WHITE WITH GAZING.
'The tender heart beat no more; it was to have no more pangs,
no more doubts, no more griefs and trials: its last throb was
love!
--Pendennis.
The Harbingers are come: see, see their mark! White is their
colour....
--G. Herbert.
Frank, accepted Lady Henley's invitation and arrived at Henley Court
just before dinner-time one day. The place lies beyond Pebblesthwaite,
on the Smokethwaite road. It was a more cheerful house than
Ravensrick--a comfortable, modern, stone-piled house, built upon a hill,
with windows north and south, and east and west, with wide distant views
of valleys and winding roads and moors. Through one break of the hills,
when the wind blew south, the chimneys of Smokethwaite stood out clear
against the sky; at other times a dull black cloud hung over the gap.
The garden was charming: on one side a natural terrace overhung the
valley; a copper beech rustled upon the lawn; and a few great
chestnut-trees gave shade in summer to the young people of the house, to
the cows browsing in the meadow, who would come up to the boundary fence
to watch Miss Bell's flirtations with gentle curiosity, or the children
at play, or to listen to Sir Thomas reading out the newspaper. He had a
loud voice and a secret longing for parliamentary distinction. When he
read the speeches he would round his periods, address Lady Henley as
'sir,' and imagine himself in his place, a senator in the company of
senators. He was a stupid man, but hospitable, and popular in the
neighbourhood, far more so than Lady Henley, who was greatly disliked.
Bell was fast, handsome. Norah was a gentle, scatter-brained creature,
who looked up to everybody; she especially adored her sister, Mrs.
Boswarrick, who had captivated Captain Boswarrick one evening at a York
ball, where she had danced down a whole regiment of officers. The
captain himself was a small and languid man, and he admired energy in
others. If Sir Thomas was fond of thundering out the debates, Captain
Boswarrick had a pretty turn for amateur acting and reciting to select
audiences. Some one once suggested private theatricals.
'Never while I live,' said Lady Henley, 'shall there be such mummeries
in this house. If Alfred chooses to make a fool of himself and repeat
verses to the girls, I have no objection, so long as he don't ask me to
sit by.'
'I never should have thought of asking you to sit by, Lady Henley,'
drawled Alfred.
When Frank was announced, he found the young ladies in fits of laughter,
Captain Boswarrick declaiming in the middle of the room, with Squire
Anley and Mr. Redmayne for audience. Everybody turned round, and the
performance suddenly ceased when he entered. The Squire nodded without
getting up.
'How d'ye do?' said Mrs. Boswarrick, holding out half-a-dozen bracelets.
'Mr. Raban forgets me, I can see. Sit down. Alfred hates being
interrupted. Go on, Alfred!'
Captain Boswarrick's manner would quite change when he began to recite.
He would stamp, start, gesticulate, and throw himself into the part with
more spirit than could have been reasonably expected.
And now, with a glance at his wife, he began again with a stamp, and
suddenly pointing--
That morn owd York wor all alive
Wi' leal an' merry hearts;
For t' country foalks com' i' full drive
I' gigs an' market-carts,
An' girt lang trains, wi' whistlin' din,
Com' w-w-whirrlin' up.
The little captain, suiting the action to the word, raised his arm with
some action to represent the train. It was caught from behind by a firm
grasp. Frank had not seen that he had been followed into the room by a
stout little man in bran-new clothes, who joined the circle.
'Take care,' said the stranger,--he spoke with a slight Yorkshire
accent. 'What are you about, yo'ng man? What is all this? Very
fascinating, very brilliant, very seductive, very much so, but leading
to--what?' with a sudden drop of the voice, and the hand he held. Bell
went off into a shriek of laughter.
Captain Boswarrick flushed up. He might have resented the interruption
still more if he had not been somewhat mollified by the string of
compliments.
'Leading to----You would have heard all about it, Mr. Stock, if you had
not stopped him,' said Mr. Anley.
'Shall I make my meaning plainer?' said the little man, not heeding the
interruption. 'Shall I tell you what I mean? Social intercourse, music,
poetry,--dazzling, I own. I, too, have experienced the charm; I, too,
have studied to please; but I have also discovered the vanity of
vanities; so will you one day. A fact, though you don't believe me.'
'But in the meanwhile, Mr. Stock, don't grudge us our fun,' said Bessie
Boswarrick, coming to the rescue.
