The Ladies Lindores

sudden, calls forth, that the master had been anything but the most devoted of husbands, or his wife other than the lovingest of wives. This pious superstition is always ready to smooth away the horror of deaths which are a grief to no one. “Your man’s your man when a’s done, even if he’s but an ill ane,” was the sentiment of the awestricken household. “Ye never ken what he’s been to ye till ye lose him.” It gave them all a sense of elevation that Lady Caroline should, as they thought, be wrapped in hopeless grief⁠—it made them think better of her and of themselves. The two ladies went into the ghostly room with something of the same feeling. Lady Lindores felt that she understood it⁠—that she had expected it. Had not her own mind been filled by sudden compunction⁠—the thought that perhaps she had been less tolerant of the dead man than she ought; and how much more must Carry, poor Carry, have felt the awe and pang of an almost remorse to think that he was gone without a word against whom her heart had risen in such rebellion, yet who was of all men the most closely involved in her very being? Lady Lindores comprehended it all; and yet it was a relief to her mind that Carry felt it so, and could thus wear the garb of mourning with reality and truth. She went in with her heart full, with tears in her eyes, the profoundest tender pity for the dead, the deepest sympathy with her child in sorrow. The room was very large, very still, very dark, save for that ruddy twilight, the two little groups of pale lights glimmering high up upon the wall, and no sign of any human presence. “Carry, my darling!” her mother said, wondering and dismayed. Then there was a faint sound, and Carry rose, tall, slim, and white, like a ghost out of the gloom. She had been sitting there for hours, lost in thoughts, in dreams, and visions. She seemed to herself to have so exhausted this event by thinking of it, that it was now years away. She stepped forward and met her mother, tenderly indeed, but with no effusion. “Have you come all the way so late to be with me, mother? How kind, how kind you are! And Edith too⁠—”

“Kind!” cried Lady Lindores, with an almost angry bewilderment. “Did you not know I would come, Carry, my poor child. But you are stunned with this blow⁠—”

“I suppose I was at first. Yes, I knew you would come⁠—at first; but it seems so long since. Sit down, mother; you are cold. You have had such a miserable drive. Come near to the fire⁠—”

“Carry, Carry dear, never mind us; it is you we are all thinking of. You must not sit there and drive yourself distracted thinking.”

“Let me take off this shawl from your cap, mamma. Now you look more comfortable. Have you brought your things to stay? I am ringing to have fires lit in your rooms. Oh yes, I want you to stay. I have never been able to endure this house, you know, and those large rooms, and the desert feeling in it. And you will have some tea or something. I must give orders⁠—”

“Carry,” cried her mother, arresting her hand on the bell, “Edith and I will see to all that. Don’t pay any attention to us. I have come to take care of you, my dearest. Carry, dear, your nerves are all shattered. How could it be otherwise? You must let me get you something⁠—they say you have taken nothing⁠—and you must go to bed.”

“I don’t think my nerves are shattered. I am quite well. There is nothing the matter with me. You forget,” she said, with something like a faint laugh, “how often we have said, mamma, how absurd to send and ask after a woman’s health when there is nothing the matter with her, when only she has lost⁠—” Here she paused a little, and then said gravely, “Even grief does not affect the health.”

“Very often it does not, dear; but, Carry, you must not forget that you have had a terrible shock. Even I, who am not so nearly involved⁠—even I⁠—” Here Lady Lindores, in her excitement and agitation, lost her voice altogether, and sobbed, unable to command herself. “Oh, poor fellow! poor fellow!” she said, with broken tones. “In a moment, Carry, without warning!”

Carry went to her mother’s side, and drew her head upon her breast. She was perfectly composed, without a tear. “I have thought of all that,” she said; “I cannot think it matters. If God is the Father of us all, we are the same to Him, dead or living. What can it matter to Him that we should make preparations to appear before Him? Oh, all that must be folly, mother. However bad I had been, should I have to prepare to go to you?”

“Carry, Carry, my darling! It is I that should be saying this to you. You are putting too much force upon yourself⁠—it is unnatural; it will be all the more terrible for you after.”

Carry stood stooping over her mother, holding Lady Lindores’s head against her bosom. She smiled faintly, and shook her head. “Has it not been unnatural altogether?” she said.

To Edith standing behind, this strange scene appeared like a picture⁠—part of the phantasmagoria of which her sister had for years been the centre: her mind leapt back to the discussions which preceded Carry’s marriage, the hopeless yielding of the victim, the perplexity and misery of the mother. Now they had changed positions, but the same strange haze of terror and pity, yet almost indignation, was in her own breast. She had been the judge then⁠—in a smaller degree she was the judge now. But this plea stopped her confused and painful thoughts. Has it not been unnatural altogether? Edith’s impulse was to escape from a problem which she