ROBERT
Robert Spencer was not only, as his mother put it, a handsome young
fellow; he had more than good looks, he had that air of distinction
which goes with character. No one with even a slight knowledge of
physiognomy could see him once without perceiving that he was
physically, mentally, and probably morally, a strong man, and, what
was almost as much, a likable man. As he stood framed in the open
window, with the glory of that almost uncannily glorious April sun
lighting up the frame, each of those who saw him was conscious of an
impulse which, had it been yielded to, would have resulted in a scene
of tenderness. He was dear to his parents, and he knew it; they
themselves scarcely knew how dear, and that also he suspected. He was
dear, with a different sort of dearness, to the girl who moved towards
him, as if impelled by a power against which she was helpless; only to
start back, shrinking timidly, with frightened, longing eyes, and
cheeks on which the crimson faded to pallor. Yet, though he was dear
to all of them, there was not one of the three who would not rather he
had not appeared upon the scene just then. His mother, with
characteristic courage, gave expression to her feeling on the spot.
"Robert! my boy! we don't want you. Where have you come from? and what
are you doing here?"
He smiled, and his was such a pleasant smile it did one good to see
it.
"Why, mother, I'm sorry to hear that you don't want me. I've rushed
from the station to tell Nora, what I've not a doubt she knows
already, that I hope she'll find in me some one who'll take the place,
at least in part, of him whom she has lost."
When he advanced into the room his mother placed herself in his path.
"Robert, my dear boy, you ought not to be here. Go back to Holtye, and
when I return I will explain to your perfect satisfaction why I say
it."
"Ought not to be here!--where Nora is! My dear mother! Nora, why
do--why don't--Nora, what's the matter?"
He made a sudden forward movement, but once more his mother was too
quick for him; again she interposed; if he did not wish to knock her
over he had to stand still.
"Robert, I must beg you to do as I desire, and return at once to
Holtye."
"My dear mother, I must beg you to stand aside, and let me speak to
Nora."
The old woman turned to the girl.
"Miss Lindsay, you perceive how my son treats me; have you nothing
which you wish to say?"
"Of course," replied the son in question, "Nora has something which
she wishes to say--I'm sure I don't know why you call her Miss
Lindsay; she's not likely to say it when addressed like that. I'll
make a suggestion, mother; you go back to Holtye, with the dad, and
I'll talk to Nora when you're gone, and I'll tell you some of the
things she says to me when I return to Holtye."
The old lady stuck to her guns.
"Miss Lindsay, is there nothing that you wish to say?"
"Yes, Mr. Spencer, there is something which I wish to say--your mother
is right; you ought not to be here." With a great effort she had
brought herself to the sticking-point. She was one of those women who
have in them an infinite capacity for suffering, yet who remain
unbeaten though they suffer. If she once saw what she believed to be
her duty straight in front of her, though her flesh might quail, her
soul would not falter; she would do her duty as certainly as any of
that great host who have died for duty, smiling as they died. The
Countess had not put things pleasantly, but it seemed to Nora that she
had put them correctly; she ought not to marry the man she loved, for
his own sake; and because she loved him with something of that love
which passes understanding, she would not marry him--to his own hurt.
She proceeded to make this as clear to him as she could. "There has
been a misunderstanding between us from the first; I don't know that
the fault has been altogether mine, but there has been. It is
necessary that we should understand each other now. When I consented
to become your wife it was under a misapprehension; I did not know it
then; I know it now. Now that I do know it, it is quite clear to me
that it is impossible that I should be your wife, and I never will be.
Therefore, since what your mother says is obviously correct, and you
ought not to be here, I would join with her in asking you to go."
Robert Spencer stared as if he found it difficult to credit that this
formal, cold, somewhat pedantic young woman was the girl whom he had
found all love and tenderness; indeed he refused to credit it.
"Nora, you're--not well."
He said this with such a comical twist, and such a sunny smile, that
she all but succumbed, she loved him for it so; she was all of a
quiver, her heart seemed melting. It was possibly because she
perceived the girl's sad plight that the sharp-eyed old woman took
another hand in the game.
"Robert, is it necessary that Miss Lindsay and I should retire? I
should not have thought that you would have required two women to ask
you to go, before you went. I repeat that you shall have all
explanations--from Miss Lindsay and from me--when I see you at
Holtye."
