Kitabı oku: «The Clever Woman of the Family», sayfa 34
Rachel feared he would not be able to part with his little son, and began to mention the arrangements she had contemplated in case he wished to keep the child at Timber End. On this, Lord Keith asked with some anxiety, if its presence were inconvenient to Mr. Clare; and being assured of the contrary, said, “Then while you are so kind as to watch over him, I much prefer that things should remain in their present state, than to bring him to a house like this. You do not object?”
“Oh, no; I am so glad. I was only dreading the losing him. I thought Mrs. Menteith wished for him when he is old enough to travel.”
“Colin!” said Lord Keith, looking up sharply, “will nothing make the Menteiths understand that I would rather put out the child to nurse in a Highland hut than in that Babel of a nursery of theirs?”
Colin smiled and said, “Isabel does not easily accept an answer she dislikes.”
“But remember, both of you,” continued Lord Keith, “that happen what may, this poor child is not to be in her charge. I’ve seen enough of her children left alone in perambulators in the sun. You will be in Edinburgh?” he added, turning to Rachel.
“Yes, when Alick’s leave ends.”
“I shall return thither when this matter is over, I know I shall be better at home in Scotland, and if I winter in Edinburgh, may be we could make some arrangement for his being still under your eye.”
Rachel went home more elevated than she had been for months past.
CHAPTER XXIX. AT LAST
“I bid thee hail, not as in former days,
Not as my chosen only, but my bride,
My very bride, coming to make my house
A glorious temple.” A. H. HALLAM.
“Timber End,Littleworthy,September 10th.
“Dear Miss Williams,—I must begin by entreating your forgiveness for addressing you in a manner for which perhaps you may be unprepared; but I trust you have always been aware, that any objections that I may have offered to my brother Colin’s attachment to yourself have never been personal, or owing to anything but an unfortunate complication of circumstances. These difficulties are, as no doubt he will explain to you, in great measure removed by the present condition of my family, which will enable me to make such settlements as I could wish in the ease of one so nearly connected with me; so that I am enabled to entreat of you at length to reward the persevering constancy so well deserved. I have a further, and a personal cause for wishing that the event should not be deferred, as regard for my feelings might have led you to propose. You are aware of the present state of my health, and that it has become expedient to make immediate arrangements for the future guardianship of my little boy. His uncles are of course his natural guardians, and I have unbounded confidence in both; but Alexander Keith’s profession renders it probable that he may not always be at hand, and I am therefore desirous of being able to nominate yourself, together with my brother, among the personal guardians. Indeed, I understand from Alexander Keith, that such was the express wish of his sister. I mention this as an additional motive to induce you to consent. For my own part, even without so stringent a cause, all that I have ever seen or known of yourself would inspire me with the desire that you should take a mother’s place towards my son. But you must be aware that such an appointment could only be made when you are already one of the family, and this it is that leads me to entreat you to overlook any appearance of precipitancy on my brother’s part, and return a favourable reply to the request, which with my complete sanction, he is about to address to you.
“Yes, Ermine Williams, forgive all that is past, and feel for an old, it may be, a dying man, and for a motherless infant. There is much to forget, but I trust to your overcoming any scruples, and giving me all the comfort in your power, in thinking of the poor child who has come into the world under such melancholy circumstances.
“Yours most truly,“Keith of Gowanbrae”
“Poor Keith, he has given me his letter open, his real anxiety has been too much at last for his dignity; and now, my Ermine, what do you say to his entreaty? The state of the case is this. How soon this abscess may be ready for the operation is still uncertain, the surgeons think it will be in about three weeks, and in this interval he wishes to complete all his arrangements. In plain English, his strongest desire is to secure the poor little boy from falling into Menteith’s hands. Now, mine is a precarious life, and Alick and Rachel may of course be at the ends of the earth, so the point is that you shall be ‘one of the family,’ before the will is signed. Alick’s leave has been extended to the 1st of October, no more is possible, and he undertakes to nurse poor Keith for a fortnight from to-morrow, if you will consent to fulfil this same request within that time. After the 1st, I should have to leave you, but as soon as Keith is well enough to bear the journey, he wishes to return to Edinburgh, where he would be kindly attended to by Alick and Rachel all the winter. There, Ermine, your victory is come, your consent has been entreated at last by my brother, not for my sake, but as a personal favour to himself, because there is no woman in the world of whom he thinks so highly. For myself I say little. I grieve that you should be thus hurried and fluttered, and if Ailie thinks it would harm you, she must telegraph back to me not to come down, and I will try to teach myself patience by preaching it to Keith, but otherwise you will see me by four o’clock to-morrow. Every time I hear Rachel’s name, I think it ought to have been yours, and surely in this fourteenth year, lesser objections may give way. But persuasions are out of the question, you must be entirely led by your own feeling. If I could have seen you in July, this should not have come so suddenly at last. “Yours, more than ever, decide as you may,
“Colin A Keith.
