A CRISIS.
From the moors to the fens—from the pure keen bracing Highland air, to
the stagnating atmosphere of Lorton: what a winter that was to Mina
Ivraine, rendered none the less painful by the birth of another child—a
daughter, who was scowled on by Sir Ernest, and scarcely noticed by her
husband, and in the way of everybody, and a torment to itself, and who
had no place in any heart, save in that of its lonely, miserable mother.
She had requested it might be called Eliza (after her own mother), a
compliment the baronet’s sister imagined was paid to herself; and Mina
never undeceived her, fancying the coincidence might induce her to look
more kindly on the delicate stranger: but who can look tolerantly on an
infant born with a natural genius for screaming?—it was a nuisance to
the whole household; and often and often the young mother carried it off
to some remote chamber of the mansion, and, holding it tightly to her
heart, she alternately strove to hush its cries and wept scalding tears
over it—sometimes desiring to be quite well and strong for her
daughter’s sake, and more frequently wishing that they both could die
together and be at rest. She had a tie to existence now in the shape of
that little fragile being; but she was so extremely fragile herself that
she felt she might be taken from it at no very remote period, and then—
“Oh, my darling!” she used to cry, “who on the face of this wide cold
earth would there be to care for you?”
Sir Ernest grew furious at his daughter-in-law—he could not force her to
go; he saw she was not likely to die so soon as he once expected; he
detested her and her child; her very patient endurance of his taunts
irritated him; meeting her in unexpected places trying to lull the
infant to sleep, roused an angry vindictive feeling within his breast:
he hated her—that was the grand summing up of all his feelings; in his
very inmost soul he did hate that “beggared low-born girl, whom his son
Ernest had disgraced himself by marrying;” and, if it had not been for
the dread of offending his sister, he would have turned mother and child
out of the house, and let his son follow or not just as he pleased. But,
happily or unhappily for Mina, dread of Mrs. Close did restrain him:
for, although that lady’s feelings towards Mina were none of the
warmest, yet they were wonderfully amiable, considering her nature and
Mina’s position.
It spoke well for the latter that the two best friends she had in that
abode were women: for, if there had not been something gentle and good
about her, she could never have enlisted the sympathies of Janet, the
old housekeeper, in her favour; and, had she not been (for her
character) wonderfully improved and greatly amended in the art of
bearing, she and Mrs. Close must inevitably have come to quarrelling—for
the lady’s temper was none of the mildest, her mood none of the least
changeable. Yet Mina never flattered nor cringed down before her: she
strove to be gentle and patient, and, heaven knows, many a weary ordeal
she was forced to pass through; but she could not pretend anything she
did not feel—admiration for virtues that never had existence, fondness
for persons whom few could even have tolerated; she tried to pursue the
tenor of her rough path with a tranquil countenance and an unruffled
temper: when she was taunted she answered not; when she felt angry and
indignant she remained silent; when she was wounded she endeavoured to
hide the pain. She felt sometimes as if she could have trod undauntedly
through an army of similar torturers had she only been faithfully
assured it was to the grave she was actually journeying with her infant
in her arms.
That was a frightful winter at Lorton—the snow lay, from December till
the middle of January, a foot deep on the ground. If Cecilia had been
there she would have known something about the cold of that dreary
house, which a cheerful fire never illumined, where lights never shone,
which smiles never brightened.
“Due north,” so said the weathercock morning after morning, till even
Mrs. Close could “stand it no longer,” and fell sick on the strength of
it—sick unto death.
