DESPAIR!
"Ah! what have eyes to do with sleep,
That seek, and vainly seek to weep?
No dew on the dark lash appears,--
The heart is all too full for tears."
L. E. L.
"The world's a room of sickness, where each heart,
Knows its own anguish and unrest,
The truest wisdom there, and noblest art,
Is his, who skills of comfort best,
Whom by the softest step and gentlest tone,
Enfeebled spirits own,
And love to raise the languid eye,
Where, like an angel's wing, they feel him fleeting by."
CHRISTIAN YEAR.
Anne sat in the solitude of her own thoughts; not alone, for her husband
was at a table near, busy with his morrow's sermon; but Anne, for once,
did not mind the silence, she had many things to think of, many things
that made her sad. First, the little dead child lying now so cold and
still; then his poor, sorrowing, heart-broken mother, whom she had
tried, but ineffectually, to comfort; and then the father, who ought to
be the one earthly stay on which the wife's heart might lean, and whose
love should wean away the sad remembrance, or soften the blow. But Anne
had found out that a great gulf lay between husband and wife, though
what had separated them baffled her utmost skill to discover.
Robert must love his wife passionately, else why had he lifted her so
tenderly in his arms, as she lay insensible when the truth of her great
loss broke upon her; why had he carried her away, and as he laid her on
her own bed, bent so lovingly over her, murmuring, as he chafed her
hands, "My poor, stricken darling. My own lost love;" and yet, when
consciousness returned, how self possessed! how altered! kind and
considerate as before, but the loving words, the loving looks were
wanting. And Amy, who had seemed so happy only a month ago, surely more
than grief for her boy had fixed that stony look on her face, and
caused those tearless, woeful eyes.
Anne's thoughts grew quite painful at last; the eternal scratch of her
husband's pen irritated her.
"Do put down your pen for a minute, Tom. I feel so miserable."
"In half a moment," he said. "There--now I am ready to listen. What was
it you said?"
"That I was miserable."
"I do not wonder at it, there has been enough to make us all feel
sorrowful."
"Yes, but it is more than the poor child's death makes me feel so."
"What else?" he asked.
"Why Amy herself, and then her husband."
"Let us pick the wife to pieces first, Anne."
"Oh! Tom, it is no scandal at all, but the plain truth. I wish it were
otherwise," she said with a sigh.
"Well, begin at the beginning, and let me judge."
"You put it all out of my head. There is no beginning," she said
crossly.
"Then the end," he replied.
"There is neither beginning nor end: you make me feel quite vexed, Tom."
"Neither beginning nor end? Then there can be nothing to tell."
"No, nothing. You had better go on with your sermon and make an end of
that."
"I have made an end of it," he said, laughing, "and now, joking aside,
Anne, what have you to say about Mrs. Vavasour?"
"If you are serious, Tom, I will tell you, but not else," she replied.
"I am serious, Anne; quite serious."
"Then tell me what is to be done with that poor bereaved Amy,--who has
not shed a single tear since her child's death, four days ago now;--or
her husband, who I verily believe worships her, and yet is as cold as a
stone, and from no want of love on her part either, for I can see
plainly by the way she follows him with her eyes sometimes, that she is
as fond of him as--as--"
"You are of me," he said.
"Nonsense, Tom. They were so happy last time we came over to see them,
that I cannot understand what has caused the change. Can you make any
guess at all so as to help me? for oh! Tom, I would give the world to
know."
"Curiosity again, Anne?"
"No, not so," she replied, "or if it is, it is in the right place this
time; as I want to help them to make up the difference, whatever it is
but do not see how I can manage it, when I am so totally in the dark.
One thing I am certain of, Amy will die unless I can bring her to shed
some tears, so as to remove that stony look."
"She has _one_ hope, _one_ consolation. Surely I need not remind my wife
to lead her heart and thoughts gradually and gently to that."
"I have tried it, tried everything; but, Tom, there is no occasion
whatever for preaching.
"Anne! Anne!"
"Yes, I know it's wrong to say so, but it is the truth notwithstanding;
I feel something else should be tried. She is too submissive under the
blow, too patient; not a murmur has escaped her lips, if there had, I
should stand a better chance of seeing tears; but as it is there is no
need of consolation. I verily believe she wants to die. And then that
Frances, I sometimes think she has had something to do with it all; you
know I always disliked that girl, and never thought she had a spark of
feeling in her, until I saw her coming away from poor Bertie's room that
sad evening, and a more woe-begone, remorseful face I never wish to see;
and then see how distracted she has been since. Isabella tells me it is
dreadful to be with her."
"Poor girl, I pity her with all my heart, she feels she has been mainly
instrumental in bringing all this misery upon Mrs. Vavasour."
