CHAPTER I.
I do not know how to begin this story otherwise than by a confession
that I cannot describe its very first scene. It was a scene such as
happens very often in romance, and which a great many writers could
describe to the life. I know who could do it so well that you would
think you saw the accident--the plunge of the frightened horse, the
sudden change in the sensations of the rider from voluntary progress
on her own part to a gradual confused wild mad rush past of trees
and houses and hedgerows, and all the whirling level green of the
country round--the flash before her eyes--the jar--the stillness of
insensibility. Many writers whom I know could make a great point of
it; but I never was run away with by my horse, and I do not know how it
feels. Therefore I will begin where the excitement ends, and take up
my story from the moment when Kate Crediton opened her eyes, without
any notion where she was, with a thousand bells ringing in her ears,
and awful shadows of something that had happened or was going to happen
flitting about her brain--and by degrees found that she was not on her
horse, as she had been when last she had any acquaintance with herself,
but lying on a sofa with a sense of wetness and coolness about her
head, and the strangest incapacity to move or speak or exercise any
energy of her own. She began to hear the voices and to feel the things
that were being done to her before she was capable of opening her
eyes, or indeed had come to herself. There was a soft plash of water,
and sensation as if a sudden shower had come over her face, and then
consciousness struggled back, and she began to divine what it was.
"Where am I?" she said, faintly, in her great wonder; and then her
father came forward, and with tears in his eyes implored her not to
stir or speak. And there was another man who was dimly apparent to her,
holding her hand or her pulse or something; and at her feet a pair of
anxious, astonished eyes gazing at her, and somebody behind who was
sprinkling something fragrant over her head, and shedding the heavy
hair off her forehead. She had fainted, and yet somehow had escaped
being dead, as she ought to have been. Or was she dead, and were these
phantoms that were round her, moving so ghostly, speaking with their
voices miles off through the plaintive air? But she could not put the
question, though she was so curious. She could not move, though she was
the most active, restless little creature possible. All the bells of
all the country round were booming dully in her ears; or was it rather
a hive of bees that had clustered round her with dull, small, murmurous
trumpeting? The mist went and came across her eyes like clouds on the
sky, and every time it blew aside there was visible that pair of eyes.
Whom did they belong to? or were they only floating there in space,
with perhaps a pair of wings attached?--a hypothesis not inconsistent
with Kate's sense that after all she might have died, for anything she
could say to the contrary. But the eyes were anxious, puckered up at
the corners, with a very intent, disturbed, eager look in them, such as
eyes could scarcely have in heaven.
"She will do now," Kate heard some one say beside her; "let her be kept
quite quiet, and not allowed to speak--and you may continue the cold
compress on the head. I think it will be best to leave her quite alone
with Mrs Mitford. Quiet is of the first consequence. I shall come back
again in an hour and see how she is."
"But, doctor," said the anxious voice of Mr Crediton, "you don't
think----"
"My dear sir, there is no use in thinking anything just now. I hope she
will be all right again this evening; but pray come with me, and leave
her quiet. At present we can do no good."
I do not mean to say that this connected conversation penetrated to
the poor little brain which had just received such a shock; but she
heard it, and caught the name, Mrs Mitford, out of the mist, and her
mind began vaguely to revolve round the new idea so oddly thrown
into it. Mrs Mitford?--who was she? The name seemed to get into the
murmurs of the bees somehow, and buzz and buzz about her. The big eyes
disappeared; the sense of other moving living creatures about her died
off into the general hum. But for that, everything now was still,
except just one rustle behind her at her head. And sometimes a hand
came out of the stillness, and dropped new freshness on her forehead;
and once it lingered with a soft half caress, and shed back the hair
once more, and there came to her the soft coo of a voice as the buzzing
became less loud. Yes; the bees began to hum away to their hives,
farther and farther off into the slumberous distance. And this?--was it
the wood-pigeons among the bees?
Thus it will be seen that poor Kate had received a considerable shock;
but yet, as she was young, and had unfathomable fountains of life and
energy to draw from, she had quite come to herself by the evening, as
the doctor hoped. Her father was allowed to come in for ten minutes
to see her, and almost wept over his child, though that was not by
any means his usual frame of mind; and Mrs Mitford emerged from the
darkness at the end of the sofa and sat by the side of her charge,
and even talked to her sometimes in that voice which was like the
wood-pigeon's coo. But who was she? and whose were those two eyes which
had floated in the curious cloudy darkness? Perhaps it was because
of the general state of confusion in which she found herself that
Kate's mind was so occupied with those eyes, thinking whom they could
belong to, and who Mrs Mitford could be, who was taking charge of her
so simply, as if it was the most natural thing in the world. As the
evening darkened, an uncomfortable sense that she ought to get up and
get ready to go home came over her. And she did not want to go home.
To lie there quite still, full of dreamy wonderings, which were half
pleasant, half confusing, seemed all she was fit for. The very idea of
raising herself, of putting her foot on the ground, seemed to bring
back all those buzzing bees--and yet night was coming on, and that of
course would be the necessary thing to do.
It was almost dark when, for the second time, her father came to the
side of her sofa. He came very softly, and hushed her when she first
attempted to speak. "Not a word, my darling," he said--"not a word; you
must not talk."
"But I must," said Kate, though even her own voice sounded at least
five miles off. "Papa, must not I get up and go home?"
"You are not able," he said, stooping over and kissing her. "Don't
trouble yourself about that. Mrs Mitford has promised to take charge
of you till you are better. You must lie quite quiet, and not think of
anything till you get well."
"I am--pretty well," said Kate, "and who is Mrs----?" She stopped, for
there was a shadow behind Mr Crediton, who could only be Mrs Mitford
herself, and Kate's sense of courtesy was not gone, though she was so
strangely confused. Then she gave a little exclamation of surprise.
"I am still in my habit," she said, with vague wonder, "though it is
almost night!"
"We are going to get you out of your habit presently, my dear," said
Mrs Mitford. "Say good-night to your father, for we must send him away.
You will soon know who I am, and all about it; but you must not talk
to-night."
And then, before she knew how, she was released from her warm clinging
dress, and laid, all white and fresh and cool, in a cool, soft, shaded
bed, where the confusion gradually deepened round her. Kate could have
vowed she had never slept at all, but had been all the while sensible
of the strangeness and stillness of the place--of now and then a sound
and touch that felt like the embodiment of the silence--of a faint
glimmer of light in the darkness--of sometimes a wandering breath of
air, as if the window had been opened; and the sense of some one by her
all the while. But yet, no doubt, she must have slept; for it became
apparent to her all at once that day had returned--that the morning
air was coming in, and the whole dim chamber was flooded through and
through with light,--light which was not sunshine, and yet looked
like the essence of sunshine. She seemed to herself to look up all at
once out of the soft darkness which had prevented her from identifying
anything, to see this daylight room all bright and clear, with its
pictures and its furniture, and a bright-faced soft-eyed woman who
stood by her bed-side, no longer a shadow among the shadows. Such soft
eyes, though they were no longer young, a complexion so softly, sweetly
tinted, a look that caressed every young creature it rested upon:--If
this was Mrs Mitford, it was very pleasant to be left in her charge.
She had a little tray in her hands, white-covered, with fragrant tea
and delicate bits of dry toast. Kate, not knowing how it was that she
had woke so suddenly to this pleasant spectacle, tried to start up,
with her usual impetuosity, but fell back again immediately, with her
head all buzzing and confused, as it had been on the previous night.
"Oh dear! what is the matter with me?" cried Kate, so much overwhelmed
by her sensations that she forgot civility.
"Nothing very much, I hope, my dear," said Mrs Mitford; "but you are
not well enough to jump up like that. You had a bad fall yesterday; but
you have slept so well all night----"
"Oh no--I think not," protested Kate; and then it suddenly occurred to
her how ungrateful she was. "I am sure you were sitting up with me,"
she said. "It is so very good of you; and I don't even know--my head is
so strange."
"You shall hear all about it in time," said her cheerful nurse. "You
have only to keep quiet, that is all, and take some tea, and be content
to be an invalid. Is that hard? But it might have been so much worse;
and oh! we have such reason to be thankful, my dear!"
Kate did not say anything, but she gazed so, throwing all her
awe-stricken thoughts into her eyes, that the kind woman answered the
thought as if it had been spoken.
"Yes, you might have been killed--and my John too. Thank God, you are
both safe! But you must not ask any more questions. You must let me
settle your pillows for you, and try to take some tea."
"My John!" who was that? another mysterious new being in this world
of darkness. Kate gazed imploringly at her new friend, whom she had
identified and made out. But Mrs Mitford's attention was fixed on the
pillows, which she piled up cunningly behind the patient to support
her. "Is that comfortable?" she asked. "It does not make you giddy
to sit up like that? and here is your breakfast, and a rose with
the dew on it from my--from the garden," she added, after a little
momentary pause. Kate's mind was very much confused, it is true,
but still her woman's wit had not so much deserted her but that she
could make out that broken sentence. It was "my John," no doubt, that
her friend had been about to say, and why then could not she say it
without hesitation? An involuntary smile stole over Kate's face; she
put up the rose to hide this smile, taking in all its freshness and
dewiness and perfume into her young being. Evidently John was not
without discrimination--and Kate, we are obliged to confess, was the
kind of girl to like the rose all the better coming to her in this
half-mysterious way, than if Mrs Mitford had but gathered it in the
garden as she took her morning walk.
"It is very sweet; and it is so kind of--you, to bring it me," said
Kate, with a little gleam of habitual mischief waking in her pretty
eyes. "But oh! my head feels so strange, I can't make it out."
"Perhaps you had better not talk any more, but lie down again as soon
as you have had your tea," said Mrs Mitford; and she only smiled upon
Kate's further attempts to enter into conversation, and shook her head.
When the little tray had been removed, and the pillows lowered, Kate
was left with her rose, in a not unwilling quiet. After all, curious
though she was, she did not feel able to talk: her head still felt, as
she said, very strange. The bees were not so far off but what they were
ready to come back when she stirred. On the whole, it was best to lie
back and keep quite still, and watch her nurse moving about the room.
She had a grey alpaca gown, which shone with pretty reflets
like silk, but did not rustle to vex the invalid's nerves; and a little
white cap that set off her soft rose-tints. Kate lay and wondered how
she had managed to keep that lovely soft complexion--and then why she
wore a cap, which so few people do nowadays. Certainly Mrs Mitford had
no need to wear it; she had plenty of hair, though it was beginning to
be touched by grey, and Kate was sufficiently a young woman of her time
to know that no hair now needs to grow grey unless its owner chooses.
And then she wondered how old Mrs Mitford was. She might not have been
any more than forty, and yet she might be ten years older than that--it
was hard to say. She went about softly, not quite noiselessly, which
is as hurtful to the nerves as boisterousness, but with just sound
enough to make you aware she was there. And it was so nice, Kate
thought, to have her there. Her pretty rose ribbons, which brightened
the grey dress, were not so pretty as the softer roses on her cheeks.
Kate was all lilies and roses herself, and she could not but gaze with
a sympathetic admiration at the woman so much older than herself, who
still retained this special loveliness. She looked like Methuselah to
Kate, and yet she was so pretty. "Shall I be as pretty, I wonder, when
I am as old?" the girl asked herself; and once more was surprised by a
smile at the quaint, strange, incomprehensible thought. Kate Crediton
fifty, but still possessed of a pretty complexion, and considered
a nice-looking woman of her age! The idea was so odd that into the
quietness there bubbled up a little sudden fountain of laughter, of
which, as soon as she heard it, Kate was so infinitely ashamed, that
even her rose did not suffice to hide the colour which blazed up into
her cheeks.
"Laughing, my dear!" said Mrs Mitford, though not without a little
anxiety, drawing near the bed. "What has amused you?" And she came
quite close, and touched Kate's forehead softly with her hand, and
gazed at her, with just a touch of dread lest her mind was wandering,
which the girl guessed somehow, and which instantly sobered her
thoughts.
"I was thinking how funny it is to be lying here so comfortable, and
you taking care of me as if I belonged to you, and not to know where I
am, nor--anything about it. It is all so queer."
"It is not half so queer as you think," said Mrs Mitford, smiling; "you
will find it is quite natural when you are a little better. But we must
not talk till the doctor comes. He gave orders you were to be kept
perfectly quiet. Perhaps he will relax when he sees how well you are,
if you keep quite quiet now."
"When will he come!" said Kate, with a sigh of impatience; and then in
her hasty way she put up her face, as well as she was able, to her kind
nurse. "I wonder if mamma was like you," cried the motherless creature,
with a few tears which came as suddenly as the laughter. It was Kate's
way; but Mrs Mitford did not know that, and was wonderfully touched,
and kissed her, and bathed her face, and smoothed her hair, and did a
hundred little tender offices for her, making her "nice," as an invalid
should look.
"My hair was much the same colour when I was your age, and I had just
such heaps of it," the kind woman said, combing out and caressing those
great shining coils.
"I shall be just the same-looking woman when I am old," was the comment
Kate made to herself; and the thought almost made her laugh again. But
this time she had warning of the inclination, and restrained herself;
and thus the morning wore away.
When the doctor came he pronounced her a great deal better, and Kate
lay wondering, and listened with all her ears to the conversation
that went on in hushed tones near her bed-side. "Not light-headed at
all?" said the doctor; "not talking nonsense?" "And oh," cried Kate to
herself, "if I did not talk nonsense, it is the first time in all my
life!" "Oh no, she has been quite rational--quite herself," said Mrs
Mitford; and Kate, exercising intense self-control, did not laugh. If
she had ever been called rational before, it would not have been so
hard; and how little they must know about her! "It is rather nice to
be considered sensible," she said within herself; but she could not
suppress the laughing mischief in her eye, which the doctor perceived
when he turned round to feel her pulse again.
"She looks as if she were laughing at us all," he said. "Miss Crediton,
tell me do you feel quite well? able to get up this moment and ride
home?"
"I am very well when I lie still," said Kate; "but I don't want to
go home, please. She is not at home; I am obliged to call her
she, which is very uncivil, because nobody will tell me her
name."
"I can do that much for you," said the doctor. "This is Mrs Mitford of
Fanshawe Regis; and I can tell you you were in luck to be run away with
close to her door."
"You don't need to tell me that," said Kate. "Please, Mrs Mitford, will
you kiss me, now we are introduced? I am Kate Crediton--perhaps you
know; and I am sure I don't know why I did not talk nonsense all last
night, for they say I always do at home."
"But you must not here," said the doctor, who was an old man, and
smiled at her kindly,--"nor chatter at all, indeed, for several days.
See how it brings the blood to her face! If you will be very good you
may see your father, and ask--let me see--six questions; but not one
word more."
"Is papa still here?" cried Kate.
"That is one," said the doctor; "be careful, or you will come to the
end of your list, as the man in the fairy tale came to the end of his
wishes. He is waiting to come in."
"Have I only five left?" said Kate. "Please, let him come in. I
shall ask him how it all happened; and then I shall ask him where we
are--that is three; and when he is going home; and what is the matter
with me that I must lie here--and then----" She had been counting on
her fingers, and paused with the forefinger of one hand resting on the
little finger of the other. Mrs Mitford had gone to the door to admit
Mr Crediton, and Kate was alone with the old doctor, who looked at her
so kindly. She laid back her head among the pillows, a little flushed
by talking; her pretty hair, which Mrs Mitford had just smoothed, had
begun to ruffle up again in light little puffs of curls. She lay back,
looking up at the doctor like a certain Greuze I know of, with fingers
like bits of creamy pink shells, half transparent, doing their bit of
calculation. "And then," she added, with a long-drawn breath, half of
mischief, half of fatigue, "I will ask him who is 'my John'?"
"Has she been talking to you about my John?" said the doctor, amused;
and Kate gave a little nod of her pretty head at him, where she lay
back like a rosebud upon the pillows. It was too late to answer in
words, for Mrs Mitford was coming back from the door, followed by Mr
Crediton, who looked excited and anxious, and had something like a tear
in the corner of his eyes.
"Well, my pet, so you are better!" he said. "That is right, Kate. I
have had a most miserable night, doctor, thinking of her. But now I
hear it's going to be all right. It is not, of course, for any special
virtue in her," he said, turning round to them with a strained little
laugh when he had kissed her, "but one has all sorts of prejudices
about one's only child."
"Yes, indeed. I know very well what it is to have an only child,"
said Mrs Mitford. "You could not find more sympathy anywhere in that
particular. When there is anything the matter with my boy, the whole
world is turned upside down."
Kate looked at the doctor with an inquiring glance, and he gave her a
little confidential nod. The eyes of the young girl and the old man
laughed and communicated while the two foolish parents were making
their mutual confessions. "Is that my John she is speaking of?" asked
Kate's eyes; and the doctor replied merrily, delighted with his
observing patient. To be sure there had been a grave enough moment on
the previous day, when these two lives first crossed each other; but
this was how the idea of him was formally introduced to Kate Crediton's
mind. It was a foolish, flighty, light, little mind, thinking of
nothing but fun and nonsense. Yet even now it did cross the doctor's
mind, with a momentary compunction, that the business might turn out
serious enough for poor John.
CHAPTER II.
It was nearly a week before Kate was permitted to leave her bed, and
during that time she had learned a great deal about the economy of
Fanshawe Regis. She lay among the pillows every day a little higher,
with her natural colour coming back, looking more and more like the
Greuze, and listened to all the domestic revelations that flowed
from Mrs Mitford's lips. The kind woman was pleased with so lively
a listener, and thus there gradually unrolled itself before Kate a
moving panorama of another existence, which the girl, perhaps, had
not sufficient imagination or sympathy to enter fully into, but which
interested her much in bits, and amused her, and to which she lent a
very willing ear. Sometimes the door of the room would be opened, and
Kate would hear the footsteps in the house of which she was now a
recognised inmate, but which she knew nothing of. There was one solemn
step that creaked and went slowly, gravely, up and down stairs, as if
life were a weighty ceremonial to be accomplished very seriously, which
was evidently the step of Dr Mitford, the Rector of Fanshawe Regis,
and rural dean; and there was a lighter springy masculine foot, which
came to the very door sometimes with flowers and letters and books for
the invalid, and which Kate did not need to be told was "my John." In
the languor of her illness, and in the absence of other objects of
interest, this step became quite important to Kate. She was not, we are
obliged to confess, by any means a very good young woman. She was a
spoiled child, and she had been born a flirt, which could scarcely be
said to be her fault. From three years old to nineteen, which was her
present age, it had been the occupation of her existence to prey upon
mankind. Whether it was sugar-plums she played for or hearts had not
mattered very much to her. She had put forth her wiles, her smiles, her
thousand little fascinations, with a spontaneous, almost unconscious,
instinct. It was necessary to her to be pleasing somebody--to be first
in some one's regard, whoever that some one might be. Before she had
been half a day under Mrs Mitford's care, that good soul was her slave;
and when that innocent little bit of captivation was complete, and
when the doctor, too, showed symptoms of having put on her chains,
Kate felt her hands free, and longed for the hunting-grounds and the
excitement of the sport. John was the most likely victim, and yet she
could not get at him, being chained up here out of reach. It filled
her invalid existence with a little touch of excitement. She sent
him pretty messages in return for his roses, and listened to all his
mother's stories of him. Not that John in himself interested the girl.
He was her natural victim, that was all, and she smiled with a vague
satisfaction at thought of the mischief which she knew she could do.
The life she lived in her room in this strange house of which she
knew nothing, yet with which she was so familiar, was the strangest
amusing episode to Kate. After the first two days Mrs Mitford kept by
her less closely, and a fresh country housemaid, full of wonder and
sympathy and admiration for the pretty young lady, came into the room
as soon as she was awake to put it in order for the day. Lizzie had a
round fresh apple-blossom face which pleased Kate's eye, and was full
of that wondering worship for the creature so like herself in age and
nature, so infinitely above her in other matters, possessed of so many
incomprehensible fascinations and refinements, which one young woman
so often entertains for another. There had been great calculations in
the kitchen about Kate's probable age and her beauty, the colour of her
hair, the shape of her hat, her father's wealth, and everything about
her. The cook at Fanshawe Regis came from Camelford, where Mr Crediton
lived, and knew that his bank was the Bank of England to all the
country round, and that he was rolling in money, and spared nothing on
his only child. Lizzie had listened with open eyes to all the details
her fellow-servant knew, or could recollect or invent, of the fairy
existence of this wonderful young lady. About twenty, cook concluded
Miss Crediton was--and Lizzie was just over twenty. And she too had
blue eyes like Kate, and apple-blossom cheeks, and was about the same
height--but yet what a difference! "You've seen Miss Parsons as was
her maid--a stuck-up thing with her fine bonnets; her mother keeps a
millinery shop down Thistle-field way, leading out o' Camelford," said
cook. "She was lady's-maid to this Miss Crediton, and a fine thing for
her too. She might take a fancy to you, Liz, if you were to flatter her
a bit." "Laws, I never dare open my lips," said Lizzie; "she'll lie
there a-noticing everything with them eyes, as looks you through and
through. Them as is no skolards has no chance." But Lizzie's heart beat
as the morning came, and she went softly into Miss Crediton's room,
and set the windows open, and dusted and settled and put everything to
rights. Kate watched her, saying nothing at first, not without a little
natural interest on her side in the young woman of her own age, in all
the roundness, and softness, and whiteness, and rosiness of youth.
She saw the girl's awe-stricken looks at herself, and was amused, and
even a little flattered, by Lizzie's admiration,--and being weary of
silence, began to draw her out. It was chiefly from Lizzie's account
that Kate identified all the movements of the house, and found out the
hours at which Mrs Mitford visited the schools, and when she went to
see her poor people. "When she leaves you, miss, to have a little rest
after your dinner, it's time for the school," said Lizzie. "Missis
never misses a day, not so long as I can remember, except now and
again, when Mr John's been ill."
"Is Mr John often ill?" said Kate.
"Oh no, miss; never, so to speak; but missis makes an idol of him.
Mother thinks as she makes too much an idol on him. He's her only
son, like--it aint like having nine or ten, as most folks have," said
Lizzie, apologetically, as she arranged the little table by Kate's
bed-side, where there was, as usual, a bouquet of John's roses, freshly
gathered.
"That is true," said Kate, with a laugh which Lizzie could not
understand.
"But I'd rather have one like Mr John, than a dozen like most folks,"
Lizzie added, with energy; "most of 'em in the village is nought but
trouble to them they belongs to. It's hard to tell of 'em what they're
made for, them big lads. One'll go poaching and idling, till ye don't
know what to do with 'um; and another 'll list, and break his folks's
hearts. Mother says they're a cross, but I think as they're worse than
a cross--drinking, and fighting, and quarrelling, and never good for
nought. And them as is steady goes away, and you don't get no good o'
them. You may laugh, miss, as don't know no better--but there are folks
as can't laugh."
"I did not laugh, Lizzie," said Kate. "I am very sorry--but why are you
so serious about it? I hope the girls are better than the lads."
"Mother says we've haven't got the same temptations," said Lizzie,
dubiously; "but she's old, you know, miss, and I dare to say she don't
think on. I've got four brothers, all idler the one nor the other. And
if I don't know, I don' know who should. Mother she's a good woman,
and I hope we'll all pass for her sake--but missis, she never hears a
cross word from Mr John."
"A cross word, indeed!" said Kate; "that would be unpardonable--and she
such a darling. He ought to be proud of having a mother like that. I am
very fond of her myself."
"He's as proud as Punch, miss," said Lizzie, "and missis she's proud
of him. When he's at home he's always by to walk wi' her and talk with
her. Master, he's that learned ye never know what to make of him. They
say as he's the biggest scholard in all Huntingshire. It aint to be
expected as he would just take his little walks, and make it pleasant
like a common man."
"And what does Mrs Mitford do when Mr John is away?" said Kate, a
little doubtful of the propriety of asking so many questions, but too
curious to let the opportunity slip.
"Oh, miss! it's dreadful, that is," cried Lizzie. "It's enough to make
you cry just to look at her face. Some days she'll go across to the
school as many as three times--and down to the village among all the
poor folks. Mother aint Church like me, miss," the girl continued, with
a little apologetic curtsy; "she was born like in Zion, she says, and
she can't make up her mind not to leave it; and it aint to be expected
as poor missis should be fond of Zion folks. But when any of the lads
are in trouble she never minds church nor chapel. Mother says she's a
bit proud as her own lad is one as never gets into no trouble--and the
like of him haven't got the same temptations, mother says. But I always
say as it's kind of missis, all the same."
"I should think so, indeed," cried Kate, "and I think your mother must
be----" she was going to say a disagreeable old woman, but stopped in
time--"rather hard upon other people," she went on, diplomatically;
"but then if Mr John goes away altogether, I am afraid Mrs Mitford will
break her heart."
"Oh, miss, don't you be afeared," cried Lizzie, with bright
confidence--"he aint going away. It sounds funny, but he's going to be
the new curate, is Mr John."
"Oh!!" Kate gave a little cry of disappointment and dismay. "Is he a
clergyman? I never thought of that."
"Not yet, miss," said Lizzie, "but they say as he's going up to the
bishop at Michaelmas or thereabouts, and then we'll have him here for
curate, and missis will be as glad as glad."
"I am sure I am not glad," said Kate to herself, pouting over this
unlooked-for piece of news. Not that she cared for John. She had never
seen him, how could she care? He had saved her life, people said, but
then that was the most fantastic beginning of an acquaintance, like a
thing in a novel, and she would rather have seen no more of him ever
after, had that been all. But Kate had become interested in my John by
dint of hearing his step, and receiving his roses, and knowing him to
be her natural victim. And that he should be a clergyman spoilt all.
Curates, of course, are always fair game--but then an effective young
sportswoman like Kate Crediton can bag curates with so little trouble.
Facility, let us say, after the fashion of the copybooks, breeds
contempt. And, on the other hand, light-minded as she was, she felt
that a clergyman, as distinct from a curate, was a thing that
called for respect--and felt herself suddenly pulled up and brought
to a pause in all her projects for amusement. How provoking it was!
if he had been going to be a soldier, or a barrister, or an--anything
except a clergyman! She could not, for Mrs Mitford's sake, treat him
on the ground of simple curatedom; nor would she beguile him from his
serious intentions, and wound his mother, who had been so good to her.
A clergyman! a being either ready to fall a too ready victim, or a
martyr, whom to interfere with would be sacrilege. Kate was thoroughly
contrarie. She felt that fortune was against her, and that this
was a climax to the misfortunes which hitherto had sat so very lightly
upon her. To be thrown from her horse and half-killed--to find herself
an inmate of a strange house which she had never heard of before--to
be introduced into a new world altogether, with the most delicious
sense of novelty and strangeness--and all to find herself at last
face to face with a clergyman! Kate could not understand what could
be meant by such a waste of means for so miserable an end. "I might
have been killed," she said to herself, "and he only a clergyman all
the time!" She was, in short, disgusted at once with her ill fortune
and her foolish dreams. She talked no more to Lizzie, but fell back
on her pillows, and pushed the roses away with her hand. Mrs Mitford
had deceived her, John had deceived her. To think she should really
have been getting up a little romance on the subject, and he to turn
out only a clergyman after all! When John's mother returned to the
room, after giving him a full account of her patient, along with his
breakfast, and reanimating by her son's interest her own warm glow of
sympathy for the invalid, she was quite disturbed by the pucker on
Kate's brow. "Dear me! I am afraid you have been doing too much," she
said, anxiously, bending over the bed. "I have a little headache, that
is all," said Kate, whose temper was affected. And Mrs Mitford shook
her head, and took immediate action. She had the blinds all drawn down
again which Lizzie had drawn up, and sprinkled eau-de-Cologne all
over Kate, and laid aside her own work, which required light, and
with her knitting in her hand instead, placed herself in the shade,
and said "hush" to every word her patient addressed to her. "Quiet
and darkness," she said, softly; "hush, my dear--there is nothing
like darkness and quiet--I always find them effectual." Poor Kate had
to make the best of it. Instead of going on with her new novel, and
chattering to her heart's content, she had to lie silent and shut her
eyes, and be content with the eau-de-Cologne; which, after all, though
he was but a clergyman, was less interesting than John.
It was a great event to Kate, and also to the kitchen at Fanshawe
Regis, when "Miss Parsons" came from Camelford with her young
mistress's "things." Kate had never been ill in her life before, and
she had not been very ill or suffering much even now, so that the
feeling of state and dignity and superiority to the rest of the world
was unmixed by any severe reminiscence of pain. It gave her quite
a thrill of pleasure to see her pretty dresses again. She had been
allowed to get up to lie on the sofa by the window, and look out at
the roses, but only in her dressing-gown, which was very pretty, no
doubt, and very cool, but not so pleasant as all those fresh summer
costumes with their floating ribbons. She lay on her sofa, and watched
Parsons unpack them with lively interest. "But I should like to know
what you mean me to do with them all," she said. "Here are enough for
all the summer; and how long do you suppose I am going to stay? Perhaps
a week--there are a dozen gowns at least."
"I did not know which you would like, miss," said Parsons; "nor if you
might be tempted to stay. It's so pretty all about, and they're all so
fond of you----"
"Fond of me!" said Kate, with a sudden blush, which surprised herself
intensely. "You goose! nobody has seen me but Mrs Mitford--and she will
be very glad to get rid of so much trouble, I should think."
"Ah, miss! as if some folks didn't know better than that," said
Parsons; which confounded Kate so that she made no answer, but paused
to reflect whether the girl was mad, or if she could mean anything.
John had seen her, it was true, though she had not seen him. He had
saved her life; he had kept sending her roses all the time. And, no
doubt, it is quite possible that a man (poor creature!) might be
struck at first sight, and never get the better of it all his
life after. The suggestion made her smile for one moment, and then
filled her with a certain contempt for John.
"Please finish your unpacking as soon as you can," she said, with
severe politeness, to Parsons. "Take out half--that will do. I stay
here a week only. And make haste, please, for I am tired of all this
fuss."
"Now they've come," said Parsons, doggedly, "they'd best be unpacked;
and if you was to change your mind----"
"Be quiet, please, and get done and go away," cried Kate. "You will
make me ill again, if you don't mind."
And then, considerably ruffled and put out, she turned her head to the
window. Mrs Mitford had scrupulously kept "the gentlemen"--her husband
and her son--out of the flower-garden, on which Kate's windows looked.
She did not think a young lady in a dressing-gown a fit spectacle for
any eyes but her own; but Kate was almost well, and her hostess had
relaxed a little. As she looked out now she saw through the venetian
blinds two figures in the distance walking slowly along a sheltered
walk. It could only be John whom his mother was leading on in that
way. Her head was almost resting against his arm as she looked up and
talked to him. She leant upon him with that pleasant sense of support
and help which makes weakness sweet; there was even in her attitude a
something which Kate perceived dimly by instinct, but could not have
put in words; that delicious sense of surprise, and secret, sacred,
humorous consciousness of the wonder there was in it--the sweet jest of
being thus supported by her baby, her child, he whom she had carried
in her arms--was it yesterday?--which a man's mother enjoys privately
all to herself. Somehow a little envy stole over Kate as she looked
at them. She was very fond of her father; but yet it was not such
happiness to be with him as it was for this other woman to be with her
boy. The young creature thirsting for everything that was sweetest
in life would have liked to have that too. To be sure she could not
be John's mother, or anybody's mother, and would have laughed with
inextinguishable laughter at herself for the thought, had she realised
it. But still she envied Mrs Mitford, feeling that kind woman to have
thus appropriated a joy beyond her reach--and what do women want with
joys at that age? Should not all be concentrated in one sweetest
draught for the rose lips, so dewy and soft with youth? Kate would have
repudiated such a sentiment, of course; and yet this was what breathed
unconsciously in her heart. She went to bed with a little spiteful
feeling against Mrs Mitford. Had not she made a clergyman of her boy on
purpose to spite Kate? If he had been a gravedigger his mother would
loved him just the same; it would have made no difference to her. If
he had been ugly, and weakly, and half his size, his mother would have
liked him quite as well; which were all so many offences against Kate,
and evidences of her inferiority. She wanted to have her own delights
and the other woman's delights too. She wanted to be young and to be
old; to have a lover's adoration and a son's worship, and every other
variety that love can take. It so spited her that she cried when she
went to bed, and then burst out laughing at her own folly, and was as
silly as you can conceive it possible to be--perhaps more silly than
after nineteen any one could conceive.
Next day, after Lizzie had put the room in order, and Mrs Mitford had
paid her after-breakfast visit, and gone off to the village to see some
of her poor people, it occurred to Kate to try her own strength. Her
father was coming to dinner at the Rectory that day, and it had been
arranged that she was to be up in the evening to see him. But when all
was quiet in the house, Mrs Mitford out, the doctor not expected, and
Parsons at hand, who was not likely to thwart her mistress, Kate formed
a different plan for herself. She had her dresses taken out, just to
look at them. After being in a dressing-gown for a week, the charms of
a real dress, something that fits, is wonderful. Kate gave a
contemptuous glance at her white wrapper, as she gazed at all those
pretty garments, and then she glanced at herself in the glass opposite,
with her hair all loosely bundled up under her net. What a guy she
looked, lying there so long, as if she had had a fever! "A good thing
they did not bethink themselves of cutting off my hair," she said,
under her breath; and could not but ask herself with horror whether
all the eau-de-Cologne that had been lavished on her head, and all the
showers of water, would affect her hair disadvantageously. She might as
well take it out of the net at least, and let Parsons dress it. When
this was done, Kate felt her courage rise. She sprang up from her sofa,
frightening the maid. "I am going to dress--I must dress--I can't bear
this thing five minutes longer!" she cried.
"Oh, miss! you'll catch your death," cried Parsons, not indeed knowing
why, but delivering the first missile of offence that came to her
hand. But Parsons was far from being a person of spirit, or able to
cope with her young mistress. She stood helplessly by, protesting,
but making no effort to resist, except the passive one of giving no
assistance. Kate flew at her dress with a sense of novelty which gave
it an additional charm. She buttoned herself into it with a certain
delight. "Oh, how nice it is to feel one has something on!" she cried,
tossing her wrapper to the other side of the room; and she fastened
her belt, and tied her ribbons, and did everything for herself with a
sweep of enthusiasm. The reader has only seen her as an invalid, and
Kate was very well worth looking at. She was a little over the middle
height; her figure was very slender and pliant and graceful--upright,
yet bending as if with every breeze. Her hair was warm sunny brown
hair; her eyes were dark-violet blue, large, and limpid, and full of
a startled sweetness, like the eyes of a fawn. They had the child's
look of surprise at the fair world and wonderful beings among which
it finds itself, which has always so great a charm; and with that
blue ribbon in her pretty hair, and the clear blue muslin dress, she
was like a flower. And then she had that glory of complexion which we
are so fond of claiming as specially English. Nothing could be more
delicate or more lovely than the gradations of colour in her face--her
lips a rich rose, her cheeks a little paler--a soft rose-reflection
upon her delicate features and white throat. It was not "the perfect
woman nobly planned" which came to your mind at sight of so pretty a
creature. She was a Greuze--an article of luxury, worth quantities of
money, and always delightful to look at--an ornament to any chamber,
the stateliest or the simplest. She might have been placed in a palace
or in a cottage, and would not have looked out of place in either; and
there was enough beauty in her to decorate the place at once, and make
up for all lack of colour or loveliness besides. But what she might
have beyond the qualities of the Greuze the spectator could not tell.
What harm or good she might have it in her to do--what might be the
result even of this first unexpected appearance of hers in the house
which she had taken by storm--it was impossible to predict. It could
not but be either for good or evil; but, looking into the lovely,
flower-like face, into her surprised sweet eyes, the most keen observer
would have been baffled. She was full of childish delight in the
novelty--a half-mischievous, half-innocent pleasure in the anticipation
of producing some effect in the quiet unsuspicious house; but that was
all that could be made out. She stood before the glass for a minute
contemplating her perfected toilette with the highest satisfaction.
She looked like a wreath of that lovely evanescent convolvulus, which
is blue and white and rose all at once. "Am I nice?" she said to the
bewildered Parsons; who replied only by a bewildered exclamation of
"Oh, miss!" and then Kate turned, poising herself for one moment on
her heel in uncertainty. She took one of John's roses and placed it in
her belt; and then, with a little wave of her handkerchief, and, as it
were, flourish of trumpets, she opened her door and stepped forth into
the unknown.
Here let us pause for a moment. To step for the first time into a new
country is thrilling to the inexperienced traveller; but to put your
foot into a new house,--a place which is utterly strange to you, and
yet which you are free to penetrate through as if it were your own--to
take your chance of stumbling against people whom you know intimately
and yet have no acquaintance with--to set out on a voyage of discovery
into the most intimate domestic shrines, with no light but that of
your own genius to guide you,--is more thrilling still. Kate stepped
briskly over the threshold of her own room, and then she paused aghast
at her own audacity. The cold silence of the unknown hushed her back as
if she had been on an expedition into the arctic regions. She paused,
and her heart gave a loud beat. Should she retire into the ascertained
and lawful place from which Parsons was watching with a face of
consternation, or should she go on? But no! never!--put it in Parson's
power to taunt her with a retreat--that could not be! She gave another
little wave of her handkerchief, as if it had been her banner, and went
on.
But it must be avowed that when she was out of sight of Parsons and her
own room, Kate paused again and panted, and clung to the banisters,
looking down the broad, handsome staircase. She could see down into
the hall, with all its closed doors, looking so silent, so strange, so
suggestive. She did not know what she would find there; and nobody knew
her or expected her. A distant sound from the kitchen, Lizzie's hearty,
youthful laugh, struck with a consolatory sound upon her ear. But
alas! she was not bound to the kitchen, where she had friends, but to
investigate those closed doors, with such wonders as might be within.
She clung to the great polished oak banister for a moment, feeling her
heart beat; and then, "courage!" cried Kate, and launched herself into
the unknown world below stairs.
CHAPTER III.
The Rectory at Fanshawe Regis was a very good house. Indeed it was the
old manor-house of the Fanshawes, which had been thus appropriated
at the time when the great castle was built, which had eventually
ruined the race. Dr Mitford and his son were both in the library
on the morning of Kate's descent. It was the most picturesque room
in the house. It was, indeed, a kind of double room, one end of it
being smaller than the other, and contracted by two pillars which
stood out at a little distance from the walls, and looked almost
like a doorway to the larger end, which was the Doctor's especial
domain. It was clothed with books from ceiling to floor, and the
contraction made by the pillars framed in the apartment behind, giving
a certain aspect of distance to the fine interior. There was a great
old-fashioned fireplace at the very end, with a projecting oak canopy,
also supported by pillars, and to the right of that a broad, deeply
recessed Elizabethan window, throwing a full side light upon the
Doctor's writing-table, at which he sat absorbed, with his fine white
head shining as in a picture. When Kate opened the door cautiously
and looked in at this picture, she was so moved by a sense of her own
temerity, and by involuntary, half-childish fright lest she should be
scolded or punished for it, that it was at least a minute before she
took in the scene before her; and even then she did not take it all
in. She never even glanced at the foreground--at the other Elizabethan
window, with coloured shields of painted glass obscuring the sunshine,
in which sat another reader, who raised his eyes at the sound of the
opening door with a surprise which it would be difficult to describe.
There were three of them all in the same room, and none was aware
of the scrutiny with which each was severally regarded. It was like
a scene in a comedy. Kate peeping frightened at the door, growing
a little bolder as she perceived herself unnoticed, gazing at Dr
Mitford's white head over his books and papers, and gradually getting
to see the fun of it, and calculate on his start of amazement when he
should look up and see her. And opposite to her, in the anteroom, John
Mitford at his table, with eyes in which a kindred laughter began to
gleam, one hand resting upon his open book, arrested in his work, his
looks bent upon the pretty spy, who was as unconscious of his presence
as his father was of hers. When John stirred in his seat and suddenly
directed Kate's attention to him, she gave a little jump and a cry, and
turned round and fled in her amazement. She did not even take time to
look and recognise him, but flew from the door, letting it swing after
her in a sudden panic. She had found the position very amusing when
she was peeping at his unsuspecting father--but to be spied upon in
her turn! Kate burst away and fled, taking the first passage she saw.
"What's that, eh?" cried Dr Mitford. "I'll go and see, sir," said John,
dutifully; and he got up with beautiful promptitude, and followed
the runaway. He saw the gleam of her blue dress down the passage, and
followed her before she could draw breath. It was the most curious
meeting, for two well-bred persons who did not know each other, and
yet were already so deeply connected with each other. Kate, all one
desperate blush, turned round when she heard his step and faced him,
trembling with shame and fear, and a little weakness--for this violent
exercise was not quite in accordance with her weak condition. She
scorned to run away farther, and clutched at such remnants of dignity
as she could muster. "Mr John Mitford, I am sure," she said, making
him a stately little curtsy, and swallowing at once her fright and her
laughter as best she could.
"I am so glad to see you down-stairs," said John. The mirth went out
of his face when he saw her embarrassment. "Come into the drawing-room
and rest--it is the coolest room in the house," he added, opening the
door. It was very good of him, Kate felt; but she burst into a peal of
nervous laughter as soon as she had got into the shelter of the shaded
room; and then had to exert all her strength to keep from tears.
"I am sure I beg your pardon," she said, "for laughing. I am so ashamed
of myself; but it was so nice to be out of my room, and it was so funny
to be in a strange house, and there was something so tempting in the
closed door----"
"I only wish you had stayed," said John, who would himself have felt
very awkward but for her confusion; "but my mother will be back
presently from the village, and then we can show you the house. I am
afraid you are tired. Can I get you anything? I am so sorry my mother
is out."
Kate looked at him, recovering herself, while he stammered through
these expressions of solicitude. Now she saw him close at hand, he was
a new kind of man. Her scrutiny was not demonstrative, and yet it was
exhaustive and penetrating. He was not a foeman worthy of her steel. He
was one whom it would be but little credit to subjugate, reckoning by
his powers of resistance. He would be an easy, even a willing victim.
But it was something else in John which startled the young manslayer.
She had seen various specimens of the fashionable young man, such as
Providence throws now and then in the way of country girls; and she
knew the genus squire, and all that can be produced in the way of
professional in such a place as Camelford. It was the county town,
and twice a-year there were assizes and barristers within reach; and
there were county balls and hunt balls, and various other possibilities
which brought the world as represented by the county families and their
visitors within reach of the banker's daughter. Mr Crediton was not a
common banker. He was well connected, to begin with, and he was the
Rothschild of the neighbourhood. Even to the large red-brick house
in the High Street, to which he had been always faithful, very fine
people would now and then condescend to come. And Fernwood, his country
"place," was always as full as he liked to make it of autumn guests, so
that Kate's knowledge of men was not inconsiderable. But John Mitford
did not belong to any of the types she knew. He was not the ordinary
university man, with which she was so well acquainted. He was not the
budding curate--mellifluous and deferential. He was not handsome, nor
graceful, nor so much as self-possessed. He did not look even as if he
were endowed with that ordinary chatter of society which gets people
over the difficulty of an eccentric introduction. If she talked the
usual nonsense to him, Kate felt doubtful whether he would understand
her. "But if one wanted anything done for one!----" she said to
herself, with more surprise than ever in her pretty ingenuous-looking
eyes. His face was not beautiful, was even a little heavy when in
repose, and apt to cloud over with embarrassment, and lose all the
light it had when driven into self-consciousness; and yet there was
something in it she had never identified, never realised, before.
All this passed through her mind while poor John was standing very
awkwardly before her, begging her to tell him if he could not get her
something, and regretting over and over again that his mother should
be out. Goose! Kate thought to herself; and yet felt the influence of
that something, which was beyond her reckoning, and which she
had never made acquaintance with before.
"Oh, never mind," she said; "I am quite comfortable, now I am here. I
don't want anything, thanks. Never mind me. If you are busy, don't take
the trouble to stay. You know I am at home, though I never was here
before."
"I hope so," said John, standing before her, not knowing what to do
or say. He took it for granted, in his innocence, that she wished him
to go away. And he had something to do; but yet did not think
it quite civil to leave her, and felt that his mother would not like
it--and, to tell the truth, did not like it himself.
"Oh, pray don't wait," said Kate; "I shall be quite comfortable. There
are plenty of books here, and I can go to the garden if I get tired."
Then there was a little pause. John never budged, standing thus in the
height of awkwardness before her--wishing for his mother--wishing
for anything to happen to deliver him, and yet feeling a charm in the
position, which was very amazing to him. Kate, for her part, began to
recover. She forgot the impression which had been made upon her by that
unknown something in his face, and gradually came back to herself. She
sat on the sofa playing with the picture-books on the table beside
it, very demure; with cast-down eyes; and he balancing himself on one
foot, not knowing what to make of himself, watching her anxiously for
guidance. Kate resisted as long as she could, and then burst into a
peal of unsteady laughter, in which John, very much surprised, did not
find himself able to share.
"Oh, I beg your pardon," she cried, when she could command her voice,
"for being silly. I don't know, I am sure, why I should laugh, only
it is all so funny. I don't know you in the least, and yet I know
you quite well; and I have been living in the house ever so long,
and yet go about like a thief, peeping in at the doors. It is all so
very odd. I can't tell what to make of it. And you who are looking
at me so puzzled--you saved my life!" cried Kate, with another burst
of laughter. She had never been so ashamed of herself before, but she
could not help it. The whole business was so droll. He kept standing,
balancing himself in the funniest way, looking down upon her with the
strangest incomprehension--and he had saved her life! Though she was
ashamed, she could not restrain herself. She laughed till the tears
came into her eyes, more and more stimulated thereto by the gravity and
astonishment with which he regarded her. As for John, he tried to laugh
at first, but finally settled into quiet, and looked at her with an
amazed and wondering observation, as if it was a new species that had
thus come suddenly under his eyes.
"I am very glad you are so much amused," he said at last, quite
seriously, poor fellow, without the slightest ironical meaning. Was she
by any possibility a little fool, giggling like a baby at the gravest
matters? or was it some deeper sense in her of the phantasmagoria of
life which had called forth this curious outburst of incomprehensible
laughter? Laughter (John reflected in his perplexity--being, as will
be perceived, a young intellectualist, and fond of such questions)
is one of the most subtle and least comprehensible of things. It
may express folly, levity, mere amusement--or it may express that
deep sense of the humour which lies at the bottom of most earthly
transactions, which is possible only to very rare spirits. Gazing at
Kate with his eyes full of romance, he could not tell which it was, but
felt it most probable that it was the latter, the depths being more
natural to him than the shallows. "I don't wonder that you laugh," he
added, after a pause, in the grave way which was so quaint to Kate. "It
is like a thing that happened in a dream."
At this strange comment she looked up at him, puzzled in her turn.
Did he mean something? or was he laughing as she had been? But there
was no laugh on John's face; and suddenly it occurred to her that the
eyes with which he was looking at her were those same eyes which she
had seen, as in a vision, at the foot of the sofa, on the day of her
accident. They were full of wonder, and anxiety, and alarm then; they
were only serious and perplexed, and anxious to understand her now:
but yet they were the same eyes; and the whole scene flashed back upon
Kate's impatient mind, and changed her mood in a moment. A sudden
cloud, almost like that which comes over a child's face when it is
about to cry, enveloped her. "Ah!" she cried, suddenly, "I remember you
now. I remember your eyes!"
"My eyes!" cried John, growing scarlet with amazement.
"Yes, your eyes. The day it all happened, you know--though I am sure
I don't know even now what did happen. When I came to myself, I
suppose--the first thing I was conscious of was a pair of eyes looking
at me. They had no body to them," said Kate, with a sudden moisture
coming into her own--"they looked so anxious, so unhappy, about me. I
see now it was you. How awfully good of you to care!"
"Good of me!" said John, feeling this sudden praise steal all over
him with a melting weakening softness of delight. "I was very
anxious, and very much alarmed. I think--they thought--you would never
come to yourself."
"Was it so long?" said Kate, with that intense wistful interest which
youth feels in itself.
"It was long to us--please don't speak of it; it felt like an age,"
said John, with a shudder. He turned half away from her in the
pain of the recollection, and then turned back to find those moist
surprised child eyes of hers fixed upon him with an incipient tear
in each of them, and a look of--what was it?--tenderness, gratitude,
admiration--yes, admiration--from her to him! It took away his breath,
and took the strength out of him. He gave a low sort of chuckle of
laughter, most bizarre expression of his feelings, and dropped
into the first chair he could find in such agonies of bashfulness and
pleasure as would have better beseemed a charity boy than a man trained
to encounter with the world. "It is very funny, as you say," he gasped;
and then saw how ridiculous his speech was, and put his hands in his
pockets, and blushed all over a violent painful red.
"I don't think it is the least funny," said Kate, now altogether in a
different humour. "I might have been killed, and you might have been
killed, your mother told me; and we are both only children, and
what would they have done? I don't mind so much about us, for we
should but have died, and there would have been an end of it; but only
think--what would they have done?" cried Kate, turning upon him
eyes which were full of the suggested woe.
"Ah!" he cried, despising himself, "there you go above me, as is
natural. It is like you to think it would not have mattered for
yourself--only for those who loved you, and the desolate world it would
have left them. It is like you to think of that."
"How can you tell it is like me," said Kate, "when you don't know me? I
was thinking of papa, and of your mother, not of anything so fine as a
desolate world."
"You were thinking like a true woman," said the young man, gazing at
her with all the romance of a mother's only son in his unsophisticated
eyes.
This was all very well for the moment, but Kate had dispersed the real
impression which she had actually felt by uttering it, and it was too
early in their acquaintance to plunge into romance; so she changed the
subject skilfully. "Please don't abuse women," she said. "I know it is
the fashion--and most girls rather like to give in to it, and think it
is clever to like men's society best. But I am fond of women, though,
perhaps, you will think it weak of me. If I had to choose, I should
rather have all women than all men--though, of course, one likes a
mixture best."
"Abuse women!" cried John; "I should as soon think of blaspheming
heaven. It would be blasphemy. They are heaven to our earth--they
are----"
"Hush," said Kate, holding up her little white rose-tipped hand with a
certain maternal superiority. "Don't be extravagant. When you are in
love, you know, it is quite proper to say all that sort of thing to
one girl; but I don't think it ought to be wasted upon anybody.
Please tell me, did your father see me? and did you think it very
dreadful when I came like that, peeping in at the door?"
John was not accustomed to be driven like this from one subject to
another. By the time he had got himself to the vein of laughter she
had become solemn; and now when his natural enthusiasm had been
roused, she tossed him back again like a shuttlecock to the fun of
the situation. Transitions so quick startled his unaccustomed mind.
"I--was surprised," he faltered, looking at her, wondering what kind
of creature this was that could jump from one mood to another in the
twinkling of an eye.
"I never saw you sitting there in the corner," cried Kate. "I thought
I had it all my own way. It was so stupid of me. You must have thought
what a stupid she is, peeping, and never perceiving that she is found
out. I can't tell you how ashamed I was when I saw you. Did you think I
was a thief, or a mad woman, or what did you think?"
"I thought----" said John, and then in his embarrassment paused, not
knowing how to make the compliment which rose to his lips. It was no
compliment, so far as his consciousness went. Had she been able to
see into his mind, she would have seen an imagination too high-flown
to be put into words. He could not give it any expression, having
no experience as yet in the art of insinuated meanings. "Of course
I knew it must be Miss Crediton," he said, with a blush, after that
pause; and he had not even ventured with his eyes to say the rest,
but looked down, confused, afraid to meet her glance, and played with
his watch-chain, and felt himself a fool--which, indeed, Kate would
scarcely have hesitated to say he was.
"After all it did not require a very close application of your mind to
guess that," she said, half piqued; and then yawned softly, and then
opened a book, and looked at two of the pictures,--and then added, "How
long Mrs Mitford is of coming home!"
"Shall I go and look for her?" cried bewildered John, rising up with
an alacrity which confirmed Kate in her low opinion of him. And he
actually went away to the hall-door and took his hat, and went off
down the avenue to quicken his mother's return, leaving Kate in a
state of consternation, which, after a few minutes, bubbled back
into laughter. "Oh what a goose he is!" she said to herself, and yet
was a little angry as well as annoyed that he should have gone away
voluntarily, leaving her thus unamused and alone. It awoke a momentary
question in her mind as to whether he was worth the trouble--a
question which she summarily answered in the negative. Certainly not;
he was a very good son, no doubt, and a handy man to have close by
when your horse ran away with you--but as for anything else! Thus
Kate resolved, making up her mind to leave him tranquil in his usual
peace--a conclusion which had not the least practical effect upon her
after-proceedings, as may be supposed.
Meanwhile John strode down the avenue in a very different frame of
mind. The bees that had buzzed in Kate's ears when she saw him first
had come into his now, and hummed and hummed about him, confusing his
mind hopelessly. He had held her once for one moment in his arms,
fighting a desperate battle for her with death and destruction. Such a
thing might have been as that they should have perished together, and
been thus associated for evermore in an icy virginal union of death. If
it had been so! the romance and the pathos charmed the foolish young
fellow. And now here she was by his side, this creature whose life he
had saved--who was his, as it were, by that very act, and belonged
to him, whatever any one might say against it. All the same, she was
nothing to him. She laughed when she mentioned lightly that strange
bond. He had given her her life over again when she had lost it. It
was his life, notwithstanding her laughter; and yet he did not know
her, and she might pass away and leave no trace. But no--that was
impossible. The trace was ineffaceable, he said to himself, and all
that might come hereafter would never obliterate the fact that he had
given her back her life, and that therefore that life belonged to him.
It was not love at first sight, nor indeed any kind of love, which
had smitten John; but he felt as if his claims were being ignored and
laughed at, and yet were so real. She belonged to him, and yet she was
nothing to him. "We are such stuff as dreams are made of." This was
the favourite principle of John Mitford's thoughts, and he let it take
such possession of him on the strength of the curious connection and
non-connection between himself and Kate, that he went along under the
trees, crossing the sunshine, with the fumes of that talk in his head,
like a man walking in his sleep. Mrs Mitford was coming up the avenue
in her grey gown and white shawl, a point of brightness in the long
green vista. She had a basket on her arm, and looked like the fairy
godmother with miraculous gifts for the house. The way in which her
white shawl blazed out and toned down as she passed from the light to
the shade, and from the shade to the light, was wonderful. Half of the
trees were lime-trees, and threw such silken dainty greennesses and
softened tones of shadow upon that pretty apparition; and perhaps the
bees in John's ears were only those which made the entire atmosphere
harmonious, with that mingling of scent and sound which is the very
crown of summer and June. There is no telling how pleased he was to see
that white figure. There are moments, though perhaps few sons would
confess it, in which a man's mother is more shield to him than she even
is to a girl. He could stay in the room without embarrassment if she
were there. He would know what to say, or at least she would know what
to lead him to say. She would save him from being thrust into the front
of the conversation, and left to bear the brunt of it, which he was
not equal to in his present state. The unknown heroine was her guest,
and became at once natural and a matter of course in her presence.
After-times, perhaps, might bring other necessities, but this was the
most important now.
"Mother, we want you," said John; "give me your basket, and make haste.
Miss Crediton has come down-stairs."
"Miss Crediton!" cried his mother, with a gasp. "Oh, the impatient
naughty child! to take advantage as soon as I was out of the way. And
have you made acquaintance with her, John?"
"Yes," he said, succinctly, taking the basket from his mother's hand.
"Yes--is that all? But how did you introduce yourself, and what did
she say, and what do you think of her? Oh dear, dear! I am afraid you
must have been looking very forbidding, and frightened poor Kate--why
was I away?"
"I don't think I frightened her," said John; "at least she laughed. I
know I never laugh when I am frightened. She is all by herself in the
big drawing-room. Take my arm, and come as quick as you can; she ought
not to be left alone."
"I don't think she can come to any harm for five minutes," said Mrs
Mitford, and looked anxiously in her son's face. She was a very good
woman--as good a woman as ever was. But John was her only child, and
Kate Crediton would be very rich, and was very nice and pretty
and unexceptionable, and he had saved her life. Could it be wondered
at if his mother was a little anxious about their first meeting? If
she had not liked Kate, Mrs Mitford said to herself, of course she
would never have thought of it. But she was very fond of Kate, and they
were quite suitable in point of age; and John was so good--worthy a
princess! What a husband he would make! his mother thought, looking up
at him fondly. If Kate Crediton had such a companion as that, instead
of some man of the world who would think less of her than of her money,
what a happy thing it would be for her! But "Don't you think she is
very charming, John?" was all the designing woman said.
"Pretty, certainly," said the young man, as if he had been speaking of
a cabbage-rose, and with looks as steady as if his heart had not been
working like a steam-engine, pumping warmth and life and waves of wild
fancy through all his veins.
"Pretty!" cried Mrs Mitford, and drew her arm out of his in her
impetuosity; "I don't know what you young men are made of nowadays.
Why, I was thought pretty once; and not in that calm manner
neither," she exclaimed, with a pretty blush, and a laugh at herself.
"Mamma mia, I never see anybody so pretty now," said John, caressingly.
"Perhaps if Miss Crediton lives thirty years longer, and keeps on
improving every day, she may get somewhere near you at last. She has
the roses and lilies, but not the same sweet eyes."
"Foolish boy," said Mrs Mitford; "her eyes are far nicer than ever mine
were. Mine were only brown, like most other people's--and Kate's are
the loveliest blue, and that expression in them! I thought my son would
know better, if nobody else did."
"But perhaps if your son did know better, it would be the worse for
him," said John, without looking at her. He put his hands into his
pockets again, and stared straight before him, and attempted a little
weak distracted sort of whistle as he went on; and then a strange
thrill ran all over the little woman by his side. She had been dreaming
of it--planning it secretly in her mind for all these days--thinking
how nice a thing it would be for John, who was not one to get riches
for himself, or acquire gain in this selfish world. And now, what
if it had come true? What if her son, who was all hers, had at this
moment, in this innocent June morning, while she, all unsuspecting,
was comforting the village people--strayed off from her side for
ever--taken the first step in that awful divergence which should lead
him more and ever more apart into his own life, and his own house,
and the arms of the wife who should supersede his mother? She bore
it bravely, standing up, with a gasp in her throat and a momentary
quiver of her lips and eyelids, to receive the blow. And he never knew
anything about it, stalking on there with his shadow creeping sideways
behind him, and his hands buried deep in his pockets; not a handsome
figure, take him at his best, but yet all the world to the mother who
bore him--and perhaps not much less, should she be such a woman as his
mother was, to the coming wife. But surely that could never be Kate!
CHAPTER IV.
Mr Crediton came to dinner that evening, and met his daughter with
suppressed but evident emotion, such as made Kate muse and wonder. "I
knew he liked me, to be sure," she said afterwards to Mrs Mitford; "I
knew he would miss me horribly; but I never expected him, you know, to
look like that."
"Like what, my dear?"
"Like crying," said Kate, with a half-sob. They had left the gentlemen
in the dining-room, and were straying round the garden in the twilight.
Mr Crediton had been late, and had delayed dinner, and even the long
June day had come to a close, and darkness was falling. The garden
was full of the scent of roses, though all except the light ones were
invisible in the darkness; tall pyramids of white lilies stood up here
and there like ghosts in the gloom, glimmering and odorous; and the
soft perfume of the grateful earth, refreshed by watering and by softer
dew, rose up from all the wide darkling space around. "I think it must
be because it is a rectory garden that it is so sweet," said Kate, with
a quick transition. By reason of being an invalid, she was leaning on
Mrs Mitford's arm.
"Are you fond of rectories?" said her kind companion. "But you might
see a great many without seeing such a spot as Fanshawe Regis. It is a
pretty house, and a good house; and, my dear, you can't think what a
pleasure it is to me to think that when we go, it will pass to my John."
"Oh!" said Kate; and then, after a pause, "Has he quite made up his
mind to be a clergyman?" she said.
"Yes, indeed, I hope so," said his unsuspecting mother. "He is so well
qualified for it. Not all the convenience in the world would have made
me urge him to it, had I not seen he was worthy. But he was made to be
a clergyman--even the little you have seen of him, my dear----"
"You forget I have only seen him to-day," said Kate; "and then I don't
know much about clergymen," she went on, demurely. "I have always
thought, you know, they were people to be very respectful of--one can't
laugh with a clergyman as one does with any other man; indeed I have
never cared for clergymen--please don't be angry--they have always
seemed so much above me."
"But a good man does not think himself above any one," said Mrs
Mitford, falling into the snare. "The doctor might stand upon his
dignity, if any one should; but yet, Kate, my dear, he was quite
content to marry an ignorant little woman like me."
"Do you think clergymen ought to marry?" said Kate, with great
solemnity, looking up in her face.
Mrs Mitford gave a great start, and fell back from her young
companion's side. "Kate!" she cried, "you never told me you were High
Church!"
"Am I High Church? I don't think so; but one has such an idea of a
clergyman," said Kate, "that he should be so superior to all that. I
can't understand him thinking of--a girl, or any such nonsense. I feel
as if he ought to be above such things."
"But, my dear, after all, a clergyman is but a man," said Mrs Mitford,
suddenly driven to confusion, and not knowing what plea to employ.
"Should he be just a man?" asked Kate, with profound gravity.
"Shouldn't they be examples to all of us? I think they should be kept
apart from other people, and even look different. I should not like to
be intimate--not very intimate, you know--with a clergyman. I should
feel as if it was wrong--when they have to teach us, and pray for us,
and all that. Your son is not a clergyman yet, or I should never have
ventured to speak to him as I did to-day."
"But, you dear simple-minded child," cried Mrs Mitford, half delighted
with such an evidence of goodness, half confused by the thought of
how this theory might affect her boy, "that is all very true; but
unless they became monks at once, I don't see how your notion could
be carried out; and the experience of the Roman Catholics, dear, has
shown us what a dreadful thing it is to make men monks. So that, you
see, clergymen must mix in the world; and I am quite sure it is best
for them to marry. When you consider how much a woman can do in a
parish, Kate, and what a help she is, especially if her husband is very
superior----"
"I don't know, I am sure," said Kate; "perhaps, in that case, you know,
women should be the clergymen. But I do think they should be put up
upon pedestals, and one should not be too familiar with them. Marrying
a clergyman would be dreadful. I don't know how any one could have the
courage to do it. I suppose people did not look at things in that light
when you were young?"
"No, indeed," said Mrs Mitford, with a little warmth; "there were no
High Church notions in my days. One thought one was doing the best
one could for God, and that one had one's work to do as well as one's
husband. And, my dear," said the good woman, dropping into her usual
soft humility, "I think you would think so, too, if you knew what the
parish was when I came into it. Not that I have done much--not near so
much, not half so much, as I ought to have done--but still, I think----"
"As if I ever doubted that!" cried Kate; "but then--not many are like
you."
"Oh yes, my dear! a great many," said Mrs Mitford, with a smile of
pleasure. "Even Mr Crediton's pretty Kate, though he says she is a
wilful little puss--if it came to be her fate to marry a clergyman----"
"That it never can be," said Kate; "oh, dear, no! In the first place,
papa would hate it; and, in the next place, I should--hate it myself."
"Ah! my dear," said Mrs Mitford, feeling, nevertheless, as if she had
received a downright blow, "that all depends upon the man."
They had come round in their walk to the path which led past the
dining-room windows, where the blinds were but half dropped and the
lights shining, and sounds of voices were audible as the gentlemen sat
over their wine. It was the two elder men only who were talking--Dr
Mitford's precise tones, and those of Mr Crediton, which sounded, Kate
thought, more "worldly." John was taking no part in the conversation.
Some time before, while they had still been at a little distance, Kate
had seen him under the blind fidgeting in his chair, and listening
to the sound of the footsteps outside. She knew as well that he was
longing to join his mother and herself as if he had said it, and looked
at him with an inward smile and philosophical reflection, whether a man
who gave in so easily could be worth taking any trouble about. And yet,
perhaps, it was not to Kate he had given in, but to the first idea of
woman, the first enchantress whom he could make an idol of. "He shall
not make an idol of me," she said to herself; "if he cares for me, it
must be as me, and not as a fairy princess." This thought had
just passed through her mind when she answered Mrs Mitford, which she
did with a little nod of obstinacy and elevation of her drooping head.
"I am sure everything would not depend on the man, so far as I am
concerned," she said. "Men are all very well, but you must take
everything into account before you go and sacrifice yourself to them.
One man is very much like another, so far as I can see. One doesn't
expect to meet a Bayard nowadays."
"But why not, my dear?" said Mrs Mitford. "There are Bayards in the
world as much as there ever were. I am sure I know one. If it had been
the time for knights, he would have been a Bayard; and as it is not the
time for knights, he is the very best, the truest, and tenderest! No
one ever knew him to think of himself. Oh, my dear! there are some men
whose circumstances you never would think of--not even you."
"But I am very worldly," said Kate, shaking her head; "that is how I
have been brought up. If I cared for anybody who was poor, I should
give him no rest till he got rich. If I did not like his profession, or
anything, I should make him change it. I don't mean to say I approve of
myself, and, of course, you can't approve of me, but I know that
is what I should do."
"I think we had better go in and have some tea," said Mrs Mitford, with
a half-sigh. There was some regret in it for the heiress whom John had
manifestly lost, for it was certain that a girl with such ideas would
never touch John's heart; and there was some satisfaction, too, for she
should have her boy to herself.
"It is so sweet out here," said Kate, with gentle passive opposition,
"and there are the gentlemen coming out to join us--at least, there is
your son."
"John is so fond of the garden," said Mrs Mitford, with another little
sigh. She felt disposed to detach Kate's arm from her own, and run
to her boy and warn him. But politeness forbade such a step, and his
mother's wistful eyes watched his tall figure approaching in the
darkness--approaching unconscious to his fate.
"We were talking of you," said Kate, with a composure which filled
Mrs Mitford with dismay," and about clergymen generally. I should be
frightened if I were you--one would have to be so very, very good.
Don't you ever feel frightened when you think that you will have to
teach everybody, and set everybody a good example? I think the very
thought would make me wicked, if it were me."
"Should it?" said John,--and his mother thought with a little dread
that he looked more ready to enter into the talk than she had ever seen
him before; "but then I don't understand how you could be wicked if you
were to try."
"Ah! but I do," said Kate, "and I could not bear it. Do you really like
being a clergyman? you who are so young and--different. I can fancy it
of an old gentleman like Dr Mitford; but you----"
"I am not a clergyman yet," said John, with a half-audible sigh.
