SUNSHINE AND SHADOW.
Although I had enjoyed my trip to London immensely, yet I was very, very
glad to get back to my dear old home again; happier even than before,
for now, in addition to all my former home-pleasures, I had a secret
source of happiness to muse over when alone. How bright life appeared to
me, how thankful I felt for all my deep happiness, and how my heart
seemed to open to all created things!
I had only one cause for sorrow, and that one which had for years been
seen as a dim shadow in the far distance, but which had been for the
last two or three years past increasing in magnitude, growing from vague
ill-defined dread, to the sad certainty of coming grief. I mean the
rapidly failing health of mamma.
From my farthest back remembrance of her she had never been strong. Not,
perhaps, suffering from any decided pain or illness, but weak and
languid, and unequal to any unusual exertion. For years the great part
of her time had been spent on the sofa, but during the last few months
she had been unmistakably failing; on my return home after my visit in
London I found that there was a marked change in her appearance, and
that she had grown decidedly thinner and weaker in that short time.
Papa, I could see, was very anxious about her; he was a good deal more
at home now, and spent as much time as he could spare in the room with
her, bringing his books in there, and sitting to study where she could
see his face, and so close that she could exchange a few words with him
occasionally without having to raise her voice. Ill as mamma was, I
think she was never so happy in her married life as she was at that
time. She now no longer troubled herself with domestic arrangements, but
left all that to me, and was content to lie, holding a book in her
wasted hands, and looking fondly across at her husband at his reading.
When papa was there she liked, I think, best being alone with him and
her thoughts; but when he was out, I used to take my work and sit beside
her, and talk when she felt inclined, which was not often. Indeed, I had
only one long conversation with her, which was about a month after I
came back.
She had been lying very quiet one day, not speaking at all, but watching
me while I worked, when she said:
"You have told us all about your trip to London, Agnes, and about your
gaieties and amusements; but I do not think you have told all. As you
sit there I can see sometimes the colour come up over your face, and
your lips part a little, and your eyes soften, while your fingers lie
idle on your work. Have you not some pleasant thoughts, dearest--some
sweet hope for the future which you have not yet spoken of? Tell me,
darling. I have not much longer to be with you, and it would make my
last time more happy to be able to think of your future as somewhat
secured, and to picture you to myself as mistress of some happy home. Am
I right, my child? Have you some such hope?"
Kneeling down beside her, when my tears suffered me to speak, I told her
all that had passed between me and Percy, and that, although not yet
actually engaged, we should be when he came down, if papa and she
approved of him; and I explained to her the reason why I had not at once
told them about it was, that I wished them to see him with unbiased eyes
first of all, and to like him for his own sake, before they did for
mine. Mamma asked me several questions about Percy's dispositions and
habits, which I answered as minutely and fairly as I could; when I had
done she said:
"I think from what you say, my darling, he will make you very happy, and
I shall be able to trust you to him. I shall look forward to seeing him.
I am very glad you have told me, my child; I shall have pleasant
thoughts of the future now, in addition to all my happy memories of the
past."
From this time mamma grew fonder than ever of having me with her, and
would watch me as she watched papa. She liked me best to sit on a low
stool beside her, so close that without exertion she could softly stroke
my hair, and let her poor thin hand rest on my head. I did not go out
anywhere, except over to Sturry. There I went as often as I could; for I
liked Sophy, and loved Mr. Harmer, as indeed I had good reason to do.
About him papa was very uneasy; he had had a rather severe stroke of
paralysis when I was away in London, and, although he had greatly
recovered from it, he still felt its effects, and papa said that he must
be kept very quiet, for that any excitement might bring on another and
fatal attack.
The first time I went over to see Mr. Harmer, I was quite shocked at the
change which had taken place since I had last seen him, little more than
two months before. He rose to meet me when I went into the library where
he was sitting, with quite his old smile of welcome, and I did not so
much notice the change till he was fairly on his feet. Then indeed I saw
how great it was. His old free, erect bearing was gone, and he stood
upright with difficulty, and when he tried to walk, it was in a stiff
and jointless sort of way, very painful to see. But the greatest
alteration was in his voice; formerly he spoke in such a frank, hearty,
joyous way, and now each word seemed to come out slowly and with
difficulty. Although papa had warned me that I should see a great change
in him, I had no idea of such a terrible alteration as this, and it was
so great a shock to me, that I could not help breaking down and crying.
