It was with a wrath suppressed in the presence of the fair ambassadress,
that Mr. Vigors had received from Mrs. Poyntz the intelligence that I
had replaced Dr. Jones at Abbots’ House not less abruptly than Dr. Jones
had previously supplanted me. As Mrs. Poyntz took upon herself the whole
responsibility of this change, Mr. Vigors did not venture to condemn it
to her face; for the Administrator of Laws was at heart no little in awe
of the Autocrat of Proprieties; as Authority, howsoever established, is
in awe of Opinion, howsoever capricious.
To the mild Mrs. Ashleigh the magistrate’s anger was more decidedly
manifested. He ceased his visits; and in answer to a long and
deprecatory letter with which she endeavoured to soften his resentment
and win him back to the house, he replied by an elaborate combination
of homily and satire. He began by excusing himself from accepting
her invitations, on the ground that his time was valuable, his habits
domestic; and though ever willing to sacrifice both time and habits
where he could do good, he owed it to himself and to mankind to
sacrifice neither where his advice was rejected and his opinion
contemned. He glanced briefly, but not hastily, at the respect with
which her late husband had deferred to his judgment, and the benefits
which that deference had enabled him to bestow. He contrasted the
husband’s deference with the widow’s contumely, and hinted at the
evils which the contumely would not permit him to prevent. He could
not presume to say what women of the world might think due to deceased
husbands, but even women of the world generally allowed the claims of
living children, and did not act with levity where their interests were
concerned, still less where their lives were at stake. As to Dr. Jones,
he, Mr. Vigors, had the fullest confidence in his skill. Mrs. Ashleigh
must judge for herself whether Mrs. Poyntz was as good an authority upon
medical science as he had no doubt she was upon shawls and ribbons. Dr.
Jones was a man of caution and modesty; he did not indulge in the
hollow boasts by which charlatans decoy their dupes; but Dr. Jones had
privately assured him that though the case was one that admitted of no
rash experiments, he had no fear of the result if his own prudent system
were persevered in. What might be the consequences of any other system,
Dr. Jones would not say, because he was too high-minded to express his
distrust of the rival who had made use of underhand arts to supplant
him. But Mr. Vigors was convinced, from other sources of information
(meaning, I presume, the oracular prescience of his clairvoyants), that
the time would come when the poor young lady would herself insist on
discarding Dr. Fenwick, and when “that person” would appear in a very
different light to many who now so fondly admired and so reverentially
trusted him. When that time arrived, he, Mr. Vigors, might again be of
use; but, meanwhile, though he declined to renew his intimacy at Abbots’
House, or to pay unavailing visits of mere ceremony, his interest in
the daughter of his old friend remained undiminished, nay, was rather
increased by compassion; that he should silently keep his eye upon
her; and whenever anything to her advantage suggested itself to him,
he should not be deterred by the slight with which Mrs. Ashleigh
had treated his judgment from calling on her, and placing before her
conscience as a mother his ideas for her child’s benefit, leaving to
herself then, as now, the entire responsibility of rejecting the advice
which he might say, without vanity, was deemed of some value by those
who could distinguish between sterling qualities and specious pretences.
Mrs. Ashleigh’s was that thoroughly womanly nature which instinctively
leans upon others. She was diffident, trustful, meek, affectionate. Not
quite justly had Mrs. Poyntz described her as “commonplace weak,” for
though she might be called weak, it was not because she was commonplace;
she had a goodness of heart, a sweetness of disposition, to which
that disparaging definition could not apply. She could only be called
commonplace inasmuch as in the ordinary daily affairs of life she had a
great deal of ordinary daily commonplace good-sense. Give her a routine
to follow, and no routine could be better adhered to. In the allotted
sphere of a woman’s duties she never seemed in fault. No household, not
even Mrs. Poyntz’s, was more happily managed. The old Abbots’ House had
merged its original antique gloom in the softer character of pleasing
repose. All her servants adored Mrs. Ashleigh; all found it a pleasure
to please her; her establishment had the harmony of clockwork; comfort
diffused itself round her like quiet sunshine round a sheltered spot.
