LETTERS
Cynthia was now on her way home. Her plans for remaining in Jersey until
Christmas fell through. In one letter she mentioned that she had got a
nice room in Bree's Hotel, and felt quite settled for three months. In
the next, a few days later, she announced her engagement to a man whom
she had not before named, and of whom the Admiral and Mrs. Marlowe had
never heard. She and her maid were returning at once to Lafer Hall, and
Mr. Danby would travel to town with them, and see them off from thence
by the North Express.
This was indeed carrying matters with a high hand. The Admiral was
dumbfounded. He stormed down to Canon Tremenheere, forgetful, in his
anxiety to know if he had had details from Mrs. Kerr, of the trouble
he might be in. He vowed Cynthy was a 'matter-of-fact puss.' If he had
ever thought she would take him literally, he would not have assured her
choice was in her own hands. So there was no letter from Theodosia Kerr?
Was she not responsible for Cynthy? Whatever were they all thinking of?
Truly it was a mad world, time for him to be in his grave, he couldn't
stand such whirligigs, Cynthy might be a teetotum and expect to set them
all spinning with her.
'Look here, Anthony,' he said, buzzing round Tremenheere's library like
a fly, while Anthony sat with his hands clasped behind his head, and an
air of endurance, 'I always thought you'd be the man. I always thought
she'd come round. She knows your worth, and you're such a fine fellow
compared, for instance, to a little naval tub like myself. But I'll tell
you what it is. The very devil gets into these women, good souls though
they are, bless 'em, and they either don't know what they want, or won't
take the trouble of making up their minds. And to think that after all
these years her fancy should be caught like this, all in a jiffy. She's
held herself too cheap; it's Cynthy all over, just what she does, thinks
nothing of herself. If a beggar smiles upon her she gets a spasm of
happiness, and thinks all the world's full of happiness.'
'But how do we know it's been a hasty thing?' said Tremenheere.
'Has Theodosia ever named the fellow?'
'Never. But she doesn't write voluminously.'
'Then of course it has. Just write to Theodosia now, will you? It was
her bounden duty to have sent her off home the moment she suspected his
pretensions. I'll confess it's a good name is Danby, but bless me! one
sees Campbell over a shop door, and Spencer on a costermonger's cart!
And an Anglo-Indian too! Don't know anything about them and care less.
And then to think she might have had you, letting alone Ushire's son,
who'd have made her a countess some day. Really, Anthony, it's fit to
turn one's blood; it'll upset my liver, I know. He may be a scamp, a
fortune-hunter, a merry-andrew, a married man,' said the Admiral, his
imagination running rampant, and his voice taking a higher key as each
new possibility occurred to him. He was woe-begone and desperate. 'I
can't digest it, Anthony,' he said, settling in one of the windows, and
looking limp and hopelessly perplexed; 'I can't digest it. It's not like
Cynthy. It's a loss of dignity. And she, with all her charm and her
choice, and _you_ at her beck. It's inconceivable; I can't believe it.'
'She will be home before I can hear from Theo,' said Tremenheere. He was
too conscious of his own lack of spirit to marvel at the Admiral's. 'I
can't understand her not having written, though. There must have been
some mistake over the mails. She ought to have written to you, or rather
perhaps Kerr should. But he's such an easy-going fellow, is St. John.
However, if I were you, Admiral, I would not distress myself. I don't
think Cynthia's judgment will have failed her. We must hope for the
best.'
'Hope for the best! That often means getting the worst. The best won't
come for our sitting with folded hands, thinking about it. No, no,
Anthony, and I'll have none of your confounded aphorisms--"Whatever
is, is best," and all that fraternity of philosophy. They're a mental
creeping paralysis, that's what they are. I mean to act, to act,
Anthony!'
He stamped his foot as he spoke, and screwing his eye-glass into his
eye, glared at Tremenheere as though wishing for contradiction for the
sake of defying it.
'I would,' said Tremenheere, 'certainly I would, if I were you, Admiral.
There will be many considerations in the case of your granddaughter.
But wait until she gets home and then be calm, do be calm. Don't alarm
her. I don't think it's occurred to her how you will have taken it, how
you'll feel it. Letters would only complicate matters by crossing or
miscarrying or not reaching. She will soon be home.'
The Admiral was walking up and down the room again. He was listening,
but with no intention of heeding until the tone in which these last
words were uttered struck on his ears. It was a tone utterly unlike the
petulance of his own, that of a man baulked in his dearest desire who
foresees nothing but pangs in a proximity where hope had long hovered,
but whence it had for ever taken flight.
'Anthony,' said the Admiral, reaching him rapidly and putting his hand
on his arm, 'I'm a confounded selfish old brute. Here am I screwing into
your nerves to save my own. I'm going. Come down with me. The air in
your garden'll do you good. But just write to Theodosia, will you?'
Tremenheere nodded as he got up.
