A PLEASANT EVENING.
The result, however, was a compromise. Clarence Copperhead went off with
his father and Sir Robert to the Hall for the night, but was to return
next day, and Phoebe was left in a condition of some excitement behind
them, not quite knowing what to think. She was as sure as ever that he
had made up his mind to propose; but he had not done it, and what effect
his father's visit, and perhaps his mother's entreaties, might have upon
him, Phoebe could not tell. The crisis excited her beyond any excitement
which she would have thought possible in respect to Clarence Copperhead.
She was more like an applicant for office kept uncertain whether she was
to have a desirable post or not, than a girl on the eve of a lover's
declaration. This was her own conception of the circumstances. She did
not dislike Clarence; quite the reverse. She had no sympathy with
Ursula's impatience of his heavy vanity. Phoebe had been used to him all
her life, and had never thought badly of the heavy boy whom she had been
invited to amuse when she was six years old, and whom she had no
particular objection to amuse still, let the others wonder at her as
they might. Poor Reginald, contemplating bitterly her many little
complacencies to his rival, set them down hastily to an appreciation of
that rival's worldly advantages, which was not quite a just sentence. It
was true, and yet it was not true; other feelings mingled in Phoebe's
worldliness. She did, indeed, perceive and esteem highly the advantages
which Clarence could give her; but she had not the objections to
Clarence himself that the others had. She was willing, quite willing, to
undertake the charge of him, to manage, and guide, and make a man of
him. And yet, while it was not pure worldliness, much less was it actual
love which moved her. It was a kind of habitual affection, as for the
"poor thing, but mine own, sir," of the jester. He was but a poor
creature, but Phoebe knew she could make something of him, and she had
no distaste to the task. When she began to perceive that Reginald, in so
many ways Clarence's superior, was at her disposal, a sense of
gratification went through Phoebe's mind, and it certainly occurred to
her that the feeling he might inspire would be a warmer and a more
delightful one than that which would fall to Clarence Copperhead; but
she was not tempted thereby to throw Clarence off for the other. No, she
was pleased, and not unwilling to expend a little tender regret and
gratitude upon poor Reginald. She was ready to be "kind" to him, though
every woman knows that is the last thing she ought to be to a rejected
lover; and she was full of sympathy for the disappointment which,
nevertheless, she fully intended was to be his lot. This seems
paradoxical, but it is no more paradoxical than human creatures
generally are. On this particular evening her heart beat very high on
account of Clarence, to know if he would have strength of mind to hold
his own against his father, and if he would come back to her and ask
her, as she felt certain he meant to do, that one momentous question.
Her heart would not have been broken had he not done so, but still she
would have been disappointed. Notwithstanding when the evening came, the
absence of Clarence was a relief to Phoebe as well as to the rest of the
party, and she gave herself up to the pleasures of a few hours of
half-tender intercourse with Reginald, with a sense of enjoyment such as
she seldom felt. This was very wrong, there is no denying it, but still
so it was. She was anxious that Clarence should come back to her, and
ask her to be his wife; and yet she was pleased to be rid of Clarence,
and to give her whole attention and sympathy to Reginald, trying her
best to please him. It was very wrong; and yet such things have happened
before, and will again; and are as natural, perhaps, as the more
absolute and unwavering passion which has no doubt of its object,
passion like Northcote's, who had neither eyes nor ears for anything but
Ursula. The four were alone together that evening, and enjoyed it
thoroughly. Clarence was away, who, to all but Phoebe, was an
interruption of their intercourse; and Mr. May was away in his study,
too much absorbed to think of any duties that ought to have devolved
upon him as chaperon; and even Janey was out of the way, taking tea with
Mrs. Hurst. So the two young pairs sat round the table and talked; the
girls, with a mutual panic, which neither breathed to the other, keeping
together, avoiding separation into pairs. Ursula out of very shyness and
fright alone, lest another chapter of the strange, novel, too moving
love-tale might be poured into her ears; but Phoebe with more settled
purpose, to prevent any disclosure on the part of Reginald. The evening
was mixed up of pleasure and pain to the two young men, each eager to
find himself alone with the girl whom he loved; but it is to be feared
the girls themselves had a furtive guilty enjoyment of it, which they
ought not to have had. Open and outrageous love-making is not half so
delicate a pastime as that in which nothing distinct dare be said, but
all is implication, conveyed and understood without words. I know it is
a dangerous thing to confess, but veracity requires the confession; you
may say it was the playing of the cat with the mouse, if you wish to
give a disagreeable version of it; but, however you choose to explain
it, this was how it was.
