Next day after dinner, when Aunt Jael had settled down for her doze,
Grandmother called me upstairs to her bedroom, pulled out an old brown
tin box from under the bed, unlocked it, and drew forth a large brown
paper packet. We sat down, and she told me my mother's story.
"Your father belonged to a different class from us, my dear, quite to
the gentlefolk of the county. Your mother met him at his cousin's, Lord
Tawborough's, when she was governess there.
"This Lord Tawborough died a few years ago. The boy who now bears
that name is a lad of maybe seventeen or eighteen, who I expect knows
nothing about it at all, although he was very fond of your mother when
she taught him as a little boy."
"Shall I ever see him?"
"No, my dear, no. You are in a different walk of life. Young squires
don't come to visit us. Not that his father ever had any false pride;
I know he was always very kind to me. He came to Rachel's funeral, and
never had his cousin--your father, that is--inside his house after the
trouble. He wanted to help us too in educating you, but I said No.
I would not touch money belonging in any way to _him_, though I've
forgiven him long ago, as I trust the Lord has. He thought I was too
independent, but maybe he understood all the same. I've heard that the
young boy is as good-hearted as his father. He lives at the family
house over near Torribridge; he's just going up to Oxford, I believe,
like his father, or maybe 'tis Cambridge--"
"What is Oxford-and-Cambridge? Brother Quappleworthy was there."
"They're two big colleges, or universities as they call them, where the
gentlefolk go. Anyway, his father was always kind to us and ashamed
of his cousin. He said to me when he called to see us after your dear
mother's death that he felt guilty because Rachel met her husband in
his house. However, there 'tis, they were married. I never took to him
and your Aunt Jael could never abide the sight of him. 'Twas a cruel
time. I can't tell you all now, my dearie, though one day you may know.
But I'm going to read you some of the letters she wrote. Here they all
are, I've not had the heart to touch this package since they were tied
up ten years ago. She wasn't happy from the start, though she wrote
brave letters home. We first got to know how it was with her through
your great-uncle, her uncle John. She'd stayed once or twice with him
in London, as a little girl, and he loved her dearly. We have never
seen much of him since he first went away over fifty years ago. He and
Jael don't get on together; he's an invalid too, and not able to take
a journey. After your dear mother died he let me see all her letters
to him, and I copied them out. Here is one of the first, written just
three or four months after she was married, the 'long letter' I call
it:"
THE WHITE HOUSE.
TORQUAY,
August 14th, 1845.
Dear Uncle John,--
Thank you for you kind letter of sympathy. Yes, I am an unhappy
woman, and unhappy for life.
Perhaps it will simplify matters for me to say that he is in a
very precarious mental condition. The doctor tells me he has
every symptom of softening of the brain. Though the disease may
not culminate for several years. He says my one object must be to
keep him quiet and not oppose or excite him in any way, as that
would always tend to hasten the climax, and would make things
very trying for myself, especially just now; for I must tell you
that something will be happening to me, about next February I
think. Last week he had a dreadful turn, and said the most cruel
things, shouting and sneering at me like one demented. I went off
then to the doctor, really thinking myself he was there and then
going or gone out of his mind. He told me what I have said, and
through all subsequent improvement adheres to the same opinion;
he is very kind and sympathizing to me, calls it, "a painful and
extraordinary case," and tells me not to be upset when he gets into
this state with me--that it is an almost invariable symptom of the
disease for the patient to set upon his wife and bring against her
outrageous accusations of every sort, that I must not contradict
him in whatever he says, but rather "assume contrition for faults
you have not committed, regarding him as an invalid that cannot be
dealt with by ordinary rules." I must tell you that I have begun
to doubt all this, I don't mean the doctor but my husband. He has
a nervous weakness, it is true, but exaggerates this when he goes
to see the doctor by getting himself into a state, then the doctor
says he has softening of the brain and that will excuse all his
ill-treatment to me.
That is not all, the two youths, Maurice and Trevor who are living
in the house and whom he calls his "cousins," are really _his
illegitimate sons_, he told me so outright and mocked at me when I
blushed. They swear and shout at me, and he encourages them. With
all this he is the leader at the Room, the meeting of the Close
Brethren we go to. The Saints don't seem to like him very much. I
think they know something of his goings on. My dear uncle, I charge
you not to speak of all this; I should not on _any_ account like
mother to know it, it could do no good for her to worry. He may
keep like this for years, or perhaps I might be taken away to the
Lord first.
