THE WINTER BRINGS TROUBLE.
MY kind friends at Beechwood did not forget me after I had quitted
their house. A fortnight later, Grace drove over to call upon Mrs.
Lyell, and stayed for some time with us. The visit was a great pleasure
to me.
The more I saw of Grace, the better I loved her. So kind and strong
and loving she ever was. Her friendship knew no variations of mood.
She was always ready to listen, always to be relied upon to help in
any difficulty or trouble to the utmost extent of her power. I have
known no other woman who manifested such strong, deep sympathy. It came
natural to her to rejoice with the rejoicing and weep with the weeping.
She had not to make the joys and sorrows of others her own; they were
her own.
It need not be said that this keen susceptibility brought her
suffering. There were times when her spirit was sorely oppressed by the
burdens she bore for others. To her sympathy and that sister-grace,
the charity that "taketh no account of evil," was due the attraction
that drew to her persons of all descriptions, and made her influence
so powerful in the neighbourhood, where her good works, neither few
nor simple, were best known. Her humility was as remarkable as her
unselfishness.
I think I never came so near vexing her as when I said to her,
impulsively, one day, "Oh, I wish I were good, like you!"
She flushed, and a look of positive pain came to her face as she said,
gravely, "Please do not speak so, Dorothy; you do not know how it hurts
one. No one was ever good save Jesus Christ. Let us pray to be made
like Him."
Nor did Ralph Dugdale forget me. More than once he walked over from
Beechwood to bring me a book or magazine which he thought I would like
to see. His visits were as acceptable to Mrs. Lyell as they were to me.
His kindliness and cheerfulness quite won her heart.
One day Ralph and his sister appeared on horseback, accompanied by a
groom leading another horse prepared for me to mount. Thus invited,
I could not refuse to ride with them; but it was not with unmixed
pleasure that I accepted their kindness. My heart misgave me as I
thought of Leonard. He would be sure to hear of the ride, and it would
deepen the shadow which had fallen between us.
For Leonard had been different towards me since my return from
Beechwood. He came less frequently to the house, and often spent
Sunday elsewhere. When he was with us, I was conscious of a feeling of
constraint which I vainly endeavoured to overcome. His coldness wounded
me sorely. It made me resolve to steel my heart against him; but, alas
for this resolve! Just when I thought it most strong, some flash of his
old kindness would break down the barrier I had striven to erect, and
the sweet folly sweep over me again.
Thus things went on, till, in October, Ralph Dugdale and my brother
returned to college. Each was looking forward to a term of hard work.
Ralph had to prepare for the examination for the mathematical tripos,
which took place at the beginning of the year, and Edmund for that
of the classical tripos, which fell a few weeks later. I knew that
my brother was very anxious to take a high place in his examination,
since he hoped, on taking his degree, to get a tutorship in some public
school. The scholastic profession seemed the only one open to him now.
One afternoon in October, I was at the East Weylea station, having just
returned from town, whither I had been to take my lessons, when my
attention was attracted by two ladies who were alighting from the train
by which I had travelled. One saw at a glance that they were mother and
daughter. The elder lady was perhaps about fifty, slight and fragile
in form, with refined and delicate features, the effect of which
was marred by the nervous, fretful expression her countenance wore.
Apparently she was an invalid, for she leaned heavily on her daughter's
arm as they crossed the platform, and the maid who followed them was
burdened with wraps and cushions.
The daughter was very pretty. She resembled her mother; but nature had
cast her face in a stronger mould. Decision and self-reliance were
expressed by the small, delicate mouth and pointed chin, and the blue
eyes looked forth with a steady, fearless gaze. She had beautiful hair
of the genuine golden hue which is so rare. Surmounting its rich coils,
she wore a quaint little turban of dark blue velvet, not unlike a
Turkish fez, which set off admirably her bright, piquant face.
"The air strikes very chill," I heard her mother say, "and see, Rose,
although it is yet early there is a fog rising. Oh, I hope I have not
made a mistake in coming back to England at the beginning of winter!"
