A MAGIC LETTER.
"Oh here you are at last then, are you?" said somebody entering the room
with a light, by the time the young lady had wept herself dry, and was
beginning to feel hungry; "what made you come here? I thought you were
gone. To me it is a surprising thing, that you have the assurance to
stay in this house."
"Oh, Jemmy, how can you be so cruel, when every bit of it was for you?"
"For me indeed! I am very much obliged. For your own temper, I should
say. Old Webber says that if she dies, there may be a verdict of
manslaughter."
"I don't care two pins, if there is; when all the world is so unjust to
me. But how is she, Jemmy? What has happened to her? What on earth is it
all about?"
"Well, I think you ought to know that best. Webber says he never heard
any one like you, in all his experience of Criminal Courts."
"Much I care what he says--the old dodderer! You should have seen him
hopping about the room, like a frog with the rheumatism. You should have
seen him stare, when the bell-rope fell. When I said the poor thing's
hands were cold, he ran and poked the fire with his spectacles. But
can't you tell me how she is? Surely I have a right to know, if I am to
be manslaughtered."
"Well," replied Dr. Fox, with that heavy professional nod which he
ridiculed in others; "she is in a very peculiar state. No one can tell
what may come of it."
"Not a fit, Jemmy? Not like dear father's; not a mild form of--no, it
seemed quite different."
"It is a different thing altogether, though proceeding probably from the
brain. An attack of what we call catalepsy. Not at all a common thing,
and quite out of my own experience, though I know of it from the books a
little. Gronow knew it, of course, at a glance. Fortunately I had sense
enough not to try any strong measures till he came. Any other young
fellow in this part of the world would have tried venesection instantly,
and it might have killed her. My treatment happened to be quite right,
from my acquaintance with principles. It is nothing less than a case of
entirely suspended animation. How long it may last, none can foretell."
"But you don't think it will kill her, Jemmy? Why my animation was
suspended ever so long, the other day----"
"That was quite a different thing--this proceeds from internal action,
overpowering emotion in a very anæmic condition; yours was simply
external concussion, operating on a rather highly charged----"
"You are very polite. My own fault in fact. Who gave me the horse to
drive about? But surely if a disordered brain like mine contrives to get
right again----"
"Christie, I wish to do you good. You have brought me into a frightful
mess, because you are so headlong. But you meant it for the best, I
know; and I must not be too hard upon you."
"What else have you been for the last five minutes? Oh, Jemmy, Jemmy, I
am so sorry! Give me a kiss, and I will forgive you."
"You are a very quick, warmhearted girl; and such have never too much
reason."
The Doctor kissed his sister, in a most magnanimous manner; and she
believed implicitly (until the next time of argument) that she had done
the injury, and her brother sweetly borne it.
"Now come, while it is hot," said he; "get your courage up, and come.
Never let a wound grow cold. Between you two there must be no ill-will;
and she is so noble."
"Oh, indeed! Who is it then? It is so good, and so elevating to be
brought into contact with those wonderfully lofty people."
"It is exactly what you want. If you can only obtain her friendship, it
will be the making of your character."
"For goodness' sake, don't lose a moment. I feel myself already growing
better, nobler, loftier."
"There is nothing in you grave, and stable, none of the stronger
elements;" said the Doctor, as he led the way along an empty passage.
"Don't you be too sure of that;" his sister answered, in a tone which he
remembered afterwards.
Lady Waldron lay on a broad and solid sofa, well-prepared for her; and
there was no sign left of life or movement in her helpless figure. She
was not at all like "recumbent marble"--which is the ghost of death
itself--neither was she stiff or straight; but simply still, and in such
a condition, that however any part of her frame might be placed, so it
would remain; submissive only to the laws of gravitation, and to no
exercise of will, if will were yet surviving. The face was as pale as
death, the eyes half open but without expression; the breathing scarcely
perceptible, and the pulse like the flutter of eider down, or gossamer
in a sheltered spot.
There was nothing ghastly, repulsive, or even greatly distressing at
first sight; for the fine, and almost perfect, face had recovered in
placid abandonment the beauty impaired by grief and passion. And yet the
dim uncertainty, the hovering between life and death, the touching
frailty of human power over-tried and vanquished, might move the
bitterest foe to tears, and waken the compassion planted in all human
hearts by heaven.
