UNBORN TO-MORROW AND DEAD YESTERDAY.
Alas, thrice-gentle Cassio,
My advocation is not now in tune;
My lord is not my lord; nor should I know him,
Were he in favour, as in humour, alter'd.
--Othello.
Whatever Lady Sarah may have thought, Mrs. Palmer used to consider Dolly
a most fortunate girl, and she used to say so, not a little to Lady
Sarah's annoyance.
'Extremely fortunate,' repeats Dolly's mamma, looking thoughtfully at
her fat satin shoes. 'What a lottery life is! I was as pretty as Dolly,
and yet dear Stanham had not anything like Robert's excellent prospects.
Even the Ad----Don't go, Sarah.'
Poor Lady Sarah would start up, with an impatient movement, and walk
across the room to get away from Philippa's retrospections. They were
almost more than she had patience for just then. She could scarcely
have found patience for Philippa herself, if it had not been that
she was Dolly's mother. What did she mean by her purrings and
self-congratulations? Lady Sarah used to feel most doubtful about
Dolly's good fortune just when Philippa was most enthusiastic on the
subject, or when Robert himself was pointing out his excellent prospects
in his lucid way.
Philippa would listen, nodding languid approbation. Dolly would make
believe to laugh at Robert's accounts of his coming honours; but it was
easy to see that it was only make-believe incredulity.
Her aunt could read the girl's sweet conviction in her eyes, and she
loved her for it. Once, remembering her own youth, this fantastic woman
had made a vow never, so long as she lived, to interfere in the course
of true love. True love! Is this true love, when one person is in love
with a phantom, another with an image reflected in a glass? True love is
something more than phantoms, than images and shadows; and yet stirred
by phantoms and living among shadows, its faint dreams come to life.
Lady Sarah was standing by the bookcase, in a sort of zigzag mind of her
own old times and of Dolly's to-day. She had taken a book from the
shelf--a dusty volume of Burns's poems--upon the fly-leaf of which the
name of another Robert Henley was written. She holds the book in her
hand, looks at the crooked writing--'S. V., from Robert Henley, May,
1808.' She beats the two dusty covers together, and puts it back into
its place again. That is all her story. Philippa never heard of it,
Robert never heard of it, nor did he know that Lady Sarah loved his
name--which had been his father's too--better than she loved him.
'Perhaps her happiness had all gone to Dolly,' the widow thought, as she
stood, with a troubled sort of smile on her face, looking at the two
young people through a pane of glass; and then, like a good woman as she
is, tries to silence her misgivings into a little prayer for their
happiness.
Let us do justice to the reluctant prayers that people offer up. They
are not the less true because they are half-hearted and because those
who pray would sometimes gladly be spared an answer to their petitions.
Poor Lady Sarah! her prayers seemed too much answered as she watched
Dolly day by day more and more radiant and absorbed.
'My dear creature, what are you doing with all those dusty books? Can
you see our young people?' says Mrs. Palmer, languidly looking over her
arm-chair. 'I expect Colonel Witherington this afternoon. He admires
Dolly excessively, Sarah; and I really think he might have proposed, if
Robert had not been so determined to carry her off. You dear old thing,
forgive me; I don't believe she would ever have married at all if I had
not come home. You are in the clouds, you know. I remember saying so to
Hawtry at Trincomalee. I should have disowned her if she had turned out
an old maid. I know it. I detest old maids. The Admiral has a perfect
craze for them, and they all adore him. I should like you to see Miss
M'Grudder--there never was anything so ludicrous, asthmatic,
sentimental--frantic. We must introduce Miss Moineaux to him, and the
Morgan girls. I often wonder how he ever came to marry a widow, and I
tell him so. It was a great mistake. Can you believe it?--Hawtry now
writes that second marriages are no marriages at all. Perhaps you agree
with him? I'm sure Dolly is quite ready to do so. I never saw a girl so
changed--_never_. We have lost her, my dear; make up your mind to it.
