|I am at home again. I sit by my bed-room fire in a new easy-chair.
Oh, such care am I taken of now! I cast my eyes over the white waves
of moorland:--=
```"Moor and pleasaunce looking equal in one snow."=
Let me see, how does that verse begin?=
```"God be with thee, my beloved, God be with thee,
````As alone thou goest forth
````With thy face unto the North,
```Moor and pleasaunce looking equal in one snow:
````While I follow, vainly follow
````With the farewell and the hollow
```But cannot reach thee so."=
Ah, but I can--I can! Can reach any where; to the north or the south;
over the land or across the sea, to the world's end. Yea, beyond there
if need be; even into the other unknown world.
Since I last wrote here, in this room, things have befallen me, sudden
and strange. And yet so natural do they seem, that I almost forget I
was ever otherwise than I am now. I, Theodora Johnston, the same, yet
not the same. I, just as I was, to be thought worthy of being--what
I am, and what I hope some one day to be--God willing. My heart is
full--how shall I write about these things--which never could be
spoken about, which only to think of makes me feel as if I could but
lay my head down in a wonder-stricken silence, that all should thus
have happened unto me, this unworthy me.
It is not likely I shall keep this journal much longer--but, until
closing it finally, it shall go on as usual. Perhaps, it may be
pleasant to read over, some day when I am old--when _we_ are old.
One morning, I forget how long after the last date here, Mrs. Granton
surprised me and everybody by insisting that the only thing for me was
change of air, and that I should go back at once with her to be
nursed at the Cedars. There was an invalid-carriage at the gate,
with cushions, mats, and furs; there was papa waiting to help me
downstairs, and Penelope with my trunk packed--in short, I was taken
by storm, and had only to submit. They all said, it was the surest way
of recovering, and must be tried.
Now, I wished to get well, and fast, too; it was necessary I should,
for several reasons.
First, there was Penelope's marriage, with the after responsibility of
my being the only daughter now left to keep the house and take care of
papa.
Secondly, Lisabel wrote that, before autumn, she should want me for
a new duty and new tie; which, though we never spoke of it to one
another, we all thought of with softened hearts; even papa,
who, Penelope told me she had seen brushing the dust off our old
rocking-horse in an absent sort of way, and stopping in his walk to
watch Thomas, the gardener, toss his grandson. Poor dear papa!
I had a third reason. Sometimes I feared, by words Penelope dropped,
that she and my father had laid their heads together concerning me and
my weak health, and imagined--things which were not true. No; I repeat
they were not true. I was ill of fever and ague, that was all; I
should have recovered in time. If I were not quite happy, I should
have recovered from that, also, in time. I should not have broken my
heart. No one ought who has still another good heart to believe in; no
one need, who has neither done wrong nor been wronged. So, it seemed
necessary, or I fancied it so, thinking over all things during the
long wakeful nights, that, not for my own sake alone, I should rouse
myself, and try to get well as fast as possible.
Therefore, I made no objections to what, on some accounts, was to me
an excessively painful thing--a visit to the Cedars.
Pain or no pain, it was to be, and it was done. I lay in a dream of
exhaustion that felt like peace, in the little sitting-room, which
looked on the familiar view--the lawn, the sun-dial, the boundary of
evergreen bushes, and, farther off, the long, narrow valley, belted by
fir-topped hills, standing out sharp against the western sky.
Mrs. Granton bustled in and out, and did everything for me as tenderly
as if she had been my mother.
When we are sick and weak, to find comfort; when we are sore at heart,
to be surrounded by love; when, at five-and-twenty, the world looks
blank and dreary, to see it looking bright and sunshiny at sixty--this
does one good. If I said I loved Mrs.
Granton, it but weakly expressed what I owed and now owe her--more
than she is ever likely to know.
I had been a day and a night at the Cedars without seeing anyone,
except the dear old lady, who watched me incessantly, and administered
perpetual doses of “kitchen physic,” promising me faithfully that if I
continued improving, the odious face of Doctor Black should never
cross the threshold of the Cedars.
“But for all that, it would be more satisfactory to me if you would
consent to see a medical friend of mine, my dear.”
Sickness sharpens our senses, making nothing seem sudden or unnatural.
