NEARER AND NEARER.
So they went on living in utter misery till the month of May had come
round, and Lady Anna was at last pronounced to be convalescent.
Late one night, long after midnight, the Countess crept into her
daughter's room and sat down by the bedside. Lady Anna was asleep,
and the Countess sat there and watched. At this time the girl had
passed her birthday, and was of age. Mr. Goffe had been closeted
with her and with her mother for two mornings running, Sir William
Patterson had also been with them, and instructions had been given as
to the property, upon which action was to be at once taken. Of that
proportion of the estate which fell to Lady Anna, one entire moiety
was to be made over to the Earl. While this was being arranged no
word was said as to Daniel Thwaite, or as to the marriage with
the lord. The settlement was made as though it were a thing of
itself; and they all had been much surprised,--the mother, the
Solicitor-General, and the attorney,--at the determination of purpose
and full comprehension of the whole affair which Lady Anna displayed.
When it came to the absolute doing of the matter,--the abandonment
of all this money,--the Countess became uneasy and discontented.
She also had wished that Lord Lovel should have the property,--but
her wish had been founded on a certain object to be attained, which
object was now farther from her than ever. But the property in
question was not hers, but her daughter's, and she made no loud
objection to the proceeding. The instructions were given, and the
deeds were to be forthcoming some time before the end of the month.
It was on the night of the 11th of May that the Countess sat at her
child's bedside. She had brought up a taper with her, and there she
sat watching the sleeping girl. Thoughts wondrously at variance with
each other, and feelings thoroughly antagonistic, ran through her
brain and heart. This was her only child,--the one thing that there
was for her to love,--the only tie to the world that she possessed.
But for her girl, it would be good that she should be dead. And if
her girl should do this thing, which would make her life a burden to
her,--how good it would be for her to die! She did not fear to die,
and she feared nothing after death;--but with a coward's dread she
did fear the torment of her failure if this girl should become the
wife of Daniel Thwaite. In such case most certainly would she never
see the girl again,--and life then would be all a blank to her. But
she understood that though she should separate herself from the world
altogether, men would know of her failure, and would know that she
was devouring her own heart in the depth of her misery. If the girl
would but have done as her mother had proposed, would have followed
after her kind, and taken herself to those pleasant paths which had
been opened for her, with what a fond caressing worship, with what
infinite kisses and blessings, would she, the mother, have tended
the young Countess and assisted in making the world bright for the
high-born bride. But a tailor! Foh! What a degraded creature was her
child to cling to so base a love!
She did, however, acknowledge to herself that the girl's clinging was
of a kind she had no power to lessen. The ivy to its standard tree
is not more loyal than was her daughter to this wretched man. But
the girl might die,--or the tailor might die,--or she, the miserable
mother, might die; and so this misery might be at an end. Nothing
but death could end it. Thoughts and dreams of other violence had
crossed her brain,--of carrying the girl away, of secluding her, of
frightening her from day to day into some childish, half-idiotic
submission. But for that the tame obedience of the girl would have
been necessary,--or that external assistance which she had sought,
in vain, to obtain among the lawyers. Such hopes were now gone, and
nothing remained but death.
Why had not the girl gone when she was so like to go? Why had she not
died when it had seemed to be God's pleasure to take her? A little
indifference, some slight absence of careful tending, any chance
accident would have made that natural which was now,--which was
now so desirable and yet beyond reach! Yes;--so desirable! For
whose sake could it be wished that a life so degraded should be
prolonged? But there could be no such escape. With her eyes fixed on
vacancy, revolving it in her mind, she thought that she could kill
herself;--but she knew that she could not kill her child.
But, should she destroy herself, there would be no vengeance in that.
Could she be alone, far out at sea, in some small skiff with that
low-born tailor, and then pull out the plug, and let him know what
he had done to her as they both went down together beneath the water,
that would be such a cure of the evil as would now best suit her
wishes. But there was no such sea, and no such boat. Death, however,
might still be within her grasp.
Then she laid her hand on the girl's shoulder, and Lady Anna awoke.
"Oh, mamma;--is that you?"
"It is I, my child."
"Mamma, mamma; is anything the matter? Oh, mamma, kiss me." Then
the Countess stooped down and kissed the girl passionately. "Dear
mamma,--dearest mamma!"
"Anna, will you do one thing for me? If I never speak to you of Lord
Lovel again, will you forget Daniel Thwaite?" She paused, but Lady
Anna had no answer ready. "Will you not say as much as that for me?
