A LIFE FOR A LIFE
By Dinah Maria Craik
The Author Of "John Halifax, Gentleman," "A Woman's Thoughts About
Women," &c., &c.
In Three Volumes. Vol. I.
London: Hurst And Blackett, Publishers,
1859
"_When the wicked man turneth away from his wickedness that he hath
committed, and doeth that which is lawful and right, he shall save his
soul alive_."
"_I came not to call the righteous, but sinners, to repentance_."
TO
MARGARET AND MART.
A LIFE FOR A LIFE.
CHAPTER I. HER STORY.
Yes, I hate soldiers.
I can't help writing it--it relieves my mind. All morning have we been
driving about that horrid region into which our beautiful, desolate moor
has been transmogrified; round and round, up and down, in at the
south camp and out at the north camp; directed hither and thither by
muddle-headed privates; stared at by puppyish young officers; choked
with chimney-smoke; jolted over roads laid with ashes--or no roads
at all--and pestered everywhere with the sight of lounging, lazy, red
groups,--that color is becoming to me a perfect eye-sore! What a treat
it is to get home and lock myself--in my own room--the tiniest and
safest nook in all Rockmount--and spurt out my wrath in the blackest of
ink with the boldest of pens. Bless you! (query, who can I be blessing,
for nobody will ever read this), what does it matter? And after all, I
repeat, it relieves my mind.
I do hate soldiers. I always did, from my youth up, till the war in the
East startled everybody like a thunder-clap. What a time it was--this
time two years ago! How the actual romance of each day, as set down in
the newspapers, made my old romances read like mere balderdash: how
the present, in its infinite piteousness, its tangible horror, and the
awfulness of what they called its "glory" cast the tame past altogether
into shade! Who read history then, or novels, or poetry? Who read
anything but that fearful "Times?"
And now it is all gone by we have peace again; and this 20th of
September, 1856, I begin with my birthday a new journal--(capital one,
too, with a first-rate lock and key, saved out of my summer bonnet,
which I didn't buy). Nor need I spoil the day--as once--by crying over
those who, two years since,=
`````"Went up
```Red Alma's heights to glory."=
Conscience, tender over dead heroes, feels not the smallest compunction
in writing the angry initiatory line, when she thinks of that odious
camp which has been established near us, for the education of the
military mind, and the hardening of the military body. Whence red-coats
swarm out over the pretty neighbourhood like lady-birds over the
hop-gardens,--harmless, it is true, yet for ever flying in one's face
in the most unpleasant manner, making inroads through one's parlour
windows, and crawling over one's tea-table. Wretched red insects! except
that the act would be murder, I often wish I could put half-a-dozen of
them, swords, epaulets, moustaches, and all, under the heel of my shoe.
Perhaps this is obstinacy, or the love of contradiction. No wonder. Do
I hear of anything, but soldiers from morning till night? At visits
or dinner parties can I speak to a soul--and 'tisn't much I do speak to
anybody--but that _she_--I use the pronoun advisedly--is sure to bring
in with her second sentence something about "the camp?"
I'm sick of the camp. Would that my sisters were! For Lisabel, young and
handsome, there is some excuse, but Penelope--she ought to know better.
Papa is determined to go with us to the Grantons' ball to-night. I wish
there were no necessity for it; and have suggested as strongly as I
could that we should stay at home. But what of that? Nobody minds me.
Nobody ever did that I ever remember. So poor papa is to be dragged out
from his cosy arm-chair, jogged and tumbled across these wintry
moors, and stuck up solemn in a corner of the drawing-room--being kept
carefully out of the card-room because he happens to be a clergyman. And
all the while he will wear his politest and most immovable of smiles,
just as if he liked it. Oh, why cannot people say what they mean and do
as they wish! Why must they hold themselves tied and bound with horrible
chains of etiquette even at the age of seventy! Why cannot he say,
"Girls"--no, of course he would say "young ladies"--"I had far rather
stay at home--go you and enjoy yourselves;" or better still, "go, two of
you--but I want Dora."
No, he never will say that. He never did want any of us much; me less
than any. I am neither eldest nor youngest, neither Miss Johnston nor
Miss Lisabel--only Miss Dora--Theodora--"the gift of God," as my little
bit of Greek taught me. A gift--what for, and to whom? I declare, since
I was a baby, since I was a little solitary ugly child, wondering if
ever I had a mother like other children, since even I have been a woman
grown, I never have been able to find out.
Well, I suppose it is no use to try to alter things. Papa will go his
own way, and the girls theirs. They think the grand climax of existence
is "society;" he thinks the same--at least for young women, properly
introduced, escorted and protected there. So, as the three Misses
Johnston--sweet fluttering doves!--have no other chaperon, or protector,
he makes a martyr of himself on the shrine of paternal duty, _alias_
respectability, and goes.