Christie was no bitter foe, but a kind impulsive generous maiden,
rushing at all hazards to defend the right, ready to bite the dust when
in the wrong, if properly convinced of it. Jemmy stepped back, and
spread forth his hand more dramatically than was needed, as much as to
say--"See what you have done! Never forget this, while you live. I leave
you to self-abasement."
The sensitive and impetuous girl required no such admonishment. She fell
on her knees, and took one cold hand, while her face turned as pale as
the one she watched. The pity of the sight became more vivid, deep, and
overpowering; and she whispered her little bedside prayer, for that was
the only one she recalled. Then she followed it up with confession.
"I know what ought to be done to me. I ought to be taken by the
neck--no, that's not right--I ought to be taken to the place of
execution, and there hanged by the neck, till I am dead, dead, dead."
All this she may have deserved, but what she got was very different.
Around her bended neck was flung no hangman's noose, but a gentle arm,
the softest and loveliest ever felt, while dark eyes glistened into her
own, and seeming to be encouraged there, came closer through a
clustering bower; and in less time than it takes to tell, two fair young
faces touched each other, and two quick but heavy hearts were throbbing
very close together.
"It is more my fault than yours," said Nicie, leading the way to another
room, when a few soft words of comfort and good-will had passed; "I am
the one who has done all this; and Dr. Gronow says so--or at least he
would, if he said what he thinks. It was the low condition caused by
long and lonely thinking, and the want of sufficient food and air, and
the sense of having no one, not even me."
"But that was her fault. She discouraged you; she showed no affection
for you; she was even very angry with you; because you dared to think
differently, because you had noble faith and trust."
"For that I deserve no credit, because I could not help it. But I might
have been kinder to her, Christie; I might have shown less pride and
temper. I might have said to myself more often--'she is sadly shattered;
and she is my mother.' It will teach me how to behave another time. For
if she does not get well, and forgive me, I shall never forgive myself.
I must have forgotten how much easier it is, to be too hard, than to be
too soft."
"Probably you never thought about it;" said Christie, who knew a great
deal about what were then called "the mental processes"--now gone into
much bigger names, but the same nut in a harder shell. "You acted
according to your sense of right; and that meant what you felt was
right; and that came round to mean--Jemmy."
Nicie, who never examined her mind--perhaps the best thing to be done
with it--was not quite satisfied with this abruptly concrete view of the
issue. "Perhaps, I did," she said and sighed; because everything felt so
cloudy.
"Whatever you did--you are a darling;" said the more experienced one.
"There is a lot of trouble before us both. Never mind, if we only stick
together. Poor Jemmy believes that he is a wonder. Between us, we will
fetch him down."
Nicie could perceive no call for that, being as yet of less practical
turn. She was of that admirable, and too rare, and yearly diminishing,
type of women, who see and feel that Heaven meant them, not to contend
with and outdo, but to comfort, purify, and ennoble that stronger,
coarser, and harder half, called men.
"I think that he wants fetching up," she said, with very graceful
timidity; "but his sister must know best, of course. Is it right to talk
of such things now?"
"Decidedly not;" Miss Fox replied. "In fact it is downright wicked. But
somehow or other, I always go astray. Whenever I am out of sorts with
myself, I take a turn at other people. But how many turns must I have at
others before I get my balance now! Did you ever see anything so sad?
But how very beautiful she is! I never noticed it this afternoon,
because I was in such a rage, I suppose. How long is she likely to
remain like this?"
"Dr. Gronow cannot say. He has known one case which lasted for a month.
But then there was no consciousness at all. He thinks that there is a
little now. But we can perceive no sign of it."
"Well, I think I did. I am almost sure I did;" Christie answered
eagerly; "when I said 'dead, dead, dead,' in that judicial manner, there
came a little gleam of light into her eyes, as if she approved of the
sentence. And again when you called me your sister, there seemed to be a
sparkle of astonishment, as if she thought you were in too much of a
hurry; and perhaps you were, my darling. Oh, what a good judge Jemmy is!
