The Rector and The Doctor’s Family · The Doctor’s Family · Chapter 2 12 (1/3)

XII

In a few days all this solemn crisis was over, and life went on again in its ordinary tame current, closing over the dishonoured grave where Fred found his rest, henceforward nameless in the world that had suffered his existence as a cumberer of the ground for so many years. Had he been the prop of his house and the light of their eyes, life would have gone on again, after that interruption, all the same, with a persistency which nothing can impair. As it was, the diminished household resumed its ordinary course of existence, after a very few days, with little more than outward marks of what had befallen them. It is true that Nettie sat down with a repugnance which she scarcely could either overcome or conceal, to dispense the domestic provisions at the table which shortly before had borne so dread a burden. But nobody thought of that except Nettie; and but for the black dresses and Susan’s cap, Fred was as if he had never been.

About a week after the funeral, the doctor went solemnly to visit them in one of those lengthening spring afternoons. Dr. Rider was undeniably nervous and excited about this interview. He had been at home under pretence of having luncheon, but in reality to make a solemn toilette, and wind himself up to the courage necessary for a settlement of affairs. As he dashed with agitated haste down Grange Lane, he saw Miss Wodehouse and her sister Lucy coming from St. Roque’s, where very probably they too had been making a visit of condolence to Nettie; and a little nearer that scene of all his cogitations and troubles appeared, a much less welcome sight, Miss Marjoribanks, whom all Carlingford, a month ago, had declared Dr. Rider to be “paying his addresses” to. The guilty doctor took off his hat to that stout and sensible wayfarer, with a pang of self-disgust which avenged Nettie. Along the very road where that little Titania, eager and rapid, had gone upon her dauntless way so often, to see that comely well-dressed figure, handsome, sprightly, clever⁠—but with such a world of bright youth, tenderness, loveliness, everything that touches the heart of man, between the two! No harm to Miss Marjoribanks; only shame to the doctor, who, out of angry love, pique, and mortification, to vex Nettie, had pretended to transfer the homage due to the fairy princess to that handsome and judicious woman. The experiment had failed as entirely as it deserved to do; and here was Edward Rider, coming back wiser and humbler, content to put that question over again, and stand once more his chance of what his pride had called a rejection, perhaps content to make still greater sacrifices, if the truth were known, and to do anything Nettie asked him, if Nettie would but condescend to ask or enter into terms at all.

He drew up before St. Roque’s with a dash, which was much more of agitation than display, and, throwing the reins at the head of his little groom, leaped out like a man who did not see where he was going. He saw Mr. Wentworth, however, coming out of the church, and turning round amazed to look what vehicle had come to so sudden a standstill there. All the world seemed to be on the road to St. Roque’s Cottage that spring afternoon. The doctor made a surly gesture of recognition as he passed the curate, who gazed at him in calm astonishment from the church porch. No other intruder appeared between him and the Cottage. He hurried along past the willow-trees with their drooping tassels, surrounded by a certain maze of excitement and agitation. As he went up to the door, it occurred to him suddenly how Nettie had recognised his step that dread morning of Fred’s death. The thought came like a stimulus and encouragement to the doctor. He went in with a brighter look, a heart more hopeful. She had opened the door to him before he could knock, held out to him that tiny morsel of a hand which laboured so hard and constantly, said⁠—what did Nettie say? how many times had the doctor conned it over as he went between his patients?⁠—“You were angry once, and, indeed, I don’t wonder.” The doctor went boldly in under the cordial of these simple words. If she did not wonder that he was angry once, could she think of saying over again that same conclusion which had cast him into such wrathful despair? He went in to try his fortune a second time, secure of his temper at least. That could never fail, nor sin against Nettie again.

Edward Rider went in, expectant somehow, even against his reason, to find an altered world in that house from which Fred had gone. He knew better, to be sure, but nature beguiled the young man out of his wisdom. When he went in to the parlour his eyes were opened. Upon the sofa⁠—that same sofa where Fred had lain, all slovenly and mean in his idleness, with his pipe, polluting Nettie’s sole retirement⁠—Mrs. Fred lay now in her sombre black dress, with the white cap circling her faded face. She had her white handkerchief in her hand, and was carefully arranged upon the sofa, with a chair placed near for sympathisers. At the table, working rapidly as usual, sat Nettie. Sometimes she turned a momentary glance of mingled curiosity and wonder upon her sister. Evidently she did not interfere with this development of sorrow. Nettie had enough to do, besides, with her needlework, and to enjoin a moderate amount of quietness upon Freddy and his little sister, who were building wooden bricks into houses and castles on the floor by her side. When the doctor entered the room he saw how it was with instantaneous insight. Mrs. Fred was sitting in state, in the pomp of woe, to receive all the compassionate people who might come to condole with her. Nettie, half impatient, half glad that her sister could amuse herself so, sat in busy toleration, putting up with it, carrying on her own work through it all⁠—and still, as always, those bonds of her own making closed hard and tenacious upon the prop of the house. Even the chance of speaking with her by herself died off into extreme distance. Young Rider, who came in with the full conviction that anger could never more rise in his heart against Nettie, grew pale with passion, resentment, and impatience before he had been a minute in the room. Always the same! Not relieved out of her bondage⁠—closer bound and prisoned than ever! He took, with an impatient involuntary commotion, the chair placed beside the sofa, and sat down in it abruptly with the briefest salutations. His hopes and anticipations all went bitterly back upon his heart. The very rustle of Nettie’s arm as she spread out that little black frock upon the table, and put on its melancholy trimmings, exasperated afresh the man who five minutes ago did not believe it possible that he ever could feel an impulse of displeasure against her again.

