Well, you may, you must, set down to me
Love that was life, life that was love;
A tenure of breath at your lips' decree,
A passion to stand as your thoughts approve,
A rapture to fall where your foot might be.
_James Lee's Wife._
"Come in," was the languid reply, as Lady Mabel knocked briskly at her
young guest's bed-room door.
Lady Mabel had been up for hours. If there was one thing upon which she
prided herself, it was on being an exemplary mother. She had breakfasted
with her little girls and their governess at eight, had seen her
housekeeper, made arrangements for her dinner-party that night, send
Claud out shopping for her with a lengthy list of commissions, written
several notes, and now, trim, freshly dressed, and energetic, presented
herself at Elsa's door to know how she felt after the fatigues of her
first opera.
Elsa was just out of her bed. She was lolling in a deep luxurious
arm-chair, with all her golden hair streaming about her. Her room was in
a state of the utmost disorder, and her French maid stood behind her
with an expression of deep and embittered sulkiness.
"My good child, what is the meaning of all this mess?" cried Lady Mabel,
somewhat aghast. Miss Brabourne's habits daily set all her teeth on
edge; though her shortcomings were probably only the natural rebound
after the state of repression and confinement in which she had been
brought up.
At Edge Combe there had been no shops, and she had been allowed no
pocket-money; consequently she now never went out for a walk without
lavishly purchasing a hundred useless and costly trifles with which she
strewed her room. Under the regime of the Misses Willoughby no
untidiness had been permitted; Miss Brabourne had darned her own
stockings and repaired her own gloves. Now she let the natural bent of
her untidy disposition have full play, flung her things about in all
directions, and never touched a needle. In her childhood she had been
obliged to rise at seven, and practise calisthenics for an hour before
breakfast. Now that this restraint was removed, she never rose to
breakfast at all, but usually spent the entire morning dawdling about in
her bed-room in a loose wrapper, and with her hair hanging over her
shoulders.
Like Lady Teazle, she was more self-indulgent, and gave far more trouble
to her maid, than if she had been reared in habits of the greatest
luxury. All her tastes were expensive and elegant. Dress was almost a
mania with her, and no sooner had she been allowed to plan her own than
she manifested a wonderfully correct taste. The rustic nymph, on whom
Percivale's eyes had first fallen when he landed on Edge Beach, had
entirely disappeared in the Miss Brabourne who lived only for fashion,
admiration, and amusement.
She knew exactly what suited her--how daring her perfect complexion and
fine shape permitted her to be in her choice of color and style--how
the greatest severity only showed up and enhanced her beauty the more.
Her whole time was devoted to the planning of new toilettes; her
lengthiest visits were to her dressmaker.
Henry Fowler had not thought it prudent to make an exceedingly large
allowance to a girl who had never had money to spend before; but this in
no way circumscribed Elsa's movements, since before she had been a week
in London she found out that unlimited credit could be hers.
The account-books carefully prepared by Aunt Charlotte before taking
leave of her young niece lay at the bottom of her trunk, the virgin
whiteness of their pages unmarked by a single entry. She had come to
London to enjoy herself, and she meant to do so. Her visit could not
last more than a few weeks, and then she would have to go back to Edge.
This thought was horror and misery unutterable. She loathed the place.
Every association was hateful to her. She never wished to behold it
again. As each day brought her nearer to the hideous prospect, her
spirit shrank from it more and more. There was no other house in London
where she could become a visitor, as the break with the Ortons was of
course complete and final. And there was no hope at all of the aunts
bringing her to town. The agitations of the past summer had greatly
aggravated Miss Helen's weakness, and Miss Charlotte and Miss Emily had
declared, on returning from their four months abroad, that they should
not dare leave Fanny again in sole charge.
The thought of living the spring and summer through mewed up in lonely
captivity at Edge, after the intoxicating taste of life and pleasure
which she had had, was too terrible to be borne with gratitude.
Elsa could see no way out of the dilemma but to be married.
But Osmond Allonby could not help her here. He could not afford to marry
yet; and to be married at once was her aim. And now, suddenly,
unexpectedly, dazzlingly, here was Mr. Percivale, the wonderful owner of
the yacht, the stately gentleman, the rich, mysterious stranger,
offering her his heart as humbly as if she had been an empress.
The girl felt her triumph in every fibre of her nature. It had not
occurred to her to think of Percivale as her lover.
His stately courtesy and distant reverence had seemed to her like pride.
He had never been openly her slave, as was Osmond, whose infatuation had
been patent from the first moment of meeting. Her admiration for the
hero had been always mixed with a certain fear and great shyness.
She had heard him discussed wherever they went--here in London as well
as all along the Mediterranean--when, wherever the yacht put in, it had
been the cause of boundless excitement and interest, heightened to
fever-heat when it was discovered that the solitary and mysterious owner
had friends on board.
She knew that he was considered one of the "catches" of society--that to
be on intimate terms with him was the aim of some of the leaders of the
world of fashion. Town gossip never tired of his name, and whatever it
had to say of him had been listened to with eager ears by Elsa.
