Then the minister explained what he had anticipated, and how he had proved mistaken. “The only thing is, she might have gone on to Lamphray thinking it would be quieter, and taken the train there.”
“Lord bless us!” said Mrs. Ogilvie. “If she has done that we can hear nothing till—there is no saying when we may hear.”
And though they were on different sides, and, so to speak, hostile forces, these two people stood together for a moment with but one thought, listening to every little echo, and every rustle, and the crackingof the twigs, and the sound of the burn, all the soft unreckoned noises of a silent night, but Effie’s step or breath was not among them all.
Effiehad darted away from the side of her father and uncle in one of thoseaccèsof impatience which are common to the young and inexperienced. She had no training in that science of endurance which is one of the chief bulwarks of life. Everything had become intolerable to her. She “could not bear it,” words which are so often said, but which in most cases mean little more than the unavailing human cry against the hardships to which we have all to submit, and which most of us learn must be borne after all whatever may be the struggle. By times the young, the unprepared, the undisciplined fly out and will notsubmit, to the confusion of their own existence first, and that of all others involved.
Effie meant little more than this uncontrollable expression of impatience, and sense of the intolerableness of the circumstances, when she loosed her arm from that of Uncle John, and fled—she knew not where. She was not far off, standing trembling and excited among the shadows, while they called her and searched for her along the different paths; and when they went hastily into the house on the supposition that she had found her way there, her heart for a moment failed her, and an inclination to realize their thoughts, to escape no farther than to the seclusion and safety of her own room, crossed her mind like one of the flying clouds that were traversing the sky. But not only her excitement and rebellion against the treason which she was being compelled to, but even her pride was now in arms, preventing any return.
She stood among the trees, among the evening damps, for some time after the gentlemen had disappeared, thought after thought coursing through her brain. Her determination was unchanged to go South by the night train, though she had no clear idea what was next to be done when she should reach London, that great fabulous place where she had never been, and of which she had not the faintest understanding. She would seek out Fred, tell him that she would stand by him whatever his trouble might be—that nothing should detach her from his side—that if he was poor that was all the more reason.
So far as this went, Effie knew what to say, her heart was full of eloquence and fervour. The intermediate steps were difficult, but that was easy. She had been shy with him and reticent, receiving what he gave, listening to what he said, of herself giving little. But now a new impulsepossessed her. She would throw herself heart and soul into his fortunes. She would help him now that he needed her. She would be true, ah! more than that as she had said—she could not be false—it was an impossibility. Now that he was in need she was all his to work or watch, to console or to cheer as might be most needful—his by the securest, most urgent of bonds, by right of his necessities.
The enthusiasm which she had never felt for Fred came now at the thought of his poverty and loss. She could smile in the force of her resolution at the folly of the woman who thought this would break the tie between them; break it! when it made it like steel.
This fire in her heart kept Effie warm, and glowed about her with a semblance of passion; but first there was a difficult moment which she did not know how to pass. Had the train gone at once all wouldhave been easy; but it would not go yet for hours, and she could not pass the time standing on the damp grass, her feet getting wet, her damp skirts clinging about her, the wintry dews dropping upon her, under those trees. She began to think and ask herself where she would go to wait and get a little warm before it should be time for the train.
To Rosebank? but they were on the other side she reflected, with a vague pang and misty passing realization of all that the other side meant. She had been on the other side herself, against her will, till to-day; but not now, oh, not now! She felt the pang, like a cutting asunder, a tearing away; but would not dwell upon it, felt it only in passing. No, she would not go into the atmosphere of the other side.
And how could she go to the manse where Uncle John would beg and pray to go instead of her, which was so very different; for Effie required not only to demonstrate her strong faithfulness, but to keep it up, to keep it in the state of passion.
Then there suddenly came upon her a gleam of illumination. Yes! that was the only place to go. To whom but to those who would suffer with him, who would have need also of strengthening and encouragement, who had such a change before them, and so much occasion for the support of their friends—could Effie betake herself? It did not occur to her that Doris and Phyllis, under the influence of depression and loss, were almost inconceivable, and that to cheer them by the sympathy and backing up of a little girl like herself, was something which the imagination failed to grasp. Not that thought, but the difficulties of the way chilled her a little. The dark, dark road over the brae which reached the waterside close to the churchyard, thelittle path by the river, the wide, silent, solitary park—all this made her shiver a little.
But she said to herself with a forlorn rallying of her forces that such trifles mattered nothing, that she was beyond thinking of anything so unimportant, that there was the place for her, that she must go to his sisters to give them confidence, to comfort them on Fred’s account, to say, “I am going to him, to stand by him.” They who knew him so well, would know that when she said that, all was said, and Fred’s strength and endurance secured.
This decision was made very rapidly, the mental processes being so much quicker than anything that is physical, so that the sound of the door closing upon Mr. Ogilvie and Mr. Moubray had scarcely died out of the echoes before she set forth. She walked very quickly and firmly so long as it was the highroad, where there were cottage lights shining here and there and an occasional passer-by, though she shrank from sight or speech of any; but when she came to the darker by-way over the hill, it was all Effie’s courage could do to keep her going.
There was light in the sky, the soft glimmer of stars, but it did not seem to get so far as the head of the brae, and still less down the other side, where it descended towards the water. Down below at the bottom of the ravine the water itself, indeed, was doubly clear; the sky reflected in it with a wildness and pale light which was of itself enough to frighten any one; but the descending path seemed to change and waver in the great darkness of the world around, so that sometimes it appeared to sink under Effie’s feet, receding and falling into an abyss immeasurable, which re-acted upon the gloom, and made the descent seem as steep as a precipice.
Her little figure, not distinguishable in the darkness, stumbling downwards, not seeing the stones and bushes that came in her way, seemed a hundred times as if about to fall down, down, into the depths, into that dark clearness, the cold gulf of the stream. Sometimes she slid downward a little, and then thought for a dizzy moment that all was over—sometimes stumbled and felt that she was going down headlong, always feeling herself alone, entirely alone, between the clear stars overhead and the line of keen light below.
Then there came the passage of the churchyard, which was full of solemnity. Effie saw the little huddled mass of the old chapel against the dim opening out of the valley in which the house of Allonby lay—and it looked to her like a crouching figure watching among the dead, like, perhaps, some shadow of Adam Fleming or his murdered Helen in the place where she fell.
