THE PLAY IS PLAYED, THE CURTAIN DROPS.
In the battle of life are we all going to try for the honours
of championship? If we can do our duty, if we can keep our
place pretty honourably through the combat, let us say 'Laus
Deo' at the end of it, as the firing ceases and the night falls
over the field.
--Roundabout Papers.
Colonel Fane was not a rich man, but he had a house which had been his
father's before him, and to which he returned now and again in the
intervals of service. It stood at a bend of the river, and among hollows
and ivy. He looked forward to ending his work there some day, and
resting for a year or two. In the meanwhile the old house was often let
in summer, and Mrs. Fane looked after the repairs and necessary
renovations. She sometimes spent a few hours among the sedges and shady
chestnut-trees. She loved the old place--as who does not love it who has
ever been there?--and discovered this sleeping bower, where one may
dream of chivalry, of fairy land, or of peace on earth, or that one is
sunshine, or a river washing between heavy banks; or turning one's back
to the stream see a pasture-country sliding away towards the hills,
through shade and fragrant hours, with songs from the hedges and mellow
echoes from the distant farms.
The little party came down, not unprepared to be happy. Mrs. Fane, who
never wasted an opportunity, had also brought a little girl from her
orphanage, who was to remain for a time with the housekeeper at
Queensmede--that was the name of the old house. The child was a bright
little creature, with merry soft eyes flashing in wild excitement, and
the kind lady was somewhat divided between her interest in some news
that John Morgan was giving her and her anxiety lest little Charlotte,
her god-daughter, should jump out of window.
'We have to thank the Captain here,' said John Morgan, 'for finding the
man we were in search of, his evidence fully bears out poor Smith's
dying declaration. I have sent to Tapeall,' said John, shaking his head.
'I find that after all my precautions, Rhoda got a hint from him last
week. However, it is all right--thanks to the Captain--as right as
anything so unfortunately managed can ever be.'
'I don't deserve any thanks,' said Jonah. 'Poor Carter found me out. He
wanted to borrow 10s.'
'When did all this happen?' said Mrs. Fane.
'Only yesterday,' answered the Rector. 'I telegraphed to Raban--poor
fellow, he had gone off to Shoeburyness on some false scent; I left word
at home in case he should call.'
Dolly stooped down and held up little Charlotte to see the pretty golden
fields fly past, and the sheep and the lambs frisking.
'Are they gold flowers?' said the little girl. 'Is that where ladies
gets their money? Is you going to be very rich?'
Dolly did not answer. The strange news had overcome her; she had
scarcely heard what they all were saying, so many other voices were
speaking to her, as she watched the flying fields. Was it all to be
hers? The old house was gone--and this was what she most dwelt
upon--money was but little in comparison to the desolate home. Could she
ever forgive Rhoda this cruel blow? Ah! she might have had it all, if
she had but spared the dear home. A letter had come from Robert only
that morning, and all this time Dolly was carrying it unopened in her
pocket, failing courage to break the seal and open up the past.
Shadows and foreboding clouds were far away from that tranquil valley,
from the shady chestnut-tree beneath which Dolly is sitting, resting and
shading her eyes from the light.
When the banquet is over they get up from their feast and stroll down to
the river side, through the silent village into the overgrown meadow,
where green waving things are throwing their shadows, where an old
half-ruined nunnery stands fronting the sun and the silver river beyond
the fields.
There were nuns at Queensmede once: one might fancy a Guinevere ending
her sad life there in tranquil penitence; a knight on his knees by the
river; a horse browsing in the meadow. The old building still stands
among wild-flowers and hay, within sight of the river bend; the deserted
garden is unfenced, and the roses, straggling in the field, mingle their
petals with the clover and poppies that spring luxuriantly. The stable
is a gabled building with slender lancet windows, with open doors
swinging on the latch. The nuns have passed out one by one from the Lady
House, so they call it still. Dolly peeped in at the dismantled walls
and pictured their former occupants to herself--women singing and
praying with pale sweet faces radiant in the sweet tranquillity of the
old place, and yet their life seemed thin and sad somehow. It was here
that she found courage at last to read Robert's letter as she stood in
the doorway. She pulled it out and broke the seal:--
MY DEAR DOROTHEA,--
Notwithstanding all that has happened, I still feel that it is
no common tie of friendship and interest which must always bind
us together, and that it is due to you that I myself should
inform you of a determination which will, as I trust,
eventually contribute to everybody's happiness. After what you
said to me it will, I know, be no surprise to you to have heard
that I have proposed to Rhoda, and been accepted by her; but I
am anxious to spare your learning from anybody but myself the
fact, that we have determined to put on our marriage, and that
this letter will reach you on our wedding day.
