Hard to Bear.
Dinner was waiting when Lady Andinnian entered, and the first person
she saw was her husband. He met her in the hall with outstretched
hand, his face clear and open, showing no signs of shame or guilt.
"Did you think I was lost, Lucy?"
She suffered her hand to touch his; for Hewitt and the tall footman,
Giles, were standing in the hall, looking on. Sir Karl saw how red her
eyes were.
"I meant to have returned by an earlier train; but as I had the day
before me I took the opportunity of seeing after a few things I wished
to purchase--and the time slipped on," said Karl. "How have you been,
Lucy?"
"Oh, quite well, thank you."
"Whom do you think I travelled down with, Lucy? My old friend,
Lamprey. He had to come to Basham on some matter of business: so I
have brought him here to dinner. Make haste," he added, as she turned
to the staircase: "I think it must be ready."
"I will be down directly," she answered.
Aglaé was waiting; and in five minutes Lucy came down again, dressed.
Captain Lamprey was introduced to her--for it happened that they had
not been personally acquainted when at Winchester---and gave her his
arm into the dining-room. Miss Blake fell to Karl.
But in Lucy's heart-sickness, she could scarcely be cheerful. Her
tell-tale eyes were heavy; there arose ever and anon one of those
rising sobs of the breath that speak most unmistakably of hidden
grief: and altogether Captain Lamprey felt somewhat disappointed in
Lady Andinnian. He remembered how beautiful Lucy Cleeve used to be: he
had heard of the renewed gaiety of heart her marriage with Karl
brought her: but he saw only a sad woman, who was evidently not too
happy, and whose beauty was marred by sadness and paleness. Karl was
more cheerful than usual; and Miss Blake seemed not to tire of
inquiring after Winchester and its people. But in the midst of all his
observations, Captain Lamprey never suspected that there was anything
but perfect cordiality between Sir Karl and his wife. And the dinner
came to an end.
After coffee, Captain Lamprey set off to walk to Basham. Karl went out
with him, to put him in the right road and accompany him part of it.
Miss Blake had gone to Vespers. Lucy was alone.
It seemed to her to be dull everywhere; especially dull indoors, and
she stepped out to the lawn: turning back almost immediately to get a
shawl for her shoulders, in obedience to an injunction of her
husband's. On the Sunday evening, when he found her sitting out of
doors without one, he had fetched one at once, and begged her not to
be imprudent or to forget her ague-fever of the previous year. She
remembered this now and went back for the shawl. Some wives, living in
estrangement from their husbands, might have studiously set his
commands at naught, and have risked ague, or what not, rather than
obey them. Not so Lucy Andinnian. She was meek and gentle by nature.
Moreover, in spite of the ill-feeling he had caused to rise up between
them, in spite of her sense of wrong and insult, she loved him in her
heart, and could not help it, as truly as ever. Visions would steal
over her in unguarded moments, of the present trouble being hushed to
rest; of all that was amiss being done away with, and she and he
reconciled and at peace again. Unhappily for the demands of pride, of
self-assertion, Lucy was by no means one of your high-spirited and
strong-minded heroines, who rashly overlook all interests to indulge
in reprisals and revenge.
She folded the shawl about her--one of substantial white silk
crape--as carefully as Karl could have folded it; and she stayed, she
knew not how long, in the open air. Pacing the lawn; sitting amidst
the flowers; standing under the shade of the trees; always in deep
thought. The nightingale sang, and the tears gathered in her eyes as
she listened to the strain. "What a sweet place this would be to live
in," thought Lucy, "if only we could but have peace with it!"
But the nightingale's song and the oppressive thoughts, together with
the falling dusk, brought back all her low spirits again. "There will
never be any more happiness for me in this world, never, never," she
sighed, and the tears were dropping as she went up to her own room.
By and by Sir Karl returned. Not seeing his wife downstairs, he went
up and knocked at the door of her little sitting-room. He had not had
an opportunity of speaking a private word to her since his return.
