CHAPTER VII. THE ENGAGEMENT.
It is somewhat less than three months after the death of Sir MilesSt. John; November reigns in London. And "reigns" seems scarcely ametaphorical expression as applied to the sullen, absolute sway whichthat dreary month (first in the dynasty of Winter) spreads over thepassive, dejected city.
Elsewhere in England, November is no such gloomy, grim fellow as he isdescribed. Over the brown glebes and changed woods in the country, hisstill face looks contemplative and mild; and he has soft smiles, too,at times,--lighting up his taxed vassals the groves; gleaming wherethe leaves still cling to the boughs, and reflected in dimples from thewaves which still glide free from his chains. But as a conqueror whomakes his home in the capital, weighs down with hard policy the mutinouscitizens long ere his iron influence is felt in the province, so thefirst tyrant of Winter has only rigour and frowns for London. The veryaspect of the wayfarers has the look of men newly enslaved: cloakedand muffled, they steal to and fro through the dismal fogs. Even thechildren creep timidly through the streets; the carriages go cautiousand hearse-like along; daylight is dim and obscure; the town is notfilled, nor the brisk mirth of Christmas commenced; the unsocial shadowsflit amidst the mist, like men on the eve of a fatal conspiracy. Eachother month in London has its charms for the experienced. Even fromAugust to October, when The Season lies dormant, and Fashion forbids hersons to be seen within hearing of Bow, the true lover of London findspleasure still at hand, if he search for her duly. There are the earlywalks through the parks and green Kensington Gardens, which now changetheir character of resort, and seem rural and countrylike, but yet withmore life than the country; for on the benches beneath the trees, andalong the sward, and up the malls, are living beings enough to interestthe eye and divert the thoughts, if you are a guesser into character,and amateur of the human face,--fresh nursery-maid and playful children;and the old shabby-genteel, buttoned-up officer, musing on half-pay, ashe sits alone in some alcove of Kenna, or leans pensive over the railof the vacant Ring; and early tradesman, or clerk from the suburbanlodging, trudging brisk to his business,--for business never ceases inLondon. Then at noon, what delight to escape to the banks at Putney orRichmond,--the row up the river; the fishing punt; the ease at your inntill dark! or if this tempt not, still Autumn shines clear and calm overthe roofs, where the smoke has a holiday; and how clean gleam the vistasthrough the tranquillized thoroughfares; and as you saunter along, youhave all London to yourself, Andrew Selkirk, but with the mart ofthe world for your desert. And when October comes on, it has onecharacteristic of spring,--life busily returns to the city; you see theshops bustling up, trade flowing back. As birds scent the April, so thechildren of commerce plume their wings and prepare for the first slackreturns of the season. But November! Strange the taste, stout the lungs,grief-defying the heart, of the visitor who finds charms and joy in aLondon November.
In a small lodging-house in Bulstrode Street, Manchester Square,grouped a family in mourning who had had the temerity to come to townin November, for the purpose, no doubt, of raising their spirits. In thedull, small drawing-room of the dull, small house we introduce to you,first, a middle-aged gentleman whose dress showed what dress now failsto show,--his profession. Nobody could mistake the cut of the cloth andthe shape of the hat, for he had just come in from a walk, and notfrom discourtesy, but abstraction, the broad brim still shadowed hispleasant, placid face. Parson spoke out in him, from beaver to buckle.By the coal fire, where, through volumes of smoke, fussed and flickereda pretension to flame, sat a middle-aged lady, whom, without being aconjurer, you would pronounce at once to be wife to the parson; andsundry children sat on stools all about her, with one book betweenthem, and a low whispered murmur from their two or three pursed-uplips, announcing that that book was superfluous. By the last of threedim-looking windows, made dimmer by brown moreen draperies, edgedgenteelly with black cotton velvet, stood a girl of very soft andpensive expression of features,--pretty unquestionably, excessivelypretty; but there was something so delicate and elegant about her,--thebend of her head, the shape of her slight figure, the little fair handscrossed one on each other, as the face mournfully and listlessly turnedto the window, that "pretty" would have seemed a word of praise toooften proffered to milliner and serving-maid. Nevertheless, it wasperhaps the right one: "handsome" would have implied something statelierand more commanding; "beautiful," greater regularity of feature, orrichness of colouring. The parson, who since his entrance had beenwalking up and down the small room with his hands behind him, glancednow and then at the young lady, but not speaking, at length pausedfrom that monotonous exercise by the chair of his wife, and touchedher shoulder. She stopped from her work, which, more engrossing thanelegant, was nothing less than what is technically called "the takingin" of a certain blue jacket, which was about to pass from Matthew,the eldest born, to David, the second, and looked up at her husbandaffectionately. Her husband, however, spoke not; he only made a sign,partly with his eyebrow, partly with a jerk of his thumb over his rightshoulder, in the direction of the young lady we have described, and thencompleted the pantomime with a melancholy shake of the head. The wifeturned round and looked hard, the scissors horizontally raised in onehand, while the other reposed on the cuff of the jacket. At this momenta low knock was heard at the street-door. The worthy pair saw the girlshrink back, with a kind of tremulous movement; presently there came thesound of a footstep below, the creak of a hinge on the ground-floor, andagain all was silent.
