AN ANXIOUS MOTHER.
Mrs. Tremenheere had spent a very uneasy month no less than her
daughter, but in a way which had no gildings of romance and happiness
like Vera’s trouble. The holidays had come, but had brought no pleasant
wanderings, no genial ease to her. She had not gone to Switzerland, as
she had proposed. Edward, disturbed and excited as he was, had declared
himself quite indifferent to Switzerland. “If there is to be nothing but
play in my life, I may as well play here as anywhere else,” he had said,
with a gloomy ill-temper quite unusual to him; and he spent the sunny
weeks of August in trudging about from one cricket match to another, an
occupation which his mother sighed over, without enjoying that kind of
honor and glory which consists in the report of “scores” in the
“_Field_.” These, it is to be supposed, gave some consolation to him,
but they did not cheer her, especially as they were diversified by long
and painful debates with her son on the subject which he had never put
aside or relinquished for a moment. Edward had changed his nature
altogether. From a docile amiable lad, ready to accept her guidance and
to be kind to everybody around him, without standing upon his own will,
he had changed into a dogged monomaniac, a being of one idea, thinking
of nothing but the project which had taken possession of his generally
dull imagination, and set it all aflame. When a slow and tranquil mind
gets roused into fanaticism the result is much more serious than with an
inflammable nature; the fire takes deeper hold, and burns with a more
concentrated and obstinate force. Edward could think of nothing but this
idea of his. He too began a correspondence essentially as clandestine as
Vera’s, though his letters came openly by the post. The boy was free
from surveillance, and therefore had no temptation towards
communications absolutely secret; but Edward wrote letters to his new
friend, the traveller, which he would not for worlds have shown to his
mother, and which were full of plans and engagements which she neither
knew nor sanctioned. The expedition was to set out in October, and the
mind of Mr. Buckram Bass was not disturbed by the fact that his young
convert, his eager disciple, was forming plans and pledging himself to
acts of which his friends disapproved. Men look leniently upon such
kinds of family treachery. Poor Mrs. Tremenheere felt that the world
would be against her when she set herself in opposition to an enterprise
which would leave her desolate, and throw away as she thought her son’s
better life. “Did she expect to keep him always at her apron strings?”
she already heard people say, and Edward himself, all the more that he
was not very bright, took up with fervor that common notion. “You know,
mamma,” he said, “if I were a girl it would be quite different; but I
can’t stay by you always, can I? You would not like to see me stick fast
at home, a poor creature like Tom Crabbe, always thinking of the danger
of wet feet!”
“You know I do not wish for anything of the sort,” said Mrs.
Tremenheere.
“No, you are not foolish like that; but is it not something of the same
kind in a more sensible way? You don’t mind my cricket, and that sort
of thing. You would let me go up Mont Blanc--all for my amusement. You
wouldn’t have me laughed at for your anxieties. I know, mother dear, you
are a great deal too wise and good for that. But when I want to throw
myself into real work, into something that will be of use in the world,
then you turn round upon me--you who have always been so good, and
refuse, because it is so far away, because it is such hard work----”
“Eddy,” said Mrs. Tremenheere, “it is always a bad thing to attribute
low motives to other people--even people much less near to you than I
am. Can you not conceive it possible that I have some better reason than
even regret to lose you and anxiety about the hardships involved? I
don’t say all the same that these would not be reason enough----”
“What reason?” said Edward. “I don’t know what other objection there
could be.”
“To me it would seem like throwing away all your chances,” said his
mother. “I don’t mean only of success in the world; that is important
enough, Eddy, though you shake your head. If any misfortune was to
happen, if our investments were to go wrong, for instance, like so many
people’s, you might have the strongest of inducements to think of
success in the world. Money never comes amiss, as everybody will tell
you--nor friends.”
“You, too, mamma!” cried Eddy, “is self-interest then the only
rule?--make friends to help one on in life, as my father said.”