There came no answer, and he entered. The room was empty; but as he
stood for a moment in the deep silence of twilight, the sound of sobs
in Lucy's bedchamber smote his ear. He knocked at it.
"Lucy!"
She had indeed once more given way to all the abandonment of grief.
Which was very foolish: but perhaps its indulgence brought a kind of
relief, and indeed her spirit was very sore. The knock startled her:
but she had not heard the call.
"Who's there?" she asked, stepping to the door and stifling her sobs
as she best could.
"I want to speak to you, Lucy."
She dried her eyes, and unlocked the door, and made believe to be
calmly indifferent, as she stepped into the sitting-room.
"I beg your pardon, Sir Karl. I was busy, and did not hear you."
"You are looking very ill, Lucy," he said, with grieved concern. "I
thought so when I first saw you this afternoon. Then, as now, your
eyes were red with weeping."
She strove for calmness; she prayed for it. Her determination had been
taken to bury in haughty silence all she had learnt of the London
journey, its despicable deceit, and insult to her. She _could not_
have spoken of it; no, not even to reproach him and to bring his shame
home to him: it would have inflicted too much humiliation on her
sensitive spirit. Besides, he must know what she suffered as well as
she did.
"I have had rather a tiring day," she answered, leaning sideways
against the open window. "There was the elaborate luncheon with
General and Mrs. Lloyd, and the flower-show afterwards. The weather
was very warm and oppressive."
"That may account for your being tired and not looking well: but not
for the weeping, Lucy. As I stood here waiting for you to answer my
knock, I heard your sobs."
"Yes," she said, rather faintly, feeling how useless it would be to
deny that there had been some weeping. "I get a little low-spirited
sometimes in the evening."
"But why? wherefore?"
"Is life so pleasant with us just now that I can always be gay, think
you!" she retorted, after a pause, and her voice took a tone of
resentment.
"But the unpleasantness is of your making; not mine. You _know_ it,
Lucy."
"Then--then it is right that I should be the one to suffer," was her
impatient answer--for his words were trying her almost beyond
endurance. "Let it go so: I do not wish to speak of it further."
Karl was standing at the opposite corner of the window, facing her,
his arms folded. On his part he was beginning to be a little out of
patience too, with what he deemed her unreasonable caprice. For a few
moments there was silence.
"What I want to tell you is this, Lucy. My visit to London was
connected with that wish which you seem to have so much at
heart--though I cannot exactly understand why----"
"I have no wish at heart," she resentfully interrupted.
"Nay, but hear me. The wish you expressed to me I think you must have
at heart, since on its fulfilment you say depends our reconciliation.
I speak of the removal of--of the tenants of the Maze," he added, half
breaking down, in his sensitive hesitation. "Since my conversation
with you on Saturday, during which, if you remember, this stipulation
of yours was made, there occurred, by what I should call, a singular
chance, only that I do not believe anything is chance that affects our
vital interests in this life--there occurred to me a slight
circumstance by which I thought I saw a possibility of carrying out
your wish----"
"You said then that it was your wish also," again interrupted Lucy.
"Or affected to say it."
"Your wish for it cannot be as hearty as mine," he impulsively
answered. "I pray for it night and day."
And Lucy could not well mistake the emotional earnestness. She
believed him there.
"Well, I thought I saw a chance of it," he resumed, "and I went to get
some information, that I fancied might help me, from Plunkett and
Plunkett--"
"Is it fitting that you should give these details to me?" she
haughtily interposed.
"I wish you to understand that I am doing my best. Plunkett and
Plunkett could not give me the information: but they directed me to
some people where I might obtain it. To enable me to see one of these
people, I had to stay in town all night; and that was the reason of my
not getting home."
Lucy had taken a spray of jessamine from her waistband, and stood
pulling it to pieces, listening with an air of indifference.
