Читать книгу Wee Wifie - Rosa Nouchette Carey - Страница 5

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Over-proud of course,

Even so!—but not so stupid, blind, that I,

Whom thus the great Taskmaster of the world

Has set to meditate, mistaken work,

My dreary face against a dim blank wall,

Throughout man a natural life-time—could pretend or wish.

Browning’s Aurora Leigh.

About five miles from Singleton, where Redmond Hall stands, is the little village of Sandycliffe, a small primitive place set in corn-fields, with long sloping fields of grain, alternating with smooth green uplands and winding lanes, with the tangled hedgerows, so well known in southern scenery.

Sandycliffe is not actually on the sea-shore, but a short walk from the village up one of those breezy uplands would bring the foot-passenger within view of the blue sea-line; on one side is Singleton, with its white cliffs and row of modest, unpretending houses, and on the other the busy port of Pierrepoint, with its bustle and traffic, its long narrow streets, and ceaseless activity. Sandycliffe lies snugly in its green hollow; a tiny village with one winding street, a few whitewashed cottages grouped round a small Norman church, with a rose-covered vicarage inhabited by the curate’s large family. The vicar lived a mile away, at the Grange, a large red-brick house with curious gables, half covered with ivy, standing on high ground, with a grand view of the sea and the harbor of Pierrepoint.

It might seem strange to any one not conversant with the facts of the case, that the small, sparsely populated village should require the services of a curate, and especially a hardworking man like Mr. Anderson; but a sad affliction had befallen the young vicar of Sandycliffe; the result of some illness or accident, two or three years after his ordination, had left him totally blind.

People who had heard him had prophesied great things of Mr. Ferrers—he had the rare gift of eloquence; he was a born orator, as they said—a rising light in his profession; it was absurd that such powers should be wasted on a village congregation, made up of rustics and old women; he must preach from some city pulpit; he was a man fitted to sway the masses in the east end of London, to be a leader among his fellows; it was seldom that one saw such penetration and power united with such simple unobtrusive goodness.

Mr. Ferrers would smile a little sadly when the speeches reached his ear. He was a man who cared little for the praises of his generation; his one aim in life was to devote his talents to his Master’s service—to work in the corner of the vineyard allotted to him. His inner consciousness, indeed, told him that he had capabilities for a larger sphere, a wider range of work; when the call came he would be ready to leave his few sheep in the wilderness and go out into pastures now. He was like a knight watching beside his armor until the reveillé sounded; when the time came he was ready to go down to the battle.

When the call came! Alas! it never came in this world for Raby Ferrers. In the full prime of youth and strength the mysterious doom of blindness came upon the young vicar and left him groping in a darkened world.

There was bitter trouble at the Grange just then; a young cousin of Margaret and Raby Ferrers, who had lived with them from childhood, and had been the spoiled darling of the house, had left her home suddenly, leaving no trace behind her.

Gossip had been rife in Sandycliffe, but no one except Hugh Redmond knew the rights of the case, or why the girl should have abandoned her home when Raby Ferrers was lying on a bed of suffering, and Margaret was watching beside him in trembling anguish for the result.

There were weeks and months of bodily suffering and fierce internal conflict—bitter hand to hand fights with despair. And then the strong will and faith of Raby Ferrers triumphed; back from the shadow of the valley of death he came, mutilated, scarred, and victorious; and like blind Samson, led by a boy, he one day electrified his people by entering his pulpit again; and at the sight of the changed pale face, and of the deep melodious voice speaking with its old tender authority, there was hardly a dry eye in the church.

From that day Mr. Ferrers never flinched from the purpose he had set before him as far as lay in his power to do his duty. Bound by his ordination vows, he still gloried in the dignity of his priesthood. Sunday after Sunday saw him occupying the pulpit of his little church, which, as the fame of his rare eloquence went abroad, was always crowded with strangers.

He had secured the services of an earnest hard-working man—the ill-paid, overworked curate of an East End parish with a large sickly family—and installed them in the sunny pleasant vicarage.

There was little work for either of them in Sandycliffe, but they carried their joint energies further afield. Pierrepoint had a large poor population, and the vicar was old and supine; he accepted gladly the volunteered services of his zealous coadjutors, and, led by his faithful Johnnie, Mr. Ferrers penetrated into the winding alleys, and carried comfort to many a sick and dying bed. And as Mr. Brabazon grew more infirm, it became a rule to Mr. Ferrers to occupy his pulpit on Sunday evenings, and it was always remarked that on these occasions the church was crowded; people would come ten or twelve miles to hear the blind clergyman from Sandycliffe. It was even mooted by the bishop whether, after Mr. Brabazon’s death, Pierrepoint should not be offered to Mr. Ferrers.

