MIME-Version: 1.0 Content-Type: multipart/related; boundary="----=_NextPart_01D08B43.FC676A90" This document is a Single File Web Page, also known as a Web Archive file. If you are seeing this message, your browser or editor doesn't support Web Archive files. Please download a browser that supports Web Archive, such as Windows® Internet Explorer®. ------=_NextPart_01D08B43.FC676A90 Content-Location: file:///C:/8EC3208E/ALaodicean.htm Content-Transfer-Encoding: quoted-printable Content-Type: text/html; charset="us-ascii"
A Laodicean
By
Thomas Hardy
Contents
PREFACE. =
BOOK
THE FIRST. GEORGE SOMERSET.
I. =
II. =
III. =
IV. =
V. =
VI. =
VII. =
VIII. =
IX. =
X. =
XI. =
XII. =
XIII. =
XIV. =
XV. =
BOOK
THE SECOND. DARE AND HAVILL.
I. =
II. =
III. =
IV. =
V. =
VI. =
VII. =
I. =
II. =
III. =
IV. =
V. =
VI. =
VII. =
VIII. =
IX. =
X. =
XI. =
BOOK
THE FOURTH. SOMERSET, DARE AND DE STANCY.
I. =
II. =
III. =
IV. =
V. =
BOOK
THE FIFTH. DE STANCY AND PAULA.
I. =
II. =
III. =
IV. =
V. =
VI. =
VII. =
VIII. =
IX. =
X. =
XI. =
XII. =
XIII. =
XIV. =
I. =
II. =
III. =
IV. =
V. =
The changing of the old order in country manors
and mansions may be slow or sudden, may have many issues romantic or otherw=
ise,
its romantic issues being not necessarily restricted to a change back to the
original order; though this admissible instance appears to have been the on=
ly romance
formerly recognized by novelists as possible in the case. Whether the follo=
wing
production be a picture of other possibilities or not, its incidents may be
taken to be fairly well supported by evidence every day forthcoming in most
counties.
The writing of the tale was rendered memorable=
to
two persons, at least, by a tedious illness of five months that laid hold of
the author soon after the story was begun in a well-known magazine; during
which period the narrative had to be strenuously continued by dictation to =
a predetermined
cheerful ending.
As some of these novels of Wessex life address
themselves more especially to readers into whose souls the iron has entered,
and whose years have less pleasure in them now than heretofore, so "A
Laodicean" may perhaps help to while away an idle afternoon of the
comfortable ones whose lines have fallen to them in pleasant places; above =
all,
of that large and happy section of the reading public which has not yet rea=
ched
ripeness of years; those to whom marriage is the pilgrim's Eternal City, and
not a milestone on the way. T.H.
The sun blazed down and down, till it was with=
in
half-an-hour of its setting; but the sketcher still lingered at his occupat=
ion
of measuring and copying the chevroned doorway--a bold and quaint example o=
f a transitional
style of architecture, which formed the tower entrance to an English village
church. The graveyard being quite open on its western side, the tweed-clad
figure of the young draughtsman, and the tall mass of antique masonry which
rose above him to a battlemented parapet, were fired to a great brightness =
by
the solar rays, that crossed the neighbouring mead like a warp of gold thre=
ads,
in whose mazes groups of equally lustrous gnats danced and wailed incessant=
ly.
He was so absorbed in his pursuit that he did =
not
mark the brilliant chromatic effect of which he composed the central featur=
e,
till it was brought home to his intelligence by the warmth of the moulded
stonework under his touch when measuring; which led him at length to turn h=
is
head and gaze on its cause.
There are few in whom the sight of a sunset do=
es
not beget as much meditative melancholy as contemplative pleasure, the human
decline and death that it illustrates being too obvious to escape the notic=
e of
the simplest observer. The sketcher, as if he had been brought to this refl=
ection
many hundreds of times before by the same spectacle, showed that he did not
wish to pursue it just now, by turning away his face after a few moments, to
resume his architectural studies.
He took his measurements carefully, and as if =
he
reverenced the old workers whose trick he was endeavouring to acquire six
hundred years after the original performance had ceased and the performers
passed into the unseen. By means of a strip of lead called a leaden tape, w=
hich
he pressed around and into the fillets and hollows with his finger and thum=
b,
he transferred the exact contour of each moulding to his drawing, that lay =
on a
sketching-stool a few feet distant; where were also a sketching-block, a sm=
all
T-square, a bow-pencil, and other mathematical instruments. When he had mar=
ked
down the line thus fixed, he returned to the doorway to copy another as bef=
ore.
It being the month of August, when the pale fa=
ce
of the townsman and the stranger is to be seen among the brown skins of
remotest uplanders, not only in England, but throughout the temperate zone,=
few
of the homeward-bound labourers paused to notice him further than by a mome=
ntary
turn of the head. They had beheld such gentlemen before, not exactly measur=
ing
the church so accurately as this one seemed to be doing, but painting it fr=
om a
distance, or at least walking round the mouldy pile. At the same time the
present visitor, even exteriorly, was not altogether commonplace. His featu=
res
were good, his eyes of the dark deep sort called eloquent by the sex that o=
ught
to know, and with that ray of light in them which announces a heart suscept=
ible
to beauty of all kinds,--in woman, in art, and in inanimate nature. Though =
he would
have been broadly characterized as a young man, his face bore contradictory
testimonies to his precise age. This was conceivably owing to a too dominant
speculative activity in him, which, while it had preserved the emotional si=
de
of his constitution, and with it the significant flexuousness of mouth and
chin, had played upon his forehead and temples till, at weary moments, they
exhibited some traces of being over-exercised. A youthfulness about the mob=
ile
features, a mature forehead--though not exactly what the world has been
familiar with in past ages--is now growing common; and with the advance of
juvenile introspection it probably must grow commoner still. Briefly, he had
more of the beauty--if beauty it ought to be called--of the future human ty=
pe than
of the past; but not so much as to make him other than a nice young man.
His build was somewhat slender and tall; his
complexion, though a little browned by recent exposure, was that of a man w=
ho
spent much of his time indoors. Of beard he had but small show, though he w=
as
as innocent as a Nazarite of the use of the razor; but he possessed a moust=
ache
all-sufficient to hide the subtleties of his mouth, which could thus be tre=
mulous
at tender moments without provoking inconvenient criticism.
Owing to his situation on high ground, open to=
the
west, he remained enveloped in the lingering aureate haze till a time when =
the
eastern part of the churchyard was in obscurity, and damp with rising dew. =
When
it was too dark to sketch further he packed up his drawing, and, beckoning =
to a
lad who had been idling by the gate, directed him to carry the stool and
implements to a roadside inn which he named, lying a mile or two ahead. The
draughtsman leisurely followed the lad out of the churchyard, and along a l=
ane
in the direction signified.
The spectacle of a summer traveller from London
sketching mediaeval details in these neo-Pagan days, when a lull has come o=
ver
the study of English Gothic architecture, through a re-awakening to the
art-forms of times that more nearly neighbour our own, is accounted for by =
the
fact that George Somerset, son of the Academician of that name, was a man of
independent tastes and excursive instincts, who unconsciously, and perhaps
unhappily, took greater pleasure in floating in lonely currents of thought =
than
with the general tide of opinion. When quite a lad, in the days of the Fren=
ch
Gothic mania which immediately succeeded to the great English-pointed reviv=
al
under Britton, Pugin, Rickman, Scott, and other mediaevalists, he had crept
away from the fashion to admire what was good in Palladian and Renaissance.=
As
soon as Jacobean, Queen Anne, and kindred accretions of decayed styles bega=
n to
be popular, he purchased such old-school works as Revett and Stuart, Chambe=
rs,
and the rest, and worked diligently at the Five Orders; till quite bewilder=
ed on
the question of style, he concluded that all styles were extinct, and with =
them
all architecture as a living art. Somerset was not old enough at that time =
to
know that, in practice, art had at all times been as full of shifts and
compromises as every other mundane thing; that ideal perfection was never
achieved by Greek, Goth, or Hebrew Jew, and never would be; and thus he was
thrown into a mood of disgust with his profession, from which mood he was o=
nly
delivered by recklessly abandoning these studies and indulging in an old
enthusiasm for poetical literature. For two whole years he did nothing but
write verse in every conceivable metre, and on every conceivable subject, f=
rom
Wordsworthian sonnets on the singing of his tea-kettle to epic fragments on=
the
Fall of Empires. His discovery at the age of five-and-twenty that these ins=
pired
works were not jumped at by the publishers with all the eagerness they
deserved, coincided in point of time with a severe hint from his father that
unless he went on with his legitimate profession he might have to look
elsewhere than at home for an allowance. Mr. Somerset junior then awoke to
realities, became intently practical, rushed back to his dusty drawing-boar=
ds,
and worked up the styles anew, with a view of regularly starting in practic=
e on
the first day of the following January.
It is an old story, and perhaps only deserves =
the
light tone in which the soaring of a young man into the empyrean, and his
descent again, is always narrated. But as has often been said, the light and
the truth may be on the side of the dreamer: a far wider view than the wise
ones have may be his at that recalcitrant time, and his reduction to common=
measure
be nothing less than a tragic event. The operation called lunging, in which=
a
haltered colt is made to trot round and round a horsebreaker who holds the
rope, till the beholder grows dizzy in looking at them, is a very unhappy o=
ne
for the animal concerned. During its progress the colt springs upward, acro=
ss
the circle, stops, flies over the turf with the velocity of a bird, and
indulges in all sorts of graceful antics; but he always ends in one way--th=
anks
to the knotted whipcord--in a level trot round the lunger with the regulari=
ty
of a horizontal wheel, and in the loss for ever to his character of the bold
contours which the fine hand of Nature gave it. Yet the process is consider=
ed
to be the making of him.
Whether Somerset became permanently made under=
the
action of the inevitable lunge, or whether he lapsed into mere dabbling with
the artistic side of his profession only, it would be premature to say; but=
at
any rate it was his contrite return to architecture as a calling that sent =
him
on the sketching excursion under notice. Feeling that something still was
wanting to round off his knowledge before he could take his professional li=
ne
with confidence, he was led to remember that his own native Gothic was the =
one
form of design that he had totally neglected from the beginning, through its
having greeted him with wearisome iteration at the opening of his career. N=
ow
it had again returned to silence; indeed--such is the surprising instabilit=
y of
art 'principles' as they are facetiously called--it was just as likely as n=
ot
to sink into the neglect and oblivion which had been its lot in Georgian ti=
mes.
This accident of being out of vogue lent English Gothic an additional charm=
to
one of his proclivities; and away he went to make it the business of a summ=
er
circuit in the west.
The quiet time of evening, the secluded
neighbourhood, the unusually gorgeous liveries of the clouds packed in a pi=
le
over that quarter of the heavens in which the sun had disappeared, were suc=
h as
to make a traveller loiter on his walk. Coming to a stile, Somerset mounted=
himself
on the top bar, to imbibe the spirit of the scene and hour. The evening was=
so
still that every trifling sound could be heard for miles. There was the rat=
tle
of a returning waggon, mixed with the smacks of the waggoner's whip: the te=
am
must have been at least three miles off. From far over the hill came the fa=
int
periodic yell of kennelled hounds; while from the nearest village resounded=
the
voices of boys at play in the twilight. Then a powerful clock struck the ho=
ur;
it was not from the direction of the church, but rather from the wood behind
him; and he thought it must be the clock of some mansion that way.
But the mind of man cannot always be forced to
take up subjects by the pressure of their material presence, and Somerset's
thoughts were often, to his great loss, apt to be even more than common tru=
ants
from the tones and images that met his outer senses on walks and rides. He
would sometimes go quietly through the queerest, gayest, most extraordinary=
town
in Europe, and let it alone, provided it did not meddle with him by its
beggars, beauties, innkeepers, police, coachmen, mongrels, bad smells, and =
such
like obstructions. This feat of questionable utility he began performing no=
w.
Sitting on the three-inch ash rail that had been peeled and polished like g=
lass
by the rubbings of all the small-clothes in the parish, he forgot the time,=
the
place, forgot that it was August--in short, everything of the present
altogether. His mind flew back to his past life, and deplored the waste of =
time
that had resulted from his not having been able to make up his mind which of
the many fashions of art that were coming and going in kaleidoscopic change=
was
the true point of departure from himself. He had suffered from the modern
malady of unlimited appreciativeness as much as any living man of his own a=
ge.
Dozens of his fellows in years and experience, who had never thought specia=
lly
of the matter, but had blunderingly applied themselves to whatever form of =
art
confronted them at the moment of their making a move, were by this time
acquiring renown as new lights; while he was still unknown. He wished that =
some
accident could have hemmed in his eyes between inexorable blinkers, and sped
him on in a channel ever so worn.
Thus balanced between believing and not believ=
ing
in his own future, he was recalled to the scene without by hearing the note=
s of
a familiar hymn, rising in subdued harmonies from a valley below. He listen=
ed
more heedfully. It was his old friend the 'New Sabbath,' which he had never=
once
heard since the lisping days of childhood, and whose existence, much as it =
had
then been to him, he had till this moment quite forgotten. Where the 'New
Sabbath' had kept itself all these years--why that sound and hearty melody =
had
disappeared from all the cathedrals, parish churches, minsters and
chapels-of-ease that he had been acquainted with during his apprenticeship =
to
life, and until his ways had become irregular and uncongregational--he could
not, at first, say. But then he recollected that the tune appertained to the
old west-gallery period of church-music, anterior to the great choral refor=
mation
and the rule of Monk--that old time when the repetition of a word, or half-=
line
of a verse, was not considered a disgrace to an ecclesiastical choir.
Willing to be interested in anything which wou=
ld
keep him out-of-doors, Somerset dismounted from the stile and descended the
hill before him, to learn whence the singing proceeded.
He found that it had its origin in a building
standing alone in a field; and though the evening was not yet dark without,
lights shone from the windows. In a few moments Somerset stood before the e=
difice.
Being just then en rapport with ecclesiasticism by reason of his recent
occupation, he could not help murmuring, 'Shade of Pugin, what a monstrosit=
y!'
Perhaps this exclamation (rather out of date s=
ince
the discovery that Pugin himself often nodded amazingly) would not have been
indulged in by Somerset but for his new architectural resolves, which cause=
d professional
opinions to advance themselves officiously to his lips whenever occasion
offered. The building was, in short, a recently-erected chapel of red brick,
with pseudo-classic ornamentation, and the white regular joints of mortar c=
ould
be seen streaking its surface in geometrical oppressiveness from top to bot=
tom.
The roof was of blue slate, clean as a table, and unbroken from gable to ga=
ble;
the windows were glazed with sheets of plate glass, a temporary iron stovep=
ipe
passing out near one of these, and running up to the height of the ridge, w=
here
it was finished by a covering like a parachute. Walking round to the end, he
perceived an oblong white stone let into the wall just above the plinth, on
which was inscribed in deep letters:--
=
Erected 187-,
=
AT THE SOLE EXPENSE OF
=
JOHN POWER, ESQ., M.P.
The 'New Sabbath' still proceeded line by line,
with all the emotional swells and cadences that had of old characterized the
tune: and the body of vocal harmony that it evoked implied a large congrega=
tion
within, to whom it was plainly as familiar as it had been to church-goers o=
f a
past generation. With a whimsical sense of regret at the secession of his o=
nce
favourite air Somerset moved away, and would have quite withdrawn from the
field had he not at that moment observed two young men with pitchers of wat=
er
coming up from a stream hard by, and hastening with their burdens into the
chapel vestry by a side door. Almost as soon as they had entered they emerg=
ed
again with empty pitchers, and proceeded to the stream to fill them as befo=
re,
an operation which they repeated several times. Somerset went forward to the
stream, and waited till the young men came out again.
'You are carrying in a great deal of water,' he
said, as each dipped his pitcher.
One of the young men modestly replied, 'Yes: we
filled the cistern this morning; but it leaks, and requires a few pitcherfu=
ls
more.'
'Why do you do it?'
'There is to be a baptism, sir.'
Somerset was not sufficiently interested to
develop a further conversation, and observing them in silence till they had
again vanished into the building, he went on his way. Reaching the brow of =
the
hill he stopped and looked back. The chapel was still in view, and the shad=
es of
night having deepened, the lights shone from the windows yet more brightly =
than
before. A few steps further would hide them and the edifice, and all that
belonged to it from his sight, possibly for ever. There was something in the
thought which led him to linger. The chapel had neither beauty, quaintness,=
nor
congeniality to recommend it: the dissimilitude between the new utilitarian=
ism
of the place and the scenes of venerable Gothic art which had occupied his
daylight hours could not well be exceeded. But Somerset, as has been said, =
was
an instrument of no narrow gamut: he had a key for other touches than the
purely aesthetic, even on such an excursion as this. His mind was arrested =
by the
intense and busy energy which must needs belong to an assembly that required
such a glare of light to do its religion by; in the heaving of that tune th=
ere
was an earnestness which made him thoughtful, and the shine of those window=
s he
had characterized as ugly reminded him of the shining of the good deed in a
naughty world. The chapel and its shabby plot of ground, from which the her=
bage
was all trodden away by busy feet, had a living human interest that the
numerous minsters and churches knee-deep in fresh green grass, visited by h=
im
during the foregoing week, had often lacked. Moreover, there was going to b=
e a baptism:
that meant the immersion of a grown-up person; and he had been told that
Baptists were serious people and that the scene was most impressive. What
manner of man would it be who on an ordinary plodding and bustling evening =
of
the nineteenth century could single himself out as one different from the r=
est
of the inhabitants, banish all shyness, and come forward to undergo such a
trying ceremony? Who was he that had pondered, gone into solitudes, wrestled
with himself, worked up his courage and said, I will do this, though few el=
se
will, for I believe it to be my duty?
Whether on account of these thoughts, or from =
the
circumstance that he had been alone amongst the tombs all day without commu=
nion
with his kind, he could not tell in after years (when he had good reason to
think of the subject); but so it was that Somerset went back, and again sto=
od under
the chapel-wall.
Instead of entering he passed round to where t=
he
stove-chimney came through the bricks, and holding on to the iron stay he p=
ut
his toes on the plinth and looked in at the window. The building was quite =
full
of people belonging to that vast majority of society who are denied the art=
of
articulating their higher emotions, and crave dumbly for a fugleman--respec=
tably
dressed working people, whose faces and forms were worn and contorted by ye=
ars
of dreary toil. On a platform at the end of the chapel a haggard man of more
than middle age, with grey whiskers ascetically cut back from the fore part=
of
his face so far as to be almost banished from the countenance, stood readin=
g a
chapter. Between the minister and the congregation was an open space, and in
the floor of this was sunk a tank full of water, which just made its surface
visible above the blackness of its depths by reflecting the lights overhead=
.
Somerset endeavoured to discover which one amo=
ng
the assemblage was to be the subject of the ceremony. But nobody appeared t=
here
who was at all out of the region of commonplace. The people were all quiet =
and
settled; yet he could discern on their faces something more than attention,=
though
it was less than excitement: perhaps it was expectation. And as if to bear =
out
his surmise he heard at that moment the noise of wheels behind him.
His gaze into the lighted chapel made what had
been an evening scene when he looked away from the landscape night itself on
looking back; but he could see enough to discover that a brougham had drive=
n up
to the side-door used by the young water-bearers, and that a lady in white-=
and-black
half-mourning was in the act of alighting, followed by what appeared to be a
waiting-woman carrying wraps. They entered the vestry-room of the chapel, a=
nd the
door was shut. The service went on as before till at a certain moment the d=
oor
between vestry and chapel was opened, when a woman came out clothed in an a=
mple
robe of flowing white, which descended to her feet. Somerset was unfortunat=
e in
his position; he could not see her face, but her gait suggested at once that
she was the lady who had arrived just before. She was rather tall than othe=
rwise,
and the contour of her head and shoulders denoted a girl in the heyday of y=
outh
and activity. His imagination, stimulated by this beginning, set about fill=
ing
in the meagre outline with most attractive details.
She stood upon the brink of the pool, and the
minister descended the steps at its edge till the soles of his shoes were
moistened with the water. He turned to the young candidate, but she did not
follow him: instead of doing so she remained rigid as a stone. He stretched=
out
his hand, but she still showed reluctance, till, with some embarrassment, h=
e went
back, and spoke softly in her ear.
She approached the edge, looked into the water,
and turned away shaking her head. Somerset could for the first time see her
face. Though humanly imperfect, as is every face we see, it was one which m=
ade
him think that the best in woman-kind no less than the best in psalm-tunes =
had
gone over to the Dissenters. He had certainly seen nobody so interesting in=
his
tour hitherto; she was about twenty or twenty-one--perhaps twenty-three, for
years have a way of stealing marches even upon beauty's anointed. The total
dissimilarity between the expression of her lineaments and that of the
countenances around her was not a little surprising, and was productive of
hypotheses without measure as to how she came there. She was, in fact,
emphatically a modern type of maidenhood, and she looked ultra-modern by re=
ason
of her environment: a presumably sophisticated being among the simple ones-=
-not
wickedly so, but one who knew life fairly well for her age. Her hair, of go=
od English
brown, neither light nor dark, was abundant--too abundant for convenience in
tying, as it seemed; and it threw off the lamp-light in a hazy lustre. And
though it could not be said of her features that this or that was flawless,=
the
nameless charm of them altogether was only another instance of how beautifu=
l a
woman can be as a whole without attaining in any one detail to the lines ma=
rked
out as absolutely correct. The spirit and the life were there: and material
shapes could be disregarded.
Whatever moral characteristics this might be t=
he
surface of, enough was shown to assure Somerset that she had some experienc=
e of
things far removed from her present circumscribed horizon, and could live, =
and
was even at that moment living, a clandestine, stealthy inner life which ha=
d very
little to do with her outward one. The repression of nearly every external =
sign
of that distress under which Somerset knew, by a sudden intuitive sympathy,
that she was labouring, added strength to these convictions.
'And you refuse?' said the astonished minister=
, as
she still stood immovable on the brink of the pool. He persuasively took her
sleeve between his finger and thumb as if to draw her; but she resented thi=
s by
a quick movement of displeasure, and he released her, seeing that he had go=
ne
too far.
'But, my dear lady,' he said, 'you promised!
Consider your profession, and that you stand in the eyes of the whole churc=
h as
an exemplar of your faith.'
'I cannot do it!'
'But your father's memory, miss; his last dying
request!'
'I cannot help it,' she said, turning to get a=
way.
'You came here with the intention to fulfil the
Word?'
'But I was mistaken.'
'Then why did you come?'
She tacitly implied that to be a question she =
did
not care to answer. 'Please say no more to me,' she murmured, and hastened =
to
withdraw.
During this unexpected dialogue (which had rea=
ched
Somerset's ears through the open windows) that young man's feelings had flo=
wn
hither and thither between minister and lady in a most capricious manner: it
had seemed at one moment a rather uncivil thing of her, charming as she was=
, to
give the minister and the water-bearers so much trouble for nothing; the ne=
xt,
it seemed like reviving the ancient cruelties of the ducking-stool to try to
force a girl into that dark water if she had not a mind to it. But the mini=
ster
was not without insight, and he had seen that it would be useless to say mo=
re.
The crestfallen old man had to turn round upon the congregation and declare
officially that the baptism was postponed.
She passed through the door into the vestry.
During the exciting moments of her recusancy there had been a perceptible
flutter among the sensitive members of the congregation; nervous Dissenters
seeming to be at one with nervous Episcopalians in this at least, that they
heartily disliked a scene during service. Calm was restored to their minds =
by
the minister starting a rather long hymn in minims and semibreves, amid the=
singing
of which he ascended the pulpit. His face had a severe and even denunciatory
look as he gave out his text, and Somerset began to understand that this me=
ant
mischief to the young person who had caused the hitch.
'In the third chapter of Revelation and the
fifteenth and following verses, you will find these words:--
'"I know thy works, that thou art neither
cold nor hot: I would thou wert cold or hot. So then because thou art lukew=
arm,
and neither cold nor hot, I will spue thee out of my mouth.... Thou sayest,=
I
am rich, and increased with goods, and have need of nothing; and knowest not
that thou art wretched, and miserable, and poor, and blind, and naked."=
;'
The sermon straightway began, and it was soon
apparent that the commentary was to be no less forcible than the text. It w=
as
also apparent that the words were, virtually, not directed forward in the l=
ine
in which they were uttered, but through the chink of the vestry-door, that =
had
stood slightly ajar since the exit of the young lady. The listeners appeare=
d to
feel this no less than Somerset did, for their eyes, one and all, became fi=
xed
upon that vestry door as if they would almost push it open by the force of
their gazing. The preacher's heart was full and bitter; no book or note was
wanted by him; never was spontaneity more absolute than here. It was no tim=
id
reproof of the ornamental kind, but a direct denunciation, all the more
vigorous perhaps from the limitation of mind and language under which the
speaker laboured. Yet, fool that he had been made by the candidate, there w=
as nothing
acrid in his attack. Genuine flashes of rhetorical fire were occasionally
struck by that plain and simple man, who knew what straightforward conduct =
was,
and who did not know the illimitable caprice of a woman's mind.
At this moment there was not in the whole chap=
el a
person whose imagination was not centred on what was invisibly taking place
within the vestry. The thunder of the minister's eloquence echoed, of cours=
e, through
the weak sister's cavern of retreat no less than round the public assembly.
What she was doing inside there--whether listening contritely, or haughtily
hastening to put on her things and get away from the chapel and all it
contained--was obviously the thought of each member. What changes were trac=
ing
themselves upon that lovely face: did it rise to phases of Raffaelesque
resignation or sink so low as to flush and frown? was Somerset's inquiry; a=
nd a
half-explanation occurred when, during the discourse, the door which had be=
en
ajar was gently pushed to.
Looking on as a stranger it seemed to him more
than probable that this young woman's power of persistence in her unexpected
repugnance to the rite was strengthened by wealth and position of some sort,
and was not the unassisted gift of nature. The manner of her arrival, and h=
er dignified
bearing before the assembly, strengthened the belief. A woman who did not f=
eel
something extraneous to her mental self to fall back upon would be so far
overawed by the people and the crisis as not to retain sufficient resolution
for a change of mind.
The sermon ended, the minister wiped his steam=
ing
face and turned down his cuffs, and nods and sagacious glances went round. =
Yet
many, even of those who had presumably passed the same ordeal with credit,
exhibited gentler judgment than the preacher's on a tergiversation of which
they had probably recognized some germ in their own bosoms when in the lady=
's situation.
For Somerset there was but one scene: the imag=
ined
scene of the girl herself as she sat alone in the vestry. The fervent
congregation rose to sing again, and then Somerset heard a slight noise on =
his
left hand which caused him to turn his head. The brougham, which had retire=
d into
the field to wait, was back again at the door: the subject of his rumination
came out from the chapel--not in her mystic robe of white, but dressed in
ordinary fashionable costume--followed as before by the attendant with other
articles of clothing on her arm, including the white gown. Somerset fancied
that the younger woman was drying her eyes with her handkerchief, but there=
was
not much time to see: they quickly entered the carriage, and it moved on. T=
hen
a cat suddenly mewed, and he saw a white Persian standing forlorn where the
carriage had been. The door was opened, the cat taken in, and the carriage
drove away.
The stranger's girlish form stamped itself dee=
ply
on Somerset's soul. He strolled on his way quite oblivious to the fact that=
the
moon had just risen, and that the landscape was one for him to linger over,
especially if there were any Gothic architecture in the line of the lunar r=
ays.
The inference was that though this girl must be of a serious turn of mind, =
wilfulness
was not foreign to her composition: and it was probable that her daily doin=
gs
evinced without much abatement by religion the unbroken spirit and pride of
life natural to her age.
The little village inn at which Somerset inten=
ded
to pass the night lay a mile further on, and retracing his way up to the st=
ile
he rambled along the lane, now beginning to be streaked like a zebra with t=
he shadows
of some young trees that edged the road. But his attention was attracted to=
the
other side of the way by a hum as of a night-bee, which arose from the play=
of
the breezes over a single wire of telegraph running parallel with his track=
on
tall poles that had appeared by the road, he hardly knew when, from a branch
route, probably leading from some town in the neighbourhood to the village =
he
was approaching. He did not know the population of Sleeping-Green, as the
village of his search was called, but the presence of this mark of civiliza=
tion
seemed to signify that its inhabitants were not quite so far in the rear of
their age as might be imagined; a glance at the still ungrassed heap of ear=
th round
the foot of each post was, however, sufficient to show that it was at no ve=
ry
remote period that they had made their advance.
Aided by this friendly wire Somerset had no
difficulty in keeping his course, till he reached a point in the ascent of a
hill at which the telegraph branched off from the road, passing through an
opening in the hedge, to strike across an undulating down, while the road w=
ound
round to the left. For a few moments Somerset doubted and stood still. The =
wire
sang on overhead with dying falls and melodious rises that invited him to
follow; while above the wire rode the stars in their courses, the low noctu=
rn
of the former seeming to be the voices of those stars,
'Still quiring t=
o the
young-eyed cherubim.'
Recalling himself from these reflections Somer=
set
decided to follow the lead of the wire. It was not the first time during his
present tour that he had found his way at night by the help of these musical
threads which the post-office authorities had erected all over the country =
for
quite another purpose than to guide belated travellers. Plunging with it ac=
ross
the down he came to a hedgeless road that entered a park or chase, which
flourished in all its original wildness. Tufts of rushes and brakes of fern
rose from the hollows, and the road was in places half overgrown with green=
, as
if it had not been tended for many years; so much so that, where shaded by
trees, he found some difficulty in keeping it. Though he had noticed the
remains of a deer-fence further back no deer were visible, and it was scarc=
ely
possible that there should be any in the existing state of things: but rabb=
its
were multitudinous, every hillock being dotted with their seated figures ti=
ll Somerset
approached and sent them limping into their burrows. The road next wound ro=
und
a clump of underwood beside which lay heaps of faggots for burning, and then
there appeared against the sky the walls and towers of a castle, half ruin,
half residence, standing on an eminence hard by.
Somerset stopped to examine it. The castle was=
not
exceptionally large, but it had all the characteristics of its most importa=
nt
fellows. Irregular, dilapidated, and muffled in creepers as a great portion=
of
it was, some part--a comparatively modern wing--was inhabited, for a light =
or
two steadily gleamed from some upper windows; in others a reflection of the
moon denoted that unbroken glass yet filled their casements. Over all rose =
the
keep, a square solid tower apparently not much injured by wars or weather, =
and
darkened with ivy on one side, wherein wings could be heard flapping
uncertainly, as if they belonged to a bird unable to find a proper perch.
Hissing noises supervened, and then a hoot, proclaiming that a brood of you=
ng
owls were residing there in the company of older ones. In spite of the
habitable and more modern wing, neglect and decay had set their mark upon t=
he
outworks of the pile, unfitting them for a more positive light than that of=
the
present hour.
He walked up to a modern arch spanning the
ditch--now dry and green--over which the drawbridge once had swung. The lar=
ge
door under the porter's archway was closed and locked. While standing here =
the singing
of the wire, which for the last few minutes he had quite forgotten, again
struck upon his ear, and retreating to a convenient place he observed its f=
inal
course: from the poles amid the trees it leaped across the moat, over the
girdling wall, and thence by a tremendous stretch towards the keep where, to
judge by sound, it vanished through an arrow-slit into the interior. This
fossil of feudalism, then, was the journey's-end of the wire, and not the
village of Sleeping-Green.
There was a certain unexpectedness in the fact
that the hoary memorial of a stolid antagonism to the interchange of ideas,=
the
monument of hard distinctions in blood and race, of deadly mistrust of one's
neighbour in spite of the Church's teaching, and of a sublime unconsciousne=
ss
of any other force than a brute one, should be the goal of a machine which =
beyond
everything may be said to symbolize cosmopolitan views and the intellectual=
and
moral kinship of all mankind. In that light the little buzzing wire had a f=
ar
finer significance to the student Somerset than the vast walls which neighb=
oured
it. But the modern fever and fret which consumes people before they can grow
old was also signified by the wire; and this aspect of to-day did not contr=
ast
well with the fairer side of feudalism--leisure, light-hearted generosity,
intense friendships, hawks, hounds, revels, healthy complexions, freedom fr=
om
care, and such a living power in architectural art as the world may never a=
gain
see.
Somerset withdrew till neither the singing of =
the
wire nor the hisses of the irritable owls could be heard any more. A clock =
in
the castle struck ten, and he recognized the strokes as those he had heard =
when
sitting on the stile. It was indispensable that he should retrace his steps=
and
push on to Sleeping-Green if he wished that night to reach his lodgings, wh=
ich
had been secured by letter at a little inn in the straggling line of roadsi=
de
houses called by the above name, where his luggage had by this time probably
arrived. In a quarter of an hour he was again at the point where the wire l=
eft
the road, and following the highway over a hill he saw the hamlet at his fe=
et.
By half-past ten the next morning Somerset was
once more approaching the precincts of the building which had interested him
the night before. Referring to his map he had learnt that it bore the name =
of
Stancy Castle or Castle de Stancy; and he had been at once struck with its =
familiarity,
though he had never understood its position in the county, believing it fur=
ther
to the west. If report spoke truly there was some excellent vaulting in the=
interior,
and a change of study from ecclesiastical to secular Gothic was not unwelco=
me
for a while.
The entrance-gate was open now, and under the
archway the outer ward was visible, a great part of it being laid out as a
flower-garden. This was in process of clearing from weeds and rubbish by a =
set
of gardeners, and the soil was so encumbered that in rooting out the weeds =
such
few hardy flowers as still remained in the beds were mostly brought up with
them. The groove wherein the portcullis had run was as fresh as if only cut=
yesterday,
the very tooling of the stone being visible. Close to this hung a bell-pull
formed of a large wooden acorn attached to a vertical rod. Somerset's
application brought a woman from the porter's door, who informed him that t=
he
day before having been the weekly show-day for visitors, it was doubtful if=
he
could be admitted now.
'Who is at home?' said Somerset.
'Only Miss de Stancy,' the porteress replied.<= o:p>
His dread of being considered an intruder was =
such
that he thought at first there was no help for it but to wait till the next
week. But he had already through his want of effrontery lost a sight of man=
y interiors,
whose exhibition would have been rather a satisfaction to the inmates than a
trouble. It was inconvenient to wait; he knew nobody in the neighbourhood f=
rom
whom he could get an introductory letter: he turned and passed the woman,
crossed the ward where the gardeners were at work, over a second and smaller
bridge, and up a flight of stone stairs, open to the sky, along whose steps
sunburnt Tudor soldiers and other renowned dead men had doubtless many times
walked. It led to the principal door on this side. Thence he could observe =
the
walls of the lower court in detail, and the old mosses with which they were=
padded--mosses
that from time immemorial had been burnt brown every summer, and every wint=
er
had grown green again. The arrow-slit and the electric wire that entered it,
like a worm uneasy at being unearthed, were distinctly visible now. So also=
was
the clock, not, as he had supposed, a chronometer coeval with the fortress
itself, but new and shining, and bearing the name of a recent maker.
The door was opened by a bland, intensely shav=
en
man out of livery, who took Somerset's name and politely worded request to =
be
allowed to inspect the architecture of the more public portions of the cast=
le.
He pronounced the word 'architecture' in the tone of a man who knew and pra=
ctised
that art; 'for,' he said to himself, 'if she thinks I am a mere idle touris=
t,
it will not be so well.'
No such uncomfortable consequences ensued. Mis=
s De
Stancy had great pleasure in giving Mr. Somerset full permission to walk
through whatever parts of the building he chose.
He followed the butler into the inner building=
s of
the fortress, the ponderous thickness of whose walls made itself felt like a
physical pressure. An internal stone staircase, ranged round four sides of =
a square,
was next revealed, leading at the top of one flight into a spacious hall, w=
hich
seemed to occupy the whole area of the keep. From this apartment a corridor
floored with black oak led to the more modern wing, where light and air were
treated in a less gingerly fashion.
Here passages were broader than in the oldest
portion, and upholstery enlisted in the service of the fine arts hid to a g=
reat
extent the coldness of the walls.
Somerset was now left to himself, and roving
freely from room to room he found time to inspect the different objects of
interest that abounded there. Not all the chambers, even of the habitable d=
ivision,
were in use as dwelling-rooms, though these were still numerous enough for =
the
wants of an ordinary country family. In a long gallery with a coved ceiling=
of
arabesques which had once been gilded, hung a series of paintings represent=
ing
the past personages of the De Stancy line. It was a remarkable array--even =
more
so on account of the incredibly neglected condition of the canvases than for
the artistic peculiarities they exhibited. Many of the frames were dropping
apart at their angles, and some of the canvas was so dingy that the face of=
the
person depicted was only distinguishable as the moon through mist. For the
colour they had now they might have been painted during an eclipse; while, =
to
judge by the webs tying them to the wall, the spiders that ran up and down
their backs were such as to make the fair originals shudder in their graves=
.
He wondered how many of the lofty foreheads and
smiling lips of this pictorial pedigree could be credited as true reflectio=
ns
of their prototypes. Some were wilfully false, no doubt; many more so by un=
avoidable
accident and want of skill. Somerset felt that it required a profounder mind
than his to disinter from the lumber of conventionality the lineaments that
really sat in the painter's presence, and to discover their history behind =
the
curtain of mere tradition.
The painters of this long collection were those
who usually appear in such places; Holbein, Jansen, and Vandyck; Sir Peter,=
Sir
Geoffrey, Sir Joshua, and Sir Thomas. Their sitters, too, had mostly been s=
irs;
Sir William, Sir John, or Sir George De Stancy--some undoubtedly having a
nobility stamped upon them beyond that conferred by their robes and orders;=
and
others not so fortunate. Their respective ladies hung by their sides--feeble
and watery, or fat and comfortable, as the case might be; also their fathers
and mothers-in-law, their brothers and remoter relatives; their contemporary
reigning princes, and their intimate friends. Of the De Stancys pure there =
ran
through the collection a mark by which they might surely have been recogniz=
ed
as members of one family; this feature being the upper part of the nose. Ev=
ery
one, even if lacking other points in common, had the special indent at this
point in the face--sometimes moderate in degree, sometimes excessive.
While looking at the pictures--which, though n=
ot
in his regular line of study, interested Somerset more than the architectur=
e,
because of their singular dilapidation, it occurred to his mind that he had=
in
his youth been schoolfellow for a very short time with a pleasant boy beari=
ng a
surname attached to one of the paintings--the name of Ravensbury. The boy h=
ad
vanished he knew not how--he thought he had been removed from school sudden=
ly
on account of ill health. But the recollection was vague, and Somerset move=
d on
to the rooms above and below. In addition to the architectural details of w=
hich
he had as yet obtained but glimpses, there was a great collection of old
movables and other domestic art-work--all more than a century old, and most=
ly
lying as lumber. There were suites of tapestry hangings, common and fine; g=
reen
and scarlet leather-work, on which the gilding was still but little injured;
venerable damask curtains; quilted silk table-covers, ebony cabinets, worked
satin window-cushions, carved bedsteads, and embroidered bed-furniture which
had apparently screened no sleeper for these many years. Downstairs there w=
as
also an interesting collection of armour, together with several huge trunks=
and
coffers. A great many of them had been recently taken out and cleaned, as i=
f a
long dormant interest in them were suddenly revived. Doubtless they were th=
ose
which had been used by the living originals of the phantoms that looked dow=
n from
the frames.
This excellent hoard of suggestive designs for
wood-work, metal-work, and work of other sorts, induced Somerset to divert =
his
studies from the ecclesiastical direction, to acquire some new ideas from t=
he
objects here for domestic application. Yet for the present he was inclined =
to
keep his sketch-book closed and his ivory rule folded, and devote himself t=
o a
general survey. Emerging from the ground-floor by a small doorway, he found
himself on a terrace to the north-east, and on the other side than that by
which he had entered. It was bounded by a parapet breast high, over which a
view of the distant country met the eye, stretching from the foot of the sl=
ope
to a distance of many miles. Somerset went and leaned over, and looked down
upon the tops of the bushes beneath. The prospect included the village he h=
ad passed
through on the previous day: and amidst the green lights and shades of the =
meadows
he could discern the red brick chapel whose recalcitrant inmate had so
engrossed him.
Before his attention had long strayed over the
incident which romanticized that utilitarian structure, he became aware tha=
t he
was not the only person who was looking from the terrace towards that point=
of the
compass. At the right-hand corner, in a niche of the curtain-wall, reclined=
a
girlish shape; and asleep on the bench over which she leaned was a white
cat--the identical Persian as it seemed--that had been taken into the carri=
age
at the chapel-door.
Somerset began to muse on the probability or
otherwise of the backsliding Baptist and this young lady resulting in one a=
nd
the same person; and almost without knowing it he found himself deeply hopi=
ng
for such a unity. The object of his inspection was idly leaning, and this
somewhat disguised her figure. It might have been tall or short, curvilinea=
r or
angular. She carried a light sunshade which she fitfully twirled until,
thrusting it back over her shoulder, her head was revealed sufficiently to =
show
that she wore no hat or bonnet. This token of her being an inmate of the
castle, and not a visitor, rather damped his expectations: but he persisted=
in
believing her look towards the chapel must have a meaning in it, till she
suddenly stood erect, and revealed herself as short in stature--almost
dumpy--at the same time giving him a distinct view of her profile. She was =
not
at all like the heroine of the chapel. He saw the dinted nose of the De Sta=
ncys
outlined with Holbein shadowlessness against the blue-green of the distant
wood. It was not the De Stancy face with all its original specialities: it =
was,
so to speak, a defective reprint of that face: for the nose tried hard to t=
urn
up and deal utter confusion to the family shape.
As for the rest of the countenance, Somerset w=
as
obliged to own that it was not beautiful: Nature had done there many things
that she ought not to have done, and left undone much that she should have
executed. It would have been decidedly plain but for a precious quality whi=
ch
no perfection of chiselling can give when the temperament denies it, and wh=
ich
no facial irregularity can take away--a tender affectionateness which might
almost be called yearning; such as is often seen in the women of Correggio =
when
they are painted in profile. But the plain features of Miss De Stancy--who =
she
undoubtedly was--were rather severely handled by Somerset's judgment owing =
to
his impression of the previous night. A beauty of a sort would have been le=
nt
by the flexuous contours of the mobile parts but for that unfortunate condi=
tion
the poor girl was burdened with, of having to hand on a traditional feature
with which she did not find herself otherwise in harmony.
She glanced at him for a moment, and showed by=
an
imperceptible movement that he had made his presence felt. Not to embarrass=
her
Somerset hastened to withdraw, at the same time that she passed round to th=
e other
part of the terrace, followed by the cat, in whom Somerset could imagine a
certain denominational cast of countenance, notwithstanding her company. Bu=
t as
white cats are much alike each other at a distance, it was reasonable to
suppose this creature was not the same one as that possessed by the beauty.=
He descended the stone stairs to a lower story=
of
the castle, in which was a crypt-like hall covered by vaulting of exception=
al
and massive ingenuity:
=
'Built ere the art was known, By pointed =
aisle
and shafted stalk The arcades=
of an
alleyed walk =
To
emulate in stone.'
It happened that the central pillar whereon the
vaults rested, reputed to exhibit some of the most hideous grotesques in
England upon its capital, was within a locked door. Somerset was tempted to=
ask
a servant for permission to open it, till he heard that the inner room was
temporarily used for plate, the key being kept by Miss De Stancy, at which =
he
said no more. But afterwards the active housemaid redescended the stone ste=
ps;
she entered the crypt with a bunch of keys in one hand, and in the other a
candle, followed by the young lady whom Somerset had seen on the terrace.
'I shall be very glad to unlock anything you m=
ay
want to see. So few people take any real interest in what is here that we do
not leave it open.'
Somerset expressed his thanks.
Miss De Stancy, a little to his surprise, had a
touch of rusticity in her manner, and that forced absence of reserve which
seclusion from society lends to young women more frequently than not. She
seemed glad to have something to do; the arrival of Somerset was plainly an
event sufficient to set some little mark upon her day. Deception had been w=
ritten
on the faces of those frowning walls in their implying the insignificance of
Somerset, when he found them tenanted only by this little woman whose life =
was
narrower than his own.
'We have not been here long,' continued Miss De
Stancy, 'and that's why everything is in such a dilapidated and confused
condition.'
Somerset entered the dark store-closet, thinki=
ng
less of the ancient pillar revealed by the light of the candle than what a
singular remark the latter was to come from a member of the family which
appeared to have been there five centuries. He held the candle above his he=
ad,
and walked round, and presently Miss De Stancy came back.
'There is another vault below,' she said, with=
the
severe face of a young woman who speaks only because it is absolutely
necessary. 'Perhaps you are not aware of it? It was the dungeon: if you wis=
h to
go down there too, the servant will show you the way. It is not at all orna=
mental:
rough, unhewn arches and clumsy piers.'
Somerset thanked her, and would perhaps take
advantage of her kind offer when he had examined the spot where he was, if =
it were
not causing inconvenience.
'No; I am sure Paula will be glad to know that
anybody thinks it interesting to go down there--which is more than she does
herself.'
Some obvious inquiries were suggested by this,=
but
Somerset said, 'I have seen the pictures, and have been much struck by them;
partly,' he added, with some hesitation, 'because one or two of them remind=
ed
me of a schoolfellow--I think his name was John Ravensbury?'
'Yes,' she said, almost eagerly. 'He was my
cousin!'
'So that we are not quite strangers?'
'But he is dead now.... He was unfortunate: he=
was
mostly spoken of as "that unlucky boy."... You know, I suppose, M=
r.
Somerset, why the paintings are in such a decaying state!--it is owing to t=
he
peculiar treatment of the castle during Mr. Wilkins's time. He was blind; so
one can imagine he did not appreciate such things as there are here.'
'The castle has been shut up, you mean?'
'O yes, for many years. But it will not be so
again. We are going to have the pictures cleaned, and the frames mended, and
the old pieces of furniture put in their proper places. It will be very nice
then. Did you see those in the east closet?'
'I have only seen those in the gallery.'
'I will just show you the way to the others, if
you would like to see them?'
They ascended to the room designated the east
closet. The paintings here, mostly of smaller size, were in a better condit=
ion,
owing to the fact that they were hung on an inner wall, and had hence been =
kept
free from damp. Somerset inquired the names and histories of one or two.
'I really don't quite know,' Miss De Stancy
replied after some thought. 'But Paula knows, I am sure. I don't study them
much--I don't see the use of it.' She swung her sunshade, so that it fell o=
pen,
and turned it up till it fell shut. 'I have never been able to give much
attention to ancestors,' she added, with her eyes on the parasol.
'These ARE your ancestors?' he asked, for her
position and tone were matters which perplexed him. In spite of the family
likeness and other details he could scarcely believe this frank and
communicative country maiden to be the modern representative of the De Stan=
cys.
'O yes, they certainly are,' she said, laughin=
g.
'People say I am like them: I don't know if I am--well, yes, I know I am: I=
can
see that, of course, any day. But they have gone from my family, and perhap=
s it
is just as well that they should have gone.... They are useless,' she added,
with serene conclusiveness.
'Ah! they have gone, have they?'
'Yes, castle and furniture went together: it w=
as
long ago--long before I was born. It doesn't seem to me as if the place ever
belonged to a relative of mine.'
Somerset corrected his smiling manner to one of
solicitude.
'But you live here, Miss De Stancy?'
'Yes--a great deal now; though sometimes I go =
home
to sleep.'
'This is home to you, and not home?'
'I live here with Paula--my friend: I have not
been here long, neither has she. For the first six months after her father's
death she did not come here at all.'
They walked on, gazing at the walls, till the
young man said: 'I fear I may be making some mistake: but I am sure you will
pardon my inquisitiveness this once. WHO is Paula?'
'Ah, you don't know! Of course you don't--local
changes don't get talked of far away. She is the owner of this castle and
estate. My father sold it when he was quite a young man, years before I was
born, and not long after his father's death. It was purchased by a man named
Wilkins, a rich man who became blind soon after he had bought it, and never
lived here; so it was left uncared for.'
She went out upon the terrace; and without exa=
ctly
knowing why, Somerset followed.
'Your friend--'
'Has only come here quite recently. She is away
from home to-day.... It was very sad,' murmured the young girl thoughtfully.
'No sooner had Mr. Power bought it of the representatives of Mr.
Wilkins--almost immediately indeed--than he died from a chill caught after a
warm bath. On account of that she did not take possession for several month=
s;
and even now she has only had a few rooms prepared as a temporary residence=
till
she can think what to do. Poor thing, it is sad to be left alone!'
Somerset heedfully remarked that he thought he recognized that name Power, as one he had seen lately, somewhere or other.<= o:p>
'Perhaps you have been hearing of her father. =
Do
you know what he was?'
Somerset did not.
She looked across the distant country, where
undulations of dark-green foliage formed a prospect extending for miles. An=
d as
she watched, and Somerset's eyes, led by hers, watched also, a white streak=
of
steam, thin as a cotton thread, could be discerned ploughing that green exp=
anse.
'Her father made THAT,' Miss De Stancy said, directing her finger towards t=
he
object.
'That what?'
'That railway. He was Mr. John Power, the great
railway contractor. And it was through making the railway that he discovered
this castle--the railway was diverted a little on its account.'
'A clash between ancient and modern.'
'Yes, but he took an interest in the locality =
long
before he purchased the estate. And he built the people a chapel on a bit of
freehold he bought for them. He was a great Nonconformist, a staunch Baptis=
t up
to the day of his death--a much stauncher one,' she said significantly, 'th=
an
his daughter is.'
'Ah, I begin to spot her!'
'You have heard about the baptism?'
'I know something of it.'
'Her conduct has given mortal offence to the
scattered people of the denomination that her father was at such pains to u=
nite
into a body.'
Somerset could guess the remainder, and in
thinking over the circumstances did not state what he had seen. She added, =
as
if disappointed at his want of curiosity--
'She would not submit to the rite when it came=
to
the point. The water looked so cold and dark and fearful, she said, that she
could not do it to save her life.'
'Surely she should have known her mind before =
she
had gone so far?' Somerset's words had a condemnatory form, but perhaps his
actual feeling was that if Miss Power had known her own mind, she would have
not interested him half so much.
'Paula's own mind had nothing to do with it!' =
said
Miss De Stancy, warming up to staunch partizanship in a moment. 'It was all
undertaken by her from a mistaken sense of duty. It was her father's dying =
wish
that she should make public profession of her--what do you call it--of the
denomination she belonged to, as soon as she felt herself fit to do it: so =
when
he was dead she tried and tried, and didn't get any more fit; and at last s=
he
screwed herself up to the pitch, and thought she must undergo the ceremony =
out of
pure reverence for his memory. It was very short-sighted of her father to p=
ut
her in such a position: because she is now very sad, as she feels she can n=
ever
try again after such a sermon as was delivered against her.'
Somerset presumed that Miss Power need not have
heard this Knox or Bossuet of hers if she had chosen to go away?
'She did not hear it in the face of the
congregation; but from the vestry. She told me some of it when she reached
home. Would you believe it, the man who preached so bitterly is a tenant of
hers? I said, "Surely you will turn him out of his house?"--But s=
he
answered, in her calm, deep, nice way, that she supposed he had a perfect r=
ight
to preach against her, that she could not in justice molest him at all. I
wouldn't let him stay if the house were mine. But she has often before allo=
wed him
to scold her from the pulpit in a smaller way--once it was about an expensi=
ve
dress she had worn--not mentioning her by name, you know; but all the people
are quite aware that it is meant for her, because only one person of her we=
alth
or position belongs to the Baptist body in this county.'
Somerset was looking at the homely affectionate
face of the little speaker. 'You are her good friend, I am sure,' he remark=
ed.
She looked into the distant air with tacit
admission of the impeachment. 'So would you be if you knew her,' she said; =
and
a blush slowly rose to her cheek, as if the person spoken of had been a lov=
er
rather than a friend.
'But you are not a Baptist any more than I?'
continued Somerset.
'O no. And I never knew one till I knew Paula.=
I
think they are very nice; though I sometimes wish Paula was not one, but the
religion of reasonable persons.'
They walked on, and came opposite to where the
telegraph emerged from the trees, leapt over the parapet, and up through the
loophole into the interior.
'That looks strange in such a building,' said =
her
companion.
'Miss Power had it put up to know the latest n=
ews
from town. It costs six pounds a mile. She can work it herself, beautifully:
and so can I, but not so well. It was a great delight to learn. Miss Power =
was so
interested at first that she was sending messages from morning till night. =
And
did you hear the new clock?'
'Is it a new one?--Yes, I heard it.'
'The old one was quite worn out; so Paula has =
put
it in the cellar, and had this new one made, though it still strikes on the=
old
bell. It tells the seconds, but the old one, which my very great grandfather
erected in the eighteenth century, only told the hours. Paula says that tim=
e, being
so much more valuable now, must of course be cut up into smaller pieces.'
'She does not appear to be much impressed by t=
he
spirit of this ancient pile.'
Miss De Stancy shook her head too slightly to
express absolute negation.
'Do you wish to come through this door?' she
asked. 'There is a singular chimney-piece in the kitchen, which is consider=
ed a
unique example of its kind, though I myself don't know enough about it to h=
ave
an opinion on the subject.'
When they had looked at the corbelled chimney-=
piece
they returned to the hall, where his eye was caught anew by a large map tha=
t he
had conned for some time when alone, without being able to divine the local=
ity represented.
It was called 'General Plan of the Town,' and showed streets and open space=
s corresponding
with nothing he had seen in the county.
'Is that town here?' he asked.
'It is not anywhere but in Paula's brain; she =
has
laid it out from her own design. The site is supposed to be near our railway
station, just across there, where the land belongs to her. She is going to
grant cheap building leases, and develop the manufacture of pottery.'
'Pottery--how very practical she must be!'
'O no! no!' replied Miss De Stancy, in tones
showing how supremely ignorant he must be of Miss Power's nature if he
characterized her in those terms. 'It is GREEK pottery she means--Hellenic
pottery she tells me to call it, only I forget. There is beautiful clay at =
the
place, her father told her: he found it in making the railway tunnel. She h=
as visited
the British Museum, continental museums, and Greece, and Spain: and hopes to
imitate the old fictile work in time, especially the Greek of the best peri=
od,
four hundred years after Christ, or before Christ--I forget which it was Pa=
ula
said.... O no, she is not practical in the sense you mean, at all.'
'A mixed young lady, rather.'
Miss De Stancy appeared unable to settle wheth=
er
this new definition of her dear friend should be accepted as kindly, or
disallowed as decidedly sarcastic. 'You would like her if you knew her,' she
insisted, in half tones of pique; after which she walked on a few steps.
'I think very highly of her,' said Somerset.
'And I! And yet at one time I could never have
believed that I should have been her friend. One is prejudiced at first aga=
inst
people who are reported to have such differences in feeling, associations, =
and
habit, as she seemed to have from mine. But it has not stood in the least i=
n the
way of our liking each other. I believe the difference makes us the more
united.'
'It says a great deal for the liberality of bo=
th,'
answered Somerset warmly. 'Heaven send us more of the same sort of people! =
They
are not too numerous at present.'
As this remark called for no reply from Miss De
Stancy, she took advantage of an opportunity to leave him alone, first
repeating her permission to him to wander where he would. He walked about f=
or
some time, sketch-book in hand, but was conscious that his interest did not=
lie
much in the architecture. In passing along the corridor of an upper floor h=
e observed
an open door, through which was visible a room containing one of the finest
Renaissance cabinets he had ever seen. It was impossible, on close examinat=
ion,
to do justice to it in a hasty sketch; it would be necessary to measure eve=
ry
line if he would bring away anything of utility to him as a designer. Decid=
ing
to reserve this gem for another opportunity he cast his eyes round the room=
and
blushed a little. Without knowing it he had intruded into the absent Miss P=
aula's
own particular set of chambers, including a boudoir and sleeping apartment.=
On
the tables of the sitting-room were most of the popular papers and periodic=
als
that he knew, not only English, but from Paris, Italy, and America. Satiric=
al
prints, though they did not unduly preponderate, were not wanting. Besides
these there were books from a London circulating library, paper-covered lig=
ht
literature in French and choice Italian, and the latest monthly reviews; wh=
ile
between the two windows stood the telegraph apparatus whose wire had been t=
he
means of bringing him hither.
These things, ensconced amid so much of the old
and hoary, were as if a stray hour from the nineteenth century had wandered
like a butterfly into the thirteenth, and lost itself there.
The door between this ante-chamber and the
sleeping-room stood open. Without venturing to cross the threshold, for he =
felt
that he would be abusing hospitality to go so far, Somerset looked in for a
moment. It was a pretty place, and seemed to have been hastily fitted up. I=
n a corner,
overhung by a blue and white canopy of silk, was a little cot, hardly large
enough to impress the character of bedroom upon the old place. Upon a
counterpane lay a parasol and a silk neckerchief. On the other side of the =
room
was a tall mirror of startling newness, draped like the bedstead, in blue a=
nd
white. Thrown at random upon the floor was a pair of satin slippers that wo=
uld
have fitted Cinderella. A dressing-gown lay across a settee; and opposite, =
upon
a small easy-chair in the same blue and white livery, were a Bible, the Bap=
tist
Magazine, Wardlaw on Infant Baptism, Walford's County Families, and the Cou=
rt Journal.
On and over the mantelpiece were nicknacks of various descriptions, and
photographic portraits of the artistic, scientific, and literary celebritie=
s of
the day.
A dressing-room lay beyond; but, becoming
conscious that his study of ancient architecture would hardly bear stretchi=
ng
further in that direction, Mr. Somerset retreated to the outside, oblivious=
ly
passing by the gem of Renaissance that had led him in.
'She affects blue,' he was thinking. 'Then she=
is
fair.'
On looking up, some time later, at the new clo=
ck
that told the seconds, he found that the hours at his disposal for work had
flown without his having transferred a single feature of the building or
furniture to his sketch-book. Before leaving he sent in for permission to c=
ome
again, and then walked across the fields to the inn at Sleeping-Green,
reflecting less upon Miss De Stancy (so little force of presence had she
possessed) than upon the modern flower in a mediaeval flower-pot whom Miss =
De Stancy's
information had brought before him, and upon the incongruities that were da=
ily
shaping themselves in the world under the great modern fluctuations of clas=
ses
and creeds.
Somerset was still full of the subject when he
arrived at the end of his walk, and he fancied that some loungers at the ba=
r of
the inn were discussing the heroine of the chapel-scene just at the moment =
of
his entry. On this account, when the landlord came to clear away the dinner=
, Somerset
was led to inquire of him, by way of opening a conversation, if there were =
many
Baptists in the neighbourhood.
The landlord (who was a serious man on the
surface, though he occasionally smiled beneath) replied that there were a g=
reat
many--far more than the average in country parishes. 'Even here, in my hous=
e, now,'
he added, 'when volks get a drop of drink into 'em, and their feelings rise=
to
a zong, some man will strike up a hymn by preference. But I find no fault w=
ith
that; for though 'tis hardly human nature to be so calculating in yer cups,=
a
feller may as well sing to gain something as sing to waste.'
'How do you account for there being so many?'<= o:p>
'Well, you zee, sir, some says one thing, and =
some
another; I think they does it to save the expense of a Christian burial for
ther children. Now there's a poor family out in Long Lane--the husband used=
to
smite for Jimmy More the blacksmith till 'a hurt his arm--they'd have no le=
ss
than eleven children if they'd not been lucky t'other way, and buried five =
when
they were three or four months old. Now every one of them children was give=
n to
the sexton in a little box that any journeyman could nail together in a qua=
rter
of an hour, and he buried 'em at night for a shilling a head; whereas 'twou=
ld
have cost a couple of pounds each if they'd been christened at church.... Of
course there's the new lady at the castle, she's a chapel member, and that =
may
make a little difference; but she's not been here long enough to show wheth=
er
'twill be worth while to join 'em for the profit o't or whether 'twill not.=
No doubt
if it turns out that she's of a sort to relieve volks in trouble, more will
join her set than belongs to it already. "Any port in a storm," of
course, as the saying is.'
'As for yourself, you are a Churchman at prese=
nt,
I presume?'
'Yes; not but I was a Methodist once--ay, for a
length of time. 'Twas owing to my taking a house next door to a chapel; so =
that
what with hearing the organ bizz like a bee through the wall, and what with=
finding
it saved umbrellas on wet Zundays, I went over to that faith for two
years--though I believe I dropped money by it--I wouldn't be the man to say=
so
if I hadn't. Howsomever, when I moved into this house I turned back again t=
o my
old religion. Faith, I don't zee much difference: be you one, or be you
t'other, you've got to get your living.'
'The De Stancys, of course, have not much
influence here now, for that, or any other thing?'
'O no, no; not any at all. They be very low up=
on
ground, and always will be now, I suppose. It was thoughted worthy of being
recorded in history--you've read it, sir, no doubt?'
'Not a word.'
'O, then, you shall. I've got the history
zomewhere. 'Twas gay manners that did it. The only bit of luck they have ha=
d of
late years is Miss Power's taking to little Miss De Stancy, and making her =
her company-keeper.
I hope 'twill continue.'
That the two daughters of these antipodean
families should be such intimate friends was a situation which pleased Some=
rset
as much as it did the landlord. It was an engaging instance of that human
progress on which he had expended many charming dreams in the years when
poetry, theology, and the reorganization of society had seemed matters of m=
ore importance
to him than a profession which should help him to a big house and income, a
fair Deiopeia, and a lovely progeny. When he was alone he poured out a glas=
s of
wine, and silently drank the healths of the two generous-minded young women
who, in this lonely district, had found sweet communion a necessity of life,
and by pure and instinctive good sense had broken down a barrier which men
thrice their age and repute would probably have felt it imperative to maint=
ain.
But perhaps this was premature: the omnipotent Miss Power's
character--practical or ideal, politic or impulsive--he as yet knew nothing=
of;
and giving over reasoning from insufficient data he lapsed into mere
conjecture.
The next morning Somerset was again at the cas=
tle.
He passed some interval on the walls before encountering Miss De Stancy, wh=
om
at last he observed going towards a pony-carriage that waited near the door=
.
A smile gained strength upon her face at his
approach, and she was the first to speak. 'I am sorry Miss Power has not
returned,' she said, and accounted for that lady's absence by her distress =
at
the event of two evenings earlier.
'But I have driven over to my father's--Sir
William De Stancy's--house this morning,' she went on. 'And on mentioning y=
our
name to him, I found he knew it quite well. You will, will you not, forgive=
my
ignorance in having no better knowledge of the elder Mr. Somerset's works t=
han
a dim sense of his fame as a painter? But I was going to say that my father=
would
much like to include you in his personal acquaintance, and wishes me to ask=
if
you will give him the pleasure of lunching with him to-day. My cousin John,
whom you once knew, was a great favourite of his, and used to speak of you
sometimes. It will be so kind if you can come. My father is an old man, out=
of
society, and he would be glad to hear the news of town.'
Somerset said he was glad to find himself among
friends where he had only expected strangers; and promised to come that day=
, if
she would tell him the way.
That she could easily do. The short way was ac=
ross
that glade he saw there--then over the stile into the wood, following the p=
ath
till it came out upon the turnpike-road. He would then be almost close to t=
he house.
The distance was about two miles and a half. But if he thought it too far f=
or a
walk, she would drive on to the town, where she had been going when he came,
and instead of returning straight to her father's would come back and pick =
him
up.
It was not at all necessary, he thought. He wa=
s a
walker, and could find the path.
At this moment a servant came to tell Miss De
Stancy that the telegraph was calling her.
'Ah--it is lucky that I was not gone again!' s=
he
exclaimed. 'John seldom reads it right if I am away.'
It now seemed quite in the ordinary course tha=
t,
as a friend of her father's, he should accompany her to the instrument. So =
up
they went together, and immediately on reaching it she applied her ear to t=
he instrument,
and began to gather the message. Somerset fancied himself like a person
overlooking another's letter, and moved aside.
'It is no secret,' she said, smiling. '"P=
aula
to Charlotte," it begins.'
'That's very pretty.'
'O--and it is about--you,' murmured Miss De
Stancy.
'Me?' The architect blushed a little.
She made no answer, and the machine went on wi=
th
its story. There was something curious in watching this utterance about
himself, under his very nose, in language unintelligible to him. He conject=
ured
whether it were inquiry, praise, or blame, with a sense that it might
reasonably be the latter, as the result of his surreptitious look into that=
blue
bedroom, possibly observed and reported by some servant of the house.
'"Direct that every facility be given to =
Mr.
Somerset to visit any part of the castle he may wish to see. On my return I
shall be glad to welcome him as the acquaintance of your relatives. I have =
two
of his father's pictures."'
'Dear me, the plot thickens,' he said, as Miss=
De
Stancy announced the words. 'How could she know about me?'
'I sent a message to her this morning when I s=
aw
you crossing the park on your way here--telling her that Mr. Somerset, son =
of
the Academician, was making sketches of the castle, and that my father knew
something of you. That's her answer.'
'Where are the pictures by my father that she =
has
purchased?'
'O, not here--at least, not unpacked.'
Miss de Stancy then left him to proceed on her
journey to Markton (so the nearest little town was called), informing him t=
hat
she would be at her father's house to receive him at two o'clock. Just about
one he closed his sketch-book, and set out in the direction she had indicat=
ed. At
the entrance to the wood a man was at work pulling down a rotten gate that =
bore
on its battered lock the initials 'W. De S.' and erecting a new one whose
ironmongery exhibited the letters 'P. P.'
The warmth of the summer noon did not inconven=
iently
penetrate the dense masses of foliage which now began to overhang the path,
except in spots where a ruthless timber-felling had taken place in previous
years for the purpose of sale. It was that particular half-hour of the day =
in which
the birds of the forest prefer walking to flying; and there being no wind, =
the
hopping of the smallest songster over the dead leaves reached his ear from
behind the undergrowth. The track had originally been a well-kept winding
drive, but a deep carpet of moss and leaves overlaid it now, though the gen=
eral
outline still remained to show that its curves had been set out with as much
care as those of a lawn walk, and the gradient made easy for carriages where
the natural slopes were great. Felled trunks occasionally lay across it, and
alongside were the hollow and fungous boles of trees sawn down in long past
years.
After a walk of three-quarters of an hour he c=
ame
to another gate, where the letters 'P. P.' again supplanted the historical =
'W.
De S.' Climbing over this, he found himself on a highway which presently di=
pped
down towards the town of Markton, a place he had never yet seen. It appeare=
d in
the distance as a quiet little borough of a few thousand inhabitants; and,
without the town boundary on the side he was approaching, stood half-a-dozen
genteel and modern houses, of the detached kind usually found in such subur=
bs.
On inquiry, Sir William De Stancy's residence was indicated as one of these=
.
It was almost new, of streaked brick, having a
central door, and a small bay window on each side to light the two front
parlours. A little lawn spread its green surface in front, divided from the
road by iron railings, the low line of shrubs immediately within them being
coated with pallid dust from the highway. On the neat piers of the neat ent=
rance
gate were chiselled the words 'Myrtle Villa.' Genuine roadside respectabili=
ty
sat smiling on every brick of the eligible dwelling.
Perhaps that which impressed Somerset more than
the mushroom modernism of Sir William De Stancy's house was the air of
healthful cheerfulness which pervaded it. He was shown in by a neat maidser=
vant
in black gown and white apron, a canary singing a welcome from a cage in the
shadow of the window, the voices of crowing cocks coming over the chimneys =
from
somewhere behind, and the sun and air riddling the house everywhere.
A dwelling of those well-known and popular dimensions which allow the proceedings in the kitchen to be distinctly hear= d in the parlours, it was so planned that a raking view might be obtained throug= h it from the front door to the end of the back garden. The drawing-room furnitu= re was comfortable, in the walnut-and-green-rep style of some years ago. Somerset = had expected to find his friends living in an old house with remnants of their = own antique furniture, and he hardly knew whether he ought to meet them with a smile or a gaze of condolence. His doubt was terminated, however, by the cheerful and tripping entry of Miss De Stancy, who had returned from her dr= ive to Markton; and in a few more moments Sir William came in from the garden.<= o:p>
He was an old man of tall and spare build, wit=
h a
considerable stoop, his glasses dangling against his waistcoat-buttons, and=
the
front corners of his coat-tails hanging lower than the hinderparts, so that=
they
swayed right and left as he walked. He nervously apologized to his visitor =
for
having kept him waiting.
'I am so glad to see you,' he said, with a mild
benevolence of tone, as he retained Somerset's hand for a moment or two;
'partly for your father's sake, whom I met more than once in my younger day=
s,
before he became so well-known; and also because I learn that you were a fr=
iend
of my poor nephew John Ravensbury.' He looked over his shoulder to see if h=
is
daughter were within hearing, and, with the impulse of the solitary to make=
a
confidence, continued in a low tone: 'She, poor girl, was to have married J=
ohn:
his death was a sad blow to her and to all of us.--Pray take a seat, Mr.
Somerset.'
The reverses of fortune which had brought Sir
William De Stancy to this comfortable cottage awakened in Somerset a warmer
emotion than curiosity, and he sat down with a heart as responsive to each
speech uttered as if it had seriously concerned himself, while his host gav=
e some
words of information to his daughter on the trifling events that had marked=
the
morning just passed; such as that the cow had got out of the paddock into M=
iss
Power's field, that the smith who had promised to come and look at the kitc=
hen
range had not arrived, that two wasps' nests had been discovered in the gar=
den
bank, and that Nick Jones's baby had fallen downstairs. Sir William had lar=
ge
cavernous arches to his eye-sockets, reminding the beholder of the vaults in
the castle he once had owned. His hands were long and almost fleshless, each
knuckle showing like a bamboo-joint from beneath his coat-sleeves, which we=
re small
at the elbow and large at the wrist. All the colour had gone from his beard=
and
locks, except in the case of a few isolated hairs of the former, which reta=
ined
dashes of their original shade at sudden points in their length, revealing =
that
all had once been raven black.
But to study a man to his face for long is a
species of ill-nature which requires a colder temperament, or at least an o=
lder
heart, than the architect's was at that time. Incurious unobservance is the
true attitude of cordiality, and Somerset blamed himself for having fallen =
into
an act of inspection even briefly. He would wait for his host's conversatio=
n,
which would doubtless be of the essence of historical romance.
'The favourable Bank-returns have made the
money-market much easier to-day, as I learn?' said Sir William.
'O, have they?' said Somerset. 'Yes, I suppose
they have.'
'And something is meant by this unusual quietn=
ess
in Foreign stocks since the late remarkable fluctuations,' insisted the old
man. 'Is the current of speculation quite arrested, or is it but a temporary
lull?'
Somerset said he was afraid he could not give =
an
opinion, and entered very lamely into the subject; but Sir William seemed to
find sufficient interest in his own thoughts to do away with the necessity =
of
acquiring fresh impressions from other people's replies; for often after
putting a question he looked on the floor, as if the subject were at an end.
Lunch was now ready, and when they were in the dining-room Miss De Stancy, =
to
introduce a topic of more general interest, asked Somerset if he had noticed
the myrtle on the lawn?
Somerset had noticed it, and thought he had ne=
ver
seen such a full-blown one in the open air before. His eyes were, however,
resting at the moment on the only objects at all out of the common that the
dining-room contained. One was a singular glass case over the fireplace, wi=
thin
which were some large mediaeval door-keys, black with rust and age; and the
others were two full-length oil portraits in the costume of the end of the =
last
century--so out of all proportion to the size of the room they occupied that
they almost reached to the floor.
'Those originally belonged to the castle yonde=
r,'
said Miss De Stancy, or Charlotte, as her father called her, noticing
Somerset's glance at the keys. 'They used to unlock the principal
entrance-doors, which were knocked to pieces in the civil wars. New doors w=
ere
placed afterwards, but the old keys were never given up, and have been
preserved by us ever since.'
'They are quite useless--mere lumber--particul=
arly
to me,' said Sir William.
'And those huge paintings were a present from
Paula,' she continued. 'They are portraits of my great-grandfather and moth=
er.
Paula would give all the old family pictures back to me if we had room for
them; but they would fill the house to the ceilings.'
Sir William was impatient of the subject. 'Wha= t is the utility of such accumulations?' he asked. 'Their originals are but clay now--mere forgotten dust, not worthy a moment's inquiry or reflection at th= is distance of time. Nothing can retain the spirit, and why should we preserve the shad= ow of the form?--London has been very full this year, sir, I have been told?'<= o:p>
'It has,' said Somerset, and he asked if they =
had
been up that season. It was plain that the matter with which Sir William De
Stancy least cared to occupy himself before visitors was the history of his=
own
family, in which he was followed with more simplicity by his daughter Charl=
otte.
'No,' said the baronet. 'One might be led to t=
hink
there is a fatality which prevents it. We make arrangements to go to town
almost every year, to meet some old friend who combines the rare conditions=
of
being in London with being mindful of me; but he has always died or gone el=
sewhere
before the event has taken place.... But with a disposition to be happy, it=
is
neither this place nor the other that can render us the reverse. In short e=
ach
man's happiness depends upon himself, and his ability for doing with little=
.'
He turned more particularly to Somerset, and added with an impressive smile=
: 'I
hope you cultivate the art of doing with little?'
Somerset said that he certainly did cultivate =
that
art, partly because he was obliged to.
'Ah--you don't mean to the extent that I mean.=
The
world has not yet learned the riches of frugality, says, I think, Cicero,
somewhere; and nobody can testify to the truth of that remark better than I=
. If
a man knows how to spend less than his income, however small that may be,
why--he has the philosopher's stone.' And Sir William looked in Somerset's =
face
with frugality written in every pore of his own, as much as to say, 'And he=
re
you see one who has been a living instance of those principles from his you=
th up.'
Somerset soon found that whatever turn the
conversation took, Sir William invariably reverted to this topic of frugali=
ty.
When luncheon was over he asked his visitor to walk with him into the garde=
n,
and no sooner were they alone than he continued: 'Well, Mr. Somerset, you a=
re down
here sketching architecture for professional purposes. Nothing can be bette=
r:
you are a young man, and your art is one in which there are innumerable
chances.'
'I had begun to think they were rather few,' s=
aid
Somerset.
'No, they are numerous enough: the difficulty =
is
to find out where they lie. It is better to know where your luck lies than
where your talent lies: that's an old man's opinion.'
'I'll remember it,' said Somerset.
'And now give me some account of your new club=
s,
new hotels, and new men.... What I was going to add, on the subject of find=
ing
out where your luck lies, is that nobody is so unfortunate as not to have a
lucky star in some direction or other. Perhaps yours is at the antipodes; i=
f so,
go there. All I say is, discover your lucky star.'
'I am looking for it.'
'You may be able to do two things; one well, t=
he
other but indifferently, and yet you may have more luck in the latter. Then
stick to that one, and never mind what you can do best. Your star lies ther=
e.'
'There I am not quite at one with you, Sir
William.'
'You should be. Not that I mean to say that lu=
ck
lies in any one place long, or at any one person's door. Fortune likes new
faces, and your wisdom lies in bringing your acquisitions into safety while=
her
favour lasts. To do that you must make friends in her time of smiles--make =
friends
with people, wherever you find them. My daughter has unconsciously followed
that maxim. She has struck up a warm friendship with our neighbour, Miss Po=
wer,
at the castle. We are diametrically different from her in associations,
traditions, ideas, religion--she comes of a violent dissenting family among
other things--but I say to Charlotte what I say to you: win affection and
regard wherever you can, and accommodate yourself to the times. I put nothi=
ng
in the way of their intimacy, and wisely so, for by this so many pleasant h=
ours
are added to the sum total vouchsafed to humanity.'
It was quite late in the afternoon when Somers=
et
took his leave. Miss De Stancy did not return to the castle that night, and=
he
walked through the wood as he had come, feeling that he had been talking wi=
th a
man of simple nature, who flattered his own understanding by devising Machi=
avellian
theories after the event, to account for any spontaneous action of himself =
or
his daughter, which might otherwise seem eccentric or irregular.
Before Somerset reached the inn he was overtak=
en
by a slight shower, and on entering the house he walked into the general ro=
om,
where there was a fire, and stood with one foot on the fender. The landlord=
was
talking to some guest who sat behind a screen; and, probably because Somers=
et had
been seen passing the window, and was known to be sketching at the castle, =
the
conversation turned on Sir William De Stancy.
'I have often noticed,' observed the landlord,
'that volks who have come to grief, and quite failed, have the rules how to
succeed in life more at their vingers' ends than volks who have succeeded. I
assure you that Sir William, so full as he is of wise maxims, never acted u=
pon
a wise maxim in his life, until he had lost everything, and it didn't matte=
r whether
he was wise or no. You know what he was in his young days, of course?'
'No, I don't,' said the invisible stranger.
'O, I thought everybody knew poor Sir William's
history. He was the star, as I may zay, of good company forty years ago. I
remember him in the height of his jinks, as I used to zee him when I was a =
very
little boy, and think how great and wonderful he was. I can seem to zee now=
the
exact style of his clothes; white hat, white trousers, white silk handkerch=
ief;
and his jonnick face, as white as his clothes with keeping late hours. There
was nothing black about him but his hair and his eyes--he wore no beard at =
that
time--and they were black as slooes. The like of his coming on the race-cou=
rse
was never seen there afore nor since. He drove his ikkipage hisself; and it=
was
always hauled by four beautiful white horses, and two outriders rode in har=
ness
bridles. There was a groom behind him, and another at the rubbing-post, all=
in
livery as glorious as New Jerusalem. What a 'stablishment he kept up at tha=
t time!
I can mind him, sir, with thirty race-horses in training at once, seventeen
coach-horses, twelve hunters at his box t'other side of London, four charge=
rs
at Budmouth, and ever so many hacks.'
'And he lost all by his racing speculations?' =
the
stranger observed; and Somerset fancied that the voice had in it something =
more
than the languid carelessness of a casual sojourner.
'Partly by that, partly in other ways. He spen=
t a
mint o' money in a wild project of founding a watering-place; and sunk
thousands in a useless silver mine; so 'twas no wonder that the castle named
after him vell into other hands.... The way it was done was curious. Mr.
Wilkins, who was the first owner after it went from Sir William, actually s=
at down
as a guest at his table, and got up as the owner. He took off, at a round s=
um,
everything saleable, furniture, plate, pictures, even the milk and butter in
the dairy. That's how the pictures and furniture come to be in the castle
still; wormeaten rubbish zome o' it, and hardly worth moving.'
'And off went the baronet to Myrtle Villa?'
'O no! he went away for many years. 'Tis quite
lately, since his illness, that he came to that little place, in zight of t=
he
stone walls that were the pride of his forefathers.'
'From what I hear, he has not the manner of a
broken-hearted man?'
'Not at all. Since that illness he has been ha=
ppy,
as you see him: no pride, quite calm and mild; at new moon quite childish. =
'Tis
that makes him able to live there; before he was so ill he couldn't bear a
zight of the place, but since then he is happy nowhere else, and never leav=
es the
parish further than to drive once a week to Markton. His head won't stand
society nowadays, and he lives quite lonely as you zee, only zeeing his
daughter, or his son whenever he comes home, which is not often. They say t=
hat
if his brain hadn't softened a little he would ha' died--'twas that saved h=
is
life.'
'What's this I hear about his daughter? Is she
really hired companion to the new owner?'
'Now that's a curious thing again, these two g=
irls
being so fond of one another; one of 'em a dissenter, and all that, and t'o=
ther
a De Stancy. O no, not hired exactly, but she mostly lives with Miss Power,=
and
goes about with her, and I dare say Miss Power makes it wo'th her while. One
can't move a step without the other following; though judging by ordinary v=
olks
you'd think 'twould be a cat-and-dog friendship rather.'
'But 'tis not?'
''Tis not; they be more like lovers than maid =
and
maid. Miss Power is looked up to by little De Stancy as if she were a
god-a'mighty, and Miss Power lets her love her to her heart's content. But
whether Miss Power loves back again I can't zay, for she's as deep as the N=
orth
Star.'
The landlord here left the stranger to go to s=
ome
other part of the house, and Somerset drew near to the glass partition to g=
ain
a glimpse of a man whose interest in the neighbourhood seemed to have arise=
n so
simultaneously with his own. But the inner room was empty: the man had appa=
rently
departed by another door.
The telegraph had almost the attributes of a h= uman being at Stancy Castle. When its bell rang people rushed to the old tapestr= ied chamber allotted to it, and waited its pleasure with all the deference due = to such a novel inhabitant of that ancestral pile. This happened on the following afternoon about four o'clock, while Somerset was sketching in the room adjoining that occupied by the instrument. Hearing its call, he looked in to learn if anybody were attending, and found Miss De Stancy bending over it.<= o:p>
She welcomed him without the least embarrassme=
nt.
'Another message,' she said.--'"Paula to Charlotte.--Have returned to
Markton. Am starting for home. Will be at the gate between four and five if
possible."'
Miss De Stancy blushed with pleasure when she
raised her eyes from the machine. 'Is she not thoughtful to let me know
beforehand?'
Somerset said she certainly appeared to be,
feeling at the same time that he was not in possession of sufficient data to
make the opinion of great value.
'Now I must get everything ready, and order wh=
at
she will want, as Mrs. Goodman is away. What will she want? Dinner would be
best--she has had no lunch, I know; or tea perhaps, and dinner at the usual
time. Still, if she has had no lunch--Hark, what do I hear?'
She ran to an arrow-slit, and Somerset, who had
also heard something, looked out of an adjoining one. They could see from t=
heir
elevated position a great way along the white road, stretching like a tape =
amid
the green expanses on each side. There had arisen a cloud of dust, accompan=
ied
by a noise of wheels.
'It is she,' said Charlotte. 'O yes--it is past
four--the telegram has been delayed.'
'How would she be likely to come?'
'She has doubtless hired a carriage at the inn:
she said it would be useless to send to meet her, as she couldn't name a
time.... Where is she now?'
'Just where the boughs of those beeches overha=
ng
the road--there she is again!'
Miss De Stancy went away to give directions, a=
nd
Somerset continued to watch. The vehicle, which was of no great pretension,
soon crossed the bridge and stopped: there was a ring at the bell; and Miss=
De
Stancy reappeared.
'Did you see her as she drove up--is she not
interesting?'
'I could not see her.'
'Ah, no--of course you could not from this win=
dow
because of the trees. Mr. Somerset, will you come downstairs? You will have=
to
meet her, you know.'
Somerset felt an indescribable backwardness. 'I
will go on with my sketching,' he said. 'Perhaps she will not be--'
'O, but it would be quite natural, would it no=
t?
Our manners are easier here, you know, than they are in town, and Miss Power
has adapted herself to them.'
A compromise was effected by Somerset declaring
that he would hold himself in readiness to be discovered on the landing at =
any
convenient time.
A servant entered. 'Miss Power?' said Miss De
Stancy, before he could speak.
The man advanced with a card: Miss De Stancy t=
ook
it up, and read thereon: 'Mr. William Dare.'
'It is not Miss Power who has come, then?' she
asked, with a disappointed face.
'No, ma'am.'
She looked again at the card. 'This is some ma=
n of
business, I suppose--does he want to see me?'
'Yes, miss. Leastwise, he would be glad to see=
you
if Miss Power is not at home.'
Miss De Stancy left the room, and soon returne=
d,
saying, 'Mr. Somerset, can you give me your counsel in this matter? This Mr.
Dare says he is a photographic amateur, and it seems that he wrote some time
ago to Miss Power, who gave him permission to take views of the castle, and
promised to show him the best points. But I have heard nothing of it, and s=
carcely
know whether I ought to take his word in her absence. Mrs. Goodman, Miss
Power's relative, who usually attends to these things, is away.'
'I dare say it is all right,' said Somerset.
'Would you mind seeing him? If you think it qu=
ite
in order, perhaps you will instruct him where the best views are to be
obtained?'
Thereupon Somerset at once went down to Mr. Da=
re.
His coming as a sort of counterfeit of Miss Power disposed Somerset to judge
him with as much severity as justice would allow, and his manner for the mo=
ment
was not of a kind calculated to dissipate antagonistic instincts. Mr. Dare =
was standing
before the fireplace with his feet wide apart, and his hands in the pockets=
of
his coat-tails, looking at a carving over the mantelpiece. He turned quickl=
y at
the sound of Somerset's footsteps, and revealed himself as a person quite o=
ut
of the common.
His age it was impossible to say. There was no=
t a
hair on his face which could serve to hang a guess upon. In repose he appea=
red
a boy; but his actions were so completely those of a man that the beholder's
first estimate of sixteen as his age was hastily corrected to six-and-twent=
y, and
afterwards shifted hither and thither along intervening years as the tenor =
of
his sentences sent him up or down. He had a broad forehead, vertical as the
face of a bastion, and his hair, which was parted in the middle, hung as a
fringe or valance above, in the fashion sometimes affected by the other sex=
. He
wore a heavy ring, of which the gold seemed fair, the diamond questionable,=
and
the taste indifferent. There were the remains of a swagger in his body and
limbs as he came forward, regarding Somerset with a confident smile, as if =
the
wonder were, not why Mr. Dare should be present, but why Somerset should be
present likewise; and the first tone that came from Dare's lips wound up hi=
s listener's
opinion that he did not like him.
