GO BACK TO RABY.
O calm grand eyes, extinguished in a storm,
Blown out like lights o'er melancholy seas,
Though shriek'd for by the shipwrecked.
O my dark!
My Cloud,--to go before me every day,
While I go ever toward the wilderness,
I would that you could see me bare to the soul.
ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING.
"Things went on very happily for a long time after this. The church at
Sandycliffe was finished; Raby gave up his curacy, and read himself
in; and then came the day when Margaret and I heard him preach.
"Shall I ever forget that day--it was Eastertide--and all that
belonged to it? the last unclouded Sunday that was ever to rise upon
me; the tiny flower-decked church already crowded with worshipers, the
memorial window that Raby and Margaret had put in, sacred to the
memory of their father, with its glorious colors reflected on the
pavement in stains of ruby and violet; and lastly, the grave beautiful
face of the young vicar as he looked round upon his little flock for
the first time, his eyes resting for a moment as though in silent
benediction on the vicarage seat.
"Were I to tell you what I thought of that sermon, you might think my
praise partial, but there were many there, Hugh Redmond among them,
who commented afterward on the eloquence and vivid power of the
preacher. Hugh Redmond had accompanied us to church, for he and
Margaret had been engaged some months, and they were always together.
He declared that that sermon had made a deep impression on him.
"Many were affected that day by Raby's deep searching eloquence, but
none more so than a lady who sat alone under the pulpit, and who drew
down her crape veil that no one might see her tears.
"I knew her well; she was a childless widow who had lately come to
live at Sandycliffe in a pretty cottage about half a mile from the
Grange, and with whom Margaret had become very intimate--a fair
gentle-looking woman who had gone through much trouble, and who wished
to devote her life to good works; and as I looked at her now, my own
eyes misty with sympathy, did I ever imagine that the time was fast
approaching when I should wrong her with the bitterest hatred, and
even seek to lift my hand against her.
"And yet you were one of God's dear saints, Mona!
"The service over, we lingered for a moment in the shady church-yard,
Hugh and Margaret and I, until Raby should join us. He came out at
last, a little pale and tired-looking. Margaret met him, her eyes
shining like stars.
"'Oh, Raby,' she faltered, 'God has given me my heart's desire.' He
smiled, but his hand went out to the girl standing silently behind
him.
"'What does my child say?' he whispered, when the others had gone on a
little; but I had no answer ready, he was so good, so far above me.
With a sudden impulse I lifted the kind hand to my lips as though he
were a king.
* * * * *
"Raby was very zealous in his profession. There was so little to do in
Sandycliffe, but he offered himself as coadjutor to the vicar of
Pierrepoint, and as there was a large poor population there, he and
Margaret, and Mrs. Grey, his faithful helper, found plenty of scope
for their energies.
"Mrs. Grey had no ties, she was rich and lonely, and she sought relief
from her sick heart in ministering to the needs of others. Her health
was delicate, and the air of Sandycliffe suited her--she had taken a
fancy to the place; and the pretty cottage she rented was more to her
taste than her house at South Kensington.
"Margaret and she were always together, their natures were congenial
to each other, and a warm friendship grew up between them; Raby was
also much interested in the young widow. I heard him say much more
than once that she was a rare creature, and so humble in her own
estimation that one would never have guessed how cultivated and
accomplished she really was; 'her manners are so perfectly gentle,' he
went on, 'no wonder Margaret is glad to have found such a friend.'
"I began to think that she was Raby's friend too, for nothing seemed
to be done in Sandycliffe without Mrs. Grey--'our Mrs. Grey,' as Raby
called her. Scarcely a day passed without seeing her at the Grange,
and very often, as I knew, Raby called at the cottage.
"When I was with him their conversation was always about Pierrepoint,
about the workmen's club Raby had started, and the mothers' meeting
that was Mrs. Grey's hobby; she was certainly, in spite of her weak
health, a most active creature; Raby always seemed to defer to her
opinion. He told Margaret that Mrs. Grey was one of the most
clear-headed women he had ever met, that her large-minded views were
always surprising him. I used to listen in silence to all this. I
liked Mrs. Grey, but I began to be jealous of her influence; I thought
Raby was too much guided by her judgment--perhaps he was fascinated by
her sweet looks.
