Strongest minds
Are often those of whom the noisy world
Hears least; else surely this man had not left
His graces unrevealed and unproclaimed.
Wordsworth.
The first thing to be done, it was obvious to all parties, was for Edgar
to go and call upon Mr. St. Leger, which he did.
He found him occupying one very small room, which served him for bed and
sitting room, in a small cottage upon the outskirts of the little
secluded town of Briarwood. He looked extremely ill; his beautiful
countenance was preternaturally pale; his large eyes far too bright and
large; his form attenuated; and his voice so faint, husky, and low that
it was with difficulty he could make himself heard, at least for any
length of time together.
The expression of his countenance, however, was rather grave than sad;
resigned than melancholy. He was serious but perfectly composed; nay,
there was even a chastened cheerfulness in his manner. He looked like
one who had accepted the cup presented to him; had already exhausted
most of the bitter potion, and was calmly prepared to drain it to the
dregs.
And so it had been.
No man was ever more exquisitely constituted to suffer from
circumstances so agonizing than he. But his mind was of a lofty stamp;
he had not sunk under his sufferings. He had timely considered the
_reality_ of these things. He had learned to connect--really, truly,
faithfully--the trials and sorrows of this world with the retributions
of another. He had accepted the part allotted to him in the mysterious
scheme; had played it as best he could, and was now prepared for its
impending close.
It is consoling to know one thing. In his character of minister of the
holy word of God he had been allowed the privilege of attending the last
illness of both mother and sister, both so deeply, deeply, yet silently
beloved, in spite of all; and, through those blessed means, the full
value and mercy of which, perhaps such grievous sinners are alone able
to entirely estimate, he had reconciled them, as he trusted, with that
God "who forgiveth all our iniquities and healeth all our diseases."
Having been allowed to do this, he felt as if it would be the basest
ingratitude to murmur because his services in the pulpit were suddenly
arrested by the disease in his chest, and with it a stop put to further
usefulness, and even to the supply of his daily bread.
He was calmly expecting to die in the receipt of parish relief; for he
had not a penny beyond his curate's salary; and it was impossible to
allow Mr. Thomas, who was a poor man himself, to continue that, now the
hope of restoration to usefulness seemed at an end. It was not likely,
indeed, that he should, upon the spare hermit's diet which his scanty
means allowed, recover from a complaint of which weakness was the
foundation.
He had tried to maintain himself by his pen; but the complaint which
prevented his preaching was equally against the position when writing.
He could do so little in this way that it would not furnish him with a
loaf a week. A ray of genuine pleasure, however, shot to his eye, and a
faint but beautiful flush mounted to his cheek, when Edgar entered and
cordially held out his hand.
He was such a dear warm-hearted fellow, was Edgar. St. Leger had loved
him so entirely at school; and those days were not so _very_ long since!
The impression old Time had not even yet attempted with his busy fingers
to efface.
"I am so glad to have found you out, my dear fellow," Edgar began. "Who
would have thought of meeting you, of all people in the world, here,
ensconsed in such a quiet nook of this busy island--a place where the
noise and bustle and stir of the Great Babylon can not even be heard.
But what are you doing in this place? for you look ill, I must say, and
you seem to be left to yourself without a human being to look after
you."
"Much so. You know I am quite alone in the world."
"A dismal position that, and I am come to put an end to it. My wife
insists upon making your acquaintance, and scuttled me off this morning
without giving me time to eat my breakfast, though, to own the truth, I
was ready enough of myself to set out. The general desired me to bring
his card; he is too infirm to go out himself, and he and Mrs. Melwyn
request the favor of your company to dinner to-morrow at six o'clock."
"I should be very happy--but--," and he hesitated a little.
"I'll come and fetch you in the dog-cart about five, and drive you down
again in the evening. It's a mere step by Hatherway-lane, which is quite
passable at this time of the year, whatever it may be in winter."
St. Leger looked as if he should like very much to come. His was a
heart, indeed, formed for society, friendship, and love; not the least
of the monk or the hermit was to be found in his composition. And so it
was settled.
St. Leger came to dinner, as arranged, Edgar fetching him up in the
dog-cart.
Every one was struck with his appearance. There was a gentleness and
refinement in his manner which charmed Mrs. Melwyn; united to the ease
and politeness of a man of the world, equally acceptable to the general;
Catharine was delighted; and Lettice only in a little danger of being
too well pleased.