As soon as she got on level ground the girl flew along, all throbbing and trembling with terror. Beyond lay the vague stretches of the park, and the house rising in the midst of the spectral river mists, soft and white, that filled it—the lights in the windows veiled and indistinct, the whole silent, like a house of shadows. Her heart failed although she went on, half flying, towards it, as to a refuge. Effie by this time had almost forgotten Fred. She had forgotten everything except the terrors of this unusual expedition, and the silence and solitude and all the weird influences that seemed to be about her. She felt as if she was outside of the world altogether, a little ghost wandering over the surface of the earth. There seemed to be no voice in her to call out for help against the darkness and the savage silence, through which she could not even hear the trickle of the stream: nothing but herown steps flying, and her own poor little bosom panting, throbbing, against the unresponsive background of the night.
Her footsteps too became inaudible as she got upon the turf and approached close to Allonby. All was silent there also; there seemed no sound at all as if any one was stirring, but only a dead house with faint spectral lights in the windows.
She stopped and took breath and came to herself, a little calmed by the neighbourhood of a human habitation in which there must be some inhabitants though she could not hear them. She came to herself more or less, and the pulsations of terror in her ears beat less overwhelmingly, so that she began to be able to think again, and ask herself what she should do. To go to the great door, to wake all the echoes by knocking, to be met by an unconcerned servant and ushered in as if she were an ordinary visitor, all agitated andworn by emotion as she was, was impossible.
It seemed more natural, everything being out of rule, to steal round the house till she found the window of the room in which the girls were sitting, and make her little summons to them without those impossible formalities, and be admitted so to their sole company. The lawn came close up under the windows, and Effie crept round one side of the house, finding all dark, with a feeling of discouragement as if she had been repulsed. One large and broad window a little in advance showed, however, against the darkness, and though she knew this could not be a sitting-room, she stole on unconscious of any curiosity or possibility of indiscretion, it being a matter of mere existence to find some one.
The curtains were drawn half over the window, yet not so much but that shecould see in. And the sight that met the girl’s astonished eyes was one so strange and incomprehensible that it affected her like a vision.
Mrs. Dirom was sitting in the middle of the room in a deep easy chair, with her head in her hands, to all appearance weeping bitterly, while a man muffled in a rough loose coat stood with his back to her, opening what seemed the door of a little cupboard in the wall close to the bed. Effie gazed terror-stricken, wondering was it a robber, who was it? Mrs. Dirom was making no resistance; she was only crying, her face buried in her hands.
The little door yielded at last, and showed to Effie dimly the shelves of a safe crowded with dark indistinct objects. Then Mrs. Dirom rose up, and taking some of these indistinct objects in her hands suddenly made visible a blaze ofdiamonds which she seemed to press upon the man.
He turned round to the light, as Effie, stooping, half kneeling on the wet grass, gazed in, in a kind of trance, scarcely knowing what she did. The coat in which he was muffled was large and rough, and a big muffler hung loosely round his neck, but to the great astonishment of the young spectator the face was that of Mr. Dirom himself. He seemed to laugh and put away the case in which the diamonds were blazing.
Then out of the further depths of the safe he brought a bundle of papers over which he nodded his head a great many times as if with satisfaction. At this moment something seemed to disturb them, some sound apparently in the house, for they both looked towards the door, and then the lamp was suddenly extinguished and Effie saw no more. It was a curiousscene—the diamonds lighting up the dim room, the woman in tears offering them to the man, he refusing, holding his little bundle of papers, the unusual dress, the air of excitement and emotion: and then sudden darkness, nothing visible any more; yet the certainty that these two people were there, without light, concealing themselves and their proceedings, whatever these might be.
Effie had looked on scarcely knowing why, unaware that she was prying into other people’s concerns, suddenly attracted by the gleam of light, by the comfort of feeling some one near. The putting out of the lamp threw her back into her panic, yet changed it. She shrank away from the window with a sudden fear of the house in which something strange, she knew not what, was going on. Her mind was too much confused to ask what it was, to make any representation to herself ofwhat she had seen; but the thought of these two peoplein the darkseemed to give a climax to all the nameless terrors of the night.
She went on by the side of the house, not knowing what to do, afraid now to ask admission, doubly afraid to turn back again, lost in confusion of mind and fatigue of body, which dimmed and drove out her original distress.
Now, however, she had come to the back regions in which the servants were stirring, and before she was aware a loud “Who’s that?” and the flash of a lantern upon her, brought her back to herself. It was the grooms coming back from the stable who thus interrupted her forlorn round.
“Who’s that?—it’s a woman—it’s a lassie! Lord bless us, it’s Miss Ogilvie!” they cried.
Effie had sufficient consciousness to meet their curious inspection with affected composure.
“I want to see Miss Dirom,” she said. “I lost my way in the dark; I couldn’t find the door. Can I see Miss Dirom?”
Her skirts were damp and clinging about her, her hair limp with the dews of the night, her whole appearance wild and strange: but the eyes of the grooms were not enlightened. They made no comments; one of them led her to the proper entrance, another sent the proper official to open to her, and presently she stood dazzled and tremulous in the room full of softened firelight and taperlight, warm and soft and luxurious, as if there was no trouble or mystery in the world, where Doris and Phyllis sat in their usual animated idleness talking to each other. One of them was lying at full length on a sofa, her arms about her head, her white cashmere dress falling in the much esteemed folds which that pretty material takes by nature; the other was seated on a stool before thefire, her elbows on her knees. The sound of their voices discoursing largely, softly, just as usual, was what Effie heard as the servant opened the door.
“Miss Ogilvie, did you say?—Effie!” They both gazed at her with different manifestations of dramatic surprise—without, for the moment, any other movement. Her appearance was astonishing at this hour, but nothing else seemed to disturb the placidity of these young women. Finally, Miss Phyllis rose from her stool in front of the fire.
“She has eyes like stars, and her hair is all twinkling with dew—quite a romantic figure. What a pity there is nobody to see it but Doris and me! You don’t mean to say you have come walking all this way?”
