CHAPTER VI.
By the time, however, that Aldous Raeburn came within sight of thewindows of Maxwell Court his first exaltation had sobered down. Thelover had fallen, for the time, into the background, and the capable,serious man of thirty, with a considerable experience of the worldbehind him, was perfectly conscious that there were many difficulties inhis path. He could not induce his grandfather to move in the matter ofRichard Boyce without a statement of his own feelings and aims. Norwould he have avoided frankness if he could. On every ground it was hisgrandfather's due. The Raeburns were reserved towards the rest of theworld, but amongst themselves there had always been a fine tradition ofmutual trust; and Lord Maxwell amply deserved that at this particularmoment his grandson should maintain it.
But Raeburn could not and did not flatter himself that his grandfatherwould, to begin with, receive his news even with toleration. The grimsatisfaction with which that note about the shooting had beendespatched, was very clear in the grandson's memory. At the same time itsaid much for the history of those long years during which the old manand his heir had been left to console each other for the terriblebereavements which had thrown them together, that Aldous Raeburn neverfor an instant feared the kind of violent outburst and opposition thatother men in similar circumstances might have looked forward to. Thejust living of a life-time makes a man incapable of any mere selfishhandling of another's interests--a fact on which the bystander mayreckon.
It was quite dark by the time he entered the large open-roofed hall ofthe Court.
"Is his lordship in?" he asked of a passing footman.
"Yes, sir--in the library. He has been asking for you, sir."
Aldous turned to the right along the fine corridor lighted with Tudorwindows to an inner quadrangle, and filled with Graeco-Roman statuaryand sarcophagi, which made one of the principal features of the Court.The great house was warm and scented, and the various open doors whichhe passed on his way to the library disclosed large fire-lit rooms, withpanelling, tapestry, pictures, books everywhere. The colour of the wholewas dim and rich; antiquity, refinement reigned, together with anexquisite quiet and order. No one was to be seen, and not a voice was tobe heard; but there was no impression of solitude. These warm,darkly-glowing rooms seemed to be waiting for the return of guests justgone out of them; not one of them but had an air of cheerful company.For once, as he walked through it, Aldous Raeburn spared the old housean affectionate possessive thought. Its size and wealth, with all thatboth implied, had often weighed upon him. To-night his breath quickenedas he passed the range of family portraits leading to the library door.There was a vacant space here and there--"room for your missus, too, myboy, when you get her!" as his grandfather had once put it.
"Why, you've had a long day, Aldous, all by yourself," said LordMaxwell, turning sharply round at the sound of the opening door. "What'skept you so late?"
His spectacles fell forward as he spoke, and the old man shut them inhis hand, peering at his grandson through the shadows of the room. Hewas sitting by a huge fire, an "Edinburgh Review" open on his knee. Lampand fire-light showed a finely-carried head, with a high wave of snowyhair thrown back, a long face delicately sharp in the lines, and anattitude instinct with the alertness of an unimpaired bodily vigour.
"The birds were scarce, and we followed them a good way," said Aldous,as he came up to the fire. "Rickman kept me on the farm, too, a goodwhile, with interminable screeds about the things he wants done forhim."
"Oh, there is no end to Rickman," said Lord Maxwell, good-humouredly."He pays his rent for the amusement of getting it back again. Landowningwill soon be the most disinterested form of philanthropy known tomankind. But I have some news for you! Here is a letter from Barton bythe second post"--he named an old friend of his own, and a CabinetMinister of the day. "Look at it. You will see he says they can'tpossibly carry on beyond January. Half their men are becomingunmanageable, and S----'s bill, to which they are committed, willcertainly dish them. Parliament will meet in January, and he thinks anamendment to the Address will finish it. All this confidential, ofcourse; but he saw no harm in letting me know. So now, my boy, you willhave your work cut out for you this winter! Two or three evenings aweek--you'll not get off with less. Nobody's plum drops into his mouthnowadays. Barton tells me, too, that he hears young Wharton willcertainly stand for the Durnford division, and will be down upon usdirectly. He will make himself as disagreeable to us and the Levens ashe can--that we may be sure of. We may be thankful for one small mercy,that his mother has departed this life! otherwise you and I would haveknown _furens quid femina posset_!"
