DE RERUM PARVULA.
The smallest actions in a life
Betray the calm or inward strife:
From idle straws, as persons know,
One learns the way the breezes blow;
You love those Florentine mosaics,
Yet tiny stones the picture makes.
Complying with this rule’s demand,
Whate’er is meant you’ll understand,
So follow carefully this chatter,
And you’ll discover what’s the matter.
The three persons who occupied the drawing-room were all employed
according to their different natures, for Crispin, being an ardent
musician, was seated at the piano, playing softly. Eunice, who rarely
spoke, was listening, and the Hon. Mrs. Dengelton was talking as usual.
She was always talking, but never by any chance said anything worth
listening to. With her it was all quantity and no quality. For, wherever
she was, in drawing-room, theatre, or park, her sharp strident voice
could be heard all over the place. Certainly she was silent in church,
but it must have been an effort for her to hold her tongue, and she
fully made up for it when she was outside the door, by chattering all
the way home. Scandal said she had talked her husband dead and her
daughter silent; and certainly the Hon. Guy Dengelton was safe in the
family vault, while Eunice, as a rule, said very little. Mrs. Dengelton
knew every one and everything, and, were it the fashion to write
memoirs, after the mode of the eighteenth century, she could have
produced a book which would have made a sensation, and been
suppressed—after the first edition. Owing to her incessant stream of
small talk, she was known in society as “The Parrot,” a name which
exactly fitted her, as she had a hook nose, beady eyes, and always
dressed in gay colors. Add to this description her _esprit_, as she
called it, but which scandal said was French for the vulgar American
word “jaw,” and you have a faithful portrait of the most dreaded woman
in London.
Reasons? two! She knew stories about every one, which she retailed to
their friends at the pitch of her voice; and she was always hunting for
a husband for Eunice. Eldest sons had a horror of her, and the
announcement that Mrs. Dengelton was to be at any special ball was
sufficient to keep all the eligible young men away. Consequently, no one
asked “The Parrot” to a dance unless the invitation was dragged out of
them; but Mrs. Dengelton was skilful at such work, and went out a good
deal during the season. Hitherto she had not been successful in her
husband-hunting, as no one would marry Eunice, with the chance of having
Mrs. Dengelton as mother-in-law. Crispin certainly was daring enough to
pay his addresses, but Crispin had neither name, title, nor family,
nothing but his genius, and Mrs. Dengelton therefore frowned on his
suit. When Maurice came in for the Roylands estate, his aunt thought it
would be splendid for Eunice to marry her first cousin, “just to keep
the property in the family,” as Mrs. Dengelton put it, though how such a
saying applied in this case it is rather difficult to see. However, The
Parrot gladly accepted her nephew’s invitation,—when she arrived, he
regretted having asked her—and came down with Eunice, with the firm
determination to talk Maurice into matrimony.
She was very angry when Crispin arrived, and forbade Eunice to encourage
the young man, but she could scarcely turn him out of the house, as she
would have liked to do, so put up with his presence as best she could,
and never lost an opportunity of saying disagreeable things to him in a
covert fashion.
Eunice herself was a charmingly pretty girl, who very much resented the
way in which her mother put her up to auction, but, being rather
weak-willed, could not combat Mrs. Dengelton’s determination, and
submitted quietly to be dragged about all over the place, with the hope
that some day a modern St. George would deliver her from this dragon.
St. George, long looked for, unexpectedly appeared one day in the person
of Crispin, and, though Mrs. Dengelton laughed at the idea of her
daughter throwing herself away on a pauper, Eunice, nevertheless, fell
in love with the poet. Crispin would have married her at once, but, in
spite of her anxiety to get beyond the clack of Mrs. Dengelton’s tongue,
she was too much afraid of that strong-willed lady to break out into
open mutiny, so poor St. George had to adore her in secret, lest the
dragon should pounce down on him.
