We stood for a moment, examining each other. She was fattening nicely
on what she called "holy converse and spiritual outpourings at
Cheltenham." She rushed forward with great enthusiasm.
"Why, Clara, darling, is it possible? Can this be you--so grown, and
improved in every way? I never should have known you, I do declare!
Why, you have quite a brilliant colour, and your eyes, and your hair--oh
dear, how proud your sweet mother would have been! You lovely creature,
I must have a kiss! What, not even your pretty hand?"
"No, Mrs. Daldy; never more my hand to a person who dared to insult my
father. Me you might have insulted a thousand times, and I would have
forgiven you."
"Come now, let bygones be bygones, that's a dear. Oh for a little more
of the essence of Christianity! Let us stoop to the hem of the garment
of the meek and lowly"--I will not write the sacred name she used--"let
us poor grovelling fellow-sinners--"
"Don't couple me with yourself, I beg." I was losing my temper, and she
saw her advantage.
"Not even as a sinner, dear? I thought in my humility that we all were
sinners."
"So we are; but not all hypocrites."
She kept her temper wonderfully, in all except her eyes.
"Ah, you impetuous young people cannot understand the chastened lowly
heart, which nothing but heavy trials and the grace of God produce. You
know, Clara, you never could."
This last truth was put in the form of an exclamation, and in such a
different tone from the rest, moreover it was so true, that I could
hardly help smiling.
"Since last I saw you, I have been tried severely and chastised most
heavily. I bow to the rod. All works together for our spiritual good.
Until that blessed day, when all the sheaves--"
"Mrs. Daldy, I as well have seen and suffered much since last we met.
If I could not be hoodwinked then by this sham religion, is it likely
that I can be now? I wonder that you waste your time so."
The truth was that she talked in this strain less from hope than habit.
"Then if I must treat you, Miss Vaughan, but as a sister worldling, let
us at least combine, for Providence has seen fit to make our interests
the same."
"How so?" I was doing my utmost to bear with her awhile.
"First, before I tell you anything, have you as keen an eye for the
perception of your own sweet interest as for the discovery of what you
kindly call 'hypocrisy?' Ah well, it is all for my good."
Her rolling compendious eyes glistened at the thought that she was about
to catch me here. I pretended to be caught already.
"What of it, if I have?"
"Then I will tell you something. Sit down by me, Clara."
"Thank you, I will stand."
"Now first, before I tell you anything, we must make some little
arrangement for our mutual benefit, and then resolve upon united action.
You must give me one little pledge. That being done I will tell you
everything, and it is of the last importance to you."
"Is it about my father?'
"No. It has nothing to do with him; it is about your uncle, who now
lies at the door of death. All, it is all for the best. There is, I
fear, no chance of his recovery, and the disposal of this splendid
property is in our hands, if we know how to play our cards, and if we
act together. But there is no time to be lost. Only think, 15,000*l.*
a year, for it is now worth every farthing of that, besides this
beautiful place. Why, Clara, all the pleasures of life will be at our
feet!"
In her greedy excitement, she forgot all her piety; but I liked her
better so. In a moment she saw that she had laid her wicked heart too
open. In my eyes there was no co-partner flash of avarice.
"What is the matter with my poor uncle?"
"First a paralytic stroke; since that low gastric fever, and entire
prostration. Do you remember when you came to your dear mother's
funeral?"
"Of course, I do."
"And could you help observing how altered he was even then? The hour he
heard of her death, he was seized with violent illness, yet he would go
out of doors alone, on the very day of the funeral. Something then
excited him; he came home worse, and in the night was visited with a
slight paralytic stroke. However, he quite recovered the use of his
limbs for a time, though never his former spirits--if we can call them
spirits. For several months he went about as usual, except that instead
of a horse he rode a quiet pony. He saw to the property, received the
Michaelmas rents, and invested large sums of money both in land and the
funds; he even commenced some great improvements, for he has always
been, as you know, a most skilful and liberal steward and manager."
"That I never denied. There could not be a better one."
"But suddenly, after no Christmas festivities (for he would hear of
none, for the sake of your dear mother), he was found on the morning of
the last day in the year bolt upright in his study chair, and fully
dressed, with two pistols, loaded and cocked, on the table, no sign of
life in his face or pulse, his body stiff yet limp, like a sand-bag
tightly stuffed. The man who found him described it better than I can.
'Poor master, whichever way I put him, there he stop, like a French dog
doing tricks.''
"How terrible!"
"Yes, but it was true. At first they thought it was catalepsy only; but
when that passed off, paralysis remained. I wanted to send for you at
once."
Here she met, for she could not help it, but did not answer, my gaze;
and I knew it was a lie.
"However, I was over-ruled; and your poor uncle lay bed-ridden, but in
no actual danger, until this horrid low fever came. He must have a
frame of iron to have borne up as he has. The doctor says this fever is
partly from the prostration of the nerves."
"Who is the doctor?" I felt almost as if I could love my uncle.
"A very eminent man. His name is Churchyard."
"That is not our old medical man. Where does this gentleman come from?"
"Cheltenham, I believe."
"Surely, you must know that, if he is an eminent man; living there
yourself!"
I saw that she had brought him.
"Well," she answered sharply, "it matters little where he comes from,
and I have not verified his residence. I fear all the doctors in Europe
could not save your poor dear uncle." And here (from habit when death
was thought of) she fell into the hypocritical vein once more--"Ah, how
true it is! The thing that will most avail him now, when his poor
sinful frame is perishing, and the old man with all its works--"
"Thank you. I know all that. Which room does my uncle occupy?"
"Surely, you never would think of disturbing him at midnight!"
"Does death look what o'clock it is? If he is really dying, I must see
him at once."
She seemed resolved to prevent me. I was determined to do it. It is
needless to tell all her stratagems, and needless to say (unless I have
failed to depict myself) that they proved utterly vain. I was only
surprised that she did not come with me.