GOOD-BYE.
Next day was one of those crowning days of summer which seem the climax,
and at the same time the conclusion, of the perfect year. From morning
till night there was no shadow upon it, no threatening of a cloud, no
breath of unfriendly air. The flowers in the Mount gardens blazed from
the level beds in their framework of greenness, the great masses of
summer foliage stood out against the soft yet brilliant sky; every
outline was round and distinct, detaching itself in ever-varying lines,
one curve upon another. Had the weather been less perfect their
distinctness would have been excessive and marred the unity of the
landscape, but the softness of the summer air harmonised everything in
sight and sound alike. The voices on the terrace mingled in subtle
musical tones at intervals; and, though every branch of the foliage was
perfect in itself, yet all were melodiously mingled, and belonged to
each other. On the sea-shore and among the hills distance seemed
annihilated, and every outline pressed upon the eye, too bright, too
near for pleasure, alarming the weather-wise. But here, so warmly
inland, in a landscape so wealthy and so soft, the atmosphere did not
exaggerate, it only brightened. It was the end of August, and changes
were preparing among the elements. Next day it might be autumn with a
frost-touch somewhere, the first yellow leaf; but to-day it was full
summer, a meridian more rich than that of June, yet still meridian, full
noon of the seasons.
Il nous reste un gâteau de fête;
Demain nous aurons du pain noir:
Anne woke up this heavenly morning saying these words to herself. It had
rained half the night through, and the morning had risen pale, exhausted
as with all this weeping: but after awhile had thought better of it, and
sworn to have, ere summer ended, one other resplendent day. Then the sun
had got up to his work like a bridegroom, eternal image, in a flush of
sacred pride and joy. People said to each other ‘What a lovely day!’
Though it had been a fine summer, and the harvest had been got in with
the help of many a lusty morning and blazing afternoon, yet there was
something in this that touched the general heart; perhaps because it was
after the rain, perhaps because something in the air told that it was
the last, that Nature had surpassed herself, and after this was capable
of nothing further. As a matter of fact, nobody could do anything for
the delight of the exquisite morning. First one girl stole out, and then
another, through the garden, upon which the morning sun was shining;
then Mrs. Mountford sailed forth under the shelter of her parasol. Even
she, though she was half ashamed of herself, being plump, had put on,
dazzled by the morning, a white gown. ‘Though I am too old for white,’
she said with a sigh. ‘Not too old, but a little too stout, ‘m,’ said
Mrs. Worth, with that ferocious frankness which we have all to submit to
from our maids. None of the three reappeared again till the
luncheon-bell rang, so demoralised were they. Anne, if truth must be
told, went towards the Beeches: ‘Il nous reste un gâteau de fête,’ she
sang to herself under her breath, ‘Demain nous aurons du pain noir.’
The same thing happened at the Rectory: even the rector himself came
out, wandering, by way of excusing himself for the idleness, about the
flowerbeds. ‘The bedding-out plants have done very well this year,’ he
said; but he was not thinking of the bedding-out plants any more than
the young men were thinking of their cigars. In their minds there was
that same sense of the one bit of cake remaining to eat which was in
Anne’s song. Charley, who had not the cake, but was only to stand by and
assist while his friend ate it, was sympathetically excited, yet felt a
little forlorn satisfaction in the approaching resumption of the _pain
noir_. He was never to get anything better, it appeared; but it would be
pleasanter fare when the munching of the _gâteau_ was over. And Douglas
stole off to consume that last morsel when the curate, reluctantly, out
of the sweetness of the morning, went off to his schools. Under the
Beeches the day was like a fresh bit out of Paradise. If Adam and Eve
are only a fable, as the scientific gentlemen say, what a poet Moses
was! Eden has never gone out of fashion to this day. The two under the
trees, but for her muslin and his tweed, were, over again, the primæval
pair--and perhaps the serpent was about too: but neither Eve had seen
it, nor Adam prepared that everlasting plea of self-defence which has
been handed down through all his sons. This was how the charmed hours
stole on, and the perfection of summer passed through the perfection of
noon; so many perfections touching each other! a perfect orb of
loveliness and happiness, with that added grace which makes perfection
more perfect, the sense of incompleteness--the human crown of hope. All
the time they were thinking of the something better, something sweeter,
that was to come. ‘Will there ever be such another perfect day?’ she
said, in a wonder at the new discovered bliss with which she was
surrounded. ‘Yes, the next,’ he said, ‘on which we shall not have to
part.’ To be sure: there was the parting; without that conclusion,
perhaps, this hour would not have been so exquisite: but it was still
some hours off, thank heaven!
