FAMILY AFFAIRS.
The eldest Miss Crofton was enthusiastically delighted when the
intelligence of Mrs. Baldwin's unexpected return to Chayleigh reached
her, which was on the morning after the event. It was very natural
that she should like the importance which she acquired in the small
but almost distressingly respectable circle of society in which she
"moved," as the unaccountable phrase in use goes, from her position in
regard to Mrs. Baldwin. To her the Willises, &c., looked for the
latest intelligence concerning Margaret; to her the excellent, if
rather too inexorably managing, wife of the rector of the parish--a
lady known to the population as "the Reverend Mrs. Carroll"--intrusted
the task of procuring donations from Mr. Baldwin for a startling
number of "charitable purposes," and through the discursive medium of
her letters Haldane conducted his correspondence by proxy with his
sister.
The eldest Miss Crofton entertained one supreme ambition. It was that
she might become Margaret's "particular friend," confidante, and,
eventually, favourite sister-in-law. She had not as yet attained any
of the degrees of the position to which she aspired, but that slight
impediment by no means interfered with her assumption, for the
edification of her friends and the general public, of the completed
character.
She entertained considerable jealousy of Lady Davyntry, who was, she
argued, in her frequent cogitations on this subject, much older than
Margaret, and "not a bit more" her sister-in-law than she (Lucy
Crofton) was destined to be at no distant time. She was particularly
well pleased to learn that Lady Davyntry had not accompanied her
brother and his wife on their return to England, and promised herself,
within five minutes of her having learned that Margaret was at
Chayleigh, that she would make the most of the opportunity now open to
her.
It was not altogether, it was indeed not much, from self-interest, or
any mean variety of that pervading meanness, that the eldest Miss
Crofton proposed to herself to be "great friends" with Mrs. Baldwin;
there was a good deal of real girlish enthusiasm about her, and it
found a natural outlet in the direction of vehement admiration for the
sister of her future husband,--admiration not disturbed by any
perception or suspicion of her own inferiority. Such a suspicion was
by no means likely to suggest itself to Lucy Crofton in connection
with any one, especially at the present interesting and important
epoch of her life--for she knew, as well as any young lady in England,
how to _exploiter_ the great fact of being "engaged."
As for Margaret, she liked the pretty, lively, passably well-bred girl
well enough for her own, and was resolved to like her better, and to
befriend her in every possible way, for her brother's, sake; but a
missish intimacy of the kind which Lucy longed for was completely
foreign to her tastes and habits. While Lucy Crofton pleased herself
by commenting on the similarity between them in point of age, Margaret
was trying to realise that such was actually the case, trying to
realise that she had ever been young, putting a strong constraint upon
herself to turn her mind into the same groove as that in which the
girl's mind ran. Between herself and all the thoughts, plans, hopes,
and pleasures of girlhood lay a deep and wide gulf, not formed alone
of the privileges and duties of her present position, not fashioned by
her unusual gravity and strength of character, but the work of the
past--an enduring monument of the terrible truths which had sent her
of late a terrible memento.
Thus it happened that when Margaret received a note profusely
underlined, and crowded with interjections, superlatives, all kinds of
epistolary explosives from the eldest Miss Crofton, announcing her
intention of coming a little later to pass a "delightful long
afternoon" with her darling friend, she experienced a sudden accession
of weariness of spirit which communicated itself to her aspect, and
attracted the attention of her father, who immediately asked her if
anything ailed her.
"Nothing whatever, papa," replied Margaret; and informed him after a
minute or so that Lucy was coming to see her.
Provided Lucy did not come to Chayleigh accompanied by her wonderfully
clever little brother, and did not pester him with questions intended
to evince her lively interest in his collection, which, however,
manifested much more clearly her profound ignorance of all its
components, Mr. Carteret was perfectly indifferent to her movements.