Your friend Rhoda has entirely thrown herself upon my guidance,
and under the circumstances it has seemed advisable to me to
urge no longer delay. My affairs require my presence in
England; hers also need the most careful management. I am not
satisfied with the manner in which certain investments have
been disposed of: notwithstanding some perhaps not unnatural
reluctance on her part, I propose returning to Church House
immediately after our wedding, where, let me tell you, my dear
Dora, you will ever find a hearty welcome, and a home if need
be. Although I am anxious to forget the past, particularly
under my present circumstances, I cannot but recall once more
to you how differently events might have turned out. I have
never had an opportunity of explaining that to you, but I hope
you do me the justice to believe that it was not your change of
fortune which affected my decision to abide by your
determination. I have been most anxious to assure you of this.
It was your want of trust which first made me feel how
dissimilar we were in many ways, how little chance there was in
my being able to influence you as a husband. Forgive me for
saying that you did not understand my motives, nor do entire
justice to the feelings which made me endeavour to persuade you
for your own advantage as well as mine. If you had come to
India when I wished it much anxiety to yourself and much sorrow
would have been spared you. Now it is too late to think of what
might or might not have been, only this fact remains, and do
not forget it, dear Dora, that you will never have a more
sincere friend nor one more ready to advise and assist you in
any difficulty than
Your affectionate cousin,
R. HENLEY.
Rhoda (did she know I was writing) would unite in most
affectionate love. I find her society more and more congenial
and delightful to me.
'What are you reading, Dolly?' said Jonah, coming up. 'I ought to know
that confounded blue paper. Has that fellow the impudence to write to
you?' Then he asked more shyly, 'May I see the letter?'
'No, dear Jonah,' Dolly said, folding it up. 'It is a kind letter,
written kindly.'
Then she looked hard at him and blushed a little. 'This is his wedding
day,' she said; 'that is why he wrote to me.'
Dolly would not show her letter to any one, except to Mrs. Fane. She
felt that it would be commented on; she was grateful to Robert for
writing it; and yet the letter made her ashamed now that she began to
see him not as he was, but to judge from another standard, and to look
at him with other people's eyes. In after days she scarcely ever spoke
of him even to her nearest and dearest. To-day she merely repeated the
news. No one made any comment in her hearing. They were anxious at
first, but Dolly's face was serene, and they could see that she was not
unhappy.
One thing Mrs. Fane could not understand. Robert evidently knew nothing
of the destruction of Church House.
'I am glad Robert had nothing to do with it,' said Dolly, with a sigh.
'Will you come wiss me?' said little Charlotte, running up and taking
Dolly's hand. Miss Vanborough was not sorry to leave the discussion of
Robert's prospects to others, and she walked away, with the little girl
still holding by her hand, and went and stood for a minute on the
bridge, looking down at the river and the barge floating by; it slid
under her feet with its cargo of felled wood, and its wild and silent
human cargo, and then it went floating away between the summer banks.
The waters deepened and wavered. Tall waving grasses were also floating
and dragging upon the banks, crimson poppies starting here and there,
golden iris hanging their heads by the river. Little Charlotte presently
ran away, and half sunk in the grasses, stood struggling with a daisy. A
sunshiny man came leading a horse from the sleepy old barn that stood
beyond the Lady House. Its old bricks were hung with green veils, and
with purple and golden nets of lichen and of moss.
Dolly stopped--was it a burst of music? It was a sweet overpowering rush
of honeysuckle scent coming from the deserted garden. In this pastoral
landscape there was no sound louder than the lap of the water, or the
flowing gurgle of the pigeons straggling from one to another moss-grown
ledge. Chance lights stole from the sedge to the grassy banks, from the
creek by sweet tumbled grasses to the deserted old grange. Round about
stood the rose-trees, flowering in the wilderness, dropping their
blossoms; the swallows were flying about the eaves; the daisies sparkled
where they caught the sunlight.
While Dolly and little Charlotte were gathering their flowers Frank
Raban, who came walking along the fields by the river, had joined the
others by the Lady House. Morgan's telegram had summoned him back to
London, and his message had brought him on to Queensmede.
