A strange and melancholy life it was for a lad of Ronald’s temperament; a
strange and incongruous fellowship:
“For East is East, and West is West, and never the twain shall meet”
Yet it had in it one redeeming feature. Only a mile from Broadwater, in
the white house that nestles in the heart of the valley, just visible to
us over a depression in the lulls, lived a young widow of
twenty-eight—Ronald’s dearest friend, and his comforter and consoler
whenever the monotony of existence seemed almost intolerable to the lad
just entering on manhood.
The coalition between Ronald and Mrs. Thorpe was regarded with extreme
disfavour by the uncle. “Making a milksop of the lad,” he called it
sneeringly. But the villagers, one and all of them, were emphatic in
their praise. “A nice couple they’d make,” said old widow Denvers. “I
only hope it may come off, and that I may be alive to see it. And love
each other they do already, unless my old eyes deceive me. See how he
follers her about and well nigh wusshups the ground she treads on. Why
he’d be at Thorpe Hill all day, if only that old aunt of his didn’t watch
him like a cat. Drat her!”
A feeling of companionship had steadily grown up between them. The
almost daily meetings and constant interchange of ideas had produced
their natural result, and the companionship that had at first been a
pleasure had long become a necessity. Yet, strange to say, neither had
recognised the fact. Ronald himself would have scouted the idea.
Possessed of not a penny in his own rights, and dependent only on what
his uncle allowed him, he would have ridiculed the notion of asking the
richest woman in the county to become his wife. Indeed it was the
deterrent influence of their relative positions that had excluded the
possibility from finding a place among the contingencies of his life.
Yet she it was, however unwittingly, who was the cause of Ronald’s last
escapade.
The idea had frequently occurred to him that she had inspired his uncle
with the nearest approximation to love of which his nature was capable.
Not according to the accepted traditions of lovemaking, nor exhibited in
a manner that would be patent to the world at large. But he showed her
attentions that he withheld from all other women. He would enquire
solicitously after her health, and the health of her dogs, in huge
Grandisonian phrases; above all, he would vacate for her his favourite
armchair, and waive her into it with a bow of old-world politeness. (To
his sister, who ruled his household, the chair in question was rigorously
debarred). Then again, she was a Liberal in politics. Not that this
counted for much, because he maintained that women should be allowed no
politics at all, beyond presenting a feeble reflex of the man who was
nearest or dearest to them. Much as he hated Conservatism, he would
sooner have seen the wife of his friend Jacobs pose as the rankest of
Tories, than at variance with her husband in a way so subversive of the
relation of the sexes.
“What a blessing it is to get across here for a change of air,” said
Ronald, flinging himself down on a chair in Mrs. Thorpe’s drawing-room,
where she was arranging her flowers for the day.
“Well, what’s the matter now? Is it the aunt or the uncle who has
ruffled you this morning?”
“Not so much the people as the atmosphere. The air seems laden with
small trivialities. I feel like the man in ‘Pilgrim’s Progress,’ who
lived in a cloud of dust that he was constantly raising. Whereas life
ought to be lived on a breezy upland, with your face to the sea.”
“I think I understand what you mean, though your reminiscences of Bunyan
are a trifle mixed. And perhaps the dust is better for you.”
“Not a bit of it, when it’s of one’s own making. Now _you_ haven’t a
scrap of dust in your house.”
“I’m not so sure. Look at that piano. Anyhow, you didn’t come all this
way so early in the morning to treat me to a revised version of Bunyan’s
allegory. What’s the matter, Ronald?”
“I believe the old man’s jealous of me. He says I’m over here too
often—that people are beginning to talk, and all manner of rot. I’m
almost sure he wants to marry you himself.”
“My dear boy, you’re dreaming. Do you think that I would abandon my
independence, and all my advanced theories on women, to adopt your
uncle’s musty, antediluvian ideas? Not a bit of it. Why I’d sooner
marry _you_, if the worst came to the worst, though even that wouldn’t
suit me either.”
“It would suit _me_,” muttered Ronald, “just down to the ground.”
The uncle’s sight had of late been failing him, owing to some weakness or
lesion of the nerve that no spectacles could remedy. Under these
circumstances, his favourite amanuensis was Ronald; for, though I regret
to say it, his sister’s spelling was occasionally defective, and his
uncle was particular above all things that his correspondence should be
strictly orthographic. Not that this characteristic could be imputed to
Miss Heyward as a fault, especially in these days, when even Peeresses (I
am told) have adopted phonetic spelling, and orthography has been
relegated to our village schools as the symbol of a lower and less
intellectual class. But the uncle was conservative in everything but
politics, and regarded the innovation as a forecast of the nation’s
decadence.
