CHAPTER XXXVI
One day, some three weeks after Arthur had gone, Angela strolled downthe tunnel walk, now, in the height of summer, almost dark with theshade of the lime-trees, and settled herself on one of the stone seatsunder Caresfoot's staff.
She had a book in hand, but it soon became clear that she had come tothis secluded spot to think rather than read, for it fell unopenedfrom her hand, and her grey eyes were full of a far-off look as theygazed across the lake glittering in the sunlight, away towards thehazy purple outline of the distant hills. Her face was quite calm, butit was not that of a happy person; indeed, it gave a distinct idea ofmental suffering. All grief, however acute, is subject to fixedgradations, and Angela was yet in the second stage. First there is theacute stage, when the heart aches with a physical pain, and the mind,filled with a wild yearning or tortured by an unceasing anxiety, well-nigh gives beneath the abnormal strain. This does not last long, or itwould kill or drive us to the mad-house. Then comes that long epoch ofdull misery, enduring till at last kindly nature in pity rubs off therough extremes of our calamity, and by slow but sure degrees softensagony into sorrow.
This was what she was now passing through, and--as all highlyorganized natures like her own are, especially in youth, verysensitive to those more exquisite vibrations of pain and happinessthat leave minds of a coarser fibre comparatively unmoved--it may betaken for granted that she was suffering sufficiently acutely.
Perhaps she had never quite realized how necessary Arthur had becometo her, how deep his love had sent its fibres into her heart and innerself, until he was violently wrenched away from her and she lost allsight and knowledge of him in the darkness of the outside world. Stillshe had made no show of her sorrow; but once, when Pigott told hersome pathetic story of the death of a little child in the village, sheburst into a paroxysm of weeping. The pity for another's pain hadloosed the flood-gates of her own, but it was a performance that shedid not repeat.
But Angela had her anxieties as well as her griefs, and it was overthese former that she was thinking as she sat on the great stone underthe oak. Love is a wonderful quickener of the perceptions, and,ignorant as she was of all the world's ways, the more she thought overthe terms imposed by her father upon her engagement, the moredistrustful did she grow. Lady Bellamy, too, had been to see hertwice, and on each occasion had inspired her with a lively sense offear and repugnance. During the first of these visits she had shown aperfect acquaintance with the circumstances of her engagement, her"flirtation with Mr. Heigham," as she was pleased to call it. Duringthe second call, too, she had been full of strange remarks about hercousin George, talking mysteriously of "a change" that had come overhim since his illness, and of his being under a "new influence." Norwas this all; for, on the very next day when she was out walking withPigott in the village, she had met George himself, and he had insistedupon entering into a long rambling conversation with her, and onlooking at her in a way that made her feel perfectly sick.
"Oh, Aleck," she said, aloud, to the dog that was sitting by her sidewith his head upon her knee, for he was now her constant companion, "Iwonder where your master is, your master and mine, Aleck. Would to Godthat he were back here to protect me, for I am growing afraid, I don'tknow of what, Aleck, and there are eleven long silent months to wait."At this moment the dog raised his head, listened, and sprang roundwith an angry "woof." Angela rose up with a flash of hope in her eyes,turned, and faced George Caresfoot.
He was still pale and shrivelled from the effects of his illness, butotherwise little changed, except that the light-blue eyes glitteredwith a fierce determination, and that the features had attained thatfixity and strength which sometimes come to those who are bent heartand soul upon an enterprise, be it good or evil.
"So I have found you out at last, Cousin Angela. What, are you notgoing to shake hands with me?"
Angela touched his fingers with her own.
"My father is not here," she said.
"Thank you, my dear cousin, but I did not come to see your father, ofwhom I have seen plenty in the course of my life, and shall doubtlesssee more; I came to see you, of whom I can never see enough."
"I don't understand you," said Angela, defiantly, folding her armsacross her bosom and looking him full in the face with fearless eyes,for her instinct warned her that she was in danger, and also that,whatever she might feel, she must not show that she was afraid.
"I shall hope to make you do so before long," he replied, with ameaning glance; "but you are not very polite, you know, you do notoffer me a seat."
"I beg your pardon, I did not know that you wanted to sit down. I canonly offer you a choice of those stones."
"Then call that brute away, and I will sit down."
"The dog is not a brute, as you mean it. But I should not speak of himlike that, if I were you. He is sensible as a human being, and mightresent it."