She is Robert, not Dolly any more--no thought for any one else, not for
_me_, dear child! And don't you flatter yourself she will ever ... Dear
me! Gone? What an extraordinary creature poor Sarah is! touched,
certainly; and _such_ a wet blanket!'
Mrs. Palmer, rising from her corner, floats across the room, sweeping
over several footstools and small tables on her way. She goes to the
window, and not caring to be alone, begins to tap with her diamond
finger upon the pane, to summon the young couple, who pay not the
slightest attention. Fortunately the door opens, and Colonel
Witherington is announced. He is a swarthy man, with shiny boots, a
black moustache; his handkerchief is scented with Esse-bouquet, which
immediately permeates the room; he wears tight dogskin gloves and
military shirt-collars. Lady Sarah thinks him vulgar and odious beyond
words; Mrs. Palmer is charmed to see him, and graciously holds out her
white hand. She is used to his adoration, and accepts it with a certain
swan-like indifference.
People had different opinions about Mrs. Palmer. In some circles she was
considered brilliant and accomplished; in others, silly and affected.
Colonel Witherington never spoke of her except with military honours.
'Charming woman,' he would say; 'highly cultivated; you might give her
five-and-twenty at the outside. Utterly lost upon that spluttering, old
psalm-singing Palmer. Psalms are all very well in their _proper_
place--in the prayer-books, or in church; but after dinner, when one has
got a good cigar, and feels inclined for a little pleasant conversation,
it is _not_ the time to ring the bell for the servants, and have 'em
down upon their knees all of a row, and up again in five minutes to
listen to an extempore sermon. The Admiral runs on like a clock. I used
to stay with them at the Admiralty House. Pity that poor woman most
heartily! Can't think how she keeps up as she does!'
Little brown Lady Henley at Smokethwaite would not have sympathised with
Colonel Witherington's admiration. She made a point of shrugging her
shoulders whenever she heard Philippa's name mentioned. 'If you ask me,'
she would say, 'I must frankly own that my sister-in-law is not to be
depended on. She is utterly selfish; she only lives for the admiration
of gentlemen. My brother Hawtry is a warm-hearted, impulsive man, who
would have made any woman happy. If he _has_ looked for consolation in
his domestic trials, and found it in religious interests, it is not I
who would blame him. Sir Thomas feels as I do, and deeply regrets
Philippa's deplorable frivolity. I do not know much of that poor girl of
hers. I have no doubt Robert has been dazzled by mother and daughter.
They are good-looking, and, as I am told, thoroughly well understand the
art of setting themselves off to the best advantage. I am fond of Robert
Henley; but I cannot pretend to have any feeling for Dorothea one way or
another. We have asked them here, of course. They are to come after
their marriage. I only hope my sister-in-law appreciates her daughter's
good luck, and has the sense to know the value of such a man as Robert
Henley.'
Mrs. Palmer was perfectly enchanted with her future son-in-law. He could
scarcely get rid of her. Robert, with some discomposure, would find
himself sitting on his aunt's sofa, hand-in-hand, listening to long and
very unpleasant extracts from her correspondence. 'You dear boy!' Mrs.
Palmer would say, with her soft, fat fingers firmly clasped round his;
'you have done me good. Your dear head is able to advise my poor
perplexed heart. Dolly, he is my prop. I give you up, my child, gladly,
to this dear fellow!' These little compliments mollified the young man
at first, although he found that by degrees the tax of his aunt's
constant dependence became heavier and heavier. Briareus himself could
scarcely have supplied arms to support her unsparing weakness, to hand
her parcels and footstools about, to carry her shawls and cushions, and
to sort the packets of her correspondence. She had the Admiral's
letters, tied up with various-coloured ribbons, and docketed, 'Cruel,'
'Moderately Abusive,' 'Apologetic,' 'Canting,' 'Business.' She was
always sending for Robert. Her playful tap at the window made him feel
quite nervous.
Mrs. Palmer had begun to knit him a pair of muffetees, and used slowly
to twist pink silk round ivory needles. Lady Henley laughed very loud
when she heard this 'Poor Robert! He will have to pay dearly for those
mittens,' she said.
