This period of early winter was a dull one at Oakley at all times. From
October to Christmas it was not the custom of the family to invite the
usual country-house array of defence against dullness. For some weeks
after the partridge-shooting began there would be visitors
about--luncheons at the coverside, dinners more or less sleepy, evenings
more or less gay. And again at Christmas there was always a large party
assembled; but between whiles the family were left to their own
resources. How Sir John himself filled up his time was a profound and
solemn mystery, which no one could entirely unravel. He spent it mostly
in his library--in the perusal of Blue books, in the writing of
letters, and in something which was called business, and supposed to be
the management of his estate; but everybody who knew Sir John knew that
there was not very much beyond the most ceremonial portion of a
sovereign’s duty in his easy lot. The estate had been carefully managed
all his life, by the most careful and sensible of functionaries, Mr.
Rolt, who was the son of the last agent, and the brother of the
solicitor at Oakenden who had the money matters of the family in his
hands. And the family had been unexceptionable in its conduct for the
last five-and-thirty years; there had been no extravagant heir, no heavy
jointure diminishing its resources. General Anthony, who had done very
well for himself, was Sir John’s only brother, the only other member of
the family; and there had been nothing but unbroken respectability and
discretion in the management of the finances of the house. The estate
ran upon wheels, or upon velvet, and all but managed itself. Then as for
Parliamentary business and the Blue books, Sir John was a sound
reliable Conservative, who never dreamed of opening his mouth in the
House. He voted as his leaders voted, who were the best able to judge,
and the study of public affairs, to which he thus devoted himself, had
all the merit of disinterestedness. It cannot even be said that it told
greatly when he sat upon a Parliamentary committee, for he was apt to
get confused on the points he knew best, and his knowledge did not stand
him in stead at the moment it was wanted, as knowledge ought to do; but
still what with the Blue books and the estate, he thought himself very
fully occupied, and what could be desired more than this? Two or three
times in the day, especially when it rained, he would come into his
wife’s morning room, and stand up with his back to the fire and talk,
sometimes relevantly, sometimes irrelevantly, like most other people.
But he was always serious, whether relevant or not. He had a long face,
with grey whiskers and grey hair, and a long upper lip shutting close
upon the under, which was feeble, though the chin too was rather long.
His face in these wintry days, when there was no news of Arthur, was as
serious as a countenance well could be. Whether he was talking of his
son or not, Arthur was always more or less in Sir John’s mind, and never
smile, or glimmering of a smile, approached within a hundred miles of
the serious lines of that long upper lip.
Lady Curtis was of a different disposition altogether. The last
extremity of grief even could not produce in her the monotony of
melancholy which was possible to her husband. She would weep as he never
wept; but then she would laugh also in sheer impatience of the weight of
tedium and sameness. Her suffering was far more acute than his steady
dullness; but it was broken by gleams of activity, by sudden impulses,
by perpetual changes. She flung herself into her housekeeping, stirring
up all the quiet corners, and making a commotion in the servants’ hall,
such as for some time threatened the family peace--and into the parish,
where Lucy did not always want her mother’s assistance. She wrote
letters to her friends, half cynical, half sorrowful, and more than half
amusing, in which Arthur indeed was never referred to; but where many a
cutting sentence, sharp jest, or mocking reflection betrayed that sting
of personal suffering which those who knew her best could read between
the lines. Lady Curtis was clever. She wrote articles now and then in
literary papers, even sometimes in magazines; but this was an indulgence
of which she was not proud, and she prudently kept silence about it,
being wise enough to know that any such crown of wild olive sits badly
upon the matronly brow of a country lady, alarming some people, and
giving to others occasion for ill-natured jibes and pleasantry. Not her
husband certainly, and even not Lucy knew always when she took upon
herself the office of critic; and the able editor who printed her
reviews was not aware what had made his contributor more industrious
than usual and more bitter. It was Arthur that pointed the clear steel
of those polished little arrows which she discharged at the world. She
did it as a relief to herself; but not that anyone might know. And it
must be added that there was a certain satisfaction in this safety
valve. Then there was crewel work, and the patterns of the Art
Needlework Society, of which, however, she soon got tired. Altogether
Lady Curtis’s activity was stimulated to its utmost. She had the
happiness of discovering a source of waste in the house, and an abuse in
the parish; and she fell upon a nest of foolish books to criticize, and
began a series of papers upon “The Minor Morals of Society;” and she set
vigorously to work upon a set of curtains in a bold and effective
pattern of her own invention. And thus she beguiled away the weary days.
