THE LIONESS AROUSED.
Brooke Burgess had been to Exeter and had gone,--for he only remained
there one night,--and everything was apparently settled. It was not
exactly told through Exeter that Miss Stanbury's heir was to be
allowed to marry Miss Stanbury's niece; but Martha knew it, and Giles
Hickbody guessed it, and Dorothy was allowed to tell her mother and
sister, and Brooke himself, in his own careless way, had mentioned
the matter to his uncle Barty. As Miss Stanbury had also told the
secret in confidence to Mrs. MacHugh, it cannot be said that it was
altogether well kept. Four days after Brooke's departure the news
reached the Frenches at Heavitree. It was whispered to Camilla by
one of the shopmen with whom she was still arranging her marriage
trousseau, and was repeated by her to her mother and sister with some
additions which were not intended to be good-natured. "He gets her
and the money together as a bargain--of course," said Camilla. "I
only hope the money won't be found too dear."
"Perhaps he won't get it after all," said Arabella.
"That would be cruel," replied Camilla. "I don't think that even Miss
Stanbury is so false as that."
Things were going very badly at Heavitree. There was war there,
almost everlastingly, though such little playful conversations as the
above shewed that there might be an occasional lull in the battle.
Mr. Gibson was not doing his duty. That was clear enough. Even Mrs.
French, when she was appealed to with almost frantic energy by her
younger daughter, could not but acknowledge that he was very remiss
as a lover. And Camilla, in her fury, was very imprudent. That very
frantic energy which induced her to appeal to her mother was, in
itself, proof of her imprudence. She knew that she was foolish, but
she could not control her passion. Twice had she detected Arabella in
receiving notes from Mr. Gibson, which she did not see, and of which
it had been intended that she should know nothing. And once, when
she spent a night away at Ottery St. Mary with a friend,--a visit
which was specially prefatory to marriage, and made in reference to
bridesmaids' dresses,--Arabella had had,--so at least Camilla was
made to believe,--a secret meeting with Mr. Gibson in some of the
lanes which lead down from Heavitree to the Topsham road.
"I happened to meet him, and spoke two words to him," said Arabella.
"Would you have me cut him?"
"I'll tell you what it is, Bella;--if there is any underhand game
going on that I don't understand, all Exeter shall be on fire before
you shall carry it out."
Bella made no answer to this, but shrugged her shoulders. Camilla
was almost at a loss to guess what might be the truth. Would not any
sister, so accused on such an occasion, rebut the accusation with
awful wrath? But Arabella simply shrugged her shoulders, and went her
way. It was now the 15th of April, and there wanted but one short
fortnight to their marriage. The man had not the courage to jilt
her! She felt sure that he had not heart enough to do a deed of such
audacity. And her sister, too, was weak and a coward, and would
lack the power to stand on her legs and declare herself to be the
perpetrator of such villany. Her mother, as she knew well, would
always have preferred that her elder daughter should be the bride;
but her mother was not the woman to have the hardihood, now, in
the eleventh hour, to favour such an intrigue. Let her wish be
what it might, she would not be strong enough to carry through the
accomplishment of it. They would all know that that threat of hers
of setting Exeter on fire would be carried out after some fashion
that would not be inadequate to the occasion. A sister, a mother, a
promised lover, all false,--all so damnably, cruelly false! It was
impossible. No history, no novel of most sensational interest, no
wonderful villany that had ever been wrought into prose or poetry,
would have been equal to this. It was impossible. She told herself so
a score of times a day. And yet the circumstances were so terribly
suspicious! Mr. Gibson's conduct as a lover was simply disgraceful
to him as a man and a clergyman. He was full of excuses, which she
knew to be false. He would never come near her if he could help it.
When he was with her, he was as cold as an archbishop both in word
and in action. Nothing would tempt him to any outward manifestation
of affection. He would talk of nothing but the poor women of St.
