as she said it, as well as from a singular rapture or ecstasy which
pervaded her elbows, as if she were embracing herself, that ‘one,’ in its
most favourable interpretation, meant a chaste salute. Indeed the Doctor
himself seemed alarmed, for the moment; but quickly regained his
composure, as Clemency, having had recourse to both her pockets—beginning
with the right one, going away to the wrong one, and afterwards coming
back to the right one again—produced a letter from the Post-office.
‘Britain was riding by on a errand,’ she chuckled, handing it to the
Doctor, ‘and see the mail come in, and waited for it. There’s A. H. in
the corner. Mr. Alfred’s on his journey home, I bet. We shall have a
wedding in the house—there was two spoons in my saucer this morning. Oh
Luck, how slow he opens it!’
All this she delivered, by way of soliloquy, gradually rising higher and
higher on tiptoe, in her impatience to hear the news, and making a
corkscrew of her apron, and a bottle of her mouth. At last, arriving at
a climax of suspense, and seeing the Doctor still engaged in the perusal
of the letter, she came down flat upon the soles of her feet again, and
cast her apron, as a veil, over her head, in a mute despair, and
inability to bear it any longer.
‘Here! Girls!’ cried the Doctor. ‘I can’t help it: I never could keep a
secret in my life. There are not many secrets, indeed, worth being kept
in such a—well! never mind that. Alfred’s coming home, my dears,
directly.’
‘Directly!’ exclaimed Marion.
‘What! The story-book is soon forgotten!’ said the Doctor, pinching her
cheek. ‘I thought the news would dry those tears. Yes. “Let it be a
surprise,” he says, here. But I can’t let it be a surprise. He must
have a welcome.’
‘Directly!’ repeated Marion.
‘Why, perhaps not what your impatience calls “directly,”’ returned the
doctor; ‘but pretty soon too. Let us see. Let us see. To-day is
Thursday, is it not? Then he promises to be here, this day month.’
‘This day month!’ repeated Marion, softly.
‘A gay day and a holiday for us,’ said the cheerful voice of her sister
Grace, kissing her in congratulation. ‘Long looked forward to, dearest,
and come at last.’
She answered with a smile; a mournful smile, but full of sisterly
affection. As she looked in her sister’s face, and listened to the quiet
music of her voice, picturing the happiness of this return, her own face
glowed with hope and joy.
And with a something else; a something shining more and more through all
the rest of its expression; for which I have no name. It was not
exultation, triumph, proud enthusiasm. They are not so calmly shown. It
was not love and gratitude alone, though love and gratitude were part of
it. It emanated from no sordid thought, for sordid thoughts do not light
up the brow, and hover on the lips, and move the spirit like a fluttered
light, until the sympathetic figure trembles.
Dr. Jeddler, in spite of his system of philosophy—which he was
continually contradicting and denying in practice, but more famous
philosophers have done that—could not help having as much interest in the
return of his old ward and pupil as if it had been a serious event. So
he sat himself down in his easy-chair again, stretched out his slippered
feet once more upon the rug, read the letter over and over a great many
times, and talked it over more times still.
‘Ah! The day was,’ said the Doctor, looking at the fire, ‘when you and
he, Grace, used to trot about arm-in-arm, in his holiday time, like a
couple of walking dolls. You remember?’
‘I remember,’ she answered, with her pleasant laugh, and plying her
needle busily.
‘This day month, indeed!’ mused the Doctor. ‘That hardly seems a twelve
month ago. And where was my little Marion then!’
‘Never far from her sister,’ said Marion, cheerily, ‘however little.
Grace was everything to me, even when she was a young child herself.’
‘True, Puss, true,’ returned the Doctor. ‘She was a staid little woman,
was Grace, and a wise housekeeper, and a busy, quiet, pleasant body;
bearing with our humours and anticipating our wishes, and always ready to
forget her own, even in those times. I never knew you positive or
obstinate, Grace, my darling, even then, on any subject but one.’
