MOVING ON.
Unconscious of the inquietude of her own brother and of her son, happy
in a reunion which she had never ventured to hope for, still
sufficiently weakened by her illness to be preserved from any mental
investigation of "how things had come about," acquiescent and
tranquil, Mrs. Carruthers was rapidly getting well. The indelible
alteration which her beauty had sustained--for it was beauty
still--the beauty of a decade later than when George had seen his
mother through the ball-room window at Poynings--had touched her
morally as well as physically; and a great calm had come upon her with
the silver streaks in her rich dark hair, and the fading of the colour
in her cheek.
The relation between George's mother and her husband had undergone an
entire change. Mr. Carruthers had been excessively alarmed when he
first realized the nature of his wife's illness. He had never come in
contact with anything of the kind, and novelty of any description had
a tendency to alarm and disconcert Mr. Carruthers of Poynings. But he
was not in the least likely to leave any manifest duty undone, and he
had devoted himself, with all the intelligence he possessed (which was
not much), and all the heart (which was a great deal more than he or
anybody else suspected), to the care, attention, and "humouring" which
the patient required. From the first, Mrs. Carruthers had been able to
recognize this without trying to account for it, and she unconsciously
adopted the best possible method of dealing with a disposition like
that of her husband. She evinced the most absolute dependence on him,
and almost fretful eagerness for his presence, an entire forgetfulness
of the former supposed immutable law which had decreed that the
convenience and the pleasure of Mr. Carruthers of Poynings were to
take precedence, as a matter of course, of all other sublunary things.
Indeed, it was merely in a technical sense that, as regarded the
little world of Poynings, these had been considered sublunary. Its
population concerned themselves infinitely less with the
"principalities and powers" than with the accuracy of the temperature
of Mr. Carruthers's shaving-water, and the punctuality with which Mr.
Carruthers's breakfast, lunch, and dinner were served. It had never
occurred to his loving and dutiful wife that any alteration in this
principle of life at Poynings could possibly be effected, and thus the
more superficial faults of the character of a genuinely worthy man had
been strengthened by the irresponsibility of his position until they
bade fair to overpower its genuine worth. But all this had changed
now, changed in a fashion against which there was no appeal Mr.
Carruthers was no longer the first. His hours, his habits, his
occupations, had to give way to the exigencies of a misfortune which
struck him on the most sensitive point, and which invested him with a
responsibility not to be trifled with or shared. It was characteristic
of him that he became excessively proud of his care of his wife. The
pomposity and importance with which he had been wont to "transact his
public business" was now transferred to his superintendence of his
patient; and the surveillance and fussiness which had made life rather
a burdensome possession to the household and retainers of Poynings
impressed themselves upon the physicians and attendants promoted to
the honour of serving Mrs. Carruthers, As they were, in the nature of
things, only temporary inflictions, and were, besides, accompanied by
remarkably liberal remuneration, the sufferers supported them
uncomplainingly.
It was also characteristic of Mr. Carruthers that, having made up his
mind to receive George Dallas well, he had received him very well, and
speedily became convinced that the young man's reformation was
genuine, and would be lasting. Also, he had not the least suspicion
how largely he was influenced in this direction by Mark Felton's
estimate of the young man--an estimate not due to ignorance either,
for George had hidden nothing in his past career from his uncle except
his acquaintance with Clare Carruthers, and the strange coincidence
which connected him with the mysterious murder of the 17th of April.
Mr. Carruthers, like all men who are both weak and obstinate, was
largely influenced by the opinions of others, provided they were not
forced upon him or too plainly suggested to him, but that he was
currently supposed to partake or even to originate them. He had not
said much to his wife about her son; he had not referred to the past
at all.
It was in his honourable, if narrow, nature to tell her frankly that
he had recognized his error, that he knew now that all his generosity,
all the other gifts he had given her, had not availed, and could not
have availed, while George's society had been denied; but the
_consigne_ was, "Mrs. Carruthers must not be agitated," and the great
rule of Mr. Carruthers's life at present was, that the _consigne_ was
not to be violated. Hence, nothing had been said upon the subject, and
after the subsidence of her first agitation, Mrs. Carruthers had
appeared to take George's presence very quietly, as she took all other
things.
The alteration which had taken place in his wife had tended to allay
that unacknowledged ill which had troubled Mr. Carruthers's peace, and
exacerbated his temper. The old feeling of jealousy died completely
out. The pale, delicate, fragile woman, whose mind held by the past
now with so very faint a grasp, whose peaceful thoughts were of the
present, whose quiet hopes were of the future, had nothing in common
with the beautiful young girl whom another than he had wooed and won.
