"Men may have rounded Seraglio Point: they have not yet doubled
Cape Turk."
GEORGE MEREDITH.
Miss Vipen's cottage was exactly opposite the Chancton Post Office. Even
in winter it was a pretty, cheerful-looking little house closely covered
with evergreen creepers, the path up to the porch guarded by four lemon
trees cut into fantastic shapes.
From her sitting-room window, the old lady could see all that went on in
the main street of Chancton village, and take note of the coming and
going both of familiars and of strangers, thus providing herself with
the material whereby she wove the web of the destinies of those about
her.
They who exist only to sow spite and malice should always live in the
country. A town finds them at a disadvantage, for there those about them
have too much to do to find more than a very passing amusement in their
conversation. But in a country neighbourhood, such a woman as Miss Vipen
is a godsend, partly because, in addition to being a centre of gossip,
she is often the source of authentic news. People tell her things they
would be ashamed to tell each other, and, with the strange lack of
imagination or excess of vanity which afflicts most of us in certain
circumstances, each member of the large circle formed about such a
woman, and with whom she is often actually popular, believes himself or
herself exempt from her biting tongue.
Here, in Chancton, each and all admired Miss Vipen's easy kindness,--a
quality which so often accompanies evil speaking. Yet another thing was
accounted to her for righteousness. She never mentioned the mistress of
the Priory,--never spoke either good or evil of Madame Sampiero, of the
one human being who had for long years provided even the staid and
prudent with legitimate subjects of scandal and gossip.
As a matter of fact, Miss Vipen owed her cottage, her income, her very
position in Chancton, to the mistress of the Priory. Her father had been
land-agent to Madame Sampiero's father. The two women had been girls
together, and when finally the arrangements had been made which provided
for Miss Vipen's later life and for what she cared for so much more, the
keeping up of her adequate position in the neighbourhood where she had
spent her whole existence, her old friend had said to her: "I only ask
one thing. I beg you, Martha, never to speak of me again, kindly or
unkindly, in love or in anger!"--and Miss Vipen had faithfully kept her
side of the bargain.
Only two people in Chancton had the moral courage steadily to avoid her
dangerous company. The one was Doctor McKirdy, who, as a young man, and
when still a stranger to the place, had extracted from her a written
apology for something she had said of him which identified him too
closely for his taste with the physiologists who were then beginning to
be much discussed. The other was General Kemp. Making one day sudden
irruption into her sitting-room, he had overheard a remark made by her
concerning his own daughter and Captain Laxton; at once he had turned on
his heel, and, after giving his wife a short sketch of what would have
happened to Miss Vipen had she worn breeches instead of petticoats, he
had declared it to be his intention never willingly to meet her again.
Malice, to be effective, however vulgar in its essence, should on the
whole be refined in its expression. There were certain people, notably
poor Mrs. Sampson, the rector's wife, to whom Miss Vipen felt she could
say anything, sure of a fascinated, even if a fearful, listener. With
others she was more careful, and to Mrs. Boringdon she had soon become a
valuable ally, and a precious source of information.
* * * * *
This was the woman from whose company and conversation Oliver Boringdon,
two days after the Halnakeham Castle ball, came straight down the
village street to Chancton Grange. He had been to see Miss Vipen on a
matter of business connected with a slight leakage in her roof, but the
hawk-eyed old lady, as was her wont, had in a very few moments planted
an envenomed dart in his mind and brain.
Partly perhaps because he knew her to be so intensely disliked by Doctor
McKirdy, and partly because she was one of the very few people who never
tried to extract from him information concerning Madame Sampiero and the
Priory, Oliver actually liked Miss Vipen. She was an intelligent woman,
and her kindnesses to the village people were intelligent kindnesses.
She would lend books and papers to the sick and ailing, and more than
once he had come across traces of her good deeds among the poor of the
place,--men and women with whom she had life-long links of familiarity
and interest. She was aware that Boringdon liked her, and she took
trouble to keep his good opinion. So it was that to-day her few
remarks--said more, or so it seemed, in pity than in anger, had been
carefully chosen--and only amounted to the regrettable fact that James
Berwick's frequent visits to the Priory, and the long hours he was said
to spend alone with Mrs. Rebell, were causing unpleasant remark both in
the village and in the neighbourhood.
Boringdon had listened in absolute silence, then, taking up his hat and
stick, had gone, leaving his hostess rather uncomfortable. But Miss
Vipen's words had met with unquestioning belief, and they had made her
listener's smouldering jealousy and unhappiness--for in these days
Oliver was very jealous and wretchedly unhappy--burst into flame.
Since the ball the young man had seen practically nothing of Barbara,
although she had been present at each of his daily interviews with
Madame Sampiero; and when one day, late in the afternoon, he had gone
contrary to his custom, to the Priory, the admirably trained McGregor
had informed him that Mrs. Rebell was "not at home," although Boringdon
had seen her shadow and that of Berwick cast on the blind of the blue
drawing-room.
