Chapter XVIII

I VISIT THE OLD HOUSE AT WEYLEA,
BUT MISS THE WONTED WELCOME.

IS there a sadder sight in this world of mingling light and shadow than to see a young life, full of splendid promise, cut off in its unfolding by the stroke of death?

What a fruitless end it seems to make to the toils and triumphs of that brief life, to all the hopes that shone about it.

I felt this keenly in the first dark hours of my bereavement, as I dwelt on the memories of my brother's life, the rare abilities he had early displayed, my father's pride and pleasure in his clever son, the hopes that had been built upon his future, a future he was never to know. My heart was wrung with pain to think that the hope and love and pride were thus frustrated.

I know not what I should have done in those dark, sad days but for Grace's supporting presence. She helped me more by her loving sympathy, so unobtrusive, yet so true, than by the few consolations she whispered. I could not yet rejoice in my brother's great, eternal gain. The selfish element in my love asserted itself powerfully. My heart cried out for my brother. I could not bear to think that he had vanished from me utterly, that I must travel the rest of my life's journey without him, never more hearing the sound of the voice I loved, or clasping the hand which had been ever ready to help me since the days when my first tottering steps were made with its aid. And all this Grace understood perfectly.

We quitted Grindelwald, Grace, Ralph, and I, as soon as we had seen the mortal remains of my brother laid in the little churchyard. A fair, peaceful "God's Acre" it is, lying above the village in the midst of the green valley, and close beneath some the grandest of mountains.

I have visited it more than once since that time of sorrow, but, thank God, I have never really associated the thought of Edmund with that grave at Grindelwald. He was so bright and glad of spirit, such fulness of life and hope was his, that I could not connect him with the gloom of the grave. Even in my bitterest grief, I felt that death was for Edmund a new birth into a higher life, and that the form we laid in the earth was but the mere shell or husk which had enshrined the spirit I loved. There came a time, though not till after years had passed, when I could rejoice to believe that my brother was living a life rich in strength, in intelligence, in unutterable joy, a life infinitely grander, yet not so far removed from my own, since to each Christ was near.

But for a while, no light penetrated my gloom. A season of dark depression fell on me, in part the effect of physical causes, but wholly miserable and benumbing. For a few days, I was really ill at Interlaken, and I hoped that death would take me too, but Grace's skilful nursing soon brought me back to a measure of health, though I continued weak and nervous. How good and kind Grace and Ralph were to me in those days! He was especially thoughtful for my comfort, guiding and counselling me with a sort of tender authoritativeness, which I was too weak and stupid to resist, though it hurt me. The fancy crossed my mind that already he regarded me as belonging to him, and was only waiting till my bereavement was less recent to assert his claim.

It was Ralph who proposed that I should go to the South of France with Mrs. Dugdale, who suffered from asthma, and had been ordered to winter abroad. The idea was rather agreeable to me, and I consented willingly when I saw that by so doing I should liberate Grace, who would otherwise have felt obliged to accompany her mother, though she longed to return to Beechwood, where she felt that her presence was necessary to the right working during the winter of the various clubs, mothers' meetings, and other organisations that she had started in the village.

Grace thanked me for taking her place as gratefully as if the arrangement involved a sacrifice on my part. But in truth it was with somewhat of relief that I bade good-bye to her and Ralph in Paris, and started with Mrs. Dugdale on our journey south. The quiet time, the pause for reflection ere taking up again the active duties of life, seemed just what I needed.

Mrs. Dugdale was very kind to me, and the peaceful days we spent together beside the blue waters of the Mediterranean were soothing to my weary, sorrowing heart. It was from their mother that Grace and Ralph had inherited their temperamental cheerfulness. She appeared almost invariably bright and hopeful of spirit. She was a good talker, and I loved to listen to her reminiscences of bygone days, and the people she had known. Nor less did I love to hear her talk about her children, and tell stories of their early days.

Cheerful as she was, I knew that it was a trial to her to remain away so long from her home and her dear ones. She counted me as another daughter, she used to say, and if she had not had me with her, she could not have borne her exile.

Mrs. Dugdale had letters from home almost every day, and she imparted to me the news they brought. I used to listen rather eagerly as I grew stronger, and time softened the first poignancy of my grief, for by degrees old interests awakened, old cravings renewed themselves in my heart. But there was never any reference to persons whom I knew and cared about, and as Mrs. Lyell did not write to me for several weeks, I knew nothing of what affected her.

At last, one day in February, Mrs. Dugdale received a letter that pleased her very much. She clapped her hands with as real delight as if she had been a school-girl going home for the holidays as she said, "Joy! Joy! Dorothy. They all agree that I may go home. The worst part of the winter, the fogs and damps which are so bad for me, are past, and even the doctor thinks that I may venture with impunity. Now how soon can we start for home?"

I hastened to consult a book of timetables.

