"Look ere thou leap, see ere thou go."
"Well, Barbara, can I go?"
"I don't know"--doubtfully. There is a cloud on Mrs. Monkton's brow, she
is staring out of the window instead of into her sister's face, and she
is evidently a little distressed or uncertain. "You have been there so
lately, and----"
"You want to say something," says the younger sister, seating herself on
the sofa, and drawing Mrs. Monkton down beside her. "Why don't you do
it?"
"You can't want to go so very much, can you now?" asks the latter,
anxiously, almost entreatingly.
"It is I who don't know this time!" says Joyce, with a smile. "And
yet----"
"It seems only like yesterday that you came back after spending a month
there."
"A yesterday that dates from six weeks ago," a little reproachfully.
"I know. You like being there. It is a very amusing house to be at. I
don't blame you in any way. Lord and Lady Baltimore are both charming in
their ways, and very kind, and yet----"
"There, don't stop; you are coming to it now, the very heart of the
meaning. Go on," authoritatively, and seizing her sister in her arms,
"or I'll _shake_ it out of you."
"It is this then," says Mrs. Monkton slowly. "I don't think it is a
_wise_ thing for you to go there so often."
"Oh Barbara! Owl of Wisdom as thou art, why not?" The girl is laughing,
yet a deep flush of color has crept into each cheek.
"Never mind the why not. Perhaps it is unwise to go _anywhere_ too
often; and you must acknowledge that you spent almost the entire spring
there."
"Well, I hinted all that to Mr. Dysart."
"Was he here?"
"Yes. He came down from the Court with the note."
"And--who else is to be there?"
"Oh! the Clontarfs, and Dicky Browne, and Lady Swansdown and a great
many others."
"Mr. Beauclerk?" she does not look at Joyce as she asks this question.
"Yes."
A little silence follows, broken at last by Joyce.
"_May_ I go?"
"Do you think it is the best thing for you to do?" says Mrs. Monkton,
flushing delicately. "_Think_, darling! You know--you _must_ know,
because you have it always before you," flushing even deeper, "that to
marry into a family where you are not welcomed with open heart is to
know much private discomfiture."
"I know this too," says the girl, petulantly, "that to be married to a
man like Freddy, who consults your lightest wish, and is your lover
always, is worth the enduring of anything."
"I think that too," says Mrs. Monkton, who has now grown rather pale.
"But there is still one more thing to know--that in making such a
marriage as we have described, a woman lays out a thorny path for her
husband. She separates him from his family, and as all good men have
strong home ties, she naturally compels him to feel many a secret pang."
"But he has his compensations. Do you think if Freddy got the chance, he
would give you up and go back to his family?"
"No--not that. But to rejoice in that thought is to be selfish. Why
should he not have my love and the love of his people too? There is a
want somewhere. What I wish to impress upon you, Joyce, is this, that a
woman who marries a man against his parents' wishes has much to regret,
much to endure."
"I think you are ungrateful," says the girl a little vehemently. "Freddy
has made you endure nothing. You are the happiest married woman I know."
"Yes, but I have made _him_ endure a great deal," says Mrs. Monkton in a
low tone. She rises, and going to the window, stands there looking out
upon the sunny landscape, but seeing nothing.
"Barbara! you are crying," says Joyce, going up to her abruptly, and
folding her arms round her.
"It is nothing, dear. Nothing at all, darling. Only--I wish he and his
father were friends again. Freddy is too good a man not to regret the
estrangement."
"I believe you think Freddy is a little god!" says Joyce laughing.
"O! not a _little_ one," says Mrs. Monkton, and as Freddy stands six
foot one in his socks, they both laugh at this.
"Still you don't answer me," says the girl presently. "You don't say
'you may' or 'you shan't'--which is it to be, Barbara?"
Her tone is distinctly coaxing now, and as she speaks she gives her
sister a little squeeze that is plainly meant to press the desired
permission out of her.
Still Mrs. Monkton hesitates.
