LADY BASSETT was carried to her room, and did not reappear. She kept
her own apartments, and her health declined so rapidly that Sir Charles
sent for Dr. Willis. He prescribed for the body, but the disease lay in
the mind. Martyr to an inward struggle, she pined visibly, and her
beautiful eyes began to shine like stars, preternaturally large. She
was in a frightful condition: she longed to tell the truth and end it
all; but then she must lose her adored husband's respect, and perhaps
his love; and she had not the courage. She saw no way out of it but to
die and leave her confession; and, as she felt that the agony of her
soul was killing her by degrees, she drew a somber resignation from
that.
She declined to see Reginald. She could not bear the sight of him.
Compton came to her many times a day, with a face full of concern, and
even terror. But she would not talk to him of herself.
He brought her all the news he heard, having no other way to cheer her.
One day he told her there were robbers about. Two farmhouses had been
robbed, a thing not known in these parts for many years.
Lady Bassett shuddered, but said nothing.
But by-and-by her beloved son came to her in distress with a grief of
his own.
Ruperta Bassett was now the beauty of the county, and it seems Mr.
Rutland had danced with her at her first ball, and been violently
smitten with her; he had called more than once at Highmore, and his
attentions were directly encouraged by Mr. Bassett. Now Mr. Rutland was
heir to a peerage, and also to considerable estates in the county.
Compton was sick at heart, and, being young, saw his life about to be
blighted; so now he was pale and woe-begone, and told her the sad news
with such deep sighs, and imploring, tearful eyes, that all the mother
rose in arms. “Ah!” said she, “they say to themselves that I am down,
and cannot fight for my child; but I would fight for him on the edge of
the grave. Let me think all by myself, dear. Come back to me in an
hour. I shall do something. Your mother is a very cunning woman--for
those she loves.”
Compton kissed her gown--a favorite action of his, for he worshiped
her--and went away.
The invalid laid her hollow cheek upon her wasted hand, and thought
with all her might. By degrees her extraordinary brain developed a
twofold plan of action; and she proceeded to execute the first part,
being the least difficult, though even that was not easy, and brought a
vivid blush to her wasted cheek.
She wrote to Mrs. Bassett.
“MADAM--I am very ill, and life is uncertain. Something tells me you,
like me, regret the unhappy feud between our houses. If this is so, it
would be a consolation to me to take you by the hand and exchange a few
words, as we already have a few kind looks.
“Yours respectfully,
“BELLA BASSETT.”
She showed this letter to Compton, and told him he might send a servant
with it to Highmore at once.
“Oh, mamma!” said he, “I never thought you would do that: how good you
are! You couldn't ask Ruperta, could you? Just in a little postscript,
you know.”
Lady Bassett shook her head.
“That would not be wise, my dear. Let me hook that fish for you, not
frighten her away.”
Great was the astonishment at Highmore when a blazing footman knocked
at the door and handed Jessie the letter with assumed nonchalance, then
stalked away, concealing with professional art his own astonishment at
what he had done.
It was no business of Jessie's to take letters into the drawing-room;
she would have deposited any other letter on the hall table; but she
brought this one in, and, standing at the door, exclaimed, “Here a
letter fr' Huntercombe!”
Richard Bassett, Mrs. Bassett, and Ruperta, all turned upon her with
one accord.
“From where?”
“Fr' Huntercombe itsel'. Et isna for you, nor for you, missy. Et's for
the mesterress.”
She marched proudly up to Mrs. Bassett and laid the letter down on the
table; then drew back a step or two, and, being Scotch, coolly waited
to hear the contents. Richard Basset, being English, told her she need
not stay.
Mrs. Bassett cast a bewildered look at her husband and daughter, then
opened the letter quietly; read it quietly; and, having read it, took
out her handkerchief and began to cry quietly.
Ruperta cried, “Oh, mamma!” and in a moment had one long arm round her
mother's neck, while the other hand seized the letter, and she read it
aloud, cheek to cheek; but, before she got to an end, her mother's
tears infected her, and she must whimper too.
“Here are a couple of geese,” said Richard Bassett. “Can't you write a
civil reply to a civil letter without sniveling? I'll answer the letter
for you.”
“No!” said Mrs. Bassett.
Richard was amazed: Ruperta ditto.
The little woman had never dealt in “Noes,” least of all to her
husband; and besides this was such a plump “No.” It came out of her
mouth like a marble.
