THE CLEVER WOMAN OF THE FAMILY

C >> Charlotte M. Yonge >> THE CLEVER WOMAN OF THE FAMILY

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This of course was impossible, and the sun had scarcely risen, before
he was placed in his old quarters, the bed in the little inner study,
and Rachel watched over him while Mr. Clare had driven off with the
doctor to await the awakening of Lord Keith.

Rachel had never so much needed strength. It was hard to believe the
assurances of Alick, the doctor, and the whole house, that his
condition was not critical, for he was exceedingly ill for some
hours, the ailment having been coming on all night, though it was
forced back by the resolute will, and it was aggravated by the
intensity of his grief, which on the other hand broke forth the more
violently from the failure of the physical powers. The brother and
sister had been so long alone in the world together, and with all her
faults she had been so winning, that it was a grievous loss to him,
coming too in the full bloom of her beauty and prosperity, when he
was conscious of having dealt severely with her foibles. All was at
an end--that double thread of brilliant good-nature and worldly
selfishness, with the one strand of sound principle sometimes coming
into sight. The life was gone from the earth in its incompleteness,
without an unravelling of its complicated texture, and the wandering
utterances that revealed how entirely the brother stood first with
her, added poignancy to his regret for having been harsh with her.
It could hardly be otherwise than that his censures, however just,
should now recoil upon him, and in vain did Rachel try to point out
that every word of his sister's had proved that her better sense had
all along acquiesced--he only felt what it might have been if he had
been more indulgent and less ironical, and gave himself infinitely
harder measure than he ever could have shown to her. It was long
before the suffering, either mental or bodily, by any means abated,
and Rachel felt extremely lonely, deserted, and doubtful whether she
were in any way ministering to his relief, but at last a gleam of
satisfaction came upon her. He evidently did like her attendance on
him, and he began to say something about Bessie's real love and
esteem for her--softer grief was setting in, and the ailment was
lessening.

The summer morning was advancing, and the knell rung out its two deep
notes from the church tower. Rachel had been dreading the effect on
him, but he lay still, as if he had been waiting for it, and was
evidently counting the twenty-three strokes that told the age of the
deceased. Then he said he was mending, and that he should fall
asleep if Rachel would leave him, see after the poor child, and if
his uncle should not come home within the next quarter of an hour
take measures to silence the bell for the morning service; after
which, he laid his injunctions on her to rest, or what should he say
to her mother? And the approach to a smile with which these last
words were spoken, enabled Rachel to obey in some comfort.

After satisfying herself that the child was doing well, Rachel was
obliged to go into her former room, and there to stand face to face
with the white, still countenance so lately beaming with life. She
was glad to be alone. The marble calm above all counteracted and
drove aside the painful phantom left by Lovedy's agony, and yet the
words of that poor, persecuted, suffering child came surging into her
mind full of peace and hope. Perhaps it was the first time she had
entered into what it is for weak things to confound the wise, or how
things hidden from the intellectual can be revealed to babes; and she
hid her face in her hands, and was thankful for the familiar words of
old, "That we may embrace and ever hold fast the blessed hope of
everlasting life."

The continued clang of the bell warned her. She looked round at the
still uncleared room, poor Bessie's rings and bracelets lying mingled
with her own on the toilet table, and her little clock, Bessie's own
gift, standing ticking on as it had done at her peaceful rising only
yesterday morning.

She took out her hat, and was on her way to silence the bell-ringer,
when Mr. Clare was driven up to the churchyard gate.

Lord Keith had been greatly shocked, but not overpowered, he had
spoken calmly, and made minute inquiries, and Mr. Clare was evidently
a little disappointed, repeating that age and health made a
difference, and that people showed their feelings in various ways.
Colonel Keith had been met at the station, and was with his brother,
but would come to make arrangements in the course of the day. Rachel
begged to stop the bell, representing that the assembled congregation
included no male person capable of reading the lessons; but Mr. Clare
answered, "No, my dear, this is not a day to do without such a
beginning. We must do what we can. Or stay, it is the last chapter
of St. John. I could hardly fail in that. Sit near me, and give me
the word if I do, unless you want to be with Alick."

