MATED, NOT MATCHED.
The new-comer was an elderly man, in a clerical dress. His figure,
originally massive and powerful, had thickened and filled out of late
years till little of fair proportion or activity remained. In his walk
and general bearing there was the same lassitude and want of energy
which spoilt his face. The features could never have been regularly
handsome; they were too weakly moulded for _any_ style of beauty; but
their natural expression was evidently meant to be kindly and genial.
This, too, had changed. There was a nervous, worried look about him, as
of a man exposed to many vexations and annoyances. It was not grave
enough to suggest any great sorrow. Geoffry Knowles's story is very soon
told. He was three or four years the Squire's senior; but they had been
great friends at college. Few of their old set were left when Geoffry
went up to keep his "master's term;" so, unluckily, he was a good deal
thrown on his own resources. His evil genius lured him one day to a
certain water-party, where he met Laura Harding, the handsome, flashy
daughter of an Oxford attorney in large and very sharp practice, who
speedily entangled him irretrievably. If Hubert Vavasour had been in the
way, it might have been prevented. His thoroughbred instincts would have
revolted from the intense vulgarity of the whole family, and the great
influence he possessed over his friend's facile mind would all have been
exerted to free the latter from a connexion which could only prove
disastrous and unhappy. Geoffry Knowles himself, the most indolent and
unobservant of men, saw from the first that the fair Laura's _entourage_
was most objectionable; and certain incongruities (to use a mild term)
in the lady's own demeanour and dialect struck him now and then
painfully, as they would have done any other man well-bred and
well-born. But, though conscious of going down hill, he was too idle to
try to struggle back again; and when the moment for the final plunge
came, he took it resignedly, if not contentedly, expecting no
countenance from any of his friends, as he had not sought their counsel.
Perhaps, after all, retractation would have been worse than vain. The
wily lawyer might have said with the Sultan,
Dwells in my court-yard a falcon unhooded,
And what he once clutches he never lets go.
Though Knowles was of an impoverished family and rather an extravagant
turn, Mr. Harding knew he had powerful friends, first and foremost of
whom was the Squire of Dene; so far he judged rightly. Hubert Vavasour
not only disliked "hitting a man when he was down," but never would let
him lie there without trying to help him up. So, in spite of the
connexion which he thoroughly disapproved, as soon as the rectory of
Dene fell vacant, he did not hesitate to offer it to his ancient
comrade: it was one of those great family livings that are almost as
valuable as a fat priory or abbey might have been; and thenceforth its
rector wanted no comforts that affluence could supply. When this event
occurred the Squire had been married about three years: he took the step
without consulting his wife, or in all probability Lady Mildred would
have interfered to some purpose. It was part of her creed never to waste
either lamentations or reproaches on what was irrevocable; so she
accepted the fact quite composedly, determining to judge for herself as
to the feasibility of associating with the new-comer, and to act
accordingly.
Neither the Squire's nor the rector's wife ever forgot the first evening
they met. Truth to say, "my lady" had prepared herself for a certain
amount of vulgarity; but the reality so far transcended her
expectations, that the shock was actually too much for her. She could
not repress a slight shiver and shrinking sometimes, as Mrs. Knowles's
shrill, highly-pitched voice rattled in her ears, and her trained
features did not always conceal wonder and aversion at certain words and
gestures that grated horribly on her delicate sensibilities. The other's
sharp eyes detected every one of these unflattering signs, and she never
forgot them: though long years had passed and a reckoning-day had never
come, the debt still remained, written out as legibly in her memory as
Foscaro's in Loredano's tablets. That evening, when the visitors had
taken their departure, the fair hostess leaned back wearily on her sofa
and beckoned her husband to her side. When he came she laid her hand on
his arm and looked up into his eyes rather plaintively, but not in the
least reproachfully.
"Dear Hubert!" she said, "I fancy Mr. Knowles very much, and I hope he
will come here whenever he likes. He may bring his wife four times a
year (when you have some of those constituency dinners, you know); but,
at any other time or place, I absolutely decline to entertain that
fearful woman again!"
There was not a shade of anger, or even disdain, on the placid face,
but he must have been a bolder man than Vavasour who would have argued
the point with her then. Hubert knew that the fiat just issued by those
beautiful lips, ever so little set, was irrevocable.
