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WEE WIFIE.
A NOVEL.
BY ROSA NOUCHETTE CAREY,
_Author of "Not Like Other Girls," "Uncle Max," Etc._
NEW YORK:
THE FEDERAL BOOK COMPANY,
PUBLISHERS.
PREFACE.
The demand for Wee Wifie has led to a reissue in a cheaper form, but
as so many years have elapsed since the story first made its
appearance, the author considered that extensive alterations would be
necessary before its republication.
It has therefore been carefully revised, and, though the characters
and the salient points of the plot have been left untouched, several
fresh chapters have been added to assist in the more thorough
development of the story.
THE AUTHOR.
WEE WIFIE.
CHAPTER I.
PROLOGUE--THE WANDERER.
Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean,
Tears from the depth of some divine despair
Rise in the heart, and gather to the eyes,
In looking on the happy Autumn fields,
And thinking of the days that are no more.
TENNYSON'S _Princess_.
Not much of a picture, certainly!
Only a stretch of wide sunny road, with a tamarisk hedge and a clump
of shadowy elms; a stray sheep nibbling in a grass ditch; and a brown
baby asleep on a bench; beyond, low broad fields of grain whitening to
harvest, and a distant film and haze--blue cloudiness, and the deep
monotonous sound of the great sea.
Yellow sunshine, green turf, the buoyancy of salt spray in the air;
some one, trailing a white gown unheeded in the sandy dust, pauses a
moment under the flickering elms to admire the scene.
She is a tall, grave woman, with serious eyes and dead-brown hair, the
shade of withered leaves in autumn, with a sad beautiful face.
It is the face of one who has suffered and been patient; who has loved
much and will love on to the end; who, from the depths of a noble,
selfless nature, looks out upon the world with mild eyes of charity; a
woman, yet a girl in years, whom one termed his pearl among women.
Just now, standing under the elms, with her straight white folds and
uncovered hair, for her sun-bonnet lay on the turf beside her, her
wistful eyes looking far away seaward, one could have compared her to
a Norman or a Druidical priestess under the shadow of the sacred oak;
there is at once something so benignant and strong, so full of pathos,
in her face and form.
Low swaying of branches, then the pattering of red and yellow rain
round the rough-hewn bench, the brown baby awakes and stretches out
its arms with a lusty cry--a suggestive human sound that effectually
breaks up the stillness; for at the same instant an urchin whittling
wood in the hedge scrambles out in haste, and a buxom-looking woman
steps from the porch of an ivy-covered lodge, wringing the soap-suds
from her white wrinkled hands.
Trifles mar tranquillity.
For a moment silence is invaded, and the dissonant sounds gather
strength; for once infant tears fail to be dried by mother smiles,
and, as if in answer to the shrill cries, flocks of snow-white geese
waddle solemnly across the grass; the boy leaves off whittling wood
and chases the yellow-bills; through the leafy avenue comes the loaded
corn-wain, the jocund wagoner with scarlet poppies in his hat, blue
corn-flowers and pink convolvuli trailing from the horses' ears; over
the fields sound the distant pealing of bells.
The girl wakes up from her musing fit with a deep sigh, and her face
becomes suddenly very pale; then she moves slowly across the road
toward a path winding through the bare harvest fields, where the
gleaners are busily at work. From under the tamarisk hedge comes the
shadow of a woman; as the white gown disappears and the lodge-keeper
carries off her wailing child, the shadow becomes substance and grows
erect into the figure of a girl.
Of a girl in shabby black, foot-sore and weary, who drags herself with
hesitating steps to the spot where the other woman's feet have rested,
and there she stoops and hurriedly gathers a few blades of grass and
presses them to her lips.
Silence once more over the landscape: the glitter of sunshine round
the empty bench; the whirling of insects in the ambient air; under the
shadowy elms a girl smiling bitterly over a few poor grasses, gathered
as we pluck them from a loved one's grave.
* * * * *
Catharine, the lodge-keeper, sat rocking her baby in the old porch
seat; through the open door one could catch glimpses of the bright
red-tiled kitchen with its wooden settle and the tortoise-shell cat
asleep on the great wicker chair; beyond, the sunny little herb-garden
with its plots of lavender, marjoram, and sweet-smelling thyme, the
last monthly roses blooming among the gooseberry bushes; a child
cliqueting up the narrow brick path with a big sun-bonnet and
burnished pail; in the corner a toy fountain gurgling over its
oyster-shell border, and a few superannuated ferns.
