IT was with a sort of stupified bewilderment that Aubrey read over and
over the little letter of Bee’s. Letter! To call it a letter. Those
straggling lines without any beginning, no name of him to whom they were
addressed, nothing even of the most superficial courtesy, nothing that
marked the link that had been--unless it were, perhaps, the abruptness,
the harshness, which she would have used to no other. This was a kind of
painful comfort in its way, when he came to think of it. To nobody but
him would she have written so--this was the little gleam of light. And
she had retained his letters, though she had forbidden him from sending
more. These lights of consolation leaped into his mind with the first
reading, but the more he repeated that reading, the darker grew the
prospect, and the less comfort they gave him. “Not by my father’s will,
but my own; and your own heart will tell you why.” What did she mean by
his own heart? She had begun to write conscience, and then drew her pen
through it. Conscience! What had he done? What had he done? The real
trouble of his life Bee had forgiven. Her father had stood upon it, and
nothing had changed his standing ground so far as the Colonel was
concerned; but Bee, who did not understand--how should any girl
understand?--had forgiven him, had flung his reproach away and accepted
him as he was. How was it that she should thus go back on her decision
now? “Not my father’s will, but mine. And your conscience will tell you
why.” Aubrey’s conscience reproached him with nothing, with no thought
of unfaithfulness to the young and spotless love which had re-created
his being. He had never denied the old reproach. But what was it, what
was it which she bid him to remember, which would explain the change in
her? “Your heart will tell you why”--why his heart? and what was there
that could be told him, which could explain this? He walked about his
little room all night, shaking the little rickety little house with his
tread, asking himself, “What was it, what was it?” and finding no answer
anywhere.
When he got up from a troubled morning sleep, these disturbed and
unrefreshing slumbers, full of visions which turn the appearance of rest
into the most fatiguing of labour, Aubrey formed a resolution, which he
said to himself he should perhaps have carried out from the first. He
had an advocate who could take charge of his cause without any fear of
betrayal, his mother, and to her he would go without delay. Of all
things in the world to do, after the reception of Bee’s note, giving in
was the last thing he could think of. To accept that strange and
agitated decision, to allow that there was something in his own heart
that would explain it to him, was what he would not and could not do.
There was nothing in his own consciousness, in his heart or conscience,
as she had said, that could explain it. Nothing! It was not to his
credit to accept such a dismissal, even if he had been unaffected by it.
He could not let a mystery fall over this, leaving it as one of those
things unexplained which tear life in pieces. That would be mere
weakness, not the mode of action of a man of sense who had no exposure
to face. But if his letters were intercepted--miserable folly!--by the
father, a man of the world who ought to have known that such proceedings
were an anachronism--and rejected by herself, it was little use that he
should continue writing. Against two such methods of silencing him no
man could contend. But there was still one other great card to play. He
went out and took a last view of the sheltered and flowery dwelling of
Kingswarden, as it could be seen among the trees at one part of the
road. The windows were open and all the blinds drawn up. The house had
come back out of the shadow of death into the every-day composure of
living. White curtains fluttered in the wind at the upper windows. The
late climbing roses and pretty bunches of clematis seemed again to look
in. It was still like summer, though the year was waning, and the sun
still shone, notwithstanding all sorrow. Aubrey saw no one, however, but
a housemaid, who paused as she passed to put up a window, and looked out
for a moment. That was all. He had not the chance of seeing any face
that he wished to see. In the village he met the two boys, who
recognised him sheepishly with their eyes, and a look from one to
another, but were about to shuffle past, Reginald on the heels of
Arthur, to escape his notice--when he stopped them, which was a fact
they were unprepared for, and had not calculated how to meet. He told
them that he was going away, a definite fact upon which they seized
eagerly. “Oh, so are we,” they said, both together, one of them adding
the explanation that there was always something going on at school. “And
there’s nothing to do here,” the other added. “I hope we’ll, sometime or
other, know each other better,” said Aubrey, at which the boys hung
their heads. “There is a good deal of shooting down at my little
place,” he added. He was not above such a mean act; whereupon the two
heads raised themselves by one impulse, as if they had been upon wires,
and two pairs of eyes shone. “Try if you can do anything for me, and
I’ll do everything I can for you,” this insidious plotter said. The boys
shook hands with him with a warmth which they never expected to have
felt for any such “spoon,” and said to each other that he didn’t seem
such a bad fellow at bottom--as if they had searched his being through
and through. Mr. Leigh met Charlie when on his way to the railway
station, but he had no encouragement to say anything to Charlie. They
passed each other with a nod, very surly on Charlie’s part, whose anger
at the sight of him--as if that man had anything to do with _our_
trouble--was perhaps not so unnatural. Charlie, too, was going back to
Oxford next day, and thankful to be doing so, out of this dreary place,
where there was nothing to do.
