In Love.
Robert Hunter sat in his chambers--as it is the fashion to call
offices now. They were in a good position in Westminster, and he was
well established; he had set up for himself, and was doing fairly--not
yet making gold by shovelfuls, as engineers are reputed to have done
of late years, but at least earning his bread and cheese, with every
prospect that the gold was coming.
Plans were scattered on the desk at which he sat; some intricate
calculations lay immediately before him. He regarded neither. His eyes
were looking straight out at the opposite wall, a big chart of some
district being there, but he saw it not; nothing but vacancy. Very
unusual indeed was it for Robert Hunter the practical to allow his
thoughts to stray away in the midst of his work, as they had done now.
During the past few months a change had come over his heart. It was of
a different nature from that which, some two or three years before,
after the death of his wife, had changed himself--changed, as it
seemed, his whole nature, and made a man of him. Even now he could not
bear to look back upon the idle, simple folly in which his days had
been passed; the circumstances that had brought this folly home to his
mind, opened his eyes to it, as it were, had no doubt caused him to
acquire a very exaggerated view of it; but this did no harm to others,
and worked good for himself.
With the death of his wife, Robert Hunter had, so to say, put aside
the pleasant phase, the ideal view of life, and entered on the hard,
the stern, the practical--as he thought for ever. He had not
calculated well in this. He forgot that he was still a young and
attractive man (though his being attractive or the contrary was not at
all to the purpose); he forgot that neither the feelings nor the heart
can grow old at will. It might have been very different had his heart
received its death-blow; but it was nothing but his conscience; for he
had not loved his wife. But of that he was unconscious until lately.
Love--real love--the sweet heart's dream that can never but once visit
either man or woman, had come stealing over Robert Hunter. Never but
once. What says a modern poet?
"Few hearts have never loved; but fewer still
Have felt a second passion. None a third.
The first was living fire; the next, a thrill;
The weary heart can never more be stirred:
Rely on it, the song has left the bird."
Truer words were rarely said or sung. The one only glimpse of Paradise
vouchsafed to us on earth--a transitory glimpse at the best--cannot be
repeated a second time. When it flies away it flies for ever.
Ah, how different it was, this love, that was making a heaven of
Robert Hunter's life, from that which had been given to his poor dead
wife--the child-wife, who had been so passionately attached to him!
He understood her agony now--when she had believed him false to her;
when he, her heart's idol, had apparently gone over to another's
worship--he did not understand it then. When inclined to be very
self-condemnatory, to bring his sins and mistakes palpably before him,
he would ask himself, looking back, what satisfaction he had derived
from my Lady Ellis's society, taking it at its best. A few soft
glances; a daily repetition of some sweet words; a dozen kisses--they
had not been more--snatched from her face; and some hand pressing when
they met or parted. Literally this was all: there had been nothing,
nothing more; and Mr. Hunter had not even the poor consolation of
knowing now that any love whatever on his side, or hers, had entered
into the matter from the beginning to the ending. It was for this his
wife had died; it was for this he had laden his conscience with a
weight that could never wholly leave it. He was not a heathen; and
when, close upon the death, remorse had pressed sorely upon him, an
intolerable burthen of sin grievous to be borne, he had, in very pity
for his own miserable state, carried it where he had never before
carried anything. Consolation came in time, a sense of mercy, of help,
of pardon; but the _recollection_ could never be blotted out, or the
sense of too late repentance quit him.
He remembered still; he repented yet. Whenever the past occurred to
him, it brought with it that terrible conviction--a debt of atonement
owing to the dead, which can never be rendered--and Robert Hunter
would feel the most humble man on the face of the earth. This sense of
humiliation was no doubt good for him; it came upon him at odd times
and seasons, even in the midst of the new passion that filled his
heart.
"Shall I ever win her?" he was thinking to himself, seated at his for
once neglected desk. "Nay, must I ever dare to tell her of my love? A
flourishing engineer, with his name up in the world, and half a score
important undertakings in progress, might be deemed a fitting match
for her by her people at the Red Court; but what would they say to me?
I am not to be called flourishing yet; my great works I must be
content to wait for; they will come; I can foresee it; but before then
some man with settlements and a rent-roll may have stepped in."
It was not a strictly comforting prospect certainly, put in this
light; and Mr. Hunter gave an impatient twist to some papers. But he
could not this morning settle down to work, and the meditations began
again.
