THE HEART OF COEUR-DE-LION
'At length, as suddenly become aware
Of this long pause, she lifted up her face,
And he withdrew his eyes--she looked so fair
And cold, he thought, in her unconscious grace.
Ah! little dreams she of the restless care,
He thought, that makes my heart to throb apace:
Though we this morning part, the knowledge sends
No thrill to her calm pulse--we are but Friends!'
Jean Ingelow.
Mildred pondered long and sorrowfully that night over her friend's
trouble.
She knew it was no fancied or exaggerated recital of wrongs. The inmates
of the vicarage had commented openly on the Squire's changed looks and
bearing. His cordiality had always savoured more or less of
condescension, but latterly he had held himself aloof from his
neighbours, and there had been a gloomy reserve in his manner that had
made him well-nigh unapproachable.
Irritable and ready to take offence, and quick to resent even a
difference of opinion, he was already on bad terms with more than one of
his neighbours. Dr. Heriot's well-deserved popularity, and his plainness
of speech, had already given umbrage to his jealous and haughty
temperament. It was noticed on all sides that the Doctor was a less
frequent visitor at Kirkleatham House, and that Mr. Trelawny was much
given to carp at any expressed opinion that emanated from that source.
This was incomprehensible, to say the least of it, as he had always been
on excellent terms with both father and daughter; but little did any one
guess the real reason of so inexplicable a change.
Ethel was right when she acknowledged that ambition was her father's
besetting sin; the petty interests of squirearchal life had never
satiated his dominant passion and thirst for power. Side by side with
his ambition, and narrow aims there was a vacuum that he would fain have
filled with work of a broader type, and with a pertinacity that would
have been noble but for its subtle egotism, he desired to sit among the
senators of his people.
Twice had he essayed and twice been beaten, and it had been whispered
that his hands were not quite clean, with the cleanness of a man to whom
corruption is a hideous snare; and still, with a dogged resolution that
ought to have served him, he determined that one day, and at all costs,
his desire should be accomplished.
Already there were hints of a coming election, and whispered reports of
a snug borough that would not be too severely contested; but Mr.
Trelawny had another aim. The Conservative member for the next borough
had given offence to his constituents by bringing in a Bill for the
reformation of some dearly-loved abuse. The inhabitants were up in arms;
there had been much speechifying and a procession, during which sundry
well-meaning flatterers had already whispered that the right man in the
right place would be a certain lord of beeves and country squire, to
whom the township and people were as dear as though he had first drawn
breath in their midst.
Parliament would shortly be dissolved, it was urged, and Mr. Trelawny's
chances would be great; already his friends were canvassing on his
behalf, and among them Mr. Cathcart, of Broadlands.
The Cathcarts were bankers and the most influential people, and
commanded a great number of votes, and it was Edgar Cathcart who had
used such strong language against the aforesaid member for meddling with
an abuse which had been suffered for at least two hundred years, and was
respectable for its very antiquity.
Ethel's refusal of Edgar Cathcart had inflicted a deadly blow to her
father's interests, and one that he was never likely to forgive, all the
more that he was shrewd enough to suspect that she had not been
altogether indifferent to his fascination of manner.
Now above all things he had coveted this man for his son-in-law.
Broadlands and its hereditary thousands would have been no mean match
for the daughter of a country squire. With Edgar Cathcart to back him he
could have snapped his fingers at the few loyal voters who would have
still rallied round their erring townsman, and from a hint that had been
lately dropped, he knew the banker was ready at any moment to renew his
offer; but Ethel had persisted in her refusal, and bitterly and loudly
did her father curse the folly of a girl who could renounce such a
position for a mere whim or fancy.
'If you do not love him, whom do you love?' he had said to her, and,
courageous as she was, she had quailed before the sneer that had
accompanied his words.
But she never guessed the thought that rose in his mind as he said them.
'She has some infatuation that makes her proof against other men's
addresses,' he argued angrily with himself. 'No girl in her senses could
be blind to the attraction of a man like Edgar Cathcart unless she has
already given away her heart. I am not satisfied about this fellow
Heriot. He comes here far too often, and she encourages him. I always
thought he meant to marry Lambert's prim sister; but he is so deep there
is no reading him. I shall have to pick a quarrel to get rid of him, for
if he once gets an influence over Ethel, all Cathcart's chances are
gone.'
