GATHERING CLOUDS.
"My younger brother Lionel Brakespere;" those were Lord Caterham's
words. Margaret had heard them distinctly before consciousness left
her; there was no mistake, no confusion in her mind,--"my younger
brother Lionel Brakespere." All unconsciously, then, she had been for
months acquainted and in occasional communication with _his_ nearest
relatives! Only that day she had been in the house where he had lived;
had sat in a room all the associations of which were doubtless familiar
to him; had gazed upon the portrait of that face for the sight of which
her heart yearned with such a desperate restless longing!
Lord Caterham's brother! Brother to that poor sickly cripple, in whom
life's flame seemed not to shine, but to flicker merely,--her Lionel,
so bright and active and handsome! Son of that proud, haughty Lady
Beauport--yes, she could understand that; it was from his mother that
he inherited the cool bearing, the easy assurance, the never-absent
_hauteur_ which rendered him conspicuous even in a set of men where all
these qualities were prized and imitated. She had not had the smallest
suspicion the name she had known him by was assumed, or that he had
an earl for his father and a viscount for his brother. He had been
accustomed to speak of "the governor--a good old boy;" but his mother
and his brother he never mentioned.
They knew him there, knew him as she had never known him--free,
unrestrained, without that mask which, to a certain extent, he had
necessarily worn in her presence. In his intercourse with them he had
been untrammelled, with no lurking fear of what might happen some day;
no dodging demon at his side suggesting the end, the separation that he
knew must unavoidably come. And she had sat by, ignorant of all that
was consuming their hearts' cores, which, had she been able to discuss
it with them, would have proved to be her own deepest, most cherished,
most pertinacious source of thought. They?--who were they? How many of
them had known her Lionel?--how many of them had cared for him? Lady
Beauport and Lord Caterham, of course--but of the others? Geoffrey
himself had never known him. No; thank God for that! The comparison
between her old lover and her husband which she had so often drawn in
her own mind had never, could never have occurred to him. Geoffrey's
only connection with the Beauport family had been through Annie
Maurice. Ah! Annie Maurice!--the heiress now, whose sudden acquisition
of wealth and position they were all talking of--she had not seen
Lionel in the old days; and even if she had, it had been slight matter.
But Margaret's knowledge of the world was wide and ample, and it needed
very little experience--far less indeed than she had had--to show her
what might have been the effect had those two met under the existent
different circumstances.
For Margaret knew Lionel Brakespere, and read him like a book. All her
wild infatuation about him,--and her infatuation about him was wilder,
madder than it had ever been before--all the length of time since she
lost him,--all the long, weary, deadening separation, had not had the
smallest effect on her calm matured judgment. She knew that he was at
heart a scoundrel; she knew that he had no stability of heart, no depth
of affection. Had not her own experience of him taught her that? had
not the easy, indifferent, heartless way in which he had slipped out
of her knotted arms, leaving her to pine and fret and die, for all he
cared, shown her that? She had a thorough appreciation of his worship
of the rising sun,--she knew how perfectly he would have sold himself
for wealth and position; and yet she loved him, loved him through all!
This was her one consolation in the thought of his absence--his exile.
Had he been in England, how readily would he have fallen into those
machinations which she guessed his mother would have been only too
ready to plot! She knew he was thousands of miles away; and the thought
that she was freed from rivalry in a great measure reconciled her to
his absence. She could hold him in her heart of hearts as her own only
love; there was no one, in her thoughts, to dispute her power over him.
He was hers,--hers alone. And he had obtained an additional interest in
her eyes since she had discovered his identity. Now she would cultivate
that acquaintance with his people,--all unknowingly she should be able
to ally herself more closely to him. Casual questions would bring
direct answers--all bearing on the topic nearest her heart: without in
the smallest degree betraying her own secret, she would be able to feed
her own love-flame,--to hear of, to talk of him for whom every pulse of
her heart throbbed and yearned.
Did it never occur to her to catechise that heart, to endeavour
to portray vividly to herself the abyss on the brink of which she
was standing,--to ask herself whether she was prepared to abnegate
all sense of gratitude and duty, and to persevere in the course
which--not recklessly, not in a moment of passion, but calmly and
unswervingly--she had begun to tread? Yes; she had catechised herself
often, had ruthlessly probed her own heart, had acknowledged her
baseness and ingratitude, yet had found it impossible to struggle
against the pervading thrall. Worse than all, the sight of the man
to whom she owed every thing--comfort, respectability, almost life
itself,--the sight of him patiently labouring for her sake had become
oppressive to her; from calmly suffering it, she had come to loathe and
rebel against it. Ah, what a contrast between the present dull, dreary,
weary round and the bright old days of the past! To her, and to her
alone, was the time then dedicated. She would not then have been left
to sit alone, occupying her time as best she might, but every instant
would have been devoted to her; and let come what might on the morrow,
that time would have been spent in gaiety.
