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THE MAN AND THE CHILD.
It was a fine frosty morning, the invigorating influences of which,
acting along with the excitement following immediately upon a
sleepless night, overcame in a great measure the depression
occasioned by the contemplation of my circumstances. Disinclined
notwithstanding for any more pleasant prospect, I sought the rugged
common where I had so lately met Catherine Weir in the storm and
darkness, and where I had stood without knowing it upon the very
verge of the precipice down which my fate was now threatening to
hurl me. I reached the same chasm in which I had sought a breathing
space on that night, and turning into it, sat down upon a block of
sand which the frost had detached from the wall above. And now the
tumult began again in my mind, revolving around the vortex of a new
centre of difficulty.
For, first of all, I found my mind relieved by the fact that, having
urged Catherine to a line of conduct which had resulted in
confession,--a confession which, leaving all other considerations of
my office out of view, had the greater claim upon my secrecy that it
was made in confidence in my uncovenanted honour,--I was not, could
not be at liberty to disclose the secret she confided to me, which,
disclosed by herself, would have been the revenge from which I had
warned her, and at the same time my deliverance. I was relieved I
say at first, by this view of the matter, because I might thus keep
my own chance of some favourable turn; whereas, if I once told Miss
Oldcastle, I must give her up for ever, as I had plainly seen in the
watch of the preceding night. But my love did not long remain
skulking thus behind the hedge of honour. Suddenly I woke and saw
that I was unworthy of the honour of loving her, for that I was glad
to be compelled to risk her well-being for the chance of my own
happiness; a risk which involved infinitely more wretchedness to her
than the loss of my dearest hopes to me; for it is one thing for a
man not to marry the woman he loves, and quite another for a woman
to marry a man she cannot ever respect. Had I not been withheld
partly by my obligation to Catherine, partly by the feeling that I
ought to wait and see what God would do, I should have risen that
moment and gone straight to Oldcastle Hall, that I might plunge at
once into the ocean of my loss, and encounter, with the full sense
of honourable degradation, every misconstruction that might justly
be devised of my conduct. For that I had given her up first could
never be known even to her in this world. I could only save her by
encountering and enduring and cherishing her scorn. At least so it
seemed to me at the time; and, although I am certain the other
higher motives had much to do in holding me back, I am equally
certain that this awful vision of the irrevocable fate to follow
upon the deed, had great influence, as well, in inclining me to
suspend action.
I was still sitting in the hollow, when I heard the sound of horses'
hoofs in the distance, and felt a foreboding of what would appear. I
was only a few yards from the road upon which the sand-cleft opened,
and could see a space of it sufficient to show the persons even of
rapid riders. The sounds drew nearer. I could distinguish the step
of a pony and the steps of two horses besides. Up they came and
swept past--Miss Oldcastle upon Judy's pony, and Mr Stoddart upon
her horse; with the captain upon his own. How grateful I felt to Mr
Stoddart! And the hope arose in me that he had accompanied them at
Miss Oldcastle's request.
I had had no fear of being seen, sitting as I was on the side from
which they came. One of the three, however, caught a glimpse of me,
and even in the moment ere she vanished I fancied I saw the
lily-white grow rosy-red. But it must have been fancy, for she could
hardly have been quite pale upon horseback on such a keen morning.
I could not sit any longer. As soon as I ceased to hear the sound of
their progress, I rose and walked home--much quieter in heart and
mind than when I set out.
As I entered by the nearer gate of the vicarage, I saw Old Rogers
enter by the farther. He did not see me, but we met at the door. I
greeted him.
"I'm in luck," he said, "to meet yer reverence just coming home.
How's poor Miss Weir to-day, sir?"
"She was rather better, when I left her this morning, than she had
been through the night. I have not heard since. I left my sister
with her. I greatly doubt if she will ever get up again. That's
between ourselves, you know. Come in."