No wonder he is getting so conceited."
"If there is any consciousness at all," said Nicie, avoiding that other
subject, "this trance (if that is the English word for it) will not last
long--at least Dr. Gronow says so; and Doctor Jemmy--what a name for a
gentleman of science!--thoroughly confirms it. But Dr. Fox is so
diffident and modest, that he seems to wait for his friend's opinion;
though he must know more, being younger."
"Certainly he ought," Miss Fox replied, with a twinkle of dubious
import; "I hear a great deal of such things. No medical man is ever at
his prime, unless it is at thirty-nine years and a half. Under forty, he
can have no experience, according to the general public; and over forty
he is on the shelf, according to his own Profession. For that one year,
they ought to treble all their fees."
"That would only be fair; for they always charge too little."
"You are an innocent duck;" said Christie. "There is a spot on your
cheek that I must kiss; because it always comes, when you hear the name
of Jemmy. Abstract affection for unknown science. Oh do have a try at
Dr. Gronow. He knows fifty times as much as poor Jemmy."
"But he doesn't know how to please me," replied Nicie; "and I suppose
that ought to count for something; after all. I must go and tell him
what you thought you saw. That is his step in the passage now; and he
ordered us to watch for any symptoms of that sort. Oh what will he think
of me, for leaving Nurse alone? Good night, dear Christie; I shall come
away no more. But Binstock, our great man, is come back. He will attend
to you, and see that you don't go home starving, or by yourself."
"Positive statements suit young men," Dr. Gronow declared, as he
buttoned up his coat, about an hour afterwards; "and so does sitting up
all night. Fox, you had better act up to that. But I shall just see your
sister safe, as far as the hospitable White Post, and then I shall go
home to my supper. There is not the slightest danger now, but constant
attention is needful, in case of sudden revival. That I do not at all
expect; but you know what to do, if it happens. The third day will be
the most likely time; and then any pleasing excitement, or
attraction--but I shall be here, and see to that."
"Oh Dr. Gronow," exclaimed Miss Fox, as she fastened her cloak to go
with him; "how I wish I had been born a little sooner, to see you more
positive than you are now!"
"Miss Fox, it is a happy thing for me, that I anticipated all such
views. Young ladies, I meant of course--and not young men. Yet alas, the
young ladies are too negative."
On the third day from Lady Waldron's seizure, the postman of the name of
Walker finding not even a mushroom left to retard the mail-delivery, and
having a cold north wind at his back, brought to the house, soon after
noon, a very large letter, marked "Ship Despatch. Two shillings and
tenpence to pay," and addressed to Lady Waldron.
"It must be from dear Tom," pronounced Nicie; "we have not heard from
him since he sailed for India. There is no other person in the world,
capable of such a frightful scrawl."
"Why, this is the very thing we want," said Gronow, who was present
according to promise; "large, conspicuous, self-assertive. Let somebody
fetch me a green flower-stick."
Slitting one end of the stick, he inserted the lower edge of the letter,
and fixed it upright in the scroll-work at the bottom of the couch. Then
he drew the curtain back, and a slant of cheerful sunshine broke upon
the thick bold writing. But the figure on the couch lay still, without a
sign of interest, cold, rigid, and insensible.
"I'll keep out of sight," the Doctor whispered, "and let no one say a
word. But presently when I hold my hand up, let Miss Nicie strike a few
notes, not too rapidly, on her guitar--some well-known Spanish melody."
Gliding round the back of the couch, with a very gentle touch he raised
the unconscious lady's head, and propped it with a large firm pillow; so
that the dim half-open eyes were level with and set point-blank upon the
shining letter. Securing it so, he withdrew a little, and held up his
hand to Nicie.
She, upon a low chair further off, touched the strings of her mother's
own and in younger days much loved guitar; gently at first, like a
distant ripple; then with a strong bold swell arising into a grand
melodious strain--the March of Andalusia. All present held their breath
to watch, and saw a strange and moving sight.
