One day, some three weeks after Arthur had gone, Angela strolled down
the tunnel walk, now, in the height of summer, almost dark with the
shade of the lime-trees, and settled herself on one of the stone seats
under Caresfoot’s staff.
She had a book in hand, but it soon became clear that she had come to
this secluded spot to think rather than read, for it fell unopened from
her hand, and her grey eyes were full of a far-off look as they gazed
across the lake glittering in the sunlight, away towards the hazy
purple outline of the distant hills. Her face was quite calm, but it
was not that of a happy person; indeed, it gave a distinct idea of
mental suffering. All grief, however acute, is subject to fixed
gradations, and Angela was yet in the second stage. First there is the
acute stage, when the heart aches with a physical pain, and the mind,
filled with a wild yearning or tortured by an unceasing anxiety, well-
nigh gives beneath the abnormal strain. This does not last long, or it
would kill or drive us to the mad-house. Then comes that long epoch of
dull misery, enduring till at last kindly nature in pity rubs off the
rough extremes of our calamity, and by slow but sure degrees softens
agony into sorrow.
This was what she was now passing through, and—as all highly organized
natures like her own are, especially in youth, very sensitive to those
more exquisite vibrations of pain and happiness that leave minds of a
coarser fibre comparatively unmoved—it may be taken for granted that
she was suffering sufficiently acutely.
Perhaps she had never quite realized how necessary Arthur had become to
her, how deep his love had sent its fibres into her heart and inner
self, until he was violently wrenched away from her and she lost all
sight and knowledge of him in the darkness of the outside world. Still
she had made no show of her sorrow; but once, when Pigott told her some
pathetic story of the death of a little child in the village, she burst
into a paroxysm of weeping. The pity for another’s pain had loosed the
flood-gates of her own, but it was a performance that she did not
repeat.
But Angela had her anxieties as well as her griefs, and it was over
these former that she was thinking as she sat on the great stone under
the oak. Love is a wonderful quickener of the perceptions, and,
ignorant as she was of all the world’s ways, the more she thought over
the terms imposed by her father upon her engagement, the more
distrustful did she grow. Lady Bellamy, too, had been to see her twice,
and on each occasion had inspired her with a lively sense of fear and
repugnance. During the first of these visits she had shown a perfect
acquaintance with the circumstances of her engagement, her “flirtation
with Mr. Heigham,” as she was pleased to call it. During the second
call, too, she had been full of strange remarks about her cousin
George, talking mysteriously of “a change” that had come over him since
his illness, and of his being under a “new influence.” Nor was this
all; for, on the very next day when she was out walking with Pigott in
the village, she had met George himself, and he had insisted upon
entering into a long rambling conversation with her, and on looking at
her in a way that made her feel perfectly sick.
“Oh, Aleck,” she said, aloud, to the dog that was sitting by her side
with his head upon her knee, for he was now her constant companion, “I
wonder where your master is, your master and mine, Aleck. Would to God
that he were back here to protect me, for I am growing afraid, I don’t
know of what, Aleck, and there are eleven long silent months to wait.”
At this moment the dog raised his head, listened, and sprang round with
an angry “woof.” Angela rose up with a flash of hope in her eyes,
turned, and faced George Caresfoot.
He was still pale and shrivelled from the effects of his illness, but
otherwise little changed, except that the light-blue eyes glittered
with a fierce determination, and that the features had attained that
fixity and strength which sometimes come to those who are bent heart
and soul upon an enterprise, be it good or evil.
“So I have found you out at last, Cousin Angela. What, are you not
going to shake hands with me?”
Angela touched his fingers with her own.
“My father is not here,” she said.
“Thank you, my dear cousin, but I did not come to see your father, of
whom I have seen plenty in the course of my life, and shall doubtless
see more; I came to see you, of whom I can never see enough.”
“I don’t understand you,” said Angela, defiantly, folding her arms
across her bosom and looking him full in the face with fearless eyes,
for her instinct warned her that she was in danger, and also that,
whatever she might feel, she must not show that she was afraid.
“I shall hope to make you do so before long,” he replied, with a
meaning glance; “but you are not very polite, you know, you do not
offer me a seat.”
“I beg your pardon, I did not know that you wanted to sit down. I can
only offer you a choice of those stones.”
“Then call that brute away, and I will sit down.”
“The dog is not a brute, as you mean it. But I should not speak of him
like that, if I were you. He is sensible as a human being, and might
resent it.”
