THE EARL ARRIVES.
At the end of a fortnight the boys had gone back to school, and Lord
Lovel was to reach the rectory in time for dinner that evening. There
was a little stir throughout the rectory, as an earl is an earl
though he be in his uncle's house, and rank will sway even aunts
and cousins. The parson at present was a much richer man than the
peer;--but the peer was at the head of all the Lovels, and then it
was expected that his poverty would quickly be made to disappear.
All that Lovel money which had been invested in bank shares, Indian
railways, Russian funds, Devon consols, and coal mines, was to become
his,--if not in one way, then in another. The Earl was to be a
topping man, and the rectory cook was ordered to do her best. The big
bedroom had been made ready, and the parson looked at his '99 port
and his '16 Margaux. In those days men drank port, and champagne at
country houses was not yet a necessity. To give the rector of Yoxham
his due it must be said of him that he would have done his very best
for the head of his family had there been no large fortune within the
young lord's grasp. The Lovels had ever been true to the Lovels, with
the exception of that late wretched Earl,--the Lady Anna's father.
But if the rector and his wife were alive to the importance of the
expected arrival, what must have been the state of Lady Anna! They
had met but once before, and during that meeting they had been alone
together. There had grown up, she knew not how, during those few
minutes, a heavenly sweetness between them. He had talked to her with
a voice that had been to her ears as the voice of a god,--it had been
so sweet and full of music! He had caressed her,--but with a caress
so gentle and pure that it had been to her void of all taint of evil.
It had perplexed her for a moment,--but had left no sense of wrong
behind it. He had told her that he loved her,--that he would love
her dearly; but had not scared her in so telling her, though she
knew she could never give him back such love as that of which he
spoke to her. There had been a charm in it, of which she delighted
to dream,--fancying that she could remember it for ever, as a green
island in her life; but could so best remember it if she were assured
that she should never see him more. But now she was to see him again,
and the charm must be renewed,--or else the dream dispelled for
ever. Alas! it must be the latter. She knew that the charm must be
dispelled.
But there was a doubt on her own mind whether it would not be
dispelled without any effort on her part. It would vanish at once
if he were to greet her as the Lovels had greeted her on her first
coming. She could partly understand that the manner of their meeting
in London had thrust upon him a necessity for flattering tenderness
with which he might well dispense when he met her among his family.
Had he really loved her,--had he meant to love her,--he would hardly
have been absent so long after her coming. She had been glad that
he had been absent,--so she assured herself,--because there could
never be any love between them. Daniel Thwaite had told her that
the brotherly love which had been offered was false love,--must be
false,--was no love at all. Do brothers marry sisters; and had not
this man already told her that he wished to make her his wife? And
then there must never be another kiss. Daniel Thwaite had told her
that; and he was, not only her lover, but her master also. This was
the rule by which she would certainly hold. She would be true to
Daniel Thwaite. And yet she looked for the lord's coming, as one
looks for the rising of the sun of an early morning,--watching for
that which shall make all the day beautiful.
And he came. The rector and his wife, and Aunt Julia and Minnie, all
went out into the hall to meet him, and Anna was left alone in the
library, where they were wont to congregate before dinner. It was
already past seven, and every one was dressed. A quarter of an hour
was to be allowed to the lord, and he was to be hurried up at once to
his bedroom. She would not see him till he came down ready, and all
hurried, to lead his aunt to the dining-room. She heard the scuffle
in the hall. There were kisses;--and a big kiss from Minnie to her
much-prized Cousin Fred; and a loud welcome from the full-mouthed
rector. "And where is Anna?"--the lord asked. They were the first
words he spoke, and she heard them, ah! so plainly. It was the same
voice,--sweet, genial, and manly; sweet to her beyond all sweetness
that she could conceive.
"You shall see her when you come down from dressing," said Mrs.
Lovel,--in a low voice, but still audible to the solitary girl.
"I will see her before I go up to dress," said the lord, walking
through them, and in through the open door to the library. "So, here
you are. I am so glad to see you! I had sworn to go into Scotland
before the time was fixed for your coming,--before I had met
you,--and I could not escape. Have you thought ill of me because I
have not been here to welcome you sooner?"
"No,--my lord."
"There are horrible penalties for anybody who calls me lord in this
house;--are there not, Aunt Jane? But I see my uncle wants his
dinner."
"I'll take you up-stairs, Fred," said Minnie, who was still holding
her cousin's hand.
"I am coming. I will only say that I would sooner see you here than
in any house in England."
Then he went, and during the few minutes that he spent in dressing
little or nothing was spoke in the library. The parson in his heart
was not pleased by the enthusiasm with which the young man greeted
this new cousin; and yet, why should he not be enthusiastic if it was
intended that they should be man and wife?
