ROMA’S REQUEST.
Maud had spoken nothing but the truth, when she said that the supposed
Phil paid frequent visits to the blind sculptor’s house. Michael
Meredith had grown very fond of the young man who could talk so well
and so willingly of Italy and Italian art, who knew his beloved Rome
as intimately as he himself, and who would listen to his raptures
with perfect patience, and sympathize readily with his love for the
beautiful.
Tor liked Michael Meredith. He had a natural taste for oddities; and
this handsome, blind enthusiast, with his princely airs and sublimely
unconscious egotism, amused and interested him not a little. Society
at Ladywell there was none. Even the rector and the doctor lived a
mile or two away. Maud’s companionship was too dangerously sweet to be
overmuch indulged; therefore Tor was glad enough of some house where
he could come and go at will, always welcomed and never in the way. It
was a charity to relieve the dull monotony of the blind man’s days, and
Tor’s visits soon grew to be looked upon as regular events.
‘It is well,’ Michael Meredith would sometimes say to himself—‘it is
well. Young men do not come day by day, to spend the best of their time
with the old and the blind, without a motive other than compassion.
What I have wished is coming to pass. I am not the attraction to Philip
Debenham—I am not vain enough to suppose that for a moment. Roma is the
attraction. It is her he comes to see. And though I cannot see their
looks, their voices tell me that her coldness is melting before his
quiet devotion, and it is plain he is her warm admirer. All is going
well—very well. I shall call Philip Debenham “son” before I die.’
What Meredith said about Roma was certainly true. Her coldness towards
her father’s guest had insensibly decreased. She could not continue
to treat with an icy indifference, a man who had shown himself so
considerate and forbearing towards the father she passionately loved.
Roma was not blinded by her great love. She knew that her father
was not a general favourite with the people who knew him. He was
an egotist; he was wrapped up in a few ideas, to the exclusion of
all else. He could not endure contradiction, and was never open to
conviction. Blind prejudices hemmed him in on every side, and caused
men generally to quarrel with him first, and to despise him afterwards.
He seldom made a friend, hardly ever kept one, yet he never seemed
conscious that there was aught amiss with himself. He only gently
bewailed the crotchetiness of the world; and wondered how men ever got
on there at all, when they were so determined not to hear reason.
His daughter, little as she knew of the world, could see farther than
he, and she understood only too well the reason why they lived so very
much alone. The consciousness of her father’s faults and weaknesses did
not diminish one whit the devotion and loyalty of her faithful heart;
rather, she clung to him the more for the failings, which left him so
dependent upon her for love, care, and companionship; but at the same
time, she could the better appreciate consideration and kindness in
others for knowing how much patience was needed in intercourse with
her father; and Tor could not but rise in her favour when she saw how
regular his visits became, and what great pleasure they always gave.
Had Meredith been wise enough to say nothing to her of a wild and
foolish plan which had long been working in his brain, the girl
would doubtless have learned to like Tor very much—she might even
have loved him; for the cold, proud manner belied the warmth of the
feelings below. But the blind man never could conceal anything from his
daughter, and he loved the sensation of power which he experienced,
whilst calmly mapping out her future, as sure of the fulfilment of his
dreams as if he really possessed a prophetic power. He talked himself
into absolute confidence, and became actually confused between the real
and the imaginary.
So Roma had been told years ago that it was her fate to marry Philip
Debenham, the son of Meredith’s first friend and patron; and she had
never resisted this verdict, because it seemed useless to dispute the
matter, when the future husband was far away in foreign lands, and
might never appear upon the scene at all. And when he did come back
suddenly, a rich and prosperous man, when her fortune would no longer
be needed to restore the prosperity of his house, and when he most
likely would be expected to choose a wife from the rich and noble in
the land, then Roma did indulge some faint hope that her father would
abandon the curious plan he had made. She might have known him better.
Money was dross in his eyes. Had Philip come home a beggar instead of a
prince, he would have bestowed his daughter’s hand upon him with equal
readiness. No change of fortune could uproot an idea which had grown,
as it were, into the very depths of his nature. Roma had not crossed
him at the early stage of affairs, and now she dared not breathe a word
of opposition.