Though her malady was a fever, Mina nursed her through it: there was
nobody else fit to undertake the task; and, to have looked at her,
nobody would have thought she was fit either; but still we all know
delicate constitutions will bear the longest strain, and that no one
lives so long as she who is always dying. Janet said Mrs. Ivraine was
killing herself, and tried for two nights to supply her young mistress’s
place: but the housekeeper was soon forced to give up; and accordingly
Mina nursed the lady almost to the very confines of convalescence. How
she managed she herself best knew; but, between the invalid and the
child, her helpless grumbling aunt and her weak puling infant, she had
perpetual work on hand—work some might have considered sufficient for
half-a-dozen persons to discharge faithfully: yet Ernest would not be
mollified; he would not see how, for his sake, and for that of the
sordid woman who lay raving there, his young wife was once again
prostrating her strength, and striving to do more than nature ever
intended any woman should. He stayed out all day: Mina never beheld him,
excepting at meals, and frequently not then, for she passed most of her
time in the sick lady’s chamber,—either there or else walking along the
interminable corridors, striving to lull her child to rest,
endeavouring, with colourless face bent over its sharpened features, to
hush and sing it to sleep.
With all her money, with all her sins and faults, with all her power and
position, Mina did pity Mrs. Close. To see her lying on the wretched
bed, to hear her moaning and shrieking in delirium, to know she had not
one true friend in the world who cared for, or would attend to her, to
consider the indifference Sir Ernest displayed as to whether she lived
or died, or rather to perceive how eager he was for the malady to prove
mortal—there was something repugnant to every feeling of humanity about
that house, and the ways and ideas of its inhabitants. Mina’s heart grew
daily colder with dwelling in such a region, and amongst such a set of
people; it was not the chill of the winter’s snow which oppressed her
soul; it was not the icy hand of threatened sickness, of approaching
death which caused the blood to stand so still in her veins,—no! it was
the most intense disgust of this sordid existence; the vain striving to
win back a husband’s confidence; the positive certainty that he repented
marrying her; the knowledge that she was an obstacle in his path: these
things made her life a burden to her; induced her to desire that she and
her child were lying at rest, that she might be done with earth’s cares
for ever, that the little creature might never live to suffer as she had
done. Thoughts like these were her dreary companions during the long
hours she watched by the bed of the miser’s sister; she had nothing
agreeable to look forward to; nothing desirable to gaze back upon; no
pleasant certainty to support her at that trying time; and,
consequently, if she were a most gentle and conscientious nurse, she was
also a most melancholy one.
Sir Ernest frequently informed her he did not marvel at Mrs. Close’s
tedious illness and long-deferred recovery; but that he should wonder
greatly if she ever got better, so long as such a mournful,
miserable-looking attendant hovered near her. Mina bore this and many
other remarks of somewhat similar nature patiently—that is, externally
patiently; but frequently her temper was chafed and her feelings
insulted and her pride wounded, almost beyond her powers of endurance:
it was a fearful trial of health, principle, and self-control; a long
wearing probation, with no hope of an end; a night which seemed destined
never to be cheered by a morrow; a slow torture and a constant sorrow;
yet no doubt, as Miss Caldera might have said, “it did her good.” But
Mina, feeling nothing of the beneficial influence of this dreadful
mental surgical operation, derived no comfort from the idea of being
subsequently the better for it. We can all of us note defects in our
bodily constitution, but few perceive the mental disorganization. Mina
was no exception to the general rule; and, indeed, it would have been
difficult for any one, who had seen her tried day after day, to believe
she required such a training,—to say, in sincerity of heart and
earnestness of soul, “it is good for her.” Spite of all her faith, had
Miss Caldera been there, and possessed of the ability to afford her
succour, she would have snatched her from that place and permitted her
to run the risk of never being thoroughly subdued and tamed, sooner than
allow her to endure that silent martyrdom from week to week and month to
month, and so on _ad libitum_.