"I am sure," said Anne, more to herself than her husband, "she has a
great deal more than Bertie's death to answer for; she nearly broke his
mother's and Charley's heart four years ago, and I half believe she has
had something to do with the husband's now."
"Be more charitable, Anne, and do not lay so many sins to her charge.
That last is a very grievous one."
"Well," said his wife, rising, "after all my talk, Tom, you have not
helped me one bit, I do believe I am going away more miserable than ever
to that poor Amy."
"Things do look dark indeed, Anne," said he as he kissed her, "but we
must hope in God's mercy all will be better soon; may He help you in
your work of love with the poor heart-sorrowing mother."
As Anne went out she met Frances Strickland's maid, "If you please
Ma'am, where shall I find Mr. Hall, my young mistress wishes to see
him."
"I will tell him myself," said Anne, and back she went.
"Tom! Frances Strickland wishes to see you."
"To see me!" he exclaimed. "I have promised to walk as far as the
turnpike with Linchmore. That woman from whom the child caught the fever
sent to beg he would call on her some time this morning; he named two
o'clock, and it is close upon that now. Will not Miss Strickland be
satisfied with you as my substitute?"
"I never thought of asking, and, indeed, I should not like to. She might
think I was jealous." Mr. Hall laughed outright.
"You are in such a dreadfully teasing mood this morning, Tom; I have no
patience with you! Perhaps Frances is going to clear up all this
mystery? I told you a moment ago I suspected she had had something to do
with it, and now her remorse may be greater than she can bear;
repentance may have come with her grief for poor Bertie. I only hope, if
it is so, that she is not too late to make amends."
"Then I must make my excuses to Linchmore, and give up my walk," he
said, with a sigh; "and go and hear what she has to say?"
"Yes, do, Tom, that will be so good of you. I will wait here, but do not
be long, as this is your last day with me, you know."
As soon as Mr. Hall had gone, Anne half regretted that she had not done
as he suggested, and seen Frances instead. Suppose she should try and
sow dissension in his heart? Anne's face flushed hotly at the bare idea,
then again she consoled herself with the thought that he would be sure
to come and tell her if she did, for the sake of the love he bore for
her; still Anne passed a fidgety, uncomfortable half hour ere he
returned.
Mr. Hall's face was grave; graver than Anne ever remembered to have seen
it, and she waited for him to speak first, and checked the impatient
question already on her lips.
"It is worse than I thought, Anne, much worse. Your judgment did not
lead you astray. She has separated husband and wife."
"Then she has told you all, Tom. Oh! how glad I am, not only for Amy's
sake but for her own; it would have been so dreadful for her to have
lived on upholding the falsehoods she must have told to work her ends."
"That is the worst part of the business, Anne, she has unfortunately
told the truth, and, as far as I can see, the chance of reconciling
those who ought to be heart and soul to each other is remote indeed.
Time and the wife's love--you say she does love him--may, by God's
grace, do much. I see nothing that you or I can do."
"Wretched girl! What has she told?"
"What Vavasour ought only to have heard from his wife's lips. Of her
previous love for another and of their unfortunate meeting the day of
her marriage."
"I always hoped she had told him," said Anne, clasping her hands
despairingly. "The concealment was no sin on Amy's part, only weakness.
But as for Frances, there can be no excuse for her. She has been
cruelly, shamefully unkind, and revengeful!"
"She has; there is no denying it, but all through your friend's own
fault; she nursed in her heart--which should have been as clear as day
to her husband--a secret; and that one sin has brought in the end its
own punishment, and while we blame Frances' culpable revenge, we must
blame the wife's breach of faith and disloyalty."
"Oh, Tom, what hard words!" cried Anne, "poor Amy's has not been a
guilty secret."
"No, but appearances are sadly against her, and we know nothing of what
the husband thinks; even if he does believe her guiltless, he must
naturally feel wounded at his wife's want of love and trust."
"Yes," replied Anne, sadly, "what you say is very just and true. Can
nothing then be done? Nothing at all?"
"Frances is ready to make what atonement she can for her fault; it may
help us a little, but very little, I fear. She has promised to tell
Vavasour that her own jealousy and grief at being supplanted in
another's love by his wife, determined her on being revenged; she
cannot unsay what she has said, because it is the truth; but she who
caused the breach may be allowed to plead for forgiveness for herself
and the wife she has injured. The repentance is no secret, Anne; she
desired me to tell you all, and beg you to plead for her with Mrs.
Vavasour."
"Do you think I shall plead in vain, or that she will with Mr.
Vavasour?"
"I trust not," he said, doubtfully; "the knowledge that his wife has not
intentionally sinned, but only through fear of losing his love, and the
conviction that she loves him may soften his heart."