She did not interest him, but she was perfectly respectable, eligible,
and, he understood, amiable; and if she interested Haldane, that was
quite enough for him. A simple sincerity, which never degenerated into
rudeness, characterised Mr. Carteret; and he perfectly understood the
distinction between saying what he did not think and leaving much that
he did think unsaid--a useful branch of practical science, social and
domestic. So he made no comment on Margaret's reply.
But Hayes Meredith, who had not yet seen Captain Carteret's future
bride, was rather curious about her, and addressed a question
concerning her to Margaret, which she, being in an absent mood, did
not hear. Mr. Baldwin answered promptly and expansively, giving Lucy
Crofton praise for good looks, good manners, good abilities, and good
temper. The three men went on to talk of Haldane, his promotion, his
general prospects, and the time fixed for his marriage, which was not
to take place until the autumn. During this conversation Margaret rose
from the breakfast-table, and stood thoughtfully beside the fire, and
Robert Meredith employed himself in listening to the talkers and
watching her face.
"Amiable creature!" he thought--and the sneer which was strangely
habitual to so young a face settled upon his lips as he thus mentally
apostrophised her--"you don't care a pin for the girl; you are bored
by her coming here, and she's a long way prettier than ever you were,
fine lady as you think yourself."
Then, as Margaret looked up, with a bright flush on her face, with the
air of one who suddenly remembers, or has something painful or
embarrassing suggested by a passing remark, the boy thought--
"I shouldn't wonder if she's jealous of this pretty girl, who has
always been a lady, and knows nothing about the low life and
ruffianism she could tell her of."
Wide of the mark as were the speculations of the boy, in whose mind a
dislike of Margaret, strong in proportion to its causelessness, had
taken root, he was not wrong in assigning the change in Margaret's
expression from reverie to active painful thought to something in
which Lucy Crofton was concerned.
She had been informed of her brother's plans; but in the strangely
combined distraction and concentration of her mind since her trouble
had fallen upon her--trouble which each day was lightening for
removing from her husband--she had almost forgotten them, she had
never taken them into consideration as among the circumstances which
she must influence, or which might influence her. The words which had
roused her from her reverie reminded her she had something to do in
this matter.
"Why is Haldane's marriage put off till the summer?" she said.
"It is not put off," said James. "There never was any idea of its
taking place sooner, that I know of;--was there, sir?"
"No," said Mr. Carteret, "I think not.--Indeed, Margery, I fancy it
was so settled with a view to your being at home then. We did not
think you would come home so soon, you know."
"When is Haldane coming here, papa?
"Very soon. Early next month he hopes to get leave."
Margaret said no more, and the party shortly afterwards dispersed for
their several morning avocations.
James Dugdale's attention had been caught by Margaret's look and
manner when she spoke of her brother's marriage. He discerned
something painful in her mind in reference to it, but he could not
trace its nature, and he could not question her just then.
Margaret went to her room, and seated in her old place by the
window--its floral framework bore no blossom now--thought out the
subject which had come into her mind.
Miss Crofton arrived punctually, and found the drawing-room into which
she was shown--very much against her will, for she would have
preferred a tumultuous rush upstairs, and the entrée to the nursery
region--occupied only by Robert Meredith. They had met during Hayes
Meredith's expedition to London, and Lucy, though an engaged young
lady, and therefore, of course, impervious to the temptations of
coquetry, had perceived with quite sufficient distinctness that this
"remarkably nice boy," as she afterwards called him, thought her very
pretty, and found her rattling, rapid, girlish talk--which had the
delightful effect of setting him quite at his ease--very attractive.
Nothing could be more ridiculous, of course; but then nothing was more
common than for very young persons of the male sex (somehow, Miss
Lucy avoided calling him a "boy" in her thoughts) to "take a fancy"
to girls or women much older than themselves; and in some not
clearly-explained or distinctly-understood way, it was supposed to be
very "safe" for them to do so. She had no objection to the admiration
even of so young an admirer as Robert Meredith, and she was pleased as
well as amused by the candid and unequivocal pleasure which Robert
manifested on seeing her. The youthful colonial did not suffer in the
least from the disease of shyness, and was pleasantly unembarrassed in
the presence of the eldest Miss Crofton.
