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VIII.  AUNT AND NIECE

SCENE.—In a hansom cab.  Mrs. Holland and Cecilia.

Mrs. H.  I wanted to speak to you, Cissy.

C.  I thought so!

Mrs. H.  What do you think of your mother?

C.  Poor old darling.  They have been worrying her till she has got hipped and nervous about herself.

Mrs. H.  Do you know what spasms she has been having?

C.  Oh! mother has had spasms as long as I can remember; and the more she thinks of them the worse they are.  I have often heard her say so.

Mrs. H.  Yes; she has gone on much too long overworking herself, and not letting your grandfather suspect anything amiss.

C.  Nerves.  That is what it always is.

Mrs. H.  Dr. Brownlow says there is failure of heart, not dangerous or advanced at present, but that there is an overstrain of all the powers, and that unless she keeps fairly quiet, and free from hurry and worry, there may be very serious, if not fatal attacks.

C.  I never did think much of Dr. Brownlow.  He told me my palpitations were nothing but indigestion, and I am sure they were not!

Mrs. H.  Well, Cissy, something must be done to relieve your mother of some of her burthens.

C.  I see what you are driving at, Aunt Phrasie; but I cannot go back till I have finished these courses.  There’s my picture, there’s the cookery school, the ambulance lectures, and our sketching tour in August.  Ever so many engagements.  I shall be free in the autumn, and then I will go down and see about it.  I told mother so.

Mrs. H.  All the hot trying months of summer without help!

C.  I never can understand why they don’t have a governess.

Mrs. H.  Can’t you?  Is there not a considerable outgoing on your behalf?

C.  That is my own.  I am not bound to educate my uncle’s children at my expense.

Mrs. H.  No; but if you contributed your share to the housekeeping, you would make a difference, and surely you cannot leave your mother to break down her health by overworking herself in this manner.

C.  Why does grandpapa let her do so?

Mrs. H.  Partly he does not see, partly he cannot help it.  He has been so entirely accustomed to have all those family and parish details taken off his hands, and borne easily as they were when your dear grandmamma and I were both there at home, that he cannot understand that they can be over much—especially as they are so small in themselves.  Besides, he is not so young as he was, and your dear mother cannot bear to trouble him.

C.  Well, I shall go there in September and see about it.  It is impossible before.

Mrs. H.  In the hopping holidays, when the stress of work is over!  Cannot you see with your own eyes how fagged and ill your mother looks, and how much she wants help?

C.  Oh! she will be all right again after this rest.  I tell you, Aunt Phrasie, it is impossible at present—(cab stops).

IX.  THE TWO SISTERS

SCENE.—A room in Professor Dunlop’s house.  Mrs. Moldwarp and Mrs. Holland.

Mrs. H.  I have done my best, but I can’t move her an inch.

Mrs. M.  Poor dear girl!  Yet it seems hardly fair to make my health the lever, when really there is nothing serious the matter.

Mrs. H.  I can’t understand the infatuation.  Can there be any love affair?

Mrs. M.  Oh no, Phrasie; it is worse!

Mrs. H.  Worse!  Mary, what can you mean?

Mrs. M.  Yes, it is worse.  I got at the whole truth yesterday.  My poor child’s faith has gone!  Oh, how could I let her go and let her mingle among all those people, all unguarded!

Mrs. H.  Do you mean that this is the real reason that she will not come home?

Mrs. M.  Yes; she told me plainly at last that she could not stand our round of services.  They seem empty and obsolete to her, and she could not feign to attend them or vex us, and cause remarks by staying away, and of course she neither could nor would teach anything but secular matters.  ‘My coming would be nothing but pain to everybody,’ she said.

Mrs H.  You did not tell me this before my drive with her.

Mrs. M.  No, I never saw you alone; besides, I thought you would speak more freely without the knowledge.  And, to tell the truth, I did think it possible that consideration for me might bring my poor Cissy down to us, and that when once under my father’s influence, all these mists might clear away.  But I do not deserve it.  I have been an unfaithful parent, shutting my eyes in feeble indulgence, and letting her drift into these quicksands.

