A PASSIVE COQUETTE.
It is not to be supposed that such an encounter as Mr. Preston had
just had with Roger Hamley sweetened the regards in which the two
young men henceforward held each other. They had barely spoken to one
another before, and but seldom met; for the land-agent's employment
had hitherto lain at Ashcombe, some sixteen or seventeen miles from
Hamley. He was older than Roger by several years; but during the
time he had been in the county Osborne and Roger had been at school
and at college. Mr. Preston was prepared to dislike the Hamleys for
many unreasonable reasons. Cynthia and Molly had both spoken of
the brothers with familiar regard, implying considerable intimacy;
their flowers had been preferred to his on the occasion of the ball;
most people spoke well of them; and Mr. Preston had an animal's
instinctive jealousy and combativeness against all popular young men.
Their "position"--poor as the Hamleys might be--was far higher than
his own in the county; and, moreover, he was agent to the great Whig
lord, whose political interests were diametrically opposed to those
of the old Tory squire. Not that Lord Cumnor troubled himself much
about his political interests. His family had obtained property and
title from the Whigs at the time of the Hanoverian succession; and
so, traditionally, he was a Whig, and had belonged in his youth to
Whig clubs, where he had lost considerable sums of money to Whig
gamblers. All this was satisfactory and consistent enough. And if
Lord Hollingford had not been returned for the county on the Whig
interest--as his father had been before him, until he had succeeded
to the title--it is quite probable Lord Cumnor would have considered
the British constitution in danger, and the patriotism of his
ancestors ungratefully ignored. But, excepting at elections, he had
no notion of making Whig and Tory a party cry. He had lived too much
in London, and was of too sociable a nature, to exclude any man who
jumped with his humour from the hospitality he was always ready to
offer, be the agreeable acquaintance Whig, Tory, or Radical. But in
the county of which he was lord-lieutenant, the old party distinction
was still a shibboleth by which men were tested as to their fitness
for social intercourse, as well as on the hustings. If by any chance
a Whig found himself at a Tory dinner-table--or vice vers--the food
was hard of digestion, and wine and viands were criticized rather
than enjoyed. A marriage between the young people of the separate
parties was almost as unheard-of and prohibited an alliance as that
of Romeo and Juliet's. And of course Mr. Preston was not a man in
whose breast such prejudices would die away. They were an excitement
to him for one thing, and called out all his talent for intrigue on
behalf of the party to which he was allied. Moreover, he considered
it as loyalty to his employer to "scatter his enemies" by any means
in his power. He had always hated and despised the Tories in general;
and after that interview on the marshy common in front of Silas's
cottage, he hated the Hamleys and Roger especially, with a very
choice and particular hatred. "That prig," as hereafter he always
designated Roger--"he shall pay for it yet," he said to himself by
way of consolation, after the father and son had left him. "What a
lout it is!"--watching the receding figures, "The old chap has twice
as much spunk," as the Squire tugged at his bridle reins. "The old
mare could make her way better without being led, my fine fellow. But
I see through your dodge. You're afraid of your old father turning
back and getting into another rage. Position indeed! a beggarly
squire--a man who did turn off his men just before winter, to rot
or starve, for all he cared--it's just like a brutal old Tory." And,
under the cover of sympathy with the dismissed labourers, Mr. Preston
indulged his own private pique very pleasantly.
Mr. Preston had many causes for rejoicing: he might have forgotten
this discomfiture, as he chose to feel it, in the remembrance of
an increase of income, and in the popularity he enjoyed in his new
abode. All Hollingford came forward to do the earl's new agent
honour. Mr. Sheepshanks had been a crabbed, crusty old bachelor,
frequenting inn-parlours on market days, not unwilling to give
dinners to three or four chosen friends and familiars, with whom,
in return, he dined from time to time, and with whom, also, he kept
up an amicable rivalry in the matter of wines. But he "did not
appreciate female society," as Miss Browning elegantly worded his
unwillingness to accept the invitations of the Hollingford ladies.