The two had had time to talk over the unexpected return of Mr. and
Mrs. Baldwin; and Miss Crofton, who was by no means deficient in
perception, had had an opportunity of observing that her young admirer
did not share her enthusiasm for Margaret, but was, on the contrary,
distinctly cold and disdainful in the few remarks which he permitted
himself to make concerning her, before Margaret made her appearance.
When she did so, and Miss Crofton had started up and rapturously
embraced her, that young lady and Robert Meredith alike remarked
simultaneously that she was startlingly pale.
After a great many questions had been asked by Lucy and answered by
Margaret, in whose manner there was an indefinable change which her
friend felt very soon, and which puzzled her, Margaret took Miss
Crofton upstairs for an inspection of little Gertrude and the
"thoroughly confidential" talk for which Lucy declared herself
irrepressibly eager.
"If she knew--if she only knew--this pure, harmless creature,"
Margaret thought, with a pang of fierce pain as Lucy Crofton hugged
the child and talked to her, and appealed to the nurse in support of
her admiration, for which Gerty was poutingly ungrateful,--"if she did
but know how it has been with me since we last met, and how it is with
my child!"
"Yon are shivering, Margaret. You seem very cold. Let me poke the fire
up before we settle ourselves. And now tell me all about yourself, how
you really are; of course one could not ask before that young
Meredith. I want to see his father so much. By the bye, Haldane told
me you knew him so well in Australia. You don't look very well, I
think, but you are much stronger than when you went abroad."
"I am much stronger," said Margaret. "But before I talk about myself,
and I have a deal to tell you,"--Miss Crofton was delighted,--"I want
to talk to you about yourself and Haldane."
Miss Crofton was perfectly willing to enter on so congenial a subject,
and she told Margaret all about the arrangements, which included many
festive proceedings, to which the girl naturally attached pleasurable
anticipations. When she had reached that portion of the programme
which included the names and dresses of the bridesmaids, she stopped
abruptly, and said with some embarrassment:
"Why do you look so grave, Margaret?--is anything wrong?" Then she
added, before Margaret could speak, "Ah, I know, you don't like a gay
wedding; I remember how quiet your own was; but, you see, it would
seem so odd if mine wasn't gay, and besides, I like it; it's not the
same, you know."
"I know, dear," Margaret said very gently, "it is not at all the same
thing, and I can quite understand your wishing to have a gay wedding.
But I want you to listen to me, and to do what I am going: to ask you.
It is something in which you can do me a great service."
This was delightful, this was being the "great friend," indeed this
was very like being the favourite sister-in-law. So Lucy promptly
knelt down by Margaret's chair, and putting her arm round her, assured
her, with much emphasis, of her readiness to do anything she could for
her pleasure.
There was a short pause, during which Margaret looked at the girl with
a grave sweet smile, and took her disengaged hand; then she spoke:
"Haldane is coming here very soon, my father tells me. What leave has
he got?
"A month."
"Now Lucy, don't be astonished, and don't say no at once. I want you
to be married during his leave, instead of waiting until the autumn."
"Margaret! Why?" asked Lucy, in a tone which fully expressed all the
surprise she had been requested not to feel.
"I will tell you, Lucy. In a short time I am likely to have another
baby. You did not know that, at least you did not know it was to be so
soon; and I am very, very anxious--so anxious, that if I cannot have
my own way in this it will be very bad for me--that your marriage
should be over before a time comes when I may be very ill--you know I
was very ill indeed after Gerty's birth."
"I know," said Lucy, still with the surprised look.
"And I feel sure, dear Lucy, that if you are not married until the
summer I shall not be here."
