O fy gar ride and fy gar rin
And haste ye to find these traitors agen,
For shees be burnt and hees been slein,
The wearifu gaberlunzie man.
Some rade upon horse, some ran afit,
The wife was wud and out of her wit,
She couldna gang, nor yet could she sit,
But aye did curse and ban.--KING JAMES V
Mervyn and Phoebe were playing at billiards, as a means of inducing him
to take exercise enough to make him sleep. The governess and the two
girls were gone to the dentist's at Elverslope. The winter's day was
closing in, when there was a knock at the door, and they beheld Miss
Fennimore, deadly white, and Maria, who flew up to Phoebe,
crying--'Bertha's gone, Phoebe!'
'The next up-train stops at Elverslope at 8.30,' said the governess,
staring in Mervyn's face, as though repeating a lesson. 'A carriage will
be here by seven. I will bring her home, or never return.'
'Gone!'
'It was inexcusable in me, sir,' said Miss Fennimore, resting a hand on
the table to support herself. 'I thought it needlessly galling to let
her feel herself watched; and at her request, let her remain in the
waiting-room while her sister was in the dentist's hands. When, after an
hour, Maria was released, she was gone.'
'Alone?' cried Phoebe.
'Alone, I hope. I went to the station; the train had been ten minutes
gone; but a young lady, alone, in mourning, and with no luggage but a
little bag, had got in there for London. Happily, they did not know her;
and it was the parliamentary train, which is five hours on the road. I
telegraphed at once to your brother to meet her at the terminus.'
'I have no hope,' said Mervyn, doggedly, seating himself on the table,
his feet dangling. 'He will be in the lowest gutter of Whittingtonia,
where no one can find him. The fellow will meet that miserable child, go
off to Ostend this very night, marry her before to-morrow morning.
There's an end of it!'
'Where does Mr. Hastings lodge, sir?'
'Nowhere that I know of. There will be no end of time lost in tracing
him! No train before 8.30! I'll go in at once, and have a special.'
'They cannot put on one before nine, because of the excursion trains for
the cattle-show. I should not have been in time had I driven to catch
the express at W.,' said Miss Fennimore, in her clear voice of
desperation. 'The 8.30 reaches town at 11.23. Will you give me the
addresses where I may inquire, sir?'
'You! I am going myself. You would be of no use,' said Mervyn, in a
stunned, mechanical way; and looking at his watch, he went to give
orders.
'He should not go, Phoebe. In his state the mere journey is a fearful
risk.'
'It can't be helped,' said Phoebe. 'I shall go with him. You stay to
take care of Maria. There will be Robert to help us;' and as the
governess would have spoken farther, she held up her hands in
entreaty--'O pray don't say anything! I can't go on if I do anything but
act.'
Yet in the endeavour to keep her brother quiet, and to husband his
powers, Phoebe's movements and words had rather an additional gentleness
and deliberation; and so free from bustle was her whole demeanour, that
he never comprehended her intention of accompanying him till she stepped
into the carriage beside him.
'What's this? You coming?'
'I will give you no trouble.'
'Well, you may help to manage the girl;' and he lay back, relieved to be
off, but already spent by the hurry of the last two hours. Phoebe could
sit and--no--not think, except that Robert was at the other end of the
line.
The drive seemed to have lasted half the night ere the lamps of
Elverslope made constellations in the valley, and the green and red
lights of the station loomed out on the hill. They drove into the circle
of gaslights, among the vaporous steeds of omnibuses and flies, and
entered the station, Phoebe's veil down, and Mervyn shading his dazzled
eyes from the glare. They were half an hour too soon; and while waiting,
it occurred to Phoebe to inquire whether a telegram for Beauchamp had
been received. Even so, and they must have crossed the express; but a
duplicate was brought to them.
'Safe. We shall be at Elverslope at 10.20, P.M.'
Assuredly Phoebe did not faint, for she stood on her feet; and Mervyn
never perceived the suspension of senses, which lasted till she found him
for the second time asking whether she would go home or await the
travellers at Elverslope.
'Home,' she said, instinctively, in her relief forgetting all the
distress of what had taken place, so that her sensations were little
short of felicity; and as she heard the 8.30 train roaring up, she shed
tears of joy at having no concern therewith. The darkness and Mervyn's
silence were comfortable, for she could wipe unseen her showers of tears
at each gust of thankfulness that passed over her; and it was long before
she could command her voice even to ask her companion whether he were
tired. 'No,' he said; but the tone was more than half-sullen; and at the
thought of the meeting between the brothers, poor Phoebe's heart seemed
to die within her. Against their dark looks and curt sayings to one
another she had no courage.
When they reached home, she begged him to go at once to bed, hoping thus
to defer the meeting; but he would not hear of doing so; and her only
good augury was that his looks were pale, languid, and subdued, rather
than flushed and excited. Miss Fennimore was in the hall, and he went
towards her, saying, in a friendly tone, 'So, Miss Fennimore, you have
heard that this unlucky child has given us a fright for nothing.'
The voice in which she assented was hoarse and scarcely audible, and she
looked as if twenty years had passed over her head.
'It was all owing to your promptitude,' said Mervyn; 'a capital thought
that telegram.'
