DIANA.
I.--AN UNDERTAKING.
"He will not last ten years' time, Die; and then you will be rich andindependent--the lady of Ashpound."
"Don't mention it, sir, unless you mean to tempt me to commit murdernext."
The speakers in the old drawing-room of Newton-le-Moor, in the southcountry, thirty years ago, were Mr. Baring and his daughter Diana. Hewas a worn and dissipated-looking man, with a half-arrogant, half-baseair--implying a whole old man of the world of a bad day gone by. He wasflawless in his carving, his card-dealing, his frock-coat and tie:corrupt to the core in almost everything else. She was a tall,full-formed woman, in her flower and prime, with a fine carriage andgait, which rendered it a matter of indifference that she wore as plainand simple a muslin gown as a lady could wear. Her hair was of the pale,delicate, neutral tint which the French call _blond-cendre_, a littletoo ashen-hued for most complexions. It was not wavy hair, but very softand pure, as if no atmosphere of turmoil and taint had ruffled orsoiled it. It made Miss Baring's fresh, clear complexion a shade toobright in the carmine, which took off the greyness of the flaxen hue andrelieved the cold and steel-like gleam in her grey-blue eyes. Thefeatures of the face were fine and regular, like Mr. Baring's; butinstead of the handsome, aristocratic, relentless aquiline nose, whichwas the most striking feature in the gentleman's face, the lady's was amodified Greek nose, broad enough at the base slightly to spoil itsbeauty but largely to increase its intellectual significance.
The "he" of the conversation, who was not to last ten years, was GervaseNorgate of Ashpound--a poor, impulsive, weak-willed, fast-living youngneighbouring squire. Unluckily for himself, he had been early left hisown master, and had ridden post-haste to the dogs ever since. Suddenlyhe had taken it into his muddled head to pull up in his career, and, ifneed be, to chain and padlock, hedge and barricade himself with a wifeand family, before Ashpound should be swallowed up by hungry creditors,and he had hurried himself into a forlorn grave.
Mr. Baring was willing to let him off as a pigeon to be plucked, and touse him instead as an unconscious decoy-duck in getting rid of Die; notthat Mr. Baring had an unnatural aversion to his daughter, but that shewas a drag upon him both for the present and the future. But Die, afterone night's reflection, accepted Gervase Norgate to escape worse evil,having neither brother nor sister nor friend who would aid her. What Diedid on that night; whether she merely "slept on the proposal," like awise, well-in-hand, self-controlled woman; whether she outwatched themoon, plying herself with arguments, forcing herself to overcome herdeadly sick loathing at the leap, nobody knows. If Die had learnedanything worth retaining, in the shifts and shams of her life, it wasperfect reticence. The result was that Gervase Norgate was coming to wooas an accepted wooer at Newton-le-Moor on the evening of the summer daywhen Mr. Baring confidentially assured the bride that the bridegroomwould not last ten years.
Newton-le-Moor was what its name suggested, an estate won from thesouthern moors by other and worthier adventurers than John FitzwilliamBaring. In his hands the place was drifting back to the originalmoorland. Everything, except the stables and kennels, had been sufferedto go to wreck. The house was of weather-streaked white stone, in partstaring and pretentious, in part prodigal and vagabondish. Thedrawing-room of Newton-le-Moor, like most drawing-rooms, was acommentary--more or less complete--on the life and character of itsowner. If it did not represent all his practices and pursuits--hisrepudiation of just claims and obligations; his sleeping till noon andwaking till morning, and faring sumptuously at his neighbours' expense;his fleecing of every victim who crossed his false door by borrowing,bill-discounting, horse-dealing, betting, billiards, long and shortwhist, and brandy-drinking--at least it painted one little peculiarityof John Fitzwilliam Baring very fairly. Not one accessory which couldcontribute to his comfort and enjoyment was wanting, from theexceedingly easy chair for his back, to the alabaster lamp for hiseyes, and the silver pastile-burner for his nose. On the other hand,there was scarcely an article that had no special reference to JohnFitzwilliam Baring which was not in the last stages of decay.
On this evening, before Gervase Norgate came up with her father from thedining-room, where he might sit too long, considering who was waitinghim, Diana had her tea-table arranged, and sat down behind it as if todo its honours. She showed no symptoms of discomposure, unless that herrose-colour flickered and flushed in a manner that was not natural toit; yet she had so entrenched herself, that when Gervase Norgateentered, with an irregular, unsteady step, although as nearly sober ashe ever was, she could not be touched except at arm's length, and by thetips of the fingers, over which he bowed.
Mr. Norgate was not in his flower and prime. He was not above a year ortwo Miss Baring's senior; but his whole being had suffered eclipsebefore it reached maturity, though he still showed some remains of whatmight have been worth preserving. His physique had been what no wordinterprets so fitly as the Scotch word "braw,"--not huge and unwieldy insize and strength, but manly and comely. His shoulders were still broad,though they slouched. His hand and arm were still a model, somewhatwasted and shaken, of what in muscular power and lightness a hand andarm should be. His dark brown hair, dry and scanty at five-and-twenty,still fell in waves. His eyes, dulled and dimmed, were still the kindly,magnanimous, forgiving blue eyes. His mouth had always been a heavymouth (better at all events than a mean mouth); it was coarse now, butwith strange lines of gentleness breaking in upon its tendency toviolence. But his carriage, though he was pre-eminently a well-made man,was the attribute most spoilt about him. He had the blustering yetshuffling bearing of a man who is fully convinced that he has gone tothe dogs, and it did not alter its expression that he was making aneffort to quit his canine associates. Perhaps the effort required to beconfirmed before its effects could be seen; perhaps he was not settingabout the right way of redeeming himself, after all.