Crispin! who ever heard of such a name? being the more singular as it
had neither head nor tail. If he had been Henry Crispin, or Crispin
Jones, people could have put up with the oddness of the sound; but
Crispin, all alone by itself, sounded heathenish, to say the least of
it. No one knew who Crispin was, or where he came from, for he had
suddenly flashed like a meteor into literary London, two years previous,
with a book of brilliant poems, which made a great success. For once the
critics were unanimous in praising good work, and pronounced “The Roses
of Shiraz, and Other Poems” to be the finest series of poetical Eastern
tales since Lord Byron had enchanted the world with “The Giaour” and
“The Bride of Abydos.” For the critics’ praise or blame Crispin seemed
to care but little, nor did he satisfy the curiosity of those up to date
people who desired to meet him. Sometimes he would appear in a
Belgravian drawing-room, but only for a moment, and would then leave
England for a tour in his beloved East. Just when the world would begin
to forget him, he would suddenly reappear in society, and fascinate one
and all by his charming manners. Handsome some he was not, being small
and dark, but he was as lithe as a serpent, and his dark eyes flashed
with the fierce fire of genius. All sorts of stories were told about
him, and none of them were correct, though Mrs. Dengelton was ready to
swear to the truth of at least half a dozen. In fact, he puzzled society
very much, and, as society always takes to that which is not
understandable, Crispin was quite the lion of the season.
An article called “The Lord Byron of our days” appeared in a leading
society paper, which retailed wonders about this unknown poet; but
Crispin neither contradicted nor affirmed the truth of these statements,
therefore became more of a puzzle than ever. He was a brilliant
musician; he talked several languages, and seemed to have been all over
the world; but beyond this he was a mystery. To no one, not even to
Maurice, who was his closest friend, did he tell the story of his life,
and even Mrs. Dengelton, who was an adept at finding out things people
did not want known, could make nothing of him.
Then Crispin met Eunice, and all his heart went out to this dainty,
dark-haired girl, who spoke so seldom, but whose eyes and gestures were
so eloquent. “The Fairy of Midnight,” he called her, and often wondered
how such a woman as Mrs. Dengelton ever came to have so silent and
lovely a daughter. To Crispin, steeped in the lore of the East, she was
like a Peri, and her love inspired him with wondrous love poems, some of
which appeared in _The Nineteenth Century_ and _The Fortnightly Review_.
Whether he told her who he was is doubtful—if he did, Eunice never
betrayed his confidence, for she was a woman who could keep a secret,
which was a miracle, seeing her mother was such a gossip. They loved and
suffered in silence with such discretion, that even keen-eyed Mrs.
Dengelton did not guess the understanding which existed between them,
and was hard at work trying to arrange a marriage with Maurice, quite
unaware that her meek daughter had made up her mind to marry no one but
this mysterious Crispin.
Sitting at the piano, Crispin was playing a wild Eastern air with the
soft pedal down, and looking at Eunice, whose eyes responded eloquently
to his glances. Neither of them paid much attention to the chatter of
The Parrot, who was quite ignorant of the love-making going on under her
nose, for both Eunice and Crispin had arrived at the stage of complete
union of souls which renders words superfluous while eyes can talk.
Mrs. Dengelton was doing a parrot in beadwork for a screen, and the
gaudy bird might have passed for her portrait, so like her did it seem.
Luckily, the beadwork parrot could not talk, but its creator could, and
did, with as few pauses as possible.
“As I was saying, my dear Eunice, there is something very strange about
this silence of my dear nephew. I’ve no doubt it is smoking too much,—so
many young men smoke in that dreadful place, Bloomsbury, where he
lived,—or perhaps he feels a little out of society after living so long
away from it. Oh, I know Bloomsbury! yes! I sometimes visit the poor
there. How strange I never came across poor dear Maurice! He is so sadly
altered, not gay like he used to be. I do not really think he knows how
to laugh, and”—
At this moment, as if to give the lie to Mrs. Dengelton’s assertion, her
nephew entered the room, laughing, in company with the Rector; but the
good lady did not know that she was the cause of this hilarity, and at
once began to deluge the new-comers with the fountain of her small talk.
“Now, my dear Rector and my dear Maurice, what are you laughing at? Is
it some amusing joke? Oh, I am sure it is! Eunice, Mr. Crispin, we are
going to be told something funny”—
“But really, my dear lady,” began the Rector, with uplifted hand, “I”—
“Now you need not tell me it is not funny, because it has made Maurice
laugh, and he has been as grave as a judge since we came down. I was
just saying to Eunice when you came in”—
“My dear aunt, the joke is not worth telling you,” said Maurice, in
desperation cutting her short.
“Ah, I knew there was a joke! Do tell it to Eunice! she is so fond of
amusing stories, especially from you.”
Maurice flushed angrily.
“I don’t tell amusing stories,” he said curtly, and walked across to the
piano.