‘I am afraid I have changed sadly for the worse, since,’ laughed Grace,
still busy at her work. ‘What was that one, father?’
‘Alfred, of course,’ said the Doctor. ‘Nothing would serve you but you
must be called Alfred’s wife; so we called you Alfred’s wife; and you
liked it better, I believe (odd as it seems now), than being called a
Duchess, if we could have made you one.’
‘Indeed?’ said Grace, placidly.
‘Why, don’t you remember?’ inquired the Doctor.
‘I think I remember something of it,’ she returned, ‘but not much. It’s
so long ago.’ And as she sat at work, she hummed the burden of an old
song, which the Doctor liked.
‘Alfred will find a real wife soon,’ she said, breaking off; ‘and that
will be a happy time indeed for all of us. My three years’ trust is
nearly at an end, Marion. It has been a very easy one. I shall tell
Alfred, when I give you back to him, that you have loved him dearly all
the time, and that he has never once needed my good services. May I tell
him so, love?’
‘Tell him, dear Grace,’ replied Marion, ‘that there never was a trust so
generously, nobly, steadfastly discharged; and that I have loved _you_,
all the time, dearer and dearer every day; and O! how dearly now!’
‘Nay,’ said her cheerful sister, returning her embrace, ‘I can scarcely
tell him that; we will leave my deserts to Alfred’s imagination. It will
be liberal enough, dear Marion; like your own.’
With that, she resumed the work she had for a moment laid down, when her
sister spoke so fervently: and with it the old song the Doctor liked to
hear. And the Doctor, still reposing in his easy-chair, with his
slippered feet stretched out before him on the rug, listened to the tune,
and beat time on his knee with Alfred’s letter, and looked at his two
daughters, and thought that among the many trifles of the trifling world,
these trifles were agreeable enough.
Clemency Newcome, in the meantime, having accomplished her mission and
lingered in the room until she had made herself a party to the news,
descended to the kitchen, where her coadjutor, Mr. Britain, was regaling
after supper, surrounded by such a plentiful collection of bright
pot-lids, well-scoured saucepans, burnished dinner-covers, gleaming
kettles, and other tokens of her industrious habits, arranged upon the
walls and shelves, that he sat as in the centre of a hall of mirrors.
The majority did not give forth very flattering portraits of him,
certainly; nor were they by any means unanimous in their reflections; as
some made him very long-faced, others very broad-faced, some tolerably
well-looking, others vastly ill-looking, according to their several
manners of reflecting: which were as various, in respect of one fact, as
those of so many kinds of men. But they all agreed that in the midst of
them sat, quite at his ease, an individual with a pipe in his mouth, and
a jug of beer at his elbow, who nodded condescendingly to Clemency, when
she stationed herself at the same table.
‘Well, Clemmy,’ said Britain, ‘how are you by this time, and what’s the
news?’
Clemency told him the news, which he received very graciously. A
gracious change had come over Benjamin from head to foot. He was much
broader, much redder, much more cheerful, and much jollier in all
respects. It seemed as if his face had been tied up in a knot before,
and was now untwisted and smoothed out.
‘There’ll be another job for Snitchey and Craggs, I suppose,’ he
observed, puffing slowly at his pipe. ‘More witnessing for you and me,
perhaps, Clemmy!’
‘Lor!’ replied his fair companion, with her favourite twist of her
favourite joints. ‘I wish it was me, Britain!’
‘Wish what was you?’
‘A-going to be married,’ said Clemency.
Benjamin took his pipe out of his mouth and laughed heartily. ‘Yes!
you’re a likely subject for that!’ he said. ‘Poor Clem!’ Clemency for
her part laughed as heartily as he, and seemed as much amused by the
idea. ‘Yes,’ she assented, ‘I’m a likely subject for that; an’t I?’
‘_You’ll_ never be married, you know,’ said Mr. Britain, resuming his
pipe.