James Berwick's attitude towards women had always been inexplicable to
Oliver, for he was entirely out of sympathy with his friend's interest
in Woman _qua_ Woman. In no circumstances would the younger man have
been capable of imagining the peculiar relationship which had sprung up
between these two people, to each of whom--and it was an aggravating
circumstance--he felt himself bound by so close a tie.
During the last two days his jealousy and suspicion of Berwick's motives
had almost prompted him to say something to Mrs. Rebell, but there was
that in Barbara which made it very difficult to approach such a subject
with her. Also, even if lacking in a sense of humour, Boringdon was yet
dimly aware that she might well retort with a _tu quoque_ argument which
he would find it difficult to meet. For there had been one fortnight in
which, looking back, he was obliged to admit to himself that he had
spent far more time in Mrs. Rebell's company than he could accuse
Berwick of now doing. He and she had walked together, ridden together,
and talked together of everything under heaven and earth. Even--fool
that he had been--he had told her much of Berwick, and all to that
dangerous sentimentalist's advantage.
Then there had come a sudden change over his own and Mrs. Rebell's
pleasant and profitable relationship. Saucebox had kicked herself in the
stable, and had gone back, in disgrace, to Chillingworth, so the rides
had perforce come to an end. Little by little, or so it now seemed to
Oliver, he had been shepherded into only going over to the Priory in the
morning--made to feel that at other times he was not welcome.
The young man remembered well the first time he had come over to the
Priory to find Berwick installed, almost as master, in the great hall,
and Barbara listening to this new acquaintance as she had hitherto only
listened to him, to Boringdon himself. And yet what was there to be
done? Madame Sampiero's attitude filled him with indignation; surely it
was her duty to save her god-daughter from the snares of such a fowler
as she must know Berwick to be?
Boringdon had long been aware of the type of feminine companionship his
friend was always seeking, and dimly he understood that hitherto the
pursuit had been unavailing. But now?--Mrs. Rebell, so Boringdon, with
something like agony, acknowledged to himself, fulfilled all the
conditions of Berwick's ideal; and a nobler, more unselfish feeling than
mere personal instinct stirred him to revolt, while he was also swayed
by an anger born of keen jealousy, dignified by him with a hundred
names, of which the most comfortable to his self-esteem and conscience
was care for Mrs. Rebell's reputation.
At certain moments he reminded himself how much Berwick had been at the
Priory before Mrs. Rebell's arrival, but even so, such a man's constant
presence there was terribly dangerous! Some kind, wholly disinterested
woman must tell Barbara that in England Berwick's conduct would surely
compromise her, whatever might be the case at Santa Maria or on the
Continent.
* * * * *
Casting about in his mind, Boringdon could think of but one person in
the neighbourhood who was fitted to undertake so delicate a task, and
who would, so he told himself, understand his own personal share in the
matter; this person was Mrs. Kemp. To the Grange he accordingly made his
way, after having listened in silence to Miss Vipen's softly uttered
remarks.
From the first fortune favoured him, for Mrs. Kemp was alone. The
General and Lucy were gone to Halnakeham for the afternoon; and
Boringdon, coming in out of the late November air full of suppressed
excitement and ill at ease, felt soothed by the look of warmth and
comfort with which Lucy's mother always managed to surround herself.
To Oliver's own mother, to Mrs. Boringdon, an appearance of comfort,
even of luxury, was all-important when guests were expected at Chancton
Cottage. Then everything was suitably lavish, and even luxurious. But
when the young man and his mother were alone, fires were allowed to burn
low, the food, poor in quality, was also limited as to quantity, and it
was well for Oliver that he cared as little as on the whole he did for
creature comforts. In Mrs. Boringdon's mind the page boy was set against
the sweets at luncheon and the cakes at tea which Oliver would have
enjoyed, but then in the country a man-servant was essential--an
essential portion of her own and her son's dignity.
It was now four o'clock. At home Boringdon would have had to wait
another hour for tea, and so would any passing guest who could be
regarded as an intimate friend, but here, at the Grange, it appeared as
if by magic a few minutes after the visitor had sat down opposite Mrs.
Kemp, and Oliver soon felt heartened up to approach what even he felt to
be a rather difficult subject.
The kind woman whose aid he was about to invoke made it easy for him to
begin, for she was very cordial; thanks to Boringdon, Lucy had
thoroughly enjoyed the ball at Halnakeham Castle, and the mother felt
grateful for even this small mercy. During the last two days she had
reminded herself more than once that affairs of the heart, when not
interfered with unduly, have an odd way of coming right.
"I need not ask," he said, rather awkwardly, "if Lucy is no worse for
the ball."