"That is Mr. Mainwaring's knock," said one of the children.
The girl left the room abruptly, and, light as was her step, they heardher steal up the stairs.
"My dears," said the parson, "it wants an hour yet to dark; you may goand walk in the square."
"'T is so dull in that ugly square, and they won't let us into thegreen. I am sure we'd rather stay here," said one of the children, asspokesman for the rest; and they all nestled closer round the hearth.
"But, my dears," said the parson, simply, "I want to talk alone withyour mother. However, if you like best to go and keep quiet in your ownroom, you may do so."
"Or we can go into Susan's?"
"No," said the parson; "you must not disturb Susan."
"She never used to care about being disturbed. I wonder what's come toher?"
The parson made no rejoinder to this half-petulant question. Thechildren consulted together a moment, and resolved that the square,though so dull, was less dull than their own little attic. That beingdecided, it was the mother's turn to address them. And though Mr.Fielden was as anxious and fond as most fathers, he grew a littleimpatient before comforters, kerchiefs, and muffettees were arranged,and minute exordiums as to the danger of crossing the street, and therisk of patting strange dogs, etc., were half-way concluded; with ashrug and a smile, he at length fairly pushed out the children, shut thedoor, and drew his chair close to his wife's.
"My dear," he began at once, "I am extremely uneasy about that poorgirl."
"What, Miss Clavering? Indeed, she eats almost nothing at all, and sitsso moping alone; but she sees Mr. Mainwaring every day. What can we do?She is so proud, I'm afraid of her."
"My dear, I was not thinking of Miss Clavering, though I did notinterrupt you, for it is very true that she is much to be pitied."
"And I am sure it was for her sake alone that you agreed to Susan'srequest, and got Blackman to do duty for you at the vicarage, while weall came up here, in hopes London town would divert her. We left all atsixes and sevens; and I should not at all wonder if John made away withthe apples."
"But, I say," resumed the parson, without heeding that mournfulforeboding,--"I say, I was then only thinking of Susan. You see how paleand sad she is grown."
"Why, she is so very soft-hearted, and she must feel for her sister."
"But her sister, though she thinks much, and keeps aloof from us, is notsad herself, only reserved. On the contrary. I believe she has now gotover even poor Sir Miles's death."
&nbs
p; "And the loss of the great property!"
"Fie, Mary!" said Mr. Fielden, almost austerely.
Mary looked down, rebuked, for she was not one of the high-spiritedwives who despise their husbands for goodness.
"I beg pardon, my dear," she said meekly; "it was very wrong in me; butI cannot--do what I will--I cannot like that Miss Clavering."
"The more need to judge her with charity. And if what I fear is thecase, I'm sure we can't feel too much compassion for the poor blindedyoung lady."
"Bless my heart, Mr. Fielden, what is it you mean?"
The parson looked round, to be sure the door was quite closed, andreplied, in a whisper: "I mean, that I fear William Mainwaring loves,not Lucretia, but Susan."
The scissors fell from the hand of Mrs. Fielden; and though one pointstuck in the ground, and the other point threatened war upon flouncesand toes, strange to say, she did not even stoop to remove thechevaux-de-frise.
"Why, then, he's a most false-hearted young man!"
"To blame, certainly," said Fielden; "I don't say to thecontrary,--though I like the young man, and am sure that he's more timidthan false. I may now tell you--for I want your advice, Mary--what Ikept secret before. When Mainwaring visited us, many months ago, atSouthampton, he confessed to me that he felt warmly for Susan, and askedif I thought Sir Miles would consent. I knew too well how proud thepoor old gentleman was, to give him any such hopes. So he left, veryhonourably. You remember, after he went, that Susan's spirits werelow,--you remarked it."
"Yes, indeed, I remember. But when the first shock of Sir Miles's deathwas over, she got back her sweet colour, and looked cheerful enough."
