EXODUS.
But let us turn and see what has been going forward in the old
parsonage this long weary year. Not much that is noteworthy, I fear.
The chronicle of a year's sickness and unhappiness, would be rather
uninteresting, so I must get on as quick as I can.
The Vicar only slowly revived from the fit in which he fell on the
morning of Mary's departure to find himself hopelessly paralytic,
unable to walk without support, and barely able to articulate
distinctly. It was when he was in this state, being led up and down the
garden by the Doctor and Frank Maberly, the former of whom was trying
to attract his attention to some of their old favourites, the flowers,
that Miss Thornton came to him with the letter which Mary had written
from Brighton, immediately after their marriage.
It was, on the whole, a great relief for the Vicar. He had dreaded to
hear worse than this. They had kept from him all knowledge of Hawker's
forgery on his father, which had been communicated to them by Major
Buckley. So that he began to prepare his mind for the reception of
George Hawker as a son-in-law, and to force himself to like him. So
with shaking palsied hand he wrote:--
"Dear Girl,--In sickness or sorrow, remember that I am still your
father. I hope you will not stop long in London, but come back and stay
near me. We must forget all that has passed, and make the best of it.--
"JOHN THORNTON."
Miss Thornton wrote:--
"My dearest foolish Mary,--How could you leave us like that, my love!
Oh, if you had only let us know what was going on, I could have told
you such things, my dear. But now you will never know them, I hope. I
hope Mr. Hawker will use you kindly. Your father hopes that you and he
may come down and live near him, but we know that is impossible. If
your father were to know of your husband's fearful delinquencies, it
would kill him at once. But when trouble comes on you, my love, as it
must in the end, remember that there is still a happy home left you
here."
These letters she never received. George burnt them without giving them
to her, so that for a year she remained under the impression that they
had cast her off. So only at the last did she, as the sole hope of
warding off poverty and misery from her child, determine to cast
herself upon their mercy.
The year had nearly passed, when the Vicar had another stroke, a stroke
that rendered him childish and helpless, and precluded all possibility
of his leaving his bed again. Miss Thornton found that it was necessary
to have a man servant in the house now, to move him, and so on. So one
evening, when Major and Mrs. Buckley and the Doctor had come down to
sit with her, she asked, did they know a man who could undertake the
business?
"I do," said the Doctor. "I know a man who would suit you exactly. A
strong knave enough. An old soldier."
"I don't think we should like a soldier in the house, Doctor," said
Miss Thornton. "They use such very odd language sometimes, you know."
"This man never swears," said the Doctor.
"But soldiers are apt to drink sometimes, you know, Doctor," said Miss
Thornton. "And that wouldn't do in this case."
"I've known the man all my life," said the Doctor, with animation. "And
I never saw him drunk."
"He seems faultless, Doctor," said the Major, smiling.
"No, he is not faultless, but he has his qualifications for the office,
nevertheless. He can read passably, and might amuse our poor old friend
in that way. He is not evil tempered, though hasty, and I think he
would be tender and kindly to the old man. He had a father once
himself, this man, and he nursed him to his latest day, as well as he
was able, after his mother had left them and gone on the road to
destruction. And my man has picked up some knowledge of medicine too,
and might be a useful ally to the physician."
"A paragon!" said Mrs. Buckley, laughing. "Now let us hear his faults,
dear Doctor."
"They are many," he replied, "I don't deny. But not such as to make him
an ineligible person in this matter. To begin with, he is a fool--a
dreaming fool, who once mixed himself up with politics, and went on the
assumption that truth would prevail against humbug. And when he found
his mistake, this fellow, instead of staying at his post, as a man
should, he got disgusted, and beat a cowardly retreat, leaving his duty
unfulfilled. When I look at one side of this man's life, I wonder why
such useless fellows as he were born into the world. But I opine that
every man is of some use, and that my friend may still have manhood
enough left in him to move an old paralytic man in his bed."
"And his name, Doctor? You must tell us that," said Mrs. Buckley,
looking sadly at him.
"I am that man," said the Doctor, rising. "Dear Miss Thornton, you will
allow me to come down and stay with you. I shall be so glad to be of
any use to my old friend, and I am so utterly useless now."
What could she say, but "yes," with a thousand thanks, far more than
she could express? So he took up his quarters at the Vicarage, and
helped her in the labour of love.
The Sunday morning after he came to stay there, he was going down
stairs, shortly after daybreak, to take a walk in the fresh morning
air, when on the staircase he met Miss Thornton, and she, putting
sixpence into his hand, said,
"My dear Doctor, I looked out of window just now, and saw a tramper
woman sitting on the door-step. She has black hair and a baby, like a
gipsy. And I am so nervous about gipsies, you know. Would you give her
that and tell her to go away?"