I was glad of your loving letter; had begun to think there must
be one awaiting me (from the style of your previous one) before
yesterday morning confirmed it. They raise objection however at the
Post Office, saying it is against the rules for residents to have
them left there, so I suppose you must address to me here. Philip
seems never to expect me to show him my letters. I did one a few
weeks ago, in which there was some business message or statement.
So you will always be safe in writing direct. It is one of his
peculiarities that though he has often thrown at me my depth,
"keeping matters to myself," "telling him nothing," etc. etc., yet
from the very first he declined to see my letters. I used even to
press him to do so but he replied one day, "I take no interest in
letters from people I don't know, still less from common people"
(among whom my relations are included). Then if I tried reading him
any specially interesting extracts he would say it wearied him or
would assure me I had read or told him all that before. Since he
said one day, "Dear me, what shopkeeper's talk!" I have quite given
up intruding my correspondence on him. At rock bottom it is a sort
of jealousy. Some husbands seem to have the idea that their wives
should throw to the winds all old ties and relationships.
As to my going home now; it is utterly out of the question. All
other objections apart, I could not now take the journey. Then as
to having Mother here, as things are (even if he would allow it),
the worry of it would do me more harm than her presence could do me
good. There might be an actual outbreak on his part, and Maurice
and Trevor would give her an experience such as I would spare her
at all costs. What could she do for me? Later on, I should have
a nurse and of course a doctor, the kind one I spoke of, the one
Philip consults. You rather mistake me as to the possible _end_
these matters may bring. I don't mean that I should be more likely
to die from what has been taking place, simply that from natural
causes it is a thing that has to be faced at such a time. Many
women _do_, who have all the love and devotion they can require,
and I have all along felt (not forebodingly or morbidly, but as a
matter of fact) that such an event might be of more than ordinary
risk in my case. I am not very strong, and always lacking in power
of endurance, and then I am so wretchedly unhappy and lonely. All
my trouble and despondency will lessen the natural clinging to
life and give me instead a longing to be at rest beyond it all, as
far as self only is concerned. But on the other hand if the baby
lives, that will be sufficient counteractive against my giving-away
tendency. I shall feel more than a mother in ordinary case could
do that I _must_ try to live for its sake. Any other issue I am
content to leave in God's hands but cannot face the thought of
leaving the child behind me--_with him_. So if I should be taken,
don't trouble yourself with the thought that my end has been
hastened by these things that ought not to have been. For the Lord,
I believe, has taken special care of me and given me more health
of body than I could under ordinary circumstances have expected,
to meet the extra strain laid on mind and spirit. So we may trust
surely by what has gone before that He will uphold me all through
with special health and strength. "He setteth His rough wind in the
day of His east wind" has been constantly before me of late.
I shall not leave my husband as long as it can anyhow be avoided.
Death is to me a far more welcome thought to face than being a
trouble or a burden for my friends. There are troubles in which
sympathy makes all the difference, but between husband and wife
it is different, and the quieter one can keep things the better.
Uncle, dear, don't you see that the sting and real heart-bitterness
a woman must feel at wrong and unkindness from the one from whom
she has expected only love and protection, can never be healed
or soothed by proclaiming it to the world at large or by leaving
him? It may be pride or self-respect that makes me shrink from
the thought of such a thing, but have no scruples as to your
responsibility in keeping it quiet, since I told you I have no
_bodily_ fear of him, and he knows it. Suppose you tell mother
or any one else, if they share your view they can but repeat the
same arguments, and if repeated twenty times my feelings and
instincts remain the same. Say nothing, uncle, for my sake if not
for his--for mother's too. It is true if I came away he could not
rail at me but still that is only the outward expression of what
is within and which distance would not alter, and with the baby
it will be easier to bear. I shall have something to live for and
comfort myself with, and considering his condition I cannot see
that it would be _right_ to leave him unless I am in danger of my
life. It is a wife's duty to endure. I have thought of speaking
to Mr. Frean, a leading Brother at the meetings and a very kind
man. I think a fear of exposure in this quarter would have more
weight with him. While he can afford to set at nought the opinions
of my friends and relatives at a safe distance, he clings very
tenaciously to his religious position. I should have sympathy
there. I think they know I have something to put up with and they
show me great kindness and would show more if I availed myself of
it. Philip remarked one day it was strange that "his wife should
be popular at the Room while _he_ never had been!"