A latent power in the man, or boy, was reveale=
d by
the circumstance that Somerset did not feel, as he would ordinarily have do=
ne,
that it was a matter of profound indifference to him whether this gentleman=
-photographer
were a likeable person or no.
'I have called by appointment; or rather, I le=
ft a
card stating that to-day would suit me, and no objection was made.' Somerset
recognized the voice; it was that of the invisible stranger who had talked =
with
the landlord about the De Stancys. Mr. Dare then proceeded to explain his b=
usiness.
Somerset found from his inquiries that the man=
had
unquestionably been instructed by somebody to take the views he spoke of; a=
nd
concluded that Dare's curiosity at the inn was, after all, naturally explai=
ned
by his errand to this place. Blaming himself for a too hasty condemnation o=
f the
stranger, who though visually a little too assured was civil enough verball=
y,
Somerset proceeded with the young photographer to sundry corners of the out=
er
ward, and thence across the moat to the field, suggesting advantageous poin=
ts
of view. The office, being a shadow of his own pursuits, was not uncongenia=
l to
Somerset, and he forgot other things in attending to it.
'Now in our country we should stand further ba=
ck
than this, and so get a more comprehensive coup d'oeil,' said Dare, as Some=
rset
selected a good situation.
'You are not an Englishman, then,' said Somers=
et.
'I have lived mostly in India, Malta, Gibralta=
r,
the Ionian Islands, and Canada. I there invented a new photographic process,
which I am bent upon making famous. Yet I am but a dilettante, and do not
follow this art at the base dictation of what men call necessity.'
'O indeed,' Somerset replied.
As soon as this business was disposed of, and =
Mr.
Dare had brought up his van and assistant to begin operations, Somerset
returned to the castle entrance. While under the archway a man with a
professional look drove up in a dog-cart and inquired if Miss Power were at
home to-day.
'She has not yet returned, Mr. Havill,' was the
reply.
Somerset, who had hoped to hear an affirmative=
by
this time, thought that Miss Power was bent on disappointing him in the fle=
sh, notwithstanding
the interest she expressed in him by telegraph; and as it was now drawing
towards the end of the afternoon, he walked off in the direction of his inn=
.
There were two or three ways to that spot, but=
the
pleasantest was by passing through a rambling shrubbery, between whose bush=
es
trickled a broad shallow brook, occasionally intercepted in its course by a=
transverse
chain of old stones, evidently from the castle walls, which formed a miniat=
ure
waterfall. The walk lay along the river-brink. Soon Somerset saw before him=
a
circular summer-house formed of short sticks nailed to ornamental patterns.
Outside the structure, and immediately in the path, stood a man with a book=
in
his hand; and it was presently apparent that this gentleman was holding a
conversation with some person inside the pavilion, but the back of the buil=
ding
being towards Somerset, the second individual could not be seen.
The speaker at one moment glanced into the
interior, and at another at the advancing form of the architect, whom, thou=
gh
distinctly enough beheld, the other scarcely appeared to heed in the absorb=
ing
interest of his own discourse. Somerset became aware that it was the Baptis=
t minister,
whose rhetoric he had heard in the chapel yonder.
'Now,' continued the Baptist minister, 'will y=
ou
express to me any reason or objection whatever which induces you to withdraw
from our communion? It was that of your father, and of his father before hi=
m.
Any difficulty you may have met with I will honestly try to remove; for I n=
eed
hardly say that in losing you we lose one of the most valued members of the
Baptist church in this district. I speak with all the respect due to your
position, when I ask you to realize how irreparable is the injury you infli=
ct
upon the cause here by this lukewarm backwardness.'
'I don't withdraw,' said a woman's low voice
within.
'What do you do?'
'I decline to attend for the present.'
'And you can give no reason for this?'
There was no reply.
'Or for your refusal to proceed with the bapti=
sm?'
'I have been christened.'
'My dear young lady, it is well known that your
christening was the work of your aunt, who did it unknown to your parents w=
hen
she had you in her power, out of pure obstinacy to a church with which she =
was
not in sympathy, taking you surreptitiously, and indefensibly, to the font =
of
the Establishment; so that the rite meant and could mean nothing at all....=
But
I fear that your new position has brought you into contact with the
Paedobaptists, that they have disturbed your old principles, and so induced=
you
to believe in the validity of that trumpery ceremony!'
'It seems sufficient.'
'I will demolish the basis of that seeming in
three minutes, give me but that time as a listener.'
'I have no objection.'
'Very well.... First, then, I will assume that
those who have influenced you in the matter have not been able to make any
impression upon one so well grounded as yourself in our distinctive doctrin=
e,
by the stale old argument drawn from circumcision?'
'You may assume it.'
'Good--that clears the ground. And we now come=
to
the New Testament.'
The minister began to turn over the leaves of =
his
little Bible, which it impressed Somerset to observe was bound with a flap,
like a pocket book, the black surface of the leather being worn brown at the
corners by long usage. He turned on till he came to the beginning of the New
Testament, and then commenced his discourse. After explaining his position,=
the
old man ran very ably through the arguments, citing well-known writers on t=
he
point in dispute when he required more finished sentences than his own.
The minister's earnestness and interest in his=
own
case led him unconsciously to include Somerset in his audience as the young=
man
drew nearer; till, instead of fixing his eyes exclusively on the person wit=
hin
the summer-house, the preacher began to direct a good proportion of his
discourse upon his new auditor, turning from one listener to the other
attentively, without seeming to feel Somerset's presence as superfluous.
'And now,' he said in conclusion, 'I put it to
you, sir, as to her: do you find any flaw in my argument? Is there, madam, a
single text which, honestly interpreted, affords the least foothold for the
Paedobaptists; in other words, for your opinion on the efficacy of the rite=
administered
to you in your unconscious infancy? I put it to you both as honest and
responsible beings.' He turned again to the young man.
It happened that Somerset had been over this
ground long ago. Born, so to speak, a High-Church infant, in his youth he h=
ad
been of a thoughtful turn, till at one time an idea of his entering the Chu=
rch
had been entertained by his parents. He had formed acquaintance with men of=
almost
every variety of doctrinal practice in this country; and, as the pleadings =
of
each assailed him before he had arrived at an age of sufficient mental
stability to resist new impressions, however badly substantiated, he inclin=
ed
to each denomination as it presented itself, was
'Everything by s=
tarts,
and nothing long,'
till he had travelled through a great many bel=
iefs
and doctrines without feeling himself much better than when he set out.
A study of fonts and their origin had qualified
him in this particular subject. Fully conscious of the inexpediency of cont=
ests
on minor ritual differences, he yet felt a sudden impulse towards a mild
intellectual tournament with the eager old man--purely as an exercise of his
wits in the defence of a fair girl.
'Sir, I accept your challenge to us,' said
Somerset, advancing to the minister's side.
At the sound of a new voice the lady in the bo=
wer
started, as he could see by her outline through the crevices of the wood-wo=
rk
and creepers. The minister looked surprised.
'You will lend me your Bible, sir, to assist my
memory?' he continued.
The minister held out the Bible with some
reluctance, but he allowed Somerset to take it from his hand. The latter,
stepping upon a large moss-covered stone which stood near, and laying his h=
at
on a flat beech bough that rose and fell behind him, pointed to the ministe=
r to
seat himself on the grass. The minister looked at the grass, and looked up =
again
at Somerset, but did not move.
Somerset for the moment was not observing him.=
His
new position had turned out to be exactly opposite the open side of the bow=
er,
and now for the first time he beheld the interior. On the seat was the woma=
n who
had stood beneath his eyes in the chapel, the 'Paula' of Miss De Stancy's
enthusiastic eulogies. She wore a summer hat, beneath which her fair curly =
hair
formed a thicket round her forehead. It would be impossible to describe her=
as
she then appeared. Not sensuous enough for an Aphrodite, and too subdued fo=
r a Hebe,
she would yet, with the adjunct of doves or nectar, have stood sufficiently
well for either of those personages, if presented in a pink morning light, =
and
with mythological scarcity of attire.
Half in surprise she glanced up at him; and
lowering her eyes again, as if no surprise were ever let influence her acti=
ons
for more than a moment, she sat on as before, looking past Somerset's posit=
ion
at the view down the river, visible for a long distance before her till it =
was lost
under the bending trees.
Somerset turned over the leaves of the ministe=
r's
Bible, and began:--
'In the First Epistle to the Corinthians, the
seventh chapter and the fourteenth verse--'.
Here the young lady raised her eyes in spite of
her reserve, but it being, apparently, too much labour to keep them raised,
allowed her glance to subside upon her jet necklace, extending it with the
thumb of her left hand.
'Sir!' said the Baptist excitedly, 'I know that
passage well--it is the last refuge of the Paedobaptists--I foresee your ar=
gument.
I have met it dozens of times, and it is not worth that snap of the fingers=
! It
is worth no more than the argument from circumcision, or the Suffer-little-=
children
argument.'
'Then turn to the sixteenth chapter of the Act=
s,
and the thirty-third--'
'That, too,' cried the minister, 'is answered =
by
what I said before! I perceive, sir, that you adopt the method of a special
pleader, and not that of an honest inquirer. Is it, or is it not, an answer=
to
my proofs from the eighth chapter of the Acts, the thirty-sixth and
thirty-seventh verses; the sixteenth of Mark, sixteenth verse; second of Ac=
ts, forty-first
verse; the tenth and the forty-seventh verse; or the eighteenth and eighth
verse?'
'Very well, then. Let me prove the point by ot=
her
reasoning--by the argument from Apostolic tradition.' He threw the minister=
's
book upon the grass, and proceeded with his contention, which comprised a
fairly good exposition of the earliest practice of the Church and inference=
s therefrom.
(When he reached this point an interest in his off-hand arguments was revea=
led
by the mobile bosom of Miss Paula Power, though she still occupied herself =
by
drawing out the necklace.) Testimony from Justin Martyr followed; with
inferences from Irenaeus in the expression, 'Omnes enim venit per semetipsum
salvare; omnes inquam, qui per eum renascuntur in Deum, INFANTES et parvulo=
s et
pueros et juvenes.' (At the sound of so much seriousness Paula turned her e=
yes
upon the speaker with attention.) He next adduced proof of the significatio=
n of
'renascor' in the writings of the Fathers, as reasoned by Wall; arguments f=
rom
Tertullian's advice to defer the rite; citations from Cyprian, Nazianzen,
Chrysostom, and Jerome; and briefly summed up the whole matter.
Somerset looked round for the minister as he
concluded. But the old man, after standing face to face with the speaker, h=
ad
turned his back upon him, and during the latter portions of the attack had
moved slowly away. He now looked back; his countenance was full of
commiserating reproach as he lifted his hand, twice shook his head, and sai=
d,
'In the Epistle to the Philippians, first chapter and sixteenth verse, it is
written that there are some who preach in contention and not sincerely. And=
in
the Second Epistle to Timothy, fourth chapter and fourth verse, attention is
drawn to those whose ears refuse the truth, and are turned unto fables. I w=
ish
you good afternoon, sir, and that priceless gift, SINCERITY.'
The minister vanished behind the trees; Somers=
et
and Miss Power being left confronting each other alone.
Somerset stepped aside from the stone, hat in
hand, at the same moment in which Miss Power rose from her seat. She hesita=
ted
for an instant, and said, with a pretty girlish stiffness, sweeping back the
skirt of her dress to free her toes in turning: 'Although you are personall=
y unknown
to me, I cannot leave you without expressing my deep sense of your profound
scholarship, and my admiration for the thoroughness of your studies in
divinity.'
'Your opinion gives me great pleasure,' said S=
omerset,
bowing, and fairly blushing. 'But, believe me, I am no scholar, and no
theologian. My knowledge of the subject arises simply from the accident that
some few years ago I looked into the question for a special reason. In the =
study
of my profession I was interested in the designing of fonts and baptisterie=
s,
and by a natural process I was led to investigate the history of baptism; a=
nd
some of the arguments I then learnt up still remain with me. That's the sim=
ple
explanation of my erudition.'
'If your sermons at the church only match your
address to-day, I shall not wonder at hearing that the parishioners are at =
last
willing to attend.'
It flashed upon Somerset's mind that she suppo=
sed
him to be the new curate, of whose arrival he had casually heard, during his
sojourn at the inn. Before he could bring himself to correct an error to wh=
ich,
perhaps, more than to anything else, was owing the friendliness of her mann=
er,
she went on, as if to escape the embarrassment of silence:--
'I need hardly say that I at least do not doubt
the sincerity of your arguments.'
'Nevertheless, I was not altogether sincere,' =
he
answered.
She was silent.
'Then why should you have delivered such a def=
ence
of me?' she asked with simple curiosity.
Somerset involuntarily looked in her face for =
his
answer.
Paula again teased the necklace. 'Would you ha=
ve
spoken so eloquently on the other side if I--if occasion had served?' she
inquired shyly.
'Perhaps I would.'
Another pause, till she said, 'I, too, was
insincere.'
'You?'
'I was.'
'In what way?
'In letting him, and you, think I had been at =
all
influenced by authority, scriptural or patristic.'
'May I ask, why, then, did you decline the
ceremony the other evening?'
'Ah, you, too, have heard of it!' she said
quickly.
'No.'
'What then?'
'I saw it.'
She blushed and looked down the river. 'I cann=
ot
give my reasons,' she said.
'Of course not,' said Somerset.
'I would give a great deal to possess real log=
ical
dogmatism.'
'So would I.'
There was a moment of embarrassment: she wante=
d to
get away, but did not precisely know how. He would have withdrawn had she n=
ot
said, as if rather oppressed by her conscience, and evidently still thinking
him the curate: 'I cannot but feel that Mr. Woodwell's heart has been unnec=
essarily
wounded.'
'The minister's?'
'Yes. He is single-mindedness itself. He gives
away nearly all he has to the poor. He works among the sick, carrying them
necessaries with his own hands. He teaches the ignorant men and lads of the
village when he ought to be resting at home, till he is absolutely prostrate
from exhaustion, and then he sits up at night writing encouraging letters to
those poor people who formerly belonged to his congregation in the village,=
and
have now gone away. He always offends ladies, because he can't help speaking
the truth as he believes it; but he hasn't offended me!'
Her feelings had risen towards the end, so that
she finished quite warmly, and turned aside.
'I was not in the least aware that he was such=
a
man,' murmured Somerset, looking wistfully after the minister.... 'Whatever=
you
may have done, I fear that I have grievously wounded a worthy man's heart f=
rom
an idle wish to engage in a useless, unbecoming, dull, last-century argumen=
t.'
'Not dull,' she murmured, 'for it interested m=
e.'
Somerset accepted her correction willingly. 'It
was ill-considered of me, however,' he said; 'and in his distress he has
forgotten his Bible.' He went and picked up the worn volume from where it l=
ay
on the grass.
'You can easily win him to forgive you, by just
following, and returning the book to him,' she observed.
'I will,' said the young man impulsively. And,
bowing to her, he hastened along the river brink after the minister. He at
length saw his friend before him, leaning over the gate which led from the
private path into a lane, his cheek resting on the palm of his hand with ev=
ery outward
sign of abstraction. He was not conscious of Somerset's presence till the
latter touched him on the shoulder.
Never was a reconciliation effected more readi=
ly.
When Somerset said that, fearing his motives might be misconstrued, he had
followed to assure the minister of his goodwill and esteem, Mr. Woodwell he=
ld
out his hand, and proved his friendliness in return by preparing to have the
controversy on their religious differences over again from the beginning, w=
ith
exhaustive detail. Somerset evaded this with alacrity, and once having won =
his
companion to other subjects he found that the austere man had a smile as
pleasant as an infant's on the rare moments when he indulged in it; moreove=
r,
that he was warmly attached to Miss Power.
'Though she gives me more trouble than all the
rest of the Baptist church in this district,' he said, 'I love her as my own
daughter. But I am sadly exercised to know what she is at heart. Heaven sup=
ply
me with fortitude to contest her wild opinions, and intractability! But she=
has
sweet virtues, and her conduct at times can be most endearing.'
'I believe it!' said Somerset, with more fervo=
ur
than mere politeness required.
'Sometimes I think those Stancy towers and lan=
ds
will be a curse to her. The spirit of old papistical times still lingers in=
the
nooks of those silent walls, like a bad odour in a still atmosphere, dulling
the iconoclastic emotions of the true Puritan. It would be a pity indeed if=
she
were to be tainted by the very situation that her father's indomitable ener=
gy
created for her.'
'Do not be concerned about her,' said Somerset
gently. 'She's not a Paedobaptist at heart, although she seems so.'
Mr. Woodwell placed his finger on Somerset's a= rm, saying, 'If she's not a Paedobaptist, or Episcopalian; if she is not vulner= able to the mediaeval influences of her mansion, lands, and new acquaintance, it= is because she's been vulnerable to what is worse: to doctrines beside which t= he errors of Paaedobaptists, Episcopalians, Roman Catholics, are but as air.'<= o:p>
'How? You astonish me.'
'Have you heard in your metropolitan experienc=
e of
a curious body of New Lights, as they think themselves?' The minister whisp=
ered
a name to his listener, as if he were fearful of being overheard.
'O no,' said Somerset, shaking his head, and
smiling at the minister's horror. 'She's not that; at least, I think not.. =
..
She's a woman; nothing more. Don't fear for her; all will be well.'
The poor old man sighed. 'I love her as my own=
. I
will say no more.'
Somerset was now in haste to go back to the la=
dy,
to ease her apparent anxiety as to the result of his mission, and also beca=
use
time seemed heavy in the loss of her discreet voice and soft, buoyant look.
Every moment of delay began to be as two. But the minister was too earnest =
in
his converse to see his companion's haste, and it was not till perception w=
as
forced upon him by the actual retreat of Somerset that he remembered time t=
o be
a limited commodity. He then expressed his wish to see Somerset at his hous=
e to
tea any afternoon he could spare, and receiving the other's promise to call=
as
soon as he could, allowed the younger man to set out for the summer-house,
which he did at a smart pace. When he reached it he looked around, and found
she was gone.
Somerset was immediately struck by his own lac=
k of
social dexterity. Why did he act so readily on the whimsical suggestion of
another person, and follow the minister, when he might have said that he wo=
uld
call on Mr. Woodwell to-morrow, and, making himself known to Miss Power as =
the visiting
architect of whom she had heard from Miss De Stancy, have had the pleasure =
of
attending her to the castle? 'That's what any other man would have had wit
enough to do!' he said.
There then arose the question whether her
despatching him after the minister was such an admirable act of good-nature=
to
a good man as it had at first seemed to be. Perhaps it was simply a manoeuv=
re
for getting rid of himself; and he remembered his doubt whether a certain l=
ight
in her eyes when she inquired concerning his sincerity were innocent earnes=
tness
or the reverse. As the possibility of levity crossed his brain, his face
warmed; it pained him to think that a woman so interesting could condescend=
to
a trick of even so mild a complexion as that. He wanted to think her the so=
ul
of all that was tender, and noble, and kind. The pleasure of setting himsel=
f to
win a minister's goodwill was a little tarnished now.
That evening Somerset was so preoccupied with
these things that he left all his sketching implements out-of-doors in the
castle grounds. The next morning he hastened thither to secure them from be=
ing
stolen or spoiled. Meanwhile he was hoping to have an opportunity of rectif=
ying
Paula's mistake about his personality, which, having served a very good pur=
pose
in introducing them to a mutual conversation, might possibly be made just as
agreeable as a thing to be explained away.
He fetched his drawing instruments, rods,
sketching-blocks and other articles from the field where they had lain, and=
was
passing under the walls with them in his hands, when there emerged from the
outer archway an open landau, drawn by a pair of black horses of fine action
and obviously strong pedigree, in which Paula was seated, under the shade o=
f a
white parasol with black and white ribbons fluttering on the summit. The
morning sun sparkled on the equipage, its newness being made all the more
noticeable by the ragged old arch behind.
She bowed to Somerset in a way which might have
been meant to express that she had discovered her mistake; but there was no
embarrassment in her manner, and the carriage bore her away without her mak=
ing
any sign for checking it. He had not been walking towards the castle entran=
ce, and
she could not be supposed to know that it was his intention to enter that d=
ay.
She had looked such a bud of youth and promise
that his disappointment at her departure showed itself in his face as he
observed her. However, he went on his way, entered a turret, ascended to the
leads of the great tower, and stepped out.
From this elevated position he could still see=
the
carriage and the white surface of Paula's parasol in the glowing sun. While=
he
watched the landau stopped, and in a few moments the horses were turned, th=
e wheels
and the panels flashed, and the carriage came bowling along towards the cas=
tle
again.
Somerset descended the stone stairs. Before he=
had
quite got to the bottom he saw Miss De Stancy standing in the outer hall.
'When did you come, Mr. Somerset?' she gaily s=
aid,
looking up surprised. 'How industrious you are to be at work so regularly e=
very
day! We didn't think you would be here to-day: Paula has gone to a vegetable
show at Markton, and I am going to join her there soon.'
'O! gone to a vegetable show. But I think she =
has
altered her--'
At this moment the noise of the carriage was h=
eard
in the ward, and after a few seconds Miss Power came in--Somerset being
invisible from the door where she stood.
'O Paula, what has brought you back?' said Mis=
s De
Stancy.
'I have forgotten something.'
'Mr. Somerset is here. Will you not speak to h=
im?'
Somerset came forward, and Miss De Stancy
presented him to her friend. Mr. Somerset acknowledged the pleasure by a
respectful inclination of his person, and said some words about the meeting
yesterday.
'Yes,' said Miss Power, with a serene
deliberateness quite noteworthy in a girl of her age; 'I have seen it all
since. I was mistaken about you, was I not? Mr. Somerset, I am glad to welc=
ome you
here, both as a friend of Miss De Stancy's family, and as the son of your
father--which is indeed quite a sufficient introduction anywhere.'
'You have two pictures painted by Mr. Somerset=
's
father, have you not? I have already told him about them,' said Miss De Sta=
ncy.
'Perhaps Mr. Somerset would like to see them if they are unpacked?'
As Somerset had from his infancy suffered from=
a
plethora of those productions, excellent as they were, he did not reply qui=
te
so eagerly as Miss De Stancy seemed to expect to her kind suggestion, and P=
aula
remarked to him, 'You will stay to lunch? Do order it at your own time, if =
our
hour should not be convenient.'
Her voice was a voice of low note, in quality =
that
of a flute at the grave end of its gamut. If she sang, she was a pure contr=
alto
unmistakably.
'I am making use of the permission you have be=
en
good enough to grant me--of sketching what is valuable within these walls.'=
'Yes, of course, I am willing for anybody to c=
ome.
People hold these places in trust for the nation, in one sense. You lift yo=
ur
hands, Charlotte; I see I have not convinced you on that point yet.'
Miss De Stancy laughed, and said something to =
no
purpose.
Somehow Miss Power seemed not only more woman =
than
Miss De Stancy, but more woman than Somerset was man; and yet in years she =
was
inferior to both. Though becomingly girlish and modest, she appeared to pos=
sess
a good deal of composure, which was well expressed by the shaded light of h=
er
eyes.
'You have then met Mr. Somerset before?' said =
Charlotte.
'He was kind enough to deliver an address in my
defence yesterday. I suppose I seemed quite unable to defend myself.'
'O no!' said he. When a few more words had pas=
sed
she turned to Miss De Stancy and spoke of some domestic matter, upon which =
Somerset
withdrew, Paula accompanying his exit with a remark that she hoped to see h=
im again
a little later in the day.
Somerset retired to the chambers of antique
lumber, keeping an eye upon the windows to see if she re-entered the carria=
ge
and resumed her journey to Markton. But when the horses had been standing a
long time the carriage was driven round to the stables. Then she was not go=
ing
to the vegetable show. That was rather curious, seeing that she had only co=
me
back for something forgotten.
These queries and thoughts occupied the mind of
Somerset until the bell was rung for luncheon. Owing to the very dusty
condition in which he found himself after his morning's labours among the o=
ld
carvings he was rather late in getting downstairs, and seeing that the rest=
had
gone in he went straight to the dining-hall.
The population of the castle had increased in =
his
absence. There were assembled Paula and her friend Charlotte; a bearded man
some years older than himself, with a cold grey eye, who was cursorily
introduced to him in sitting down as Mr. Havill, an architect of Markton; a=
lso
an elderly lady of dignified aspect, in a black satin dress, of which she a=
pparently
had a very high opinion. This lady, who seemed to be a mere dummy in the
establishment, was, as he now learnt, Mrs. Goodman by name, a widow of a
recently deceased gentleman, and aunt to Paula--the identical aunt who had
smuggled Paula into a church in her helpless infancy, and had her christened
without her parents' knowledge. Having been left in narrow circumstances by=
her
husband, she was at present living with Miss Power as chaperon and adviser =
on
practical matters--in a word, as ballast to the management. Beyond her Some=
rset
discerned his new acquaintance Mr. Woodwell, who on sight of Somerset was f=
or hastening
up to him and performing a laboured shaking of hands in earnest recognition=
.
Paula had just come in from the garden, and was
carelessly laying down her large shady hat as he entered. Her dress, a figu=
red
material in black and white, was short, allowing her feet to appear. There =
was something
in her look, and in the style of her corsage, which reminded him of several=
of
the bygone beauties in the gallery. The thought for a moment crossed his mi=
nd
that she might have been imitating one of them.
'Fine old screen, sir!' said Mr. Havill, in a
long-drawn voice across the table when they were seated, pointing in the
direction of the traceried oak division between the dining-hall and a vesti=
bule
at the end. 'As good a piece of fourteenth-century work as you shall see in=
this
part of the country.'
'You mean fifteenth century, of course?' said
Somerset.
Havill was silent. 'You are one of the profess=
ion,
perhaps?' asked the latter, after a while.
'You mean that I am an architect?' said Somers=
et.
'Yes.'
'Ah--one of my own honoured vocation.' Havill's
face had been not unpleasant until this moment, when he smiled; whereupon t=
here
instantly gleamed over him a phase of meanness, remaining until the smile d=
ied away.
Havill continued, with slow watchfulness:--
'What enormous sacrileges are committed by the
builders every day, I observe! I was driving yesterday to Toneborough where=
I
am erecting a town-hall, and passing through a village on my way I saw the
workmen pulling down a chancel-wall in which they found imbedded a unique s=
pecimen
of Perpendicular work--a capital from some old arcade--the mouldings
wonderfully undercut. They were smashing it up as filling-in for the new wa=
ll.'
'It must have been unique,' said Somerset, in =
the
too-readily controversial tone of the educated young man who has yet to lea=
rn diplomacy.
'I have never seen much undercutting in Perpendicular stone-work; nor anybo=
dy
else, I think.'
'O yes--lots of it!' said Mr. Havill, nettled.=
Paula looked from one to the other. 'Which am =
I to
take as guide?' she asked. 'Are Perpendicular capitals undercut, as you call
it, Mr. Havill, or no?'
'It depends upon circumstances,' said Mr. Havi=
ll.
But Somerset had answered at the same time: 'T=
here
is seldom or never any marked undercutting in moulded work later than the
middle of the fourteenth century.'
Havill looked keenly at Somerset for a time: t=
hen
he turned to Paula: 'As regards that fine Saxon vaulting you did me the hon=
our
to consult me about the other day, I should advise taking out some of the o=
ld
stones and reinstating new ones exactly like them.'
'But the new ones won't be Saxon,' said Paula.
'And then in time to come, when I have passed away, and those stones have
become stained like the rest, people will be deceived. I should prefer an
honest patch to any such make-believe of Saxon relics.'
As she concluded she let her eyes rest on Some=
rset
for a moment, as if to ask him to side with her. Much as he liked talking to
Paula, he would have preferred not to enter into this discussion with anoth=
er professional
man, even though that man were a spurious article; but he was led on to
enthusiasm by a sudden pang of regret at finding that the masterly workmans=
hip
in this fine castle was likely to be tinkered and spoilt by such a man as
Havill.
'You will deceive nobody into believing that
anything is Saxon here,' he said warmly. 'There is not a square inch of Sax=
on
work, as it is called, in the whole castle.'
Paula, in doubt, looked to Mr. Havill.
'O yes, sir; you are quite mistaken,' said that
gentleman slowly. 'Every stone of those lower vaults was reared in Saxon
times.'
'I can assure you,' said Somerset deferentiall= y, but firmly, 'that there is not an arch or wall in this castle of a date anterior to the year 1100; no one whose attention has ever been given to the study of architectural details of that age can be of a different opinion.'<= o:p>
'I have studied architecture, and I am of a
different opinion. I have the best reason in the world for the difference, =
for
I have history herself on my side. What will you say when I tell you that i=
t is
a recorded fact that this was used as a castle by the Romans, and that it is
mentioned in Domesday as a building of long standing?'
'I shall say that has nothing to do with it,'
replied the young man. 'I don't deny that there may have been a castle here=
in
the time of the Romans: what I say is, that none of the architecture we now=
see
was standing at that date.'
There was a silence of a minute, disturbed onl=
y by
a murmured dialogue between Mrs. Goodman and the minister, during which Pau=
la
was looking thoughtfully on the table as if framing a question.
'Can it be,' she said to Somerset, 'that such
certainty has been reached in the study of architectural dates? Now, would =
you
really risk anything on your belief? Would you agree to be shut up in the
vaults and fed upon bread and water for a week if I could prove you wrong?'=
'Willingly,' said Somerset. 'The date of those towers and arches is matter of absolute certainty from the details. That th= ey should have been built before the Conquest is as unlikely as, say, that the= rustiest old gun with a percussion lock should be older than the date of Waterloo.'<= o:p>
'How I wish I knew something precise of an art
which makes one so independent of written history!'
Mr. Havill had lapsed into a mannerly silence =
that
was only sullenness disguised. Paula turned her conversation to Miss De Sta=
ncy,
who had simply looked from one to the other during the discussion, though s=
he might
have been supposed to have a prescriptive right to a few remarks on the mat=
ter.
A commonplace talk ensued, till Havill, who had not joined in it, privately
began at Somerset again with a mixed manner of cordiality, contempt, and
misgiving.
'You have a practice, I suppose, sir?'
'I am not in practice just yet.'
'Just beginning?'
'I am about to begin.'
'In London, or near here?'
'In London probably.'
'H'm.... I am practising in Markton.'
'Indeed. Have you been at it long?'
'Not particularly. I designed the chapel built=
by
this lady's late father; it was my first undertaking--I owe my start, in fa=
ct,
to Mr. Power. Ever build a chapel?'
'Never. I have sketched a good many churches.'=
'Ah--there we differ. I didn't do much sketchi=
ng
in my youth, nor have I time for it now. Sketching and building are two
different things, to my mind. I was not brought up to the profession--got i=
nto
it through sheer love of it. I began as a landscape gardener, then I became=
a
builder, then I was a road contractor. Every architect might do worse than =
have
some such experience. But nowadays 'tis the men who can draw pretty pictures
who get recommended, not the practical men. Young prigs win Institute medals
for a pretty design or two which, if anybody tried to build them, would fall
down like a house of cards; then they get travelling studentships and what =
not,
and then they start as architects of some new school or other, and think th=
ey
are the masters of us experienced ones.'
While Somerset was reflecting how far this
statement was true, he heard the voice of Paula inquiring, 'Who can he be?'=
Her eyes were bent on the window. Looking out,
Somerset saw in the mead beyond the dry ditch, Dare, with his photographic
apparatus.
'He is the young gentleman who called about ta=
king
views of the castle,' said Charlotte.
'O yes--I remember; it is quite right. He met =
me
in the village and asked me to suggest him some views. I thought him a
respectable young fellow.'
'I think he is a Canadian,' said Somerset.
'No,' said Paula, 'he is from the East--at lea=
st
he implied so to me.'
'There is Italian blood in him,' said Charlotte
brightly. 'For he spoke to me with an Italian accent. But I can't think whe=
ther
he is a boy or a man.'
'It is to be earnestly hoped that the gentleman
does not prevaricate,' said the minister, for the first time attracted by t=
he
subject. 'I accidentally met him in the lane, and he said something to me a=
bout
having lived in Malta. I think it was Malta, or Gibraltar--even if he did n=
ot
say that he was born there.'
'His manners are no credit to his nationality,'
observed Mrs. Goodman, also speaking publicly for the first time. 'He asked=
me
this morning to send him out a pail of water for his process, and before I =
had
turned away he began whistling. I don't like whistlers.'
'Then it appears,' said Somerset, 'that he is a
being of no age, no nationality, and no behaviour.'
'A complete negative,' added Havill, brighteni=
ng
into a civil sneer. 'That is, he would be, if he were not a maker of negati=
ves
well known in Markton.'
'Not well known, Mr. Havill,' answered Mrs.
Goodman firmly. 'For I lived in Markton for thirty years ending three months
ago, and he was never heard of in my time.'
'He is something like you, Charlotte,' said Pa=
ula,
smiling playfully on her companion.
All the men looked at Charlotte, on whose face=
a
delicate nervous blush thereupon made its appearance.
''Pon my word there is a likeness, now I think=
of
it,' said Havill.
Paula bent down to Charlotte and whispered:
'Forgive my rudeness, dear. He is not a nice enough person to be like you. =
He
is really more like one or other of the old pictures about the house. I for=
get
which, and really it does not matter.'
'People's features fall naturally into groups =
and
classes,' remarked Somerset. 'To an observant person they often repeat
themselves; though to a careless eye they seem infinite in their difference=
s.'
The conversation flagged, and they idly observ=
ed
the figure of the cosmopolite Dare as he walked round his instrument in the
mead and busied himself with an arrangement of curtains and lenses,
occasionally withdrawing a few steps, and looking contemplatively at the to=
wers
and walls.
Somerset returned to the top of the great tower
with a vague consciousness that he was going to do something up there--perh=
aps
sketch a general plan of the structure. But he began to discern that this S=
tancy-Castle
episode in his studies of Gothic architecture might be less useful than
ornamental to him as a professional man, though it was too agreeable to be
abandoned. Finding after a while that his drawing progressed but slowly, by
reason of infinite joyful thoughts more allied to his nature than to his ar=
t,
he relinquished rule and compass, and entered one of the two turrets openin=
g on
the roof. It was not the staircase by which he had ascended, and he proceed=
ed
to explore its lower part. Entering from the blaze of light without, and
imagining the stairs to descend as usual, he became aware after a few steps
that there was suddenly nothing to tread on, and found himself precipitated=
downwards
to a distance of several feet.
Arrived at the bottom, he was conscious of the
happy fact that he had not seriously hurt himself, though his leg was twist=
ed
awkwardly. Next he perceived that the stone steps had been removed from the
turret, so that he had dropped into it as into a dry well; that, owing to i=
ts
being walled up below, there was no door of exit on either side of him; tha=
t he
was, in short, a prisoner.
Placing himself in a more comfortable position=
he
calmly considered the best means of getting out, or of making his condition
known. For a moment he tried to drag himself up by his arm, but it was a
hopeless attempt, the height to the first step being far too great.
He next looked round at a lower level. Not far from his left elbow, in the concave of the outer wall, was a slit for the admission of light, and he perceived at once that through this slit alone l= ay his chance of communicating with the outer world. At first it seemed as if = it were to be done by shouting, but when he learnt what little effect was prod= uced by his voice in the midst of such a mass of masonry, his heart failed him f= or a moment. Yet, as either Paula or Miss De Stancy would probably guess his vis= it to the top of the tower, there was no cause for terror, if some for alarm.<= o:p>
He put his handkerchief through the window-sli=
t,
so that it fluttered outside, and, fixing it in its place by a large stone
drawn from the loose ones around him, awaited succour as best he could. To
begin this course of procedure was easy, but to abide in patience till it
should produce fruit was an irksome task. As nearly as he could guess--for =
his watch
had been stopped by the fall--it was now about four o'clock, and it would be
scarcely possible for evening to approach without some eye or other noticing
the white signal. So Somerset waited, his eyes lingering on the little worl=
d of
objects around him, till they all became quite familiar. Spiders'-webs in
plenty were there, and one in particular just before him was in full use as=
a
snare, stretching across the arch of the window, with radiating threads as =
its
ribs. Somerset had plenty of time, and he counted their number--fifteen. He
remained so silent that the owner of this elaborate structure soon forgot t=
he disturbance
which had resulted in the breaking of his diagonal ties, and crept out from=
the
corner to mend them. In watching the process, Somerset noticed that on the
stonework behind the web sundry names and initials had been cut by explorer=
s in
years gone by. Among these antique inscriptions he observed two bright and
clean ones, consisting of the words 'De Stancy' and 'W. Dare,' crossing each
other at right angles. From the state of the stone they could not have been=
cut
more than a month before this date, and, musing on the circumstance, Somers=
et
passed the time until the sun reached the slit in that side of the tower, w=
here,
beginning by throwing in a streak of fire as narrow as a corn-stalk, it
enlarged its width till the dusty nook was flooded with cheerful light. It
disclosed something lying in the corner, which on examination proved to be a
dry bone. Whether it was human, or had come from the castle larder in bygone
times, he could not tell. One bone was not a whole skeleton, but it made him
think of Ginevra of Modena, the heroine of the Mistletoe Bough, and other
cribbed and confined wretches, who had fallen into such traps and been
discovered after a cycle of years.
The sun's rays had travelled some way round the
interior when Somerset's waiting ears were at last attracted by footsteps
above, each tread being brought down by the hollow turret with great fideli=
ty.
He hoped that with these sounds would arise that of a soft voice he had beg=
un
to like well. Indeed, during the solitary hour or two of his waiting here he
had pictured Paula straying alone on the terrace of the castle, looking up,
noting his signal, and ascending to deliver him from his painful position by
her own exertions. It seemed that at length his dream had been verified. The
footsteps approached the opening of the turret; and, attracted by the call
which Somerset now raised, began to descend towards him. In a moment, not
Paula's face, but that of a dreary footman of her household, looked into the
hole.
Somerset mastered his disappointment, and the =
man
speedily fetched a ladder, by which means the prisoner of two hours ascende=
d to
the roof in safety. During the process he ventured to ask for the ladies of=
the
house, and learnt that they had gone out for a drive together.
Before he left the castle, however, they had
returned, a circumstance unexpectedly made known to him by his receiving a
message from Miss Power, to the effect that she would be glad to see him at=
his
convenience. Wondering what it could possibly mean, he followed the messeng=
er
to her room--a small modern library in the Jacobean wing of the house,
adjoining that in which the telegraph stood. She was alone, sitting behind a
table littered with letters and sketches, and looking fresh from her drive.
Perhaps it was because he had been shut up in that dismal dungeon all the
afternoon that he felt something in her presence which at the same time cha=
rmed
and refreshed him.
She signified that he was to sit down; but fin=
ding
that he was going to place himself on a straight-backed chair some distance=
off
she said, 'Will you sit nearer to me?' and then, as if rather oppressed by =
her dignity,
she left her own chair of business and seated herself at ease on an ottoman
which was among the diversified furniture of the apartment.
'I want to consult you professionally,' she we=
nt
on. 'I have been much impressed by your great knowledge of castellated
architecture. Will you sit in that leather chair at the table, as you may h=
ave
to take notes?'
The young man assented, expressed his
gratification, and went to the chair she designated.
'But, Mr. Somerset,' she continued, from the
ottoman--the width of the table only dividing them--'I first should just li=
ke
to know, and I trust you will excuse my inquiry, if you are an architect in
practice, or only as yet studying for the profession?'
'I am just going to practise. I open my office=
on
the first of January next,' he answered.
'You would not mind having me as a client--your
first client?' She looked curiously from her sideway face across the table =
as
she said this.
'Can you ask it!' said Somerset warmly. 'What =
are
you going to build?'
'I am going to restore the castle.'
'What, all of it?' said Somerset, astonished at
the audacity of such an undertaking.
'Not the parts that are absolutely ruinous: the
walls battered by the Parliament artillery had better remain as they are, I
suppose. But we have begun wrong; it is I who should ask you, not you me...=
. I
fear,' she went on, in that low note which was somewhat difficult to catch =
at a
distance, 'I fear what the antiquarians will say if I am not very careful. =
They
come here a great deal in summer and if I were to do the work wrong they wo=
uld
put my name in the papers as a dreadful person. But I must live here, as I =
have
no other house, except the one in London, and hence I must make the place
habitable. I do hope I can trust to your judgment?'
'I hope so,' he said, with diffidence, for, far
from having much professional confidence, he often mistrusted himself. 'I a=
m a
Fellow of the Society of Antiquaries, and a Member of the Institute of Brit=
ish Architects--not
a Fellow of that body yet, though I soon shall be.'
'Then I am sure you must be trustworthy,' she
said, with enthusiasm. 'Well, what am I to do?--How do we begin?'
Somerset began to feel more professional, what
with the business chair and the table, and the writing-paper, notwithstandi=
ng
that these articles, and the room they were in, were hers instead of his; a=
nd
an evenness of manner which he had momentarily lost returned to him. 'The v=
ery
first step,' he said, 'is to decide upon the outlay--what is it to cost?'
He faltered a little, for it seemed to disturb=
the
softness of their relationship to talk thus of hard cash. But her sympathy =
with
his feeling was apparently not great, and she said, 'The expenditure shall =
be
what you advise.'
'What a heavenly client!' he thought. 'But you
must just give some idea,' he said gently. 'For the fact is, any sum almost=
may
be spent on such a building: five thousand, ten thousand, twenty thousand,
fifty thousand, a hundred thousand.'
'I want it done well; so suppose we say a hund=
red
thousand? My father's solicitor--my solicitor now--says I may go to a hundr=
ed
thousand without extravagance, if the expenditure is scattered over two or
three years.'
Somerset looked round for a pen. With quicknes=
s of
insight she knew what he wanted, and signified where one could be found. He
wrote down in large figures--
100,000.
It was more than he had expected; and for a yo=
ung
man just beginning practice, the opportunity of playing with another person=
's
money to that extent would afford an exceptionally handsome opening, not so
much from the commission it represented, as from the attention that would b=
e bestowed
by the art-world on such an undertaking.
Paula had sunk into a reverie. 'I was intendin=
g to
intrust the work to Mr. Havill, a local architect,' she said. 'But I gather=
ed
from his conversation with you to-day that his ignorance of styles might co=
mpromise
me very seriously. In short, though my father employed him in one or two li=
ttle
matters, it would not be right--even a morally culpable thing--to place suc=
h an
historically valuable building in his hands.'
'Has Mr. Havill ever been led to expect the
commission?' he asked.
'He may have guessed that he would have it. I =
have
spoken of my intention to him more than once.'
Somerset thought over his conversation with
Havill. Well, he did not like Havill personally; and he had strong reasons =
for
suspecting that in the matter of architecture Havill was a quack. But was it
quite generous to step in thus, and take away what would be a golden
opportunity to such a man of making both ends meet comfortably for some yea=
rs
to come, without giving him at least one chance? He reflected a little long=
er, and
then spoke out his feeling.
'I venture to propose a slightly modified
arrangement,' he said. 'Instead of committing the whole undertaking to my h=
ands
without better proof of my ability to carry it out than you have at present,
let there be a competition between Mr. Havill and myself--let our rival pla=
ns
for the restoration and enlargement be submitted to a committee of the Roya=
l Institute
of British Architects--and let the choice rest with them, subject of course=
to
your approval.'
'It is indeed generous of you to suggest it.' =
She
looked thoughtfully at him; he appeared to strike her in a new light. 'You
really recommend it?' The fairness which had prompted his words seemed to
incline her still more than before to resign herself entirely to him in the
matter.
'I do,' said Somerset deliberately.
'I will think of it, since you wish it. And no=
w,
what general idea have you of the plan to adopt? I do not positively agree =
to
your suggestion as yet, so I may perhaps ask the question.'
Somerset, being by this time familiar with the
general plan of the castle, took out his pencil and made a rough sketch. Wh=
ile
he was doing it she rose, and coming to the back of his chair, bent over hi=
m in
silence.
'Ah, I begin to see your conception,' she
murmured; and the breath of her words fanned his ear. He finished the sketc=
h,
and held it up to her, saying--
'I would suggest that you walk over the buildi=
ng
with Mr. Havill and myself, and detail your ideas to us on each portion.'
'Is it necessary?'
'Clients mostly do it.'
'I will, then. But it is too late for me this
evening. Please meet me to-morrow at ten.'
At ten o'clock they met in the same room, Paula
appearing in a straw hat having a bent-up brim lined with plaited silk, so =
that
it surrounded her forehead like a nimbus; and Somerset armed with sketch-bo=
ok, measuring-rod,
and other apparatus of his craft.
'And Mr. Havill?' said the young man.
'I have not decided to employ him: if I do he
shall go round with me independently of you,' she replied rather brusquely.=
Somerset was by no means sorry to hear this. H=
is
duty to Havill was done.
'And now,' she said, as they walked on together
through the passages, 'I must tell you that I am not a mediaevalist myself;=
and
perhaps that's a pity.'
'What are you?'
'I am Greek--that's why I don't wish to influe=
nce
your design.'
Somerset, as they proceeded, pointed out where
roofs had been and should be again, where gables had been pulled down, and
where floors had vanished, showing her how to reconstruct their details from
marks in the walls, much as a comparative anatomist reconstructs an
antediluvian from fragmentary bones and teeth. She appeared to be intereste=
d,
listened attentively, but said little in reply. They were ultimately in a l=
ong narrow
passage, indifferently lighted, when Somerset, treading on a loose stone, f=
elt
a twinge of weakness in one knee, and knew in a moment that it was the resu=
lt
of the twist given by his yesterday's fall. He paused, leaning against the
wall.
'What is it?' said Paula, with a sudden timidi=
ty
in her voice.
'I slipped down yesterday,' he said. 'It will =
be
right in a moment.'
'I--can I help you?' said Paula. But she did n=
ot
come near him; indeed, she withdrew a little. She looked up the passage, and
down the passage, and became conscious that it was long and gloomy, and that
nobody was near. A curious coy uneasiness seemed to take possession of her.
Whether she thought, for the first time, that she had made a mistake--that =
to wander
about the castle alone with him was compromising, or whether it was the mere
shy instinct of maidenhood, nobody knows; but she said suddenly, 'I will get
something for you, and return in a few minutes.'
'Pray don't--it has quite passed!' he said,
stepping out again.
But Paula had vanished. When she came back it =
was
in the rear of Charlotte De Stancy. Miss De Stancy had a tumbler in one han=
d,
half full of wine, which she offered him; Paula remaining in the background=
.
He took the glass, and, to satisfy his compani=
ons,
drank a mouthful or two, though there was really nothing whatever the matter
with him beyond the slight ache above mentioned. Charlotte was going to ret=
ire,
but Paula said, quite anxiously, 'You will stay with me, Charlotte, won't y=
ou?
Surely you are interested in what I am doing?'
'What is it?' said Miss De Stancy.
'Planning how to mend and enlarge the castle. =
Tell
Mr. Somerset what I want done in the quadrangle--you know quite well--and I
will walk on.'
She walked on; but instead of talking on the
subject as directed, Charlotte and Somerset followed chatting on indifferent
matters. They came to an inner court and found Paula standing there.
She met Miss De Stancy with a smile. 'Did you
explain?' she asked.
'I have not explained yet.' Paula seated herse=
lf
on a stone bench, and Charlotte went on: 'Miss Power thought of making a Gr=
eek
court of this. But she will not tell you so herself, because it seems such
dreadful anachronism.
'I said I would not tell any architect myself,'
interposed Paula correctingly. 'I did not then know that he would be Mr.
Somerset.'
'It is rather startling,' said Somerset.
'A Greek colonnade all round, you said, Paula,'
continued her less reticent companion. 'A peristyle you called it--you saw =
it
in a book, don't you remember?--and then you were going to have a fountain =
in
the middle, and statues like those in the British Museum.'
'I did say so,' remarked Paula, pulling the le=
aves
from a young sycamore-tree that had sprung up between the joints of the pav=
ing.
From the spot where they sat they could see ov=
er
the roofs the upper part of the great tower wherein Somerset had met with h=
is
misadventure. The tower stood boldly up in the sun, and from one of the sli=
ts
in the corner something white waved in the breeze.
'What can that be?' said Charlotte. 'Is it the
fluff of owls, or a handkerchief?'
'It is my handkerchief,' Somerset answered. 'I
fixed it there with a stone to attract attention, and forgot to take it awa=
y.'
All three looked up at the handkerchief with
interest. 'Why did you want to attract attention?' said Paula.
'O, I fell into the turret; but I got out very
easily.'
'O Paula,' said Charlotte, turning to her frie=
nd,
'that must be the place where the man fell in, years ago, and was starved to
death!'
'Starved to death?' said Paula.
'They say so. O Mr. Somerset, what an escape!'=
And
Charlotte De Stancy walked away to a point from which she could get a better
view of the treacherous turret.
'Whom did you think to attract?' asked Paula,
after a pause.
'I thought you might see it.'
'Me personally?' And, blushing faintly, her ey=
es
rested upon him.
'I hoped for anybody. I thought of you,' said
Somerset.
She did not continue. In a moment she arose and
went across to Miss De Stancy. 'Don't YOU go falling down and becoming a
skeleton,' she said--Somerset overheard the words, though Paula was unaware=
of it--after
which she clasped her fingers behind Charlotte's neck, and smiled tenderly =
in
her face.
It seemed to be quite unconsciously done, and
Somerset thought it a very beautiful action. Presently Paula returned to him
and said, 'Mr. Somerset, I think we have had enough architecture for to-day=
.'
The two women then wished him good-morning and
went away. Somerset, feeling that he had now every reason for prowling about
the castle, remained near the spot, endeavouring to evolve some plan of pro=
cedure
for the project entertained by the beautiful owner of those weather-scathed
walls. But for a long time the mental perspective of his new position so
excited the emotional side of his nature that he could not concentrate it on
feet and inches. As Paula's architect (supposing Havill not to be admitted =
as a
competitor), he must of necessity be in constant communication with her for=
a
space of two or three years to come; and particularly during the next few
months. She, doubtless, cherished far too ambitious views of her career to =
feel
any personal interest in this enforced relationship with him; but he would =
be
at liberty to feel what he chose: and to be the victim of an unrequited pas=
sion,
while afforded such splendid opportunities of communion with the one belove=
d,
deprived that passion of its most deplorable features. Accessibility is a g=
reat
point in matters of love, and perhaps of the two there is less misery in lo=
ving
without return a goddess who is to be seen and spoken to every day, than in
having an affection tenderly reciprocated by one always hopelessly removed.=
With this view of having to spend a considerab=
le
time in the neighbourhood Somerset shifted his quarters that afternoon from=
the
little inn at Sleeping-Green to a larger one at Markton. He required more r=
ooms
in which to carry out Paula's instructions than the former place afforded, =
and
a more central position. Having reached and dined at Markton he found the
evening tedious, and again strolled out in the direction of the castle.
When he reached it the light was declining, an=
d a
solemn stillness overspread the pile. The great tower was in full view. That
spot of white which looked like a pigeon fluttering from the loophole was h=
is handkerchief,
still hanging in the place where he had left it. His eyes yet lingered on t=
he
walls when he noticed, with surprise, that the handkerchief suddenly vanish=
ed.
Believing that the breezes, though weak below,
might have been strong enough at that height to blow it into the turret, an=
d in
no hurry to get off the premises, he leisurely climbed up to find it, ascen=
ding
by the second staircase, crossing the roof, and going to the top of the tre=
acherous
turret. The ladder by which he had escaped still stood within it, and beside
the ladder he beheld the dim outline of a woman, in a meditative attitude, =
holding
his handkerchief in her hand.
Somerset softly withdrew. When he had reached =
the
ground he looked up. A girlish form was standing at the top of the tower
looking over the parapet upon him--possibly not seeing him, for it was dark=
on
the lawn. It was either Miss De Stancy or Paula; one of them had gone there
alone for his handkerchief and had remained awhile, pondering on his escape=
. But
which? 'If I were not a faint-heart I should run all risk and wave my hat or
kiss my hand to her, whoever she is,' he thought. But he did not do either.=
So he lingered about silently in the shades, a=
nd
then thought of strolling to his rooms at Markton. Just at leaving, as he
passed under the inhabited wing, whence one or two lights now blinked, he h=
eard
a piano, and a voice singing 'The Mistletoe Bough.' The song had probably b=
een
suggested to the romantic fancy of the singer by her visit to the scene of =
his
captivity.
The identity of the lady whom he had seen on t=
he
tower and afterwards heard singing was established the next day.
'I have been thinking,' said Miss Power, on
meeting him, 'that you may require a studio on the premises. If so, the roo=
m I
showed you yesterday is at your service. If I employ Mr. Havill to compete =
with
you I will offer him a similar one.'
Somerset did not decline; and she added, 'In t=
he
same room you will find the handkerchief that was left on the tower.'
'Ah, I saw that it was gone. Somebody brought =
it
down?'
'I did,' she shyly remarked, looking up for a
second under her shady hat-brim.
'I am much obliged to you.'
'O no. I went up last night to see where the
accident happened, and there I found it. When you came up were you in searc=
h of
it, or did you want me?'
'Then she saw me,' he thought. 'I went for the
handkerchief only; I was not aware that you were there,' he answered simply.
And he involuntarily sighed.
It was very soft, but she might have heard him,
for there was interest in her voice as she continued, 'Did you see me before
you went back?'
'I did not know it was you; I saw that some la=
dy
was there, and I would not disturb her. I wondered all the evening if it we=
re
you.'
Paula hastened to explain: 'We understood that=
you
would stay to dinner, and as you did not come in we wondered where you were.
That made me think of your accident, and after dinner I went up to the place
where it happened.'
Somerset almost wished she had not explained so
lucidly.
And now followed the piquant days to which his
position as her architect, or, at worst, as one of her two architects, natu=
rally
led. His anticipations were for once surpassed by the reality. Perhaps Some=
rset's
inherent unfitness for a professional life under ordinary circumstances was
only proved by his great zest for it now. Had he been in regular practice, =
with
numerous other clients, instead of having merely made a start with this one=
, he
would have totally neglected their business in his exclusive attention to
Paula's.
The idea of a competition between Somerset and
Havill had been highly approved by Paula's solicitor, but she would not ass=
ent
to it as yet, seeming quite vexed that Somerset should not have taken the g=
ood
the gods provided without questioning her justice to Havill. The room she h=
ad
offered him was prepared as a studio. Drawing-boards and Whatman's paper we=
re
sent for, and in a few days Somerset began serious labour. His first
requirement was a clerk or two, to do the drudgery of measuring and figurin=
g;
but for the present he preferred to sketch alone. Sometimes, in measuring t=
he
outworks of the castle, he ran against Havill strolling about with no appar=
ent
object, who bestowed on him an envious nod, and passed by.
'I hope you will not make your sketches,' she
said, looking in upon him one day, 'and then go away to your studio in Lond=
on
and think of your other buildings and forget mine. I am in haste to begin, =
and
wish you not to neglect me.'
'I have no other building to think of,' said
Somerset, rising and placing a chair for her. 'I had not begun practice, as=
you
may know. I have nothing else in hand but your castle.'
'I suppose I ought not to say I am glad of it;=
but
it is an advantage to have an architect all to one's self. The architect wh=
om I
at first thought of told me before I knew you that if I placed the castle in
his hands he would undertake no other commission till its completion.'
'I agree to the same,' said Somerset.
'I don't wish to bind you. But I hinder you
now--do pray go on without reference to me. When will there be some drawing=
for
me to see?'
'I will take care that it shall be soon.'
He had a metallic tape in his hand, and went o=
ut
of the room to take some dimension in the corridor. The assistant for whom =
he
had advertised had not arrived, and he attempted to fix the end of the tape=
by
sticking his penknife through the ring into the wall. Paula looked on at a =
distance.
'I will hold it,' she said.
She went to the required corner and held the e=
nd
in its place. She had taken it the wrong way, and Somerset went over and pl=
aced
it properly in her fingers, carefully avoiding to touch them. She obediently
raised her hand to the corner again, and stood till he had finished, when s=
he asked,
'Is that all?'
'That is all,' said Somerset. 'Thank you.' Wit=
hout
further speech she looked at his sketch-book, while he marked down the lines
just acquired.
'You said the other day,' she observed, 'that
early Gothic work might be known by the under-cutting, or something to that
effect. I have looked in Rickman and the Oxford Glossary, but I cannot quite
understand what you meant.'
It was only too probable to her lover, from the
way in which she turned to him, that she HAD looked in Rickman and the
Glossary, and was thinking of nothing in the world but of the subject of her
inquiry.
'I can show you, by actual example, if you will
come to the chapel?' he returned hesitatingly.
'Don't go on purpose to show me--when you are
there on your own account I will come in.'
'I shall be there in half-an-hour.'
'Very well,' said Paula. She looked out of a
window, and, seeing Miss De Stancy on the terrace, left him.
Somerset stood thinking of what he had said. He
had no occasion whatever to go into the chapel of the castle that day. He h=
ad
been tempted by her words to say he would be there, and 'half-an-hour' had =
come
to his lips almost without his knowledge. This community of interest--if it
were not anything more tender--was growing serious. What had passed between
them amounted to an appointment; they were going to meet in the most solita=
ry chamber
of the whole solitary pile. Could it be that Paula had well considered this=
in
replying with her friendly 'Very well?' Probably not.
Somerset proceeded to the chapel and waited. W=
ith
the progress of the seconds towards the half-hour he began to discover that=
a
dangerous admiration for this girl had risen within him. Yet so imaginative=
was
his passion that he hardly knew a single feature of her countenance well en=
ough
to remember it in her absence. The meditative judgment of things and men wh=
ich
had been his habit up to the moment of seeing her in the Baptist chapel see=
med
to have left him--nothing remained but a distracting wish to be always near
her, and it was quite with dismay that he recognized what immense importanc=
e he
was attaching to the question whether she would keep the trifling engagemen=
t or
not.
The chapel of Stancy Castle was a silent place,
heaped up in corners with a lumber of old panels, framework, and broken
coloured glass. Here no clock could be heard beating out the hours of the
day--here no voice of priest or deacon had for generations uttered the dail=
y service
denoting how the year rolls on. The stagnation of the spot was sufficient to
draw Somerset's mind for a moment from the subject which absorbed it, and he
thought, 'So, too, will time triumph over all this fervour within me.'
Lifting his eyes from the floor on which his f=
oot
had been tapping nervously, he saw Paula standing at the other end. It was =
not
so pleasant when he also saw that Mrs. Goodman accompanied her. The latter =
lady,
however, obligingly remained where she was resting, while Paula came forwar=
d,
and, as usual, paused without speaking.
'It is in this little arcade that the example
occurs,' said Somerset.
'O yes,' she answered, turning to look at it.<= o:p>
'Early piers, capitals, and mouldings, general=
ly
alternated with deep hollows, so as to form strong shadows. Now look under =
the
abacus of this capital; you will find the stone hollowed out wonderfully; a=
nd
also in this arch-mould. It is often difficult to understand how it could b=
e done
without cracking off the stone. The difference between this and late work c=
an
be felt by the hand even better than it can be seen.' He suited the action =
to
the word and placed his hand in the hollow.
She listened attentively, then stretched up her
own hand to test the cutting as he had done; she was not quite tall enough;=
she
would step upon this piece of wood. Having done so she tried again, and
succeeded in putting her finger on the spot. No; she could not understand i=
t through
her glove even now. She pulled off her glove, and, her hand resting in the
stone channel, her eyes became abstracted in the effort of realization, the
ideas derived through her hand passing into her face.
'No, I am not sure now,' she said.
Somerset placed his own hand in the cavity. Now
their two hands were close together again. They had been close together
half-an-hour earlier, and he had sedulously avoided touching hers. He dared=
not
let such an accident happen now. And yet--surely she saw the situation! Was=
the
inscrutable seriousness with which she applied herself to his lesson a mock=
ery?
There was such a bottomless depth in her eyes that it was impossible to gue=
ss
truly. Let it be that destiny alone had ruled that their hands should be
together a second time.
All rumination was cut short by an impulse. He
seized her forefinger between his own finger and thumb, and drew it along t=
he
hollow, saying, 'That is the curve I mean.'
Somerset's hand was hot and trembling; Paula's=
, on
the contrary, was cool and soft as an infant's.
'Now the arch-mould,' continued he. 'There--the
depth of that cavity is tremendous, and it is not geometrical, as in later
work.' He drew her unresisting fingers from the capital to the arch, and la=
id
them in the little trench as before.
She allowed them to rest quietly there till he
relinquished them. 'Thank you,' she then said, withdrawing her hand, brushi=
ng
the dust from her finger-tips, and putting on her glove.
Her imperception of his feeling was the very
sublimity of maiden innocence if it were real; if not, well, the coquetry w=
as
no great sin.
'Mr. Somerset, will you allow me to have the G=
reek
court I mentioned?' she asked tentatively, after a long break in their
discourse, as she scanned the green stones along the base of the arcade, wi=
th a
conjectural countenance as to his reply.
'Will your own feeling for the genius of the p=
lace
allow you?'
'I am not a mediaevalist: I am an eclectic.'
'You don't dislike your own house on that
account.'
'I did at first--I don't so much now.... I sho=
uld
love it, and adore every stone, and think feudalism the only true romance of
life, if--'
'What?'
'If I were a De Stancy, and the castle the long
home of my forefathers.'
Somerset was a little surprised at the avowal:=
the
minister's words on the effects of her new environment recurred to his mind.
'Miss De Stancy doesn't think so,' he said. 'She cares nothing about those
things.'
Paula now turned to him: hitherto her remarks =
had
been sparingly spoken, her eyes being directed elsewhere: 'Yes, that is very
strange, is it not?' she said. 'But it is owing to the joyous freshness of =
her
nature which precludes her from dwelling on the past--indeed, the past is no
more to her than it is to a sparrow or robin. She is scarcely an instance of
the wearing out of old families, for a younger mental constitution than her=
s I
never knew.'
'Unless that very simplicity represents the se=
cond
childhood of her line, rather than her own exclusive character.'
Paula shook her head. 'In spite of the Greek
court, she is more Greek than I.'
'You represent science rather than art, perhap=
s.'
'How?' she asked, glancing up under her hat.
'I mean,' replied Somerset, 'that you represent
the march of mind--the steamship, and the railway, and the thoughts that sh=
ake
mankind.'
She weighed his words, and said: 'Ah, yes: you allude to my father. My father was a great man; but I am more and more forgetting his greatness: that kind of greatness is what a woman can never truly enter into. I am less and less his daughter every day that goes by.'<= o:p>
She walked away a few steps to rejoin the
excellent Mrs. Goodman, who, as Somerset still perceived, was waiting for P=
aula
at the discreetest of distances in the shadows at the farther end of the
building. Surely Paula's voice had faltered, and she had turned to hide a t=
ear?
She came back again. 'Did you know that my fat=
her
made half the railways in Europe, including that one over there?' she said,
waving her little gloved hand in the direction whence low rumbles were
occasionally heard during the day.
'Yes.'
'How did you know?'
'Miss De Stancy told me a little; and I then f=
ound
his name and doings were quite familiar to me.'
Curiously enough, with his words there came
through the broken windows the murmur of a train in the distance, sounding
clearer and more clear. It was nothing to listen to, yet they both listened;
till the increasing noise suddenly broke off into dead silence.
'It has gone into the tunnel,' said Paula. 'Ha=
ve
you seen the tunnel my father made? the curves are said to be a triumph of
science. There is nothing else like it in this part of England.'
'There is not: I have heard so. But I have not
seen it.'
'Do you think it a thing more to be proud of t=
hat
one's father should have made a great tunnel and railway like that, than th=
at
one's remote ancestor should have built a great castle like this?'
What could Somerset say? It would have require=
d a
casuist to decide whether his answer should depend upon his conviction, or =
upon
the family ties of such a questioner. 'From a modern point of view, railways
are, no doubt, things more to be proud of than castles,' he said; 'though p=
erhaps
I myself, from mere association, should decide in favour of the ancestor who
built the castle.' The serious anxiety to be truthful that Somerset threw i=
nto
his observation, was more than the circumstance required. 'To design great
engineering works,' he added musingly, and without the least eye to the
disparagement of her parent, 'requires no doubt a leading mind. But to exec=
ute
them, as he did, requires, of course, only a following mind.'
His reply had not altogether pleased her; and
there was a distinct reproach conveyed by her slight movement towards Mrs.
Goodman. He saw it, and was grieved that he should have spoken so. 'I am go=
ing
to walk over and inspect that famous tunnel of your father's,' he added gen=
tly.
'It will be a pleasant study for this afternoon.'
She went away. 'I am no man of the world,' he
thought. 'I ought to have praised that father of hers straight off. I shall=
not
win her respect; much less her love!'
Somerset did not forget what he had planned, a=
nd
when lunch was over he walked away through the trees. The tunnel was more
difficult of discovery than he had anticipated, and it was only after
considerable winding among green lanes, whose deep ruts were like canyons of
Colorado in miniature, that he reached the slope in the distant upland where
the tunnel began. A road stretched over its crest, and thence along one sid=
e of
the railway-cutting.
He there unexpectedly saw standing Miss Power's
carriage; and on drawing nearer he found it to contain Paula herself, Miss =
De
Stancy, and Mrs. Goodman.
'How singular!' exclaimed Miss De Stancy gaily=
.
'It is most natural,' said Paula instantly. 'In
the morning two people discuss a feature in the landscape, and in the after=
noon
each has a desire to see it from what the other has said of it. Therefore t=
hey accidentally
meet.'
Now Paula had distinctly heard Somerset declare
that he was going to walk there; how then could she say this so coolly? It =
was
with a pang at his heart that he returned to his old thought of her being
possibly a finished coquette and dissembler. Whatever she might be, she was=
not
a creature starched very stiffly by Puritanism.
Somerset looked down on the mouth of the tunne=
l.
The popular commonplace that science, steam, and travel must always be
unromantic and hideous, was not proven at this spot. On either slope of the
deep cutting, green with long grass, grew drooping young trees of ash, beec=
h,
and other flexible varieties, their foliage almost concealing the actual
railway which ran along the bottom, its thin steel rails gleaming like silv=
er threads
in the depths. The vertical front of the tunnel, faced with brick that had =
once
been red, was now weather-stained, lichened, and mossed over in harmonious
rusty-browns, pearly greys, and neutral greens, at the very base appearing a
little blue-black spot like a mouse-hole--the tunnel's mouth.
The carriage was drawn up quite close to the w=
ood
railing, and Paula was looking down at the same time with him; but he made =
no
remark to her.
Mrs. Goodman broke the silence by saying, 'If =
it
were not a railway we should call it a lovely dell.'
Somerset agreed with her, adding that it was so
charming that he felt inclined to go down.
'If you do, perhaps Miss Power will order you =
up
again, as a trespasser,' said Charlotte De Stancy. 'You are one of the larg=
est shareholders
in the railway, are you not, Paula?'
Miss Power did not reply.
'I suppose as the road is partly yours you mig=
ht
walk all the way to London along the rails, if you wished, might you not,
dear?' Charlotte continued.
Paula smiled, and said, 'No, of course not.'
Somerset, feeling himself superfluous, raised =
his
hat to his companions as if he meant not to see them again for a while, and
began to descend by some steps cut in the earth; Miss De Stancy asked Mrs.
Goodman to accompany her to a barrow over the top of the tunnel; and they l=
eft
the carriage, Paula remaining alone.
Down Somerset plunged through the long grass,
bushes, late summer flowers, moths, and caterpillars, vexed with himself th=
at
he had come there, since Paula was so inscrutable, and humming the notes of
some song he did not know. The tunnel that had seemed so small from the sur=
face
was a vast archway when he reached its mouth, which emitted, as a contrast =
to
the sultry heat on the slopes of the cutting, a cool breeze, that had trave=
lled
a mile underground from the other end. Far away in the darkness of this sil=
ent
subterranean corridor he could see that other end as a mere speck of light.=
When he had conscientiously admired the
construction of the massive archivault, and the majesty of its nude ungarni=
shed
walls, he looked up the slope at the carriage; it was so small to the eye t=
hat
it might have been made for a performance by canaries; Paula's face being s=
till
smaller, as she leaned back in her seat, idly looking down at him. There se=
emed
something roguish in her attitude of criticism, and to be no longer the sub=
ject
of her contemplation he entered the tunnel out of her sight.
In the middle of the speck of light before him=
appeared
a speck of black; and then a shrill whistle, dulled by millions of tons of
earth, reached his ears from thence. It was what he had been on his guard a=
gainst
all the time,--a passing train; and instead of taking the trouble to come o=
ut
of the tunnel he stepped into a recess, till the train had rattled past and
vanished onward round a curve.
Somerset still remained where he had placed
himself, mentally balancing science against art, the grandeur of this fine
piece of construction against that of the castle, and thinking whether Paul=
a's
father had not, after all, the best of it, when all at once he saw Paula's =
form
confronting him at the entrance of the tunnel. He instantly went forward in=
to
the light; to his surprise she was as pale as a lily.
'O, Mr. Somerset!' she exclaimed. 'You ought n=
ot
to frighten me so--indeed you ought not! The train came out almost as soon =
as
you had gone in, and as you did not return--an accident was possible!'
Somerset at once perceived that he had been to
blame in not thinking of this.
'Please do forgive my thoughtlessness in not
reflecting how it would strike you!' he pleaded. 'I--I see I have alarmed y=
ou.'
Her alarm was, indeed, much greater than he ha=
d at
first thought: she trembled so much that she was obliged to sit down, at wh=
ich
he went up to her full of solicitousness.
'You ought not to have done it!' she said. 'I
naturally thought--any person would--'
Somerset, perhaps wisely, said nothing at this
outburst; the cause of her vexation was, plainly enough, his perception of =
her
discomposure. He stood looking in another direction, till in a few moments =
she
had risen to her feet again, quite calm.
'It would have been dreadful,' she said with f=
aint
gaiety, as the colour returned to her face; 'if I had lost my architect, and
been obliged to engage Mr. Havill without an alternative.'
'I was really in no danger; but of course I ou=
ght
to have considered,' he said.
'I forgive you,' she returned good-naturedly. =
'I
knew there was no GREAT danger to a person exercising ordinary discretion; =
but
artists and thinkers like you are indiscreet for a moment sometimes. I am n=
ow
going up again. What do you think of the tunnel?'
They were crossing the railway to ascend by the
opposite path, Somerset keeping his eye on the interior of the tunnel for
safety, when suddenly there arose a noise and shriek from the contrary
direction behind the trees. Both knew in a moment what it meant, and each
seized the other as they rushed off the permanent way. The ideas of both had
been so centred on the tunnel as the source of danger, that the probability=
of
a train from the opposite quarter had been forgotten. It rushed past them, =
causing
Paula's dress, hair, and ribbons to flutter violently, and blowing up the
fallen leaves in a shower over their shoulders.
Neither spoke, and they went up several steps,
holding each other by the hand, till, becoming conscious of the fact, she
withdrew hers; whereupon Somerset stopped and looked earnestly at her; but =
her
eyes were averted towards the tunnel wall.
'What an escape!' he said.
'We were not so very near, I think, were we?' =
she
asked quickly. 'If we were, I think you were--very good to take my hand.'
They reached the top at last, and the new level
and open air seemed to give her a new mind. 'I don't see the carriage
anywhere,' she said, in the common tones of civilization.
He thought it had gone over the crest of the h=
ill;
he would accompany her till they reached it.
'No--please--I would rather not--I can find it
very well.' Before he could say more she had inclined her head and smiled a=
nd
was on her way alone.
The tunnel-cutting appeared a dreary gulf enou=
gh
now to the young man, as he stood leaning over the rails above it, beating =
the
herbage with his stick. For some minutes he could not criticize or weigh her
conduct; the warmth of her presence still encircled him. He recalled her fa=
ce
as it had looked out at him from under the white silk puffing of her black =
hat,
and the speaking power of her eyes at the moment of danger. The breadth of =
that
clear-complexioned forehead--almost concealed by the masses of brown hair
bundled up around it--signified that if her disposition were oblique and
insincere enough for trifling, coquetting, or in any way making a fool of h=
im,
she had the intellect to do it cruelly well.
But it was ungenerous to ruminate so suspiciou=
sly.
A girl not an actress by profession could hardly turn pale artificially as =
she
had done, though perhaps mere fright meant nothing, and would have arisen in
her just as readily had he been one of the labourers on her estate.
The reflection that such feeling as she had
exhibited could have no tender meaning returned upon him with masterful for=
ce
when he thought of her wealth and the social position into which she had
drifted. Somerset, being of a solitary and studious nature, was not quite
competent to estimate precisely the disqualifying effect, if any, of her no=
nconformity,
her newness of blood, and other things, among the old county families
established round her; but the toughest prejudices, he thought, were not li=
kely
to be long invulnerable to such cheerful beauty and brightness of intellect=
as
Paula's. When she emerged, as she was plainly about to do, from the seclusi=
on
in which she had been living since her father's death, she would inevitably=
win
her way among her neighbours. She would become the local topic. Fortune-hun=
ters
would learn of her existence and draw near in shoals. What chance would the=
re then
be for him?
The points in his favour were indeed few, but =
they
were just enough to keep a tantalizing hope alive. Modestly leaving out of
count his personal and intellectual qualifications, he thought of his famil=
y.
It was an old stock enough, though not a rich one. His great-uncle had been=
the
well-known Vice-admiral Sir Armstrong Somerset, who served his country well=
in
the Baltic, the Indies, China, and the Caribbean Sea. His grandfather had b=
een
a notable metaphysician. His father, the Royal Academician, was popular. But
perhaps this was not the sort of reasoning likely to occupy the mind of a y=
oung
woman; the personal aspect of the situation was in such circumstances of far
more import. He had come as a wandering stranger--that possibly lent some
interest to him in her eyes. He was installed in an office which would
necessitate free communion with her for some time to come; that was another
advantage, and would be a still greater one if she showed, as Paula seemed
disposed to do, such artistic sympathy with his work as to follow up with
interest the details of its progress.
The carriage did not reappear, and he went on
towards Markton, disinclined to return again that day to the studio which h=
ad
been prepared for him at the castle. He heard feet brushing the grass behin=
d him,
and, looking round, saw the Baptist minister.
'I have just come from the village,' said Mr.
Woodwell, who looked worn and weary, his boots being covered with dust; 'an=
d I
have learnt that which confirms my fears for her.'
'For Miss Power?'
'Most assuredly.'
'What danger is there?' said Somerset.
'The temptations of her position have become t=
oo
much for her! She is going out of mourning next week, and will give a large
dinner-party on the occasion; for though the invitations are partly in the =
name
of her relative Mrs. Goodman, they must come from her. The guests are to
include people of old cavalier families who would have treated her grandfat=
her,
sir, and even her father, with scorn for their religion and connections; al=
so
the parson and curate--yes, actually people who believe in the Apostolic
Succession; and what's more, they're coming. My opinion is, that it has all
arisen from her friendship with Miss De Stancy.'
'Well,' cried Somerset warmly, 'this only shows
liberality of feeling on both sides! I suppose she has invited you as well?=
'
'She has not invited me!... Mr. Somerset, not
withstanding your erroneous opinions on important matters, I speak to you a=
s a
friend, and I tell you that she has never in her secret heart forgiven that
sermon of mine, in which I likened her to the church at Laodicea. I admit t=
he words
were harsh, but I was doing my duty, and if the case arose to-morrow I woul=
d do
it again. Her displeasure is a deep grief to me; but I serve One greater th=
an
she.... You, of course, are invited to this dinner?'
'I have heard nothing of it,' murmured the you=
ng
man.
Their paths diverged; and when Somerset reached
the hotel he was informed that somebody was waiting to see him.
'Man or woman?' he asked.
The landlady, who always liked to reply in per=
son
to Somerset's inquiries, apparently thinking him, by virtue of his drawing
implements and liberality of payment, a possible lord of Burleigh, came for=
ward
and said it was certainly not a woman, but whether man or boy she could not=
say.
'His name is Mr. Dare,' she added.
'O--that youth,' he said.
Somerset went upstairs, along the passage, down
two steps, round the angle, and so on to the rooms reserved for him in this
rambling edifice of stage-coach memories, where he found Dare waiting. Dare
came forward, pulling out the cutting of an advertisement.
'Mr. Somerset, this is yours, I believe, from =
the
Architectural World?'
Somerset said that he had inserted it.
'I think I should suit your purpose as assista=
nt
very well.'
'Are you an architect's draughtsman?'
'Not specially. I have some knowledge of the s=
ame,
and want to increase it.'
'I thought you were a photographer.'
'Also of photography,' said Dare with a bow.
'Though but an amateur in that art I can challenge comparison with Regent
Street or Broadway.'
Somerset looked upon his table. Two letters on=
ly,
addressed in initials, were lying there as answers to his advertisement. He
asked Dare to wait, and looked them over. Neither was satisfactory. On this
account he overcame his slight feeling against Mr. Dare, and put a question=
to test
that gentleman's capacities. 'How would you measure the front of a building,
including windows, doors, mouldings, and every other feature, for a ground
plan, so as to combine the greatest accuracy with the greatest despatch?'
'In running dimensions,' said Dare.
As this was the particular kind of work he wan=
ted
done, Somerset thought the answer promising. Coming to terms with Dare, he
requested the would-be student of architecture to wait at the castle the ne=
xt
day, and dismissed him.
A quarter of an hour later, when Dare was taki=
ng a
walk in the country, he drew from his pocket eight other letters addressed =
to
Somerset in initials, which, to judge by their style and stationery, were f=
rom
men far superior to those two whose communications alone Somerset had seen.=
Dare
looked them over for a few seconds as he strolled on, then tore them into
minute fragments, and, burying them under the leaves in the ditch, went on =
his
way again.
Though exhibiting indifference, Somerset had f=
elt
a pang of disappointment when he heard the news of Paula's approaching dinn=
er-party.
It seemed a little unkind of her to pass him over, seeing how much they were
thrown together just now. That dinner meant more than it sounded.
Notwithstanding the roominess of her castle, she was at present living some=
what
incommodiously, owing partly to the stagnation caused by her recent
bereavement, and partly to the necessity for overhauling the De Stancy lumb=
er
piled in those vast and gloomy chambers before they could be made tolerable=
to
nineteenth-century fastidiousness.
To give dinners on any large scale before Some=
rset
had at least set a few of these rooms in order for her, showed, to his
thinking, an overpowering desire for society.
During the week he saw less of her than usual,=
her
time being to all appearance much taken up with driving out to make calls on
her neighbours and receiving return visits. All this he observed from the w=
indows
of his studio overlooking the castle ward, in which room he now spent a gre=
at
deal of his time, bending over drawing-boards and instructing Dare, who wor=
ked
as well as could be expected of a youth of such varied attainments.
Nearer came the Wednesday of the party, and no
hint of that event reached Somerset, but such as had been communicated by t=
he
Baptist minister. At last, on the very afternoon, an invitation was handed =
into
his studio--not a kind note in Paula's handwriting, but a formal printed ca=
rd
in the joint names of Mrs. Goodman and Miss Power. It reached him just four
hours before the dinner-time. He was plainly to be used as a stop-gap at the
last moment because somebody could not come.
Having previously arranged to pass a quiet eve=
ning
in his rooms at the Lord Quantock Arms, in reading up chronicles of the cas=
tle
from the county history, with the view of gathering some ideas as to the di=
stribution
of rooms therein before the demolition of a portion of the structure, he
decided off-hand that Paula's dinner was not of sufficient importance to hi=
m as
a professional man and student of art to justify a waste of the evening by
going. He accordingly declined Mrs. Goodman's and Miss Power's invitation; =
and
at five o'clock left the castle and walked across the fields to the little
town.
He dined early, and, clearing away heaviness w=
ith
a cup of coffee, applied himself to that volume of the county history which
contained the record of Stancy Castle.
Here he read that 'when this picturesque and
ancient structure was founded, or by whom, is extremely uncertain. But that=
a
castle stood on the site in very early times appears from many old books of
charters. In its prime it was such a masterpiece of fortification as to be =
the
wonder of the world, and it was thought, before the invention of gunpowder,=
that
it never could be taken by any force less than divine.'
He read on to the times when it first passed i=
nto
the hands of 'De Stancy, Chivaler,' and received the family name, and so on
from De Stancy to De Stancy till he was lost in the reflection whether Paul=
a would
or would not have thought more highly of him if he had accepted the invitat=
ion
to dinner. Applying himself again to the tome, he learned that in the year =
1504
Stephen the carpenter was 'paid eleven pence for necessarye repayrs,' and
William the mastermason eight shillings 'for whyt lyming of the kitchen, an=
d the
lyme to do it with,' including 'a new rope for the fyer bell;' also the sun=
dry
charges for 'vij crockes, xiij lytyll pans, a pare of pot hookes, a fyer pa=
ne,
a lanterne, a chafynge dyshe, and xij candyll stychs.'
Bang went eight strokes of the clock: it was t=
he
dinner-hour.
'There, now I can't go, anyhow!' he said bitte=
rly,
jumping up, and picturing her receiving her company. How would she look; wh=
at
would she wear? Profoundly indifferent to the early history of the noble fa=
bric,
he felt a violent reaction towards modernism, eclecticism, new aristocracie=
s,
everything, in short, that Paula represented. He even gave himself up to
consider the Greek court that she had wished for, and passed the remainder =
of
the evening in making a perspective view of the same.
The next morning he awoke early, and, resolvin=
g to
be at work betimes, started promptly. It was a fine calm hour of day; the g=
rass
slopes were silvery with excess of dew, and the blue mists hung in the dept=
hs
of each tree for want of wind to blow them out. Somerset entered the drive =
on
foot, and when near the castle he observed in the gravel the wheel-marks of=
the
carriages that had conveyed the guests thither the night before. There seem=
ed
to have been a large number, for the road where newly repaired was quite cut
up. Before going indoors he was tempted to walk round to the wing in which
Paula slept.
Rooks were cawing, sparrows were chattering th=
ere;
but the blind of her window was as closely drawn as if it were midnight.
Probably she was sound asleep, dreaming of the compliments which had been p=
aid
her by her guests, and of the future triumphant pleasures that would follow=
in their
train. Reaching the outer stone stairs leading to the great hall he found t=
hem
shadowed by an awning brilliantly striped with red and blue, within which r=
ows
of flowering plants in pots bordered the pathway. She could not have made m=
ore
preparation had the gathering been a ball. He passed along the gallery in w=
hich
his studio was situated, entered the room, and seized a drawing-board to put
into correct drawing the sketch for the Greek court that he had struck out =
the
night before, thereby abandoning his art principles to please the whim of a
girl. Dare had not yet arrived, and after a time Somerset threw down his pe=
ncil
and leant back.
His eye fell upon something that moved. It was
white, and lay in the folding chair on the opposite side of the room. On ne=
ar
approach he found it to be a fragment of swan's-down fanned into motion by =
his
own movements, and partially squeezed into the chink of the chair as though=
by
some person sitting on it.
None but a woman would have worn or brought th=
at
swan's-down into his studio, and it made him reflect on the possible one.
Nothing interrupted his conjectures till ten o'clock, when Dare came. Then =
one
of the servants tapped at the door to know if Mr. Somerset had arrived. Som=
erset
asked if Miss Power wished to see him, and was informed that she had only
wished to know if he had come. Somerset sent a return message that he had a
design on the board which he should soon be glad to submit to her, and the
messenger departed.
'Fine doings here last night, sir,' said Dare,=
as
he dusted his T-square.
'O indeed!'
'A dinner-party, I hear; eighteen guests.'
'Ah,' said Somerset.
'The young lady was magnificent--sapphires and
opals--she carried as much as a thousand pounds upon her head and shoulders
during that three or four hour. Of course they call her charming; Compuesta=
no
hay muger fea, as they say at Madrid.'
'I don't doubt it for a moment,' said Somerset,
with reserve.
Dare said no more, and presently the door open=
ed,
and there stood Paula.
Somerset nodded to Dare to withdraw into an
adjoining room, and offered her a chair.
'You wish to show me the design you have
prepared?' she asked, without taking the seat.
'Yes; I have come round to your opinion. I have
made a plan for the Greek court you were anxious to build.' And he elevated=
the
drawing-board against the wall.
She regarded it attentively for some moments, =
her
finger resting lightly against her chin, and said, 'I have given up the ide=
a of
a Greek court.'
He showed his astonishment, and was almost
disappointed. He had been grinding up Greek architecture entirely on her
account; had wrenched his mind round to this strange arrangement, all for
nothing.