"Thank you, sir. I wanted to have a little talk with you.--You don't
believe what they say--that she tried to kill the poor little
fellow?" he asked, as soon as the study door was closed behind us.
"If she did, she was out of her mind for the moment. But I don't
believe it."
And thereupon I told him what both his master and I thought about
it. But I did not tell him what she had said confirmatory of our
conclusions.
"That's just what I came to myself, sir, turning the thing over in
my old head. But there's dreadful things done in the world, sir.
There's my daughter been a-telling of me--"
I was instantly breathless attention. What he chose to tell me I
felt at liberty to hear, though I would not have listened to Jane
herself.--I must here mention that she and Richard were not yet
married, old Mr Brownrigg not having yet consented to any day his
son wished to fix; and that she was, therefore, still in her place
of attendance upon Miss Oldcastle.
"--There's been my daughter a-telling of me," said Rogers, "that the
old lady up at the Hall there is tormenting the life out of that
daughter of hers--she don't look much like hers, do she,
sir?--wanting to make her marry a man of her choosing. I saw him go
past o' horseback with her yesterday, and I didn't more than half
like the looks on him. He's too like a fair-spoken captain I sailed
with once, what was the hardest man I ever sailed with. His own way
was everything, even after he saw it wouldn't do. Now, don't you
think, sir, somebody or other ought to interfere? It's as bad as
murder that, and anybody has a right to do summat to perwent it."
"I don't know what can be done, Rogers. I CAN'T interfere."
The old man was silent. Evidently he thought I might interfere if I
pleased. I could see what he was thinking. Possibly his daughter had
told him something more than he chose to communicate to me. I could
not help suspecting the mode in which he judged I might interfere.
But I could see no likelihood before me but that of confusion and
precipitation. In a word, I had not a plain path to follow.
"Old Rogers," I said, "I can almost guess what you mean. But I am in
more difficulty with regard to what you suggest than I can easily
explain to you. I need not tell you, however, that I will turn the
whole matter over in my mind."
"The prey ought to be taken from the lion somehow, if it please
God," returned the old man solemnly. "The poor young lady keeps up
as well as she can before her mother; but Jane do say there's a
power o' crying done in her own room."
Partly to hide my emotion, partly with the sudden resolve to do
something, if anything could be done, I said:--
"I will call on Mr Stoddart this evening. I may hear something from
him to suggest a mode of action."
"I don't think you'll get anything worth while from Mr Stoddart. He
takes things a deal too easy like. He'll be this man's man and that
man's man both at oncet. I beg your pardon, sir. But HE won't help
us."
"That's all I can think of at present, though," I said; whereupon
the man-of-war's man, with true breeding, rose at once, and took a
kindly leave.
I was in the storm again. She suffering, resisting, and I standing
aloof! But what could I do? She had repelled me--she would repel me.
Were I to dare to speak, and so be refused, the separation would be
final. She had said that the day might come when she would ask help
from me: she had made no movement towards the request. I would
gladly die to serve her--yea, more gladly far than live, if that
service was to separate us. But what to do I could not see. Still,
just to do something, even if a useless something, I would go and
see Mr Stoddart that evening. I was sure to find him alone, for he
never dined with the family, and I might possibly catch a glimpse of
Miss Oldcastle.
I found little Gerard so much better, though very weak, and his
mother so quiet, notwithstanding great feverishness, that I might
safely leave them to the care of Mary, who had quite recovered from
her attack, and her brother Tom. So there was something off my mind
for the present.
The heavens were glorious with stars,--Arcturus and his host, the
Pleiades, Orion, and all those worlds that shine out when ours is
dark; but I did not care for them. Let them shine: they could not
shine into me. I tried with feeble effort to lift my eyes to Him who
is above the stars, and yet holds the sea, yea, the sea of human
thought and trouble, in the hollow of His hand. How much sustaining,
although no conscious comforting, I got from that region
"Where all men's prayers to Thee raised Return possessed of what
they pray Thee,"
I cannot tell. It was not a time favourable to the analysis of
feeling--still less of religious feeling. But somehow things did
seem a little more endurable before I reached the house.
