SHADOWS.
On the third day after the quiet marriage ceremony had been performed
in the City church, Margaret Baldwin, her husband, and their child
left London for Chayleigh. She had been told that her father knew
nothing of the revelation which it had been Hayes Meredith's difficult
task to impart to her, and she felt that she owed much to the wise
consideration which had concealed it. In the first place, to have
enlightened her father would only have been to inflict unnecessary
pain upon him, and in the second, it would have embarrassed her
extremely.
To keep her feelings in this supreme hour of her fate as much to
herself as possible was her great desire, and especially as regarded
her father. His pride and delight in the good fortune which had
befallen her were so great, his absolute oblivion of the past was so
complete and so satisfactory, that she would not, if even it could
have made things better rather than worse for her, have had the one
feeling disturbed, or the other altered. He had never mentioned her
first husband's name to her, and she would not, to spare herself any
suffering, have had an occasion arise in which it must needs be
mentioned. So, as they travelled towards her old home, there was
nothing in the prospect of her meeting with her father to disturb her,
and the events of the week she had just gone through, began to seem
already distant.
After the day of the marriage, Baldwin had not spoken of the grief
that had befallen them. If it had been possible for him to love her
better, more tenderly, more entirely, more deferentially than before,
he would have done so; but it was not possible. In all conceivable
respects their union was perfect; not even sorrow could draw them more
closely together. Neither could sorrow part them, as sometimes it does
part, almost imperceptibly, but yet surely, those whose mutual
affection is not solidified by perfect similarity of temperament.
The gravity of Margaret's character, which had been increased by the
experiences of her life, by the deadly influences which had tarnished
her youth, had been much tempered of late by the cordial cheerfulness,
the unfailing sweetness of disposition which characterised Baldwin,
and which, being entirely free from the least tinge of levity,
harmonised perfectly with her sensitiveness. So, in this grief, they
felt alike, and while he comprehended, in its innermost depths and
intricacy of feeling, the distress she suffered, he comprehended also
that she needed no assurance of his appreciation and sympathy.
The details of business and the arrangements for the future which the
terrible discovery had made necessary were imparted to her by Hayes
Meredith, and never discussed between her and Baldwin. She understood
that in the wildly improbable--indeed, as far as human ken could
penetrate, impossible--contingency that the truth should ever become
known, the little Gertrude's future was to be made secure, by special
precautions taken with that intent by her father. Thus no material
anxiety oppressed her for the sake of the child, over whom,
nevertheless, she grieved with a persistent intensity which would have
seemed ominous and alarming to any one aware of it. But that no one
knew; the infant was the sole and unconscious witness of the mother's
suffering.
What intense shame and misery, what incoherent passionate tenderness,
what vague but haunting dread, what foreshadowing of possible evil had
possession of her soul, as, her head bent down over the little girl
sleeping in her arms, Margaret approached her father's house!
Mr. Carteret was standing at the entrance, and behind him, in the
shade of the portico, was a figure whom Margaret did not recognise,
and whom she was about to pass, having received her father's
affectionate greeting, when Mr. Baldwin said, "This is Mr. Meredith's
son, Margaret," and Robert held out his hand. Then she spoke to the
boy, but hastily, being anxious to get her child and her father out of
the cold air.
When the whole party had entered the house, and Mr. Baldwin and Mr.
Carteret were talking by the fire in the study, Robert Meredith stood
still in the hall watching the light snow flakes which had begun to
fall sparingly, and which had the charm of novelty to him, and
thinking not overpleasantly of Margaret.
"A proud, stuck-up fine lady," the boy muttered, and the expression of
scorn which made his face so evil at times came over it. "I suppose
she thinks I don't remember her in her shabby old clothes, and with
her hands all rough. I suppose she fancies I was too much of a child
to know all about her when she used to do our needlework, and my
mother used to puzzle her head to make out jobs for her, because she
was too proud to take the money as a present. I saw it all, though
they didn't tell me; and I wonder how she would like me to tell her
fine husband or her old fool of a father all about it! I remember how
they talked about her at home when the black fellows killed Mr.
Hungerford, and my father said they might venture to take her into the
house now, until she could be sent to England. And my lady's too fine
to look at one now, is she, with her precious self and her precious
brat wrapped up in velvet and fur." And the boy pulled off a chair in
the hall a mantle of Margaret's which had been thrown there, and
kicked it into a corner.
It would be difficult to do justice to the vile expression of his
handsome face, as, having given vent to this ebullition of senseless
rage, he again stood, looking through the side windows of the hall
door for the approach of the carriage which was to bring his father
and James Dugdale to Chayleigh. The boy's chief characteristic was an
extreme and besetting egotism, which Margaret had unconsciously
offended. She would not have thought much or perhaps at all of the
fact had she known it, but from the moment when, with a polite but
careless greeting to Robert Meredith, she had passed on into the
house, she had an enemy in the son of her old friend.
"I thought Margaret would be in a hurry home," said the unconscious
Mr. Carteret, in a sagacious tone to his son-in-law, "when Meredith
came. She received much kindness from him, and I knew she would like
to acknowledge it as soon as possible."