Lucy was less difficult perhaps than either her father or her mother.
She was young, and it still seemed to her that in the course of nature
everything that was amiss must come right, and every breach be mended.
Sir John’s opinion was that nothing would ever mend, and his wife’s
that the only thing to be done was to keep yourself busy, and persuade
yourself that there was no hope nor expectation of any change within
you. But Lucy waited with as much patience as she could, crying
sometimes over the estrangement of her brother, but with no despair in
her; things would come right, nay, must come right some time or other.
To suppose that you could be separated for ever from anyone who belonged
to you, anyone you loved! could there be folly in earth so great as
that? It was a question of time, and the time was long and dreary and
hard to support; but yet by and by _of course_, who could doubt it?
everything would be well. November and December are dreary months, let
us make the best of them, and very dreary in the country when the day is
over by four o’clock or little after, and there are hours upon hours to
be got through in-doors, in a big empty house, pervaded everywhere by
that sense of the absent which is so much more urgent and all-prevailing
than any presence. When Arthur had been at home his being there was a
matter of course, and no one thought much about it; but when Arthur was
away! and away in this dismal manner, absorbed into another life,
disjointed from theirs. Such an argument as this might make the dullest
feel the superiority of an idea to all that is solid and practical. In
her own room, which Arthur rarely entered, Lucy missed her brother, and
she missed him going about the parish, where he never went with her. And
Sir John missed him in the midst of those Blue Books at which the boy
had made grimaces from a distance, but which he never approached; and
Lady Curtis felt his absence when she wrote for her Review, though
Arthur was the last person in the world to know anything of Reviews.
This is at once the desolation and the power of death which fills our
very atmosphere and daily breath with those whom it removes out of our
sight for ever; and this it was that gave force to the words which both
father and mother said of Arthur when he forsook them. It was as if he
had died.
The ladies of the family spent most of their time, as has been said, in
the morning room, with its two tall windows looking out from between the
pillars of the façade. The drawing-room, which was large and splendid,
too fine and too big to be cosy in, suffered in consequence, and except
when the house was very full, had much the air of an uninhabited place.
The morning room was fine enough, too fine most people thought
now-a-days. Lady Curtis was one of the people who most feel the
influence of those successive waves of taste which sweep across the mind
of the most cultivated portion of society from time to time. Had it been
necessary to re-furnish this favourite room, she would have done it in
the style of Queen Anne, with neutral tints and “flatted” colour, tiled
fireplaces and high manteltops. And she was by times a little
uncomfortable about the florid effect of her _Louis Quinze_ decoration;
but there was no excuse for remodelling the pretty room which the
children loved. It was florid, there could be no doubt. The cornice was
rich with stucco wreaths, and there were Cupids about, and lyres and
knots of ribbon, and glowing garlands of flowers. The carpet was white
Aubusson with a great bouquet in the centre, as flowery and brilliant as
that which had made Nancy happy in Paris. Lady Curtis’s writing table
was a _bonheur de jour_ of the finest workmanship, and various articles
of precious marqueterie stood about, flowery and dainty. Two robust gilt
Cupids supported the white marble of the mantel-piece, and the satin
curtains were looped and fringed, and festooned with the most elaborate
art. Lucy sat and knitted stockings for the village children upon a
satin sofa, with her warm wool in the drawer of an inlaid table with
curved legs, which was worth half as much as the village. Everything in
the room was framed on the principle of being beautiful, not for
convenience or comfort, which is supposed to be the inspiration of
various other styles of household decoration, but for beauty alone. And
perhaps it was more suitable for the home of a bride, such as Lady
Curtis had been when she collected all those pretty things about her,
than for the centre of household life which it had become; though indeed
it was very doubtful whether Lady Curtis, a clever, impatient-minded
woman, had ever attained any ecstacy of happiness as the bride of good
Sir John. She loved her dainty surroundings better now than she did when
they were in all their freshness. She was aware of her husband’s
steadfast goodness and truth, though he was not lively and amusing, and
had more respect for him, and, at the same time, a tenderer sentiment
for the father of her children than, perhaps, she had entertained for
the good, dull bridegroom to whom she had been bound, not entirely,
report said, with her own freewill. Therefore, perhaps, the beautiful
room had never enshrined that impersonation of happiness, luxury, and
splendour to whom all these decorations belonged by nature. Now-a-days,
certainly, it was not any luxurious leisure and blessedness that dwelt
there; but care and doubt, such as would have been consistent with very
sombre surroundings. Lucy sat and knitted, her mind wandering after
Arthur, trying to imagine the brightest winter weather in Paris, and her
brother enjoying himself, instead of the rainy skies here, the muddy
roads and grey miserable day. Lady Curtis was in her chair by the window
for the sake of the light, busy with her crewels.
