|Penelope has brought me my desk to pass away the long day during her
absence in London--whither she has gone up with Mrs. Granton to buy
the first instalment of her wedding-clothes. She looked very sorry
that I could not accompany her. She is exceedingly kind--more so than
ever in her life before, though I have given her a deal of trouble,
and seem to be giving more every day.
I have had “fever-and-agur,” as the poor folk hereabouts call
it--caught, probably, in those long walks over the moorlands, which I
indulged in after our return from the north --supposing they would do
me good. But the illness has done me more; so it comes to the same
thing in the end.
I could be quite happy now, I believe, were those about me happy too;
and, above all, were Penelope less anxious on my account, so as to
have no cloud on her own prospects. She is to be married in April, and
they will sail in May; I must contrive to get well long before then,
if possible. Francis has been very little down here; being fully
occupied in official arrangements; but Penelope only laughs, and says
he is better out of the way during this busy time. She is so happy,
she can afford to jest. Mrs. Granton takes my place in assisting her,
which is good for the dear old lady too.
Poor Mrs. Granton! it cut me to the heart at first to see how
puzzled she was at the strange freak which took Colin off to the
Mediterranean--only puzzled, never cross--how could she be cross at
anything “my Colin” does? he is always right, of course. He was really
right this time, though it made her unhappy for awhile; but she would
have been more so, had she known all. Now, she only wonders a little;
regards me with a sort of half-pitying curiosity; is specially kind
to me, brings me every letter of her son's to read--thank heaven, they
are already very cheerful letters--and treats me altogether as if she
thought I were breaking my heart for her Colin, and that Colin had not
yet discovered what was good for himself concerning me, but would in
time. It is of little consequence--so as she is content and discovers
nothing.
Poor Colin! I can only reward him by loving his old mother for his
sake.
After a long pause, writing being somewhat fatiguing, I have thought
it best to take this opportunity of setting down a circumstance which
befell me since I last wrote in my journal. It was at first not my
intention to mention it here at all, but on second thoughts I do so,
lest, should anything happen to prevent my destroying this journal
during my life time, there might be no opportunity, through the
omission of it, for any misconstructions as to Colin's conduct or
mine. I am weak enough to feel that, not even after I was dead,
would I like it to be supposed I had given any encouragement to Colin
Granton, or cared for him in any other way than as I shall always care
for him, and as he well deserves.
It is a most painful thing to confess, and one for which I still take
some blame to myself, for not having seen and prevented it, but the
day before we left Treherne Court, Colin Granton made me an offer of
marriage.
When I state that this was unforeseen, I do not mean up to the actual
moment of its befalling me. They say, women instinctively find out
when a man is in love with them, so long as they themselves are
indifferent to him; but I did not, probably because my mind was
so full of other things. Until the last week of our visit, such a
possibility never entered my mind. I mention this, to explain my not
having prevented--what every girl ought to prevent if she can--the
final declaration, which it must be such a cruel mortification to any
man to make, and be denied.
This was how it happened. After the new year came in, our gaieties and
late hours, following the cares of papa's illness, were too much for
me, or else this fever was coming on. I felt--not ill exactly--but not
myself, and Mrs. Granton saw it. She petted me like a mother, and was
always telling me to regard her as such, which I innocently promised;
when she would look at me earnestly, and say, often with tears in her
eyes, that “she was sure I would never be unkind to the old lady,” and
that “she should get the best of daughters.”
Yet still I had not the least suspicion. No, nor when Colin was
continually about me, watching me, waiting upon me, sometimes almost
irritating me, and then again touching me inexpressibly with his
unfailing kindness, did I suspect anything for long. At last, I did.
There is no need to relate what trifles first opened my eyes, nor
the wretchedness of the two intermediate days between my dreading and
being sure of it.
I suppose it must always be a very terrible thing to any woman, the
discovery that some one whom she likes heartily, and only likes, loves
her. Of course, in every possible way that it could be done, without
wounding him, or betraying him to other people, I avoided Colin; but
it was dreadful, notwithstanding. The sight of his honest, happy
face, was sadder to me than the saddest face in the world, yet when it
clouded over, my heart ached. And then his mother, with her caresses
and praises, made me feel the most conscience-stricken wretch that
ever breathed.
Thus things went on. I shall set down no incidents, though bitterly
I remember them all. At last it came to an end. I shall relate this,
that there may be no doubt left as to what passed between us--Colin
and me.