"I do not really know more than I did before I went to town, as to
whether or not the Maze can be left empty," he went on. "But I have a
good hope of it. I think I may be able to accomplish it, though
perhaps not quite immediately. It may take time."
"As you please, of course," answered Lucy coldly. "It is nothing to
me."
Karl Andinnian had one of the sweetest tempers in the world, and
circumstances had taught him patience and endurance. But he felt
grieved to his very heart at her cutting indifference, and for once
his spirit rebelled against it.
"Lucy, how dare you treat me so? What have I done to deserve it from
you? You must know and see what a life of tempest and apprehension
mine is. There are moments when I feel that I could welcome death,
rather than continue to live it."
She was not ungenerous. And, as he so spoke, it struck her that,
whatever her wrongs, she had been petty and ungracious to him now. And
perhaps--Heaven knew--he was really striving to rid himself of Mrs.
Grey as earnestly as she could wish it. Her countenance softened.
"I am as a man tied down in a net from which there is no extrication,"
he resumed with increased emotion. "My days are so full of care that I
envy the poor labourers at work by the road-side, and wish I was one
of them--anything in the world, good or bad, but what that world calls
me--Sir Karl Andinnian. And my wife, whom I have loved with my heart's
best love, and whom I might have fondly hoped would pity my strait and
comfort me--she turns against me. God forgive you for your harshness,
Lucy."
The reproaches wrung her heart terribly. In the moment's repentance,
she believed she had judged him more hardly than he deserved. Her tone
was gentle, her eyes had tears in them.
"I have to bear on my side too, Karl. You forget that."
No, he did not forget it. But the temporary anger was pre-eminent just
then. A hot retort was on his lips; when the sight of her face, sad
with its utter sorrow, struck on every generous chord he possessed,
and changed his mood to pity. He crossed over and took her unresisting
hands in his.
"Forgive my words, Lucy: you tried me very much. We have both
something to forgive each other."
She could not speak; sobs were rising in her throat. Karl bent forward
and kissed her passionately.
"Need we make life worse for one another than it is?" he asked.
"I cannot help it," she sobbed. "Don't blame me, for I cannot help
it."
"Suppose I take the matter into my own hands, Lucy, and say you shall
help it."
"You will not do that," she said, the implied threat restoring her
coldness and calmness, though her face turned as pale as the blossoms
of the jessamine. "Things are bad enough as they are, but that would
make them worse. I should leave your home for good and all--and should
have to say why I do so."
She knew how to subdue him. This exposure, if she carried it out,
might cost his brother's safety. Karl, feeling his helplessness most
bitterly, dropped her hands, and went back to his post at the opposite
side of the window.
"I have not said quite all I wish to say," he began, in a voice from
which emotion had passed. "As I had the day in London before me, I
thought I would look after a pony-chaise for you, Lucy, and I found a
beauty. It will be home in a day or two."
"But you have not bought it?"
"Yes, I have."
"Oh, I'm sorry! I did not want one. But it was very kind of you to
think of me, Karl," she added in her gratitude.
"And there's a pretty pony to match: a small, quiet, gentle creature.
I hope you will like him. I cannot have you running about the place on
foot, making yourself ill with the heat."
"Thank you; thank you. But I never drove in my life. I fear I should
be a coward."
"I will drive you until you get used to him. That is, if you will
permit me. Lucy, believe me, amidst all my care and trouble, your
happiness lies next my heart."
On his way to leave the room, he stopped and shook hands with her:
perhaps as an earnest of his friendliness. Theresa Blake, walking on
the lawn beneath, had seen them conversing together at the window. She
thought a taste of Jane Shore's pillory might not have been amiss for
bringing Lady Andinnian to her senses.
Presently Lucy went down and had tea with Theresa, presiding herself
at the cups and saucers by moonlight--for there was little light of
day left. Sir Karl did not appear. He was in his room on the other
side the house, holding some colloquy with Hewitt.
"I am going to have a pony-chaise, Theresa."