For a long time past Mrs. Palmer had rarely left the house, but the
trousseau now began to absorb her; she used to go driving for long hours
at a time with Dolly, in a jaded fly--she would invite Robert to
accompany them--to Baker Street Bazaar, to Soho Square, to St. Paul's
Churchyard, back again to Oxford Street, a corner shop of which she had
forgotten the number. On one occasion, after trying three or four corner
shops, Robert called to the coachman to stop, and jumped out. 'I think
Dolly and I will walk home,' he said, abruptly; 'I'm afraid you must
give up your shop, Aunt Philippa. It is impossible to find the place.'
Poor Dolly, who was longing to escape, brightened up, but before she
could speak, Mrs. Palmer had grasped her tightly by both hands. 'My dear
Robert, what a proposal! I could not _think_ of letting Dolly walk all
the way home. She would be _quite_ done up. And it is _her_ business,
her shopping, you know.' Then reproachfully and archly, 'And I _must_
say that even the Admiral would scarcely have deserted us so
ungallantly, with all this work on our hands, and all these parcels, and
no servant. You dear fellow, you really must not leave us.'
Robert stood holding the door open, and looking particularly black. 'I
am very sorry indeed,' he said, with a short laugh, 'but you will be
quite safe, my dear aunt, and you really seem to have done enough
shopping to last for many years to come.' And he put out his hand as a
matter of course, to help Dorothea to alight.
'But she _cannot_ leave me,' says Philippa, excitedly: 'she would not
even wish it. Would you, my child? I never drive alone--never; I am
afraid of the coachman. It is most unreasonable to propose such a
thing.'
'I will answer for your safety,' persisted Robert. 'My dear aunt, you
must get used to doing without your Dolly now. Come, Dora, the walk will
freshen you up.'
'But I don't want to walk, Robert,' said poor Dolly, with a glance at
her mother. 'You may come for me to-morrow instead. You will, won't
you?' she added, as he suddenly turned away without answering, and she
leant out of the carriage-window, and called after him, a little
frightened by his black looks and silence. 'Robert! I shall expect you,'
she said.
'I shall not be able to come to-morrow, Dora,' said Henley, very
gravely; and then, raising his hat, he walked off without another word.
Even then Dolly could not believe that he was seriously angry. She saw
him striding along the pavement, and called to him, and made a friendly
little sign with her hand as the brougham passed close by a place where
he was waiting to cross the road. Robert did not seem to see either the
brougham nor the kind face inside that was smiling at him. Dorothea's
eyes suddenly filled up with tears.
'Boorish! Boorish!' cried Mrs. Palmer, putting up both hands. 'Robert is
like all other men, they leave you at any moment, Dolly--that is my
experience,--bitterly gained--without a servant even, and I have ever so
much more to do. There is Parkins and Grotto's for India-paper. If only
I had known that he was going to be so rude, I should have asked for old
Sam.' Mrs. Palmer was still greatly discomposed. 'Pray put up that
window, Dolly,' she said, 'and I do wish you would attend to those
parcels--they are falling off the seat.'
Dolly managed to wink away her tears as she bent over the parcels.
Forgive her for crying! This was her first quarrel with Robert, if
quarrel it could be called. She thought it over all the way home, surely
she had been right to do as her mother wished--why was Robert vexed?
Philippa was in a very bad humour all that evening She talked so
pathetically of a mother's feelings, and of the pangs of parting from
her child, that Lady Sarah for once was quite sorry for her--she got a
little shawl to put over Philippa's feet as she lay beating a tattoo
upon the sofa. As for Dolly, she had gone to bed early, very silent and
out of spirits.
That evening's post brought a couple of letters; one was from George to
his mother, written in his cranky, blotted handwriting:--
_Cambridge: All Saints' College._
DEAREST MAMMA,--I am coming up for a couple of days. I have,
strange as it may sound, been working too hard. Tell Aunt
Sarah. Love to Dolly.
Yours affectionately,
GEORGE.