We were standing in the corridor, his mother having just quitted us,
to settle with papa about to-morrow's journey, desiring us to wait for
her till she returned. Colin suggested waiting in the library, but I
preferred the corridor, where continually there were persons coming
and going. I thought if I never gave him any opportunity of saying
anything, he might understand what I so earnestly wished to save him
from being plainly told. So we stood looking out of the hall-windows.
I can see the view this minute, the large, level circle of snow, with
the sun-dial in the centre, and beyond, the great avenue-gates, with
the avenue itself, two black lines and a white one between, lessening
and fading away in the mist of a January afternoon.
“How soon the day is closing in--our last day here!”
I said this without thinking. The next minute I would have given
anything to recall it. For Colin answered something--I hardly remember
what--but the manner, the tone, there was no mistaking. I suppose the
saying is true;--no woman with a heart in her bosom can mistake for
long together when a man really loves her. I felt it was coming;
perhaps better let it come, and, then it would be over, and there
would be an end of it.
So I just stood still, with my eyes on the snow, and my hands locked
tight together, for Colin had tried to take one of them. He was
trembling much, and so I am sure was I. He had said only half-a-dozen
words, when I begged him to stop, “unless he wished to break my
heart.” And seeing him turn pale as death, and lean against the wall,
I did indeed feel as if my heart were breaking.
For a moment the thought came--let me confess it--how cruel things
were, as they were; how happy had they been otherwise, and I could
have made him happy--this good honest soul that loved me, his dear old
mother, and every one belonging to us; also, whether anyhow I ought
not to try.--No: that was not possible. I can understand women's
renouncing love, or dying of it, or learning to live without it: but
marrying without it, either for “spite,” or for money, necessity,
pity, or persuasion, is to me utterly incomprehensible. Nay, the
self-devoted heroines of the _Emilia Wyndham_ school seem creatures so
weak that if not compassionating one would simply despise them. Out of
duty or gratitude, it might be possible to work, live, or even die for
a person, but _never_ to marry him.
So, when Colin, recovering, tried to take my hand again, I shrunk
into myself, and became my right self at once. For which, lest tried
overmuch, and liking him as I do, some chance emotion might have led
him momentarily astray, I most earnestly thank God.
And then I had to look him in the eyes and tell him the plain truth.
“Colin, I do not love you; I never shall be able to love you, and so
it would be wicked even to think of this. You must give it all up, and
let us go back to our old ways.”
“Dora?”
“Yes, indeed, it is true. You _must_ believe it.”
For a long time, the only words he said were:--
“I knew it--knew I was not half good enough for you.”
It being nearly dark, no one came by until we heard his mother's
step, and her cheerful “Where's my Colin?”--loud enough as if she
meant--poor dear!--in fond precaution, to give us notice of her
coming. Instinctively we hid from her in the library. She looked in
at the door, but did not, or would not, see us, and went trotting away
down the corridor. Oh, what a wretch I felt!
When she had departed, I was stealing away, but Colin caught my dress.
“One word--just one. Did you never care for me--never the least bit in
all the world?”
“Yes,” I answered sorrowfully, feeling no more ashamed of telling
this, or anything, than one would be in a dying confession. “Yes,
Colin, I was once very fond of you, when I was about eleven years
old.”
“And never afterwards?”
“No--as my saying this proves. Never afterwards, and never should, by
any possible chance--in the sort of way you wish.”
“That is enough--I understand,” he said, with a sort of mournful
dignity quite new in Colin Granton. “I was only good enough for you
when you were a child, and we are not children now. We never shall be
children any more.”
“No--ah, no.” And the thought of that old time came upon me like
a flood--the winter games at the Cedars--the blackberrying and
bilberrying upon the sunshiny summer moors--the grief when he went
to school, and the joy when he came home again--the love that was
so innocent, so painless. And he had loved me ever since--me, not
Lisabel; though for a time he tried flirting with her, he owned, just
to find out whether or not I cared for him. I hid my face and sobbed.
And then, I had need to recover self-control; it is such an awful thing
to see a man weep.
I stood by Colin till we were both calmer: trusting all was safe over;
and that without the one question I most dreaded. But it came.
“Dora, _why_ do you not care for me? Is there--tell me or not, as you
like--is there any one else?”
Conscience! let me be as just to myself as I would be to another in my
place.
Once, I wrote that I had been “mistaken,” as I have been in some
things, but not in all. Could I have honestly said so, taking all
blame on myself and freeing all others from everything save mere
kindness to a poor girl who was foolish enough, but very honest and
true, and wholly ignorant of where things were tending, till too late;
if I could have done this, I believe I should then and there have
confessed the whole truth to Colin Granton. But as things are, it was
impossible.