“Oh! what does it matter how I came?” cried Effie. “I came—because I could not stay away. There was nobody else thatwas so near me. I came to tell you—I am going to Fred.”
“To Fred!” they both cried, Phyllis with a little scream of surprise, Doris in a sort of inquiring tone, raising herself half from her sofa. They both stared at her strangely. They had no more notion why she should be going to Fred than the servant who had opened the door for her—most likely much less—for there were many things unknown to the young ladies which the servants knew.
“Fred will be very much flattered,” said Doris. “But why are you going? does he know? what is it for? is it for shopping? Have you made up your mind, all at once, that you want another dress?—I should say two or three, but that is neither here nor there. And what has put it so suddenly into your head? And where are you going to stay? Are you sureyour friends are in London at this time of the year——?”
“Oh!” cried Effie, restored out of her exhaustion and confusion in a moment by this extraordinary speech, “is that all you think? a dress, and shopping to do! when Fred is alone, when he is in trouble, when even your father has deserted him—and his money gone, and his heart sore! Oh, is that all you know? I am going to tell him that I will never forsake him whatever others may do—that I am come to stand by him—that I am come——”
She stopped, not because she had no more to say, but because she lost the control of her voice and could do nothing but sob—drawing her breath convulsively, like a child that has wept its passion out, yet has not recovered the spasmodic grip upon its throat.
Phyllis and Doris looked at her with eyes more and more astonished and critical. They spoke to each other, not to her. “She means it, do you know, Dor!”
“It is like a melodrama, Phyll—Goodness, look at her! If we should ever go on the stage——!”
Effie heard the murmur of their voices, and turned her eyes from one to another: but her head was light with the fumes of her own passion, which had suddenly flared so high; and though she looked from one to another, instinctively, she did not understand what they said.
“And did you come to tell us this, so late, and all alone, you poor little Effie? And how did you manage to get away? and how are you to get back?”
“Of course,” said Doris, “we must send her back. Don’t ask so many silly questions, Phyll.”
“I am not going back,” said Effie. “They would stop me if they knew. Oh, will you send me to the train? for it is very dark and very wet, and I’m frightened, it’s all so lonely. I never meant to trouble anybody. But your father will be goingtoo, and I would just sit in a corner and never say a word. Oh, will you ask him to let me go with him to the train?”
“What does she mean about papa? The train! there is no one going to the train. Do you mean to say that you—to-night—oh, you know you must be dreaming; nothing like this is possible, Effie! You must go home, child, and go to bed——”
“To bed! and let him think that I’ve forsaken him—to let him get up to-morrow morning and hear that Effie, because he is poor, has gone back from her word? Oh! no, no, I cannot do it. If you will not send me, I will just walk as I meant to do! I was frightened,” said Effie, with her piteous little sob. “And then if your father is going—But it does not matter after all, I will just walk as I meant to do: and if you don’t care, that was my mistake in coming—I will just say good-night.”
She turned away with a childlike dignity, yet with a tremor she could not subdue. She was not afraid to go out into the world, to carry the sacrifice of her young existence to the man who loved her, whom she would not forsake in his trouble: but she was frightened for the dark road, the loneliness of the night—she was frightened, but yet she was ready to do it. She turned away with a wave of her hand.
Both of the girls, however, were roused by this time. Doris rose from her sofa, and Phyllis seized Effie, half coaxingly, half violently, by the arm.
“Effie! goodness,” she cried, “just think for a moment. You musn’t do this—what could Fred do with you? He would be frightened out of his senses. You would put him in such a predicament. Whatwouldhe do?”
“And where would you go?” said Doris. “To his lodgings? Only fancy, a youngman’s lodgings in Half Moon Street, just the sort of place where they think the worst of everything. He would be at his wit’s end. He would think it very sweet of you, but just awfully silly. For what would he do with you? He could not keep you there. It would put him in the most awkward position. For Fred’s sake, if you really care for him, don’t, for heaven’s sake, do anything so extraordinary. Here is mother, she will tell you.”
“Mamma,” they both cried, as Mrs. Dirom came into the room, “Effie has got the strangest idea. I think she must be a little wrong in her head. She says she is going to Fred——”
“To Fred!” the mother exclaimed with a voice full of agitation. “Has anything happened to Fred——”
“Don’t make yourself anxious, it is only her nonsense. She has heard about the firm, I suppose. She thinks he is ruined,and all that, and she wants to go to him to stand by him—to show him that she will not forsake him. It’s pretty, but it’s preposterous,” said Doris, giving Effie a sudden kiss. “Tell her she will only make Fred uncomfortable. She will not listen to us.”
Mrs. Dirom had a look of heat and excitement which her children never remembered to have seen in her before, but which Effie understood who knew. Her eyes were red, her colour high, a flush across her cheek-bones: her lips trembled with a sort of nervous impatience.
“Oh,” she cried, “haven’t I enough to think of? Do I want to be bothered with such childish nonsense now? Going to Fred! What does she want with Fred? He has other things in his mind. Let her go home, that is the only thing to do——”
“So we have told her: but she says she wants to go to the train; and something about my father who is here, and will be going too.”
“Nothing of the sort,” cried Mrs. Dirom, sharply. She gave Effie a look of alarm, almost threatening, yet imploring—a look which asked her how much she knew, yet defied her to know anything.
“The poor little thing has got a fright,” she said, subduing her voice. “I am not angry with you, Effie; you mean it kindly, but it would never, never do. You must go home.”
Effie’s strength had ebbed out of her as she stood turning her bewildered head from one to another, hearing with a shock unspeakable that Fred—Fred whom she had been so anxious to succour!—would not want her, which made the strangest revolution in her troubled mind. But still mechanically she held to her point.
“I will not be any trouble. I will just sit in the corner and never say a word.Let me go to the train with Mr. Dirom. Let me go—with him. He is very kind, he will not mind.”
“Mamma, do you hear what she says? She has said it again and again. Can papa be here and none of us know?”
“Nothing of the sort,” cried Mrs. Dirom once more. Her tone was angry, but it was full of alarm. She turned her back on the others and looked at Effie with eyes that were full of anguish, of secrecy and confidence, warning her, entreating her, yet defying.