"You must not do that," Mr. Harmer said, placing me in a chair at one
side of him, while Sophy, who had gone in with me, sat on the other, and
he took my hand in his own, and held it there the whole time I was with
him. "You must not cry, Agnes; I am getting an old man, and could not,
in the ordinary course of nature, have expected to have lived many years
more. I have led a very happy life, and have innumerable blessings to be
thankful for; not the least, although that may seem selfish on my part,
that there are some who care for me in my age, and who will be sorry
when I am taken away. There, my dear, dry your eyes, and give me a full
description of all your gaieties in London."
I told him all about what I had been doing, where I had gone, and
everything I could think of likely to amuse him, and was still in the
middle of my story when Miss Harmer came in.
"I am very sorry to have to disturb you Miss Ashleigh," she said, after
shaking hands with me, "for I know how much my brother enjoys a talk
with you; but your papa's orders were so very strict, that on no account
should he be allowed to talk for long at a time, that I really must put
a stop to your conversation."
I had not seen Miss Harmer for some time, for she and her sister had
been away on the Continent for two years previously, and had returned
only on receipt of the news of their brother's illness.
When Miss Harmer spoke, I got up at once to leave, feeling a little
ashamed of my own thoughtlessness, for papa had particularly warned me
before I started, not to talk long; but I had quite forgotten his
injunction, in the pleasure Mr. Harmer had evidently felt in listening
to me.
"You see, my dear," he said, "I must do as I am told now; but you will
come again soon to see me, will you not?"
I promised to come as soon as I could, and from that time whenever mamma
could spare me, I went over for half an hour's chat with Mr. Harmer,
very often at first, but as he got better, and mamma became weaker, of
course my visits became very much less frequent.
During my visits at this time, I was a good deal puzzled about Sophy.
There was something in her manner, which I could not at all understand.
She was evidently extremely attached to her grandfather, and was
unwearied in her constant attention to him; and yet at times it appeared
to me that her thoughts were far off from what was passing before her,
and that after one of these fits of abstraction she would rouse herself
with almost a start, and then glance furtively at Mr. Harmer, as if
afraid that he had noticed it. When he praised her too, which he often
did to me, for her care and kindness to him, I fancied that she almost
shrank from his praise in a sort of pained way, as if she felt that his
commendation was undeserved. I daresay at any other time I might have
thought a great deal about this; but as it was I had so much to occupy
me. What with my mother's almost daily increasing weakness; what with
the rapidly approaching visit of Ada and Percy; what with my own grief
and my own happiness, I had no thoughts to give to Sophy. Perhaps on my
walk home from Sturry, I wondered and puzzled as to her conduct; but
once past my own doors, all thought of her and her mysterious ways, were
laid aside till I started for my next visit to Harmer Place.
I have not mentioned that after I had told mamma about Percy, I suppose
she must have hinted something to papa; at any rate he wrote to Percy,
saying that hearing from his daughter that he proposed accompanying his
sister Ada on a visit to Lady Dashwood's, he should be very glad if,
like her, Percy would take Canterbury on his way, and stay for a week
with us. Percy answered the letter in the affirmative. Papa's eyes
rather twinkled with amusement as he one day at breakfast told me in a
casual sort of way that he had written to Mr. Desborough, asking him to
stay with us while his sister did, and that he had heard that morning
that his invitation was accepted.
I know I tried to look unconscious, but finally had to go round the
table and rumple papa's hair all over, and tell him that he was a dear
old goose.
It was about two months after my return from London that I received a
letter from Ada, saying that her brother had obtained leave of absence
again, and that the season was now quite over, and London dreadfully
hot; that she longed to be out of it and in the country again, and that
if convenient she would come on that day week, and that Percy would
accompany her. I had been expecting this news for some time, still, now
that it had come--now that I knew for certain that in another week Percy
would be with me--it was very difficult to realize, and very hard,
indeed, to go about looking tranquil and unconcerned under sister
Polly's watchful eye and sly remarks. Polly was now at home for the
holidays, and during the week I many times wished her back at school
again, for she was really a serious plague to me. She had somehow
guessed, or fancied she guessed, the state of things between Percy and
me, and she was constantly making remarks about their coming visit, and
then slyly watching me to see the colour which would, on the mention of
his name, mount up into my cheeks. I had, as a girl, a dreadful habit of
blushing, which, do what I would, I could not break myself of. It was
very tiresome, and I would have given anything to have cured myself of
the trick.