"And Dr Mitford is not so old," said his mother, "though I suppose
everybody who is over twenty looks old to you; but Miss Crediton means
that you must feel like a clergyman, my dear boy, already. I am sure
you do!"
"I don't see how you can be so sure," said John; and perhaps for the
first time in his life he felt angry with his mother. Why should she
answer for him in this way when he was certainly old enough and had
sense enough to answer for himself? He was a little piqued with her,
and turned from her towards the young stranger, whom he had spoken to
for the first time that day. "I am secular enough at present," he said;
"you need not be sorry for me. There is still time to reflect."
"It is never any good reflecting," said Kate; "if you are going in for
anything, I think you should do it and never mind. The more one thinks
the less one knows what to do."
"And oh, my dear, don't jest about such subjects!" said Mrs Mitford.
"Don't you recollect what we are told about him that puts his hand to
the plough and looks back?"
"And is turned into a pillar of salt?" said Kate, demurely. "Mr John,
that would never do. I should not like to see you turned into a pillar
of salt. Let us think of something else. How sweet it is out here in
the dark! The air is just raving about those roses. If you could not
see them, you would still know they were there. I like an old-fashioned
garden. Is that a ghost up against the buttress there, or is it another
great sheaf of lilies? If I had such a garden as this, I should never
care to go anywhere else."
"My dear, I hope you will come here as often as you like," said Mrs
Mitford, with hospitable warmth; and then she thought of the danger to
John, and stopped short and felt a little confused. "The Huntleys are
friends of yours, are not they?" she went on, faltering. "When you are
with them, it will be so easy to run over here."
"Oh, indeed, I should much rather come here at first hand, if you will
have me," said Kate, frankly. "I don't think I am fond of the Huntleys.
They are nice enough, but---- And, dear Mrs Mitford, I would rather go
to you than to any one, you have been so good to me--that is, if
you like me to come here."
"My dear!" exclaimed Mrs Mitford, half touched, half troubled, "if I
could think there was any amusement for you----"
"Whether there may be amusement or not, there must always be a welcome.
I am sure, mother, that is what you meant to say," said John, with a
certain suppressed indignation in his tone, which went to his mother's
heart.
"Oh yes," she said, more and more confused; "Miss Crediton knows
that. If she can put up with our quietness--if she does not mind the
seclusion. We have not seen so much of the Huntleys as we ought to have
seen lately, but when they are here----"
"I had much rather come when you were quite quiet. I love quiet," said
deceitful Kate, putting her face so close to her friend's shoulder as
almost to touch it in a caressing way she had. Mrs Mitford trembled
with a presentiment of terror, and yet she could not resist the soft
half-caress.
"My dear child!" she cried, pressing Kate's arm to her side. And John
loomed over them both, a tall shadow, with a face which beamed through
the darkness; they looked both so little beside him--soft creatures,
shadowy, with wavy uncertain outlines, melting into the dark, not clear
and black and well defined like himself--moving softly, with a faint
rustle in the air, which might almost have been wings. His mother
and---- what was Kate to him? Nothing--a stranger--a being from a
different sphere; yet, at the same time, the one creature in all the
world upon whom he had a supreme claim, whose life he had fought for,
and rescued out of the very jaws of death.
After this they went in with eyes a little dazzled by the sudden change
into the drawing-room, where the lamps were lighted, and the moths came
sweeping in at the open window, strange optimists, seeking the light at
all costs. Kate threw herself down in a great chair, in the shadiest
corner, her white dress giving forth (poor John thought) a kind of
reflected radiance, moon-like and subdued. She sank down in the large
wide seat, and gave a little yawn. "I'm so tired," she said; "I think I
shall make papa carry me up-stairs."
"Not your papa, my dear," said Mrs Mitford, who, to tell the truth, was
a little matter-of-fact; "not your papa. He does not look very strong,
and it would be too much for him. The servants can do it; or perhaps
John----"
John started up, and came forward with his eyes lit up, half with
eagerness, half with fun. He had held her in his arms before, but she
had not been conscious of that. "Oh, please!" cried Kate, in alarm, "I
did not mean it; I only said it in fun--for want of something else to
say."
"That is Kate's general motive for her observations," said Mr Crediton,
who had just then come in with Dr Mitford; "and heaven knows it is
apparent in them! but if I don't carry her up-stairs, I must carry her
home. She must have been no end of a trouble to you."
"Oh no--not yet, I hope," said Mrs Mitford, still with some confusion.
She cast a rapid glance over the situation. In less than three months
John was going up for ordination. After that, she reflected, his mind
would be settled, and such an interruption would do him less harm.
"But I feel it is very selfish trying to keep her when, I daresay, you
have a great many pleasant engagements," she went on, with diplomatic
suavity; "and we are so quiet here. Only you must bring her back
again, Mr Crediton--that you must promise me--in autumn, or at
Christmas the very latest----"
She caught John's eye, and faltered and stopped short; and then, of all
people in the world, it was Dr Mitford who interposed.
"I should say it was the doctor who had to be consulted first," he
said. "After an illness I make it a principle never to move till I have
consulted my medical man. This is a rule which I never transgress, my
dear, as you know--and we must do the same by our young friend. You can
decide after he has been here."
"But the fact is, Kate, if you don't come at once you will come to an
empty house," said her father. "I have to go up to town on election
business, and I should like to be here to take my girl home."
"Then she shall wait till you come back," said Dr Mitford; "and now
that is settled, if you will come with me to my library I will show you
the old charter I was speaking of. It is the earliest of the kind I
have ever seen. You will find it very curious. It grants the privilege
of sanctuary to all the Abbey precincts"--he went on, as he opened the
door for his guest, talking all the way. They could hear the sound of
his voice going along the oak passage which led to the library, though
they could not make out the words; and somehow it seemed to have a kind
of soporific effect upon the party left behind, who sat and gazed at
each other, and listened as if anxious to catch the last word.
"What is all settled?" cried Kate, who was the first to break the
silence. "Oh, please, am I to take sanctuary in the Abbey precincts, or
what is to be done with me? I should so like to know!"
"Mr Crediton has consented that you should stay," cried John, eagerly.
Kate took no more notice of him than if he had been a cabbage, but bent
forward to Mrs Mitford, ignoring all other authority. And what could
that good woman do, who was not capable of hurting the feelings of a
fly?
"My dear," she said, faltering, "what would be the use of going home
when your papa is going away? Much better stay with me, if you can
make up your mind to the quiet. We are so very quiet here."
"But you said Christmas," said Kate, who was a little mortified, and
did not choose to be unavenged.
"I said--I was thinking--I meant you to understand---- Oh! what is
it, Lizzie?" cried Mrs Mitford, eagerly, as the maid came to the
door. "Widow Blake?--oh yes, I am coming;" and she went away but too
gladly to escape the explanation. Then there was nobody left in the
drawing-room but Kate alone with John.
The girl turned her eyes upon him with their surprised ingenuous look,
and then with profound gravity addressed him: "Mr John, tell me--you
know what is best for her better than I do. Is it not convenient to
have me now?"
"Convenient!" cried the young man; "how is such a word to be applied to
you? It could never be but a delight to all of us----"
"Oh, hush, hush," said Kate; "don't pay me any compliments. You know I
am only a stranger, though somehow I feel as if you all belonged to
me. It is because your mother has been so kind; and then--you saved my
life."
"That was nothing," cried John; "I wish it had cost me something, then
I might have felt as if I deserved----"
"What? my thanks?" she said, softly, playing with him.
"No, but to have saved you--for I did save you; though it did not cost
me anything," he said, regretfully; "and that is what I shall grudge
all my life."
"How very droll you are!" said Kate, after a long look at him, in which
she tried to fathom what he meant without succeeding; "but never mind
what it cost you. My opinion is, that, after such a thing as that,
people become a sort of relations--don't you think so? and you are
bound to tell me when I ask you. Please, Mr John, is it convenient for
your mother to have me now?--should I stay now? I shall be guided by
what you say."
He gave an abrupt idiotic laugh, and got up and walked about the room.
"Of course you must stay," he said; "of course it is convenient. What
could it be else? It would be cruel to leave us so abruptly, after all."
"Well, I am very comfortable," said Kate; "I shall like it. The only
thing was for your mother. If she should not want me to stay--but
anyhow, the responsibility is upon you now; and so, as Dr Mitford says,
as we have settled that, tell me what we are going to do."
"To do?" said John, with open eyes.
"To amuse ourselves," said Kate; "for I am a stranger, you know. How
can I tell how you amuse yourselves in this house?"
"We don't amuse ourselves at all," said John; and as he had been coming
nearer and nearer, now he drew a chair close to her sofa, and sat down
and gazed at her with a new light in his face. He laughed, and yet his
eyes glowed with a serious fire. He was amused and surprised, and yet
the serious nature underneath gave a certain meaning to everything.
He took the remark not as the natural expression of a frivolous,
amusement-loving creature, but as a sudden, sweet suggestion which
turned to him all at once the brighter side of life. "I think we have
rather supposed that amusement was unnecessary--that it was better,
perhaps, not to be happy. I don't know. In England, I suspect, many
people think that."
"But you are happy--you must be happy," said Kate. "What! with this
nice house, and such a nice dear mother--and Dr Mitford too, I mean, of
course--and just come from the university, which all the men pretend to
like so much. I do not believe you have not been happy, Mr John."
"I am very happy now," said John Mitford, with a dawning faculty
for saying pretty things of which he had been himself totally
unconscious. He did not mean it as a compliment; and when Kate gave
the faintest little shrug of her pretty shoulders, he was bewildered
and discouraged. The words were commonplace enough to her, and they
were not commonplace but utterly original to him. He was happy, and it
was she who had made him so. It never occurred to the young man that
any fool could say as much, it was so simply, fully true in his case.
And he sat and glowed upon her with his new-kindled eyes. Yes, it was
true what she said--she was a stranger, and yet she belonged to them;
or rather, she belonged to him. He might not be worthy of it. He had
done nothing to deserve it, and yet through him her life had come back
to her. He had saved her. He was related to her as no man else in the
world was. Her life had been lost, and he had given it back. His mind
was so full of this exulting thought that he forgot to say anything;
and as for Kate, she had to let him gaze at her, with amusement at
first, then with a blush, and with a movement of impatience at the last.
"Mr John," she said, turning her head away, and taking up a book to
screen her, "I am sure you don't mean to be disagreeable; but--did you
never--see--a girl before?"
"Good heavens! what a brute I am!" cried poor John; and then he added
humbly, "no, Miss Crediton, I never saw--any one--before."
Upon which Kate laughed, and he, taking courage, laughed too,
withdrawing his guilty eyes, and blazing red to his very hair. And
when Mrs Mitford came back, she could not but think that on the whole
they had made a great deal of progress. The two fathers were in the
library for a long time over that charter, and Kate's merry talk soon
beguiled the yielding mother. When the tea came, she sat apart and
made it, and watched the young ones with her tender eyes. It seemed
to her that she had never seen her boy so happy. "She must have been
making fun of me with all that about the clergymen," Mrs Mitford said
to herself; "and but for that, what could I desire more?" And she
thought of John's happiness with such a wife, and of Kate's fortune,
and of what a blessing it would be if it could be brought about; and
sighed--as indeed most people do when it appears to them as if their
prayers were about to be granted, and nothing left to them more to
desire.
CHAPTER V.
"Well, Kate, I will leave you here since you wish it," Mr Crediton said
next morning before he went away; "but first I must warn you to mind
what you are about. They are very nice people, and have been very good
to you--but I think I had rather have left you at home all the same.
See that you don't repay good with evil--that's all."
"You must have a very poor opinion of me, papa," said Kate, demurely;
"but how could I do that if I were to try?"
Mr Crediton shook his head. "I have a great mind to carry you off
still," he said. "I don't feel at all sure that you have not begun it
already. Kate, there is that young man to whom I owe your life----"
This expression touched her deeply. It was not, to whom you owe
your life;--that would have been commonplace. "Dear papa," said Kate,
embracing his arm with both hands, and putting down her head upon it,
"I always wonder why you took the trouble to care for me so much."
"I suppose it's for your mother's sake," he answered, looking down
upon his child with eyes which were liquid and tender with love; but
such a little episode was only for a moment. "Let us come back to our
subject," he said. "Don't make that boy unhappy, Kate. That would be a
very poor return. He looks something of a cub, but I hear he is a very
good fellow, and he saved your life. Let him alone. He deserves it at
your hands."
"What! to be let alone! What a curious way of showing one's gratitude!"
cried Kate. "No, papa, I know a way worth two of that. He shall be my
friend. There shall be no nonsense--that I can promise you; but to pay
no attention to him would be horribly ungrateful. I could not do it.
Besides, he is very nice--not the sort of man you would ever fall in
love with, but very nice--for a friend."
"Ah! I put no faith in your friends," said Mr Crediton, shaking his
head. "I have a great mind to take you home after all."
"But that would be breaking faith with Mrs Mitford," said Kate. Her
father turned upon her one of those strange, doubtful looks, with
which men often compliment women--as much as to say, You wonderful,
incomprehensible creature, I don't know what you would be at. I can't
understand you; but as I must trust you all the same----"Well," he
said, aloud, with a shake of his head, "I suppose you must have your
way; but I won't have this young fellow made game of, Kate."
"As if I could ever think of such a thing!" she said, indignantly; and
thus he had to go at last, not without a qualm of conscience, leaving
Kate and her dresses and her maid in possession of the house. She
stayed most of the morning in her own room after he had gone, that
nobody might say she was too impetuous in her rush upon the prey, but
came down to luncheon with all the charming familiarity yet restraint
of a young lady staying in the house, ready to be amused, and yet
demanding nothing. The first thing she met when she entered the room
was John's eyes watching the door, looking for her. Poor fellow!--those
same eyes which had struck her first when she opened her own in this
strange yet so familiar house.
"I do not know that we have ever had a young lady here before. Have we
ever had a young lady here before, my dear?" said Dr Mitford. "As it is
an opportunity which does not occur every day, we must make the most
of it. Miss Crediton, Mrs Mitford, of course, has her own occupations,
but, so far as the men of the house are concerned, command us--you must
let us know what you like best."
"Oh, please, Doctor Mitford! fancy my dragging you out to go
places with me," cried Kate. "I should be so dreadfully ashamed of
myself! I don't want to do anything, please. I want you to let me be
just as if I were at home. I want to go to the schools, and the poor
people, and take walks, and play croquet, as if I belonged to you;" and
then she recollected herself, and caught a curious ardent look from
John, and a still more curious inquiring one from his mother, and
blushed violently, and stopped short all at once.
"But that cannot be," said Dr Mitford, who noticed neither the blush
nor the sudden pause, and, indeed, did not understand why conversation
should be interrupted by such foolish unforeseen accidents. "I hope
we are not so regardless of the duties of hospitality as that. Let
me think what there is to see in the neighbourhood. What is there to
see, John? There is a very interesting Roman camp at Dulchester, and
there are some curious remains of the old Abbey at St Biddulph's, about
which there has been a great deal of controversy: if you are at all
interested in archology----"
"Oh, please!" cried Kate, and then she gave Mrs Mitford a piteous look,
"don't let me be a nuisance to any one--pray don't. I shall be quite
happy in the garden, and taking walks about. If I had thought I should
be a nuisance to any one I should have gone home."
"On the contrary," Dr Mitford went on in his old-fashioned way, "John
and I will feel ourselves only too fortunate. Mrs Mitford is always
busy in the parish--that is her way; but if you will accept my escort,
Miss Crediton----"
And the old gentleman waved his hand with old-fashioned gallantry.
He was a little old gentleman, with beautiful snow-white hair and a
charming complexion, and the blackest of coats and the whitest of
linen. He was so clean that it was almost painful to look at him. He
was like a Dutch house, all scrubbed and polished, and whitened and
blackened to absolute perfection. He was not a man who thought it wrong
theoretically to be happy, though his son had almost hinted as much;
but it never occurred to him to take any trouble about the matter. In
short, his nature made no special demands upon him for happiness. If
things went well it was so much the better; if not, why, there was no
great harm done. He was above the reach of any particular strain of
evil fortune. Nothing could be more unlikely than that he should ever
have to change his dinner-hour, or any of his favourite habits; and if
his wife or his son had been very ill, or had died, or any calamity of
that sort had happened, the Doctor hoped he had Christian fortitude to
bear it; and anything less than this he could scarcely have realised as
unhappiness. Why, then, with the dinner-hour immovable, and everything
else comfortably settled, should people trouble themselves searching
for amusement? The worst of this principle was, that when it came to
be a right and necessary thing to seek amusement--when, for instance,
a young lady was staying in the house--Dr Mitford was a little
embarrassed. Amusement had become a duty in such a case, but how was
it to be found? So he thought of the Roman camp and the ruins of St
Biddulph's, and that was all the length his invention could reach.
"She is not strong enough yet for these long expeditions," said Mrs
Mitford, coming to Kate's aid; "she must be left quite quiet with me,
I think. I am sure that will be the doctor's opinion. Yes, my dear, I
will take you to the schools; there are some such nice little things
that it is a pleasure to teach, and there are some of my poor people
that I know you would like----"
"Mother, mother, do you think that is what interests Miss Crediton?"
said John, with that quick sense of his parents' imperfections which is
so common to the young. A Roman camp on the one side, and the old women
in the village on the other, proposed as amusement for this bright-eyed
fairy creature, to whom every joy and rapture that the world possessed
must come natural! Did not music seem to come up about her out of the
very earth as she walked, and everything to dance before her, and the
flowers to give out sweeter odours, and the very sun to shine more
warmly? John was not learned in delights, any more than his father and
mother, but yet nothing less than the superlative was good enough for
her--to preside over tournaments, and give prizes of love and beauty;
to be the queen of the great festivals of poetry; to have everything
indefinite and sweet and splendid laid at her feet. It was so strange
that they should not understand!
"I shall delight in seeing the old women," said Kate, with a laugh,
which he thought was addressed to him; "but, indeed, I don't think I
can teach anything--I am so dreadfully ignorant. You can't think how
ignorant I am. We have a school at Fernwood, and I went once and they
gave me sums to look over--sums, Mrs Mitford--only fancy! and I was
to tell if they were right or wrong. It was little chits of eight or
nine that had done them, and I could not have done one for my life; so,
please, I can't pretend to teach."
"My dear," said Mrs Mitford, beaming upon her with maternal eyes, "you
are not a clergyman's wife."
"Thank heaven!" said Kate; and then it occurred to her that she had
been rude, and the colour stole to her cheek. "Oh, I beg your pardon; I
did not mean to be impertinent."
"You were not impertinent, my dear," said Mrs Mitford, with a sigh. "I
daresay you are quite right. One likes one's own lot best, you know;
but unless you took to it, there could not be much pleasure in being a
clergyman's wife."
"Oh, please, don't think I was rude," cried Kate, "to you, dear Mrs
Mitford, that have been so very, very good to me! All I thought was,
that perhaps--nowadays,--but never mind what nonsense came into my
head. May I go to see Lizzie's mother? I have been hearing so much
about her, and about the trouble they have with the big lads."
"My dear, that is not amusement for a young lady," said Dr Mitford. "If
you will come with me, Miss Crediton, I assure you, you will like it
better. I will drive you to the Roman camp. There are some measurements
I want to verify. I am writing a paper for the Archological Society,
and they are sad fellows to pick holes in one's coat. You must tell
them, John, to have the phaeton out, and I will drive Miss Crediton
over to Dulchester this afternoon. We could not have a more charming
day."
"And you can call at the Huntleys, and have some tea, Doctor," said Mrs
Mitford; "it is a long drive. Miss Crediton is a friend of theirs. It
will be more amusing for her; and if you would ask the girls to come
over to-morrow, perhaps we might get up a croquet-party. Frederick
Huntley has come home, so that would be another man. There are no young
men in the parish, that is the sad thing, when one wants to get up
a little party," said Mrs Mitford, with depression. She was looking
quite weary and miserable, and did not know what to do with herself.
Amusement for the young lady staying in the house! How was she to
procure it? You feed caterpillars, when you collect them, with green
leaves, and birds have their appropriate seed, and even sea-anemones
in an aquarium; but when there are no young men in a parish, how are
you to feed a stray young lady? This was the frightful problem which
clouded over Mrs Mitford's soul. And this was complicated by the harder
difficulty still, which continually returned upon her--a girl who
thanked heaven she was not a clergyman's wife! Was it right to leave
such a creature in unfettered intercourse with John?
Kate made one or two ineffectual struggles to deliver herself from her
fate, but when she saw the phaeton drive up--an ancient spiderylooking
vehicle, with room only for two--her spirit was cowed within her.
There was no way of escape short of being taken suddenly ill, and she
could not be so unkind as that. She reserved the card in her hand for
future use, should this persecution be continued. "I hope I shan't
get ill when Dr Mitford is so kind," she said, as she was helped into
the shabby little carriage. It was the only one they had at Fanshawe,
and they thought a great deal of it. It was high, and the wheels were
large, and the hood toppled about so, it looked as if it must tumble
down on their noses every minute--and Kate had carriages of her own,
and knew what was what in this respect; and she did not care in the
least about the Roman camp, and the roads were very dusty, and would
spoil her clean pretty dress. Nevertheless she had to yield like a
martyr, and indeed felt herself very like one as she drove away by
Dr Mitford's side, leaving John standing looking very blank on the
lawn. "Why could not he come too?" Kate said to herself; and called
him fainant and sluggard in her heart. But, after all, there
was no room for John. He watched, feeling much more blank even than
she did, as the carriage rattled away, and by-and-by was joined by
his mother, who, for her part, was rather pleased to get rid of her
visitor for half a day at least. Mrs Mitford laid her hand on her son's
shoulder as she came to him, but John took no notice, and only gazed
the more at the carriage rattling and grinding and wheezing away.
"My dear boy!" she said, looking at him with tender admiring eyes, and
smoothing his sleeve with her soft hand as if she loved it, "don't look
after them like that. You have seen the camp at Dulchester before now."
"Oh yes--fifty times at least," said John, turning away with a derisive
grin. "You don't think I care for that?"
"Then why should you look so blank?" said his mother. "Miss Crediton
is very nice, but, do you know, I am afraid it will be very hard work
entertaining her. I am sure I don't know what to do. If the Huntleys
come to-morrow, that will be enough (I hope) for one day. And then we
might have a dinner-party; but I can't think she would care for a
dinner-party. I am sure I should not at her age. Your papa thinks that
is the proper thing; but fancy one of our ordinary parties, with the
Fanshawes and the Lancasters and the doctor, and some curate to fill
up--what would that be to her?"
"Mamma," said John, "I am sure you are taking a great deal too much
trouble. Why not leave Miss Crediton alone? She has gone to-day only to
please my father. She does not care for Roman camps any more than I do,
nor for a drive in a shabby old phaeton with defective springs."
"My dear, you are doing her injustice," said Mrs Mitford, with severe
loftiness. "She is rather frivolous, I fear; but still, you may be sure
Kate understands that to have the Doctor to drive her, and tell her all
about the country, is what very few people attain."
To this speech John made no reply. The carriage was out of sight, and
even the dust it had raised had dropped peacefully to earth again; but
still the young man stood with a dissatisfied face. "I could have taken
her for a walk, and she would have liked it better," he said--"at
least I should have liked it better; and I am sure she does not
want such a fuss made over her, mamma."
"You would have liked it better!" said Mrs Mitford. "Oh, my
dear, dear boy! did you hear what she said this morning, John, about a
clergyman's wife?"
"Yes."
"And yesterday what a tirade about clergymen! She made me half angry.
As if your papa would have been a better man had he not married me!"
"I don't think that was what she meant," said John. "My
father--is--different. One does not think of him, nor of what
is. One thinks of what is to be."
"Then, perhaps, you agree with her, and think clergymen should not
marry?" said Mrs Mitford, with a little heat. "Oh John! if you were to
turn out a Ritualist, I think it would break my heart."
"I don't intend to turn out an anythingist," said John, shutting his
face up into an obstinate blank which his mother knew. She gave a
sigh, and shook her head, and once more softly stroked his arm.
"And since we are speaking of this," she said, sinking her voice, and
smoothing down his sleeve more and more tenderly, with her eyes fixed
on it, as if that was the object of her thoughts, "I have one little
word to say to you, John--just one word. My dear boy! you are very
young, and you don't know the world, nor the ways of girls. She is very
pretty, and winning, and all that; but I would not put myself too much
at her service, if I were you. It might not be good for yourself--and
it might put things in her head."
"Put things in her head," echoed poor John. "O mother, mother!
as if she would care twopence if she never saw me again! But I know
what you mean, and I don't mean to lose my head or my senses. She is
out of my reach. I am not so simple but I can see that."
"And that is just what I can't see," said his mother, sharply. "She
is not a duchess; but, my dear, the prudent way is to have no more to
do with her than just friendliness and civility. I am so glad you see
that."
"Oh yes, I see it," John replied, with a shrug of his shoulders. "I'll
go and see to the mowing of the lawn, since there's to be croquet
to-morrow--a thing I detest," he added, with irritation, as he moved
away. Poor John! His mother looked after him, wondering was he really
so wise as he said, or was this mere pride and disappointment--or
what was it? There had never been a young lady before at Fanshawe
Regis since the boy had grown up; for Miss Lancaster at the Priory was
nearly old enough to be his mother, and the young Fanshawes were very
delicate, and always travelling about in search of health, and the
Doctor's little girls were in the nursery. And as for the Huntleys,
though they were so rich, they were comparatively new people in the
country, and the girls were plain; so that pretty Kate Crediton was
doubly dangerous. Ah! if she had only been a good girl--one of those
girls who are so common--or at least everybody says so--who adore
clergymen, and work slippers for them! Few such young ladies had fallen
in Mrs Mitford's way; but she believed in them, on the authority of
the newspapers, as most people do. If Kate had been but one of those,
with her nice fortune and her nice position, and her pretty manners
and looks, what a thing for John! Mrs Mitford heaved a sigh over this
dream, which, alas! it seemed but too clear she must relinquish; and
with the sigh breathed a prayer that her boy might be protected from
all snares, and not led into temptation more than he could bear.
John himself went off peremptorily to the gardener, and disturbed him
among his vegetables. He was busy with the cucumbers, and considered
the lawn at that moment worse than vanity. But John's temper was up,
thanks to his father who had thus carried her off from him under his
very nose, and poor Roots had no chance against him. When he had
effectually spoiled that poor man's morning's work, the young fellow
went off sullenly enough with his fishing-rod. She was out of his
reach, no doubt. She thanked heaven she was no clergyman's wife; but
yet---- The only man in the world, so far as John knew, who had any
right to her was himself--more right than her father. Her life was
his, for he had given it back to her. Of all ties on earth, could there
be one more binding? not that he meant to make any ungenerous use of
his claim, or even to breathe it in words; but yet he knew it, and she
knew it. He had given her back her life.
CHAPTER VI.
As for Kate and Dr Mitford, they did not know very well what to say to
each other. "What a charming day!" the girl said at intervals; "and
what a pretty country! I never knew it until I took that unfortunate
ride."
"Don't speak of that," said the old gentleman; "at least don't speak of
it so. It was a most fortunate ride, I am sure, for us."
"It makes me giddy when I think of it," said Kate, shutting her eyes.
"You are very fond of riding, I suppose? I am always rather nervous
when I see a lady on a spirited horse. You are very charming riders,
and very full of courage, and all that," said the Doctor, who was
himself considerably bothered by the mild animal he was driving; "but
it requires a man's hand, my dear Miss Crediton. There are some
things, believe me, that require a man's hand."
"Yes, no doubt," said Kate, politely, longing all the time to take the
reins into her own small nervous fingers. Dr Mitford had a nice little
white soft hand--a clergyman's hand--without any bone or fibre in it.
"We made up our minds quite suddenly," she went on, "that we would go
back from Humbledon to Camelford, riding. I had often heard of Fanshawe
Regis, but I never saw it before."
"Most people have heard of Fanshawe Regis," said the Doctor. "I
consider my library one of the lions of the country--not that it is so
very old, only Elizabethan, or, at the farthest, Henry the Seventh;
but household architecture is a thing by itself. We expect the
Archological Society to hold its next meeting at Camelford, and then
I hope much light may be thrown upon our antiquities. We shall make
an excursion to Dulchester, Miss Crediton, and you must come with us
there."
"Oh, I am sure I am much obliged," said Kate.
"You would enjoy that," said Dr Mitford. "Downy is sure to be there
from Oxford, and I should not wonder if he gave a lecture on it. He is
one of the very great guns. He understands more about it than almost
any man in England, I must say, to do him justice. But almost is not
all, my dear Miss Crediton; and when you see a man setting himself
up for an authority in presence of others who----" Here the Doctor
stopped, and laughed a conscious complacent laugh; by which Kate
perceived that Dr Mitford himself was a greater authority still, or at
least thought he was.
"It is very funny," said Kate, "but I shall be better off going with
you than if I had half-a-dozen archological societies. I feel quite
sure of that."
"Well, well, we must not brag," said Dr Mitford, waving his white hand
softly. "This camp, you must know, was one of the camps of Agricola,
which he made on his journey northwards. It is constructed----"
And so the narrative went on. Kate kept looking up at him with her
bright eyes, and said yes, and said no, and made herself very
agreeable; but I cannot undertake to say that she was much the better
for it. In the first place, she took no interest whatever in Roman
camps, and then she had a good deal on her mind. What was John about
all this time? Why did not he manage to get into the phaeton in his
father's place, and drive her? If the horse had not been the meekest
and most long-suffering of animals, Kate felt that there must have
been another running away, and another accident. And her recent
experience had made her nervous. When she had received an immense deal
of information about the castrum which she was going with so
little enthusiasm to visit, she suddenly caught a glimpse of a group of
turrets among the trees, and gave a start, which made Dr Mitford and
his horse swerve aside, and shook the hood of the phaeton so that it
nearly descended upon the party, burying them alive.
"Oh, there is Westbrook, where the Huntleys live!" cried Kate. "I beg
your pardon, Dr Mitford, I am sure. Mrs Mitford said we were to call.
Don't you think we had better go now, in case they should be out?
There was a message, you know, that you were to give."
"Oh, about croquet," said the Doctor, and his brow was slightly
ruffled. He would not allow, even to himself, that his instruction
was slighted; but still he felt that she had been able to see the
towers of Westbrook at the very moment when he was affording her every
information. But he was too polite to make any objection. Westbrook was
a very fine house, but its turrets were new, and its wealth had been
made, not inherited, for which half the country said, "So much the more
credit to the Huntleys;" and all the country, even the poor clergymen
and the country doctors, looked down upon them, though not upon their
parties, which were unexceptionable. Mr Crediton being himself only
a banker, had not much indulged in this universal condescension; and
Kate was very glad to bethink herself of the Huntleys at this special
moment. They were better than Dulchester, and the phaeton with the
unsteady hood. There were two sons and two daughters. The girls were
plain, and no way remarkable; neither was Willie, the second son; but
Fred was very clever--so clever that nobody knew what was to be done
with him. He had taken a first-class at Oxford, and done everything
else a young man can do that is gratifying and honourable. He was
fellow of his college, and was understood to be able to do anything he
pleased in the way of scholarship or literature. If he had but taken
the trouble to write, a great many people were of opinion that he would
have beaten Tennyson hollow; but he was indolent, and satisfied with
his position, and had as much as ever he could desire without doing
anything for it. And consequently, his great gifts were unexercised.
The country, however, which had been cold to his family, and patronised
them, acknowledged that such condescension would be out of character to
a man who had taken a first-class. And thus the Huntleys had risen in
popular estimation. Kate recalled Mrs Mitford's words to her mind as
they drove unwillingly up to the great door. "Frederick is at home."
She had known Frederick for years, but he was too much self-absorbed,
Kate thought, ever to care for any girl; and so it happened that not
even flirtation had ever passed between them. "That prig to play
croquet!" she said to herself, with a shrug of her shoulders; and
then she sprang down, and received a farewell blow from the hood of
the phaeton upon her pretty bonnet. Poor Kate! It was all she could
do to restrain herself from shaking her little fist at it. The tears
almost came to her eyes as she straightened the injured bonnet with
her hands. Was it an evil omen? for the Huntleys were out, all but Mrs
Huntley--and the girls were engaged for next day; and Willie had gone
to town; and Fred----"My dear, you know I never can answer for Fred,"
his mother said, with pride. "He has his own engagements, and all sorts
of things to do."
"Oh yes, to be sure; it is not likely he would stoop so far as to play
croquet," said Kate; "but I am only giving Mrs Mitford's message. You
know it is not me that asks. I will tell her what you say."
"Tell her I am so sorry," said Mrs Huntley. "I know what it is to be
disappointed when one tries to get up any little thing impromptu, and
the girls would have been so glad, and so would Willie--but she knows
I cannot answer for Fred. Dr Mitford, I am so sorry Mr Huntley is not
at home, nor my son. If they had known there was the least chance of
seeing you! But now you have come, you must have some tea."
"I thank you, my dear madam," said the Doctor, "but we have still a
good way to go. I am taking Miss Crediton to see the Roman camp at
Dulchester. It is not often I go so far, but you know I pretend to a
little antiquarian knowledge----"
"Oh, a little indeed!" said Mrs Huntley; "we all know what that means.
You may be very proud, Kate, to have such a cicerone. I can't tell you
how I sigh for you, Doctor, when we have people down from town, and
they go to see the camp. Oh, don't ask me, I always beg of them--you
should hear all about it if Dr Mitford were here."
"Well, one has one's little bits of information, of course," said Dr
Mitford, with a deprecating wave of the hand; "one's hobby, I suppose
the young people would call it. I am very glad that Frederick has got
his fellowship. It must be a great satisfaction to his father and you."
"Well, we were pleased, of course," said the lady; "though, but for the
honour of the thing, it did not matter to Fred. I often say how odd it
is that such things should fall to him who don't want them, when so
many poor fellows, to whom it would be a real blessing, fail. He has no
business to have the money and the brains too."
"That must make it all the more agreeable," said the Doctor, with a
stiff bow; and the looks of the two parents made Kate wonder suddenly
whether John had been successful in his university career. Poor fellow!
he did not look remarkably bright. There was no analogy between his
looks and Fred Huntley's sharp clever face--but then he was some years
younger than Fred.
"Won't you be persuaded to stay to dinner?" said Mrs Huntley; "you
never can get back in time for your own. We have not seen Kate for
ages, nor you either, Dr Mitford. Do stay--my husband and all of
them will be back before dinner. Mr Huntley will be so vexed and
disappointed if I let you go."
"But Dulchester, my dear lady," said the Doctor, rising and making her
a bow.
"Oh, Dulchester!--is your heart so much set upon it, Kate?"
Fortunately Kate glanced at her guide before she replied, and saw that
he was red with mortification, anticipating her answer. "Oh dear, yes!
my heart is set upon it," she cried. "Dr Mitford has come all the way
to make me understand; and, indeed, it is getting late, and we must not
stop, even for tea."
"I will go and see that the carriage is brought round," said her old
cavalier, with alacrity; and he shook hands with Mrs Huntley, who
mimicked him as soon as his back was turned with a sweep of her hand
and smirk of affability which tried Kate's gravity much. "Oh, my dear,
you don't know what you are going to encounter," she said, in a rapid
undertone, as soon as he was gone. "I tried to save you from it, but
you would not back me up. He is the most dreadful old bore----"
"Hush! I am staying in his house, and they have been very, very kind,"
said Kate, with a sudden blush.
"Staying in their house! I must speak to your papa about that, who
never will let you come to us. But I did not know you knew the
Mitfords, Kate."
"We did not know them--but--my horse ran away with me--and Dr
Mitford's--son--saved my life."
This Kate gave forth very slowly, with eyes that glittered with sudden
excitement; and Mrs Huntley, for her part, received the news with the
most eager interest.
"Oh, was it you?" she cried. "We heard something of it. They say it was
quite a wonder that he didn't lose his own life. But, dear me, Kate!
after anything so interesting, how was it that he didn't drive you
himself instead of his papa?"
"I suppose, because he was never consulted," said Kate, with some
indignation; "and now I must not keep Dr Mitford waiting. Mrs Mitford
has been so good to me--oh, so kind! She has nursed me as if I had
been her own child; and papa let me stay, he was so grateful to them.
I don't know, I am sure, what the son did for me, but I know what the
mother has done. She was as kind as if I had been her own child."
"Her own child!" Mrs Huntley repeated to herself, with bewilderment,
when Kate ran down-stairs; "oh yes, indeed! that one can easily
understand. What a nice thing for John! But I am sure I should never
think of such a little flirt for one of my sons, however rich she
was--a spoiled child!"
This would have hurt Kate's feelings if she had heard it, for she
thought she was a favourite of Mrs Huntley's--and so indeed she was;
but it is hard upon a woman to hear unmoved that somebody else's son
has been braver, abler, more successful than her son, even though, as
she reminded herself with a toss of her head, her boys had no need for
that sort of thing, thank heaven! "Fred shall go, if I can persuade
him," she said within herself, "and spoil that John's game,
though they think so much of him;" and yet there was not a shadow of a
reason why Mrs Huntley should wish to thwart that John.
After this Kate had to do the camp, and did it with a heroic show of
interest. She got through it, looking up into Dr Mitford's face with
such bright and vivid looks that the good man felt he had at last found
a congenial soul. Kate bore this, and she bore the assaults of the
unsteady hood, though it gave her yet another thump upon her bonnet,
which nearly made an end of that ornament. But there are limits to
human nature, and she was very glad when she found herself approaching
home. She called the Rectory home with the frankest satisfaction,
such as would have awakened many thoughts in Mrs Mitford's mind. It
was sweet to see the pretty irregular house in the evening light,
with its shadow turned to the east and all its windows open, and the
great sheaves of lilies sending forth their fragrance. John suddenly
appeared to open the gate as they drove up, as if he had sprung from
the earth; and his mother was standing on the lawn with her white shawl
thrown over her, like another flower; and the expedition was over,
and the castrum done with, and Dr Mitford pleased, and the
bonnet, perhaps, not spoiled for ever. Kate was so glad that she gave
Mrs Mitford an unexpected kiss as she jumped lightly down. "How nice
it is to have some one waiting for us!" she said, with almost tearful
earnestness--the poor motherless girl! Mrs Mitford was touched by the
accent, and Kate was touched herself, though of course she must have
known how much of her emotion was delight at being free of what she
considered a bore. But it was not entirely relief either, and there was
some real feeling in the girl's perverse little heart.
"I am so grieved they cannot come," said Mrs Mitford, when they were
all seated at dinner, which had been delayed. "I am so sorry, my dear,
for you; but perhaps you might try a game with John--and the party
could be asked for another day."
"I am so glad," said Kate. "It is so nice to escape the
croquet-parties, and all the stuff one has to think about at home."
"But, my dear, you must miss your amusements," said Mrs Mitford. "I
should not think a quiet life was the kind of life for you."
"Changes are what I like," said Kate, bravely. "I could not live always
in a turmoil, and I could not live always in a hermitage. I should like
sometimes the one and sometimes the other. The dreadful thing would be,
to be always the same."
Mrs Mitford gave her son a piteous look, and then cast an instinctive
glance round the room. She did not herself feel the full meaning that
was in her eyes. She glanced at all the signs of her own changeless
existence. For years and years she had visited the same places at the
same hours, sat down to the same work, made the same engagements,
discharged the same duties. The dinner-party, which, contrary to her
own lights, she was going to give in honour of Kate, would have the
same people at it as had been at her first dinner-party after her
wedding. She said to herself that if John were rich he could give his
wife a great deal more change; but still there remained the fact that
John's wife would have the parish to think of, and the schools, and
the old women. It would not do, alas! it could not do, Mrs Mitford
concluded, as she rose from dinner with a sigh. And yet it would be
such a thing for John.
And to see poor John's miserable look when he came into the
drawing-room, and found that Kate had a headache and had gone to bed.
"It must have been that confounded camp," he said, through his teeth,
which grieved his mother more.
"Oh, my dear, don't swear," she said; "things are bad enough without
that."
"What things? and what do you mean, mother?" growled John.
"It is--that girl. I am so sorry she came here--so sorry you saved her,
John; that she should come where no one wanted her, disturbing my boy!"
"Sorry I saved her! Are you mad, mother?" cried her son.
"Oh, you know I did not mean that. I am glad she is saved, poor
thing--very glad; but oh, John, my dear, why should she come disturbing
you? You must not think anything more about her, my own boy. See what
pains she takes to show you it is no use. She could not live where it
is always the same! Oh, John, after so many warnings, if you fall into
her wiles at last!"
"What folly!" he said, leaving her, and throwing himself on a sofa
in a dark corner, where the light of the lamp did not reach him. The
anxious mother could no longer see his face. It was not with her as in
days past, when he would poke into the light, under the shade of the
lamp, and put his book on the top of her work, getting many a tender
scold for it, or read aloud to her, which was her greatest pleasure.
The Doctor was in his study, busy with his paper for the Archological
Society, and as indifferent to his wife's loneliness as if she had
been his housekeeper. Mrs Mitford had long ago got over that. She had
accepted it as the natural course of affairs that your husband should
go back to his study after dinner. Perhaps it would have plagued
more than pleased her now had he suddenly made his appearance in the
drawing-room. What she liked was to get her work or her knitting
(John's socks, which she always made with her own hands), and listen,
in a soft rapture of ineffable content, as he read to her. It did not
matter much what he read; his voice, and the work in her hand, and the
consciousness that her boy was there, wrapt her in a silent atmosphere
of happiness. But now how different it was! The Doctor by himself in
his study, and Kate by herself in her chamber, and the mother and
son, with almost the whole breadth of the room between them, each in
a corner, he in the dark, she in the light, alone too. And it was all
that girl's fault. It was she who was making him unhappy.
"John, won't you read to me a little, dear?" said his mother from the
table.
"I can't to-night," he answered from the sofa, glad that his face was
not visible. He was so vexed and disappointed and mortified, coming
in full of the expectation of a long evening in Kate's society, and
finding her gone. A year or two ago it would have brought tears to
John's eyes. He was a man now, and it was not possible to cry, but he
was so disappointed that he could scarcely endure himself. Mrs Mitford
bore his silence and abstraction as long as she could. It went to her
heart--but she was all mother, down to the tips of her fingers; and
though it gave her a deep wound to think her boy had thus given her
over, she could not bear to see him unhappy. She laid down her work at
last, and stole out of the room, wondering if he noticed her going, and
went and knocked at Kate's door. "My dear, I have just made the tea,
and it smells so refreshing. I thought, if you had not gone to bed, a
cup would do you good," she said, coming in and taking Kate's hand. Her
eyes were so wistful, such an unspoken prayer was in her face, that a
glimmering of what she must mean just flashed upon Kate.
"How good of you to come and tell me! May Parsons go down and bring me
a cup?" said the girl. She had been seated by the open window, with the
breath of the lilies stealing up from the dark garden, and a reverie
had stolen over her, about nothing in particular; only the soft night
was in it, and the lilies, and the vague delights of youth. I almost
think she had felt John Mitford's incipient undeveloped sentiment
breathing up to her in the vagueness and darkness, with an indefinite
perfume, like the flowers. And Kate had no mind to leave this sweet
confusion of dreams and odours and far-off suggestion, for actual talk
and commonplace intercourse; and her first impulse was to get gently
rid of her visitor, if that might be.
"It would lose all its fragrance coming up-stairs," said Mrs Mitford.
"You have not begun to undress, or even taken down your pretty hair;
come down, my dear, for half an hour,--I know it will do your head
good. You know, everybody says ours is such good tea."
"Don't I know it!" said Kate; "but----"
"But I can't take any refusal," said Mrs Mitford, drawing the girl's
arm within her own. Oh, how little she wanted her at that moment, had
the truth been known! and yet she coaxed and wooed her as if it were
a personal grace. And the girl yielded, thinking more a great deal of
the sweetness of being thus sought and coaxed by the mother, than of
the son who was sitting in the dumps on the sofa in the dark corner
down-stairs.
"If you want me," she said, with a faint accent of inquiry, and
gave Mrs Mitford a soft little kiss. "I think mamma must have been
like you," she said in apology, a remark which confused John's mother,
and made her feel guilty. For it was not kindness to this motherless
creature that moved her, but the maternal passion which paused at
nothing which could give pleasure to her boy.
John was standing in the open window hesitating whether he should
plunge out into the darkness, when he heard the voices of the two
ladies coming down-stairs, and all the room immediately filled with
radiance and splendour. In a moment he was back again, standing,
hovering over Kate, who sank into an easy-chair close to the light, and
gave herself up to the delights of the promised cup of tea. He did not
say a dozen words to her all the rest of the evening, but he was happy;
and she lying back at her ease, with the consciousness of an admiring
audience, chattered and sipped, and was happy too. It did not occur
to Kate that every word she said was being closely criticised by the
woman who had gone to seek her, who was basking in the pleasant rays
of her youth, and smiling at all her nonsense and chatter, and looking
so wistfully at her by times. She thought she had made a conquest
of Mrs Mitford too, and was pleased and proud. "I cannot be
just a little flirt and a stupid," Kate was saying to herself, "for
Mrs Mitford is fond of me too." And with this pleasant sense
of having an utterly indulgent audience, she rattled on more freely
than she had ever before found it possible to do at Fanshawe. And Mrs
Mitford made secret notes of all the nonsense, and laid up in her
memory everything that was said. And then the Doctor came in from his
study, and the bell was rung, and the servants appeared dimly, and sat
down in a row against the further wall where it was dark; and they
had prayers. Mrs Mitford was scrupulous about having a shade over the
lamp--she thought it was good for the eyes--so that there was one
brilliant spot round the table, and all the rest was dim and vague,
darkness deepening into the corners, and intensifying to a centre in
the great window full of night, the open abyss into the garden all
sweet with roses and lilies, through which there puffed by times a
breath of summer wind. Now that the tea-things were removed, it was Dr
Mitford's white head, and his open book, and the whiter hand which was
laid upon it, that were the foremost objects in the room; and in the
middle distance among the shadows was Mrs Mitford; and at the back,
like ghosts, the maids and the man. Kate joined very devoutly in the
prayers, and felt glad she had come down-stairs. "How good they are,
how quiet it is, how nice to have prayers! and oh, what sweetness in
the air!" she said to herself, when she ought to have been praying. It
was novel to her, and the composition of the picture was so pretty.
And they were all so kind--fond of her, indeed. Kate went back to her
room, when all was over, with a soft complacency and satisfaction with
herself possessing her heart.
CHAPTER VII.
The next afternoon John and Kate were on the lawn, with Mrs Mitford
sitting by, when Fred Huntley suddenly rode in at the gate. The two
young people had no particular inclination for croquet, but the lawn
had been mowed, and Mrs Mitford had given up her schools for one day,
and seated herself outside the drawing-room window to countenance their
intercourse. She did not take any part in their talk, but knitted with
as much placidity as she could command, having reasoned with herself
all the night through, and finally made up her mind that it would be
better for her to take no part, but let things take their course. "If
I try to influence her, she will think I have interested motives; and
if I try to influence him, my boy will turn against me," she had said
to herself piteously, shedding a few silent tears under cover of the
night; and her decision had been, that she would only stand by and
look on, that was all. For the first time in his life John's mother
felt herself incapable of helping, or guiding, or being of any service
to her boy. She had to see him face the danger, and say nothing--the
danger on one hand of being secularised, and his heart turned to
frivolity; and on the other, of having that heart broken. Which was the
worse his mother could scarcely tell.
So these two were trifling, each with a mallet, and talking, and
getting more and more interested in each other, when Fred Huntley, as
I have said, rode suddenly in upon them. He gave a very keen knowing
glance at the two on the lawn, as he passed them to pay his respects
to Mrs Mitford. Was it her doing? was it their own doing? Fred caught
the secret of the situation as a well-trained man of the world would
naturally do. He had first a natural impulse to interfere; and then
he paused and stopped himself, and declared to himself that he would
not spoil sport. He was a man to whom generous thoughts came not, as
is natural, by impulse, but upon thought. And after all, why should
he meddle with them? If she married John, it would be a good thing
for John, and, most likely, for her too--and why should I interfere?
said Fred, without a doubt of his capability to do so; so he went and
talked to Mrs Mitford, while the two on the lawn pursued their languid
sport. "I hate him," Kate had said on his arrival; "let us pretend we
have begun a game;" and John was but too happy--too much delighted,
by the suggestion. So they kept the lawn to themselves, and trifled
and talked, while Fred chatted with the chaperone over her knitting.
He had come to make the apologies of his family, expecting to find an
assemblage of ladies with John in the midst, the one island of black
among clouds of muslin. The ladies in Fanshawe Regis were not even
young, and consequently it was a relief to him to see one pretty figure
only, and the mother sitting by; and he did his best to make himself
agreeable, having, as it happened, a more interesting subject than "le
beau temps et la pluie."
"I hear John has been distinguishing himself," he said; and though he
did not in the least intend it, there was something in his tone which
made Mrs Mitford flush red to the edge of her hair, and raise herself
stiffly on her seat. The truth was, John had been in competition
with Fred more than once at college, and had not been held to have
distinguished himself--which naturally drove his mother to arms at the
first word.
"Not anything particular that I am aware of," she said, drawing herself
up stiffly; "he always is the best son and the kindest heart in the
world."
"But about Miss Crediton," said Fred.
"Oh, that was a mere accident," said John's mother. "You see he can't
help having a warm heart, and being so big and strong."
Fred was fully three inches shorter than John, and in this way at least
he had never distinguished himself. "To be sure, that is an easy way
of accounting for it," he said, with much command of temper. "It must
be very nice to be big and strong, especially when pretty girls and
heiresses are in danger in one's way."
"Is she an heiress?" said Mrs Mitford, with the most innocent face in
the world.
"Well, rather," said Fred; and here the little passage of arms came to
a close. "My sisters were very sorry they could not come," he went on
after an interval, during which he had been intently watching the two
figures on the lawn. "They sent all kinds of messages, but I fear I
have lost them on the way. They could scarcely have been more sorry had
it been a dance--and what could a young lady say more?"
"I wish they could have come," said Mrs Mitford; and just then Lizzie
came and whispered something in her ear. "Will you excuse me for two
minutes, Mr Huntley? It is one of my poor people. I am so sorry to be
rude, and go away."
Fred said something that was very polite, and went slowly towards the
croquet-players as she left him. He thought Kate was very pretty--he
had never seen her look so pretty. She was dressed in fresh muslin all
but white, with her favourite blue ribbons, and looked so dainty, so
refined, such a little princess beside John's somewhat heavy large
figure. Not but what he looked a gentleman too--but a rural gentleman,
a heavy weight, and standing side by side with a creature made of
sunshine and light. Fred Huntley had never admired Kate particularly
heretofore, but he did that day, and wondered at himself. He sauntered
up to them, watching their looks and movements, and stood by and
criticised their play. "Miss Crediton, you have it all in your own
hands," he said. "He has not the heart to hit your ball. You have
nothing to do but go in and win. My good fellow, I never saw such bad
play!"
"As if one cared for winning!" said Kate, dragging her mallet along
the grass. "What do we all play croquet for, I wonder?" And she gave
vent to her feelings in a delicate yawn, and sank into the chair which
John had brought out for her. He had placed it under the shadow of a
graceful acacia, which kept dropping its white blossoms at her feet,
and the two young men drew near and looked at her. Fred was much the
more ready of the two, so far as talk was concerned.
"That is a tremendous question," he said. "It is as bad as if you had
invited us to clear up the origin of evil. But there is nobody like
women for going to the bottom of things. We do it because somebody once
considered it pleasant, I suppose."
"Or because we are believed to have nothing else to do," said John.
"Then why can't we be permitted to do nothing? It tires me to death
standing about in the sun," said Kate, in a plaintive voice. "I'd
rather lean back and be comfortable, and listen to the leaves. I'd
rather even have you two sit down here in the shade," and she waved
her hand like a little princess towards the turf on each side of her,
"and quarrel about something--so long as you did not come to blows.
Talk--oh, please, talk about something women are not supposed to
understand!"
"By all means," said Fred, throwing himself down at her feet; "what
shall it be? Sophocles, or steam-engines, or the Darwinian theory?
Mitford is up in everything, I know, and one has a few vague ideas on
general subjects--which shall it be?"
But John said nothing. He stood bending towards her with that great,
tall, somewhat heavy figure of his. He had been talking not unagreeably
so long as the two were alone, but Fred's interposition quenched him.
He stood with an inexpressible something in his look and attitude,
which said, "I am here to watch over you, to serve you, not to take
my ease and talk nonsense in your presence," which brought a little
colour to Kate's cheeks. She looked at the young men in her turn,
involuntarily contrasting the ease of the man of the world with the
almost awkwardness of the other. Under such circumstances one knows
what the verdict of a frivolous girl would naturally be. One of them
could enter into all her habitual chatter, and give her all her
nonsense back. He was handsomer than John Mitford, though neither was
an Adonis. He was more successful; he had the prestige about him
of a man of intellect, and yet he was just like other people. Whereas
John, without the prestige, was unlike other people. Kate
looked at them with a curious impression on her mind, as if she were
making that grand decision which the heroes of olden time used to be
called upon to make between the true and the false--between Pleasure
and Goodness. A slight shiver went over her, she could not tell why.
Neither of them was asking anything of her at that moment. As for Fred
Huntley, he had never shown the slightest inclination to ask anything
of her, and yet in some mysterious way she felt as if she were deciding
her fate.
"You are cold--let me go and bring you a shawl," said John.
"Oh, it is nothing. It is because I have been ill. I never was so
stupid in all my life before. Thanks, Mr Mitford, that is so nice,"
said Kate. But she was not cold, though she accepted the shawl he
brought her. She was trembling before her fate. And it was John to whom
some unseen counsellor seemed to direct her. It was John she liked
best, she said to herself. His was the good face, the tender eyes,
the loyal soul. Why such a crisis should come upon her in the middle
of a game at croquet, Kate could not imagine; nor why her innocent
intention of bewildering poor John's being for him, and giving a sharp
tug at his heart-strings by way of diversion, should have changed all
at once into this sudden compulsion of fate upon herself to choose or
to reject. Such nonsense! when nobody was asking her--nobody thinking
of such a thing! She got out of it precipitately, with the haste of
fear, not knowing or caring what nonsense she spoke. "You make me so
uncomfortable when you stand like that," she cried. "Sit down, as Mr
Huntley has done. There are only us three, and why should we make
martyrs of ourselves? and when Mrs Mitford comes back, you can go and
bring her chair under this tree. Mr Huntley, are you going to the ball
at the Castle when the young Earl comes of age?"
"I had not heard anything about it," said Fred. "I don't care for balls
in a general way; but if you are to be there, Miss Crediton----"
"Of course you will go," said Kate; "oh, I understand that. I wish
you gentlemen would now and then say something a little original. Mr
Mitford, I suppose I must not ask if you are going, or you will answer
me the same?"
"No, I don't think there is any chance that I shall go," he said, with
a smile, "not even if you are there."
"That is not original," said Fred, "it is only ringing the changes. But
I suppose you will be going up to the bishop then, Mitford, eh? When
is it? You ought not to speak to him about balls, and tempt him, Miss
Crediton, at this moment of his life."
Kate started a little in spite of herself. "Is it so near as that? Oh,
Mr Mitford, is it true?"
"Quite true," John answered, facing her, with a certain faltering
steadiness which she found it hard to understand; "but I don't think
the temptation of balls, so far as that goes, is likely to do me much
harm."
"And I hope you are all right in other respects, old fellow," said Fred
Huntley, suddenly, in an undertone. "You are not going to do anything
that will make you uncomfortable, I hope. You are not going to make any
sacrifice of--of opinion--of---- I remember the talks we used to have
long ago."
"I am not going to sacrifice my conscience, if that is what you mean,"
said John, shortly, growing very red; "but this is not the moment for
such a discussion."
"I wonder where Mrs Mitford can be for so long," cried Kate, rushing
into the conversation; "it must be some of her poor people. I think,
as the croquet has been a failure, I shall go and see; but in the mean
time, Mr Huntley, tell me what the girls are about, and where they are
going. Are they to pay as many visits this year as they did last? or
are you going to have your house full of people? Papa has asked some
hundreds to Fernwood, I believe. I hate autumn and the shooting, and
all the people that come from town. Why should the poor partridges lose
their lives and we our tempers every year, as soon as September comes?
It is very hard upon us both. Or else you all go off to the grouse, and
then there is not a man left in the place to fill a corner at dinner.
What harm have those poor birds ever done to you?"
"They are very nice to eat," said Fred, "and I suppose if we did not
kill them they'd kill us in time. But, Miss Crediton, you are too
philosophical. May not a man play croquet or shoot partridges without
rendering a reason? One does so many things without any reason at all."
"Well," said Kate, smothering another yawn, "if you will not say
anything that is amusing, or argue, or do anything I tell you, I shall
go and look for Mrs Mitford. I don't think it is quite proper to sit
here by myself and talk to two gentlemen, especially as you let me do
almost all the talking. And it is hot out of doors. I will go in till
tea is ready; but, Mr John, you do not need to trouble yourself. There
is not even a door to open. I shall go in at the window. Pray don't
come," she added, in a lower tone, as he followed her across the lawn;
"go and talk to him."
"I would much rather attend upon you, even though you don't want me,"
said John, with a half-audible sigh.
"But I do want you," said Kate, touched by his tone, "you are always so
good to me; and I can't bear him, with his chatter and talk. Do
keep him away as long as you can--until we call you in to tea."
And then she gave the poor fellow a little nod of friendship, and
a smile which dazzled him. He went away strengthened in his soul
to be more than civil to Fred Huntley--poor Fred, upon whom this
sunshine had not fallen--whom, indeed, she was inclined to avert her
countenance from. He strolled about the garden with that unfortunate
but unconscious being for half an hour, and then took him to see the
church, which was a fine one, wondering in himself all the time when
that summons would come to tea. Huntley seemed abstracted too, and
it came natural to John to think that everybody must be moved as he
himself was, and that it was absence from her which made a
cloud over his visitor. Their conversation strayed to a hundred other
subjects as they strolled gravely up and down. They talked of the
doings in Parliament, of the newspapers, of the county member, of the
nature of the county architecture, of the difference in point of age
between the chancel and the nave of Fanshawe Regis church, which was a
question much discussed in antiquarian circles; but it was not until a
full hour had elapsed that anything was said of Kate. At last,--
"By the by," said Huntley, "what was that accident that happened to
Miss Crediton? One hears different accounts of it all over the country,
and she does not seem to know very well herself."
"It was not much," said John, with rising colour. "Her horse ran away
with her--he was making for the cliff, you know, at Winton, that
overhangs the river--I beg your pardon, but the thought makes me
sick--and I stopped him--that's all."
"But how did you stop him?"
"It does not greatly matter," said John; "I did somehow. I don't know
much more about it than she does. And don't speak of it to her, for
heaven's sake! She does not know what an awful danger she escaped."
"But surely she knows what happened?" said Fred.
"Oh yes--she knows, and she does not know. I tell you I don't know
myself. Don't say anything more about it, please."
"That is all very well, my dear fellow," said Huntley; "but Kate
Crediton is an heiress, and a very nice girl; and if you were to go in
for her, I can tell you it would be a very good thing for you."
This time John grew pale--so pale that the keen observer by his side
was filled with sudden consternation, and could not make it out.
"Suppose, in the mean time, we go in to tea," he said, with a curious
sternness. Not another word was said, for Huntley was too much a man
of the world to repeat an unpalatable piece of advice; but he was
rather relieved, on the whole, when the ceremonial was over, the tea
swallowed, and half an hour of talk in the drawing-room added on to
the talk on the lawn. "I should like to know what she means by
it," Fred said to himself, indignantly, as he rode home to dinner. John
Mitford was a simpleton, an innocent, an ass, if you please; but Kate
knew what was what, and must have some idea where she was drifting. And
what could she mean, did anybody know?
She herself did not know, at least. She was very good to John all that
evening, asking him questions about his Oxford life, and humouring him
in a hundred little ways, of which he himself was but half conscious.
And after dinner it so happened that they were left in the garden
together, for Mrs Mitford had relaxed a little in the sternness of the
chaperone's duties, which were new to her, and began to forget that the
boy and the girl were each other's natural enemies. It was a lovely
night, and Kate lingered and walked round and round the old house till
she was compelled at last to acknowledge herself tired. And John, well
pleased, gave her his arm; and it was only when she had accepted that
support, and had him at a vantage, that she put the question she had
been meditating. The soft air enclosed them round and round, and the
soft darkness, and all the delicate odours and insensible sounds of
night. He could scarcely see her, and yet she was leaning on him with
her face raised and his bent, each toward the other. Then it was, with
just a little pressure of his arm to give emphasis to her question,
that she opened her batteries upon him at one coup.
"Is it really true," she said, with a certain supplication in her
voice, "that you are determined to be a clergyman, Mr John?"
"True!" he said, staggering under it as he received the blow, and in
his confusion not knowing what to say.
"Yes, true. Will you tell me? I should so very much like to know."
And then John's heart stood still for one painful moment. The question
was so easy to ask, and the answer was not so easy. He drew his breath
like a man drowning, before he could muster strength to reply.
CHAPTER VIII.
"Miss Crediton," said John Mitford, drawing a long breath, "you don't
know what a very serious question that is; it has been my burden for
half my life. I have never spoken of it to any one, and you have taken
me a little by surprise. I should like to tell you all about it, but
you--would not care to hear."
"Indeed I should," said Kate, eagerly. "Oh, I do so hope you have
not quite made up your mind. It would be such a sacrifice. Fanshawe
Regis is very nice--but to be buried here all your life, and never to
take part in anything, nor to have any way of rising in the world, or
improving your position! If I were a man, I would rather be anything
than a clergyman. It is like making a ghost of yourself at the
beginning of your life."
"A ghost of myself?" said John.
"Yes--of course it just comes to that; other men will go on and on
while you remain behind," cried Kate. "I could not bear it. That
Fred Huntley, for example--he is reading for the bar, I believe, and he
is clever, and he will be Lord Chancellor, or something, while you are
only Rector of Fanshawe Regis. That is what I could not bear."
John shook his head with a feeling that she did not understand him; and
yet was attracted, not repelled. "That is not my feeling," he said.
"I don't think you would think so either if you looked into it more.
Huntley has more brains than I have; he will always rise higher if he
takes the trouble--but I don't care for that. The thing is--but, Miss
Crediton, it would bore you to listen to such a long story; suppose we
go in to my mother--she knows nothing about my vain thoughts, thank
heaven!"
"Oh no, no," said Kate, clinging still closer to his arm; "tell me
everything--I shall not be bored. That is, if you will--if you don't
mind trusting me."
"Trusting you!" It was curious how much more impressive his voice was,
coming out of the darkness. His awkwardness, his diffidence, everything
that made him look commonplace in the daylight, had disappeared. Kate
felt a little thrill, half of excitement, half of pride. Yes, he would
trust her, though nobody else (he said) in all the world. It was not
John that thus moved her; it was the sense of being the one selected
and chosen--one out of a hundred--one out of the world--which is the
sweetest flattery which can be addressed to man or woman. She looked
up to him, though he could not see her, raising that face which John
already felt was the sweetest in the world. And he bent over her, and
her little hand trembled on his arm, and the darkness wrapped them
round and round, so that they could not see each other's faces--the
very moment and the very circumstances which make it sweet to confide
and to be confided in. It was not yet ten days since he had seen her
first, and she had not as yet shown the least trace of a character
likely to understand his, and yet he was ready to trust her with the
deepest secrets of his heart.
"It is not that," said John. "I am sure you are not the one to bid a
man forsake his duty that he might rise in the world. If I were as sure
about everything I ought to believe as--as my father is, I should go
into the Church joyfully to-morrow."
"Should you?" said Kate, feeling chilled in spite of herself.
"I should; and you would approve me for doing so, I know," he said,
earnestly. "But don't think me worse than I am, Miss Crediton. I am not
a sceptic nor an infidel, that you should draw away from me. Yes, you
did, ever so little--but if it had only been a hair-breadth, I should
have felt it. It is not so much that I doubt--but I can't feel sure of
things. My father is sure of everything; that is the superiority of the
older generations. They knew what they believed, and so they were ready
to go to the stake for it----"
"Or send other people to the stake," said Kate. The conversation was
getting so dreadfully serious that she turned it where she could to the
side of laughter; but it was not possible in this case.
"Yes, I know," he said, softly, altogether ignoring her lighter tone;
"the one thing implies the other. I acknowledge it does; we are such
confused creatures. But as for me, I could neither die for my belief
nor make any one else die. I don't feel sure. I say to myself, how do
you know he is wrong and you are right? How do I know? But you see my
father knows; and most of the old people in the village are just as
certain as he. Is it because we are young, I wonder?" said John.
"Oh, don't speak like that--pray don't. Why should it be because we are
young?"
"That I can't tell," said John, in the darkness. "It might be out of
opposition, perhaps, because they are so sure--so sure--cruelly sure, I
often think. But when a man has to teach others, I suppose that is how
he ought to be; and my very soul shrinks, Miss Crediton----"
"Yes?"
"You will not say anything to my mother? She has brought me up for it,
and set her heart on it, and I would not fail her for the world."
"But, Mr John," said Kate, "I don't understand; if you are not a--I
mean, if you don't believe--the Bible--should you be a clergyman for
any other reason? Indeed I don't understand."
"No," he said, vehemently; "you are right and I am wrong. I ought not,
I know. But then I am not sure that I don't believe. I think I do. I
believe men must be taught to serve God. I believe that He comforts
them in their distress. You are too true, too straightforward, too
innocent to know. I believe and I don't believe. But the thing is, how
can I teach, how can I pronounce with authority, not being sure?--that
is what stops me."
Kate stopped too, being perplexed. "I don't like the thought of your
being a clergyman," she said, with what would have been, could he have
seen it, a pleading look up into his face.
And then a long sigh came from John's breast. She heard that, but she
did not know that he shook his head as well; and in her ignorance she
went on.
"It would be so much better for you to do anything else. Of course, if
you had had a very strong disposition for it--but when you have not.
And you would do so very much better for yourself. If you were to give
it up----"
"Give it up!" cried John; "the only work that is worth doing on earth!"
