Читать книгу Wee Wifie - Rosa Nouchette Carey - Страница 6

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Thus oft the mourner’s wayward heart

Tempts him to hide his grief and die,

Too feeble for confession’s smart,

Too proud to bear a pitying eye;

How sweet in that dark hour to fall

On bosoms waiting to receive

Our sighs, and gently whisper all!

They love us—will not God forgive?

Keble’s Christian Year.

Strangers passing through Sandycliffe always paused to admire the picturesque old Grange, with its curious gables and fantastically twisted chimneys, its mullion windows and red-brick walls half smothered in ivy, while all sorts of creepers festooned the deep, shady porch, with its long oaken benches that looked so cool and inviting on a hot summer’s day, while the ever-open door gave a glimpse of a hall furnished like a sitting-room, with a glass door leading to a broad, gravel terrace. The smoothly shaved lawn in front of the house was shaded by two magnificent elms; a quaint old garden full of sweet-smelling, old-fashioned flowers lay below the terrace, and a curious yew-tree walk bordered one side. This was Mr. Ferrers’s favorite walk, where he pondered over the subject for his Sunday’s sermons. It was no difficulty for him to find his way down the straight alley, An old walnut-tree at the end with a broad, circular seat and a little strip of grass round it was always known as the “Master’s summer study.” It was here that Margaret read to him in the fresh, dewy mornings when the thrushes were feeding on the lawn, or in the evenings when the birds were chirping their good-nights, and the lark had come down from the gate of heaven to its nest in the corn-field, and the family of greenfinches that had been hatched in the branches of an old acacia-tree were all asleep and dreaming of the “early worm.”

People used to pity Margaret for having to spend so many hours over such dull, laborious reading; the homilies of the old Fathers and the abstract philosophical treatises in which Mr. Ferrers’s soul delighted must have been tedious to his sister, they said; but if they had but known it, their pity was perfectly wasted.

Margaret’s vigorous intellect was quite capable of enjoying and assimilating the strong, hardy diet provided for it; she knew Mr. Ferrers’s favorite authors, and would pause of her own accord to read over again some grand passage or trenchant argument.

Hugh had once laughingly called her a blue-stocking when he had found the brother and sister at their studies, but he had no idea of the extent of Margaret’s erudition; in earlier years she had learned a little Greek, and was able to read the Greek Testament to Raby—she was indeed “his eyes,” as he fondly termed her, and those who listened to the eloquent sermons of the blind vicar of Sandycliffe little knew how much of that precious store of wisdom and scholarly research was owing to Margaret’s unselfish devotion; Milton’s daughters reading to him in his blindness were not more devoted than she.

When their early Sunday repast was over, Margaret, as usual, led the way to the old walnut-tree seat; she had Keble’s “Christian Year” in her hand and a volume of Herbert’s poems—for wearied by his labors, Raby often preferred some sacred poetry or interesting biography to be read to him between the services, or often he bade her close her book or read to herself if his thoughts were busy with his evening sermon.

The strip of lawn that surrounded the walnut-tree led to a broad gravel walk with a sun-dial and a high southern wall where peaches ripened, and nectarines and apricots sunned themselves; here there was another seat, where on cold autumn mornings or mild winter days one could sit and feel the mild, chastened sunshine stealing round one with temperate warmth; a row of bee-hives stood under the wall, where sweetest honey from the surrounding clover-fields was made by the busy brown workers, “the little liverymen of industry,” as Raby called them, or “his preachers in brown.”

Margaret glanced at her brother rather anxiously as she took her place beside him; he looked more than usually tired, she thought; deep lines furrowed his broad forehead, and the firmly compressed lips spoke of some effort to repress heart-weariness.

“He is thinking of our poor child,” she said to herself, as she turned to the beautiful poem for the seventh Sunday after Trinity: “From whence can a man satisfy these men with bread here in the wilderness”—the very text as she knew that Raby had selected for his evening sermon at Pierrepoint; but as her smooth, melodious voice lingered involuntarily over the third verse, a sigh burst from Raby’s lips.

“Landscape of fear! yet, weary heart,

Thou need’st not in thy gloom depart,

Nor fainting turn to seek thy distant home:

Sweetly thy sickening throbs are eyed

By the kind Saviour at thy side;

For healing and for balm e’en now thy hour is come.”

“Oh, that it were come for both of us,” muttered Raby, in a tone so husky with pain that Margaret stopped.

“You are thinking of Crystal,” she said, softly, leaning toward him with a face full of sympathy. “That verse was beautiful; it reminded me of our child at once”—but as he hid his face in his hands without answering her, she sat motionless in her place, and for a long time there was silence between them.

But Margaret’s heart was full, and she was saying to herself:

“Why need I have said that, as though he ever forgot her? poor Raby—poor, unhappy brother—forget her! when every night in the twilight I see him fold his hands as though in prayer, and in the darkness can hear him whisper, ‘God bless my darling and bring her home to me again.’ ”

“Margaret!”