It was the afternoon of the next day when Aubrey arrived at his mother’s
house. It was at some distance from his own house, much too far to
drive, and only to be got at by cross-country railways, with an interval
of an hour or two of waiting at several junctions, facts which he could
not help remembering his poor little wife and her companion had
congratulated themselves upon in those old, strange days, which had
disappeared so entirely, like a tale that is told. He wondered whether
she would equally think it an advantage--if she ever was the partner of
his home. There seemed to him now something wrong in the thought, a mean
sort of petty feeling, unworthy of a fine nature. He wondered if
Bee--Bee! How unlikely it was that she would ever consider that
question, or know anything further about his house or his ways of
living--she who had thrust him away from her at the very moment when her
heart ought to have been most soft--when love was most wanted to
strengthen and uphold. Not her father’s will, but her own. And your own
heart will explain it. His own heart! in which there was nothing but
truth and devotion to her.
He arrived thus at his mother’s house very depressed in spirits. Mrs.
Leigh was not the ordinary kind of mother for a young man like Aubrey
Leigh. She was not one of those mothers wholly wrapped up in their
children, who are so general. She had all along made an attempt at an
independent life of her own. When Aubrey married she was still a
comparatively young woman, by no means disposed to sink her identity in
him or his household. Mrs. Aubrey Leigh might possess the first place in
the family as the queen regnant, but Mrs. Leigh, in her personality a
much more important person, had no idea of being swamped, and giving up
her natural consequence. She was still a considerable person, though she
was not rich, and inhabited only a sort of jointure-house, a “small
place” capable of holding very few visitors. Aubrey was her only son,
and she was, of course, very fond of him--_of course_, she was very fond
of him--but she had no intention of sinking into insignificance or
living only in the reflection of Aubrey, still less of his wife.
Hurstleigh, where Mrs. Leigh lived, was near the sea, and near also to
the county town, which was a brisk and thriving seaport. It was an old
house that had known many fluctuations, an ancient manor house,
inhabited once by the Leighs when they were of humbler pretentions than
now; then it became a farm-house, then was let to a hunting man, who
greatly enlarged the stables; and now it was a jointure-house, the
stables veiled by a new wing, the place in that trim order which denotes
a careful master, and more particularly mistress; with large lattice
windows, heavy mullions, and a terrace with stone balustrades running
all the length of the house. Mrs. Leigh generally sat in a room opening
upon this terrace, with the windows always open, except in the coldest
weather, and there it was that Aubrey made his way, without passing
through the house. His mother was sitting at one of her favourite
occupations--writing letters. She was one of those women who maintain a
large correspondence, chiefly for the reason that it amuses them to
receive letters and to feel themselves a centre of lively and varied
life; besides that, she was considered a very clever letter writer,
which is a temptation to everyone who possesses, or is supposed to
possess, that qualification. She rose quickly, with a cry of “Aubrey!”
in great surprise.
“You are the last person I expected to see,” she said, when she had
given him a warm welcome. “I saw the death in the papers, and I
supposed, of course, you would be there.”
“I have just come from Kingswarden,” he said, with a little nod of his
head in assent; “and yet I was not there.”
“Riddle me no riddles, Aubrey, for I never was good at guessing. You
were there and yet you were not there?”
