saying--it was when she first came--that if you had had a daughter you
could have wished her to be just like Mary Layne. Before I ever saw her,
you told me she was a sweet, elegant young woman; and--mother--she is
nothing less. Oh, mother, mother!" continued Sir Geoffry, with emotion,
"if you will but forget your prejudices for my sake, and consent to what
I ask, we would endeavour to be ever repaying you in love and services
during our after-life. I know what a great sacrifice it will be; but for
my sake I venture to crave it of you--for my sake."
A great fear lay upon Lady Chavasse: it had lain on her ever since the
previous day--that he might carry this marriage out of his own will. So
that she dared not answer too imperatively. She was bitterly hurt, and
caught her breath with a sob.
"Do you want to kill me, Geoffry?"
"Heaven knows that I wish I had been killed, before I brought this
distress upon you," was his rejoinder.
"I _am_ distressed. I have never felt anything like it since your father
died. No; not once when you, a child of seven, were given over in
illness, and it was thought you would not live till morning."
Sir Geoffry passed his hand hastily across his eyes, in which stood the
hot tears. His heart was sore, nearly unto breaking; his ingratitude to
his mother seemed fearfully great. He longed to throw himself at her
feet, and clasp her knees, and tell how deep for her was his love, how
true and deep it always would be.
"Though the whole world had united to deceive me, Geoffry, I could
never have believed that you would do so. Why did you pretend to be fond
of Rachel?"
"I never pretended to be fonder of Rachel than I was. I liked her as
a cousin, nothing more. I know it now. And--mother"--he added, with a
flush upon his face, and a lowering of the voice, "it is better and
safer that the knowledge should have come to me before our marriage
than after it."
"Nonsense," said Lady Chavasse. "Once married, a man of right principles
is always safe in them."
Sir Geoffry was silent. Not very long ago, he had thought himself safe
in his. With every word, it seemed that his shame and his sin came more
glaringly home to him.
"Then you mean to tell me that you do not like Rachel----"
"That I have no love for her. If--if there be any one plea that I can
put forth as a faint shadow of excuse for what has happened, it lies in
my love for another. Faint it is, Heaven knows: the excuse, not the
love. _That_ is deep enough: but I would rather not speak of it to
you--my mother."
"And that you never will love Rachel?" continued Lady Chavasse, as
though he had not interposed.
"Never. It is impossible that I can ever love any one but Mary Layne. I
am grateful, as things have turned out, that I did not deceive Rachel by
feigning what I could not feel. Neither does she love me. We were told
to consider ourselves betrothed, and did so accordingly; but, so far as
love goes, it has not been so much as mentioned between us."
"What else have you to say?" asked Lady Chavasse.
"I might say a great deal, but it would all come round to the same
point: to the one petition that I am beseeching you to grant--that you
will sanction the marriage."
Lady Chavasse's hands trembled visibly within their rich lace frills, as
they lay passive on her soft dress of fine geranium cashmere. Her lips
grew white with agitation.
"Geoffry!"
"My darling mother."
"I have heard you. Will you hear me?"
"You know I will."
"More than one-and-twenty years ago, my husband died within these walls;
and I--I was not eighteen, Geoffry--felt utterly desolate. But, as the
weeks went on, I said my child will be born, if God permit, and he will
bring me comfort. You were born, Geoffry; you did bring me comfort: such
comfort that I thought Heaven had come again. You best know, my son,
what our life has been; how we have loved each other: how pleasantly
time has flown in uninterrupted happiness. I have devoted myself, my
time, my energies, everything I possessed, to you, my best treasure; I
have given up the world for you, Geoffry; I had only you left in it. Is
it fitting that you should fling me from you now; that you should blight
my remaining days with misery; that you should ignore me just as though
I were already dead--and all for the sake of a stranger?"
"But----"
"I have not finished, Geoffry. For the sake of a stranger, whom a few
months ago neither you nor I had ever seen? If you think this--if you
deem that you would be acting rightly, and can find in your heart to
treat me so, why, you must do it."
"But what I wish and propose is quite different!" he exclaimed in agony.
"Oh, mother, surely you can understand me--and the dilemma I am placed
in?"
"I understand all perfectly."
"Ah yes!"