'I am glad,' said Miss Fennimore; 'but I do not lose sight of my own
negligence. It convinces me that I am utterly unfit for the charge I
assumed. I shall leave your sisters as soon as new plans can be formed.'
'Why, I'll be bound none of your pupils ever played you such a trick
before!'
Miss Fennimore only looked as if this convinced her the more; but it was
no time for the argument, and Phoebe caressingly persuaded her to come
into the library and drink coffee with them, judging rightly that she had
tasted nothing since morning.
Afterwards Phoebe induced Mervyn to lie on the sofa, and having made
every preparation for the travellers, she sat down to wait. She could
not read, she could not work; she felt that tranquillity was needful for
her brother, and had learnt already the soothing effect of absolute
repose. Indeed, one of the first tokens by which Miss Fennimore had
perceived character in Phoebe was her faculty of being still. Only that
which has substance can be motionless. There she sat in the lamplight,
her head drooping, her hands clasped on her knee, her eyes bent down, not
drowsy, not abstracted, not rigid, but peaceful. Her brother lay in the
shade, watching her with a half-fascinated gaze, as though a magnetic
spell repressed all inclination to work himself into agitation.
The stillness became an effort at last, but it was resolutely preserved
till the frost-bound gravel resounded with wheels. Phoebe rose, Mervyn
started up, caught her hand and squeezed it hard. 'Do not let him be
hard on me, Phoebe,' he said. 'I could not bear it.'
She had little expected this. Her answer was a mute caress, and she
hurried out, but in a tumult of feeling, retreated behind the shelter of
a pillar, and silently put her hand on Robert's arm as he stepped out of
the carriage.
'Wait,' he whispered, holding her back. 'Hush! I have promised that she
shall see no one.'
Bertha descended, unassisted, her veil down, and neither turning to the
right nor the left, crossed the hall and went upstairs. Robert took off
his overcoat and hat, took a light and followed her, signing that Phoebe
should remain behind. She found Mervyn at the library door, like herself
rather appalled at the apparition that had swept past them. She put her
hand into his, with a kind of common feeling that they were awaiting a
strict judge.
Robert soon reappeared, and in a preoccupied way, kissed the one and
shook hands with the other, saying, 'She has locked her door, and says
she wants nothing. I will try again presently--not you, Phoebe; I could
only get her home on condition she should see no one without her own
consent. So you had my telegram?'
'We met it at the station. How did you find her?'
'Had the man been written to?' asked Robert.
'No,' said Mervyn; 'we thought it best to treat it as childish nonsense,
not worth serious notice, or in fact--I was not equal to writing.'
The weary, dejected tone made Robert look up, contrary to the brothers'
usual habit of avoiding one another's eye, and he exclaimed, 'I did not
know! You were not going to London to-night?'
'Worse staying at home,' murmured Mervyn, as, leaning on a corner of the
mantelshelf, he rested his head on his hand.
'I was coming with him,' said Phoebe; 'I thought if he gave directions,
you could act.'
Robert continued to cast at him glances of dismay and compunction while
pursuing the narrative. 'Hastings must have learnt by some means that
the speculation was not what he had imagined; for though he met her at
Paddington--'
'He did?'
'She had telegraphed to him while waiting at Swindon. He found her out
before I did, but he felt himself in a predicament, and I believe I was a
welcome sight to him. He begged me to do him the justice to acquit him
of all participation in this rash step, and said he had only met Bertha
with a view to replacing her in the hands of her family. How it would
have been without me, I cannot tell, but I am inclined to believe that he
did not know how to dispose of her. She clung to him and turned away
from me so decidedly that I was almost grateful for the line he took; and
he was obliged to tell her, with many fine speeches, that he could not
expose her to share his poverty; and when the poor silly child declared
she had enough for both, he told her plainly that it would not be
available for six years, and he could not let her--tenderly nurtured,
etc., etc. Then supposing me uninformed, he disclaimed all betrayal of
your confidence, and represented all that had passed as sport with a
child, which to his surprise she had taken as earnest.'
'Poor Bertha!' exclaimed Phoebe.
'Pray where did this scene take place?' asked Mervyn.
'On the platform; but it was far too quiet to attract notice.'
'What! you had no fits nor struggles?'
'I should think not,' smiled Phoebe.
'She stood like a statue, when she understood him; and when he would
audaciously have shaken hands with her, she made a distant courtesy,
quite dignified. I took her to the waiting-room, and put back her veil.
She was crimson, and nearly choking, but she repelled me, and never gave
way. I asked if she would sleep at an inn and go home to-morrow; she
said "No." I told her I could not take her to my place because of the
curates. "I'll go to a sisterhood," she said; and when I told her she
was in no mood to be received there, she answered, "I don't care." Then
I proposed taking her to Augusta, but that was worse; and at last I got
her to come home in the dark, on my promise that she should see no one
till she chose. Not a word has she since uttered.'
'Could he really have meant it all in play?' said Phoebe; 'yet there was
his letter.'
'I see it all,' said Mervyn. 'I was an ass to suppose such needy rogues
could come near girls of fortune without running up the scent. As I told
Phoebe, I know they had some monstrous ideas of the amount, which I never
thought it worth my while to contradict. I imagine old Jack only
intended a promising little flirtation, capable of being brought to bear
if occasion served, but otherwise to be cast aside as child's play.
