GLAMOUR.
When George Dallas had dined, he left the coffee-room, and retired to
the bed-room which he had ordered, and which looked refreshingly clean
and comfortable, when mentally contrasted with the dingy quarters on
which he had turned his back in the morning. It was yet early in the
evening, but he was tired; tired by the excitement and the various
emotions of the day, and also by the long hours passed in the fresh
balmy country air, which had a strange soporific effect on a man whose
lungs and limbs were of the town, towny. The evening air was still a
little sharp, and George assented readily to the waiter's proposition,
made when he perceived that no more orders for drink were to be
elicited from the silent and preoccupied young man, that "a bit of
fire" should be kindled in his room. Over that "bit of fire" he sat
long, his arms folded on his breast, his head bent, his brow lowering,
his eyes fixed on the glowing embers. Was he looking at faces in the
fire--his parents' faces, the faces of friends whom he had treated as
enemies, of enemies whom he had taken for friends? Were reproachful
eyes looking at him from out the past; were threatening glances in the
present flashed on him? He sat there, black and moody, a long while,
but at length his fixed gaze relaxed, the muscles of his mouth
softened, broke into a slow smile, and a light came into his dull
gloomy eyes. Then he rose, took his pocketbook from his breast-pocket,
made some memoranda at the back of the sketch taken that day in Sir
Thomas Boldero's park, put back the book, and, once more settling
himself near the fire, lighted his pipe and began to smoke.
The musing look remained upon his face, but it was no longer painful,
and, as he smoked, he fell to building castles in the air, as
baseless, maybe, as the vapour which curled in fantastic wreaths about
his face, but tenanted by hope, and inspired by higher and better
resolves than had animated George Dallas for many a day. The twin
angels, love and gratitude, were near him; invisibly their soft white
wings were fluttering about him, refreshing the jaded heart and the
stained brow. His mother, and the girl whom he had that day seen for
the second time, and recognized with feelings full of a bitter and
evil impulse at first, but who had soon exercised over him a nameless
fascination full of a pure and thrilling delight, such as no pleasure
of all his sin-stained life had ever previously brought him--of these
two he was thinking. If George Dallas could have seen his mother at
the moment, when he, having laid his exhausted pipe upon the little
wooden chimneypiece, and hastily undressed, lay down in his bed, with
his hands clasped over the top of his head, in his favourite attitude
when he had anything particular to think of, he would have found her
not only thinking but talking of him. Mr. Carruthers was absent, so
was Clare; she had the grand stately house all to herself, and she
improved the occasion by having tea in her dressing-room, having
dismissed her maid, affianced to a thriving miller in the village, to
a tête-à-tête with her lover, and summoning her trusty friend Mrs.
Brookes to a confidential conference with her. The two women had no
greater pleasure or pain in their lives than talking of George. There
had been many seasons before and since her second marriage when Mrs.
Carruthers had been obliged to abstain from mentioning him, so keen
and terrible was her suffering on his account, and at such seasons
Ellen Brookes had suffered keenly too, though she had only vaguely
known wherefore, and had always waited until the thickest and darkest
of the cloud had passed, and her mistress had once more summoned
courage to broach the subject never absent from the mind of either.
There was no reticence on this occasion; the mother had taken a
dangerous step, and one whose necessity she indeed deeply deplored,
but she had gotten over the first great effort and the apprehension
connected with it, and now she thought only of her son, she dwelt only
upon the hope, the confidence, the instinctive belief within her, that
this was really the turning-point, that her prayers had been heard,
that the rock of a hard and stubborn heart had been struck and had
yielded, that her son would turn from the old evil paths, would
consider his ways and be wise for the future. So she sat and talked to
the humble friend who knew her and loved her better than any one else
in the world knew or loved her; and when she at length dismissed her
and lay down to rest, there was more peace at her heart than had dwelt
there for a long time past.
So one of the women of whom the prodigal son had thought gently and
gratefully that night, was thinking of him with love that no
unworthiness could kill or lessen, with hope which no experience could
exhaust. And the other? Well, the other was playing and singing to her
uncle and aunt in the green drawing-room at the Sycamores, and if she
had said little to Sir Thomas and Lady Boldero concerning the young
artist who was so delighted with the picture-gallery, and who had
despaired of doing justice to the grand old trees in the park, it is
presumable that, like the parrot of old renown, she thought the more.