To gaze on her pleasing countenance, to listen to the simple talk that
lapsed from her guileless lips, in even, slow, and lulling murmur, was
in itself a respite from “eating cares.” She was to the mind what the
colour of green is to the eye. She had, therefore, excellent sense in
all that relates to every-day life. There, she needed not to consult
another; there, the wisest might have consulted her with profit. But
the moment anything, however trivial in itself, jarred on the routine to
which her mind had grown wedded, the moment an incident hurried her out
of the beaten track of woman’s daily life, then her confidence forsook
her; then she needed a confidant, an adviser; and by that confidant
or adviser she could be credulously lured or submissively controlled.
Therefore, when she lost, in Mr. Vigors, the guide she had been
accustomed to consult whenever she needed guidance, she turned;
helplessly and piteously, first to Mrs. Poyntz, and then yet more
imploringly to me, because a woman of that character is never quite
satisfied without the advice of a man; and where an intimacy more
familiar than that of his formal visits is once established with a
physician, confidence in him grows fearless and rapid, as the natural
result of sympathy concentrated on an object of anxiety in common
between himself and the home which opens its sacred recess to his
observant but tender eye. Thus Mrs. Ashleigh had shown me Mr. Vigors’s
letter, and, forgetting that I might not be as amiable as herself,
besought me to counsel her how to conciliate and soften her lost
husband’s friend and connection. That character clothed him with dignity
and awe in her soft forgiving eyes. So, smothering my own resentment,
less perhaps at the tone of offensive insinuation against myself than
at the arrogance with which this prejudiced intermeddler implied to a
mother the necessity of his guardian watch over a child under her
own care, I sketched a reply which seemed to me both dignified and
placatory, abstaining from all discussion, and conveying the assurance
that Mrs. Ashleigh would be at all times glad to hear, and disposed to
respect, whatever suggestion so esteemed a friend of her husband would
kindly submit to her for the welfare of her daughter.
There all communication had stopped for about a month since the date of
my reintroduction to Abbots’ House. One afternoon I unexpectedly met Mr.
Vigors at the entrance of the blind lane, I on my way to Abbots’ House,
and my first glance at his face told me that he was coming from it, for
the expression of that face was more than usually sinister; the sullen
scowl was lit into significant menace by a sneer of unmistakable
triumph. I felt at once that he had succeeded in some machination
against me, and with ominous misgivings quickened my steps.
I found Mrs. Ashleigh seated alone in front of the house, under a large
cedar-tree that formed a natural arbour in the centre of the sunny lawn.
She was perceptibly embarrassed as I took my seat beside her.
“I hope,” said I, forcing a smile, “that Mr. Vigors has not been telling
you that I shall kill my patient, or that she looks much worse than she
did under Dr. Jones’s care?”
“No,” she said. “He owned cheerfully that Lilian had grown quite strong,
and said, without any displeasure, that he had heard how gay she had
been, riding out and even dancing,--which is very kind in him, for he
disapproves of dancing, on principle.”
“But still I can see he has said something to vex or annoy you; and, to
judge by his countenance when I met him in the lane, I should conjecture
that that something was intended to lower the confidence you so kindly
repose in me.”
“I assure you not; he did not mention your name, either to me or to
Lilian. I never knew him more friendly; quite like old times. He is a
good man at heart, very, and was much attached to my poor husband.”
“Did Mr. Ashleigh profess a very high opinion of Mr. Vigors?”
“Well, I don’t quite know that, because my dear Gilbert never spoke to
me much about him. Gilbert was naturally very silent. But he shrank from
all trouble--all worldly affairs--and Mr. Vigors managed his estate, and
inspected his steward’s books, and protected him through a long lawsuit
which he had inherited from his father. It killed his father. I don’t
know what we should have done without Mr. Vigors, and I am so glad he
has forgiven me.”
