For many years nothing had given Mr. Alwynn such heart-felt pleasure as
the news Ruth had to tell him, as he drove her back next morning to
Slumberleigh, behind Mrs. Alwynn's long-tailed ponies.
It was a still September morning, with a faint pearl sky and half-veiled
silver sun. Pale gleams of sunshine wandered across the busy harvest
fields, and burnished the steel of the river.
Decisions of any kind rarely look their best after a sleepless night;
but as Ruth saw the expression of happiness and relief that came into
her uncle's face, when she told him what had happened, she felt again
that she was glad--very glad.
"Oh, my dear! my dear!"--Mr. Alwynn was driving the ponies first against
the bank, and then into the opposite ditch--"how glad I am; how
thankful! I had almost hoped, certainly; I wished so much to think it
possible; but then, one can never tell. Poor Dare! poor fellow! I used
to be so sorry for him. And how much you will be able to do at Vandon
among the people. It will be a different place. And it is such a relief
to think that the poor old house will be looked after. It went to my
heart to see the way it had been neglected. I ventured this morning, as
I was down early, to move some of that dear old Worcester farther back
into the cabinet. They really were so near the edge, I could not bear to
see them; and I found a Sèvres saucer, my dear, in the library that
belonged to one of those beautiful cups in the drawing-room. I hope it
was not very wrong, but I had to put it among its relations. It was
sitting with a Delf mug on it, poor thing. Dear me! I little thought
then--Really, I have never been so glad about anything before."
After a little more conversation, and after Mr. Alwynn had been
persuaded to give the reins to his niece, who was far more composed than
himself, his mind reverted to his wife.
"I think, my dear, until your engagement is more settled, till I have
had a talk with Dare on the subject (which will be necessary before you
write to your uncle Francis), it would be as well not to refer to it
before--in fact, not to mention it to Mrs. Alwynn. Your dear aunt's
warm heart and conversational bent make it almost impossible for her to
refrain from speaking of anything that interests her; and indeed, even
if she does not say anything in so many words, I have observed that
opinions are sometimes formed by others as to the subject on which she
is silent, by her manner when any chance allusion is made to it."
Ruth heartily agreed. She had been dreading the searching catechism
through which Mrs. Alwynn would certainly put her--the minute inquiries
as to her dress, the hour, the place; whether it had been "standing up
or sitting down;" all her questions of course interwoven with personal
reminiscences of "how John had done it," and her own emotion at the
time.
It was with no small degree of relief at the postponement of that evil
hour that Ruth entered the house. As she did so a faint sound reached
her ear. It was that of a musical-box.
"Dear! dear!" said Mr. Alwynn, as he followed her. "It is a fine day.
Your aunt must be ill."
For the moment Ruth did not understand the connection of ideas in his
mind, until she suddenly remembered the musical-box, which, Mrs. Alwynn
had often told her, was "so nice and cheery on a wet day, or in time of
illness."
She hurriedly entered the drawing-room, followed by Mr. Alwynn, where
the first object that met her view was Mrs. Alwynn extended on the sofa,
arrayed in what she called her tea-gown, a loose robe of blue cretonne,
with a large vine-leaf pattern twining over it, which broke out into
grapes at intervals. Ruth knew that garment well. It came on only when
Mrs. Alwynn was suffering. She had worn it last during a period of
entire mental prostration, which had succeeded all too soon an exciting
discovery of mushrooms in the glebe. Mr. Alwynn's heart and Ruth's sank
as they caught sight of it again.
With a dignity befitting the occasion, Mrs. Alwynn recounted in detail
the various ways in which she had employed herself after their departure
the previous evening, up to the exact moment when she slipped going
up-stairs, and sprained her ankle, in a blue and green manner that had
quite alarmed the doctor when he had seen it, and compared with which
Mrs. Thursby's gathered finger in the spring was a mere bagatelle.
"Mrs. Thursby stayed in bed when her finger was bad," said Mrs. Alwynn
to Ruth, when Mr. Alwynn had condoled, and had made his escape to his
study. "She always gives way so; but I never was like that. I was up all
the same, my dear."
"I hope it does not hurt very much," said Ruth, anxious to be
sympathetic, but succeeding only in being commonplace.