“How should he be here when he has so much to do elsewhere?” she cried. “The child has got that, with the other nonsense, into her head.” Then with a sudden change of tone, “I will take her to my room to be quiet, and you can order the brougham to take her home.”
“Shewas sent home in the brougham, that disturbed all our sleep just dashing along the road at the dead of night. They were in a terrible state before that. The minister, too, was here, looking like a ghost to hear if we knew anything; and how could we say we knew anything, seeing she had parted from here in the afternoon not over well pleased with Beenie and me. And Mrs. Ogilvie—she is not a woman I am fond of, and how far I think she’s to blame, I would just rather not say—but I will say this, that I was sorry for her that night. She came, too, with a shawl over her head, just out of herself.She had got the old man off to his bed, never letting on that Effie was out of the house; and she was in a terror for him waking, and the girl not there.”
“No fear of him waking; he is just an old doited person,” said Miss Beenie, with indignation.
“Not so old as either you or me. But let alone till I’ve told my story. And then, Ronald, my man, you’ve heard what’s followed. Not only a failure, but worse and worse; and the father fled the country. They say he had the assurance to come down here to get some papers that were laid up in his wife’s jewel press, and that Effie saw him. But he got clean away; and it’s a fraudulent bankruptcy—or if there’s anything worse than a fraudulent bankruptcy, it’s that. Oh, yes, there has been a great deal of agitation, and it is perhaps just as well that you were out of the way. I cannot tell whether I feel forthe family or not. There is no look about them as if they thought shame. They’re just about the same as ever, at kirk and at market, with their horses and carriages. They tell me it takes a long time to wind up an establishment like that—and why should they not take the good of their carriages and their horses as long as they have them? But I’m perhaps a very old-fashioned woman. I would not have kept them, not a day. I would never have ridden the one nor driven about in the other, with my father a hunted swindler, and my family’s honour all gone to ruin—never, never! I would rather have died.”
“Sarah, that is just what you will do, if you work yourself up like this. Will ye not remember what the doctor says?”
“Oh, go away with your doctors. I’m an old-fashioned woman, but I’m a woman of strong feelings; I just cannot endure it! and to think that Effie, my poor littleEffie, will still throw in her lot with them, and will not be persuaded against it!”
“Why should she be persuaded against it?” said Ronald Sutherland, with a very grave face. “Nobody can believe that the money would make any difference to her: and I suppose the man was not to blame.”
“The man—was nothing one way or another. He got the advantage of the money, and he was too poor a creature ever to ask how it was made. But it’s not that; the thing is that her heart was never in it—never! She was driven—no, not driven—if she had been driven she would have resisted. She was just pushed into it, just persuaded to listen, and then made to see there was no escape. Didn’t I tell you that, Beenie, before there was word of all this, before Ronald came home? The little thing: had no heart for it. She just got white like a ghost whenthere was any talk about marriage. She would hear of nothing, neither the trou-so, as they call it now, nor any of the nonsense that girls take a natural pleasure in. But now her little soul is just on fire. She will stick to him—she will not forsake him. And here am I in my bed, not able to take her by her shoulders and to tell her the man’s not worthy of it, and that she’ll rue it just once, and that will be her life long!”
“Oh!” cried Miss Beenie, wringing her hands, “what is the use of a woman being in her bed if she is to go on like that? You will just bring on another attack, and where will we all be then? The doctor, he says——”
“You are greatly taken up with what the doctor says: that’s one thing of being in my bed,” said Miss Dempster, with a laugh, “that I cannot see the doctor and his ways—his dram—that he would cometo the window and take off, with a nod up at you and me.”
“Oh, Sarah, nothing of the kind. It was no dram, in the first place, but just a small drop of sherry with his quinine——”
“That’s very like, that’s very like,” said Miss Dempster, with a satirical laugh, “the good, honest, innocent man! I wonder it was not tea, just put in a wine glass for the sake of appearances. Are you sure, Beenie, it was not tea?”
“Oh, Sarah! the doctor, he has just been your diversion. But if you would be persuaded what a regard he has for you—ay, and respect too—and says that was always his feeling, even when he knew you were gibing and laughing at him.”
“A person that has the sense to have a real illness will always command a doctor’s respect. If I recover, things will just fall into their old way; but make your mind easy, Beenie, I will not recover, and thedoctor will have a respect for me all his days.”
“Oh, Sarah!” cried Miss Beenie, weeping. “Ronald, I wish you would speak to her. You have a great influence with my sister, and you might tell her—— You are just risking your life, and what good can that do?”
“I am not risking my life; my life’s all measured, and reeling out. But I would like to see that bit little Effie come to a better understanding before I die. Ye will be a better doctor for her than me, Ronald. Tell her from me she is a silly thing. Tell her yon is not the right man for her, and that I bid her with my dying breath not to be led away with a vain conceit, and do what will spoil her life and break her heart. He’s not worthy of it—no man is worthy of it. You may say that to her, Ronald, as if it was the last thing I had to say.”
“No,” said Ronald. His face had not at all relaxed. It was fixed with the set seriousness of a man to whom the subject is far too important for mirth or change of feature. “No,” he said, “I will tell Effie nothing of the kind. I would rather she should do what was right than gain an advantage for myself.”
“Right, there is no question about right!” cried the old lady. “He’s not worthy of it. You’ll see even that he’ll not desire it. He’ll not understand it. That’s just my conviction. How should his father’s son understand a point of honour like that? a man that is just nobody, a parvenoo, a creature that money has made, and that the want of it will unmake. That’s not a man at all for a point of honour. You need say nothing from yourself; though you are an old friend, and have a right to show her all the risks, and what she is doing; but if you don’t tell her whatI’m saying I will just—I will just—haunt you, you creature without spirit, you lad without a backbone intil ye, you——”
But here Miss Beenie succeeded in drawing Ronald from the room.
“Why will ye listen to her?” cried the young sister; “ye will just help her to her own destruction. When I’m telling you the doctor says—oh, no, I’m pinning my faith to no doctor; but it’s just as clear as daylight, and it stands to reason—she will have another attack if she goes on like yon——”
The fearful rush she made at him, the clutch upon his arm, his yielding to the impulse which he could not resist, none of these things moved Ronald. His countenance was as set and serious as ever, the humour of the situation did not touch him. He neither smiled nor made any response. Downstairs with Miss Beenie, out of sight of the invalid who was soviolent in the expression of her feelings, he retained the same self-absorbed look.