Therefore I said, and started to notice how literally my words
imitated other words, the secondary meaning of which had struck me
differently from their first, “that it was not likely I should ever be
married.”
Colin asked no more.
The dressing-bell rang, and I again tried to get away; but he
whispered “Stop one minute--my mother--what am I to tell my mother?”
“How much does she know?”
“Nothing. But she guesses, poor dear--and I was always going to tell
her outright; but somehow I couldn't. But now, as you will tell your
father and sisters, and--”
“No, Colin; I shall not tell any human being.”
And I was thankful that if I could not return his love I could at
least save his pride, and his mother's tender heart.
“Tell her nothing; go home and be brave for her sake. Let her see that
her boy is not unhappy. Let her feel that not a girl in the land is
more precious to him than his old mother.”
“That's true!” he said, with a hard breath. “I won't break her dear
old heart. I'll will, Dora.” hold my tongue and bear it.
“I know you will,” and I held out my hand. Surely, that clasp wronged
no one; for it was hardly like a lover's--only my old playmate--Colin,
my dear.
We then agreed, that if his mother asked any questions, he should
simply tell her that he had changed his mind concerning me, and that
otherwise the matter should be buried with him and me, now and always.
“Except only”--and he seemed about to tell me something, but stopped,
saying it was of no matter--it was all as one now. I asked no farther,
only desiring to get away.
Then, with another long, sorrowful, silent clasp of the hand, Colin
and I parted.
A long parting it has proved; for he kept aloof from me at dinner, and
instead of travelling home with us, went round another way. A week
or two afterwards, he called at Rockmount, to tell us he had bought a
yacht, and was going a cruise to the Mediterranean. I being out on the
moor, did not see him; he left next day, telling his mother to “wish
good-bye for him to his playmate Dora.”
Poor Colin! God bless him and keep him safe, so that I may feel I only
wounded his heart, but did his soul no harm. I meant it not! And when
he comes back to his old mother, perhaps bringing her home a fair
daughter-in-law, as no doubt he will one day, I shall be happy enough
to smile at all the misery of that time at Treherne Court and
afterwards, and at all the tender compassion which has been wasted upon
me by good Mrs. Granton, because “my Colin” changed his mind, and went
away without marrying his playmate Dora. Only “Dora.” I am glad he
never called me my full name. There is but one person who ever called
me “Theodora.”,
I read in a book, the other day, this extract:--
“People do not sufficiently remember that in every relation of life as
in the closest one of all, they ought to take one another 'for better,
for worse.' That, granting the tie of friendship, gratitude, or
esteem, be strong enough to have existed at all, it ought, either
actively or passively, to exist for ever. And seeing we can, at best,
know our neighbour, companion or friend, as little as, alas! we often
find he knoweth of us, it behoveth us to treat him with the most
patient fidelity, the tenderest forbearance; granting, unto all his
words and actions that we do not understand, the utmost limit of
faith that common sense and Christian justice will allow. Nay, these
failing, is there not still left Christian charity? which, being past
'believing' and 'hoping,' still 'endureth all things?'”
I hear the carriage-wheels.
*****
They will not let me go downstairs at all to-day.
I have been lying looking at the fire, alone, for Francis returned
with Mrs. Granton and Penelope yesterday. They have gone a long walk
across the moors. I watched them, strolling arm-in-arm--Darby and Joan
fashion--till their two small black figures vanished over the hilly
road, which always used to remind me of the Sleeping Beauty and her
prince.=
````"And on her lover's arm she leant,
````And round her waist she felt it fold,
````And far across the hills they went,
````To that new world which is the old."=
They must be very happy--Francis and Penelope. '
I wonder how soon I shall be well. This fever and ague lasts sometimes
for months; I remember Doctor Urquhart's once saying so.
Here, following my plan of keeping this journal accurate and complete,
I ought to put down something which occurred yesterday, and which
concerns Doctor Urquhart.
Driving through the camp, my sister Penelope saw him, and papa stopped
the carriage and waited for him. He could not pass them by, as Francis
declared he seemed intending to do, with a mere salutation, but stayed
and spoke. The conversation was not told me, for, on mentioning it,
a few sharp words took place between papa and Penelope. She protested
against his taking; so much trouble in cultivating the society of
a man, who, she said, was evidently, out of his own profession, “a
perfect boor.”
Papa replied more warmly than I had at all expected.
“You will oblige me, Penelope, by allowing your father to have a will
of his own in this as in most other matters, even if you do suppose
him capable of choosing for his associate and friend 'a perfect boor.'