Mr. Baring was pompous in his high breeding--the first gentleman inEurope was pompous also. Mr. Baring brought forward his intendedson-in-law as his young friend, and alluded pointedly to the summerevening and its event as an "auspicious occasion." But he was cut shortby a frosty glance from Die, and a brief remark that she was not surethat this evening and its party were more auspicious than usual.
Although Miss Baring was a person of very little consequence in herfather's house, she acted on Mr. Baring as a drag. Her cold looksinadvertently damped him; and she had a way, which he could not accountfor in his daughter, of making blunt speeches, like that on theauspicious occasion and on her being left a rich young widow, if GervaseNorgate did for himself smartly. This was discomfiting even to a man whopiqued himself on his resources in conversation. Die had uttered twiceas many of these abrupt, unamiable, unanswerable rejoinders withinthese twenty-four hours, since she had accepted Gervase Norgate's hand.
Whatever Mr. Baring thought of the rebuff, he was above exhibiting anysign of his feelings, and no one could have refused him the tribute ofconsideration for the position of his companions, as he blandlyannounced that he had the day's 'Chronicle' to read, and begged to beexcused for accomplishing the task before post-time. He retired to siphis tea and disappear behind the folds of his newspaper. It was thefirst evening for a dozen years that he had not handled cue orfingered cards.
Gervase Norgate, assuming his character of a man about to amend hisways, marry, and settle, sat by Die Baring. He noted and summed up thegirl's good points, as no man in love ever yet did. She was afiner-looking woman than he had supposed,--one to be proud of as hepresented her to his friends as his wife; pity that he had so fewcreditable friends left now! He could think of none at that momentexcept his strong-minded old Aunt Tabby, who had some sneaking kindnessfor him in the middle of her scorn, and his old man, Miles. Die Baringwould not tolerate his boon companions--not that he wanted her totolerate them; she would not suit for his mistress and manager if shedid; though where she got her niceness--seeing what her father was up toin cool, barefaced scampishness, in horse-flesh, bones, and
pasteboard--he could not tell.--She was a capable woman he was certain,if she got a fair field for her capability. She was clever: anybody withhalf an eye or an ear might recognize that. And she would want all hercleverness--ay, and her will and temper--for what she would have to do.But she had undertaken the task, and it was not much to the purpose thatif she had not been the daughter of a disreputable spendthrift she woulddoubtless as lief have touched live coals as have submitted to be hiswife. Ah, well, it was his luck in his last toss-up, and he had neverbeen lucky before; yet he had never felt so great a reluctance toconclude his engagement of twenty-four hours, and clinch his repentance,as he did at this moment. It was good for him that he stood committed.But why had he not sought out some humble, meek lass, who would stillhave looked up to him and reckoned him not quite such a reprobate, butbelieved that there was some good left in him, and liked him a littlefor himself--not married him to suit her own book and save him for herown sake, if it were possible? Why had he not chosen a simple pet lamb,in place of a proud heifer who scarcely took the trouble to conceal fromhim how it galled her neck to put it into his yoke? Psha! he would breakany poor heart with his incorrigible wildness and beastly sottishness ina month's time. A woman without a heart; a good, hard-mouthed,strong-pulling, well-wearing woman,--honest, and a lady; a handsome,superior woman, and far beyond his deserts, was the wife for him.
Gervase pursued this line of thought; but he spoke to Miss Baring,after a little introductory flourish about the weather, his ridefrom Ashpound, and the embroidery which she had taken up, in adifferent strain.
"You have shown a great, I must say an unmerited, trust in me, MissBaring--Diana: but I mean--I swear I mean to do the best I can for youand myself. I have thought better of the life I have been leading; Ishall turn over a new leaf, and be another man if you will help me."
The confession was fatally facile, like most confessions, but it wassincere, and not without its touching element, which, however, did notreach her.
She replied, without being greatly moved, and corrected what might be aslight misconception on his part: "I am quite aware, Mr. Norgate, thatyou have been rather wild; but since you mean to do better, I am willingto try you and to be your wife."
Diana's candid acquiescence had the same disconcerting influence uponGervase that her speeches had on her father, unlike as the men were: itstruck him dumb when he should have overwhelmed her with thanks. After awhile he recovered himself, took heart of grace, and blundered out thathe was grateful,--a happy man; would she not say Gervase, when she washaving him altogether?
"I suppose I may," acceded Diana, with a hard smile. "There, Gervase--itis not hard to say," as if she were humouring him.
He did not ask for any more favours or rights, but maundered a little onnobody calling him Gervase for many a day except his aunt Tabby, and shecontracted it to Jarvie, which had a stage-coach flavour.
"Tell me something about your aunt Tabby. Do you know, I have notvisited an aunt since I was a little girl of ten?" This afforded him anopening more naturally and pleasantly, and the two went off on AuntTabby instead of accomplishing more courtship, and got on a littlebetter. Diverging from Aunt Tabby to her place, and from her place toAshpound, they went on with mention of Gervase's factotum, Miles, anddiscussed capabilities and future arrangements with wonderful commonsense.
Mr. Baring swallowed his last gape over his 'Chronicle,' concludedthat the couple had surely had their swing of private conversation forone night, and resolved to curtail the courtship to the shortestdecorous bounds. So Mr. Baring looked at his watch, and said quitelovingly to Gervase: "My boy, when I do act the family man, I do thething thoroughly, by supping in my dressing-room at eleven. What! youare off? A pleasant ride to you. You will receive your orders fromDie, I fancy, when to report yourself in attendance. To-morrow is it,or next day? Make yourself at home, my dear fellow. Happy to thinkthat you are going to be one of us--a son for me to be proud of.Good-night. God bless you."
Thus the preliminaries to the alliance ended with Gervase bowing againover the tips of Die's fingers. He had not the smallest inclination toraise them to his lips.