George Dallas slept well that night in the little country inn, and
awoke to a pleasant consciousness of rest, leisure, and expectation.
As he dressed himself slowly, listening to the queer mixture of town
and country sounds which arose inside and outside the house, he took
up a similar train of thought to that in which sleep had interrupted
him on the previous night, and began to form resolutions and to dream
dreams. After he had breakfasted, and perused all the daily
intelligence which found its way to Amherst, where the population were
not remarkably eager for general information, and the _Illustrated
London News_ was represented by one copy, taken in by the clergyman's
wife, and circulated among her special friends and favourites, he went
out, and once more took the direction of the Sycamores.
Should he go into the park, he asked himself, or would that be too
intrusive a proceeding? Sir Thomas, on his fair niece's showing, was
evidently an elderly gentleman of kindly impulses, and who could say
but that he might send a message to Mr. Page the landlord, inviting
him to inform the stranger within his gates that he might have another
look at the picture-gallery at the Sycamores? Was this a very wild
idea? He did not know. It seemed to him as likely as not that a jolly
kindly man, disposed to let his fellow-creatures enjoy a taste of the
very abundant good things which providence had lavished on himself,
might do a thing of the kind. A pompous, purse-proud, egotistical old
fellow, who would regard every man unpossessed of landed property as a
wretched creature, beneath his notice in all respects, except that of
being made to admire and envy him as deeply as possible, might also
think of sending such an invitation, but George Dallas felt quite sure
Sir Thomas Boldero was not a man of that description. Suppose such a
message should come? He had not given any name at the inn; he wished
now he had done so; he would only take a short walk, and return to
correct the inadvertence. At so early an hour there would be no
likelihood of his seeing Miss Carruthers. It was in the afternoon she
had ridden out yesterday, perhaps she would do the same to-day. At all
events, he would return to the Sycamores on the chance, at the same
hour as that at which he had seen her yesterday, and try his luck.
The road on which he was walking was one of the beautiful roads common
in the scenery of England, a road which dipped and undulated, and
wound about and about, making the most of the natural features of the
landscape without any real sacrifice of the public convenience, a road
shadowed frequently by tall stately trees, and along one side of which
the low park paling, with a broad belt of plantation beyond, which
formed the boundary of the Sycamores, stretched for three miles. On
the other side, a well-kept raised pathway ran alongside a hedge,
never wanting in the successive beauties of wild flowers and "tangle,"
and which furnished shelter to numerous birds. The day was bright and
cheerful, and a light breeze was stirring the budding branches and
lending a sense of exhilaration to the young man who so rarely looked
on the fair face of nature, and who had unhappily had all his purer
tastes and sympathies so early deadened. They revived under the
influence of the scene and the softening effect of the adventure which
had befallen him the day before. He stopped opposite the oaken gates,
which had lain open yesterday, but were closed to-day, and he rambled
on, further away from the town, and crossing the road, took his way
along the park paling, where the fragrant odour from the shrubberies
added a fresh pleasure to his walk.
He had passed a bend of the road which swept away from the large gates
of the park, and was peering in at the mossy tufts, studded with
violets and bluebells clustering round the stems of the young trees in
the plantation, when his eyes lighted on a small gate, a kind of
wicket in the paling, imperfectly secured by a very loose latch, and
from which a straight narrow path, bordered with trimly-kept rows of
ground ivy, led into a broader road dividing the plantation from the
park.
"A side entrance, of course," said Dallas to himself, and then,
looking across the road, he saw that just opposite the little gate
there was a wooden stile, by which a path through the fields, leading,
no doubt, into the town of Amherst, could be attained from the raised
footpath.
"I suppose the land on both sides belongs to Sir Thomas," thought
Dallas, and as he made a momentary pause, a large black Newfoundland
dog, carrying a basket in his mouth, came down the narrow path, bumped
himself against the loosely fastened gate, swung it open, and stopped
in the aperture, with a droll air of having done something
particularly clever. Dallas looked admiringly at the beautiful
creature, who was young, awkward, and supremely happy, and the next
instant he heard a voice speaking from the top of the straight walk.
"Here, Cæsar," it said; "come here, sir; who told you I was going that
way?"
