Chapter XX A Farewell to the Reader [1851]
‘ ALL the characters in this book, like Godfrey, retain their distinctive peculiarities. None are dead but Eleanor; and nearly all, when they think of her, think themselves better than Eleanor; and better than others who have different faults or misfortunes.
‘ Duly does Godfrey go twice to church on Sundays: devout is his conviction that he is a good man: entire and unbroken is the respect for him which his neighbours entertain, and the love for him which his timid wife preserves. All the children accompany their father to church; down to the last little one that can read. Severely does he punish any little curly head that looks up, or yawns, during the long incomprehensible service. Awful, in his family, is the idea of “offending papa;” more dreadful than the fact of doing wrong; which puzzles simple Emma – for she feels, much as she reveres Godfrey, that the fear of Heaven should somehow predominate in the children’s hearts. ‘
Tib also goes to church very regularly. Even when she has a bad cold in her head, (and Tib is very subject to snuffling colds) she orders out her carriage; and is trotted gently to the church door; and goes rustling into her pew lined with crimson cloth, and furnished with crimson cloth hassocks; and looks round triumphantly at the rest of the congregation. Even bad weather does not stop Tib. The only difference is, that she has the bays out, instead of those handsome restive greys that require such skill in driving; for she don’t care so much about the bays taking cold: and the coachman encourages it, for when the bays go out, and it is a wet Sunday, he makes the second coachman drive. So they come out all sleek, and covered, and shining, with oil-silk coverings over the hammer-cloth and the servants’ hats, and take gorgeous Tib to church. Especially in the country; for Tib says, people ought never to miss church, “because of setting a good example to the poor.”
And certainly if Tib’s example be of any use, it is impossible the poor can be otherwise than impressed by it; for they all stand gaping in the road, as the great glittering gaud goes by which they know is the tout-ensemble of the Countess of Peebles going to divine service. And when the women put down their pattens at the church-door, and give a glance at their gowns, – hoping they have held them tidily up, all the wet way that they have trudged to answer in person the sound of the Sunday bells, – they are perfectly well aware that Tib’s example is gone in before them; and hardly refrain from curtseying, as they pass the crimson-lined pew, so great is their respect for Tib.
And Tib thinks of Eleanor with a mixture of spite and contempt; and has no very clear idea of what happened to her latterly, but knows she is dead.
And one of Tib’s lions, – a poet-lion, (for they are not so worldly-wise as the other lions, and not near so wise as the tigers) is foolish enough to ask Tib after young Lady Penrhyn; of whom he is reminded, he himself scarcely knows how, by the scent of heliotrope and geranium, and the want of a lovely face to rest his eyes on, in the weary crowd at one of Tib’s parties.
And Tib feels as though she ought to blush, at being asked after an unhappy creature who was separated from her husband, and died in retirement; but Tib cannot blush; so she rubs the end of her nose with the tight white glove which covers the fat hand the Duchess used to worry; and she answers sharply, that she knows very little more than that Lady Penrhyn is dead; and that “of course,” after she left Sir Stephen, she, Tib, saw no more of her. And then she rustles away from him; half because she is offended and confounded at being asked after Eleanor, and half because she sees the young Duke of Cambridge coming in at the door. And the poet-lion is disgusted with Tib; and in his heart he calls her hard names; and he thinks what a lovely face Eleanor’s was; and what sweet eyes she had – eyes made for smiling, which yet must have wept so much. And he don’t believe a word of Eleanor’s being a wicked woman; for he trusts in expression, like all poets; and at last Eleanor seems to rise like a vision before him; (poets being able to raise visions as the witch raised Saul), and he mutters something to himself about “haunting eyes,” – and “a cruel world,” – in the midst of which, gorgeous Tib rustles back; and seeing him look gloomy and fearing he may be displeased, and withdraw his leonine presence from her future parties, she stops and asks him to dinner for the next Thursday; and the poet smiles, and accepts, and comes to dinner; and gets green peas, though they are not yet in season; and sends Tib some very pretty verses “On Spring,” – and forgets all about Eleanor.