"She _is_ an awful infliction!" he assented, gravely; "I can't call you
unjust, dear Mildred. Indeed, I almost regret having brought her so near
you. I must manage it with Geoffry as best I can; I should not like to
lose his society. Poor fellow! I was very wroth when I first heard of
his derogation--but I can do nothing but pity him now. If she affected
us so disagreeably this evening, think what it must be to have to live
with her all the year round! It is no use saying, 'He's used to it.'
There are some nuisances one never gets indifferent to."
Lady Mildred shrugged her round white shoulders slightly, as though to
intimate that Mr. Knowles's domestic Nemesis was essentially _his_
concern; and so the matter ended.
It was not long before that worried, nervous expression, to which I have
alluded, became the habitual one of poor Geoffry's face. He never spoke
of his troubles, even to Hubert Vavasour; but they must have been heavy,
and almost incessant. His wife had captured him simply as a measure of
expediency: she would have married him just as readily if he had been
elderly and repulsive when she first saw him; she very soon got tired of
keeping up affectionate appearances; indeed, that farce scarcely
outlasted the honeymoon. The last phantasm of romance had ceased to
haunt the dreary fireside, years and years ago. Laura's sharp tongue and
acid face were enough to scare away a legion of such sensitive elves. As
soon as she found that their income was far more than sufficient for
their wants she took severely to parsimony, and "screwed" to an extent
scarcely credible. There never breathed a more liberal and openhanded
man than Geoffry Knowles--it must have been a poor satisfaction to him
to know that about thirty pounds per annum were saved by economy in beer
alone, and that his servants'-hall was a byword throughout the county.
The wives of the squirearchy had been very kind and civil to her at
first, and were not all inclined to follow the lead of the _grande dame_
at Dene; but they couldn't stand her long, and one by one they fell off
to a ceremonious distance, doing out their visits and invitations by
measure and rule. This did not improve the lady's temper, which was
exacting and suspicious to a degree: she never would allow that she ever
lost a friend or failed to make one by her own fault; though she had a
pleasant habit of abusing people savagely to their nearest neighbours,
so that it was about ten to one that every syllable came round to them.
They had one child--a son--who might have been some comfort to the
Rector if his mother would have let him alone: but she asserted her
exclusive right to the child even before he was christened, insisting on
calling him by her own family's name--"Harding"--(some one said, "it was
to commemorate an incomplete victory over the aspirates"); and
maintained her ascendency over his mind by the simple process of abusing
her husband to and before the boy, as soon as he was old enough to
understand anything; it is needless to say there was always more
distrust than sympathy between father and son.
So, you see, Geoffry Knowles had a good deal to fight against, and very
little to fall back upon. His one consolation was, his neighbourhood to
Dene: he clung fast to this, and would not let it go, in spite of
incessant sarcasms levelled at his meanness of spirit for "always
hanging about a house where his wife was not thought good enough to be
invited:"--(she never missed one of those quarterly dinners, though). It
was inexpressibly refreshing to get out of hearing of the shrill
dissonant voice--ever querulous when not wrathful, and to share
The delight of happy laughter,
The delight of low replies,
which one could always count on finding at Dene when its mistress or her
daughters were to the fore. Those visits had the same effect on the
unlucky rector, in calming and bracing his nerves, as change of air will
work on an invalid who moves up from the close dank valley to the fresh
mountain-side, where the breeze sweeps straight from the sea over crag,
and heather, and tarn. Lady Mildred liked him--perhaps pitied him a
little--in her own cool way, and the Squire was always glad to see him;
so he came and went pretty much as he chose, till it would have been
hard to say to which family he really most belonged. Helen was very fond
of him; it would have been strange had it been otherwise, for he had
petted her ever since he held her in his arms at the font, and, indeed,
had lavished on her all the father-love of a kindly nature, which he was
debarred from giving to his own child. As her loveliness ripened from
bud to blossom under their eyes, no one could have said which was the
proudest of their darling--the Rector or the Squire.