Angela knew that George was a coward about dogs; and at that moment, as
though to confirm her words, Aleck growled slightly.
“Ah, indeed; well, he is certainly a handsome dog;” and he sat down
suspiciously. “Won’t you come and sit down?”
“Thank you. I prefer to stand.”
“Do you know what you look like, standing there with your arms crossed?
You look like an angry goddess.”
“If you mean that seriously, I don’t understand you. If it is a
compliment, I don’t like compliments.”
“You are not very friendly,” said George, whose temper was fast getting
the better of him.
“I am sorry. I do not wish to be unfriendly.”
“So I hear that my ward has been staying here whilst I was ill.”
“Yes, he was staying here.”
“And I am also told that there was some boy-and-girl love affair
between you. I suppose that he indulged in a flirtation to wile away
the time.”
Angela turned upon him, too angry to speak.
“Well, you need not look at me like that. You surely never expect to
see him again, do you?”
“If we both live, I shall certainly see him again; indeed, I shall, in
any case.”
“You will never see him again.”
“Why not?”
“Because he was only flirting and playing the fool with you. He is a
notorious flirt, and, to my certain knowledge, has been engaged to two
women before.”
“I do not believe that that is true, or, if it is true, it is not all
the truth; but, true or untrue, I am not going to discuss Mr. Heigham
with you, or allow myself to be influenced by stories told behind his
back.”
“Angela,” said George, rising, and seizing her hand.
She turned quite pale, and a shudder passed over her frame.
“Leave my hand alone, and never dare to touch me again. This is the
second time that you have tried to insult me.”
“So!” answered George, furious with outraged pride and baffled passion,
“you set up your will against mine, do you? Very well, you shall see. I
will crush you to powder. Insult you, indeed! How often did that young
blackguard insult you? I warrant he did more than take your hand.”
“If,” answered Angela, “you mean Mr. Heigham, I shall leave you to
consider whether that term is not more applicable to the person who
does his best to outrage an unprotected woman, and take advantage of
the absent, than to the gentleman against whom you have used it;” and,
darting on him one glance of supreme contempt, she swept away like an
angry queen.
Left to his meditations, George shook his fist towards where she had
vanished.
“Very well, my fine lady, very well,” he said, aloud. “You treat me as
so much dirt, do you? You shall smart for this, so sure as my name is
George Caresfoot. Only wait till you are in my power, and you shall
learn that I was never yet defied with impunity. Oh, and you shall
learn many other things also.”
From that time forward, Angela was, for a period of two months or more,
subjected to an organized persecution as harassing as it was cruel.
George waylaid her everywhere, and twice actually succeeded in entering
into conversation with her, but on both occasions she managed to escape
from him before he could proceed any further. So persistently did he
hunt her, that at last the wretched girl was driven to hide herself
away in odd corners of the house and woods, in order to keep out of his
way. Then he took to writing her letters, and sending handsome
presents, all of which she returned.
Poor Angela! It was hard both to lose her lover, and to suffer daily
from the persecutions of her hateful cousin, which were now pushed
forward so openly and with such pertinacity as to fill her with vague
alarm. What made her position worse was, that she had no one in whom to
confide, for Mr. Fraser had not yet returned. Pigott indeed knew more
or less what was going on, but she could do nothing, except bewail
Arthur’s absence, and tell her “not to mind.” There remained her
father, but with him she had never been on sufficiently intimate terms
for confidence. Indeed, as time went on, the suspicion gathered
strength in her mind that he was privy to George’s advances, and that
those advances had something to do with the harsh terms imposed upon
Arthur and herself. But at last matters grew so bad that, having no
other refuge, she determined to appeal to him for protection.
“Father,” she said, boldly, one day to Philip, as he was sitting
writing in his study, “my cousin George is persecuting me every day. I
have borne it as long as I can, but I can bear it no longer. I have
come to ask you to protect me from him.”
“Why, Angela, I should have thought that you were perfectly capable of
protecting yourself. What is he persecuting you about? What does he
want?”
“To marry me, I suppose,” answered Angela, blushing to her eyes.
“Well, that is a very complimentary wish on his part, and I can tell
you what it is, Angela, if only you could get that young Heigham out of
your head, you might do a deal worse.”
“It is quite useless to talk to me like that,” she answered, coldly.
“Well, that is your affair; but it is very ridiculous of you to come
and ask me to protect you. The woman must, indeed, be a fool who cannot
protect herself.”
And so the interview ended.
Next day Lady Bellamy called again.
