In a few days all this solemn crisis was over, and life went on again in
its ordinary tame current, closing over the dishonoured grave where Fred
found his rest, henceforward nameless in the world that had suffered his
existence as a cumberer of the ground for so many years. Had he been the
prop of his house and the light of their eyes, life would have gone on
again, after that interruption, all the same, with a persistency which
nothing can impair. As it was, the diminished household resumed its
ordinary course of existence, after a very few days, with little more
than outward marks of what had befallen them. It is true that Nettie
sat down with a repugnance which she scarcely could either overcome or
conceal, to dispense the domestic provisions at the table which shortly
before had borne so dread a burden. But nobody thought of that except
Nettie; and but for the black dresses and Susan's cap, Fred was as if he
had never been.
About a week after the funeral, the doctor went solemnly to visit them
in one of those lengthening spring afternoons. Dr Rider was undeniably
nervous and excited about this interview. He had been at home under
pretence of having luncheon, but in reality to make a solemn toilette,
and wind himself up to the courage necessary for a settlement of affairs.
As he dashed with agitated haste down Grange Lane, he saw Miss Wodehouse
and her sister Lucy coming from St Roque's, where very probably they too
had been making a visit of condolence to Nettie; and a little nearer that
scene of all his cogitations and troubles appeared, a much less welcome
sight, Miss Marjoribanks, whom all Carlingford, a month ago, had declared
Dr Rider to be "paying his addresses" to. The guilty doctor took off his
hat to that stout and sensible wayfarer, with a pang of self-disgust
which avenged Nettie. Along the very road where that little Titania,
eager and rapid, had gone upon her dauntless way so often, to see that
comely well-dressed figure, handsome, sprightly, clever--but with such a
world of bright youth, tenderness, loveliness, everything that touches
the heart of man, between the two! No harm to Miss Marjoribanks; only
shame to the doctor, who, out of angry love, pique, and mortification,
to vex Nettie, had pretended to transfer the homage due to the fairy
princess to that handsome and judicious woman. The experiment had failed
as entirely as it deserved to do; and here was Edward Rider, coming back
wiser and humbler, content to put that question over again, and stand
once more his chance of what his pride had called a rejection, perhaps
content to make still greater sacrifices, if the truth were known, and
to do anything Nettie asked him, if Nettie would but condescend to ask
or enter into terms at all.
He drew up before St Roque's with a dash, which was much more of
agitation than display, and, throwing the reins at the head of his
little groom, leaped out like a man who did not see where he was going.
He saw Mr Wentworth, however, coming out of the church, and turning
round amazed to look what vehicle had come to so sudden a standstill
there. All the world seemed to be on the road to St Roque's Cottage that
spring afternoon. The doctor made a surly gesture of recognition as he
passed the curate, who gazed at him in calm astonishment from the church
porch. No other intruder appeared between him and the Cottage. He hurried
along past the willow-trees with their drooping tassels, surrounded by a
certain maze of excitement and agitation. As he went up to the door, it
occurred to him suddenly how Nettie had recognised his step that dread
morning of Fred's death. The thought came like a stimulus and encouragement
to the doctor. He went in with a brighter look, a heart more hopeful.
She had opened the door to him before he could knock, held out to
him that tiny morsel of a hand which laboured so hard and constantly,
said--what did Nettie say? how many times had the doctor conned it over
as he went between his patients?--"You were angry once, and, indeed,
I don't wonder." The doctor went boldly in under the cordial of these
simple words. If she did not wonder that he was angry once, could she
think of saying over again that same conclusion which had cast him into
such wrathful despair? He went in to try his fortune a second time,
secure of his temper at least. _That_ could never fail, nor sin against
Nettie again.
Edward Rider went in, expectant somehow, even against his reason, to
find an altered world in that house from which Fred had gone. He knew
better, to be sure, but nature beguiled the young man out of his
wisdom. When he went in to the parlour his eyes were opened. Upon the
sofa--that same sofa where Fred had lain, all slovenly and mean in his
idleness, with his pipe, polluting Nettie's sole retirement--Mrs Fred
lay now in her sombre black dress, with the white cap circling her faded
face. She had her white handkerchief in her hand, and was carefully
arranged upon the sofa, with a chair placed near for sympathisers. At
the table, working rapidly as usual, sat Nettie. Sometimes she turned
a momentary glance of mingled curiosity and wonder upon her sister.
