Chapter 4.
The fly was already at the door, and Miss Williams, with her smallluggage, would in five minutes have departed, followed by the good wishesof all the household, from Miss Maclachlan's school to her new situation,when the postman passed and left a letter for her.
"I will put it in my pocket and read it in the train," she said, with aslight change of color. For she recognized the handwriting of that goodman who had loved her, and whom she could not love.
"Better read it now. No time like the present," observed MissMaclachlan.
Miss Williams did so. As soon as she was fairly started and alone in thefly, she opened it, with hands slightly trembling, for she was touched bythe persistence of the good rector, and his faithfulness to her, a poorgoverness, when he might have married, as they said in his neighborhood,"anybody." He would never marry any body now--he was dying.
"I have come to feel how wrong I was," he wrote, "in ever trying tochange our happy relations together. I have suffered for this--so havewe all. But it is now too late for regret. My time has come. Do notgrieve yourself by imagining it has come the faster through any decisionof yours, but by slow, inevitable disease, which the doctors have onlylately discovered. Nothing could have saved me. Be satisfied that thereis no cause for you to give yourself one moment's pain." (How she sobbedover those shaky lines, more even than over the newspaper lines which shehad read that sun-shiny morning on the shore!) "Remember only that youmade me very happy--me and all mine--for years; that I loved you, as evenat my age a man can love; as I shall love you to the end, which can notbe very far off now. Would you dislike coming to see me just once again?My girls will so very glad, and nobody knows any thing. Besides, whatmatter? I am dying. Come, if you can within a week or so; they tell meI may last thus long. And I want to consult with you about my children.Therefore I will not say good-by now, only good-night, and God blessyou."
But it was good-by, after all. Though she did not wait the week; indeed,she waited for nothing, considered nothing, except her gratitude to thisgood man--the only man who had loved her--and her affection for the twogirls, who would soon be fatherless; though she sent a telegram fromBrighton to say she was coming, and arrived within twenty-four hours,still--she came too late.
When she reached the village she heard that his sufferings were all over;and a few yards from his garden wall, in the shade of the church-yardlime-tree, the old sexton was busy re-opening, after fourteen years, thefamily grave, where he was to be laid beside his wife the day afterto-morrow. His two daughters, sitting alone together in the melancholyhouse, heard Miss Williams enter, and ran to meet her. With a feeling ofnearness and tenderness such as she had scarcely ever felt for any humanbeing, she clasped them close, and let them weep their hearts out in hermotherly arms.
Thus the current of her whole life was changed; for when Mr. Moseley'swill was opened, it was found that, besides leaving Miss Williams ahandsome legacy, carefully explained as being given "in gratitude for hercare of his children," he had chosen her as their guardian, until theycame of age or married, entreating her to reside with them, and desiringthem to pay her all the respect due to "a near and dear relative." Thetenderness with which he had arranged every thing, down to the minutestpoints, for them and herself, even amidst all his bodily sufferings, andin face of the supreme hour--which he had met, his daughters said, with amarvelous calmness, even joy--touched Fortune as perhaps nothing had evertouched her in all her life before. When she stood with her two poororphans beside their father's grave, and returned with them to thedesolate house, vowing within herself to be too them, all but in name,the mother he had wished her to be, this sense of duty--the strange newduty which had suddenly come to fill her empty life--was so strong, thatshe forgot every thing else--even Robert Roy.
And for months afterward--months of anxious business, involving theleaving of the Rectory, and the taking of a temporary house in thevillage, until they could decide where finally to settle--Miss Williamshad scarcely a moment or a thought to spare for any beyond the vividpresent. Past and future faded away together, except so far as concernedher girls.
"Whatsoever thy hand findeth to do, do it with thy might," were wordswhich had helped her through many a dark time. Now, with all her might,she did her motherly duty to the orphan girls; and as she did so,by-and-by she began strangely to enjoy it, and to find also not a littleof motherly pride and pleasure in them. She had not time to think ofherself at all, or of the great blow which had fallen, the great changewhich had come, rendering it impossible for her to let herself feel asshe had used to feel, dream as she used to dream, for years and yearspast. That one pathetic line
"I darena think o' Jamie, for that wad be a sin," burned itself intoher heart, and needed nothing more.