"I will do my duty by him," said Diana to herself, when she was in thesanctuary of her own bare room. And what a poor sanctuary it had been!"It may be bad in me to have him, but what can I do? and what can he do,for that matter? If I do my duty by him, surely some good will come ofit." Perhaps her imagination was haunted by a garbled version of thetext about him who turns a sinner from the error of his ways and coversa multitude of sin.
II.--THE FULFILMENT.
"She's a fine woman the mistress, a rare fine woman; but she's goingthe wrong way. It's the cart before the horse, and I tell you it's notconformable; and the master, God help him, poor fellow, will never bebrought to go at the tail of the cart--never." So ruminated GervaseNorgate's old servant, Miles, pushing back the tufts of ragged redhair on his long head ruefully, as he sat "promiscuous" in what he waspleased to call his pantry at Ashpound, while he contemplated with theeye of the body his chamois skin for what he proudly denominated hissilver, and with the eye of the mind the new regime and its rulingspirit.
"She's a fine woman," remarked also of her new niece, Miss TabithaNorgate, of Redwells. "She's a fine woman, a great deal too good forhim; but she oughtn't to have gone and married Jarvie, or to havemarried anybody, there's the long and the short of it. She ought to haveremained single, like me. She was made to stand alone, while he wanted awoman and as many children as she could muster to hang round hisneck--the liker a millstone the better,--he won't drown: he could nottake the straight road without a weight to ballast him and keep himsteady. If he had consulted me, I would have advised him to marry thatdawdling, whimpering Susie Lefroy, the widowed daughter of the Vicar,with her unprovided-for orphans. Jarvie might have stepped into a youngfamily at once, and he would have been a kind stepfather--he might haverighted himself then. To go and marry a clever, active, handsome,well-born woman like Die Baring. Oh! dear, dear, what folly!"
In spite of her critics, Mrs. Gervase Norgate spared no pains to acquitherself of her obligation, and to discharge her debt at Ashpound.Ashpound was a much more exhilarating residence than Newton-le-Moor. AtNewton-le-Moor the desolation of prodigality and immorality wasobjective and deductive. At Ashpound the desolation was subjective andinductive, a plague-spot within; and although the flush of decay wasvisible, Gervase would struggle against it to the last. He would make aneffort to preserve the pleasant, rambling, mellow brick house, most ofit one-storied and draped with jessamine and clematis as old as thebuilding; the belt of ash-trees round the ferny dells of the littlepark; and the whitewashed offices, in excellent repair; the well caredfor cattle and poultry-yard; the amply-stocked, flourishing gardens; thepretty gardener's house and lodge--the prettiest things about the place,as his father had left them to him. To the last Gervase would aim atkeeping up the place, to his mother's drawing-room, his father's study,Miles's pantry and cellar, even the modern housekeeper's room, and themaids' gallery, in comfort and pleasantness. Only his ownrooms--dining-room, smoking-room, bedroom--had been suffered to showtraces of many a brawl and fray. It was as if he had deemed anythinggood enough for a scapegrace and beast like him, and thought to pay thewhole price in his own person. It would not be with his will if anyother person, high or low, contributed to his heavy forfeits. AndGervase Norgate's servants, new as well as old, had a pitiful likingfor him, a remorseful regard for his interests, even when these clashedwith their own. So when Gervase had removed the traces, repaired thedamages, and taken the decisive step of forbidding the inroads of hisevil associates, Mrs. Gervase Norgate found a peaceful,prosperous-seeming, as well as fair, country home awaiting her.
Neither did Mrs. Gervase Norgate droop or mope; she was alive to everyadvantage, alert to improve every opportunity. Frankly she praised thehouse at Ashpound, which she had formerly known at the distance ofcommon acquaintanceship, but now knew in the nearness of home, fromgarret to cellar. "What a well-sea
soned, kindly dwelling you have here,Gervase. How I like the windows opening down to the floors, the creepingplants, the hall window-seats, and the attics with their pigeon-holebureaux." She made herself familiar with its details, and she flatteredits old occupants with the extent of her intimacy and appreciation. Shedid not let the grass grow beneath her feet in learning and acquiringits owner's habits. Early rising had been one of the good old countryhabits which had stuck to Gervase. And not a dairymaid at Ashpound wasup and abroad at so primitive an hour as its mistress, ready to walkwith the Squire to his horses' stalls and paddocks, his cattle sheds,his game preserves, his workpeople in the fields; anywhere but to thesign of the 'Spreading Ash-tree,' in the village of Ash-cum-thorpe, forhis morning draught.
"Well-a-day," cried Dolly; "I would not be the mistress, to rise and goto her work afore the stroke of six, and she a fine lady born and bred,for all the hats and feathers, table heads, and carriage-seats in thishere world. If I ever have a word to say to Luke Jobling, I know it willbe with an eye to a good long lie in the morning when he has gone to hismowing or his reaping. How Madam does it without ever drooping aneyelid, none of us can tell; but they do say the gentlefolks are asstrong as steel when they like to put out their strength; happen it isthe high living as gives it to them. I know Madam puts us to our mettlehere. And lawk! the Squire, he's as restless and lost like as a newweaned calf. Eh! I had liefer have the holding-in of a senseless calf,though I had not Luke to help me with the bars of the gates, than theholding in of a full-grown, whole-witted man. But the poormistress--them as don't know the rights of a thing calls hersaucy--young lady though she be, she do work hard for her place andliving, she do, since she has got Master Gervase and Ashpound."
