The other day, after her death, when they were discussing her, someone
said in reference to the great number of years she had lived, the people
she had seen and the stories she knew: "What a pity no one ever took any
notes of her talk!" For a London epitaph that was almost exhaustive, and
the subject presently changed. One of the listeners had taken many
notes, but he didn't confess it on the spot. The following story is a
specimen of my exactitude--I took it down, _verbatim_, having that
faculty, the day after I heard it. I choose it, at hazard, among those
of her reminiscences that I have preserved; it's not worse than the
others. I will give you some of the others too--when occasion offers--so
that you may judge.
I met in town that year a dear woman whom I had scarcely seen since I
was a girl; she had dropped out of the world; she came up but once in
five years. We had been together as very young creatures, and then we
had married and gone our ways. It was arranged between us that after I
should have paid a certain visit in August in the west of England I
would take her--it would be very convenient, she was just over the
Cornish border--on the way to my other engagements: I would work her in,
as you say nowadays. She wanted immensely to show me her home, and she
wanted still more to show me her girl, who had not come up to London,
choosing instead, after much deliberation, to go abroad for a month with
her brother and her brother's coach--he had been cramming for
something--and Mrs. Coach of course. All that Mrs. Chantry had been able
to show me in town was her husband, one of those country gentlemen with
a moderate property and an old place who are a part of the essence in
their own neighbourhood and not a part of anything anywhere else.
A couple of days before my visit to Chantry Court the people to whom I
had gone from town took me over to see some friends of theirs who lived,
ten miles away, in a place that was supposed to be fine. As it was a
long drive we stayed to luncheon; and then as there were gardens and
other things that were more or less on show we struggled along to tea,
so as to get home just in time for dinner. There were a good many other
people present, and before luncheon a very pretty girl came into the
drawing-room, a real maiden in her flower, less than twenty, fresh and
fair and charming, with the expression of some one I knew. I asked who
she was, and was told she was Miss Chantry, so that in a moment I spoke
to her, mentioning that I was an old friend of her mother's and that I
was coming to pay them a visit. She looked rather frightened and blank,
was apparently unable to say that she had ever heard of me, and hinted
at no pleasure in the idea that she was to hear of me again. But this
didn't prevent my perceiving that she was lovely, for I was wise enough
even then not to think it necessary to measure people by the impression
that one makes on them. I saw that any I should make on Louisa Chantry
would be much too clumsy a test. She had been staying at the house at
which I was calling; she had come alone, as the people were old friends
and to a certain extent neighbours, and was going home in a few days. It
was a daughterless house, but there was inevitable young life: a couple
of girls from the vicarage, a married son and his wife, a young man who
had "ridden over" and another young man who was staying.
Louisa Chantry sat opposite to me at luncheon, but too far for
conversation, and before we got up I had discovered that if her manner
to me had been odd it was not because she was inanimate. She was on the
contrary in a state of intense though carefully muffled vibration. There
was some fever in her blood, but no one perceived it, no one, that is,
with an exception--an exception which was just a part of the very
circumstance. This single suspicion was lodged in the breast of the
young man whom I have alluded to as staying in the house. He was on the
same side of the table as myself and diagonally facing the girl;
therefore what I learned about him was for the moment mainly what she
told me; meaning by "she" her face, her eyes, her movements, her whole
perverted personality. She was extremely on her guard, and I should
never have guessed her secret but for an accident. The accident was that
the only time she dropped her eyes upon him during the repast I happened
to notice it. It might not have been much to notice, but it led to my
seeing that there was a little drama going on and that the young man
would naturally be the hero. It was equally natural that in this
capacity he should be the cause of my asking my left-hand neighbour, who
happened to be my host, for some account of him. But "Oh, that fellow?
he's my nephew," was a description which, to appear copious, required
that I should know more about the uncle.
We had coffee on the terrace of the house; a terrace laid out in one
quarter, oddly and charmingly, in grass where the servants who waited
upon us seemed to tread, processionally, on soundless velvet. There I
had a good look at my host's nephew and a longer talk with my friend's
daughter, in regard to whom I had become conscious of a faint, formless
anxiety. I remember saying to her, gropingly, instinctively: "My dear
child, can I do anything for you? I shall perhaps see your mother before
you do. Can I for instance say anything to her _from_ you?" This only
made her blush and turn away; and it was not till too many days had
passed that I guessed that what had looked out at me unwittingly in her
little gazing trepidation was something like "Oh, just take me away in
spite of myself!" Superficially, conspicuously, there was nothing in the
young man to take her away from. He was a person of the middle
condition, and save that he didn't look at all humble might have passed
for a poor relation. I mean that he had rather a seedy, shabby air, as
if he were wearing out old clothes (he had on faded things that didn't
match); and I formed vaguely the theory that he was a specimen of the
numerous youthful class that goes to seek its fortune in the colonies,
keeps strange company there and comes home without a penny. He had a
brown, smooth, handsome face, a slightly swaggering, self-conscious
ease, and was probably objected to in the house. He hung about, smoking
cigarettes on the terrace, and nobody seemed to have much to say to
him--a circumstance which, as he managed somehow to convey, left him
absolutely indifferent. Louisa Chantry strolled away with one of the
girls from the vicarage; the party on the terrace broke up and the
nephew disappeared.
