KEEPING UP APPEARANCES.
The Russell Pentons stayed a long time--at least, these anxious people
thought so, who believed their visitors to be noting the signs of their
unhappiness, and forming still stronger and stronger conclusions against
their son. The effort Lady Penton made to carry on the conversation was
one of those efforts, gigantic, unappreciated, in which women have
sometimes to make an expenditure of strength which is equal to years of
ordinary exertion. Who can tell the burden it was to talk, to smile, to
exhaust all the trivial subjects that occurred to her, to keep at a
distance all those graver topics which might bring in Walter--which
might lead to discussion of where he was or how employed? She saw, so to
speak, half a mile off those tendencies of conversation which might lead
to him, and, with a sudden leap, would get away from these to another
and another theme, which each in its turn would have to be dismissed and
avoided. “All roads lead to Rome,” says the proverb; and when there is a
certain subject which it is desirable to avoid, all the streamlets of
conversation, by some curious tendency, go to that with infallible
force. Lady Penton had to go through a series of mental gymnastics to
avoid it--to keep her visitors from any thought of Walter--to hide him,
or rather to hide the terrible blank in the house where he ought to have
been. Had he been in his usual place the conversation would never have
touched him; and, as a matter of fact, the Russell Penton’s did not
think of him any more than they did of Horry in the nursery, a stray
shout from whom could sometimes be heard, leaving no one in any doubt as
to his whereabouts. But the mother, flying from subject to subject,
talking as she had never been known to talk in her life before, and her
taciturn husband, who said not a word that he could help saying--both
felt that their misery was open and evident, that the Russell Pentons
were saying in their hearts, “Poor people!” or making reflections that
the boy’s upbringing must have been bad indeed when he had “gone wrong”
at such an early age. Lady Penton felt instinctively that this was what
must be going through Alicia’s mind. The childless woman always says
so--it is one of the commonplaces of morals. If he had been brought up
as he ought he would not have gone wrong. This and a hundred other
things went buzzing through the poor mother’s head, confusing her as she
talked and talked. “Oh,” she said to herself, “it is better that they
should think that!--better blame us--blame _me_, who have been
overindulgent, perhaps, or oversevere--overanything, so long as they do
not blame _him_!” But the father was not so disinterested; he was angry
as well as miserable. He would have had Walter bear his own guilt; he
would not allow those critics who had never had a son to say that it was
the parents’ fault. So he stood with that resentment in his face, saying
so little, only making an annoyed remark when appealed to, short, with
suppressed temper in it, while his wife smiled and ran on. How like
Edward Penton that was! his cousin thought. He had made a proposal to
her which she in her pride would not accept, and his pride could not
forgive her. Alicia felt that she understood it all--as well as the
silly attempt of the wife to smooth it all over and make peace between
them--as if the two Pentons did not understand each other better than
any outsider! as if this question between them could be smoothed away by
her!
“You will let me come back again?” said Mab, rubbing her little cheek
like a kitten against Lady Penton’s ear. “I will never go away unless
you say that I may come back.”
“What a threat!” said Russell Penton. “In order to get rid of you, Mab,
the promise will have to be made.”
“Not to get rid of her: we don’t want to get rid of her. Yes, my dear,
certainly as soon--as soon as we are settled, when the house is not so
dull--”
“It isn’t dull, no one can be dull with you. I will tell you what I want
in a whisper. I want to come and stay altogether; I want you to have me
altogether,” said Mab, in the confidence of her wealth.
“My dear!” cried Lady Penton, faltering. In spite of her preoccupations
she was a little alarmed. She put it off with a kiss of farewell. “You
must come as often as you like,” she said. “It is sweet of you to wish
to come. We shall always be glad to see you, either here or--wherever we
may be.”
“At Penton,” said Mab, once more rubbing her little head against the
woman to whom she clung. “Uncle Russell, oh, ask her to have me! There
is no place where I could be so happy.”