Anticipating her husband's commands, Diana was ever ready to bear himcompany, to share his engagements and amusements, walking, riding,shooting, fishing, playing billiards, cribbage, bowls, racket,backgammon, draughts, for hours on a stretch; to go abroad attending themarket and doing banking business at Market Hesketh, dining out with theVicar or with any country host save Mr. Baring--Mrs. Gervase Norgatesetting her face against the paternal hospitalities--dancing at thecounty balls as one of the leaders. She did not seem to know whatweariness meant. She would trudge whole half-days with him and thekeepers, after luncheon, beating the plantations and pacing theturnip-fields to start and bring down birds, and she would be saunteringwith him on the terrace and in the park after dinner all the same. Shewould be in the saddle ten hours during a long day's hunt, as the autumnadvanced and the meets assembled, and within an hour of alighting at thedoor of Ashpound, she would have exchanged muddy bottle-green orWaterloo blue cloth for glistening white satin, and be stepping into thecarriage with Gervase to be present at one of their wedding parties.
There was something positively great in the intentness with whichthe woman pursued her end of the man's salvation; the vigilance withwhich she ever kept sight of the wounded quarry she was to rescueand to restore. The neighbourhood watched the struggle withinterest, admiration, hostile criticism, not very delicatediversion. Only to John Fitzwilliam Baring the struggle was amatter of indifference--rather of repugnance. He would have likedDie to be more feminine and more helpless.
Would Die slacken in her energy and devotion? Would Gervase be able tobear his cure much longer?
Beyond the honeymoon, and with the feeling decidedly growing, GervaseNorgate was gratified by his wife's sacrifice of herself in everyrespect, and long before he grew accustomed to it and felt easy underit, he was touched by it. He liked her company too, for he was fond ofsociety, and had been lonely since his father and mother died. She wasan observant, intelligent woman, high-minded and pure-hearted, andvastly superior to his late satellites. She was eager to suit herself tohim, and made herself as free with him as she could be, as far as heknew, with any one. At this season Gervase Norgate was attracted tosomething warmer, sweeter, more intimate in their intercourse. Heenjoyed her quick remarks and shrewd conclusions. He was pleased with,and proud of the new blossoming of her beauty under the combinedinfluences of an open-air life, constant occupation, and a powerfulobject. He was willing to wait till more tender feelings should awakenbetween them. It looked as if Gervase Norgate had turned over a newleaf: his cheek lost its dull, engrained red, or its pallor; his lipsgrew firmer; his eyes clearer and cooler; he raised his head, and threwoff something of the slouch of his shoulders and the swing anduncertainty of his walk.
"How well you look in that pretty dress, Diana!" he would say; "Ideclare you are as brave a figure as any in my Lord's picture-gallery.Let me fetch you a cluster of monthly roses, though I am not fit to holdthe candle to you." Or, "Come, Die, let us have a stroll and a smoke inthe garden." Or, "Sit still for another game, will you? My hand is justin and my luck beginning. I know you are never tired. Mrs. Gervase, youare a trump--the ace of trumps."
Ignorant spectators might have set them down for a good, happy, well-metyoung couple, with regard to whom it would be simply and equallyappropriate to wish "God bless them."
III.--HAZARD.
Diana did not slacken in her devotion, but there came a limit to theendurance of Gervase. The gleam of success was but the gleam beforethe overcast.
First, Gervase was conscious of being nettled by the distance whichexisted between him and Diana. And certainly, to be sensible of his armbeing arrested by an unseen obstacle when he thought to put it round hisown wife's waist, to collapse in the mere idea of asking her to give hima kiss, never to have felt so fully the dissipated, degraded fool he hadbeen, as he felt then, was not a pleasant sensation. It may soundimmoral, but it seemed as if, had Gervase been more depraved, therewould have been more hope for him, since he would have appreciated thegulf between him and his guardian less.
Then the old craving returned like a death thirst. The old, wild,worthless, low companions, were cognisant, as if by instinct, of arelapse. Eager to hail its signs, and profit by them, they waylaid himat the 'Spreading Ash,' with "Hey, don't you dare to swallow a singleglass in your own village, to give custom to your villager, man?" Theywaylaid and gathered round him in the market-place of Market Hesketh,with "Well met, Mr. Gervase Norgate. Lord! are you alive still? for wehad doubted it. Don't speak to him to detain him, you fellows; don't yousee Mrs. Gervase has her eye upon him, and is craning her neck todiscover what is keeping him? Off with you, sir, since you are ahusband, a reformed rake, and a church-goer. If you had gone and joinedthe Methodists, you might have been a preacher yourself by this time.Oh! we don't want to spoil sport and balk your good intentions; but, byGeorge, Gervase, we never thought you would have been the man to betied so tight to a woman's apron-string. You must spare us one morecarouse for old friendship's sake, my boy, just to try what it is likeagain, and hear all the news. Ah! your teeth are watering; come along;Madam is not to swallow you up entirely."
They got him away from his wife, and made him leave her sitting anhour in the carriage, with a pair of young horses pawing and rearingand endangering her very life in the yard of the 'Crown.' They madehim send her home without him, and kept him till they had nothing moreto say than "Heave the poor devil into a gig, and drive him up to hisown door and put him down there. It is the best you can do forhim,--the fool was always so easily upset; and it will do for her atthe same time--give her something to hold her cursed high white headin the air and turn up her nose for; serve her impudence right fortaking it upon her to act as private policeman to Jarvie." They senthim home to her, a beast who had been with wild beasts. They did itfor the most part heedlessly, in jollity and jeering; but they did itnot the less effectually. The wild beast of sensuality had him again;not one devil, but seven, had entered into him; and reigning king overthe others, an insensate devil of cruel jealousy of his wife, of hisgaoler, resenting her efforts, defying her pains.