After luncheon the chairs were carried out to the green terrace where
the shadow of the limes fell. The limes got in the way of the sun almost
as soon as he began to descend, and threw the most delicious dancing
shadow over the grass--a shadow that was quite effectual, and kept the
lawn as cool as in the middle of a forest, but which was in itself a
lovely living thing, in soft perpetual motion, every little twig and
green silken leaf contributing its particular canopy, and flinging down
a succession of little bobs and curtseys with every breath of air that
blew. ‘Everybody will be out to-day, and I daresay we shall have a great
many visitors. Tell Saymore he may bring out the big table,’ said Mrs.
Mountford. She liked to feel that her house was the chief house in the
neighbourhood, the place to which everybody came. Mrs. Mountford had
regretfully relinquished by this time her white gown. We all cling to
our white gowns, but when you are stout, it must be acknowledged the
experiment is rash. She had not been able to get Mrs. Worth’s candid
criticism out of her mind all the morning. ‘Do I look very stout, Rose?’
she had said, in an unconsciously ingratiating tone. And Rose was still
more entirely impartial than Worth. She threw a careless glance at her
mother. ‘You do look fat, mamma!’ she said. It was hard upon the poor
lady; she changed it, with a sigh, for her darkest silk. ‘Not black,
Worth,’ she said faintly. ‘If I had my way, ‘m,’ said Worth, ‘I’d dress
you always in black. There is nothing like it when one gets to a certain
time of life.’ It was under the influence of this sobering _douche_ that
Mrs. Mountford came out again, accompanied by Saymore with her
workbasket. It was put down upon the table, a dazzling bit of colour.
‘But I really don’t feel inclined to work. It is too fine to work,’ Mrs.
Mountford said. ‘What is that you are singing for ever, Anne? I have
heard you at it all day.’
Il nous reste un gâteau de fête;
Demain nous aurons du pain noir.
Anne sang without changing colour, though her heart was beating; she had
become too breathless for conversation. When would he come for the
farewell, and what would her father say? Would he hear of it and come
out? What was to happen? She sat very still in her basket-chair, with
all the lime leaves waving over her, letting in stray gleams of sunshine
that ornamented her as with lines of jewels here and there.
Then, after an interval, two dark figures were seen upon the whiteness
and unsheltered light of the road through the park. ‘There are the
Ashley boys,’ said Rose. ‘Anne, you will be obliged to play to-day.’
‘The Ashley boys! Now that Charley is ordained, you should speak with
more respect,’ said Mrs. Mountford. Anne looked up, and her heart seemed
to stand still--only two of them! But she soon satisfied herself that it
was not Cosmo that was the defaulter; she sat, not saying anything,
scarcely daring to breathe. The moment had come.
Willie Ashley had not regarded with much satisfaction the reconciliation
which he found to his great amazement had taken place while he was out
in the rain. Indeed the attitude of his mind had been nothing less than
one of disgust, and when he found next day that Douglas was setting out
arm-in-arm with the curate, and almost more confidential than before, to
walk to Mount, his impatience rose to such a point that he flung off
altogether. ‘Two may be company, but three is none,’ he said to his
brother. ‘I thought you had a little more spirit; I’m not going to
Mount: if you can see yourself cut out like that, I can’t. I’ll walk up
as far as the Woodheads’; I daresay they’ll be very glad to get up a
game there.’ This was how there were only two figures on the road. They
were very confidential, and perhaps the curate was supported more than
he himself was aware by the certainty that his friend was going away
that night. Henceforward the field would be clear. It was not that he
had any hope of supplanting Cosmo in his turn, as he had been
supplanted; but still to have him away would be something. The black
bread is wholesome fare enough when there is not some insolent happiness
in the foreground insisting upon devouring before you its bunches of
cake.
‘I declare,’ said Mrs. Mountford, ‘there is _that_ Mr. Douglas with
Charley Ashley! What am I to do? I am sure it is not Willie--he is
taller and bigger, and has a different appearance altogether. You cannot
expect me, Anne, to meet anyone whom papa disapproves. What shall I do?
Run, Rose, and tell Saymore; but of course Charley will not knock at the
door like an ordinary visitor--he will come straight here. I have always
thought these familiarities should not have been permitted. They will
come straight here, though they know he has been sent away and forbidden
the house.’