"My children! I must only love my children now," was her continualthought, and she believed she did so.
It was not until spring came, healing the girls' grief as naturally as itcovered their father's grave with violets and primroses, and making themcling a little less to home and her, a little more to the returningpleasures of their youth, for they were two pretty girls, well-born, withtolerable fortunes, and likely to be much sought after--not until thespring days left her much alone, did Fortune's mind recur to an ideawhich had struck her once, and then been set aside--to write to RobertRoy. Why should she not? Just a few friendly lines, telling him how,after long years, she had seen his name in the papers; how sorry she was,and yet glad--glad to think he was alive and well, and married; how shesent all kindly wishes to his wife and himself, and so on. In short thesort of letter that any body might write or receive, whatever had beenthe previous link between them. And she wrote it on an April day, one ofthose first days of spring which make young hearts throb with a vaguedelight, a nameless hope; and older ones--but is there any age when hopeis quite dead? I think not, even to those who know that the only springthat will ever come to them will dawn in the world everlasting.
When her girls, entering, offered to post her letter, and Miss Williamsanswered gently that she would rather post it herself, as it required aforeign stamp, how little they guessed all that lay underneath, and how,over the first few lines, her hand had shaken so that she had to copy itthree times. But the address, "Robert Roy, Shanghai"--all she could put,but she had little doubt it would find him--was written with that firm,clear hand which he had so often admired, saying he wished she couldteach his boys to write as well. Would he recognize it? Would he beglad or sorry, or only indifferent? Had the world changed him? or, ifshe could look at him now, would he be the same Robert Roy--simple, true,sincere, and brave--every inch a man and a gentleman?
For the instant the old misery came back; the sharp, sharp pain; butshe smothered it down. His dead child, his living, unknown wife, camebetween, with their soft ghostly hands. He was still himself; shehoped absolutely unchanged; but he was hers no more. Yet that strangeyearning, the same which had impelled Mr. Moseley to write and say, "Comeand see me before I die," seemed impelling her to stretch a hand outacross the seas--"Have you forgotten me: I have never forgotten you."As she passed through the church-yard on her way to the village, and sawthe rector's grave lie smiling in the evening sunshine, Fortune thoughtwhat a strange lot hers had been. The man who had loved her, the manwhom she had loved, were equally lost to her; equally dead and buried.And yet she lived still--her busy, active, and not unhappy life. It wasGod's will, all; and it was best.
Another six months went by, and she still remained in the same place,though talking daily of leaving. They began to go into society again,she and her girls, and to receive visitors now and then: among the rest,David Dalziel, who had preserved his affectionate fidelity even when hewent back to college, and had begun to discover somehow that the directroad from Oxford to every where was through this secluded village. I amafraid Miss Williams was not as alive as she ought to have been to thisfact, and to the other fact that Helen and Janetta were not quitechildren now, but she l
et the young people be happy, and was happy withthem, after her fashion. Still, hers was less happiness than peace; thedeep peace which a storm-tossed vessel finds when kindly fate has towedit into harbor; with torn sails and broken masts, maybe, but still safe,never needing to go to sea any more.
She had come to that point in life when we cease to be "afraid of eviltidings," since nothing is likely to happen to us beyond what hashappened. She told herself that she did not look forward to the answerfrom Shanghai, if indeed any came; nevertheless, she had ascertained whattime the return mail would be likely to bring it. And, almost punctualto the day, a letter arrived with the postmark, "Shanghai." Not hisletter, nor his handwriting at all. And, besides, it was addressed to"_Mrs._ Williams."
A shudder of fear, the only fear which could strike her now--that hemight be dead--made Fortune stand irresolute a moment, then go up to herown room before she opened it.
"Madam,--I beg to apologize for having read nearly through your letterbefore comprehending that it was not meant for me, but probably foranother Mr. Robert Roy, who left this place not long after I came here,and between whom and myself some confusion arose, till we becameintimate, and discovered that we were most likely distant, very distantcousins. He came from St. Andrews, and was head clerk in a firm here,doing a very good business in tea and silk, until they mixed themselvesup in the opium trade, which Mr. Roy, with one or two more of ourcommunity here, thought so objectionable that at last he threw up hissituation and determined to seek his fortunes in Australia. It was apity, for he was in a good way to get on rapidly, but everybody who knewhim agreed it was just the sort of thing he was sure to do, and somerespected him highly for doing it. He was indeed what we Scotch call'weel respeckit' wherever he went. But he was a reserved man; made fewintimate friends, though those he did make were warmly attached to him.My family were; and though it is now five years since we have heardanything of or from him, we remember him still."