“If she thinks it right,” he said, “I am not the one to put any difficulty before her. The thing for me to do is just to go away—”
“Don’t go away and leave us, Ronald, when no mortal can tell what an hour or a day may bring forth; and Sarah always so fond of you, and you such a near connection, the nearest we have in this countryside——”
“What should happen in a day or an hour, and of what service can I be?” he asked. “Of course, if I can be of any use——” but he shook his head. Ronald, like most people, had his mind fixed upon his own affairs.
“Oh, have ye no eyes?” cried Miss Beenie, “have none of ye any eyes? You are thinking of a young creature that has all her life before her, and time to set things right if they should go wrong;but nobody has a thought for my sister, that has been the friend of every one of you, that has never missed giving you a good advice, or putting you in the way you should go. And now here is she just slipping away on her last journey, and none of you paying attention! not one, not one!” she cried, wringing her hands, “nor giving a thought of pity to me that will just be left alone in the world.”
Miss Beenie, who had come out to the door with the departing visitor, threw herself down on the bench outside, her habitual seat in happier days, and burst into subdued weeping.
“I darena even cry when she can see me. It’s a relief to get leave to cry,” she said, “for, oh, cannot ye see, not one of ye, that she’s fading away like the morning mist and like the summer flowers?”
The morning mist and the summer flowers were not images very like MissDempster, who lay like an old tree, rather than any delicate and fragile thing; but Dr. Jardine, coming briskly up on his daily visit, was not susceptible to appropriateness of metaphor. He came up to Miss Beenie and patted her on the shoulder with a homely familiarity which a few months ago would have seemed presumption to the ladies of Rosebank.
“Maybe no,” he said, “maybe no, who can tell? And even if it was so, why should you be alone? I see no occasion—— Come up, and we’ll see how she is to-day.”
Ronald Sutherland, left alone, walked down the slope very solemnly, with his face as rigid as ever. Miss Dempster was his old and good friend, but, alas, he thought nothing of Miss Dempster.
“If she thinks it right, it must be so,” he was saying to himself. “If she thinks it’s right, am I the one to put any difficulty in the way?”
Topostpone the self-sacrifice of an enthusiast for weeks, or even for days, is the hardest of all tests, and a trial almost beyond the power of flesh and blood. Upheld by religious fervour, the human soul may be equal to this or any other test; but in lesser matters, and specially in those self-sacrifices prompted by generosity, which to the youthful hero or heroine seem at the first glance so inevitable, so indispensable, things which no noble mind would shrink from, the process of waiting is a terrible ordeal.
He, or still more, she, who would have given life itself, happiness, anything, everything that is most prized in existence,with a light heart, and the most perfect conviction at the moment, becomes, as the days go by, the victim of a hundred chilling doubts and questions. Her courage, like that of Bob Acres, oozes out at her finger-ends. She is brought to the bar of a thousand suppressed, yet never extinguished, reasonings.
Is it right to feign love even for her lover’s sake?—is it right to do another so great an injury as to delude him into the thought that he is making you happy, while, in reality, you are sacrificing all happiness for him? Is it right——? but these questions are so manifold and endless that it is vain to enumerate them.
Effie had been the victim of this painful process for three long lingering weeks. She had little, very little, to support her in her determination. The papers had been full of the great bankruptcy, of details of Dirom’s escape, and of the valuable papersand securities which had disappeared with him: and with a shiver Effie had understood that the scene she had seen unawares through the window had meant far more than even her sense of mystery and secrecy in it could have helped her to divine.
The incidents of that wonderful night—the arguments of the mother and sisters, who had declared that the proposed expedition would be nothing but an embarrassment to Fred—her return ashamed and miserable in the carriage into which they had thrust her—had been fatal to the fervour of the enthusiasm which had made her at first capable of anything. Looking back upon it now, it was with an overwhelming shame that she recognized the folly of that first idea. Effie had grown half-a-dozen years older in a single night. She imagined what might have happened had she carried out that wild intention, with one of those scathing and burning blushes which seemto scorch the very soul. She imagined Fred’s look of wonder, his uneasiness, perhaps his anger at her folly which placed him in so embarrassing a position.
Effie felt that, had she seen those feelings in his eyes even for a moment, she would have died of shame. He had written to her, warmly thanking her for her “sympathy,” for her “generous feeling,” for the telegram (of which she knew nothing) which had been so consolatory to him, for the “unselfishness,” the “beautiful, brave thought” she had for a moment entertained of coming to him, of standing by him.
“Thank you, dearest, for this lovely quixotism,” he had said; “it was like my Effie,” as if it had been a mere impulse of girlish tenderness, and not the terrible sacrifice of a life which she had intended it to be. This letter had been overwhelming to Effie, notwithstanding, or perhapsby reason of, its thanks and praises. He had, it was clear, no insight into her mind, no real knowledge of her at all. He had never divined anything, never seen below the surface.
If she had done what she intended, if she had indeed gone to him, he living as he was! Effie felt as if she must sink into the ground when she realized this possibility. And as she did so, her heart failed her, her courage, her strength oozed away: and there was no one to whom she could speak. Doris and Phyllis came to see her now and then, but there was no encouragement in them. They were going abroad; they had ceased to make any reference to that independent action on their own part which was to have followed disaster to the firm. There was indeed in their conversation no account made of any downfall; their calculations about their travels were all made on theground of wealth. And Fred had taken refuge in his studio they said—he was going to be an artist, as he had always wished: he was going to devote himself to art: they said this with a significance which Effie in her simplicity did not catch, for she was not aware that devotion to Art interfered with the other arrangements of life. And this was all. She had no encouragement on that side, and her resolution, her courage, her strength of purpose, her self-devotion oozed away.
Strangely enough, the only moral support she had was from Ronald, who met her with that preternaturally grave face, and asked for Fred, whom he had never asked for before, and said something inarticulate which Effie understood, to the effect that he for one would never put difficulties in her way. What did he mean? No one could have explained it—not even himself: and yet Effie knew. Ronald had theinsight which Fred, with those foolish praises of her generosity and her quixotism, did not possess.