"And I, too, sir," said Baldwin. "What a good fellow he is, and a fine
hearty fellow! What do you think of the boy?"
"A very fair kind of boy indeed," said Mr. Carteret, with unusual
alacrity; "never requires to be told anything twice, and is never in
the way. If he is noisy at all, he keeps it all for out of doors, I
assure you. And not ignorant, by any means: gave me a very
intelligible account of the habits of the wombat and the opossum.
Really a very tolerable boy, Baldwin; I fancy you won't mind him
much."
This was warm praise, and quite an enthusiastic supposition, for Mr.
Carteret. Baldwin was much reassured by it; he and Margaret had been
rather alarmed at the contemplation of his possible sufferings at
finding himself alone with a real live boy. Baldwin was glad too of
the excuse for talking about something apart from himself and
Margaret. The most natural thing for him to say under the
circumstances would have been, "Well, sir, and how do you think
Margaret is looking?" but he hesitated about saying it, and was
relieved when Mr. Carteret volunteered the opinion that she was
looking very well, and began to question him about their doings in
foreign parts.
Thus the time was whiled away until Meredith and Dugdale arrived, and
Margaret, announcing that the child was asleep, came to sit with her
father. A look from her husband showed her that all was well, and a
look in return from her released him.
The evening passed away quietly. No incident of any moment occurred.
Mr. Carteret displayed no curiosity about Meredith's business in
London, though he was very congratulatory concerning the fortunate
coincidence of the return of Mr. and Mrs. Baldwin, and very solicitous
about the danger of James Dugdale's being made ill by the journey and
the excitement of London, which presented itself to Mr. Carteret in
most alarming colours. He had not been in "town" since Mrs. Carteret's
death, and if, contrary to his usual placid habit, he speculated about
his own future at all, it certainly was to the effect that he hoped he
never should be there again.
The old gentleman was in a state of supreme mental content just now.
He was very happy in all respects, and the return of Margaret and Mr.
Baldwin completed his felicity. His daughter's account of her health
was very satisfactory, and perhaps she need not go abroad again. They
spoke of going on to the Deane if the weather should not prove very
severe, and for his part he hoped they would do so. He had no great
liking for foreign countries, and no strong faith in the remedial
properties of their climate; and though he was very glad that Margaret
had tried Italy and profited by it, he should be still more glad that
she should decide on staying at home. With a splendid home, every
conceivable comfort, and improved health, she need not gad about any
more, especially under present circumstances.
On the whole, Mr. Carteret's state of mind was one of enviable
contentment on the evening of his daughter's return, and as she and
her husband commented on it when they were alone, they felt that his
entire unconsciousness was most fortunate. They had nothing to fear
from suspicion or inquisitiveness on his part--he was incapable of the
one, except in the case of a traveller reporting on newly-discovered
natural objects, or of the latter, except in the case of birds,
beasts, and creeping things.
There was one dissatisfied person among the little party at Chayleigh
on the night of the return. It was Robert Meredith. He had not
succeeded in discovering the object of his father's visit to London.
"I am going to London with Mr. Dugdale, for a few days, on particular
business," his father had said to him before they went away. But he
had not explained the nature of the business, and the boy was vexed by
this reticence. He had quick, subtle perceptions, and he had detected
some trouble in his father's mind before they left home, and during
the voyage. He had a secret conviction that this visit to London,
whose object Meredith, an open-mannered, unreserved man with every
one, and always frank and hearty in his dealings with his children,
had not explained, had reference to this undiscovered source of
trouble.
Robert listened to all the conversation which took place during the
evening, and closely watched the countenances of every one present,
but nothing transpired which shed the least light on the matter which
excited his curiosity. He had not failed to remark that, though his
father had told him all about his correspondence with Dugdale, and how
he looked to him for advice and assistance in forwarding Robert's
wishes, as to his education in England and his future career, the
subject had not yet been discussed, and he had been left to amuse
himself, and become familiar with the house and the surroundings, as
best he might. A less shrewd and more amiable person than Robert
Meredith would have imputed this to the pleasure of old friends in
meeting after a separation of many years, and to the number and
interest of the subjects they had to discuss. But Robert Meredith was
not likely to entertain an hypothesis in which sentiment claimed a
part, and was likely to resent anything which looked like a
postponement of his claims to those of any subject or interest
whatsoever.
To baffle this youth's curiosity was to excite his anger and
animosity--to make him determined that he _would_ get to the bottom of
the mystery sought to be concealed from him--to fill him with the
belief that it must be evil in its nature, and its discovery
profitable. It was to call out into active display all that was as yet
worst in a nature whose capacity for evil Margaret had early detected,
and concerning which his father had conceived many unspoken
misgivings.
"It is almost as if he had come to England about these people's
affairs, and not about mine," said Robert Meredith to himself. "I
wonder how many more days are to be lost before I hear what is to be
done about me."
