David Elginbrod

“I have a great faith in opportunity.”

“But how should she foil him?”

“She must pray to God to redeem her fettered will—to strengthen her will to redeem herself. She must resist the count, should he again claim her submission (as, for her sake, I hope he will), as she would the devil himself. She must overcome. Then she will be free—not before. This will be very hard to do. His power has been excessive and peculiar, and her submission long and complete. Even if he left her alone, she would not therefore be free. She must defy him; break his bonds; oppose his will; assert her freedom; and defeat him utterly.”

“Oh! who will help her? I have no power. Even if I were with her, I could not help her in such a struggle. I wish David were not dead. He was the man.—You could now, Mr. Falconer.”

“No. Except I knew her, had known her for some time, and had a strong hold of all her nature, I could not, would not try to help her. If Providence brought this about, I would do my best; but otherwise I would not interfere. But if she pray to God, he will give her whatever help she needs, and in the best way, too.”

“I think it would be some comfort to her if we could find the ring—the crystal, I mean.”

“It would be more, I think, if we could find the diamond.”

“How can we find either?”

“We must find the count first. I have not given that up, of course. I will tell you what I should like to do, if I knew the lady.”

“What?”

“Get her to come to London, and make herself as public as possible: go to operas and balls, and theatres; be presented at court; take a stall at every bazaar, and sell charity puff-balls—get as much into the papers as possible. ‘The lovely, accomplished, fascinating Miss Cameron, &c., &c.’”

“What do you mean?”

“I will tell you what I mean. The count has forsaken her now; but as soon as he heard that she was somebody, that she was followed and admired, his vanity would be roused, his old sense of property in her would revive, and he would begin once more to draw her into his toils. What the result would be, it is impossible to foretell; but it would at least give us a chance of catching him, and her a chance of resisting him.”

“I don’t think, however, that she would venture on that course herself. I should not dare to propose it to her.”

“No, no. It was only an invention, to deceive myself with the fancy that I was doing something. There would be many objections to such a plan, even if it were practicable. I must still try to find him, and if fresh endeavours should fail, devise fresher still.”

“Thank you a thousand times,” said Hugh. “It is too good of you to take so much trouble.”

“It is my business,” answered Falconer. “Is there not a soul in trouble?”

Hugh went home, full of his new friend. With the clue he had given him, he was able to follow all the windings of Euphra’s behaviour, and to account for almost everything that had taken place. It was quite painful to him to feel that he could be of no immediate service to her; but he could hardly doubt that, before long, Falconer would, in his wisdom and experience, excogitate some mode of procedure in which he might be able to take a part.

He sat down to his novel, which had been making but little progress for some time; for it is hard to write a novel when one is living in the midst of a romance. But the romance, at this time, was not very close to him. It had a past and a possible future, but no present. That same future, however, might at any moment dawn into the present.

In the meantime, teaching the Latin grammar and the English alphabet to young aspirants after the honours of the ministry, was not work inimical to invention, from either the exhaustion of its excitement or the absorption of its interest.

CHAPTER XIII. THE LADY’S-MAID

Her yellow hair, beyond compare,Comes trinkling down her swan-white neck;And her two eyes, like stars in skies,Would keep a sinking ship frae wreck.Oh!  Mally’s meek, Mally’s sweet,Mally’s modest and discreet;Mally’s rare, Mally’s fair,Mally’s every way complete.BURNS.

What arms for innocence but innocence.

GILES FLETCHER.

Margaret had sought Euphra’s room, with the intention of restoring to her the letter which she had written to David Elginbrod. Janet had let it lie for some time before she sent it to Margaret; and Euphra had given up all expectation of an answer.

Hopes of ministration filled Margaret’s heart; but she expected, from what she knew of her, that anger would be Miss Cameron’s first feeling. Therefore, when she heard no answer to her application for admission, and had concluded, in consequence, that Euphra was not in the room, she resolved to leave the letter where it would meet her eye, and thus prepare the way for a future conversation. When she saw Euphra and Harry, she would have retired immediately; but Euphra, annoyed by her entrance, was now quite able to speak.

“What do you want?” she said angrily.

“This is your letter, Miss Cameron, is it not?” said Margaret, advancing with it in her hand.