And I can assure the anxious reader, that Tib continues a career of uninterrupted prosperity, and fortune cherishes Tib, and helps her to climb on, in the world she has climbed into; and teaches her to “improve the shining hour,” by perpetually cutting old acquaintances, smothering old friendships, and forcing herself on new introductions. And the little Dagon is taken such care of, that he promises to be nearly immortal. Still does he come out, like hermetically-sealed provisions for a yacht voyage, unexpectedly fresh and brilliant; his neat little head with powder scattered over it, like the bloom of the plum. Still – though he no longer dances – there is a shuffle in his feet, and a snap of his fingers, as he sits in his chair watching reels being danced at the royal balls; (for Tib goes to all the royal balls, and her motto is, “Who but Tib!”) And the Dagon dare no more interfere with the Dagoness and her preferences, or question her conduct, than he would dare walk about in a hail-storm; so when she does not want him, at home or abroad, she sends him to bed. And he loves his Tib; and is proud to see her come sailing towards him, to order him to bed; arrayed in satins and diamonds; and he is a happy, though rather a cowardly little Dagon, and never thinks of Eleanor, or of the day when he was put en pnitence at Castle Penrhyn.
And Lady Macfarren also goes to church; and says her fierce prayers, that resemble the service in Ember week, of God’s commination against sinners; and she glares angrily during her brief rare visits at the Castle, at Bridget Owen; for Bridget Owen is now Lady Penrhyn; and her son is legitimatised under the Scotch law; and is heir to the Welsh property – and the Scotch property – and the little churchyard at Carrick, which holds the grave of Frederic and Clephane!
And Sir Stephen has quite forgotten all about Eleanor; if she is dead, why so are a great many other women he knew long ago; and though she was very beautiful, she was not fond of him, and his marriage did not answer, and he’d much rather be as he is now, if the neighbours and Janet would be kinder to Bridget.
And Bridget and Lady Macfarren have fierce fights; and Bridget won’t go to Glencarrick, but lets Sir Stephen go there alone, in the shooting-season; and handsome Owen is as insolent as possible to his wrathful aunt: and goes to Glencarrick as a favour; and says he “does it for company for his father; and don’t care if he never saw the Ogress again,” – and by the Ogress he means his Aunt Janet; who cannot prevent his calling her an ogress; or his being heir to her brother; though it drives her wild to think of it.
But Tib – being wiser in her generation than the Ogress – makes friends with Bridget; for she knows that her yacht provisions cannot last for ever, and that some day her Airle will be dead, and Sir Stephen be Earl of Peebles, and Bridget his Countess, and she only Dowager-Queen of old maids. So she coaxes Bridget, and they drive together in the summer in Hyde Park, in a beautiful open carriage; and the ladies look at Bridget from under their parasols, and pretend to scorn her; but, in fact, many of them envy her in their hearts; and the gentlemen ride before, and behind, and on each side of the carriage, trying to get a glimpse of Bridget; and they say she is “perfectly beautiful, and very original, and has the most bewitching little Welsh accent in the world.”
And Bridget is as happy as the day is long; though she is very jealous of Sir Stephen; for she really loves him, and meant to be “true till death” to him, even if they had not married; and she is sorry for her insolent days, when Eleanor was Lady of the Castle; and is very kind to old Sandy, who has come back to die in his native place, and is bed-ridden in one of the cottages.
And Lady Margaret goes to church also; with pretty Euphemia, whom David has prepared so tenderly and carefully for her first communion, and with a little girl called Eleanor, the eldest child of her second marriage; but not with her two little boys, because she thinks them too young. And she thinks of Eleanor with deep tenderness and enduring love; and humbly prays to Heaven to enable her to do her duty; fearing to love David’s boys better than the child of her youth; fearing all things that she thinks are a dereliction from the straight path; and yet walking in it ever, with a pure and earnest heart.