I think the sound surprised even herself a little, for she proceeded to
justify it at once. “I have been a better wife than a Christian this
many years. But there's a limit. And, Richard, I should never have
married you if you had told me we were to be at war all our lives with
our next neighbor, that everybody respects. To live in the country, and
not speak to our only neighbor, that is a life I never would have left
my father's house for. Not that I complain: if you have been bitter to
them, you have always been good and kind to me; and I hope I have done
my best to deserve it; but when a sick lady, and perhaps dying, holds
out her hand to me---write her one of your cold-blooded letters! That I
WON'T. Reply? my reply will be just putting on my bonnet and going to
her this afternoon. It is Passion-week, too; and that's not a week to
play the heathen. Poor lady! I've seen in her sweet eyes this many
years that she would gladly be friends with me; and she never passed me
close but she bowed to me, in church or out, even when we were at
daggers drawn. She is a lady, a real lady, every inch. But it is not
that altogether. No, if a sick woman called me to her bedside this
week, I'd go, whether she wrote from Huntercombe Hall or the poorest
house in the place; else how could I hope my Saviour would come to _my_
bedside at my last hour?”
This honest burst, from a meek lady who never talked nonsense, to be
sure, but seldom went into eloquence, staggered Richard Bassett, and
enraptured Ruperta so, that she flung both arms round her mother's
neck, and cried, “Oh, mamma! I always thought you were the best woman
in England, and now I know it.”
“Well, well, well,” said Richard, kindly enough; then to Ruperta, “Did
I ever say she was not the best woman in England? So you need not set
up your throats neck and neck at me, like two geese at a fox.
Unfortunately, she is the simplest woman in England, as well as the
best, and she is going to visit the cunningest. That Lady Bassett will
turn our mother inside out in no time. I wish you would go with her;
you are a shrewd girl.”
“My daughter will not go till she is asked,” said Mrs. Bassett, firmly.
“In that case,” said Richard, dryly, “let us hope the Lord will protect
you, since it is for love of Him you go into a she-fox's den.”
No reply was vouchsafed to this aspiration, the words being the words
of faith, but the voice the voice of skepticism.
Mrs. Bassett put on her bonnet, and went to Huntercombe Hall.
After a very short delay she was ushered upstairs, to the room where
Lady Bassett was lying on a sofa.
Lady Bassett heard her coming, and rose to receive her.
She made Mrs. Bassett a court courtesy so graceful and profound that it
rather frightened the little woman. Seeing which, Lady Bassett changed
her style, and came forward, extending both hands with admirable grace,
and gentle amity, not overdone.
Mrs. Bassett gave her both hands, and they looked full at each other in
silence, till the eyes of both ladies began to fill.
“You would have come--like this--years ago--at a word?” faltered Lady
Bassett.
“Yes,” gulped Mrs. Bassett.
Then there was another long pause.
“Oh, Lady Bassett, what a life! It is a wonder it has not killed us
both.”
“It will kill one of us.”
“Not if I can help it.”
“God bless you for saying so! Dear madam, sit by me, and let me hold
the hand I might have had years ago, if I had had the courage.”
“Why should you take the blame?” said Mrs. Bassett. “We have both been
good wives: too obedient, perhaps. But to have to choose between a
husband's commands and God's law, that is a terrible thing for any poor
woman.”
“It is, indeed.”
Then there was another silence, and an awkward pause. Mrs. Bassett
broke it, with some hesitation. “I hope, Lady Bassett, your present
illness is not in any way--I hope you do not fear anything more from my
husband?”
“Oh, Mrs. Bassett! how can I help fearing it--especially if we provoke
him? Mr. Reginald Bassett has returned, and you know he once gave your
husband cause for just resentment.”
“Well, but he is older now, and has more sense. Even if he should,
Ruperta and I must try and keep the peace.”
“Ruperta! I wish I had asked you to bring her with you. But I feared to
ask too much at once.”
“I'll send her to you to-morrow, Lady Bassett.”
“No, bring her.”
“Then tell me your hour.”
“Yes, and I will send somebody out of the way. I want you both to
myself.”
While this conversation was going on at Huntercombe, Richard Bassett,
being left alone with his daughter, proceeded to work with his usual
skill upon her young mind.
He reminded her of Mr. Rutland's prospects, and said he hoped to see
her a countess, and the loveliest jewel of the Peerage.
He then told her Mr. Rutland was coming to stay a day or two next week,
and requested her to receive him graciously.