"You had better keep your mouth shut, mamma, if you fancy there is
fog," said the girl, in a clear, musical voice, "and do not imagine you
have made a mistake; you will be as glad as possible by-and-by to find
yourself surrounded by the comforts of your own home once more."
So saying, the young lady turned to give a porter some directions
concerning their luggage. I passed out of the station, and walked
towards Mrs. Lyell's. As I approached her gate, the ladies drove by
in a fly loaded with luggage. It was no surprise to me to see the
vehicle draw up before the gate of the Gothic villa on the other side
of the way. I had already decided that these ladies were Mrs. and Miss
Carsdale.
But my heart was heavy as I went indoors. Whether or not Mrs. Carsdale
had made a mistake in returning to Weylea for the winter, it was with
no satisfaction that I contemplated the idea of having her and that
pretty Rose for neighbours.
"Mrs. Carsdale and her daughter have come home," said Sarah, when she
brought candles into the dining-room that evening. She addressed her
mistress; but she gave a side-long glance at me, as if she suspected
that I should not be pleased to hear the news.
Sarah still continued to watch me closely. I had an uncomfortable
feeling that she suspected how deep an interest I felt in Leonard
Glynne, and took a pleasure in saying anything respecting him that
would annoy me.
I was thankful that, being already aware of the Carsdales' return, I
was able to receive the news with an air of indifference.
"I hope Mrs. Carsdale is better for her change," said Mrs. Lyell,
quietly, and then she asked me to get the book containing records of
missionary enterprise which I was reading to her.
Leonard did not come in that evening nor the next. I wondered whether
he knew that the Carsdales had come home. Oh the afternoon of the third
day, I was standing at the landing window, looking across the garden,
when I saw him coming along the road. He was on the other side of
the way, and I fancied that my eyes must be deceiving me, for it was
seldom he returned from the city so early. But doubt gave place to a
distressing certainty when I saw him pause at the gate of the villa.
Yes; he lifted the latch, and passed up the short path to the door. I
watched for a minute, and saw him admitted.
I knew now why he had quitted business early. Ah, it was that house,
not this, which had an attraction for him! I turned from the window
with a horrible pain at my heart. It was mine at that hour to
experience the sharpest stings of jealousy. I paced my room for a
while, tortured by thoughts which were well-nigh unendurable.
But at last, I gained a respite. I could not strangle my pain; but,
struggling desperately, I succeeded in subduing it, at least for a
time. I was able to return to Mrs. Lyell, and, taking up our missionary
narrative, read with an energy which convinced her that I was as much
interested in the adventures of her hero as she was.
After we had taken tea, I resumed the reading, and read several
chapters. It was easier to read than to talk. But I received but the
vaguest notion of the course of the narrative. Whilst I read, my ears
were on the alert to catch the sound of horse's hoofs on the carriage
drive; for it was a clear, moonlight night, and on such Leonard
loved to take a ride. But no sound broke the stillness. Ariel kicked
restlessly in his box all the evening; his master did not come to
saddle him. Ah, how long and dreary seemed the hours to me till bedtime
came!
Two days later, on Saturday afternoon, I saw Leonard. I was coming in
from a walk, and found him in the front garden, selecting and cutting
chrysanthemums with the air of a connoisseur. He had a large bunch in
his hand, and I saw that he had despoiled the greenhouse of some of the
gardener's most choice specimens. His face brightened as I approached,
and he greeted me so warmly that, for a moment, I forgot every shadow
that had fallen on my heart.
"What lovely chrysanthemums!" I said. "Stubbs will hardly thank you for
gathering them; I hope Mrs. Lyell commissioned you to do so."
"No, she did not," he said, laughing unconcernedly; "but I know I
am welcome to them, as far as she is concerned. They are for Miss
Carsdale; there are none in their garden."
"Oh, indeed!" I returned, and my heart seemed to freeze. I moved
towards the house; I had no wish to exchange more words with him.
But Leonard stayed me by a question.
