Unable to get strong.
In an invalid's chair by the side of a fire, at midday, reclined Lucy
Cleeve. Her face was delicate and thin; her sweet brown eyes had
almost an anxious look in them; the white wrapper she wore was not
whiter than her cheeks. Mrs. Cleeve was in the opposite chair reading.
At the window sat Miss Blake, working some colours of bright silks on
a white satin ground.
As Mrs. Cleeve turned the page, she chanced to look up, and saw in her
daughter a symptom of shivering.
"Lucy! My darling, surely you are not shivering again!"
"N--o, I think not," was the hesitating answer. "The fire is getting
dull, mamma."
Mrs. Cleeve stirred the fire into brightness, and then brought a warm
shawl of chenille silk, and folded it over Lucy's shoulders. And yet
the August sun was shining on the world, and the blue skies were dark
with heat.
The cruel pain that the separation from Karl Andinnian had brought to
Lucy, was worse than any one thought for. She was perfectly silent
over it, bearing all patiently, and so gave no sign of the desolation
within. Colonel and Mrs. Cleeve said in private how reasonable Lucy
was, and how well she was forgetting the young man. Miss Blake felt
sure that she had never really cared for him: that the love had been
all child's play. All through the month of June Lucy had gone about
wherever they chose to take her: to flower-shows, and promenades, and
dances, and picnics. She talked and laughed in society as others did;
and no mortal wizard or witch could have divined she was suffering
from the effects of a love-fever, that had been too rudely checked.
Very shortly she was to suffer from a different fever: one that
sometimes proves to be just as difficult of cure. In spite of the
gaiety and the going-out, Lucy seemed to be somewhat ailing: her
appetite failed, and she grew to feel tired at nothing. In July these
symptoms had increased, and she was palpably ill. The medical man
called in, pronounced Miss Cleeve to be suffering from a slight fever,
combined with threatenings of ague. The slight fever grew into a
greater one, and then became intermittent. Intervals of shivering
coldness would be succeeded by intervals of burning heat; and they in
their turn by intense prostration. The doctor said Miss Cleeve must
have taken cold; probably, he thought, had sat on damp grass at some
picnic. Lucy was very obedient. She lay in bed when they told her to
lie, and got up when they told her to get up, and took all the
medicine ordered without a word, and tried to take the food. The
doctor, at length, with much self-gratulation, declared the fever at
an end; and that Miss Cleeve might come out of her bedroom for some
hours in the day. Miss Cleeve did so come: but somehow she did not
gain strength, or improve as she ought to have done. Seasons of
chilling coldness would be upon her still, the white cheeks would
sometimes be bright with a very suspicious-looking dash of hectic. It
would take time to re-establish her, said the doctor with a sigh: and
that was the best he could make of it.
Whether Colonel and Mrs. Cleeve would have chosen to speak much before
their daughter of the lover she had been obliged to resign, cannot be
said. Most probably not. But circumstances over which they had no
control led to its being done. When, towards the close of June, the
news of that strange tragedy enacted by Adam Andinnian broke upon the
world, all the world was full of it. Not a visitor, calling to see
them, but went over the marvellous wonders of the tale in Lucy's
hearing, and, as it seemed to her, for her own special benefit. The
entirely unprovoked (as was at first said and supposed) nature of the
crime; the singular fact that it should have been committed the very
day of his assuming his rank amidst the baronetage of the kingdom; the
departure of Mrs. Andinnian on the journey that he ought to have
taken, and the miserable thought, so full of poignancy to the
Andinnian family, that if _he_ had gone, the calamity could not have
happened; the summons to the young lieutenant at Winchester, his
difficulty with the telegram, and his arrival at night to find what
had happened at the desolate house! All these facts, and very many
more details, some true, some untrue, were brought before Lucy day
after day. To escape them was impossible, unless she had shut herself
up from society, for men and women's mouths were full of them; and
none had the least suspicion that the name of Andinnian was more than
any other name to Lucy Cleeve. It was subsequent to this, you of
course understand, that she became ill. During this period, she was
only somewhat ailing, and was going about just as other people went.
