STEEL PENS AND GOOSE QUILLS.
Virtue, how frail it is,
Friendship too rare;
Love, how it sells poor bliss
For proud despair.
The letter announcing poor Stanham's death came from a Captain Palmer, a
friend of Stan's, whose ship was stationed somewhere in that latitude,
and who happened to have been with him at the time. They had been out
boar-hunting in the marshes near Calcutta. The poor Major's illness was
but a short one, produced by sunstroke, so the Captain wrote. His
affairs were in perfect order. He had been handsomely noticed in the
Bengal _Hurkaru_. Of his spiritual state Captain Palmer felt less able
to speak. Although not a professed Christian, poor Stanham had for some
time past attended the services of the Scotch chapel at Dum Dum, where
Mr. McFlaggit had been permitted to awaken many sleepers to a deep sense
of spiritual unrest. Captain Palmer believed that Major Vanborough had
insured his life for 2,000_l._, and the widow and children would also be
entitled to something from the regimental fund. Captain Palmer then went
on to say that he had been attending another deathbed, that of a native
gentleman, whose wives and orphan children having been left unprovided
for, had been happily brought to see the past errors of their faith and
had come forward in a body. They were about to be sent to England under
the charge of Miss M'Grudder, who had done so much good work among the
Zenanas. Captain Palmer wound up by a friendly offer of assistance and a
message from Mrs. Vanborough. She did not feel equal to writing, she was
utterly prostrate. She sent fondest love, and would write by the next
mail.
So this was the children's first taste of the fruit of the tree of life
and death growing in that garden of Eden and childhood through which we
all come wandering into life, a garden blooming still,--it may be, in
the square before the house,--where little Adams and Eves still sport,
innocent and uncareful for the future, gathering the fruits as they
ripen in the sunshine, hearing voices and seeing their childish visions,
naming the animals as a new creation passes before them.
Lady Sarah longed to get away when her first burst of grief was over.
The sleepy, drowsy old place seemed to stifle her with its calm content
and sunny indifference. But she wanted to hear more of Philippa's plans
before she formed any of her own, and meanwhile she could cry unobserved
within the old walls where she had loved poor Stan, and seen him grow up
from a boy; no wonder, no triumphant paragon; but a kindly, gentle,
simple creature, whom she had loved with all her heart, as Dolly now
loved George, and without whom the world seemed a wanting place--though
there were many wiser and more brilliant men left in it than poor
Stanham Vanborough. Robert, after some incompetent attempts at
consolation, was obliged to return to Cambridge.
Poor Mrs. Vanborough's 'plans' were rather vague, and all crossed one
another and came on different scraps of papers, contradicting and
utterly bewildering, though good Lady Sarah had docketed them and tied
them up together for more convenient reference. They were to write to
her by every post, Philippa said. Why could they not come to her? She
longed for her children. She scarcely knew how to bear her sorrow. She
dreaded the journey, the cold, empty, home-coming, the life in England,
so different from what she had dreamed. The doctor said it would be
madness for her to move as yet. Her brother, Colonel Henley ('Dear
Charles! he was goodness itself'), suggested Italy. Would Lady Sarah
consent to this, and meet her with the children? Or would she even come
as far as Paris? But there were difficulties in everything
everywhere--cruel money difficulties, she was told. There was a lawsuit
now coming on in the Calcutta Courts with the insurance office in which
poor dear Stan had insured his life. Captain Palmer said her presence
was necessary. If it was given against her, she was utterly penniless;
and, meanwhile, harassed, detained.... Perhaps, on her return, she might
take boarders or Indian children--would lady Sarah advertise at once...?
What did George advise? When should she see them all again? Her heart
yearned in vain--months might elapse. Dependence she could not bear.
Even Sarah's kindness was bitter to her, when she thought of the past.
All were kind--all was sad. The poor thing seemed utterly distracted.
Lady Sarah had written that Church House was her home, and that she must
come at once to her home and her children.
