Les caracteres faibles ne montrent de la decision que
quand il s'agit de faire un sottise.--DANIEL DARC.
A week or two after the news of Michael's proved innocence had convulsed
Hampshire, and before Michael and Wentworth had returned to Barford,
Aunt Aggie might have been seen on a fine May afternoon walking slowly
towards "The Towers." She had let her cottage at Saundersfoot for an
unusually long period, and was marking time with the Blores. Whatever
Aunt Mary's faults might be she was always ready to help her sister in
this practical manner, when Aunt Aggie was anxious to add to the small,
feebly frittered away income, on which her muddled, impecunious
existence depended.
In spite of the most pertinent remarks to the contrary from her sister,
Aunt Aggie believed herself to be an unsurpassed manager of restricted
means. She constantly advised young married couples as to the judicious
expenditure of money, and pressed on Magdalen the necessity of
retrenching in exasperating directions, namely, where a minute economy
entailed a colossal inconvenience.
In her imagination she saw herself continually consulted, depended on,
strenuously implored to give her opinion on matters of the utmost
delicacy, fervently blessed for her powerful spiritual assistance of
souls in jeopardy, and always gracefully attributing the marvellous
results of her intervention to a Higher Power of which she was but the
unworthy channel.
These imaginary scenes were the unfailing solace of Aunt Aggie's
somewhat colourless life, and the consciousness of them in the
background gave her a certain meek and even patient self-importance, the
basis of which was hidden from Lady Blore.
Aunt Aggie had also another perennial source of chastened happiness in
recalling the romance of her youth, those halcyon days before the
Archdeacon had been unsuccessfully harpooned and put to flight by Lady
Blore.
Her clerical love affair perfumed her conversation, as a knife which has
once associated with an onion inevitably reveals, even in estrangement,
that bygone intimacy.
No one could breathe the word Margate without Aunt Aggie remarking that
she had had a dear friend who had evinced a great partiality for
Margate. Were the clergy mentioned in her presence with the scant
respect with which the ministry and other secular bodies have to put up,
Aunt Aggie vibrated with indignation. _She_ had known men of the highest
talents holding preferment in the Church.
But in her imagination her affair of the heart had passed beyond
reminiscence. Far from being buried in the past it remained the chief
factor in her life, colouring and shaping the whole of her future.
Aunt Aggie could at any moment dip into a kind of sequel to that early
history. In the sequel the Archdeacon's wife was, of course, to die;
but, owing to circumstances which Aunt Aggie had not yet thoroughly
worked out, that unhappy lady was first to undergo tortures in some
remote locality, nursed devotedly--poor thing--by Aunt Aggie. The result
of her ministrations was never in doubt from the first. The Archdeacon's
wife was, of course, to succumb, calling down blessings on the devoted
stranger at her bedside, with the enigmatical smile which spoke of some
sacred sorrow.
Aunt Aggie had shed many delicious tears over that deathbed scene, and
the chastened grief of the saintly Archdeacon, quite overshadowed by his
boundless gratitude to herself. At this crisis his overwhelming
desolation wrung from him--with gross disloyalty to the newly dead--a
few disjointed sentences which revealed only too clearly how unsuited to
him his wife had been, how little she had understood him, how lonely his
wedded life had been. She had evidently been one of those tall thin
maypoles of women who have but little tenderness in them.
Aunt Aggie, after giving the children a sample of what a real mother
could be, was to retire to her little home at Saundersfoot. Here the
real joy of the situation was to begin.
After a decent interval the Archdeacon was to be constantly visiting
Saundersfoot, was to be observed visiting Aunt Aggie at Saundersfoot,
singling her out from among the numerous spinsters of that
watering-place to make her the object of reverent attentions. Others
younger and better looking than Aunt Aggie--especially Miss Barnett, the
doctor's sister, who, it was whispered, wore an artificial cushion from
Douglas's under her hair--were to set their caps or cushions at the
dignified Archdeacon, seen pacing the sands. But it was all of no avail.