So now, what with Polly's mischievous hints and my ridiculous habit of
blushing, I was made quite uncomfortable for that week. At last I had to
tell her she was annoying me very much, and that if she did it when they
came down I should be seriously angry with her. When she saw I was quite
in earnest, she pretended to be very penitent, although I am sure she
was only amused; however, she gave it up as much as she could for the
time.
At last the day came for them to arrive, and I went down to the train to
meet them with papa and Polly. I proposed this myself, as it was much
less embarrassing to meet in all that bustle and confusion than in the
quiet of our hall.
Presently the train came up, and I saw Ada's face at the window. We were
soon at the door and helped her out. When I had kissed her I shook hands
with Percy and introduced him to papa, and they went off together to
look after the luggage, leaving us three girls talking on the platform.
Altogether it had been much less embarrassing than I had feared. Papa
ordered a man to take the boxes round to our house, and we started to
walk, retaining the same order; we girls together in front, and papa and
Percy behind. So down Westgate, across the bridge over the Stour, and
under the noble old gate, which, so many centuries back, frowned down
upon the haughty priest a Becket, as he passed under it upon that last
journey to Canterbury from which he returned alive no more. It was an
old gateway then, but still capable of a sturdy defence against the
weapons of the time; for on either side the city walls stretched away,
lofty and strong. Now, at this point they are gone, and the old gateway
stands isolated and alone; but it is still strong and well preserved,
and looks as if, unless disturbed by the hand of man, it could bid
defiance to the action of time for many a century yet to come. Under
this we walked, and then down the High Street, with its quaint,
high-gabled, overhanging houses, and up the narrow lane which led to our
house. After we had lunched, we went up into the drawing-room, to mamma,
who was very pleased to see Ada again, with her bright face and happy
laugh,--for I did not mention in its proper place that Ada had spent one
of her Christmas holidays with us. Mamma looked very earnestly at Percy,
as if she could read his character at a glance, and listened very
attentively to all he said. As we went out of the room--which we did in
about a quarter of an hour, for mamma could not bear so many in the room
for long together--she kissed me, as I lingered behind the others, and
pressed my hand lovingly, and I could see she was quite satisfied.
I did not see much of Percy for the next two days, at which I was very
glad, for I could not help feeling a little awkward; and although I
endeavoured to soothe my conscience by telling myself that had I not put
him off he would have proposed to me when I was staying in London, yet I
could not help feeling that somehow I had invited him down here on
purpose for him to ask me to be his wife. For these two days he was as
much as he could be with papa, accompanying him in his drives and rides,
and I could see by papa's manner that he really liked him very much. To
me he was very nice, not at all showing me any marked attention so as to
be perceptible to any one else; and yet I could feel there was something
different in his tone of voice and manner when he addressed me to what
he used when he spoke to others. Ada and I found lots to talk about when
we were alone; for although she had written very often, and given me
very full accounts, still there was an immense deal to tell me about all
the different balls she had been to since, and what engagements had been
made during the season; I found, too, although this was a subject Ada
was very chary of speaking of, that she herself had refused one very
good offer, and that she was rather under the ban of her lady-mother's
displeasure in consequence. "She consoles herself, however," Ada said,
"with the conclusion, that there are even better matches to be made than
the one I refused, and that I must have set my mind on being a duchess;
for that any idea of love is necessary for a marriage, is a matter which
never entered her mind." Ada was a little bitter upon the subject, and I
was sorry to see she was likely to have disputes with her mother upon
the point; for there was no doubt that Lady Desborough was a very
worldly woman, and I was quite sure that Ada, although at times
thoughtless and fond of admiration, would never marry any one, however
high his rank, to whom she had not given her heart.
The third morning of their visit I was up early, and went for my usual
little stroll in the garden before breakfast. I had not been there many
minutes before Percy joined me, and when we went in together we were
engaged. I do not tell how it came about, what he said, or how I
answered him. There is very little in the words thus spoken to interest
others, although so unutterably sweet to listen to. To me there is
something almost sacred in the thought of that time; far too sacred to
be told to any one; and even now, eight years after, my cheeks flush, my
eyes fill with tears, and my fingers quiver at the thought of those few
words, and of the kiss by which our engagement was sealed. Oh Percy,
Percy, could we but have seen the future then! But, perhaps, better
not--better, certainly, for I have at least the pleasure left me of
looking back upon that short space of intense happiness--a memory which
is all my own, and which nothing can take away from me. I do not know
how I made breakfast that morning--I am sure I must have made all sorts
of blunders; but Ada, who at once saw what had happened, and Polly, who
I think guessed, chattered away so incessantly, that I was not obliged
to take any part in the conversation. Ada afterwards told me that in the
first cup of tea I gave her no milk, and that she saw me put no less
than eight pieces of sugar into the second. I only hope the others were
better, but I have serious doubts on the subject. After breakfast was
over, papa went into the study, and Percy at once followed him in there.