"Not be here, Margaret! You surely do not mean--"
"I mean nothing to frighten you, Lucy, but I do mean this. I have not
been well lately, and I have been sent away as you know; I ought not
to be here now, the doctors would say--but it cannot be helped; we
were obliged to come to England, and I may be sent away again, and not
be able to go to your wedding. In short, Lucy," and here Mrs. Baldwin
lost her composure, "I have set my heart on this. Will you make the
sacrifice for me? will you put up with a much quieter wedding, and go
and spend your honeymoon at our villa at Naples?"
"I don't know what to think," said Lucy; "I would do anything you
liked, but it does not quite depend upon me; there's papa and mamma,
and Haldane, you know."
"I fancy Haldane will not object to your marriage being hurried a
little," said Margaret, with a smile; "and I have generally understood
that Miss Lucy Crofton contrives to get her own way with papa and
mamma."
Margaret was very unlikely to remember her own importance out of
season; but it was not unseasonable that she should think of it now,
and feel comforted by the assurance that Mr. and Mrs. Crofton would
probably yield to any very strongly urged wish of hers.
Lucy laughed a little--the imputation of power over anybody was not
unpleasing to this young lady, who, after a fashion which had not
hitherto developed into unamiability, dearly loved her own way.
"But Lady Davyntry is at Naples," she said in a tone which was very
reassuring to Margaret, who felt that the chief question was virtually
disposed of, and details only now remained to be mastered.
"She is; but I am going to ask her to come home, since I find I cannot
return. We must go to the Deane soon, if you will only be good, and
let things be arranged as I wish. I need not go until after your
wedding; but my husband and I wish that the child should be born at
the Deane.
"Of course," assented Lucy, "and you want it to be a boy, don't you,
Margaret?"
"Yes, we hope it may be a boy."
"Well, whether it is a boy or a girl, I must be its godmother. You
will let that be a promise, won't you?"
A long conversation ensued, and Lucy bade Margaret farewell until the
morrow, with a delightful consciousness that she had achieved the
position she had so much desired.
Margaret told Mr. Baldwin her wish with regard to Haldane's marriage,
and the steps she had taken towards its fulfilment. He found no fault
with it, but failed to comprehend her reasons.
"I can understand your dislike of the kind of wedding the Croftons
would have been likely to institute," he said; "but you might have
escaped it on the plea of your health."
"No," she replied, "I could not do that--I could not hurt the feelings
of all these good people, and I could not endure the wedding. Even as
it will be now, think how painful it must be to me."
Her husband understood all those simple words implied, but he passed
them over unnoticed. It grieved him inexpressibly to observe that
Margaret had not shaken off the impression of the occurrence from
which his own happy, hopeful nature had rallied so much more quickly.
"I know, my darling, I know--and, indeed, I ought not to have asked
you for a reason, because you are the least fanciful of women--it
would be true masculine logic to refuse to aid you in one fancy, but I
am not going to be logical after that fashion. I will write to
Haldane, and get everything settled."
Accordingly, everything was settled. Mr. Carteret was acquiescent as
usual, and with his customary politeness congratulated himself on the
presence of Mr. Meredith and his son on so interesting an occasion.
The Croftons were benignant. Dear Mrs. Baldwin had made such a point
of their daughter's profiting by her villa at Naples, and had set her
heart so completely on the matter, and, of course, dear Mrs. Baldwin
must just now be considered in everything. Haldane was delighted, and
all went well.
"Margaret," said James Dugdale, when all had been arranged, "why is
this fixed idea always present with you? Can you not shake it off?
Ever since you came home I have been watching you, and hoping that you
were yielding to the influence of time; but I see now, since you have
set yourself to arrange Haldane's marriage, that this is a vain hope.
Why is it, Margaret?"
"You ask me why it is?" she replied. "You--can you say it is not in
your own mind also? Can you say that you ever really believed that I
could get over the thing that has befallen me? You may call it
superstition, and no doubt it is so. I fancy such a youth as mine is
fruitful ground for the sowing and the nurture of superstition, if
such be the sense of doom, of an inevitable fate hanging over me; but
it is stronger than I, and you know I am not generally weak, James. It
is always there,--always before me--I can see nothing else, think of
nothing else."
