If conformity to type is indeed the one great mark towards which
humanity should press, Mrs. Thursby may honestly be said to have
attained to it. Everything she said or did had been said or done before,
or she would never have thought of saying or doing it. Her whole life
was a feeble imitation of the imitative lives of others; in short, it
was the life of the ordinary country gentlewoman, who lives on her
husband's property, and who, as Augustus Hare says, "has never looked
over the garden-wall."
We do not mean to insinuate for a moment that the utmost energy and
culture are not occasionally to be met with in the female portion of
that interesting mass of our fellow-creatures who swell the large
volumes of the "Landed Gentry." Among their ranks are those who come
boldly forward into the full glare of public life; and, conscious of a
genius for enterprise, to which an unmarried condition perhaps affords
ampler scope, and which a local paper is ready to immortalize, become
secretaries of ladies' societies, patronesses of flower shows, breeders
of choice poultry, or even associates of floral leagues of the highest
political importance. That such women should and do exist among us, the
conscious salt-cellars of otherwise flavorless communities, is a fact
for which we cannot be too thankful; and if Mrs. Thursby was not one of
these aspiring spirits, with a yearning after "the mystical better
things," which one of the above pursuits alone can adequately satisfy,
it was her misfortune and not her fault.
It was her nature, as we have said, servilely to copy others. Her
conversation was all that she could remember of what she had heard from
others, her present dinner-party, as regards food, was a cross between
the two last dinner-parties she had been to. The dessert, however,
conspicuous by its absence, conformed strictly to a type which she had
seen in a London house in June.
Her dinner-party gave her complete satisfaction, which was fortunate,
for to the greater number of the eighteen or twenty people who had been
indiscriminately herded together to form it, it was (with the exception
of Mrs. Alwynn) a dreary or at best an uninteresting ordeal; while to
four people among the number, the four who had met last on the church
steps, it was a period of slow torture, endured with varying degrees of
patience by each, from the two soups in the beginning, to the peaches
and grapes at the long-delayed and bitter end.
Ruth, whose self-possession never wholly deserted her, had reached a
depth of exhausted stupor, in which the mind is perfectly oblivious of
the impression it is producing on others. By an unceasing effort she
listened and answered and smiled at intervals, and looked exceedingly
distinguished in the pale red gown which she had put on to please her
aunt; but the color of which only intensified the unnatural pallor of
her complexion. The two men whom she sat between found her a
disappointing companion, cold and formal in manner. At any other time
she would have been humiliated and astonished to hear herself make such
cut-and-dried remarks, such little trite observations. She was sitting
opposite Charles, and she vaguely wondered once or twice, when she saw
him making others laugh, and heard snatches of the flippant talk which
was with him, as she knew now, a sort of defensive armor, how he could
manage to produce it; while Charles, half wild with a mad surging hope
that would not be kept down by any word of Dare's, looked across at her
as often as he dared, and wondered in his turn at the tranquil dignity,
the quiet ordered smile of the face which a few hours ago he had seen
shaken with emotion.
Her eyes met his for a moment. Were they the same eyes that but now had
met his, half blind with tears? He felt still the touch of those tears
upon his hand. He hastily looked away again, and plunged headlong into
an answer to something Mabel was saying to him on her favorite subject
of evolution. All well-brought-up young ladies have a subject nowadays,
which makes their conversation the delightful thing it is; and Mabel, of
course, was not behind the fashion.
"Yes," Ruth heard Charles reply, "I believe with you we go through many
lives, each being a higher state than the last, and nearer perfection.
So a man passes gradually through all the various grades of the
nobility, soaring from the lowly honorable upward into the duke, and
thence by an easy transition into an angel. Courtesy titles, of course,
present a difficulty to the more thoughtful; but, as I am sure you will
have found, to be thoughtful always implies difficulty of some kind."
"It does, indeed," said Mabel, puzzled but not a little flattered. "I
sometimes think one reads too much; one longs so for deep books--Korans,
and things. I must confess,"--with a sigh--"I can't interest myself in
the usual young lady's library that other girls read."
"Can't you?" replied Charles. "Now, I can. I study that department of
literature whenever I have the chance, and I have generally found that
the most interesting part of a young lady's library is to be found in
that portion of the book-shelf which lies between the rows of books and
the wall. Don't you think so, Lady Carmian?" (to the lady on his other
side). "I assure you I have made the most delightful discoveries of this
description. Cheap editions of Ouida, Balzac's works, yellow backs of
the most advanced order, will, as a rule, reward the inquirer, who
otherwise might have had to content himself with 'The Heir of
Redclyffe,' the Lily Series, and Miss Strickland's 'Queens of England.'"