As soon as the door closed upon them, Ada came round, and kissed me very
warmly and lovingly; and Polly, as soon as she saw by our manner that
her suspicions were correct, and that Percy and I were engaged, first
nearly suffocated me with the violence of her embraces, and then
performed a wild and triumphant _pas seul_ round the breakfast-table, in
a manner directly opposed to the injunction and teaching of the Misses
Pilgrim and "Grendon House." Altogether she was quite wild, and I had
the greatest difficulty in sobering her down, especially as Ada was
rather inclined to abet her in her folly.
I shall pass very briefly over the remaining ten days that Percy and Ada
stayed with us, for indeed that happy time is more than even now I can
write about calmly. Papa's and mamma's consent was warmly given, and
they were very much pleased with Percy. The only drawback to papa's
satisfaction at the match, was the fact of Percy being in the army, and
the thought of my going abroad. Percy, indeed, offered to leave the
service, but this I would not hear of. I knew how much he was attached
to his profession, and I had no objection to the thought of going
abroad; and my money, with his pay and allowance from his mother, would
enable us to live in luxury in any part of the world.
Two days after our engagement took place I received a very nice letter
from Lady Desborough, saying how pleased she was to hear of Percy's
choice, and its success. She said a good many kind and complimentary
things, to which I did not, even at the time, attach much importance,
for I knew well that it was only the fact of her son choosing, greatly
against her wishes, an active military life, which made her regard with
approval his engagement with myself. However, I did not fret seriously
about that; she gave her consent, and that was all that was required,
while I had the hearty approval of my own dear parents in my choice. I
believed Percy loved me with all his heart, and I certainly did him with
all mine. So the time they stopped with us went over very happily and
quickly. Nothing was said before they went away about our marriage;
indeed, mamma was so very ill, that it was a question which could not be
discussed, as of course I could not have left her in the state she was
in, and how long she might remain as she was no one could tell.
However, it was willed that her stay with us should be even more brief
than our worst fears had whispered. Percy and Ada had not left us much
more than a month, when papa said at breakfast one morning: "Agnes, I
wrote yesterday to Harry to come home; write to-day to Miss Pilgrim,
asking her to send Polly home to-morrow." It did not need for me to look
in his face; the quiver of his voice told me his meaning: they were to
come home to see mamma before she died. What a dreadful shock it was. I
had long known mamma must leave us soon, but she had so long been ill,
and she changed so gradually, that, until papa spoke that morning, I had
never realized that her time was so near at hand. Yet, when I recovered
from that terrible fit of crying, I remembered how I could count back
from week to week, and see how the change, gradual as it seemed, had yet
been strongly marked, and that the last two months had wrought terrible
havoc with her little remaining strength.
At the beginning of that time she had been up nearly all day, lying on
the sofa. As time went on, she got up later and went to bed earlier; at
the end of the month, papa had taken to carrying her in, and now, for
the last ten days, her visits to the drawing-room had ceased altogether.
She was wonderfully calm and patient, and through all those long months
of illness, I never heard a murmur or word of complaint pass her lips.
Polly arrived the day after I wrote, and was, poor child, in a dreadful
state of grief. Harry came the day after: to him the shock was greater
than to any of us. He had not seen her fading gradually away as we had,
and although from our letters, he knew how ill she was, he had never
until he came back completely realized it.
I pass over the week which mamma lived after Harry's return, as also the
week after her death. These solemn griefs are too sacred to be
described. Do we not all know them? For are not these great scenes
common to every one? Have we not all of us lost our darlings, our loves?
Is there not an empty chair in every household; a place in every heart
where one lives who is no longer seen on earth; a secret shrine whence,
in the dead of the night, the well-known figure steps gently out, and
communes with us over happy times that are gone, and bids us hope and
wait for that happier meeting to come, after which there will be no more
parting and tears?