"'Small beginnings make large endings.' 'Behold how great a matter a
little fire kindleth.' Even in a small country place like Sandycliffe
there are busy and mischievous tongues. Presently a whisper reached my
ears that fanned the smoldering embers of discontent within me to a
scorching flame.
"Raby was a young unmarried man, and Mrs. Grey was young and
attractive. What if people declared that her heart was buried in her
husband's grave, and that she would, never marry again; they knew
young widows always said those sort of things. Perhaps the vicar would
induce her to change her mind some day. It would be such an excellent
match, they went on; they were evidently cut out for each other, both
so good; and then she was rich, it would be such a fortunate thing for
Mr. Ferrers, especially when his sister left him; and then, looking at
me, they supposed I should go to Redmond Hall with my cousin when she
married. People talked like this to us both. Margaret used to laugh as
though she were amused at the notion, and she seemed to expect me to
laugh too; then she got a little indignant, and contradicted the
report gravely. Nothing of the kind could ever happen, she said--she
wished those busybodies would leave Raby and Mona alone; Mona was her
friend, not his. But somehow I did not believe her. Fern, you look at
me reproachfully, you think I ought to have been wiser; but how could
I know; I was Raby's adopted child, his pet, but Mrs. Grey was more
his equal in age, and she was very pretty. Her fair delicate style of
beauty, and her extreme softness and gentleness might be dangerously
attractive to a man like Raby, and I feared--I distrusted her.
"Alas! in a little time I learned to look upon her as my deadliest
rival; to hear her name on his lips would send a jealous thrill
through me.
"They were always together, at least it seemed so to me; but perhaps I
was wrong. By and by I dropped all pretense of parish work; it did not
suit me, I said. Raby seemed grieved, but he was true to his word, and
did not try to influence me. Perhaps he thought I was restless and was
pining for excitement and gayety. Alas! he little knew I would wander
miles away, that I might not encounter them coming up the village
street together, or witness the frank, cordial smile with which they
parted. Mona's look, her touch, her soft vibrating voice set every
nerve on edge. I was pining with a disease for which I knew no name
and no remedy, and which was preying on my health and spirits.
"And worst of all, I was completely misunderstood. When in the unequal
struggle my appetite failed and sleep forsook me, and a sort of fever
kept me restless and irritable, and still no physical illness was at
the root, they misconstrued the symptoms and attributed my depression
to another cause. I saw in their looks that they distrusted me; they
thought my old enemy was coming back, and redoubled their gentleness
and care. Then Raby would speak tenderly to me, till every word
sounded like a caress; and Margaret would follow me from place to
place like some guardian spirit, as though she did not wish to lose
sight of me. But they never guessed the cause--how could they? for as
the weeks went on, a cold forbidding haughtiness hid their child's
suffering heart from them. I would die, I said to myself recklessly,
before they should guess my secret.
"Raby's face grew sad and then somewhat stern. I knew the old doubts
were harassing him; he feared their quiet life was irksome to my
youth, that I was fretting in secret for the gayeties and triumphs I
had renounced.
"One day we three were sitting at luncheon together; I was playing
with the food on my plate to prevent them noticing my want of
appetite, as though I could ever evade Raby's eyes, and longing to
escape from the room, for I felt more than usually miserable.
"Raby was watching me, I could see, though his conversation was
directed to Margaret. She had been talking about the new schools that
Mrs. Grey proposed building at Pierrepoint.
"'She wants to sell her house at South Kensington,' she said; 'she
never means to live there again. It is a great pity, I tell her, for
it is such a comfortable house and so beautifully furnished. But she
will have it that she feels happier in her cottage; how good she is,
Raby.'
"'Yes, indeed, hers is almost a perfect character,' he replied; 'she
is so strong and yet so womanly, so very, very gentle.'