Not long since, during a sharp attack of illness caused by a chill,
Roma had persuaded her father to call in medical advice—a thing from
which he greatly shrank. The slight illness was soon thrown off;
but the doctor had spoken seriously to her of the highly excitable
condition of his patient’s heart and brain, and had warned her that
if his life was to be prolonged, he must be carefully guarded from
all excitement or anxiety. That some mischief was going on he did not
doubt; but of what kind it was difficult to say, as his patient was
suspiciously reserved in answering questions about his health. All that
the medical man could do was to warn the girl to avoid all vexatious
or exciting topics of conversation, and to keep his mind serene and
contented at all risks.
It was now, therefore, quite impossible for Roma to oppose his
will even in small matters. To resist him in such a matter as this
long-cherished scheme, would be to her nervous and excited fancy to
give him his death-blow at once.
When Philip Debenham appeared upon the scene, Roma’s feeling towards
him was one of intense dislike. She hated the sound of his name and the
sight of his face. She could hardly bear to listen to Maud’s raptures
over her ‘angel-boy,’ and she felt degraded by his very presence in the
house.
When, however, his visits continued, and she saw more of him, and of
his goodness to her father, the strength of her antipathy wore off, and
she could not but feel a certain liking for anyone who did not tire of
the monotony of the blind man’s room. At the same time she never quite
lost the sense of constraint, which had been so painful at first, and
her manner was always somewhat distant and reserved, even when it had
lost its first icy coldness.
Tor, for his part, had no special interest in the handsome
Italian-looking girl. He thought her rather absurdly haughty, and
needlessly frigid in her manner; but he did not trouble himself about
the matter, nor resent that of which he was barely conscious. Michael
Meredith was much more interesting to him than Roma, and during his
early visits he hardly saw the girl at all.
As he became more at home in the house, however, he grew to know her
better, and to feel on a more friendly footing. Not unfrequently it
was in her great studio that Meredith would be sitting, and then, as he
listened to the old man’s eager talk, his eye would rest with a certain
satisfaction upon the graceful figure of the daughter, and he was
not sorry when she too became included in the conversation. Maud had
told him that Roma’s coldness was only a cloak for a painful shyness,
induced by her lonely life; and so the young man, feeling himself
immeasurably older and more worldly-wise than this handsome, bashful
girl, took some pains to draw her out and put her at her ease; and
Meredith listened to his pleasant voice and gentle, brotherly gallantry
with a curious smile upon his still face, whilst Roma unbent almost
unconsciously before the easy friendliness of Tor’s manner. There was
not one spice of the lover in any single word or tone to alarm her or
put her on the defensive. Tor was far too loyal to Maud ever to wish
for even a mild flirtation with Roma. Had he been fancy free, the dark
beauty and statuesque grace of the young sculptor might have made an
impression upon him; but with Maud’s sunny face, mischievous smile and
winsome ways always before his mind’s eye, he was proof against other
charms, and only offered to her a frank, friendly kindliness which she
could not but accept as it was meant.
Maud was delighted to find that he and Roma were friends, and was quite
prepared to hear later on that they were something more than that. She
had no wish that Phil should marry; but if he must do so, she would
like Roma Meredith as a sister-in-law better than anybody else she knew.
Tor walked down one day to the sculptor’s house. He was an intimate
now, and did not ring the bell, but walked straight to Mr. Meredith’s
study, as usual. The room was empty, so he naturally concluded that the
studio was his place of habitation that day, and made his way thither
without further delay.
When, however, he entered, at Roma’s bidding, he found the girl alone
at work. The blind man’s chair was empty.
‘I beg your pardon, Miss Meredith; I thought I should find your father
here.’
‘He has gone out,’ answered Roma. ‘Mrs. Lorraine kindly called for him,
and asked him to drive with her. But—but—I think he will be back very
soon—if you don’t mind waiting.’
There was a little hesitation in the girl’s manner which struck Tor as
being unusual. And it was rather unlike her to ask him to wait.