He was even unrefined enough to speak of these invitations to his
intimate friends aforesaid as "those old women's worrying," but, of
course, they never heard of this. Little quarter-of-sheet notes,
without any envelopes--that invention was unknown in those days--but
sealed in the corners when folded up instead of gummed as they are
fastened at present--occasionally passed between Mr. Sheepshanks
and the Miss Brownings, Mrs. Goodenough or others. From the
first-mentioned ladies the form ran as follows:--"Miss Browning
and her sister, Miss Phoebe Browning, present their respectful
compliments to Mr. Sheepshanks, and beg to inform him that a few
friends have kindly consented to favour them with their company at
tea on Thursday next. Miss Browning and Miss Phoebe will take it
very kindly if Mr. Sheepshanks will join their little circle."
Now for Mrs. Goodenough.
"Mrs. Goodenough's respects to Mr. Sheepshanks, and hopes he is in
good health. She would be very glad if he would favour her with his
company to tea on Monday. My daughter, in Combermere, has sent me a
couple of guinea-fowls, and Mrs. Goodenough hopes Mr. Sheepshanks
will stay and take a bit of supper."
No need for the dates of the days of the month. The good ladies would
have thought that the world was coming to an end if the invitation
had been sent out a week before the party therein named. But not even
guinea-fowls for supper could tempt Mr. Sheepshanks. He remembered
the made-wines he had tasted in former days at Hollingford parties,
and shuddered. Bread-and-cheese, with a glass of bitter-beer, or a
little brandy-and-water, partaken of in his old clothes (which had
worn into shapes of loose comfort, and smelt strongly of tobacco),
he liked better than roast guinea-fowl and birch-wine, even without
throwing into the balance the stiff uneasy coat, and the tight
neckcloth and tighter shoes. So the ex-agent had been seldom, if
ever, seen at the Hollingford tea-parties. He might have had his form
of refusal stereotyped, it was so invariably the same.
"Mr. Sheepshanks' duty to Miss Browning and her sister" (to Mrs.
Goodenough, or to others, as the case might be). "Business of
importance prevents him from availing himself of their polite
invitation; for which he begs to return his best thanks."
But now that Mr. Preston had succeeded, and come to live in
Hollingford, things were changed.
He accepted every civility right and left, and won golden opinions
accordingly. Parties were made in his honour, "just as if he had been
a bride," Miss Phoebe Browning said; and to all of them he went.
"What's the man after?" said Mr. Sheepshanks to himself, when he
heard of his successor's affability, and sociability, and amiability,
and a variety of other agreeable "ilities," from the friends whom the
old steward still retained at Hollingford. "Preston's not a man to
put himself out for nothing. He's deep. He'll be after something
solider than popularity."
The sagacious old bachelor was right. Mr. Preston was "after"
something more than mere popularity. He went wherever he had a chance
of meeting Cynthia Kirkpatrick.
It might be that Molly's spirits were more depressed at this time
than they were in general; or that Cynthia was exultant, unawares to
herself, in the amount of attention and admiration she was receiving
from Roger by day, from Mr. Preston in the evening, but the two girls
seemed to have parted company in cheerfulness. Molly was always
gentle, but very grave and silent. Cynthia, on the contrary, was
merry, full of pretty mockeries, and hardly ever silent. When first
she came to Hollingford one of her great charms had been that she
was such a gracious listener; now her excitement, by whatever caused,
made her too restless to hold her tongue; yet what she said was too
pretty, too witty, not to be a winning and sparkling interruption,
eagerly welcomed by those who were under her sway. Mr. Gibson was
the only one who observed this change, and reasoned upon it. "She's
in a mental fever of some kind," thought he to himself. "She's very
fascinating, but I don't quite understand her."
If Molly had not been so entirely loyal to her friend, she might have
thought this constant brilliancy a little tiresome when brought into
every-day life; it was not the sunshiny rest of a placid lake, it was
rather the glitter of the pieces of a broken mirror, which confuses
and bewilders. Cynthia would not talk quietly about anything now;
subjects of thought or conversation seemed to have lost their
relative value. There were exceptions to this mood of hers, when she
sank into deep fits of silence, that would have been gloomy had it
not been for the never varying sweetness of her temper. If there was
a little kindness to be done to either Mr. Gibson or Molly, Cynthia
was just as ready as ever to do it; nor did she refuse to do anything
her mother wished, however fidgety might be the humour that prompted
the wish. But in this latter case Cynthia's eyes were not quickened
by her heart.