Say that you will forget him till I am gone."
"Gone, mamma? You are not going!"
"Till I am dead. I shall not live long, Anna. Say at least that you
will not see him or mention his name for twelve months. Surely, Anna,
you will do as much as that for a mother who has done so much for
you." But Lady Anna would make no promise. She turned her face to the
pillow and was dumb. "Answer me, my child. I may at least demand an
answer."
"I will answer you to-morrow, mamma." Then the Countess fell on her
knees at the bedside and uttered a long, incoherent prayer, addressed
partly to the God of heaven, and partly to the poor girl who was
lying there in bed, supplicating with mad, passionate eagerness that
this evil thing might be turned away from her. Then she seized the
girl in her embrace and nearly smothered her with kisses. "My own, my
darling, my beauty, my all; save your mother from worse than death,
if you can;--if you can!"
Had such tenderness come sooner it might have had deeper effect. As
it was, though the daughter was affected and harassed,--though she
was left panting with sobs and drowned in tears,--she could not but
remember the treatment she had suffered from her mother during the
last six months. Had the request for a year's delay come sooner,
it would have been granted; but now it was made after all measures
of cruelty had failed. Ten times during the night did she say that
she would yield,--and ten times again did she tell herself that
were she to yield now, she would be a slave all her life. She had
resolved,--whether right or wrong,--still, with a strong mind and a
great purpose, that she would not be turned from her way, and when
she arose in the morning she was resolved again. She went into her
mother's room and at once declared her purpose. "Mamma, it cannot be.
I am his, and I must not forget him or be ashamed of his name;--no,
not for a day."
"Then go from me, thou ungrateful one, hard of heart, unnatural
child, base, cruel, and polluted. Go from me, if it be possible, for
ever!"
Then did they live for some days separated for a second time, each
taking her meals in her own room; and Mrs. Richards, the owner of
the lodgings, went again to Mrs. Bluestone, declaring that she was
afraid of what might happen, and that she must pray to be relieved
from the presence of the ladies. Mrs. Bluestone had to explain that
the lodgings had been taken for the quarter, and that a mother and
daughter could not be put out into the street merely because they
lived on bad terms with each other. The old woman, as was natural,
increased her bills;--but that had no effect.
On the 15th of May Lady Anna wrote a note to Daniel Thwaite, and sent
a copy of it to her mother before she had posted it. It was in two
lines;--
DEAR DANIEL,
Pray come and see me here. If you get this soon enough,
pray come on Tuesday about one.
Yours affectionately,
ANNA.
"Tell mamma," said she to Sarah, "that I intend to go out and put
that in the post to-day." The letter was addressed to Wyndham Street.
Now the Countess knew that Daniel Thwaite had left Wyndham Street.
"Tell her," said the Countess, "tell her--; but, of what use to tell
her anything? Let the door be closed upon her. She shall never return
to me any more." The message was given to Lady Anna as she went
forth:--but she posted the letter, and then called in Bedford Square.
Mrs. Bluestone returned with her to Keppel Street; but as the door
was opened by Mrs. Richards, and as no difficulty was made as to Lady
Anna's entrance, Mrs. Bluestone returned home without asking to see
the Countess.
This happened on a Saturday, but when Tuesday came Daniel Thwaite
did not come to Keppel Street. The note was delivered in course of
post at his old abode, and was redirected from Wyndham Street late on
Monday evening,--having no doubt given cause there for much curiosity
and inspection. Late on the Tuesday it did reach Daniel Thwaite's
residence in Great Russell Street, but he was then out, wandering
about the streets as was his wont, telling himself of all the horrors
of an idle life, and thinking what steps he should take next as to
the gaining of his bride. He had known to a day when she was of age,
and had determined that he would allow her one month from thence
before he would call upon her to say what should be their mutual
fate. She had reached that age but a few days, and now she had
written to him herself.
On returning home he received the girl's letter, and when the early
morning had come,--the Wednesday morning, the day after that fixed
by Lady Anna,--he made up his mind as to his course of action. He
breakfasted at eight, knowing how useless it would be to stir early,
and then called in Keppel Street, leaving word with Mrs. Richards
herself that he would be there again at one o'clock to see Lady Anna.
"You can tell Lady Anna that I only got her note last night very
late." Then he went off to the hotel in Albemarle Street at which he
knew that Lord Lovel was living. It was something after nine when
he reached the house, and the Earl was not yet out of his bedroom.