"But, good heavens! Mr Mitford, what do you mean? for I don't
understand you. If it is the only work worth doing on earth, why do you
persuade people you don't mean to do it? I don't understand."
"Where is there any other work worth doing?" said John. "I don't want
to be a soldier, which might mean something. Could I be a doctor,
pretending to know how to cure people of their illnesses--or a lawyer,
taking any side he is paid for? No, that is the only work worth doing:
to devote one's whole life to the service of men--to save them, mend
them, bring them from the devil to God. Where is there any such work?
And yet I pause here on the threshold, all for a defect of nature. I
know you are despising me in your heart."
"No, no," said Kate, quite bewildered. She did not despise him; on the
contrary, it just gleamed across her mind that here was something she
had no comprehension of--something she had never met with before. "Mr
John, it is you who will think me very stupid. But I don't understand
you," she said, with a certain humility. The answer he made was
involuntary. He had no right to do it on such short acquaintance--a
mere stranger, you might say. He pressed to his side with unconscious
tenderness the hand that rested on his arm.
"You don't understand such pitiful weakness," he said. "You would see
what was right and do it, without lingering and hesitating. I know
you would. Don't be angry with me. We two are nearer each other than
anybody else can be--are not we? We were very near for one moment, like
one life; and we might have died so--together. That should make us very
close--very close--friends."
"Oh, Mr John!"
"Don't cry. I should not have reminded you," he said, with sudden
compunction. "I am so selfish; but you said you felt as if--I belonged
to you. So I do--to be your servant--your--anything you please. And
that is why I tell you all this weakness of mine, because it was just
a chance that we did not die in a moment--together. Oh, hush, hush! I
said it to rouse myself, and because it was so sweet. I forgot it must
be terrible to you."
"I--I understand," said Kate, with a sob. "It makes us like--brother
and sister. But I never can do anything like that for you. I can only
help you with--a little sympathy; but you shall always have that--as if
you were--my brother. Oh, never doubt it. I am glad you have told me--I
shall know you better now."
"And here I have gone and made her cry like a selfish beast," said
John. "Just one more walk round--and lean heavier on me: and I will not
say another word to vex you--not one."
"I am not vexed," said Kate, with a soft little smile among her tears,
which somehow diffused itself into the darkness, one could not tell
how. He felt it warm him and brighten him, though he could not see it;
and thus they made one silent round, pausing for a moment where the
lilies stood up in that tall pillar, glimmering through the night and
breathing out sweetness. John, whose heart was full of all unspeakable
things, came to a moment's pause before them, though he was faithful
to his promise, and did not speak. Some angel seemed to be by, saying
Ave, as in that scene which the old painters always adorn with
the stately flower of Mary. John believed all the poets had said of
women at that moment, in the sweetness of the summer dark. Hail, woman,
full of grace! The whole air was full of angelic salutation. But it was
he, the man, who had the privilege of supporting her, of protecting
her, of saving her in danger. Thus the young man raved, with his heart
full. And Kate in the silence, leaning on his arm, dried her tears, and
trembled with a strange mixture of courage and perplexity and emotion.
And then she wondered what Mrs Mitford would say.
Mrs Mitford said nothing when the two came in by the open window, with
eyes dazzled by the sudden entrance into the light. Kate's eyes were
more dazzling than the lamp, if anybody had looked at them. The tears
were dry, but they had left a humid radiance behind, and the fresh
night air had ruffled the gold in her hair, and heightened the colour
on her cheeks, which betrayed the commotion within. Mrs Mitford made no
special remark, except that she feared the tea was cold, and that she
had just been about to ring to have it taken away. "You must have tired
her wandering so long about the garden. You should not be thoughtless,
John," said his mother; "and it is almost time for prayers."
"It was my fault," said Kate; "it was so pleasant out of doors, and
quiet, and sweet. I am sorry we have kept you waiting. I did not know
it was so late."
"Oh, my dear, I do not mind," said Mrs Mitford, smothering a half-sigh;
for, to be sure, she had been alone all the time while they were
wandering among the lilies; and she was not used to it--yet. "But Dr
Mitford is very particular about the hour for prayers, and you must
make haste, like a good child, with your tea. I never like to put him
out."
"Oh, not for the world!" cried Kate; and she swallowed the cold tea
very hurriedly, and went for Dr Mitford's books, and arranged them on
the table with her own hands; and then she came softly behind John's
mother, and gave her a kiss, as light as if a rose-leaf had blown
against her cheek. She did not offer any explanation of this sudden
caress, but seated herself close by Mrs Mitford, and clasped her hands
in her lap like a young lady in a picture of family devotion; and then
Dr Mitford's boots were heard to creak along the long passage which led
from his study, and the bell was rung for prayers.
This conversation gave Kate a great deal to think about when she went
up-stairs. John's appeal to her had gone honestly to her heart. She
was touched by it in quite a different way from what she would have
been had he been making love. "Yes, indeed, we do belong to each
other--he saved my life," she said to herself; "we ought always to be
like--brother--and sister." When she said it, she felt in her heart
of hearts that this did not quite state the case; but let it be, to
save trouble. And then she tried to reflect upon the confession he
had made to her. But that was more difficult. Kate was far better
acquainted with ordinary life than John. She would have behaved like
an accomplished woman of the world in an emergency which would have
turned him at once into a heavy student or awkward country lad; but
in other matters she was a baby beside him. She had never thought at
all on the subjects which had occupied his mind for years. And she was
thunder-struck by his hesitation. Could it be that people out of books
really thought and felt so? Could it be? She was so perplexed that she
could not draw herself out of the maze. She reflected with all her
might upon what she ought to do and say to him; but could not by any
means master his difficulty. He must either decide to be a clergyman or
not to be a clergyman--that was the distinct issue; and if he could,
by any sort of pressure put upon him, be made to give up the notion,
that would be so much the better. Going into the Church because he
had been brought up to it, and because his friends desired it, was a
motive perfectly comprehensible to Kate. But then had not she, whatever
might come of it, stolen into his confidence closer than any of his
friends? and it was his own life he had to decide upon; and, in the
course of nature, he must after a while detach himself from his father
and mother, and live according to his own judgment, not by theirs.
If she could move him (being, as he said, so close to him) to choose
a manner of life which would be far better for him than the Church,
would not that be exercising her influence in the most satisfactory
way? As for the deeper question, it puzzled her so much, that after one
or two efforts she gave it up. The progress of advanced opinions has
been sufficiently great to render it impossible even for a fashionable
young lady not to be aware of the existence of "doubts;" but what did
he mean by turning round upon her in that incomprehensible way, and
talking of "the only work worth doing," just after he had taken refuge
in that sanctuary of uncertainty which every man, if he likes, has a
right to shelter himself in? To have doubts was comprehensible, too;
but to have doubts and yet to think a clergyman's work the only work
worth doing! Kate's only refuge was to allow to herself that he was
a strange, a very strange fellow; was he a little--cracked?--was he
trying to bewilder her? "Anyhow, he is nice," Kate said to herself; and
that covered a multitude of sins.
Meanwhile John, poor fellow, went out after they had all gone
up-stairs, and had a long walk by himself in the night, to tone himself
down a little from the exaltation of the moment in which he had told
her that he and she had almost died together. There was the strangest
subtle sweetness to himself in the thought. To have actually died with
her, and for her, seemed to him, in his foolishness, as if it would
have been so sweet. And then he felt that he had opened his heart to
her, and that she knew all his thoughts. He had told them to her in all
their inconsistency, in all their confusion, and she had understood.
So he thought. He went out in the fervour of his youth through the
darkling paths, and brushed along the hedges, all crisp with dew, and
said to himself that henceforth one creature at least in the world
knew what he meant. His feelings were such as have not been rare in
England for half a century back. He had been trained, as it were, in
the bosom of the Church, and natural filial reverence, and use and
wont, had blinded him to the very commonplace character of its labours
as fulfilled by his father. His father was--his father; a privileged
being, whose actions had not yet come within the range of things to be
discussed. And the young man's mind was full of the vague enthusiasm
and exaltation which belong to his age. Ideally, was not the work of a
Christian priest the only work in the world? A life devoted to the help
and salvation of one's fellow-creatures for here and for hereafter--no
enterprise could be so noble, none so important. And must he relinquish
that, because he felt it difficult to pronounce with authority,
"without doubt he shall perish everlastingly"? Must he give up the only
purely disinterested labour which man can perform for man--the art
of winning souls, of ameliorating the earth, of cleansing its hidden
corners, and brightening its melancholy face? No, he could not give
it up; and yet, on the other hand, how could he utter certain words,
how make certain confessions, how take up that for his faith which was
not his faith? John's heart had been wrung in many a melancholy hour
of musing with this struggle, which was so very different from Kate's
conception of his difficulties. But now there stole into the conflict
a certain sweetness--it was, that he was understood. Some one stood
by him now, silently backing him, silently following him up,--perhaps
with a shy hand on his arm; perhaps--who could tell?--with a shy hand
in his, ere long. It did not give him any help in resolving his grand
problem, but it was astonishing how it sweetened it. He walked on and
on, not knowing how far he went, with a strange sense that life was
changed--that he was another man. It seemed as if new light must come
to him after this sudden enhancement of life and vigour. Was it true
that there were two now to struggle instead of one? John was not far
enough gone to put such a question definitely in words to himself,
but it lingered about the avenues of his mind, and sweet whispers of
response seemed to breathe over him. Two, and not one! and he was
understood, and his difficulties appreciated; and surely now the
guiding light at last must come.
His mother heard him come in, as she lay awake thinking of him, and
wondered why he should go out so late, and whether he had shut the
door, and thanked heaven his father was fast asleep, and did not hear
him; for Dr Mitford would have become alarmed had he heard of such
nocturnal walks--first, for John's morals, lest he should have found
some unlawful attraction in the village; and, second, for the plate,
if the house was known to be deprived of one of its defenders. His
anxious mother, though she had thought of little else since his birth
except John's ways and thoughts, had yet no inkling of anything deeper
that might be in his mind. That he might love Kate, and that Kate might
play with him as a cat plays with a mouse--encourage him for her own
amusement while she stayed at Fanshawe Regis, and throw him off as
soon as she left--that was Mrs Mitford's only fear respecting him. It
was so painful that it kept her from sleeping. She could not bear to
think of any one so wounding, so misappreciating, her boy. If she but
knew him as I know him, she would go down on her knees and thank God
for such a man's love, she said to herself in the darkness, drying her
soft eyes. But how was his mother--a witness whose impartiality nobody
would believe in--to persuade the girl of this? And Mrs Mitford was a
true woman, and ranked a "disappointment" at a very high rate among
the afflictions of men. And it was very, very grievous to her to think
of this little coquette trifling with her son, and giving the poor
boy a heartbreak. She was nearly tempted half-a-dozen times to get up
and throw her dressing-gown about her, and make her way through the
slumbering house, and through the ghostly moonlight which fell broadly
in from the staircase-window upon the corridor, to Kate's room, to
rouse her out of her sleep, and shake her, and say, "Oh you careless,
foolish, naughty little Kate! You will never get the chance of such
another, if you break my boy's heart." It would have been very, very
foolish of her had she done so; and yet that was the impulse in her
mind. But it never occurred to Mrs Mitford that when he took that long,
silent, dreary walk, he might be thinking of something else of even
more importance than Kate's acceptance or refusal. She had watched
him all his life, day by day and hour by hour, and yet she had never
realised such a possibility. So she lay thinking of him, and wondering
when he would come back, and heard afar off the first faint touch of
his foot on the path, and felt her heart beat with satisfaction, and
hoped he would lock the door; but never dreamed that his long wandering
out in the dark could have any motive or object except the first
love which filled his heart with restlessness, and all a young man's
passionate fears and hopes. Thank heaven! his father slept always as
sound as a top, and could not hear.
Poor Mrs Mitford! how bitter it would have been to her could she have
realised that Kate was lying awake also, and heard him come in, and
knew what he was thinking of better than his mother did! "Poor boy!"
Kate murmured to herself, between asleep and awake, as she heard his
step; "I must speak to him seriously to-morrow." There was a
certain self-importance in the thought; for it is pleasant to be the
depositary of such confidences, and to know you have been chosen out
of all the world to have the secret of a life confided to you. The
difference was that Kate, after this little speech to herself, fell
very fast asleep, and remembered very little about it when she woke in
the morning. But Mrs Mitford's mind was so full that she could neither
give up the subject nor go to sleep. As for the Doctor, good man, he
heard nothing and thought of nothing, and had never awakened to the
fact that John was likely to bring any disturbance whatever into his
life. Why should anything happen to him more than to other people?
Dr Mitford would have said; and even the love-story would not have
excited him. Thus the son of the house stole in, in the darkness, with
his candle in his hand, through the shut-up silent dwelling, passing
softly by his mother's door not to wake her, with the fresh air still
blowing in his face, and the whirl of feeling within, uncalmed even by
fatigue and the exertion he had been making. And the two women waked
and listened, opening their eyes in the dark that they might hear the
better:--a very, very usual domestic scene; but the men who are thus
watched and listened for are seldom such innocent men as John.
CHAPTER IX.
Some time passed after this eventful evening before Kate had any
opportunity of making the assault upon John's principles which she
proposed to herself. There were some days of tranquil peaceful country
life, spent in doing nothing particular--in little walks taken under
the mother's eye--in an expedition to St Biddulph's, the whole little
party together, in which, though Dr Mitford took the office of cicerone
for Kate's benefit, there was more of John than of his father. This
kind of intercourse which threw them continually together, yet never
left them alone to undergo the temptation of saying too much, promoted
the intimacy of the two young people in the most wonderful way. They
were each other's natural companions, each other's most lively
sympathisers. The father and the mother stood on a different altitude,
were looked up to, respected perhaps, perhaps softly smiled at in the
expression of their antiquated opinions; but the young man and the
young woman were on the same level, and understood each other. As for
poor John, he gave himself up absolutely to the spell. He had never
been so long in the society of any young woman before; his imagination
had not been frittered away by any preludes of fancy. He fell in love
all at once, with all his heart and strength and mind. It was his first
great emotion, and it took him not at the callow age, but when his mind
(he thought) was matured, and his being had reached its full strength.
He was in reality four-and-twenty, but he had felt fifty in the gravity
of his thoughts; and, with all the force of his serious nature, he
plunged into the extraordinary new life which opened like a garden of
Paradise before him. It was all a blaze of light and splendour to his
eyes. The world he had thought a sombre place enough before, full of
painful demands upon his patience, his powers of self-renunciation,
and capacity of self-control. But now all at once it had changed to
Eden. And Kate, of whom he knew so little, was the cause.
She, too, was falling under this natural fascination. She was very
much interested in him, she said to herself. It was so sad to see such
a man, so full of talent and capability, immolate himself like this.
Kate felt as if she would have done a great deal to save him. She
represented to herself that, if he had felt a special vocation for the
Church, she would have passed on her way and said nothing, as became a
recent acquaintance; but when he was not happy! Was it not her duty, in
gratitude to her preserver, to interfere according to her ability, and
deliver him from temptation? Yes! she concluded it was her duty with
a certain enthusiasm; and even, if that was necessary, that she would
be willing to do something to save him. She would make an exertion in
his behalf, if there was anything she could do. She did not, even to
herself explain what was the anything she could do to influence John
one way or another. Such details it is perhaps better to leave in
darkness. But she felt herself ready to exert herself in her turn--to
make an effort--what, indeed, if it were a sacrifice?--to preserve him
as he had preserved her.
It was only on what was to be the day before her departure that Kate
found the necessary opportunity. About a mile from Fanshawe Regis was a
river which had been John's joy all his life; and on Kate's last day,
he was to be permitted the delight of introducing her to its pleasures.
Mrs Mitford was to have accompanied them, but she had slackened much
in her ferocity of chaperonage, and had grown used to Kate, and not so
much alarmed on her account. And it was a special day at the schools,
and her work was more than usual. "My dear, if you wish it, of course I
will go with you," she said to her young guest; "and you must not think
me unkind to hesitate--but you are used to him now, and you will be
quite safe with John. You don't mind going with John?"
"Oh, I don't mind it at all," said Kate, with a little blush, which
would have excited John's mother wonderfully two days before. But
custom is a great power, and she had got used to Kate. So Mrs Mitford
went to her parish work, and the two young people went out on their
expedition. They had nearly a mile to walk across fields, and then
through the grateful shade of a little wood. It was a pretty road, and
from the moment they entered the wood, the common world disappeared
from about the pair. They walked like a pair in romance, often silent,
sometimes with a touch of soft embarrassment, in that silent world,
full of the flutter of leaves and the flitting of birds, and the
notes of, here and there, an inquiring thrush or dramatic blackbird.
Boughs would crackle and swing suddenly about them, as if some fairy
had swung herself within the leafy cover: unseen creatures--rabbits
or squirrels--would dart away under the brushwood. Arrows of sunshine
came down upon the brown underground. The leaves waved green above
and black in shadow, strewing the chequered path. They walked in an
atmosphere of their own, in dreamland, fairyland, by the shores of old
romance; the young man bending his head in that attitude of worship,
which is the attitude of protection too, towards the lower, slighter,
weaker creature, who raised her eyes to his with soft supremacy. It was
hers to command and his to obey. She had no more doubt of the loyalty
of her vassal than he had of her sweet superiority to every other
created thing. And thus they went through the wood to the river,--two
undeveloped lives approaching the critical point of their existence,
and going up to it in a dream of happiness, without shadow or fear.
The river ran through the wood for about a mile; but as it is a law
of English nature that no stream shall have the charm of woodland on
both sides at once, the northern bank was a bit of meadowland, round
which ran, at some distance, a belt of trees. Kate recovered a little
from the spell of silence as she took into her hands the cords of the
rudder, and looked on at her companion's struggle against the current.
"It must be hard work," she said. "How is it you are so fond of taking
trouble, you men? They say it ruins your health rowing in all those
boat-races and things--all for the pleasure of beating the other
colleges or the other university; and you kill yourselves for that! I
should like to do it for something better worth, if it were me."
"But if you don't get the habit of the struggle, you will want training
when you try for what is better worth," said John. "How one talks! I
say you, as if by any chance you could want to struggle for
anything. Pardon the profanity--I did not mean that."
"Why shouldn't I want to struggle?" said Kate, opening her eyes very
wide. "I do, sometimes--that is, I don't like to be beaten; nobody
does, I suppose. But hard work must be a great bore. I sit and look at
my maid sometimes, and think, after all, how much superior she is to
me. There she sits, stitching, stitching the whole day through, and it
does not seem to do her any harm--whereas it would kill one of us. And
then I order this superior being about--me, the most useless wretch!
and she gets up from her work to do a hundred things for me which I
could quite well do for myself. Life is very odd," said the young
moralist, pulling the wrong string, and sending the boat high and dry
upon a most visible bank of weeds and gravel. "Oh, Mr John, I am sure I
beg your pardon! What have I done?"
"Nothing of the least importance," said John; and while Kate sat
dismayed and wondering, he had plunged into the sparkling shallow
stream, and pushed the fairy vessel off into its necessary depth of
water. "Only pardon me for jumping in in this wild way and sprinkling
your dress," he said, as he took his seat and his oars again. Kate was
silent for the moment. She gazed at him with her pretty eyes, and her
lips apart, wondering at the water-god; from which it will be clear to
the reader that Kate Crediton was unused to river navigation, and the
ways of boating men.
"But you will catch your death of cold, and what will your mother
say?" said Kate; and this danger filled her with such vivid feminine
apprehensions, that it was some time before she could be consoled.
And then the talk ran on about a multitude of things--about nothing
in particular--while the one interlocutor steered wildly into all the
difficulties possible, and the other toiled steadily against the
current. It was a rapid, vehement little river, more like a Scotch or
Welsh stream than a placid English one; and sometimes there were snags
to be avoided, and sometimes shallows to be run upon, so that the
voyage was not without excitement, with such a pilot at the helm.
But when John turned his little vessel, and it began to float down
stream, the dreamy silence of the woodland walk began to steal over the
two once more. "Ah! now the work is over," Kate said, with a little
sigh; "yes, it is very nice to float--but then one feels as if one's
own will had nothing to do with it. I begin to understand why the other
is the best."
"I suppose they are both best," said John--which was not a very
profound observation; and yet he sighed too. "And then it is so much
easier in everything to go with the stream, and to do what you are
expected to do."
"But is it right?" said Kate, with solemnity. "Ah! now I know what
you are thinking about. I have so wanted to speak to you ever since
that night. Don't you think that doing what you are expected to
do would be wrong? I have thought so much about it----"
"Have you?" said John; and a delicious tear came to the foolish
fellow's eye. "It was too good of you to think of me at all."
"Of course I could not help thinking of you," said Kate, "after what
you said. Perhaps you will not think my advice of much value; but I
don't think--I don't really think you ought to do it. I feel that it
would be wrong."
"There is no one in the world whose advice would be so much to me,"
cried foolish John. "My sight is clouded by--by self-interest, and
habit, and a thousand things. I have never opened my heart to any one
but you--and how I presumed to trouble you with it I can't tell," he
went on, gazing at her with fond eyes, which Kate found it difficult to
meet.
"Oh, that is natural enough. Don't you remember what you said?" she
answered, softly; "what you did for me--and that moment when you said
we might have died;--we should be like--brother and sister--all our
lives."
"Not that," said John, with a little start; "but---- Yes, I hold by
my claim. I wish I had done something to deserve it, though. If I had
known it was you----"
"How could you possibly know it was me when you did not know there
was such a person as me in the world?" said Kate. "Don't talk such
nonsense, please."
"No; was it possible that there was once a time when I did not know
that there was you in the world? What a cold world it must have
been!--how sombre and miserable!" cried the enthusiast. "I can't
realise it now."
"Oh, please!--what nonsense you do talk, to be sure!" cried Kate; and
then she gave her pretty head a little shake to dissipate the blush
and the faint mist of some emotion that had been stealing over her
eyes, and took up the interrupted strain. "Now that you do know there
is a me, you must pay attention to me. I have thought over it a great
deal. You must not do it--indeed you must not. A man who is not quite
certain, how can he teach others? It would be like me steering--now
there! Oh, I am sure, I beg your pardon. Who was to know that nasty
bank would turn up again?'
"Never mind," said John, when he had repeated the same little
performance which had signalised their upward course; "that is
nothing--except that it interrupted what you were saying. Tell me again
what you have thought."
"But you never mean to be guided by me all the same," said Kate,
incautiously, though she must have foreseen, if she had taken a moment
to think, that such a remark would carry her subject too far.
"Ah! how can you say so--how can you think so?" cried John, crossing
his oars across the boat, and leaning over them, with his eyes fixed
upon her, "when you must know I am guided by your every look. Don't be
angry with me. It is so hard to look at you and not say all that is
in my heart. If you would let me think that I might--identify myself
altogether--I mean, do only what pleased you--I mean, think of you as
caring a little----"
"I care a great deal," said Kate, with sudden temerity, taking the
words out of his mouth, "or why should I take the trouble to say so
much about it? I consider that we are--brother and sister; and that
gives me a sort of right to speak. Stay till I have done, Mr John.
Don't you think you could be of more use in the world, if you were in
the world and not out of it? Now think! Looking at it in your way, no
doubt, it is very fine to be a clergyman; but you can only talk to
people and persuade them, you know, and don't have it in your power
to do very much for them. Now look at a rich man like papa. He does
not give his mind to that, you know. I am very sorry, but neither he
nor I have had anybody to put it in our heads what we ought to do--but
still he does some good in his way. If you were as rich as he is, how
much you could do! You would be a good angel to the poor people. You
could set right half of those dreadful things that Mrs Mitford tells us
of, even in the village. You could give the lads work, and keep them
steady. You could build them proper cottages, and have them taught
what they ought to know. Don't shake your head. I know you would be the
people's good angel, if you were as rich as papa."
Poor John's countenance had changed many times during this address.
His intent gaze fell from her, and returned and fell again. A shade
came over his face--he shook his head, not in contradiction of what she
said so much as in despondency; and when he spoke, his voice had taken
a chill, as it were, and lost all the musical thrill of imagination
and passion that was in it. "Miss Crediton," he said, mournfully, "you
remind me of what I had forgotten--the great gulf there is between you
and me. I had forgotten it, like an ass. I had been thinking of you
not as a rich man's daughter, but as---- And I, a poor aimless fool,
not able to make up my mind as to how I am to provide for my own life!
Forgive me--you have brought me to myself."
"Now I should like to know what that has to do with it," cried Kate,
with a little air of exasperation--exasperation more apparent than
real. "I tell you I want you to be rich like papa, and you answer me
that I remind you I am a rich man's daughter! Well, what of that? I
want you to be a rich man too. I can't help whose daughter I am. I did
not choose my own papa--though I like him better than any other all the
same. But I want you to be rich too, you understand; for many
reasons."
"For what reasons?" said John, lighting up again. She had drooped
her head a little when she said these last words. A bright blush had
flushed all over her. Could it be that she meant---- John was not vain,
and yet the inference was so natural; he sat gazing at her for one long
minute in a suggestive tremulous silence, and then he went faltering,
blundering on. "I would be anything for your sake--that you
know. I would be content to labour for you from morning to night. I
would be a ploughman for your sake. To be a rich man is not so easy;
but if you were to tell me to do it--for you--I would work my fingers
to the bone; I would die, but I should do it--for you. Am I to be rich
for you?"
"Oh, fancy! here we are already," cried Kate, in a little tremor,
feeling that she had gone too far, and he had gone too far, and
thinking with a little panic, half of horror, half of pleasure, of the
walk that remained to be taken through the enchanted wood. "How fast
the stream has carried us down! and yet I don't suppose it can have
been very fast either, for the shadows are lengthening. We must make
haste and get home."
"But you have not answered me," he said, still leaning across his oars
with a look which she could not face.
"Oh, never mind just now," she cried; "let us land, please, and not
drift farther down. You are paying no attention to where the boat
is going. There! I knew an accident would happen," cried Kate, with
half-mischievous triumph, running the boat into the bank. She thought
nothing now of his feet getting wet, as he stepped into the water
again to bring it to the side that she might land. She even sprang
out and ran on, telling him to follow her, while he had to wait to
secure the boat, and warn the people at the forester's cottage that
he had left it. Kate ran on into the wood, up the broad road gradually
narrowing among the trees, where still the sunshine penetrated like
arrows of gold, and the leaves danced double, leaf and shadow, and the
birds carried on their ceaseless interluding, and the living creatures
stirred. She ran on mischievously, with a little laugh at her companion
left behind. But that mood did not long balance the influence of the
place. Her steps slackened--her heart began to beat. All at once she
twined her arms about a birch to support herself, and, leaning her head
against it, cried a little in her confusion and excitement. "Oh, what
have I done? what shall I say to him?" Kate said to herself. Was she
in love with John that she had brought him to this declaration of his
sentiments? She did not know--she did not think she was--and yet she
had done it with her eyes open. And in a few minutes he would be by
her side insisting on an answer. "And what shall I say to him?" within
herself cried Kate.
But when John came up breathless, she was going along the road very
demurely, without any signs of emotion, and glanced at him with the
same look of friendly sovereignty, though her heart was quailing within
her. He joined her, breathless with haste and excitement, and for a
moment neither spoke. Then it was Kate who, in desperation, resumed the
talk.
"You must tell me what you think another time," she said, with an air
of royal calm. "Perhaps what I have said has not been very wise; but
I meant it for good. I meant, you know, that the man of action can
do most. I meant---- But, please, let us get on quickly, for I am so
afraid we shall be too late for dinner. Your father does not like to
wait. And you can tell me what you think another time."
"What I think has very little to do with it," said John. "It
should be what you think--what you ordain. For you I will do
anything--everything. Good heavens, what a nuisance!" cried the young
man.
At this exclamation Kate looked up, and saw,--was it Isaac's
substitute--the ram caught in the thicket?--Fred Huntley riding
quietly towards them, coming down under the trees, like somebody in
romance. "It is Mr Huntley," said Kate, with a mental thanksgiving
which she dared not have put into words. "It is like an old ballad.
Here is the knight on the white horse appearing under the trees just
when he is wanted--that is, just when you were beginning to tire of my
society; and here am I, the errant damosel---- What a nice picture it
would make if he were only handsome, which he is not! But all the same,
his horse is white."
"And I suppose I am the magician who is to be discomfited and put to
flight," said John, with a grim attempt at a smile.
And here Kate's best qualities made her cruel. "You are--whatever
you please," she said, turning upon him with the brightest sudden
smile. She could not bear, poor fellow, that his feelings should be
hurt, when she felt herself so relieved and easy in mind; and John,
out of his despondency, went up to dazzling heights of confidence and
hope. Fred, riding up, saw the smile, and said to himself, "What!
gone so far already?" with a curious sensation of pique. And yet he
had no occasion to be piqued. He had never set up any pretensions to
Kate's favour. He had foreseen how it would be when he last saw them
together. It was something too ridiculous to feel as if he cared. Of
course he did not care. But still there was a little pique in his rapid
reflection as he came up to them. And they were all three a little
embarrassed, which, on the whole, seemed uncalled for, considering the
perfectly innocent and ordinary circumstances, which the boating-party
immediately began with volubility to explain.
"We have been on the river," said Kate. "Mr Mitford so kindly offered
to take me before I went away. And we hoped to have Mrs Mitford with
us; but at the last moment she could not come."
I daresay not, indeed, Fred Huntley said in his heart; but he only
looked politely indifferent, and made a little bow.
"Perhaps it was better she did not, for the boat is very small," said
John, carrying on the explanation. Was it an apology they were making
for themselves? And so all at once, notwithstanding Kate's romance
about the knight on the white horse, all the enchantment disappeared
from the fairy wood. Birds and rabbits and squirrels, creatures of
natural history, pursued their common occupations about, without any
fairy suggestions. It was only the afternoon sun that slanted among the
trees, showing it was growing late, and not showers of golden arrows.
The wood became as commonplace as a railroad, and Kate Crediton related
to Fred Huntley how she was going home, and what was to happen, and how
she hoped to meet his sisters at the Camelford ball.
Thus the crisis which John thought was to decide everything for him
passed off in bathos and commonplace. He walked on beside the other
two, who did all the talking, eating his heart. Had she been playing
with him, making a joke of his sudden passion? But then she would give
him a glance from time to time which spoke otherwise. "There is still
an evening and a morning," John said to himself; and he stood like a
churl at the Rectory gate, and suffered Huntley to ride on without the
slightest hint of a possibility that he should stay to dinner. Such
inhospitable behaviour was not common at Fanshawe Regis. But there are
moments in which politeness, kindness, neighbourly charities, must all
give way before a more potent feeling, and John Mitford had arrived
at one of these. And his heart was beating, his head throbbing, all
his pulses going at the highest speed and out of tune--or, at least,
that was his sensation. Kate disappeared while he stood at the gate,
shutting it carefully upon Fred, and heaven knows what frightful
interval might be before him ere he could resume the interrupted
conversation, and demand the answer to which surely he had a right!
John's mind was in such a whirl of confusion that he could not realise
what he was about to do. If he could have thought it over calmly, and
asked himself what right he had to woo a rich man's daughter, or even
to dream of bringing her to his level, probably poor John would not
only have stopped short, but he might have had resolution enough to
turn back and leave his father's door, and put himself out of the
reach of temptation till she was safe in her own father's keeping.
He had strength enough and resolution enough to have made such a
sacrifice, had there been any time to think; but sudden passion had
swept him up like a whirlwind, and conquered all his faculties. He
wanted to have an answer; an answer--nothing more. He wanted to know
what she meant--why it was that she was so eager with him to bring his
doubtfulness to a conclusion. If he took her advice, what would follow?
There was a singing in his ears, and a buzzing in his brain. He could
not think, nor pause to consider which was right. There was but one
thing to do--to get his answer from her; to know what she meant. And
then the Deluge or Paradise--one thing or the other--would come after
that, but were it Paradise, or were it the Flood, John's anchors were
pulled up, and he had left the port. All his old prospects and hopes
and intentions had vanished. He could no more go back to the position
in which he had stood when he first opened his heart to Kate than he
could fly. Fanshawe Regis, and his parents' hopes, and the old placid
existence to which he had been trained, all melted away into thin air.
He was standing on the threshold of a new world, with an unknown wind
blowing in his face, and an unknown career before him. If it might
be that she was about to put her little hand in his, and go with him
across the wilderness! But, anyhow, it was a wilderness that had to be
traversed; not those quiet waters and green pastures which had been
destined for him at home.
"How late you are, John!" his mother said, meeting him on the stair.
She was coming down dressed for dinner, with just a little cloud over
the brightness of her eyes. "You must have stayed a long time on the
river. Was that Kate that has just gone up-stairs?"
"Miss Crediton went on before me. I had to stop and speak to Huntley at
the gate."
"You should have asked him to stay dinner," said Mrs Mitford. "My dear,
I am sure you have a headache. You should not have rowed so far, under
that blazing sun. But make haste now. Your papa cannot bear to be kept
waiting. I will tell Jervis to give you five minutes. And, oh, make
haste, my dear boy!"
"Of course I shall make haste," said John, striding past--as if ten
minutes more or less could matter to anybody under the sun!
"It is for your papa, John," said Mrs Mitford, half apologetic, half
reproachful; and she went down to the drawing-room and surreptitiously
moved the fingers of the clock to gain a little time for her boy.
"Jervis, you need not be in such a hurry--there are still ten minutes,"
she said, arresting the man-of-all-work who was called the butler at
Fanshawe, as he put his hand on the dinner-bell to ring it; and she
was having a little discussion with him over their respective watches,
when the Doctor approached in his fresh tie. "The drawing-room clock
is never wrong," said the deceitful woman. And no doubt that was why
the trout was spoiled and the soup so cold. For Kate did not hurry
with her toilette, whatever John might do; and being a little agitated
and excited, her hair took one of those perverse fits peculiar to
ladies' hair, and would not permit itself to be put up properly. Kate,
too, was in a wonderful commotion of mind, as well as her lover. She
was tingling all over with her adventure, and the hair-breadth escape
she had made. But had she escaped? There was a long evening still
before her, and it was premature to believe that the danger was over.
When Kate went down-stairs, she had more than one reason for being so
very uncomfortable. Dr Mitford was waiting for his dinner, and John
was waiting for his answer; she could not tell what might happen to
her before the evening was over, and she could scarcely speak with
composure because of the frightened irregular beating of her heart.
CHAPTER X.
Dinner falling in a time of excitement like that which I have just
described, with its suggestions of perfect calm and regularity, the
unbroken routine of life, has a very curious effect upon agitated
minds. John Mitford felt as if some catastrophe must have happened
to him as he sat alone at his side of the table, and looked across
at Kate, who was a little troubled too, and reflected how long a
time he must sit there eating and drinking, or pretending to eat and
drink; obliged to keep at that distance from her--to address common
conversation to her--to describe the boating, and the wood, and all
that had happened, as if it had been the most ordinary expedition in
the world. Kate was very kind to him in this respect, though perhaps
he was too far gone to think it kind. She took upon herself the weight
of the conversation. She told Mrs Mitford quite fluently all about the
boat and her bad steering, and all the accidents that had happened,
and how John had jumped into the water. "I know you will never forgive
me if he has caught cold," Kate said, glibly, with even a mischievous
look in her eye; "but I must tell. And I do hope you changed your
stockings," she said, leaning across the table to him with a smile.
It was a mocking smile, full of mischief, and yet there was in it a
certain softened look. It was then that poor John felt as if some
explosion must take place, as he sat and restrained himself, and tried
to look like a man interested in his dinner. Nobody else took any
notice of his agitation, and probably even his mother did not perceive
it; but Jervis the butler did, as he stood by his side, and helped Mr
John to potatoes. He could not dissimulate the shaking of his hand.
"My dear, I should never blame you," said Mrs Mitford, with a
little tremor in her voice; "he is always so very rash. Of course you
changed, John?"
"Oh, of course," he said, with a laugh, which sounded cynical and
Byronic to his audience. And then he made a violent effort to master
himself. "Miss Crediton thought the river was rather pretty," he added,
with a hard-drawn breath of agitation, which sounded to his mother like
the first appearance of the threatened cold.
"Jervis," she said, mildly, "will you be good enough to fetch me the
camphor from my cupboard, and two lumps of sugar? My dear boy, it is
not nasty; it is only as a precaution. It will not interfere with your
dinner, and it is sure to stop a cold."
John gave his mother a look under which she trembled. It said as
plainly as possible, you are making me ridiculous; and it was pointed
by a glance at Kate, who certainly was smiling. Mrs Mitford was quick
enough to understand, and she was cowed by her son's gravity. "Perhaps,
on second thoughts," she said, faltering, "you need not mind, Jervis.
It will do when Mr John goes to bed."
"The only use of camphor is at the moment when you take a cold," said
Dr Mitford; "identify that moment, and take your dose, and you are all
safe. But I have always found that the great difficulty was to identify
the moment. Did you point out to Miss Crediton the curious effect the
current has had upon the rocks? I am not geological myself, but still
it is very interesting. The constant friction of the water has laid
bare a most remarkable stratification. Ah! I see he did not point it
out, from your look."
"Indeed I don't think Mr John showed me anything that was instructive,"
said Kate, with a demure glance at him. At present she was having it
all her own way.
"Ah! youth, youth," said Dr Mitford, shaking his head. "He was much
more likely to tell you about his boating exploits, I fear. If you
really wish to understand the history and structure of the district,
you must take me with you, Miss Crediton. Young men are so foolish as
to think these things slow."
"But then I am going away to-morrow," said Kate, with a little pathetic
inflection of her voice. "And perhaps Mrs Mitford will never ask me to
come back again. And I shall have to give up the hope of knowing the
district. But anybody that steers so badly as I do,"--Kate continued,
with much humility, but doubtful grammar, "it is not to be wondered at
if the gentleman who is rowing them should think they were too ignorant
to learn."
"Then the gentleman who was rowing you was a stupid fellow," said the
Doctor. "I never had a more intelligent listener in my life; but, my
dear young lady, you must come back when the Society is here. Their
meeting is at Camelford, and they must make an excursion to the Camp."
"And you will come and stay with us, Dr Mitford," said Kate, coaxingly;
"now, promise. It will be something to look forward to. You shall have
the room next the library, that papa always keeps for his learned
friends, he says. And if Mrs Mitford would be good, and let the parish
take care of itself, and come too----"
"Oh hush! my dear; we must not look forward so far," said Mrs Mitford,
with a little cloud upon her face. She had found out by this time
that John was in trouble, and she had no heart to enter into any
discussion till she knew what it was. And then she opened out suddenly
into a long account of the Fanshawe family, apropos de rien.
Mrs Fanshawe had been calling that afternoon, and they had heard from
their granddaughter, Cicely, who was abroad for her health--for all
that family was unfortunately very delicate. And poor Cicely would have
to spend the winter at Nice, the doctor said. Kate bent her head over
her plate, and ate her grapes (the very first of the season, which
Mr Crediton's gardener had forced for his young mistress, and sent
to Fanshawe Regis to aid her cure), and listened without paying much
attention to the story of Cicely Fanshawe's troubles. Nobody else took
any further part in the conversation after Mrs Mitford had commenced
that monologue, except indeed the Doctor, who now and then would ask a
question. As for the two young people, they sat on either side of the
table, and tried to look as if nothing had happened. And Kate, for one,
succeeded very well in this laudable effort--so well that poor John,
in his excitement and agitation, sank to the depths of despair as he
twisted one of the great vine-leaves in his fingers, and watched her
furtively through all the windings of his mother's story. He said to
himself, it is nothing to her. Her mind is quite unmoved by anything
that has happened. She could not have understood him, John felt--she
could not have believed him. She must have thought he was saying words
which he did not mean. Perhaps that was the way among the frivolous
beings to whom she was accustomed; but it was not the way with John.
While the mother was giving that account of the young Fanshawes, and
the father interposing his questions about Cicely's health, their son
was working himself up into a fever of determination. He eyed Kate at
the other side of the table, with a certain rage of resolution mingling
with his love. She should not escape him like this. She should answer
him one way or another. He could bear anything or everything from her
except this silence; but that he would not bear. She should tell him
face to face. He might have lost the very essence and joy of life, but
still he should know downright that he had lost it. This passion was
growing in him while the quiet slumberous time crept on, and all was
told about Cicely Fanshawe. Poor Cicely! just Kate's age, and sent to
Nice to die; but that thought never occurred to the vehement young
lover, nor did it occur to Kate, as she sat and ate her grapes, and
gave little glances across the table, and divined that he was rising
to a white heat. "I must run off to my own room, and say it is to do
my packing," Kate said to herself, with a little quake in her heart;
and yet she would rather have liked--behind a curtain or door, out of
harm's way--to have heard him say what he had to say.
Mrs Mitford was later than usual of leaving the table--and she took
Kate by the arm, being determined apparently to contrarier
everybody on this special evening, and made her sit down on the sofa
by her in the drawing-room. "My dear, I must have you to myself for a
little while to-night," she said, drawing the girl's hands into her
own. And then she sat and talked. It seemed to Kate that she talked of
everything in heaven and earth; but the old singing had come back to
her ears, and she could not pay attention. "Now he is coming," she said
to herself; "now I shall be obliged to sit still all the evening; now I
shall never be able to escape from him." By-and-by, however, Kate began
to feel piqued that John should show so little eagerness to follow her.
"Yes, indeed, dear Mrs Mitford, you may be sure I shall always remember
your kindness," she said, aloud. But in her heart she was saying in the
same breath, "Oh, very well; if he does not care I am sure I do not
care. I am only too glad to be let off so easy;" which was true, and
yet quite the reverse of true.
But then Kate did not see the watcher outside the window in the
darkness, who saw all that was going on, and bided his time, though he
trembled with impatience and excitement. Not knowing he was there, she
came to have a very disdainful feeling about him as the moments passed
on. To ask such a question as that, and never to insist on an answer!
Well, he might be very nice; but what should she do with a man that
took so little pains to secure his object. Or was it his object at
all? He might be cleverer than she had taken him for; he might be but
playing with her, as she had intended to play with him. Indignant with
these thoughts, she rose up when Mrs Mitford's last words came to a
conclusion, and detached herself, not without a slight coldness, from
that kind embrace. "I must go and see to my things, please," she said,
raising her head like a young queen. "But, my dear, there is Parsons,"
said Mrs Mitford. "Oh, but I must see after everything myself," replied
Kate, and went away, not in haste, as making her escape, but with a
certain stateliness of despite. She walked out of the room in quite a
leisurely way, feeling it beneath her dignity to fly from an adversary
that showed no signs of pursuing; and even turned round at the door
to say something with a boldness which looked almost like bravado. He
will come now, no doubt, and find me gone, and I hope he will enjoy the
tte--tte with his mother, she mused, with a certain ferocity;
and so went carelessly out, with all the haughtiness of pique, and
walked almost into John Mitford's arms!
He seized her hand before she knew what had happened, and drew it
through his arm, first throwing a shawl round her, which he had picked
up somewhere, and which, suddenly curling round her like a lasso, was
Kate's first indication of what had befallen her. "I have been watching
you till I am half wild," he whispered in her ear. "Oh come with me
to the garden, and say three words to me. I have no other chance for
to-night."
"Oh, please, let me go. I must see to my packing--indeed I must," cried
Kate, so startled and moved by the suddenness of the attack, and by his
evident excitement, that she could scarcely keep from tears.
"Not now," said John, in her ear--"not now. I must have my answer.
You cannot be so cruel as to go now. Only half an hour--only ten
minutes--Kate!"
"Hush! oh hush!" she cried, feeling herself conquered; and ere she
knew, the night air was blowing in her face, and the dark sky, with its
faint little summer stars, was shining over her, and John Mitford,
holding her close, with her hand on his arm, was bending over her,
a dark shadow. She could not read in his face all the passion that
possessed him, but she felt it, and it made her tremble, woman of the
world as she was.
"Kate," he said, "I cannot go searching for words now. I think I will
go mad if you don't speak to me. Tell me what I am to hope for. Give me
my answer. I cannot bear any more."
His voice was hoarse; he held her hand fast on his arm, not caressing,
but compelling. He was driven out of all patience; and for the first
time in her life Kate's spirit was cowed, and her wit failed to the
command of the situation.
"Let me go!" she said; "oh, do let me go! you frighten me, Mr John."
"Don't call me Mr John. I am your slave, if you like; I will be
anything you please. You said just now we belonged to each other; so
we do. No, I can't be generous; it is not the moment to be generous. I
have a claim upon you--don't call me Mr John."
"Then what shall I call you?" Kate said, with a little hysterical
giggle. And all at once, at that most inappropriate moment, there
flashed across her mind the first name she had recognised his identity
by. My John--was that the alternative? She shrank a little and
trembled, and did not know whether she should laugh or cry. Should she
call him that just as an experiment, to see how he would take it?--or
what else could she do to escape from him out of this dark place, all
full of dew, and odours, and silence, into the light and the safety of
her own room? And yet all this time she made no attempt to withdraw her
hand from his arm. She wanted something to lean on at such a crisis,
and he was very handy for leaning on--tall, and strong, and sturdy,
and affording a very adequate support. "Oh, do let me go!" she burst
out all at once. "It was only for your own good I spoke to you; I
did not mean--this. Why should you do things for me? I don't
want--to make any change. I should like to have you always just as we
have been--friends. Don't say any more just yet--listen. I like you
very very much for a friend. You said yourself we were like brother
and sister. Oh, why should you vex me and bother me, and want to be
anything different?" said Kate, in her confusion, suddenly beginning
to cry without any warning. But next moment, without knowing how it
was, she became aware that she was crying very comfortably on John's
shoulder. Her crying was more than he could bear. He took her into his
arms to console her without any arrire pense. "Oh, my darling,
I am not worth it," he said, stooping over her. "Is it for me--that
would never let the wind blow on you? Kate! I will not trouble you
any more." And with that, before he was aware, in his compunction and
sympathy, his lips somehow found themselves close to her cheek. It
was all to keep her from crying--to show how sorry he was for having
grieved her. His heart yearned over the soft tender creature. What did
it matter what he suffered, who was only a man? But that Kate should
cry!--and that it should be his fault! He felt in his simplicity that
he was giving her up for ever, and his big heart almost broke, as he
bent down trembling, and encountered that soft warm velvet cheek.
How it happened I cannot tell. He did not mean it, and she did not mean
it. But certainly Kate committed herself hopelessly by crying there
quite comfortably on his shoulder, and suffering herself to be kissed
without so much as a protest. He was so frightened by his own temerity,
and so surprised at it, that even had she vindicated her dignity after
the first moment, and burst indignant from his arms, John would have
begged her pardon with abject misery, and there would have been an end
of him. But somehow Kate was bewildered, and let that moment pass;
and after the surprise and shock which his own unprecedented audacity
wrought in him, John grew bolder, as was natural. She was not angry;
she endured it without protest. Was it possible that in her trouble she
was unconscious of it? And involuntarily John came to see that boldness
was now his only policy, and that it must not be possible for her to
ignore the facts of the case. That was all simple enough. But as for
Kate, I am utterly unable to explain her conduct. Even when she came to
herself, all she did was to put up her hands to her face, and to murmur
piteously, humbly, "Don't! oh, please, don't!" And why shouldn't he,
when that was all the resistance she made?
After this, the young man being partly delirious, as might have been
expected, it was Kate who had to come to the front of affairs and take
the lead. "Do, please, be rational now," she said, shaking herself free
all in a moment. "And give me your arm, you foolish John, and let us
take a turn round the garden. Oh, what would your mother say if she
knew how ridiculous you have been making yourself? Tell me quietly what
it is you want now," she added, in her most coaxing tone, looking up
into his face.
Upon which the bewildered fellow poured forth a flood of ascriptions
of praise and pans of victory, and compared Kate, who knew she was
no angel, to all the deities and excellences ever known to man. She
listened to it all patiently, and then shook her head with gentle
half-maternal tolerance.
"Well," she said, "let us take all that for granted, you know. Of
course I am everything that is nice. If you did not think so you would
be a savage; but, John, please don't be foolish. Tell me properly. I
have gone and given in to you when I did not mean to. And now, what do
you want?"
"I want you," he said; "have you any doubt about that? And, except for
your sake, I don't care for anything else in the world."
"Oh, but I care for a great many things," said Kate. "And, John,"
she went on, joining both her hands on his arm, and leaning her head
lightly against it in her caressing way, "first of all, you have
accepted my conditions, you know, and taken my advice?"
"Yes, my darling," said John; and then somehow his eye was caught by
the lights in the windows so close at hand, the one in the library, the
other in the drawing-room, where sat his parents, who had the fullest
confidence in him; and he gave a slight start and sigh in spite of
himself.
"Perhaps you repent your bargain already," said impetuous Kate, being
instantly conscious of both start and sigh, and of the feeling which
had produced them.
"Ah! how can you speak to me so," he said, "when you know if it was
life I had to pay for it I would do it joyfully? No; even if I had
never seen you I could not have done what they wanted me. That is the
truth. And now I have you, my sweetest----"
"Hush," she said, softly, "we have not come to that yet. There is a
great deal, such a great deal, to think about; and there is papa----"
"And I have so little to offer," said John; "it is only now I feel how
little. Ah! how five minutes change everything! It never came into my
mind that I had nothing to offer you--I was so full of yourself. But
now!--you who should have kingdoms laid at your feet--what right had a
penniless fellow like me----"
"If you regret you can always go back," said Kate, promptly; "though,
you know, it is a kind of insinuation against me, as if I had consented
far too easy. And, to tell the truth, I never did consent."
Here poor John clutched at her hand, which seemed to be sliding from
his arm, and held it fast without a word.
"No, I never did consent," said Kate. "It was exactly like the savages
that knock a poor girl down and then carry her off. You never asked me
even--you took me. Well, but then the thing to be drawn from that, is
not any nonsense about giving up. If you will promise to be good, and
do everything I tell you, and let me manage with papa----"
"But it is my business to let him know," said John. "No, my
darling--not even for you. I could not skulk, nor do anything
underhand. I must tell him, and I must tell them----"
"Then you will have your way, and we shall come to grief," said Kate;
"as if I did not know papa best. And then--I am not half nor quarter so
good as you; but in some things I am cleverer than you, John."
"In everything, dear," he said, with one of those ecstatic smiles
peculiar to his state of folly, though in the darkness Kate did not
get the benefit of it. "I never have, never will compare myself to my
darling. It is all your goodness letting me--all your sweetness and
humility and----"
"Please don't," said Kate, "please stop--please don't talk such
nonsense. Oh, I hope I shall never behave so badly that you will be
forced to find me out. But now about papa. It must be me to tell him;
you may come in afterwards, if you like. I know what I shall do. I will
drive the phaeton to the station to meet him. I will be the one
to tell him first. John, I know what I am talking of, and I must have
my own way."
"Are you out there, John, in the dark? and who have you got with
you?" said Mrs Mitford's voice suddenly in their ears. It made them
jump apart as if it had been the voice of a ghost. And Kate, panting,
blazing with blushes in the darkness, feeling as if she never could
face those soft eyes again, recoiled back into the lilies, and felt
the great white paradise of dew and sweetness take her in, and busk
her round with a garland of odour. Oh, what was she to do? Would he
be equal to the emergency? Thus it will be seen that, though she was
very fond of him, she had not yet the most perfect confidence in the
reliability of her John.
"Yes, mother, I am here," said John, with a mellow fulness in his voice
which Kate could not understand, so different was it from his usual
tone, "and I have Kate with me--my Kate--your Kate; or, at least, there
she is among the lilies. She ought to be in your arms first, after
mine."
"After yours!" His mother gave a little scream. And Kate held up her
head among the flowers, blushing, yet satisfied. It was shocking of him
to tell; but yet it settled the question. She stood irresolute for a
moment, breathing quick with excitement, and then she made a little run
into Mrs Mitford's arms. "He has made me be engaged to him whether I
will or not," she said, half crying on her friend's shoulder. "He has
made me. Won't you love me too?"
"O Kate!" was all the mother could say. "O my boy! what have you
done?--what have you done? John, her father is ten times as rich as we
are. He will say we have abused his trust. Oh! what shall I do?"
"Abused his trust indeed!" said Kate. "John, you are not to say a
word; she does not understand. Why, it was I who did it all! I gave
him no peace. I kept talking to him of things I had no business with;
and he is only a man--indeed he is only a boy. Mamma, won't you kiss
me, please?" said Kate, all at once sinking into the meekest of tones;
upon which Mrs Mitford, quite overcome, and wanting to kiss her son
first, and with a hundred questions in her mind to pour out upon him,
yet submitted, and put her arm round the stranger who was clinging
to her and kissed Kate--but not with her heart. She had kissed her a
great deal more tenderly only yesterday, just to say good-night; and
then the three stood silent in the darkness, and the scene took another
shape, and John's beatitude was past. The moment the mother joined
them another world came in. The enchanted world, which held only two
figures, opened up and disappeared like a scene at a theatre; and lo!
there appeared all round a mass of other people to whom John's passion
was a matter of indifference or a thing to be disapproved. Suddenly
the young pair felt themselves standing not only before John's anxious
mother, but before Mr Crediton, gloomy and wretched; before Dr Mitford,
angry and mortified; before the whole neighbourhood, who would judge
them without much consideration of mercy. John's reflections at this
moment were harder to support than those of Kate, for he knew he was
giving up for her sake the vocation he had been trained to, and the
awful necessity of declaring his resolution to his father and mother
was before him. Whereas the worst that could be said of Kate was that
she was a little flirt, and had turned John Mitford's head--and she had
heard as much before. But, notwithstanding, they were both strangely
sobered all in a moment as they stood there, fallen out of their fairy
sphere, by Mrs Mitford's side.
"My dears, I must hear all about this after," she said, with a kind of
tremulous solemnity, "but in the mean time you must come in to tea.
Whatever we do, we must not be late for prayers."
CHAPTER XI.
The room was in its usual partially lighted state, with darkness in
all the corners, half-seen furniture, and ghostly pictures on the
walls. A minute ago the servants had been there in a line kneeling
at prayers--dim beings, something between pictures and ghosts. And
now they had just stolen out in procession, and Dr Mitford had seated
himself at the table for the regulation ten minutes which he spent with
his family before retiring for the night. Kate had drawn a low chair
close to the table, and was looking up at him with a little quiver of
anxiety about her lips and eyes. These two--the old man's venerable
white head throwing reflections from it in the soft lamplight, the
young girl all radiant with beauty and feeling--were alone within the
circle of light. Outside of it stood two darker shadows, John and his
mother. Mrs Mitford was in a black gown, and the bright tints of her
pleasant face were neutralised by the failure of light. Two in the
brightness and two in the gloom--a curious symbolical arrangement. And
behind them all was the great open window, full of darkness, and the
garden with all its unseen sweetness outside.
Dr Mitford was the only unconscious member of this curious party. He
had no suspicion and no alarm. He stretched his legs, which were not
long, out comfortably before him, and leant back composedly, now on the
elbows, now on the back, of his chair.
"Well, Miss Kate, and what have you been doing with yourself all the
evening?" he said, in his blissful ignorance. The other three gave a
simultaneous gasp. What would he think when he heard? This thought,
however, pressed hardest upon John. His mind was laden with a secret
which as yet nobody divined, and speech almost forsook him when he
had most need of it. Neither Kate nor his mother could see how pale
he grew, and even if there had been light enough, John was not a
handsome pink-and-white youth upon whom a sudden pallor shows. He
might have shirked it even now, or left it to his mother, or chosen
a more convenient moment. But he was uncompromising in his sense of
necessities, and now was the moment at which it must be done. He went
round quickly to his father's right hand--
"Father," he said, "I have got something to tell you. I have done what
perhaps was not prudent, but I trust you will not think it was not
honourable. I have fallen in love with Kate."
"God bless my soul!" said Dr Mitford, instantly abandoning his
comfortable attitude, and sitting straight up in his bewilderment.
He was so startled that he looked from one to another, and finally
turned to his wife, as a man does who has referred every blunder and
surprise of a lifetime to her for explanation. It was an appealing
half-reproachful glance. Here was something which no doubt she could
have prevented or staved off from him. "My dear, what is the meaning of
this?" he said.
"It is I who must tell you that," said John, firmly. "I have a great
deal to tell you--a great deal to explain to my mother as well as
you. But this comes first of all--I love Kate. I saved her, you know;
and then it seemed so natural that she should be mine. How could she
have taken any one else than me who would have died for her? And see,
father, she has consented," said the poor fellow, taking Kate's hand,
and holding it in both his. His eyes were full of tears, and there was
a smile on his face. It was that mingling of pathos and of triumph
which marks passion at the highest strain.
"God bless my soul!" said Dr Mitford again, and this time he rose to
his feet in his amazement. "My dear, if you heard this was going on,
why did not you tell me? Consented! why, she is a mere child, and her
father trusted her to us. Miss Kate, you must perceive he is talking
nonsense--you must have turned his head. This can't go any further. The
boy must be mad to think of such a thing."
"Then I am mad too," said Kate, softly. "Oh, please, do not be angry
with us--we could not help it. Oh, Mrs Mitford, say a word for John!"
And then there came a strange pause. The mother said nothing. She stood
in the shade holding back, insensible, as it seemed, to this appeal;
and on the other side of the table were the young pair, holding each
other fast. As for Dr Mitford, he came to himself slowly as Kate spoke.
A ray of intelligence passed over his face. He was a sensible man, and
not one to throw away the good the gods provided. Gradually it became
apparent to him that there are times when youthful folly brings about
results such as mature wisdom could scarcely have conceived possible.
From the first stupefaction his look brightened into surprise, then
into interest and half-disguised approval. He drew a long breath, and
when he spoke again, his voice was wonderfully changed.
"Then you must be more to blame than he is, my dear young lady, for
you have not the same temptation," he said, with a little flurry and
excitement, but not much apparent displeasure. And then he made a
pause, and looked at them with his brow contracted as if they were
a book. "I don't understand all this. Do you mean to tell me you are
engaged, and it is not three weeks yet----"
"It did not want three weeks," said John, "nor three days. Father, you
see it is done now; she has consented, and she ought to know best."
"I am utterly bewildered," said Dr Mitford, but his tone softened
more and more. "My dear, have you nothing to say to this? is it as
unexpected to you as it is to me? Miss Kate, you understand it is no
reluctance to receive you that overwhelms me, but the surprise--and----
My dear, is it possible you have nothing to say?"
"It is her father I am thinking of," said Mrs Mitford, suddenly, with
a sharp jarring sound of emotion in her voice. And so it was; but
not entirely that. She seized upon the only feasible objection that
occurred to her to cover her general consternation and sense of dismay.
"Yes, to be sure," said Dr Mitford. "John, I wish you had spoken to
Mr Crediton first. I shall explain to him that I knew nothing about
it--nothing at all till the last moment. I fear you have taken away
from me even the power of pleading your cause; though, Miss Kate,"
he said, rising, and going up to her with the urbanity which was so
becoming to him, "if you had no fortune, I should take the liberty to
kiss you, and tell you my son had made a charming choice."
"Then kiss me now," said Kate, suddenly detaching herself from John,
and holding out her hands to his father. Dr Mitford gave a little
irresolute glance behind him to see what his wife was thinking; and
then after a moment's hesitation, melted by the pretty face lifted to
him, by the fortune which he had thus set forward as a drawback to her,
and by the mingled sentiment, false and true, of the occasion, took her
hands into his and bent over her and kissed her forehead.
"My dear," he said, with effusion, "I could not have hoped for so
sweet a daughter-in-law. You would be as welcome to me as the flowers
in May." And then Dr Mitford paused, and the puckers came back to his
forehead, and he turned round on his heel as on a pivot, and faced his
son. "But don't for a moment suppose, John, that I can approve of
you. I will not adopt your cause with Mr Crediton. Good heavens!
he might think it was a scheme. He might think----"
"That he could never think," said Mrs Mitford, not able to
restrain her impatience. "He may be angry, and blame everybody, and do
away with it--but he could not think that."
"If I have done wrong, let it come upon me," said John, hoarsely. "But,
Kate, come! you have had enough to bear." He was thinking of her only,
not of what any one else had to bear; and it was hard upon Mrs Mitford.
And it was hard upon her, very hard, to take the interloper into her
arms again, and falter forth a blessing on her. "He is everything in
the world to me," she whispered, with her lips on Kate's cheek. "And
what should his wife be? But my heart seems dead to-night." "Dear
mamma, don't hate me. I will not take him away from you; and I have
no mother," Kate whispered back. And Mrs Mitford held her close for
a moment, and cried, and was lightened at her heart. But this little
interlude was unknown to the two men who stood looking on. John led
his betrothed away into the hall, where he lingered one moment before
he said good-night. What he said to her, or she to him, is not much to
our present purpose. They lingered and whispered, and clung to each
other as most of us have done once in our lives--and could not make
up their minds to separate. While this went on, Dr Mitford made a
little turn about the table in his excitement, and thrust up the shade
from the lamp, as if to throw more light upon the matter. He was in a
fidget, and a little alarmed by what his son had done, yet prepared to
feel that all was for the best.
"My dear, is it possible you knew of this?" he said, rubbing his hands.
"What a very odd thing that it should have happened so! Bless my soul!
she is a great heiress. Why, Mary," giving a glance round him, and
lowering his voice a little, "who could have thought that lump of a boy
would have had the sense to do so well for himself?"
"Oh, Dr Mitford, for heaven's sake don't speak so! Whatever he intends,
my boy never thought of that."
"I don't suppose he did," said the father, still softly rubbing his
hands; "I don't suppose he did--but still, all the same. Why, bless my
soul! Mary---- To be sure it may be unpleasant with Mr Crediton. If he
could think for one moment that we had any hand in it----"
"He cannot think that," said Mrs Mitford. A sense that there was
something more to be told kept her breathless and incapable of speech.
But it gave her a little consolation to be able to defy Mr Crediton's
suspicions. It was a safety-valve, so far as it went.
"I hope not--I sincerely hope not. I should tell him at once that it
is--well--yes--contrary to my wishes. Of course it would be a great
thing for John. He is not the sort of boy to make his way in the
world, and this would give him such a start. Unless her father is very
adverse, Mary, I should be inclined to think that everything is for the
best."
"You are so ready to think that, Dr Mitford," said his wife, sitting
down suddenly in her excitement, feeling that her limbs could no
longer support her. "But I am afraid I am not so submissive," she
added, with a little burst of feeling, putting up her hand to her eyes.
"You don't mean to say you don't see the advantages of it?" said her
husband; "or is it the girl you object to? She seems to me to be a very
nice girl."
"Oh, hush!" said Mrs Mitford; "do not let him hear you. Oh my boy! my
boy!"
John came in with his face just settling out of the melting tenderness
of his good-night into the resolution which was necessary for what was
now before him. He saw that his mother, half hidden in her chair, had
covered her eyes with her hand; and his father stood by the table, as
if he had been arguing, or reasoning, or explaining something. It was
not an attitude very unusual with Dr Mitford; but explaining things
to his wife, notwithstanding her respect for him, was not an effort
generally attended with much success.
"I tell you, my dear," he said, as John approached, with the air of
concluding an argument, "that if Mr Crediton does not object, I shall
think John has made an excellent choice."
"Thank you, father," John said, and held out his hand; while the
mother, whose anxieties on the subject went so much deeper, sat still
on her chair and covered her face, and felt a sharp pang of irritation
strike through her. She had trained the boy to be very respectful,
very dutiful, to his father; but Dr Mitford spent much of his time in
his study, and there could not be much sympathy between them; yet the
two stood clasping hands while she was left out. It was the strangest
transposition of parts. She could not understand it, and it jarred
through her with sudden pain. Nor did John seek her after that, as
surely, she thought, he must do. He stood between them in front of the
table, and kept looking straight, not at either of them, but at the
light.
"I have had something else on my mind for a long time," he said, and
his lips were parched with excitement. "Father, it is a long affair:
will you sit down again and listen to what I have to say?"
"If it is about this business," said his father, "I have told you
already, John, that nothing can be done without her father's consent;
and I have not time, you know, to waste in talk. Tell your mother what
it is; I shall have it all from her. I have given you my consent and
approbation conditionally. Your mother, surely, can do all the rest."
"Wait," said John; "pray, wait a little. It is not about this. I
want to tell you and my mother both together. I should not have the
courage," he added, with the excitement of self-defence, "to speak to
you separately. It has nothing to do with this. It was a burden upon
my mind before I ever saw Kate. And now that everything has come to a
crisis, I must speak. It cannot be delayed any longer. Hear me for this
once."
Mrs Mitford gave a stifled groan. It was very low, but the room was
very silent, and the sound startled all of them--even herself. It
sounded somehow as if it had come in through the window out of the
dark. She raised herself up suddenly and opened her eyes, and uncovered
her face, and looked at them both, lest any one should say it was she.
Yes, she had foreseen it all the time; she had felt it, since ever that
girl came to the house--which was not, it must be admitted, entirely
just.
"You have brought me up to be a clergyman," said John, still more and
more hurried, "and there was a time when I accepted the idea as a
matter of course; but since I have grown older, things are different.
I cannot bear to disappoint you, and overturn all your plans; but,
father, think! Can I undertake to say from the altar things I cannot
believe? Ought I to do that? If I were a boy, it might be different,
and I might learn better; but at my age----"
"Age!" said the Doctor, impatiently, "what is all this about? Age? of
course you are a boy, and nothing else. And why shouldn't you believe?
Better men than you have gone over all that ground, and settled it
again and again."
"But, father, I cannot be guided by what other people think. I must
judge for myself. I cannot do it! I have tried to carry out your
expectations until the struggle has been almost more than I could bear.
Forgive me: it has come to be a question of possibility----"
"A question of fiddlestick!" cried the Doctor, angrily, walking about
the room. "I tell you, better men than you have settled all that.
Of course you think your doubts are quite original, and never were
heard of before. Nonsense! I have not the slightest doubt they have
been refuted a hundred times over. Stuff! Mary, is it to be expected
I should give in to him?--just when it was a comfort to think he was
provided for, and all that. Are you such a fool as to think you can
meet Mr Crediton with this story? Is he to understand at once that you
mean to live on your wife?"
"I will never live on my wife," said John, stung in the tenderest point.