Cæsar tossed up his head, somewhat to the detriment of the basket, and
lolloped about with his big black legs, but did not retrace his steps,
and the next moment Miss Carruthers appeared. A few yards only divided
her from George, who stood outside the gate, his face turned full
towards her as she came down the path, and who promptly took off his
hat. She returned his salutation with embarrassment, but with
undisguisable pleasure, and blushed most becomingly.
"I suppose I ought to walk on and leave her; but I won't," said George
to himself, in the momentary silence which followed their mutual
salutation, and then, in a kind of desperation, he said:
"I am fortunate to meet you again, by a lucky accident, Miss
Carruthers. You are out earlier to-day, and this is Cæsar's turn."
He patted the shiny black head of the Newfoundland, who still
obstructed the entrance to the path, as he spoke, and Cæsar received
the attention tolerably graciously.
"Yes, I generally walk early, and ride in the afternoon."
"Escorted by your dumb friends only," said George, in a tone not quite
of interrogation.
Miss Carruthers blushed again as she replied:
"Yes, my horse and my dog are my companions generally. My aunt never
walks, and Sir Thomas never rides. Were you going into the park again,
Mr. Ward?"
By this time Cæsar had run out into the road, and was in a state of
impatient perplexity, and evidently much inconvenienced by the basket,
which he was too well trained to drop, but shook disconsolately as he
glanced reproachfully at Clare, wondering how much longer she meant to
keep him waiting.
"No, Miss Carruthers, I was merely walking past the Sycamores, and
recalling yesterday's pleasure--half gladly, half sadly, as I fancy we
recall all pleasures."
"I--I told my uncle of your visit yesterday, and he said he was sorry
to have missed you, and hoped you would see as much of the park as you
liked. Did--did you finish your sketch, Mr. Ward? Oh, that horrid
Cæsar, he will have the handle off my basket. Just see how he is
knocking it against the stile."
She came hurriedly through the open gateway into the road, George
following her.
"May I take it from him?" he said.
"Oh, pray do; there now, he is over the stile, and running through the
field."
George rushed away in pursuit of Cæsar, triumphant at his success in
thus terminating a period of inaction for which he saw no reasonable
excuse. Miss Carruthers mounted the stile in a more leisurely fashion,
turned into the footpath which led through the field, and in a few
moments met George returning, her basket in his hand, and Cæsar
slouching along beside him, sulky and discontented.
She thanked George, told him she was going nearly as far as Amherst by
the "short cut," which lay through her uncle's land, and the two young
people in another minute found themselves walking side by side, as if
such an arrangement were quite a matter of course, to which Mrs.
Grundy could not possibly make any objection. Of course it was highly
imprudent, not to say improper, and one of the two was perfectly
conscious alike of the imprudence and the impropriety; perfectly
conscious, also, that both were increased by the fact that he was
George Dallas, and the young lady was Clare Carruthers, the niece of
his stepfather, the girl, on whose account mainly he had been shut out
from the house called by courtesy his mother's. As for Clare
Carruthers, she knew little or nothing of life and the world of
observances and rules of behaviour. Sheltered from the touch, from the
breath, from the very knowledge of ill, the girl had always been free
with a frank innocent freedom, happy with a guileless happiness, and
as unsophisticated as any girl could well be in this wide-awake
realistic nineteenth century. She was highly imaginative, emphatically
of the romantic temperament, and, in short, a Lydia Languish without
the caricature. Her notions of literary men, artists, and the like,
were derived from their works; and as the little glimpse which she had
as yet had of society (she had only "come out" at the ball at Poynings
in February) had not enabled her to correct her ideas by comparison
with reality, she cherished her illusions with ardour proportioned to
their fallaciousness. The young men of her acquaintance were of either
of two species: sons of country gentlemen, with means and inclination
to devote themselves to the kind of life their fathers led, or
military magnificoes, of whom Clare, contrary to the fashion of young
ladies in general, entertained a mean and contemptuous opinion. When
Captain Marsh and Captain Clitheroe were home "on leave," they found
it convenient and agreeable to pass a good deal of their leisure at
Poynings; and as they happened to be ninnies of the first magnitude,
whose insignificance in every sense worth mention was only equalled by
their conceit, Miss Carruthers had conceived a prejudice against
military men in general, founded upon her dislike of the two
specimens with whom she was most familiar. Clergymen are not
uncommonly heroes in the imagination of young girls, but the most
determined curate-worshipper could not have invested the clergymen who
cured the souls in and about Amherst with heroic qualities. They were
three in number. One was fat, bald, and devoted to antiquarianism and
port wine. Another was thin, pock-marked, ill-tempered, deaf, and a
flute-player. The third was a magistrate, a fox-hunter, and a despiser
of womankind. In conclusion, all three were married, and Miss
Carruthers was so unsophisticated, that, if they had been all three as
handsome and irresistible as Adonis, she would never have thought of
them in the way of mundane admiration, such being the case. So Clare's
imagination had no home pasture in which to feed, and roamed far
afield.
