I VISIT THE OLD HOUSE AT WEYLEA,
BUT MISS THE WONTED WELCOME.
IS there a sadder sight in this world of mingling light and shadow than
to see a young life, full of splendid promise, cut off in its unfolding
by the stroke of death?
What a fruitless end it seems to make to the toils and triumphs of that
brief life, to all the hopes that shone about it.
I felt this keenly in the first dark hours of my bereavement, as I
dwelt on the memories of my brother's life, the rare abilities he had
early displayed, my father's pride and pleasure in his clever son, the
hopes that had been built upon his future, a future he was never to
know. My heart was wrung with pain to think that the hope and love and
pride were thus frustrated.
I know not what I should have done in those dark, sad days but
for Grace's supporting presence. She helped me more by her loving
sympathy, so unobtrusive, yet so true, than by the few consolations
she whispered. I could not yet rejoice in my brother's great, eternal
gain. The selfish element in my love asserted itself powerfully. My
heart cried out for my brother. I could not bear to think that he had
vanished from me utterly, that I must travel the rest of my life's
journey without him, never more hearing the sound of the voice I loved,
or clasping the hand which had been ever ready to help me since the
days when my first tottering steps were made with its aid. And all this
Grace understood perfectly.
We quitted Grindelwald, Grace, Ralph, and I, as soon as we had seen the
mortal remains of my brother laid in the little churchyard. A fair,
peaceful "God's Acre" it is, lying above the village in the midst of
the green valley, and close beneath some the grandest of mountains.
I have visited it more than once since that time of sorrow, but, thank
God, I have never really associated the thought of Edmund with that
grave at Grindelwald. He was so bright and glad of spirit, such fulness
of life and hope was his, that I could not connect him with the gloom
of the grave. Even in my bitterest grief, I felt that death was for
Edmund a new birth into a higher life, and that the form we laid in the
earth was but the mere shell or husk which had enshrined the spirit
I loved. There came a time, though not till after years had passed,
when I could rejoice to believe that my brother was living a life rich
in strength, in intelligence, in unutterable joy, a life infinitely
grander, yet not so far removed from my own, since to each Christ was
near.
But for a while, no light penetrated my gloom. A season of dark
depression fell on me, in part the effect of physical causes, but
wholly miserable and benumbing. For a few days, I was really ill at
Interlaken, and I hoped that death would take me too, but Grace's
skilful nursing soon brought me back to a measure of health, though I
continued weak and nervous. How good and kind Grace and Ralph were to
me in those days! He was especially thoughtful for my comfort, guiding
and counselling me with a sort of tender authoritativeness, which I was
too weak and stupid to resist, though it hurt me. The fancy crossed
my mind that already he regarded me as belonging to him, and was only
waiting till my bereavement was less recent to assert his claim.
It was Ralph who proposed that I should go to the South of France with
Mrs. Dugdale, who suffered from asthma, and had been ordered to winter
abroad. The idea was rather agreeable to me, and I consented willingly
when I saw that by so doing I should liberate Grace, who would
otherwise have felt obliged to accompany her mother, though she longed
to return to Beechwood, where she felt that her presence was necessary
to the right working during the winter of the various clubs, mothers'
meetings, and other organisations that she had started in the village.
Grace thanked me for taking her place as gratefully as if the
arrangement involved a sacrifice on my part. But in truth it was with
somewhat of relief that I bade good-bye to her and Ralph in Paris, and
started with Mrs. Dugdale on our journey south. The quiet time, the
pause for reflection ere taking up again the active duties of life,
seemed just what I needed.
Mrs. Dugdale was very kind to me, and the peaceful days we spent
together beside the blue waters of the Mediterranean were soothing to
my weary, sorrowing heart. It was from their mother that Grace and
Ralph had inherited their temperamental cheerfulness. She appeared
almost invariably bright and hopeful of spirit. She was a good talker,
and I loved to listen to her reminiscences of bygone days, and the
people she had known. Nor less did I love to hear her talk about her
children, and tell stories of their early days.
Cheerful as she was, I knew that it was a trial to her to remain away
so long from her home and her dear ones. She counted me as another
daughter, she used to say, and if she had not had me with her, she
could not have borne her exile.
Mrs. Dugdale had letters from home almost every day, and she imparted
to me the news they brought. I used to listen rather eagerly as I grew
stronger, and time softened the first poignancy of my grief, for by
degrees old interests awakened, old cravings renewed themselves in my
heart. But there was never any reference to persons whom I knew and
cared about, and as Mrs. Lyell did not write to me for several weeks, I
knew nothing of what affected her.
At last, one day in February, Mrs. Dugdale received a letter that
pleased her very much. She clapped her hands with as real delight as
if she had been a school-girl going home for the holidays as she said,
"Joy! Joy! Dorothy. They all agree that I may go home. The worst part
of the winter, the fogs and damps which are so bad for me, are past,
and even the doctor thinks that I may venture with impunity. Now how
soon can we start for home?"
I hastened to consult a book of timetables.