As Rachel knelt that day, the scales of self-conceit seemed to have
gone. She had her childhood's heart again. Her bitter remorse, her
afterthoughts of perplexity had been lulled in the long calm of the
respite, and when roused again, even by this sudden sorrow, she woke
to her old trust and hope. And when she listened to the expressive
though calm rehearsal of that solemn sunrise-greeting to the weary
darkling fishers on the shore of the mountain lake, it was to her as
if the form so long hidden from her by mists of her own raising, once
more shone forth, smoothing the vexed waters of her soul, and she
could say with a new thrill of recognition, "It is the Lord."

Once Mr. Clare missed a word, and paused for aid. She was crying too
much to be ready, and, through her tears, could not recover the
passage so as to prompt him before he had himself recalled the verse.
Perhaps a sense of failure was always good for Rachel, but she was
much concerned, and her apologies quite distressed Mr. Clare.

"Dear child, no one could be expected to keep the place when there
was so much to dwell on in the very comfort of the chapter. And now
if you are not in haste, would you take me to the place that dear
Bessie spoke of, by the willow-tree. I am almost afraid little Mary
Lawrence's grave may have left too little space."

Rachel guided him to a lovely spot, almost overhanging the stream,
with the dark calm pools beneath the high bank, and the willow
casting a long morning shadow over it. Her mind went back to the
merry drive from Avoncester, when she had first seen Elizabeth Keith,
and had little dreamt that in one short year she should be choosing
the spot for her grave. Mr. Clare paced the green nook and was
satisfied, asking if it were not a very pretty place.

"Yes," said Rachel, "there is such a quiet freshness, and the willow-
tree seems to guard it."

"Is there not a white foxglove on the bank?"

"Yes, but with only a bell or two left at the top of the side
spikes."

"Your aunt sowed the seed. It is strange that I was very near
choosing this place nine years ago, but it could not be seen from my
window, which was an object with me then."

Just then his quick ear detected that some one was at the parsonage
door, and Rachel, turning round, exclaimed with horror, "It is that
unhappy Mr. Carleton."

"Poor young fellow," said Mr. Clare, with more of pity than of anger,
"I had better speak to him."

But they were far from the path, and it was not possible to guide the
blind steps rapidly between the graves and head stones, so that
before the pathway was reached young Carleton must have received the
sad reply to his inquiries, for hurrying from the door he threw
himself on his horse, and rode off at full speed.

By the afternoon, when Colonel Keith came to Bishopsworthy, Alick was
lying on the sofa with such a headache that he could neither see nor
spell, and Rachel was writing letters for him, both in the frame of
mind in which the Colonel's genuine warm affection and admiration for
Bessie was very comforting, assisting them in putting all past
misgivings out of sight. He had induced his brother to see Mr.
Harvey, and the result had been that Lord Keith had consented to a
consultation the next day with an eminent London surgeon, since it
was clear that the blow, not the sciatica, was answerable for the
suffering which was evidently becoming severe. The Colonel of course
intended to remain with his brother, at least till after the funeral.

"Can you?" exclaimed Alick. "Ought you not to be at Avoncester?"

"I am not a witness, and the case is in excellent hands."

"Could you not run down? I shall be available tomorrow, and I could
be with Lord Keith."

"Thank you, Alick, it is impossible for me to leave him," said Colin,
so quietly that no one could have guessed how keenly he felt the
being deprived of bringing her brother to Ermine, and being present
at the crisis to which all his thoughts and endeavours had so long
been directed.

That assize day had long been a dream of dread to Rachel, and perhaps
even more so to her husband. Yet how remote its interest actually
seemed! They scarcely thought of it for the chief part of the day.
Alick looking very pale, though calling himself well, went early to
Timber End, and he had not long been gone before a card was brought
in, with an urgent entreaty that Mrs. Keith would see Mrs. Carleton.
Rachel longed to consult Mr. Clare, but he had gone out to a sick
person, and she was obliged to decide that Alick could scarcely wish
her to refuse, reluctant and indignant as she felt. But her wrath
lessened as she saw the lady's tears and agitation, so great that for
a moment no words were possible, and the first were broken apologies
for intruding, "Nothing should have induced her, but her poor son was
in such a dreadful state."