It was settled that my friends and I should take leave at half-past
five, and I begged to be abandoned in the interval to my devices. I
turned into the library and, mounted on ladders, I handled old books and
old prints and soiled my gloves. Most of the others had gone to look at
the church, and I was left in possession. I wandered into the rooms in
which I knew there were pictures; and if the pictures were not good
there was some interesting china which I followed from corner to corner
and from cabinet to cabinet. At last I found myself on the threshold of
a small room which appeared to terminate the series and in which,
between the curtains draping the doorways, there appeared to be rows of
rare old plates on velvet screens. I was on the point of going in when I
became aware that there was something else beside, something which threw
me back. Two persons were standing side by side at the window, looking
out together with their backs to me--two persons as to whom I
immediately felt that they believed themselves to be alone and
unwatched. One of them was Louisa Chantry, the other was the young man
whom my host had described as his nephew. They were so placed as not to
see me, and when I recognized them I checked myself instinctively. I
hesitated a moment; then I turned away altogether. I can't tell you why,
except that if I had gone in I should have had somehow the air of
discovering them. There was no visible reason why they should have been
embarrassed by discovery, inasmuch as, so far as I could see, they were
doing no harm, were only standing more or less together, without
touching, and for the moment apparently saying nothing. Were they
watching something out of the window? I don't know; all I know is that
the observation I had made at luncheon gave me a sense of
responsibility. I might have taken my responsibility the other way and
broken up their communion; but I didn't feel this to be sufficiently my
business. Later on I wished I had.
I passed through the rooms again, and then out of the house. The gardens
were ingenious, but they made me think (I have always that conceited
habit) how much cleverer _I_ should have been about them. Presently I
met several of the rest of the party coming back from the church; on
which my hostess took possession of me, declaring there was a point of
view I must absolutely be treated to. I saw she was a walking woman and
that this meant half a mile in the park. But I was good for that, and we
wandered off together while the others returned to the house. It was
present to me that I ought to ask my companion, for Helen Chantry's
sake, a question about Louisa--whether for instance she had happened to
notice the way the girl seemed to be going. But it was difficult to say
anything without saying too much; so that to begin with I merely risked
the observation that our young friend was remarkably pretty. As the
point admitted of no discussion this didn't take us very far; nor was
the subject much enlarged by our unanimity as to the fact that she was
also remarkably nice. I observed that I had had very little chance to
talk with her, for which I was sorry, having known her mother for years.
My hostess, at this, looked vaguely round, as if she had missed her for
the first time. "Sure enough, she has not been about. I daresay she's
been writing to her mother--she's always writing to her mother." "Not
always," I mentally reflected; but I waited discreetly, admiring
everything and rising to the occasion and the views, before I inquired
casually who the young man might be who had sat two or three below me at
luncheon--the rather good-looking young man, with the regular features
and the brownish clothes--not the one with the moustache.
"Oh, poor Jack Brandon," said my companion, in a tone calculated to make
him seem no one in particular.
"Is he very poor?" I asked, with a laugh.
"Oh dear, yes. There are nine of them--fancy!--all boys; and there's
nothing for anyone but the eldest. He's my husband's nephew--his poor
mother's my sister-in-law. He sometimes turns up here when he has
nothing better to do; but I don't think he likes us much." I saw she
meant that they didn't like _him_; and I exposed myself to suspicion by
asking if he had been with them long. But my friend was not very
plastic, and she simplified my whole theory of the case by replying
after she had thought a moment that she wasn't clear about it--she
thought he had come only the morning before. It seemed to me I could
safely feel a little further, so I inquired if he were likely to stay
many days. "Oh dear, no; he'll go to-morrow!" said my hostess. There was
nothing whatever to show that she saw a connection between my odd
interest in Mr. Brandon and the subject of our former reference; there
was only a quick lucidity on the subject of the young man's departure.