‘I will do so with pleasure. This room is a delightful contrast to the
heat out of doors. I hope I shall not be in your way.’
‘No, not at all, thank you,’ answered Roma, still intent on her
modelling, and she did not look up as she continued speaking.
‘In fact, I am rather glad you have come just now. I have wanted to
speak to you about something; and I cannot do it when you are with
father.’
Tor looked at her, and then seated himself at a little distance,
wondering what was coming.
‘I shall be honoured by any confidence you can make me, Miss Meredith.
Is there anything I can do for you? I am afraid, by your face, that it
is not of a very pleasant matter you have to speak.’
‘No—not very,’ answered Roma, without looking up. And after a pause,
she added, ‘It is something about my father.’
Tor guessed at her meaning by the pained look on her face, and said,
gently enough:
‘Are you alluding to the state of his health?’
Roma looked up quickly, with startled eyes.
‘Do you know it, too? Is it so apparent as that? Or has he said
anything to you?’
‘No, he has not told me anything; but he had an attack of faintness one
day, when he was reaching up for a heavy book of engravings. It passed
off almost at once; but it gave me an idea that there was some weakness
of the heart. I hope you will not be alarmed at my frankness. It always
seems to me that the truth is best spoken out.’
‘Oh yes—yes!’ cried Roma eagerly. ‘It is such a comfort to be able to
speak the truth about anything that is on one’s mind. I have known
it for some months; but I have never yet been able to say a word to
anyone.’
‘Have you had advice?’
‘Yes; it was a doctor who told me; but father does not know, and he
must not be told. He is so excitable, and so nervous—you have noticed
that, too?’
‘Well, I have thought he might grow excited if I were to attempt an
argument; but then I never do. I am no logician—I don’t think arguing
is ever any use. It only means a terrible waste of words, perhaps of
temper, and everyone ends by thinking exactly as he did at first.’
Roma looked at him gratefully.
‘It is so good of you always to let father have his own way in
everything. I have noticed it, and been so much obliged.’
‘I was not aware I had done anything to merit your gratitude. I have
very much enjoyed the talks I have had with your father.’
‘I am so glad you have,’ said Roma, unbending more and more, and
growing frank now that the ice was broken, and she was assured of her
companion’s comprehension and sympathy. ‘You know, there are so few to
talk to father here—in Italy we had lots of friends; but, you know,’
and here a spasm of pain crossed her face, ‘he had an accident—he went
blind, and I think it has weakened him—his brain as well as his heart.
He is so irritable if he is crossed. He cannot bear contradiction. And
so—and so—people have been vexed with him, and have gone away, and not
come any more; and he seems to have lost all his friends.’
Roma spoke with a good deal of feeling. Indeed, she seemed half
afraid she should show too much, and her voice quivered at times, and
threatened to break. Tor hastened to her relief.
‘I think I understand you, Miss Meredith. You mean that I am not
to take fright at a few irritable words, or be offended if I am
contradicted flatly. I assure you, you need have no fears. Mr. Meredith
and I are capital friends, and mean to continue such. I shall avoid all
exciting topics, because I see they injure him, and you need not be at
all afraid that I shall lead him into argument or do anything to annoy
or displease him. As I know that his health is affected, I shall be the
more careful.’
Roma’s face cleared visibly.
‘Thank you very much, Mr. Debenham. It is kind of you to be so
considerate. I did want to warn you against anything exciting, because
the doctor said it was so very bad for him. You see his blindness makes
him live so much to himself, that he does not understand any point of
view but his own.’
‘I can quite understand that. It is very sad for him.’
‘Very, indeed,’ and again the spasm of pain—pain that was almost like
remorse—crossed her face. ‘It makes me want to spare him everything I
can. I never cross him—never thwart him in anything. I would rather die
than give him pain; especially now I know that pain might almost kill
him. Of course I cannot expect others to feel as I do; but you have
been so kind to him, Mr. Debenham, that I cannot help trusting you,
though I have not spoken of this to anyone else. You will humour him,
won’t you? You will try not to cross or disturb him? He is fond of you,
and I don’t think he will ever be hard to deal with; but even if he is,
you will try to soothe him without letting him get excited?’