The old man looked up at his grandson with a humorous eye. Aldous wasstanding absently before the fire, and did not reply immediately.
"Come, come, Aldous!" said Lord Maxwell with a touch of impatience,"don't overdo the philosopher. Though I am getting old, the nextGovernment can't deny me a finger in the pie. You and I between us willbe able to pull through two or three of the things we care about in thenext House, with ordinary luck. It is my firm belief that the nextelection will give our side the best chance we have had for half ageneration. Throw up your cap, sir! The world may be made of greencheese, but we have got to live in it!"
Aldous smiled suddenly--uncontrollably--with a look which left hisgrandfather staring. He had been appealing to the man of maturitystanding on the threshold of a possibly considerable career, and, as hedid so, it was as though he saw the boy of eighteen reappear!
"_Je ne demands pas mieux_!" said Aldous with a quick lift of the voiceabove its ordinary key. "The fact is, grandfather, I have come home withsomething in my mind very different from politics--and you must give metime to change the focus. I did not come home as straight as Imight--for I wanted to be sure of myself before I spoke to you. Duringthe last few weeks--"
"Go on!" cried Lord Maxwell.
But Aldous did not find it easy to go on. It suddenly struck him that itwas after all absurd that he should be confiding in any one at such astage, and his tongue stumbled.
But he had gone too far for retreat. Lord Maxwell sprang up and seizedhim by the arms.
"You are in love, sir! Out with it!"
"I have seen the only woman in the world I have ever wished to marry,"said Aldous, flushing, but with deliberation. "Whether she will everhave me, I have no idea. But I can conceive no greater happiness than towin her. And as I want _you_, grandfather, to do something for her andfor me, it seemed to me I had no right to keep my feelings to myself.Besides, I am not accustomed to--to--" His voice wavered a little. "Youhave treated me as more than a son!"
Lord Maxwell pressed his arm affectionately.
"My dear boy! But don't keep me on tenterhooks like this--tell me thename!--the name!"
And two or three long meditated possibilities flashed through the oldman's mind.
Aldous replied with a certain slow stiffness--
"Marcella Boyce!--Richard Boyce's daughter. I saw her first six weeksago."
"God bless my soul!" exclaimed Lord Maxwell, falling back a step or two,and staring at his companion. Aldous watched him with anxiety.
"You know that fellow's history, Aldous?"
"Richard Boyce? Not in detail. If you will tell me now all you know, itwill be a help. Of course, I see that you and the neighbourhood mean tocut him,--and--for the sake of--of Miss Boyce and her mother, I shouldbe glad to find a way out."
"Good heavens!" said Lord Maxwell, beginning to pace the room, handspressed behind him, head bent. "Good heavens! what a business! what anextraordinary business!"
He stopped short in front of Aldous. "Where have you been meetingher--this young lady?"
"At the Hardens'--sometimes in Mellor village. She goes about among thecottages a great deal."
"You have not proposed to her?"
"I was not certain of myself till to-day. Besides it would have beenpresumption so far. She has shown me nothing but the merestfriendliness."
"What, you can suppose she would refuse you!" cr
ied Lord Maxwell, andcould not for the life of him keep the sarcastic intonation out of hisvoice.
Aldous's look showed distress. "You have not seen her, grandfather," hesaid quietly.
Lord Maxwell began to pace again, trying to restrain the painful emotionthat filled him. Of course, Aldous had been entrapped; the girl hadplayed upon his pity, his chivalry--for obvious reasons.
Aldous tried to soothe him, to explain, but Lord Maxwell hardlylistened. At last he threw himself into his chair again with a longbreath.
"Give me time, Aldous--give me time. The thought of marrying my heir tothat man's daughter knocks me over a little."
There was silence again. Then Lord Maxwell looked at his watch withold-fashioned precision.
"There is half an hour before dinner. Sit down, and let us talk thisthing out."