"Oh, Dr Mitford, don't speak to him so," said his mother, rising up and
throwing herself metaphorically between the combatants. "Do you think
if he had not had a very strong reason he would have said this to us,
knowing how it would grieve us? Oh, let him tell us what he means!"
"I know what he means," said Dr Mitford, "better than he does himself.
He thinks it is a fine thing to be a sceptic. His father believes what
he can't believe, and that makes him out superior to his father. And
then here is Kate Crediton with all her money----"
"Father!" cried John, pale with rage.
"Oh, hush, hush!" said Mrs Mitford; "that has nothing to do with it.
Oh, don't let us bring her name in to make bitterness. John, John, do
not say anything hasty! We had so set our hearts upon it. And, dear,
your papa might explain things to you if you would but have patience.
He never knew you had any doubts before."
"Mother," said John, with tears in his eyes, turning to her, "it is
like you to take my part."
"But he must have a very strong reason," she went on, without heeding
him, addressing her husband, "to be able to make up his mind to
disappoint us so. Don't be hard upon our poor boy. If you were to argue
with him, and explain things--I am sure my John did not mean any
harm. Oh, consider, John!--Fanshawe, that you were born in--how could
you bear to see it go to others? And the poor people that know you so
well---- Dr Mitford, when all this is over, and--strangers gone, and we
are quiet again, you will take the boy with you, and go over everything
and explain----"
"The fact is," said the Doctor, suddenly going to the side table and
selecting his candle, "that I have no time to waste on such nonsense.
You can have what books you want out of my library, and I hope your
own sense and reflection will carry the day. Not a word more. You are
excited, I hope, and that is the cause of this exhibition. No; of
course I don't accept what you have said. Speak to your mother--that
is the best thing you can do. I have got my paper to finish, so
good-night."
John stood aghast, and watched his father go out at the door, impatient
and contemptuous of the explanation it had cost him so much to make.
And when he turned to his mother, expecting her sympathy, she was
standing by him transformed, with a gleam of fire in her eyes such as
he had never seen there; a flush on her face, and her hand held up with
indignant, almost threatening, vehemence.
"How could you do it?" she cried--"how could you have the heart to do
it? To us that have had no thought but for you! Look what sacrifices we
have made all your life that you should have everything. Look how your
father has worked at his papers--and all that we have done to secure
your prosperity. And for the sake of a silly girl you had never seen a
month ago! Oh, God forgive me! what shall I do?"
And she sank down on her chair and covered her face, and burst into
angry weeping. It was not simple sorrow, but mortification, rage,
disappointment--a combination of feelings which it was impossible for
John to identify with his mother. She had been defending him but a
moment before. It had given him a sense of the most exquisite relief
to find her on his side. He had turned to her without doubt or fear,
expecting that she would cry a little, perhaps, and lament over
him, and be wistfully respectful of his doubts, and tender of his
sufferings. And to see her confronting him, flushed, indignant, almost
menacing! His consternation was too great for words. "Mother," he said,
faltering, "you are mistaken--indeed you are mistaken!" and stopped
short, with mingled resentment and humiliation. Why should Kate be
supposed to have anything to do with it? And yet in his heart he knew
that she had a great deal to do with it. Her--but not her fortune, as
his father thought. Curse her fortune! John, who had always been so
gentle, walked up and down the room like a caged lion, with a hundred
passions in his heart. He was wild with mortification, and with that
sense of the intolerable which accompanies the first great contrariety
of a life. Nothing (to speak of) had ever gone cross with him before.
But now his mother herself had turned against him--could such a thing
be possible?--and the solid earth had been rent away from under his
feet.
Neither of them knew how long it was before anything more was said.
Mrs Mitford sobbed out her passion, and dried her tears, and remained
silent; and so did John, till the air seemed to stir round him with
wings and rustlings as of unseen spectators. It was only when it had
become unbearable that he broke the silence. "Mother," he said, with a
voice which even to his own ears sounded harsh and strange, "you have
always believed me till now. When I tell you that this has been in my
heart ever since I left Oxford--and while I was at Oxford--and that I
have always refrained from telling you, hoping that when the time of
decision came I might feel differently--will you refuse to believe me
now?"
Mrs Mitford was incapable of making any reply. "Oh, John," she
said--"oh, my boy!" shaking her head mournfully, while the tears
dropped from her eyes. She did not mean to imply that she would not
believe him. Poor soul! she did not very well know what she meant,
except utter confusion and misery; but that was the meaning which her
gesture bore to him.
"I have done nothing to deserve this," he said, with indignation. "You
have a right to be as severe upon me as you like for disobeying your
wishes, but you have no right to disbelieve your son."
"Oh, John, what is the use of speaking?" said Mrs Mitford. "Disbelieve
you! why should I disbelieve you? The best thing is just to say nothing
more about it, but let me break my heart and take no notice. What am
I that I should stand in your way? Your father will get the better
of it, for he has so many things to occupy him; but I will never get
the better of it. Don't take any notice of me; the old must give up,
whatever happens--I know that--and the young must have their day."
"Yes; the young must have their day," said John, severely; and then his
heart smote him, and he came and knelt down by his mother's side. "But
why should you be in such despair?" he said. "Mother, I am not going
away from you. Though I should not be curate of Fanshawe Regis, may not
we all be very happy together?--as happy in a different way? Mother,
dear, I thought you were the one to stand by me, whoever should be
against me."
"And so I will stand by you," she sobbed, permitting him to take her
hand and caress it. "Nobody shall say I do not stand up for my own boy.
You shall have your mother for your defender, John, if it should kill
me. But oh, my heart is broke!" she cried, leaning her head against
his shoulder. "Now and then even a boy's mother must think of herself.
All my dreams were about you, John. I have not been so happy, not so
very happy, in my life. Other women have been happier than me, and more
thought of, that perhaps have done no more than I have. But I have
always said to myself, I have my John. I thought you would make it up
to me; I thought my happiness had all been saving up--all waiting till
I was growing old, and needed it most. Don't cry, my dear. I would not
have you cry, you that are a man, as if you were a girl. Oh, if I had
had a girl of my own, I think I could have borne it better. But she
would have gone off and married too. There, there! I am very selfish
speaking about my feelings. I will never do it again. What does
anything matter to me if you are happy? My dear, go to bed now, and
don't take any more notice. It was the shock, you know. In the morning
you will see I shall have come to myself."
"But, mother, it matters most to me that you should understand me,"
cried John--"you who have been everything to me. Do you think I am
going to forget who has trained me, and taught me, and guided me since
ever I remember? What difference will this make between you and me?
Does giving up the Church mean giving up my mother? Never, never! I
should give up even my own conscience, whatever it cost me, could I
think that."
"Oh, John, my dear, perhaps if things were rightly explained----?" she
faltered, raising her voice with a little spring of hope, and looking
anxiously in his face. But she saw no hope there, and then her voice
grew tremulous and solemn. "John, do you think it will bring a blessing
on you to turn back after you have put your hand to the plough, and
forsake God for the world? Is that the way to get His grace?"
"Will God be better pleased with me if I stand up at the altar before
Him and say a lie?" said John. "Mother, you who are so true and just,
you cannot think what you say."
"But it is truth you have to speak, and not lies," said the unused
controversialist, with a thousand wistful pleas, which were not
arguments, in her eyes; and then she threw her tender arms round her
son, and clasped him to her. "Oh, my boy, what can I say? It is because
of the shock and my not expecting it. I think my heart is broken. But
go to bed, my dear, and think no more of me for to-night."
"I cannot bear you saying your heart is broken," cried John. "Mother,
don't be so hard upon me. I must act according to my conscience,
whatever I may have to bear."
"Oh, John! God knows I don't mean to be hard upon you!" cried Mrs
Mitford, stung with the reproach. And then she rose up trembling, her
pretty grey hair ruffled about her forehead, her eyes wet and shining
with so great a strain of emotion. Thus she stood for a moment, looking
at him with such a faint effort at a smile as she could accomplish.
"Perhaps things will look different in the morning," she said; softly,
"if we say our prayers with all our hearts before we go to bed."
And with that she drew her son to her, and gave him his good-night
kiss, and went away quickly without turning round again. John was left
master of the field. Neither father nor mother had any effectual forces
to bring against him--they had both retired with a postponement of the
question, which weakened their power and strengthened his. And he had
attained what seemed to him the greatest happiness in life--the love of
the girl whom he loved. And yet he was not happy. He walked slowly up
and down the deserted room, and stood at the open window, and breathed
in the breath of the lilies and the dew, and remembered that Kate was
his, and yet was not happy. How incredible that was, and yet true! When
he left the room he caught himself moving with stealthy footsteps, as
if something lay dead in the house. And something did lie dead. The
hopes that had centred in him had got their death-blow. The house had
lost what had been its heart and strength. He became vaguely, sadly
conscious of this, as he stole away in the silence to his own room, and
shut himself up there, though it was still so early, with his heart as
heavy as lead within his breast.
CHAPTER XII.
Next morning the household met at breakfast with that strange
determination to look just as usual, and ignore all that had happened,
which is so common in life. Kate, to be sure, did not know what had
happened. She was aware of nothing but her own engagement which could
have disturbed the family calm; and it filled her with wonder, and even
irritation, to see how pale John looked, who ought to have been at the
height of happiness, and how little exultation was in his voice. "He
is thinking of what he is to say to papa," was the thought that passed
through her mind; and this thought fortunately checked her momentary
displeasure. Mrs Mitford was paler still, and her eyes looked red, as
if she had been crying; but instead of being subdued or cross, she
was in unusually gay spirits, it seemed to Kate--talking a great deal
more than usual, even laughing, and attempting little jokes which sat
very strangely upon her. The only conclusion Kate could draw from the
general aspect of affairs was that they were all extremely nervous
about the meeting with Mr Crediton. And, on the whole, she was not very
much surprised at this. She herself was nervous enough. His only child,
for whom he might have hoped the most splendid of marriages--who was so
much admired, and had so little excuse for throwing herself away--that
she could engage herself thus, like any school-girl, to a clergyman's
son, with no prospects, nor money, nor position, nor anything! Kate
looked at John across the table, and saw that he was very far from
handsome, and owned to herself that it was next to incredible. Why
had she done it? Looking at him critically, he was not even the least
good-looking, nor distinguished, nor remarkable in any way. One might
say he had a good expression, but that was all that could be said for
him. And Kate felt that it would be incredible to her father. Dr
Mitford was the only one of the party who was like himself; but then he
was an old man, and naturally had not much feeling left.
"I want you to let me drive the phaeton over to the station to meet
papa," she said. "Please do, Dr Mitford. Oh, I am not in the least
afraid of the pony. I have been making friends with him, and giving him
lumps of sugar, and I do want to be the first to see papa."
"My dear Miss Kate, I am so sorry the phaeton has only room for two,"
said the Doctor. "If you were to go there would be no seat for your
excellent father; but it is only half an hour's drive--cannot you wait
till he reaches here?"
"But, dear Dr Mitford, I always drive him from the station at home,"
cried Kate.
"You are not at home now, my dear young lady," said the Doctor, shaking
his head. "We must give you back safe and sound into his hands. The
groom will go. No, Miss Kate, no--we must not frighten your worthy
father. You must consider what had so nearly happened a month ago. No,
no; it requires a man's hand----"
"But the pony is so gentle," pleaded Kate.
"I know the pony better than you do," Dr Mitford said, shaking his
head, "and he wants a man's hand. My dear, you must be content to wait
your good father here."
The Doctor was the only one who appeared unmoved. He had put on all
his usual decorous solemnity along with his fresh stiff white tie, and
highly-polished creaking boots. But even he made no allusion to the
changed state of affairs. Sometimes Kate felt as if she must laugh,
sometimes as if she must cry, sometimes disposed to be angry, sometimes
wounded. She was glad to escape from the table to the garden, where
John found her--glad, poor fellow, to escape too. And then, as they
wandered among the rose-bushes arm-in-arm, she found out how it was.
"But they have no right to be so hard on you," cried Kate, impetuously.
"Suppose you had never seen me or thought of me--would it be right to
be a clergyman, just like a trade, when you felt you could not in your
heart----"
"My Kate!--you understand me at least; that is what I said."
"And when you can do so much better for yourself," said Kate, with
emphasis. "Mrs Mitford and the Doctor should think of that. One way
you never could have been anything but a clergyman; while the other
way--why, you may be anything, John."
He shook his head over her, half sadly, half pleased. He knew his
capacities were far from being beyond limit, but still that she should
think so was pleasant. And then there was the sense, which was sweet,
that he and she, spending the summer morning among the flowers, were
a little faction in arms against the world, with a mutual grievance,
mutual difficulties, a cause to maintain against everybody.
Solitude  deux is sweet, and selfishness  deux has a way
of looking half sublime. It was the first time either of them had
experienced this infinitely seductive sentiment. They talked over the
hardness of the father and mother, with a kind of delight in thus
feeling all the world to be against them. "They cannot blame me, for
you were thinking of that before you ever saw me," said Kate. "Blame
you! it is one thing the more I have to love you for," said John. "I
should never have been awakened to free myself but for you, my darling.
I should have gone stupidly on under the sway of custom." And for the
moment he believed what he said. Oh, what a difference it made! the
wide world before him where to choose, and this creature, whom he loved
more than all the world, leaning on him, putting her fate in his hands;
instead of the dull routine of parish duties, and the dull home life,
and the stagnation around, and all his uneasy restless thoughts.
It was about twelve o'clock when Kate went up-stairs to get her hat,
with the intention of setting out on foot to waylay her father. It was
absolutely indispensable, she felt, that she should be the first to see
him; but up to that time the two lovers had wandered about together
unmolested, not caring who saw them, arm-in-arm. This was the first
advantage of the engagement. Dr Mitford saw them from his library,
and Mrs Mitford looked down upon them with a beating heart from her
chamber-window, but neither interfered. Twenty-four hours before Mrs
Mitford would have gone out herself to take care of them, or would have
called Kate to her; but now that they were engaged, such precautions
were vain. And other people saw them besides the father and mother.
Fred Huntley, for instance, who reined in his horse, and peered over
the garden-wall as he passed, with a curiosity he found it difficult
to account for, saw them standing by the lilies leaning on each other,
and said "Oh!" to himself, and turned back and rode home again, without
giving the message he had been charged with. He had come to ask the
Fanshawe Regis people to a garden-party--"But what is the use?" Fred
had said to himself; and had turned, not his own head, but his horse's,
and gone back again. Parsons, too, saw the pair from Kate's window,
where she was finishing her packing. "Master will soon put a stop to
that," was Parsons' decision. But everybody perceived at once that
a new relationship had been established between the two, and that
everything was changed.
When Kate ran up-stairs to put on her hat, it was after two hours of
this consultation and mutual confidence. It was true she had not taken
much advice from him. She had closed his lips on that subject, telling
him frankly that she knew her papa a great deal better than he did,
and that she should take her own way; but she had given a great deal
of counsel, on the other hand. He had found it impossible to do more
than make a succession of little fond replies, so full had she been of
advice and wisdom. "You must be, oh, so kind and gentle and nice to
her," Kate had said. "I will never forgive you if you are in the least
cross or disagreeable to mamma. Yes; I like to say mamma. I never had
any mother of my own, and she has been so good to me, and I love her
so--not for your sake, sir, but for her own. You must never be vexed
by anything she says; you must be as patient and gentle and sweet to
her--but, remember, you must be firm! It will be kindest to all of
us, John. If you were to appear to give in now, it would all have to
be done over again; now the subject has been started, it will be much
kinder to be firm."
"You need not fear in that respect," John replied. "I think nothing but
the thought of you up-stairs, and the feeling that you understood me,
would have given me courage to speak; but the moment one word had been
said, all had been said. Nothing can bring things back to their old
condition again."
"I am so glad," said Kate; "but, remember, you must be gentleness
itself to her. If you were rude or undutiful or unkind, I should
never, never look at you again."
"My darling!" said John. It was so sweet of her thus to defend his
mother. If Mrs Mitford had heard it, her soft heart would have been
filled full of disgust and bitterness to think of this stranger taking
it upon herself to plead for her, his mother, with her own son! But
John only thought how sweet it was of his darling to be so anxious
for his mother, and felt his heart melt over her. What was all his
mother had done for him in comparison with Kate's dominion, which was
boundless, and of divine right? Thus they discussed their position, the
very difficulties of which were delicious because they were mutual, and
felt that the other persons connected with them, parents and suchlike,
were railed off at an immense distance, and were henceforward to be
struggled against and kept in subjection. It was with this resolution
full in her mind, and thrilling with a new impulse of independence and
activity, that Kate went up-stairs. Parsons had gone down to seek that
sustenance of failing nature which the domestic mind finds necessary
between its eight o'clock breakfast and its two o'clock dinner; but
Lizzie, whom Kate had seen but little of lately, inspired on her side
by a resolution scarcely less strong than the young lady's, was at her
bedroom door, waylaying her. Lizzie rushed in officiously to find the
hat and the gloves and the parasol which Miss Crediton wanted, and then
she added, humbly, "Please, miss!" and stood gaping, with her wholesome
country roses growing crimson, and the creamy white of her round neck
reddening all over, like sunrise upon snow.
"Well, Lizzie, what is it?--but make haste, for I am in a hurry," said
Kate. She was a young lady who was very good-natured to servants, and,
as they said, not a bit proud.
"Oh, please, miss!--it's as I can't a-bear to see you going away."
"Is that all? I am sure it is very kind of you, Lizzie--everybody has
been so very kind to me at Fanshawe Regis that I can't bear to go
away," said Kate; "but I daresay I shall come back again--probably very
often; so you see it is not worth while to cry."
"That's not the reason, miss," said Lizzie; "I've been thinking this
long and long if I could better myself. Mother's but poor, miss, and
all them big lads to think of. And you as has so many servants, and
could do such a deal---- It aint as I'm not happy with missis--but
service is service, and I feel as I ought to better myself----."
"Oh, you ungrateful thing!" cried Kate; "after Mrs Mitford has been so
good to you. I would not be so ungrateful for all the world. Better
yourself indeed! I can tell you, you are a great deal more likely to
injure yourself. Oh, Lizzie, I should not have thought it of you! You
ought to be so happy here."
"It aint as I'm not happy," cried Lizzie, melting into tears. "Oh,
miss, don't you go and be vexed. It's all along of what Miss Parsons
says. She says in the kitchen as how she's going to be married, and
all the dresses you gives her, and all the presents, and takes her
about wherever you go. Oh, miss, when Miss Parsons is married, won't
you try me? I'll serve you night and day--I will. I don't mind sitting
up nights--not till daylight--and I'd never ask for holidays, nor
followers, nor nothing. You'd have a faithful servant, though I says it
as shouldn't," said Lizzie, with her apron at her eyes; "and mother's
prayers, and a blessin' from the Lord--oh, miss, if you'd try me!"
"Try you in place of Parsons!" cried Kate, in consternation. "Why,
Lizzie, are you mad? Can you make dresses, you foolish girl, and dress
hair, and do all sorts of things, like Parsons? You are only Mrs
Mitford's housemaid. Do you mean to tell me you can do all that too?"
"I could try, miss," said Lizzie, somewhat frightened, drying her eyes.
"Try!--to make me a dress!" cried Kate, her eyes dancing with fun and
comic horror. "But, Lizzie, I will try and find a place for you as
housemaid, if you like."
"I don't care for that, miss," said Lizzie, disconsolately; "what I
want is to better myself. And I know I could, if I were to try. When
I've tried hard at anything, I've allays done it. And, please, I don't
know what Miss Parsons is, as she should be thought that much of--I
could do it if I was to try."
"Then you had better try, I think," said Kate, with severe politeness,
"and let me know when you have succeeded; but in the mean time I will
take my gloves, which you are spoiling. I have no more time to talk
just now."
Poor Lizzie found herself left behind, when she had hoped the argument
was just beginning. Kate ran down with her gloves in her hand, half
annoyed, half amused. The girl was so ready to transplant herself
anywhere--to reach out her rash hands to new tools, and to take upon
her a succession of unknown duties, that Kate was quite subdued by the
thought. "How foolish!" she said to herself. "When she has been brought
up to one thing, why should she want to try another? It is so silly.
What stupids servants are! If I had been brought up a housemaid, I
should have remained a housemaid. And to be willing to leave her good
mistress and her home and all her past life--for what?" said Kate,
moralising. Had she but known what a very similar strain of reasoning
was going on in Mrs Mitford's mind! "To give up his home, and all his
associations, and his prospects in life, and the work God had provided
for him--for what?" John's mother was musing. The school, and the old
women in the village, and all her parish work, had slid out of her
thoughts. She had shut herself up in her own room, and was brooding
over it--working the sword in her wound, and now and then crying out
with the pain. And Dr Mitford in his study paused from time to time in
the midst of his paper, and wished with a glum countenance that Mr
Crediton's visit was well over, and made up little speeches disowning
all complicity in the business; and John had gone down to the river,
to the foot of those cliffs where Kate's horse was carrying her when
he saved her, and, with his fishing-rod idle in his hand, tried also
to prepare himself for that awful interview with Kate's father, and
for the final argument with his own which must follow. He was in the
first day of his lover's paradise, and had just tasted the sweetness
of mutual consultation over those interests and prospects which were
now hers as well as his. And he was very happy. But all the same he was
wretched, feeling himself torn asunder from his life--feeling that he
had lost all independent standing, and had alienated the hearts which
loved him most in the world. All this followed upon the privilege of
saving Miss Crediton's life, and her month's residence at Fanshawe
Regis. Was it Kate's fault? Nobody said so in words, not even Mrs
Mitford; and Kate went to meet her father with such a sense of splendid
virtue and disinterestedness as never before had swelled her bosom.
She was full of the energy and exhilaration which attends the doing of
a good action. "I have saved him," she said to herself, "as he saved
me. I have prevented him going and making a sacrifice of himself. He
would never have had the courage to stand up for himself without me."
Moved by this glow of delightful complacency, she set out upon the road
to the station; and it was not till she heard the jingle of the phaeton
in the distance that a thrill of nervousness ran over Kate, and she
felt the magnitude and importance of what she was about to do.
Mr Crediton probably was thinking of quite other things--at least, he
did not recognise her, though she stood against the green hedgerow in
her light summer dress, making signs with her parasol. It was only when
the groom drew up that he observed the pretty figure by the roadside.
"What, Kate!" he cried, with a flush of pleasure, and jumped out of
the phaeton to greet her. "But there is no room for another," he said,
looking comically at the respectable vehicle, when he had kissed his
child, and congratulated her on her improved looks--"what is to be
done?"
"I wanted to have driven the pony to the station," said Kate, "but Dr
Mitford would not let me. Now you must walk home with me, papa--it is
not a mile. James, you may drive on, and say we are coming. Dr Mitford
thought the pony would be too much for me," she added, demurely. "He
is so funny, and so precise about everything." Then Kate remembered
suddenly that it was very contrary to her interest to depreciate any
of the Mitford family, and changed her tone--"but so nice--you cannot
think, papa, how kind, how good they have all been to me: they have
made me like their own child."
"So much the better, my dear," said Mr Crediton. "I am very grateful to
them. I am sure they are very good sort of people. But I hope, Kate,
you are not sorry to be going home?"
"I am not sorry to see you, papa," cried Kate, clasping his arm
with both her hands. And then she leaned her head towards him in her
caressing way. "Dear papa! I have so much to tell you," she went on,
faltering in spite of herself.
"If you have much to tell me, you must have used your time well," said
Mr Crediton, smiling upon her the smile of fond paternal indulgence.
"And I daresay the items are not very important. But you have got
back your roses and your bright eyes, my pet, and that is of more
consequence than all the news in the world."
"Papa," said Kate, moved to a certain solemnity, "you would not say so
if you knew what I am going to say. Do you remember what you said to
me the morning you left? and I thought it was such nonsense;--but,"
here she gave his arm a tender little squeeze between her two clinging
hands, "I suppose it was you that knew best."
"What did I say to you the morning I left?" said Mr Crediton, quite
unsuspicious. He was pleased she should remember, pleased she should
think he knew best. But he could scarcely realise his saucy Kate in
this soft adoring creature, and he put his own hand caressingly upon
the two little hands. "Mrs Mitford must have done you a great deal of
good," he added, with a soft laugh; "you did not use to be quite so
retentive of what I said."
"Oh, but papa, if you would only remember!" said Kate. "Papa," she
resumed, faltering, and drooping her head, "it came true--all your
warning about--John."
Mr Crediton gave a start, as if he had been shot. "About--John. What
does this mean?" he cried, becoming alarmed. "What is it? I remember
most things that concern you, but I don't recollect anything particular
I said."
"Yes, papa; you warned me about--John. But it has not quite come true,"
she added, lowering her voice, and leaning on him, with her head
against his arm; "or rather, it has come more than true. Papa, don't be
angry. I came out on purpose to tell you. They are in a dreadful state
about it. It is making poor Mrs Mitford quite ill. She thinks you will
think they had some hand in it, but indeed they had not. Papa, dear,
promise me you will not be angry. I--I am--engaged--to John."
Mr Crediton was a very decorous, respectable man, not addicted to
outbursts of passion, but at this wonderful announcement he swore a
prodigious oath, and drew his arm away from her, giving her unawares
a thrust aside which made her reel. Kate was so bewildered, so
frightened, so dismayed by this personal touch that she blushed crimson
the one moment, and the next began to cry. She stood gazing at him,
with the big tears dropping, and the most piteous look in her eyes.
"Oh, papa, don't kill me!" she cried, in her consternation, sinking
into the very hedge, in horror of his violence. Mr Crediton was so
excited that he paid no attention to her cry of terror. "The d----d
scoundrel!" he cried. "What! come in like this behind my back and rob
me--take advantage of my sense of obligation--curse him! Curse them
all! That's your pious people!" And the man raved and blasphemed for
five minutes at least, as if he had been his own groom, and not a
respectable gentleman with grey hairs on his head, and the cares of
half the county in his hands.
All this time Kate was too frightened to speak; but she was not the
kind of girl to be long overwhelmed by such a fit of passion. She
shrank back farther into the hedge, and grew as white as her dress,
and trembled a good deal, and could not utter a word. But gradually
her courage returned to her. Her heart began to thump less wildly
against her breast, but rose and swelled instead with a force which
was half self-will and half a generous sense of injustice. When Mr
Crediton came to himself--which he did all at once with some very big
words in his mouth, and his hand clenched in the air, and his face
blazing with fury--he stopped short all at once, and cast an alarmed
look at his daughter. Good heavens! he, a respectable man, to utter
such exclamations, and in Kate's presence! He came to himself all in a
moment, and metaphorically fell prostrate before her with confusion and
shame.
"Well," he said, half fiercely, half humbly, "it is not much wonder if
a man should forget himself. How do you dare to stand there and face
me, and put such a thing into words?"
"Papa, I am very much surprised," said Kate, her courage rising to the
occasion. "I could not have believed it. It is best it should be me,
and not a stranger, for what would any stranger have thought? But all
the same, I am very sorry that it was me. I shall never be able to
forget that I saw you look like that, and heard you say---- Ah!" said
Kate, shutting her eyes. He thought she was going to faint, and got
very much frightened; but nothing could be further from Kate's mind
than any intention of fainting. She sat down, however, on the grass,
and leaned her elbows on her knees, and hid her face in her hands. And
the unhappy father, conscious of having so horribly committed himself,
stood silent, and did not know what to say.
Then, after a moment, she raised her head and looked him in the face.
"Papa," she said, "the people you have been abusing are waiting over
there to welcome you to their house. They don't like your coming,
because they have a feeling what will happen; and they are very very
vexed with their son for falling in love with me; and, poor fellow!
I think he is vexed with himself, though he could not help it. What
are you going to do? Are you going to swear at Dr Mitford, whose son
saved your only child's life, and whose wife saved it over again by her
kindness, because they love me now as well? Are you going to drive me
mad, and make me that I don't care what I do? I am not so good as John
is," she said, with a half-sob; "if you cross me I will not be humble.
I will go wrong, and make him go wrong too. You cannot change my mind
by swearing at me, papa. What are you going to do?"
Yes, that was the question. It was very easy to storm and swear, with
nobody present but his daughter. But Dr Mitford was as good a man as Mr
Crediton, and as well known in the county, though he was not so rich.
And John had saved Kate's life at the risk of his own; and she had been
taken in, and nursed, and brought back to perfect health; and there
was no single house in the world to which Mr Crediton lay under such
a weight of obligations. Was he to turn his back upon the house, and
ignore all gratitude? Was he to go and insult them, or what was he to
do? He was very angry, furious with Kate and her bold words, yet cowed
by her in a way most wonderful to behold. "We had better walk back to
the station; you are able enough for that, or at least you look so," he
said.
"That will show how highly you esteem my life," said Kate, "though even
that would be better than insulting them to their face."
"By Jove!" said Mr Crediton, under his breath; and he took a few
rapid turns up and down the road, with a perplexity which it would
be impossible to describe. At last he came to a stop opposite Kate,
who was watching him anxiously, without appearing to take any notice;
and she felt that the fit was over. He came back to her very sternly,
speaking with none of its usual softness in his voice.
"Kate," he said, "you have spoken in a very unpardonable, very
impertinent, way to me, but perhaps I have been wrong too. Of course
I am not going to transgress the laws of civility. My opinion is not
changed, but I hope I can be civil to my worst enemy. Get up, and let
us go to the Rectory; it is the only thing we can do."
Kate rose without a word, and put her hand upon her father's arm, and
the two stalked into Fanshawe Regis like two mutes following a funeral.
They neither looked at each other, nor uttered a syllable to each
other, but walked on side by side, feeling as if mutual hatred, and not
love, was the bond between them. But yet in her inmost heart Kate felt
that nothing was lost. The communication had been made, and the worst
was over--perhaps even something had been gained.
CHAPTER XIII.
It was perhaps well, on the whole, for the comfort of all the party,
that Mr Crediton had behaved so very badly on the first announcement of
this news. His self-betrayal put him on his guard. It recalled him to a
sense of needful restraint, and that the Mitfords were not, after all,
people to be treated with contempt. He was very serious and somewhat
stiff during the luncheon, which was sufficiently trying to all the
party, but he was not uncivil. Of John he took no notice at all after
the first formal recognition, but to Mrs Mitford and the Doctor he was
studiously polite, making them little speeches of formal gratitude.
"I find my child perfectly recovered, thanks to your kind care," he
said. "I can never sufficiently express my deep sense of obligation
to you." This speech called up an angry flush on John's cheek, but
not a word was spoken by any of the party to imply that there was any
stronger bond than that of kindness between Kate and the people who had
been so good to her. The two young people were made to feel that they
were secondary altogether. The thoughts of their elders might, indeed,
be occupied about them, but they themselves were struck out of the
front of the action, and relegated to their natural place. Mr Crediton
carried this so far that, when luncheon was over, he turned to Dr
Mitford and asked to speak with him, altogether ignoring the existence
of Dr Mitford's son. But John had risen, and had taken matters into his
own hands.
"May I ask you to see me first, Mr Crediton?" he said. "There are some
things of which I am most anxious to speak to you at once."
Mr Crediton rose too, and made John a little formal bow. "I am at your
service," he said; and Dr Mitford stood up, looking somewhat scared,
and listened; no doubt feeling himself, in his turn, thrust aside.
"I must not interfere," he said, with a kind of ghastly smile, "and I
take no responsibility in what my son is going to say; but if you will
both come to my library----"
"I should prefer speaking to Mr Crediton alone," said John. And then
it seemed that his father shrank like a polite ghost, and gave way to
the real hero of the situation. Mrs Mitford shrank too, joining in her
husband's involuntary gesture; and John marched boldly out, leading
the way, while Mr Crediton followed, and the Doctor went after them,
shrugging his shoulders with a faint assumption of indifference. It
seemed as if some magician had waved a wand, and the three gentlemen
disappeared out of the room, leaving Mrs Mitford and Kate looking
at each other. And there they sat half stupefied, with their hearts
beating, till Jervis came in to clear the table, and looked at them
as a good servant looks, with suspicious watchful eyes, as if to say,
What is it all about, and what do you mean by it, sitting there after
your meal is over, and giving yourselves up to untimely agitations,
disturbing Me? Mrs Mitford obeyed that look as a well-brought-up woman
always does. She said, "Come, Kate! what can you and I be thinking of?"
and led the way into the drawing-room. She did this with an assumption
of liveliness and light-heartedness which was overdoing her part. "We
need not take the servants into our confidence, at least," she said,
sitting down by her work-table, and taking out her knitting as usual.
But it was a very tremulous business, and soon the needles dropped
upon her knee. Kate, too, attempted to resume the piece of worsted
work she had been doing, and to look as if nothing had happened; but
her attempt was even more futile. When they had sat in this way silent
for some five minutes, the girl's agitation got the better of her. She
threw the work aside, and ran and threw herself at Mrs Mitford's feet.
"Oh, mamma, say something to me!" she cried; "I feel as if I could not
breathe. And I never had any mother of my own."
Then John's mother lost the composure for which she had been
struggling. Her heart was not softened to Kate personally at that
climax of all the trouble which Kate had brought upon her, but she
could not resist such an appeal; and she too could scarcely breathe,
and wanted companionship in her trouble. It was hard to take into
her heart the girl who was the occasion of it all; but yet Kate was
suffering too. Mrs Mitford fell a-crying, which was the first natural
expression of her feelings, and then she laid her hand softly on Kate's
head, and by degrees allowed herself to be taken possession of. They
were just beginning to talk to each other, to open their hearts, and
enter into all those mutual explanations which women love, when Kate's
quick youthful eyes caught sight of two black figures in the distance
among the trees on the other side of the blazing summer lawn. She broke
off in the middle of a sentence, and gave a low cry, and clutched
at Mrs Mitford's gown. "They are there!" cried Kate, with a gasp of
indescribable suspense. And Mrs Mitford, when she saw them, began to
cry softly again.
"Oh, what is he saying to my boy?" cried the agitated woman, wringing
her hands. To see the discussion going on before their eyes gave the
last touch of the intolerable to their anxiety.
"Oh, Kate, I am a bad woman!" said Mrs Mitford; "I could hate you, and
I could hate your father, for bringing all this trouble on my John."
"I don't wonder," cried Kate, in her passion; and then she made an
effort to conquer herself. "Papa cannot eat him," she added, with a
little harsh laugh of emotion. "I have had the worst of it. He will
never say to John what he said to me."
"What did he say to you?"
"Oh, nothing!" she cried, recollecting herself. "He is my own papa;
he has a right to say what he likes to me. It is John who is speaking
now--that is a good sign. And when he chooses, and takes the trouble,
John can speak so well; he is so clever. I never meant to have let him
do all this, and give everybody so much trouble; but when he began to
talk like that, what was I to do?"
"Oh, Kate!" cried the mother, with her eyes full of tears, "we are so
selfish--we never thought of that! How were you to resist him more
than the rest of us? My dear boy--he had always such a winning way!"
"John is speaking still," said Kate. "Mamma, I think things must be
coming round. There--papa has put his hand on his arm. When he does
that he is beginning to give in. Oh, if we could only hear what they
say!"
"He is so earnest in all he does," said Mrs Mitford. "Kate! listen to
what I am going to say to you. If this ever comes to anything----"
"Of course it will come to something," cried Kate. "I am not so good
as John. If papa were to stand out, I should just wait till I was
one-and-twenty; and then, if John pleased---- Now they are turning back
again. Oh, will they never be done? It is just like men, walking and
talking, walking and talking for ever, and us poor women waiting here."
"But, Kate, listen to me," said Mrs Mitford, solemnly; "if it ever
comes to anything, you must be very very careful with my John. Look
at his dear face, how it shines with feeling! He loves you so--he
would put himself under your father's feet. I feel as if I could tell
you the very words he is saying. And you--you have been brought up so
differently. If you were tempted to be careless, and forget his ways of
thinking, and prefer society and the world----"
"I see how it is," said Kate, with a mournful cadence in her voice--she
did not turn her head, for her eyes were still intently fixed on the
distant figures out of doors; "I see how it is--you don't think I am
the right girl for John."
"I did not say so," said Mrs Mitford, humbly; "how can I tell? I can't
divine what is in my own boy's heart, and how can I divine yours? But I
will love you for his sake. Oh, Kate! if you are good to him----"
Here the conversation came to a sudden pause; for the two who were
outside were seen to turn in the direction of Dr Mitford's study, and
to enter the house, which made the crisis come nearer, as it were.
Neither of the two ladies could have told how the afternoon passed.
Every sound that went through the house seemed to them significant.
Sometimes a door would open or shut, and paralyse them for the moment.
Sometimes a sound as of a single step would be heard in one of the
passages, and then Mrs Mitford and Kate would rise up and flush
crimson, and listen as if they had not been listening all the time.
"Now they are coming!" one or the other would say, with a gasp, for the
waiting affected their very breathing. Except on these occasions, they
scarcely exchanged two words in half an hour. From time to time Kate
looked at her watch, and made a remark under her breath about the hour.
"It is too late for the four o'clock train," she said; and then it was
too late for the mail at half-past five; and all this time not a word
came out of the stillness to relieve their anxiety. The bees buzzed
about the garden, and the sun shone and shone as if he never could
weary of shining, and blazed across the monotonous lawn and vacant
paths, which no step or shadow disturbed. Oh the burden of the silence
that lay upon that whole smiling world outside, where not even a leaf
would move, so eager was nature to have the first word of the secret!
When Mrs Mitford's needles clicked in her tremulousness, Kate glanced
up with eyes of feverish reproach; and when Kate's scissors fell, the
room echoed with the sound, and Mrs Mitford felt it an injury. Thus
the long, weary, languid afternoon passed on. When Jervis began to
stir with his preparations for dinner, and to move about his pantry,
with clink and clang of glass and silver, laying the table, the sounds
were to them like the return of a jury into their box to the anxious
wretches waiting for their verdict. Dinner was coming, that augustest
of modern ceremonies, and the ladies felt instinctively that things
must now come to a decision. And accordingly, it was just after Jervis
had carried his echoing tray out of the pantry to the sideboard when
the door of the study at last opened, and steps were heard coming along
the passage--Dr Mitford's steps, creaking as they came, and another
footstep, which Kate knew to be her father's. Not John! The ladies sat
bolt upright, and grew red and grew pale, and felt the blood tingle
to their finger-points. And then they looked at each other, and asked,
silently, "Where has he gone?"
This time it was no longer the jurymen. It was the judge himself,
coming solemn with his verdict. The gentlemen came into the room one
behind the other, Mr Crediton looking worn and tired, and even Dr
Mitford's white tie grown limp with suspense and emotion. But it was he
who was the first to speak.
"I am sorry to have left you so long by yourselves," he said, with a
little air of attempted jauntiness, which sat very strangely on him,
"and to have kept Mr Crediton away from you; but we had a great deal
to talk over, and business, you know, must be attended to. My dear,
it was business of a very momentous kind. And now, Miss Kate," said
the Rector, turning upon her, and holding out both his hands--he
smiled, but his smile was very limp, like his tie, and even his hands,
though not expressive generally, trembled a little--"now, Miss Kate,
for the first time I feel at liberty to speak to you. You must have
thought me very hard and cold the other night; but now I have your
father's permission to bid you welcome to my family," Dr Mitford went
on, smiling a ghastly smile; and he stooped over her and kissed her
forehead, and held her hands, waving them up and down as if he did not
know what to do with them. "I don't know why my son has not come to be
the first to tell you. Everything is settled at last!"
"Where is John?" cried Mrs Mitford, with her soft cheeks blazing. And
her husband dropped Kate's hands as if they had burned him, and they
all paused and looked at each other with an embarrassment and restraint
which nobody could disguise.
"To do him justice, I don't think he felt himself equal to a grand
tableau of family union and rapture," said Mr Crediton. "Mrs Mitford,
I don't pretend to be overjoyed. I don't see why we should make any
pretences about it. They have done a very foolish thing, and probably
they will repent of it----"
But this was more than John's mother could bear. "One of them, I am
sure, will never have any reason to repent of it," she said, with
irrepressible heat, not thinking of the double meaning that her words
might bear.
"I hope it may be so," Mr Crediton said, and shook his head. And
there was again a silence, and Kate sat with all her veins swelling
as if they would burst, and her heart beating in her very throat, and
nobody taking any further notice of her. What was it to any of them in
comparison with what it was to her? and yet nobody even looked at her.
It seemed so utterly incredible, that for the moment she was stunned
and dumb, and capable of nothing but amazement.
"No," said her father again, after a pause; "I don't pretend to be
overjoyed. We have had a great deal of talk, and the talk has not been
agreeable. And, Mrs Mitford, if I am to judge by your looks, I should
say you were no more happy at the thought of losing your son than I am
at that of losing my daughter--in so foolish a way."
"Let us hope it may turn out better than we think," said Dr Mitford;
and then came the inevitable pause, which made every sentence sound so
harsh and clear.
"There is certainly room for the hope," said Mr Crediton; "fortunately
it must be a long time before anything comes of it. Your son seems to
have quite relinquished the thought of going into the Church."
"Have you settled that too?--is it all decided? Oh, Dr Mitford,
you have been hasty with him!" cried John's mother. "I told you if
you would but take time enough, and go into things with him, and
explain----"
"I don't think explaining would have done much good," said Mr Crediton.
"It rarely does, when a young fellow has got such an idea into his
head. The only thing is, that when a boy changes once he may change
twice--when he is older, and this fever-fit, perhaps, may be over----"
"Oh, can you sit and hear this?" cried Kate, springing to her feet.
"Oh, papa, how can you be so wicked and so rude? Do you think John is
like that--to take a fancy and give it over? And you are his mother,
and know him best, and you leave him to be defended by me!"
"Kate, my dear!" cried Mrs Mitford, hastening to her, "you make me
hate myself. You understand my boy--you stand up for him when his own
flesh and blood is silent. And I love you with all my heart! And I will
never, never grudge him to you again!"
And the two women rushed into each other's arms, and clung together in
a passion of tears and mutual consolation; while the men, for their
part, looked grimly on, vanquished, yet finding a certain satisfaction
in their sense of superiority to any such folly. Mr Crediton sat down,
with the hard unsympathetic self-possession of a man who has still a
blow to deliver; and poor Dr Mitford walked up and down the room, aware
of what was yet to come. But in the mean time the victims over whom the
stroke was lowering had delivered themselves all at once from their
special misery. The ice had broken between them. John, who had divided
them, became all at once their bond of union. "Mamma, if you will
stand by me I can do anything," Kate whispered, with her lips upon
Mrs Mitford's cheek. "My own child!" John's mother whispered in reply;
and thus the treaty was made which was to set all other diplomacies at
nought.
"I think it is a great pity," said Mr Crediton again, "but of course,
in the turn that circumstances have taken, I must help him as best I
can. It is not very much I can do, for you are aware when a young man
changes his profession all in a minute, it is a difficult thing to
provide for him. And he did not seem to have any clear idea what to
do with himself. Probably you will feel it is not equal to your son's
pretensions, Mrs Mitford--but I have offered him a clerkship in my
bank."
"A clerkship in your bank!" cried Mrs Mitford, petrified. She withdrew
a little from Kate in her consternation, and sat down and gazed, trying
to take in and understand this extraordinary piece of news.
"Papa, you cannot mean it," cried Kate, vehemently. "Oh, are you papa,
or somebody come to mock us? A clerkship in the bank--for Dr Mitford's
son--for--John!"
"John is no doubt possessed of many attractions," said Mr Crediton,
in his hardest tones, "but I am only an ordinary mortal, and I cannot
make him Prime Minister. When a man throws himself out of his proper
occupation, he must take what he can get. And he has accepted my offer,
Kate. He is not so high-flown as you are; and I can assure you a man
may do worse than be a clerk in my bank."
"It is a most honourable introduction to commerce," said Dr Mitford,
coming forward very limp and conciliatory; "and commerce, as I have
often said, is the great power of the nineteenth century. My dear,
it is not what we expected--of course it is very different from what
we expected; but if I put up with it---- It cannot be such a
disappointment to you as it is to me."
Mrs Mitford turned away with an impatient cry. Her very sense of
decorum failed her. Though she had kept up the tradition of her
husband's superiority so long that she actually believed in it, yet on
this point he was not superior. She was driven even out of politeness,
the last stronghold of a well-bred woman. She could not be civil to
the man who had thus outraged her pride and all her hopes. She sat and
moaned and rocked herself, saying, "My boy! my boy!" in a voice of
despair.
"He is saying it only to try us," cried Kate. "He is not cruel. Papa,
you have always been so good to me! Oh, he does not mean it. It is
only--some frightful--joke or other. Papa, you don't mean what you say?"
"I do mean what I say," said Mr Crediton, abruptly; "and when I say so,
I think I may congratulate both Mrs Mitford and myself that, whatever
foolish thing our children may make up their minds to do, they cannot
do it very soon. We have had enough of this nonsense for the present,
Kate. Dr Mitford is so kind as to ask us to stop for dinner. We must
wait now for the nine o'clock train."
And just then Jervis, curious but unenlightened, rang the first bell.
And what are all the passions and all the struggles of the heart
compared to Dinner, invincible potentate? Mrs Mitford and Kate gathered
themselves together meekly at the sound of that summons. Against it
they did not dare to remonstrate. They gave each other a silent kiss
as they parted at the door of Kate's room, but they could not resist
nor trifle with such a stern necessity. "Where was John?" they asked
themselves, as each stood before her glass, trying as best she could
to clear away the trace of tears, and to hide from their own eyes and
from the sharp eyes of the servants all signs of the crisis they had
been going through. Kate had to retain her morning dress, as she had
still a journey before her; but she was elaborate about her hair, by
way of demonstrating her self-possession. "Papa has put off till the
nine o'clock train; and it is so tiresome of him, making one go down to
dinner like a fright," she said to Parsons, trying to throw dust in the
eyes of that astute young woman. As if Parsons did not know!
As for John, he had been wandering about stupefied ever since that
amazing conclusion had been come to, in such a state of confusion that
he could not realise what had happened. Kate was to be his. That was
the great matter which had been decided upon. But notwithstanding
his passionate love for Kate, this was not what bulked largest in his
mind. The world somehow had turned a somersault with him, and he could
not make out whether he had lighted on solid earth again, or was still
whirling in the dizzy air. His past life had all shrivelled away from
him as if it had never been. His sensations were those of a man who has
rolled over some tremendous precipice; or who wakes out of a swoon to
find himself lying on some battle-field. He was very sore and battered
and beaten, tingling all over with bruises; and the relative position
of the world, and everything in it, to himself was changed. It might
be the same sky and the same soil to others, but to him everything was
different. Kate was to be his; but that was in the future. And for the
present he was to begin life, not in any noble way for the service of
others, but as a clerk in Mr Crediton's bank.
CHAPTER XIV.
Mr Crediton's bank was in the High Street of Camelford--a low-roofed,
rather shabby-looking office, with dingy old desks and counters, at
which the clerks sat about in corners, all visible to the public,
and liable to constant distraction. The windows were never cleaned,
on principle, and there were some iron bars across the lower half of
them. Mr Crediton's own room was inside--you had to pass through the
office to reach it; and the banker, when he chose to open his door,
was visible to the clerks and the public at the end of the dingy
vista, just as the clerks, and the public entering at the swing-door,
and sometimes the street outside, were to him. The office was a kind
of lean-to to the house, which was much loftier, more imposing, and
stately; and Mr Crediton's room communicated with his dwelling by a
dark passage. The whole edifice was red brick, and recalled the age
of the early Georges, or even of their predecessor Anne--a time when
men were not ashamed of their business, but at the same time did it
unpretendingly, and had no need during office hours of gilding or
plate-glass. The house had a flight of steps up to it almost as high
as the top of the office windows, and a big iron horn to extinguish
links, and other traces of a moderate antiquity. Up to these steps Kate
Crediton's horse would be led day after day, or her carriage draw up,
in very sight of the clerks behind their murky windows. They kept their
noses over their desks all day, in order that a butterfly creature,
in all the brilliant colours of her kind, might flutter out and in in
the sunshine, and take her pleasure. That was perhaps what some of
them thought. But, to tell the truth, I don't believe many of them
thought so. Even Mr Whichelo, the head clerk, whose children were often
ailing, and who had a good deal of trouble to make both ends meet,
smiled benign upon Kate. Had she been her own mother, it might have
been different; but she was a creature of nineteen, and everybody felt
it was natural. The clerks, with their noses at the grindstone, and
her father sombre in the dingy room, working hard too in his way--all
to keep up the high-stepping horses, the shining harness, the silks
and velvets, and the high supremacy of that thing like a rosebud who
sat princess among them,--after all, was it not quite natural? What is
the good of the stem but to carry, and of the leaves and thorns but to
protect, the flower?
But it may be supposed that John Mitford's feelings would be of a very
strange description when he found himself dropped down in Mr Crediton's
office, as if he had dropped from the skies. He was the junior clerk,
and did not know the business, and his perch was behind backs, not
far from one of the windows from which he could see all Kate's
exits and entrances. He saw the public, too, coming and going, the
swing-door flashing back and forward all day long, and on Saturdays and
market-days caught sometimes the wondering glances of country folks who
knew him. He sat like a man in a dream, while all these things went on
around him. How his life had changed! What had brought him here? what
was to come of it? were questions which glided dreamily through John's
brain from time to time, but he could give no answer to them. He was
here instead of at Fanshawe Regis; instead of serving the world and his
generation, as he had expected to do, he was junior clerk in a banker's
office, entering dreary lines of figures into dreary columns. How had
it all come about? John was stupefied by the fall and by the surprise,
and all the overwhelming dreary novelty; and accordingly he sat the day
through at first, and did what he was told to do with a certain apathy
beyond power of thinking; but that was a state of mind, of course,
which could not last for ever. Yet even when that apathy was broken,
the feeling of surprise continued to surmount all other feelings. He
had taken this strange step, as he supposed, by his own will; nobody
had forced or even persuaded him. It was his own voluntary doing; and
yet how was it? This question floated constantly, without any power on
his part to answer it, about his uneasy brain.
He was close to Kate, sitting writing all day long under a roof
adjoining the very roof that sheltered her, with herself before his
eyes every day. For he could not help but see her as she went out and
in. But still it was doubtful whether there was much comfort in those
glimpses of her. Mr Crediton had not been unkind to him; but he had
never pretended, of course, to be deeply delighted with the unexpected
choice which his daughter had made. "If I consent to Kate's engagement
with you," he had said, "it must be upon my own conditions. It is
likely to be a long time before you can marry, and I cannot have a
perpetual philandering going on before my eyes. She might like it,
perhaps, for that is just one of the points upon which girls have no
feeling; but you may depend upon it, it would be very bad for you,
and I should not submit to it for a moment. I don't mean to say that
you are not to see her, but it must be only at stipulated times. Thus
far, at least, I must have my own way." John had acquiesced in this
arrangement without much resistance. It had seemed to him reasonable,
comprehensible. Perpetual philandering certainly would not do. He had
to work--to acquire a new trade foreign to all his previous thoughts
and education--to put himself in the way of making money and providing
for his wife; and he too could see as well as her father that to be
following her about everywhere, and interrupting the common business
of life by idle love-making, however beatific it might be, was simply
impossible. To be able to look forward now and then to the delight of
her presence--to make milestones upon his way of the times in which he
should be permitted to see her, and sun himself in her eyes,--with that
solace by the way, John thought the time would pass as the time passed
to Jacob--as one day; and he accordingly assented, almost without
reluctance.
But he did not know when he consented thus to the father's conditions
that Kate would be flashing before him constantly under an aspect
so different from that in which he had known her. The engagement,
though it made such an overwhelming difference to him, made little
difference to Kate. She had come home to resume her usual life--a life
not like anything that was familiar to him. Poor John had never known
much about young ladies. He had never become practically aware of the
place which amusement holds in such conditions of existence--how, in
fact, it becomes the framework of life round which graver matters
gather and entwine themselves; and it was a long time before he fully
made the discovery, if, indeed, he did ever make it. Society could
scarcely be said to exist in Fanshawe Regis; and those perpetual
ridings and drivings and expeditions here and there--those dinners and
dances--those afternoon assemblages--the music and the chatter, the
va et vient, the continual flutter and movement, confounded the
young man. He tried to be glad at first that she had so much gaiety,
and felt very sorry for himself, who was shut out from all share in
it. And then he got a little puzzled and perplexed. Did this sort of
thing go on for ever? Was there never to be any break in it? Kate
herself unconsciously unfolded to him its perennial character without
the remotest idea of the amazement she was exciting in his mind. So
far as John's experience went, a dance, or even a dinner-party, or a
croquet-party, or a picnic, were periodical delights which came at
long intervals; but they were the common occupations of life to Kate.
He felt that he could have lived and worked like Jacob for twice seven
years, had his love been living such a life as Rachel did by his
side--going out with the flocks, tending the lambs, drawing water at
the fountain, smiling shy and sweet at him from the tent-door. These
were the terms in which his imagination put it. Had he seen Kate trip
by the window as his mother did with her little basket, or trip back
again with a book, after his own ideal of existence, his heart would
have blessed her as she passed, and he himself would have returned
to his ledger and worked twice as hard, and learned his duties twice
as quickly; but to see her flash away from the door amid a cavalcade
of unknown riders--to see her put into her carriage by some man whom
he longed to kick on the spot--to watch her out of sight going into
scenes where his imagination could not follow her, was very hard upon
John. And thus to see her every day, and yet never, except once a-week
or so, exchange words with her! Against his will, and in spite of all
his exertions, this sense of her continual presence, and of her unknown
friends, and life which was so close to him, and yet so far from him,
absorbed his mind. When he should have been working his office work he
was thinking where could she have gone to-day? When he ought to have
been awakening to the interests of the bank, he was brooding with a
certain sulkiness quite unnatural to him over the question, who that
man could be who put her on her horse? It is impossible to describe how
all this hindered and hampered him, and what a chaos it made of his
life.
And even Kate herself found it very different from what she had
anticipated. She sent in a servant for him several times at first; and
once, when she had some little errand in the town, had the audacity
to walk into the bank in her proper person and call her lover from
his desk. "Please tell Mr Mitford I want him," she said, looking Mr
Whichelo full in the face, with an angelical blush and smile; and when
he came to her, Kate turned to him before all the clerks, who were
watching with a curiosity which may be imagined. "Oh John," she said,
"come with me as far as Paterson's. It is market-day, and I don't like
to walk alone." Of course he went, though he had his work to do. Of
course he would have gone whatever had been the penalty. The penalty
was that Mr Crediton gave Kate what she called "a dreadful scold." "It
was like a fishwoman, you know," she confided to John afterwards. "I
could not have believed it of papa; but I suppose when people are in a
passion they are all alike, and don't mind what they say."
"It is because he grudges you to me," said poor John, with a sigh, "and
I don't much wonder;" upon which Kate clasped her two pretty hands on
his arm, and beguiled him out of all his troubles. This was on one of
the Sunday evenings which it was his privilege to spend with her. Mr
Crediton was old-fashioned, and saw no company on Sundays, and that
was the day on which John was free to come to spend as much of it as he
pleased with his betrothed. At first he had begun by going to luncheon,
and remaining the whole afternoon in her company; but very soon it came
to be the evening only which was given up to him. Either it was that
Mr Crediton made himself disagreeable at luncheon, or that he thrust
engagements upon Kate, reminding her that she had promised to read to
him, or copy letters for him, or some altogether unimportant matter.
Mr Crediton, though he was so much the best off of the party that he
had thus the means of avenging himself, was not without grievances
too; indeed, had he been consulted, he would probably have declared
himself the person most aggrieved. His only child was about to be
taken from him, and her society was already claimed by this nameless
young man, without any particular recommendation, whom in her caprice
she preferred. The Sunday afternoons had been the banker's favourite
moment; he had nothing to do, and his doors were shut against society,
and his child was always with him. No wonder that he used all the
means in his power to drive back the enemy from that sacred spot.
And Mr Crediton had means in his power,--unlike Mrs Mitford, who sat,
more alone than he, by her bedroom window all the hours when she was
not at church, and wiped noiselessly again and again the tears out of
her eyes. John's mother suffered more from this dreary change than
words could say. She had not the heart to sit down-stairs except
when it was necessary for that outline of family life consisting of
prayers and meals, which, to Dr Mitford's mind, filled up all possible
requirements. Mrs Mitford did not tell her husband what she was
thinking. There seemed no longer any one left in the world who cared to
know. And she could not punish Kate as Mr Crediton could punish John.
Probably she would not have done it if she could, for to punish Kate
would have been to punish him too; but oh, she sometimes thought to
herself, if her horse had only run away with her before somebody else's
door, this might never have been!
Thus it will be seen that this pretty young lady and that first
caprice for the subjugation of John which came into her mind before
she had seen him, in the leisure of her convalescence, had affected
the friends of both in anything but a happy way. Indeed nobody except
perhaps Kate herself got any good out of the new bond. To her, who at
the present moment was not called upon to make any sacrifice or give
up anything, the possession of John, as of some one to fall back upon,
was pleasant enough. She had all her usual delights and pleasures,
lived as she had always lived, amused herself as of old, was the
envy of her companions, the ringleader in all their amusements, the
banker's only, much-indulged, fortunate child; and at the same time
she had John to worship her on those Sunday evenings which once had
been rather dull for Kate. When Mr Crediton dozed, as he sometimes did
after dinner, or when he was busy with the little private pieces of
business he used to give himself up to on Sunday evenings, there was
her lover ready to bow down before her. It was the cream and crown of
all her many enjoyments. Everybody admired, petted, praised, and was
good to Kate--and John adored her. She looked forward to her Sunday
ramble round the old-fashioned garden, sometimes in the dark, sometimes
in the moonlight, with an exquisite sense of something awaiting her
there which had a more subtle, penetrating, delicious sweetness than
all the other sweets surrounding her. And she felt that he was happy
too as soon as she had placed her little hand on his arm--and forgot
that there was anything in his lot which could make him feel that he
had bought his happiness dearly. Kate was young, and knew nothing about
life, and therefore was unconsciously selfish. She was happy, without
any drawback to her happiness; and so, naturally and as a matter of
course, she took him to be, forgetting that he had purchased that
hour on the Sunday evenings by the sacrifice of all the prejudices
and all the habits and prospects and occupations of his life. This
unconsciousness was one from which she might awaken any day. A chance
word might open her eyes to it, and show her, to her own disgust
and confusion, the immense price he was paying for so transitory
a delight; but at present nothing had awakened such a thought in
her mind, and she was the one happy among the five most intimately
concerned.
Next after Kate in contentment with the new state of affairs was Dr
Mitford, who saw a prospect of a very satisfactory "settlement in life"
for his son, though he did not feel any very great satisfaction in the
preliminaries. It was a pain to him, though a mild one, that John had
abandoned the Church and become a clerk in a banker's office. It was a
pain, and a little humiliation too, for everybody in Fanshawe Regis,
and even the neighbouring clergymen, shook their heads and were very
sorry to hear it, and wounded Dr Mitford's pride. But, after all, that
was a trifling drawback in comparison with the substantial advantage
of marrying so much money as was represented by Kate Crediton. "And
fond of her too," he would say to himself in his study when he paused
in one of his articles and thought it over. But yet the articles were
interrupted by thinking it over as they had never been used to be. It
gave him a passing twinge now and then, but it was he who suffered the
least after Kate.
As for Mr Crediton, there was a certain sullen wrath in his mind
which he seldom suffered to have expression, yet which plagued him
like a hidden wound. To think that for this lout, this country lad,
his child should, as it were, have jilted him, made light of all his
wishes, shown a desire to separate herself from him and the life which
he had fenced round from every care, and made delightful with every
indulgence that heart could desire! He had gone out of his way to
contrive pleasures for her, and to surround her with everything that
was brilliant and fair like herself. She was more like a princess
than a banker's daughter, thanks to his unchanging, unremitting
thoughtfulness; and this was how she had rewarded him the very
first opportunity she had. Mr Crediton was very sore and wroth, as
fathers are sometimes. Mothers are miserable and lonely and jealous
often enough, heaven knows! but the fathers are wroth with that
inextinguishable wonder--how the love-making of some trumpery young
man should, in a day or two, or a week or two, obliterate their deeper
love and all the bonds of nature--which lies as deep in the heart as
does the young impulse which calls it forth. Mr Crediton was angry,
not so much, except at moments, with Kate, as with the world, and
nature, and things in general--and John. He could not cross or thwart
his child, but he would have been glad in his heart if something had
happened to the man whom his child loved. Such sentiments are wicked,
and they are very inconsistent--but they exist everywhere, and it would
be futile to deny them; and the consequence was, that Mr Crediton was
much less happy after his daughter's engagement, and put up with it by
an effort; and, while John had his moment of delight on those Sunday
evenings, was, for his part, anything but delighted. It even made him
less good a man. He sat and fretted by himself, and found it very
difficult to occupy his mind with any other subject. It vexed him to
think of his Kate thus hanging on a stranger's arm. Of course he had
always known that she must marry some time, but he had thought little
of it as an approaching calamity; and then it had appeared certain that
there would be a blaze of external advantage, and perhaps splendour, in
any match Kate could make, which perhaps, prospectively at least, would
lessen the blow. If it had exalted her into the higher circles of the
social paradise, he felt as if the deprivation to himself would have
been less great. But here there was nothing to make amends--no salve to
his wounded tenderness. Poor John! Mr Crediton had the justice now and
then to feel that John was paying a hard price for his felicity. "Serve
the fellow right," he said, and almost hated him; and pondered, with a
sourd sense of cruelty and wrong-doing, how he might be got rid
of and removed out of the way.
Mrs Mitford, for her part, was simply unhappy, without hoping to mend
matters, or thinking any more than she could help about the cause.
She had lost her boy. To be sure it is what most mothers have to look
forward to; but she, up to the very last, had been flattering herself
that she should not be as most mothers. It had seemed so clear that
his lot was cast at home, where surely his duty was; and the change had
this double aggravation to her, that she had expected him not only to
make her personally happy, but to carry on and develop the work of her
life. It was she who had been for all these years the real spiritual
head of Fanshawe Regis. Dr Mitford had done the "duty," and had
preached the sermons, but every practical good influence, every attempt
to mend the rustic parish, to curb its characteristic vices, or develop
its better qualities, had come from his wife. And she had laboured
on for years past, with the conviction that her son would perfect
everything she began; that he would bring greater knowledge to it, and
a more perfectly trained mind, and all the superior understanding which
such humble women hold to be natural to a man. When she had to give up
this hope, it seemed to her at first as though the world had come to
an end. What was the use of doing anything more, of carrying on the
plans which must now die with her? The next new curate would probably
care nothing about her schemes, and even might set himself to thwart
her, as new curates sometimes do when a clergywoman is too active in
a parish. And she was sick of the world and everything in it. The
monotony of her life, from which all the colour seemed to have died out
in a moment, suddenly became apparent to her, and all the failures, and
obstructions, and hindrances which met her at every side. What could
she do, a weak woman, she said to herself, against all the powers of
darkness, as embodied in Fanshawe Regis? Would it not be best to resign
the unprofitable warfare and sink back into quiet, and shut out the
mocking light?
Poor Mrs Mitford! wherever she went the people asked her questions
about Mr John. Was he not to be a clergyman after all? Was it along
o' his lass that wouldn't let him do as he wished? What was it? His
mother came home with her heart wearied by such inquiries, and sick
with disappointment and misery. And she would go up to the room in
which he was born, and cry, and say to herself that she never never
could encounter it again. And oh, how dreary it was sitting down-stairs
for the few moments which necessity and Dr Mitford required, in those
summer nights when the moths were flying by scores in at the open
window, and dimness reigned in all the corners, and the lamp shone
steady and clear on the table! In all the obscurity round her, her son
was not lurking. He was not ready to step in by the open window as
he had done so often. He was with Kate Crediton, giving up his whole
heart and soul to her; and his father and mother rang for the servants,
and had prayers, as though they had never had any children. What a
change, what a change it was! Mrs Mitford knew that it was impossible
to thwart providence, let its plans be ever so unsatisfactory; but oh,
she said to herself, why did not Kate's accident happen close to the
Huntleys, or to any house but hers? Other boys were not so romantic,
not so tender-hearted; and other mothers had heaps of children, and
could not brood over the fortunes of every individual among them, as
Mrs Mitford, with an ache of helpless anger at herself, knew that she
brooded over John's. But all was in vain. She could not mend matters
now. She could not mend her own bleeding, aching heart. And after all,
the only thing possible was to go back to her work, whatever might
come of it, and do her best. She could bear anything, she thought, but
those Sunday nights--moments which had once been so sweet, and were now
so solitary. She said not a word to any one, and tried hard to keep
herself from thinking; and she wrote kind, cheerful little letters to
her boy, who, for his part, was so very good in writing regularly--so
unlike most young men, as she told the people. But after she had
finished those cheery, pleasant, gossiping letters, with all the news
of the parish in them, Mrs Mitford would sit down and have a good cry.
Oh what a change there was! how silent the house was, how ghostly the
garden where she was always thinking she heard his step! The servants
came in and went out again, and the father and the mother would sit
together softly without a word, as if they had no child. Thus it will
be seen that, of all concerned, it was Mrs Mitford who suffered most;
but that none was satisfied, or felt the slightest approach of anything
like happiness in the new state of affairs, unless, indeed, it might be
Kate.
CHAPTER XV.