He had eyes for no one but the gentle, retiring Miss Bellairs. Aunt
Aggie was to become the object of burning jealousy and detraction on the
part of the female--that is to say almost the whole--population of
Saundersfoot. But she herself, while envious calumny raged round her,
went on her way calm and grave as ever.
But the proposal long warded off could not be parried forever. The
frenzied passion of the Archdeacon was at last not to be restrained.
Aunt Aggie had in her mind a set of proposals, all good, out of which it
became harder and harder as time went on to select one. But her answer
was ever the same, a pained but firm refusal. She was happy in her lot.
She was greatly needed where she was. She did not wish to marry. She was
no longer young. This last reason was an enormous concession to realism
on Aunt Aggie's part.
Then came the cream of the whole story. The Archdeacon was to pine
secretly. His work was to be neglected. He was to be threatened with a
nervous breakdown. He was to confide his sorrow to the paternal bosom of
his Bishop. When Aunt Aggie was in her normal state it was the Bishop in
whom the Archdeacon was to confide. But sometimes in the evenings after
a glass of cowslip wine, her imagination took a bolder flight. The
Archbishop himself was to be the confidant of the distracted cleric.
This presented no real difficulty after the first moment, for the
Archbishop was in the flower of his age--the Archdeacon's age--and
might easily have been at school with him. Aunt Aggie had once seen
Lambeth from a cab window as she passed over Westminster Bridge. Under
that historic tower she heard the first subject of the King urge his
brother prelate to take heart, promising assistance.
We will pass over Aunt Aggie's amazed reception of a cordial invitation
to stay at Lambeth, her hesitating acceptance, her arrival, the
magnificent banquet, crowded with ministers and bishops, the fact that
the Archbishop himself singled her out as the object of courtly though
somewhat anxious attentions. And then after dinner Aunt Aggie, in her
plum-coloured satin, was to be unconsciously but skilfully withdrawn
from the glittering throng by the Archbishop. And in his study he was to
make a great, a fervent appeal to her. Aunt Aggie had bought a
photograph of him in order to deaden the shock of this moment. But
nevertheless whenever she reached this point she was always really
frightened. Her hands really trembled. The Archbishop was to ask her
with tempered indignation how much longer she intended to nullify the
labours of his ablest colleague, how much longer her selfish
predilection for celibacy was to wreck the life and paralyse the powers
of a broken-hearted man. Her cruelty was placed before her in glowing
colours. She was observed to waver, to falter. A tear was seen in spite
of her marvellous self-control to course down her cheek. The eye of an
Archbishop misses nothing. With an ejaculation of profound relief he
beckons to a distant figure which appears in a doorway. The Archdeacon
in his evening gaiters rushes in. Aunt Aggie gives way!
After this final feat of the imagination Aunt Aggie generally felt so
worn out by emotion that food was absolutely necessary to her.
On this occasion she sat down quivering on a heap of stones by the
roadside, and drew forth a biscuit which she had secreted at luncheon at
the Vicarage an hour before. It must be owned that she was fond of food,
though not in the same way that most of us are addicted to it. She liked
eating buns out of paper bags at odd moments in the open air, and
nibbling a sponge cake half forgotten and suddenly found in a drawer
with her handkerchiefs. But in justice to her it ought to be added that
she seemed only to care for the kind of provender which yielded the
largest increment in the way of crumbs.
As she sat and nibbled an uneasy recollection stole across her mind.
This recollection was becoming more disconcerting day by day. And yet
she had acted for the best. That fact did not insure to her immunity
from blame on the part of that awful personage, her sister Mary. Good
intentions had never yet received their due as extenuating circumstances
in Lady Blore's sweeping judgments.
If a certain secret chivalrous action of Aunt Aggie's "turned out
wrong," she knew well the intonation in which Lady Blore would ask her
why she had been such a fool. Nevertheless she, Aunt Aggie, had only
done with consummate tact what Mary herself had contemplated doing in
her rough way, and had been persuaded not to do.