"I know, dear, I know; but when your health is stronger--believe me,
Margaret, I do not wish to mock you with an assurance that you can
ever quite get over what has happened--when your child, the son and
heir, is born, you will be better; you will wonder at yourself that
you allowed such sway to these dark forebodings. Think of all you have
to make you happy, Margaret, and don't, don't yield to the
presentiment which is due to your health alone."
She laid her hand on his arm with a smile.
"Supposing it be so, James; supposing all I think and feel--all the
horrors which come to me in the night-watches, all the memories
perfectly distinct in their pain, whereas I could not recall an hour
of the brief happiness I ever knew in my days of delusion--supposing
all this to be a mere groundless state of suffering, and _you_ know
better"--here her clear gray eyes looked at him with an expression of
ineffable trust and compassion--"what harm have I done? _If I live_,
this marriage may as well be over; and _if I die_, I have spared my
husband and my father one sharp pang, at any rate. Haldane would be
very sorry, but he would want to be married all the same, and it would
be hard upon Fitzwilliam and my father."
"And me?" he asked her, as if the question were wrung from him by an
irresistible impulse of suffering.
Her hand still lay upon his shoulder, and her clear gray eyes, which
deepened and darkened as she slowly spoke, still looked steadily into
his.
"And _you_, James. No, I have no power to save you a pang more or
less; it would not make any difference _to you_."
There was a strange cruel satisfaction to him in her words. It was
something, nay, it was very much, that she should know and acknowledge
that with her all that had vital interest for him began and ended,
that the gift of his heart, pure, generous, disinterested, was
understood and accepted. There was silence between them for some time,
and then they talked of more general subjects, and just before their
interview came to an end their talk turned upon little Gertrude.
"You will always love her best, James; both my children will be dear
to you," said Margaret; "but you will always love her whom her mother
unconsciously wronged best."
Lady Davyntry made her appearance at Davyntry in due season, and the
set of Neapolitan coral, which she brought as her contribution to the
worldly goods of the bride, was so magnificent, that Lucy could not
find it in her heart to cherish any such unpleasant sentiment as
jealousy against Eleanor, and determined that the "great friend's"
scheme should extend to her also.
The return of her sister-in-law was a great pleasure, but also a great
trial for Margaret. Her presence renewed painfully the scene of secret
humiliation, of severance from those who had nothing to hide, from
which she had already suffered so much; and the phantoms of the past
came forth and swarmed about her, as Eleanor overwhelmed her with
caresses, and declared her delight at being once more with her, and
her vivid perception of the improvement in "baby."
The most unsuspicious and unexacting of women, Eleanor Davyntry had
been so perfectly satisfied with the reasons assigned by her brother
for his return to England, that it never occurred to her to ask him a
question on the subject. She was very eloquent concerning the beauty
of the season at Naples, assured Haldane that she had left everything
in perfect order for the reception of his bride, and wound up a long
and animated monologue by informing Margaret that she had brought with
her the unfinished portraits.
"What a pity!" interrupted Baldwin; "They may be injured, and surely
you knew we intended to return."
"Yes, I did," said Eleanor, "but I thought Mr. Carteret would like to
see them as they are, and I never reflected that they might be
injured."
The few days which followed the arrival of Lady Davyntry were full of
the confusion and discomfort which ordinarily precede a wedding, even
on the quietest scale. The Merediths, father and son, had gone to
Oxford, where Hayes Meredith had one or two old friends among the
University authorities. They were not to return until the day before
the wedding. Mr. Carteret was rather "put out" by the inevitable
atmosphere of fuss and preparation, and Margaret devoted herself as
much as possible to him, passing in his study all the time she could
subtract from the demands of the bride-elect and her brother. Mr.
Baldwin was much with Lady Davyntry, and James Dugdale kept himself,
after his fashion, as much as possible to himself.