Margaret happened to glance towards him as this thought passed through
his mind, and the expression of his face struck her painfully. "He was
a bad child as I remember him.--a bad, sly, deceitful, heartless
child--and he is a bad boy. He will be a bad man, I fear." She allowed
these sentiments to influence her manner to Robert Meredith more than
she was conscious of--it was polite indeed, but cold and distant.
It would have been depressing to a shy or sensitive person, but Robert
Meredith was neither. He felt her manner indeed, and thought with a
sneer, that considering the friendship she professed for his father,
she might at least have feigned some interest in him. But he did not
care. This rich woman, of high station and social importance, which
his colonial notions rather magnified, must befriend him in material
concerns, and, therefore, how she felt towards him was a thing of no
consequence whatever. She could not dislike him more than he disliked
her, for he hated her and her fine husband. He remembered her poor,
and almost at the mercy of his parents for daily bread, and now she
was rich and independent of every one, and he hated her. How had she
gained all the world had to give, all he had longed for, since in his
childhood he had read and heard of the great world, and all its prizes
and luxuries? Only by her beauty, only by a man's foolish love for
her.
The boy's precocious mind dwelt upon this thought with peculiar
bitterness and a kind of rage. He hated Baldwin, too, though with less
of personal dislike than Margaret. He was the first man whom Robert
Meredith had ever seen with whose wealth no idea of effort, of labour,
of speculation, of uncertainty was associated, and the boy's ambition
and his avarice alike revolted against the contemplation of a position
which he coveted with all the strength of his heart, and which he knew
could never be his. This man, who passed him over as a mere boy--this
man, who had given wealth and station to a woman whom Robert disliked
and despised--was born to all these good things; he had not to long
for them vainly, or to strive for them through long and weary toilsome
years, with only the chance of winning them at last, which was to be
his own lot in life. He might live as he listed, and the money he
should have to spend would still be there.
Then there was a strife in the boy's mind between the burning desire
for wealth, and the pleasures which wealth procures, and distaste to,
revolt against, the toil by which it must be earned. In the evil soil
of his nature such plants were ripe of growth, and he rebelled blindly
against the inevitable lot which awaited him. Only in the presence of
Baldwin and Margaret, only in the innumerable trifling occurrences and
allusions--all strange and striking; to the colonial-bred boy--which
mark the presence and the daily habits of persons to whom wealth is
familiar, had Robert Meredith been brought to understand the
distinction between his own position in life and that of persons of
assured fortune. As he learned the lesson, he also learned to hate the
unconscious teachers.
He learned, by the discussion of plans which he heard in the course of
the evening, that his father intended to visit Mr. Baldwin at the
Deane, and that he was to be of the party. The prospect gave him no
pleasure. He should see this fine lady, then, in her grand home. If he
dared, how he should like to say a few things, in seeming innocent
unconsciousness, which should remind her of the time when he had seen
her in his father's house, and known far more about her than she or
any one would have believed possible! The impulse to say something
which should offend Mrs. Baldwin grew upon him; but he dared not yield
to it, and his animosity increased towards the unconscious individual
on whose account he was forced to impose restraint upon his spiteful
and vicious nature.
Margaret retired early, and as she extended her hand to him with a
kind "goodnight!" the diamonds which sparkled upon it caught his
attention. Once more she marked the sinister look--half smile, half
sneer--which came into his face. He was thinking, "I wonder whether
you would like Mr. Baldwin to know about the trumpery ring my mother
sold for you, and how you cried when you had to come to her
afterwards, and tell her you had nothing left to sell."
On the following day the weather was bright, dry, and cheerful;
Meredith, Baldwin, and Robert went out early, bent on a long walk.
During the forenoon Margaret did not come downstairs, but in the
afternoon she went to her father's study in search of James. She found
him there, a large folio was on a reading-desk before him, but it was
long since he had turned a page.
"Put this with the letters for post," she said, handing him a packet
directed to Lady Davyntry, "and come out with me for a while."
James looked at her anxiously. She had a wearied, exhausted expression
in her face, and her cheeks were deeply flushed.
"You are very tired, Margaret?"
"Yes, I am. I am easily tired now, and I have been writing for hours."
They went out together, and walked along the terrace into the
flower-garden, which looked dreary in its desolate wintry condition.
At first they talked vaguely of trifles, but after a while they fell
into deep and earnest conversation, and Margaret leaned closely on
James's arm as they walked, now quickly, now slowly, and sometimes she
held him standing still, as she impressed upon him something that she
was saying with emphasis.
The walk and the conference lasted long, and when at length the
warning chill of sunset came, and James reminded Margaret of the
danger of cold and fatigue, and she yielded to his counsel, and turned
towards the house, traces of deep emotion were visible upon the faces
of both.
"I will not speak thus to you again," said Margaret, as they reached
the portico; "but I have implicit faith in your remembrance of what I
have said, and in your promise."
"You may trust both," James answered her in an earnest but broken
voice; "I will remember, and I will send for Rose Moore."
"I am delighted you have made up your mind not to return to Italy,"
said Mr. Carteret a day or two later. "So much travelling would be
very unfit for you, and your son and heir ought certainly to be born
at the Deane."