There is nothing so hard in human experience as to fit in the
exceptional moments of life into their place, and bring them into a
certain harmony with that which surrounds them; and in youth it is
doubly hard to understand how it is that the exceptional can come
only in moments. When the superlative either of misery or happiness
arrives, there is nothing so difficult to an imaginative mind as to
descend from that altitude and allow that the commonplace must return,
and the ordinary resume its sway. And perhaps, more than any other
crisis, the crisis of youthful passion and romance is the one which
it is most difficult to come down from. It has wound up the young
soul to an exaltation which has scarcely any parallel in life; even
to the least visionary, the event which has happened--the union which
has taken place between one heart and another--the sentiment which has
concentrated all beauty and lovableness and desirableness in one being,
and made that being his--is something too supreme and dazzling to fall
suddenly into the light of common day. John Mitford was not matter of
fact, and the situation to him was doubly exciting. It was attended,
besides, by the disruption of his entire life; and though he would
readily have acknowledged that the rest of his existence could not be
passed in those exquisite pangs and delights--that mixture of absolute
rapture in being with her, and visionary despair at her absence--which
had made up the story of his brief courtship; yet there was in him
a strong unexpressed sense that the theory of life altogether must
henceforward be framed on a higher level--that a finer ideal was before
him, higher harmonies, a more perfect state of being; instead of all
which dreams, when he came to himself he was seated on a high stool,
before a desk, under the dusty window of Mr Crediton's bank, with the
sound of the swinging door, and the voices of the public, and the
crackle of notes, and the jingle of coin in his ears, and a tedious
trade to learn, in which there seemed to him no possible satisfaction
of any kind! When John had said--in that golden age which already
seemed centuries past--that a clergyman's was the only work worth
doing, he had meant, that it was the only work for mankind in which a
man could have any confidence. He had said so, while in the same breath
he had expressed his want of absolute belief; and the one sentiment had
not affected the other. But here he found himself in a sphere where
it did not matter to any one what he believed--where he was utterly
out of the way of influencing other people's thoughts, and had none of
that work within reach which seems almost indispensable to men of his
training--work which should affect his fellow-men. So long as he knew
that two and two make four, that seemed to be all the knowledge that
was required of him. With a sense of surprise which almost stupefied
him, he found that all the careful education of his life was as nought
to him in his new sphere. If it did not harm him--which sometimes he
thought it did--at least it was totally useless. The multiplication
table was of more use than Homer or Virgil; and John's mind was the
mind of a scholar, not of an active thinker, much less doer. He was
the kind of man that dwells and lingers upon the cadence of a line or
the turn of a sentence--a man not always very sure which were the most
real--the men and women in his books, or those he pushed against in the
public ways. "We are such stuff as dreams are made of." Fancy a man
with such words in his mouth finding himself all at once a dream among
dreams, gazing vaguely over a counter at the public, feeling himself
utterly incapable of any point of encounter with that public such as
his education and previous training suggested, except in the way of
counting out money to them, or adding up the sums against them. What
a wonderful, wonderful change it was! And then to come down to this
from that exaltation of love's dream--to jump into this, shivering as
into an ice-cold bath, out of all the excitement of youthful plans and
fancies, visions of the nobler existence, ecstasy of first betrothal!
The shock was so immense that it took away his breath. He sat all
silent, chewing the cud of sweet and bitter fancy for days together,
and then got his hat and walked back to the shabby little rooms he had
taken on the outskirts of Camelford, stupefied, and not knowing what he
was about. What was he to do when he got there? He ate his badly-cooked
and painfully-homely meal, and then he would sit and stare at his two
candles as he stared at the public in the bank. He did not feel capable
of reading--what was the good of reading? Nothing that he had within
his reach could be of any use to him in his new career, and his mind
was not in a fit condition for resuming any studies or seeking out any
occupation for itself. When Kate made inquiries into his life on the
Sunday evenings, he found it very difficult to answer her. What could
he say? There was nothing in it which was worth describing, or which it
would have given her, he thought, anything but pain to know.
"But tell me, have you nice rooms--is there a nice woman to look
after you?" Kate would say. "If you don't answer me I shall have to
go and see them some day when you are at the bank. I will say you are
my--cousin, or something. Or perhaps if I were to tell the truth,"
she added, softly, with her favourite trick, almost leaning her head
against his arm, "it would interest her, and she would take more pains."
"And what would you say if you said the truth?" said foolish John. Poor
fellow! this was all he had for his sacrifice, and naturally he longed
for his hire, such as it was.
"I should say, of course, that you were a nearer one still, and a
dearer one," said Kate, with a soft little laugh; "what else? but oh,
John, is it not very different? That dear Fanshawe Regis, and your
mother, and everything you have been used to. Is it not very, very
different?" she cried, expecting that he would tell her how much more
blessed were his poor lodgings and close work when brightened by the
hope of her.
"Yes, it is very different," he said, in a dreamy, dreary tone. The
summer was stealing on; it was August by this time, and the days were
shortening. And it was almost dark, as dark as a summer night can
be, when they strayed about the garden in the High Street, which was
so different from the Rectory garden. There were few flowers, but at
the farther end some great lime-trees, old and vast, which made the
gravel-path look like a woodland road for twenty paces or so. She could
not see his face in the dark, but there was in his voice nothing of
that inflection which promised a flattering end to the sentence. Kate
was a little chilled, she did not know why.
"But you don't--grudge it?" she said, softly. "Oh, John, there is
something in your voice--you are not sorry you have done so much?--for
nothing but me?"
"Sorry!" he said, stooping over her--"sorry to be called into life
when I did not know I was living! But, Kate, if it were not for
this, that is my reward for everything, I will not deny that
there is a great difference. I should have been working upon men the
other way; and one gets contemptuous of money. Never mind, I care for
nothing while I have you."
"I never knew any one that was contemptuous of money," said Kate,
gravely; "people here say money can do everything. That is why I want
you to be rich."
"Dear," he said, holding her close to him, "you don't understand, and
neither did I. I don't think I shall ever be rich. How should I, a
clerk in a bank? Your father does not show me any favour, and it is
not to be expected he should. Who am I, that I should try to steal his
child from him? Since I have been here, Kate, there are a great many
things that I begin to understand----"
"What?" she said, as he paused; raising in the soft summer dark her
face to his.
"Well, for one thing, what a gulf there is between you and me!" he
said; "and how natural it was that your father should be vexed. And
then, Kate--don't let it grieve you, darling--how very very unlikely
it is that I shall ever be the rich man you want me to be. I thought
when we spoke of it once that anything you told me to do would be
easy; and so it would, if it was definite--anything to bear--if it was
labouring night and day, suffering tortures for you----"
Here Kate interrupted him with a little sob of excitement, holding his
arm clasped in both her hands: "Oh, John, do I want you to suffer?" she
cried. "You should have everything that was best in the world if it was
me----"
"But I don't know how to grow rich--I don't think I shall ever know,"
said John, with a sigh. Up to this moment he had restrained himself
and had given no vent to his feelings, but when the ice was once
broken they all burst forth. The two went on together up and down
under the big lime-trees, she gazing up at him, he bending down to
her, as they had done in the old garden at Fanshawe when he confided
his difficulties to her. He had thrust off violently that series of
difficulties, abandoning the conflict, but only to let a new set of
difficulties seize upon him in still greater strength than the former.
And the whole was complicated by a sense that it was somehow her doing,
and that a complaint of them was next to a reproach of her. But still
it was not in nature, his mouth being thus opened, that John could
refrain.
"I seem to be always complaining," he said--"one time of circumstances,
another time of myself; for it is of myself this time. Many a fellow
would be overjoyed, no doubt, to find himself in the way of making
his own fortune, but you can't think how little good I am. I suppose
I never was very bright. If you will believe me, Kate, not only shall
I never make any fortune where your father has placed me, but I am so
stupid that I cannot see how a man may rise out of such a position, nor
how a fortune is to be made."
"But people do it," said Kate, eagerly; "one hears of them every day.
Of course I don't know how. It is energy or something--making up their
minds to it; and of course though papa may look cross he must be
favourable to you. John, you know he must. If I thought he was
not, I should make him--I don't know what I should not make him do----"
"You must not make him do anything," said John. "You may be sure I
don't mean to give in--I shall try my best, and perhaps there may be
more in me than I think. I suppose it is seeing you, and being so far
apart from you, that is the worst. Except to-night--if the Sundays
came, say three times in a week----"
"I don't think I should like that," said Kate; "but seriously, you
know, don't you like to see me?--are you--jealous?" she asked, with a
little laugh. The talk had been too grave for her, and she was glad to
draw it down to a lower sphere.
"If I were," he said, with a sudden glow of passion, "I should go
away. I have never faced that idea yet; but if I were--jealous, as you
say----"
"What?" she cried, with the curiosity of her kind, clinging to him in
the fondest proximity, yet half pleased to play with her keen little
dagger in his heart.
"That would be the end," he said, with a long-drawn breath. And a
thrill of excitement came over Kate which was more pleasurable than
otherwise. Had she really stirred him up to the height of a grande
passion? It was not that she meant to be cruel to John. But such
an opportunity does not come in everybody's way. She could not help
wondering suddenly how he would feel under the trial, and how his
sufferings would show themselves. As for his going away, she did not
put much faith in that. He would be very unhappy, and there would be
a certain satisfaction in the sight of his torments. Kate did not say
this in words, nor was she conscious of meaning it; but in the mere
levity of her power the thought flashed through her mind. For, to be
sure, it would only be for a moment that she would let him suffer. When
she had enjoyed that evidence of her own supremacy, then she would
overwhelm him with kindness, prove to him how foolish he was ever to
doubt her, give herself to him without waiting for anybody's leave. But
in the mean time that strange curiosity to see how far her power went
which is at the bottom of so much cruelty ran through her mind. It all
went and came in the twinkling of an eye, passing like the lightning,
and when she answered him, poor John had no idea what a sudden gleam of
suggestion had come over her, or how far her imagination had gone in
the time.
"But there is not going to be an end," she said, in her soft, coaxing
voice. "And you will put up with it, and with papa, and with a great
many things we don't like--won't you? for the sake of a poor little
girl who is not worth it. Oh, John! you know you committed yourself to
all that when you saved my life."
John was nothing loath to commit himself now to anything she asked of
him; and as they strayed on under the dark rustling lime-trees, with
nobody within sight or sound, and the darkness enclosing them, utter
content came over the young man's mind. After all, was not this hour
cheaply purchased by all the tedium and all the disgusts of common
life? And even the common life looked more endurable in this sweet
gloom which was full of Kate's soft breathing, and the soft rustle of
her dress, and sense of her presence. She was so close to him, leaning
on his arm, and yet he could see nothing but an outline of her by his
side. It was thus she had been by him on the night which decided his
fate--a shadow-woman, tender, clinging, almost invisible. "Kate, Kate,"
he said, out of his full heart, "I wonder if you are a little witch
leading me astray?--for it is always in the dark when I can't see you
that you are good to me. When we go in you will be kind and sweet, but
you will be Miss Crediton. Are we shadows, you and I? or are you Undine
or Lorelei drawing me to my fate?"
"You foolish fellow," said Kate; "how could I be Undine and not a drop
of water nearer than Fanshawe Regis? Don't you see that when we go in
papa is there? You would not like me to write up in big letters--"I
have gone over to the enemy--I don't belong to you any longer. You
know, John, it would be true. I am not his now, poor papa, and
he is so fond of me; but you would not like me to put that on a flag
and have it carried before me; you would not be so cruel to papa?"
"I am a poor mortal," said John, "I almost think I could be cruel. If
you are not his, are you mine? Say so, you little Queen of Shadows, and
I will try to remember it and comfort my heart."
"Whose else should I be?" whispered Kate. And the lover's satisfaction
attained for a moment to that point of perfection which lasts but for
a moment. His heart seemed to stop beating in that ineffable fulness
of content. He took her into his arms in the soft summer darkness--two
shadows in a world of shadow. Everything around them, everything before
them, was dim with mist. Nothing could be more uncertain than their
prospects, a fact which John, at least, had begun to realise fully. The
whole scene was an illustration of the words which were so often in his
heart. Uncertain gusts of balmy wind, now from one quarter, now from
another, agitated the trees overhead. The faint twilight of the skies
confused all outlines--the darkness under the trees obliterated every
living thing--little mysterious thrills of movement, of the leaves, of
the air, of invisible insects or roosted birds, were about them. "We
are such stuff as dreams are made of." But amid these shadows for one
moment John caught a passing gleam of satisfaction and delight.
Mr Crediton was in the drawing-room all alone when they went in. Had
he been prudent he would have gone to his library, as he usually did,
and spared himself the sight; but this night a jealous curiosity had
possessed him. To see his child, who had been his for all these years,
come in with dazzled, dazzling eyes, and that soft blush on her cheek,
and her arm, even as they entered the room, lingering within that of
her lover, was very hard upon him. Confound him! he said in his heart,
although he knew well that but for John he would have had no child. He
noted the change which came over Kate--that change which chilled her
lover, and went through him like a blast from the snow-hills--without
any pleasure, almost with additional irritation. She is not even
frank, as she used to be, he said to himself. She puts on a face to
cheat me, and to make me believe I am something to her still; and it
might almost be said that Mr Crediton hated the young fellow who had
come between him and his child.
"It is such a lovely evening, papa," said Kate, "we could scarcely make
up our minds to come in. It is not the country, of course; but still I
am fond of our garden. Even at Fanshawe I don't think there are nicer
trees."
"Of course the perfection of everything is at Fanshawe," he said, with
a sudden sharpness which changed the very atmosphere of the room all
in a moment; "but I think it is imprudent to stay out so late, and it
is damp, and there is no moon. I thought you required a moon for such
rambles. Please let me have a cup of tea."
"We did very well without a moon," said Kate, trying to keep up her
usual tone; but it was not easy, and she went off with a subdued step
to the tea-table, and had not even the courage to call John to help her
as she generally did. Oh, why didn't papa stay in his own room? she
said to herself. It is only one night in the week, and he should not
be so selfish. But she took him his tea with her own hand, and tried
all she could to soothe him. "You have got a headache, papa," she said,
tenderly, putting down the cup on the table by him, and looking so
anxious, so ingenuous, and innocent, that it was hard to resist her.
"I have no headache," he said; "but I am busy. Don't take any
notice--occupy yourselves as you please, without any thought of me."
This speech was produced by a sudden compunction and sense of
injustice. It was a sacrifice to right, and yet he was all wrong and
set on edge. He thought that Kate should have perceived that this
amiability was forced and fictitious; but either she was insensible
to it, or she did not any longer care to go deeper than mere words.
She kissed his forehead as if he had been in the kindest mood, and
said, "Poor papa!--thanks. It is so kind of you to think of us when
you are suffering." To think of them! when she must have known he
was wishing the fellow away. And then Kate retired to the tea-table,
which was behind Mr Crediton, and out of sight, and he saw her beckon
to John with a half-perceptible movement. The young man obeyed, and
went and sat beside her, and the sound of their voices in low-toned
conversation, with little bursts of laughter and soft exclamations,
was gall and wormwood to the father. It was all "that fellow," he
thought: his Kate herself would never have used him so; and it was
all his self-control could do to prevent him addressing some bitter
words to John. But the fact was, it was Kate's doing alone--Kate,
who was less happy to-night than usual, but whom his tone had galled
into opposition. "No," she was whispering to John, "you are not to go
away--not unless you want to be rid of me. Papa ought to be
brought to his senses--he has no right to be so cross; and I am not
going to give in to him." This was the nature of the conversation which
was going on behind Mr Crediton's back. He did not hear it, and yet it
gave him a furious sense of resentment, which expressed itself at last
in various little assaults.
"Have the goodness not to whisper, Kate," he said. "You know it sets my
nerves on edge. Speak out," an address which had the effect of ending
all conversation between the lovers for a minute or two. They sat
silent and looked at each other till Mr Crediton spoke again. "I seem
unfortunately to act upon you like a wet blanket," he said, with an
acrid tone in his voice. "Perhaps you would rather I went away."
At this Kate's spirit was roused. "Papa, I don't know what I have done
to displease you," she said, coming forward. "If I am only to see him
once in the week, surely I may talk to him when he comes."
"I am not aware that I have objected to your talk," said Mr Crediton,
restraining his passion.
"Not in words," said Kate, now fairly up in arms; "but it is not just,
papa. It makes John unhappy and it makes me unhappy. He has a right
to have me to himself when he comes. You cannot forget that we are
engaged. I never said a word when you insisted on once a-week, though
it was a disappointment; but you know he ought not to be cheated now."
All this time John had been moving about at the further end of the
room, at once angry to the verge of violence, and discouraged to the
lowest pitch. He had cleared his throat and tried to speak a dozen
times already. Now he came forward, painfully restraining himself. "I
ought to speak," he said; "but I dare not trust myself to say anything.
Mr Crediton cannot expect me to give up willingly the only consolation
I have."
"It is time enough to speak of giving up when any one demands a
sacrifice," said Mr Crediton, taking upon him suddenly that superiority
of perfect calm with which a middle-aged man finds it so often possible
to confute an impatient boy. "I am sorry that my innocent remarks
should have irritated you both. You must school me, Kate," he added,
with a forced smile, "what I am to do and say."
And then he went to his room, with a sense that he had won the
victory. And certainly, if a victory is won every time the other side
is discomfited, such was the case at this moment. John did not say
anything--did not even come to be comforted, but kept walking up and
down at the other end of the room. It was Kate who had to go to him, to
steal her hand within his arm, to coax him back to his usual composure.
And it was a process not very easy to be performed. She moved him
quickly enough to tender demonstrations over herself, which indeed she
had no objection to, but John was chilled and discouraged and cast down
to the very depths.
"He was only cross," said Kate; "when he is cross I never pay any
attention. Something has gone wrong in business, or that sort of thing.
John, dear, say you don't mind. It is not me that am making myself
disagreeable: it is only papa."
But it was hard to get John to respond. Notwithstanding that Mr
Crediton had retired and left the field open, and that Kate did all in
her power to detain him, the young man left her earlier than usual,
and with a sufficiently heavy heart. Kate's father was seeking a
quarrel--endeavouring to show him the falseness of his position,
and make it plain how obnoxious he was. John walked all the long
way home to his little lodgings, which were at the other end of the
town, contemplating the dim Sunday streets, all so dark, with gleams
of lamplight and dim reflections from the wet pavement--for in the
mean time rain had fallen. And this was all he had for all he had
sacrificed. He did not reckon Kate herself in the self-discussion. She
was worth everything a man could do; but to be thus chained and bound,
within sight, yet shut out from her--to be made the butt of another
man's jealous resentment--to have a seeming privilege, which was made
into a kind of torture--and to have given his life for this;--what
could he say even to himself? He sat down in his hard arm-chair and
gazed into the flame of his two candles, and felt himself unable to do
anything but brood over what had happened. He could not read nor turn
his mind from the covert insult, the unwilling consent. And what was to
come of it? John covered his face with his hands when he came to that
part of the subject. There was nothing to look forward to--nothing but
darkness. It was natural that she, a spoiled child of fortune, should
smile and trust in something turning up; as for John, he saw nothing
that could turn up; and in all the world there seemed to him no single
creature with less hope of moulding his future according to his wishes
than himself.
CHAPTER XVI.
This moment of dismay, however, passed over, as the moments of delight
did, without bringing about any absolute revolution in John's life.
The next day Mr Crediton took occasion to be more than ordinarily
civil, repenting of his bad humour, and Kate stopped short before his
window as she rode by to wave her hand to him. A man cannot build the
comfort of his life permanently on such trifles; but there is a moment
when the wave of a girl's hand as she passes is enough to strengthen
and exhilarate his heart. So the crisis blew over as the others had
done, and the routine went on. John set his teeth, and confronted
his position with all its difficulties, making a desperate effort. A
woman might bear such a trial, and live through it; but it is hard
upon a man, when he is no longer a boy, to be called upon to give
up everything, to change the entire current of his occupations, and
make an unquestionable descent in the social scale, for love, without
even giving him its natural compensations. An imprudent marriage is a
different thing, for then the consequences are inevitable when once the
step has been taken, and have to be borne, will he nill he. But to make
love his all--the sole object and meaning of his life--there was in
this a certain humiliation which by turns overwhelmed John's fortitude
and courage. It was indeed almost a relief to him, and helped him to
bear his burden more steadily when the annual removal of the family to
Fernwood took place, and Kate vanished from before his eyes. She cried
when she parted with him that last Sunday, and John felt a serrement
du cur which almost choked him; but still, at the same time, when
it was over and she was gone, life on the whole became easier. He made
an effort to interest himself in his brother clerks, and enter into
their life; but what was a humiliation to John was to them such a
badge of superiority that he could make but little of that. He was Mr
Crediton's future son-in-law, probably their own future employer, in
the eyes of the young men around him, who accepted his advances with
a deference and half-concealed pride which threw him back again upon
himself. He had no equals, no companions. To be sure there were plenty
of people in Camelford who would have been glad to receive Dr Mitford's
son, but he had no desire for the ordinary kind of society. And it is
not to be described with what pleasure he saw Fred Huntley, a man whom
he had never cared for heretofore, push open the swinging door of the
bank, and peer round the place with short-sighted eyes. "Mr Mitford, if
you please," Fred said, perhaps rather superciliously, to the clerk who
was John's superior, expecting, it was clear, to be ushered into some
secret retirement where the principals of the bank might be. When John
rose from his desk, Huntley gazed at him with unfeigned astonishment.
"What! you here!" he said; and opened his eyes still wider when John
turned round and explained to Mr Whichelo that he was going out, and
why. "You don't mean to say they stick you at a desk like that, among
all those fellows?" Fred said, as they left the bank together; which
exclamation of wonder revived the original impatience which use and
wont by this time had calmed down.
"Exactly like the other fellows," said John; "and quite right too, or
why should I be here?"
"Then I suppose you are--learning--the business," said Fred. "Old
Crediton must mean you to be his successor. And that is great luck,
though I confess it would not have much charm for me."
"It is very well," said John, "I have nothing to complain of. If I can
stick to it I suppose I shall earn some money sooner or later, which is
a great matter, all you people say."
"Of course it is a great matter," said Fred. "You told that old fellow
you were going out in a wonderful explanatory way, as if you thought
he mightn't like it. Can't you stay and have something with me at the
hotel? I have to be here all night, much against my will, and I should
spend it all alone unless you'll stay."
"Thanks; it does me good to see a known face. I'll stay if you'll
have me," said John; and then, as it was still daylight, they took a
preparatory stroll about the streets of Camelford. The inn was in the
High Street, not very far from the bank and the Crediton mansion. The
young men walked about the twilight streets talking of everything in
earth and heaven. It was to John as if they had met in the depths of
Africa or at a lonely Indian station. He had never been very intimate
with Fred Huntley, but they were of the same class, with something like
the same training and associations, and the exile could have embraced
the new-comer, who spoke his own language, and put the same meaning to
ordinary words as he did. It was a long time before he even noticed the
inquiring way in which Huntley looked at him, the half-questions he now
and then would put sharply in the midst of indifferent conversation,
as if to take him off his guard. John was not on his guard, and
consequently the precaution was ineffectual; but after a while he
observed it with a curious sensation of surprise. It was not, however,
till they had dined, and were seated opposite to each other over their
modest bottle of claret, that they fairly entered upon personal affairs.
"Do you find the life suit you?" said Fred, abruptly. "I beg your
pardon if I am too inquisitive; but of course it must be a great
change."
"I am not sure that it suits me particularly," said John; but the
glance which accompanied the question had been very keen and searching,
and somehow, without knowing it, a sense of suspicion ran through him;
"I don't suppose any life does until one is thoroughly used to it.
Routine is the grand safeguard in everything--and perhaps more than in
anything else to a clerk in a bank."
"But that is absurd," said Fred. "How long do you and Mr Crediton mean
to keep up the farce? a clerk in the bank betrothed to his daughter--it
is too good a joke."
"I don't see the farce," said John, "and neither, I suppose, does Mr
Crediton; he is not given to joking. Now tell me, Huntley, before we
go any further, is it the dear old people at home who have asked you
to come and look after me? was it--my mother? She might have known I
would tell her at first hand anything there was to tell."
At this speech Fred Huntley became very much confused, though he did
not look like a man to be easily put out. He grew red, he cleared
his throat, he shuffled his feet about the carpet. "Upon my word you
mistake," he said; "I have not seen either Mrs Mitford or the Doctor
since you left."
"Then who has sent you?" said John.
"My dear fellow, you have grown mighty suspicious all at once. Why
should any one have sent me? may not I look up an old friend for my own
pleasure? surely we have known each other sufficiently for that."
"You might," said John, "but I don't think that is the whole question,
and it would be best to tell me at once what you want to know--I am
quite willing to unfold my experiences," he said, with a forced smile;
and then there was a pause----
"The fact of the matter is," said Fred Huntley, after an interval, with
an attempt at jocularity, "that you are an intensely lucky fellow.
What will you say if I tell you that I have just come from Fernwood,
and that if any one sent me it was Kate Crediton, wishing for a report
as to your health and spirits--though it is not so long since she has
seen you, I suppose?"
"Kate Crediton?" said John, haughtily.
"I beg your pardon: my sisters are intimate with her, you know, and
I hear her called so fifty times in a day--one falls into it without
knowing. Hang it! since you will have it, Mitford, Miss Crediton did
speak to me before I left. She heard I was coming to Camelford, and
she came to me the night before--last night, in fact--and told me you
were here alone, and she was uneasy about you. I wish anybody was
uneasy about me. She wanted to know if you were lonely, if you were
unhappy--half a hundred things. I hope you don't object to her anxiety.
I assure you it conveyed a very delightful idea of your good fortune to
me."
"Whatever Miss Crediton chose to say must have been like herself,"
cried John, trembling with sudden passion, "and no doubt she thought
you were a very proper ambassador. But you must be aware, Huntley,
that ladies judge very differently on these points from men. If you
please we will not go further into that question."
"It was not I who began it, I am sure," said Fred; and another pause
ensued, during which John sat with lowering brows, and an expression no
one had ever seen on his face before. "Look here, Mitford," said Fred,
suddenly, "don't go and vex yourself for nothing. If any indiscretion
of mine should make dispeace between you----"
"Pray don't think for a moment that such a thing is likely to happen,"
said John.
"Well--well--if I am too presumptuous in supposing anything I say to
be likely to move you;" Huntley went on, with a restrained smile--"but
you really must not do Miss Crediton injustice through any clumsiness
of mine. It came about in the most natural way. She was afraid there
had been some little sparring between her father and yourself, and was
anxious, as in her position it was so natural to be----"
"Exactly," said John. "Are you on your way home now, or are you going
back to Fernwood? I should ask you to take a little parcel for me if
you were likely to be near Fanshawe. How are the birds? I don't suppose
I shall do them much harm this year."
"Oh, they're plentiful enough," said Huntley; "my father has the house
full, and I am not much of a shot, you know. They would be charmed to
see you if you would go over for a day or two. I mean to make a run to
Switzerland, myself. Vaughan has some wonderful expedition on hand--up
the Matterhorn, or something--and I should like to be on the spot."
"Shall you go up with him?" said John.
"Not I, but I should like to be at hand to pick up what remains of
him if he comes to grief--and to share his triumph, of course, if he
succeeds," Fred added, with a laugh--"a friend's privilege. Are you
going?--it is scarcely ten o'clock."
"You forget I am a man of business nowadays," said John, with an
uncomfortable smile; and then they stood over the table, facing but
not looking at each other; a suppressed resentment and excitement
possessing one, which he was doing his utmost to restrain--and the
other embarrassed, with a mixture of charitable vexation and malicious
pleasure in the effect he had produced.
"I'll walk with you," said Huntley; for to shake hands and separate at
this moment would have been something like an irredeemable breach--and
that, for two men belonging to the same county, and almost the same
set, was a thing to be avoided. John had not sufficient command
of himself to make any effusive reply, but he did not object; and
presently they were in the street walking side by side and discoursing
on every subject except the one in their minds. They had not walked
very far, however, before some indefinable impulse made John turn back
to cast a glance at the bank--the scene of his daily penance--and
the vacant house that stood beside it. They were a good way down
the street, on the opposite side. He gave a slight start, which his
companion perceived, but offered no explanation of it. "Let us turn
back a little, I have forgotten something," he said. Huntley, who had
no particular interest where they went, turned as he was desired, and
was just debating with himself whether, all the due courtesies having
been attended to, he might not go into his hotel as they passed it, and
leave John at peace to pursue his sullen way. But it occurred to him
that John made a half-perceptible pause at the door of the "Greyhound,"
as if inviting him to withdraw, and this movement decided the question.
"Confound the fellow! I'm not going to be dismissed when he pleases,"
Fred said to himself; and so went on, not knowing where he went.
"I thought so!" cried John, suddenly, in the midst of some
philosophical talk, interrupting Fred in the middle of a sentence--and
he rushed across the street to the bank, to his companion's utter
consternation. "What is the matter?" cried Fred. John dashed at the
closed door, ringing the bell violently, and beating with his stick
upon the panels. Then he called loudly to a passing policeman--"Knock
at the house!" he cried. "Fire! fire! Huntley, for heaven's sake, fly
for the engines!--they will let me in and not you, or I should go
myself--don't lose a moment. Fire! fire!"
"But stop a little," cried Huntley in dismay, plucking at John's arm;
and what with the sound of the knocking and the peals of the bell which
sounded sepulchrally in the empty place, he scarcely could hear his own
voice. "Stop a moment--you are deceiving yourself; I see no signs of
fire."
"You run!" cried John, hoarsely, turning to the policeman, "or
you--five pounds to the man who gets there first! Signs!--Good God!
the wretches are out. We must break open the door." And he beat at it,
as if he would beat it in, with a kind of frenzy; while Huntley stood
stupefied, and saw two or three of the bystanders, who had already
begun to collect, start off with a rush to get the fire-engines.
"There's nobody in the house either, sir, or else I can't make 'em
hear," said the policeman, coming up to John for his orders. "Then we
must break in," cried John. "There's a locksmith in the next street:
you fly and fetch him, my good fellow. And where shall we get some
ladders? There is a way of getting in from the house if we were once
in the house."
"Not to make too bold, sir," said the policeman, "I'd like to know
afore breaking into folks' houses, if you had any title to do the like.
You're not Mr Crediton, and he aint got no son----"
John drew himself to his full height, and even then in his excitement
glanced at Huntley, who kept by his side, irresolute and ignorant, not
knowing what to do. "I am closely connected with Mr Crediton," he said;
"nobody can have a better right to look after his affairs; and he is
away from home. Get us ladders, and don't let us stand parleying here."
The policeman looked at him for a moment, and then moved leisurely
across the street to seek the ladders, while in the mean time the two
young men stood in front of the blind house with all its shuttered
windows, and the closed door which echoed hollow to John's assault. The
dark front so jealously bolted and barred, all dangers without shut
out, and the fiery traitor within ravaging at its leisure, drove John
wild, excited as he was to begin with. "Good heavens! to think we must
stand here," he said, ringing once more, but this time so violently
that he broke the useless bell. They heard it echo shrilly through the
silent place in the darkness. "Mr White the porter's gone out for a
walk--I seed him," said a boy; "there aint no one there." "But I see
no signs of fire," cried Fred. Just then there came silently through
the night air a something which contradicted him to his face--a puff
of smoke from somewhere, nobody could tell where; and all at once
through the freshness of the autumn night the smell of fire suddenly
breathed round them. Fred uttered one sharp exclamation, and then
stood still, confounded. As for John, he gave a spring at the lower
window and caught the iron bar and swung himself up. But the bar
resisted his efforts, and there was nothing for it but to wait. When
the ladders were at last visible, moving across the gloom, he rushed
at them, without taking time to think, and snatching one out of the
slow hands of the indifferent bearers, placed it against the wall of
the house, while Fred stood observing, and was up almost at the sill
of an unshuttered window on the upper floor before Huntley could say
a word. Then Fred contented himself with standing outside and looking
on. "One is enough for that sort of work," he said half audibly, and
fell into conversation with the policeman, who stood with an anxious
countenance beside him. "I hope as the gentleman won't hurt himself,"
said the policeman. "I hope it's true as he's Mr Crediton's relation,
sir. Very excited he do seem, about not much, don't you think, sir? And
them engines will be tearing down, running over the children before a
man knows."
"Do you think there is not much danger, then?" said Fred.
"Danger!" cried the man--"Lord bless you! if it was a regular fire
don't ye think as I'd have noticed it, and me just finished my round
not half an hour since? But it's hawful negligent of that fellow White.
I knew as he'd been going to the bad for some time back, and I'm almost
glad he's catched; but as for fire, sir----"
At this moment another puff of smoke, darker and heavier, came in a
gust from the roof, and the policeman putting his eye to the keyhole,
fell back again exclaiming vehemently, "By George! but it is a fire,
and the gentleman's right," and sprang his rattle loudly. The crowd
round gave a half-cheer of excitement, and up full speed rattled the
fire-engines, clearing the way, and filling the air with clangour. At
the same moment arrived a guilty sodden soul, wringing his hands, in
which was a big key. "Gentlemen," he cried, "I take you to witness
as I never was out before. It's an accident as nobody couldn't have
foreseen. It's an accident as has never happened before." "Open the
door, you ass!" cried Huntley; and then the babel of sounds, the gleams
of wild light, the hiss of the falling water, all the confused whirl
of circumstance that belongs to such a moment swept in, and took all
distinct understanding even from the self-possessed perceptions of Fred.
As for John, when he found himself in the silent house which he had
entered from the window, he had no time to think of his sensations. He
had snatched the policeman's lantern from his hand ere he made his
ascent, and went hastily stumbling through the unknown room, and down
the long, echoing stairs, as through a wall of darkness; projecting
before him the round eye of light, which made the darkness if possible
more weird and mystical. His heart was very sore; it pained him
physically, or at least he thought it did, lying like a lump of lead in
his breast. But he was glad of the excitement which forced his thoughts
away from himself. To unbolt the ponderous doors at either end of the
passage which led into the bank, took him what seemed an age; but at
last he succeeded in getting them open. A cloud of smoke enveloped him
as he went in, and all but drove him back. He burst through it with a
confused sense of flames and suffocation, and blazing sheets of red,
that waved long tongues towards him to catch him as he rushed through
them; but, notwithstanding, he forced his way into Mr Crediton's room,
where he knew there were valuable papers. He thought of nothing as he
rushed through the jaws of death; neither of Kate, nor of his past
life, nor of his home, nor of any of those things which are supposed
to gleam upon the mind in moments of supreme danger. He thought only of
the papers in Mr Crediton's room. Unconsciously he formed an idea of
the origin of the fire, as, panting, choked, and scorched, he gathered,
without seeing them, into his arms the box of papers, and seized upon
everything he could feel with his hands upon the table. He could see
nothing, for his eyes were stinging with the smoke, and scorched with
the flames. When he had grasped everything he could feel, with his
senses failing him, he pushed blindly for the door, hoping, so far as
he had wit enough to hope anything, that he might reach the front of
the house, and be able to unloose its fastenings before he gave way. By
this time there was a roaring of the fire in his ears; an insufferable
smell of burning wood and paint; all his senses were assailed, even
that of touch, which recoiled from the heated walls against which he
staggered trying to find the door. At last the sharp pain with which
he struck violently against it, cutting open his forehead, brought him
partially to himself. He half-staggered half-fell into the passage,
dropping upon his knees, for his arms were full, and he had no hand to
support himself with. Then all at once a sudden wild gust of air struck
him in the face from the other side; the flames, with (he thought) a
cry, leaped at him from behind, and he fell prostrate, clasping tight
the papers he had recovered, and knew no more.
It was half an hour later when Fred Huntley, venturing into the narrow
hall of the burning house after the first detachment of firemen had
entered with their hatchets, found some one lying drenched with water
from the engines, and looking like a calcined thing that would drop to
powder at a touch, against the wall. The calcined creature moved when
it was touched, and gave signs of life; but every one by this time had
forgotten John in the greater excitement of the fire; and it had not
occurred to Huntley even, the only one who knew much about him, to
ask what had become of him. He was dragged out, not very gently, to
the steps in front; and there, fortunately for John, was the porter
who had been the cause of all the mischief, and who stood outside
wringing his hands, and getting in everybody's way. "Look after him,
you!" cried Fred, plunging in again to the heart of the conflict. Some
of the clerks had arrived by this time, and were anxiously directing
the fire-engines to play upon the strong room in which most of the
valuables of the bank were placed. Fred Huntley was not noticeably
destitute of courage, but he was more ready to put himself in the
front when the pioneers had passed before, and there were plenty
of followers to support him behind. He took the command of affairs
while John lay moaning, scorched, and drenched on the wet step, with
people rushing past him, now and then almost treading on him, and pain
gradually rousing him into consciousness. They had tried to take his
charge from him and he had resisted, showing a dawn of memory. When
the water from the hose struck him again in the face, he struggled
half up, and sat and looked round him. "Good Lord, Mr Mitford!" said
Mr Whichelo, the chief cashier, discovering him with consternation.
"Take me somewhere," gasped John; "and take care of these," holding
out his innocent booty. Mr Whichelo rushed at him eagerly. "God bless
you!" he cried; "it was that I was thinking of. How did you get it?
have you been into the fire and the flames to fetch it, and saved my
character?" cried the poor man, hysterically. "Hold your tongue, and
take me somewhere!" cried John; and the next moment his senses had once
more forsaken him, and he knew nothing about either blaze or flame.
The after incidents of the night, of which John was conscious only by
glimpses, were--that he was carried to the inn opposite, his treasures
taken from his arms and locked carefully away, and the doctor brought,
who examined him, and shook his head, and said a great deal about a
shock to the nerves. John was in one of his intervals of consciousness
when this was said, and raised himself from the strange distance and
dreaminess in which he seemed to be lying. "I have had no shock to my
nerves," he said. "I'm burnt and sore and soaking, that's all. Plaster
me or mend me somehow." And this effort saved him from the feverish
confusion into which he was falling. When he came to himself he felt
that he was indeed sore all over, with minute burns in a hundred places
about his person; his hair and his eyelashes scorched off, and his skin
all blistered and burning. Perhaps it was the pain which kept him in
full possession of his faculties for all the rest of the night. Then
he felt it was not the fire he had cared for, nor the possible loss,
but only the pure satisfaction of doing something. When they told him
the fire was got under, the strong room saved, and that nothing very
serious had happened, the news did not in the least excite him. He
had asked as if he was profoundly concerned, and he was scarcely even
interested. "Pain has often that effect," he heard the doctor say.
"This kind of irritating, ever-present suffering, absorbs the mind.
Of course he cares. Tell him again, that the news may get into his
mind." And then somebody told him again, and John longed to cry, What
the devil is that to me! but restrained himself. It was nothing to
him; and the burning on his skin was not much: it was nothing indeed
to the burning in his heart. She had discussed with another matters
which were between themselves. She had sent another to report on his
looks and his state of mind; there was between her and another man a
secret alliance which he was not intended to know. The blood seemed
to boil in John's veins as he lay tossing through the restless night,
trying in vain to banish the thought from him. But the thought, being
intolerable, would not be banished. It lay upon him, and tore at him
as the vultures tore Prometheus. She had discussed their engagement
with Fred Huntley; taken him into her confidence--that confidence which
should have been held sacred to another. John was thrown back suddenly
and wildly upon himself. His heart throbbed and swelled as if it
would break, and felt as if hot irons had seared it. He imagined them
sitting together, talking him over. He even fancied the account of this
accident which Huntley would give. He would be at her ear, while John
was banished. He denied that it had been a shock to his nerves; and yet
his nerves had received such a shock as he might never recover in his
life.
CHAPTER XVII.
For some days after the fire, John continued in a sadly uncomfortable
state both of body and mind. The two, indeed, were not dissimilar.
He was much burnt, though superficially, and suffered double pangs
from the stinging, gnawing, unrelaxing pain. His spirit was burnt
too--scorched by sudden flames; stiff and sore all over, like his
limbs, with points of exaggerated suffering here and there,--a thing
he could not take his thoughts from, nor try to forget. He was very
unmanageable by his attendants, was with difficulty persuaded to obey
the doctor's prescriptions, and absolutely refused to lay himself up.
"The end'll be as you'll kill yourself, sir, and that you'll see,"
said his landlady. "Not much matter either," John murmured between
his teeth. He was smarting all over, as the poor moth is which flies
into the candle. It does the same thing over again next minute, no
doubt; and so, probably, would he: but in the mean time he suffered
much both in body and mind. He would not keep in bed, or even in-doors,
notwithstanding the doctor's orders; and it was only downright
incapacity that kept him from appearing in the temporary offices which
had been arranged for the business of the bank. Mr Crediton had come
in from Fernwood at once to look after matters; but on that day John
was really ill, and so had escaped the visit which otherwise would have
been inevitable. Mr Whichelo came that evening to bring his principal's
regrets. "He was very much cut up about not seeing you," said the
head-clerk. "You know your own affairs best, and I don't wish to be
intrusive; but I think you would find it work better not to keep him at
such a distance."
"I keep Mr Crediton at a distance!" said John, with a grimace of pain.
"You do, Mr Mitford. I don't say that he is always what he might be
expected to be; but, anyhow, no advances come from your side."
"It is not from my side advances should come," John said, turning his
face to the wall with an obstinacy which was almost sullen; while at
the same time he said to himself at the bottom of his heart, What
does it matter? These were but the merest outward details. The real
question was very different. Did a woman know what love meant?--was it
anything but a diversion to her--an amusement? was what he was asking
himself; while a man, on the other hand, might give up his life for it,
and annul himself, all for a passing smile--a smile that was quite as
bright to the next comer. Such thoughts were thorns in John's pillow as
he tossed and groaned. They burned and gnawed at his heart worse than
his outward wounds; and there were no cool applications which could
be made to them. He did not want to be spoken to, nor to have even
the friendliest light thrown upon the workings of his mind. To be let
alone--to be left to make the best of it--to be allowed to resume his
work quietly, and go and come, and wait until the problem had been
solved for him, or until he himself had solved it,--it seemed to John
that he wished for nothing more.
"That may be," said Mr Whichelo; "but all the same you don't take
much pains to conciliate him--though that is not my business. A man
who has had a number of us round him all his life always anxious to
conciliate--as good men as himself any day," the head-clerk added, with
some heat, "but still in a measure dependent upon his will for our
bread--it takes a strong head to stand such a strain, Mr Mitford. An
employer is pretty near a despot, unless he's a very good man. I don't
want to say a word against Mr Crediton----"
"Much better not," said John, with another revulsion of feeling, not
indisposed to knock the man down who ventured to thrust in his opinion
between Kate's father and himself; and Mr Whichelo for the moment was
silent, with a half-alarmed sense of having gone too far.
"He is very grateful to you for your promptitude and energy," he
continued: "but for you these papers must have been lost. It would
have been my fault," said Mr Whichelo, with animation, yet in a low
tone. There was even emotion in his words, and something like a tear in
his eye. If he had been a great general or a distinguished artist, his
professional reputation could not have been more precious to him. But
John was preoccupied, and paid no attention. He did not care for having
saved Mr Whichelo's character any more than Mr Crediton's money, though
he had, indeed, risked his life to do it. He had been in such a mood
that to risk his life was rather agreeable to him than otherwise, not
for any "good motive," but simply as he would have thrust his burnt leg
or arm into cold water for the momentary relief of his pain.
"Don't let us talk any more about it," he said; "they are safe, I
suppose, and there is an end of it. But how I got out of that place,"
he added, turning himself once more impatiently on his uneasy bed, "is
a mystery to me."
"You have your friend to thank for that," said his companion, with the
sense that now at last a topic had been found on which it would be safe
to speak.
"My--what?" cried John, sitting suddenly upright in his bed.
"Your--friend,--the gentleman who was with you. Good God! this is the
worst of all," cried poor Whichelo, driven to his wits' end.
And, indeed, for a minute John's expression was that of a demon. He
had some cuts on his forehead, which were covered with plaster; he was
excessively pale; one of his arms was bandaged up; and when you have
added to all these not beautifying circumstances the dim light thrown
upon the bed under its shabby curtains, and the look of horror, dismay,
and rage which passed over the unhappy young fellow's face, poor Mr
Whichelo's consternation may be understood. "My--friend!" he repeated,
with a groan. He could not himself have given any reason for it; but it
seemed at the moment to be the last and finishing blow.
"Yes," said Mr Whichelo, "so they told me. He found you lying in the
passage with the engines playing upon you, and dragged you out. It was
very lucky for you he was there."
John fell back in his bed with a look of utter weariness and lassitude.
"It doesn't matter," he said. "But is anybody such a fool as to think
that I should have died with the engines playing on me? Nonsense! He
need not have been so confoundedly officious: but it don't matter, I
tell you," he added, angrily; "don't let us speak of it any more."
"My dear Mr Mitford," said Mr Whichelo, "I don't wish to interfere; but
I am the father of a family myself, with grown-up sons, and I don't
like to see a young man give way to wrong feeling. The gentleman did
a most friendly action. I don't know, I am sure, if you would have
died--but--he meant well, there can be no doubt of that."
"Confound him!" said John between his closed teeth. Mr Whichelo was
glad he could not quite hear what it was; perhaps, however, he expected
something worse than "confound him"--for a sense of horror crept over
him, and he was very thankful that he had no closer interest in this
impatient young man than mere acquaintanceship--a man who was going in
for the Church! he said to himself. He sat silent for a little, and
then got up and took his hat.
"I hear you have to be kept very quiet," he said; "and as it is late,
I will take my leave. Good evening, Mr Mitford; I hope you will have a
good night; and if I can be of any use----"
"Good-night," said John, too much worn to be able to think of
politeness. And when Mr Whichelo was gone the doctor came, who gave
him a great deal of suffering by way of relieving him. He bore it all
in silence, having plenty of distraction afforded him by his thoughts,
which were bitter enough. "Doctor," he said, sitting up all at once
while his injured arm was being bandaged, "answer me one question: I
hear I was found lying somewhere with the engines playing on me; could
I have died like that?"
"You might--in time," said the doctor, with a smile, "but not just for
as long as the fire lasted; unless you had taken cold, which you don't
appear to have done, better luck."
"But there was no other danger?"
"You could not have been burnt alive with the engines playing on you,"
said the doctor. "Yes, of course there was danger: the roof might have
fallen in, which it did not--thanks, I believe, to your promptitude; or
even if the partition had come down upon you, it would have been far
from pleasant; but I should think you have had quite enough of it as it
is."
"I want to make sure," said the patient, with incomprehensible
eagerness, "not for my own sake--but--there never was any real danger?
you can tell me that."
"One can never say as much," was the answer. "I should not myself like
to lie insensible in a burning house, close to a partition which fell
eventually. At the least you might have been crippled and disfigured
for life."
A groan burst from John's breast when he found himself alone on that
weary lingering night. How long it seemed!--years almost since the
excitement of the fire which had sustained him for the moment, though
he was not aware of it. He put his hand up to his eyes, and found that
there were tears in them, and despised himself, which added another
thorn to his pillow. He had nobody to console him; nobody to keep him
from brooding over the sudden misery. Was it a fit revenge of fate
upon him for his feeling of right in regard to Kate? He had felt that
he had a right to her because he had saved her life. Was it possible
that he had taken an ungenerous advantage of that? He went back over
the whole matter, and he said to himself that, had he loved a girl so
much out of his sphere, without this claim upon her, he would have
smothered his love, and made up his mind from the beginning that it was
useless. But the sense that he had saved her life had given him a sense
of power--yes, of ungenerous power--over her. And now he himself had
fallen into the same subjection. Another man had saved his life; or, at
least, was supposed by others, and no doubt would himself believe that
he had done so. Fred Huntley, whom she had taken into her confidence,
to whom she had described the state of the affairs between them, whose
advice almost she had asked on a matter which never should have been
breathed to profane ears--Fred Huntley had saved his life. He groaned
in his solitude, and put up his hand to his eyes, and despised himself.
"I had better cry over it, like a sick baby," he said to himself, with
savage irony; and oh to think that was all, all he could do!
Next morning John insisted on getting up, in utter disobedience to his
doctor. He had his arm in a sling, but what did that matter? and he
had still the plaster on the cuts on his forehead. He tried to read,
but that was not possible. He wrote to his mother as best he could
with his left hand, telling her there had been a fire, and that he
had burned his fingers pulling some papers out of it--"nothing of the
least importance," he said. And when he had done that he paused and
hesitated. Should he write to Kate? He had not done it for several
days past. It was the longest gap that had ever occurred in their
correspondence. His heart yearned a little within him notwithstanding
all its wounds; yet after he had taken up the pen he flung it down
again in the sickness of his heart. Why should he write? She must
have heard all about it from Fred Huntley and from her father. She
had heard, no doubt, that Fred had saved his life--and she had taken
no notice. Why should she take any notice? It did not humiliate a
woman to be under such an obligation, but it did humiliate a man. John
rose and stalked about his little room, which scarcely left him space
enough for four steps from end to end. He stared out hopelessly at the
window which looked into the little humble suburban street with its
tiny gardens; and then he went and stared into the little glass over
the mantelpiece, which was scarcely tall enough to reflect him unless
he stooped. A pretty sight he was to look at; three lines of plaster
on his forehead, marks of scorching on his cheek, dark lines of pain
under his eyes, and the restless, anxious, uneasy expression of extreme
suffering on his scarred face. He was not an Adonis at the best, poor
John, and he was conscious of it. What was there in him that she should
care for him? She had been overborne by his claim of right over her. It
had been ungenerous of him; he had put forth a plea which never ought
to be urged, and which another man now had the right of urging over
himself. With a groan of renewed anguish he threw himself down on the
little sofa, and leaned his head and his folded arms on the table at
which he had been writing his mother's letter. He had nothing to fall
back upon: all his life and hopes he had given up for this, and here
was what it had come to. He had no capability left in his mind but of
despair.
It was, no doubt, because he was so absorbed in his own feelings and
unconscious of what was passing, that he heard nothing of any arrival
at the door. He scarcely raised his head when the door of his own
little sitting-room was opened. "I want nothing, thanks," he said,
turning his back on his officious landlady, he thought. She must have
come into the room more officious than ever, for there was a faint
rustling sound of a woman's dress, and that sense of some one in the
room which is so infallible; but John only turned his back the more
obstinately. Then all at once there came something that breathed over
him like a wind from the south, something made up of soft touch, soft
sound, soft breath. "John, my poor John!" said the voice; and the
touch was as of two arms going round that poor wounded head of his.
It was impossible--it could not be. He suffered his hands to be drawn
down from his face, his head to be encircled in the arms, and said to
himself that it was a dream. "Am I mad?" he said, half aloud; "am I
losing my head?--for I know it cannot be."
"What cannot be? and why should not it be?" said Kate, in his ear.
"Oh, you unkind, cruel John! Did you want me to break my heart without
a word or a message from you? Not even to see papa! not to send me a
single line! to leave me to think you were dying or something, and
you not even in bed. If I were not so glad, I should be in a dreadful
passion. You horrid, cruel, brave, dear old John!"
He did not know what to think or say. All his evil thoughts slid away
from him unawares, as the ice melts. There was no reason for it; but
the sun had shone on them, and they were gone. He took hold of, and
kept fast in his, the hands that had touched his aching head. "I do not
think it is you," he said; "I am afraid to look lest it should not be
you."
"I know better than that," said Kate; "it is because you will not let
me see your face. Poor dear face!" cried the impulsive girl, and cried
a little, and dropped a sudden, soft, momentary kiss upon the scorched
cheek. That was her tribute to the solemnity of the occasion. And then
she laughed half hysterically. "John, dear, you are so ugly, and I like
you so," she said; and sat down by him, and clasped his arm with both
her hands. John's heart had melted into the foolishest tenderness and
joy by this time. He was so happy that his very pain seemed to him the
tingling of pleasure. "I cannot think it is you," he said, looking down
upon her with a fondness which could find no words.
"I have come all this way to see him," she cried, "and evidently now he
thinks it is not proper. Look, I have brought Parsons with me. There
she is standing in the window all this time, not to intrude upon us. Do
you think I am improper now?"
"Hush!" he said, softly; "don't blaspheme yourself. Because I cannot
say anything except wonder to feel myself so happy----"
"My poor John, my poor dear old John!" she said, leaning the fairy
head against him which ought to have had a crown of stars round it
instead of a mite of a bonnet. Kate took no thought of her bonnet at
that moment. She sat by his side, and talked and talked, healing his
wounds with her soft words. And Parsons drew a chair quietly to her and
sat down in the window, turning her back upon the pair. "Lord, if I
was to behave like that," Parsons was saying to herself, "and somebody
a-looking on!" And she sat and stared out of the window, and attracted
a barrel-organ, which came and played before her, with a pair of keen
Italian eyes gleaming at her over it from among the black elf-locks.
Parsons shook her head at the performer; but her presence was enough
for him, and he kept on grinding "La Donna  Mobile" slowly and
steadily, through her thoughts and through the murmuring conversation
of the other two. Neither Kate nor John paid any attention to the
music. They had not heard it, they would have said; and yet it was
strange how the air would return to both of them in later times.
"I see now you could not write," said Kate; "but still you have
scribbled something to your mother. I think I might have had a word
too. But I did not come to scold you. Oh, that horrid organ-man, I wish
he would go away! You might have sent me a message by papa."
"I did not see him," said John.
"Or by Fred Huntley. You saw him, for he told me---- John! what is the
matter? Are you angry? Ought I not to have come?"
Then there was a pause; he had drawn his arm away out of her clasping
hands, and all at once the tingling which was like pleasure became
pain again, and gnawed and burned him as if in a sudden endeavour
to overcome his patience. And yet it was so difficult to look down
upon the flushed wondering face, the eyes wide open with surprise,
the bewildered look, and remain unkind to her. For it was unkind to
pull away the arm which she was clasping with both her hands. He felt
himself a barbarian, and yet he could not help it. Huntley's name was
like a shot in the heart to him. And the organ went on with its creaks
and jerks, playing out its air. "That organ is enough to drive one
wild," he said, pettishly, and felt that he had committed himself, and
was to blame.
"Is it only the organ?" said Kate, relieved. "Yes, is it not dreadful?
but I thought you were angry with me. Oh, John, I don't think I could
bear it if I thought you were really angry with me."
"My darling! I am a brute," he said, and put the arm which he had drawn
so suddenly away round her. He had but one--the other was enveloped in
bandages and supported in a sling.
"Does it hurt?" said Kate, laying soft fingers full of healing upon it.
"I do so want to hear how it all happened. Tell me how it was. They say
the bank might all have been burned down if you had not seen it, and
papa would have lost such heaps of money. John, dear, I think you will
find papa easier to manage now."
"Do you think so?" he said, with a faint smile; "but that is buying his
favour, Kate."
"Never mind how we get it, if we do get it," cried Kate. "I am sure
I would do anything to buy his favour--but I cannot go and save his
papers and do such things for him. Or, John, was it for me?" she said,
lowering her voice, and looking up in his face.
"No, I don't think it was for you," he answered, rather hoarsely; "and
it was not for him. I did it because I could not help it, and to escape
from myself."
"To escape from yourself! Why did you want that?" she said, with an
innocent little cry of astonishment. It was clear she was quite unaware
of having done him any wrong.
"Kate, Kate," he said, holding her close, "you did not mean it; but why
did you take Fred Huntley into your confidence--why did you speak to
him about you and me?"
She gave him a wondering look, and then the colour rose into her cheek.
"John!" she said, in a tone of amazement, "what is this about Fred
Huntley? Are you jealous of him--jealous of him? Oh, I hope I
am not quite so foolish as that."
Was that all she was going to say? No disclaimer of having given him
her confidence, nothing about her part in the matter, only about his.
Was he jealous? the question sank into John's heart like a stone.
"I don't know if I am jealous," he said, with a falter in his voice,
which went to Kate's impressionable heart. "It must be worse to me than
it is to you, or you would not ask me. To have said anything to anybody
about us, Kate!"
"I see," she said, holding away from him a little; "I see,"--and was
silent for two seconds at least, which felt like two hours to them
both. And the man went on playing "La Donna  Mobile,"--and Parsons,
very red in the face, kept shaking her head at him, but did not attempt
to leave her post. Then Kate turned and lifted her pretty eyes, full of
tears, to her lover's face, and spoke in his very ear. "John, it was
very silly of me, and thoughtless, and nasty, I see. But I have had
nobody to tell me such things. I have never had a mother like you; I
say whatever comes into my head. John! I am so sorry----"
Could he have let her say any more? he ended the sweet confession as
lovers use; he held her to him, and healed himself by her touch, by her
breath, by the softness of her caressing hands. He forgot everything
in the world but that she was there. She had meant no harm, she had
thought no harm. It was her innocence, her ignorance, that had led her
into this passing error, and foolish John was so happy that all his
sufferings passed from his mind.
"His old remembrances went from him wholly,
And all the ways of men, so vain and melancholy."
Everything smiled and brightened before him; the organ-grinder stopped
and found out from poor Parsons's perpetual gesticulations that pennies
were not to be expected; and something soft and tranquil and serene
seemed to steal into the room and envelop the two, who were betrothing
themselves over again, or so they thought. "Papa says you are to come
to Fernwood. You must come and let me nurse you," Kate whispered in his
ear. "That would be too sweet," John whispered back again; and then
she opened the note to his mother and wrote a little postscript to it,
with his arm round her, and his poor scarred face over her shoulder
watching every word as she wrote it. "He looks so frightful," Kate
wrote, "you never saw any one so hideous, dear mamma, or such a darling
[don't shake my arm, John]. I never knew how nice he was, nor how fond
I was of him, till now."
This was how the day ended which had been begun in such misery; for it
was nearly dusk when Kate left him with the faithful Parsons. "Indeed
you shall not come with me," she said, "you who ought to be in bed----"
but, notwithstanding this protest and all his scars, he went with
her till they came within sight of the bank, where the carriage was
standing. Of course it did him harm, and the doctor was very angry; but
what did John, in the delight of his heart, care for that?
CHAPTER XVIII.
A day or two after this visit John found himself at Fernwood.
It was not perhaps a judicious step for any of them. He came still
suffering--and, above all, still marked by his sufferings--among a
collection of strangers to whom the bank, and the fire, and the value
of the papers he had saved, were of the smallest possible consequence,
and who were intensely mystified by his heterogeneous position as
at once the betrothed of Kate Crediton and a clerk in her father's
bank. Then there was a sense of embarrassment between him and Mr
Crediton which it was impossible either to ignore or to make an end
of--John had done so much for the man who was so unwilling to grant
him anything in return. He had not only saved the banker's daughter,
but his papers, perhaps his very habitation, and the bulk of all he
had in the world, and Mr Crediton was confused by such a weight of
obligations. "I must take care he don't save my life next," he said to
himself; but, notwithstanding this weight of gratitude which he owed,
he was not in the least changed in his reluctance to pay. To give his
child as salvage-money was a thing he could not bear to think of;
and when he looked at John's pale face among the more animated faces
round him, Mr Crediton grew wellnigh spiteful. "That fellow! without
an attraction!"--he would say to himself. John was not handsome; he
had little of the ready wit and ready talk of society; he did not
distinguish himself socially above other men; he was nobody to speak
of--a country clergyman's son without a penny. And yet he was to have
Kate! Mr Crediton asked himself why he had ever consented to it, when
he saw John's pale face at his table. He had done it--because Kate
had set her heart upon it--because he thought Kate would be fickle
and change her mind--because--he could scarcely tell why; but always
with the thought that it would come to nothing. He would not allow,
when any one asked him, that there was an engagement. "There is some
nonsense of the kind," he would say, "boy and girl trash. I take it
quietly because I know it never can come to anything. He saved her
that time her horse ran away with her, and it is just a piece of
romantic gratitude on her part. If I opposed it I should make her
twice as determined, and therefore I don't oppose." He had said as
much to almost everybody at Fernwood, though neither of the two most
immediately concerned were aware. And this was another reason why the
strangers were mystified, and could not make out what it meant.
As for Kate, though she had been so anxious for his coming, it
cannot be said that it made her very happy; for the first time the
complications of the matter reached her. She was not, as when she had
been at Fanshawe, a disengaged young lady able to give up her time to
her lover, but, on the contrary, the mistress of the house, with all
her guests to look after, and a thousand things to think of. She could
not sit and talk with him, or walk with him, as she had done at the
Rectory. He could not secure the seat next to her, or keep by her side,
as, in other circumstances, it would have been so natural for him to
do. He got her left hand at table the first day of his arrival, and was
happy, and thought this privilege was always to be his; but, alas! the
next day was on the other side, unable so much as to catch a glimpse of
her. "I am the lady of the house. I have to be at everybody's beck and
call," she said, trying to smooth him down. "On the contrary, you ought
to do just what you please," said foolish John; and he wandered about
all day seeking opportunities to pounce upon her--for, to be sure, he
cared for nobody and nothing at Fernwood but Kate, and he was ill and
sensitive, and wanted to be cared for, even petted, if that could have
been. He could not go out to ride with the rest of the party on account
of his injured hand, but Kate had to go, or thought she must, leaving
him alone to seek what comfort was possible in the library. No doubt it
was very selfish of John to wish to keep her back from anything that
was a pleasure to her, but then he was an eager, ardent lover, who
had been much debarred from her society, and was set on edge by seeing
others round her who were more like her than he was. To be left behind,
or to find himself shut out all day from so much as a word with her,
was one pang; but to find even when he was with her, that he had little
to say that interested her, and to see her return to the common crowd
as soon as any excuse occurred to make it possible, was far harder and
struck more deep. He would sit in a corner of the drawing-room and look
and listen while the conversation went on. They talked about the people
they knew, the amusements they had been enjoying, the past season
and the future one, and a hundred little details which only persons
in their own "set" could understand. John himself could have talked
such talk in college rooms or the chambers of a friend, but he would
have thought it rude to continue when strangers were present; but the
fashionable people did not think it rude. And even when he was leaning
over her chair whispering to her, he could note that Kate's attention
failed, and could see her face brighten and her ear strain to hear
some petty joke bandied about among the others. "Was it Mr Lunday that
said that? it is so like him," she said once in the very midst of
something he was saying. And poor John's heart sank down--down to his
very boots.
And then Kate had a hundred things to do in concert with her other
guests. She sang with one, and John did not sing, and had to look
on with the forlornest thoughts, while a precious hour would pass,
consumed by duet after duet and such talk as the following:--"Do you
know this?" "Let us try that." "I must do something to amuse all those
people," she would say, when he complained. She was not angry with him
for complaining, but always kind and sweet, and ready, if she gave him
nothing else, to give him one of her pretty smiles.
"But I shall be gone directly, and I have not had ten minutes of you,"
he said, bitterly.
"Oh, a great deal more than ten minutes," said Kate; "you unkind,
exacting John! When I was at Fanshawe I had all my time on my hands,
and nobody but you to think of;--I mean, no other claims upon me.
Don't you think it hurts me as much as any one, when they all crowd
round me, and I see your dear old face, looking so pale and glum, on
the outside? Please don't look so glum! You know I should so much, much
rather be with you."
"Should you?" said John, mournfully. Perhaps she believed it; but he
found it so very hard to believe. "Dear, I don't mean to be glum,
and spoil your pleasure," he said, with a certain pathetic humility;
"perhaps I had better go and get to my work again, and wait for the old
Sunday nights when you come back."
"That will look as if you were angry with me," she said. "Oh, John, I
thought you would understand! You know I can't do what I would do with
all these people in the house. What I should like would be to nurse
you and take care of you, and be with you always; but what can I do
with all these girls and people? I hate them sometimes, though they
are my great friends. Don't go and make me think you are angry. It is
that that would spoil my pleasure. Look here! come and get your
hat, and bring me a shawl; there is time for a little walk before the
dinner-bell rings."
And then the poor fellow would be rapt into paradise for half an hour
under shadow of the elm-trees, which were beginning to put on their
bright-coloured garments. His reason told him how vain this snatch
of enjoyment was, and gave him many a warning that he was spending
his life for nought, and giving his treasure for what was not bread;
but at such moments John would not listen to the voice of reason.
Her hands were on his arm--her head inclining towards him, sometimes
almost touching his sleeve--her eyes raised to his--her smile and her
sweet kind words all his own. She was as kind as if she had been his
mother--as tender and affectionate and forbearing with him. "Don't be
so cross and so exacting. Because I am fond of you, is that any reason
why you should tyrannise over me?" said Kate, with a voice as of a
dove close to his ear. And how could he answer her but with abject
protestations of penitence and ineffable content?
"It is because I hunger for you--and I have so little of my darling,"
said repentant John; "what do I care for all the world if I have not my
Kate?"
"But you have your Kate, you foolish boy," she said; "and what does
anything matter when you know that? Do I ever distrust you? When I see
you talking to somebody at the very other end of the drawing-room, just
when I am wanting you perhaps, I don't make myself wretched, as you do.
I only say to myself, Never mind, he is my John and not hers; and I am
quite happy--though I am sure a girl has a great deal more cause to be
uneasy than a man."
And when John had been brought to this point, he would swallow such
a speech, and would not allow himself to ask whether it was possible
that his absence at the other end of the drawing-room could make Kate
wretched. Had he put the question to himself, no doubt Reason would
have come in; but why should Reason be allowed to come in to spoil the
moments of happiness which came so rarely? He held the hands which were
clasped on his arm closer to his side, and gave himself up to the
sweetness. And he kept her until ever so long after the dressing-bell
had pealed its summons to them under the silent trees. It was the
stillest autumn night--a little chill, with a new moon which was just
going to set as the dining-room was lighted up for dinner--and now and
then a leaf detached itself in the soft darkness, and came down with
a noiseless languid whirl in the air, like a signal from the unseen.
One of these fell upon Kate's pretty head as she raised it towards her
lover, and he lifted the leaf from her hair and put it into his coat.
"I will give you a better flower," said Kate; "but oh, John, I must
go in. I shall never have time to dress. Well----then, just one more
turn: and never say I am not the most foolish yielding girl that ever
was, doing everything you like to ask--though you scold me and threaten
to go away."
This interview made the evening bearable for John; and it was all the
more bearable to him, though it is strange to say so, because Fred
Huntley had returned, and sat next him at dinner. He had hated Fred
for some days, and was not yet much inclined towards him; but still
there was a pleasure in being able to talk freely to some one, and to
feel himself, to some extent at least, comprehended, position and all.
He was very dry and stiff to Huntley at first, but by degrees the ice
broke. "I have never seen you since that night," said Fred. "My heart
has smote me since for the way in which I left you, lying on those
door-steps. In that excitement one forgets everything. But you bear
considerable marks of it, I see."
"Nothing to signify," said John; and Fred gave him a nod, and began to
eat his soup with an indifference which was balm to the other's excited
feelings. Finding thus that no gratitude was claimed of him, John grew
generous. "I hear it was you who dragged me out; and I have never had a
chance of thanking you," he said.
"Thanking me--what for? I don't remember dragging any one out," said
Fred. "It was very hot work. I did not rush into the thick of it, like
you, to do any good; but I daresay I could give the best description
of it. Have they found out how much damage was done?--but I suppose the
bank is still going on all the same."
"Banks cannot stop," said John, "unless things are going very badly
with them indeed."