"Because, perhaps, then she felt that she had a fortune to bestow on Mr.Mainwaring, and thought all obstacle was over."
"Why, how clever you are! How did you get at her thoughts?"
"My own folly,--my own rash folly," almost groaned Mr. Fielden. "Fornot guessing that Mr. Mainwaring could have got engaged meanwhile toLucretia, and suspecting how it was with Susan's poor little heart, Ilet out, in a jest--Heaven forgive me!--what William had said; and thedear child blushed, and kissed me, and--why, a day or two after, when itwas fixed that we should come up to London, Lucretia informed me, withher freezing politeness, that she was to marry Mainwaring herself assoon as her first mourning was over."
"Poor, dear, dear Susan!"
"Susan behaved like an angel; and when I broached it to her, I thoughtshe was calm; and I am sure she prayed with her whole heart that bothmight be happy."
"I'm sure she did. What is to be done? I understand it all now. Dearme, dear me! a sad piece of work indeed." And Mrs. Fielden abstractedlypicked up the scissors.
"It was not till our coming to town, and Mr. Mainwaring's visits toLucretia, that her strength gave way."
"A hard sight to bear,--I never could have borne it, my love. If I hadseen you paying court to another, I should have--I don't know what Ishould have done! But what an artful wretch this young Mainwaring mustbe."
"Not very artful; for you see that he looks even sadder than Susan.He got entangled somehow, to be sure. Perhaps he had given up Susan indespair; and Miss Clavering, if haughty, is no doubt a very superioryoung lady; and, I dare say, it is only now in seeing them bothtogether, and comparing the two, that he feels what a treasure he haslost. Well, what do you advise, Mary? Mainwaring, no doubt, is bound inhonour to Miss Clavering; but she will be sure to discover, sooner orlater, the state of his feelings, and then I tremble for both. I'm sureshe will never be happy, while he will be wretched; and Susan--I darenot think upon Susan; she has a cough that goes to my heart."
"So she has; that cough--you don't know the money I spend onblack-currant jelly! What's my advice? Why, I'd speak to Miss Claveringat once, if I dared. I'm sure love will never break her heart; and she'sso proud, she'd throw him off without a sigh, if she knew how thingsstood."
"I believe you are right," said Mr. Fielden; "for truth is the bestpolicy, after all. Still, it's scarce my business to meddle; and if itwere not for Susan--Well, well, I must think of it, and pray Heaven todirect me."
This conference suffices to explain to the reader the stage to whichthe history of Lucretia had arrived. Willingly we pass over what it werescarcely possible to describe,--her first shock at the fall from theexpectations of her life; fortune, rank, and what she valued more thaneither, power, crushed at a blow. From the dark and sullen despair intowhich she was first plunged, she was roused into hope, into somethinglike joy, by Mainwaring's letters. Never had they been so warm and sotender; for the young man felt not only poignant remorse that he hadbeen the cause of her downfall (though she broke it to him with moredelicacy than might have been expected from the state of her feelingsand the hardness of her character), but he felt also imperiouslythe obligations which her loss rendered more binding than ever. Hepersuaded, he urged, he forced himself into affection; and probablywithout a murmur of his heart, he would have gone with her to the altar,and, once wedded, custom and duty would have strengthened the chainimposed on himself, had it not been for Lucretia's fatal eagerness tosee him, to come up to London, where she induced him to meet her,--forwith her came Susan; and in Susan's averted face and trembling hand andmute avoidance of his eye, he read all which the poor dissembler fanciedshe concealed. But the die was cast, the union announced, the timefixed, and day by day he came to the house, to leave it in anguishand despair. A feeling they shared in common caused these two unhappypersons to shun each other. Mainwaring rarely came into the usualsitting-room of the family; and when he did so, chiefly in the evening,Susan usually took refuge in her own room. If they met, it was byaccident, on the stairs, or at the sudden opening of a door; then notonly no word, but scarcely even a look was exchanged: neither had thecourage to face the other. Perhaps, of the two, this reserve weighedmost on Susan; perhaps she most yearned to break the silence,--for shethought she divined the cause of Mainwaring's gloomy and mute constraintin the upbraidings of his conscience, which might doubtless recall, ifno positive pledge to Susan, at least those words and tones which betraythe one heart, and seek to allure the other; and the profound melancholystamped on his whole person, apparent even to her hurried glance,touched her with a compassion free from all the bitterness of selfishreproach. She fancied she could die happy if she could remove that cloudfrom his brow, that shadow from his conscience. Die; for she thought notof life. She loved gently, quietly,--not with the vehement passion thatbelongs to stronger natures; but it was the love of which the young andthe pure have died. The face of the Genius was calm and soft; and onlyby the lowering of the hand do you see that the torch burns out, andthat the image too serene for earthly love is the genius of lovingDeath.
