XVIII
A few days later, Lady Tatham received a letter, which she opened withsome agitation. It was from Lydia in London:
"DEAR LADY TATHAM:
"I have waited some weeks before writing to you, partly because, as SusyI hear has told you, I have been busy nursing my mother's sister, butstill more because my heart failed me--again and again.
"And yet I feel I ought to write--partly in justice to myself--partly toask you to forgive the pain I fear I may have caused you. I know--for hehas told me--that Lord Tatham never concealed from you all that haspassed between us; and so I feel sure that you know what happened about amonth ago, when we agreed that it would be wiser not to meet again forthe present.
"I don't exactly want to defend myself. It still seems to me true that,in the future, men and women will find it much more possible to becomrades and friends, without any thought of falling in love or marrying,than they do now; and that it will be a good thing for both. And if itis true, are not some of us justified in making experiments now? LordTatham I know will have told you I was quite frank from the beginning. Idid not wish to marry; but I meant to be a very true friend; and I wantedto be allowed to love you both, as one loves one's friends, and to shareyour life a little. And the thing I most wished was that Lord Tathamshould marry--some one quite different from myself.
"So we agreed that we would write, and share each other's feelings andthoughts as far as we could. And I hoped that any other idea with regardto me would soon pass out of Lord Tatham's mind. I did--most sincerely;and I think he believes that I did. How good and dear he always was tome!--how much I have learnt from him! And yet I am afraid it was all veryblind, and ill-considered--perhaps very selfish--on my part. I did notunderstand what harm I _might_ do; though I hope with all my heart--andbelieve--that I have not done anything irreparable. It is very hardfor me to regret it; because all my life I shall be the richer and thewiser for having known so good a man; one so true, so unselfish, sohigh-minded. Women so rarely come to know men, except in marriage, orthrough books; and your son's character has sweetened and ennobled wholesides of life for me--forever.
"But if--in return--I have given him pain--and you, who love him! I wasalways afraid of you--but I would have done anything in the world toserve you. Will you let me have a little word--just to tell me that youforgive, and understand. I ask it with a very sore heart--full, full ofgratitude to him and to you, for all your goodness."
* * * * *
Victoria was oddly affected by this letter. It both touched and angeredher. She was touched by what it said, deeply touched; and angered by whatit omitted. And yet how could the writer have said anything more!--oranything else! Victoria admitted that her thoughts had run far beyondwhat she knew--in any true sense--or had any right to conjecture.Nevertheless the fact in her belief remained a fact, that but forFaversham and some disastrous influence he had gained over her almost atonce, Harry would have had his chance with Lydia Penfold. As it was, shehad been allowing Harry to offer her his most intimate thoughts andfeelings, while she was actually falling in love with his inferior. Thiswas what enraged Victoria. Whatever Cyril Boden might say, it seemed toher maternal jealousy something equivalent to the betrayal of a sacredconfidence.
Yet clearly she could not say so to Lydia Penfold--nor could Lydiaconfess it! She wrote as follows:
"MY DEAR MISS PENFOLD:
"It was very kind of you to write to me, I am sure you meant no harm,and I do not pretend to judge another person's conduct by what I mightmyself have thought wisest or best. But I think we all have to learnthat the deepest feelings in life are very sensitive, and veryincalculable things; and that the old traditions and conventionsrespecting them have probably much more to say for themselves than welike to admit--especially in our youth. Men and women in middle life mayhave true and intimate friendships without any thought of marriage. Idoubt whether this is possible for young people, though I know it is thefashion nowadays to behave as though it were. And especially is itdifficult--or impossible--where there has been any thought of love--oneither side. For love is the great, unmanageable, explosive thing, whichcannot be tamed down, at a word, into friendship--not in youth at anyrate. The attempt to treat it as a negligible quantity can only bringsuffering and misunderstanding.
"But I must not preach to you like this. I am sure you know--now--thatwhat I say has truth in it. Thank you again for the feeling that dictatedyour letter. Harry is very well and very busy. We hoped to go to Londonbefore Christmas, but this most difficult and unhappy affair of Mrs.Melrose and her daughter detains us. Whether we shall obtain justice forthem in the end I do not know. At present the adverse influences are verystrong--and the indignation of all decent people seems to make nodifference. Mr. Faversham's position is indeed difficult to understand.
