Chapter XVIII: Telling Tales

‘Roger has been to pay dear Cara a visit,’ said Mrs. Burchell. ‘He was in London on Sunday with his kind aunt, at Notting Hill, and he thought he would call. I don’t approve of Sunday visits, but I suppose exceptions must be made sometimes, and Roger went; knowing her all his life, you know, he felt interested. Do you know a family called Meredith, Miss Charity? I should not think, from what he tells me of them, that they can be people you would care to know.’

‘Meredith! but of course you know them, Aunt Charity--poor Annie’s friend, whom she was so fond of--the only person who was allowed to come in when she was ill--the most delightful, kind woman.’

‘People change as years go on; and Cherry is always enthusiastic--gushing, as my young people say. But do you know, Miss Charity, that poor Mr. Beresford is always there? dining there on Sunday; sitting till one does not know how late; and she is a woman separated from her husband,’ said Mrs. Burchell, lowering her voice. ‘I am sure that is a thing of which you cannot approve.’

‘Of women separating from their husbands?’ Miss Charity was sitting in her dressing-gown, in her bedroom, by the fire. She had been laid up by ‘one of her attacks.’ This was how everybody spoke of it; and though she was completely out of danger, it was necessary to take care. The consequence was that she lived in her bedroom, and chiefly in her dressing-gown, and was sometimes fretful, hard to manage, and a strain upon Miss Cherry’s powers. Almost any visitor, who would come and bring a little variety, and particularly a little news, was an advantage; therefore Cherry was very reluctant to interfere with what Mrs. Burchell said, especially as she was hungering for news of the child who, though she wrote so regularly, did not say half what Miss Cherry wanted to hear.

‘I can’t pronounce on such a question without knowing the circumstances,’ said Miss Charity. ‘Women are fools, but then so are most men as well.’

‘Oh, Miss Charity! that is one of your quaint ways of stating things. Mr. Burchell always says you have such quaint ways of expressing yourself; but always judicious, quite above what could be expected from a woman.’

‘Mr. Burchell is a good judge; he has means of knowing what may be expected from a woman,’ said the old lady, sharply. ‘And so you think badly of Mrs. Meredith? But make your mind easy; she is not separated from her husband.’

‘_Not!_’ Mrs. Burchell echoed the negative in a tone which was faint with disappointment. ‘Oh, but pardon me, I fear you must be mistaken, for Roger says----’

‘I thought that boy was a nice boy. What have you done to him to make him a gossip? Cherry, that was the one I thought well of, was it not? The others were naught, except Agnes; but this was a nice boy.’

‘Agnes is very self-willed,’ said Mrs. Burchell; ‘she is gone to that mission, though I am sure there is plenty to do at home and in the parish. I don’t know what to say to her. But as for the others being naught, I don’t think it is very kind of you to say so,’ she added, looking as if she meant to cry.

‘It is only one of my quaint ways of expressing myself,’ said Miss Charity, grimly. ‘I hate a boy who is a gossip. It is bad enough in girls; but then one is sorry for the poor things that have nothing better to do. What does this boy of yours say? If he was my boy, I’d whip him for tale-telling. And what was he doing in the Square?’

‘My children have always been brought up to confide in their mother,’ said Mrs. Burchell, on the verge of tears; ‘they have always told me their impressions. Thank Heaven, though my lot is not luxurious like some people’s, I have always had comfort in my children.’

‘That is a hit at you and me, Cherry, who have no children,’ said the old lady, who was sharp and keen after her illness. ‘My dear, we are quite willing to admit your superiority. What did the boy say?’

‘I am sure there was no boasting in my mind. I have very little occasion to boast. A poor clergyman’s wife, with so large a family to bring up! but I _am_ proud of the confidence of my children. Dear Roger went to see Cara out of kindness. He has always had a kind feeling to her, and the poor boy’s heart was quite touched to see her among such people. They seem to live in an ungodly way, with dinner-parties on Sunday, and that sort of thing--no regard for poor servants or for the bad example they are setting. And as for the lady, Roger did not tell me all; but he says Mr. Beresford _stays_--stays after Cara goes home, and, in short, is never out of the house. I felt that you ought to be told. Gentlemen have very peculiar ideas, I know--they don’t follow our rules; but for a man to take his daughter, his young daughter, into such society----’

‘Maria!’ Miss Cherry was speechless with horror and dismay. She managed to get out this ejaculation, and no more. But the old lady was less easily moved. She put on the spectacles to which she had taken quite lately, and looked into her visitor’s face.