As she was now, as alone she wished to be, he was first and chief in
her life, and there was not a little exaction or temporary
fretfulness, a single little symptom of illness and dependence, which
had not in it infinitely more reassuring evidence for Mr. Carruthers
than all the observance of his wishes, and submission to his domestic
laws, which had formerly made it plainer to Mr. Carruthers of Poynings
that his wife feared than that she loved him.
And, if it be accounted strange and bordering on the ludicrous that,
at Mr. Carruthers's respectable age, he should still have been subject
to the feelings tauntingly mentioned as the "vagaries" of love, it
must be remembered that George's mother was the only woman he had ever
cared for, and that he had only of late achieved the loftier ideals of
love. It was of recent date that he learned to hold his wife more dear
and precious than Mr. Carruthers of Poynings.
He was not in the least jealous of George. He liked him. He was
clever, Mr. Carruthers knew; and he rather disapproved of clever
people in the abstract. He had heard, and had no reason to
doubt--certainly none afforded by his stepson's previous
career--that literary people were a bad lot. He supposed, innocent Mr.
Carruthers, that, to be literary, people must be clever. The inference
was indisputable. But George did not bore him with his cleverness. He
never talked about the _Piccadilly_ or the _Mercury_, reserving his
confidences on these points for his mother and his uncle. The family
party paired off a good deal. Mr. Carruthers and his wife, Mark Felton
and his nephew. And then Mr. Carruthers had an opportunity of becoming
convinced that the doubts he had allowed to trouble him had all been
groundless, and to learn by experience that, happy in her son's
society, truly grateful to him for the kindness with which he watched
George, she was happier still in his company.
To a person of quicker perception than Mr. Carruthers, the fact that
the invalid never spoke of her faithful old servant would have had
much significance. It would have implied that she had more entirely
lost her memory than other features and circumstances of her condition
indicated, or that she had regained sufficient mental firmness and
self-control to avoid anything leading directly or indirectly to the
origin and source of a state of mental weakness of which she was
distressingly conscious. But Mr. Carruthers lacked quickness and
experience, and he did not notice this. He had pondered, in his
stately way, over Dr. Merle's words, and he had become convinced that
he must have been right. There had been a "shock." But of what nature?
How, when, had it occurred? Clearly, these questions could not now,
probably could not ever, be referred to Mrs. Carruthers. Who could
tell him? Clare? Had anything occurred while he had been absent during
the days immediately preceding his wife's illness? He set himself now,
seriously, to the task of recalling the circumstances of his return.
He had been met by Clare, who told him Mrs. Carruthers was not quite
well. He had gone with her to his wife's room. She was lying in her
bed. He remembered that she looked pale and ill. She was in her
dressing-gown, but otherwise dressed. Then she had not been so ill
that morning as to have been unable to leave her bed. If anything had
occurred, it must have taken place after she had risen as usual
Besides, she had not been seriously ill until a day or two
later--stay, until how many days? It was on the morning after Mr.
Dalrymple's visit that he had been summoned to his wife's room; he and
Clare were at breakfast together. Yes, to be sure, he remembered it
all distinctly. Was the "shock" to be referred to that morning, then?
Had it only come in aid of previously threatening indisposition? These
points Mr. Carruthers could not solve. He would question Clare on his
return, and find out what she knew, or if she knew anything. In the
mean time, he would not mention the matter at all, not even to his
wife's brother or her son. Mr. Carruthers of Poynings had the "defects
of his qualities," and the qualities of his defects, so that his
pride, leading to arrogance in one direction, involved much delicacy
in another, and this sorrow, this fear, this source, of his wife's
suffering, whatever it might be, was a sacred thing for him, so far as
its concealment from all hitherto unacquainted with it was concerned.
Clare might help him to find it out, and then, if the evil was one
within his power to remedy, it should be remedied; but in the mean
time, it should not be made the subject of discussion or speculation.
Her brother could not possibly throw any light on the cause of his
wife's trouble; he was on the other side of the Atlantic when the
blow, let it have come from whatever unknown quarter, had struck her.
Her son! Where had he been? And asking himself this question, Mr.
Carruthers began to feel rather uncomfortably hot about the ears, and
went creaking up the stairs to his wife's sitting-room, in order to
divert his thoughts as soon as possible. He saw things by a clearer
light now, and the recollection of his former conduct to George
troubled him.
He found his stepson and Mark Felton in Mrs. Carruthers's room. The
day was chilly and gloomy, and eminently suggestive of the advantages
possessed by an English country mansion over the most commodious and
expensive of foreign lodging-houses. George had just placed a shawl
round his mother's shoulders, and was improving the fastenings of the
windows, which were in their normal condition in foreign parts.