Evidently she did not interfere with this development of sorrow. Nettie
had enough to do, besides, with her needlework, and to enjoin a moderate
amount of quietness upon Freddy and his little sister, who were building
wooden bricks into houses and castles on the floor by her side. When the
doctor entered the room he saw how it was with instantaneous insight.
Mrs Fred was sitting in state, in the pomp of woe, to receive all the
compassionate people who might come to condole with her. Nettie, half
impatient, half glad that her sister could amuse herself so, sat in busy
toleration, putting up with it, carrying on her own work through it
all--and still, as always, those bonds of her own making closed hard and
tenacious upon the prop of the house. Even the chance of speaking with
her by herself died off into extreme distance. Young Rider, who came in
with the full conviction that anger could never more rise in his heart
against Nettie, grew pale with passion, resentment, and impatience before
he had been a minute in the room. Always the same! Not relieved out
of her bondage--closer bound and prisoned than ever! He took, with an
impatient involuntary commotion, the chair placed beside the sofa, and
sat down in it abruptly with the briefest salutations. His hopes and
anticipations all went bitterly back upon his heart. The very rustle of
Nettie's arm as she spread out that little black frock upon the table,
and put on its melancholy trimmings, exasperated afresh the man who five
minutes ago did not believe it possible that he ever could feel an
impulse of displeasure against her again.
"I cannot say that I expected to see you, Mr Edward," said Mrs Fred,
lifting her handkerchief to her eyes; "indeed, when I remember the last
time you were here, I wonder you could think of coming near us. But now
my poor dear Fred is gone, we have nobody to protect us--and of course
you don't mind how you hurt my feelings. If you had done your duty by my
poor fellow when he was living, he might never--never----"
Here Mrs Fred paused, choked by spiteful tears.
"Dr Edward, don't mind what Susan says," said Nettie. "It is very kind
of you to come after everything---- If you would only tell the people
not to take any notice, but just to let us go on as usual. They all want
to be kind, you know--they keep coming, and asking what they can do; and
you understand very well there is nothing to do," said Nettie, with a
little pride. "We are just as we were before--nothing is changed: one
does not like to be unkind, but nobody needs to do anything. We shall
get along all the same."
"So it seems, indeed," said Dr Rider, with irrepressible bitterness;
"all the same! But, indeed, I came specially to ask what my sister-in-law
meant to do," continued the doctor, bent on one last appeal. "Now that
you are left to yourself, Mrs Rider, what do you think of doing? Of
course you must have some plans about the children and your future
life?"
Mrs Fred looked up at him with momentary alarm and dismay. She did not
know what the question meant, but a certain vague terror seized her. It
seemed to imply somehow that she was now to be left to her own resources.
She gave a certain gasp of appeal to "Nettie!" and took refuge once more
in her handkerchief. The doctor was desperate--he had no mercy in him.
"Nettie! always Nettie!" cried the young man. "And is it true, Nettie--is
it all the same? Are you always to go on toiling for the miserable
comforts of other people? What is to become of us? Have you sold
yourself to this fate?"
Nettie laid down the little black frock out of her laborious hands. "You
have been up all night, Dr Edward," she said, with a certain tenderness,
looking at his agitated face; "you are tired out and sick at the heart.
I know it makes you say things you would not say; but after all, you
know, except poor Fred, whom none of you think of, everything is the
very same. I cannot make it different--nothing can make it different.
There is Susan plain enough to be seen--and there are the children.
Sometimes it has come into my mind," said Nettie, "that as I shall never
be able to afford a _very_ good education for the children, it would be
better to take them out to the colony again, where they might get on
better than here. But it is a dreadful long voyage; and we have no near
friends there, or anywhere else: and," concluded the steadfast creature,
who had dropped these last words from her lips sentence by sentence,
as if eager to impress upon her own mind the arguments against that
proceeding--"and," said Nettie, with wistful pathetic honesty, not able
to deny the real cause of the reluctance altogether, "I don't seem to
have the heart for it now."