*****
The girls here called me down to admire them. Yes, they looked extremely
well:--Lisabel, majestic, slow and fair; I doubt if anything in
this world would disturb the equanimity of her sleepy blue eyes and
soft-tempered mouth--a large, mild, beautiful animal, like a white
Brahmin cow. Very much admired is our Lisabel, and no wonder. That white
barége will kill half the officers in the camp. She was going to put on
her pink one, but I suggested how ill pink would look against scarlet;
and so, after a series of titters, Miss Lisa took my advice. She is
evidently bent upon looking her best to-night.
Penelope, also; but I wish Penelope would not wear such airy dresses,
and such a quantity of artificial flowers, while her curls are so thin,
and her cheeks so sharp. She used to have very pretty hair, ten years
ago. I remember being exceedingly shocked and fierce about a curl of
hers that I saw stolen in the summer-house, by Francis Charteris, before
we found out that they were engaged.
She rather expected him to-night, I fancy. Mrs. Granton was sure to have
invited him with us; but, of course, he has not come. He never did come,
in my recollection, when he said he would.
I ought to go and dress; but I can do it in ten minutes, and it is not
worth while wasting more time. Those two girls--what a capital foil each
makes to the other! little, dark, lively--not to say satirical: large,
amiable, and fair. Papa ought to be proud of them;--I suppose he is.
Heigho!'Tis a good thing to be good-looking. And next best, perhaps, is
downright ugliness,--nice, interesting, attractive ugliness--such as I
have seen in some women: nay, I have somewhere read that ugly women have
often been loved best.
But to be just ordinary; of ordinary height, ordinary figure, and, oh
me! let me lift up my head from the desk to the looking-glass, and take
a good stare at an undeniably ordinary face. 'Tis not pleasant. Well; I
am as I was made; let me not undervalue myself, if only out of reverence
for Him who made me.
Surely--Captain Treherne's voice below: Does that young man expect to
be taken to the ball in our fly? Truly he is making himself one of the
family, already. There is papa calling us. What will papa say?
Why, he said nothing; and Lisabel, as she swept slowly down the
staircase with a little silver lamp in her right hand, likewise said
nothing; but she looked----
"Everybody is lovely to somebody," says the proverb. Query, if somebody
I could name should live to the age of Methuselah, will _she_ ever be
lovely to anybody?
What nonsense! Bravo! thou wert in the right of it, jolly miller of
Dee!=
````"I care for nobody, no, not I;
````And nobody cares for me."=
So, let me lock up my desk, and dress for the ball.
*****
Really, not a bad ball; even now--when looked at in the light of next
day's quiet--with the leaves stirring lazily in the fir-tree by my
window, and the broad sunshine brightening the moorlands far away.
Not a bad ball, even to me, who usually am stoically contemptuous of
such senseless amusements. Doubtless, from the mean motive that I like
dancing, and am rarely asked to dance; that I am just five-and-twenty,
and get no more attention than if I were five-and-forty. Of course, I
protest continually that I don't care a pin for this fact (mem. mean
again). For I do care--at the very bottom of my heart, I do. Many
a time have I leaned my head here--good old desk, you will tell no
tales!--and cried, actually cried--with the pain of being neither
pretty, agreeable, nor young.
Moralists say, it is in every woman's power to be, in measure, all
three: that when she is not liked or admired--by some few at least--it
is a sign that she is neither likeable nor admirable. Therefore, I
suppose I am neither. Probably very disagreeable. Penelope often says
so, in her sharp, and Lisabel in her lazy way. Lis would apply the same
expression to a gnat on her wrist, or a dagger pointed at her heart. A
"thoroughly amiable woman!" Now I never was--never shall be--an amiable
woman.
To return to the ball--and really I would not mind returning to it and
having it all over again, which is more than one can say of many hours
in our lives, especially of those which roll on, rapidly as hours seem
to roll, after five-and-twenty. It was exceedingly amusing. Large,
well-lit rooms, filled with well-dressed people; we do not often make
such a goodly show in our country entertainments; but then the Grantons
know everybody, and invite everybody. Nobody could do that but dear old
Mrs. Granton, and "my Colin," who, if he has not three pennyworth
of brains, has the kindest heart and the heaviest purse in the whole
neighbourhood.
I am sure Mrs. Granton must have felt proud of her handsome suite of
rooms, quite a perambulatory parterre, boasting all the hues of the
rainbow, subdued by the proper complement of inevitable black. By and
by, as the evening advanced, dot after dot of the adored scarlet made
its appearance round the doors, and circulating gradually round the
room, completed the coloring of the scene.