"I know she loves me; I can see it in every turn of her beautiful
face, hear it in every tone of her voice. This evening I shall see
her; this evening I shall see her! Oh, the----"
"Mr. Barty is here, sir."
The interruption came from a clerk; it served to recal his master to
what he so rarely forgot, the business of every-day life. Mr. Barty
was an eminent contractor, and Robert Hunter's hopes went up to
fever-heat as he welcomed him. One great work entrusted to him from
this great man, and the future might be all plain sailing.
He was not wholly disappointed. Mr. Barty had come to offer him
business; or rather, to pave the way for it; for the offer was not
positively entered on then, only the proposed work--a new line of
rail--discussed. There was one drawback--it was a line abroad--and
Robert Hunter did not much like this.
Mary Anne Thornycroft had not many friends in London; nearly all her
holidays during the half-year had been passed at Mrs. Macpherson's.
Susan Hunter invariably accompanied her; and what more natural than
that Robert should (invited, or uninvited, as it might happen) drop in
to meet his sister? There had lain the whole thing--the intercourse
afforded by these rather frequent meetings--and nothing more need be
said; they had fallen in love with one another.
Yes. The singular attraction each had seemed to possess for the other
the first time they met, but increased with every subsequent
interview. It had not needed many. Mary Anne Thornycroft, who had
scarcely ever so much as read of the name of love, had lost her heart
to this young man, the widower Robert Hunter, entirely and hopelessly.
That he was--at any rate at present--no suitable match for her, she
never so much as glanced twice at: the Thornycrofts were not wont
to regard expediency when it interfered with inclination. Not a word
had been spoken; not a hint given; but there is a language of the
heart, and they had become versed in it. Clever Mrs. Macpherson, so
keen-sighted generally in the affairs of men and women, never so much
as gave a thought to what was passing under her very eyes; Miss
Hunter, who had discernment too, was totally blind here. As to the
professor, with his spectacled eyes up aloft in the sky or buried in
the earth, it would have been far too much to suspect him of seeing
it. A very delightful state of things for the lovers.
When Robert Hunter reached Mrs. Macpherson's that dark December
evening, he saw nobody in the drawing-room. He had been invited to
dinner; five o'clock sharp, Mrs. Macpherson told him; for the
professor had an engagement at six which would keep him out, and she
did not intend that he should depart dinnerless.
This was Miss Thornycroft's farewell visit; in two days she was going
home for Christmas, not again to return to school. She had invited
Susan Hunter (who would remain at school until March), to come down
during the holidays and spend a week at the Red Court Farm; and her
brother was to accompany her.
It wanted a quarter to five when Mr. Hunter entered. The drawing-room
was not lighted, and at first he thought no one was in it. The large
fire had burnt down to red embers; as he stood before it, his head and
shoulders reflected in the pier-glass, he (perhaps unconsciously) ran
his hand through his hair--hair that was darker than it used to be;
the once deep auburn had become a reddish-brown, and--_and_--some grey
threads mingled with it.
"How vain you are!"
He started round at the sound--it was the voice he loved so well. Half
buried in a lounging chair in the darkest corner was she. She came
forward, laughing.
"I did not see you," he said, taking her hand "You are here alone!"
A conscious blush tinged her cheeks; she knew that she had stayed in
the room to wait for him.
"They have gone somewhere, Susan and Mrs. Macpherson--to see a new cat
of the professor's, I think. I have seen so many of those stuffed
animals."
"When do you go down home?"
"The day after to-morrow. Susan has fixed the second week in January
for her visit. Will that time suit you?"
"The time might suit," he replied, with a slight stress on the word
"time," as if there were something else that might not. "Unless,
indeed--"
"Unless what?"
"Unless I should have left England, I was going to say. An offer has
been made me to-day--or rather, to speak more correctly, an intimation
that an offer is about to be made me--of some work abroad. If I accept
it, it will take me away for a couple of years."
She glanced up, and their eyes met. A yearning look of love, of dire
tribulation at the news, shone momentarily in hers. Then they were
bent on the carpet, and Mr. Hunter looked at the fire--the safest
place just then.
"Are you obliged to accept it?" she inquired.
"Of course not. But it would be very much to my advantage. It would
pave the way for--for----" He hesitated.
"For what?"