And so the days went on, with a confusion in the girl’s mind which it would be hopeless to describe. Her whole life seemed to hang in a balance, wavering wildly between earth and heaven. What was to be done with it? What was she to do with it? Eric was on his way home, and would arrive shortly, for his sister’s marriage, and all the embarrassment of that meeting lay before her, taking away the natural delight of it, which at another moment would have been so sweet to Effie. Even Uncle John was of little advantage to her in this pause. He accompanied her in her walks, saying little. Neither of them knew what to say. All the wedding preparations had come to a standstill, tacitly, without any explanation made; and in the face of Fred’s silenceon the subject Effie could say nothing, neither could her champion say anything about the fulfilment of her engagement.
Mrs. Ogilvie, on the other hand, was full of certainty and self-satisfaction.
“He has just acted as I expected, like a gentleman,” she said, “making no unpleasantness. He is unfortunate in his connections, poor young man; but I always said that there was the makings of a real gentleman in young Dirom. You see I have just been very right in my calculations. He has taken my letter in the right spirit. How could he do otherwise? He had the sense to see at once that Robert could never give his daughter to a ruined man.”
“There could not be two opinions on that subject,” said her husband, still more satisfied with himself.
“There might, I think, be many opinions,” the minister said, mildly. “If two young people love each other, andstick to it, there is no father but will be vanquished by them at the end.”
“That’s all your sentimentality,” said Mr. Ogilvie. “Let them come and tell me about their love as you call it, they would soon get their answer. Any decent young woman, let alone a girl brought up like Effie, would think shame.”
“Effie will not think shame,” said Mr. Moubray: “if the young man is equal to Mrs. Ogilvie’s opinion of him. You will have to make up your mind to encounter your own child, Robert—which is far harder work than to meet a stranger—in mortal conflict. For Effie will never take your view of the matter. She will not see that misfortune has anything to do with it. She will say that what was done for good fortune was done for bad. She will stand by him.”
“Hoots,” said Mrs. Ogilvie. “I am not ashamed to name the name of love for mypart. There was no love on Effie’s side. No, no, her heart was never in it. It is just a blaze of generosity and that kind of thing. You need have no trouble so far as that is concerned. When she sees that it’s not understood, her feeling will just die out, like that lowing of thorns under the pot which is mentioned in Scripture: or most likely she will take offence—and that will be still better. For he will not press it, partly because he will think it’s not honourable, and partly because he has to struggle for himself and has the sense to see it will be far better not to burden himself with a wife.”
“If you were so sure there was no love on Effie’s side, why did you let it go on?” said Mr. Moubray with a little severity.
“Why did I let it go on? just for the best reason in the world—because at that time he was an excellent match. Was I to let her ruin the best sitting down in allthe countryside, for a childish folly? No, no; I have always set my heart on doing my duty to Robert’s daughter, and that was just the very best that could be done for her. It’s different now; and here is another very fine lad, under our very hand. One that is an old joe, that she has known all her life, and might have been engaged to him but for—different reasons. Nothing’s lost, and he’s just turned up in the very nick of time, if you do not encourage her in her daft ideas, Uncle John.”
“I do not consider them daft ideas: and that Effie should go from one to another like a puppet when you pull the strings——”
“Oh, I am not a clever person; I cannot meet you with your images and your metaphors; but this I can say,” cried Mrs. Ogilvie, solemnly, “that it is just your niece’s happiness that is at stake, and if you come between her and what is justand right, the blame will be yours and not mine.”
Mr. Moubray went away very much troubled, with this in his mind. Effie had not loved Fred, and it was possible that she might love Ronald, that she might have had an inclination towards him all along; but was it possible that she should thus change—put down one and take up another—resign even the man she loved not, as no longer a good match, and accept the man she might love, because he was?
Marriage without love is a horror to every pure mind; it was to the minister the most abhorrent of all thoughts: and yet it was not so degrading, so deplorable as this. He went home to his lonely house with a great oppression on his soul. What could he say, what advise to the young and tender creature who had been brought to such a pass, and who had tofind her way out of it, he could not tell how? He had nothing to say to her. He could not give her a counsel; he did not even know how to approach the subject. He had to leave her alone at this crisis of her fate.
The actual crisis came quite unexpectedly when no one thought it near. It had come to be December, and Christmas, which should have witnessed the marriage, was not far off. The Diroms were said to be preparing to leave Allonby; but except when they were met riding or driving, they were little seen by the neighbours, few of whom, to tell the truth, had shown much interest in them since the downfall. Suddenly, in the afternoon of one of those dull winter days when the skies had begun to darken and the sun had set, the familiar dog-cart, which had been there so often, dashed in at the open gates of Gilston and Fred Dirom jumped out. He startled oldGeorge first of all by asking, not for Miss, but Mrs. Ogilvie.
“Miss Effie is in, sir. I will tell her in a moment,” George said, half from opposition, half because he could not believe his ears.
“I want to see Mrs. Ogilvie,” replied the young man, and he was ushered in accordingly, not without a murmured protest on the part of the old servant, who did not understand this novel method of procedure.
The knowledge of Fred’s arrival thrilled through the house. It flitted upstairs to the nursery, it went down to the kitchen. The very walls pulsated to this arrival. Effie became aware of it, she did not herself know how, and sat trembling expecting every moment to be summoned. But no summons came. She waited for some time, and then with a strong quiver of excitement, braced herself up for the final trialand stole downstairs. George was lingering about the hall. He shook his gray head as he saw her on the stairs, then pointed to the door of the drawing-room.
“He’s in there,” said the old man, “and I would bide for no ca’. I would suffer nae joukery-pawkery, I would just gang ben!”
Effie stood on the stairs for a moment like one who prepares for a fatal plunge, then with her pulses loud in her ears, and every nerve quivering, ran down the remaining steps and opened the door.
Fred was standing in the middle of the room holding Mrs. Ogilvie’s hand. He did not at first hear the opening of the door, done noiselessly by Effie in her whirl of passionate feeling.
“If you think it will be best,” he was saying, “I desire to do only what is best for her. I don’t want to agitate or distress her—Effie!”