‘Don’t you think I ever shall though?’ said Clemency, in perfect good
faith.
Mr. Britain shook his head. ‘Not a chance of it!’
‘Only think!’ said Clemency. ‘Well!—I suppose you mean to, Britain, one
of these days; don’t you?’
A question so abrupt, upon a subject so momentous, required
consideration. After blowing out a great cloud of smoke, and looking at
it with his head now on this side and now on that, as if it were actually
the question, and he were surveying it in various aspects, Mr. Britain
replied that he wasn’t altogether clear about it, but—ye-es—he thought he
might come to that at last.
‘I wish her joy, whoever she may be!’ cried Clemency.
‘Oh she’ll have that,’ said Benjamin, ‘safe enough.’
‘But she wouldn’t have led quite such a joyful life as she will lead, and
wouldn’t have had quite such a sociable sort of husband as she will
have,’ said Clemency, spreading herself half over the table, and staring
retrospectively at the candle, ‘if it hadn’t been for—not that I went to
do it, for it was accidental, I am sure—if it hadn’t been for me; now
would she, Britain?’
‘Certainly not,’ returned Mr. Britain, by this time in that high state of
appreciation of his pipe, when a man can open his mouth but a very little
way for speaking purposes; and sitting luxuriously immovable in his
chair, can afford to turn only his eyes towards a companion, and that
very passively and gravely. ‘Oh! I’m greatly beholden to you, you know,
Clem.’
‘Lor, how nice that is to think of!’ said Clemency.
At the same time, bringing her thoughts as well as her sight to bear upon
the candle-grease, and becoming abruptly reminiscent of its healing
qualities as a balsam, she anointed her left elbow with a plentiful
application of that remedy.
‘You see I’ve made a good many investigations of one sort and another in
my time,’ pursued Mr. Britain, with the profundity of a sage, ‘having
been always of an inquiring turn of mind; and I’ve read a good many books
about the general Rights of things and Wrongs of things, for I went into
the literary line myself, when I began life.’
‘Did you though!’ cried the admiring Clemency.
‘Yes,’ said Mr. Britain: ‘I was hid for the best part of two years behind
a bookstall, ready to fly out if anybody pocketed a volume; and after
that, I was light porter to a stay and mantua maker, in which capacity I
was employed to carry about, in oilskin baskets, nothing but
deceptions—which soured my spirits and disturbed my confidence in human
nature; and after that, I heard a world of discussions in this house,
which soured my spirits fresh; and my opinion after all is, that, as a
safe and comfortable sweetener of the same, and as a pleasant guide
through life, there’s nothing like a nutmeg-grater.’
Clemency was about to offer a suggestion, but he stopped her by
anticipating it.
‘Com-bined,’ he added gravely, ‘with a thimble.’
‘Do as you wold, you know, and cetrer, eh!’ observed Clemency, folding
her arms comfortably in her delight at this avowal, and patting her
elbows. ‘Such a short cut, an’t it?’
‘I’m not sure,’ said Mr. Britain, ‘that it’s what would be considered
good philosophy. I’ve my doubts about that; but it wears well, and saves
a quantity of snarling, which the genuine article don’t always.’
‘See how you used to go on once, yourself, you know!’ said Clemency.
‘Ah!’ said Mr. Britain. ‘But the most extraordinary thing, Clemmy, is
that I should live to be brought round, through you. That’s the strange
part of it. Through you! Why, I suppose you haven’t so much as half an
idea in your head.’
Clemency, without taking the least offence, shook it, and laughed and
hugged herself, and said, ‘No, she didn’t suppose she had.’
‘I’m pretty sure of it,’ said Mr. Britain.
‘Oh! I dare say you’re right,’ said Clemency. ‘I don’t pretend to none.
I don’t want any.’
Benjamin took his pipe from his lips, and laughed till the tears ran down
his face. ‘What a natural you are, Clemmy!’ he said, shaking his head,
with an infinite relish of the joke, and wiping his eyes. Clemency,
without the smallest inclination to dispute it, did the like, and laughed
as heartily as he.