It had taken its hue from her tastes, which were strongly pronounced,
in the direction of literature. Clare had received a "good education;"
that is to say, she had been placed by a fashionable mother under the
care of a fashionable governess, who had superintended fashionable
masters while they imparted a knowledge of music, drawing, dancing,
and a couple of modern languages to her pretty, docile, intelligent
pupil. The more solid branches of instruction Clare had climbed under
Miss Pettigrew's personal care, and had "done credit" to her
instructress, as the phrase goes. But the upshot of it all was, that
she had very little sound knowledge, and that the real educational
process had commenced for her with the termination of Miss Pettigrew's
reign, and had received considerable impetus when Clare had been
transferred--on the not particularly lamented decease of the
fashionable mother, who was Sir Thomas Boldero's sister, and
remarkably unlike that hearty and unworldly country gentleman--to
Poynings and the guardianship of Mr. Carruthers. Then the girl began
to read after her own fancy indeed, unguided and uncontrolled, but in
an omnivorous fashion; and as she was full of feeling, fancy, and
enthusiasm, her reading ran a good deal in the poetical, romantic, and
imaginative line. Novels she devoured, and she was of course a devotee
of Tennyson and Longfellow, saying of the latter, as her highest idea
of praise, that she could hardly believe him to be an American, or a
dweller in that odious vulgar country, and wondering why Mrs.
Carruthers seemed a little annoyed by the observation. She read
history, too, provided it was picturesquely written, and books of
travel, exploration, and adventure she delighted in. Periodical
literature she was specially addicted to, and it was rather a pleasant
little vanity of Clare to "keep up with" all the serial stories--not
confusing the characters or the incidents, no matter how numerous they
were, and to know the tables of contents of all the magazines and
reviews thoroughly. She had so much access to books that, as far as a
lady's possible requirements could go, it might be said, without
exaggeration, to be unlimited. Not only did the Sycamores boast a fine
library, kept up with the utmost care and attention by Sir Thomas
Boldero, and of which she had the freedom, but Poynings was also very
creditably endowed in a similar respect, and Mrs. Carruthers, as
persistent a reader as Clare, if less discursive, subscribed largely
to Mudie's. Croquet had not yet assumed its sovereign sway over
English young-persondom, and none but ponderous and formal
hospitalities prevailed at Poynings, so that Clare had ample leisure
to bestow upon her books, her pets, and her flowers. She was so
surrounded with luxury and comfort, that it was not wonderful she
should invest opposite conditions of existence with irresistible
charms; and her habitual associates were so commonplace, so prosperous
and conventional, that her aspirations for opportunities of
hero-worship naturally directed themselves towards oppressed worth,
unappreciated genius, and fiery hearts struggling manfully with
adverse fate. "The red planet Mars" was a great favourite with her,
and to suffer and be strong a much finer idea to her mind than not to
suffer and to have no particular occasion for strength. She knew
little of the realities of life, having never had a deeper grief than
that caused by the death of her mother, and she was in the habit of
reproaching herself very bitterly with the superficiality and the
insufficiency of the sorrow she had experienced on that occasion, and
therefore mild and merciful judges would have pitied and excused her
errors of judgment, her impulsive departure from conventional rules.