It rather spoils the romance of the thing--but, truth to say, there were
other and much more material links in the chain that bound Geoffry
Knowles so closely to Dene. He had always been of a convivial turn, and,
from youth upwards, not averse or indifferent to the enjoyment of old
wine and fat venison: of late years he had become ultra-canonical in his
devotion to good cheer. I do not mean to imply that he drank hard or
carried _gourmandise_ to excess; but certainly not one of Vavasour's
guests, whose name was legion, savoured more keenly the precious
vintages that never ceased to flow from his cellars, or the
master-strokes of the great artist who deigned to superintend the
preparation of his banquets. Was it a despicable weakness? At all
events, it was not an uncommon one. The world has not grown weary of
trying that somewhat sensual anodyne, since Ulysses and his comrades
revelled on the island-shore till the going down of the sun--
[Greek: dainymenoi krea t' aspeta kai methy hedy]
a few hours after he crept out of the Cyclops' cave, leaving the bones
of six of his best and bravest behind; many bond-slaves since Sindbad,
as the jocund juice rose to their brain, have forgotten for awhile that
they carried a burden more hideous and heavy than the horrible Old Man
of the Sea.
I have lingered much longer than I intended over the antecedents of the
Rector; but as one or two members of his family play rather an important
part in the story afterwards, there is some excuse for the interruption.
When Mr. Knowles entered the picture-gallery, he was evidently unaware
that it held other occupants; he had advanced half way up its length,
before Miss Vavasour's gay dress, looking brighter in the strong
sunlight, caught his eye; even then he had to resort to his glasses
before he could make out who sat in the deep embrasure.
"This is a new whim, Helen," he said, as he turned towards them; "I
never found you here in the morning before. Can you tell me where the
Squire is? I want--"
He stopped abruptly, for he was near enough now for the fair face to
tell its tale, and, short-sighted as he was, the rector saw the state of
things instantly. A few steps--very different from his usual slow,
deliberate pace--brought him into the oriel; he stooped and kissed Helen
on her forehead, and then griped Wyverne's hand hard, his lips moved
twice before he could say, unsteadily and huskily, "I am so very, very
glad!"
It was a simple and hearty congratulation enough, but it was the first
that the fair _fiancee_ had had to encounter, and it threw her into
considerable confusion, coming thus brusquely. To speak the truth, she
"arose and fled away swiftly on her feet," covering her retreat with
some indistinct murmur about going to find the Squire, and left her ally
to bear the brunt of the battle alone. The Rector was not in the least
vexed at her flight; he knew his pet too well to think that she could be
ungracious; he only looked after her with a smile of pride and fondness
as she glided away and disappeared through the curtained door, and then
turned again to Alan.
"I have always dreamt of this," he said; "but so few of my good dreams
come true that I scarcely hoped there would be an exception here. I am
certain you will take all care of her; and how happy she will make you!
And how long has this been going on? You have kept your secret well, I
own, but I am so blind that it is very easy to keep me in the dark."
There was a faint accent of melancholy, and a half reproach in the last
few words, which did not escape Wyverne's quick ear.
"My dear Rector, don't be unjust. What do you mean by suspecting us of
keeping secrets from _you_? You won't give one time to tell you. We were
all perfectly sober and sane till yesterday afternoon, when I lost my
head riding in the Home Wood; and everybody has been following my lead
ever since, for I ought to be crushed on the spot instead of encouraged.
You see I'm like other maniacs; they always know their companions are
mad, and tell you so--don't they?"
"Imprudent, perhaps, but not insane," the other said, heartily; "and is
'my lady' as bad as the rest of you?"
"Well, not exactly; for, though she refused nothing, she was wise enough
to stipulate that the time of our marriage should not be fixed until a
year had passed. I believe Aunt Mildred likes me, but I don't think her
partiality quite blinds her to my disadvantages."
It would have been hard to decide from Wyverne's face, whether he spoke
in earnest or irony; but there was no mistaking the expression of the
Rector's; disappointment was written there very legibly.
"You could hardly expect unreserved consent _there_," he said; "but it
is a long delay before anything is actually fixed--too long. Alan, trust
me. You don't mind my speaking frankly? Helen comes out next season, you
know; and even if your engagement is announced, nothing will prevent
half the 'eligibles' in London going wild about her. It will be
fearfully tantalizing to 'my lady's' ambition, and I doubt if her good
faith will last out the year. If that once fails, you will have a hard
battle to fight and a dangerous one; none can say what a day may bring
forth, and few of Lady Mildred's are wasted when she has determined to
carry anything through. Surely you tried to shorten the probation-time?"
