THE VILLA (_continued_).
Meanwhile the day had passed for Vera like a strange sweet dream, too
rapid, too full of feeling to be understood. The novelty and the
strangeness and the complication of emotions so suddenly introduced into
her young life, which had been carefully trained to know no emotions at
all, involved her in a secret bewilderment, so that she did not seem to
know what she was saying, or on what she was treading, whether enchanted
ground, or air, or clouds. When she was about to follow the rest
indoors, Fane, who was with her, begged so hard that she would stay,
that Vera, not unwilling, though a little doubtful as to whether she
ought, softly sat down again on the rustic seat under the lime trees,
which were so sweet in the dimness of the night. Fane said nothing for a
few minutes; he let the silence and charm of the night steal into the
girl’s soul.
“I wanted to drive on for ever this morning,” at last he said softly;
“what a mistake it was! But now, if this night would only last for ever!
I don’t know what more one could wish for. Do you remember ‘The Last
Ride?’”
“What is ‘The Last Ride?’” said Vera, wondering if it was very very
ignorant of her not to know.
“It is a poem of Mr. Browning’s.”
“I don’t think I like poetry,” said Vera, shyly. “It seems dreadful to
say so, but one ought to be honest. It is so stiff and so formal, not
like anything natural.”
“What have you read? I think I could show you some you would like.”
“I have read some of Pope, and Miss Campbell is very fond of Young’s
‘Night Thoughts’ and Kirke White--and a little Cowper. I like Cowper
best, but----”
“Ah!” he said. “Shall I tell you about the ‘Last Ride?’ It is very
different from Pope. It is a poor lover whom his lady has refused. He
loves her, but she does not love him; yet, though she does not love him,
she is sweet and gracious, and will not refuse the last thing he asks of
her,--one last ride with him. And so they set out; and as they go along
he keeps comforting himself all the way, knowing every step is nearer
the end--‘Perhaps the world may end to-night.’”
“And what happens?” asked Vera, eagerly.
“Nothing happens; the ride may be going on still, for all one knows.”
Vera was silent. She was too young to understand how this ending of the
world might have helped the hapless lover. She sat quite still, in shy
wonder, feeling sad for him; wishing that the lady had relented, which
would have been better than the world ending; her thoughts entirely
carried away even from the present enchantment. Then her companion spoke
again; his voice was very soft and naturally melodious, and there was a
certain pleading in the tone:
“I wonder,” he said, “if I am to be sent away to-night.”
“To be sent away?”
“Miss Meadows brought me. She is not going till to-morrow. She is as
good as gold, but she is apt to forget details.”
“Oh, shall I run in and ask?” cried Vera. “How disagreeable for you to
be kept here. I will run and tell her.”
“No, indeed, you shall not run anywhere to serve me. It is I who will
run--wherever you please--to do anything you please. But don’t be
satirical or hard upon me. The dreadful thing will be to be sent away. I
prefer to keep out of the way till it is too late.”
Again Vera did not quite understand, and was silent, thinking it best
not to commit herself. But she began to be a little uneasy about sitting
here quite alone while everybody else had gone in. It was strangely
pleasant--so warm, yet so cool, so fresh and dewy, the house so near
with all its lights, yet the stillness so perfect. Would it be right,
though, if not so pleasant, to go back to the house?
“Can you see, beyond the garden, the lights scattered about in the
houses,” he said, “and up in the sky the stars? I don’t know which I
like best.”
“Oh, Mr. Fane, the stars!”
“Do you think so?--but see, every one of these little lights, twinkling
away far down at the foot of the hill, means something. There are people
there talking, living--with a story of one kind or another--and love.
Is it not pleasant,” he said, as she made no answer, “to sit here and
watch it all--all the other people going on with their living, and we
looking on?”
“But we are living, too,” said Vera, startled.
“Beginning to live----”
He did not say any more. And how still it was--every little rustle in
the leaves audible, though there was so much life and sound close at
hand! Vera began to feel a little frightened. All these strangenesses
seemed coming to a climax. She gave a little start when some watchful
bird made a stir among the branches and got up. “I think mamma may want
me. I think we should go in,” she said.
More than half the people were gone, however, when they went in, and the
last train was gone, and there was nothing for it but to offer Mr. Fane,
whom Elinor Meadows confessed she had forgotten, a bed. Vera, coming in
shy and dazzled by the lights, did not quite listen to all that was
said; but to know that he was going to stay was pleasant. He sat down by
her again, while her mother was occupied with the last of the departing
groups. Somehow she seemed to know him better than any one--better even
than her mother, to whom she was so much a stranger; and here indoors,
with so many people about, it was easier to talk. She confessed to him
with a little blush that she had never been here before.
“Is it not strange?” she said, “it is home, as much as the Square, and
yet I don’t know it. People are not often like that. I suppose you used
to live with your mother when you were young, as young as I am--most
people do.”
“Most people do, but I did not, for my mother was dead. I was very
lonely--my brother a great deal older than myself, and no one else
belonging to me.”