Diana did not take Gervase Norgate's backsliding to her very heart, wasnot wounded to death by it as if she had loved him. But she did not givehim up. She was a tenacious woman, and Gervase Norgate'
s salvation washer one chance of moral redemption from the base barter of hermarriage. She did not reproach him: she was too proud a woman, too coldto him, to goad and sting him by reproaches. They might have served herend better than the terrible aggravation of her silence. She was justtoo, and she did not accuse him unduly. She said to herself, "He is apoor, misguided fellow, a brute where drink is concerned: when I marriedhim, that was as clear as day. I have no right to complain, though heresume his bad courses." Still she left no stone unturned; she wasprepared, as before, to ride and walk and play with him at all hours;she ignored his frequent absences and the condition in which he cameback, as far as possible. She abetted old Miles in clearing away,silently and swiftly, the miserable evidences of mischief. She smuggledout of sight, and huddled into oblivion, battered hats, broken pipes andsticks, stopperless flasks, cracked, smoky lanterns--concealing themwith a decent, decorous, sacred duplicity even from Aunt Tabby, whotrotted across the country on her father's old trotting mare, took herobservations, and departed, shaking her head and moralizing on the text,"Cast not your pearls before swine."
Diana sat at her forlorn post in the billiard-room, or by thecribbage-board, or at the piano which Gervase had got for her. She hadsome small skill to play and sing to him, and was indefatigable inlearning the simple tunes and songs he liked. And night after night shewas left alone, unapproached, uncalled for; or else Gervase stumbled infrom the dining-room or from an adjournment to the village tavern, wherehe was the acknowledged king and emperor, bemussed, befumed, giddy,hilarious, piteously maudlin, or deliriously furious. She stooped tosmile and answer his random ravings and to comply with his demands. Ifshe escaped actual outrage and injury in his house and hers, it was notbecause she did not provoke him, for there was nothing in his wife whichGervase hated so heartily, resented so keenly, as her refraining fromcontradicting him. But below the grossness and sin of the poor lout andcaitiff there was a fund of sullen, latent manliness and kindness, whichheld him back from insulting the defenceless woman--for all her prideand purity--who was his wife, just as it had held him back from dallyingwith and caressing her as his mistress.
The neighbourhood which had furnished both a dress-circle and a pit towitness Diana's spectacle, was not astonished at the fate of theadventure. Its success would have been little short of a miracle, andthese were not the days of faith in miracles; so the neighbourhood didnot pity Mrs. Gervase Norgate, for she had been foolhardy at the best,and her fortune or misfortune had only been what ought to have beenexpected. For that matter Mrs. Gervase Norgate would not have thankedthe world for its pity, though it had been lavishly vouchsafed.
There was one point on which Diana did not hesitate to contradictGervase, and persisted in contradicting him. She would not suffer him,if she could help it, to frequent Newton-le-Moor, or to consort with Mr.Baring. For to go to Newton-le-Moor was to go among the Philistines; andlawless as Gervase was in his own person, it should never be with hiswife's consent that he should go and be plundered by her own flesh andblood--his errors rendering him but a safer and a surer prey.
Gervase was standing restless and indignant by the low bow-window of hiswife's drawing-room, opening on the flower-garden, which had been laidout in their honeymoon, and in which she continued to take pleasure,though the wealth of glowing autumn geraniums and verbenas had givenplace to the few frosted winter chrysanthemums. It was but the middle ofthe day, and he had risen and had his cup of tea laced with brandy andcrowned with brandy, so that the jaded man was comparatively fresh, butirritable to the last nerve, each jarring nerve twanging likeharpstrings, sending electric thrills of vexation and rage over hiswhole body at the cross of every straw.
Diana, who had been up and busy for hours, was sitting at her desk; herbrow, whatever cares lurked behind it, unruffled and white; a seemly,reasonable, refined woman, aggrieved every day she lived, but scorningto betray a knowledge of the grievance.
"Don't go to Newton, above all by yourself, Gervase," the wife wasentreating, gravely and earnestly. "I am afraid my father may take theopportunity of trying to get money from you. He has entered horses forthe Thorpe stakes: he will seek to make you enter them, and you toldme yourself May and Highflyer were not fit to run this year. Or hewill seek to lead you into some other transaction in horse-flesh, orhave you into the house to play billiards and remain to dinner andcards all night, and there is always high play at Newton. My father isa needy man, and needy men are tempted to be unscrupulous; at leasthis code implies few scruples, where the letter of the laws of honouris complied with."
"It comes ill off your hand to say so," observed Gervase harshly.Undoubtedly he spoke no more than the truth, and such a life as GervaseNorgate's was not a school for magnanimity.
Die winced a little; and she was a woman whose fair cheek so rarelyblushed, that her blushing was like another woman's crying. Die nevercried; Gervase Norgate had never wrung a tear from her, or seen hershed a tear.
"Well, it was hard for me to say it," she admitted, with an accent ofreproach in her equable tones; "but there the wrong and the shame are,and I owe it to myself and to you to warn you."
"I wonder how much I owe your being here to Newton-le-Moor beinglittle better than a not very reputable gambling-house," exclaimedGervase rudely.
She looked at him with her wide-open eyes, as if she had been struck,but did not care to own the blow.
"It was not to much profit where you were concerned," he continued, inan infatuation of brutality; "it did not get you so much as apocket-handkerchief, or a flower-garden like that down there, or,"glancing round him, "trumpery hangings and mirrors, and a new gown ortwo, or any other of the miserable trash for which women sellthemselves."
She neither spoke nor stirred.
He had worked himself into a blindness of rage, in which he could seenothing before him but the possibility of moving her, of breaking downand destroying her calm front.
"And I wonder how much you owe your being here to my being a prodigalclutching at any respite? You may well come down lightly on my faults,Madam; they have made you the mistress of Ashpound in the present, andwon for you its widow's jointure in the future. If I had known allbeforehand, I might not have encumbered myself in vain. As it is, Ido not think it becomes you to lecture me on keeping company with yourown father."
She got up and left the room.
