The Clever Woman of the Family

by Шарлотта Мэри Йондж

  "And then we should lose him."

  "That is exactly what I wish to avoid. I want to bring up my forces at once, and have him laid hold of at once for the forgery of those letters of Edward's. How long would it take to hear from Ekaterinburg? I suppose Edward could travel as fast as a letter."

  Alison fairly sprang to her feet.

  "0, Colin, Colin! you do not think that Edward would be here by the next sessions."

  "He ought," said Colin. "I hope to induce Dr. Long and Harry to write him such letters as to bring him home at once."

  Self-restrained Alison was fairly overcome. She stretched out both hands, pressed Colin's convulsively, then turned away her face, and, bursting into tears, ran out of the room.

  "Poor dear Ailie," said Ermine; "she has suffered terribly. Her heart is full of Edward. Oh, I hope he will come."

  "He must. He cannot be so senseless as to stay away."

  "There is that unfortunate promise to his wife; and I fear that he is become so much estranged from English ways that he will hardly care to set himself straight here, after the pain that the universal suspicion gave him."

  "He cannot but care. For the sake of all he must care," vehemently repeated Colin, with the punctilious honour of the nobly-born soldier. "For his child's sake, this would be enough to bring him from his grave. If he refused to return to the investigation, it would be almost enough to make me doubt him."

  "I am glad you said almost," said Ermine, trying to smile; but he had absolutely brought tears into her eyes.

  "Dear Ermine," he said, gently, "you need not fear my not trusting him to the utmost. I know that he has been too much crushed to revive easily, and that it may not be easy to make him appreciate our hopes from such a distance; but I think such a summons as this must bring him."

  "I hope it will," said Ermine. "Otherwise we should not deserve that you should have any more to do with us."

  "Ermine, Ermine, do you not know that nothing can make any difference between us?"

  Ermine had collected herself while he spoke.

  "I know," she said, "that all you are doing makes me thank and bless you--oh! more than I can speak."

  He looked wistfully at her, but, tearful as were her eyes, there was a resolution, about her face that impressed upon him that she trusted to his promise of recurring no more within the year to the subject so near his heart; and he could say no more than, "You forgive me, Ermine, you know I trust him as you do."

  "I look to your setting him above being only trusted," said Ermine, trying to smile. "Oh! if you knew what this ray of hope is in the dreary darkness that has lasted so long!"

  Therewith he was obliged to leave her, and she only saw him for a few minutes in the morning, when he hurried in to take leave, since, if matters went right at the magistrates' bench, he intended to proceed at once to make such representations in person to Mr. Beauchamp and Dr. Long, as might induce them to send an urgent recall to Edward in time for the spring sessions, and for this no time must be lost. Ermine remained then alone with Rose, feeling the day strangely long and lonely, and that, perhaps, its flatness might be a preparation for the extinction of all the brightness that had of late come into her life. Colin had said he would trust as she did, but those words had made her aware that she must trust as he did. If he, with his clear sense and kindly insight into Edward's character, became convinced that his absence proceeded from anything worse than the mere fainthearted indifference that would not wipe off a blot, then Ermine felt that his judgment would carry her own along with it, and that she should lose her undoubting faith in her brother's perfect innocence, and in that case her mind was made up; Colin might say and do what he would, but she would never connect him through herself with deserved disgrace. The parting, after these months of intercourse and increased knowlege of one another, would be infinitely more wretched than the first; but, cost her what it would- -her life perhaps--the break should be made rather than let his untainted name be linked with one where dishonour justly rested. But with her constant principle of abstinence from dwelling on contingencies, she strove to turn away her mind, and to exert herself; though this was no easy task, especially on so solitary a day as this, while Alison was in charge at Myrtlewood in Lady Temple's absence, and Rachel Curtis was reported far too ill to leave her room, so that Ermine saw no one all day except her constant little companion; nor was it till towards evening that Alison at length made her appearance, bringing a note which Colin had sent home by Lady Temple.