'Yes,' she continued; 'on reconsideration I
perceive the want of harmony that would result from inserting such a piece =
of
marble-work in a mediaeval fortress; so in future we will limit ourselves
strictly to synchronism of style--that is to say, make good the Norman work=
by Norman,
the Perpendicular by Perpendicular, and so on. I have informed Mr. Havill of
the same thing.'
Somerset pulled the Greek drawing off the boar=
d,
and tore it in two pieces.
She involuntarily turned to look in his face, =
but
stopped before she had quite lifted her eyes high enough. 'Why did you do
that?' she asked with suave curiosity.
'It is of no further use,' said Somerset, tear=
ing
the drawing in the other direction, and throwing the pieces into the firepl=
ace.
'You have been reading up orders and styles to some purpose, I perceive.' H=
e regarded
her with a faint smile.
'I have had a few books down from town. It is
desirable to know a little about the architecture of one's own house.'
She remained looking at the torn drawing, when
Somerset, observing on the table the particle of swan's-down he had found in
the chair, gently blew it so that it skimmed across the table under her eye=
s.
'It looks as if it came off a lady's dress,' he
said idly.
'Off a lady's fan,' she replied.
'O, off a fan?'
'Yes; off mine.'
At her reply Somerset stretched out his hand f=
or
the swan's-down, and put it carefully in his pocket-book; whereupon Paula,
moulding her cherry-red lower lip beneath her upper one in arch self-consci=
ousness
at his act, turned away to the window, and after a pause said softly as she=
looked
out, 'Why did you not accept our invitation to dinner?'
It was impossible to explain why. He impulsive=
ly
drew near and confronted her, and said, 'I hope you pardon me?'
'I don't know that I can quite do that,' answe= red she, with ever so little reproach. 'I know why you did not come--you were mortified at not being asked sooner! But it was purely by an accident that = you received your invitation so late. My aunt sent the others by post, but as y= ours was to be delivered by hand it was left on her table, and was overlooked.'<= o:p>
Surely he could not doubt her words; those nice
friendly accents were the embodiment of truth itself.
'I don't mean to make a serious complaint,' she
added, in injured tones, showing that she did. 'Only we had asked nearly al=
l of
them to meet you, as the son of your illustrious father, whom many of my
friends know personally; and--they were disappointed.'
It was now time for Somerset to be genuinely g=
rieved
at what he had done. Paula seemed so good and honourable at that moment tha=
t he
could have laid down his life for her.
'When I was dressed, I came in here to ask you=
to
reconsider your decision,' she continued; 'or to meet us in the drawing-roo=
m if
you could not possibly be ready for dinner. But you were gone.'
'And you sat down in that chair, didn't you,
darling, and remained there a long time musing!' he thought. But that he did
not say.
'I am very sorry,' he murmured.
'Will you make amends by coming to our garden
party? I ask you the very first.'
'I will,' replied Somerset. To add that it wou=
ld
give him great pleasure, etc., seemed an absurdly weak way of expressing his
feelings, and he said no more.
'It is on the nineteenth. Don't forget the day=
.'
He met her eyes in such a way that, if she were
woman, she must have seen it to mean as plainly as words: 'Do I look as if I
could forget anything you say?'
She must, indeed, have understood much more by
this time--the whole of his open secret. But he did not understand her. His=
tory
has revealed that a supernumerary lover or two is rarely considered a
disadvantage by a woman, from queen to cottage-girl; and the thought made h=
im
pause.
When she was gone he went on with the drawing,=
not
calling in Dare, who remained in the room adjoining. Presently a servant ca=
me
and laid a paper on his table, which Miss Power had sent. It was one of the
morning newspapers, and was folded so that his eye fell immediately on a le=
tter
headed 'Restoration or Demolition.'
The letter was professedly written by a
dispassionate person solely in the interests of art. It drew attention to t=
he
circumstance that the ancient and interesting castle of the De Stancys had
unhappily passed into the hands of an iconoclast by blood, who, without res=
pect
for the tradition of the county, or any feeling whatever for history in sto=
ne, was
about to demolish much, if not all, that was interesting in that ancient pi=
le,
and insert in its midst a monstrous travesty of some Greek temple. In the n=
ame
of all lovers of mediaeval art, conjured the simple-minded writer, let
something be done to save a building which, injured and battered in the Civ=
il
Wars, was now to be made a complete ruin by the freaks of an irresponsible
owner. Her sending him the paper seemed to imply that she required his opin=
ion
on the case; and in the afternoon, leaving Dare to measure up a wing accord=
ing
to directions, he went out in the hope of meeting her, having learnt that s=
he
had gone to the village. On reaching the church he saw her crossing the
churchyard path with her aunt and Miss De Stancy. Somerset entered the
enclosure, and as soon as she saw him she came across.
'What is to be done?' she asked.
'You need not be concerned about such a letter=
as
that.'
'I am concerned.'
'I think it dreadful impertinence,' spoke up
Charlotte, who had joined them. 'Can you think who wrote it, Mr. Somerset?'=
Somerset could not.
'Well, what am I to do?' repeated Paula.
'Just as you would have done before.'
'That's what I say,' observed Mrs. Goodman
emphatically.
'But I have already altered--I have given up t=
he
Greek court.'
'O--you had seen the paper this morning before=
you
looked at my drawing?'
'I had,' she answered.
Somerset thought it a forcible illustration of=
her
natural reticence that she should have abandoned the design without telling=
him
the reason; but he was glad she had not done it from mere caprice.
She turned to him and said quietly, 'I wish YOU
would answer that letter.'
'It would be ill-advised,' said Somerset. 'Sti=
ll,
if, after consideration, you wish it much, I will. Meanwhile let me impress
upon you again the expediency of calling in Mr. Havill--to whom, as your fa=
ther's
architect, expecting this commission, something perhaps is owed--and getting
him to furnish an alternative plan to mine, and submitting the choice of
designs to some members of the Royal Institute of British Architects. This
letter makes it still more advisable than before.'
'Very well,' said Paula reluctantly.
'Let him have all the particulars you have been
good enough to explain to me--so that we start fair in the competition.'
She looked negligently on the grass. 'I will t=
ell
the building steward to write them out for him,' she said.
The party separated and entered the church by =
different
doors. Somerset went to a nook of the building that he had often intended to
visit. It was called the Stancy aisle; and in it stood the tombs of that
family. Somerset examined them: they were unusually rich and numerous,
beginning with cross-legged knights in hauberks of chain-mail, their ladies
beside them in wimple and cover-chief, all more or less coated with the gre=
en mould
and dirt of ages: and continuing with others of later date, in fine alabast=
er,
gilded and coloured, some of them wearing round their necks the Yorkist col=
lar
of suns and roses, the livery of Edward the Fourth. In scrutinizing the tal=
lest
canopy over these he beheld Paula behind it, as if in contemplation of the =
same
objects.
'You came to the church to sketch these monume=
nts,
I suppose, Mr. Somerset?' she asked, as soon as she saw him.
'No. I came to speak to you about the letter.'=
She sighed. 'Yes: that letter,' she said. 'I am
persecuted! If I had been one of these it would never have been written.' S=
he
tapped the alabaster effigy of a recumbent lady with her parasol.
'They are interesting, are they not?' he said.
'She is beautifully preserved. The gilding is nearly gone, but beyond that =
she
is perfect.'
'She is like Charlotte,' said Paula. And what =
was
much like another sigh escaped her lips.
Somerset admitted that there was a resemblance,
while Paula drew her forefinger across the marble face of the effigy, and at
length took out her handkerchief, and began wiping the dust from the hollow=
s of
the features. He looked on, wondering what her sigh had meant, but guessing=
that
it had been somehow caused by the sight of these sculptures in connection w=
ith
the newspaper writer's denunciation of her as an irresponsible outsider.
The secret was out when in answer to his quest=
ion,
idly put, if she wished she were like one of these, she said, with exceptio=
nal
vehemence for one of her demeanour--
'I don't wish I was like one of them: I wish I=
WAS
one of them.'
'What--you wish you were a De Stancy?'
'Yes. It is very dreadful to be denounced as a
barbarian. I want to be romantic and historical.'
'Miss De Stancy seems not to value the privile=
ge,'
he said, looking round at another part of the church where Charlotte was
innocently prattling to Mrs. Goodman, quite heedless of the tombs of her fo=
refathers.
'If I were one,' she continued, 'I should come
here when I feel alone in the world, as I do to-day; and I would defy peopl=
e,
and say, "You cannot spoil what has been!"'
They walked on till they reached the old black=
pew
attached to the castle--a vast square enclosure of oak panelling occupying =
half
the aisle, and surmounted with a little balustrade above the framework. Wit=
hin,
the baize lining that had once been green, now faded to the colour of a com=
mon
in August, was torn, kicked and scraped to rags by the feet and hands of the
ploughboys who had appropriated the pew as their own special place of worsh=
ip
since it had ceased to be used by any resident at the castle, because its
height afforded convenient shelter for playing at marbles and pricking with
pins.
Charlotte and Mrs. Goodman had by this time le=
ft
the building, and could be seen looking at the headstones outside.
'If you were a De Stancy,' said Somerset, who =
had
pondered more deeply upon that new wish of hers than he had seemed to do, '=
you
would be a churchwoman, and sit here.'
'And I should have the pew done up,' she said
readily, as she rested her pretty chin on the top rail and looked at the
interior, her cheeks pressed into deep dimples. Her quick reply told him th=
at
the idea was no new one with her, and he thought of poor Mr. Woodwell's shr=
ewd
prophecy as he perceived that her days as a separatist were numbered.
'Well, why can't you have it done up, and sit
here?' he said warily.
Paula shook her head.
'You are not at enmity with Anglicanism, I am
sure?'
'I want not to be. I want to be--what--'
'What the De Stancys were, and are,' he said
insidiously; and her silenced bearing told him that he had hit the nail.
It was a strange idea to get possession of suc=
h a
nature as hers, and for a minute he felt himself on the side of the ministe=
r.
So strong was Somerset's feeling of wishing her to show the quality of fide=
lity
to paternal dogma and party, that he could not help adding--
'But have you forgotten that other nobility--t=
he
nobility of talent and enterprise?'
'No. But I wish I had a well-known line of
ancestors.'
'You have. Archimedes, Newcomen, Watt, Telford,
Stephenson, those are your father's direct ancestors. Have you forgotten th=
em?
Have you forgotten your father, and the railways he made over half Europe, =
and his
great energy and skill, and all connected with him as if he had never lived=
?'
She did not answer for some time. 'No, I have =
not
forgotten it,' she said, still looking into the pew. 'But, I have a predile=
ction
d'artiste for ancestors of the other sort, like the De Stancys.'
Her hand was resting on the low pew next the h=
igh
one of the De Stancys. Somerset looked at the hand, or rather at the glove
which covered it, then at her averted cheek, then beyond it into the pew, t=
hen
at her hand again, until by an indescribable consciousness that he was not
going too far he laid his own upon it.
'No, no,' said Paula quickly, withdrawing her
hand. But there was nothing resentful or haughty in her tone--nothing, in s=
hort,
which makes a man in such circumstances feel that he has done a particularly
foolish action.
The flower on her bosom rose and fell somewhat
more than usual as she added, 'I am going away now--I will leave you here.'
Without waiting for a reply she adroitly swept back her skirts to free her =
feet
and went out of the church blushing.
Somerset took her hint and did not follow; and
when he knew that she had rejoined her friends, and heard the carriage roll
away, he made towards the opposite door. Pausing to glance once more at the
alabaster effigies before leaving them to their silence and neglect, he beh=
eld
Dare bending over them, to all appearance intently occupied.
He must have been in the church some
time--certainly during the tender episode between Somerset and Paula, and c=
ould
not have failed to perceive it. Somerset blushed: it was unpleasant that Da=
re
should have seen the interior of his heart so plainly. He went across and s=
aid,
'I think I left you to finish the drawing of the north wing, Mr. Dare?'
'Three hours ago, sir,' said Dare. 'Having
finished that, I came to look at the church--fine building--fine monuments-=
-two
interesting people looking at them.'
'What?'
'I stand corrected. Pensa molto, parla poco, as
the Italians have it.'
'Well, now, Mr. Dare, suppose you get back to =
the
castle?'
'Which history dubs Castle Stancy.... Certainl=
y.'
'How do you get on with the measuring?'
Dare sighed whimsically. 'Badly in the morning,
when I have been tempted to indulge overnight, and worse in the afternoon, =
when
I have been tempted in the morning!'
Somerset looked at the youth, and said, 'I fea=
r I
shall have to dispense with your services, Dare, for I think you have been
tempted to-day.'
'On my honour no. My manner is a little against
me, Mr. Somerset. But you need not fear for my ability to do your work. I a=
m a
young man wasted, and am thought of slight account: it is the true men who =
get snubbed,
while traitors are allowed to thrive!'
'Hang sentiment, Dare, and off with you!' A li=
ttle
ruffled, Somerset had turned his back upon the interesting speaker, so that=
he
did not observe the sly twist Dare threw into his right eye as he spoke. The
latter went off in one direction and Somerset in the other, pursuing his
pensive way towards Markton with thoughts not difficult to divine.
From one point in her nature he went to anothe=
r,
till he again recurred to her romantic interest in the De Stancy family. To
wish she was one of them: how very inconsistent of her. That she really did
wish it was unquestionable.
It was the day of the garden-party. The weather
was too cloudy to be called perfect, but it was as sultry as the most
thinly-clad young lady could desire. Great trouble had been taken by Paula =
to
bring the lawn to a fit condition after the neglect of recent years, and
Somerset had suggested the design for the tents. As he approached the preci=
ncts
of the castle he discerned a flag of newest fabric floating over the keep, =
and
soon his fly fell in with the stream of carriages that were passing over the
bridge into the outer ward.
Mrs. Goodman and Paula were receiving the peop=
le
in the drawing-room. Somerset came forward in his turn; but as he was
immediately followed by others there was not much opportunity, even had she
felt the wish, for any special mark of feeling in the younger lady's greeti=
ng
of him.
He went on through a canvas passage, lined on =
each
side with flowering plants, till he reached the tents; thence, after noddin=
g to
one or two guests slightly known to him, he proceeded to the grounds, with a
sense of being rather lonely. Few visitors had as yet got so far in, and as=
he
walked up and down a shady alley his mind dwelt upon the new aspect under w=
hich
Paula had greeted his eyes that afternoon. Her black-and-white costume had
finally disappeared, and in its place she had adopted a picturesque dress of
ivory white, with satin enrichments of the same hue; while upon her bosom s=
he
wore a blue flower. Her days of infestivity were plainly ended, and her day=
s of
gladness were to begin.
His reverie was interrupted by the sound of his
name, and looking round he beheld Havill, who appeared to be as much alone =
as
himself.
Somerset already knew that Havill had been
appointed to compete with him, according to his recommendation. In measurin=
g a
dark corner a day or two before, he had stumbled upon Havill engaged in the
same pursuit with a view to the rival design. Afterwards he had seen him
receiving Paula's instructions precisely as he had done himself. It was as =
he
had wished, for fairness' sake: and yet he felt a regret, for he was less P=
aula's
own architect now.
'Well, Mr. Somerset,' said Havill, 'since we f=
irst
met an unexpected rivalry has arisen between us! But I dare say we shall
survive the contest, as it is not one arising out of love. Ha-ha-ha!' He sp=
oke
in a level voice of fierce pleasantry, and uncovered his regular white teet=
h.
Somerset supposed him to allude to the castle
competition?
'Yes,' said Havill. 'Her proposed undertaking
brought out some adverse criticism till it was known that she intended to h=
ave
more than one architectural opinion. An excellent stroke of hers to disarm
criticism. You saw the second letter in the morning papers?'
'No,' said the other.
'The writer states that he has discovered that=
the
competent advice of two architects is to be taken, and withdraws his
accusations.'
Somerset said nothing for a minute. 'Have you =
been
supplied with the necessary data for your drawings?' he asked, showing by t=
he
question the track his thoughts had taken.
Havill said that he had. 'But possibly not so
completely as you have,' he added, again smiling fiercely. Somerset did not
quite like the insinuation, and the two speakers parted, the younger going
towards the musicians, who had now begun to fill the air with their strains=
from
the embowered enclosure of a drooping ash. When he got back to the marquees=
they
were quite crowded, and the guests began to pour out upon the grass, the
toilets of the ladies presenting a brilliant spectacle--here being coloured
dresses with white devices, there white dresses with coloured devices, and
yonder transparent dresses with no device at all. A lavender haze hung in t=
he
air, the trees were as still as those of a submarine forest; while the sun,=
in
colour like a brass plaque, had a hairy outline in the livid sky.
After watching awhile some young people who we=
re
so madly devoted to lawn-tennis that they set about it like day-labourers at
the moment of their arrival, he turned and saw approaching a graceful figur=
e in
cream-coloured hues, whose gloves lost themselves beneath her lace ruffles,
even when she lifted her hand to make firm the blue flower at her breast, a=
nd
whose hair hung under her hat in great knots so well compacted that the sun
gilded the convexity of each knot like a ball.
'You seem to be alone,' said Paula, who had at
last escaped from the duty of receiving guests.
'I don't know many people.'
'Yes: I thought of that while I was in the
drawing-room. But I could not get out before. I am now no longer a responsi=
ble
being: Mrs. Goodman is mistress for the remainder of the day. Will you be
introduced to anybody? Whom would you like to know?'
'I am not particularly unhappy in my solitude.=
'
'But you must be made to know a few.'
'Very well--I submit readily.'
She looked away from him, and while he was
observing upon her cheek the moving shadow of leaves cast by the declining =
sun,
she said, 'O, there is my aunt,' and beckoned with her parasol to that lady,
who approached in the comparatively youthful guise of a grey silk dress that
whistled at every touch.
Paula left them together, and Mrs. Goodman then
made him acquainted with a few of the best people, describing what they wer=
e in
a whisper before they came up, among them being the Radical member for Mark=
ton,
who had succeeded to the seat rendered vacant by the death of Paula's fathe=
r. While
talking to this gentleman on the proposed enlargement of the castle, Somers=
et
raised his eyes and hand towards the walls, the better to point out his
meaning; in so doing he saw a face in the square of darkness formed by one =
of
the open windows, the effect being that of a highlight portrait by Vandyck =
or
Rembrandt.
It was his assistant Dare, leaning on the
window-sill of the studio, as he smoked his cigarette and surveyed the gay
groups promenading beneath.
After holding a chattering conversation with s=
ome
ladies from a neighbouring country seat who had known his father in bygone
years, and handing them ices and strawberries till they were satisfied, he
found an opportunity of leaving the grounds, wishing to learn what progress
Dare had made in the survey of the castle.
Dare was still in the studio when he entered.
Somerset informed the youth that there was no necessity for his working lat=
er
that day, unless to please himself, and proceeded to inspect Dare's
achievements thus far. To his vexation Dare had not plotted three dimensions
during the previous two days. This was not the first time that Dare, either
from incompetence or indolence, had shown his inutility as a house-surveyor=
and
draughtsman.
'Mr. Dare,' said Somerset, 'I fear you don't s= uit me well enough to make it necessary that you should stay after this week.'<= o:p>
Dare removed the cigarette from his lips and
bowed. 'If I don't suit, the sooner I go the better; why wait the week?' he
said.
'Well, that's as you like.'
Somerset drew the inkstand towards him, wrote =
out
a cheque for Dare's services, and handed it across the table.
'I'll not trouble you to-morrow,' said Dare,
seeing that the payment included the week in advance.
'Very well,' replied Somerset. 'Please lock the
door when you leave.' Shaking hands with Dare and wishing him well, he left=
the
room and descended to the lawn below.
There he contrived to get near Miss Power agai=
n,
and inquired of her for Miss De Stancy.
'O! did you not know?' said Paula; 'her father=
is
unwell, and she preferred staying with him this afternoon.'
'I hoped he might have been here.'
'O no; he never comes out of his house to any
party of this sort; it excites him, and he must not be excited.'
'Poor Sir William!' muttered Somerset.
'No,' said Paula, 'he is grand and historical.=
'
'That is hardly an orthodox notion for a Purit=
an,'
said Somerset mischievously.
'I am not a Puritan,' insisted Paula.
The day turned to dusk, and the guests began g=
oing
in relays to the dining-hall. When Somerset had taken in two or three ladie=
s to
whom he had been presented, and attended to their wants, which occupied him=
three-quarters
of an hour, he returned again to the large tent, with a view to finding Pau=
la
and taking his leave. It was now brilliantly lighted up, and the musicians,=
who
during daylight had been invisible behind the ash-tree, were ensconced at o=
ne
end with their harps and violins. It reminded him that there was to be danc=
ing.
The tent had in the meantime half filled with a new set of young people who=
had
come expressly for that pastime. Behind the girls gathered numbers of newly=
arrived
young men with low shoulders and diminutive moustaches, who were evidently
prepared for once to sacrifice themselves as partners.
Somerset felt something of a thrill at the sig=
ht.
He was an infrequent dancer, and particularly unprepared for dancing at
present; but to dance once with Paula Power he would give a year of his lif=
e.
He looked round; but she was nowhere to be seen. The first set began; old a=
nd
middle-aged people gathered from the different rooms to look on at the
gyrations of their children, but Paula did not appear. When another dance or
two had progressed, and an increase in the average age of the dancers was
making itself perceptible, especially on the masculine side, Somerset was a=
roused
by a whisper at his elbow--
'You dance, I think? Miss Deverell is disengag=
ed.
She has not been asked once this evening.' The speaker was Paula.
Somerset looked at Miss Deverell--a sallow lady
with black twinkling eyes, yellow costume, and gay laugh, who had been there
all the afternoon--and said something about having thought of going home.
'Is that because I asked you to dance?' she murmured. 'There--she is appropriated.' A young gentleman had at that moment approached the uninviting Miss Deverell, claimed her hand and led her off.<= o:p>
'That's right,' said Somerset. 'I ought to lea=
ve
room for younger men.'
'You need not say so. That bald-headed gentlem=
an
is forty-five. He does not think of younger men.'
'Have YOU a dance to spare for me?'
Her face grew stealthily redder in the
candle-light. 'O!--I have no engagement at all--I have refused. I hardly fe=
el
at liberty to dance; it would be as well to leave that to my visitors.'
'Why?'
'My father, though he allowed me to be taught,
never liked the idea of my dancing.'
'Did he make you promise anything on the point=
?'
'He said he was not in favour of such
amusements--no more.'
'I think you are not bound by that, on an info=
rmal
occasion like the present.'
She was silent.
'You will just once?' said he.
Another silence. 'If you like,' she venturesom=
ely
answered at last.
Somerset closed the hand which was hanging by =
his
side, and somehow hers was in it. The dance was nearly formed, and he led h=
er
forward. Several persons looked at them significantly, but he did not notic=
e it
then, and plunged into the maze.
Never had Mr. Somerset passed through such an
experience before. Had he not felt her actual weight and warmth, he might h=
ave
fancied the whole episode a figment of the imagination. It seemed as if tho=
se
musicians had thrown a double sweetness into their notes on seeing the mist=
ress
of the castle in the dance, that a perfumed southern atmosphere had begun to
pervade the marquee, and that human beings were shaking themselves free of =
all
inconvenient gravitation.
Somerset's feelings burst from his lips. 'This=
is
the happiest moment I have ever known,' he said. 'Do you know why?'
'I think I saw a flash of lightning through the
opening of the tent,' said Paula, with roguish abruptness.
He did not press for an answer. Within a few
minutes a long growl of thunder was heard. It was as if Jove could not refr=
ain
from testifying his jealousy of Somerset for taking this covetable woman so=
presumptuously
in his arms.
The dance was over, and he had retired with Pa=
ula
to the back of the tent, when another faint flash of lightning was visible
through an opening. She lifted the canvas, and looked out, Somerset looking=
out
behind her. Another dance was begun, and being on this account left out of
notice, Somerset did not hasten to leave Paula's side.
'I think they begin to feel the heat,' she sai=
d.
'A little ventilation would do no harm.' He fl= ung back the tent door where he stood, and the light shone out upon the grass.<= o:p>
'I must go to the drawing-room soon,' she adde=
d.
'They will begin to leave shortly.'
'It is not late. The thunder-cloud has made it
seem dark--see there; a line of pale yellow stretches along the horizon from
west to north. That's evening--not gone yet. Shall we go into the fresh air=
for
a minute?'
She seemed to signify assent, and he stepped o=
ff
the tent-floor upon the ground. She stepped off also.
The air out-of-doors had not cooled, and witho=
ut
definitely choosing a direction they found themselves approaching a little
wooden tea-house that stood on the lawn a few yards off. Arrived here, they
turned, and regarded the tent they had just left, and listened to the strai=
ns
that came from within it.
'I feel more at ease now,' said Paula.
'So do I,' said Somerset.
'I mean,' she added in an undeceiving tone,
'because I saw Mrs. Goodman enter the tent again just as we came out here; =
so I
have no further responsibility.'
'I meant something quite different. Try to gue=
ss
what.'
She teasingly demurred, finally breaking the
silence by saying, 'The rain is come at last,' as great drops began to fall
upon the ground with a smack, like pellets of clay.
In a moment the storm poured down with sudden
violence, and they drew further back into the summer-house. The side of the
tent from which they had emerged still remained open, the rain streaming do=
wn
between their eyes and the lighted interior of the marquee like a tissue of
glass threads, the brilliant forms of the dancers passing and repassing beh=
ind the
watery screen, as if they were people in an enchanted submarine palace.
'How happy they are!' said Paula. 'They don't =
even
know that it is raining. I am so glad that my aunt had the tent lined;
otherwise such a downpour would have gone clean through it.'
The thunder-storm showed no symptoms of abatem=
ent,
and the music and dancing went on more merrily than ever.
'We cannot go in,' said Somerset. 'And we cann=
ot
shout for umbrellas. We will stay till it is over, will we not?'
'Yes,' she said, 'if you care to. Ah!'
'What is it?'
'Only a big drop came upon my head.'
'Let us stand further in.'
Her hand was hanging by her side, and Somerset=
's
was close by. He took it, and she did not draw it away. Thus they stood a l=
ong
while, the rain hissing down upon the grass-plot, and not a soul being visi=
ble
outside the dancing-tent save themselves.
'May I call you Paula?' asked he.
There was no answer.
'May I?' he repeated.
'Yes, occasionally,' she murmured.
'Dear Paula!--may I call you that?'
'O no--not yet.'
'But you know I love you?'
'Yes,' she whispered.
'And shall I love you always?'
'If you wish to.'
'And will you love me?'
Paula did not reply.
'Will you, Paula?' he repeated.
'You may love me.'
'But don't you love me in return?'
'I love you to love me.'
'Won't you say anything more explicit?'
'I would rather not.'
Somerset emitted half a sigh: he wished she had
been more demonstrative, yet felt that this passive way of assenting was as
much as he could hope for. Had there been anything cold in her passivity he
might have felt repressed; but her stillness suggested the stillness of mot=
ion imperceptible
from its intensity.
'We must go in,' said she. 'The rain is almost
over, and there is no longer any excuse for this.'
Somerset bent his lips toward hers. 'No,' said=
the
fair Puritan decisively.
'Why not?' he asked.
'Nobody ever has.'
'But!--' expostulated Somerset.
'To everything there is a season, and the seas=
on
for this is not just now,' she answered, walking away.
They crossed the wet and glistening lawn, step=
ped
under the tent and parted. She vanished, he did not know whither; and, stan=
ding
with his gaze fixed on the dancers, the young man waited, till, being in no
mood to join them, he went slowly through the artificial passage lined with=
flowers,
and entered the drawing room. Mrs. Goodman was there, bidding good-night to=
the
early goers, and Paula was just behind her, apparently in her usual mood. H=
is
parting with her was quite formal, but that he did not mind, for her colour
rose decidedly higher as he approached, and the light in her eyes was like =
the
ray of a diamond.
When he reached the door he found that his
brougham from the Quantock Arms, which had been waiting more than an hour,
could not be heard of. That vagrancy of spirit which love induces would not
permit him to wait; and, leaving word that the man was to follow him when he
returned, he went past the glare of carriage-lamps ranked in the ward, and
under the outer arch. The night was now clear and beautiful, and he strolled
along his way full of mysterious elation till the vehicle overtook him, and=
he got
in.
Up to this point Somerset's progress in his su=
it
had been, though incomplete, so uninterrupted, that he almost feared the go=
od
chance he enjoyed. How should it be in a mortal of his calibre to command
success with such a sweet woman for long? He might, indeed, turn out to be =
one
of the singular exceptions which are said to prove rules; but when fortune
means to men most good, observes the bard, she looks upon them with a
threatening eye. Somerset would even have been content that a little
disapproval of his course should have occurred in some quarter, so as to ma=
ke
his wooing more like ordinary life. But Paula was not clearly won, and that=
was
drawback sufficient. In these pleasing agonies and painful delights he pass=
ed
the journey to Markton.
Young Dare sat thoughtfully at the window of t=
he
studio in which Somerset had left him, till the gay scene beneath became
embrowned by the twilight, and the brilliant red stripes of the marquees, t=
he bright
sunshades, the many-tinted costumes of the ladies, were indistinguishable f=
rom
the blacks and greys of the masculine contingent moving among them. He had
occasionally glanced away from the outward prospect to study a small old vo=
lume
that lay before him on the drawing-board. Near scrutiny revealed the book to
bear the title 'Moivre's Doctrine of Chances.'
The evening had been so still that Dare had he=
ard
conversations from below with a clearness unsuspected by the speakers
themselves; and among the dialogues which thus reached his ears was that
between Somerset and Havill on their professional rivalry. When they parted,
and Somerset had mingled with the throng, Havill went to a seat at a distan=
ce.
Afterwards he rose, and walked away; but on the bench he had quitted there
remained a small object resembling a book or leather case.
Dare put away the drawing-board and
plotting-scales which he had kept before him during the evening as a reason=
for
his presence at that post of espial, locked up the door, and went downstair=
s.
Notwithstanding his dismissal by Somerset, he was so serene in countenance =
and
easy in gait as to make it a fair conjecture that professional servitude,
however profitable, was no necessity with him. The gloom now rendered it pr=
acticable
for any unbidden guest to join Paula's assemblage without criticism, and Da=
re
walked boldly out upon the lawn. The crowd on the grass was rapidly
diminishing; the tennis-players had relinquished sport; many people had gon=
e in
to dinner or supper; and many others, attracted by the cheerful radiance of=
the
candles, were gathering in the large tent that had been lighted up for danc=
ing.
Dare went to the garden-chair on which Havill =
had
been seated, and found the article left behind to be a pocket-book. Whether
because it was unclasped and fell open in his hand, or otherwise, he did not
hesitate to examine the contents. Among a mass of architect's customary
memoranda occurred a draft of the letter abusing Paula as an iconoclast or =
Vandal
by blood, which had appeared in the newspaper: the draft was so interlined =
and
altered as to bear evidence of being the original conception of that
ungentlemanly attack.
The lad read the letter, smiled, and strolled
about the grounds, only met by an occasional pair of individuals of opposite
sex in deep conversation, the state of whose emotions led them to prefer the
evening shade to the publicity and glare of the tents and rooms. At last he=
observed
the white waistcoat of the man he sought.
'Mr. Havill, the architect, I believe?' said D=
are.
'The author of most of the noteworthy buildings in this neighbourhood?'
Havill assented blandly.
'I have long wished for the pleasure of your
acquaintance, and now an accident helps me to make it. This pocket-book, I
think, is yours?'
Havill clapped his hand to his pocket, examined
the book Dare held out to him, and took it with thanks. 'I see I am speakin=
g to
the artist, archaeologist, Gothic photographer--Mr. Dare.'
'Professor Dare.'
'Professor? Pardon me, I should not have guess=
ed
it--so young as you are.'
'Well, it is merely ornamental; and in truth, I
drop the title in England, particularly under present circumstances.'
'Ah--they are peculiar, perhaps? Ah, I remembe=
r. I
have heard that you are assisting a gentleman in preparing a design in
opposition to mine--a design--'
'"That he is not competent to prepare
himself," you were perhaps going to add?'
'Not precisely that.'
'You could hardly be blamed for such words.
However, you are mistaken. I did assist him to gain a little further insight
into the working of architectural plans; but our views on art are antagonis=
tic,
and I assist him no more. Mr. Havill, it must be very provoking to a
well-established professional man to have a rival sprung at him in a grand
undertaking which he had a right to expect as his own.'
Professional sympathy is often accepted from t=
hose
whose condolence on any domestic matter would be considered intrusive. Havi=
ll
walked up and down beside Dare for a few moments in silence, and at last sh=
owed
that the words had told, by saying: 'Every one may have his opinion. Had I =
been
a stranger to the Power family, the case would have been different; but hav=
ing
been specially elected by the lady's father as a competent adviser in such
matters, and then to be degraded to the position of a mere competitor, it
wounds me to the quick--'
'Both in purse and in person, like the ill-used
hostess of the Garter.'
'A lady to whom I have been a staunch friend,'
continued Havill, not heeding the interruption.
At that moment sounds seemed to come from Dare
which bore a remarkable resemblance to the words, 'Ho, ho, Havill!' It was
hardly credible, and yet, could he be mistaken? Havill turned. Dare's eye w=
as
twisted comically upward.
'What does that mean?' said Havill coldly, and
with some amazement.
'Ho, ho, Havill! "Staunch friend" is
good--especially after "an iconoclast and Vandal by
blood"--"monstrosity in the form of a Greek temple," and so =
on,
eh!'
'Sir, you have the advantage of me. Perhaps you
allude to that anonymous letter?'
'O-ho, Havill!' repeated the boy-man, turning =
his
eyes yet further towards the zenith. 'To an outsider such conduct would be
natural; but to a friend who finds your pocket-book, and looks into it befo=
re returning
it, and kindly removes a leaf bearing the draft of a letter which might inj=
ure
you if discovered there, and carefully conceals it in his own pocket--why, =
such
conduct is unkind!' Dare held up the abstracted leaf.
Havill trembled. 'I can explain,' he began.
'It is not necessary: we are friends,' said Da=
re
assuringly.
Havill looked as if he would like to snatch the
leaf away, but altering his mind, he said grimly: 'Well, I take you at your
word: we are friends. That letter was concocted before I knew of the
competition: it was during my first disgust, when I believed myself entirel=
y supplanted.'
'I am not in the least surprised. But if she k=
new
YOU to be the writer!'
'I should be ruined as far as this competition=
is
concerned,' said Havill carelessly. 'Had I known I was to be invited to
compete, I should not have written it, of course. To be supplanted is hard;=
and
thereby hangs a tale.'
'Another tale? You astonish me.'
'Then you have not heard the scandal, though e=
verybody
is talking about it.'
'A scandal implies indecorum.'
'Well, 'tis indecorous. Her infatuated partial=
ity
for him is patent to the eyes of a child; a man she has only known a few we=
eks,
and one who obtained admission to her house in the most irregular manner! H=
ad
she a watchful friend beside her, instead of that moonstruck Mrs. Goodman, =
she would
be cautioned against bestowing her favours on the first adventurer who appe=
ars
at her door. It is a pity, a great pity!'
'O, there is love-making in the wind?' said Da=
re
slowly. 'That alters the case for me. But it is not proved?'
'It can easily be proved.'
'I wish it were, or disproved.'
'You have only to come this way to clear up all
doubts.'
Havill took the lad towards the tent, from whi=
ch
the strains of a waltz now proceeded, and on whose sides flitting shadows t=
old
of the progress of the dance. The companions looked in. The rosy silk linin=
g of
the marquee, and the numerous coronas of wax lights, formed a canopy to a r=
adiant
scene which, for two at least of those who composed it, was an intoxicating
one. Paula and Somerset were dancing together.
'That proves nothing,' said Dare.
'Look at their rapt faces, and say if it does
not,' sneered Havill.
Dare objected to a judgment based on looks alo=
ne.
'Very well--time will show,' said the architec=
t,
dropping the tent-curtain.... 'Good God! a girl worth fifty thousand and mo=
re a
year to throw herself away upon a fellow like that--she ought to be whipped=
.'
'Time must NOT show!' said Dare.
'You speak with emphasis.'
'I have reason. I would give something to be s=
ure
on this point, one way or the other. Let us wait till the dance is over, and
observe them more carefully. Horensagen ist halb gelogen! Hearsay is half
lies.'
Sheet-lightnings increased in the northern sky,
followed by thunder like the indistinct noise of a battle. Havill and Dare
retired to the trees. When the dance ended Somerset and his partner emerged
from the tent, and slowly moved towards the tea-house. Divining their goal =
Dare
seized Havill's arm; and the two worthies entered the building unseen, by f=
irst
passing round behind it. They seated themselves in the back part of the int=
erior,
where darkness prevailed.
As before related, Paula and Somerset came and
stood within the door. When the rain increased they drew themselves further
inward, their forms being distinctly outlined to the gaze of those lurking
behind by the light from the tent beyond. But the hiss of the falling rain =
and
the lowness of their tones prevented their words from being heard.
'I wish myself out of this!' breathed Havill to
Dare, as he buttoned his coat over his white waistcoat. 'I told you it was
true, but you wouldn't believe. I wouldn't she should catch me here
eavesdropping for the world!'
'Courage, Man Friday,' said his cooler comrade=
.
Paula and her lover backed yet further, till t=
he
hem of her skirt touched Havill's feet. Their attitudes were sufficient to
prove their relations to the most obstinate Didymus who should have witness=
ed
them. Tender emotions seemed to pervade the summer-house like an aroma. The=
calm
ecstasy of the condition of at least one of them was not without a coercive
effect upon the two invidious spectators, so that they must need have remai=
ned
passive had they come there to disturb or annoy. The serenity of Paula was =
even
more impressive than the hushed ardour of Somerset: she did not satisfy
curiosity as Somerset satisfied it; she piqued it. Poor Somerset had reache=
d a
perfectly intelligible depth--one which had a single blissful way out of it=
, and
nine calamitous ones; but Paula remained an enigma all through the scene.
The rain ceased, and the pair moved away. The
enchantment worked by their presence vanished, the details of the meeting
settled down in the watchers' minds, and their tongues were loosened. Dare,
turning to Havill, said, 'Thank you; you have done me a timely turn to-day.=
'
'What! had you hopes that way?' asked Havill
satirically.
'I! The woman that interests my heart has yet =
to
be born,' said Dare, with a steely coldness strange in such a juvenile, and=
yet
almost convincing. 'But though I have not personal hopes, I have an objecti=
on to
this courtship. Now I think we may as well fraternize, the situation being =
what
it is?'
'What is the situation?'
'He is in your way as her architect; he is in =
my
way as her lover: we don't want to hurt him, but we wish him clean out of t=
he
neighbourhood.'
'I'll go as far as that,' said Havill.
'I have come here at some trouble to myself,
merely to observe: I find I ought to stay to act.'
'If you were myself, a married man with people
dependent on him, who has had a professional certainty turned to a miserably
remote contingency by these events, you might say you ought to act; but what
conceivable difference it can make to you who it is the young lady takes to=
her
heart and home, I fail to understand.'
'Well, I'll tell you--this much at least. I wa=
nt
to keep the place vacant for another man.'
'The place?'
'The place of husband to Miss Power, and
proprietor of that castle and domain.'
'That's a scheme with a vengeance. Who is the
man?'
'It is my secret at present.'
'Certainly.' Havill drew a deep breath, and
dropped into a tone of depression. 'Well, scheme as you will, there will be
small advantage to me,' he murmured. 'The castle commission is as good as g=
one,
and a bill for two hundred pounds falls due next week.'
'Cheer up, heart! My position, if you only knew
it, has ten times the difficulties of yours, since this disagreeable discov=
ery.
Let us consider if we can assist each other. The competition drawings are t=
o be
sent in--when?'
'In something over six weeks--a fortnight befo=
re
she returns from the Scilly Isles, for which place she leaves here in a few
days.'
'O, she goes away--that's better. Our lover wi=
ll
be working here at his drawings, and she not present.'
'Exactly. Perhaps she is a little ashamed of t=
he
intimacy.'
'And if your design is considered best by the
committee, he will have no further reason for staying, assuming that they a=
re
not definitely engaged to marry by that time?'
'I suppose so,' murmured Havill discontentedly.
'The conditions, as sent to me, state that the designs are to be adjudicate=
d on
by three members of the Institute called in for the purpose; so that she may
return, and have seemed to show no favour.'
'Then it amounts to this: your design MUST be
best. It must combine the excellences of your invention with the excellence=
s of
his. Meanwhile a coolness should be made to arise between her and him: and =
as
there would be no artistic reason for his presence here after the verdict i=
s pronounced,
he would perforce hie back to town. Do you see?'
'I see the ingenuity of the plan, but I also s=
ee
two insurmountable obstacles to it. The first is, I cannot add the excellen=
ces
of his design to mine without knowing what those excellences are, which he =
will
of course keep a secret. Second, it will not be easy to promote a coolness
between such hot ones as they.'
'You make a mistake. It is only he who is so
ardent. She is only lukewarm. If we had any spirit, a bargain would be stru=
ck
between us: you would appropriate his design; I should cause the coolness.'=
'How could I appropriate his design?'
'By copying it, I suppose.'
'Copying it?'
'By going into his studio and looking it over.=
'
Havill turned to Dare, and stared. 'By George,=
you
don't stick at trifles, young man. You don't suppose I would go into a man's
rooms and steal his inventions like that?'
'I scarcely suppose you would,' said Dare
indifferently, as he rose.
'And if I were to,' said Havill curiously, 'ho=
w is
the coolness to be caused?'
'By the second man.'
'Who is to produce him?'
'Her Majesty's Government.'
Havill looked meditatively at his companion, a=
nd
shook his head. 'In these idle suppositions we have been assuming conduct w=
hich
would be quite against my principles as an honest man.'
A few days after the party at Stancy Castle, D=
are
was walking down the High Street of Markton, a cigarette between his lips a=
nd a
silver-topped cane in his hand. His eye fell upon a brass plate on an oppos=
ite
door, bearing the name of Mr. Havill, Architect. He crossed over, and rang =
the office
bell.
The clerk who admitted him stated that Mr. Hav=
ill
was in his private room, and would be disengaged in a short time. While Dare
waited the clerk affixed to the door a piece of paper bearing the words 'Ba=
ck
at 2,' and went away to his dinner, leaving Dare in the room alone.
Dare looked at the different drawings on the
boards about the room. They all represented one subject, which, though
unfinished as yet, and bearing no inscription, was recognized by the visito=
r as
the design for the enlargement and restoration of Stancy Castle. When he had
glanced it over Dare sat down.
The doors between the office and private room =
were
double; but the one towards the office being only ajar Dare could hear a
conversation in progress within. It presently rose to an altercation, the t=
enor
of which was obvious. Somebody had come for money.
'Really I can stand it no longer, Mr.
Havill--really I will not!' said the creditor excitedly. 'Now this bill ove=
rdue
again--what can you expect? Why, I might have negotiated it; and where would
you have been then? Instead of that, I have locked it up out of considerati=
on
for you; and what do I get for my considerateness? I shall let the law take=
its
course!'
'You'll do me inexpressible harm, and get noth=
ing
whatever,' said Havill. 'If you would renew for another three months there
would be no difficulty in the matter.'
'You have said so before: I will do no such
thing.'
There was a silence; whereupon Dare arose with=
out
hesitation, and walked boldly into the private office. Havill was standing =
at
one end, as gloomy as a thundercloud, and at the other was the unfortunate
creditor with his hat on. Though Dare's entry surprised them, both parties
seemed relieved.
'I have called in passing to congratulate you,=
Mr.
Havill,' said Dare gaily. 'Such a commission as has been entrusted to you w=
ill
make you famous!'
'How do you do?--I wish it would make me rich,'
said Havill drily.
'It will be a lift in that direction, from wha=
t I
know of the profession. What is she going to spend?'
'A hundred thousand.'
'Your commission as architect, five thousand. =
Not
bad, for making a few sketches. Consider what other great commissions such a
work will lead to.'
'What great work is this?' asked the creditor.=
'Stancy Castle,' said Dare, since Havill seemed
too agape to answer. 'You have not heard of it, then? Those are the drawing=
s, I
presume, in the next room?'
Havill replied in the affirmative, beginning to
perceive the manoeuvre. 'Perhaps you would like to see them?' he said to the
creditor.
The latter offered no objection, and all three
went into the drawing-office.
'It will certainly be a magnificent structure,'
said the creditor, after regarding the elevations through his spectacles.
'Stancy Castle: I had no idea of it! and when do you begin to build, Mr.
Havill?' he inquired in mollified tones.
'In three months, I think?' said Dare, looking=
to
Havill.
Havill assented.
'Five thousand pounds commission,' murmured the
creditor. 'Paid down, I suppose?'
Havill nodded.
'And the works will not linger for lack of mon=
ey
to carry them out, I imagine,' said Dare. 'Two hundred thousand will probab=
ly
be spent before the work is finished.'
'There is not much doubt of it,' said Havill.<= o:p>
'You said nothing to me about this?' whispered=
the
creditor to Havill, taking him aside, with a look of regret.
'You would not listen!'
'It alters the case greatly.' The creditor ret=
ired
with Havill to the door, and after a subdued colloquy in the passage he went
away, Havill returning to the office.
'What the devil do you mean by hoaxing him like
this, when the job is no more mine than Inigo Jones's?'
'Don't be too curious,' said Dare, laughing.
'Rather thank me for getting rid of him.'
'But it is all a vision!' said Havill, ruefully
regarding the pencilled towers of Stancy Castle. 'If the competition were
really the commission that you have represented it to be there might be
something to laugh at.'
'It must be made a commission, somehow,' retur=
ned
Dare carelessly. 'I am come to lend you a little assistance. I must stay in=
the
neighbourhood, and I have nothing else to do.'
A carriage slowly passed the window, and Havill
recognized the Power liveries. 'Hullo--she's coming here!' he said under his
breath, as the carriage stopped by the kerb. 'What does she want, I wonder?
Dare, does she know you?'
'I would just as soon be out of the way.'
'Then go into the garden.'
Dare went out through the back office as Paula=
was
shown in at the front. She wore a grey travelling costume, and seemed to be=
in
some haste.
'I am on my way to the railway-station,' she s=
aid
to Havill. 'I shall be absent from home for several weeks, and since you
requested it, I have called to inquire how you are getting on with the desi=
gn.'
'Please look it over,' said Havill, placing a =
seat
for her.
'No,' said Paula. 'I think it would be unfair.=
I
have not looked at Mr.--the other architect's plans since he has begun to
design seriously, and I will not look at yours. Are you getting on quite we=
ll,
and do you want to know anything more? If so, go to the castle, and get any=
body
to assist you. Why would you not make use of the room at your disposal in t=
he
castle, as the other architect has done?'
In asking the question her face was towards the
window, and suddenly her cheeks became a rosy red. She instantly looked ano=
ther
way.
'Having my own office so near, it was not
necessary, thank you,' replied Havill, as, noting her countenance, he allow=
ed
his glance to stray into the street. Somerset was walking past on the oppos=
ite
side.
'The time is--the time fixed for sending in the
drawings is the first of November, I believe,' she said confusedly; 'and the
decision will be come to by three gentlemen who are prominent members of th=
e Institute
of Architects.'
Havill then accompanied her to the carriage, a=
nd
she drove away.
Havill went to the back window to tell Dare th=
at
he need not stay in the garden; but the garden was empty. The architect
remained alone in his office for some time; at the end of a quarter of an h=
our,
when the scream of a railway whistle had echoed down the still street, he
beheld Somerset repassing the window in a direction from the railway, with =
somewhat
of a sad gait. In another minute Dare entered, humming the latest air of
Offenbach.
''Tis a mere piece of duplicity!' said Havill.=
'What is?'
'Her pretending indifference as to which of us
comes out successful in the competition, when she colours carmine the moment
Somerset passes by.' He described Paula's visit, and the incident.
'It may not mean Cupid's Entire XXX after all,'
said Dare judicially. 'The mere suspicion that a certain man loves her would
make a girl blush at his unexpected appearance. Well, she's gone from him f=
or a
time; the better for you.'
'He has been privileged to see her off at any
rate.'
'Not privileged.'
'How do you know that?'
'I went out of your garden by the back gate, a=
nd
followed her carriage to the railway. He simply went to the first bridge
outside the station, and waited. When she was in the train, it moved forwar=
d;
he was all expectation, and drew out his handkerchief ready to wave, while =
she looked
out of the window towards the bridge. The train backed before it reached the
bridge, to attach the box containing her horses, and the carriage-truck. Th=
en
it started for good, and when it reached the bridge she looked out again, he
waving his handkerchief to her.'
'And she waving hers back?'
'No, she didn't.'
'Ah!'
'She looked at him--nothing more. I wouldn't g=
ive
much for his chance.' After a while Dare added musingly: 'You are a
mathematician: did you ever investigate the doctrine of expectations?'
'Never.'
Dare drew from his pocket his 'Book of Chances=
,' a
volume as well thumbed as the minister's Bible. 'This is a treatise on the
subject,' he said. 'I will teach it to you some day.'
The same evening Havill asked Dare to dine with
him. He was just at this time living en garcon, his wife and children being
away on a visit. After dinner they sat on till their faces were rather flus=
hed.
The talk turned, as before, on the castle-competition.
'To know his design is to win,' said Dare. 'An=
d to
win is to send him back to London where he came from.'
Havill inquired if Dare had seen any sketch of=
the
design while with Somerset?
'Not a line. I was concerned only with the old
building.'
'Not to know it is to lose, undoubtedly,' murm=
ured
Havill.
'Suppose we go for a walk that way, instead of
consulting here?'
They went down the town, and along the highway.
When they reached the entrance to the park a man driving a basket-carriage =
came
out from the gate and passed them by in the gloom.
'That was he,' said Dare. 'He sometimes drives
over from the hotel, and sometimes walks. He has been working late this
evening.'
Strolling on under the trees they met three
masculine figures, laughing and talking loudly.
'Those are the three first-class London
draughtsmen, Bowles, Knowles, and Cockton, whom he has engaged to assist hi=
m,
regardless of expense,' continued Dare.
'O Lord!' groaned Havill. 'There's no chance f=
or
me.'
The castle now arose before them, endowed by t=
he
rayless shade with a more massive majesty than either sunlight or moonlight
could impart; and Havill sighed again as he thought of what he was losing by
Somerset's rivalry. 'Well, what was the use of coming here?' he asked.
'I thought it might suggest something--some wa=
y of
seeing the design. The servants would let us into his room, I dare say.'
'I don't care to ask. Let us walk through the
wards, and then homeward.'
They sauntered on smoking, Dare leading the way
through the gate-house into a corridor which was not inclosed, a lamp hangi=
ng
at the further end.
'We are getting into the inhabited part, I thi=
nk,'
said Havill.
Dare, however, had gone on, and knowing the
tortuous passages from his few days' experience in measuring them with
Somerset, he came to the butler's pantry. Dare knocked, and nobody answerin=
g he
entered, took down a key which hung behind the door, and rejoined Havill. '=
It
is all right,' he said. 'The cat's away; and the mice are at play in conseq=
uence.'
Proceeding up a stone staircase he unlocked the
door of a room in the dark, struck a light inside, and returning to the door
called in a whisper to Havill, who had remained behind. 'This is Mr. Somers=
et's
studio,' he said.
'How did you get permission?' inquired Havill,=
not
knowing that Dare had seen no one.
'Anyhow,' said Dare carelessly. 'We can examine
the plans at leisure; for if the placid Mrs. Goodman, who is the only one at
home, sees the light, she will only think it is Somerset still at work.'
Dare uncovered the drawings, and young Somerse=
t's
brain-work for the last six weeks lay under their eyes. To Dare, who was too
cursory to trouble himself by entering into such details, it had very littl=
e meaning;
but the design shone into Havill's head like a light into a dark place. It =
was
original; and it was fascinating. Its originality lay partly in the
circumstance that Somerset had not attempted to adapt an old building to the
wants of the new civilization. He had placed his new erection beside it as a
slightly attached structure, harmonizing with the old; heightening and
beautifying, rather than subduing it. His work formed a palace, with a ruin=
ous
castle annexed as a curiosity. To Havill the conception had more charm than=
it
could have to the most appreciative outsider; for when a mediocre and jealo=
us
mind that has been cudgelling itself over a problem capable of many solutio=
ns,
lights on the solution of a rival, all possibilities in that kind seem to m=
erge
in the one beheld.
Dare was struck by the arrested expression of =
the
architect's face. 'Is it rather good?' he asked.
'Yes, rather,' said Havill, subduing himself.<= o:p>
'More than rather?'
'Yes, the clever devil!' exclaimed Havill, una=
ble
to depreciate longer.
'How?'
'The riddle that has worried me three weeks he=
has
solved in a way which is simplicity itself. He has got it, and I am undone!=
'
'Nonsense, don't give way. Let's make a tracin=
g.'
'The ground-plan will be sufficient,' said Hav=
ill,
his courage reviving. 'The idea is so simple, that if once seen it is not
easily forgotten.'
A rough tracing of Somerset's design was quick=
ly
made, and blowing out the candle with a wave of his hand, the younger gentl=
eman
locked the door, and they went downstairs again.
'I should never have thought of it,' said Havi=
ll,
as they walked homeward.
'One man has need of another every ten years: =
Ogni
dieci anni un uomo ha bisogno dell' altro, as they say in Italy. You'll hel=
p me
for this turn if I have need of you?'
'I shall never have the power.'
'O yes, you will. A man who can contrive to get
admitted to a competition by writing a letter abusing another man, has any
amount of power. The stroke was a good one.'
Havill was silent till he said, 'I think these
gusts mean that we are to have a storm of rain.'
Dare looked up. The sky was overcast, the trees
shivered, and a drop or two began to strike into the walkers' coats from the
east. They were not far from the inn at Sleeping-Green, where Dare had
lodgings, occupying the rooms which had been used by Somerset till he gave =
them
up for more commodious chambers at Markton; and they decided to turn in the=
re
till the rain should be over.
Having possessed himself of Somerset's brains
Havill was inclined to be jovial, and ordered the best in wines that the ho=
use
afforded. Before starting from home they had drunk as much as was good for
them; so that their potations here soon began to have a marked effect upon
their tongues. The rain beat upon the windows with a dull dogged pertinacit=
y which
seemed to signify boundless reserves of the same and long continuance. The =
wind
rose, the sign creaked, and the candles waved. The weather had, in truth,
broken up for the season, and this was the first night of the change.
'Well, here we are,' said Havill, as he poured=
out
another glass of the brandied liquor called old port at Sleeping-Green; 'an=
d it
seems that here we are to remain for the present.'
'I am at home anywhere!' cried the lad, whose =
brow
was hot and eye wild.
Havill, who had not drunk enough to affect his
reasoning, held up his glass to the light and said, 'I never can quite make=
out
what you are, or what your age is. Are you sixteen, one-and-twenty, or
twenty-seven? And are you an Englishman, Frenchman, Indian, American, or wh=
at?
You seem not to have taken your degrees in these parts.'
'That's a secret, my friend,' said Dare. 'I am=
a
citizen of the world. I owe no country patriotism, and no king or queen
obedience. A man whose country has no boundary is your only true gentleman.=
'
'Well, where were you born--somewhere, I suppo=
se?'
'It would be a fact worth the telling. The sec=
ret
of my birth lies here.' And Dare slapped his breast with his right hand.
'Literally, just under your shirt-front; or
figuratively, in your heart?' asked Havill.
'Literally there. It is necessary that it shou=
ld
be recorded, for one's own memory is a treacherous book of reference, should
verification be required at a time of delirium, disease, or death.'
Havill asked no further what he meant, and wen=
t to
the door. Finding that the rain still continued he returned to Dare, who wa=
s by
this time sinking down in a one-sided attitude, as if hung up by the should=
er. Informing
his companion that he was but little inclined to move far in such a tempest=
uous
night, he decided to remain in the inn till next morning. On calling in the
landlord, however, they learnt that the house was full of farmers on their =
way
home from a large sheep-fair in the neighbourhood, and that several of thes=
e,
having decided to stay on account of the same tempestuous weather, had alre=
ady
engaged the spare beds. If Mr. Dare would give up his room, and share a
double-bedded room with Mr. Havill, the thing could be done, but not otherw=
ise.
To this the two companions agreed, and present=
ly went
upstairs with as gentlemanly a walk and vertical a candle as they could exh=
ibit
under the circumstances.
The other inmates of the inn soon retired to r=
est,
and the storm raged on unheeded by all local humanity.
At two o'clock the rain lessened its fury. At
half-past two the obscured moon shone forth; and at three Havill awoke. The
blind had not been pulled down overnight, and the moonlight streamed into t=
he
room, across the bed whereon Dare was sleeping. He lay on his back, his arms
thrown out; and his well-curved youthful form looked like an unpedestaled D=
ionysus
in the colourless lunar rays.
Sleep had cleared Havill's mind from the drows=
ing
effects of the last night's sitting, and he thought of Dare's mysterious ma=
nner
in speaking of himself. This lad resembled the Etruscan youth Tages, in one
respect, that of being a boy with, seemingly, the wisdom of a sage; and the=
effect
of his presence was now heightened by all those sinister and mystic attribu=
tes
which are lent by nocturnal environment. He who in broad daylight might be =
but
a young chevalier d'industrie was now an unlimited possibility in social
phenomena. Havill remembered how the lad had pointed to his breast, and said
that his secret was literally kept there. The architect was too much of a
provincial to have quenched the common curiosity that was part of his natur=
e by
the acquired metropolitan indifference to other people's lives which, in
essence more unworthy even than the former, causes less practical inconveni=
ence
in its exercise.
Dare was breathing profoundly. Instigated as a=
bove
mentioned, Havill got out of bed and stood beside the sleeper. After a mome=
nt's
pause he gently pulled back the unfastened collar of Dare's nightshirt and =
saw a
word tattooed in distinct characters on his breast. Before there was time f=
or
Havill to decipher it Dare moved slightly, as if conscious of disturbance, =
and
Havill hastened back to bed. Dare bestirred himself yet more, whereupon Hav=
ill
breathed heavily, though keeping an intent glance on the lad through his
half-closed eyes to learn if he had been aware of the investigation.
Dare was certainly conscious of something, for=
he
sat up, rubbed his eyes, and gazed around the room; then after a few moment=
s of
reflection he drew some article from beneath his pillow. A blue gleam shone
from the object as Dare held it in the moonlight, and Havill perceived that=
it
was a small revolver.
A clammy dew broke out upon the face and body =
of
the architect when, stepping out of bed with the weapon in his hand, Dare l=
ooked
under the bed, behind the curtains, out of the window, and into a closet, a=
s if
convinced that something had occurred, but in doubt as to what it was. He t=
hen
came across to where Havill was lying and still keeping up the appearance of
sleep. Watching him awhile and mistrusting the reality of this semblance, D=
are
brought it to the test by holding the revolver within a few inches of Havil=
l's
forehead.
Havill could stand no more. Crystallized with
terror, he said, without however moving more than his lips, in dread of has=
ty
action on the part of Dare: 'O, good Lord, Dare, Dare, I have done nothing!=
'
The youth smiled and lowered the pistol. 'I was
only finding out whether it was you or some burglar who had been playing tr=
icks
upon me. I find it was you.'
'Do put away that thing! It is too ghastly to
produce in a respectable bedroom. Why do you carry it?'
'Cosmopolites always do. Now answer my questio=
ns.
What were you up to?' and Dare as he spoke played with the pistol again.
Havill had recovered some coolness. 'You could=
not
use it upon me,' he said sardonically, watching Dare. 'It would be risking =
your
neck for too little an object.'
'I did not think you were shrewd enough to see
that,' replied Dare carelessly, as he returned the revolver to its place.
'Well, whether you have outwitted me or no, you will keep the secret as lon=
g as
I choose.'
'Why?' said Havill.
'Because I keep your secret of the letter abus=
ing
Miss P., and of the pilfered tracing you carry in your pocket.'
'It is quite true,' said Havill.
They went to bed again. Dare was soon asleep; =
but
Havill did not attempt to disturb him again. The elder man slept but fitful=
ly.
He was aroused in the morning by a heavy rumbling and jingling along the
highway overlooked by the window, the front wall of the house being shaken =
by the
reverberation.
'There is no rest for me here,' he said, rising
and going to the window, carefully avoiding the neighbourhood of Mr. Dare. =
When
Havill had glanced out he returned to dress himself.
'What's that noise?' said Dare, awakened by the
same rumble.
'It is the Artillery going away.'
'From where?'
'Markton barracks.'
'Hurrah!' said Dare, jumping up in bed. 'I have
been waiting for that these six weeks.'
Havill did not ask questions as to the meaning=
of
this unexpected remark.
When they were downstairs Dare's first act was=
to
ring the bell and ask if his Army and Navy Gazette had arrived.
While the servant was gone Havill cleared his
throat and said, 'I am an architect, and I take in the Architect; you are an
architect, and you take in the Army and Navy Gazette.'
'I am not an architect any more than I am a
soldier; but I have taken in the Army and Navy Gazette these many weeks.'
When they were at breakfast the paper came in.
Dare hastily tore it open and glanced at the pages.
'I am going to Markton after breakfast!' he sa=
id
suddenly, before looking up; 'we will walk together if you like?'
They walked together as planned, and entered
Markton about ten o'clock.
'I have just to make a call here,' said Dare, =
when
they were opposite the barrack-entrance on the outskirts of the town, where
wheel-tracks and a regular chain of hoof-marks left by the departed batteri=
es
were imprinted in the gravel between the open gates. 'I shall not be a mome=
nt.'
Havill stood still while his companion entered and asked the commissary in
charge, or somebody representing him, when the new batteries would arrive to
take the place of those which had gone away. He was informed that it would =
be
about noon.
'Now I am at your service,' said Dare, 'and wi=
ll
help you to rearrange your design by the new intellectual light we have
acquired.'
They entered Havill's office and set to work. =
When
contrasted with the tracing from Somerset's plan, Havill's design, which was
not far advanced, revealed all its weaknesses to him. After seeing Somerset=
's scheme
the bands of Havill's imagination were loosened: he laid his own previous
efforts aside, got fresh sheets of drawing-paper and drew with vigour.
'I may as well stay and help you,' said Dare. =
'I have
nothing to do till twelve o'clock; and not much then.'
So there he remained. At a quarter to twelve
children and idlers began to gather against the railings of Havill's house.=
A
few minutes past twelve the noise of an arriving host was heard at the entr=
ance
to the town. Thereupon Dare and Havill went to the window.
The X and Y Batteries of the Z Brigade, Royal
Horse Artillery, were entering Markton, each headed by the major with his
bugler behind him. In a moment they came abreast and passed, every man in h=
is
place; that is to say:
Six shining horses, in pairs, harnessed by
rope-traces white as milk, with a driver on each near horse: two gunners on=
the
lead-coloured stout-wheeled limber, their carcases jolted to a jelly for la=
ck
of springs: two gunners on the lead-coloured stout-wheeled gun-carriage, in=
the
same personal condition: the nine-pounder gun, dipping its heavy head to ea=
rth,
as if ashamed of its office in these enlightened times: the complement of
jingling and prancing troopers, riding at the wheels and elsewhere: six shi=
ning
horses with their drivers, and traces white as milk, as before: two more
gallant jolted men, on another jolting limber, and more stout wheels and
lead-coloured paint: two more jolted men on another drooping gun: more jing=
ling
troopers on horseback: again six shining draught-horses, traces, drivers, g=
un,
gunners, lead paint, stout wheels and troopers as before.
So each detachment lumbered slowly by, all eyes
martially forward, except when wandering in quest of female beauty.
'He's a fine fellow, is he not?' said Dare, denoting by a nod a mounted officer, with a sallow, yet handsome face, and black moustache, who came up on a bay gelding with the men of his battery.<= o:p>
'What is he?' said Havill.
'A captain who lacks advancement.'
'Do you know him?'
'I know him?'
'Yes; do you?'
Dare made no reply; and they watched the capta=
in
as he rode past with his drawn sword in his hand, the sun making a little s=
un
upon its blade, and upon his brilliantly polished long boots and bright spu=
rs;
also warming his gold cross-belt and braidings, white gloves, busby with it=
s red
bag, and tall white plume.
Havill seemed to be too indifferent to press h=
is
questioning; and when all the soldiers had passed by, Dare observed to his
companion that he should leave him for a short time, but would return in the
afternoon or next day.
After this he walked up the street in the rear=
of
the artillery, following them to the barracks. On reaching the gates he fou=
nd a
crowd of people gathered outside, looking with admiration at the guns and g=
unners
drawn up within the enclosure. When the soldiers were dismissed to their
quarters the sightseers dispersed, and Dare went through the gates to the
barrack-yard.
The guns were standing on the green; the soldi=
ers
and horses were scattered about, and the handsome captain whom Dare had poi=
nted
out to Havill was inspecting the buildings in the company of the quartermas=
ter.
Dare made a mental note of these things, and, apparently changing a previous
intention, went out from the barracks and returned to the town.
To return for a while to George Somerset. The =
sun
of his later existence having vanished from that young man's horizon, he
confined himself closely to the studio, superintending the exertions of his
draughtsmen Bowles, Knowles, and Cockton, who were now in the full swing of
working out Somerset's creations from the sketches he had previously prepar=
ed.
He had so far got the start of Havill in the
competition that, by the help of these three gentlemen, his design was soon
finished. But he gained no unfair advantage on this account, an additional
month being allowed to Havill to compensate for his later information.
Before scaling up his drawings Somerset wished=
to
spend a short time in London, and dismissing his assistants till further
notice, he locked up the rooms which had been appropriated as office and st=
udio
and prepared for the journey.
It was afternoon. Somerset walked from the cas=
tle
in the direction of the wood to reach Markton by a detour. He had not proce=
eded
far when there approached his path a man riding a bay horse with a square-c=
ut tail.
The equestrian wore a grizzled beard, and looked at Somerset with a piercing
eye as he noiselessly ambled nearer over the soft sod of the park. He prove=
d to
be Mr. Cunningham Haze, chief constable of the district, who had become
slightly known to Somerset during his sojourn here.
'One word, Mr. Somerset,' said the Chief, after
they had exchanged nods of recognition, reining his horse as he spoke.
Somerset stopped.
'You have a studio at the castle in which you =
are
preparing drawings?'
'I have.'
'Have you a clerk?'
'I had three till yesterday, when I paid them
off.'
'Would they have any right to enter the studio
late at night?'
'There would have been nothing wrong in their
doing so. Either of them might have gone back at any time for something
forgotten. They lived quite near the castle.'
'Ah, then all is explained. I was riding past =
over
the grass on the night of last Thursday, and I saw two persons in your stud=
io
with a light. It must have been about half-past nine o'clock. One of them c=
ame forward
and pulled down the blind so that the light fell upon his face. But I only =
saw
it for a short time.'
'If it were Knowles or Cockton he would have h=
ad a
beard.'
'He had no beard.'
'Then it must have been Bowles. A young man?'<= o:p>
'Quite young. His companion in the background
seemed older.'
'They are all about the same age really. By the
way--it couldn't have been Dare--and Havill, surely! Would you recognize th=
em
again?'
'The young one possibly. The other not at all,=
for
he remained in the shade.'
Somerset endeavoured to discern in a descripti=
on
by the chief constable the features of Mr. Bowles: but it seemed to approxi=
mate
more closely to Dare in spite of himself. 'I'll make a sketch of the only o=
ne
who had no business there, and show it to you,' he presently said. 'I should
like this cleared up.'
Mr. Cunningham Haze said he was going to
Toneborough that afternoon, but would return in the evening before Somerset=
's
departure. With this they parted. A possible motive for Dare's presence in =
the
rooms had instantly presented itself to Somerset's mind, for he had seen Da=
re
enter Havill's office more than once, as if he were at work there.
He accordingly sat on the next stile, and taki=
ng
out his pocket-book began a pencil sketch of Dare's head, to show to Mr. Ha=
ze
in the evening; for if Dare had indeed found admission with Havill, or as h=
is agent,
the design was lost.
But he could not make a drawing that was a sat=
isfactory
likeness. Then he luckily remembered that Dare, in the intense warmth of
admiration he had affected for Somerset on the first day or two of their
acquaintance, had begged for his photograph, and in return for it had left =
one of
himself on the mantelpiece, taken as he said by his own process. Somerset
resolved to show this production to Mr. Haze, as being more to the purpose =
than
a sketch, and instead of finishing the latter, proceeded on his way.
He entered the old overgrown drive which wound
indirectly through the wood to Markton. The road, having been laid out for
idling rather than for progress, bent sharply hither and thither among the
fissured trunks and layers of horny leaves which lay there all the year rou=
nd, interspersed
with cushions of vivid green moss that formed oases in the rust-red expanse=
.
Reaching a point where the road made one of its
bends between two large beeches, a man and woman revealed themselves at a f=
ew
yards' distance, walking slowly towards him. In the short and quaint lady he
recognized Charlotte De Stancy, whom he remembered not to have seen for sev=
eral
days.
She slightly blushed and said, 'O, this is
pleasant, Mr. Somerset! Let me present my brother to you, Captain De Stancy=
of
the Royal Horse Artillery.'
Her brother came forward and shook hands heart=
ily
with Somerset; and they all three rambled on together, talking of the seaso=
n,
the place, the fishing, the shooting, and whatever else came uppermost in t=
heir
minds.
Captain De Stancy was a personage who would ha=
ve
been called interesting by women well out of their teens. He was ripe, with=
out
having declined a digit towards fogeyism. He was sufficiently old and
experienced to suggest a goodly accumulation of touching amourettes in the
chambers of his memory, and not too old for the possibility of increasing t=
he
store. He was apparently about eight-and-thirty, less tall than his father =
had
been, but admirably made; and his every movement exhibited a fine combinati=
on
of strength and flexibility of limb. His face was somewhat thin and thought=
ful,
its complexion being naturally pale, though darkened by exposure to a warmer
sun than ours. His features were somewhat striking; his moustache and hair
raven black; and his eyes, denied the attributes of military keenness by re=
ason
of the largeness and darkness of their aspect, acquired thereby a softness =
of
expression that was in part womanly. His mouth as far as it could be seen r=
eproduced
this characteristic, which might have been called weakness, or goodness,
according to the mental attitude of the observer. It was large but well for=
med,
and showed an unimpaired line of teeth within. His dress at present was a
heather-coloured rural suit, cut close to his figure.
'You knew my cousin, Jack Ravensbury?' he said=
to
Somerset, as they went on. 'Poor Jack: he was a good fellow.'
'He was a very good fellow.'
'He would have been made a parson if he had
lived--it was his great wish. I, as his senior, and a man of the world as I
thought myself, used to chaff him about it when he was a boy, and tell him =
not
to be a milksop, but to enter the army. But I think Jack was right--the par=
sons
have the best of it, I see now.'
'They would hardly admit that,' said Somerset,
laughing. 'Nor can I.'
'Nor I,' said the captain's sister. 'See how
lovely you all looked with your big guns and uniform when you entered Markt=
on;
and then see how stupid the parsons look by comparison, when they flock into
Markton at a Visitation.'
'Ah, yes,' said De Stancy,
'"Doubtless=
it is
a brilliant masquerade; But when of the first sight y=
ou've
had your fill, It
palls--at least it does so upon me, This
paradise of pleasure and ennui."
When one is getting on for forty;
&quo=
t;When
we have made our love, and gamed our gaming, =
Dressed,
voted, shone, and maybe, something more; =
With
dandies dined, heard senators declaiming; =
Seen
beauties brought to market by the score,"
and so on, there arises a strong desire for a
quiet old-fashioned country life, in which incessant movement is not a
necessary part of the programme.'
'But you are not forty, Will?' said Charlotte.=
'My dear, I was thirty-nine last January.'
'Well, men about here are youths at that age. =
It
was India used you up so, when you served in the line, was it not? I wish y=
ou
had never gone there!'
'So do I,' said De Stancy drily. 'But I ought =
to
grow a youth again, like the rest, now I am in my native air.'
They came to a narrow brook, not wider than a
man's stride, and Miss De Stancy halted on the edge.
'Why, Lottie, you used to jump it easily enoug=
h,'
said her brother. 'But we won't make her do it now.' He took her in his arm=
s,
and lifted her over, giving her a gratuitous ride for some additional yards,
and saying, 'You are not a pound heavier, Lott, than you were at ten years =
old....
What do you think of the country here, Mr. Somerset? Are you going to stay
long?'
'I think very well of it,' said Somerset. 'But=
I
leave to-morrow morning, which makes it necessary that I turn back in a min=
ute
or two from walking with you.'
'That's a disappointment. I had hoped you were
going to finish out the autumn with shooting. There's some, very fair, to be
got here on reasonable terms, I've just heard.'
'But you need not hire any!' spoke up Charlott=
e.
'Paula would let you shoot anything, I am sure. She has not been here long
enough to preserve much game, and the poachers had it all in Mr. Wilkins' t=
ime.
But what there is you might kill with pleasure to her.'
'No, thank you,' said De Stancy grimly. 'I pre=
fer
to remain a stranger to Miss Power--Miss Steam-Power, she ought to be
called--and to all her possessions.'
Charlotte was subdued, and did not insist furt=
her;
while Somerset, before he could feel himself able to decide on the mood in
which the gallant captain's joke at Paula's expense should be taken, wonder=
ed whether
it were a married man or a bachelor who uttered it.
He had not been able to keep the question of De
Stancy's domestic state out of his head from the first moment of seeing him.
Assuming De Stancy to be a husband, he felt there might be some excuse for =
his
remark; if unmarried, Somerset liked the satire still better; in such
circumstances there was a relief in the thought that Captain De Stancy's
prejudices might be infinitely stronger than those of his sister or father.=
'Going to-morrow, did you say, Mr. Somerset?'
asked Miss De Stancy. 'Then will you dine with us to-day? My father is anxi=
ous
that you should do so before you go. I am sorry there will be only our own
family present to meet you; but you can leave as early as you wish.'
Her brother seconded the invitation, and Somer=
set
promised, though his leisure for that evening was short. He was in truth
somewhat inclined to like De Stancy; for though the captain had said nothin=
g of
any value either on war, commerce, science, or art, he had seemed attractiv=
e to
the younger man. Beyond the natural interest a soldier has for imaginative
minds in the civil walks of life, De Stancy's occasional manifestations of
taedium vitae were too poetically shaped to be repellent. Gallantry combine=
d in
him with a sort of ascetic self-repression in a way that was curious. He wa=
s a
dozen years older than Somerset: his life had been passed in grooves remote
from those of Somerset's own life; and the latter decided that he would lik=
e to
meet the artillery officer again.
Bidding them a temporary farewell, he went awa=
y to
Markton by a shorter path than that pursued by the De Stancys, and after
spending the remainder of the afternoon preparing for departure, he sallied
forth just before the dinner-hour towards the suburban villa.
He had become yet more curious whether a Mrs. =
De
Stancy existed; if there were one he would probably see her to-night. He ha=
d an
irrepressible hope that there might be such a lady. On entering the drawing=
-room
only the father, son, and daughter were assembled. Somerset fell into talk =
with
Charlotte during the few minutes before dinner, and his thought found its w=
ay
out.
'There is no Mrs. De Stancy?' he said in an
undertone.
'None,' she said; 'my brother is a bachelor.'<= o:p>
The dinner having been fixed at an early hour =
to
suit Somerset, they had returned to the drawing-room at eight o'clock. About
nine he was aiming to get away.
'You are not off yet?' said the captain.
'There would have been no hurry,' said Somerse=
t,
'had I not just remembered that I have left one thing undone which I want to
attend to before my departure. I want to see the chief constable to-night.'=
'Cunningham Haze?--he is the very man I too wa=
nt
to see. But he went out of town this afternoon, and I hardly think you will=
see
him to-night. His return has been delayed.'
'Then the matter must wait.'
'I have left word at his house asking him to c=
all
here if he gets home before half-past ten; but at any rate I shall see him
to-morrow morning. Can I do anything for you, since you are leaving early?'=
Somerset replied that the business was of no g=
reat
importance, and briefly explained the suspected intrusion into his studio; =
that
he had with him a photograph of the suspected young man. 'If it is a mistak=
e,' added
Somerset, 'I should regret putting my draughtsman's portrait into the hands=
of
the police, since it might injure his character; indeed, it would be unfair=
to
him. So I wish to keep the likeness in my own hands, and merely to show it =
to
Mr. Haze. That's why I prefer not to send it.'
'My matter with Haze is that the barrack furni=
ture
does not correspond with the inventories. If you like, I'll ask your questi=
on
at the same time with pleasure.'
Thereupon Somerset gave Captain De Stancy an u=
nfastened
envelope containing the portrait, asking him to destroy it if the constable=
should
declare it not to correspond with the face that met his eye at the window. =
Soon
after, Somerset took his leave of the household.
He had not been absent ten minutes when other
wheels were heard on the gravel without, and the servant announced Mr.
Cunningham Haze, who had returned earlier than he had expected, and had cal=
led
as requested.
They went into the dining-room to discuss their
business. When the barrack matter had been arranged De Stancy said, 'I have=
a
little commission to execute for my friend Mr. Somerset. I am to ask you if=
this
portrait of the person he suspects of unlawfully entering his room is like =
the
man you saw there?'
The speaker was seated on one side of the
dining-table and Mr. Haze on the other. As he spoke De Stancy pulled the
envelope from his pocket, and half drew out the photograph, which he had no=
t as
yet looked at, to hand it over to the constable. In the act his eye fell up=
on
the portrait, with its uncertain expression of age, assured look, and hair =
worn
in a fringe like a girl's.
Captain De Stancy's face became strained, and =
he
leant back in his chair, having previously had sufficient power over himsel=
f to
close the envelope and return it to his pocket.
'Good heavens, you are ill, Captain De Stancy?'
said the chief constable.
'It was only momentary,' said De Stancy; 'bett=
er
in a minute--a glass of water will put me right.'
Mr. Haze got him a glass of water from the
sideboard.
'These spasms occasionally overtake me,' said =
De
Stancy when he had drunk. 'I am already better. What were we saying? O, this
affair of Mr. Somerset's. I find that this envelope is not the right one.' =
He ostensibly
searched his pocket again. 'I must have mislaid it,' he continued, rising.
'I'll be with you again in a moment.'
De Stancy went into the room adjoining, opened=
an
album of portraits that lay on the table, and selected one of a young man q=
uite
unknown to him, whose age was somewhat akin to Dare's, but who in no other =
attribute
resembled him.
De Stancy placed this picture in the original
envelope, and returned with it to the chief constable, saying he had found =
it
at last.
'Thank you, thank you,' said Cunningham Haze,
looking it over. 'Ah--I perceive it is not what I expected to see. Mr. Some=
rset
was mistaken.'
When the chief constable had left the house,
Captain De Stancy shut the door and drew out the original photograph. As he
looked at the transcript of Dare's features he was moved by a painful agita=
tion,
till recalling himself to the present, he carefully put the portrait into t=
he fire.
During the following days Captain De Stancy's
manner on the roads, in the streets, and at barracks, was that of Crusoe af=
ter
seeing the print of a man's foot on the sand.
Anybody who had closely considered Dare at this
time would have discovered that, shortly after the arrival of the Royal Hor=
se
Artillery at Markton Barracks, he gave up his room at the inn at Sleeping-G=
reen
and took permanent lodgings over a broker's shop in the town above-mentione=
d.
The peculiarity of the rooms was that they commanded a view lengthwise of t=
he
barrack lane along which any soldier, in the natural course of things, would
pass either to enter the town, to call at Myrtle Villa, or to go to Stancy
Castle.
Dare seemed to act as if there were plenty of =
time
for his business. Some few days had slipped by when, perceiving Captain De
Stancy walk past his window and into the town, Dare took his hat and cane, =
and followed
in the same direction. When he was about fifty yards short of Myrtle Villa =
on
the other side of the town he saw De Stancy enter its gate.
Dare mounted a stile beside the highway and
patiently waited. In about twenty minutes De Stancy came out again and turn=
ed
back in the direction of the town, till Dare was revealed to him on his left
hand. When De Stancy recognized the youth he was visibly agitated, though
apparently not surprised. Standing still a moment he dropped his glance upon
the ground, and then came forward to Dare, who having alighted from the sti=
le
stood before the captain with a smile.
'My dear lad!' said De Stancy, much moved by
recollections. He held Dare's hand for a moment in both his own, and turned
askance.
'You are not astonished,' said Dare, still ret=
aining
his smile, as if to his mind there were something comic in the situation.
'I knew you were somewhere near. Where do you =
come
from?'
'From going to and fro in the earth, and walki=
ng
up and down in it, as Satan said to his Maker.--Southampton last, in common
speech.'
'Have you come here to see me?'
'Entirely. I divined that your next quarters w=
ould
be Markton, the previous batteries that were at your station having come on
here. I have wanted to see you badly.'
'You have?'
'I am rather out of cash. I have been knocking
about a good deal since you last heard from me.'
'I will do what I can again.'
'Thanks, captain.'
'But, Willy, I am afraid it will not be much at
present. You know I am as poor as a mouse.'
'But such as it is, could you write a cheque f=
or
it now?'
'I will send it to you from the barracks.'
'I have a better plan. By getting over this st=
ile
we could go round at the back of the villas to Sleeping-Green Church. There=
is
always a pen-and-ink in the vestry, and we can have a nice talk on the way.=
It would
be unwise for me to appear at the barracks just now.'
'That's true.'
De Stancy sighed, and they were about to walk
across the fields together. 'No,' said Dare, suddenly stopping: my plans ma=
ke
it imperative that we should not run the risk of being seen in each other's=
company
for long. Walk on, and I will follow. You can stroll into the churchyard, a=
nd
move about as if you were ruminating on the epitaphs. There are some with
excellent morals. I'll enter by the other gate, and we can meet easily in t=
he
vestry-room.'
De Stancy looked gloomy, and was on the point =
of
acquiescing when he turned back and said, 'Why should your photograph be sh=
own
to the chief constable?'
'By whom?'
'Somerset the architect. He suspects your havi=
ng
broken into his office or something of the sort.' De Stancy briefly related
what Somerset had explained to him at the dinner-table.
'It was merely diamond cut diamond between us,=
on
an architectural matter,' murmured Dare. 'Ho! and he suspects; and that's h=
is
remedy!'
'I hope this is nothing serious?' asked De Sta=
ncy
gravely.
'I peeped at his drawing--that's all. But sinc=
e he
chooses to make that use of my photograph, which I gave him in friendship, =
I'll
make use of his in a way he little dreams of. Well now, let's on.'
A quarter of an hour later they met in the ves=
try
of the church at Sleeping-Green.
'I have only just transferred my account to the
bank here,' said De Stancy, as he took out his cheque-book, 'and it will be
more convenient to me at present to draw but a small sum. I will make up the
balance afterwards.'
When he had written it Dare glanced over the p=
aper
and said ruefully, 'It is small, dad. Well, there is all the more reason wh=
y I
should broach my scheme, with a view to making such documents larger in the=
future.'
'I shall be glad to hear of any such scheme,'
answered De Stancy, with a languid attempt at jocularity.
'Then here it is. The plan I have arranged for=
you
is of the nature of a marriage.'
'You are very kind!' said De Stancy, agape.
'The lady's name is Miss Paula Power, who, as =
you
may have heard since your arrival, is in absolute possession of her father's
property and estates, including Stancy Castle. As soon as I heard of her I =
saw
what a marvellous match it would be for you, and your family; it would make=
a
man of you, in short, and I have set my mind upon your putting no objection=
in
the way of its accomplishment.'
'But, Willy, it seems to me that, of us two, i=
t is
you who exercise paternal authority?'
'True, it is for your good. Let me do it.'
'Well, one must be indulgent under the
circumstances, I suppose.... But,' added De Stancy simply, 'Willy, I--don't
want to marry, you know. I have lately thought that some day we may be able=
to
live together, you and I: go off to America or New Zealand, where we are not
known, and there lead a quiet, pastoral life, defying social rules and
troublesome observances.'
'I can't hear of it, captain,' replied Dare
reprovingly. 'I am what events have made me, and having fixed my mind upon
getting you settled in life by this marriage, I have put things in train fo=
r it
at an immense trouble to myself. If you had thought over it o' nights as mu=
ch as
I have, you would not say nay.'
'But I ought to have married your mother if
anybody. And as I have not married her, the least I can do in respect to he=
r is
to marry no other woman.'
'You have some sort of duty to me, have you no=
t,
Captain De Stancy?'
'Yes, Willy, I admit that I have,' the elder
replied reflectively. 'And I don't think I have failed in it thus far?'
'This will be the crowning proof. Paternal
affection, family pride, the noble instincts to reinstate yourself in the
castle of your ancestors, all demand the step. And when you have seen the l=
ady!