Mrs. Kemp was not sure whether she liked to hear Boringdon call her
daughter Lucy; he had only begun doing so lately, and she had not
thought it necessary to mention it to the General. There was still a
certain coolness between Oliver and Lucy's father--they avoided each
other's company.
He went on without waiting for an answer: "Mrs. Rebell seems to have
found it a trying experience, and yet she did not dance at all. I went
to the Priory this morning, and she was too tired to come down."
"But then she came back so much later than you all did. I understand
that she stayed on with the Fletchings party, and I heard some of their
carriages going through the village at four o'clock in the morning!"
Boringdon looked at her with quick suspicion. He had just learnt from
Miss Vipen of Berwick's solitary drive with Mrs. Rebell. But the remark
Mrs. Kemp had just made was wholly innocent in intention; she never
dealt in innuendoes.
"I wish," he said, impulsively, "that you would get to know Mrs. Rebell!
Everyone else in the neighbourhood has called on her; have you any
reason for not doing so?"
She hesitated, then said slowly, "No. No real reason, except, of course,
that we have never received, during all the years we have been here, any
mark of attention or civility from Madame Sampiero, whose tenants after
all we are. Also I fancied, from something that Doctor McKirdy said,
that Mrs. Rebell did not wish to make many acquaintances in the
neighbourhood."
"It's a great pity, for she must feel very lonely, and I'm sure it would
be much to her to have such friends as yourself, and as--as Lucy."
The mother's heart hardened; Mrs. Kemp was no gossip, but she knew how
much time Oliver had spent at the Priory during the fortnight Mrs.
Boringdon had been away.
"Yes, she must be rather lonely," and then she could not help adding,
"but you are a great deal over there, are you not?"
His answer made her feel ashamed of what she had said. "I am over there
most days, but she cannot make a companion, a friend, of a man, as she
could of you or of Lucy." Now surely was his opportunity for saying what
he had come to say, but he found the task he had set himself demanded a
bluntness, a crudity of speech, that was almost intolerable to him.
"Mrs. Kemp, may I speak frankly to you?"
There was a strong note of appeal in the speaker's voice. Mrs. Kemp gave
him a quick, anxious look, and took her knitting off the table.
"Certainly, frankness is always best," she said, then wondered with
beating heart what he was about to tell her. She had felt, during the
last few minutes, that Boringdon was only marking time. He was once more
on his old terms of friendship with Lucy, indeed, the girl had lunched
at Chancton Cottage that very day. But his next words shattered Mrs.
Kemp's dream, and that most rudely.
"I want you to call on Mrs. Rebell," he was saying in a low eager tone,
"and to come really to know her, because--well, because I fear she is in
some danger. It isn't a matter one wants to discuss, but James Berwick
is constantly at the Priory, and his visits there are already being
talked about in the neighbourhood. She is, as you know, a friend of my
sister, and I feel a certain responsibility in the matter. Someone ought
to put her on her guard."
Mrs. Kemp put down her work and looked at him with a steady,
disconcerting look of surprise. He no longer felt sure, as he had done a
moment ago, of her sympathy, but he met her glance with a dogged
courage. He cared so little what she thought; the great point was to
enlist her help. Boringdon had known her do really quixotic things with
reference to certain village matters and scandals--and always with
healing results.
It is fortunate that we cannot see into each other's minds. What would
Oliver have felt had he become aware of the feeling, half of dislike,
half of pity, with which he was being regarded at that moment by the
woman to whom he had made his appeal? Mrs. Kemp withdrew her eyes from
his face; it was possible,--just possible,--that it was as he said, and
that he was animated by worthy and impersonal motives. Berwick was not a
man with an absolutely good reputation as regarded women; his position,
too, was a singular one,--of so much even Mrs. Kemp was aware.
"As you have spoken frankly to me, so will I speak frankly to you," she
said. "I have never known any good come from interfering,--or rather I
have never known any good come from speaking, in such a case, to the
woman. The person to reach is Mr. Berwick. If he is indeed compromising
Mrs. Rebell, he is doing a very wrong and treacherous thing, not only to
her, but to Madame Sampiero, who has always been, so I understand,
especially kind to him. Still, you must remember that, long before this
lady came here, he was constantly at the Priory. Also, may I say that,
if your information as to the gossip about them comes from Miss Vipen,
its source is tainted? I never believe a word she says about anything or
anybody!"
"Miss Vipen did certainly say something--she had heard----"
"What had she heard?"
"That Berwick drove back with her"--Mrs. Kemp noticed the use of the
pronoun--"alone, the night of the ball, and that they sat up, talking,
till morning, in the hall of the Priory. No wonder Mrs. Rebell still
feels tired!" The speaker had gone grey in the lamplight.