“Such a bad temper!” sighed the Parrot, shaking her head; “so like his
poor dear father, who foamed at the mouth when in a rage.”
“Oh, come, not so bad as that,” said the Rector good-naturedly.
“My dear Rector, I assure you I have seen Austin”—And then Mrs.
Dengelton began a long, rambling story, which had no beginning and
certainly did not appear to have an end, for she droned on until the
poor Rector was quite weary, and was much put to to conceal his yawns.
Meanwhile, Maurice, remembering what the Rector had told him about the
young couple, looked keenly at the poet and then at his cousin, at which
inspection they naturally felt somewhat embarrassed.
“Yes?” said Eunice at length, in an interrogative fashion.
“Oh, nothing, nothing!” he responded hastily; “I was only wondering what
you were talking about.”
“We were not talking at all,” said Crispin, running his fingers over the
keys; “on the contrary, we were listening to Mrs. Dengelton.”
Maurice smiled absently, and tugged moodily at his mustache.
“You have a charming place here, Roylands,” remarked Crispin, more for
the sake of saying something than for the importance of the remark; “I
would like to settle down in this quiet village.”
“You!” said Maurice in astonishment; “the bird of passage who is never
off the wing! Why, you would die of ennui in a week.”
“Ah, that depends on the company,” answered Crispin, stealing a glance
at Eunice, who sat silently playing with her fan.
“I am afraid I am not very lively company,” observed Maurice, with a
sigh, not noticing the glance; “there is so little to talk about
nowadays.”
“Poetry.”
“I’m tired of poetry.”
“Music.”
“Too much music is dreary. I heard such a lot in London.”
“Then you must love scandal.”
“Ah, that is a hint that my dear aunt can amuse me.”
“Maurice!” said Eunice, with a frown.
“Now don’t be angry, my dear cousin. Talking scandal is a very harmless
occupation, and, as the Rector seems interested, I think I will go and
hear the latest story of Belgravia. But, Crispin, I wish you would take
my cousin on to the terrace—the sky is worth looking at with moon and
clouds.”
Crispin darted a look of gratitude at him, and Maurice, delighted at
thus foiling his aunt’s schemes, went off to hear that lady’s
conversation.
The two lovers at the piano were afraid to move for a time, lest they
should attract Mrs. Dengelton’s attention, and thus be stopped from
leaving the room; but when they saw her deep in conversation with the
two gentlemen, they stole quietly to the French window at the end of the
room, through which they speedily gained the terrace.
“Do you feel cold, Eunice?” asked Crispin, noticing his companion
shiver.
“A little.”
“Wait a moment, then. Your mother left a shawl near the window, I’ll
fetch it to you at once.”
“Take care she does not see you.”
“Not much fear of that; she has an audience, and is happy.”
He went off laughing quietly; and Eunice, leaning on the balustrade of
the terrace, stared at the wonderful beauty of the sky. Away in the west
shone the silver round of the moon, and below her were gigantic black
clouds, the edges of which were tipped with light. They looked like
gigantic rocks piled up from earth to heaven, and above them shone the
serene planet in an expanse of blue, as if she scorned their efforts to
veil her face. Far below Eunice heard the musical splash of the
fountains, and the chill odors of flowers floated upward, as though
drawn by the spell of her beauty. She looked wonderfully lovely with her
delicate face turned upward to the moon, and so thought Crispin, as he
came lightly along the terrace with the fleecy shawl over his arm.
“I shall no longer call you the Fairy of Midnight,” he whispered,
wrapping the shawl round her shoulders; “your name will be the ‘Moon
Elf.’”
“Ah, what a charming title for a fairy story!” said Eunice, who was
anything but silent when away from her mother. “Why do you not write a
fairy story?”
“Because I am living one now.”
“Flatterer!”
“No; I am speaking the truth. I adore a lovely princess, who is guarded
by an elderly dragon breathing the fire of scandal”—
“You must not talk of my mother like that.”
“Then I will not. She is the most charming lady I know.”
“Oh!”
“What! you are not pleased at that? My dearest Eunice, how cruel you
are! But indeed I do not love your mother. She will not let me marry
you.”
“No; she wants me to marry Maurice,” said Eunice, with a sigh.
“I am afraid that ambition will never be gratified. Maurice is our
friend.”
“Do you think he knows we love one another?”
“I am sure he does. But he knows to-night for the first time; I saw it
in his eyes when he looked at us.”
“How can he have guessed?”