Rachel again became cold and stern, and did not relent at the
description of Charlie's horror and agony; for she was wondering at
the audacity of mentioning his grief to the wife of Lady Keith's
brother, and thinking that this weak, indulgent mother was the very
person to make a foolish, mischievous son, and it was on her tongue's
end that she did not see to what she was indebted for the favour of
such a visit. Perhaps Mrs. Carleton perceived her resentment, for
she broke off, and urgently asked if poor dear Lady Keith had alluded
to anything that had passed. "Yes," Rachel was is forced to say; and
when again pressed as to the manner of alluding, replied, that "she
was exceedingly distressed and displeased," with difficulty
refraining from saying who had done all the mischief. Mrs. Carleton
was in no need of hearing it. "Ah!" she said, "it was right, quite
right. It was very wrong of my poor boy. Indeed I am not excusing
him, but if you only knew how he blames himself."

"I am sure he ought," Rachel could not help saying. Mrs. Carleton
here entreated her to listen, and seized her hand, so that there was
no escape. The tale was broken and confused, but there could be
little doubt of its correctness. Poor Bessie had been the bane of
young Carleton's life. She had never either decidedly accepted or
repelled his affection, but, as she had truly said, let him follow
her like a little dog, and amused herself with him in the absence of
better game. He was in his father's office, but her charms disturbed
his application to business and kept him trifling among the croquet
lawns of Littleworthy, whence his mother never had the resolution to
banish her spoilt child. At last Miss Keith's refusal of him
softened by a half-implied hope, sent him forth to his uncle at Rio,
on the promise that if he did his utmost there, he should in three
years be enabled to offer Miss Keith more than a competence. With
this hope he had for the first time applied himself to business in
earnest, when he received the tidings of her marriage, and like a
true spoilt child broke down at once in resolution, capacity, and
health, so that his uncle was only too glad to ship him off for
England. And when Lady Keith made her temporary home in her old
neighbourhood, the companionship began again, permitted by her in
good nature, and almost contempt, and allowed by his family in
confidence of the rectitude of both parties; and indeed nothing could
be more true than that no harm had been intended. But it was
perilous ground; ladies, however highly principled, cannot leave off
self-pleasing habits all at once, and the old terms returned
sufficiently to render the barrier but slightly felt. "When Lady
Keith had spoken of her intention of leaving Timber End, the reply
had been the old complaint of her brother's harshness and jealousy of
his ardent and lasting affection, and reproof had not at once
silenced him. This it was that had so startled her as to make her
hurry to her brother's side, unheeding of her steps.

As far as Rachel could make out, the poor young man's grief and
despair had been poured out to his mother, and she, unable to soothe,
had come to try to extract some assurance that the catastrophe had
been unconnected with his folly. A very slight foundation would have
served her, but this Rachel would not give, honestly believing him
the cause of the accident, and also that the shock to the sense of
duty higher than he could understand had occasioned the excitement
which had destroyed the slender possibility of recovery. She pitied
the unhappy man more than she had done at first, and she was much
pained by his mother's endeavours to obtain a palliative for him, but
she could not be untrue. "Indeed," she said, "I fear no one can say
it was not so; I don't think anything is made better by blinking the
reality."

"Oh, Mrs. Keith, it is so dreadful. I cannot tell my poor son. I
don't know what might be the consequence."

Tears came into Rachel's eyes. "Indeed," she said, "I am very sorry
for you. I believe every one knows that I have felt what it is to be
guilty of fatal mischief, but, indeed, indeed I am sure that to
realize it all is the only way to endure it, so as to be the better
for it. Believe me, I am very sorry, but I don't think it would be
any real comfort to your son to hear that poor Bessie had never been
careful, or that I was inexperienced, or the nurse ignorant. It is
better to look at it fairly. I hear Mr. Clare coming in. Will you
see him?" she added suddenly, much relieved.

But Mrs. Carleton did not wish to see him, and departed, thinking
Alick Keith's wife as bad as had ever been reported, and preparing an
account of her mismanagement wherewith to remove her son's remorse.

She was scarcely gone, and Rachel had not had time to speak to Mr.
Clare, before another visitor was upon her, no other than Lord
Keith's daughter, Mrs. Comyn Menteith; or, as she introduced herself,
"I'm Isabel. I came down from London to-day because it was so very
shocking and deplorable, and I am dying to see my poor little brother
and uncle Colin. I must keep away from poor papa till the doctors
are gone, so I came here."