Mild and merciful judges are not plentiful commodities, however, and
Mrs. Grundy would doubtless have had a great deal to say, and a very
fair pretext for saying it, had she seen Miss Carruthers strolling
through the fields which lay between the Sycamores and Amherst, in
deep and undisguisedly delighted conversation with a strange young
man, who was apparently absorbed in the pleasure of talking to and
listening to her, while Cæsar trotted now by the side of the one, anon
of the other, with serene and friendly complacency. Mrs. Grundy was,
however, not destined to know anything about the "very suspicious"
circumstance for the present. And George Dallas and Clare Carruthers,
with the unscrupulous yielding to the impulse of the moment, which
affords youth such splendid opportunities for getting into scrapes,
from which the utmost efforts of their elders are powerless to
extricate them, walked and talked and improved the shining hours into
a familiar acquaintance, which the girl would have called friendship,
but which the young man felt, only too surely, was love at first
sight. He had mocked at such an idea, had denied its existence, had
derided it with tongue and pen, but here it was, facing him now,
delivering to him a silent challenge to deny, dispute, or mock at it
any more.
A faint suspicion that the beautiful girl whom he had seen yesterday
for the second time meant something in his life, which no woman had
ever meant before, had hung about him since he had left the Sycamores
after their first interview; but now, as he walked beside her, he felt
that he had entered the enchanted land, that he had passed away from
old things, and the chain of his old life had fallen from him. For
weal or woe, present with her or absent from her, he knew he loved
this girl, the one girl whom it was absolutely forbidden to him to
love.
They had talked commonplaces at first, though each was conscious that
the flurried earnestness of the other's manner was an absurd
commentary upon the ordinary style of their conversation. George had
asked, and Clare had implied, no permission for him to accompany her
on her walk; he had quietly taken it for granted, and she had as
quietly acquiesced, and it so happened that they did not meet a single
person to stare at the tall, gaunt-looking but handsome stranger
walking with Miss Carruthers, to wonder who he "mought a bin," and
proceed to impart his curiosity to the servants at the Sycamores, or
the gossip at the alehouse.
"This path is not much used," said George.
"No, very little indeed," replied Clare. "You see it does not lead
directly anywhere but to the Sycamores, and so the farming people, my
uncle's servants, and tradespeople, back and forward to the park,
chiefly use it. I often come this way and do not meet a soul."
"Are you going into the town?"
"Not all the way: just to the turnpike on the Poynings road. Do you
know Mr. Carruthers's place, Mr. Ward?"
George felt rather uncomfortable as he answered in the negative,
though it was such a small matter, and the false statement did not
harm anybody. He had told a tolerable number of lies in the course of
his life, but he shrank with keen and unaccustomed pain from making
this girl, whose golden brown eyes looked at him so frankly, whose
sweet face beamed on him so innocently, a false answer.
"I am going to the cottage on the roadside, just below the turnpike,"
Clare continued; "an old servant of my aunt lives there, and I have a
message for her. I often go to see her, not so much from kindness, I'm
afraid, as because I hate to walk outside the park without an object."
"And you don't mind riding without an escort any more than you do
walking without one," said George, not in the tone of a question, but
in that of a simple remark. Clare looked at him with some surprise; he
met the look with a meaning smile.
"You dislike the attendance of a groom, Miss Carruthers, and never
admit it except in case of necessity. You are surprised, I see: you
will be still more surprised when I tell you I learned this, not from
seeing you ride alone in the park--there is nothing unusual in that,
especially when you are on such good terms with your horse--but from
your own lips."
"From my own lips, what can you possibly mean, Mr. Ward? I never saw
you until yesterday, and I know I never mentioned the subject then."
The young man drew imperceptibly nearer to her, on the narrow path
where they were walking, and as he spoke the following sentences, he
took from his breast-pocket a little note-case, which he held in his
left hand, at which she glanced curiously once or twice.
"You saw me for the first time yesterday, Miss Carruthers, but I had
seen you before. I had seen you the centre of a brilliant society, the
pride and belle of a ball-room where I had no place." ("Now," thought
George, "if she only, goes home and tells my mother all this, it will
be a nice business. Never mind, I can't help it;" and he went on
impetuously.) The girl made no remark, but she looked at him with
growing astonishment. "You talked to a gentleman happier than I--for
he was with you--of your daily rides, and I heard all you said.
Forgive me, the first tone of your voice told me it was but a light
and trivial conversation, or I would not have listened to it." (George
is not certain that he is telling the truth here, but she is convinced
of it; for is he not an author, an artist, a hero?) "I even heard the
gentleman's name with whom you were talking, and just before you
passed out of my hearing you unconsciously gave me _this_."
He opened the note-book, took out a folded slip of paper, opened that
too, and held towards Clare, but without giving it into her hand, a
slip of myrtle.