“They may say what they like about the higher art of these subdued
tints,” she said, “but nature is not subdued in her tints. How am I to
do the autumn leaves in those tones of colour? They are high and bright
in nature.” She said this, but she was thinking of Arthur all the time;
and by and by Sir John came in from the library, and strolled up to the
fire.
“Have not you had tea yet?” he said, putting himself in front, between
the Cupids. “I thought you must be having tea. What a dreary afternoon
it is! and the hounds are out. They must be having a disagreeable run.”
Thus he discoursed with his lips; but in his heart his thoughts were of
Arthur too.
“Lucy has been in the village, though it has been so wet. She says there
is a very sad commotion going on. Young Jack Hodge, the blacksmith’s
son--tell your papa, Lucy,” said Lady Curtis with a sigh.
“I don’t think it is so very bad,” said Lucy, getting up to make the tea
which had just been brought in. “And I am sure papa will not think so;
but his mother is making a great fuss. She has got the Dissenting
minister over from Oakenden to comfort her; and to hear him speak, you
would think it was very bad indeed.”
“What has happened,” said Sir John, “and why did not Bertie go?”
“Oh, Bertie, papa! what is the good of Bertie? There is a look in his
nose as if he smelt something disagreeable whenever he goes into one of
the cottages. The people cannot put up with it, and why should they? I
think the Dissenter was better on the whole. Jack has gone for a
soldier, that is all. I tried to say there was nothing so very dreadful
in that; but they would not listen to me.”
“That is all the fault of your Dissenters,” said Sir John, “why
shouldn’t the lad go for a soldier? They would do away with poor people
altogether, these Dissenters if they could--and soldiers too I suppose.
They would leave us all defenceless, at the mercy of anybody that
chooses to make a run at us. They never have anything themselves. I
suppose that is the reason why.”
“Well, that is not bad logic,” said Lady Curtis, “I suppose they think
those who have something to lose should defend themselves;” and she
sighed again, thinking, where was the son of her own house, who was its
natural defender? He was worse than Jack Hodge, who, at least, might be
of use to his country even if he did break his mother’s heart.
“You mean the Volunteers?” said Sir John, “but I never believed in the
Volunteers. It is all very well to let them amuse themselves,
soldiering. And, perhaps, in the country where they would be officered
by the gentlemen they know,” he continued after a moment’s pause, with
again Arthur, and not the Volunteers, in his thoughts, and echoing his
wife’s sigh, “they might be of some use; but I don’t put any faith in
them for the defence of the country. Thank you, my dear; on a wet
afternoon like this one is glad of a cup of tea.”
Sir John was generally glad of his cup of tea, if not for one reason,
then for another, because it was wet, or because it was cold, or because
it was sultry and stifling, or else for no reason at all. It formed a
break in the long afternoon when there was nothing more interesting to
do. For as he stood with his back to the fire, and his cup in his hand,
he went on dully talking, as was his way.
“It is the very essence of democracy you know--when you substitute what
they call the citizen soldier, the man that is supposed to fight in his
own defence, for the soldier that is paid for defending us: the very
essence of democracy--it makes out that one man is just as good as
another and that the Hodges want as much taking care of as you and I.”
“So they do surely, papa,” said Lucy, “their lives are as precious to
them as ours are--to us.”
“You don’t know anything about it, Lucy; they are not half so important
to the country, and it’s the country we ought to think of first,” said
Sir John. “Without an army where should we be? The throne would have no
authority--Volunteers mean democracy, my dear.”
“And Jack Hodge is your true patriot,” said his wife.
“Exactly so. I will tell his mother that is my opinion the next time I
am in the village. A foolish woman with her Dissenters to put nonsense
into her head. What could the boy do better. But Bertie ought to have
been there? Bertie ought to have gone,” said the Baronet. “I allow there
are bad smells in the cottages, Lucy; but surely, if I can bear it, he
ought to bear it; and you, you never say anything about the smells--I
don’t think Bertie can be doing his duty as a clergyman ought. The
young men of the present day are beyond me,” Sir John added with another
sigh; and he put down his cup with a dreary shrug of his shoulders, and
shook his grey head as he went slowly away.