"Please remember me kindly to your mother and sister. Next year I hope weshall be able to meet as usual. But for the present, as you and Harryhave agreed, it is better not."
* * * * *
Victoria was extremely dissatisfied with this letter when she had doneit. But she knew very well that Harry would have resented a single harshword from her toward the misguided Lydia; and she did not know how betterto convey the warning that burnt on her lips with regard to Faversham.
* * * * *
Lydia received Victoria's letter on the day of her return to the cottage.Her mother remained in London.
Susy welcomed her sister affectionately, but with the sidelong looks ofthe observer. Ever since the evening of Lady Tatham's visit when Lydiahad come back with white face and red eyes from her walk with HarryTatham, and when the following night had been broken for Susy by thesound of her sister's weeping in the room next to her, it had beenrecognized by the family that the Tatham affair had ended in disaster,and that Duddon was henceforth closed to them. Lydia told her motherenough to plunge that poor lady into even greater wonder than before atthe hopeless divergence of young people to-day from the ways and customsof their grandmothers; and then begged piteously that nothing more mightbe said to her. Mrs. Penfold cried and kissed her; and for many daystears fell on the maternal knitting needles, as the fading vision ofLydia, in a countess' coronet, curtesying to her sovereign, floatedmockingly through the maternal mind. To Susy Lydia was a little moreexplicit; but she showed herself so sunk in grief and self-abasement,that Susy had not the heart for either probing or sarcasm. It was not abroken heart, but a sore conscience--a warm, natural penitence, that shebeheld. Lydia was not yet "splendid," and Susy could not make anythingtragic out of her.
At least, on what appeared. And not even Susy's impatience couldpenetrate beyond appearance. She longed to say, "Enough of the Tathamaffair--now let us come to business. How do you stand with ClaudeFaversham?" A number of small indications pointed her subtly,irresistibly in that direction. But the strength of Lydia's personalitystood guard over her secret--if she had one.
All Susy could do was to give Lydia the gossip of the neighbourhood,which she did--copiously, including the "cutting" of Faversham at theCounty Club, by Colonel Barton and others. Lydia said nothing.
In the course of the evening, however, a letter arrived for Lydia,brought by messenger from Threlfall Tower. Lydia was alone in thesitting-room; Susy was writing upstairs. The letter ran:
"I hear you have returned to-day. May I come and see you to-morrowafternoon--late?"
To which Lydia replied in her firmest handwriting, "Come by all means. Ishall be here between five and six to-morrow." After which she went aboutwith head erect and shining eyes, like one who has secretly received andaccepted a challenge. She was going to sift this matter for herself.Since a hurried note reporting the latest news of the Mainstairs victims,which had reached her from Faversham on the morning of her departure forLondon, she had heard nothing from him; and during her weeks of nursingin a darkened room, she had sounded the dim and perilous ways of her ownheart as best she could.<
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She spent the following day in sketching the Helvellyn range, stillradiant under its first snow-cap; sitting warmly sheltered on a southernside of a wall, within sound of the same stream beside which she andFaversham had met for the first time in the spring, amid the splendidlight and colour of the May sunset.
And now it was already winter. The fell-sides were red with witheredfern; their round or craggy tops showed white against a steely sky; downthe withered copses by the stream, the north wind swept; a golden oakshowered its dead leaf upon her. Gray walls, purple fells, the brown andsilver of the stream, all the mountain detail that she loved--she drew itpassionately into her soul. Nature and art--why had she been so faithlessto them--she "the earth's unwearied lover?" She was miserably, ironicallyconscious of her weakness; of the gap between her spring and her autumn.
On her return, she told Susy quietly of her expected visitor. Susy raisedher eyebrows.
"I shall give him tea," said Susan, "just to save the proprieties withSarah." Sarah was the house parlour-maid. "But _then_ you won't need togive me hints."
Susy had departed. Lydia and Faversham sat opposite each other in thelittle drawing-room.
Lydia's first impression on seeing him had been one of dismay. He lookedmuch older; and a certain remoteness, a cold and nervous manner seemed tohave taken the place of the responsive ease she remembered. It began tocost her an effort to remember the emotion of their last meeting in theMainstairs lane.
But when they were alone together, he drew a long breath, and leaningforward over the table before them, his face propped on his hand, helooked at her earnestly.
"I wonder what you have been hearing about me?"