"Of course you will come with me to Beechwood?" Mrs. Dugdale added.
She said it with a quiet air of decision, as if no other arrangement
were possible. My heart leapt within me at the thought, but I
hesitated—I had meant to go to Mabel as soon as I arrived in England.
Edmund's words had not been lost upon me. I would try to love Mabel
freely and fully, without exacting and weighing the love she gave me in
return. I felt that his memory must be a fresh bond to bind me to my
sister. And I would no longer refuse to stay at The Towers. I would try
to forgive Howard Steinthorpe, as Edmund had urged me.
"I should not have felt so bitterly towards him," my brother had said
but a day or two before he had passed away. "If he wronged us, he
injured himself more than he injured us. I used to think it well-nigh
impossible, Dottie, to love one's enemy, but now I see that, beneath
all that is hateful, there is still the brother, who has a right to our
love, and only by loving can we conquer the evil. Love will teach us to
judge him rightly, and keep us from being misled by mists of doubt and
prejudice."
"Yes," he had added, with a serene, bright look I can never forget,
"I thank God I can truly say that with all my heart, I forgive Howard
Steinthorpe any wrong he has done me, any hardness and selfishness he
has shown in his dealings with me."
Ah! How I treasured the memory of all that Edmund had said in those
last precious hours! Every word had its weight with me now; every wish
I desired to fulfil.
But there seemed no reason why I should not stay at least for a few
days at Beechwood ere I went to Burford. Mrs. Dugdale, indeed, would
not hear of my doing otherwise. She declared that Grace and Ralph would
be grievously disappointed if she returned without me, so I yielded to
her wish. I half-longed and half-dreaded to find myself once more in
the neighbourhood of Weylea. Of course, I could not be so near without
going to see Mrs. Lyell, and perhaps—my heart beat quickly at the
thought—I should see Leonard Glynne. Did I wish to see him? I hardly
knew.
February was not over when we arrived at Beechwood. We were in time for
those few mild, bright days, giving brief foretaste of spring, which
are the special endowment of this month.
Very warm was the welcome I received at Beechwood Hall. Ralph's looks
and words betrayed a quiet intensity of delight of which I could not
be unconscious. If his mother were not jealous of the attentions he
bestowed on me, as though I, and not she, had been the loved invalid,
compelled to winter abroad, she might well have been.
And was I not glad to see him? Yes, indeed. It was soothing to me in my
sadness, for the sight of him brought my loss freshly to mind, to feel
that he cared so much for me. He was dear to me because he had been
such a true, warm friend to my brother. If only he were content to be
my friend!
No later than the following afternoon, I set out to walk to Weylea. I
was anxious to get to Mrs. Lyell's, for I had heard from Grace that
she had been ill. An engagement in the village prevented Grace from
accompanying me. I did not regret her absence, and I was not sorry that
Ralph's duties—he was preparing for the Bar—had taken him to London
this day, for still less did I desire his company. I was glad to be
alone and free to muse as I would.
It was a pleasant day for such a walk. There was the softness of
spring in the fresh, sweet air, and as I passed down the avenue I
saw snowdrops lifting their delicate white and green blossoms above
the brown moss and dank leaves as they grew in fairy circles about
the silvery trunks of the beeches. All leafless were the trees which
bordered the road, but the grey-green, lichen-covered trunks had a
beauty of their own, and it was beautiful to look up and trace the
delicate ramifications of the upper branches against a sky of pale
blue. Golden crocuses were blooming on some of the graves in the
churchyard. On Arthur West's grave lay a wreath wrought with pale
primulas and maidenhair fern.
I was half-glad, half-tremulous as I took my way along the familiar
road. When I approached Weylea, I was conscious of a nervousness that
made my breath come short and fast, and my heart throb painfully. How
unchanged everything was in that quiet country place! It was as if life
had stood still here whilst so much had been happening with me.
Surely the goods which the little shops displayed were the very same
that met my eye when last I looked in the windows. Familiar was the
pattern of the print marked "very cheap," and the striped shirting
pronounced "a bargain." There was the stout, red-faced proprietor of
the Stag's Head lolling as usual at the door of his tavern. Ah! And
there was Stubbs, Mrs. Lyell's decrepit old gardener, coming with
feeble steps from the bar entrance, wiping his mouth with the back of
his hand. To the right, not a hundred yards from the road, stood the
house in which Leonard Glynne lodged. But I would not glance in that
direction. What was it to me whether he was here or there?
I reached the road in which Mrs. Lyell's house stood. As I approached
it, I saw that the villa on the other side of the way looked deserted.
The blinds were all lowered, the gate securely fastened. The Carsdales
doubtless were from home.
I glanced eagerly at Mrs. Lyell's house as I pushed back the heavy
iron gate. The place had a dreary, forsaken look. The trees were bare;
there were no flowers to be seen, save a few crocuses and snowdrops in
the border beside the door; a green, slimy growth covered the surface
of the pond, and the house stood apparently lifeless, the shutters of
the sitting-room windows closed, the blinds of the casements above
closely drawn. My heart sank low within me as I noted these signs, and
asked myself what they could betoken. But I saw one thing that somewhat
reassured me as I walked along the path to the door, the mark of a
horse's hoofs on the soft gravel.