But Robert still smiled, and he shook the handsome, clever head, which
the Countess ought to have known was too clever to be hoodwinked quite
so easily.
"It won't do, mother; I'm sorry to seem to run counter to your wishes;
but it's clear to my mind that it is I who am entitled to ask you to
leave me alone with Nora; it pains me to observe your seeming
reluctance to do what you know you ought to do. Dad, you'll
understand; won't you take my mother away?"
The Earl, thus appealed to, cleared his throat, and then observed--
"Robert, you're a fool; leave this business to your mother; you come
and talk to me."
He moved towards the window, as though inviting his son to accompany
him into the grounds, and to have that talk out there and then; but
Robert stood still.
"Thank you, dad; it's very good of you, and I'll have all the talk
with you you can possibly desire--after I have had a talk with Nora."
All at once the girl solved the question in her own fashion; she spoke
tremulously, yet in haste.
"I--I think that if Mr. Spencer won't go, then--then it is better that
I should."
And she did go, towards the door, and through it like a flash, before
the person principally concerned had a chance to stop her.
"Nora!" he cried, the instant she had gone, and he went rushing
towards the door through which she had vanished; but again his mother,
showing an agility which, in a person of her years, was remarkable,
stood in his way.
"Robert, I insist upon your conducting yourself like a gentleman! If
you will not show me the respect which is due to your mother, you at
least shall not behave in a stranger's house in a way which is
unbecoming to my son."
He looked at the old woman, who had planted herself in front of him,
upright and stiff as a post, and he drew back; this time his smile was
grave.
"Mother, I trust that you are not forgetting that there is a respect
which a mother owes to her son. Why do you object to my having any
conversation with my affianced wife?"
"Don't you know that her father is dead?"
"Certainly I know it; just dead, and just buried; it is on that
account that I feel so strongly that my place is with her."
"Don't talk nonsense!"
"Mother, when you were alone in the world, didn't you feel that my
father's place was with you?"
"Robert, your brothers have behaved like fools, but I hope you won't;
you are all the hope I have left; it will break my heart if you do.
This girl's father has turned out to be an impostor!"
"An impostor? Mother, in saying what you have to say to me will you
please remember you are speaking of the woman who is to be my wife,
and your daughter, and so choose language which does not convey more
than you intend?"
"Don't presume to lecture me! that is going too far. I say he has
turned out to be an impostor--and he has!"
"In what sense?"
"He told your father he was going to give his girl a house and
furniture and five thousand a year, besides leaving her a rich woman
when he died; and now he hasn't left enough to pay his debts; if that
isn't being an impostor I don't know what is!"
"A good deal of water has gone over the mill since he said that; he
may have had money then, and yet have lost every penny of it since."
"Then he ought to have told you."
"Why?"
"Why! you know perfectly well why. I believe it is your wish to
irritate me, when I'm very far from well, as your father here will
tell you. That man knew that you were not in a position to marry a
poor woman, and that we should never have given our consent if it had
not been for this distinct assurance that his daughter would be amply
provided for."
"Well?"
"Well! it's not well; there's nothing well about it! You shan't speak
to me like this--I won't have it! Robert, I want you to promise that
all shall be at an end between Miss Lindsay and you; she herself sees
the matter in the proper light----"
"Does that mean that you have been talking: to her?"
"Certainly I have been talking to her; and I will say this, that she
did not take long to see where her duty lay."
"Is it possible that she took it for granted that I should behave like
a blackguard--at my mother's bidding?"
"Robert, how dare you!"
"It is not I, mother, who dare; I dare not. I asked Miss Lindsay to be
my wife when her father was alive, and a rich man and all was well
with her. If, now that all is not well with her, I attempt to
repudiate the solemn engagements into which I then entered----"
"Fiddle-de-dee! solemn engagements indeed! You entered into no solemn
engagements, and I'll take care you don't. Robert, you are the only
creature I have left to love."
"I don't see how that can be, since you have eight other children and
a husband."
"My boy, my boy, don't you be so cruel as to pretend that you don't
understand! You're my youngest born, the child of my old age, my
baby--you're dear to me in a special sense, as you know very well. If
you marry this girl, who is not only penniless, but who is in honour
bound to pay her father's debts, and who'll drag you down into the
gutter, because your aunt will never give you another penny when she
knows the facts, on the day of your marriage I'll commit suicide."