"_I_ gave you that, Mr. Ward!" she exclaimed. "_I_--when--where--how?
What do you mean? I remember no such conversation as you describe; I
don't remember anything about a ball or a piece of myrtle. When and
where was it? I have been out so little in London."
Now George had said nothing about London, but opportunely remembering
that he could not explain the circumstances he had rather rashly
mentioned, and that, unexplained, they might lead her to the
conclusion that the part he had played on the mysterious occasion in
question had been that of a burglar, he adroitly availed himself of
her error. True, on the other hand, she might very possibly think that
the only part which a spectator at a ball in London, who was not a
partaker in its festivities, could have played must have been that of
a waiter, which was not a pleasant suggestion; but somehow he felt no
apprehension on that score. The girl went on eagerly questioning him,
but he only smiled, very sweetly and slowly, as he carefully replaced
the withered twig in the note-book, and the note-book in his pocket.
"I cannot answer your questions, Miss Carruthers; _this is my
secret_--a cherished one, I assure you. The time may come, though the
probability is very dim and distant just now, when I shall tell you
when, and where, and how I saw you first; and if ever that time should
come," he stopped, cleared his voice, and went on, "things will be so
different with me that I shall have nothing to be ashamed or afraid
of."
"_Ashamed_ of, Mr. Ward?" said Clare, in a sweet soft tone of
deprecating wonder. All her curiosity had been banished by the trouble
and sadness of his manner, and profound interest and sympathy had
taken its place.
"You think I ought not to use that word; I thank you for the gentle
judgment," said George, his manner indescribably softened and
deepened; "but if ever I am in a position to tell you--but why do I
talk such nonsense? I am only a waif, a stray, thrown for a moment in
your path, to be swept from it the next and forgotten."
This was dangerous ground, and they both felt it. A chance meeting, a
brief association which perhaps never ought to have been; and here was
this girl, well brought up, in the strictest sense of the term,
yielding to the dangerous charm of the stranger's society, and feeling
her heart die within her as his words showed the prospect before her.
Her complexion died too, for Clare's was a tell-tale face, on which
emotion had irresistible power. George saw the sudden paleness, and
she knew he saw it.
"I--I hope not," she said, rather incoherently. "I--I think not. You
are an artist and an author, you know." (How ashamed George felt, how
abashed in the presence of this self-deluding innocence of hers!) "And
I, as well as all the world, shall hear of you."
"_You_, as well as all the world," he repeated, in a dreamy tone.
"Well, perhaps so. I will try to think so, and to hope it will
be--"
He stopped; the gentleman's nature in him still existing, still ready
at call, notwithstanding his degradation, withheld him from presuming
on the position in which he found himself, and in which the girl's
innocent impulsiveness had placed her. To him, with his knowledge of
who she was, and who he was, with the curious relation of severance
which existed between them, the sort of intimacy which had sprung up
had not so much strangeness as it externally exhibited, and he had to
remind himself that she did not share that knowledge, and therefore
stood on a different level to his, in the matter. He determined to get
off the dangerous ground, and there was a convincing proof in that
determination that the tide had turned for the young man, that he had
indeed resolved upon the better way. His revenge upon his stepfather
lay ready to his hand; the unconscious girl made it plain to him that
he had excited a strange and strong interest in her. It was not a bad
initiation of the prodigal's project of reform that he renounced that
revenge, and turned away from the temptation to improve his chance
advantage into the establishment of an avowed mutual interest. This
step he took by saying, gaily, "Then I have your permission to send
you my first work, Miss Carruthers, and you promise it a place in that
grand old library I had a glimpse of yesterday?"
A little shade of something like disappointment crossed Clare's sunny
face. The sudden transition in his tone jarred with her feelings of
curiosity, romance, and flattered vanity. For Clare had her meed of
that quality, like other women and men, and had never had it so
pleasantly gratified as on the present occasion. But she had too much
good breeding to be pertinacious on any subject, and too much delicacy
of perception to fail in taking the hint which the alternation in
George's manner conveyed. So there was no further allusion to the
sprig of myrtle or to the future probability of a disclosure; but the
two walked on together, and talked of books, pictures, and the toils
and triumphs of a literary life (George, to do him justice, not
affecting a larger share in them than was really his), until they
neared Clare's destination. The footpath which they had followed had
led them by a gentle rise in the ground to the brow of a little hill,
similar to that from which George had seen his mother's carriage
approach Amherst on the preceding day, but from the opposite end of
the town. Immediately under the brow of this hill, and approached by
the path, which inclined towards its trim green gate, stood a neat
small cottage, in a square bit of garden, turning its red-brick
vine-covered side to the road beneath. When George saw this dwelling,
he knew his brief spell of enjoyment was over.