Gossip and scandal had never been heard at Edge Willoughby; they had all
the charm of novelty to the uninitiated girl, who absorbed the contents
of every society journal she could get, and was far better versed in the
latest morganatic marriage or the Court sensation than was Lady Mabel,
who, being genuinely a woman of intelligence, usually let such trash
alone.
Thus were filled the blank spaces which Elsa's training had left in her
mind. Wynifred's dictum had been perfectly accurate. Not knowing their
niece's proclivities in the least, the Misses Willoughby had not known
what to guard against in her education. They had regarded her as so much
raw material, to be converted into what fabric they pleased; now, her
natural impulses began to show themselves with untutored freedom.
She was acutely alive to the importance of her conquest, but she was,
let it be granted her, perfectly honest, as far as she knew, in telling
Percivale that she loved him. She liked him very much; she admired his
personal appearance exceedingly; she was beyond measure flattered at his
preference; she preferred him, on every ground, to either Osmond
Allonby, or any other man she had ever seen.
Of what love, in its highest and deepest sense, meant--such love as
Percivale offered her--she was intensely ignorant; but few men will
quarrel with incomprehension, if only it be beautiful; and how beautiful
she was! Even Lady Mabel confessed it, much as the girl irritated her,
as she sat supine before her in the easy-chair, lightly holding a
hand-mirror.
"My dear Elsa, are you aware that Mr. Miles will be here in half-an-hour
for a sitting?"
"I know," said Elsa, in her laconic way; adding, as if by an
after-thought. "It isn't my fault; Mathilde is so stupid this morning. I
must have my hair properly done when Mr. Miles comes, and I have had to
make her pull it all down twice."
"There is no satisfying mademoiselle," muttered Mathilde.
"Mathilde, don't be rude," said Elsa, calmly.
Poor Mathilde! To her were doled out, day after day, all the countless
small grudges owed to Jane Gollop by her young mistress. Like all
oppressed humanity, when once the oppression was removed, Elsa
tyrannised. The maid proceeded to lift the luminous flexible masses of
threaded gold, and to pack them afresh over the top of the small head in
artistic loops, the girl keenly watching every movement in the mirror.
"Don't wait, please, Lady Mabel," said she, abstractedly, arranging the
soft short locks on her brow. "I shall be down in ten minutes; I want to
say something to you particularly."
Lady Mabel, after a significant glance round the room, shrugged her
shoulders, and went out.
"Her husband need be rich," she soliloquised as she descended the
stairs.
Claud was seated in her morning-room, his youngest niece upon his knee.
This fascinating person, whose age was three, was confiding to her uncle
the somewhat unlooked-for fact that she was a policeman, and intended to
take him that moment to prison. If he resisted, instant death must be
his portion. Two plump white fists were clenched in his faultless
shirt-collar, and he hailed his sister's entrance with a whoop of
relief.
"Just in time, Mab! My last hour had come," he cried, as he relegated
the zealous arm of the law to the hearth-rug, stood up, and shook
himself. "Why do children invariably select the tragedy and not the
comedy of life for their games? I should think, Mab, for once that you
and I assisted at a wedding we took part in a hundred executions--ay,
leading parts, too; the bitterness of death ought to be past for us
two."
"Have you been taking care of this monkey?" said Mab, rubbing her face
lovingly against his arm. "What a comfort you are to have in the house,
dear boy; far more useful than my visitor upstairs, for instance. She is
not handy with children, to say the least of it."
"She has not had my long apprenticeship," returned Claud,
good-humoredly. "Hallo, Kathleen mavourneen, I draw the line at the
poker, young lady."
"Baby, be good," said baby's mother, as her daughter was reluctantly
induced to part with her weapon. "You make excuses for Elsa, Claud; why
don't you admit that you are as much disappointed in her as I am?"
"Because I am not at all disappointed in her. You know, after the first
few days, she never attracted me in the least."
"I know. I used to wonder why. Now I give you credit for much
discrimination. She will never make a good wife."
"I say, that is going too far, Mab. She may develop--I hope--" he
paused, and his voice took an inflection of deep feeling--"I devoutly
hope she may."
"Why?"
"Because the happiness of the best man I know is absolutely dependent on
her."
"Claud! He told you?"
"Yes."
The young man leaned his arm on the mantelpiece, fixing a meditative eye
on his niece as she crawled up his leg.
"Did you--did you not--dissuade him in any way?"
"No," was the slow reply.
"I think, Claud, if he asked for your opinion--"
"Well, he didn't--that is, not on the lady. He did not even mention her
name. I told him that, broadly speaking, I thought everything depended
on compatibility of disposition; but what on earth is the use, Mab, of
cautioning a man who is head over ears in love, as he is? You might as
well try to stop Niagara; he is beyond the reasoning stage. Besides,
what could I urge? That I believed the lady of his choice to be selfish,
vain, and not too sweet-tempered? I couldn't say that, you know; and of
course he thinks he is likely to know about as much of her as I do; he
has been with her, on and off, ever since the autumn."
"Oh, you men, you men!" cried Mab. "Caught by a pretty face, even the
best and noblest of you!"
