He had touched the right string at last. It rung back in answer, before he could add another word.
‘You don’t know me,’ she said firmly. ‘You don’t know what I can suffer for Frank’s sake. He shall never marry me, till I can be what my father said I should be – the making of his fortune. He shall take no burden, when he takes me; I promise you that! I’ll be the good angel of Frank’s life; I’ll not go a penniless girl to him, and drag him down.’ She abruptly left her seat, advanced a few steps towards Mr Clare, and stopped in the middle of the room. Her arms fell helpless on either side of her; and she burst into tears. ‘He shall go,’ she said. – ‘If my heart breaks in doing it, I’ll tell him to-morrow that we must say Good-bye!’
Mr Clare at once advanced to meet her, and held out his hand.
‘I’ll help you,’ he said. ‘Frank shall hear every word that has passed between us. When he comes to-morrow, he shall know, beforehand, that he comes to say Good-bye.’
She took his hand in both her own – hesitated – looked at him – and pressed it to her bosom. ‘May I ask a favour of you, before you go?’ she said, timidly. He tried to take his hand from her; but she knew her advantage, and held it fast. ‘Suppose there should be some change for the better?’ she went on. ‘Suppose I could come to Frank, as my father said I should come to him –?’
Before she could complete the question, Mr Clare made a second effort, and withdrew his hand. ‘As your father said you should come to him?’ he repeated, looking at her attentively.
‘Yes,’ she replied. ‘Strange things happen sometimes. If strange things happen to me, will you let Frank come back before the five years are out?’
What did she mean? Was she clinging desperately to the hope of melting Michael Vanstone’s heart? Mr Clare could draw no other conclusion from what she had just said to him. At the beginning of the interview, he would have roughly dispelled her delusion. At the end of the interview, he left her compassionately in possession of it.
‘You are hoping against all hope,’ he said; ‘but if it gives you courage, hope on. If this impossible good fortune of yours ever happens, tell me; and Frank shall come back. In the mean time –’
‘In the mean time,’ she interposed sadly, ‘you have my promise.’
Once more, Mr Clare’s sharp eyes searched her face attentively.
‘I will trust your promise,’ he said. ‘You shall see Frank to-morrow.’
She went back thoughtfully to her chair, and sat down again in silence. Mr Clare made for the door, before any formal leave-taking could pass between them. ‘Deep!’ he thought to himself, as he looked back at her before he went out; ‘only eighteen; and too deep for my sounding!’
In the hall, he found Norah, waiting anxiously to hear what had happened.
‘Is it all over?’ she asked. ‘Does Frank go to China?’
‘Be careful how you manage that sister of yours,’ said Mr Clare, without noticing the question. ‘She has one great misfortune to contend with: she’s not made for the ordinary jog-trot of a woman’s life. I don’t say I can see straight to the end of the good or the evil in her – I only warn you, her future will be no common one.’
An hour later, Mr Pendril left the house; and, by that night’s post, Miss Garth despatched a letter to her sister in London.
THE END OF THE FIRST SCENE
BETWEEN THE SCENES
PROGRESS OF THE STORY THROUGH THE POST
One
From Norah Vanstone to Mr Pendril
‘Westmoreland House, Kensington,
‘August 14th, 1846
‘DEAR MR PENDRIL,
‘The date of this letter will show you that the last of many hard partings is over. We have left Combe-Raven; we have said farewell to home.
‘I have been thinking seriously of what you said to me, on Wednesday, before you went back to town. I entirely agree with you, that Miss Garth is more shaken by all she has gone through for our sakes, than she is herself willing to admit; and that it is my duty, for the future, to spare her all the anxiety that I can, on the subject of my sister and myself. This is very little to do for our dearest friend, for our second mother. Such as it is, I will do it with all my heart.