Nobody could suspect such an inflammable nature with that baby face; but
it seems she was ready to eat her fingers with dulness in the
school-room, and had prodigious notions of the rights of woman; so she
took all he said most seriously, and met him more than half-way. Then he
goes to London, gets better information, looks at the will in Doctors'
Commons, maybe, finds it a slowish speculation, and wants to let her down
easy; whereof she has no notion, writes two letters to his one, as we
know, gets desperate, and makes this excursion.'
Robert thoughtfully said 'Yes;' and Phoebe, though she did not like to
betray it, mentally owned that the intercepted letter confirmed Mervyn's
opinion, being evidently meant to pacify what was inconveniently ardent
and impassioned, without making tangible promises or professions.
The silence was broken by Mervyn. 'There! I shall go to bed. Phoebe,
when you see that poor child, tell her not to be afraid of me, for the
scrape was of my making, so don't be sharp with her.'
'I hope not,' said Robert gravely; 'I am beginning to learn that severity
is injustice, not justice. Good night, Mervyn; I hope this has not done
you harm.'
'I am glad not to be at Paddington this minute,' said Mervyn. 'You will
stay and help us through this business. It is past us.'
'I will stay as long as I can, if you wish it.'
Phoebe's fervent 'Thank you!' was for both. She had never heard such
friendly tones between those two, though Mervyn's were still half sullen,
and chiefly softened by dejection and weariness.
'Why, Phoebe,' cried Robert, as the door closed, 'how could you not tell
me this?'
'I thought I had told you that he was very unwell.'
'Unwell! I never saw any one so much altered.'
'He is at his best when he is pale. The attacks are only kept off by
reducing him, and he must be materially better to have no threatening
after such a day as this.'
'Well, I am glad you have not had the letter that I posted only to-day!'
'I knew you were displeased,' said Phoebe, 'and you see you were quite
right in not wishing us to stay here; but you forgive us now--Mervyn and
me, I mean.'
'Don't couple yourself with him, Phoebe!'
'Yes, I must; for we both equally misjudged, and he blames himself more
than any one.'
'His looks plead for him as effectually as you can do, Phoebe, and rebuke
me for having fancied you weak and perverse in remaining after the
remonstrance.'
'I do not wonder at it,' said Phoebe; 'but it is over now, and don't let
us talk about it. I want nothing to spoil the comfort of knowing that I
have you here.'
'I have a multitude of things to say, but you look sleepy.'
'Yes, I am afraid I am. I should like to sit up all night to make the
most of you, but I could not keep awake.'
Childlike, she no sooner had some one on whom to repose her care than
slumber claimed its due, and she went away to her thankful rest,
treasuring the thought of Robert's presence, and resting in the ineffable
blessing of being able to overlook the thorns in gratitude for the roses.
Bertha did not appear in the morning. Robert went to her door, and was
told that she would see no one; and Phoebe's entreaties for admission
were met with silence, till he forbade their repetition. 'It only
hardens her,' he said; 'we must leave her to herself.'
'She will not eat, she will be ill!'
'If she do not yield at dinner-time, Lieschen shall carry food to her,
but she shall not have the pleasure of disappointing you. Sullenness
must be left to weary itself out.'
'Is not this more shame than sullenness?'
'True shame hides its face and confesses--sullen shame hides like Adam.
If hers had not been stubborn, it would have melted at your voice. She
must wait to hear it again, till she have learnt to crave for it.'
He looked so resolute that Phoebe durst plead no longer, but her heart
sank at the thought of the obstinate force of poor Bertha's nature.
Persistence was innate in the Fulmorts, and it was likely to be a severe
and lasting trial whether Robert or Bertha would hold out the longest.
Since he had captured her, however, all were relieved tacitly to give her
up to his management; and at dinner-time, on his stern assurance that
unless she would accept food, the door would be forced, she admitted some
sandwiches and tea, and desired to have her firing replenished, but would
allow no one to enter.
Robert, at Mervyn's earnest entreaty, arranged to remain over the Sunday.
The two brothers met shyly at first, using Phoebe as a medium of
communication; but they drew nearer after a time, in the discussion of
the robbery, and Robert presently found means of helping Mervyn, by
letter-writing, and taking business off his hands to which Phoebe was
unequal. Both concurred in insisting that Phoebe should keep her
engagement to the Raymonds for the morrow, as the only means of
preventing Bertha's escapade from making a sensation; and by night she
became satisfied that not only would the brothers keep the peace in her
absence, but that a day's _tete-a-tete_ might rather promote their good
understanding.
Still, she was in no mood to enjoy, when she had to leave Bertha's door
still unopened, and the only comfort she could look to was in the
conversation with Miss Charlecote on the way. From her, there was no
concealing what had happened, and, to Phoebe's surprise, she was
encouraging. From an external point of view, she could judge better than
those more nearly concerned, and her elder years made her more conscious
what time could do. She would not let the adventure be regarded as a
lasting blight on Bertha's life. Had the girl been a few years older,
she could never have held up her head again; but as it was, Honor
foretold that, by the time she was twenty, the adventure would appear
incredible. It was not to be lightly passed over, but she must not be
allowed to lose her self-respect, nor despair of regaining a place in the
family esteem.