Five years! The letter dropped from her hands. Lost and found, yetfound and lost. What might not have happened to him in five years? Butshe read on, dry-eyed: women do not weep very much or very easily at herage.
"I will do my utmost, madam, that your letter shall reach the hands forwhich I am sure it was intended; but that may take some time, my onlyclue to Mr. Roy's whereabouts being the branch house at Melbourne. I cannot think he is dead, because such tidings pass rapidly from one toanother in our colonial communities, and he was too much beloved for hisdeath to excite no concern.
"I make this long explanation because it strikes me you may be a lady, afriend or relative of Mr. Roy's, concerning whom he employed me to makesome inquiries, only you say so very little--absolutely nothing--ofyourself in your letter, that I can not be at all certain if you are thesame person. She was a governess in a family named Dalziel, living atSt. Andrews. He said he had written to that family repeatedly, but gotno answer, and then asked me, if any thing resulted from my inquiries, towrite to him to the care of our Melbourne house. But no news ever came,and I never wrote to him, for which my wife still blames me exceedingly.She thanks you, dear madam, for the kind things you say about our poorchild, though meant for another person. We have seven boys, but littleBell was our youngest, and our hearts' delight. She died after sixhours' illness.
"Again begging you to pardon my unconscious offense in reading astranger's letter, and the length of this one, I remain your veryobedient servant, R. Roy
"P.S.--I ought to say that this Mr. Robert Roy seemed between thirty-fiveand forty, tall, dark-haired, walked with a slight stoop. He had, Ibelieve, no near relatives whatever, and I never heard of his having beenmarried."
Unquestionably Miss Williams did well in retiring to her chamber andlocking the door before she opened the letter. It is a mistake tosuppose that at thirty-five or forty--or what age?--women cease to feel.I once was walking with an old maiden lady, talking of a character in abook. "He reminded me," she said, "of the very best man I ever knew, whomI saw a good deal of when I was a girl." And to the natural question,was he alive, she answered, "No; he died while he was still young." Hervoice kept its ordinary tone, but there came a slight flush on the cheek,a sudden quiver over the whole withered face--she was some years pastseventy--and I felt I could not say another word.
Nor shall I say a word now of Fortune Williams, when she had read throughand wholly taken in the contents of this letter.
Life began for her again--life on a new and yet on the old basis; for itwas still waiting, waiting--she seemed to be among those whose lot it isto "stand and wait" all their days. But it was not now in the absolutedarkness and silence which it used to be. She knew that in all humanprobability Robert Roy was alive still some where, and hope never couldwholly die out of the world so long as he was in it. His career, too, ifnot prosperous in worldly things, had been one to make any heart thatloved him content--content and proud. For if he had failed in hisfortunes, was it not from doing what she would most have wished him todo--the right, at all costs? Nor had he quite forgotten her, since evenso late as five years back he had been making inquiries about her. Also,he was then unmarried.
But human nature is weak, and human hearts are so hungry sometimes.
"Oh, if he had only loved me, and told me so!" she said, sometimes, aspiteously as fifteen years ago. But the tears which followed were not,as then, a storm of passionate despair--only a quiet sorrowful rain.
For what could she do? Nothing. Now as ever, her part seemed just tofold her hands and endure. If alive, he might be found some day; but nowshe could not find him--oh, if she could! Had she been the man and hethe woman--nay, had she been still herself, a poor lonely governess,having to earn every crumb of her own bitter bread, yet knowing that heloved her, might not things have been different? Had she belonged tohim, they would never have lost one another. She would have sought him,as Evangeline sought Gabriel, half the world over.