Absorbed in the egotism of her passion (increased, as is ever the casewith women, even the worst, by the sacrifices it had cost her), and ifthat passion paused, by the energy of her ambition, which already beganto scheme and reconstruct new scaffolds to repair the ruined walls ofthe past,--Lucretia as yet had not detected what was so apparent to thesimple sense of Mr. Fielden. That Mainwaring was grave and thoughtfuland abstracted, she ascribed only to his grief at the thought of herloss, and his anxieties for her altered future; and in her efforts toconsole him, her attempts to convince him that greatness in England didnot consist only in lands and manors,--that in the higher walks of lifewhich conduct to the Temple of Renown, the leaders of the processionare the aristocracy of knowledge and of intellect,--she so betrayed, notgenerous emulation and high-souled aspiring, but the dark, unscrupulous,tortuous ambition of cunning, stratagem, and intrigue, that insteadof feeling grateful and encouraged, he shuddered and revolted. How,accompanied and led by a spirit which he felt to be stronger and morecommanding than his own,--how preserve the whiteness of his soul, theuprightness of his honour? Already he felt himself debased. But in thestill trial of domestic intercourse, with the daily, hourly dripping onthe stone, in the many struggles between truth and falsehood, guileand candour, which men--and, above all, ambitious men--
must wage,what darker angel would whisper him in his monitor? Still, he wasbound,--bound with an iron band; he writhed, but dreamed not of escape.
The day after that of Fielden's conference with his wife, an unexpectedvisitor came to the house. Olivier Dalibard called. He had not seenLucretia since she had left Laughton, nor had any correspondence passedbetween them. He came at dusk, just after Mainwaring's daily visit wasover, and Lucretia was still in the parlour, which she had appropriatedto herself. Her brow contracted as his name was announced, and themaid-servant lighted the candle on the table, stirred the fire, and gavea tug at the curtains. Her eye, glancing from his, round the mean room,with its dingy horsehair furniture, involuntarily implied the contrastbetween the past state and the present, which his sight could scarcelyhelp to impress on her. But she welcomed him with her usual statelycomposure, and without reference to what had been. Dalibard was secretlyanxious to discover if she suspected himself of any agency in thedetection of the eventful letter; and assured by her manner that nosuch thought was yet harboured, he thought it best to imitate her ownreserve. He assumed, however, a manner that, far more respectful thanhe ever before observed to his pupil, was nevertheless sufficiently kindand familiar to restore them gradually to their old footing; and thathe succeeded was apparent, when, after a pause, Lucretia said abruptly:"How did Sir Miles St. John discover my correspondence with Mr.Mainwaring?"
"Is it possible that you are ignorant? Ah, how--how should you know it?"And Dalibard so simply explained the occurrence, in which, indeed, itwas impossible to trace the hand that had moved springs which seemedso entirely set at work by an accident, that despite the extremesuspiciousness of her nature, Lucretia did not see a pretence foraccusing him. Indeed, when he related the little subterfuge of Gabriel,his attempt to save her by taking the letter on himself, she feltthankful to the boy, and deemed Gabriel's conduct quite in keeping withhis attachment to herself. And this accounted satisfactorily for theonly circumstance that had ever troubled her with a doubt,--namely, thelegacy left to Gabriel. She knew enough of Sir Miles to be aware that hewould be grateful to any one who had saved the name of his niece,even while most embittered against her, from the shame attached toclandestine correspondence.
"It is strange, nevertheless," said she, thoughtfully, after a pause,"that the girl should have detected the letter, concealed as it was bythe leaves that covered it."
"But," answered Dalibard, readily, "you see two or three persons hadentered before, and their feet must have displaced the leaves."
"Possibly; the evil is now past recall."
"And Mr. Mainwaring? Do you still adhere to one who has cost you somuch, poor child?"
"In three months more I shall be his wife."
Dalibard sighed deeply, but offered no remonstrance.
"Well," he said, taking her hand with mingled reverence andaffection,--"well, I oppose your inclinations no more, for now thereis nothing to risk; you are mistress of your own fortune; and sinceMainwaring has talents, that fortune will suffice for a career. Areyou at length convinced that I have conquered my folly; that I wasdisinterested when I incurred your displeasure? If so, can you restoreto me your friendship? You will have some struggle with the world, and,with my long experience of men and life, even I, the poor exile, mayassist you."