It reassured me, for no great complications would have arisen in
forty-eight hours.
In retracing our steps we passed again through a part of the gardens.
Just after we had entered them my hostess, begging me to excuse her,
called at a man who was raking leaves to ask him a question about his
wife. I heard him reply "Oh, she's very bad, my lady," and I followed my
course. Presently my lady turned round with him, as if to go to see his
wife, who apparently was ill and on the place. I continued to look about
me--there were such charming things; and at the end of five minutes I
missed my way--I had not taken the direction of the house. Suddenly at
the turn of a walk, the angle of a great clipped hedge, I found myself
face to face with Jack Brandon. He was moving rapidly, looking down,
with his hands in his pockets, and he started and stared at me a moment.
I said "Oh, how d'ye do?" and I was on the point of adding "Won't you
kindly show me the right way?" But with a summary salute and a queer
expression of face he had already passed me. I looked after him an
instant and I all but stopped him; then one of the faintest voices of
the air told me that Louisa Chantry would not be far off, that in fact
if I were to go on a few steps I should find her. I continued and I
passed through an arched aperture of the hedge, a kind of door in the
partition. This corner of the place was like an old French garden, a
little inclosed apartment, with statues set into the niches of the high
walls of verdure. I paused in admiration; then just opposite to me I saw
poor Louisa. She was on a bench, with her hands clasped in her lap, her
head bent, her eyes staring down before her. I advanced on the grass,
attracting her attention; and I was close to her before she looked at
me, before she sprang up and showed me a face convulsed with nameless
pain. She was so pale that I thought she was ill--I had a vision of her
companion's having rushed off for help. She stood gazing at me with
expanded eyes and parted lips, and what I was mainly conscious of was
that she had become ten years older. Whatever troubled her it was
something pitiful--something that prompted me to hold out my two hands
to her and exclaim tenderly "My poor child, my poor child!" She wavered
a moment, as if she wanted to escape me but couldn't trust herself to
run; she looked away from me, turning her head this way and that. Then
as I went close to her she covered her face with her two hands, she let
me lay mine upon her and draw her to my breast. As she dropped her head
upon it she burst into tears, sobbing soundlessly and tragically. I
asked her no question, I only held her so long as she would, letting her
pour out the passion which I felt at the same time she made a tremendous
effort to smother. She couldn't smother it, but she could break away
violently; and this she quickly did, hurrying out of the nook where our
little scene--and some other greater scene, I judged, just before
it--had taken place, and leaving me infinitely mystified. I sat down on
the bench a moment and thought it over; then I succeeded in discovering
a path to the house.
The carriage was at the door for our drive home, but my companions, who
had had tea, were waiting for our hostess, of whom they wished to take
leave and who had not yet come in. I reported her as engaged with the
wife of one of the gardeners, but we lingered a little in the hall, a
largeish group, to give her time to arrive. Two other persons were
absent, one of whom was Louisa Chantry and the other the young man whom
I had just seen quitting her in the garden. While I sat there, a trifle
abstracted, still somewhat agitated by the sequel to that incident and
at the same time impatient of our last vague dawdle, one of the footmen
presented me with a little folded note. I turned away to open it, and at
the very moment our hostess fortunately came in. This diverted the
attention of the others from the action of the footman, whom, after I
had looked at the note, I immediately followed into the drawing-room. He
led me through it and through two or three others to the door of the
little retreat in which, nearly an hour before, I had come upon Louisa
Chantry and Mr. Brandon. The note was from Louisa, it contained the
simple words "Would you very kindly speak to me an instant before you
go?" She was waiting for me in the most sequestered spot she had been
able to select, and there the footman left us. The girl came straight at
me and in an instant she had grasped my hands. I became aware that her
condition had changed; her tears were gone, she had a concentrated
purpose. I could scarcely see her beautiful young face--it was pressed,
beseechingly, so close to mine. I only felt, as her dry, shining eyes
almost dazzled me, that a strong light had been waved back and forth
before me. Her words at first seemed to me incoherent; then I understood
that she was asking me for a pledge.
"Excuse me, forgive me for bringing you here--to say something I can't
say before all those people. _Do_ forgive me--it was so awfully kind of
you to come. I couldn't think of any other way--just for two seconds. I
want you to swear to me," she went on, with her hands now raised and
intensely clasped.
"To swear, dearest child?"
"I'm not your dearest child--I'm not anyone's! But _don't_ tell mamma.
Promise me--promise me," she insisted.
"Tell her what?--I don't understand."
"Oh, you do--you do!" she kept on; "and if you're going to Chantry
you'll see her, you'll be with her, you may see her before I do. On my
knees I ask you for a vow!"