It was time, when all was lost, even honour. If he had not been himself,she might have passed over his taunts with simple shame and disgust; butgiven, as they were, when she held that he knew what he was saying--as aproof that he had not a particle of respect and regard for her aftertheir months of wedlock, they were a certain indication of his ruin andher reward.
IV.--THE LAST THROW.
"Poor Mrs. Gervase Norgate, she must have been so put about to have togo away with her husband last night. How the scamp got into thedrawing-room I cannot tell; but he could do nothing but lean against thewall: he could not have bitten his fingers to save his life. She did notshow her mortification unless by going away immediately. A wonderfulamount of countenance has that poor young woman; but I take it she willnot go out with him again if she can help it--and she need not, she neednot, Lady Metcalfe. I can tell you he shall not be asked within my doorsagain; but I shall be very glad if you will always remember to send hera card, poor thing: she can go out without him, it must come to thateventually. It is not a mere kindness; she is really a credit and anornament to your parties, to the county set altogether. But the soonershe learns to go out without him, and keep him in the background, thebetter for all parties. She has the command of a good income still, witha very tolerable jointure behind it, and Ashpound is a pretty place; nota fine place, like my lord's, but a very pretty place for a sensiblewoman's management and enjoyment."
One of Gervase Norgate's oldest neighbours, a fussy but good-natured,middle-aged baronet, pronounced this judgment.
There was nothing left for Diana but to resign Gervase to his fate, andgather up the gains which were left her
. The most impartial authoritiesdecided so. The gains would have sufficed for many a woman. Mrs. GervaseNorgate had comparative riches, after the cash scramble in which she hadbeen brought up. Gervase had not succeeded in wasting above one-third ofhis fortune, and would doubtless end his career before he made away withthe whole. Mrs. Gervase was the mistress of Ashpound, and most peoplewould have valued it as what newspapers describe as a most desirableresidence, a most eligible investment. If she ever had a child--a son,though she shuddered at the idea,--he would be the young Squire, theheir of Ashpound. In the meantime, Gervase Norgate was not a churl: hedid not dream of stinting his wife in her perquisites, though he was notfond of her, and they now no longer lived comfortably together. Shemight have out his mother's carriage every day, or she might haveanother built for her, and drive it with a pair of ponies if she chose;she had a well-bred, fine-mounted, thin-legged, glossy-coatedsaddle-horse kept for her sole use, and she might have a second bred andbroken for her any year she liked. She could even employ her owndiscretion in the income to be spent in the housekeeping. Ready moneywas becoming short with him; but his sense of her rights, and his faithin her prudence, had not failed. She had only to draw on his banker oragent to have her draught honoured. Whatever sums she might devote toher personal pleasures, her prodigal husband would not call in question.She might indulge in fine clothes, recherche jewellery, embellishmentsand ornaments for her rooms; she might take up art or literature, orheaths, or melons, or poultry, or flannel petticoating and soup-makingfor the poor (Sunday-schools and district visiting were hardly infashion), and pursue one, or other, or all, for occupation andamusement, without impairing her resources; and she claimed a veryrespectable circle of friends as Mrs. Gervase Norgate, though she hadbeen friendless, and getting always more friendless, as Miss Baring. Theworld had put its veto on the risk of her marriage with Gervase Norgate,in so far as its excusable element--the reformation of GervaseNorgate--was concerned; but with commendable elasticity it had alloweditself to be considerably influenced by the advantages which themarriage had obtained and secured for Diana, as well as by her conductin their possession, and had awarded her the diploma of its esteem. Ahandsome, ladylike, sensible, well-disposed, sufficiently-agreeable,though quiet young matron, almost too wise and forbearing for her years,was its verdict. It was wonderful how well she had turned out,considering how she had been exposed; for every one knew JohnFitzwilliam Baring, and how little fitted he was for the care of amotherless daughter. The more tender-hearted and sentimental world beganto look upon Mrs. Gervase Norgate's bad husband, whom she had married inthe face of his offence, as one of her merits,--a chief merit, to makeof her a popular victim and martyr, no matter that she was not naturallyconstituted for the _role_, was not frank enough for popularity, notmeek enough for martyrdom.
Even Miss Tabitha, who had still a friendly feeling for the culprit, hadnothing to say against Mrs. Gervase, except that she was too good forhim. Poor Miles listened wistfully for his master's reeling step, andwent out in the night air, risking his rheumatism, for which Mr. Gervasehad always cared, making sure that the old boy had a screen to hispantry, and shutters to his garret. He watched lest his master shouldmake his bed of the cold ground and catch a deadly chill; caring for thebesotted man, when he found him, with reverence and tenderness, as forthe chubby boy who had bidden so fair to be a good and happy man, worthyof all honour, when Miles had first known him as his young master. Milesresented feebly the perishing of the forlorn hope of a rescue, andmuttered fatuously the cart had been put before the horse, and the reinstaken out of the whip hand, and that'd never do. What could come of theunnatural process but a crashing spill?
Diana could not accept the solution. Nineteen women out of twenty, whohad acted as she had done, would have taken the compensations, perhapsbeen content with the indemnifications of her lot; but Diana was thetwentieth. Whether the cost of his mercenary marriage was far beyondwhat she had estimated it, she lost heart and hope and heed of theworld's opinion, and was on the high road to loss of conscience, fromthe moment she was convinced that Gervase Norgate was lost.
Diana gave up going into the society which was so willing to welcomeher, which thought so well of her. She relinquished all pride inpersonal dignity and propriety, as she had never done when she hadlocked her doors to shut out the jingling rattle of the bones, and,occasionally, the curses, not loud but deep, which broke in upon therepose of the long nights at Newton-le-Moor. She ceased to exert herselfto regulate the expenditure of the house, to preserve itsrespectability, to wipe out the signs of its master's ruin. Old Milesmight strive to keep up appearances, but his mistress no longer aidedand abetted him. It had become a matter of indifference to Mrs. Gervasewhether the dragged carpet, the wrenched-down curtain, the shatteredchair, were removed or repaired, or not: she took no notice.