His conversation soon showed him to be a man of a very superior turn of
thought, and was full of information. In short, it was some time, with
the exception of Edgar, since so agreeable a person had sat down at that
dinner-table; for the Hazels lay rather out of the way, and neither the
general nor Mrs. Melwyn were of a temper to cultivate society.
Edgar returned home in the evening from an agreeable drive with his
friend through the bright glittering starlight night. It was slightly
frosty, and he came into the drawing-room rubbing his hands, with his
cheeks freshened by the air, looking as if he was prepared very much to
enjoy the fire.
He found the whole party sitting up, and very amicably discussing the
new acquaintance, who had pleased them all so much. So Edgar sat down
between his wife and her mother, and readily joined in the conversation.
The general, who really was much altered for the better under the good
influences of Lettice, had been speaking in high terms of their late
guest. And when Edgar came in and sat down in the circle, spreading his
hands to the fire, and looking very comfortable, the general, in an
amicable tone, began:
"Really, Edgar, we have been saying we are quite obliged to you for
introducing to us so agreeable a man as this Mr. St. Leger, of yours. He
is quite a find in such a stupid neighborhood as ours, where, during the
ten years I have lived in it, I have never met one _resident_"--with an
emphasis upon the word, that it might not be supposed to include Edgar
himself--"one _resident_ whose company I thought worth a brass
farthing."
"I am very glad my friend gives satisfaction, sir," said Edgar
cheerfully; "for I believe, poor fellow, he has much more to seek than
even yourself, general, in the article of companionship. One can not
think that the society of the worthy Mr. Thomas can afford much of
interest to a man like St. Leger. But whatever pleasure you may mutually
afford each other will soon be at an end, I fear; and I have been
beating my brains all the way coming home, to think what must be done."
"Why must the pleasure come so soon to an end, Edgar?" asked Mrs.
Melwyn.
"Why, if something can't be done, the poor lad is in a fair way to be
starved to death," was the answer.
"Starved to death! How shockingly you do talk, Edgar," cried Mrs.
Melwyn. "I wish you would not say such things--you make one quite start.
The idea is too horrible--besides, it can not be true. People don't
starve to death nowadays--at least not in a sort of case like that."
"I don't know--such things do sound as if they couldn't be true--and
yet," said Catherine, "they do come very nearly to the truth at times."
"Indeed do they," said Lettice. "Starved to death," observed the
general, "I take to be merely a poetic exaggeration of yours, captain.
But do you mean to say that young man is literally in distressed
circumstances?"
"The most urgently distressing circumstances, sir. The fact is, that he
inherited nothing from his father but a most scandalous list of debts,
which he most honorably sold every farthing of his own little property
to pay--relying for his subsistance upon the small stipend be was to
receive from Mr. Thomas. You don't like Mr. Thomas, sir."
"Who would like such a stupid old drone?"
"He's a worthy old fellow, nevertheless. Though his living is a very
poor one, he has acted with great liberality to James St. Leger. The
poor fellow has lost his voice: you would perceive in conversation how
very feeble and uncertain it was. It is utterly powerless in the
reading-desk; and yet Mr. Thomas has insisted upon retaining him--paying
his salary, and doing all the duty himself. As long as there was any
hope of recovery, to this St. Leger most unwillingly submitted; but, now
he despairs of ever again being useful, it is plain it can no longer be
done."
"And what is to become of him?" exclaimed Lettice.
She knew what it was to be utterly without resource--she knew how
possible it was for such things to happen in this world--she knew what
it was to be hungry and to want bread, and be without the means of
assistance--to be friendless, helpless, and abandoned by all.
"What is to be done?" she cried.
"What is to be done?" said the general, rather testily. "Why, the young
fellow must turn his hand to something else. None but a fool _starves_."
"Ay, but," said Edgar, shaking his head, "but what is that something? I
see no prospect for one incapacitated by his cloth for enlisting as a
soldier or standing behind a counter, and by his illness for doing any
thing consistent with his profession."
"I should think he might write a canting book," said the general with a
sneer; "_that_ would be sure to sell."
