HOW BESSY PRYOR CAME TO LOVE THE HEIR OF LAUNAY.
Matters became very unpleasant at the Park soon after Philip went away.
There had been something in his manner as he left, and a silence in
regard to him on Bessy’s part, which created, not at first surprise, but
uneasiness in the mind of Mrs. Miles. Bessy hardly mentioned his name,
and Mrs. Miles knew enough of the world to feel that such restraint must
have a cause. It would have been natural for a girl so circumstanced to
have been full of Philip and his botany. Feeling this she instigated the
parson to renewed attempts; but the parson had to tell her that there
was no chance for him. “What has she said?” asked Mrs. Miles.
“That it can never be.”
“But it shall be,” said Mrs. Miles, stirred on this occasion to an
assertion of the obstinacy which was in her nature. Then there was a
most unpleasant scene between the old lady and her dependent. “What is
it that you expect?” she asked.
“Expect, aunt!” Bessy had been instructed to call Mrs. Miles her aunt.
“What do you think is to be done for you?”
“Done for me! You have done everything. May I not stay with you?” Then
Mrs. Miles gave utterance to a very long lecture, in which many things
were explained to Bessy. Bessy’s position was said to be one very
peculiar in its nature. Were Mrs. Miles to die there would be no home
for her. She could not hope to find a home in Philip’s house as a real
sister might have done. Everybody loved her because she had been good
and gracious, but it was her duty to marry--especially her duty--so that
there might be no future difficulty. Mr. Morrison was exactly the man
that such, a girl as Bessy ought to want as a husband. Bessy through her
tears declared that she didn’t want any husband, and that she certainly
did not want Mr. Morrison.
“Has Philip said anything?” asked the imprudent old woman. Then Bessy
was silent. “What has Philip said to you?”
“I told him, when he asked, that I should never marry Mr. Morrison.”
Then it was--in that very moment--that Mrs. Miles in truth suspected the
blow that was to fall upon her; and in that same moment she resolved
that, let the pain be what it might to any or all of them, she would do
her duty by her family.
“Yes,” she said to herself, as she sat alone in the unadorned,
unattractive sanctity of her own bedroom, “I will do my duty at any rate
now.” With deep remorse she acknowledged to herself that she had been
remiss. For a moment her anger was very bitter. She had warmed a reptile
in her bosom. The very words came to her thoughts, though they were not
pronounced. But the words were at once rejected. The girl had been no
reptile. The girl had been true. The girl had been as sweet a girl as
had ever brightened the hearth of an old woman. She acknowledged so much
to herself even in this moment of her agony. But not the less would she
do her duty by the family of the Launays. Let the girl do what she
might, she must be sent away--got rid of--sacrificed in any way rather
than that Philip should be allowed to make himself a fool.
When for a couple of days she had turned it all in her mind she did not
believe that there was as yet any understanding between the girl and
Philip. But still she was sure that the danger existed. Not only had the
girl refused her destined husband--just such a man as such a girl as
Bessy ought to have loved--but she had communicated her purpose in that
respect to Philip. There had been more of confidence between them than
between her and the girl. How could they two have talked on such a
subject unless there had been between them something of stricter, closer
friendship even than that of brother and sister? There had been
something of a conspiracy between them against her--her who at Launay
was held to be omnipotent, against her who had in her hands all the
income, all the power, all the ownership--the mother of one of them, and
the protectress and only friend of the other! She would do her duty, let
Bessy be ever so sweet. The girl must be made to marry Mr. Morrison--or
must be made to go.
But whither should she go, and if that “whither” should be found, how
should Philip be prevented from following her? Mrs. Miles, in her agony,
conceived an idea that it would be easier to deal with the girl herself
than with Philip. A woman, if she thinks it to be a duty, will more
readily sacrifice herself in the performance of it than will a man. So
at least thought Mrs. Miles, judging from her own feelings; and Bessy
was very good, very affectionate, very grateful, had always been
obedient. If possible she should be driven into the arms of Mr.
Morrison. Should she stand firm against such efforts as could be made
in that direction, then an appeal should be made to herself. After all
that had been done for her, would she ruin the family of the Launays for
the mere whim of her own heart?
During the process of driving her into Mr. Morrison’s arms--a process
which from first to last was altogether hopeless--not a word had been
said about Philip. But Bessy understood the reticence. She had been
asked as to her promise to Philip, and never forgot that she had been
asked. Nor did she ever forget those words which at the moment so
displeased her--“You have grown to be the loveliest woman that I have
ever looked upon.” She remembered now that he had held her hand tightly
while he had spoken them, and that an effort had been necessary as she
withdrew it. She had been perfectly serious in decrying the personal
compliment; but still, still, there had been a flavour of love in the
words which now remained among her heartstrings. Of course he was not
her brother--not even her cousin. There was not a touch of blood between
them to warrant such a compliment as a joke. He, as a young man, had
told her that he thought her, as a young woman, to be lovely above all
others. She was quite sure of this--that no possible amount of driving
should drive her into the arms of Mr. Morrison.