* * * * *
The conversation thus started, however, was only begun by dinner-time;was resumed after Miss Raeburn--the small, shrewd, bright-eyed personwho governed Lord Maxwell's household--had withdrawn; and was continuedin the library some time beyond his lordship's usual retiring hour. Itwas for the most part a monologue on the part of the grandfather, brokenby occasional words from his companion; and for some time Marcella Boyceherself--the woman whom Aldous desired to marry--was hardly mentioned init. Oppressed and tormented by a surprise which struck, or seemed tostrike, at some of his most cherished ideals and just resentments, LordMaxwell was bent upon letting his grandson know, in all their fulness,the reasons why no daughter of Richard Boyce could ever be, in the truesense, fit wife for a Raeburn.
Aldous was, of course, perfectly familiar with the creed implied in itall. A Maxwell should give himself no airs whatever, should indeed feelno pride whatever, towards "men of goodwill," whether peasant,professional, or noble. Such airs or such feeling would be both vulgarand unchristian. But when it came to _marriage_, then it behoved him tosee that "the family"--that carefully grafted and selected stock towhich he owed so much--should suffer no loss or deterioration throughhim. Marriage with the fit woman meant for a Raeburn the preservation ofa pure blood, of a dignified and honourable family habit, and moreoverthe securing to his children such an atmosphere of self-respect within,and of consideration from without, as he had himself grown up in. And awoman could not be fit, in this sense, who came either of aninsignificant stock, untrained to large uses and opportunities, or of astock which had degenerated, and lost its right of equal mating with thevigorous owners of unblemished names. Money was of course important andnot to be despised, but the present Lord Maxwell, at any rate,large-minded and conscious of wealth he could never spend, laidcomparatively little stress upon it; whereas, in his old age, the otherinstinct had but grown the stronger with him, as the world waxed moredemocratic, and the influence of the great families waned.
Nor could Aldous pretend to be insensible to such feelings and beliefs.Supposing the daughter could be won, there was no doubt whatever thatRichard Boyce would be a cross and burden to a Raeburn son-in-law. Butthen! After all! Love for once made philosophy easy--made classtradition sit light. Impatience grew; a readiness to believe RichardBoyce as black as Erebus and be done with it,--so that one might get tothe point--the real point.
As to the story, it came to this. In his youth, Richard Boyce had beenthe younger and favourite son of his father. He possessed some ability,some good looks, some manners, all of which were wanting in his loutishelder brother. Sacrifices were accordingly made for him. He was sent tothe bar. When he stood for Parliament his election expenses werejubilantly paid, and his father afterwards maintained him with asgenerous a hand as the estate could possibly bear, often in the teeth ofthe grudging resentment of Robert his firstborn. Richard showed signs ofmaking a rapid success, at any rate on the political platform. He spokewith facility, and grappled with the drudgery of committees during hisfirst two years at Westminster in a way to win him the favourableattention of the Tory whips. He had a gift for modern languages, andspoke chiefly on foreign affairs, so that when an important EasternCommission had to be appointed, in connection with some troubles in theBalkan States, his merits and his father's exertions with certain oldfamily friends sufficed to place him upon it.
The Commission was headed by a remarkable man, and was able to dovaluable work at a moment of great public interest, under the eyes ofEurope. Its members came back covered with distinction, and were muchfeted through the London season. Old Mr. Boyce came up from Mellor tosee Dick's success for himself, and his rubicund country gentleman'sface and white head might have been observed at many a London partybeside the small Italianate physique of his son.
And love, as he is wont, came in the wake of fortune. A certain freshwest-country girl, Miss Evelyn Merritt, who had shown her stately beautyat one of the earliest drawing-rooms of the season, fell across Mr.Richard Boyce at this moment when he was most at ease with the world,and the world was giving him every opportunity. She was very young, asunspoilt as the daffodils of her Somersetshire valleys, and hercharacter--a character of much complexity and stoical strength--waslittle more known to herself than it was to others. She saw Dick Boycethrough a mist of romance; forgot herself absolutely in idealising him,and could have thanked him on her knees when he asked her to marry him.
