RACHEL.
Shepherd, what's love, I pray thee tell.
It is that fountain and that well
Where pleasure and repentance dwell,
It is perhaps that sauncing bell
That tolls all into heaven or hell.
And this is love as I heard tell.
It was not only in the hospitals at Varna that people were anxious and
at work at the time when George wrote. While the English ships were
embarking their stores and their companies, their horses and their
battalions, transporting them through surf and through storm to the
shores of the fierce Russian Empire; while Eastern hospitals were
organising their wards, nurses preparing to start on their errand; while
generals were sitting in council,--an enemy had attacked us at home in
the very heart of our own great citadel and store place, and the
peaceful warriors sent to combat this deadly foe are fighting their own
battles. Cholera was the name of the enemy, and among those who had been
expecting the onslaught, haranguing, driving companies of somewhat
reluctant officials, good old John Morgan had been one of the most
prominent. His own district at Kensington was well armed and prepared,
but John Morgan's life at Kensington was coming to an end, and he had
accepted a certain small living in the city called St. Mary Outh'gate,
of which the rector was leaving after five or six years' hard work. 'It
is a case of bricks without straw,' said the poor worn-out rector.
Morgan was full of courage and ready to try his hand. Mrs. Morgan, with
a sigh given to the old brown house and its comfortable cupboards, had
agreed to move goods and chattels shortly into the dark little rectory
in the City court, with its iron gates and its one smutty tree. To the
curate's widow and mother there was an irresistible charm in the thought
of a rectory.
St. Mary Outh'gate was a feeble saint, and unable to protect her
votaries from the evil effects of some open sewers and fish-heaps when
the cholera broke out--at John's request the move was delayed. The girls
remained at Kensington, while Mrs. Morgan travelled backwards and
forwards between the homes. Every day the accounts grew more and more
serious, and in the month of September the mortality had reached its
height.
John's new parish of St. Mary Outh'gate lies on the river side of a
great thoroughfare, of which the stream of carts and wheels rolls by
from sunrise until the stars set. The rectory-house stood within its
iron gates, in a court at the end of a narrow passage. The back of the
house looked into a cross lane leading to the river. The thoroughfare
itself was squalid, crowded, bare; there was nothing picturesque about
it; but in the side streets were great warehouse cranes starting from
high windows, and here and there some relic of past glories. Busy to-day
had forgotten some old doorway perhaps, or left some garden or
terrace-wall, or some old banqueting-room still standing. It had swept
the guests into the neighbouring churchyards on its rapid way. To-day
was in a fierce and reckless mood: at home and abroad were anxious
people watching the times, others were too busy to be anxious. John was
hard at work and untiring. He had scarcely had time to unpack his
portmanteau and to put up his beloved books and reports. His start had
been a dispiriting one. People had been dying by scores in the little
lane at the back of the rectory. Mrs. Morgan herself fell ill of anxiety
and worry, and had to go home. It must be confessed that the cares of
the move and the capabilities of the drawing-room carpet added not a
little to the poor lady's distress. Betty remained to take care of her
master, and to give him her mind. John bore the old woman's scolding
with great sweetness of temper. 'You do your work, Betty, and let me do
mine,' said he. He had taken in two professional nurses after his mother
left, and his curate, whose landlady had died of the prevailing
epidemic. The two men worked with good will. John came, went, preached,
fumed, wrote letters to _The Times_. Frank, who was in town, came to see
him one day. He found the curate in good spirits. Things were beginning
to look a little less dark, and John was one of those who made the best
of chance lights. He received his friend heartily, wheeled his one
arm-chair up for him, and lit a pipe in his honour. The two sat talking
in the old bare black room leading into the court. John gave a short
account of his month's work.
'It's over now--at least, the worst is over,' he said, 'and the artisans
are at work again. It's the poor little shop-keepers I pity, they have
lost everything--health, savings, customers--they are quite done up.
However, I have a friend in the neighbourhood to whom I go, and Lady
Sarah heard of my letter to _The Times_ and sent me fifty pounds for
them the other day. Dolly brought it herself. I was sorry to see her
looking worn, poor dear. I think it is a pity that Mrs. Palmer takes so
very desponding a view of her daughter's prospects. Dolly seemed
disinclined to speak on the subject, so I did not press her, and we all
know,' said the curate, in a constrained sort of voice, 'that Henley is
a high-minded man, his good judgment, and sense of....'
'His own merit,' said Raban, testily. 'What a thing it is to have a
sense of one's own virtue. He will get on in India, he will get on in
every quarter of the world, he will go to heaven and be made an
archangel. He has won a prize already that he does not know how to value
at its worth, and never will as long as he lives.'