Molly was dejected, she knew not why. Cynthia had drifted a little
apart; that was not it. Her stepmother had whimsical moods; and if
Cynthia displeased her, she would oppress Molly with small kindnesses
and pseudo-affection. Or else everything was wrong, the world was
out of joint, and Molly had failed in her mission to set it right,
and was to be blamed accordingly. But Molly was of too steady a
disposition to be much moved by the changeableness of an unreasonable
person. She might be annoyed, or irritated, but she was not
depressed. That was not it. The real cause was certainly this. As
long as Roger was drawn to Cynthia, and sought her of his own accord,
it had been a sore pain and bewilderment to Molly's heart; but it was
a straightforward attraction, and one which Molly acknowledged, in
her humility and great power of loving, to be the most natural thing
in the world. She would look at Cynthia's beauty and grace, and feel
as if no one could resist it. And when she witnessed all the small
signs of honest devotion which Roger was at no pains to conceal, she
thought, with a sigh, that surely no girl could help relinquishing
her heart to such tender, strong keeping as Roger's character
ensured. She would have been willing to cut off her right hand,
if need were, to forward his attachment to Cynthia; and the
self-sacrifice would have added a strange zest to a happy crisis. She
was indignant at what she considered to be Mrs. Gibson's obtuseness
to so much goodness and worth; and when she called Roger "a country
lout," or any other depreciative epithet, Molly would pinch herself
in order to keep silent. But after all, those were peaceful days
compared to the present, when she, seeing the wrong side of the
tapestry, after the wont of those who dwell in the same house with
a plotter, became aware that Mrs. Gibson had totally changed her
behaviour to Roger, from some cause unknown to Molly.
But he was always exactly the same; "steady as old Time," as Mrs.
Gibson called him, with her usual originality; "a rock of strength,
under whose very shadow there is rest," as Mrs. Hamley had once
spoken of him. So the cause of Mrs. Gibson's altered manner lay not
in him. Yet now he was sure of a welcome, let him come at any hour he
would. He was playfully reproved for having taken Mrs. Gibson's words
too literally, and for never coming before lunch. But he said he
considered her reasons for such words to be valid, and should respect
them. And this was done out of his simplicity, and from no tinge of
malice. Then in their family conversations at home, Mrs. Gibson was
constantly making projects for throwing Roger and Cynthia together,
with so evident a betrayal of her wish to bring about an engagement,
that Molly chafed at the net spread so evidently, and at Roger's
blindness in coming so willingly to be entrapped. She forgot his
previous willingness, his former evidences of manly fondness for the
beautiful Cynthia; she only saw plots of which he was the victim, and
Cynthia the conscious if passive bait. She felt as if she could not
have acted as Cynthia did; no, not even to gain Roger's love. Cynthia
heard and saw as much of the domestic background as she did, and yet
she submitted to the rle assigned to her! To be sure, this rle
would have been played by her unconsciously; the things prescribed
were what she would naturally have done; but because they were
prescribed--by implication only, it is true--Molly would have
resisted; have gone out, for instance, when she was expected to stay
at home; or have lingered in the garden when a long country walk was
planned. At last--for she could not help loving Cynthia, come what
would--she determined to believe that Cynthia was entirely unaware of
all; but it was with an effort that she brought herself to believe
it.
It may be all very pleasant "to sport with Amaryllis in the shade,
or with the tangles of Ne¾ra's hair," but young men at the outset of
their independent life have many other cares in this prosaic England
to occupy their time and their thoughts. Roger was Fellow of Trinity,
to be sure; and from the outside it certainly appeared as if his
position, as long as he chose to keep unmarried, was a very easy
one. His was not a nature, however, to sink down into inglorious
ease, even had his fellowship income been at his disposal. He
looked forward to an active life; in what direction he had not yet
determined. He knew what were his talents and his tastes; and did
not wish the former to lie buried, nor the latter, which he regarded
as gifts, fitting him for some peculiar work, to be disregarded or
thwarted. He rather liked awaiting an object, secure in his own
energy to force his way to it, when once he saw it clearly. He
reserved enough of money for his own personal needs, which were
small, and for the ready furtherance of any project he might see
fit to undertake; the rest of his income was Osborne's; given and
accepted in the spirit which made the bond between these two brothers
so rarely perfect. It was only the thought of Cynthia that threw
Roger off his balance. A strong man in everything else, about her
he was as a child. He knew that he could not marry and retain
his fellowship; his intention was to hold himself loose from any
employment or profession until he had found one to his mind, so
there was no immediate prospect--no prospect for many years, indeed,
that he would be able to marry. Yet he went on seeking Cynthia's
sweet company, listening to the music of her voice, basking in her
sunshine, and feeding his passion in every possible way, just like an
unreasoning child. He knew that it was folly--and yet he did it; and
it was perhaps this that made him so sympathetic with Osborne. Roger
racked his brains about Osborne's affairs much more frequently than
Osborne troubled himself. Indeed, he had become so ailing and languid
of late, that even the Squire made only very faint objections to
his desire for frequent change of scene, though formerly he used to
grumble so much at the necessary expenditure it involved.