Five years of Parliament and marriage followed, and then--a crash. Itwas a common and sordid story, made tragic by the quality of the wife,and the disappointment of the father, if not by the ruined possibilitiesof Dick Boyce himself. First, the desire to maintain a "position," tomake play in society with a pretty wife, and, in the City, with amarketable reputation; then company-promoting of a more and moredoubtful kind; and, finally, a swindle more energetic and less skilfulthan the rest, which bomb-like went to pieces in the face of the public,filling the air with noise, lamentations, and unsavoury odours. Nor wasthis all. A man has many warnings of ruin, and when things were goingbadly in the stock market, Richard Boyce, who on his return from theEast had been elected by acclamation a member of several fashionableclubs, tried to retrieve himself at the gaming-table. Lastly, when moneymatters at home and abroad, when the anxieties of his wife and thealtered manners of his acquaintance in and out of the House of Commonsgrew more than usually disagreeable, a certain little chorus girl cameupon the scene and served to make both money and repentance scarcer eventhan they were before. No story could be more commonplace or moredetestable.
"Ah, how well I remember that poor old fellow--old John Boyce," saidLord Maxwell, slowly, shaking his stately white head over it, as heleant talking and musing against the mantelpiece. "I saw him the day hecame back from the attempt to hush up the company business. I met him inthe road, and could not help pulling up to speak to him. I was so sorryfor him. We had been friends for many years, he and I. 'Oh, good God!'he said, when he saw me. 'Don't stop me--don't speak to me!' And helashed his horse up--as white as a sheet--fat, fresh-coloured man thathe was in general--and was off. I never saw him again till after hisdeath. First came the trial, and Dick Boyce got three months'imprisonment, on a minor count, while several others of the precious lothe was mixed up with came in for penal servitude. There was sometechnical flaw in the evidence with regard to him, and the cleverlawyers they put on made the most of it; but we all thought, and societythought, that Dick was morally as bad as any of them. Then the papersgot hold of the gambling debts and the woman. She made a disturbance athis club, I believe, during the trial, while he was out on bail--anywayit all came out. Two or three other people were implicated in thegambling business--men of good family. Altogether it was one of thebiggest scandals I remember in my time."
The old man paused, the long frowning face sternly set. Aldous gazed athim in silence. It was certainly pretty bad--worse than he had thought.
"And the wife and child?" he said presently.
"Oh, poor things!"--said Lord Maxwell, forgetting everything for themoment but his story--"when Boyce's imprisonment was up they disappearedwith him. His constituents held indignation meetin
gs, of course. He gaveup his seat, and his father allowed him a small fixed income--she hadbesides some little money of her own--which was secured him afterwards,I believe, on the estate during his brother's lifetime. Some of herpeople would have gladly persuaded her to leave him, for his behaviourtowards her had been particularly odious,--and they were afraid, too, Ithink, that he might come to worse grief yet and make her lifeunbearable. But she wouldn't. And she would have no sympathy and notalk. I never saw her after the first year of their marriage, when shewas a most radiant and beautiful creature. But, by all accounts of herbehaviour at the time, she must be a remarkable woman. One of her familytold me that she broke with all of them. She would know nobody who wouldnot know him. Nor would she take money, though they were wretchedlypoor; and Dick Boyce was not squeamish. She went off to little lodgingsin the country or abroad with him without a word. At the same time, itwas plain that her life was withered. She could make one great effort;but, according to my informant, she had no energy left for anythingelse--not even to take interest in her little girl--"
Aldous made a movement.
"Suppose we talk about her?" he said rather shortly.
Lord Maxwell started and recollected himself. After a pause he said,looking down under his spectacles at his grandson with an expression inwhich discomfort strove with humour--
"I see. You think we are beating about the bush. Perhaps we are. It isthe difference between being old and being young, Aldous, my boy.Well--now then--for Miss Boyce. How much have you seen of her?--how deephas it gone? You can't wonder that I am knocked over. To bring that manamongst us! Why, the hound!" cried the old man, suddenly, "we could noteven get him to come and see his father when he was dying. John had losthis memory mostly--had forgotten, anyway, to be angry--and just _craved_for Dick, for the only creature he had ever loved. With great difficultyI traced the man, and tried my utmost. No good! He came when his fatherno longer knew him, an hour before the end. His nerves, I understood,were delicate--not so delicate, however, as to prevent his being presentat the reading of the will! I have never forgiven him that cruelty tothe old man, and never will!"