Like many other narrow-minded men, Mr. Trelawny brooded over an idea
until it became fixed and ineradicable. Ethel's warm reception of Dr.
Heriot, and her evident pleasure in his society, were construed as so
many evidences of his own sagacity and her guilt. His only child and
heiress, for whom he had planned so splendid a future, intended to throw
herself away on a common country practitioner; she meant to disgrace
herself and him.
The wound rankled and became envenomed, steeping his whole soul in
bitterness and discontent. He was a disappointed man, he told
himself--disappointed in his ambition and in his domestic affections. He
had loved his wife, as such men love, next to himself; he had had a
certain pride in the possession of her, and though he had ever ruled her
with a rod of iron, he had mingled much fondness with his rule. But she
had left him, and the sons, who had been to him as the twin apples of
his eyes, had gone likewise. He had groaned and humbled himself beneath
that terrible stroke, and had for a little time walked softly as one who
has been smitten justly; and the pathos of his self-pity had been such
that others had been constrained to feel for him, though they marvelled
that his daughter, with the mother's eyes, had so little power to
comfort him.
There were times when he wondered also, when his veiled coldness showed
rents in it, and he owned to a certain pride in her that was not devoid
of tenderness.
For it was only of late that he had fallen into such carping ways, and
that the real breach was apparent. It was true Ethel had her mother's
eyes, but she lacked her mother's submissive gentleness; never a meek
woman, she had yet to learn the softness that disarms wrath. Her
open-eyed youth found flaws in everything that was not intrinsically
excellent. She canvassed men and manners with the warm injudiciousness
of undeveloped wisdom; acts were nothing, motives everything, and no
cleanness available that had a stain on its whiteness.
In place of the plastic girlhood he expected, Mr. Trelawny found himself
confronted by this daring and youthful Argus. He soon discovered Ethel's
inner sympathies were in open revolt against his. It galled him, even in
his pride, to see those clear, candid eyes measuring, half unconsciously
and half incredulously, the narrow limits of his nature. Whatever he
might seem to others, he knew his own child had weighed him in the
balance of her harsh-judging youth, and found him wanting.
It was not that her manner lacked dutifulness, or that she ever failed
in the outward acts of a daughter; below the surface of their mutual
reserve there was, at least on Ethel's part, a deep craving for a better
understanding; but even if he were secretly fond of her, there was no
denying that Mr. Trelawny was uneasy in her presence; conscience often
spoke to him in her indignant young voice; under those shining blue eyes
ambition seemed paltry, and the stratagems and manoeuvres of party
spirit little better than mere truckling and the low cunning of deceit.
It would not be too much to say that he almost feared her; that there
were times when this sense of uncongeniality was so oppressive that he
would gladly have got rid of her, when he would rather have been left
alone than endure the silent rebuke of her presence. Of late his anger
had been very great against her; the scorn with which she had defended
herself against his tenacious will had rankled deeply in his mind, and
as yet there was no question of forgiveness.
If he could not bend her to his purpose he would at least treat her as
one treats a contumacious child. She had spoken words--rash,
unadvisable, but honest words--which even his little soul had felt
deeply. No, he would not forgive her; there should be no confidence, no
loving intercourse between them, till she had given up this foolish
fancy of hers, or at least had brought herself to promise that she would
give it up; and yet, strange to say, though Dr. Heriot had become a
thorn in his side, though the dread of him drove all comfort from his
pillow, he yet lacked courage openly to accuse her; some latent sense of
honour within him checked him from so insulting his motherless child.
It so happened that on the evening after Mildred's birthday, Dr. Heriot
called up at Kirkleatham House to speak to Mr. Trelawny on some matter
of business.
Richard was dining there, and Ethel's careworn face had relaxed into
smiles at the sight of her favourite; the gloomy room seemed brightened
somehow, dinner was less long and oppressive, no awful pauses of silence
fell between the father and daughter to be bridged over tremblingly.