Phoebe could not imagine her ever recovering the being thus cast off by
her first love.
'My dear, believe me, it was not love at all, only mystery and the rights
of woman. Her very demonstrativeness shows that it was not the heart,
but the vanity.'
Phoebe tried to believe, and at least was refreshed by the sympathy, so
as to be able, to her own surprise, to be pleased and happy at Moorcroft,
where Sir John and his wife were full of kindness, and the bright
household mirth of the sons and daughters showed Phoebe some of the
benefit Miss Fennimore expected for Bertha from girl friends. One of the
younger ones showed her a present in preparation for 'cousin Cecily,' and
embarked in a list of the names of the cousinhood at Sutton; and though
an elder sister decidedly closed young Harriet's mouth, yet afterwards
Phoebe was favoured with a sight of a photograph of the dear cousin, and
inferred from it that the young lady's looks were quite severe enough to
account for her cruelty.
The having been plunged into a new atmosphere was good for Phoebe, and
she brought home so cheerful a face, that even the news of Bertha's
continued obstinacy could not long sadden it, in the enjoyment of the
sight of Robert making himself necessary to Mervyn, and Mervyn accepting
his services as if there had never been anything but brotherly love
between them. She could have blessed Bertha for having thus brought them
together, and felt as if it were a dream too happy to last.
'What an accountant Robert is!' said Mervyn. 'It is a real sacrifice not
to have him in the business! What a thing we should have made of it, and
he would have taken all the bother!'
'We have done very well to-day,' was Robert's account; 'I don't know what
can have been the matter before, except my propensity for making myself
disagreeable.'
Phoebe went to bed revolving plans for softening Bertha, and was fast
asleep when the lock of her door was turned. As she awoke, the terrors
of the robbery were upon her far more strongly than at the actual moment
of its occurrence; but the voice was familiar, though thin, weak, and
gasping. 'O Phoebe, I've done it! I've starved myself. I am dying;'
and the sound became a shrill cry. 'The dark! O save me!' There was a
heavy fall, and Phoebe, springing to the spot where the white vision had
sunk down, strove to lift a weight, cold as marble, without pulse or
motion. She contrived to raise it, and drag it with her into her own
bed, though in deadly terror at the icy touch and prone helplessness, and
she was feeling in desperation for the bell-rope, when to her great
relief, light and steps approached, and Robert spoke. Alas! his candle
only served to show the ghastly, senseless face.
'She has starved herself!' said Phoebe, with affright.
'A swoon, don't be afraid,' said Robert, who was dressed, and had
evidently been watching. 'Try to warm her; I will fetch something for
her; we shall soon bring her round.'
'A swoon, only a swoon,' Phoebe was forced to reiterate to herself to
keep her senses and check the sobbing screams that swelled in her throat
during the hour-like moments of his absence. She rose, and partly
dressed herself in haste, then strove to chafe the limbs; but her efforts
only struck the deathly chill more deeply into her own heart.
He brought some brandy, with which they moistened her lips, but still in
vain, and Phoebe's dismay was redoubled as she saw his terror. 'It
_must_ be fainting,' he repeated, 'but I had better send for Jackson.
May God have mercy on us all--this is my fault!'
'Her lips move,' gasped Phoebe, as she rubbed the temples with the
stimulant.
'Thank God!' and again they put the spoon to her lips, as the nostrils
expanded, the eyes opened, and she seemed to crave for the cordial. But
vainly Robert raised her in his arms, and Phoebe steadied her own
trembling hand to administer it, there were only choking, sobbing efforts
for words, resulting in hoarse shrieks of anguish.
Mervyn and Miss Fennimore, entering nearly at the same moment, found
Phoebe pale as death, urging composure with a voice of despair; and
Robert with looks of horror that he could no longer control, holding up
the sinking child, her face livid, her eyes strained. 'I can't, I
can't,' she cried, with frightful catches of her breath; 'I shall die--'
and the screams recurred.
Mervyn could not bear the spectacle for an instant, and fled only to
return to listen outside. Miss Fennimore brought authority and presence
of mind. 'Hysterical,' she said. 'There, lay her down; don't try again
yet.'
'It is hunger,' whispered the trembling Phoebe; but Miss Fennimore only
signed to be obeyed, and decidedly saying, 'Be quiet, Bertha, don't
speak,' the habit of submission silenced all but the choking sobs. She
sent Robert to warm a shawl, ordered away the frightened maids, and
enforced stillness, which lasted till Bertha had recovered breath, when
she sobbed out again, 'Robert! Where is he! I shall die! He must pray!
I can't die!'
Miss Fennimore bade Robert compose his voice to pray aloud, and what he
read tranquillized all except Mervyn, who understood this to mean the
worst, and burst away to sit cowering in suspense over his fire. Miss
Fennimore then offered Bertha a morsel of roll dipped in port wine, but
fasting and agitation had really produced a contraction of the muscles of
the throat, and the attempt failed. Bertha was dreadfully terrified, and
Phoebe could hardly control herself, but she was the only person
unbanished by Miss Fennimore. Even Robert's distress became too visible
for the absolute calm by which the governess hoped to exhaust the
hysteria while keeping up vitality by outward applications of warmth and
stimulants, and from time to time renewing the endeavour to administer
nourishment.