Charles's last speech had been made in a momentary silence, and directly
it was finished every woman, old and young, except Lady Carmian and
Ruth, simultaneously raised a disclaiming voice, which by its vehemence
at once showed what an unfounded assertion Charles had made. Lady
Carmian, a handsome young married woman, only smiled languidly, and,
turning the bracelet on her arm, told Charles he was a cynic, and that
for her own part, when in robust health, she liked what little she read
"strong;" but in illness, or when Lord Carmian had been unusually
trying, she always fell back on a milk-and-water diet. Mrs. Thursby,
however, felt that Charles had struck a blow at the sanctity of home
life, and (for she was one of those persons whose single talent is that
of giving a personal turn to any remark) began a long monotonous recital
of the books she allowed her own daughters to read, and how they were
kept, which proved the extensive range of her library, not in
book-shelves, but in a sliding book-stand, which contracted or expanded
at will.
Long before she had finished, however, the conversation at the other end
of the table had drifted away to the topic of the season among sporting
men, namely the poachers, who, since their raid on Dare's property, had
kept fairly quiet, but who were sure to start afresh now that the
pheasant shooting had begun; and from thence to the recent forgery case
in America, which was exciting every day greater attention in England,
especially since one of the accomplices had been arrested the day before
in Birmingham station, and the principal offender, though still at
large, was, according to the papers, being traced "by means of a clew in
the possession of the police."
Charles knew how little that sentence meant, but he found that it
required an effort to listen unmoved to the various conjectures as to
the whereabouts of Stephens, in which Ruth, as the conversation became
general, also joined, volunteering a suggestion that perhaps he might be
lurking somewhere in Slumberleigh woods, which were certainly very
lonely in places, and where, as she said, she had been very much alarmed
by a tramp in the summer.
Mrs. Thursby, like an echo, began from the other end of the table
something vague about girls being allowed to walk alone, her own
daughters, etc., and so the long dinner wore itself out. Dare was the
only one of the little party who had met on the church steps who
succumbed entirely. Mr. Alwynn, who looked at him and Ruth with pathetic
interest from time to time, made laudable efforts, but Dare made none.
He had taken in to dinner the younger Thursby girl, a meek creature,
without form and void, not yet out, but trembling in a high muslin, on
the verge, who kept her large and burning hands clutched together under
the table-cloth, and whose conversation was upon bees. Dare pleaded a
gun headache, and hardly spoke. His eyes constantly wandered to the
other end of the table, where, far away on the opposite side, half
hidden by ferns and flowers, he could catch a glimpse of Ruth. After
dinner he did not come into the drawing-room, but went off to the
smoking-room, where he paced by himself up and down, up and down,
writhing under the torment of a horrible suspense.
Outside the moon shone clear and high, making a long picturesque shadow
of the great prosaic house upon the wide gravel drive. Dare leaned
against the window-sill and looked out. "Would she give him up?" he
asked himself. Would she believe this vile calumny? Would she give him
up? And as he stood the Alwynns' brougham came with two gleaming eyes
along the drive and drew up before the door. He resolved to learn his
fate at once. There had been no possibility of a word with Ruth on the
church steps. Before he had known where he was, he and Charles had been
walking up to the Hall together, Charles discoursing lengthily on the
impropriety of wire fencing in a hunting country. But now he must and
would see her. He rushed down-stairs into the hall, where young Thursby
was wrapping Ruth in her white furs, while Mr. Thursby senior was
encasing Mrs. Alwynn in a species of glorified ulster of red plush which
she had lately acquired. Dare hastily drew Mr. Alwynn aside and spoke a
few words to him. Mr. Alwynn turned to his wife, after one rueful glance
at his thin shoes, and said:
"I will walk up. It is a fine night, and quite dry underfoot."
"And a very pleasant party it has been," said Mrs. Alwynn, as she and
Ruth drove away together, "though Mrs. Thursby has not such a knack with
her table as some. Not that I did not think the chrysanthemums and white
china swans were nice, very nice; but, you see, as I told her, I had
just been to Stoke Moreton, where things were very different. And you
looked very well, my dear, though not so bright and chatty as Mabel; and
Mrs. Thursby said she only hoped your waist was natural. The idea! And I
saw Lady Carmian notice your gown particularly, and I heard her ask who
you were, and Mrs. Thursby said--so like her--you were their clergyman's
niece. And so, my dear, I was not going to have you spoken of like that,
and a little later on I just went and sat down by Lady Carmian, just
went across the room, you know, as if I wanted to be nearer the music,
and we got talking, and she was rather silent at first, but presently,
when I began to tell her all about you, and who you were, she became
quite interested, and asked such funny questions, and laughed, and we
had quite a nice talk."