He did not want to thwart the Admiral, but it was not for him to probe
the matter. He scarcely knew whether he wished Theo had written or
was thankful she had not. He was stunned by the news. The Admiral had
discharged it at him like a ball from a cannon's mouth; and the more he
thought of it, the more intolerable became the burning tension at his
heart. He wanted to be alone. He felt unmanned. He had had hard work to
reconcile himself to the idea of Cynthia travelling, even though he had
faith in Theo's good offices and a vague impression that she meant to
accomplish something in his favour. But when she was at Lafer he knew
he had her near and safe, that she belonged to no one else and was out
of range of new admirers. In his own mind he attributed Theodosia's
flagrant carelessness to the loss their sister Julia had sustained.
Julia Tremenheere, married at seventeen, became a widow fifteen months
later, and two years subsequently she married again. Her second husband
was also now dead. News of this loss would reach the Kerrs at Athens.
He could imagine that Julia's sorrow would deeply affect Theodosia, and
that she then overlooked what was happening in her own travelling party.
But in the Admiral's present mood he had been careful to keep this in
the background; to endure such rough-shod treatment of his sister's
grief as well as his own was more than he could do.
Throughout the cruise Theodosia had written to him constantly, keeping
him up in all their movements, and inferring her care of his interests.
These letters he had answered regularly. Sometimes he enclosed a note
for Cynthia. He had done this only the previous day. A verandah ran
the length of his house, and was festooned with virginia-creeper whose
crimson tints were now resplendent in the glowing autumn sunshine. It
was a favourite plant of hers. The last time she called before going
away he asked if she would be back in time to see its splendour.
Unconscious of Mrs. Kerr's plans, she had said yes, and when he heard
she was not coming until Christmas he wrote to upbraid her, hoping that
his words might draw from her consent to his soon going out to Jersey,
since Mrs. Kerr would now soon propose it.
'My dear Cynthia,' he wrote, 'my garden is in its glory. The verandah is
in gala attire. I am convinced that the tendril that touched your cheek
as the wind swayed it--do you remember--heard your promise, and thinks
long of you as I do too, for the whole plant is early crimsoned this
year. You know what an exquisite foreground it then forms for the fine
mass of the Minster behind it. Are you not coming to be our last rose
of summer? Better that, dear Cynthia, than a Christmas rose; that's too
cold and pale for my fancy. Don't be our Christmas rose, if I am not to
see you before that time--or I shall be chilled by presentiments. Come
home and leave Kerr and Theo to coddle each other. Everybody wants you
here, as you know.--Faithfully yours, Anthony Tremenheere.'
After the Admiral mounted his horse and rode off he sauntered round to
the verandah. He knew the tendril that touched her cheek in spring. He
stood and thought of her, picturing her as she then stood by his side.
Would she ever visit him again as Cynthia Marlowe, and find occasion
for one of their quiet talks?
He thought of his note, she would have started before it reached Theo;
surely she would not forward it to her. He felt now with tingling
blood that it was lover-like, and they were severed when he wrote
it. For one fierce moment he rebelled against the cruelty of that
ignorance enfolding our human actions at which it is easy to think that
devils must laugh. Bitterness welled in his heart; what is emotion
but a pitfall? Then he pulled himself together again. This thing,
inconceivable but true, had hung over him for years. Now, the blow
had fallen. What he had thought was hope was after all only suspense.
Apparently he would not even have to readjust his life. He had prayed
for her welfare. If she had chosen well, that prayer would be answered.
Friendship should not be sacrificed; her husband, her children, should
add to his interests. His life-work was on his library table, but it
should not conform him into a Dryasdust. He made up his mind to love her
still by casting out self.
The next day he heard from Mrs. Kerr. An examination of the post-marks
told him that it had been intended he should hear at the same time as
the Admiral.
'My dearest Tony,' she wrote, 'I have bad news for you, and I wish
with all my heart I had never undertaken Cynthia. I knew she would be
attractive, but I didn't think it would be to any purpose on her own
score. I had a preconceived idea that our trip would prove to her there
was no one like you in the world. And now, my dear old fellow, she has
electrified us by announcing her engagement to a man whom we had not
recognised as a suitor. We met him first at Ajaccio, then he turned up
in Zante, and finally we found him at St. Helier's. Still I suspected
nothing. St. John, who was with her when he ran up against them here,
did. You know how the colour flies, positively _flies_ into her cheeks;
well, that's how it did, St. John says, when she saw him. He told me,
but I pooh-poohed it. She's been so long proof, and there was you.
However, everything and everybody but Mr. Danby are forgotten now;
St. John says it's a downright case of evangelisation--all her idols
are cast to the moles and bats. He teases her dreadfully; she's been
wearing her hair with fillets and he says he knows now why, because Mr.
Danby was so fond of fillets of kid at Ajaccio. This of course is all
nonsense. But what will the Admiral say? I have expostulated with her;
I told her she never ought to have been engaged here but have let him
come to Lafer. You know what a laugh she has when she's happy; well, she
just laughed--"Theo," she said, "your worldly wisdom guards the gardens
of the Hesperides." "Gardens of the fiddle-sticks!" said I. But all is
useless. She is packing now, and will be home almost before you get
this. St. John says I ought to write to Mrs. Marlowe, but that means
the Admiral, and I don't know what I can say, except that it really is
no more my fault than that I asked her to come with us. Oh, Tony, my
dearest boy, I wish I could see you! But don't make a trouble of it, and
do let me know what you think of Mr. Danby.--Yours ever, Theodosia Kerr.'