Was there no element of rest in the new era of her life? Did not the
child which lay upon her bosom bring some alleviating influence,
some new sphere for the absorption of her energies, some new hope,
in the indulgence in which she might have found at least temporary
forgetfulness of self? Alas, none! She had accepted her maternity
as she had accepted her wifehood,--calmly, quietly, without even a
pretence of that delicious folly, that pardonable self-satisfaction,
that silly, lovable, incontrovertible, charming pride which nearly
always accompanies the first experience of motherhood. Old Geoff was
mad about his firstborn--would leave his easel and come crooning and
peering up into the nursery,--would enter that sacred domain in a
half-sheepish manner, as though acknowledging his intrusion, but on
the score of parental love hoping for forgiveness,--would say a few
words of politeness to the nurse, who, inexorable to most men, was won
over by his genuine devotion and his evident humility,--would take
up the precious bundle, at length confided to him, in the awkwardest
manner, and would sit chirrupping to the little putty face, or swing
the shapeless mass to and fro, singing meanwhile the dismallest of
apparently Indian dirges, and all the while be experiencing the
most acute enjoyment. Geoff was by nature a heavy sleeper; but the
slightest cry of the child in the adjoining chamber would rouse him;
the inevitable infantile maladies expressed in the inevitable peevish
whine, so marvellously imitated by the toy-baby manufacturers, would
fill him with horror and fright, causing him to lie awake in an agony
of suspense, resting on his elbow and listening with nervous anxiety
for their cessation or their increase; while Margaret, wearied out in
mental anxiety, either slept tranquilly by his side or remained awake,
her eyes closed, her mind abstracted from all that was going on around
her, painfully occupied with retrospect of the past or anticipation of
the future. She did not care for her baby? No--plainly no! She accepted
its existence as she had accepted the other necessary corollaries of
her marriage; but the grand secret of maternal love was as far removed
from her as though she had never suffered her travail and brought a
man-child into the world. That she would do her duty by her baby she
had determined,--much in the same spirit that she had decided upon
the strict performance of her conjugal duty; but n question of love
influenced her. She did not dislike the child,--she was willing to
give herself up to the inconveniences which its nurture, its care, its
necessities occasioned her; but that was all.
If Margaret did not "make a fuss" with the child, there were plenty who
did; numberless people to come and call; numberless eyes to watch all
that happened,--to note the _insouciance_ which existed, instead of
the solicitude which should have prevailed; numberless tongues to talk
and chatter and gossip,--to express wonderment, to declare that their
owners "had never seen the like," and so on. Little Dr. Brandmm found
it more difficult than ever to get away from his lady-patients. After
all their own disorders had been discussed and remedies suggested, the
conversation was immediately turned to his patient at Elm Lodge; and
the little medico had to endure and answer a sharp fire of questions
of all kinds. Was it really a fine child? and was it true that Mrs.
Ludlow did not care about it? She was nursing it herself; yes: that
proved nothing; every decent woman would do that, rather than have one
of those dreadful creatures in the house--pints of porter every hour,
and doing nothing but sit down and abuse every one, and wanting so
much waiting on, as though they were duchesses. But was it true? Now,
doctor, you must know all these stories about her not caring for the
child? Caring!--well, you ought to know, with all your experience, what
the phrase meant. People would talk, you know, and that was what they
said; and all the doctor's other patients wanted to know was whether
it was really true. He did his best, the little doctor--for he was a
kindly-hearted little creature, and Margaret's beauty had had its usual
effect upon him,--he did his best to endow the facts with a roseate
hue; but he had a hard struggle, and only partially succeeded. If there
was one thing on which the ladies of Lowbar prided themselves, it was
on their fulfilment of their maternal duties; if there was one bond of
union between them, it was a sort of tacitly recognised consent to talk
of and listen to each other's discussion of their children, either in
existence or in prospect. It was noticed now that Margaret had always
shirked this inviting subject; and it was generally agreed that it
was no wonder, since common report averred that she had no pride in
her firstborn. A healthy child too, according to Dr. Brandram--a fine
healthy well-formed child. Why, even poor Mrs. Ricketts, whose baby had
spinal complaint, loved it, and made the most of it; and Mrs. Moule,
whose little Sarah had been blind from her birth, thought her offspring
unmatchable in the village, and nursed and tended it night and day. No
wonder that in a colony where these sentiments prevailed, Margaret's
reputation, hardly won, was speedily on the decline. It may be easily
imagined too that to old Mrs. Ludlow's observant eyes Margaret's want
of affection for her child did not pass unnoticed. By no one was the
child's advent into the world more anxiously expected than by its
grandmother, who indeed looked forward to deriving an increased social
status from the event, and who had already discussed it with her most
intimate friends. Mrs. Ludlow had been prepared for a great contest for
supremacy when the child was born--a period at which she intended to
assert her right of taking possession of her son's house and remaining
its mistress until her daughter-in-law was able to resume her position.