Some weeks ago Aunt Aggie had concocted in secret, recopied about twenty
times, and had finally despatched a letter to Lord Lossiemouth anent
Magdalen. It had been the boldest action of her life. At first, even
after she had seen that she was the only person able to deal adequately
with so delicate a matter, she had feared that she would not have the
strength to perform her mission. But strength had apparently been lent
to her for the occasion. The letter had actually been posted.
The moment it was irrevocably gone Aunt Aggie fell into a panic.
Supposing it failed in its object, and that Algernon or Mary discovered
what she had done. She could not even face such a possibility. But then,
supposing on the other hand that her missive united two loving,
estranged hearts, and that dear Magdalen owed her happiness--and a
titled happiness--to her. Then Algernon and Mary would be forced to
admit that she had shown a courage and devotion greater than theirs. "We
only talked, you acted," they would both say, and she would thenceforth
be recognised in her true light, as an incomparable counsellor, and a
judicious, far-seeing friend.
But three weeks had elapsed since Aunt Aggie, stealing out alone, had
dropped that momentous letter into the village post-box. Nothing had
happened. She had not even received an answer. She was becoming
frightened and anxious. _Was he secretly married?_ She wished she had
thought of that possibility before she posted the letter.
Many simple-minded men of disengaged affections, cheerfully pursuing
their virtuous avocations, would be thunderstruck if they knew the dark
suspicions harboured against them in spinster bosoms, that they are
concealing some discreditable matrimonial secret, which alone can
account for their--well--their _extraordinary_ behaviour in not coming
forward!
It has actually been said that real life is not always like a novel.
This feebly false assertion was disproved forever in Aunt Aggie's mind
by the sight of a dog-cart coming rapidly toward her from the direction
of Lostford. She glanced indifferently at it as it approached, and then
her pale eyes became glued to it. In the dog-cart sat Everard Constable,
now Lord Lossiemouth. She had not seen him for fifteen years, but
nevertheless she recognised him instantly. There was no doubt it was he:
thickened and coarsened, but still he. He whirled past leaning back in
his seat, looking neither to right nor left.
Aunt Aggie's heart gave a thump that nearly upset her equilibrium. The
biscuit dropped onto the road, with a general upheaval of crumbs from
all parts of her agitated person.
Lord Lossiemouth!
Going in the direction of Priesthope!
Her letter!
She nearly swooned with joy and pride.
Now Mary and Algernon, now everyone would believe in her.
She raised herself from the heap of stones and with trembling legs
hurried towards "The Towers." She must tell Mary at once.
She found Lady Blore seated at her writing-table in the drawing-room,
which was choked by the eastern and Japanese impedimenta, the draperies,
the krises, the metal bowls, the ivory boxes, which an Indian career
seems so inevitably to entail. Sir John had brought back crates of the
kind of foreign _bric-a-brac_ cheap imitations of which throng London
shop windows. The little entrance hall was stuffy with skins. Horned
skulls garnished the walls, pleading silently for decent burial. Even
the rugs had once been bears.
Aunt Mary was bored with her drawing-room, which looked like a stall at
a bazaar, but, to her credit be it said, that she had never made any
change in it, except to remove a brass idol from the writing-table, at
which she was at this moment sitting.
By one of those sudden instincts which make people like Aunt Aggie the
despair of those with whom they live, she instantaneously conceived the
idea (for no reason except that she was thinking of her own letter) that
her sister was at that moment writing to Lord Lossiemouth.
She "had a feeling" that this was the case. The feeling became in a
second a rooted conviction. The butler came in, arranged an
uncomfortable Indian table, placed a brass tray with tea things on it
before Lady Blore, and asked if there were any more letters for the
post. Aunt Mary was in the act of giving him one when Aunt Aggie
intervened.
"Don't," she said in wild agitation, clasping her hands. "Mary, I beg of
you, I conjure you not to post that letter."
"Why not? I have resolved to give him another chance."
"Keep it back one post, I implore you. I have a reason."
Aunt Mary looked attentively at her sister, and took back the letter.
It was not like her to give way. She seemed less overbearing than usual.