The subject--it has been already said--did not die out quickly. Before
it was allowed to do so, there came the trial; and _that_ and its
proceedings kept it alive for many a day more. But that the matter
altogether bore an unusual interest, and that a great deal of what is
called romance, by which public imagination is fed, encompassed it,
was undeniable. The step in rank attained by Lieutenant Andinnian, his
captaincy, was dismissed and re-discussed as though no man had ever
taken it before. So that, long ere the period now arrived at, August,
Colonel and Mrs. Cleeve talked of the Andinnian affairs before their
daughter with as little thought of reticence as they would have given
to the most common questions of everyday life, and perhaps had nearly
forgotten that there had ever been a cause why they should observe it.
A word of Miss Blake. That the perfidy--she looked upon it as such--of
Lieutenant Andinnian in regard to herself, was a very bitter blow and
tried her heart nearly as the separation was trying Lucy's, may at
once be admitted. Nothing, in the world or out of it, would have
persuaded her that the young man did not at an early period love her,
that he would have ultimately married her but for the stepping in
between them of Lucy Cleeve: and there lay a very angry and bitter
feeling against Lucy at the bottom of her heart. Not against Mr.
Andinnian. The first shock over, she quite exonerated him, and threw
all the weight of blame on Lucy. Is it not ever so--that woman, in a
case of rivalry such as this, detests and misjudges the woman, and
exempts the man?
But Miss Blake had a very strict conscience. In one of more gentle and
tender nature, this would have been an admirable thing; in her, whose
nature was exceptionally hard, it might cause her to grow into
something undesirably stern. There was a chance for her yet.
Underlying her every thought, word, action, her witty sallies in
the ball-room, her prayers in church, remained ever the one faint
hope--that Karl Andinnian would recover his senses and return to his
first allegiance. If this ever came to pass, and she became Mrs.
Andinnian, the little kindness existing in Theresa Blake's nature
would assert itself. For, though she was very just, or strove to be,
she was not kind.
With this strict conscience, Miss Blake could not encourage her
ill-feeling towards Lucy. On the contrary, she put it resolutely from
her, and strove to go on her way in a duteous course of life and take
up her own sorrow as a kind of appointed cross. All very well, this,
so far as it went: but there was one dreadful want ever making itself
heard--the want to fill the aching void in her lonely heart. After a
disappointment to the affections, all women feel this need; and none
unless they have felt it, can know or imagine the intense need of it.
When the heart has been filled to the uttermost with a beloved object,
every hour of the day gladdened with his sight, every dream of the
night rejoicing with the thought of the morning's renewed meeting, and
he is compulsorily snatched away for ever, the awful blank left is
almost worse than death. Every aim and end and hope in life seems to
have died suddenly out, leaving only a vacuum: a vacuum that tells of
nothing but pain. But for finding some object which the mind can take
up and concentrate itself upon, there are women who could go mad. Miss
Blake found hers in religion.
Close upon that night when you saw Mr. Andinnian and Lucy Cleeve
pacing together the garden of the Reverend Mr. Blake's rectory, Mr.
Blake was seized with a fit. The attack was not in itself very
formidable, but it bore threatening symptoms for the future. Perfect
rest was enjoined by his medical attendants, together with absence
from the scene of his labours. As soon, therefore, as he could be
moved, Mr. Blake departed; leaving his church in the charge of his
many-years curate, and of a younger man who was hastily engaged to
assist him. This last was a stranger in the place, the Reverend Guy
Cattacomb. Now, singular to say, but it was the fact, immediately
after Mr. Blake's departure, the old curate was incapacitated by an
attack of very serious illness, and he also had to go away for rest
and change. This left the church wholly in the hands of the new man,
Mr. Cattacomb. And this most zealous but rather mistaken divine, at
once set about introducing various changes in the service; asking
nobody's permission, or saying with your leave, or by your leave.
The service had hitherto been conducted reverently, plainly, and
with thorough efficiency. The singing was good; the singers--men and
boys--wore white surplices: in short, all things were done decently
and in order: and both Mr. Blake and his curate were excellent
preachers. To the exceeding astonishment of the congregation, Mr.
