ELIZABETH'S WOOING.
Percival and his friend dined with the Herons that evening. Mr. Heron
was an artist by profession; he was a fair, abstracted-looking man, with
gold eye-glasses, which he was always sticking ineffectually upon the
bridge of his nose and nervously feeling for when they tumbled down
again. He had painted several good pictures in his time, and was in the
habit of earning a fairly good income; but owing to some want of
management, either on his part or his wife's, his income never seemed
quite large enough for the needs of the household. The servants' wages
were usually in arrear; the fittings of the house were broken and never
repaired; there were wonderful gaps in the furniture and the china,
which nobody ever appeared to think of filling up. Rupert remembered the
ways of the house when he had boarded there, and was not surprised to
find himself dining upon mutton half-burnt and half-raw, potatoes more
like bullets than vegetables, and a partially cooked rice-pudding,
served upon the remains of at least three dinner-services, accompanied
by sour beer and very indifferent claret. Percival did not even pretend
to eat; he sat back in his chair and declared, with an air of polite
disgust, that he was not hungry. Rupert made up for his deficiencies,
however; he swallowed what was set before him and conversed with his
hostess, who was quite unconscious that anything was amiss. Mrs. Heron
had a vague taste for metaphysics and political economy; she had
beautiful theories of education, which she was always intending, at some
future time, to put into practice for the benefit of her three little
boys, Harry, Willy, and Jack. She spoke of these theories, with her blue
eyes fixed on vacancy and her fork poised gracefully in the air, while
Vivian laboured distastefully through his dinner, and Percival frowned
in silence at the table-cloth.
"I have always thought," Mrs. Heron was saying sweetly, "that children
ought not to be too much controlled. Their development should be
perfectly free. My children grow up like young plants, with plenty of
sun and air; they play as they like; they work when they feel that they
can work best; and, if at times they are a little noisy, at any rate
their noise never develops into riot."
Percival did not, perhaps, intend her to hear him, but, below his
breath, he burst into a sardonic, little laugh and an aside to his
sister Kitty.
"Never into riot! I never heard them stop short of it!"
Mrs. Heron looked at him uncertainly, and took pains to explain herself.
"Up to a certain point, I was going to say, Percival, dear. At the
proper age, I think, that discipline, entire and perfect discipline,
ought to begin."
"And what is the proper age?" said Percival, ironically. "For it seems
to me that the boys are now quite old enough to endure a little
discipline."
"Oh, at present," said Mrs. Heron, with undisturbed composure, "they are
in Elizabeth's hands. I leave them entirely to her. I trust Elizabeth
perfectly."
"Is that the reason why Elizabeth does not dine with us?" said Percival,
looking at his step-mother with an expression of deep hostility. But
Mrs. Heron's placidity was of a kind which would not be ruffled.
"Elizabeth is so kind," she said. "She teaches them, and does everything
for them; but, of course, they must go to school by-and-bye. Dear papa
will not let me teach them myself. He tells me to forget that ever I was
a governess; but, indeed"--with a faint, pensive smile--"my instincts
are too strong for me sometimes, and I long to have my pupils back
again. Do I not, Kitty, darling?"
"I was not a pupil of yours very long, Isabel," said Kitty, who never
brought herself to the point of calling Mrs. Heron by anything but her
Christian name.
"Not long," sighed Mrs. Heron. "Too short a time for me."
At this point Mr. Heron, who noticed very little of what was going on
around him, turned to his son with a question about the politics of the
day. Percival, with his nose in the air, hardly deigned at first to
answer; but upon Vivian's quietly propounding some strongly Conservative
views, which always acted on the younger Heron as a red rag is supposed
to act upon a bull, he waxed impatient and then argumentative, until at
last he talked himself into a good humour, and made everybody else good
humoured.
When they returned to the untidy but pleasant-looking drawing-room, they
found Elizabeth engaged in picking up the children's toys, straightening
the sheets of music on the piano, and otherwise making herself generally
useful; She had changed her dress, and put on a long, plain gown of
white cashmere, which suited her admirably, although it was at least
three years old, undeniably tight for her across the shoulders, and
short at the wrists, having shrunk by repeated washings since the days
when it first was made. She wore no trimmings and no ornaments, whereas
Kitty, in her red frock, sported half-a-dozen trumpery bracelets, a
silver necklace, and a little bunch of autumn flowers; and Mrs. Heron's
pale-blue draperies were adorned with dozens of yards of cheap
cream-coloured lace. Vivian looked at Elizabeth and wondered, almost for
the first time, why she differed so greatly from the Herons. He had
often seen her before; but, being now particularly interested by what he
had heard about her, he observed her more than usual.