After the first few weeks Raby Ferrers never spoke of his blindness to any one; even his half-sister Margaret who lived with him, and was his dearest and closest friend, never heard a repining word from his lips; neither did he waste his strength by silent brooding—the activity of his life left him no time for this; when he was not occupied with his ministrations, or preparing his sermons, Margaret would read to him for hours.

Yet, it was evident to any keen observer who studied the quiet face, that some load of care lay on the bowed shoulders of Mr. Ferrers; some heavy weight that at times seemed to crush him. Sometimes when Margaret was reading to him, he would make a sign for her to stop, and, laying down the book, she would watch him pacing up and down the green alleys of the Grange garden with his sightless eyes turned to the sunshine; but she knew that it was not of his blindness he was thinking, but of a heavier trouble still.

Few people about Sandycliffe knew that Margaret Ferrers was only Raby’s half-sister; there were only a few years between them, and in the close intimacy that had grown up between the brother and sister, it was seldom remembered by either of them that they had different mothers. Colonel Ferrers had married within two years of his first wife’s death, and the second Mrs. Ferrers had brought the Grange and a wealthy dowry to her husband.

But the marriage had not been a happy one, and the three last years of Mrs. Ferrers’ life had been passed away from her husband. There were hints and tales of bitter scenes in the Grange, but little was known in the village; only, when Margaret was seven years old, and Raby a lad of fourteen, there was a grand funeral, such as Sandycliffe had never witnessed, and Mrs. Ferrers was laid in the same marble tomb where her predecessor was buried, and it was noted with some surprise and a little incredulity that Colonel Ferrers seemed overcome with grief.

It was about fourteen months before Raby had stood in the large porch waiting for his glass of milk that one summer’s morning the little church-yard was full of loitering villagers, waiting for the bells to stop before they hurried into their places.

The white Lady from the Grange, as some of the children called her, had just passed into the porch, after stopping to reprove some noisy urchins eating small sour apples on the tombstones; and old Granny Richardson had just hobbled in after her in her red cloak and neat black bonnet, and her prayer-book folded in a blue and white checked handkerchief with a little bunch of sweet-william and southern-wood—old man they called it in those parts—to keep it company. After granny came old Samuel Tibbs, the patriarch of the village, in his clean smock and scarlet handkerchief, followed by his youngest grandson in all the glories of corduroys and hob-nailed boots. Young Sam, as they called him, was the youngest of fifteen, who had all grown up strong and healthy under the thatched eaves of the low, whitewashed cottage down by the pond. There the fifteen young Tibbses had elbowed, and jostled, and kicked, and metaphorically pecked at each other like young rooks in a nest, and had grown up strong and hearty on a diet of bread and treacle alternating with slices of bread and dripping, running barefoot over the grass and splashing like young ducks in the pond, until promoted to hob-nailed boots and bird-scaring, with a promise of riding the plow-horses to water, and an occasional bird-nesting expedition on their own account.

The bell had stopped, and the last loiterer had taken his place on the oak bench, when as usual two strangers took their places in a seat that was usually occupied by any chance worshiper.

Most of the little congregation were familiar with the features of the younger man, and every one in the village knew that the tall, broad-shouldered man with the fair beard and handsome, aristocratic face was the young master from Redmond Hall, who was to marry Miss Margaret, the vicar’s sister.

But even young Sam Tibbs leaves off admiring his hob-nailed boots to stare at the brown, sickly-looking gentleman with the white mustache that occupies the other end of the seat; and Margaret, sitting with the school-children, looks curiously in the same direction, for this is the first time that she has seen Sir Wilfred Redmond since his return from Persia.

Both father and son are wonderfully alike, she thinks; they have both the same heavy-lidded, blue-gray eyes, the same proud carriage of the head and stately presence; but the bright, sunshiny smile that greeted her from Hugh Redmond is certainly not reproduced on his father’s somber face. Sir Wilfred looked ill and saddened; and evidently the report that ill-health had brought his researches to a speedy end was probably true.

Sir Wilfred listened with grave attention to Mr. Ferrers’s eloquent sermon. The deep, musical voice, and fine delivery seemed to rivet him; he sat motionless, with his thin hands grasping each other, his eyes fixed on the pale, powerful face which the morning sunshine touched with a sort of glory.

As usual, Hugh Redmond’s attention strayed to the corner where Margaret sat, the light from the painted window reached her, staining her white gown with patches of prismatic color—a bordering of crimson and blue and violet—and giving a golden tinge to her dead-brown hair; and as Hugh looks at her he tells himself again that he has never seen any one to compare with her—his pearl among women.

When the service was over, and the small congregation had streamed out of the church, Sir Wilfred left his seat and walked up the aisle to inspect the chancel. He evidently thought his son was following him, for he turned round once to address him; but Hugh had noticed that Margaret had quietly slipped through a side door, and he hastily followed her.