Lydia made a brave effort, and told him. She repeated to himthe gist of what Susan had reported the night before, putting itlightly--apologetically--as though statements so extravagant had onlyto be made to be disproved. His mind meanwhile was divided betweenstrained attention, and irrepressible delight in the spectacle of Lydiaenthroned in her mother's chair, of the pale golden hair rippling backfrom the broad forehead, and the clear eyes beneath the thin dark arch ofthe brows, so delicately traced on the white skin; of all the play ofgesture and expression that made up her beauty. Existence for him duringthese weeks of her absence had largely meant expectation of this moment.He had discounted all that she would probably say to him; his replieswere ready.
And she no sooner paused than he began an eager and considered defence ofhimself. A defence which, as he explained, he had intended to make weeksbefore. He had called the very day after their hurried departure forLondon; and having missed them, had then decided to wait till they couldtalk face to face. _Le papier est bete!_ "I had too much to say!"
Well, when he had said it, to what did it amount? He claimed the right totell the whole story; and began therefore by tracing the steps by whichhe had become necessary to Melrose; by describing his astonishment whenthe offer of the agency was made to him; and the sudden rush of plans andhopes for the future. Then, by a swift and effective digression hesketched the character of Melrose, as he had come to know it; theferocity of the old man's will; his mad obstinacy, in which there wasalways a touch of fantastic imagination; and those alternations ofsolitude and excitement, with the inevitable, accompanying defiance ofall laws of health, physical and moral, which for years had made up hislife.
"Let us remember that he is undoubtedly a sick man. He will tell menothing of what his doctors say to him. But I put two and two together. Idon't believe he can possibly live long. A year or two at most; perhapsmuch less. When I accepted the agency, I confess I thought his physicalweakness would oblige him to put the whole management of the estate intomy hands. It has not been so. The mind, the will are iron, whatever thephysical weakness may be. He conceives himself as a rock in the Socialisttorrent, bound to oppose reforms, and concessions, and innovations, justbecause they are asked of him by a revolutionary society. He reckons thathis life will last out his resistance--his successful resistance--andthat he will go down with the flag flying. So that he takes an insanepleasure in disappointing and thwarting the public opinion about him. Forit _is_ insane--remember that! The moral state, the moral judgments, areall abnormal; the will and the brain are, so far as his main pursuits areconcerned, still superb."
He paused. Her gaze--half-shrinking--was fixed on the face so near toher; on the profound and resolute changes which had passed over thefeatures which when she first saw them had still the flexibility ofyouth. The very curls and black hair lying piled above the foreheadin which there were already two distinct transverse lines, seemed to havegrown harsher and stronger.
"This, of course, is what I discovered as soon as I had taken the agency.I did not know my man when I accepted. I began to know him, as soon as wereally came to business. I found him opposed to all reform--incapableeven of decent humanity. Very well! Was I to throw up?"
His eyes pierced into hers. Lydia could only murmur: "Go on."
"Suppose I had thrown up!--what would have happened? The estate wouldhave sunk, more and more lamentably, into the power of a certain lowattorney who has been Melrose's instrument in all his worst doings foryears--and of a pair of corrupt clerks in the local office. Who wouldhave gained? Not a soul! On the contrary, much would have been lost.Heaven knows I have been able to do little enough. But I have donesomething!--I have done _something_!--that is what people forget."
He looked at her passionately; a distress rising in his eyes, which hecould not hide. Was it her silence--the absence of any cheering,approving sound from her?
She lifted her hand, and let it drop.
"Mainstairs!" she said. It was just breathed--a cry of pain.
"Yes--Mainstairs! I know--let us tackle Mainstairs. Mainstairs is ahorror--a tragedy. If I had been allowed, I should have set the wholething right a couple of months ago; I should have re-housed some of thepeople, closed some of the cottages, repaired others. Mr. Melrose stoppedeverything. There again--what good could I do by throwing up? I hadplenty of humdrum work elsewhere that was not being interfered with--workthat will tell in the long run. I left Mainstairs to Melrose; theresponsibility was his, not mine. I went on with what I was doing. He andthe police--thank heaven!--cleared the place."
"And in the clearing, Mr. Melrose, they say, never lifted a finger tohelp--did not even give money," said Lydia in the same low, restrainedvoice, as she looked away from her guest into the fire. "And one sitsthinking--of all the _dead_--that might have been saved!"