“He did not guess. No; Roylands has never been in love, and only a lover
can recognize the silent eloquence of love. But I think that keen-eyed
old Rector”—
“What! Mr. Carriston? Impossible! How could he tell we loved one
another?”
“Well, going by the theory I have propounded, he must have at one time
of his life been in love himself, and therefore intuitively guessed our
hidden romance.”
“But he is a bachelor.”
“Ah, then he has had a romance also! An extinct volcano perhaps.”
“And Maurice?”
“Is not a volcano at all—at least, not so far as I know. He has never
been in love yet, but he will be some day.”
“When?”
“Pardon me, I cannot lift the veil of the future. But I admit Maurice
with his melancholia puzzles me.”
“Well, you puzzle every one yourself. They call you the riddle of
London.”
“I will explain my riddle self to you when we marry.”
“I am afraid that will never be.”
“Indeed it will,” he said gayly. “But you need not be afraid of my
mystery; I have no Bluebeard chamber to keep locked, I assure you. Do
you hesitate to marry me on account of my so-called mystery?”
“No; I trust you too much for that.”
“My dearest!”
At this moment the moon veiled her face discreetly behind a wandering
cloud, and their lips met in a kiss—a kiss of pure and enduring love.
Then Crispin tenderly wrapped the shawl closer round the shoulders of
Eunice, and arm in arm they strolled up and down the terrace, talking of
their present despairs, their future hopes, and their possible marriage.
Meanwhile, Mrs. Dengelton, quite unaware of the way in which all her
matrimonial schemes were being baffled by this audacious poet, was
holding forth to Maurice and the Rector on the subject of a family
romance. For once in her life she proved interesting, for Maurice only
knew the skeleton of Roylands by name, and was quite unaware of the
reason it was locked up in the cupboard. It was wonderful what a lot of
good the conversation of the Rector had done him, and now, having been
once roused out of his melancholia, he was quite interested by the story
which his aunt was telling. The Rev. Stephen Carriston noticed the
bright look on his usually sad face, and was delighted thereat.
“I will complete the cure to-morrow,” he repeated to himself; and then
prepared to listen to Mrs. Dengelton’s story, which interested him very
much, the more so as he knew the principal actor concerned therein.
“Of course I only speak from hearsay, my dear Rector,” she said, laying
aside her beadwork so as to give her eloquence every chance; “at the
time these events took place I was just a baby in long clothes. You,
Rector, perhaps know the story better than I do.”
“No; I had just left college when Rudolph Roylands ran away, but I knew
him at the university.”
“Ah yes; of course. You were very friendly with both my brothers, I
believe, so it is curious they never told you of their love for Rose
Silverton.”
“Well—I heard something about it,” said the Rector, with a hesitating
glance at Maurice.
“Oh, my dear Rector, I am going to say nothing against my sister-in-law.
She was a very charming woman.”
“She was all that was good and pure,” remarked Maurice abruptly;
annoyed, he knew not why, at the tone adopted by Mrs. Dengelton in
speaking of his dead mother.
“Yes, I know she was. Still, my dear Maurice, you must pardon my plain
speech, but she did flirt terribly with Rudolph.”
“My lost uncle? Ridiculous!”
“It is not ridiculous at all,” said the lady, drawing herself up; “it
was on your mother’s account Rudolph left England.”
“Who said so?” demanded Maurice indignantly.
“Every one; even your father.”
Maurice was about to make some remark, when he caught sight of a warning
look on Carriston’s face, therefore held his peace.
“What I was about to remark,” pursued Mrs. Dengelton, choosing her words
carefully, “was that, when my brothers, Rudolph and Austin, came
home,—the first from his regiment, the second from college,—they both
fell in love with Rose Silverton, whose father was a retired captain in
the army. Rudolph, as you know, Rector, was the heir to Roylands, and
Captain Silverton naturally wanted Rose to marry him, as the match was
such a good one. She, however, preferred Austin.”
“Love _versus_ Money, and Love was triumphant,” said Maurice, smiling.
“If you put it like that, I suppose it was,” replied his aunt frigidly.
“Well, Rose, as I have said, flirted considerably with Rudolph, though
she loved my brother Austin best. Oh, you need not shake your head,
Rector—Rose did flirt!”
“My dear aunt, spare the dead,” observed Maurice, with a groan, for this
old lady was really terrible with her malignant tongue.
