The Three Brides

Herbert was amazed at the lighting up of his Rector’s worn, anxious face.

“Douglas!  Thank Heaven!  Herbert, we must get a magistrate at once to take the deposition!”

“What!  Do you want to prosecute Moy?”

“No, but to clear Archie.”

“I thought he was drowned?”

“No; that was all a mistake.  Miles saw him at Natal.  Herbert, this will be life and joy to your sister.  What!—you did not know about Jenny and Archie?”

“Not I—Jenny!—poor old Joan!  So that’s what has stood in her way, and made her the jolliest of old sisters, is it?  Poor old Joanie!  What! was she engaged to him?”

“Yes, much against your father’s liking, though he had consented.  I remember he forbade it to be spoken of,—and you were at school.”

“And Joan was away nursing old Aunt Joan for two years.  So Archie went off with this charge on him, and was thought to be lost!  Whew!  How did she stand it?  I say, does she know he is alive?”

“No, he forbade Miles to speak.  No one knows but Miles and I, and our wives.  Anne put us on the scent.  Now, Herbert, I’ll go to the poor man at once, and you had better find a magistrate.”

“Whom can I find?” said Herbert.  “There’s my father away, and Raymond ill, and Lipscombe waved me off—wouldn’t so much as speak to me for fear I should be infectious.”

“You must get a town magistrate.”

“Briggs is frantic since he lost his son, and Truelove thinks he has the fever, though Worth says it is all nonsense.  There’s nobody but Whitlock.  Dear old Jenny!  Well, there always was something different from other people in her, and I never guessed what it was.  I’d go to the end of the world to make her happy and get that patient look out of her eyes.”

Herbert had nearly to fulfil this offer, for Mr. Whitlock was gone to London for the day, and magistrates were indeed scarce; but at last, after walking two miles out of the town, his vehemence and determination actually dragged in the unfortunate, timid justice of the peace who had avoided him in the road, but who could not refuse when told in strong earnest that the justification of an innocent man depended on his doing his duty.

Poor Mr. Lipscombe!  The neglected ‘Three Pigeons’ was just now the worst place in all Water Lane.  The little that had hastily been done since the morning seemed to have had no effect on the foetid atmosphere, even to Herbert’s well accustomed nostrils; and what must it have been to a stranger, in spite of the open window and all the disinfectants?  And, alas! the man had sunk into a sleep.  Julius, who still stood by him, had heard all he had to say to relieve his mind, all quite rationally, and had been trying to show him the need of making reparation by repeating all to a magistrate, when the drowsiness had fallen on him; and though the sound of feet roused him, it was to wander into the habitual defiance of authority, merging into terror.

Herbert soothed him better than any one else could do, and he fell asleep again; but Mr. Lipscombe declared it was of no use to remain—nothing but madness; and they could not gainsay him.  He left the two clergymen together, feeling himself to have done a very valiant and useless thing in the interests of justice, or at the importunity of a foolishly zealous young curate.

“Look here,” said Herbert, “Whitlock may be trusted.  Leave a note for him explaining.  I’ll stay here; I’m the best to do so, any way.  If he revives and is sensible, I’ll send off at once for Whitlock, or if there is no time, I’ll write it down and let him see me sign it.”

“And some one else, if possible,” said Julius.  “The difficulty is that I never had authority given me to use what he said to me in private.  Rather the contrary, for old instinctive habits of caution awoke the instant I told him it was his duty to make it known, and that Archie was alive.  I don’t like leaving you here, Herbert, but Raymond was very weak this morning; besides, there’s poor Joe’s funeral.”

“Oh, never mind.  He’ll have his sleep out, and be all right when he awakes.  Think of righting Jenny’s young man!  How jolly!”

Julius went across to the town-hall hospital, and told the Sisters, whose darling his curate was, of the charge he had undertaken, and they promised to look after him.  After which Julius made the best of his way home, where Rosamond had, as usual, a bright face for him.  Her warm heart and tender tact had shown her that obtrusive attempts to take care of him would only be harassing, so she only took care to secure him food and rest in his own house whenever it was possible, and that however low her own hopes might be, she would not add to his burden; and now Terry was so much better that she could well receive him cheerily, and talk of what Terry had that day eaten, so joyously, as almost to conceal that no one was better at the Hall.

“I will come with you,” she said; “I might do something for poor Fanny,” as the bell began to toll for little Joshua’s funeral.  Fanny Reynolds, hearing some rumour of her boy’s illness, had brought Drake to her home three days before his death.  The poor little fellow’s utterances, both conscious and unconscious, had strangely impressed the man, and what had they not awakened in the mother?  And when the words, so solemn and mysterious, fell on those unaccustomed ears in the churchyard, and Fanny, in her wild overpowering grief, threw herself about in an agony of sorrow and remorse, and sobbed with low screams, it was ‘the lady’ whom she viewed as an angel of mercy, who held her and hushed her; and when all was over, and she was sinking down, faint and hysterical, it was ‘the lady’ who—a little to the scandal of the more respectable—helped Drake to carry her to the Rectory, the man obeying like one dazed.