"Wealth and honours. I mean such honours (all might not call them so),
as are open to one of my profession."
A whole array of sentences crowded into her mind--begging him not to
go; what would the days be without the sunshine of his presence? They
should be far enough apart as things were; he in London, she at home;
but the other separation hinted at would be like all that was good in
life dying out. This and a great deal more, lay in her thoughts; what
she said, however, was cold and quiet enough.
"In the event of your remaining at home, then, the second week in
January would suit you? It is Susan who has fixed it."
Not immediately did he reply. Since the first intimation of this visit
to Coastdown, a feeling of repugnance to it had lain within him; an
instinct, whenever he thought of it, warning him against accepting it.
Ah! believe me, these instinctive warnings come to us. They occur
oftener than we, in our carelessness, think for. Perhaps not one in
ten of them is ever noticed, still less heeded; we go blindly on in
disregard; and, when ill follows, scarcely ever remember that the
warning voice, if attended to, would have saved us.
Just as Robert Hunter disregarded this. But for his visit, destined to
take place at the time proposed, the great tragedy connected with the
Red Court Farm had never taken place.
Stronger than ever was the deterring warning on him this evening. He
said to himself that his repugnance lay in the dislike to be a guest
in any house that Lady Ellis was connected with; never so much as
thinking of any other cause. He fully assumed there would be no chance
of meeting herself: he knew she lived in Cheltenham. Miss Thornycroft
had once or twice casually mentioned her stepmother's name in his
presence, but he had not pursued the topic; and the young lady did not
know that they had ever met.
"You do not reply to me, Mr. Hunter. Would the time be inconvenient
for you?"
"It is not that," he answered, speaking rather dreamily. "But--I am a
stranger to your father: would he like me to intrude, uninvited by
himself?"
"It would be a strange thing if I could not invite a dear school
friend, as Susan is, down for a week, and you to accompany her,"
returned Miss Thornycroft, rather hotly. "You need not fear; papa is
the most hospitable man living. They keep almost open house at home."
"You have brothers," returned Mr. Hunter, seeking for some further
confronting argument. At which suggestion a ray of anger came into
Miss Thornycroft's haughty blue eyes.
"As if my brothers would concern themselves with me or my visitors!
They go their way, and I intend to go mine."
"Your stepmother--"
"She is nobody," quickly interposed Miss Thornycroft, mistaking what
he was about to say. "Lady Ellis lives in Cheltenham. She is ill, and
Coastdown does not suit her."
"Why does she still call herself Lady Ellis?" he asked, the question
having before occurred to him.
"It is her whim. What does it signify? She is one of the most
pretentious women you can imagine, Mr. Hunter--quite a parvenu, as I
have always felt--and 'my lady' is sweeter to her ears than 'madam.'"
"What is it that is the matter with her?"
"It is some inward complaint; I don't quite understand what. The last
time I saw my brother Cyril, he told me she was growing worse; that
there was not the least hope of her cure."
"She does not come to the Red Court?"
"No, thank fortune! She has not been there at all during this past
year. I believe she is now too ill to come."
Mr. Hunter glanced at the speaker with a smile. "You do not seem to
like her."
"Like her! Like Lady Ellis! I do not think I could pretend to like her
if she were dead. You do not know her."
A flush of remembrance darkened the brow of Robert Hunter. Time had
been when he knew enough of her.
"She is a crafty, wily, utterly selfish woman," pursued Miss
Thornycroft, who very much enjoyed a fling at her stepmother. "How
ever papa came to be taken in by her--but I don't care to talk of
_that_."
She seized the poker and began to crack the fire into a blaze. Mr.
Hunter took it from her, and he adroitly kept her hand in his.
"Had she been a different woman, good and kind, she might have won me
over to love her. The Red Court wanted a mistress at that time, as
papa thought; and, to confess it, so did I. A little self-willed,
perverse girl I was, rebellious to my French governess, perpetually
getting into scrapes, running wild indoors and out."
Entirely unconscious was Miss Thornycroft how mistaken was one of her
assumptions--"papa thought the Red Court wanted a mistress." Mr.
Thornycroft had been rather too conscious that it did _not_ want one,
looking at it from his point of view; though his daughter did.
"Ah, well; let bygones be bygones. You will promise to come, Mr.
Hunter?"
"Yes," he answered, in teeth of the voice that seemed to haunt him.