'Where is Miss Vanborough?' he asked presently.
'Don't you see her on the bridge?' said Jonah, pointing.
Frank walked on a few steps. He saw her standing on the bridge, high
above the torrent. Then he saw her come slowly along, followed by her
little companion....
They were walking slowly away from the field and the deserted garden. As
they all straggled slowly homewards with shadows at their feet, the old
ivy buttresses of the walls were beginning to shine with vesper light,
with deeper and crisper lines in the pure illumination all around. Dolly
thought of Haydn's andante again, only here it was light that brought
music out of all these instruments; silences, perfumes, and heavy
creepers; from the bewildering, sweet old place, overflown with birds,
heaped up and falling into hollows.
Frank walked silently beside Dolly. He had come prepared to sympathise,
full of concern for her, and she did not seem to want his help or to
care for it any more. That day by the pond, when she had first turned to
him in her grief, he had felt nearer to her than now, when in her
reserve she said no word of all that he knew she must be feeling. Could
this be pride? Did she show this indifferent face to the world, was she
determined that no one should guess at the secret strain? Was she
treating him as the first come acquaintance? It was very proper, no
doubt, and very dignified, but he was disappointed. He could not
understand it. She must be unhappy, and yet as he looked at her face he
saw no effort there--only peace shining from it. She had stopped before
a garland of briony that was drooping with beautiful leaves, making a
garland of shadows upon the bricks. She pointed it out to him.
'It is very pretty,' said Raban, 'but I am in no appreciative mood;' and
he looked back at Jonah, who came up just then, and began admiring. Why
was Jonah always with her? Why did he seem to join into all their talk?
Frank was jealous of Jonah, but he was still more jealous of Dorothea's
confidence. There seemed to be no end to Dolly's cousins. Here was
Jonah, to whom she had already given more of her confidence than to him;
Jonah, who had served her effectually, while he, Frank, had done
nothing, worse than nothing, for Dolly, who was walking along, still
looking at the bunches of briony she had gathered. It was not a very
heroic mood, and I am truly ashamed of my hero's passing ill humour,
coming as it did at this inopportune moment to trouble Miss Vanborough's
tardy happiness. And yet somehow it did not trouble her; she saw that
Frank was silent and gloomy, but with her instinct for idealising those
she loved, she supposed there was some good reason for it, and she felt
that she might perhaps even try to find out what was amiss; it was no
longer wrong to take an interest in all that affected him--even Dolly's
conscience allowed this--and, when the others walked on, in her sweet
voice she asked 'if anything was wrong,' and as she spoke her grey eyes
opened kindly. Dolly loved to take care of the people she loved. There
was a motherly instinct in all her affection.
'My only concern is for you, and for the news that Jonah Henley has told
me,' said Frank; 'but you did not tell me yourself, so I did not like to
speak of it to you.'
Dolly sighed--then looked up again. 'I do not know how to talk of it
all,' she said, 'and that is why I said nothing.'
'You are right!' Frank answered; 'when one comes to think of it, there
are no words in common language to----'
'Please don't,' said Dolly, pained; then she added, 'I have been so
unhappy, that I must not ever pretend to feel what I am not feeling.
Perhaps you may think it strange, I am happy, not unhappy, to-day. You
are all so kind; everything is so kind. I hope they too will have a
great deal of happiness in their lives. Is not Jonah calling us?' Jonah
was waiting for them at the gate of the house, and waving a long,
shadowy arm, that seemed to reach across the road.
'Happiness,' said Frank, lingering, and bitter still, and looking round.
'This is the sort of thing people mean, I suppose; green pastures and
still waters, and if one can be satisfied with grass, so much the better
for oneself; one may enjoy all the things one didn't particularly
want--and watch another man win the prize; another perhaps who doesn't
even----' Frank stopped short--what was he saying? he might be giving
pain, and he hated himself and his ill humour, jarring and jangling in
the peaceful serenity.