Dr Rider started up from his chair. He went to Nettie's side with a
sudden thrill of agitation and passion. He clasped the hand with which
Nettie was smoothing out that little frock, and crushed the delicate
fingers in his inconsiderate grasp. "Nettie! if you must carry them
always upon your shoulders, cannot we do it together, at least?" cried
the doctor, carried away beyond every boundary of sense or prudence. He
got down on his knees beside the table, not kneeling to her, but only
compelling her attention--demanding to see the answer of her eyes, the
quiver of her mouth. For that moment Nettie's defences too fell before
this unlooked-for outburst of a love that had forgotten prudence. Her
mouth quivered, her eyes filled. If it were possible--if it were only
possible!---- They had both forgotten the spectators who gazed with
curious eyes, all unaware how deeply their own fate was involved; and
that fate was still trembling in the breathless interval, when a vulgar
finger touched those delicate balances of possibility, and the crisis
was over, perhaps never to return.
"Nettie!" cried Mrs Fred, "if Edward Rider has no respect for me, nor
for my poor Fred--my poor, dear, injured husband, that helped to bring
him up, and gave up his practice to him, and died, as I might say, by
his neglect--Nettie! how can you be so cruel to your sister? How can you
go taking his hand, and looking as if he were your lover? You never had
any feeling for me, though everybody thinks so much of you. And now I
know what I have to expect. The moment my poor dear Fred's head is laid
in the grave--as soon as ever you have me in your own hands, and nobody
to protect me!--oh, my Fred! my Fred!--as soon as you are gone, this is
how they are using your poor helpless family!--and soon, soon I shall
die too, and you will not be encumbered with _me_!"
Long before this sobbing speech was concluded, Dr Rider had risen to his
feet, and was pacing through the little room with hasty steps of disgust
and rage, and an agitation which overwhelmed all his attempts to master
it; while Nettie sat supporting her head in her hands, pressing her
fingers upon her hot eyes, beholding that fair impossible vision break
and disappear from before her. Nettie's heart groaned within her, and
beat against the delicate bosom which, in its tender weakness, was
mighty as a giant's. She made no answer to her sister's outcry, nor
attempted to comfort the hysterical sobbing into which Susan fell.
Nettie gave up the hopeless business without being deceived by those
selfish demonstrations. She was not even fortunate enough to be able to
persuade herself into admiring love and enthusiasm for those to whom
necessity obliged her to give up her own life. She said nothing; she
knew the sobs would subside, the end would be gained, the insignificant
soul lapse into comfort, and with a sigh of compulsory resignation
Nettie yielded once more to her fate.
"Dr Edward, do not think of me any more," she said, resolutely, rising
and going out to the door with him, in her simplicity and courage. "You
see very well it is impossible. I know you see it as well as I do. If
we could be friends as we once were, I should be very, very glad, but I
don't think it is possible just now. Don't say anything. We both know
how it is, and neither of us can help it. If we could get not to think
of each other, that would be best," said Nettie, with another sigh; "but
in the mean time let us say good-bye, and speak of it no more."
If the doctor did not take his dismissal exactly so--if Nettie's
identification of her own sentiments with his did lead to a warmer
tenderness in that farewell, which could not be final while such a
bond united them, it was at least with an absolute conviction of the
impossibility of any closer union that they parted. The doctor sprang
into his drag and dashed away to his patients, plunging into the work
which he had somewhat neglected during that exciting day. He was not
without some comfort as he went about his business with Care behind him,
but that very comfort embittered the pang of the compulsory submission.