Peter-cum-Pumpkin in the city, and the fraudulent idleness of a
certain colleague in the cathedral services, who was always shirking
his work. He made her no presents. He never walked with her. He was
always gloomy,--and he had indeed so behaved himself in public that
people were beginning to talk of "poor Mr. Gibson." And yet he could
meet Arabella on the sly in the lanes, and send notes to her by the
green-grocer's boy! Poor Mr. Gibson indeed! Let her once get him
well over the 29th of April, and the people of Exeter might talk
about poor Mr. Gibson if they pleased. And Bella's conduct was more
wonderful almost than that of Mr. Gibson. With all her cowardice, she
still held up her head,--held it perhaps a little higher than was
usual with her. And when that grievous accusation was made against
her,--made and repeated,--an accusation the very thought and sound
of which would almost have annihilated her had there been a decent
feeling in her bosom, she would simply shrug her shoulders and walk
away. "Camilla," she had once said, "you will drive that man mad
before you have done." "What is it to you how I drive him?" Camilla
had answered in her fury. Then Arabella had again shrugged her
shoulders and walked away. Between Camilla and her mother, too, there
had come to be an almost internecine quarrel on a collateral point.
Camilla was still carrying on a vast arrangement which she called the
preparation of her trousseau, but which both Mrs. French and Bella
regarded as a spoliation of the domestic nest, for the proud purposes
of one of the younger birds. And this had grown so fearfully that
in two different places Mrs. French had found herself compelled to
request that no further articles might be supplied to Miss Camilla.
The bride elect had rebelled, alleging that as no fortune was to be
provided for her, she had a right to take with her such things as she
could carry away in her trunks and boxes. Money could be had at the
bank, she said; and, after all, what were fifty pounds more or less
on such an occasion as this? And then she went into a calculation to
prove that her mother and sister would be made so much richer by her
absence, and that she was doing so much for them by her marriage,
that nothing could be more mean in them than that they should
hesitate to supply her with such things as she desired to make her
entrance into Mr. Gibson's house respectable. But Mrs. French was
obdurate, and Mr. Gibson was desired to speak to her. Mr. Gibson, in
fear and trembling, told her that she ought to repress her spirit of
extravagance, and Camilla at once foresaw that he would avail himself
of this plea against her should he find it possible at any time to
avail himself of any plea. She became ferocious, and, turning upon
him, told him to mind his own business. Was it not all for him that
she was doing it? "She was not," she said, "disposed to submit to any
control in such matters from him till he had assumed his legal right
to it by standing with her before the altar." It came, however, to
be known all over Exeter that Miss Camilla's expenditure had been
checked, and that, in spite of the joys naturally incidental to a
wedding, things were not going well with the ladies at Heavitree.
At last the blow came. Camilla was aware that on a certain morning
her mother had been to Mr. Gibson's house, and had held a long
conference with him. She could learn nothing of what took place
there, for at that moment she had taken upon herself to place herself
on non-speaking terms with her mother in consequence of those
disgraceful orders which had been given to the tradesmen. But Bella
had not been at Mr. Gibson's house at the time, and Camilla, though
she presumed that her own conduct had been discussed in a manner very
injurious to herself, did not believe that any step was being then
arranged which would be positively antagonistic to her own views. The
day fixed was now so very near, that there could, she felt, be no
escape for the victim. But she was wrong.