Richard's cheerful voice and ready flow of talk--a little forced,
perhaps--went on smoothly and evenly; enthusiasm was not possible under
the chilling restraint of Mr. Trelawny's measured sentences, but at
least Ethel saw the effort and was grateful for it.
Richard was holding forth fluently on a three days' visit to London that
he had lately paid, when a muttered exclamation from Mr. Trelawny
interrupted him, and a moment afterwards the door-bell rang.
A shade of angry annoyance passed over the Squire's handsome, face--his
thin lips closed ominously.
'What does he want at this time of night?' he demanded, darting a
suspicious glance at Ethel, whose quick ears had recognised the
footsteps; her bright flush of pleasure faded away at that wrathful
look; she heaved a little petulant sigh as her father left the room,
closing the door sharply after him.
'It is like everything else,' she murmured. 'It used to be so pleasant
his dropping in of an evening, but everything seems spoiled somehow.'
'I do not understand. I thought Dr. Heriot was so intimate here,'
returned Richard, astonished and shocked at this new aspect of things.
Mr. Trelawny's look of angry annoyance had not been lost on him--what
had come to him? would he quarrel with them all? 'I do not understand; I
have been away so long, you know,' and unconsciously his voice took its
softest tone.
'There is nothing to understand,' replied Ethel, wearily; 'only papa and
he are not such good friends now; they have disagreed in
politics--gentlemen will, you know--and lately Dr. Heriot has vexed him
by insisting on some sanitary reforms in some of the cottages. Papa
hates any interference with his tenants, and it is not easy to silence
Dr. Heriot when he thinks it is his duty to speak.'
'And sanitary reform is Dr. John's special hobby. Yes, I see; it is a
grievous pity,' assented Richard, and then he resumed the old topic. It
was not that he was unsympathising, but he could not forget the
happiness of being alone with Ethel; the opportunity had come for which
he had longed all last night. As he talked on calmly and rapidly his
temples beat and ached with excitement. Once or twice he stole a furtive
glance as she sat somewhat absently beside him. Could he venture it?
would not his lips close if he essayed a subject at once so sweet and
perilous? As he talked he noted every trick, every gesture; the quaint
fashion of her dress, made of some soft, clinging material; it had a
Huguenot sleeve, he remembered--for she had told him it was designed
from a French picture--and was trimmed with old Venetian point; an
oddly-shaped mosaic ring gleamed on one of her long taper fingers and
was her only ornament. He had never seen her look so picturesque and yet
so sweet as she did that night, but as he looked the last particle of
courage seemed to desert him. Ethel listened only absently as he talked;
she was straining her ears to catch some sound from the adjoining room.
For once Richard's talk wearied her. How loudly the birds were chirping
their good-night--would he come in and wish her good-bye as he used to
do, and then linger for an hour or so over his cup of coffee? Hark! that
was his voice. Was he going? And, oh! surely that was not her father's
answering him.
'Hush! oh, please hush!' she exclaimed, holding out a hand as though to
silence him, and moving towards the door. 'Oh, Richard, what shall we
do? I knew it would come to this.'
'Come to what? Is there anything the matter? Please do not look so pale
over it.' What had she heard--what new vexation was this? But as he
stood beside her, even he caught the low, vehement tones of some angry
discussion. There was no denying Ethel's paleness; she almost wrung her
hands.
'Of course; did I not tell you? Oh, you do not know papa! When he is
angry like this, he will say things that no one can bear. Dr. Heriot
will never come here again--never! He is quarrelling with all his
friends. By and by he will with you, and then you will learn to hate
us.'
'No, no--you must not say that,' replied Richard, soothingly. With her
distress all his courage had returned. He even ventured to touch her
hand, but she drew it quickly away. She was not thinking of Richard now,
but of a certain kind friend whose wise counsels she had learnt to
value.
At least he should not go without bidding her good-bye. Ethel never
thought of prudence in these moments of hot indignation. To Richard's
dismay she caught her hand away from him and flung open the door.
'Why is Dr. Heriot going, papa?' she asked, walking up to them with a
certain majesty of gait which she could assume at times. As she asked
the question she flashed one of her keen, open-eyed looks on her father.
The Squire's olive complexion had turned sallow with suppressed wrath,
the veins on his forehead were swollen like whipcord; as he answered
her, the harshness of his voice grated roughly on her ear.