She has the figure and motions of a sylph, the face of an angel, the eye of
love itself. What a sight she is crossing the lawn on a sunny afternoon, or
gliding airily along the corridors of the old place the De Stancys knew so
well! Her lips are the softest, reddest, most distracting things you ever s=
aw. Her
hair is as soft as silk, and of the rarest, tenderest brown.'
The captain moved uneasily. 'Don't take the
trouble to say more, Willy,' he observed. 'You know how I am. My cursed
susceptibility to these matters has already wasted years of my life, and I
don't want to make myself a fool about her too.'
'You must see her.'
'No, don't let me see her,' De Stancy
expostulated. 'If she is only half so good-looking as you say, she will dra=
g me
at her heels like a blind Samson. You are a mere youth as yet, but I may te=
ll
you that the misfortune of never having been my own master where a beautiful
face was concerned obliges me to be cautious if I would preserve my peace o=
f mind.'
'Well, to my mind, Captain De Stancy, your
objections seem trivial. Are those all?'
'They are all I care to mention just now to yo=
u.'
'Captain! can there be secrets between us?'
De Stancy paused and looked at the lad as if h=
is
heart wished to confess what his judgment feared to tell. 'There should not
be--on this point,' he murmured.
'Then tell me--why do you so much object to he=
r?'
'I once vowed a vow.'
'A vow!' said Dare, rather disconcerted.
'A vow of infinite solemnity. I must tell you =
from
the beginning; perhaps you are old enough to hear it now, though you have b=
een
too young before. Your mother's life ended in much sorrow, and it was occas=
ioned
entirely by me. In my regret for the wrong done her I swore to her that tho=
ugh
she had not been my wife, no other woman should stand in that relationship =
to
me; and this to her was a sort of comfort. When she was dead my knowledge o=
f my
own plaguy impressionableness, which seemed to be ineradicable--as it seems
still--led me to think what safeguards I could set over myself with a view =
to
keeping my promise to live a life of celibacy; and among other things I
determined to forswear the society, and if possible the sight, of women you=
ng
and attractive, as far as I had the power to do.'
'It is not so easy to avoid the sight of a
beautiful woman if she crosses your path, I should think?'
'It is not easy; but it is possible.'
'How?'
'By directing your attention another way.'
'But do you mean to say, captain, that you can=
be
in a room with a pretty woman who speaks to you, and not look at her?'
'I do: though mere looking has less to do with=
it
than mental attentiveness--allowing your thoughts to flow out in her
direction--to comprehend her image.'
'But it would be considered very impolite not =
to
look at the woman or comprehend her image?'
'It would, and is. I am considered the most
impolite officer in the service. I have been nicknamed the man with the ave=
rted
eyes--the man with the detestable habit--the man who greets you with his
shoulder, and so on. Ninety-and-nine fair women at the present moment hate =
me
like poison and death for having persistently refused to plumb the depths o=
f their
offered eyes.'
'How can you do it, who are by nature courteou=
s?'
'I cannot always--I break down sometimes. But,
upon the whole, recollection holds me to it: dread of a lapse. Nothing is so
potent as fear well maintained.'
De Stancy narrated these details in a grave
meditative tone with his eyes on the wall, as if he were scarcely conscious=
of
a listener.
'But haven't you reckless moments, captain?--w=
hen
you have taken a little more wine than usual, for instance?'
'I don't take wine.'
'O, you are a teetotaller?'
'Not a pledged one--but I don't touch alcohol
unless I get wet, or anything of that sort.'
'Don't you sometimes forget this vow of yours =
to
my mother?'
'No, I wear a reminder.'
'What is that like?'
De Stancy held up his left hand, on the third
finger of which appeared an iron ring.
Dare surveyed it, saying, 'Yes, I have seen th=
at
before, though I never knew why you wore it. Well, I wear a reminder also, =
but
of a different sort.'
He threw open his shirt-front, and revealed
tattooed on his breast the letters DE STANCY; the same marks which Havill h=
ad
seen in the bedroom by the light of the moon.
The captain rather winced at the sight. 'Well,
well,' he said hastily, 'that's enough.... Now, at any rate, you understand=
my
objection to know Miss Power.'
'But, captain,' said the lad coaxingly, as he
fastened his shirt; 'you forget me and the good you may do me by marrying?
Surely that's a sufficient reason for a change of sentiment. This inexperie=
nced
sweet creature owns the castle and estate which bears your name, even to th=
e furniture
and pictures. She is the possessor of at least forty thousand a year--how m=
uch
more I cannot say--while, buried here in Outer Wessex, she lives at the rat=
e of
twelve hundred in her simplicity.'
'It is very good of you to set this before me.=
But
I prefer to go on as I am going.'
'Well, I won't bore you any more with her to-d=
ay.
A monk in regimentals!--'tis strange.' Dare arose and was about to open the=
door,
when, looking through the window, Captain De Stancy said, 'Stop.' He had
perceived his father, Sir William De Stancy, walking among the tombstones
without.
'Yes, indeed,' said Dare, turning the key in t=
he
door. 'It would look strange if he were to find us here.'
As the old man seemed indisposed to leave the
churchyard just yet they sat down again.
'What a capital card-table this green cloth wo=
uld
make,' said Dare, as they waited. 'You play, captain, I suppose?'
'Very seldom.'
'The same with me. But as I enjoy a hand of ca=
rds
with a friend, I don't go unprovided.' Saying which, Dare drew a pack from =
the
tail of his coat. 'Shall we while away this leisure with the witching thing=
s?'
'Really, I'd rather not.'
'But,' coaxed the young man, 'I am in the humo=
ur
for it; so don't be unkind!'
'But, Willy, why do you care for these things?
Cards are harmless enough in their way; but I don't like to see you carrying
them in your pocket. It isn't good for you.'
'It was by the merest chance I had them. Now c=
ome,
just one hand, since we are prisoners. I want to show you how nicely I can
play. I won't corrupt you!'
'Of course not,' said De Stancy, as if ashamed=
of
what his objection implied. 'You are not corrupt enough yourself to do that=
, I
should hope.'
The cards were dealt and they began to
play--Captain De Stancy abstractedly, and with his eyes mostly straying out=
of
the window upon the large yew, whose boughs as they moved were distorted by=
the
old green window-panes.
'It is better than doing nothing,' said Dare
cheerfully, as the game went on. 'I hope you don't dislike it?'
'Not if it pleases you,' said De Stancy
listlessly.
'And the consecration of this place does not
extend further than the aisle wall.'
'Doesn't it?' said De Stancy, as he mechanical=
ly played
out his cards. 'What became of that box of books I sent you with my last
cheque?'
'Well, as I hadn't time to read them, and as I
knew you would not like them to be wasted, I sold them to a bloke who perus=
es
them from morning till night. Ah, now you have lost a fiver altogether--how
queer! We'll double the stakes. So, as I was saying, just at the time the b=
ooks
came I got an inkling of this important business, and literature went to th=
e wall.'
'Important business--what?'
'The capture of this lady, to be sure.'
De Stancy sighed impatiently. 'I wish you were
less calculating, and had more of the impulse natural to your years!'
'Game--by Jove! You have lost again, captain. =
That
makes--let me see--nine pounds fifteen to square us.'
'I owe you that?' said De Stancy, startled. 'I=
t is
more than I have in cash. I must write another cheque.'
'Never mind. Make it payable to yourself, and =
our
connection will be quite unsuspected.'
Captain De Stancy did as requested, and rose f=
rom
his seat. Sir William, though further off, was still in the churchyard.
'How can you hesitate for a moment about this
girl?' said Dare, pointing to the bent figure of the old man. 'Think of the
satisfaction it would be to him to see his son within the family walls agai=
n.
It should be a religion with you to compass such a legitimate end as this.'=
'Well, well, I'll think of it,' said the capta=
in,
with an impatient laugh. 'You are quite a Mephistopheles, Will--I say it to=
my
sorrow!'
'Would that I were in your place.'
'Would that you were! Fifteen years ago I might
have called the chance a magnificent one.'
'But you are a young man still, and you look
younger than you are. Nobody knows our relationship, and I am not such a fo=
ol
as to divulge it. Of course, if through me you reclaim this splendid
possession, I should leave it to your feelings what you would do for me.'
Sir William had by this time cleared out of the
churchyard, and the pair emerged from the vestry and departed. Proceeding
towards Markton by the same bypath, they presently came to an eminence cove=
red
with bushes of blackthorn, and tufts of yellowing fern. From this point a g=
ood
view of the woods and glades about Stancy Castle could be obtained. Dare st=
ood
still on the top and stretched out his finger; the captain's eye followed t=
he
direction, and he saw above the many-hued foliage in the middle distance the
towering keep of Paula's castle.
'That's the goal of your ambition,
captain--ambition do I say?--most righteous and dutiful endeavour! How the
hoary shape catches the sunlight--it is the raison d'etre of the landscape,=
and
its possession is coveted by a thousand hearts. Surely it is an hereditary
desire of yours? You must make a point of returning to it, and appearing in=
the
map of the future as in that of the past. I delight in this work of encoura=
ging
you, and pushing you forward towards your own. You are really very clever, =
you
know, but--I say it with respect--how comes it that you want so much waking
up?'
'Because I know the day is not so bright as it
seems, my boy. However, you make a little mistake. If I care for anything on
earth, I do care for that old fortress of my forefathers. I respect so litt=
le
among the living that all my reverence is for my own dead. But manoeuvring,
even for my own, as you call it, is not in my line. It is distasteful--it i=
s positively
hateful to me.'
'Well, well, let it stand thus for the present.
But will you refuse me one little request--merely to see her? I'll contrive=
it
so that she may not see you. Don't refuse me, it is the one thing I ask, an=
d I
shall think it hard if you deny me.'
'O Will!' said the captain wearily. 'Why will =
you
plead so? No--even though your mind is particularly set upon it, I cannot s=
ee
her, or bestow a thought upon her, much as I should like to gratify you.'
When they had parted Dare walked along towards
Markton with resolve on his mouth and an unscrupulous light in his prominent
black eye. Could any person who had heard the previous conversation have se=
en
him now, he would have found little difficulty in divining that,
notwithstanding De Stancy's obduracy, the reinstation of Captain De Stancy =
in
the castle, and the possible legitimation and enrichment of himself, was st=
ill the
dream of his brain. Even should any legal settlement or offspring intervene=
to
nip the extreme development of his projects, there was abundant opportunity=
for
his glorification. Two conditions were imperative. De Stancy must see Paula
before Somerset's return. And it was necessary to have help from Havill, ev=
en
if it involved letting him know all.
Whether Havill already knew all was a nice
question for Mr. Dare's luminous mind. Havill had had opportunities of read=
ing
his secret, particularly on the night they occupied the same room. If so, b=
y revealing
it to Paula, Havill might utterly blast his project for the marriage. Havil=
l,
then, was at all risks to be retained as an ally.
Yet Dare would have preferred a stronger check
upon his confederate than was afforded by his own knowledge of that anonymo=
us
letter and the competition trick. For were the competition lost to him, Hav=
ill
would have no further interest in conciliating Miss Power; would as soon as=
not
let her know the secret of De Stancy's relation to him.
Fortune as usual helped him in his dilemma.
Entering Havill's office, Dare found him sitting there; but the drawings had
all disappeared from the boards. The architect held an open letter in his h=
and.
'Well, what news?' said Dare.
'Miss Power has returned to the castle, Somers=
et
is detained in London, and the competition is decided,' said Havill, with a
glance of quiet dubiousness.
'And you have won it?'
'No. We are bracketed--it's a tie. The judges =
say
there is no choice between the designs--that they are singularly equal and
singularly good. That she would do well to adopt either. Signed So-and-So,
Fellows of the Royal Institute of British Architects. The result is that sh=
e will
employ which she personally likes best. It is as if I had spun a sovereign =
in
the air and it had alighted on its edge. The least false movement will make=
it
tails; the least wise movement heads.'
'Singularly equal. Well, we owe that to our
nocturnal visit, which must not be known.'
'O Lord, no!' said Havill apprehensively.
Dare felt secure of him at those words. Havill=
had
much at stake; the slightest rumour of his trick in bringing about the
competition, would be fatal to Havill's reputation.
'The permanent absence of Somerset then is
desirable architecturally on your account, matrimonially on mine.'
'Matrimonially? By the way--who was that capta=
in
you pointed out to me when the artillery entered the town?'
'Captain De Stancy--son of Sir William De Stan=
cy.
He's the husband. O, you needn't look incredulous: it is practicable; but we
won't argue that. In the first place I want him to see her, and to see her =
in
the most love-kindling, passion-begetting circumstances that can be thought=
of.
And he must see her surreptitiously, for he refuses to meet her.'
'Let him see her going to church or chapel?'
Dare shook his head.
'Driving out?'
'Common-place!'
'Walking in the gardens?'
'Ditto.'
'At her toilet?'
'Ah--if it were possible!'
'Which it hardly is. Well, you had better thin=
k it
over and make inquiries about her habits, and as to when she is in a favour=
able
aspect for observation, as the almanacs say.'
Shortly afterwards Dare took his leave. In the
evening he made it his business to sit smoking on the bole of a tree which
commanded a view of the upper ward of the castle, and also of the old
postern-gate, now enlarged and used as a tradesmen's entrance. It was half-=
past
six o'clock; the dressing-bell rang, and Dare saw a light-footed young woma=
n hasten
at the sound across the ward from the servants' quarter. A light appeared i=
n a
chamber which he knew to be Paula's dressing-room; and there it remained
half-an-hour, a shadow passing and repassing on the blind in the style of
head-dress worn by the girl he had previously seen. The dinner-bell sounded=
and
the light went out.
As yet it was scarcely dark out of doors, and =
in a
few minutes Dare had the satisfaction of seeing the same woman cross the wa=
rd
and emerge upon the slope without. This time she was bonneted, and carried a
little basket in her hand. A nearer view showed her to be, as he had expect=
ed, Milly
Birch, Paula's maid, who had friends living in Markton, whom she was in the
habit of visiting almost every evening during the three hours of leisure wh=
ich
intervened between Paula's retirement from the dressing-room and return thi=
ther
at ten o'clock. When the young woman had descended the road and passed into=
the
large drive, Dare rose and followed her.
'O, it is you, Miss Birch,' said Dare, on
overtaking her. 'I am glad to have the pleasure of walking by your side.'
'Yes, sir. O it's Mr. Dare. We don't see you at
the castle now, sir.'
'No. And do you get a walk like this every eve=
ning
when the others are at their busiest?'
'Almost every evening; that's the one return to
the poor lady's maid for losing her leisure when the others get it--in the
absence of the family from home.'
'Is Miss Power a hard mistress?'
'No.'
'Rather fanciful than hard, I presume?'
'Just so, sir.'
'And she likes to appear to advantage, no doub=
t.'
'I suppose so,' said Milly, laughing. 'We all =
do.'
'When does she appear to the best advantage? W=
hen
riding, or driving, or reading her book?'
'Not altogether then, if you mean the very bes=
t.'
'Perhaps it is when she sits looking in the gl=
ass
at herself, and you let down her hair.'
'Not particularly, to my mind.'
'When does she to your mind? When dressed for =
a dinner-party
or ball?'
'She's middling, then. But there is one time w=
hen
she looks nicer and cleverer than at any. It is when she is in the gymnasiu=
m.'
'O--gymnasium?'
'Because when she is there she wears such a pr=
etty
boy's costume, and is so charming in her movements, that you think she is a
lovely young youth and not a girl at all.'
'When does she go to this gymnasium?'
'Not so much as she used to. Only on wet morni=
ngs
now, when she can't get out for walks or drives. But she used to do it every
day.'
'I should like to see her there.'
'Why, sir?'
'I am a poor artist, and can't afford models. =
To
see her attitudes would be of great assistance to me in the art I love so
well.'
Milly shook her head. 'She's very strict about=
the
door being locked. If I were to leave it open she would dismiss me, as I sh=
ould
deserve.'
'But consider, dear Miss Birch, the advantage =
to a
poor artist the sight of her would be: if you could hold the door ajar it w=
ould
be worth five pounds to me, and a good deal to you.'
'No,' said the incorruptible Milly, shaking her
head. 'Besides, I don't always go there with her. O no, I couldn't!'
Milly remained so firm at this point that Dare
said no more.
When he had left her he returned to the castle
grounds, and though there was not much light he had no difficulty in
discovering the gymnasium, the outside of which he had observed before, wit=
hout
thinking to inquire its purpose. Like the erections in other parts of the
shrubberies it was constructed of wood, the interstices between the framing
being filled up with short billets of fir nailed diagonally. Dare, even when
without a settled plan in his head, could arrange for probabilities; and
wrenching out one of the billets he looked inside. It seemed to be a simple
oblong apartment, fitted up with ropes, with a little dressing-closet at on=
e end,
and lighted by a skylight or lantern in the roof. Dare replaced the wood and
went on his way.
Havill was smoking on his doorstep when Dare
passed up the street. He held up his hand.
'Since you have been gone,' said the architect,
'I've hit upon something that may help you in exhibiting your lady to your
gentleman. In the summer I had orders to design a gymnasium for her, which I
did; and they say she is very clever on the ropes and bars. Now--'
'I've discovered it. I shall contrive for him =
to
see her there on the first wet morning, which is when she practises. What m=
ade
her think of it?'
'As you may have heard, she holds advanced vie=
ws
on social and other matters; and in those on the higher education of women =
she
is very strong, talking a good deal about the physical training of the Gree=
ks, whom
she adores, or did. Every philosopher and man of science who ventilates his
theories in the monthly reviews has a devout listener in her; and this subj=
ect
of the physical development of her sex has had its turn with other things in
her mind. So she had the place built on her very first arrival, according to
the latest lights on athletics, and in imitation of those at the new colleg=
es
for women.'
'How deuced clever of the girl! She means to l=
ive
to be a hundred!'
The wet day arrived with all the promptness th=
at
might have been expected of it in this land of rains and mists. The alder
bushes behind the gymnasium dripped monotonously leaf upon leaf, added to t=
his
being the purl of the shallow stream a little way off, producing a sense of=
satiety
in watery sounds. Though there was drizzle in the open meads, the rain here=
in
the thicket was comparatively slight, and two men with fishing tackle who s=
tood
beneath one of the larger bushes found its boughs a sufficient shelter.
'We may as well walk home again as study nature
here, Willy,' said the taller and elder of the twain. 'I feared it would
continue when we started. The magnificent sport you speak of must rest for
to-day.'
The other looked at his watch, but made no
particular reply.
'Come, let us move on. I don't like intruding =
into
other people's grounds like this,' De Stancy continued.
'We are not intruding. Anybody walks outside t=
his
fence.' He indicated an iron railing newly tarred, dividing the wilder
underwood amid which they stood from the inner and well-kept parts of the
shrubbery, and against which the back of the gymnasium was built.
Light footsteps upon a gravel walk could be he=
ard
on the other side of the fence, and a trio of cloaked and umbrella-screened
figures were for a moment discernible. They vanished behind the gymnasium; =
and
again nothing resounded but the river murmurs and the clock-like drippings =
of the
leafage.
'Hush!' said Dare.
'No pranks, my boy,' said De Stancy suspicious=
ly.
'You should be above them.'
'And you should trust to my good sense, captai=
n,'
Dare remonstrated. 'I have not indulged in a prank since the sixth year of =
my
pilgrimage. I have found them too damaging to my interests. Well, it is not=
too
dry here, and damp injures your health, you say. Have a pull for safety's s=
ake.'
He presented a flask to De Stancy.
The artillery officer looked down at his nether
garments.
'I don't break my rule without good reason,' he
observed.
'I am afraid that reason exists at present.'
'I am afraid it does. What have you got?'
'Only a little wine.'
'What wine?'
'Do try it. I call it "the blushful
Hippocrene," that the poet describes as
"Tasting of=
Flora
and the country green; Dance=
, and
Provencal song, and sun-burnt mirth."'
De Stancy took the flask, and drank a little.<= o:p>
'It warms, does it not?' said Dare.
'Too much,' said De Stancy with misgiving. 'I =
have
been taken unawares. Why, it is three parts brandy, to my taste, you scamp!=
'
Dare put away the wine. 'Now you are to see
something,' he said.
'Something--what is it?' Captain De Stancy
regarded him with a puzzled look.
'It is quite a curiosity, and really worth see=
ing.
Now just look in here.'
The speaker advanced to the back of the buildi=
ng,
and withdrew the wood billet from the wall.
'Will, I believe you are up to some trick,' sa=
id
De Stancy, not, however, suspecting the actual truth in these unsuggestive =
circumstances,
and with a comfortable resignation, produced by the potent liquor, which wo=
uld
have been comical to an outsider, but which, to one who had known the histo=
ry
and relationship of the two speakers, would have worn a sadder significance=
. 'I
am too big a fool about you to keep you down as I ought; that's the fault of
me, worse luck.'
He pressed the youth's hand with a smile, went
forward, and looked through the hole into the interior of the gymnasium. Da=
re
withdrew to some little distance, and watched Captain De Stancy's face, whi=
ch presently
began to assume an expression of interest.
What was the captain seeing? A sort of optical
poem.
Paula, in a pink flannel costume, was bending,
wheeling and undulating in the air like a gold-fish in its globe, sometimes
ascending by her arms nearly to the lantern, then lowering herself till she
swung level with the floor. Her aunt Mrs. Goodman, and Charlotte De Stancy,
were sitting on camp-stools at one end, watching her gyrations, Paula occas=
ionally
addressing them with such an expression as--'Now, Aunt, look at me--and you,
Charlotte--is not that shocking to your weak nerves,' when some adroit feat
would be repeated, which, however, seemed to give much more pleasure to Pau=
la
herself in performing it than to Mrs. Goodman in looking on, the latter
sometimes saying, 'O, it is terrific--do not run such a risk again!'
It would have demanded the poetic passion of s=
ome
joyous Elizabethan lyrist like Lodge, Nash, or Constable, to fitly phrase
Paula's presentation of herself at this moment of absolute abandonment to e=
very
muscular whim that could take possession of such a supple form. The white
manilla ropes clung about the performer like snakes as she took her exercis=
e,
and the colour in her face deepened as she went on. Captain De Stancy felt
that, much as he had seen in early life of beauty in woman, he had never se=
en
beauty of such a real and living sort as this. A recollection of his vow,
together with a sense that to gaze on the festival of this Bona Dea was, th=
ough
so innocent and pretty a sight, hardly fair or gentlemanly, would have
compelled him to withdraw his eyes, had not the sportive fascination of her
appearance glued them there in spite of all. And as if to complete the pict=
ure
of Grace personified and add the one thing wanting to the charm which bound=
him,
the clouds, till that time thick in the sky, broke away from the upper heav=
en,
and allowed the noonday sun to pour down through the lantern upon her,
irradiating her with a warm light that was incarnadined by her pink doublet=
and
hose, and reflected in upon her face. She only required a cloud to rest on
instead of the green silk net which actually supported her reclining figure=
for
the moment, to be quite Olympian; save indeed that in place of haughty
effrontery there sat on her countenance only the healthful sprightliness of=
an
English girl.
Dare had withdrawn to a point at which another
path crossed the path occupied by De Stancy. Looking in a side direction, he
saw Havill idling slowly up to him over the silent grass. Havill's knowledg=
e of
the appointment had brought him out to see what would come of it. When he n=
eared
Dare, but was still partially hidden by the boughs from the third of the pa=
rty,
the former simply pointed to De Stancy upon which Havill stood and peeped at
him. 'Is she within there?' he inquired.
Dare nodded, and whispered, 'You need not have
asked, if you had examined his face.'
'That's true.'
'A fermentation is beginning in him,' said Dar=
e,
half pitifully; 'a purely chemical process; and when it is complete he will
probably be clear, and fiery, and sparkling, and quite another man than the
good, weak, easy fellow that he was.'
To precisely describe Captain De Stancy's
admiration was impossible. A sun seemed to rise in his face. By watching him
they could almost see the aspect of her within the wall, so accurately were=
her
changing phases reflected in him. He seemed to forget that he was not alone=
.
'And is this,' he murmured, in the manner of o=
ne
only half apprehending himself, 'and is this the end of my vow?'
Paula was saying at this moment, 'Ariel sleeps=
in
this posture, does he not, Auntie?' Suiting the action to the word she flung
out her arms behind her head as she lay in the green silk hammock, idly clo=
sed
her pink eyelids, and swung herself to and fro.
Captain De Stancy was a changed man. A hitherto
well-repressed energy was giving him motion towards long-shunned consequenc=
es.
His features were, indeed, the same as before; though, had a physiognomist
chosen to study them with the closeness of an astronomer scanning the unive=
rse,
he would doubtless have discerned abundant novelty.
In recent years De Stancy had been an easy,
melancholy, unaspiring officer, enervated and depressed by a parental affec=
tion
quite beyond his control for the graceless lad Dare--the obtrusive memento =
of a
shadowy period in De Stancy's youth, who threatened to be the curse of his =
old
age. Throughout a long space he had persevered in his system of rigidly
incarcerating within himself all instincts towards the opposite sex, with a
resolution that would not have disgraced a much stronger man. By this habit,
maintained with fair success, a chamber of his nature had been preserved in=
tact
during many later years, like the one solitary sealed-up cell occasionally
retained by bees in a lobe of drained honey-comb. And thus, though he had
irretrievably exhausted the relish of society, of ambition, of action, and =
of
his profession, the love-force that he had kept immured alive was still a
reproducible thing.
The sight of Paula in her graceful performance,
which the judicious Dare had so carefully planned, led up to and heightened=
by
subtle accessories, operated on De Stancy's surprised soul with a promptnes=
s almost
magical.
On the evening of the self-same day, having di=
ned
as usual, he retired to his rooms, where he found a hamper of wine awaiting
him. It had been anonymously sent, and the account was paid. He smiled grim=
ly,
but no longer with heaviness. In this he instantly recognized the handiwork=
of Dare,
who, having at last broken down the barrier which De Stancy had erected rou=
nd
his heart for so many years, acted like a skilled strategist, and took swift
measures to follow up the advantage so tardily gained.
Captain De Stancy knew himself conquered: he k=
new
he should yield to Paula--had indeed yielded; but there was now, in his
solitude, an hour or two of reaction. He did not drink from the bottles sen=
t.
He went early to bed, and lay tossing thereon till far into the night, thin=
king
over the collapse. His teetotalism had, with the lapse of years, unconsciou=
sly
become the outward and visible sign to himself of his secret vows; and a re=
turn
to its opposite, however mildly done, signified with ceremonious distinctne=
ss
the formal acceptance of delectations long forsworn.
But the exceeding freshness of his feeling for
Paula, which by reason of its long arrest was that of a man far under thirt=
y,
and was a wonder to himself every instant, would not long brook weighing in
balances. He wished suddenly to commit himself; to remove the question of
retreat out of the region of debate. The clock struck two: and the wish bec=
ame determination.
He arose, and wrapping himself in his dressing-gown went to the next room,
where he took from a shelf in the pantry several large bottles, which he ca=
rried
to the window, till they stood on the sill a goodly row. There had been
sufficient light in the room for him to do this without a candle. Now he so=
ftly
opened the sash, and the radiance of a gibbous moon riding in the opposite =
sky
flooded the apartment. It fell on the labels of the captain's bottles,
revealing their contents to be simple aerated waters for drinking.
De Stancy looked out and listened. The guns th=
at
stood drawn up within the yard glistened in the moonlight reaching them from
over the barrack-wall: there was an occasional stamp of horses in the stabl=
es; also
a measured tread of sentinels--one or more at the gates, one at the hospita=
l,
one between the wings, two at the magazine, and others further off. Recurri=
ng
to his intention he drew the corks of the mineral waters, and inverting each
bottle one by one over the window-sill, heard its contents dribble in a sma=
ll
stream on to the gravel below.
He then opened the hamper which Dare had sent.
Uncorking one of the bottles he murmured, 'To Paula!' and drank a glass of =
the
ruby liquor.
'A man again after eighteen years,' he said,
shutting the sash and returning to his bedroom.
The first overt result of his kindled interest= in Miss Power was his saying to his sister the day after the surreptitious sig= ht of Paula: 'I am sorry, Charlotte, for a word or two I said the other day.'<= o:p>
'Well?'
'I was rather disrespectful to your friend Miss
Power.'
'I don't think so--were you?'
'Yes. When we were walking in the wood, I made=
a
stupid joke about her.... What does she know about me--do you ever speak of=
me
to her?'
'Only in general terms.'
'What general terms?'
'You know well enough, William; of your
idiosyncrasies and so on--that you are a bit of a woman-hater, or at least a
confirmed bachelor, and have but little respect for your own family.'
'I wish you had not told her that,' said De St=
ancy
with dissatisfaction.
'But I thought you always liked women to know =
your
principles!' said Charlotte, in injured tones; 'and would particularly like=
her
to know them, living so near.'
'Yes, yes,' replied her brother hastily. 'Well=
, I
ought to see her, just to show her that I am not quite a brute.'
'That would be very nice!' she answered, putti=
ng
her hands together in agreeable astonishment. 'It is just what I have wishe=
d,
though I did not dream of suggesting it after what I have heard you say. I =
am
going to stay with her again to-morrow, and I will let her know about this.=
'
'Don't tell her anything plainly, for heaven's
sake. I really want to see the interior of the castle; I have never entered=
its
walls since my babyhood.' He raised his eyes as he spoke to where the walls=
in
question showed their ashlar faces over the trees.
'You might have gone over it at any time.'
'O yes. It is only recently that I have thought
much of the place: I feel now that I should like to examine the old building
thoroughly, since it was for so many generations associated with our fortun=
es, especially
as most of the old furniture is still there. My sedulous avoidance hitherto=
of
all relating to our family vicissitudes has been, I own, stupid conduct for=
an
intelligent being; but impossible grapes are always sour, and I have
unconsciously adopted Radical notions to obliterate disappointed hereditary
instincts. But these have a trick of re-establishing themselves as one gets
older, and the castle and what it contains have a keen interest for me now.=
'
'It contains Paula.'
De Stancy's pulse, which had been beating
languidly for many years, beat double at the sound of that name.
'I meant furniture and pictures for the moment=
,'
he said; 'but I don't mind extending the meaning to her, if you wish it.'
'She is the rarest thing there.'
'So you have said before.'
'The castle and our family history have as much
romantic interest for her as they have for you,' Charlotte went on. 'She
delights in visiting our tombs and effigies and ponders over them for hours=
.'
'Indeed!' said De Stancy, allowing his surpris=
e to
hide the satisfaction which accompanied it. 'That should make us friendly..=
..
Does she see many people?'
'Not many as yet. And she cannot have many sta=
ying
there during the alterations.'
'Ah! yes--the alterations. Didn't you say that=
she
has had a London architect stopping there on that account? What was he--old=
or
young?'
'He is a young man: he has been to our house.
Don't you remember you met him there?'
'What was his name?'
'Mr. Somerset.'
'O, that man! Yes, yes, I remember.... Hullo,
Lottie!'
'What?'
'Your face is as red as a peony. Now I know a
secret!' Charlotte vainly endeavoured to hide her confusion. 'Very well--no=
t a
word! I won't say more,' continued De Stancy good-humouredly, 'except that =
he
seems to be a very nice fellow.'
De Stancy had turned the dialogue on to this
little well-preserved secret of his sister's with sufficient outward lightn=
ess;
but it had been done in instinctive concealment of the disquieting start wi=
th
which he had recognized that Somerset, Dare's enemy, whom he had intercepte=
d in
placing Dare's portrait into the hands of the chief constable, was a man
beloved by his sister Charlotte. This novel circumstance might lead to a
curious complication. But he was to hear more.
'He may be very nice,' replied Charlotte, with=
an
effort, after this silence. 'But he is nothing to me, more than a very good
friend.'
'There's no engagement, or thought of one betw=
een
you?'
'Certainly there's not!' said Charlotte, with
brave emphasis. 'It is more likely to be between Paula and him than me and
him.'
De Stancy's bare military ears and closely cro=
pped
poll flushed hot. 'Miss Power and him?'
'I don't mean to say there is, because Paula
denies it; but I mean that he loves Paula. That I do know.'
De Stancy was dumb. This item of news which Da=
re
had kept from him, not knowing how far De Stancy's sense of honour might ex=
tend,
was decidedly grave. Indeed, he was so greatly impressed with the fact, tha=
t he
could not help saying as much aloud: 'This is very serious!'
'Why!' she murmured tremblingly, for the first
leaking out of her tender and sworn secret had disabled her quite.
'Because I love Paula too.'
'What do you say, William, you?--a woman you h=
ave
never seen?'
'I have seen her--by accident. And now, my dear
little sis, you will be my close ally, won't you? as I will be yours, as
brother and sister should be.' He placed his arm coaxingly round Charlotte's
shoulder.
'O, William, how can I?' at last she stammered=
.
'Why, how can't you, I should say? We are both=
in
the same ship. I love Paula, you love Mr. Somerset; it behoves both of us to
see that this flirtation of theirs ends in nothing.'
'I don't like you to put it like that--that I =
love
him--it frightens me,' murmured the girl, visibly agitated. 'I don't want to
divide him from Paula; I couldn't, I wouldn't do anything to separate them.
Believe me, Will, I could not! I am sorry you love there also, though I sho=
uld be
glad if it happened in the natural order of events that she should come rou=
nd
to you. But I cannot do anything to part them and make Mr. Somerset suffer.=
It
would be TOO wrong and blamable.'
'Now, you silly Charlotte, that's just how you
women fly off at a tangent. I mean nothing dishonourable in the least. Have=
I
ever prompted you to do anything dishonourable? Fair fighting allies was al=
l I
thought of.'
Miss De Stancy breathed more freely. 'Yes, we =
will
be that, of course; we are always that, William. But I hope I can be your a=
lly,
and be quite neutral; I would so much rather.'
'Well, I suppose it will not be a breach of yo=
ur
precious neutrality if you get me invited to see the castle?'
'O no!' she said brightly; 'I don't mind doing
such a thing as that. Why not come with me tomorrow? I will say I am going =
to
bring you. There will be no trouble at all.'
De Stancy readily agreed. The effect upon him =
of
the information now acquired was to intensify his ardour tenfold, the stimu=
lus
being due to a perception that Somerset, with a little more knowledge, would
hold a card which could be played with disastrous effect against himself--h=
is relationship
to Dare. Its disclosure to a lady of such Puritan antecedents as Paula's, w=
ould
probably mean her immediate severance from himself as an unclean thing.
'Is Miss Power a severe pietist, or precisian;=
or
is she a compromising lady?' he asked abruptly.
'She is severe and uncompromising--if you mean=
in
her judgments on morals,' said Charlotte, not quite hearing. The remark was
peculiarly apposite, and De Stancy was silent.
He spent some following hours in a close study=
of
the castle history, which till now had unutterably bored him. More particul=
arly
did he dwell over documents and notes which referred to the pedigree of his=
own
family. He wrote out the names of all--and they were many--who had been born
within those domineering walls since their first erection; of those among t=
hem
who had been brought thither by marriage with the owner, and of stranger
knights and gentlemen who had entered the castle by marriage with its mistr=
ess.
He refreshed his memory on the strange loves and hates that had arisen in t=
he
course of the family history; on memorable attacks, and the dates of the sa=
me,
the most memorable among them being the occasion on which the party represe=
nted
by Paula battered down the castle walls that she was now about to mend, and=
, as
he hoped, return in their original intact shape to the family dispossessed,=
by
marriage with himself, its living representative.
In Sir William's villa were small engravings a=
fter
many of the portraits in the castle galleries, some of them hanging in the
dining-room in plain oak and maple frames, and others preserved in portfoli=
os.
De Stancy spent much of his time over these, and in getting up the romances=
of
their originals' lives from memoirs and other records, all which stories we=
re
as great novelties to him as they could possibly be to any stranger. Most
interesting to him was the life of an Edward De Stancy, who had lived just
before the Civil Wars, and to whom Captain De Stancy bore a very traceable
likeness. This ancestor had a mole on his cheek, black and distinct as a fl=
y in
cream; and as in the case of the first Lord Amherst's wart, and Bennet Earl=
of
Arlington's nose-scar, the painter had faithfully reproduced the defect on
canvas. It so happened that the captain had a mole, though not exactly on t=
he
same spot of his face; and this made the resemblance still greater.
He took infinite trouble with his dress that d=
ay,
showing an amount of anxiety on the matter which for him was quite abnormal=
. At
last, when fully equipped, he set out with his sister to make the call
proposed. Charlotte was rather unhappy at sight of her brother's earnest
attempt to make an impression on Paula; but she could say nothing against i=
t, and
they proceeded on their way.
It was the darkest of November weather, when t=
he
days are so short that morning seems to join with evening without the inter=
vention
of noon. The sky was lined with low cloud, within whose dense substance
tempests were slowly fermenting for the coming days. Even now a windy
turbulence troubled the half-naked boughs, and a lonely leaf would occasion=
ally
spin downwards to rejoin on the grass the scathed multitude of its comrades
which had preceded it in its fall. The river by the pavilion, in the summer=
so
clear and purling, now slid onwards brown and thick and silent, and enlarge=
d to
double size.
Meanwhile Paula was alone. Of anyone else it w=
ould
have been said that she must be finding the afternoon rather dreary in the
quaint halls not of her forefathers: but of Miss Power it was unsafe to
predicate so surely. She walked from room to room in a black velvet dress w=
hich
gave decision to her outline without depriving it of softness. She occasion=
ally
clasped her hands behind her head and looked out of a window; but she more
particularly bent her footsteps up and down the Long Gallery, where she had
caused a large fire of logs to be kindled, in her endeavour to extend
cheerfulness somewhat beyond the precincts of the sitting-rooms.
The fire glanced up on Paula, and Paula glanced
down at the fire, and at the gnarled beech fuel, and at the wood-lice which=
ran
out from beneath the bark to the extremity of the logs as the heat approach=
ed
them. The low-down ruddy light spread over the dark floor like the setting =
sun over
a moor, fluttering on the grotesque countenances of the bright andirons, and
touching all the furniture on the underside.
She now and then crossed to one of the deep
embrasures of the windows, to decipher some sentence from a letter she held=
in
her hand. The daylight would have been more than sufficient for any bystand=
er to
discern that the capitals in that letter were of the peculiar semi-gothic t=
ype
affected at the time by Somerset and other young architects of his school in
their epistolary correspondence. She was very possibly thinking of him, even
when not reading his letter, for the expression of softness with which she
perused the page was more or less with her when she appeared to examine oth=
er
things.
She walked about for a little time longer, then
put away the letter, looked at the clock, and thence returned to the window=
s,
straining her eyes over the landscape without, as she murmured, 'I wish
Charlotte was not so long coming!'
As Charlotte continued to keep away, Paula bec=
ame
less reasonable in her desires, and proceeded to wish that Somerset would
arrive; then that anybody would come; then, walking towards the portraits on
the wall, she flippantly asked one of those cavaliers to oblige her fancy f=
or
company by stepping down from his frame. The temerity of the request led he=
r to
prudently withdraw it almost as soon as conceived: old paintings had been s=
aid
to play queer tricks in extreme cases, and the shadows this afternoon were
funereal enough for anything in the shape of revenge on an intruder who
embodied the antagonistic modern spirit to such an extent as she. However,
Paula still stood before the picture which had attracted her; and this, by a
coincidence common enough in fact, though scarcely credited in chronicles,
happened to be that one of the seventeenth-century portraits of which De St=
ancy
had studied the engraved copy at Myrtle Villa the same morning.
Whilst she remained before the picture, wonder=
ing
her favourite wonder, how would she feel if this and its accompanying canva=
ses
were pictures of her own ancestors, she was surprised by a light footstep u=
pon
the carpet which covered part of the room, and turning quickly she beheld t=
he
smiling little figure of Charlotte De Stancy.
'What has made you so late?' said Paula. 'You =
are
come to stay, of course?'
Charlotte said she had come to stay. 'But I ha=
ve
brought somebody with me!'
'Ah--whom?'
'My brother happened to be at home, and I have
brought him.'
Miss De Stancy's brother had been so continuou=
sly
absent from home in India, or elsewhere, so little spoken of, and, when spo=
ken
of, so truly though unconsciously represented as one whose interests lay wh=
olly
outside this antiquated neighbourhood, that to Paula he had been a mere neb=
ulosity
whom she had never distinctly outlined. To have him thus cohere into substa=
nce
at a moment's notice lent him the novelty of a new creation.
'Is he in the drawing-room?' said Paula in a l=
ow
voice.
'No, he is here. He would follow me. I hope you
will forgive him.'
And then Paula saw emerge into the red beams of
the dancing fire, from behind a half-drawn hanging which screened the door,=
the
military gentleman whose acquaintance the reader has already made.
'You know the house, doubtless, Captain De
Stancy?' said Paula, somewhat shyly, when he had been presented to her.
'I have never seen the inside since I was three
weeks old,' replied the artillery officer gracefully; 'and hence my
recollections of it are not remarkably distinct. A year or two before I was
born the entail was cut off by my father and grandfather; so that I saw the
venerable place only to lose it; at least, I believe that's the truth of the
case. But my knowledge of the transaction is not profound, and it is a deli=
cate
point on which to question one's father.'
Paula assented, and looked at the interesting =
and
noble figure of the man whose parents had seemingly righted themselves at t=
he
expense of wronging him.
'The pictures and furniture were sold about the
same time, I think?' said Charlotte.
'Yes,' murmured De Stancy. 'They went in a mad
bargain of my father with his visitor, as they sat over their wine. My fath=
er
sat down as host on that occasion, and arose as guest.'
He seemed to speak with such a courteous absen=
ce
of regret for the alienation, that Paula, who was always fearing that the
recollection would rise as a painful shadow between herself and the De Stan=
cys,
felt reassured by his magnanimity.
De Stancy looked with interest round the galle=
ry;
seeing which Paula said she would have lights brought in a moment.
'No, please not,' said De Stancy. 'The room and
ourselves are of so much more interesting a colour by this light!'
As they moved hither and thither, the various
expressions of De Stancy's face made themselves picturesquely visible in the
unsteady shine of the blaze. In a short time he had drawn near to the paint=
ing
of the ancestor whom he so greatly resembled. When her quick eye noted the
speck on the face, indicative of inherited traits strongly pronounced, a new
and romantic feeling that the De Stancys had stretched out a tentacle from =
their
genealogical tree to seize her by the hand and draw her in to their mass to=
ok
possession of Paula. As has been said, the De Stancys were a family on whom=
the
hall-mark of membership was deeply stamped, and by the present light the
representative under the portrait and the representative in the portrait se=
emed
beings not far removed. Paula was continually starting from a reverie and
speaking irrelevantly, as if such reflections as those seized hold of her in
spite of her natural unconcern.
When candles were brought in Captain De Stancy
ardently contrived to make the pictures the theme of conversation. From the
nearest they went to the next, whereupon Paula as hostess took up one of the
candlesticks and held it aloft to light up the painting. The candlestick be=
ing
tall and heavy, De Stancy relieved her of it, and taking another candle in =
the
other hand, he imperceptibly slid into the position of exhibitor rather than
spectator. Thus he walked in advance holding the two candles on high, his
shadow forming a gigantic figure on the neighbouring wall, while he recited=
the
particulars of family history pertaining to each portrait, that he had lear=
nt
up with such eager persistence during the previous four-and-twenty-hours. 'I
have often wondered what could have been the history of this lady, but nobo=
dy
has ever been able to tell me,' Paula observed, pointing to a Vandyck which
represented a beautiful woman wearing curls across her forehead, a square-c=
ut
bodice, and a heavy pearl necklace upon the smooth expanse of her neck.
'I don't think anybody knows,' Charlotte said.=
'O yes,' replied her brother promptly, seeing =
with
enthusiasm that it was yet another opportunity for making capital of his
acquired knowledge, with which he felt himself as inconveniently crammed as=
a candidate
for a government examination. 'That lady has been largely celebrated under a
fancy name, though she is comparatively little known by her own. Her parents
were the chief ornaments of the almost irreproachable court of Charles the
First, and were not more distinguished by their politeness and honour than =
by
the affections and virtues which constitute the great charm of private life=
.'
The stock verbiage of the family memoir was
somewhat apparent in this effusion; but it much impressed his listeners; an=
d he
went on to point out that from the lady's necklace was suspended a heart-sh=
aped
portrait--that of the man who broke his heart by her persistent refusal to
encourage his suit. De Stancy then led them a little further, where hung a
portrait of the lover, one of his own family, who appeared in full panoply =
of
plate mail, the pommel of his sword standing up under his elbow. The gallant
captain then related how this personage of his line wooed the lady fruitles=
sly;
how, after her marriage with another, she and her husband visited the paren=
ts
of the disappointed lover, the then occupiers of the castle; how, in a fit =
of
desperation at the sight of her, he retired to his room, where he composed =
some
passionate verses, which he wrote with his blood, and after directing them =
to
her ran himself through the body with his sword. Too late the lady's heart =
was
touched by his devotion; she was ever after a melancholy woman, and wore his
portrait despite her husband's prohibition. 'This,' continued De Stancy,
leading them through the doorway into the hall where the coats of mail were
arranged along the wall, and stopping opposite a suit which bore some
resemblance to that of the portrait, 'this is his armour, as you will perce=
ive
by comparing it with the picture, and this is the sword with which he did t=
he
rash deed.'
'What unreasonable devotion!' said Paula
practically. 'It was too romantic of him. She was not worthy of such a
sacrifice.'
'He also is one whom they say you resemble a
little in feature, I think,' said Charlotte.
'Do they?' replied De Stancy. 'I wonder if it's
true.' He set down the candles, and asking the girls to withdraw for a mome=
nt,
was inside the upper part of the suit of armour in incredibly quick time. G=
oing
then and placing himself in front of a low-hanging painting near the origin=
al,
so as to be enclosed by the frame while covering the figure, arranging the
sword as in the one above, and setting the light that it might fall in the
right direction, he recalled them; when he put the question, 'Is the
resemblance strong?'
He looked so much like a man of bygone times t=
hat
neither of them replied, but remained curiously gazing at him. His modern a=
nd comparatively
sallow complexion, as seen through the open visor, lent an ethereal idealit=
y to
his appearance which the time-stained countenance of the original warrior
totally lacked.
At last Paula spoke, so stilly that she seemed=
a
statue enunciating: 'Are the verses known that he wrote with his blood?'
'O yes, they have been carefully preserved.'
Captain De Stancy, with true wooer's instinct, had committed some of them to
memory that morning from the printed copy to be found in every well-ordered
library. 'I fear I don't remember them all,' he said, 'but they begin in th=
is
way:--
"From one t=
hat
dyeth in his discontent, Dear =
Faire,
receive this greeting to thee sent; And s=
till
as oft as it is read by thee, Then =
with
some deep sad sigh remember mee!
O 'twas my
fortune's error to vow dutie, To on=
e that
bears defiance in her beautie! Sweete
poyson, pretious wooe, infectious jewell-- Such =
is a
Ladie that is faire and cruell.
How well c=
ould I
with ayre, camelion-like, Live
happie, and still gazeing on thy cheeke, In wh=
ich,
forsaken man, methink I see How g=
oodlie
love doth threaten cares to mee.
Why dost t=
hou
frowne thus on a kneelinge soule, Whose
faults in love thou may'st as well controule?-- In
love--but O, that word; that word I feare Is ha=
teful
still both to thy hart and eare!
. &nbs=
p;
. &nbs=
p;
. &nbs=
p;
. &nbs=
p;
.
Ladie, in
breefe, my fate doth now intend The p=
eriod
of my daies to have an end: Waste=
not
on me thy pittie, pretious Faire: Rest =
you in
much content; I, in despaire!"'
A solemn silence followed the close of the
recital, which De Stancy improved by turning the point of the sword to his
breast, resting the pommel upon the floor, and saying:--
'After writing that we may picture him turning
this same sword in this same way, and falling on it thus.' He inclined his =
body
forward as he spoke.
'Don't, Captain De Stancy, please don't!' cried
Paula involuntarily.
'No, don't show us any further, William!' said=
his
sister. 'It is too tragic.'
De Stancy put away the sword, himself rather
excited--not, however, by his own recital, but by the direct gaze of Paula =
at
him.
This Protean quality of De Stancy's, by means =
of
which he could assume the shape and situation of almost any ancestor at wil=
l,
had impressed her, and he perceived it with a throb of fervour. But it had =
done
no more than impress her; for though in delivering the lines he had so fixed
his look upon her as to suggest, to any maiden practised in the game of the
eyes, a present significance in the words, the idea of any such arriere-pen=
see
had by no means commended itself to her soul.
At this time a messenger from Markton barracks
arrived at the castle and wished to speak to Captain De Stancy in the hall.
Begging the two ladies to excuse him for a moment, he went out.
While De Stancy was talking in the twilight to=
the
messenger at one end of the apartment, some other arrival was shown in by t=
he
side door, and in making his way after the conference across the hall to the
room he had previously quitted, De Stancy encountered the new-comer. There =
was just
enough light to reveal the countenance to be Dare's; he bore a portfolio un=
der
his arm, and had begun to wear a moustache, in case the chief constable sho=
uld
meet him anywhere in his rambles, and be struck by his resemblance to the m=
an
in the studio.
'What the devil are you doing here?' said Capt=
ain
De Stancy, in tones he had never used before to the young man.
Dare started back in surprise, and naturally s=
o.
De Stancy, having adopted a new system of living, and relinquished the meag=
re
diet and enervating waters of his past years, was rapidly recovering tone. =
His voice
was firmer, his cheeks were less pallid; and above all he was authoritative
towards his present companion, whose ingenuity in vamping up a being for his
ambitious experiments seemed about to be rewarded, like Frankenstein's, by =
his
discomfiture at the hands of his own creature.
'What the devil are you doing here, I say?'
repeated De Stancy.
'You can talk to me like that, after my workin=
g so
hard to get you on in life, and make a rising man of you!' expostulated Dar=
e,
as one who felt himself no longer the leader in this enterprise.
'But,' said the captain less harshly, 'if you =
let
them discover any relations between us here, you will ruin the fairest
prospects man ever had!'
'O, I like that, captain--when you owe all of =
it
to me!'
'That's too cool, Will.'
'No; what I say is true. However, let that go.=
So
now you are here on a call; but how are you going to get here often enough =
to
win her before the other man comes back? If you don't see her every day--tw=
ice,
three times a day--you will not capture her in the time.'
'I must think of that,' said De Stancy.
'There is only one way of being constantly her=
e:
you must come to copy the pictures or furniture, something in the way he di=
d.'
'I'll think of it,' muttered De Stancy hastily=
, as
he heard the voices of the ladies, whom he hastened to join as they were
appearing at the other end of the room. His countenance was gloomy as he
recrossed the hall, for Dare's words on the shortness of his opportunities =
had impressed
him. Almost at once he uttered a hope to Paula that he might have further
chance of studying, and if possible of copying, some of the ancestral faces
with which the building abounded.
Meanwhile Dare had come forward with his
portfolio, which proved to be full of photographs. While Paula and Charlotte
were examining them he said to De Stancy, as a stranger: 'Excuse my
interruption, sir, but if you should think of copying any of the portraits,=
as
you were stating just now to the ladies, my patent photographic process is =
at
your service, and is, I believe, the only one which would be effectual in t=
he dim
indoor lights.'
'It is just what I was thinking of,' said De
Stancy, now so far cooled down from his irritation as to be quite ready to
accept Dare's adroitly suggested scheme.
On application to Paula she immediately gave De
Stancy permission to photograph to any extent, and told Dare he might bring=
his
instruments as soon as Captain De Stancy required them.
'Don't stare at her in such a brazen way!'
whispered the latter to the young man, when Paula had withdrawn a few steps.
'Say, "I shall highly value the privilege of assisting Captain De Stan=
cy
in such a work."'
Dare obeyed, and before leaving De Stancy arra=
nged
to begin performing on his venerated forefathers the next morning, the yout=
h so
accidentally engaged agreeing to be there at the same time to assist in the
technical operations.
As he had promised, De Stancy made use the next
day of the coveted permission that had been brought about by the ingenious
Dare. Dare's timely suggestion of tendering assistance had the practical re=
sult
of relieving the other of all necessity for occupying his time with the pro=
ceeding,
further than to bestow a perfunctory superintendence now and then, to give a
colour to his regular presence in the fortress, the actual work of taking
copies being carried on by the younger man.
The weather was frequently wet during these
operations, and Paula, Miss De Stancy, and her brother, were often in the h=
ouse
whole mornings together. By constant urging and coaxing the latter would in=
duce
his gentle sister, much against her conscience, to leave him opportunities =
for
speaking to Paula alone. It was mostly before some print or painting that t=
hese
conversations occurred, while De Stancy was ostensibly occupied with its me=
rits,
or in giving directions to his photographer how to proceed. As soon as the
dialogue began, the latter would withdraw out of earshot, leaving Paula to
imagine him the most deferential young artist in the world.
'You will soon possess duplicates of the whole
gallery,' she said on one of these occasions, examining some curled sheets
which Dare had printed off from the negatives.
'No,' said the soldier. 'I shall not have pati=
ence
to go on. I get ill-humoured and indifferent, and then leave off.'
'Why ill-humoured?'
'I scarcely know--more than that I acquire a
general sense of my own family's want of merit through seeing how meritorio=
us
the people are around me. I see them happy and thriving without any necessi=
ty
for me at all; and then I regard these canvas grandfathers and grandmothers,
and ask, "Why was a line so antiquated and out of date prolonged till
now?"'
She chid him good-naturedly for such views. 'T=
hey
will do you an injury,' she declared. 'Do spare yourself, Captain De Stancy=
!'
De Stancy shook his head as he turned the pain=
ting
before him a little further to the light.
'But, do you know,' said Paula, 'that notion of
yours of being a family out of date is delightful to some people. I talk to
Charlotte about it often. I am never weary of examining those canopied effi=
gies
in the church, and almost wish they were those of my relations.'
'I will try to see things in the same light for
your sake,' said De Stancy fervently.
'Not for my sake; for your own was what I mean=
t,
of course,' she replied with a repressive air.
Captain De Stancy bowed.
'What are you going to do with your photographs
when you have them?' she asked, as if still anxious to obliterate the previ=
ous
sentimental lapse.
'I shall put them into a large album, and carry
them with me in my campaigns; and may I ask, now I have an opportunity, that
you would extend your permission to copy a little further, and let me
photograph one other painting that hangs in the castle, to fittingly comple=
te
my set?'
'Which?'
'That half-length of a lady which hangs in the
morning-room. I remember seeing it in the Academy last year.'
Paula involuntarily closed herself up. The pic=
ture
was her own portrait. 'It does not belong to your series,' she said somewhat
coldly.
De Stancy's secret thought was, I hope from my
soul it will belong some day! He answered with mildness: 'There is a sort of
connection--you are my sister's friend.'
Paula assented.
'And hence, might not your friend's brother
photograph your picture?'
Paula demurred.
A gentle sigh rose from the bosom of De Stancy.
'What is to become of me?' he said, with a light distressed laugh. 'I am al=
ways
inconsiderate and inclined to ask too much. Forgive me! What was in my mind
when I asked I dare not say.'
'I quite understand your interest in your fami=
ly
pictures--and all of it,' she remarked more gently, willing not to hurt the
sensitive feelings of a man so full of romance.
'And in that ONE!' he said, looking devotedly =
at
her. 'If I had only been fortunate enough to include it with the rest, my a=
lbum
would indeed have been a treasure to pore over by the bivouac fire!'
'O, Captain De Stancy, this is provoking
perseverance!' cried Paula, laughing half crossly. 'I expected that after
expressing my decision so plainly the first time I should not have been fur=
ther
urged upon the subject.' Saying which she turned and moved decisively away.=
It had not been a productive meeting, thus far.
'One word!' said De Stancy, following and almost clasping her hand. 'I have
given offence, I know: but do let it all fall on my own head--don't tell my
sister of my misbehaviour! She loves you deeply, and it would wound her to =
the heart.'
'You deserve to be told upon,' said Paula as s=
he
withdrew, with just enough playfulness to show that her anger was not too s=
erious.
Charlotte looked at Paula uneasily when the la=
tter
joined her in the drawing-room. She wanted to say, 'What is the matter?' but
guessing that her brother had something to do with it, forbore to speak at
first. She could not contain her anxiety long. 'Were you talking with my
brother?' she said.
'Yes,' returned Paula, with reservation. Howev=
er,
she soon added, 'He not only wants to photograph his ancestors, but MY port=
rait
too. They are a dreadfully encroaching sex, and perhaps being in the army m=
akes
them worse!'
'I'll give him a hint, and tell him to be
careful.'
'Don't say I have definitely complained of him=
; it
is not worth while to do that; the matter is too trifling for repetition. U=
pon
the whole, Charlotte, I would rather you said nothing at all.'
De Stancy's hobby of photographing his ancesto=
rs
seemed to become a perfect mania with him. Almost every morning discovered =
him
in the larger apartments of the castle, taking down and rehanging the dilap=
idated
pictures, with the assistance of the indispensable Dare; his fingers stained
black with dust, and his face expressing a busy attention to the work in ha=
nd,
though always reserving a look askance for the presence of Paula.
Though there was something of subterfuge, there
was no deep and double subterfuge in all this. De Stancy took no particular
interest in his ancestral portraits; but he was enamoured of Paula to weakn=
ess.
Perhaps the composition of his love would hardly bear looking into, but it =
was recklessly
frank and not quite mercenary. His photographic scheme was nothing worse th=
an a
lover's not too scrupulous contrivance. After the refusal of his request to
copy her picture he fumed and fretted at the prospect of Somerset's return
before any impression had been made on her heart by himself; he swore at Da=
re,
and asked him hotly why he had dragged him into such a hopeless dilemma as
this.
'Hopeless? Somerset must still be kept away, so
that it is not hopeless. I will consider how to prolong his stay.'
Thereupon Dare considered.
The time was coming--had indeed come--when it =
was
necessary for Paula to make up her mind about her architect, if she meant to
begin building in the spring. The two sets of plans, Somerset's and Havill'=
s,
were hanging on the walls of the room that had been used by Somerset as his
studio, and were accessible by anybody. Dare took occasion to go and study =
both
sets, with a view to finding a flaw in Somerset's which might have been pas=
sed
over unnoticed by the committee of architects, owing to their absence from =
the
actual site. But not a blunder could he find.
He next went to Havill; and here he was met by=
an
amazing state of affairs. Havill's creditors, at last suspecting something
mythical in Havill's assurance that the grand commission was his, had lost =
all patience;
his house was turned upside-down, and a poster gleamed on the front wall,
stating that the excellent modern household furniture was to be sold by auc=
tion
on Friday next. Troubles had apparently come in battalions, for Dare was
informed by a bystander that Havill's wife was seriously ill also.
Without staying for a moment to enter his frie=
nd's
house, back went Mr. Dare to the castle, and told Captain De Stancy of the
architect's desperate circumstances, begging him to convey the news in some=
way
to Miss Power. De Stancy promised to make representations in the proper qua=
rter
without perceiving that he was doing the best possible deed for himself
thereby.
He told Paula of Havill's misfortunes in the
presence of his sister, who turned pale. She discerned how this misfortune
would bear upon the undecided competition.
'Poor man,' murmured Paula. 'He was my father's
architect, and somehow expected, though I did not promise it, the work of
rebuilding the castle.'
Then De Stancy saw Dare's aim in sending him t=
o Miss
Power with the news; and, seeing it, concurred: Somerset was his rival, and=
all
was fair. 'And is he not to have the work of the castle after expecting it?=
' he
asked.
Paula was lost in reflection. 'The other
architect's design and Mr. Havill's are exactly equal in merit, and we cann=
ot
decide how to give it to either,' explained Charlotte.
'That is our difficulty,' Paula murmured. 'A
bankrupt, and his wife ill--dear me! I wonder what's the cause.'
'He has borrowed on the expectation of having =
to
execute the castle works, and now he is unable to meet his liabilities.'
'It is very sad,' said Paula.
'Let me suggest a remedy for this dead-lock,' =
said
De Stancy.
'Do,' said Paula.
'Do the work of building in two halves or
sections. Give Havill the first half, since he is in need; when that is
finished the second half can be given to your London architect. If, as I
understand, the plans are identical, except in ornamental details, there wi=
ll
be no difficulty about it at all.'
Paula sighed--just a little one; and yet the
suggestion seemed to satisfy her by its reasonableness. She turned sad,
wayward, but was impressed by De Stancy's manner and words. She appeared in=
deed
to have a smouldering desire to please him. In the afternoon she said to Ch=
arlotte,
'I mean to do as your brother says.'
A note was despatched to Havill that very day,=
and
in an hour the crestfallen architect presented himself at the castle. Paula
instantly gave him audience, commiserated him, and commissioned him to carry
out a first section of the buildings, comprising work to the extent of abou=
t twenty
thousand pounds expenditure; and then, with a prematureness quite amazing a=
mong
architects' clients, she handed him over a cheque for five hundred pounds on
account.
When he had gone, Paula's bearing showed some =
sign
of being disquieted at what she had done; but she covered her mood under a
cloak of saucy serenity. Perhaps a tender remembrance of a certain thunders=
torm
in the foregoing August when she stood with Somerset in the arbour, and did=
not
own that she loved him, was pressing on her memory and bewildering her. She=
had
not seen quite clearly, in adopting De Stancy's suggestion, that Somerset w=
ould
now have no professional reason for being at the castle for the next twelve
months.
But the captain had, and when Havill entered t=
he
castle he rejoiced with great joy. Dare, too, rejoiced in his cold way, and
went on with his photography, saying, 'The game progresses, captain.'
'Game? Call it Divine Comedy, rather!' said the
soldier exultingly.
'He is practically banished for a year or more.
What can't you do in a year, captain!'
Havill, in the meantime, having respectfully
withdrawn from the presence of Paula, passed by Dare and De Stancy in the
gallery as he had done in entering. He spoke a few words to Dare, who
congratulated him. While they were talking somebody was heard in the hall,
inquiring hastily for Mr. Havill.
'What shall I tell him?' demanded the porter.<= o:p>
'His wife is dead,' said the messenger.
Havill overheard the words, and hastened away.=
'An unlucky man!' said Dare.
'That, happily for us, will not affect his
installation here,' said De Stancy. 'Now hold your tongue and keep at a
distance. She may come this way.'
Surely enough in a few minutes she came. De
Stancy, to make conversation, told her of the new misfortune which had just
befallen Mr. Havill.
Paula was very sorry to hear it, and remarked =
that
it gave her great satisfaction to have appointed him as architect of the fi=
rst
wing before he learnt the bad news. 'I owe you best thanks, Captain De Stan=
cy,
for showing me such an expedient.'
'Do I really deserve thanks?' asked De Stancy.=
'I
wish I deserved a reward; but I must bear in mind the fable of the priest a=
nd
the jester.'
'I never heard it.'
'The jester implored the priest for alms, but =
the
smallest sum was refused, though the holy man readily agreed to give him his
blessing. Query, its value?'
'How does it apply?'
'You give me unlimited thanks, but deny me the
tiniest substantial trifle I desire.'
'What persistence!' exclaimed Paula, colouring.
'Very well, if you WILL photograph my picture you must. It is really not wo=
rthy
further pleading. Take it when you like.'
When Paula was alone she seemed vexed with her=
self
for having given way; and rising from her seat she went quietly to the door=
of
the room containing the picture, intending to lock it up till further consi=
deration,
whatever he might think of her. But on casting her eyes round the apartment=
the
painting was gone. The captain, wisely taking the current when it served,
already had it in the gallery, where he was to be seen bending attentively =
over
it, arranging the lights and directing Dare with the instruments. On leavin=
g he
thanked her, and said that he had obtained a splendid copy. Would she look =
at
it?
Paula was severe and icy. 'Thank you--I don't =
wish
to see it,' she said.
De Stancy bowed and departed in a glow of triu=
mph;
satisfied, notwithstanding her frigidity, that he had compassed his immedia=
te
aim, which was that she might not be able to dismiss from her thoughts him =
and
his persevering desire for the shadow of her face during the next four-and-=
twenty-hours.
And his confidence was well founded: she could not.
'I fear this Divine Comedy will be slow busine=
ss
for us, captain,' said Dare, who had heard her cold words.
'O no!' said De Stancy, flushing a little: he =
had
not been perceiving that the lad had the measure of his mind so entirely as=
to
gauge his position at any moment. But he would show no shamefacedness. 'Eve=
n if
it is, my boy,' he answered, 'there's plenty of time before the other can c=
ome.'
At that hour and minute of De Stancy's remark =
'the
other,' to look at him, seemed indeed securely shelved. He was sitting lone=
ly
in his chambers far away, wondering why she did not write, and yet hoping to
hear--wondering if it had all been but a short-lived strain of tenderness. =
He
knew as well as if it had been stated in words that her serious acceptance =
of
him as a suitor would be her acceptance of him as an architect--that her
schemes in love would be expressed in terms of art; and conversely that her
refusal of him as a lover would be neatly effected by her choosing Havill's
plans for the castle, and returning his own with thanks. The position was so
clear: he was so well walled in by circumstances that he was absolutely
helpless.
To wait for the line that would not come--the
letter saying that, as she had desired, his was the design that pleased
her--was still the only thing to do. The (to Somerset) surprising accident =
that
the committee of architects should have pronounced the designs absolutely e=
qual
in point of merit, and thus have caused the final choice to revert after al=
l to
Paula, had been a joyous thing to him when he first heard of it, full of
confidence in her favour. But the fact of her having again become the
arbitrator, though it had made acceptance of his plans all the more probabl=
e,
made refusal of them, should it happen, all the more crushing. He could have
conceived himself favoured by Paula as her lover, even had the committee de=
cided
in favour of Havill as her architect. But not to be chosen as architect now=
was
to be rejected in both kinds.
It was the Sunday following the funeral of Mrs.
Havill, news of whose death had been so unexpectedly brought to her husband=
at
the moment of his exit from Stancy Castle. The minister, as was his custom,
improved the occasion by a couple of sermons on the uncertainty of life. On=
e was
preached in the morning in the old chapel of Markton; the second at evening
service in the rural chapel near Stancy Castle, built by Paula's father, wh=
ich
bore to the first somewhat the relation of an episcopal chapel-of-ease to t=
he
mother church.
The unscreened lights blazed through the
plate-glass windows of the smaller building and outshone the steely stars of
the early night, just as they had done when Somerset was attracted by their
glare four months before. The fervid minister's rhetoric equalled its force=
on
that more romantic occasion: but Paula was not there. She was not a frequen=
t attendant
now at her father's votive building. The mysterious tank, whose dark waters=
had
so repelled her at the last moment, was boarded over: a table stood on its
centre, with an open quarto Bible upon it, behind which Havill, in a new su=
it
of black, sat in a large chair. Havill held the office of deacon: and he had
mechanically taken the deacon's seat as usual to-night, in the face of the
congregation, and under the nose of Mr. Woodwell.
Mr. Woodwell was always glad of an opportunity=
. He
was gifted with a burning natural eloquence, which, though perhaps a little=
too
freely employed in exciting the 'Wertherism of the uncultivated,' had in it=
genuine
power. He was a master of that oratory which no limitation of knowledge can
repress, and which no training can impart. The neighbouring rector could
eclipse Woodwell's scholarship, and the freethinker at the corner shop in
Markton could demolish his logic; but the Baptist could do in five minutes =
what
neither of these had done in a lifetime; he could move some of the hardest =
of men
to tears.
Thus it happened that, when the sermon was fai=
rly
under way, Havill began to feel himself in a trying position. It was not th=
at
he had bestowed much affection upon his deceased wife, irreproachable woman=
as she
had been; but the suddenness of her death had shaken his nerves, and Mr.
Woodwell's address on the uncertainty of life involved considerations of
conduct on earth that bore with singular directness upon Havill's unprincip=
led
manoeuvre for victory in the castle competition. He wished he had not been =
so
inadvertent as to take his customary chair in the chapel. People who saw
Havill's agitation did not know that it was most largely owing to his sense=
of
the fraud which had been practised on the unoffending Somerset; and when,
unable longer to endure the torture of Woodwell's words, he rose from his p=
lace
and went into the chapel vestry, the preacher little thought that remorse f=
or a
contemptibly unfair act, rather than grief for a dead wife, was the cause of
the architect's withdrawal.
When Havill got into the open air his morbid
excitement calmed down, but a sickening self-abhorrence for the proceeding
instigated by Dare did not abate. To appropriate another man's design was no
more nor less than to embezzle his money or steal his goods. The intense
reaction from his conduct of the past two or three months did not leave him
when he reached his own house and observed where the handbills of the count=
ermanded
sale had been torn down, as the result of the payment made in advance by Pa=
ula
of money which should really have been Somerset's.
The mood went on intensifying when he was in b=
ed.
He lay awake till the clock reached those still, small, ghastly hours when =
the
vital fires burn at their lowest in the human frame, and death seizes more =
of
his victims than in any other of the twenty-four. Havill could bear it no l=
onger;
he got a light, went down into his office and wrote the note subjoined.
'MADAM,--The recent death of my wife necessita=
tes
a considerable change in my professional arrangements and plans with regard=
to
the future. One of the chief results of the change is, I regret to state, t=
hat
I no longer find myself in a position to carry out the enlargement of the c=
astle
which you had so generously entrusted to my hands.
'I beg leave therefore to resign all further
connection with the same, and to express, if you will allow me, a hope that=
the
commission may be placed in the hands of the other competitor. Herewith is
returned a cheque for one-half of the sum so kindly advanced in anticipatio=
n of
the commission I should receive; the other half, with which I had cleared o=
ff
my immediate embarrassments before perceiving the necessity for this course,
shall be returned to you as soon as some payments from other clients drop
in.--I beg to remain, Madam, your obedient servant, JAMES HAVILL.'
Havill would not trust himself till the mornin=
g to
post this letter. He sealed it up, went out with it into the street, and wa=
lked
through the sleeping town to the post-office. At the mouth of the box he he=
ld
the letter long. By dropping it, he was dropping at least two thousand five=
hundred
pounds which, however obtained, were now securely his. It was a great deal =
to
let go; and there he stood till another wave of conscience bore in upon his
soul the absolute nature of the theft, and made him shudder. The footsteps =
of a
solitary policeman could be heard nearing him along the deserted street;
hesitation ended, and he let the letter go.
When he awoke in the morning he thought over t=
he
circumstances by the cheerful light of a low eastern sun. The horrors of the
situation seemed much less formidable; yet it cannot be said that he actual=
ly
regretted his act. Later on he walked out, with the strange sense of being a
man who, from one having a large professional undertaking in hand, had, by =
his
own act, suddenly reduced himself to an unoccupied nondescript. From the up=
per
end of the town he saw in the distance the grand grey towers of Stancy Cast=
le
looming over the leafless trees; he felt stupefied at what he had done, and
said to himself with bitter discontent: 'Well, well, what is more contempti=
ble
than a half-hearted rogue!'
That morning the post-bag had been brought to
Paula and Mrs. Goodman in the usual way, and Miss Power read the letter. His
resignation was a surprise; the question whether he would or would not repay
the money was passed over; the necessity of installing Somerset after all as
sole architect was an agitation, or emotion, the precise nature of which it=
is
impossible to accurately define.
However, she went about the house after breakf=
ast
with very much the manner of one who had had a weight removed either from h=
er
heart or from her conscience; moreover, her face was a little flushed when,=
in
passing by Somerset's late studio, she saw the plans bearing his motto, and
knew that his and not Havill's would be the presiding presence in the comin=
g architectural
turmoil. She went on further, and called to Charlotte, who was now regularly
sleeping in the castle, to accompany her, and together they ascended to the
telegraph-room in the donjon tower.
'Whom are you going to telegraph to?' said Mis=
s De
Stancy when they stood by the instrument.
'My architect.'
'O--Mr. Havill.'
'Mr. Somerset.'
Miss De Stancy had schooled her emotions on th=
at
side cruelly well, and she asked calmly, 'What, have you chosen him after a=
ll?'
'There is no choice in it--read that,' said Pa=
ula,
handing Havill's letter, as if she felt that Providence had stepped in to s=
hape
ends that she was too undecided or unpractised to shape for herself.
'It is very strange,' murmured Charlotte; while
Paula applied herself to the machine and despatched the words:--
=
'Miss
Power, Stancy Castle, to G. Somerset, Esq., F.S.A., F.R.I.B.A., Queen Anne's
Chambers, St. James's.
'Your design is accepted in its entirety. It w=
ill
be necessary to begin soon. I shall wish to see and consult you on the matt=
er
about the 10th instant.'
=
When
the message was fairly gone out of the window Paula seemed still further to
expand. The strange spell cast over her by something or other--probably the
presence of De Stancy, and the weird romanticism of his manner towards her,
which was as if the historic past had touched her with a yet living hand--i=
n a
great measure became dissipated, leaving her the arch and serene maiden that
she had been before.
About this time Captain De Stancy and his Acha=
tes
were approaching the castle, and had arrived about fifty paces from the spo=
t at
which it was Dare's custom to drop behind his companion, in order that thei=
r appearance
at the lodge should be that of master and man.
Dare was saying, as he had said before: 'I can=
't
help fancying, captain, that your approach to this castle and its mistress =
is
by a very tedious system. Your trenches, zigzags, counterscarps, and raveli=
ns
may be all very well, and a very sure system of attack in the long run; but
upon my soul they are almost as slow in maturing as those of Uncle Toby
himself. For my part I should be inclined to try an assault.'
'Don't pretend to give advice, Willy, on matte=
rs
beyond your years.'
'I only meant it for your good, and your proper
advancement in the world,' said Dare in wounded tones.
'Different characters, different systems,'
returned the soldier. 'This lady is of a reticent, independent, complicated
disposition, and any sudden proceeding would put her on her mettle. You don=
't
dream what my impatience is, my boy. It is a thing transcending your utmost=
conceptions!
But I proceed slowly; I know better than to do otherwise. Thank God there is
plenty of time. As long as there is no risk of Somerset's return my situati=
on
is sure.'
'And professional etiquette will prevent him
coming yet. Havill and he will change like the men in a sentry-box; when Ha=
vill
walks out, he'll walk in, and not a moment before.'
'That will not be till eighteen months have
passed. And as the Jesuit said, "Time and I against any two."... =
Now
drop to the rear,' added Captain De Stancy authoritatively. And they passed
under the walls of the castle.
The grave fronts and bastions were wrapped in
silence; so much so, that, standing awhile in the inner ward, they could he=
ar
through an open window a faintly clicking sound from within.
'She's at the telegraph,' said Dare, throwing
forward his voice softly to the captain. 'What can that be for so early? Th=
at
wire is a nuisance, to my mind; such constant intercourse with the outer wo=
rld
is bad for our romance.'
The speaker entered to arrange his photographic
apparatus, of which, in truth, he was getting weary; and De Stancy smoked on
the terrace till Dare should be ready. While he waited his sister looked out
upon him from an upper casement, having caught sight of him as she came fro=
m Paula
in the telegraph-room.
'Well, Lottie, what news this morning?' he said
gaily.
'Nothing of importance. We are quite well.'....
She added with hesitation, 'There is one piece of news; Mr. Havill--but per=
haps
you have heard it in Markton?'
'Nothing.'
'Mr. Havill has resigned his appointment as
architect to the castle.'
'What?--who has it, then?'
'Mr. Somerset.'
'Appointed?'
'Yes--by telegraph.'
'When is he coming?' said De Stancy in
consternation.
'About the tenth, we think.'
Charlotte was concerned to see her brother's f=
ace,
and withdrew from the window that he might not question her further. De Sta=
ncy
went into the hall, and on to the gallery, where Dare was standing as still=
as
a caryatid.
'I have heard every word,' said Dare.
'Well, what does it mean? Has that fool Havill
done it on purpose to annoy me? What conceivable reason can the man have for
throwing up an appointment he has worked so hard for, at the moment he has =
got
it, and in the time of his greatest need?'
Dare guessed, for he had seen a little way into
Havill's soul during the brief period of their confederacy. But he was very=
far
from saying what he guessed. Yet he unconsciously revealed by other words t=
he
nocturnal shades in his character which had made that confederacy possible.=
'Somerset coming after all!' he replied. 'By G=
od!
that little six-barrelled friend of mine, and a good resolution, and he wou=
ld
never arrive!'
'What!' said Captain De Stancy, paling with ho=
rror
as he gathered the other's sinister meaning.
Dare instantly recollected himself. 'One is
tempted to say anything at such a moment,' he replied hastily.
'Since he is to come, let him come, for me,'
continued De Stancy, with reactionary distinctness, and still gazing gravely
into the young man's face. 'The battle shall be fairly fought out. Fair pla=
y,
even to a rival--remember that, boy.... Why are you here?--unnaturally
concerning yourself with the passions of a man of my age, as if you were th=
e parent,
and I the son? Would to heaven, Willy, you had done as I wished you to do, =
and
led the life of a steady, thoughtful young man! Instead of meddling here, y=
ou
should now have been in some studio, college, or professional man's chamber=
s,
engaged in a useful pursuit which might have made one proud to own you. But=
you
were so precocious and headstrong; and this is what you have come to: you
promise to be worthless!'
'I think I shall go to my lodgings to-day inst=
ead
of staying here over these pictures,' said Dare, after a silence during whi=
ch
Captain De Stancy endeavoured to calm himself. 'I was going to tell you tha=
t my
dinner to-day will unfortunately be one of herbs, for want of the needful. =
I have
come to my last stiver.--You dine at the mess, I suppose, captain?'
De Stancy had walked away; but Dare knew that =
he
played a pretty sure card in that speech. De Stancy's heart could not withs=
tand
the suggested contrast between a lonely meal of bread-and-cheese and a
well-ordered dinner amid cheerful companions. 'Here,' he said, emptying his
pocket and returning to the lad's side. 'Take this, and order yourself a go=
od meal.
You keep me as poor as a crow. There shall be more to-morrow.'
The peculiarly bifold nature of Captain De Sta=
ncy,
as shown in his conduct at different times, was something rare in life, and
perhaps happily so. That mechanical admixture of black and white qualities =
without
coalescence, on which the theory of men's characters was based by moral
analysis before the rise of modern ethical schools, fictitious as it was in
general application, would have almost hit off the truth as regards Captain=
De
Stancy. Removed to some half-known century, his deeds would have won a
picturesqueness of light and shade that might have made him a fascinating
subject for some gallery of illustrious historical personages. It was this
tendency to moral chequer-work which accounted for his varied bearings towa=
rds
Dare.
Dare withdrew to take his departure. When he h=
ad
gone a few steps, despondent, he suddenly turned, and ran back with some
excitement.
'Captain--he's coming on the tenth, don't they
say? Well, four days before the tenth comes the sixth. Have you forgotten
what's fixed for the sixth?'
'I had quite forgotten!'
'That day will be worth three months of quiet
attentions: with luck, skill, and a bold heart, what mayn't you do?'
Captain De Stancy's face softened with
satisfaction.
'There is something in that; the game is not up
after all. The sixth--it had gone clean out of my head, by gad!'
The cheering message from Paula to Somerset sp=
ed
through the loophole of Stancy Castle keep, over the trees, along the railw=
ay,
under bridges, across four counties--from extreme antiquity of environment =
to sheer
modernism--and finally landed itself on a table in Somerset's chambers in t=
he
midst of a cloud of fog. He read it and, in the moment of reaction from the
depression of his past days, clapped his hands like a child.
Then he considered the date at which she wante=
d to
see him. Had she so worded her despatch he would have gone that very day; b=
ut
there was nothing to complain of in her giving him a week's notice. Pure ma=
iden
modesty might have checked her indulgence in a too ardent recall.
Time, however, dragged somewhat heavily along =
in
the interim, and on the second day he thought he would call on his father a=
nd
tell him of his success in obtaining the appointment.
The elder Mr. Somerset lived in a detached hou=
se
in the north-west part of fashionable London; and ascending the chief stair=
case
the young man branched off from the first landing and entered his father's =
painting-room.
It was an hour when he was pretty sure of finding the well-known painter at
work, and on lifting the tapestry he was not disappointed, Mr. Somerset bei=
ng
busily engaged with his back towards the door.
Art and vitiated nature were struggling like
wrestlers in that apartment, and art was getting the worst of it. The
overpowering gloom pervading the clammy air, rendered still more intense by=
the
height of the window from the floor, reduced all the pictures that were
standing around to the wizened feebleness of corpses on end. The shadowy pa=
rts of
the room behind the different easels were veiled in a brown vapour, preclud=
ing
all estimate of the extent of the studio, and only subdued in the foregroun=
d by
the ruddy glare from an open stove of Dutch tiles. Somerset's footsteps had
been so noiseless over the carpeting of the stairs and landing, that his fa=
ther
was unaware of his presence; he continued at his work as before, which he
performed by the help of a complicated apparatus of lamps, candles, and
reflectors, so arranged as to eke out the miserable daylight, to a power
apparently sufficient for the neutral touches on which he was at that moment
engaged.
The first thought of an unsophisticated strang=
er
on entering that room could only be the amazed inquiry why a professor of t=
he
art of colour, which beyond all other arts requires pure daylight for its
exercise, should fix himself on the single square league in habitable Europ=
e to
which light is denied at noonday for weeks in succession.
'O! it's you, George, is it?' said the
Academician, turning from the lamps, which shone over his bald crown at suc=
h a
slant as to reveal every cranial irregularity. 'How are you this morning? S=
till
a dead silence about your grand castle competition?'
Somerset told the news. His father duly
congratulated him, and added genially, 'It is well to be you, George. One l=
arge
commission to attend to, and nothing to distract you from it. I am bothered=
by
having a dozen irons in the fire at once. And people are so unreasonable.--=
Only
this morning, among other things, when you got your order to go on with you=
r single
study, I received a letter from a woman, an old friend whom I can scarcely
refuse, begging me as a great favour to design her a set of theatrical
costumes, in which she and her friends can perform for some charity. It wou=
ld
occupy me a good week to go into the subject and do the thing properly. Suc=
h are
the sort of letters I get. I wish, George, you could knock out something for
her before you leave town. It is positively impossible for me to do it with=
all
this work in hand, and these eternal fogs to contend against.'
'I fear costumes are rather out of my line,' s=
aid
the son. 'However, I'll do what I can. What period and country are they to
represent?'
His father didn't know. He had never looked at=
the
play of late years. It was 'Love's Labour's Lost.' 'You had better read it =
for
yourself,' he said, 'and do the best you can.'
During the morning Somerset junior found time =
to
refresh his memory of the play, and afterwards went and hunted up materials=
for
designs to suit the same, which occupied his spare hours for the next three
days. As these occupations made no great demands upon his reasoning faculti=
es he
mostly found his mind wandering off to imaginary scenes at Stancy Castle:
particularly did he dwell at this time upon Paula's lively interest in the
history, relics, tombs, architecture,--nay, the very Christian names of the=
De
Stancy line, and her 'artistic' preference for Charlotte's ancestors instea=
d of
her own. Yet what more natural than that a clever meditative girl, encased =
in
the feudal lumber of that family, should imbibe at least an antiquarian
interest in it? Human nature at bottom is romantic rather than ascetic, and=
the
local habitation which accident had provided for Paula was perhaps acting a=
s a
solvent of the hard, morbidly introspective views thrust upon her in early
life.
Somerset wondered if his own possession of a
substantial genealogy like Captain De Stancy's would have had any appreciab=
le
effect upon her regard for him. His suggestion to Paula of her belonging to=
a
worthy strain of engineers had been based on his content with his own intel=
lectual
line of descent through Pheidias, Ictinus and Callicrates, Chersiphron,
Vitruvius, Wilars of Cambray, William of Wykeham, and the rest of that long=
and
illustrious roll; but Miss Power's marked preference for an animal pedigree=
led
him to muse on what he could show for himself in that kind.
These thoughts so far occupied him that when he
took the sketches to his father, on the morning of the fifth, he was led to
ask: 'Has any one ever sifted out our family pedigree?'
'Family pedigree?'
'Yes. Have we any pedigree worthy to be compar=
ed
with that of professedly old families? I never remember hearing of any ance=
stor
further back than my great-grandfather.'
Somerset the elder reflected and said that he
believed there was a genealogical tree about the house somewhere, reaching =
back
to a very respectable distance. 'Not that I ever took much interest in it,'=
he continued,
without looking up from his canvas; 'but your great uncle John was a man wi=
th a
taste for those subjects, and he drew up such a sheet: he made several copi=
es
on parchment, and gave one to each of his brothers and sisters. The one he =
gave
to my father is still in my possession, I think.'
Somerset said that he should like to see it; b=
ut
half-an-hour's search about the house failed to discover the document; and =
the
Academician then remembered that it was in an iron box at his banker's. He =
had
used it as a wrapper for some title-deeds and other valuable writings which=
were
deposited there for safety. 'Why do you want it?' he inquired.
The young man confessed his whim to know if his
own antiquity would bear comparison with that of another person, whose name=
he
did not mention; whereupon his father gave him a key that would fit the said
chest, if he meant to pursue the subject further. Somerset, however, did
nothing in the matter that day, but the next morning, having to call at the
bank on other business, he remembered his new fancy.