Mr. Gibson had been found by Mrs. French in a very excited state on
that occasion. He had wept, and pulled his hair, and torn open his
waistcoat, had spoken of himself as a wretch,--pleading, however,
at the same time, that he was more sinned against than sinning, had
paced about the room with his hands dashing against his brows, and
at last had flung himself prostrate on the ground. The meaning of it
all was, that he had tried very hard, and had found at last that "he
couldn't do it." "I am ready to submit," said he, "to any verdict
that you may pronounce against me, but I should deceive you and
deceive her if I didn't say at once that I can't do it." He went on
to explain that since he had unfortunately entered into his present
engagement with Camilla,--of whose position he spoke in quite a
touching manner,--and since he had found what was the condition of
his own heart and feelings he had consulted a friend,--who, if any
merely human being was capable of advising, might be implicitly
trusted for advice in such a matter,--and that his friend had told
him that he was bound to give up the marriage let the consequences
to himself or to others be what they might. "Although the skies
should fall on me, I cannot stand at the hymeneal altar with a lie
in my mouth," said Mr. Gibson immediately upon his rising from his
prostrate condition on the floor. In such a position as this a
mother's fury would surely be very great! But Mrs. French was hardly
furious. She cried, and begged him to think better of it, and assured
him that Camilla, when she should be calmed down by matrimony, would
not be so bad as she seemed;--but she was not furious. "The truth
is, Mr. Gibson," she said through her tears, "that, after all, you
like Bella best." Mr. Gibson owned that he did like Bella best,
and although no bargain was made between them then and there,--and
such making of a bargain then and there would hardly have been
practicable,--it was understood that Mrs. French would not proceed to
extremities if Mr. Gibson would still make himself forthcoming as a
husband for the advantage of one of the daughters of the family.
So far Mr. Gibson had progressed towards a partial liberation from
his thraldom with a considerable amount of courage; but he was well
aware that the great act of daring still remained to be done. He
had suggested to Mrs. French that she should settle the matter with
Camilla,--but this Mrs. French had altogether declined to do. It
must, she said, come from himself. If she were to do it, she must
sympathise with her child; and such sympathy would be obstructive
of the future arrangements which were still to be made. "She always
knew that I liked Bella best," said Mr. Gibson,--still sobbing, still
tearing his hair, still pacing the room with his waistcoat torn open.
"I would not advise you to tell her that," said Mrs. French. Then
Mrs. French went home, and early on the following morning it was
thought good by Arabella that she also should pay a visit at Ottery
St. Mary's. "Good-bye, Cammy," said Arabella as she went. "Bella,"
said Camilla, "I wonder whether you are a serpent. I do not think
you can be so base a serpent as that." "I declare, Cammy, you do say
such odd things that no one can understand what you mean." And so she
went.
On that morning Mr. Gibson was walking at an early hour along the
road from Exeter to Cowley, contemplating his position and striving
to arrange his plans. What was he to do, and how was he to do it? He
was prepared to throw up his living, to abandon the cathedral, to
leave the diocese,--to make any sacrifice rather than take Camilla
to his bosom. Within the last six weeks he had learned to regard her
with almost a holy horror. He could not understand by what miracle
of self-neglect he had fallen into so perilous an abyss. He had long
known Camilla's temper. But in those days in which he had been beaten
like a shuttlecock between the Stanburys and the Frenches, he had
lost his head and had done,--he knew not what. "Those whom the God
chooses to destroy, he first maddens," said Mr. Gibson to himself
of himself, throwing himself back upon early erudition and pagan
philosophy. Then he looked across to the river Exe, and thought that
there was hardly water enough there to cover the multiplicity of his
sorrows.
But something must be done. He had proceeded so far in forming a
resolution, as he reached St. David's Church on his return homewards.
His sagacious friend had told him that as soon as he had altered
his mind, he was bound to let the lady know of it without delay.
"You must remember," said the sagacious friend, "that you will owe
her much,--very much." Mr. Gibson was perplexed in his mind when he
reflected how much he might possibly be made to owe her if she should
decide on appealing to a jury of her countrymen for justice. But
anything would be better than his home at St. Peter's-cum-Pumpkin
with Camilla sitting opposite to him as his wife. Were there not
distant lands in which a clergyman, unfortunate but still energetic,
might find work to do? Was there not all America?--and were there
not Australia, New Zealand, Natal, all open to him? Would not a
missionary career among the Chinese be better for him than St.