“I cannot say that I expected to see you, Mr. Edward,” said Mrs. Fred, lifting her handkerchief to her eyes; “indeed, when I remember the last time you were here, I wonder you could think of coming near us. But now my poor dear Fred is gone, we have nobody to protect us⁠—and of course you don’t mind how you hurt my feelings. If you had done your duty by my poor fellow when he was living, he might never⁠—never⁠—”

Here Mrs. Fred paused, choked by spiteful tears.

“Dr. Edward, don’t mind what Susan says,” said Nettie. “It is very kind of you to come after everything⁠—If you would only tell the people not to take any notice, but just to let us go on as usual. They all want to be kind, you know⁠—they keep coming, and asking what they can do; and you understand very well there is nothing to do,” said Nettie, with a little pride. “We are just as we were before⁠—nothing is changed: one does not like to be unkind, but nobody needs to do anything. We shall get along all the same.”

“So it seems, indeed,” said Dr. Rider, with irrepressible bitterness; “all the same! But, indeed, I came specially to ask what my sister-in-law meant to do,” continued the doctor, bent on one last appeal. “Now that you are left to yourself, Mrs. Rider, what do you think of doing? Of course you must have some plans about the children and your future life?”

Mrs. Fred looked up at him with momentary alarm and dismay. She did not know what the question meant, but a certain vague terror seized her. It seemed to imply somehow that she was now to be left to her own resources. She gave a certain gasp of appeal to “Nettie!” and took refuge once more in her handkerchief. The doctor was desperate⁠—he had no mercy in him.

“Nettie! always Nettie!” cried the young man. “And is it true, Nettie⁠—is it all the same? Are you always to go on toiling for the miserable comforts of other people? What is to become of us? Have you sold yourself to this fate?”

Nettie laid down the little black frock out of her laborious hands. “You have been up all night, Dr. Edward,” she said, with a certain tenderness, looking at his agitated face; “you are tired out and sick at the heart. I know it makes you say things you would not say; but after all, you know, except poor Fred, whom none of you think of, everything is the very same. I cannot make it different⁠—nothing can make it different. There is Susan plain enough to be seen⁠—and there are the children. Sometimes it has come into my mind,” said Nettie, “that as I shall never be able to afford a very good education for the children, it would be better to take them out to the colony again, where they might get on better than here. But it is a dreadful long voyage; and we have no near friends there, or anywhere else: and,” concluded the steadfast creature, who had dropped these last words from her lips sentence by sentence, as if eager to impress upon her own mind the arguments against that proceeding⁠—“and,” said Nettie, with wistful pathetic honesty, not able to deny the real cause of the reluctance altogether, “I don’t seem to have the heart for it now.”

Dr. Rider started up from his chair. He went to Nettie’s side with a sudden thrill of agitation and passion. He clasped the hand with which Nettie was smoothing out that little frock, and crushed the delicate fingers in his inconsiderate grasp. “Nettie! if you must carry them always upon your shoulders, cannot we do it together, at least?” cried the doctor, carried away beyond every boundary of sense or prudence. He got down on his knees beside the table, not kneeling to her, but only compelling her attention⁠—demanding to see the answer of her eyes, the quiver of her mouth. For that moment Nettie’s defences too fell before this unlooked-for outburst of a love that had forgotten prudence. Her mouth quivered, her eyes filled. If it were possible⁠—if it were only possible!⁠—They had both forgotten the spectators who gazed with curious eyes, all unaware how deeply their own fate was involved; and that fate was still trembling in the breathless interval, when a vulgar finger touched those delicate balances of possibility, and the crisis was over, perhaps never to return.

“Nettie!” cried Mrs. Fred, “if Edward Rider has no respect for me, nor for my poor Fred⁠—my poor, dear, injured husband, that helped to bring him up, and gave up his practice to him, and died, as I might say, by his neglect⁠—Nettie! how can you be so cruel to your sister? How can you go taking his hand, and looking as if he were your lover? You never had any feeling for me, though everybody thinks so much of you. And now I know what I have to expect. The moment my poor dear Fred’s head is laid in the grave⁠—as soon as ever you have me in your own hands, and nobody to protect me!⁠—oh, my Fred! my Fred!⁠—as soon as you are gone, this is how they are using your poor helpless family!⁠—and soon, soon I shall die too, and you will not be encumbered with me!”

Long before this sobbing speech was concluded, Dr. Rider had risen to his feet, and was pacing through the little room with hasty steps of disgust and rage, and an agitation which overwhelmed all his attempts to master it; while Nettie sat supporting her head in her hands, pressing her fingers upon her hot eyes, beholding that fair impossible vision break and disappear from before her. Nettie’s heart groaned within her, and beat against the delicate bosom which, in its tender weakness, was mighty as a giant’s. She made no answer to her sister’s outcry, nor attempted to comfort the hysterical sobbing into which Susan fell. Nettie gave up the hopeless business without being deceived by those selfish demonstrations. She was not even fortunate enough to be able to persuade herself into admiring love and enthusiasm for those to whom necessity obliged her to give up her own life. She said nothing; she knew the sobs would subside, the end would be gained, the insignificant soul lapse into comfort, and with a sigh of compulsory resignation Nettie yielded once more to her fate.

“Dr. Edward, do not think of me any more,” she said, resolutely, rising and going out to the door with him, in her simplicity and courage. “You see very well it is impossible. I know you see it as well as I do. If we could be friends as we once were, I should be very, very glad, but I don’t think it is possible just now. Don’t say anything. We both know how it is, and neither of us can help it. If we could get not to think of each other, that would be best,” said Nettie, with another sigh; “but in the meantime let us say goodbye, and speak of it no more.”