"Well? Why not employ him again?" she said wearily. "The Irish butter is
the cheapest after all. Why do you make such a point of my leaving him."
Aunt Aggie was entirely nonplussed. A thousand similar experiences had
never lessened the shock of the discrepancy between what she expected
her sister to say, and what she actually said.
"I thought, I thought," she stammered, "I felt sure that, I see now I
was wrong, but I had a conviction that that letter--you see I knew you
were thinking of writing--was to, was in short to Lord Lossiemouth."
Aunt Mary's face became magenta colour.
"To Lord Lossiemouth! Why should you think I was writing to him?"
"Well, I could not help knowing--don't you remember how you discussed
the subject with me and dear Magdalen some weeks ago?--that the subject
of a judicious and dignified letter was in your mind."
"I was careful not to mention the subject to Magdalen in your presence.
I see now that you must have listened outside the door."
Aunt Aggie experienced a second shock. How did Mary always spy out these
things?
"I can't think," continued Lady Blore, "how you can lower yourself to
eavesdrop in the way you do; and if you must do these underhand actions,
why you don't conceal them better. When you read a private letter of
mine the other day, because I inadvertently left it for a moment on my
writing-table----"
"You always say you lock up your private letters, you do, indeed, Mary.
_Be_ fair. I could not _tell_ it was private."
"You would have been wiser not to have alluded next day to its contents.
If you had not done so I might not have known you had read it."
Aunt Aggie burst into tears.
"The truth is I am not secretive like you, Mary," she said between her
sobs. "It is as natural to me to be open and trustful with those I love
as it is for you to be the reverse. Whatever I do you think wrong. But
perhaps some day--and that before long--you will be forced to admit----"
At this moment the drawing-room door opened and Colonel Bellairs came
in. He often came to tea at "The Towers," though the meeting seldom
passed off without a sharp brush with Lady Blore.
"Draw up that chair, Algernon," said that lady, with grim but instant
cordiality. "The tea will be ready in a moment."
Colonel Bellairs looked more floridly handsome than usual. He was
evidently in a state of supreme self-satisfaction.
"Fine day," he said, "for the time of year."
At this moment a small parchment face, and bent figure leaning on a
stick, might have been seen peering in through the closed windows. Sir
John looked dispassionately at the family group, and shook his head.
Then he hobbled back to his chair under the cedar. Tea was evidently a
meal to be dispensed with this afternoon.
"I have news for you," said Colonel Bellairs, expanding his chest.
Lady Blore held the tea-pot suspended.
"Everard Constable--Lossiemouth, I should say--is at this moment sitting
in the drawing-room at Priesthope, alone with Magdalen."
Colonel Bellairs was not disappointed in the effect of his words on his
audience.
Aunt Aggie trembled and looked proudly guilty. Lady Blore put down the
tea-pot suddenly, and said, "Thank God!"
Aunt Aggie, her mouth open to speak, began to choke. She looked
piteously from her brother to her sister, struggling in vain to
articulate. It was too cruel that she should be bereft of speech at this
supreme moment.
Lady Blore turned putty pale and magenta colour alternately. A great
relief softened her hard face. There were actually tears in her eyes.
Then she said majestically, but with a tremor in her metallic voice:
"I am not surprised."
"It is my doing," shrieked Aunt Aggie, in the strangled squeak in which
we always explain that it is "only a crumb" gone wrong. And she relapsed
into a fresh spasm.
Lady Blore sternly bade her be silent. Colonel Bellairs was slightly
annoyed.
"It is no use, Mary, your saying you are not surprised, for you are," he
said judicially, "and really," relapsing into complacency, "so am I in a
way. It is fifteen years since I forbade Everard the house. I fear that
I was unduly harsh. I dismissed him, so it was for me to recall him. Now
that the cat is out of the bag I don't mind telling you that I wrote to
him a few weeks ago."
"You--wrote--to--him!" said Aunt Mary in great agitation. "Algernon, you
sent me word by Magdalen that you refused to meddle in the matter."