Cattacomb swooped down upon them the very first Sunday he was left to
himself, with what they were pleased to term "vagaries." Vagaries they
undoubtedly were, and not only needless ones, but such as were
calculated to bring a wholesome and sound Protestant church into
disrepute. The congregation remonstrated, but the Reverend Guy
persisted. The power for the time being, lay in his hands, and he used
it after his own heart.
"Man, proud man, dressed in a little brief authority,
Plays such fantastic tricks before high heaven as make the
angels weep."
How applicable are those lines of Shakespeare's to some of the
overzealous young divines of the present day!
The progress of events in Mr. Blake's church need not be traced. It is
enough to say that the Reverend Mr. Cattacomb--whose preaching was no
better than the rest of him: a quarter of an hour's rant, of which
nobody could make any sense at all--emptied the church. Nearly all the
old congregation left it. In their places a sprinkling of young people
began to frequent it. We have had examples of these things. The
Reverend Guy led, and his flock (almost the whole of them ardent young
girls of no experience) followed. There were banners and processions,
and images of saints and angels, and candlesticks and scrolls and
artificial flowers, and thrown-up incense, and soft mutterings coming
from nowhere, and all kinds of odd services at all kinds of hours,
and risings-up and sittings-down, and bowings here and bowings there,
and private confessions and public absolutions. Whether the worship,
or, in fact, the church itself was meant to represent the Roman
Catholic faith or the Protestant no living soul could tell. It was
ultra-foolish--that is really the only name for it--and created some
scandal. People took to speak of its frequenters slightingly and
disrespectfully as "Mr. Cattacomb and his tail." The tail being the
ardent young ladies who were never away from his heels.
Never a one amidst them more ardent than Miss Blake. In the Rev. Guy
and his ceremonies she found that outlet for the superfluous resources
of her heart that Karl Andinnian had left so vacant. Ten times a day,
if the church had ten services, or scraps of services, was Miss Blake
to be seen amid the knot of worshippers. At early morning she went to
Matins; at sunset she went to Vespers. Once a week she was penned up
in a close box which the Reverend Guy had put up as a confessional,
confessing her sins. Some ladies chose the Reverend Mr. Cattacomb as
their father priest in this respect; some chose his friend and
coadjutor the Reverend Damon Puff: a very zealous young man also, whom
the former had appointed to his assistance. One confessional box was
soon found quite insufficient, and a second was introduced. Lookers-on
began to wonder what would come next. Miss Blake did not neglect the
claims of society in her new call to devotion; so that, what with the
world and what with the church, she had but little spare time on her
hands. It was somewhat unusual to see her, as now, seated quietly at
her needle. The work was some beauteous silken embroidery, destined to
cover a cushion for Mr. Cattacomb's reverend knees to rest upon when
at his private devotions. The needle came to a sudden pause.
"I wonder if I am wrong," she exclaimed, after regarding attentively
the leaf that had been growing under her hands. "Mrs. Cleeve, do you
think the leaves to this rose should be _brown?_ I fancy they ought to
be green."
"Do not ask me anything about it, Theresa."
Mrs. Cleeve's answer wore rather a resentful accent. The fact was,
both herself and Colonel Cleeve were sadly vexed at Miss Blake's
wholesale goings in for the comprehensive proceedings of Mr.
Cattacomb. They had resigned their pew in the church themselves, and
now walked regularly to the beautiful services in the cathedral.
Colonel Cleeve remonstrated with Miss Blake for what he called her
folly. He told her that she was making herself ridiculous; and that
these ultra innovations could but tend to bring religion itself into
disrepute. It will therefore be understood that Mrs. Cleeve, knowing
what the embroidery was destined for, did not regard it with
approbation.
"Theresa, if I thought my dear child, here, Lucy, would ever make the
spectacle of herself that you and those other girls are doing, I
should weep with sorrow and shame."
"Well I'm sure!" cried Miss Blake. "Spectacle!"