"That is the cottage," said Clare, and he had the consolation of
observing that there was no particular elation in her voice or in her
face. "Sir Thomas built it for its present tenant."
"Shall you be going back to the Sycamores alone, Miss Carruthers?"
asked George, in the most utterly irrelevant manner. He had a wild
notion of asking leave to wait for her, and escort her home. Again
Clare blushed as she replied hurriedly:
"No, I shall not. My aunt is to pick me up here in the carriage, on
her way to the town, and I return to Poynings this evening. I have
been away a fortnight."
George longed to question her concerning life at Poynings, longed to
mention his mother's name, or to say something to the girl that would
lead her to mention it; but the risk was too great, and he refrained.
"Indeed! and when do you return to the Sycamores?" was all he said.
"It is quite uncertain," she replied. "I fancy my uncle means to go to
London for part of the season, but we don't quite know yet; he never
says much about his plans." She stopped abruptly, as if conscious that
she was not conveying a very pleasing impression of her uncle. George
understood her, and correctly, to refer to Mr. Carruthers.
They had descended the incline by this time, and were close to the
cottage gate. It lay open, and Cæsar ran up to the prim little green
door.
"Come here, sir," called Clare; "please let him have the basket again,
Mr. Ward. Old Willcox reared him for me, from a puppy, and he likes to
see him at his tricks. Thank you. Now then, go on, Cæsar."
Her hand was on the open gate, her face turned away from the cottage,
towards George--it was no easier to her to say good-bye than to him,
he thought; but it must be said, so he began to say it.
"Then, Miss Carruthers, here I must leave you; and soon I must leave
Amherst."
Perhaps he hoped she would repeat the invitation of yesterday. She did
not; she only said:
"Thank you very much for your escort, Mr. Ward. Good-bye."
It was the coldest, most constrained of adieux. He felt it so, and yet
he was not altogether dissatisfied; he would have been more so, had
she retained the natural grace of her manner and the sweet gaiety of
her tone. He would have given much to touch her hand at parting, but
she did not offer it; but with a bow passed up the little walk to the
cottage door, and in a moment the door had closed upon her, and she
was lost to his sight.
He lingered upon the high road from which he could see the cottage,
and gazed at the window, in the hope of catching another glimpse of
Clare; but suddenly remembering that she might perhaps see him from
the interior of the room, and be offended by his doing so, he walked
briskly away in a frame of mind hard to describe, and with feelings of
a conflicting character. Above the tumult of new-born love, of pride,
rage, mortification, anger, hope, the trust of youth in itself, and
dawning resolutions of good, there was this thought, clear and
prominent:
"If I am ever to see her again, it shall be in my own character, and
by no tricky subterfuge. If she ever comes to care for me, she shall
not be ashamed of me."
George Dallas returned to the inn, where his taciturnity and
preoccupation did not escape notice by the waiters and Mr. Page, who
accounted for it by commenting on his request for writing-materials,
to the use of which he addressed himself in his own room, as a
"hoddity of the literary gents; if they ain't blabby and blazin'
drunk, they're most times uncommon sullen. This un's a poetical chap,
I take it."
That evening George heard from his mother. She desired him to come to
Poynings at twelve o'clock on the following Monday (this was
Thursday), and to wait in the shrubbery on the left of the house until
she should join him. The note was brief, but affectionate, and of
course made George understand that she had received the jewels.
Late in the afternoon of the day which had witnessed her second
interview with the young man whom she knew as Paul Ward, and with whom
her girlish fancy was delightfully busy, Clare Carruthers arrived at
Poynings. She received an affectionate greeting from Mrs. Carruthers,
inquired for her uncle, learned that no communication had been
received from him that day, and therefore his wife concluded that his
original arrangement to return on the following Tuesday morning
remained unaltered; and then went off to see that Sir Lancelot, who
had been brought home from the Sycamores by a groom, was well cared
for. Somehow, the beautiful animal had a deeper interest than ever for
his young mistress. She touched his silken mane with a lighter, more
lingering touch; she talked to him with a softer voice.