On one point your anxiety is needless. I have what I wish for
in the shape of nourishment. Was never a large or extravagant
eater, but what I want I have. Was reflecting only a day or two
ago that this is the _one_ point on which he uniformly shows me
consideration. In fact, I think he does this on purpose to salve
his conscience, and to have something to throw back at me. Once
when I said "Oh, Philip, don't be so unkind to me," he replied,
"Unkind? Damn you, I don't see what you have to complain of, you're
living on the fat of the land, better than with your shopkeeper
friends." Sometimes, you know, I believe he imagines he loves me;
perhaps he does as much as he would any wife, but I have told him
he does not know what love is. Love!
The only thing which sometimes nearly drives me to the breaking
point is this; he praises my amiability, meekness, wifeliness,
obedience, and says "you are different from most women who are
always either nagging and answering back or gloomy and sulky." I am
"so much better than he ever expected." When he talks like that I
feel stirred up to say some pretty plain things to him, and clear
my mind at all costs, but then if I do I might excite him and bring
on a fit of apoplexy or paralysis as the doctor said. If I say the
least little word he holds this over my head. I wonder now, after
only a few short months, why I ever married him. I have spoilt my
whole life. Two years ago, I was a happy young woman; and now--
Don't write to him, don't threaten him, and don't come near here,
it can do no good. Good-bye, Uncle dear.
Your ever loving
RACHEL.
My Grandmother paused. I know what I thought--I can live my feelings
again at this moment, forty years later.
"At the time," said my Grandmother, "Rachel said very little to me. I
knew it was difficult, but not as unhappy as it was. In the March of
the next year a baby boy was born. You're not old enough, my dear, to
know what it is to be a mother when her baby comes; a man should be
good and kind to his wife more than at any time, and thank the Lord
most of 'em are. _He_ was wicked. May the Lord in his mercy forgive
him. Still, the baby made her happier. Here is a letter she wrote to me
a month or two after it was born."
THE WHITE HOUSE.
TORQUAY,
May 20th, 1846.
My Dearest Mother,--
Thank you for all the loving sympathy from all. Am getting on well,
though the heat has been trying me greatly. I came downstairs
yesterday. I cannot stand a minute without help, as the lying in
bed has made me so weak. Baby is doing first-rate, grows more
engaging every day. It was rather too bad of you to rejoice in my
disappointment, especially as the little girl was to have been
named after my dear mother. What is the supposed advantage you see
in a boy? Why is a boy thought more of than a girl? Perhaps you are
proud of having a grandson; I certainly have centred all my ideas
on a girl; I have always had an idea that the child I should have
that would be most like me, and _who would do what I might have
done if I had been happier_, would be a girl. I feel so still;
though I can't tell you why.
But this is a dear little man and I should not like to spare him
now he has come. He never squeals but stares the whole time; the
doctor says he is big enough for five or six months old. After
the miserable state I've been in, I rather wondered whether his
brain would be right, but he is certainly "all there," and a bit
over, if it comes to that. He is very sharp. But he is very good
at night and has slept seven hours right off for five nights past.
He notices everything, his little eyes will dance round after any
one who notices him and when the door one day suddenly rattled
with the wind he turned his eyes towards it with a look of inquiry
and astonishment. Some wagging ends on Nurse's cap are a source of
unfailing interest. He has not a flaw or even a sore upon him, has
a nice little round, comfortable, sensible face, just plump enough
to be well conditioned but not coarse. I think he is something like
Martha. He has nice eyes, dark blue, which when closed take rather
a Japanese curve, the Traies' snub nose, a pretty little mouth,
large hands, very long fingers with pretty little filbert nails. He
is more like his father than anybody in face. He is full of pretty
little antics, will clasp his hands as if in prayer, or shade one
over his eyes with a thumb extended, exactly like "saying grace."
Will labour hard sometimes to stuff both fists into his mouth at
once, it is amusing to see his wriggles and struggles, getting
quite angry, till at last he gets hold of some knuckle or thumb
and settles down to enjoy it. He wants his milk very irregularly,
but so far I've kept pace with him.... We have not yet decided on
his name. Not Philip, I think, for I don't like the "big Bessie,
little Bessie, old George, young George" plan. I should like Harold
or Edgar, or perhaps Christian--by the way I'm sorry to hear that
Chrissie is still so weak, give him my best love. Do you know
that baby's birth made me _want_ to like Philip more than ever? I
told him so the other day, he just _sneered_. It's hard, mother,
isn't it? But I must not worry you, or make you think he is really
treating me so very badly, he sees that I get all the food and
nourishment I need. Don't believe all Uncle John says!