"May; but I see you think it will be a long time first, and in the
meantime Amy will break her heart. Oh! Tom, I don't believe he can be so
cruel if he loves her; just now, too, when she is so heart broken, so
sadly bereaved. Do make Frances tell Mr. Vavasour at once."
"I intended to have done so," he replied, "but Vavasour has gone out, so
we must wait as patiently as we can until he returns. In the meantime,
Anne, I will give you something to occupy your time and thoughts. I have
promised Miss Strickland that you will ask Mrs. Vavasour's forgiveness
for her. She says it is hopeless; but that cannot be," he said, as Anne
thought, somewhat sternly; "you had better go at once and ask it; she
who has sinned herself, and knows the repentant heart's craving for
forgiveness, what hope can she have of pardon if she withholds hers from
one who has sinned against her even seventy times seven."
Anne said not a word, but with desponding heart prepared to go.
"I have only an hour to spare," said Mr. Hall. "It is now three, and at
four I must get ready to start home. I have ordered the pony-carriage at
half-past."
"I shall be with you long before that," replied Anne, as she closed the
door.
Amy sat just where Anne had left her only an hour ago; the same
hopelessly despairing, fixed, death-like look on her face, which was as
white as the shawl wrapped round her. As Anne looked, she wondered if
Frances alone had wrought the sad change, while her heart sank within
her at the apparently hopeless task her husband had imposed upon her,
and she hesitated and faltered slightly ere she went at once, as was her
wont, to the point in view. Her sister Julia would have brought the
subject gradually round to Frances, but that was not Anne's way; she
was, in fact, too impetuous, rushing headlong into a difficulty, facing
the danger, and braving it with that strong, true heart.
"My husband has been to see Frances Strickland to-day, Amy."
There was no reply; Anne hardly expected any, but Amy raised her eyes,
and looked hastily and inquiringly in her face. Anne took courage;
perhaps the very fact of Amy's knowing another held her secret might
open the floodgates of her heart.
"She hid nothing from Tom; told him all, everything, and is desperately
sorry, as well she may be, for all the misery she has caused you."
"As well she may be," repeated Amy.
"She is repentant--truly repentant, Amy."
"I know it; have known it for days past," was the cold reply.
"She begs your forgiveness most humbly."
"I know that also, and have given it."
"She says otherwise, Amy," said Anne, rather puzzled.
"I have forgiven her for my darling's loss. But for the other; if she
has dared tell you of it--of her cruelty, I never will. I have said so.
Let us talk of something else."
"No, Amy, I must talk of this--only of this. Does not the very fact of
her having owned her fault show how sincerely sorry she is. Think of
Frances, the proud Frances, sueing for forgiveness; think how miserable,
utterly miserable, she must be to stoop to that. How, almost
broken-hearted! Surely, Amy, for the sake of her prayers--all our
prayers, for the sake of the love your poor Bertie had for her, you will
forgive her."
"No. Had my boy lived he would have avenged his mother's wrongs, and
hated her, even as I do."
"Alas, Amy! You hate her. Your heart never used to be so cruel as this."
"No, it did not. She has made me what I am. Has she not pursued me with
her revengeful cruelty for years? Has she not taken my only earthly hope
from me, even my husband's love? And yet you wonder that I am
changed--can ask me to forgive her."
"No, Amy, not taken your husband's love; he loves you still."
"If he did, I should not be sitting here, broken hearted and alone, with
nothing but my own sorrowful thoughts, and--and you to comfort me."
"He will forgive you, and take you to his heart in time, Amy."
"Never! How can I convince him that I love him now? His very kindness
chills me--so different to what it was; the changed tone of his voice
tells me I have lost his love. He lives; yet is dead to me,--is mine,
yet, how far off from me; and she who has wrought me all this misery,
done all she has it in her power to do, now sues for forgiveness. Is it
possible I can forgive, or clasp her hand in mine again?" The stony look
was gradually relaxing, a slight, colour mantled her cheeks, and she
concluded, almost passionately,--"No, Anne, I will not forgive her! Will
not! Urge me no more. I cannot speak to her, much less see her again."
"And yet think of her kindness to your boy. He remembered it, and gave
her his top when he was dying."
"You are cruel to remind me of it," said Amy, taking some fresh flowers
off the table she was wreathing into a cross for Bertie; her last sad,
mournful, but loving work.
Anne drew near, and passed her arm lovingly round her waist.
"This," said she, touching the cross, "is the emblem of your faith; and
what does it not teach? It tells you that He who died on it to save us
miserable sinners forgave even his murderers. 'Forgive them, Father, for
they know not what they do.' Not only forgave them, but excused their
faults, and interceded for them. Amy, if this is your belief, if you
indeed take Him as your model, then forgive, even as he forgave; if not,
never dare to lay this sweet white cross on your dead child's breast;
would he not now, a pure and immortal spirit, sorrow at his mother's
want of faith, and hardness of heart."