"He did not forget to mention you," she whispered to the intelligent
creature, as she held his small muzzle in one hand and stroked his
face with the other. "I wonder, I wonder, shall we ever see him
again."
When the two ladies were together in the drawing-room that evening,
and the lamps were lighted, cheerful fires burning brightly in the two
grates, which were none too many for the proportions of the noble
room, the scene presented was one which would have suggested a
confidential, cozy chat to the uninitiated male observer. But there
was no chat and no confidence there that evening. Ordinarily, Mrs.
Carruthers and Clare "got on" together very nicely, and were as
thorough friends as the difference in their respective ages and the
trouble in the elder lady's life, hidden from the younger, would
permit. But each was a woman of naturally independent mind, and their
companionship did not constrain either. Therefore the one sat down at
a writing-table, and the other at the piano, without either feeling
that the other expected to be talked to. Had not Mrs. Carruthers's
preoccupation, her absorption in the hopes and fears which were all
inspired by her son, so engrossed her attention, that she could not
have observed anything not specially, impressed upon her notice, she
would have seen that Clare was more silent than usual, that her manner
was absent, and that she had a little air of making music an excuse
for thought. The leaves of her music-book were not turned, and her
fingers strayed over the keys, in old melodies played almost
unconsciously, or paused for many minutes of unbroken silence. She had
not mentioned the incidents of the last two days to Mrs. Carruthers,
not that she intended to leave them finally unspoken of, but that some
undefined feeling prompted her to think them over first;--so she
explained her reticence to herself.
While Clare played, Mrs. Carruthers wrote, and the girl, glancing
towards her sometimes, saw that her face wore an expression of painful
and intense thought. She wrote rapidly, and evidently at great length,
covering sheet after sheet of foreign letter paper with bold firm
characters, and once Clare remarked that she took a memorandum-book
out of her pocket and consulted it. As she replaced the book, a slip
of paper fluttered from between the leaves and fell to the ground,
unobserved either by herself or Clare. Shortly afterwards Mrs.
Carruthers rose, collected her papers into a loose heap upon the
table, and left the room, still with the same preoccupied expression
on her face. Clare went on playing for a few moments, then, finding
Mrs. Carruthers did not return, she yielded to the sense of freedom
inspired by finding herself alone, and leaving the piano, went over to
one of the fireplaces and stood by the low mantelpiece, lost in
thought. Several minutes passed away as she stood thus, then she
roused herself, and was about to return to the piano, when her
attention was attracted to a small slip of paper which lay on the
floor near the writing-table. She picked it up, and saw written upon
it two words only, but words which caused her an indescribable thrill
of surprise. They were
PAUL WARD.
"Mrs. Carruthers dropped this paper," said Clare to herself, "and _he_
wrote the name. I know his hand, I saw it in the book he took the
sketch in. Who is he? How does she know him? I wish she would return.
I must ask her." But then, in the midst of her eagerness, Clare
remembered a certain air of mystery about her chance acquaintance; she
recalled the tone in which he had said, "That is my secret," the hints
he had let fall that there existed something which time must clear up.
She remembered, too, that he had not betrayed any acquaintance with
Mrs. Carruthers, had not even _looked_ like it when she had mentioned
Poynings and her uncle (and Clare had a curiously distinct
recollection of Mr. Paul Ward's looks); finally she thought
how--surely she might be said to _know_, so strangely and reasonably
did she suspect--that there were trials and experiences in Mrs.
Carruthers's life to which she held no clue, and perhaps this strange
circumstance might be connected with them.
"It is _his_ secret and _hers_, if she knows him," the girl thought,
"and I shall best be true and loyal to them both by asking nothing, by
seeking to know nothing, until I am told." And here a sudden thrill of
joy, joy so pure and vivid that it should have made her understand her
own feelings without further investigation, shot through the girl's
heart, as she thought:
"If she knows him, my chance of seeing him again is much greater. In
time I must come to understand it all."
So Clare allowed the paper to fall from her hands upon the carpet
whence she had taken it, and when Mrs. Carruthers reentered the room,
bringing a packet of letters which she had gone to seek, Clare had
resumed her place at the piano.