"Geoffry, there is no middle course. You must choose between me
and--_her_. Once she and I separate--it will be to-day--we can never
meet again. I will not tolerate her memory; I will never submit to the
degradation of hearing her named in my presence. Our paths lie asunder,
Geoffry, far as the poles: hers lies one way, mine another. You must
decide for yourself which of them you will follow. If it be mine, you
shall be, as ever, my dear and honoured son, and I will never, never
reproach you with your folly: never revert to it; never think of it.
If it be hers, why, then--I will go away somewhere and hide myself,
and leave the Grange free for you. And I--I dare say--shall not live
long to be a thorn in your remembrance."
She broke down with a flood of bitter sobs. Geoffry Chavasse had never
seen his mother shed such. The hour was as trying to her as to him. She
had loved him with a strangely selfish love, as it is in the nature of
mothers to do; and that she should have to bid him choose between her
and another--and one so entirely beneath her as Lady Chavasse considered
Mary Layne to be--was gall and wormwood. Never would she have stooped to
put the choice before him, even in words, but for her dread that he
might be intending to take it.
"It is a fitting end, Geoffry--that this worthless girl should supplant
me in your home and heart," she was resuming when her emotion allowed;
but Geoffry stood forward to face her, his agitation great as her own.
"An instant, mother: that you may fully understand me. The duty I owe
you, the allegiance and the love, are paramount to all else on earth.
In communing with myself last night, as I tell you I was, my heart and
my reason alike showed me this. If I must choose between you and Mary
Layne, there cannot be a question in my mind on which side duty lies.
In all honour I am bound to make her my wife, and I should do it in
all affection: but not in defiance of you; not to thrust rudely aside
the love and obligations of the past one-and-twenty years. _You_ must
choose for me. If you refuse your approval, I have no resource but to
yield to your decision; if you consent, I shall thank you and bless
you for ever."
A spasm of pain passed across the mouth of Lady Chavasse. She could not
help saying something that arose prominently in her mind though it
interrupted the question.
"And you can deem the apothecary Layne's daughter fit to mate with Sir
Geoffry Chavasse?"
"No, I do not. Under ordinary circumstances, I should never have thought
of such a thing. This unhappy business has a sting for me, mother, on
many sides. Will you give me your decision?" he added, after a pause.
"I have already given it, Geoffry--so far as I am concerned. You must
choose between your mother, between all the hopes and the home-interests
of one-and-twenty years, and this alien."
"Then I have no alternative."
She turned her gaze steadily upon him. A sob rose in his throat as he
took her hands, his voice was hoarse with emotion.
"To part from her will be like parting with life, mother. I can never
know happiness again in this world."
But the decision was irrevocable. What further passed between Sir
Geoffry and his mother in the remaining half-hour they spent together,
how much of entreaty and anguish was spoken on his side, how much of
passionate plaint and sorrow on hers, will never be known. But she was
obdurate to the last letter: and Sir Geoffry's lot in life was fixed.
Mary Layne was to be sacrificed: and, in one sense of the word, himself
also: and there might be no appeal.
Lady Chavasse exacted from him that he should quit the Grange at once
without seeing Miss Layne, and not return to it until Mary had left it
for ever. Anything he wished to say to her, he was to write. On Lady
Chavasse's part, she voluntarily undertook to explain to Miss Layne
their conversation faithfully, and its result; and to shield the young
lady's good name from the censure of the world. She would keep her for
some time longer at the Grange, be tender with her, honour her, drive
out with her in the carriage so that they might be seen together, subdue
her mother's anger, strive to persuade Mr. Luke Duffham that his opinion
had been mistaken, and, in any case, bind him down to secrecy: in
short, she would make future matters as easy as might be for Mary, as
tenaciously as though she were her own daughter. That she promised
this at the sacrifice of pride and of much feeling, was indisputable;
but she meant to keep her word.
However miserable a night the others had passed, it will readily be
imagined that Mary Layne had spent a worse. She made no pretence of
eating breakfast; and when it was taken away sat at her work in the
garden-parlour, trying to do it; but her cold fingers dropped the
needle every minute, her aching brow felt as though it were bursting.
Good-hearted Hester Picker was sorry to see her looking so ill, and
wished the nasty trying spring, hot one day, cold the next, would just
settle itself down.
