A Life for a Life, Volume 1 (of 3)

by Dinah Maria Mulock Craik

CHAPTER XIII. HER STORY.

Papa and Penelope are out to dinner—I, myself, was out yesterday, and did not return till they were gone; so I sit up for them; and, meantime, shall amuse myself with writing here.

The last date was Sunday, and now it is only Tuesday, but much seems to have happened between. And yet nothing really has happened but two quiet days at the Cedars, and one gay evening—or people would call it gay.

It has been the talk of the neighbourhood for weeks—this amateur concert at the camp. We got our invitation, of course. The such and such Regiments (I forget which, all but one) presenting their compliments to the Reverend William Henry and the Misses Johnston, and requesting their company; but papa shook his head, and Penelope was indifferent. Then I gave up all idea of going, if I ever had any.

The surprise was almost pleasant when Mrs. Granton, coming in, declared she would take me herself, as it was quite necessary I should have a little gaiety to keep me from moping after Lisabel. Papa consented, and I went.

Driving along over the moors was pleasant, too—even though it snowed a little. I found myself laughing back at Colin, who sat on the box, occasionally turning to shake the white flakes off him like a great Polar bear. His kindly, hearty face was quite refreshing to behold.

I have a habit of growing attached to places, independently of the persons connected with them. Thus, I cannot imagine any time when it would not be an enjoyment to drive up to the hall-door of the Cedars, sweeping round in the wide curve that Colin is so proud of making his carriage-wheels describe: to look back up the familiar hill-side, where the winter sun is shining on that slope of trees,—-then run into the house, through the billiard-room, and out again by the dining-room windows, on to the broad terrace. There, if there is any sunshine, you will be sure to get it,—any wind, it will blow in your face; any bit of colour or landscape beauty, you will catch it on this green lawn; the grand old cedars—the distant fir-woods, lying in a still mass of dark blue shadow, or standing up, one by one, cut out sharply against the brilliant west. Whether it is any meteorological peculiarity I know not; but it seems to me as if, whatever the day has been, there is always a fair sunset at the Cedars.

I love the place. If I went away for years—if I never saw it again—I should always love it and remember it. Mrs. Granton too, for she seems an integral part of the picture. Her small, elderly figure, trotting in and out of the rooms; her clear loud voice—she is a little deaf—along the upstairs passages; her perpetual activity—I think she is never quiet but when she is asleep. Above all, her unvarying goodness and cheerfulness—truly the Cedars would not be the Cedars without my dear old lady!

I don't think she ever knew how fond I was of her, even as a little girl. Nobody could help it; never anybody had to do with Mrs. Granton without becoming fond of her. She is almost the only person living of whom I never heard anyone speak an unkind word; because she herself never speaks an ill word of any human being. Every one she knows, is “the kindest creature,” “the nicest creature,” “the cleverest creature” —I do believe if you presented to her Diabolus himself, she would only call him “poor creature;” would suggest that his temper must have aggravated by the unpleasant place he had to live in, and set about some plan for improving his complexion, and concealing his horns and tail.

At dinner, I took my favourite seat, where, seen through this greatest of the three windows,—a cedar with its “broad, green layers of shade,” is intersected by a beech—still faintly yellow—as I have seen it, autumn after autumn, from the same spot. It seemed just like old times. I felt happy; as if something pleasant were about to happen, and said as much.

Mrs. Granton looked delighted.

“I am sure, my dear, I hope so. And I trust we shall see you here very often indeed. Only think, you have never been since the night of the ball. What a deal has happened between then and now.”

I had already been thinking the same.

It must be curious to any one who, like our Lisa, had married a stranger and not an old acquaintance, to analyse afterwards the first impressions of a first meeting—most likely brought about by the merest chance. Curious to try and recall the face you then viewed critically, carelessly, or with the most absolute indifference—how it gradually altered and altered, till only by a special effort can memory reproduce the pristine image, and trace the process by which it has become what it is now—a face by itself, its peculiarities pleasant, its plainnesses sacred, and its beauties beautiful above all faces in the world.