"Something in Raby's words touched too sensitive a chord, and after a
vain attempt to control myself, I suddenly burst into hysterical
tears, and left the room. They thought it was my strange temper, but I
was only miserable that the enemy--my Philistine--was upon me, when he
was only lurking in ambush for the time when my weakness would render
me an easy prey.
"Let me go on quickly, for the remembrance of that day overpowers me.
They never came near me. Raby always treated me himself at such times,
and sometimes he would not allow Margaret to come to me; it was so
now, and yet her dear face and sympathy might have saved me. I sobbed
myself quiet, and then I lay on the couch in the morning-room, feeling
strangely ill. I was faint and sick. I had eaten nothing, and I wanted
food and wine, and to be hushed and comforted like a little child; and
no one came near me. Of course not! they thought it was a fit of the
old passion. No doubt Raby was in the village talking it over with
Mona.
"It grew toward evening--cool quiet evening, but there was no quiet in
my heart. I was burning with inward fever.
"I had had little sleep the night before, something odd and tumultuous
seemed rising in my brain; a gleam of fair hair was blinding me. He
loves fair women, I thought, and he calls me his dark-eyed Esther. Oh,
Raby, I hate her! I hate her! You shall never marry her! You shall
never call her your darling! I felt as though I should kill her first;
for, indeed, I was nearly wild with passion, they had left me too long
alone.
"Presently the door opened, and Raby came in. He looked very grave, I
thought, as he sat down beside me. His quiet glance recalled me to
myself.
"'Crystal,' he said, gently, 'have you been ill again, my dear?' They
always called the paroxysms 'illness' now, but the word displeased me.
"'Where is Margaret?' I asked, sullenly. 'I can not talk to you, Raby.
I am weak, and you do not understand. If I am ill, as you say, you
should not keep Margaret from me.'
"'She is at the schools,' he returned, soothingly, 'I left her with
Mrs. Grey--they will be here directly; but, Crystal, my darling,
before they come in I want to have a little talk with you. You are
better now, are you not? I want to tell you what I have decided to do
for my child's welfare. I am going to send her away!'
"I sprung up with an exclamation of dismay, but he put me back firmly
and quietly on the couch as though I were a child, and went on with
his speech.
"'Crystal,' he said, rather sternly, 'I claim obedience as your
guardian; I claim it legally and morally.' Never had he spoken so
severely before. 'I am doing what costs me a great sacrifice. I am
going to send you away from us for a little while for your own good;
for your own peace and happiness. Alas! I see plainly now, how we have
failed to secure either.' I tried to speak, but I could not. I crushed
my hands together as though they were in a vise, as I listened.
"'Heaven knows,' he continued, sadly, 'how I have tried to do my duty
to you, and how Margaret has tried too; how we have loved you, prayed
and cared for you, never thinking of ourselves, but only of you. What
have we done that you should hide your unhappiness from us? Why did
you not come to me and tell me frankly, and like a brave girl, that
the sacrifice I asked was too great for you to yield; that your youth
and temperament demanded a different life to mine; that the quiet and
monotony were killing you; would anything have been too hard for your
brother's love?'
"I shivered at the word. Oh, Raby, why--why did you utter it? who
never were, who never could be a brother of mine. He had never used
that word before; it bore a terrible meaning to me now.
"'I have spoken to Doctor Connor,' he went on, more quickly, 'and his
opinion coincides with mine; and so I have arranged it all with Mrs.
Grey; surely a kinder and sweeter soul never breathed, not even our
own Margaret. You are to go abroad under her care for six months;
Doctor Connor advises it. Yes, it will be hard for us, but never fear,
my darling, the time will soon pass.
"'You shall go to Switzerland and Italy, and see your father's grave,
and your beautiful Florence again. You shall see fresh sights and
breathe fresh air until this weary lassitude has left you, and you
come back to us like our old Crystal.'
"'I will not go, Raby,' I exclaimed, exasperated beyond endurance at
the very idea. 'I will never go with Mrs. Grey;' but I might as well
have spoken to a rock.
