The Retreat
What dost thou here, frail wanderer from thy task?--Christian
Year
Eleonora Vivian was trying to fix her attention on writing out the
meditation she had just heard from Dr. Easterby.
It had been a strange time. All externally was a great hush. There
was perfect rest from the tumult of society, and from the harassing
state of tacit resistance habitual to her. This was the holy
quietude for which she had longed, yet where was the power to feel
and profit by it? Did not the peace without only make her hear the
storm within all the more?
A storm had truly been raging within ever since Conny Strangeways
had triumphantly exhibited the prize she had won from Frank Charnock
at the races; and Camilla had taken care that full and undeniable
evidence should prove that this was not all that the young man had
lost upon the Backsworth race-ground.
Lenore might guess, with her peculiarly painful intuition, who had
been the tempter, but that did not lessen her severity towards the
victim. In her resolution against a betting man, had she not
trusted Frank too implicitly even to warn him of her vow? Nay, had
she not felt him drifting from her all through the season, unjustly
angered, unworthily distrustful, easily led astray? All the
misgivings that had fretted her at intervals and then cleared away
seemed to gather into one conviction--Frank had failed her!
Eleonora's nature was one to resent before grieving. Her spirit was
too high to break down under the first shock, and she carried her
head proudly to the ball, betraying by no outward sign the stern
despair of her heart, as she listened to the gay chatter of her
companions, and with unflinching severity she carried out that
judicial reply to Frank which she had already prepared, and then
guarded herself among numerous partners against remonstrance or
explanation. It had been all one whirl of bewilderment; Lady
Tyrrell tired, and making the girls' intended journey on the morrow
a plea for early departure; and the Strangeways, though dancing
indefatigably, and laughing at fatigue, coming away as soon as they
saw she really wished it. All said good night and good-bye
together, both to Lady Tyrrell and Sir Harry, and Lenore started at
ten o'clock without having seen either. Her sense of heroism lasted
till after the glimpse of Frank on the road. Her mood was of bitter
disappointment and indignation. Frank was given up, but not less so
were her father, her sister, and the world. Sir Harry had made
Camilla suffice to him, he did not want her. He had been the means
of perverting Frank, and Lenore could not see that she need any
longer be bound for his sake to the life she detested. In a few
weeks she would be of age, and what would then prevent her from
finding a congenial home in the Sisterhood, since such kindred could
have no just claim to her allegiance? It was the hasty
determination of one who had suffered a tacit persecution for three
years, and was now smarting under the cruellest of blows. Her lover
perverted, her conditions broken, her pledge gambled away, and all
this the work of her father and sister!
Conny and Bee thought her grave and more silent than usual, and when
Lady Susan met them in London there was no time for thought.
Saturday was spent on a harvest festival at a suburban church, after
which the daughters were despatched to their uncle's by a late
train. Sunday was spent in the pursuit of remarkable services; and
on Monday Lady Susan and Eleonora had gone to St. Faith's and the
Retreat began.
Here was to be the longed-for rest, for which she had thirsted all
the more through those days of hurry and of religious spectacles, as
she felt that, be they what they might to their regular attendants,
to her, as an outsider, they could be but sights, into whose spirit
her sick and wearied soul could not enter.
Here was no outward disturbance, no claim from the world, no
importunate chatter, only religious services in their quietest, most
unobtrusive form; and Dr. Easterby's low tender tones, leading his
silent listeners to deep heart-searchings, earnest thoughts, and
steadfast resolutions.
Ah! so no doubt it was with many; but Lena, with book and pen, was
dismayed to find that the one thing she recollected was the
question, "Friend, how camest thou in hither?" After that, she had
only heard her own thoughts. Her mind had lapsed into one vague
apprehension of the effects of having cut off all communication with
home, imaginings of Frank's despair, relentings of pity, all broken
by dismay at her own involuntary hypocrisy in bringing such thoughts
into the Retreat. Had she any right to be there at all? Was not a
thing that should have been for her peace become to her an occasion
of falling?