Here I must conclude as I'm not yet strong enough to write more.
Give my love to Aunt Jael, and to Hannah, and my respects to Mr.
Greeber, when you write. With my dearest love to you mother, I
remain
Your loving
RACHEL.
"Here is one she wrote to her Uncle about the same time:"
THE WHITE HOUSE.
TORQUAY,
June 24th, 1846.
My dearest Uncle John,--
Many thanks for your kind and prompt reply to my note. My reason
for requiring a promise was that I feared that on knowing how
things stood you might be unwilling still to do nothing, as I know
you have even as much of the outspoken Vickary disposition as Aunt
Jael! You will be sorry if not surprised when I tell you that my
husband leads me a more trying life than ever. I cannot repeat or
write the words he uses or the things he abuses his position as a
husband to do. My little boy is the only earthly comfort I have,
and but for him and the dear Lord I don't think I could have borne
up at all. I have kept it carefully from my own family all along,
it is not my fault that mother knows as much as she does. I hate
her to have to hear my troubles. Then, too, I've excused things on
the ground of disease, for his mind is disordered, but still he
is nothing like so far gone but that he could behave better if he
chose. I am surer than ever that he deceives the doctor so that
he can use the bad view of his health which the doctor takes, as
a cloak for all his cruelty. 'Tis very good of you to assure me
of your help but I will still try to stay with him, and so far he
has not used actual bodily violence. He has gone the length of
threatening it, of lifting up his foot as though to kick me and
shaking his fist in my face but stopped short each time, saying he
was "not such a ---- fool as to give me a chance of getting the law
for him!" I will promise this: to make your silence conditioned on
his behaviour not getting worse. That may have some effect on him.
But mother _must_ not be worried. In any case it would not be worth
while to try to come here to see him, he has threatened he will set
the dogs on them if he finds any of my relatives "prowling about
the place."
Don't worry about me. Now that I have my little boy to kiss and
comfort me I can put up with everything.
Your loving niece,
RACHEL.
"And here is another to me:"
THE WHITE HOUSE.
TORQUAY,
Aug. 20th, 1846.
My dear Mother,--
Many thanks for kindly sending on the vests, they are (both sizes)
a nice easy fit, and I'm very pleased with them. I am feeling
better, though Torquay is very relaxing and in the summer, at
times, unbearable.
Now that Uncle John seems to have told you all it is no good
pretending any longer that I am anything but absolutely wretched.
Believe me, mother, it was not dishonesty but for your sake only
that I said so little. Now it is getting so bad that I should not
have been able to keep it from you longer. They are all behaving
disgracefully, worse than ever. Not only all the family, the two
boys Maurice and Trevor, I mean, but all the servants too, and
the very errand lads who come to the house are encouraged to be
insulting. I'm really afraid to go about the house and when keeping
in my own immediate quarters am shouted at and annoyed from stairs
and windows. He and Maurice attacked me together last week, or
rather he called Maurice to join in, and the two called forth the
most unprovoked and outrageous insolence while the scullery maid
shrieked with delight and clapped her hands at the fun. Another
day, the cook threw a cabbage root at me when I went into the
kitchen, hitting me on the neck. Mr. Traies' only redress when I
turned to him was "That's nothing, you shouldn't go into quarters
where you're not wanted. A wife in her kitchen, indeed! what _are_
we coming to?" It is something sickening the whole time; I know I
shall go mad before long. Have run right out of the house twice
lately but the poor child drags me back. I don't know that you
can do anything beyond plainly speaking your mind, or threatening
to expose him right and left if that would do any good. There
certainly ought to be some law to prevent a woman being hounded
out of her life by the very servants in the house. If I say the
least word or attempt to expostulate he puts his hand up to his
forehead, begins to moan and say "the doctor said I was on no
account to have opposition, he said it might bring on a fit, indeed
I think it is coming." The wretched man--is there no law in England
to save a woman from cruelty far worse than the things for which
she can get the courts for her? Last week, he actually laughed in
my face, "Your heart is breaking I suppose," he sneered. I said
"Yes," looking him straight in the face. "It's a damned long time
about it," he said. Yet I can do nothing; _that_ is not cruelty! I
do wish he would do me some real bodily harm that would give me a
hold over him as long as he didn't permanently incapacitate me. I
have thought of asking Brother Frean at the Meeting to find me a
safe temporary lodging where I could go, and say I would not return
until he dismissed these insolent maids. That would be at least
one point gained. But until he sent Maurice away there would be no
real improvement. You cannot imagine, mother the filthy things he
says, and _does_ before me. They have made a complete tool of the
new servant too. She has been very unsatisfactory in every way,
refusing to get up in the morning and shouting at me. However she
kept within bounds till I gave her a week's notice last Wednesday.