His frowning distress was evident.
"Do I not feel it as much as any one?" he said, with emotion. "I washelpless!"
There was silence. Then Lydia turned sharply toward him.
"Mr. Faversham! Is it true that Mr. Melrose has made you his heir?"
His face changed.
"Yes--it is true."
"And he has refused to make any provision for his wife and daughter?"
"He has. And more than that"--he looked at her with a defiantcandour--"he has tried to bind me in his will to do nothing for them."
"And you have allowed it?"
"I shall soon get round that," he said, scornfully. "There are a thousandways. Such restrictions are not worth the paper they are written on."
"And meanwhile they are living on charity? And Mr. Melrose, as you say,may last some years. I saw Mrs. Melrose pass this morning in a carriage.She looked like a dying woman."
"I have done my best," he said doggedly. "I have argued--and entreated.To no avail!"
"But you are taking the money"--the quiet intensity of the tone affectedhim strangely--"the money, that should be theirs--the money which hasbeen wrung--partly--from this wretched estate. You are accepting giftsand benefits from a man you must loathe and despise!"
She was trembling all over. Her eyes avoided his as she sat downcast; herhead bent under the weight of her own words.
There was silence. But a silence that spoke. For what was in truth themeaning of this interview--of his pleading--and her agonized, reluc
tantjudgment? No ordinary acquaintance, no ordinary friendship could havebrought it about. Things unspoken, feelings sprung from the flying seedsof love, falling invisible on yielding soil, and growing up a man knowethnot how--at once troubled and united them. The fear of separation hadgrown, step by step, with the sense of attraction and of yearning. It wasbecause their hearts reached out to each other that they dreaded so tofind some impassable gulf between them.
He mastered himself with difficulty.
"That is one way of putting it. Now let me put it my way. I am a man whohas had few chances in life--and great ambitions--which I have never hadthe smallest means of satisfying. I may be the mere intriguer that Tathamand his mother evidently think me. But I am inclined to believe inmyself. Most men are. I feel that I have never had my opportunity. Whatis this wealth that is offered me, but an opportunity? There never was somuch to be done with wealth--so much sheer _living_ to be got out of it,as there is to-day. Luxury and self-indulgence are the mere abuse ofwealth. Wealth means everything nowadays that a man is most justifiedin desiring!--supposing he has the brains to use it. That at any rate ismy belief. It always has been my belief. Trust me--that is all I ask ofmy friends. Give me time. If Mr. Melrose were to die soon--immediately--Ishould be able all the quicker to put everything to rights. But if hisdeath is delayed a year or two--my life indeed will be a dog's life"--hespoke with sudden emotion--"but the people on the estate will not be theworse, but the better, for my being there; and in the end the power willcome to me--and I shall use it. So long as Melrose lives his wife anddaughter can get nothing out of him, whether I am there or not. Hisobstinacy is immovable, as Lady Tatham has found, and when he dies, theirinterests will be safe with me."
Lydia had grown very pale. The man before her seemed to her Faversham,yet not Faversham. Some other personality, compounded of all those ugly,sophistic things that lurk in every human character, seemed to bewrestling with, obscuring the real man.
"And the years till this stage comes to an end?" she askedhim. "When every day you have to do what you feel to bewrong?--to obey--to be at the beck and call of such a man as Mr.Melrose?--hateful--cruel--tyrannical!--when you must silence allthat is generous and noble--"
Her voice failed her.
Faversham's lips tightened. They remained looking at each other. ThenFaversham rose suddenly. He stooped over her. She heard his voice, hoarseand broken in her ears:
"Lydia--I love you!--I _love you_--with all my heart!--and all mystrength! Don't, for God's sake, let us make believe with each other!And--I believe," he added, after a moment, in a lower tone, "Ibelieve--that you love me!"
His attitude, his manner were masterful--violent. She trembled under it.He tried to take her hand.
"Speak to me!" he said, peremptorily. "Oh, my darling--speak to me! Ionly ask you to trust to me--to be guided by me--"
She withdrew her hand. He could see her heart fluttering under the softcurves of the breast.
"I can't--I can't!"
The words were said with anguish. She covered her face with her hands.
"Because I won't do what you wish? What is it you wish?"
They had come to the deciding moment.
She looked up, recovering self-control, her heart rushing to her lips.