“P. S.—I am afraid Rose would hardly answer this purpose equally well.”
Colonel Keith followed his letter at four o’clock, and entering his own study, found it in a cloud of smoke, in the midst of which he dimly discerned a long beard and thin visage absorbed in calculation.
“Edward! How is Ermine?”
“Oh?” (inquiringly) “Keith!” (as taken by surprise) “ah! you were to come home to-day. How are you?”
“How is she? Has she had my letter?”
“What letter? You write every day, I thought.”
“The letter of yesterday. Have you heard nothing of it?”
“Not that I know of. Look here, Keith, I told you I was sure the platinum—”
“Your brain is becoming platinum. I must go,” and the chemist remained with merely a general impression of having been interrupted.
Next the Colonel met Rose, watching at his own gate, and this time his answer was more explicit.
“Yes, Aunt Ermine said you were coming, and that I might meet you, but that I must let you come in alone, for she had not seen you so long, that she wanted you all to herself.”
“And how is she; how has she been?”
“She is well now,” said Rose, in the grave, grown-up way she always assumed when speaking of her aunt’s health; “but she has been having a good deal of her nervous headache this summer, and Lady Temple wanted her to see Mr. Frampton, but Aunt Ailie said it was only excitement and wear of spirits. Oh, I am glad you have come back! We have so wearied after you.”
Nevertheless Rose duteously loosed the hand to which she had been clinging till they came to the door; and as Colin Keith opened it, again he was met by the welcoming glances of the bright eyes. This time he did not pause till he was close to her, and kneeling on one knee beside her, he put his arm round her, and held her hands in his.
The first words that passed were, “You had the letters?”
“Colin, Colin, my one prayer has been, ‘Make Thy way plain before my face.’”
“And now it is?”
“The suspicion is gone; the displeasure is gone; the doubts are gone; and now there is nothing—nothing but the lameness and the poverty; and if you like the old cinder, Colin, that is your concern;” and she hid her face, with a sort of sobbing laugh.
“And even the haste; you consent to that?”
“I don’t feel it like haste,” she said, looking up with a smile, and then crimsoning.
“And Ailie gives leave, and thinks the hurry will not harm you?”
“Ailie! O Colin, did you think I could tell any one of your letter, before you had had your answer?”
“Then Edward is not so moonstruck as I thought him! And when shall it be, dearest? Give me as much time as you can. I must go back this day fortnight.”
“I suppose your expectations are not high in the matter of finery,” said Ermine, with a certain archness of voice.
“Those eyes are all the finery I ever see.”
“Then if you will not be scandalized at my natural Sunday dress, I don’t see why this day week should not do as well as any other time.”
“Ermine, you are the only woman I ever met totally free from nonsense.”
“Take care, it is very unfeminine and disagreeable to be devoid of nonsense.”
“Very, and therefore you are talking it now! Ermine, how shall I thank you? Not only for the sake of the ease of mind to my poor brother; but in the scenes we are going through, a drop of happiness is wanted as a stimulant. When I looked at the young couple at Bishopsworthy, I often felt as if another half-year of suspense was more than I could bear, and that I must ask you to help me through with at least a definite hope.”
“Ah! you have gone through a great deal I am sure it has been a time of great trouble.”
“Indeed it has. The suffering has become unceasing and often most severe, and there is grievous depression of spirits; I could not have left him even for a day, if he had not been so fervently bent on this.”
“Is he feeling his loss more acutely than at first?”
“Not so much that, as for the poor little boy, who is a heavy burthen on his mind. He has lived in such a state of shrewd distrust that he has no power of confidence, and his complications for making all the boy’s guardians check one another till we come to a dead lock, and to make provision for Isabel out of Menteith’s reach, are enough to distract the brain of a man in health.”