"Of course you will come with me to Beechwood?" Mrs. Dugdale added.

She said it with a quiet air of decision, as if no other arrangement were possible. My heart leapt within me at the thought, but I hesitated—I had meant to go to Mabel as soon as I arrived in England. Edmund's words had not been lost upon me. I would try to love Mabel freely and fully, without exacting and weighing the love she gave me in return. I felt that his memory must be a fresh bond to bind me to my sister. And I would no longer refuse to stay at The Towers. I would try to forgive Howard Steinthorpe, as Edmund had urged me.

"I should not have felt so bitterly towards him," my brother had said but a day or two before he had passed away. "If he wronged us, he injured himself more than he injured us. I used to think it well-nigh impossible, Dottie, to love one's enemy, but now I see that, beneath all that is hateful, there is still the brother, who has a right to our love, and only by loving can we conquer the evil. Love will teach us to judge him rightly, and keep us from being misled by mists of doubt and prejudice."

"Yes," he had added, with a serene, bright look I can never forget, "I thank God I can truly say that with all my heart, I forgive Howard Steinthorpe any wrong he has done me, any hardness and selfishness he has shown in his dealings with me."

Ah! How I treasured the memory of all that Edmund had said in those last precious hours! Every word had its weight with me now; every wish I desired to fulfil.

But there seemed no reason why I should not stay at least for a few days at Beechwood ere I went to Burford. Mrs. Dugdale, indeed, would not hear of my doing otherwise. She declared that Grace and Ralph would be grievously disappointed if she returned without me, so I yielded to her wish. I half-longed and half-dreaded to find myself once more in the neighbourhood of Weylea. Of course, I could not be so near without going to see Mrs. Lyell, and perhaps—my heart beat quickly at the thought—I should see Leonard Glynne. Did I wish to see him? I hardly knew.

February was not over when we arrived at Beechwood. We were in time for those few mild, bright days, giving brief foretaste of spring, which are the special endowment of this month.

Very warm was the welcome I received at Beechwood Hall. Ralph's looks and words betrayed a quiet intensity of delight of which I could not be unconscious. If his mother were not jealous of the attentions he bestowed on me, as though I, and not she, had been the loved invalid, compelled to winter abroad, she might well have been.

And was I not glad to see him? Yes, indeed. It was soothing to me in my sadness, for the sight of him brought my loss freshly to mind, to feel that he cared so much for me. He was dear to me because he had been such a true, warm friend to my brother. If only he were content to be my friend!

No later than the following afternoon, I set out to walk to Weylea. I was anxious to get to Mrs. Lyell's, for I had heard from Grace that she had been ill. An engagement in the village prevented Grace from accompanying me. I did not regret her absence, and I was not sorry that Ralph's duties—he was preparing for the Bar—had taken him to London this day, for still less did I desire his company. I was glad to be alone and free to muse as I would.

It was a pleasant day for such a walk. There was the softness of spring in the fresh, sweet air, and as I passed down the avenue I saw snowdrops lifting their delicate white and green blossoms above the brown moss and dank leaves as they grew in fairy circles about the silvery trunks of the beeches. All leafless were the trees which bordered the road, but the grey-green, lichen-covered trunks had a beauty of their own, and it was beautiful to look up and trace the delicate ramifications of the upper branches against a sky of pale blue. Golden crocuses were blooming on some of the graves in the churchyard. On Arthur West's grave lay a wreath wrought with pale primulas and maidenhair fern.

I was half-glad, half-tremulous as I took my way along the familiar road. When I approached Weylea, I was conscious of a nervousness that made my breath come short and fast, and my heart throb painfully. How unchanged everything was in that quiet country place! It was as if life had stood still here whilst so much had been happening with me.

Surely the goods which the little shops displayed were the very same that met my eye when last I looked in the windows. Familiar was the pattern of the print marked "very cheap," and the striped shirting pronounced "a bargain." There was the stout, red-faced proprietor of the Stag's Head lolling as usual at the door of his tavern. Ah! And there was Stubbs, Mrs. Lyell's decrepit old gardener, coming with feeble steps from the bar entrance, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. To the right, not a hundred yards from the road, stood the house in which Leonard Glynne lodged. But I would not glance in that direction. What was it to me whether he was here or there?

I reached the road in which Mrs. Lyell's house stood. As I approached it, I saw that the villa on the other side of the way looked deserted. The blinds were all lowered, the gate securely fastened. The Carsdales doubtless were from home.

I glanced eagerly at Mrs. Lyell's house as I pushed back the heavy iron gate. The place had a dreary, forsaken look. The trees were bare; there were no flowers to be seen, save a few crocuses and snowdrops in the border beside the door; a green, slimy growth covered the surface of the pond, and the house stood apparently lifeless, the shutters of the sitting-room windows closed, the blinds of the casements above closely drawn. My heart sank low within me as I noted these signs, and asked myself what they could betoken. But I saw one thing that somewhat reassured me as I walked along the path to the door, the mark of a horse's hoofs on the soft gravel.