‘I can’t help liking you,’ said Mr. Britain; ‘you’re a regular good
creature in your way, so shake hands, Clem. Whatever happens, I’ll
always take notice of you, and be a friend to you.’
‘Will you?’ returned Clemency. ‘Well! that’s very good of you.’
‘Yes, yes,’ said Mr. Britain, giving her his pipe to knock the ashes out
of it; ‘I’ll stand by you. Hark! That’s a curious noise!’
‘Noise!’ repeated Clemency.
‘A footstep outside. Somebody dropping from the wall, it sounded like,’
said Britain. ‘Are they all abed up-stairs?’
‘Yes, all abed by this time,’ she replied.
‘Didn’t you hear anything?’
‘No.’
They both listened, but heard nothing.
‘I tell you what,’ said Benjamin, taking down a lantern. ‘I’ll have a
look round, before I go to bed myself, for satisfaction’s sake. Undo the
door while I light this, Clemmy.’
Clemency complied briskly; but observed as she did so, that he would only
have his walk for his pains, that it was all his fancy, and so forth.
Mr. Britain said ‘very likely;’ but sallied out, nevertheless, armed with
the poker, and casting the light of the lantern far and near in all
directions.
‘It’s as quiet as a churchyard,’ said Clemency, looking after him; ‘and
almost as ghostly too!’
Glancing back into the kitchen, she cried fearfully, as a light figure
stole into her view, ‘What’s that!’
‘Hush!’ said Marion in an agitated whisper. ‘You have always loved me,
have you not!’
‘Loved you, child! You may be sure I have.’
‘I am sure. And I may trust you, may I not? There is no one else just
now, in whom I _can_ trust.’
‘Yes,’ said Clemency, with all her heart.
‘There is some one out there,’ pointing to the door, ‘whom I must see,
and speak with, to-night. Michael Warden, for God’s sake retire! Not
now!’
Clemency started with surprise and trouble as, following the direction of
the speaker’s eyes, she saw a dark figure standing in the doorway.
‘In another moment you may be discovered,’ said Marion. ‘Not now! Wait,
if you can, in some concealment. I will come presently.’
He waved his hand to her, and was gone. ‘Don’t go to bed. Wait here for
me!’ said Marion, hurriedly. ‘I have been seeking to speak to you for an
hour past. Oh, be true to me!’
Eagerly seizing her bewildered hand, and pressing it with both her own to
her breast—an action more expressive, in its passion of entreaty, than
the most eloquent appeal in words,—Marion withdrew; as the light of the
returning lantern flashed into the room.
‘All still and peaceable. Nobody there. Fancy, I suppose,’ said Mr.
Britain, as he locked and barred the door. ‘One of the effects of having
a lively imagination. Halloa! Why, what’s the matter?’
Clemency, who could not conceal the effects of her surprise and concern,
was sitting in a chair: pale, and trembling from head to foot.
‘Matter!’ she repeated, chafing her hands and elbows, nervously, and
looking anywhere but at him. ‘That’s good in you, Britain, that is!
After going and frightening one out of one’s life with noises and
lanterns, and I don’t know what all. Matter! Oh, yes!’
‘If you’re frightened out of your life by a lantern, Clemmy,’ said Mr.
Britain, composedly blowing it out and hanging it up again, ‘that
apparition’s very soon got rid of. But you’re as bold as brass in
general,’ he said, stopping to observe her; ‘and were, after the noise
and the lantern too. What have you taken into your head? Not an idea,
eh?’
But, as Clemency bade him good night very much after her usual fashion,
and began to bustle about with a show of going to bed herself
immediately, Little Britain, after giving utterance to the original
remark that it was impossible to account for a woman’s whims, bade her
good night in return, and taking up his candle strolled drowsily away to
bed.
When all was quiet, Marion returned.