Mary rose from her chair, and went upstairs to her own bedroom for a
brief respite: in her state of mind it seemed impossible to stay long
quiescent anywhere. This little incidental occurrence frustrated one
part of the understanding between Sir Geoffry and his mother--that he
should quit the house without seeing Miss Layne. In descending, she
chanced to cross the end of the corridor just as he came out of his
mother's room after bidding her farewell. The carriage waited at the
door, his coat was on his arm. Mary would have shrunk back again, but
he bade her wait.
"You must allow me to shake her hand, and say just a word of adieu,
mother; I am not quite a brute," he whispered. And Lady Chavasse came
out of her room, and tacitly sanctioned it.
But there was literally nothing more than a hand-shake. Miss Layne,
standing still in all humility, turned a little white, for she guessed
that he was being sent from his home through her. Sir Geoffry held her
hand for a moment.
"I am going away, Mary. My mother will explain to you. I have done my
best, and failed. Before Heaven, I have striven to the uttermost, for
your sake and for mine, to make reparation; but it is not to be. I leave
you to my mother; she is your friend; and you shall hear from me in a
day or two. I am now going to see Mrs. Layne. Good-bye: God bless you
always!"
But, ere Sir Geoffry reached the hall, Lady Chavasse had run swiftly
down, caught him, and was drawing him into a room. The fear had returned
to her face.
"I heard you say you were going to call on Mrs. Layne. Geoffry, this
must not be."
"_Not be!_" he repeated, in surprise. "Mother, I am obeying you in all
essential things; but you cannot wish to reduce me to an utter craven. I
owe an explanation to Mrs. Layne almost in the same degree that I owe it
to you; and I shall certainly not quit Church Dykely until I have given
it."
"Oh, well--if it must be," she conceded, afraid still. "You--you will
not be drawn in to act against me, Geoffry?"
"No power on earth could draw me to that. You have my first and best
allegiance; to which I bow before every other consideration, before
every interest, whether of my own or of others. But for that, should I
be acting as I am now? Fare you well, mother."
She heard the carriage-door closed; she heard Sir Geoffry's order to
the footman. Even for that order, he was cautious to give a plausible
excuse.
"Stop at Mrs. Layne's. I have to leave a message from her ladyship."
The wheels of the carriage crunched the gravel, bearing off Sir Geoffry
in the storm of sleet--which had begun to fall--and Lady Chavasse passed
up the stairs again. Taking the hand of Mary--who had stood above
like a statue--never moving--she led her, gently enough, into her
dressing-room, and put her in a comfortable chair by the fire; and
prepared for this second interview.
Briefly, Lady Chavasse recounted what she had to say. Sir Geoffry had
found himself obliged to choose between Miss Layne and her, his mother.
Mary Layne sat with her hands before her face, and acknowledged that, if
it came to such a choice, he had chosen rightly. And then, in forcible
language, because it came from her heart, my lady drew a picture of
the life-long happiness she and her son had enjoyed together, of her
devotion and sacrifices for him, of his deep love and reverence for her:
and she quietly asked Mary to put herself in imagination in her place,
and say what her feelings would have been had a stranger come in to mar
this. Had she any right to do this?--Lady Chavasse asked her--would she
be justified in destroying the ties of a life, in thrusting herself
between mother and son?--in invoking a curse, his mother's curse, on
him? My lady did not spare her: but she spoke in no angry tone, rather
in a piteous and imploring one: and Mary, feeling as if matters were
being put to her own better feeling, sobbed, and shook, and shrunk
within herself, and could have knelt at Lady Chavasse's feet for pardon
in her distress and humiliation.
And that was the end of the wretched business--as Duffham phrases it in
his diary--so far as the Grange and its people were concerned. Mary
Layne stayed, perforce, two or three weeks longer at the house, and my
lady made much of her: she took her out daily in her carriage; she said
to her friends, in the hearing of her servants and the sympathizing
Hester Picker, how vexatious it was that the relaxing, unseasonable
weather had brought out the delicacy that was latent in Miss Layne's
constitution, and that she feared she must let her go away somewhere for
a change. Mary submitted to all. She was in such a self-abased frame of
mind that had my lady desired her to immolate herself on a blazing pyre,
she would have gone to it meekly. My lady had interviews with Mrs.
Layne, and with Duffham (who had got well then), and with his brother
Luke. At the two or three weeks' end, Miss Elizabeth Layne came by
appointment to the Grange, and she and Mary were driven to the nearest
station in my lady's own carriage on their way to the seaside: or to
elsewhere, as it might be. And never an ill breath, in the Grange or out
of it, transpired to tarnish the fair fame of Mary Layne.