Daniel, however, sent up his name, and the Earl begged that he would
go into the sitting-room and wait. "Tell Mr. Thwaite that I will not
keep him above a quarter of an hour." Then the tailor was shown into
the room where the breakfast things were laid, and there he waited.
Within the last few weeks very much had been said to the Earl
about Daniel Thwaite by many people, and especially by the
Solicitor-General. "You may be sure that she will become his wife,"
Sir William had said, "and I would advise you to accept him as her
husband. She is not a girl such as we at first conceived her to be.
She is firm of purpose, and very honest. Obstinate, if you will,
and,--if you will,--obstinate to a bad end. But she is generous, and
let her marry whom she will, you cannot cast her out. You will owe
everything to her high sense of honour;--and I am much mistaken if
you will not owe much to him. Accept them both, and make the best
of them. In five years he'll be in Parliament as likely as not. In
ten years he'll be Sir Daniel Thwaite,--if he cares for it. And in
fifteen years Lady Anna will be supposed by everybody to have made
a very happy marriage." Lord Lovel was at this time inclined to be
submissive in everything to his great adviser, and was now ready to
take Mr. Daniel Thwaite by the hand.
He did take him by the hand as he entered the sitting-room, radiant
from his bath, clad in a short bright-coloured dressing-gown such
as young men then wore o' mornings, with embroidered slippers on
his feet, and a smile on his face. "I have heard much of you, Mr.
Thwaite," he said, "and am glad to meet you at last. Pray sit down.
I hope you have not breakfasted."
Poor Daniel was hardly equal to the occasion. The young lord had
been to him always an enemy,--an enemy because the lord had been the
adversary of the Countess and her daughter, an enemy because the lord
was an earl and idle, an enemy because the lord was his rival. Though
he now was nearly sure that this last ground of enmity was at an
end, and though he had come to the Earl for certain purposes of his
own, he could not bring himself to feel that there should be good
fellowship between them. He took the hand that was offered to him,
but took it awkwardly, and sat down as he was bidden. "Thank your
lordship, but I breakfasted long since. If it will suit you, I will
walk about and call again."
"Not at all. I can eat, and you can talk to me. Take a cup of tea at
any rate." The Earl rang for another teacup, and began to butter his
toast.
"I believe your lordship knows that I have long been engaged to marry
your lordship's cousin,--Lady Anna Lovel."
"Indeed I have been told so."
"By herself."
"Well;--yes; by herself."
"I have been allowed to see her but once during the last eight or
nine months."
"That has not been my fault, Mr. Thwaite."
"I want you to understand, my lord, that it is not for her money that
I have sought her."
"I have not accused you, surely."
"But I have been accused. I am going to see her now,--if I can get
admittance to her. I shall press her to fix a day for our marriage,
and if she will do so, I shall leave no stone unturned to accomplish
it. She has a right to do with herself as she pleases, and no
consideration shall stop me but her wishes."
"I shall not interfere."
"I am glad of that, my lord."
"But I will not answer for her mother. You cannot be surprised, Mr.
Thwaite, that Lady Lovel should be averse to such a marriage."
"She was not averse to my father's company nor to mine a few years
since;--no nor twelve months since. But I say nothing about that.
Let her be averse. We cannot help it. I have come to you to say that
I hope something may be done about the money before she becomes my
wife. People say that you should have it."
"Who says so?"
"I cannot say who;--perhaps everybody. Should every shilling of it be
yours I should marry her as willingly to-morrow. They have given me
what is my own, and that is enough for me. For what is now hers and,
perhaps, should be yours, I will not interfere with it. When she is
my wife, I will guard for her and for those who may come after her
what belongs to her then; but as to what may be done before that, I
care nothing."
On hearing this the Earl told him the whole story of the arrangement
which was then in progress;--how the property would in fact be
divided into three parts, of which the Countess would have one, he
one, and Lady Anna one. "There will be enough for us all," said the
Earl.
"And much more than enough for me," said Daniel as he got up to take
his leave. "And now I am going to Keppel Street."
"You have all my good wishes," said the Earl. The two men again shook
hands;--again the lord was radiant and good humoured;--and again the
tailor was ashamed and almost sullen. He knew that the young nobleman
had behaved well to him, and it was a disappointment to him that any
nobleman should behave well.
Nevertheless as he walked away slowly towards Keppel Street,--for the
time still hung on his hands,--he began to feel that the great prize
of prizes was coming nearer within his grasp.