And Lord Maxwell began to pace the library again, by way of working offmemory and indignation.
Aldous watched him rather gloomily. They had now been discussing Boyce'scriminalities in great detail for a considerable time, and nothing elseseemed to have any power to touch--or, at any rate, to hold--LordMaxwell's attention. A certain deep pride in Aldous--the pride ofintimate affection--felt itself wounded.
"I see that you have grave cause to think badly of her father," he saidat last, rising as he spoke. "I must think how it concerns me. Andto-morrow you must let me tell you something about her. After all, shehas done none of these things. But I ought not to keep you up like this.You will remember Clarke was very emphatic about your not exhaustingyourself at night, last time he was here."
Lord Maxwell turned and stared.
"Why--why, what is the matter with you, Aldous? Offended?Well--well--There--I _am_ an old fool!"
And, walking up to his grandson, he laid an affectionate and rathershaking hand on the younger's shoulder.
"You have a great charge upon you, Aldous--a charge for the future. Ithas upset me--I shall be calmer to-morrow. But as to any quarrel betweenus! Are you a youth, or am I a three-tailed bashaw? As to money, youknow, I care nothing. But it goes against me, my boy, it goes againstme, that _your_ wife should bring such a story as that with her intothis house!"
"I understand," said Aldous, wincing. "But you must see her,grandfather. Only, let me say it again--don't for one moment take it forgranted that she will marry me. I never saw any one so free, sounspoilt, so unconventional."
His eyes glowed with the pleasure of remembering her looks, her tones.
Lord Maxwell withdrew his hand and shook his head slowly.
"You have a great deal to offer. No woman, unless she were eitherfoolish or totally unexperienced, could overlook that. Is she abouttwenty?"
"About twenty."
Lord Maxwell waited a moment, then, bending over the fire, shrugged hisshoulders in mock despair.
"It is evident you are out of love with me, Aldous. Why, I don't knowyet whether she is dark or fair!"
The conversation jarred on both sides. Aldous made an effort.
"She is very dark," he said; "like her mother in many ways, only quitedifferent in colour. To me she seems the most beautiful--the onlybeautiful woman I have ever seen. I should think she was very clever insome ways--and very unformed--childish almost--in others. The Hardenssay she has done everything she could--of course it isn't much--for thatmiserable village in the time she has been there. Oh! by the way, she isa Socialist. She thinks that all we landowners should be done awaywith."
Aldous looked round at his grandfather, so soon probably to be one ofthe lights of a Tory Cabinet, and laughed. So, to his relief, did LordMaxwell.
"Well, don't let her fall into young Wharton's clutches, Aldous, or hewill be setting her to canvas. So, she is beautiful and she isclever--and _good_, my boy? If she comes here, she will have to fillyour mother's and your grandmother's place."
Aldous tried to reply once or twice, but failed.
"If I did not feel that she were everything in herself to be loved andrespected"--he said at last with some formality--"I should not long, asI do, to bring you and her together."
Silence fell again. But instinctively Aldous felt that his grandfather'smood had grown gentler--his own task easier. He seized on the moment atonce.
"In the whole business," he said, half smiling, "there is only one thingclear, grandfather, and that is, that, if you will, you can do me agreat service with Miss Boyce."
Lord Maxwell turned quickly and was all sharp attention, the keencommanding eyes under their fine brows absorbing, as it were, expressionand life from the rest of the blanched and wrinkled face.
"You could, if you would, make matters easy for her and her mother inthe county," said Aldous, anxious to carry it off lightly. "You could,if you would, without committing yourself to any personal contact withBoyce himself, make it possible for me to bring her here, so that youand my aunt might see her and judge."
The old man's expression darkened.
"What, take back that note, Aldous! I never wrote anything with greatersatisfaction in my life!"