“Is he fond of the child?”
“It is an oppressive care to him, and he only once has made up his mind to see it, though it is never off his mind, and it is very curious how from the first he has been resolved on your taking charge of it. It is the most real testimony he could give you.”
“It is very comfortable not to be brought in like an enemy in spite of him, as even a year ago I could have been proud to do.”
“And I to have brought you,” he answered, “but it is far better as it is. He is very cordial, and wants to give up the Auchinvar estate to me; indeed, he told me that he always meant me to have it as soon as I had washed my hands of you—you wicked syren—but I think you will agree with me that he had better leave it to his daughter Mary, who has nothing. We never reckoned on it.”
“Nor on anything else,” said Ermine, smiling.
“You have never heard my ways and means,” he said, “and as a prudent woman you ought, you know. See,” taking out his tablets, “here is my calculation.”
“All that!”
“On the staff in India there were good opportunities of saving; then out of that sum I bought the house, and with my half-pay, our income will be very fair, and there would be a pension afterwards for you. This seems to me all we can reasonably want.”
“Unless I became like ‘die Ilsebill’ in the German tale. After four years of living from hand to mouth, this will be like untold gold. To wish to be above strict economy in wheeled chairs has seemed like perilous discontent in Rose and me.”
“I have ventured on the extravagance of taking the ponies and little carriage off my brother’s hands, it is low enough for you, and I shall teach Rose to ride one of the ponies with me.”
“The dear little Rose! But, Colin, there is a dreadful whisper about her going with her father, and Ailie too! You see now his character is cleared, he has been offered a really lucrative post, so that he could have them with him.”
“Does he wish it?”
“I dare not ask. I must be passive or I shall be selfish. You are all my world, and Edward has no one. Make them settle it without me. Talk of something else! Tell me how your brother is to be taken care of.”
“There cannot be a better nurse than Alick Keith; and Ferguson, the agent, is there, getting directions from Keith whenever he can bear it. I am best out of the way of all that. I have said once for all that I will do anything for them except live at Gowanbrae, and I am sick of demonstrating that the poor child’s existence is the greatest possible relief to me; and I hope now not to go back till the whole is settled and done with.”
“You look regularly worn out with the discussions!”
“It was an endless business! The only refreshment was in now and then getting over to Bishopsworthy.”
“What? to Rachel?” said Ermine archly.
“Rachel is showing to great advantage. I did not think it was in her to be so devoted to the child, and it is beautiful to see her and Mr. Clare together.”
“There’s a triumph,” said Ermine, smiling. “Do you grant that the happy medium is reached, that Alick should learn to open his eyes and Rachel to shut hers?”
“Well! Her eyes are better, but he, poor lad, has been in no spirits to open his very wide. The loss of his sister went very deep, and those aguish attacks, though they become much slighter, make him look wretchedly ill. I should have doubted about leaving him in charge in his present state, but that he was urgent on me, and he is spared all the night nursing. Any way, I must not leave him longer than I can help. I may have one week with you at home—at our home, Ermine.”
“And let us make the most of that,” said Ermine, quickly.
Meanwhile Alison, sore and sick at heart, wandered on the esplanade, foreboding that the blow was coming that she ought to rejoice at, if her love could only be more unselfish. At last the Colonel joined her, and, as usual, his tone of consideration cheered and supported her when in actual conference with him, and as he explained his plans, he added that he hoped there would be scarcely any interruption to her intercourse with her sister.
“You know,” she said abruptly, “that we could go to Ekaterinburg.”
“And what is your feeling about it? Remember, Ailie, that I am your brother too.” And as she hesitated, “your feelings—no doubt you are in many minds!”
“Ah, yes; I never settled anything without Ermine, and she will not help me now. And she has been so worn with the excitement and anxiety of all this long detention of yours, that I don’t dare to say a word that could prey on her.”
“In fact, you would chiefly be decided by Edward’s own wishes.”
“If I were sure of them,” sighed poor Alison; “but he lives on experiments, and can hardly detach himself from them even to attend to Ermine herself. I don’t know whether we should be a comfort or a burthen, and he would be afraid to hurt our feelings by telling the truth. I have been longing to consult you who have seen him at that place in Russia.”
