The Clever Woman of the Family

CHAPTER XXVI. THE END OF CLEVERNESS

As the uncle and nephew came out of church, and approached the yew-tree gate, Rachel came swiftly to meet them. “Oh, Alick! oh, uncle!” she said breathlessly. “Bessie says she is shocked to have turned your house upside down, but we could not go any further. And her baby is born!” Then in answer to exclamations, half-dismayed, half-wondering, “Yes, it is all right, so Nurse Jones says. I could not send to you, for we had to send everywhere at once. Mr. Harvey was not at home, and we telegraphed to London, but no one has come yet, and now I have just written a note to Lord Keith with the news of his son and heir. And, uncle, she has set her heart on your baptizing him directly.”

There was some demur, for though the child had made so sudden a rush into the world, there seemed to be no ground for immediate alarm; and Mr. Clare being always at hand, did not think it expedient to give the name without knowing the father’s wishes with regard to that hereditary Alexander which had been borne by the dead son of the first marriage. A message, however, came down to hasten him, and when—as he had often before done in cottages—he demanded of Nurse Jones whether private baptism were immediately necessary, she allowed that she saw no pressing danger, but added, “that the lady was in a way about it,” and this both Rachel and her maid strongly corroborated. Rachel’s maid was an experienced person, whom Mrs. Curtis had selected with a view to Rachel’s weak state at the time of her marriage, and she showed herself anxious for anything that might abate Lady Keith’s excitement, to which they at length yielded, feeling that resistance might be dangerous to her. She further insisted that the rite should be performed in her presence; nor was she satisfied when Rachel had brought in her uncle, but insisted on likewise calling in her brother, who vaguely anxious, and fully conscious of the small size of the room, had remained down-stairs.

Mr. Clare always baptized his infant parishioners, and no one was anxious about his manner of handling the little one, the touch of whose garments might be familiar, as being no other than his own parish baby linen. He could do no otherwise than give the child the name reiterated by the mother, in weak but impatient accents, “Alexander Clare,” her brother’s own name, and when the short service was concluded, she called out triumphantly, “Make Alick kiss him, Rachel, and do homage to his young chieftain.”

They obeyed her, as she lay watching them, and a very pretty sight she was with her dark hair lying round her, a rosy colour on her cheeks, and light in her eyes; but Mr. Clare thought both her touch and voice feverish, and entreated Rachel not to let her talk. Indeed Alick longed to take Rachel away, but this was not at present feasible, since her maid was occupied with the infant, and Nurse Jones was so entirely a cottage practitioner that she was scarcely an available attendant elsewhere. Bessie herself would by no means have parted with her sister-in-law, nor was it possible to reduce her to silence. “Alexander!” she said joyfully, “I always promised my child that he should not have a stupid second son’s name. I had a right to my own father’s and brother’s name, and now it can’t be altered,” then catching a shade of disapproval upon Rachel’s face, “not that I would have hurried it on if I had not thought it right, poor little fellow, but now I trust he will do nicely, and I do think we have managed it all with less trouble than might have been expected.”

Sure by this time that she was talking too much, Rachel was glad to hear that Mr. Harvey was come. He was a friendly, elderly man, who knew them all intimately, having attended Alick through his tedious recovery, and his first measure was to clear the room. Rachel thought that “at her age” he might have accepted her services, rather than her maid’s, but she suspected Alick of instigating her exclusion, so eagerly did he pounce on her to make her eat, drink, and lie on the sofa, and so supremely scornful was he of her views of sitting up, a measure which might be the more needful for want of a bed.

On the whole, however, he was satisfied about her; alarm and excitement had restrung her powers, and she knew herself to have done her part, so that she was ready to be both cheerful and important over the evening meal. Mr. Clare was by no means annoyed at this vicissitude, but rather amused at it, and specially diverted at the thought of what would be Mr. Lifford’s consternation. Lord Keith’s servant had come over, reporting his master to be a good deal worn out by the afternoon’s anxiety, and recommending that he should not be again disturbed that night, so he was off their minds, and the only drawback to the pleasantness of the evening was surprise at seeing and hearing nothing from Mr. Harvey. The London doctor arrived, he met him and took him up-stairs at once; and then ensued a long stillness, all attempts at conversation died away, and Alick only now and then made attempts to send his companions to bed. Mr. Clare went out to the hall to listen, or Rachel stole up to the extemporary nursery to consult Nurse Jones, whom she found very gruff at having been turned out in favour of the stranger maid.