She had expected that in this act she would have received all the
passive opposition of which Margaret was capable--opposition with
which Geoff, being indoctrinated, might have been in a great measure
successful. But, to her intense surprise, no opposition was made.
Margaret received the announcement of Mrs. Ludlow's intended visit
and Mrs. Ludlow's actual arrival with perfect unconcern; and after
her baby had been born, and she had bestowed on it a very calm kiss,
she suffered it to be removed by her mother-in-law with an expression
which told even more of satisfaction than resignation. This behaviour
was so far different from any thing Mrs. Ludlow had expected, that the
old lady did not know what to make of it; and her daughter-in-law's
subsequent conduct increased her astonishment. This astonishment she at
first tried to keep to herself; but that was impossible. The feeling
gradually vented itself in sniffs and starts, in eyebrow-upliftings for
the edification of the nurse, in suggestive exclamations of "Well, my
dear?" and "Don't you think, my love?" and such old-lady phraseology.
Further than these little ebullitions Mrs. Ludlow made no sign until
her daughter came to see her; and then she could no longer contain
herself, but spoke out roundly.
"What it is, my dear, I can't tell for the life of me; but there's
something the matter with Margaret. She takes no more notice of the
child than if it were a chair or a table;--just a kiss, and how do you
do? and nothing more."
"It's because this is her first child, mother. She's strange to it, you
know, and--"
"Strange to it, my dear! Nonsense! Nothing of the sort. You're a young
girl, and can't understand these things. But not only that,--one would
think, at such a time, she would be more than ever fond of her husband.
I'm sure when Geoff was born I put up with more from your father than
ever I did before or since. His 'gander-month,' he called it; and he
used to go gandering about with a parcel of fellows, and come home
at all hours of the night--I used to hear him, though he did creep
upstairs with his boots off--but he never had cross word or look from
me."
"Well, but surely, mother, Geoff has not had either cross words or
cross looks from Margaret?"
"How provoking you are, Matilda! That seems to be my my fate, that no
one can understand me. I never said he had, did I? though it would be
a good thing for him if he had, poor fellow, I should say--any thing
better than what he has to endure now."
"Don't be angry at my worrying you, dear mother; but for Heaven's sake
tell me what you mean--what Geoff has to endure?"
"I am not angry, Til; though it seems to be my luck to be imagined
angry when there's nothing further from my thoughts. I'm not angry, my
dear--not in the least."
"What about Geoff, mother?"
"O, my dear, that's enough to make one's blood boil! Ive never said a
word to you before about this, Matilda--being one of those persons who
keep pretty much to themselves, though I see a great deal more than
people think for,--Ive never said a word to you before about this; for,
as I said to myself, what good could it do? But I'm perfectly certain
that there's something wrong with Margaret."
"How do you mean, mother? Something wrong!--is she ill?"
"Now, my dear Matilda, as though a woman would be likely to be well
when she's just had----. Bless my soul, the young women of the present
day are very silly! I wasn't speaking of her health, of course."
"Of what then, mother?" said Til, with resignation.
"Well, then, my dear, haven't you noticed,--but I suppose not: no one
appears to notice these things in the way that I do,--but you might
have noticed that for the last few weeks Margaret has seemed full of
thought, dreamy, and not caring for any thing that went on. If Ive
pointed out once to her about the mite of a cap that that Harriet
wears, and all her hair flying about her ears, and a crinoline as wide
as wide, Ive spoken a dozen times; but she's taken no notice; and now
the girl sets me at defiance, and tells me I'm not her mistress, and
never shall be I That's one thing; but there are plenty of others. I
was sure Geoffrey's linen could not be properly aired--the colds he
caught were so awful; and I spoke to Margaret about it, but she took no
notice; and yesterday, when the clothes came home from the laundress,
I felt them myself, and you might have wrung the water out of them in
pints. There are many other little things too that Ive noticed; and
I'll tell you what it is, Matilda--I'm certain she has got something on
her mind."
"O, I hope not, poor girl, poor dear Margaret!"
"Poor dear fiddlestick! What nonsense you talk, Matilda! If there's any
one to be pitied, it's Geoffrey, I should say; though what he could
have expected, taking a girl for his wife that he'd known so little of,
and not having any wedding-breakfast, or any thing regular, I don't
know!"
"But why is Geoffrey to be pitied, mother?"
"Why? Why, because his wife doesn't love him, my dear! Now you know it!"
"O, mother, for Heaven's sake don't say such a thing! You know
you're--you won't mind what I say, dearest mother,--but you're a little
apt to jump at conclusions, and--"
"O yes, I know, my dear; I know I'm a perfect fool!--I know that well
enough; and if I don't, it's not for want of being reminded of it by my
own daughter. But I know I'm right in what I say; and what's more, my
son shall know it before long."
"O, mother, you would never tell Geoff!--you would never--"
"If a man's eyes are not open naturally, my dear, they must be opened
for him. I shall tell Geoffrey my opinion about his wife; and let him
know it in pretty plain terms, I can tell you!"