I am sure you know me too well to fear I should seek to countenance or
excuse wrong-doing--that I think Mary takes an exaggerated view of the
past. She seems to think it can never be wiped out, never be palliated.
Of course, in one sense, it never can: but I _don't_ see why she need
continue to feel this intense humiliation, as if she ought to have a
cordon drawn round her gown to warn all good folks from its contact.
Look again at that persistent fancy of hers, always to wear black; it is
writing about her gown puts me in mind of it. Black, black, black: thin
silk when the heat will allow, oftener a dreary, rusty-black-looking
kind of soft muslin that is called here "black jaconite"--but I really
don't know whether that's the way to spell the thing. During the late
intense heat, we have talked her into a black-and-white muslin: that is,
white, with huge black spots upon it in the form of a melon. Only once
did I speak to her about wearing white as we do; I have never ventured
since. She turned away with a shiver, and said white was no longer for
her. Mother, dear, if any one ever lived to work out on earth their
repentance for sin, surely it is Mary. The more I see of her innate
goodness, the less can I understand the past. With her upright
principles and strict sense of conscientiousness--and you know that Mary
always had these, even as a child--I am unable to imagine how it could
have been that---- But I won't go into that. And it may be that the
goodness, so remarkable, would not have come out conspicuously but for
the trial.
Mrs. Cale gave us such a nice account of "Baby Arthur." She says he is
very fair and pretty. She has talked to other people about him--and of
course we cannot tell her not to talk. A brother-officer of my husband's
said to me yesterday:
"I hear your little boy at home is charming, Mrs. Layne. When shall you
have him out?"
"Not yet," I answered. "He was a very delicate baby, and I should not
like to risk it."
"Ah," said Major Grant, "that is why you left him in England."
"My mother takes great care of him," I went on; "it would break her
heart if I were to bring him away from her."
You will wonder at my writing all this: but it is so new a thing to hear
"Baby Arthur" made a topic of discussion, and all through Mrs. Cale!
Talking of children, Eleanor is, I think, getting somewhat over her
long-continued disappointment. Four years she has been married, and has
none. It is certainly a pity, when she and Allan McAlpin are so well
off. Not a family in Calcutta lives in better style than they--people
here talk of the house of McAlpin Brothers as we at home talk of
Rothschild's and Baring's. I am sure they must be very rich, and poor
Eleanor naturally thinks where is the use of the riches when there's
no child to leave them to. Eleanor said to me the other day when she
was here, "You might as well make over that child of yours to me,
Susan,"--meaning Baby Arthur; "he does you no good, and must be a
trouble to mamma and Elizabeth." Of course I laughed it off; saying that
you and Elizabeth would not part with him for untold gold. And I believe
it is so, is it not, dear mother? Do you remember when I first went
to your house with the poor little infant, after his birth on the
Continent, you took him out of my arms with an averted face, as if you
would rather have thrown him on the floor, and Elizabeth turned away and
groaned? "Mother," I said, "you may grow to love the child in time, and
then you will be more ready to forgive and forget." And that has come to
pass.
Mary has always been against our not telling the truth to Eleanor; she
says, even yet, that she feels like a hypocrite before her; but I feel
sure it was best and wisest. Eleanor is as sensitive in her way as Mary
is; Eleanor holds a high position in the place; she and her husband
are both courted, she for herself, he for his riches, for his high
commercial name, for his integrity; and I know she would have _felt_
the slur almost as keenly as Mary. It is true I do not like deliberate
deceit; but there was really no need to tell her--it would not have
answered any good end. Until Mrs. Cale talked, Eleanor scarcely
remembered that there was a Baby Arthur; and now she seems quite jealous
that he is mine and she cannot have him. I say to Eleanor that she must
be contented with the good she has; her indulgent husband, her position.
We poor officers' wives cannot compete with her in grandeur. By the way,
talking of officers, you will be glad to hear that my husband expects
his majority. It will be a welcome rise. For, with our little ones and
our expenses, it is rather difficult at times to make both ends meet. We
shall come into money some time from the West Indies; but until then
every pound of additional pay is welcome.