It was Thursday evening, and on the morrow there would be the
opportunity of private interviews with Dr. Easterby. She longed for
the moment, chiefly to free herself from the sense of deception that
had all this time seemed to vitiate her religious exercises, deafen
her ears, and blow aside her prayers. There was a touch on her
shoulder, and one of the Sisters who had received the ladies said,
interrogatively, "Miss Vivian? The Mother would be obliged if you
would come to her room."
The general hush prevented Lenore from manifesting her extreme
agitation, and she moved with as quiet a step as she could command,
though trembling from head to foot. In the room to which she came
stood the Superior and Dr. Easterby, and a yellow telegram-paper lay
on the table.
"My father?" she asked.
"No," said the Superior, kindly, "it is your sister, who is ill.
Here is the telegram--"
"Sister Margaret to the Mother Superior, St. Faith's, Dearport.
Lady Tyrrell has the fever. Miss Vivian much needed.
"Wils'bro, Sept. 26th, 5.30."
"The fever!" She looked up bewildered, and the Superior added--
"You did not know of a fever at Wil'sbro'? Some of our nursing
Sisters were telegraphed for, and went down yesterday. I was sorry
to send Sister Margaret away just when her mother and you are here;
but she was the only available head, and the need seemed great."
"I have heard nothing since I left home on Friday," said Eleonora,
hoarsely. "It is my own fault. They think I am at Revelrig."
"Your family do not know you are here?" said the Superior, gravely.
"It was very wrong," she said. "This is the punishment. I must go.
Can I?"
"Surely, as soon as there is a train," said the Superior, beginning
to look for a Bradshaw; while Dr. Easterby gave Lenore a chair, and
bade her sit down. She looked up at his kind face, and asked
whether he had heard of this fever.
"On Sunday evening, some friends who came out from Backsworth to our
evening service spoke of an outbreak of fever at Wil'sbro', and said
that several of the Charnock family were ill. I have had this card
since from young Mr. Bowater:--
"T. F. in severe form. J. C. well, but both his brothers are
down in it, and Lady K.'s brother, also Lady T. and the Vicar.
No one to do anything; we have taken charge of Wil'sbro'. I have
no time to do more than thank you for unspeakable kindness. H.
B."
"You knew?" exclaimed Lenore, as she saw her sister's initial.
"I knew Lady Tyrrell was ill, but I do not know who the ladies are
whom I address. I did not guess that you were here," said Dr.
Easterby, gently.
No one living near Backsworth could fail to know Sir Harry Vivian's
reputation, so that the master of Rood House knew far better than
the Superior of St. Faith's how much excuse Lenore's evasion might
have; but whatever could seem like tampering with young people was
most distressing to the Sisters, and the Mother was more grave than
pitiful.
There was no train till the mail at night, and there would be two
hours to wait in London; but Lenore would listen to no entreaties to
wait till morning, and as they saw that she had plenty of health and
strength, they did not press her, though the Superior would send a
nurse with her, who, if not needed at Sirenwood, might work in Water
Lane. It was thought best not to distract Lady Susan, and Lenore
was relieved not to have her vehement regret and fussy cares about
her; but there were still two hours to be spent before starting, and
in these Dr. Easterby was the kindest of comforters.
Had she erred in her concealment? He thought she had, though with
much excuse. A Retreat was not like a sacrament, a necessity of a
Christian's life; and no merely possible spiritual advantage ought
to be weighed against filial obedience. It was a moment of
contrition, and of outpouring for the burthened heart, as Lenore was
able to speak of her long trial, and all the evil it had caused in
hardening and sealing up her better nature. She even told of her
unsanctioned but unforbidden engagement, and of its termination;
yearning to be told that she had been hasty and hard, and to be
bidden to revoke her rejection.
She found that Dr. Easterby would not judge for her, or give her
decided direction. He showed her, indeed, that she had given way to
pride and temper, and had been unjust in allowing no explanation;
but he would not tell her to unsay her decision, nor say that it
might not be right, even though the manner had been wrong. While
the past was repented, and had its pardon, for the future he would
only bid her wait, and pray for guidance and aid through her trial.