And little did her two girls imagine, as they called her down stairs thatnight, secretly wondering what important business could make "Auntie"keep tea waiting fully five minutes, and set her after tea to read some"pretty poetry," especially Longfellow's, which they had a fancyfor--little did they think, those two happy creatures, listening to theirmiddle-aged governess, who read so well that sometimes her voice actuallyfaltered over the line, how there was being transacted under their veryeyes a story which in its "constant anguish of patience" was scarcelyless pathetic than that of Acadia.
For nearly a year after that letter came the little family of which MissWilliams was the head went on in its innocent quiet way, always planning,yet never making a change, until at last fate drove them to it.
Neither Helen nor Janetta were very healthy girls, and at last a Londondoctor gave as his absolute fiat that they must cease to live in theirwarm inland village, and migrate, for some years at any rate, to abracing sea-side place.
Whereupon David Dalziel, who had somehow established himself as the onemasculine adviser of the family, suggested St. Andrews. Bracing enoughit was, at any rate: he remembered the winds used almost cut his noseoff. And it was such a nice place too, so pretty, with such excellentsociety. He was sure the young ladies would find it delightful. DidMiss Williams remember the walk by the shore, and the golfing across theLinks?
"Quite as well as you could have done, at the early age of seven," shesuggested, smiling. "Why are you so very anxious we should go to live atSt. Andrews?"
The young fellow blushed all over his kindly eager face, and then franklyowned he had a motive. His grandmother's cottage, which she had lefthim, the youngest and her pet always, was now unlet. He meant, perhaps,to go and live at it himself when--he was of age and could afford it; butin the mean time he was a poor solitary bachelor, and--and--
"And you would like me to keep your nest warm for you till you can claimit? You want us for your tenants, eh, Davie?"
"Just that. You've hit it. Couldn't wish better. In fact, I havealready written to
my trustees to drive the hardest bargain possible."
Which was an ingenious modification of the truth, as she afterward found;but evidently the lad had set his heart upon the thing. And she?
At first she shrank back from the plan with a shiver almost of fear. Itwas like having to meet face to face something--some one--long dead. Towalk among the old familiar places, to see the old familiar sea andshore, nay, to live in the very same house, haunted, as houses aresometimes, every room and every nook, with ghosts--yet with such innocentghosts--Could she bear it?
There are some people who have an actual terror of the past--who themoment a thing ceases to be pleasurable fly from it, would willingly buryit out of sight forever. But others have no fear of their harmlessdead--dead hopes, memories, loves--can sit by a grave-side, or lookbehind them at a dim spectral shape, without grief, without dread, onlywith tenderness. This woman could.
After a long wakeful night, spent in very serious thought for every one'sgood, not excluding her own--since there is a certain point beyond whichone has no right to forget one's self, and perpetual martyrs rarely makevery pleasant heads of families--she said to her girls next morning thatshe thought David Dalziel's brilliant idea had a great deal of sense init; St. Andrews was a very nice place, and the cottage there wouldexactly suit their finances, while the tenure upon which he proposed theyshould hold it (from term to term) would also fit in with their undecidedfuture; because, as all knew, wherever Helen or Janetta married, eachwould take her fortune and go, leaving Miss Williams with her littlelegacy, above want certainly, but not exactly a millionaire.
These and other points she set before them in her practical fashion, justas if her heart did not leap--sometimes with pleasure, sometimes withpain--at the very thought of St. Andrews, and as if to see herself sitdaily and hourly face to face with her old self, the ghost of her ownyouth, would be a quite easy thing.
The girls were delighted. They left all to Auntie, as was their habit todo. Burdens naturally fall upon the shoulders fitted for them, and whichseem even to have a faculty for drawing them down there. Miss Williams'snew duties had developed in her a whole range of new qualities, dormantduring her governess life. Nobody knew better than she how to manage ahouse and guide a family. The girls soon felt that Auntie might havebeen a mother all her days, she was so thoroughly motherly and they gaveup every thing into her hands.
So the whole matter was settled, David rejoicing exceedingly, andconsidering it "jolly fun," and quite like a bit out of a play, that hisformer governess should come back as his tenant, and inhabit the oldfamiliar cottage.
"And I'll take a run over to see you as soon as the long vacation begins,just to teach the young ladies golfing. Mr. Roy taught all us boys, youknow; and we'll take that very walk he used to take us, across the Linksand along the sands to the Eden. Wasn't it the river Eden, MissWilliams? I am sure I remember it. I think I am very good atremembering."