Angela knew that George was a coward about dogs; and at that moment,as though to confirm her words, Aleck growled slightly.
"Ah, indeed; well, he is certainly a handsome dog;" and he sat downsuspiciously. "Won't you come and sit down?"
"Thank you. I prefer to stand."
"Do you know what you look like, standing there with your armscrossed? You look like an angry goddess."
"If you mean that seriously, I don't understand you. If it is acompliment, I don't like compliments."
"You are not very friendly," said George, whose temper was fastgetting the better of him.
"I am sorry. I do not wish to be unfriendly."
"So I hear that my ward has been staying here whilst I was ill."
"Yes, he was staying here."
"And I am also told that there was some boy-and-girl love affairbetween you. I suppose that he indulged in a flirtation to wile awaythe time."
Angela turned upon him, too angry to speak.
"Well, you need not look at me like that. You surely never expect tosee him again, do you?"
"If we both live, I shall certainly see him again; indeed, I shall, inany case."
"You will never see him again."
"Why not?"
"Because he was only flirting and playing the fool with you. He is anotorious flirt, and, to my certain knowledge, has been engaged to twowomen before."
"I do not believe that that is true, or, if it is true, it is not allthe truth; but, true or untrue, I am not going to discuss Mr. Heighamwith you, or allow myself to be influenced by stories told behind hisback."
"Angela," said George, rising, and seizing her hand.
She turned quite pale, and a shudder passed over her frame.
"Leave my hand alone, and never dare to touch me again. This is thesecond time that you have tried to insult me."
"So!" answered George, furious with outraged pride and baffledpassion, "you set up your will against mine, do you? Very well, youshall see. I will crush you to powder. Insult you, indeed! How oftendid that young blackguard insult you? I warrant he did more than takeyour hand."
"If," answered Angela, "you mean Mr. Heigham, I shall leave you toconsider whether that term is not more applicable to the person whodoes his best to outrage an unprotected woman, and take advantage ofthe absent, than to the gentleman against whom you have used it;" and,darting on him one glance of supreme contempt, she swept away like anangry queen.
Left to his meditations, George shook his fist towards where she hadvanished.
"Very well, my fine lady, very well," he said, aloud. "You treat me asso much dirt, do you? You shall smart for this, so sure as my name isGeorge Caresfoot. Only wait till you are in my power, and you shalllearn that I was never yet defied with impunity. Oh, and you shalllearn many other things also."
From that time forward, Angela was, for a period of two months ormore, subjected to an organized persecution as harassing as it wascruel. George waylaid her everywhere, and twice actually succeeded inentering into conversation with her, but on both occasions she managedto escape from him b
efore he could proceed any further. Sopersistently did he hunt her, that at last the wretched girl wasdriven to hide herself away in odd corners of the house and woods, inorder to keep out of his way. Then he took to writing her letters, andsending handsome presents, all of which she returned.
Poor Angela! It was hard both to lose her lover, and to suffer dailyfrom the persecutions of her hateful cousin, which were now pushedforward so openly and with such pertinacity as to fill her with vaguealarm. What made her position worse was, that she had no one in whomto confide, for Mr. Fraser had not yet returned. Pigott indeed knewmore or less what was going on, but she could do nothing, exceptbewail Arthur's absence, and tell her "not to mind." There remainedher father, but with him she had never been on sufficiently intimateterms for confidence. Indeed, as time went on, the suspicion gatheredstrength in her mind that he was privy to George's advances, and thatthose advances had something to do with the harsh terms imposed uponArthur and herself. But at last matters grew so bad that, having noother refuge, she determined to appeal to him for protection.
"Father," she said, boldly, one day to Philip, as he was sittingwriting in his study, "my cousin George is persecuting me every day. Ihave borne it as long as I can, but I can bear it no longer. I havecome to ask you to protect me from him."
"Why, Angela, I should have thought that you were perfectly capable ofprotecting yourself. What is he persecuting you about? What does hewant?"
"To marry me, I suppose," answered Angela, blushing to her eyes.
"Well, that is a very complimentary wish on his part, and I can tellyou what it is, Angela, if only you could get that young Heigham outof your head, you might do a deal worse."
"It is quite useless to talk to me like that," she answered, coldly.
"Well, that is your affair; but it is very ridiculous of you to comeand ask me to protect you. The woman must, indeed, be a fool whocannot protect herself."
And so the interview ended.
Next day Lady Bellamy called again.