‘But, forgive me for saying that I am as far as ever from agreeing with you about Magdalen. I am so sensible, in our helpless position, of the importance of your assistance; so anxious to be worthy of the interest of my father’s trusted adviser and oldest friend, that I feel really and truly disappointed with myself for differing with you – and yet I do differ. Magdalen is very strange, very unaccountable, to those who don’t know her intimately. I can understand that she has innocently misled you; and that she has presented herself, perhaps, under her least favourable aspect. But, that the clue to her language and her conduct on Wednesday last, is to be found in such a feeling towards the man who has ruined us, as the feeling at which you hinted, is what I cannot and will not believe of my sister. If you knew, as I do, what a noble nature she has, you would not be surprised at this obstinate resistance of mine to your opinion. Will you try to alter it? I don’t mind what Mr Clare says: he believes in nothing. But I attach a very serious importance to what you say; and, kind as I know your motives to be, it distresses me to think you are doing Magdalen an injustice.
‘Having relieved my mind of this confession, I may now come to the proper object of my letter. I promised, if you could not find leisure time to visit us to-day, to write and tell you all that happened after you left us. The day has passed, without our seeing you. So I open my writing-case, and perform my promise.
‘I am sorry to say that three of the women-servants – the housemaid, the kitchenmaid, and even our own maid (to whom I am sure we have always been kind) – took advantage of your having paid them their wages to pack up and go, as soon as your back was turned. They came to say good-bye with as much ceremony, and as little feeling, as if they were leaving the house under ordinary circumstances. The cook, for all her violent temper, behaved very differently: she sent up a message to say that she would stop and help us to the last. And Thomas (who has never yet been in any other place than ours) spoke so gratefully of my dear father’s unvarying kindness to him; and asked so anxiously to be allowed to go on serving us, while his little savings lasted, that Magdalen and I forgot all formal considerations, and both shook hands with him. The poor lad went out of the room crying. I wish him well; I hope he will find a kind master and a good place.
‘The long, quiet, rainy evening out of doors – our last evening at Combe-Raven – was a sad trial to us. I think winter-time would have weighed less on our spirits: the drawn curtains, and the bright lamps, and the companionable fires would have helped us. We were only five in the house altogether – after having once been so many! I can’t tell you how dreary the grey daylight looked, towards seven o’clock, in the lonely rooms, and on the noiseless staircase. Surely, the prejudice in favour of long summer evenings, is the prejudice of happy people? We did our best. We kept ourselves employed, and Miss Garth helped us. The prospect of preparing for our departure, which had seemed so dreadful earlier in the day, altered into the prospect of a refuge from ourselves, as the evening came on. We each tried at first to pack up in our own rooms – but the loneliness was more than we could bear. We carried all our possessions downstairs, and heaped them on the large dining-table, and so made our preparations together, in the same room. I am sure we have taken nothing away which does not properly belong to us.
‘Having already mentioned to you my own conviction that Magdalen was not herself when you saw her on Wednesday, I feel tempted to stop here, and give you an instance in proof of what I say. The little circumstance happened on Wednesday night, just before we went up to our rooms.
‘After we had packed our dresses and our birthday presents, our books and our music, we began to sort our letters, which had got confused from being all placed on the table together. Some of my letters were mixed with Magdalen’s, and some of hers with mine. Among these last, I
found a card, which had been given to my sister early in the year, by an actor who managed an amateur theatrical performance in which she took a part. The man had given her the card, containing his name and address, in the belief that she would be invited to many more amusements of the same kind, and in the hope that she would recommend him as a superintendent on future occasions. I only relate these trifling particulars to show you how little worth keeping such a card could be, in such circumstances as ours. Naturally enough, I threw it away from me across the table, meaning to throw it on the floor. It fell short, close to the place in which Magdalen was sitting. She took it up, looked at it, and immediately declared that she would not have had this perfectly worthless thing destroyed for the world. She was almost angry with me, for having thrown it away; almost angry with Miss Garth for asking what she could possibly want with it! Could there be any plainer proof than this, that our misfortunes – falling so much more heavily on her than on me – have quite unhinged her, and worn her out? Surely her words and looks are not to be interpreted against her, when she is not sufficiently mistress of herself to exert her natural judgment – when she shows the unreasonable petulance of a child on a question which is not of the slightest importance.
‘A little after eleven we went upstairs to try if we could get some rest.