Tremenheere sat for a long time with this before him. He knew Theo's
style of writing, but had excused her when there really was nothing to
say--he had not expected the letters of a Disraeli except for egotism.
But when there was something to say he had expected she would be able to
say it. And here was tragedy made into comedy, a drama slurred out of
all proportion. He had wanted to know what she thought of Danby, what
Kerr thought of him. And here was judgment thrown on to his shoulders.
'Good God!' he thought, 'how am I to get to know him? That is just what
I cannot do until she has married him.'
He tormented himself over that demand for his opinion. What did it mean?
Were they dissatisfied? Was Kerr mistrustful? had even Theo misgivings?
If they had liked him with genuine hearty British liking, would they not
have said so? Was this vagueness intentional--'We don't like him, do
you?' He knew that flying of the colour into Cynthia's cheeks; he could
hear that joyous laugh of hers. He sat on now, thinking of them. She
must be happy. Would she be if she had a doubt of this man? She could
not be wholly blinded, he must be sterling if she were so happy.
Then he was seized by a great longing to see her at once, as soon as
she arrived, that he might judge for himself. His restlessness was
intolerable. He must walk it off. He would go up to Lafer and hear if
they had had a telegram. Had she reached London? When were they coming
on? By what train were they to arrive?
He saw Mrs. Hennifer. The Admiral was out with one of the woodmen; Mrs.
Marlowe was not down; she had been so unnerved by the news that she had
not been beyond her dressing-room since. They had heard that Cynthia was
to arrive that night. He walked to the window and stood a long while
silent. Mrs. Hennifer remained in the middle of the room, also standing.
An air of unusual indecision was on her face. She did not know how much
she dared say of all that was in her mind.
Tremenheere turned at last and looked at her.
'I very much wish to see Cynthia,' he said.
'You must come up to-morrow, or we will drive down.'
'No, neither. I want to see her to-night. Tell the Admiral I'll meet
her and put her into the carriage.'
'That will do very well. Mrs. Marlowe can't spare me, and the Admiral is
too peremptory in the matter to talk coherently in the carriage.'
'Naturally. I hope he will be gentle with her--you will be at hand,
won't you? Some one must meet her too, it would otherwise be so
cheerless. Thanks.'
He took up his hat and stick, his eyes meanwhile slowly travelling round
the room. It was the morning-room, and opening from the drawing-rooms
had often been used in their place as being more cosy after dinner in
winter. A little bamboo table with a low chair beside it was hers. How
often they had played chess together there, or talked, Cynthia with
bright silken work in her hands. It was pain to Mrs. Hennifer to see the
sadness of his face. He came up and put his hand out. She took it within
both her own and looked at him earnestly, her thin angular figure
relaxing sufficiently to lean slightly towards him.
'Canon, it may never be a marriage,' she said.
'Never a marriage!' he repeated. 'Dear Mrs. Hennifer, that would, I
fear, be a grief to her.'
'She must have been a little hasty.'
'But haste does not always entail mistake.'
'She may discover that she has not known sufficient about him. He is
some years older than she. She may eventually see herself that it is not
desirable.'
'True. It is possible.'
'But improbable, you think. It would entail unpleasantness. Still, the
breaking off might be a mutual arrangement; it might.'
He was silent again, struggling with the desperate hope that sprang
up anew at the suggestion. It took him unawares. He had determined
that Cynthia's manner that night should decide the future irrevocably
for him. He would fight free of suspense, and suffer no paralysis of
indecision. At last he smiled slightly, that smile of a radiance so
rarely, softly bright that it fell like a benediction wherever it was
bestowed.
'You want to soften things for me,' he said. 'In your goodness of heart,
and because you knew her and me as children, and the love that I have
had for her since, you do not wish that I should have to bear what is
hard. I do find it hard, but I would rather it were a thousand times
harder than that sorrow stepped into her path. I love her yet, and shall
eternally, but it is and will be with "self-reverence, self-knowledge,
self-control." Let us pray God that there is no mistake, and if she
marry Danby it may be a happy marriage.'
Mrs. Hennifer could say no more. It was not expedient that any one but
Mrs. Severn and herself should know that Lucius Danby was known to them
until Cynthia herself knew. It was not likely that this knowledge was
already hers. Mrs. Hennifer felt that if Mrs. Severn were trustworthy it
was possible that this good wish of Tremenheere's would be fulfilled.
She could scarcely yet reconcile herself to the idea of the match, since
her conception of Cynthia's dignity was fastidious. She was convinced,
too, that if the Admiral knew that his granddaughter's engagement was
to a man who had been engaged to his agent's wife and jilted by her,
Danby's proposal would be met with unceremonious and outraged denial.