By the time Ashpound was budding in spring, Mrs. Gervase Norgate hadfallen away, and changed rapidly for the worse, to the disappointmentand with the condemnation of her acquaintances. She lay in bed half themorning, dawdled over her breakfast, and trailed her way from place toplace, ageing too, with marvellous celerity.
Sunk in the mire as Gervase was, he noted the transformation in his wifewith discomposure and vexation. It fretted him always, and infuriatedhim at times, to discover that she was likely to justify his contempt byproving a poor wife after all. Her rule ended, her energy exhausted,given over to an unprincipled, destructive listlessness and,carelessness, such a prospect did not make Gervase amend the error ofhis ways: but it caused his road to ruin to be harder to tread, itcaused the fruits of his vice to be more bitter between his teeth, itdrove him at times to reflect when it was madness to reflect. She wouldnot take the luxuries which she had bought dearly, which he wanted herto take. Her person, drawing-room, flower-garden were fast showingneglect and cheerlessness, in spite of him, or to spite him, as he vowedsavagely. Here was his sin cropping out and meeting him in the life ofanother, and that other a woman. She was going to ruin with him as trulyand faithfully as if they had been a pair of fond lovers. The shygoodwill of Gervase Norgate's early married life had waned intodiscontent and dislike, and was fast settling into rooted hatred.
"Lawk!" Dolly the dairymaid reflected indignantly, "Madam is become ascareless and trolloping-like as master is wild. If we don't take care,no one will continue to call on us and hinvite us with our equals. Forthat matter, the mistress has denied herself to every morning callerthis spring, and it is my opingen she never so much as sends hapologiesto them dinner cards as she twists into matches. If it were me, now,wouldn't I cut a dash of myself? She didn't care a bit of cheese-curdfor him, folks say, when she had him to begin with, so why she shouldpine for his misdeeds now, is more than I can compass."
It was on a clear, fragrant evening in June, when the world was all inflower, that a whispering, and pulling of skirts and sleeves, andthrowing up of hands and eyes, arose among the servants at Ashpound, ata sight that was seen there. The servants' hall were gathered secretlyat a side-door and a lobby-window, and were watching Mrs. GervaseNorgate feeling her way, like a blind woman, her tall figure bent down,crouched together, swaying, along the pleached alley from the garden.
One or two of the more sensitive of the women covered their faces andwrung their hands. Old Miles tugged at his tufts of red hair and smotehis hands together distractedly. The new shame was too open forconcealment; he could only cry, "God ha' mercy; there is not one to mendanother; what will we do?"
As living among men and women given up to delusions begets delusions inrational minds with a dire infectiousness, so living with GervaseNorgate, and day by day regarding the evil which could not be stayed,Diana had caught the fell disease.
A whisper of the culminating misfortunes of Ashpound spread abroad likewild-fire, soon ceased to be a whisper, and became a loud scandal; andDiana lost her credit as summarily as she had acquired it. It was--"Thatwretched Mrs. Gervase Norgate came of an evil stock, though drinking wasnot Mr. Baring's vice. They were an il
l-fated race, these Barings, witha curse--the curse of ruined men--upon them. Who knew, indeed, but ifpoor Gervase Norgate, come of honest people at least, had gone intoanother family--one which he could have respected, which could haveshown him a good example and remonstrated with him with authority--hemight have been reclaimed?"
About the middle of summer there came a seasonably rainy period, such asfrequently precedes a fine harvest. But Gervase Norgate was so ailingthat he could not go out and look at his fields, where the corn in theear was filling rarely, and the growth of second clover was knee-deep.He was forced to keep the house. He loathed food, and his sleep hadbecome a horror to him. He had fits of deadly sickness and of shakinglike an aspen. His only resource, all the life that was left to him, wasto be found in his cellar; and even Miles, seeing his master'sextremity, brought out and piteously pressed the brandy upon him.
Gervase's cronies had never come about his house since his marriage.There had been something in Diana which had held them at arm's length;and although they had heard and scoffed at her fall, they had not thewit to discern that it clean removed the obstacle to their harbouringabout the place as they had done before her reign and abdication. Theymight come and go now by day and night without feeling themselves toomuch for Mrs. Gervase Norgate, or being compelled to regard her as abeing apart from them. But they did not comprehend the bearing of thecommon degradation, and they had not returned to their haunt as theymight have done.
Gervase had declined into such a state of fractiousness and sullenness,that he was very poor company even for illiterate country-bred men likehimself. He was something of a ghastly spectacle, as he sat there, withhis glass three-fourths empty, and part of its contents spilt aroundhim, trying to smoke, trying to warm himself, with the soles of hisboots burnt from being pressed on the top of the wood fire, his teethchattering, at intervals, notwithstanding, as he cast furtive, darkglances behind him.
Gervase was alone. Mrs. Gervase was dozing on a drawing-room couch, nottroubling to order a fire, though the room was on the ground-floor,--apleasant room in sunshine, but looking dull and dismal in wet and gloom.She had lain there all the evening, with her hair, tumbled by theposture, fallen down and straying in dim tresses on her shoulders.
Overcome by illness, Gervase at last defied his shrinking from his roomand bed, and retired for the night. His uneven footsteps and the closingof his door had not long sounded through the house, which might havebeen so cheery and was so dreary and silent, when Mrs. Gervase, cold andcomfortless, rose and proceeded to the study. She was drawn by the fireand the light, but she was drawn more irresistibly by the subtle, potentodour in the air. She came on like a sleep-walker. She sank down in thechair which her husband had occupied, and stretched out her fine whitehand to the decanters which Miles had not removed. She had raised one,and was about to pour its contents into a glass, when a noise at thedoor startled her, and caused her to hold her arm suspended. Gervase,returning for the bottle she grasped, stood in the doorway.