In a moment he had dropped her stepmother’s hand and made a hurried step towards the apparition, pale, breathless, almost speechless with emotion, at the door. He was pale too, subdued, serious, very different from the easy and assured youth who had so often met her there.
“Effie! my dearest, generous girl!”
“Oh, Fred! what has become of you all this time? did you think that I was like the rest?”
“Now, Effie,” said Mrs. Ogilvie, “you are just spoiling everything both for him and for yourself. What brought you here? you are not wanted here. He has plenty on his mind without you. Just you go back again where you came from. He has told me all he wants to say. You here just makes everything worse.”
Fred had taken her hands into his. He looked into her eyes with a gaze which Effie did not understand.
“To think you should be willing to encounter even poverty and misery for me!” he said; “but I cannot take you at your word. I cannot expose you to that struggle. It must be put off indefinitely, my sweetest girl: alas, that I should have to say it! when another fortnight, only two weeks more, should have made us happy.”
He stooped down and kissed her hands. There was a tone, protecting, compassionate, respectful in his voice. He was consoling her quite as much as himself.
“Postponed?” she said faltering, gazing at him with an astonishment which was mingled with dismay.
“Alas, yes, my generous darling: though you are willing, I am not able to carry out our engagement: that is what I have been explaining. Don’t think it is not as bad for me as for you.”
“As bad for me, as for you,” the blood rushed to Effie’s countenance in a wildflood of indignation and horror. As bad for him as for her! She stood aghast, her eyes fixed upon his, in which there was, could it be? a complaisance, a self-satisfaction mingled with regret.
Fred had not the least conception of the feeling which had moved her. He knew nothing about the revolution made in all her thoughts by the discovery of his ruin, or of her impassioned determination to stand by him, and sacrifice everything to his happiness. No idea of the truth had entered his mind. He was sorry for her disappointment, which indeed was not less to him than to her, though, to be sure, a girl, he knew, always felt it more than a man. But when Effie, in her hurt pride and wounded feeling, uttered a cry of astonishment and dismay, he took it for the appeal of disappointment and replied to it hastily:
“It cannot be helped,” he said. “Doyou think it is an easy thing for me to say so? but what can I do? I have given up everything. A man is not like the ladies. I am going back to the studio—to work in earnest, where I used only to play at working. How could I ask you to go there with me, to share such a life? And besides, if I am to do anything, I must devote myself altogether to art. If things were to brighten, then, indeed, you may be sure—— without an hour’s delay!”
She had drawn her hands away, but he recovered possession of one, which he held in his, smoothing and patting it, as if he were comforting a child. A hundred thoughts rushed through her mind as he stood there, smiling at her pathetically, yet not without a touch of vanity, comprehending nothing, without the faintest gleam of perception as to what she had meant, sorry for her, consoling her for her loss, feelingto his heart the value of what she had lost, which was himself.
Her dismay, her consternation, the revulsion of feeling which sent the blood boiling through her veins, were to him only the natural vexation, distress, and disappointment of a girl whose marriage had been close at hand, and was now put off indefinitely. For this—which was so natural—he was anxious to console her. He wanted her to feel it as little as possible—to see that it was nobody’s fault, that it could not be helped. Of all the passionate impulses that had coursed through her veins he knew nothing, nothing! He could not divine them, or understand, even if he had divined.
“At best,” he said, still soothing her, patting her hand, “the postponement must be for an indefinite time. And how can I ask you to waste your youth, dearest Effie? I have done you harm enough already. Icame to let you know the real state of affairs—to set you free from your engagements to me, if,” he said, pressing her hand again, looking into her face, “you will accept——”
His face appeared to her like something floating in the air, his voice vibrated and rang about her in circles of sound. She drew her hand almost violently away, and withdrew a little, gazing at him half stupified, yet with a keen impatience and intolerance in her disturbed mind.
“I accept,” she said hoarsely, with a sense of mortification and intense indignant shame, which was stronger than any sensation Effie had ever felt in her life before.
Thatwas what he thought of her; this man for whom she had meant to sacrifice herself! She began hastily to draw off the ring which he had given her from her finger, which, slight as it was, seemed to grow larger with her excitement andtremulousness, and made the operation difficult.
“Take it,” she said, holding out the ring to him. “It is yours, not mine.”
“No, no,” he said, putting back her extended hand softly, “not that. If we part, don’t let it be in anger, Effie. Keep that at least, for a recollection—for a token——”
She scarcely heard what words he used. It was he who had the better of it, she felt. She was angry, disappointed, rejected. Was not that what everybody would think? She held the ring in her hand for a moment, then let it drop from her fingers. It fell with a dull sound on the carpet at his feet. Then she turned round, somehow controlling her impulse to cry out, to rush away, and walked to the door.
“I never expected she would have shown that sense and judgment,” said Mrs. Ogilvie, after she had shown the visitor, whoseexit was even more hasty than his arrival, and his feelings far from comfortable, to the door. She sat down at her writing table at once with that practical sense and readiness which never forsook her.
“Now I will just write and ask Ronald to his dinner,” she said.
Butthings did not go so easily as Mrs. Ogilvie supposed.
Effie had received a blow which was not easily forgotten. The previous mistakes of her young career might have been forgotten, and it is possible that she might have come to be tolerably happy in the settling down and evaporation of all young thoughts and dreams, had she in the fervour of her first impulse become Fred Dirom’s wife. It would not have been the happiness of her ideal, but it often happens that an evanescent splendour like that which illumines the early world dies away with comparative harmlessness, and leavesa very good substitute of solid satisfaction on a secondary level, with which all but the visionary learn to be content.
But the sharp and keen awakening with which she opened her eyes on a disenchanted world, when she found her attempted sacrifice so misunderstood, and felt herself put back into the common-place position of a girl disappointed, she who had risen to the point of heroism, and made up her mind to give up her very life, cannot be described. Effie did not turn in the rebound to another love, as her stepmother fully calculated. Though that other love was the first, the most true, the only faithful, though she was herself vaguely aware that in him she would find the comprehension for which she longed, as well as the love—though her heart, in spite of herself, turned to this old playmate and companion with an aching desire to tell him everything, to get the support of hissympathy, yet, at the same time, Effie shrank from Ronald as she shrank from every one.