Catharine sat contentedly in the shady porch, on her lap lay the brown
baby with his face all puckered up with smiles; his tiny hole of a
mouth just opened ready for the small moist thumb, and his bare rosy
feet beating noiseless time to the birds; he was listening besides to
his mother's voice as she sat rocking him and talking unconsciously
aloud.
"'Heaven bless her!' she muttered, with a cloud on her pleasant face;
yes, those were her very words, as she stood like a picture under the
old trees yonder."
"'Heaven bless her and him too,'--but there was not a speck of color
in her face as she said the words, and I could see the tears in her
beautiful eyes. Oh, but you are a saint, Miss Margaret--every one
knows that; but, as I tell Martin, it is a sin and a shame to ring the
joy bells for a feckless chit that folk never set eyes on; while our
darling, Miss Margaret, is left alone in the old place."
"What about Margaret, Catharine, for Heaven's sake, what about
Margaret?" and the shadow that had come from behind the tamarisk hedge
now fell across the porch straight before the startled woman.
Catharine put down her apron from her eyes with something like a cry,
and stood up trembling.
"Good gracious! is that you, Miss Crystal? why, you come before one
like a flash of lightning on a summer's day, to make one palpitate all
over for fear of a storm."
"And about as welcome, I suppose," returned the young stranger,
bitterly, "my good Catharine, your simile is a wonderfully true one."
"I don't know naught about 'similies,' Miss Crystal, but I know you
are as welcome as the flowers in May. Come in--come in--my lamb, and
don't stand scorching your poor face in the sun; come in and I'll give
you Martin's wicker-chair by the open window, where you can smell the
sea and the fields together, and I'll fetch you a sup of Daisy's new
milk, for you look quite faint and moithered, like a lost and weary
bird, my pretty. Yes, just like a lost and weary bird."
"You are right," murmured the girl through her pale lips; then aloud,
"have your own way, for you were ever an obstinate woman, Catharine,
and fetch me a draught of Daisy's sweet milk and a crust of the old
brown loaf, and I will thank you and go; but not before you have told
me about Margaret--all that you know, and that you hope and fear,
Catharine."
"Heaven bless you, Miss Crystal, it is the same tender heart as ever,
I see. Yes, you shall hear all I know; and that's little enough, I'll
be bound." And so saying, she hustled up her dress over her linsey
petticoat, and, taking a tin dipper from the dresser, was presently
heard calling cheerfully to her milky favorite in the paddock, on her
way to the dairy.
Left to herself, the girl threw herself down--not in the wicker-chair,
where the cat lay like a furry ball simmering in the sun, but on the
old brown settle behind the door, where she could rest her head
against the wall, and see and not be seen.
She had taken off her broad-brimmed hat, and it lay on the table
beside her; and the sunlight streamed through the lattice window full
on her face.
Such a young face, and--Heaven help her--such a sad face; so beautiful
too, in spite of the lines that sorrow had evidently traced on it, and
the hard bitter curves round the mouth.
The dark dreamy eyes, the pale olive complexion, the glossy hair--in
color the sun-steeped blackness of the south--the full curled lips and
grand profile, might have befitted a Vashti; just so might the
spotless queen have carried her uncrowned head when she left the gates
of Shushan, and have trailed her garments in the dust with a mien as
proud and as despairing.
There she sat motionless, looking over the harvest-fields, while
Catharine spread a clean coarse cloth on the small oaken table beside
her, and served up a frugal meal of brown bread, honey, and milk, and
then stood watching her while the stranger eat sparingly and as if
only necessity compelled.
"There," she said at last, looking up at Catharine with a soft
pathetic smile that lent new beauty to her face; "I have done justice
to your delicious fare; now draw your chair closer, for I am starving
for news of Margaret, and 'like water to a thirsty soul is news from a
far country.' How often I say those words to myself."
"But not bad news, surely, Miss Crystal; and it is like enough you'll
think mine bad when told. Hark, it only wants the half hour to noon,
and they are man and wife now."
"Man and wife! of whom are you talking, Catharine?"
"Of whom should I be talking, dearie, but of the young master?" but
the girl interrupted her with strange vehemence.
"Catharine, you will drive me crazy with that slow soft tongue of
yours. How can Hugh Redmond be married while Margaret stands under the
elm trees alone?"
