_Friday night._
|My Dear Max,
You have had your Dominical letter, as you call it, so regularly, that
you must know all our doings at Rockmount almost as well as ourselves.
If I write foolishly, and tell you all sorts of trivial things, perhaps
some of them twice over, it is just because there is nothing else
to tell. But, trivial or not, I have a feeling that you like to hear
it--you care for everything that concerns me.
So, first, in obedience to orders, I am quite well, even though my
hand-writing is "not so pretty as it used to be." Do not fancy the hand
shakes, or is nervous or uncertain. Not a bit of it. I am never nervous,
nor weak either--now. Sometimes, perhaps, being only a woman after all,
I feel things a little more keenly than I ought to feel; and then, not
being good at concealment, at least not with you, this fact peeps out
in my letters. For the home-life has its cares, and I feel very
weary sometimes--and then, I have not you to rest upon--visibly, that
is--though in my heart I do always. But I am quite well, Max, and quite
content. Do not doubt it. He who has led us through this furnace of
affliction, will lead us safely to the end.
You will be glad to hear that papa is every day less and less cold to
me--poor papa! Last Sunday, he even walked home from church with me,
talking about general subjects, like his old self, almost. Penelope
has been always good and kind.
You ask if they ever name you? No.
Life at Rockmount moves slowly, even in the midst of marriage
preparations. Penelope is getting a large store of wedding presents.
Mrs. Granton brought a beautiful one last night from her son Colin.
I was glad you had that long friendly letter from Colin Granton--glad
also that, his mother having let out the secret about you and me, he
was generous enough to tell you himself that other secret, which I never
told. Well, your guess was right; it was so. But I could not help it;
I did not know it.--For me--how could any girl, feeling as I then
did towards you, feel anything towards any other man but the merest
kindliness?--That is all: we will never say another word about it;
except that I wish you always to be specially kind to Colin, and to do
him good whenever you can--he was very good to me.
Life at Rockmount, as I said, is dull. I rise sometimes, go through the
day, and go to bed at night, wondering what I have been doing during all
these hours. And I do not always sleep soundly, though so tired. Perhaps
it is partly the idea of Penelope's going away so soon; far away, across
the sea, with no one to love her and take care of her, save Francis.
Understand, this is not with any pitying of my sister for what is a
natural and even a happy lot, which no woman need complain of; but
simply because Francis is Francis--accustomed to think only of himself,
and for himself. It may be different when he is married.
He was staying with us here a week; during which I noticed him more
closely than in his former fly-away visits. When one lives in the house
with a person--a dull house too, like ours, how wonderfully odds and
ends of character "crop out," as the geologists say. Do you remember the
weeks when you were almost continually in our house? Francis had what
we used then to call 'the Doctor's room.' He was pleasant and agreeable
enough, when it pleased him to be-so; but, for all that, I used to say
to myself, twenty times a-day, "My dear Max!"
This merely implies that by a happy dispensation of Providence, I,
Theodora Johnston, have not the least desire to appropriate my sister's
husband, or, indeed, either of my sisters' husbands.
By-the-by--in a letter from Augustus to papa, which reached me through
Penelope, he names his visit to you; I am glad--glad he should show you
such honour and affection, and that they all should see it. Do not give
up the Trehernes; go there sometimes--for my sake. There is no reason
why you should not. Papa knows it; he also knows I write to you--but
he never says a word, one way or other. We must wait--wait and hope--or
rather, trust. As you say, the difference between young and older people
is, the one hopes, the other trusts.
I seem, from your description, to have a clear idea of the gaol, and
the long, barren breezy flat amidst which it lies, with the sea in the
distance. I often sit and think of the view outside, and of the
dreary inside, where you spend so many hours; the corridors, the
exercise-yards, and the cells; also your own two rooms, which you say
are almost as silent and solitary, except when you come in and find my
letter waiting you. I wish it was me!--pardon grammar--but I wish it was
me--this living me. Would you be glad to see me? Ah, I know!
Look! I am not going to write about ourselves--it is not good for us.
We know it all; we know our hearts are nigh breaking sometimes--mine is.
But it shall not. We will live and wait.
What was I telling you about?--oh, Francis. Well, Francis spent a whole
week at Rockmount, by papa's special desire, that they might discuss
business arrangements, and that he might see a little more of his
intended son-in-law than he has done of late years. Business was soon
dispatched--papa gives none of us any money during his life-time; what
will come to us afterwards we have never thought of inquiring. Francis
did, though--which somewhat hurt Penelope--but he accounted for it
by his being so "poor." A relative phrase; why, I should think 500L.
a-year, certain, a mine of riches--and all to be spent upon himself.