"Well, that story is false, vilely false! I do not know how, or with
whom, Mrs. Rebell came home; but by an odd chance I do happen to know
that Mr. Berwick went straight from Halnakeham to Chillingworth, and
that he was there in the morning. His coachman's wife, who is staying
here in Chancton with her parents, was taken ill that night. I was there
by six the next morning--perhaps you know that the poor baby died--and
the man told me that he had driven his master home, and that he would
send him over a message asking leave to stay with his wife. Mr. Berwick
is a very good master, they seem all devoted to him----" Then, struck by
his look, "Surely you believe me? Do you put Miss Vipen's piece of
spiteful gossip against what I tell you?"
Boringdon hesitated. "I don't know what to believe," he said. "James
Berwick, when conducting an intrigue, is capable of--of----"
"If you think so ill of Mrs. Rebell as that----!"
"But I don't!" he cried hastily, "indeed I don't! It is Berwick, only
Berwick, that I blame in this matter. I think Mrs. Rebell is wholly
innocent! I feel for her the greatest respect! She is incapable, I feel
sure, of a wrong thought,"--he spoke with growing agitation. "But think
of the whole circumstances--of Madame Sampiero's past life, of Mrs.
Rebell's present position! Can you wonder that I feel sure your
friendship, even your countenance, might make a great difference? But
pray,"--he got up, and looked at Mrs. Kemp very earnestly,--"pray do not
suppose I think ill of Mrs. Rebell! Were it so, should I suggest that
you--that Lucy--should make a friend of her?" and wringing her hand he
left the room, eager to escape before the return of General Kemp and his
daughter.
* * * * *
There are times when the presence of even the best-loved and most
trusted grown-up son or daughter could be well spared by father and
mother. Mrs. Kemp, during the evening which followed Oliver's afternoon
call, thought constantly of the conversation she had held with him, and
she longed to tell her husband what had passed. Men were such strange,
such inexplicable beings! Doubtless Tom would be able to reassure her as
to Oliver Boringdon's interest in this Mrs. Rebell, whose charm had won
over Lucy too, for the girl spoke with enthusiasm of the beauty and of
the kindness of Madame Sampiero's god-daughter. But nothing could be
said in the presence of Lucy, who had regained, during the last day or
two, her old lightness of heart and manner, and who showed no wish to go
early to bed.
At last Mrs. Kemp went up alone, and when, an hour later, the General
followed her, and she had the longed-for opportunity of telling her
tale, her listener proved most irritatingly quiescent. He went in and
out of his dressing-room, saying "Yes," and "That's it, is it?" at
suitable intervals. Still, when she stopped speaking, he would suddenly
appear in some leisurely state of _déshabillé_ and his wife would feel
encouraged, to go on, and even to ask for his opinion and advice.
"And now, Tom, what do you _really_ think of the whole matter?"
General Kemp came and stood before the fire. He wore his
dressing-gown,--a sure sign that he was ready for discussion, if
discussion should prove necessary.
"Well, Mary, what I _really_ think can be put in a very few words." He
advanced till he stood at the foot of the large four-poster, and, with a
twinkle in his eye, declaimed the lines:--
"'And it was you, my _Berwick_, you!
The friend in whom my soul confided!
Who dared to gaze on her--to do,
I may say, much the same as I did!'"
"Oh! Tom, you should not make fun of such a serious matter," but Mrs.
Kemp could not help smiling--the lines were indeed apt.
"Well, my dear, what else is there to say? I can't say I should be sorry
if Boringdon were to burn his wings a bit! I hate your fellow who is
always trying to set the world straight. To take his information from
Miss Vipen too--!" The General had also heard of Oliver's renewed
interest in the Priory, and his wife's talk had not surprised him quite
as much as she, in the innocence of her heart, expected it to do.
"Berwick, from what you tell me, and from what I hear," he added in a
low voice, "knows what he's after, and that's more than your friend
Boringdon seems to do! I hate a man who goes dangling after a woman for
her good; that's what he told you, I take it?"
"Well, something rather like it; but I think better of him than you do,
Tom."
"They generally get caught at last." General Kemp gave a quick, short
sigh: "and then comes--unless the chap's as clever as Boringdon
doubtless means to be--pretty heavy punishment, eh, Mary?"
And he went off back into his dressing-room, and Mrs. Kemp, turning on
her side, wet her pillow with sudden bitter tears.
* * * * *
Some days later Lucy and her mother called at the Priory, only to be
informed that Mrs. Rebell was at Fletchings, staying there as the guest
of Lord Bosworth and Miss Berwick till the following Saturday. This
then,--so thought Mrs. Kemp with a quick revulsion of feeling,--was why
Boringdon now found time hang so heavy on his hands, and why he had
been, of late, so often at the Grange. Life, even at Chancton, was full
of inexplicable cross currents,--of deep pools and eddies more likely to
bring shipwreck than safe haven to the creature whom she loved so
dearly, and for whom she felt that responsibility which only mothers
know.