The Spanish lady's eyes began to fill with soft and quivering light,
like a lake when the moon is rising; the fringe of their dark lashes
rose; a little smile played on her lips, and touched them with a living
tint; then all the brilliance of her gaze flashed forth, and fastened on
that letter. She lifted both her trembling hands, and the letter was put
into them. Her face was lit with vivid joy, and her lips pronounced--"My
son, my son!" Then wanting nothing more, she drew the precious token to
her breast, concealed it there, and sank into profound, and tranquil,
and sweet sleep.
"She will be all right, when she awakes, and then she will want a lot of
food;" said Dr. Gronow with a quiet grin, while Nicie and Chris wept
tears of joy, and Dr. Fox and the Nurse looked queer. "Mind she can't
live on her son's letter. Beef-tea, arrowroot, and port-wine, leg of
mutton gravy, and neat's foot jelly--finer than the sweetest
sweetheart's letters, let alone a boy who writes with the stump of a
cigar. Ladies and gentlemen, my job is over; what a blessing Penniloe is
gone to London! We should have had a prayer meeting every day. Miss Fox,
I think I shall call you 'Christie,' because you are so unchristian."
"You may call me anything you like--that is so long as it is something
you do like. I shall almost begin to have faith in doctors now, in spite
of poor Jemmy being one."
"Jemmy, you had better throw up the trade. Your sister understands it
best. The hardest work, and the hardest paid--however I go a
trout-fishing, ere ever the river freezes."
The wind was very cold, and everybody there shivered at the shudders he
would have to undergo, as they saw him set forth with an eager step. He
waved his hand back from a turn of the walk which reminded him of the
river, and his shoulders went up, as if he had a trout on hook.
"He is happy. Let him be," said the percipient Christie; "he won't catch
anything in fact; but the miraculous draught in fancy."
"He ought to be pitched in," replied her brother, who was put out about
something, possibly the fingering of the second fiddle; "the least that
can be done to him is to pitch him in, for trying to catch trout in
December. Pike had vowed to do it; but those fellows are gone home,
Hopper and all, just when the world was most in want of them. Christie,
you will just come back with me, to the Old Barn."
"Why does Dr. Gronow address nearly all his very excellent remarks to
me? And why does he always look at me, when he speaks?"
"Because you are so pretty, dear. And because you catch his meaning
first. They like that sort of thing;" said Nicie.
"For looks I am nowhere, with Nicie present. But he sees advanced
intelligence in me. And he comes from where they appreciate it. I shall
go back to Old Barn, just when I think right."
"We are coming to something!" cried Doctor Jemmy, who looked pleasantly,
but loftily, at all the female race--save Nicie, who was saved perhaps,
till two months after marriage--"stay, if you like, where you are
appreciated, so highly, so very highly."
Christie's face became red as a rose, for really this was too bad on his
part, and after all she had done for him, as witnessed those present.
"They like me," she said in an off-handed manner; "and I like
them--which is more than one can do to everybody. But it makes very
little difference, I am afraid, for I shall never see them any more,
unless they come to Foxden. I had made up my mind to go home, the moment
Lady Waldron was out of danger. I did not come here to please myself;
and this is all I get for it. Good-bye to fair Perlycross to-morrow!
One must not neglect one's dear father and mother, even for--even for
such a dear as Nicie."
"Well, I never knew what it was to be out of temper." There was some
truth in this assertion, though it seems a large one; for Jemmy Fox had
a remarkably sweet temper; and a man who takes stock of himself, when
short of that article, has already almost replaced it. "But how will you
go, my dear little Cayenne pepper? Will you pack up all your grandeur,
and have a coach and four?"
"Yes that I will," answered Christie quick as light, "though it won't
cost me quite as much as the one I hired, when I came post-haste to your
rescue. The name of my coach is the _Defiance_; and the Guard shall play
'Roast-beef' all the way, in honour of the coming Christmas-time. Won't
we have a fine time at Foxden, if father is in good health again?"
Jemmy wisely left her to her own devices--for she generally "took the
change out of him"--and consoled himself with soft contemplation of a
lovelier, nicer, and (so far as he knew yet) ten thousand times
sweeter-tempered girl, whose name was Nicie Waldron.