‘Open the door,’ she said; ‘and stand there close beside me, while I
speak to him, outside.’
Timid as her manner was, it still evinced a resolute and settled purpose,
such as Clemency could not resist. She softly unbarred the door: but
before turning the key, looked round on the young creature waiting to
issue forth when she should open it.
The face was not averted or cast down, but looking full upon her, in its
pride of youth and beauty. Some simple sense of the slightness of the
barrier that interposed itself between the happy home and honoured love
of the fair girl, and what might be the desolation of that home, and
shipwreck of its dearest treasure, smote so keenly on the tender heart of
Clemency, and so filled it to overflowing with sorrow and compassion,
that, bursting into tears, she threw her arms round Marion’s neck.
‘It’s little that I know, my dear,’ cried Clemency, ‘very little; but I
know that this should not be. Think of what you do!’
‘I have thought of it many times,’ said Marion, gently.
‘Once more,’ urged Clemency. ‘Till to-morrow.’ Marion shook her head.
‘For Mr. Alfred’s sake,’ said Clemency, with homely earnestness. ‘Him
that you used to love so dearly, once!’
She hid her face, upon the instant, in her hands, repeating ‘Once!’ as if
it rent her heart.
‘Let me go out,’ said Clemency, soothing her. ‘I’ll tell him what you
like. Don’t cross the door-step to-night. I’m sure no good will come of
it. Oh, it was an unhappy day when Mr. Warden was ever brought here!
Think of your good father, darling—of your sister.’
‘I have,’ said Marion, hastily raising her head. ‘You don’t know what I
do. I _must_ speak to him. You are the best and truest friend in all
the world for what you have said to me, but I must take this step. Will
you go with me, Clemency,’ she kissed her on her friendly face, ‘or shall
I go alone?’
Sorrowing and wondering, Clemency turned the key, and opened the door.
Into the dark and doubtful night that lay beyond the threshold, Marion
passed quickly, holding by her hand.
In the dark night he joined her, and they spoke together earnestly and
long; and the hand that held so fast by Clemency’s, now trembled, now
turned deadly cold, now clasped and closed on hers, in the strong feeling
of the speech it emphasised unconsciously. When they returned, he
followed to the door, and pausing there a moment, seized the other hand,
and pressed it to his lips. Then, stealthily withdrew.
The door was barred and locked again, and once again she stood beneath
her father’s roof. Not bowed down by the secret that she brought there,
though so young; but, with that same expression on her face for which I
had no name before, and shining through her tears.
Again she thanked and thanked her humble friend, and trusted to her, as
she said, with confidence, implicitly. Her chamber safely reached, she
fell upon her knees; and with her secret weighing on her heart, could
pray!
Could rise up from her prayers, so tranquil and serene, and bending over
her fond sister in her slumber, look upon her face and smile—though
sadly: murmuring as she kissed her forehead, how that Grace had been a
mother to her, ever, and she loved her as a child!
Could draw the passive arm about her neck when lying down to rest—it
seemed to cling there, of its own will, protectingly and tenderly even in
sleep—and breathe upon the parted lips, God bless her!
Could sink into a peaceful sleep, herself; but for one dream, in which
she cried out, in her innocent and touching voice, that she was quite
alone, and they had all forgotten her.
A month soon passes, even at its tardiest pace. The month appointed to
elapse between that night and the return, was quick of foot, and went by,
like a vapour.
The day arrived. A raging winter day, that shook the old house,
sometimes, as if it shivered in the blast. A day to make home doubly
home. To give the chimney-corner new delights. To shed a ruddier glow
upon the faces gathered round the hearth, and draw each fireside group
into a closer and more social league, against the roaring elements
without. Such a wild winter day as best prepares the way for shut-out
night; for curtained rooms, and cheerful looks; for music, laughter,
dancing, light, and jovial entertainment!