It was with fear and trembling at last that Phoebe went to the piano,
which was at the other end of the room, after making all the resistance
which was possible.
"Thank Heaven, that idiot and his fiddle aren't here to-night to
interfere!" cried Reginald.
Phoebe shook her head at him, but ventured on no words; and how she did
exert herself on the piano, playing things which were a great deal too
classical for Reginald, who would have preferred the simplest stock
piece, under cover of which he might have talked to her hanging over her
chair, and making belief to turn over the music! This was what he
wanted, poor fellow. He had no heart nor ears for Beethoven, which Phoebe
played to him with a tremor in her heart, and yet, the wicked little
witch, with some enjoyment too.
"This is not the sort of thing you play when Copperhead is here," he
said at last, driven to resistance.
"Oh, we play Mendelssohn," said Phoebe, with much show of innocence; and
then she added, "You ought to feel the compliment if I play Beethoven to
you."
"So I ought, I suppose," said Reginald. "The truth is, I don't care for
music. Don't take your hands off the keys."
"Why, you have done nothing but worry me to play!"
"Not for the music," said Reginald, quite satisfied to have got his
will. "Why will you not talk to me and play to me, as I wish?"
"Perhaps, if I knew what you wish--" Phoebe said, in spite of herself.
"Oh, how I should like to tell you! No, not Beethoven; a little, just a
little music. Heavens!" cried Reginald, as she crashed into a
fortissimo, "another sonata! Listen, I am not equal to sonatas. Nay,
Miss Beecham, play me a little nothing--talk to me."
She shook her head at him with a laugh, and went on playing the hardest
piece of music she could think of, complicating herself in difficult
chords and sudden accidentals. If there had been anybody there to hear
who could have understood, Phoebe's performance would, no doubt, have
appeared a masterpiece of brilliant execution, as it was; but the two
others were paying not the slightest attention, and as for Reginald, he
was in a state of tantalized vexation, which half-amused himself, and
filled the performer with an exhilarating sense of successful mischief.
Northcote was trying to say--what was he not trying to say?--to Ursula,
under cover of the music, which was the best shield he could have had;
and perhaps in reality, though Reginald was tantalized to the utmost
degree of tantalization, even he had a certain enjoyment in the saucy
self-defence which was more mischievous than cruel. He stood behind
Phoebe's chair, now and then meeting her laughing glance with one of
tender appeal and reproach, pleased to feel himself thus isolated with
her, and held an arm's-length in so genial a way. He would have his
opportunity after a while, when there would be no piano to give her a
momentary refuge, and then he would say out all that was in his heart,
with no possible shadow of a rival to interfere with him. Angry? no; as
he stood behind her, watching her fingers fly over the keys, a
delightful calm stole over Reginald. Now and then she would throw a
half-mocking glance at him upward over her shoulder, as she swept over
the resounding board. When the sonata was concluded, Phoebe sprang up
from the piano, and went back to the table. She proposed that they
should play a game at cards, to which Ursula agreed. The young men
shrugged their shoulders and protested; but, after all, what did it
matter, so long as they were together? They fell into their places quite
naturally, the very cards assisting; and so the moments flew by. There
was not so much sound as usual in the old faded drawing-room, which had
come to look so bright and homelike; not so much sound of voices,
perhaps less laughter--yet of all the evenings they had spent there
together, that was the one they looked back upon, all four, with most
tender recollection. They had been so happy, or, if not happy, so near
(apparently) to happiness, which is better sometimes than happiness
itself.