“I hope I am too good a churchwoman to speak evil of any one, dead or
alive,” said Mrs. Dengelton, with dignity. “But I will make no further
remarks if they are so displeasing to you, though why they should be
displeasing I cannot conceive. Well, to gratify her father, Rose
appeared to favor Rudolph, but in secret she met Austin. Such duplicity!
I beg your pardon, Maurice, but it was duplicity.”
The Rector sighed, and Mrs. Dengelton looked curiously at him, as if she
guessed the meaning of the sigh, then resumed her story without
commenting thereon, to Carriston’s evident relief.
“Rudolph in some way came to hear of these stolen meetings, and
surprised Austin walking with Rose one June evening. The brothers came,
I regret to say, to blows, while Rose looked on in horror. Austin, being
the younger and weaker, could not stand against the furious onslaught of
Rudolph, who stunned him with a blow, then, thinking he had killed him,
kissed Rose, who had fainted, and disappeared forever. He returned to
London, left the army, and went away to the East, with a considerable
sum of money which he inherited from his mother.”
“And my father and mother?” asked Maurice breathlessly.
“Were found by some laborers insensible; the one from fear, the other
from the blow given to him by his brother. They were taken to their
respective homes, and when Austin got well again, he married Rose in due
course. I believe your father and mother were very happy in their
married life, Maurice, but they were singularly unfortunate in the fate
of their children. Your brothers and sisters, four of them born during
the early period of the marriage, all died; and you, who came into the
world nearly twenty years after the marriage, were the only child who
lived.”
“And how long ago did all this happen, aunt?”
“Cannot you think it out for yourself?” said Mrs. Dengelton tartly. “You
are now thirty-five; you were born—let me see—about fifteen years after
the marriage, so altogether Rudolph disappeared fifty years ago.”
“And has not been heard of since?”
“No; all inquiries were made, but nothing came of them,” replied the
lady, shaking her head. “I suppose Rudolph thought he had killed Austin,
and left England to avoid arrest. At all events, not a soul has heard of
him since. Where he went, no one knows; but by this time, I have no
doubt he is dead.”
“Poor Uncle Rudolph, what an unhappy fate!” said Maurice thoughtfully.
“Ah, I always did blame Rose for that quarrel!” cried Mrs. Dengelton
sourly.
“My mother”—began Maurice indignantly, when the Rector stopped him.
“Your mother was not to blame, my dear Maurice,” he said, rising to his
feet. “I know more about this story than Mrs. Dengelton thinks.”
A sniff was the Hon. Mrs. Dengelton’s only reply, which was vulgar, but
eloquent of disbelief.
Carriston’s face, generally ruddy, looked somewhat pale, and Maurice
wondered what could be the reason for such a loss of color. The old man
saw his inquiring look, and arose to take his leave.
“I must say good-night, my dear Maurice,” he said, giving his hand to
Mrs. Dengelton. “I am not so young as I once was, and keep early hours.”
At this moment, as if guided by some happy fate, Eunice, in company with
Crispin, entered the room at the back of Mrs. Dengelton, and returned to
their seats without her having noticed their absence.
“Good-night, sir,” said Crispin, coming forward to shake hands with the
Rector.
“How quiet you have been!” remarked Mrs. Dengelton suspiciously. “Where
is my daughter?”
“Here, mamma;” and Eunice came forward in the demurest manner.
“Were you listening to my story?” asked her mother inquiringly,—“my
story about your Uncle Rudolph leaving England?”
“No,” interposed Crispin quickly, before Eunice could speak; “we were
discussing photographs on yonder sofa.”
“Photographs, eh?” said Mrs. Dengelton, with a frown, for she knew what
looking over a photograph album meant in this case, but did not see her
way to make further remark.
The Rector said good-night to every one, and then departed, accompanied
by Maurice, who walked with him as far as the park gates. Here they
separated, after Maurice had promised faithfully to call at the Rectory
the next day, and the old clergyman went home, while his pupil returned
to the Grange in a thoughtful manner.
“I wonder,” he said to himself, pausing for a moment in the shadowy
avenue,—“I wonder if my uncle is still alive. If he is, I am wrongfully
in possession of Roylands. Suppose he came back and claimed it, I would
once more be penniless. Well,” he sighed, resuming his walk, “perhaps
that would be the best thing that could happen, for work means
happiness, and earning one’s bread forces a man to take a deep interest
in life whether he will or no.”