“Hem! Where is Miss Ashleigh? Indoors?”
“No; somewhere in the grounds. But, my dear Dr. Fenwick, do not leave me
yet; you are so very, very kind, and somehow I have grown to look upon
you quite as an old friend. Something has happened which has put me out,
quite put me out.”
She said this wearily and feebly, closing her eyes as if she were indeed
put out in the sense of extinguished.
“The feeling of friendship you express,” said I, with earnestness, “is
reciprocal. On my side it is accompanied by a peculiar gratitude. I am
a lonely man, by a lonely fireside, no parents, no near kindred, and in
this town, since Dr. Faber left it, without cordial intimacy till I knew
you. In admitting me so familiarly to your hearth, you have given me
what I have never known before since I came to man’s estate,--a glimpse
of the happy domestic life; the charm and relief to eye, heart, and
spirit which is never known but in households cheered by the face of
woman. Thus my sentiment for you and yours is indeed that of an old
friend; and in any private confidence you show me, I feel as if I were
no longer a lonely man, without kindred, without home.”
Mrs. Ashleigh seemed much moved by these words, which my heart had
forced from my lips; and, after replying to me with simple unaffected
warmth of kindness, she rose, took my arm, and continued thus as we
walked slowly to and fro the lawn: “You know, perhaps, that my poor
husband left a sister, now a widow like myself, Lady Haughton.”
“I remember that Mrs. Poyntz said you had such a sister-in-law, but I
never heard you mention Lady Haughton till now. Well!”
“Well, Mr. Vigors has brought me a letter from her, and it is that which
has put me out. I dare say you have not heard me speak before of Lady
Haughton, for I am ashamed to say I had almost forgotten her existence.
She is many years older than my husband was; of a very different
character. Only came once to see him after our marriage. Hurt me by
ridiculing him as a bookworm; offended him by looking a little down on
me, as a nobody without spirit and fashion, which was quite true. And,
except by a cold and unfeeling letter of formal condolence after I lost
my dear Gilbert, I have never heard from her since I have been a widow,
till to-day. But, after all, she is my poor husband’s sister, and his
eldest sister, and Lilian’s aunt; and, as Mr. Vigors says, ‘Duty is
duty.’”
Had Mrs. Ashleigh said “Duty is torture,” she could not have uttered the
maxim with more mournful and despondent resignation.
“And what does this lady require of you, which Mr. Vigors deems it your
duty to comply with?”
“Dear me! What penetration! You have guessed the exact truth. But I
think you will agree with Mr. Vigors. Certainly I have no option; yes, I
must do it.”
“My penetration is in fault now. Do what? Pray explain.”
“Poor Lady Haughton, six months ago, lost her only son, Sir James. Mr.
Vigors says he was a very fine young man, of whom any mother would have
been proud. I had heard he was wild; Mr. Vigors says, however, that he
was just going to reform, and marry a young lady whom his mother chose
for him, when, unluckily, he would ride a steeplechase, not being
quite sober at the time, and broke his neck. Lady Haughton has been, of
course, in great grief. She has retired to Brighton; and she wrote to me
from thence, and Mr. Vigors brought the letter. He will go back to her
to-day.”
“Will go back to Lady Haughton? What! Has he been to her? Is he, then,
as intimate with Lady Haughton as he was with her brother?”
“No; but there has been a long and constant correspondence. She had a
settlement on the Kirby Estate,--a sum which was not paid off during
Gilbert’s life; and a very small part of the property went to Sir James,
which part Mr. Ashleigh Sumner, the heir-at-law to the rest of the
estate, wished Mr. Vigors, as his guardian, to buy during his minority,
and as it was mixed up with Lady Haughton’s settlement her consent was
necessary as well as Sir James’s. So there was much negotiation, and,
since then, Ashleigh Sumner has come into the Haughton property, on poor
Sir James’s decease; so that complicated all affairs between Mr. Vigors
and Lady Haughton, and he has just been to Brighton to see her. And
poor Lady Haughton, in short, wants me and Lilian to go and visit her.