"Now, Lady Anna," said the rector, as he offered her his arm to lead
her out to dinner. It was but a mild corrective to the warmth of his
nephew. The lord lingered a moment with his aunt in the library.
"Have you not got beyond that with her yet?" he asked.
"Your uncle is more old fashioned than you are, Fred. Things did not
go so quick when he was young."
In the evening he came and lounged on a double-seated ottoman behind
her, and she soon found herself answering a string of questions. Had
she been happy at Yoxham? Did she like the place? What had she been
doing? "Then you know Mrs. Grimes already?" She laughed as she said
that she did know Mrs. Grimes. "The lion of Yoxham is Mrs. Grimes.
She is supposed to have all the misfortunes and all the virtues to
which humanity is subject. And how do you and Minnie get on? Minnie
is my prime minister. The boys, I suppose, teased you out of your
life?"
"I did like them so much! I never knew a boy till I saw them, Lord
Lovel."
"They take care to make themselves known, at any rate. But they are
nice, good-humoured lads,--taking after their mother. Don't tell
their father I said so. Do you think it pretty about here?"
"Beautifully pretty."
"Just about Yoxham,--because there is so much wood. But this is not
the beautiful part of Yorkshire, you know. I wonder whether we could
make an expedition to Wharfedale and Bolton Abbey. You would say that
the Wharfe was pretty. We'll try and plan it. We should have to sleep
out one night; but that would make it all the jollier. There isn't a
better inn in England than the Devonshire arms;--and I don't think a
pleasanter spot. Aunt Jane,--couldn't we go for one night to Bolton
Abbey?"
"It is very far, Frederic."
"Thirty miles or so;--that ought to be nothing in Yorkshire. We'll
manage it. We could get post-horses from York, and the carriage
would take us all. My uncle, you must know, is very chary about
the carriage horses, thinking that the corn of idleness,--which is
destructive to young men and women,--is very good for cattle. But
we'll manage it, and you shall jump over the Stryd." Then he told
her the story how the youth was drowned--and how the monks moaned;
and he got away to other legends, to the white doe of Rylston, and
Landseer's picture of the abbey in olden times. She had heard nothing
before of these things,--or indeed of such things, and the hearing
them was very sweet to her. The parson, who was still displeased,
went to sleep. Minnie had been sent to bed, and Aunt Julia and Aunt
Jane every now and again put in a word. It was resolved before the
evening was over that the visit should be made to Bolton Abbey. Of
course, their nephew ought to have opportunities of making love to
the girl he was doomed to marry. "Good night, dearest," he said when
she went to bed. She was sure that the last word had been so spoken,
and that no ear but her own had heard it. She could not tell him
that such word should not be spoken; and yet she felt that the word
would be almost as offensive as the kiss to Daniel Thwaite. She must
contrive some means of telling him that she could not, would not,
must not be his dearest.
She had now received two letters from her mother since she had been
at Yoxham, and in each of them there were laid down for her plain
instructions as to her conduct. It was now the middle of August, and
it was incumbent upon her to allow matters so to arrange themselves,
that the marriage might be declared to be a settled thing when the
case should come on in November. Mr. Goffe and Mr. Flick had met
each other, and everything was now understood by the two parties of
lawyers. If the Earl and Lady Anna were then engaged with the mutual
consent of all interested,--and so engaged that a day could be fixed
for the wedding,--then, when the case was opened in court, would the
Solicitor-General declare that it was the intention of Lord Lovel
to make no further opposition to the claims of the Countess and her
daughter, and it would only remain for Serjeant Bluestone to put in
the necessary proofs of the Cumberland marriage and of the baptism
of Lady Anna. The Solicitor-General would at the same time state
to the court that an alliance had been arranged between these
distant cousins, and that in that way everything would be settled.
But,--and in this clause of her instructions the Countess was most
urgent,--this could not be done unless the marriage were positively
settled. Mr. Flick had been very urgent in pointing out to Mr. Goffe
that in truth their evidence was very strong to prove that when
the Earl married the now so-called Countess, his first wife was
still living, though they gave no credit to the woman who now
called herself the Countess. But, in either case,--whether the
Italian countess were now alive or now dead,--the daughter would be
illegitimate, and the second marriage void, if their surmise on this
head should prove to be well founded. But the Italian party could of
itself do nothing, and the proposed marriage would set everything
right. But the evidence must be brought into court and further
sifted, unless the marriage were a settled thing by November. All
this the Countess explained at great length in her letters, calling
upon her daughter to save herself, her mother, and the family.
