FAREWELL, MISS WARE.
I do not mean to describe the terrible scenes that followed. When death
comes attended with a scandal like this, every recollection connected
with it is torture. The gross and ghastly publicity, the merciless
prying into details, and over all the gloom of the maddest and most
mysterious of crimes! You look in vain in the shadow for the consoling
image of hope and repose; a medium is spread around that discolours and
horrifies, and the Tempter seems to haunt the house.
Then, the outrage of a public tribunal canvassing the agitations and
depressions of "the deceased" in the house which within a few days was
his own, handling the fatal pistol, discussing the wounds, the silent
records of a mental agony that happy men cannot even imagine, and that
will for life darken the secret reveries of those who loved the dead!
But as one of our proverbs, old as the days of Glastonbury, says:
"Be the day never so long,
At length cometh the even song."
Mamma is now in her crape and widow's cap; I in my deep mourning also,
laden with crape. A great many people have called to inquire, and have
left cards. A few notes, which could not be withheld, of embarrassed
condolence, have come from the more intimate, who thought themselves
obliged to make that sacrifice and exertion. Two or three were very kind
indeed. Sore does one feel at the desertions that attend a great and
sudden change of fortune. But I do not, on fairly thinking it over,
believe that there is more selfishness or less good-nature in the world
in which we were living than in that wider world which lies at a lower
social level. We are too ready to take the intimacies of pleasure or
mere convenience as meaning a great deal more than they ever fairly can
mean. They are not contracted to involve the liabilities of friendship.
If they did, they would be inconveniently few. You must not expect
people to sacrifice themselves for you merely because they think you
good company or have similar tastes. When you begin the _facilis
deccensus_, people won't walk with you very far on the way. The most you
can expect is a graceful, and sometimes a compassionate, farewell.
It was about a fortnight after poor papa's death that some law-papers
came, which, understanding as little about such matters as most young
ladies do, I sent, with mamma's approval, to Mr. Forrester, who, I
mentioned, had been poor papa's man of business in town.
Next day he called. I was with mamma in her room at the time, and the
servant came up with a little pencilled note. It said, "The papers are
important, and the matter must be looked after immediately, to prevent
unpleasantness." Mamma and I were both startled. "Business," which we
had never heard of before, now met us sternly face to face, and demanded
instant attention. The servant said that Mr. Forrester was waiting in
the drawing-room, to know whether mamma wished to see him. She asked me
to go down instead, which accordingly I did.
As I entered, he was standing looking from the window with a thoughtful
and rather disgusted countenance, as if he had something disagreeable to
tell. He came forward and spoke very kindly, and then told me that the
papers were notices to the effect that unless certain mortgages were
paid off upon a certain early day, which was named, the house and
furniture would be sold. He saw how startled I was. He looked very
kindly, and as if he pitied me.
"Has your mamma any relation, who understands business, to advise with
under her present circumstances?" he asked.
"Chellwood, I think, ought," I began.
"I know. But this will be very troublesome; and they say Lord Chellwood
is not a man of business. He'll never undertake it, I'm sure. We can
try, if you like; but I think it is merely losing time and a sheet of
paper, and he's abroad, I know, at Vichy; for I wrote to him to try to
induce him to take an assignment of this very mortgage, and he would
not, or said he could not, which means the same thing. I don't think
he'll put himself out of his way for anybody. Can you think of no one
else?"
"We have very few kinsmen," I answered; "they are too remote, and we
know too little about them, to have any chance of their taking any
trouble for us."
"But there was a family named Rokestone connected with you at Golden
Friars?"
"There is only Sir Harry Rokestone, and he is not friendly. We have
reason to know he is very much the reverse," I answered.
"I hope, Miss Ware, you won't think me impertinent, but it is right you
should ascertain, without further loss of time, how you stand. There are
expenses going on. And all I positively know is that poor Mr. Ware's
affairs are left in a very entangled state. Does your mamma know what
balance there is in the bank?"
"How much money in the bank?" I repeated. "Papa said there was fifty
pounds."
"Fifty pounds! Oh, there must be more than that," he replied, and looked
down, with a frown, upon the floor, and, with his hands in his pockets,
meditated for a minute or two.
"I don't like acting alone, if it can be helped," he began again; "but
if Mrs. Ware, your mamma, wishes it, I'll write to the different
professional men, Mr. Jarlcot at Golden Friars, and Mr. Williams at
Cardyllion, and the two solicitors in the south of England, and I'll
ascertain for her, as nearly as we can, what is left, and how everything
stands, and we must learn at the bank what balance stands to your
credit. But I think your mamma should know that she can't possibly
afford to live in the way she has been accustomed to, and it would only
be prudent and right that she should give all the servants, except two
or three whom she can't do without, notice of discharge. Is there a
will?"