“I am afraid--I am no longer a welcome visitor, mother,” he said, with a
faint smile.
“What!” Mrs. Leigh’s astonishment was so great that it seemed to disturb
the afternoon quiet which reigned over the whole domain. “What! Why,
Aubrey! It was only the other day I heard of your engagement.”
“It is quite true, and yet it has become ancient history, and nobody
remembers it any more.”
“What do you mean?” she cried. “My dear Aubrey, I do not understand you.
I thought you were dangling about after your young lady, and that this
was the reason why I heard so little of you; and then I was much
startled to see that announcement in the papers. But you said she was
always delicate. Well, but what on earth is the meaning of this other
change?”
“I told you, mother. For some time I was but half accepted, pending
Colonel Kingsward’s decision.”
“Oh, yes; one knows what that sort of thing means! And then Colonel
Kingsward generously consented--to one of the best matches in
England--in your condition of life.”
“I am not a young duke, mother.”
“No, you are not a young duke. I said in your condition of life, and the
Kingswards are nothing superior to that, I believe. Well--and then? That
was where your last letter left me.”
“I am ashamed not to have written, mother; but it wasn’t pleasant
news--and I always hoped to change their mind.”
“Well? I suppose there was some cause for it?” she said, after waiting a
long minute or two for his next words.
He got up and walked to the window, which, as has been intimated, was
also a door opening and leading out on to the terrace. “May I shut this
window?” he said, turning his back on her; and then he added, still
keeping that attitude, “it was of course because of that old affair.”
“What old affair?”
“You generally understand at half a word, mother; must I go into the
whole nauseous business?”
She came up to him and laid her hand on his shoulder. “Miss Lance,” she
said.
“What else? I haven’t had so many scandals in my life that you should
stand in any doubt.”
“Scandals!” she exclaimed; and again was silent for a moment. “Aubrey,
explain it to me a little. How did that business come to their ears?”
“Oh, in the easiest way, the simplest way!” he cried, “The injured woman
called on the father of the girl who was going to be given to such a
reprobate as me.” He laughed loudly and harshly, preserving the most
tragic face all the time.
“The injured woman! Good heavens! And was the man such an ass--such an
ass----?”
“He is not an ass, mother; he is a model of every virtue. My engagement,
if you like to call it so, lasted about a week, and then I was suddenly
turned adrift.”
“Aubrey, when did all this happen?”
“I suppose about three weeks ago. Pardon me, mother, for not having
written, but I had no heart to write. I left them at Cologne, and
travelled home by myself, and the first thing I did, of course, was to
go and see Colonel Kingsward.”
“Well?”
“No, it wasn’t well at all. He refused to listen to me. Of course, I got
it out from my side as well as I could, but it made no difference. He
would not hear me. He would understand no excuse.”
“And the ladies?”
“Mrs. Kingsward was too gentle and yielding. She never opposed him,
and--”
“Aubrey, the girl whom you loved, and had such faith in--Bee, don’t you
call her?--”
“Bee--stood by me, mother; never hesitated, gave me her hand, and stood
by me.”
“Ah, well,” said Mrs. Leigh, with a little sigh of relief, “then that’s
all right. The father will soon come round--”
“So I should have said yesterday. I left them in that full faith. But
since they came back to Kingswarden something has happened. I wrote to
her, but I got no answer--I supposed it was her mother’s illness--now I
have found that he stops my letters; but something far worse--wait a
moment--she, Bee herself, wrote to me yesterday, dismissing me without a
word of explanation--declaring she did it by her own will, not her
father’s--and adding, my conscience would tell me why.”
Mrs. Leigh looked her son straight in the face for a full minute.
“Aubrey--and does your conscience tell you why?”
“No, mother. I am too bewildered even to be able to think--I have not an
idea what she means. She knew all there was to know--without
understanding it in the least, it needn’t be said--and held fast to her
word; and now I know no more what she means than you do. Mother,
there’s only one thing to be done--you must take it in hand.”
“I---- take your love affairs in hand!” she said.