"It's not only the pain," said Mrs. Alwynn, in the gentle resigned voice
which she always used when indisposed--the voice of one at peace with
all the world, and ready to depart from a scene consequently so devoid
of interest; "but to a person of my habits, Ruth--never a day without
going into the larder, and always seeing after the servants as I
do--first one duty and then another--and the chickens and all. It seems
a strange thing that I should be laid aside."
Mrs. Alwynn paused, as if she had not for the nonce fathomed the
ulterior reasons for this special move on the part of Providence, which
had crippled her, while it left Ruth and Mrs. Thursby with the use of
their limbs.
"However," she continued, "I am not one to repine. Always cheery and
busy, Ruth: that is my motto. And now, my dear, if you will wind up the
musical-box, and then read me a little bit out of 'Texts with Tender
Twinings'" (the new floral manual which had lately superseded the
"Pearls"), "after that we will start on one of my scrap-books, and you
shall tell me all about your visit to Vandon."
It was not the time Ruth would have chosen for a _tête-à-tête_ with her
aunt. She was longing to be alone, to think quietly over what had
happened, and it was difficult to concentrate her attention on pink and
yellow calico, and cut out colored royal families, and foreign birds,
with a good grace. Happily Mrs. Alwynn, though always requiring
attention, was quite content with the half of what she required; and,
with the "Buffalo Girls" and the "Danube River" tinkling on the table,
conversation was somewhat superfluous.
In the afternoon Dare came, but he was waylaid in the hall by Mr.
Alwynn, and taken into the study before he could commit himself in Mrs.
Alwynn's presence. Mrs. Thursby and Mabel also called to condole, and a
little later Mrs. Smith of Greenacre, who had heard the news of the
accident from the doctor. Altogether it was a delightful afternoon for
Mrs. Alwynn, who assumed for the time an air of superiority over Mrs.
Thursby to which that lady's well-known chronic ill-health seldom
allowed her to lay claim.
Mrs. Alwynn and Mrs. Thursby had remained friends since they had both
arrived together as brides at Slumberleigh, in spite of a difference of
opinion, which had at one time strained friendly relations to a painful
degree, as to the propriety of wearing the hair over the top of the
ear. The hair question settled, a temporary difficulty, extending over a
few years, had sprung up in its place, respecting what Mrs. Thursby
called "family." Mrs. Alwynn's family was not her strong point, nor was
its position strengthened by her assertion (unsupported by Mrs.
Markham), that she was directly descended from Queen Elizabeth.
Consequently, it was trying to Mrs. Thursby--who, as every one knows,
was one of the brainless Copleys of Copley--that Mrs. Alwynn, who in the
lottery of marriage had drawn an honorable, should take precedence of
herself. To obviate this difficulty, Mrs. Thursby, with the ingenuity of
her sex, had at one time introduced Mr. and Mrs. Alwynn as "our rector,"
and "our rector's wife," thus denying them their name altogether, for
fear lest its connection with Lord Polesworth should be remembered, and
the fact that Mr. Alwynn was his brother, and consequently an honorable,
should transpire.
This peculiarity of etiquette entirely escaped Mr. Alwynn, but aroused
feelings in the breast of his wife which might have brought about one of
those deeply rooted feuds which so often exist between the squire's and
clergyman's families, if it had not been for the timely and serious
illness in which Mrs. Thursby lost her health, and the principal part of
the other subject of disagreement--her hair.
Then Queen Elizabeth and the honorable were alike forgotten. With her
own hands Mrs. Alwynn made a certain jelly, which Mrs. Thursby praised
in the highest manner, saying she only wished that it had been the habit
in _her_ family to learn to do anything so useful. Mrs. Thursby's new
gowns were no longer kept a secret from Mrs. Alwynn, to be suddenly
sprung upon her at a garden-party, when, possibly in an old garment
herself, she was least able to bear the shock. By-gones were by-gones,
and, greatly to the relief of the two husbands, their respective wives
made up their differences.
"And a very pleasant afternoon it has been," said Mrs. Alwynn, when the
Thursbys and Dare, who had been loath to go, had taken their departure.