"Well,--more or less," said Aldous, quietly. "A very little would do it.A man in Richard Boyce's position will naturally not claim verymuch--will take what he can get."
"And you mean besides," said his grandfather, interrupting him, "that Imust send your aunt to call?"
"It will hardly be possible to ask Miss Boyce here unless she does!"said Aldous.
"And you reckon that I am not likely to go to Mellor, even to see her?And you want me to say a word to other people--to the Winterbournes andthe Levens, for instance?"
"Precisely," said Aldous.
Lord Maxwell meditated; then rose.
"Let me now appease the memory of Clarke by going to bed!" (Clarke washis lordship's medical attendant and autocrat.) "I must sleep upon this,Aldous."
"I only hope I shall not have tired you out."
Aldous moved to extinguish a lamp standing on a table near.
Suddenly his grandfather called him.
"Aldous!"
"Yes."
But, as no words followed, Aldous turned. He saw his grandfatherstanding erect before the fire, and was startled by the emotion heinstantly perceived in eye and mouth.
"You understand, Aldous, that for twenty years--it is twenty years lastmonth since your father died--you have been the blessing of my life? Oh!don't say anything, my boy; I don't want any more agitation. I havespoken strongly; it was hardly possible but that on such a matter Ishould feel strongly. But don't go away misunderstanding me--don'timagine for one instant that there is anything in the world that reallymatters to me in comparison with your happiness and your future!"
The venerable old man wrung the hand he held, wal
ked quickly to thedoor, and shut it behind him.
* * * * *
An hour later, Aldous was writing in his own sitting-room, a room on thefirst floor, at the western corner of the house, and commanding bydaylight the falling slopes of wood below the Court, and all the wideexpanses of the plain. To-night, too, the blinds were up, and the greatview drawn in black and pearl, streaked with white mists in the groundhollows and overarched by a wide sky holding a haloed moon, lay spreadbefore the windows. On a clear night Aldous felt himself stifled byblinds and curtains, and would often sit late, reading and writing, witha lamp so screened that it threw light upon his book or paper, while notinterfering with the full range of his eye over the night-world without.He secretly believed that human beings see far too little of the night,and so lose a host of august or beautiful impressions, which might behonestly theirs if they pleased, without borrowing or stealing fromanybody, poet or painter.
The room was lined with books, partly temporary visitors from the greatlibrary downstairs, partly his old college books and prizes, and partlyrepresenting small collections for special studies. Here were a largenumber of volumes, blue books, and pamphlets, bearing on the conditionof agriculture and the rural poor in England and abroad; there were someshelves devoted to general economics, and on a little table by the firelay the recent numbers of various economic journals, English andforeign. Between the windows stood a small philosophical bookcase, thevolumes of it full of small reference slips, and marked from end to end;and on the other side of the room was a revolving book-table crowdedwith miscellaneous volumes of poets, critics, and novelists--mainly,however, with the first two. Aldous Raeburn read few novels, and thosewith a certain impatience. His mind was mostly engaged in a slow wrestlewith difficult and unmanageable fact; and for that transformation andillumination of fact in which the man of idealist temper must sometimestake refuge and comfort, he went easily and eagerly to the poets and tonatural beauty. Hardly any novel writing, or reading, seemed to himworth while. A man, he thought, might be much better employed than indoing either.
Above the mantelpiece was his mother's picture--the picture of a youngwoman in a low dress and muslin scarf, trivial and empty in point ofart, yet linked in Aldous's mind with a hundred touching recollections,buried all of them in the silence of an unbroken reserve. She had diedin childbirth when he was nine; her baby had died with her, and herhusband, Lord Maxwell's only son and surviving child, fell a victim twoyears later to a deadly form of throat disease, one of those ills whichcome upon strong men by surprise, and excite in the dying a sense ofhelpless wrong which even religious faith can only partially soothe.