“Ah! my brother is only two years older than I. But then if one never
sees them it comes to just the same thing. I was very lonely, too. Never
anybody to play with,” said Vera, tears coming into her eyes out of pity
for the forlorn little self whom she had conjured up. “Nobody to talk
to--except Miss Campbell. I remember,” she went on, changing
involuntarily into a soft laugh; “I got the poor servants into sad
trouble because I told papa they had a party and I danced. Oh! how nice
that party was! I was only eight. It couldn’t have done me much harm,
could it?”
“Evidently it has not done you any harm,” said Fane. “Nothing could do
you any harm. I ran wild as I liked, and no one was shocked.”
“Ah!” cried Vera again, with a sigh, “you boys are so much better off
than girls. Nobody says you ought to be still, never to talk, never to
be remarked. It is hard always to be obliged to remember that one is a
girl. Miss Campbell always says, ‘You forget yourself,’ when that is
just what I would like to do. Forget all about me! Why should one always
be obliged to think about one’s self?”
“When there are so many other people that would be too glad to do it for
you!” said Fane--a speech which, like many others, was lost upon Vera.
But the fountain of her confidences was opened, and she went on almost
without a pause.
“It is now so many years since Miss Campbell came, and I have been
obliged to be so good. I don’t think I was good before. And when I go
back again I shall have to begin once more, and try not to forget
myself, and to speak low, and to keep in the background, and not ‘to be
remarked.’ Why should any one remark me?” cried Vera. “It is very hard
upon us poor girls, you must allow, Mr. Fane.”
“And when do you go back?”
“To-morrow!” she said, with a long-drawn breath, a sigh so pathetic,
that it was all he could do, notwithstanding his profound sympathy, not
to laugh.
“I wonder if I might call,” he said. “I should like to bring you some
books. I should like to try to amuse--Miss Campbell a little. Do you
think I might come?”
“Miss Campbell!” said Vera, somewhat disappointed; then she recollected
that it would still be better than nothing to be amused even at second
hand. “Papa never said nobody was to call. People do call, not very
amusing people, and if it is Miss Campbell you want to see----”
“Yes, of course it is Miss Campbell,” he said, laughing.
Upon which Vera understood, and laughed and blushed, and between the
two this seemed the very best of jokes. They kept laughing at it at
intervals as they went on talking.
“I am the victim of a romantic but hopeless passion,” said Fane. “If
Miss Campbell will not smile upon me, what will become of me?” and it
seemed to Vera that the humor was exquisite. All at once Miss Campbell
and the Square seemed to be suffused with the same rosy light which made
the villa such a world of enchantment. Elinor Meadows looked back at
them, somewhat uneasily, wondering if it was quite right, if Oswald was
quite to be trusted, if he knew where he was leading that innocent
child. She became frightened at her own handiwork. Mrs. Tremenheere, on
the other side, heard the laugh, and looked gratefully at the young
stranger who called forth so merry a laugh from Vera. Thus tolerated and
protected, the two young creatures felt secure in their corner, and
talked and smiled, and poured out their hearts to each other, they could
not tell why, and were more happy than they could say.
Next day was quieter, but still more sweet. They went out, the whole
little party, and strayed about the lanes, and visited the school where
Edward, still very absent, showed them everything, and saw the boys
playing cricket as on that wonderful day which had made a new beginning
to Vera’s life.
It was late in the evening when they returned to town, their party
increased by the addition of one of Mrs. Tremenheere’s neighbors. It was
not at all the same as the drive down. That had been merry, brilliant, a
little company of three all united in one. This was different. You
cannot lean across a carriage to talk in the dimness of the night,
though two who are seated next each other may say much. The lady who sat
by Miss Meadows had a great deal of conversation, and occupied her so,
that at the end of the journey she half apologized to Vera.
“I have never been able to say a word to you,” said Elinor. “That
tiresome woman! You must forgive me, my dear.”
Vera forgave her very freely. She leant back upon the soft cushions,
quite indifferent to the fact that she had her back to the horses. She
could not see him very well in the dusk, but she could see how he
looked at her, which is different. Why should he look so, as nobody else
ever looked? It was strange, but it was pleasant; and he spoke so low,
not to disturb the others, that she had to lean her head towards him to
hear. And once by accident (he begged her pardon for it) their fingers
just touched; and she heard him say to himself softly,
“Perhaps the world may end to-night.”
Vera would not have acknowledged for the world that she had heard it,
but she began to understand now what these words which had seemed so
strangely unsatisfactory and unintelligible meant. Alas! When they came
to Hyde Park Square, and the steps were let down, and the door opened,
and old Jervis appeared on the threshold waiting for her, had not the
world indeed suddenly come to an end? When the door shut upon that fairy
chariot, and she was left standing in the half-lighted, dull, drab,
too-familiar hall, the very heart seemed to die out of Vera’s bosom. She
shivered all over, feeling cold, and would have liked to cry.
“Is anything wrong, Miss?” said Jervis, sympathetically.
“Oh, no, no, nothing!” cried Vera, with a sob in her throat; and stole
softly up-stairs, a forlorn little white ghost. Alas! the world had
ended--but not in the poet’s way.
[Illustration]