I WILL not repeat the often described scene of anxiety which existed in
Kingswarden for some time after. Colonel Kingsward returned, as Bee had
done, to find that nothing had been seen or heard of Charlie, whom both
had expected to find defiant and wretched at home. It is astonishing how
quickly in such circumstances the tables are turned, and the young
culprit--whom parents and friends have been ready to crush the moment he
appears with well-deserved rebuke--becomes, when he does not appear, the
object of the most eager appeals; forgiveness, and advantages of every
kind all ready to greet him if only he will come back. The girls were
frightened beyond description by their brother’s disappearance, and
conjured up every dreadful image of disaster and misery. They thought of
Charlie in his despair going off to the ends of the earth and never
being seen more. They thought of him as in some wretched condition on
shipboard, sick and miserable, reduced to dreadful work and still more
dreadful privations, he who had lain in the lilies and fed on the roses
of life. They thought of him, Colonel Kingsward’s son, enlisted as a
private soldier, in a crowded barrack-room. They thought of him
wandering about the street, cold, perhaps hungry, without a shelter. The
most dreadful images came before their inexperienced eyes. The old aunt
who was their companion told them dreadful stories of family prodigals
who disappeared and were never heard of again, and terror took hold of
the girls’ minds.
Their constant walk was to the station, with the idea that he might
perhaps come as far as the village, and that there his heart might fail
him. Except for that melancholy indulgence, they would not be out of the
house at any time together, lest at that moment Charlie might arrive,
and no one be there to welcome him. There was always one who ran to the
door at every sound, scandalising the servant, who could never get there
so fast but one of the young ladies was before him. They had endless
conversations and consultations on the subject, forming a hundred plans
as to how they should go forth into the world to seek for him, all
rendered abortive by the reflection that they knew not where to go. Bee
and Betty were very unhappy during these lingering, chilly days of early
spring. The tranquillity of the family life seemed to be destroyed in a
moment. Where was Charlie? Was there any news of Charlie? This was the
question that filled their minds day and night.
Colonel Kingsward was not less affectionate, but he was more practical
and experienced. He knew that now and then it does happen that a young
man disappears, sinks under the stream, and goes, as people say, to the
dogs, and is heard of no more--or, at least, only in a shipwrecked
condition, the shame and trouble of his friends. It did not seem to him,
at first, that there could be any such danger for his son. He
anticipated nothing more than a few days’ sullenness, perhaps in some
friend’s house, who would make cautious overtures and intercede for the
rebellious but shame-stricken boy. When, however, the time passed on,
and a longer interval than any judicious friend would permit had
elapsed, a deep anxiety arose also in Colonel Kingsward’s mind. The
_esclandre_ of an Oxford failure did not trouble him much, but, in view
of Charlie’s future career, he could not employ detectives, or advertise
in the papers, or take any steps which might lead to a paragraph as to
the anxiety of a distinguished family on account of a son who had
disappeared. Colonel Kingsward might not be a very tender parent, but he
was fully alive to the advantage of his children, and would allow no
stigma to be attached to them which he could prevent. He went a great
deal about London in these days, going into many a spot where a man of
his dignity was out of place, with an anxious and troubled eye upon the
crowds of young men, the familiars of these confused regions, among
whom, however, no trace was to be found of his son.
Nobody ever knew how much the Colonel undertook, in how many strange
scenes he found himself, or half of what he really did to recover
Charlie, and save him from the consequences of his folly. The most
devoted father could scarcely have done more, and his mind was almost as
full of the prodigal as were the minds of the girls, who thought of so
many grievous dangers, yet did not think of those that filled their
father’s mind. Colonel Kingsward went about everywhere, groping, saying
not a word to betray his ignorance of Charlie’s whereabouts. To those
who had any right to know his family affairs, he explained that he had
decided not to press Charlie to undergo any examination beyond what was
necessary, that he had given up the thought of taking his degree, and
was studying modern languages and international law, which were so much
more likely to be useful to him. “He is a steady fellow--he has no
vices,” he said, “and I think it is wise to let him have his head.”
Colonel Kingsward was by nature a despotic man, and his friends were
very glad to hear that he was, in respect to Charlie, so amiable--they
said to each other that his wife’s death had softened Kingsward, and
what a good thing it was that he was behaving so judiciously about his
son.
A pause like this in the life of a family--a period of darkness in which
the life of one of its members is suspended, interrupted, as it were, in
mid career, cut off, yet not with that touch of death which stills all
anxieties--is always a difficult and miserable one. Some, and the number
increases of these uncontrolled persons, cry out to earth and heaven,
and make the lapse public and set all the world talking of their
affairs. But Colonel Kingsward sternly put down even the tears of his
young daughters.
“If you cannot keep a watch over yourselves before the servants, you had
better leave the house,” he said, all the more stern to them that he was
soft to Charlie; but indeed it was not so much that he was soft to
Charlie as that he was concerned and anxious about Charlie’s career.
“Betty, I suppose, can go back to the Lyons’ in Portman Square, and
Bee----”
“If you think that I can go visiting, papa, and no one with the
children, and poor Charlie----”
“I think--and, indeed, I know, that you can and will do what I think
best for you,” said Colonel Kingsward.