Wyverne bit his lip, frowning slightly.
"My triumph is great, I own, but really I don't require to be reminded
that I am mortal. Of course there are risks and perils without end, but
I have counted them already, Rector; don't trouble yourself to go
through the list again. No, I did _not_ remonstrate or resist, simply
because I think it wiser to husband one's strength than to waste it. I
might say to you as Oliver said to Sir Henry Lee--'Wearest thou so white
a beard, and knowest thou not that to refuse surrendering an
indefensible post, by the martial law deserves hanging?' My position at
the moment was not quite so strong, numerically, as the Knight of
Ditchley's, for he had _two_ 'weak women' in his garrison, and, I fancy,
I had only one brave girl. We can count on the Squire's good will to any
extent, but he would be the merest reed to lean upon if matters went
wrong. It is much the best plan to trust till you are forced to
distrust; for it saves trouble, and comes to about the same thing in the
end; pondering over your moves don't help you much when your adversary
could give you a bishop or a castle. So for the present I believe in
Aunt Mildred _coute qui coute_. You are right though--there will be a
fair crop of rivals next spring; but I am vain enough to think that,
with such a long start, I may hold my own past the post."
Alan threw back his head rather haughtily, as he spoke these last words,
and once again encountered the eyes of Fulke Vavasour. He turned quickly
to his companion, before the latter could reply.
"An ominous neighbourhood to make love in, is it not? especially
considering the resemblance. You have remarked it?"
Geoffry Knowles started visibly, and his countenance fell more than it
had yet done.
"I wish you had not asked me. Yes, I have seen it coming out stronger
every month for the last year; it was never there before. I have always
avoided looking at that picture since I was forced to confess that the
family likeness to Helen is far stronger than in her own brother's
portrait that hangs there. If the Squire had only some excuse for
putting it away! Such coincidences are common enough, of course, but I
wish to God the features of the worst of her race had not been
reproduced in our darling."
"Not the worst, I think," Wyverne answered, decidedly, "though he was
wild and reckless enough in all conscience. It's an odd thing to say,
but I've liked him better since I heard how and why he sold himself to
Satan. I dare say you don't know that version of the story. Percie
Ferrars, who is always hunting out strange family legends, told it me
the other day. He found it in some book relating to the black art,
written about fifty years after the Baron's death. It seems that he had
always been meddling with magic, but he never actually came to terms
with the fiend till the night of his arrest. He signed and sealed the
contract within an hour after he entered his cell, on the condition that
certain papers then at the Dene should be in his hands before the dawn;
so he saved a woman's honour from being dragged through the mire of a
public trial, and perhaps a delicate neck from the scaffold. This is how
the horseman came along at midnight, bearing the Baron's signet-ring,
when the arrest was not two hours old; and this is why the pursuivant,
who started before the prisoner was in the Tower, and never drew bridle
on the way except to change his horses, found nothing but empty drawers
and rifled caskets, with a mark here and there, they say, as if hot
coals had been dropped on them. The author brings the case forward in a
very matter-of-fact way, to show for what a miserably small
consideration men will sometimes barter their souls, for he observes
that Vavasour could not even obtain for himself safety of life or limb.
Perhaps he did not try; he came of the wrong sort to stand chaffering
over a bargain when he was in no position to make terms. I don't mean to
deny that Fulke was very guilty; I don't mean to assert that a man has
any right to sell his soul at all; but I am not prepared to admit the
absurd smallness of the value received. The Baron himself, it appears,
revealed the infernal contract to one man, his cousin and dearest
friend. When the confidant, rather horror-stricken, asked 'if he did not
repent?' he only answered--'What is done is well done'--and
thenceforward would answer no question, declining to the last the
consolations of religion or the visits of a priest. But every one knows,
that at his trial and on Tower-hill he bore himself as coolly and
bravely as if he had been a martyred bishop. Let him rest in peace if he
may! If he erred, he suffered. For the sake of that last wild deed,
unselfish at least, I will cast no stone on his grave."
His quiet features lighted up, and his eyes gleamed, just as they would
do if he were reading some grand passage in prose or rhyme that chanced
to move him strongly. No enthusiasm answered him from the other's face.
