"Good nature and good sense must ever join;
To err is human; to forgive, divine."
Pope.
It was the last evening of the young Morisons being all together at the
Villa Martine, for Arthur was returning to England the following day.
And a fortnight or so later, the sisters and little Auriol, under the
convoy of old Bertha, were to follow him there. Lettice had gone early
to her room. She was worn out, though she would not allow it, with all
she had gone through during the last week or two. And since Mr Auriol
had left, she had put less constraint on herself; she no longer felt the
necessity of calling pride to her aid.
"I am so dreadfully sorry for Lettice," said Nina, as she and Arthur
were sitting together unwilling, though it was already late, to lose any
of their few remaining hours.
"So am I," said Arthur. "But I am sorry for ourselves too, Nina. There
is no doubt that all our troubles are very much aggravated by Lettice."
"Arthur!" exclaimed Nina. "What do you mean? How could we ever get on
without her?"
"Oh, I know all that," said the boy--for boy he still was, though nearly
seventeen--weariedly.
"I know she is very good, and devoted, and clever, too; but, Nina, if
she were but less obstinate and self-willed, how much happier--at least,
how much less unhappy--we should be! If she had taken the advice of
Godfrey Auriol, and made friends with our uncle--knowing, too, that
mother wished it! Of course, I won't allow to Godfrey that I disagree
with her; at all costs, as you and I determined, we must keep together.
But it is a terrible pity."
"I don't, however, see that for the present it makes very much
difference, and in time Lettice may change."
"Too late, perhaps," said Arthur moodily. "It _is_ just now that I
think it _does_ make such a miserable difference;" and as Nina looked
up, with surprise and some alarm, and was just going to ask him to
explain himself, he added hastily, as if eager to change the subject,
"Do you know the whole story, Nina--the story of the old quarrel between
my father and his family? I have heard it, I suppose; but I have got
confused about it, though I didn't like to let Godfrey see that I was
so. Lettice has always been so violent about it, so determined that
there was only the one way of looking at it, that it was no use asking
her. And just these last days it has dawned upon me that I know very
little about it. I have accepted it as a sort of legend that was not to
be questioned."
"I don't know that there is very much to tell--not of actual facts,"
said Nina. "Of course, it was all complicated by personal feeling, as
such things always are. Mamma told me all; and lately, as you know, she
regretted very much having not tried more to bring papa and his brother
together. He, our uncle, was perfectly blameless, he was fifteen years
younger than papa. Papa, you know, was grandpapa's only son by his
first marriage. His mother died young, and he, as he often said
himself, was dreadfully spoilt. His father married again when he was
about twelve; and though his stepmother was very good and nice, he was
determined never to like her, and set himself against whatever she said,
and fancied she influenced grandpapa very often, when very likely she
did not. Grandpapa was in business, as, of course, you know, and very
much respected, and very successful. He was of very respectable
ancestry. His people had been farmers, but not at all _grand_. And he
was the sort of man to be proud of having made his own way, and to
despise those who tried to be above their real position. He had always
determined that papa should follow him in his business; but, as might
have been expected from a spoilt boy, papa _wouldn't_; nothing would
please him but going into the army."
"Yes, I know that part of it," said Arthur.
"There must have been stormy scenes and most miserable discussions. Any
way, it ended in papa's running away and enlisting, which by people of
grandpapa's class was thought a terrible disgrace. Then grandpapa vowed
he would disinherit him, and he made a will, putting his little son
Ingram entirely in papa's place, and giving papa only a very small
fortune. And _always_ papa persisted in believing that this was his
stepmother's doing, though mamma has often told me they had no sort of
proof, not even _probability_, that it was so. And the way she acted
afterwards certainly did not seem as if she were selfish or scheming."
"But," interrupted Arthur, "all this has nothing to do with _mamma_, and
she always said it was about her."
"Well, listen," said Nina. "Time went on. Papa behaved splendidly, and
as soon as it was _possible_ he got a commission. And a year or two
after that, he became engaged to mamma, who was the daughter of a very
poor and very proud captain in the regiment. Captain Auriol, our other
grandfather, liked _papa_, but could not bear his being connected with
any one in trade; and when he gave his consent to the marriage, he said,
I believe, that he would not have done so had papa been in his father's
business, and that he liked him all the better for being no longer his
father's heir. Somehow papa's stepmother got to hear of this
engagement, and, knowing how poor mamma was, and thinking papa would be
feeling softened and anxious about his future, she tried to bring about
a reconciliation. Mamma, before she died, had come to feel sure the
poor woman did her best. She got grandpapa--Grandpapa Morison--to write
to papa, recognising his bravery as a soldier, and speaking of his
engagement, and offering to reinstate him in his old position if he
would now allow that he had had enough of soldiering, and would enter
the business. He even said that, if he would _not_ do so, he would
still receive him again--him and his wife when he should be married--and
make better provision for him if he would express sorrow for the grief
and disappointment he had caused him in the past. This part of the
letter must have been injudiciously worded. _Something_ was said of
mamma's poverty, which her father and she herself took offence at, when
papa showed it them, and consulted them about it--not that he for a
moment dreamt of giving up his profession; but he _was_ softened, and
would have been glad to be friends again. Only, unfortunately, they
took it the other way, and he wrote back a letter, under Grandpapa
Auriol's direction, which offended his father so deeply that things were
far worse than before. And it was for this that poor mamma always
blamed herself, and this was why she said it was for her sake papa had
quarrelled with his family. It came to be true, to some extent; for
Grandpapa Morison after that always put all the blame on her, and spoke
of her very unkindly, which came to papa's ears, and made him furious.