Mina thought her spirit was completely broken, that she had no passions
left to rouse, no energy remaining for action; but the volcano was not
yet quite extinguished; there was fire enough still in her nature to do
damage to somebody, if the match were but properly applied. She did not
know that, however; nor did any one else who resided in or about
Paradise; so Sir Ernest sneered on, and Mrs. Close got, as Mina thought,
a little better, and the snow melted partially off the ground, and
February arrived, the bitterest, dreariest, most perfectly unendurable
month in the year,—no one could possibly survive it, if it were not two
days shorter than any of its fellows. Dear reader, let us be duly
thankful for that! According to the new style of reckoning, January had
been dead and buried three whole days, when one wretched, half-raining,
half-sleeting afternoon, Mina sat by the side of Mrs. Close’s bed,
striving to keep herself warm with the help of a large plaid shawl,
which she had wrapped closely around her shivering frame: there was no
fire in the room; not even a solitary fagot burned on the hearth, to
dispel the damp fusty smell of the long unaired apartment. Her child
slept on a little couch she had made up for it close to her chair, and
Mrs. Close lay gazing, with bloodshot eyes and pallid cheek, out at the
dreary landscape, as well as the pattering rain driving against the
panes of discoloured glass in the window permitted her to see it.
Mina had not thought her so well during the course of that day; but Sir
Ernest’s sister persisted so positively in declaring she was better,
that her nurse was at length fain to believe the assertion, and so
remained there watching the expression of the lady’s face, as she looked
away out into the gathering darkness, or rather into the sort of
semi-mist that was rapidly shrouding from view all objects at a hundred
yards distance.
Almost unconsciously she began to wonder what subject it might be which
was engaging her aunt’s mind: was it money, or her health? the dread of
death, or desire of the lucre of earth? was she thinking about the
little churchyard at Lorton, wherein was situated the family vault of
the Ivraines? was she reflecting about a time when money would be of no
avail to her—of a place to which she could carry no hordes of useless
treasure—of an eternity that, sooner or later, she must encounter—of the
account she should have to render, because of talents buried in the
earth, of opportunities neglected, of gifts misused? Was she thinking of
things like these, or had her memory carried her back to other days, to
a time when she must have been a child, when she had brothers, sisters,
parents? Had she any tender recollections of those youthful days? Was
the sound of a voice, the tone of a song, the pang of a look, flitting
across her mind? Did any bright, pure, trusting face ever rise up from
the depths of the past for her to gaze upon? Did any kindly words come
back to her ear? Was there a single, soft, gentle, womanly feeling in
her nature, or had she coined all into gold? Was there a spot capable of
being touched by mortal emotions, sensible to any pain, save that caused
by the loss of a sixpence, which might be reached and gratified by any
other means than the voluntary donation of a guinea? Mina leaned her
elbow on the bolster and wondered about that woman’s thoughts; she grew
fascinated, gazing on her aunt; and Mrs. Close seemed to have become
fascinated, staring out into the twilight of that miserable February
afternoon. Thus half an hour passed away, and still no sound broke the
stillness of that cold, comfortless apartment.
“Mina,” said the miser’s sister at length, abruptly, startling Mrs.
Ivraine from her wrapt contemplation of the widow’s pinched niggardly
countenance, “Mina, I wish you would take that child of yours away now,
for it always wakens crying, and I cannot bear to hear it.”
The words fell—Mina could scarcely have told why—with the force of an
injury upon her: complaints of the powers of her infant’s lungs and the
use she made of them were no novelties in the catalogue of her “daily
trials;” but Mrs. Close’s request annoyed her greatly at this particular
time,—first, because the little apple of discord was sleeping peculiarly
tranquilly, and, secondly, because a train of musing, which had taken
her for a moment out of herself, had been rudely interrupted and put to
flight by the unfeeling remark.
“Eliza is very quiet, at present,” she ventured.
“What a fuss you make about her!” retorted the invalid pettishly; “you
study her comfort in everything, and never mine, never; but I want to be
alone: I cannot bear always to have people about me, and you must take
that child away. I won’t have my private rooms turned into a nursery:
you know I love quiet, and yet you seem determined never to let me have
a moment’s peace: I should like to be alone sometimes, I confess—yes,
indeed I should greatly.”