“My dear child,” she said to Angela, “you are not looking well; this
business worries you, no doubt; it is the old struggle between duty and
inclination, that we have most of us gone through. Well, there is one
consolation, nobody who ever did his or her duty, regardless of
inclination, ever regretted it in the end.”
“What do you mean, Lady Bellamy, when you talk about my duty?”
“I mean the plain duty that lies before you of marrying your cousin
George, and of throwing up this young Heigham.”
“I recognize no such duty.”
“My dear Angela, do look at the matter from a sensible point of view,
think what a good thing it would be for your father, and remember, too,
that it would re-unite all the property. If ever a girl had a clear
duty to perform, you have.”
“Since you insist so much upon my ‘duty,’ I must say that it seems to
me that an honest girl in my position has three duties to consider, and
not one, as you say, Lady Bellamy. First, there is her duty to the man
she loves, for her the greatest duty of any in the world; next her duty
to herself, for her happiness and self-respect are involved in her
decision; and, lastly, her duty to her family. I put the family last,
because, after all, it is she who gets married, not her family.”
Lady Bellamy smiled a little.
“You argue well; but there is one thing that you overlook, though I am
sorry to have to pain you by saying it; young Mr. Heigham is no better
than he should be. I have made inquiries about him, and think that I
ought to tell you that.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean that his life, young as he is, has not been so creditable as it
might have been. He has been the hero of one or two little affairs. I
can tell you about them if you like.”
“Lady Bellamy, your stories are either true or untrue. If true, I
should take no notice of them, because they must have happened before
he loved me; if untrue, they would be a mere waste of breath, so I
think that we may dispense with the stories—they would influence me no
more than the hum of next summer’s gnats.”
Lady Bellamy smiled again.
“You are a curious woman,” she said; “but, supposing that there were to
be a repetition of these little stories _after_ he loved you, what
would you say then?”
Angela looked troubled, and thought awhile.
“He could never go far from me,” she answered.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean that I hold the strings of his heart in my hands, and I have
only to lift them to draw him back to me—so. No other woman, no living
force, can keep him from me, if I choose to bid him come.”
“Supposing that to be so, how about the self-respect you spoke of just
now? Could you bear to take your lover back from the hands of another
woman?”
“That would entirely depend upon the circumstances, and upon what was
just to the other woman.”
“You would not then throw him up without question?”
“Lady Bellamy, I may be very ignorant and simple, but I am neither mad
nor a fool. What do you suppose that my life would be worth to me if I
threw Arthur up? If I remained single it would be an aching void, as it
is now, and if I married any other man whilst he still lived, it would
become a daily and shameful humiliation such as I had rather die than
endure.”
Lady Bellamy glanced up from under her heavy-lidded eyes; a thought had
evidently struck her, but she did not express it.
“Then I am to tell your cousin George that you will have absolutely
nothing to do with him?”
“Yes, and beg him to cease persecuting me; it is quite useless; if
there were no Arthur and no other man in the world, I would not marry
him. I detest him—I cannot tell you how I detest him.”
“It is amusing to hear you talk so, and to think that you will
certainly be Mrs. George Caresfoot within nine months.”
“Never,” answered Angela, passionately stamping her foot upon the
floor. “What makes you say such horrible things?”
“I reflect,” answered Lady Bellamy, with an ominous smile, “that George
Caresfoot has made up his mind to marry you, and that I have made up
mine to help him to do so, and that your will, strong as it certainly
is, is, as compared with our united wills, what a straw is to a gale.
The straw cannot travel against the wind, it _must_ go with it, and you
_must_ marry George Caresfoot. You will as certainly come to the
altar-rails with him as you will to your death-bed. It is written in
your face. Good-bye.”
For the first time Angela’s courage really gave way as she heard these
dreadful words. She remembered how she herself had called Lady Bellamy
an embodiment of the “Spirit of Power,” and now she felt that the
comparison was just. The woman was power incarnate, and her words,
which from anybody else she would have laughed at, sent a cold chill
through her.
“She is a fine creature both in mind and body,” reflected Lady Bellamy,
as she stepped into her carriage. “Really, though I try to hate her, I
can find it in my heart to be sorry for her. Indeed, I am not sure that
I do not like her; certainly I respect her. But she has come in my path
and must be crushed—my own safety demands it. At least, she is worth
crushing, and the game is fair, for perhaps she will crush me. I should
not be surprised; there is a judgment in those grey eyes of hers—Qui
vivra verra. Home, William.”