"What else is it To see a parcel of brainless girls running after Guy
Cattacomb and that other one--Puff? Their mothers ought to know better
than to allow it. God's pure and reverent and holy worship is one
thing; this is quite another."
Lucy asked for some of the cooling beverage that stood near: her mouth
felt always parched. As her mother brought it to her, Lucy pressed her
hand and looked up in her face with a smile. Mrs. Cleeve knew that it
was as much as to say "There is no fear of _me_."
Colonel Cleeve came in as the glass was being put down. He looked
somewhat anxiously at his daughter: he was beginning to be uneasy that
she did not gain strength more quickly.
"How do you feel now, my dear?"
"Only a little cold, papa."
"Dear me--and it is a very hot day!" remarked the colonel, wiping his
brows, for he had been walking fast.
"Is there any news stirring in the town?" asked Mrs. Cleeve.
"Nothing particular. Captain Andinnian has sold out. He could not do
anything else under the circumstances."
"It is a dreadful blight upon the young man's career!" said Mrs.
Cleeve.
"There was no help for it, Lucinda. Had he been a general he must have
done the same. A man who has a brother working in chains, cannot
remain an officer in the Queen's service. Had the brother been hanged,
I think the Commander-in-chief would have been justified in cashiering
Captain Andinnian, if he had not taken the initiative," added the
colonel, who was very jealous of his order.
Miss Blake turned with a flush of emotion. This news fell on her heart
like lead. Her first thought when the colonel spoke had been--If he
has left the army, there will be nothing to bring him again to
Winchester.
"Captain Andinnian cannot be held responsible for what his brother
did," she said.
"Of course not," admitted the colonel.
"Neither ought it to be visited upon him."
"The worst of these sad things, you see, Theresa, is, that they _are_
visited upon the relatives: and there's no preventing it. Captain
Andinnian must go through life henceforth as a marked man; in a degree
as a banned one: liable to be pointed at by every stranger as a man
who has a brother a convict."
There was a pause. The last word grated on their ears. Miss
Blake inwardly winced at it: should she become the wife of Karl
Andinnian----
"Will Sir Adam be sent to Australia?" asked Mrs. Cleeve of her
husband, interrupting Theresa's thoughts.
"No. To Portland Island. It is said he is already there."
"I wonder what will become of his money? His estate, and that?"
"Report runs that he made it all over to his mother before the trial.
I don't know how far that may be true. Well, it is a thousand pities
for Captain Andinnian," summed up the colonel: "he was a very nice
young fellow."
They might have thought Lucy, sitting there, her face covered by her
hand, was asleep, so still was she. Presently, Colonel and Mrs. Cleeve
were called away to receive some visitors; and Miss Blake began
folding her silks and white satin in tissue paper, for the hour of
some service or other was at hand. Halting for a moment at the fire to
shake the ends of silk from her gown into the hearth, she glanced at
Lucy.
"Suppose you had been married to Karl Andinnian, Lucy!"
"Well?"
"What an awful fate it would have been for you!"
"I should only have clung to him the closer, Theresa," was the low
answer. And it must be premised that neither Lucy nor any one else had
the slightest notion of Miss Blake's regard for Karl.
Miss Blake glanced at her watch. She had two minutes yet. She turned
and stood before Lucy. In her unselfish judgment--and she did try to
judge unselfishly always--a union with Captain Andinnian now, though
she herself might stoop to put up with it in her great love, would be
utterly beneath Lucy Cleeve.
"You--you do not mean to imply that you would marry Captain Andinnian,
as things are?"
"I would. My father and mother permitting."
"You unhappy girl! Where's your pride?"
"I did not say I was going to do it, Theresa. You put an imaginary
proposition; one that is altogether impossible, and I replied to
_that_. I do not expect ever to see Karl Andinnian again in this
world."
Something in the despairing accent touched Miss Blake, in spite of her
wild jealousy. "You seem very poorly to-day, Lucy," she gently said.
"Are you in pain?"
"No," replied Lucy, with a sigh: "not in pain. But I don't seem to get
much better, do I, Theresa? I wish I could, for papa and mamma's
sake."