John Morgan looked very much disturbed. 'I am very sorry to hear you say
this. Tell me as a friend, when Mrs. Palmer declares the engagement is
broken off, do you really think there is any fear of....'
Frank jumped up suddenly.
'Broken off!' he cried, trying to hide his face of supreme satisfaction,
and he began walking up and down the room. 'Does she say so?'
The dismal little room seemed suddenly illumined; the smoky court, the
smutty-tree, the brown opposite foggy houses were radiant. Frank could
not speak. His one thought was to see Dolly, to find out the truth; he
hardly heard the rest of the curate's sentence. 'I have been so busy,'
he was saying, 'that I have scarcely had one minute to think about it
all; but I love Dolly dearly, she is a noble creature, and I should
heartily grieve to hear that anything bad occurred to trouble her. Are
you going already?'
* * * * *
There is a little well of fresh water in Kensington Gardens, sparkling
among the trees, and dripping into a stone basin. A few stone steps lead
down to the lion's head, from whence the slender stream drips drop by
drop into the basin; the children and the birds, too, come and drink
there. Somewhere near this well a fairy Prince was once supposed to hold
his court. The glade is lovely in summer, and pleasant in autumn,
especially late in the day, when the shadows are growing long, and the
stems of the murmurous elm-trees shine with western gold.
Frank Raban was crossing from the high-road towards the Palace gate, and
he was walking with a long shadow of his own, when he chanced to see a
nymph standing by the railing and waiting while the stream trickled into
the cup below. As he passed she looked up, their eyes met, and Frank
stopped short, for the nymph was that one of which he had been thinking
as he came along--Dorothea of the pale face and waving bronze hair.
As he stopped Eliza came up the steps of the well, bringing her young
mistress the glass; it was still very wet with the spray of the water,
and Dolly, smiling, held it out to Raban, who took it with a bow from
her hand. It was more than he had ever hoped, to meet her thus alone at
the moment when he wanted to see her, to be greeted so kindly, so
silently. No frowning Robert was in the background, only Eliza waiting
with her rosy face, while Dolly stood placid in the sloping light, in
the sunset, and the autumn. Her broad feathered hat was pushed back, her
eyes were alight.
'I am so glad to see you,' she said. 'You have heard our good news from
George? it came two nights ago. My aunt has been asking for you, Mr.
Raban. What have you been doing all this time?'
'I have been at Cambridge,' said Frank. 'I am only up in town for two
days; I was afraid of being in your way. Is everybody gone? Are you
alone? How is Lady Sarah?'
'She is better, I think. I am going back to her now,' said Dolly. 'I
came here with Eliza to get her some of this chalybeate water. Will you
come with me part of the way home?'
Of course he would come. He was engaged to dine at the club, and his
hosts never forgave him for failing; he had letters to answer and they
remained on the table. He had left John Morgan in a hurry, too much
excited by the news he had heard to smoke out his pipe in tranquillity,
but here was peace under the chestnut-trees where the two shadows were
falling side by side and lengthening as the world heaved towards the
night.
As they were walking along Frank began telling Dolly about a second
letter he had received from his grandfather; he could never resist the
wish to tell her all about himself; even if she did not care to hear, he
liked to tell her.
'I am in an uncertain state of mind,' he said. 'Since I saw you my
grandfather has taken me into favour again: after these seven years he
offers me Leah. He wants me to give up driving young gentlemen and to
take to sheep-shearing and farming and a good allowance. He writes to me
from Harrogate. I should have a house and serve in bondage, and live
upon him, and rescue him from the hands of the agents who now perform
that office very effectually,' said Raban, dryly.
'What do you mean?' said Dolly, looking at him doubtfully.
'This is what I mean,' said Frank; 'I cannot forget how badly the old
people used me, and how for seven years they have left me to shift for
myself. I have always failed in ambition. I shall never win Rachel,' he
said, 'and I want nothing else that anybody can give me; and what is the
use of putting my head under the tyrannic old yoke?'
'It is so difficult to be just,' Dolly answered, leading the way under
the trees. 'When I try to think of right and wrong it all seems to turn
into people and what they wish and what I would like to do for them. I
wonder if some people can love by rule? And yet love must be the best
rule, mustn't it? and if your poor old grandfather is sorry and begs you
to go to him, it seems cruel to refuse.'
She seemed to be speaking in tune to some solemn strain of music which
was floating in the air.
Frank was looking at the ground, and without raising his eyes he
presently said,--'Well, I suppose you are right, I shall take your
advice and give up the dry crust of liberty and try to be content with
cakes and ale; such strong ale, Miss Vanborough, such heavy cakes,' he
added, looking at her absently.