  All had so far gone well. Maria Hatherton had been committed to take her trial at the quarter sessions for the assault upon the children; but, as her own little girl was still living, though in extreme danger, and the Sisters promised to take charge of both for the present, Colonel Keith had thought it only common humanity to offer bail, and this had been accepted. Later in the day Mauleverer himself had been brought down, having been taken up at a grand meeting of his Bristol friends, who had all rallied round him, expressing strong indignation at the accusation, and offering evidence as to character. He denied any knowledge of the name of Maddox, and declared that he was able to prove that his own account of himself as a popular, philanthropical lecturer was perfectly correct; and he professed to be much amazed at the charges brought against him, which could only have arisen from some sudden alarm in the young lady's mind, excited by her friends, whom he had always observed to be prejudiced against him. He appealed strongly against the hardship of being imprisoned on so slight a charge; but, as he could find no one to take his part, he reserved his defence for the quarter sessions, for which he was fully committed. Colin thought, however, that it was so doubtful whether the charges against him could be substantiated, that it was highly necessary to be fully prepared to press the former forgery against him, and had therefore decided upon sleeping at St. Norbert's and going on by an early train to obtain legal advice in London, and then to see Harry Beauchamp. Meantime, Ermine must write to her brother as urgently as possible, backing up Colin's own representations of the necessity of his return.

  Ermine read eagerly, but Alison seemed hardly able to command her attention to listen, and scarcely waited for the end of the letter before her own disclosure was made. Francis was sickening with diphtheria; he had been left behind in the morning on account of some outbreak of peevishness, and Alison, soon becoming convinced that temper was not solely in fault, had kept him apart from his brothers, and at last had sent for the doctor, who had at once pronounced it to be the same deadly complaint which had already declared itself in Rachel Curtis. Alison had of course devoted herself to the little boy till his mother's return from St. Norbert's, when she had been obliged to give the first intimation of what the price of the loving little widow's exploit might be. "I don't think she realizes the extent of the illness," said Alison; "say what I would, she would keep on thanking me breathlessly, and only wanting to escape to him. I asked if we should send to let Colin know, and she answered in her dear, unselfish way, 'By no means, it would be safer for him to be out of the way,' and, besides, she knew how much depended on his going."

  "She is right," said Ermine; "I am thankful that he is out of reach of trying to take a share in the nursing, it is bad enough to have one in the midst!"

  "Yes," said Alison. "Lady Temple cannot be left to bear this grievous trouble alone, and when the Homestead cannot help her. Yet, Ermine, what can be done? Is it safe for you and Rose?"

  "Certainly not safe that you should come backwards and forwards," said Ermine. "Rose must not be put in danger; so, dear, dear Ailie, you had better take your things up, and only look in on us now and then at the window."

  Alison entirely broke down. "Oh, Ermine, Ermine, since you began to mend, not one night have we been apart!"

  "Silly child," said Ermine, straining her quivering voice to be cheerful, "I am strong, and Rose is my best little handmaid."

  "I know it is right," said Alison, "I could not keep from my boys, and, indeed, now Colin is gone, I do not think any o
ne at Myrtlewood will have the heart to carry out the treatment. It will almost kill that dear young mother to see it. No, they cannot be left; but oh, Ermine, it is like choosing between you and them."

  "Not at all, it is choosing between right and wrong."

  "And Ermine, if--if I should be ill, you must not think of coming near me. Rose must not be left alone."

  "There is no use in talking of such things," said Ermine, resolutely, "let us think of what must be thought of, not of what is in the only Wise Hands. What has been done about the other children?"

  "I have kept them away from the first; I am afraid for none of them but Conrade."

  "It would be the wisest way to send them, nurses and all, to Gowanbrae."

  "Wise, but cool," said Alison.

  "I will settle that," returned Ermine. "Tibbie shall come and invite them, and you must make Lady Temple consent."

  The sisters durst not embrace, but gazed at one another, feeling that it might be their last look, their hearts swelling with unspoken prayer, but their features so restrained that neither might unnerve the other. Then it was that Alison, for the first time, felt absolute relief in the knowledge, once so bitter, that she had ceased to be the whole world to her sister. And Ermine, for one moment, felt as if it would be a way out of all troubles and perplexities if the two sisters could die together, and leave little Rose to be moulded by Colin to be all he wished; but she resolutely put aside the future, and roused herself to send a few words in pencil, requesting Tibbie to step in and speak to her.