Mrs. Vanborough wrote that this could not be. Alas, alas! it was only a
bright dream, from which she sometimes awoke (so Philippa wrote) to find
herself a mourner in a foreign land, watching the slow progress of the
law.
'Why didn't she come?' wrote Lady Henley from the Court. 'When will she
come?' the children asked. Her room was ready, the bed was made, the
fire burning. Dolly used to pick nosegays for her mamma's toilet-table,
and stick pins in the cushion in stars. She made little bags of lavender
to scent the great cabinet. It was one of those welcomes that are wasted
in life, one of those guest-chambers made ready to which the guest does
not come. They look just like any other rooms unless you know their
history.
Dolly often followed Marker when she went in to see that all was in
order. One day the fire blazed comfortably; although the rain was
beating against the window, a gleam of sun came from the inner
dressing-room, that looked out cross-ways along the garden. 'Do you
think she will come soon, Marker?' Dolly asked, peeping about the room.
'I don't think nothing at all, my dear,' said Marker, poking the fire.
'Why don't you go and play with Miss Rhoda? She came with Mrs. Morgan
just now.'
'Is Rhoda here?' cries Dolly, starting off instantly.
Rhoda was there; she had come with her aunt, who was talking to Lady
Sarah in the drawing-room.
Mrs. Morgan took a very long time to say what she had to say, and had
left Rhoda outside in the hall. The little girls listened to Mrs.
Morgan's voice as it went on, and on, and on. They sat on the stairs and
played at being ladies too, and Rhoda told Dolly a great many secrets
that she was not to tell, in a mysterious whisper just like her aunt's.
Mr. Raban was gone away, she said, and he had married somebody, and Aunt
Morgan said she should never speak to him again, and Mrs. Penfold came
crying, and Aunt Morgan scolded and scolded, and Rhoda thought Emma
Penfold was gone too, and just then the drawing-room door opened; Mrs.
Morgan came out, looking very busy and bustled off with Rhoda. Lady
Sarah cut Dolly's questions very short and forbade her going to the
cottage again.
It was the very next day that Dolly and Rhoda met old Penfold walking in
the lane, as they were coming home with Mademoiselle.
Grumbo ran to meet him, barking, wagging his tail, and creeping along
the ground with delight.
Penfold, who had been passing on, stooped to caress the puppy's head
with his brown creased hand, and seeing Dolly, he nodded kindly to her
as she walked by with Mademoiselle.
'Has Emma come home to the cottage?' asked Rhoda, lingering.
Penfold frowned. His honest red face turned crimson. 'She's not come
back, nor will she,' he said. 'She has got a 'usband now, and she is
gone a-travellin', and if they hast you, you can tell them as I said so,
Miss Rhoda, nor should I say otherwise if they was here to contradic'
me.' He spoke in a fierce defiant way. Mademoiselle called shrilly to
the children to come on.
Dolly looked after the old gardener as he slowly walked away down the
lane: he looked very old and tired, and she wished her aunt had not told
her to keep away from the cottage.
Emma's name was never mentioned; Raban's, too, was forgotten; Mrs.
Vanborough still delayed from one reason and another.
_From_ MRS. VANBOROUGH
_to the_ LADY SARAH FRANCIS,
_Church House, Kensington_.
_Bugpore, April 1--, 18--._
DEAREST SARAH,--I fear that you will be totally unprepared (not
more so, however, than I was myself) for a great and sudden
change in my life of sad regrets (sad and regretful it will
ever be), notwithstanding the altered circumstances which fate
has forced upon me during the last few months that I have spent
in sorrowful retirement, with spirits and health shattered and
nerves unstrung. During these long lonely months, weighed down
by care and harassed by business, which I was utterly incapable
of understanding, I know not what would have become of me if
(during my brother's absence on regimental duties) it had not
been for the unremitting attention and generous devotion of one
without whose support I now feel I could not bring myself to
face the struggle of a solitary life. For the sake of my poor
fatherless children more even than for my own, I have accepted
the name and protection of Captain Hawtry Palmer, of the Royal
Navy, a sailor, of a family of sailors. Joanna, my brother's
wife, was a Palmer, and from her I have often heard of Hawtry
at a time when I little thought.... You, dearest, who know me
as I am, will rejoice that I have found rest and strength in
another, though happiness I may not claim.