How glad they all were when the long November day was over, and they
could shut out the ceaseless drip-dripping of the rain, the sweep of the
dead leaves across the windows! The autumn had been mild, and the
foliage had lasted longer than usual. Now it came tumbling down with
every breath, with every drop of rain, choking up the paths, and filling
the air with the mournfullest downpouring of yellow. On such a day no
one came up the avenue, unless it was a draggled villager bound for the
servants’ door, or the Rector, or the Doctor, neither of whom
contributed much to the gratification of the house; and to look out upon
the misty vista of the spectral trees, the damp rising from the ground
and falling from the skies, both of which were about the same colour,
for even a short November day is not cheerful to the spirits. It was a
relief when the house began to be dotted with lamps, when the shutters
were closed and the curtains drawn. Lady Curtis, for some time, had not
cared to have the shutters of her favourite room closed till bed-time.
She did not give any reason for this fancy, but Sir John had found fault
with it, and she had yielded. “It was not safe,” he said, “to leave the
lower windows open. Some one might get in and frighten the house, if no
more.” Lady Curtis had not stood out. She watched the servant close them
with again a lingering sigh. She had meant nothing by having them open.
No, nothing. Only if such a thing might happen as that--any one--moved
by some impulse of the heart, should suddenly come home--why, then there
would be a little light visible from the very end of the avenue to
encourage him. Nothing was more unlikely than that such a thing should
happen. But still granting that the impossible did sometimes come when
no one expected it, then there might be use in the light. But as nobody
could explain this, or say anything in defence of so painful a notion,
of course it was done away when Sir John objected. My Lady sat in the
gilded chair, cushioned with satin, that stood by the fire, and took a
last look of the dull twilight with the trees looming through it like
ghosts, as the footman began to shut up. It had been a dreary day; it
was more agreeable to turn to the clear light of the lamp within, the
subdued glimmer of the satin hangings, the sparkle of the fire. The day
was done at last.
And yet it was a little dreary, also, to think of the hours that
remained unaccomplished--the long still evening in which there would be
a little talk, very little, and the routine of dinner to go through, and
the still evening after, which Lucy and she would spend together.
Perhaps she would work, and Lucy read aloud; or Lucy would take to one
of her many undertakings, which were of a homelier kind than Lady
Curtis’s crewels, while her mother wrote. The house was very still, as
it became a great house to be, lying folded in the darkness, in the
great park, in the humid lawn and clouds of watery trees, without one
gleam from all the windows in front to welcome anyone who, unexpected,
might come out of the busy world to explore the stillness--the most
unlikely thing in the world to happen; yet such things had been and, who
could tell? might be. There was one event still possible, and that was
the coming in of the post, which arrived after dinner, a most
inappropriate moment, everybody said. Indeed, Sir John had often
proposed not to send for the letters, but to leave them, when there were
any, till next morning, rather than spoil the digestion of the family at
such a moment. But Lady Curtis had a woman’s liking for letters, and
never would hear of this. She had no experience of the letters which
spoil digestion. Her milliners’ bills were no trouble to her. She had
never been in debt, it is to be supposed, in her life, neither were
there mysteries in her existence which she was afraid of; her letters
were pleasant breaks upon the monotony, enriching the quiet of her
country life; therefore she would have the post-bag brought up, whatever
Sir John might say.
And that night there were two letters that seemed to wake up even in the
house itself something like the heart-beating that flutters in an
individual bosom at sight of a long-expected communication--two letters
which bore the Paris postmark, one to my lady, one to Sir John. The
butler saw them at the first glance, recognising the writing of one,
guessing at the other. He whispered to the housekeeper, before he went
to my lady’s room with her share of the budget.
“Summat from Mr. Arthur,” he whispered in her ear.
“Oh, let me look,” she said.
It was something to see, even the outside of the letters; and they
looked at each other across that other one, and agreed in their guess as
to what it was. Daly, the butler, was a man of discrimination. He knew,
as well as she did, that, whereas Sir John was equally dull at all
times, my lady expected the post with a thrill of nervous anxiety every
night. He knew it by her eyes, by the clutch of her hand at the letters,
by the inspection, quick as lightning, which she gave them, always
curbing her disappointment. This was why Daly carried my lady’s letters
the first especially to-night.