Immediately he came and raved and sneered at me: "Come, come, the
mistress of the house dismissing a housemaid, surely this is going
a little _too_ far," and he ordered her to stay. Since then she
has behaved shamefully, they all of course upholding and cheering
her, making her presents, etc. Today I have proved her having
stolen some silk handkerchiefs of mine, in even this he upholds
her. "Freely ye have received, freely give," he said! Yesterday it
reached the climax. The whole pack were howling at me, he, looking
on and mocking and encouraging them. Then Maurice tripped me up as
I was going out of the room, and I went full length on the floor.
In my weak state, I nearly fainted. _He laughed._ I still want to
hold out; I will never leave him unless it is to come home and die.
All I have to comfort me is your sympathy, my little baby and the
love of Christ.
In haste, your loving daughter,
RACHEL.
My throat was very dry, I could not trust myself to speak.
"Soon after," went on my Grandmother, "the little baby boy died, and
then we persuaded her to take a holiday. At least we put it to her that
we thought we hoped it might be bringing her away from him for good.
She came home, spending November and December of 1846 with us at home
in the old house in the High Street, and then went to her Uncle John's
in London for the first few weeks of '47. When your mother left her
uncle, she came to us again for a few days and then decided to go back
to her husband. Jael was against it, but she was sure it was her duty
to the Lord, and I would not persuade her though my heart sank when she
left us. He behaved worse than before. The last few months at Torquay
were beyond her endurance and she began to sink away. Now here is a
letter your great-uncle wrote me just before she left him, when things
had reached their worst."
Messrs Vibart & Vickary,
MINCING LANE,
LONDON.
Jan. 3rd, 1848.
Dear Hannah,--
I have been out of patience with you as you will know. Since last
March when she stayed with you and you allowed her to go back to
the fellow. If I don't hear definitely that she has left him within
the next ten days, infirm though I am, I shall take the coach to
Exeter and on to Torquay taking a friend with me, and if we have
any trouble whatever with Traies he will get such a thrashing that
he will not be able to appear in public for some time. If ever
there was a cruel, damned scoundrel who deserved shooting he does,
and should not in the least mind putting a few bullets into him.
What annoys me more than anything is that you should encourage
the poor girl, agreeing with her that it is her Christian duty to
remain there all this time and put up with such diabolical cruelty;
worst of all now that there is another child on the way.
Let me know at once that she has left him or I shall act without
delay.
Your affectionate brother
John.
"And here is the last letter she ever wrote me herself. It was snowing
the day it reached me:"
THE WHITE HOUSE.
TORQUAY,
Jany 7th, 1848.
My dearest Mother,--
Your kind and loving letter came yesterday. Well, mother dear,
I have given in. I have decided to go away. I am weaker now,
broken in body and spirit, and if I stay here with his taunts and
ill-treatment _I shall go mad or die_. In any case I think it is
the latter; but now that there is a child coming, for its sake I
must go where I shall have more peace. My life is a broken failure.
Four short years ago what a happy girl I was at the Hall with kind
people around me, a loving little boy as my daily companion, and I
was a credit and pride to you all. I know you never wanted me to
marry him. I chose my way and I have failed utterly. Yes I know,
mother, I know with a positive assurance that I could have loved a
good and loving husband as much as any woman in the world; it was
_in_ me. Well, it is no good talking of that now, for I have not
very long before me now. Today I told him I was leaving him for
the last time. He mocked in his usual sort of way, but I am beyond
minding that. He is too much of a coward, I have come to know, to
prevent my leaving by physical force. I hope to get away tomorrow,
and am already halfway through my packing, so expect me very soon.
Your loving
RACHEL.