Mrs. Cale told us another item of news; that is, she recounted it amidst
the rest, little thinking what it was to us. That Sir G. C. is married,
and living with his wife at the Grange with Lady C. You have been
keeping the fact back, dear mother; either through not choosing to
mention their names, or out of consideration to Mary. But I can assure
you she was _thankful_ to hear of it; it has removed a little of the
abiding sting from her life. You cannot imagine how unselfish she is:
she looks upon herself as the sole cause of all that occurred. I mean
that she says it was through her going to the Grange. Had she not gone,
the peace of mother and son would never have been disturbed. _I_ think
Lady C. was _selfish_ and _wrong_; that she ought to have allowed Sir G.
to do as he wished. Mary says no; that Lady C.'s comfort and her
lifelong feelings were above every other consideration. She admires Lady
C. more than I do. However, she is truly glad to hear that the marriage
took place. Events have fallen now into their original course, and she
trusts that the bitter episode in which she took part may be gradually
forgotten at the Grange. The day we first heard of his marriage, I went
hastily--and I fear you will say rudely--into Mary's room at night when
she was preparing for rest, having omitted to tell her something I
wished changed in Nelly's studies for the morning. She was on her knees,
and rose up; the tears were literally streaming down her sweet face,
"Oh, Mary, what is the matter?" I asked, in dismay. "I was only praying
for God to bless them," she answered simply. Is she not a good,
unselfish girl?
I could fill pages with her praises. What she has been to my children,
during these two years she has had them in charge, I can never tell. She
insisted upon being regarded and treated wholly as a governess; but,
as my husband says, no real governess could be half so painstaking,
untiring, and conscientious. She has earned the respect of all Calcutta,
and she shrinks from it as if it were something to be shunned, saying,
"If people did but know!" Nelly, from being the only girl, and perhaps
also because she was the eldest and her papa loved her so, was the
most tiresome, spoiled little animal in the world; and the boys were
boisterous, and I am afraid frightfully impudent to the native
servants: but since Mary took them in hand they are altogether
different, fit to be loved. Richard often says he wishes he could
recompense her.
And now I must bring my letter to a close, or you will be tired. The
children all send love to grandmamma and Aunt Elizabeth: and (it is
Miss Nelly calls out this) to little brother Arthur. Nelly is growing
prettier every day: she is now going on for eleven. Young Richard
promises to be as tall and fine a man as his father. I believe he is
to be sent home next year to the school attached to King's College in
London. Little Allan is more delicate than I like to see him; Bobby, a
frightful Turk; baby, a dear little fellow. Master Allan's godfather,
Eleanor's husband, gave him a handsome present on his last birthday--a
railway train that would "go." He had sent for it from England: I am
sure it never cost less than five pounds; and the naughty child broke
it before the day was out. I felt so vexed; and downright ashamed to
confess it to Eleanor. The Ayah said he broke it for the purpose, "to
see what it was made of;" and, in spite of entreaties to the contrary,
Richard was on the point of whipping him for the mischief, and Allan was
roaring in anticipation, when Mary interposed, and begged to be let deal
with him for it. What she said, or what she did, I don't know, I'm sure
there was no whipping; but Master Allan was in a penitential and subdued
mood for days after it, voluntarily renouncing some pudding that he is
uncommonly fond of, because he had "not been good." Richard says that he
would rather trust his children to Mary, to be made what they ought to
be, than to any one under heaven. Oh, it is grievous--that her life
should have been blighted!
My best love to you and Elizabeth, dearest mother, in which Richard begs
to join; and believe me, your affectionate daughter,
SUSAN LAYNE.
P.S.--I have never before written openly on these private matters: we
have been content tacitly to ignore them to each other, but somehow my
pen has run on incautiously. Please, therefore, to burn this letter when
you and Elizabeth shall have read it.[1]
[1] But old Mrs. Layne did not burn the letter: or else it
would never have found its way into Duffham's collection. She
was content to put it off from day to day just as people do put
things off; and it was never done.--J.L.
[_From Miss Mary Layne's Journal, about two years yet later._]
_October 9th._--I quite tremble at the untoward turn things seem to be
taking. To think that a noble gentleman should be casting his thoughts
on _me_! And he _is_ a gentleman, and a noble one also, in spite of that
vain young adjutant, St. George's, slighting remark when Mr. McAlpin
came in last night--"Here's that confounded old warehouseman!" It was
well the major did not hear him. He has to take St. George to task on
occasion, and he would have done it then with a will.