But as he says, a single man has so many inevitable expenses, especially
when he lives in society, and is the nephew of Sir William Treherne, of
Treherne Court. All "circumstances'!" Poor Francis; whatever goes
wrong he is sure to put between himself and blame the shield of
"circumstances." Now, if I were a man, I would fight the world
bare-fronted, any how. One would but be killed at last.
Is it wrong of me to write to you so freely about Francis? I hope not.
All mine are yours, and yours mine; you know their faults and virtues as
well as I do, and will judge them equally, as we ought to judge those,
who, whatever they are, are permanently our own. I have tried hard, this
time, to make a real brother of Francis Charteris; and he is, for many
things, exceedingly likeable--nay loveable. I see, sometimes, clearly
enough, the strange charm which has made Penelope so fond of him all
these years. Whether, besides loving him, she can trust him--can look
on his face and feel that he would not deceive her for the world--can
believe every line he writes, and every word he utters, and know that
whatever he does, he will do simply from his sense of right, no meaner
motive interfering--oh, Max, I would give much to be certain Penelope
had this sort of love for her future husband!
Well, they have chosen their lot, and must make the best of one another.
Everybody must, you know.
Heigho! what a homily I am giving you, instead of this week's history,
as usual--from Saturday to Saturday.
The first few days there really was nothing to tell. Francis and
Penelope took walks together, paid visits, or sat in the parlour
talking--not banishing me, however, as they used to do when they were
young. On Wednesday, Francis went up to London for the day, and brought
back that important article, the wedding-ring. He tried it on at
supper-time, with a diamond keeper, which he said would be just the
thing for "the governor's lady."
"Say wife at once," grumbled I, and complained of the modern fashion of
slurring over that word, the dearest and sacredest in the language.
"Wife, then," whispered Francis, holding the ring on my sister's finger,
and kissing it.
Tears started to Penelope's eyes; in her agitation she looked almost
like a girl again, I thought; so infinitely happy. But Francis, never
happy, muttered bitterly some regret for the past, some wish that they
had been married years ago. Why were they not? It was partly his fault,
I am sure.
The day after this he left, not to return till he comes to take her away
finally. In the meanwhile, he will have enough to do, paying his adieux
to his grand friends, and his bills to his tradespeople, prior to
closing his bachelor establishment for ever and aye--how glad he must
be.
He seemed glad, as if with a sense of relief that all was settled, and
no room left for hesitation. It costs Francis such a world of trouble
to make up his own mind--which trouble Penelope will save him for the
future. He took leave of her with great tenderness, calling her "his
good, faithful girl," and vowing--which one would think was quite
unnecessary under the circumstances--to be faithful to her all the days
of his life.
That night, when she came into my room, Penelope sat a long time on my
bed talking; chiefly of old days, when she and Francis were boy and girl
together--how handsome he was, and how clever--till she seemed almost
to forget the long interval between. Well, they are both of an age--time
runs equally with each; she is at least no more altered than he.
Here, I ought to tell you something, referring to that which, as we
agreed, we are best not speaking of, even between ourselves. It is all
over and done--cover it over, and let it heal.
My dear Max, Penelope confessed a thing, for which I am very sorry, but
it cannot be helped now.
I told you they never name you here. Not usually, but she did that
night. Just as she was leaving me, she exclaimed, suddenly:--
"Dora, I have broken my promise--Francis knows about Doctor Urquhart."
"What!" I cried.
"Don't be terrified--not the whole. Merely that he wanted to marry you,
but that papa found out he had done something wrong in his youth, and so
forbade you to think of him."
I asked her, was she sure no more had escaped her? Not that I feared
much; Penelope is literally accurate, and scrupulously straight forward
in all her words and ways. But still, Francis being a little less so
than she, might have questioned her.
"So he did, and I refused point-blank to tell him, saying it would be a
breach of trust. He was very angry; jealous, I think," and she smiled,
"till I informed him that it was not my own secret--all my own secrets I
had invariably told him, as he me. At which, he said, 'Yes, of course,'
and the matter ended. Are you annoyed? Do you doubt Francis's honour?"
No. For all that, I have felt anxious, and I cannot choose but tell Max;
partly because he has a right to all my anxieties, and, also, that
he may guard against any possibility of harm. None is likely to come
though; we will not be afraid.
Augustus, in his letter, says how highly he hears you spoken of in
Liverpool already; how your duties at the gaol are the least of your
work, and that whatever you do, or wherever you go, you leave a good
influence behind you. These were his very words. I was proud, though I
knew it all before.
He says you are looking thin, as if you were overworked. Max, my Max,
take care. Give all due energy to the work you have to do, but remember
me likewise; remember what is mine. I think, perhaps, you take too
long walks between the town and the gaol, and that maybe, the prisoners
themselves get far better and more regular meals than the doctor does.
See to this, if you please, Doctor Urquhart.