Mrs. Heron sat down at the piano; she played well, and was rather fond
of exhibiting her musical proficiency. Percival and Kitty were engaged
in an animated, low-toned conversation. Rupert approached Elizabeth, who
was arranging some sketches in a portfolio with the diligence of a
housemaid. She was standing just within the studio, which was separated
from the drawing-room by a velvet curtain now partially drawn aside.
"Do you sketch? are these your drawings?" he asked her.
"No, they are Uncle Alfred's. I cannot draw."
"You are musical, I suppose," said Rupert, carelessly.
He took it for granted that, if a girl did not draw, she must needs play
the piano. But her next words undeceived him.
"No, I can't play. I have no accomplishments."
"What do you mean by accomplishments?" asked Vivian, smiling.
"I mean that I know nothing about French and German, or music and
drawing," said Elizabeth, calmly. "I never had any systematic education.
I should make rather a good housemaid, I believe, but my friends won't
allow me to take a housemaid's situation."
"I should think not," ejaculated Vivian.
"But it is all that I am fit for," she continued, quietly. "And I think
it is rather a pity that I am not allowed to be happy in my own way."
There was a little silence. Vivian felt himself scarcely equal to the
occasion. Presently she said, with more quickness of speech than
usual:--
"You have been in Scotland lately, have you not?"
"I was there a short time ago, but for two days only."
"Ah, yes, you went to Netherglen?"
"I did. The Luttrells are connections of yours, are they not, Miss
Murray?"
"Very distant ones," said Elizabeth.
"You know that Brian Luttrell has gone abroad?"
"I have heard so."
There was very little to be got out of Miss Murray. Vivian was almost
glad when Percival joined them, and he was able to slip back to Kitty,
with whom he had no difficulty in carrying on a conversation.
The studio was dimly lighted, and Percival, either by accident or
design, allowed the curtain to fall entirely over the aperture between
the two rooms. He looked round him. Mr. Heron was absent, and they had
the room to themselves. Several unfinished canvasses were leaning
against the walls; the portrait of an exceedingly cadaverous-looking old
man was conspicuous upon the artist's easel; the lay figure was draped
like a monk, and had a cowl drawn over its stiff, wooden head. Percival
shrugged his shoulders.
"My father's studio isn't an attractive-looking place," he said, with a
growl of disgust in his voice.
"Why did you come into it?" said Elizabeth.
"I had a good reason," he answered, looking at her.
If she understood the meaning that he wished to convey, it certainly did
not embarrass or distress her in the least. She gave him a very
friendly, but serious, kind of smile, and went on calmly with her work
of sorting the papers and sketches that lay scattered around her.
"Elizabeth," he said, "I am offended with you."
"That happens so often," she replied, "that I am never greatly surprised
nor greatly concerned at hearing it."
"It is of little consequence to you, no doubt," said Percival, rather
huffily; "but I am--for once--perfectly serious, Elizabeth. Why could
you not come down to dinner to-night when Rupert and I were here?"
"I very seldom come down to dinner. I was with the children."
"The children are not your business."
"Indeed they are. Mrs. Heron has given them into my charge, and I am
glad of it. Not that I care for all children," said Elizabeth, with the
cool impartiality that was wont to drive Percival to the very verge of
distraction. "I dislike some children very much, indeed, but, you see, I
happen--fortunately for myself--to be fond of Harry, Willie, and Jack."
"Fortunately, for yourself, do you say? Fortunately for them! You must
be fond of them, indeed. You can have their society all day and every
day; and yet you could not spare a single hour to come and dine with us
like a rational being. Vivian will think they make a nursery-maid of
you, and I verily believe they do!"
"What does it signify to us what Mr. Vivian thinks? I don't mind being
taken for a nursery-maid at all, if I am only doing my proper work. But
I would have come down, Percival, indeed, I would, if little Jack had
not seemed so fretful and unwell. I am afraid something really is the
matter with his back; he complains so much of pain in it, and cannot
sleep at night. I could not leave him while he was crying and in pain,
could I?"
"What did you do with him?" asked Percival, after a moment's pause.
"I walked up and down the room. He went to sleep in my arms."
"Of course, you tired yourself out with that great, heavy boy!"
"You don't know how light little Jack is; you cannot have taken him in
your arms for a long time, Percival," said she, in a hurt tone; "and I
am very strong. My hands ought to be of some use to me, if my brain is
not."
"Your brain is strong enough, and your will is strong enough for
anything, but your hands----"
"Are they to be useless?"
"Yes, they are to be useless," he said, "and somebody else must work for
you."
"That arrangement would not suit me. I like to work for myself," she
answered, smiling.