On the clay before that fixed for Haldane's marriage all the inmates
of Chayleigh were assembled, and Lady Davyntry was of the party. They
had been talking cheerfully of the event anticipated on the morrow,
and Eleanor had been expressing her fears that Mr. Carteret would feel
very lonely after his son's departure--fears which that placid
gentleman did by no means entertain on his own account--when Hayes
Meredith and Robert arrived. The evening passed away rapidly, and
the little party broke up early. Meredith joined Dugdale in his
sitting-room, and the friends proceeded to the discussion of the
business on which Hayes Meredith had come to England. With two
exceptions they adhered strictly to this one matter. The first was of
a trifling nature.
"Did you happen to see my pocket-book anywhere about?" Meredith asked.
"No," said Dugdale; "you mean your red-leather one, I suppose?"
"Yes."
"I have not seen it, or heard of its being found in the house."
"I must have lost it on our journey to Oxford, I suppose," said
Meredith. "It's of no consequence; there was no money in it, and
nobody but myself could understand the memoranda."
The second exception was of a graver kind; it, too, arose on
Meredith's part.
"I am sorry to see Margaret looking so ill," he said. "I was very much
struck by her looks this evening. Has she been looking so ill as this
since I saw her last?"
"No," replied James; "she has overexerted herself lately, I fancy, and
she has never gotten over the shock."
"Has she not?" said Meredith quickly. "That's a very bad job; very
likely to tell against her, I should think. Isn't it rather weak of
her, though, to dwell so much as to injure her health on a thing that
is of so little real consequence, after all?"
"I suppose it is," said James; and he seemed unwilling to say more.
But the matter had evidently made an impression on Meredith, for he
said again,
"I thought her looking very ill, feverish, and nervous, and quite
unlike herself. Do you think Baldwin perceives it?"
"No," said James shortly, "I don't think he does. Margaret never
complains."
"Well, well, it will all be right when the heir to the Deane comes to
put an end to uncertainty and fear, if she has any."
And then he led the conversation to his own affairs.
"I like your friend so much, Madge," said Lady Davyntry to Mrs.
Baldwin, as the sisters-in-law were enjoying the customary
dressing-room confabulation. "He is such a frank, hearty, good fellow,
and not the least rough, or what we think of as 'colonial' in his
manners. What a pleasure it must have been to you to see him again!"
"Yes," said Margaret absently.
"How tired your voice sounds, darling! you are quite knocked up, I am
afraid. You must go to bed at once, and try to be all right by
to-morrow. I delight in the idea of a wedding; it is ages since I have
been at one, except yours. What sort of a boy is Mr. Meredith's son?"
she continued, in a discursive way to which she was rather prone; "he
looks clever."
"He looks knowing," said Margaret, "more than clever, I think. I don't
like him."
"If she knew--if she, too, only knew," ran the changeless refrain of
Margaret's thoughts when she was again alone, "if she could but know
what I have lived through since she saw me last! What a change has
fallen on everything--what a deadly blight! How hard, and how utterly
in vain I strive against this phantom which haunts me! If I had but
listened to the warning which came to me when I found out first that
he loved me, the warning which her words and the yearning of my own
weak heart dispelled! If I had but heeded the secret inspiration which
told me my past should never be taken into any honest, unsullied life!
And yet, my God, how happy, how wonderfully, fearfully happy I was for
a while--for happiness is a fearful thing in this perishing world.
Would I have heeded any warning that bade me renounce it? Could I have
given him up, even for his own sake?"
She rose and paced the room in one of those keen but transient
paroxysms of distress which, all unknown by any human being, were of
frequent occurrence, and which had not quite subsided when her husband
came into her dressing-room.
"Margaret," he said to her gravely, when he had elicited from her an
avowal of some of her feelings, "you are bringing this dead past into
our life yourself, as no other power on earth could bring it. Do you
remember when you promised to live for me only? Can you not keep your
word? This is the trial of that faith you pledged to me. Is it failing
you?"
"No," she said, "no, it is not failing, and I can keep my word.
But"--and she clasped her arms around his neck and burst into sudden
tears--"my child, my child!"