And so Mrs. Alwynn chatted on, and Ruth, happily hearing nothing, leaned
back in her corner and wondered whether the evening were ever going to
end. Even when she had bidden her aunt "Good-night," and, having
previously told her maid not to sit up for her, found herself alone in
her own room at last--even then it seemed that this interminable day was
not quite over. She was standing by the dim fire, trying to gather up
sufficient energy to undress, when a quiet step came cautiously along
the passage, followed by a low tap at her door. She opened it
noiselessly, and found Mr. Alwynn standing without.
"Ruth," he said, "Dare has walked up with me. He is in the most dreadful
state. I am sure I don't know what to think. He has said nothing further
to me, but he is bent on seeing you for a moment. It's very late, but
still--could you? He's in the drawing-room now. My poor child, how ill
you look! Shall I tell him you are too tired to-night to see any one?"
"I would rather see him," said Ruth, her voice trembling a little; and
they went down-stairs together. In the hall she hesitated a moment. She
was going to learn her fate. Had her release come? Had it come at the
eleventh hour? Her uncle looked at her with kind, compassionate eyes,
and hers fell before his as she thought how different her suspense was
to what he imagined. Suddenly--and such demonstrations were very rare
with her--she put her arms round his neck and pressed her cheek against
his.
"Oh, Uncle John! Uncle John!" she gasped, "it is not what you think."
"I pray God it may not be what I suppose," he said, sadly, stroking her
head. "One is too ready to think evil, I know. God forgive me if I have
judged him harshly. But go in, my dear;" and he pushed her gently
towards the drawing-room.
She went in and closed the door quietly behind her.
Dare was leaning against the mantle-piece, which was draped in Mrs.
Alwynn's best manner, with Oriental hangings having bits of glass woven
in them. He was looking into the curtained fire, and did not turn when
she entered. Even at that moment she noticed, as she went towards him,
that his elbow had displaced the little family of china hares on a plush
stand which Mrs. Alwynn had lately added to her other treasures.
"I think you wished to see me," she said, as calmly as she could.
He faced suddenly round, his eyes wild, his face quivering, and coming
close up to her, caught her hand and grasped it so tightly that the pain
was almost more than she could bear.
"Are you going to give me up?" he asked, hoarsely.
"I don't know," she said; "it depends on yourself, on what you are, and
what you have been. You say she is not your wife?"
"I swear it."
"You need not do so. Your word is enough."
"I swear she is not my wife."
"One question remains," said Ruth, firmly, a flame of color mounting to
her neck and face. "You say she is not your wife. Ought you to make her
so?"
"No," said Dare, passionately; "I owe her nothing. She has no claim upon
me. I swear--"
"Don't swear. I said your word was enough."
But Dare preferred to embellish his speech with divers weighty
expressions, feeling that a simple affirmation would never carry so much
conviction to his own mind, or, consequently, to another, as an oath.
A momentary silence followed.
"You believe what I say, Ruth?"
"Yes," with an effort.
"And you won't give me up because evil is spoken against me?"
"No."
"And all is the same as before between us?"
"Yes."
Dare burst into a torrent of gratitude, but she broke suddenly away from
him, and went swiftly up-stairs again to her own room.
The release had not come. She laid her head down upon the table, and
Hope, which had ventured back to her for one moment, took her lamp and
went quite away, leaving the world very dark.
There are turning-points in life when a natural instinct is a surer
guide than noble motive or high aspiration, and consequently the more
thoughtful and introspective nature will sometimes fall just where a
commonplace one would have passed in safety. Ruth had acted for the
best. When for the first time in her life she had been brought into
close contact with a life spent for others, its beauty had appealed to
her with irresistible force, and she had willingly sacrificed herself to
an ideal life of devotion to others.
"But we are punished for our purest deeds,
And chasten'd for our holiest thoughts."
And she saw now that if she had obeyed that simple law of human nature
which forbids a marriage in which love is not the primary consideration,
if she had followed that simple humble path, she would never have
reached the arid wilderness towards which her own guidance had led her.
For her wilful self-sacrifice had suddenly paled and dwindled down
before her eyes into a hideous mistake--a mistake which yet had its
roots so firmly knit into the past that it was hopeless to think of
pulling it up now. To abide by a mistake is sometimes all that an
impetuous youth leaves an honorable middle age to do. Poor middle age,
with its clear vision, that might do and be so much if it were not for
the heavy burdens, grievous to be borne, which youth has bound upon its
shoulders.
And worse than the dreary weight of personal unhappiness, harder to bear
than the pang of disappointed love, was the aching sense of failure, of
having misunderstood God's intention, and broken the purpose of her
life. For some natures the cup of life holds no bitterer drop than this.
Ruth dimly saw the future, the future which she had chosen, stretching
out waste and barren before her. The dry air of the desert was on her
face. Her feet were already on its sandy verge. And the iron of a great
despair entered into her soul.