"Whatever book St. Leger wrote," Edgar answered coldly, "would be a good
one, whether _canting_ or not. But he can not write a book. The fatigue,
the stooping, would be intolerable to his chest in its present irritable
state. Besides, if he did write a book, it's a hundred to one whether he
got any thing for it; and, moreover, the book is not written; and there
is an old proverb which says, while the grass grows the horse starves.
He literally _will_ starve, if some expedient can not be hit upon."
"And that is too, too dreadful to think of," cried Mrs. Melwyn
piteously. "Oh, general!"
"Oh, papa! oh, Edgar! Can you think of nothing?" added Catharine in the
same tone.
"It would be a pity he should starve; for he is a remarkably
gentlemanlike, agreeable fellow," observed the general. "Edgar, do you
know what was meant by the term, one meets with in old books about
manners, of 'led captain?' I wish to heaven _I_ could have a led captain
like that."
"Oh, there was the chaplain as well as the led captain in those days,
papa," said Catherine, readily. "Dearest papa, if one could but persuade
you you wanted a domestic chaplain."
"Well, and what did the chaplain do in those days. Mrs. Pert?"
"Why, he sat at the bottom of the table, and carved the sirloin."
"And he read, and played at backgammon--when he was wanted, I believe,"
put in Edgar.
"And he did a great deal more," added Catherine in a graver tone. "He
kept the accounts, and looked after important business for his patron."
"And visited the poor and was the almoner and their friend," said
Lettice in a low voice.
"And played at bowls, and drank--"
Catherine put her hand playfully over the general's mouth.
"Don't, dear papa--you must _not_--you must not, indeed. Do you know
this irreverence in speaking of the members of so sacred a profession is
not at all what ought to be done. Don't Edgar. Dear papa, I may be
foolish, but I do _so_ dislike it."
"Well, well, well--any thing for a quiet life."
"But to resume the subject," locking her arm in his, and smiling with a
sweetness which no one, far least he, could resist. "Really and
seriously I do think it would be an excellent thing if you would ask Mr.
St. Leger to be your domestic chaplain."
"Stuff and nonsense."
"Not such stuff and nonsense as you think. Here's our darling
Lettice--think what a comfort she has been to mamma, and think what a
pleasant thing it would be for you to have a confidential and an
agreeable friend at your elbow--just as mamma has in Lettice. Hide your
face, Lettice, if you can't bear to be praised a little before it; but I
will have it done, for I see you don't like it. But, papa, you see
things are getting a good deal into disorder, they say, upon your
property out of doors, just for want of some one to look after them. I
verily believe, that if we could persuade this young gentleman to come
and do this for you, he would save you a vast deal of money."
The general made no answer. He sank back in his chair, and seemed to
meditate. At last, turning to Edgar, he said,
"That little wife of yours is really not such a fool as some might
suppose her to be, captain."
"Really--'
"What say you, Mrs. Melwyn? Is there any sense in the young lady's
suggestion, or is there not? What says Miss Arnold? Come, let us put it
to the vote."
Mrs. Melwyn smiled. Catherine applauded and laughed, and kissed her
father, and declared he was the dearest piece of reasonableness in the
world. And, in short, the project was discussed, and one said this, and
the other said that, and after it had been talked over and commented
upon, with a hint from one quarter, and a suggestion from another, and
so on, it began to take a very feasible and inviting shape.
Nothing could be more true than a person of this description in the
family was terribly wanted. The general was becoming every day less able
and less inclined to look after his own affairs. Things were mismanaged,
and he was robbed in the most notorious and unblushing manner. This must
be seen to. Of this Edgar and Catherine had been upon their return
speedily aware. The difficulty was how to get it done; and whom to trust
in their absence; which would soon, owing to the calls of the service,
take place again, and for an indefinite period of time.
Mr. St. Leger seemed the very person for such an office, could he be
persuaded to undertake it; and his extremity was such, that, however
little agreeable to such a man the proposal might be, it appeared not
impossible that he might entertain it. Then he had made himself so much
favor with the general, that one difficulty, and the greatest, was
already overcome.
Mrs. Melwyn seconded their designs with her most fervent wishes. She
could not venture to do much more.
To have expressed her sentiments upon the subject--to have said how much
she felt the necessity of some such plan, and how ardently she desired
that it might be carried into execution, would have been one very likely
reason for setting her wayward old partner against it.