My Grandmother spoke in a calm way, much sadder than any sobbing or
crying. Here for the only time she put her handkerchief to her eyes for
a moment. "Just at the time your dear mother came back to us to die,
my little boy Christian was dying too. The day after we buried him you
were born, then seven days later your mother died. Your Great-Aunt was
a good sister to me, she took turns at sitting with your mother every
night; saw the friends who called and wrote all the letters. Here is a
copy of what she wrote to your Great-Uncle:
NORTHGATE HOUSE,
HIGH STREET,
TAWBOROUGH.
March 2nd, 1848.
Dear Brother,--
You will be glad of a line to tell you a fine girl was born this
morning at half past five; the baby is doing splendidly, but Rachel
is very weak. Nurse and doctor are in constant attendance. Hannah
stays with her all the time and doesn't go downstairs. With young
Christian just buried the Lord is trying us hard. We are truly
passing through the waters of affliction. Hannah is too busy to
write herself or I should not be writing to you, the first time I
think for nearly thirty years.
Your affectionate sister,
JAEL VICKARY.
"Here is your Great-Uncle's reply, addressed to me:"
LONDON.
_In haste._
Dear Hannah,--
Do everything possible for dear Rachel as regards nursing and
doctors that money can command. I pay everything.
JOHN.
"And two more letters your Great-Aunt wrote to your Great-Uncle will
tell how your dear mother died:"
NORTHGATE HOUSE,
HIGH STREET,
TAWBOROUGH.
March 8th, 1848.
Dear Brother,--
I write again to give you news of Rachel. Upon receiving your kind
note we decided on calling in Doctor Little but I don't think he
can do more than Dr. Le Mesurier has, he has been unremitting in
attention but there will be nothing to regret in having had further
advice. Nurse Baker looks after the baby, she is a very nice child
and is doing well. Hannah is wonderfully sustained, she sat with
Rachel last night, I was with her the night before. It would make
things very much easier if Martha would come over from Torribridge
but Mr. Greeber, her husband, will not allow it, pleading their own
child who is as healthy as he is ugly and now quite a year old.
Rachel has been wandering today, sewing and arranging garments for
the child. She suffers badly. The doctor thinks it is peritonitis.
I fear it will be but a few days more, it wrings my heart to write
it.
I have just taken the liberty of writing a note to Lord Tawborough
to ask him to use his influence with his cousin that the child
may remain to be brought up by us in case of Rachel being removed
from this world. He replies he will insist on it. It has comforted
Rachel greatly. I wrote to Mr. Traies a few lines on the day she
was confined to state the fact of a girl being born and that his
wife was not doing too well, commencing "Dear Sir" (being civil). I
am glad it was done, although he did not respond; we have done our
part and shall not write to him again until she ceases to be his
wife. Oh brother, when I think of how the wretched man has hounded
her and brought her down in health and strength to an early grave
(for the doctor says she had not the strength to go through her
confinement because of the harass and ill-treatment that preceded)
I feel he will have a recompense even in this world for his cruelty
... God's vengeance is sure, and He will avenge. The doctor now
says twenty-four hours will decide. We give her Valentine's extract
of milk and ice which she takes every half hour ... nothing has
been left undone. May God bless the means and give us grace to bear
His will.
Regret you are not well enough to travel. If you had been well
enough to come I need not say that for Hannah's and Rachel's sake
I would have let by gones be by gones, so with our united love, I
remain,
Your affectionate sister,
JAEL VICKARY.
NORTHGATE HOUSE,
HIGH STREET,
TAWBOROUGH.
March 9th, 1848:.
Dear Brother,--
Dear Rachel was unconscious all the night but didn't seem to
suffer. She gradually sank and peacefully departed at a quarter
past ten. I know you will not be able to come to the funeral but we
know all your love to your beloved niece during her life. Hannah
scarcely realizes it as yet. Dear Rachel wished the baby to be
called Mary. She gave a few directions most calmly and quietly, and
wished the text, if we had cards, to be "Made meet to be partakers
of the inheritance of the Saints in light," or else "These are they
which came out of great tribulation." Hannah is hearing up well,
sustained by the Lord's grace. _Thy will be done._
With our united love,
Your affectionate sister,
JAEL VICKARY.
* * * * * * *
"And so she died," concluded my Grandmother, "and left you to me."
I wanted to hear more. "And the man?"
"What man?"
"My--father." It was one of the hardest things I ever did to utter
that word. I felt foolish, flushed, and somehow wicked. The word was
unfamiliar, and it was vile.