'You are not wanted, Ethel; go back to young Lambert. I cannot allow
girls to interfere in my private business.'
'You have quarrelled with Dr. Heriot, papa,' returned Ethel, in her
ringing tones, and keeping her ground unflinchingly, in spite of
Richard's whispered remonstrance.
'Come away--you will only make it worse,' he whispered; but she had
turned her face impatiently from him.
'Papa, it is not right--it is not fair. Dr. Heriot has done nothing to
deserve such treatment; and you are sending him away in anger.'
'Ethel, how dare you!' returned the Squire. 'Go back into that room
instantly. If you have no self-respect, and cannot control your feeling,
it is my duty to protect you.'
'Will you protect me by quarrelling with all my friends?' returned
Ethel, in her indignant young voice; her delicate nostrils quivered, the
curve of her long neck was superb. 'Dr. Heriot has only told you the
truth, as he always does.'
'Indeed, you must not judge your father--after all, he has a right to
choose his own friends in his own house--you are very good, Miss
Trelawny, to try and defend me, but it is your father's quarrel, not
yours.'
'If you hold intercourse with my daughter after this, you are no man of
honour----' began the Squire with rage, but Dr. Heriot quietly
interrupted him.
'As far as I can I will respect your strange caprice, Mr. Trelawny; but
I hope you do not mean to forbid my addressing a word to an old friend
when we meet on neutral ground;' and the gentle dignity of his manner
held Mr. Trelawny's wrath in abeyance, until Ethel's imprudence kindled
it afresh.
'It is not fair--I protest against such injustice!' she exclaimed; but
Dr. Heriot silenced her.
'Hush, it is not your affair, Miss Trelawny; you are so generous, but,
indeed, your father and I are better apart for a little. When he
retracts what he has said, he will not find me unforgiving. Now,
good-bye.' The brief sternness vanished from his manner, and he held out
his hand to her with his old kind smile, his eyes were full of benignant
pity as he looked at her pale young face; it was so like her generosity
to defend her friends, he thought.
Richard followed him down the long carriage road, and they stood for a
while outside the lodge gates. If Dr. Heriot held the clue to this
strange quarrel, he kept his own counsel.
'He is a narrow-minded man with warped views and strong passions; he may
cool down, and find out his mistake one day,' was all he said to
Richard. 'I only pity his daughter for being his daughter.'
He might well pity her. Richard little thought, as he hurried after his
friend, what an angry hurricane the imprudent girl had brought on
herself; with all her courage, the Squire made her quail and tremble
under his angry sneers.
'Papa! papa!' was all she could say, when the last bitter arrow was
launched at her. 'Papa, say you do not mean it--that he cannot think
that.'
'What else can a man think when a girl is fool enough to stand up for
him? For once--yes, for once--I was ashamed of my daughter!'
'Ashamed of me?'--drawing herself up, but beginning to tremble from head
to foot--that she, Ethel Trelawny, should be subjected to this insult!
'Yes, ashamed of you! that my daughter should be absolutely courting the
notice of a beggarly surgeon--that----'
'Papa, I forbid you to say another word,'--in a voice that thrilled
him--it was so like her mother's, when she had once--yes, only
once--risen against the oppression of his injustice--'you have gone too
far; I repel your insinuation with scorn. Dr. Heriot does not think this
of me.'
'What else can he think?' but he blenched a little under those clear
innocent eyes.
'He will think I am sorry to lose so good a friend,' she returned, and
her breast heaved a little; 'he will think that Ethel Trelawny hates
injustice even in her own father; he will think what is only true and
kind,' her voice dropping into sadness; and with that she walked
silently from the room.
She was hard hit, but she would not show it; her step was as proud as
ever till she had left her father's presence, and then it faltered and
slackened, and a great shock of pain came over her face.
She had denied the insinuation with scorn, but what if he really thought
it? What if her imprudent generosity, always too prone to buckle on
harness for another, were to be construed wrongly--what if in his eyes
she should already have humiliated herself?