Mrs. H.  Fashion and imitation, my dear Mary; it will pass away.  Now, you are not to talk any more.

Mrs. M.  I can’t— (A spasm comes on.)

X.  AUNT AND NEPHEW

SCENE.—Six months later, Darkglade Vicarage, a darkened room.  Mrs. Holland and Lucius.

Mrs. H.  Yes, Lucius, we have all much to reproach ourselves with; even poor grandpapa is heart-broken at having been too much absorbed to perceive how your dear mother was overtasked.

L.  You did all you could, aunt; you took home one child, and caused the other to be sent to school.

Mrs. H.  Yes, too late to be of any use.

L.  And after all, I don’t think it was overwork that broke the poor dear one down, so much as grief at that wretched sister of mine.

Mrs. H.  Don’t speak of her in that way, Lucius.

L.  How can I help it?  I could say worse!

Mrs. H.  She is broken-hearted, poor thing.

L.  Well she may be.

Mrs. H.  Ah, the special point of sorrow to your dear mother was that she blamed herself, for—

L.  How could she?  How can you say so, aunt?

Mrs. H.  Wait a moment, Lucius.  What grieved her was the giving in to Cissy’s determination, seeing with her eyes, and not allowing herself to perceive that what she wished might not be good for her.

L.  Cissy always did domineer over mother.

Mrs. H.  Yes; and your mother was so used to thinking Cissy’s judgment right that she never could or would see when it was time to make a stand, and prevent her own first impressions from being talked down as old-fashioned,—letting her eyes be bandaged, in fact.

L.  So she vexed herself over Cissy’s fault; but did not you try to make Cissy see what she was about?

Mrs. H.  True; but if love had blinded my dear sister, Cissy was doubly blinded—

L.  By conceit and self-will.

Mrs. H.  Poor girl, I am too sorry for her now to use those hard words, but I am afraid it is true.  First she could or would not see either that her companions might be undesirable guides, or that her duty lay here, and then nothing would show her that her mother’s health was failing.  Indeed, by that time the sort of blindness had come upon her which really broke your mother’s heart.

L.  You mean her unbelief, agnosticism, or whatever she chooses to call it.  I thought at least women were safe from that style of thing.  It is all fashion and bad company, I suppose?

Mrs. H.  I hope and pray that it may be so; but I am afraid that it goes deeper than you imagine.  Still, I see hope in her extreme unhappiness, and in the remembrance of your dear mother’s last words and prayers.

XI.  GRANDFATHER AND GRAND-DAUGHTER

A month later.  Mr. Aveland and Cecilia.

Mr. A.  My dear child, I wish I could do anything for you.

C.  You had better let me go back to London, grandpapa.

Mr. A.  Do you really wish it?

C.  I don’t know.  I hate it all; but if I were in the midst of everything again, it might stifle the pain a little.

Mr. A.  I am afraid that is not the right way of curing it.

C.  Oh, I suppose it will wear down in time.

Mr. A.  Is that well?

C.  I don’t know.  It is only unbearable as it is; and yet when I think of my life in town, the din and the chatter and the bustle, and the nobody caring, seem doubly intolerable; but I shall work off that.  You had better let me go, grandpapa.  The sight of me can be nothing but a grief and pain to you.

Mr. A.  No; it gives me hope.

C.  Hope of what?

Mr. A.  That away from the whirl you will find your way to peace.

C.  I don’t see how.  Quiet only makes me more miserable.

Mr. A.  My poor child, if you can speak out and tell me exactly how it is with you, I think it might be comfortable to you.  If it is the missing your mother, and blaming yourself for having allowed her to overdo herself, I may well share with you in that.  I feel most grievously that I never perceived how much she was undertaking, nor how she flagged under it.  Unselfish people want others to think for them, and I did not.

C.  Dear grandpapa, it would not have been too much if I had come and helped.  I know that; but it is not the worst.  You can’t feel as I do—that if my desertion led to her overworking herself, Aunt Phrasie and Lucius say that what really broke her down was the opinions I cannot help having.  Say it was not, grandpapa.