Dolly blushed up, hesitated: she was rather frightened by the
responsibility Frank seemed to put upon her.
'Could not you ask some one else?' she said, confusedly. 'Perhaps
Rachel,' she added, not without a little jealous pang, lest Rachel might
be Rhoda, and her poor boy's last chance undone.
The light seemed to come from Raban's dark eyes. 'I _have_ asked
Rachel,' he said, in a low voice that seemed to thrill clear and
distinct on her ears. 'Is it possible? do you not know it? Is not your
name Rachel to me? are you not the only Rachel in the whole world for
me? I never thought I should tell you this,' cried Frank, 'until just
now, when I heard from John Morgan that you were free; but now, whatever
your answer may be, I tell you, that you may know that you are the one
only woman whom I shall ever love. My dear, don't look frightened, don't
turn away. Robert Henley never loved you as I do.'
His coldness was gone; his half sarcastic, half sulky, careless manner
was gone. It had given way to a sort of tender domination; the real
generous fire of truth and unselfish love, that belonged to the man and
had always been in him, seemed to flash out. The music still clanged on,
solemnly jarring with his words. Dolly turned pale and cold.
'I am not free; it has all been a mistake,' she said, very quickly. 'You
must not speak to me of Robert like that.'
His face changed. 'Are you still engaged to him?' he asked, looking at
her steadily.
'I promised to wait for him, and you have no right to ask me anything at
all,' she cried, turning upon him. 'Oh, why did you--how can you speak
to me so?' She spoke vehemently, passionately.
He was silent; but she had answered his eyes, not his spoken words. He
saw that her eyes were full of tears. He had read her too carefully to
have had much hope. He saw that she was overpowered, that she was bound
to Robert still, that his wild dream of happiness was but a vision. It
was no new revelation to him. 'You might have guessed it all long ago,'
said he, shortly. 'But you would not understand me before, when I tried
to tell you that I loved you. Now you know all,' he said, with a sigh.
'Forget it if you like.'
He would have left her, but Eliza had disappeared, and a crowd of people
were gathered outside the gate, rough-looking Irish among them from the
buildings opposite. A military funeral was passing by, the music had
ceased, and the soldiers went tramping down the street in a long and
solemn line; the slow fall of their feet struck upon the hard road and
echoed with a dull throb. People were looking on in silence and crowding
to the windows and in the doorways. As the dead man's horse was led by
with the empty saddle and the boots swinging from the side, Dolly turned
away pale and trembling, and Raban was glad then he had not left her.
She put out her hand for a moment. She seemed blinded and scared.
Then she recovered herself quickly, and when the crowd gave way, she
walked on in silence by his side until they came to the turning that led
to the old house. 'Thank you,' she said, a little tremulously. 'Forgive
me if I spoke harshly; it was best to tell you the truth.'
Raban had meant to leave her without a word: now he suddenly changed his
mind. He held out his hand.
'Good-by, Rachel,' he said, still looking at her with silent reproach.
'Do not fear that I shall trouble and annoy you again; it would be hard
to take your friendship and confidence away from me because of John
Morgan's mistake.'
'How can you be my friend?' cried poor Dolly suddenly, passionate and
angry once more. 'Leave me now--only go please go.'
Henley would have been satisfied if he had been present.
Frank walked away, bitterly hurt and wounded; she seemed to resent his
love as if it had been an insult. He was disappointed in Dolly, in life;
the light was gone out, that one flash of happiness had shown him his
own disappointment all the more plainly. We don't hope, and yet our
hearts sink with disappointment: we expect nothing, but that nothing
overwhelms us. And meanwhile life is going on, and death, and the many
interests and changes of mortals coming and going on their journey
through space. When Frank got back to Cambridge he found a telegram
summoning him at once to Harrogate. It was sent by some unknown person.
People part--each carries away so much of the other's life; very often
the exchange is a hard-driven bargain, willingly paid indeed, which the
poor debtor is in no inclination to resent:--a whole heart's fidelity
and remembrance in sleepless nights, tendered prayers and blessings, and
exchange for a little good grammar, a pleasant recollection, and some
sand and ink and paper, all of which Dolly duly received that evening.
All day long she had been haunted by that little scene at the well; it
seemed to bring her nearer to Henley, and his letter came as an answer
to her thoughts. George's letter had been for them all. Robert's was for
herself alone, and she took it up to her room to read.