But my lady was not honest in one respect. The letter that arrived for
Mary from Sir Geoffry a day or two after his departure, was never given
to her. My lady knew she might trust her son implicitly; he could only
be straightforward and keep his word in all things; nevertheless,
she deemed the fire the safest place for the weighty epistle of many
sheets. On the other hand, Mary wrote to Sir Geoffry, saying that the
alternative he had chosen was the only one possible to him. Nothing, no
prayers of his, she said, would have induced her to put herself between
him and his mother, even had he so far forgotten his duty as to urge it.
It was a good and sensible letter, and none but a good and unselfish
girl could have written it.
So that ended the dream and the romance. And I hope the reader does not
forget that it is Duffham's diary that's telling all this, and not I.
For though dreams and romance seem to be in Duffham's line, they are not
in mine.
+Part the Second.+
Not very long after the time that Mary Layne quitted Chavasse
Grange--having closed all connection with it, never to be to it
henceforth but as an utter stranger--her eldest sister, Susan, the
wife of Captain Richard Layne, arrived in England from India with her
children, four little ones; the eldest seven years old, the youngest
eighteen months. The children had been ailing, and she brought them over
for a twelvemonth's change. Mrs. Layne was a good deal worn herself, for
the only nurse she had with her, a coloured woman, was sea-sick during
the voyage. Her sister Eleanor, who originally went out with her to
Calcutta, had made an excellent match; having married Allan McAlpin,
the younger partner in the staid old firm of McAlpin Brothers,
merchants of high standing, and wealthy men.
The first thing Mrs. Richard Layne did on arrival was to establish
herself in lodgings in Liverpool, the port she landed at (in order to
rest a week or two from the fatigues of the voyage) and send for her
mother and sister Elizabeth. In answer came a letter from her mother,
saying she was not equal to the journey and that Elizabeth was from
home. It contained Elizabeth's present address, and also one or two
items of news that startled young Mrs. Layne well-nigh out of her
senses. Leaving her children to their nurse's care, she started for the
address given, and found her two sisters, Elizabeth and Mary. The one
living in a chronic state of outpouring sarcasm and reproach; the other
meekly taking all as not a tithe of her just due.
After a day or two given to natural grief and lamentation, Mrs. Richard
Layne took matters into her own capable hands. She considered that a
more complete change would be good for Mary, and decided to convey
her to the Continent. She wrote a long and confidential letter to her
husband in India, of what she meant to do: and then she went back to
Liverpool with Elizabeth, to leave the latter in charge of her own
children and their coloured nurse, during her absence across the
Channel. Mrs. Layne then returned to Mary, and they started together
for France.
Shortly after this, old Mrs. Layne fell ill: and Elizabeth, when she
found she must go home in consequence, left a responsible English nurse
with the coloured woman and children. Not for several months afterwards
did Mrs. Richard Layne and Mary return from abroad; and at the end of
the twelvemonth they all went back to India--Mrs. Layne, her children,
the native nurse, and Mary. Mary accompanied them in the capacity of
governess.
After that a couple of years went on.
* * * * *
[_From Miss Mary Layne's Journal, written in Calcutta, at the house of
Captain Layne._]
_June 10th._--Cool of the evening. Susan came to the schoolroom in the
midst of the geography lesson this morning, and told me an old friend of
mine at home had called, and I was to come into the verandah to see her.
I never was more surprised. It was Jane Arkill; my chief friend in our
old school-days. She has married a Mr. Cale, a doctor, who has just come
out here to practise. Mrs. Cale says she shall never grow reconciled to
the heat of India. While she sat telling us home news, she alternately
wiped her pale face and stared at me, because I am so much altered.
She thinks she should not have known me. It is not that my features
have changed, she says, but that I have grown so much graver, and look
so old. When people talk like this, I long to tell them that things
have changed me; that I have passed through a fiery trial of sin and
suffering; that my life is one long crucifixion of inward, silent
repentance. When I first came out, two years ago, and people would say,
"It must be the climate that is making Miss Layne look so ill," it
seemed to me like the worst hypocrisy to let them think it was the
climate, and not to tell the truth. This feeling came back again to-day,
when Jane Arkill--I shall often forget to call her "Cale"--said my eyes
had grown to have a sad look in them; and Susan answered that young
ladies faded quickly in India; and that Mary _would_ apply herself too
closely to the children's studies in spite of remonstrance. Too closely?