Now that sweet creature had a worry of her own, though she did not
afflict the public with it. She was dying with anxiety, all the time, to
know the contents of her brother Tom's letter, which had so enlivened
her dear mother.
It is said that the only thing the all-wise Solomon could not explain to
the Queen of Sheba, was the process of her own mind, or rather perhaps
the leaps of it, which landed her in conclusions quite correct, yet
unsupported even by the shadow of an enthymem. Miss Waldron was not so
clever as the Queen of Sheba, or even as Miss Christie Fox; yet she had
arrived at a firm conviction that the one, who was destined to solve the
sad and torturing question about her dear father, was no other than her
brother, Tom Rodrigo. She had observed that his letter bore no token of
the family bereavement, neither was that to be expected yet, although
six weeks had now elapsed since the date of their sore distress.
Envelopes was not as yet in common use, and a letter was a cumbrous and
clumsy-looking thing, one of the many reasons being that a writer was
bound by economy, and very often by courtesy as well, to fill three
great pages, before he began to double in. This naturally led to a vast
sprawl of words, for the most part containing very little; and "what
shall I say next?" was the constant enquiry of even the most loving
correspondent. Nicie knew well, that her brother was not gifted with the
pen of a ready writer, and that all his heart indited of was--"what
shall I put, to get done with it?" This increased the value of his
letters (by means of their rarity) and also their interest, according to
the canon that plenty of range should be allowed for the reader's
imagination.
But now even too much range was left, for that of the affectionate and
poetic maiden, inasmuch as her mother lay asleep for hours with this
fine communication to support her heart. There was nothing for Nicie to
do, except to go to sleep patiently on her own account, and that she did
in her own white bed, and saw a fair vision through tears of joy.
Behold, she was standing at the door, the sacred portal of Walderscourt,
gazing at trees that were full of singing birds, with her milk-white
pony cropping clover honey-sweet, and _Pixie_ teetotuming after his own
tail. All the air was blossoming with dance of butterflies, and all the
earth was laughing at the flatteries of the sun. And behold a very tall
form arose, from beyond the weeping willow, leading a form yet taller,
and looking back for fear of losing it. Then a loud voice shouted, and
it was brother Tom's--"Here he is at last! No mistake about it. I have
found the Governor--hurrah, hurrah!" The maiden sprang up with a
bounding heart, to embrace her darling father. But alas, there was
nothing, except the cold moon, and a pure virgin bosom that glistened
with tears.
When Tom's letter came to the reading at last, there was plenty of blots
in it, and brown sand, but not a blessed bit of poetry. The youth had
been at Eton, and exhausted there all the tendency of his mind towards
metre. Even now people, who ought to know better, ask why poetry will
not go down with the tall, and imaginative, and romantic public. It must
be from the absence of the spark divine among them. Nay rather because
ere they could spell, their flint was fixed for life, with the "fire"
used up by Classic hammer.
Of these things the present Sir Thomas Rodrigo Waldron had neither
thought nor heed. For him it was enough to be released; and the less he
saw of book and pen, for the rest of his natural life, the better for
the book, the pen, and him. So that on the whole he deserved much
credit, and obtained even more (from his mother) as the author of the
following fine piece of correspondence. Though all the best bits were
adapted from a book, entitled "The young man's polite letter-writer, to
his parents, sisters, sweethearts, friends, and the Minister of his
native parish, etc., etc.--also when applying for increase of wages."
"Valetta, in the Island of Malta, Mediterranean Sea, etc. November
the 5th, also Guy Fawkes' Day, A.D. 1835.
"MY BELOVED AND RESPECTED MOTHER,--I take up my pen with mingled
feelings of affection and regret. The bangs"--oh, he ought to say
"pangs," thought Nicie, as her mother read it on most gravely--"which I
have suffered, and am suffering still, arise from various sources.
Affection, because of your unceasing and unmerited parental goodness;
regret because absence in a foreign land enhances by a hundred fold the
value of all those lost endearments. I hope that you will think of me,
whenever you sit on the old bench by the door, and behold the sun
setting in the east."
"It is very beautiful," said Lady Waldron, animated by a cup of strong
beef-tea; "but Rodrigo was so hard to kiss. Very often, I have knocked
my head--but he is competent to feel it in his own head now."