And she and the Duchess of Lanark talk of Eleanor, as they turn from the church-door at Carrick; and the tears sometimes rise to the Duchess’s beautiful eyes, to answer the bitterer gush of weeping that Margaret cannot always forbear. And the little Duchess has almost entirely left off coquetting, and has taken a new tone, and says she “would not change her noble-hearted Lanark for any man in Christendom.” And noble-hearted Lanark is perfectly satisfied, and “always felt sure she would steady, and get rid of her one fault;” and thinks it so pretty to hear her lecture her little girls on vanity; and never even wakes to the consciousness, that the generosity of his trust perhaps saved her from sin; or on what a thread it hung, at one time, whether she would be a femme incomprise with lovers, and lead a vile life, even under the sacred roof of her own home. Nor indeed would the little Duchess herself admit, that there ever could have been the chance of such a frightful termination to her vanities; but she owns that she has been more touched and governed by his trust, than she could have been by lectures or control of any sort.
And the vain little sylph, though she loved and pitied Eleanor, still thinks herself superior to Lady Penrhyn, inasmuch as she was never parted from the Duke; or had any open quarrel; or shocked the world in any way; and the world continues perfectly satisfied with the Lanark establishment, and so do the Lanarks themselves.
And David Stuart?
David is still beloved by his adorable wife; and is master of Dunleath, and of her good true heart. The Duke of Lanark is fond of his brother-in-law. No one insults or mortifies him, with the disgrace or misfortunes of his youth. No one knows the story of his love for Eleanor; he never told it to living soul, nor did she. Godfrey did but conjecture half the truth, when he presumed his sister’s preference for her guardian. Margaret believes herself to be the crowning joy of David Stuart’s life; believes it – and deserves it – but is not! There is a cold pain in his heart, which even her warm glad smile shall never sun away; there is a memory which all her beauty and all her charm cannot avail to shut out. Eleanor – his Eleanor – whom he loved and injured; haunts that home of his youth, for the regaining which he risked her fortune, and ruined her future.
He looks on his own child’s face, and wonders if Heaven will yet further punish him, by creating misfortunes for her: will she, too, make an unhappy marriage? and so, struggle as she may to do her best, before God and man, find life shattered into days that shall resemble the fragments of a broken mirror, that never can unite again to give back the perfect image of peace? Will he be able to guard his own child from misery? he that failed in his trust with the daughter of his early benefactor!
He loves that little girl the best of all his children; though she is not so handsome or glad as the others: he loves that pale energetic face, with its frank and noble smile, so like her uncle Lanark’s. Her name is Eleanor, too; Margaret wished it; she was born the year after Eleanor died, when Margaret’s heart was heavy and sad for the loss of her friend. She understands her father’s moods; she knows his mournful days; she sits often on his knee by the Greek sun-dial; in silence; neither grieving nor comforting, but conscious that he is sad; leaning her little cheek against his, as they watch the sunset together. And the shadows pass over David’s heart, even as over the face of the dial!
Sometimes, as they sit so, they hear Margaret’s pleasant laugh under the old firs, where she is playing with the boys. Margaret’s joyous happy laugh: for there are no shadows on her heart: no thoughts that lie hidden in pain – and darkness from those she loves best. And, oh! what lovely boys are those two glad children! How, when their miniature by Thorburn was exhibited, mothers smiled and murmured over the representation of their beautiful faces; and eagerly looked out the number of that picture in the catalogue, and found it inscribed: –
“Portrait of the sons of David Stuart, Esq., of Dunleath and Ardlockie, and of the Lady Margaret Stuart.”
But the waves of the ocean of life have closed over Eleanor; and the grass is green on the grave of her little joyous Frederic, and her gentle, pious Clephane!
THE END.
[x]#161 fan zaterdag 9 maart 2002 @ 16:10:14
lieuwe op 10 maart 2002 @ 15:57:53
don t worry, be happy!