With what sternness he had rebuked her judgment of her father; with him,
want of dutifulness and reverence were heinous sins that nothing could
excuse; she remembered how he had ever praised meekness in women, and
how, when she had laughingly denied all claim to that virtue, he had
answered her half sadly, 'No, you are not meek, and never will be, until
trouble has broken your spirit: you are too aggressive by nature to wear
patiently the "ornament of a meek and quiet spirit;"' and she remembered
how that half-jesting, half-serious speech had troubled her.
Ethel's feeling for Dr. Heriot had been the purest hero-worship; she had
been proud of his friendship, and the loss of it under any circumstances
would have troubled her sadly; she had never blinded herself to the fact
that more than this would be impossible.
Already her keen eyes had lighted on his probable choice, some one who
should bring meekness in lieu of beauty, and fill his home with the
sunshiny sweetness of her smile. 'She will be a happy woman, whoever she
is,' thought Ethel, with a sigh, not perfectly free from envy; there
were so few men who were good as well as wise, 'and this was one,' she
said to herself, and a flood of sadness came over her as she remembered
that speech about her lack of meekness.
If he could only think well of her--if she had not lost caste in his
eyes, she thought, it might still be well with her, and in a half-sad,
half-jesting way she had pictured her life as Ethel Trelawny always,
'walking in maiden meditation fancy free,' a little solitary, perhaps, a
trifle dull, but wiser and better when the troublesome garb of youth was
laid aside, and she could--as in very honesty she longed to do now--call
all men her brothers. But the proud maidenly reserve was stabbed at all
points; true, or untrue, Ethel was writhing under those sneering words.
Richard found her, on his return, standing white and motionless by the
window; her eyes had a plaintive look in them as of a wild animal too
much hurt to defend itself; her pale cheeks alarmed him.
'Why do you agitate yourself so? there is no cause! Dr. Heriot has just
told me it is a mere quarrel that may be healed any time.'
'It is not that--it is those bitter cruel words,' she returned, in a
strange, far-away voice; 'that one's own father should say such things,'
and then her lip quivered, and two large tears welled slowly to her
eyes. Ah, there was the secret stab--her own father!
'My dear Miss Trelawny--Ethel--I cannot bear to see you like this. You
are overwrought--all this has upset you. Come into the air and let us
talk a little.'
'What is there to talk about?' she returned dreamily.
He had called her Ethel for the first time since their old childish
days, and she had not noticed it. She offered no resistance as he
brought a soft fleecy shawl and wrapped it round her, and then gently
removed the white motionless fingers that were clutching the
window-frame; as they moved hand in hand over the grassy terrace, she
was quite unconscious of the firm, warm pressure; somewhere far away she
was thinking of a forlorn Ethel, whose father had spoken cruel words to
her. Richard was always good to her--always; there was nothing new in
that. Only once she turned and smiled at her favourite, with a smile so
sad and sweet that it almost broke his heart.
'How kind you are; you always take such care of me, Richard.'
'I wish I could--I wish I dare try,' he returned, in an odd, choked
voice. 'Let us go to your favourite seat, Ethel; the sun has not set
yet.'
'It has set for me to-night,' she replied, mournfully.
The creeping mists winding round the blue bases of the far-off hills
suited her better, she thought. She followed Richard mechanically into
the quaint kitchen garden; there was a broad terrace-walk, with a seat
placed so as to command the distant view; great bushes of cabbage-roses
and southernwood scented the air; gilly-flowers, and sweet-williams, and
old-fashioned stocks bloomed in the borders; below them the garden
sloped steeply to the crofts, and beyond lay the circling hills. In the
distance they could hear the faint pealing of the curfew bell, and the
bleating of the flocks in the crofts.
Ethel drew a deep sigh; the sweet calmness of the scene seemed to soothe
her.
'You were right to bring me here,' she said at last, gratefully.
'I have brought you here--because I want to speak to you,' returned
Richard, with the same curious break in his voice.
His temples were beating still, but he was calm, strangely calm, he
remembered afterwards. How did it happen? were the words his own or
another's? How did it come that she was shrinking away from him with
that startled look in her eyes, and that he was speaking in that low,
passionate voice? Was it this he meant when he called her Ethel?
'No, no! say you do not mean it, Richard! Oh, Richard, Richard!' her
voice rising into a perfect cry of pain. What, must she lose him too?