The Doctor stepped down with the sixpence in his hand to do as he was
bid. Miss Thornton followed him. He opened the front door, and there
sure enough sat a woman, her hair, wet with the last night's rain,
knotted loosely up behind her hatless head. She sat upon the door-step
rocking herself to and fro, partly it would seem from disquietude, and
partly to soothe the baby which was lying on her lap crying. Her back
was towards him, and the Doctor only had time to notice that she was
young, when he began,--
"My good soul, you musn't sit there, you know. It's Sunday morning,
and----"
No more. He had time to say no more. Mary rose from the step and looked
at him.
"You are right, sir, I have no business here. But if you will tell him
that I only came back for the child's sake, he will hear me. I couldn't
leave it in the workhouse, you know."
Miss Thornton ran forward, laughing wildly, and hugged her to her
honest heart. "My darling!" she said, "My own darling! I knew she would
find her home at last. In trouble and in sorrow I told her where she
was to come. Oh happy trouble, that has brought our darling back to us!"
"Aunt! aunt!" said Mary, "don't kill me. Scold me a little, aunt dear,
only a little."
"Scold you, my darling! Never, never! Scold you on this happy Sabbath
morn! Oh! never, my love."
And the foolishness of these two women was so great that the Doctor had
to go for a walk. Right down the garden, round the cow-yard, and in by
the back way to the kitchen, where he met Frank, and told him what had
happened. And there they were at it again. Miss Thornton kneeling,
wiping poor Mary's blistered feet before the fire. While the maid,
foolishly giggling, had got possession of the baby, and was talking
more affectionate nonsense to it than ever baby heard in this world
before.
Mary held out her hand to him, and when he gave her his vast brown paw,
what does she do, but put it to her lips and kiss it?--as if there was
not enough without that. And, to make matters worse, she quoted
Scripture, and said, "Forasmuch as ye have done it unto the least of
these, ye have done it unto me." So our good Doctor had nothing left
but to break through that cloak of cynicism which he delighted to wear,
(Lord knows why!) and to kiss her on the cheek, and to tell her how
happy she had made them by coming back, let circumstances be what they
might.
Then she told them, with bursts of wild weeping, what those
circumstances were. And at last, when they were all quieted, Miss
Thornton boldly volunteered to go up and tell the Vicar that his
darling was returned.
So she went up, and Mary and the Doctor waited at the bed-room door and
listened. The poor old man was far gone beyond feeling joy or grief to
any great extent. When Miss Thornton raised him in his bed, and told
him that he must brace up his nerves to hear some good news, he smiled
a weary smile, and Mary looking in saw that he was so altered that she
hardly knew him.
"I know," he said, lisping and hesitating painfully, "what you are
going to tell me, sister. She is come home. I knew she would come at
last. Please tell her to come to me at once; but I can't see HIM yet. I
must get stronger first." So Mary went in to him, and Miss Thornton
came out and closed the door. And when Mary came downstairs soon
afterwards she could not talk to them, but remained a long time silent,
crying bitterly.
The good news soon got up to Major Buckley's, and so after church they
saw him striding up the path, leading the pony carrying his wife and
baby. And while they were still busy welcoming her back, came a ring at
the door, and a loud voice, asking if the owner of it might come in.
Who but Tom Troubridge! Who else was there to raise her four good feet
off the ground, and kiss her on both cheeks, and call her his darling
little sister! Who else was there who could have changed their tears
into laughter so quick that their merriment was wafted up to the
Vicar's room, and made him ring his bell, and tell them to send Tom up
to him! And who but Tom could have lit the old man's face up with a
smile, with the history of a new colt, that my lord's mare Thetis had
dropped last week!
That was her welcome home. To the home she had dreaded coming to,
expecting to be received with scorn and reproaches. To the home she had
meant to come to only as a penitent, to leave her child there and go
forth into the world to die. And here she found herself the honoured
guest--treated as one who had been away on a journey, whom they had
been waiting and praying for all the time, and who came back to them
sooner than expected. None hold the force of domestic affection so
cheap as those who violate it most rudely. How many proud unhappy souls
are there at this moment, voluntarily absenting themselves from all
that love them in the world, because they dread sneers and cold looks
at home! And how many of these, going back, would find only tears of
joy to welcome them, and hear that ever since their absence they had
been spoken of with kindness and tenderness, and loved, perhaps, above
all the others!
After dinner, when the women were alone together, Mrs. Buckley began,--
"Now, my dear Mary, you must hear all the news. My husband has had a
letter from Stockbridge."