It was about eleven o'clock. The fog, though n=
ot
so brown as it had been on previous days, was still dense enough to necessi=
tate
lights in the shops and offices. When Somerset had finished his business in=
the
outer office of the bank he went to the manager's room. The hour being some=
what
early the only persons present in that sanctuary of balances, besides the
manager who welcomed him, were two gentlemen, apparently lawyers, who sat
talking earnestly over a box of papers. The manager, on learning what Somer=
set
wanted, unlocked a door from which a flight of stone steps led to the vault=
s,
and sent down a clerk and a porter for the safe.
Before, however, they had descended far a gent=
le
tap came to the door, and in response to an invitation to enter a lady
appeared, wrapped up in furs to her very nose.
The manager seemed to recognize her, for he we=
nt
across the room in a moment, and set her a chair at the middle table, reply=
ing
to some observation of hers with the words, 'O yes, certainly,' in a
deferential tone.
'I should like it brought up at once,' said the
lady.
Somerset, who had seated himself at a table in=
a
somewhat obscure corner, screened by the lawyers, started at the words. The
voice was Miss Power's, and so plainly enough was the figure as soon as he =
examined
it. Her back was towards him, and either because the room was only lighted =
in
two places, or because she was absorbed in her own concerns, she seemed to =
be
unconscious of any one's presence on the scene except the banker and hersel=
f.
The former called back the clerk, and two other porters having been summoned
they disappeared to get whatever she required.
Somerset, somewhat excited, sat wondering what could have brought Paula to London at this juncture, and was in some doubt = if the occasion were a suitable one for revealing himself, her errand to her banker being possibly of a very private nature. Nothing helped him to a decision. Paula never once turned her head, and the progress of time was ma= rked only by the murmurs of the two lawyers, and the ceaseless clash of gold and rattle of scales from the outer room, where the busy heads of cashiers coul= d be seen through the partition moving about under the globes of the gas-lamps.<= o:p>
Footsteps were heard upon the cellar-steps, and
the three men previously sent below staggered from the doorway, bearing a h=
uge
safe which nearly broke them down. Somerset knew that his father's box, or
boxes, could boast of no such dimensions, and he was not surprised to see t=
he
chest deposited in front of Miss Power. When the immense accumulation of du=
st had
been cleared off the lid, and the chest conveniently placed for her, Somers=
et
was attended to, his modest box being brought up by one man unassisted, and
without much expenditure of breath.
His interest in Paula was of so emotional a ca=
st
that his attention to his own errand was of the most perfunctory kind. She =
was
close to a gas-standard, and the lawyers, whose seats had intervened, havin=
g finished
their business and gone away, all her actions were visible to him. While he=
was
opening his father's box the manager assisted Paula to unseal and unlock he=
rs,
and he now saw her lift from it a morocco case, which she placed on the tab=
le
before her, and unfastened. Out of it she took a dazzling object that fell =
like
a cascade over her fingers. It was a necklace of diamonds and pearls,
apparently of large size and many strands, though he was not near enough to=
see
distinctly. When satisfied by her examination that she had got the right
article she shut it into its case.
The manager closed the chest for her; and when=
it
was again secured Paula arose, tossed the necklace into her hand-bag, bowed=
to
the manager, and was about to bid him good morning. Thereupon he said with =
some
hesitation: 'Pardon one question, Miss Power. Do you intend to take those
jewels far?'
'Yes,' she said simply, 'to Stancy Castle.'
'You are going straight there?'
'I have one or two places to call at first.'
'I would suggest that you carry them in some o=
ther
way--by fastening them into the pocket of your dress, for instance.'
'But I am going to hold the bag in my hand and
never once let it go.'
The banker slightly shook his head. 'Suppose y=
our
carriage gets overturned: you would let it go then.'
'Perhaps so.'
'Or if you saw a child under the wheels just as
you were stepping in; or if you accidentally stumbled in getting out; or if
there was a collision on the railway--you might let it go.'
'Yes; I see I was too careless. I thank you.'<= o:p>
Paula removed the necklace from the bag, turned
her back to the manager, and spent several minutes in placing her treasure =
in
her bosom, pinning it and otherwise making it absolutely secure.
'That's it,' said the grey-haired man of cauti=
on,
with evident satisfaction. 'There is not much danger now: you are not
travelling alone?'
Paula replied that she was not alone, and went=
to
the door. There was one moment during which Somerset might have conveniently
made his presence known; but the juxtaposition of the bank-manager, and his=
own
disarranged box of securities, embarrassed him: the moment slipped by, and =
she
was gone.
In the meantime he had mechanically unearthed =
the
pedigree, and, locking up his father's chest, Somerset also took his depart=
ure
at the heels of Paula. He walked along the misty street, so deeply musing a=
s to
be quite unconscious of the direction of his walk. What, he inquired of
himself, could she want that necklace for so suddenly? He recollected a rem=
ark of
Dare's to the effect that her appearance on a particular occasion at Stancy
Castle had been magnificent by reason of the jewels she wore; which proved =
that
she had retained a sufficient quantity of those valuables at the castle for
ordinary requirements. What exceptional occasion, then, was impending on wh=
ich
she wished to glorify herself beyond all previous experience? He could not
guess. He was interrupted in these conjectures by a carriage nearly passing
over his toes at a crossing in Bond Street: looking up he saw between the t=
wo
windows of the vehicle the profile of a thickly mantled bosom, on which a
camellia rose and fell. All the remainder part of the lady's person was hid=
den;
but he remembered that flower of convenient season as one which had figured=
in
the bank parlour half-an-hour earlier to-day.
Somerset hastened after the carriage, and in a
minute saw it stop opposite a jeweller's shop. Out came Paula, and then ano=
ther
woman, in whom he recognized Mrs. Birch, one of the lady's maids at Stancy
Castle. The young man was at Paula's side before she had crossed the paveme=
nt.
A quick arrested expression in her two sapphir=
ine
eyes, accompanied by a little, a very little, blush which loitered long, was
all the outward disturbance that the sight of her lover caused. The habit o=
f self-repression
at any new emotional impact was instinctive with her always. Somerset could=
not
say more than a word; he looked his intense solicitude, and Paula spoke.
She declared that this was an unexpected pleas=
ure.
Had he arranged to come on the tenth as she wished? How strange that they
should meet thus!--and yet not strange--the world was so small.
Somerset said that he was coming on the very d=
ay
she mentioned--that the appointment gave him infinite gratification, which =
was
quite within the truth.
'Come into this shop with me,' said Paula, with
good-humoured authoritativeness.
They entered the shop and talked on while she =
made
a small purchase. But not a word did Paula say of her sudden errand to town=
.
'I am having an exciting morning,' she said. '=
I am
going from here to catch the one-o'clock train to Markton.'
'It is important that you get there this
afternoon, I suppose?'
'Yes. You know why?'
'Not at all.'
'The Hunt Ball. It was fixed for the sixth, and
this is the sixth. I thought they might have asked you.'
'No,' said Somerset, a trifle gloomily. 'No, I=
am
not asked. But it is a great task for you--a long journey and a ball all in=
one
day.'
'Yes: Charlotte said that. But I don't mind it=
.'
'You are glad you are going. Are you glad?' he
said softly.
Her air confessed more than her words. 'I am n=
ot
so very glad that I am going to the Hunt Ball,' she replied confidentially.=
'Thanks for that,' said he.
She lifted her eyes to his for a moment. Her
manner had suddenly become so nearly the counterpart of that in the tea-hou=
se
that to suspect any deterioration of affection in her was no longer generou=
s.
It was only as if a thin layer of recent events had overlaid her memories of
him, until his presence swept them away.
Somerset looked up, and finding the shopman to=
be
still some way off, he added, 'When will you assure me of something in retu=
rn
for what I assured you that evening in the rain?'
'Not before you have built the castle. My aunt
does not know about it yet, nor anybody.'
'I ought to tell her.'
'No, not yet. I don't wish it.'
'Then everything stands as usual?'
She lightly nodded.
'That is, I may love you: but you still will n=
ot
say you love me.'
She nodded again, and directing his attention =
to
the advancing shopman, said, 'Please not a word more.'
Soon after this, they left the jeweller's, and
parted, Paula driving straight off to the station and Somerset going on his=
way
uncertainly happy. His re-impression after a few minutes was that a special
journey to town to fetch that magnificent necklace which she had not once m=
entioned
to him, but which was plainly to be the medium of some proud purpose with h=
er
this evening, was hardly in harmony with her assertions of indifference to =
the
attractions of the Hunt Ball.
He got into a cab and drove to his club, where=
he
lunched, and mopingly spent a great part of the afternoon in making
calculations for the foundations of the castle works. Later in the afternoo=
n he
returned to his chambers, wishing that he could annihilate the three days
remaining before the tenth, particularly this coming evening. On his table =
was
a letter in a strange writing, and indifferently turning it over he found f=
rom
the superscription that it had been addressed to him days before at the
Lord-Quantock-Arms Hotel, Markton, where it had lain ever since, the landlo=
rd
probably expecting him to return. Opening the missive, he found to his surp=
rise
that it was, after all, an invitation to the Hunt Ball.
'Too late!' said Somerset. 'To think I should =
be
served this trick a second time!'
After a moment's pause, however, he looked to =
see
the time of day. It was five minutes past five--just about the hour when Pa=
ula
would be driving from Markton Station to Stancy Castle to rest and prepare =
herself
for her evening triumph. There was a train at six o'clock, timed to reach
Markton between eleven and twelve, which by great exertion he might save ev=
en
now, if it were worth while to undertake such a scramble for the pleasure of
dropping in to the ball at a late hour. A moment's vision of Paula moving to
swift tunes on the arm of a person or persons unknown was enough to impart =
the
impetus required. He jumped up, flung his dress clothes into a portmanteau,
sent down to call a cab, and in a few minutes was rattling off to the railw=
ay
which had borne Paula away from London just five hours earlier.
Once in the train, he began to consider where =
and
how he could most conveniently dress for the dance. The train would certain=
ly be
half-an-hour late; half-an-hour would be spent in getting to the town-hall,=
and
that was the utmost delay tolerable if he would secure the hand of Paula for
one spin, or be more than a mere dummy behind the earlier arrivals. He look=
ed
for an empty compartment at the next stoppage, and finding the one next his=
own
unoccupied, he entered it and changed his raiment for that in his portmante=
au
during the ensuing run of twenty miles.
Thus prepared he awaited the Markton platform,
which was reached as the clock struck twelve. Somerset called a fly and dro=
ve
at once to the town-hall.
The borough natives had ascended to their upper
floors, and were putting out their candles one by one as he passed along the
streets; but the lively strains that proceeded from the central edifice
revealed distinctly enough what was going on among the temporary visitors f=
rom the
neighbouring manors. The doors were opened for him, and entering the vestib=
ule
lined with flags, flowers, evergreens, and escutcheons, he stood looking in=
to
the furnace of gaiety beyond.
It was some time before he could gather his
impressions of the scene, so perplexing were the lights, the motions, the
toilets, the full-dress uniforms of officers and the harmonies of sound. Yet
light, sound, and movement were not so much the essence of that giddy scene=
as
an intense aim at obliviousness in the beings composing it. For two or three
hours at least those whirling young people meant not to know that they were=
mortal.
The room was beating like a heart, and the pulse was regulated by the tremb=
ling
strings of the most popular quadrille band in Wessex. But at last his eyes =
grew
settled enough to look critically around.
The room was crowded--too crowded. Every varie=
ty
of fair one, beauties primary, secondary, and tertiary, appeared among the
personages composing the throng. There were suns and moons; also pale plane=
ts
of little account. Broadly speaking, these daughters of the county fell into
two classes: one the pink-faced unsophisticated girls from neighbouring
rectories and small country-houses, who knew not town except for an occasio=
nal
fortnight, and who spent their time from Easter to Lammas Day much as they
spent it during the remaining nine months of the year: the other class were=
the
children of the wealthy landowners who migrated each season to the town-hou=
se;
these were pale and collected, showed less enjoyment in their countenances,=
and
wore in general an approximation to the languid manners of the capital.
A quadrille was in progress, and Somerset scan=
ned
each set. His mind had run so long upon the necklace, that his glance
involuntarily sought out that gleaming object rather than the personality of
its wearer. At the top of the room there he beheld it; but it was on the ne=
ck
of Charlotte De Stancy.
The whole lucid explanation broke across his
understanding in a second. His dear Paula had fetched the necklace that
Charlotte should not appear to disadvantage among the county people by reas=
on
of her poverty. It was generously done--a disinterested act of sisterly
kindness; theirs was the friendship of Hermia and Helena. Before he had got
further than to realize this, there wheeled round amongst the dancers a lady
whose tournure he recognized well. She was Paula; and to the young man's vi=
sion
a superlative something distinguished her from all the rest. This was not d=
ress
or ornament, for she had hardly a gem upon her, her attire being a model of
effective simplicity. Her partner was Captain De Stancy.
The discovery of this latter fact slightly
obscured his appreciation of what he had discovered just before. It was with
rather a lowering brow that he asked himself whether Paula's predilection
d'artiste, as she called it, for the De Stancy line might not lead to a
predilection of a different sort for its last representative which would be=
not
at all satisfactory.
The architect remained in the background till =
the
dance drew to a conclusion, and then he went forward. The circumstance of
having met him by accident once already that day seemed to quench any surpr=
ise
in Miss Power's bosom at seeing him now. There was nothing in her parting f=
rom
Captain De Stancy, when he led her to a seat, calculated to make Somerset
uneasy after his long absence. Though, for that matter, this proved nothing;
for, like all wise maidens, Paula never ventured on the game of the eyes wi=
th a
lover in public; well knowing that every moment of such indulgence overnight
might mean an hour's sneer at her expense by the indulged gentleman next da=
y,
when weighing womankind by the aid of a cold morning light and a bad headac=
he.
While Somerset was explaining to Paula and her
aunt the reason of his sudden appearance, their attention was drawn to a se=
at a
short way off by a fluttering of ladies round the spot. In a moment it was
whispered that somebody had fallen ill, and in another that the sufferer was
Miss De Stancy. Paula, Mrs. Goodman, and Somerset at once joined the group =
of friends
who were assisting her. Neither of them imagined for an instant that the
unexpected advent of Somerset on the scene had anything to do with the poor
girl's indisposition.
She was assisted out of the room, and her brot=
her,
who now came up, prepared to take her home, Somerset exchanging a few civil
words with him, which the hurry of the moment prevented them from continuin=
g; though
on taking his leave with Charlotte, who was now better, De Stancy informed
Somerset in answer to a cursory inquiry, that he hoped to be back again at =
the
ball in half-an-hour.
When they were gone Somerset, feeling that now
another dog might have his day, sounded Paula on the delightful question of=
a
dance.
Paula replied in the negative.
'How is that?' asked Somerset with reproachful
disappointment.
'I cannot dance again,' she said in a somewhat
depressed tone; 'I must be released from every engagement to do so, on acco=
unt
of Charlotte's illness. I should have gone home with her if I had not been
particularly requested to stay a little longer, since it is as yet so early,
and Charlotte's illness is not very serious.'
If Charlotte's illness was not very serious,
Somerset thought, Paula might have stretched a point; but not wishing to hi=
nder
her in showing respect to a friend so well liked by himself, he did not ask=
it.
De Stancy had promised to be back again in half-an-hour, and Paula had heard
the promise. But at the end of twenty minutes, still seeming indifferent to
what was going on around her, she said she would stay no longer, and remind=
ing
Somerset that they were soon to meet and talk over the rebuilding, drove off
with her aunt to Stancy Castle.
Somerset stood looking after the retreating
carriage till it was enveloped in shades that the lamps could not disperse.=
The
ball-room was now virtually empty for him, and feeling no great anxiety to
return thither he stood on the steps for some minutes longer, looking into =
the
calm mild night, and at the dark houses behind whose blinds lay the burghers
with their eyes sealed up in sleep. He could not but think that it was rath=
er
too bad of Paula to spoil his evening for a sentimental devotion to Charlot=
te
which could do the latter no appreciable good; and he would have felt serio=
usly
hurt at her move if it had not been equally severe upon Captain De Stancy, =
who
was doubtless hastening back, full of a belief that she would still be found
there.
The star of gas-jets over the entrance threw i=
ts
light upon the walls on the opposite side of the street, where there were
notice-boards of forthcoming events. In glancing over these for the fifth t=
ime,
his eye was attracted by the first words of a placard in blue letters, of a
size larger than the rest, and moving onward a few steps he read:--
=
=
STANCY CASTLE.
=
By the kind permission of Miss Power,
=
&nb=
sp;
A PLAY
Will
shortly be performed at the above CASTLE,
=
=
IN AID OF THE FUNDS OF THE
=
COUNTY HOSPITAL,
=
By the Officers of the
=
ROYAL HORSE ARTILLERY,
=
MARKTON BARRACKS,
=
ASSISTED BY SEVE=
RAL
=
LADIES OF THE NEIGHBOURHOOD.
The
cast and other particulars will be duly announced in small bills. Places will be reserved on applica=
tion
to Mr. Clangham, High Street,
Markton, where a plan of the room may be seen.
N.B--The Castle is about twenty minutes' drive from Markton Station,=
to which there are numerous conven=
ient
trains from all parts of the
county.
In a profound study Somerset turned and re-ent=
ered
the ball-room, where he remained gloomily standing here and there for about
five minutes, at the end of which he observed Captain De Stancy, who had
returned punctually to his word, crossing the hall in his direction.
The gallant officer darted glances of lively
search over every group of dancers and sitters; and then with rather a blank
look in his face, he came on to Somerset. Replying to the latter's inquiry =
for
his sister that she had nearly recovered, he said, 'I don't see my father's=
neighbours
anywhere.'
'They have gone home,' replied Somerset, a tri=
fle
drily. 'They asked me to make their apologies to you for leading you to exp=
ect
they would remain. Miss Power was too anxious about Miss De Stancy to care =
to
stay longer.'
The eyes of De Stancy and the speaker met for =
an
instant. That curious guarded understanding, or inimical confederacy, which
arises at moments between two men in love with the same woman, was present
here; and in their mutual glances each said as plainly as by words that her
departure had ruined his evening's hope.
They were now about as much in one mood as it =
was
possible for two such differing natures to be. Neither cared further for
elaborating giddy curves on that town-hall floor. They stood talking langui=
dly
about this and that local topic, till De Stancy turned aside for a short ti=
me
to speak to a dapper little lady who had beckoned to him. In a few minutes =
he
came back to Somerset.
'Mrs. Camperton, the wife of Major Camperton o=
f my
battery, would very much like me to introduce you to her. She is an old fri=
end
of your father's, and has wanted to know you for a long time.'
De Stancy and Somerset crossed over to the lad=
y,
and in a few minutes, thanks to her flow of spirits, she and Somerset were
chatting with remarkable freedom.
'It is a happy coincidence,' continued Mrs. Ca=
mperton,
'that I should have met you here, immediately after receiving a letter from
your father: indeed it reached me only this morning. He has been so kind! We
are getting up some theatricals, as you know, I suppose, to help the funds =
of
the County Hospital, which is in debt.'
'I have just seen the announcement--nothing mo=
re.'
'Yes, such an estimable purpose; and as we wis=
hed
to do it thoroughly well, I asked Mr. Somerset to design us the costumes, a=
nd
he has now sent me the sketches. It is quite a secret at present, but we are
going to play Shakespeare's romantic drama, 'Love's Labour's Lost,' and we =
hope
to get Miss Power to take the leading part. You see, being such a handsome
girl, and so wealthy, and rather an undiscovered novelty in the county as y=
et,
she would draw a crowded room, and greatly benefit the funds.'
'Miss Power going to play herself?--I am rather
surprised,' said Somerset. 'Whose idea is all this?'
'O, Captain De Stancy's--he's the originator
entirely. You see he is so interested in the neighbourhood, his family havi=
ng
been connected with it for so many centuries, that naturally a charitable
object of this local nature appeals to his feelings.'
'Naturally!' her listener laconically repeated.
'And have you settled who is to play the junior gentleman's part, leading
lover, hero, or whatever he is called?'
'Not absolutely; though I think Captain De Sta=
ncy
will not refuse it; and he is a very good figure. At present it lies between
him and Mr. Mild, one of our young lieutenants. My husband, of course, takes
the heavy line; and I am to be the second lady, though I am rather too old =
for
the part really. If we can only secure Miss Power for heroine the cast will=
be
excellent.'
'Excellent!' said Somerset, with a spectral sm=
ile.
When he awoke the next morning at the
Lord-Quantock-Arms Hotel Somerset felt quite morbid on recalling the
intelligence he had received from Mrs. Camperton. But as the day for serious
practical consultation about the castle works, to which Paula had playfully=
alluded,
was now close at hand, he determined to banish sentimental reflections on t=
he
frailties that were besieging her nature, by active preparation for his pro=
fessional
undertaking. To be her high-priest in art, to elaborate a structure whose
cunning workmanship would be meeting her eye every day till the end of her
natural life, and saying to her, 'He invented it,' with all the eloquence o=
f an
inanimate thing long regarded--this was no mean satisfaction, come what else
would.
He returned to town the next day to set matters
there in such trim that no inconvenience should result from his prolonged
absence at the castle; for having no other commission he determined (with an
eye rather to heart-interests than to increasing his professional practice)=
to
make, as before, the castle itself his office, studio, and chief abiding-pl=
ace till
the works were fairly in progress.
On the tenth he reappeared at Markton. Passing
through the town, on the road to Stancy Castle, his eyes were again arreste=
d by
the notice-board which had conveyed such startling information to him on the
night of the ball. The small bills now appeared thereon; but when he anxiou=
sly
looked them over to learn how the parts were to be allotted, he found that
intelligence still withheld. Yet they told enough; the list of lady-players=
was
given, and Miss Power's name was one.
That a young lady who, six months ago, would
scarcely join for conscientious reasons in a simple dance on her own lawn,
should now be willing to exhibit herself on a public stage, simulating
love-passages with a stranger, argued a rate of development which under any=
circumstances
would have surprised him, but which, with the particular addition, as leadi=
ng
colleague, of Captain De Stancy, inflamed him almost to anger. What clandes=
tine
arrangements had been going on in his absence to produce such a full-blown
intention it were futile to guess. Paula's course was a race rather than a
march, and each successive heat was startling in its eclipse of that which =
went
before.
Somerset was, however, introspective enough to
know that his morals would have taken no such virtuous alarm had he been the
chief male player instead of Captain De Stancy.
He passed under the castle-arch and entered. T=
here
seemed a little turn in the tide of affairs when it was announced to him th=
at
Miss Power expected him, and was alone.
The well-known ante-chambers through which he walked, filled with twilight, draughts, and thin echoes that seemed to reverberate from two hundred years ago, did not delay his eye as they had d= one when he had been ignorant that his destiny lay beyond; and he followed on through all this ancientness to where the modern Paula sat to receive him.<= o:p>
He forgot everything in the pleasure of being
alone in a room with her. She met his eye with that in her own which cheered
him. It was a light expressing that something was understood between them. =
She
said quietly in two or three words that she had expected him in the forenoo=
n.
Somerset explained that he had come only that
morning from London.
After a little more talk, in which she said th=
at
her aunt would join them in a few minutes, and Miss De Stancy was still
indisposed at her father's house, she rang for tea and sat down beside a li=
ttle
table.
'Shall we proceed to business at once?' she as=
ked
him.
'I suppose so.'
'First then, when will the working drawings be
ready, which I think you said must be made out before the work could begin?=
'
While Somerset informed her on this and other
matters, Mrs. Goodman entered and joined in the discussion, after which they
found it would be necessary to adjourn to the room where the plans were
hanging. On their walk thither Paula asked if he stayed late at the ball.
'I left soon after you.'
'That was very early, seeing how late you
arrived.'
'Yes.... I did not dance.'
'What did you do then?'
'I moped, and walked to the door; and saw an
announcement.'
'I know--the play that is to be performed.'
'In which you are to be the Princess.'
'That's not settled,--I have not agreed yet. I
shall not play the Princess of France unless Mr. Mild plays the King of
Navarre.'
This sounded rather well. The Princess was the
lady beloved by the King; and Mr. Mild, the young lieutenant of artillery, =
was
a diffident, inexperienced, rather plain-looking fellow, whose sole interes=
t in
theatricals lay in the consideration of his costume and the sound of his own
voice in the ears of the audience. With such an unobjectionable person to e=
nact
the part of lover, the prominent character of leading young lady or heroine,
which Paula was to personate, was really the most satisfactory in the whole
list for her. For although she was to be wooed hard, there was just as much
love-making among the remaining personages; while, as Somerset had understo=
od
the play, there could occur no flingings of her person upon her lover's nec=
k,
or agonized downfalls upon the stage, in her whole performance, as there we=
re
in the parts chosen by Mrs. Camperton, the major's wife, and some of the ot=
her ladies.
'Why do you play at all!' he murmured.
'What a question! How could I refuse for such =
an
excellent purpose? They say that my taking a part will be worth a hundred
pounds to the charity. My father always supported the hospital, which is qu=
ite undenominational;
and he said I was to do the same.'
'Do you think the peculiar means you have adop=
ted
for supporting it entered into his view?' inquired Somerset, regarding her =
with
critical dryness. 'For my part I don't.'
'It is an interesting way,' she returned
persuasively, though apparently in a state of mental equipoise on the point
raised by his question. 'And I shall not play the Princess, as I said, to a=
ny
other than that quiet young man. Now I assure you of this, so don't be angry
and absurd! Besides, the King doesn't marry me at the end of the play, as i=
n Shakespeare's
other comedies. And if Miss De Stancy continues seriously unwell I shall not
play at all.'
The young man pressed her hand, but she gently
slipped it away.
'Are we not engaged, Paula!' he asked. She
evasively shook her head.
'Come--yes we are! Shall we tell your aunt?' he
continued. Unluckily at that moment Mrs. Goodman, who had followed them to =
the
studio at a slower pace, appeared round the doorway.
'No,--to the last,' replied Paula hastily. Then
her aunt entered, and the conversation was no longer personal.
Somerset took his departure in a serener mood
though not completely assured.
His serenity continued during two or three
following days, when, continuing at the castle, he got pleasant glimpses of
Paula now and then. Her strong desire that his love for her should be kept
secret, perplexed him; but his affection was generous, and he acquiesced in
that desire.
Meanwhile news of the forthcoming dramatic
performance radiated in every direction. And in the next number of the coun=
ty
paper it was announced, to Somerset's comparative satisfaction, that the ca=
st
was definitely settled, Mr. Mild having agreed to be the King and Miss Power
the French Princess. Captain De Stancy, with becoming modesty for one who w=
as
the leading spirit, figured quite low down, in the secondary character of S=
ir
Nathaniel.
Somerset remembered that, by a happy chance, t=
he
costume he had designed for Sir Nathaniel was not at all picturesque; moreo=
ver
Sir Nathaniel scarcely came near the Princess through the whole play.
Every day after this there was coming and goin=
g to
and from the castle of railway vans laden with canvas columns, pasteboard
trees, limp house-fronts, woollen lawns, and lath balustrades. There were a=
lso frequent
arrivals of young ladies from neighbouring country houses, and warriors from
the X and Y batteries of artillery, distinguishable by their regulation
shaving.
But it was upon Captain De Stancy and Mrs.
Camperton that the weight of preparation fell. Somerset, through being much
occupied in the drawing-office, was seldom present during the consultations=
and
rehearsals: until one day, tea being served in the drawing-room at the usual
hour, he dropped in with the rest to receive a cup from Paula's table. The
chatter was tremendous, and Somerset was at once consulted about some neces=
sary
carpentry which was to be specially made at Markton. After that he was look=
ed
on as one of the band, which resulted in a large addition to the number of =
his
acquaintance in this part of England.
But his own feeling was that of being an outsi=
der
still. This vagary had been originated, the play chosen, the parts allotted,
all in his absence, and calling him in at the last moment might, if flirtat=
ion
were possible in Paula, be but a sop to pacify him. What would he have give=
n to
impersonate her lover in the piece! But neither Paula nor any one else had
asked him.
The eventful evening came. Somerset had been
engaged during the day with the different people by whom the works were to =
be
carried out and in the evening went to his rooms at the Lord-Quantock-Arms,
Markton, where he dined. He did not return to the castle till the hour fixed
for the performance, and having been received by Mrs. Goodman, entered the
large apartment, now transfigured into a theatre, like any other spectator.=
Rumours of the projected representation had sp=
read
far and wide. Six times the number of tickets issued might have been readily
sold. Friends and acquaintances of the actors came from curiosity to see how
they would acquit themselves; while other classes of people came because th=
ey were
eager to see well-known notabilities in unwonted situations. When ladies,
hitherto only beheld in frigid, impenetrable positions behind their coachme=
n in
Markton High Street, were about to reveal their hidden traits, home attitud=
es,
intimate smiles, nods, and perhaps kisses, to the public eye, it was a thro=
wing
open of fascinating social secrets not to be missed for money.
The performance opened with no further delay t=
han
was occasioned by the customary refusal of the curtain at these times to ri=
se
more than two feet six inches; but this hitch was remedied, and the play be=
gan.
It was with no enviable emotion that Somerset, who was watching intently, s=
aw, not
Mr. Mild, but Captain De Stancy, enter as the King of Navarre.
Somerset as a friend of the family had had a s=
eat
reserved for him next to that of Mrs. Goodman, and turning to her he said w=
ith
some excitement, 'I understood that Mr. Mild had agreed to take that part?'=
'Yes,' she said in a whisper, 'so he had; but =
he
broke down. Luckily Captain De Stancy was familiar with the part, through
having coached the others so persistently, and he undertook it off-hand. Be=
ing
about the same figure as Lieutenant Mild the same dress fits him, with a li=
ttle
alteration by the tailor.'
It did fit him indeed; and of the male costume=
s it
was that on which Somerset had bestowed most pains when designing them. It
shrewdly burst upon his mind that there might have been collusion between M=
ild
and De Stancy, the former agreeing to take the captain's place and act as b=
lind
till the last moment. A greater question was, could Paula have been aware of
this, and would she perform as the Princess of France now De Stancy was to =
be
her lover?
'Does Miss Power know of this change?' he
inquired.
'She did not till quite a short time ago.'
He controlled his impatience till the beginnin=
g of
the second act. The Princess entered; it was Paula. But whether the slight
embarrassment with which she pronounced her opening words,
'Good Lord Boyet=
, my
beauty, though but mean, Needs=
not
the painted flourish of your praise,'
was due to the newness of her situation, or to=
her
knowledge that De Stancy had usurped Mild's part of her lover, he could not
guess. De Stancy appeared, and Somerset felt grim as he listened to the gal=
lant
captain's salutation of the Princess, and her response.
De
S. Fair Princess, welco=
me to
the court of Navarre. Paula. Fair, I give you back again: and welcome, I have not yet.
Somerset listened to this and to all that which
followed of the same sort, with the reflection that, after all, the Princess
never throughout the piece compromised her dignity by showing her love for =
the
King; and that the latter never addressed her in words in which passion got=
the
better of courtesy. Moreover, as Paula had herself observed, they did not m=
arry
at the end of the piece, as in Shakespeare's other comedies. Somewhat calm =
in
this assurance, he waited on while the other couples respectively indulged =
in
their love-making, and banter, including Mrs. Camperton as the sprightly
Rosaline. But he was doomed to be surprised out of his humour when the end =
of
the act came on. In abridging the play for the convenience of representatio=
n,
the favours or gifts from the gentlemen to the ladies were personally
presented: and now Somerset saw De Stancy advance with the necklace fetched=
by
Paula from London, and clasp it on her neck.
This seemed to throw a less pleasant light on =
her
hasty journey. To fetch a valuable ornament to lend it to a poorer friend w=
as
estimable; but to fetch it that the friend's brother should have something =
magnificent
to use as a lover's offering to herself in public, that wore a different
complexion. And if the article were recognized by the spectators as the same
that Charlotte had worn at the ball, the presentation by De Stancy of what =
must
seem to be an heirloom of his house would be read as symbolizing a union of=
the
families.
De Stancy's mode of presenting the necklace,
though unauthorized by Shakespeare, had the full approval of the company, a=
nd
set them in good humour to receive Major Camperton as Armado the braggart.
Nothing calculated to stimulate jealousy occurred again till the fifth act;=
and
then there arose full cause for it.
The scene was the outside of the Princess's pavilion. De Stancy, as the King of Navarre, stood with his group of attend= ants awaiting the Princess, who presently entered from her door. The two began to converse as the play appointed, De Stancy turning to her with this reply--<= o:p>
'Rebuke me not f=
or
that which you provoke; The v=
irtue
of your eye must break my oath.'
So far all was well; and Paula opened her lips=
for
the set rejoinder. But before she had spoken De Stancy continued--
'If I profane wi=
th my
unworthy hand =
&nb=
sp; =
(Taking
her hand) This =
holy
shrine, the gentle fine is this-- My li=
ps,
two blushing pilgrims, ready stand To sm=
ooth
that rough touch with a tender kiss.'
Somerset stared. Surely in this comedy the King
never addressed the Princess in such warm words; and yet they were
Shakespeare's, for they were quite familiar to him. A dim suspicion crossed=
his
mind. Mrs. Goodman had brought a copy of Shakespeare with her, which she ke=
pt
in her lap and never looked at: borrowing it, Somerset turned to 'Romeo and=
Juliet,'
and there he saw the words which De Stancy had introduced as gag, to intens=
ify
the mild love-making of the other play. Meanwhile De Stancy continued--
'O then, dear Sa=
int,
let lips do what hands do; They =
pray,
grant thou, lest faith turn to despair. Then =
move
not, while my prayer's effect I take. Thus =
from
my lips, by yours, my sin is purg'd!'
Could it be that De Stancy was going to do what
came next in the stage direction--kiss her? Before there was time for
conjecture on that point the sound of a very sweet and long-drawn osculation
spread through the room, followed by loud applause from the people in the c=
heap
seats. De Stancy withdrew from bending over Paula, and she was very red in =
the face.
Nothing seemed clearer than that he had actually done the deed. The applause
continuing, Somerset turned his head. Five hundred faces had regarded the a=
ct,
without a consciousness that it was an interpolation; and four hundred and =
fifty
mouths in those faces were smiling. About one half of them were tender smil=
es;
these came from the women. The other half were at best humorous, and mainly
satirical; these came from the men. It was a profanation without parallel, =
and
his face blazed like a coal.
The play was now nearly at an end, and Somerset
sat on, feeling what he could not express. More than ever was he assured th=
at
there had been collusion between the two artillery officers to bring about =
this
end. That he should have been the unhappy man to design those picturesque d=
resses
in which his rival so audaciously played the lover to his, Somerset's,
mistress, was an added point to the satire. He could hardly go so far as to
assume that Paula was a consenting party to this startling interlude; but h=
er
otherwise unaccountable wish that his own love should be clandestinely shown
lent immense force to a doubt of her sincerity. The ghastly thought that she
had merely been keeping him on, like a pet spaniel, to amuse her leisure
moments till she should have found appropriate opportunity for an open
engagement with some one else, trusting to his sense of chivalry to keep se=
cret
their little episode, filled him with a grim heat.
At the back of the room the applause had been =
loud
at the moment of the kiss, real or counterfeit. The cause was partly owing =
to
an exceptional circumstance which had occurred in that quarter early in the
play.
The people had all seated themselves, and the
first act had begun, when the tapestry that screened the door was lifted ge=
ntly
and a figure appeared in the opening. The general attention was at this mom=
ent absorbed
by the newly disclosed stage, and scarcely a soul noticed the stranger. Had=
any
one of the audience turned his head, there would have been sufficient in the
countenance to detain his gaze, notwithstanding the counter-attraction forw=
ard.
He was obviously a man who had come from afar.
There was not a square inch about him that had anything to do with modern
English life. His visage, which was of the colour of light porphyry, had li=
ttle
of its original surface left; it was a face which had been the plaything of=
strange
fires or pestilences, that had moulded to whatever shape they chose his
originally supple skin, and left it pitted, puckered, and seamed like a dri=
ed
water-course. But though dire catastrophes or the treacherous airs of remote
climates had done their worst upon his exterior, they seemed to have affect=
ed
him but little within, to judge from a certain robustness which showed itse=
lf
in his manner of standing.
The face-marks had a meaning, for any one who
could read them, beyond the mere suggestion of their origin: they signified
that this man had either been the victim of some terrible necessity as rega=
rded
the occupation to which he had devoted himself, or that he was a man of dog=
ged
obstinacy, from sheer sang froid holding his ground amid malign forces when
others would have fled affrighted away.
As nobody noticed him, he dropped the door
hangings after a while, walked silently along the matted alley, and sat dow=
n in
one of the back chairs. His manner of entry was enough to show that the
strength of character which he seemed to possess had phlegm for its base and
not ardour. One might have said that perhaps the shocks he had passed throu=
gh
had taken all his original warmth out of him. His beaver hat, which he had
retained on his head till this moment, he now placed under the seat, where =
he
sat absolutely motionless till the end of the first act, as if he were
indulging in a monologue which did not quite reach his lips.
When Paula entered at the beginning of the sec=
ond
act he showed as much excitement as was expressed by a slight movement of t=
he
eyes. When she spoke he turned to his next neighbour, and asked him in cold
level words which had once been English, but which seemed to have lost the
accent of nationality: 'Is that the young woman who is the possessor of thi=
s castle--Power
by name?'
His neighbour happened to be the landlord at
Sleeping-Green, and he informed the stranger that she was what he supposed.=
'And who is that gentleman whose line of busin=
ess
seems to be to make love to Power?'
'He's Captain De Stancy, Sir William De Stancy=
's
son, who used to own this property.'
'Baronet or knight?'
'Baronet--a very old-established family about
here.'
The stranger nodded, and the play went on, no
further word being spoken till the fourth act was reached, when the stranger
again said, without taking his narrow black eyes from the stage: 'There's
something in that love-making between Stancy and Power that's not all sham!=
'
'Well,' said the landlord, 'I have heard diffe=
rent
stories about that, and wouldn't be the man to zay what I couldn't swear to.
The story is that Captain De Stancy, who is as poor as a gallicrow, is in f=
ull
cry a'ter her, and that his on'y chance lies in his being heir to a title a=
nd
the wold name. But she has not shown a genuine hanker for anybody yet.'
'If she finds the money, and this Stancy finds=
the
name and blood, 'twould be a very neat match between 'em,--hey?'
'That's the argument.'
Nothing more was said again for a long time, b=
ut
the stranger's eyes showed more interest in the passes between Paula and De
Stancy than they had shown before. At length the crisis came, as described =
in
the last chapter, De Stancy saluting her with that semblance of a kiss which
gave such umbrage to Somerset. The stranger's thin lips lengthened a couple=
of
inches with satisfaction; he put his hand into his pocket, drew out two
half-crowns which he handed to the landlord, saying, 'Just applaud that, wi=
ll
you, and get your comrades to do the same.'
The landlord, though a little surprised, took =
the
money, and began to clap his hands as desired. The example was contagious, =
and
spread all over the room; for the audience, gentle and simple, though they
might not have followed the blank verse in all its bearings, could at least=
appreciate
a kiss. It was the unusual acclamation raised by this means which had led
Somerset to turn his head.
When the play had ended the stranger was the f=
irst
to rise, and going downstairs at the head of the crowd he passed out of doo=
rs,
and was lost to view. Some questions were asked by the landlord as to the
stranger's individuality; but few had seen him; fewer had noticed him, sing=
ular
as he was; and none knew his name.
While these things had been going on in the
quarter allotted to the commonalty, Somerset in front had waited the fall of
the curtain with those sick and sorry feelings which should be combated by =
the
aid of philosophy and a good conscience, but which really are only subdued =
by time
and the abrading rush of affairs. He was, however, stoical enough, when it =
was
all over, to accept Mrs. Goodman's invitation to accompany her to the
drawing-room, fully expecting to find there a large company, including Capt=
ain
De Stancy.
But none of the acting ladies and gentlemen had
emerged from their dressing-rooms as yet. Feeling that he did not care to m=
eet
any of them that night, he bade farewell to Mrs. Goodman after a few minute=
s of
conversation, and left her. While he was passing along the corridor, at the
side of the gallery which had been used as the theatre, Paula crossed it fr=
om
the latter apartment towards an opposite door. She was still in the dress of
the Princess, and the diamond and pearl necklace still hung over her bosom =
as
placed there by Captain De Stancy.
Her eye caught Somerset's, and she stopped.
Probably there was something in his face which told his mind, for she invit=
ed
him by a smile into the room she was entering.
'I congratulate you on your performance,' he s=
aid
mechanically, when she pushed to the door.
'Do you really think it was well done?' She dr=
ew
near him with a sociable air.
'It was startlingly done--the part from
"Romeo and Juliet" pre-eminently so.'
'Do you think I knew he was going to introduce=
it,
or do you think I didn't know?' she said, with that gentle sauciness which
shows itself in the loved one's manner when she has had a triumphant evening
without the lover's assistance.
'I think you may have known.'
'No,' she averred, decisively shaking her head.
'It took me as much by surprise as it probably did you. But why should I ha=
ve
told!'
Without answering that question Somerset went =
on.
'Then what he did at the end of his gag was of course a surprise also.'
'He didn't really do what he seemed to do,' she
serenely answered.
'Well, I have no right to make observations--y=
our
actions are not subject to my surveillance; you float above my plane,' said=
the
young man with some bitterness. 'But to speak plainly, surely he--kissed yo=
u?'
'No,' she said. 'He only kissed the air in fro=
nt
of me--ever so far off.'
'Was it six inches off?'
'No, not six inches.'
'Nor three.'
'It was quite one,' she said with an ingenuous
air.
'I don't call that very far.'
'A miss is as good as a mile, says the
time-honoured proverb; and it is not for us modern mortals to question its
truth.'
'How can you be so off-hand?' broke out Somers=
et.
'I love you wildly and desperately, Paula, and you know it well!'
'I have never denied knowing it,' she said sof=
tly.
'Then why do you, with such knowledge, adopt an
air of levity at such a moment as this! You keep me at arm's-length, and wo=
n't
say whether you care for me one bit, or no. I have owned all to you; yet ne=
ver
once have you owned anything to me!'
'I have owned much. And you do me wrong if you
consider that I show levity. But even if I had not owned everything, and you
all, it is not altogether such a grievous thing.'
'You mean to say that it is not grievous, even=
if
a man does love a woman, and suffers all the pain of feeling he loves in va=
in?
Well, I say it is quite the reverse, and I have grounds for knowing.'
'Now, don't fume so, George Somerset, but hear=
me.
My not owning all may not have the dreadful meaning you think, and therefor=
e it
may not be really such a grievous thing. There are genuine reasons for wome=
n's conduct
in these matters as well as for men's, though it is sometimes supposed to be
regulated entirely by caprice. And if I do not give way to every feeling--I
mean demonstration--it is because I don't want to. There now, you know what
that implies; and be content.'
'Very well,' said Somerset, with repressed
sadness, 'I will not expect you to say more. But you do like me a little,
Paula?'
'Now!' she said, shaking her head with symptom= s of tenderness and looking into his eyes. 'What have you just promised? Perhaps= I like you a little more than a little, which is much too much! Yes,--Shakesp= eare says so, and he is always right. Do you still doubt me? Ah, I see you do!'<= o:p>
'Because somebody has stood nearer to you to-n=
ight
than I.'
'A fogy like him!--half as old again as either=
of
us! How can you mind him? What shall I do to show you that I do not for a
moment let him come between me and you?'
'It is not for me to suggest what you should d=
o.
Though what you should permit ME to do is obvious enough.'
She dropped her voice: 'You mean, permit you t=
o do
really and in earnest what he only seemed to do in the play.'
Somerset signified by a look that such had been
his thought.
Paula was silent. 'No,' she murmured at last.
'That cannot be. He did not, nor must you.'
It was said none the less decidedly for being
spoken low.
'You quite resent such a suggestion: you have a right to. I beg your pardon, not for speaking of it, but for thinking it.'<= o:p>
'I don't resent it at all, and I am not offend=
ed
one bit. But I am not the less of opinion that it is possible to be prematu=
re
in some things; and to do this just now would be premature. I know what you
would say--that you would not have asked it, but for that unfortunate impro=
visation
of it in the play. But that I was not responsible for, and therefore owe no
reparation to you now.... Listen!'
'Paula--Paula! Where in the world are you?' was
heard resounding along the corridor in the voice of her aunt. 'Our friends =
are
all ready to leave, and you will surely bid them good-night!'
'I must be gone--I won't ring for you to be sh=
own
out--come this way.'
'But how will you get on in repeating the play
tomorrow evening if that interpolation is against your wish?' he asked, loo=
king
her hard in the face.
'I'll think it over during the night. Come
to-morrow morning to help me settle. But,' she added, with coy yet genial
independence, 'listen to me. Not a word more about a--what you asked for, m=
ind!
I don't want to go so far, and I will not--not just yet anyhow--I mean perh=
aps
never. You must promise that, or I cannot see you again alone.'
'It shall be as you request.'
'Very well. And not a word of this to a soul. =
My
aunt suspects: but she is a good aunt and will say nothing. Now that is cle=
arly
understood, I should be glad to consult with you tomorrow early. I will com=
e to
you in the studio or Pleasance as soon as I am disengaged.'
She took him to a little chamfered doorway in =
the
corner, which opened into a descending turret; and Somerset went down. When=
he
had unfastened the door at the bottom, and stepped into the lower corridor,=
she
asked, 'Are you down?' And on receiving an affirmative reply she closed the=
top
door.
Somerset was in the studio the next morning ab=
out
ten o'clock superintending the labours of Knowles, Bowles, and Cockton, who=
m he
had again engaged to assist him with the drawings on his appointment to car=
ry
out the works. When he had set them going he ascended the staircase of the
great tower for some purpose that bore upon the forthcoming repairs of this
part. Passing the door of the telegraph-room he heard little sounds from the
instrument, which somebody was working. Only two people in the castle, to t=
he
best of his knowledge, knew the trick of this; Miss Power, and a page in her
service called John. Miss De Stancy could also despatch messages, but she w=
as
at Myrtle Villa.
The door was closed, and much as he would have
liked to enter, the possibility that Paula was not the performer led him to
withhold his steps. He went on to where the uppermost masonry had resisted =
the
mighty hostility of the elements for five hundred years without receiving w=
orse
dilapidation than half-a-century produces upon the face of man. But he still
wondered who was telegraphing, and whether the message bore on housekeeping,
architecture, theatricals, or love.
Could Somerset have seen through the panels of=
the
door in passing, he would have beheld the room occupied by Paula alone.
It was she who sat at the instrument, and the
message she was despatching ran as under:--
'Can you send down a competent actress, who wi=
ll
undertake the part of Princess of France in "Love's Labour's Lost"
this evening in a temporary theatre here? Dresses already provided suitable=
to
a lady about the middle height. State price.'
The telegram was addressed to a well-known
theatrical agent in London.
Off went the message, and Paula retired into t=
he
next room, leaving the door open between that and the one she had just quit=
ted.
Here she busied herself with writing some letters, till in less than an hour
the telegraph instrument showed signs of life, and she hastened back to its=
side.
The reply received from the agent was as follows:--
'Miss Barbara Bell of the Regent's Theatre cou=
ld
come. Quite competent. Her terms would be about twenty-five guineas.'
Without a moment's pause Paula returned for
answer:--
'The terms are quite satisfactory.'
Presently she heard the instrument again, and
emerging from the next room in which she had passed the intervening time as
before, she read:--
'Miss Barbara Bell's terms were accidentally
understated. They would be forty guineas, in consequence of the distance. Am
waiting at the office for a reply.'
Paula set to work as before and replied:--
'Quite satisfactory; only let her come at once=
.'
She did not leave the room this time, but went=
to
an arrow-slit hard by and gazed out at the trees till the instrument began =
to
speak again. Returning to it with a leisurely manner, implying a full
persuasion that the matter was settled, she was somewhat surprised to learn
that,
'Miss Bell, in stating her terms, understands =
that
she will not be required to leave London till the middle of the afternoon. =
If
it is necessary for her to leave at once, ten guineas extra would be indisp=
ensable,
on account of the great inconvenience of such a short notice.'
Paula seemed a little vexed, but not much
concerned she sent back with a readiness scarcely politic in the
circumstances:--
'She must start at once. Price agreed to.'
Her impatience for the answer was mixed with
curiosity as to whether it was due to the agent or to Miss Barbara Bell that
the prices had grown like Jack's Bean-stalk in the negotiation. Another
telegram duly came:--
'Travelling expenses are expected to be paid.'=
With decided impatience she dashed off:--
'Of course; but nothing more will be agreed to=
.'
Then, and only then, came the desired reply:--=
'Miss Bell starts by the twelve o'clock train.=
'
This business being finished, Paula left the
chamber and descended into the inclosure called the Pleasance, a spot grass=
ed
down like a lawn. Here stood Somerset, who, having come down from the tower,
was looking on while a man searched for old foundations under the sod with =
a crowbar.
He was glad to see her at last, and noticed that she looked serene and
relieved; but could not for the moment divine the cause. Paula came nearer,
returned his salutation, and regarded the man's operations in silence awhile
till his work led him to a distance from them.
'Do you still wish to consult me?' asked Somer=
set.
'About the building perhaps,' said she. 'Not a=
bout
the play.'
'But you said so?'
'Yes; but it will be unnecessary.'
Somerset thought this meant skittishness, and
merely bowed.
'You mistake me as usual,' she said, in a low
tone. 'I am not going to consult you on that matter, because I have done all
you could have asked for without consulting you. I take no part in the play
to-night.'
'Forgive my momentary doubt!'
'Somebody else will play for me--an actress fr=
om
London. But on no account must the substitution be known beforehand or the
performance to-night will never come off: and that I should much regret.'
'Captain De Stancy will not play his part if he
knows you will not play yours--that's what you mean?'
'You may suppose it is,' she said, smiling. 'A=
nd
to guard against this you must help me to keep the secret by being my
confederate.'
To be Paula's confederate; to-day, indeed, time
had brought him something worth waiting for. 'In anything!' cried Somerset.=
'Only in this!' said she, with soft severity. =
'And
you know what you have promised, George! And you remember there is to be
no--what we talked about! Now will you go in the one-horse brougham to Mark=
ton Station
this afternoon, and meet the four o'clock train? Inquire for a lady for Sta=
ncy
Castle--a Miss Bell; see her safely into the carriage, and send her straigh=
t on
here. I am particularly anxious that she should not enter the town, for I t=
hink
she once came to Markton in a starring company, and she might be recognized,
and my plan be defeated.'
Thus she instructed her lover and devoted frie=
nd;
and when he could stay no longer he left her in the garden to return to his
studio. As Somerset went in by the garden door he met a strange-looking
personage coming out by the same passage--a stranger, with the manner of a
Dutchman, the face of a smelter, and the clothes of an inhabitant of Guiana.
The stranger, whom we have already seen sitting at the back of the theatre =
the
night before, looked hard from Somerset to Paula, and from Paula again to S=
omerset,
as he stepped out. Somerset had an unpleasant conviction that this queer
gentleman had been standing for some time in the doorway unnoticed, quizzing
him and his mistress as they talked together. If so he might have learnt a
secret.
When he arrived upstairs, Somerset went to a
window commanding a view of the garden. Paula still stood in her place, and=
the
stranger was earnestly conversing with her. Soon they passed round the corn=
er
and disappeared.
It was now time for him to see about starting =
for
Markton, an intelligible zest for circumventing the ardent and coercive cap=
tain
of artillery saving him from any unnecessary delay in the journey. He was at
the station ten minutes before the train was due; and when it drew up to the
platform the first person to jump out was Captain De Stancy in sportsman's
attire and with a gun in his hand. Somerset nodded, and De Stancy spoke,
informing the architect that he had been ten miles up the line shooting
waterfowl. 'That's Miss Power's carriage, I think,' he added.
'Yes,' said Somerset carelessly. 'She expects a
friend, I believe. We shall see you at the castle again to-night?'
De Stancy assured him that they would, and the=
two
men parted, Captain De Stancy, when he had glanced to see that the carriage=
was
empty, going on to where a porter stood with a couple of spaniels.
Somerset now looked again to the train. While =
his
back had been turned to converse with the captain, a lady of five-and-thirty
had alighted from the identical compartment occupied by De Stancy. She made=
an inquiry
about getting to Stancy Castle, upon which Somerset, who had not till now
observed her, went forward, and introducing himself assisted her to the
carriage and saw her safely off.
De Stancy had by this time disappeared, and
Somerset walked on to his rooms at the Lord-Quantock-Arms, where he remained
till he had dined, picturing the discomfiture of his alert rival when there
should enter to him as Princess, not Paula Power, but Miss Bell of the Rege=
nt's
Theatre, London. Thus the hour passed, till he found that if he meant to see
the issue of the plot it was time to be off.
On arriving at the castle, Somerset entered by=
the
public door from the hall as before, a natural delicacy leading him to feel
that though he might be welcomed as an ally at the stage-door--in other wor=
ds,
the door from the corridor--it was advisable not to take too ready an advan=
tage
of a privilege which, in the existing secrecy of his understanding with Pau=
la,
might lead to an overthrow of her plans on that point.
Not intending to sit out the whole performance,
Somerset contented himself with standing in a window recess near the
proscenium, whence he could observe both the stage and the front rows of
spectators. He was quite uncertain whether Paula would appear among the
audience to-night, and resolved to wait events. Just before the rise of the
curtain the young lady in question entered and sat down. When the scenery w=
as disclosed
and the King of Navarre appeared, what was Somerset's surprise to find that,
though the part was the part taken by De Stancy on the previous night, the
voice was that of Mr. Mild; to him, at the appointed season, entered the
Princess, namely, Miss Barbara Bell.
Before Somerset had recovered from his crestfa=
llen
sensation at De Stancy's elusiveness, that officer himself emerged in eveni=
ng
dress from behind a curtain forming a wing to the proscenium, and Somerset
remarked that the minor part originally allotted to him was filled by the s=
ubaltern
who had enacted it the night before. De Stancy glanced across, whether by
accident or otherwise Somerset could not determine, and his glance seemed to
say he quite recognized there had been a trial of wits between them, and th=
at,
thanks to his chance meeting with Miss Bell in the train, his had proved the
stronger.
The house being less crowded to-night there we= re one or two vacant chairs in the best part. De Stancy, advancing from where = he had stood for a few moments, seated himself comfortably beside Miss Power.<= o:p>
On the other side of her he now perceived the =
same
queer elderly foreigner (as he appeared) who had come to her in the garden =
that
morning. Somerset was surprised to perceive also that Paula with very little
hesitation introduced him and De Stancy to each other. A conversation ensued
between the three, none the less animated for being carried on in a whisper=
, in
which Paula seemed on strangely intimate terms with the stranger, and the
stranger to show feelings of great friendship for De Stancy, considering th=
at
they must be new acquaintances.
The play proceeded, and Somerset still lingere=
d in
his corner. He could not help fancying that De Stancy's ingenious
relinquishment of his part, and its obvious reason, was winning Paula's
admiration. His conduct was homage carried to unscrupulous and inconvenient
lengths, a sort of thing which a woman may chide, but which she can never
resent. Who could do otherwise than talk kindly to a man, incline a little =
to
him, and condone his fault, when the sole motive of so audacious an exercis=
e of
his wits was to escape acting with any other heroine than herself.
His conjectures were brought to a pause by the
ending of the comedy, and the opportunity afforded him of joining the group=
in
front. The mass of people were soon gone, and the knot of friends assembled
around Paula were discussing the merits and faults of the two days'
performance.
'My uncle, Mr. Abner Power,' said Paula sudden=
ly
to Somerset, as he came near, presenting the stranger to the astonished you=
ng
man. 'I could not see you before the performance, as I should have liked to=
do.
The return of my uncle is so extraordinary that it ought to be told in a le=
ss hurried
way than this. He has been supposed dead by all of us for nearly ten
years--ever since the time we last heard from him.'
'For which I am to blame,' said Mr. Power, nod= ding to Paula's architect. 'Yet not I, but accident and a sluggish temperament. There are times, Mr Somerset, when the human creature feels no interest in = his kind, and assumes that his kind feels no interest in him. The feeling is no= t active enough to make him fly from their presence; but sufficient to keep him sile= nt if he happens to be away. I may not have described it precisely; but this I know, that after my long illness, and the fancied neglect of my letters--'<= o:p>
'For which my father was not to blame, since he
did not receive them,' said Paula.
'For which nobody was to blame--after that, I =
say,
I wrote no more.'
'You have much pleasure in returning at last, =
no
doubt,' said Somerset.
'Sir, as I remained away without particular pa=
in,
so I return without particular joy. I speak the truth, and no compliments. I
may add that there is one exception to this absence of feeling from my hear=
t,
namely, that I do derive great satisfaction from seeing how mightily this y=
oung
woman has grown and prevailed.'
This address, though delivered nominally to
Somerset, was listened to by Paula, Mrs. Goodman, and De Stancy also. After
uttering it, the speaker turned away, and continued his previous conversati=
on
with Captain De Stancy. From this time till the group parted he never again
spoke directly to Somerset, paying him barely so much attention as he might=
have
expected as Paula's architect, and certainly less than he might have suppos=
ed
his due as her accepted lover.
The result of the appearance, as from the tomb=
, of
this wintry man was that the evening ended in a frigid and formal way which
gave little satisfaction to the sensitive Somerset, who was abstracted and =
constrained
by reason of thoughts on how this resuscitation of the uncle would affect h=
is
relation with Paula. It was possibly also the thought of two at least of the
others. There had, in truth, scarcely yet been time enough to adumbrate the
possibilities opened up by this gentleman's return.
The only private word exchanged by Somerset wi=
th
any one that night was with Mrs. Goodman, in whom he always recognized a fr=
iend
to his cause, though the fluidity of her character rendered her but a feeble
one at the best of times. She informed him that Mr. Power had no sort of le=
gal control
over Paula, or direction in her estates; but Somerset could not doubt that a
near and only blood relation, even had he possessed but half the static for=
ce
of character that made itself apparent in Mr. Power, might exercise conside=
rable
moral influence over the girl if he chose. And in view of Mr. Power's marked
preference for De Stancy, Somerset had many misgivings as to its operating =
in a
direction favourable to himself.
Somerset was deeply engaged with his draughtsm=
en
and builders during the three following days, and scarcely entered the occu=
pied
wing of the castle.
At his suggestion Paula had agreed to have the
works executed as such operations were carried out in old times, before the
advent of contractors. Each trade required in the building was to be
represented by a master-tradesman of that denomination, who should stand
responsible for his own section of labour, and for no other, Somerset himse=
lf
as chief technicist working out his designs on the spot. By this means the =
thoroughness
of the workmanship would be greatly increased in comparison with the modern
arrangement, whereby a nominal builder, seldom present, who can certainly k=
now
no more than one trade intimately and well, and who often does not know tha=
t,
undertakes the whole.
But notwithstanding its manifest advantages to=
the
proprietor, the plan added largely to the responsibilities of the architect,
who, with his master-mason, master-carpenter, master-plumber, and what not,=
had
scarcely a moment to call his own. Still, the method being upon the face of=
it
the true one, Somerset supervised with a will.
But there seemed to float across the court to =
him
from the inhabited wing an intimation that things were not as they had been
before; that an influence adverse to himself was at work behind the ashlared
face of inner wall which confronted him. Perhaps this was because he never =
saw Paula
at the windows, or heard her footfall in that half of the building given ov=
er
to himself and his myrmidons. There was really no reason other than a
sentimental one why he should see her. The uninhabited part of the castle w=
as
almost an independent structure, and it was quite natural to exist for week=
s in
this wing without coming in contact with residents in the other.
A more pronounced cause than vague surmise was
destined to perturb him, and this in an unexpected manner. It happened one
morning that he glanced through a local paper while waiting at the
Lord-Quantock-Arms for the pony-carriage to be brought round in which he of=
ten
drove to the castle. The paper was two days old, but to his unutterable
amazement he read therein a paragraph which ran as follows:--
'We are informed that a marriage is likely to =
be
arranged between Captain De Stancy, of the Royal Horse Artillery, only surv=
iving
son of Sir William De Stancy, Baronet, and Paula, only daughter of the late=
John
Power, Esq., M.P., of Stancy Castle.'
Somerset dropped the paper, and stared out of =
the
window. Fortunately for his emotions, the horse and carriage were at this m=
oment
brought to the door, so that nothing hindered Somerset in driving off to the
spot at which he would be soonest likely to learn what truth or otherwise t=
here
was in the newspaper report. From the first he doubted it: and yet how shou=
ld
it have got there? Such strange rumours, like paradoxical maxims, generally
include a portion of truth. Five days had elapsed since he last spoke to Pa=
ula.
Reaching the castle he entered his own quarter=
s as
usual, and after setting the draughtsmen to work walked up and down ponderi=
ng
how he might best see her without making the paragraph the ground of his re=
quest
for an interview; for if it were a fabrication, such a reason would wound h=
er
pride in her own honour towards him, and if it were partly true, he would
certainly do better in leaving her alone than in reproaching her. It would
simply amount to a proof that Paula was an arrant coquette.
In his meditation he stood still, closely scan=
ning
one of the jamb-stones of a doorless entrance, as if to discover where the =
old hinge-hook
had entered the stonework. He heard a footstep behind him, and looking round
saw Paula standing by. She held a newspaper in her hand. The spot was one q=
uite
hemmed in from observation, a fact of which she seemed to be quite aware.
'I have something to tell you,' she said;
'something important. But you are so occupied with that old stone that I am
obliged to wait.'
'It is not true surely!' he said, looking at t=
he
paper.
'No, look here,' she said, holding up the shee=
t.
It was not what he had supposed, but a new one--the local rival to that whi=
ch
had contained the announcement, and was still damp from the press. She poin=
ted,
and he read--
'We are authorized to state that there is no
foundation whatever for the assertion of our contemporary that a marriage is
likely to be arranged between Captain De Stancy and Miss Power of Stancy
Castle.'
Somerset pressed her hand. 'It disturbed me,' =
he
said, 'though I did not believe it.'
'It astonished me, as much as it disturbed you;
and I sent this contradiction at once.'
'How could it have got there?'
She shook her head.
'You have not the least knowledge?'
'Not the least. I wish I had.'
'It was not from any friends of De Stancy's? or
himself?'
'It was not. His sister has ascertained beyond
doubt that he knew nothing of it. Well, now, don't say any more to me about=
the
matter.'
'I'll find out how it got into the paper.'
'Not now--any future time will do. I have
something else to tell you.'
'I hope the news is as good as the last,' he s=
aid,
looking into her face with anxiety; for though that face was blooming, it
seemed full of a doubt as to how her next information would be taken.
'O yes; it is good, because everybody says so.=
We
are going to take a delightful journey. My new-created uncle, as he seems, =
and
I, and my aunt, and perhaps Charlotte, if she is well enough, are going to
Nice, and other places about there.'
'To Nice!' said Somerset, rather blankly. 'And=
I
must stay here?'
'Why, of course you must, considering what you
have undertaken!' she said, looking with saucy composure into his eyes. 'My
uncle's reason for proposing the journey just now is, that he thinks the
alterations will make residence here dusty and disagreeable during the spri=
ng.
The opportunity of going with him is too good a one for us to lose, as I ha=
ve
never been there.'
'I wish I was going to be one of the party!...
What do YOU wish about it?'
She shook her head impenetrably. 'A woman may =
wish
some things she does not care to tell!'
'Are you really glad you are going, dearest?--=
as I
MUST call you just once,' said the young man, gazing earnestly into her fac=
e,
which struck him as looking far too rosy and radiant to be consistent with =
ever
so little regret at leaving him behind.
'I take great interest in foreign trips, espec=
ially
to the shores of the Mediterranean: and everybody makes a point of getting =
away
when the house is turned out of the window.'
'But you do feel a little sadness, such as I
should feel if our positions were reversed?'
'I think you ought not to have asked that so
incredulously,' she murmured. 'We can be near each other in spirit, when our
bodies are far apart, can we not?' Her tone grew softer and she drew a litt=
le
closer to his side with a slightly nestling motion, as she went on, 'May I =
be
sure that you will not think unkindly of me when I am absent from your sigh=
t, and
not begrudge me any little pleasure because you are not there to share it w=
ith
me?'
'May you! Can you ask it?... As for me, I shall
have no pleasure to be begrudged or otherwise. The only pleasure I have is,=
as
you well know, in you. When you are with me, I am happy: when you are away,=
I
take no pleasure in anything.'
'I don't deserve it. I have no right to disturb
you so,' she said, very gently. 'But I have given you some pleasure, have I
not? A little more pleasure than pain, perhaps?'
'You have, and yet.... But I don't accuse you,
dearest. Yes, you have given me pleasure. One truly pleasant time was when =
we
stood together in the summer-house on the evening of the garden-party, and =
you
said you liked me to love you.'
'Yes, it was a pleasant time,' she returned
thoughtfully. 'How the rain came down, and formed a gauze between us and the
dancers, did it not; and how afraid we were--at least I was--lest anybody
should discover us there, and how quickly I ran in after the rain was over!=
'
'Yes', said Somerset, 'I remember it. But no h=
arm
came of it to you.... And perhaps no good will come of it to me.'
'Do not be premature in your conclusions, sir,'
she said archly. 'If you really do feel for me only half what you say, we
shall--you will make good come of it--in some way or other.'
'Dear Paula--now I believe you, and can bear
anything.'
'Then we will say no more; because, as you
recollect, we agreed not to go too far. No expostulations, for we are going=
to
be practical young people; besides, I won't listen if you utter them. I sim=
ply
echo your words, and say I, too, believe you. Now I must go. Have faith in =
me,
and don't magnify trifles light as air.'
'I THINK I understand you. And if I do, it will
make a great difference in my conduct. You will have no cause to complain.'=
'Then you must not understand me so much as to
make much difference; for your conduct as my architect is perfect. But I mu=
st
not linger longer, though I wished you to know this news from my very own
lips.'
'Bless you for it! When do you leave?'
'The day after to-morrow.'
'So early? Does your uncle guess anything? Do =
you
wish him to be told just yet?'
'Yes, to the first; no, to the second.'
'I may write to you?'
'On business, yes. It will be necessary.'
'How can you speak so at a time of parting?'
'Now, George--you see I say George, and not Mr.
Somerset, and you may draw your own inference--don't be so morbid in your
reproaches! I have informed you that you may write, or still better, telegr=
aph,
since the wire is so handy--on business. Well, of course, it is for you to
judge whether you will add postscripts of another sort. There, you make me =
say
more than a woman ought, because you are so obtuse and literal. Good aftern=
oon--good-bye!
This will be my address.'
She handed him a slip of paper, and flitted aw=
ay.
Though he saw her again after this, it was dur=
ing
the bustle of preparation, when there was always a third person present,
usually in the shape of that breathing refrigerator, her uncle. Hence the f=
ew words
that passed between them were of the most formal description, and chiefly
concerned the restoration of the castle, and a church at Nice designed by h=
im,
which he wanted her to inspect.
They were to leave by an early afternoon train,
and Somerset was invited to lunch on that day. The morning was occupied by a
long business consultation in the studio with Mr. Power and Mrs. Goodman on
what rooms were to be left locked up, what left in charge of the servants, =
and what
thrown open to the builders and workmen under the surveillance of Somerset.=
At
present the work consisted mostly of repairs to existing rooms, so as to re=
nder
those habitable which had long been used only as stores for lumber. Paula d=
id
not appear during this discussion; but when they were all seated in the
dining-hall she came in dressed for the journey, and, to outward appearance,
with blithe anticipation at its prospect blooming from every feature. Next =
to
her came Charlotte De Stancy, still with some of the pallor of an invalid, =
but
wonderfully brightened up, as Somerset thought, by the prospect of a visit =
to a
delightful shore. It might have been this; and it might have been that Some=
rset's
presence had a share in the change.
It was in the hall, when they were in the bust=
le
of leave-taking, that there occurred the only opportunity for the two or th=
ree
private words with Paula to which his star treated him on that last day. His
took the hasty form of, 'You will write soon?'
'Telegraphing will be quicker,' she answered in
the same low tone; and whispering 'Be true to me!' turned away.
How unreasonable he was! In addition to those
words, warm as they were, he would have preferred a little paleness of chee=
k,
or trembling of lip, instead of the bloom and the beauty which sat upon her
undisturbed maidenhood, to tell him that in some slight way she suffered at=
his
loss.
Immediately after this they went to the carria=
ges
waiting at the door. Somerset, who had in a measure taken charge of the cas=
tle,
accompanied them and saw them off, much as if they were his visitors. She
stepped in, a general adieu was spoken, and she was gone.
While the carriages rolled away, he ascended to
the top of the tower, where he saw them lessen to spots on the road, and tu=
rn
the corner out of sight. The chances of a rival seemed to grow in proportio=
n as
Paula receded from his side; but he could not have answered why. He had bid=
den her
and her relatives adieu on her own doorstep, like a privileged friend of the
family, while De Stancy had scarcely seen her since the play-night. That the
silence into which the captain appeared to have sunk was the placidity of
conscious power, was scarcely probable; yet that adventitious aids existed =
for
De Stancy he could not deny. The link formed by Charlotte between De Stancy=
and
Paula, much as he liked the ingenuous girl, was one that he could have wish=
ed
away. It constituted a bridge of access to Paula's inner life and feelings
which nothing could rival; except that one fact which, as he firmly believe=
d,
did actually rival it, giving him faith and hope; his own primary occupatio=
n of
Paula's heart. Moreover, Mrs. Goodman would be an influence favourable to
himself and his cause during the journey; though, to be sure, to set against
her there was the phlegmatic and obstinate Abner Power, in whom, apprised by
those subtle media of intelligence which lovers possess, he fancied he saw =
no
friend.
Somerset remained but a short time at the cast=
le
that day. The light of its chambers had fled, the gross grandeur of the
dictatorial towers oppressed him, and the studio was hateful. He remembered=
a
promise made long ago to Mr. Woodwell of calling upon him some afternoon; a=
nd a
visit which had not much attractiveness in it at other times recommended it=
self
now, through being the one possible way open to him of hearing Paula named =
and
her doings talked of. Hence in walking back to Markton, instead of going up=
the
High Street, he turned aside into the unfrequented footway that led to the
minister's cottage.
Mr. Woodwell was not indoors at the moment of =
his
call, and Somerset lingered at the doorway, and cast his eyes around. It wa=
s a
house which typified the drearier tenets of its occupier with great exactne=
ss. It
stood upon its spot of earth without any natural union with it: no mosses
disguised the stiff straight line where wall met earth; not a creeper softe=
ned
the aspect of the bare front. The garden walk was strewn with loose clinkers
from the neighbouring foundry, which rolled under the pedestrian's foot and
jolted his soul out of him before he reached the porchless door. But all was
clean, and clear, and dry.
Whether Mr. Woodwell was personally responsible
for this condition of things there was not time to closely consider, for
Somerset perceived the minister coming up the walk towards him. Mr. Woodwell
welcomed him heartily; and yet with the mien of a man whose mind has scarce=
ly dismissed
some scene which has preceded the one that confronts him. What that scene w=
as
soon transpired.
'I have had a busy afternoon,' said the minist=
er,
as they walked indoors; 'or rather an exciting afternoon. Your client at St=
ancy
Castle, whose uncle, as I imagine you know, has so unexpectedly returned, h=
as left
with him to-day for the south of France; and I wished to ask her before her
departure some questions as to how a charity organized by her father was to=
be
administered in her absence. But I have been very unfortunate. She could not
find time to see me at her own house, and I awaited her at the station, all=
to
no purpose, owing to the presence of her friends. Well, well, I must see if=
a
letter will find her.'
Somerset asked if anybody of the neighbourhood=
was
there to see them off.
'Yes, that was the trouble of it. Captain De
Stancy was there, and quite monopolized her. I don't know what 'tis coming =
to,
and perhaps I have no business to inquire, since she is scarcely a member of
our church now. Who could have anticipated the daughter of my old friend Jo=
hn
Power developing into the ordinary gay woman of the world as she has done? =
Who could
have expected her to associate with people who show contempt for their Make=
r's
intentions by flippantly assuming other characters than those in which He
created them?'
'You mistake her,' murmured Somerset, in a voi=
ce
which he vainly endeavoured to attune to philosophy. 'Miss Power has some v=
ery
rare and beautiful qualities in her nature, though I confess I tremble--fear
lest the De Stancy influence should be too strong.'
'Sir, it is already! Do you remember my telling
you that I thought the force of her surroundings would obscure the pure
daylight of her spirit, as a monkish window of coloured images attenuates t=
he
rays of God's sun? I do not wish to indulge in rash surmises, but her
oscillation from her family creed of Calvinistic truth towards the traditio=
ns
of the De Stancys has been so decided, though so gradual, that--well, I may=
be wrong.'
'That what?' said the young man sharply.
'I sometimes think she will take to her as hus=
band
the present representative of that impoverished line--Captain De Stancy--wh=
ich
she may easily do, if she chooses, as his behaviour to-day showed.'
'He was probably there on account of his siste=
r,'
said Somerset, trying to escape the mental picture of farewell gallantries
bestowed on Paula.
'It was hinted at in the papers the other day.=
'
'And it was flatly contradicted.'
'Yes. Well, we shall see in the Lord's good ti=
me;
I can do no more for her. And now, Mr. Somerset, pray take a cup of tea.'
The revelations of the minister depressed Some=
rset
a little, and he did not stay long. As he went to the door Woodwell said,
'There is a worthy man--the deacon of our chapel, Mr. Havill--who would lik=
e to
be friendly with you. Poor man, since the death of his wife he seems to hav=
e something
on his mind--some trouble which my words will not reach. If ever you are
passing his door, please give him a look in. He fears that calling on you m=
ight
be an intrusion.'
Somerset did not clearly promise, and went his
way. The minister's allusion to the announcement of the marriage reminded
Somerset that she had expressed a wish to know how the paragraph came to be
inserted. The wish had been carelessly spoken; but he went to the newspaper
office to make inquiries on the point.
The reply was unexpected. The reporter informed
his questioner that in returning from the theatricals, at which he was pres=
ent,
he shared a fly with a gentleman who assured him that such an alliance was
certain, so obviously did it recommend itself to all concerned, as a means =
of strengthening
both families. The gentleman's knowledge of the Powers was so precise that =
the
reporter did not hesitate to accept his assertion. He was a man who had see=
n a
great deal of the world, and his face was noticeable for the seams and scar=
s on
it.
Somerset recognized Paula's uncle in the portr=
ait.
Hostilities, then, were beginning. The paragra=
ph
had been meant as the first slap. Taking her abroad was the second.
There was no part of Paula's journey in which
Somerset did not think of her. He imagined her in the hotel at Havre, in her
brief rest at Paris; her drive past the Place de la Bastille to the Bouleva=
rt
Mazas to take the train for Lyons; her tedious progress through the dark of=
a
winter night till she crossed the isothermal line which told of the beginni=
ng of
a southern atmosphere, and onwards to the ancient blue sea.
Thus, between the hours devoted to architectur=
e,
he passed the next three days. One morning he set himself, by the help of J=
ohn,
to practise on the telegraph instrument, expecting a message. But though he
watched the machine at every opportunity, or kept some other person on the
alert in its neighbourhood, no message arrived to gratify him till after th=
e lapse
of nearly a fortnight. Then she spoke from her new habitation nine hundred
miles away, in these meagre words:--
'Are settled at the address given. Can now att=
end
to any inquiry about the building.'
The pointed implication that she could attend =
to
inquiries about nothing else, breathed of the veritable Paula so distinctly
that he could forgive its sauciness. His reply was soon despatched:--
'Will write particulars of our progress. Always
the same.'
The last three words formed the sentimental
appendage which she had assured him she could tolerate, and which he hoped =
she
might desire.
He spent the remainder of the day in making a
little sketch to show what had been done in the castle since her departure.
This he despatched with a letter of explanation ending in a paragraph of a
different tenor:--
'I have demonstrated our progress as well as I
could; but another subject has been in my mind, even whilst writing the for=
mer.
Ask yourself if you use me well in keeping me a fortnight before you so muc=
h as
say that you have arrived? The one thing that reconciled me to your departu=
re
was the thought that I should hear early from you: my idea of being able to
submit to your absence was based entirely upon that.
'But I have resolved not to be out of humour, =
and
to believe that your scheme of reserve is not unreasonable; neither do I
quarrel with your injunction to keep silence to all relatives. I do not know
anything I can say to show you more plainly my acquiescence in your wish
"not to go too far" (in short, to keep yourself dear--by dear I m=
ean
not cheap--you have been dear in the other sense a long time, as you know),
than by not urging you to go a single degree further in warmth than you
please.'
When this was posted he again turned his atten=
tion
to her walls and towers, which indeed were a dumb consolation in many ways =
for
the lack of herself. There was no nook in the castle to which he had not ac=
cess
or could not easily obtain access by applying for the keys, and this propin=
quity
of things belonging to her served to keep her image before him even more co=
nstantly
than his memories would have done.
Three days and a half after the despatch of his
subdued effusion the telegraph called to tell him the good news that
'Your letter and drawing are just received. Th=
anks
for the latter. Will reply to the former by post this afternoon.'
It was with cheerful patience that he attended=
to
his three draughtsmen in the studio, or walked about the environs of the
fortress during the fifty hours spent by her presumably tender missive on t=
he
road. A light fleece of snow fell during the second night of waiting, inver=
ting
the position of long-established lights and shades, and lowering to a dingy=
grey
the approximately white walls of other weathers; he could trace the postman=
's
footmarks as he entered over the bridge, knowing them by the dot of his
walking-stick: on entering the expected letter was waiting upon his table. =
He
looked at its direction with glad curiosity; it was the first letter he had
ever received from her.
=
'HOTEL
---, NICE,
Feb. 14.
'MY DEAR MR. SOMERSET' (the 'George,' then, to
which she had so kindly treated him in her last conversation, was not to be
continued in black and white),--
'Your letter explaining the progress of the wo=
rk,
aided by the sketch enclosed, gave me as clear an idea of the advance made
since my departure as I could have gained by being present. I feel every co=
nfidence
in you, and am quite sure the restoration is in good hands. In this opinion
both my aunt and my uncle coincide. Please act entirely on your own judgmen=
t in
everything, and as soon as you give a certificate to the builders for the f=
irst
instalment of their money it will be promptly sent by my solicitors.
'You bid me ask myself if I have used you well=
in
not sending intelligence of myself till a fortnight after I had left you. N=
ow, George,
don't be unreasonable! Let me remind you that, as a certain apostle said, t=
here
are a thousand things lawful which are not expedient. I say this, not from
pride in my own conduct, but to offer you a very fair explanation of it. Yo=
ur
resolve not to be out of humour with me suggests that you have been sorely
tempted that way, else why should such a resolve have been necessary?
'If you only knew what passes in my mind somet=
imes
you would perhaps not be so ready to blame. Shall I tell you? No. For, if i=
t is
a great emotion, it may afford you a cruel satisfaction at finding I suffer=
through
separation; and if it be a growing indifference to you, it will be inflicti=
ng
gratuitous unhappiness upon you to say so, if you care for me; as I SOMETIM=
ES
think you may do A LITTLE.'
('O, Paula!' said Somerset.)
'Please which way would you have it? But it is
better that you should guess at what I feel than that you should distinctly
know it. Notwithstanding this assertion you will, I know, adhere to your fi=
rst prepossession
in favour of prompt confessions. In spite of that, I fear that upon trial s=
uch
promptness would not produce that happiness which your fancy leads you to
expect. Your heart would weary in time, and when once that happens, good-by=
e to
the emotion you have told me of. Imagine such a case clearly, and you will
perceive the probability of what I say. At the same time I admit that a wom=
an
who is ONLY a creature of evasions and disguises is very disagreeable.
'Do not write VERY frequently, and never write=
at
all unless you have some real information about the castle works to
communicate. I will explain to you on another occasion why I make this requ=
est.
You will possibly set it down as additional evidence of my cold-heartedness=
. If
so you must. Would you also mind writing the business letter on an independ=
ent
sheet, with a proper beginning and ending? Whether you inclose another shee=
t is
of course optional.--Sincerely yours, PAULA POWER.'
Somerset had a suspicion that her order to him=
not
to neglect the business letter was to escape any invidious remarks from her
uncle. He wished she would be more explicit, so that he might know exactly =
how matters
stood with them, and whether Abner Power had ever ventured to express
disapproval of him as her lover.
But not knowing, he waited anxiously for a new
architectural event on which he might legitimately send her another line. T=
his
occurred about a week later, when the men engaged in digging foundations
discovered remains of old ones which warranted a modification of the origin=
al
plan. He accordingly sent off his professional advice on the point, request=
ing her
assent or otherwise to the amendment, winding up the inquiry with 'Yours
faithfully.' On another sheet he wrote:--'Do you suffer from any unpleasant=
ness
in the manner of others on account of me? If so, inform me, Paula. I cannot
otherwise interpret your request for the separate sheets. While on this poi=
nt I
will tell you what I have learnt relative to the authorship of that false
paragraph about your engagement. It was communicated to the paper by your
uncle. Was the wish father to the thought, or could he have been misled, as
many were, by appearances at the theatricals?
'If I am not to write to you without a
professional reason, surely you can write to me without such an excuse? When
you write tell me of yourself. There is nothing I so much wish to hear of.
Write a great deal about your daily doings, for my mind's eye keeps those s=
weet
operations more distinctly before me than my bodily sight does my own.
'You say nothing of having been to look at the
chapel-of-ease I told you of, the plans of which I made when an architect's
pupil, working in metres instead of feet and inches, to my immense perplexi=
ty,
that the drawings might be understood by the foreign workmen. Go there and =
tell
me what you think of its design. I can assure you that every curve thereof =
is
my own.
'How I wish you would invite me to run over and
see you, if only for a day or two, for my heart runs after you in a most
distracted manner. Dearest, you entirely fill my life! But I forget; we have
resolved not to go VERY FAR. But the fact is I am half afraid lest, with su=
ch reticence,
you should not remember how very much I am yours, and with what a dogged
constancy I shall always remember you. Paula, sometimes I have horrible
misgivings that something will divide us, especially if we do not make a mo=
re
distinct show of our true relationship. True do I say? I mean the relations=
hip
which I think exists between us, but which you do not affirm too
clearly.--Yours always.'
Away southward like the swallow went the tender
lines. He wondered if she would notice his hint of being ready to pay her a
flying visit, if permitted to do so. His fancy dwelt on that further side of
France, the very contours of whose shore were now lines of beauty for him. =
He
prowled in the library, and found interest in the mustiest facts relating to
that place, learning with aesthetic pleasure that the number of its populat=
ion
was fifty thousand, that the mean temperature of its atmosphere was 60 degr=
ees
Fahrenheit, and that the peculiarities of a mistral were far from agreeable=
.
He waited overlong for her reply; but it
ultimately came. After the usual business preliminary, she said:--
'As requested, I have visited the little church
you designed. It gave me great pleasure to stand before a building whose
outline and details had come from the brain of such a valued friend and
adviser.'
('Valued friend and adviser,' repeated Somerset
critically.)
'I like the style much, especially that of the
windows--Early English are they not? I am going to attend service there next
Sunday, BECAUSE YOU WERE THE ARCHITECT, AND FOR NO GODLY REASON AT ALL. Does
that content you? Fie for your despondency! Remember M. Aurelius: "Thi=
s is
the chief thing: Be not perturbed; for all things are of the nature of the
Universal." Indeed I am a little surprised at your having forebodings,
after my assurance to you before I left. I have none. My opinion is that, t=
o be
happy, it is best to think that, as we are the product of events, events wi=
ll
continue to produce that which is in harmony with us.... You are too
faint-hearted, and that's the truth of it. I advise you not to abandon your=
self
to idolatry too readily; you know what I mean. It fills me with remorse whe=
n I
think how very far below such a position my actual worth removes me.
'I should like to receive another letter from =
you
as soon as you have got over the misgiving you speak of, but don't write too
soon. I wish I could write anything to raise your spirits, but you may be so
perverse that if, in order to do this, I tell you of the races, routs, scen=
ery,
gaieties, and gambling going on in this place and neighbourhood (into which=
of
course I cannot help being a little drawn), you may declare that my words m=
ake
you worse than ever. Don't pass the line I have set down in the way you were
tempted to do in your last; and not too many Dearests--at least as yet. Thi=
s is
not a time for effusion. You have my very warm affection, and that's enough=
for
the present.'