Other people were also "good at remembering." During the first fewweeks after they settled down at St. Andrews the girls noticed thatAuntie became excessively pale, and was sometimes quite "distrait" andbewildered-looking, which was little wonder, considering all she had todo and arrange. But she got better in time. The cottage was so sweet,the sea so fresh, the whole place so charming. Slowly, Miss Williams'sordinary looks returned--the "good" looks which her girls soenergetically protested she had now, if never before. They never allowedher to confess herself old by caps or shawls, or any of those prettytemporary hindrances to the march of Time. She resisted not; she letthem dress her as they please, in a reasonable way, for she felt theyloved her; and as to her age, why, _she_ knew it, and knew that nothingcould alter it, so what did it matter? She smiled, and tried to look asnice and as young as she could for her girls' sake.
I suppose there are such things as broken or breaking hearts, even at St.Andrews, but it is certainly not a likely place for them. They havelittle chance against the fresh, exhilarating air, strong as new wine;the wild sea waves, the soothing sands, giving with health of bodywholesomeness of mind. By-and-by the busy world recovered its old faceto Fortune Williams--not the world as she once dreamed of it, but thereal world, as she had fought it through it all these years.
"I was ever a fighter, so one fight more!" as she read sometimes in the"pretty" poetry her girls were always asking for--read steadily, evenwhen she came to the last verse in that passionate "Prospice:"
"Till, sudden, the worst turns the best to the brave, The black minute's at end: And the elements rage, the fiend voices that rave Shall dwindle, shall blend, Shall change, shall become first a peace, then a joy, Then a light--then thy breast, O thou soul of my soul! I shall clasp thee again, And with God be the rest!"
To that life to come, during all the burden and heat of the day (no, theafternoon, a time, faded, yet hot and busy still, which is often a verytrying bit of woman's life) she now began yearningly to look. To meethim again, even in old age, or with death between, was her only desire.Yet she did her duty still, and enjoyed all she could, knowing that oneby one the years were hurrying onward, and the night coming, "in which noman can work."
Faithful to his promise, about the middle of July David Dalziel appeared,in overflowing spirits, having done very well at college. He was such aboy still, in character and behavior; though--as he carefully informedthe family--now twenty-one and a man, expecting to be treated as such.He was their landlord too, and drew up the agreement in his own name,meaning to be a lawyer, and having enough to live on--something betterthan bread and salt--"till I can earn a fortune, as I certainly mean todo some day."
And he looked at Janetta, who looked down on the parlor carpet--as youngpeople will. Alas! I fear that the eyes of her anxious friend andgoverness were not half wide enough open to the fact that these youngfolk were no longer boy and girls, and that things might happen--in fact,were almost certain to happen--which had happened to herself in heryouth--making life not quite easy to her, as it seemed to be to these twobright girls.
Yet they were so bright, and their relations with David Dalziel were sofrank and free--in fact, the young fellow himself was such a thoroughlygood fellow, so very difficult to shut her door against, even if she hadthought of so doing. But she did not. She let him come and go,"miserable bachelor" as he proclaimed himself, with all his kith and kinacross the seas, and cast not a thought to the future, or to the sadnecessity which sometimes occurs to parents and guardians--of shuttingthe stable door _after_ the steed is stolen.
Especially, as not long after David appeared, there happened a certainthing to all but her, and yet to her it was, for the time being, utterlyoverwhelming. It absorbed all her thoughts into one maddened channel,where they writhed and raved and dashed themselves blindly againstinevitable fate. For the first time in her life this patient woman feltas if endurance were _not_ the right thing; as if wild shrieks of pain,bitter outcries against Providence, would be somehow easier, better:might reach His throne, so that even now He might listen and hear.
The thing was this. One day, waiting for some one beside the laurel bushat her gate--the old familiar bush, though it had grown and grown tillits branches, which used to drag on the gravel, now covered the pathentirely--she overheard David explaining to Janetta how he and hisbrothers and Mr. Roy had made the wooden letter-box, which actuallyexisted still, though in very ruinous condition.