I don’t like it at all. But you said the other day you thought sea air
might be good for Lilian during the heat of the summer, and she seems
well enough now for the change. What do you think?”
“She is well enough, certainly. But Brighton is not the place I would
recommend for the summer; it wants shade, and is much hotter than L----”
“Yes; but unluckily Lady Haughton foresaw that objection, and she has a
jointure-house some miles from Brighton, and near the sea. She says the
grounds are well wooded, and the place is proverbially cool and healthy,
not far from St. Leonard’s Forest. And, in short, I have written to say
we will come. So we must, unless, indeed, you positively forbid it.”
“When do you think of going?”
“Next Monday. Mr. Vigors would make me fix the day. If you knew how I
dislike moving when I am once settled; and I do so dread Lady Haughton,
she is so fine, and so satirical! But Mr. Vigors says she is very much
altered, poor thing! I should like to show you her letter, but I had
just sent it to Margaret--Mrs. Poyntz--a minute or two before you came.
She knows something of Lady Haughton. Margaret knows everybody. And we
shall have to go in mourning for poor Sir James, I suppose; and Margaret
will choose it, for I am sure I can’t guess to what extent we should
be supposed to mourn. I ought to have gone in mourning before--poor
Gilbert’s nephew--but I am so stupid, and I had never seen him. And--But
oh, this is kind! Margaret herself,--my dear Margaret!”
We had just turned away from the house, in our up-and-down walk; and
Mrs. Poyntz stood immediately fronting us. “So, Anne, you have actually
accepted this invitation--and for Monday next?”
“Yes. Did I do wrong?”
“What does Dr. Fenwick say? Can Lilian go with safety?”
I could not honestly say she might not go with safety, but my heart sank
like lead as I answered,--
“Miss Ashleigh does not now need merely medical care; but more than half
her cure has depended on keeping her spirits free from depression. She
may miss the cheerful companionship of your daughter, and other young
ladies of her own age. A very melancholy house, saddened by a recent
bereavement, without other guests; a hostess to whom she is a stranger,
and whom Mrs. Ashleigh herself appears to deem formidable,--certainly
these do not make that change of scene which a physician would
recommend. When I spoke of sea air being good for Miss Ashleigh, I
thought of our own northern coasts at a later time of the year, when
I could escape myself for a few weeks and attend her. The journey to a
northern watering-place would be also shorter and less fatiguing; the
air there more invigorating.”
“No doubt that would be better,” said Mrs. Poyntz, dryly; “but so far
as your objections to visiting Lady Haughton have been stated, they
are groundless. Her house will not be melancholy; she will have other
guests, and Lilian will find companions, young like herself,--young
ladies--and young gentlemen too!”
There was something ominous, something compassionate, in the look which
Mrs. Poyntz cast upon me, in concluding her speech, which in itself was
calculated to rouse the fears of a lover. Lilian away from me, in
the house of a worldly-fine lady--such as I judged Lady Haughton to
be--surrounded by young gentlemen, as well as young ladies, by admirers,
no doubt, of a higher rank and more brilliant fashion than she had yet
known! I closed my eyes, and with strong effort suppressed a groan.
“My dear Annie, let me satisfy myself that Dr. Fenwick really does
consent to this journey. He will say to me what he may not to you.
Pardon me, then, if I take him aside for a few minutes. Let me find you
here again under this cedar-tree.”
Placing her arm in mine, and without waiting for Mrs. Ashleigh’s answer,
Mrs. Poyntz drew me into the more sequestered walk that belted the lawn;
and when we were out of Mrs. Ashleigh’s sight and hearing, said,--
“From what you have now seen of Lilian Ashleigh, do you still desire to
gain her as your wife?”
“Still? Oh, with an intensity proportioned to the fear with which I now
dread that she is about to pass away from my eyes--from my life!”