‘Here is an odd thing now,’ she said, ‘a very odd thing. I am willing to suppose you are an innocent sort of woman, Maria Burchell. You never did anything very bad--for one thing, you have never been tempted--and yet you are ready to believe any evil, at the first word, of another woman whom you know nothing in the world about. It is the oddest thing I know. If you had been a wicked person, one could have understood it. But a clergyman’s wife, as you say, in a quiet country place, out of the way of temptation--why, you ought to think well of everybody! You ought to be the sort of person who could be taken in, who would not believe harm of anyone, an innocent woman like you!’

‘Am I an innocent woman?’ said Mrs. Burchell, shaking her head, with a sad smile. The distinction, if flattering to her moral character, was derogatory to her dignity. ‘Ah, how little we know each other! and what is called charity is so often mere laxness of principle. I hope I know the depravity of my own heart.’

‘In that case, my dear, there’s nothing more to be said,’ said Miss Charity, briskly, ‘only that you ought not to come here under false pretences, taking us all in, and looking respectable, as you do. But, however bad you may be, Mrs. Meredith is not bad. I don’t know much about the husband; perhaps they don’t get on together very well. Perhaps it is health. She lives here, and he lives there--that is all I know; but she is a better woman than I am; that I’ll answer for. How she can put up with that fool of a nephew of mine, I can’t tell. He is very learned, I grant, and a fellow of half the societies. Well, and so your boy said----? What is the woman crying for, I would like to know?’

‘Oh!’ wept Mrs. Burchell, ‘I never thought to have lived to be so spoken to; and by an old friend. Oh, Cherry! you that have known me from a girl, how can you sit still and do your knitting, and hear me talked to so?’

‘She does not mean it,’ said Miss Cherry, softly, ‘dear Maria! She has been ill. She can’t help being a little irritable.’

‘Stuff!’ said Miss Charity. ‘She brought it on herself. Go away, Cherry; if I were irritable, it is you who would feel it first. Now, Maria, don’t be more of a fool than you can help. What did the boy say?’

Miss Cherry went back to her knitting, with a suppressed sigh. It was very true that it was she who paid the penalty first; but to see anybody crying troubled the kind soul. She gave a kind little pat as she passed to Mrs. Burchell’s fat shoulders. She was knitting a huge white shawl in thick wool, to keep the old lady warm, and her own slight person was half lost in its folds.

But there was not very much more to be got from Mrs. Burchell. The boy had not, indeed, said any more, nor so much as she had reported. He had been betrayed by the sore state of his feelings, poor Roger, to give a very slight sketch of his uncomfortable Sunday--how he did not think the lady to whom Mr. Beresford talked so earnestly, who had a husband, and yet had no husband--who asked people to dinner on Sunday, and who--but Roger did not say this--had two sons who interfered so uncomfortably with his own inclinations--was at all a good friend for Cara. This was the extent of Roger’s confidence, and he regretted bitterly having given it before the evening was out; for it is one thing to disburden your heart of a grievance, and quite another to have that grievance enlarged and embittered by constant reference and repetition. He heard so much of it before he left the Rectory that evening that he was furious with himself for having betrayed his wound, and felt ashamed of it, and guilty so far as Cara was concerned. Therefore, Mrs. Burchell was rather glad of the personal offence which concealed the fact that she had very little to say. It had given a great zest to her visit that she had Roger’s news to tell; but there was much less detail than she could have desired, so she dropped into her own personal grievance about Agnes, who had insisted on going to the mission-house to teach, when there was plenty to do at home; but neither of the ladies entered warmly into it, Agnes being a greater favourite with them than her mother. When she was gone, however, Miss Charity fell into a musing. Age had crept a little, just a little, upon her. She was no longer the vigorous woman, of no particular age, whom Dr. Maxwell had commended as a type of womankind. Winter is unfavourable to the human frame when it approaches seventy. With a soft, perpetual summer, never blazing, as it is in the south, and chequered by no chilly gales, would it be necessary that threescore and ten should be man’s limit, or that we should ever die? Miss Charity felt the unkindly influence of the winter. When summer came back she would be all right again--or so, at least, she thought.

‘It as amazing, the ill people have in their thoughts,’ she said, at last. ‘That woman, with her “laxness of principle” and her depraved heart, and her indignation, to be taken at her word! Now, Cherry, that was an inoffensive girl enough. When she was Maria Thompson there was no particular harm in her. I believe we ought all to die at twenty. What a deal of mischief it would save the world.’