She was a little woman in the delicately featured style of sandy
prettiness, and exceedingly talkative and good-natured. The rapid
tongue, though low and modulated, jarred painfully on Rachel's
feelings in the shaded staircase, and she was glad to shut the door
of the temporary nursery, when Mrs. Menteith pounced upon the poor
little baby, pitying him with all her might, comparing him with her
own children, and asking authoritative questions, coupled with
demonstrations of her intention of carrying him off to her own
nursery establishment, which had been left in Scotland with a head
nurse, whose name came in with every fourth word--that is, if he
lived at all, which she seemed to think a hopeless matter.

She spoke of "poor dear Bessie," with such affection as was implied
in "Oh, she was such a darling! I got on with her immensely. Why
didn't you send to me, though I don't know that Donald would have let
me come," and she insisted on learning the whole history,
illustrating it profusely with personal experiences. Rachel was
constantly hoping to be released from a subject so intensely painful;
but curiosity prevailed through the chatter, and kept hold of the
thread of the story. Mrs. Menteith decidedly thought herself
defrauded of a summons. "It was very odd of them all not to
telegraph for me. Those telegrams are such a dreadful shock. There
came one just as I set out from Timber End, and I made sure little
Sandie was ill at home, for you know the child is very delicate, and
there are so many things going about, and what with all this dreadful
business, I was ready to faint, and after all it was only a stupid
thing for Uncle Colin from those people at Avoncester."

"You do not know what it was?"

"Somebody was convicted or acquitted, I forget which, but I know it
had something to do with Uncle Colin's journey to Russia; so
ridiculous of him at his age, when he ought to know better, and so
unlucky for all the family, his engagement to that swindler's sister.
By-the-bye, did he not cheat you out of ever so much money?"

"Oh, that had nothing to do with it--it was not Miss Williams's
brother--it was not he that was tried."

"Wasn't he? I thought he was found guilty or something; but it is
very unfortunate for the family, for Uncle Colin won't give her up,
though she is a terrible cripple, too. And to tell you a secret, it
was his obstinacy that made papa marry again; and now it is of no
use, this poor little fellow will never live, and this sharper's
sister will be Lady Keith after all! So unlucky! Papa says she is
very handsome, and poor Bessie declares she is quite ladylike."

"The most superior person I ever knew," said Rachel, indignantly.

"Ah, yes, of course she must be very clever and artful if her brother
is a swindler."

"But indeed he is not, he was cheated; the swindler was Maddox."

"Oh, but he was a glass-blower, or something, I know, and her sister
is a governess. I am sure it is no fault of mine! The parties I
gave to get him and Jessie Douglas together! Donald was quite savage
about the bills. And after all Uncle Colin went and caught cold, and
would not come! I would not have minded half so much if it had been
Jessie Douglas; but to have her at Gowanbrae--a glass-blower's
daughter--isn't it too bad?"

"Her father was a clergyman of a good Welsh family."

"Was he? Then her brother or somebody had something to do with
glass."

Attempts at explanation were vain, the good lady had an incapacity of
attention, and was resolved on her grievance. She went away at last
because "those horrid doctors will be gone now, and I will be able to
see poor papa, and tell him when I will take home the baby, though I
don't believe he will live to be taken anywhere, poor dear little
man."

She handled him go much more scientifically than Rachel could do,
that it was quite humiliating, and yet to listen to her talk, and
think of committing any child to her charge was sickening, and Rachel
already felt a love and pity for her little charge that made her
wretched at the thoughts of the prognostic about him.

"You are tired with your visitors my dear," said Mr. Clare, holding
out his hand towards her, when she returned to him.

"How do you know?" she asked.

"By the sound of your move across the room, and the stream of talk I
heard above must be enough to exhaust any one."

"She thinks badly of that poor child," said Rachel, her voice
trembling.

"My dear, it would take a good deal to make me uneasy about anything
I heard in that voice."

"And if he lives, she is to have the charge of him," added Rachel.

"That is another matter on which I would suspend my fears," said Mr.
Clare. "Come out, and take a turn in the peacock path. You want air
more than rest. So you have been talked to death."

"And I am afraid she is gone to talk Alick to death! I wonder when
Alick will come home," she proceeded, as they entered on the path.
"She says Colonel Keith had a telegram about the result of the trial,
but she does not know what it was, nor indeed who was tried."

"Alick will not keep you in doubt longer than he can help," said Mr.
Clare.