"Not I," interrupted Claud, shortly. "No! That beautiful girl upstairs
doesn't know what it means to love as I would have my wife love me. She
has no passion in her! And she does not know the value of love! She does
not know that it is the one, only central force of life--the thing
without which any lot is hard--with which any hardship is merely a
trifle not worth noticing. How should she know the power of it, that
flame which, once lit, burns slowly at first,--cold, perhaps, and
faintly--for the loves that flare up at once are straw fires, they burn
out. This that I mean grows slowly, steadily, till all the heart is one
glowing, throbbing mass, flinging steadfast heat and radiance around.
This is love."
Lady Mabel's susceptible Irish eyes were wet. She had missed her life's
aim, not through her own fault: which fact perhaps helped to make her
brother so tender to her failings, so anxious for her happiness.
"You speak feelingly, Claud," she said.
"Do I?" said the young man. He lowered his eyes to the carpet, and
blushed, smiling a little.
"Claud!" vehemently cried his sister, "you are in love!"
"If I am, it is with my eyes open. I am not a boy, Mab."
"No, indeed; but who can she be. Won't you tell me, dear?"
"I can't tell you, because I'm afraid I am in the ignoble case of loving
without return. You see," he faltered, "there is nothing very heroic
about me--nothing that I ever said or did, as far as I know, would
entitle me to the slightest respect from any woman with a high standard.
Look at my life. What have I done with it? Just nothing. Why, Kathleen
mavourneen," cried he, diving down to the rug, and catching the warm
white child in his arms, "the most onerous of my duties has been to
carry you up to bed on my shoulder, hasn't it?"
"Claud, my dear old man, you mustn't! Why, what an untold comfort you
have been to me when Edwar--when I could not have lived but for you!"
cried Mab, the tears splashing on her cheeks. "I envy your wife! She
will have the most constant, loving care of any woman under heaven--you
will be an ideal husband--the longer she is married the better she will
learn to appreciate you!"
"I never shall have a wife at all, Mab, if I cannot get this one," said
Claud, with a ring of determination in his voice which was quite new.
Lady Mabel contemplated him for a moment.
"Is she rich, Claud?"
"No," said he, laughing a little.
"So I expected. Trust you never to love a rich woman. You would sit down
and analyse your feelings till you became perfectly certain that some
greed of gain mingled with your affection. But, my dear boy, forgive the
pathos of the inquiry, but how should you propose to set up
housekeeping?"
"I should take a post--cut the Bar and take a post."
"Charming, but who will offer the post?"
"A friend of mine," was the mysterious reply.
"Percivale, of course. Well, I suppose he has influence. Poor fellow! I
could wish him to have a happier future than seems to me to lie before
him."
"Tell you, Mab, you take too serious a view. I will sketch his married
career for you. The first six weeks will be bliss unutterable, because
he will himself turn on his own rose-colored light upon everything and
everybody, and his bride will be beautiful, amiable, and passive. Then
will come a disillusioning, sharp and bitter. He will be most fearfully
upset for a time, there will be a period of blank horror, of
astonishment, of incredulity, almost of despair. Then will dawn the
period when the bridegroom will discover that his wife is neither the
angel he first took her for, nor the fiend she afterwards seemed, but a
very middling, earthly young person, with youth and beauty in her favor.
Once wide awake from the dream that was to have lasted for ever, he will
pull himself together, and find life first tolerable, then pleasant; but
for the remainder of his days he will never be in love with his wife
again, even for a moment. Now in my case----"
He had never mentioned his love before to anyone; in fact, until last
night's talk with Percivale he had scarcely been sure of it himself. To
use his own metaphor, his friend had stirred the smouldering hot coals,
and they had burst into blaze at last. The earth and air were full of
Wynifred. The end of life seemed at present to consist in the fact that
she was coming to dine that night.
His sister's thoughts still ran on Percivale.
"Claud," she said, "do you really think it will be as bad as that?"
"More or less, I am afraid so. He is a man with such a very high
ideal--with a rectitude of purpose, a purity of motive which do not
belong to our century. Miss Brabourne _must_ disappoint him. But she is
very young, and one can never prophesy exactly ... marriage sometimes
alters a girl completely, and his nature is such a strong one, it must
influence hers. I think she is a little in awe of him, which is an
excellent thing; though how long such awe will last when she discovers
that his marital attitude is sheer prostration before her, I cannot
tell. Besides, he does not really require that she shall love him, only
that she shall permit him to love her as much as he will; at present, at
least, such an arrangement will just suit her."
As he spoke the words, the door opened to admit Elsa herself.
She entered, looking such a picture of girlish grace and sweetness as
more than accounted for Percivale's subjugation. She wore the
semi-classic robe of white and gold, in which Mr. Miles had chosen to
paint her; and, as it was an evening dress, she had covered her
shoulders with a long white cloak, lined with palest green silk.
"Oh!" she stopped short, laughing. "Good-morning, Mr. Cranmer! I did not
know you were here. I feel so crazy, dressed up like this in broad
daylight. I wonder if I might be rude enough to ask you to turn out for
a few minutes? I want to speak to Lady Mabel."