"My child," he said, "chastening is the very token of pardon, and
therein may you find peace, and see the right course."
"And you will pray for me--that however it may be, He may forgive
me?"
"Indeed, I will. We all will pray for you as one in sorrow and
anxiety. And remember this: There is a promise that a great
mountain shall become a plain; and so it does, but to those who
bravely try to climb it in strength not their own, not to those who
try to go round or burrow through."
"I see," was all she answered, in the meek submissive tone of a
strong nature, bent but not daring to break down. She could not
shed tears, deeply as she felt; she must save all her strength and
bear that gnawing misery which Herbert Bowater's mention of J. C.'s
brothers had inflicted upon her--bear it in utter uncertainty
through the night's journey, until the train stopped at Wil'sbro' at
eleven o'clock, and her father, to whom she had telegraphed, met
her, holding out his arms, and absolutely crying over her for joy.
"My dear, my dear, I knew you would come; I could trust to my little
Lena. It was all some confounded mistake."
"It was my fault. How is she?"
"Does nothing but ask for you. Very low--nasty fever at night.
What's that woman? M'Vie sent a nurse, who is awfully jealous;
can't have her in to Camilla: but there's plenty to do; Anais is
laid up--coachman too, and Joe--half the other servants gone off. I
told Victor I would pay anything to him if he would stay."
"And--at Compton?" faintly asked Lenore.
"Bad enough, they say. Serves 'em right; Mrs. Raymond was as
mischievous as Duncombe's wife, but I've not heard for the last two
days; there's been no one to send over, and I've had enough to think
about of my own."
"Who have it there?" she managed to say.
"Raymond and his wife, both; and Frank and the young De Lancey, I
heard. I met Julius Charnock the other day very anxious about them.
He's got his tithe barn stuffed with children from Water Lane, as if
he wanted to spread it. All their meddling! But what kept you so
long, little one? Where were you hiding?--or did Lady Susan keep it
from you? I began to think you had eloped with her son. You are
sure you have not?"
"I was wrong, father; I went to a Retreat with Lady Susan."
"A what? Some of Lady Susan's little poperies, eh? I can't scold
you, child, now I've got you; only have your letters forwarded
another time," said Sir Harry, placable as usual when alone with
Lenore.
Fears of infection for her did not occur to him. Mr. M'Vie held the
non-contagion theory, and helpless selfishness excluded all thoughts
of keeping his daughter at a distance. He clung to her as he used
to do in former days, before Camilla had taken possession of him,
and could not bear to have her out of reach. In the sick-room she
was of disappointingly little use. The nurse was a regular
professional, used to despotism, and resenting her having brought
home any one with her, and she never permitted Miss Vivian's
presence, except when the patient's anxiety made it necessary to
bring her in; and when admitted, there was nothing to be done but to
sit by Camilla, and now and then answer the weary disjointed talk,
and, if it grew a little livelier, the warning that Lady Tyrrell was
getting excited was sure to follow.
Outside there was enough to do, in the disorganized state of the
sick and panic-stricken household, where nobody was effective but
the French valet and one very stupid kitchen-maid. Lena helped the
St. Faith's nurse in her charge of the French maid, but almost all
her time in the morning was spent in domestic cares for the sick and
for her father; and when he was once up, he was half plaintive, half
passionate, if she did not at once respond to his calls. She read
the papers to him, walked up and down the terrace with him while he
smoked, and played bezique with him late into the night, to distract
his thoughts. And where were hers, while each day's bulletin from
Compton Hall was worse than the last? Little Joe Reynolds had been
sent home on being taken ill, and she would fain have gone to see
him, but detentions sprang up around her, and sometimes it would
have been impossible to go so far from the house, so that days had
become weeks, and the month of October was old before she was
walking down the little garden of old Betty's house. The door
opened, and Julius Charnock came out, startling her by the sight of
his worn and haggard looks, as he made a deprecating movement, and
shut the door behind him. Then she saw that the blinds were in the
act of being drawn down.