I was passing across the hall, following the "white wolf" to Mr
Stoddart's room, when the drawing-room door opened, and Miss
Oldcastle came half out, but seeing me drew back instantly. A moment
after, however, I heard the sound of her dress following us. Light
as was her step, every footfall seemed to be upon my heart. I did
not dare to look round, for dread of seeing her turn away from me. I
felt like one under a spell, or in an endless dream; but gladly
would I have walked on for ever in hope, with that silken vortex of
sound following me. Soon, however, it ceased. She had turned aside
in some other direction, and I passed on to Mr Stoddart's room.
He received me kindly, as he always did; but his smile flickered
uneasily. He seemed in some trouble, and yet pleased to see me.
"I am glad you have taken to horseback," I said. "It gives me hope
that you will be my companion sometimes when I make a round of my
parish. I should like you to see some of our people. You would find
more in them to interest you than perhaps you would expect."
I thus tried to seem at ease, as I was far from feeling.
"I am not so fond of riding as I used to be," returned Mr Stoddart.
"Did you like the Arab horses in India?"
"Yes, after I got used to their careless ways. That horse you must
have seen me on the other day, is very nearly a pure Arab. He
belongs to Captain Everard, and carries Miss Oldcastle beautifully.
I was quite sorry to take him from her, but it was her own doing.
She would have me go with her. I think I have lost much firmness
since I was ill."
"If the loss of firmness means the increase of kindness, I do not
think you will have to lament it," I answered. "Does Captain Everard
make a long stay?"
"He stays from day to day. I wish he would go. I don't know what to
do. Mrs Oldcastle and he form one party in the house; Miss Oldcastle
and Judy another; and each is trying to gain me over. I don't want
to belong to either. If they would only let me alone!"
"What do they want of you, Mr Stoddart?"
"Mrs Oldcastle wants me to use my influence with Ethelwyn, to
persuade her to behave differently to Captain Everard. The old lady
has set her heart on their marriage, and Ethelwyn, though she dares
not break with him, she is so much afraid of her mother, yet keeps
him somehow at arm's length. Then Judy is always begging me to stand
up for her aunt. But what's the use of my standing up for her if she
won't stand up for herself; she never says a word to me about it
herself. It's all Judy's doing. How am I to know what she wants?"
"I thought you said just now she asked you to ride with her?"
"So she did, but nothing more. She did not even press it, only the
tears came in her eyes when I refused, and I could not bear that; so
I went against my will. I don't want to make enemies. I am sure I
don't see why she should stand out. He's a very good match in point
of property and family too."
"Perhaps she does not like him?" I forced myself to say.
"Oh! I suppose not, or she would not be so troublesome. But she
could arrange all that if she were inclined to be agreeable to her
friends. After all I have done for her! Well, one must not look to
be repaid for anything one does for others. I used to be very fond
of her: I am getting quite tired of her miserable looks."
And what had this man done for her, then? He had, for his own
amusement, taught her Hindostanee; he had given her some insight
into the principles of mechanics, and he had roused in her some
taste for the writings of the Mystics. But for all that regarded the
dignity of her humanity and her womanhood, if she had had no
teaching but what he gave her, her mind would have been merely "an
unweeded garden that grows to seed." And now he complained that in
return for his pains she would not submit to the degradation of
marrying a man she did not love, in order to leave him in the
enjoyment of his own lazy and cowardly peace. Really he was a worse
man than I had thought him. Clearly he would not help to keep her in
the right path, not even interfere to prevent her from being pushed
into the wrong one. But perhaps he was only expressing his own
discomfort, not giving his real judgment, and I might be censuring
him too hardly.
"What will be the result, do you suppose?" I asked.