The delicate fibres of her being had been torn and severed; they would not heal or knit together again. It might be that her heart was permanently injured and never would recover its tone, it might be that the recoil from life and heart-sickness might be only temporary. No one could tell. Mrs. Ogilvie, who would not believe at first that the appearance of Ronald would be ineffectual, or that the malady was more than superficial, grew impatient afterwards.
“It is all just selfishness,” she said; “it is just childish. Because she cannot have what she wanted, she will not take what she can get; and the worst of all is that she never wanted it when she could have it.”
“That’s just the way with women,” said her husband; “ye are all alike. Let hercome to herself, and don’t bore me about her as you’re doing, night and day. What is a girl and her sweetheart to me?”
“Don’t you think,” said Mr. Moubray, “if you had been honest with Effie from the first, if you had allowed her own heart to speak, if there had been no pressure on one side, and no suppression on the other——”
“In short,” cried Mrs. Ogilvie, with a flush of anger, “if we had just left everything to a bit silly thing that has not had the wit to guide herself in the most simple, straightforward way! where ye would have thought a fool could not go wrong——!”
Mr. Ogilvie at this lifted his head.
“Are ye quarrelling with John Moubray, Janet?” he said; “things must have come to a pretty pass when you fling yourself upon the minister, not content with putting me to silence. If ye’re ill-pleased with Effie,” said the head of the family,“let Effie bear the wyte; but what have we done, him and me?”
The minister, however, was Effie’s resource and help. He opened his own heart to her, showing her how it had bled and how it had been healed, and by and by the girl came to see, with slowly growing perception and a painful, yet elevating, knowledge, how many things lay hidden in the lives and souls which presented often a common-place exterior to the world. This was a moment in which it seemed doubtful whether the rending of all those delicate chords in her own being might not turn to bitterness and a permanent loss and injury. She was disposed to turn her face from the light, to avoid all tenderness and sympathy, to find that man delighted her not, nor woman either.
It was in this interval that Eric’s brief but very unsatisfactory visit took place, which the young fellow felt was as good asthe loss of his six weeks’ leave altogether. To be sure, there was a hard frost which made him some amends, and in the delights of skating and curling compensated him for his long journey home; and Ronald, his old comrade, whom he had expected to lose, went back with him, which was something to the credit side. But he could not understand Effie, and was of opinion that she had been jilted, and could scarcely be kept from making some public demonstration against Fred Dirom, who had used his sister ill, he thought. This mistake, too, added to Effie’s injuries of spirit a keener pang: and the tension was cruel.
But when Eric and Ronald were gone again, and all had relapsed into silence, the balance turned, and the girl began to be herself once more, or rather to be a better and loftier self, never forgetful of the sudden cross and conflict of the forces oflife which had made so strong an impression upon her youth.
Miss Dempster, after some further suffering, died quite peacefully in the ruddy dawn of a winter’s morning, after doing much to instruct the world and her immediate surroundings from her sick bed, and much enjoying the opportunity. She did not sleep very well the last few nights, and the prospect of “just getting a good sleep in my coffin before you bury me, and it all begins again,” was agreeable to her.
She seemed to entertain the curious impression that the funeral of her body would be the moment of re-awakening for her soul, and that till that final incident occurred she would not be severed from this worldly life, which thus literally was rounded by a sleep. It was always an annoyance to her that her room was to the back, and she could not see Dr. Jardine as formerlycome to his window and take off his dram, but perhaps it was rather with the sisterly desire to tease Beenie than from any other reason that this lamentation (with a twinkle in her eyes) was daily made.
When she died, the whole village and every neighbour far and near joined in the universal lamentation. Those who had called her an old cat in her life-time wept over her when she was laid in the grave, and remembered all her good deeds, from the old wives in the village, who had never wanted their pickle tea or their pinch of snuff so long as Miss Dempster was to the fore, to the laird’s wife herself, who thought regretfully of the silver candlesticks, and did not hesitate to say that nobody need be afraid of giving a party, whether it was a dinner or a ball supper that had to be provided, so long as Miss Dempster was mistress of the many superfluous knives and forks at Rosebank.
“She was just a public benefactor,” said Mrs. Ogilvie, who had not always expressed that opinion.
As for Miss Beenie, her eyes were rivers of tears, and her sister’s admirable qualities her only theme. She lived but to mourn and to praise the better half of her existence, her soul being as much widowed by this severance as if she had been a bereaved wife instead of a sister.
“Nobody can tell what she was to me, just more than can be put into words. She was mother and sister and mistress and guide all put into one. I’m not a whole human creature. I am but part of one, left like a wreck upon the shore—and the worst part,” Miss Beenie said.
The doctor, who had been suspected of a tear himself at the old lady’s funeral, and had certainly blown his nose violently on the way back, was just out of all patience with Miss Beenie’s yammering, he said, andhe missed the inspection of himself and all his concerns that had gone on from Rosebank. He was used to it, and he did not know how to do without it.
One spring morning, after the turn of the year, he went up with a very resolute air the tidy gravel path between the laurel hedges.
“Eh, doctor, I cannot bide to hear your step—and yet I am fain, fain to hear it: for it’s like as if she was still in life, and ye were coming to see her.”
“Miss Beenie,” said the doctor, “this cannot go on for ever. She was a good woman, and she has gone to a better place. But one thing is certain, that ye cannot bide here for ever, and that I cannot bide to leave you here. You must just come your ways across the road, and set up your tabernacle with me.”
At this, Miss Beenie uttered a cry of consternation: “Doctor! you must be taking leave of your senses. Me!——”
“And why not you?” said Dr. Jardine. “You would be far better over the way. It’s more cheerful, and we would be company for one another. I am not ill company when I am on my mettle. I desire that you will just think it over, and fix a day——”
And after a while, Miss Beenie found that there was sense in the suggestion, and dried her eyes, and did as she was desired, having been accustomed to do so, as she said, all her life.
The Diroms disappeared from Allonby as if they had never been there, and were heard of no more: though not without leaving disastrous traces at least in one heart and life.
But it may be that Effie’s wounds are not mortal after all. And one day Captain Sutherland must come home——
And who knows?
THE END.This work appeared originally in “The Scottish Church.”ROBERT MACLEHOSE, UNIVERSITY PRESS, GLASGOW.