both. I should almost like you to promise never to keep away because he did.’
‘I think I can promise,’ said Violet, faintly. ‘It is only what mamma has always had to do; and, last Christmas, it did keep me away. I did think then he would have come; and when I found he did not—then I was really tired—but I know I could have stayed—but I made it an excuse, and went away.’ The tears began to flow. ‘I thought of it again when I was ill; and afterwards when I found out how nearly I had been dying, it was frightful. I said to myself, I would not miss again; but I have never had the opportunity since I have been well.’