Bee looked up at him quickly and met her father’s eyes. The two looked
at each other suspiciously, almost fiercely. Bee saw in her father’s
look possibilities and dangers as yet undeveloped, mysteries which she
divined and feared, yet neither could nor would have put into words,
while he looked at her divining her divinations, defying unconsciously
the suspicion which he could not have expressed any more than she.
“Let it be understood once for all,” he said, “that the children have
their nurses and governess, and that your presence is by no means
indispensable to them. You are their eldest sister, you are not the
mistress of the house. Nothing will happen to the children. In
considering what is best for you----”
“Papa!” cried Bee, almost fiercely; but she did not pour out upon him
that bitterness which had been collecting in her heart. She paused in
time; but then added, “I have not asked you to consider what was best
for me.”
“That is enough to show that it is time for me to consider it,” he said.
And then, once more their looks met, and clashed like the encounter of
two armies. What did she suspect? What did he intend? They both breathed
short, as if with the impulse of battle, but neither, even to
themselves, could have answered that question. Colonel Kingsward cried
“Take care, Bee!” as he went away, a by no means happy man, to his
library, while she threw herself down upon a sofa, and--inevitable
result in a girl of any such rising of passion--burst into tears.
“Bee,” said the sensible Betty, “you ought not to speak like that to
papa.”
“I ought to be thankful that he has considered what was best for me, and
spoilt my life!” cried Bee, through her tears. “Oh, it is very easy for
you to speak. You are to go to the Lyons’, where you wish to go--to be
free of all anxiety--for what is Charlie to you but only your brother,
and you know that you can’t do him any good by making yourself miserable
about him? And you will see Gerald Lyon, who is doing well at
Cambridge, and listen to all the talk about him, and smile, and not hate
him for being so smug and prosperous, while poor Charlie----”
“How unjust you are!” cried Betty, growing red and then pale. “It is not
Gerald Lyon’s fault that Charlie has not done well--even if I cared
anything for Gerald Lyon.”
“It is you who ought to take care,” said Bee, “if papa thinks it
necessary to consider what is best for you.”
“There is nothing to consider,” said Betty, with a little movement of
her hands.
“But it can never be so bad for you,” said Bee, with a tone of regret.
“Never! To think that my life should be ruined and all ended for the
sake of a woman--a woman--who has now ruined Charlie, and whom papa--oh,
papa!” she cried, with a tone indescribable of exasperation and scorn
and contempt.
“What is it about papa? You look at each other, you and he, like two
tigers. You have got the same dreadful eyes. Yes, they are dreadful
eyes; they give out fire. I wonder often that they don’t make a noise
like an explosion. And Bee, you said yourself that there was something
else. You never would have given in to papa, but there was something of
your own that parted you from Aubrey--for ever. You said so, Bee--when
his mother----”
“Is there any need for bringing in any gentleman’s name?” cried Bee,
with the dignity of a dowager. And then, ignoring her own rule, she
burst forth, “What I have got against him is nothing to anyone--but that
Aubrey Leigh should be insulted and rejected and turned away from our
door, and that my heart should be broken because of a woman whom papa
and Charlie--whom papa----! He writes to her, and she writes to him--he
tells her everything--he consults her about us, us, my mother’s
children! And yet it was on her account that Aubrey Leigh was turned
from the door---- Oh, if you think I can bear that, you must think me
more than flesh and blood!” Bee cried, the tears adding to the fire and
sparkle of her blazing eyes.
“It isn’t very nice,” said little Betty, sagely, “but I am not so sure
that it was her fault, for if you had stuck to Aubrey as you meant to do
at first, your heart would not have been broken, and if Charlie had not
been very silly, a person of that age could not have done him any harm;
and then papa----. What can she do to papa? I suppose he thinks as she
is old he may write to her as a friend and ask her advice. There is not
any harm that I can see in that.”
Bee was too much agitated to make any reply to this. She resumed again,
after a pause, as if Betty had not spoken: “He writes to her, and she
writes to him, just as she did to Charlie, for I have seen them
both--long letters, with that ridiculous “Laura,” and a big L, as if she
were a girl. You can see them, if you like, at breakfast, when he reads
them instead of his papers, and smiles to himself when he is reading
them, and looks--ridiculous”--cried Bee, in her indignation.
“Ridiculous! as if he were young too; a man who is father of all of us;
and not much more than a year ago--. Oh, if I were not to speak I think
the very trees would, and the bushes in the shrubbery! It is more than
anyone can bear.”
“You are making up a story,” said Betty, wonderingly. “I don’t know what
you mean.” Then she cried, carrying the war into the enemy’s country,
“Oh, Bee, if you had not given him up, if you had been faithful to
him!--now we should have had somebody to consult with, somebody that
could have gone and looked for poor Charlie; for we are only two girls,
and what can we do?”
Bee did not make any reply, but looked at her sister with startled eyes.
“Mamma was never against Aubrey Leigh,” said Betty, pursuing her
advantage. “She never would have wished you to give him up. And it is
all your own doing, not papa’s doing, or anyone’s. If I had ever cared
for him I never, never should have given him up; and then we should have
had as good as another brother, that could have gone into the world and
hunted everywhere and brought Charlie home.”
The argument was taken up at hazard, a chance arrow lying in the young
combatant’s way, without intention--but it went straight to its mark.