The Rector evidently could not sympathize.
"It's a dark story," he said, "whichever way you look at it, and your
version does not make me dislike that picture the less. But I'm not a
fair judge. If I ever had any romance, it has been knocked out of me
years ago. I won't argue the point. I'm only sorry that our talk has got
into such a melancholy groove. It is my fault entirely. First I spoil
your _tete-a-tete_ by blundering in here, where I had no earthly
business, and then I spoil your anticipations with my stupid doubts and
forebodings. Just like me, isn't it?"
Wyverne's gay laugh broke in before the Rector's penitence could go
further.
"Not at all like you," he answered cheerily; "and don't flatter yourself
that either prophecy or warning will have the slightest effect.
Ecclesiastes himself would fail if he tried to preach prudence to _us_
just now. I told you we had all gone out of our sober minds up here. For
my part I don't care how long the Carnival lasts. We must keep the
feasts in their order, of course; but, by St. Benedict, we will not
anticipate Lent by an hour."
Geoffry Knowles looked wistfully into the speaker's frank, fearless
eyes, till his own brow began to clear, and a hearty, genuine admiration
shone out in his face.
"I do envy that hopeful geniality of yours, more than I can say, Alan. I
have a dim recollection of having been able to 'take things easy,' once
upon a time; but the talent slipped away from me, somehow, just when it
would have served me best. It was acquired, not natural, with me, I
suppose. I doubt if I could translate without blundering, now--_Dum
spiro, spero_. I am glad, after all, that I caught you first, and got
rid of my 'blue' fit before I saw the Squire. He would not have taken it
so well, perhaps, as you have done."
"I don't know about that," Alan said; "Uncle Hubert is pretty confident,
and you would most likely have been carried away helplessly by the
stream; he put _me_ to shame last night, I can tell you. You'll find him
in his room by this time; and I can't stay here any longer. I've letters
to write, and I mean to have Helen in the saddle directly after
luncheon. I must make the best use of my chances now, for, unless the
gods would
Annihilate both Time and Space
To make two lovers happy,
(as the man in the play wanted them to do), and cut out the shooting
season from the calendar, there would be no chance of keeping Dene clear
of guests. They will be coming by troops in less than a fortnight. There
is no such thing as a comfortable _causerie_, with keen eyes and quick
ears all around you. _Ay de mi!_ one will have to intrigue for
interviews as if we were in Seville. I shouldn't wonder if we were
driven to act the garden-scene in the _Barbiere_ some night. Even if I
wanted to monopolize Helen, then (which I don't, for it's the worst
possible taste), I know 'my lady' would not stand it. Well, thank you
for all you have said--yes, _all_. I shall see you at luncheon?"
From the Squire's radiant face, when he came in with the Rector, it
might be presumed that the latter comported himself during their
interview entirely to his friend's satisfaction.
It was no vain boast of Wyverne's when he said that neither omen nor
foreboding would affect his spirits materially that afternoon. Few
people ever enjoyed a ride more thoroughly than the cousins did their
very protracted one. They would not have made a bad picture, if any one
could have sketched them during its slow progress. Alan on the Erl-King,
a magnificent brown hunter of Vavasour's; Helen on the grey Arab,
Maimouna, whom she mounted that day for the fourth time. The one so
erect and knightly in his bearing; the other so admirably lithe and
graceful--both so palpably _at home_ in the saddle; even as they lounged
carelessly along through the broad green glades, apparently lost to
everything but their own low, earnest converse, at the first glance one
could have recognised the seat and hand of the artist.
If one _must_ be locomotive, when alone with the ladye of our love (not
a desirable necessity, some will say), I doubt if we can be better than
on horseback. A low pony-carriage, with a _very_ steady animal in the
shafts, has its advantages; but I never yet saw the man who could
accommodate himself and his limbs to one of these vehicles without
looking absurdly out of his place; his bulk seems to increase by some
extraordinary process as soon as he has taken his seat, till ten stone
loom as large as fourteen would do under ordinary circumstances. The
incongruity cannot always escape one's fair companion, and, if her sense
of the ridiculous is once moved, our romance is ruined for the day:
perhaps the best plan, on turning into a conveniently secluded road
(always supposing that "moving on" is obligatory), would be, to get out
and walk by her side, leaving the dame or demoiselle unrestricted scope
for the expansion of her feelings and--her drapery. On the whole, I
think one is most at ease _en chevauchant_. But then both steeds must be
of a pleasant and sociable disposition--not pulling and tearing at the
reins, till they work themselves and their riders into a white heat,
whenever a level length of greensward tempts one irresistibly to a
stretching gallop; nor starting perversely aside at the very moment
when, in the earnestness of discourse, your hand rests unconsciously (?)