Without reply of any kind, Mina lifted her infant from its temporary
resting-place, so gently that its slumbers remained unbroken, then moved
sullenly towards the door.
“If I had left you alone a little time since,” she thought, “when nobody
else would come near you, you would have been lying quiet enough now in
Lorton churchyard.”
Perhaps, in all her life, Mina had never felt more tempted to utter any
sentence aloud than the above; but she refrained, and, the irritation
being but momentary, she had scarcely quitted the apartment ere she
re-entered it, to ask if there were anything Mrs. Close required before
she went.
“No!” retorted that lady, angrily; “I want nothing but to be left in
peace: don’t come near me again till tea-time; I wish to be alone for a
little to enjoy the great luxury of solitude.”
“That you shall, undisturbed by me,” muttered Mina as she stole up a
winding staircase leading to some long disused apartments, filled with
lumber and far removed from the dining-hall where Sir Ernest generally
sat. One of the smallest and most comfortable of these had long been
regarded by Mina in the light of a sort of haven of rest: no one ever
disturbed, or was disturbed by, her there; she was quite out of the way,
in a sort of alcove or recess, divided from the rest of the chamber by
boxes, chairs, an antique spinet, and some other rubbish. She might
almost have remained _perdue_ in that place, had the household been
searching for her; and in that spot, on a pile of moth-eaten carpets,
she was in the habit of sitting, holding her child tight to her heart,
crooning songs over it, and kissing the face of the little being,
incapable of returning such an amount of love, and totally unconscious
that, without such tenderness, it would cease almost instantly to
breathe. And oh! how Mina did love that fragile creature: the clutch of
the impotent fingers, the contemplation of the meaningless face, the
care of that—her second born—had a humanizing effect upon her.
“I do not know,” she often said in after days, “what would have become
of me then, had I not been a mother; I believe I should have gone mad,
or else drowned myself.”
Perhaps she would have done both; but her daughter was at once a fresh
care in life and a strong tie to it; she was something to occupy the
thoughts of that harassed mind, something around which to twine the
feelings of a bruised and bleeding heart: the only calm portions of her
existence were those she spent in that quiet apartment, singing, in a
low mournful tone, the simple old ballads she had picked up under the
shadow of Ben Lomond.
On the evening in question Mina retired to her dusty retreat in a far
from enviable frame of mind; she drew the plaid closely around her
child, and pressed it tightly to her heart, so that whatever heat dwelt
in her body might be shared by that precious charge.
There was more affection than ever in her heart, and more of bitterness;
angry resentful feelings swelled up in her bosom; tears of wounded
pride, of intense passionate attachment, started ever and anon to her
eyes.
“We are alone in this world, baby,” she murmured, “all alone; they wish
we were dead: no one on this earth cares for either of us; you are
better off than I, for I love you and you cannot yet love me; but oh!
how glad I should be just to take you to my heart thus and die: how
quiet we should be, baby darling,—they would all be free from us then;”
and she laid her cheek softly against that of the sleeping infant. She
was herself, even in her sorrow and her tenderness, more like a child
than a woman: as if she stood in need of sympathy and support, and
lacked the ability to give either. She was so slight, so youthful, so
delicate-looking, that it was hard to imagine she had passed through a
sort of eternity of suffering; it was easier to imagine her a little
girl nursing a doll than a mother taking charge of her daughter.
“A whimpering child,” was the taunt Sir Ernest perpetually threw at her;
and then, in bitterness of heart, she remembered when she had been one,
and who loved her tenderly then.
Many and many a thought coursed through her mind as she sate there,
little dreaming of the events which were advancing stealthily towards
her, almost as rapidly as a quiet footstep that came stealing up the
narrow staircase along the corridor, and finally into the very room one
portion of which she occupied.
Mina held her breath for fear: she knew by a peculiar shuffle that the
new comer must be Sir Ernest, and she feared his appearance in those
remote regions with a lighted candle in his hand boded no good to
her,—no good certainly if detected lurking amongst old rubbish in a
place where she sadly acknowledged she had no business to be, even
though that apartment did form one corner of the house of her husband’s
father.