I knew as well as if she had told me, who it was she wanted me to
see--who it was even now at the parlour-door.
Doctor Urquhart came in, and sat down beside my sofa. I do not
remember anything that was said or done by any of us, except that I
felt him sitting there, and heard him in his familiar voice talking
to Mrs. Granton, about the pleasant view from this low window, and the
sunshiny morning, and the blackbird that was solemnly hopping about
under the sun-dial.
I will not deny it, why should I? The mere tone of his voice--the mere
smile of his eyes, filled my whole soul with peace. I neither knew how
he had come, nor why. I did not want to know; I only knew he was there;
and in his presence I was like a child who has been very forlorn, and
is now taken care of; very hungry and is satisfied.
Some one calling Mrs. Granton out of the room, he suddenly turned and
asked me, “how long I had been ill?”
I answered briefly; then said, in reply to further questions, that I
believed it was fever and ague, caught in the moorland cottages, but
that I was fast recovering--indeed, I was almost well again now.
“Are you? Give me your hand.” He felt my pulse, counting it by his
watch; it did not beat much like a convalescent's then, I know. “I see
Mrs. Granton in the garden--I must have a little talk with her about
you.”
He went out of the room abruptly, and soon after I saw them walking
together, up and down the terrace. Dr. Urquhart only came to me again
to bid me good-bye.
But after that, we saw him every day for a week.
He used to appear at uncertain hours, sometimes forenoon, sometimes
evening; but faithfully, if ever so late, he came. I had not been
aware he was thus intimate at the Cedars, and one day when Mrs.
Gran-ton was speaking about him, I happened to say so.
She smiled.
“Yes, certainly; his coming here daily is a new thing; though I was
always glad to see him, he was so kind to my Colin. But, in truth, my
dear, if I must let out the secret, he now comes to see _you_.”
“Me!” I was glad of the dim light we sat in, and horribly ashamed of
myself when the old lady continued, matter-of-fact and grave.
“Yes, you, by my special desire. Though he willingly consented to
attend you; he takes a most kindly interest in you. He was afraid
of your being left to Doctor Black, whom in his heart I believe he
considers an old humbug; so he planned your being brought here, to be
petted and taken care of. And I am sure he himself has taken care of
you, in every possible way that could be done without your finding it
out. You are not offended, my dear?”
“No.”
“I can't think how we shall manage about his fees; still it would
have been wrong to have refused his kindness--so well meant and
so delicately offered. I am sure he has the gentlest ways, and the
tenderest heart of any man I ever knew. Don't you think so?”
“Yes.”
But, for all that, after the first week, I did not progress so fast
as they two expected--also papa and Penelope, who came over to see
me, and seemed equally satisfied with Doctor Urquhart's “kindness.”
Perhaps this very “kindness,” as I, like the rest, now believed it,
made things a little more trying for me. Or else the disease--the
fever and ague--had taken firmer hold on me than anybody knew. Some
days I felt as if health were a long way off--in fact, not visible at
all in this mortal life, and the possibility seemed to me sometimes
easy to bear, sometimes hard. I had many changes of mood and temper,
very sore to struggle against--for all of which I now humbly crave
forgiveness of my dear and kind friends, who were so patient with me,
and of Him, the most merciful of all.
Doctor Urquhart came daily, as I have said. We had often very long
talks together, sometimes with Mrs. Granton, sometimes alone. He told
me of all his doings and plans, and gradually brought me out of the
narrow sickroom world into which I was falling, towards the current
of outward life--his own active life, with its large aims, duties
and cares. The interest of it roused me; the power and beauty of it
strengthened me. All the dreams of my youth, together with one I had
dreamt that evening by the moorland pool, came back again. I sometimes
longed for life, that I might live as he did; in any manner, anywhere,
at any sacrifice, so that it was a life in some way resembling, and
not unworthy of his own. This sort of life--equally solitary, equally
painful, devoted more to duty than to joy, was--heaven knows--all
I then thought possible. And I still think, with it, and with my
thorough reverence and trust in him, together with what I now felt
sure of--his sole, special, unfailing affection for me, I could have
been content all my days.