"You see," says she temporizing, "there are so many reasons. The Court,"
pausing and flushing, "is not _quite_ the house for so young a girl as
you."
"Oh Barbara!"
"You can't misunderstand me," says her sister with agitation. "You know
how I like, _love_ Lady Baltimore, and how good Lord Baltimore has been
to Freddy. When his father cast him off there was very little left to us
for beginning housekeeping with, and when Lord Baltimore gave him his
agency--Oh, _well_! it isn't likely we shall either of us forget to be
grateful for _that_. If it was only for ourselves I should say nothing,
but it is for you, dear; and--this unfortunate affair--this determined
hostility that exists between Lord and Lady Baltimore, makes it
unpleasant for the guests. You know," nervously, "I hate gossip of any
sort, but one must defend one's own."
"But there is nothing unpleasant; one sees nothing. They are charming to
each other. I have been staying there and I know."
"Have I not stayed there too? It is impossible Joyce to fight against
facts. All the world knows they are not on good terms."
"Well, a great many other people aren't perhaps."
"When they aren't the tone of the house gets lowered. And I have noticed
of late that they have people there, who----"
"Who what, Barbara?"
"Oh yes, I _know_ they are all right; they are received everywhere, but
are they good companions for a girl of your years? It is not a healthy
atmosphere for you. They are rich people who think less of a hundred
guineas than you do of five. Is it wise, I ask you again to accustom
yourself to their ways?"
"Nonsense, Barbara!" says her sister, looking at her with a growing
surprise. "That is not like you. Why should we despise the rich, why
should we seek to emulate them? Surely both you and I have too good
blood in our veins to give way to such follies." She leans towards Mrs.
Monkton, and with a swift gesture, gentle as firm, turns her face to her
own.
"Now for the real reason," says she.
Unthinkingly she has brought confusion on herself. Barbara, as though
stung to cruel candor, gives her the real reason in a sentence.
"Tell me this," says she, "which do you like best, Mr. Dysart, or Mr.
Beauclerk?"
Joyce, taking her arm from round her sister's neck, moves back from her.
A deep color has flamed into her cheeks, then died away again. She looks
quite calm now.
"What a question," says she.
"Well," feverishly, "answer it."
"Oh, no," says the girl quickly.
"Why not? Why not answer it to me, your chief friend? You think the
question indelicate, but why should I shrink from asking a question on
which, perhaps, the happiness of your life depends? If--if you have set
your heart on Mr. Beauclerk----" She stops, checked by something in Miss
Kavanagh's face.
"Well, what then?" asks the latter coldly.
"It will bring you unhappiness. He is Lady Baltimore's brother. She
already plans for him. The Beauclerks are poor--he is bound to marry
money."
"That is a good deal about Mr. Beauclerk, but what about the other
possible suitor whom you suppose I am madly in love with?"
"Don't talk to me like that, Joyce. Do you think I have anything at
heart except your interests? As to Mr. Dysart, if you like _him_, I
confess I should be glad of it. He is only a cousin of the Baltimores,
and of such moderate means that they would scarcely object to his
marrying a penniless girl."
"You rate me highly," says Joyce, with a sudden rather sharp little
laugh. "I am good enough for the cousin--I am _not_ good enough for the
brother, who may reasonably look higher."
"Not higher," haughtily. "He can only marry a girl of good birth. _You_
are that, but he, in his position, will look for money, or else his
people will look for it for him. Whereas, Mr. Dysart----"
"Yes, you needn't go over it all. Mr. Dysart is about on a level with
me, he will _never_ have any money, neither shall I." Suddenly she looks
round at her sister, her eyes very bright. "Tell me then," says she,
"what does it all come to? That I am bound to refuse to marry a man
because he has money, and because I have none."
"That is not the argument," says Barbara anxiously.
"I think it is."
"It is not. I advise you strongly not to think of Mr. Beauclerk, yet
_he_ has no money to speak of."