It was not till two terrible hours had passed that Phoebe came to the
school-room, and announced to her brothers that after ten minutes' doze,
Bertha had waked, and swallowed a spoonful of arrowroot and wine without
choking. She could not restrain her sobs, and wept uncontrollably as
Mervyn put his arm round her. He was the most composed of the three, for
her powers had been sorely strained, and Robert had suffered most of all.
He had on this day suspected that Bertha was burning the provisions
forced on her, but he had kept silence, believing that she would thus
reduce herself to a more amenable state than if she were angered by
compulsion, and long before serious harm could ensue. Used to the sight
of famine, he thought inanition would break the spirit without injuring
the health. Many a time had he beheld those who professed to have tasted
nothing for two days, trudge off tottering but cheerful, with a
soup-ticket, and he had not calculated on the difference between the
children of want and the delicately nurtured girl, full of overwrought
feeling. Though he had been watching in loving intercession for the
unhappy child, and had resolved on forcing his way to her in the morning,
he felt as if he had played the part of the Archbishop of Pisa, and that,
had she perished in her fearful determination, her blood would have been
on himself. He was quite overcome, and forced to hurry to his own room
to compose himself, ere he could return to inquire further; but there was
little more to hear. Miss Fennimore desired to be alone with the
patient; Phoebe allowed herself to be laid on the sofa and covered with
shawls; Mervyn returned to his bed, and Robert still watched.
There was a great calm after the storm, and Phoebe did not wake till the
dim wintry dawn was struggling with the yellow candlelight, and a
consultation was going on in low tones between Robert and the governess,
both wan and haggard in the uncomfortable light, and their words not more
cheering than their looks. Bertha had become feverish, passing from
restless, talking sleep to startled, painful wakening, and Miss Fennimore
wished Dr. Martyn to be sent for. Phoebe shivered with a cold chill of
disappointment as she gathered their meaning, and coming forward,
entreated the watchers to lie down to rest, while she relieved guard; but
nothing would persuade Miss Fennimore to relinquish her post; and soon
Phoebe had enough to do elsewhere; for her own peculiar patient, Mervyn,
was so ill throughout the morning, that she was constantly employed in
his room, and Robert looking on and trying to aid her, hated himself
doubly for his hasty judgments.
Maria alone could go to church on that Sunday morning, and her version of
the state of affairs brought Miss Charlecote to Beauchamp to offer her
assistance. She saw Dr. Martyn, and undertook the painful preliminary
explanation, and she saw him again after his inspection of Bertha.
'That's a first-rate governess! Exactly so! An educational hot-bed.
Why can't people let girls dress dolls and trundle hoops, as they used to
do?'
'I have never thought Bertha oppressed by her lessons.'
'So much the worse! Those who can't learn, or won't learn, take care of
themselves. Those who have a brain and use it are those that suffer! To
hear that poor child blundering algebra in her sleep might be a caution
to mothers!'
'Did you ever see her before, so as to observe the little hesitation in
her speech?'
'No, they should have mentioned that.'
'It is generally very slight; but one of them--I think, Maria--told me
that she always stammered more after lessons--'
'The blindness of people! As if that had not been a sufficient
thermometer to show when they were overworking her brain! Why, not one
of these Fulmorts has a head that will bear liberties being taken with
it!'
'Can you let us hope that this whole affair came from an affection of the
brain?'
'The elopement! No; I can't flatter you that health or sanity were in
fault there. Nor is it delirium now; the rambling is only in sleep. But
the three days' fast--'
'Two days, was it not?'
'Three. She took nothing since breakfast on Thursday.'
'Have you made out how she passed the last two days?'
'I wrung out some account. I believe this would never have occurred to
her if her brother had given her a sandwich at Paddington; but she came
home exhausted into a distaste for food, which other feelings exaggerated
into a fancy to die rather than face the family. She burnt the
provisions in a rage at their being forced on her, and she slept most of
the time--torpor without acute suffering. Last night in sleep she lost
her hold of her resolution, and woke to the sense of self-preservation.'
'An infinite mercy!'
'Not that the spirit is broken; all her strength goes to sullenness, and
I never saw a case needing greater judgment. Now that she is reduced,
the previous overwork tells on her, and it will be a critical matter to
bring her round. Who can be of use here? Not the married sisters, I
suppose? Miss Fulmort is all that a girl can be at nineteen or twenty,
but she wants age.'
'You think it will be a bad illness?'
'It may not assume an acute form, but it may last a good while; and if
they wish her to have any health again, they must mind what they are
about.'
Honora felt a task set to her. She must be Phoebe's experience as far as
her fifty years could teach her to deal with a little precocious
rationalist in a wild travestie of Thekla. _Ich habe geliebt und
gelebet_ was the farewell laid on Bertha's table. What a Thekla and what
a Max! O profanation! But Honor felt Bertha a charge of her own, and
her aid was the more thankfully accepted that the patient was quite
beyond Phoebe. She had too long rebelled against her sister to find rest
in her guardianship. Phoebe's voice disposed her to resistance, her
advice to wrangling, and Miss Fennimore alone had power to enforce what
was needful; and so devoted was she, that Honor could scarcely persuade
her to lie down to rest for a few hours.