Mr. A.  I wish I could, my dear; but I cannot conceal that unhappiness about you, and regret for having let you expose yourself to those unfortunate arguments, broke her spirits so that her energies were unequal to the strain that I allowed to be laid on her.

C.  Poor dear mother!  And you and she can feel in that way about the importance of what to me seems—pardon me, grandpapa—utterly unproved.

Mr. A.  You hold everything unproved that you cannot work out like a mathematical demonstration.

C.  I can’t help it, grandpapa.  I read and read, till all the premises become lost in the cloud of myths that belong to all nations.  I don’t want to think such things.  I saw dear mother rest on her belief, and grow peaceful.  They were perfect realities to her; but I cannot unthink.  I would give anything to think that she is in perfect happiness now, and that we shall meet again; but nothing seems certain to me.  All is extinguished.

Mr. A.  How do you mean?

C.  They—Betty and her set, I mean—laughed at and argued one thing after another, till they showed me that there were no positive grounds to go on.

Mr. A.  No material grounds.

C.  And what else is certain?

Mr. A.  Do you think your mother was not certain?

C.  I saw she was; I see you are certain.  But what am I to do?  I cannot unthink.

Mr. A.  Poor child, they have loosed you from the shore, because you could not see it, and left you to flounder in the waves.

C.  Well, so I feel it sometimes; but if I could only feel that there was a shore, I would try to get my foothold.  Oh, with all my heart!

Mr. A.  Will you take my word, dear child—the word of one who can dare humbly to say he has proved it, so as to be as sure as of the floor we are standing on, that that Rock exists; and God grant that you may, in prayer and patience, be brought to rest on it once more.

C.  Once more!  I don’t think I ever did so really.  I only did not think, and kept away from what was dull and tiresome.  Didn’t you read something about ‘If thou hadst known—’

Mr. A.  ‘If thou hadst known, even thou, at least in this thy day, the things that belong unto thy peace! but now they are hid from thine eyes.’  But oh, my dear girl, it is my hope and prayer, not for ever.  If you will endure to walk in darkness for a while, till the light be again revealed to you.

C.  At any rate, dear grandfather, I will do what mother entreated, and not leave you alone.

XII

Two years later.  St. Thomas’s Day.

C.  Grandpapa, may I come with you on Christmas morning?

Mr. A.  You make me a truly happy Christmas, dear child.

C.  I think I feel somewhat as St. Thomas did, in to-day’s Gospel.  It went home to my heart

Mr. A.  Ah, child, to us that ‘Blessed are they who have not seen and yet have believed,’ must mean those who are ready to know by faith instead of material tangible proof.

CHOPS

You ask me why I call that old great-grandmother black cat Chops?  Well, thereby hangs a tale.  I don’t mean the black tail which is standing upright and quivering at your caresses, but a story that there will be time to tell you before Charlie gets home from market.

Seven years ago, Charlie had just finished his training both at an agricultural college and under a farmer, and was thinking of going out to Texas or to Canada, and sending for me when he should have been able to make a new home for me, when his godfather, Mr. Newton, offered to let him come down and look after the draining and otherwise reclaiming of this great piece of waste land.  It had come to Mr. Newton through some mortgages, I believe, and he thought something might be made of it by an active agent.  It was the first time Mr. Newton had shown the least interest in us, though he was a cousin of our poor mother’s; and Charlie was very much gratified, more especially as when he had £150 a year and a house, he thought I might leave the school where I was working as a teacher, and make a home with him.

Yes, this is the house; but it has grown a good deal since we settled down, and will grow more before you come to it for good.  Then it was only meant for a superior sort of gamekeeper, and had only six rooms in it—parlour, kitchen, and back kitchen, and three bedrooms above them; but this we agreed would be ample for ourselves and Betsey, an old servant of our mother’s, who could turn her hand to anything, and on the break-up of our home had begged to join us again whenever or wherever we should have a house of our own once more.