They were most effective when viewed at a distance--these scarlet
dots. Some of them were very young and very small: wore their short
hair--regulation cut--exceedingly straight, and did not seem quite
comfortable in their clothes.
"Militia, of course," I overheard a lady observe, who apparently knew
all about it. "None of our officers wear uniform when they can avoid
it."
But these young lads seemed uncommonly proud of theirs, and strutted and
sidled about the door, very valorous and magnificent, until caught and
dragged to their destiny--in the shape of some fair partner--when
they immediately relapsed into shyness and awkwardness. Nay, I might
add--stupidity; but were they not the hopeful defenders of their
country, and did not their noble swords lie idle at this moment on that
safest resting-place--Mrs. Granton's billiard-table?
I watched the scene out of my corner, in a state of dreamy amusement;
mingled with a vague curiosity as to how long I should be left to sit
solitary there, and whether it would be very dull, if "with gazing
fed"--including a trifle of supper--I thus had to spend the entire
evening.
Mrs. Granton came bustling up.
"My dear girl--are you not dancing?"
"Apparently not," said I, laughing, and trying to catch her, and make
room for her. Vain attempt! Mrs. Granton never will sit down while there
is anything that she thinks can be done for anybody. In a moment she
would have been buzzing all round the room like an amiable bee,
in search of some unfortunate youth upon whom to inflict me as a
partner--but not even my desire of dancing would allow me to sink so low
as that.
For safety, I ran after, and attacked the good old lady on one of her
weak points. Luckily she caught the bait, and we were soon safely landed
on the great blanket, beef, and anti-beer distribution question, now
shaking our parish to its very foundations. I am ashamed to say, though
the rector's daughter, it is very little I know about our parish.
And though at first I rather repented of my _ruse_, seeing that
Mrs. Granton's deafness made both her remarks and my answers most
unpleasantly public, gradually I became so interested in what she was
telling me, that we must have kept on talking nearly twenty minutes,
when some one called the old lady away.
"Sorry to leave you, Miss Dora, but I leave you in good company," she
said, nodding and smiling to some people behind the sofa, with whom she
probably thought I was acquainted. But I was not, nor had the slightest
ambition for that honour. Strangers at a ball have rarely anything to
say worth saying or hearing. So I never turned my head, and let Mrs.
Granton trot away.
My mind and eyes followed her with a half sigh; considering whether at
sixty I shall have half the activity, or cheerfulness, or kindliness, of
her dear old self.
No one broke in upon my meditations. Papa's white head was visible in
a distant doorway; for the girls, they had long since vanished in the
whirligig. I caught at times a glimpse of Penelope's rose-clouds of
tarlatan, her pale, face, and ever-smiling white teeth, that contrast
ill with her restless black eyes--it is always rather painful to me to
watch my eldest sister at parties. And now and then Miss Lisabel came
floating, moon-like, through the room, almost obscuring young slender
Captain Treherne, who yet appeared quite content in his occultation.
He also seemed to be of my opinion that scarlet and white were the best
mixture of colours, for I did not see him make the slightest attempt to
dance with any lady but Lisabel.
Several people, I noticed, looked at them and smiled. And one lady
whispered something about "poor clergyman's daughter," and "Sir William
Treherne."
I felt hot to my very temples. Oh, if we were all in Paradise, or a
nunnery, or some place where there was neither thinking nor making of
marriages!
I determined to catch Lisa when the waltz was done. She waltzes well,
even gracefully, for a tall woman--but I wished, I wished--My wish was
cut short by a collision which made me start up with an idea of rushing
to the rescue; however, the next moment Treherne and she had recovered
their balance and were spinning on again. Of course I sat down
immediately.
But my looks must be terrible tell-tales; for some one behind me said,
as plain as if in answer to my thoughts:--
"Pray be satisfied; the lady could not have been in the least hurt."
I was surprised; for though the voice was polite, even kind, people do
not, at least in our country society, address one another without an
introduction. I answered civilly, of course, but it must have been with
some stiffness of manner, for the gentleman said:--
"Pardon me; I concluded it was your sister who slipped, and that you
were uneasy about her," bowed, and immediately moved away.
I felt uncomfortable; uncertain whether to take any more notice of
him or not; wondering who it was that had used the unwonted liberty of
speaking to me--a stranger--and whether it would have been committing
myself in any way to venture more than a bow or a "Thank you."
At last common-sense settled the matter.