Lady Anna answered the first epistle,--or rather, wrote another in
return to it;--but she said nothing of her noble lover, except that
Lord Lovel had not as yet come to Yoxham. She confined herself to
simple details of her daily life, and a prayer that her dear mother
might be happy. The second letter from the Countess was severe in its
tone,--asking why no promise had been made, no assurance given,--no
allusion made to the only subject that could now be of interest. She
implored her child to tell her that she was disposed to listen to the
Earl's suit. This letter was in her pocket when the Earl arrived, and
she took it out and read it again after the Earl had whispered in her
ear that word so painfully sweet.
She proposed to answer it before breakfast on the following morning.
At Yoxham rectory they breakfasted at ten, and she was always up at
least before eight. She determined as she laid herself down that she
would think of it all night. It might be best, she believed, to tell
her mother the whole truth,--that she had already promised everything
to Daniel Thwaite, and that she could not go back from her word. Then
she began to build castles in the air,--castles which she declared to
herself must ever be in the air,--of which Lord Lovel, and not Daniel
Thwaite, was the hero, owner, and master. She assured herself that
she was not picturing to herself any prospect of a really possible
life, but was simply dreaming of an impossible Elysium. How many
people would she make happy, were she able to let that young
Phoebus know in one half-uttered word,--or with a single silent
glance,--that she would in truth be his dearest. It could not be so.
She was well aware of that. But surely she might dream of it. All the
cares of that careful, careworn mother would then be at an end. How
delightful would it be to her to welcome that sorrowful one to her
own bright home, and to give joy where joy had never yet been known!
How all the lawyers would praise her, and tell her that she had saved
a noble family from ruin. She already began to have feelings about
the family to which she had been a stranger before she had come among
the Lovels. And if it really would make him happy, this Phoebus,
how glorious would that be! How fit he was to be made happy! Daniel
had said that he was sordid, false, fraudulent, and a fool;--but
Daniel did not, could not, understand the nature of the Lovels. And
then she herself;--how would it be with her? She had given her heart
to Daniel Thwaite, and she had but one heart to give. Had it not been
for that, it would have been very sweet to love that young curled
darling. There were two sorts of life, and now she had had an insight
into each. Daniel had told her that this soft, luxurious life was
thoroughly bad. He could not have known when saying so, how much
was done for their poor neighbours by such as even these Lovels. It
could not be wrong to be soft, and peaceful, and pretty, to enjoy
sweet smells, to sit softly, and eat off delicately painted china
plates,--as long as no one was defrauded, and many were comforted.
Daniel Thwaite, she believed, never went to church. Here at Yoxham
there were always morning prayers, and they went to church twice
every Sunday. She had found it very pleasant to go to church, and to
be led along in the easy path of self-indulgent piety on which they
all walked at Yoxham. The church seats at Yoxham were broad, with
soft cushions, and the hassocks were well stuffed. Surely, Daniel
Thwaite did not know everything. As she thus built her castles in the
air,--castles so impossible to be inhabited,--she fell asleep before
she had resolved what letter she should write.
But in the morning she did write her letter. It must be written,--and
when the family were about the house, she would be too disturbed for
so great an effort. It ran as follows:--
Yoxham, Friday.
DEAREST MAMMA,
I am much obliged for your letter, which I got the
day before yesterday. Lord Lovel came here yesterday,
or perhaps I might have answered it then. Everybody
here seems to worship him almost, and he is so good to
everybody! We are all to go on a visit to Bolton Abbey,
and sleep at an inn somewhere, and I am sure I shall like
it very much, for they say it is most beautiful. If you
look at the map, it is nearly in a straight line between
here and Kendal, but only much nearer to York. The day is
not fixed yet, but I believe it will be very soon.
I shall be so glad if the lawsuit can be got over, for
your sake, dearest mamma. I wish they could let you have
your title and your share of the money, and let Lord Lovel
have the rest, because he is head of the family. That
would be fairest, and I can't see why it should not be so.
Your share would be quite enough for you and me. I can't
say anything about what you speak of. He has said nothing,
and I'm sure I hope he won't. I don't think I could do it;
and I don't think the lawyers ought to want me to. I think
it is very wrong of them to say so. We are strangers, and
I feel almost sure that I could never be what he would
want. I don't think people ought to marry for money.
Dearest mamma, pray do not be angry with me. If you are,
you will kill me. I am very happy here, and nobody has
said anything about my going away. Couldn't you ask
Serjeant Bluestone whether something couldn't be done to
divide the money, so that there might be no more law? I am
sure he could if he liked, with Mr. Goffe and the other
men.
Dearest mamma, I am,
Your most affectionate Daughter,
ANNA LOVEL.
When the moment came, and the pen was in her hand, she had not
the courage to mention the name of Daniel Thwaite. She knew that
the fearful story must be told, but at this moment she comforted
herself,--or tried to comfort herself,--by remembering that Daniel
himself had enjoined that their engagement must yet for a while be
kept secret.