And when his father died, a few years afterwards, he was surprised to
find that even a small portion had still been left to him; and I don't
believe he would ever have taken it, poor as he was, but for a message
that was sent him with the news of his father's death, that poor
grandpapa had left him his blessing before he died. _I_ believe that he
had to thank his stepmother for this, though she did not appear in it.
She must have been frightened, poor thing, and no wonder. So the only
communication was through the lawyer. And that, I think," said Nina,
with a sigh, "is about all there is to tell."
"Thank you," said Arthur. "Nina," he went on, after a moment's
consideration, "do you think Lettice knows it all as clearly as you do?"
"It is her own fault if she doesn't," said Nina, which for her was an
unusually bitter speech.
"She has had just as much opportunity as I have had for hearing the
whole, except that, perhaps,"--and she hesitated a moment--"perhaps that
from Philip Dexter I have heard more than she about how good Uncle
Ingram is, through Uncle Ingram's having married his aunt, you know.
But, Arthur, if people _will_ see things only one way--and Lettice can
turn it so, when she talks about it she almost makes me feel as if it
would be wrong and _mean_ to look at it any other way."
"I know," said Arthur, with a still deeper sigh than Nina's had been.
And, indeed, poor boy, he _did_ know. His next remark surprised his
sister. "I wonder," he said, "I wonder papa disliked the idea of
business."
"_Arthur_!" she exclaimed.
"I do. I'm in earnest. There is nothing I should like so much. Nina,
promise, swear you won't tell any one," he went on boyishly but
earnestly, "if I tell you the truth. I would have given _anything_ to
accept that offer. I have no wish to go into the army. I don't think
I'm a coward, but the life has no attraction for me. I've seen so much
of the other side of it. I used to think, when papa was alive, I should
like it. But now--I'm not clever, Nina. I'm awfully behind-hand in
several of the subjects I shall have to be examined in; and oh, Nina,
the very thought of an examination makes my blood run cold. I _know_ I
shall fail, and--"
"But why--oh, why, Arthur, did you not say all this before?" cried Nina,
pale with distress.
"I _dared_ not, that's the truth. I'm a moral coward, if you like. I
did not realise it so strongly till Godfrey told me of Uncle Ingram's
offer, and then I felt how I should like business. I think I have a
_sort_ of cleverness that would suit it. I am what is called practical
and methodical, and I should like the intercourse with different
countries, and the _interest_ of it. I suppose Grandfather Morison's
tastes have come out in me. And I should like making money for all of
you and for Auriol, who is sure to be a soldier. But, Nina, I _dare_
not tell Lettice. Think of all she would say--that I was false to papa,
that I was throwing away the expensive education that has been so
difficult to manage; all sorts of bitter things. No, I _dare_ not. I
have tried, and even at the least hint of misgiving, that I was not fit
for the army--oh, Nina, I saw what it would be. No, I must go through
with it till the day that I go up for the examination, and am--"
"What?" said Nina.
"Spun, hopelessly."
"But you will have other chances?"
"I can't face them. I _feel_ that I could never face it again. Even
now I dream of it with a sort of horror," said the poor boy, raising his
delicate, haggard face. "And _if_ I fail. Oh, Nina, sometimes I think
I shall drown myself."
"Arthur, Arthur, don't speak like that," said Nina imploringly. "Shall
_I_ tell Lettice? I will if you like--if you are sure, quite sure of
what you say."
Arthur laid his hand on her arm. "No, no, Nina. You must promise to
tell no one. I must see. Perhaps I may get on better. Mr Downe
thinks I should pass if only I were less nervous. Any way, we must wait
a while. If it gets _too_ bad I will tell you first of all, and ask you
to tell Lettice."
"And we shall see you again soon. It is April now. You will be with us
all the summer. Oh, Arthur, I do hope things will go on quietly, and
that Lettice will not oppose Godfrey any more. They are both so
determined."
"But he has right on his side."
"Yes, I know. But you know, Arthur, she will be of age in less than a
year, and then if she chooses to defy our guardians it may come to our
being all separated. For think how many years it will be before the
little ones are of age."
"Lettice would never do that," said Arthur. "In the bottom of her heart
she knows she must give in. And she loves us all too much to go too
far."
"Of course I know how she loves us. Only too much," said Nina. "I
wonder if it would not have been better if we had had no guardians? We
should have got on very well, I dare say."