"He has more than Freddy."
"But he is a different man from Freddy--with different tastes, different
aspirations, different----He's different," emphatically, "in _every_
way!"
"To be different from the person one loves is not to be a bad man," says
Joyce slowly, her eyes on the ground.
"My dear girl, who has called Mr. Beauclerk a bad man?"
"You don't like him," says Miss Kavanagh, still more slowly, still with
thoughtful eyes downcast.
"I like Mr. Dysart better if you mean that."
"No, I don't mean that. And, besides, that is no answer."
"Was there a question?"
"Yes. Why don't you like Mr. Beauclerk?"
"Have I said I didn't like him?"
"Not in so many words, but----Well, why don't you?"
"I don't know," rather lamely.
Miss Kavanagh laughs a little satirically, and Mrs. Monkton, objecting
to mirth of that description, takes fire.
"Why do you _like_ him?" asks she defiantly.
"I don't know either," returns Joyce, with a rueful smile. "And after
all I'm not sure that I like him so _very_ much. You evidently imagine
me to be head over ears in love with him, yet I, myself, scarcely know
whether I like him or not."
"You always look at him so kindly, and you always pull your skirts aside
to give him a place by your side."
"I should do that for Tommy."
"Would you? That would be _too_ kind," says Tommy's mother, laughing.
"It would mean ruin to your skirts in two minutes."
"But, consider the gain. The priceless scraps, of wisdom I should hear,
even whilst my clothes were being demolished."
This has been a mere interlude, unintentional on the part of either,
and, once over, neither knows how to go on. The question _must_ be
settled one way or the other.
"There is one thing," says Mrs. Monkton, at length, "You certainly
prefer Mr. Beauclerk to Mr. Dysart."
"Do I? I wish I knew as much about myself as you know about me. And,
after all, it is of no consequence whom I like. The real thing
is----Come, Barbara, you who know so much can tell me this----"
"Well?" says Mrs. Monkton, seeing she has grown very red, and is
evidently hesitating.
"No. This absurd conversation has gone far enough. I was going to ask
you to solve a riddle, but----"
"But what?"
"You are too serious about it."
"Not _too_ serious. It is very important."
"Oh, Barbara, do you _know_ what you are saying?" cries the girl with an
angry little stamp, turning to her a face pale and indignant. "You have
been telling me in so many words that I am in love with either Mr.
Beauclerk or Mr. Dysart. Pray now, for a change, tell me which of them
is in love with _me_."
"Mr. Dysart," says Barbara quietly.
Her sister laughs angrily.
"You think everybody who looks at me is in love with me."
"Not _every_one!"
"Meaning Mr. Beauclerk."
"No," slowly. "I think he likes you, too, but he is a man who will
always _think_. You know he has come in for that property in Hampshire
through his uncle's death, but he got no money with it. It is a large
place, impossible to keep up without a large income, and his uncle left
every penny away from him. It is in great disrepair, the house
especially. I hear it is falling to pieces. Mr. Beauclerk is an
ambitious man, he will seek means to rebuild his house."
"Well what of that? It is an interesting bit of history, but how does it
concern me? Take that troubled look out of your eyes, Barbara. I assure
you Mr. Beauclerk is as little to me as I am to him."
She speaks with such evident sincerity, with such an undeniable belief
in the truth of her own words, that Mrs. Monkton, looking at her and
reading her soul through her clear eyes, feels a weight lifted from her
heart.
"That is all right then," says she simply. She turns as if to go away,
but Miss Kavanagh has still a word or two to say.
"I may go to the Court?" says she.
"Yes; I suppose so."
"But you won't be vexed if I go, Barbie?"
"No; not now."
"Well," slipping her arm through hers, with an audible sigh of delight.
"_That's_ settled."
"Things generally _do_ get settled the way you want them to be," says
Mrs. Monkton, laughing. "Come, what about your frocks, eh?"
From this out they spend a most enjoyable hour or two.