"I don't know. I think not--mamma thinks not," I said.
"I don't believe there is," he added. "It's not likely, and the law
makes as good a will for him as he could have made for himself." He
thought for a minute, and then went on. "I felt a great reluctance, Miss
Ware, to talk upon these unpleasant subjects: but it would not have been
either kind or honest to be silent. You and your mamma will meet your
change of circumstances with good sense and good feeling, I am sure. A
very great change, I fear, it will be. You are not to consider me as a
professional man, tell your mamma. I am acting as a friend. I wish to do
all I can to prevent expense, and to put you in possession of the facts
as quickly and clearly as I can, and then you will know exactly the case
you have to deal with."
He took his leave, with the same air of care, thought, and suppressed
fuss which belongs to the overworked man of business.
When these people make a present of their time, they are giving us
something more than gold. I was not half grateful enough to him then.
Thought and years have enabled me to estimate his good-nature.
I was standing at the window of a back drawing-room, a rather dark room,
pondering on the kind but alarming words, at which, as at the sound of a
bell, the curtain seemed to rise for a new act in my life. These worldly
terrors were mingling a new poison in my grief. The vulgar troubles,
which are the hardest to bear, were near us. At this inopportune moment
I heard the servant announce some one, and, looking over my shoulder
quickly, I saw Mr. Carmel come in. I felt myself grow pale. I saw his
eye wander for a moment in search, I fancied, of mamma. I did not speak
or move. The mirror reflected my figure back upon myself as I turned
towards him. What did he see? Not quite the same Ethel Ware he had been
accustomed to. My mourning-dress made me look taller, thinner, and paler
than before. I could not have expected to see him; I looked, I suppose,
as I felt, excited, proud, pained, resentful.
He came near; his dark eyes looked at me inquiringly. He extended his
hand, hesitated, and said:
"I am afraid I did wrong. I ought not to have asked to see you."
"We have not seen anyone--mamma or I--except one old friend, who came a
little time ago."
My own voice sounded cold and strange in my ear; I felt angry and
contemptuous. Had I not reason? I did not give him my hand, or appear to
perceive that he had advanced his. I could see, though I did not look
direct at him, that he seemed pained.
"I thought, perhaps, that I had some claim, also, as an old friend," he
began, and paused.
"Oh! I quite forgot that," I repeated, in the same tones; "an old
friend, to be sure." I felt that I smiled bitterly.
"You look at me as if you hated me, Miss Ware," he said--"why should
you? What have I done?"
"Why do you ask me? Ask yourself. Look into your conscience. I think,
Mr. Carmel, you are the last person who should have come here."
"I won't affect to misunderstand you; you think I influenced Lady
Lorrimer," he said.
"The whole thing is coarse and odious," I said. "I hate to speak or
think of it; but, shocking as it is, I must. Lady Lorrimer had no near
relations but mamma; and she intended--she told her so in my
hearing--leaving money to her by her will. It is, I think, natural and
right that people should leave their money to those they love--their own
kindred--and not to strangers. I would not complain if Lady Lorrimer had
acted of her own thought and will in the matter. But it was far
otherwise; a lady, nervous and broken in health, was terrified, as death
approached, by people, of whom you were one, and thus constrained to
give all she possessed into the hands of strangers, to forward
theological intrigues, of which she could understand nothing. I say it
was unnatural, cruel, and rapacious. That kind lady, if she had done as
she wished, would have saved us from all our misery."
"Will you believe me, Miss Ware?" he said, in the lowest possible tones,
grasping the back of the chair, on which his hand rested, very hard, "I
never knew, heard, or suspected that Lady Lorrimer had asked or received
any advice respecting that will, which I see has been publicly
criticised in some of the papers. I never so much as heard that she had
made a will. I entreat, Miss Ware, that you will believe me."
"In matters where your Church is concerned, Mr. Carmel, I have heard
that prevarication is a merit. With respect to all that concerns poor
Lady Lorrimer, I shall never willingly hear another word from you, nor
ever speak to you again."
I turned to the window, and looked out for a minute or two, with my
fingers on the window-sash. Then I turned again rather suddenly. He was
standing on the same spot, in the same attitude, his hands clasped
together, his head lowered, his eyes fixed in a reverie on the ground,
and I thought I saw the trace of tears on his cheek.