"Mother!"
"I will, so now you're warned; and she shall know why I do it. I'll
not live to be mocked by all my children; I've had nine of them, as
you say, and if not one of them will try to please his mother--then
God help us mothers."
The young man turned to the Earl.
"Do you associate yourself, sir, with my mother in this matter?"
"Certainly I do--most distinctly I do; with what she says respecting
this young woman most emphatically I do; I can't conceive of a
rational creature doing anything else. As matters have turned out the
girl's impossible--absolutely out of the question. If you can't see
it, Robert, you're a fool."
"Thank you, sir." The young man regarded his plain-speaking sire with
a wry little smile. "I think it probable that when you have thought
things over, sir, you will modify your views; but while you hold them
so warmly, plainly it is desirable that I should restrict myself to a
bare announcement of the fact that they are not mine."
He moved towards the window; his mother called out to him.
"Robert, where are you going? You will return with us. We came in the
landau; there is plenty of room. I beg you will give us your company;
indeed, if it is not sufficient for a mother to beg of her son, then I
insist upon your doing so."
"Pardon me, mother, but I am not going to Holtye; I have taken a room
at the 'Unicorn.'"
"The 'Unicorn!' Robert! Harold, will you be so good as to ask him what
he means?"
The Earl did as he was bid.
"Robert, what do you mean by saying that you have taken a room at the
'Unicorn'?--an inn!--a mere tavern! at the gate of your father's
house!"
"The 'Unicorn' can hardly be said to be at the gate of Holtye, since
it is at a distance of a good five miles."
"Stuff, sir! Five miles or fifty, what does it matter? Holtye is your
home, and you will be so good as to come home; we've been expecting
you; we've been looking forward to your return; I trust that the day
is far distant on which you will cease to regard Holtye as your home."
"Unless he wishes to break his mother's heart."
The interpolation was the lady's.
"So no nonsense, sir; get into the carriage and we'll drive you home."
"You are very kind; permit me, sir, to finish. It is plain that my
mother and you have made up your minds that Miss Lindsay shall not
become my wife; you will probably leave no stone unturned which will
keep us apart. I appreciate your motives, and though I think them
unworthy, I know you think they're for my good; but I have made up my
mind that she shall be my wife, and I will stop at nothing which will
bring about that desirable consummation. Under these conditions
obviously the more we are together the more friction there will be;
and therefore, equally obviously, it is desirable that, for the
present at least, I should not come to Holtye. But I promise you this,
that when she's my wife I'll come--and I'll bring her with me."
"You'll do nothing of the kind; if you ever do marry her you'll never
set foot inside the door again."
This, of course, was the Countess; her son laughed.
"You hear my mother, sir! Isn't that conclusive?"
He passed through the window and out of sight, the Earl and the
Countess staring at the place where he had been. The Earl was the
first to speak.
"Jemima, what on earth was the use of saying a thing like that? Don't
you know him better than to threaten?"
"What am I to say? what am I to do? Who'd have children!--they're the
cause of suffering and sorrow to their mothers from their cradles to
their graves! I wish I'd never had one!"
"My dear Jemima, I dare say, also, you wish you had two heads, but you
haven't. For my part, I don't know that I regret the line he's taken
up."
"Harold! Do you wish to see him ruined?"
"Not at all; quite the other way; that's exactly it. In cases of
this sort, when the man throws over the woman there's a certain
amount of odium attached to his conduct--I realize that as clearly as
he does; but when she throws him over that's another thing. Robert's
pig-headed----"
"Like his father!"
"And his mother! he's no worse on that account, Jemima, not in the
sense in which I use the word. You'll not move him, but you will the
girl; there's your objective. In her way, unless I'm mistaken, she's
as pig-headed as he is. He may use all the eloquence he has at his
command, but, after what you said to her, and the way in which you
put things, I doubt if she'll marry him though he pleads till he is
dumb--they are a pair of Quixotes; when it comes to rank, downright
Quixotry, she'll beat him on his own ground."
And the lady considered her lord's words.
"I shouldn't be surprised," she admitted, "if you are right."
"I know I'm right," he said. "I haven't come to my time of life
without being a student of human nature."