"'I am your guardian, and I tell you that you will go, Crystal,' he
returned, severely, but his sternness was only assumed to hide his
pain. 'Nay, my child,' as he saw my face, 'do not make it too hard for
me, by a resistance that will be useless. Think how the months will
fly by, and how the change will benefit you, and how good it is of our
dear Mrs. Grey to give up her peaceful home and her work just for your
sake and mine.'
"His sake! He was driving me mad. Ah, it was on me now. He might talk
or he might be silent, but this would make itself heard.
* * * * *
"Oh, Mona, lying deep in your quiet grave, where they carried you so
soon, it was not I, but the demon who possessed me!
* * * * *
"He was very white now. He took hold of my hands and held them firmly.
"'How dare you, Crystal,' he said, sternly; 'how dare you speak of a
lady, of Mrs. Grey in that way. Ah, Heavenly Father, forgive this
unhappy child, she can not know what she says.'
"I answered with a mocking laugh that seemed forced from my lips, and
then, as though my unhappy fate were sealed, Mrs. Grey entered.
"She thought that it was a hysterical attack, and came at once to
Raby's help.
"'Do not be alarmed, Mr. Ferrers,' she said, gently, 'it is only
hysteria;' and she held out a glass of cold water to him. The action
provoked me. I tore myself from Raby's grasp, dashing the glass aside.
I longed to break something. There was a bottle beside me, some
chemical acid that Hugh Redmond had carelessly left that very morning.
I snatched up the vial, for I wanted to crush it into a million atoms,
and rush from the room; but she called out in affright, 'Oh, Crystal,
don't touch it, it is--' and then she never finished.
"I saw her white hands trembling, her blue eyes dilated with horror;
and then my demon was upon me. I knew what it was, and I hurled it at
her, and Raby sprung between--he sprung between us, oh, Raby,
Raby!--and then, with a shriek that rang through my brain for months
afterward, he fell to the ground in convulsions of agony.
* * * * *
"I can not go on. I can not!
"Was not Cain's punishment greater than he could bear?
"When they came to me as I lay in my despair across the threshold of
his door, and told me that the light of those beautiful eyes was
quenched forever; that I should never meet that loving glance again,
that he was blind--blind--and that it was my hand that had done it;
then it was that in my agony I breathed the vow that I would remove
their curse from them, that I would wander forth, Cain-like, into the
great world, until my punishment was in some degree commensurate with
my sin. Fern, I have never faltered in my purpose. I have never
repented of my resolve, though their love has sought to recall me, and
I know that in their hearts they have forgiven me. I have worked, and
wept, and prayed, and my expiation has not been in vain.
"In the Crystal you know, you will hardly find a trace of the
high-spirited girl that Raby loved, nay, that he loves still. Ah, I
know it all now; how he seeks for his darling, and makes it his life
purpose to find her, and bring her back to peace. I know how even in
his intolerable anguish he prayed them to have mercy upon me, and to
spare me the awful truth. I have seen his face, that changed blind
face of his. I have ministered to him with these hands, I have heard
his dear voice, and yet I have not betrayed myself."
"Crystal," sobbed Fern, and indeed she could scarcely speak for her
tears, she was so moved by this pitiful story, "if I were you I would
go back to-morrow; how can you, how can you leave him, when he needs
you so?"
"I go back to him?" repeated the other girl, mournfully. "I who have
blighted his life and darkened his days; who have made his existence a
long night? I who have robbed him of the glory of his priesthood, and
made him what he is, a wreck of his former self?"
"Yes," was the steady answer. "I would go back to him and be his eyes,
though his goodness humbled me in the dust. Ah, Crystal, are you worse
than she out of whom the Saviour cast seven devils, and who loved much
because much had been forgiven her."
"Hush, hush! you do not know, Fern!"
"My darling, I do know," persisted Fern, gently, "and I tell you that
it is your duty to go back to Raby, who loves you so. Nay," she
continued, as a deep blush rose to Crystal's olive cheek, "he never
cared for this Mona--your own words have proved that. Go back to him,
and be the light of his eyes, and take his darkness from him, for I
see plainly that he will never leave off seeking you, and you only."