“Your father knows more of the world than either you or me--yes, to help
you on, and to be helped on in turn--all true assistance is mutual; but
I did not think of that,” said Mrs. Tremenheere. “What I was thinking
was this--that you will throw yourself out of all the reasonable chances
of life if you go on with this mad notion, and separate yourself from
all your friends, and give up everything--prospects, occupations,
suitable companions--all for what? for what, Eddy?”
The lad’s face flushed. “For the good of mankind,” he cried. “Oh yes, I
know what you will say, mother! you will say that is too vague, too
general, and means nothing. I can’t help that, I can’t bring it down to
details. Africa is swarming with millions of poor creatures who know
nothing; it is to bring civilization to them, and education and trade,
to raise them above the possibility of slavery; why are they slaves
except because they are too ignorant and debased to know better? Think,
mother--is not that of greater use than anything a fellow like me could
do at home? I am not clever, you know I am not clever--but that will not
matter in Africa; so long as one is strong and honest and honorable.”
“Oh, Eddy, Eddy!” cried his mother in despair, “what am I to say to you
to dispel this illusion, my generous, good boy!”
“I will tell you what you can do, mother dear,” he said, coming up to
her, putting his arms round her, “let me go! My heart is set on it; why
should you not let me go, mamma? you never refused me anything before. I
know very well I have often disappointed you; you would have liked me to
be clever, to take a high place in school, to gain prizes and
things--but you have never blamed me when I failed, never! You have
given in to me in many a thing you did not care for, because you saw I
cared for it. Oh, don’t think I haven’t seen it! I knew it well enough.
You have never reproached me, nor refused me anything. Mother, don’t
turn round for the first time in my life, and refuse me now; don’t fail
me now, the first time when it has been really important, when I have
wanted it most!”
“You ought to see the difference,” said poor Mrs. Tremenheere; “I have
been ready to give in to you even when I did not approve, when it was of
no great importance; but now, when it is of the last importance, when
all your more serious interests are involved, how can I go against my
own judgment for the mere sake of pleasing your fancy, Eddy? You ought
not to ask me, and I--I ought not to listen.”
“I cannot see that,” he cried. “I don’t see why you should depart from
the way you have always treated me. As for me, don’t suppose this is a
mere fancy,” he added, growing red; “it is a fancy I will never depart
from; you may oblige me to put it off, but I will give it up never.”
Some one fortunately came in then, and stopped the further discussion;
but such conversations took place daily between the mother and son, and
the reader may judge how painful they were, and confusing to the mind
of Mrs. Tremenheere, who had gone all these years on the principle that
to yield all legitimate gratification to her son was the best mode of
education, and to place in him unlimited confidence. It had answered
very well up to this moment. Edward, who knew that he would not be
opposed in any innocent and natural wish, had been less, not more,
exacting, than many others more strictly governed; but now, what was she
to do now? to preserve the tradition of her theory without its spirit,
to yield to him for his own destruction, as she had yielded to him for
his innocent pleasures. To refuse and cross him--how hard it was! but to
consent to what she thought his ruin, that was harder still.
It was while Mrs. Tremenheere was involved in this painful controversy,
not knowing what was to be the end of it, that she received suddenly a
letter from Elinor Meadows, telling her about the love of Oswald Fane
for Vera. The letter was long and full of details, recounting the
efforts which the young man had made to see Mr. Tremenheere, and gain
his consent; and how, failing in this, he had appealed to her to
intercede for him with Vera’s father, and how this, too, had failed;
proceedings which had been taking place in the meanwhile. I scarcely
know by what rule it is that a youthful love-story bulks so much more
largely in the eyes of an unmarried woman, who may be supposed to have
had no such experiences of her own, than in those of a married woman,
who must of necessity, one would imagine, have herself passed through
some such passages; but so it is generally, and Mrs. Tremenheere was no
exception to the rule. Her own trouble seemed to her much more serious
than any folly about love, which no doubt Elinor had put into the
children’s heads. But though she was impatient she wrote to Vera,
telling her she was too young, much too young, to think of any such
thing, and that her first duty was to please her father, and give up
anything that he thought improper for her. When, however, Mrs.