  That worthy personage had fully adopted her, and entering, tall and stately, in her evening black silk and white apron, began by professing her anxiety to be any assistance in her power, saying, "she'd be won'erfu' proud to serve Miss Williams, while her sister was sae thrang waitin' on her young scholar in his sair trouble."

  Emmie thanked her, and rejoiced that the Colonel was out of harm's way.

  "Deed, aye, ma'am, he's weel awa'. He has sic a wark wi' thae laddies an' their bit bairn o' a mither, I'll no say he'd been easy keepit out o' the thick o' the distress, an' it's may be no surprisin', after a' that's come and gane, that he seeks to take siccan a lift of the concern. I've mony a time heard tell that the auld General, Sir Stephen, was as good as a faither to him, when he was sick an' lonesome, puir lad, in yon far awa' land o' wild beasts an' savages."

  "Would it not be what he might like, to take in the children out of the way of infection?"

  "'Deed, Miss Ermine," with a significant curtsey, "I'm thinkin' ye ken my maister Colin amaist as weel as I do. He's the true son of his forbears, an' Gowanbrae used to be always open in the auld lord's time, that's his grandfather Foreby, that he owes so much kindness to the General."

  Ermine further suggested that it was a pity to wait for a letter from the Colonel, and Tibbie quite agreed. She "liked the nurse as an extraordinar' douce woman, not like the fine English madams that Miss Isabel--that's Mrs. Comyn Menteith--put about her bairns; and as to room, the sergeant and the tailor bodie did not need much, and the masons were only busy in the front parlour."

  "Masons?" asked Ermine.

  "On, aye? didna ye ken it's for the new room, that is to be built out frae the further parlour, and what they ca' the bay to the drawin'- room, just to mak' the house more conformable like wi' his name and forbears. I never thocht but that ye'd surely seen the plans and a', Miss Ermine, an' if so be it was Maister Colin's pleasure the thing suld be private, I'm real vext to hae said a word; but ye'll may be no let on to him, ma'am, that ye ken onything about it."

  "Those down-stairs rooms so silently begun," thought Ermine. "How fixed his intention must be? Oh, how will it end? What would be best for him? And how can I think of myseif, while all, even my Ailie, are in distress and danger?"

  Ermine had, however, a good deal to think of, for not only had she Colin's daily letter to answer, but she had Conrade, Leoline, and Hubert with her for several hours every day, and could not help being amused by Rose's ways with them, little grown-up lady as she was compared to them. Luckily girls were such uncommon beings with them as to be rather courted than despised, and Rose, having nothing of the tom-boy, did not forfeit the privileges of her sex. She did not think they compensated for her Colonel's absence, and never durst introduce Violetta to them; but she enjoyed and profited by the contact with childhood, and was a very nice little comforter to Conrade when he was taken with a fit of anxiety for the brother whom he missed every moment.

  Quarantine weighed, however, most heavily upon poor Grace Curtis. Rachel had from the first insisted that she should be kept out of her room; and the mother's piteous entreaty always implied that saddest argument, "Why should I be deprived of you both in one day?" So Grace found herself condemned to uselessness almost as complete as Ermine's. She could only answer notes, respond to inquiries, without even venturing far enough from the house to see Ermine, or take out the Temple children for a walk. For indeed, Rachel's state was extremely critical.

  The feverish misery that succeeded Lovedy's death had been utterly crushing, the one load of self-accusation had prostrated her, but with a restlessness of agony, that kept her writhing as it were in her wretchedness; and then came the gradual increase of physical suffering, bearing in upon her that she had caught the fatal disorder. To her sense of justice, and her desire to wreak vengeance on herself, the notion might be grateful; but the instinct of self- preservation was far stronger. She could not die. The world here, the world to come, were all too dark, too confused, to enable her to bear such a doom. She saw her peril in her mother's face; in the reiterated visits of the medical man, whom she no longer spurned; in the calling in of the Avoncester physician; in the introduction of a professional nurse, and the strong and agonizing measures to which she had to submit, every time with the sensation that the suffering could not possibly be greater without exceeding the powers of endurance.