But Dolly finished the sentence calmly enough. 'Who doesn't care for it;
perhaps the prize isn't worth having,' she said very slowly. She did not
think of herself until she had spoken; then suddenly her heart began to
beat, and she blushed crimson; for her eyes met his, and his looks spoke
plainly enough--so plainly, that Dolly's grey orbs fell beneath that
fixed dreamy gaze. It seemed to look through her heart. Could he read
all that she was thinking? Ah! he might read her heart, for she was only
thinking as she stood there of all her friend's long fidelity and steady
friendship. What had she ever done to deserve it all? And her heart
seemed to answer her thought with a strange silent rapture. Now she
might own to herself the blessing of his unfailing friendship; it was no
longer a wrong to any human being. Even if she were never anything more
to him, she might openly and gratefully accept his help and his
interest; acknowledge the blessing, the new life it had brought her. She
had struggled so long to keep the feeling hidden away, it was an
unspeakable relief to have nothing more to conceal from herself nor from
others--nothing more. She knew at last that she loved him, and she was
not ashamed. What a journey she had travelled since they had stood by
the spring that autumn day, not a year ago; what terrible countries she
had visited, and had it come to this once more? Might she love now in
happiness as well as in sorrow? Was she not happy standing in this
golden hollow, with the person whom she loved best in all the world? No
other human being was in sight, nothing but the old shady village,
floating into overflowing green, the sleepy haycocks, the empty barn,
the heaping ivy on the wall, the sunlight slanting upon the silence. She
did not mean to speak, but Frank, in this utter silence, heard her
secret thought at last. 'Don't you know?' said Dorothea. 'Oh! Frank,
don't you know?' Did she speak the words or look them? He could scarcely
tell, only with unutterable tenderness and rapture in his heart he knew
that she was his, that life is kind, that true hearts do come together,
that one moment of such happiness and completeness lights up a whole
night's wild chaos, and reveals the sweetness of a dawning world.
Jonah, who had gone on with Mrs. Fane, came to the door to call them
again, but they did not see him, and he went back into the house, where
Mrs. Fane and John Morgan were hard at work upon an inventory.
'Here, let me help you,' said Jonah; 'I'm not too clumsy to count
teacups.' Little Charlotte made herself very useful by carrying a plate
from one chair to another. She finally let it drop, and would have cried
when it broke, if the good-natured young captain had not immediately
given her the ink to hold. This mark of confidence filled her with
pride, and dried her tears. 'Sall I 'old it up very high?' she said.
'Can you draw a ziant? I can, wiss your pen.'
It took them nearly an hour to get through their task, and by this time
the tea was ready in the library, the old-fashioned urn hissing and
steaming, and Jonah and John Morgan were preparing to set out on their
journey home. Frank went with them, and then when he was gone Dolly told
her friend her story, and the two sat talking until late into the
starlight.
Two days afterwards an announcement appeared in _The Times_, and the
world learnt that Robert Henley and Miss Rhoda Parnell had been married
at the British Embassy at Paris by special licence by the Bishop of
Oronoco. The next news was that of Dolly's marriage to Frank Raban.
Pebblesthwaite was very much excited. Lady Henley's indignation was
boundless at first, but was happily diverted by the news of her
favourite daughter Norah's engagement to Mr. Jack Redmayne.
James Brand's blue eyes twinkled a kindly sympathy, when the letter came
announcing Frank's happiness. He came up to be present at the wedding.
It was in the little city church with its smoke-stained windows. John
Morgan's voice failed as he read the opening words and looked down at
the bent heads of the two who had met at last hand-in-hand. 'In perfect,
love and peace,' he said; and, as he said it, he felt that the words
were no vain prayers.
He had no fear for them, nor had they fear for each other. Some one
standing in the drizzle of the street outside saw them drive off with
calm and happy faces. It was Robert Henley, who was passing through
London with his wife. Philippa, who saw him, kissed her hand and would
have stopped him, but he walked on without looking back. He had been to
Mr. Tapeall's that morning, after a painful explanation with
Rhoda--Rhoda, who was moodily sitting at the window of her room in the
noisy hotel, and going over the wretched details of that morning's talk.
It was true that she had sold Church House, tempted by the builder's
liberal offer, and wanting money to clear the many extravagances of her
Paris life; it was true that she had concealed the lawyer's letter from
Robert in which she learnt that her title to the property was about to
be disputed. She had hurried on their wedding, she had won the prize for
which her foolish soul had longed; it was not love so much as the pride
of life and of gratified vanity. These things had dazzled her, for these
things this foolish little creature had sacrificed her all. Dolly might
have been happy in time, even married to Robert, but for Rhoda what
chance was there? Would her French kid gloves put out their primrose
fingers to help her in her lonely hours? would her smart bonnets crown
her home with peace and the content of a loving spirit? She lived long
enough to find out something of the truth, and to come to Dolly one day
to help her in her sorest need. This was long after, when Dolly had long
been living at Ravensrick, when her children were playing round about
her, and the sunshine of her later life had warmed and brightened the
sadness of her youth. What more shall I say of my heroine? That sweet
and generous soul, ripening by degrees, slow and credulous, not
embittered by the petty pains of life, faithful and tender and vibrating
to many tones, is no uncommon type. Her name is one that I gave her long
ago, but her real names are many, and are those of the friends whom we
love.