To think he must leave her there with those burdens upon her delicate
shoulders--to believe her his, yet not his, the victim of an unnatural
bondage--drove Edward Rider desperate as he devoured the way. A hundred
times in an hour he made up his mind to hasten back again and snatch
her forcibly out of that thraldom, and yet a hundred times had to fall
back consuming his heart with fiery irritation, and chafing at all
that seemed duty and necessity to Nettie. As he was proceeding on his
troubled way it occurred to him to meet--surely everybody in Carlingford
was out of doors this particular afternoon!--that prosperous wife, Mrs
John Brown, who had once been Bessie Christian. She was a very pale
apparition now to the doctor, engrossed as he was with an influence much
more imperious and enthralling than hers had ever been; but the sight
of her, on this day of all others, was not without its effect upon
Edward Rider. Had not she too been burdened with responsibilities which
the doctor would not venture to take upon his shoulders, but which
another man, more daring, _had_ taken, and rendered bearable? As the
thought of that possibility occurred to him, a sudden vision of Mrs
Fred's faded figure flashed across his eyes. In the excitement of the
moment he touched too sharply with his whip that horse which had suffered
the penalty of most of his vagaries of temper and imagination for some
time past. The long-suffering beast was aggravated out of patience by
that unexpected irritation. It was all the doctor could do for the
next ten minutes to keep his seat and his command over the exasperated
animal, whose sudden frenzy terrified Mrs Brown, and drove her to take
refuge in the nearest shop. How little the Carlingford public, who
paused at a respectful distance to look on, guessed those emotions which
moved the doctor as they watched him subduing his rebellious horse with
vigorous arm and passionate looks! Bessie, with a little palpitation at
her heart, could not refrain from a passing wonder whether the sight of
herself had anything to do with that sudden conflict. Mrs Brown knew
little about St Roque's Cottage, but had heard of Miss Marjoribanks,
who it was not to be supposed could hold a very absolute sway over
the doctor. Meanwhile Dr Rider struggled with his horse with all the
intensity of determination with which he would have struggled against
his fate had that been practicable. With set teeth and eyes that blazed
with sudden rage and resolution, he subdued the unruly brute, and forced
it to acknowledge his mastery. When he drove the vanquished animal, all
quivering with pain and passion, on its further course, the struggle had
refreshed his mind a little. Ah, if life and adverse fortune could but
be vanquished so!--but all Edward Rider's resolution and courage died
into hopeless disgust before the recollection of Mrs Fred upon that
sofa. Even with Nettie at one hand, that peevish phantom on the other,
those heartless imps in insolent possession of the wonderful little
guardian who would not forsake them, made up a picture which made the
doctor's heart sick. No! Nettie was right. It was impossible. Love,
patience, charity, after all, are but human qualities, when they have to
be held against daily disgusts, irritations, and miseries. The doctor
knew as well as Nettie did that he could not bear it. He knew even, as
perhaps Nettie did not know, that her own image would suffer from the
association; and that a man so faulty and imperfect as himself could not
long refrain from resenting upon his wife the dismal restraints of such
a burden. With a self-disgust which was most cutting of all, Edward
Rider felt that he should descend to that injustice; and that not even
Nettie herself would be safe against the effusions of his impatience
and indignation. All through the course of this exciting episode in his
life, his own foresight and knowledge of himself had been torture to the
doctor, and had brought him, in addition to all other trials, silent
agonies of self-contempt which nobody could guess. But he could not alter
his nature. He went through his day's work very wretched and dejected,
yet with an ineffable touch of secret comfort behind all, which sometimes
would look him in the face for a moment like a passing sunbeam, yet
sometimes seemed to exasperate beyond bearing the tantalising misery of
his fate. A more agitated, disturbed, passionate, and self-consuming man
than the doctor was not in Carlingford, nor within a hundred miles; yet
it was not perfect wretchedness after all.
Nettie, on her part, went back to Mrs Fred in the parlour after she had
parted from Edward Rider, with feelings somewhat different from the
doctor's. Perhaps she too had indulged a certain pang of expectation as
to what might follow after Fred was gone, in the new world that should
be after that change; for Nettie, with all her wisdom of experience, was
still too young not to believe that circumstances did change everything
now and then, even dispositions and hearts. But before Dr Rider knew
it--before he had even wound up his courage to the pitch of asking what
was now to happen to them--the little Australian had made up her mind to
that which was inevitable. The same Susan whose ceaseless discontents
and selfish love had driven Nettie across the seas to look for Fred, was
now reposing on that sofa in her widow's cap, altogether unchanged, as
helpless and unabandonable, as dependent, as much a fool as ever. The
superior wretchedness of Fred's presence and life had partially veiled
Susan's character since they came to Carlingford. Now she had the field
to herself again, and Nettie recognised at once the familiar picture.
From the moment when Susan in her mourning came down-stairs, Nettie
acknowledged the weakness of circumstances, the pertinacity of nature.