  Then arose the thought that with weakness she should lose all chance of expressing a wish, and, obtaining pencil and paper, she began to write a charge to her mother and sister to provide for Mary Morris; but in the midst there came over her the remembrance of the papers that she had placed in Mauleverer's hands--the title-deeds of the Burnaby Bargain; an estate that perhaps ought to be bringing in as much as half the rental of the property. It must be made good to the poor. If the title-deeds had been sold to any one who could claim the property, what would be the consequence? She felt herself in a mist of ignorance and perplexity; dreading the consequences, yet feeling as if her own removal might leave her fortune free to make up for them. She tried to scrawl an explanation; but mind and fingers were alike unequal to the task, and she desisted just as fresh torture began at the doctor's hands--torture from which they sent her mother away, and that left her exhausted, and despairing of holding out through a repetition.

  And then--and then! "Tell me of my Saviour," the dying child had said; and the drawn face had lightened at the words to which Rachel's oracles declared that people attached crude or arbitrary meanings; and now she hardly knew what they conveyed to her, and longed, as for something far away, for the reality of those simple teachings--once realities, now all by rote! Saved by faith! What was faith? Could all depend on a last sensation? And as to her life. Failure, failure through headstrong blindness and self-will, resulting in the agony of the innocent. Was this ground of hope? She tried to think of progress and purification beyond the grave; but this was the most speculative, insecure fabric of all. There was no habit of trust to it--no inward conviction, no outward testimony. And even when the extreme danger subsided, and Francis Temple was known to be better, Rachel found that her sorrow was not yet ended: for Conrade had been brought home with the symptoms of the complaint--Conrade, the most beloved and loving of Fanny's little ones, the only one who really remembered his father, was in exceeding, almost hopeless peril, watched day and night by his mother and Miss Williams.

  The little Alice, Maria Hatherton's own child, had lingered and struggled long, but
all the care and kindness of the good Sisters at St. Norbert's had been unavailing, she had sunk at last, and the mother remained in a dull, silent, tearless misery, quietly doing all that was required of her, but never speaking nor giving the ladies any opening to try to make an impression upon her.

  Rachel gleaned more intelligence than her mother meant her to obtain, and brooded over it in her weakness and her silence.

  Recovery is often more trying than illness, and Rachel suffered greatly. Indeed, she was not sure that she ought to have recovered at all, and perhaps the shock to her nerves and spirits was more serious than the effect of the sharp passing disorder, which had, however, so much weakened her that she succumbed entirely to the blow. "Accountable for all," the words still rang in her ears, and the all for which she was accountable continually magnified itself. She had tied a dreadful knot, which Fanny, meek contemned Fanny had cut, but at the cost of grievous suffering and danger to her boys, and too late to prevent that death which continually haunted Rachel; those looks of convulsive agony came before her in all her waking and sleeping intervals. Nothing put them aside, occupation in her weakness only bewildered and distracted her, and even though she was advancing daily towards convalescence, leaving her room, and being again restored to her sister, she still continued listless, dejected, cast down, and unable to turn her mind from this one dreary contemplation. Of Fanny and her sons it was hardly possible to think, and one of the strange perturbations of the mind in illness caused her to dwell far less on them than on the minor misery of the fate of the title-deeds of the Burnaby Bargain, which she had put into Mauleverer's hand. She fancied their falling into the hands of some speculator, who, if he did not break the mother's heart by putting up a gasometer, would certainly wring it by building hideous cottages, or desirable marine residences. The value would be enhanced so as to be equal to more than half that of the Homestead, the poor would have been cheated of it, and what compensation could be made? Give up all her own share? Nay, she had nothing absolutely her own while her mother lived, only £5,000 was settled on her if she married, and she tortured herself with devising plans that she knew to be impracticable, of stripping herself, and going forth to suffer the poverty she merited. Yes, but how would she have lived? Not like the Williamses! She had tried teaching like the one, and writing like the other, but had failed in both. The Clever Woman had no marketable or available talent. She knew very well that nothing would induce her mother and sister to let her despoil herself, but to have injured them would be even more intolerable; and more than all was the sickening uncertainty, whether any harm had been done, or what would be its extent.