"I daresay I did. I may not have liked the tone you took about it, Mary.
You are so devilish high-handed. In short, I don't mind telling you that
I was annoyed by your interference in the matter. But after mature
consideration--I turned the matter over in my mind--I was not the least
influenced by your long-winded epistle--that in fact rather put me off
than otherwise--still after a time I wrote a manly, straightforward
letter to Everard, not blinking the facts, and I told him that if his
feelings were unchanged--mark that--as I had reason to believe
Magdalen's were--he was at liberty to come to Priesthope and resume
cordial relations with us all. You observe that I only asked him to come
if his feelings were unchanged. _He is there now._"
It would be impossible to describe the varying emotions which devastated
Lady Blore, as her brother made his announcement. Her hands trembled so
much that she was obliged to give up any pretence of holding her cup. It
chattered against its saucer.
"When did you write?" she asked at last.
"About three weeks ago."
Aunt Mary seemed to make a mental calculation.
"It is my doing. I wrote a month ago," gasped Aunt Aggie. "Algernon, you
must not take the credit of it. I waited till you and Mary had decided
not to write--you know, Mary, you told Magdalen you would not--and
then--and then--I could not stand by and see that dear child's happiness
slip away for want of one bold word, one brave friend to say for her
what she could not say for herself,--I have seen so many lives wrecked
for want of a sympathetic hand to draw two severed hearts
together,--that I wrote. I wrote a month ago. A week before you did."
"I might have known you would do some folly," said Colonel Bellairs with
contempt. "I am glad this did not come to my ears earlier, or I should
have been very angry. It was most unsuitable, most undignified, that you
and I should both write. But," it was evidently impossible for him to be
seriously annoyed by anything on this particular afternoon, "all's well
that ends well. We will say no more about it, Aggie. Don't cry. You
can't help being a fool. But don't do anything of that kind, or of any
kind again. I might not be so easy going next time."
Lady Blore drank down a large cup of tea. Her black silk bosom heaved.
Contrary to all precedent she did not turn on her quaking sister.
"Where are Fay and Bessie?" she asked.
"Fay is spending the afternoon with the Carters, and Bessie is out
somewhere, I don't know where. But I saw her start after luncheon."
"How fortunate! Then you knew he was coming?"
"Yes. I had a telegram from him this morning saying he was in the
neighbourhood, and would come over this afternoon."
"Of course you warned Magdalen?"
"Not I. I knew better than that. She has a cold, so I knew she could not
go out. So directly I had seen him drive up I came off here. I did not
think I was particularly wanted at home. Two is company and three's
none."
"Oh, Algernon, what tact! Most men would never have thought of that,"
said Aunt Aggie.
"Have another cup, Algernon," said Lady Blore graciously.
Colonel Bellairs stroked his moustache. He had another cause, a secret
one, for self-complacency. At last, after many rebuffs from charming
women, thirty years his junior, he was engaged to be married. Should he
mention it? Was not this a most propitious moment? Yes? No. Perhaps
better not. Another time! The lady had accepted him some weeks ago, but
had expressed altruistic doubts as to whether she could play a mother's
part to daughters as old as herself, whether in short, much as she
craved for their society, _they_ might not feel happier, more
independent in a separate establishment, however modest. It was on a
sudden impulse of what he called "providing for the girls," that Colonel
Bellairs had written to Lord Lossiemouth.
The renewal of his engagement to Magdalen would pave the way to Colonel
Bellairs's marriage. He had already decided that Bessie would live with
Magdalen, who would take her out. Fay had her jointure. But he had a not
unfounded fear that his second nuptials would be regarded with profound
disapproval, even with execration, by his sisters.
Magdalen alone knew about it as yet. She had taken the news, which her
father had feared would crush her to the earth, very tranquilly. She was
a person of more frigid affections than he had supposed. He had already
asked her to break the news to Fay and Bessie. Perhaps it would be
better to let her break it to his sisters too. If he did it himself they
might, at the first moment, say things they might afterwards regret.
Yes, he would leave the announcement to Magdalen.