Honor was dismayed at the change from the childish _espiegle_ roundness
of feature to a withered, scathed countenance, singularly old, and
mournfully contrasting with the mischievous-looking waves and rings of
curly hair upon the brow. Premature playing at passion had been sport
with edged tools. Sleeping, the talk was less, however, of the supposed
love, than of science and metaphysics; waking, there was silence between
weakness and sullenness.
Thus passed day after day, always in the same feverish lethargic
oppression which baffled medical skill, and kept the sick mind beyond the
reach of human aid; and so uniform were the days, that her illness seemed
to last for months instead of weeks.
Miss Fennimore insisted on the night-watching for her share. Phoebe
divided with her and Lieschen the morning cares; and Miss Charlecote came
in the forenoon and stayed till night, but slept at home, whither Maria
was kindly invited; but Phoebe did not like to send her away without
herself or Lieschen, and Robert undertook for her being inoffensive to
Mervyn. In fact, she was obliging and unobtrusive, only speaking when
addressed, and a willing messenger. Mervyn first forgot her presence,
then tolerated her saucer eyes, then found her capable of running his
errands, and lastly began to care to please her. Honora had devised
employment for her, by putting a drawer of patchwork at her disposal, and
suggesting that she should make a workbag for each of Robert's 139 school
girls; and the occupation this afforded her was such a public benefit,
that Robert was content to pay the tax of telling her the destination of
each individual bag, and being always corrected if he twice mentioned the
same name. When Mervyn dozed in his chair, she would require from Robert
'stories' of his scholars; and it even came to pass that Mervyn would
recur to what had then passed, as though he had not been wholly asleep.
Mervyn was chiefly dependent on his brother for conversation,
entertainment, and assistance in his affairs; and though not a word
passed upon their differences and no professions were made, the common
anxiety, and Mervyn's great need of help, had swept away all traces of
unfriendliness. Not even when children in the nursery had they been so
free from variance or bitterness as while waiting the issue of their
sister's illness; both humbled, both feeling themselves in part the
cause, each anxious to cheer and console the other--one, weak, subdued,
dependent--the other, considerate, helpful, and eager to atone for past
harshness. Strange for brothers to wait till the ages of twenty-nine and
twenty-seven to find out that they really did prefer each other to every
one else, in spite of the immense differences between their characters
and habits!
'I say,' asked Mervyn, one day, when resting after having brought on
giddiness and confusion by directing Robert how to answer a letter from
the office, 'what would you do with this bore of a business, if it came
to you?'
'Get rid of it,' said Robert, surveying him with startled eyes.
'Aye--sell it, and get the devilry, as you call it, multiplied to all
infinity.'
'Close it.'
'Boil soup in the coppers; bake loaves in the furnaces? It makes you
look at me perilously--and a perilous game you would find it, most likely
to swallow this place and all the rest. Why, you, who had the making of
a man of business in you, might reflect that you can't annihilate
property without damage to other folks.'
'I did not reflect,' said Robert, gravely; 'the matter never occurred to
me.'
'What is the result of your reflection now?'
'Nothing at all,' was the somewhat impatient reply. 'I trust never to
have to consider. Get it out of my hands at any sacrifice, so as it may
do the least harm to others. Had I no other objection to that business,
I should have no choice.'
'Your cloth? Well, that's a pity, for I see how it could be mitigated,
so as to satisfy your scruples;' and Mervyn, whose head could work when
it was not necessary, detailed a scheme for gradually contracting the
most objectionable traffic, and adopting another branch of the trade.
'Excellent,' said Robert, assenting with delight at each pause. 'You
will carry it out.'
'I? I'm only a reprobate distiller.'
There it ended, and Robert must have patience.
The guardian, Mr. Crabbe, came as soon as his gout would permit, and
hemmed and grunted in reply to the strange narrative into which he had
come to inquire. Acting was as yet impossible; Mervyn was forbidden to
transact business, and Bertha was far too ill for the removal of the
young ladies to be attempted. Miss Fennimore did indeed formally give in
her resignation of her situation, but she was too necessary as a nurse
for the time of her departure to be fixed, and Mr. Crabbe was unable to
settle anything definitively. He found Robert--who previously had
spurred him to strong measures--bent on persuading him to lenity, and
especially on keeping Phoebe with Mervyn; and after a day and night of
perplexity, the old gentleman took his leave, promising to come again on
Bertha's recovery, and to pacify the two elder sisters by representing
the condition of Beauchamp, and that for the present the Incumbent of St.
Matthew's and Miss Charlecote might be considered as sufficient guardians
for the inmates. 'Or if their Ladyships thought otherwise,' he said,
with a twinkle in his eye, 'why did they not come down themselves?'
Mervyn made a gesture of horror, but all knew that there was little
danger. Augusta was always 'so low' at the sight of illness, and unless
Phoebe had been the patient out of sight, Juliana would not have brought
her husband; obvious as would have been the coming of an elder sister
when the sickness of the younger dragged on so slowly and wearily.