Tremenheere had written this letter, it occurred to her, with a kind of
whimsical vexation, that it was exactly the kind of letter which her
husband would probably write to Eddy when he knew of the controversy in
which they were engaged, and this idea made her think again,
pre-occupied as she was, of her poor little woman-child, left to Miss
Campbell’s sole society, in all the tremors and distresses of that
fanciful moment, when Love and all involved in it had been first
suggested to her mind. Poor Vera! Would her father be gentle, as he
ought? Would not she now feel deeply and doubly what it was to be
without a mother? Mrs. Tremenheere’s mind, withdrawn from Vera by the
immediate vexations which were more near to her, awoke to this all at
once with that sudden, painful sense how much she was herself to blame
for depriving Vera of a mother, which gives double force to every pang.
After a day or two, during which, amid all her own troubles, this
painful question kept returning perpetually to her mind, she decided at
last to write to her husband. She must not interfere, but yet perhaps he
would be glad to have his wife’s assistance at such a moment, as she
would be glad to have his. Accordingly, in the beginning of September,
when all her own anxieties were growing greater, day by day, she took
the final resolution, and wrote to him as follows, wording her letter as
carefully as if she had been writing to the Queen:----
“DEAR CHARLES,--I don’t know whether you begin to find out, as I
do, how very much more difficult it is to manage children when they
are grown up, and begin to have fancies and opinions of their own,
than when they are small and can be commanded without explanation.
I am sorry to say I have made this discovery in a disagreeable way,
Eddy, all at once, without rhyme or reason, has fallen in love with
a life of adventure, and gives me no peace, trying to wring from me
a consent to let him go off to Africa with Mr. Buckram Bass’s
expedition. Perhaps a few words from you would help to make him
more reasonable, if you would take the trouble to write to him. He
is so good a boy in every other respect that it is very painful for
me to be obliged to cross him; and yet I am sure you will agree
with me that on this point it would be weakness and almost
wickedness to yield to his wishes.
“Elinor Meadows has written me some rigmarole about Vera and a
lover. A lover at her age! I hope it is only one of Elinor’s many
delusions in respect to this favorite subject, and that our dear
little girl’s mind has not yet been disturbed by any such ideas I
know this is the time you appropriate to relaxation, and it has
occurred to me that if Vera has known of this proposal, and has
been at all upset by it, you may dislike leaving her in the sole
companionship of Miss Campbell, who, though I don’t doubt a most
admirable person, does not look very sympathetic. If this should be
the case would you trust her to me? I should, I need not say, take
the greatest care of her, and preserve her from every suggestion of
premature love-making; her company would be very good for Eddy, who
is in an extremely unsettled state of mind, and it would be very
sweet and delightful for me. I hope, too, you might find it a
relief to your anxiety to dispose of Vera comfortably with me while
you are absent. Pray give me your advice on the other subject. With
love to Vera,
“I am, ever affectionately yours,
“ADA TREMENHEERE.”
Mr. Tremenheere received this letter just as he was arranging his plans
to send his daughter to the seaside. It was an unfortunate moment. More
difficult to manage! No, he would not acknowledge anything of the kind.
For a girl at least it was always the best way to command without
explanation. He thought but little of what his wife said about Eddy,
which no doubt was so much dust thrown in his eyes to blind him to the
real meaning of the proposed interference--as if he was to be taken in
so easily! He answered this letter by return of post. He was angry with
Elinor Meadows for her interference, and angry that his wife should know
anything about it. They should all find that he was quite able to manage
Vera and Vera’s lover without any help from them. The answer he returned
was as follows. It was not by any means so carefully written as the
epistle to which it was a reply:--
“MY DEAR ADA,--I am very sorry that you find any difficulty with
Eddy after all the indulgence you have shown him. Of course I shall
be quite ready to write and point out his duty to him if you think
there is really any necessity for such a step; but I should hope he
has not been spoiled to such an extent that he has not sense to see
what a fatal piece of absurdity this would be. It is really too
ridiculous and too entirely out of the question, I feel sure, to
warrant any serious alarm.