‘He has never been forbidden the house,’ cried Anne indignantly. ‘I
hope, mamma, you will not be so uncivil as to refuse to say good-bye to
Mr. Douglas. He is going away.’
‘Forbidden the house!’ cried Rose, her eyes opening up like two great
O’s. ‘Then it is true!’
‘You had better go away at least, if I must stay,’ said Mrs. Mountford
in despair. ‘Rosie, run indoors and stay in the drawing-room till he is
gone. It would be in far better taste, Anne, and more dutiful, if you
were to go too.’
Anne did not say a word, partly, no doubt, in determined resistance, but
partly because just then her voice had failed her, the light was
swimming in her eyes, and the air seemed to be full of pairs of dark
figures approaching from every different way.
‘Run indoors! why should I?’ said Rose. ‘He can’t do any harm to me;
besides, I like Mr. Douglas. Why shouldn’t he come and say good-bye? It
would be very uncivil of him if he didn’t, after being so much here.’
‘That is just what I am always saying; you have them constantly here,
and then you are surprised when things happen,’ cried Mrs. Mountford,
wringing her hands. ‘Anne, if you have any feeling you ought to take
your sister away.’
Rose’s eyes grew rounder and rounder. ‘Was it _me_ he was in love with,
then?’ she asked, not without reason. But by this time it was too late
for anyone to run away, as the young men were already making their way
across the flower-garden, and could see every movement the ladies made.
‘Sit down, sit down, if it must be so,’ said Mrs. Mountford, ‘and for
heaven’s sake let us have no scene; look at least as if it were a common
call and meant nothing--that is the only thing to do now.’ ‘How d’ye do,
how d’ye do, Charley,’ she said, waving her hand in friendly salutation:
‘was there ever such a lovely day? Come and sit down; it is too fine
for a game. Is that Mr. Douglas you have with you? I was quite blinded
with the sun this morning, I can’t get it out of my eyes. How do you
do?--you will excuse my looking surprised; I thought I heard that you
had gone away.’
‘Not yet,’ he said; ‘I hope you did not think me so little grateful for
all your kindness as not to make my acknowledgments before leaving the
parish. I have lingered longer than I ought to have done, but every
happiness must come to an end, and I am bound for Beedon this afternoon
to catch the Scotch mail to-night.’
Mrs. Mountford made him a little bow, by way of showing that her
interest in this was no more than politeness demanded, and returned to
the curate, to whom she was not generally so gracious. ‘I hope your
father is well,’ she said; ‘and Willie, where is Willie? It is not often
he fails. When we saw you crossing the park just now I made sure it was
Willie that was with you. I suppose we shall not have him much longer.
He should not disappoint his friends like this.’
‘I fear,’ said Douglas (‘thrusting himself in again; so ill-bred, when
he could see I meant to snub him,’ Mrs. Mountford said), ‘that Willie’s
absence is my fault. He likes to have his brother to himself, and I
don’t blame him. However, I am so soon to leave the coast clear! If
anything could have made it more hard to turn one’s back upon Mount it
would be leaving it on such a day. Fancy going from this paradise of
warmth and sunshine to the cold North!’
‘To Scotland?’ cried Rose; ‘that’s just what I should like to do. You
may call this paradise if you like, but it’s dull. Paradise would be
dull always, don’t you think, with nothing happening. To be sure,
there’s Lady Meadowlands’ fête; but one knows exactly what that will
be--at least, almost exactly,’ Rose added, brightening a little, and
feeling that a little opening was left for fate.
‘Let us hope it will be as different as possible from what you expect. I
have known garden-parties turn out so that one was not in the least like
another,’ said Douglas smilingly, accepting the transfer to Rose which
Mrs. Mountford’s too apparent snub made necessary. Anne, for her part,
did not say a word; she sat quite still in the low basket-chair,
scarcely venturing to look up, listening to the tones of his voice and
the smile which seemed to pervade his words with that strange
half-stunned, half-happy sensation which precedes a parting. Yes, it was
happiness still to feel him there, and recognise every distinctive sound
of the voice which had awoke her heart. Was there no way of stopping
this flying moment, arresting it, so that it should last, or coming to
an end in it, which is the suggested sentiment of all perfection? She
sat as in a dream, longing to make it last, yet impatient that it should
be over; wondering how it was to end, and whether any words more
important than these might pass between them still. They had taken
farewell of each other under the Beeches. This postscript was almost
more than could be borne--intolerable, yet sweet. The voices went on,
while the scene turned round and round with Anne, the background of the
flowers confusing her eyes, and the excitement mounting to her head. At
last, before they had been a moment there, she thought--though it was
half an hour--the dark figures had risen up again and hands were being
held out. Then she felt her dress twitched, and ‘Let us walk to the end
of the garden with them,’ said Rose. This made a little commotion, and
Anne in her dream felt Mrs. Mountford’s expostulation--‘Girls!’ in a
horrified undertone, ‘what can you be thinking of? Rosie, are you
crazy? ANNE!’