Euphra took it, glanced at the direction, pushed Harry away from her, started up in a passion, and let loose the whole gathered irritability of contempt, weariness, disappointment, and suffering, upon Margaret. Her dark eyes flashed with rage, and her sallow cheek glowed like a peach.

“What right have you, pray, to handle my letters? How did you get this? It has never been posted! And open, too. I declare! I suppose you have read it?”

Margaret was afraid of exciting more wrath before she had an opportunity of explaining; but Euphra gave her no time to think of a reply.

“You have read it, you shameless woman! Why don’t you lie, like the rest of your tribe, and keep me from dying with indignation? Impudent prying! My maid never posted it, and you have found it and read it! Pray, did you hope to find a secret worth a bribe?”

She advanced on Margaret till within a foot of her.

“Why don’t you answer, you hussy? I will go this instant to your mistress. You or I leave the house.”

Margaret had stood all this time quietly, waiting for an opportunity to speak. Her face was very pale, but perfectly still, and her eyes did not quail. She had not in the least lost her self-possession. She would not say at once that she had read the letter, because that would instantly rouse the tornado again.

“You do not know my name, Miss Cameron; of course you could not.”

“Your name! What is that to me?”

“That,” said Margaret, pointing to the letter, “is my father’s name.”

Euphra looked at her own direction again, and then looked at Margaret. She was so bewildered, that if she had any thoughts, she did not know them. Margaret went on:

“My father is dead. My mother sent the letter to me.”

“Then you have had the impertinence to read it!”

“It was my duty to read it.”

“Duty! What business had you with it?”

Euphra felt ashamed of the letter as soon as she found that she had applied to a man whose daughter was a servant. Margaret answered:

“I could at least reply to it so far, that the writer should not think my father had neglected it. I did not know who it was from till I came to the end.”

Euphra turned her back on her, with the words:

“You may go.”

Margaret walked out of the room with an unconscious stately gentleness.

“Come back,” cried Euphra.

Margaret obeyed.

“Of course you will tell all your fellow-servants the contents of this foolish letter.”

Margaret’s face flushed, and her eye flashed, at the first words of this speech; but the last words made her forget the first, and to them only she replied. Clasping her hands, she said:

“Dear Miss Cameron, do not call it foolish. For God’s sake, do not call it foolish.”

“What is it to you? Do you think I am going to make a confidante of you?”

Margaret again left the room. Notwithstanding that she had made no answer to her insult, Euphra felt satisfied that her letter was safe from profanation.

No sooner was Margaret out of sight, than, with the reaction common to violent tempers, which in this case resulted the sooner, from the exhaustion produced in a worn frame by the violence of the outburst, Euphra sat down, in a hopeless, unresting way, upon the chair from which she had just risen, and began weeping more bitterly than before. She was not only exhausted, but ashamed; and to these feelings was added a far greater sense of disappointment than she could have believed possible, at the frustration of the hope of help from David Elginbrod. True, this hope had been small; but where there is only one hope, its death is equally bitter, whether it be a great or a little hope. And there is often no power of reaction, in a mind which has been gradually reduced to one little faint hope, when that hope goes out in darkness. There is a recoil which is very helpful, from the blow that kills a great hope.

All this time Harry had been looking on, in a kind of paralysed condition, pale with perplexity and distress. He now came up to Euphra, and, trying to pull her hand gently from her face, said:

“What is it all about, Euphra, dear?”

“Oh! I have been very naughty, Harry.”

“But what is it all about? May I read the letter?”

“If you like,” answered Euphra, listlessly.

Harry read the letter with quivering features. Then, laying it down on the table with a reverential slowness, went to Euphra, put his arms round her and kissed her.

“Dear, dear Euphra, I did not know you were so unhappy. I will find God for you. But first I will—what shall I do to the bad man? Who is it? I will—”

Harry finished the sentence by setting his teeth hard.

“Oh! you can’t do anything for me, Harry, dear. Only mind you don’t say anything about it to any one. Put the letter in the fire there for me.”

“No—that I won’t,” said Harry, taking up the letter, and holding it tight. “It is a beautiful letter, and it does me good. Don’t you think, though it is not sent to God himself, he may read it, and take it for a prayer?”