"You know all about it;" said Rachel. "The facts every one must
know, but I mean that which led to them."

"Alick told me you had suffered very much."

"I don't know whether it is a right question, but if it is, I should
much like to know what Alick did say. I begged him to tell you all,
or it would not have been fair towards you to bring me here."

"He told me that he knew you had been blind and wilful, but that your
confidence had been cruelly abused, and you had been most unselfish
throughout."

"I did not mean so much what I had done as what I am--what I was."

"The first time he mentioned you, it was as one of the reasons that
he wished to take our dear Bessie to Avonmouth. He said there was a
girl there of a strong spirit, independent and thorough-going, and
thinking for herself. He said, 'to be sure, she generally thinks
wrong, but there's a candour and simplicity about her that make her
wildest blunders better than parrot commonplace,' and he thought your
reality might impress his sister. Even then I gathered what was
coming."

"And how wrong and foolish you must have thought it."

"I hoped I might trust my boy's judgment."

"Indeed, you could not think it worse for him than I did; but I was
ill and weak, and could not help letting Alick do what he would; but
I have never understood it. I told him how unsettled my views were,
and he did not seem to mind--"

"My dear, may I ask if this sense of being unsettled is with you
still?"

"I don't know! I had no power to read or think for a long time, and
now, since I have been here, I hope it has not been hypocrisy, for
going on in your way and his has been very sweet to me, and made me
feel as I used when I was a young girl, with only an ugly dream
between. I don't like to look at it, and yet that dream was my real
life that I made for myself."

"Dear child, I have little doubt that Alick knew it would come to
this."

Rachel paused. "What, you and he think a woman's doubts so vague and
shallow as to be always mastered by a husband's influence?"

Mr. Clare was embarrassed. If he had thought so he had not expected
her to make the inference. He asked her if she could venture to look
back on her dream so as to mention what had chiefly distressed her.
He could not see her frowning effort at recollection, but after a
pause, she said, "Things will seem to you like trifles, indeed,
individual criticisms appear so to me; but the difficulty to my mind
is that I don't see these objections fairly grappled with. There is
either denunciation or weak argument; but I can better recollect the
impression on my own mind than what made it."

"Yes, I know that feeling; but are you sure you have seen all the
arguments?"

"I cannot tell--perhaps not. Whenever I get a book with anything in
it, somebody says it is not sound."

"And you therefore conclude that a sound book can have nothing in
it?" he asked, smiling.

"Well, most of the new 'sound' books that I have met are just what my
mother and sister like--either dull, or sentimental and trashy."

"Perhaps those that get into popular circulation do deserve some of
your terms for them. Illogical replies break down and carry off some
who have pinned their faith to them; but are you sure that though you
have read much, you have read deep?"

"I have read more deeply than any one I know--women, I mean--or than
any man ever showed me he had read. Indeed, I am trying not to say
it in conceit, but Ermine Williams does not read argumentative books,
and gentlemen almost always make as if they knew nothing about them."

"I think you may be of great use to me, my dear, if you will help me.
The bishop has desired me to preach the next visitation sermon, and
he wishes it to be on some of these subjects. Now, if you will help
me with the book work, it will be very kind in you, and might serve
to clear your mind about some of the details, though you must be
prepared for some questions being unanswered."

"Best so," replied Rachel, "I don't like small answers to great
questions."

"Nor I. Only let us take care not to get absorbed in admiring the
boldness that picks out stones to be stumbled over."

"Do you object to my having read, and thought, and tried?"

"Certainly not. Those who have the capability should, if they feel
disturbed, work out the argument. Nothing is gained while it is felt
that both sides have not been heard. I do not myself believe that a
humble, patient, earnest spirit can go far wrong, though it may for a
time be tried, and people often cry out at the first stumbling block,
and then feel committed to the exclamations they have made."

The conversation was here ended by the sight of Alick coming slowly
and wearily in from the churchyard, looking as if some fresh weight
were upon him, and he soon told them that the doctors had pronounced
that Lord Keith was in a critical state, and would probably have much
to suffer from the formation that had begun where he had received the
neglected bruise in the side. No word of censure of poor Bessie had
been breathed, nor did Alick mention her name, but he deeply suffered
under the fulfilment of his own predictions, and his subdued,
dejected manner expressed far more than did his words. Rachel asked
how Lord Keith seemed.

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