She promised that at once.
“That,” said he, “will be a much better match for you than the younger
son of Sir Charles Bassett. However, my girl is too proud to go into a
family where she is not welcome.”
“Much too proud for that,” said Ruperta.
He left her smarting under that suggestion.
While he was smoking his cigar in the garden, Mrs. Bassett came home.
She was in raptures with Lady Bassett, and told her daughter all that
had passed; and, in conclusion, that she had promised Lady Bassett to
take her to Huntercombe to-morrow.
“Me, dear!” cried Ruperta; “why, what can she want of me?”
“All I know is, her ladyship wishes very much to see you. In my
opinion, you will be _very_ welcome to poor Lady Bassett.”
“Is she very ill?”
Mrs. Bassett shook her head. “She is much changed. She says she should
be better if we were all at peace; but I don't know.”
“Oh, mamma, I wish it was to-morrow.”
They went to Huntercombe next day; and, ill as she was, Lady Bassett
received them charmingly. She was startled by Ruperta's beauty and
womanly appearance, but too well bred to show it, or say it all in a
moment. She spoke to the mother first; but presently took occasion to
turn to the daughter, and to say, “May I hope, Miss Bassett, that you
are on the side of peace, like your dear mother and myself?”
“I am,” said Ruperta, firmly; “I always was--especially after that
beautiful sermon, you know, mamma.”
Says the proud mother, “You might tell Lady Bassett you think it is
your mission to reunite your father and Sir Charles.”
“Mamma!” said Ruperta, reproachfully. That was to stop her mouth. “If
you tell all the wild things I say to you, her ladyship will think me
very presumptuous.”
“No, no,” said Lady Bassett, “enthusiasm is not presumption. Enthusiasm
is beautiful, and the brightest flower of youth.”
“I am glad you think so, Lady Bassett; for people who have no
enthusiasm seem very hard and mean to me.”
“And so they are,” said Lady Bassett warmly.
But I have no time to record the full details of the conversation. I
can only present the general result. Lady Bassett thought Ruperta a
beautiful and noble girl, that any house might be proud to adopt; and
Ruperta was charmed by Lady Bassett's exquisite manners, and touched
and interested by her pale yet still beautiful face and eyes. They made
friends; but it was not till the third visit, when many kind things had
passed between them, that Lady Bassett ventured on the subject she had
at heart. “My dear,” said she to Ruperta, “when I first saw you, I
wondered at my son Compton's audacity in loving a young lady so much
more advanced than himself; but now I must be frank with you; I think
the poor boy's audacity was only a proper courage. He has all my
sympathy, and, if he is not quite indifferent to you, let me just put
in my word, and say there is not a young lady in the world I could bear
for my daughter-in-law, now I have seen and talked with you, my dear.”
“Thank you, Lady Bassett,” said Mrs. Bassett; “and, since you have said
so much, let me speak my mind. So long as your son is attached to my
daughter, I could never welcome any other son-in-law. I HAVE GOT THE
TIPPET.”
Lady Bassett looked at Ruperta, for an explanation. Ruperta only
blushed, and looked uncomfortable. She hated all allusion to the feats
of her childhood.
Mrs. Bassett saw Lady Bassett's look of perplexity, and said, eagerly,
“You never missed it? All the better. I thought I would keep it, for a
peacemaker partly.”
“My dear friend,” said Lady Bassett, “you are speaking riddles to me;
what tippet?”
“The tippet your son took off his own shoulders, and put it round my
girl, that terrible night they were lost in the wood. Forgive me
keeping it, Lady Bassett--I know I was little better than a thief; but
it was only a tippet to you, and to me it was much more. Ah! Lady
Bassett, I have loved your darling boy ever since; you can't wonder,
you are a mother;” and, turning suddenly on Ruperta, “why do you keep
saying he is only a boy? If he was man enough to do that at seven years
of age, he must have a manly heart. No; I couldn't bear the sight of
any other son-in-law; and when you are a mother you'll understand many
things, and, for one, you'll--under--stand--why I'm so--fool--ish;
seeing the sweet boy's mother ready--to cry--too--oh! oh! oh!”
Lady Bassett held out her arms to her, and the mothers had a sweet cry
together in each other's arms.
Ruperta's eyes were wet at this; but she told her mother she ought not
to agitate Lady Bassett, and she so ill.