on your companion's pommel; but doing their five miles an hour steadily,
with the long, even, springy gait that so few half-breeds ever attain
to,--alive, in fact, to the delicacy of the position and to their own
responsibilities as sensible beasts of burden. Maimouna was a model in
this respect: she could be fiery enough at times, and dangerous if her
temper was roused; but she comported herself that afternoon with a
courtesy and consideration for others worthy of the royal race from
which she sprang--
Who could trace her lineage higher
Than the Bourbon can aspire,
Than the Ghibelline or Guelf,
Or O'Brien's blood itself.
It was pretty to see her, champing the bit and tossing her small proud
head playfully, or curving her full, rounded neck to court the caress of
Helen's gauntlet; with something more than instinct looking all the
while out of her great bright stag's-eyes, as if she understood
everything that was going on and approved it thoroughly: indeed, she
seemed not indisposed to get up a little mild flirtation on her own
account, for ever and anon she would rub her soft cheek against the
Erl-King's puissant shoulder, and withdraw it suddenly as he turned his
head with a coy, _mutine_ grace, till even that stately steed unbent
somewhat of his dignity, and condescended, after a superb and
sultanesque fashion, to respond to her cajoleries.
Altogether they made, as I have said, a very attractive picture,
suggestive of the gay days when knights and paladins rode in the sweet
summer-weather through the forest-tracks of Lyonnesse and Brittany, each
with his fair _paramour_ at his side, ready and willing to do battle for
her beauty to the death. Wyverne's proportions were far too slight and
slender to have filled the mighty harness of Gareth or Geraint; but
Helen might well have sat for Iseult in her girlhood before the breath
of sin passed over the smooth brow--before the lovely proud face was
trained to dissemble--before King Mark's unwilling bride drank the fatal
philtre and subtler poison yet from her convoy's eyes, as they sailed
together over the Irish Sea.
Yes--no doubt
It was merry in good greenwood,
When mavis and merle were singing;
when silvered bridles and silvery laughs rang out with a low, fitful
music: when the dark dells, whenever a sunbeam shot through, grew light
with shimmer of gold and jewels, or with sheen of minever and brocade;
when ever and anon a bugle sounded--discreetly distant--not to recall
the lost or the laggards, but just to remind them that they were
supposed to be hunting the deer. Pity that almost all these romances
ended so drearily! We might learn a lesson, if we would; but we "hear
and do not fear." The modern knight's riding suit is russet or
grey--perhaps, at the richest, of sable velvet; a scarlet neck-ribbon or
the plumes of a tropical bird are the most gorgeous elements in his
companion's amazonian apparel; but I fear the tone of their dress is
about the only thing which is really sobered and subdued. People will go
on lingering till they lose their party, and looking till they lose
their hearts, and whispering till they lose their heads, to the end of
time; though all these years have not abated one iota of the retribution
allotted those who "love not wisely but too well;" though many miserable
men, since Tristram, have dwined away under a wound that would never
heal, tended by a wife that they could never like, thirsting for the
caress of "white hands beyond the sea," and for a whisper that they
heard--never, or only in the death-pang; though many sinners, since
Launcelot, have grovelled in vain remorse on the gravestone of their
last love or their first and firmest friend.
Certainly, none of these considerations could trouble the cousins'
pleasant ride; for every word that passed between them was perfectly
innocent and authorized; they had, so to speak, been "blessed by the
priest" before they started. When Helen came down (rather late) to
dinner, her face was so changed and radiant with happiness that it made
"my lady's" for the rest of the evening unusually pensive and grave.
Some such ideas shot across her as were in the cruel step-mother's mind,
when she stopped those who bore out the seeming corpse to its burial,
saying--
Drap the het lead on her breast,
And drap it on her chin;
For mickle will a maiden do,
To her true love to win.