"That comes of going in for a special study," said Huntley; "you always
did know all about political economy, didn't you? No, it wasn't you, it
was Sutherland--never mind; if you have not studied it theoretically,
you have practically. I often think if I had gone in for business it
would have been better for me on the whole."
"You have less occasion to say so than most men," said John.
"Because we are well off?--or because I have got my fellowship, and
that sort of thing? I don't know that it matters much. A man has to
work--or else," said Fred, with a sigh, swallowing something more than
that entre, "he drifts somehow into mischief whether he will or
no."
Did he cast a glance at the head of the table as he spoke, where Kate
sat radiant, dispensing her smiles on either hand? It was difficult
to imagine why he did so, and yet so it seemed. John looked at her
too, and for the moment his heart failed him. Could he say, as she
herself had suggested, "After all, she is my Kate and no one's else,"
as she sat there in all her splendour? What could he give her that
would bear comparison? Of all the men at her father's table, he was
the most humble. At that moment he caught Kate's eye, and she gave him
the most imperceptible little nod, the brightest momentary glance. She
acknowledged him when even his own faith failed him. His heart came
bounding up again to his breast, and throbbed and knocked against it,
making itself all but audible in a kind of shout of triumph. Then he
turned half round to his companion, with heightened colour, and an
animation of manner which was quite unusual to him. He found Huntley's
eyes fixed upon his face, looking at him with grave, wondering,
almost sympathetic interest. Of course Fred's countenance changed as
soon as he found that it was perceived, and sank into the ordinary
expressionless look of good society. He was the spectator looking on
at this drama, and felt himself so much better qualified to judge than
either of those more closely concerned.
"How do you like Fernwood?" Huntley began, with some precipitation. "It
is rather too full to be pleasant while you are half an invalid, isn't
it? Does your arm give you much pain?"
"It is very full," said John, "and one is very much alone among a crowd
of people whom one does not know."
"You will soon get to know them," said Fred, consolingly; "people are
very easy to get on with nowadays on the whole."
"I am going away on Thursday," said John.
"What! the day after to-morrow? before your arm is better, or--anything
different? Do you know, Mitford, I think you stand a good deal in your
own light."
"That may be," John said, hotly, "but there are some personal matters
of which one can only judge for one's self."
Fred made no answer to this; he shrugged his shoulders a little as who
should say, It is no business of mine, and began to talk of politics
and the member for Camelford, about whose election there were great
searchings of heart in the borough and its neighbourhood. An inquiry
was going on in the town, and disclosures were being made which excited
the district. The two young men turned their thoughts, or at least
their conversation, to that subject, and seemed to forget everything
else; but whether the election committee took any very strong hold upon
them, or if they were really much interested about the doings of the
Man in the Moon, it would be hard to say.
The drawing-room was very bright and very gay that evening--like a
scene in a play, John was tempted to think. There was a great deal of
music, and he sat in his corner and looked and saw everything, and
would have been amused had he felt no special interest in it. Kate
was in the very centre of it all, guiding and directing, as it was
natural she should be. The spectator in the corner watched her by the
piano, now taking a part, now accompanying, now throwing herself back
into her chair with an air of relief when something elaborate had
been set agoing, and whispering and smiling behind her fan to some
favoured being, though never to himself. At one moment his vague pain
in watching her rose to a positive pang. It was when Fred Huntley
was the person with whom she talked. He was stooping down over her,
leaning on the back of a chair, and Kate's face was raised to him
and half screened with her fan. Their talk looked very confidential,
very animated and friendly; and it seemed to John (but that must have
been a mistake) that she gave him just the tips of her fingers as she
dismissed him. Fred rose from the chair on which he had been half
kneeling with a little movement of his head, which Kate reciprocated,
and went off upon a meandering passage round the room. She had given
him some commission, John felt--to him, and not to me, he said bitterly
in his heart, and then tried to comfort himself, not very successfully,
with the words she had taught him, "After all, she is my Kate and not
his." Was she John's? or was it all a dream and phantasmagoria, that
might vanish in an instant and leave no trace behind? He covered his
eyes with his hand for a second in the sickness of jealous love with
which he was struggling; but when he looked up again, found that a new
revelation waited him, harder than anything he had yet had to undergo.
It was that Fred Huntley was approaching himself, and that the mission
with which Kate, giving him the tips of her fingers, had intrusted
the man to whom of all others he felt most antagonistic, concerned
himself. Fred managed the business very cleverly, and would have taken
in any unsuspicious person; but John, on the contrary, was horribly
suspicious, looking for pricks at all possible points. The ambassador
threw himself into a vacant chair which happened to be handy, and
stretched himself out comfortably in it, and said nothing for a minute.
Then he yawned (was that, too, done on purpose?) and turned to John.
"Were you asleep, Mitford?" he said; "I don't much wonder. It's very
amusing, but it's very monotonous night after night."
"I have not had so much of it as you have, to get so tired," said John.
"Well, perhaps there is something in that; and, after all, there are
some nice people here. The worst for a new-comer," said Fred, poising
himself lazily in his chair, "is, that everybody has made acquaintance
before he comes; and till he has been here for some time and gets used
to it, he is apt to feel himself left out in the cold. Of course you
can't have any such sensations in this house--but I have felt
it; and Ka--Miss Crediton, though she is an admirable hostess, can't be
everywhere at once."
"But she can send ambassadors," said John, with a faint attempt at a
smile.
"Oh yes; of course she can send ambassadors," said Huntley, confused,
"when she has any ambassadors to send. I wanted to ask you, Mitford,
about that archological business your father takes so much interest
in. I hear they are to visit Dulchester----"
"Did she tell you that?" said John. "My dear fellow, say to me plainly,
I have been sent to talk to you and draw you out. That is reasonable
and comprehensible, and I should not be ungrateful. But never mind my
father. Let us talk since we are required to do so. When are you likely
to be at Westbrook? I want to go home one of these days; and my mother
would like to see you, to thank you----"
"To thank me for what?" said Fred, with much consternation.
"For dragging me out of that fire. I don't say for saving my life,
for it did not come to that--but still you have laid me under a great
obligation," said John, with a setting together of his teeth which did
not look much like gratitude; and then he rose up suddenly and went
away out of his corner, leaving Huntley alone there, and not so happy
as his wont. As for John himself, he was stung to exertions quite
unusual to him. He went and talked politics, and university talk, and
sporting talk, with a variety of men. He did not approach any of the
ladies--his heart was beating too fast for that; but he stood up in
the doorway and against the wall wherever the men of the party most
congregated. And he never so much as looked at the creature who was
at once his delight and his torment during all the long weary tedious
evening, which looked as if it never would come to an end and leave him
at peace.
CHAPTER XIX.
Next morning John packed himself up before he saw any one. He had not
slept all night. It is true that the incidents of the past evening had
been trifling enough--not of sufficient consequence to affect, as his
sudden departure might do, the entire complexion of his life. It was
only as a climax, indeed, that they were of any importance at all; but
as such, they had wound him up to a point of resolution. The present
state of affairs, it was evident, could not go on. Had he been a mere
idle man of society, he said to himself, in whose life this perpetual
excitement might supply a painful-pleasant sensation, then it might
have been possible; but he could not, love as he might, wear away
his existence in watching a girl's face, or waiting for such moments
of her society as she might be able to give him. It was impossible:
better to go away where he should never see her again; better to give
up for ever all the joys of life, than wear out every vestige of
manliness within him in this hopeless way. He had been born to higher
uses and better purposes surely, or where was the good of being born at
all? Accordingly he prepared all his belongings for instant departure.
Kate was still dearer to him than anything in earth or heaven, he
acknowledged with a sigh; but unless perhaps time or Providence might
arrange the terms of their intercourse on a more possible footing, that
intercourse for the present must be suspended. He could not go on.
With this resolution in his mind he went down-stairs; and looked so
pale, that he attracted the attention of the lady who sat next to him
at the breakfast-table, where Kate, who was so often late, had not yet
appeared.
"I am afraid you are ill," she said; "I fear your arm pains you more
than usual. I think I knew your mother, Mr Mitford, a thousand years
ago. Was not she a Miss Olive, of Burton? Ah, yes! I remember--one of
the prettiest girls I ever saw. I think----you are a little like her,"
said this benevolent woman, with a slight hesitation. And then there
was a titter at the table, in which John did not feel much disposed to
join.
"Oh no," cried Kate, who had just come in; "it is not him that is like
Mrs Mitford, but me. I allow he is her son, but that does not matter. I
was at Fanshawe Regis ever so long in summer. Mr John, tell Lady Winton
she was like me when she was a girl, and I shall be like her when I am
an old lady. You know it is so."
And she paused a moment just beside him, with her hand on Lady Winton's
chair, and looked into John's pale face as he rose at her appeal.
Something was wrong--Kate was not sure what. Lady Winton, perhaps, had
been annoying him with questions, or Fred Huntley with criticism. It
did not occur to her that she herself could be the offender. She looked
into John's face, meaning to say a thousand things to him with her
eyes, but his were blank, and made no reply.
"She was prettier than you are, Kate," said Lady Winton, with a smile.
"Nay," said John, unawares. He had not meant to enter into the
talk--but to look at her standing there before him in her fresh morning
dress, in all her perfection of youth and sweetness, and to believe
that anybody had ever been more lovely, was impossible. At that moment,
when he was about to leave her, he could have bent down and kissed
the hem of her dress. It seemed the only fitting thing to do, but it
could not be done before all these people. Kate was still more and
more perplexed what he could mean. His eyes, which had been blank,
lighted up all in a moment, and spoke things to her which she could not
understand. What was the meaning of the pathos in them--the melancholy,
the dumb appeal that almost made her cry? She gave a little laugh
instead, much fluttered and disturbed in her mind the while, and nodded
her head and went on to her seat at the head of the table.
"When one's friends begin to discuss one's looks, don't you think it is
best to withdraw?" she said. "Oh, thanks, Madeline, for doing my duty.
It is so wretched to be late. Please, somebody, have some tea."
And then the ordinary talk came in and swept this little episode out of
sight.
When breakfast was over, and one after another the guests began to
disperse to their morning occupations, Kate, turning round to accompany
one of the last to the morning room, where all the embroidery and the
practising and the gossip went on, had her uncomfortable thoughts
brought back in a moment by the sight of John standing right in her
way, holding out his hand. "I am obliged to go away," he said, in the
most calm tone he could muster. "Good-bye, Miss Crediton; and thanks,
many thanks."
"Going away!" cried Kate, standing still in her amazement. "Going
away! Has anything happened at Fanshawe Regis---- Your mother--or Dr
Mitford----?"
"They are both well," he said. "I am not going to Fanshawe, only back
to the town to my work. Good-bye."
"I must hear about this," said Kate, abruptly. "Please don't wait for
me, Madeline; I want to speak to Mr Mitford. Go on, and I will join
you. Oh, John, what does it mean?" she cried, turning to her lover,
almost without waiting until the door had closed on her companion. By
this time everybody was gone, and the two were left alone in the great
empty room where five minutes ago there had been so much sound and
movement. They were standing in front of one of the deeply-recessed
windows, with the light falling direct upon them as on a stage. He held
out his hand again and took hers, which she was too much disturbed to
give.
"It is nothing," he said, with a forlorn sort of smile, "except just
that I must go away. Don't let that cloud your face, dear. I can't help
myself. I am obliged to go."
"Is any one ill?" she cried; "is that the reason? Oh, John, tell me!
are you really obliged to go? Or is it--anything--we have done?"
"No," he said, holding her hand in his. "It is all my fault. It does
not matter. It is that I cannot manage this sort of life. No blame to
you, my darling. Don't think I am blaming you. When I am back at my
work, things will look different. I was not brought up to it, like you.
You must pardon me as you would pardon me for being ignorant and not
knowing another language; but it is best I should go away."
"John!" she cried, the tears coming with a sudden rush into the
wondering eyes that had been gazing at him so intently, "what have I
done?"
"Nothing--nothing," he said, stooping over her hand and kissing it
again and again. "There is only myself to blame. I can't take things,
I suppose, as other people do. I am exacting and inconsiderate and----
Never mind, dear, I must go away; and you will not remember my faults
when I am gone."
"But I never thought you had any faults," cried Kate. "You speak as if
it were me. I never have found fault with you, John--nor asked anything
more--nor---- I know I am silly. Tell me, and scold me, and forgive me.
Say as papa does--it is only Kate. I know I did not mean it. Oh, John,
dear, if I beg your pardon, though I don't know what I have done----"
"You have done nothing," he cried, in despair. "Oh, my Kate! are you
my Kate? or are you a witch coming into my arms to distract me from
everything? No, no, no! I must not be conquered this time. My love, it
will be best for both of us. I cannot go on seeing you always within
my reach and always out of my reach. I would have you always like
this--always here--always mine; but I can't have you; and I have no
strength to stand by at a distance and look on. Do you understand me
now? I shall go away so much happier because of this five minutes.
Good-bye."
"But, John!" she cried, clinging to him, "don't go away; why should you
go away? I will do anything you please. I will--make a change; don't go
and leave me. I want you to be here."
"You break my heart!" he cried; "but I cannot be here. What use is it
to you? And to me it is distraction. Kate! don't ask me to stay."
"But it is of use to me," she said, with a flush on her face, and an
expression unlike anything he had seen before--an uneasy look, half
of shame and half of alarm. Then she turned from him a little, with a
slight change of tone. "It is a strange way of using me," she said,
looking steadfastly at the carpet, "after my going to you, and all; not
many girls would have gone to you as I did; you might stay now when I
ask you--for my sake."
"I will do anything in the world for your sake," he said; "but, Kate,
it does you no good, you know. It is an embarrassment to you," John
went on, with a half-groan escaping him, "and it is distraction to me."
Then there followed a pause. She drew her hand away from his with a
little petulant movement. She kept her eyes away from him, not meeting
his, which were fixed upon her. Her face glowed with a painful heat;
her little foot tapped the carpet. "Do you mean that--other things--are
to be over too?" she said; and twisted her fingers together, and gazed
out of the window, waiting for what he had to say.
Such a question comes naturally to the mind of a lover whenever there
is any fretting of his silken chain; and accordingly it was not novel
to John's imagination--but it struck upon his heart as if it had been a
blow. "Surely not--surely not," he answered, hastily; "not so far as I
am concerned."
And then they stood again--for how long?--side by side, not looking
at each other, waiting a chance word to separate or to reunite them.
Should she be able to bear her first rebuff? she, a spoiled child,
to whom everybody yielded? Or could she all in a moment learn that
sweet philosophy of yielding in her own person, which makes all the
difference between sorrow and unhappiness? Everything--the world
itself--seemed to hang in the balance for that moment. Kate terminated
it suddenly, in her own unexpected way. She turned on him all at once,
with the sweetness restored to her face and her voice, and held out her
hand: "Neither shall it be so far as I am concerned," she said. "Since
you must go, good-bye, John!"
And thus it came to an end. When he was on his way back to Camelford,
and the visit to Fernwood, with all its pains and pleasures, and the
last touch of her hand, were things of the past, John asked himself,
with a lover's ingenuity of self-torment, if this frank sweetness of
reply was enough? if she should have let him go so easily? if there
was not something of relief in it? He drove himself frantic with these
questions, as he made his way back to his poor little lodgings. Mr
Crediton had looked politely indifferent, rather glad than otherwise,
when he took his leave. "Going to leave us?" Mr Crediton had said.
"I am very sorry; I hope it is not any bad news. But perhaps you are
right, and perfect quiet will be better for your arm. Never mind about
business--you must take your own time. If you see Whichelo, tell him
I mean to come in on Saturday. I am very sorry you have given us so
short a visit. Good-bye." Such was Mr Crediton's farewell; but the
young man made very little account of that. Mr Crediton's words or ways
were not of so much importance to him as one glance of Kate's eye.
What she meant by her dismay and distress, and then by the sudden
change, the sweet look, the good-bye so kindly, gently said, was the
question he debated with himself; and naturally he had put a hundred
interpretations upon it before he reached his journey's end.
It was still but mid-day when he reached the little melancholy shabby
rooms which were his home in Camelford. The place might be supportable
at night, when he came in only for rest after the day's labours,
though even then it was dreary enough; but what could be thought of it
in the middle of a bright autumn day, when the young man came in and
closed his door, and felt the silence hem him in and enclose him, and
put seals, as it were, to the grave in which he had buried himself.
Full day and nothing to do, and a little room to walk about in, four
paces from one side to the other--and a suburban street to look out
upon, with blinds drawn over the windows, and plants shutting out the
air, and an organ grinding melancholy music forth along each side of
the way: could he stay still and bear it? When he was at Fernwood his
rooms looked to him like a place of rest, where he could go and hide
himself and be at peace. But as soon as he had entered them, it was
Fernwood that grew lovely in the distance, where Kate was, where there
were blessed people who would be round her all day long, and the stir
of life, and a thousand pleasant matters going on. He was weary and
sick of himself, and sick of the world. Could he sit down and read a
novel in the light of that October day--or what was he to do?
The end was that he took his portmanteau, which had not been unpacked,
and threw it into a passing cab, and went off to the railway. He had
not gone home since he came to his clerkship in the bank, and that was
three months since. It seemed the only thing that was left for him to
do now. He went back along the familiar road with something of the
feelings of a prodigal approaching his home. It seemed strange to him
when the porter at the little roadside station of Fanshawe touched his
cap, and announced his intention of carrying Mr John's portmanteau to
the Rectory. He felt it strange that the poor fellow should remember
him. Surely it was years since he had been there before.
And this feeling grew as John walked slowly along the quiet country
road that led to his home. Everything he passed was associated with
thoughts which were as much over and gone as if they had happened in a
different existence. He had walked along by these hedgerows pondering
a thousand things, but scarcely one that had any reference to, any
relation with, his present life. He had been a dreamer, planning high
things for the welfare of the world; he had been a reformer, rousing,
sometimes tenderly, sometimes violently, the indifferent country from
its slumbers; sometimes, even, retiring to the prose of things, he had
tried to realise the details of a clergyman's work, and to fit himself
into them, and ask himself how he should perform them. But never,
in all these questionings, had he thought of himself as a banker's
clerk--a man working for money alone, and the hope of money. It was so
strange that he did not know what to make of it. As he went on, the
other John, his former self, seemed to go with him--and which was
the real man, and which the phantom, he could not tell. All the quiet
country lifted prevailing hands, and laid hold on him as he went home.
It looked so natural--and he, what was he? But the country, too, had
changed as if in a dream. He had left it in the full blaze of June, and
now it was October, with the leaves in autumn glory, the fields reaped,
the brown stubble everywhere, and now and then in the clear blue air
the crack of a sportsman's gun. All these things had borne a different
aspect once to John. He too had been a little of a sportsman, as was
natural; but the dog and the gun did not harmonise with the figure of a
banker's clerk. The women on the road, who stared at him, and curtsied
to him with a smile of recognition, confused him, he could not tell
why. It was so strange that everybody should recognise him--he who did
not recognise himself.
And as he approached the Rectory, a vague sense that something must
have happened there, came over him. It was only three days since he
had received a letter from his mother full of those cheerful details
which it cost her, though he did not know it, so much labour and pain
to write. He tried to remind himself of all the pleasant everyday
gossip, and picture of things serene and unchangeable which she had
sent him; but still the nearer he drew and the more familiar everything
became, the more he felt that something must have happened. He went in
by the little garden-gate, which opened noiselessly, and made his way
through the shrubbery, to satisfy himself that no cloud of calamity
had fallen upon the house. It was a warm genial autumn day, very
still, and somewhat pathetic, but almost as balmy as summer. And the
drawing-room window stood wide open as it had done through all those
wonderful June days when John's life had come to its climax. The lilies
had vanished that stood up in great pyramids against the buttresses;
even their tall green stalks were gone, cut down to the ground; and
there were no roses, except here and there a pale monthly one, or a
half-nipped, half-open bud. John paused under the acacia-tree where
he had so often placed Kate's chair, and which was now littering all
the lawn round about with its leaflets--to gain a glimpse, before he
entered, of what was going on within. The dear, tender mother! to whom
he had been everything--all her heart had to rest on. What had she to
recompense her for all the tender patience, all the care and labour she
took upon herself for the sake of her Saviour and fellow-creatures!
Her son, who had taken things for granted all this time as sons do,
opened his eyes suddenly as he stood peeping in like a stranger, and
began to understand her life. God never made a better, purer woman;
she had lived fifty years doing good and not evil to every soul around
her, and what had she in return? A husband, who thought she was a very
good sort of ignorant foolish little woman on the whole, and very
useful in the parish, and handy to keep off all interruptions and
annoyances; and a son who had gone away and abandoned her at the first
chance--disappointed all her hopes, left her alone, doubly alone, in
the world. "It is her hour for the school, the dearest little mother,"
he said to himself, with the tears coming to his eyes; "she never
fails, though we all fail her;" but even as the words formed in his
mind he perceived that the room into which he was gazing was not empty.
There she sat, thrown back into a chair; her work was lying on the
floor at her feet; but John had never seen such an air of weariness
and lassitude in his mother before. He recognised the gown she had on,
the basket of work on the table, all the still life round her; but
her he could not recognise. She had her hands crossed loosely in her
lap, laid together with a passive indifference that went to his heart.
Could she be asleep? but she was not asleep; for after a while one of
the hands went softly up to her cheek, and something was brushed off,
which could only be a tear. He could scarcely restrain the cry that
came to his lips; but at that moment the door, which he could not see,
must have opened, for she gave a start, and roused herself, and turned
to speak to somebody. "I am coming, Lizzie," John heard her answer in
a spiritless, weary tone; and then she rose and put away her work, and
took up her white shawl, which was lying on the back of a chair. She
liked white and pretty bright colours about her, the simple soul. They
became her, and were like herself. But when she had wrapped herself in
the shawl, which was as familiar to John as her own face, his mother
gave a long weary sigh, and sat down again as if she could not make up
her mind to move. He had crept quite close to the window by this time,
moved beyond expression by the sight of her, with tears in his eyes,
and unspeakable compunction in his heart. "What does it matter now?"
she said to herself, drearily. She had come to be so much alone that
the thought was spoken and not merely thought. When John stepped into
the room a moment after, his mother stood and gazed at him as if he had
risen out of the earth, and then gave a great cry which rang through
all the house, and fell upon his neck. Fell upon his neck--that was the
expression--reaching her arms, little woman as she was, up to him as he
towered over her; and would not have cared if she had died then, in the
passion of her joy.
"Mother, dear, you are trembling," John said, as he put her tenderly
into her chair and knelt down beside her, taking her hands into his. "I
should not have been so foolish startling you; but I could not resist
the temptation when I saw you here."
"Joy does not hurt," said Mrs Mitford. "I have grown so silly, my dear,
now I have not you to keep me right; and it was a surprise. There--I
don't in the least mean to cry; it is only foolishness. And oh, my poor
John, your arm!"
"It is nothing," he said; "it is almost well. Never mind it. I am a
dreadful guy, to be sure. Is that what you are looking at, mamma mia?"
In his wan face and fire-scorched hair she had not known her child.
"Oh, John, that you could think so," she said, in her earnest
matter-of-fact way. "My own boy! as if I should not have known you
anywhere, whatever you had done to yourself. It was not that. John, my
dear?"
"What, mother?"
"I was looking to see if you were happy, my dearest, dearest boy.
Don't be angry with me. As long as you are happy I don't mind--what
happens--to me."
John laid his head down on his mother's lap. How often he had done
it!--as a child, as a lad, as a man--sometimes after those soft
reproofs which were like caresses--sometimes in penitence, when he had
been rebellious even to her; but never before as now, that her eyes
might not read his heart. He did it by instinct, having no time to
think; but in the moment that followed thought came, and he saw that he
must put a brave face on it, and not betray himself. So he raised his
head again, and met her eyes with a smile, believing, man as he was,
that he could cheat her with that simulation of gladness which went no
further than his lips.
"What could I be but happy?" he said; "but not to see you looking so
pale, and trembling like this, my pretty mamma. You are too pretty
to-day--too pink and too white and too bright-eyed. What do you mean by
it? It must be put a stop to, now I have come home."
"What does that mean?" she asked, with tremulous eagerness. He was
not happy; he might deceive all the world, she said to herself, but he
could not deceive his mother. He was not happy, but he did not mean
her to know it, and she would not betray her knowledge. So she only
trembled a little more, and smiled pathetically upon him, and kissed
his forehead, and shed back the hair from it with her soft nervous
hands. "Coming home has such a sound to me. It used to mean the long
nice holidays; and once I thought it meant something more; but now----"
"Now it means a week or two," he said; "not much, but still we can make
a great deal out of it. And the first thing must be to look after your
health, mother. This will never do."
"My health will mend now," she said, with a smile; and then, afraid
to have been supposed to consent to the fact that her health had
need of mending--"I mean I never was better, John. I am only a
little--nervous--because of the surprise; the first thing is to make
you enjoy your holiday, my own boy."
"Yes," he said, with a curious smile. Enjoy his holiday!--which was
the escape of a man beaten from the field on which he had failed in his
first encounter with fate. But I will not let her know that, John said
to himself. And I must not show him that I see it, was the reflection
of his mother. This was how they met again after the great parting
which looked like the crisis of their lives.
CHAPTER XX.
Kate was very much perplexed by her interview with her lover, and by
the abrupt conclusion of his visit. She was very sweet-tempered and
good-natured, and could not bear to vex any one; but perhaps it pained
her secretly a little to be brought in contact with those very strong
feelings which she scarcely understood, and which did not bear much
resemblance to her own tender, affectionate, caressing love. She was
very fond of John; at bottom she knew and felt that of all the men she
had ever seen, he was the man whom she preferred trusting her life
and happiness to; and when opportunity served she was very willing to
give him her smiles, her sweet words, to lean her head against him,
caressing and dependent, to bestow even a soft unimpassioned kiss;
but to think of nothing but John, to resign any part of her duties
as mistress of the house, or to neglect other people, and make them
uncomfortable, on account of him, would never have occurred to her,
and there was in her mind at the same time something of that fatal
curiosity which so often attends power. She wanted to know how far her
power could go: it gave her a thrill of excitement to speculate upon
just touching the utmost borders of it, coming to the verge of loss and
despair, and then mending everything with a touch of her hand or sudden
smile. By nature Kate seemed to have been so completely separated from
all tragical possibilities. She had never wanted anything in all her
life that had not been procured for her. Everything had given way to
her, everything conspired to give her her will. And what if she should
give herself one supreme pleasure to end with, and skirt the very edge
of the abyss, and feel the awful thrill of danger, and go just within
a hair's-breadth of destruction? Kate's heart beat as the thought
occurred to her. If she could do this, then she might sip the very
essence of tragedy, and never more be obliged to despise herself as
ignorant of intense emotions--while yet she would still keep her own
happiness all the time to fall back upon. Such was the thought--we
cannot call it project--which gradually shaped itself in Kate's mind,
and which accident went so far to carry out.
"So he has gone," her father said to her; "we have not paid our
deliverer sufficient attention, I suppose."
"Papa, you know I will not have him talked of so," cried Kate; "he
went away because he chose to go. I am dreadfully sorry; and it makes
me think a great deal less of the people who are staying here, not of
John."
"How do you make that out?" said her father.
"Because they did not understand him better," said Kate, with flashing
eyes; "they took their cue from you, papa--not from me--which shows
what they are; for of course it is the lady of the house who has to be
followed, not the gentleman. And he did not see anything of me, which
was what he came for. I only wonder that he should have stayed a
single day."
"That is complimentary to us," said her father; and then he looked her
keenly in the face. "It is not much use trying to deceive me," he said.
"You have quarrelled with Mitford; why don't you tell me so at once?
You have no reproach to expect from me."
"I have not quarrelled with Mr Mitford," said Kate, raising her head
with an amount of indignation for which Mr Crediton was not prepared.
"No, by Jove! you need not expect any reproaches from me; a good
riddance, I should be disposed to say. The fellow begins to get
intolerable. Between you and me, Kate, I would almost rather the Bank
had been burnt to the ground than owe all this to a man I----"
"Papa," said Kate, loftily, "the man you are speaking of is engaged to
be married to me."
Upon which Mr Crediton laughed. Such a cynical Mephistophelian laugh
was not in his way, neither was it usual with him to swear by Jove;
but he was aggravated, and his mind was twisted quite out of its
general strain. No doubt it is very hard to have favours heaped upon
you by a man whom you do not like. And then he had the feeling which
embittered his dislike, that for every good service John had done him,
he had repaid him with harm. As a recompense for his daughter's life,
he had placed her lover in the dingy outer office--a clerk with more
pretensions and less prospect of success than any of the rest. As a
reward for the devotion which had saved him his property, he made his
house, if not disagreeable, at least unattractive to his visitor, and
now felt a certain vigorous satisfaction in the thought of having
beaten him off the field. "That fellow!" he said, and flattered himself
that Kate too was getting tired of him. John had not even taken his
preferment gratefully and humbly, as would have been natural; but
insisted upon taking possession of Kate whenever he could monopolise
her society, and looked as black as night when she was not at his call.
Instead of being overjoyed with the prospect of going to Fernwood at
any price, he had the assurance to resent his cool reception and
to cut short his visit, as if he were on an equal or even superior
footing. Mr Crediton was very glad to get rid of him, but yet he was
furious at his presumption in venturing to take it upon himself to go
away. It was a curious position altogether. He dared not be rude to the
man who had done so much for him; everybody would have called shame on
him had he attempted it; and yet he began to hate him for his services.
And at the same time he had the substantial foundation of justice to
rest upon, that in point of fact John Mitford was not a suitable match
for Kate Crediton. It was in this mood that he accosted Kate, almost
expecting to find her disposed to respond in his own vein.
"There is many a slip between the cup and the lip," he said oracularly,
and left her standing where he had found her, almost diverted from her
own thoughts by indignation and that healthful impulse of opposition
which springs so naturally in the young human breast. "There shall be
no slips in John's cup," she said to herself, with a certain fury, as
she turned away, not thinking much of the unity of the metaphor. No,
nothing should interfere with John's happiness; at least nothing should
permanently interfere with it. The course of true love should certainly
be made to run smooth for him, and everything should go right--at the
last. That, of course, was all that was necessary--the most severe
critic could not demand more than a happy conclusion. "Papa is very,
very much mistaken if he thinks he can make me a traitor to John," Kate
said within herself, indignantly, and hurried off to put on her habit,
and went out to ride with a countenance severe in conscious virtue.
She was pleased that it was Fred Huntley who kept most closely by her
side all the way. For one thing, he rode very well, which is always a
recommendation; and then she felt that she could speak to him of the
subject which was most in her thoughts. It was true that she had almost
quarrelled with her lover on Fred's account, and that there had been a
moment when her mind was full of the thought that her choice must lie
between the two. But Kate forgot these warnings in the impulse of the
moment, and in her longing for confidential communion with somebody who
was interested in John.
"Papa has been making himself so disagreeable to-day," she said. "No, I
know I have not much to complain of in that way; generally he is very
good; but this morning--though perhaps I ought not to say anything
about it," Kate concluded with a sigh.
"It is a way our fathers have," said Fred, "though they ought to
know better at their time of life; but Mr Crediton is a model in his
way--small blame to him when he has only to deal with----"
"Me," said Kate; "please don't pay me any compliments; we don't
really like them, you know, though we have to pretend to. I know I am
sometimes very aggravating; but if there is any good in a girl at all,
she must stand up for anybody who--who is fond of her: don't you think
so, Mr Huntley? What could any one think of her if she had not the
heart to do that?"
"I am afraid I don't quite follow your meaning," said Fred; "to stand
up for everybody who is fond of her? but in that case your life would
be a series of standings-up for somebody or other--and one might have
too much of that."
"There you go again," said Kate; "another compliment! when that is not
in the least what I want. I want backing up myself. I want--advice."
"Indeed, indeed," said Fred--"I am quite ready to give any quantity of
backing up--on the terms you have just mentioned; or--advice."
"Well," said Kate, with a certain softness in her tone--she could not
help being slightly caressing to anybody she talked confidentially
with--"you know we have been friends almost all our lives; at least I
was a very small little girl when I first knew you; we used to call you
Fred in those days--Minnie and Lizzie and I----"
"Minnie and Lizzie call me Fred still," said her companion, dryly; and
he brought his horse very close, almost too close, to her side.
"Of course, they are your sisters," said Kate; "but that was not what
I meant. I meant that it was natural I should talk to you. I have not
got any brother to advise me, and papa has been so disagreeable; and
then, besides knowing me so well, you are quite intimate--with--poor
John."
"Do you know," said Fred, with apparent hesitation, "I meant to have
spoken to you on that subject. I fear Mitford does not like it. I
don't blame him. If I had been as fortunate as he is--pardon the
supposition--I don't think I should have liked you--I mean the lady--to
talk to any other man of me."
Kate did not answer for some minutes. She went along very slowly, her
head and her horse's drooping in harmony; and then she suddenly roused
herself as they came to a level stretch of turf, and with a little wave
of her hand went off at full speed. Such abrupt changes were familiar
to all her friends, but Fred had a feeling that the caprice for once
was policy, and that she wanted time to recover herself, and make up
her mind what kind of answer she should give. Perhaps she had another
notion too, and had half hoped to shake off her attendant, and pick up
some one else who would not tempt her into paths so difficult. However
that might be, the fact was that she did not shake Fred off, but found
him at her side when she drew rein and breath a good way ahead of the
rest of the party.
"That was sudden," he said, with a smile, stopping as she did, and
timing all his movements to hers with a deference that half flattered,
half annoyed her. And Kate was silent again. Her spirit failed at this
emergency--or else, which was more likely, she had not made up her mind
that it was an emergency, or that now was the moment when any decision
must be made.
"I don't understand why you should feel like that," she said, all at
once. "It is natural to talk about people one--cares for; and who
should one talk of them to but their friends? I told you papa had been
dreadfully disagreeable all this time--to him; I am sure I can't
think why--unless it is to make me unhappy; and I am unhappy whenever
I think of it," Kate added, with a candour of which she herself was
unaware.
"I think I can understand quite well why," said Fred. "It is natural
enough. I daresay he hates every fellow that ventures to look at you;
and as for a man who hopes to take you from him altogether--I don't see
how the best of Christians could be expected to stand that."
"Oh, nonsense," said Kate. "All the books say that our fathers and
mothers are only too glad to get rid of us. I don't think, however,
it would be true to say that of papa. He would be very lonely. But in
that case, don't you think the thing would be to make very good friends
with--poor John?"
Fred shook his head with every appearance of profound gravity and
deliberation. "I do not think my virtue would be equal to such an
exertion," he said, with great seriousness, "if I were your papa."
"You are very absurd," said Kate, laughing; "as if you could be my
papa! Yes, indeed, it is easy to laugh; but if you had as much on your
mind as I have, Mr Huntley----"
"You said you used to call me Fred."
"That was only with your sisters," said Kate. "We are too old for that
now; and, besides, if you were my real friend, and felt for me, you
would not talk nonsense when I tell you how much I have on my mind."
"Am I talking nonsense?" said Fred; and just then, as ill luck
would have it, their companions overtook them and interrupted
the conversation, just, Kate said to herself, as it began to be
interesting. And she had not really been able to obtain any advice
from this old friend of her own and of John's, who was, she reflected,
of all people the right one to consult. John had been impatient about
it, but of course it was simply because John did not know. He
thought Fred was intruding between them, attempting to take his own
place, which was, oh, such folly! Fred of all men! who never even
looks at me! said Kate. And then her conscience smote her a
little, for Fred had surely looked at her, even this very day, more
perhaps than John would have approved of. However, he was perfectly
innocent, he was a man who never had been fond of any girl--who was a
fellow of a college, and that sort of thing: and it was natural that
she should want to talk over the circumstances and discuss the matter
with somebody. Though she would not really have vexed John for the
world, yet somehow his unreasonable dislike to Fred rather stimulated
than prevented her from seeking Fred's advice. Why should she give in
to an injustice? And surely in such a matter it was she who must know
best.
As for Fred Huntley, there was a curious combat going on within him
which he concealed skilfully from everybody, and even laboriously
from himself. He pretended not to be aware of the little internal
controversy. When his heart gave him a little tug and intimation
that he was John Mitford's friend, and ought to guard his interests,
he acquiesced without allowing that any question on the matter was
possible. Of course he was John's friend--of course he would stand
by him; and he only saw with the tail of his eye, and took no notice
of, the little imp which in a corner of his mind was gibing at this
conscientious resolution. And then he said to himself how pretty Kate
Crediton looked to-day, when she suddenly woke out of her reverie, and
gathered up her reins and went off like a wild creature, her horse
and she one being, over the level turf. He could not but allow it was
very odd that he had never remarked it before. He supposed she must
have been as pretty all these years, when he had seen her growing from
summer to summer into fuller bloom. But the fact was that he had never
taken any notice of her until now; and he did not know how to explain
it. While the thought passed through his mind, it appeared to Fred as
if the little demon, whom he could just perceive with the tail of the
eye of his mind, so to speak, made a grimace at him, as much as to say,
I know the reason why. Impertinent little imp! Fred turned and looked
himself full in the face, as it were, and there was no demon visible.
It was only to be seen with the tail of his eye, when his immediate
attention was fixed on other things.
And thus the day passed on at Fernwood, with the ride and the talk; and
at night the great dinner, which was like a picture, with its heaps
of flowers on the table, and pretty toilettes and pretty faces round
it--a long day for those who had no particular interest, and a short
day for those who were better occupied. Lady Winton, who had known Mrs
Mitford when she was a girl, yawned over her dressing, and told her
confidential maid drearily that she could not think why she had come,
and wished she might go, except that the next place would be just as
bad. But Fred felt in his calm veins a little thrill of excitement, as
of a man setting forth in an unknown country, and found Fernwood much
more interesting than he had ever done before. "They have always such
nice people--Lady Winton for one," he said to the man who sat next him
after dinner; for Lady Winton was a very clever woman, and rather noted
in society. Such was the fashion of life at Fernwood, when John sat
down in the shadow of his mother's lamp at Fanshawe Regis, and did his
best to make the evening cheerful for her, for the first time for three
months.
CHAPTER XXI.
The conversation above recorded was, it may be supposed, very far from
being the last on so tempting a subject. In short, the two who had
such a topic to themselves did with it what two people invariably do
with a private occasion for talk,--produced it perpetually, had little
snatches of discussion over it, which were broken off as soon as any
stranger appeared, and gradually got into a confidential and mysterious
intimacy. Kate, to do her justice, had no evil intention. None of the
girls about her knew John sufficiently well to discuss him. They had
seen him but for these two days, when he had been distrait,
preoccupied, and suffering; and indeed her friends did not admire
her choice, and Madeline Winton, who was her chief intimate, had not
hesitated to say so. "Of course I don't doubt Mr Mitford is very
nice," had been Miss Winton's deliverance; "but if you really ask my
opinion, Kate, I must say he did not captivate me." "I did not
want him to captivate you," Kate had answered, with some heat. But
nevertheless it is discouraging to have your confidences about your
betrothed thus summarily checked. And on the whole, perhaps, it was
more piquant to have Fred Huntley for a confidant than Madeline Winton.
He never snubbed her. To be sure, with him it was not possible to
indulge in very much enthusiasm over the excellences of the beloved;
but that was not in any case Kate's way; and the matter, without doubt,
was full of difficulties. It was hard to know how to overcome Mr
Crediton's passive but unfaltering resistance--how to bring the father
and the lover to something like an understanding of each other--how
to satisfy John and smooth down his asperities and make him content
with his position. "It is not that he is discontented," Kate said,
with an anxious pucker on her brow, on one of those evenings when she
had stolen a moment from her cares and her guests. "It is not that
he is discontented," she repeated; "I hope he is too fond of me for
that--but----"
"I don't understand how such a word as discontent could be spoken in
the same breath with his name," said Fred--"a lucky fellow! No, surely
it cannot be that."
"I told you it was not discontent," Kate said, almost sharply;
"and as for lucky and all that, you always make me angry with your
nonsense--when we are talking gravely of a subject which is of so much
importance; at least it is of great importance to me."
"I think you might know by this time," said Fred, with soft reproach,
"that everything that concerns you is important to me."
She looked up at him with that soft glow of gratitude and thanks in her
eyes which had subdued John, and half extended to him the tips of her
fingers. "Yes, indeed," she said, "you are very, very kind. I don't
know why I talk to you like this. I can't talk so to anybody else. And
I do so want some one to feel for me. Is it very selfish? I am afraid
it is."
"If it is selfish, I hope you will always be selfish," said Fred,
with a fervour which was out of place, considering all things, and yet
was natural enough; and though he could not kiss the finger-tips with
so many eyes looking on, he squeezed them furtively in the shadow of
her dress. And then for one moment they looked at each other and felt
they were going wrong. To Fred, I am afraid, the feeling was not new,
nor so painful as it ought to have been; but it sent the blood pulsing
suddenly with a curious thrill up to Kate's very hair, startling her as
if she had received an electric shock. And then next moment she said
to herself, "Nonsense! it is only Fred; he is fond of me as if he were
my brother. And how nice it would be to have a brother!" she added
unconsciously, with a half-uttered sigh.
"Did you speak?" said Fred.
"No; I was only thinking how nice it would be--if you were my real
brother," said Kate. "How I wish you were my brother! You have always
been so kind; and then you would settle it all for me, and everything
would come right. It would have been so nice for papa too to have had
a son like you. He would not have minded losing me so much; and he
would have been so proud of your first class and all that. What a nice
arrangement it would have been altogether!" she ran on, beginning to
see a little fun in the suggestion, which even in her present anxious
state was sweet to her. "I wonder, you know--- I don't mean to be
wicked, but I do wonder--why Providence shouldn't think of such things.
It would have been so very, very nice both for me and for papa!"
To this Fred made no reply: he even looked a little glum, if the truth
must be told, and wondered, after all, was she laughing at him as well
as at the rest of the world? and the general company, as it happened,
wanted a little stirring up just at that particular moment, and Kate
had darted off before he was aware, and was here and there among her
guests looking as if vexation of any kind had never come near her.
Fred asked himself, did she mean what she said--was she really moved
by the difficulties that lay in John Mitford's way, or did she care
anything about John Mitford? and what was still more important, what
did she mean about himself?--did she mean anything?--was she playing
with him as a cat plays with a mouse? or was it all real for the
moment--her anxieties, her friendship, all her winning ways?--for they
were winning ways, though he did not feel sure what faith was to be
put in them; and Fred felt a certain pleasant weakness about his heart
at the very thought of her--though she was not his but another man's
Kate, and though he had no desire to be her brother. There were various
men within reach with whom he could have talked pleasantly enough in
other circumstances; and there were women whom he liked--Lady Winton,
for instance--who was very clever, and a great friend of Fred's. Yet
instead of consoling himself with any of these resources, he sat in
his corner, going over and over the foolish little conversation which
had just passed, watching Kate's movements, and wondering if she would
come back. The time was--and that not so very long ago--when he would
have thought Lady Winton's company worth twenty of Kate Crediton's;
though Lady Winton was as old as his mother, and as free from any
thought of flirting with her son's friend. But something had suddenly
made the very idea of Kate Crediton much more captivating than her
ladyship's wit and wisdom. What was it? Is it quite fair to Mitford?
Fred even asked himself faintly, though he gave himself no answer. At
the last, however, his patience was rewarded. Kate came back after
a long interval, after she had suggested "a little music," and had
herself sung, and successfully started the performances of the evening.
She came back to Fred, as she had never gone back to John,--partly,
perhaps, because Fred was not much to her, and John was a great deal.
But nevertheless, she slid into the easy-chair again, and threw herself
back, and gave herself up to the enjoyment of the music. "This is so
sweet. Please don't talk to me--any one," she said, audibly. And Fred
did not talk; but he sat half behind her, half concealed by her chair
and dress, and felt a curious beatitude steal over him. Why? He could
not tell, and he did not ask;--he felt it, that was all.
"Do you know," Kate said, with a certain abruptness, in the middle
of a bar, "that I think everything might come right, Mr Huntley, if
you would really use your influence; if you would represent to papa
how good he is; and if you would only be patient with him, and
show him how much better things might be. You men are so queer. If it
were me, I would put on any look, it would not matter. Could there be
anything wrong in putting on a look just for a little while, when it
might conciliate papa? Any girl would do it naturally," Kate continued,
in a slightly aggrieved tone. "I know you men are honester, and
superior, and all that; but when one has not a bad motive, it can't be
any harm to make-believe a little, for so short a time."
"I think I could make-believe as much and as long as you liked," said
Fred, "if you would condescend to ask me."
"Everybody does it--a little--in ordinary society," said Kate. "Of
course we all smile and say things we don't mean. And wouldn't it be
all the more innocent if one had a good motive? You men are so stiff
and so strange. You can put on looks easily enough when it is for your
own ends; and then, when one wants you just to be a little prudent----"
"Happy Mitford!" said Fred. "I should stand on my head, if you took the
trouble to ask me."
"That is not the question," said Kate, giving her pretty head a little
toss, as if to shake off the suspicion of a blush which had come
against her will; "why should I ask you to stand on your head? Now
you are vexed," she added, hastily, seeing his face cloud over. "What
have I done? I am sure I did not mean to vex you. I was only thinking
of--poor John."
Fred was silent. He had almost betrayed himself, and it was hard
to make any reply. He swallowed his vexation as he best could, and
represented to himself that he had no right to be vexed. Of course it
was John she was thinking of. That fellow! he said to himself, as Mr
Crediton had done; though even in saying so he was aware that he was
unjust. And, to be sure, he had known that John was more interesting to
Kate than he was; yet he felt it hard. He drew back a little, and bit
his lip, and twisted his thumbs, and looked black in spite of himself.
"Don't, please!" said Kate, carried away by her desire of smoothing
things down and making everybody comfortable. "I have nearly quarrelled
with papa. Don't you quarrel with me too."
"I quarrel with you!" cried Fred, leaning forward once more, and gazing
at her with eyes that made Kate quake; and then he paused and added,
in restrained tones that had a thrill of passion in them, "Do anything
with me you like. I will try not to shrink from anything you want me to
do. But Kate, Kate, don't forget I am a man--as well as John."
It was a great relief to Kate that Lady Winton came up at that moment
and took a seat near her, and put an effectual stop to any more
whispering. Perhaps it would be nonsense to say that she was very
much surprised by this little outbreak of feeling. It is common to
admire and wonder at the unfathomableness of women; and, like most
other common and popular ideas, it is great nonsense; for women are
no more mysterious to men than men are to women, and both are equally
incomprehensible. But perhaps the sentiments of a young woman in
respect to the man who pays court to her, are really as curious things
as are to be found within the range of humanity. The girl has no
intention to be cruel--is no coquette--and would be astonished beyond
measure if she could fully realise what she is herself doing. And yet
there is a curiosity, an interest, in admiration for itself--in love
(still more) for itself--which draw her on unawares. It requires a
strong mind, or an insensible heart, not to be interested in such an
investigation, and sometimes it goes to the point of cruelty. When
she knows what she is about, of course a good girl will stop short,
and do what she can to show the infatuated one "some discourtesy," as
Sir Lancelot was bidden do to Elaine; but there are some women, like
Lancelot, who cannot be discourteous, whatever is the cost; and with a
mixture of awe, and wonder, and poignant gratification which is half
pain, the woman looks on while that costly offering is made to her.
It is cruel, and yet it is not meant to be cruel. Such were Kate's
feelings now. Was it possible that Fred Huntley could be coming to the
point of loving her--the collected, cool, composed being that he was?
What kind of love would his be? How would it move him? Would it be
true love, or only a pretence at it? These questions filled her with a
curiosity and desire to carry on the experiment, which were too strong
to be resisted. She was glad of Lady Winton's approach, because when it
comes to plain speaking, it is difficult to pursue this subtle inquiry
without compromising one's self. But she turned half round and gave him
a wondering, anxious look. You poor dear fellow! what can you mean? was
what the look said; and it was not the kind of glance which discourages
a lover either secret or avowed. And then she turned to Lady Winton,
who had established herself at Kate's other side.
"I have scarcely seen you all day," she said. "Madeline told me you
were too tired to talk, and that it was best to leave you alone."
"That was very true," said Lady Winton, "but I am better now, and I
have something to say to you before I go away. Mr Huntley, will you
fetch me my fan, which I have left on the piano? Thanks. Now we have
got rid of him, my dear, I can say what I have to say."
"But probably he will come back," said Kate, with a thrill of fear.
"I don't think he will. Fred Huntley has a great deal of sense. When I
send him off with a commission like that, of course he knows we don't
want him here; and I am so glad he is gone, Kate, for it was to speak
of him I came."
"To speak of--him!"
"Yes, indeed," said Lady Winton. "Tell me frankly, Kate, as one woman
to another, which is it to be?"
"Which is what to be?--I don't understand you," said Kate, flushing
crimson; "which of which? Lady Winton, I can't even guess what you
mean."
"Oh yes, you can," said her new adviser. "My dear, it is not permitted
by our laws to have two husbands, and that makes two lovers very
dangerous--I always warn a girl against it. You think, perhaps, there
is no harm, and that one of them will be wise enough not to go too
far; but they will go too far, those silly men--and when they don't,
we despise them, my dear," said the experienced woman. "A woman may
shilly-shally, and hold off and on, and make an entertainment of
it--but when a man is capable of that sort of thing he is not worth a
thought; and so I ask, which is it to be?"
It will be seen from this that Lady Winton, like so many clever women
of her age, was deeply learned in all the questions that arise between
men and women. She had studied the matter at first hand of course, in
her youth; and though she had never been a flirt, she had not been
absolutely devoid of opportunity for study, even in her maturer years,
when the faculty of observation was enlarged, and ripe judgment had
come; and accordingly she spoke with authority, as one fully competent
to fathom and realise the question which she thus fearlessly opened. As
for Kate, she changed colour a great many times while she was being
addressed, but her courage did not fail.
"Mr Huntley is my friend," she said, facing her accuser bravely: "as
for which it is to be, I introduced Mr Mitford to you, Lady Winton----"
"Yes, my dear, and that is what makes me ask; and a very nice young
fellow, I am sure--a genuine reliable sort of young man, Kate----"
"Oh, isn't he?" cried that changeable personage, with eyes glowing and
sparkling; "dear Lady Winton, you always understand--that is just what
he is--one could trust him with anything and he would never fail."
"You strange girl," said Lady Winton, "what do you mean? Why, you are
in earnest! and yet you sit and talk with Fred Huntley a whole
evening in a corner, and do everything you can to break the other poor
fellow's heart."
"The other poor fellow is not here," said Kate, with a half-alarmed
glance round her. If it came to that, she felt that after all she would
not have liked John to have watched her interview with her friend and
his: and then she perceived that she had betrayed herself, and coloured
high, recollecting that she was under keen feminine inspection which
missed nothing.
"Don't trust to that," said Lady Winton; "you may be sure there is
somebody here who will let him know. I don't say much about Fred
Huntley's heart, for he is very well able to take care of that; but,
Kate, for heaven's sake, mind what you are about! Don't get into the
habit of encouraging one man because another is absent and will not
know. Everybody knows everything, my dear; there is no such thing as a
secret; you forget there are more than a dozen pairs of eyes in this
very room."
"Lady Winton," said Kate, "I am not afraid of any one seeing what I do.
I hope I have not done anything wrong; and as for Mr Mitford, I know
him and he knows me."
"Well, well--let us hope so," said Lady Winton, with a prolonged
shake of her head; "and I hope he is more philosophical than I gave
him credit for; I should not have said it was his strong point. But,
however, as you are so very sure, my dear----"
"Perfectly sure," said Kate, with dignity; and the moment she had said
it, would have liked to throw her arms round her monitor's neck and
have a good cry; but that was quite impossible in the circumstances;
and Fred Huntley from afar seeing the two ladies draw imperceptibly
apart, and seeing their conversation had come to an end, approached
with the fan, and took up his position in front of them, and managed
to bring about a general conversation. He did it very skilfully, and
contrived to cover Kate's annoyance and smooth her down, and restore
her to self-command; and that night Kate was not only friendly but
grateful to him, which was a further step in the downward way.
CHAPTER XXII.
Fred Huntley was a man of considerable ingenuity as well as coolness of
intellect; and it was impossible that he could remain long unconscious
of what he was doing, or take any but the first steps in any path
without a clear perception of whither it led. And accordingly, before
he had reached this point he had become fully aware of the situation,
and had contemplated it from every possible point of view. No feeling
of treachery to John weighed upon him when he thought it fully over.
He had not been confided in by Kate's accepted lover, nor appealed to,
nor put upon his honour in the matter; and John was not even a very
intimate friend that he should give in to him; nor did it occur to him
to stifle the dawning love in his own heart, and withdraw from the
field, even for Kate's sake, to leave her tranquil to the enjoyment
of her first love. Such an idea was not in Fred's way. To secure his
own will and his own happiness was naturally the first thing in his
estimation, and he had no compunctions about his rival. There seemed
to him no possible reason why he should sacrifice himself, and leave
the field clear to John. And then there were so many aspects in which
to consider the matter. It would be much better for her, Fred felt,
to marry himself. He could make appropriate settlements upon her; he
could maintain her in that position to which she had been accustomed;
he could give her everything that a rich man's daughter or rich man's
wife could desire. His blood, perhaps, might not be so good as John
Mitford's blood, if you entered into so fine a question; but he was
heir to his father's money, if not to much that was more ethereal. And
money tells with everybody, Fred thought; it would tell with Kate,
though perhaps she did not think so. Of all people in the world was not
she the last who could consent to come down from her luxurious state,
and be the wife of a poor man, with next to no servants, no horses,
no carriage, and nothing but love to make up to her for a thousand
wants? Fred Huntley was in love himself, and indeed it was love that
was the origin of all these deliberations; and yet he scoffed at love
as a compensation. By dint of reasoning, he even got himself to believe
that it was an unprincipled thing on John's part to seek her at all,
and that any man would do a good deed who should deliver her from his
hands. He had reached to this point by the next evening after the one
whose events we have just recorded. Kate had not ridden out that day;
she had been little visible to any one, and Fred had not more than
a distant glimpse of her at the breakfast-table and in the twilight
over the tea, which called together most of the party. Madeline Winton
and her mother had gone away that morning; and Madeline was Kate's
gossip, her confidential friend, the only one with whom she could
relieve her soul. She was somewhat low-spirited in the evening. Fred
looked on, and saw her languid treatment of everything, and the snubs
she administered to several would-be consolers. He kept apart with
conscious skill; and yet, when he happened to be thrown absolutely in
her way, was very full of attention and care for her comfort. He placed
her seat just as he thought she liked it, arranged her footstool for
her with the most anxious devotion, and was just retiring behind her
chair when she stopped him, struck by his melancholy looks. "Are you
ill, Mr Huntley?" she said, with something like solicitude; and Fred
shook his head, fixing his eyes on her face.
"No," he said, "I am not ill;" and then drew a little apart, and looked
down upon her with a certain pathos in his eyes.
"There is something the matter with you," said Kate.
"Well, perhaps there is; and I should have said there was something
the matter with you, Miss Crediton, which is of a great deal more
importance."
"Mine is easily explained," said Kate; "I have lost my friend. I am
always low when Madeline goes away. We have always been such friends
since we were babies. There is nobody in the world I am so intimate
with. And it is so nice to have some one you can talk to and say
everything that comes into your head. I am always out of spirits when
she goes away."
"If the post is vacant I wish I might apply for it," Fred said, with
exaggerated humility. "I think I should make an excellent confidant.
Discreet and patient and ready to sympathise, and not at all given to
offering impertinent advice."
"Ah, you!" cried Kate, with a sudden glance up at him. And then she
laughed, notwithstanding her depressed condition. "I wonder what Lady
Winton would say?" she added merrily, but the next moment grew very red
and felt confused under his eye; for what if he should try to find out
what Lady Winton had said?--which, of course, he immediately attempted
to do.
"Lady Winton is a great friend of mine. She would never give her vote
against me," said Fred, cunningly disarming his adversary.
Upon which Kate indulged herself in another mischievous laugh. Did he
but know! "She is not like you," said the girl in her temerity; "she
is rather fond of giving advice."
"Yes," said Fred, growing bold. "That was what she was doing last
night. Would you like me to tell you what it was about?"
"What it was about?" cried Kate, in consternation, with a violent
sudden blush; but of course it must be nonsense, she represented to
herself, looking at him with a certain anxiety. "You never could guess,
Mr Huntley; it was something quite between ourselves."
"That is very possible," he said, so gravely that her fears were quite
silenced; and he added in another moment, "but I know very well what it
was. It was about me."
"About you!"
"I have known Lady Winton a great many years," said Fred, steadily. "I
understand her ways. When she comes and takes a man's place and sends
him off for something she has left behind on purpose, he must be dull
indeed if he does not know what she means. She was talking to you of
me."
"It was not I that said so!" cried Kate, who was in a great turmoil,
combined of fright, confusion, and amusement. It would be such fun to
hear what guesses he would make, and he was so sure not to find it out!
"When you assert such a thing you must prove it," she said, her eyes
dancing with fun and rash delight, and yet with a secret terror in them
too.
"She was warning you," said Fred, with a long-drawn breath, in which
there was some real and a good deal of counterfeit excitement, "not to
trifle with me. She was telling you, that though I did not show many
signs of feeling, I was still a man like other men, and had a heart----"
"Fancy Lady Winton saying all that," cried Kate, with a tremulous laugh
of agitation. "What a lively imagination you have--and about you!"
"But she might have said it with great justice," said Fred, very
gravely and steadily, "and about me."
Here was a situation! To have a man speaking to you in your own
drawing-room in full sight of a score of people, and as good as
telling you what men tell in all sorts of covert and secret places,
with faltering voice and beating heart. Fred was perfectly steady and
still; his voice was a trifle graver than usual--perhaps it might have
been called sad; his eyes were fixed upon her with a serious, anxious
look; there was no air of jest, no levity, but an aspect of fact which
terrified and startled her. Kate fairly broke down under this strange
and unexpected test. She gave a frightened glance at him, and put up
her fan to hide her face. What was she to say?
"Please, Mr Huntley," she faltered, "this is not the kind of subject to
make jokes about."
"Do I look like a man who is joking?" he asked. "I do not complain; I
have not a word to say. I suppose I have brought it upon myself, buying
the delight of your society at any price I could get it for--even the
dearest. And you talk to me about another man as if I were made of
stone--a man who----"
"Stop, please," she said, faintly. "I may have been wrong. I never
thought--but please don't say anything of him, whatever you may say to
me."
"You are more afraid of a word breathed against him than of breaking
my heart," said Fred, with some real emotion; and Kate sat still,
thunderstruck, taking shelter behind her fan, feeling that every one
was looking at her, and that her very ears were burning and tingling.
Was he making love to her? she asked herself. Had he any intention of
contesting John's supremacy? or was it a mere remonstrance, a complaint
that meant nothing, an outcry of wounded pride and nothing more?
"Mr Huntley," she said, softly, "if I have given you any pain, I am
very sorry. I never meant it. You were so kind, I did not think I was
doing wrong. Please forgive me; if there is any harm done it is not
with my will."
"Do you think that mends matters?" said Fred, with now a little
indignation mingling in his sadness. "If you put it into plain English,
this is what it means:--I was something so insignificant to you, taken
up as you were with your own love, that it never occurred to you that I
might suffer. You never thought of me at all. If you had said you had
meant it, and had taken the trouble to make me miserable, that would
have been a little better; at least it would not have been contempt."
And he turned away from her and sat down at a little table near,
and covered his face with his hand. What would everybody think? was
Kate's first thought. Did he mean to hold her up to public notice, to
demonstrate that she had used him badly? She bore it for a moment or
two in her bewilderment, and then stretched across and touched him
lightly with her fan. "Mr Huntley, there are a great many people in the
room," she said. "If we were alone you might reproach me; but surely
we need not let these people know--and papa! Mr Huntley, you know very
well it was not contempt. Won't you forgive me--when I ask your pardon
with all my heart?"
"Forgive you!" cried Fred; and he raised his head and turned to her,
though he did not raise his eyes. "You cannot think it is forgiveness
that is wanted--that is mockery."
"Please don't say so! I would not mock you for all the world. Oh, Mr
Huntley, if it is not forgiveness, what is it?" cried Kate.
And then he looked at her with eyes full of reproach, and a certain
appeal--while she met his look with incipient tears, with her child's
gaze of wonder, and sorrow, and eloquent deprecation. "Please forgive
me!" she said, in a whisper. She even advanced her hand to him by
instinct, with a shy half-conscious movement, stopping short out of
regard for the many pairs of eyes in the room, not for any other cause.
"I am so very, very sorry," she said, and the water shone in her blue
eyes like dew on flowers. Fred, though he was not emotional, was
more deeply moved than he had yet been. Throughout all this strange
interview, though he meant every word he said, he had yet been more or
less playing a part. But now her ingenuous look overcame him. Something
of the imbecility of tenderness came into his eyes. He made a little
clutch at the finger-tips which had been held out to him, and would
have kissed them before everybody, had not Kate given him a warning
look, and blushed, and quickly drawn the half-offered hand away. She
would not have drawn it away had they been alone. Would she have heard
him more patiently, given him a still kinder response? Fred could not
tell, but yet he felt that his first effort had not been made in vain.
It was Mr Crediton himself who interrupted this tte--tte. He
came up to them with a look which might have been mere curiosity, and
might have been displeasure. "Kate," he said, gravely, "it seems to me
you are neglecting your guests. Instead of staying in this favourite
corner of yours, suppose you go and look after these young ladies a
little. Mr Huntley will excuse you, I am sure."
"I am so lazy, I am out of spirits; and so is Mr Huntley; we have
been condoling with each other," said Kate; but she got up as she
spoke, with her usual sweet alacrity, not sorry, if truth were told,
to escape. "Keep my seat for me, papa, till I come back," she said,
with her soft little laugh. Mr Crediton did as he was told--he placed
himself in her chair, and turned round to Fred and looked at him. While
she tripped away to the other girls to resume her interrupted duties,
her father and her new lover confronted each other, and cautiously
investigated what the new danger was.
"My dear Huntley," said the elder man, "I am sure your meaning is the
most friendly in the world; but my daughter is very young, and she is
engaged to be married; and, on the whole, I think it would be better
that you did not appropriate her so much. Kate ought to know better,
but she is very light-hearted, and fond of being amused."
"I don't think I have been very amusing to-night," said Fred. "Thanks,
sir, for your frankness; but I am going away to-morrow, and I may claim
a little indulgence, perhaps, for my last night."
"Going away to-morrow!" said Mr Crediton, with surprise.
"Yes, I have no choice. Shall I say it is sudden business--a telegram
from Oxford--a summons home? or shall I tell you the real reason, Mr
Crediton?" cried Fred, with emotion. "You have always been very good to
me."
Mr Crediton was startled, notwithstanding his habitual composure. He
looked keenly at the young man, and saw what few people had ever
seen--the signs of strong and highly-wrought feeling in Fred Huntley's
face; and the sight was a great surprise to him. He had thought the
two had been amusing themselves with a flirtation, a thing he did not
approve of; but this must surely have gone beyond a flirtation. "If
you have anything to say to me, come to the library after they have
gone to bed," he said. Fred answered by a nod of assent, and the two
separated without another word. Nor did Kate see the new claimant to
her regard any more that night. He had disappeared when she had time
to look round her, and recall the agitating interview which had broken
the monotony of the evening. It came to her mind when she was talking,
returning again and again amid the nothings of ordinary conversation.
How strange it all was, how exciting! what a curious episode in the
tedious evening! And what did he, what could he, mean? And what would
John think? And was it possible that Fred Huntley could feel like
that--Fred, that man of the world? She was confused, bewildered,
flattered, pleased, and sorry. It was a new sensation, and thrilled
her through and through when she was rather in want of something to
rouse her up a little. And she was so sorry for him! She almost hoped
he would spring up from some corner, and be chidden and comforted,
and made more miserable by the soft look of compassion she would give
him--the "Pardon me!" which she meant to say; but Fred made no further
appearance, and the Pardon me! was not said that night.
CHAPTER XXIII.
It puzzled Kate very much next morning to find that Huntley had not
reappeared. It was not in the nature of things that she could avoid
thinking about him, and wondering over and over again what he could
mean,--whether he was mystifying her--but that was impossible; or if it
was really, actually true? And the fact was that she went down-stairs
a little earlier than usual, with a great curiosity in her mind as
to how Fred would look, and whether she should see any traces in his
face of last night's agitation. When she had taken this trouble, it
may be supposed that it was hard upon her to find Fred absent; and she
"did not like"--a new expression in Kate's vocabulary--to ask what
had become of him. She caught herself looking at the door anxiously
every time it opened, but he did not come. Some one at last relieved
her anxiety by asking the point-blank question, "What has become of
Huntley? has he gone away?" It was an idea which never had occurred
to Kate. She looked up in blank dismay at the suggestion, and met her
father's eye fully fixed upon her, and trembled, and felt that in two
minutes more she must cry--not for Fred, but because he was decidedly
an exciting new plaything, and he had gone away.
"Yes, he has gone away," said Mr Crediton, "this morning, before some
of us were out of bed. I have his farewells to make. He did not know it
would be necessary for him to go when he left us last night."
"I hope there is nothing the matter at Westbrook," said one of Fred's
intimates; but Kate did not say a word. The room swam round her for one
moment. Gone away! Was it so serious as that, then? The self-possessed
Fred, had matters been so grave with him that flight was his only
refuge? She was so startled that she did not know what to think. She
was sorry, and surprised, and fluttered, and excited, all in a breath.
She did not pay any attention to the conversation for some minutes,
though she was sufficiently mistress of herself to take the usual part
in it, and to go on dispensing cups of tea. Gone away! It was very
fine, very honourable, very provoking of him. She had meant to bring
him down to his level very kindly and skilfully, and cure him of all
hopes, while still she kept him bound in a certain friendly chain. And
now he had cut it all short, and taken the matter into his own hands.
It cannot be denied that Kate was a little vexed at the moment. No
doubt, if she had been left alone she would have got over it in the
course of the day, and recovered her composure, and thought no more of
Fred Huntley than she had done two days ago; but she was not destined
to be left to herself. The first thing that happened was that Mr
Crediton remained in the breakfast-room till everybody was gone, and
called her to him. The most indulgent of fathers was looking somewhat
stern, which was a thing of itself which utterly puzzled as well as
dismayed the girl whom he had scarcely ever thwarted in the whole
course of her life.