“As for Vera, I am very much obliged to you for volunteering to
take her off my hands, but up to the present moment I have seen
nothing in her to make such a transference necessary. I have no
doubt the system upon which she has been trained will continue to
answer perfectly, as it has done hitherto, and neither Vera nor I
have found anything wanting in Miss Campbell as a companion, though
I am aware you don’t like her. That perhaps was to be expected.
Vera is quite well, and goes to Worthing with her admirable friend
and governess the day after to-morrow. Thanking you all the same
for your kind offer, and with love to Eddy, who I trust by this
time has come to his senses, I am, my dear Ada,
“Affectionately yours,
“C. TREMENHEERE.”
This letter was very irritating to Mrs. Tremenheere. Her services were
not only rejected, but rejected with something like contumely, and the
suggestion that it was to be expected she should dislike Miss Campbell
made her furious. Why should she dislike Miss Campbell? It was all she
could do to refrain from falling upon Elinor Meadows, who had come to
her the night before it arrived, while she was still entertaining the
hope of being permitted to have her child with her. “She is not coming,
she is going to Worthing with Miss Campbell,” she said; and
magnanimously swallowed the other words which were fain to come.
“Ah!” cried Miss Meadows, with a start of interest. She was on Oswald’s
side, and delighted to feel that she should be able at once to give him
news as to where his little lady had been taken; for to be sure she was
ignorant of Mary, and all that went on through Mary’s means.
And thus poor Vera’s affairs drew to a climax. Oswald Fane, I need not
say, followed Miss Campbell and her charge to Worthing, where twice
over, by Mary’s help, he saw Vera in the early morning before Miss
Campbell was out of bed, when the girl went out for a walk--as it was so
natural she should do--with her maid. But on the last of these two
interviews Fane had lost all idea of prudence or patience. It was not
only that he was hotly in love, and kept from all legitimate intercourse
with the object of his impetuous young affection; but Mary, with whom he
was now in constant communication, and whose head was turned by the
delight and excitement of the whole transaction, drew such a touching
picture to him of Vera’s solitude and semi-imprisonment, that Fane’s
blood boiled, and it seemed the first of duties to deliver her.
“She ain’t found out as Miss Vera is up early of a morning, not yet,”
said Mary, “which it is my young lady’s only breath of freedom; but
you’ll see she will afore long, for there’s spies all about. Mercifully
she’s fond of her bed in the morning, is Miss Campbell; but as soon as
she finds it out, don’t you think for to see Miss Vera any more--not to
say as it’s as much as my place is worth now.”
“Never mind about your place,” said the lover. “You shall have your
place all right, don’t you fear.”
“Well, sir,” said Mary, curtseying, “I’ve done my best for you; but if
you’ll take my advice you won’t let that poor dear linger on here, a
prisoner, and nothing better. Daren’t take up her own letters she
daren’t, her letters from her poor mamma, nor lift her head from her
book, nor go a step without the old one after her. But for me, I know
she’d die,” Mary added emphatically. And indeed it was true that among
them they had brought poor Vera into a state of excitement in which the
child’s mind could find no rest. Her temper and her spirit rose against
the tyranny exercised over her. Miss Campbell, and only Miss Campbell,
all day; her intercourse with the external world, except through Miss
Campbell, stopped short; no one near to give the poor child any
counsel--and Mary’s insidious whispering in her ears, and the daily love
letters, with all their wonderful flattery and worship. What wonder that
poor Vera by and by found herself ready for anything? A panic seized her
indeed when Fane unfolded his plan, and showed her exactly how
everything was to be done, and how they were to be married in a church
in London, where already, without consulting her, he had put up the
banns. Married! the words froze Vera’s blood in her veins, and then sent
it tingling and burning all over her in fright and wonder and shame.