“And indeed, Ailie, he is so wedded to smoke and calculations, and so averse to this sublunary world, that though your being with him might be beneficial, still I greatly question whether the risk of carrying poor little Rose to so remote a place in such a climate, would be desirable. If he were pining to have a home made for him, it would be worth doing; as it is, the sacrifice would be disproportioned.”
“It would be no sacrifice if he only wanted us.”
“Where you are wanted is here. Ermine wants you. I want you. The Temples want you.”
“Now, Colin, tell me truly. Edward feels as I do, and Dr. Long spoke seriously of it. Will not my present position do you and Ermine harm among your friends?”
“With no friend we wish to make or keep!”
“If I do remain,” continued Alison, “it must be as I am. I would not live upon you, even if you asked me, which you have too much sense to do; and though dear Lady Temple is everything to me, and wants me to forget that I am her governess, that would be a mere shuffle, but if it is best for you that I should give it up, and go out, say so at once.”
“Best for me to have eight Temples thrown on my hands, all in despair! To have you at Myrtlewood is an infinite relief to me, both on their account and Ermine’s. You should not suspect a penniless Scotsman of such airs, Ailie.”
“Not you, Colin, but your family.”
“Isabel Menteith thinks a glass-blower was your father, and Mauleverer your brother, so yours is by far the most respectable profession. No, indeed, my family might be thankful to have any one in it who could do as you have done.”
Alison’s scruples were thus disposed of, and when Edward’s brain cleared itself from platinum, he showed himself satisfied with the decision, though he insisted on henceforth sending home a sum sufficient for his daughter’s expenses, and once said something that could be construed into a hope of spending a quiet old age with her and his sister; but at present he was manifestly out of his element, and was bent on returning to Ekaterinburg immediately after the marriage.
His presence was but a qualified pleasure. Naturally shy and absent, his broken spirits and removal from domestic life, and from society, had exaggerated his peculiarities; and under the pressure of misfortune, caused in a great measure by his own negligence, he had completely given way, without a particle of his sister’s patience or buoyancy, and had merely striven to drown his troubles in engrossing problems of his favourite pursuit, till the habit of abstraction had become too confirmed to be shaken off. When the blot on his name was removed, he was indeed sensible that he was no longer an exile, but he could not resume his old standing, friendships rudely severed could not be re-united; his absorption had grown by indulgence; old interests had passed away; needful conformity to social habits was irksome, and even his foreign manner and appearance testified to his entire unfitness for English life.
Tibbie was in constant dread of his burning the house down, so incalculable and preposterous were his hours, and the Colonel, longing to render the house a perfect shrine for his bride, found it hard to tolerate the fumes with which her brother saturated it. If he had been sure that opium formed no portion of Edward’s solace, his counsel to Alison would have been less decisive. To poor little Rose, her father was an abiding perplexity and distress; she wanted to love him, and felt it absolute naughtiness to be constantly disappointed by his insensibility to her approaches, or else repelled and disgusted by that vice of the Russian sheep. And a vague hint of being transported to the Ural mountains, away from Aunt Ermine, had haunted her of late more dreadfully than even the lions of old; so that the relief was ineffable when her dear Colonel confided to her that she was to be his niece and Aunt Ermine’s handmaid, sent her to consult with Tibbie on her new apartment, and invited Augustus to the most eligible hole in the garden. The grotto that Rose, Conrade, and Francis proceeded to erect with pebbles and shells, was likely to prove as alarming to that respectable reptile as a model cottage to an Irish peasant.
Ermine had dropped all scruples about Rose’s intercourse with other children, and the feeling that she might associate with them on equal terms, perhaps, was the most complete assurance of Edward’s restoration. She was glad that companionship should render the little maiden more active and childlike, for Edward’s abstraction had made her believe that there might be danger in indulging the dreaminess of the imaginative child.
No one welcomed the removal of these restraints more warmly than Lady Temple. She was perhaps the happiest of the happy, for with her there was no drawback, no sorrow, no parting to fear. Her first impulse, when Colonel Keith came to tell her his plans, was to seize on hat and shawl, and rush down to Mackarel Lane to kiss Ermine with all her heart, and tell her that “it was the most delightful thing of her to have consented at last, for nobody deserved so well to be happy as that dear Colonel;” and then she clung to Alison, declaring that now she should have her all to herself, and if she would only come to Myrtlewood, she would do her very best to make her comfortable there, and it should be her home—her home always.