"My dear child," she said to Angela, "you are not looking well; thisbusiness worries you, no doubt; it is the old struggle between dutyand inclination, that we have most of us gone through. Well, there isone consolation, nobody who ever did his or her duty, regardless ofinclination, ever regretted it in the end."
"What do you mean, Lady Bellamy, when you talk about my duty?"
"I mean the plain duty that lies before you of marrying your cousinGeorge, and of throwing up this young Heigham."
"I recognize no such duty."
"My dear Angela, do look at the matter from a sensible point of view,think what a good thing it would be for your father, and remember,too, that it would re-unite all the property. If ever a girl had aclear duty to perform, you have."
"Since you insist so much upon my 'duty,' I must say that it seems tome that an honest girl in my position has three duties to consider,and not one, as you say, Lady Bellamy. First, there is her duty to theman she loves, for her the greatest duty of any in the world; next herduty to herself, for her happiness and self-respect are involved inher decision; and, lastly, her duty to her family. I put the familylast, because, after all, it is she who gets married, not her family."
Lady Bellamy smiled a little.
"You argue well; but there is one thing that you overlook, though I amsorry to have to pain you by saying it; young Mr. Heigham is no betterthan he should be. I have made inquiries about him, and think that Iought to tell you that."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean that his life, young as he is, has not been so creditable asit might have been. He has been the hero of one or two little affairs.I can tell you about them if you like."
"Lady Bellamy, your stories are either true or untrue. If true, Ishould take no notice of them, because they must have happened beforehe loved me; if untrue, they would be a mere waste of breath, so Ithink that we may dispense with the stories--they would influence meno more than the hum of next summer's gnats."
Lady Bellamy smiled again.
"You are a curious woman," she said; "but, supposing that there wereto be a repetition of these little stories _after_ he loved you, whatwould you say then?"
Angela looked troubled, and thought awhile.
"He could never go far from me," she answered.
"What do you mean?"
"I mean that I hold the strings of his heart in my hands, and I haveonly to lift them to draw him back to me--so. No other woman, noliving force, can keep him from me, if I choose to bid him come."
"Supposing that to be so, how about the self-respect you spoke of justnow? Could you bear to take your lover back from the hands of anotherwoman?"
"That would entirely depend upon the circumstances, and upon what wasjust to the other woman."
"You would not then throw him up without question?"
"Lady Bellamy, I may be very ignorant and simple, but I am neither madnor a fool. What do you suppose that my life would be worth to me if Ithrew Arthur up? If I remained single it would be an aching void, asit is now, and if I married any other man whilst he still lived, itwould become a daily and shameful humiliation such as I had rather diethan endure."
Lady Bellamy glanced up from under her heavy-lidded eyes; a thoughthad evidently struck her, but she did not express it.
"Then I am to tell your cousin George that you will have absolutelynothing to do with him?"
"Yes, and beg him to cease persecuting me; it is quite useless; ifthere were no Arthur and no other man in the world, I would not marryhim. I detest him--I cannot tell you how I detest him."
"It is amusing to hear you talk so, and to think that you willcertainly be Mrs. George Caresfoot within nine months."
"Never," answered Angela, passionately stamping her foot upon thefloor. "What makes you say such horrible things?"
"I reflect," answered Lady Bellamy, with an ominous smile, "thatGeorge Caresfoot has made up his mind to marry you, and that I havemade up mine to help him to do so, and that your will, strong as itcertainly is, is, as compared with our united wills, what a straw isto a gale. The straw cannot travel against the wind, it _must_ go withit, and you _must_ marry George Caresfoot. You will as certainly cometo the altar-rails with him as you will to your death-bed. It iswritten in your face. Good-bye."
For the first time Angela's courage really gave way as she heard thesedreadful words. She remembered how she herself had called Lady Bellamyan embodiment of the "Spirit of Power," and now she felt that thecomparison was just. The woman was power incarnate, and her words,which from anybody else she would have laughed at, sent a cold chillthrough her.
"She is a fine creature both in mind and body," reflected LadyBellamy, as she stepped into her carriage. "Really, though I try tohate her, I can find it in my heart to be sorry for her. Indeed, I amnot sure that I do not like her; certainly I respect her. But she hascome in my path and must be crushed--my own safety demands it. Atleast, she is worth crushing, and the game is fair, for perhaps shewill crush me. I should not be surprised; there is a judgment in thosegrey eyes of hers--Qui vivra verra. Home, William."