"Mrs. Thursby and Mabel, and Mrs. Smith and Mr. Dare. Four to tea. Quite
a little party, wasn't it, Ruth? And so informal and nice; and the buns
came in as naturally as possible, which no one heard me whisper to James
for. I think those little citron buns are nicer than a great cake like
Mrs. Thursby's; and hers are always so black and overbaked. That is why
the cook sifts such a lot of sugar over them. I do think one should be
real, and not try to cover up things. And Mr. Dare so pleasant. Quite
sorry to go he seemed. I often wonder whether it will be you or Mabel in
the end. He ought to be making up his mind. I expect I shall have a
little joke with him about it before long. And such an interest he took
in the scrap-book. I asked him to come again to-morrow."
"I don't expect he will be able to do so," said Mr. Alwynn. "I rather
think he will have to go to town on business."
Later in the evening, Mr. Alwynn told Ruth that in the course of his
interview he had found that Dare had the very vaguest ideas as to the
necessity of settlements; had evidently never given the subject a
thought, and did not even know what he actually possessed.
Mr. Alwynn was secretly afraid of what Ruth's trustee, his brother, Lord
Polesworth (now absent shooting in the Rocky Mountains), would say if,
during his absence, their niece was allowed to engage herself without
suitable provision; and he begged Ruth not "to do anything rash" in the
way of speaking of her engagement, until Dare could, with the help of
his lawyer, see his way to making some arrangement.
"I know he has no money," said Ruth, quietly; "that is one of the
reasons why I am going to marry him."
Mr. Alwynn, to whom this seemed the most natural reason in the world,
was not sure whether it would strike his brother with equal force. He
had a suspicion that when Lord Polesworth's attention should be turned
from white goats and brown bears to the fact that his niece, who had
means of her own, had been allowed to engage herself to a poor man, and
that Mr. Alwynn had greatly encouraged the match, unpleasant questions
might be asked.
"Francis will be back in November," said Mr. Alwynn. "I think, Ruth, we
had better wait till his return before we do anything definite."
"Anything _more_ definite, you mean," said Ruth. "I have been very
definite already, I think. I shall be glad to wait till he comes back,
if you wish it, Uncle John. I shall try to do what you both advise. But
at the same time I am of age; and if my word is worth anything, you know
I have given that already."
Dare felt no call to go to London by the early train on the following
morning, so he found himself at liberty to spend an hour at Slumberleigh
Rectory on his way to the station, and by the advice of Mr. Alwynn went
into the garden, where the sound of the musical-box reached the ear, but
in faint echoes, and where Ruth presently joined him.
In his heart Dare was secretly afraid of Ruth; though, as he often told
himself, it was more than probable she was equally afraid of him. If
that was so, she controlled her feelings wonderfully, for as she came
to meet him, nothing could have been more frankly kind, more friendly,
or more composed than her manner towards him. He took her out-stretched
hand and kissed it. It was not quite the way in which he had pictured to
himself that they would meet; but if his imagination had taken a
somewhat bolder flight in her absence, he felt now, as she stood before
him, that it had taken that flight in vain. He kept her hand, and looked
intently at her. She did not change color, nor did that disappointing
friendliness leave her steady eyes.
"She does not love me," he said to himself. "It is strange, but she does
not. But the day will come."
"You are going to London, are you not?" asked Ruth, withdrawing her hand
at last; and after hearing a detailed account of his difficulties and
anxieties about money matters, and after taking an immense weight off
his mind by telling him that they would have no influence in causing her
to alter her decision, she sent him beaming and rejoicing on his way,
quite a different person to the victim of anxiety and depression who had
arrived at Slumberleigh an hour before.
Mrs. Alwynn was much annoyed at Dare's entire want of heart in leaving
the house without coming to see her, and during the remainder of the
morning she did not cease to comment on the differences that exist
between what people really are and what they seem to be, until, in her
satisfaction at recounting the accident to Evelyn Danvers, a new and
sympathetic listener, she fortunately forgot the slight put upon her
ankle earlier in the day. The complete enjoyment of her sufferings was,
however, destined to sustain a severe shock the following morning.
She and Ruth were reading their letters, Mrs. Alwynn, of course, giving
Ruth the benefit of the various statements respecting the weather which
her correspondents had confided to her, when Mr. Alwynn came in from the
study, an open letter in his hand. He was quite pink with pleasure.