"Nina," said Arthur solemnly, "mark my words. If there had been no one
to keep her in check, Lettice would have grown more and more
self-willed, and I don't know what would have become of us. Better far
have all the discomfort of the last week or two than have risked
anything like that."
"If I thought it were over!" said Nina. "But you don't know how I dread
our life at Faxleham, and still worse that lady. I don't know what to
call her, for she can't be called our governess."
"Chaperone," suggested Arthur.
"I suppose so. But isn't it awful to think of her?"
Arthur could scarcely keep from laughing.
"I think that part of it would be rather fun," he said. "I hope--though
I'm by no means sure of it, mind you--but I hope she'll still be there
when I come, that I may see the skirmishing between her and Lettice."
"If it isn't she, it'll be some one else," said Nina in a depressed
tone. "Godfrey Auriol said it would be impossible--absolutely unheard
of--for us to live alone as Lettice wanted. Oh, Arthur, I wish you
weren't going away;" and poor Nina, allowing herself for once the
indulgence of giving way to her own feelings regardless of those of
others, threw her arms round her boy-brother's neck and burst into
tears. And though Arthur did his best to console her, it was, though
not precisely from the same cause, with sad enough hearts that the
brother and sister lay down to sleep that night.
There had been much to try them since the day that Godfrey Auriol, with
nothing but good will in his heart to his young relatives, had left his
smoke-dried chambers in Lincoln's Inn, where frost and fog were still
having it their own way, and came "over the sea" to the sunny brilliant
south, intent on advising and assisting the sad little group. He had
found things very different from what he expected, and he had gone back
again depressed and dispirited, doubtful, though he had manfully stood
out for victory, if he had gone the right way about it, more perplexed
and disgusted with himself than he ever remembered to have been before.
For he was in every sense of the word a very successful man. Starting
in life with little but a good old name and a clear and well-stocked
head, he was already far on the way to competency. He was made much of
in whatever society he entered; he was used to being looked up to and
having his opinion and advice asked. He had not married, had scarcely
ever been in love--never to a fatal extent--and had acquired a habit of
thinking that women were not to be too seriously considered one way or
the other. "Take them the right way," and there was never any trouble
to be feared. And now when it came to the test he had ignominiously
failed. For though Lettice had been obliged to give in, it had been, as
she took care to tell him, only to the extent to which she _was_ obliged
to do so--not a jot further. And he had an uncomfortable, an
exaggerated idea that he had been rough--what the French call "brutal"--
to her.
"To her, my own cousin, and an orphan, too, whom I was prepared to care
for like a sister--yes, like a sister, that first night when she seemed
so sweet and gentle. And to think of the things we have said to each
other since!" thought poor Godfrey, during his long solitary journey
back again to whence he had come.
If Lettice could have seen into his heart I think she would have been
moved to regret. And she had been very unreasonable. The "intentions"
of which she had spoken no relation or guardian in the world could have
approved of.
"We do not wish to return to England," she told Godfrey calmly. "I want
to spend the summer, while it is too hot here, in travelling about, and
next winter we shall come back here again."
"And under whose care?" Mr Auriol asked quietly.
"_Mine_," said Lettice, rearing her head. "Of course we have old
Bertha, who will never leave us. But I am quite old enough to take care
of my brothers and sisters."
"_You_ may think so. _I_ don't," he replied drily. "Besides, it is not
altogether a question of age. If you were married--"
"I shall never marry."
"Indeed!" Mr Auriol observed with the utmost politeness. "But that,
excuse me, is a matter for your private consideration, in no way
interfering with what I was saying. If, for supposition's sake, you, or
let us say Nina, who is still younger,"--and he turned to Nina with a
smile which somehow made the colour rise in her cheeks--"if _Nina_ were
married to a reliable sort of man, there would be nothing against your
all living together if you chose."
"Provided the brother-in-law approved, which, in his place, _I_
wouldn't," observed Arthur, in an aside.
"But as things are, why, five, ten years hence even, you could not keep
house without a chaperone," said Mr Auriol in conclusion, as if the
matter were not open to a question.
A very short time before he left, Godfrey told them what he proposed as
to their future home.
"I have a letter I should like to read to you," he said to Lettice. His
tone and manner seemed to her exceedingly cold; the truth was that he
was most uncomfortably constrained.
"Certainly," she replied. "Do you wish me to call Nina?"
"Perhaps it would be as well," said Mr Auriol.
And when Nina came he read to them the description that had been sent to
him of a small house a few hours' distance from town, which seemed to
him just what was wanted.
"The neighbourhood is very pretty, and there is an excellent school for
Auriol, in the small town of Garford, at half-an-hour's distance. And
there are some nice families in the neighbourhood to whom I--to whom
introductions could easily be got."
"In our deep mourning," said Lettice icily, "nothing of that kind need
be taken into consideration. Besides," she added, "if you think us so
exceedingly childish and unreasonable, I should say the fewer
acquaintances we make the better."
"Lettice, oh, please don't," said Nina imploringly.