"Dora Johnston," thought I, "do not be a simpleton. Do you consider
yourself so much better than your fellow creatures that you hesitate at
returning a civil answer to a civil remark--meant kindly, too--because
you, forsooth, like the French gentleman who was entreated to save
another gentleman from drowning--'should have been most happy, but
have never been introduced.'--What, girl, is this your scorn of
conventionality--your grand habit of thinking and judging for
yourself--your noble independence of all the follies of society? Fie!
fie!"
To punish myself for my cowardice, I determined to turn round and look
at the gentleman.
The punishment was not severe. He had a good face, brown and dark: a
thin, spare, wiry figure, an air somewhat formal. His eyes were grave,
yet not without a lurking spirit of humour, which seemed to have clearly
penetrated, and been rather amused by, my foolish embarrassment and
ridiculous indecision. This vexed me for the moment: then I smiled--we
both smiled: and began to talk.
Of course, it would have been different had he been a young man; but he
was not. I should think he was nearly forty.
At this moment Mrs. Granton came up, with her usual pleased look when
she thinks other people are pleased with one another, and said in that
friendly manner that makes everybody else feel friendly together also:--
"A partner, I see. That's right, Miss Dora. You shall have a quadrille
in a minute, Doctor."
Doctor! I felt relieved. He might have been worse--perhaps, from his
beard, even a camp officer.
"Our friend takes things too much for granted," he said, smiling. "I
believe I must introduce myself. My name is Urquhart."
"Doctor Urquhart?"
"Yes."
Here the quadrille began to form, and I to button my gloves not
discontentedly. He said:--"I fear I am assuming a right on false
pretences, for I never danced, in my life. You do, I see. I must not
detain you from another partner." And, once again, my unknown friend,
who seemed to have such extreme penetration into my motives and
intentions, moved aside.
Of course I got no partner--I never do. When the doctor re-appeared,
I was unfeignedly glad to see him. He took no notice whatever of my
humiliating state of solitude, but sat down in one of the dancers'
vacated places, and resumed the thread of our conversation, as if it had
never been broken.
Often in a crowd, two people not much interested therein, fall upon
subjects perfectly extraneous, which at once make them feel interested
in these and in each other. Thus, it seems quite odd this morning to
think of the multiplicity of heterogeneous topics which Dr. Urquhart
discussed last night. I gained from him much various information. He
must have been a great traveller, and observer too; and for me, I marvel
now to recollect how freely I spoke my mind on many things which I
usually keep to myself, partly from shyness, partly because nobody here
at home cares one straw about them. Among others, came the universal
theme,--the war.
I said, I thought the three much laughed-at Quakers, who went to advise
peace to the Czar Nicholas, were much nearer the truth than many of
their mockers. War seemed to me so utterly opposed to Christianity that
I did not see how any Christian man could ever become a soldier.
At this, Doctor Urquhart leant his elbow on the arm of the sofa, and
looked me steadily in the face.
"Do you mean that a Christian man is not to defend his own life or
liberty, or that of others, under any circumstances?--or is he to wear
a red coat peacefully while peace lasts, and at his first battle throw
down his musket, shoulder his Testament, and walk away?"
These words, though of a freer tone than I was used to, were not spoken
in any irreverence. They puzzled me. I felt as if I had been playing
the oracle upon a subject whereon I had not the least grounds to form an
opinion at all. Yet I would not yield.
"Dr. Urquhart, if you recollect, I said '_become_ a soldier.' How, being
already a soldier, a Christian man should act, I am not wise enough to
judge. But I do think, other professions being open, for him to choose
voluntarily the profession of arms, and to receive wages for taking away
life, is at best a monstrous anomaly. Nay, however it may be glossed
over and refined away, surely, in face of the plain command, '_Thou
shall not kill_,' military glory seems little better than a picturesque
form of murder."
I spoke strongly--more strongly, perhaps, than a young woman, whose
opinions are more instincts and emotions than matured principles, ought
to speak. If so, Doctor Urquhart gave me a fitting rebuke by his total
silence.
Nor did he, for some time, even so much as look at me, but bent his head
down till I could only catch the fore-shortened profile of forehead,
nose, and curly beard. Certainly, though a moustache is mean, puppyish,
intolerable, and whiskers not much better, there is something fine and
manly in a regular Oriental beard.
Doctor Urquhart spoke at last.
"So, as I overheard you say to Mrs. Granton, you 'hate soldiers.' 'Hate'
is a strong word--for a Christian woman."
My own weapons turned upon me.
"Yes, I hate soldiers because my principles, instincts, observations,
confirm me in the justice of my dislike. In peace, they are idle,
useless, extravagant, cumberers of the country--the mere butterflies of
society. In war--you know what they are."