Tell me more about those poor prisoners, in whom you take so strong
an interest--your spiritual as well as medical hospital. And give me a
clearer notion of your doings in the town, your practice and schemes,
your gratis patients, dispensaries, and so on. Also, Augustus said you
were employed in drawing up reports and statistics about reformatories,
and on the general question now so much discussed,--What is to be done
with our criminal classes? How busy you must be! Cannot I help you? Send
me your MSS. to copy. Give me some work to do.
Max, do you remember our talk by the pond-side, when the sun was
setting, and the hills looked so still, and soft, and blue? I was there
the other day and thought it all over. Yes, I could have been happy,
even in the solitary life we both then looked forward to, but it is
better to belong to you as I do now.
God bless you and keep you safe!
Yours,
Theodora.
P.S. I leave a blank page to fill up after
Penelope and I come home. We are going into town together early
to-morrow, to enquire about the character of the lady's maid that is to
be taken abroad, but we shall be back long before post-time. However, I
have written all this overnight to make sure.
_Sunday._
P.S. You will have missed your Sunday letter to-day, which vexes me
sore. But it is the first time you have ever looked for a letter and
"wanted" it, and I trust it will be the last. Ah! now I understand
a little of what Penelope must have felt, looking day after day for
Francis's letters, which never came; how every morning before post-time
she would go about the house as blithe as a lark, and afterwards turn
cross and disagreeable, and her face would settle into the sharp,
hard-set expression, which made her look so old even then. Poor
Penelope! if she could have trusted him the while, it might have been
otherwise--men's ways and lives are so different from women's--but it is
this love without perfect trust which has been the sting of Penelope's
existence.
I try to remember this when she makes me feel angry with her, as she did
on Saturday. It was through her fault you missed your Sunday letter.
You know I always post them myself, in the town; our village post-office
would soon set all the neighbours chattering about you and me. And
besides, it is pleasant to walk through the quiet lanes we both know
well with Max's letter in my hand, and think that it will be in his hand
to-morrow. For this I generally choose the 'time when papa rests
before dinner, with one or other of us reading to him, and Penelope has
hitherto, without saying anything, always taken my place and set me free
on a Saturday. A kindness I felt more than I expressed, many a time.
But to-day she was unkind; shut herself up in her room the instant
we returned from town; then papa called me and detained me till after
post-time.
So you lost your letter; a small thing, you will say, and this was a
foolish girl to vex herself so much about it. Especially as she can
make it longer and more interesting by details of our adventures in town
yesterday.
It was not altogether a pleasant day, for something happened about the
servant which I am sure annoyed Penelope; nay, she being over-tired and
over-exerted already, this new vexation, whatever it was, made her quite
ill for the time, though she would not allow it, and when I ventured to
question, bade me sharply, "let her alone." You know Penelope's ways,
and may have seen them reflected in me sometimes. I am afraid, Max,
that, however good we may be (of course!) we are not exactly what would
be termed "an amiable family."
We were amiable when we started, however; my sister and I went up to
town quite merrily. I am merry sometimes, in spite of all things. You
see, to have everyone that belongs to one happy and prosperous, is a
great element in one's personal content. Other people's troubles weigh
heavily, because we never know exactly how they will bear them, and
because, at best, we can only sit by and watch them suffer, so little
help being possible after all. But our own troubles we can always bear.
You will understand all I mean by "our own." I am often very, sad for
you, Max; but never afraid for you, never in doubt about you, not for an
instant. There is no sting even in my saddest' thought concerning you. I
trust you, I feel certain that whatever you do, you will do right; that
all you have to endure will be borne nobly and bravely. Thus, I may
grieve over your griefs, but never over you. My love of you, like my
faith in you, is above all grieving. Forgive this long digression;
to-day is Sunday, the best day in all the week, and my day for thinking
most of you.
To return. Penelope and I were both merry, as we started by the very
earliest train, in the soft May morning; we had so much business to
get through. _You_ can't understand it, of course, so I omit it, only
confiding to you our last crowning achievement--the dress. It is white
_moire antique_; Doctor Urquhart has not the slightest idea what that
is, but no matter; and it has lace flounces, half a yard deep, and it is
altogether a most splendid affair. But the governor's lady--I beg my own
pardon--the governor's wife, must be magnificent, you know.
It was the mantua-maker, a great West-end personage employed by the
grand family to whom, by Francis's advice, Lydia Cartwright was sent,
some years ago, (by-the-by, I met Mrs. Cartwright to-day, who asked
after you, and sent her duty, and wished you would know that she
had heard from Lydia),--this mantua-maker it was who recommended the
lady's-maid, Sarah Enfield, who had once been a workwoman of her own. We
saw the person, who seemed a decent young woman, but delicate-looking;
said her health was injured with the long hours of millinery-work, and
that she should have died, she thought, if a friend of hers, a kind
young woman, had not taken her in and helped her. She was lodging with
this friend now.