"Give it up!" she said, stretching out her hands to him, her head thrownback, all her delicate beauty one prayer. "Don't touch this money! It isstained--it is corrupt. You lose your honour in taking it--and honour--islife. What does money matter? The great things that make one happy havenothing to do with money. They can be had for so little! And if one losesthem--honour and self-respect--and a clear conscience--how can _money_make up! If I were to marry you--and we had to live on Mr. Melrose'smoney--everything in life would be poisoned for me. I should always seethe faces--of those dead people--whom I loved. I should hear theirvoices--accusing. We should be in slavery--slavery to a bad man--and oursouls would die--"
Her voice dropped--drowned in the passion of its own entreaty.
Faversham pressed her hands, released them, and slowly straightenedhimself to his full height, as he stood beside her on the hearthrug.A vision rose and spread through the mind. In place of the littlesitting-room, the modest home of refined women living on a slenderincome, he saw the great gallery at Threlfall with its wonderfulcontents, and the series of marvellous rooms he had now examined and setin order. Vividly, impressively the great house presented itself to himin memory, in all its recovered grace and splendour; a treasury of art,destined to be a place of pilgrimage for all who adore that lovely recordof itself in things subtle and exquisite which the human spirit haswritten on time. Often lately he had wrung permission from Melrose totake an English or foreign visitor through some of the rooms. He hadwatched their enthusiasm and their ardour. And mingled with suchexperience, there had been now for months the intoxicating sense thateverything in that marvellous house was potentially his--ClaudeFaversham's, and would all some day come into his hands, the hands of aman specially prepared by education and early circumstance to enjoy, toappreciate.
And the estate. As in a map, he saw its green spreading acres, itsmultitude of farms, its possessions of all kind, spoilt and neglected byone man's caprice, but easily to be restored by the prudent care of hissuccessor. He realized himself in the future as its owner; the inevitableplace that it would give him in the political and social affairs of thenorth. And the estate was not all. Behind the estate lay the greatuntrammelled fortune drawn from quite other sources of wealth; how greathe was only now beginning to know.
A great sigh shook him--a sigh of decision. What he had been listening tohad been the quixotism of a tender heart, ignorant of life and affairs,and all the wider possibilities open to man's will. He could not yield.In time she must be the one to yield. And she would yield. Let him wait,and be patient. There were many ways in which to propitiate, to work uponher.
He looked down upon her gravely, his dark pointed face quivering alittle. Instinctively she drew back. Her expression changed.
"I can't do that." His voice was low but firm. "I feel the call to me.And after all, Melrose has claims on me. To me, personally, hisgenerosity--has been incredible. He is old--and ill. I must stay by him."
Her mind cried out, "Yes--but on your own terms, not his!"
But she did not say it. Her pride came to her aid. She sprang up, aglittering animation flashing back into her face, transforming itssoftness, its tenderness.
"I understand--I quite understand. Thank you for being so plain--andbearing with my--strange ideas. Now--I don't think we can be of anyfurther use to each other--though--" she clasped her handsinvoluntarily--"I shall always hope and pray--"
She did not finish. He broke into a cry.
"Lydia! you send me away?"
"I don't accept your conditions--nor you mine. There is no more to besaid."
He looked at her sombrely, remorse struggling with his will. But alsoanger--the anger of a naturally arrogant temperament--that he should findher so resistant.
"If you loved me--"
"Ah--no," she shook her head fiercely, the bright tears in her eyes;"don't let's talk of love! That has nothing to say to it."
She turned, and took up a piece of embroidery lying on a table near. Heaccepted the indication, turning very white. But still he lingered.
"Is there nothing I could say that would alter your mind?"
"I am afraid--nothing."
She gave him her hand. He scarcely dared to press it; she had becomesuddenly so strong, so hostile. Her light beauty had turned as it were tofire; one saw the flame of the spirit.
A tumult of thoughts and regrets rushed through him. But thingsinexorable held him. With a long, lingering look at her, he turned andwent.
A little later, Susy entering timidly found Lydia sitting alone in a roomthat was nearly dark. Some instinct guided her. She came in, took a stoolbeside her sister, and leant her head against Lydia's knee. Lydia saidnothing, but their hands joined, and for long they sat in
the firelight,the only sounds, Lydia's stifled sobbing, and the soft crackling of adying flame.
BOOK IV