‘And good, too,’ said Miss Cherry, in her soft voice.

‘Good! not so much good. Do you know, I don’t feel comfortable about Mrs. Meredith. I know she’s a nice woman; but, bless my soul, the number of nice women I have known, who have been--no better than they should be! And Cara, you know--Cara is our business, Cherry; we are her nearest relations. I do believe she would be better here. Nobody can say that you are--no better than you should be. You don’t form friendships with men. I daresay that’s all Mrs. Meredith’s sin at bottom.’

‘But that is only,’ said Miss Cherry, composedly, ‘because there are no men to form friendships with. You may laugh, Aunt Charity; but I say quite what I mean. I am not a young girl--neither is Mrs. Meredith. If she is good to my poor brother James, shouldn’t we be grateful? And as for Cara--though Heaven knows how much I would give to have her back again----’

‘Who is that at the door? I won’t see any more people--that woman has put me out for the day. Though I know it is nonsense, I can’t get it out of my head. She is a great deal too fond of being popular. She is----. Whom do you say? Mr. Maxwell? to be sure, it is his day. Well, I suppose he must come in, of course. And just as well; we can ask him, and set it to rest.’

Mr. Maxwell came in, as he had done regularly every week for no one knew how many years. He was redder and rustier, and perhaps a trifle stouter; but that did not show to familiar eyes. Otherwise, the five years which had elapsed since Mrs. Beresford’s death had made no alteration in the doctor. He was on that tableland in the middle of life when five years tell less than at any other period. He came in with the slight bustle which was characteristic of him, and sat down by Miss Charity, and got through quickly that little confidential talk which is necessary between a doctor and his patient, during which Miss Cherry took her big piece of work to the window, and stood there, holding the mass of white wool in her arms, and knitting on, with her back towards the others. When this formula had been gone through she returned to her chair. Her interest in the matter was too great to allow even her aunt to open it. ‘Have you seen my brother James lately?’ she said.

‘Your brother James!’ The question seemed to startle and confuse the doctor. ‘We have seen very little of each other these five years.’

‘Ah! I thought you were not so intimate,’ said Miss Cherry, whom the suspicion had pained. ‘Is there--any reason? I should like so much to know.’

‘Well! I suppose there always is some reason or other. But no--estrangements come by accident constantly, Miss Cherry. I can’t tell what is the reason. I don’t suppose I know. We have drifted apart, that’s all; people do so every day without knowing why.’

‘People know when it begins,’ said Miss Cherry, eagerly; but here she was interrupted by her aunt.

‘Never mind about estrangements. What we want to ask you, Mr. Maxwell, is whether you have seen Cara, little Cara, you remember? and also something about their neighbours. There is Mrs. Meredith, for instance. We hear she sees a great deal of them. Eh! why shouldn’t I tell Mr. Maxwell exactly what we have heard? A doctor isn’t a tale-bearer; he’d lose all his practice in a week. We’ve been disturbed by hearing (especially Cherry; she is more particular than I) something about Mrs. Meredith. You, that know everything, tell us if it is true.’

‘I have seen very little of Mrs. Meredith. I don’t know much about James. Cara would be a great deal better here. What does he want with the child in London? he doesn’t require her; he has done without her all these years. I’d have her back, Miss Charity, if I were you.’

‘It is very easy to talk of having her back. She is his child after all. Come, speak out; they say James is there constantly--and that this lady--she isn’t separated from that husband of hers, eh?’

‘Not that I know of.’

‘Not that you know of! Of course you know whatever there is to know. What is the matter? A woman should not let herself be talked of.’

‘Mrs. Meredith is not talked of, if that is what you meant but I have heard that James is constantly there. He oughtn’t to do it. If he is fond of her, as I don’t doubt he is fond of her----’

‘Mr. Maxwell, how can you speak so of my brother?’ said Miss Cherry, agitated and blushing, with the tears ready to come. ‘A married woman! I am sure he has no more thought of anything of the kind. What has his life been since Annie died? That speaks for itself; he has thought of no one but her.’

‘Hold your tongue, Cherry, my dear. You are an old maid; but you have a foolish young soul. What do you know of such things? Let us talk it over quietly. Now, Mr. Maxwell, you need not be upon p’s and q’s with me. If he is fond of her? that is the question. Nothing but what is innocent, you goose. We don’t think James a bad man, do you suppose? Now, doctor, we must be at the bottom of it, now we have opened the question. What do people say?’