It was a strange time of suspense. Alick made Rachel lie on the sofa, and she almost heard the beating of her own heart; he sat by her, trying to seem to read, and his uncle stood by the open window, where the tinkle of a sheep bell came softly in from the meadows, and now and then the hoot of the owl round the church tower made the watchers start. To watch that calm and earnest face was their great help in that hour of alarm; those sightless eyes, and broad, upraised spiritual brow seemed so replete with steadfast trust and peace, that the very sight was soothing and supporting to the young husband and wife, and when the long strokes of twelve resounded from the church tower, Mr. Clare, turning towards them, began in his full, musical voice to repeat Bishop Ken’s noble midnight hymn—

To Rachel, who had so often heard that hour strike amid a tumult of midnight miseries, there was something in these words inexpressibly gentle and soothing; the tears sprang into her eyes, as if she had found the spell to chase the grisly phantoms, and she clasped her husband’s hand, as though to communicate her comfort.

Mr. Clare had just repeated this verse, when he paused, saying, “They are coming down,” and moved quickly to meet them in the hall. Alick followed him to the door, but as they entered the dining-room, after a moment’s hesitation, returned to Rachel, as she sat upright and eager. “After all, this may mean nothing,” he said.

“Oh, we don’t make it better by fancying it nothing,” said Rachel. “Let us try to meet it like your uncle. Oh, Alick, it seemed all this time as if I could pray again, as I never could since those sad times. He seemed so sure, such a rock to help and lean on.”

He drew her close to him. “You are praying for her!” he murmured, his soul so much absorbed in his sister that he could not admit other thoughts, and still they waited and watched till other sounds were heard. The London doctor was going away. Alick sprang to the door, and opened it as his uncle’s hand was on the lock. There was a mournful, solemn expression on his face, as they gazed mutely up in expectation.

“Children,” he said, “it is as we feared. This great sorrow is coming on us.”

“Then there is danger,” said Alick with stunned calmness.

“More than danger,” said his uncle, “they have tried all that skill can do.”

“Was it the fall?” said Alick.

“It was my bad management, it always is,” said Rachel, ever affirmative.

“No, dear child,” said Mr. Clare, “there was fatal injury in the fall, and even absolute stillness for the last few hours could hardly have saved her. You have nothing to reproach yourself with.”

“And now!” asked Alick, hoarsely.

“Much more exhausted than when we were with her; sometimes faint, but still feverish. They think it may last many hours yet, poor dear child, she has so much youth and strength.”

“Does she know?”

“Harvey thought some of their measures alarmed her, but they soothed and encouraged her while they saw hope, and he thinks she has no real fears.”

“And how is it to be—” said Alick. “She ought—”

“Yes; Harvey thinks she ought, she is fully herself, and it can make no difference now. He is gone to judge about coming up at once; but Alick, my poor boy, you must speak to her. I have found that without seeing the face I cannot judge what my words may be doing.”

Rachel asked about poor Lord Keith, and was told that he was to be left in quiet that night, unless his wife should be very anxious for him at once. Mr. Harvey came down, bringing word that his patient was asking urgently for Mrs. Keith.

“You had better let me go in first,” said Alick, his face changed by the firm but tender awe-struck look.

“Not if she is asking for me,” said Rachel, moving on, her heart feeling as if it would rend asunder, but her looks composed.

Bessie’s face was in shade, but her voice had the old ring of coaxing archness. “I thought you would stay to see the doctors off. They had their revenge for our stealing a march on them, and have prowled about me till I was quite faint; and now I don’t feel a bit like sleep, though I am so tired. Would Alick think me very wicked if I kept you a little while? Don’t I see Alick’s shadow? Dear old fellow, are you come to wish me good-night? That is good of you. I am not going to plague you any more, Alick, I shall be so good now! But what?” as he held back the curtain, and the light fell on his face, “Oh! there is nothing wrong with the baby?”

“No, dear Bessie, not with the baby,” said Alick, with strong emphasis.

“What, myself?” she said quickly, turning her eyes from one face to the other.

Alick told her the state of the case. Hers was a resolute character, or perhaps the double nature that had perplexed and chafed her brother was so integral that nothing could put it off. She fully comprehended, but as if she and herself were two separate persons. She asked how much time might be left to her, and hearing the doctor’s opinion, said, “Then I think my poor old Lord Keith had better have his night’s rest in peace. But, oh! I should like to speak to Colin. Send for him, Alick; telegraph, Alick; he is at the Paddington Hotel. Send directly.”