All these the Doctor had in store to welcome Alfred back. They knew that
he could not arrive till night; and they would make the night air ring,
he said, as he approached. All his old friends should congregate about
him. He should not miss a face that he had known and liked. No! They
should every one be there!
So, guests were bidden, and musicians were engaged, and tables spread,
and floors prepared for active feet, and bountiful provision made, of
every hospitable kind. Because it was the Christmas season, and his eyes
were all unused to English holly and its sturdy green, the dancing-room
was garlanded and hung with it; and the red berries gleamed an English
welcome to him, peeping from among the leaves.
It was a busy day for all of them: a busier day for none of them than
Grace, who noiselessly presided everywhere, and was the cheerful mind of
all the preparations. Many a time that day (as well as many a time
within the fleeting month preceding it), did Clemency glance anxiously,
and almost fearfully, at Marion. She saw her paler, perhaps, than usual;
but there was a sweet composure on her face that made it lovelier than
ever.
At night when she was dressed, and wore upon her head a wreath that Grace
had proudly twined about it—its mimic flowers were Alfred’s favourites,
as Grace remembered when she chose them—that old expression, pensive,
almost sorrowful, and yet so spiritual, high, and stirring, sat again
upon her brow, enhanced a hundred-fold.
‘The next wreath I adjust on this fair head, will be a marriage wreath,’
said Grace; ‘or I am no true prophet, dear.’
Her sister smiled, and held her in her arms.
‘A moment, Grace. Don’t leave me yet. Are you sure that I want nothing
more?’
Her care was not for that. It was her sister’s face she thought of, and
her eyes were fixed upon it, tenderly.
‘My art,’ said Grace, ‘can go no farther, dear girl; nor your beauty. I
never saw you look so beautiful as now.’
‘I never was so happy,’ she returned.
‘Ay, but there is a greater happiness in store. In such another home, as
cheerful and as bright as this looks now,’ said Grace, ‘Alfred and his
young wife will soon be living.’
She smiled again. ‘It is a happy home, Grace, in your fancy. I can see
it in your eyes. I know it _will_ be happy, dear. How glad I am to know
it.’
‘Well,’ cried the Doctor, bustling in. ‘Here we are, all ready for
Alfred, eh? He can’t be here until pretty late—an hour or so before
midnight—so there’ll be plenty of time for making merry before he comes.
He’ll not find us with the ice unbroken. Pile up the fire here, Britain!
Let it shine upon the holly till it winks again. It’s a world of
nonsense, Puss; true lovers and all the rest of it—all nonsense; but
we’ll be nonsensical with the rest of ’em, and give our true lover a mad
welcome. Upon my word!’ said the old Doctor, looking at his daughters
proudly, ‘I’m not clear to-night, among other absurdities, but that I’m
the father of two handsome girls.’
‘All that one of them has ever done, or may do—may do, dearest father—to
cause you pain or grief, forgive her,’ said Marion, ‘forgive her now,
when her heart is full. Say that you forgive her. That you will forgive
her. That she shall always share your love, and—,’ and the rest was not
said, for her face was hidden on the old man’s shoulder.
‘Tut, tut, tut,’ said the Doctor gently. ‘Forgive! What have I to
forgive? Heyday, if our true lovers come back to flurry us like this, we
must hold ’em at a distance; we must send expresses out to stop ’em short
upon the road, and bring ’em on a mile or two a day, until we’re properly
prepared to meet ’em. Kiss me, Puss. Forgive! Why, what a silly child
you are! If you had vexed and crossed me fifty times a day, instead of
not at all, I’d forgive you everything, but such a supplication. Kiss me
again, Puss. There! Prospective and retrospective—a clear score between
us. Pile up the fire here! Would you freeze the people on this bleak
December night! Let us be light, and warm, and merry, or I’ll not
forgive some of you!’
So gaily the old Doctor carried it! And the fire was piled up, and the
lights were bright, and company arrived, and a murmuring of lively
tongues began, and already there was a pleasant air of cheerful
excitement stirring through all the house.