"Oh, indeed," returned Miss Blake, who seemed in rather a crusty
humour. "I thought I heard you say that you did not require one."
"Perhaps I may be glad of it, for all that. At any rate, Sir Karl has
bought it, pony, and chaise, and all; and they will be down this
week."
Miss Blake's face was a scornful one just then, in her condemnation of
wrong-doing. "He bribes her into blindness," was the thought that ran
through her mind.
"Why are your eyes so red and heavy, Lucy? They were so at dinner."
"My eyes red!" artfully responded Lucy. "Are they? Well, I have had
rather a tiring day, Theresa; and it has been so very hot, you know.
You ought to have waited for the flower-show. It was one of the best I
ever saw."
"Yes, I should have liked it."
"I took home poor Miss Patchett in my fly, from the station," went on
Lucy, who seemed to be running from one topic to another, perhaps to
divert attention from herself. "She had been to London to engage a
servant, and looked ready to drop with the heat. Did you ever know it
so hot before, Theresa?"
"I think not. Not for a continuancy. Is Sir Karl going to take any
tea? There's nothing else so refreshing these sultry evenings."
"He says tea only makes him hotter," returned Lucy with a smile. "Ring
the bell, please, Theresa: you are nearer to it than I am."
Giles appeared, in answer, and was sent by Lucy to inquire whether his
master would take tea, or not. The message brought forth Karl. The
moon was shining right on the table.
"I'll drink a cup of tea if you will put in plenty of milk to cool
it," said he. "How romantic you look here, sitting in the moonlight!
Thank you, Lucy."
"We are glad to do without lights so long as we can in this weather,"
observed Miss Blake. "They make the room warmer."
He drank the tea standing, and went back again. Lucy sent the tray
away, and presently ordered the lights. She then ensconced herself in
an easy chair with one of the romances Karl had brought her on the
Saturday: and Miss Blake strolled out of doors.
At first Lucy held the book upside-down. Then she read a page three
times over, and could not comprehend it. Ah, it was of no use, this
playing at light-hearted ease. She might keep up the farce tolerably
well before people; but when alone with herself and her misery, it was
a senseless mockery.
Leaving the book behind her, she went wandering about from room to
room. The windows of all were put open, to catch what little air there
might be. As she stood in one of the unlighted rooms, Sir Karl passed
along the terrace. She drew back lest he should see her, and heard him
go into the lighted drawing-room and call her.
"Lucy!"
Not a word would she answer. She just stood back against the wall in
the dark beyond the curtain, and kept still. He went out again, and
began pacing the opposite path in the shade cast by the overhanging
trees. Lucy watched him. Suddenly he plunged in amidst the trees, and
she heard one of the private gates open and close.
"He is gone _there_," she said, the pulses of her heart quickening and
her face taking a ghastly tinge in the moonlight.
Miss Blake, who had been also lingering in the garden, in some of its
shaded nooks and corners, her thoughts busy with Guy Cattacomb and
with certain improvements that reverend man was contemplating to
introduce at St. Jerome's, had also seen Sir Karl, and watched his
stealthy exit. She immediately glided to another of the small private
gates of egress, cautiously opened it, and looked out.
"Yes, I thought so: he is off to the Maze," she mentally cried, as she
saw Sir Karl, who had crossed the road, walking towards that secluded
spot, and keeping close against the opposite hedge. The moonlight was
flung pretty broadly upon the road to-night, but the dark hedge served
to screen him in a degree. Miss Blake's eyes were keen by moonlight or
by daylight. She watched him pass under the trees at the entrance: she
watched him open the gate, and enter. And Miss Blake, religious woman
that she was, wondered that the skies did not drop down upon such a
monster in human shape; she wondered that the same pure air from
heaven could be permitted to be breathed by him and by that earthly
saint, The Reverend Guy.
Some few of us, my readers, are judging others in exactly the same
mistaken manner now: and have no more suspicion that we are wrong and
they right than Miss Theresa Blake had.