Robert's letter was not very short: it was sufficiently stamped: it said
all that had to be said; and yet, 'How unreasonable I am! how can men
feel as women do?' thought Dolly, kissing the letter to make up for her
passing disappointment. Then came a thought, but she put it away with a
sort of anger and indignation. She would not let herself think of Frank
with pity or sympathy. It seemed disloyal to Robert to be sorry for the
poor tutor.
Lady Henley also received a blotted scrawl from Jonah by that same post,
and she made up her mind at last to go home, and she sent the brougham
for Dolly and her mother to come and wish her good-by. On her first
arrival Dolly was pounced upon by her cousins and taken in to Sir
Thomas. When she came upstairs at last, she found her aunt and her
mother in full committee, apparently on good terms, and with their heads
close together. The little lady was upon the sofa. Mrs. Palmer was upon
the floor, in a favourite attitude. There only could she find complete
rest, she said. Lady Henley had a great heap of Jonah's clothes upon the
sofa beside her; she had been folding them up and marking them with her
own hands. The drawing-room seemed full of the sound of the bells from
the towers outside, and autumn leaves were dropping before the windows.
'Come here,' said Lady Henley, holding out her hand to Dolly. 'I have
been talking to your mother about you. Look at her--as if there were no
chairs in the room! I wanted to show you Jonah's letter. Foolish boy, he
sends you his love! I don't know why I should give the message. You know
you don't care for him, Dolly. Have you heard from Robert? Is he
properly heart-broken?' with a sort of hoarse laugh. 'Jonah mentions
that he seems in very good spirits.' Then Lady Henley became agitated.
Dolly stood silent and embarrassed. 'Why don't you answer,' said her
aunt, quite fiercely. 'You can't answer; you can't show us his letter;
you know in your heart that it has been a foolish affair. Your mother
has told me all.'
Lady Henley was flushed and getting more and more excited, and, at the
same time, Philippa gave one of her silvery laughs, and starting
actively to her feet, came and put her arm round Dolly's waist.
'All! no, indeed, Joanna. Delightful creature as he is, Robert tells one
nothing. Forgive me, dearest, it is a fact. He really seemed quite to
forget what was due to me, a lady in her own drawing-room, when he said
good-by to you. I only mention it, for he is not generally so
_empresse_, and if he had only explained himself----'
'What have you been saying, mamma?' said Dolly, blushing painfully.
'There is nothing to explain.'
'There is everything to explain,' burst in Lady Henley from her corner;
'and if you were my own daughter, Dolly, I should think it my duty to
remonstrate with you, and to tell you frankly what I have always said
from the beginning. There never was the slightest chance of happiness in
this entanglement for either of you; take the advice of an older woman
than yourself. Robert has no more feeling for you than--than--a fish, or
do you think he would consent to be free? Ah! if you were not so
blinded.... There is one honest heart,' she said, incoherently, breaking
down for an instant. She quickly recovered, however, and Dolly, greatly
distressed, stood looking at her, but she could not respond; if ever she
had swerved, her faithful heart had now fully returned to its first
allegiance. All they said seemed only to make her feel more and more how
entirely her mind was made up.
'Robert and I understand each other quite well,' said Dolly, gravely. 'I
wish him to be free. It is my doing, not his; please don't speak of this
to me, or to any one else again.'
She had promised to herself to be faithful, whatever came. Her whole
heart had gone after Robert as he left her. She knew that she loved him.
With all her humility, the thought that she had made a mistake in him
had been painful beyond measure. It seemed to her now that she was
answerable for his faith, for his loyalty, and she eagerly grasped at
every shadow of that which she hoped to find in him.
She walked away to the window to hide her own gathering tears. The bells
had come to an end suddenly. Some children were playing in the middle of
the road and pursuing one another, and a stray organ-man, seeing a lady
at the window, pulled out his stop and struck up a dreary tune--'Partant
pour la Syrie, le jeune et beau Dunois.' It was the tune of those times,
but Dolly could never hear it afterwards without a sickening dislike.
Dolly, hearing the door bang, turned round at last.
'My dear Dolly, she is gone--she is in a passion--she will never forgive
you,' said Philippa, coming up in great excitement.
But she was mistaken. Lady Henley sent Dolly a little note that very
evening:--
My Dear,--I was very angry with you to-day. Perhaps I was wrong
to be angry. I will not say forgive an old woman for speaking
the truth; it is only what you deserve. You must come and see
us when you can in Yorkshire. We all feel you belong to us now.
Yours affectionately,
JOANNA HENLEY.
P.S.--I see in this evening's paper that our poor old
neighbours at Ravensrick died at Harrogate within a day of one
another. I suppose your friend Frank Raban comes into the
property.