"Well, I wrote him a letter saying I forgave him for everything--"
"Forgave him, Grandmother!" I cried. "That was wicked!"
"I forgave him as I hoped the Lord would too. I just told him in the
letter about her funeral and how it had passed off."
"Did he write back?"
"Yes, and in all his life there was nothing so cruel as the reply he
sent me. Here it is. I know the foreign note-paper; for he went abroad
straight away to avoid the scandal and trouble, though the Saints at
Torquay publicly expelled him from their Meeting when they knew the
facts. Listen:--
HOTEL MEURICE, PARIS.
March 31st, 1848.
_Madam_,--
Your letter apprehending me of my late wife's funeral has been
forwarded to me. If you imagine this thinly veiled hint that I
should bear the funeral expenses will succeed, you are singularly
mistaken. For such a wife, nominally Christian, who deserted her
husband, I propose to do nothing of the kind. You may sue me at
law, of course; but pause for a moment: _would your dead daughter
have wished you to?_
Yours truly,
PHILIP A. G. TRAIES.
"May God in His mercy forgive him for writing that. It took me years
to be able to. I have never heard from him since. I heard he sold the
house in Torquay and lives mostly abroad. That, my dearie, is the end
of a long story. Always love the memory of your dear, good mother and
try if you can to forgive your father, for whatever he has done, he is
your father."
"I will never forgive him, it would be wrong to forgive people who have
done things to you like that. Never!"
"It's the only true forgiveness, my dear, to forgive those who wrong
you cruelly."
"I shall forgive every one in the world; but him, never."
* * * * * * *
I don't think these events are told out of their place. It was at this
stage of my life that all these past doings entered _my_ life; it is
here they should be told. For me they took place now; from now onwards
they influenced my life and thoughts. Of the impressions I received,
pity and love for my mother, and hate and loathing for my father ranked
equally. I thought of her still as an angel, but her eyes were sadder.
As for him, I vowed to myself that afternoon, that some day in some way
I would avenge my mother. How I kept that vow is another story; till
then this resolve had a constant place in my life and imagination. It
did a good deal to embitter a view of the world already gloomy enough
for ten years old.
These were not the only emotions rushing through my heart that
afternoon. There was admiration and love of my Grandmother; how
greatly she had suffered, how little she complained, how heroically
she forgave. There was a new reluctant respect for Aunt Jael; and a
quickening affection for all who had been good to my mother, chiefly
for Great-Uncle John, who in two short hours had been transformed for
me from a shadowy name into a warm and noble reality; for others also
who took a lesser part, such as the kind people where she had been
governess and the little boy who loved her; for Brother Frean and the
sympathetic Saints at Torquay. While I sat biting my nails and thinking
a hundred new things, some kind, some sad, some hideous and bitter,
Grandmother was still rummaging among the letters.
"Why, here's a bundle of those she wrote when she was at Woolthy Hall,
in her first happy days there. Listen, my dear, I'll read you the first
she wrote:"--
Woolthy Hall,
North Devon.
Friday.
Dearest Mother,--
I hope you got my first note saying I had arrived safely. I am
very happy here, I have a nice little room to myself commanding a
lovely view of the Park. I went to see Lord Tawborough in his study
the same night that I arrived, and he was very kind. There will
be no invidious treatment here, of the kind you hear governesses
sometimes have to put up with. The work will be pleasant, the
little boy took to me at once. He has brown eyes and a frank little
face, rather solemn for his age, indeed I think he likes reading
books too much and not too little. The meals are of course very
good and I never felt better. Yesterday we went a carriage drive
to Northbury, and picked primroses in the woods there, five huge
bunches. The spring is a lovely time. It makes me happy because it
is the beginning of the year and promises so much, just as I am at
a new beginning of my life here, feeling sure I shall have a very
happy time. Send the cotton blouses and straw hat, for there's a
fine summer ahead!
With love to Aunt Jael and very much to your dear self from
Your loving
RACHEL.
As Grandmother finished reading, I sobbed as though my heart would
break, for that happy letter was the saddest of them all. I have read
somewhere that with old letters, the happier they are, the more full
of hope and life the writers, the more vivid and intense and joyful
the sense of the present time the more melancholy they are to read in
later years. The hopes then so warm and fresh seem now so far away.
Men and women who when they wrote were hoping and planning are now but
hollow-eyed and rotting dust. Vanity of vanities, saith the Preacher,
all is vanity.