“I must leave the sheep that was lost to you, Rose,” said Julius.  “You can do more for them than I as yet, and they have sent for me to the Hall.”

“You will stay there to-night if they want you; I don’t want any one,” said Rosamond at the door.

He was wanted indeed at his home.  Frank was in a wilder and more raving state than ever, and Raymond so faint and sinking, and with such a look about him, that Julius felt, more than he had ever done before, that though the fever had almost passed away, there was no spirit or strength to rally.  He was very passive, and seemed to have no power to wonder, though he was evidently pleased when Julius told him both of Archie Douglas’s life and the hopes of clearing his name.  “Tell Jenny she was right,” he said, and did not seem inclined to pursue the subject.

They wheeled Mrs. Poynsett away at her usual hour, when he was dozing; and as Frank was still tossing and moaning incoherently, and often required to be held, Julius persuaded Anne to let him take her place with him, while she became Raymond’s watcher.  He dozed about half an hour, and when she next gave him some food, he said, in a very low feeble tone:

“You have heard from Miles?”

“Yes; he says nothing shall stop him the moment they are paid off.”

“That’s right.  No fear of infection—that’s clear,” said Raymond.

“I think not—under God!” and Anne’s two hands unseen clasped over her throbbing, yearning heart.

“Dear old fellow!” said Raymond.  “It is such pleasure to leave mother to him.  If I don’t see him, Anne, tell him how glad I am.  I’ve no charge.  I know he will do it all right.  And mother will have you,” and he held out his hand to her.  Presently he said: “Anne.  One thing—”

“Yes,” she said anxiously.

“You always act on principle, I know; but don’t hang back from Miles’s friends and pleasures.  I know the old fellow, Anne.  His nature is sociable, and he wants sympathy in it.”

“I know what you mean, Raymond,” said Anne; “I do mean to try to do right—”

“I know, I know,” said he, getting a little excited, and speaking eagerly; “but don’t let right blind you, Anne, if you censure and keep from all he likes—if you will be a recluse and not a woman—he—don’t be offended, Anne; but if you leave him to himself, then will every effort be made to turn him from you.  You don’t believe me.”

“My dear Raymond, don’t speak so eagerly,” as his cheeks flushed.

“I must!  I can’t see his happiness and yours wrecked like mine.  Go with him, Anne.  Don’t leave him to be poisoned.  Mesmerism has its power over whoever has been under the spell.  And he has—he has!  She will try to turn him against you and mother.”

“Hush, Raymond!  Indeed I will be on my guard.  There’s no one there.  What are you looking at?”

“Camilla!” he said, with eyes evidently seeing something.  “Camilla!  Is it not enough to have destroyed one peace?”

“Raymond, indeed there is no one here.”

But he had half raised himself.  “Yes, Camilla, you have had your revenge.  Let it be enough.  No—no; I forgive you; but I forbid you to touch her.”

He grasped Anne’s arm with one hand, and stretched the other out as though to warn some one away.  The same moment there was another outburst of the bleeding.  Anne rang for help with one hand, and held him as best she could.  It lasted long; and when it was over he was manifestly dying.  “It is coming,” he said; looking up to Julius.  “Pray!  Only first—my love to Cecil.  I hope she is still young enough not to have had all her life spoilt.  Is her father coming?”

“To-morrow,” said Anne.

“That’s well.  Poor child! she is better free.”

How piteously sad those words of one wedded but a year!  How unlike the look that met his mother’s woeful yet tender eyes, as she held his hand.  She would aid him through that last passage as through all before, only a word of strong and tender love, as he again looked up to Julius and Anne, as if to put her in their keeping, and once more murmured something of “Love to sweet Rose!  Now, Julius, pray!”

An ever dutiful man, there was no wandering in look or tone.  He breathed ‘Amen’ once or twice, but never moved again, only his eyes still turned on his mother, and so in its time came the end.

Old Susan saw at first that the long fluttering gasp had no successor, and her touch certified Julius.  He rose and went towards his mother.  She held out her hands and said.  “Take me to my Frank.”

“We had better,” whispered Anne.

They wheeled her to the foot of the stairs.  Julius took her in his arms, Anne held her feet, and thus they carried her up the stairs, and along the passage, hearing Frank’s husky rapid babble all the way, and finding him struggling with the fierce strength of delirium against Jenkins, who looked as if he thought them equally senseless, when he saw his helpless mistress carried in.

“Frank, my boy, do lie still,” she said, and he took no notice; but when she laid her hand on his, he turned, looked at her with his dull eyes, and muttered, “Mother!”