In the course of the afternoon, Colin was turned out, that is corporeally, for his mother talked about him the whole time of his absence, a natural weakness rather honourable than pardonable. She has been very long a widow, and never had any child but Colin.

During our gossip, she asked me if we had seen Doctor Urquhart lately, and I said no.

“Ah, that is just like him. Such an odd creature. He will keep away for days and weeks, and then turn up as unexpectedly, as he did here yesterday. By the by, he inquired after you—if you were better. Colin had told him you were ill.”

I testified my extreme surprise and denial of this.

“Oh, but you looked ill. You were just like a ghost the day Mrs. Treherne was at Rockmount—my son noticed it ay, you need not flush up so angrily—it was only my Colin's anxiety about you—he was always fond of his old play-fellow.”

I smiled, and said his old play-fellow was very much obliged to him.

So, this business is not so engrossing, but that Doctor Urquhart can find time to pay visits somewhere. And he had been inquiring for me. Still he might have made the inquiry at our own door. Ought people, even if they do lead a busy life, to forget ordinary courtesy—accepting hospitality, and neglecting it—cultivating acquaintance and then dropping it. I think not; all the respect in the world cannot make one put aside one's common sense judgment of another's actions. Perhaps the very respect makes one more tenacious that no single action should be even questionable. I did think, then, and even to-day I have thought sometimes, that Doctor Urquhart has been somewhat in the wrong towards us at Rockmount. But as to acknowledging it to any of them at home—never!

Mrs. Granton discussed him a little, and spoke gratefully of Colin's obligations to him, and what a loss it would be for Colin when the regiment left the camp.

“How fortunate that your brother-in-law sold out when he did. He could not well have done so now, when there is a report of their being ordered on active service shortly. Colin says we are likely to have war again, but I do hope not.”

“Yes,” I said.

And just then Colin came to fetch me to the greenhouses to choose a camellia for my hair.

Likely to have war again! When Mrs. Granton left me to dress, I sat over my bed-room fire, thinking—I hardly know what. All sorts of visions went flitting through my mind—of scenes I have heard talked about, in hospital, in battle, on the battle-field afterwards. Especially one, which Augustus has often described, when he woke up, stiff and cold, on the moonlight plain, from under his dead horse, and saw Dr. Urquhart standing over him.

Colin whistling through the corridor,—Mrs.

Granton's lively “Are you ready, my dear?” made me conscious that this would not do.

I stood up, and dressed myself in the silver-gray silk I wore at the ball; I tried to stick the red camellia in my hair, but the buds all broke off under my fingers, and I had to go down without it. It was all the same. I did not much care. However, Colin insisted on going with a lantern to hunt for another flower, and his mother took, a world of pains to fasten it in, and make me look “pretty.”

They were so kind—it was wicked not to try and enjoy one's self.

Driving along in the sharp, clear twilight, till we caught sight of the long lines of lamps which make the camp so picturesque at night time, I found that compelling one's self to be gay sometimes makes one so.

We committed all sorts of blunders in-the k—came across a sentry who challenged us, and, nobody thinking of giving the password, had actually levelled his gun, and was proceeding in the gravest manner to do his duty and fire upon us—when our coachman shrieked, and Colin jumped out; which he had to do a dozen times, tramping the snow with his thin boots, to his mother's great uneasiness—and laughing all the time—before we discovered the goal of our hopes—the concert-room. Almost anyone else would have grown cross, but this good mother and son have the gayest spirits and the best tempers imaginable. The present—the present is, after all, the only thing certain. I began to feel as cheery as they.

Giving up our ticket to the most gentlemanly of sergeants, we entered the concert-room. Such a blaze of scarlet—such a stirring of pretty heads, between—such a murmur of merry chat. For the first minute, coming out of the dark—it dazzled me. I grew sick and could see nothing: but when we were quietly seated, I looked round.

There were many of our neighbours and acquaintances whom I knew by sight or to bow to—and that was all. I could see every corner of the room—still that was all.