"You do not know Miss Carsdale, do you?" he asked.
"No, I have not that honour," I answered, coldly.
"She would be very pleased if you would call on her. She has been
asking me about you, for she has noticed you going in and out."
"I am much obliged to her," I returned, in anything but a grateful tone.
"I think you would like her," he said, gently; "it would perhaps make
it less dull for you being here, if you became friendly with her."
"Oh, I like the dulness, as you call it," I replied perversely; "it
keeps me from temptation to neglect my work. And I have really no time
to cultivate new acquaintances."
"That is a pity," he said, lightly; he was hunting as he spoke amongst
the bushes by the side of the path, and now he held out to me a small,
pale rose. "See, what I have found—'the last rose of summer!' It is not
a bad one either, though it is almost scentless. Will you have it?"
"No, thank you," I said, coldly; "you had better give it to Miss
Carsdale."
My words must have stung him, for he flushed a deep crimson, and
turning, pitched the rose over the high wall behind the shrubs which
screened the stable-yard. Without another word, I left him and went
indoors. Whatever satisfaction there was in knowing that I had made him
angry was mine.
Ere many hours were past, I bitterly regretted my hasty speech. But
it was impossible to unsay it, and equally impossible to check its
influence. There was a marked change in Leonard's manner towards me
when next we met, and the distance between us seemed to widen as the
weeks went on.
What secret torture I endured in those days! I ceased to struggle
with my sorrow. I blamed fate rather than myself for the misery that
overwhelmed me. I did not pray for the strength and wisdom I needed in
this peculiar trial. I had not learned in all my ways to acknowledge
God. Not that I was irreligious, but my religion somehow lay apart
from my daily life. Far different would my experience have been had I
possessed the childlike faith of Mrs. Lyell, who, in everything, sought
the guidance of the Lord, and submitted all her desires to His will.
At last, an event occurred which suddenly arrested the fever of
passionate, selfish emotion in which I lived. I came down one cold
December morning to find a letter lying on the breakfast-table
addressed to me in a handwriting which I seemed to know yet could not
identify. When I saw that the envelope bore the Cambridge postmark, my
heart misgave me, and I tore open the letter with trembling fingers. It
was written by Ralph Dugdale, and did indeed bring me bad news.
"Dear Miss Carmichael," he wrote.
"You will think I have sadly failed in my trust when I tell you that
your brother is very ill. It grieves me to send such bad news, but I
dare not hide from you that he has a sharp attack of inflammation of
the lungs, though as yet the doctor thinks there is no positive danger.
At the same time, I must beg that you will not alarm yourself unduly.
You may rely upon my doing all in my power for Edmund; he is dear to me
as if he were my brother—dearer I may say, for a friend is sometimes
more than a brother. You will doubtless desire to come to your brother;
but for the present, I must persuade you not to think of so doing.
He is in a state of high fever, and the doctor, in whom I have the
greatest confidence, insists on my keeping him as quiet as possible.
You shall hear every day of his condition, and I will summon you
immediately your presence seems desirable. May I ask you to acquiesce
in this arrangement till you hear from me again? With much sympathy,
your sincere friend,—
"RALPH DUGDALE."
Here was a terrible and unlooked-for blow. Edmund ill with inflammation
of the lungs! The worst fears awoke in me at the thought. My heart
sickened with despair. It seemed as if this came as a punishment, for
of late I had felt no anxiety concerning my brother—had given few
thoughts to him, in fact.
Suddenly I started up with a rebellious impulse. I must, I would go to
my brother, let Ralph Dugdale say what he liked. I should have rushed
to Mrs. Lyell's room, although to disturb her at this hour would have
been an unpardonable enormity in Sarah's opinion, had I not at that
moment caught sight of Leonard in the garden.
With a quick change of purpose, I opened the glass door and ran down
the steps into the garden. Leonard looked amazed, as well he might when
I rushed up to him and exclaimed impetuously, "Oh, such a dreadful
thing has happened! Edmund is very ill at Cambridge. Ralph Dugdale has
written to tell me. He says I had better not go; but I must, I will go."