It was the first recognition for many a day! and, at the smoothing motion of her hand over him, while she still entreated, “Lie still, my dear,” the mutterings died away; the childish instinct of obedience stilled the struggles; and there was something more like repose than had been seen all these weary months.

“Mother,” said Julius, “you can do for us what no one else can.  You will save him.”

She looked up to him, and hope took away the blank misery he had dreaded to see.  “My poor Frankie,” she said dreamily, “he has wanted me, I will not leave him now.”

All was soon still; Frank’s face had something like rest on it, as he lay with his mother’s hand on his brow, and she intent only on him.

“You can leave them to me, I think,” said Anne.  “I will send if there be need; but if not, you had better not come up till you have been to Wil’sbro’—if you must go.”

“I must, I fear; I promised to come to Fuller if he be still here.  I will speak to Jenkins first.”

Julius was living like a soldier in a campaign, with numbers dropping beside him, and no time to mourn, scarcely to realize the loss, and he went on, almost as if he had been a stranger; while the grief of poor old Jenkins was uncontrollable, both for his lady’s sake and for the young master, who had been his pride and glory.  His sobs brought out Mrs. Grindstone into the gallery, to insist, with some asperity, that there should be no noise to awaken her mistress, who was in a sweet sleep.

“We will take care,” said Julius, sadly.  “I suppose she had better hear nothing till Mr. Charnock comes.”

“She must be left to me, sir, or I cannot be answerable for the consequences,” was the stiff reply, wherewith Mrs. Grindstone retreated into her castle.

Julius left the hushed and veiled house, in the frosty chill of the late autumn just before dawn, shivering between grief and cold, and he walked quickly down the avenue, feeling it strange that the windows in the face of his own house were glittering back the reflection of the setting moon.

Something long and black came from the opposite direction.  “Rector,” it said, in a low hoarse voice, “I’ve got leave from him to use what he said to you.  Sister Margaret and I signed it.  Will that do?”

“I can’t tell now, Herbert, I can’t think.  My brother is just gone,” said Julius in his inward voice.

“Raymond!  No!  Oh, I beg your pardon; I never thought of that; Raymond—”

“Go home and go to bed,” said Julius, as the young man wrung his hand.  “Rest now—we must think another time.”

Did Rosamond know? was perhaps the foremost of his weary thoughts.  Ah! did she not!  Was she not standing with her crimson shawl round her, and the long black plaits falling on it, to beckon him to the firelit comfort of his own room?  Did she not fall on his neck as he came heavily up, and cling around him with her warm arms?  “Oh, Julius, what a dear brother he was!  What can we do for your mother?”

As he told her how Frank’s need did more than any support could do for her, her tears came thicker; but in spite of them, her fond hands put him into the easy-chair by the fire, and drew off his damp boots; and while listening to the low sunken voice that told her of the end, she made ready the cup of cocoa that was waiting, and put the spoon in his hand in a caressing manner, that made her care, comfort, not oppression.  Fatigue seconded her, for he took the warm food, faltered and leant back, dozing till the baby’s voice awoke him, and as he saw Rosamond hushing her, he exclaimed:

“O, Rose! if poor Raymond had ever known one hour like this!” and he held out his arms for his child.

“You know I don’t let you hold her in that coat.  Go into your dressing-room, have your bath, and put on your dressing-gown, and if you will lie on the bed, you shall take care of her while I go and feed Terry.  You can’t do anything for anybody yet, it is only six o’clock.”

These precautions, hindering his going jaded and exhausted into infection, were what Rosamond seemed to live for, though she never forced them on him, and he was far too physically tired out not to yield to the soothing effect; so that even two hours on the bed sent him forth renovated to that brief service in the church, where Herbert and he daily met and found their strength for the day.  They had not had time to exchange a word after it before there was a knock at the vestry door, and a servant gave the message to Herbert, who had opened it: “Lady Tyrrell is taken worse, sir, and Sir Harry Vivian begged that Mr. Charnock would come immediately.”

A carriage had been sent for him, and he could only hurry home to tell Rosamond to send on the pony to Sirenwood, to take him to Wil’sbro’, unless he were first wanted at home.  She undertook to go up to the Hall and give Anne a little rest, and he threw himself into the carriage, not daring to dwell on the pain it gave him to go from his brother’s death bed to confront Camilla.

At the door Eleonora came to meet him.  “Thank you,” she said.  “We knew it was no time to disturb you.”

“I can be better spared now,” answered Julius.

“You don’t mean,” she said, with a strange look, which was not quite surprise.

“Yes, my dear brother left us at about three o’clock last night.  A change came on at twelve.”

