It puzzled Kate very much next morning to find that Huntley had not
reappeared. It was not in the nature of things that she could avoid
thinking about him, and wondering over and over again what he could
mean,--whether he was mystifying her--but that was impossible; or if it
was really, actually true? And the fact was that she went down-stairs
a little earlier than usual, with a great curiosity in her mind as
to how Fred would look, and whether she should see any traces in his
face of last night’s agitation. When she had taken this trouble, it
may be supposed that it was hard upon her to find Fred absent; and she
“did not like”--a new expression in Kate’s vocabulary--to ask what
had become of him. She caught herself looking at the door anxiously
every time it opened, but he did not come. Some one at last relieved
her anxiety by asking the point-blank question, “What has become of
Huntley? has he gone away?” It was an idea which never had occurred
to Kate. She looked up in blank dismay at the suggestion, and met her
father’s eye fully fixed upon her, and trembled, and felt that in two
minutes more she must cry--not for Fred, but because he was decidedly
an exciting new plaything, and he had gone away.
“Yes, he has gone away,” said Mr Crediton, “this morning, before some
of us were out of bed. I have his farewells to make. He did not know it
would be necessary for him to go when he left us last night.”
“I hope there is nothing the matter at Westbrook,” said one of Fred’s
intimates; but Kate did not say a word. The room swam round her for one
moment. Gone away! Was it so serious as that, then? The self-possessed
Fred, had matters been so grave with him that flight was his only
refuge? She was so startled that she did not know what to think. She
was sorry, and surprised, and fluttered, and excited, all in a breath.
She did not pay any attention to the conversation for some minutes,
though she was sufficiently mistress of herself to take the usual part
in it, and to go on dispensing cups of tea. Gone away! It was very
fine, very honourable, very provoking of him. She had meant to bring
him down to his level very kindly and skilfully, and cure him of all
hopes, while still she kept him bound in a certain friendly chain. And
now he had cut it all short, and taken the matter into his own hands.
It cannot be denied that Kate was a little vexed at the moment. No
doubt, if she had been left alone she would have got over it in the
course of the day, and recovered her composure, and thought no more of
Fred Huntley than she had done two days ago; but she was not destined
to be left to herself. The first thing that happened was that Mr
Crediton remained in the breakfast-room till everybody was gone, and
called her to him. The most indulgent of fathers was looking somewhat
stern, which was a thing of itself which utterly puzzled as well as
dismayed the girl whom he had scarcely ever thwarted in the whole
course of her life.
“Kate,” he said, “you took no notice when I said Fred Huntley had gone
away--so I suppose he told you why it was?”
“He never said a word to me of going away, papa,” faltered Kate.
“But you know the cause? and I hope it will be a warning to you,” said
Mr Crediton. “I have seen this going on for some days, and I meant to
have spoken to you. A girl in your position has no right to distinguish
a man as you did poor Fred.”
“But, dear papa,” cried Kate, feeling very penitent yet very much
flattered--as if somebody had paid her a very nice compliment, she
said afterwards--“you cannot think it was my fault; I only talked to
him like the rest. If I talked to him a little more, it was about--Mr
Mitford. And he knew all the time. How was I to suppose it could come
to any harm?”
“Don’t let me hear of any other man being taken in by your confounded
confidences--about Mr Mitford,” said her father, with an amount of
rudeness and contemptuous impatience, such as perhaps had never been
shown to Kate before in all her life.
“Papa!” she cried, indignant, drawing herself up; but Mr Crediton
only said “Pshaw!” and went off and left her standing by herself, not
knowing whether to cry or to be very angry, in the great empty room.
He was wroth, and he was disposed rather to heighten than to subdue
the expression of it. He wanted her to feel the full weight of his
displeasure, rather a little more than less. For Fred Huntley would
have suited him well enough for a son-in-law, if it was necessary
to have such an article. He had distinguished himself already, and
was likely still more to distinguish himself. He was thought of by
the borough authorities as the new Member for Camelford. He was very
well off, and could do everything that was right and meet in the way
of providing for his bride. He was in her own sphere. “Confound that
Mitford!” Mr Crediton said to himself as he left his daughter. It
was bad enough to contemplate the possibility of ever resigning his
child to John’s keeping; but to throw aside a man he liked for him,
exaggerated the offence. He went out, kicking Kate’s favourite Skye
terrier on his way, as angry men are apt to do. “As if it was poor
Muffy that had done it!” Kate said, with the tears springing to her
eyes. When she was thus left she called her injured terrier to her, and
hugged it, and had a good cry. “You did not do it, did you, Muffy?” she
said. “Poor dear dog! what had you to do with it? If a man chooses to
be silly, are we to be kicked for it, Muffy _mio_? Papa is a great
bear, and everybody is as unkind as they can be; and oh, I am so sorry
about poor Fred!”