She had found so much happiness in the possession of Lettice as a
friend, that she anticipated every possible advantage from a similar
arrangement for the general.
You may remark as you go along, that it was because Lettice had so
admirably performed her own part, that the whole family were so desirous
of repeating it under other circumstances. Such are among the
incidental--if I may call them so--fruits of good conduct.
If the vices spread wide their devastating influences--the virtues
extend their blessings a thousand fold.
The general did not want for observation He had estimated the good which
had arisen from the admission of Lettice Arnold into his family, and he
felt well inclined to the scheme of having a companion of his own. He
could even tolerate the idea of a species of domestic chaplain; provided
the personage so designated would look to his home farm and keep his
accounts.
The proposal was made to Mr. St. Leger.
He hesitated. Edgar expected that he would.
"I do not know," he said. "I feel as if I were, in some measure, running
the risk of degrading my holy office, by accepting, merely for my
personal convenience, a dependent position, where certain compliances,
as a necessary condition, might be expected, which are contrary to my
views of things."
"Why so? I assure you, upon my honor, nothing of that sort is to be
apprehended. These are really very well meaning people, and you may
serve them more than you seem aware. The part of domestic chaplain is
not held beneath the members of your church. I own this is not a noble
family, and doubt whether you can legitimately claim the title. Yet the
office is the same."
"Yes--if I may perform the duties of that office. On that condition
alone, will I entertain the thought of it for a moment. And I must add,
that as soon as ever I am in a condition--if that time ever arrives--to
resume my public duties, I am to be allowed to do so."
"Unquestionably."
"And, that while I reside under the general's roof, I may carry out
certain reforms which I believe to be greatly wanted."
"No doubt."
"And that I shall be enabled to assist Mr. Thomas in the care of this
extremity of his large parish, which so deplorably requires looking
after."
The general grumbled a little at some of these conditions, but finally
consented to all.
He was getting an old man. Perhaps he was not sorry--though he thought
it due to those ancient prejudices of his profession, I am happy to say
now fast growing obsolete, to appear so--perhaps he was not really
sorry, now the wheel was beginning to pause at the cistern, and the
darkness of age was closing around him, to have some one in his
household to call his attention to things which he began to feel had
been neglected too long.
Perhaps he was not sorry to allow family prayer in a mansion, where the
voice of united family prayer had, till then, never been heard. To
anticipate a little--I may add, as certain, that he, who began with
never attending at all, was known to drop in once or twice; and ended by
scolding Lettice heartily in a morning if there was any danger of her
not having bound up his arm in time for him to be present.
His gray venerable head--his broken, but still manly figure--his
wrinkled face--his still keen blue eye, might be seen at last amid his
household. The eye fixed in a sort of determined attention--the lips
muttering the prayer--a sort of child in religion still--yet far to seek
in many things; but accepted, we will hope, as a child.
He could share, too, as afterward appeared, in the interest which Mrs.
Melwyn and Lettice, after Mr. St. Leger's arrival, ventured openly to
take in the concerns of the poor; and even in the establishment of a
school, against which, with an obstinate prejudice against the education
of the lower classes, the general had long so decidedly set his face.
In short, having accepted all the conditions upon which alone St. Leger,
even in the extremity of his need, could be persuaded to accept a place
in his family, the old soldier ended by taking great comfort, great
interest, great pleasure, in all the improvements that were effected.
* * * * *
One difficulty presented itself in making the arrangement; and this came
from a quarter quite unexpected by Catherine--from poor Mrs. Melwyn.
"Ah, Catherine," said she, coming into her room, and looking most
nervous and distressed, "take care what you and Edgar are about, in
bringing this Mr. St. Leger into the family. Suppose he should fall in
love with Lettice?"
"Well, mamma, suppose he should--where would be the dreadful harm of
that?" said Catherine, laughing.
"Ah, my dear! Pray, don't laugh, Catherine. What _would_ become of us
all?"
"Why, what would become of you all?"
"I'm sure I don't wish to be selfish. I should hate myself if I were.
But what _could_ we do without Lettice? Dear Catherine! only think of
it. And that would not be the worst. They could not marry--for they
would have nothing to live upon if they left us--so they would both be
miserable. For they _could_ neither go nor stay. It would be impossible
for them to go on living together here, if they were attached to each
other and could never be married. And so miserable as they would be,
Catherine, it makes me wretched to think of it."