I rang the bell, half-wondering if there were anyone within to obey the
summons. The peal seemed to clang drearily through the empty house, but
presently I heard the sound of steps, and the door was opened to me by
Sarah. She wore her bonnet and cloak. My appearance seemed to cause her
great surprise.
"Why, it's never you, Miss Carmichael!" she exclaimed. "Dear me! We
thought you were in foreign parts."
"I came back yesterday," I said, hurriedly. "Do tell me how Mrs. Lyell
is. It quite frightens me to find the house shut up thus."
"Oh, you need not be alarmed, miss. My mistress is better, though
she has been sadly. She has gone this morning to Hastings with Mrs.
Carsdale and her daughter. They persuaded her that the change would do
her good, and I trust it will. I am going down by an evening train. I
stayed for a few hours to help cook, because there were so many things
to put away and arrange. Clara has gone for a holiday."
"Dear me," I said, feeling bewildered; "how strange it is to come here
and find Mrs. Lyell gone. I can hardly believe it."
"Yes, miss, it does seem strange; Mrs. Lyell so seldom leaves home. It
is hard work to persuade her, but Miss Carsdale succeeded. Such a nice
young lady, Miss Carsdale is. You did not know her, I think, miss. So
kind she has been to my mistress, coming in almost every day to see
her; and really, I believe that she would do anything for Mrs. Lyell."
"How long will Mrs. Lyell be at Hastings?" I inquired, rather
breathlessly.
"Oh, a month, I believe, miss. Mr. Glynne is going down on Saturday.
But pray come in, miss; you look so tired."
In truth, I felt quite faint. The pleasurable excitement with which I
had hastened to Weylea had received an unexpected and painful check.
"I am sorry I can't ask you into the parlours, Miss Carmichael," said
Sarah, as I stepped into the hall, "but we have done up the windows
with brown paper, and locked the doors. If you would not mind coming
into our room."
It was all the same to me where I went, so I followed Sarah to the
little sitting-room which adjoined the kitchen.
"Cook will be happy to make you a cup of tea, miss, if you would like
it," said Sarah in her smooth tones.
But I declined the tea; I had no wish to make my visit any longer than
it need be.
"Are you staying in London, miss, if I may make so held as to ask?"
Sarah inquired.
"No, I am staying for a few days at Beechwood," I replied.
"Oh, indeed, miss; at Mr. Dugdale's, I suppose? I remember that you
went there the summer you were here. Ah, and I remember that Mr.
Dugdale came here once or twice. Such a nice-spoken gentleman I thought
him, and my mistress liked him very much."
Why should I colour when Sarah said this in her quiet, insinuating
manner? There was no reason for it, but colour I did, and I saw that
Sarah marked my change of hue. I grew uneasy as I felt her narrow,
cunning eyes studying me.
"Ah, a great deal has happened since that summer, miss," she went on.
"You've known sad trouble since then, and your looks show it. To think
that your poor brother should be taken so quickly! And so bright and
merry as he seemed, though there was always a consumptive look, to my
eyes. You must take care of yourself, now, miss; you look far from
strong."
To have Sarah thus commenting on my trials and my appearance was more
than I could bear. I rose hastily, and said that I must be going, as I
had a long walk before me.
"Had you not better rest a little longer?" suggested Sarah. "You are
not keeping me, you know, miss; there is plenty of time before the
train starts. Shall I take any message from you to my mistress? She
will be very sorry to have missed you."
"Oh, yes; pray give Mrs. Lyell my best love, and say what a
disappointment it was to me not to find her at home. I shall hope to
see her when next I come to London, though when that will be I cannot
tell. I go to my sister's at Burford early in next week."
"Very well, miss; I will be sure to tell my mistress all that you have
said," replied Sarah, demurely. Then she added, looking up in my face
with a peculiar smile, "I suppose you have heard of the engagement?"
"No; what—what engagement?" I faltered.
"Miss Carsdale's, miss. She is engaged to be married to Mr. Glynne."
I felt myself turn white as I heard it. I had expected to hear this
sooner or later, yet what a painful shock the news gave me. For a few
moments I had a stunned, stupefied sensation, then I became aware that
Sarah was watching me with a sort of suppressed smile. I divined that
she had a malicious satisfaction in detecting my suffering.
That roused me. I pulled myself together, and said with forced gaiety,
"Indeed! I am glad to hear it. I hope they will be very happy."
"Mr. Leonard is very pleased, and so is my mistress," said Sarah, with
an unpleasant smile. "Well, miss, I suppose we shall hear one of these
days that you are thinking of getting married?"
"Oh, I don't know about that," I responded, carelessly, laughing, as
I seemed to me, quite merrily and naturally. Then, waiting to hear no
more, I bade Sarah good-afternoon, and hastened away from the house.
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