My moving recalled him, and he instantly looked up and said:
"Let me say a word--whatever sacrifice my holy calling may impose, I
accept with gratitude to Heaven. We are not pressed into this
service--we are volunteers. The bride at the altar never took vow more
freely. We have sworn to obey, to suffer, to fight, to die. Forewarned,
and with our eyes opened, we have cast all behind us: the vanities,
hopes, and affections of mortality--according to the word of God, hating
father, mother, sister, brother; we take up the heavy cross, and follow
in the blood-stained footsteps of our Master, pressing forward; with
blind obedience and desperate stoicism, we smile at hunger, thirst, heat
and cold, sickness, perils, bonds, and death. Such soldiers, you are
right in thinking, will dare everything but treason. If I had been
commanded to withhold information from my dearest friend, to practise
any secresy, or to exert for a given object any influence, I should have
done so. All human friendship is subject with me to these inexorable
conditions. Is there any prevarication there? But with respect to Lady
Lorrimer's will, I suggested nothing, heard nothing, thought nothing."
All this seemed to me very cool. I was angry. I smiled again, and said:
"You must think all that very childish, Mr. Carmel. You tell me you are
ready to mislead me upon any subject, and you expect me to believe you
upon this."
"Of course that strikes you," he said, "and I have no answer but this: I
have no possible motive in deceiving you--all that is past, inexorable,
fixed as death itself!"
"I neither know nor care with what purpose you speak. It is clear to me,
Mr. Carmel, that with your principles, as I suppose I must call them,
you could be no one's friend, and no one but a fool could be yours. It
seems to me you are isolated from all human sympathies; toward such a
person I could feel nothing but antipathy and fear; you don't stand
before me like a fellow-creature, but like a spirit--and not a good
one."
"These principles, Miss Ware, of which you speak so severely,
Protestants, the most religious, practise with as little scruple as we,
in their warfare, in their litigation, in their diplomacy, in their
ordinary business, wherever, in fact, hostile action is suspected. If a
Laodicean community were as earnest about winning souls as they are
about winning battles, or lawsuits, or money, or elections, we should
hear very little of such weak exceptions against the inevitable strategy
of zeal and faith."
I made him no answer; perhaps I could not do so at the moment. I was
excited; his serene temper made me more so.
"I have described my obligations, Miss Ware," he said. "Your lowest view
of them can now charge me with no treachery to you. It is true I cannot
be a friend in the sense in which the world reads friendship. My first
allegiance is to Heaven; and in the greatest, as in the minutest things,
all my obedience is due to that organ of its will which Heaven has
placed above me. If all men thought more justly, such relations would
not require to be disclosed or defended; they would simply be taken for
granted--reason deduces them from the facts of our faith; we are the
creatures of one God, who has appointed one Church to be the interpreter
of his will upon earth."
"Every traitor is a sophist, sir; I have neither skill nor temper for
such discussions," I answered, proving my latter position sufficiently.
"I had no idea that you could have thought of visiting here, and I
hoped I should have been spared the pain of seeing you again. Nor should
I like to continue this conversation, because I might be tempted to say
even more pointedly what I think than I care to do. Good-bye, Mr.
Carmel, good-bye, sir," I repeated, with a quiet emphasis meant to
check, as I thought, his evident intention to speak again.
He so understood it. He paused for a moment, undecided, and then said:
"Am I to understand that you command me to come no more?"
"Certainly," I answered, coldly and angrily.
His hand was on the door, and he asked very gently, but I thought with
some little agitation:
"And that you now end our acquaintance?"
"Certainly," I repeated, in the same tone.
"Heaven has sent my share of sorrow," he said; "but no soldier of Christ
goes to his grave without many scars. I deserve my wounds and submit. It
must be long before we meet again under any circumstances; never,
perhaps, in this life."
He looked at me. He was very pale, and his large eyes were full of
kindness. He held out his hand to me silently, but I did not take it. He
sighed deeply, and placed it again on the handle of the door, and said,
very low:
"Farewell, Miss Ware--Ethel--my pupil, and may God for ever bless you!"
So the door opened, and he went.
I heard the hall door shut. That sullen sound smote my heart like a
signal telling me that my last friend was gone.
Few people who have taken an irrevocable step on impulse, even though
they have done rightly, think very clearly immediately after. My own act
for a while confounded me. I don't think that Mr. Carmel was formed by
nature for deception. I think, in my inmost soul, I believed his denial,
and was sure that he had neither act nor part in the management of Lady
Lorrimer's will. I know I felt a sort of compunction, and I experienced
that melancholy doubt as to having been quite in the right, which
sometimes follows an angry scene. In this state I returned to mamma to
tell her all that had passed.