The Three Brides

by Шарлотта Мэри Йондж

  However, the healthy children were carried away without much resistance, and established in the great barn under a trustworthy widow; and before night, two effective-looking Sisters were in charge at the hospital.

  Still, however, no telegram, no letter, came from Eleonora Vivian. Mr. M'Vie had found a nurse for Lady Tyrrell, but old Sir Harry rode in to meet every delivery of the post, and was half distracted at finding nothing from her; and Frank's murmurs of her name were most piteous to those who feared that, if he were ever clearly conscious again, it would only be to know how heavy had been the meed of his folly.

  CHAPTER XXVIII. 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 sym
ptoms," 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!"