‘I drew aside the curtain of my window, and looked out. Oh, what a cruel last night it was; no moon, no stars; such deep darkness, that not one of the dear familiar objects in the garden was visible when I looked for them; such deep stillness, that even my own movements about the room almost frightened me! I tried to he down and sleep, but the sense of loneliness came again, and quite overpowered me. You will say I am old enough, at six-and-twenty, to have exerted more control over myself. I hardly know how it happened, but I stole into Magdalen’s room, just as I used to steal into it, years and years ago, when we were children. She was not in bed; she was sitting with her writing materials before her, thinking. I said I wanted to be with her the last night; and she kissed me, and told me to lie down, and promised soon to follow me. My mind was a little quieted, and I fell asleep. It was daylight when I woke – and the first sight I saw was Magdalen, still sitting in the chair, and still thinking. She had never been to bed; she had not slept all through the night.
‘ “I shall sleep when we have left Combe-Raven,” she said. “I shall be better when it is all over, and I have bid Frank good-bye.” She had in her hand our father’s will, and the letter he wrote to you; and when she had done speaking, she gave them into my possession. I was the eldest (she said), and those last precious relics ought to be in my keeping. I tried to propose to her that we should divide them; but she shook her head. “I have copied for myself,” was her answer, “all that he says of us in the will, and all that he says in the letter.” She told me this, and took from her bosom a tiny white silk bag, which she had made in the night, and in which she had put the extracts, so as to keep them always about her. “This tells me in his own words what his last wishes were for both of us,” she said; “and this is all I want for the future.”
‘These are trifles to dwell on; and I am almost surprised at myself for not feeling ashamed to trouble you with them. But, since I have known what your early connection was with my father and mother, I have learnt to think of you (and, I suppose, to write to you) as an old friend. And, besides, I have it so much at heart to change your opinion of Magdalen, that I can’t help telling you the smallest things about her which may, in my judgment, end in making you think of her as I do.
‘When breakfast-time came (on Thursday morning) we were surprised to find a strange letter on the table. Perhaps, I ought to mention it to you, in case of any future necessity for your interference. It was addressed to Miss Garth, on paper with the deepest mourning border round it; and the writer was the same man who followed us on our way home from a walk, one day last spring – Captain Wragge. His object appears to be, to assert once more his audacious claim to a family connection with my poor mother, under cover of a letter of condolence, which it is an insolence in such a person to have written at all. He expresses as much sympathy – on his discovery of our affliction in the newspaper – as if he had been really intimate with us; and he begs to know, in a postscript (being evidently in total ignorance of all that has really happened), whether it is thought desirable that he should be present, among the other relatives, at the reading of the will! The address he gives, at which letters will reach him for the next fortnight, is, “Post-office, Birmingham”. This is all I have to tell you on the subject. Both the letter and the writer seem to me to be equally unworthy of the slightest notice, on our part or on yours.
‘After breakfast, Magdalen left us, and went by herself into the morning-room. The weather being still showery, we had arranged that Francis Clare should see her in that room, when he presented himself to take his leave. I was upstairs when he came; and I remained upstairs for more than half an hour afterwards, sadly anxious, as you may well believe, on Magdalen’s account.
‘At the end of the half-hour, or more, I came downstairs. As I reached the landing, I suddenly heard her voice, raised entreatingly, and calling on him by his name – then loud sobs – then a frightful laughing and screaming, both together, that rang through the house. I instantly ran into the room; and found Magdalen on the sofa in violent hysterics, and Frank standing staring at her, with a lowering angry face, biting his nails.
‘I felt so indignant – without knowing plainly why, for I was ignorant of course of what had passed at the interview – that I took Mr Francis Clare by the shoulders, and pushed him out of the room. I am careful to tell you how I acted towards him, and what led to it; because I understand that he is excessively offended with me, and that he is likely to mention elsewhere, what he calls, my unladylike violence towards him. If he should mention it to you, I am anxious to acknowledge, of my own accord, that I forgot myself – not, I hope you will think, without some provocation.