The audience seemed in a state of exuberant enjoyment, especially if they had a bit of scarlet beside them, which nearly everybody had, except ourselves.

“You'll be quite ashamed of poor Colin in his plain black, Dora, my dear?”

Not very likely—as I told her, with my heart warmly gratefully to Colin, who had been so attentive, thoughtful, and kind.

Altogether a gay and pretty scene. Grave persons might possibly eschew it or condemn it—but no, a large liberal spirit judges all things liberally, and would never see evil in anything but sin.

I sat—enjoying all I could. But more than once ghastly imaginations intruded—picturing these young officers otherwhere than here, with their merry moustached faces pressed upon the reddened grass, their goodly limbs lopped and mangled, or worse, themselves, their kindly, lightsome selves, changed into what soldiers are—must be—in battle, fiends rather than men, bound to execute that slaughter which is the absolute necessity of war. To be the slain or the slayer—which is most horrible? To think of a familiar hand—brother's or husband's—dropping down powerless, nothing but clay; or of clasping, kissing it, returned with red blood upon it—the blood of some one else's husband or brother!

To have gone on pondering thus would have been dangerous. Happily, I stopped myself before all self-control was gone.

The first singer was a slim youth, who, facing the footlights with an air of fierce determination, and probably more inward cowardice than he would have felt towards a regiment of Russians, gave us, in a rather uncertain tenor, his resolution to “love no more,”—which was vehemently applauded—and vanished. Next came “The Chough and Crow,” executed very independently, none of the vocalists being agreed as to their “opening day.” Afterwards, the first soprano, a professional, informed us with shrill expression, that—“Oh, yes, she must have something to love,”—which I am sure I hope she had, poor body! There was a duet, of some sort, and then the primo tenore came on for an Italian song.

Poor youth!—a fourth-rate opera-singer might have done it better; but 'tis mean to criticise: he did his best; and when, after a grand roulade, he popped down, with all his heart and lungs, upon the last note, there arose a cordial English cheer, to which he responded with an awkward duck of the head, and a delighted smile; very unprofessional, but altogether pleasant and natural.

The evening was now half over. Mrs. Granton thought I was looking tired, and Colin wrapped my feet up in his fur coat, for it was very cold. They were afraid I was not enjoying myself, so I bent my whole appreciative faculties to the comical-faced young officer who skipped forward, hugging his violin, which he played with such total self-oblivious enjoyment that he was the least nervous and the most successful of all the amateurs; the timid young officer with the splendid bass voice, who was always losing his place and putting his companions out; and the solemn young officer who marched up to the piano-forte as if it were a Redan, and pounded away at a heavy sonata as if' feeling that England expected him to do his duty; which he did, and was deliberately retreating, when, in that free-and-easy way with which audience and stage intermingled, some one called him:—

“Ansdell, you're wanted!”

“Who wants me?”

“Urquhart.” At least I was almost sure that was the name.

There was a good deal more of singing and playing; then “God save the Queen,” with a full chorus and military hand. That grand old tune is always exciting; it was so, especially, here to-night.

Likely to have war. If so, a year hence, where might be all these gay young fellows, whispering and flirting with pretty girls, walked about the room by proud mothers and sisters! I never thought of it, never understood it, till now—I who used to ridicule and despise soldiers! These mothers—these sisters!—they might not have felt it for themselves, but my heart felt bursting. I could hardly stand.

We were some time in getting out to the door through the long line of epaulets and swords, the owners of which—I beg their pardon, but cannot help saying it—were not too civil; until a voice behind cried:—

“Do make way there—how do you expect those ladies to push past you?”

And a courteous helping hand was held out to Mrs. Granton, as any gentleman ought to any lady—especially an old lady.

“Doctor, is that you? What a scramble this is! Now, will you assist my young friend here?”

Then—and not till then, I am positive—he recognised me.

Something has happened to him—something has altered him very much. I felt certain of that on the very first glimpse I caught of his face. It shocked me so that I never said “how d'ye do?” I never even put out my hand. Oh that I had!

He scarcely spoke, and we lost him in the crowd almost immediately.