“You must come as soon as we are settled,” said Lady Penton, in real
panic, putting the supplicant away.
Alicia had turned during this too tender and prolonged leave-taking,
with a little indignation, to the master of the house. She had never
herself either attracted or been attracted to Mab, and she felt
resentful, annoyed, even jealous--though she cared nothing for the
little thing and her whims--of this sudden devotion. She stood by her
cousin, who was resentful and indignant too. “Edward,” she said to him,
“we needn’t quarrel, at least. I know you meant well in offering me
Penton. Don’t be displeased because I couldn’t accept it--I couldn’t,
from any one, unless it had been my right.”
“Penton! do you think of nothing but Penton?” he cried, suddenly, with
an incomprehensible impatience of the subject--that subject which had
once seemed so important, which appeared to him so small now.
“I speak for the sake of peace,” she said, coldly; “that need not stand
between us now. We go away in a week. The things I mean to remove will
be gone within a month. What I wish you to know is, that you may make
arrangements for your removal as soon as you please.”
“Oh, for our removal! yes, yes,” he said, impatiently; “there is no
hurry about that: if that was all one had to think of--”
“I am sorry that you should have other things to think of. To me it
seems very important,” Mrs. Russell Penton said.
“Ah! you have nobody but yourself to be concerned about,” he said. But
then he met his wife’s look of warning, and added no more.
Russell Penton lingered a little behind the rest. “Let me speak a word
to you,” he said, detaining Lady Penton; and her heart, which had begun
to beat feebly as an end approached to this excitement, leaped up again
with an energy which made her sick and faint. Could he know something
about Walter? might he have some news to tell her? Her face flushed, and
then became the color of ashes, a change of which he was wonderingly
aware, though without a notion as to why it was, “You are alarmed,” he
said, “about--”
“No, no!” she interrupted, faintly; “not alarmed. Oh, no, you must not
think so--not frightened at all,” but with fear pale and terrible, and
suspense which was desperate, in every line of her countenance.
Russell Penton himself grew frightened too. “There is nothing to alarm
you,” he said, “about little Mab.”
“Oh!” the breath which had almost failed her came back. A sudden change
came over her face; she smiled, though her smile was ghastly.
“About--Mab?” she said.
“It is alarming, the way in which she flings herself upon you; but you
must let me explain. I see that you think her just a little girl like
any other, and her proposal to come and stay with you altogether is
enough to make even the most generous pause. But that is not what she
means, Lady Penton. She is very rich; she is a little heiress.”
The words did not seem to convey much significance to Lady Penton’s
bewildered soul. “A little heiress,” she repeated, vaguely, as if that
information threw no light upon the matter. Was she stupid? he asked
himself, or ridiculously disinterested, altogether unlike the other
women who have sons? “Very rich--really with a great fortune--but no
home. She is too young to live by herself. She has never developed the
domestic affections before. I should like very well to keep her, but it
would be a burden on Alicia. Will you think it over? She has evidently
set her heart on you, and if would do her so much good to be with people
she cared for. There would of course be a very good allowance, if you
will let me say so. Do think it over.”
They had reached the door by this time, where Sir Edward was solemnly
putting his cousin into her carriage. Mr. Russell Penton pressed Lady
Penton’s hand with a little meaning as he said good-bye. “Walter might
have a try too,” he said, with a laugh, as he turned away.
Walter might have--a try. A try at what? His mother’s head swam. She put
her arm through that of Anne, who stood near her, and kept smiling,
waving her hand to Mab in the carriage: but Lady Penton scarcely saw
what she was looking at. There was something moving, dazzling before her
eyes--the horses, the glitter of the panels, the faces, flickered before
her; and then came a rush of sound, the horses’ hoofs, the carriage
wheels grinding the gravel, and they were gone. Oh, how thankful she
felt when they were gone! The girls led her in, frightened by her
failing strength, and then Sir Edward came, as gloomy as ever, and
leaned over her.