She was standing under the shade of a willow, looking at a newly made grave, but she turned with a smile when she saw him striding over the grass, with the sun shining on his golden-brown head.

“Margaret,” he said, reproachfully, “why have you not waited to speak to my father? Raby has just joined him.”

A quick blush crossed Margaret’s face—her lover’s question seemed to pain her—but she answered with her accustomed gentleness.

“Surely you must-know dear; how could I meet Sir Wilfred when he is still in ignorance of our engagement?”

“Ah, true, I forgot,” with a short, uneasy laugh; but it was Hugh’s turn now to look uncomfortable. “What a little puritan you are, darling, as though half a dozen civil words would have mattered.”

“But I could not have said them, Hugh,” with quiet firmness; “I should have felt awkward and constrained in your father’s presence; I should have betrayed our secret by my very silence.”

“Ah, well, it will be a secret no longer,” with an impatient sigh. “You look at me very reproachfully this morning, Margaret, but indeed I have not been to blame so much as you think; my father was tired from his journey yesterday. I am afraid he is in very bad health. I confess I am anxious about him. We had so much to talk about, and he is so full of that wonderful book of his. Come, cheer up, dear; I will not have you look so serious; I will promise you that he shall know of our engagement before I sleep to-night.”

“Really and truly, Hugh?”

“Really and truly, dear; now say something kind to me before I go.”

Ten minutes afterward Margaret walked slowly down the church-yard to join Raby, who was waiting for her at the gate. He heard her footstep, and held out his hand to her.

“I was wondering what had become of you, Margaret. Sir Wilfred has been talking to me for a long time; he asked after you, but of course I made some excuse; I think I know why you hid yourself.”

“That could only be one reason, Raby.”

“Ah, I was right, then. I said to myself, depend upon it, Madge means to stand on her dignity, and read Hugh a lesson, and I hope he will profit by it. I do believe Hugh’s favorite motto is ‘Never do to-day what you can put off until to-morrow.’ ”

“I think you are a little hard on Hugh; he has promised that he will speak to his father to-day.”

“I am glad of that,” very gravely. “I confess that this procrastination has made me very uneasy; it was not treating you fairly, Margaret, to leave his father all these months in ignorance of the engagement.”

“Yes, but you forget,” interposed his sister, eagerly, “he did write telling Sir Wilfred everything, but the letter never reached him. You are generally so charitable. Raby, and yet you misjudge poor Hugh so readily.”

There was an injured tone in Margaret’s voice that made Raby smile; he knew that she was blind to Hugh’s faults—that she believed in him with all a loving woman’s credulity: and yet as he smiled he sighed.

He knew his sister well, the simplicity and strength of her nature, the unselfishness and purity of her aims—few women had so high a standard—and he reverenced as well as loved her, for every day showed him new beauties in her character. But his knowledge of his sister made him doubt the wisdom of her choice; in his heart he had never really approved of her engagement with Hugh Redmond. Hugh was a capital fellow, he told himself; a pleasant companion, lovable in his way, and not without his special gifts, but he was not worthy of Margaret.

Raby had not always been blind, and his intimacy with Hugh Redmond had given him plenty of opportunity to judge truly of his friend’s defects. He knew Hugh was manly and generous, but he was also weak and impulsive, hot-tempered and prone to restlessness; and he marveled sadly how Margaret’s calm, grand nature should center its affections and hopes on such an unstable character as Hugh Redmond.

“She will never be happy with him,” he said to himself; “one day he must disappoint her. Oh, I know well there is no harm in him; every one would call him a good fellow; he is clever, he has plenty of pluck, he has gentlemanly feelings, and he worships Margaret. But in my opinion the wife should not be superior to the husband; if there must be weakness, it should be on the other side.” And here Raby sighed and gave himself up to melancholy and more personal broodings, and he thought how strange and baffling were the perversities of human nature, and how hearts cleaved to each other—in spite of a hundred faults and blemishes—as Margaret’s cleaved to Hugh Redmond.

No, there was no love without suffering, he thought; even happy love had its thrills and tremors of doubt, its hours of anticipatory fears. A little while ago and his own life had stretched before him, bright, hopeful and full of enjoyment, and then a cloud had blotted out all the goodly land of promise, and he had been left a poor prisoner of hope on the dim borders, led in paths that he truly had not known—mysterious paths of suffering and patience.

Raby had not answered his sister’s reproachful speech, but he had taken her hand and pressed it, as though asking her pardon.

“I wish you thought better of Hugh,” she said softly, as she felt his caressing gesture; and Raby smiled again.

“I do think well of him. Who am I that I should judge my fellows? But I have not seen the man yet who is worthy of my Margaret. Come, is not that a lover-like speech; Hugh himself might have said it. But here we are at home; I can smell the roses in the porch; they are a sweet welcome to a blind man, are they not, Madge?”