“Twelve!”  Eleonora laid her hand on his arm, and spoke in a quick agitated manner.  “Camilla was much better till last night, when at twelve I heard such a scream that I ran into her room.  She was sitting up with her eyes fixed open, like a clairvoyante, and her voice seemed pleading—pleading with him, as if for pardon, and she held out her hands and called him.  Then, suddenly, she gave a terrible shriek, and fell back in a kind of fit.  Mr. M’Vie can do nothing, and though she is conscious now, she does nothing but ask for you and say that he does not want you now.”

Julius grew paler, as he said very low, “Anne said he seemed to be seeing and answering her.  Not like delirium, but as if she were really there.”

“Don’t tell any one,” entreated Eleonora, in a breathless whisper, and he signed consent, as both felt how those two spirits must have been entwined, since these long years had never broken that subtle link of sympathy which had once bound them.

Sir Harry’s face, dreary, sunken, and terrified, was thrust over the balusters, as he called, “Don’t hinder him, Lena, she asks for him every moment;” and as they came on, he caught Julius’s hand, saying, “Soothe her, soothe her—’tis the only chance.  If she could but sleep!”

There lay Camilla Tyrrell, beautiful still, but more than ever like the weird tragic head with snake-wreathed brows, in the wasted contour of her regular features and the flush on her hollow cheeks, while her eyes burned with a strange fire that almost choked back Julius’s salutation of peace, even while he breathed it, for might not the Son of Peace be with some there?

The eager glance seemed to dart at him.  “Julius Charnock!” she cried, “come!” and as he would have said some word about her health, she cut him short: “Never mind that; I must speak while my brain serves.  After that be the priest.  He is dead!”

“My brother?  Yes.”

“The only one I ever loved!  There’s no sin nor scandal in saying so now.  His wife is better?  It will never kill her.”

“She does not know.”

“No?  There was nothing to make her.  He could not give her his heart, try as he would.  Why did he turn the unchangeable to hate! hate! hate!”

“Lady Tyrrell, you did not send for me to hear what ought not to be said at all?”

“Don’t fly off,” she said.  “I had really something to say.  It was not wholly hate, Julius; I really tried to teach his little idiot of a wife to win him at last.  I meant it to turn out well, and nothing could, with that mother there.”

“I must leave you, Lady Tyrrell, if you will not control yourself.”

“Don’t be hard on me, Julius,” and she looked up with a glance of better days.  “You idolize her, like all the rest of you; but she chilled me and repelled me, and turned me to bitterness, when I was young and he might have led me.  Her power and his idolatry made me jealous, and what I did in a fit of petulance was so fastened on that I could not draw back.  Why did not he wait a little longer to encumber himself with that girl!  No—that wasn’t what I had to say—it’s all over now.  It is the other thing.  How is Frank?”

“Very ill indeed; but quieter just now.”

“Then there shall not be another wreck like ours.  Lena, are you here?  You saw that Frank had let Constance Strangeways win your pebble.  It was because I showed him the one Beatrice bought, and he thought it yours.  Yes, I saw nothing else for it.  What was to become of the property if you threw yourself away, and on her son?” she added, with the malignant look.  “Whether he knew of this little vow of yours, I can’t tell, but he had lost his head and did for himself.  It was for your good and papa’s; but I shall not be here to guide the clue, so you must go your own way and be happy in it, if she will let you.  Father, do you hear?  Don’t think to please me by hindering the course of true love; and you, Julius, tell Frank he was ‘a dull Moor.’  I liked the boy, I was sorry for him; but he ought to have known his token better;—and there was the estate to be saved.”

“Estates weigh little now!”

“Clerical!  I suppose now is the time for it?  You were all precision at Compton.  It would kill me; I can’t live with Mrs. Poynsett.  No, no, Tom, I can’t have old Raymond quizzed; I’ll get him out of it when the leading-strings are cut.  What right has she—?”

The delirium had returned.  Julius’s voice kept her still for a few moments, but she broke out afresh at his first pause, and murmurs fell thick and fast from her tongue, mixing the names of her brother and Raymond with railings at Mrs. Poynsett for slights in the days when the mother was striving to discourage the inclination that resulted in the engagement.

Earnestly did Julius beseech for peace, for repentance for the poor storm-tossed soul; but when the raving grew past control, and the time was coming for his ministrations to the Vicar of Wil’sbro’, he was forced to leave her.  Poor old Sir Harry would have clung to him as to anything like a support, but Eleonora knew better.  “No, dear papa,” she said, “he has given us too much of his time already.  He must go where he can still help.  Poor Camilla cannot attend to him.”

“If she came to herself—”

“Then send for me.  I would come instantly.  Send to the town-hall any time before twelve, after that to Compton.  Send without scruples, Lenore, you have truly the right.”

They did not send, except that a note met him as he returned home, telling him that suffusion of the brain had set in.  Camilla Tyrrell did not survive Raymond Poynsett twelve hours.