"Mark has been talking about Poynings," said Mrs. Carruthers, turning
to her husband with a smile, "and says he never saw a place he admired
more, though he had only a passing glimpse of it." Mr. Carruthers
was pleased, though of course it was only natural that Mr. Felton
should never have seen any place more to be admired by persons of
well-regulated taste than Poynings.
"Of course," he said, with modest admission, "if you come to talk
about the Dukeries, and that kind of thing, there's nothing to be said
for Poynings. But _it is_ a nice place, and I am very fond of it, and
so is Laura."
He was rather alarmed, when he had said this, to observe his wife's
eyes full of tears. Tears indicated recollection, and of a painful
kind, he thought, being but little acquainted with the intricate
symptoms of feminine human nature, which recollection must be avoided,
or turned aside, in a pleasurable direction.
Now George's cleverness was a direction of the required kind, and Mr.
Carruthers proceeded to remark that George must make drawings for his
mother of all the favourite points of view at Poynings.
"There's the terrace, George," he said, "and the 'Tangle,' where
your mother loves to spend the summer afternoons, and there's the
beech-wood, from the hill behind the garden, and the long avenue.
There are several spots you will like, George, and--and," said Mr.
Carruthers, magnanimously, and blushing all over his not much withered
face, like a woman, "I'm only sorry you are to make acquaintance with
them so late in the day."
He put out his hand, with true British awkwardness, as he spoke, and
the young man took it respectfully, and with an atoning pang of shame
and self-reproach. But for his mother's presence, and the imperative
necessity of self-restraint imposed by the consideration of her health
and the danger of agitation to her, George would have inevitably told
his stepfather the truth. He felt all the accumulated meanness of an
implied falsehood most deeply and bitterly, and might have been
capable of forgetting even his mother, but for a timely warning
conveyed to him by the compressed lips and frowning brows of his
uncle. As for his mother, neither he nor Mr. Felton could judge of the
effect produced upon her by the words of her husband. She had turned
away her head as he began to speak.
"I was just going to tell Laura what I thought of doing, if you and
she approve," Mr. Felton hastened to say. "You see, I am getting more
and more anxious about Arthur, and I don't think he will turn up here.
I thought if George and I were to go on to Paris and make some
inquiries there--I know pretty well where he went to there, and what
he did--we need not make more than a few days' delay, and then go on
to London, and join you and Laura there. What do you say?"
"I think it would do nicely," said Mr. Carruthers. "You and George
would hardly like our rate of travelling under any circumstances." It
would have afforded any individual endowed with good humour and a
sense of the ludicrous great amusement to observe the pleasure and
importance with which Mr. Carruthers implied the seriousness of his
charge, and the immense signification of a journey undertaken by Mrs.
Carruthers of Poynings. "We shall stay some time in town," he
continued, "for additional medical advice; and then, I hope, we shall
all go down to Poynings together."
"I have secured rooms for George and myself in Piccadilly," said Mark
Felton, in a skilfully off-hand manner. "It would never do for two
jolly young bachelors like him and me to invade Sir Thomas Boldero's
house. Even "--and here Mr. Felton's countenance clouded over, and he
continued absently--"even if Arthur did not join us; but I hope he
will--I hope he will."
Mr. Carruthers was singularly unfortunate in any attempt to combine
politeness with insincerity. He had a distinct conviction that his
wife's nephew was a "good-for-nothing," of a different and more
despicable order of good-for-nothingness from that which he had
imputed to his stepson in his worst days; and though he would have
been unfeignedly pleased had Mr. Felton's inquietude been set at rest
by the receipt of a letter from his son, he was candidly of opinion
that the longer that young gentleman abstained from joining the
family-party, the more peaceful and happy that family-party would
continue to be.
However, he endeavoured to rise to the occasion, and said he hoped
"Mr. Arthur" would accompany his father to Poynings, with not so very
bad a grace considering.
The diversion had enabled George to recover himself, and he now drew a
chair over beside his mother's, and began to discuss the times and
distances of their respective journeys, and other cognate topics of
conversation. Mr. Carruthers liked everything in the planning and
settling line, and it was quite a spectacle to behold him over the
incomprehensible pages of Bradshaw, emphasizing his helplessness with
his gold spectacles.
"I suppose ten days will see us all in London," he said to Mr. Felton,
"if you leave this with George to-morrow, and we leave on Monday. I
have written to my niece. Sir Thomas and Lady Boldero never come to
town at this season, so I have asked Clare to come up and see that the
house is all comfortable for Laura. Clare can stay at her cousin's
till we arrive."
"Her cousin's?" asked Mark Felton; and George blessed him for the
question, for he did not know who was meant, and had never yet brought
himself to make an inquiry in which Clare Carruthers was concerned,
even by implication.