She was only tranquillised by her brother beginning to write a telegraphic message.

“Rachel,” she said, presently, “Ermine must marry him now, and see to Lord Keith, and the little one—tell her so, please,” then with her unfailing courtesy, “he will seem like your own child, dear Rachel, and you should have him; but you’ll have a wandering home with the dear old Highlanders. Oh! I wonder if he will ever go into them, there must always be a Keith there, and they say he is sure of the Victoria Cross, though papa will not send up his name because of being his own son.” Then passing her hand over her face, she exclaimed—“Wasn’t I talking great nonsense, Rachel? I don’t seem able to say what I mean.”

“It is weakness, dearest,” said Rachel, “perhaps you might gain a little strength if you were quite still and listened to my uncle.”

“Presently. O Rachel! I like the sound of your voice; I am glad Alick has got you. You suit him better than his wicked little sister ever did. You have been so kind to me to-night, Rachel; I never thought I should have loved you so well, when I quizzed you. I did use you ill then, Rachel, but I think you won Alick by it just by force of contrast,”—she was verging into the dreamy voice, and Rachel requested her to rest and be silent.

“It can’t make any difference,” said Bessie, “and I’ll try to be quiet and do all right, if you’ll just let me have my child again. I do want to know who he is like. I am so glad it is not he that was hurt. Oh! I did so want to have brought him up to be like Alick.”

The infant was brought, and she insisted on being lifted to see its face, which she declared to resemble her brother; but here her real self seemed to gain the mastery, and calling it a poor little motherless thing, she fell into a fit of violent convulsive weeping, which ended in a fainting fit, and this was a fearfully perceptible stage on her way to the dark valley.

She was, however, conscious when she revived, and sent for her uncle, whom she begged to let her be laid in his churchyard, “near the willow-tree; not next to my aunt, I’m not good enough,” she said, “but I could not bear that old ruined abbey, where all the Keiths go, and Alick always wanted me to be here—Alick was right!”

The dreamy mist was coming on, nor was it ever wholly dispelled again. She listened, or seemed to listen, to her uncle’s prayers, but whenever he ceased, she began to talk—perhaps sensibly at first, but soon losing the thread—sometimes about her child or husband, sometimes going back to those expressions of Charles Carleton that had been so dire a shock to her. “He ought not! I thought he knew better! Alick was right! Come away, Rachel, I’ll never see him again. I have done nothing that he should insult me. Alick was right!”

Then would come the sobs, terrible in themselves, and ending in fainting, and the whole scene was especially grievous to Alick, even more than to either of the others, for as her perception failed her, association carried her back to old arguments with him, and sometimes it was, “Alick, indeed you do like to attribute motives,” sometimes, “Indeed it is not all self-deception,” or the recurring wail, “Alick is right, only don’t let him be so angry!” If he told her how far he was from anger, she would make him kiss her, or return to some playful rejoinder, more piteous to hear than all, or in the midst would come on the deadly swoon.

Morning light was streaming into the room when one of these swoons had fallen on her, and no means of restoration availed to bring her back to anything but a gasping condition, in which she lay supported in Rachel’s arms. The doctor had his hand on her pulse, the only sounds outside were the twittering of the birds, and within, the ticking of the clock, Alick’s deep-drawn breaths, and his uncle’s prayer. Rachel felt a thrill pass through the form she was supporting, she looked at Mr. Harvey, and understood his glance, but neither moved till Mr. Clare’s voice finished, when the doctor said, “I feared she would have suffered much more. Thank God!”

He gently relieved Rachel from the now lifeless weight, and they knelt on for some moments in complete stillness, except that Alick’s breath became more laboured, and his shuddering and shivering could no longer be repressed. Rachel was excessively terrified to perceive that his whole frame was trembling like an aspen leaf. He rose, however, bent to kiss his sister’s brow, and steadying himself by the furniture, made for the door. The others followed him, and in a few rapid words Rachel was assured that her fears were ungrounded, it was only an attack of his old Indian fever, which was apt to recur on any shock, but was by no means alarming, though for the present it must be given way to. Indeed, his teeth were chattering too much for him to speak intelligibly, when he tried to tell Rachel to rest and not think of him.

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.