Peter's-cum-Pumpkin with Camilla French for his wife? By the time he
had reached home his mind was made up. He would write a letter to
Camilla at once; and he would marry Arabella at once,--on any day
that might be fixed,--on condition that Camilla would submit to her
defeat without legal redress. If legal redress should be demanded, he
would put in evidence the fact that her own mother had been compelled
to caution the tradesmen of the city in regard to her extravagance.
He did write his letter,--in an agony of spirit. "I sit down,
Camilla, with a sad heart and a reluctant hand," he said,
to communicate to you a fatal truth. But truth should be
made to prevail, and there is nothing in man so cowardly,
so detrimental, and so unmanly as its concealment. I have
looked into myself, and have inquired of myself, and have
assured myself, that were I to become your husband, I
should not make you happy. It would be of no use for me
now to dilate on the reasons which have convinced me;--but
I am convinced, and I consider it my duty to inform you so
at once. I have been closeted with your mother, and have
made her understand that it is so.
I have not a word to say in my own justification but
this,--that I am sure I am acting honestly in telling you
the truth. I would not wish to say a word animadverting
on yourself. If there must be blame in this matter, I am
willing to take it all on my own shoulders. But things
have been done of late, and words have been spoken, and
habits have displayed themselves, which would not, I am
sure, conduce to our mutual comfort in this world, or to
our assistance to each other in our struggles to reach the
happiness of the world to come.
I think that you will agree with me, Camilla, that when
a man or a woman has fallen into such a mistake as
that which I have now made, it is best that it should
be acknowledged. I know well that such a change of
arrangements as that which I now propose will be regarded
most unfavourably. But will not anything be better than
the binding of a matrimonial knot which cannot be again
unloosed, and which we should both regret?
I do not know that I need add anything further. What can
I add further? Only this;--that I am inflexible. Having
resolved to take this step,--and to bear the evil things
that may be said of me,--for your happiness and for my own
tranquility,--I shall not now relinquish my resolution. I
do not ask you to forgive me. I doubt much whether I shall
ever be quite able to forgive myself. The mistake which
I have made is one which should not have been committed.
I do not ask you to forgive me; but I do ask you to pray
that I may be forgiven.
Yours, with feelings of the truest friendship,
THOMAS GIBSON.
The letter had been very difficult, but he was rather proud of it
than otherwise when it was completed. He had felt that he was writing
a letter which not improbably might become public property. It was
necessary that he should be firm, that he should accuse himself a
little in order that he might excuse himself much, and that he should
hint at causes which might justify the rupture, though he should
so veil them as not to appear to defend his own delinquency by
ungenerous counter-accusation. When he had completed the letter,
he thought that he had done all this rather well, and he sent the
despatch off to Heavitree by the clerk of St. Peter's Church, with
something of that feeling of expressible relief which attends the
final conquest over some fatal and all but insuperable misfortune. He
thought that he was sure now that he would not have to marry Camilla
on the 29th of the month,--and there would probably be a period of
some hours before he would be called upon to hear or read Camilla's
reply.
Camilla was alone when she received the letter, but she rushed at
once to her mother. "There," said she; "there--I knew that it was
coming!" Mrs. French took the paper into her hands, and gasped, and
gazed at her daughter without speaking. "You knew of it, mother."
"Yesterday,--when he told me, I knew of it."
"And Bella knows it."
"Not a word of it."
"She does. I am sure she does. But it is all nothing. I will not
accept it. He cannot treat me so. I will drag him there;--but he
shall come."
"You can't make him, my dear."
"I will make him. And you would help me, mamma, if you had any
spirit. What,--a fortnight before the time, when the things are all
bought! Look at the presents that have been sent! Mamma, he doesn't
know me. And he never would have done it, if it had not been for
Bella,--never. She had better take care, or there shall be such a
tragedy that nobody ever heard the like. If she thinks that she is
going to be that man's wife,--she is--mistaken." Then there was a
pause for a moment. "Mamma," she said, "I shall go to him at once.
I do not care in the least what anybody may say. I shall--go to
him,--at once." Mrs. French felt that at this moment it was best that
she should be silent.