And so thought Lucretia; for with some dread of Dalibard's craft, sheyet credited his attachment to herself, and she felt profound admirationfor an intelligence more consummate and accomplished than any everyet submitted to her comprehension. From that time, Dalibard becamean habitual visitor at the house; he never interfered with Lucretia'sinterviews with Mainwaring; he took the union for granted, and conversedwith her cheerfully on the prospects before her; he ingratiated himselfwith the Fieldens, played with the children, made himself at home, andin the evenings when Mainwaring, as often as he could find the excuse,absented himself from the family circle, he contrived to draw Lucretiainto more social intercourse with her homely companions than she hadbefore condescended to admit. Good Mr. Fielden rejoiced; here was thevery person,--the old friend of Sir Miles, the preceptor of Lucretiaherself, evidently most attached to her, having influence over her,--thevery person to whom to confide his embarrassment. One day, therefore,when Dalibard had touched his heart by noticing the paleness of Susan,he took him aside and told him all. "And now," concluded the pastor,hoping he had found one to relieve him of his dreaded and ungracioustask, "don't you think that I--or rather you--as so old a friend, shouldspeak frankly to Miss Clavering herself?"
"No, indeed," said the Provencal, quickly; "if we spoke to her, shewould disbelieve us. She would no doubt appeal to Mainwaring, andMainwaring would have no choice but to contradict us. Once put on hisguard, he would control his very sadness. Lucretia, offended, mightleave your house, and certainly she would regard her sister as havinginfluenced your confession,--a position unworthy Miss Mivers. But do notfear: if the evil be so, it carries with it its inevitable remedy. LetLucretia discover it herself; but, pardon me, she must have seen, atyour first reception of Mainwaring, that he had before been acquaintedwith you?"
"She was not in the room when we first received Mainwaring; and I havealways been distant to him, as you may suppose, for I felt disappointedand displeased. Of course, however, she is aware that we knew him beforeshe did. What of that?"
"Why, do you think, then, he told her at Laughton of thisacquaintance,--that he spoke of Susan? I suspect not."
"I cannot say, I am sure," said Mr. Fielden.
"Ask her that question accidentally; and for the rest, be discreet, mydear sir. I thank you for your confidence. I will watch well over mypoor young pupil. She must not, indeed, be sacrificed to a man whoseaffections are engaged elsewhere."
Dalibard trod on air as he left the house; his very countenance hadchanged; he seemed ten years younger. It was evening; and suddenly, ashe came into Oxford Street, he encountered a knot of young men--noisyand laughing loud--obstructing the pavement, breaking jests on the moresober passengers, and attracting the especial and admiring attention ofsundry ladies in plumed hats and scarlet pelisses; for the streets thenenjoyed a gay liberty which has vanished from London with the lanternsof the watchmen. Noisiest and most conspicuous of these descendants ofthe Mohawks, the sleek and orderly scholar beheld the childish figureof his son. Nor did Gabriel shrink from his father's eye, stern andscornful as it was, but rather braved the glance with an impudent leer.
Right, however, in the midst of the group, strode the Provencal, andlaying his hand very gently on the boy's shoulder, he said: "My son,come with me."
Gabriel looked irresolute, and glanced at his companions. Delighted atthe prospect of a scene, they now gathered round, with countenancesand gestures that seemed little disposed to acknowledge the parentalauthority.
"Gentlemen," said Dalibard, turning a shade more pale, for thoughmorally most resolute, physically he was not brave,--"gentlemen, I mustbeg you to excuse me; this child is my son!"
"But Art is his mother," replied a tall, raw-boned young man, withlong tawny hair streaming down from a hat very much battered. "At thejuvenile age, the child is consigned to the mother! Have I said it?" andhe turned round theatrically to his comrades.
"Bravo!" cried the rest, clapping their hands.
"Down with all tyrants and fathers! hip, hip, Hurrah!" and the hideousdiapason nearly split the drum of the ears into which it resounded.
"Gabriel," whispered the father, "you had better follow me, had you not?Reflect!" So saying, he bowed low to the unpropitious assembly, and asif yielding the victory, stepped aside and crossed over towards BondStreet.
Before the din of derision and triumph died away, Dalibard looked back,and saw Gabriel behind him.
"Approach, sir," he said; and as the boy stood still, he added, "Ipromise peace if you will accept it."
"Peace, then," answered Gabriel, and he joined his father's side.
"So," said Dalibard, "when I consented to your studying Art, as youcall it, under your moth
er's most respectable brother, I ought to havecontemplated what would be the natural and becoming companions of therising Raphael I have given to the world."