She got over her crying, however, and her regrets, and made herself
very agreeable to a great many people for the rest of the day, and
petted Muffy very much, and took no notice of her father, who, poor
man, had compunctions; but by the time that evening arrived, Kate began
to feel that the loss of Fred was a very serious loss indeed. He had
timed his departure very cleverly. If Madeline Winton had still been
there, it might have been bearable; for she would have had some one
to open her heart to, notwithstanding that even to Madeline she had
not been able to speak of John as she had indulged herself in doing
to her “friend”--John’s friend; somehow that was not the title which
she now thought of giving to Fred Huntley. He had suddenly sprung into
individuality, and held a distinct place of his own in her mind. Poor
Fred! could it be possible that he was so fond of her! he who was not
at all a tragical sort of personage, or one likely to do anything
very much out of the way for love. What could he find in her to be
fond of? Kate said to herself. He was not like John, who was ignorant
of society. Fred Huntley had seen heaps of other girls who were very
pretty and very nice; and why was it that he had set his affections
upon herself, Kate, whom he could not have? It seemed such a pity, such
a waste of effort. “Madeline might have had him, perhaps,” she said to
herself, reflecting pensively in her easy-chair with her fan at her
lips to conceal their movement. Madeline as yet had no lover, and she
was very nice, and rather pretty too. And it would have been perfectly
suitable, “instead of coming making a fuss over me; and he can’t
have me,” Kate added always within herself, with a sigh of suffering
benevolence. It was hard he could not have her when he wanted her so
very much. It was hard that everybody should not have everything they
wanted. And it was odd, yet not unpleasant, that he should thus insist
upon throwing away his love upon herself, who could not accept it,
instead of giving it to Madeline, who might have accepted. How perverse
the world was!
Thus Kate reflected as she sat and mused the evening after he had gone.
She was heartily sorry to cross Fred, and felt the most affectionate
sympathy for him, poor fellow! It was so nice of him to be fond of
her, though she could not give him any return. And if he had stayed
and talked it over, instead of running away, Kate thought of a hundred
things she could have said to him, as to the unreasonableness of
falling in love with herself, and the good sense of transferring his
love to Madeline. Somehow she did not quite expect he would have taken
her advice; but still, no doubt, she would have set it before him in
a very clear light, and got him to hear reason. And then he was very
pleasant to talk to, and more amusing than anybody else at Fernwood.
This feeling had never crept over her in respect to John. When he went
away, she was sorry because he left her half in displeasure, and “had
not enjoyed himself;” but she could not persuade herself that she had
missed his company, missed a hundred things he would have said to her,
as she did now. She was in reality almost relieved to be quit of the
passionate eyes which followed her everywhere, and the demand which
he made upon her for her society, for her very inmost self. But Fred
made no such claims. Fred took what he could get, and was happy in it.
He spared her trouble, and watched to see what her wants were, and
was always ready to talk to her or to leave her alone, as her mood
varied. Poor Fred! she sighed, feeling very, very sorry for him, with
a half-tenderness of pity which young women accord only to those who
are their personal victims. Perhaps she exaggerated his sufferings,
as it was natural to do. She sat and mused over him all that evening
with her fan half concealing her face. “My dear, I am afraid you have
a headache,” one of the elder ladies said to her; and Kate acquiesced
with a faint little smile. “It is the weather,” she said, softly; and
the old lady, taking her cue, sat down beside her, and discussed the
same. “The changes are the worst,” she said--“the thermometer at sixty
one day, and next day below the freezing-point. And then, in an English
house, it is so difficult to keep cold out.”
“I hope your room is warm,” Kate said suddenly, remembering her
hostess-ship. “You must tell me if you find it chilly. There is such a
difference in some of the rooms!”
“It is according to their aspect,” said the old lady; “mine is very
comfortable, I assure you. It is you young ones that expose yourselves
to so many changes. If I were you, I would wrap up very warm, and keep
indoors for a day or two. There is nothing like keeping in an equitable
temperature. I have no confidence in anything else.”
“Thanks,” Kate said, with a feeling of dreariness. Instead of Fred’s
conversation this was a poor exchange. And she grew more and more
sorry for him, and more and more compassionate of herself as the
evening stole on. Several of the people who interested her most had
left within the last few days. There was but the moderate average
of country-house visitors left; people who were not remarkable for
anything--neither witty, nor pretty, nor particularly entertaining--and
yet not to be complained of in any way. She did her duty to them as
became Mr Crediton’s daughter, and was very solicitous to know that
they were comfortable and had what they liked; but she missed Madeline,
she missed Lady Winton, she missed her acrid old godfather, who was
said to be fond of nobody but Kate; and, above all, she missed Fred
Huntley--poor Fred!