“In fact,” said Ermine, afterwards to the Colonel, “when you go to Avoncester, I think you may as well get a licence for the wedding of Alison Williams and Fanny Temple at the same time. There has been quite a courtship on the lady’s part.”
The courtship had been the more ardent from Fanny’s alarm lest the brother should deprive her of Alison; and when she found her fears groundless, she thanked him with such fervour, and talked so eagerly of his sister’s excellences that she roused him into a lucid interval, in which he told Colonel Keith that Lady Temple might give him an idea of the style of woman that Lucy had been. Indeed, Colin began to think that it was as well that he was so well wrapped up in smoke and chemistry, otherwise another might have been added to the list of Lady Temple’s hopeless adorers. The person least satisfied was Tibbie, who could not get over the speediness of the marriage, nor forgive the injury to Miss Williams, “of bringing her hame like any pleughman’s wife, wantin’ a honeymoon trip, forbye providin’ hersel’ with weddin’ braws conformable. Gin folk tak’ sic daft notions aff the English, they’d be mair wise like to bide at hame, an’ that’s my way o’ thinkin’.”
Crusty as she was, there was no danger of her not giving her warmest welcome, and thus the morning came. Tibbie had donned her cap, with white satin ribbons, and made of lace once belonging to the only heiress who had ever brought wealth to the Keiths. Edward Williams, all his goods packed up, had gone to join his sisters, and the Colonel, only perceptibly differing from his daily aspect in having a hat free from crape, was opening all the windows in hopes that a thorough draft would remove the last of the tobacco, when the letters were brought in, and among them one of the black bordered bulletins from Littleworthy, which ordinarily arrived by the second post. It was a hurried note, evidently dashed off to catch the morning mail.
My Dear Colonel,—Alick tells me to write in haste to catch the morning post, and beg you to telegraph the instant your wedding is over. The doctors see cause to hasten their measures, but your brother will have nothing done till the will is signed. He and Alick both desire you will not come, but it is getting to be far too much for Alick. I would tell you more if there were time before the post goes. Love to dear Ermine.
Very sincerely yours,R. KEITH.
There was so shocked and startled a look on Colin’s face, that Tibbie believed that his brother must be dead, and when in a few almost inaudible words he told her that he must start for Bishopsworthy by the afternoon train, she fairly began to scold, partly by way of working off the irritation left by her alarm. “The lad’s clean demented! Heard ye ever the like, to rin awa’ frae his new-made wife afore the blessin’s been weel spoke; an’ a’ for the whimsie of that daft English lassie that made siccan a piece of work wi’ her cantrips.”
“I am afraid she is right now,” said the Colonel, “and my brother must not be left any longer.”
“Hout awa, Maister Colin, his lordship has come between you and your luve oft enough already, without partin’ ye at the very church door. Ye would na have the English cast up to us, that one of your name did na ken better what was fittin by his bride!”
“My bride must be the judge, Tibbie. You shall see whether she bids me stay,” said Colin, a little restored by his amusement at her anxiety for his honour among the English. “Now desire Smith to meet me at the church door, and ride at once from thence to Avoncester; and get your face ready to give a cheerful welcome, Tibbie. Let her have that, at least, whatever may come after.”
Tibbie looked after him, and shook her head, understanding from her ain laddie’s pallid check, and resolute lip, nay, in the very sound of his footfall, how sore was his trial, and with one-sided compassion she muttered, “Telegrafted awa on his vera weddin’ day. His Lordship’ll be the death o’ them baith before he’s done.”