"Ah! dear, sweet mother, don't take up wretchedness at interest--that's
my own mother. They're not going to fall in love. Mr. St. Leger looks
not the least inclined that way."
"Ah, that's easily said, but suppose they _did_?"
"Well, suppose they did. I see no great harm in it; may I confess to
you, mother, for my part, I should be secretly quite glad of it."
"Oh, Catherine! how _can_ you talk so? What would be _done_?"
"Done! Why, let them marry to be sure, and live on here."
"Live on here! Who on earth ever heard of such a scheme! Dearest
child, you are too romantic. You are almost absurd, my sweet
Catherine--forgive your poor mother for saying so."
"No, that I won't," kissing her with that playful tenderness which so
well became her, "that I won't, naughty mamma. Because, do you know, you
say the most unjust thing in the world when you call me romantic. Why,
only ask papa, ask Edgar, ask Mrs. Danvers, ask any body, if I am not
common-sense personified."
"If I asked your papa, my dear girl, he would only say you had a way of
persuading one into any thing, even into believing you had more head
than heart, my own darling," said the fond mother, her pale cheek
glowing, and those soft eyes swimming in delight, as she looked upon her
daughter.
"That's right; and now you have acknowledged so much, my blessed mother,
I am going to sit down by you, and seriously to give you my well weighed
opinions upon this most weighty matter." So Catherine drew a low stool,
and sat too down by her mother's knee, and threw her arm over her lap,
and looked up in her face and began her discourse.
"First of all, then, dearest mamma, I think you a little take up anxiety
at interest in this case. I really never did see a man that seemed to me
less likely to fall in love imprudently than this Mr. St. Leger. He is
so extremely grave and sedate, so serious, and so melancholy, and he
seems so completely to have done with this world--it has, indeed, proved
a bitter world to him--and to have so entirely placed his thoughts upon
another, that I think the probability very remote indeed, if to the
shadow of any thing above a possibility it amounts, of his ever taking
sufficient interest in present things to turn his thoughts upon his own
happiness. He seems absorbed in the performance of the duties to which
he has devoted himself. Secondly, this being my idea of the state of the
case, I have not the slightest apprehension in the world for dear
Lettice's happiness; because I know what a sensible, kind, and what a
well regulated heart hers is, and that she is far too good and
right-minded to attach herself in any way beyond mere benevolence, and
friendship, and so forth, where there was not a prospect of an adequate
return."
"Oh, yes! my love, very true; yet, Catherine, you admit the possibility,
however remote, of what I fear. And then what _would_ become of us all?
Surely, it is not right to shut our eyes to this possibility."
"Why, mamma, I don't deny the possibility you speak of, and I quite see
how wrong it would be to shut our eyes to it; but just listen to me,
dearest mother, and don't call me wild and romantic till you have heard
me out."
"Well, my love, go on; I am all attention."
"I should think it really, the most ridiculous thing in the world," and
she laughed a little to herself, "to enter so seriously into this
matter, if Edgar and I, alas! were not ordered away in so short a time,
and I fear my dearest mamma will be anxious and uncomfortable after I
am gone--about this possibility, if we do not settle plans a little,
and agree what ought, and what could be done, supposing this horrible
contingency to arise."
"How well you understand your poor mother, love! Yes; that is just it.
Only let me have the worst placed steadily before my eyes, and the
remedies, if any, proposed, or if none, the state of the case
acknowledged, and I can bear the contemplation of almost any thing. I
think it is not patience, but courage, that your poor mother wants, my
child. Uncertainty--any thing that is vague--the evils of which are
undefined, seems to swell into such terrific magnitude. I am like a poor
frightened child, Catherine; the glimmering twilight is full of
monstrous spectres to me."
"Yes, mamma, I believe that is a good deal the case with most of us; but
more especially with those who have so much sensibility and such
delicate nerves as you have. How I adore you, dear mother, for the
patient sweetness with which you bear that trying sort of constitution."
"Dear child!"
"Well, then, mother, to look this evil steadily in the face, as you say.
Suppose Lettice and Mr. St. Leger _were_ to form an attachment for each
other, what should hinder them from marrying?"