"Do I?" with a slight smile.
I grew rather angry.
"In truth, had I ever had a spark of military ardour, it would have
been quenched within the last year. I never see a thing--we'll not say
a man--with a red coat on, who does not make himself thoroughly
contempt--"
The word stuck in the middle. For lo! there passed slowly by, my sister
Lisabel; leaning on the arm of Captain Treherne, looking as I never
saw Lisabel look before. It suddenly rushed across me what might
happen--perhaps had happened. Suppose, in thus passionately venting my
prejudices, I should be tacitly condemning my--what an odd idea!--my
brother-in-law? Pride, if no better feeling, caused me to hesitate.
Doctor Urquart said, quietly enough, "I should tell you--indeed I ought
to have told you before--that I am myself in the army."
I am sure I looked--as I felt--like a downright fool. This comes, I
thought, of speaking one's mind, especially to strangers. Oh! should
I ever learn to hold my tongue, or gabble pretty harmless nonsense as
other girls? Why should I have talked seriously to this man at all? I
knew nothing of him, and had no business to be interested in him, or
even to have listened to him--my sister would say,--until he had been
"properly introduced;"--until I knew where he lived, and who were his
father and mother, and what was his profession, and how much income he
had a-year?
Still, I did feel interested, and could not help it. Something it seemed
that I was bound to say; I wished it to be civil, if possible.
"But you are Doctor Urquhart. An army-surgeon is scarcely like a
soldier: his business is to save life rather than to destroy it. Surely
_you_ never could have killed anybody?"
The moment I had put the question, I saw how childish and uncalled-for,
in fact, how actually impertinent it was. Covered with confusion, I drew
back, and looked another way. It was the greatest relief imaginable when
just then Lisabel saw me, and came up with Captain Treherne, all smiles,
to say, was it not the pleasantest party imaginable? and who had I been
dancing with?
"Nobody."
"Nay, I saw you myself, talking to some strange gentleman. Who was he? A
rather odd-looking person, and--"
"Hush, please. It was a Doctor Urquhart."
"Urquhart of ours?" cried young Treherne. "Why, he told me he should not
come, or should not stay ten minutes if he came. Much too solid for this
kind of thing--eh, you see? Yet a capital fellow. The best fellow in all
the world. Where is he?"
But the "best fellow in all the world" had entirely disappeared.
I enjoyed the rest of the evening extremely,--that is, pretty well. Not
altogether, now I come to think of it, for though I danced to my heart's
content, Captain Treherne seeming eager to bring up his whole regiment,
successively, for my patronage and Penelope's (N.B. _not_ Lisabel's),
whenever I caught a distant glimpse of Dr. Urquhart's brown beard,
conscience stung me for my folly and want of tact. Dear me! What a thing
it is that one can so seldom utter an honest opinion without offending
somebody.
Was he really offended? He must have seen that I did not mean any harm;
nor does he look like one of those touchy people who are always wincing
as if they trod on the tails of imaginary adders. Yet he made no
attempt to come and talk to me again; for which I was sorry; partly
because I would have liked to make him some amends, and partly because
he seemed the only man present worth talking to.
I do wonder more and more what my sisters can find in the young men
they dance and chatter with. To me they are inane, conceited, absolutely
unendurable. Yet there may be good in some of them. May? Nay, there
_must_ be good in every human being. Alas, me! Well might Dr. Urquhart
say last night that there are no judgments so harsh as those of the
erring, the inexperienced, and the young.
I ought to add, that when we were wearily waiting for our fly to draw up
to the hall-door, Dr. Urquhart suddenly appeared. Papa had Penelope on
his arm, Lisabel was whispering with Captain Treherne. Yes, depend upon
it, that young man will be my brother-in-law. I stood by myself in the
doorway, looking out on the pitch-dark night, when some one behind me
said:--
"Pray stand within shelter. You young ladies are never half careful
enough of your health. Allow me."
And with a grave professional air, my medical friend wrapped me closely
up in my shawl.
"A plaid, I see. That is sensible. There is nothing for warmth like a
good plaid," he said, with a smile, which, even had it not been for his
name, and a slight strengthening and broadening of his English, scarcely
amounting to an accent, would have pretty well showed what part of the
kingdom Dr. Urquhart came from. I was going, in my bluntness, to put the
direct question, but felt as if I had committed myself quite enough for
one night.
Just then was shouted out "Mr. Johnson's,"--(oh dear, shall we never
get the aristocratic 't' into our plebeian name!)--"carriage," and I was
hurried into the fly. Not by the Doctor, though; he stood like a bear on
the doorstep, and never attempted to stir.
That's all.