"He has asked me to go and see them," he said, "and they _are_ small,
and have green seals, all excepting one,"--referring to the
letter--"which has a big red seal in a tin box, attached by a tape.
Ruth, I am perfectly _convinced_ beforehand that those charters are
grants of land of the fourteenth or fifteenth century. Sir Charles
mentions that they are in black letter, and only a few lines on each,
but he says he won't describe them in full, as I must come and see them
for myself. Dear me! how I shall enjoy arranging them for him, which he
asked me to do. I had really become so anxious about them that a few
days ago I determined to set my mind at rest, and I wrote to him to ask
for particulars, and that is his answer."
Mr. Alwynn put Charles's letter into her hand, and she glanced over it.
"Why, Uncle John, he asks Aunt Fanny as well; and--'if Miss Deyncourt is
still with you, pleasure,' etc.--and _me_, too!"
"When is it for?" asked Mrs. Alwynn, suddenly sitting bolt-upright.
"Let me see. 'Black letter size about'--where is it? Here. 'Tuesday, the
25th, for three nights. Leaving home following week for some time.
Excuse short notice,' etc. It is next week, Aunt Fanny."
"I shall not be able to go," gasped Mrs. Alwynn, sinking back on her
sofa, while something very like tears came into her eyes; "and I've
never been there, Ruth. The Thursbys went once, in old Sir George's
time, and Mrs. Thursby always says it is the show-place in the county,
and that it is such a pity I have not seen it. And last autumn, when
John went, I was in Devonshire, and never even heard of his going till I
got home, or I'd have come back. Oh, Ruth! Oh, dear!"
Mrs. Alwynn let her letters fall into her lap, and drew forth the
colored pocket-handkerchief which she wore, in imitation of Mabel
Thursby, stuck into the bodice of her gown, and at the ominous
appearance of which Mr. Alwynn suddenly recollected a duty in the study
and retreated.
With an unerring instinct Ruth flew to the musical-box and set it going,
and then knelt down by the prostrate figure of her aunt, and
administered what sympathy and consolation she could, to the "cheery"
accompaniment of the "Buffalo Girls."
"Never mind, dear Aunt Fanny. Perhaps he will ask you again when you are
better. There will be other opportunities."
"I always was unlucky," said Mrs. Alwynn, faintly. "I had a swelled face
up the Rhine on our honey-moon. Things always happen like that with me.
At any rate,"--after a pause--"there is _one_ thing. We ought to try and
look at the bright side. It is not as if we had not been asked. We have
not been overlooked."
"No," said Ruth, promptly; and in her own mind she registered a vow that
in her future home she would never give the pain that being overlooked
by the larger house can cause to the smaller house.
"And I will stay with you, Aunt Fanny," she went on, cheerfully. "Uncle
John can go by himself, and we will do just what we like while he is
away, won't we?"
But at this Mrs. Alwynn demurred. She was determined that if she played
the rôle of a martyr she would do it well. She insisted that Ruth should
accompany Mr. Alwynn. She secretly looked forward to telling Mabel that
Ruth was going. She did not mind being left alone, she said. She
desired, with a sigh of self-sacrifice, that Mr. Alwynn should accept
for himself and his niece. She had not been brought up to consider
herself, thank God! She had her faults she knew. No one was more fully
aware of them than herself; but she was not going to prevent others
enjoying themselves because she herself was laid aside.
"And now, my dear," she said, with a sudden return to mundane interests
that succeeded rather unexpectedly to the celestial spirit of her
previous remarks, "you must be thinking about your gowns. If I had been
going, I should have had my ruby satin done up--so beautiful by
candle-light. What have you to wear? That white lace tea-gown with the
silver-gray train is very nice; but you ought not to be in half mourning
now. I like to see young people in colors. And then there is that
gold-and-white brocade, Ruth, that you wore at the drawing-room last
year. It is a beautiful dress, but rather too quiet. Could not you
brighten it up with a few cherry-colored bows about it, or a sash? I
always think a sash is so becoming. If you were to bring it down, I dare
say I could suggest something. And you must be well dressed, for though
he only says 'friends,' you never can tell whom you may not meet at a
place like that."