"I own, sir," replied Gabriel, demurely, "that they are riotous fellows;but some of them are clever, and--"
"And excessively drunk," interrupted Dalibard, examining the gait of hisson. "Do you learn that accomplishment also, by way of steadying yourhand for the easel?"
"No, sir; I like wine well enough, but I would not be drunk for theworld. I see people when they are drunk are mere fools,--let out theirsecrets, and show themselves up."
"Well said," replied the father, almost admiringly. "But a truce withthis bantering, Gabriel. Can you imagine that I will permit you anylonger to remain with that vagabond Varney and yon crew of vauriens? Youwill come home with me; and if you must be a painter, I will look outfor a more trustworthy master."
"I shall stay where I am," answered Gabriel, firmly, and compressing hislips with a force that left them bloodless.
"What, boy? Do I hear right? Dare you disobey me? Dare you defy?"
"Not in your house, so I will not enter it again." Dalibard laughedmockingly.
"Peste! but this is modest! You are not of age yet, Mr. Varney; you arenot free from a father's tyrannical control."
"The law does not own you as my father, I am told, sir. You have said myname rightly,--it is Varney, not Dalibard. We have no rights over eachother; so at least says Tom Passmore, and his father's a lawyer!"
Dalibard's hand griped his son's arm fiercely. Despite his pain, whichwas acute, the child uttered no cry; but he growled beneath his teeth,"Beware! beware! or my mother's son may avenge her death!"
Dalibard removed his hand, and staggered as if struck. Gliding from hisside, Gabriel seized the occasion to escape; he paused, however, midwayin the dull, lamp-lit kennel when he saw himself out of reach, and thenapproaching cautiously, said: "I know. I am a boy, but you have made meman enough to take care of myself. Mr. Varney, my uncle, will maintainme; when of age, old Sir Miles has provided for me. Leave me in peace,treat me as free, and I will visit you, help you when you want me,obey you still,--yes, follow your instructions; for I know you are," hepaused, "you are wise. But if you seek again to make me your slave, youwill only find your foe. Good-night; and remember that a bastard has nofather!"
With these words he moved on, and hurrying down the street, turned thecorner and vanished.
Dalibard remained motionless for some minutes; at length he muttered:"Ay, let him go, he is dangerous! What son ever revolted even from theworst father, and throve in life? Food for the gibbet! What matters?"
When next Dalibard visited Lucretia, his manner was changed; thecheerfulness he had before assumed gave place to a kind of melancholycompassion; he no longer entered into her plans for the future, butwould look at her mournfully, start up, and walk away. She would haveattributed the change to some return of his ancient passion, but sheheard him once murmur with unspeakable pity, "Poor child, poor child!" Avague apprehension seized her,--first, indeed, caught from some remarksdropped by Mr. Fielden, which were less discreet than Dalibard hadrecommended. A day or two afterwards, she asked Mainwaring, carelessly,why he had never spoken to her at Laughton of his acquaintance withFielden.
"You asked me that before," he said, somewhat sullenly.
"Did I? I forget! But how was it? Tell me again."
"I scarcely know," he replied confusedly; "we were always talking ofeach other or poor Sir Miles,--our own hopes and fears."
This was true, and a lover's natural excuse. In the present of love allthe past is forgotten.
"Still," said Lucretia, with her sidelong glance,--"still, as you musthave seen much of my own sister--"
Mainwaring, while she spoke, was at work on a button on his gaiter(gaiters were then worn tight at the ankle); the effort brought theblood to his forehead.
"But," he said, still stooping at his occupation, "you were so littleintimate with your sister; I feared to offend. Family differences are sodifficult to approach."
Lucretia was satisfied at the moment; for so vast was her stake inMainwaring's heart, so did her whole heart and soul grapple to the rockleft serene amidst the deluge, that she habitually and resolutely thrustfrom her mind all the doubts that at times invaded it.
"I know," she would often say to herself,--"I know he does not love asI do; but man never can, never ought to love as woman! Were I a man,I should scorn myself if I could be so absorbed in one emotion as I amproud to be now,--I, poor woman! I know," again she would think,--"Iknow how suspicious and distrustful I am; I must not distrust him,--Ishall only irritate, I may lose him: I dare not distrust,--it would betoo dreadful."