'I don't grudge it; far from it,' said the stranger; 'I was just like
you all once: now--I am not afraid of ridicule--I can give you something
better than that; better than that, better than that. You can choose
between us: _his_ poetry, _my_ plain speaking. I'm a plain man,--a very
plain man; he, brilliant, highly educated.'
Captain Boswarrick scarcely knew how to accept all these compliments and
in what sense to take them. Mr. Anley listened with the profoundest
gravity. Bell giggled and stuffed her handkerchief into her mouth; but
everybody was glad when the door opened and Lady Henley came in, making
a diversion. The scene was getting embarrassing.
'After dinner, dear Mr. Stock,' said Joanna, courteously, 'we shall be
glad to hear _anything_ you may have to say. Let us leave them to their
folly, Mr. Raban. Do you know your neighbour?--our excellent friend and
minister?'
Frank was quite prepared to make Mr. Stock's acquaintance--he was an
amateur preacher, a retired cavalry officer, living not far from
Ravensrick--but he found himself carried off by Sir Thomas. The baronet
had been in town that week, and was in a communicative mood. He had seen
the ladies at Church House, who had asked after Raban. The Admiral had
been heard of from Gibraltar.
'He has been writing in the most ill-judged way to know the exact state
of affairs between Dolly and my nephew Robert,' Sir Thomas said
confidentially. Sir Thomas always reflected the people with whom he had
been living. 'I found my sister greatly overcome--hers is a nervous
susceptibility, almost amounting to genius, but _not_ under control.'
And then, dropping his oratorical tone of voice, he went on to say that
they all seemed much disturbed and greatly in want of cheering; that he
had promised to run up again. 'Lady Sarah still lingering, poor thing,'
he added. 'She has a most devoted nurse in my young niece.'
Frank asked as indifferently as he could how Miss Vanborough was
looking.
'Not so blooming as I could wish,' said Sir Thomas. 'Far from it. My
wife is anxious that our friend, Mr. Stock, should impart some of his
admirable ministration to her, but we cannot expect her to leave home at
present.'
Mr. Stock's ministration seemed to have won over the simple baronet,
whose conversation was deeply interesting to Frank, for he went on
alternately praising Mr. Stock and talking about Dolly. Sir Thomas was
not the discreetest of men. 'I had a--some painful explanation with my
niece,' he continued, lowering his voice (people seem to think that is a
sort of charm against indiscretion); 'to you, who are such an old
friend, I may safely say that I do _not_ like this vagueness and
uncertainty in a matter which so closely concerns Dolly's happiness. The
engagement seems to be neither on nor off.... She tells me that Robert
is free, but she seems to consider herself bound.... I have thought it
best to write to him plainly on the subject.... My wife, as you know,
wishes the engagement entirely broken ... at least I think so....'
The baronet suddenly stopped short, and looking rather foolish, began to
talk of Mr. Stock again.
Lady Henley was not so absorbed in her conversation that she had not
overheard Sir Thomas's too candid confidences. She was shaking her head
at her husband over her shoulder.
Frank moved away, and went and stared through one of the windows. Once
more hope came to dazzle him. In some moods people grasp at faintest
dreams. There was everything smiling, shining, every ridge seemed
illuminated; there lay the happy valley flooded with sunlight, life,
brightness. Children's voices reached him, and meanwhile the recitation
had begun again. 'Yan morn in May,' the Captain was saying. But a loud
dinner-bell brought it all to a close.
* * * * *
The sun had set, they had all done dinner. Norah used to feed the cows
of an evening with oat-cake prepared for Sir Thomas, and she now came
out into the twilight, calling to her favourites, who stood expecting
with their horns rearing against a golden streak. One bolder than the
rest was making a hissing noise to attract attention, as Norah came out
with her oat-cake. She called her favourites by name and softly stroked
their long noses over the railings. Mr. Redmayne followed soon after,
advancing with some precaution.
'Miss Norah,' he said, 'Mr. Stock is putting the drawing-room chairs in
order--he evidently expects a large congregation. A Miss M'Grudder has
come. Is it absolutely necessary that one should be present, or may one
stop here and feed the cows?'
'I must go in,' said Norah, demurely. 'Here is the oat-cake, Mr.
Redmayne,' and so saying she put the remains into his hand and tripped
hastily away.