‘Certainly, Miss Meredith; you may trust me,’ answered Tor readily;
and there was no time to say more, for at that moment the door opened
slowly and the blind man entered.
Tor pushed back his chair and advanced to meet him, talking gaily
and unconcernedly; but Roma had been too much moved to assume in a
moment her usual manner. Her voice betrayed to her father’s fine ear,
that something had occurred to disturb her customary equanimity, and
he smiled to himself as he noted how particularly gentle, and almost
filial, the young man’s manner towards him had grown.
Roma made him some tea, and they both waited on him and anticipated
his wants, and his peculiarly acute senses made him absolutely certain
that some ground had been gained between them—some mutual understanding
arrived at. He was complaisant and benign to both, and filled with a
comfortable sense that he had not over-rated his powers, and that all
was coming round in accordance with his plans.
When Tor was gone, Roma resumed her work, and her father was not
ill-pleased to find that she was unusually silent and preoccupied.
‘Well, Roma,’ he said at last, ‘how long had Philip Debenham been
here?’
‘Not very long; perhaps a quarter of an hour.’
‘I am afraid I interrupted you.’
‘Oh no!’ Roma laughed, not quite naturally. ‘It was you he came to see.’
‘Ah, well, I don’t know so much about that. You were very deep in talk.’
‘Now, father, you know you didn’t hear;’ and, in spite of herself,
Roma’s voice shook with apprehension.
Michael Meredith smiled pleasantly.
‘Well, Roma, you need not make such a mystery. Was he making love to
you?’
‘No.’
She was so astonished by the sudden charge, that she could only utter
the monosyllable.
‘Ah, well, we must have patience. I had hoped to hear that he had
proposed.’
‘Father!’
‘Well, child’—he began to speak a little irritably—‘it will soon come
to that.’
‘I don’t know,’ answered Roma guardedly.
‘I do. Now, Roma, be frank with me; do you think he means marriage yet?’
‘No, father.’
‘Has he not looked love, or spoken love?’
‘No, father.’
‘I wonder at that, for I think he means it.’
Roma could not forbear saying:
‘I do not think such a thing has ever entered his head.’
Meredith’s face contracted with vexation for a moment, and then he
smiled genially:
‘You really think that, dear girl! Then it must be put into it, as soon
as possible.’
‘What do you mean, father?’
The old man was still smiling blandly and dreamily.
‘I must open my mind to him on the subject; and tell him my wishes.’
‘Father, father! don’t do that!’ cried poor Roma. ‘Let the proposal
come from him!’
‘But you say he does not seem inclined to make it,’ argued the old
man, irritability struggling with calm superiority for the upper hand.
‘Things cannot go on like this. The suspense is trying to me. I must
have a conversation with him, and see if we cannot get it settled. I do
not think he will needlessly thwart me. He is very fond of me, is young
Phil Debenham.’
Roma’s heart sank. Her late talk with Tor rose up in her memory
with dreadful distinctness. She had pleaded with him not to vex her
father—not to cross his will. He had promised to avoid exciting him,
had given his word that he would not cause him annoyance. And now her
father was going to press her hand upon him—ask him to make her his
wife! and he would think that she had known this all along, and had
tried to entrap him into a temporizing, which would be a check on his
liberty and a half-pledge to the egotistic old man.
Such a thought was terrible, yet Roma could not shake it off. What
Philip Debenham would say to such a proposal she could not guess.
Whatever answer he made, the humiliation to her would be the same.
Refusal would make her father ill and miserable—might it not even
cause his death? That thought was enough to prevent her from using her
liberty and declining the offer of marriage if it should be made. Yet
the idea of being handed over to a man, who had not demanded or wished
her as a wife, was as repugnant to her as being sold into slavery.
However the matter might end, poor Roma felt that she would be
disgraced for life; and yet she dared not speak one word of rebellion
to her autocratic father. Words, as she well knew, would be worse than
wasted upon him.