What could she do?--she gave up the scarcely-formed germ of hope that
had begun to appear in her breast. She made up her mind silently to what
must be. No agonies of martyrdom could have made Nettie desert her post
and abandon these helpless souls. They could do nothing for themselves,
old or young of them; and who was there to do it all? she asked herself,
with that perpetual reference to necessity which was Nettie's sole process
of reasoning on the subject. Thus considered, the arguments were short
and telling, the conclusion unmistakable. Here was this visible piece
of business--four helpless creatures to be supported and provided and
thrust through life somehow--with nobody in the world but Nettie to do
it; to bring them daily bread and hourly tendance, to keep them alive,
and shelter their helplessness with refuge and protection. She drew up
her tiny Titania figure, and put back her silken flood of hair, and stood
upright to the full extent of her little stature, when she recognised
the truth. Nobody could share with her that warfare which was hard
to flesh and blood. There was nothing to be said on the subject--no
possibility of help. She was almost glad when that interview, which she
foresaw, was over, and when Edward had recognised as well as herself
the necessities of the matter. She went back again out of the little
hall where, for one moment and no more, the lights of youth and love had
flushed over Nettie, suffusing her paleness with rose-blushes. Now it
was all over. The romance was ended, the hero gone, and life had begun
anew.
"I can't say I ever liked this place," sighed Mrs Fred, when the lamp
was lit that evening, and Nettie had come down-stairs again after seeing
the children in bed. "It was always dull and dreary to me. If we hadn't
been so far out of Carlingford, things might have been very different.
My poor Fred! instead of taking care of him, all the dangers that ever
could be were put in his way."
This sentence was concluded by some weeping, of which, however, Nettie
did not take any notice. Making mourning by lamp-light is hard work, as
all poor seamstresses know. Nettie had no tears in the eyes that were
fixed intently upon the little coat which was to complete Freddy's
outfit; and she did not even look up from that urgent occupation to
deprecate Susan's tears.
"I tell you, Nettie, I never could bear this place," said Mrs Fred; "and
now, whenever I move, the dreadful thoughts that come into my mind are
enough to kill me. You always were strong from a baby, and of course it
is not to be expected that you can understand what my feelings are. And
Mrs Smith is anything but kind, or indeed civil, sometimes; and I don't
think I could live through another of these cold English winters. I am
sure I never could keep alive through another winter, now my poor Fred's
gone."
"Well?" asked Nettie, with involuntary harshness in her voice.
"I don't care for myself," sobbed Mrs Fred, "but it's dreadful to see
you so unfeeling, and to think what would become of his poor children if
anything were to happen to me. I do believe you would marry Edward Rider
if it were not for me, and go and wrong the poor children, and leave
them destitute. Nobody has the feeling for them that a mother has; but
if I live another winter in England, I know I shall die."
"You have thought of dying a great many times," said Nettie, "but it has
never come to anything. Never mind that just now. What do you want? Do
you want me to take you back to the colony all these thousands of miles,
after so many expenses as there have been already?--or what is it you
want me to do?"
"You always speak of expenses, Nettie: you are very poor-spirited, though
people think so much of you," said Susan; "and don't you think it is
natural I should wish to go home, now my poor Fred has been taken away
from me? And you confessed it would be best for the children. We know
scarcely anybody here, and the very sight of _that_ Edward that was so
cruel to my poor Fred----"
"Susan, don't be a fool," said Nettie; "you know better in your heart.
If you will tell me plainly what you want, I shall listen to you; but
if not, I will go up-stairs and put away Freddy's things. Only one thing
I may tell you at once; you may leave Carlingford if you please, but I
shall not. I cannot take you back again to have you ill all the way, and
the children threatening to fall overboard twenty times in a day. I did
it once, but I will not do it again."
"You _will_ not?" cried Susan. "Ah, I know what you mean: I know very
well what you mean. You think Edward Rider----"
Nettie rose up and faced her sister with a little gasp of resolution
which frightened Mrs Fred. "I don't intend to have anything said about
Edward Rider," said Nettie; "he has nothing to do with it one way or
another. I tell you what I told him, that I have not the heart to carry
you all back again; and I cannot afford it either; and if you want
anything more, Susan," added the peremptory creature, flashing forth
into something of her old spirit, "I shan't go--and that is surely
enough."