Mr. Redmayne, however, preferred to follow Miss Norah. Frank came out as
the two went in together--he did not want to be present at the oration.
He was distracted and thinking of many things.
Those few words of Sir Thomas had given him a strange longing to go
back, if only for a day, to see Dolly again. He thought of his old
friend also lying stricken. He had been very forgetful all these days
past, and his conscience reproached him, and his inclination spoke too.
There was an early train from Smokethwaite--he had business in town; why
should he not go? Cruel girl! was she sad, and could he do nothing to
help her?
As Frank walked up and down in the twilight, he would hear the boom of
Mr. Stock's voice through the open drawing-room windows. When they
started a hymn, the cows, who are fond of music, all crowded up to
listen. As for Frank, he was in charity with all men, and prepared to
believe that all that people did was good. If Mr. Stock liked to give a
peculiar expression to the faith which was in him, Raban for one had no
mind to quarrel with it. His own was a silent belief: it seemed growing
with happier emotions that were overflooding his heart, but it found its
best expression in silence. He took leave of his hosts that evening when
he went upstairs to bed.
The servant had put Frank into Jonah's room. It was a mistake--and Lady
Henley did not know of it. There were the poor boy's pistols, his whips,
on the wall boxing-gloves and foils. He had somehow got hold of one of
those photographs of Dolly of which mention has been made, and hung it
up over his chimney. There were a few books on the shelf, Captain Mayne
Reid, _Ivanhoe_, a few old school-books and poetry-books, and Frank took
one down. Frank thought very kindly of poor Jonah as he looked about at
his possessions. He was a long time before he could get to sleep, and he
got up and lighted his candle and read one of the books off the
shelf--it happened to be Kingsley's _Andromeda_--till he fell asleep.
Then it was only to dream a confused dream: Jonah fighting desperately
with some finny monster, like that one on Lady Sarah's tiles, Dolly
chained to a rock, and calling for help, while Mrs. Palmer and the
Admiral stood wringing their hands on the shore. Was this George coming
to their help? The monster changed to mist, out of which came lightning
and thunder--the lightning was the gleam of a sword. The thunder shook
the air; the mists parted; George, pale and wounded, stretched out his
hand and gave Raban the sword; he looked weary with the fight; Frank in
his dream rushed forward and struck wildly; the monster gave a horrible
scream. He started up wide awake. He had left his window open; the
morning mist had filled the room, but the scream was a real one; it was
in his ears still. It came from the room below; there was a stir of
voices, then all was silent again.
When Frank came down to an early breakfast in the big dining-room he
asked the butler if any one had been ill in the night. 'I heard a
scream,' he said.
'It is my lady in her sleep,' the man answered. 'She often do scream at
night since Mr. Jonah left.'
'I want my man called,' said Frank; 'I am going to town by the early
train.'
As Frank was changing carriages at one of the stations, the London train
went by, and he thought he saw a glimpse of a familiar face; a grey kid
glove was waved. Surely it was Mrs. Palmer, on her way to Henley Court!
_From_ DOROTHEA VANBOROUGH
_to_ ROBERT HENLEY, ESQ.,
_Calcutta_.
I have been hoping for a chance letter, but none has come since
that last one from Alexandria. Aunt Sarah is asleep; the house
is empty, and I am writing to you in the oak-room by the
window. Dear Robert, what shall I say in answer to your letter?
That I _do_ trust you; that I do know how to love you, and that
you in turn must trust me. I could almost scold you for what
you say about Mr. Raban if I did not think that you are only
unfair because you love me. I never see him now. He is in
Yorkshire; so is mamma--she is gone for a couple of days. As
for me, I cannot leave Aunt Sarah, who depends upon me more and
more. I had a long talk with my uncle before he left. He asked
me a great many questions about you. He tells me he has
written. I do not know what he has written; but please send him
a nice letter. Dear Robert, it is so painful to me to be
cross-questioned about your affection for me. I must speak
honestly and without disguise to you of all people in the whole
world, and so I will confess that if I had known all----
Dolly, who had written thus far, looked up, for old Sam came into the
room with a card.
'It's Mr. Raban, Miss,' said he.
Dolly blushed up crimson. 'I--I can't see him, Sam,' she answered. 'Aunt
Sarah is asleep. Say I am engaged.'
Sam came back with Frank's card. 'Mr. Raban is in town till Monday,
Miss.'