"And no wonder, after fifteen years and more. It is fully that old,isn't it Miss Williams? You will have to superannuate it shortly, andreturn to the old original letter-box--my letter-box, which I remember sowell. I do believe I could find it still."
Kneeling down, he thrust his hand through the thick barricade of leavesinto the very heart of the tree.
"I've found it; I declare I've found it; the identical hole in the trunkwhere I used to put all my treasures--my 'magpie's nest,' as they calledit, where I hid every thing I could find. What a mischievous young
scampI was!"
"Very," said Miss Williams, affectionately, laying a gentle hand on hiscurls--"pretty" still, though cropped down to the frightful modernfashion. Secretly she was rather proud of him, this tall young fellow,whom she had had on her lap many a time.
"Curious! It all comes back to me--even to the very last thing I hidhere, the day before we left, which was a letter."
"A letter!"--Miss Williams slightly started--"what letter?"
"One I found lying under the laurel bush, quite hidden by its leaves. Itwas all soaked with rain. I dried it in the sun, and then put it in myletter-box, telling nobody, for I meant to deliver it myself at the halldoor with a loud ring--an English postman's ring. Our Scotch one used toblow his horn, you remember?"
"Yes," said Miss Williams. She was leaning against the fatal bush, paleto the very lips, but her veil was down--nobody saw. "What sort of aletter was it, David? Who was it to? Did you notice the handwriting?"
"Why, I was such a little fellow," and he looked up in wonder andslight concern, "how could I remember? Some letter that somebody haddropped, perhaps, in taking the rest out of the box. It could notmatter--certainly not now. You would not bring my youthful misdeeds upagainst me, would you?" And he turned up a half-comical, half-pitifulface.
Fortune's first impulse--what was it? She hardly knew. But her secondwas that safest, easiest thing--now grown into the habit and refuge ofher whole life--silence. "No, it certainly does not matter now."
A deadly sickness came over her. What if this letter were Robert Roy's,asking her that question which he said no man ought ever to ask a womantwice? And she had never seen it--never answered it. So, of course, hewent away. Her whole life--nay, two whole lives--had been destroyed, andby a mere accident, the aimless mischief of a child's innocent hand. Shecould never prove it, but it might have been so. And, alas! alas! God,the merciful God, had allowed it to be so.
Which is the worst, to wake up suddenly and find that our life has beenwrecked by our own folly, mistake, or sin, or that it has been done forus either directly by the hand of Providence, or indirectly through someinnocent--nay, possibly not innocent, but intentional--hand? In bothcases the agony is equally sharp--the sharper because irremediable.
All these thoughts, vivid as lightning, and as rapid, darted through poorFortune's brain during the few moments that she stood with her hand onDavid's shoulder, while he drew from his magpie's nest a heterogeneousmass of rubbish--pebbles, snail shells, bits of glass and china,fragments even of broken toys.
"Just look there. What ghosts of my childhood, as people would say! Deadand buried, though." And he laughed merrily--he in the full tide andglory of his youth.
Fortune Williams looked down on his happy face. This lad that reallyloved her would not have hurt her for the world, and her determinationwas made. He should never know any thing. Nobody should ever know anything. The "dead and buried" of fifteen years ago must be dead andburied forever.
"David," she said, "just out of curiosity, put your hand down to the verybottom of that hole, and see if you can fish up the mysterious letter."
Then she waited, just as one would wait at the edge of some long-closedgrave to see if the dead could possibly be claimed as our dead, even ifbut a handful of unhonored bones.
No, it was not possible. Nobody could expect it after such a lapse oftime. Something David pulled out--it might be paper, it might be rags.It was too dry to be moss or earth, but no one could have recognized itas a letter.
"Give it me," said Miss Williams, holding out her hand.
David put the little heap of "rubbish" therein. She regarded it amoment, and then scattered it on the gravel--"dust to dust," as we say inour funeral service. But she said nothing.
At the moment the young people they were waiting for came, to the otherside of the gate, clubs in hand. David and the two Miss Moseleys had bythis time become perfectly mad for golf, as is the fashion of the place.The proceeded across the Links, Miss Williams accompanying them, as induty bound. But she said she was "rather tired," and leaving them incharge of another chaperon--if chaperons are ever wanted or needed inthose merry Links of St. Andrews--came home alone.