No one went through so much as Miss Fennimore. Each hour of her
attendance on Bertha stamped the sense of her own failure, and of the
fallacies to which her life had been dedicated. The sincerity, honour,
and modesty that she had inculcated, had been founded on self-esteem
alone; and when they had proved inadequate to prevent their breach, their
outraged relics had prompted the victim to despair and die. Intellectual
development and reasoning powers had not availed one moment against
inclination and self-will, and only survived in the involuntary murmurs
of a disordered nervous system. All this had utterly overthrown that
satisfaction in herself and her own moral qualities in which Miss
Fennimore had always lived; she had become sensible of the deep flaws in
all that she had admired in her own conduct; and her reason being already
prepared by her long and earnest study to accept the faith in its
fulness, she had begun to crave after the Atoning Mercy of which she
sorely felt the need. But if it be hard for one who has never questioned
to take home individually the efficacy of the great Sacrifice, how much
harder for one taught to deny the Godhead which rendered the Victim
worthy to satisfy Eternal Justice? She accepted the truth, but the
gracious words would not reach her spirit; they were to her as a feast in
a hungry man's dream. Robert alone was aware of the struggles through
which she was passing, and he could do little in direct aid of her; the
books--even the passages of Scripture that he found for her--seemed to
fall short; it was as though the sufferer in the wilderness lay in sight
of the brazen serpent, but his eyes were holden that he could not see it.
Only the governess's strong and untaxed health could have carried her
through her distress and fatigue, for she continued to engross the most
trying share of the nursing, anxious to shield Phoebe from even the
knowledge of all the miseries of Bertha's nights, when the poor child
would start on her pillow with a shriek, gaze wildly round, trembling in
every limb, the dew starting on her brow, face well-nigh convulsed, teeth
chattering, and strange, incoherent words--
'A dream, only a dream!' she murmured, recovering consciousness.
'What was only a dream?' asked Miss Fennimore, one night.
'Oh, nothing!' but she still shivered; then striving to catch hold of the
broken threads of her philosophy, 'How one's imagination is a prey
to--to--what is it? To--to old impressions--when one is weak.'
'What kind of impressions?' asked Miss Fennimore, resolved to probe the
matter.
Bertha, whose defect of speech was greatly increased by weakness, was
long in making her answer comprehensible; but Miss Fennimore gathered it
at last, and it made her spirit quake, for it referred to the terrors
beyond the grave. Yet she firmly answered--
'Such impressions may not always result from weakness.'
'I thought,' cried Bertha, rising on her elbow, 'I thought that an
advanced state of civilization dispenses with sectarian--I mean
superstitious--literal threats.'
'No civilization can change those decrees, nor make them unmerited,' said
Miss Fennimore, sadly.
'How?' repeated Bertha, frowning. 'You, too? You don't mean that? You
are not one of the narrow minds that want to doom their fellow-creatures
for ever.' Her eyes had grown large, round, and bright, and she clutched
Miss Fennimore's hand, gasping, 'Say, not for ever!'
'My poor child! did I ever teach you it was not?'
'You thought so!' cried Bertha; 'enlightened people think so. O
say--only say it does not last!'
'Bertha, I cannot. God forgive me for the falsehoods to which I led you,
the realities I put aside from you.'
Bertha gave a cry of anguish, and sank back exhausted, damps of terror on
her brow; but she presently cried out, 'If it would not last! I can't
bear the thought! I can't bear to live, but I can't die! Oh! who will
save me?'
To Miss Fennimore's lips rose the words of St. Paul to the jailer.
'Believe! believe!' cried Bertha, petulantly, 'believe what?'
'Believe that He gave His Life to purchase your safety and mine through
that Eternity.'
And Miss Fennimore sank on her knees, weeping and hiding her face. The
words which she had gazed at, and listened to, in vain longing, had--even
as she imparted them--touched herself in their fulness. She had seen the
face of Truth, when, at Mrs. Fulmort's death-bed, she had heard Phoebe
speak of the Blood that cleanseth from all sin. Then it had been a
moment's glimpse. She had sought it earnestly ever since, and at length
it had come to nestle within her own bosom. It was not sight, it was
touch--it was embracing and holding fast.
Alas! the sight was hidden from Bertha. She moodily turned aside in
vexation, as though her last trust had failed her. In vain did Miss
Fennimore, feeling that she had led her to the brink of an abyss of depth
unknown, till she was tottering on the verge, lavish on her the most
tender cares. They were requited with resentful gloom, that the
governess felt to be so just towards herself that she would hardly have
been able to lift up her head but for the new reliance that gave peace to
deepening contrition.
That was a bad night, and the day was worse. Bertha had more strength,
but more fever; and the much-enduring Phoebe could hardly be persuaded to
leave her to Miss Charlecote at dusk, and air herself with her brothers
in the garden. The weather was close and misty, and Honora set open the
door to admit the air from the open passage window. A low, soft, lulling
sound came in, so much softened by distance that the tune alone showed
that it was an infant school ditty sung by Maria, while rocking herself
in her low chair over the school-room fire. Turning to discover whether
the invalid were annoyed by it, Honor beheld the hard, keen little eyes
intently fixed, until presently they filled with tears; and with a heavy
sigh, the words broke forth, 'Oh! to be as silly as she is!'