Why, if I devoted every hour of my life, night and day, to these dear
children, I could never repay what their mother--or their father,
either--has done for me.
My mother is very well, Jane says, but lame, and cannot get about much:
she saw her only six weeks ago--for they came out by the overland
route. Only six weeks ago!--to hear that one has seen my dear mother so
recently as that, makes it seem almost as though _I_ had seen her but
yesterday. My darling mother!--whom my conduct so grieved and outraged
at the time, and who was so quick to forgive me and to do so much for
me. What a message she has sent me! "Give my love to dear Mary, and say
I hope she is happy with her sisters." Elizabeth, too, sent me her love.
"I saw your little Arthur, Mrs. Layne," Jane Cale then said to my
sister: "he is a sweet little fellow; your mother and Elizabeth are so
fond of him. They call him Baby Arthur." I felt my face growing whiter
than death: but Susan, who was never I believe put out in her life,
quietly sent me away with a message to the nurse--that she might bring
the children. When I got back, Captain Layne had come in and had the
baby on his shoulder: for nurse had made more haste than I. "None of
your children here are so fair as the little one your wife left in
England, Captain Layne," Jane Cale was saying, as she looked at them one
by one. "You mean little Arthur," returned the Captain, in his ready
kindness; "I hear he is fair." "Have you never seen him?" "No; how
should I have seen him?" asked Captain Layne, laughing: "he was born
over there, and my wife left him behind her as a legacy to her mother.
It is rather a hazard, Mrs. Cale, as perhaps you know, to bring out very
young infants to this country." Susan came to the rescue: she took the
baby and put him on his feet, that Mrs. Cale should see how well he
walked for his twelvemonth's age. But it did not answer. No doubt Jane
thought that the more she told them about Baby Arthur in England, the
better pleased they would be. How much difference was there, she asked,
between this child and little Arthur--eighteen months?--and how much
between Arthur and the one above him? "Oh," said the captain, "if it
comes to months, you must ask my wife. Come here, sir," he called to
Robert, who was tumbling over the little black bearer, "tell this lady
how old _you_ are, for I am sure I can't." "I'm over four," lisped
Bobby. "Ah, I see," said Jane Cale, "Baby Arthur is just between them."
"Exactly so," said Captain Layne: "Susan, I think these children may go
to their own quarters now." They went at once, for I have trained them
to be obedient, and I escaped with them. It is the first time any human
tongue has spoken to me of Baby Arthur. I think if Captain Layne had
looked at me I should have died: but he is ever kind. Never, by so
much as a word, or look, or tone, since the hour when I first set
foot on these shores, his wife's humbled sister, his children's meek
governess--and it is more than good of him to entrust their training
to _me_!--never has he betrayed that he as much as knew anything,
still less thought of it.
Oh, how events have been smoothed for me!--how much more than I deserve
have I to be thankful for!
[_Letter from Captain Layne's Wife to her Mother at Church Dykely._]
_Calcutta, September 2nd._
MY DARLING MOTHER,
I am sitting down to answer your letter, which arrived by last mail:
for I am sure you must wonder at my long silence and think it an
age since I wrote. But the truth is, I have had a touch of my old
complaint--intermittent fever--and it left me very weak and languid. I
know you have an untiring correspondent in Eleanor. Perhaps that makes
me a little negligent in writing home, though I am aware it ought not
to do so.
We were truly glad to welcome Mrs. Cale, because she had so recently
come from you. I cannot say that I have seen much of her as yet, for it
was just after she got out that my illness began; and when I grew better
my husband sent me to the hills for a change. Mary went with me and the
children. She is the greatest comfort. Mother dear, in spite of what we
know of, I do not think Mary has her equal for true worth in this world.
You say that Mrs. Cale, in writing home to you, described Mary as being
so altered; so sad and subdued. Why, my dear mother, of course she is
sad: how could it be otherwise? I do not suppose, in her more recent
life, she has ever felt other than the most intense sadness of mind; no,
not for one minute: and it is only to be expected that this must in time
show itself in the countenance. I spoke to her about it one day; it is a
long, long time ago now; saying I did not like to see her retain so much
sadness. "It cannot be helped," she answered; "sadness must always
follow sin."