She seemed on the point of throwing herself at my feet, but I stopped
her, I kept her erect. "When shall _you_ see your mother?"
"As soon as I can. I want to get home--I want to get home!" With this I
thought she was going to cry again, but she controlled herself and only
pressed me with feverish eyes.
"You have some great trouble--for heaven's sake tell me what it is."
"It isn't anything--it will pass. Only don't breathe it to mamma!"
"How can I breathe it if I don't know what it is?"
"You do know--you know what I mean." Then after an instant's pause she
added: "What I did in the garden."
"_What_ did you do in the garden?"
"I threw myself on your neck and I sobbed--I behaved like a maniac."
"Is that all you mean?"
"It's what I don't want mamma to know--it's what I beseech you to keep
silent about. If you don't I'll never, never go home. Have _mercy_ on
me!" the poor child quavered.
"Dear girl, I only want to be tender to you--to be perfect. But tell me
first: has anyone acted wrongly to you?"
"No one--_no_ one. I speak the truth."
She looked into my eyes, and I looked far into hers. They were wild with
pain and yet they were so pure that they made me confusedly believe her.
I hesitated a moment; then I risked the question: "Isn't Mr. Brandon
responsible for anything?"
"For nothing--for nothing! Don't blame _him_!" the girl passionately
cried.
"He hasn't made love to you?"
"Not a word--before God! Oh, it was too awful!" And with this she broke
away from me, flung herself on her knees before a sofa, burying her face
in it and in her arms. "Promise me, promise me, promise me!" she
continued to wail.
I was horribly puzzled but I was immeasurably touched. I stood looking a
moment at her extravagant prostration; then I said "I'm dreadfully in
the dark, but I promise."
This brought her to her feet again, and again she seized my hands.
"Solemnly, sacredly?" she panted.
"Solemnly, sacredly."
"Not a syllable--not a hint?"
"Dear Louisa," I said kindly, "when I promise I perform."
"You see I don't know you. And when do you go to Chantry?"
"Day after to-morrow. And when do you?"
"To-morrow if I can."
"Then you'll see your mother first--it will be all right," I said
smiling.
"All right, all right!" she repeated, with her woeful eyes. "Go, go!"
she added, hearing a step in the adjoining room.
The footman had come back to announce that my friends were seated in the
carriage, and I was careful to say before him in a different tone: "Then
there's nothing more I can do for you?"
"Nothing--good-bye," said Louisa, tearing herself away too abruptly to
take my kiss, which, to follow the servant again, I left unbestowed. I
felt awkward and guilty as I took leave of the company, murmuring
something to my entertainers about having had an arrangement to make
with Miss Chantry. Most of the people bade us good-bye from the steps,
but I didn't see Jack Brandon. On our drive home in the waning afternoon
my other friends doubtless found me silent and stupid.
I went to Chantry two days later, and was disappointed to find that the
daughter of the house had not returned, though indeed after parting with
her I had been definitely of the opinion that she was much more likely
to go to bed and be ill. Her mother however had not heard that she was
ill, and my inquiry about the young lady was of course full of
circumspection. It was a little difficult, for I had to talk about her,
Helen being particularly delighted that we had already made
acquaintance. No day had been fixed for her return, but it came over my
friend that she oughtn't to be absent during too much of my visit. She
was the best thing they had to show--she was the flower and the charm of
the place. It had other charms as well--it was a sleepy, silvery old
home, exquisitely grey and exquisitely green; a house where you could
have confidence in your leisure: it would be as genuine as the butter
and the claret. The very look of the pleasant, prosaic drawing-room
suggested long mornings of fancy work, of Berlin wool and premeditated
patterns, new stitches and mild pauses. My good Helen was always in the
middle of something eternal, of which the past and the future were
rolled up in oilcloth and tissue paper, and the intensest moments of
conversation were when it was spread out for pensive opinions. These
used to drop sometimes even from Christopher Chantry when he straddled
vaguely in with muddy leggings and the raw materials of a joke. He had a
mind like a large, full milk-pan, and his wit was as thick as cream.
One evening I came down to dinner a little early and, to my surprise,
found my troubled maiden in possession of the drawing-room. She was
evidently troubled still, and had been waiting there in the hope of
seeing me alone. We were too quickly interrupted by her parents,
however, and I had no conversation with her till I sat down to the piano
after dinner and beckoned to her to come and stand by it. Her father had
gone off to smoke; her mother dozed by one of the crackling little fires
of the summer's end.
"Why didn't you come home the day you told me you meant to?"