There was a great confusion of carriages. Colin ran hither and thither, but could not find ours. Some minutes after, we were still out in the bitter night; Mrs. Granton talking to somebody, I standing by myself. I felt very desolate and cold.

“How long have you had that cough?”

I knew who it was, and turned round. We shook hands.

“You had no business out here on such a night. Why did you come?”

Somehow, the sharpness did not offend me, though it was rare in Doctor Urquhart, who is usually extremely gentle in his way of speech.

I told him my cough was nothing—it was indeed as much nervousness as cold, though of course I did not confess that—and then another fit came on, leaving me all shaking and trembling.

“You ought not to have come: is there nobody to take better care of you, child?—No—don't speak. You must submit, if you please.”

He took off a plaid he had about him, and wrapped me up in it, close and warm. I resisted a little, and then yielded.—

“You must!”

What could one do but yield? Protesting again, I was bidden to “hold my tongue.”

“Never mind me!—I am used to all weathers;—I'm not a little delicate creature like you.”

I said, laughing, I was a great deal stronger than he had any notion of—but as he had begun our acquaintance by taking professional care of me, he might just as well continue it; and it certainly was a little colder here than it was that night at the Cedars.

“Yes.”

Here Colin came up, to say “we had better walk on to meet the carriage, rather than wait for it.” He and Doctor Urquhart exchanged a few words, then he took his mother on one arm—good Colin, he never neglects his old mother—and offered me the other.

“Let me take care of Miss Theodora,” said Doctor Urquhart, rather decidedly. “Will you come?”

I am sure he meant me to come. I hope it was not rude to Colin, but I could not help coming, I could not help taking his arm. It was such a long time since we had met.

But I held my tongue, as I had been bidden: indeed, nothing came into my head to say. Doctor Urquhart made one only observation, and that not particularly striking:—

“What sort of shoes have you got on?”

“Thick ones.”

“That is right. You ought not to trifle with your health.”

Why should one be afraid of speaking the truth right out, when a word would often save so much of misunderstanding, doubt, and pain? Why should one shrink from being the first to say that word, when there is no wrong in it, when in all one's heart there is not a feeling that one need be ashamed of before any good man or woman, or—I humbly hope—before God?

I determined to speak out.

“Doctor Urquhart, why have you never been to see us since the wedding? It has grieved papa.”

My candour must have surprised him; I felt him start. When he replied, it was in that peculiar nervous tone I know so well—which always seems to take away my nervousness, and makes me feel that for the moment I am the stronger of the two.

“I am very sorry. I would not on any account grieve your papa.”

“Will you come, then, some day this week?”

“Thank you, but I cannot promise.”

A possibility struck me.

“Papa is rather peculiar. He vexes people, sometimes, when they are not thoroughly acquainted with him. Has he vexed you in any way?”

“I assure you, no.”

After a little hesitation, determined to get at the truth, I asked:—

“Have I vexed you?”

“You! What an idea!”

It did seem, at this moment, preposterous, almost absurd. I could have laughed at it. I believe I did laugh. Oh, when one has been angry or grieved with a friend, and all of a sudden the cloud clears off—one hardly knows how or why, but it certainly is gone, perhaps never existed—save in imagination—what an infinite relief it is! How cheerful one feels, and yet humbled; ashamed, yet inexpressibly content. So glad, so satisfied to have only one's self to blame.

I asked Doctor Urquhart what he had been doing all this while? that I understood he had been a good deal engaged; was it about the barrack business, and his memorial?

“Partly,” he said; expressing some surprise at my remembering it.

Perhaps I ought not to have referred to it. And yet that is not a fair code of friendship. When a friend tells you his affairs, he makes them yours, and you have a right to ask about them afterwards. I longed to ask,—longed to know all and everything. For by every carriage-lamp we passed, I saw that his face was not as it used to be, that there was on it a settled shadow of pain, anxiety—almost anguish.