Captain Palmer is a man of iron will and fervent principle. He
must make me good, I tell him, unless sadness and resignation
can be counted for goodness. Your poor Philippa is but a faulty
creature, frail and delicate, and of little power; and yet,
with all my faults, I feel that I am necessary to him, and,
wreck as I am, there are those who do not utterly forget me.
And, as he says with his quaint humour, there is not much to
choose between the saints and sinners of the world. A thousand
thousand kisses to my precious children. You will bring them to
meet me next year, will you not, when Captain Palmer promises
that I shall return to my real home--for your home is my home,
is it not?
For the present, I remain on a visit to my friend Mrs.
M'Grudder, an intimate friend of Captain Palmer, with one only
daughter.
The marriage will not, of course, take place for six weeks.
Joanna will describe her brother to you. I am anxious to hear
all she says about Hawtry and myself and our marriage. Pray
announce my great news to my darlings. Let them write to me
without reserve.
Ever, dearest Sarah,
Your very devoted
PHILIPPA.
Poor Lady Sarah read the letter one white, cold, east-windy day, when
the sun shone, and the dry, parching wind blew the wreaths of dust along
the ground. As she read the curious, heartless words, it seemed to her
that the east-wind was blowing into the room,--into her heart,--drying
up all faith in life, all tears for the past, all hope for the future.
Had she a heart, this cruel woman, poor Stan's wife and Dolly's mother?
Can women live and be loved, and bear children, and go through life
without one human feeling, one natural emotion; take every blessing of
God, and every sacred sorrow, and live on, without knowing either the
blessing or the sorrow? Lady Sarah tore the letter up carefully and very
quietly, for Dolly was by her side, and would have asked to see it. She
was not angry just then, but cold and sad, unspeakably sad. 'Poor
woman!' she thought, 'was this all; this the end of Stan's tender life
devotion; this the end of his pride and tender trust?' She could see him
now, whispering to Philippa, as they sat together on the old bench by
the pond, a handsome pair, people said, and well suited. Well suited!
She got up shivering from her chair, and went to the fire, and threw the
letter in, shred by shred, while the sun poured in fierce, and put out
the flames.
'Are you cold, Aunt Sarah?' said Dolly, coming to her side. Sarah moved
away. She was afraid that even now it was burnt Dolly might read the
cruel letter in the fire. 'For my children's sake!' The little red
flames seemed to be crackling the words, as they smouldered among the
coals, and a shrill, sudden blast against the window seemed hissing out
that Captain Palmer was a man of iron will. As they stood side by side,
Lady Sarah looked steadily away from little Dolly's eyes, and told her
that her mamma was going to marry again.
Poor Dolly turned the colour of the little flames when her aunt told
her. She said nothing, not even to Rhoda, nor to Mrs. Morgan, who called
immediately upon hearing the rumour. Lady Sarah was not at home, but
Mrs. Morgan came in all the same, and closely questioned Dolly upon the
subject.
'What is the gentleman's name, my dear?' she asked.
'I don't know,' said Dolly.
'Why, Mr. Palmer, to be sure,' said Rhoda.
In due time the news came of the marriage, and then poor Aunt Sarah had
to wipe her eyes, and to give up writing on black-edged paper. The
clocks went round and round, and the earth rolled on, and seasons spread
their feasts, and the winds swept them away in turn; summer burnt into
autumn in cloud and vapour. The winter came closing in, and the snow
fell thick upon the lanes and the gardens, on the Kensington house-tops
and laurel-trees, on the old church tower, and the curate's well-worn
waterproof cape, as he trudged to and fro. It fell on the old garden
walls and slanting roof of Church House, with little Dolly, safe
sheltered within, warming herself by the baked Dutch tiles.