Thus, as a system vigorously embraced by a determined mind, she hadschooled and forced herself into reliance on her lover. His words now,we say, satisfied her at the moment; but afterwards, in absence, theywere recalled, in spite of herself,--in the midst of fears, shapelessand undefined. Involuntarily she began to examine the countenance, themovements, of her sister,--to court Susan's society more than she haddone; for her previous indifference had now deepened into bitterness.Susan, the neglected and despised, had become her equal,--nay, morethan her equal: Susan's children would have precedence to her own in theheritage of Laughton! Hitherto she had never deigned to talk to her inthe sweet familiarity of sisters so placed; never deigned to confide toher those feelings for her future husband which burned lone and ardentin the close vault of her guarded heart. Now, however, she began to namehim, wind her arm into Susan's, talk of love and home, and the days tocome; and as she spoke, she read the workings of her sister's face.That part of the secret grew clear almost at the first glance. Susanloved,--loved William Mainwaring; but was it not a love hopeless andunreturned? Might not this be the cause that had made Mainwaring soreserved? He might have seen, or conjectured, a conquest he had notsought; and hence, with manly delicacy, he had avoided naming Susan toLucretia; and now, perhaps, sought the excuses which at times had chafedand wounded her for not joining the household circle. If one of thosewho glance over these pages chances to be a person more than usuallyable and acute,--a person who has loved and been deceived,--he or she,no matter which, will perhaps recall those first moments when the doubt,long put off, insisted to be heard. A weak and foolish heart gives wayto the doubt at once; not so the subtler and more powerful,--it rather,on the contrary, recalls all the little circumstances that justify trustand make head against suspicion; it will not render the citadel at themere sound of the trumpet; it arms all its forces, and bars its gateson the foe. Hence it is that the persons most easy to dupe in matters ofaffection are usually those most astute in the larger affairs oflife. Moliere, reading every riddle in the vast complexities of humancharacter, and clinging, in self-imposed credulity, to his profligatewife, is a type of a striking truth. Still, a foreboding, a warninginstinct withheld Lucretia from plumbing farther into the deeps of herown fears. So horrible was the thought that she had been deceived, thatrather than face it, she would have preferred to deceive herself.This poor, bad heart shrank from inquiry, it trembled at the idea ofcondemnation. She hailed, with a sentiment of release that partook ofrapture, Susan's abrupt announcement one morning that she had acceptedan invitation from some relations of her father to spend some time withthem at their villa near Hampstead; she was to go the end of the week.Lucretia hailed it, though she saw the cause,--Susan shrank fromthe name of Mainwaring on Lucretia's lips; shrank from the familiarintercourse so ruthlessly forced on her! With a bright eye, that day,Lucretia met her lover; yet she would not tell him of Susan's intendeddeparture, she had not the courage.
Dalibard was foiled. This contradiction in Lucretia's temper, sosuspicious, so determined, puzzled even his penetration. He saw thatbolder tactics were required. He waylaid Mainwaring on the young man'sway to his lodgings, and after talking to him on indifferent matters,asked him carelessly whether he did not think Susan far gone in adecline. Affecting not to notice the convulsive start with wh
ich thequestion was received, he went on,--
"There is evidently something on her mind; I observe that her eyes areoften red, as with weeping, poor girl. Perhaps some silly love-affair.However, we shall not see her again before your marriage; she is goingaway in a day or two. The change of air may possibly yet restore her,--Iown, though, I fear the worst. At this time of the year, and in yourclimate, such complaints as I take hers to be are rapid. Good-day. Wemay meet this evening."
Terror-stricken at these barbarous words, Mainwaring no sooner reachedhis lodging than he wrote and despatched a note to Fielden, entreatinghim to call.
The vicar obeyed the summons, and found Mainwaring in a state of mindbordering on distraction. Nor when Susan was named did Fielden's wordstake the shape of comfort; for he himself was seriously alarmed forher health. The sound of her low cough rang in his ears, and he ratherheightened than removed the picture which haunted Mainwaring,--Susanstricken, dying, broken-hearted!
Tortured both in heart and conscience, Mainwaring felt as if he had butone wish left in the world,--to see Susan once more. What to say,he scarce knew; but for her to depart,--depart perhaps to her grave,believing him coldly indifferent,--for her not to know at least hisstruggles, and pronounce his pardon, was a thought beyond endurance.After such an interview both would have new fortitude,--each wouldunite in encouraging the other in the only step left to honour. And thisdesire he urged upon Fielden with all the eloquence of passionate griefas he entreated him to permit and procure one last conference withSusan. But this, the plain sense and straightforward conscience of thegood man long refused. If Mainwaring had been left in the position toexplain his heart to Lucretia, it would not have been for Fieldento object; but to have a clandestine interview with one sister whilebetrothed to the other, bore in itself a character too equivocal to meetwith the simple vicar's approval.