"Ah, my dear, that was what I said before, what _would_ become of
them--they must starve."
"Why so? why not live on here?"
"Nay, Catherine, you made me promise not to call you romantic, but who
ever heard of such an out-of-the-way scheme. A young married couple,
living in the condition of domestic companions to people, and in another
man's house. Utterly impossible--what nobody ever attempted to
do--utterly out of the question."
"Well, mamma, I, for one, think that a great many rather out-of-the-way
plans, which, nevertheless, might make people very happy, are often
rejected--merely because 'nobody ever heard of such a thing,' or,
'nobody ever thought of doing so, and therefore it is utterly
impossible.'... But I think I have observed that those who, in their own
private arrangements, have had the courage, upon well considered
grounds--mind I say upon _well considered grounds_--to overlook the
consideration of nobody ever having thought of doing such a thing
before--have found their account in it, and a vast deal of happiness has
been secured which would otherwise have been quite lost."
"As how, Catherine. Give me instances. I don't quite follow you."
"Why, in marriages, for instance, then, such cases arise very often.
Late marriages for one--between people quite advanced in years--which
the world often laugh and sneer at. Most wrongly in my opinion--for
through them how often do we see what would otherwise have been a
solitary old age, rendered cheerful and comfortable; and sometimes a
weary, disappointed life, consoled by a sweet friendship and affection
at its close. Then, there are marriages founded upon reason and
arrangement; such as when an ugly man with an ungraceful manner, yet
perhaps a good heart and head, and with it plenty of money, marries one
rather his inferior in social rank, whom his circumstances enable him to
indulge with many new sources of enjoyment, and who in return is
grateful for the elevation, and proud of a husband young ladies of his
own class might have looked down upon. Then there might be another
arrangement, which is, indeed, at present, I own, almost a romance, it
is so rarely entered into. I mean, supposing single women from different
families, somewhat advanced in life, were to put their little fortunes
together, and form a household, wherein, by their united means, they
might live easily--instead of almost in penury alone. In short, the
instances are innumerable, in which, I think, the path a little out of
the ordinary course, is the wisest a person can pursue."
"Go on, my love, you talk so prettily, I like to hear you."
The daughter kissed the soft white hand she held in hers--white it was
as the fairest wax, and still most beautiful. The signs of age were only
discernible in the wasting blue veins having become a little too
obvious.
"Well, then, mamma, to draw my inference. I think, under the peculiar
circumstances of our family, you, who are so in want of children and
companions, could not do better, than if these two valuable creatures
_did_ attach themselves to one another, to let them marry and retain
them as long as they were so minded under your roof."
"My goodness, child!"
"I have planned it all. This house is so big. I should allot them an
apartment at the east end of it. Quite away from the drawing-room and
yours and my father's rooms--where they might feel as much at home as it
is possible for people to feel in another man's house. I should increase
their salary--by opening a policy upon their lives; as a provision for
their children if they had any. A large provision of this sort would not
be needed. It is not to be supposed their children would not have to
earn their own living as their parents had done before them. Why should
they not? _Nota bene_--Edgar and I hold that the rage for making
children independent, as it is called--that is, enabling them just to
exist, doing nothing, so as just to keep them from starving upon a
minimum income, is a very foolish thing among those whose habits of life
render no such independence necessary, and who have never thought of
enjoying this exemption from labor in their own case."
"But, your father! And then, suppose they got tired of the plan, and
longed for a house of their own?"
"My father is much more easily persuaded to what is good for him, than
we used to think, dear mother. See how nice he has been about Lettice
and this Mr. St. Leger. As to their wishing at last for a home of their
own, that is possible I allow: but think, sweetest mother, of the
pleasure of rewarding this dear, good girl, by making her happy. As for
the rest, fear not, mamma. God will provide."
Mrs. Melwyn made no answer. But she listened more comfortably. The
nervous, anxious, harassed expression of face, which Catherine knew but
too well, began to compose, and her countenance to resume its sweet and
tranquil smile.
"Mind, dear mamma, after all I am only speaking of the remote
possibility, and what might be done. You would have such pleasure in
carrying out the scheme. Oh! I do wish there were but a chance of
it--really I can't help it, mamma--it would be so nice;" said the
sanguine, kind-hearted Catherine.