"After all, it doesn't cost much," the Squire said to Roger one day.
"Choose how he does it, he does it cheaply; he used to come and ask
me for twenty, where now he does it for five. But he and I have
lost each other's language, that's what we have! and my dictionary"
(only he called it "dixonary") "has all got wrong because of those
confounded debts--which he will never explain to me, or talk
about--he always holds me off at arm's length when I begin upon
it--he does, Roger--me, his old dad, as was his primest favourite of
all, when he was a little bit of a chap!"
The Squire dwelt so much upon Osborne's reserved behaviour to
himself, that brooding over this one subject perpetually he became
more morose and gloomy than ever in his manner to Osborne, resenting
the want of the confidence and affection that he thus repelled. So
much so that Roger, who desired to avoid being made the receptacle
of his father's complaints against Osborne--and Roger's passive
listening was the sedative his father always sought--had often
to have recourse to the discussion of the drainage works as a
counter-irritant. The Squire had felt Mr. Preston's speech about
the dismissal of his work-people very keenly; it fell in with the
reproaches of his own conscience, though, as he would repeat to
Roger over and over again,--"I couldn't help it--how could I?--I was
drained dry of ready money--I wish the land was drained as dry as
I am," said he, with a touch of humour that came out before he was
aware, and at which he smiled sadly enough. "What was I to do, I ask
you, Roger? I know I was in a rage--I've had a deal to make me so--and
maybe I didn't think as much about consequences as I should ha'
done, when I gave orders for 'em to be sent off; but I couldn't have
done otherwise if I'd ha' thought for a twelvemonth in cool blood.
Consequences! I hate consequences; they've always been against me;
they have. I'm so tied up I can't cut down a stick more, and that's a
'consequence' of having the property so deucedly well settled; I wish
I'd never had any ancestors. Ay, laugh, lad! it does me good to see
thee laugh a bit, after Osborne's long face, which always grows longer
at sight o' me!"
"Look here, father!" said Roger, suddenly, "I'll manage somehow about
the money for the works. You trust to me; give me two months to turn
myself in, and you shall have some money, at any rate, to begin
with."
The Squire looked at him, and his face brightened as a child's does
at the promise of a pleasure made to him by some one on whom he can
rely. He became a little graver, however, as he said,--"But how will
you get it? It's hard enough work."
"Never mind; I'll get it--a hundred or so at first--I don't yet
know how--but remember, father, I'm a senior wrangler, and a 'very
promising young writer,' as that review called me. Oh, you don't know
what a fine fellow you've got for a son! You should have read that
review to know all my wonderful merits."
"I did, Roger. I heard Gibson speaking of it, and I made him get it
for me. I should have understood it better if they could have called
the animals by their English names, and not put so much of their
French jingo into it."
"But it was an answer to an article by a French writer," pleaded
Roger.
"I'd ha' let him alone!" said the Squire, earnestly. "We had to
beat 'em, and we did it at Waterloo; but I'd not demean myself by
answering any of their lies, if I was you. But I got through the
review, for all their Latin and French--I did; and if you doubt me,
you just look at the end of the great ledger, turn it upside down,
and you'll find I've copied out all the fine words they said of you:
'careful observer,' 'strong nervous English,' 'rising philosopher.'
Oh! I can nearly say it all off by heart, for many a time when I'm
frabbed by bad debts, or Osborne's bills, or moidered with accounts,
I turn the ledger wrong way up, and smoke a pipe over it, while I
read those pieces out of the review which speak about you, lad!"