“I wish he would, Harry.”

“But it was very wrong of you, Euphra, dear, to speak as you did to the daughter of such a good man.”

“Yes, it was.”

“But then, you see, you got angry before you knew who she was.”

“But I shouldn’t have got angry before I knew all about it”

“Well, you have only to say you are sorry, and Margaret won’t think anything more about it. Oh, she is so good!”

Euphra recoiled from making confession of wrong to a lady’s maid; and, perhaps, she was a little jealous of Harry’s admiration of Margaret. For Euphra had not yet cast off all her old habits of mind, and one of them was the desire to be first with every one whom she cared for. She had got rid of a worse, which was, a necessity of being first in every company, whether she cared for the persons composing it, or not. Mental suffering had driven the latter far enough from her; though it would return worse than ever, if her mind were not filled with truth in the place of ambition. So she did not respond to what Harry said. Indeed, she did not speak again, except to beg him to leave her alone. She did not make her appearance again that day.

But at night, when the household was retiring, she rose from the bed on which she had been lying half-unconscious, and going to the door, opened it a little way, that she might hear when Margaret should pass from Mrs. Elton’s room towards her own. She waited for some time; but judging, at length, that she must have passed without her knowledge, she went and knocked at her door. Margaret opened it a little, after a moment’s delay, half-undressed.

“May I come in, Margaret?”

“Pray, do, Miss Cameron,” answered Margaret.

And she opened the door quite. Her cap was off, and her rich dark hair fell on her shoulders, and streamed thence to her waist. Her under-clothing was white as snow.

“What a lovely skin she has!” thought Euphra, comparing it with her own tawny complexion. She felt, for the first time, that Margaret was beautiful—yes, more: that whatever her gown might be, her form and her skin (give me a prettier word, kind reader, for a beautiful fact, and I will gladly use it) were those of one of nature’s ladies. She was soon to find that her intellect and spirit were those of one of God’s ladies.

“I am very sorry, Margaret, that I spoke to you as I did today.”

“Never mind it, Miss Cameron. We cannot help being angry sometimes. And you had great provocation under the mistake you made. I was only sorry because I knew it would trouble you afterwards. Please don’t think of it again.”

“You are very kind, Margaret.”

“I regretted my father’s death, for the first time, after reading your letter, for I knew he could have helped you. But it was very foolish of me, for God is not dead.”

Margaret smiled as she said this, looking full in Euphra’s eyes. It was a smile of meaning unfathomable, and it quite overcame Euphra. She had never liked Margaret before; for, from not very obscure psychological causes, she had never felt comfortable in her presence, especially after she had encountered the nun in the Ghost’s Walk, though she had had no suspicion that the nun was Margaret. A great many of our dislikes, both to persons and things, arise from a feeling of discomfort associated with them, perhaps only accidentally present in our minds the first time we met them. But this vanished entirely now.

“Do you, then, know God too, Margaret?”

“Yes,” answered Margaret, simply and solemnly.

“Will you tell me about him?”

“I can at least tell you about my father, and what he taught me.”

“Oh! thank you, thank you! Do tell me about him—now.”

“Not now, dear Miss Cameron. It is late, and you are too unwell to stay up longer. Let me help you to bed to-night. I will be your maid.”

As she spoke, Margaret proceeded to put on her dress again, that she might go with Euphra, who had no attendant. She had parted with Jane, and did not care, in her present mood, to have a woman about her, especially a new one.

“No, Margaret. You have enough to do without adding me to your troubles.”

“Please, do let me, Miss Cameron. It will be a great pleasure to me. I have hardly anything to call work. You should see how I used to work when I was at home.”

Euphra still objected, but Margaret’s entreaty prevailed. She followed Euphra to her room. There she served her like a ministering angel; brushed her hair—oh, so gently! smoothing it out as if she loved it. There was health in the touch of her hands, because there was love. She undressed her; covered her in bed as if she had been a child; made up the fire to last as long as possible; bade her good night; and was leaving the room, when Euphra called her. Margaret returned to the bed-side.

“Kiss me, Margaret,” she said.