I have only known Doctor Urquhart three months, yet in those three months I have seen him every week, often twice and thrice a-week, and owing to the pre-occupation of the rest of the family, almost all his society has devolved on me. He and I have often and often sat talking, or in “playing decorum” to Augustus and Lisabel, walked up and down the garden together for hours at a time. Also, from my brother-in-law, always most open and enthusiastic on the subject, I have heard about Doctor Urquhart nearly everything that could be told.

All this will account for my feeling towards him, after so short an intimacy, as people usually feel, I suppose, after a friendship of years.

As I have said, something must have happened to make such a change in him. It touched me to the quick. Why not, at least, ask the question, which I should have asked in a minute of anybody else,—so simple and natural was it.—

“Have you been quite well since we saw you?”

“Yes.—No, not exactly. Why do you ask?”

“Because I thought you looked as if you had been ill.”

“Thank you, no. But I have had a great deal of anxious business on hand.”

More than that he did not say, nor had I a right to ask. No right! What was I, to be wanting rights—to feel that in some sense I deserved them—that if I had them I should know how to use them. For it is next to impossible to be so sorry about one's friends without having also some little power to do them good, if they would only give you leave.

All this while Colin and his mother were running hither and thither in search of the carriage, which had disappeared again. As we stood, a blast of moorland wind almost took my breath away. Doctor Urquhart turned, and wrapped me up closer.

“What must be done? You will get your death of cold, and I cannot shelter you. Oh, if I could!”

Then I took courage. There was only a minute more. Perhaps, and the news of threatened war darted through my mind like an arrow—perhaps the last minute we might ever be together in all our lives. My life—I did not recollect it just then, but his, busy indeed, yet so wandering, solitary, and homeless—he once told me that ours was the only family hearth he had been familiar at for twenty years. No, I am sure it was not wrong, either to think what I thought, or to say it.

“Doctor Urquhart, I wish you would come to Rockmount. It would do you good, and papa good, and all of us; for we are rather dull now Lisabel is gone. Do come.”

I waited for an answer, but none was given. No excuse, or apology, or even polite acknowledgment. Politeness!—that would have been the sharpest unkindness of all.

Then they overtook us, and the chance was over.

Colin advanced, but Doctor Urquhart put me into the carriage himself, and as Colin was restoring the plaid, said rather irritably:—“No, no, let her wrap herself in it, going home.”

Not another word passed between us, except that, as I remembered afterwards, just before they came up, he had said, “Good-bye,” hastily adding to it, “God bless you.”

Some people's words—people who usually express very little—rest in one's mind strangely. Why should he say “God bless you?” Why did he call me “child?”

I sent back his plaid by Colin next morning, with a message of thanks, and that “it had kept me very warm.” I wonder if I shall ever see Doctor Urquhart again?

And yet it is not the seeing one's friends, the having them within reach, the hearing of and from them, which makes them ours—many a one has all that, and yet has nothing. It is the believing in them, the depending on them; assured that they are true and good to the core, and therefore could not but be good and true towards everybody else —ourselves included. Ay, whether we deserve it or not. It is not our deserts which are in question, but their goodness, which, once settled, the rest follows as a matter of course. They would be untrue to themselves if they were insincere or untrue to us. I have half-a-dozen friends, living within half-a-dozen miles, whom I feel further off from than I should from Doctor Urquhart if he lived at the Antipodes.

He never uses words lightly. He never would have said “God bless you!” if he had not specially wished God to bless me—poor me! a foolish, ignorant, thoughtless child.

Only a child—not a bit better nor wiser than a child: full of all binds of childish naughtinesses, angers, petulances, doubts—oh, if I knew he was at this minute sitting in our parlour, and I could run down and sit beside him, tell him all the hard things I have been thinking of him of late, and beg his pardon; asking him to be a faithful friend to me, and help me to grow into a better woman than I am ever likely to become—what an unutterable comfort it would be!

A word or two more about my pleasant morning at the Cedars, and then I must close my desk and see that the study-fire is all right—papa likes a good fire when he comes home.

There they are! what a loud ring! it made me jump from my chair. This must be finished to-morrow, when——