A week had passed, somewhat weakening this impression, when Fred
returned, quite as suddenly as he went away. He was seen walking up the
avenue when the party were at luncheon, and Kate’s heart gave a little
jump at the sight of him. “Why, there is Huntley come back again!”
some one cried, but he did not make his appearance at lunch; and it was
only when he came into the drawing-room before dinner that Kate had
any opportunity of seeing what change had been wrought in him by the
discovery of his sentiments towards herself. Fred was playing a part;
but, like every other actor in life who plays his part well, had come
to believe in it himself, and to feel it real. He came up to her with a
certain confused but melancholy frankness. “Miss Crediton,” he said, “I
am afraid you cannot like to see me, but I have come about business. I
would not for the world, for any other reason, have brought what must
be an annoyance upon you.” And then Kate had lifted to him a pair of
very sympathetic, almost tender, eyes.
“Indeed I don’t know why I should not like to see you,” she said,
quietly. “You have always been very kind to me.”
“Kind!” he had answered, turning away with a gesture of impatience,
and not another word passed between them until the evening was almost
over, and all opportunity past. He was so slow, indeed, to take
advantage of any opportunity, that Kate felt half angry--wondering had
the man quite got over it? had he ever meant anything? But at the very
last, when she turned her head unthinking, all at once she found his
eyes upon her, and that he was standing close by her side.
“I suppose I must not ask for my old situation,” he said, softly. “I
have been a fool and forfeited all my advantages because I could not
win the greatest. You used to speak to me once--of the subject most
interesting to yourself.”
“I don’t think it would be in the least interesting to you _now_,
Mr Huntley,” said Kate, not without a little pique in her voice.
“Ah, you don’t know me,” he said. “I think I could interest myself in
anything that was interesting to you.”
And then there was silence, in which Kate began to feel her heart beat,
and wondered if this man could be an oyster, or if he could really
be so inconceivably fond of her as to be thus concerned in all that
concerned her happiness. It sounded like something in a romance; and
yet Kate knew enough of life and society to know that romance sometimes
gave but a very colourless picture of the truth.
“I hope you have heard lately,” he went on, with a voice which was
elaborately and yet not unnaturally subdued--for, as has been said,
Fred had fully entered into the _rôle_ he was playing--“and that
all is going well.”
Kate blushed, perhaps, more violently than she had ever blushed in her
life before. If he were making this sacrifice of his feelings for her,
surely she ought to be true and sincere with him; but what she had to
say was mortifying to her pride. She looked at him stooping over her,
and tried to read his face, and asked herself, with a simplicity that
is natural to the sophisticated, whether here, once for all, she had
found _the_ friend who is equal to utter self-abnegation, and of
whom in books one sometimes reads. A more simple-minded girl, probably,
would not have looked for so self-sacrificing a lover, but Kate had
been brought up with a persuasion of her own power to sway everybody
to her will. “Mr Huntley,” she said, hurriedly, “I don’t think I ought
to speak to you on such a subject; but, indeed, I feel anxious, and I
don’t know what to do.”
“Then do speak to me,” he said, bending over her. “Do you think I care
what happens to myself if I can be of use to you?”
There are sentiments of this heroic description which we would see
the fallacy of at once if addressed to others, which yet seem natural
spoken to ourselves. And Kate had always been so important to everybody
about her. She looked up at him again, she faltered, she half turned
away, and then, after all, she spoke.
“I don’t know why I should tell you. I don’t know what it means. I have
not heard a single word from him, Mr Huntley, since he went away.”
A sudden gleam of light came into Fred’s eyes, but he was looking down,
and she only saw a ghost of it under his lowered eyelids. “That is very
strange,” he said.
“Do you think he can be ill? Do you think anything can have happened?”
asked Kate.
“He is not ill, he is at home at Fanshawe, and his burns are getting
better. I saw him yesterday,” said Fred.
“At home! and he never told me. Oh, how unkind it is! It used to be
every other day, and now it is nearly a fortnight. But why should you
care?” cried Kate, really moved with sharp mortification, and not quite
aware what she said.
“I care a great deal,” he said, very low, and sighed. And Kate’s heart
was sore, and she was angry, and wounded, and for almost the first time
in her life felt that she had a little pride in her nature. Did the
other despise her to whom she had given her heart? Did he think she
was not worthy even of courtesy? though other people were so far from
thinking so. Kate’s impatient heart began to beat high with anger and
with pain.