Margaret stooped, kissed her forehead and her lips, and left her.

Euphra cried herself to sleep. They were the first tears she had ever shed that were not painful tears. She slept as she had not slept for months.

In order to understand this change in Euphrasia’s behaviour to Margaret—in order, in fact, to represent it to our minds as at all credible—we must remember that she had been trying to do right for some time; that Margaret, as the daughter of David, seemed the only attainable source of the knowledge she sought; that long illness had greatly weakened her obstinacy; that her soul hungered, without knowing it, for love; and that she was naturally gifted with a strong will, the position in which she stood in relation to the count proving only that it was not strong enough, and not that it was weak. Such a character must, for any good, be ruled by itself, and not by circumstances. To have been overcome in the process of time by the persistent goodness of Margaret, might have been the blessed fate of a weaker and worse woman; but if Euphra did not overcome herself, there was no hope of further victory. If Margaret could even wither the power of her oppressor, it would be but to transfer the lordship from a bad man to a good woman; and that would not be enough. It would not be freedom. And indeed, the aid that Margaret had to give her, could only be bestowed on one who already had freedom enough to act in some degree from duty. She knew she ought to go and apologize to Margaret. She went.

In Margaret’s presence, and in such a mood, she was subjected at once to the holy enchantment of her loving-kindness. She had never received any tenderness from a woman before. Perhaps she had never been in the right mood to profit by it if she had. Nor had she ever before seen what Margaret was. It was only when service—divine service—flowed from her in full outgoing, that she reached the height of her loveliness. Then her whole form was beautiful. So was it interpenetrated by, and respondent to, the uprising soul within, that it radiated thought and feeling as if it had been all spirit. This beauty rose to its best in her eyes. When she was ministering to any one in need, her eyes seemed to worship the object of her faithfulness, as if all the time she felt that she was doing it unto Him. Her deeds were devotion. She was the receiver and not the giver. Before this, Euphra had seen only the still waiting face; and, as I have said, she had been repelled by it. Once within the sphere of the radiation of her attraction, she was drawn towards her, as towards the haven of her peace: she loved her.

To this, it length, had her struggle with herself in the silence of her own room, and her meditations on her couch, conducted her. Shall we say that these alone had been and were leading her? Or that to all these there was a hidden root, and an informing spirit? Who would not rather believe that his thoughts come from an infinite, self-sphered, self-constituting thought, than that they rise somehow out of a blank abyss of darkness, and are only thought when he thinks them, which thinking he cannot pre-determine or even foresee?

When Euphra woke, her first breath was like a deep draught of spiritual water. She felt as if some sorrow had passed from her, and some gladness come in its stead. She thought and thought, and found that the gladness was Margaret. She had scarcely made the discovery, when the door gently opened, and Margaret peeped in to see if she were awake.

“May I come in?” she said.

“Yes, please, Margaret.”

“How do you feel to-day?”

“Oh, so much better, dear Margaret! Your kindness will make me well.”

“I am so glad! Do lie still awhile, and I will bring you some breakfast. Mrs. Elton will be so pleased to find you let me wait on you!”

“She asked me, Margaret, if you should; but I was too miserable—and too naughty, for I did not like you.”

“I knew that; but I felt sure you would not dislike me always.”

“Why?”

“Because I could not help loving you.”

“Why did you love me?”

“I will tell you half the reason.—Because you looked unhappy.”

“What was the other half?”

“That I cannot—I mean I will not tell you.”

“Never?”

“Perhaps never. But I don’t know.—Not now.”

“Then I must not ask you?”

“No—please.”

“Very well, I won’t.”

“Thank you. I will go and get your breakfast.”

“What can she mean?” said Euphra to herself.

But she would never have found out.

CHAPTER XIV. DAVID ELGINBROD

He being dead yet speaketh

HEB., xi. 4.

In all ‘he’ didSome figure of the golden times was hid.DR. DONNE

From this time, Margaret waited upon Euphra, as if she had been her own maid. Nor had Mrs. Elton any cause of complaint, for Margaret was always at hand when she was wanted. Indeed, her mistress was full of her praises. Euphra said little.

