But things did not go so easily as Mrs. Ogilvie supposed.
Effie had received a blow which was not easily forgotten. The previous
mistakes of her young career might have been forgotten, and it is
possible that she might have come to be tolerably happy in the settling
down and evaporation of all young thoughts and dreams, had she in the
fervour of her first impulse become Fred Dirom’s wife. It would not have
been the happiness of her ideal, but it often happens that an evanescent
splendour like that which illumines the early world dies away with
comparative harmlessness, and leaves a very good substitute of solid
satisfaction on a secondary level, with which all but the visionary
learn to be content.
But the sharp and keen awakening with which she opened her eyes on a
disenchanted world, when she found her attempted sacrifice so
misunderstood, and felt herself put back into the common-place position
of a girl disappointed, she who had risen to the point of heroism, and
made up her mind to give up her very life, cannot be described. Effie
did not turn in the rebound to another love, as her stepmother fully
calculated. Though that other love was the first, the most true, the
only faithful, though she was herself vaguely aware that in him she
would find the comprehension for which she longed, as well as the
love--though her heart, in spite of herself, turned to this old playmate
and companion with an aching desire to tell him everything, to get the
support of his sympathy, yet, at the same time, Effie shrank from
Ronald as she shrank from every one.
The delicate fibres of her being had been torn and severed; they would
not heal or knit together again. It might be that her heart was
permanently injured and never would recover its tone, it might be that
the recoil from life and heart-sickness might be only temporary. No one
could tell. Mrs. Ogilvie, who would not believe at first that the
appearance of Ronald would be ineffectual, or that the malady was more
than superficial, grew impatient afterwards.
“It is all just selfishness,” she said; “it is just childish. Because
she cannot have what she wanted, she will not take what she can get; and
the worst of all is that she never wanted it when she could have it.”
“That’s just the way with women,” said her husband; “ye are all alike.
Let her come to herself, and don’t bore me about her as you’re doing,
night and day. What is a girl and her sweetheart to me?”
“Don’t you think,” said Mr. Moubray, “if you had been honest with Effie
from the first, if you had allowed her own heart to speak, if there had
been no pressure on one side, and no suppression on the other----”
“In short,” cried Mrs. Ogilvie, with a flush of anger, “if we had just
left everything to a bit silly thing that has not had the wit to guide
herself in the most simple, straightforward way! where ye would have
thought a fool could not go wrong----!”
Mr. Ogilvie at this lifted his head.
“Are ye quarrelling with John Moubray, Janet?” he said; “things must
have come to a pretty pass when you fling yourself upon the minister,
not content with putting me to silence. If ye’re ill-pleased with
Effie,” said the head of the family, “let Effie bear the wyte; but what
have we done, him and me?”
The minister, however, was Effie’s resource and help. He opened his own
heart to her, showing her how it had bled and how it had been healed,
and by and by the girl came to see, with slowly growing perception and a
painful, yet elevating, knowledge, how many things lay hidden in the
lives and souls which presented often a common-place exterior to the
world. This was a moment in which it seemed doubtful whether the rending
of all those delicate chords in her own being might not turn to
bitterness and a permanent loss and injury. She was disposed to turn her
face from the light, to avoid all tenderness and sympathy, to find that
man delighted her not, nor woman either.
It was in this interval that Eric’s brief but very unsatisfactory visit
took place, which the young fellow felt was as good as the loss of his
six weeksreplace with’ leave altogether. To be sure, there was a hard
frost which made him some amends, and in the delights of skating and
curling compensated him for his long journey home; and Ronald, his old
comrade, whom he had expected to lose, went back with him, which was
something to the credit side. But he could not understand Effie, and was
of opinion that she had been jilted, and could scarcely be kept from
making some public demonstration against Fred Dirom, who had used his
sister ill, he thought. This mistake, too, added to Effie’s injuries of
spirit a keener pang: and the tension was cruel.