A moment, however, served to assure her he had not come in quest of any
feminine article, whether valuable or the reverse; and, if her child
kept quiet, she saw no reason why her presence need be suspected; yet,
even whilst striving to repress the sound of her breathing, the
proverbial curiosity of her sex prompted her to look underneath the old
spinet and discover what the baronet might be doing: for a moment it
seemed to her as if he were merely grubbing for soot up the chimney; but
this idea was speedily dispelled by the sight of a box, which he
produced from some unsuspected nook, and placed, preparatory to further
operations, on the hob of a rusty grate, directly opposite Mina’s place
of confinement.
His back was towards her: so, feeling sure of escaping detection, she
leant still a little more forward, and saw him try two or three keys in
the padlock; one amongst them at length fit it: he turned it eagerly in
the wards, flung back the lid, and the light of the dim taper he carried
flashed on a golden surface: it was a treasure receptacle piled full of
guineas.
Before, however, he could touch the attractive metal—before his skeleton
fingers could possess themselves of a single coin—a shriek, such as Mina
had never before heard, echoed through the chamber, and a gaunt, wasted
figure, half undressed, sprang with one bound across the room, and,
flinging herself between Sir Ernest and the box, threw her arms around
the latter, as if to shield it from sacrilege.
“You shan’t have it!” she screamed, “you shan’t! it’s all my own, and
it’s all I have; don’t touch it—don’t come near me.”
It seemed as if the sight of the gold had roused a demon in the miser’s
soul; even in her place of concealment Mina shrunk back appalled at the
look of concentrated fury that convulsed his face as he seized his
sister and strove, by the exercise of all the force he possessed, to
drag her from the position she had so determinedly taken up: but in
vain! she appeared to be suddenly endowed with superhuman energy, and
retained her hold of that box, spite of his most violent efforts.
“You shan’t have it, you shan’t!” she still yelled forth; and the clutch
of the emaciated arms tightened, and she flung herself now resolutely
over the treasure, each time she repeated her one unvarying sentence.
“Shan’t I! we’ll see that,” ground out Sir Ernest, with clenched teeth;
and, taking her by the shoulders, he gave her a savage pull that dragged
her and the box on the floor. Shriek upon shriek echoed through the
mansion as she first flung herself at full length on the scattered
treasure, and then sprung wildly up and fastened her wasted fingers in a
vice-like grip round her brother’s throat.
“Let me go,” he gasped; “let me go, damn you, or if you don’t——”
She was squeezing him so frantically that he could not complete the
sentence; but, while kicking and striking, Mina saw him fumbling for
something, and the next moment a knife, sharp and bright, flashed
between her eyes and the light.
Before she well knew what she was doing, Mrs. Ivraine had snatched the
weapon out of his uplifted hand, and found herself standing face to face
with the infuriated man, who having, with one desperate blow, struck his
sister to the ground, turned to confront the being whom most on earth he
hated; whilst, as if to add to the confusion, the infant woke up, and
commenced a cry so prolonged and dismal that it seemed scarcely human in
its sound.
“Curse you and your squalling brat,” he burst forth; “what have you to
do here? begone instantly. By the earth I live on, I will stop that
eternal crying—I’ll make that devil of yours quit howling,” and he aimed
a blow at the helpless infant lying on its mother’s arm, which Mina
eluded by a rapid movement; and then the tempest of years broke out at
last, and the woman’s tongue was unloosed, and Ernest’s wife, reckless
and defiant, braved the wrath of her husband’s father.
“Strike my child, Sir Ernest Ivraine, if you dare! only tempt me far
enough and you will see what I can do: only touch her, only lay the
point of a finger on her, and I’ll stab you to the heart; I am roused
now, and I will tell you my whole mind. I have been wronged, insulted,
degraded, here; you have treated me like a slave; you have taunted one
as well, or better, born than yourself; you have striven to subdue and
humble the daughter of a braver officer, a better man, a truer
gentleman, than any Ivraine of your miser race ever was or ever will be.