“I don’t think they knew,” he said; “I don’t think they had heard
anything.”
Lady Penton repeated to herself several times over “Walter might have a
try,” and then she too burst forth, “No, Edward, thank God! I am sure
they did not know.”
He shook his head, though he was so much relieved, and said, half
reluctant to confess that he was relieved, “But if it lasts much longer
they must know. How can it be kept from them, and from everybody, if it
lasts much longer?”
The girls looked at each other, but did not speak; for they were aware,
though no one else was, that Mab _knew_; and could it be supposed that
_that_ little thing, who did not belong to them, who had no reason for
sharing their troubles, would keep it to herself and never tell?
They had all thought it would be a relief to be rid of the little
spectator and critic, the stranger in the house, and for a time it was
so. The rest of the afternoon after she was gone the girls and their
mother spent together talking it all over. They had never been able
uninterruptedly to talk it over before, and there was a certain painful
enjoyment in going over every detail, in putting all the facts they
knew together, and comparing their views. Sir Edward had gone out to
take one of his long solemn walks, from which he always came in more
gloomy, more resentful than ever. He was going up to town once more
to-morrow. Once more! He had gone up almost every day, but never had
discovered anything, never had found the lost. And in his absence, and
freed from Mab, whom they had not been able to get rid of at any moment,
what a long, long consultation they had, talking over everything, except
what Mab had suggested. She had said it with the intention of consoling,
but the girls could not repeat it to each other, or breathe to their
mother the suggestion she had made. They were not educated to that
point. That their brother should have married foolishly, made an idol of
some girl who was not his equal, and followed her out into the unknown
world, was dreadful, but comprehensible; but that he should come back by
and by when he wanted money--oh, no, no! What they imagined was that
scene so well known to romance--the foolish young pair coming back,
stealing in, he leading her, ashamed yet proud of her, to ask his
parents’ forgiveness. The girls went over the details of this scene
again and again as soon as they had heard all that their mother had to
tell them.
“She must be beautiful,” they said; “she may be nice--oh, she must be
nice or Wat would not love her!”
“Oh, my dears,” cried Lady Penton, “how can we tell? It is not good
girls and nice girls who lead young men away from their duty.”
“But, mother, if they love each other!” said Ally, blushing over all her
ingenuous, innocent countenance, with the awe and wonder of that great
thing.
Lady Penton did not say anything more, but she shook her head, and then
it was for the first time that there came over her the poignant
suggestion of that “might have been” which she had not taken into her
mind till now. Walter might have a try; little Mab with her heiress-ship
had been thrown at his head, as people say: and what it might have been
had these two taken to each other--had a great fortune been poured into
Penton! Lady Penton had never known what a great piece of good fortune
was; she was not one who expected such things. The very advantages of
it, the desirableness, made it to her temperate soul the less likely.
It never could have come to pass, all the contrarieties of nature were
against it; but still, when she thought that they had spent so many days
under the same roof, and might have spent so many more, and how suitable
it would have been, and what a good thing for Walter, it was not
wonderful that she should sigh. But that was the course of nature, it
was the way of human affairs. It was too good ever to come true.
After the first night, the relief of Mab’s departure was not so evident
to them. She had been a restraint, not only upon their conversations and
consultations, but on the entire abandonment of their life and thoughts
to this anxiety and distress. They had been compelled on her account to
bear the strain, to make a struggle against it. Now there was no longer
that motive. Night and day their ears were intent on every sound; there
was always a watcher at the window in the staircase, which commanded the
ascending path to the village, a sort of lookout woman ready to dash
down-stairs and give notice if by chance--ah! no, by the blessing of
God--the wanderer might be seen coming home. The watch here was furtive,
lest the servants should note, but it was continual; one or another was
always lingering about, looking out with eyes keen and sharp with
anxiety--“busy in the distance shaping things, that made the heart beat
thick.” And so the days passed on, languishing, with dark nights so
endless-long in which the anxious watchers could hear only and could not
see.