"Is it so?" she said.
"Yes," said Julius, in a quiet tone, as sad and subdued as his
looks. "He slept himself away peacefully a quarter of an hour ago."
"I suppose I must not go in now. I longed to come before. Poor
boy, he was like a toy flung away."
"You need not grieve over him," said Julius. "Far from it. You
have done a great deal for him."
"I--I only caused him to be put into temptation."
"Nay. Your care woke his spirit up and guarded him. No one could
hear his wanderings without feeling that he owed much to you. There
is a drawing to be given to you that will speak much to you. It is
at the Rectory; it was not safe here. And his mother is here. I
can't but hope her soul has been reached through him. Yes," as
Lenore leant against the gate, her warm tears dropping, "there is no
grief in thinking of him. He had yearnings and conceptions that
could not have been gratified in his former station; and for him an
artist's life would have been more than commonly uphill work--full
of trial. I wish you could have heard the murmured words that
showed what glorious images floated before him--no doubt now
realized."
"I am glad he was really good," were the only words that would come.
The hearts of both were so full, that these words on what was a
little further off were almost necessary to them.
"Take my arm," said Julius, kindly. "Our roads lie together down
the lane. How is your sister? Better, I hope, as I see you here."
"She has slept more quietly. Mr. M'Vie thinks her a little better."
"So it is with Terry de Lancey," said Julius; "he is certainly less
feverish to-day;" but there was no corresponding tone of gladness in
the voice, though he added, "Cecil is going on well too."
"And--" Poor Lenore's heart died within her; she could only press
his arm convulsively, and he had mercy on her.
"Frank's illness has been different in character from the others,"
he said; "the fever has run much higher, and has affected the brain
more, and the throat is in a very distressing state; but Dr. Worth
still does not think there are specially dangerous symptoms, and is
less anxious about him than Raymond."
"Ah! is it true?"
"He does not seem as ill as Frank; but there have been bleedings at
the nose, which have brought him very low, and which have hitherto
been the worst symptoms," and here the steady sadness of his voice
quivered a little.
Lenore uttered a cry of dismay, and murmured, "Your mother?"
"She is absorbed in him. Happily, she can be with him constantly.
They seem to rest in each other's presence, and not to look
forward."
"And Cecil?"
"It has taken the lethargic turn with Cecil. She is almost always
asleep, and is now, I believe, much better; but in truth we have
none of us been allowed to come near her. Her maid, Grindstone, has
taken the sole charge, and shuts us all out, for fear, I believe, of
our telling her how ill Raymond is."
"Oh, I know Grindstone."
"Who looks on us all as enemies. However, Raymond has desired us to
write to her father, and he will judge when he comes."
They were almost at the place of parting. Eleonora kept her hand on
his arm, longing for another word, nay, feeling that without it her
heart would burst. "Who is with Frank?"
"Anne. She hardly ever leaves him. She is our main-stay at the
Hall."
"Is he ever sensible?" she faintly asked.
"He has not been really rational for nearly ten days now."
"If--if--oh! you know what I mean. Oh! gain his pardon for me!" and
she covered her face with her hand.
"Poor Frank!--it is of your pardon that he talks. Tell me,
Eleonora, did you ever receive a letter from my mother?"
"Never. Where was it sent?" she said, starting.
"To Revelrig. It was written the day after the ball."
"I never went to Revelrig. Oh! if I could have spoken to you first
I should have been saved from so much that was wrong. No one knew
where I was."
"No, not till Sister Margaret told Herbert Bowater that her sisters
had been at a ball at the town-hall the week before. Then he saw
she was Miss Strangeways, and asked if she knew where you were."
"Ah, yes! disobedience--tacit deception--temper. Oh! they have
brought their just punishment. But that letter!"
"I think it was to explain poor Frank's conduct at the races.
Perhaps, as the servants at Revelrig had no knowledge of you, it may
have been returned, and my mother's letter have been left untouched.
I will see."