"What can you apprehend?" exclaimed the young man, almost fiercely;for, harassed and tortured, his mild nature was driven to bay. "Can yousuppose that I shall encourage my own misery by the guilty pleadingsof unavailing love? All that I ask is the luxury--yes, the luxury, longunknown to me, of candour--to place fairly and manfully before Susan theposition in which fate has involved me. Can you suppose that we shallnot both take comfort and strength from each other? Our duty is plainand obvious; but it grows less painful, encouraged by the lips of acompanion in suffering. I tell you fairly that see Susan I will andmust. I will watch round her home, wherever it be, hour after hour; comewhat may, I will find my occasion. Is it not better that the interviewshould be under your roof, within the same walls which shelter hersister? There, the place itself imposes restraint on despair. Oh, sir,this is no time for formal scruples; be merciful, I beseech you, not tome, but to Susan. I judge of her by myself. I know that I shall go tothe altar more resigned to the future if for once I can give vent towhat weighs upon my heart. She will then see, as I do, that the pathbefore me is inevitable; she will compose herself to face the fate thatcompels us. We shall swear tacitly to each other, not to love, butto conquer love. Believe me, sir, I am not selfish in this prayer; aninstinct, the intuition which human grief has into the secrets of humangrief, assures me that that which I ask is the best consolation you canafford to Susan. You own she is ill,--suffering. Are not your fears forher very life--O Heaven? for her very life--gravely awakened? And yetyou see we have been silent to each other! Can speech be more fatal inits results than silence? Oh, for her sake, hear me!"
The good man's tears fell fast. His scruples were shaken; there wastruth in what Mainwaring urged. He did not yield, but he promised toreflect, and inform Mainwaring, by a line, in the evening. Finding thiswas all he could effect, the young man at last suffered him to leavethe house, and Fielden hastened to take counsel of Dalibard; that wilypersuader soon reasoned away Mr. Fielden's last faint objection. It nowonly remained to procure Susan's assent to the interview, and to arrangethat it should be undisturbed. Mr. Fielden should take out the childrenthe next morning. Dalibard volunteered to contrive the absence ofLucretia at the hour appointed. Mrs. Fielden alone should remain within,and might, if it were judged proper, be present at the interview,which was fixed for the forenoon in the usual drawing-room. Nothing butSusan's consent was now necessary, and Mr. Fielden ascended to her room.He knocked twice,--no sweet voice bade him enter; he opened the doorgently,--Susan was in prayer. At the opposite corner of the room, by theside of her bed, she knelt, her face buried in her hands, and he heard,low and indistinct, the murmur broken by the sob. But gradually, as hestood unperceived, sob and murmur ceased,--prayer had its customary andblessed effect with the pure and earnest. And when Susan rose, thoughthe tears yet rolled down her cheeks, the face was serene as an angel's.
The pastor approached and took her hand; a blush then broke over hercountenance,--she trembled, and her eyes fell on the ground. "My child,"he said solemnly, "God will hear you!" And after those words there was along silence. He then drew her passively towards a seat, and sat downby her, embarrassed how to begin. At length he said, looking somewhataside, "Mr. Mainwaring has made me a request,--a prayer which relatesto you, and which I refer to you. He asks you to grant him an interviewbefore you leave us,--to-morrow, if you will. I refused at first,--I amin doubt still; for, my dear, I have always found that when the feelingsmove us, our duty becomes less clear to the human heart,--corrupt, weknow, but still it is often a safer guide than our reason. I never knewreason unerring, except in mathematics; we have no Euclid," and the goodman smiled mournfully, "in the problems of real life. I will not urgeyou one way or the other; I put the case before you: Would it, as theyoung man says, give you comfort and strength to see him once againwhile, while--in short, before your sister is--I mean before--that is,would it soothe you now, to have an unreserved communication with him?He implores it. What shall I answer?"
"This trial, too!" muttered Susan, almost inaudibly,--"this trial whichI once yearned for;" and the hand clasped in Fielden's was as cold asice. Then, turning her eyes to her guardian somewhat wildly, she cried:"But to what end, what object? Why should he wish to see me?"
"To take greater courage to do his duty; to feel less unhappy at--at--"
"I will see him," interrupted Susan, firmly,--"he is right; it willstrengthen both. I will see him!"
"But human nature is weak, my child; if my heart be so now, what will beyours?"
"Fear me not," answered Susan, with a sad, wandering smile; and sherepeated vacantly: "I will see him!"
The good man looked at her, threw his arms round her wasted form, andlifting up his eyes, his lips stirred with such half-syllabled words asfathers breathe on high.