As it was in every way desirable that the wedding should be unexpected by Avonmonth in general, it was to take place at the close of the ordinary morning service, and Ermine in her usual seat within the vestry, was screened from knowing how late was Colin’s entrance, or seeing the determined composure that would to her eyes have betrayed how much shaken he was. He was completely himself again by the time the congregation dispersed, leaving only Grace Curtis, Lady Temple, and the little best man, Conrade, a goodly sight in his grey suit and scarlet hose. Then came the slow movement from the vestry, the only really bridal-looking figure being Rose in white muslin and white ribbons; walking timidly and somewhat in awe beside her younger aunt; while her father upheld and guided the elder. Both were in quiet, soft, dark dresses, and straw bonnets, but over hers Ermine wore the small though exquisite Brussels lace veil that had first appeared at her mother’s wedding; and thankful joy and peaceful awe looked so lovely on her noble brow, deep, soft dark eyes, and the more finely moulded, because somewhat worn, features; and so beauteously deepened was the carnation on her cheek, that Mr. Mitchell ever after maintained that he had never married any one to compare with that thirty-three years’ old bride upon crutches, and, as he reported to his wife, in no dress at all.
Her brother, who supported her all the time she stood, was infinitely more nervous than she was. Her native grace and dignity, and absence of all false shame entirely covered her helplessness, and in her earnestness, she had no room for confusion; her only quivering of voice was caught for one moment from the tremulous intensity of feeling that Colin Keith could not wholly keep from thrilling in his tones, as he at last proclaimed his right to love and to cherish her for whom he had so long persevered.
Unobserved, he filled up the half-written despatch with the same pen with which he signed the register, and sent Conrade to the door with it to his already mounted messenger. Then assuming Edward’s place as Ermine’s supporter, he led her to the door, seated her in her wheeled chair, and silently handing Rachel’s note as his explanation to Alison, he turned away, and walked alone by Ermine’s side to his own house. Still silent, he took her into the bright drawing-room he had so long planned for her, and seated her in her own peculiar chair. Then his first words were, “Thank God for this!”
She knew his face. “Colin, your brother is worse?” He bent his head, he could not speak.
“And you have to go to him! This very day?”
“Ermine, you must decide. You are at last my first duty!”
“That means that you know you ought to go. Tell me what it is.”
He told the substance of the note, ending with, “If you could come with me!”
“I would if I should not be a tie and hindrance. No, I must not do that; but here I am, Colin, here I am. And it is all true—it has all come right at last! All we waited for. Nothing has ever been like this.”
She was the stronger. Tears, as much of loving thankfulness as of overflowing disappointment, rushed into his eyes at such a fulfilment of the purpose that he had carried with him by sea and land, in battle and sickness, through all the years of his manhood. And withal her one thought was to infuse in its strongest measure the drop of happiness that was to sustain him through the scenes that awaited him, to make him feel her indeed his wife, and to brighten him with the sunbeam face that she knew had power to cheer him. Rallying her playfulness, she took off her bonnet, and said as she settled her hair, “There, that is being at home! Take my shawl, yes, and these white gloves, and put them out of sight, that I may not feel like a visitor, and that you may see how I shall look when you come back. Do you know, I think your being out of the way will be rather a gain, for there will be a tremendous feminine bustle with the fitting of our possessions.”
Her smile awoke a responsive look, and she began to gaze round and admire, feeling it safest to skim on the surface; and he could not but be gratified by her appreciation of the pains spent upon this, her especial home. He had recovered himself again by the time these few sentences had passed; they discussed the few needful arrangements required by his departure, and Tibbie presently found them so cheerful that she was quite scandalized, and when Ermine held out her hands, saying, “What Tibbie, won’t you come and kiss me, and wish me joy?” she exclaimed—
“Wish ye joy! It’s like me to wish ye joy an yer lad hurled awa frae yer side i’ the blink o’ an ee, by thae wild telegrams. I dinna see what joy’s to come o’t; it’s clean again the Scripture!”
“I told you I had left it to her to decide, Tibbie,” said the Colonel.
“Weel, an what wad ye hae the puir leddy say? She kens what sorts ye, when the head of yer name is sick an lyin’ among thae English loons that hae brocht him to siccan a pass.”
“Right, Tibbie,” exclaimed Ermine, greatly amused at the unexpected turn, purely for the sake of putting Maister Colin in the wrong. “If a gentleman won’t be content without a bride who can’t walk, he must take the consequence, and take his wedding trip by himself! It is my belief, Tibbie, as I have just been telling him, that you and I shall get the house in all the better order for having him off our hands, just at first,” she added, with a look of intelligence.
“Deed, an maybe we shall,” responded Tibbie, with profound satisfaction. “He was aye a camsteary child when there was any wark on hand.”