Church House was never rebuilt. At Dolly's wish a row of model lodgings,
with iron balconies, patent boilers, ventilators, and clothes hanging
out to dry on every floor, have been erected on the site of the place
where Lady Sarah lived, and so the kind woman's dreams and helpful
schemes have come true.
'We could not put back the old house,' said Dolly, 'and we thought this
would be the next best thing to do.' The rooms are let at a somewhat
cheaper rate than the crowded lodging-houses round about. People, as a
rule, dislike the periodical whitewashing, and are fond of stuffing up
the ventilators, but otherwise they are very well satisfied.
Dolly did not receive many wedding presents. Some time after her
marriage, Rhoda sent Dolly a diamond cross; it was that one that Frank
Raban had given her many years before. She was abroad at the time, and
for many years neither Rhoda nor Dolly met again. Mrs. Palmer used to
write home accounts of Rhoda's beauty and fashion from Ems, and other
watering-places where she used to spend her summers.
The Admiral, who was still abroad, made it an especial point, so
Philippa declared, that she should spend her summers on the Continent.
One day Mrs. Raban was turning out some papers in a drawer in her
husband's writing-table, when she came upon a packet that she thought
must belong to herself. They were written in a familiar writing that she
knew at once, for it was Henley's. They were not addressed, and Dolly
could not at first imagine how these letters had come there, nor when
she had received them. As she looked she was still more bewildered. They
were letters not unlike some that she had received, and yet they had
entirely passed from her mind; presently turning over a page she read,
not her own name on the address, but that of Emma Penfold, and a
sentence--'It is best for your welfare that we should not meet again,'
wrote Henley. 'I am not a marrying man myself; circumstances render it
impossible. May you be as happy in your new life. You will have an
excellent husband, and one who....'
'What have you got there?' said Frank, who had come in.
'Oh, Frank, don't ask me,' said Dolly, hastily going to the fire that
was burning in the grate and flinging the packet into the flames; then
she ran up to him, and clung hold of his arm for a minute. She could not
speak.
Frank looked at the burning packet--at the open drawers--and then he
understood it all. 'I thought I had burnt those letters long ago,' he
said; and stooping he took his wife's hand in his and kissed it.
* * * * *
As I write the snow lies thick upon the ground outside, upon the
branches of the trees, upon the lawns. Here, within, the fire leaps
brightly in its iron cage; the children cluster round the chair by the
chimney corner, where the mother sits reading their beloved fairy tales.
The hearth was empty once--the home was desolate; but time after time,
day by day, we see the phoenix of home and of love springing from the
dead ashes; hopes are fulfilled that seemed too sweet to dream of; love
kindles and warms chilled hearts to life. Take courage, say the happy to
those in sorrow and trouble; are there not many mansions even here?
seasons in their course; harvests in their season, thanks be to the
merciful ordinance that metes out sorrow and peace, and longing and
fulfilment, and rest after the storm.
Take courage, say the happy--the message of the sorrowful is harder to
understand. The echoes come from afar, and reach beyond our ken. As the
cry passes beyond us into the awful unknown, we feel that this is,
perhaps, the voice in life that reaches beyond life itself. Not of
harvests to come, not of peaceful home hearths do they speak in their
sorrow. Their fires are out, their hearths are in ashes, but see, it was
the sunlight that extinguished the flame.
THE WORKS OF MISS THACKERAY
1. OLD KENSINGTON.
2. THE VILLAGE ON THE CLIFF.
3. FIVE OLD FRIENDS AND A YOUNG PRINCE.
4. TO ESTHER; and other Sketches.
5. BLUEBEARD'S KEYS; and other Stories
6. THE STORY OF ELIZABETH; TWO HOURS; FROM AN ISLAND.
7. TOILERS AND SPINSTERS; and other Essays.
8. MISS ANGEL; FULHAM LAWN.
9. MISS WILLIAMSON'S DIVAGATIONS.
10. MRS. DYMOND.