"A LITTLE PROUD, BUT FULL OF PITY.*"
(*Ben Jonson.)
Although only twenty-four hours absent from Bissett, Frank Churchill
during that short period had undergone more mental conflict than is
often suffered by many men in a course of years. He had had full time
for reflection, and had availed himself of it to the utmost. While
within the charmed circle he was necessarily under fascination; but
now, although the witch was any thing but exorcised, he felt
sufficiently himself to collect his thoughts, and he saw the absolute
necessity of coming to some fixed determination as to his future
conduct before he returned. Often before had he had occasion to weigh
matters almost as important as this, though of course of a different
character; and he was not the man to blink one jot of the attendant
difficulties, or to over-persuade himself as to the feasibility of his
designs simply because he wished them carried out. He was in love with
this girl, then; he supposed that must be granted? at all events, by
analysis and comparison, that was easily ascertained. Though, as
the world goes, his life had been tolerably pure, he had in his
student-days, and in the time immediately subsequent, had his
_amourettes_ and flirtations like the rest; but when he remembered
what had been his feelings for Gretchen, the fat and fair daughter of
Anton Schütz, the beery saddler; for Ernestine, the sentimental
heiress of the Graf von Triebenfeld; for Eugénie and Olympe, vestals
of the Quartier Latin; or for any of the half-hundred young ladies
with whom during the earlier portion of his London career he
had gone through the usual bouquet-sending, cotillon-dancing,
Botanical-Fête-meeting flirtation,--he recognised at once that this
was a very different matter. Breakers ahead and all round! As for
Barbara, he felt conscious of no vanity in avowing to himself his
perception of having excited her interest, but whether sufficiently to
induce her to listen to an offer he could not imagine. Possibly,
probably, she looked to making a brilliant marriage: her beauty and
accomplishments were her capital, and should be turned to good
purpose; and yet, as this idea passed through his mind, he had an
instinctive feeling that Barbara's proud spirit would revolt from any
such match, however much it might be pressed on her by her relations.
Her relations! ay, even granting the girl's acquiescence, _there_
would be one of the grand sources of difficulty: old Miss Lexden,
rich, selfish, and narrow-minded, would doubtless oppose such a
marriage in every possible way; and how would Sir Marmaduke look upon
him, having come an invited and a welcome guest, and then brought this
discord into the family? And even suppose it arranged somehow, she
consenting and her friends satisfied, what was to be done with his
mother, with whom and in whose house he then resided? how and where
was the rest of her life to be passed? He could not live far from the
office, where, thrice a week always, and occasionally more frequently,
he was engaged till past midnight; and how would the brilliant beauty
of the West be able to exist in the dreary fastnesses of Great Adullam
Street, or the arid desert of Tiglath-Pileser Square? And then the
narrow income--competence for one, a bare sufficiency for two! His
horse must be given up, but that he would not so much mind; his Club
(the Retrenchment) must be kept on, for business purposes, though he
should of course never spend any money there; and he must take to
sixteen-shilling trousers, and that sort of thing; all easy enough.
But for her?--no brougham (and fancy those tiny high-heeled _bottines_
over the villanous Mesopotamian pavement!), only an occasional
Opera-box obtained from the _Statesman_ (situation high, surroundings
queer, _claqueurs_ and _amis des artistes_), two or three balls
in the season, and perhaps one dinner-party at home, with the
inevitable side-dishes and attendant carpet-beater. Ay, and worse
beyond!--children born and reared in that dingy atmosphere, further
expenditure to be met, perhaps sickness to be struggled through, and
all the household gods dependent on him,--on the soundness of his
health and the clearness of his brain, which failing, what had they to
look to? _Aïe de me!_ that last thought settled the question. Let it
fade out, pleasant dream that it was; or rather let him crush it for
ever! It was impossible, and so let it pass. Down go the Spanish
castles, away melt the aerial estates; Duty's foot kicks away
Alnaschar's basket, and there is the hard, dry, unsympathetic,
work-a-day world before him! He will go back to Bissett, but only for
a day, just to get his traps together and to make some plausible
excuse, and then will start off. This first week of his holiday has
been any thing but rest, and rest he requires. He will go to
Scarborough--no! not there, for reasons; but to some watering-place,
and pitch pebbles into the sea and lie fallow until he is compelled to
return to work. Yes, that is the right course--he determines on it
finally as the train nears the Brighton station; hopes must be
crushed, and Duty must be obeyed. Duty has won the day for once--and
where is the pearl-gray glove now? At his lips, of course! Frank
Churchill has resolved upon doing his duty, and, like the drunkard in
the old story, is "treating resolution."