"Don't let Reginald come with me," Phoebe whispered, as she kissed her
friend, and said good night, "or ask Mr. Northcote to come too."
"Why?" said Ursula, with dreamy eyes; her own young tide of life was
rising, invading, for the moment, her perceptions, and dulling her sense
of what was going on round her. There was no time, however, for
anything more to be said, for Reginald was close behind with his hat in
his hand. Phoebe had to resign herself, and she knew what was coming. The
only thing was, if possible, to stop the declaration on the way.
"This is the first chance I have had of seeing you home without that
perpetual shadow of Copperhead--"
"Ah, poor Clarence!" said Phoebe. "I wonder how he is getting on away
from us all to-night."
"Poor Clarence!" echoed Reginald aghast. "You don't mean to say that
you--miss him, Miss Beecham? I never heard you speak of him in that tone
before."
"Miss him! no, perhaps not exactly," said Phoebe, with a soft little
sigh; "but still--I have known him all my life, Mr. May; when we were
quite little I used to be sent for to his grand nursery, full of lovely
toys and things--a great deal grander than mine."
"And for that reason--" said Reginald, becoming bitter, with a laugh.
"Nothing for that reason," said Phoebe; "but I noticed it at six as I
should at twenty. I must have been a horrid little worldly-minded thing,
don't you think? So you see there are the associations of a great many
years to make me say Poor Clarence, when anything is the matter with
him."
"He is lucky to rouse your sympathies so warmly," cried Reginald,
thoroughly wretched; "but I did not know there was anything the matter."
"I think there will be if he has to leave our little society, where we
have all been so happy," said Phoebe, softly. "How little one thought,
coming here a stranger, how pleasant it was to be! I especially, to whom
coming to Carlingford was rather--perhaps I might say a humiliation. I
am very fond of grandpapa and grandmamma now, but the first introduction
was something of a shock--I have never denied it; and if it had not been
for sweet kind Ursula and you--all."
The little breathless fragmentary pause which Phoebe made between the you
and the "all," giving just a ghost of emphasis to the pronoun, sounded
to poor Reginald in his foolishness almost like a caress. How cleverly
it was managed, with just so much natural feeling in it as gave it
reality! They were approaching No. 6, and Martha, the maid, already was
visible at the open door.
"Then you do give me some share--some little share," he cried, with a
broken voice. "Ah, if you would only let me tell you what your coming
has been to me. It has opened up my life; I feel everything different,
the old earth itself; there is a new light upon the whole world--"
"Hush, here is Martha!" cried Phoebe, "she will not understand about new
lights. Yes, it has been pleasant, very pleasant; when one begins to
sigh and realize how pleasant a thing has been, I always fear it is
going to be broken up."
"_Absit omen!_" cried Reginald, fervently, taking the hand she had put
out to bid him good night, and holding it fast to detain her; and was
there moisture in the eyes which she lifted to him, and which glistened,
he thought, though there was only the distant light of a lamp to see
them by?
"You must not keep me now," cried Phoebe, "here is grandpapa coming. Good
night, Mr. May, good night."
Was Phoebe a mere coquette _pure et simple_? As soon as she had got safe
within these walls, she stooped down over the primroses to get rid of
Martha, and then in the darkness had a cry, all by herself, on one side
of the wall, while the young lover, with his head full of her, checked,
but not altogether discouraged, went slowly away on the other. She
cried, and her heart contracted with a real pang. He was very tender in
his reverential homage, very romantic, a true lover, not the kind of man
who wants a wife or wants a clever companion to amuse him, and save him
the expense of a coach, and be his to refer to in everything. That was
an altogether different kind of thing. Phoebe went in with a sense in her
mind that perhaps she had never touched so close upon a higher kind of
existence, and perhaps never again might have the opportunity; but
before she had crossed the garden, she had begun once more to question
whether Clarence would have the fortitude to hold his own against
everything that father or mother could do to change his mind. Would he
have the fortitude? Would he come back to her, safe and determined, or
would he yield to arguments in favour of some richer bride, and come
back either estranged or at the least doubtful? This gave her a pang of
profound anxiety at the bottom of her heart.