"But it is true, Miss Crystal, for all that--as sure as the blue sky
is above us--Sir Hugh Redmond weds to-day with a bonny bit child from
foreign parts that no one set eyes on, and whom he is bringing home as
mistress to the old Hall."
"I don't believe you!" exclaimed the girl, stormily; but in spite of
her words the olive complexion grew pale. "You are jesting, Catharine;
you are imposing on me some village fable--some credulous report. As I
love Margaret, I refuse to believe you."
"The time was when a word from Catharine would have contented you,
Miss Crystal," replied the woman, sorrowfully, and her honest face
grew overcast. "Do you think Miss Margaret's own foster-sister, who
was brought up with her, would deceive you now? But it is like enough
that sorrow and pride have turned your head, and the mistake of having
made the first false step beside."
"Forgive me," returned the girl, hoarsely; and she took the work
hardened hand and pressed it between both her own. "I will try to
believe you, though I can not realize it that Margaret--my
Margaret--has been jilted."
"No, nor that either, dearie. We must not blame the poor young master
beyond his deserts. He loved her true, Miss Crystal; he loved her that
true that his heart was like to break; but for all that he was forced
to give her up."
"I can not understand it," in a bewildered voice. "When I left the
dear old home that summer's day a year ago they had been engaged nine
months; yes, it was nine months, I remember, for it was on her
birthday that he asked her to be his wife, and they had loved each
other long before that. Do you think I can ever forget that time?"
"I dare say not. Anyhow, things went on well for a time; the young
master was always at the Grange, or Miss Margaret and Mr. Raby at the
Hall; and when he was away, for he was always a bit roving, he wrote
her a heap of letters; and all was as right as it could be till the
old master came home."
"Ah, true! I had forgotten Sir Wilfred."
"Ay, he had been away for more than two years in the East, working for
that fine book of his that folks talk about so much; but he was in bad
health, and he had a strange hankering to die in the old Hall. There
is an awful mystery in things, Miss Crystal; for if it had pleased
Providence to have taken the poor old master before he reached the
Hall, our dear Miss Margaret might have been happy now."
"Do you mean that Sir Wilfred objected to the match?"
"Well, I don't rightly know what happened, but Martin and me think
there is some mystery at the bottom. Folks say, who know the young
master, that he has a way of putting off things to the morrow as
should be done to-day, and either ha did not tell his father of his
engagement to Miss Margaret, or his letters went astray in those
foreign parts; but when the old master heard that Mr. Hugh had
promised to marry Miss Margaret, he made an awful scene, and swore
that no Ferrers should be mistress of Redmond Hall."
"Good Heavens! what reason could Sir Wilfred have for refusing his
consent? Margaret was beautiful, rich, and well-born. Do you mean to
say that Sir Hugh was so poor a creature as to give her up for a
whim?"
"No, no, Miss Crystal, dear, we don't understand the rights of it.
When Mr. Hugh left the old master he just rushed up to the Grange to
see Miss Margaret, and to tell her of his father's opposition; but she
had a right brave spirit of her own, and she heartened him up, and
bade him wait patiently and she would win over the old man yet. Well,
it is a sad story, and, as I told you, neither Martin nor me know what
rightly happened. Sir Wilfred came up to talk to Miss Margaret, and
then she sent for Mr. Hugh, and told him they must part, that she
would never marry him. That was before the old master had that stroke
that carried him off, but she held firm to it after his death, and
nothing that Mr. Hugh could say would move her."
"And yet, if ever woman loved man, Margaret loved Hugh Redmond."
"I know it, dearie, no one could look at her and not see that the
light had gone out of her life, and that her heart was just
breaking--how white you have gone, Miss Crystal!"
"I am so sorry for Margaret. Oh! Catharine, Catharine, if I had any
tears left I think I could shed them all for Margaret."
"Keep them for yourself, my dearie, may be they will cool the fever in
your heart, and make you see clear, and bring you back to us again."
"Hush, hush! I will not hear you. I will only talk of my poor
Margaret. She would not marry him you say."
"No, she was like a rock, not all the poor young master could say
could change her resolution. I know she told him that his father was
right to forbid their marriage, and though it was a cruel trouble to
them both, they must bear it, for it was God's will, not Sir
Wilfred's, that separated them; but he would never listen to her, and
at last he just flung away in a rage and married the other."