"Kate," he said, "you took no notice when I said Fred Huntley had gone
away--so I suppose he told you why it was?"
"He never said a word to me of going away, papa," faltered Kate.
"But you know the cause? and I hope it will be a warning to you," said
Mr Crediton. "I have seen this going on for some days, and I meant to
have spoken to you. A girl in your position has no right to distinguish
a man as you did poor Fred."
"But, dear papa," cried Kate, feeling very penitent yet very much
flattered--as if somebody had paid her a very nice compliment, she
said afterwards--"you cannot think it was my fault; I only talked to
him like the rest. If I talked to him a little more, it was about--Mr
Mitford. And he knew all the time. How was I to suppose it could come
to any harm?"
"Don't let me hear of any other man being taken in by your confounded
confidences--about Mr Mitford," said her father, with an amount of
rudeness and contemptuous impatience, such as perhaps had never been
shown to Kate before in all her life.
"Papa!" she cried, indignant, drawing herself up; but Mr Crediton
only said "Pshaw!" and went off and left her standing by herself, not
knowing whether to cry or to be very angry, in the great empty room.
He was wroth, and he was disposed rather to heighten than to subdue
the expression of it. He wanted her to feel the full weight of his
displeasure, rather a little more than less. For Fred Huntley would
have suited him well enough for a son-in-law, if it was necessary
to have such an article. He had distinguished himself already, and
was likely still more to distinguish himself. He was thought of by
the borough authorities as the new Member for Camelford. He was very
well off, and could do everything that was right and meet in the way
of providing for his bride. He was in her own sphere. "Confound that
Mitford!" Mr Crediton said to himself as he left his daughter. It
was bad enough to contemplate the possibility of ever resigning his
child to John's keeping; but to throw aside a man he liked for him,
exaggerated the offence. He went out, kicking Kate's favourite Skye
terrier on his way, as angry men are apt to do. "As if it was poor
Muffy that had done it!" Kate said, with the tears springing to her
eyes. When she was thus left she called her injured terrier to her, and
hugged it, and had a good cry. "You did not do it, did you, Muffy?" she
said. "Poor dear dog! what had you to do with it? If a man chooses to
be silly, are we to be kicked for it, Muffy mio? Papa is a great
bear, and everybody is as unkind as they can be; and oh, I am so sorry
about poor Fred!"
She got over her crying, however, and her regrets, and made herself
very agreeable to a great many people for the rest of the day, and
petted Muffy very much, and took no notice of her father, who, poor
man, had compunctions; but by the time that evening arrived, Kate began
to feel that the loss of Fred was a very serious loss indeed. He had
timed his departure very cleverly. If Madeline Winton had still been
there, it might have been bearable; for she would have had some one
to open her heart to, notwithstanding that even to Madeline she had
not been able to speak of John as she had indulged herself in doing
to her "friend"--John's friend; somehow that was not the title which
she now thought of giving to Fred Huntley. He had suddenly sprung into
individuality, and held a distinct place of his own in her mind. Poor
Fred! could it be possible that he was so fond of her! he who was not
at all a tragical sort of personage, or one likely to do anything
very much out of the way for love. What could he find in her to be
fond of? Kate said to herself. He was not like John, who was ignorant
of society. Fred Huntley had seen heaps of other girls who were very
pretty and very nice; and why was it that he had set his affections
upon herself, Kate, whom he could not have? It seemed such a pity, such
a waste of effort. "Madeline might have had him, perhaps," she said to
herself, reflecting pensively in her easy-chair with her fan at her
lips to conceal their movement. Madeline as yet had no lover, and she
was very nice, and rather pretty too. And it would have been perfectly
suitable, "instead of coming making a fuss over me; and he can't
have me," Kate added always within herself, with a sigh of suffering
benevolence. It was hard he could not have her when he wanted her so
very much. It was hard that everybody should not have everything they
wanted. And it was odd, yet not unpleasant, that he should thus insist
upon throwing away his love upon herself, who could not accept it,
instead of giving it to Madeline, who might have accepted. How perverse
the world was!
Thus Kate reflected as she sat and mused the evening after he had gone.
She was heartily sorry to cross Fred, and felt the most affectionate
sympathy for him, poor fellow! It was so nice of him to be fond of
her, though she could not give him any return. And if he had stayed
and talked it over, instead of running away, Kate thought of a hundred
things she could have said to him, as to the unreasonableness of
falling in love with herself, and the good sense of transferring his
love to Madeline. Somehow she did not quite expect he would have taken
her advice; but still, no doubt, she would have set it before him in
a very clear light, and got him to hear reason. And then he was very
pleasant to talk to, and more amusing than anybody else at Fernwood.
This feeling had never crept over her in respect to John. When he went
away, she was sorry because he left her half in displeasure, and "had
not enjoyed himself;" but she could not persuade herself that she had
missed his company, missed a hundred things he would have said to her,
as she did now. She was in reality almost relieved to be quit of the
passionate eyes which followed her everywhere, and the demand which
he made upon her for her society, for her very inmost self. But Fred
made no such claims. Fred took what he could get, and was happy in it.
He spared her trouble, and watched to see what her wants were, and
was always ready to talk to her or to leave her alone, as her mood
varied. Poor Fred! she sighed, feeling very, very sorry for him, with
a half-tenderness of pity which young women accord only to those who
are their personal victims. Perhaps she exaggerated his sufferings,
as it was natural to do. She sat and mused over him all that evening
with her fan half concealing her face. "My dear, I am afraid you have
a headache," one of the elder ladies said to her; and Kate acquiesced
with a faint little smile. "It is the weather," she said, softly; and
the old lady, taking her cue, sat down beside her, and discussed the
same. "The changes are the worst," she said--"the thermometer at sixty
one day, and next day below the freezing-point. And then, in an English
house, it is so difficult to keep cold out."
"I hope your room is warm," Kate said suddenly, remembering her
hostess-ship. "You must tell me if you find it chilly. There is such a
difference in some of the rooms!"
"It is according to their aspect," said the old lady; "mine is very
comfortable, I assure you. It is you young ones that expose yourselves
to so many changes. If I were you, I would wrap up very warm, and keep
indoors for a day or two. There is nothing like keeping in an equitable
temperature. I have no confidence in anything else."
"Thanks," Kate said, with a feeling of dreariness. Instead of Fred's
conversation this was a poor exchange. And she grew more and more
sorry for him, and more and more compassionate of herself as the
evening stole on. Several of the people who interested her most had
left within the last few days. There was but the moderate average
of country-house visitors left; people who were not remarkable for
anything--neither witty, nor pretty, nor particularly entertaining--and
yet not to be complained of in any way. She did her duty to them as
became Mr Crediton's daughter, and was very solicitous to know that
they were comfortable and had what they liked; but she missed Madeline,
she missed Lady Winton, she missed her acrid old godfather, who was
said to be fond of nobody but Kate; and, above all, she missed Fred
Huntley--poor Fred!
A week had passed, somewhat weakening this impression, when Fred
returned, quite as suddenly as he went away. He was seen walking up the
avenue when the party were at luncheon, and Kate's heart gave a little
jump at the sight of him. "Why, there is Huntley come back again!"
some one cried, but he did not make his appearance at lunch; and it was
only when he came into the drawing-room before dinner that Kate had
any opportunity of seeing what change had been wrought in him by the
discovery of his sentiments towards herself. Fred was playing a part;
but, like every other actor in life who plays his part well, had come
to believe in it himself, and to feel it real. He came up to her with a
certain confused but melancholy frankness. "Miss Crediton," he said, "I
am afraid you cannot like to see me, but I have come about business. I
would not for the world, for any other reason, have brought what must
be an annoyance upon you." And then Kate had lifted to him a pair of
very sympathetic, almost tender, eyes.
"Indeed I don't know why I should not like to see you," she said,
quietly. "You have always been very kind to me."
"Kind!" he had answered, turning away with a gesture of impatience,
and not another word passed between them until the evening was almost
over, and all opportunity past. He was so slow, indeed, to take
advantage of any opportunity, that Kate felt half angry--wondering had
the man quite got over it? had he ever meant anything? But at the very
last, when she turned her head unthinking, all at once she found his
eyes upon her, and that he was standing close by her side.
"I suppose I must not ask for my old situation," he said, softly. "I
have been a fool and forfeited all my advantages because I could not
win the greatest. You used to speak to me once--of the subject most
interesting to yourself."
"I don't think it would be in the least interesting to you now,
Mr Huntley," said Kate, not without a little pique in her voice.
"Ah, you don't know me," he said. "I think I could interest myself in
anything that was interesting to you."
And then there was silence, in which Kate began to feel her heart beat,
and wondered if this man could be an oyster, or if he could really
be so inconceivably fond of her as to be thus concerned in all that
concerned her happiness. It sounded like something in a romance; and
yet Kate knew enough of life and society to know that romance sometimes
gave but a very colourless picture of the truth.
"I hope you have heard lately," he went on, with a voice which was
elaborately and yet not unnaturally subdued--for, as has been said,
Fred had fully entered into the rle he was playing--"and that
all is going well."
Kate blushed, perhaps, more violently than she had ever blushed in her
life before. If he were making this sacrifice of his feelings for her,
surely she ought to be true and sincere with him; but what she had to
say was mortifying to her pride. She looked at him stooping over her,
and tried to read his face, and asked herself, with a simplicity that
is natural to the sophisticated, whether here, once for all, she had
found the friend who is equal to utter self-abnegation, and of
whom in books one sometimes reads. A more simple-minded girl, probably,
would not have looked for so self-sacrificing a lover, but Kate had
been brought up with a persuasion of her own power to sway everybody
to her will. "Mr Huntley," she said, hurriedly, "I don't think I ought
to speak to you on such a subject; but, indeed, I feel anxious, and I
don't know what to do."
"Then do speak to me," he said, bending over her. "Do you think I care
what happens to myself if I can be of use to you?"
There are sentiments of this heroic description which we would see
the fallacy of at once if addressed to others, which yet seem natural
spoken to ourselves. And Kate had always been so important to everybody
about her. She looked up at him again, she faltered, she half turned
away, and then, after all, she spoke.
"I don't know why I should tell you. I don't know what it means. I have
not heard a single word from him, Mr Huntley, since he went away."
A sudden gleam of light came into Fred's eyes, but he was looking down,
and she only saw a ghost of it under his lowered eyelids. "That is very
strange," he said.
"Do you think he can be ill? Do you think anything can have happened?"
asked Kate.
"He is not ill, he is at home at Fanshawe, and his burns are getting
better. I saw him yesterday," said Fred.
"At home! and he never told me. Oh, how unkind it is! It used to be
every other day, and now it is nearly a fortnight. But why should you
care?" cried Kate, really moved with sharp mortification, and not quite
aware what she said.
"I care a great deal," he said, very low, and sighed. And Kate's heart
was sore, and she was angry, and wounded, and for almost the first time
in her life felt that she had a little pride in her nature. Did the
other despise her to whom she had given her heart? Did he think she
was not worthy even of courtesy? though other people were so far from
thinking so. Kate's impatient heart began to beat high with anger and
with pain.
CHAPTER XXIV.
The first great apparent change in a life is not always its real
beginning. It may be but the beginning of the beginning, as it were,
the first grand crash of the ice, the opening of the fountain. There
is more noise and more demonstration than when the full tide of waters
begins to swell into the broader channel, but it is not the great
crisis which it has the look of being. It is the commencement of a
process of which it is impossible to predict the end. This had been
emphatically the case with John Mitford when he was suddenly swept
out of his father's house and out of all the traditions of his youth.
It seemed to him and to everybody that his life had then taken its
individual shape. When he returned to Fanshawe Regis, he went about
with new eyes, curiously observing everything which before he had
accepted without observation. Was it that he felt the new better? Was
it that he hankered after the old? These were questions which he could
not answer. The only thing he was quite sure of in respect to himself
was that he was uncertain about everything, and that life was no longer
sweet enough to make up for the darkness and troubles in it. With
this feeling in his mind he listened to his father's sermons, seeing
everything in a different light, and went with his mother on her parish
work, carrying her basket, gazing wistfully in at the cottage windows,
wondering what was the good of it all. He had never questioned for a
moment the good of at least his mother's ministrations until now. When
she came smiling out of one of the cottages it cast a gloom upon her
to find her boy, who had always been full of faith in her at least,
standing unresponsive, waiting for her outside. She looked him in the
eyes with her tender smile, and said, "Well, John?" as she gave back
the little basket into his hand.
"Well," he said, with a sigh, "my good little mother! do you think it
is worth all the trouble you are taking, and all the trouble you have
taken since ever I remember?--that is what I want to know."
"Yes, my dear," said Mrs Mitford, "that and a great deal more. Oh,
John, if I could feel that but one, only one, was brought back to God
by any means!"
"I think they are all very much the same as they used to be," said
John. "I recollect when I was a small boy, there was always something
to be set right there."
"That was the father, my dear," said Mrs Mitford. "He was very
troublesome. He took more than was good for him, you know; and then he
used to be very unkind to his poor wife. Ah, John, some of these poor
women have a great deal to bear!"
"But the blackguard is dead now, heaven be praised!" said John.
"Oh, hush, my dear, hush, and don't speak of an immortal soul like
that! Yes indeed, John, he has gone where he will be judged with
clearer sight than ours. But I wish I could hope things were really
mended," said Mrs Mitford, shaking her head. She went on shaking her
head for a whole minute after she had stopped speaking, as if her hope
was a very slight one indeed.
"What is the matter now?"
"The boys are very tiresome, my dear," said Mrs Mitford, with a sigh.
"Somehow it seems natural to them to take to bad ways. You can't think
how idle and lazy Jim is, though he used to be such a good boy when
he was in the choir, don't you remember? He looked a perfect little
angel in his white surplice, but I fear he has been a very bad boy; and
Willie and his mother never do get on together. He is the only one that
can be depended upon in the least, and he talks of marrying and going
away."
"You have not much satisfaction out of them," said John, "though I know
you have always kept on doing all sorts of things for them. They ought
at least to be grateful to you."
"Well, my dear," said Mrs Mitford, with anxious gravity, "I don't like
to blame her--but I am afraid sometimes their mother is not very
judicious, poor woman. It sours one sadly to have so much misfortune.
She is always contradicting and crossing them for things that don't
matter. I don't like to blame her, she has had so much to put up with;
but still, you know--and of course it is discouraging, whatever one may
try to say."
"And then there are the Littles," said John, leading his mother on.
"Oh, the Littles, dear! I wish you would not speak of them. Every month
or so I think I have just got their mind up to the point of going to
church. If you but knew the number of bonnets that woman has had, and
shoes for the children, and even your papa's last old greatcoat which
I got the tailor to alter for Robert. But it is never any good. And
though I pay myself for the children's schooling, they never go. It is
enough to break one's heart."
"And Lizzie's people are always a trouble to you," said John.
"Ah, my dear, but then the old woman is a Dissenter," said Mrs Mitford,
with alacrity; "and in such a case what can one do?"
"But, mother dear, with all these things before you, does it sometimes
strike you what a hopeless business it is?" cried John. "You have been
working in the parish for twenty years----"
"Twenty-five, my dear boy--since before you were born."
"And what is it the better?" said John; "the same evils reappear just
in the same way--the same wickedness, and profanity, and indifference.
For all the change one can see, mother dear, all your work and fatigue
might never have been."
"I must say so far as that goes I don't agree with you at all, John,"
cried his mother, with a certain sharp ring in her voice. The colour
came to her cheeks and the water to her eyes. If it had been said to
her that her life itself had been a mistake and failure, she could not
have felt it more. Indeed the one implied the other; and if there was
any one thing that she had built upon in all her modest existence, it
was the difference in the parish. John's words gave her such a shock
that she gasped after them with a sense of partial suffocation.
And then she did her best to restrain the momentary sharp thrill of
resentment; for how could she be angry with her boy? "My dear," she
said, humbly, with the tears in her soft eyes, "I don't suppose I have
done half or quarter what I ought to have done; but still if you had
seen the parish when we came---- If I had been a woman of more energy,
and cleverer than I am----"
"You cannot think it was that I meant," cried John. "How you
mistake me, mother! It is because your work has been so perfect, so
unwearied--because it ought to have wrought miracles----"
"Oh, no, no, not that," she said, recovering her tranquillity, and
smiling on her boy. "It has been very humble, my dear; but still, if
you had seen the parish when we came--the alehouse was more frequented
than the church a great deal--the children were not baptised--there
were things going on I could not speak of even to you. That very Robert
Little that we were speaking of--his father was the most inveterate
poacher in the whole country, always in prison or in trouble; the
eldest brother went for a soldier, and one of the girls---- Oh, John,
Fanshawe Regis is not Paradise, but things are better now."
"My dear little mother! but they are not as good as they ought to be
after the work of all your life."
"Don't speak of me, my dear boy, as if I were everything," said Mrs
Mitford; "think of your papa--and oh, John, think of what is far
beyond any of us. Think whose life it was that was given, not for the
righteous, but to save sinners; think who it was that said there was
joy in heaven over one that repented; and should we grudge a whole
lifetime if we could but be sure that one was saved? I hope that is
what I shall never, never, do."
John drew his mother's hand through his arm as she looked up in his
face, with her soft features all quivering with emotion. What more
could he say? She was not clever, nor very able to take a philosophical
view of the matter. She never stopped to ask herself, as he did,
whether this faulty, shifty, mean, unprofitable world was worth the
expenditure of that divine life eighteen hundred years ago, and of the
many lives since which have been half divine. All that;--and nothing
better come of it than the vice, and the hypocrisy, and mercenary
pretences at goodness, and brutal indifference to everything pure
and true, which were to be found in this very village, in the depth
of the rural country, in England that has been called Christian for
all these hundreds of years. So much--and so little to result from
it. Such were the thoughts that passed through John's mind, mingled
with many another gloomy fancy. Adding up long lines of figures was
scarcely more unprofitable--could scarcely be of less use to the world.
When he thought of his father's precise little sermons, his feelings
were different; for Dr Mitford spoke as a member of the Archological
Society might be supposed to speak, being compelled to do so, to a
handful of bumpkins who could not, as he was well aware, understand a
word he said--and was content with having thus performed the "duty"
incumbent on him. That might be mended so far as it went; but
who could mend the self-devotion, the unconscious gospel of a life
which his mother set before the eyes of the village? They knew that her
charity never failed, nor her interest in them, nor the tender service
which she was ready to give to the poorest, or even to the wickedest.
Twenty-five years this woman, who was as pure as the angels, had been
their servant, at their call night and day. Heaven and earth could not
produce a more perfect ministration, her son said to himself, as he
watched her coming and going; and yet what did it all come to? Had Mrs
Mitford seen the thoughts that were going on in his mind, she would
have shrunk from him with a certain horror. They were hard thoughts
both of God and man. What was the good of it? Nobody, it appeared to
John, was the better. If Fanshawe Regis, for one place, had been left
to itself, would it have made any difference? Such thoughts are hard
to bear, when a man has been trained into the habit of thinking that
much, almost everything, can be done for his neighbours if he will
but sufficiently exert himself. Here was a tender good woman who had
exerted herself all her life--and what was the end of it? Meanwhile
Mrs Mitford walked on cheerfully, holding her son's arm, with a little
glow of devotion about her heart, thinking, what did it matter how much
labour was spent on the work if but the one stray lamb was brought back
to the fold? and pondering in the same breath a new argument by which
Robert Little, in the Doctor's greatcoat, and his wife in one of her
own bonnets, could be got to come to church, and induced to send their
children to school.
Sometimes, however, John's strange holiday, which nobody could quite
understand, was disturbed by immediate questions still more difficult.
Mrs Mitford did not say much, having discovered in her son's eye at
the moment of his return that all was not well with him; but she
looked wistfully at him from time to time, and surprised him in the
midst of his frequent reveries with sudden glances of anxious inquiry
which spoke more distinctly than words. She did not mention Kate,
which was more significant than if she had spoken volumes; and when
the letters came in, in the morning, she would turn her head away not
to see whether her son expected anything, or if he was disappointed.
A mixture of love and pride was in her self-restraint. He should not
be forced to confide in her, she had resolved; she would exercise
the last and hardest of all maternal duties towards him, and leave
him to himself. But Dr Mitford had no such idea. He was busy at the
moment with something for the 'Gentleman's Magazine,' which kept him
in his study for the first few days after John's arrival; but as soon
as his article was off his mind, he began to talk to his son of his
prospects, as was natural. This happened in the library, where John was
sitting, exactly as he had been sitting that first morning when Kate
peeped in at the door and all the world was changed; though I cannot
tell whether the young man at first remembered that. Dr Mitford was
seated at the other end of the room, as he had been that day. A ray of
October sunshine shone in through one light of the great Elizabethan
window and fell in a long line upon the polished oak floor, on the
library carpet, on Dr Mitford's white head, and as far as the wall on
the other side of him--a great broad arrow of light, with some colour
in it from the shield in the centre of the glass. Behind this was the
glimmer of a fire, and John, lifting his weary eyes from his book, or
his eyes from his weary book, he could scarcely have told which, became
suddenly aware of the absolute identity of the outside circumstances,
and held his breath and asked himself, had he dreamed it, or had that
interruption ever been? Was the door going to open and Kate to peep
in breathless, shy, daring, full of fun and temerity? or had she done
it, and turned all the world upside down? When he was asking himself
this question Dr Mitford laid down his pen; then he coughed his little
habitual cough, which was the well-understood sign between him and his
domestic world that he might be spoken to; then he was fretted by the
sunshine, and got up and drew the blind down; and then, having quite
finished his article, and feeling himself in a mood for a little talk,
he took a walk towards his son between the pillars that narrowed the
library in the middle, and looked like a great doorway. He did not
go straight to John, but paused on the way to remark upon some empty
corners, and to set right some books which had dropped out of their
exact places.
"I wish the doctor would return my Early English books," he said,
approaching his son; "one ought to make a resolution against lending.
You might give me a day, John, just to look up what books are missing,
and who has them. I think you know them better than I do. But, by the
by, you have not told us how long you can stay."
"I don't think it matters much," said John.
"You don't think it matters much! but that looks as if you were not
taking any great trouble to make yourself missed. I don't like that,"
said Dr Mitford, shaking his head: "depend upon it, my boy, you will
never secure proper appreciation until you show the people you are
among that another cannot fill your place."
"But the fact is that a dozen others could fill my place, sir," said
John, "quite as well as--very probably much better than I."
"What! with Mr Crediton? and his daughter?" said Dr Mitford. He
thought he had made a joke, and turned away with a mild little laugh
to arrange and caress his folios. Then he went on talking with his
back to John--"I should be glad to know what you really think of it
now that you have had time to make the experiment. I don't understand
the commercial mind myself. I don't know that I could be brought
to understand it; but the opinion of an intelligence capable of
judging, and accustomed to trains of thought so different, could
not but be interesting. I should like to hear what you think of it
frankly. Somebody has made dog's ears in this Shakespeare, which
is unpardonable," said the Doctor, passing his hand with sudden
indignation over the folded edges. "I should like to know what your
opinion is."
"I think I can get it straight, sir," said John, "if you will trust the
book to me."
"Thanks--and put a label on it, 'Not to be lent,'" said Dr Mitford.
"It is not to be expected, you know, that the most good-natured of men
should lend one of the earliest editions. What were we talking of? oh,
the bank. I hope you are quite satisfied that you can do your duty as
well or better in your own way than in the manner we had intended for
you. Nothing but that thought would have induced me to yield. It was
a disappointment, John," said his father, turning round with a tall
volume in his hand--"I cannot deny that it was a great disappointment.
Do you really feel that you are able to do your duty better where you
are?"
"What is my duty, father?" said John, with a hoarseness in his voice.
And then it was Dr Mitford's turn to show consternation. "Your duty,"
he faltered--"your duty? It does not say much for my teaching and your
mother's if you have to ask that question at this time of day."
This, it will be easy to see, was a very unsatisfactory sort of answer.
John got up too, feeling very heavy about the heart. "Relative duty is
easy enough," he said; "but absolute duty, what is it? is there such a
thing? Is it not just as good both for myself and other people that I
should live for myself as I am doing, instead of living for God and my
neighbour like my mother? So far as I can see, it comes to exactly the
same thing."
Dr Mitford looked at his son with an absolute astonishment that would
have been comical had John been able to see it. But then it was not so
much his son's perplexity the Doctor thought of as that curious, quite
inexplicable reference. "Like your mother!" the Rector of Fanshawe
Regis said, with utter amazement. It took away his breath. He could not
even notice his son's question in his consternation. "Yes," said John,
not in the least perceiving the point, "what is the good? That is what
one asks one's self; it does not seem to make any difference to the
world."
Dr Mitford turned, and put up the dog's-eared folio on its shelf. He
shook his head in his bewilderment, and gave a sigh of impatience.
"You young men have a way of talking and of thinking which I don't
understand," he said, still shaking his head. "I hope to goodness,
John, that you have not been led astray by those ridiculous fallacies
of Comtism. You may suppose that as you are not to be a clergyman
it does not matter what your opinions are; but it always matters.
A private Christian has as much need to be right as if he were an
archbishop; and I confess, after your careful training, I little
expected----a mere farrago of French sentiment and nonsense. Your
mother! what she has to do with the question I can't understand."
"And I am sure neither do I, sir," said John, moved to a laugh, "nor
why you should set me down as a Comtist. I am not an anythingist, worse
luck--for then, perhaps, one might see a little more plainly what to
do."
"If a young man, with the best education England can give, and friends
to consult, who, I flatter myself, are not idiots, cannot see what to
do, it does not say much for his sense," said Dr Mitford, with some
indignation. "I suppose by all this I am to understand that you are
tired of the office drudgery and beginning to repent----"
"I don't know that I have anything to repent of," said John, who under
this questioning began to get rebellious, as sons are wont to do.
"I advise you to make up your mind," said Dr Mitford, not without a
half-tone of contempt. "I never thought you were adapted for business.
If experience has shown you this, it is best to take steps at once. You
might not like, perhaps, to return to your original destination----"
"Father, this discussion is quite unnecessary," said John, growing
red. "I am not tired of office drudgery. No trade, I suppose, is very
delightful just at first; and when one begins to think for one's self,
there are many questions that arise in one's mind. Yes, mother, I am
quite ready. I have been waiting for you this half-hour."
"But not if your papa wants you, my dear," said Mrs Mitford, in her
white shawl, standing smiling upon them at the door.
"I can look after the Shakespeare when I come in," said John. That
was exactly where Kate had stood peeping--Kate, who, when she was
old, would be just such another woman. Would she grow so by his side?
Could it ever be that she would come, in all the soft confidence of
proprietorship, and look in upon him as his mother did? All at once
it flashed upon him that such a thing might have been, in this very
place, in this very way, had he kept his traditionary place. He might
have been the Rector, putting up his folios, and she the Lady Bountiful
of the parish, as his mother was. This flashed across his mind at the
very moment when he was asking what use it was, and feeling that a life
spent in doing good was as much thrown away as a life spent in making
money. Strange inconsistency! And then he went and took the basket,
with its little vials of wine and carefully-packed dainties, out of his
mother's hand.
Dr Mitford watched them going away with feelings more odd and strange
than he recollected to have experienced for years. He waited till the
door was closed, and then he turned abruptly to his books; but these
were not satisfactory for the moment, and by-and-by he gave them up
and walked impatiently to the window, and saw his wife's white shawl
disappear from the garden gate, with her tall boy by her side shadowing
over her in the October sunshine. "His mother!" Dr Mitford said to
himself, with a certain snort of wonder and offence--and then went back
to his writing-table, and wrote a note to accompany his article to
Sylvanus Urban, who was a more comprehensible personage on the whole
than either wife or son.
CHAPTER XXV.
John remained rather more than a fortnight at home. His arm healed
and his health improved during this interval of quiet. But he did not
relieve his mind by any disclosure of his feelings. Indeed, what was
there to disclose? He asked himself the question ten times in a day.
He had come to no breach with Kate, he had not quarrelled with her
father; he had, on the contrary, increased his claims upon Mr Crediton
by actual service; and the something which had sprung up between Kate
and himself was like a wall of glass or of transparent ice, changing
nothing to outward appearance. He spent his time in an uneasy languor,
sometimes roused to positive suffering, but more generally in mere
discomfort, vague as his thoughts were, as his prospects were, as
all the world was to him. It seemed even a thing of the past that his
feelings should be very vehement about that or any other subject. He
had gone through a great deal of active pain, but now it seemed all to
be passive, and he only a kind of spectator. A host of questions had
widened out like circles in the water round the central question. What
was life worth? was it any great matter how it was spent? The banker
among his manifold concerns, or Mr Whichelo among the clerks, or the
Rector of Fanshawe Regis in his library--did it matter to any mortal
creature which was which? The one was laying up money which a great
fire or a scoundrel at the other end of the world might make an end of
in a moment; the other was laughed at behind his back, and outwitted
by the young men whom he thought he had so well in hand; and the
third--what was the parish the better for Dr Mitford? And yet John had
to face the matter steadily, as if it were of the greatest importance,
and decide which of these pretences at existence he would adopt. He got
no letter during this curious interval. The outer world kept silence
and did not interfere with his ponderings. Heaven and earth, and even
Kate and his mother, left him to take his own way.
It was not until the last morning of his stay that Mrs Mitford said
anything to John on the subject. She had gone down to breakfast a
little earlier than usual, perhaps, with a little innocent stealthy
intention of looking at the letters, and making sure what there was
for her boy; and there was one little letter lying by John's plate
which made his mother's heart beat quicker. Yes; at last it was
evident Kate had written to him; and if there had been any quarrel
or misunderstanding, here surely must be the end of it. She watched
for his appearance with speechless anxiety; and of course he was late
that morning, as was to be expected. And it was very easy to see by
his indifferent air that he was not looking for any letter. When he
perceived it he gave a little start, and his mother pretended to
be very much occupied with the coffee. He read it twice over from
beginning to end, which was not a long process, for it only occupied
one page of a small sheet of note-paper; and then he put it into his
pocket and began to eat his breakfast and talk just as usual. Mrs
Mitford, anxious and wondering, was brought to her wits' end.
"You had better order the phaeton, John," said Dr Mitford, "if you are
going by the twelve train."
"I need not go till the evening," said John; "and my mother means to
walk there with me; don't you, mamma?"
"Yes, dear," said Mrs Mitford, smiling upon him. She had been looking
forward to this last heartrending pleasure, and thinking that then he
would perhaps tell her something, if indeed there was anything to tell.
"Then let the phaeton take your portmanteau and bring your mother
home," said the Doctor, "if you insist on taking her such a long walk.
For my part I can never see the good of such expeditions. It is much
better to say good-bye at home."
"But I like the walk," said Mrs Mitford, eagerly; and the Doctor, who
did not quite approve of the pair and their doings, shook his head,
and gathered up his papers (he had no less than two proof-sheets to
correct, and a revise, for he was very particular), and went off
to his work. "You will find me in the library whenever I am wanted," he
said, as he withdrew. He thought his wife was spoiling her son, as she
had spoiled him when he was ten years old, and he did not approve of
it; but when a woman is so foolish, what can the most sensible of men
and fathers do?
And then the mother and son were left alone, with that letter in John's
pocket which might explain so much of the mystery. But he did not
say a word about it, nor about Kate, nor anything that concerned his
happiness; and when Mrs Mitford talked of his new shirts and stockings
(which was the only other subject she found herself capable of entering
upon), he talked of them too, and agreed in her remarks about the
negligence of washerwomen, and all the difficulty of keeping linen a
good colour in a town. "As for your socks, my poor boy, I never saw
such mending," she said, almost with the tears in her eyes. "I must
take it all out and darn it over again as it ought to be. When darning
is nicely done, I never think the stocking looks a bit the worse; but
how any woman could drag the two edges together like some of these, I
can't understand."
"It is always hard work dragging edges together," said John, getting up
from the table. "I think I'll go and say good-bye to old Mrs Fanshawe,
mother. It is too long a walk for you."
"I could not go there and to the station too," said Mrs Mitford, "and
I ought not to neglect the schools because I am so happy as to have my
own boy. Yes, dear; go and see the old people: you must keep up the old
ties for our sakes, even though they are to be broken off so far as
the Rectory goes;" and she smiled at him and gave a little nod of her
head dismissing him, by way of concealing that she wanted to cry. She
did cry as soon as he was gone, and had scarcely time to dry her eyes
when Jervis came in to clear the table. Mrs Mitford snubbed him on the
spot, with a vehemence which took that personage quite by surprise. "I
observe that Mr John's things have not been laid out for him properly,
as they ought to have been," she said, suddenly, snapping his nose off,
as Jervis said. "I trust I shall find everything properly brushed and
folded to-day. It is a piece of negligence, Jervis, which I don't at
all understand." "And Missis give her head a toss, and walks off as
if she was the queen," said the amazed man-of-all-work when he got to
the kitchen, and was free to unburden himself. After this Mrs Mitford
had another cry in her own room, and put on her bonnet and went across
to the schools, wondering through all the lessons and all the weary
chatter of the children,--Oh, what was the matter with her boy? oh, was
he unhappy? had they quarrelled? must not his mother know?
Meanwhile John strode across the country to Fanshawe to bid the old
squire and his old wife good-bye. He went, as the crow flies, over
the stubble, and by the hedge-sides, never pausing to draw breath.
Not because he was excited by his departure, or by the letter in his
pocket, or by any actual incident. On the contrary, he was quite
still, like the day, which was a grey autumn morning, with wistful
scraps of blue on the horizon, and a brooding, pondering quiet in the
air. All is over for the year, nature was saying to herself. Shall
there be another year? shall old earth begin again, take in the new
seeds, keep the spring germs alive for another blossoming? or shall all
come to a conclusion at last, and the new heavens and the new earth
come down out of those rolling clouds and fathomless shrill breaks of
blue? John was in much the same mood. Kate's little note in his pocket
had a kind of promise in it of the new earth and the new heaven. But
was it a solid, real promise, or only a dissolving view, that would
vanish as he approached it? and might not an end be better, and no more
delusive hopes? Mrs Fanshawe was very kind when he got to the hall. She
told him of poor Cecily, just nineteen (Kate's age), who was dying at
Nice, and cried a little, and smiled, and said, "Oh, my dear boy, it
don't matter for us; we can't be long of going after her." But though
she was reconciled to that, she made a little outcry over John's
leave-taking. "Going so soon! and what will your poor mother say?"
cried the old lady. "I am afraid you think more of one smile from Miss
Crediton than of all your old friends; and I suppose it is natural,"
she added, as she shook hands with him. Did he care more for Kate's
smile than for anything else? He walked home again in the same dead
sort of way, without being able to answer even such a question. He did
not care for anything, he thought, except, now that he was at Fanshawe,
to get away; and probably when he got to Camelford his desire would
be to get back again, or to Fernwood, or to anywhere, except just the
place where he happened to be.
It was evening when he set out to go to the station, with his mother
leaning on his arm. The evening comes early in October, and it was
necessary that she should get back to dinner at seven. Twilight was
coming on as they walked together along the dewy road, where the
hedgerows were all humid and chill with the dew, which some of these
nights would grow white upon the leaves before any one knew, and make
winter out of autumn. A sort of premonition of the first frost was in
the air; and the hawthorns were very rusty and shabby in their foliage,
but picked out here and there by red flaming bramble-leaves, which
warmed up the hedgerows notwithstanding the damp. The mother and son
walked slowly, to spin out the time as long as might be. To be sure
they might, as Dr Mitford said, have just as well talked indoors; but
then the good Doctor knew nothing about that charm of isolation and
unity--the silent world all round about, the soft, harmonious motion,
the tender contact and support. They could speak so low to each other
without any fear of not being heard. They could look at each other if
they would, yet were not compelled to any meeting of the eyes. There
is no position in which it is so difficult to disagree, so natural to
confide and trust. Mrs Mitford's very touch upon her son's arm was in
itself a caress. My dear, dear boy, her eyes said as she looked at him.
She had carried him in those soft arms, and now it was her turn to lean
upon him. This thought was always in her mind when she leant upon
John's arm.
"I should not wonder," she said, cunningly, leading up to her subject
with innocent pretences of general conversation, "if we had frost
to-night."
"The air is very still, and very cold: it is quite likely," said John,
assenting, without much caring what he said.
"And actually winter is coming! after this wonderful summer we have
had. What a summer it has been! I don't remember such a long stretch of
bright weather since the year you went first to school. I was so glad
of the first frost that year, thinking of Christmas. You will come home
for Christmas, John," said Mrs Mitford, suddenly, with a tighter clasp
of his arm.
"I cannot tell, mother. I don't seem to realise Christmas," said John.
"Well, dear, I won't press you for any promise; but you know it will be
a very poor Christmas without you. Life itself feels poor without my
boy. There! I did not mean to have said it; but I am a foolish woman,
and it is quite true."
"Life is so poor in any case. I don't know how it can matter one way or
another," said John, with a shrug of his shoulders. He was not touched
so much as impatient; and unconsciously he quickened his pace and drew
her on with him, faster than it was easy for her to go.
"We are in plenty of time for the train," Mrs Mitford said; "not so
quick, if you please, my dear. Oh, John, it is so strange to hear you
say that life is poor! Have you nothing to tell me, my own boy? I have
never asked a question, though you may think my heart has been sore
enough sometimes. What is the matter? won't you tell me now?"
"There is nothing to tell--nothing is the matter," said John.
"But you are not happy, my dear boy. Do you think your mother could
help seeing that? Oh, John, what is it? Is it her father? Do you feel
the change? It must be something about Kate?"
"It is nothing at all, mother," said John, with hasty impatience; and
then it suddenly occurred to him that he was going away into utter
solitude, and that here was the only being in the world to whom he
could even partially open his heart. She felt the change of his voice,
though she had no clue to the fitfulness of his thoughts. "It is quite
true," he continued, "there is nothing to tell; and yet all is not
well, mother. I can't tell you how or why. I am jangled somehow out of
tune--that is all; there is nobody to blame."
"I could see that, my dear," she said, looking wistfully at him; "but
is that all you have to say to your mother, John?"
"There is nothing more to say," he repeated. "I cannot tell you, I
can't tell myself what is the matter. There is nothing the matter. It
is a false position somehow, I suppose--that is all."
"In the bank, John?"
"In the bank, and in the house, and in the world, mother," he cried,
with sudden vehemence. "I don't seem able to take root anywhere;
everything looks false and forced and miserable. I can neither go on
nor go back, and I stagnate standing still. Never mind; I suppose it is
just an experience like any other, and will have to be borne."
Then there passed through Mrs Mitford's mind as quick as lightning that
passage about those who put their hand to the plough and draw back.
But she restrained herself. "I suppose it is just the great change, my
dear," she said, faltering, yet soothing him, "and all that you have
given up--for you have given up a great deal, John. I suppose your time
is not your own now, and you can't do what you like? And sitting at
a desk--you who used to be free to read, or to walk, or to go on the
river, or to help your papa, or see your friends--it must make a great
difference, John."
"Yes, I suppose that is what it is," he said, feeling that he had
successfully eluded the subject, and yet celebrating his success with a
sigh.
"But I hope it is made up to you in another way," Mrs Mitford said,
suddenly, looking up into his face. He thought he had got off, but she
did not mean to let him off. She was a simple little woman, but yet not
so simple but what she could employ a legitimate artifice, like the
rest of her kind. "You had a letter from Kate this morning, dear. I saw
her little handwriting. I suppose she makes up for everything, John?"
They were drawing near the station, and she spoke fast, partly from
that reason, partly to make her attack the more potent, and to leave
him no time to think. But he answered her a great deal more readily
than she had expected.
"Is it fair upon a girl to expect her to make up for all that?" he
asked. "Mother, I ask myself sometimes, if she gave up her own life for
me as I have done for her--no, not altogether for her--could I make it
up to her? Is it fair or just to expect it? Life means a great deal,
after all--more than just what you call happiness. You will think I am
very hard-hearted; but, do you know, it almost appears to me sometimes
as if a man could get on better without happiness, if he had plenty of
work to do, than he could without the work, with only the happiness to
comfort him. Is it blasphemy, mother? Even if it is, you will not be
too hard upon me."
Mrs Mitford paused a little to think over her answer; and perhaps
anybody who takes an interest in her will be shocked to hear that
she was rather--glad--half-glad--with a kind of relief at her heart.
"John," she said, "I don't know what to say. I am--sorry--you have
found it out, my dear. Oh, I am very sorry you have found it out--for
it is hard; but, do you know, I fear it is true."
"I wonder how my mother found it out," he said, looking down upon
her with that strange surprise which moves a child when it suddenly
suspects some unthought-of conflict in the settled immovable life
which it has been familiar with all its days, and accepted as an
eternal reality. He had propounded his theory as the very worst and
very saddest discovery in existence, and lo! she had accepted it as a
truism. It bewildered John so that he could not add another word.
"One finds everything out if one lives long enough," she said,
hastily, with a nervous smile. "And, my dear, this is what I always
thought--this is why I always disapproved of this bank scheme. You were
hurried into it without time to think. And now that you find it does
not answer, oh, my boy, what is to be done? You should not lose any
time, John. You should come to an understanding with Mr Crediton and
Kate----"
Heavy as his heart was, John could not but smile. "You go so fast,
mother dear, that you take away my breath."
"So fast! what can be too fast, when you are unhappy, my dear? One can
see at a glance that you are unhappy. Oh, John, come back! Believe
me, my own boy, the only comfort is doing God's work; everything else
is unsatisfactory. Oh, my dear, come home! If I but saw you taking to
the parish work, and coming back to your own life, I should care for
nothing more--nothing more in this world."
"Softly, softly," said John. "My dear mother, I was not thinking of
the parish work--far, very far from it. I cannot tell you what I was
thinking of. I may find what I want in the bank after all. Here is the
train, and James waiting for you with the phaeton. Let me put you in
before I go away."
"But oh, John, if it cannot be for the present--if you cannot come
back all at once--now that your mind is unsettled, dear, oh think it
carefully over this time, and consider what I say."
"This time," John said to himself, when he had bidden his mother
good-bye and had thrown himself into a corner of the railway carriage
with his face towards Camelford--"think it carefully over this
time." The words filled him with strange shame. He had made one
disruption in his life, it was evident, without sufficient care or
thought. Was he one of the wretched vacillators so contemptible to a
young man, who are always changing, and yet never come to any settled
determination? His cheeks flushed crimson, though he was all alone, as
the thought came into his mind. No; this time he must make no hasty
change; this time, at least, no false position must be consented to.
He must put Kate out of his mind, and every vain hope and yearning
after what people call happiness. Happiness! most people managed to
do without it; even--could it be possible?--his mother managed to do
without it; for happiness, after all, is not life. This time
there must be no mistake on that head.
It was night when he reached his lodging; and his mind was as doubtful
and his thoughts as confused and uncertain as when he had left it. He
went into his dreary little parlour, and had his lamp lighted, and
sat down in the silence. He had come back again just as he went away.
The decision which he had to make seemed to have been waiting for him
here--waiting all these days--and faced him the moment he returned.
What was he going to do? He sat down and listened to the clock ticking,
and to now and then an unfrequent step passing outside, or the voice
of his landlady talking in the little underground kitchen. His
portmanteau, which he had brought in with him, was on the floor just
by the door. The thought came upon him in his unrest to seize it again
in his hand, and rush out and jump into the first cab, and go back to
Fernwood; not that he expected any comfort at Fernwood, but only that
it was the only other change possible to him. If he arrived there late
at night, when nobody expected him, and went in suddenly without any
warning, what should he see? The impulse to make the experiment was so
strong upon him that he actually got up from his seat to obey it, but
then came to himself, and sat down again, and took out Kate's little
letter. It was very short, and there was nothing in it to excite any
man. This was all that Kate said:--
"DEAREST JOHN,--Why don't you write to me? You used to write
almost every day, and now here is a full fortnight and I have not
heard from you. I think it so strange. I hope you are not ill, nor
anybody belonging to you. It makes me very anxious. Do write.
--Ever your affectionate                              KATE."
That was all. There was nothing in it to open any fresh fountain in his
breast. He folded it up carefully and slowly into its envelope, and put
it back into his pocket. Write to her! why should he write? It was not
as if he wanted to upbraid her, or to point out any enormity she had
done. She had not done anything; and what could he say? The future was
so misty before him, and his own heart so languid, that her appeal
made no impression upon him. Why should he do it? But he stopped again
just before he put the letter in his pocket, and gave another glance at
his portmanteau. Should he go, and carry her his answer, and judge once
again what was the best for her and for himself? He gave up that fancy
when the clock struck eight slowly in his ears. It was too late to go
to Fernwood that night; and yet there were hours and hours to pass
before he could throw himself on his bed with any chance of sleeping;
and he had no business to occupy him, or work to do--and how was this
long, slow, silent night to be hastened on its tardy wing? John rose at
last, with a kind of desperation, and went out. He had nowhere to go,
having sought no acquaintances in Camelford. There was nobody in the
place that he cared to see, or indeed would not have gone out of his
way to avoid; but the streets were all lit up, and some of them were
noisy enough. John wandered through them in the lamp-light with strange
thoughts. He seemed to himself like a man who had lost his way in the
world. He was like Dante when he stood in the midst of his life and
found that he had missed the true path. To go on seemed impossible;
and when he would have turned back, how many wild beasts were in the
way to withstand him! Was there anybody, he wondered, who could lead
him back that long, long roundabout way through Hell and Purgatory and
Heaven? With such a question in his mind, he wandered into places such
as he had never entered before; he watched the people in the streets,
and went after them to their haunts. A strange phantasmagoria seemed to
pass before his eyes, of dancers and singers, and stupid crowds gaping
and looking on, amid smoke and noise and sordid merrymaking. He heard
their rude jests and their talk, and loud harsh peals of laughter; he
listened to the songs they were listening to with the rough clamour
of applause in which there was no real enjoyment. He followed them
mutely--a solitary, keen-eyed spectator--into the places where they
danced, and where they drank, and where they listened to those songs,
with a strange sense of unreality upon him all the while. They were as
unreal as if they had been lords and ladies yawning at a State ball.
And then all at once John found himself in a dreary half-lighted room,
in the midst of a Wesleyan prayer-meeting, where half-seen people,
like ghosts in the halflight, were calling to God to have mercy upon
them. He gazed at the prayer-meeting as he did at the music-hall,
wondering what all the people meant. Would they go on like that till
death suddenly came and turned the performance into a reality at last?
He had no Virgil to guide him, no Donna sceso del cielo to be
his passport everywhere. And he scarcely knew what were the doubts he
wanted to be solved. "Now I shall sleep at last," was all he said to
himself as he went in when the night was far advanced, having spent it
in visiting many places where Dr Mitford's son should not have entered.
Was he taking to evil ways? or was there any chance that he could solve
his own problem by means such as these?
CHAPTER XXVI.
Next morning John did not permit himself any musings; he got up with
the air of a man who has something to do for the first time for many
weeks. There was nobody to do anything for him in his poor lodging; no
Jervis to unpack his things and put them in order. He had opened his
portmanteau to take out what he wanted from it, but he had not unpacked
it. It stood open with all its straps undone, and everything laid
smooth by the careful hands at home, and John closed it once more and
left it in readiness to be removed again when he went out. It was quite
early in the October morning, which was bright, and sharp, and frosty,
with patches of white rime lying in the unsunned corners, and great
blobs of cold dew hanging from the branches of the suburban trees. "My
mother has had her frost," John could not help saying to himself, as he
went out. And all the world was astir, looking as unlike that feverish,
noisy world which had smoked and cheered at the music-halls last night,
as could be supposed. When he saw the people moving about so briskly
in the sharp, clear air, he could not but ask himself, were they the
same? Was that the man who had thumped with hands and feet, and roared
open-mouthed, at the imbecility of the comic song? or was that he who
led the chorus of exclamations at the prayer-meeting? John was in so
strange a state of mind that the one was to him very much as the other,
both phantoms--one coarsely making believe to be amused, the other
coarsely pretending to pray. He went to the bank first, where all the
clerks had just settled down in the first freshness of morning work. He
went in at the swinging doors with the early public, and stood outside
the counter looking for some one to address himself to. In his first
glance round he saw that his place at the desk in the window from which
he had so often watched Kate was filled by another; which was a small
matter enough, and yet went through him with a sudden thrill, adding
firmness to the resolution which began to form in his mind. After a
moment Mr Whichelo rose from his desk, and came forward, holding out
his hand, to meet him. "How are you, Mr Mitford? I hope I see you quite
recovered: how is the arm?" said Mr Whichelo, with bustling cordiality;
and John had to pause to explain how it was that he was able to do
without his bandages, and no longer required to wear the injured arm in
a sling.
"Mr Crediton has not come in to-day. I don't suppose we are likely to
see him to-day; but you must know better than we do, Mr Mitford, for I
suppose you have just come from Fernwood?"
"No, it is some time since I left Fernwood. I have been at home," said
John.
"Dear me!" said the head clerk, raising his eyebrows. Mr Whichelo
thought there was no such place as Fernwood in the kingdom, and was
naturally astonished that any man could relinquish its delights. But
then he added, with condescending moral approval, "And quite right,
too, Mr Mitford; when there is anything the matter with you, there is
no place like home."
Then there was a momentary pause; the public were coming and going, in
small numbers as yet, but still enough to keep the doors swinging and
the clerks at the counter employed. But Mr Whichelo and John stood in
the centre, between the two lines of desks, taking no notice of the
public. John would have known quite well what to say to Mr Crediton had
he found him there, but it was more difficult with his head clerk.
"Ah, I see," said Mr Whichelo; "you always had a very quick eye, Mr
Mitford--you perceive the change we have made."
"I perceive you have filled up my place," said John.
"No, no--not filled up your place; I have put in a junior temporarily
to do the work. My dear Mr Mitford," said the head clerk, with a smile,
"if you were only an ordinary employ like one of the rest----"
"I should not be worth my salt," said John, with an attempt at a laugh.
"Very far from that; you are only too good for us--too good for us,
that is all. It seems a shame, with your education, to see you making
entries that any lad could make. But of course, Mr Mitford, you occupy
a very different position. We are all aware of that."
"A false position," said John. "Don't disturb the young fellow for
me. No, I have not come back to work. I want to see Mr Crediton if I
can. You don't expect him to-day? nor to-morrow? Then I must see him
somewhere else----"
"At Fernwood," said Mr Whichelo; "you can always see him at Fernwood."
"Very well," said John. He felt as if he had got his orders when these
words were said. Of course it was to Fernwood he must go to see if
any comfort was to be had there. Fanshawe threw no light upon what he
ought to do, neither did Camelford; and Fernwood was the only place
that remained. He shook hands with Mr Whichelo again, and went out with
a certain alacrity. The junior at his desk in the window no longer
troubled him. Yes; no doubt the boy would sit there, and see Kate
come and go, and take no thought. The beautiful Miss Crediton, with
all her gaieties and splendour, would be nothing to him: far better
that he should fill that corner and make his entries, than that John
should sit there consuming his heart. Fernwood was ten miles off, but
it was a bright day, and to walk there was the best thing he could
do. It gave him time to think, and it kept up a certain rhythm of
movement and action about him which prevented him from thinking--and
that on the whole was the best. The long road spun along like a thread,
lengthening and lengthening as he went on, moving as if off a wheel,
with half-stripped trees and falling leaves, and brown hedges, and
here and there the russet glory of a bramble-branch trailing over the
humid grass. Turn, Fortune, turn thy wheel, he seemed to hear some one
singing as he went on and on; and the gleaming line of path spun out,
circling out of the horizon on one side, back into it on the other,
and there seemed no reason why it should ever come to any pause. His
brain was giddy, and spun, too, as the road did. He went on with a
buzzing in his ears, as if he too were on the wheel, and was winding,
winding, and revolving with it, now up, now down, going on and on. What
the end was, or if there was any end, he did not seem to know. It was
the measured chant, the circles woven by mystic feet, never ending,
still beginning. He had come to the very park of Fernwood before he
roused himself from this strange dreamy sense of movement. It was a
brilliant autumn, and already the beech-trees and the oaks were dressed
in a hundred colours. The gentlemen of the party would of course be
among the covers--and the ladies---- Here John paused, and began to ask
himself what his meaning was. Was it Kate he had come to see? was it
into her hands that once more, once again, like a fool, he was going to
put his fate?
He stopped, and leaned upon a great beech, which stood with a little
forest of juniper-bushes round it, withdrawn from the road. It was on
the outskirts of the park, just where two paths met--one starting off
into the wilder tangled ground beyond the open; the other leading up
towards the house on a parallel with the avenue which John had just
left. He was crossing through the brushwood to gain this footpath, when
he stopped there against the beech-tree to collect himself, feeling
giddy. It was a huge beech, with a trunk vast enough to have hidden
a company of people, and great russet branches sweeping down, and
the juniper in circles, like the stones of the Druids, making a sort
of jungle round it. Was it an evil or a good fate that brought him
there at that moment of all others? He had scarcely stopped, and the
sound of his foot crushing down the juniper could not have ceased in
the still air, when his eye caught a gleam of colour and some moving
figures passing close to him on the other side of the beech. He stood
like one bewildered when he saw that it was Kate. She was walking
along slowly at a very meditative pace, with her head drooping and her
eyes cast down, so far occupied with her thoughts that she neither
heard nor saw nor suspected the presence of any observing bystander.
And she was not alone. Walking by her side, with his eyes upon her,
was Fred Huntley. She was gazing on the ground, but he was gazing at
her. Her face was abstracted and full of thought; but his was eager,
flushed with wishes and hopes and expectation. They were not saying
anything to each other. John did not hear a word as they went slowly
past; but imagine how it must have felt to wake up out of a feverish
haze of doubt and inquietude and unreality, and suddenly open his eyes
on such a sight! He stood spell-bound, scarcely venturing to breathe,
and heard the rustle and sweep of her dress over the grass, and her
sometimes faltering, unsteady step, and Huntley's foot, that rang firm
upon the path. Their very breathing seemed to come to him in the air,
and the faint violet scent, which was Kate's favourite perfume, and the
movement and rustle of her going. They passed as if they had been a
dream, and John held his breath, and all his life concentrated itself
into his eyes. Her figure detached itself so against the still autumnal
landscape, her grey dress, the blue ribbons that fluttered softly
about her, the soft ruffled feathers, lightly puffed up against the
wind in her hat--and the man by her side, with his eyes so intent upon
her. It was an affair of a moment, and they were gone; and as soon as
they had passed out of hearing, and were about to disappear among the
trees, they began to talk. He heard their voices, but could not tell
what they said; but the voices were low, toned to the key of that still
landscape, and of something still more potential than the landscape;
and John turned from the scene, which was stamped on his memory as if
in lines of fire, and looked himself as it were in the face, feeling
that this at last was the truth which had burst upon him, scattering to
the wind all his dreams.
He turned without a word, and walked back to Camelford. There seemed
no more doubt or power of question in his mind. He did not even feel
as if any painful accident had happened to him; only that it was all
over--finished and past, and the seal put to the grave of his dreams.
He even walked back with more assured steps, with less sense of a
burden on his shoulders and a yoke about his neck. It had been very
sweet and very bitter, delightsome and miserable, while it lasted; but
now it was over. And it never occurred to him that the conclusion which
he thus accepted so summarily was as unreasonable as the beginning. No;
the time of dreaming was over, he thought, and now at last there stood
revealed to him the real and the true.
CHAPTER XXVII.
It was late in the afternoon when John reached Camelford. He had
stopped to rest at a roadside public-house, where he ate and drank,
as a man might do in the exhaustion of grief coming home from a
funeral. He had sat before the rustic door, and watched the carts that
went slowly past with heavy wheels, and the unfrequent passengers;
and he had felt very much as if he had been at a funeral. It was a
long walk, and he was very footsore and weary when he reached his
lodgings. He was out of training, and the fire and his accident had
impaired his strength, and his heart was not light enough to give
him any assistance. When he shut himself once more into his little
parlour, he was so much worn out that he had no strength to do
anything. He had meant to return only for the sake of the portmanteau,
which imagination represented to him lying open on the floor of his
bedroom, all packed, which it was a comfort to think of; but after his
twenty-miles walk he had no longer the energy to gather his little
possessions together. He laid his aching limbs on the sofa and tried
to rest. But it was very hard to rest; he wanted to be in motion all
the time; he did not feel able to confront the idea of spending all
the gloomy evening alone in that dreary little room. Home, home, his
mind kept saying. It would not be cheerful at home. He did not know how
he was to bear the stillness, and his mother's cry of wonder, and his
father's questionings. But yet a necessity was upon him to go on and
make an end of the whole matter. After his first pause of weariness, he
sprang up and rang his bell, and told his landlady he was going away.
"Get my bill ready, please," he said; "and if you will put my things
together for me, and send for a cab for the eight o'clock train----"
"Lord, sir, I hope it aint nothing in the rooms! they're nice rooms as
ever could be, and as comfortable as I could make them, or any woman,"
she said. John comforted her amour propre as well as he could,
with a tale of circumstances that compelled his departure, and felt as
if he had been addressing a public meeting when his short colloquy was
over. Never in his life before had he been so tired--not ill nor sad to
speak of--but tired; so fatigued that he did not know what to do with
himself. But it was still only four o'clock, and there were four hours
to be got through, and a great deal to do. He got his writing things
together with as much difficulty as if they had been miles apart, and
threw himself on the sofa again, and wrote. The first letter was to Mr
Crediton, and over that the pen went on fluently enough.
"DEAR SIR,--I think it right to let you know at once--as
soon as I am perfectly sure of my own mind--that I feel obliged to
relinquish the post you kindly gave me three months ago in the bank.
Early training, and the habits belonging to a totally different kind
of life, have at last made the position unbearable. I am very sorry,
but it is better to stop before worse come of it, if worse could come.
I do not suppose that the suddenness of my resolution can put you
to any inconvenience, as I saw, on visiting the bank this morning,
that my place had been already filled up. I meant to have seen you,
but found it impracticable. I hope you will accept my apologies for
any abruptness that there may be in this letter, and regrets that I
have not been able better to make use of the opportunity you afforded
me----"
Here John came to a stop--opportunity for what? Opportunity of
winning your confidence--opportunity of gaining an acquaintance with
business--of proving myself worthy of higher trust? He could not adopt
any of these expressions. The shorter the letter, the least said, the
better. He broke off abruptly without concluding his sentence. He had
very little to thank Mr Crediton for; but yet he could not, with any
regard to justice, blame him. Kate's father, though he had done little
for, had done nothing absolutely against him. It was not Mr Crediton
he found fault with--Mr Crediton was very justifiable; and was it,
could it be, that he was about to find fault with Kate?
He began to write to her half-a-dozen times at least. He began
indignantly--he began tenderly,--he upbraided--he remonstrated--his pen
ran away with him. He had meant to use one class of words, and under
his very eyes it employed another. He wrote her ever so many letters.
He set before her all his passion--all his readiness to sacrifice
himself--all the tortures he had suffered at the window of the bank
seeing her come and go and having no share in her life. He told her
what a chill blank had come over him at Fernwood--how he had felt that
he was nothing to her. He told her what he had seen that morning. He
was eloquent, pathetic, overwhelming. His own heart felt as if it must
burst while he wrote; but as he read over each completed page, John
had still so much good sense left that he dragged his stiff limbs from
the sofa and put it in the fire. It was thus he occupied almost all
the time he had to wait; and it was only just before his cab came to
the door that he put into its envelope this letter, in which it will
be seen he neither remonstrated nor upbraided, nor even gave her up.
He could not give her up, and how could he accuse her? He accuse Kate!
If she was guilty her heart would do that--if not---- But alas! the
latter alternative was impossible; only for "utter courtesy," for utter
tenderness, he could not blame the woman he loved.
"I do not know how to write," he said, "though you tell me to write.
Dear Kate, dearest Kate--you will always be dearest to me.--This may
pass over, and be to you as the merest dream; but to me it must always
be the centre and heart of my life. I don't know what to say to you.
I have not written, not out of lack of love, but lack of hope. If I
could think I was any way necessary to you--if I could feel you wanted
me--but your sweet life is so complete; and what is mine to be tacked
on to it? I don't know what to say. Silence seems the best. Dear!
dearest! you are so bright that my heart fails me when I look at
you. I drop down into the shade, and there seems nothing left for me
but to keep still. I try to rouse myself with the thought of what you
say--that you want me to write, that you are anxious--anxious
about me! And you mean it, dear--you mean it, I know; but the words
have a soft meaning to you different from their meaning to me. And you
have no need of me, Kate. I feel it, and that takes the words out of
my mouth, and all the courage out of my heart.
"I was at Fernwood to-day, and saw you, though you did not see me. You
were walking in the little footpath near the avenue. Ah, Kate! but for
that I think I could have gone to you, and said some things I cannot
write. Do not be grieved in your kind heart because I am leaving
Camelford. It was a mistake, but I was to blame. I am going home,
and I don't quite know what I shall do; but time, perhaps, will make
the way clear. Dearest, if ever you should want me--but how should
you want me? God bless you! I have no claim to make, nor plea to put
forth; but I am always and ever yours--always and for ever, whatever
may happen--yours and yours only to command,
"JOHN MITFORD."
He put the two letters into their envelopes, and sealed and put
them into the post with his own hand as he went to the station. He
carried all his possessions with him--not merely the portmanteau;
and he was dead tired--so tired that he would have passed Fanshawe
station and gone on perhaps to London--for he had dropt asleep in the
train--but for the guard, who knew him. When he found himself on the
little platform at Fanshawe, chilly and stupid as a man is who has
just awakened from sleep, the only strong feeling in his mind was an
overwhelming desire to get to bed. He did not seem capable of realising
that he had got home again, after his disastrous voyage into the
world--he only thought of going to sleep; and it was not his mother's
wondering welcome he was thinking of, or the questions they would ask
him, but a pleasant vision of his own room, with the fire burning in
the grate, and the white fragrant sheets opened up and inviting him to
rest. He felt half asleep when he crossed the threshold of the Rectory,
and walked into the drawing-room to his mother, who gave a shriek of
mingled delight and alarm at so unlooked-for an apparition. "John, you
are ill; something has happened," Mrs Mitford cried out, in an agony
of apprehension. "I am only sleepy, mother," he said. That was all
he could say. He sat down and smiled at her, and told her how tired
he was. "Nothing particular has happened, except in my own mind," he
added, when he came to himself a little, "and not much even there. I
am awfully tired. Don't ask me anything, and don't be unhappy. There
is nothing to be unhappy about. You shall know it all to-morrow. But
please, mother, let me go to bed."
"And so you shall, my dear," said Mrs Mitford; "but, oh, my own boy,
what is the matter? What can I say to your papa? What is it? Oh, John,
I know there is something wrong."
"Only that I shall go to sleep here," he said, "and snore--which you
never could endure. There is nothing wrong, mamma, only I have walked
twenty miles to-day, and I am very tired. I have come home to be put to
bed."
"Then you are ill," she said. "You have caught one of those dreadful
fevers. I see it now. Your eyes are so heavy you can scarcely look at
me. You have been in some of the cottages, or in the back streets,
where there is always fever; but Jervis shall run for the doctor."
"A fire in Mr John's room directly, Jervis--directly, mind; and some
boiling water to make him a hot drink--he has caught a bad cold. Oh, my
dear, you are sure that is all? And, John, you have really, really come
home--to stay? You don't mean to stay?"
"I don't know what I mean," he said. "I have left Camelford. I have
come back like a piece of bad money. But, mother, don't ask me any
questions to-night."
"Not one," she answered promptly; and then besieged him with her
eyes--"Twenty miles, my dear boy! what a long walk! no wonder you are
tired. But what put it into your head, John? Never mind, my dear. I
did not mean to ask any more questions. But, dear me! where could you
want to go that was twenty miles off? That is what bewilders me."
"You shall hear all about it to-morrow," said John, rising to his
feet. He was so tired that he staggered as he rose, and his mother
turned upon him eyes in which another kind of fear flashed up. She grew
frightened at his weakness, and at the pale smile that came over his
face.
"Yes, my dear, go to bed--that will be the best thing," she said,
looking scared and miserable. And it went to John's heart to see the
painful looks she gave him, though it was with a mixture of indignation
and amusement that he perceived the new turn her thoughts had taken. He
could not but laugh as he put his arm round her to say good-night.
"It is not that either," he said; "you need not mistrust me. Staying in
Camelford will not answer, mother. I must find some other way. And I
have had a long walk. I am better now that my head is under my mother's
wing. Good-night."
"I will bring you your hot drink, my dear," said Mrs Mitford. She
followed him in her great wonder to the foot of the stairs, and watched
him go up wearily with his candle, and then she returned and made the
hot drink, and carried it up-stairs with her own hands. Was it all
over?--was he hers again?--her boy, with nobody else to share him? "If
he only escapes without a heartbreak, I shall be the happiest woman in
the world," she said to herself, as she went down-stairs again, wiping
tears of joy out of her eyes. Without a heartbreak! while John laid his
head on the familiar pillow and felt as if he had died. He had no heart
any longer to break. He must have something to do, and no doubt he
would get up next day and go and do something, if it was only working
in the garden; but as for the heart, that which gives all the zest and
all the bitterness to life, that was dead. His life was over and ended,
and it seemed to him as if he could never come alive again.
CHAPTER XXVIII.
Life at Fernwood had been going on much the same as usual during these
days which were so decisive to John. It was Fred Huntley's inquiry as
to when she had heard from John which had inspired Kate's note to him.
She had been half unhappy before, and full of wondering thoughts; but
that question roused her. She could not let her love glide away from
her without a word; she did not want to lose him; she could not believe
it possible that there was any danger of losing him. All the rest were
very well to talk to, or to flirt with, or dance with, or make useful.
But John was John, and she had no desire to put any one else in his
place. Kate said this to herself, and then she went down-stairs and
yawned behind her fan at the other people who had so little to say,
and was glad when Fred Huntley--but not till half the evening was
over--came to her side to talk to her. He was a clever talker, and
managed her very skilfully; and Kate could not make out how it was
that all the other people were so stupid. She gave her father a little
defiant glance when she caught his eye. "Papa seems to think I have no
right to talk to any one now," she said, half to herself, thus making
Fred her confidant unawares.