But the proud blood of my ancestors I feel tingling now through my
veins, and I warn you not to rouse it too much; you do not know what a
Frazer can do; I advise you not to tempt me lest I show you.”
“In heaven’s name, what has happened, Mina?” here interposed Ernest,
whom the prolonged shrieks had brought hurrying from the dining-room,
and in whose heart, at the moment, dread for her safety had revived all
the tenderness of old; “what has happened,—are you hurt?”
“No! I am not hurt,—not more than I have been for years past. What has
happened? nothing! I have only been speaking truth to your father for
the first time; let me finish what I have to say——”
“Only let her speak another word, only encourage her by a look, only ask
for her to stay in the house another hour,” thundered the baronet, “and,
as there is a grave before all of us, I will cut you off, and leave you
a beggar and a pauper on the face of the earth. Don’t open your lips,
sir: I have tolerated her presence long enough; only dare to side with
your termagant wife, and you will see what the vengeance of Sir Ernest
Ivraine is,—by heaven you shall.”
Undauntedly Mina returned his furious glance; there was a settled,
despairing anger gnawing at her heart, which rendered her careless at
that moment of everything—regardless of every one. She stood there with
a flush on her cheek and a light in her eye like that which had mantled
and gleamed there in happier years; her figure was drawn up to its full
height; rage seemed to have dilated her frame; and, with one hand
clasping her child and the other raised and holding a glittering knife,
she looked the very impersonation of a woman whom injury had roused to
vengeance, and insult maddened to rage.
For an instant she remained mute, as though struggling for external
calmness; but then, spite of an imploring look from her husband, she
commenced,
“It is impossible for me now to undo entering this house: but I can
still leave it, and perhaps, though late, I had better do so.”
“I—I wish you would! I wish to God you would!” cried the old man, in a
voice of such tremulous eagerness that it calmed her and caused a
death-like chill to creep to her heart; but she had ceased to bear, and,
having begun to act, played out her part bravely, steadily to the end.
“Do you hear that, Ernest?” she said, turning to her husband.
“I do,” he answered.
“And have _you_ nothing to say?” she continued.
It was the first time since their marriage she had appealed to him for
protection; and, as she paused in vain for a response, she felt as
though her last hope, her sole stay, were departing from her. She
fastened her gaze on his troubled face for an instant, then looked at
the countenance of the miser, whose features were perfectly convulsed
with agitation and hatred: a swift pang shot through her frame, and,
prompted by she knew not what impulse, this sentence came rapidly forth:
“Ernest Ivraine, answer me one question truly: are you sorry you married
me?”
He almost wildly raised his hand with a despairing gesture above his
head and convulsively uttered the solitary word—“Very!”
The colour faded from her cheek, the light died out of her eye, the
knife dropped unheeded from her trembling fingers: the crisis had come
at length; there was no one to help her, no one to save,—the crisis had
come at length, and, as the conviction was forced on the mind of Mina
Ivraine, she caught her child more tightly in her arms, clasped her with
a passionate gesture to her heart, and then murmuring, with a sort of
suffocating sob, the exclamation, “Heaven help me!” she slowly left the
room, carrying her daughter forth with her.
A thousand contending emotions swelled up in her husband’s bosom as he
saw her do so. The old love had prompted him to interfere; the new doubt
and jealousy had chained his tongue when his heart had whispered him to
spurn money and protect his wife. Grief and tender memories bade him
follow and comfort her; prudence and anger made him stay.
“I must not offend the old man,” he muttered, silencing conscience, as
men do, by smothering her tones with specious words; and thus he let her
go away alone,—out into the corridor, down the winding staircase to her
own desolate chamber, with her own miserable thoughts—all alone!