They were standing on opposite sides of a small table on which the
portfolio of drawings rested. Percival was holding up one side of the
portfolio, and she was placing the sketches one by one upon each other.
"Do you know what you look like?" said Percival, suddenly. There was a
thrill of pleasurable excitement in his tone, a glow of ardour in his
dark eyes. "You look like a tall, white lily to-night, with your white
dress and your gleaming hair. The pure white of the petals and the
golden heart of the lily have found their match."
"I am recompensed for the trouble I took in changing my dress this
evening," said Elizabeth, glancing down at it complacently. "I did not
expect that it would bring me so poetic a compliment. Thank you,
Percival."
"'Consider the lilies; they toil not, neither do they spin,'" quoted
Percival, recklessly. "Why should you toil and spin?--a more beautiful
lily than any one of them. If Solomon in all his glory was not equal to
those Judean lilies, then I may safely say that the Queen of Sheba would
be beaten outright by our Queen Elizabeth, with her white dress and her
golden locks!"
"Mrs. Heron would say you were profane," said Elizabeth, tranquilly.
"These comparisons of yours don't please me exactly, Percival; they
always remind me of the flowery leaders in some of the evening papers,
and make me remember that you are a journalist. They have a professional
air."
"A professional air!" repeated Percival, in disgust. He let the lid of
the portfolio fall with a bang upon the table. Several of the sketches
flew wildly over the floor, and Elizabeth turned to him with a
reproachful look, but she had no time to protest, for in that moment he
had seized her hands and drawn her aside with him to a sofa that stood
on one side of the room.
"You shall not answer me in that way," he said, half-irritated,
half-amused, and wholly determined to have his way. "You shall sit down
there and listen to me in a serious spirit, if you can. No, don't shake
your head and look at me so mockingly. It is time that we understood
each other, and I don't mean another night to pass over our heads
without some decision being arrived at. Elizabeth, you must know that
you have my happiness in your hands. I can't live without you. I can't
bear to see you making yourself a slave to everybody, with no one to
love you, no one to work for you and save you from anxiety and care. Let
me work for you, now, dearest; be my wife, and I will see that you have
your proper place, and that you are tended and cared for as a woman
ought to be."
Elizabeth had withdrawn her hands from his; she even turned a little
pale. He fancied that the tears stood in her eyes.
"Oh," she said, "I wish you had not said this to me, Percival."
It was easy for him to slip down from his low seat to a footstool, and
there, on one knee, to look full into her face, and let his handsome,
dark eyes plead for him.
"Why should I not have said it?" he breathed, softly. "Has it not been
the dream of my life for months?--I might almost say for years? I loved
you ever since you first came amongst us, Elizabeth, years ago."
"Did you, indeed?" said Elizabeth. A light of humour showed itself
through the tears that had come into her eyes. An amused, reluctant
smile curved the corners of her mouth. "What, when I was an awkward,
clumsy, ignorant schoolgirl, as I remember your calling me one day after
I had done something exceptionally stupid? And when you played practical
jokes upon me--hung my doll up by its hair, and made me believe that
there was a ghost in the attics--did you care for me then? Oh, no,
Percival, you forget! and probably you exaggerate the amount of your
feeling as much as you do the length of time it has lasted."
"It's no laughing matter, I assure you, Elizabeth," said Percival,
laughing a little himself at these recollections, but looking vexed at
the same time. "I am perfectly serious now, and very much in earnest;
and I can't believe that my stupid jokes, when I was a mere boy, have
had such an effect upon your mind as to prevent you from caring for me
now."
"No," said Elizabeth. "They make no difference; but--I'm very sorry,
Percival--I really don't think that it would do."
"What would not do? what do you mean?" said Percival, frowning.
"This arrangement; this--this--proposition of yours. Nobody would like
it."
"Nobody could object. I have a perfect right to marry if I choose, and
whom I choose. I am independent of my father."
"You could not marry yet, Percival," she said, in rather a chiding tone.
"I could--if you would not mind sharing my poverty with me. If you loved
me, Elizabeth, you would not mind."
"I am afraid I do not love you--in that way," said Elizabeth,
meditatively. "No, it would never do. I never dreamt of such a thing."
"Nobody expects you to have dreamt of it," rejoined Percival, with a
short laugh. "The dreaming can be left to me. The question is rather
whether you will think of it now--consider it a little, I mean. It seems
to be a new idea to you--though I must say I wonder that you have not
seen how much I loved you, Elizabeth! I am willing to wait until you
have grown used to it. I cannot believe that you do not care for me! You
would not be so cruel; you must love me a little--just a very little,
Elizabeth."
"Well, I do," said Elizabeth, smiling at his vehemence. "I do love
you--more than a little--as I love you all. You have been so good to me
that I could not help caring for you--in spite of the doll and the ghost
in the attic." Her smile grew gravely mischievous as she finished the
sentence.