‘I pushed him into the hall, leaving Magdalen, for the moment, to Miss Garth’s care. Instead of going away, he sat down sulkily on one of the hall chairs. “May I ask the reason of this extraordinary violence?” he inquired, with an injured look. “No,” I said. “You will be good enough to imagine the reason for yourself, and to leave us immediately, if you please.” He sat doggedly in the chair, biting his nails, and considering. “What have I done to be treated in this unfeeling manner?” he asked, after a while. “I can enter into no discussion with you,” I answered; “I can only request you to leave us. If you persist in waiting to see my sister again, I will go to the cottage myself, and appeal to your father.” He got up in a great hurry at those words. “I have been infamously used in this business,” he said. “All the hardships and the sacrifices have fallen to my share. I’m the only one among you who has any heart: all the rest are as hard as stones – Magdalen included. In one breath she says she loves me, and in another, she tells me to go to China. What have I done to be treated with this heartless inconsistency? I’m consistent myself – I only want to stop at home – and (what’s the consequence?) you’re all against me!” In that manner, he grumbled his way down the steps, and so I saw the last of him. This was all that passed between us. If he gives you any other account of it, what he says will be false. He made no attempt to return. An hour afterwards, his father came alone to say good-bye. He saw Miss Garth and me, but not Magdalen; and he told us he would take the necessary measures, with your assistance, for having his son properly looked after in London, and seen safely on board the vessel when the time came. It was a short visit, and a sad leave-taking. Even Mr Clare was sorry, though he tried hard to hide it.
‘We had barely two hours, after Mr Clare had left us, before it would be time to go. I went back to Magdalen, and found her quieter and better; though terribly pale and exhausted, and oppressed, as I fancied, by thoughts which she could not prevail on herself to communicate. She would tell me nothing then – she has told me nothing since – of what pass
ed between herself and Francis Clare. When I spoke of him angrily (feeling as I did that he had distressed and tortured her, when she ought to have had all the encouragement and comfort from him that man could give), she refused to hear me: she made the kindest allowances, and the sweetest excuses for him; and laid all the blame of the dreadful state in which I had found her, entirely on herself. Was I wrong in telling you that she had a noble nature? And won’t you alter your opinion when you read these lines?
‘We had no friends to come and bid us good-bye; and our few acquaintances were too far from us – perhaps too indifferent about us – to call. We employed the little leisure left, in going over the house together for the last time. We took leave of our old schoolroom, our bedrooms, the room where our mother died, the little study where our father used to settle his accounts and write his letters – feeling towards them, in our forlorn situation, as other girls might have felt at parting with old friends. From the house, in a gleam of fine weather, we went into the garden, and gathered our last nosegay; with the purpose of drying the flowers when they begin to wither, and keeping them in remembrance of the happy days that are gone. When we had said goodbye to the garden, there was only half an hour left. We went together to the grave; we knelt down, side by side, in silence, and kissed the sacred ground. I thought my heart would have broken. August was the month of my mother’s birthday; and, this time last year, my father and Magdalen and I were all consulting in secret what present we could make to surprise her with on the birthday morning.
‘If you had seen how Magdalen suffered, you would never doubt her again. I had to take her from the last resting-place of our father and mother, almost by force. Before we were out of the churchyard, she broke from me, and ran back. She dropped on her knees at the grave; tore up from it passionately a handful of grass; and said something to herself, at the same moment, which, though I followed her instantly, I did not get near enough to hear. She turned on me in such a frenzied manner, when I tried to raise her from the ground – she looked at me with such a fearful wildness in her eyes – that I felt absolutely terrified at the sight of her. To my relief, the paroxysm left her as suddenly as it had come. She thrust away the tuft of grass in the bosom of her dress, and took my arm and hurried with me out of the churchyard. I asked her why she had gone back – I asked what those words were, which she had spoken at the grave. “A promise to our dead father,” she answered, with a momentary return of the wild look and the frenzied manner which had startled me already. I was afraid to agitate her by saying more; I left all other questions to be asked at a fitter and a quieter time. You will understand from this, how terribly she suffers, how wildly and strangely she acts under violent agitation; and you will not interpret against her what she said or did, when you saw her on Wednesday last.
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