"Mrs. Stanhope, Sir Thomas's daughter," said Mr. Carruthers; "she was
married just after we left Poynings."
"The young lady of whom Captain Marsh made such appropriate mention,"
thought George.
"I ha-ve no town-house," continued Mr. Carruthers with more of the old
pompous manner than Mr. Felton had yet remarked in him. "Laura prefers
Poynings, so do I; and as my niece came down only this spring and has
been detained in the country by several causes, we have not thought it
necessary to have one."
"I should think you would find a town-house a decided nuisance," said
Mr. Felton, frankly; "and if Miss Carruthers has Sir Thomas Boldero's
and Mrs. Stanhope's to go to, I don't see that she wants anything
more."
"You forget," said Mr. Carruthers in a quiet tone, which,
nevertheless, conveyed to Mr. Felton's quick apprehension that he had
made a grave mistake, and implied to perfection the loftiness of
rebuke--"you forget that Miss Carruthers is the heiress of Poynings!"
"Ah, to be sure, so I do," said Mark Felton, heartily, "and I beg her
pardon and yours; but at least I shall never forget that she is the
most charming girl I ever saw in my life." And then, as if a secret
inspiration led him to put the question which George longed to hear
and dared not ask, he said:
"When is Miss Carruthers to arrive in London?"
"Only three or four days before we shall get there, I fancy. My love,"
turning abruptly to Mrs. Carruthers, as a happy idea struck him, by
which her additional comfort might be secured, "what would you think
of my desiring Clare to bring Brookes up with her? Should you like to
have her with you when you are in town?"
Mrs. Carruthers turned a face full of distress upon her husband in
reply to his kind question. It was deeply flushed for a moment, then
it grew deadly pale; her eyes rolled towards George with an expression
of doubt, of searching, of misty anguish which filled him with alarm,
and she put out her hands with a gesture of avoidance.
"O no, no," she said, "I cannot see her yet--I am not able--I don't
know--there's something, there's something."
It might have struck Mr. Carruthers and Mark Felton too, had they not
been too much alarmed to think of anything but Mrs. Carruthers's
emotion, that when they both approached her eagerly, George did not
attempt to do so. He rose, indeed, but it was to push back his chair
and get out of their way. Mr. Carruthers asked her tenderly what was
the matter, but she replied only by laying her head upon his breast in
a passion of tears.
In the evening, when Dr. Merle had seen Mrs. Carruthers, had said a
great deal about absolute quiet, but had not interdicted the purposed
return to England, when it had been decided that there was to be no
leave-taking between her and her brother and son, who were to commence
their journey on the morrow, Mr. Carruthers, sitting by his wife's
bed, where she then lay quietly asleep, arrived at the conclusion that
the old nurse was connected with the "shock." The idea gave him acute
pain. It must have been, then, something that had some reference to
his wife's past life, something in which he and the present had no
share. Very old, and worn, and troubled Mr. Carruthers looked as the
darkness came on and filled the room, and once more the night wind
arose, and whistled and shrieked over Taunus. He began to wish
ardently, earnestly, to get home. It was very strange to look at his
wife, always before his eyes, and know she had a terrible secret
grief, which had thus powerfully affected her, and not to dare to
question her about it. This fresh confirmation of the fact, this new
manifestation of her sufferings, after so peaceful an interval, had in
it something awful to the mind of Mr. Carruthers.
The brother and the son in their different ways were equally disturbed
by the occurrence--Mark Felton in his ignorance and conjecture, George
in the painful fulness of his knowledge and his self-reproach.
And as Mark Felton's look had alone arrested George's impulsive desire
to reveal his knowledge of Poynings to Mr. Carruthers, so the
remembrance of all Routh and Harriet had said to him of the
difficulty, the embarrassment, the probable danger of an
acknowledgment, alone arrested his desire to inform his uncle of the
dreadful error which had caused his mother's illness.
Mark Felton and George Dallas left Homburg for Paris on the following
day. They had separated for the night earlier than usual, and George
had employed himself for some hours in writing a long and confidential
letter to his friend Cunningham. It was addressed to that gentleman at
the _Mercury_ office, and it contained full details of every
particular which he had been able to learn connected with his missing
cousin. The purpose of the letter was an urgent request that
Cunningham would at once communicate with the police on this matter,
and it concluded with these words:
"I cannot conquer my apprehensions, and I will not yet communicate
them to my uncle. But, mark this, I am convinced we shall learn
nothing good at Paris; and we have done very wrong in not putting the
police to work long ago. Don't laugh at me, and call me a novelist in
action. I never felt so sure of anything I had not seen as I am of
Arthur Felton's having come to serious grief."