"Oh, that is not what I want," cried Percival, starting up from his
lowly position at her feet. "That is not the kind of love that I am
asking for at all."
"I am afraid you will get no other," said Elizabeth, with a ring of
sincerity in her voice that left no room for coquetry. "I am sorry, but
I cannot help it, Percival."
"Your love is not given to anyone else?" he demanded, fiercely.
"You have no right to ask. But if it is a satisfaction to you, I can
assure you that I have never cared for anyone in that way. I do not know
what it means," said Elizabeth, looking directly before her. "I have
never been able to understand."
"Let me make you understand," murmured Percival, his momentary anger
melting before the complete candour of her eyes. "Let me teach you to
love, Elizabeth."
She was silent--irresolute, as it appeared to him.
"You would learn very easily," said he. "Try--let me try."
"I don't think I could be taught," she answered, slowly. "And really I
am not sure that I care to learn."
"That is simply because you do not know your own heart," said Percival,
dogmatically. "Trust me, and wait awhile. I will have no answer now,
Elizabeth. I will ask you again."
"And suppose my answer is the same?"
"It won't be the same," said Percival, in a masterful sort of way. "You
will understand by-and-bye."
She did not see the fire in his eyes, nor the look of passionate
yearning that crossed his face as he stood beside her, or she would
scarcely have been surprised when he bent down suddenly and pressed his
lips to her forehead. She started to her feet, colouring vividly and
angrily. "How dare you, Percival!----" she began. But she could not
finish the sentence. Kitty called her from the other room. Kitty's face
appeared; and the curtain was drawn aside by an unseen hand with a great
clatter of rings upon the pole.
"Where have you been all this time?" said she. "Isabel wants you,
Lizzie. Percival, Mr. Vivian talks of going."
Elizabeth vanished through the curtain. Percival had not even time to
breathe into her ear the "Forgive me" with which he meant to propitiate
her. He was not very penitent for his offence. He thought that he was
sure of Elizabeth's pardon, because he thought himself sure of
Elizabeth's love. But, as a matter of fact, that stolen kiss did not at
all advance his cause with Elizabeth Murray.
He did not see her again that night--a fact which sent him back to his
lodging in an ill-satisfied frame of mind. He and Vivian shared a
sitting-room between them; and, on their return from Mr. Heron's, they
disposed themselves for their usual smoke and chat. But neither of them
seemed inclined for conversation. Rupert lay back in a long
lounging-chair; Percival turned over the leaves of a new publication
which had been sent to him for review, and uttered disparaging comments
upon it from time to time.
"I hope all critics are not so hypercritical as you are," said Vivian at
last, when the volume had finally been tossed to the other end of the
room with an exclamation of disgust.
"Pah! why will people write such abominable stuff?" said Percival.
"Reach me down that volume of Bacon's Essays behind you; I must have
something to take the taste out of my mouth before I begin to write."
Vivian handed him the book, and watched him with some interest as he
read. The frown died away from his forehead, and the mouth gradually
assumed a gentler expression before he had turned the first page. In
five minutes he was so much absorbed that he did not hear the question
which Vivian addressed to him.
"What position," said Rupert, deliberately, "does Miss Murray hold in
your father's house?"
"Eh? What? What position?" Away went Percival's book to the floor; he
raised himself in his chair, and began to light his pipe, which had gone
out. "What do you mean?" he said.
"Is she a ward of your father's? Is she a relation of yours?"
"Yes, of course, she is," said Percival, rather resentfully. "She is a
cousin. Let me see. Her father, Gordon Murray, was my mother's brother.
She is my first cousin. And Cinderella in general to the household," he
added, grimly.
"Oh, Gordon Murray was her father? So I supposed. Then if poor Richard
Luttrell had not died I suppose she would have been a sort of connection
of my sister's. I remember Angela wondered whether Gordon Murray had
left any family."
"Why?"
"Why? You know the degree of relationship and the terms of the will made
by Mrs. Luttrell's father, don't you?"
"Not I."
"Gordon Murray--this Miss Murray's father--was next heir after the two
Luttrells, if they died childless. Of course, Brian is still living; but
if he died, Miss Murray would inherit, I understand."
"There's not much chance," said Percival, lightly.
"Not much," responded Vivian.
They were interrupted by a knock at the door. The landlady, with many
apologies, brought them a telegram which had been left at the house
during their absence, and which she had forgotten to deliver. It was
addressed to Vivian, who tore it open, read it twice, and then passed it
on to Percival without a word.
It was from Angela Vivian, and contained these words only--
"Brian Luttrell is dead."