My spirit was brave enough, but sometimes my heart was weak. When one
has been accustomed to rest on any other--to find each day the tie
become more familiar, more necessary, belonging to daily life, and
daily want; to feel the house empty, as it were, till there comes the
ring at the door or the step in the hall, and to be aware that all
this cannot last, that it must come to an end, and one must go back
to the old, old life--shut up in oneself, with no arm to lean on, no
smile to cheer and guide, no voice to say, “You are right, do it,” or
“There I think you are wrong,” then, one grows frightened.
When I thought of his going to Liverpool, my courage broke down.
I would hide my head in my pillow of nights, and say to myself,
“Theodora, you are a coward; will not the good God make you strong
enough by yourself, even for any sort of life He requires of you?
Leave all in His hands.” So I tried to do: believing that from any
feeling that was holy and innocent He would not allow me to suffer
more than I could bear, or more than is good for all of us to suffer
at times.
(I did not mean to write thus; I meant only to tell my outward story;
but such as is written let it be. I am not ashamed of it.)
Thus things went on, and I did not get stronger.
One Saturday afternoon Mrs. Granton went a long drive, to see some
family in whom Doctor Urquhart had made her take an interest, if,
indeed, there was need to do more than mention any one's being in
trouble, in the dear woman's hearing, in order to unseal a whole
torrent of benevolence. The people's name was Ansdell; they were
strangers, belonging to the camp; there was a daughter dying of
consumption.
It was one of my dark days: and I lay, thinking how much useless
sentiment is wasted upon the young who die; how much vain regret at
their being so early removed from the enjoyments they share, and the
good they are doing, when they often do no good and have little joy
to lose. Take, for instance, Mrs. Granton and me: if Death hesitated
between us, I know which he had better choose: the one who had least
pleasure in living, and who would be easiest spared--who, from either
error or fate, or some inherent faults, which, become almost equal to
a fate, had lived twenty-five years without being of the smallest use
to anybody; and to whom the best that could happen would apparently be
to be caught up in the arms of the Great Reaper, and sown afresh in a
new world, to begin again.
Let me confess all this--because it explains the mood which I
afterwards betrayed; and because it caused me to find out that I was
not the only person into whose mind such wild and wicked thoughts have
come, to be reasoned down--battled down--prayed down.
I was in the large drawing-room, supposed to be lying peacefully on
the sofa--but in reality, cowering down all in a heap, within the
small circle of the fire-light. Beyond, it was very dark--so dark that
the shadows would have frightened me, were there not too many spectres
close at hand: sad, or evil spirits,--such as come about us all in
our dark days. Still, the silence was so ghostly, that when the door
opened, I slightly screamed.
“Do not be afraid. It is only I.”
I was shaken hands with; and I apologised for having been so startled.
Doctor Urquhart said, it was he who ought to apologise, but he had
knocked and I did not answer, and he had walked in, being “anxious.”
Then he spoke about other things, and I soon became myself, and sat
listening, with my eyes closed, till, suddenly seeing him, I saw him
looking at me.
“You have been worse to-day.”
“It was my bad day.”
“I wish I could see you really better.”
“Thank you.”
My eyes closed again--all things seemed dim and far off, as if my life
were floating away, and I had no care to seize hold of it--easier to
let it go.
“My patient does not do me much credit. When do you intend to honour
me by recovering, Miss Theodora?”
“I don't know;--it does not much matter.” It wearied me to answer even
him.
He rose, walked up and down the room, several times, and returned to
his place.
“Miss Theodora, I wish to say a few words to you seriously, about
your health. I should like to see you better--very much better than
now--before I go away.”
“Possibly you may.”
“In any case, you will have to take great care--to be taken great care
of--for months to come. Your health is very delicate. Are you aware of
that?”
“I suppose so.”
“You must listen--”
The tone roused me.
“If you please, you _must_ listen, to what I am saying. It is useless
telling any one else, but I tell _you_, that if you do not take care
of yourself you will die.”
I looked up. No one but he would have said such a thing to me--if he
said it, it must be true.
“Do you know that it is wrong to die--to let yourself carelessly slip
out of God's world, in which He put you to do good work there?”
“I have no work to do.”
“None of us can say that. You ought not--you shall not. I will not
allow it.”
His words struck me. There was truth in them--the truth, the faith of
my first youth though both had faded in after years--till I knew him.