This last was almost in a shriek of excitement. But Rose was far too
much used to her own way to pay any attention. ‘Come along,’ she said,
linking her fingers in her sister’s. Anne, who was the leader in
everything, followed for the first time in her life.
The garden was sweet with all manner of autumn flowers, banks of
mignonette and heliotrope perfuming the air, and red geraniums blazing
in the sunshine--all artificial in their formal beds, just as this
intercourse was artificial, restrained by the presence of spectators and
the character of the scene. By-and-by, however, Rose untwined her hand
from her sister’s. ‘There is no room to walk so many abreast; go on with
Mr. Douglas, Anne; I have something to say to Charley,’ the girl cried.
She was curious, tingling to her fingers’ ends with a desire to know all
about it. She turned her round eyes upon Charley with an exciting look
of interrogation as soon as the other pair had gone on before. Poor
Ashley had drooped his big head; he would have turned his back if he
could to give them the benefit of this last moment, but he felt that he
could not be expected not to feel it. And as for satisfying the
curiosity of this inquisitive imp, whose eyes grew bigger and bigger
every moment! he dropped his nice brown beard upon his bosom, and
sighed, and slightly shook his head. ‘Tell me what it means, or I’ll
tell mamma you’re helping them,’ whispered Rose.
‘Can’t you see what it means?’ said the curate, with a glance, she
thought, of contempt. What did she know about it? A blush of humiliation
at her own ignorance flew over Rose.
‘I owe your little sister something for this,’ said Douglas, under his
breath. ‘Once more we two against the world, Anne!’
‘Not against the world: everything helps us, Cosmo. I did not think I
could even venture to look at you, and now we can say good-bye again.’
His fingers twined into hers among the folds of her gown, as Rose’s had
done a minute before. They could say good-bye again, but they had no
words. They moved along together slowly, not walking that they knew of,
carried softly as by a wave of supreme emotion; then, after another
moment, Anne felt the landscape slowly settling, the earth and the sky
getting back into their places, and she herself coming down by slow
gyrations to earth again. She was standing still at the corner of the
garden, with once more two dark figures upon the white road, but this
time not approaching--going away.
‘Tell me about it, tell me all about it, Anne. I did it on purpose; I
wanted to see how you would behave. You just behaved exactly like other
people, and shook hands with him the same as I did. I will stand your
friend with papa and everybody if you will tell me all about it, Anne.’
Mrs. Mountford also was greatly excited; she came sailing down upon them
with her parasol expanded and fanning herself as she walked. ‘I never
had such a thing to do,’ she said; ‘I never had such an awkward
encounter in my life. It is not that I have any dislike to the man, he
has always been very civil; though I must say, Anne, that I think,
instead of coming, it would have been better taste if he had sent a note
to say good-bye. And if you consider that I had not an idea what to say
to him! and that I was in a state of mind all the time, saying to
myself, “Goodness gracious! if papa should suddenly walk round the
corner, what should we all do?” I looked for papa every moment all the
time. People always do come if there is any special reason for not
wanting them. However, I hope it is all over now, and that you will not
expose us to such risks any more.’
Anne made no reply to either of her companions. She stole away from them
as soon as possible, to subdue the high beating of her own heart, and
come down to the ordinary level. No, she was not likely to encounter any
such risks again; the day was over and with it the last cake of the
feast: the black bread of every day was all that now furnished forth the
tables. A kind of dull quiet fell upon Mount and all the surrounding
country. The clouds closed round and hung low. People seemed to speak in
whispers. It was a quiet that whispered of fate, and in which the
elements of storm might be lurking. But still it cannot be said that the
calm was unhappy. The light had left the landscape, but only for the
moment. The banquet was over, but there were fresh feasts to come.
Everything fell back into the old conditions, but nothing was as it had
been. The world was the same, yet changed in every particular. Without
any convulsion, or indeed any great family disturbance, how did this
happen unsuspected? Everything in heaven and earth was different, though
all things were the same.