The old woman became more and more stern. “Dear aunt,” Bessy said to her
one day, with an air of firmness which had evidently been assumed
purposely for the occasion, “indeed, indeed, I cannot love Mr.
Morrison.” Then Mrs. Miles had resolved that she must resort to the
other alternative. Bessy must go. She did believe that when everything
should be explained Bessy herself would raise no difficulty as to her
own going. Bessy had no more right to live at Launay than had any other
fatherless, motherless, penniless living creature. But how to explain
it? What reason should be given? And whither should the girl be sent?
Then there came delay, caused by another great trouble. On a sudden Mrs.
Miles was very ill. This began about the end of May, when Philip was
still up in London inhaling the incense which came up from the success
of his book. At first she was very eager that her son should not be
recalled to Launay. “Why should a young man be brought into the house
with a sick old woman?” Of course she was eager. What evils might not
happen if they two were brought together during her illness? At the end
of three weeks, however, she was worse--so much worse that the people
around her were afraid; and it became manifest to all of them that the
truth must be told to Philip in spite of her injunctions. Bessy’s
position became one of great difficulty, because words fell from Mrs.
Miles which explained to her almost with accuracy the condition of her
aunt’s mind. “You should not be here,” she said over and over again.
Now, it had been the case, as a matter of course, that Bessy, during the
old lady’s illness, had never left her bedside day or night. Of course
she had been the nurse, of course she had tended the invalid in
everything. It had been so much a matter of course that the poor lady
had been impotent to prevent it, in her ineffectual efforts to put an
end to Bessy’s influence. The servants, even the doctors, obeyed Bessy
in regard to the household matters. Mrs. Miles found herself quite
unable to repel Bessy from her bedside. And then, with her mind always
intent on the necessity of keeping the young people apart, and when it
was all but settled that Philip should be summoned, she said again and
again, “You should not be here, Bessy. You must not be here, Bessy.”
But whither should she go? No place was even suggested to her. And were
she herself to consult some other friend as to a place--the clergyman of
their own parish for instance, who out of that house was her most
intimate friend--she would have to tell the whole story, a story which
could not be told by her lips. Philip had never said a word to her,
except that one word: “You have grown to be the loveliest woman that
ever I looked upon.” The word was very frequent in her thoughts, but she
could tell no one of that!
If he did think her lovely, if he did love her, why should not things
run smoothly? She had found it to be quite out of the question that she
should be driven into the arms of Mr. Morrison, but she soon came to own
to herself that she might easily be enticed into those other arms. But
then perhaps he had meant nothing--so probably had meant nothing! But if
not, why should she be driven away from Launay? As her aunt became
worse and worse, and when Philip came down from London, and with Philip
a London physician, nothing was settled about poor Bessy, and nothing
was done. When Philip and Bessy stood together at the sick woman’s
bedside she was nearly insensible, wandering in her mind, but still with
that care heavy at her heart. “No, Philip; no, no, no,” she said. “What
is it, mother?” asked Philip. Then Bessy escaped from the room and
resolved that she would always be absent when Philip was by his mother’s
bedside.
There was a week in which the case was almost hopeless; and then a week
during which the mistress of Launay crept slowly back to life. It could
not but be that they two should see much of each other during such
weeks. At every meal they sat together. Bessy was still constant at the
bedside of her aunt, but now and again she was alone with Philip. At
first she struggled to avoid him, but she struggled altogether in vain.
He would not be avoided. And then of course he spoke. “Bessy, I am sure
you know that I love you.”
“I am sure I hope you do,” she replied, purposely misinterpreting him.
Then he frowned at her. “I am sure, Bessy, you are above all
subterfuges.”
“What subterfuges? Why do you say that?”
“You are no sister of mine; no cousin even. You know what I mean when I
say that I love you. Will you be my wife?”
Oh! if she might only have knelt at his feet and hidden her face among
her hands, and have gladly answered him with a little “Yes,” extracted
from amidst her happy blushes! But, in every way, there was no time for
such joys. “Philip, think how ill your mother is,” she said.
“That cannot change it. I have to ask you whether you can love me. I am
bound to ask you whether you will love me.” She would not answer him
then; but during that second week in which Mrs. Miles was creeping back
to life she swore that she did love him, and would love him, and would
be true to him for ever and ever.