Aldous remembered his mother's death; still more his father's, thatfather who could speak no last message to his son, could only lie dumbupon his pillows, with those eyes full of incommunicable pain, and thehand now restlessly seeking, now restlessly putting aside the small andtrembling hand of the son. His boyhood had been spent under the shadowof these events, which had aged his grandfather, and made him too earlyrealise himself as standing alone in the gap of loss, the only hope leftto affection and to ambition. This premature development, amid the mostmelancholy surroundings, of the sense of personal importance--not in anyegotistical sense, but as a sheer matter of fact--had robbed a nervousand sensitive temperament of natural stores of gaiety and elasticitywhich it could ill do without. Aldous Raeburn had been too much thoughtfor and too painfully loved. But for Edward Hallin he might well haveacquiesced at manhood in a certain impaired vitality, in the scholar'srange of pleasures, and the landowner's customary round of duties.
It was to Edward Hallin he was writing to-night, for the stress and stirof feeling caused by the events of the day, and not least by hisgrandfather's outburst, seemed to put sleep far off. On the table beforehim stood a photograph of Hallin, besides a miniature of his mother as agirl. He had drawn the miniature closer to him, finding sympathy and joyin its youth, in the bright expectancy of the eyes, and so wrote, as itwere, having both her and his friend in mind and sight.
To Hallin he had already spoken of Miss Boyce, drawing her in light,casual, and yet sympathetic strokes as the pretty girl in a difficultposition whom one would watch with curiosity and some pity. To-night hisletter, which should have discussed a home colonisation scheme ofHallin's, had but one topic, and his pen flew.
"Would you call her beautiful? I ask myself again and again, trying toput myself behind your eyes. She has nothing, at any rate, in commonwith the beauties we have down here, or with those my aunt bade meadmire in London last May. The face has a strong Italian look, but notItalian of to-day. Do you remember the Ghirlandajo frescoes in SantaMaria Novella, or the side groups in Andrea's frescoes at theAnnunziata? Among them, among the beautiful tall women of them, thereare, I am sure, noble, freely-poised, suggestive heads like hers--hair,black wavy hair, folded like hers in large simple lines, and faceswith the same long, subtle curves. It is a face of the Renaissance,extraordinarily beautiful, as it seems to me, in colour and expression;imperfect in line, as the beauty which marks the meeting pointbetween antique perfection and modern character must always be. Ithas _morbidezza_--unquiet melancholy charm, then passionategaiety--everything that is most modern grafted on things Greek and old.I am told that Burne Jones drew her several times while she was inLondon, with delight. It is the most _artistic_ beauty, having both theharmonies and the dissonances that a full-grown art loves.
"She may be twenty or rather more. The mind has all sorts of ability;comes to the right conclusion by a divine instinct, ignoring the how andwhy. What does such a being want with the drudgery of learning? to suchkeenness life will be master enough. Yet she has evidently read a gooddeal--much poetry, some scattered political economy, some modernsocialistic books, Matthew Arnold, Ruskin, Carlyle. She takes everythingdramatically, imaginatively, goes straight from it to life, and backagain. Among the young people with whom she made acquaintance while shewas boarding in London and working at South Kensington, there seem tohave been two brothers, both artists, and both Socialists; ardent youngfellows, giving all their spare time to good works, who must haveinfluenced her a great deal. She is full of angers and revolts, whichyou would delight in. And first of all, she is applying herself to herfather's wretched village, which will keep her hands full. A large andpassionate humanity plays about her. What she says often seems to mefoolish--in the ear; but the inner sense, the heart of it, command me.
"Stare as you please, Ned! Only write to me, and come down here as soonas you can. I can and will hide nothing from you, so you will believe mewhen I say that all is uncertain, that I know nothing, and, though Ihope everything, may just as well fear everything too. But somehow I amanother man, and the world shines and glows for me by day and night."
Aldous Raeburn rose from his chair and, going to the window, stoodlooking out at the splendour of the autumn moon. Marcella moved acrossthe whiteness of the grass; her voice was still speaking to his inwardear. His lips smiled; his heart was in a wild whirl of happiness.
Then he walked to the table, took up his letter, read it, tore itacross, and locked the fragments in a drawer.
"Not yet, Ned--not yet, dear old fellow, even to you," he said tohimself, as he put out his lamp.