"Does he say so?" asked Fred.
"Oh no, not in so many words--but he watches me as if I could not take
care of myself. It is too bad. I don't think he ever made himself so
disagreeable all my life before. I had a great deal better stay in my
own room where nobody need see me. To think of papa, you know, growing
jealous for John----"
She was so thoughtless that the idea had begun to move her to
amusement; when she suddenly remembered words which Fred himself had
said to her not so very long ago, and stopped short suddenly, growing
very red, and naturally giving double point by her full stop and her
blush to the suggestive words. "I mean it is so odd not to be able
to do and say what one likes," she went on hurriedly, faltering, and
growing redder and redder in her consciousness. Fred was standing
before her, leaning over the back of a chair, and looking very
earnestly in her face.
"So far as I am concerned," he said, with a smile, "I will not have
your liberty curbed. You must do and say what you like without any
thought of me."
"Of you, Mr Huntley!" said Kate, with some confusion. "What should
papa's nonsense have to do with you?"
"Miss Crediton," said Fred, seriously, "don't you know me well enough
to be frank with me at least? I might pretend to think I had nothing
to do with it, but I should not deceive you. Mr Crediton is concerned
for his guest and not for his daughter; but, I repeat, so far as I am
concerned, you are not to be curbed in your freedom. I prefer rather to
be tortured than to be sent away."
"Tortured!" Kate echoed, under her breath, growing pale and growing
red. It was wrong to permit such things to be said to her, and she had
already reproved him for it. But still there was something which half
pleased her in words which meant so much more than they said. She had
a little struggle with herself before she could make up her mind to
resist temptation, and withdraw from this dangerous amusement; and when
at length she did so, and plunged into conversation with the nearest
old lady, Kate felt that nothing less than the highest virtue could
have moved her to such a sacrifice. It was a great deal more amusing to
sit and listen to Fred Huntley's talk, and watch him gliding along the
edge of the precipice, just clearing it by a hair's-breadth, filling
the air with captivating suggestions of devotion. Could it be possible
that he was so fond of her--a man of the world like Fred? Kate was one
of those women who feel a kindness for the men who love them. It may
be love out of place--presumptuous, uncalled-for, even treacherous;
but still, poor fellow, how sad that he should be so fond of me! the
woman says to herself, and is softly moved towards him with a kind of
almost affectionate pity. This was heightened, in the present case, by
the fact that Fred Huntley was not at all a man likely to yield to such
influences; and then he too was making a struggle against temptation in
which surely he deserved a little sympathy. If at any time he should be
overcome by it, and speak out, then of course she would be compelled to
give him a distinct answer and send him away. It would be a pity, Kate
thought, with a sigh; but in the mean time he was very interesting, and
she was sorry he should be so fond of her, poor fellow! Thus it will be
seen that she had not consciously faltered in her allegiance. She meant
to say No to Fred, firmly and clearly, if ever he should speak to her
in unmistakable words; but in the mean time she was interested in him,
and very curious to know what next he would say.
It was thus without any sense of wrong-doing that Kate found herself
walking along the footpath with Fred Huntley by her side on the October
noon when John saw them. She was quite innocent of any evil intention.
He had disappeared with the rest of the gentlemen in the morning,
and Kate had not asked either herself or any one else what had become
of him; and she had undertaken to walk down to the row of cottages
outside the park gates as a matter of kindness to the housekeeper,
who was busy. "I will go," she had said quite simply, when Mrs Horner
apologised for not having seen and given work to a poor needlewoman
there. "Oh, Miss Kate, that will be so good of you--and it is just a
nice walk," the housekeeper had said; so that nothing could be more
virtuous than the expedition altogether. Kate had not even meant to
go alone; her companion, one of the young ladies of the party, had
failed her at the last moment by reason of a headache, or some other
young-lady-like ailment, and how could Kate tell that she should meet
Fred Huntley coming out of the wood just as the trees screened her
from the windows of the house? But she was not sorry she had met him.
Walking along by herself in the silence, she had grown a little sad
and confused in her mind about John and circumstances generally. She
had not much time to think, with all the duties of mistress of the
house on her head. But when she was alone she could not elude the
questions--What did John mean by his silence?--was he unhappy, poor
fellow? Was it her fault or his fault? Would the time ever come when Mr
Crediton would consent, and everything would be arranged? Should she be
able to make him happy if they were married? All these questions were
passing through Kate's mind. "He takes everything so seriously," she
said to herself; "he thinks one means it, and one so seldom means it."
This she said with a little plaint within her own bosom. And, if it
must be confessed, a momentary comparison passed through her mind. Fred
Huntley would be so very, very much easier to get on with; he would
demand nothing more than she could give, whereas there was no limit to
John's demands. The comparison was involuntary, and she was ashamed of
herself for making it, but still it had been made; and the next moment
Fred Huntley himself had appeared to her stepping over the stile out of
the wood.
But the grave look that was on her face, and the silence so unusual to
her, which John had seen and taken for symptoms of other feelings,
were in reality caused by the gravity of her thoughts about himself
more than by any other cause. She had been almost glad to have her
solitude interrupted in order to escape from her thoughts, but they
were still in possession of her mind; and when John had heard their
voices in the distance, the two were but beginning to talk. Their
conversation was quite unobjectionable: he might have heard every
word, as she said afterwards. It was kind of Fred Huntley, seeing her
so serious, to try to take her mind off her own troubles. He did not
launch forth into foolish talk, such as that which he permitted himself
sometimes to indulge in, when their tte--tte went on under
the eyes of a roomful of people. He began to tell her about his own
prospects and intentions; how he had made up his mind to offer himself
as a candidate to represent Camelford at the next election. He had
been asked to do so, and he had given a great deal of thought to the
subject. "It binds one, and takes away one's personal liberty," he
had said; "but, after all, one never has any personal liberty--and
something certain to do, that one can take an interest in, is always, I
suppose," he added, with a sigh, "next best."
"Next best to what?" cried Kate, but fortunately for herself left him
no time to answer. "I never pretended to be strong-minded," she ran
on; "but to help to govern one's own country must be the finest thing
in the world. Oh, please, don't smile like that. You think so, or you
would not make up your mind to take so much trouble for nothing at all."
"Much the member for Camelford will have to do in the governing of the
country!" said Fred; "but still it is true enough: and I suppose when a
man is bored to death on a committee, he has as fine a sense that if he
die it is in the service of his country, as if he were burrowing in the
trenches somewhere. Yes, I suppose when there is nothing pleasanter in
hand it is the right sort of thing to do."
"I don't know what pleasanter sort of thing you could have in hand,"
said Kate.
"No, perhaps not; but I do. I can fancy quite a different sort of
life--something out of my reach as far as that branch is," said Fred,
carelessly catching at a high bough which seemed to hang miles over his
head against the smiling blue. "Hollo! it is not so far out of reach
neither," he added with a quick glance at her, and speaking half under
his breath.
"I wish it had been out of your reach," said Kate; "just look what you
have done! sprinkled me all over and spoiled my ribbon; and the dew is
so cold," she said, with a little shiver. "Mr Huntley, I think I should
prefer Parliament if I were you."
"It will be the wisest way," said Fred, momentarily roused out of his
good temper; and then he expressed a hundred regrets, and made his moan
over the blue ribbon, which, however, it was decided, would be dried by
the breeze long before they reached the cottage, and was not spoiled
after all.
"What a pity there is a penny post!" said Kate; "how we should have
teased your life out to give us franks, as people used to do for their
letters. An M.P. was worth something in those days; but when there is
anything going on, of course you can get us tickets and good places
everywhere. The first time you make a speech, I shall go to the
ladies' gallery. I wonder what it will be about!"
"And so do I," said Fred; "but I fear it will be inaudible in the
ladies' gallery. When you are all enjoying yourselves at home after the
fatigues of the season, will you compassionate an unhappy man in town
in August for the sake of his country? Do you think it is worth such a
sacrifice?"
"What a different life it will be!" said Kate, with a half-sigh. "It is
all very well to laugh, but how odd it is to think what different lives
people have--some in the world and some out of it! I should like to go
into Parliament, and be a great potentate too. I daresay it sounds very
ridiculous, but I should. I am not so clever as you are, and I have no
education; but I hope I understand things better than old Mr Vivian, or
Sir Robert, papa's great friend. And yet I shall never have anything
better to do than giving things out of a store-room, and spending as
little money as possible. How very funny it is!"
"Do you give the things out of the store-room, and keep accounts of the
tea and sugar? I acknowledge that must be very funny," said Fred.
"Of course I don't do it now. There is Mrs Horner to take all
the trouble; but, you know--hereafter----" When she had said this, Kate
stopped with a sudden blush; of course he knew that John Mitford's wife
would have no housekeeper, and would be obliged to spend as little
money as possible. But somehow the contrast galled her, and she stopped
short with momentary ill-humour. Why should fate be so different?
Why should one be so well off and another so poor? Kate felt it as
much for the moment as if she had been a poor needlewoman, making
gorgeous garments for a fine lady. It gave her a little angry sense of
inferiority; could it be that she might look up to Fred Huntley and
consider his acquaintance as an honour in the days to come? She was
angry with him for his hopes and his ambition, notwithstanding that he
had said it would but be next best.
"Hereafter----" said Fred, "how little any of us know about it! but
if there is one creature in the world who can choose her own future,
and make it what she pleases, it must be you," he continued, in a low
hurried tone. Kate walked on silent as if she had not heard him. They
had reached the lodge gates, and were close to the cottage where she
was going. She made no reply, took no notice, but she had heard him
all the same. She went into the cottage without any suggestion that he
should accompany her, and Fred wisely disappeared, leaving her to walk
home by herself. This was one great difference between him and John.
John would not have left her, would not have dreamed of sacrificing
the delight of her society for any piece of policy. But Fred was
clear-sighted, and felt that for his ultimate success this was the
best. She was half disappointed, half satisfied to find that he was not
waiting for her. She had so many things to think of, and there were
so many things she did not want to think of. All the delights of the
election time which was coming on dazzled Kate. She had only to say a
word and she would be the queen of the occasion, in the heart of all
the delightful bustle and excitement and hope and fear. She could not
go into Parliament in her own person and help to govern her country,
but the next to that would be doing it in the person of her husband.
And where was there any likelihood that John would ever give her such
a gratification? What he would give her would be the soberest domestic
life, weighing out of tea and sugar from the store-room, and much
trouble over the necessary economies. "Provided that we are so well
off as to have a store-room!" she said to herself. But Fred Huntley's
wife would have no such necessity. She would have plenty to spend
and something to spare. She was not thinking of herself as Mrs Fred
Huntley; she was rather contrasting that fortunate woman with Mrs John
Mitford, who would not be nearly so well off. It would be so droll,
Kate thought, to see that lady in the prettiest costumes possible,
coming to call upon herself, who probably for economy would find it
best always to wear a black silk gown. And then it would be so much
easier for the other to get on. Her husband would be so manageable in
comparison. He would be good-tempered and polite, and would never dream
of taking offence; whereas John's wife would have to watch his eye, and
demean herself accordingly. Kate had given more than one sigh before
she got home, of half envy. Life would be so much more easy for Mrs
Fred. She would have it in her power to skim lightly over the top of
the waves as Kate loved to do, instead of sounding all kinds of depths.
She sighed, not because she was faithless to John or had ceased to love
him, but only at the thought of how much easier a life that other woman
would have; and an easy life was pleasant to Kate.
I don't know if it was this conversation which made Fred Huntley so
over-bold; but in the evening he spoke as he had never yet ventured
to speak. It was the evening which John spent in his dismal little
parlour, weary, and wrapt in the stillness of despair, writing his
letters before he went home. At Fernwood the young people had got up
an impromptu dance. There were a few people to dinner from some of
the neighbouring houses, and this infusion of novelty stimulated the
home party. And the wind had changed, and all the frost in the air
had disappeared, or at least so the foolish boys and girls, heated
with dancing, chose to believe; and they had opened the door of the
conservatory, and even strayed out into the moonlight between the
dances, without paying the least attention to any warning. However
strong the reasons had been which led Kate to decline all private
conversation with Fred Huntley, she could not possibly refuse to dance
with him, nor could she refuse to take a turn with him through the
conservatory, as all the others were doing. And it was there, in the
semidark, with the moonlight shining in through the dark plants and
unseen flowers, that he spoke out, no longer making use of any parable.
He told her in so many words that he was a more fit mate for her than
John. He argued the question with her, point by point, for Kate was not
wise enough to take refuge in a distinct, unexplained No, but went on
the foolish idea that he was her friend, and John's friend, and that
she ought to convince him that he was wrong. "Oh don't!" she said,
"please, don't. We have always been such friends. Why should you break
it all off and make me a kind of an enemy now at the last? You never
used to care for me in that way. Oh, please, let us forget it was ever
said."
"But I cannot forget it, though you may, Kate," he said, in a voice
which was so full of feeling that Kate's curiosity was vividly
awakened: (I never thought he would have felt anything so much, she
said to herself, flattered and wondering; and rather anxious to know
how far this unlooked-for sentiment would carry him). "Kate, we can't
go on just being friends. If you knew what I have suffered to see you
belonging to another man! I have not a word to say against him. No, I
hate him for your sake; but there is not a word to be said against him.
The only thing I wonder is, how a fellow so honourable and high-minded
should have asked you when he knew he had nothing to offer you. It
would have been more like John Mitford to have broken his heart and
held his peace."
A strange little cry came from Kate's lips. "Oh!" she said, with a
startled look in his face, "how strange that you should be trying to
undermine him, and yet know him so well as that!"
"I am not trying to undermine him; I believe in my heart that I would
rather the one of us had you who could make you the happiest. It sounds
strange, but it is true. If I grant that he loves you as well as I do,
would not that be allowing a great deal? but, Kate, think what a change
it would be for you; and he would not know so well as I should how to
make you happy," Fred added, bending over her, and pressing close to
him the hand which still rested on his arm. It was wrong of Kate not
to have withdrawn her hand from his arm. She tried to do it now, but
it was held fast, and a piteous prayer made to her not to go from him
as if she were angry. "You don't dislike me for your friend," Fred
pleaded, "and why should you be angry because I cannot help loving you
beyond friendship?--is it my fault?"
"Oh, please, don't talk like this," cried Kate, in her distress. "I am
not angry. I don't want to be unkind. I want you to be my friend still.
This is only a passing fancy. It will go away, and we shall be just as
we were. But it is wrong, when you know I am engaged to him, to try to
turn me against John."
"It would be if you were married to him," said Fred; "but, Kate,
because I love you, must I be blind to what is best for you? He is not
like you, neither am I like you; we are neither of us worthy to kiss
the hem of your dress----"
"Nonsense!" cried Kate, vigorously, almost freeing herself; for this
was so much out of Fred's way, that it moved her in the midst of so
grave a situation almost to the point of laughter.
"It is not nonsense; I know what you think. You think it is the sort of
thing that lovers say, and that I don't mean it; but I do mean it. We
are neither of us good enough; but I understand you best, Kate--yes,
don't deny it. I know you best, and your ways. I should not tease you.
I should not ask too much. And with me you would have the life you
are used to. With him you don't know what kind of life you may have,
and neither does he. Kate, there are women who could bear that sort of
thing, but not you."
"Mr Huntley, I cannot discuss it with you," said Kate, half in despair;
"pray, pray, let me go!"
"You are angry," he said--"angry with me who have known you all your
life, because you have found out I love you too well."
"I am not angry," she cried; "but oh, please, let me go. You know I
ought not to stand here and listen to you. Should you like it if you
were him? Oh, let me go!"
"Kate," he cried in her ear, "don't hate me for what I am going to say;
if I were him, and knew you had listened to another, I should feel how
it was, and accept my fate."
Kate's hot spirit blazed up, and the tears sprang to her eyes. She drew
her hand away almost violently. "That is well," she cried--"that is
well! that you should be the one to blame me for listening; but I shall
do it no more."
"It is because you are driving me half mad," he said.
And what was Kate to do? It was such a strange sensation to see Fred
Huntley, a man of the world, standing there pleading before her, driven
half mad. Was it possible? If it had been any other man indeed. But
Fred! And his voice was full of emotion, his hands trembled, he pleaded
with an earnestness that filled her with mingled pity and curiosity and
amaze. "Oh, hush, and don't think any more of it," she said. "If you
will forget it, I shall. Am I one to make people unhappy? Give me your
arm back to the drawing-room, and let us say no more about it. I must
not stay longer with you here."
"I will take you back to the drawing-room," he said, "and if you say I
am to give up hope, I will do it; but, Kate, don't fix my fate till you
know a little better. I am so willing, so very willing, to wait. All I
want is that you should know I am here utterly at your command--and you
won't wring my heart talking of him? Yes, do--wring my heart as
you please, but don't send me away. I am willing to wait for my answer
as long as you have the heart to keep me--only don't send me away."
"Oh! how can you speak of an answer?" cried Kate, under her breath.
They were on the threshold of the lighted drawing-room by this time,
and perhaps he did not hear that faint protestation. He took her to
her seat, not with the covert care which he had been lavishing upon
her for so long, but with all the signs of the tenderest devotion. She
herself, being excited and distracted by what had just passed, was not
aware of the difference; but everybody else was. And they had been a
long time together in the conservatory, quite too long for an interview
between an engaged young lady and a man who was not her betrothed. And
there was a flush upon Kate's cheeks, and Fred was eager and excited,
and kept near her, without any pretence of making himself generally
agreeable. And she looked half afraid of him, and would not dance any
more--two signs which were very striking. "Depend upon it, something is
going on in that quarter," one of the elder ladies said to the other.
"Little jilt!" said the second; and if Lady Winton had been there,
who felt herself entitled to speak, Kate would no doubt have heard a
great deal more about it before she escaped to her own room to try and
realise what it was.
CHAPTER XXIX.
It would be vain to attempt to give any panorama of Kate's thoughts
when she had finally taken refuge in her room, and shut out even her
maid. The first fire of the season was chirruping in the grate, and
there were a good many candles about, for Kate was fond of a great
deal of light. She threw herself into her favourite easy-chair by
the fire, and clasped her hands across her forehead, and tried very
hard to think. There are many girls, no doubt, who would have felt
that Fred Huntley had insulted them by such a declaration, with his
full knowledge of all the previous circumstances. But Kate could
not cut the knot in that summary manner. He was not insulting her.
Before he had said a word, had not she herself taken that alternative
into consideration? It was but this very day that she had made that
half-envying comparison between herself and the problematical Mrs Fred
Huntley; and people do not make such comparisons without some faint
notion that a choice might be possible. Besides, Kate was not the kind
of girl to be insensible to the reason of the matter. It was perfectly
true what Fred Huntley had said. In every way in which the question
could be looked at, he was more suitable to her than John. And he would
be a great deal easier to get on with. He would not ask so much; he
would be quite content with what she could give: whereas the question
was, would John ever be content? And Fred would satisfy Mr Crediton,
and make everything easy; and nobody knew better than Kate how unlikely
it was that John could ever satisfy her father, or that their marriage
should take place by anything less than a miracle. The reader will
think that she was thus giving up the whole question, but this was not
the fact. She was as far from giving John up as she had been a month
before, when she went to see him in Camelford; but she had a candid
mind, and could not help considering the question on its merits.
And then it would be impossible to deny that she had a kindness for
Fred. He had been very "nice" all this autumn--very attentive and
assiduous, and anxious to smooth her path for her. To be sure he had
not been quite disinterested; but then, when is a man disinterested?
One does not expect it of them, Kate reflected; in short, perhaps one
prefers, on the whole, that they should look for a reward, to be given
or withheld as the idol wills. This sense of power was very strong
in Kate's mind. She liked to think that her hand could dispense life
and death; and though the alternative was very thrilling, and made
her heart beat loudly, and the blood rush to her face, yet it was not
exactly a painful feeling. And then she was very sweet-tempered and
sympathetic: it was hard for her to make up her mind to disappoint
and grieve any one. She would be sincerely sorry for the man she was
obliged to refuse; and if she could have managed it so that Madeline
Winton, or any other nice girl with whom she was intimate, should have
suited the taste of that man, it would have been a great relief to her.
This thought flashed across her mind more than once in her disquietude;
a fact which sufficiently shows how different were the feelings with
which she regarded the two candidates for her favour. Such a transfer
of affection would have been out of the question with John; but it
would not be out of the question with Fred.
Then Kate took to thinking of his earnestness, of the look almost of
passion in his face. Fred Huntley to look at any woman like that--to
say that he was being driven mad--to plead with such humility! No doubt
it was a very astounding thought, almost more extraordinary than any
amount of devotion from John, who was a passionate being by nature.
And then it would be so easy to get on with Fred! he would understand
without difficulty those tastes and habits to which John could never
do more than assent with a sigh. What a dilemma it was for a girl
to be placed in! Kate had clasped her hands over her eyes that she
might think the better, and let her fire go out, and was stopped in
her cogitations by the chill which stole over her. When she roused
herself up the hearth was quite black, and seemed to be giving forth
cold instead of warmth--and the candles were all burning silently,
with now and then a little twinkling of the small steady flames, as
if they were sharers in her secret, and knew more about it than she
did. She crept to bed very cold and disturbed and uncomfortable,
saying to herself now, Poor John! and now, Poor Fred! with painful
impartiality. I think, for my own part, that it said wonders for her
real faithfulness that she was thus impartial in her thoughts; for Fred
was so much more eligible in every way, so much more suitable, more
likely to please everybody, more easy to get on with, that there must
have been a wonderful balance of feeling on the other side to keep
the scales even. John was a very troublesome, unmanageable lover; he
ruffled her by his passion, his fondness, his susceptibilities. She
could not marry him except by the sacrifice of many things that were
very important to her, and after going through all the agonies of
a long, stormy, much-interrupted engagement; whereas everything was
smooth and pleasant on the other side. And yet her heart, if it stood
tolerably even between them, had not yet swayed one step further off
than the middle from her uncomfortable lover; which, considering all
Fred's unmistakable advantages, surely said a great deal for Kate.
She got up in the morning with a headache, and without having come
to any decision. The thought of meeting Fred calmly before the eyes
of all those people, as if nothing had passed, had a curious kind of
excitement in it. It was not her fault; and yet she looked forward to
meeting him with a certain flutter of semi-agitation, which was not
diminished by the fact that he was more assiduous in his attentions
than he had ever ventured to be before, or had any right to be.
After breakfast Mr Crediton sent to her to go to him in the library,
which was a very alarming summons. She grew pale in the midst of her
companions when it was delivered to her. "Kate, I know you are going to
be scolded," said one of them; "I declare she is trembling. Fancy Kate
being frightened for her papa." "I am sure she deserves to be scolded,"
said an elder young lady, gravely. "Do I?" cried poor Kate; and she
went away half crying, for it was hard upon her to be blamed. She could
not bear it, even when she was indifferent to her censors. It hurt
her--she who had always been petted by all the world. She went away
as near crying as it is consistent with the dignity of a young lady
of nineteen to be; and if either of the two had crossed her path and
proposed instant elopement, I almost think she would have consented.
But John was at Fanshawe, separated from her by more than distance; and
Fred's good angel had not whispered to him to throw himself at that
moment in her way.
Mr Crediton received her with a certain solemnity, and with a very
grave countenance. He made her sit down opposite to him, and looked her
in the face. "Kate," he said, "I have sent for you to have some very
serious talk with you. You have got yourself into a grave dilemma, and
I think you want my advice."
Kate was very much frightened, but she was not a girl to lose her head
even at such a crisis. She faced the foe courageously, though her cheek
grew pale. "I must always be the better for having your advice, papa,"
she said; "but I don't know of any dilemma. Everything is exactly as it
was."
"I don't see how that can be," said Mr Crediton, quietly. "Kate, Fred
Huntley has been with me this morning. He is perfectly honourable and
straightforward in his mode of action, but I am not so sure about you.
He tells me he has asked you to marry him--and notwithstanding that he
has got no definite answer, he thought it right to come to me."
"Answer!" cried Kate; "what answer could I give? He knew I was engaged
as well as you do. Is it my fault, papa? Can I keep a man from making a
fool of himself? He knew of my engagement as well as you."
"Yes," said Mr Crediton; "and he knew that John Mitford went away
hurriedly after a three-days' visit, and that there has been no
communication between you for some time. Oh, I am not the culprit.
I don't examine your letters. It appears you told him; and, as a
justification of what he has done, he repeated it to me."
"Then it was very, very nasty of him," said Kate, with tears in her
eyes; "and I will never tell him anything again as long as I live."
"I hope at least you won't talk to him on this subject," said her
father, gravely. "I have let you have your own way heretofore, Kate.
I have given Mr Mitford the best chance I could of proving what was
in him; and if you like to persevere, I shall not interfere. But if
you don't care to persevere, it is a different matter. Huntley seems
to think you will not. Wait a little, please, till I have said what I
have to say. There cannot be a moment's doubt as to which of the two I
should prefer for a son-in-law. Fred Huntley has distinguished himself
already, though he is so young. He could surround you with every luxury
and give you a good position, and everything that heart can desire. And
he suits me. He is thoroughly sensible, and full of good feeling; but
he is not highflown. I should get on a great deal better with him than
I ever could do with Mitford; and, I believe, so would you."
"Papa!" This exclamation was not surprise, but a deprecating, pleading,
remonstrating protestation. She made him no further answer, one way or
another; but only looked in his face with wistful eyes.
"I believe you would," said Mr Crediton, stoutly. "You must have felt
already, however you may hesitate to say it, that in certain matters
this whole business is a great blunder. I am not saying a word against
Mitford. We have the greatest reason to be grateful to him. But, Kate,
great mistakes have been made out of gratitude--the very gravest
mistakes; and you may be sure that your engagement is to him a very
equivocal advantage. He feels it, though he cannot be the first to
speak."
"What does he feel? how do you know?" cried Kate; and there came such
a sudden chill over her, that the very blood in her veins seemed
frozen--a sensation she had never experienced before in all her life.
"It is quite clear what he feels," said Mr Crediton; "he feels that you
are out of his sphere. He sees what kind of a life you live here, and
he is bewildered. How is he to give you all that, or a shadow of it?
It is not difficult to divine what he feels; and the thought makes him
half morose, as he was when he was here. He cannot bear to lose you, I
believe; and yet he is gradually making up his mind that he must lose
you. Poor fellow! I for one am very sorry for him; and unless you open
a way to him out of it, I don't see what he is to do."
"Papa," said Kate, with her cheeks flaming, "if he has ever given you
any reason to think that he wants to be out of it, you have only to let
me know."
"I don't want to be unjust," said Mr Crediton, "to him or to any one.
He has never spoken to me on the subject. It is not likely he should.
No man could come to your father, Kate, and say, 'I have made a
mistake.' I should kick him out of the house, probably, however glad I
might be to hear it. And John Mitford is not the man to do anything of
the kind; but his feelings may be easily divined for all that."
Kate sat silent, with her eyes cast down, and twisted her handkerchief
in her fingers. Her cheeks were burning, her eyes hot, her heart
beating loud. Perhaps it might be true. While she had been calmly
comparing her two lovers, feeling herself elevated in a sweet supremacy
over them, and free to make her choice, it was possible that her chain
had become bondage to one of them. He had gone away hurriedly, it
was true. He had spoken very strangely when he went away, and he had
not written to her for two long weeks. So long, indeed, had he kept
silence, that she had written to him making a kind of appeal. These
facts, no doubt, strengthened every word her father said, and gave to
them a certain appearance of reality. Her cheeks burned, and seemed
to scorch all the moisture out of her eyes; and yet she felt that
only the strongest effort kept her from bursting into tears. It was
a kind of relief to her when the door opened, and a man came in with
Mr Crediton's letters. At least they prevented the necessity of any
answer. She sat absorbed in her own thoughts, examining closely, as if
it were a matter of the last importance, the embroidered cipher on her
handkerchief, while her father was thus occupied. Kate took no notice
how many letters he read--they were nothing to her; nor did she observe
the keen glance upward which he gave at her when he had read the first
he opened. She did not even remark that the crackling of the paper
ceased, and there was an interval of complete stillness. When he spoke
to her she started, and came back as if from a long distance. "Yes,
papa," she said, mechanically, without lifting her eyes.
"I did not think it would have come so soon," said Mr Crediton; "and it
is very strange that it should have come at this moment. He has decided
the question for himself, Kate, as, one time or other, I thought he
would. Look here."
It was John's letter he pushed across the table to her, with a feeling
that it had arrived at the very moment it was wanted, at the handiest
moment. And Mr Crediton was glad; but at the same time he was struck
with a little compunction when he saw how eagerly Kate clutched at
it, and how the colour went and came on her face. She read it without
a pause, flashing her eye over its contents in a way very different
from Mr Crediton's deliberate reading. She had grown breathless in
her eagerness. She threw it down on the table, yet did not leave her
hold of it, and stretched across to look at the little heap of letters
which remained before him. "There must be one for me," she cried; "of
course he must have explained all this in his letter to me." When she
saw that there was none for her, she rose hurriedly and rang the bell,
her father all the while looking on with an amazement which he could
not express in words. Was this Kate, this hasty excited creature, full
of anxiety and suspense? "Go and see if there are any letters for
me," she said, imperiously, to the servant who answered the bell. She
would not believe it; she stood angry and feverish, leaning against
the mantelpiece with John's letter in her hand. "The letters have been
taken up-stairs, ma'am, but there are none for you," said the man,
re-entering with a tray in his hand on which were several bundles of
papers carefully separated. She rushed across the room to look at
them. There were half-a-dozen at least for Fred Huntley, and some for
the other members of the party who were out shooting, but nothing for
Miss Crediton. Kate dismissed the servant with a little wave of her
hand and walked back to the fire, and stooped down over it to warm
herself. She was utterly dismayed, and the ground seemed suddenly cut
away from under her very feet. Her heart beat so that she could not
speak a word. Was it true, then, all this that had been said to her?
Her father turned his chair towards her, and the sight of his child
thus stupefied with sudden pain, and half incredulous of the shock she
had just received, went to his heart. But yet in his heart he believed
it was best for him to drive the stroke home, and not to soothe her by
suggestions that the explanation might yet come, such as occurred to
him in the first softening of his thoughts.
"My darling!" he said, "of course you feel it. I feel it so much for
you, Kate, that I could almost grieve, though I know it to be for the
best. Make up your mind at once to think no more of him. It will be
better for you both. It is a shock, but you must have been prepared
for the shock. You have trifled with Fred Huntley's feelings for a
long time, as you ought not to have done had you not been more or less
prepared for this. And, Kate, there is no reason why you should not
reward him now."
"Reward him! when it is he who has done it," said Kate, under her
breath.
"That is not the case; you must be aware that is not the case. I have
watched you all too closely to believe in that. You have done it
yourself, Kate; and, if you would believe me, this is the very best
thing that could have happened. The slight must hurt, of course, at
first----"
"Slight! papa, do you know what you are saying? It is worse than a
slight. Oh, how shall I bear it?" said Kate, crushing up John's letter
in her clenched hands.
"So I think, my dear," said Mr Crediton, quietly. "I could not have
supposed Mitford capable of anything of the kind. But it is best that
he should have done it in this decisive way--better than hanging you
up for months, or years, if he had his way. And the very best answer I
can make is to tell him that--that you have listened to Fred. My dear,
don't turn away so impatiently. You have used him very badly if you
mean anything else. He is very fond of you, poor fellow! And, Kate,
I can't tell how deeply, how much, it would gratify your father," he
added, putting his arm round her, and drawing her close to him. Kate
had gone through all the stages of passion--she had been agitated,
disturbed, startled, driven into amazement and indignation and rage.
She was trembling all over with excitement; and now, in the course of
nature, it was time for tears to come to relieve her hot eyes. She felt
herself drawn into her father's arms, and then the storm broke forth.
She could never lose her father, whoever she might lose. She leant her
head upon him, and covered her face with her hands, and sobbed upon
his breast. "Papa, let me stay with you: I care for nothing but you,"
she cried, with a broken voice like a child's; and he heard her heart
beating in the pain of this first grand emergency, like some violent
imprisoned thing labouring to escape out of its cage.
"My poor child!" he said, holding her close. He was glad of it, and yet
it hurt him too because it hurt his daughter. At that moment he could
almost have called John back, pleased as he was to have him gone. He
held her close, patting her softly with his hand, saying nothing till
the outburst was over; and then, when he felt her stir in his arms and
lean less heavily against him, he bent down and kissed her and spoke.
"My own Kate," he said, "take your father's advice for once. Let it
be you to make the change, and not him. Let me call poor Huntley and
make him happy. You like him, though you may not think it: you have
chosen his society more than that of any one here. Do you think I have
not watched you? and I know. My dear, your delicacy is wounded, your
feelings have had a great shock; but you will soon learn it is for the
best, and Fred will make you happier than you ever could have been.
Let me call the poor fellow now."
"No, no, not now," cried Kate, with her face hidden--"not now. Papa, it
is with you I want to stay."
"With me and with Fred," said Mr Crediton. "He will be a son to me,
Kate. He will not take you away from me. It is what I have wished for
years. You will make us both very happy, my darling," her father went
on pleading. "Let me call him now."
"Oh, papa, let me go! He is out," said Kate, in a kind of despair,
raising herself from his arms. She wanted to get away to be by herself,
to think what it all meant, and scarcely knew or understood what she
said.
"He cannot be far off. Let me go and find him," said Mr Crediton; "you
would make me so happy, Kate."
"Oh, papa, don't kill me!--not now. I would do anything to make you
happy; but not now--I cannot bear any more."
"Then, my darling, I will not press you; but later--when you have had
time to think--say at five o'clock; come to me at five o'clock. You
have made him very wretched and treated him very badly, and me too; but
you will make it up to us, my own Kate?"
"Please let me go," she said, wearily, drawing herself out of his arms,
and making visible a face which was no longer flushed and beautiful,
but very pale, scared, marked with tears, and reluctant to face the
light.
"You shall go," said her father, tenderly, leading her to the door.
"But remember at five o'clock--promise that you will come at five
o'clock."
"Whenever you please--what does it matter?" sighed poor Kate. He
repeated the hour again in his anxiety, but she paid no attention. She
ran up-stairs as soon as she had escaped from him, a little palefaced
woe-begone ghost. Some one met her on the stairs, but she did not stop
to see who it was. She did not even care to have her emotion perceived,
as she would have done under other circumstances. She did not care
for anything but getting to a shelter and hiding herself, and asking
somebody (was it herself or some hidden counsellor she should find
there?) what did it all mean?
Kate had never been very unhappy before all her life, and she did
not know how to be very unhappy. She pulled all the blinds down
impatiently, thinking it was wicked that the day should be so bright,
and then threw herself upon her little white bed. It was not that she
wanted to lie down, or to be in darkness, but only that the crisis
was so strange, and she felt it necessary to conform to it. She had
been thinking of John when she rose that morning, but thinking of him
in such a different way, measuring him with Fred Huntley, then asking
herself if it would be most for her own good to keep him or to put him
aside. And lo! in a moment, here were the tables turned. He had not
even the grace to deliberate or give her warning what he was going to
do, but did it on the moment. She could not even upbraid him, for he
had gone without saying where he was. He had plucked himself out of her
fingers while she had been weighing him, balancing him. Was it not a
just punishment? But he did not know that, and she had done nothing,
so far as he was aware, that could give him any warrant to treat her
so summarily. She lay there and shut her eyes, and rocked herself, and
moaned a little. And then she opened them very wide, lay still, and
gazed at the drawn blinds with her heart fluttering loudly, scarcely
able to keep still with mortification and suppressed rage. Yes, he
might give her up; but if he had word sent to him that she was engaged
to Fred Huntley, he would feel it--oh, he would feel it! trust him for
that. And Kate repeated to herself with feverish eagerness, "At five
o'clock." She longed for the hour to come that she might give him this
return-blow; and then she turned and rocked herself and moaned again,
feeling such a dreadful pain--a pain she could not account for in her
perverse little heart.
When the bell rang for luncheon Parsons came into the room, bouncing,
as Kate thought, with her ribbons and her black silk apron, humming
a song to herself. "Goodness gracious me!" she cried, suddenly
restraining her sprightly steps when she became conscious of her
mistress's presence. "I did not know as you were here, Miss," said
Parsons; "I beg your pardon, I am sure. Is it a headache, Miss?"
"Oh, go away and don't bother me; don't you see I am not fit to talk to
anyone?" cried Kate.
"If it's a bad headache, Miss, there is nothing like lying down, and
to bathe the head with a little eau-de-Cologne and water. It's what
I always do when I have the headache," said Parsons, bustling and
pouring out into a basin the pungent fragrant water. Kate allowed
herself to be ministered to without any visible impatience. She did not
feel so abandoned by the world when even her maid was by her. And the
eau-de-Cologne, she thought, did her a little good.
"That is the bell for lunch, Miss," said Parsons; "and master will
be in such a way! Shall I go and tell him you have the headache very
bad--or what shall I say?"
"Never mind him," said Kate, faintly; "what does it matter about them
and their lunch? Oh, Parsons, I am so very miserable!" sobbed the
poor girl. No, she did not mean to betray herself; but still a little
sympathy, though not enough to touch the very skirts of her grievance,
she must have.
"Are you indeed, Miss?" said Parsons. "I am sure I'm very, very sorry;
but if it's only the headache it can't last. There, I'll put a wet
handkerchief on your poor head; perhaps that will do it good."
"It is too deep for anything to do me good," said Kate; but she
suffered the handkerchief to be placed on her forehead, and put up
with all those mysterious manipulations of the pillow and the hair and
the patient which are orthodox in the circumstances. She lay with her
eyes closed and the wet kerchief on her forehead, and her hair spread
over the pillow, making her face look all the paler in comparison;
her pretty mouth drawn down at the corners, her pale lips and closed
eyelids, a very image of youthful misery. Her heart was broken, she
thought; and oh, how her head ached!
"Did you get your letters, Miss?" said Parsons softly, drawing out
her bright hair, and bending over her sympathetically. But Parsons
recoiled in another moment, giving the hair a tug in her consternation,
as Kate suddenly stood before her, all blazing and glaring like an
avenging angel, with one hand grasping her shoulder and the other
clenched menacing in her face.
"My letters!--oh, you wicked miserable woman, it is you who have made
me so unhappy! My letters! what do you know of them?" cried Kate.
"Lord, Miss!" said Parsons in dismay, backing before her. And then she
began to cry. "I thought as you'd rather I brought 'em up-stairs. You
weren't in the drawing-room, nor nowhere to be seen. I meant it for
the best," cried Parsons, backing to the wall with such a terror of
the clenched hand as was quite out of proportion to the powers of that
little weapon of offence.
"Give them to me," cried Kate; "draw up the blinds--make haste and
throw this wet thing away. My letters, my letters!--oh, if you only
knew what harm you have done! Give them to me----"
She sat down on the sofa under the window, which, after being veiled so
carefully, now poured in upon her all the light of the full sunshiny
October day. There was a note from Madeline Winton, a notification
about millinery from Camelford, something else equally unimportant,
and the letter from John, which she ought to have had three hours ago.
She paused as she took it up, and turned to Parsons, who was still
fluttering about the room in her alarm: "Go away," said Kate, solemnly;
"you can say I have a headache and am lying down; and, please, don't
come near me any more to-day."
"Let me come and dress you, Miss, as usual. Oh, goodness gracious me!
as if I meant any harm."
"You need not stop to cry," said Kate, severely; "but go away. You
wicked woman! I owe all my trouble to you."
And then as soon as she was alone she read John's letter--the letter he
had written in his desolate room before he left Camelford. It went to
Kate's heart. She read it and she cried, and she kissed the insensible
paper, and her load seemed lifted off her mind. She had been miserable
half an hour ago, and now she was happy. It was such an answer to all
her questionings as nothing else could have given. She cried, and the
colour came back to her cheek and the light to her eyes. "I am not the
bank," she said to herself, with a return of her old levity. "It is not
me he means to give up; he must never, never give up me." And then she
kissed the letter again. She had never done such a thing all her life;
but she did it now without stopping to think, and she read over the end
of it, "yours, and only yours, whatever may happen," with a gush of
warmth and gladness at her heart. "Dear John! poor John! he is so fond
of me. Why is he so fond of me?" she said to herself with sweet tears.
And then all at once it struck her as with a great chill that there was
more than mere fondness in this letter of John's. "If you should ever
want me." "This may pass over and be to you as if it had never been."
How could that be? Was not he hers and she his as of old?
Just then there came a knock to the door, and two little notes were
handed in to her. Another cold thrill went over her as she saw them.
One was from her father, and the other from Fred Huntley. "My dear, I
am grieved your head aches," wrote the first, "but I don't wonder. Keep
quite quiet till five, and then come down to the library and make two
men very happy. My pretty Kate! Your fond father,
J. C."
The other was shorter still. "I dare not think or speak, or allow
myself to be glad till I see you," said the other; "but my fate is in
your sweet hands." Such were the communications that were brought to
her from the outer world. Kate gazed at them with open mouth and eyes
aghast. Then it all came to her mind. She had promised to go to these
men and satisfy them, to give Fred Huntley her hand and her promise,
and put her seal to it, that her love for John was over for ever. And
yet the touch of her mouth was wet upon John's dear letter, and she
hated Fred Huntley as she had never hated any one in her whole life.
She sat with the daylight pouring in upon her, and those tokens of
fate about her, and despair in her pale and ghastly face. Kate to be
ghastly, who had never known what such a word meant! She was getting a
wild look like a creature driven to bay. Now and then when she heard
the sound of a voice or step in the house--people coming up-stairs or
down, somebody passing along the long passage--she gave a shiver, as a
hare might shiver at the baying of the hounds. She sat motionless, it
seemed to her for hours, in this torpor, and then it was Fred's voice
that roused her. He was down below in front of the house, talking to
some one, and she could hear him through the open window. "I am going
to the stables to look at the new horses," he said, "but I shall be
back before five o'clock." Five o'clock! There was a ring in his voice
of conscious triumph. He was coming back to take possession of his
victim. At that moment, as Kate sat with the trembling of despair upon
her, there suddenly rang out upon her ear the sound of the railway
bell at the station, which was always considered such a nuisance at
Fernwood. The railway itself was a great convenience, only a quarter
of a mile from the lodge gates; but the bell and the whistle and the
rumbling of the train were very objectionable. When Kate heard it she
roused herself with a low cry. She thrust John's letter into her dress,
and tore the others up in little pieces, and then she sat still, with
bright awakened eyes for half an hour more. By that time her resolution
was formed. She was miserable and impatient of her misery, and every
way of escape seemed shut off except this one, and it was something to
do which soothed her excitement. It was not with any such thought that
she had sent Parsons away. Nothing had been settled in her mind, or
even thought of, till Fred Huntley's voice and the railway bell thus
succeeded each other. In circumstances so desperate there is nothing
like a sudden inspiration. Four o'clock! the big clock sounded from the
stables, and a succession of fairy chimes rang from all the rooms of
the house. Four! and no more time to think--for there was not another
moment to lose.
CHAPTER XXX.
Kate had never gone anywhere alone before. She was nothing but one
big beating heart, beating so that the little body that contained it
could scarcely breathe, when she slipped down the back-stairs and out
at the side-door. She put on a great waterproof cloak, one of those
garments which are next thing to the domino of the drama as a means
of disguise, and a black hat, and a great veil tied over her face as
fashion permits. A mask could not have been a greater protection.
She was, indeed, masked from head to foot, and except by her gait or
outline of her figure could not have been recognised. It seemed to her
as if the beating of her heart must have been heard through all the
house, bringing everybody out to see what such a noise meant; but it
was not so. In her proper person, and with her pretty face open to the
light, Kate Crediton was as courageous as any girl could be, and that
is saying a great deal; but masked and cloaked as she was, and running
away, she was all over abject terror. She trembled when the railway
porter came to tell her about the train; her voice was scarcely audible
when she got her ticket; she shrank away to the farthest corner, and
hid herself for the few horrible moments that she had to wait. And no
words can express the sense of guilt and fear and forlorn loneliness
with which she contemplated all the varieties of the journey which she
had undertaken. To get out of the carriage by herself at Camelford,
to steal across the crowded railway station, a little shrinking black
figure in the lamplight, to take another ticket, and have herself put
into another train, and then to look forward to the long walk in the
dark, the country road, the stillness and loneliness and suspicious
looks of everybody who should meet her! Her own opinion was that two or
three times over she had nearly died of it; and, to tell the truth,
she was not far wrong. The weather had grown milder, but she shivered
in her excitement; and it was very cloudy and damp, with occasional
showers, and little light in the pale sky. How was she to do it? And
what reception was she likely to meet with at the end? And her father,
what would his feelings be? All these things seized upon Kate, and
caught her in their clutches, and hung about her like ghosts as she
pursued her lonely journey. Sometimes her natural courage made an
effort to assert itself, but the courage of a girl of nineteen is but
little able to sustain her under the sense of secrecy and flight and
loneliness and the darkest of country roads.
When she had arrived at the conclusion of her journey, the poor child
set out half-a-dozen times from the little lighted station which was as
an oasis in the desert of darkness, and as many times crept back again
to the shelter of the friendly lights. She leant against the paling
of the station-master's cottage opposite the window, where there was
protection, and cried. Darkness that she could feel crept and rustled
about her; and silence, which she could feel too, penetrated to her
very soul. She did not dare to ask the porter who had looked at her so
curiously, to go with her. He might kill her on the road, and leave her
lying there all covered by the darkness, to be found out when it was
too late. Kate cried over this picture of herself. They would all be
sorry then; they would be grieved that they had driven her desperate;
and there was one that would never, never recover it all his life. Oh
that he were only there now with his strong arm to support her--oh
John, John, John! And all this time his heart was aching too, thinking
she had forsaken him. Where was he? Like herself out somewhere in the
night full of despairing thoughts. And here was still this dreadful
passage to be crossed before she could even hear of him where he was.
At Fanshawe the scene was very different. Mrs Mitford was seated by the
lamp, with her basket by her full of things to mend; but her hands had
fallen into her lap, and there were signs of agitation in her face.
There was a fire burning at the other end of the room, which gave it
a different aspect, but she had not yet given up her summer-seat, and
the window was open as of old. In the shade behind the lamp, some one
was walking up and down--up and down, filling the room with a sense of
restlessness and restraint. The two were talking in hushed tones as
if something had happened. And not long before, Dr Mitford had flung
away out of the room in anger which could scarcely find strong enough
expression, "You should have thought of all this sooner. What! leave
the bank? Quarrel with your good fortune and all your prospects! No, I
have no patience. He has behaved like a fool, and ought to be treated
as such," the Doctor had cried. He was ashamed of his son and of sundry
little brags of his own, which John's fine prospects had called from
him; and he did not know how to face the Fanshawes and all the rest of
the parish, and allow that John had thrown all his advantages away. He
had been struggling, as a weak hot-tempered man is apt to struggle,
against the inevitable, that whole day: he had been endeavouring to
drive John back to a sense of his duty, to Camelford and the bank. "If
you had taken my advice you never would have gone into it," he cried;
"but now that the sacrifice has been made, to draw back! I have no
patience with such folly." John had not said a word in self-defence.
He said, "I have been a fool; it is quite true, mother," when Mrs
Mitford tried to defend him: and the day had been wretched enough to
all concerned. What was he going to do with himself now he had come
home? Did he think he could be kept in idleness at his time of life?
Such were the galling questions that had been put to John all day long.
He had made little answer, and his mother believed he was as much in
the dark as she was herself. And naturally, though she could not have
taunted her boy as her husband did, still the question was to her, as
to him, a very serious one. He could not live at home doing nothing. He
had thrown away one hope for the future, and now another; and what was
he to do?
"A thing may be very imperfect, very unsatisfactory, not much good that
one can see; and yet it may be the best thing in the world."
This was what John said, breaking the stillness after a long interval;
and he paused in his walk and stood still in the shaded part of the
room, behind his mother's chair.
"I don't know what you mean, my dear," said Mrs Mitford. "How can a
thing be unsatisfactory and yet the best thing in the world? And oh, my
own boy, what has that to do with you and me?"
"It has a great deal to do with you and me," he said, behind her chair.
"I could not answer my father's questions. It was hard enough to listen
to them and keep my patience; but, mother, dear, I can't shut my heart
to you. I am not going to live upon you in idleness. I am going back to
the work you have trained me for all my life."
"John!" said his mother, with a bewildered cry of joy. She held out
her arms to him, and he came and knelt down by her, and they held each
other close. "Oh my boy, my boy, my son!" she murmured over him, as she
had murmured over his cradle. She could find no other words; but as
for John, his decision was no joy to him. He had nothing to say to add
to the importance of the moment. Thus it must be, and there was a sense
of repose in his mind now that he had decided. It was not so great a
work, perhaps, as she thought; but still it was the best in the world;
and whether hopefully or sadly, what did it matter? a man could do his
duty in it. There was no more to be said.
"But oh, John," said Mrs Mitford, raising her head at last with tears
of mingled joy and pain in her eyes, "that will make but little
difference now, so far as this world is concerned. It will not make
your poor papa less angry, as it would have done three months ago. Mr
Fanshawe has promised the living to his nephew. It is a family living,
you know; and it was only because they were so fond of us--I mean of
your papa--that you were to have it; and I was so happy always to
think you would take up our work. My dear boy! if you are thinking of
Fanshawe, that is all over now."
"So much the better, mother," said John; "I was not thinking of
Fanshawe. I will take a curacy in a town where there is plenty of work
to do, and fight the devil if I can. People say there is no devil; but
I think I know better. We can fight him still, please God!"
"God bless my boy! God bless my dearest boy!" cried the mother, with a
poignant thrill of delight and disappointment. It was the desire of her
heart that was being given to her; but yet so strangely transmogrified,
so warped out of the fashion in which she had prayed for it, that it
was hard to tell whether it was most pain or joy. And it was after this
moment of agitation that her hands had fallen into her lap, though she
had a great deal of work to do; and that John had resumed his walk with
a relieved mind on the dark side of the room. He was relieved, and yet
his heart was so heavy that it made his step heavy too. It sounded like
the meditative pace of some old man burdened with care, instead of the
elastic step of youth.
And then, as silence, unbroken except by that step, came over them
again, there fell into the quiet a sudden little sharp sound like the
click of a latch. Mrs Mitford only heard it, and pricked up her ears
with the quick alarm of a dweller in the country. "I wonder if the
garden-gate is locked," she said, softly; "it ought to be locked, now
the nights are so dark."
John made no answer, he had not even remarked the sound; but his mother
held her breath and listened with some uneasiness. Nothing followed for
many minutes. Stillness as perfect as the darkness seemed to settle
outside; but yet what was that?--a step upon the gravel? Mrs Mitford
gave a nervous start, and then commanded herself. She had so often
thought she heard steps on the gravel. "I think the window should
be shut--it grows so chilly," she went on; but she spoke very low,
and still John took no notice. His step went on and on like a kind
of chorus. Even his mother, although so near him, saw but a shadowy
something walking up and down, and did not derive all the comfort she
might have done from his presence. She would have risen to close the
window herself, but a certain terror prevented her; and he took no
notice, being absorbed in his own thoughts.
At last Mrs Mitford's nervousness got the better of her. She put out
her hand and caught him as he passed behind her chair. "John," she
said, in a whisper, "listen. I think I hear some one in the garden.
Hark! I am sure that was a step on the path."
"It is only fancy, mother," said John.
"But hush, hark!" she said, holding him fast; and he stood behind her
chair, a mere shadow, and they listened, holding their breath. Silence,
rustling, creeping, full of secret stirs and movements; and then
there was a louder rustle, and a little trembling frightened voice,
like a lost child, cried "Mamma!" The voice seemed to come out of the
rose-bushes close to the window, plaintive, complaining, feeble, like a
voice in a dream--"Mamma!"
"Oh, who is that?" cried Mrs Mitford, all trembling. "Is it a spirit?
Who is it that calls me mamma?"
John stood still, spellbound. He could not move, nor believe his ears.
And then his mother rose up, though she could scarcely stand. "Nobody
calls me mamma but one," she cried; "only Kate! Oh my good Lord,
something has happened to Kate!"
And then, all at once, the darkness stirred, and a little black figure
formed itself out of the night, and glided into the window. Was it
a ghost? was it she, killed by unkindness, come to pay them a visit
on her way to heaven? The mother and son thought so for one dreadful
moment. Her face was as pale as death; her dress all black as the night
out of which she came. Mrs Mitford gave a wild shriek, of which she was
not sensible, and fell back on her son, who held her, and gazed and
gasped. But Kate did not think it strange. It was natural his mother
should shrink from her, she thought, and she did not see John in the
shadow. She was not thinking of John then. She came in with her little
soft quiet step, and threw herself down at Mrs Mitford's knee.
"Yes, it is me," she said; "it is Kate. Mamma, save me; oh take me
in and save me! I have nobody to come to but you. They want me to be
untrue to my John," she cried, suddenly, with a shrill break in her
voice; "and he has deserted me. Oh, mamma, whom can I come to but you?"
John dropped his mother into her chair. He made one stride round the
table, and clutched at the kneeling creature. He took her up in his
arms like a child, and turned her wan face to him, holding it in his
hand. He was almost rough with her in the anguish of his eagerness.
"It is Kate," he said, with an unintelligible cry, and kissed her, and
burst out weeping with a great sound, which seemed to fill the whole
house. "It is Kate!" raining down kisses upon her hair and her upturned
face; and so stood with her little figure lifted in his arms, mad with
the wonder and the misery and the joy--till suddenly the pale little
face drooped unconscious, and she hung a dead weight on his arm. "I
have killed her now," he cried out, with a sharp voice of anguish, and
stayed his kisses and sobs to look at her lying motionless upon his
breast.
"It is nothing; she has fainted," cried Mrs Mitford, who had been
slowly coming to herself, and whom this emergency fully roused. "Lay
her down on the sofa; bring me some water; ring the bell. Oh my poor
child! how she must have suffered! how pale she is! Don't touch her,
John; let her lie still. Oh Kate, call me mamma again, my darling!
Softly, softly; take off her cloak. Water, Lizzie; and keep quiet. Now
she will soon come to herself."
But it was some time before Kate came to herself; and the whole house
was roused by the news which Lizzie, between the production of two
bottles of water, flashed into the kitchen. Dr Mitford came and looked
at her as she lay, pale and motionless as if she were dead, on the
sofa. He walked round it, and took off his spectacles, and looked upon
the strange scene with a puckered and careful brow. "Have you sent for
the doctor? Have you loosed her stays?" he asked his wife. "They say
it is often because of tight stays;" and then he shook his head at the
sight. Mrs Mitford was kneeling by the side of the sofa, bathing Kate's
forehead. And John stood at the foot, watching with an anxiety which
was uncalled for, and out of all proportion to so common an accident.
But how was he to tell, in the great excitement of that wonderful
moment, that she was only fainting and not dead?
By-and-by, slowly and feebly, Kate opened her eyes. "Yes," she said,
and at the first whisper of her voice they all crowded round with
eager ears: "yes; I am not dead, papa, though I think I ought to have
been dead! Was it the horse that took fright? Did it happen just now?
I thought it was long ago. But here she is putting the water on my
forehead, and there are his eyes looking at me--such kind eyes! And
she calls him her John. But I feel as if he were my John too. Is this
now, or is it long ago? Mamma!"
"My darling!" said Mrs Mitford, with her lips on Kate's cheek.
"Are you my mamma? I can't remember. Or was it just to-day it all
happened, and he saved me and you took me in? Ah, no! there is Dr
Mitford, and Lizzie, and I have only been dreaming or something; for if
it was the first day I should not have known who they were. And I can
sit up," said Kate, making a feeble effort to raise herself. She got
half up on her elbow, and looked round upon them all with a face like
death, and the feeblest of smiles. And then she sank back, and said
pettishly, "John need not stand there as if it were that first day. If
I were he, and there was somebody lying here who had been very unkind
to me, I would come and give her a kiss, and say 'I am not angry,
Kate.'"
John was on his knees by the sofa before she had done speaking; and
everybody in the room wept except Dr Mitford, who shook his head and
went as far as the mantelpiece, where he stood and warmed himself, and
could not but mark how foolish most people were: but still even he was
too curious to go back to his study and his work, which would have been
the most reasonable thing to do.
The doctor came presently, having been summoned in haste, and decided
that Kate must be put to bed and kept very quiet. She was lying with
her arm round John's neck in the candour of reconciliation, terribly
pale, but quite at ease. "May I have my old room?" she said, "and will
you stay with me, mamma? I have not brought a thing, not so much as a
pocket-handkerchief." Kate was Kate again, notwithstanding the dreadful
ordeal through which she had passed.
When the unlooked-for visitor had been installed again, an invalid, in
the room from which she had sallied forth to invade and transmogrify
life at Fanshawe, Mrs Mitford was called outside to speak to John. She
found him with his hat in his hand, ready to go out. "I must go to
Fernwood instantly," he said; "I shall be in time for the last train
from Camelford. Her father must know without delay."
"Do you suppose he does not know?" cried Mrs Mitford. Such an idea had
not occurred to her dutiful mind. "But, my dear, surely to-morrow will
do."
"I don't think I should lose an hour in letting him know she is in
safety. Mother, you will not leave her; you will be very, very good to
her--for my sake."
"Oh, my dear, and for her own too," said Mrs Mitford, with tears.
"Listen, she is calling me. She cannot bear me out of her sight."
Upon which John took his mother in his arms, and kissed her as he had
not done for long, and hurried out with tears in his eyes, and a heart
as light as a feather. How the whole world had changed! He looked up
at the light in her window as he sped along towards the station, and
his whole being melted in a flood of tenderness. She was not a lady of
romance--not a peerless princess above all soil of human weakness--but
one that did wrong and was sorry, and would do wrong again, perhaps,
and yet win a hundred tender pardons. Her very sin against him was
only another sweetness. But for that she would never have come to him,
never have thrown herself thus upon his love. John skimmed along the
dark road which Kate had trod so dolefully, scarcely feeling that he
touched the ground. He was too happy even to think. It seemed to be
only about two minutes till he was in Camelford, the lights flashing
past him through the night. He went across the station hastily towards
the platform, which was swarming with the crowd that always made a rush
for the last train. The London train, which was the one that passed
Fanshawe, left in about a quarter of an hour, and John was aware that
it would be impossible for him to get back that night. But midway
between the two, among the porters and the luggage, and all the prosaic
details of the place, he ran against some one who called him sharply by
his name. And then his shoulder was clutched and himself brought to a
sudden standstill. It was Mr Crediton in search of Kate.
"Where are you going?" he asked, imperiously. But John had begun to
tell his tale without waiting to be questioned. "I am on my way to
Fernwood," he said, "to let you know. Mr Crediton, Kate is with my
mother." And then there was a pause, and the two looked into each
other's faces. They confronted each other in the midst of the most
ordinary prose of life, one the victor, the other the vanquished, with
supreme triumph on one side and mortification on the other. John could
afford to be friendly and humble, being the conqueror, but Mr Crediton
in the darkness set his teeth.
"Well," he said, with a long-drawn breath, "things being as they are,
perhaps on the whole that is best."
"Mr Crediton," said John, "you cannot expect me to say I am sorry. God
knows how happy and proud I am; but yet I can understand how you should
be reluctant to give her to me----"
"Reluctant!" cried her father, between his set teeth; and then he
stopped short, and made a supreme effort. "What are you going to do?"
he said. "Your train is just starting--unless I can offer you a bed for
the night."
"Will not you come to Fanshawe with me?"
"It is useless now. I am glad she is safe--that was all I wanted to
know," said Kate's father, with a thrill of pain in his voice. He stood
still a moment longer, gazing blankly at John without seeing him, and
then added, "Of course after this there is nothing more to be said."
"I think not," said John, humbly. It is so easy to be humble when one
has the victory. He looked wistfully at his adversary, longing to say
something friendly, something comforting. "There is nothing in the
world I would not do for her happiness," he added. "I would have given
her up; but I thank God that is over now."
"Of course it is over," said Mr Crediton. "If you choose to return to
the bank different arrangements shall be made. Of course I have nothing
for it but to acquiesce now;" and he turned away his head and stood
mute, in an attitude which went to John's heart.
"I am sorry you don't like me," he said, involuntarily; "but when you
see her happy--as please God she shall be happy----"
"That will do," said Mr Crediton, waving his hand; "you will lose your
train--good-night." He turned and moved a few steps away and then came
back again. "If your mother will be so good as to bring up my child to
me as soon as she is able--to-morrow if she is able--I shall be much
obliged to her; and in the morning, if you like, I shall be glad to see
you at the bank."
"I will come," said John; and then he asked more humbly than ever,
"Will you send no message to Kate?"
"Message! what message could I send her? I have been the most indulgent
of fathers, and she deceives me. I have kept her as the apple of my
eye, and she runs away from me to you. What does she know of you that
she should put you before me?" cried the father, with sudden passion:
and then he stopped again with that sense of the vanity and uselessness
of all passion which comes natural to a man of the world. "Tell her I
am glad she has taken no harm, and that I expect her to be at home at
Fernwood when I return to-morrow," he added, in his hardest, calmest
voice: "good-night."
If there had been anybody there strict to interpret the bye-laws of
the railway company, no doubt John Mitford would have suffered for
it--for he made a spring into the train when it was fairly off, aided
and abetted by a Fanshawe guard, who shouted "Here you are, sir!"
in defiance of all by-laws. Mr Crediton went back to his house in
Camelford, to the great amazement of the housekeeper, and sat half
through the night thinking it over, trying to make the best of it.
There was nothing further to be said. From the moment when Kate's
little note was delivered to him by the frightened Parsons before
dinner, he had felt that the matter was settled and could not be
reopened. "Papa, he has not given me up, and I will not give him up,
and my heart is broken, and I am going to Mrs Mitford at Fanshawe,"
was what Kate said. It had been supposed by Fred Huntley and himself
that her failure at five o'clock was the result of her headache, or of
a little perversity, and it was not till just before dinner that the
note was found on her dressing-table. Mr Crediton sat at the foot of
his table and made-believe to eat his dinner, and explained that Kate
had a bad headache; and as soon as the ladies had left the table made
some excuse of urgent business and hastened to Camelford. He had handed
the note to Fred first, who received it after the first shock as became
a man of the world. "I will stay and do what I can to amuse the people
to-night," he said, "and to-morrow morning I will go. Thanks for all
you would have done for me. Perhaps we pressed her too hard at the
last."
"You are a good fellow, Fred," said Mr Crediton; "God bless you! I can
never forget how well you have behaved. You can scarcely feel it more
than I do," he added, with something rising in his throat. Huntley
wrung his hand, but shook his head a little and did not speak. They
were in the wrong, and Fred had been almost a traitor; but yet they
had their feelings too, and he felt it more than the father did--who
had not lost her, and would come round and forgive--more than anybody
could have supposed Fred Huntley would feel anything. The people in the
drawing-room said to each other how pale he was. "Is it all because
Kate has a headache?" they asked each other; but he did his best to
replace the missing host, and went off in the morning without saying a
word to anybody. "I am not much of a good fellow," he said to himself
bitterly, "but still I am not such a cad as to shriek out when I am
beaten; and I am beaten, worse luck!" Thus Fred Huntley disappeared
and was seen no more.
Next morning John was allowed to go in under his mother's charge to
Kate's room, where she sat up in her bed, still pale, but growing red
as a rose at the sight of him, wrapt in Mrs Mitford's dressing-gown.
The kind woman had a little doubt whether it was quite right; but as
she was present every moment of the time, and heard every word they
said, there could not be any great harm done: and it was right that she
should know all that her father had said. "Must I go back to-day? am I
able?" she said, with supplication in her eyes, looking at Mrs Mitford;
but soon was quite diverted from that subject by hearing of John's
appointment for that morning to meet her father at the bank.
"I wonder what different arrangements he will make," she said, looking
up in her lover's face, and pressing in her little hand the big fingers
which held hers. Her face grew solemn gazing up at him. If she could
but have gone with him, stood by him, made sure that there would be
nothing to vex him. Kate had been down to the lowest depths last
night, and had sought help, and knew herself incapable of giving it;
but in the morning Kate was a different woman, and longed to interfere
and defend her own, and take into her hands once more the guidance of
affairs.
The mother and the son looked at each other, and then Mrs Mitford
spoke. "My dear," she said, faltering, "I hope you will not be much
disappointed. You can see yourself that the other way did not bring a
blessing. Kate, before you came last night, John had made up his mind
to be a clergyman after all."
As for John, he took both her hands in his and watched with unspeakable
anxiety the expression of her face. But Kate drew her hands away and
listened, not looking at him,--not taking in at first, he thought, the
meaning of what was said. Then all at once she sat upright and threw
her arms round his neck. I am not sure that she ought to have been so
demonstrative; but she was. "I am so glad!" she cried--"I am so glad!
Oh, you dear old John, that will set everything right!"
"But, Kate," remonstrated Mrs Mitford, utterly bewildered by this
inconsistency, "you used to say----"
"Mamma," said Kate, solemnly, pushing her lover away from her, "I know
I was meant, from the first moment I was born, to be a clergyman's
wife."
To this solemn protestation what could anybody reply?
And the curious fact was that it turned out quite true. It was her
natural business in this world to manage everybody--the parish and the
poor, and a whole little kingdom; and it was something utterly new
and delightful, and gave full scope for all her powers. Mr Crediton
resisted, as was natural, and the Fanshawes held out a little about
the nephew to whom they had promised the living; and John had his
own difficulties, of which, after all this, he spoke but little: but
everything came right in the end. My own belief is that a curacy in a
town would have been a great deal better for him to begin with, and
that was his own opinion; but nobody else was of the same mind: and
even in the country, in the village, there is scope enough to show,
as John said, that though the work may be sadly imperfect, sadly
unsuccessful and unsatisfactory, it was still the best that is to be
had in this imperfect world.
And I hope they will be very happy, now all their troubles (as people
say) are over. But it is very hard to make any prediction on such
a subject, and one cannot help feeling as Mr Crediton felt, and as
Kate herself even was so candid as to allow, that but for that very
confusing condition called Love, which puts out so many calculations,
Fred Huntley would have been a much more suitable match for her after
all.
THE END.