And were that accusation as true as it is false, I trust I should
never forget that a debt of gratitude, such as I owe to Doctor
Urquhart, once incurred, is seldom to be repaid, and never to be
obliterated.”
So the discourse ended. Penelope left my room, and papa took a chair
by me. I tried to talk to him, but we soon both fell into silence.
Once or twice, when I thought he was reading the newspaper, I found
him looking at me, but he made no remark.
Papa and I have had much less of each other's company lately, though
we have never lost the pleasant footing on which we learned to be
during his illness. I wonder if, now that he is quite well, he has
any recollection of the long, long hours, nights and days, with only
daylight or candle-light to mark the difference between them, when he
lay motionless in his bed, watched and nursed by us two.
I was thinking thus, when he asked a question, the abrupt coincidence
of which with my secret thoughts startled me out of any answer than a
simple “No, papa.”
“My dear, have you ever had any letter from Doctor Urquhart?”
How could he possibly imagine such a thing? Could Mrs. Granton,
or Penelope, who is quick-sighted in some things, have led papa to
think--to suppose--something, the bare idea of which turned me sick
with fear. Me, they might blame as they liked; it would not harm me;
but a word, a suggestion of blame to any other person, would drive me
wild, furious. So I summoned up all my strength.
“You know, papa, Doctor Urquhart could have nothing to write to me
about. Any message for me he could have put in a letter to you.”
“Certainly. I merely enquired, considering him so much a friend of the
family, and aware that you had seen more of him, and liked him better
than your sisters did. But if he had written to you, you would, of
course, have told me?”
“Of course, papa.”
I did not say another word than this.
Papa went on, smoothing his newspaper, and looking direct at the
fire:--
“I have not been altogether satisfied with Doctor Urquhart of late,
much as I esteem him. He does not appear sufficiently to value what--I
may say it without conceit--from an old man to a younger one, is
always of some worth. Yesterday, when I invited him here, he declined
again, and a little too--too decidedly.”
Seeing an answer waited for, I said, “Yes, papa.”
“I am sorry, having such great respect for him, and such pleasure in
his society.” Papa paused. “When a man desires to win or retain his
footing in a family, he usually takes some pains to secure it. If he
does not, the natural conclusion is that he does _not_ desire it.”
Another pause. “Whenever Doctor Urquhart chooses to come here, he
will always be welcome--most welcome; but I cannot again invite him to
Rockmount.”
“No, papa.”
This was all. He then took up his Times, and read it through: I lay
quiet; quiet all the evening--quiet until I went to bed.
To-day I find in the same old book before quoted:--
“The true theory of friendship is this:--Once a friend, always a
friend. But, answerest thou, doth not every day's practice give the
lie to that doctrine? Many, if not most friendships, be like a glove,
that however well fitting at first, doth by constant use wax loose and
ungainly, if it doth not quite wear out. And others, not put off and
on, but close to a man as his own skin and flesh, are yet liable to
become diseased: he may have to lose them, and live on without them,
as after the lopping off of a limb, or the blinding of an eye. And
likewise, there be friendships which a man groweth out of, naturally
and blamelessly, even as out of his child-clothes: the which, though
no longer suitable for his needs, he keepeth religiously, unforgotten
and undestroyed, and often visiteth with a kindly tenderness, though
he knoweth they can cover and warm him no more. All these instances do
clearly prove that a friend is not always a friend.”
“'Yea,' quoth Fidelis, 'he is. Not in himself, may be, but unto thee.
The future and the present are thine and his; the past is beyond ye
both; an unalienable possession, a bond never disannulled. Ye may let
it slip, of natural disuse, throw it aside as worn-out and foul; cut
it off, cover it up, and bury it; but it hath been, and therefore in
one sense for ever must be. Transmutation is the law of all mortal
things; but so far as we know, there is not, and will not be, until
the great day of the second death--in the whole universe, any such
thing as annihilation.
“And so take heed. Deceive not thyself, saying that, because a thing
is not, it never was. Respect thyself--thine old self, as well as
thy new. Be faithful to thyself, and to all that ever was thine.
Thy friend is always thy friend. Not to have or to hold, to love or
rejoice in, but _to remember_.
“And if it befall thee, as befalleth most, that in course of time
nothing will remain for thee, except to remember, be not afraid! Hold
fast that which was thine--it is thine for ever. Deny it not--despise
it not; respect its secrets--be silent over its wrongs. And, so kept,
it shall never lie like a dead thing in thy heart, corrupting and
breeding-corruption there, as dead things do. Bury it, and go thy way.
It may chance that, one day, long hence, thou shalt come suddenly upon
the grave of it--and behold! it is dewy-green!”