'Dear, how can I say it? I have always meant to tell you--always; it is
not my fault that I have loved you, Ethel; the love has grown up and
become a part of myself ever since we were children together!'
'Does Mildred--does any one know?' she asked, and a vivid crimson
mantled in her pale cheeks as she asked the question.
'Yes, my father knows--and Aunt Milly. I think they all guessed my
secret long ago--all but you,' in a tenderly reproachful voice; 'why
should they not know? I am not ashamed of it,' continued the young man,
a little loftily.
Somehow they had changed characters. It was Ethel who was timid now.
'But--but--they could not have approved,' she faltered at last.
'Why should they not approve? My father loves you as a daughter--they
all do; they would take you into their hearts, and you would never be
lonely again. Oh, Ethel, is there no hope? Do you mean that you cannot
love me?'
'I have always loved you; but we are too young, yes, that is it, we are
too young--too much of an age. If I marry, I must look up to my husband.
Indeed, indeed, we are too young, Richard!'
'I am, you mean;' how calm he was growing; why his very voice was under
his control now. 'Listen to me, dear: I am only six months older than
you, but in a love like mine age does not count; it is no boyish lover
you are dismissing, Ethel; I am older in everything than you; I should
not be afraid to take care of you.'
No, he was not afraid; as she looked up into that handsome resolute
face, and read there the earnestness of his words, Ethel's eyes dropped
before that clear, dominant glance as they had never done before. It was
she that was afraid now--afraid of this young lover, so grave, so
strong, so self-controlled; this was not her old favourite, this new,
quiet-spoken Richard. She would fain have kept them both, but it must
not be.
'May I speak to your father?' he pleaded. 'At least you will be frank
with me; I have little to offer, I know--a hard-working curate's home,
and that not yet.'
'Hush! I will not have this from you,' and for a moment Ethel's true
woman's soul gleamed in her eyes; 'if you were penniless it would make
no difference; I would give up anything, everything for the man I loved.
For shame, Richard, when you know I loathe the very name of riches.'
'Yes, I know your great soul, Ethel; it is this that I love even more
than your beauty, and I must not tell you what I think of that; it is
not because I am poor and unambitious that you refuse me?'
'No, no,' she returned hurriedly; 'you know it is not.'
'And you do not love any one else?'
'No, Richard,' still more faintly.
'Then I will not despair,' and as he spoke there rushed upon him a
sudden conviction, from whence he knew not, that one day this girl whom
he was wooing so earnestly, and who was silencing him with such brief
sweet replies, should one day be his wife; that the beauty, and the
great soul, and the sad yearning heart should be his and no other's;
that one day--a long distant day, perhaps--he should win her for his
own.
And with the conviction, as he told Mildred long afterwards, there came
a settled calm, and a wonderful strength that he never felt before; the
world, his own world, seemed flooded over with this great purpose and
love of his; and as he stood there before her, almost stooping over, and
yet not touching her, there came a vivid brightness into his eyes that
scared Ethel.
'Of what are you thinking, Richard?' she said almost tremblingly.
'Nay, I must not tell you.'
Should he tell her? would she credit this strange prophecy of his? dimly
across his mind, as he stood there before her, there came the thought of
a certain shepherd, who waited seven years for the Rachel of his love.
'No, I will not tell you; dear, give me your hand,' and as she gave it
him--wondering and yet fearful--he touched it lightly and reverently
with his lips.
'Now I must go. Some day--years hence, perhaps--I shall speak of this
again; until then we are friends still, is it not so?'
'Yes--yes,' she returned eagerly; 'we must try to forget this. I cannot
lose you altogether, Richard.'
'You will never lose me; perhaps--yes it will be better--I may go away
for a little time; you must promise me one thing, to take care of
yourself, if only for the sake of your old friend Richard.'
'Yes, I will promise,' she returned, bursting into tears. Oh, why was
her heart so hard; why could she not love him? As she looked after him,
walking with grave even strides down the garden path, a passionate pity
and yearning seemed to wake in her heart. How good he was, how noble,
how true. 'Oh, if he were not so young, and I could love him as he ought
to be loved,' she said to herself as the gate clanged after him, and she
was left alone in the sunset.