Many and long were the conversations between the two girls, when all but themselves were asleep. Sometimes Harry made one of the company; but they could always send him away when they wished to be alone. And now the teaching for which Euphra had longed, sprang in a fountain at her own door. It had been nigh her long, and she had not known it, for its hour had not come. Now she drank as only the thirsty drink,—as they drink whose very souls are fainting within them for drought.

But how did Margaret embody her lessons?

The second night, she came to Euphra’s room, and said:

“Shall I tell you about my father to-night? Are, you able?”

Euphra was delighted. It was what she had been hoping for all day.

“Do tell me. I long to hear about him.”

So they sat down; and Margaret began to talk about her childhood; the cottage she lived in; the fir-wood all around it; the work she used to do;—her side, in short, of the story which, in the commencement of this book, I have partly related from Hugh’s side. Summer and winter, spring-time and harvest, storm and sunshine, all came into the tale. Her mother came into it often; and often too, though not so often, the grand form of her father appeared, remained for a little while, and then passed away. Every time Euphra saw him thus in the mirror of Margaret’s memory, she saw him more clearly than before: she felt as if, soon, she should know him quite well. Sometimes she asked a question or two; but generally she allowed Margaret’s words to flow unchecked; for she painted her pictures better when the colours did not dry between. They talked on, or rather, Margaret talked and Euphra listened, far into the night. At length, Margaret stopped suddenly, for she became aware that a long time had passed. Looking at the clock on the chimney-piece, she said:

“I have done wrong to keep you up so late. Come—I must get you to bed. You are an invalid, you know, and I am your nurse as well as your maid.”

“You will come to-morrow night, then?”

“Yes, I will.”

“Then I will go to bed like a good child.”

Margaret undressed her, and left her to the healing of sleep.

The next night she spoke again of her father, and what he taught her. Euphra had thought much about him; and at every fresh touch which the story gave to the portrait, she knew him better; till at last, even when circumstances not mentioned before came up, she seemed to have known them from the beginning.

“What was your father like, Margaret?”

Margaret described him very nearly as I have done, from Hugh’s account, in the former part of the story. Euphra said:

“Ah! yes. That is almost exactly as I had fancied him. Is it not strange?”

“It is very natural, I think,” answered Margaret.

“I seem now to have known him for years.”

But what is most worthy of record is, that ever as the picture of David grew on the vision of Euphra, the idea of God was growing unawares upon her inward sight. She was learning more and more about God all the time. The sight of human excellence awoke a faint Ideal of the divine perfection. Faith came of itself, and abode, and grew; for it needs but a vision of the Divine, and faith in God is straightway born in the soul that beholds it. Thus, faith and sight are one. The being of her father in heaven was no more strange and far off from her, when she had seen such a father on earth as Margaret’s was. It was not alone David’s faith that begot hers, but the man himself was a faith-begetting presence. He was the evidence of God with them.—Thus he, being dead, yet spoke, and the departed man was a present power.

Euphra began to read the story of the Gospel. So did Harry. They found much on which to desire enlightenment; and they always applied to Margaret for the light they needed. It was long before she ventured to say I think. She always said:

“My father used to say—” or

“I think my father would have said—”

It was not until Euphra was in great trouble some time after this, and required the immediate consolation of personal testimony, that Margaret spoke as from herself; and then she spoke with positive assurance of faith. She did not then even say I think, but, I am sure; I know; I have seen.

Many interviews of this sort did not take place between them before Euphra, in her turn, began to confide her history to Margaret.

It was a strangely different one—full of outward event and physical trouble; but, till it approached the last stages, wonderfully barren as to inward production or development. It was a history of Euphra’s circumstances and peculiarities, not of Euphra herself. Till of late, she had scarcely had any history. Margaret’s, on the contrary, was a true history; for, with much of the monotonous in circumstance, it described individual growth, and the change of progress. Where there is no change there can be no history; and as all change is either growth or decay, all history must describe progress or retrogression. The former had now begun for Euphra as well; and it was one proof of it that she told Margaret all I have already recorded for my readers, at least as far as it bore against herself. How much more she told her I am unable to say; but after she had told it, Euphra was still more humble towards Margaret, and Margaret more tender, more full of service, if possible, and more devoted to Euphra.