But when Eric and Ronald were gone again, and all had relapsed into
silence, the balance turned, and the girl began to be herself once more,
or rather to be a better and loftier self, never forgetful of the sudden
cross and conflict of the forces of life which had made so strong an
impression upon her youth.
Miss Dempster, after some further suffering, died quite peacefully in
the ruddy dawn of a winter’s morning, after doing much to instruct the
world and her immediate surroundings from her sick bed, and much
enjoying the opportunity. She did not sleep very well the last few
nights, and the prospect of “just getting a good sleep in my coffin
before you bury me, and it all begins again,” was agreeable to her.
She seemed to entertain the curious impression that the funeral of her
body would be the moment of re-awakening for her soul, and that till
that final incident occurred she would not be severed from this worldly
life, which thus literally was rounded by a sleep. It was always an
annoyance to her that her room was to the back, and she could not see
Dr. Jardine as formerly come to his window and take off his dram, but
perhaps it was rather with the sisterly desire to tease Beenie than from
any other reason that this lamentation (with a twinkle in her eyes) was
daily made.
When she died, the whole village and every neighbour far and near joined
in the universal lamentation. Those who had called her an old cat in her
life-time wept over her when she was laid in the grave, and remembered
all her good deeds, from the old wives in the village, who had never
wanted their pickle tea or their pinch of snuff so long as Miss Dempster
was to the fore, to the laird’s wife herself, who thought regretfully of
the silver candlesticks, and did not hesitate to say that nobody need be
afraid of giving a party, whether it was a dinner or a ball supper that
had to be provided, so long as Miss Dempster was mistress of the many
superfluous knives and forks at Rosebank.
“She was just a public benefactor,” said Mrs. Ogilvie, who had not
always expressed that opinion.
As for Miss Beenie, her eyes were rivers of tears, and her sister’s
admirable qualities her only theme. She lived but to mourn and to praise
the better half of her existence, her soul being as much widowed by this
severance as if she had been a bereaved wife instead of a sister.
“Nobody can tell what she was to me, just more than can be put into
words. She was mother and sister and mistress and guide all put into
one. I’m not a whole human creature. I am but part of one, left like a
wreck upon the shore--and the worst part,” Miss Beenie said.
The doctor, who had been suspected of a tear himself at the old lady’s
funeral, and had certainly blown his nose violently on the way back, was
just out of all patience with Miss Beenie’s yammering, he said, and he
missed the inspection of himself and all his concerns that had gone on
from Rosebank. He was used to it, and he did not know how to do without
it.
One spring morning, after the turn of the year, he went up with a very
resolute air the tidy gravel path between the laurel hedges.
“Eh, doctor, I cannot bide to hear your step--and yet I am fain, fain to
hear it: for it’s like as if she was still in life, and ye were coming
to see her.”
“Miss Beenie,” said the doctor, “this cannot go on for ever. She was a
good woman, and she has gone to a better place. But one thing is
certain, that ye cannot bide here for ever, and that I cannot bide to
leave you here. You must just come your ways across the road, and set up
your tabernacle with me.”
At this, Miss Beenie uttered a cry of consternation: “Doctor! you must
be taking leave of your senses. Me!----”
“And why not you?” said Dr. Jardine. “You would be far better over the
way. It’s more cheerful, and we would be company for one another. I am
not ill company when I am on my mettle. I desire that you will just
think it over, and fix a day----”
And after a while, Miss Beenie found that there was sense in the
suggestion, and dried her eyes, and did as she was desired, having been
accustomed to do so, as she said, all her life.
The Diroms disappeared from Allonby as if they had never been there, and
were heard of no more: though not without leaving disastrous traces at
least in one heart and life.
But it may be that Effie’s wounds are not mortal after all. And one day
Captain Sutherland must come home----
And who knows?
THE END.
_This work appeared originally in “The Scottish Church.”_
ROBERT MACLEHOSE, UNIVERSITY PRESS, GLASGOW.
End of Project Gutenberg's Effie Ogilvie (Complete), by Margaret Oliphant