Amy's head drooped; every particle of angry colour fled from her face,
while the hard, unforgiving look gradually died away as Anne went on.
"Spare me, Anne! Spare me!" she said.
"No, Amy dear, I must not, although it is as cruel to me to speak to you
so harshly as it is for you to listen, and believe me when I say that
your child, your little Bertie, was never further off from you than
now, when you forgive not another her trespasses, even as you hope your
own will be forgiven. Oh, Amy! think--can you kneel night and morning,
and repeat that one sentence in your prayers, knowing how utterly you
reject it? Can you press a last loving kiss on your child's pure lips,
knowing how you are hugging one darling sin at your heart? Amy, Amy!
listen to my warning voice, and forgive even as you hope to be
forgiven," and Anne bent forward and lovingly kissed her forehead.
The spell was broken: as Anne gently withdrew her lips, tears welled up
from the poor overcharged heart, and Amy wept,--wept an agony of tears.
"Oh, Anne!" she said presently, "Stop! stop! You will crush my heart. I
_will_ forgive her, for the sake of my boy, my darling Bertie."
"God bless you, dear Amy," replied Anne, delighted at not only having
gained her wish, but at the sight of the tears she was shedding. "These
tears will do you good. My heart has ached to see, day after day, your
cold, calm, listless face."
Anne could have cried herself for very joy, to think how nicely things
were coming round; as for Robert Vavasour, of course, with Frances to
plead for forgiveness, and his wife to throw her arms round his neck,
and vow she loved him better than all the world beside, his stubborn
heart must give in; so Anne sat quite contented and happy by Amy's side,
and let her weep on. Then, as her watch told her the hour for her
husband's departure drew near, she soothed and comforted Amy's weak,
quivering heart, as well as she was able, and went--for Amy would go at
once--as far as Frances Strickland's room door with her, then flew,
rather than walked, to her own. Mr. Hall, carpet-bag in hand, was just
coming out, and nearly ran over her as she burst open the door.
"Is it you, Anne?" he said, as he staggered back, "I thought, at least,
it was a cannon ball coming."
"It's only my head," she said, laughing, "I was in such a hurry. I felt
I should be too late. I ought to have packed up your things before I
went to Amy."
"Ought is a very fine word, but it is generally a late one."
"I am so sorry," said Anne in a repentant voice.
"My next wife shall never say she is sorry," he said smiling.
"What a hardened wretch she will be!"
"Not so," he replied, "she shall be the most gentle, submissive creature
in the world; everything shall be in its right place, and there shall be
a right time for everything."
"Yes, Tom, I know I do try you dreadfully; but, all the same, you will
never get another little wife to love you better than I do."
"True, Anne," he said, "or one that I could ever love as I love you."
"And now, Tom, do put down that horrid carpet-bag, I hate to feel you
are going to leave me here even for a few days all by myself; and for
the first time too. I can't think what I shall do without you."
"But it is more than half-past four," he replied.
"But not railway time, only the poor old pony's, and I am sure he will
not mind waiting just to oblige his mistress."
Mr. Hall sat down, and placed her by his side. "And now, Anne," he said,
"tell me what success you have had with Mrs. Vavasour? but do not make a
long story of it, as I really must be away in another ten minutes."
"I had a hard matter to persuade her, Tom, but I managed it at last, and
she is with Frances now. I feel so happy, because I am sure all will be
right; poor Amy! how she did cry."
"She cried at last, then?"
"Heartily; and I know it will do her a world of good; she looked far
happier when I left her than she has done for days."
"And now, Anne, I really must go and see after the pony, and settle the
carpet bag, but I will come back once more, and say good-bye."
Ten minutes, twenty, slipped by, and Anne began to fear her husband had
forgotten his promise; she wondered at his delay, and looked round to
see if he had forgotten anything. His sermon, blotting book, small
ink-bottle, all had gone. She turned to the chest of drawers and was
ransacking them hurriedly, when she heard him come back.
"Why, Tom," she said, without turning round, "Here are all your
handkerchiefs, every one of them! Don't talk of my carelessness after
this," and she laughingly held them up as a trophy.
But her husband's face was white, so very white, that Anne's heart
turned sick, and almost stopped beating.
With a faint cry she crept up to him, and with a timid, frightened look,
gazed into his face.
"What is it?" she whispered, "are you ill? Oh! tell me! Tell me!"
"No, no. It's worse, Anne, worse," he murmured hoarsely.
"Oh! for God's sake tell me, Tom! or I shall die."
"It is Vavasour," he said, as he took her in his arms and held her to
his heart. "Forgive me for having frightened you so, Anne. But Vavasour
has been shot."
"Thank God you are well?" said Anne, bursting into tears, "But, oh, Amy!
my poor darling Amy!"