Married!
“Well, Miss, it’s a thing that happens to most folks,” said Mary, “and
all the young ladies as I’ve ever known is pleased to be asked young.
I’ve known a many as has been married at sixteen. It’s early, but still
when a lady has set her heart on a gentleman as ain’t allowed to come
and see her nor keep her company, what is to be expected? It ain’t your
blame, Miss, but them that drove you to it----”
Vera, in her confused and frightened ponderings, felt that there was
some truth in this. They were driving her to it. Shut up here, never
free to do anything, seeing nobody except by stealth--and lo, if she
liked to-morrow she might be free to go where she pleased, to see whom
she pleased, to be perpetually by his side who had made the world such a
different place to her. To be sure the idea of being married was very
appalling; but she only trembled and shrank back at the word; she no
longer made any serious opposition now.
The arrangements were all concluded while Mr. Tremenheere was in
Scotland, among a circle of friends, very much satisfied with himself;
and while Mrs. Tremenheere, worried and unhappy, was arguing with
Edward, forgetting for the moment all about Vera; and while Miss
Campbell was listening to Rollin with that routine attention which the
unfortunate educators of humanity somehow attain by long practice. Not
without excitement, not without a passing doubt, did Fane arrange all
the details. It was a risk, for he was not rich, and what might happen
to them was very uncertain. But it was only by moments that this cold
shadow came over him--to deliver Vera and make her life ever after a
dream of happiness, to be happy himself, beyond words in having her,
these were the motives that were uppermost in his mind, and he waited
with impatience, for the decisive moment. The last step was precipitated
by the discovery on Miss Campbell’s part of one of the morning walks
which the girl had taken, and which a slip on Vera’s part had betrayed
to her.
“Do you mean to say you go out in the morning before I am up?” said Miss
Campbell. Mary, who was present, made signs of every possible kind to
her mistress, and even stole behind her, suggesting a fib.
“Yes,” said Vera, whose moral failure had not gone so far. She trembled,
but she told the truth. “I have been out twice in the morning when it
was very fine--but Mary was with me,” she added, falteringly.
Miss Campbell sent a suspicious glance at Mary, but could do no more, as
there was no evidence against her. “I think perhaps, on the whole, Vera,
it will be better for you to have your bed brought into my room,” she
said. This roused all Vera’s spirit.
“Into your room, Miss Campbell? Why?” she said, with a quivering lip. “I
have always had a room of my own.”
“Yes, but then there were no reasons against it. I wish you to be in my
room now. Don’t say anything. I know what I am doing, and I am
responsible to your papa. Mary, give the orders to-morrow. It is too
late, I suppose to-night?”
“Yes, Miss Campbell, they’ve all gone to bed, or going,” said Mary.
“I’ll see to it first thing to-morrow.”
Vera went to her little room, stunned by this last blow. No more privacy
to think, no more possibility of getting her letters, and feeding her
heart upon them, of talking about him to her attendant. Mary followed
her up-stairs, a little frightened in her turn, feeling that the crisis
had come, which was too exciting to be comfortable. As long as things
could go on without coming to a crisis it was better fun. But even Mary
felt a certain trembling now.
“What am I to do? I will not bear it. I cannot bear it,” said Vera. “It
has all come to an end now.”
“Oh! Miss Vera,” said the maid, dead frightened. It was Vera now, after
being tempted and led on so long, who took the lead. She settled
everything in a few quiet words. “Stay here and sleep on the sofa,” she
said--which was a wise precaution; for otherwise, Mary, struck with a
sudden panic, was capable in pure fright of betraying everything to Miss
Campbell, already excited and full of alarm.
That morning, when it was scarcely daylight, Vera, with her maid after
her, stole out of the house, while still Miss Campbell and everybody
else in the big lodging-house was fast asleep.
[Illustration]