“Does your judgment confirm the choice of your heart? Reflect before you
answer.”
“Such selfish judgment as I had before I knew her would not confirm
but oppose it. The nobler judgment that now expands all my reasonings,
approves and seconds my heart. No, no; do not smile so sarcastically.
This is not the voice of a blind and egotistical passion. Let me
explain myself if I can. I concede to you that Lilian’s character is
undeveloped; I concede to you, that amidst the childlike freshness and
innocence of her nature, there is at times a strangeness, a mystery,
which I have not yet traced to its cause. But I am certain that the
intellect is organically as sound as the heart, and that intellect and
heart will ultimately--if under happy auspices--blend in that felicitous
union which constitutes the perfection of woman. But it is because
she does, and may for years, may perhaps always, need a more devoted,
thoughtful care than natures less tremulously sensitive, that my
judgment sanctions my choice; for whatever is best for her is best for
me. And who would watch over her as I should?”
“You have never yet spoken to Lilian as lovers speak?”
“Oh, no, indeed.”
“And, nevertheless, you believe that your affection would not be
unreturned?”
“I thought so once; I doubt now,--yet, in doubting, hope. But why do you
alarm me with these questions? You, too, forebode that in this visit I
may lose her forever?”
“If you fear that, tell her so, and perhaps her answer may dispel your
fear.”
“What! now, already, when she has scarcely known me a month. Might I not
risk all if too premature?”
“There is no almanac for love. With many women love is born the moment
they know they are beloved. All wisdom tells us that a moment once gone
is irrevocable. Were I in your place, I should feel that I approached a
moment that I must not lose. I have said enough; now I shall rejoin Mrs.
Ashleigh.”
“Stay--tell me first what Lady Haughton’s letter really contains to
prompt the advice with which you so transport, and yet so daunt, me when
you proffer it.”
“Not now; later, perhaps,--not now. If you wish to see Lilian alone, she
is by the Old Monk’s Well; I saw her seated there as I passed that way
to the house.”
“One word more,--only one. Answer this question frankly, for it is one
of honour. Do you still believe that my suit to her daughter would not
be disapproved of by Mrs. Ashleigh?”
“At this moment I am sure it would not; a week hence I might not give
you the same answer.”
So she passed on with her quick but measured tread, back through the
shady walk, on to the open lawn, till the last glimpse of her pale gray
robe disappeared under the boughs of the cedar-tree. Then, with a
start, I broke the irresolute, tremulous suspense in which I had vainly
endeavoured to analyze my own mind, solve my own doubts, concentrate my
own will, and went the opposite way, skirting the circle of that haunted
ground,--as now, on one side its lofty terrace, the houses of the
neighbouring city came full and close into view, divided from my
fairy-land of life but by the trodden murmurous thoroughfare winding low
beneath the ivied parapets; and as now, again, the world of men abruptly
vanished behind the screening foliage of luxuriant June.
At last the enchanted glade opened out from the verdure, its borders
fragrant with syringa and rose and woodbine; and there, by the gray
memorial of the gone Gothic age, my eyes seemed to close their unquiet
wanderings, resting spell-bound on that image which had become to me the
incarnation of earth’s bloom and youth.
She stood amidst the Past, backed by the fragments of walls which man
had raised to seclude him from human passion, locking, under those lids
so downcast, the secret of the only knowledge I asked from the boundless
Future.
Ah! what mockery there is in that grand word, the world’s fierce
war-cry,--Freedom! Who has not known one period of life, and that so
solemn that its shadows may rest over all life hereafter, when one
human creature has over him a sovereignty more supreme and absolute than
Orient servitude adores in the symbols of diadem and sceptre? What crest
so haughty that has not bowed before a hand which could exalt or humble!
What heart so dauntless that has not trembled to call forth the voice
at whose sound open the gates of rapture or despair! That life alone is
free which rules, and suffices for itself. That life we forfeit when we
love!