"Mother, there is no bench by the door. And how can the sun set in the
east? Oh I see it was 'west,' and he has scratched it out, because of
his being in the east himself."
"That means the same thing;" replied Lady Waldron; "Inez, if you intend
to find fault with your dear brother's letter about such trifles, you
deserve to hear no more of it."
"Mother, as if it made any difference where the sun sets; so long as he
can see it!"
"He always had large thoughts," reflected his mother; "he is not of this
cold geography. Hearken how beautifully he proceeds to write--
"'But it is vain to indulge these contemplations. Thanks to your
careful tuition, and the lofty example set before me, I trust that I
shall never be found wanting in my duty to the Country that gave me
birth. Unfortunately in these foreign parts, the price of every article
is excessive; and although I am guided, as you are well aware, by the
strictest principles of economy, my remembrance of what is due to you,
and the position of a highly respected family, have in some degree
necessitated an anticipation of resources. Feeling assured of your
sympathy, and that it will assume a practical form by return of post, I
venture to state for your guidance that the house of Plumper, Wiggins,
and Golightly in this City have been advised, and have consented to
receive on my behalf a remittance of £120, which will, I trust, appear a
very reasonable sum.'"
"Mother, dear mother, let me go on," cried Nicie, as the letter dropped
from her mother's hand; "the pleasure and excitement have been too much
for you, although the style is so excellent."
"It is not the style; but my breath has been surprised, by--by the
expressions of that last sentence. The sum that I myself placed to his
credit, out of my bonds of the City of Corduba, was in addition, and
without his father's knowledge--but no doubt he will give explanation
more further down; though the writing appears now to become of a
different kind, shorter and less polished. But why is he in Malta, when
the ship sailed for Bombay? Oh I am terrified there will be some war.
The English can never stay without fighting very long. And behold his
letter seems to go into three pieces! See now, it is quite crooked,
Inez, and of less correction. Nevertheless I approve more of it so.
Listen again, child.
"'I was almost forgeting to say that we were mett before we had got very
far on our way by a Despatch Vessle bringing urgent orders for all of
the Draught to be sent to this place, which is not half so hot as the
other place would be, and much more convenient, and healthy but too
white. But it does make the money fly, and they are a jolley sett. I
have long been wanting to write home, but waited untill there was some
news to tell, and we could tell where we are going next. But we shall
have to stay here for some time, because most of our things were sent
to West Indies, and the other part went on to East India. It will all be
for the best because so strong a change of climate will be almost
certain to destroy the moths. I have bought three dogs. There is a new
sort here, very clever, and can almost speak. I hope all the dogs at
home are well. I miss the shooting very much, and there are no horses in
the Mediterranean big enough to cary me. Now I must conclude with best
love and duty to the Governor and you, and Nicie, and old nurse
Sweetland, and anybody else who inquires for
"'remaining your affectionate and dutiful Son,
"'TOM R. WALDRON.
"'P.S.--Your kind letter of Aug. 30th just come. They must be very
clever to have found us here. I am dredfully cutt up to hear dear
Governor not at all well when you wrote. Shall hope for better news
every day. There is a Greek gentleman here with a pill waranted to cure
everything yet discovered. They are as large as yellow sluggs, and just
the same shape. He will let me have 10 for my amathist studds which are
no good to me. Shall try to send them by the next ship that goes home.
Do write at once, because I never heard before of anything wrong with
dear Governor.
"'T. R. W.'"
"Poor darling!" said his mother with tears in her eyes, while Nicie was
sobbing quietly; "by this time he may be aware of it perhaps, though not
of the dreadful thing that happened since. It will not be for his
happiness that he should ever know. Remember that, Inez. He is of so
much vigour and high blood of the best Andalusian, that he would become
insane, and perhaps do himself deep injury. He would cast away his
office--what you call the Commission,--and come back to this country,
and be put in prison for not accepting quietly the sacrilegious laws."
"Mother, you have promised never to speak of that subject. If it is too
much for poor Tom, what is it likely to be for us? All we can do is to
leave it to God."
"There is not the same God in this Country as we have. If there was, He
would never endure it."