"Ah, dear old Jim!" said Mary; "and how is he?"
"He and Hamlyn are quite well," said Mrs. Buckley, "and settled. He has
written such an account of that country to Major Buckley, that he, half
persuaded before, is now wholly determined to go there himself."
"I heard of this before," said Mary. "Am I to lose you, then, at once?"
"We shall see," said Mrs. Buckley; "I have my ideas. Now, who do you
think is going beside?"
"Half Devonshire, I should think," said Mary; "at least, all whom I
care about."
"It would seem so, indeed, my poor girl," said Mrs. Buckley; "for your
cousin Troubridge has made up his mind to come."
"There was a time when I could have stopped him," she thought; "but
that is gone by now." And she answered Mrs. Buckley:--
"Aunt and I will stay here, and think of you all. Shall we ever hear
from you? It is the other side of the world, is it not?"
"It is a long way; but we must wait, and see how things turn out. We
may not have to separate after all. See, my dear; are you fully aware
of your father's state? I fear you have only come home to see the last
of him. He probably will be gone before this month is out. You see the
state he is in. And when he is gone, have you reflected what to do?"
Mary, weeping bitterly, said, "No; only that she could never live in
Drumston, or anywhere where she was known."
"That is wise, my love," said Mrs. Buckley, "under the circumstances.
Have you made up your mind where to go, Miss Thornton, when you have to
leave the Vicarage for a new incumbent?"
"I have made up my mind," answered Miss Thornton, "to go wherever Mary
goes, if it be to the other end of the earth. We will be Ruth and
Naomi, my dear. You would never get on without me."
"That is what I say," said Mrs. Buckley. "Never leave her. Why not come
away out of all unhappy associations, and from the scorn and pity of
your neighbours, to live safe and happy with all the best friends you
have in the world?"
"What do you mean?" said Mary. "Ah, if we could only do so!"
"Come away with us," said Mrs. Buckley, with animation; "come away with
us, and begin a new life. There is Troubridge looking high and low for
a partner with five thousand pounds. Why should not Miss Thornton and
yourself be his partners?"
"Ah me!" said Miss Thornton. "And think of the voyage! But I shall not
decide on anything; Mary shall decide."
* * * * *
Scarcely more than a week elapsed from the day that Mary came home,
when there came a third messenger for old John Thornton, and one so
peremptory that he arose and followed it in the dead of night. So, when
they came to his bedside in the morning, they found his body there,
laid as it was when he wished them good night, but cold and dead. He
himself was gone, and nothing remained but to bury his body decently
beside his wife's, in the old churchyard, and to shed some tears, at
the thought that never, by the fireside, or in the solemn old church,
they should hear that kindly voice again.
And then came the disturbance of household gods, and the rupture of
life-old associations. And although they were begged by the new comer
not to hurry or incommode themselves, yet they too wished to be gone
from the house whence everything they loved had departed.
Their kind true friend Frank was presented with the living, and they
accepted Mrs. Buckley's invitation to stay at their house till they
should have decided what to do. It was two months yet before the Major
intended to sail, and long before those two months were past, Mary and
Miss Thornton had determined that they would not rend asunder the last
ties they had this side of the grave, but would cast in their lot with
the others, and cross the weary sea with them towards a more hopeful
land.
One more scene, and we have done with the Old World for many a year.
Some of these our friends will never see it more, and those who do will
come back with new thoughts and associations, as strangers to a strange
land. Only those who have done so know how much effort it takes to say,
"I will go away to a land where none know me or care for me, and leave
for ever all that I know and love." And few know the feeling which
comes upon all men after it is done,--the feeling of isolation, almost
of terror, at having gone so far out of the bounds of ordinary life;
the feeling of self-distrust and cowardice at being alone and
friendless in the world, like a child in the dark.
* * * * *
A golden summer's evening is fading into a soft cloudless summer's
night, and Doctor Mulhaus stands upon Mount Edgecombe, looking across
the trees, across the glassy harbour, over the tall men-of-war, out
beyond the silver line of surf on the breakwater, to where a tall ship
is rapidly spreading her white wings and speeding away each moment more
rapidly for a fair wind, towards the south-west. He watches it growing
more dim minute by minute in distance and in darkness, till he can see
no longer; then brushing a tear from his eye he says aloud:--
"There goes my English microcosm, all my new English friends with whom
I was going to pass the rest of my life, peaceful and contented, as a
village surgeon. Pretty dream, two years long! Truly man hath no sure
abiding place here. I will go back to P----, and see if they are all
dead, or only sleeping."
So he turned down the steep path under the darkening trees, towards
where he could see the town lights along the quays, among the crowded
masts.