And this was why I clung to this friend of mine, because amidst all
the shams and falsenesses around me, and even in myself--in him I ever
found, clearly acknowledged, and bravely outspoken--the _truth_. Why
should he not help me now?
Humbly I asked him, “if he were angry with me?”
“Not angry, but grieved; you little know how deeply.”
Was it for my dying, or my wickedly wishing to die? I knew not; but
that he was strongly affected, more even than he liked me to see, I
did see, and it lifted the stone from my heart.
“I know I have been very wicked. If any one would thoroughly scold
me--if I could only tell anybody--”
“Why cannot you tell me?”
So I told him, as far as I could, all the dark thoughts that had been
troubling me this day; I laid upon him all my burthens; I confessed
to him all my sins; and when I ended, not without agitation, for I
had never spoken so plainly of myself to any creature before, Doctor
Urquhart talked to me long and gently upon the things wherein he
considered me wrong in myself and in my home; and of other things
where he thought I was only “foolish,” or “mistaken.” Then he spoke of
the manifold duties I had in life; of the glory and beauty of living;
of the peace attainable, even in this world, by a life which, if ever
so sad and difficult, has done the best it could with the materials
granted to it--has walked, so far as it could see, in its appointed
course, and left the rewarding and the brightening of it solely in the
hands of Him who gave it, who never gives anything in vain.
This was his “sermon”--as, smiling, I afterwards called it, though all
was said very simply, and as tenderly as if he had been talking with
a child. At the end of it, I looked at him by a sudden blaze of the
fire; and it seemed as if, mortal man as he was, with faults enough
doubtless--and some of them I already knew, though there is no
necessity to publish them here--I “saw his face as it had been the
face of an angel.” And I thanked God, who sent him to me--who sent us
each to one another.
For what should Doctor Urquhart reply when I asked him how he came to
learn all these good things? but--also smiling:--
“Some of them I learned from you.”
“Me?” I said, in amazement.
“Yes; perhaps I may tell you how it was some day, but not now.” He
spoke hurriedly; and immediately began talking about other things;
informing me,--as he had now got a habit of doing,--exactly how his
affairs stood. Now, they were nearly arranged; and it became needful
he should leave the camp, and begin his new duties by a certain day.
After a little more talk, he fixed--or rather, we fixed, for he asked
me to decide--that day; briefly, as if it had been like any other day
in the year; and quietly as if it had not involved the total ending
for the present, with an indefinite future, of all this--what shall I
call it?--between him and me, which, to one, at least, had become as
natural and necessary as daily bread.
Thinking now of that two or three minutes of silence which followed--I
could be very sorry for myself--far more so than then; for then I
hardly felt it at all.
Doctor Urquhart rose, and said he must go--he could not wait longer
for Mrs. Granton.
“Thursday week is the day then,” he added, “after which I shall not
see you again for many months.”
“I suppose not.”
“I cannot write to you. I wish I could; but such a correspondence
would not be possible, would not be right.”
I think I answered mechanically, “No.”
I was standing by the mantel-piece, steadying myself with one hand,
the other hanging down. Doctor Urquhart touched it for a second.
“It is the very thinnest hand I ever saw!--You will remember,” he then
said, “in case this should be our last chance of talking together--you
will remember all we have been saying? You will do all you can to
recover perfect health, so as to be happy and useful? You will never
think despondingly of your life; there is many a life much harder than
yours; you will have patience, and faith, and hope, as a girl ought to
have, who is so precious to--many! Will you promise?”
“I will.”
“Good-bye, then.”
“Good-bye.”
Whether he took my hands, or I gave them, I do not know; but I felt
them held tight against his breast, and him looking at me as if he
could not part with me, or as if, before we parted, he was compelled
to tell me something. But when I looked up at him we seemed of a
sudden to understand everything, without need of telling. He only said
four words,--“Is this my wife?” And I said “Yes.”
Then--he kissed me.
Once, I used to like reading and hearing all about love and lovers,
what they said and how they looked, and how happy they were in one
another. Now, it seems as if these things ought never to be read or
told by any mortal tongue or pen.
When Max went away, I sat where I was, almost without stirring, for a
whole hour; until Mrs. Granton came in and gave me the history of her
drive, and all about Lucy Ansdell, who had died that afternoon. Poor
girl--poor girl..