Ruined husband and ruined wife confronted each other on their stainedhearthstone. His weakness, replaced by failing strength, gathered up andincreased tenfold by horror and rage. Her eyes glared defiance, and herpresence there, in her white dress, with the crimson spots on eachcheek, and the fair hair scattered around her, was a presence of ominousbeauty, the hectic beauty of the fall. A feather's weight might haveturned the scale whether Gervase should totter forward and deal Diana adeadly blow which should finish the misfortunes of that generation atAshpound, and brand Ashpound itself with the inhuman mark of an awfulcrime; or whether he should melt in his misery, weep a man's scaldingtears, and bemoan their misery together. Diana's words were thefeather's weight: she broke God's unbearable silence, and by God's powerand mercy saved both. She cried out, not so much in self-defence, forshe was a daring, intrepid woman, as in righteous accusation, "You darenot blame me, for you taught me, you brought me to it."
Through his undone condition he owned the truth of the accusation, andthe old spring of manliness in him welled up to protect the woman whospoke the truth and impeached him justly of her ruin as well as his own.
"No, I dare not blame you. We are two miserable sinners, Die." And helet his arms fall on the table and bowed his head over them.
He had spared her, he had not taunted her, and he had not called her Diefor many a day before. She put down the decanter and cowered back witha sense of guilt which made her glowing beauty pale, fade, wither, likethe sere leaf washed by the heavy tears of a November night's rain.
When Gervase Norgate lifted up his bent head again, all the generositythat had ever looked out of his comely face reappeared in its changedfeatures for a moment. "I have smitten you when you came and tried tocure me, Die. And I cannot cure myself. I believe, before God, if I canget no more drink, I shall go to-night; but I shall go soon, anyhow, nomistake, and I ought to do something to save you, when I brought you toit. So, do you see, Die? here go the drink and me together." And withthat he took up the decanters and dashed them, one after the other, onthe hearthstone, the wine and brandy running like life-blood in bubblingred streams across the floor. He summoned Miles, and demanded hiskeys--all the keys of closet and cellar in the house. And when the oldman, flustered and scared, did not venture to dispute his will, hecaught up the keys, cast them into the white core of the wood-fire,piled the blazing logs upon them, and stamped them down, sending showersflying up the wide chimney.
Then the blaze of passion died away from Gervase's brow, the force ofself-devotion ebbed out of him, his unfastened vest and shirt collar didnot allow him air enough, and he fell back, gasping and quaking andcalling the devils were upon him.
Old Miles wrung his hands, and shouted "Help," and cried the Master wasdying, was dead.
But Diana pushed the old servant aside, put her arms round Gervase, andraised him on her breast, telling him, "Do not think of dying for me,Gervase; I am not worthy. You must not die, I will not have you die. Oh,God! spare him till I kneel at his feet and beg him to forgive all mydisdainful pity, and we repent together."
Gervase Norgate did not die that night: it might have been easier forhim if he had, for he lay, sat, walked in the sunshine deadly sick formonths. When men like him are saved, it is only as by fire, by letting apart of the penal fire pass over them, and enduring, as David did, thepains of hell.
But all the time Die did not leave him. Night and day she stood by him,renouncing her own sin for ever. She shared vicariously its revoltinganguish and agonizing fruits, in his pangs. And the woman learned tolove the man as she would have learned to love a child whom she hadtended every hour for what looked like a lifetime, whom she had broughtback from a horrible disease and from the brink of the grave, to whoserecovery she had given herself body and soul, in a way she had neverdreamt of when she first undertook the task. She had lulled him to sleepas with cradle songs, she had fed him with her hands, ministered to himwith her spirit. She learned to love him exceedingly.
Other summer suns shone on Ashpound. Gervase and Diana had come backfrom a lengthened sojourn abroad. Gervase, going on a visit to hisfaithful old Aunt Tabby, looked behind him, to say, half-shamefacedly,half-yearningly, "I wish you would come with me, Die; I do not think Ican pay the visit without you." And she exclaimed, with a little laugh,beneath which ran an undercurrent of feeling, still and deep, "Ah! yousee you cannot do without me, sir." And he rejoined, laughing too, but alittle wistfully, "I wish I could flatter myself that you could not dowithout me, madam."
She assured him, with a sudden sedateness which hid itself shyly on hisbreast, "Of course I could not do without you to save me from being apillar of salt, to make me a loving, happy woman."
"God help you, happy Die!"
"Yes, Gervase; it is those who have been tried that can be trusted, andI have been in the deep pit, and all clogged with the mire along withyou, and He who brought us out will not suffer us to fall back and belost after all."
The neighbours about Ashpound were slow to discov
er, as erring men andwomen are always slow to discover, that God is more merciful than they,and that he can bring good out of evil, light out of darkness; but theydiscovered it at last, and, after a probation, took Mr. and Mrs. GervaseNorgate back into society and its esteem and regard, and the family atAshpound became eventually as well considered, and as much sought afterin friendship and marriage, as any family among the southern moors, longafter John Fitzwilliam Baring had dressed for dinner, and taken a fitwith a cue in his hand.
As for Aunt Tabby and old Miles, they said, "All's well that ends well."But old Miles stood out stubbornly, "That it is not a many carts aforethe horses as comes in at the journey's end, and it ain't dootiful-likein them when they does do it, though I'm content." And Aunt Tabbyargued, "It is shockingly against morality to conclude that herfall--and who'd have thought a strong woman like her would fall?--hasbeen for his rising again."