'As _selig_, you mean,' said Honor, kindly.
'It is the same thing,' she said, with a bitter ring in her poor worn
voice.
'No, it is not weakness that makes your sister happy. She was far less
happy before she learnt to use her powers lovingly.'
With such earnestness that her stuttering was very painful to hear, she
exclaimed, 'Miss Charlecote, I can't recollect things--I get puzzled--I
don't say what I want to say. Tell me, is not my brain softening or
weakening? You know Maria had water on the head once!' and her accents
were pitiably full of hope.
'Indeed, my dear, you are not becoming like Maria.'
'If I were,' said Bertha, certainly showing no such resemblance, 'I
suppose I should not know it. I wonder whether Maria be ever conscious
of her _Ich_,' said she, with a weary sigh, as if this were a companion
whence she could not escape.
'Dear child, your _Ich_ would be set aside by living to others, who only
seek to make you happier.'
'I wish they would let me alone. If they had, there would have been an
end of it.'
'An end--no indeed, my poor child!'
'There!' cried Bertha; 'that's what it is to live! To be shuddered at!'
'No, Bertha, I did not shudder at the wild delusion and indiscretion,
which may be lived down and redeemed, but at the fearful act that would
have cut you off from all hope, and chained you to yourself, and such a
self, for ever, never to part from the shame whence you sought to escape.
Yes, surely there must have been pleading in Heaven to win for you that
instant's relenting. Rescued twice over, there must be some work for you
to do, something to cast into shade all that has passed.'
'It will not destroy memory!' she said, with hopeless indifference.
'No; but you may be so occupied with it as to rise above your present
pain and humiliation, and remember them only to gather new force from
your thankfulness.'
'What, that I was made a fool of?' cried Bertha, with sharpness in her
thin voice.
'That you were brought back to the new life that is before you.'
Though Bertha made no answer, Honor trusted that a beginning had been
made, but only to be disappointed, for the fever was higher the next day,
and Bertha was too much oppressed for speech. The only good sign was
that in the dusk she desired that the door should be left open, in case
Maria should be singing. It was the first preference she had evinced.
The brothers were ready to crown Maria, and she sang with such good-will
that Phoebe was forced to take precautions, fearing lest the harmony
should lose 'the modest charm of not too much.'
There ensued a decided liking for Maria's company, partly no doubt from
her envied deficiency, and her ignorance of the extent of Bertha's
misdemeanour, partly because there was less effort of mind in intercourse
with her. Her pleasure in waiting on her sister was likewise so warm and
grateful, that Bertha felt herself conferring a favour, and took
everything from her in a spirit very different from the dull submission
towards Miss Fennimore or the peevish tyranny over Phoebe. Towards no
one else save Miss Charlecote did she show any favour, for though their
conversation was never even alluded to, it had probably left a pleasant
impression, and possibly she was entertained by Honor's systematic habit
of talking of the world beyond to the other nurses in her presence.
But these likings were far more scantily shown than her dislikes, and it
was hard for her attendants to acquiesce in the physician's exhortations
to be patient till her spirits and nerves should have recovered the
shock. Even the entrance of a new housemaid threw her into a trepidation
which she was long in recovering, and any proposal of seeing any person
beyond the few who had been with her from the first, occasioned
trembling, entreaties, and tears.
Phoebe, after her brief heroineship, had lapsed into quite a secondary
position. In the reaction of the brothers' feeling towards each other,
they almost left her out. Both were too sure of her to be eager for her;
and besides, as Bertha slowly improved, Mervyn's prime attention was
lavished on the endeavour to find what would give her pleasure. And in
the sick room, Miss Fennimore and Miss Charlecote could better rule;
while Maria was preferred as a companion. Honor often admired to see how
content Phoebe was to forego the privilege of waiting on her sister,
preparing pleasures and comforts for her in the background, and
committing them to the hands whence they would be most welcome, without a
moment's grudge at her own distastefulness to the patient. She seemed to
think it the natural consequence of the superiority of all the rest, and
fully acquiesced. Sometimes a tear would rise for a moment at Bertha's
rude petulance, but it was dashed off for a resolute smile, as if with
the feeling of a child against tears, and she as plainly felt the
background her natural position, as if she had never been prominent from
circumstances. Whatever was to be done, she did it, and she was far more
grateful to Mervyn for loving Robert and enduring Maria, than for any
preference to herself. Always finding cause for thanks, she rejoiced
even in the delay caused by Bertha's illness, and in Robert's stay in his
brother's home, where she had scarcely dared to hope ever to have seen
him again. Week after week he remained, constantly pressed by Mervyn to
delay his departure, and not unwillingly yielding, since he felt that
there was a long arrear of fraternal kindness to be made up, and that
while St. Matthew's was in safe hands, he might justly consider that his
paramount duty was to his brother and sisters in their present need. At
length, however, the Lent services claimed him in London, and affairs at
Beauchamp were so much mended, that Phoebe owned that they ought no
longer to detain him from his parish, although Bertha was only able to be
lifted to a couch, took little notice of any endeavour to interest her,
and when he bade her farewell, hardly raised eye or hand in return.