Anxiety to test his newly-farmed determination must be strong, for he
ordered the flyman to drive as hard as he could to Bissett; but,
cooling a little, dismissed the man at the lodge-gates, and strolled
through the avenue towards the house. The leaves yet held their own;
scarcely the slightest autumnal tint had fallen on them; and the grand
old avenue looked magnificent. The weather was splendid; the sun shone
brightly, while the air was clear and bracing; deer bounded in the
brushwood; and as Churchill stood rejoicing in the lovely view, a cart
laden with game, and driven by little Joe Lubbock, the head-keeper's
boy, emerged from the Home Copse, and made a pleasant feature in the
landscape. All around told of wealth and peace and English comfort;
and as Churchill surveyed the scene, he felt (as he had often felt)
how great were the enjoyments of those born to such heritage, and (as
he had never felt) how well-disposed he should be for the sake of
those enjoyments to undertake the necessary responsibilities. His
Radicalism was of the very mildest nature; the free and independent
electors of Brighton or of Southwark would have scorned the feebleness
of his ideas as to the requirements of the people; he had no wish to
alter the laws of primogeniture, nor to see the furniture designed by
Gillow or Holland emblazoned with the "swart mechanic's bloody
thumbs;"--indeed, it must be confessed that he thought the "swart
mechanic," when out of his place and wrong-headed through false
leading, a very objectionable person. But he was in love, and wanted
money and position to enable him to forward his suit; and as the
thought of some who had both and did good with neither flitted across
him, he stamped impatiently on the gravel, and the fair view and all
the sweet excellence of nature faded out before his eyes.
He walked hurriedly on for a few paces, and then bethought him that
somewhere close in the neighbourhood was the gate leading to the
fir-plantation in which he had recently walked with Barbara on their
return from the shooting-party. He had the whole afternoon to do
nothing in, and it would be pleasant to renew the remembrance of that
happy jesting talk. Memory, he thought rather bitterly, was a luxury
which it did not require either rank or riches to enjoy. He struck
across the dry crisp turf, and arrived at the gate; it opened on a
short gravelled walk, with low palings on either side, terminating in
a rustic stile, on the other side of which lay the fir-plantation. As
Churchill entered the path he saw a figure seated on the stile at the
other end, and in an instant knew it to be Barbara Lexden. Her head
was bent, and she was leaning forward, idly tracing figures on the
turf with the point of her parasol. Churchill advanced with a strange
fluttering of his usually regular-beating heart; but she did not
appear to hear his footstep until he was close behind her, when she
suddenly turned round, and their eyes met. It was a trying time for
both, but Barbara was the first to speak.
"So soon back, Mr. Churchill? We--that is, Sir Marmaduke was led to
believe that you would not return until the end of the week."
"Fortunately, Miss Lexden, my business in town was soon finished"
("Question of settlement with the lawyer, or naming the day with the
lady," thought Barbara), "and I got back as quickly as I could. How
lovely this place looks! Perhaps it seems doubly beautiful after
twenty-four hours in London; but it appears to me even fresher,
calmer, and more peaceful than when I left it."
"That, I suspect, is your poetic imagination, Mr. Churchill. You were
praising Dryden the other night, and can now quote him to your own
purposes. You know he says:
'Winds murmured through the leaves his short delay,
And fountains o'er their pebbles chid his stay;
But, with his presence cheered, they cease to mourn,
And walks seem fresher green at his return.'"