‘_I_ say--if he is fond of her, he oughtn’t to compromise her, Miss Charity; that is all about it. Innocent! of course it’s all innocent enough; but the woman is married, and her husband is thousands of miles off, and he ought to have more sense than to go there every evening, as he does. Yes, we’ve talked of it among ourselves; not to let it go any further; not to make any scandal, Heaven knows. No one thinks of any scandal; but he oughtn’t to do it. I am not blaming your brother, Miss Cherry; he has fallen into it, poor fellow, without knowing. He and I are not such friends as we were. I have thought I had reason not to be quite pleased with him; but I don’t do him injustice here. He means no harm; but he oughtn’t to do it. The more he is fond of her, the more he ought to take care. And there you have my opinion, and that’s all about it. I don’t think anyone has ever ventured to say more.’

‘It is too much to have said,’ said the old lady, ‘and she ought to know better. I don’t put it all on him. She ought to have put a stop to it. Women see these things better than men; and besides, it is the women who suffer, not the men. She ought to have put a stop to it. I don’t put it all on him, as you seem disposed to do.’

‘How could she put a stop to it?’ said the doctor, warmly. ‘She is good to everybody. She opened her house to him when he was miserable. How is a woman to say to a man, after she has been kind to him, “Don’t come any more; people are beginning to talk?” Good Lord! it would be like supposing they had some reason to talk. If any woman said that to me I should feel that she thought me a brute bad enough for anything. No, no; everybody says women are hardest upon each other----’

‘Everybody says a deal of nonsense,’ said Miss Charity, sharply. ‘A woman does not need to speak so plainly. She can let the man see when he is going too far without a word said. How? oh, there’s no need to tell _you_ how. We know how, that’s enough. She could have done it, and she ought to have done it. Still, I don’t think any harm of her; and it must simply be put a stop to, now we know.’

‘Ah!’ said the doctor, drawing a long breath, ‘but how?’

‘How, again? Why, what kind of people are you who call yourselves their friends? It’s your business to do it. Cherry, my dear, I am a deal better; the bronchitis is all gone, and Barbara is as careful of me as a woman can be. You’ll go off directly to the Square. If I were well enough, if it were not for this stupid bronchitis, I’d go myself; but it isn’t worth a life; is it, doctor? See how things are going on. Of course you won’t make any fuss, Cherry; but whatever ought to be done you’ll do.’

Maxwell turned, as the old lady made this address to her niece, and looked at her. What would poor old Cherry do? he said to himself, watching her with curiosity and wonder. Was she a person to face this dilemma, which had kept various and more determined persons in difficulty? She let her work drop upon her knee, and looked up with an agitated face. She grew pale and red, and pale again.

‘How am I to speak to James?’ she said, hurriedly catching her breath--‘a man!’

Then she made a pause and an effort, and the doctor, astonished, saw a soft light of resolution come into the mild old maiden’s face.

‘Of course,’ she said, still a little breathless, ‘I will not think of that if there is anything I can do.’

‘And of course there is something to do!’ said the more energetic old lady. ‘My patience! what do people get old for, doctor? I should do it without thinking twice. What do they say about a sound mind in a sound body? I wish, for my own part, when an old woman gets bronchitis, she could get it in her soul as well, and be all bad together. But for this old body, I’m as strong as ever I was; and Cherry was always weakly, poor dear.’

‘Do not vex yourself, Aunt Charity; I will go,’ said Miss Cherry, with only a slight faltering in her voice. ‘Mrs. Meredith is a good woman, and my brother James is a good man too, though I wish he was more religious. When a thing is plain duty, that makes it--easy; well, if not easy, at least----. I will do my best,’ she said softly. Mr. Maxwell watched her quite intently. It was all very well to say this here; but would she venture to do it? He had always taken an interest in Cherry, more or less. All these years, during which he had come weekly to the Hill, he had been always sensible when Cherry was not there, and had a way of looking round for her grey gown when he came in. Everybody knew his way of looking round, but no one, much less the chief person concerned, had ever divined that it was that grey garment which he missed when it was not there. Poor faded, fluttering, nervous Cherry; he had always taken an interest in her; would she really have the courage to take this bold, independent step, and do the thing which not one of James Beresford’s friends had dared to do?