"If I have not gone away from England on this expedition, I will
come."
"Thank you," she said, with a soft flush.
He turned and looked fully at her. Her hand was in his, for he had not
relinquished it. Only about half a minute had he held it; it takes
longer to tell these things than to act them. The poker was in his
other hand, and he put it down with a clatter, which prevented their
hearing the footsteps of Mrs. Macpherson on the soft carpet outside.
That discreet matron, glancing through the partially open door, took
the view of what she saw with her keen brain, and stood transfixed.
"My heart alive, is there anything between _them?_" ran her surprised
thoughts. "Well, that would be a go! Robert Hunter ain't no match for
her father's child. Hand in hand, be they! and his eyes dropped on her
face as if he was a-hungering to eat it. Not in this house, my good
gentleman."
With a cough and a shuffling, as if the carpet had got entangled with
her feet, Mrs. Macpherson made her advent known. When she advanced
into the room the position of the parties had changed: he was at
one corner of the fire-place, she at the other, silent, demure,
innocent-looking both of them as two doves.
Not a word said Mrs. Macpherson. Miss Hunter came in, the professor
followed, the announcement of dinner followed him. And somehow there
arose no further opportunity for as much as a hand-shake between the
suspected pair. But on the next day Mrs. Macpherson drove round to
Miss Jupp's, and made to that lady a communication.
"I don't say as it is so, Miss Jupp; mind that; their fingers might
have got together accidental. I am bound to say that I never noticed
nothing between 'em before. But I'm a straightforward body, liking to
go to the root o' things at first with folks, and do as I'd be done
by. And goodness only knows what might have become of us if I'd not
been, with the professor's brain a-lodging up in the skies! I'll go to
Miss Jupp, says I to myself last night; and here I am."
"I think--I hope that it is quite unlikely," said Miss Jupp;
beginning, however, to feel uncomfortable.
"So do I. I've told you so. But it was my place to come and put you on
your guard. I declare to goodness that never a thought of such a thing
struck me, or you may be sure I'd not have had Robert Hunter to my
house when she was there. 'When the steed's stole, one locks the
stable door."
"Miss Hunter tells me that she and her brother are going to spend a
week at Coastdown."
"And so much the better," said Mrs. Macpherson, emphatically. "If
there _is_ anything between 'em, her folks won't fail to see it, and
they can act accordingly. And now that I've done my duty, and had my
say, I'll be going."
"Thank you," said Miss Jupp. "Is the professor well?"
"As well as getting up at three o'clock on a winter's morning and
starting off in the dark and cold'll let him be," was the response.
"I told him last night he shouldn't go; there's no sense in such
practices; but he wouldn't listen. It's astronomicals this time."
Watching her departure, remaining for a few minutes in undecisive
thought, Miss Jupp at length made up her mind to speak, and sent for
Mary Anne Thornycroft. No prevision was on the young lady's mind of
the lecture in store; upright, elegant, beautiful, in she swept and
stood calmly before her governess. Miss Jupp spoke considerately,
making light of the matter, merely saying that Mrs. Macpherson thought
she and Mr. Hunter were rather fond of "talking" together. "I thought
it as well just to mention it to you, my dear; school-girls--and you
are but one as yet, you know--should always be reticent."
Mary Anne Thornycroft's haughty blue eyes, raised in general so
fearlessly, drooped before Miss Jupp's gaze, and her face turned to a
glowing crimson. Only for a moment: the next she was looking up again,
_meeting_ the gaze and answering with straightforward candour.
"Nothing has ever passed between me and Mr. Hunter that Mrs.
Macpherson might not have heard and seen. I like Mr. Hunter very much.
I have frequently met him there; but why should Mrs. Macpherson seek
to make mischief out of that?"
"My dear girl, she neither seeks to make mischief nor has she made
any. All I would say to you--leaving the past--is a word of caution.
At your age, with your good sense, you cannot fail to be aware that it
is advisable young ladies should be circumspect in their choice of
acquaintances. A mutual inclination is sometimes formed, which can
never lead to fruition, only to unhappiness."
Mary Anne did not answer, and the eyes dropped again.
"I have a great mind to tell you a little episode of my life," resumed
poor Miss Jupp, her cheeks faintly flushing. "Such an inclination as I
speak of arose between me and one with whom, many years ago when out
on a visit, I was brought into daily contact. We learnt to care for
each other as much as it is possible for people to care in this world.