I rang the bell, half-wondering if there were anyone within to obey the summons. The peal seemed to clang drearily through the empty house, but presently I heard the sound of steps, and the door was opened to me by Sarah. She wore her bonnet and cloak. My appearance seemed to cause her great surprise.

"Why, it's never you, Miss Carmichael!" she exclaimed. "Dear me! We thought you were in foreign parts."

"I came back yesterday," I said, hurriedly. "Do tell me how Mrs. Lyell is. It quite frightens me to find the house shut up thus."

"Oh, you need not be alarmed, miss. My mistress is better, though she has been sadly. She has gone this morning to Hastings with Mrs. Carsdale and her daughter. They persuaded her that the change would do her good, and I trust it will. I am going down by an evening train. I stayed for a few hours to help cook, because there were so many things to put away and arrange. Clara has gone for a holiday."

"Dear me," I said, feeling bewildered; "how strange it is to come here and find Mrs. Lyell gone. I can hardly believe it."

"Yes, miss, it does seem strange; Mrs. Lyell so seldom leaves home. It is hard work to persuade her, but Miss Carsdale succeeded. Such a nice young lady, Miss Carsdale is. You did not know her, I think, miss. So kind she has been to my mistress, coming in almost every day to see her; and really, I believe that she would do anything for Mrs. Lyell."

"How long will Mrs. Lyell be at Hastings?" I inquired, rather breathlessly.

"Oh, a month, I believe, miss. Mr. Glynne is going down on Saturday. But pray come in, miss; you look so tired."

In truth, I felt quite faint. The pleasurable excitement with which I had hastened to Weylea had received an unexpected and painful check.

"I am sorry I can't ask you into the parlours, Miss Carmichael," said Sarah, as I stepped into the hall, "but we have done up the windows with brown paper, and locked the doors. If you would not mind coming into our room."

It was all the same to me where I went, so I followed Sarah to the little sitting-room which adjoined the kitchen.

"Cook will be happy to make you a cup of tea, miss, if you would like it," said Sarah in her smooth tones.

But I declined the tea; I had no wish to make my visit any longer than it need be.

"Are you staying in London, miss, if I may make so held as to ask?" Sarah inquired.

"No, I am staying for a few days at Beechwood," I replied.

"Oh, indeed, miss; at Mr. Dugdale's, I suppose? I remember that you went there the summer you were here. Ah, and I remember that Mr. Dugdale came here once or twice. Such a nice-spoken gentleman I thought him, and my mistress liked him very much."

Why should I colour when Sarah said this in her quiet, insinuating manner? There was no reason for it, but colour I did, and I saw that Sarah marked my change of hue. I grew uneasy as I felt her narrow, cunning eyes studying me.

"Ah, a great deal has happened since that summer, miss," she went on. "You've known sad trouble since then, and your looks show it. To think that your poor brother should be taken so quickly! And so bright and merry as he seemed, though there was always a consumptive look, to my eyes. You must take care of yourself, now, miss; you look far from strong."

To have Sarah thus commenting on my trials and my appearance was more than I could bear. I rose hastily, and said that I must be going, as I had a long walk before me.

"Had you not better rest a little longer?" suggested Sarah. "You are not keeping me, you know, miss; there is plenty of time before the train starts. Shall I take any message from you to my mistress? She will be very sorry to have missed you."

"Oh, yes; pray give Mrs. Lyell my best love, and say what a disappointment it was to me not to find her at home. I shall hope to see her when next I come to London, though when that will be I cannot tell. I go to my sister's at Burford early in next week."

"Very well, miss; I will be sure to tell my mistress all that you have said," replied Sarah, demurely. Then she added, looking up in my face with a peculiar smile, "I suppose you have heard of the engagement?"

"No; what—what engagement?" I faltered.

"Miss Carsdale's, miss. She is engaged to be married to Mr. Glynne."

I felt myself turn white as I heard it. I had expected to hear this sooner or later, yet what a painful shock the news gave me. For a few moments I had a stunned, stupefied sensation, then I became aware that Sarah was watching me with a sort of suppressed smile. I divined that she had a malicious satisfaction in detecting my suffering.

That roused me. I pulled myself together, and said with forced gaiety, "Indeed! I am glad to hear it. I hope they will be very happy."

"Mr. Leonard is very pleased, and so is my mistress," said Sarah, with an unpleasant smile. "Well, miss, I suppose we shall hear one of these days that you are thinking of getting married?"

"Oh, I don't know about that," I responded, carelessly, laughing, as I seemed to me, quite merrily and naturally. Then, waiting to hear no more, I bade Sarah good-afternoon, and hastened away from the house.

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