'Put down the card, Sam,' said Dolly, and she bent her head over her
letter and went on writing.
Frank walked away disappointed. 'She might have spared five minutes to a
friend who had come a hundred miles to see her,' he said to John Morgan
that evening, as they walked back together to Frank's hotel. The waiter
met Frank with a note, which had been left during his absence.
Raban suddenly brightened up; he read a few words, very stiff, very shy.
'Lady Sarah heard he had called, and wanted to see him; would he come
the following day at five o'clock? 'It was signed, 'Yours truly,
Dorothea Vanborough.'
'Well,' said John Morgan, 'that is Dolly's writing, isn't it?'
'Yes,' said Frank. 'Lady Sarah wants to see me. As for Miss Vanborough,
she seems to be studying the art of keeping old friends at a distance.'
'Nonsense,' said Morgan, 'since she asks you to go. What is the matter
with you?'
The second time old Sam let Frank in at once, and showed him into the
drawing-room. 'My lady will be ready directly,' he said.
Frank waited his summons; when he was tired of waiting he stepped out
upon the terrace, attracted by the beauty of the autumnal evening, and
wondering what inexpressible charm the old home had for him. Ravensrick,
with all the graces of possession, did not seem to him so much like home
as this silent old house where he had no right, no single stake; where
the mistress lay stricken, and parting from this world; where Dolly
lived, but where her heart's interest was not. Already strangers were
speculating upon the fate of the old house, and wondering who would come
there after Lady Sarah's death. And yet Frank Raban, as he paced the
terrace, felt a tranquil satisfaction and sense of completeness that
existed for him in no other place.
When Dolly came into Lady Sarah's room to tell her that Frank was there,
Marker, who had been sitting in a corner, got up gently and left the
room. Lady Sarah was not asleep; she was sitting up on her sofa by the
window, of which the sash was half raised to let in the air. Her grey
hair was hanging loose; grey though it was, it fell in shining silver
curls about the withered face.
'Is that you, Dolly? I have had a dream,' she said, a little wildly.
'Your father was standing by me and we were looking at a river, and
George was a child again, and I held him in my arms, and when I looked
into his face it was like the face of that Raphael child at Dresden.
Look out,' she said, beginning to wander again, 'and tell me if the
river is there.'
Dolly unconsciously obeyed, and looked out at the garden, in its
shifting, changing lights and tremulous tones of radiance and
golden-sombres. She could almost have imagined her aunt's dream to be
true if Frank Raban had not been walking on the terrace. She looked
back.
'Dear Aunt Sarah, it is the sunset that made you dream.'
'It was a dream,' said Lady Sarah, 'but I think I have sometimes seen
that river before, Dolly. Christian and Christiana and all the company
have crossed it.' Then, smiling: 'I am afraid I have been a tiresome old
pilgrim at times.' She pushed back her grey hair and lay looking into
the girl's face. 'It is nearly over now,' she said.
Dolly tried to speak, but some sudden tears seemed to choke her, and
Lady Sarah stroked her hand.
'Try to be a thankful woman, Dolly,' she said. 'God has blessed you and
given you love and trust in others. I see now where I failed.' Then, in
her usual tone, she said, 'I should like to see Frank Raban again.'
Dolly was beginning to say that she would go for him, when Lady Sarah
suddenly cried,--'Open the window wide! open! let the river come in.'
Dolly, frightened, threw open the pane, and, as she did so, some evening
bell began to ring from a distant chapel, and a great flight of birds
passed across the sky.
The next minute Frank from the terrace below heard a cry. It was Dolly
calling for help.
'I am here,' he answered, and, without waiting to think, he sprang up
the old oak staircase, and hurried along the passage to the door of Lady
Sarah's room.
It was all dark in the passage, but the sun was in the room. Dolly was
holding up her aunt in her arms; her strength seemed to be failing.
Frank sprang to help her, and together they raised her up. A little soft
breeze came in at the window, and Lady Sarah opened her eyes. She was
still wandering.
'Is this George?' she said. 'I have been waiting for you, dear.'
Then she seemed to recognise Frank, and she let his hand fall upon his
sleeve.
'Ah! he will take care of Dolly,' she whispered, 'for this is----'
A quick silent brightness came into her face: it may have been some
change in the sunset lights. She was dead--lying in a serene and royal
peace.