"Aptly quoted, though the lines were addressed to a lady, and for
'his' read 'your.' I don't think that even the fountains in Trafalgar
Square would be weak enough to 'chide my stay.' But, apropos of poetic
imagination, I am afraid I disturbed you from some deep reverie."
"You never were more mistaken," said Barbara, with a short laugh.
"I--I came out on a much more unromantic expedition. I lost a glove a
day or two ago, and--and fancied I might have dropped it somewhere
here."
"Is this it?" asked Churchill suddenly, taking from his pocket a
morocco-leather case, and producing from it the much-prized
pearl-gray.
"Yes," said Barbara, glancing quickly at him from under her drooping
eyelids; "that is it. How very fortunate!"
"I picked it up," said Churchill, "as we returned from the
shooting-party the other day, and intended restoring it sooner, but
forgot it. I am glad to be able to do so now." He handed her the
glove, looked her straight in the face, and walked on silently by her
side.
"We have had a new arrival here since you left," said Barbara, after a
pause, swinging the glove slowly to and fro; "a Mr. Beresford. You
know him?"
"Beresford? Oh, of the Tin-Tax Office! I have met him."
"You are on intimate terms?"
"I--I have not that honour. Mr. Beresford moves in a different set to
mine."
"That question of 'sets' seems to be one of paramount importance with
you, Mr. Churchill. How frequently you harp upon it!"
"It is a question which we must necessarily bear in mind, Miss
Lexden," said Churchill, with emphasis; then smiling, added,--"_Suum
cuique_, which is Latin, and unintelligible; 'the cobbler and his
last,' which is English and vernacular. But why did you ask?"
"Simply because he seems amusing, and likely to be popular here. I am
sorry we shall not have the opportunity of profiting by his high
spirits, as aunt and I will probably be leaving on Thursday."
One quick glance told her that this shot, if intended for mischief,
had signally failed. With perfect calmness Churchill replied,
"And I also must manage to survive the loss of Mr. Beresford's
conversation, as I go to-morrow."
"To-morrow!" exclaimed Barbara; then, in her ordinary tone, "Ah, to be
sure, you have of course so much to do."
"Well," said Churchill, smiling, "for a month I hope to do little
beyond mooning on the beach and throwing pebbles into the sea."
"Yes," said Barbara quickly; "that is, I believe, the usual thing
under the circumstances. And the place? the Isle of Wight, or
Devonshire, of course?"
"Under the circumstances!" he echoed. "I beg your pardon, Miss Lexden,
but I fear we are at cross purposes. Under what circumstances?"
("He braves it out to the last," thought Barbara; "who would have
thought that he could have stooped to a shuffle, or degrade the woman
he was engaged to, by tacitly ignoring the fact?") Then she said,
curling her lip, and tossing the glove with a lightly contemptuous
gesture,
"Good news travels fast, Mr. Churchill. The fact of your forthcoming
marriage is known at Bissett."
"_My_ forthcoming marriage? It's a joke, Miss Lexden?"
"We have heard it as a fact."
"And _you_ believed it?" said Churchill, turning white, while his lip
trembled visibly as he spoke.
"Why should I not?" After a pause, and in a low voice, "Then you are
not going to be married?"
"Married, no! Miss Lexden, you must now listen patiently to what I
should otherwise have kept secret, knowing the folly I have been
guilty of. If ever I marry, Barbara Lexden will be my wife!"
She started, and seemed about to speak.
"One moment more," said he. "You know how completely I understand the
difference in our position?" (An impatient gesture from Barbara.) "My
sensitiveness, pride--call it what you will--would have kept me
silent. Now I have spoken, and--Barbara--you must not keep me in
suspense. Could it ever be possible?"
Perfectly colourless, she leant against the stile, but said nothing.
"Miss Lexden, you _must_ end this doubt."
Silently she placed the little glove in his hand.
"Barbara! _my_ Barbara!" and she was folded to his heart.