“And that is true, my good, sensible girl,” said Mrs. Bassett; “but it
has lain in my heart these nine years, and I could not keep it to
myself any longer. But you are a beauty and a spoiled child, and so I
suppose you think nothing of his giving you his tippet to keep you
warm.”
“Don't say that, mamma,” said Ruperta, reproachfully. “I spoke to dear
Compton about it not long ago. He had forgotten all about it, even.”
“All the more to his credit; but don't you ever forget it, my own
girl.”
“I never will, mamma.”
By degrees the three became so unreserved that Ruperta was gently urged
to declare her real sentiments.
By this time the young beauty was quite cured of her fear lest she
should be an unwelcome daughter-in-law; but there was an obstacle in
her own mind. She was a frank, courageous girl; but this appeal tried
her hard.
She blushed, fixed her eyes steadily on the ground, and said, pretty
firmly and very slowly, “I had always a great affection for my cousin
Compton; and so I have now. But I am not in love with him. He is but a
boy; now I--”
A glance at the large mirror, and a superb smile of beauty and
conscious womanhood, completed the sentence.
“He will get older every day,” said Mrs. Bassett.
“And so shall I.”
“But you will not look older, and he will. You have come to your full
growth. He hasn't.”
“I agree with the dear girl,” said Lady Bassett, adroitly. “Compton,
with his fair hair, looks so young, it would be ridiculous at present.
But it is possible to be engaged, and wait a proper time for marriage;
what I fear is, lest you should be tempted by some other offer. To
speak plainly, I hear that Mr. Rutland pays his addresses to you, and
visits at Highmore.”
“Yes, he has been there twice.”
“He is welcome to your father; and his prospects are dazzling; and he
is not a boy, for he has long mustaches.”
“I am not dazzled by his mustaches, and still less by his prospects,”
said the fair young beauty.
“You are an extraordinary girl.”
“That she is,” said Mrs. Bassett. “Her father has no more power over
her than I have.”
“Oh, mamma! am I a disobedient girl, then?”
“No, no. Only in this one thing, I see you will go your own way.”
Lady Bassett put in her word. “Well, but this one thing is the
happiness or misery of her whole life. I cannot blame her for looking
well before she leaps.”
A grateful look from Ruperta's glorious eyes repaid the speaker.
“But,” said Lady Bassett, tenderly, “it is something to have two
mothers when you marry, instead of one; and you would have two, my
love; I would try and live for you.”
This touched Ruperta to the heart; she curled round Lady Bassett's
neck, and they kissed each other like mother and daughter.
“This is too great a temptation,” said Ruperta. “Yes; I _will_ engage
myself to Cousin Compton, if papa's consent can be obtained. Without
his consent I could not marry any one.”
“Nobody can obtain it, if you cannot,” said Mrs. Bassett.
Ruperta shook her head. “Mark my words, mamma, it will take me years to
gain it. Papa is as obstinate as a mule. To be sure, I am as obstinate
as fifty.”
“It shall not take years, nor yet months,” said Lady Bassett. “I know
_Mr. Bassett's_ objection, and I will remove it, cost me what it may.”
This speech surprised the other two ladies so, they made no reply.
Said Lady Bassett firmly, “Do you pledge yourself to me, if I can
obtain Mr. Bassett's consent?”
“I do,” said Ruperta. “But--”
“You think my power with your father must be smaller than yours. I hope
to show you you are mistaken.”
The ladies rose to go: Lady Bassett took leave of them thus: “Good-by,
my most valued friend, and sister in sorrow; good-by, my dear
daughter.”
At the gate of Huntercombe, whom should they meet but Compton Bassett,
looking very pale and unhappy.
He was upon honor not to speak to Ruperta; but he gazed on her with a
wistful and terrified look that was very touching. She gave him a soft
pitying smile in return, that drove him almost wild with hope.
That night Richard Bassett sat in his chair, gloomy.
When his wife and daughter spoke to him in their soft accents, he
returned short, surly answers. Evidently a storm was brewing.
At last it burst. He had heard of Ruperta's repeated visits to
Huntercombe Hall. “You are not dealing fairly with me, you two,” said
he. “I allowed you to go once to see a woman that says she is very ill;
but I warned you she was the cunningest woman in creation, and would
make a fool of you both; and now I find you are always going. This will
not do. She is netting two simple birds that I have the care of. Now,
listen to me; I forbid you two ever to set foot in that house again. Do
you hear me?”