“Yes, dear;” but as she turned quickly at the beseeching tone in which her name was uttered, a smile came to her lips, for Raby’s hand was feeling in his inner breast-pocket, and she knew well what that action signified; in another moment he had drawn out a letter and had placed it in Margaret’s outstretched palm. Ever since this letter had reached them about two months ago, each Sunday the same silent request had been made to her, and each time, as now, she had taken it without hesitation or comment, and had read it slowly from beginning to end.

The envelope bore the Leeds postmark, and the letter itself was evidently written hurriedly in a flowing, girlish hand.

“My Dearest Margaret,” it began, “I feel to-night as though I must write to you; sometimes the homesickness is so bitter—the longing so intense to see your dear face again—that I can hardly endure it; there are times when the restlessness is so unendurable that I can not sit still and bear it—when I feel as though I have but one wish in the world, just to feel your arms round me again, and hear from your lips that I am forgiven, and then lie down and die.

“You suffer, too, you say, in the one letter that has reached me: I have ever overshadowed your happiness. You and Raby are troubling your kind hearts about me, but indeed there is no need for any fresh anxiety.

“I have met with good Samaritans. The roof that shelters me is humble indeed, but it shelters loving hearts and simple, kindly natures—natures as true as yours, Margaret—gentle, high-souled women, who, like the charitable traveler in the Bible, have sought to pour oil and wine into my wounds. How you would love them for my sake, but still more for their own!

“These kindly strangers took me in without a word—they asked no questions; I was young, friendless and unhappy, that was all they cared to know.

“I must tell you very little about them, for I do not wish to give you any clew to my home at present; they are a mother and two daughters in reduced circumstances, but having unmistakably the stamp of gentlewomen; both mother and daughter, for the second is only a child, have high, cultured natures. The mother—forgive me, Margaret, for I dare not mention her name—teaches in a school close by us, and her daughter is also a daily governess. I am thankful to say that their recommendations have procured me work of the same kind; I give morning lessons to two little boys, and Fern—that is the eldest daughter’s name—and I have also obtained some orders for embroidery to fill up our leisure hours and occupy our hands while we teach Fern’s youngest sister.

“And now I have told you all this, will you not be comforted a little about me; will you not believe that as far as possible things are well with me? Tell him—tell Raby—that when I have wiped out my sin a little by this bitter penance and mortification, till even I can feel I have suffered and repented enough, I will come back and look on your dear face again. And this for you, Margaret; know that in the blameless, hard-working life I lead that I have forgotten none of your counsel, and that I so walk in the hard and lonely path that I have marked out for myself that even you could find no fault. Farewell.

“Crystal.”

As Margaret’s voice died away, Raby turned his sightless face to her.

“You may give it back to me, Margaret, but stay, there is the copy of your answer; I think I would like to hear that once again; and Margaret obediently opened the thin, folded paper.

“My poor Darling—At last we have heard from you—at last you have yielded to my urgent request for some news of your daily life. God bless you for lifting a little of the weight off us, for telling us something about yourself and your work. I could not help crying bitterly over your letter, to think that a humble roof shelters our child; that you are compelled to work for your living; you, Crystal, who have never known what it is to want anything; upon whom a rough wind was not suffered to blow. My child, come home. What need is there of penance and expiation when all has been forgiven? The evil spirit that tormented our child has been cast out, and you are clothed afresh and in your right mind now; come home, for dear Raby’s sake, and be his darling as of old! Do you know how he longs for you? Daily he asks ‘Any news of her, Margaret?’ and last night, as I was passing his study door, he called me in and bade me give you this message—‘Tell my child, Margaret,’ he said, ‘that every night I bless her and fall asleep breathing her name; tell her that my forgiveness and blessing are ever with her; that there is no bitterness in my heart; that she can not escape from my love; that it will follow her to the world’s end. And tell her, Margaret, that if she do not soon come back to me that I, Raby—blind, helpless, useless as I am—will seek her through God’s earth till I find her and bring her back.’ Ah, surely you must weep as you read this, Crystal. I pray that every tear may be God’s own dew to melt and break up the hardness of your heart. Your ever loving

“Margaret.”

“That was written nearly two months ago, Madge, and she has not come yet.”

“No, dear, we must have patience.”

Raby sighed impatiently. “So you always say; but it is hard to be patient under such circumstances—to know that the woman you love has made herself an exile from all she holds dear. Margaret, I was wrong not to tell her what I felt. I sometimes fear that she misjudged my silence. But she was so young.”

“You meant it for the best, Raby?”

“Yes, I meant it for the best,” he answered, slowly. “I did not wish to take advantage of her youth; it did not seem right or honorable. Let her go into the world a little and see other men, that is what I said to myself. Even now, I hardly think I was wrong.”

“No, you were right, quite right; but you need not have dreaded the result of such an ordeal; Crystal would never have loved any one but you, Raby. I sometimes think”—but here she hesitated.

“You think what, Margaret?”

“That she was jealous of Mona—that she misunderstood you there?”

“Good heavens! Mrs. Grey!”

“Crystal was so young, and she did not know that poor Mona’s life was doomed. I have seen her look at Mona so strangely when you were talking to her; and once she asked me if you admired fair women, and if you did not think Mrs. Grey very beautiful; and when I said yes, I remember she turned very pale and did not answer.”