One morning he called Ronald into his study, with a thoughtful,
pre-occupied air that betokened business of more than average importance.
“Ronald, I’m thinking of marrying—and who do you suppose is my choice? A
great friend of yours by the way, Mrs. Thorpe. I like her amazingly; a
most well-bred woman, who will look famously at the head of my table.
Then again, she’s got money, though it’s true I don’t want it. And her
property marches with mine; and we’ll enclose it all in a ring fence, and
have the finest estate in the county. She’s got a few crotchets, I know,
but they’ll soon be ousted when she’s found a sensible man to advise her.
I grant I’m a trifle old for her, but people think nothing of that in
these days when the fault is on the right side. What do you say to it? a
good idea, isn’t it?”
“Very good indeed, sir,” said Ronald—demurely, but doubtingly.
“You ain’t very hearty about it, Ronald. I expected you to jump at the
suggestion. Indeed, I thought you were a little gone on her yourself,
and would have welcomed her warmly for your aunt. You’re across at her
house pretty well every day.”
“Yes, sir, I am; and I do like her very much. Indeed, I wouldn’t have
minded marrying her myself.”
“Good Lord! if that doesn’t beat everything! A mere boy like you,
without a penny in the world except what you get from me—and I’m not dead
yet by a long way, Ronald—_you_ to be in love with the richest woman in
the county! God bless me! What are the boys coming to? But there—it’s
nonsense. Put it out of your head, my lad, and sit down and write what I
tell you.”
The letter, when it was forwarded, ran thus:
“DEAR MRS. THORPE,
“I write on a subject that touches very nearly the happiness of my
future life (‘it touches mine, R.’) You must have seen, I imagine,
how much I have admired and loved you (‘my sentiments exactly R.’);
nor can you be blind to the fact that no other woman occupies the
place in my esteem which has been wholly given to you (‘couldn’t have
expressed myself better, R.’) I now offer you my hand and heart
(‘savours of the complete letter writer, but true notwithstanding,
R.’), together with all my worldly possessions (‘£50, all included,
R.’) You know, I fancy, my ways and habits as no other woman can
know them (‘too well by half, R.’) My temper is equable, and I am, I
think, companionable (‘query? R.’) My nephew Ronald will continue to
live with us; you know him well (‘I should just think so, R.’) He is
a really good-hearted, well-meaning lad (‘thanks, old man, R.’), but
a little uppish at times, and thinks he knows everything, like all
the boys of the present day (‘I retract my thanks, R.’) But I fancy
that you and he will get on together (‘admirably, R.’)
“I shall await your answer with impatience, and anxiously hope it may
be favourable (‘to me, R.’)
“I remain,
“Your sincere admirer,
“A. HEYWARD.”
(‘Your loving friend, R.’)
The answer came next day, and was a crushing blow to my uncle’s hopes.
She thanked him gratefully for the offer, and regretted the
disappointment her answer would cause him. But her affections, she said,
had long been bestowed on his nephew, and she had lately had _reason to
believe_ (italics at Ronald’s request) that the feeling was reciprocated.
She was in a position, she added, to disregard monetary considerations in
the choice of a husband.
* * * *
There was strife within the gates of Broadwater on the announcement of
Ronald’s engagement. The uncle was furious at being supplanted this
second time, and, to make matters worse, the offender in this case was
the nephew of his choice. So wroth was he that he nearly made me his
heir out of spite, and, for two or three days, my price rose considerably
on the matrimonial market. But, on giving tongue to his wrath, he found
himself without a supporter. “A servile war had broken out” (to quote
from ‘Cometh up,’—sweetest of all love stories, but, Great _Dionysius_!
what Greek!) and his sister was in a state of open rebellion. It was she
who headed the rising, and with her went all the servants, which left our
uncle in a minority of one. She was, naturally enough, well pleased at
the progress of events, and anticipated with satisfaction the continuance
of her reign.
Ronald, so soon as his month’s probation was ended, was thankful to be
received out of the fray into the sanctuary of Thorpe. Not that he was
at peace, even there. His conscience gave him twinges, and I had a word
to say to him on the subject, and his wife had a word or two more. But
it was all for his good, and he had brought it upon himself by treating
matrimony (of all estates in the world) in a spirit of graceless levity.
* * * * *
And what of myself? Well, reader, I had lost my chance, or, perhaps,
willingly foregone it. All Ronald’s pet schemes had been safe in my
hands, and I was little likely to oppose the present one, when, almost
from the first, I had pictured its realisation, and seen how necessary it
was to the happiness and stability of his life. My unselfishness—call it
passivity if you will—carried with it its own reward, for neither of the
two was happy without me, and Thorpe Hill practically became my home.