“We hear you, papa,” said Mrs. Bassett, quietly; “we must be deaf, if
we did not.”
Ruperta kept her countenance with difficulty.
“It is not a request, it is a command.”
Mrs. Bassett for once in her life fired up. “And a most tyrannical
one,” said she.
Ruperta put her hand before her mother's mouth, then turned to her
father.
“There was no need to express your wish so harshly, papa. We shall
obey.”
Then she whispered her mother, “And Mr. Rutland shall pay for it.”
Mrs. Bassett communicated this behest to Lady Bassett in a letter.
Then Lady Bassett summoned all her courage, and sent for her son
Compton. “Compton,” said she, “I must speak to Reginald. Can you find
him?”
“Oh yes, I can find him. I am sorry to say anybody can find him at this
time of day.”
“Why, where is he?”
“I hardly like to tell you.”
“Do you think his peculiarities have escaped me?”
“At the public-house.”
“Ask him to come to me.”
Compton went to the public-house, and there, to his no small disgust,
found Mr. Reginald Bassett playing the fiddle, and four people, men and
women, dancing to the sound, while one or two more smoked and looked
on.
Compton restrained himself till the end of that dance, and then stepped
up to Reginald and whispered him, “Mamma wants to see you directly.”
“Tell her I'm busy.”
“I shall tell her nothing of the kind. You know she is very ill, and
has not seen you yet; and now she wants to. So come along at once, like
a good fellow.”
“Youngster,” said Reginald, “it is a rule with me never to leave a
young woman for an old one.”
“Not for your mother?”
“No, nor my grandmother either.”
“Then you were born without a heart. But you shall come, whether you
like it or not--though I have to drag you there by the throat.”
“Learn to spell 'able' first.”
“I'll spell it on your head, if you don't come.”
“Oh, that is the game, young un, is it?”
“Yes.”
“Well, don't let us have a shindy on the bricks; there is a nice little
paddock outside. Come out there and I'll give you a lesson.”
“Thank you; I don't feel inclined to assist you in degrading our
family.”
“Chaps that are afraid to fight shouldn't threaten. Come now, the first
knock-down blow shall settle it. If I win, you stay here and dance with
us. If you win, I go to the old woman.”
Compton consented, somewhat reluctantly; but to do him justice, his
reluctance arose entirely from his sense of relationship, and not from
any fear of his senior.
The young gentlemen took off their coats, and proceeded to spar without
any further ceremony.
Reginald, whose agility was greater than his courage, danced about on
the tips of his toes, and succeeded in planting a tap or two on
Compton's cheek.
Compton smarted under these, and presently, in following his
antagonist, who fought like a shadow, he saw Ruperta and her mother
looking horror-stricken over the palings.
Infuriated with Reginald for this exposure, he rushed in at him,
received a severe cut over the eye, but dealt him with his mighty
Anglo-Saxon arm a full straightforward smasher on the forehead, which
knocked him head over heels like a nine-pin.
That active young man picked himself up wondrous slowly; rheumatism
seemed to have suddenly seized his well-oiled joints; he then addressed
his antagonist, in his most ingratiating tones--“All right, sir,” said
he. “You are the best man. I'll go to the old lady this minute.”
“I'll see you go,” said Compton, sternly; “and mind I can run as well
as hit: so none of your gypsy tricks with me.”
Then he came sheepishly to the palings and said, “It is not my fault,
Miss Bassett; he would not come to mamma without, and she wants to
speak to him.”
“Oh! he is hurt! he is wounded!” cried Ruperta. “Come here to me.”
He came to her, and she pressed her white handkerchief tenderly on his
eyebrow; it was bleeding a little.
“Well, are you coming?” said Reginald, ironically, “or do _you_ like
young women better than old ones?”
Compton instantly drew back a little, made two steps, laid his hand on
the palings, vaulted over, and followed Reginald.
“That's your _boy,”_ said Mrs. Bassett.
Ruperta made no reply, but began to gulp.
“What is the matter, darling?”
“The fighting--the blood”--said Ruperta, sobbing.
Mrs. Bassett drew her on one side, and soon soothed her.
When their gentle bosoms got over their agitation, they rather enjoyed
the thing, especially Ruperta: she detested Reginald for his character,
and for having insulted her father.
All of a sudden, she cried out, “He has taken my handkerchief. How dare
he?” And she affected anger.
“Never mind, dear,” said Mrs. Bassett, coolly, “we have got his
tippet.”