We have half a dozen cottages near us now; but then it seemed to us like a lodge in a vast wilderness—three miles away from everything, shop, house, or church.  Betsey fairly sat down and cried when she heard how far away was the butcher, and it really seemed as if we were to have the inconveniences of colonisation without the honour of it.  However, contrivances made us merry; we made our rooms pretty and pleasant, and as a pony and trap were essential to Charlie in his work, we were able to fetch and carry easily.  Moreover, we had already a fair kitchen garden laid out, and there were outhouses for pigs and poultry, so that even while draining and fencing were going on, we raised a good proportion of our own provisions, and very proud of them we were; our own mustard and cress, which we sowed in our initials, tasted doubly sweet when we reaped them as our earliest crop.

Mr. Newton had always said that some day he should drop down and see how Charles was getting on, but as he hardly ever stirred from his office in London, and only answered letters in the briefest and most business-like way, we had pretty well left off expecting him.

We had been here about six months, and had killed our first pig—‘a pretty little porker as ever was seen,’ as Betsey said.  It was hard to understand, after all the petting, admiration, and back-scratching Betsey had bestowed on him, how ready she was to sentence him, and triumph in his death; while I, feeble-minded creature, delayed rising in the morning that I might cower under the bedclothes and stop my ears against his dying squeals.  However, when he was no more, the housekeeping spirit triumphed in our independence of the butcher, while his fry and other delicacies lasted, and Betsey was supremely happy over the saltings of the legs, etc., with a view to the more distant future.

It was a cold day of early spring.  I had been down the lanes and brought in five tiny starved primroses with short stems, for which Betsey scolded me soundly, telling me that the first brood of chickens was always the same in number as the first primroses brought into the house.  I eked them out with moss in a saucer, and then, how well I remember the foolish, weary feeling that I wished something would happen to break the quiet.  We were out of the reach of new books, and the two magazines we took in would not be due for ten long days.  I did not feel sensible or energetic enough to turn to one of the standard well-bound volumes that had been Charlie’s school prizes, and at the moment I hated my needlework, both steady sewing and fancy work.  It was the same with my piano.  I had no new fashionable music, and I was in a mood to disdain what was good and classical.  So, as the twilight came on, I sat drearily by the fire, fondling the cat—yes, this same black cat—and thinking that my life at the ladies’ college had been a good deal livelier, and that if I had given it up for the sake of my brother’s society, I had very little of that.

The hunt had gone by last week—what a treat it would be if some one would meet with a little accident and be carried in here!

Behold, I heard a step at the back door, and the loud call of ‘Kitty!  Kitty!’  There stood Charlie, as usual covered with clay nearly up to the top of his gaiters—clay either pale yellow, or horrid light blue, according to the direction of his walk.  He was beginning frantically to unbutton them, and as he beheld me he cried out, ‘Kitty! he’s coming!’ and before I could say, ‘Who?’ he went on, ‘Old Newton.  His fly is working through the mud in Draggletail Lane.  The driver hailed me to ask the way, and when I saw who it was, I cut across to give you notice.  He’ll stay the night to a dead certainty.’

What was to be done?  A wild hope seized me that, at sight of the place, he would retain his fly and go off elsewhere for better accommodation.

Only, where would he find it?  The nearest town, where the only railway station then was, was eight miles off, and he was not likely to plod back thither again, and the village inn, five miles away, was little more than a pot-house.

No, we must rise to the occasion, Betsey and I, while Charlie was making himself respectable to receive the guest.  Where was he to sleep?  What was he to eat?  A daintily fed, rather hypochrondriacal old bachelor, who seldom stirred out of his comfortable house in London.  What a guest for us!

The council was held while the gaiters were being unbuttoned.  He must have my room, and I would sleep with Betsey.  As to food, it was impossible to send to the butcher; and even if I could have sacrificed my precious Dorking fowls, there would have been scant time to prepare them.

There was nothing for it but to give him the pork chops, intended for our to-morrow’s dinner, and if he did not like them, he might fall back upon poached eggs and rashers.

‘Mind,’ called Charlie, as I dashed into my room to remove my properties and light the fire, so that it might get over its first smoking fit,—‘mind you lock up the cat.  He hates them like poison.’