“I never thought of this,” he returned, in a tone of grief. “It must have been one of her sick fancies, poor unhappy child—as though my heart had ever swerved from her for an instant. What do you think, Margaret, could she care for the blind man still?”

“More than ever, dear. If I know Crystal, her heart has belonged to you from a child.”

“There speaks my comforter”—with one of his rare smiles; “you are always good to me, Madge. Now read to me a little, and let me banish these weary thoughts. One little clew—one faint hint—and I would keep my word and seek for her; but, as you say, we must have patience a little longer,” and Raby straightened himself and composed himself to listen, and they sat there until the evening sunshine began to creep about the sun-dial, and it was time for Raby to walk over to Pierrepoint.

It is well for some of us that coming events do not always cast their shadow before; that we lie down to rest in happy ignorance of what the next day may bring forth. As Margaret looked out on the moonlight that evening, she little thought that that Sunday was the last day of her happy girlhood—that the morrow held a bitter trial in store for her.

She was sitting alone in the morning-room, the next afternoon, when Sir Wilfred Redmond was announced, and the next moment the old man entered the room.

A faint blush came to Margaret’s cheeks as she rose to greet him. This visit meant recognition of her as his son’s fiancée; and yet, why did he come alone—why was not Hugh with him? Hugh’s father was almost a stranger to her. He was a man of reserved habits, who had never been very sociable with his neighbors, and Margaret had seen little of him in her girlish days.

“It is very good of you to come so soon, Sir Wilfred,” she said, blushing still more rosily under his penetrating glance. “I am so sorry that my brother is out; he has gone over to Pierrepoint.”

“I came here to see you and not your brother,” returned Sir Wilfred; but he did not look at her as he spoke, and Margaret noticed that he seemed rather nervous. “My business is with you, Miss Ferrers; I have just heard strange news—that you and my son are engaged; is that true?”

Margaret bowed her head. She thought Sir Wilfred’s manner rather singular—he had met her with coldness; there was certainly no trace of warmth, no cordiality in the loose grasp of her hand. She wondered what made him speak in that dry, measured voice, and why, after his first keen glance at her, he had averted his eyes. He looked older than he had done yesterday, and there was a harassed expression in his face. “It is rather strange,” he went on, “that Hugh should have left me in ignorance all these months, but that”—as Margaret seemed about to speak—“is between me and him, I do not include you in the blame. On the contrary,”—speaking now with some degree of feeling—“I am sorry for you, Miss Ferrers, for I have come to tell you, what Hugh refuses to do, that I can not consent to my son’s marrying you.”

Margaret started, and the proud indignant color rose to her face; but she restrained herself.

“May I ask your reason, Sir Wilfred?”

“I have a very good, sufficient reason,” returned the old man, sadly; “Hugh is my only son.”

“I do not understand—”

“Perhaps not, and it is my painful task to enlighten you, Miss Ferrers,” hesitating a little, “I do not wonder at my son’s choice, now I see you; I am quite sure that you are all he represents you to be; that in all respects you are fitted to be the wife of a wealthier man than Hugh. But for my boy’s sake I am compelled to appeal to your generosity, your sense of right, and ask you to give him up.”

“I can not give your son up,” returned Margaret, with noble frankness; “I am promised to him, and we love each other dearly.”

“I know that,” and for a moment Sir Wilfred’s eyes rested on the beautiful face before him with mingled admiration and pain, and his voice softened insensibly. “My dear, I know how my boy loves you, how his whole heart is centered on you. I can do nothing with him—he will not listen to reason; his passion for you is overmastering, and blinds him to his best interest. I have come to you to help me save him in spite of himself.”

At this solemn adjuration Margaret’s face grew pale, and for the first time her courage forsook her.

“I can not bear this,” she returned, and her young voice grew thin and sharp. “Why do you not speak plainly and tell me what you mean? Why do you ask me to save Hugh—my Hugh—when I am ready to give up my whole life to him? You speak as if his marriage with me would bring him a curse.”

“As it most surely would to him and to his children, Miss Ferrers. Margaret—I may call you Margaret, for I knew you as a child—it is no fault of yours if that be the truth. My dear, has no one told you about your mother?”

She looked at him with wide-open, startled eyes. “My mother, Sir Wilfred! no, I was only seven when she died. I think,” knitting her white brows as though she were trying to recall that childish past, “that she was very ill—she had to go away for a long time, and my poor father seemed very sad. I remember he cried dreadfully at her funeral, and Raby told me I ought to have cried too.”

“I loved your mother, Margaret,” returned the old man, and his mouth twitched under his white mustache. “You are not like her; she was dark, but very beautiful. Yes, she was ill, with that deadly hereditary illness that we call by another name; so ill that for years before her death her husband could not see her.”

“You mean—” asked Margaret, but her dry white lips refused to finish the sentence. Sir Wilfred looked at her pityingly, as he answered—

“She was insane. It was in the family—they told me so, and that was why I did not ask her to marry me. She was beautiful, and so many loved her—your father and I among the number. Now you know, Margaret, that while my heart bleeds for you both, I ask you to release my son.”