Andrew McAlpin is not an ordinary man. Head of a wealthy house, whose
integrity has never been questioned; himself of unsullied honour, of
handsome presence, of middle age, for surely, in his three-and-fortieth
year, he may be called it--owner of all these solid advantages, he has
actually turned his attentions upon me. Me! Oh, if he did but know!--if
he could but see the humiliation it brings to this already too
humiliated heart.
Has a glamour been cast over his sight--as they say in his own land? Can
he not see how I shrink from people when they notice me by chance more
than is usual? Does he not see how constantly I have tried to shrink
from _him_? If I thought that this had been brought about by any want
of precaution on my part, I should be doubly miserable. When I was
assistant-teacher at school in England, the French governess, poor old
Madame de Visme, confided to me something that she was in the habit
of doing; it was nothing wrong in itself, but totally opposed to the
arbitrary rules laid down, and, if discovered, might have caused her to
be abruptly dismissed. "But suppose it were found out, madame?" I said.
"Ah non, mon enfant," she answered; "je prends mes précautions." Since
then I have often thought of the words: and I say to myself, now as I
write, have I taken precautions--proper ones? I can hardly tell. For one
thing, I was at first, and for some time, so totally unprepared; it
would no more have entered my mind to suppose Mr. McAlpin would think of
paying attention to me, than that the empty-headed Lieutenant St.
George--who boasts that his family is better than anybody's in India,
and intends to wed accordingly if he weds at all--would pay it.
When it first began--and that is so long ago that I can scarcely
remember, nearly a year, though--Mr. McAlpin would talk to me about
the children. I felt proud to answer him, dear little things; and I
knew he liked them, and Allan is his brother's godchild, and Robert is
Eleanor's. I am afraid that is where I was wrong: when he came talking,
evening after evening, I should have been on my guard, and begged Susan
to excuse me from appearing as often as she would. The great evil lies
in my having consented to appear at all in company. For two years after
I came out--oh, more than that; it must have been nearly three--I
resolutely refused to join them when they were not alone. It was
Major Layne's fault that the rule was broken through. One day, when
invitations were out for an evening party, Susan came to me and said
that the major particularly requested I would appear at it. "The fact
is, Mary," she whispered, "there has been some talk at the mess: you are
very much admired--your face, I mean--and some of them began wondering
whether there was any _reason_ for your never appearing in society; and
whether you could really be my sister. Richard was not present--that
goes without saying--the colonel repeated it to him afterwards in a
joking way. But what the major says is this, Mary--that he knows India
and gossiping tongues better than you do, and he desires for all our
sakes, for yours of course especially, that you will now and then show
yourself with us. You are to begin next Tuesday evening. Richard _begs_
you will. And I have been getting you a black net dress, with a little
white lace for the body--you cannot say that's too fine." The words
"for all our sakes" decided it; and I said I would certainly obey
Major Layne. What else could I do?
That was the beginning of it. Though I go out scarcely ever with the
major and Susan, declining invitations on the plea of my duties as
governess, it has certainly grown into a habit with me to spend my
evenings with them when they are at home.
But I never supposed anything like this would come of it. It has always
seemed to me as if the world could see me a little as I see myself, and
not think of me as one eligible to be chosen. As soon as I suspected
that Mr. McAlpin came here for me, I strove to show him as plainly as I
might that he was making a mistake. And now this proves, as it seems to
me, how wrong it was not to tell my sad story to Eleanor, but to let her
think of me as one still worthy. Susan knows how averse I was to its
suppression; but she overruled me, and said Richard thought with her.
Eleanor would have whispered it to her husband, and he might have
whispered to his brother Andrew, and this new perplexity have been
spared. It is not for my own sake I am so sorry, but for his: crosses
and vexations are only my due, and I try to take them patiently; but I
grow hot with shame every time I think how he is deceived. Oh, if he
would only speak out, and end it! that I might thank him and tell him it
is impossible: I should like to say unfit. Susan might give him a hint;
but when I urge her to do so, she laughs at me and asks, How can she,
until he has spoken?
_October 25th._--It has come at last. Mr. McAlpin, one of the best men
amidst the honourable men of the world, has asked me to become his wife.