It was so long before the carriage appeared, that I began half to hope, half to fear, it was a false alarm; but at last, just as it was perfectly dark, we heard it stop at the garden gate, and Charlie dashed out to open the fly door, and bring in the guest, who was panting, nervous—almost terrified, at a wild drive, so contrary to all his experiences.  When the flyman’s demands had been appeased, and we had got the poor old gentleman out of his wraps, he turned out to be a neat, little, prim-looking London lawyer, clean-shaved, and with an indoor complexion.  I daresay Charlie, with his big frame, sunburnt face, curly beard, and loud hearty voice, seemed to him like a kind of savage, and he thought he had got among the Aborigines.

After all, he had written to announce his coming.  But he had not calculated on our never getting our letters unless we sent for them.  He was the very pink of politeness to me, and mourned so much over putting me to inconvenience that we could only profess our delight and desire to make him comfortable.

On the whole, it went off very well.  I gave him a cup of tea to warm and occupy him while the upstairs’ chimney was coming to its senses; and then Charles took him upstairs.  He reappeared in precise evening dress, putting us to shame; for Charles had not a dress-coat big enough for him to get into, and I had forgotten to secure my black silk before abandoning my room.  We could not ask him to eat in the best kitchen, as was our practice, and he showed himself rather dismayed at our having only one sitting-room, saying he had not thought the cottage such a dog-hole, or known that it would be inhabited by a lady; and then he paid some pretty compliment on the feminine hand evident in the room.  We had laid the table before he came down, but the waiting was managed by ourselves, or rather, by Charles, for Mr. Newton’s politeness made him jump up whenever I moved; so that I had to sit still and do the lady hostess, while my brother changed plates and brought in relays of the chops from the kitchen.  They were a great success.  Mr. Newton eyed them for a moment distrustfully, but Betsey had turned them out beautifully—all fair and delicate with transparent fat, and a brown stripe telling of the gridiron.  He refused the egg alternative, and greatly enjoyed them and our Brussels sprouts, speaking highly of the pleasure of country fare, and apologising about the good appetising effects of a journey, when Charlie tempted him with a third chop, the hottest and most perfect of all.

I think we also produced a rhubarb tart, and I know he commended our prudence in having no wine, and though he refused my brother’s ale, seemed highly satisfied with a tumbler of brandy and water, when I quitted the gentlemen to see to the coffee, while they talked over the scheme for farm-buildings, which Charlie had sent up to him.

When I bade him good-night, a couple of hours later, he was evidently in a serene state of mind, regarding us as very superior young people.

In the middle of the night, Betsey and I were appalled by a tremendous knocking on the wall.  I threw on a dressing-gown and made for the door, while Betsey felt for the matches.  As I opened a crack of the door, Charlie’s voice was to be heard, ‘Yes, yes; I’ll get you some, sir.  You’ll be better presently,’ interspersed with heavy groans; then, seeing me wide awake, he begged that Betsey would go down and get some hot water—‘and mustard,’ called out a suffering voice.  ‘Oh, those chops!’

Poor Mr. Newton had, it appeared, wakened with a horrible oppression on his chest, and at once attributing it to his unwonted meal of pork chops, he had begun, in the dark, knocking and calling with great energy.  Charlie had stumbled in in the dark, not waiting to light a candle, and indeed ours were chiefly lamps, which took time to light.  Betsey had hers, however, and had bustled into some clothes, tumbling downstairs to see whether any water were still hot in the copper, Charlie running down to help her, while I fumbled about for a lamp and listened with awe to the groans from within, wondering which of us would have to go for the doctor.

Up came Charlie, in his shirt sleeves, with a steaming jug in one hand and a lamp in the other.  Up came Betsey, in a scarlet petticoat and plaid shawl, her gray locks in curl-papers, and a tallow-candle in hand.  The door was thrown open, Charlie observing,

‘Now, sir,’ then breaking out into ‘Thunder and turf’ (his favourite Hibernian ejaculation); ‘Ssssssss!’ and therewith, her green eyes all one glare, out burst this cat!  She was the nightmare!  She had been sitting on the unfortunate man’s chest, and all her weight had been laid to the score of the chops!