With which words Nettie went off like a little sprite to put away
Freddy's coat, newly completed, along with the other articles of his
wardrobe, at which she had been working all day. In that momentary
impulse of decision and self-will a few notes of a song came unawares
from Nettie's lip, as she glanced, light and rapid as a fairy, up-stairs.
She stopped a minute after with a sigh. Were Nettie's singing days over?
She had at least come at last to find her life hard, and to acknowledge
that this necessity which was laid upon her was grievous by times to
flesh and blood; but not the less for that did she arrange Freddy's
little garments daintily in the drawers, and pause, before she went
down-stairs again, to cover him up in his little bed.
Susan still sat pondering and crying over the fire. Her tears were a
great resource to Mrs Fred. They occupied her when she had nothing else
to occupy herself with; and when she cast a weeping glance up from her
handkerchief to see Nettie draw her chair again to the table, and lay
down a little pile of pinafores and tuckers which required supervision,
Susan wept still more, and said it was well to be Nettie, who never
was overcome by her feelings. Thus the evening passed dully enough.
Just then, perhaps, Nettie was not a very conversable companion. Such
interviews as that of this day linger in the heads of the interlocutors,
and perhaps produce more notable effects afterwards than at the moment.
Nettie was not thinking about it. She was simply going over it again,
finding out the tones and meanings which, in the haste and excitement of
their occurrence, did not have their full force. The fulness of detail
that lingers about such pictures, which are not half apprehended till
they have been gone over again and again, is marvellous. The pinafores
went unconsciously through Nettie's fingers. She was scarcely aware of
Susan crying by the fire. Though it had been in some degree a final and
almost hopeless parting, there was comfort behind the cloud to Nettie as
well as to the doctor. She had forgotten all about the discussion with
which the evening began before Susan spoke again.
"Richard Chatham came home with the last mail," said Susan, making a
feeble effort to renew the fight. "He sent me a letter last week, you
know. I daresay he will come to see us. Richard Chatham from Melbourne,
Nettie. I daresay he will not stay out of the colony long."
Nettie, who was lost in her own thoughts, made no reply.
"I daresay," repeated Mrs Fred, "he will be going out again in a month
or two. I do not believe he could bear this dreadful English winter any
more than I could. I daresay he'd be glad to take care of us out--if you
should change your mind about going, Nettie."
Nettie gave her sister a glance of resolution and impatience--a
swift glance upward from her work, enough to show she marked and
understood--but still did not speak.
"Richard Chatham was always very good-natured: it would be such a good
thing for us to go in the same ship--if you should happen to change your
mind about going, Nettie," said Mrs Fred, rising to retire to her room.
"I am going to bed to try to get a little sleep. Such wretched nights as
I have would kill anybody. I should not wonder if Richard Chatham came
some of these days to see us. Poor fellow! he had always a great fancy
for _our_ family; and it would be _such_ a thing for us, Nettie, if you
should change your mind about going, to go in the same ship!"
With which Parthian shot Mrs Fred made her way up-stairs and retired
from the field. Nettie woke with a startled consciousness out of her
dreams, to perceive that here was the process of iteration begun which
drives the wisest to do the will of fools. She woke up to it for a
moment, and, raising her drooping head, watched her sister make her way,
with her handkerchief in her hand, and the broad white bands of her cap
streaming over her shoulders, to the door. Susan stole a glance round
before she disappeared, to catch the startled glance of that resolute
little face, only half woke up, but wholly determined. Though Mrs Fred
dared not say another word at that moment, she disappeared full of the
conviction that her arrow had told, and that the endless persistence
with which she herself, a woman and a fool, was gifted, need only be
duly exercised to win the day. When Susan was gone, that parting arrow
did quiver for a moment in Nettie's heart; but the brave little girl
had, for that one night, a protection which her sister wist not of.
After the door closed, Nettie fell back once more into that hour of
existence which expanded and opened out the more for every new approach
which memory made to it. Sweet nature, gentle youth, and the Magician
greater than either, came round her in a potent circle and defended
Nettie. The woman was better off than the man in this hour of their
separation, yet union. He chafed at the consolation which was but
visionary; she, perhaps, in that visionary, ineffable solacement found
a happiness greater than any reality could ever give.