On the whole, Sarah Enfield sufficiently pleased us to make my sister
decide on engaging her, if only Francis could see her first. We sent
a message to his lodgings, and were considerably surprised to have
the answer that he was not at home, and had not been for three weeks;
indeed, he hardly ever was at home. After some annoyance, Penelope
resolved to make her decision without him.
Hardly ever at home! What a lively life Francis must lead: I wonder he
does not grow weary of it. Once, he half owned he was, but added, "that
he must float with the stream--it was too late now--he could not stop
himself." Penelope will, though.
As we drove through the Park, to the address Sarah Enfield had given
us--somewhere about Kensington--Penelope wishing to see the girl once
again and engage her--my sister observed, in answer to my remark, that
Francis must have many invitations.
"Of course he has. It shows how much he is liked and respected. It will
be the same abroad. We shall gather round us the very best society in
the island. Still, he will find it a great change from London."
I wonder, is she at all afraid of it, or suspects that he once was? that
he shrank from being thrown altogether upon his wife's society--like
the Frenchman who declined marrying a lady he had long visited because
"where should he spend his evenings?" O, me! what a heart-breaking thing
to feel that one's husband needed somewhere to spend his evenings.
We drove past Holland Park--what a bonnie place it is (as you would
say); how full the trees were of green leaves and birds. I don't
know where we went next--I hardly know anything of London, thank
goodness!--but it was a pretty, quiet neighbourhood, where we had the
greatest difficulty in finding the house we wanted, and at last had
recourse to the post-office.
The post-mistress--who was rather grim--"knew the place, that is, the
name of the party as lived there--which was all she cared to know. She
called herself Mrs. Chaytor, or Chater, or something like it," which we
decided must be Sarah Enfield's charitable friend, and accordingly drove
thither.
It was a small house, a mere cottage, set in a pleasant little garden,
through the palings of which I saw, walking about, a young woman with a
child in her arms. She had on a straw hat with a deep lace fall that hid
her face, but her figure was very graceful, and she was extremely well
dressed. Nevertheless, she looked not exactly "the lady." Also, hearing
the gate bell, she called out, "Arriet," in no lady's voice.
Penelope glanced at her, and then sharply at me.
"I wonder--" she began; but stopped--told me to remain in the carriage
while she went in, and she would fetch me if she wanted me.
But she did not. Indeed, she hardly stayed two minutes. I saw the
young woman run hastily in-doors, leaving her child--such a pretty
boy! screaming after his "mammy,"--and Penelope came back, her face the
colour of scarlet.
"What? Is it a mistake?" I asked.
"No--yes," and she gave the order to drive on.
Again I enquired if anything were the matter, and was answered,
"Nothing--nothing that I could understand." After which she sat with her
veil down, cogitating; till, all of a sudden, she sprang up as if some
one had given her a stab at her heart. I was quite terrified, but she
again told me it was nothing, and bade me "let her alone." Which as you
know, is the only thing one can do with my sister Penelope.
But at the railway-station we met some people we knew, and she was
forced to talk;--so that by the time we reached Rockmount she seemed to
have got over her annoyance, whatever it was, concerning Sarah Enfield,
and was herself again. That is, herself in one of those moods when,
whether her ailment be mental or physical, the sole chance of its
passing away is, as she says, "to leave her alone."
I do not say this is not trying--doubly so now, when, just as she is
leaving, I seem to understand my sister better and love her more than
ever I did in my life. But I have learned at last not to break my heart
over the peculiarities of those I care for; but try to bear with them as
they must with mine, of which I have no lack, goodness knows!
I saw a letter to Francis in the post-bag this morning, so I hope she
has relieved her mind by giving him the explanation which she refused
to me. It must have been some deception practised on her by this Sarah
Enfield, and Penelope never forgives the smallest deceit.
She was either too much tired or too much annoyed to appear again
yesterday, so papa and I spent the afternoon and evening alone. But she
went to church with us, as usual, to-day--looking pale and tired--the
ill mood--"the little black dog on her shoulder," as we used to call it,
not having quite vanished.
Also, I noticed an absent expression in her eyes, and her voice in the
responses was less regular than usual. Perhaps she was thinking this
would almost be her last Sunday of sitting in the old pew, and looking
up to papa's white hair, and her heart being fuller, her lips were more
silent than usual.
You will not mind my writing so much about my sister Penelope? You like
me to talk to you of what is about me, and uppermost in my thoughts,
which is herself at present. She has been very good to me, and Max loves
everyone whom I love, and everyone who loves me.
I shall have your letter to-morrow morning. Good night!
Theodora.