Whilst I was trying to answer him, I burst into tears. We were quite
alone. "Why do you weep?" he asked, and I answered that I thought it was
because of my gratitude to him for his kindness, and because I was so
unworthy of it. It was perhaps a hazardous thing to say--but I was
altogether confused. I must have explained myself badly, for he could
not or would not understand my refusal; he said he certainly should
decline to take it: I must consider it well--for a week--or a month--as
long as I liked, provided I said "Yes" at last. When the crying was
over, I felt myself again; and I told him, just as quietly and calmly as
I could speak, that I should never marry; never. He asked _why_, and as
I was hesitating what reason to give, and praying to be helped to speak
right in the emergency, we were interrupted.
Oh, if I could only tell him the naked truth, as I here write it!
That the only one living man it would be possible for me to marry is
separated from me wider than seas can part. The barrier was thrown up
between us years ago, never to be overstepped by either of us: whilst at
the same time it shut me out from my kind. For this reason I can never
marry, and never shall marry, so long as the world, for me, endures.
_November 19th._--This is becoming painful. Mr. McAlpin will not give
me up. He is all consideration and respect, he is not obtrusive, but
yet--he will not give me up. There can exist no good reason why I should
not have him, he says; and he is willing to wait for months and years.
Eleanor comes in with her remonstrances: "Whatever possesses you, Mary?
You must be out of your mind, child, to refuse Andrew McAlpin. For
goodness' sake, get a little common sense into your poor crotchety
head." Allan McAlpin, in his half-earnest, half-joking way, says to me,
"Miss Layne, _I_ make a perfect husband; ask Eleanor if I don't; and I
know Andrew will make a better." It is so difficult for me to parry
these attacks. The children even have taken it up: and Richard to-day in
the schoolroom called me Mrs. McAlpin. Susan has tried to shield me
throughout. The major says not a word one way or the other.
A curious idea has come across me once or twice lately--that it might be
almost better to give Mr. McAlpin a hint of the truth. Of course it is
_but_ an idea; one that can never be carried out; but I know that he
would be true as steel. I cannot bear for him to think me ungrateful:
and he must consider me both ungrateful and capricious. I respect him
and like him very much, and he sees this: if I were at liberty as others
are, I would gladly marry him: the great puzzle is, how to make him
understand that it is not possible. I suppose the consciousness of my
secret, which never leaves me, renders it more difficult for me to be
decisive than it would be if I possessed none. Not the least painful
part of it all is, that he brings me handsome presents, and will not
take them back again. He is nearly old enough to be my father, he says,
and so I must consider them as given to me in that light. How shall I
stop it?--how convince him?
_November 29th._--Well, I have done it. Last night there was a grand
dinner at the mess; some strangers were to join it on invitation; Susan
went to spend a quiet hour with the colonel's wife, and Mr. McAlpin came
in, and found me alone. What possessed me I cannot tell: but I began to
tremble all over. He asked what was the matter, and I took courage to
say that I always now felt distressed to see him come in, knowing he
came for my sake, and that I could not respond to him as he wished. We
had never had so serious a conversation as the one that ensued. He
begged me to at least tell him what the barrier was, and where it lay:
I thought he almost hinted that it was due to him. "There is some
particular barrier, I feel sure," he said, "although Eleanor tells me
there is none." And then I took some more courage, inwardly hoping to be
helped to speak for the best, and answered Yes, there _was_ a barrier;
one that could never be surmounted; and that I had tried to make him see
this all along. I told him how truly I esteemed him; how little I felt
in my own eyes at being so undeserving of the opinion of a good man; I
said I should thank him for it in my heart for ever. Did the barrier lie
in my loving another? he asked, and I hesitated there. I _had_ loved
another, I said: it was before I came out, and the circumstances
attending it were very painful; indeed, it was a painful story
altogether. It had blighted my life; it had isolated me from the world;
it entirely prevented me from ever thinking of another. I do believe he
gathered from my agitation something of the truth, for he was so kind
and gentle. Eleanor knew nothing of it, I said; Major and Mrs. Layne
had thought there was no need to tell her, and, of course, he would
understand that I was speaking to him in confidence. Yes, he answered,
in confidence that I should not find misplaced. I felt happier and
more at ease with him than I had ever done, for now I knew that
misapprehension was over; and we talked together on other matters
peacefully, until Major Layne entered and brought a shock with him.