"The other!--whom do you mean, Catharine?"
"Well, you have heard of Colonel Mordaunt, who lived up at Wyngate
Priory, the big place, up yonder, some of the land adjoins the Hall
lands, but the house is no better than a ruin."
"Yes, I know; Colonel Mordaunt died in India."
"Well, may be you did not know that the colonel had a daughter, a bit
bonny lass, who was brought up by an aunt in the country. It seems Sir
Wilfred and the colonel had always hoped to bring about a match
between the young people, and after Sir Wilfred's death they found a
letter with the will, charging Mr. Hugh by all that was sacred not to
marry Miss Margaret, and begging him to go down to Daintree, and see
Colonel Mordaunt's beautiful young daughter. Miss Margaret told me
with tears in her eyes what a loving fatherly letter it was, and how
it prayed Mr. Hugh, to forgive him for crossing his will; but told him
at the same time that no blessing could ever follow his marriage with
Margaret Ferrers."
"No blessing? There is some mystery here, Catharine."
"That is what I say, Miss Crystal, but reason or not, the poor young
master was half-crazed with the disappointment; he was for setting
aside everything, and going on reckless-like, but Miss Margaret she
was like a rock--she could not and would not marry him; and in his
anger against her, and because he did not care what became of him, he
went down to Daintree and settled the matter with Miss Mordaunt, and
that is all I know, Miss Crystal."
"One--two--three--four," counted the girl with a bitter smile, "four
broken hearts, four mutilated lives, and the sun shines, and the birds
sing--one hungers, thirsts, sleeps, and wakes again, and a benignant
Creator suffers it; but hush! there are footsteps Catharine, hide me,
quick."
"My dearie, don't look so scared like, it is only Mr. Raby--he passed
an hour ago with the parson; but there is only wee Johnnie with him
now."
"Is he coming in? I am sure I heard him lift the latch of the gate;
you will keep your faith with me, Catharine?"
"Yes--yes, have I ever failed you; bide quiet a bit, he can not see
you. He is only standing in the porch, for a sup of milk. I'll fetch
it from the dairy, and he'll drink it and go."
"If only Johnnie were not there," murmured the girl, anxiously.
"No, no, he has sent him on most likely to the vicarage."
"My good Catharine," observed a quiet voice from the porch, "how long
am I to wait for my glass of milk?"
"I am sorry, Mr. Raby, I am indeed," answered Catharine's cheery tones
in the distance.
"Don't be sorry," returned the same voice; "waiting will do me good."
And then there was silence.
The stranger stole out and peeped through the half-opened door.
There was a tall man standing in the porch; a man so tall that the
clustering ivy round the trellis-work quite trailed about him and
touched his forehead; a man broad-shouldered and strong, but with a
stooping gait like a giant worn out with labor; he was in clerical
dress, but his soft felt hat was in his hand, and the grand powerful
head with its heavy dead-brown hair and pale face were distinctly
visible under the shadow of the ivy. He did not more at the sound of
the stealthy footstep or at the light shadow that fell across him,
though the girl crept so close that he could have touched her with his
right hand; but on Catharine's reappearance she shrunk back with a
gesture of mingled entreaty and command.
"There is the milk, Mr. Raby, and it is yellow and rich with cream to
reward your patience, sir."
"Thank you," he replied, smiling, and putting out a large white hand;
the stranger took the glass from Catharine and held it to him; he
drank it with seeming unconsciousness and with lowered eyes. "A most
delicious draught; but your hand is trembling, Catharine; are you
tired or unwell?"
"Neither, sir, thank you," replied Catharine, huskily, while the girl
drew back in evident alarm. "Ah, there is Johnnie come for you, he is
waiting at the gate; here is your stick, Mr. Raby. Don't forget your
hat, for the sun is very powerful."
"No, no," returned the clergyman, absently. "Good-morning, Catharine."
Then, as he walked down the little brick-paved path, "How strange;
Catharine's hand never felt like that; it always seemed puckered and
rough to me, but this felt soft and cold as it touched me, and shook
so that it could hardly hold the glass. Johnnie, lad, is there any one
standing in the porch with your mother?"
"No, sir, only mother."
"Strange," he muttered, "strange; I suppose it was my fancy, I am
always fancying things;" and then he sighed and put his hand on the
boy's shoulder, for Raby Ferrers was blind.