The other was for Dolly, and Marker took it up to her in her room. This
letter flowed in even streams of black upon the finest hot-pressed
paper:
DEAREST DORA,--I was much disappointed that you would not come
with me, and condemned me to that solitary walk. I hope that a
day may come, before very long, when your duty and your
pleasures may seem less at variance to you than at present;
otherwise I can see little chance of happiness in our future
life.
Yours,
R. V. H.
'Was he still vexed?' Dolly, who had relented the moment she saw the
handwriting, wrote him a little note that evening, by moonlight, and
asked Marker to post it.
I could not leave Mamma all alone (she wrote). I wanted to walk
home with you--couldn't you see that I did? I shall expect you
to come to luncheon to-morrow, and we will go wherever you
like.--D.
Dolly lay awake after this for a long moonlight hour. She was living in
what people call the world of feeling. She was absorbed, she was happy,
but it was a happiness with a reserve in it. It was peace indeed, but
Dolly was too young, her life had been too easy, for peace to be
all-sufficient to her. She had found out, by her new experience, that
Robert loved her, but in future that he would rule her too. In her life,
so free hitherto, there would be this secret rule to be obeyed, this
secret sign. Dolly did not know whether on the whole she liked the
thought, or whether she resented it. She had never spoken of it, even to
Robert. 'You see you have to do as you are told,' Henley sometimes said;
he meant it in fun, but Dorothea instinctively felt that there was truth
in his words--he was a man who held his own. He was not to be changed by
an impulse. Dolly, conscious of some hidden weakness in her own nature,
deified obstinacy, as many a woman has done before her, and made excuses
out of her own loving heart for Henley's selfish one.
It was summer still, though August had come again; the Virginian
creepers along the west wall glowed; crimson-tinted leaves fell in
golden rain, the gardener swept up golden dollars and fairy money into
heaps and carted them away; the geraniums put out shoots; the creepers
started off upon excursions along the gravel-paths: it was a comfortable
old-fashioned world, deep-coloured, russet-tinted, but the sun was hot
still and burning, and Dolly dressed herself in white, and listened to
every bell.
The day passed, however, without any sign of Robert, or any word from
him. But George walked in just as they were sitting down to luncheon. He
looked very pale and yellow, and he had black lines under his eyes. He
had been staying down at Cambridge, actually reading for a scholarship
that Raban had advised his trying for. It was called the Bulbul
scholarship for Oriental languages, and it had been founded by an
enlightened Parsee, who had travelled in Europe in shiny boots and an
oilskin hat, and who had been so well received at Cambridge that he
wished to perpetuate his name there.
George had taken up Persian some time ago, when he should have been
reading mathematics. He was fond of quoting the 'Roubaiyat' of Omar
Khayyam, of which the beautiful English version had lately appeared. It
was this poem, indeed, which had set him to study the original. He had a
turn for languages, and a fair chance of success, Raban said, if he
would only go to bed, and not sit up all night, with soda-water and wet
towels round his head. This time he had nearly made himself ill, by
sitting up three nights in succession, and the doctor had him sent home
for a holiday.
'My dear child, what a state your complexion is in! How ill you look!'
said his mother. 'It is all those horrid examinations!'
Restless George wandered out into the garden after dinner, and Dolly
followed him. She began to water her roses in the cool of the evening,
and George filled the cans with water from the tank and brought them to
her. Splashing and overflowing, the water lapped into the dry earth and
washed the baked stems of the rose-trees. George said suddenly, 'Dolly,
do you ever see Raban now, and do you still snub him?'
'I don't snub him,' said Dolly, blushing. 'He does not approve of me,
George. He is so bitter, and he never seems satisfied.'
George began to recite--
'Ah, love! could you and I with fate conspire
To grasp this sorry Scheme of Things entire.
Would we not shatter it to bits, and then
Remould it nearer to the Heart's Desire?
There is Robert at last, Dolly.'
Dolly looked wonderingly at her brother. He had spoken so pointedly,
that she could not help wondering what he meant; but the next moment she
had sprung forward to meet Henley, with a sweet face alight.
'Oh, Robert, why have you been so long coming? she said. 'Did you not
get my note?'