A shock for me. One of the guests at the mess came with him: a naval
officer in his uniform: a big man of fifty or sixty years, with a stern
countenance and a cloud of untidy white hair. "Where's Susan?" cried the
major: "out? Come here, then, Mary: you must be hostess." And before I
knew what or who it was, I had been introduced to Admiral Chavasse. My
head was in a whirl, my eyes were swimming: I had not heard the name
spoken openly for years. Major Layne little thought he was related to
G. C.: Mr. McAlpin had no idea that this fine naval officer, Parker
Chavasse, could be cousin to one of whom I had been speaking covertly,
but had not named. The admiral is on cruise, has touched at Calcutta,
and his vessel is lying in Diamond Harbour.
_November 30th._--Oh dear! oh dear! That I should be the recipient of so
much goodness, and not be able to appreciate it!
A message came to the schoolroom this morning; Miss Layne was wanted
downstairs. It was Susan who sent, but I found Mr. McAlpin alone. He had
been holding a confidential interview with Susan: and Susan, hearing how
much I had said to him last night, confided to him all. Oh, and he was
willing to take me still; to take me as I am! I fell down at his feet
sobbing when I told him that it could not be.
[_Private Note from Major Layne's Wife to her Mother at Church Dykely._]
Just half-a-dozen lines, my dear mother, for your eye alone: I enclose
them in my ordinary letter, meant for the world in general as well as
you. Mr. McAlpin knows _all_; but he was still anxious to make her his
wife. He thinks her the best and truest girl, excellent among women.
Praise from him _is_ praise. It was, I am certain, a most affecting
interview; but they were alone. Mary's refusal--an absolute one--was
dictated by two motives. The one is that the old feelings hold still so
much sway in her heart (and, she says, always will) as to render the
idea of a union with any one else absolutely distasteful. The other
motive was consideration for Andrew McAlpin. "I put it to you what it
would be," she said to him, "if at any time after our marriage, whether
following closely upon it, or in years to come, this story of mine
should transpire? I should _die_ with shame, with grief for your sake:
and there could be no remedy. No, no; never will I subject you, or any
one else, to that frightful chance."
And, mother, she is right. In spite of Mr. McAlpin's present
disappointment, I know he thinks her so. It has but increased his
admiration for her. He said to me, "Henceforth I shall look upon her
as a dear younger sister, and give her still my heart's best love and
reverence."
And this is the private history of the affair: I thought I ought to
disclose it to you. Richard, while thinking she has done right, says it
is altogether an awful pity (he means inclusive of the past), for she's
a trump of a girl. And so she is.
Ever yours, dear mother,
SUSAN LAYNE.
+Part the Third.+
It was a lovely place, that homestead of Chavasse Grange, as seen in the
freshness of the summer's morning: and my Lady Chavasse, looking from
her window as she dressed, might be thinking so. The green lawn, its
dew-drops sparkling in the sun, was dotted with beds of many coloured
flowers; the thrush and blackbird were singing in the surrounding trees;
the far-off landscape, stretched around in the distance, was beautiful
for the eye to rest upon.
Nearly hidden by great clusters of roses, some of which he was plucking,
and talking at the same time to the head-gardener who stood by, was a
good-looking gentleman of some five-and-twenty years. His light morning
coat was flung back from the snowy white waistcoat, across which a gold
chain passed, its seal drooping; a blue necktie, just as blue as his
blue eyes, was carelessly tied round his neck. He might have been
known for a Chavasse by those self-same eyes, for they had been his
father's--Sir Peter's--before him.
"About those geraniums that you have put out, Markham," he was saying.
"How came you to do it? Lady Chavasse is very angry; she wanted them
kept in the pots."
"Well, Sir Geoffry, I only obeyed orders," replied the gardener--who was
new to the place. "Lady Rachel told me to do it."
"Lady Rachel did? Oh, very well. Lady Chavasse did not understand that,
I suppose."
Up went Lady Chavasse's window at this juncture. "Geoffry."
Sir Geoffry stepped out from the roses, and smiled as he answered her.
"Ask Markham about the geraniums, Geoffry--how he could dare to do such
a thing without orders."
"Mother, Rachel bade him do it. Of course she did not know that you
wished it not done."