As a love-letter this missive was tantalizing
enough, but since its form was simply a continuation of what she had practi=
sed
before she left, it produced no undue misgiving in him. Far more was he
impressed by her omitting to answer the two important questions he had put =
to
her. First, concerning her uncle's attitude towards them, and his conduct in
giving such strange information to the reporter. Second, on his, Somerset's=
, paying
her a flying visit some time during the spring. Since she had requested it,=
he
made no haste in his reply. When penned, it ran in the words subjoined, whi=
ch,
in common with every line of their correspondence, acquired from the
strangeness of subsequent circumstances an interest and a force that perhaps
they did not intrinsically possess.
'People cannot' (he wrote) 'be for ever in good spirits on this gloomy side of the Channel, even though you seem to be so on yours. However, that I can abstain from letting you know whether my spirits= are good or otherwise, I will prove in our future correspondence. I admire you = more and more, both for the warm feeling towards me which I firmly believe you h= ave, and for your ability to maintain side by side with it so much dignity and resolution with regard to foolish sentiment. Sometimes I think I could have= put up with a little more weakness if it had brought with it a little more tenderness, but I dismiss all that when I mentally survey your other qualit= ies. I have thought of fifty things to say to you of the TOO FAR sort, not one of any other; so that your prohibition is very unfortunate, for by it I am doo= med to say things that do not rise spontaneously to my lips. You say that our shut-up feelings are not to be mentioned yet. How long is the yet to last?<= o:p>
'But, to speak more solemnly, matters grow very
serious with us, Paula--at least with me: and there are times when this
restraint is really unbearable. It is possible to put up with reserve when =
the reserved
being is by one's side, for the eyes may reveal what the lips do not. But w=
hen
she is absent, what was piquancy becomes harshness, tender railleries become
cruel sarcasm, and tacit understandings misunderstandings. However that may=
be,
you shall never be able to reproach me for touchiness. I still esteem you a=
s a
friend; I admire you and love you as a woman. This I shall always do, howev=
er
unconfiding you prove.'
Without knowing it, Somerset was drawing near =
to a
crisis in this soft correspondence which would speedily put his assertions =
to
the test; but the knowledge came upon him soon enough for his peace.
Her next letter, dated March 9th, was the shor=
test
of all he had received, and beyond the portion devoted to the building-work=
s it
contained only the following sentences:--
'I am almost angry with you, George, for being
vexed because I am not more effusive. Why should the verbal I LOVE YOU be e=
ver
uttered between two beings of opposite sex who have eyes to see signs? Duri=
ng
the seven or eight months that we have known each other, you have discovere=
d my
regard for you, and what more can you desire? Would a reiterated assertion =
of
passion really do any good? Remember it is a natural instinct with us women=
to
retain the power of obliging a man to hope, fear, pray, and beseech as long=
as
we think fit, before we confess to a reciprocal affection.
'I am now going to own to a weakness about whi=
ch I
had intended to keep silent. It will not perhaps add to your respect for me=
. My
uncle, whom in many ways I like, is displeased with me for keeping up this =
correspondence
so regularly. I am quite perverse enough to venture to disregard his feelin=
gs;
but considering the relationship, and his kindness in other respects, I sho=
uld
prefer not to do so at present. Honestly speaking, I want the courage to re=
sist
him in some things. He said to me the other day that he was very much surpr=
ised
that I did not depend upon his judgment for my future happiness. Whether th=
at
meant much or little, I have resolved to communicate with you only by teleg=
rams
for the remainder of the time we are here. Please reply by the same means o=
nly.
There, now, don't flush and call me names! It is for the best, and we want =
no
nonsense, you and I. Dear George, I feel more than I say, and if I do not s=
peak
more plainly, you will understand what is behind after all I have hinted. I=
can
promise you that you will not like me less upon knowing me better. Hope eve=
r. I
would give up a good deal for you. Good-bye!'
This brought Somerset some cheerfulness and a =
good
deal of gloom. He silently reproached her, who was apparently so independen=
t,
for lacking independence in such a vital matter. Perhaps it was mere sex,
perhaps it was peculiar to a few, that her independence and courage, like C=
leopatra's,
failed her occasionally at the last moment.
One curious impression which had often haunted=
him
now returned with redoubled force. He could not see himself as the husband =
of
Paula Power in any likely future. He could not imagine her his wife. People
were apt to run into mistakes in their presentiments; but though he could
picture her as queening it over him, as avowing her love for him unreserved=
ly, even
as compromising herself for him, he could not see her in a state of domesti=
city
with him.
Telegrams being commanded, to the telegraph he
repaired, when, after two days, an immediate wish to communicate with her l=
ed
him to dismiss vague conjecture on the future situation. His first telegram
took the following form:--
'I give up the letter writing. I will part with
anything to please you but yourself. Your comfort with your relative is the
first thing to be considered: not for the world do I wish you to make divis=
ions
within doors. Yours.'
Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday passed, and on
Saturday a telegram came in reply:--
'I can fear, grieve at, and complain of nothin=
g,
having your nice promise to consider my comfort always.'
This was very pretty; but it admitted little. =
Such
short messages were in themselves poor substitutes for letters, but their s=
peed
and easy frequency were good qualities which the letters did not possess. T=
hree
days later he replied:--
'You do not once say to me "Come." W=
ould
such a strange accident as my arrival disturb you much?'
She replied rather quickly:--
'I am indisposed to answer you too clearly. Ke=
ep
your heart strong: 'tis a censorious world.'
The vagueness there shown made Somerset
peremptory, and he could not help replying somewhat more impetuously than
usual:-- 'Why do you give me so much cause for anxiety! Why treat me to so =
much
mystification! Say once, distinctly, that what I have asked is given.'
He awaited for the answer, one day, two days, a
week; but none came. It was now the end of March, and when Somerset walked =
of
an afternoon by the river and pool in the lower part of the grounds, his ear
newly greeted by the small voices of frogs and toads and other creatures wh=
o had
been torpid through the winter, he became doubtful and uneasy that she alone
should be silent in the awakening year.
He waited through a second week, and there was
still no reply. It was possible that the urgency of his request had tempted=
her
to punish him, and he continued his walks, to, fro, and around, with as clo=
se
an ear to the undertones of nature, and as attentive an eye to the charms of
his own art, as the grand passion would allow. Now came the days of battle =
between
winter and spring. On these excursions, though spring was to the forward du=
ring
the daylight, winter would reassert itself at night, and not unfrequently at
other moments. Tepid airs and nipping breezes met on the confines of sunshi=
ne
and shade; trembling raindrops that were still akin to frost crystals dashed
themselves from the bushes as he pursued his way from town to castle; the b=
irds
were like an orchestra waiting for the signal to strike up, and colour bega=
n to
enter into the country round.
But he gave only a modicum of thought to these
proceedings. He rather thought such things as, 'She can afford to be saucy,=
and
to find a source of blitheness in my love, considering the power that wealth
gives her to pick and choose almost where she will.' He was bound to own, h=
owever,
that one of the charms of her conversation was the complete absence of the =
note
of the heiress from its accents. That, other things equal, her interest wou=
ld
naturally incline to a person bearing the name of De Stancy, was evident fr=
om
her avowed predilections. His original assumption, that she was a
personification of the modern spirit, who had been dropped, like a seed from
the bill of a bird, into a chink of mediaevalism, required some qualificati=
on.
Romanticism, which will exist in every human breast as long as human nature
itself exists, had asserted itself in her. Veneration for things old, not
because of any merit in them, but because of their long continuance, had
developed in her; and her modern spirit was taking to itself wings and flyi=
ng
away. Whether his image was flying with the other was a question which move=
d him
all the more deeply now that her silence gave him dread of an affirmative
answer.
For another seven days he stoically left in
suspension all forecasts of his possibly grim fate in being the employed and
not the beloved. The week passed: he telegraphed: there was no reply: he had
sudden fears for her personal safety and resolved to break her command by
writing.
=
&nb=
sp; =
'STANCY CASTLE, April 13.
'DEAR PAULA,--Are you ill or in trouble? It is
impossible in the very unquiet state you have put me into by your silence t=
hat
I should abstain from writing. Without affectation, you sorely distress me,=
and
I think you would hardly have done it could you know what a degree of anxie=
ty you
cause. Why, Paula, do you not write or send to me? What have I done that you
should treat me like this? Do write, if it is only to reproach me. I am
compelled to pass the greater part of the day in this castle, which reminds=
me
constantly of you, and yet eternally lacks your presence. I am unfortunate
indeed that you have not been able to find half-an-hour during the last mon=
th
to tell me at least that you are alive.
'You have always been ambiguous, it is true; b=
ut I
thought I saw encouragement in your eyes; encouragement certainly was in yo=
ur
eyes, and who would not have been deluded by them and have believed them si=
ncere?
Yet what tenderness can there be in a heart that can cause me pain so wilfu=
lly!
'There may, of course, be some deliberate sche=
ming
on the part of your relations to intercept our letters; but I cannot think =
it.
I know that the housekeeper has received a letter from your aunt this very
week, in which she incidentally mentions that all are well, and in the same
place as before. How then can I excuse you?
'Then write, Paula, or at least telegraph, as =
you
proposed. Otherwise I am resolved to take your silence as a signal to treat
your fair words as wind, and to write to you no more.'
He despatched the letter, and half-an-hour
afterwards felt sure that it would mortally offend her. But he had now reac=
hed
a state of temporary indifference, and could contemplate the loss of such a
tantalizing property with reasonable calm.
In the interim of waiting for a reply he was o=
ne
day walking to Markton, when, passing Myrtle Villa, he saw Sir William De
Stancy ambling about his garden-path and examining the crocuses that palisa=
ded
its edge. Sir William saw him and asked him to come in. Somerset was in the
mood for any diversion from his own affairs, and they seated themselves by =
the drawing-room
fire.
'I am much alone now,' said Sir William, 'and =
if
the weather were not very mild, so that I can get out into the garden every
day, I should feel it a great deal.'
'You allude to your daughter's absence?'
'And my son's. Strange to say, I do not miss h=
er
so much as I miss him. She offers to return at any moment; but I do not wis=
h to
deprive her of the advantages of a little foreign travel with her friend. A=
lways,
Mr. Somerset, give your spare time to foreign countries, especially those w=
hich
contrast with your own in topography, language, and art. That's my advice to
all young people of your age. Don't waste your money on expensive amusement=
s at
home. Practise the strictest economy at home, to have a margin for going
abroad.'
Economy, which Sir William had never practised,
but to which, after exhausting all other practices, he now raised an altar,=
as
the Athenians did to the unknown God, was a topic likely to prolong itself =
on
the baronet's lips, and Somerset contrived to interrupt him by asking--
'Captain De Stancy, too, has gone? Has the
artillery, then, left the barracks?'
'No,' said Sir William. 'But my son has made u=
se
of his leave in running over to see his sister at Nice.'
The current of quiet meditation in Somerset
changed to a busy whirl at this reply. That Paula should become indifferent=
to
his existence from a sense of superiority, physical, spiritual, or social, =
was
a sufficiently ironical thing; but that she should have relinquished him
because of the presence of a rival lent commonplace dreariness to her cruel=
ty.
Sir William, noting nothing, continued in the =
tone
of clever childishness which characterized him: 'It is very singular how th=
e present
situation has been led up to by me. Policy, and policy alone, has been the =
rule
of my conduct for many years past; and when I say that I have saved my fami=
ly
by it, I believe time will show that I am within the truth. I hope you don't
let your passions outrun your policy, as so many young men are apt to do.
Better be poor and politic, than rich and headstrong: that's the opinion of=
an
old man. However, I was going to say that it was purely from policy that I
allowed a friendship to develop between my daughter and Miss Power, and now
events are proving the wisdom of my course. Straws show how the wind blows,=
and
there are little signs that my son Captain De Stancy will return to Stancy
Castle by the fortunate step of marrying its owner. I say nothing to either=
of them,
and they say nothing to me; but my wisdom lies in doing nothing to hinder s=
uch
a consummation, despite inherited prejudices.'
Somerset had quite time enough to rein himself=
in
during the old gentleman's locution, and the voice in which he answered was=
so
cold and reckless that it did not seem his own: 'But how will they live hap=
pily
together when she is a Dissenter, and a Radical, and a New-light, and a
Neo-Greek, and a person of red blood; while Captain De Stancy is the revers=
e of
them all!'
'I anticipate no difficulty on that score,' sa=
id
the baronet. 'My son's star lies in that direction, and, like the Magi, he =
is
following it without trifling with his opportunity. You have skill in
architecture, therefore you follow it. My son has skill in gallantry, and n=
ow
he is about to exercise it profitably.'
'May nobody wish him more harm in that exercise
than I do!' said Somerset fervently.
A stagnant moodiness of several hours which
followed his visit to Myrtle Villa resulted in a resolve to journey over to
Paula the very next day. He now felt perfectly convinced that the inviting =
of
Captain De Stancy to visit them at Nice was a second stage in the scheme of
Paula's uncle, the premature announcement of her marriage having been the
first. The roundness and neatness of the whole plan could not fail to recom=
mend
it to the mind which delighted in putting involved things straight, and suc=
h a
mind Abner Power's seemed to be. In fact, the felicity, in a politic sense,=
of
pairing the captain with the heiress furnished no little excuse for manoeuv=
ring
to bring it about, so long as that manoeuvring fell short of unfairness, wh=
ich
Mr. Power's could scarcely be said to do.
The next day was spent in furnishing the build=
ers
with such instructions as they might require for a coming week or ten days,=
and
in dropping a short note to Paula; ending as follows:--
'I am coming to see you. Possibly you will ref=
use
me an interview. Never mind, I am coming--Yours, G. SOMERSET.'
The morning after that he was up and away. Bet=
ween
him and Paula stretched nine hundred miles by the line of journey that he f=
ound
it necessary to adopt, namely, the way of London, in order to inform his fa=
ther
of his movements and to make one or two business calls. The afternoon was
passed in attending to these matters, the night in speeding onward, and by =
the
time that nine o'clock sounded next morning through the sunless and leaden =
air
of the English Channel coasts, he had reduced the number of miles on his li=
st
by two hundred, and cut off the sea from the impediments between him and Pa=
ula.
On awakening from a fitful sleep in the grey d=
awn
of the morning following he looked out upon Lyons, quiet enough now, the
citizens unaroused to the daily round of bread-winning, and enveloped in a =
haze
of fog.
Six hundred and fifty miles of his journey had
been got over; there still intervened two hundred and fifty between him and=
the
end of suspense. When he thought of that he was disinclined to pause; and p=
ressed
on by the same train, which set him down at Marseilles at mid-day.
Here he considered. By going on to Nice that
afternoon he would arrive at too late an hour to call upon her the same
evening: it would therefore be advisable to sleep in Marseilles and proceed=
the
next morning to his journey's end, so as to meet her in a brighter conditio=
n than
he could boast of to-day. This he accordingly did, and leaving Marseilles t=
he
next morning about eight, found himself at Nice early in the afternoon.
Now that he was actually at the centre of his
gravitation he seemed even further away from a feasible meeting with her th=
an
in England. While afar off, his presence at Nice had appeared to be the one
thing needful for the solution of his trouble, but the very house fronts se=
emed
now to ask him what right he had there. Unluckily, in writing from England,=
he had
not allowed her time to reply before his departure, so that he did not know
what difficulties might lie in the way of her seeing him privately. Before
deciding what to do, he walked down the Avenue de la Gare to the promenade
between the shore and the Jardin Public, and sat down to think.
The hotel which she had given him as her addre=
ss
looked right out upon him and the sea beyond, and he rested there with the
pleasing hope that her eyes might glance from a window and discover his for=
m.
Everything in the scene was sunny and gay. Behind him in the gardens a band=
was
playing; before him was the sea, the Great sea, the historical and original
Mediterranean; the sea of innumerable characters in history and legend that
arranged themselves before him in a long frieze of memories so diverse as to
include both AEneas and St. Paul.
Northern eyes are not prepared on a sudden for=
the
impact of such images of warmth and colour as meet them southward, or for t=
he
vigorous light that falls from the sky of this favoured shore. In any other=
circumstances
the transparency and serenity of the air, the perfume of the sea, the radia=
nt
houses, the palms and flowers, would have acted upon Somerset as an
enchantment, and wrapped him in a reverie; but at present he only saw and f=
elt
these things as through a thick glass which kept out half their atmosphere.=
At last he made up his mind. He would take up =
his
quarters at her hotel, and catch echoes of her and her people, to learn som=
ehow
if their attitude towards him as a lover were actually hostile, before form=
ally
encountering them. Under this crystalline light, full of gaieties, sentimen=
t,
languor, seductiveness, and ready-made romance, the memory of a solitary
unimportant man in the lugubrious North might have faded from her mind. He =
was
only her hired designer. He was an artist; but he had been engaged by her, =
and
was not a volunteer; and she did not as yet know that he meant to accept no
return for his labours but the pleasure of presenting them to her as a
love-offering.
So off he went at once towards the imposing
building whither his letters had preceded him. Owing to a press of visitors
there was a moment's delay before he could be attended to at the bureau, an=
d he
turned to the large staircase that confronted him, momentarily hoping that =
her
figure might descend. Her skirts must indeed have brushed the carpeting of =
those
steps scores of times. He engaged his room, ordered his luggage to be sent =
for,
and finally inquired for the party he sought.
'They left Nice yesterday, monsieur,' replied
madame.
Was she quite sure, Somerset asked her?
Yes, she was quite sure. Two of the hotel
carriages had driven them to the station.
Did she know where they had gone to?
This and other inquiries resulted in the
information that they had gone to the hotel at Monte Carlo; that how long t=
hey
were going to stay there, and whether they were coming back again, was not
known. His final question whether Miss Power had received a letter from Eng=
land
which must have arrived the day previous was answered in the affirmative.
Somerset's first and sudden resolve was to fol=
low
on after them to the hotel named; but he finally decided to make his immedi=
ate
visit to Monte Carlo only a cautious reconnoitre, returning to Nice to slee=
p.
Accordingly, after an early dinner, he again s=
et
forth through the broad Avenue de la Gare, and an hour on the coast railway
brought him to the beautiful and sinister little spot to which the Power an=
d De
Stancy party had strayed in common with the rest of the frivolous throng.
He assumed that their visit thither would be
chiefly one of curiosity, and therefore not prolonged. This proved to be the
case in even greater measure than he had anticipated. On inquiry at the hot=
el
he learnt that they had stayed only one night, leaving a short time before =
his
arrival, though it was believed that some of the party were still in the to=
wn.
In a state of indecision Somerset strolled into
the gardens of the Casino, and looked out upon the sea. There it still lay,
calm yet lively; of an unmixed blue, yet variegated; hushed, but articulate
even to melodiousness. Everything about and around this coast appeared inde=
ed jaunty,
tuneful, and at ease, reciprocating with heartiness the rays of the splendid
sun; everything, except himself. The palms and flowers on the terraces befo=
re
him were undisturbed by a single cold breath. The marble work of parapets a=
nd
steps was unsplintered by frosts. The whole was like a conservatory with the
sky for its dome.
For want of other occupation he went round tow=
ards
the public entrance to the Casino, and ascended the great staircase into the
pillared hall. It was possible, after all, that upon leaving the hotel and
sending on their luggage they had taken another turn through the rooms, to =
follow
by a later train. With more than curiosity he scanned first the reading-roo=
ms,
only however to see not a face that he knew. He then crossed the vestibule =
to
the gaming-tables.
Here he was confronted by a heated phantasmago=
ria
of splendour and a high pressure of suspense that seemed to make the air
quiver. A low whisper of conversation prevailed, which might probably have =
been
not wrongly defined as the lowest note of social harmony.
The people gathered at this negative pole of
industry had come from all civilized countries; their tongues were familiar
with many forms of utterance, that of each racial group or type being
unintelligible in its subtler variations, if not entirely, to the rest. But=
the
language of meum and tuum they collectively comprehended without translatio=
n.
In a half-charmed spell-bound state they had congregated in knots, standing=
, or
sitting in hollow circles round the notorious oval tables marked with figur=
es
and lines. The eyes of all these sets of people were watching the Roulette.
Somerset went from table to table, looking among the loungers rather than a=
mong
the regular players, for faces, or at least for one face, which did not meet
his gaze.
The suggestive charm which the centuries-old
impersonality Gaming, rather than games and gamesters, had for Somerset, led
him to loiter on even when his hope of meeting any of the Power and De Stan=
cy
party had vanished. As a non-participant in its profits and losses, fevers =
and frenzies,
it had that stage effect upon his imagination which is usually exercised ov=
er
those who behold Chance presented to them with spectacular piquancy without
advancing far enough in its acquaintance to suffer from its ghastly reprisa=
ls
and impish tricks. He beheld a hundred diametrically opposed wishes issuing
from the murky intelligences around a table, and spreading down across each
other upon the figured diagram in their midst, each to its own number. It w=
as a
network of hopes; which at the announcement, 'Sept, Rouge, Impair, et Manqu=
e,'
disappeared like magic gossamer, to be replaced in a moment by new. That all
the people there, including himself, could be interested in what to the eye=
of perfect
reason was a somewhat monotonous thing--the property of numbers to recur at
certain longer or shorter intervals in a machine containing them--in other
words, the blind groping after fractions of a result the whole of which was
well known--was one testimony among many of the powerlessness of logic when
confronted with imagination.
At this juncture our lounger discerned at one =
of
the tables about the last person in the world he could have wished to encou=
nter
there. It was Dare, whom he had supposed to be a thousand miles off, hanging
about the purlieus of Markton.
Dare was seated beside a table in an attitude =
of
application which seemed to imply that he had come early and engaged in this
pursuit in a systematic manner. Somerset had never witnessed Dare and De St=
ancy
together, neither had he heard of any engagement of Dare by the travelling
party as artist, courier, or otherwise; and yet it crossed his mind that Da=
re
might have had something to do with them, or at least have seen them. This
possibility was enough to overmaster Somerset's reluctance to speak to the
young man, and he did so as soon as an opportunity occurred.
Dare's face was as rigid and dry as if it had =
been
encrusted with plaster, and he was like one turned into a computing machine
which no longer had the power of feeling. He recognized Somerset as
indifferently as if he had met him in the ward of Stancy Castle, and replyi=
ng
to his remarks by a word or two, concentrated on the game anew.
'Are you here alone?' said Somerset presently.=
'Quite alone.' There was a silence, till Dare
added, 'But I have seen some friends of yours.' He again became absorbed in=
the
events of the table. Somerset retreated a few steps, and pondered the quest=
ion
whether Dare could know where they had gone. He disliked to be beholden to =
Dare
for information, but he would give a great deal to know. While pausing he
watched Dare's play. He staked only five-franc pieces, but it was done with=
an
assiduity worthy of larger coin. At every half-minute or so he placed his m=
oney
on a certain spot, and as regularly had the mortification of seeing it swept
away by the croupier's rake. After a while he varied his procedure. He risk=
ed
his money, which from the look of his face seemed rather to have dwindled t=
han
increased, less recklessly against long odds than before. Leaving off backi=
ng
numbers en plein, he laid his venture a cheval; then tried it upon the doze=
ns;
then upon two numbers; then upon a square; and, apparently getting nearer a=
nd nearer
defeat, at last upon the simple chances of even or odd, over or under, red =
or
black. Yet with a few fluctuations in his favour fortune bore steadily agai=
nst
him, till he could breast her blows no longer. He rose from the table and c=
ame
towards Somerset, and they both moved on together into the entrance-hall.
Dare was at that moment the victim of an
overpowering mania for more money. His presence in the South of Europe had =
its
origin, as may be guessed, in Captain De Stancy's journey in the same
direction, whom he had followed, and troubled with persistent request for m=
ore
funds, carefully keeping out of sight of Paula and the rest. His dream of i=
nvolving
Paula in the De Stancy pedigree knew no abatement. But Somerset had lighted
upon him at an instant when that idea, though not displaced, was overwhelme=
d by
a rage for play. In hope of being able to continue it by Somerset's aid he =
was
prepared to do almost anything to please the architect.
'You asked me,' said Dare, stroking his impass=
ive
brow, 'if I had seen anything of the Powers. I have seen them; and if I can=
be
of any use to you in giving information about them I shall only be too glad=
.'
'What information can you give?'
'I can tell you where they are gone to.'
'Where?'
'To the Grand Hotel, Genoa. They went on there
this afternoon.'
'Whom do you refer to by they?'
'Mrs. Goodman, Mr. Power, Miss Power, Miss De
Stancy, and the worthy captain. He leaves them tomorrow: he comes back here=
for
a day on his way to England.'
Somerset was silent. Dare continued: 'Now I ha=
ve
done you a favour, will you do me one in return?'
Somerset looked towards the gaming-rooms, and =
said
dubiously, 'Well?'
'Lend me two hundred francs.'
'Yes,' said Somerset; 'but on one condition: t=
hat
I don't give them to you till you are inside the hotel you are staying at.'=
'That can't be; it's at Nice.'
'Well I am going back to Nice, and I'll lend y=
ou
the money the instant we get there.'
'But I want it here, now, instantly!' cried Da=
re;
and for the first time there was a wiry unreasonableness in his voice that
fortified his companion more firmly than ever in his determination to lend =
the
young man no money whilst he remained inside that building.
'You want it to throw it away. I don't approve=
of
it; so come with me.'
'But,' said Dare, 'I arrived here with a hundr=
ed
napoleons and more, expressly to work out my theory of chances and recurren=
ces,
which is sound; I have studied it hundreds of times by the help of this.' H=
e partially
drew from his pocket the little volume that we have before seen in his hand=
s.
'If I only persevere in my system, the certainty that I must win is almost
mathematical. I have staked and lost two hundred and thirty-three times.
Allowing out of that one chance in every thirty-six, which is the average of
zero being marked, and two hundred and four times for the backers of the ot=
her
numbers, I have the mathematical expectation of six times at least, which w=
ould
nearly recoup me. And shall I, then, sacrifice that vast foundation of wast=
e chances
that I have laid down, and paid for, merely for want of a little ready mone=
y?'
'You might persevere for a twelvemonth, and st=
ill
not get the better of your reverses. Time tells in favour of the bank. Just
imagine for the sake of argument that all the people who have ever placed a
stake upon a certain number to be one person playing continuously. Has that
imaginary person won? The existence of the bank is a sufficient answer.'
'But a particular player has the option of lea=
ving
off at any point favourable to himself, which the bank has not; and there's=
my opportunity.'
'Which from your mood you will be sure not to =
take
advantage of.'
'I shall go on playing,' said Dare doggedly.
'Not with my money.'
'Very well; we won't part as enemies,' replied
Dare, with the flawless politeness of a man whose speech has no longer any
kinship with his feelings. 'Shall we share a bottle of wine? You will not?
Well, I hope your luck with your lady will be more magnificent than mine has
been here; but--mind Captain De Stancy! he's a fearful wildfowl for you.'
'He's a harmless inoffensive soldier, as far a=
s I
know. If he is not--let him be what he may for me.'
'And do his worst to cut you out, I suppose?'<= o:p>
'Ay--if you will.' Somerset, much against his
judgment, was being stimulated by these pricks into words of irritation.
'Captain De Stancy might, I think, be better employed than in dangling at t=
he
heels of a lady who can well dispense with his company. And you might be be=
tter
employed than in wasting your wages here.'
'Wages--a fit word for my money. May I ask you=
at
what stage in the appearance of a man whose way of existence is unknown, his
money ceases to be called wages and begins to be called means?'
Somerset turned and left him without replying,
Dare following his receding figure with a look of ripe resentment, not less
likely to vent itself in mischief from the want of moral ballast in him who
emitted it. He then fixed a nettled and unsatisfied gaze upon the gaming-ro=
oms,
and in another minute or two left the Casino also.
Dare and Somerset met no more that day. The la=
tter
returned to Nice by the evening train and went straight to the hotel. He now
thanked his fortune that he had not precipitately given up his room there, =
for
a telegram from Paula awaited him. His hand almost trembled as he opened it=
, to
read the following few short words, dated from the Grand Hotel, Genoa:--
'Letter received. Am glad to hear of your jour=
ney.
We are not returning to Nice, but stay here a week. I direct this at a
venture.'
This tantalizing message--the first breaking of
her recent silence--was saucy, almost cruel, in its dry frigidity. It led h=
im
to give up his idea of following at once to Genoa. That was what she obviou=
sly
expected him to do, and it was possible that his non-arrival might draw a
letter or message from her of a sweeter composition than this. That would a=
t least
be the effect of his tardiness if she cared in the least for him; if she did
not he could bear the worst. The argument was good enough as far as it went,
but, like many more, failed from the narrowness of its premises, the contin=
gent
intervention of Dare being entirely undreamt of. It was altogether a fatal
miscalculation, which cost him dear.
Passing by the telegraph-office in the Rue
Pont-Neuf at an early hour the next morning he saw Dare coming out from the
door. It was Somerset's momentary impulse to thank Dare for the information
given as to Paula's whereabouts, information which had now proved true. But
Dare did not seem to appreciate his friendliness, and after a few words of
studied civility the young man moved on.
And well he might. Five minutes before that ti=
me
he had thrown open a gulf of treachery between himself and the architect wh=
ich
nothing in life could ever close. Before leaving the telegraph-office Dare =
had despatched
the following message to Paula direct, as a set-off against what he called
Somerset's ingratitude for valuable information, though it was really the f=
ruit
of many passions, motives, and desires:--
'G. Somerset, Nice, to Miss Power, Grand Hotel,
Genoa.
'Have lost all at Monte Carlo. Have learnt that
Captain D. S. returns here to-morrow. Please send me one hundred pounds by =
him,
and save me from disgrace. Will await him at eleven o'clock and four, on th=
e Pont-Neuf.'
Five hours after the despatch of that telegram
Captain De Stancy was rattling along the coast railway of the Riviera from
Genoa to Nice. He was returning to England by way of Marseilles; but before
turning northwards he had engaged to perform on Miss Power's account a pecu=
liar
and somewhat disagreeable duty. This was to place in Somerset's hands a hun=
dred
and twenty-five napoleons which had been demanded from her by a message in
Somerset's name. The money was in his pocket--all in gold, in a canvas bag,
tied up by Paula's own hands, which he had observed to tremble as she tied =
it.
As he leaned in the corner of the carriage he =
was
thinking over the events of the morning which had culminated in that liberal
response. At ten o'clock, before he had gone out from the hotel where he had
taken up his quarters, which was not the same as the one patronized by Paul=
a and
her friends, he had been summoned to her presence in a manner so unexpected=
as
to imply that something serious was in question. On entering her room he had
been struck by the absence of that saucy independence usually apparent in h=
er
bearing towards him, notwithstanding the persistency with which he had hove=
red
near her for the previous month, and gradually, by the position of his sist=
er,
and the favour of Paula's uncle in intercepting one of Somerset's letters a=
nd
several of his telegrams, established himself as an intimate member of the
travelling party. His entry, however, this time as always, had had the effe=
ct
of a tonic, and it was quite with her customary self-possession that she had
told him of the object of her message.
'You think of returning to Nice this afternoon=
?'
she inquired.
De Stancy informed her that such was his
intention, and asked if he could do anything for her there.
Then, he remembered, she had hesitated. 'I have
received a telegram,' she said at length; and so she allowed to escape her =
bit
by bit the information that her architect, whose name she seemed reluctant =
to utter,
had travelled from England to Nice that week, partly to consult her, partly=
for
a holiday trip; that he had gone on to Monte Carlo, had there lost his money
and got into difficulties, and had appealed to her to help him out of them =
by
the immediate advance of some ready cash. It was a sad case, an unexpected
case, she murmured, with her eyes fixed on the window. Indeed she could not
comprehend it.
To De Stancy there appeared nothing so very
extraordinary in Somerset's apparent fiasco, except in so far as that he sh=
ould
have applied to Paula for relief from his distresses instead of elsewhere. =
It
was a self-humiliation which a lover would have avoided at all costs, he th=
ought.
Yet after a momentary reflection on his theory of Somerset's character, it
seemed sufficiently natural that he should lean persistently on Paula, if o=
nly
with a view of keeping himself linked to her memory, without thinking too
profoundly of his own dignity. That the esteem in which she had held Somers=
et
up to that hour suffered a tremendous blow by his apparent scrape was clear=
ly
visible in her, reticent as she was; and De Stancy, while pitying Somerset,
thanked him in his mind for having gratuitously given a rival an advantage
which that rival's attentions had never been able to gain of themselves.
After a little further conversation she had sa=
id:
'Since you are to be my messenger, I must tell you that I have decided to s=
end
the hundred pounds asked for, and you will please to deliver them into no h=
ands
but his own.' A curious little blush crept over her sobered face--perhaps i=
t was
a blush of shame at the conduct of the young man in whom she had of late be=
en
suspiciously interested--as she added, 'He will be on the Pont-Neuf at four=
this
afternoon and again at eleven tomorrow. Can you meet him there?'
'Certainly,' De Stancy replied.
She then asked him, rather anxiously, how he c=
ould
account for Mr. Somerset knowing that he, Captain De Stancy, was about to
return to Nice?
De Stancy informed her that he left word at the
hotel of his intention to return, which was quite true; moreover, there did=
not
lurk in his mind at the moment of speaking the faintest suspicion that Some=
rset
had seen Dare.
She then tied the bag and handed it to him, le=
aving
him with a serene and impenetrable bearing, which he hoped for his own sake
meant an acquired indifference to Somerset and his fortunes. Her sending th=
e architect
a sum of money which she could easily spare might be set down to natural
generosity towards a man with whom she was artistically co-operating for the
improvement of her home.
She came back to him again for a moment. 'Could
you possibly get there before four this afternoon?' she asked, and he infor=
med
her that he could just do so by leaving almost at once, which he was very
willing to do, though by so forestalling his time he would lose the project=
ed morning
with her and the rest at the Palazzo Doria.
'I may tell you that I shall not go to the Pal=
azzo
Doria either, if it is any consolation to you to know it,' was her reply. 'I
shall sit indoors and think of you on your journey.'
The answer admitted of two translations, and
conjectures thereon filled the gallant soldier's mind during the greater pa=
rt
of the journey. He arrived at the hotel they had all stayed at in succession
about six hours after Somerset had left it for a little excursion to San Re=
mo
and its neighbourhood, as a means of passing a few days till Paula should w=
rite
again to inquire why he had not come on. De Stancy saw no one he knew, and =
in
obedience to Paula's commands he promptly set off on foot for the Pont-Neuf=
.
Though opposed to the architect as a lover, De
Stancy felt for him as a poor devil in need of money, having had experience=
s of
that sort himself, and he was really anxious that the needful supply entrus=
ted to
him should reach Somerset's hands. He was on the bridge five minutes before=
the
hour, and when the clock struck a hand was laid on his shoulder: turning he
beheld Dare.
Knowing that the youth was loitering somewhere
along the coast, for they had frequently met together on De Stancy's previo=
us
visit, the latter merely said, 'Don't bother me for the present, Willy, I h=
ave
an engagement. You can see me at the hotel this evening.'
'When you have given me the hundred pounds I w=
ill
fly like a rocket, captain,' said the young gentleman. 'I keep the appointm=
ent
instead of the other man.'
De Stancy looked hard at him. 'How--do you know
about this?' he asked breathlessly.
'I have seen him.'
De Stancy took the young man by the two should=
ers
and gazed into his eyes. The scrutiny seemed not altogether to remove the
suspicion which had suddenly started up in his mind. 'My soul,' he said,
dropping his arms, 'can this be true?'
'What?'
'You know.'
Dare shrugged his shoulders; 'Are you going to
hand over the money or no?' he said.
'I am going to make inquiries,' said De Stancy,
walking away with a vehement tread.
'Captain, you are without natural affection,' =
said
Dare, walking by his side, in a tone which showed his fear that he had
over-estimated that emotion. 'See what I have done for you. You have been my
constant care and anxiety for I can't tell how long. I have stayed awake at
night thinking how I might best give you a good start in the world by arran=
ging
this judicious marriage, when you have been sleeping as sound as a top with=
no
cares upon your mind at all, and now I have got into a scrape--as the most
thoughtful of us may sometimes--you go to make inquiries.'
'I have promised the lady to whom this money
belongs--whose generosity has been shamefully abused in some way--that I wi=
ll
deliver it into no hands but those of one man, and he has not yet appeared.=
I
therefore go to find him.'
Dare laid his hand upon De Stancy's arm. 'Capt=
ain,
we are both warm, and punctilious on points of honour; this will come to a
split between us if we don't mind. So, not to bring matters to a crisis, le=
nd
me ten pounds here to enable me to get home, and I'll disappear.'
In a state bordering on distraction, eager to =
get
the young man out of his sight before worse revelations should rise up betw=
een
them, De Stancy without pausing in his walk gave him the sum demanded. He s=
oon reached
the post-office, where he inquired if a Mr. Somerset had left any directions
for forwarding letters.
It was just what Somerset had done. De Stancy =
was
told that Mr. Somerset had commanded that any letters should be sent on to =
him
at the Hotel Victoria, San Remo.
It was now evident that the scheme of getting
money from Paula was either of Dare's invention, or that Somerset, ashamed =
of
his first impulse, had abandoned it as speedily as it had been formed. De
Stancy turned and went out. Dare, in keeping with his promise, had vanished=
. Captain
De Stancy resolved to do nothing in the case till further events should
enlighten him, beyond sending a line to Miss Power to inform her that Somer=
set
had not appeared, and that he therefore retained the money for further
instructions.
Miss Power was reclining on a red velvet couch=
in
the bedroom of an old-fashioned red hotel at Strassburg, and her friend Mis=
s De
Stancy was sitting by a window of the same apartment. They were both rather
wearied by a long journey of the previous day. The hotel overlooked the lar=
ge open
Kleber Platz, erect in the midst of which the bronze statue of General Kleb=
er
received the rays of a warm sun that was powerless to brighten him. The who=
le
square, with its people and vehicles going to and fro as if they had plenty=
of
time, was visible to Charlotte in her chair; but Paula from her horizontal
position could see nothing below the level of the many dormered house-tops =
on
the opposite side of the Platz. After watching this upper storey of the city
for some time in silence, she asked Charlotte to hand her a binocular lying=
on
the table, through which instrument she quietly regarded the distant roofs.=
'What strange and philosophical creatures stor=
ks
are,' she said. 'They give a taciturn, ghostly character to the whole town.=
'
The birds were crossing and recrossing the fie=
ld
of the glass in their flight hither and thither between the Strassburg
chimneys, their sad grey forms sharply outlined against the sky, and their
skinny legs showing beneath like the limbs of dead martyrs in Crivelli's
emaciated imaginings. The indifference of these birds to all that was going=
on beneath
them impressed her: to harmonize with their solemn and silent movements the
houses beneath should have been deserted, and grass growing in the streets.=
Behind the long roofs thus visible to Paula ov=
er
the window-sill, with their tiers of dormer-windows, rose the cathedral spi=
re
in airy openwork, forming the highest object in the scene; it suggested som=
ething
which for a long time she appeared unwilling to utter; but natural instinct=
had
its way.
'A place like this,' she said, 'where he can s=
tudy
Gothic architecture, would, I should have thought, be a spot more congenial=
to
him than Monaco.'
The person referred to was the misrepresented
Somerset, whom the two had been gingerly discussing from time to time, allo=
wing
any casual subject, such as that of the storks, to interrupt the personal o=
ne
at every two or three sentences.
'It would be more like him to be here,' replied
Miss De Stancy, trusting her tongue with only the barest generalities on th=
is
matter.
Somerset was again dismissed for the stork top=
ic,
but Paula could not let him alone; and she presently resumed, as if an
irresistible fascination compelled what judgment had forbidden: 'The
strongest-minded persons are sometimes caught unawares at that place, if th=
ey
once think they will retrieve their first losses; and I am not aware that h=
e is
particularly strong-minded.'
For a moment Charlotte looked at her with a mi=
xed
expression, in which there was deprecation that a woman with any feeling sh=
ould
criticize Somerset so frigidly, and relief that it was Paula who did so. Fo=
r, notwithstanding
her assumption that Somerset could never be anything more to her than he was
already, Charlotte's heart would occasionally step down and trouble her vie=
ws
so expressed.
Whether looking through a glass at distant obj=
ects
enabled Paula to bottle up her affection for the absent one, or whether her
friend Charlotte had so little personality in Paula's regard that she could=
commune
with her as with a lay figure, it was certain that she evinced remarkable e=
ase
in speaking of Somerset, resuming her words about him in the tone of one to
whom he was at most an ordinary professional adviser. 'It would be very awk=
ward
for the works at the castle if he has got into a scrape. I suppose the buil=
ders
were well posted with instructions before he left: but he ought certainly to
return soon. Why did he leave England at all just now?'
'Perhaps it was to see you.'
'He should have waited; it would not have been=
so
dreadfully long to May or June. Charlotte, how can a man who does such a
hare-brained thing as this be deemed trustworthy in an important work like =
that
of rebuilding Stancy Castle?'
There was such stress in the inquiry that,
whatever factitiousness had gone before, Charlotte perceived Paula to be at
last speaking her mind; and it seemed as if Somerset must have considerably
lost ground in her opinion, or she would not have criticized him thus.
'My brother will tell us full particulars when=
he
comes: perhaps it is not at all as we suppose,' said Charlotte. She strained
her eyes across the Platz and added, 'He ought to have been here before this
time.'
While they waited and talked, Paula still
observing the storks, the hotel omnibus came round the corner from the stat=
ion.
'I believe he has arrived,' resumed Miss De Stancy; 'I see something that l=
ooks
like his portmanteau on the top of the omnibus.... Yes; it is his baggage. =
I'll
run down to him.'
De Stancy had obtained six weeks' additional l=
eave
on account of his health, which had somewhat suffered in India. The first u=
se
he made of his extra time was in hastening back to meet the travelling ladi=
es
here at Strassburg. Mr. Power and Mrs. Goodman were also at the hotel, and =
when
Charlotte got downstairs, the former was welcoming De Stancy at the door.
Paula had not seen him since he set out from G=
enoa
for Nice, commissioned by her to deliver the hundred pounds to Somerset. His
note, stating that he had failed to meet Somerset, contained no details, and
she guessed that he would soon appear before her now to answer any question
about that peculiar errand.
Her anticipations were justified by the event;=
she
had no sooner gone into the next sitting-room than Charlotte De Stancy appe=
ared
and asked if her brother might come up. The closest observer would have bee=
n in
doubt whether Paula's ready reply in the affirmative was prompted by person=
al
consideration for De Stancy, or by a hope to hear more of his mission to Ni=
ce.
As soon as she had welcomed him she reverted at once to the subject.
'Yes, as I told you, he was not at the place of
meeting,' De Stancy replied. And taking from his pocket the bag of ready mo=
ney
he placed it intact upon the table.
De Stancy did this with a hand that shook some=
what
more than a long railway journey was adequate to account for; and in truth =
it
was the vision of Dare's position which agitated the unhappy captain: for h=
ad that
young man, as De Stancy feared, been tampering with Somerset's name, his fa=
te
now trembled in the balance; Paula would unquestionably and naturally invoke
the aid of the law against him if she discovered such an imposition.
'Were you punctual to the time mentioned?' she
asked curiously.
De Stancy replied in the affirmative.
'Did you wait long?' she continued.
'Not very long,' he answered, his instinct to
screen the possibly guilty one confining him to guarded statements, while s=
till
adhering to the literal truth.
'Why was that?'
'Somebody came and told me that he would not
appear.'
'Who?'
'A young man who has been acting as his clerk.=
His
name is Dare. He informed me that Mr. Somerset could not keep the appointme=
nt.'
'Why?'
'He had gone on to San Remo.'
'Has he been travelling with Mr. Somerset?'
'He had been with him. They know each other ve=
ry
well. But as you commissioned me to deliver the money into no hands but Mr.
Somerset's, I adhered strictly to your instructions.'
'But perhaps my instructions were not wise. Sh=
ould
it in your opinion have been sent by this young man? Was he commissioned to=
ask
you for it?'
De Stancy murmured that Dare was not commissio=
ned
to ask for it; that upon the whole he deemed her instructions wise; and was
still of opinion that the best thing had been done.
Although De Stancy was distracted between his
desire to preserve Dare from the consequences of folly, and a gentlemanly w=
ish
to keep as close to the truth as was compatible with that condition, his
answers had not appeared to Paula to be particularly evasive, the conjunctu=
re
being one in which a handsome heiress's shrewdness was prone to overleap it=
self
by setting down embarrassment on the part of the man she questioned to a me=
re
lover's difficulty in steering between honour and rivalry.
She put but one other question. 'Did it appear=
as
if he, Mr. Somerset, after telegraphing, had--had--regretted doing so, and
evaded the result by not keeping the appointment?'
'That's just how it appears.' The words, which
saved Dare from ignominy, cost De Stancy a good deal. He was sorry for
Somerset, sorry for himself, and very sorry for Paula. But Dare was to De
Stancy what Somerset could never be: and 'for his kin that is near unto him
shall a man be defiled.'
After that interview Charlotte saw with warring
impulses that Somerset slowly diminished in Paula's estimate; slowly as the
moon wanes, but as certainly. Charlotte's own love was of a clinging,
uncritical sort, and though the shadowy intelligence of Somerset's doings
weighed down her soul with regret, it seemed to make not the least differen=
ce
in her affection for him.
In the afternoon the whole party, including De
Stancy, drove about the streets. Here they looked at the house in which Goe=
the
had lived, and afterwards entered the cathedral. Observing in the south
transept a crowd of people waiting patiently, they were reminded that they =
unwittingly
stood in the presence of the popular clock-work of Schwilgue.
Mr. Power and Mrs. Goodman decided that they w=
ould
wait with the rest of the idlers and see the puppets perform at the strikin=
g.
Charlotte also waited with them; but as it wanted eight minutes to the hour,
and as Paula had seen the show before, she moved on into the nave.
Presently she found that De Stancy had followe=
d.
He did not come close till she, seeing him stand silent, said, 'If it were =
not
for this cathedral, I should not like the city at all; and I have even seen=
cathedrals
I like better. Luckily we are going on to Baden to-morrow.'
'Your uncle has just told me. He has asked me =
to
keep you company.'
'Are you intending to?' said Paula, probing the
base-moulding of a pier with her parasol.
'I have nothing better to do, nor indeed half =
so
good,' said De Stancy. 'I am abroad for my health, you know, and what's like
the Rhine and its neighbourhood in early summer, before the crowd comes? It=
is
delightful to wander about there, or anywhere, like a child, influenced by =
no
fixed motive more than that of keeping near some friend, or friends, includ=
ing the
one we most admire in the world.'
'That sounds perilously like love-making.'
''Tis love indeed.'
'Well, love is natural to men, I suppose,'
rejoined the young lady. 'But you must love within bounds; or you will be
enervated, and cease to be useful as a heavy arm of the service.'
'My dear Miss Power, your didactic and respect=
able
rules won't do for me. If you expect straws to stop currents, you are sadly
mistaken! But no--let matters be: I am a happy contented mortal at present,=
say
what you will.... You don't ask why? Perhaps you know. It is because all I =
care
for in the world is near me, and that I shall never be more than a hundred
yards from her as long as the present arrangement continues.'
'We are in a cathedral, remember, Captain De
Stancy, and should not keep up a secular conversation.'
'If I had never said worse in a cathedral than
what I have said here, I should be content to meet my eternal judge without
absolution. Your uncle asked me this morning how I liked you.'
'Well, there was no harm in that.'
'How I like you! Harm, no; but you should have
seen how silly I looked. Fancy the inadequacy of the expression when my who=
le
sense is absorbed by you.'
'Men allow themselves to be made ridiculous by
their own feelings in an inconceivable way.'
'True, I am a fool; but forgive me,' he rejoin=
ed,
observing her gaze, which wandered critically from roof to clerestory, and =
then
to the pillars, without once lighting on him. 'Don't mind saying Yes.--You =
look
at this thing and that thing, but you never look at me, though I stand here=
and
see nothing but you.'
'There, the clock is striking--and the cock cr=
ows.
Please go across to the transept and tell them to come out this way.'
De Stancy went. When he had gone a few steps he
turned his head. She had at last ceased to study the architecture, and was
looking at him. Perhaps his words had struck her, for it seemed at that mom=
ent as
if he read in her bright eyes a genuine interest in him and his fortunes.
Next day they went on to Baden. De Stancy was
beginning to cultivate the passion of love even more as an escape from the
gloomy relations of his life than as matrimonial strategy. Paula's
juxtaposition had the attribute of making him forget everything in his own
history. She was a magic alterative; and the most foolish boyish shape into
which he could throw his feelings for her was in this respect to be aimed a=
t as
the act of highest wisdom.
He supplemented the natural warmth of feeling =
that
she had wrought in him by every artificial means in his power, to make the
distraction the more complete. He had not known anything like this
self-obscuration for a dozen years, and when he conjectured that she might
really learn to love him he felt exalted in his own eyes and purified from =
the
dross of his former life. Such uneasiness of conscience as arose when he
suddenly remembered Dare, and the possibility that Somerset was getting ous=
ted unfairly,
had its weight in depressing him; but he was inclined to accept his fortune
without much question.
The journey to Baden, though short, was not
without incidents on which he could work out this curious hobby of cultivat=
ing
to superlative power an already positive passion. Handing her in and out of=
the
carriage, accidentally getting brushed by her clothes, of all such as this =
he
made available fuel. Paula, though she might have guessed the general natur=
e of
what was going on, seemed unconscious of the refinements he was trying to t=
hrow
into it, and sometimes, when in stepping into or from a railway carriage she
unavoidably put her hand upon his arm, the obvious insignificance she attac=
hed
to the action struck him with misgiving.
One of the first things they did at Baden was =
to
stroll into the Trink-halle, where Paula sipped the water. She was about to=
put
down the glass, when De Stancy quickly took it from her hands as though to =
make
use of it himself.
'O, if that is what you mean,' she said mischi=
evously,
'you should have noticed the exact spot. It was there.' She put her finger =
on a
particular portion of its edge.
'You ought not to act like that, unless you me=
an
something, Miss Power,' he replied gravely.
'Tell me more plainly.'
'I mean, you should not do things which excite=
in
me the hope that you care something for me, unless you really do.'
'I put my finger on the edge and said it was
there.'
'Meaning, "It was there my lips touched; =
let
yours do the same."'
'The latter part I wholly deny,' she answered,
with disregard, after which she went away, and kept between Charlotte and h=
er
aunt for the rest of the afternoon.
Since the receipt of the telegram Paula had be=
en
frequently silent; she frequently stayed in alone, and sometimes she became
quite gloomy--an altogether unprecedented phase for her. This was the case =
on
the morning after the incident in the Trink-halle. Not to intrude on her,
Charlotte walked about the landings of the sunny white hotel in which they =
had taken
up their quarters, went down into the court, and petted the tortoises that =
were
creeping about there among the flowers and plants; till at last, on going to
her friend, she caught her reading some old letters of Somerset's.
Paula made no secret of them, and Miss De Stan=
cy
could see that more than half were written on blue paper, with diagrams amid
the writing: they were, in fact, simply those sheets of his letters which
related to the rebuilding. Nevertheless, Charlotte fancied she had caught P=
aula
in a sentimental mood; and doubtless could Somerset have walked in at this
moment instead of Charlotte it might have fared well with him, so insidious=
ly
do tender memories reassert themselves in the face of outward mishaps.
They took a drive down the Lichtenthal road and
then into the forest, De Stancy and Abner Power riding on horseback alongsi=
de.
The sun streamed yellow behind their backs as they wound up the long inclin=
es,
lighting the red trunks, and even the blue-black foliage itself. The summer=
had
already made impression upon that mass of uniform colour by tipping every t=
wig
with a tiny sprout of virescent yellow; while the minute sounds which issued
from the forest revealed that the apparently still place was becoming a per=
fect
reservoir of insect life.
Abner Power was quite sentimental that day. 'In
such places as these,' he said, as he rode alongside Mrs. Goodman, 'nature's
powers in the multiplication of one type strike me as much as the grandeur =
of
the mass.'
Mrs. Goodman agreed with him, and Paula said, =
'The
foliage forms the roof of an interminable green crypt, the pillars being the
trunks, and the vault the interlacing boughs.'
'It is a fine place in a thunderstorm,' said De
Stancy. 'I am not an enthusiast, but to see the lightning spring hither and
thither, like lazy-tongs, bristling, and striking, and vanishing, is rather=
impressive.'
'It must be indeed,' said Paula.
'And in the winter winds these pines sigh like=
ten
thousand spirits in trouble.'
'Indeed they must,' said Paula.
'At the same time I know a little fir-plantati=
on
about a mile square not far from Markton,' said De Stancy, 'which is precis=
ely
like this in miniature,--stems, colours, slopes, winds, and all. If we were=
to
go there any time with a highly magnifying pair of spectacles it would look=
as
fine as this--and save a deal of travelling.'
'I know the place, and I agree with you,' said
Paula.
'You agree with me on all subjects but one,' he
presently observed, in a voice not intended to reach the others.
Paula looked at him, but was silent.
Onward and upward they went, the same pattern =
and
colour of tree repeating themselves endlessly, till in a couple of hours th=
ey
reached the castle hill which was to be the end of their journey, and behel=
d stretched
beneath them the valley of the Murg. They alighted and entered the fortress=
.
'What did you mean by that look of kindness you
bestowed upon me just now, when I said you agreed with me on all subjects b=
ut
one?' asked De Stancy half humorously, as he held open a little door for he=
r,
the others having gone ahead.
'I meant, I suppose, that I was much obliged to
you for not requiring agreement on that one subject,' she said, passing on.=
'Not more than that?' said De Stancy, as he
followed her. 'But whenever I involuntarily express towards you sentiments =
that
there can be no mistaking, you seem truly compassionate.'
'If I seem so, I feel so.'
'If you mean no more than mere compassion, I w=
ish
you would show nothing at all, for your mistaken kindness is only preparing
more misery for me than I should have if let alone to suffer without mercy.=
'
'I implore you to be quiet, Captain De Stancy!
Leave me, and look out of the window at the view here, or at the pictures, =
or
at the armour, or whatever it is we are come to see.'
'Very well. But pray don't extract amusement f=
rom
my harmless remarks. Such as they are I mean them.'
She stopped him by changing the subject, for t=
hey
had entered an octagonal chamber on the first floor, presumably full of
pictures and curiosities; but the shutters were closed, and only stray beam=
s of
light gleamed in to suggest what was there.
'Can't somebody open the windows?' said Paula.=
'The attendant is about to do it,' said her un=
cle;
and as he spoke the shutters to the east were flung back, and one of the
loveliest views in the forest disclosed itself outside.
Some of them stepped out upon the balcony. The
river lay along the bottom of the valley, irradiated with a silver shine.
Little rafts of pinewood floated on its surface like tiny splinters, the men
who steered them not appearing larger than ants.
Paula stood on the balcony, looking for a few
minutes upon the sight, and then came into the shadowy room, where De Stancy
had remained. While the rest were still outside she resumed: 'You must not
suppose that I shrink from the subject you so persistently bring before me.=
I
respect deep affection--you know I do; but for me to say that I have any su=
ch for
you, of the particular sort you only will be satisfied with, would be absur=
d. I
don't feel it, and therefore there can be nothing between us. One would thi=
nk
it would be better to feel kindly towards you than to feel nothing at all. =
But
if you object to that I'll try to feel nothing.'
'I don't really object to your sympathy,' said=
De
Stancy, rather struck by her seriousness. 'But it is very saddening to think
you can feel nothing more.'
'It must be so, since I CAN feel no more,' she
decisively replied, adding, as she stopped her seriousness: 'You must pray =
for
strength to get over it.'
'One thing I shall never pray for; to see you =
give
yourself to another man. But I suppose I shall witness that some day.'
'You may,' she gravely returned.
'You have no doubt chosen him already,' cried =
the
captain bitterly.
'No, Captain De Stancy,' she said shortly, a f=
aint
involuntary blush coming into her face as she guessed his allusion.
This, and a few glances round at the pictures =
and
curiosities, completed their survey of the castle. De Stancy knew better th=
an
to trouble her further that day with special remarks. During the return jou=
rney
he rode ahead with Mr. Power and she saw no more of him.
She would have been astonished had she heard t=
he
conversation of the two gentlemen as they wound gently downwards through the
trees.
'As far as I am concerned,' Captain De Stancy's
companion was saying, 'nothing would give me more unfeigned delight than th=
at
you should persevere and win her. But you must understand that I have no
authority over her--nothing more than the natural influence that arises fro=
m my
being her father's brother.'
'And for exercising that much, whatever it may=
be,
in my favour I thank you heartily,' said De Stancy. 'But I am coming to the
conclusion that it is useless to press her further. She is right! I am not =
the
man for her. I am too old, and too poor; and I must put up as well as I can
with her loss--drown her image in old Falernian till I embark in Charon's b=
oat
for good!--Really, if I had the industry I could write some good Horatian
verses on my inauspicious situation!... Ah, well;--in this way I affect lev=
ity
over my troubles; but in plain truth my life will not be the brightest with=
out
her.'
'Don't be down-hearted! you are too--too
gentlemanly, De Stancy, in this matter--you are too soon put off--you should
have a touch of the canvasser about you in approaching her; and not stick at
things. You have my hearty invitation to travel with us all the way till we
cross to England, and there will be heaps of opportunities as we wander on.
I'll keep a slow pace to give you time.'
'You are very good, my friend! Well, I will tr=
y again.
I am full of doubt and indecision, mind, but at present I feel that I will =
try
again. There is, I suppose, a slight possibility of something or other turn=
ing up
in my favour, if it is true that the unexpected always happens--for I fores=
ee
no chance whatever.... Which way do we go when we leave here to-morrow?'
'To Carlsruhe, she says, if the rest of us hav=
e no
objection.'
'Carlsruhe, then, let it be, with all my heart=
; or
anywhere.'
To Carlsruhe they went next day, after a night=
of
soft rain which brought up a warm steam from the Schwarzwald valleys, and
caused the young tufts and grasses to swell visibly in a few hours. After t=
he Baden
slopes the flat thoroughfares of 'Charles's Rest' seemed somewhat uninteres=
ting,
though a busy fair which was proceeding in the streets created a quaint and
unexpected liveliness. On reaching the old-fashioned inn in the Lange-Stras=
se
that they had fixed on, the women of the party betook themselves to their r=
ooms
and showed little inclination to see more of the world that day than could =
be
gleaned from the hotel windows.
While the malignant tongues had been playing h=
avoc
with Somerset's fame in the ears of Paula and her companion, the young man
himself was proceeding partly by rail, partly on foot, below and amid the
olive-clad hills, vineyards, carob groves, and lemon gardens of the
Mediterranean shores. Arrived at San Remo he wrote to Nice to inquire for
letters, and such as had come were duly forwarded; but not one of them was =
from
Paula. This broke down his resolution to hold off, and he hastened directly=
to
Genoa, regretting that he had not taken this step when he first heard that =
she
was there.
Something in the very aspect of the marble hal=
ls
of that city, which at any other time he would have liked to linger over,
whispered to him that the bird had flown; and inquiry confirmed the fancy.
Nevertheless, the architectural beauties of the palace-bordered street, loo=
king
as if mountains of marble must have been levelled to supply the materials f=
or
constructing it, detained him there two days: or rather a feat of resolutio=
n,
by which he set himself to withstand the drag-chain of Paula's influence, w=
as
operative for that space of time.
At the end of it he moved onward. There was no
difficulty in discovering their track northwards; and feeling that he might=
as
well return to England by the Rhine route as by any other, he followed in t=
he
course they had chosen, getting scent of them in Strassburg, missing them a=
t Baden
by a day, and finally overtaking them at Carlsruhe, which town he reached on
the morning after the Power and De Stancy party had taken up their quarters=
at
the ancient inn above mentioned. When Somerset was about to get out of the
train at this place, little dreaming what a meaning the word Carlsruhe would
have for him in subsequent years, he was disagreeably surprised to see no o=
ther
than Dare stepping out of the adjoining carriage. A new brown leather valis=
e in
one of his hands, a new umbrella in the other, and a new suit of fashionable
clothes on his back, seemed to denote considerable improvement in the young
man's fortunes. Somerset was so struck by the circumstance of his being on =
this
spot that he almost missed his opportunity for alighting.
Dare meanwhile had moved on without seeing his
former employer, and Somerset resolved to take the chance that offered, and=
let
him go. There was something so mysterious in their common presence
simultaneously at one place, five hundred miles from where they had last me=
t,
that he exhausted conjecture on whether Dare's errand this way could have a=
nything
to do with his own, or whether their juxtaposition a second time was the re=
sult
of pure accident. Greatly as he would have liked to get this answered by a
direct question to Dare himself, he did not counteract his first instinct, =
and
remained unseen.
They went out in different directions, when
Somerset for the first time remembered that, in learning at Baden that the
party had flitted towards Carlsruhe, he had taken no care to ascertain the =
name
of the hotel they were bound for. Carlsruhe was not a large place and the p=
oint
was immaterial, but the omission would necessitate a little inquiry. To fol=
low
Dare on the chance of his having fixed upon the same quarters was a course
which did not commend itself. He resolved to get some lunch before proceedi=
ng
with his business--or fatuity--of discovering the elusive lady, and drove o=
ff
to a neighbouring tavern, which did not happen to be, as he hoped it might,=
the
one chosen by those who had preceded him.
Meanwhile Dare, previously master of their pla=
ns,
went straight to the house which sheltered them, and on entering under the
archway from the Lange-Strasse was saved the trouble of inquiring for Capta=
in
De Stancy by seeing him drinking bitters at a little table in the court. Ha=
d Somerset
chosen this inn for his quarters instead of the one in the Market-Place whi=
ch
he actually did choose, the three must inevitably have met here at this mom=
ent,
with some possibly striking dramatic results; though what they would have b=
een
remains for ever hidden in the darkness of the unfulfilled.
De Stancy jumped up from his chair, and went
forward to the new-comer. 'You are not long behind us, then,' he said, with
laconic disquietude. 'I thought you were going straight home?'
'I was,' said Dare, 'but I have been blessed w=
ith
what I may call a small competency since I saw you last. Of the two hundred
francs you gave me I risked fifty at the tables, and I have multiplied them,
how many times do you think? More than four hundred times.'
De Stancy immediately looked grave. 'I wish you
had lost them,' he said, with as much feeling as could be shown in a place
where strangers were hovering near.
'Nonsense, captain! I have proceeded purely on=
a
calculation of chances; and my calculations proved as true as I expected,
notwithstanding a little in-and-out luck at first. Witness this as the resu=
lt.'
He smacked his bag with his umbrella, and the chink of money resounded from
within. 'Just feel the weight of it!'
'It is not necessary. I take your word.'
'Shall I lend you five pounds?'
'God forbid! As if that would repay me for what
you have cost me! But come, let's get out of this place to where we can talk
more freely.' He put his hand through the young man's arm, and led him round
the corner of the hotel towards the Schloss-Platz.
'These runs of luck will be your ruin, as I ha=
ve
told you before,' continued Captain De Stancy. 'You will be for repeating a=
nd
repeating your experiments, and will end by blowing your brains out, as wis=
er heads
than yours have done. I am glad you have come away, at any rate. Why did you
travel this way?'
'Simply because I could afford it, of course.-=
-But
come, captain, something has ruffled you to-day. I thought you did not look=
in
the best temper the moment I saw you. Every sip you took of your pick-up as=
you
sat there showed me something was wrong. Tell your worry!'
'Pooh--I can tell you in two words,' said the
captain satirically. 'Your arrangement for my wealth and happiness--for I
suppose you still claim it to be yours--has fallen through. The lady has
announced to-day that she means to send for Somerset instantly. She is comi=
ng
to a personal explanation with him. So woe to me--and in another sense, woe=
to
you, as I have reason to fear.'
'Send for him!' said Dare, with the stillness =
of
complete abstraction. 'Then he'll come.'
'Well,' said De Stancy, looking him in the fac=
e.
'And does it make you feel you had better be off? How about that telegram? =
Did
he ask you to send it, or did he not?'
'One minute, or I shall be up such a tree as
nobody ever saw the like of.'
'Then what did you come here for?' burst out De
Stancy. ''Tis my belief you are no more than a--But I won't call you names;
I'll tell you quite plainly that if there is anything wrong in that message=
to
her--which I believe there is--no, I can't believe, though I fear it--you h=
ave
the chance of appearing in drab clothes at the expense of the Government be=
fore
the year is out, and I of being eternally disgraced!'
'No, captain, you won't be disgraced. I am bad=
to
beat, I can tell you. And come the worst luck, I don't say a word.'
'But those letters pricked in your skin would =
say
a good deal, it strikes me.'
'What! would they strip me?--but it is not com=
ing
to that. Look here, now, I'll tell you the truth for once; though you don't
believe me capable of it. I DID concoct that telegram--and sent it; just as=
a practical
joke; and many a worse one has been only laughed at by honest men and offic=
ers.
I could show you a bigger joke still--a joke of jokes--on the same individu=
al.'
Dare as he spoke put his hand into his
breast-pocket, as if the said joke lay there; but after a moment he withdrew
his hand empty, as he continued:
'Having invented it I have done enough; I was
going to explain it to you, that you might carry it out. But you are so
serious, that I will leave it alone. My second joke shall die with me.'
'So much the better,' said De Stancy. 'I don't
like your jokes, even though they are not directed against myself. They exp=
ress
a kind of humour which does not suit me.'
'You may have reason to alter your mind,' said
Dare carelessly. 'Your success with your lady may depend on it. The truth i=
s,
captain, we aristocrats must not take too high a tone. Our days as an
independent division of society, which holds aloof from other sections, are
past. This has been my argument (in spite of my strong Norman feelings) eve=
r since
I broached the subject of your marrying this girl, who represents both
intellect and wealth--all, in fact, except the historical prestige that you
represent. And we mustn't flinch at things. The case is even more pressing =
than
ordinary cases--owing to the odd fact that the representative of the new bl=
ood
who has come in our way actually lives in your own old house, and owns your=
own
old lands. The ordinary reason for such alliances is quintupled in our case=
. Do
then just think and be reasonable, before you talk tall about not liking my
jokes, and all that. Beggars mustn't be choosers.'
'There's really much reason in your argument,'
said De Stancy, with a bitter laugh: 'and my own heart argues much the same
way. But, leaving me to take care of my aristocratic self, I advise your
aristocratic self to slip off at once to England like any hang-gallows dog;=
and
if Somerset is here, and you have been doing wrong in his name, and it all =
comes
out, I'll try to save you, as far as an honest man can. If you have done no
wrong, of course there is no fear; though I should be obliged by your going
homeward as quickly as possible, as being better both for you and for me....
Hullo--Damnation!'
They had reached one side of the Schloss-Platz,
nobody apparently being near them save a sentinel who was on duty before the
Palace; but turning as he spoke, De Stancy beheld a group consisting of his
sister, Paula, and Mr. Power, strolling across the square towards them.
It was impossible to escape their observation,=
and
putting a bold front upon it, De Stancy advanced with Dare at his side, til=
l in
a few moments the two parties met, Paula and Charlotte recognizing Dare at =
once
as the young man who assisted at the castle.
'I have met my young photographer,' said De St=
ancy
cheerily. 'What a small world it is, as everybody truly observes! I am wish=
ing
he could take some views for us as we go on; but you have no apparatus with
you, I suppose, Mr. Dare?'
'I have not, sir, I am sorry to say,' replied =
Dare
respectfully.
'You could get some, I suppose?' asked Paula of
the interesting young photographer.
Dare declared that it would be not impossible:
whereupon De Stancy said that it was only a passing thought of his; and in a
few minutes the two parties again separated, going their several ways.
'That was awkward,' said De Stancy, trembling =
with
excitement. 'I would advise you to keep further off in future.'
Dare said thoughtfully that he would be carefu=
l,
adding, 'She is a prize for any man, indeed, leaving alone the substantial
possessions behind her! Now was I too enthusiastic? Was I a fool for urging=
you
on?'
'Wait till success justifies the undertaking. =
In
case of failure it will have been anything but wise. It is no light matter =
to
have a carefully preserved repose broken in upon for nothing--a repose that
could never be restored!'
They walked down the Carl-Friedrichs-Strasse to
the Margrave's Pyramid, and back to the hotel, where Dare also decided to t=
ake
up his stay. De Stancy left him with the book-keeper at the desk, and went
upstairs to see if the ladies had returned.
He found them in their sitting-room with their
bonnets on, as if they had just come in. Mr. Power was also present, readin=
g a
newspaper, but Mrs. Goodman had gone out to a neighbouring shop, in the win=
dows
of which she had seen something which attracted her fancy.
When De Stancy entered, Paula's thoughts seeme=
d to
revert to Dare, for almost at once she asked him in what direction the youth
was travelling. With some hesitation De Stancy replied that he believed Mr.
Dare was returning to England after a spring trip for the improvement of hi=
s mind.
'A very praiseworthy thing to do,' said Paula.=
'What
places has he visited?'
'Those which afford opportunities for the stud=
y of
the old masters, I believe,' said De Stancy blandly. 'He has also been to
Turin, Genoa, Marseilles, and so on.' The captain spoke the more readily to=
her
questioning in that he divined her words to be dictated, not by any suspici=
ons
of his relations with Dare, but by her knowledge of Dare as the draughtsman
employed by Somerset.
'Has he been to Nice?' she next demanded. 'Did=
he
go there in company with my architect?'
'I think not.'
'Has he seen anything of him? My architect
Somerset once employed him. They know each other.'
'I think he saw Somerset for a short time.'
Paula was silent. 'Do you know where this young
man Dare is at the present moment?' she asked quickly.
De Stancy said that Dare was staying at the sa=
me
hotel with themselves, and that he believed he was downstairs.
'I think I can do no better than send for him,'
said she. 'He may be able to throw some light upon the matter of that
telegram.'
She rang and despatched the waiter for the you=
ng
man in question, De Stancy almost visibly trembling for the result. But he
opened the town directory which was lying on a table, and affected to be
engrossed in the names.
Before Dare was shown in she said to her uncle,
'Perhaps you will speak to him for me?'
Mr. Power, looking up from the paper he was
reading, assented to her proposition. Dare appeared in the doorway, and the
waiter retired. Dare seemed a trifle startled out of his usual coolness, the
message having evidently been unexpected, and he came forward somewhat
uneasily.
'Mr. Dare, we are anxious to know something of
Miss Power's architect; and Captain De Stancy tells us you have seen him
lately,' said Mr. Power sonorously over the edge of his newspaper.
Not knowing whether danger menaced or no, or, =
if
it menaced, from what quarter it was to be expected, Dare felt that honesty=
was
as good as anything else for him, and replied boldly that he had seen Mr.
Somerset, De Stancy continuing to cream and mantle almost visibly, in anxie=
ty
at the situation of the speaker.
'And where did you see him?' continued Mr. Pow=
er.
'In the Casino at Monte Carlo.'
'How long did you see him?'
'Only for half an hour. I left him there.'
Paula's interest got the better of her reserve=
, and
she cut in upon her uncle: 'Did he seem in any unusual state, or in trouble=
?'
'He was rather excited,' said Dare.
'And can you remember when that was?'
Dare considered, looked at his pocket-book, and
said that it was on the evening of April the twenty-second.
The answer had a significance for Paula, De
Stancy, and Charlotte, to which Abner Power was a stranger. The telegraphic
request for money, which had been kept a secret from him by his niece, beca=
use
of his already unfriendly tone towards Somerset, arrived on the morning of =
the twenty-third--a
date which neighboured with painfully suggestive nicety upon that now given=
by
Dare.
She seemed to be silenced, and asked no more
questions. Dare having furbished himself up to a gentlemanly appearance with
some of his recent winnings, was invited to stay on awhile by Paula's uncle,
who, as became a travelled man, was not fastidious as to company. Being a y=
outh
of the world, Dare made himself agreeable to that gentleman, and afterwards=
tried
to do the same with Miss De Stancy. At this the captain, to whom the situat=
ion
for some time had been amazingly uncomfortable, pleaded some excuse for goi=
ng
out, and left the room.
Dare continued his endeavours to say a few pol=
ite
nothings to Charlotte De Stancy, in the course of which he drew from his po=
cket
his new silk handkerchief. By some chance a card came out with the
handkerchief, and fluttered downwards. His momentary instinct was to make a
grasp at the card and conceal it: but it had already tumbled to the floor,
where it lay face upward beside Charlotte De Stancy's chair.
It was neither a visiting nor a playing card, =
but
one bearing a photographic portrait of a peculiar nature. It was what Dare =
had characterized
as his best joke in speaking on the subject to Captain De Stancy: he had in=
the
morning put it ready in his pocket to give to the captain, and had in fact =
held
it in waiting between his finger and thumb while talking to him in the Plat=
z,
meaning that he should make use of it against his rival whenever convenient.
But his sharp conversation with that soldier had dulled his zest for this f=
inal
joke at Somerset's expense, had at least shown him that De Stancy would not
adopt the joke by accepting the photograph and using it himself, and determ=
ined
him to lay it aside till a more convenient time. So fully had he made up hi=
s mind
on this course, that when the photograph slipped out he did not at first
perceive the appositeness of the circumstance, in putting into his own hands
the role he had intended for De Stancy; though it was asserted afterwards t=
hat
the whole scene was deliberately planned. However, once having seen the
accident, he resolved to take the current as it served.
The card having fallen beside her, Miss De Sta=
ncy
glanced over it, which indeed she could not help doing. The smile that had
previously hung upon her lips was arrested as if by frost and she involunta=
rily
uttered a little distressed cry of 'O!' like one in bodily pain.
Paula, who had been talking to her uncle during
this interlude, started round, and wondering what had happened, inquiringly
crossed the room to poor Charlotte's side, asking her what was the matter.
Charlotte had regained self-possession, though not enough to enable her to
reply, and Paula asked her a second time what had made her exclaim like tha=
t.
Miss De Stancy still seemed confused, whereupon Paula noticed that her eyes=
were
continually drawn as if by fascination towards the photograph on the floor,
which, contrary to his first impulse, Dare, as has been said, now seemed in=
no
hurry to regain. Surmising at last that the card, whatever it was, had
something to do with the exclamation, Paula picked it up.
It was a portrait of Somerset; but by a device
known in photography the operator, though contriving to produce what seemed=
to
be a perfect likeness, had given it the distorted features and wild attitud=
e of
a man advanced in intoxication. No woman, unless specially cognizant of suc=
h possibilities,
could have looked upon it and doubted that the photograph was a genuine ill=
ustration
of a customary phase in the young man's private life.
Paula observed it, thoroughly took it in; but =
the
effect upon her was by no means clear. Charlotte's eyes at once forsook the
portrait to dwell on Paula's face. It paled a little, and this was followed=
by
a hot blush--perceptibly a blush of shame. That was all. She flung the pict=
ure down
on the table, and moved away.
It was now Mr. Power's turn. Anticipating Dare,
who was advancing with a deprecatory look to seize the photograph, he also =
grasped
it. When he saw whom it represented he seemed both amused and startled, and
after scanning it a while handed it to the young man with a queer smile.
'I am very sorry,' began Dare in a low voice to
Mr. Power. 'I fear I was to blame for thoughtlessness in not destroying it.=
But
I thought it was rather funny that a man should permit such a thing to be d=
one,
and that the humour would redeem the offence.'
'In you, for purchasing it,' said Paula with
haughty quickness from the other side of the room. 'Though probably his
friends, if he has any, would say not in him.'
There was silence in the room after this, and
Dare, finding himself rather in the way, took his leave as unostentatiously=
as
a cat that has upset the family china, though he continued to say among his
apologies that he was not aware Mr. Somerset was a personal friend of the
ladies.
Of all the thoughts which filled the minds of
Paula and Charlotte De Stancy, the thought that the photograph might have b=
een
a fabrication was probably the last. To them that picture of Somerset had a=
ll
the cogency of direct vision. Paula's experience, much less Charlotte's, ha=
d never
lain in the fields of heliographic science, and they would as soon have tho=
ught
that the sun could again stand still upon Gibeon, as that it could be made =
to
falsify men's characters in delineating their features. What Abner Power
thought he himself best knew. He might have seen such pictures before; or he
might never have heard of them.
While pretending to resume his reading he clos=
ely observed
Paula, as did also Charlotte De Stancy; but thanks to the self-management w=
hich
was Miss Power's as much by nature as by art, she dissembled whatever emoti=
on
was in her.
'It is a pity a professional man should make
himself so ludicrous,' she said with such careless intonation that it was
almost impossible, even for Charlotte, who knew her so well, to believe her
indifference feigned.
'Yes,' said Mr. Power, since Charlotte did not
speak: 'it is what I scarcely should have expected.'
'O, I am not surprised!' said Paula quickly. '=
You
don't know all.' The inference was, indeed, inevitable that if her uncle we=
re
made aware of the telegram he would see nothing unlikely in the picture. 'W=
ell,
you are very silent!' continued Paula petulantly, when she found that nobod=
y went
on talking. 'What made you cry out "O," Charlotte, when Mr. Dare =
dropped
that horrid photograph?'
'I don't know; I suppose it frightened me,'
stammered the girl.
'It was a stupid fuss to make before such a
person. One would think you were in love with Mr. Somerset.'
'What did you say, Paula?' inquired her uncle,
looking up from the newspaper which he had again resumed.
'Nothing, Uncle Abner.' She walked to the wind=
ow,
and, as if to tide over what was plainly passing in their minds about her, =
she
began to make remarks on objects in the street. 'What a quaint being--look,=
Charlotte!'
It was an old woman sitting by a stall on the opposite side of the way, whi=
ch
seemed suddenly to hit Paula's sense of the humorous, though beyond the fact
that the dame was old and poor, and wore a white handkerchief over her head,
there was really nothing noteworthy about her.
Paula seemed to be more hurt by what the silen=
ce
of her companions implied--a suspicion that the discovery of Somerset's
depravity was wounding her heart--than by the wound itself. The ostensible =
ease
with which she drew them into a bye conversation had perhaps the defect of
proving too much: though her tacit contention that no love was in question =
was
not incredible on the supposition that affronted pride alone caused her
embarrassment. The chief symptom of her heart being really tender towards
Somerset consisted in her apparent blindness to Charlotte's secret, so
obviously suggested by her momentary agitation.
And where was the subject of their condemnatory
opinions all this while? Having secured a room at his inn, he came forth to
complete the discovery of his dear mistress's halting-place without delay.
After one or two inquiries he ascertained where such a party of English wer=
e staying;
and arriving at the hotel, knew at once that he had tracked them to earth by
seeing the heavier portion of the Power luggage confronting him in the hall=
. He
sent up intelligence of his presence, and awaited her reply with a beating
heart.
In the meanwhile Dare, descending from his pernicious interview with Paula and the rest, had descried Captain De Stanc= y in the public drawing-room, and entered to him forthwith. It was while they we= re here together that Somerset passed the door and sent up his name to Paula.<= o:p>
The incident at the railway station was now
reversed, Somerset being the observed of Dare, as Dare had then been the
observed of Somerset. Immediately on sight of him Dare showed real alarm. He
had imagined that Somerset would eventually impinge on Paula's route, but he
had scarcely expected it yet; and the architect's sudden appearance led Dar=
e to
ask himself the ominous question whether Somerset had discovered his telegr=
aphic
trick, and was in the mood for prompt measures.
'There is no more for me to do here,' said the=
boy
hastily to De Stancy. 'Miss Power does not wish to ask me any more question=
s. I
may as well proceed on my way, as you advised.'
De Stancy, who had also gazed with dismay at
Somerset's passing figure, though with dismay of another sort, was recalled
from his vexation by Dare's remarks, and turning upon him he said sharply,
'Well may you be in such a hurry all of a sudden!'
'True, I am superfluous now.'
'You have been doing a foolish thing, and you =
must
suffer its inconveniences.--Will, I am sorry for one thing; I am sorry I ev=
er owned
you; for you are not a lad to my heart. You have disappointed me--disappoin=
ted
me almost beyond endurance.'
'I have acted according to my illumination. Wh=
at
can you expect of a man born to dishonour?'
'That's mere speciousness. Before you knew
anything of me, and while you thought you were the child of poverty on both
sides, you were well enough; but ever since you thought you were more than
that, you have led a life which is intolerable. What has become of your pla=
n of
alliance between the De Stancys and the Powers now? The man is gone upstairs
who can overthrow it all.'
'If the man had not gone upstairs, you wouldn't
have complained of my nature or my plans,' said Dare drily. 'If I mistake n=
ot,
he will come down again with the flea in his ear. However, I have done; my =
play
is played out. All the rest remains with you. But, captain, grant me this! =
If
when I am gone this difficulty should vanish, and things should go well with
you, and your suit should prosper, will you think of him, bad as he is, who
first put you on the track of such happiness, and let him know it was not d=
one
in vain?'
'I will,' said De Stancy. 'Promise me that you
will be a better boy?'
'Very well--as soon as ever I can afford it. N=
ow I
am up and away, when I have explained to them that I shall not require my
room.'
Dare fetched his bag, touched his hat with his
umbrella to the captain and went out of the hotel archway. De Stancy sat do=
wn
in the stuffy drawing-room, and wondered what other ironies time had in sto=
re
for him.
A waiter in the interim had announced Somerset=
to
the group upstairs. Paula started as much as Charlotte at hearing the name,=
and
Abner Power stared at them both.
'If Mr. Somerset wishes to see me ON BUSINESS,
show him in,' said Paula.
In a few seconds the door was thrown open for
Somerset. On receipt of the pointed message he guessed that a change had co=
me.
Time, absence, ambition, her uncle's influence, and a new wooer, seemed to
account sufficiently well for that change, and he accepted his fate. But a =
stoical
instinct to show her that he could regard vicissitudes with the equanimity =
that
became a man; a desire to ease her mind of any fear she might entertain that
his connection with her past would render him troublesome in future, induced
him to accept her permission, and see the act to the end.
'How do you do, Mr. Somerset?' said Abner Powe=
r,
with sardonic geniality: he had been far enough about the world not to be
greatly concerned at Somerset's apparent failing, particularly when it help=
ed
to reduce him from the rank of lover to his niece to that of professional a=
dviser.
Miss De Stancy faltered a welcome as weak as t=
hat
of the Maid of Neidpath, and Paula said coldly, 'We are rather surprised to=
see
you. Perhaps there is something urgent at the castle which makes it necessa=
ry for
you to call?'
'There is something a little urgent,' said
Somerset slowly, as he approached her; 'and you have judged rightly that it=
is
the cause of my call.' He sat down near her chair as he spoke, put down his
hat, and drew a note-book from his pocket with a despairing sang froid that=
was
far more perfect than had been Paula's demeanour just before.
'Perhaps you would like to talk over the busin=
ess
with Mr. Somerset alone?' murmured Charlotte to Miss Power, hardly knowing =
what
she said.
'O no,' said Paula, 'I think not. Is it
necessary?' she said, turning to him.
'Not in the least,' replied he, bestowing a
penetrating glance upon his questioner's face, which seemed however to prod=
uce
no effect; and turning towards Charlotte, he added, 'You will have the
goodness, I am sure, Miss De Stancy, to excuse the jargon of professional
details.'
He spread some tracings on the table, and poin=
ted
out certain modified features to Paula, commenting as he went on, and
exchanging occasionally a few words on the subject with Mr. Abner Power by =
the
distant window.
In this architectural dialogue over his sketch=
es,
Somerset's head and Paula's became unavoidably very close. The temptation w=
as
too much for the young man. Under cover of the rustle of the tracings, he
murmured, 'Paula, I could not get here before!' in a low voice inaudible to=
the
other two.
She did not reply, only busying herself the mo=
re
with the notes and sketches; and he said again, 'I stayed a couple of days =
at
Genoa, and some days at San Remo, and Mentone.'
'But it is not the least concern of mine where=
you
stayed, is it?' she said, with a cold yet disquieted look.
'Do you speak seriously?' Somerset brokenly wh=
ispered.
Paula concluded her examination of the drawings
and turned from him with sorrowful disregard. He tried no further, but, when
she had signified her pleasure on the points submitted, packed up his paper=
s,
and rose with the bearing of a man altogether superior to such a class of m=
isfortune
as this. Before going he turned to speak a few words of a general kind to M=
r.
Power and Charlotte.
'You will stay and dine with us?' said the for=
mer,
rather with the air of being unhappily able to do no less than ask the
question. 'My charges here won't go down to the table-d'hote, I fear, but De
Stancy and myself will be there.'
Somerset excused himself, and in a few minutes
withdrew. At the door he looked round for an instant, and his eyes met Paul=
a's.
There was the same miles-off expression in hers that they had worn when he
entered; but there was also a look of distressful inquiry, as if she were e=
arnestly
expecting him to say something more. This of course Somerset did not
comprehend. Possibly she was clinging to a hope of some excuse for the mess=
age
he was supposed to have sent, or for the other and more degrading matter.
Anyhow, Somerset only bowed and went away.