I have not forgotten how Leonard's look softened when he heard my news,
nor how tenderly he held my hand in his as he said, "I am so sorry;
your brother is very dear to you, I know."
"Dear!" I cried, without pausing to weigh my words. "He is more to me
than anyone else in the world; we are everything to each other. Oh, do
help me; do say that I must go to him!"
"Of course I will help you," he said, gravely; "there is nothing I
would not do for you. But you must come indoors, it is far too cold for
you to stand here."
With that he led me indoors. I was soothed and comforted by his
kindness, though when he had read Ralph Dugdale's letter, he was of
opinion that I ought not rashly to hasten to Cambridge. He reasoned
with me very gently, and presently, seeing the untouched dishes on the
table, he asked me if I would not give him some breakfast. Of course
I could not refuse, and thus I was obliged to take some food myself,
little as I craved it. I was happier after Leonard had gone, although I
sat crying by the fire.
Later in the morning, Grace West arrived. I was not surprised to see
her, for I knew that if her brother sent her the news, she would be
sure to come to me at once. She, too, persuaded me to remain where
I was for the present. She was very kind; I knew that I had her
warmest sympathy, although once or twice she reproved me for the wild,
passionate words I uttered.
"Dear Dorothy," she said, "you must not say that you could not live
without your brother. It is not right, dear. We should ever remember
that our loved ones are God's. For them, as well as for ourselves, we
must say, 'Thy will be done.'"
"I could never say that if Edmund were taken from me," I cried,
shivering at the very thought; "I am not one of those cold-blooded
people who can resign themselves to anything. Those whom I love, I love
with all my heart."
"Do you think that no other loves as well?" asked Grace, not offended,
though my words were cruel in their thoughtlessness. "We cannot love
anyone too much; but you know, dear, that there is a wrong as well as a
right way of loving."
"Is there?" I asked, almost scornfully. "I cannot understand such fine
distinctions."
Grace said no more, probably seeing that I was in no mood to be argued
with.
Anxious days followed. On the morrow I learned that Edmund continued
the same. On the next he was a shade better, and so on, till at last
came the news that the doctor had pronounced him out of danger,
though still needing the greatest care. Not yet, however, was I to be
permitted to go to him. Christmas was close at hand ere the summons
came.
Christmas Day fell on a Monday that year. On the Friday afternoon
preceding it, when I came in from a walk, Mrs. Lyell greeted me with
the words, "Have you seen Leonard?"
"No," I said, with a blank sense of disappointment, for I knew that
Leonard was to start for Bournemouth that evening to spend Christmas
there.
"What a pity! He hoped he should see you; he wanted to say good-bye. I
wonder you did not meet him! He has hardly been gone three minutes, has
he, Sarah?"
"Not more than five, certainly, ma'am," said Sarah, who was laying the
cloth for tea; "but I think he was going into Mrs. Carsdale's; that
would account for Miss Carmichael's not meeting him."
"Ah, to be sure! He could not have cared much about seeing me, or he
would have foregone that visit to Mrs. Carsdale."
"Well, he will not be away long," said Mrs. Lyell, composedly; "he says
he shall be back in town on Wednesday morning at the latest."
But for all that, I was grieved that I had missed the chance of saying
good-bye to him. I remembered that I had lingered at the corner of the
road to speak to an old crossing-sweeper. If only I had known what
those few words would cost me!
"A letter for you, miss," said the housemaid, entering, salver in hand.
I saw that the letter was from Cambridge, and tore it open hurriedly.
It brought good news. Edmund was making progress; he hoped to sit up in
a day or two. Should I be willing to spend Christmas in his sick-room?
Of course I was willing; I was glad and thankful to go, and no one now
attempted to dissuade me. Not at once did the thought come, but when
it did, it smote me painfully that it would now be many days ere I saw
Leonard again, and it was even possible that I might never return to
live with Mrs. Lyell. Ah, how I wished that I had spent the afternoon
at home!
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