They knew they must not delay one another, and parted; Julius
walking homewards by the Hall, where, alas! there was only one of
the family able to move about the house, and she seldom left her
patient.
Julius did, however, find her coming down-stairs with Dr. Worth, and
little as he gathered that was reassuring in the physician's words,
there was a wistful moisture about her eyes, a look altogether of
having a bird in her bosom, which made him say, as the doctor
hurried off, "Anne, some one must be better."
"Cecil is," she said; and he had nearly answered, "_only_ Cecil,"
but her eyes brimmed over suddenly, and she said, "I am so
thankful!"
"Miles!" he exclaimed.
She handed him a telegram. The Salamanca was at Spithead; Miles
telegraphed to her to join him.
"Miles come! Thank God! Does mother know?"
"Hush! no one does," and with a heaving breast she added, "I
answered that I could not, and why, and that he must not come."
"No, I suppose he must not till he is free of his ship. My poor
Anne!"
"Oh no! I know he is safe. I am glad! But the knowledge would
tear your mother to pieces."
"Her soul is in Raymond now, and to be certain of Miles being at
hand would be an unspeakable relief to him. Come and tell them."
"No, no, I can't!" she cried, with a sudden gush of emotion sweeping
over her features, subdued instantly, but showing what it was to
her. "You do it. Only don't let them bring him here."
And Anne flew to her fastness in Frank's attic, while Julius
repaired to Raymond's room, and found him as usual lying tranquil,
with his mother's chair so near that she could hand him the cool
fruit or drink, or ring to summon other help. Their time together
seemed to both a rest, and Julius always liked to look at their
peaceful faces, after the numerous painful scenes he had to
encounter. Raymond, too, was clinging to him, to his ministrations
and his talk, as to nothing else save his mother. Raymond had
always been upright and conscientious, but his religion had been
chiefly duty and obligation, and it was only now that comfort or
peace seemed to be growing out of it for him. As he looked up at
his brother, he too saw the involuntary brightness that the tidings
had produced, and said, "Is any one else better, Julius? I know
Terry is; I am so glad for Rose."
"I asked Anne the same question," said Julius. "Mother, you will be
more glad than tantalized. The Salamanca is come in."
Raymond made an inarticulate sound of infinite relief. His mother
exclaimed, "He must not come here! But Frankie could not spare Anne
to him. What will she do?"
"She will stay bravely by Frank," said Julius. "We must all wait
till the ship is paid off."
"Of course," said Raymond. "If she can rejoice that he is out of
danger, we will; I am content to know him near. It makes all much
easier. And, mother, he will find all ready to own what a priceless
treasure he sent before him in his wife."
There was the old note of pain in the comparison. Julius's heart
was wrung as he thought of Sirenwood, with the sense that the victim
was dying, the author of the evil recovering. He could only stifle
the thought by turning away, and going to the table in his mother's
adjacent room, where letters had accumulated unopened. 'On Her
Majesty's Service' bore the post-mark which justified him in opening
it, and enclosing the letter it contained to Miss Vivian.
He did so almost mechanically. He had gone through these weeks only
by never daring to have a self. The only man of his family who
could be effective; the only priest in the two infected parishes; he
had steadfastly braced himself for the work. He ventured only to
act and pray, never to talk, save for the consolation of others. To
Wil'sbro' he daily gave two morning hours, for he never failed to be
wanted either for the last rites, or for some case beyond Herbert's
experience, as well as to see the Vicar, who was sinking fast, in a
devout and resigned frame, which impressed while it perplexed his
brother clergyman, in view of the glaring deficiencies so plain to
others, but which never seemed to trouble his conscience.
The nursing-staff still consisted of the Sisters, Herbert Bowater,
Mrs. Duncombe and her man-servant. Under their care, the virulence
of the disease was somewhat abating, and the doctors ventured to say
that after the next few days there would be much fewer fatal cases;
but Water Lane was now a strangely silent place,--windows open,
blinds flapping in the wind, no children playing about, and the
'Three Pigeons' remained the only public-house not shut up. It was
like having the red cross on the door.