A moment after he had gone, Paula, impelled by
something or other, crossed the room to the window. In a short time she saw=
his
form in the broad street below, which he traversed obliquely to an opposite
corner, his head somewhat bent, and his eyes on the ground. Before vanishin=
g into
the Ritterstrasse he turned his head and glanced at the hotel windows, as i=
f he
knew that she was watching him. Then he disappeared; and the only real sign=
of
emotion betrayed by Paula during the whole episode escaped her at this mome=
nt.
It was a slight trembling of the lip and a sigh so slowly breathed that sca=
rce
anybody could hear--scarcely even Charlotte, who was reclining on a couch h=
er
face on her hand and her eyes downcast.
Not more than two minutes had elapsed when Mrs.
Goodman came in with a manner of haste.
'You have returned,' said Mr. Power. 'Have you
made your purchases?'
Without answering, she asked, 'Whom, of all pe=
ople
on earth, do you think I have met? Mr. Somerset! Has he been here?--he pass=
ed
me almost without speaking!'
'Yes, he has been here,' said Paula. 'He is on=
the
way from Genoa home, and called on business.'
'You will have him here to dinner, of course?'=
'I asked him,' said Mr. Power, 'but he decline=
d.'
'O, that's unfortunate! Surely we could get hi=
m to
come. You would like to have him here, would you not, Paula?'
'No, indeed. I don't want him here,' said she.=
'You don't?'
'No!' she said sharply.
'You used to like him well enough, anyhow,'
bluntly rejoined Mrs. Goodman.
Paula sedately: 'It is a mistake to suppose th=
at I
ever particularly liked the gentleman mentioned.'
'Then you are wrong, Mrs. Goodman, it seems,' =
said
Mr. Power.
Mrs. Goodman, who had been growing quietly
indignant, notwithstanding a vigorous use of her fan, at this said. 'Fie, f=
ie,
Paula! you did like him. You said to me only a week or two ago that you sho=
uld
not at all object to marry him.'
'It is a mistake,' repeated Paula calmly. 'I m=
eant
the other one of the two we were talking about.'
'What, Captain De Stancy?'
'Yes.'
Knowing this to be a fiction, Mrs. Goodman mad=
e no
remark, and hearing a slight noise behind, turned her head. Seeing her aunt=
's
action, Paula also looked round. The door had been left ajar, and De Stancy=
was
standing in the room. The last words of Mrs. Goodman, and Paula's reply, mu=
st
have been quite audible to him.
They looked at each other much as if they had
unexpectedly met at the altar; but after a momentary start Paula did not fl=
inch
from the position into which hurt pride had betrayed her. De Stancy bowed g=
racefully,
and she merely walked to the furthest window, whither he followed her.
'I am eternally grateful to you for avowing th=
at I
have won favour in your sight at last,' he whispered.
She acknowledged the remark with a somewhat
reserved bearing. 'Really I don't deserve your gratitude,' she said. 'I did=
not
know you were there.'
'I know you did not--that's why the avowal is =
so
sweet to me. Can I take you at your word?'
'Yes, I suppose.'
'Then your preference is the greatest honour t=
hat
has ever fallen to my lot. It is enough: you accept me?'
'As a lover on probation--no more.'
The conversation being carried on in low tones,
Paula's uncle and aunt took it as a hint that their presence could be spare=
d,
and severally left the room--the former gladly, the latter with some vexati=
on. Charlotte
De Stancy followed.
'And to what am I indebted for this happy chan=
ge?'
inquired De Stancy, as soon as they were alone.
'You shouldn't look a gift-horse in the mouth,'
she replied brusquely, and with tears in her eyes for one gone.
'You mistake my motive. I am like a reprieved
criminal, and can scarcely believe the news.'
'You shouldn't say that to me, or I shall begi=
n to
think I have been too kind,' she answered, some of the archness of her mann=
er
returning. 'Now, I know what you mean to say in answer; but I don't want to
hear more at present; and whatever you do, don't fall into the mistake of
supposing I have accepted you in any other sense than the way I say. If you
don't like such a limitation you can go away. I dare say I shall get over i=
t.'
'Go away! Could I go away?--But you are beginn=
ing
to tease, and will soon punish me severely; so I will make my escape while =
all
is well. It would be presumptuous to expect more in one day.'
'It would indeed,' said Paula, with her eyes o=
n a
bunch of flowers.
On leaving the hotel, Somerset's first impulse=
was
to get out of sight of its windows, and his glance upward had perhaps not t=
he
tender significance that Paula imagined, the last look impelled by any such=
whiff
of emotion having been the lingering one he bestowed upon her in passing ou=
t of
the room. Unluckily for the prospects of this attachment, Paula's conduct
towards him now, as a result of misrepresentation, had enough in common with
her previous silence at Nice to make it not unreasonable as a further
development of that silence. Moreover, her social position as a woman of
wealth, always felt by Somerset as a perceptible bar to that full and free
eagerness with which he would fain have approached her, rendered it impossi=
ble
for him to return to the charge, ascertain the reason of her coldness, and
dispel it by an explanation, without being suspected of mercenary objects.
Continually does it happen that a genial willingness to bottle up affronts =
is set
down to interested motives by those who do not know what generous conduct
means. Had she occupied the financial position of Miss De Stancy he would
readily have persisted further and, not improbably, have cleared up the clo=
ud.
Having no further interest in Carlsruhe, Somer=
set
decided to leave by an evening train. The intervening hour he spent in wand=
ering
into the thick of the fair, where steam roundabouts, the proprietors of
wax-work shows, and fancy-stall keepers maintained a deafening din. The ani=
mated
environment was better than silence, for it fostered in him an artificial
indifference to the events that had just happened--an indifference which,
though he too well knew it was only destined to be temporary, afforded a
passive period wherein to store up strength that should enable him to withs=
tand
the wear and tear of regrets which would surely set in soon. It was the case
with Somerset as with others of his temperament, that he did not feel a blo=
w of
this sort immediately; and what often seemed like stoicism after misfortune=
was
only the neutral numbness of transition from palpitating hope to assured
wretchedness.
He walked round and round the fair till all the
exhibitors knew him by sight, and when the sun got low he turned into the
Erbprinzen-Strasse, now raked from end to end by ensaffroned rays of level
light. Seeking his hotel he dined there, and left by the evening train for
Heidelberg.
Heidelberg with its romantic surroundings was =
not
precisely the place calculated to heal Somerset's wounded heart. He had kno=
wn
the town of yore, and his recollections of that period, when, unfettered in
fancy, he had transferred to his sketch-book the fine Renaissance details o=
f the
Otto-Heinrichs-Bau came back with unpleasant force. He knew of some carved
cask-heads and other curious wood-work in the castle cellars, copies of whi=
ch,
being unobtainable by photographs, he had intended to make if all went well
between Paula and himself. The zest for this was now well-nigh over. But on
awaking in the morning and looking up the valley towards the castle, and at=
the
dark green height of the Konigsstuhl alongside, he felt that to become
vanquished by a passion, driven to suffer, fast, and pray in the dull pains=
and
vapours of despised love, was a contingency not to be welcomed too readily.=
Thereupon
he set himself to learn the sad science of renunciation, which everybody ha=
s to
learn in his degree--either rebelling throughout the lesson, or, like Somer=
set,
taking to it kindly by force of judgment. A more obstinate pupil might have
altogether escaped the lesson in the present case by discovering its
illegality.
Resolving to persevere in the heretofore
satisfactory paths of art while life and faculties were left, though every
instinct must proclaim that there would be no longer any collateral attract=
ion
in that pursuit, he went along under the trees of the Anlage and reached the
castle vaults, in whose cool shades he spent the afternoon, working out his
intentions with fair result. When he had strolled back to his hotel in the
evening the time was approaching for the table-d'hote. Having seated himsel=
f rather
early, he spent the few minutes of waiting in looking over his pocket-book,=
and
putting a few finishing touches to the afternoon performance whilst the obj=
ects
were fresh in his memory. Thus occupied he was but dimly conscious of the
customary rustle of dresses and pulling up of chairs by the crowd of other
diners as they gathered around him. Serving began, and he put away his book=
and
prepared for the meal. He had hardly done this when he became conscious that
the person on his left hand was not the typical cosmopolite with boundless
hotel knowledge and irrelevant experiences that he was accustomed to find n=
ext him,
but a face he recognized as that of a young man whom he had met and talked =
to
at Stancy Castle garden-party, whose name he had now forgotten. This young =
fellow
was conversing with somebody on his left hand--no other personage than Paula
herself. Next to Paula he beheld De Stancy, and De Stancy's sister beyond h=
im.
It was one of those gratuitous encounters which only happen to discarded lo=
vers
who have shown commendable stoicism under disappointment, as if on purpose =
to reopen
and aggravate their wounds.
It seemed as if the intervening traveller had =
met
the other party by accident there and then. In a minute he turned and
recognized Somerset, and by degrees the young men's cursory remarks to each
other developed into a pretty regular conversation, interrupted only when he
turned to speak to Paula on his left hand.
'Your architectural adviser travels in your pa=
rty:
how very convenient,' said the young tourist to her. 'Far pleasanter than
having a medical attendant in one's train!'
Somerset, who had no distractions on the other
side of him, could hear every word of this. He glanced at Paula. She had not
known of his presence in the room till now. Their eyes met for a second, and
she bowed sedately. Somerset returned her bow, and her eyes were quickly wi=
thdrawn
with scarcely visible confusion.
'Mr. Somerset is not travelling with us,' she
said. 'We have met by accident. Mr. Somerset came to me on business a little
while ago.'
'I must congratulate you on having put the cas=
tle
into good hands,' continued the enthusiastic young man.
'I believe Mr. Somerset is quite competent,' s=
aid
Paula stiffly.
To include Somerset in the conversation the yo=
ung
man turned to him and added: 'You carry on your work at the castle con amor=
e,
no doubt?'
'There is work I should like better,' said
Somerset.
'Indeed?'
The frigidity of his manner seemed to set her =
at
ease by dispersing all fear of a scene; and alternate dialogues of this sort
with the gentleman in their midst were more or less continued by both Paula=
and
Somerset till they rose from table.
In the bustle of moving out the two latter for=
one
moment stood side by side.
'Miss Power,' said Somerset, in a low voice th=
at
was obscured by the rustle, 'you have nothing more to say to me?'
'I think there is nothing more?' said Paula,
lifting her eyes with longing reticence.
'Then I take leave of you; and tender my best
wishes that you may have a pleasant time before you!.... I set out for Engl=
and
to-night.'
'With a special photographer, no doubt?'
It was the first time that she had addressed
Somerset with a meaning distinctly bitter; and her remark, which had refere=
nce
to the forged photograph, fell of course without its intended effect.
'No, Miss Power,' said Somerset gravely. 'But =
with
a deeper sense of woman's thoughtless trifling than time will ever eradicat=
e.'
'Is not that a mistake?' she asked in a voice =
that
distinctly trembled.
'A mistake? How?'
'I mean, do you not forget many things?' (thro=
wing
on him a troubled glance). 'A woman may feel herself justified in her condu=
ct,
although it admits of no explanation.'
'I don't contest the point for a moment....
Goodbye.'
'Good-bye.'
They parted amid the flowering shrubs and caged
birds in the hall, and he saw her no more. De Stancy came up, and spoke a f=
ew
commonplace words, his sister having gone out, either without perceiving
Somerset, or with intention to avoid him.
That night, as he had said, he was on his way =
to
England.
The De Stancys and Powers remained in Heidelbe=
rg
for some days. All remarked that after Somerset's departure Paula was
frequently irritable, though at other times as serene as ever. Yet even whe=
n in
a blithe and saucy mood there was at bottom a tinge of melancholy. Something
did not lie easy in her undemonstrative heart, and all her friends excused =
the inequalities
of a humour whose source, though not positively known, could be fairly well
guessed.
De Stancy had long since discovered that his
chance lay chiefly in her recently acquired and fanciful predilection d'art=
iste
for hoary mediaeval families with ancestors in alabaster and primogenitive
renown. Seeing this he dwelt on those topics which brought out that aspect =
of himself
more clearly, talking feudalism and chivalry with a zest that he had never
hitherto shown. Yet it was not altogether factitious. For, discovering how =
much
this quondam Puritan was interested in the attributes of long-chronicled
houses, a reflected interest in himself arose in his own soul, and he began=
to
wonder why he had not prized these things before. Till now disgusted by the
failure of his family to hold its own in the turmoil between ancient and
modern, he had grown to undervalue its past prestige; and it was with corre=
ctive
ardour that he adopted while he ministered to her views.
Henceforward the wooing of De Stancy took the =
form
of an intermittent address, the incidents of their travel furnishing pegs
whereon to hang his subject; sometimes hindering it, but seldom failing to
produce in her a greater tolerance of his presence. His next opportunity was
the day after Somerset's departure from Heidelberg. They stood on the great=
terrace
of the Schloss-Garten, looking across the intervening ravine to the north-e=
ast
front of the castle which rose before them in all its customary warm tints =
and
battered magnificence.
'This is a spot, if any, which should bring
matters to a crisis between you and me,' he asserted good-humouredly. 'But =
you
have been so silent to-day that I lose the spirit to take advantage of my
privilege.'
She inquired what privilege he spoke of, as if
quite another subject had been in her mind than De Stancy.
'The privilege of winning your heart if I can,
which you gave me at Carlsruhe.'
'O,' she said. 'Well, I've been thinking of th= at. But I do not feel myself absolutely bound by the statement I made in that r= oom; and I shall expect, if I withdraw it, not to be called to account by you.'<= o:p>
De Stancy looked rather blank.
'If you recede from your promise you will
doubtless have good reason. But I must solemnly beg you, after raising my
hopes, to keep as near as you can to your word, so as not to throw me into
utter despair.'
Paula dropped her glance into the Thier-Garten
below them, where gay promenaders were clambering up between the bushes and
flowers. At length she said, with evident embarrassment, but with much
distinctness: 'I deserve much more blame for what I have done than you can
express to me. I will confess to you the whole truth. All that I told you in
the hotel at Carlsruhe was said in a moment of pique at what had happened j=
ust before
you came in. It was supposed I was much involved with another man, and
circumstances made the supposition particularly objectionable. To escape it=
I
jumped at the alternative of yourself.'
'That's bad for me!' he murmured.
'If after this avowal you bind me to my words I
shall say no more: I do not wish to recede from them without your full
permission.'
'What a caprice! But I release you
unconditionally,' he said. 'And I beg your pardon if I seemed to show too m=
uch
assurance. Please put it down to my gratified excitement. I entirely acquie=
sce
in your wish. I will go away to whatever place you please, and not come near
you but by your own permission, and till you are quite satisfied that my
presence and what it may lead to is not undesirable. I entirely give way be=
fore
you, and will endeavour to make my future devotedness, if ever we meet agai=
n, a
new ground for expecting your favour.'
Paula seemed struck by the generous and cheerf=
ul
fairness of his remarks, and said gently, 'Perhaps your departure is not
absolutely necessary for my happiness; and I do not wish from what you call=
caprice--'
'I retract that word.'
'Well, whatever it is, I don't wish you to do =
anything
which should cause you real pain, or trouble, or humiliation.'
'That's very good of you.'
'But I reserve to myself the right to accept or
refuse your addresses--just as if those rash words of mine had never been
spoken.'
'I must bear it all as best I can, I suppose,'
said De Stancy, with melancholy humorousness.
'And I shall treat you as your behaviour shall
seem to deserve,' she said playfully.
'Then I may stay?'
'Yes; I am willing to give you that pleasure, =
if
it is one, in return for the attentions you have shown, and the trouble you
have taken to make my journey pleasant.'
She walked on and discovered Mrs. Goodman near,
and presently the whole party met together. De Stancy did not find himself
again at her side till later in the afternoon, when they had left the immed=
iate
precincts of the castle and decided on a drive to the Konigsstuhl.
The carriage, containing only Mrs. Goodman, was
driven a short way up the winding incline, Paula, her uncle, and Miss De St=
ancy
walking behind under the shadow of the trees. Then Mrs. Goodman called to t=
hem
and asked when they were going to join her.
'We are going to walk up,' said Mr. Power.
Paula seemed seized with a spirit of
boisterousness quite unlike her usual behaviour. 'My aunt may drive up, and=
you
may walk up; but I shall run up,' she said. 'See, here's a way.' She tripped
towards a path through the bushes which, instead of winding like the regular
track, made straight for the summit.
Paula had not the remotest conception of the
actual distance to the top, imagining it to be but a couple of hundred yard=
s at
the outside, whereas it was really nearer a mile, the ascent being uniformly
steep all the way. When her uncle and De Stancy had seen her vanish they st=
ood still,
the former evidently reluctant to forsake the easy ascent for a difficult o=
ne,
though he said, 'We can't let her go alone that way, I suppose.'
'No, of course not,' said De Stancy.
They then followed in the direction taken by
Paula, Charlotte entering the carriage. When Power and De Stancy had ascend=
ed
about fifty yards the former looked back, and dropped off from the pursuit,=
to
return to the easy route, giving his companion a parting hint concerning Pa=
ula.
Whereupon De Stancy went on alone. He soon saw Paula above him in the path,=
which
ascended skyward straight as Jacob's Ladder, but was so overhung by the
brushwood as to be quite shut out from the sun. When he reached her side she
was moving easily upward, apparently enjoying the seclusion which the place
afforded.
'Is not my uncle with you?' she said, on turni=
ng
and seeing him.
'He went back,' said De Stancy.
She replied that it was of no consequence; that
she should meet him at the top, she supposed.
Paula looked up amid the green light which
filtered through the leafage as far as her eyes could stretch. But the top =
did
not appear, and she allowed De Stancy to get in front. 'It did not seem suc=
h a
long way as this, to look at,' she presently said.
He explained that the trees had deceived her a=
s to
the real height, by reason of her seeing the slope foreshortened when she
looked up from the castle. 'Allow me to help you,' he added.
'No, thank you,' said Paula lightly; 'we must =
be
near the top.'
They went on again; but no Konigsstuhl. When n=
ext
De Stancy turned he found that she was sitting down; immediately going back=
he
offered his arm. She took it in silence, declaring that it was no wonder her
uncle did not come that wearisome way, if he had ever been there before.
De Stancy did not explain that Mr. Power had s=
aid
to him at parting, 'There's a chance for you, if you want one,' but at once
went on with the subject begun on the terrace. 'If my behaviour is good, you
will reaffirm the statement made at Carlsruhe?'
'It is not fair to begin that now!' expostulat=
ed
Paula; 'I can only think of getting to the top.'
Her colour deepening by the exertion, he sugge=
sted
that she should sit down again on one of the mossy boulders by the wayside.
Nothing loth she did, De Stancy standing by, and with his cane scratching t=
he
moss from the stone.
'This is rather awkward,' said Paula, in her u=
sual
circumspect way. 'My relatives and your sister will be sure to suspect me of
having arranged this scramble with you.'
'But I know better,' sighed De Stancy. 'I wish=
to
Heaven you had arranged it!'
She was not at the top, but she took advantage=
of
the halt to answer his previous question. 'There are many points on which I
must be satisfied before I can reaffirm anything. Do you not see that you a=
re
mistaken in clinging to this idea?--that you are laying up mortification an=
d disappointment
for yourself?'
'A negative reply from you would be
disappointment, early or late.'
'And you prefer having it late to accepting it
now? If I were a man, I should like to abandon a false scent as soon as
possible.'
'I suppose all that has but one meaning: that =
I am
to go.'
'O no,' she magnanimously assured him, boundin=
g up
from her seat; 'I adhere to my statement that you may stay; though it is tr=
ue
something may possibly happen to make me alter my mind.'
He again offered his arm, and from sheer neces=
sity
she leant upon it as before.
'Grant me but a moment's patience,' he began.<= o:p>
'Captain De Stancy! Is this fair? I am physica=
lly
obliged to hold your arm, so that I MUST listen to what you say!'
'No, it is not fair; 'pon my soul it is not!' =
said
De Stancy. 'I won't say another word.'
He did not; and they clambered on through the
boughs, nothing disturbing the solitude but the rustle of their own footste=
ps
and the singing of birds overhead. They occasionally got a peep at the sky;=
and
whenever a twig hung out in a position to strike Paula's face the gallant
captain bent it aside with his stick. But she did not thank him. Perhaps he=
was
just as well satisfied as if she had done so.
Paula, panting, broke the silence: 'Will you go
on, and discover if the top is near?'
He went on. This time the top was near. When he
returned she was sitting where he had left her among the leaves. 'It is qui=
te
near now,' he told her tenderly, and she took his arm again without a word.
Soon the path changed its nature from a steep and rugged watercourse to a l=
evel
green promenade.
'Thank you, Captain De Stancy,' she said, lett=
ing
go his arm as if relieved.
Before them rose the tower, and at the base th=
ey
beheld two of their friends, Mr. Power being seen above, looking over the
parapet through his glass.
'You will go to the top now?' said De Stancy.<= o:p>
'No, I take no interest in it. My interest has
turned to fatigue. I only want to go home.'
He took her on to where the carriage stood at =
the foot
of the tower, and leaving her with his sister ascended the turret to the to=
p.
The landscape had quite changed from its afternoon appearance, and had beco=
me
rather marvellous than beautiful. The air was charged with a lurid exhalati=
on
that blurred the extensive view. He could see the distant Rhine at its junc=
tion
with the Neckar, shining like a thread of blood through the mist which was
gradually wrapping up the declining sun. The scene had in it something that=
was
more than melancholy, and not much less than tragic; but for De Stancy such
evening effects possessed little meaning. He was engaged in an enterprise t=
hat
taxed all his resources, and had no sentiments to spare for air, earth, or
skies.
'Remarkable scene,' said Power, mildly, at his
elbow.
'Yes; I dare say it is,' said De Stancy. 'Time=
has
been when I should have held forth upon such a prospect, and wondered if its
livid colours shadowed out my own life, et caetera, et caetera. But, begad,=
I
have almost forgotten there's such a thing as Nature, and I care for nothin=
g but
a comfortable life, and a certain woman who does not care for me!... Now sh=
all
we go down?'
It was quite true that De Stancy at the present
period of his existence wished only to escape from the hurly-burly of activ=
e life,
and to win the affection of Paula Power. There were, however, occasions whe=
n a recollection
of his old renunciatory vows would obtrude itself upon him, and tinge his
present with wayward bitterness. So much was this the case that a day or two
after they had arrived at Mainz he could not refrain from making remarks al=
most
prejudicial to his cause, saying to her, 'I am unfortunate in my situation.
There are, unhappily, worldly reasons why I should pretend to love you, eve=
n if
I do not: they are so strong that, though really loving you, perhaps they e=
nter
into my thoughts of you.'
'I don't want to know what such reasons are,' =
said
Paula, with promptness, for it required but little astuteness to discover t=
hat
he alluded to the alienated Wessex home and estates. 'You lack tone,' she g=
ently
added: 'that's why the situation of affairs seems distasteful to you.'
'Yes, I suppose I am ill. And yet I am well
enough.'
These remarks passed under a tree in the public
gardens during an odd minute of waiting for Charlotte and Mrs. Goodman; and=
he
said no more to her in private that day. Few as her words had been he liked
them better than any he had lately received. The conversation was not resum=
ed
till they were gliding 'between the banks that bear the vine,' on board one=
of
the Rhine steamboats, which, like the hotels in this early summer time, were
comparatively free from other English travellers; so that everywhere Paula =
and
her party were received with open arms and cheerful countenances, as among =
the
first swallows of the season.
The saloon of the steamboat was quite empty, t=
he
few passengers being outside; and this paucity of voyagers afforded De Stan=
cy a
roomy opportunity.
Paula saw him approach her, and there appearin=
g in
his face signs that he would begin again on the eternal subject, she seemed=
to
be struck with a sense of the ludicrous.
De Stancy reddened. 'Something seems to amuse
you,' he said.
'It is over,' she replied, becoming serious.
'Was it about me, and this unhappy fever in me=
?'
'If I speak the truth I must say it was.'
'You thought, "Here's that absurd man aga=
in,
going to begin his daily supplication."'
'Not "absurd,"' she said, with empha=
sis;
'because I don't think it is absurd.'
She continued looking through the windows at t=
he
Lurlei Heights under which they were now passing, and he remained with his =
eyes
on her.
'May I stay here with you?' he said at last. 'I
have not had a word with you alone for four-and-twenty hours.'
'You must be cheerful, then.'
'You have said such as that before. I wish you
would say "loving" instead of "cheerful."'
'Yes, I know, I know,' she responded, with
impatient perplexity. 'But why must you think of me--me only? Is there no o=
ther
woman in the world who has the power to make you happy? I am sure there mus=
t be.'
'Perhaps there is; but I have never seen her.'=
'Then look for her; and believe me when I say =
that
you will certainly find her.'
He shook his head.
'Captain De Stancy, I have long felt for you,'=
she
continued, with a frank glance into his face. 'You have deprived yourself t=
oo
long of other women's company. Why not go away for a little time? and when =
you
have found somebody else likely to make you happy, you can meet me again. I
will see you at your father's house, and we will enjoy all the pleasure of =
easy
friendship.'
'Very correct; and very cold, O best of women!=
'
'You are too full of exclamations and transpor=
ts,
I think!'
They stood in silence, Paula apparently much
interested in the manoeuvring of a raft which was passing by. 'Dear Miss Po=
wer,'
he resumed, 'before I go and join your uncle above, let me just ask, Do I s=
tand
any chance at all yet? Is it possible you can never be more pliant than you
have been?'
'You put me out of all patience!'
'But why did you raise my hopes? You should at=
least
pity me after doing that.'
'Yes; it's that again! I unfortunately raised =
your
hopes because I was a fool--was not myself that moment. Now question me no
more. As it is I think you presume too much upon my becoming yours as the
consequence of my having dismissed another.'
'Not on becoming mine, but on listening to me.=
'
'Your argument would be reasonable enough had I
led you to believe I would listen to you--and ultimately accept you; but th=
at I
have not done. I see now that a woman who gives a man an answer one shade l=
ess peremptory
than a harsh negative may be carried beyond her intentions, and out of her =
own
power before she knows it.'
'Chide me if you will; I don't care!'
She looked steadfastly at him with a little
mischief in her eyes. 'You DO care,' she said.
'Then why don't you listen to me? I would not
persevere for a moment longer if it were against the wishes of your family.
Your uncle says it would give him pleasure to see you accept me.'
'Does he say why?' she asked thoughtfully.
'Yes; he takes, of course, a practical view of=
the
matter; he thinks it commends itself so to reason and common sense that the
owner of Stancy Castle should become a member of the De Stancy family.'
'Yes, that's the horrid plague of it,' she sai=
d,
with a nonchalance which seemed to contradict her words. 'It is so dreadful=
ly
reasonable that we should marry. I wish it wasn't!'
'Well, you are younger than I, and perhaps tha=
t's
a natural wish. But to me it seems a felicitous combination not often met w=
ith.
I confess that your interest in our family before you knew me lent a stabil=
ity
to my hopes that otherwise they would not have had.'
'My interest in the De Stancys has not been a
personal interest except in the case of your sister,' she returned. 'It has
been an historical interest only; and is not at all increased by your
existence.'
'And perhaps it is not diminished?'
'No, I am not aware that it is diminished,' she
murmured, as she observed the gliding shore.
'Well, you will allow me to say this, since I =
say
it without reference to your personality or to mine--that the Power and De
Stancy families are the complements to each other; and that, abstractedly, =
they
call earnestly to one another: "How neat and fit a thing for us to joi=
n hands!"'
Paula, who was not prudish when a direct appeal
was made to her common sense, answered with ready candour: 'Yes, from the p=
oint
of view of domestic politics, that undoubtedly is the case. But I hope I am=
not
so calculating as to risk happiness in order to round off a social idea.'
'I hope not; or that I am either. Still the so=
cial
idea exists, and my increased years make its excellence more obvious to me =
than
to you.'
The ice once broken on this aspect of the
question, the subject seemed further to engross her, and she spoke on as if
daringly inclined to venture where she had never anticipated going, deriving
pleasure from the very strangeness of her temerity: 'You mean that in the
fitness of things I ought to become a De Stancy to strengthen my social
position?'
'And that I ought to strengthen mine by allian=
ce
with the heiress of a name so dear to engineering science as Power.'
'Well, we are talking with unexpected franknes=
s.'
'But you are not seriously displeased with me =
for
saying what, after all, one can't help feeling and thinking?'
'No. Only be so good as to leave off going fur=
ther
for the present. Indeed, of the two, I would rather have the other sort of
address. I mean,' she hastily added, 'that what you urge as the result of a
real affection, however unsuitable, I have some remote satisfaction in list=
ening
to--not the least from any reciprocal love on my side, but from a woman's
gratification at being the object of anybody's devotion; for that feeling
towards her is always regarded as a merit in a woman's eye, and taken as a
kindness by her, even when it is at the expense of her convenience.'
She had said, voluntarily or involuntarily, be=
tter
things than he expected, and perhaps too much in her own opinion, for she
hardly gave him an opportunity of replying.
They passed St. Goar and Boppard, and when
steering round the sharp bend of the river just beyond the latter place De
Stancy met her again, exclaiming, 'You left me very suddenly.'
'You must make allowances, please,' she said; =
'I
have always stood in need of them.'
'Then you shall always have them.'
'I don't doubt it,' she said quickly; but Paula
was not to be caught again, and kept close to the side of her aunt while th=
ey
glided past Brauback and Oberlahnstein. Approaching Coblenz her aunt said,
'Paula, let me suggest that you be not so much alone with Captain De Stancy=
.'
'And why?' said Paula quietly.
'You'll have plenty of offers if you want them,
without taking trouble,' said the direct Mrs. Goodman. 'Your existence is
hardly known to the world yet, and Captain De Stancy is too near middle-age=
for
a girl like you.' Paula did not reply to either of these remarks, being
seemingly so interested in Ehrenbreitstein's heights as not to hear them.
It was midnight at Coblenz, and the travellers=
had
retired to rest in their respective apartments, overlooking the river. Find=
ing
that there was a moon shining, Paula leant out of her window. The tall rock=
of Ehrenbreitstein
on the opposite shore was flooded with light, and a belated steamer was dra=
wing
up to the landing-stage, where it presently deposited its passengers.
'We should have come by the last boat, so as to
have been touched into romance by the rays of this moon, like those happy
people,' said a voice.
She looked towards the spot whence the voice
proceeded, which was a window quite near at hand. De Stancy was smoking out=
side
it, and she became aware that the words were addressed to her.
'You left me very abruptly,' he continued.
Paula's instinct of caution impelled her to sp=
eak.
'The windows are all open,' she murmured. 'Ple=
ase
be careful.'
'There are no English in this hotel except
ourselves. I thank you for what you said to-day.'
'Please be careful,' she repeated.
'My dear Miss P----'
'Don't mention names, and don't continue the
subject!'
'Life and death perhaps depend upon my renewin=
g it
soon!'
She shut the window decisively, possibly wonde=
ring
if De Stancy had drunk a glass or two of Steinberg more than was good for h=
im,
and saw no more of moonlit Ehrenbreitstein that night, and heard no more of=
De Stancy.
But it was some time before he closed his window, and previous to doing so =
saw
a dark form at an adjoining one on the other side.
It was Mr. Power, also taking the air. 'Well, =
what
luck to-day?' said Power.
'A decided advance,' said De Stancy.
None of the speakers knew that a little person=
in
the room above heard all this out-of-window talk. Charlotte, though not loo=
king
out, had left her casement open; and what reached her ears set her wonderin=
g as
to the result.
It is not necessary to detail in full De Stanc=
y's
imperceptible advances with Paula during that northward journey--so slowly
performed that it seemed as if she must perceive there was a special reason=
for
delaying her return to England. At Cologne one day he conveniently overtook=
her
when she was ascending the hotel staircase. Seeing him, she went to the win=
dow
of the entresol landing, which commanded a view of the Rhine, meaning that =
he
should pass by to his room.
'I have been very uneasy,' began the captain,
drawing up to her side; 'and I am obliged to trouble you sooner than I mean=
t to
do.'
Paula turned her eyes upon him with some curio=
sity
as to what was coming of this respectful demeanour. 'Indeed!' she said.
He then informed her that he had been overhaul=
ing
himself since they last talked, and had some reason to blame himself for
bluntness and general want of euphemism; which, although he had meant nothi=
ng
by it, must have been very disagreeable to her. But he had always aimed at =
sincerity,
particularly as he had to deal with a lady who despised hypocrisy and was a=
bove
flattery. However, he feared he might have carried his disregard for
conventionality too far. But from that time he would promise that she should
find an alteration by which he hoped he might return the friendship at leas=
t of
a young lady he honoured more than any other in the world.
This retrograde movement was evidently unexpec=
ted
by the honoured young lady herself. After being so long accustomed to rebuke
him for his persistence there was novelty in finding him do the work for he=
r.
The guess might even have been hazarded that there was also disappointment.=
Still looking across the river at the bridge of
boats which stretched to the opposite suburb of Deutz: 'You need not blame
yourself,' she said, with the mildest conceivable manner, 'I can make
allowances. All I wish is that you should remain under no misapprehension.'=
'I comprehend,' he said thoughtfully. 'But sin=
ce,
by a perverse fate, I have been thrown into your company, you could hardly
expect me to feel and act otherwise.'
'Perhaps not.'
'Since I have so much reason to be dissatisfied
with myself,' he added, 'I cannot refrain from criticizing elsewhere to a
slight extent, and thinking I have to do with an ungenerous person.'
'Why ungenerous?'
'In this way; that since you cannot love me, y=
ou
see no reason at all for trying to do so in the fact that I so deeply love =
you;
hence I say that you are rather to be distinguished by your wisdom than by =
your
humanity.'
'It comes to this, that if your words are all
seriously meant it is much to be regretted we ever met,' she murmured. 'Now
will you go on to where you were going, and leave me here?'
Without a remonstrance he went on, saying with
dejected whimsicality as he smiled back upon her, 'You show a wisdom which =
for
so young a lady is perfectly surprising.'
It was resolved to prolong the journey by a
circuit through Holland and Belgium; but nothing changed in the attitudes of
Paula and Captain De Stancy till one afternoon during their stay at the Hag=
ue,
when they had gone for a drive down to Scheveningen by the long straight av=
enue
of chestnuts and limes, under whose boughs tufts of wild parsley waved their
flowers, except where the buitenplaatsen of retired merchants blazed forth =
with
new paint of every hue. On mounting the dune which kept out the sea behind =
the
village a brisk breeze greeted their faces, and a fine sand blew up into th=
eir
eyes. De Stancy screened Paula with his umbrella as they stood with their b=
acks
to the wind, looking down on the red roofs of the village within the sea wa=
ll,
and pulling at the long grass which by some means found nourishment in the
powdery soil of the dune.
When they had discussed the scene he continued,
'It always seems to me that this place reflects the average mood of human l=
ife.
I mean, if we strike the balance between our best moods and our worst we sh=
all
find our average condition to stand at about the same pitch in emotional co=
lour
as these sandy dunes and this grey scene do in landscape.'
Paula contended that he ought not to measure
everybody by himself.
'I have no other standard,' said De Stancy; 'a=
nd
if my own is wrong, it is you who have made it so. Have you thought any mor=
e of
what I said at Cologne?'
'I don't quite remember what you did say at
Cologne?'
'My dearest life!' Paula's eyes rounding somew=
hat,
he corrected the exclamation. 'My dear Miss Power, I will, without reserve,
tell it to you all over again.'
'Pray spare yourself the effort,' she said dri=
ly.
'What has that one fatal step betrayed me into!... Do you seriously mean to=
say
that I am the cause of your life being coloured like this scene of grass and
sand? If so, I have committed a very great fault!'
'It can be nullified by a word.'
'Such a word!'
'It is a very short one.'
'There's a still shorter one more to the purpo=
se.
Frankly, I believe you suspect me to have some latent and unowned inclinati=
on
for you--that you think speaking is the only point upon which I am backward=
....
There now, it is raining; what shall we do? I thought this wind meant rain.=
'
'Do? Stand on here, as we are standing now.'
'Your sister and my aunt are gone under the wa=
ll.
I think we will walk towards them.'
'You had made me hope,' he continued (his thou=
ghts
apparently far away from the rain and the wind and the possibility of shelt=
er),
'that you might change your mind, and give to your original promise a liber=
al meaning
in renewing it. In brief I mean this, that you would allow it to merge into=
an
engagement. Don't think it presumptuous,' he went on, as he held the umbrel=
la
over her; 'I am sure any man would speak as I do. A distinct permission to =
be
with you on probation--that was what you gave me at Carlsruhe: and flinging
casuistry on one side, what does that mean?'
'That I am artistically interested in your fam=
ily
history.' And she went out from the umbrella to the shelter of the hotel wh=
ere
she found her aunt and friend.
De Stancy could not but feel that his persiste=
nce
had made some impression. It was hardly possible that a woman of independent
nature would have tolerated his dangling at her side so long, if his presen=
ce were
wholly distasteful to her. That evening when driving back to the Hague by a
devious route through the dense avenues of the Bosch he conversed with her
again; also the next day when standing by the Vijver looking at the swans; =
and
in each case she seemed to have at least got over her objection to being se=
en
talking to him, apart from the remainder of the travelling party.
Scenes very similar to those at Scheveningen a=
nd
on the Rhine were enacted at later stages of their desultory journey. Mr. P=
ower
had proposed to cross from Rotterdam; but a stiff north-westerly breeze pre=
vailing
Paula herself became reluctant to hasten back to Stancy Castle. Turning
abruptly they made for Brussels.
It was here, while walking homeward from the P=
ark
one morning, that her uncle for the first time alluded to the situation of
affairs between herself and her admirer. The captain had gone up the Rue Ro=
yale
with his sister and Mrs. Goodman, either to show them the house in which the
ball took place on the eve of Quatre Bras or some other site of interest, a=
nd the
two Powers were thus left to themselves. To reach their hotel they passed i=
nto
a little street sloping steeply down from the Rue Royale to the Place Ste. =
Gudule,
where, at the moment of nearing the cathedral, a wedding party emerged from=
the
porch and crossed in front of uncle and niece.
'I hope,' said the former, in his passionless =
way,
'we shall see a performance of this sort between you and Captain De Stancy,=
not
so very long after our return to England.'
'Why?' asked Paula, following the bride with h=
er
eyes.
'It is diplomatically, as I may say, such a hi=
ghly
correct thing--such an expedient thing--such an obvious thing to all eyes.'=
'Not altogether to mine, uncle,' she returned.=
''Twould be a thousand pities to let slip such=
a
neat offer of adjusting difficulties as accident makes you in this. You cou=
ld
marry more tin, that's true; but you don't want it, Paula. You want a name,=
and
historic what-do-they-call-it. Now by coming to terms with the captain you'=
ll
be Lady De Stancy in a few years: and a title which is useless to him, and a
fortune and castle which are in some degree useless to you, will make a
splendid whole useful to you both.'
'I've thought it over--quite,' she answered. '=
And
I quite see what the advantages are. But how if I don't care one atom for
artistic completeness and a splendid whole; and do care very much to do wha=
t my
fancy inclines me to do?'
'Then I should say that, taking a comprehensive
view of human nature of all colours, your fancy is about the silliest fancy
existing on this earthly ball.'
Paula laughed indifferently, and her uncle felt
that, persistent as was his nature, he was the wrong man to influence her by
argument. Paula's blindness to the advantages of the match, if she were bli=
nd,
was that of a woman who wouldn't see, and the best argument was silence.
This was in some measure proved the next morni=
ng.
When Paula made her appearance Mrs. Goodman said, holding up an envelope:
'Here's a letter from Mr. Somerset.'
'Dear me,' said she blandly, though a quick li=
ttle
flush ascended her cheek. 'I had nearly forgotten him!'
The letter on being read contained a request as
brief as it was unexpected. Having prepared all the drawings necessary for =
the rebuilding,
Somerset begged leave to resign the superintendence of the work into other
hands.
'His letter caps your remarks very aptly,' said
Mrs. Goodman, with secret triumph. 'You are nearly forgetting him, and he is
quite forgetting you.'
'Yes,' said Paula, affecting carelessness. 'We=
ll,
I must get somebody else, I suppose.'
They next deviated to Amiens, intending to stay
there only one night; but their schemes were deranged by the sudden illness=
of
Charlotte. She had been looking unwell for a fortnight past, though, with h=
er
usual self-abnegation, she had made light of her ailment. Even now she decl=
ared
she could go on; but this was said over-night, and in the morning it was
abundantly evident that to move her was highly unadvisable. Still she was n=
ot
in serious danger, and having called in a physician, who pronounced rest
indispensable, they prepared to remain in the old Picard capital two or thr=
ee
additional days. Mr. Power thought he would take advantage of the halt to r=
un
up to Paris, leaving De Stancy in charge of the ladies.
In more ways than in the illness of Charlotte =
this
day was the harbinger of a crisis.
It was a summer evening without a cloud. Charl=
otte
had fallen asleep in her bed, and Paula, who had been sitting by her, looked
out into the Place St. Denis, which the hotel commanded. The lawn of the sq=
uare
was all ablaze with red and yellow clumps of flowers, the acacia trees were=
brightly
green, the sun was soft and low. Tempted by the prospect Paula went and put=
on
her hat; and arousing her aunt, who was nodding in the next room, to request
her to keep an ear on Charlotte's bedroom, Paula descended into the Rue de
Noyon alone, and entered the green enclosure.
While she walked round, two or three little ch=
ildren
in charge of a nurse trundled a large variegated ball along the grass, and =
it
rolled to Paula's feet. She smiled at them, and endeavoured to return it by=
a slight
kick. The ball rose in the air, and passing over the back of a seat which s=
tood
under one of the trees, alighted in the lap of a gentleman hitherto screene=
d by
its boughs. The back and shoulders proved to be those of De Stancy. He turn=
ed
his head, jumped up, and was at her side in an instant, a nettled flush hav=
ing
meanwhile crossed Paula's face.
'I thought you had gone to the Hotoie Promenad=
e,'
she said hastily. 'I am going to the cathedral;' (obviously uttered lest it
should seem that she had seen him from the hotel windows, and entered the
square for his company).
'Of course: there is nothing else to go to
here--even for Roundheads.'
'If you mean ME by that, you are very much
mistaken,' said she testily.
'The Roundheads were your ancestors, and they
knocked down my ancestors' castle, and broke the stained glass and statuary=
of
the cathedral,' said De Stancy slily; 'and now you go not only to a cathedr=
al,
but to a service of the unreformed Church in it.'
'In a foreign country it is different from hom=
e,'
said Paula in extenuation; 'and you of all men should not reproach me for t=
ergiversation--when
it has been brought about by--by my sympathies with--'
'With the troubles of the De Stancys.'
'Well, you know what I mean,' she answered, wi=
th
considerable anxiety not to be misunderstood; 'my liking for the old castle,
and what it contains, and what it suggests. I declare I will not explain to=
you
further--why should I? I am not answerable to you!'
Paula's show of petulance was perhaps not whol=
ly
because she had appeared to seek him, but also from being reminded by his
criticism that Mr. Woodwell's prophecy on her weakly succumbing to surround=
ings
was slowly working out its fulfilment.
She moved forward towards the gate at the furt=
her
end of the square, beyond which the cathedral lay at a very short distance.
Paula did not turn her head, and De Stancy strolled slowly after her down t=
he
Rue du College. The day happened to be one of the church festivals, and peo=
ple were
a second time flocking into the lofty monument of Catholicism at its meridi=
an.
Paula vanished into the porch with the rest; and, almost catching the wicke=
t as
it flew back from her hand, he too entered the high-shouldered edifice--an
edifice doomed to labour under the melancholy misfortune of seeming only ha=
lf
as vast as it really is, and as truly as whimsically described by Heine as a
monument built with the strength of Titans, and decorated with the patience=
of
dwarfs.
De Stancy walked up the nave, so close beside =
her
as to touch her dress; but she would not recognize his presence; the darkne=
ss
that evening had thrown over the interior, which was scarcely broken by the=
few
candles dotted about, being a sufficient excuse if she required one.
'Miss Power,' De Stancy said at last, 'I am co=
ming
to the service with you.'
She received the intelligence without surprise,
and he knew she had been conscious of him all the way.
Paula went no further than the middle of the n=
ave,
where there was hardly a soul, and took a chair beside a solitary rushlight
which looked amid the vague gloom of the inaccessible architecture like a
lighthouse at the foot of tall cliffs.
He put his hand on the next chair, saying, 'Do=
you
object?'
'Not at all,' she replied; and he sat down.
'Suppose we go into the choir,' said De Stancy
presently. 'Nobody sits out here in the shadows.'
'This is sufficiently near, and we have a cand=
le,'
Paula murmured.
Before another minute had passed the candle fl=
ame
began to drown in its own grease, slowly dwindled, and went out.
'I suppose that means I am to go into the choi=
r in
spite of myself. Heaven is on your side,' said Paula. And rising they left
their now totally dark corner, and joined the noiseless shadowy figures who=
in twos
and threes kept passing up the nave.
Within the choir there was a blaze of light,
partly from the altar, and more particularly from the image of the saint wh=
om
they had assembled to honour, which stood, surrounded by candles and a thic=
ket
of flowering plants, some way in advance of the foot-pace. A secondary radi=
ance
from the same source was reflected upward into their faces by the polished =
marble
pavement, except when interrupted by the shady forms of the officiating
priests.
When it was over and the people were moving of=
f,
De Stancy and his companion went towards the saint, now besieged by numbers=
of
women anxious to claim the respective flower-pots they had lent for the dec=
oration.
As each struggled for her own, seized and marched off with it, Paula
remarked--'This rather spoils the solemn effect of what has gone before.'
'I perceive you are a harsh Puritan.'
'No, Captain De Stancy! Why will you speak so?=
I
am far too much otherwise. I have grown to be so much of your way of thinki=
ng,
that I accuse myself, and am accused by others, of being worldly, and half-=
and-half,
and other dreadful things--though it isn't that at all.'
They were now walking down the nave, preceded =
by
the sombre figures with the pot flowers, who were just visible in the rays =
that
reached them through the distant choir screen at their back; while above the
grey night sky and stars looked in upon them through the high clerestory wi=
ndows.
'Do be a little MORE of my way of thinking!'
rejoined De Stancy passionately.
'Don't, don't speak,' she said rapidly. 'There=
are
Milly and Champreau!'
Milly was one of the maids, and Champreau the
courier and valet who had been engaged by Abner Power. They had been sitting
behind the other pair throughout the service, and indeed knew rather more of
the relations between Paula and De Stancy than Paula knew herself.
Hastening on the two latter went out, and walk=
ed
together silently up the short street. The Place St. Denis was now lit up,
lights shone from the hotel windows, and the world without the cathedral ha=
d so
far advanced in nocturnal change that it seemed as if they had been gone fr=
om
it for hours. Within the hotel they found the change even greater than with=
out.
Mrs. Goodman met them half-way on the stairs.
'Poor Charlotte is worse,' she said. 'Quite
feverish, and almost delirious.'
Paula reproached herself with 'Why did I go aw=
ay!'
The common interest of De Stancy and Paula in =
the
sufferer at once reproduced an ease between them as nothing else could have
done. The physician was again called in, who prescribed certain draughts, a=
nd recommended
that some one should sit up with her that night. If Paula allowed
demonstrations of love to escape her towards anybody it was towards Charlot=
te,
and her instinct was at once to watch by the invalid's couch herself, at le=
ast
for some hours, it being deemed unnecessary to call in a regular nurse unle=
ss
she should sicken further.
'But I will sit with her,' said De Stancy. 'Su=
rely
you had better go to bed?' Paula would not be persuaded; and thereupon De
Stancy, saying he was going into the town for a short time before retiring,
left the room.
The last omnibus returned from the last train,=
and
the inmates of the hotel retired to rest. Meanwhile a telegram had arrived =
for
Captain De Stancy; but as he had not yet returned it was put in his bedroom,
with directions to the night-porter to remind him of its arrival.
Paula sat on with the sleeping Charlotte.
Presently she retired into the adjacent sitting-room with a book, and flung
herself on a couch, leaving the door open between her and her charge, in ca=
se
the latter should awake. While she sat a new breathing seemed to mingle with
the regular sound of Charlotte's that reached her through the doorway: she
turned quickly, and saw her uncle standing behind her.
'O--I thought you were in Paris!' said Paula.<= o:p>
'I have just come from there--I could not stay.
Something has occurred to my mind about this affair.' His strangely marked
visage, now more noticeable from being worn with fatigue, had a spectral ef=
fect
by the night-light.
'What affair?'
'This marriage.... Paula, De Stancy is a good
fellow enough, but you must not accept him just yet.'
Paula did not answer.
'Do you hear? You must not accept him,' repeat=
ed
her uncle, 'till I have been to England and examined into matters. I start =
in
an hour's time--by the ten-minutes-past-two train.'
'This is something very new!'
'Yes--'tis new,' he murmured, relapsing into h=
is
Dutch manner. 'You must not accept him till something is made clear to
me--something about a queer relationship. I have come from Paris to say so.=
'
'Uncle, I don't understand this. I am my own
mistress in all matters, and though I don't mind telling you I have by no m=
eans
resolved to accept him, the question of her marriage is especially a woman's
own affair.'
Her uncle stood irresolute for a moment, as if=
his
convictions were more than his proofs. 'I say no more at present,' he murmu=
red.
'Can I do anything for you about a new architect?'
'Appoint Havill.'
'Very well. Good night.' And then he left her.=
In
a short time she heard him go down and out of the house to cross to England=
by
the morning steamboat.
With a little shrug, as if she resented his
interference in so delicate a point, she settled herself down anew to her b=
ook.
One, two, three hours passed, when Charlotte
awoke, but soon slumbered sweetly again. Milly had stayed up for some time =
lest
her mistress should require anything; but the girl being sleepy Paula sent =
her
to bed.
It was a lovely night of early summer, and dra=
wing
aside the window curtains she looked out upon the flowers and trees of the
Place, now quite visible, for it was nearly three o'clock, and the morning
light was growing strong. She turned her face upwards. Except in the case o=
f one
bedroom all the windows on that side of the hotel were in darkness. The room
being rather close she left the casement ajar, and opening the door walked =
out
upon the staircase landing. A number of caged canaries were kept here, and =
she
observed in the dim light of the landing lamp how snugly their heads were a=
ll
tucked in. On returning to the sitting-room again she could hear that Charl=
otte
was still slumbering, and this encouraging circumstance disposed her to go =
to
bed herself. Before, however, she had made a move a gentle tap came to the
door.
Paula opened it. There, in the faint light by =
the
sleeping canaries, stood Charlotte's brother.
'How is she now?' he whispered.
'Sleeping soundly,' said Paula.
'That's a blessing. I have not been to bed. I =
came
in late, and have now come down to know if I had not better take your place=
?'
'Nobody is required, I think. But you can judge
for yourself.'
Up to this point they had conversed in the doo=
rway
of the sitting-room, which De Stancy now entered, crossing it to Charlotte's
apartment. He came out from the latter at a pensive pace.
'She is doing well,' he said gently. 'You have
been very good to her. Was the chair I saw by her bed the one you have been
sitting in all night?'
'I sometimes sat there; sometimes here.'
'I wish I could have sat beside you, and held =
your
hand--I speak frankly.'
'To excess.'
'And why not? I do not wish to hide from you a=
ny
corner of my breast, futile as candour may be. Just Heaven! for what reason=
is
it ordered that courtship, in which soldiers are usually so successful, sho=
uld
be a failure with me?'
'Your lack of foresight chiefly in indulging
feelings that were not encouraged. That, and my uncle's indiscreet permissi=
on
to you to travel with us, have precipitated our relations in a way that I c=
ould
neither foresee nor avoid, though of late I have had apprehensions that it
might come to this. You vex and disturb me by such words of regret.'
'Not more than you vex and disturb me. But you
cannot hate the man who loves you so devotedly?'
'I have said before I don't hate you. I repeat
that I am interested in your family and its associations because of its
complete contrast with my own.' She might have added, 'And I am additionally
interested just now because my uncle has forbidden me to be.'
'But you don't care enough for me personally to
save my happiness.'
Paula hesitated; from the moment De Stancy
confronted her she had felt that this nocturnal conversation was to be a gr=
ave
business. The cathedral clock struck three. 'I have thought once or twice,'=
she
said with a naivete unusual in her, 'that if I could be sure of giving peac=
e and
joy to your mind by becoming your wife, I ought to endeavour to do so and m=
ake
the best of it--merely as a charity. But I believe that feeling is a mistak=
e:
your discontent is constitutional, and would go on just the same whether I
accepted you or no. My refusal of you is purely an imaginary grievance.'
'Not if I think otherwise.'
'O no,' she murmured, with a sense that the pl=
ace
was very lonely and silent. 'If you think it otherwise, I suppose it is
otherwise.'
'My darling; my Paula!' he said, seizing her h=
and.
'Do promise me something. You must indeed!'
'Captain De Stancy!' she said, trembling and
turning away. 'Captain De Stancy!' She tried to withdraw her fingers, then
faced him, exclaiming in a firm voice a third time, 'Captain De Stancy! let=
go
my hand; for I tell you I will not marry you!'
'Good God!' he cried, dropping her hand. 'What
have I driven you to say in your anger! Retract it--O, retract it!'
'Don't urge me further, as you value my good
opinion!'
'To lose you now, is to lose you for ever. Com=
e,
please answer!'
'I won't be compelled!' she interrupted with v=
ehemence.
'I am resolved not to be yours--not to give you an answer to-night! Never,
never will I be reasoned out of my intention; and I say I won't answer you
to-night! I should never have let you be so much with me but for pity of yo=
u;
and now it is come to this!'
She had sunk into a chair, and now leaned upon=
her
hand, and buried her face in her handkerchief. He had never caused her any =
such
agitation as this before.
'You stab me with your words,' continued De
Stancy. 'The experience I have had with you is without parallel, Paula. It
seems like a distracting dream.'
'I won't be hurried by anybody!'
'That may mean anything,' he said, with a
perplexed, passionate air. 'Well, mine is a fallen family, and we must abide
caprices. Would to Heaven it were extinguished!'
'What was extinguished?' she murmured.
'The De Stancys. Here am I, a homeless wandere=
r,
living on my pay; in the next room lies she, my sister, a poor little fragi=
le
feverish invalid with no social position--and hardly a friend. We two repre=
sent
the De Stancy line; and I wish we were behind the iron door of our old vaul=
t at
Sleeping-Green. It can be seen by looking at us and our circumstances that =
we
cry for the earth and oblivion!'
'Captain De Stancy, it is not like that, I ass=
ure
you,' sympathized Paula with damp eyelashes. 'I love Charlotte too dearly f=
or
you to talk like that, indeed. I don't want to marry you exactly: and yet I
cannot bring myself to say I permanently reject you, because I remember you=
are
Charlotte's brother, and do not wish to be the cause of any morbid feelings=
in
you which would ruin your future prospects.'
'My dear life, what is it you doubt in me? Your
earnestness not to do me harm makes it all the harder for me to think of ne=
ver
being more than a friend.'
'Well, I have not positively refused!' she
exclaimed, in mixed tones of pity and distress. 'Let me think it over a lit=
tle
while. It is not generous to urge so strongly before I can collect my thoug=
hts,
and at this midnight time!'
'Darling, forgive it!--There, I'll say no more=
.'
He then offered to sit up in her place for the
remainder of the night; but Paula declined, assuring him that she meant to =
stay
only another half-hour, after which nobody would be necessary.
He had already crossed the landing to ascend to
his room, when she stepped after him, and asked if he had received his
telegram.
'No,' said De Stancy. 'Nor have I heard of one=
.'
Paula explained that it was put in his room, t=
hat
he might see it the moment he came in.
'It matters very little,' he replied, 'since I
shall see it now. Good-night, dearest: good-night!' he added tenderly.
She gravely shook her head. 'It is not for you=
to
express yourself like that,' she answered. 'Good-night, Captain De Stancy.'=
He went up the stairs to the second floor, and=
Paula
returned to the sitting-room. Having left a light burning De Stancy proceed=
ed
to look for the telegram, and found it on the carpet, where it had been swe=
pt
from the table. When he had opened the sheet a sudden solemnity overspread =
his
face. He sat down, rested his elbow on the table, and his forehead on his
hands.
Captain De Stancy did not remain thus long. Ri=
sing
he went softly downstairs. The grey morning had by this time crept into the
hotel, rendering a light no longer necessary. The old clock on the landing =
was within
a few minutes of four, and the birds were hopping up and down their cages, =
and
whetting their bills. He tapped at the sitting-room, and she came instantly=
.
'But I told you it was not necessary--' she be=
gan.
'Yes, but the telegram,' he said hurriedly. 'I
wanted to let you know first that--it is very serious. Paula--my father is
dead! He died suddenly yesterday, and I must go at once... . About
Charlotte--and how to let her know--'
'She must not be told yet,' said Paula.... 'Sir
William dead!'
'You think we had better not tell her just yet=
?'
said De Stancy anxiously. 'That's what I want to consult you about, if
you--don't mind my intruding.'
'Certainly I don't,' she said.
They continued the discussion for some time; a=
nd
it was decided that Charlotte should not be informed of what had happened t=
ill
the doctor had been consulted, Paula promising to account for her brother's=
departure.
De Stancy then prepared to leave for England by
the first morning train, and roused the night-porter, which functionary, ha=
ving
packed off Abner Power, was discovered asleep on the sofa of the landlord's
parlour. At half-past five Paula, who in the interim had been pensively sit=
ting
with her hand to her chin, quite forgetting that she had meant to go to bed=
, heard
wheels without, and looked from the window. A fly had been brought round, a=
nd
one of the hotel servants was in the act of putting up a portmanteau with De
Stancy's initials upon it. A minute afterwards the captain came to her door=
.
'I thought you had not gone to bed, after all.=
'
'I was anxious to see you off,' said she, 'sin=
ce
neither of the others is awake; and you wished me not to rouse them.'
'Quite right, you are very good;' and lowering=
his
voice: 'Paula, it is a sad and solemn time with me. Will you grant me one
word--not on our last sad subject, but on the previous one--before I part w=
ith
you to go and bury my father?'
'Certainly,' she said, in gentle accents.
'Then have you thought over my position? Will =
you
at last have pity upon my loneliness by becoming my wife?'
Paula sighed deeply; and said, 'Yes.'
'Your hand upon it.'
She gave him her hand: he held it a few moment=
s,
then raised it to his lips, and was gone.
When Mrs. Goodman rose she was informed of Sir
William's death, and of his son's departure.
'Then the captain is now Sir William De Stancy=
!'
she exclaimed. 'Really, Paula, since you would be Lady De Stancy by marrying
him, I almost think--'
'Hush, aunt!'
'Well; what are you writing there?'
'Only entering in my diary that I accepted him
this morning for pity's sake, in spite of Uncle Abner. They'll say it was f=
or
the title, but knowing it was not I don't care.'
On the evening of the fourth day after the par=
ting
between Paula and De Stancy at Amiens, when it was quite dark in the Markton
highway, except in so far as the shades were broken by the faint lights from
the adjacent town, a young man knocked softly at the door of Myrtle Villa, =
and
asked if Captain De Stancy had arrived from abroad. He was answered in the =
affirmative,
and in a few moments the captain himself came from an adjoining room.
Seeing that his visitor was Dare, from whom, as
will be remembered, he had parted at Carlsruhe in no very satisfied mood, De
Stancy did not ask him into the house, but putting on his hat went out with=
the
youth into the public road. Here they conversed as they walked up and down,
Dare beginning by alluding to the death of Sir William, the suddenness of w=
hich
he feared would delay Captain De Stancy's overtures for the hand of Miss Po=
wer.
'No,' said De Stancy moodily. 'On the contrary=
, it
has precipitated matters.'
'She has accepted you, captain?'
'We are engaged to be married.'
'Well done. I congratulate you.' The speaker w=
as
about to proceed to further triumphant notes on the intelligence, when cast=
ing
his eye upon the upper windows of the neighbouring villa, he appeared to
reflect on what was within them, and checking himself, 'When is the funeral=
to
be?'
'To-morrow,' De Stancy replied. 'It would be
advisable for you not to come near me during the day.'
'I will not. I will be a mere spectator. The o=
ld
vault of our ancestors will be opened, I presume, captain?'
'It is opened.'
'I must see it--and ruminate on what we once w=
ere:
it is a thing I like doing. The ghosts of our dead--Ah, what was that?'
'I heard nothing.'
'I thought I heard a footstep behind us.'
They stood still; but the road appeared to be
quite deserted, and likely to continue so for the remainder of that evening.
They walked on again, speaking in somewhat lower tones than before.
'Will the late Sir William's death delay the
wedding much?' asked the younger man curiously.
De Stancy languidly answered that he did not s= ee why it should do so. Some little time would of course intervene, but, since there were several reasons for despatch, he should urge Miss Power and her = relatives to consent to a virtually private wedding which might take place at a very early date; and he thought there would be a general consent on that point.<= o:p>
'There are indeed reasons for despatch. Your
title, Sir William, is a new safeguard over her heart, certainly; but there=
is
many a slip, and you must not lose her now.'
'I don't mean to lose her!' said De Stancy. 'S=
he
is too good to be lost. And yet--since she gave her promise I have felt more
than once that I would not engage in such a struggle again. It was not a th=
ing
of my beginning, though I was easily enough inflamed to follow. But I will =
not lose
her now.--For God's sake, keep that secret you have so foolishly pricked on
your breast. It fills me with remorse to think what she with her scrupulous
notions will feel, should she ever know of you and your history, and your
relation to me!'
Dare made no reply till after a silence, when =
he
said, 'Of course mum's the word till the wedding is over.'
'And afterwards--promise that for her sake?'
'And probably afterwards.'
Sir William De Stancy drew a dejected breath at
the tone of the answer. They conversed but a little while longer, the capta=
in
hinting to Dare that it was time for them to part; not, however, before he =
had
uttered a hope that the young man would turn over a new leaf and engage in =
some
regular pursuit. Promising to call upon him at his lodgings De Stancy went
indoors, and Dare briskly retraced his steps to Markton.
When his footfall had died away, and the door =
of
the house opposite had been closed, another man appeared upon the scene. He
came gently out of the hedge opposite Myrtle Villa, which he paused to rega=
rd
for a moment. But instead of going townward, he turned his back upon the
distant sprinkle of lights, and did not check his walk till he reached the
lodge of Stancy Castle.
Here he pulled the wooden acorn beside the arc=
h,
and when the porter appeared his light revealed the pedestrian's countenanc=
e to
be scathed, as by lightning.
'I beg your pardon, Mr. Power,' said the porter
with sudden deference as he opened the wicket. 'But we wasn't expecting any=
body
to-night, as there is nobody at home, and the servants on board wages; and
that's why I was so long a-coming.'
'No matter, no matter,' said Abner Power. 'I h=
ave
returned on sudden business, and have not come to stay longer than to-night.
Your mistress is not with me. I meant to sleep in Markton, but have changed=
my
mind.'
Mr. Power had brought no luggage with him beyo=
nd a
small hand-bag, and as soon as a room could be got ready he retired to bed.=
The next morning he passed in idly walking abo=
ut
the grounds and observing the progress which had been made in the works--now
temporarily suspended. But that inspection was less his object in remaining
there than meditation, was abundantly evident. When the bell began to toll =
from
the neighbouring church to announce the burial of Sir William De Stancy, he
passed through the castle, and went on foot in the direction indicated by t=
he
sound. Reaching the margin of the churchyard he looked over the wall, his
presence being masked by bushes and a group of idlers from Markton who stoo=
d in
front. Soon a funeral procession of simple--almost meagre and
threadbare--character arrived, but Power did not join the people who follow=
ed
the deceased into the church. De Stancy was the chief mourner and only rela=
tion
present, the other followers of the broken-down old man being an ancient
lawyer, a couple of faithful servants, and a bowed villager who had been pa=
ge
to the late Sir William's father--the single living person left in the pari=
sh
who remembered the De Stancys as people of wealth and influence, and who fi=
rmly
believed that family would come into its rights ere long, and oust the unci=
rcumcized
Philistines who had taken possession of the old lands.
The funeral was over, and the rusty carriages =
had
gone, together with many of the spectators; but Power lingered in the
churchyard as if he were looking for some one. At length he entered the chu=
rch,
passing by the cavernous pitfall with descending steps which stood open out=
side
the wall of the De Stancy aisle. Arrived within he scanned the few idlers of
antiquarian tastes who had remained after the service to inspect the monume=
nts;
and beside a recumbent effigy--the effigy in alabaster whose features Paula=
had
wiped with her handkerchief when there with Somerset--he beheld the man it =
had
been his business to find. Abner Power went up and touched this person, who=
was
Dare, on the shoulder.
'Mr. Power--so it is!' said the youth. 'I have=
not
seen you since we met in Carlsruhe.'
'You shall see all the more of me now to make =
up
for it. Shall we walk round the church?'
'With all my heart,' said Dare.
They walked round; and Abner Power began in a
sardonic recitative: 'I am a traveller, and it takes a good deal to astonish
me. So I neither swooned nor screamed when I learnt a few hours ago what I =
had
suspected for a week, that you are of the house and lineage of Jacob.' He f=
lung
a nod towards the canopied tombs as he spoke.--'In other words, that you ar=
e of
the same breed as the De Stancys.'
Dare cursorily glanced round. Nobody was near
enough to hear their words, the nearest persons being two workmen just outs=
ide,
who were bringing their tools up from the vault preparatively to closing it=
.
Having observed this Dare replied, 'I, too, am=
a
traveller; and neither do I swoon nor scream at what you say. But I assure =
you
that if you busy yourself about me, you may truly be said to busy yourself
about nothing.'
'Well, that's a matter of opinion. Now, there'=
s no
scarlet left in my face to blush for men's follies; but as an alliance is a=
foot
between my niece and the present Sir William, this must be looked into.'
Dare reflectively said 'O,' as he observed thr=
ough
the window one of the workmen bring up a candle from the vault and extingui=
sh
it with his fingers.
'The marriage is desirable, and your relations=
hip
in itself is of no consequence,' continued the elder, 'but just look at thi=
s.
You have forced on the marriage by unscrupulous means, your object being on=
ly
too clearly to live out of the proceeds of that marriage.'
'Mr. Power, you mock me, because I labour under
the misfortune of having an illegitimate father to provide for. I really
deserve commiseration.'
'You might deserve it if that were all. But it
looks bad for my niece's happiness as Lady De Stancy, that she and her husb=
and
are to be perpetually haunted by a young chevalier d'industrie, who can for=
ge a
telegram on occasion, and libel an innocent man by an ingenious device in
photography. It looks so bad, in short, that, advantageous as a title and o=
ld
family name would be to her and her children, I won't let my brother's daug=
hter
run the risk of having them at the expense of being in the grip of a man li=
ke
you. There are other suitors in the world, and other titles: and she is a
beautiful woman, who can well afford to be fastidious. I shall let her know=
at
once of these things, and break off the business--unless you do ONE THING.'=
A workman brought up another candle from the
vault, and prepared to let down the slab. 'Well, Mr. Power, and what is that
one thing?'
'Go to Peru as my agent in a business I have j=
ust
undertaken there.'
'And settle there?'
'Of course. I am soon going over myself, and w=
ill
bring you anything you require.'
'How long will you give me to consider?' said
Dare.
Power looked at his watch. 'One, two, three, f=
our
hours,' he said. 'I leave Markton by the seven o'clock train this evening.'=
'And if I meet your proposal with a negative?'=
'I shall go at once to my niece and tell her t=
he
whole circumstances--tell her that, by marrying Sir William, she allies her=
self
with an unhappy gentleman in the power of a criminal son who makes his life=
a
burden to him by perpetual demands upon his purse; who will increase those
demands with his accession to wealth, threaten to degrade her by exposing h=
er
husband's antecedents if she opposes his extortions, and who will make her
miserable by letting her know that her old lover was shamefully victimized =
by a
youth she is bound to screen out of respect to her husband's feelings. Now a
man does not care to let his own flesh and blood incur the danger of such
anguish as that, and I shall do what I say to prevent it. Knowing what a
lukewarm sentiment hers is for Sir William at best, I shall not have much
difficulty.'
'Well, I don't feel inclined to go to Peru.'
'Neither do I want to break off the match, tho=
ugh
I am ready to do it. But you care about your personal freedom, and you migh=
t be
made to wear the broad arrow for your tricks on Somerset.'
'Mr. Power, I see you are a hard man.'
'I am a hard man. You will find me one. Well, =
will
you go to Peru? Or I don't mind Australia or California as alternatives. As
long as you choose to remain in either of those wealth-producing places, so
long will Cunningham Haze go uninformed.'
'Mr. Power, I am overcome. Will you allow me to
sit down? Suppose we go into the vestry. It is more comfortable.'
They entered the vestry, and seated themselves=
in
two chairs, one at each end of the table.
'In the meantime,' continued Dare, 'to lend a
little romance to stern realities, I'll tell you a singular dream I had just
before you returned to England.' Power looked contemptuous, but Dare went o=
n:
'I dreamt that once upon a time there were two brothers, born of a
Nonconformist family, one of whom became a railway-contractor, and the othe=
r a mechanical
engineer.'
'A mechanical engineer--good,' said Power,
beginning to attend.
'When the first went abroad in his profession,=
and
became engaged on continental railways, the second, a younger man, looking
round for a start, also betook himself to the continent. But though ingenio=
us
and scientific, he had not the business capacity of the elder, whose rebukes
led to a sharp quarrel between them; and they parted in bitter estrangement=
--never
to meet again as it turned out, owing to the dogged obstinacy and self-will=
of
the younger man. He, after this, seemed to lose his moral ballast altogethe=
r,
and after some eccentric doings he was reduced to a state of poverty, and t=
ook
lodgings in a court in a back street of a town we will call Geneva,
considerably in doubt as to what steps he should take to keep body and soul
together.'
Abner Power was shooting a narrow ray of eyesi=
ght
at Dare from the corner of his nearly closed lids. 'Your dream is so
interesting,' he said, with a hard smile, 'that I could listen to it all da=
y.'
'Excellent!' said Dare, and went on: 'Now it so
happened that the house opposite to the one taken by the mechanician was
peculiar. It was a tall narrow building, wholly unornamented, the walls cov=
ered
with a layer of white plaster cracked and soiled by time. I seem to see that
house now! Six stone steps led up to the door, with a rusty iron railing on
each side, and under these steps were others which went down to a cellar--i=
n my
dream of course.'
'Of course--in your dream,' said Power, nodding
comprehensively.
'Sitting lonely and apathetic without a light,=
at
his own chamber-window at night time, our mechanician frequently observed d=
ark
figures descending these steps and ultimately discovered that the house was=
the
meeting-place of a fraternity of political philosophers, whose object was t=
he
extermination of tyrants and despots, and the overthrow of established reli=
gions.
The discovery was startling enough, but our hero was not easily startled. He
kept their secret and lived on as before. At last the mechanician and his
affairs became known to the society, as the affairs of the society had beco=
me
known to the mechanician, and, instead of shooting him as one who knew too =
much
for their safety, they were struck with his faculty for silence, and thought
they might be able to make use of him.'
'To be sure,' said Abner Power.
'Next, like friend Bunyan, I saw in my dream t=
hat
denunciation was the breath of life to this society. At an earlier date in =
its
history, objectionable persons in power had been from time to time murdered,
and curiously enough numbered; that is, upon the body of each was set a mar=
k or
seal, announcing that he was one of a series. But at this time the question
before the society related to the substitution for the dagger, which was ve=
toed
as obsolete, of some explosive machine that would be both more effectual and
less difficult to manage; and in short, a large reward was offered to our n=
eedy
Englishman if he would put their ideas of such a machine into shape.'
Abner Power nodded again, his complexion being
peculiar--which might partly have been accounted for by the reflection of
window-light from the green-baize table-cloth.
'He agreed, though no politician whatever hims=
elf,
to exercise his wits on their account, and brought his machine to such a pi=
tch
of perfection, that it was the identical one used in the memorable attempt-=
-'
(Dare whispered the remainder of the sentence in tones so low that not a mo=
use in
the corner could have heard.) 'Well, the inventor of that explosive has
naturally been wanted ever since by all the heads of police in Europe. But =
the
most curious--or perhaps the most natural part of my story is, that our her=
o,
after the catastrophe, grew disgusted with himself and his comrades, acquir=
ed,
in a fit of revulsion, quite a conservative taste in politics, which was
strengthened greatly by the news he indirectly received of the great wealth=
and
respectability of his brother, who had had no communion with him for years,=
and
supposed him dead. He abjured his employers and resolved to abandon them; b=
ut
before coming to England he decided to destroy all trace of his combustible
inventions by dropping them into the neighbouring lake at night from a boat.
You feel the room close, Mr. Power?'
'No, I suffer from attacks of perspiration
whenever I sit in a consecrated edifice--that's all. Pray go on.'
'In carrying out this project, an explosion
occurred, just as he was throwing the stock overboard--it blew up into his
face, wounding him severely, and nearly depriving him of sight. The boat was
upset, but he swam ashore in the darkness, and remained hidden till he
recovered, though the scars produced by the burns had been set on him for e=
ver.
This accident, which was such a misfortune to him as a man, was an advantag=
e to
him as a conspirators' engineer retiring from practice, and afforded him a
disguise both from his own brotherhood and from the police, which he has
considered impenetrable, but which is getting seen through by one or two ke=
en
eyes as time goes on. Instead of coming to England just then, he went to Pe=
ru,
connected himself with the guano trade, I believe, and after his brother's =
death
revisited England, his old life obliterated as far as practicable by his new
principles. He is known only as a great traveller to his surviving relative=
s,
though he seldom says where he has travelled. Unluckily for himself, he is
WANTED by certain European governments as badly as ever.'
Dare raised his eyes as he concluded his
narration. As has been remarked, he was sitting at one end of the vestry-ta=
ble,
Power at the other, the green cloth stretching between them. On the edge of=
the
table adjoining Mr. Power a shining nozzle of metal was quietly resting, li=
ke a
dog's nose. It was directed point-blank at the young man.
Dare started. 'Ah--a revolver?' he said.
Mr. Power nodded placidly, his hand still gras=
ping
the pistol behind the edge of the table. 'As a traveller I always carry one=
of
'em,' he returned; 'and for the last five minutes I have been closely
considering whether your numerous brains are worth blowing out or no. The v=
ault
yonder has suggested itself as convenient and snug for one of the same fami=
ly;
but the mental problem that stays my hand is, how am I to despatch and bury=
you
there without the workmen seeing?'
''Tis a strange problem, certainly,' replied D=
are,
'and one on which I fear I could not give disinterested advice. Moreover, w=
hile
you, as a traveller, always carry a weapon of defence, as a traveller so do=
I.
And for the last three-quarters of an hour I have been thinking concerning =
you,
an intensified form of what you have been thinking of me, but without any
concern as to your interment. See here for a proof of it.' And a second ste=
el
nose rested on the edge of the table opposite to the first, steadied by Dar=
e's
right hand.
They remained for some time motionless, the ti=
ck
of the tower clock distinctly audible.
Mr. Power spoke first.
'Well, 'twould be a pity to make a mess here u=
nder
such dubious circumstances. Mr. Dare, I perceive that a mean vagabond can b=
e as
sharp as a political regenerator. I cry quits, if you care to do the same?'=
Dare assented, and the pistols were put away.<= o:p>
'Then we do nothing at all, either side; but l=
et
the course of true love run on to marriage--that's the understanding, I thi=
nk?'
said Dare as he rose.
'It is,' said Power; and turning on his heel, =
he
left the vestry.
Dare retired to the church and thence to the
outside, where he idled away a few minutes in looking at the workmen, who w=
ere
now lowering into its place a large stone slab, bearing the words 'DE STANC=
Y,'
which covered the entrance to the vault. When the footway of the churchyard=
was
restored to its normal condition Dare pursued his way to Markton.
Abner Power walked back to the castle at a slow
and equal pace, as though he carried an over-brimming vessel on his head. He
silently let himself in, entered the long gallery, and sat down. The length=
of time
that he sat there was so remarkable as to raise that interval of inanition =
to
the rank of a feat.
Power's eyes glanced through one of the
window-casements: from a hole without he saw the head of a tomtit protrudin=
g.
He listlessly watched the bird during the successive epochs of his thought,
till night came, without any perceptible change occurring in him. Such fixi=
ty
would have meant nothing else than sudden death in any other man, but in Mr=
. Power
it merely signified that he was engaged in ruminations which necessitated a
more extensive survey than usual. At last, at half-past eight, after having=
sat
for five hours with his eyes on the residence of the tomtits, to whom night=
had
brought cessation of thought, if not to him who had observed them, he rose =
amid
the shades of the furniture, and rang the bell. There were only a servant or
two in the castle, one of whom presently came with a light in her hand and a
startled look upon her face, which was not reduced when she recognized him;=
for
in the opinion of that household there was something ghoul-like in Mr. Powe=
r, which
made him no desirable guest.
He ate a late meal, and retired to bed, where =
he
seemed to sleep not unsoundly. The next morning he received a letter which
afforded him infinite satisfaction and gave his stagnant impulses a new
momentum. He entered the library, and amid objects swathed in brown holland=
sat
down and wrote a note to his niece at Amiens. Therein he stated that, findi=
ng that
the Anglo-South-American house with which he had recently connected himself
required his presence in Peru, it obliged him to leave without waiting for =
her
return. He felt the less uneasy at going, since he had learnt that Captain =
De
Stancy would return at once to Amiens to his sick sister, and see them safe=
ly
home when she improved. He afterwards left the castle, disappearing towards=
a
railway station some miles above Markton, the road to which lay across an
unfrequented down.
It was a fine afternoon of late summer, nearly
three months subsequent to the death of Sir William De Stancy and Paula's
engagement to marry his successor in the title. George Somerset had started=
on
a professional journey that took him through the charming district which lay
around Stancy Castle. Having resigned his appointment as architect to that
important structure--a resignation which had been accepted by Paula through=
her
solicitor--he had bidden farewell to the locality after putting matters in =
such
order that his successor, whoever he might be, should have no difficulty in
obtaining the particulars necessary to the completion of the work in hand.
Hardly to his surprise this successor was Havill.
Somerset's resignation had been tendered in no
hasty mood. On returning to England, and in due course to the castle, every=
thing
bore in upon his mind the exceeding sorrowfulness--he would not say
humiliation--of continuing to act in his former capacity for a woman who, f=
rom
seeming more than a dear friend, had become less than an acquaintance.
So he resigned; but now, as the train drew on =
into
that once beloved tract of country, the images which met his eye threw him =
back
in point of emotion to very near where he had been before making himself a =
stranger
here. The train entered the cutting on whose brink he had walked when the
carriage containing Paula and her friends surprised him the previous summer=
. He
looked out of the window: they were passing the well-known curve that led u=
p to
the tunnel constructed by her father, into which he had gone when the train
came by and Paula had been alarmed for his life. There was the path they had
both climbed afterwards, involuntarily seizing each other's hand; the bushe=
s,
the grass, the flowers, everything just the same:
=
'-----Here was the pleasant place, =
And
nothing wanting was, save She, alas!'
When they came out of the tunnel at the other =
end
he caught a glimpse of the distant castle-keep, and the well-remembered wal=
ls
beneath it. The experience so far transcended the intensity of what is call=
ed
mournful pleasure as to make him wonder how he could have miscalculated him=
self
to the extent of supposing that he might pass the spot with controllable em=
otion.
On entering Markton station he withdrew into a
remote corner of the carriage, and closed his eyes with a resolve not to op=
en
them till the embittering scenes should be passed by. He had not long to wa=
it
for this event. When again in motion his eye fell upon the skirt of a lady'=
s dress
opposite, the owner of which had entered and seated herself so softly as no=
t to
attract his attention.
'Ah indeed!' he exclaimed as he looked up to h=
er
face. 'I had not a notion that it was you!' He went over and shook hands wi=
th
Charlotte De Stancy.
'I am not going far,' she said; 'only to the n=
ext
station. We often run down in summer time. Are you going far?'
'I am going to a building further on; thence to
Normandy by way of Cherbourg, to finish out my holiday.'
Miss De Stancy thought that would be very nice=
.
'Well, I hope so. But I fear it won't.'
After saying that Somerset asked himself why he
should mince matters with so genuine and sympathetic a girl as Charlotte De
Stancy? She could tell him particulars which he burned to know. He might ne=
ver
again have an opportunity of knowing them, since she and he would probably =
not
meet for years to come, if at all.
'Have the castle works progressed pretty rapid=
ly
under the new architect?' he accordingly asked.
'Yes,' said Charlotte in her haste--then adding
that she was not quite sure if they had progressed so rapidly as before; bl=
ushingly
correcting herself at this point and that, in the tinkering manner of a ner=
vous
organization aiming at nicety where it was not required.
'Well, I should have liked to carry out the
undertaking to its end,' said Somerset. 'But I felt I could not consistentl=
y do
so. Miss Power--' (here a lump came into Somerset's throat--so responsive w=
as
he yet to her image)--'seemed to have lost confidence in me, and--it was be=
st
that the connection should be severed.'
There was a long pause. 'She was very sorry ab=
out
it,' said Charlotte gently.
'What made her alter so?--I never can think!'<= o:p>
Charlotte waited again as if to accumulate the
necessary force for honest speaking at the expense of pleasantness. 'It was=
the
telegram that began it of course,' she answered.
'Telegram?'
She looked up at him in quite a frightened
way--little as there was to be frightened at in a quiet fellow like him in =
this
sad time of his life--and said, 'Yes: some telegram--I think--when you were=
in
trouble? Forgive my alluding to it; but you asked me the question.'
Somerset began reflecting on what messages he =
had
sent Paula, troublous or otherwise. All he had sent had been sent from the
castle, and were as gentle and mellifluous as sentences well could be which=
had
neither articles nor pronouns. 'I don't understand,' he said. 'Will you exp=
lain
a little more--as plainly as you like--without minding my feelings?'
'A telegram from Nice, I think?'
'I never sent one.'
'O! The one I meant was about money.'
Somerset shook his head. 'No,' he murmured, wi=
th
the composure of a man who, knowing he had done nothing of the sort himself,
was blinded by his own honesty to the possibility that another might have d=
one
it for him. 'That must be some other affair with which I had nothing to do.=
O
no, it was nothing like that; the reason for her change of manner was quite=
different!'
So timid was Charlotte in Somerset's presence,
that her timidity at this juncture amounted to blameworthiness. The distres=
sing
scene which must have followed a clearing up there and then of any possible=
misunderstanding,
terrified her imagination; and quite confounded by contradictions that she
could not reconcile, she held her tongue, and nervously looked out of the
window.
'I have heard that Miss Power is soon to be
married,' continued Somerset.
'Yes,' Charlotte murmured. 'It is sooner than =
it
ought to be by rights, considering how recently my dear father died; but th=
ere
are reasons in connection with my brother's position against putting it off:
and it is to be absolutely simple and private.'
There was another interval. 'May I ask when it=
is
to be?' he said.
'Almost at once--this week.'
Somerset started back as if some stone had hit=
his
face.
Still there was nothing wonderful in such
promptitude: engagements broken in upon by the death of a near relative of =
one
of the parties had been often carried out in a subdued form with no longer
delay.
Charlotte's station was now at hand. She bade = him farewell; and he rattled on to the building he had come to inspect, and nex= t to Budmouth, whence he intended to cross the Channel by steamboat that night.<= o:p>
He hardly knew how the evening passed away. He=
had
taken up his quarters at an inn near the quay, and as the night drew on he
stood gazing from the coffee-room window at the steamer outside, which near=
ly
thrust its spars through the bedroom casements, and at the goods that were
being tumbled on board as only shippers can tumble them. All the goods were=
laden,
a lamp was put on each side the gangway, the engines broke into a crackling
roar, and people began to enter. They were only waiting for the last train:
then they would be off. Still Somerset did not move; he was thinking of that
curious half-told story of Charlotte's, about a telegram to Paula for money
from Nice. Not once till within the last half-hour had it recurred to his m=
ind
that he had met Dare both at Nice and at Monte Carlo; that at the latter pl=
ace
he had been absolutely out of money and wished to borrow, showing considera=
ble
sinister feeling when Somerset declined to lend: that on one or two previous
occasions he had reasons for doubting Dare's probity; and that in spite of =
the
young man's impoverishment at Monte Carlo he had, a few days later, beheld =
him
in shining raiment at Carlsruhe. Somerset, though misty in his conjectures,=
was
seized with a growing conviction that there was something in Miss De Stancy=
's
allusion to the telegram which ought to be explained.
He felt an insurmountable objection to cross t=
he
water that night, or till he had been able to see Charlotte again, and learn
more of her meaning. He countermanded the order to put his luggage on board,
watched the steamer out of the harbour, and went to bed. He might as well h=
ave gone
to battle, for any rest that he got. On rising the next morning he felt rat=
her
blank, though none the less convinced that a matter required investigation.=
He
left Budmouth by a morning train, and about eleven o'clock found himself in
Markton.