"I can't tell. Sooner or later she will have to give in to her
mother. Everybody does. She might as well yield with a good grace."
"She must do what she thinks right," I said. "And you, Mr Stoddart,
ought to help her to do what is right. You surely would not urge her
to marry a man she did not love."
"Well, no; not exactly urge her. And yet society does not object to
it. It is an acknowledged arrangement, common enough."
"Society is scarcely an interpreter of the divine will. Society will
honour vile things enough, so long as the doer has money sufficient
to clothe them in a grace not their own. There is a God's-way of
doing everything in the world, up to marrying, or down to paying a
bill."
"Yes, yes, I know what you would say; and I suppose you are right. I
will not urge any opinion of mine. Besides, we shall have a little
respite soon, for he must join his regiment in a day or two."
It was some relief to hear this. But I could not with equanimity
prosecute a conversation having Miss Oldcastle for the subject of
it, and presently took my leave.
As I walked through one of the long passages, but dimly lighted,
leading from Mr Stoddart's apartment to the great staircase, I
started at a light touch on my arm. It was from Judy's hand.
"Dear Mr Walton----" she said, and stopped.
For at the same moment appeared at the farther end of the passage
towards which I had been advancing, a figure of which little more
than a white face was visible; and the voice of Sarah, through whose
softness always ran a harsh thread that made it unmistakable, said,
"Miss Judy, your grandmamma wants you."
Judy took her hand from my arm, and with an almost martial stride
the little creature walked up to the speaker, and stood before her
defiantly. I could see them quite well in the fuller light at the
end of the passage, where there stood a lamp. I followed slowly that
I might not interrupt the child's behaviour, which moved me
strangely in contrast with the pusillanimity I had so lately
witnessed in Mr Stoddart.
"Sarah," she said, "you know you are telling a lie Grannie does NOT
want me. You have NOT been in the dining-room since I left it one
moment ago. Do you think, you BAD woman, I am going to be afraid
of you? I know you better than you think. Go away directly, or I
will make you."
She stamped her little foot, and the "white wolf" turned and walked
away without a word.
If the mothers among my readers are shocked at the want of decorum
in my friend Judy, I would just say, that valuable as propriety of
demeanour is, truth of conduct is infinitely more precious. Glad
should I be to think that the even tenor of my children's good
manners could never be interrupted, except by such righteous
indignation as carried Judy beyond the strict bounds of good
breeding. Nor could I find it in my heart to rebuke her wherein she
had been wrong. In the face of her courage and uprightness, the
fault was so insignificant that it would have been giving it an
altogether undue importance to allude to it at all, and might weaken
her confidence in my sympathy with her rectitude. When I joined her
she put her hand in mine, and so walked with me down the stair and
out at the front door.
"You will take cold, Judy, going out like that," I said.
"I am in too great a passion to take cold," she answered. "But I
have no time to talk about that creeping creature.--Auntie DOESN'T
like Captain Everard; and grannie keeps insisting on it that she
shall have him whether she likes him or not. Now do tell me what you
think."
"I do not quite understand you, my child."
"I know auntie would like to know what you think. But I know she
will never ask you herself. So I am asking you whether a lady
ought to marry a gentleman she does not like, to please her mother."
"Certainly not, Judy. It is often wicked, and at best a mistake."
"Thank you, Mr Walton. I will tell her. She will be glad to hear
that you say so, I know."
"Mind you tell her you asked me, Judy. I should not like her to
think I had been interfering, you know."
"Yes, yes; I know quite well. I will take care. Thank you. He's
going to-morrow. Good night."
She bounded into the house again, and I walked away down the avenue.
I saw and felt the stars now, for hope had come again in my heart,
and I thanked the God of hope. "Our minds are small because they are
faithless," I said to myself. "If we had faith in God, as our Lord
tells us, our hearts would share in His greatness and peace. For we
should not then be shut up in ourselves, but would walk abroad in
Him." And with a light step and a light heart I went home.
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