So much so, that when it was all past and done with, and I received an
excellent proposal of marriage, I _could_ not accept it. That early
attachment was the blight of my life, Mary Anne. Instead of being a
poor school-mistress, worried with many anxieties--a despised old
maid--I should now have been a good man's wife, the mistress of a
prosperous home."
Miss Jupp kept her rising tears down; but Mary Anne Thornycroft's eyes
were glistening.
"And that first one, dear Miss Jupp: could you not have married him?"
"No, my dear. Truth to tell, he never asked me. He dared not ask me;
it would have been quite unsuitable. Believe me, many an unmarried
woman could give you the same history nearly word for word. Hence you
see how necessary it is to guard against an intimacy with unsuitable
acquaintances."
"And you put Mr. Hunter into the catalogue?" returned Miss
Thornycroft, affecting to speak lightly.
"Most emphatically--as considered in relation to you," was Miss Jupp's
answer. "Your family will expect you to marry well, and you owe it to
them to do so. Mr. Hunter is in every respect unsuitable. Until
recently he was only a clerk; he has his own way to carve yet in the
world; he is much older than you; and--he has been already married."
"Of course I know all that," said Miss Thornycroft, with the deepest
colour that had yet come over her. "But don't you think, ma'am, it
would have been quite time to remind me of this when circumstances
called for it?"
"Perhaps not. At any rate, my dear, the warning can do you no harm. If
unrequired in regard to Mr. Hunter--as indeed I believe it to be--it
may serve you in the future."
Miss Jupp said no more. "I have put it strong," she thought to
herself, as the young lady curtsied and left the room. "It was well to
do so."
"Engineers rise to honours, as he said, and I know he is going on for
them," quoth Mary Anne Thornycroft, with characteristic obstinacy,
slowly walking along the passage. "I should never care for anyone else
in the world. As to money, I daresay I shall have plenty of that; so
will he when he has become famous."
They travelled to Coastdown together--Isaac Thornycroft and his
sister, Mrs. Copp and Anna Chester, as we must continue to call
her--by a pleasant coincidence, as it was deemed by Miss Thornycroft.
Mrs. Copp, living upon thorns--but that is a very faint figure of
speech to express that timid lady's state of mind was ready some days
before, but had to await the arrival of Anna. Isaac kept her out
longer than the week, getting back just in time to take charge of his
sister.
As they sat in the carriage together, what a momentous secret it was
that three of them held, and had to conceal from the fourth! If Anna's
eyes were bright with happiness, her cheeks looked pale with
apprehension; and Mrs. Copp might well shiver, and lay it upon the
frost. Not so Isaac. Easy, careless, gay, was he--"every inch a
bridegroom." After all, there was not so very much for _him_ to dread.
It was expedient to keep his marriage secret, if it could be kept so;
if' not, why he must face the explosion at home as he best could: the
precautions he had taken would ward off reproach from his wife.
"Here's Jutpoint!" exclaimed Mary Anne Thornycroft. "How glad I am to
come back!"
"How glad I should be if I were going away from it!" thought poor Mrs.
Copp.
As they were getting out of the carriage, Isaac contrived to put his
arm before Anna, an intimation that he wanted to detain her. The
others were suffered to go on.
"What makes you look so pale?"
"Oh, Isaac! can you ask? Your father--my uncle--may be here waiting
for us. I feel sick and faint at the thought of meeting them."
"But there's no reason in the world why you should. One minute after
seeing them the feeling will wear off. Ce n'est quo le premier pas qui
coute."
"If they should suspect!--if they should have heard! It seems to me
people need only look in my face to learn all. I have never once met
your sister's eyes freely in coming down."
He laughed lightly. "Reassure yourself, my darling. There's no fear
that it will be known one hour before we choose it should be."
"I am remembering always that stories may get abroad about me."
"What you have to remember is that you are my honest wife," gravely
returned Isaac. "I told Mrs. Copp--I have told you--that on the
faintest breath of a whisper, I should avow the truth. You cannot
doubt it, Anna; nothing in the world can be so precious to me as my
wife's fair fame. They are looking back for us. God bless you, my
darling, and farewell. For the present, you know--and that's the worst
of the whole matter--you are not my wife, but Miss Chester."