The momentum of a practical inquiry took him
through that ancient borough without leaving him much leisure for those
reveries which had yesterday lent an unutterable sadness to every object th=
ere.
It was just before noon that he started for the castle, intending to arrive=
at
a time of the morning when, as he knew from experience, he could speak to C=
harlotte
without difficulty. The rising ground soon revealed the old towers to him, =
and,
jutting out behind them, the scaffoldings for the new wing.
While halting here on the knoll in some doubt
about his movements he beheld a man coming along the road, and was soon
confronted by his former competitor, Havill. The first instinct of each was=
to
pass with a nod, but a second instinct for intercourse was sufficient to br=
ing
them to a halt. After a few superficial words had been spoken Somerset said=
, 'You
have succeeded me.'
'I have,' said Havill; 'but little to my
advantage. I have just heard that my commission is to extend no further than
roofing in the wing that you began, and had I known that before, I would ha=
ve
seen the castle fall flat as Jericho before I would have accepted the
superintendence. But I know who I have to thank for that--De Stancy.'
Somerset still looked towards the distant
battlements. On the scaffolding, among the white-jacketed workmen, he could
discern one figure in a dark suit.
'You have a clerk of the works, I see,' he
observed.
'Nominally I have, but practically I haven't.'=
'Then why do you keep him?'
'I can't help myself. He is Mr. Dare; and havi=
ng
been recommended by a higher power than I, there he must stay in spite of m=
e.'
'Who recommended him?'
'The same--De Stancy.'
'It is very odd,' murmured Somerset, 'but that
young man is the object of my visit.'
'You had better leave him alone,' said Havill
drily.
Somerset asked why.
'Since I call no man master over that way I wi=
ll
inform you.' Havill then related in splenetic tones, to which Somerset did =
not
care to listen till the story began to advance itself, how he had passed th=
e night
with Dare at the inn, and the incidents of that night, relating how he had =
seen
some letters on the young man's breast which long had puzzled him. 'They we=
re
an E, a T, an N, and a C. I thought over them long, till it eventually occu=
rred
to me that the word when filled out was "De Stancy," and that kin=
ship
explains the offensive and defensive alliance between them.'
'But, good heavens, man!' said Somerset, more =
and
more disturbed. 'Does she know of it?'
'You may depend she does not yet; but she will
soon enough. Hark--there it is!' The notes of the castle clock were heard
striking noon. 'Then it is all over.'
'What?--not their marriage!'
'Yes. Didn't you know it was the wedding day? =
They
were to be at the church at half-past eleven. I should have waited to see h=
er
go, but it was no sight to hinder business for, as she was only going to dr=
ive
over in her brougham with Miss De Stancy.'
'My errand has failed!' said Somerset, turning=
on
his heel. 'I'll walk back to the town with you.'
However he did not walk far with Havill; socie=
ty
was too much at that moment. As soon as opportunity offered he branched from
the road by a path, and avoiding the town went by railway to Budmouth, when=
ce
he resumed, by the night steamer, his journey to Normandy.
To return to Charlotte De Stancy. When the tra=
in
had borne Somerset from her side, and she had regained her self-possession,=
she
became conscious of the true proportions of the fact he had asserted. And,
further, if the telegram had not been his, why should the photographic
distortion be trusted as a phase of his existence? But after a while it see=
med
so improbable to her that God's sun should bear false witness, that instead=
of
doubting both evidences she was inclined to readmit the first. Still, upon =
the
whole, she could not question for long the honesty of Somerset's denial and=
if
that message had indeed been sent by him, it must have been done while he w=
as
in another such an unhappy state as that exemplified by the portrait. The
supposition reconciled all differences; and yet she could not but fight aga=
inst
it with all the strength of a generous affection.
All the afternoon her poor little head was bus=
y on
this perturbing question, till she inquired of herself whether after all it
might not be possible for photographs to represent people as they had never
been. Before rejecting the hypothesis she determined to have the word of a =
professor
on the point, which would be better than all her surmises. Returning to Mar=
kton
early, she told the coachman whom Paula had sent, to drive her to the shop =
of
Mr. Ray, an obscure photographic artist in that town, instead of straight h=
ome.
Ray's establishment consisted of two divisions,
the respectable and the shabby. If, on entering the door, the visitor turne=
d to
the left, he found himself in a magazine of old clothes, old furniture, chi=
na, umbrellas,
guns, fishing-rods, dirty fiddles, and split flutes. Entering the right-hand
room, which had originally been that of an independent house, he was in an
ordinary photographer's and print-collector's depository, to which a certain
artistic solidity was imparted by a few oil paintings in the background.
Charlotte made for the latter department, and when she was inside Mr. Ray
appeared in person from the lumber-shop adjoining, which, despite its
manginess, contributed by far the greater share to his income.
Charlotte put her question simply enough. The =
man
did not answer her directly, but soon found that she meant no harm to him. =
He
told her that such misrepresentations were quite possible, and that they
embodied a form of humour which was getting more and more into vogue among
certain facetious persons of society.
Charlotte was coming away when she asked, as on
second thoughts, if he had any specimens of such work to show her.
'None of my own preparation,' said Mr. Ray, wi=
th
unimpeachable probity of tone. 'I consider them libellous myself. Still, I =
have
one or two samples by me, which I keep merely as curiosities.--There's one,=
' he
said, throwing out a portrait card from a drawer. 'That represents the Germ=
an
Emperor in a violent passion: this one shows the Prime Minister out of his
mind; this the Pope of Rome the worse for liquor.'
She inquired if he had any local specimens.
'Yes,' he said, 'but I prefer not to exhibit t=
hem
unless you really ask for a particular one that you mean to buy.'
'I don't want any.'
'O, I beg pardon, miss. Well, I shouldn't myse=
lf
own such things were produced, if there had not been a young man here at one
time who was very ingenious in these matters--a Mr. Dare. He was quite a ge=
nt,
and only did it as an amusement, and not for the sake of getting a living.'=
Charlotte had no wish to hear more. On her way
home she burst into tears: the entanglement was altogether too much for her=
to
tear asunder, even had not her own instincts been urging her two ways, as t=
hey
were.
To immediately right Somerset's wrong was her
impetuous desire as an honest woman who loved him; but such rectification w=
ould
be the jeopardizing of all else that gratified her--the marriage of her bro=
ther
with her dearest friend--now on the very point of accomplishment. It was a
marriage which seemed to promise happiness, or at least comfort, if the old
flutter that had transiently disturbed Paula's bosom could be kept from
reviving, to which end it became imperative to hide from her the discovery =
of
injustice to Somerset. It involved the advantage of leaving Somerset free; =
and
though her own tender interest in him had been too well schooled by habitual
self-denial to run ahead on vain personal hopes, there was nothing more than
human in her feeling pleasure in prolonging Somerset's singleness. Paula mi=
ght
even be allowed to discover his wrongs when her marriage had put him out of=
her
power. But to let her discover his ill-treatment now might upset the impend=
ing
union of the families, and wring her own heart with the sight of Somerset
married in her brother's place.
Why Dare, or any other person, should have set
himself to advance her brother's cause by such unscrupulous blackening of
Somerset's character was more than her sagacity could fathom. Her brother w=
as,
as far as she could see, the only man who could directly profit by the
machination, and was therefore the natural one to suspect of having set it
going. But she would not be so disloyal as to entertain the thought long; a=
nd
who or what had instigated Dare, who was undoubtedly the proximate cause of=
the
mischief, remained to her an inscrutable mystery.
The contention of interests and desires with
honour in her heart shook Charlotte all that night; but good principle
prevailed. The wedding was to be solemnized the very next morning, though f=
or
before-mentioned reasons this was hardly known outside the two houses
interested; and there were no visible preparations either at villa or castl=
e.
De Stancy and his groomsman--a brother officer--slept at the former residen=
ce.
De Stancy was a sorry specimen of a bridegroom
when he met his sister in the morning. Thick-coming fancies, for which there
was more than good reason, had disturbed him only too successfully, and he =
was
as full of apprehension as one who has a league with Mephistopheles. Charlo=
tte
told him nothing of what made her likewise so wan and anxious, but drove of=
f to
the castle, as had been planned, about nine o'clock, leaving her brother and
his friend at the breakfast-table.
That clearing Somerset's reputation from the s=
tain
which had been thrown on it would cause a sufficient reaction in Paula's mi=
nd
to dislocate present arrangements she did not so seriously anticipate, now =
that
morning had a little calmed her. Since the rupture with her former architect
Paula had sedulously kept her own counsel, but Charlotte assumed from the e=
ase
with which she seemed to do it that her feelings towards him had never been
inconveniently warm; and she hoped that Paula would learn of Somerset's pur=
ity
with merely the generous pleasure of a friend, coupled with a friend's
indignation against his traducer.
Still, the possibility existed of stronger
emotions, and it was only too evident to poor Charlotte that, knowing this,=
she
had still less excuse for delaying the intelligence till the strongest emot=
ion
would be purposeless.
On approaching the castle the first object that
caught her eye was Dare, standing beside Havill on the scaffolding of the n=
ew
wing. He was looking down upon the drive and court, as if in anticipation of
the event. His contiguity flurried her, and instead of going straight to Pa=
ula
she sought out Mrs. Goodman.
'You are come early; that's right!' said the
latter. 'You might as well have slept here last night. We have only Mr.
Wardlaw, the London lawyer you have heard of, in the house. Your brother's
solicitor was here yesterday; but he returned to Markton for the night. We =
miss
Mr. Power so much--it is so unfortunate that he should have been obliged to=
go abroad,
and leave us unprotected women with so much responsibility.'
'Yes, I know,' said Charlotte quickly, having a
shy distaste for the details of what troubled her so much in the gross.
'Paula has inquired for you.'
'What is she doing?'
'She is in her room: she has not begun to dress
yet. Will you go to her?'
Charlotte assented. 'I have to tell her
something,' she said, 'which will make no difference, but which I should li=
ke
her to know this morning--at once. I have discovered that we have been enti=
rely
mistaken about Mr. Somerset.' She nerved herself to relate succinctly what =
had come
to her knowledge the day before.
Mrs. Goodman was much impressed. She had never
clearly heard before what circumstances had attended the resignation of Pau=
la's
architect. 'We had better not tell her till the wedding is over,' she prese=
ntly
said; 'it would only disturb her, and do no good.'
'But will it be right?' asked Miss De Stancy.<= o:p>
'Yes, it will be right if we tell her afterwar=
ds.
O yes--it must be right,' she repeated in a tone which showed that her opin=
ion
was unstable enough to require a little fortification by the voice. 'She lo=
ves
your brother; she must, since she is going to marry him; and it can make li=
ttle
difference whether we rehabilitate the character of a friend now, or some f=
ew
hours hence. The author of those wicked tricks on Mr. Somerset ought not to=
go
a moment unpunished.'
'That's what I think; and what right have we to
hold our tongues even for a few hours?'
Charlotte found that by telling Mrs. Goodman s=
he
had simply made two irresolute people out of one, and as Paula was now
inquiring for her, she went upstairs without having come to any decision.
Paula was in her boudoir, writing down some no=
tes
previous to beginning her wedding toilet, which was designed to harmonize w=
ith
the simplicity that characterized the other arrangements. She owned that it=
was
depriving the neighbourhood of a pageant which it had a right to expect of =
her;
but the circumstance was inexorable.
Mrs. Goodman entered Paula's room immediately
behind Charlotte. Perhaps the only difference between the Paula of to-day a=
nd
the Paula of last year was an accession of thoughtfulness, natural to the
circumstances in any case, and more particularly when, as now, the bride's
isolation made self-dependence a necessity. She was sitting in a light dres=
sing-gown,
and her face, which was rather pale, flushed at the entrance of Charlotte a=
nd
her aunt.
'I knew you were come,' she said, when Charlot=
te
stooped and kissed her. 'I heard you. I have done nothing this morning, and
feel dreadfully unsettled. Is all well?'
The question was put without thought, but its
aptness seemed almost to imply an intuitive knowledge of their previous
conversation. 'Yes,' said Charlotte tardily.
'Well, now, Clementine shall dress you, and I =
can
do with Milly,' continued Paula. 'Come along. Well, aunt--what's the
matter?--and you, Charlotte? You look harassed.'
'I have not slept well,' said Charlotte.
'And have not you slept well either, aunt? You
said nothing about it at breakfast.'
'O, it is nothing,' said Mrs. Goodman quickly.=
'I
have been disturbed by learning of somebody's villainy. I am going to tell =
you
all some time to-day, but it is not important enough to disturb you with no=
w.'
'No mystery!' argued Paula. 'Come! it is not
fair.'
'I don't think it is quite fair,' said Miss De
Stancy, looking from one to the other in some distress. 'Mrs. Goodman--I mu=
st
tell her! Paula, Mr. Som--'
'He's dead!' cried Paula, sinking into a chair=
and
turning as pale as marble. 'Is he dead?--tell me!' she whispered.
'No, no--he's not dead--he is very well, and g=
one
to Normandy for a holiday!'
'O--I am glad to hear it,' answered Paula, wit=
h a
sudden cool mannerliness.
'He has been misrepresented,' said Mrs. Goodma=
n.
'That's all.'
'Well?' said Paula, with her eyes bent on the
floor.
'I have been feeling that I ought to tell you
clearly, dear Paula,' declared her friend. 'It is absolutely false about his
telegraphing to you for money--it is absolutely false that his character is
such as that dreadful picture represented it. There--that's the substance of
it, and I can tell you particulars at any time.'
But Paula would not be told at any time. A
dreadful sorrow sat in her face; she insisted upon learning everything about
the matter there and then, and there was no withstanding her.
When it was all explained she said in a low to=
ne:
'It is that pernicious, evil man Dare--yet why is it he?--what can he have
meant by it! Justice before generosity, even on one's wedding-day. Before I=
become
any man's wife this morning I'll see that wretch in jail! The affair must be
sifted.... O, it was a wicked thing to serve anybody so!--I'll send for
Cunningham Haze this moment--the culprit is even now on the premises, I
believe--acting as clerk of the works!' The usually well-balanced Paula was
excited, and scarcely knowing what she did went to the bell-pull.
'Don't act hastily, Paula,' said her aunt. 'Had
you not better consult Sir William? He will act for you in this.'
'Yes--He is coming round in a few minutes,' sa=
id
Charlotte, jumping at this happy thought of Mrs. Goodman's. 'He's going to =
run
across to see how you are getting on. He will be here by ten.'
'Yes--he promised last night.'
She had scarcely done speaking when the pranci=
ng
of a horse was heard in the ward below, and in a few minutes a servant
announced Sir William De Stancy.
De Stancy entered saying, 'I have ridden across
for ten minutes, as I said I would do, to know if everything is easy and
straightforward for you. There will be time enough for me to get back and
prepare if I start shortly. Well?'
'I am ruffled,' said Paula, allowing him to ta=
ke
her hand.
'What is it?' said her betrothed.
As Paula did not immediately answer Mrs. Goodm=
an
beckoned to Charlotte, and they left the room together.
'A man has to be given in charge, or a boy, or=
a
demon,' she replied. 'I was going to do it, but you can do it better than I=
. He
will run away if we don't mind.'
'But, my dear Paula, who is it?--what has he
done?'
'It is Dare--that young man you see out there
against the sky.' She looked from the window sideways towards the new wing,=
on
the roof of which Dare was walking prominently about, after having assisted=
two
of the workmen in putting a red streamer on the tallest scaffold-pole. 'You=
must
send instantly for Mr. Cunningham Haze!'
'My dearest Paula,' repeated De Stancy faintly,
his complexion changing to that of a man who had died.
'Please send for Mr. Haze at once,' returned
Paula, with graceful firmness. 'I said I would be just to a wronged man bef=
ore
I was generous to you--and I will. That lad Dare--to take a practical view =
of
it--has attempted to defraud me of one hundred pounds sterling, and he shal=
l suffer.
I won't tell you what he has done besides, for though it is worse, it is le=
ss
tangible. When he is handcuffed and sent off to jail I'll proceed with my
dressing. Will you ring the bell?'
'Had you not better consider?' began De Stancy=
.
'Consider!' said Paula, with indignation. 'I h=
ave
considered. Will you kindly ring, Sir William, and get Thomas to ride at on=
ce
to Mr. Haze? Or must I rise from this chair and do it myself?'
'You are very hasty and abrupt this morning, I
think,' he faltered.
Paula rose determinedly from the chair. 'Since=
you
won't do it, I must,' she said.
'No, dearest!--Let me beg you not to!'
'Sir William De Stancy!'
She moved towards the bell-pull; but he stepped
before and intercepted her.
'You must not ring the bell for that purpose,'=
he
said with husky deliberateness, looking into the depths of her face.
'It wants two hours to the time when you might
have a right to express such a command as that,' she said haughtily.
'I certainly have not the honour to be your
husband yet,' he sadly replied, 'but surely you can listen? There exist rea=
sons
against giving this boy in charge which I could easily get you to admit by
explanation; but I would rather, without explanation, have you take my word,
when I say that by doing so you are striking a blow against both yourself a=
nd me.'
Paula, however, had rung the bell.
'You are jealous of somebody or something
perhaps!' she said, in tones which showed how fatally all this was telling
against the intention of that day. 'I will not be a party to baseness, if i=
t is
to save all my fortune!'
The bell was answered quickly. But De Stancy,
though plainly in great misery, did not give up his point. Meeting the serv=
ant
at the door before he could enter the room he said. 'It is nothing; you can=
go again.'
Paula looked at the unhappy baronet in amazeme=
nt;
then turning to the servant, who stood with the door in his hand, said, 'Te=
ll Thomas
to saddle the chestnut, and--'
'It's all a mistake,' insisted De Stancy. 'Lea=
ve
the room, James!'
James looked at his mistress.
'Yes, James, leave the room,' she calmly said,
sitting down. 'Now what have you to say?' she asked, when they were again
alone. 'Why must I not issue orders in my own house? Who is this young
criminal, that you value his interests higher than my honour? I have delayed
for one moment sending my messenger to the chief constable to hear your exp=
lanation--only
for that.'
'You will still persevere?'
'Certainly. Who is he?'
'Paula... he is my son.'
She remained still as death while one might co=
unt
ten; then turned her back upon him. 'I think you had better go away,' she
whispered. 'You need not come again.'
He did not move. 'Paula--do you indeed mean th=
is?'
he asked.
'I do.'
De Stancy walked a few paces, then said in a l=
ow
voice: 'Miss Power, I knew--I guessed just now, as soon as it began--that we
were going to split on this rock. Well--let it be--it cannot be helped; des=
tiny
is supreme. The boy was to be my ruin; he is my ruin, and rightly. But befo=
re I
go grant me one request. Do not prosecute him. Believe me, I will do everyt=
hing
I can to get him out of your way. He shall annoy you no more.... Do you
promise?'
'I do,' she said. 'Now please leave me.'
'Once more--am I to understand that no marriag=
e is
to take place to-day between you and me?'
'You are.'
Sir William De Stancy left the room. It was
noticeable throughout the interview that his manner had not been the manner=
of
a man altogether taken by surprise. During the few preceding days his mood =
had
been that of the gambler seasoned in ill-luck, who adopts pessimist surmise=
s as
a safe background to his most sanguine hopes.
She remained alone for some time. Then she ran=
g,
and requested that Mr. Wardlaw, her father's solicitor and friend, would co=
me
up to her. A messenger was despatched, not to Mr. Cunningham Haze, but to t=
he
parson of the parish, who in his turn sent to the clerk and clerk's wife, t=
hen
busy in the church. On receipt of the intelligence the two latter functiona=
ries
proceeded to roll up the carpet which had been laid from the door to the ga=
te,
put away the kneeling-cushions, locked the doors, and went off to inquire t=
he
reason of so strange a countermand. It was soon proclaimed in Markton that =
the
marriage had been postponed for a fortnight in consequence of the bride's
sudden indisposition: and less public emotion was felt than the case might =
have
drawn forth, from the ignorance of the majority of the populace that a wedd=
ing
had been going to take place at all.
Meanwhile Miss De Stancy had been closeted with
Paula for more than an hour. It was a difficult meeting, and a severe test =
to
any friendship but that of the most sterling sort. In the turmoil of her
distraction Charlotte had the consolation of knowing that if her act of jus=
tice
to Somerset at such a moment were the act of a simpleton, it was the only c=
ourse
open to honesty. But Paula's cheerful serenity in some measure laid her own
troubles to rest, till they were reawakened by a rumour--which got wind some
weeks later, and quite drowned all other surprises--of the true relation
between the vanished clerk of works, Mr. Dare, and the fallen family of De
Stancy.
'I have decided that I cannot see Sir William
again: I shall go away,' said Paula on the evening of the next day, as she =
lay
on her bed in a flushed and highly-strung condition, though a person who had
heard her words without seeing her face would have assumed perfect equanimi=
ty
to be the mood which expressed itself with such quietness. This was the case
with her aunt, who was looking out of the window at some idlers from Markton
walking round the castle with their eyes bent upon its windows, and she mad=
e no
haste to reply.
'Those people have come to see me, as they hav=
e a
right to do when a person acts so strangely,' Paula continued. 'And hence I=
am
better away.'
'Where do you think to go to?'
Paula replied in the tone of one who was actua=
ted
entirely by practical considerations: 'Out of England certainly. And as
Normandy lies nearest, I think I shall go there. It is a very nice country =
to
ramble in.'
'Yes, it is a very nice country to ramble in,'
echoed her aunt, in moderate tones. 'When do you intend to start?'
'I should like to cross to-night. You must go =
with
me, aunt; will you not?'
Mrs. Goodman expostulated against such suddenn=
ess.
'It will redouble the rumours that are afloat, if, after being supposed ill,
you are seen going off by railway perfectly well.'
'That's a contingency which I am quite willing=
to
run the risk of. Well, it would be rather sudden, as you say, to go to-nigh=
t.
But we'll go to-morrow night at latest.' Under the influence of the decision
she bounded up like an elastic ball and went to the glass, which showed a l=
ight
in her eye that had not been there before this resolution to travel in Norm=
andy
had been taken.
The evening and the next morning were passed in
writing a final and kindly note of dismissal to Sir William De Stancy, in m=
aking
arrangements for the journey, and in commissioning Havill to take advantage=
of
their absence by emptying certain rooms of their furniture, and repairing t=
heir
dilapidations--a work which, with that in hand, would complete the section =
for
which he had been engaged. Mr. Wardlaw had left the castle; so also had
Charlotte, by her own wish, her residence there having been found too
oppressive to herself to be continued for the present. Accompanied by Mrs.
Goodman, Milly, and Clementine, the elderly French maid, who still remained
with them, Paula drove into Markton in the twilight and took the train to
Budmouth.
When they got there they found that an unpleas=
ant
breeze was blowing out at sea, though inland it had been calm enough. Mrs.
Goodman proposed to stay at Budmouth till the next day, in hope that there
might be smooth water; but an English seaport inn being a thing that Paula
disliked more than a rough passage, she would not listen to this counsel. O=
ther
impatient reasons, too, might have weighed with her. When night came their
looming miseries began. Paula found that in addition to her own troubles she
had those of three other people to support; but she did not audibly complai=
n.
'Paula, Paula,' said Mrs. Goodman from beneath=
her
load of wretchedness, 'why did we think of undergoing this?'
A slight gleam of humour crossed Paula's not
particularly blooming face, as she answered, 'Ah, why indeed?'
'What is the real reason, my dear? For God's s=
ake
tell me!'
'It begins with S.'
'Well, I would do anything for that young man
short of personal martyrdom; but really when it comes to that--'
'Don't criticize me, auntie, and I won't criti=
cize
you.'
'Well, I am open to criticism just now, I am
sure,' said her aunt, with a green smile; and speech was again discontinued=
.
The morning was bright and beautiful, and it c=
ould
again be seen in Paula's looks that she was glad she had come, though, in
taking their rest at Cherbourg, fate consigned them to an hotel breathing a=
n atmosphere
that seemed specially compounded for depressing the spirits of a young woma=
n;
indeed nothing had particularly encouraged her thus far in her somewhat
peculiar scheme of searching out and expressing sorrow to a gentleman for
having believed those who traduced him; and this coup d'audace to which she=
had
committed herself began to look somewhat formidable. When in England the pl=
an
of following him to Normandy had suggested itself as the quickest, sweetest,
and most honest way of making amends; but having arrived there she seemed
further off from his sphere of existence than when she had been at Stancy
Castle. Virtually she was, for if he thought of her at all, he probably tho=
ught
of her there; if he sought her he would seek her there. However, as he would
probably never do the latter, it was necessary to go on. It had been her su=
dden
dream before starting, to light accidentally upon him in some romantic old =
town
of this romantic old province, but she had become aware that the recorded
fortune of lovers in that respect was not to be trusted too implicitly.
Somerset's search for her in the south was now
inversely imitated. By diligent inquiry in Cherbourg during the gloom of
evening, in the disguise of a hooded cloak, she learnt out the place of his
stay while there, and that he had gone thence to Lisieux. What she knew of =
the architectural
character of Lisieux half guaranteed the truth of the information. Without
telling her aunt of this discovery she announced to that lady that it was h=
er
great wish to go on and see the beauties of Lisieux.
But though her aunt was simple, there were bou=
nds
to her simplicity. 'Paula,' she said, with an undeceivable air, 'I don't th=
ink
you should run after a young man like this. Suppose he shouldn't care for y=
ou
by this time.'
It was no occasion for further affectation. 'I=
am
SURE he will,' answered her niece flatly. 'I have not the least fear about
it--nor would you, if you knew how he is. He will forgive me anything.'
'Well, pray don't show yourself forward. Some
people are apt to fly into extremes.'
Paula blushed a trifle, and reflected, and mad=
e no
answer. However, her purpose seemed not to be permanently affected, for the
next morning she was up betimes and preparing to depart; and they proceeded
almost without stopping to the architectural curiosity-town which had so qu=
ickly
interested her. Nevertheless her ardent manner of yesterday underwent a
considerable change, as if she had a fear that, as her aunt suggested, in h=
er
endeavour to make amends for cruel injustice, she was allowing herself to be
carried too far.
On nearing the place she said, 'Aunt, I think =
you
had better call upon him; and you need not tell him we have come on purpose.
Let him think, if he will, that we heard he was here, and would not leave
without seeing him. You can also tell him that I am anxious to clear up a m=
isunderstanding,
and ask him to call at our hotel.'
But as she looked over the dreary suburban
erections which lined the road from the railway to the old quarter of the t=
own,
it occurred to her that Somerset would at that time of day be engaged in on=
e or
other of the mediaeval buildings thereabout, and that it would be a much ne=
ater
thing to meet him as if by chance in one of these edifices than to call upon
him anywhere. Instead of putting up at any hotel, they left the maids and
baggage at the station; and hiring a carriage, Paula told the coachman to d=
rive
them to such likely places as she could think of.
'He'll never forgive you,' said her aunt, as t=
hey
rumbled into the town.
'Won't he?' said Paula, with soft faith. 'I'll=
see
about that.'
'What are you going to do when you find him? T=
ell
him point-blank that you are in love with him?'
'Act in such a manner that he may tell me he i=
s in
love with me.'
They first visited a large church at the upper=
end
of a square that sloped its gravelled surface to the western shine, and was
pricked out with little avenues of young pollard limes. The church within w=
as
one to make any Gothic architect take lodgings in its vicinity for a fortni=
ght,
though it was just now crowded with a forest of scaffolding for repairs in
progress. Mrs. Goodman sat down outside, and Paula, entering, took a walk in
the form of a horse-shoe; that is, up the south aisle, round the apse, and =
down
the north side; but no figure of a melancholy young man sketching met her e=
ye
anywhere. The sun that blazed in at the west doorway smote her face as she
emerged from beneath it and revealed real sadness there.
'This is not all the old architecture of the t=
own
by far,' she said to her aunt with an air of confidence. 'Coachman, drive to
St. Jacques'.'
He was not at St. Jacques'. Looking from the w=
est
end of that building the girl observed the end of a steep narrow street of
antique character, which seemed a likely haunt. Beckoning to her aunt to fo=
llow
in the fly Paula walked down the street.
She was transported to the Middle Ages. It
contained the shops of tinkers, braziers, bellows-menders, hollow-turners, =
and
other quaintest trades, their fronts open to the street beneath stories of
timber overhanging so far on each side that a slit of sky was left at the t=
op for
the light to descend, and no more. A blue misty obscurity pervaded the
atmosphere, into which the sun thrust oblique staves of light. It was a str=
eet
for a mediaevalist to revel in, toss up his hat and shout hurrah in, send f=
or
his luggage, come and live in, die and be buried in. She had never supposed
such a street to exist outside the imaginations of antiquarians. Smells dir=
ect
from the sixteenth century hung in the air in all their original integrity =
and
without a modern taint. The faces of the people in the doorways seemed thos=
e of
individuals who habitually gazed on the great Francis, and spoke of Henry t=
he
Eighth as the king across the sea.
She inquired of a coppersmith if an English ar=
tist
had been seen here lately. With a suddenness that almost discomfited her he
announced that such a man had been seen, sketching a house just below--the
'Vieux Manoir de Francois premier.' Just turning to see that her aunt was f=
ollowing
in the fly, Paula advanced to the house. The wood framework of the lower st=
ory
was black and varnished; the upper story was brown and not varnished; carved
figures of dragons, griffins, satyrs, and mermaids swarmed over the front; =
an
ape stealing apples was the subject of this cantilever, a man undressing of
that. These figures were cloaked with little cobwebs which waved in the bre=
eze,
so that each figure seemed alive.
She examined the woodwork closely; here and th=
ere
she discerned pencil-marks which had no doubt been jotted thereon by Somers=
et
as points of admeasurement, in the way she had seen him mark them at the ca=
stle.
Some fragments of paper lay below: there were pencilled lines on them, and =
they
bore a strong resemblance to a spoilt leaf of Somerset's sketch-book. Paula
glanced up, and from a window above protruded an old woman's head, which, w=
ith
the exception of the white handkerchief tied round it, was so nearly of the
colour of the carvings that she might easily have passed as of a piece with
them. The aged woman continued motionless, the remains of her eyes being be=
nt
upon Paula, who asked her in Englishwoman's French where the sketcher had g=
one.
Without replying, the crone produced a hand and extended finger from her si=
de,
and pointed towards the lower end of the street.
Paula went on, the carriage following with
difficulty, on account of the obstructions in the thoroughfare. At bottom, =
the
street abutted on a wide one with customary modern life flowing through it;=
and
as she looked, Somerset crossed her front along this street, hurrying as if=
for
a wager.
By the time that Paula had reached the bottom
Somerset was a long way to the left, and she recognized to her dismay that =
the
busy transverse street was one which led to the railway. She quickened her =
pace
to a run; he did not see her; he even walked faster. She looked behind for =
the
carriage. The driver in emerging from the sixteenth-century street to the
nineteenth had apparently turned to the right, instead of to the left as she
had done, so that her aunt had lost sight of her. However, she dare not mind
it, if Somerset would but look back! He partly turned, but not far enough, =
and
it was only to hail a passing omnibus upon which she discerned his luggage.
Somerset jumped in, the omnibus drove on, and diminished up the long road.
Paula stood hopelessly still, and in a few minutes puffs of steam showed her
that the train had gone.
She turned and waited, the two or three childr=
en
who had gathered round her looking up sympathizingly in her face. Her aunt,
having now discovered the direction of her flight, drove up and beckoned to
her.
'What's the matter?' asked Mrs. Goodman in ala=
rm.
'Why?'
'That you should run like that, and look so
woebegone.'
'Nothing: only I have decided not to stay in t=
his
town.'
'What! he is gone, I suppose?'
'Yes!' exclaimed Paula, with tears of vexation=
in
her eyes. 'It isn't every man who gets a woman of my position to run after =
him
on foot, and alone, and he ought to have looked round! Drive to the station=
; I
want to make an inquiry.'
On reaching the station she asked the
booking-clerk some questions, and returned to her aunt with a cheerful
countenance. 'Mr. Somerset has only gone to Caen,' she said. 'He is the only
Englishman who went by this train, so there is no mistake. There is no other
train for two hours. We will go on then--shall we?'
'I am indifferent,' said Mrs. Goodman. 'But,
Paula, do you think this quite right? Perhaps he is not so anxious for your
forgiveness as you think. Perhaps he saw you, and wouldn't stay.'
A momentary dismay crossed her face, but it
passed, and she answered, 'Aunt, that's nonsense. I know him well enough, a=
nd
can assure you that if he had only known I was running after him, he would =
have
looked round sharply enough, and would have given his little finger rather =
than
have missed me! I don't make myself so silly as to run after a gentleman wi=
thout
good grounds, for I know well that it is an undignified thing to do. Indeed=
, I
could never have thought of doing it, if I had not been so miserably in the
wrong!'
That evening when the sun was dropping out of
sight they started for the city of Somerset's pilgrimage. Paula seated hers=
elf
with her face toward the western sky, watching from her window the broad red
horizon, across which moved thin poplars lopped to human shapes, like the
walking forms in Nebuchadnezzar's furnace. It was dark when the travellers
drove into Caen.
She still persisted in her wish to casually
encounter Somerset in some aisle, lady-chapel, or crypt to which he might h=
ave
betaken himself to copy and learn the secret of the great artists who had
erected those nooks. Mrs. Goodman was for discovering his inn, and calling =
upon
him in a straightforward way; but Paula seemed afraid of it, and they went =
out in
the morning on foot. First they searched the church of St. Sauveur; he was =
not
there; next the church of St. Jean; then the church of St. Pierre; but he d=
id
not reveal himself, nor had any verger seen or heard of such a man. Outside=
the
latter church was a public flower-garden, and she sat down to consider besi=
de a
round pool in which water-lilies grew and gold-fish swam, near beds of fiery
geraniums, dahlias, and verbenas just past their bloom. Her enterprise had =
not
been justified by its results so far; but meditation still urged her to lis=
ten
to the little voice within and push on. She accordingly rejoined her aunt, =
and
they drove up the hill to the Abbaye aux Dames, the day by this time having=
grown
hot and oppressive.
The church seemed absolutely empty, the void b=
eing
emphasized by its grateful coolness. But on going towards the east end they
perceived a bald gentleman close to the screen, looking to the right and to=
the
left as if much perplexed. Paula merely glanced over him, his back being to=
ward
her, and turning to her aunt said softly, 'I wonder how we get into the cho=
ir?'
'That's just what I am wondering,' said the old
gentleman, abruptly facing round, and Paula discovered that the countenance=
was
not unfamiliar to her eye. Since knowing Somerset she had added to her gall=
ery
of celebrities a photograph of his father, the Academician, and he it was n=
ow
who confronted her.
For the moment embarrassment, due to complicat=
ed
feelings, brought a slight blush to her cheek, but being well aware that he=
did
not know her, she answered, coolly enough, 'I suppose we must ask some one.=
'
'And we certainly would if there were any one =
to
ask,' he said, still looking eastward, and not much at her. 'I have been he=
re a
long time, but nobody comes. Not that I want to get in on my own account; f=
or though
it is thirty years since I last set foot in this place, I remember it as if=
it
were but yesterday.'
'Indeed. I have never been here before,' said
Paula.
'Naturally. But I am looking for a young man w=
ho
is making sketches in some of these buildings, and it is as likely as not t=
hat
he is in the crypt under this choir, for it is just such out-of-the-way noo=
ks
that he prefers. It is very provoking that he should not have told me more =
distinctly
in his letter where to find him.'
Mrs. Goodman, who had gone to make inquiries, =
now
came back, and informed them that she had learnt that it was necessary to p=
ass
through the Hotel-Dieu to the choir, to do which they must go outside.
Thereupon they walked on together, and Mr. Somerset, quite ignoring his
troubles, made remarks upon the beauty of the architecture; and in absence =
of mind,
by reason either of the subject, or of his listener, retained his hat in his
hand after emerging from the church, while they walked all the way across t=
he
Place and into the Hospital gardens.
'A very civil man,' said Mrs. Goodman to Paula
privately.
'Yes,' said Paula, who had not told her aunt t=
hat
she recognized him.
One of the Sisters now preceded them towards t=
he
choir and crypt, Mr. Somerset asking her if a young Englishman was or had b=
een
sketching there. On receiving a reply in the negative, Paula nearly betraye=
d herself
by turning, as if her business there, too, ended with the information. Howe=
ver,
she went on again, and made a pretence of looking round, Mr. Somerset also
staying in a spirit of friendly attention to his countrywomen. They did not
part from him till they had come out from the crypt, and again reached the =
west
front, on their way to which he additionally explained that it was his son =
he
was looking for, who had arranged to meet him here, but had mentioned no in=
n at
which he might be expected.
When he had left them, Paula informed her aunt
whose company they had been sharing. Her aunt began expostulating with Paula
for not telling Mr. Somerset what they had seen of his son's movements. 'It
would have eased his mind at least,' she said.
'I was not bound to ease his mind at the expen=
se
of showing what I would rather conceal. I am continually hampered in such
generosity as that by the circumstance of being a woman!'
'Well, it is getting too late to search further
tonight.'
It was indeed almost evening twilight in the
streets, though the graceful freestone spires to a depth of about twenty fe=
et
from their summits were still dyed with the orange tints of a vanishing sun.
The two relatives dined privately as usual, after which Paula looked out of=
the
window of her room, and reflected upon the events of the day. A tower rising
into the sky quite near at hand showed her that some church or other stood
within a few steps of the hotel archway, and saying nothing to Mrs. Goodman,
she quietly cloaked herself, and went out towards it, apparently with the v=
iew
of disposing of a portion of a dull dispiriting evening. The church was ope=
n,
and on entering she found that it was only lighted by seven candles burning
before the altar of a chapel on the south side, the mass of the building be=
ing
in deep shade. Motionless outlines, which resolved themselves into the form=
s of
kneeling women, were darkly visible among the chairs, and in the triforium
above the arcades there was one hitherto unnoticed radiance, dim as that of=
a
glow-worm in the grass. It was seemingly the effect of a solitary tallow-ca=
ndle
behind the masonry.
A priest came in, unlocked the door of a
confessional with a click which sounded in the silence, and entered it; a w=
oman
followed, disappeared within the curtain of the same, emerging again in abo=
ut
five minutes, followed by the priest, who locked up his door with another l=
oud
click, like a tradesman full of business, and came down the aisle to go out=
. In
the lobby he spoke to another woman, who replied, 'Ah, oui, Monsieur l'Abbe=
!'
Two women having spoken to him, there could be=
no
harm in a third doing likewise. 'Monsieur l'Abbe,' said Paula in French, 'c=
ould
you indicate to me the stairs of the triforium?' and she signified her reas=
on
for wishing to know by pointing to the glimmering light above.
'Ah, he is a friend of yours, the Englishman?'
pleasantly said the priest, recognizing her nationality; and taking her to a
little door he conducted her up a stone staircase, at the top of which he
showed her the long blind story over the aisle arches which led round to wh=
ere
the light was. Cautioning her not to stumble over the uneven floor, he left=
her
and descended. His words had signified that Somerset was here.
It was a gloomy place enough that she found herself in, but the seven candles below on the opposite altar, and a faint = sky light from the clerestory, lent enough rays to guide her. Paula walked on to the bend of the apse: here were a few chairs, and the origin of the light.<= o:p>
This was a candle stuck at the end of a sharpe=
ned
stick, the latter entering a joint in the stones. A young man was sketching=
by
the glimmer. But there was no need for the blush which had prepared itself =
beforehand;
the young man was Mr. Cockton, Somerset's youngest draughtsman.
Paula could have cried aloud with disappointme=
nt.
Cockton recognized Miss Power, and appearing much surprised, rose from his =
seat
with a bow, and said hastily, 'Mr. Somerset left to-day.'
'I did not ask for him,' said Paula.
'No, Miss Power: but I thought--'
'Yes, yes--you know, of course, that he has be=
en
my architect. Well, it happens that I should like to see him, if he can cal=
l on
me. Which way did he go?'
'He's gone to Etretat.'
'What for? There are no abbeys to sketch at
Etretat.'
Cockton looked at the point of his pencil, and
with a hesitating motion of his lip answered, 'Mr. Somerset said he was tir=
ed.'
'Of what?'
'He said he was sick and tired of holy places,=
and
would go to some wicked spot or other, to get that consolation which holine=
ss
could not give. But he only said it casually to Knowles, and perhaps he did=
not
mean it.'
'Knowles is here too?'
'Yes, Miss Power, and Bowles. Mr. Somerset has
been kind enough to give us a chance of enlarging our knowledge of French
Early-pointed, and pays half the expenses.'
Paula said a few other things to the young man,
walked slowly round the triforium as if she had come to examine it, and
returned down the staircase. On getting back to the hotel she told her aunt,
who had just been having a nap, that next day they would go to Etretat for a
change.
'Why? There are no old churches at Etretat.'
'No. But I am sick and tired of holy places, a=
nd
want to go to some wicked spot or other to find that consolation which holi=
ness
cannot give.'
'For shame, Paula! Now I know what it is; you =
have
heard that he's gone there! You needn't try to blind me.'
'I don't care where he's gone!' cried Paula
petulantly. In a moment, however, she smiled at herself, and added, 'You mu=
st
take that for what it is worth. I have made up my mind to let him know from=
my
own lips how the misunderstanding arose. That done, I shall leave him, and
probably never see him again. My conscience will be clear.'
The next day they took the steamboat down the
Orne, intending to reach Etretat by way of Havre. Just as they were moving =
off
an elderly gentleman under a large white sunshade, and carrying his hat in =
his hand,
was seen leisurely walking down the wharf at some distance, but obviously
making for the boat.
'A gentleman!' said the mate.
'Who is he?' said the captain.
'An English,' said Clementine.
Nobody knew more, but as leisure was the order=
of
the day the engines were stopped, on the chance of his being a passenger, a=
nd
all eyes were bent upon him in conjecture. He disappeared and reappeared fr=
om
behind a pile of merchandise and approached the boat at an easy pace, where=
upon
the gangway was replaced, and he came on board, removing his hat to Paula,
quietly thanking the captain for stopping, and saying to Mrs. Goodman, 'I am
nicely in time.'
It was Mr. Somerset the elder, who by degrees
informed our travellers, as sitting on their camp-stools they advanced betw=
een
the green banks bordered by elms, that he was going to Etretat; that the yo=
ung
man he had spoken of yesterday had gone to that romantic watering-place ins=
tead
of studying art at Caen, and that he was going to join him there.
Paula preserved an entire silence as to her own
intentions, partly from natural reticence, and partly, as it appeared, from=
the
difficulty of explaining a complication which was not very clear to herself=
. At
Havre they parted from Mr. Somerset, and did not see him again till they we=
re driving
over the hills towards Etretat in a carriage and four, when the white umbre=
lla
became visible far ahead among the outside passengers of the coach to the s=
ame
place. In a short time they had passed and cut in before this vehicle, but =
soon
became aware that their carriage, like the coach, was one of a straggling
procession of conveyances, some mile and a half in length, all bound for the
village between the cliffs.
In descending the long hill shaded by lime-tre=
es
which sheltered their place of destination, this procession closed up, and =
they
perceived that all the visitors and native population had turned out to wel=
come
them, the daily arrival of new sojourners at this hour being the chief exci=
tement
of Etretat. The coach which had preceded them all the way, at more or less
remoteness, was now quite close, and in passing along the village street th=
ey
saw Mr. Somerset wave his hand to somebody in the crowd below. A felt hat w=
as
waved in the air in response, the coach swept into the inn-yard, followed by
the idlers, and all disappeared. Paula's face was crimson as their own carr=
iage
swept round in the opposite direction to the rival inn.
Once in her room she breathed like a person who
had finished a long chase. They did not go down before dinner, but when it =
was
almost dark Paula begged her aunt to wrap herself up and come with her to t=
he
shore hard by. The beach was deserted, everybody being at the Casino; the g=
ate
stood invitingly open, and they went in. Here the brilliantly lit terrace w=
as
crowded with promenaders, and outside the yellow palings, surmounted by its=
row
of lamps, rose the voice of the invisible sea. Groups of people were sitting
under the verandah, the women mostly in wraps, for the air was growing chil=
ly.
Through the windows at their back an animated scene disclosed itself in the=
shape
of a room-full of waltzers, the strains of the band striving in the ear for
mastery over the sounds of the sea. The dancers came round a couple at a ti=
me,
and were individually visible to those people without who chose to look tha=
t way,
which was what Paula did.
'Come away, come away!' she suddenly said. 'It=
is
not right for us to be here.'
Her exclamation had its origin in what she had=
at
that moment seen within, the spectacle of Mr. George Somerset whirling round
the room with a young lady of uncertain nationality but pleasing figure. Pa=
ula was
not accustomed to show the white feather too clearly, but she soon had pass=
ed
out through those yellow gates and retreated, till the mixed music of sea a=
nd
band had resolved into that of the sea alone.
'Well!' said her aunt, half in soliloquy, 'do =
you
know who I saw dancing there, Paula? Our Mr. Somerset, if I don't make a gr=
eat
mistake!'
'It was likely enough that you did,' sedately
replied her niece. 'He left Caen with the intention of seeking distractions=
of
a lighter kind than those furnished by art, and he has merely succeeded in
finding them. But he has made my duty rather a difficult one. Still, it was=
my
duty, for I very greatly wronged him. Perhaps, however, I have done enough =
for
honour's sake. I would have humiliated myself by an apology if I had found =
him
in any other situation; but, of course, one can't he expected to take MUCH
trouble when he is seen going on like that!'
The coolness with which she began her remarks =
had
developed into something like warmth as she concluded.
'He is only dancing with a lady he probably kn=
ows
very well.'
'He doesn't know her! The idea of his dancing =
with
a woman of that description! We will go away tomorrow. This place has been
greatly over-praised.'
'The place is well enough, as far as I can see=
.'
'He is carrying out his programme to the lette=
r.
He plunges into excitement in the most reckless manner, and I tremble for t=
he consequences!
I can do no more: I have humiliated myself into following him, believing th=
at
in giving too ready credence to appearances I had been narrow and inhuman, =
and
had caused him much misery. But he does not mind, and he has no misery; he
seems just as well as ever. How much this finding him has cost me! After al=
l, I
did not deceive him. He must have acquired a natural aversion for me. I have
allowed myself to be interested in a man of very common qualities, and am n=
ow
bitterly alive to the shame of having sought him out. I heartily detest him=
! I
will go back--aunt, you are right--I had no business to come.... His light =
conduct
has rendered him uninteresting to me!'
When she rose the next morning the bell was
clanging for the second breakfast, and people were pouring in from the beac=
h in
every variety of attire. Paula, whom a restless night had left with a heada=
che,
which, however, she said nothing about, was reluctant to emerge from the se=
clusion
of her chamber, till her aunt, discovering what was the matter with her,
suggested that a few minutes in the open air would refresh her; and they we=
nt
downstairs into the hotel gardens.
The clatter of the big breakfast within was
audible from this spot, and the noise seemed suddenly to inspirit Paula, who
proposed to enter. Her aunt assented. In the verandah under which they pass=
ed
was a rustic hat-stand in the form of a tree, upon which hats and other
body-gear hung like bunches of fruit. Paula's eye fell upon a felt hat to w=
hich
a small block-book was attached by a string. She knew that hat and block-bo=
ok
well, and turning to Mrs. Goodman said, 'After all, I don't want the breakf=
ast
they are having: let us order one of our own as usual. And we'll have it he=
re.'
She led on to where some little tables were pl=
aced
under the tall shrubs, followed by her aunt, who was in turn followed by th=
e proprietress
of the hotel, that lady having discovered from the French maid that there w=
as
good reason for paying these ladies ample personal attention.
'Is the gentleman to whom that sketch-book bel=
ongs
staying here?' Paula carelessly inquired, as she indicated the object on the
hat-stand.
'Ah, no!' deplored the proprietress. 'The Hotel
was full when Mr. Somerset came. He stays at a cottage beyond the Rue Anicet
Bourgeois: he only has his meals here.'
Paula had taken her seat under the fuchsia-tre=
es
in such a manner that she could observe all the exits from the salle a mang=
er;
but for the present none of the breakfasters emerged, the only moving objec=
ts
on the scene being the waitresses who ran hither and thither across the cou=
rt, the
cook's assistants with baskets of long bread, and the laundresses with bask=
ets
of sun-bleached linen. Further back towards the inn-yard, stablemen were
putting in the horses for starting the flys and coaches to Les Ifs, the nea=
rest
railway-station.
'Suppose the Somersets should be going off by =
one
of these conveyances,' said Mrs. Goodman as she sipped her tea.
'Well, aunt, then they must,' replied the youn=
ger
lady with composure.
Nevertheless she looked with some misgiving at=
the
nearest stableman as he led out four white horses, harnessed them, and
leisurely brought a brush with which he began blacking their yellow hoofs. =
All
the vehicles were ready at the door by the time breakfast was over, and the
inmates soon turned out, some to mount the omnibuses and carriages, some to=
ramble
on the adjacent beach, some to climb the verdant slopes, and some to make f=
or
the cliffs that shut in the vale. The fuchsia-trees which sheltered Paula's
breakfast-table from the blaze of the sun, also screened it from the eyes of
the outpouring company, and she sat on with her aunt in perfect comfort, ti=
ll
among the last of the stream came Somerset and his father. Paula reddened at
being so near the former at last. It was with sensible relief that she obse=
rved
them turn towards the cliffs and not to the carriages, and thus signify that
they were not going off that day.
Neither of the two saw the ladies, and when the
latter had finished their tea and coffee they followed to the shore, where =
they
sat for nearly an hour, reading and watching the bathers. At length footste=
ps crunched
among the pebbles in their vicinity, and looking out from her sunshade Paula
saw the two Somersets close at hand.
The elder recognized her, and the younger,
observing his father's action of courtesy, turned his head. It was a revela=
tion
to Paula, for she was shocked to see that he appeared worn and ill. The
expression of his face changed at sight of her, increasing its shade of
paleness; but he immediately withdrew his eyes and passed by.
Somerset was as much surprised at encountering=
her
thus as she had been distressed to see him. As soon as they were out of
hearing, he asked his father quietly, 'What strange thing is this, that Lad=
y De
Stancy should be here and her husband not with her? Did she bow to me, or to
you?'
'Lady De Stancy--that young lady?' asked the
puzzled painter. He proceeded to explain all he knew; that she was a young =
lady
he had met on his journey at two or three different times; moreover, that i=
f she
were his son's client--the woman who was to have become Lady De Stancy--she=
was
Miss Power still; for he had seen in some newspaper two days before leaving
England that the wedding had been postponed on account of her illness.
Somerset was so greatly moved that he could ha=
rdly
speak connectedly to his father as they paced on together. 'But she is not =
ill,
as far as I can see,' he said. 'The wedding postponed?--You are sure the wo=
rd
was postponed?--Was it broken off?'
'No, it was postponed. I meant to have told you
before, knowing you would be interested as the castle architect; but it sli=
pped
my memory in the bustle of arriving.'
'I am not the castle architect.'
'The devil you are not--what are you then?'
'Well, I am not that.'
Somerset the elder, though not of penetrating
nature, began to see that here lay an emotional complication of some sort, =
and
reserved further inquiry till a more convenient occasion. They had reached =
the
end of the level beach where the cliff began to rise, and as this impedimen=
t naturally
stopped their walk they retraced their steps. On again nearing the spot whe=
re
Paula and her aunt were sitting, the painter would have deviated to the hot=
el;
but as his son persisted in going straight on, in due course they were oppo=
site
the ladies again. By this time Miss Power, who had appeared anxious during
their absence, regained her self-control. Going towards her old lover she s=
aid,
with a smile, 'I have been looking for you!'
'Why have you been doing that?' said Somerset,=
in
a voice which he failed to keep as steady as he could wish.
'Because--I want some architect to continue the
restoration. Do you withdraw your resignation?'
Somerset appeared unable to decide for a few
instants. 'Yes,' he then answered.
For the moment they had ignored the presence of
the painter and Mrs. Goodman, but Somerset now made them known to one anoth=
er,
and there was friendly intercourse all round.
'When will you be able to resume operations at= the castle?' she asked, as soon as she could again speak directly to Somerset.<= o:p>
'As soon as I can get back. Of course I only
resume it at your special request.'
'Of course.' To one who had known all the
circumstances it would have seemed a thousand pities that, after again gett=
ing
face to face with him, she did not explain, without delay, the whole mischi=
ef
that had separated them. But she did not do it--perhaps from the inherent a=
wkwardness
of such a topic at this idle time. She confined herself simply to the
above-mentioned business-like request, and when the party had walked a few
steps together they separated, with mutual promises to meet again.
'I hope you have explained your mistake to him,
and how it arose, and everything?' said her aunt when they were alone.
'No, I did not.'
'What, not explain after all?' said her amazed
relative.
'I decided to put it off.'
'Then I think you decided very wrongly. Poor y=
oung
man, he looked so ill!'
'Did you, too, think he looked ill? But he dan=
ced
last night. Why did he dance?' She turned and gazed regretfully at the corn=
er
round which the Somersets had disappeared.
'I don't know why he danced; but if I had known
you were going to be so silent, I would have explained the mistake myself.'=
'I wish you had. But no; I have said I would; =
and
I must.'
Paula's avoidance of tables d'hote did not ext=
end
to the present one. It was quite with alacrity that she went down; and with=
her
entry the antecedent hotel beauty who had reigned for the last five days at
that meal, was unceremoniously deposed by the guests. Mr. Somerset the elde=
r came
in, but nobody with him. His seat was on Paula's left hand, Mrs. Goodman be=
ing
on Paula's right, so that all the conversation was between the Academician =
and
the younger lady. When the latter had again retired upstairs with her aunt,
Mrs. Goodman expressed regret that young Mr. Somerset was absent from the
table. 'Why has he kept away?' she asked.
'I don't know--I didn't ask,' said Paula sadly.
'Perhaps he doesn't care to meet us again.'
'That's because you didn't explain.'
'Well--why didn't the old man give me an
opportunity?' exclaimed the niece with suppressed excitement. 'He would
scarcely say anything but yes and no, and gave me no chance at all of
introducing the subject. I wanted to explain--I came all the way on purpose=
--I
would have begged George's pardon on my two knees if there had been any way=
of
beginning; but there was not, and I could not do it!'
Though she slept badly that night, Paula promp=
tly
appeared in the public room to breakfast, and that not from motives of vani=
ty;
for, while not unconscious of her accession to the unstable throne of
queen-beauty in the establishment, she seemed too preoccupied to care for t=
he
honour just then, and would readily have changed places with her unhappy pr=
edecessor,
who lingered on in the background like a candle after sunrise.
Mrs. Goodman was determined to trust no longer=
to
Paula for putting an end to what made her so restless and self-reproachful.
Seeing old Mr. Somerset enter to a little side-table behind for lack of roo=
m at
the crowded centre tables, again without his son, she turned her head and a=
sked
point-blank where the young man was.
Mr. Somerset's face became a shade graver than
before. 'My son is unwell,' he replied; 'so unwell that he has been advised=
to
stay indoors and take perfect rest.'
'I do hope it is nothing serious.'
'I hope so too. The fact is, he has overdone
himself a little. He was not well when he came here; and to make himself wo=
rse
he must needs go dancing at the Casino with this lady and that--among others
with a young American lady who is here with her family, and whom he met in
London last year. I advised him against it, but he seemed desperately deter=
mined
to shake off lethargy by any rash means, and wouldn't listen to me. Luckily=
he
is not in the hotel, but in a quiet cottage a hundred yards up the hill.'
Paula, who had heard all, did not show or say =
what
she felt at the news: but after breakfast, on meeting the landlady in a pas=
sage
alone, she asked with some anxiety if there were a really skilful medical m=
an
in Etretat; and on being told that there was, and his name, she went back to
look for Mr. Somerset; but he had gone.
They heard nothing more of young Somerset all =
that
morning, but towards evening, while Paula sat at her window, looking over t=
he
heads of fuchsias upon the promenade beyond, she saw the painter walk by. S=
he immediately
went to her aunt and begged her to go out and ask Mr. Somerset if his son h=
ad
improved.
'I will send Milly or Clementine,' said Mrs.
Goodman.
'I wish you would see him yourself.'
'He has gone on. I shall never find him.'
'He has only gone round to the front,' persist=
ed
Paula. 'Do walk that way, auntie, and ask him.'
Thus pressed, Mrs. Goodman acquiesced, and bro=
ught
back intelligence to Miss Power, who had watched them through the window, t=
hat
his son did not positively improve, but that his American friends were very
kind to him.
Having made use of her aunt, Paula seemed
particularly anxious to get rid of her again, and when that lady sat down to
write letters, Paula went to her own room, hastily dressed herself without
assistance, asked privately the way to the cottage, and went off thitherward
unobserved.
At the upper end of the lane she saw a little
house answering to the description, whose front garden, window-sills, palin=
gs,
and doorstep were literally ablaze with nasturtiums in bloom.
She entered this inhabited nosegay, quietly as=
ked
for the invalid, and if he were well enough to see Miss Power. The woman of=
the
house soon returned, and she was conducted up a crooked staircase to Somers=
et's
modest apartments. It appeared that some rooms in this dwelling had been
furnished by the landlady of the inn, who hired them of the tenant during t=
he
summer season to use as an annexe to the hotel.
Admitted to the outer room she beheld her
architect looking as unarchitectural as possible; lying on a small couch wh=
ich
was drawn up to the open casement, whence he had a back view of the window
flowers, and enjoyed a green transparency through the undersides of the sam=
e nasturtium
leaves that presented their faces to the passers without.
When the latch had again clicked into the catc=
h of
the closed door Paula went up to the invalid, upon whose pale and interesti=
ng
face a flush had arisen simultaneously with the announcement of her name. He
would have sprung up to receive her, but she pressed him down, and throwing=
all
reserve on one side for the first time in their intercourse, she crouched
beside the sofa, whispering with roguish solicitude, her face not too far f=
rom
his own: 'How foolish you are, George, to get ill just now when I have been=
wanting
so much to see you again!--I am so sorry to see you like this--what I said =
to
you when we met on the shore was not what I had come to say!'
Somerset took her by the hand. 'Then what did =
you
come to say, Paula?' he asked.
'I wanted to tell you that the mere wanton
wandering of a capricious mind was not the cause of my estrangement from yo=
u.
There has been a great deception practised--the exact nature of it I cannot
tell you plainly just at present; it is too painful--but it is all over, an=
d I
can assure you of my sorrow at having behaved as I did, and of my sincere
friendship now as ever.'
'There is nothing I shall value so much as tha=
t.
It will make my work at the castle very pleasant to feel that I can consult=
you
about it without fear of intruding on you against your wishes.'
'Yes, perhaps it will. But--you do not compreh=
end
me.'
'You have been an enigma always.'
'And you have been provoking; but never so
provoking as now. I wouldn't for the world tell you the whole of my fancies=
as
I came hither this evening: but I should think your natural intuition would
suggest what they were.'
'It does, Paula. But there are motives of deli=
cacy
which prevent my acting on what is suggested to me.'
'Delicacy is a gift, and you should thank God =
for
it; but in some cases it is not so precious as we would persuade ourselves.=
'
'Not when the woman is rich, and the man is po=
or?'
'O, George Somerset--be cold, or angry, or
anything, but don't be like this! It is never worth a woman's while to show
regret for her injustice; for all she gets by it is an accusation of want of
delicacy.'
'Indeed I don't accuse you of that--I warmly,
tenderly thank you for your kindness in coming here to see me.'
'Well, perhaps you do. But I am now in I cannot
tell what mood--I will not tell what mood, for it would be confessing more =
than
I ought. This finding you out is a piece of weakness that I shall not repea=
t;
and I have only one thing more to say. I have served you badly, George, I k=
now that;
but it is never too late to mend; and I have come back to you. However, I s=
hall
never run after you again, trust me for that, for it is not the woman's par=
t.
Still, before I go, that there may be no mistake as to my meaning, and mise=
ry
entailed on us for want of a word, I'll add this: that if you want to marry=
me,
as you once did, you must say so; for I am here to be asked.'
It would be superfluous to transcribe Somerset=
's
reply, and the remainder of the scene between the pair. Let it suffice that=
half-an-hour
afterwards, when the sun had almost gone down, Paula walked briskly into the
hotel, troubled herself nothing about dinner, but went upstairs to their
sitting-room, where her aunt presently found her upon the couch looking up =
at
the ceiling through her fingers. They talked on different subjects for some
time till the old lady said 'Mr. Somerset's cottage is the one covered with
flowers up the lane, I hear.'
'Yes,' said Paula.
'How do you know?'
'I've been there.... We are going to be marrie=
d,
aunt.'
'Indeed!' replied Mrs. Goodman. 'Well, I thoug=
ht
this might be the end of it: you were determined on the point; and I am not
much surprised at your news. Your father was very wise after all in entaili=
ng
everything so strictly upon your offspring; for if he had not I should have
been driven wild with the responsibility!'
'And now that the murder is out,' continued Pa=
ula,
passing over that view of the case, 'I don't mind telling you that somehow =
or
other I have got to like George Somerset as desperately as a woman can care=
for
any man. I thought I should have died when I saw him dancing, and feared I =
had
lost him! He seemed ten times nicer than ever then! So silly we women are, =
that
I wouldn't marry a duke in preference to him. There, that's my honest feeli=
ng,
and you must make what you can of it; my conscience is clear, thank Heaven!=
'
'Have you fixed the day?'
'No,' continued the young lady, still watching=
the
sleeping flies on the ceiling. 'It is left unsettled between us, while I co=
me
and ask you if there would be any harm--if it could conveniently be before =
we
return to England?'
'Paula, this is too precipitate!'
'On the contrary, aunt. In matrimony, as in so=
me
other things, you should be slow to decide, but quick to execute. Nothing on
earth would make me marry another man; I know every fibre of his character;=
and
he knows a good many fibres of mine; so as there is nothing more to be lear=
nt,
why shouldn't we marry at once? On one point I am firm: I will never return=
to
that castle as Miss Power. A nameless dread comes over me when I think of i=
t--a
fear that some uncanny influence of the dead De Stancys would drive me again
from him. O, if it were to do that,' she murmured, burying her face in her
hands, 'I really think it would be more than I could bear!'
'Very well,' said Mrs. Goodman; 'we will see w=
hat
can be done. I will write to Mr. Wardlaw.'
On a windy afternoon in November, when more th=
an
two months had closed over the incidents previously recorded, a number of
farmers were sitting in a room of the Lord-Quantock-Arms Inn, Markton, that=
was
used for the weekly ordinary. It was a long, low apartment, formed by the u=
nion
of two or three smaller rooms, with a bow-window looking upon the street, a=
nd
at the present moment was pervaded by a blue fog from tobacco-pipes, and a
temperature like that of a kiln. The body of farmers who still sat on there=
was
greater than usual, owing to the cold air without, the tables having been
cleared of dinner for some time and their surface stamped with liquid circl=
es
by the feet of the numerous glasses.
Besides the farmers there were present several professional men of the town, who found it desirable to dine here on market-days for the opportunity it afforded them of increasing their practi= ce among the agriculturists, many of whom were men of large balances, even luxurious livers, who drove to market in elegant phaetons drawn by horses o= f supreme blood, bone, and action, in a style never anticipated by their fathers when jogging thither in light carts, or afoot with a butter basket on each arm.<= o:p>
The buzz of groggy conversation was suddenly
impinged on by the notes of a peal of bells from the tower hard by. Almost =
at
the same instant the door of the room opened, and there entered the landlor=
d of
the little inn at Sleeping-Green. Drawing his supply of cordials from this
superior house, to which he was subject, he came here at stated times like =
a prebendary
to the cathedral of his diocesan, afterwards retailing to his own humbler
audience the sentiments which he had learnt of this. But curiosity being aw=
akened
by the church bells the usual position was for the moment reversed, and one=
of
the farmers, saluting him by name, asked him the reason of their striking u=
p at
that time of day.
'My mis'ess out yonder,' replied the rural
landlord, nodding sideways, 'is coming home with her fancy-man. They have b=
een
a-gaying together this turk of a while in foreign parts--Here, maid!--what =
with
the wind, and standing about, my blood's as low as water--bring us a thimbl=
eful
of that that isn't gin and not far from it.'
'It is true, then, that she's become Mrs.
Somerset?' indifferently asked a farmer in broadcloth, tenant of an estate =
in
quite another direction than hers, as he contemplated the grain of the table
immediately surrounding the foot of his glass.
'True--of course it is,' said Havill, who was =
also
present, in the tone of one who, though sitting in this rubicund company, w=
as
not of it. 'I could have told you the truth of it any day these last five
weeks.'
Among those who had lent an ear was Dairyman
Jinks, an old gnarled character who wore a white fustian coat and yellow
leggings; the only man in the room who never dressed up in dark clothes for
marketing. He now asked, 'Married abroad, was they? And how long will a wed=
ding
abroad stand good for in this country?'
'As long as a wedding at home.'
'Will it? Faith; I didn't know: how should I? I
thought it might be some new plan o' folks for leasing women now they be so
plentiful, so as to get rid o' 'em when the men be tired o' 'em, and hev sp=
ent
all their money.'
'He won't be able to spend her money,' said the
landlord of Sleeping-Green. ''Tis her very own person's--settled upon the h=
airs
of her head for ever.'
'O nation! Then if I were the man I shouldn't =
care
for such a one-eyed benefit as that,' said Dairyman Jinks, turning away to
listen to the talk on his other hand.
'Is that true?' asked the gentleman-farmer in
broadcloth.
'It is sufficiently near the truth,' said Havi=
ll.
'There is nothing at all unusual in the arrangement; it was only settled so=
to
prevent any schemer making a beggar of her. If Somerset and she have any
children, which probably they will, it will be theirs; and what can a man w=
ant more?
Besides, there is a large portion of property left to her personal use--qui=
te
as much as they can want. Oddly enough, the curiosities and pictures of the
castle which belonged to the De Stancys are not restricted from sale; they =
are
hers to do what she likes with. Old Power didn't care for articles that
reminded him so much of his predecessors.'
'Hey?' said Dairyman Jinks, turning back again,
having decided that the conversation on his right hand was, after all, the =
more
interesting. 'Well--why can't 'em hire a travelling chap to touch up the
picters into her own gaffers and gammers? Then they'd be worth sommat to he=
r.'
'Ah, here they are? I thought so,' said Havill,
who had been standing up at the window for the last few moments. 'The ringe=
rs
were told to begin as soon as the train signalled.'
As he spoke a carriage drew up to the hotel-do=
or,
followed by another with the maid and luggage. The inmates crowded to the
bow-window, except Dairyman Jinks, who had become absorbed in his own
reflections.
'What be they stopping here for?' asked one of=
the
previous speakers.
'They are going to stay here to-night,' said
Havill. 'They have come quite unexpectedly, and the castle is in such a sta=
te
of turmoil that there is not a single carpet down, or room for them to use.=
We
shall get two or three in order by next week.'
'Two little people like them will be lost in t=
he
chammers of that wandering place!' satirized Dairyman Jinks. 'They will be
bound to have a randy every fortnight to keep the moth out of the furniture=
!'
By this time Somerset was handing out the wife=
of
his bosom, and Dairyman Jinks went on: 'That's no more Miss Power that was,
than my niece's daughter Kezia is Miss Power--in short it is a different wo=
man altogether!'
'There is no mistake about the woman,' said the
landlord; 'it is her fur clothes that make her look so like a caterpillar on
end. Well, she is not a bad bargain! As for Captain De Stancy, he'll fret h=
is
gizzard green.'
'He's the man she ought to ha' married,' decla=
red
the farmer in broadcloth. 'As the world goes she ought to have been Lady De
Stancy. She gave up her chapel-going, and you might have thought she would =
have
given up her first young man: but she stuck to him, though by all accounts =
he
would soon have been interested in another party.'
''Tis woman's nature to be false except to a m=
an,
and man's nature to be true except to a woman,' said the landlord of
Sleeping-Green. 'However, all's well that ends well, and I have something e=
lse
to think of than new-married couples;' saying which the speaker moved off, =
and
the others returned to their seats, the young pair who had been their theme=
vanishing
through the hotel into some private paradise to rest and dine.
By this time their arrival had become known, a=
nd a
crowd soon gathered outside, acquiring audacity with continuance there. Rai=
sing
a hurrah, the group would not leave till Somerset had showed himself on the=
balcony
above; and then declined to go away till Paula also had appeared; when,
remarking that her husband seemed a quiet young man enough, and would make a
very good borough member when their present one misbehaved himself, the
assemblage good-humouredly dispersed.
Among those whose ears had been reached by the
hurrahs of these idlers was a man in silence and solitude, far out of the t=
own.
He was leaning over a gate that divided two meads in a watery level between
Stancy Castle and Markton. He turned his head for a few seconds, then conti=
nued
his contemplative gaze towards the towers of the castle, visible over the t=
rees
as far as was possible in the leaden gloom of the November eve. The military
form of the solitary lounger was recognizable as that of Sir William De Sta=
ncy,
notwithstanding the failing light and his attitude of so resting his elbows=
on
the gate that his hands enclosed the greater part of his face.
The scene was inexpressibly cheerless. No other
human creature was apparent, and the only sounds audible above the wind were
those of the trickling streams which distributed the water over the meadow.=
A
heron had been standing in one of these rivulets about twenty yards from the
officer, and they vied with each other in stillness till the bird suddenly =
rose
and flew off to the plantation in which it was his custom to pass the night
with others of his tribe. De Stancy saw the heron rise, and seemed to imagi=
ne
the creature's departure without a supper to be owing to the increasing
darkness; but in another minute he became conscious that the heron had been
disturbed by sounds too distant to reach his own ears at the time. They were
nearer now, and there came along under the hedge a young man known to De St=
ancy
exceedingly well.
'Ah,' he said listlessly, 'you have ventured
back.'
'Yes, captain. Why do you walk out here?'
'The bells began ringing because she and he we=
re
expected, and my thoughts naturally dragged me this way. Thank Heaven the
battery leaves Markton in a few days, and then the precious place will know=
me
no more!'
'I have heard of it.' Turning to where the dim
lines of the castle rose he continued: 'Well, there it stands.'
'And I am not in it.'
'They are not in it yet either.'
'They soon will be.'
'Well--what tune is that you were humming,
captain?'
'ALL IS LOST NOW,' replied the captain grimly.=
'O no; you have got me, and I am a treasure to=
any
man. I have another match in my eye for you, and shall get you well settled
yet, if you keep yourself respectable. So thank God, and take courage!'
'Ah, Will--you are a flippant young fool--wise=
in
your own conceit; I say it to my sorrow! 'Twas your dishonesty spoilt all. =
That
lady would have been my wife by fair dealing--time was all I required. But =
base
attacks on a man's character never deserve to win, and if I had once been
certain that you had made them, my course would have been very different, b=
oth
towards you and others. But why should I talk to you about this? If I cared=
an
atom what becomes of you I would take you in hand severely enough; not cari=
ng,
I leave you alone, to go to the devil your own way.'
'Thank you kindly, captain. Well, since you ha=
ve
spoken plainly, I will do the same. We De Stancys are a worn-out old
party--that's the long and the short of it. We represent conditions of life
that have had their day--especially me. Our one remaining chance was an
alliance with new aristocrats; and we have failed. We are past and done for.
Our line has had five hundred years of glory, and we ought to be content. E=
nfin
les renards se trouvent chez le pelletier.'
'Speak for yourself, young Consequence, and le=
ave
the destinies of old families to respectable philosophers. This fiasco is t=
he
direct result of evil conduct, and of nothing else at all. I have managed
badly; I countenanced you too far. When I saw your impish tendencies I shou=
ld have
forsworn the alliance.'
'Don't sting me, captain. What I have told you=
is
true. As for my conduct, cat will after kind, you know. You should have held
your tongue on the wedding morning, and have let me take my chance.'
'Is that all I get for saving you from jail?
Gad--I alone am the sufferer, and feel I am alone the fool!... Come, off wi=
th
you--I never want to see you any more.'
'Part we will, then--till we meet again. It wi=
ll
be a light night hereabouts, I think, this evening.'
'A very dark one for me.'
'Nevertheless, I think it will be a light nigh=
t.
Au revoir!'
Dare went his way, and after a while De Stancy
went his. Both were soon lost in the shades.
The castle to-night was as gloomy as the meads=
. As
Havill had explained, the habitable rooms were just now undergoing a scour,=
and
the main block of buildings was empty even of the few servants who had been
retained, they having for comfort's sake taken up their quarters in the
detached rooms adjoining the entrance archway. Hence not a single light sho=
ne from
the lonely windows, at which ivy leaves tapped like woodpeckers, moved by g=
usts
that were numerous and contrary rather than violent. Within the walls all w=
as
silence, chaos, and obscurity, till towards eleven o'clock, when the thick
immovable cloud that had dulled the daytime broke into a scudding fleece,
through which the moon forded her way as a nebulous spot of watery white,
sending light enough, though of a rayless kind, into the castle chambers to
show the confusion that reigned there.
At this time an eye might have noticed a figure
flitting in and about those draughty apartments, and making no more noise i=
n so
doing than a puff of wind. Its motion hither and thither was rapid, but
methodical, its bearing absorbed, yet cautious. Though it ran more or less
through all the principal rooms, the chief scene of its operations was the =
Long
Gallery overlooking the Pleasance, which was covered by an ornamental wood-=
and-plaster
roof, and contained a whole throng of family portraits, besides heavy old
cabinets and the like. The portraits which were of value as works of art we=
re
smaller than these, and hung in adjoining rooms.
The manifest occupation of the figure was that=
of
removing these small and valuable pictures from other chambers to the galle=
ry
in which the rest were hung, and piling them in a heap in the midst. Includ=
ed
in the group were nine by Sir Peter Lely, five by Vandyck, four by Corneliu=
s Jansen,
one by Salvator Rosa (remarkable as being among the few English portraits e=
ver
painted by that master), many by Kneller, and two by Romney. Apparently by
accident, the light being insufficient to distinguish them from portraits, =
the
figure also brought a Raffaelle Virgin-and-Child, a magnificent Tintoretto,=
a
Titian, and a Giorgione.
On these was laid a large collection of enamel=
led
miniature portraits of the same illustrious line; afterwards tapestries and
cushions embroidered with the initials 'De S.'; and next the cradle present=
ed
by Charles the First to the contemporary De Stancy mother, till at length t=
here
arose in the middle of the floor a huge heap containing most of what had be=
en
personal and peculiar to members of the De Stancy family as distinct from
general furniture.
Then the figure went from door to door, and th=
rew
open each that was unfastened. It next proceeded to a room on the ground fl=
oor,
at present fitted up as a carpenter's shop, and knee-deep in shavings. An
armful of these was added to the pile of objects in the gallery; a window at
each end of the gallery was opened, causing a brisk draught along the walls=
; and
then the activity of the figure ceased, and it was seen no more.
Five minutes afterwards a light shone upon the
lawn from the windows of the Long Gallery, which glowed with more brilliancy
than it had known in the meridian of its Caroline splendours. Thereupon the
framed gentleman in the lace collar seemed to open his eyes more widely; he
with the flowing locks and turn-up mustachios to part his lips; he in the
armour, who was so much like Captain De Stancy, to shake the plates of his =
mail
with suppressed laughter; the lady with the three-stringed pearl necklace, =
and
vast expanse of neck, to nod with satisfaction and triumphantly signify to =
her
adjoining husband that this was a meet and glorious end.
The flame increased, and blown upon by the wind
roared round the pictures, the tapestries, and the cradle, up to the plaster
ceiling and through it into the forest of oak timbers above.
The best sitting-room at the Lord-Quantock-Arm=
s in
Markton was as cosy this evening as a room can be that lacks the minuter
furniture on which cosiness so largely depends. By the fire sat Paula and
Somerset, the former with a shawl round her shoulders to keep off the draug=
ht
which, despite the curtains, forced its way in on this gusty night through =
the windows
opening upon the balcony. Paula held a letter in her hand, the contents of
which formed the subject of their conversation. Happy as she was in her gen=
eral
situation, there was for the nonce a tear in her eye.
=
'MY
EVER DEAR PAULA (ran the letter),--Your last letter has just reached me, an=
d I
have followed your account of your travels and intentions with more interest
than I can tell. You, who know me, need no assurance of this. At the present
moment, however, I am in the whirl of a change that has resulted from a
resolution taken some time ago, but concealed from almost everybody till no=
w.
Why? Well, I will own--from cowardice--fear lest I should be reasoned out o=
f my
plan. I am going to steal from the world, Paula, from the social world, for
whose gaieties and ambitions I never had much liking, and whose circles I h=
ave
not the ability to grace. My home, and resting-place till the great rest co=
mes,
is with the Protestant Sisterhood at -----. Whatever shortcomings may be fo=
und
in such a community, I believe that I shall be happier there than in any ot=
her
place.
'Whatever you may think of my judgment in taki=
ng
this step, I can assure you that I have not done it without consideration. =
My
reasons are good, and my determination is unalterable. But, my own very best
friend, and more than sister, don't think that I mean to leave my love and =
friendship
for you behind me. No, Paula, you will ALWAYS be with me, and I believe tha=
t if
an increase in what I already feel for you be possible, it will be furthere=
d by
the retirement and meditation I shall enjoy in my secluded home. My heart is
very full, dear--too full to write more. God bless you, and your husband. Y=
ou
must come and see me there; I have not so many friends that I can afford to
lose you who have been so kind. I write this with the fellow-pen to yours, =
that
you gave me when we went to Budmouth together. Good-bye!--Ever your own sis=
ter,
CHARLOTTE.'
=
Paula
had first read this through silently, and now in reading it a second time a=
loud
to Somerset her voice faltered, and she wept outright. 'I had been expecting
her to live with us always,' she said through her tears, 'and to think she
should have decided to do this!'
'It is a pity certainly,' said Somerset gently.
'She was genuine, if anybody ever was; and simple as she was true.'
'I am the more sorry,' Paula presently resumed,
'because of a little plan I had been thinking of with regard to her. You kn=
ow
that the pictures and curiosities of the castle are not included in the thi=
ngs
I cannot touch, or impeach, or whatever it is. They are our own to do what =
we
like with. My father felt in devising the estate that, however interesting =
to
the De Stancys those objects might be, they did not concern us--were indeed
rather in the way, having been come by so strangely, through Mr. Wilkins,
though too valuable to be treated lightly. Now I was going to suggest that =
we
would not sell them--indeed I could not bear to do such a thing with what h=
ad
belonged to Charlotte's forefathers--but to hand them over to her as a gift,
either to keep for herself, or to pass on to her brother, as she should cho=
ose.
Now I fear there is no hope of it: and yet I shall never like to see them in
the house.'
'It can be done still, I should think. She can
accept them for her brother when he settles, without absolutely taking them
into her own possession.'
'It would be a kind of generosity which hardly
amounts to more than justice (although they were purchased) from a recusant
usurper to a dear friend--not that I am a usurper exactly; well, from a
representative of the new aristocracy of internationality to a representati=
ve
of the old aristocracy of exclusiveness.'
'What do you call yourself, Paula, since you a=
re
not of your father's creed?'
'I suppose I am what poor Mr. Woodwell said--by
the way, we must call and see him--something or other that's in Revelation,
neither cold nor hot. But of course that's a sub-species--I may be a lukewa=
rm
anything. What I really am, as far as I know, is one of that body to whom l=
ukewarmth
is not an accident but a provisional necessity, till they see a little more
clearly.' She had crossed over to his side, and pulling his head towards her
whispered a name in his ear.
'Why, Mr. Woodwell said you were that too! You
carry your beliefs very comfortably. I shall be glad when enthusiasm is come
again.'
'I am going to revise and correct my beliefs o=
ne
of these days when I have thought a little further.' She suddenly breathed a
sigh and added, 'How transitory our best emotions are! In talking of myself=
I
am heartlessly forgetting Charlotte, and becoming happy again. I won't be h=
appy
to-night for her sake!'
A few minutes after this their attention was
attracted by a noise of footsteps running along the street; then a heavy tr=
amp
of horses, and lumbering of wheels. Other feet were heard scampering at
intervals, and soon somebody ascended the staircase and approached their do=
or.
The head waiter appeared.
'Ma'am, Stancy Castle is all afire!' said the
waiter breathlessly.
Somerset jumped up, drew aside the curtains, a=
nd
stepped into the bow-window. Right before him rose a blaze. The window look=
ed
upon the street and along the turnpike road to the very hill on which the
castle stood, the keep being visible in the daytime above the trees. Here r=
ose
the light, which appeared little further off than a stone's throw instead of
nearly three miles. Every curl of the smoke and every wave of the flame was
distinct, and Somerset fancied he could hear the crackling.
Paula had risen from her seat and joined him in
the window, where she heard some people in the street saying that the serva=
nts
were all safe; after which she gave her mind more fully to the material asp=
ects
of the catastrophe.
The whole town was now rushing off to the scen=
e of
the conflagration, which, shining straight along the street, showed the
burgesses' running figures distinctly upon the illumined road. Paula was qu=
ite
ready to act upon Somerset's suggestion that they too should hasten to the
spot, and a fly was got ready in a few minutes. With lapse of time Paula
evinced more anxiety as to the fate of her castle, and when they had driven=
as near
as it was prudent to do, they dismounted, and went on foot into the throng =
of
people which was rapidly gathering from the town and surrounding villages.
Among the faces they recognized Mr. Woodwell, Havill the architect, the rec=
tor
of the parish, the curate, and many others known to them by sight. These, as
soon as they saw the young couple, came forward with words of condolence,
imagining them to have been burnt out of bed, and vied with each other in
offering them a lodging. Somerset explained where they were staying and that
they required no accommodation, Paula interrupting with 'O my poor horses, =
what
has become of them?'
'The fire is not near the stables,' said Mr.
Woodwell. 'It broke out in the body of the building. The horses, however, a=
re
driven into the field.'
'I can assure you, you need not be alarmed, ma=
dam,'
said Havill. 'The chief constable is here, and the two town engines, and I =
am
doing all I can. The castle engine unfortunately is out of repair.'
Somerset and Paula then went on to another poi=
nt
of view near the gymnasium, where they could not be seen by the crowd.
Three-quarters of a mile off, on their left hand, the powerful irradiation =
fell
upon the brick chapel in which Somerset had first seen the woman who now st=
ood
beside him as his wife. It was the only object visible in that direction, t=
he
dull hills and trees behind failing to catch the light. She significantly
pointed it out to Somerset, who knew her meaning, and they turned again to =
the
more serious matter.
It had long been apparent that in the face of =
such
a wind all the pigmy appliances that the populace could bring to act upon s=
uch
a mass of combustion would be unavailing. As much as could burn that night =
was burnt,
while some of that which would not burn crumbled and fell as a formless hea=
p,
whence new flames towered up, and inclined to the north-east so far as to s=
inge
the trees of the park. The thicker walls of Norman date remained unmoved,
partly because of their thickness, and partly because in them stone vaults =
took
the place of wood floors.
The tower clock kept manfully going till it had
struck one, its face smiling out from the smoke as if nothing were the matt=
er,
after which hour something fell down inside, and it went no more.
Cunningham Haze, with his body of men, was dev=
oted
in his attention, and came up to say a word to our two spectators from time=
to
time. Towards four o'clock the flames diminished, and feeling thoroughly we=
ary,
Somerset and Paula remained no longer, returning to Markton as they had com=
e.
On their journey they pondered and discussed w=
hat
course it would be best to pursue in the circumstances, gradually deciding =
not
to attempt rebuilding the castle unless they were absolutely compelled. Tru=
e, the
main walls were still standing as firmly as ever; but there was a feeling
common to both of them that it would be well to make an opportunity of a
misfortune, and leaving the edifice in ruins start their married life in a
mansion of independent construction hard by the old one, unencumbered with =
the
ghosts of an unfortunate line.
'We will build a new house from the ground,
eclectic in style. We will remove the ashes, charred wood, and so on from t=
he
ruin, and plant more ivy. The winter rains will soon wash the unsightly smo=
ke
from the walls, and Stancy Castle will be beautiful in its decay. You, Paul=
a,
will be yourself again, and recover, if you have not already, from the warp=
given
to your mind (according to Woodwell) by the mediaevalism of that place.'
'And be a perfect representative of "the
modern spirit"?' she inquired; 'representing neither the senses and
understanding, nor the heart and imagination; but what a finished writer ca=
lls
"the imaginative reason"?'
'Yes; for since it is rather in your line you =
may
as well keep straight on.'
'Very well, I'll keep straight on; and we'll b=
uild
a new house beside the ruin, and show the modern spirit for evermore.... Bu=
t,
George, I wish--' And Paula repressed a sigh.
'Well?'
'I wish my castle wasn't burnt; and I wish you
were a De Stancy!'