A DISAPPOINTED LOVER.
Laura Malcolm remained at the Manor-house. Mr. Clare, the vicar, had
persuaded her to relinquish her idea of going into lodgings in the
village. It would be a pity to abandon the good old house, he argued. A
house left to the care of servants must always suffer some decay; and
this house was full of art treasures, objects of interest and of price
which hitherto had been in Laura’s charge. Why should she not stay in
the home of her girlhood till it was decided whether she was to rule
there as mistress, or to abandon it for ever?
‘Your remaining here will not compromise your freedom of choice,’ said
Mr. Clare kindly, ‘if you find before the end of the year that you
cannot make up your mind to accept John Treverton as a husband.’
‘He may not ask me,’ interjected Laura, with a curious smile.
‘Oh yes, he will. He will come to you in good time to offer you his
heart and hand, you may be sure, my dear. It cannot be a difficult
thing for any young man to fall in love with such a girl as you, and
it seems to me that this John Treverton is very worthy of any woman’s
regard. I see no reason why your marriage should not be a love match
on both sides, in spite of my old friend’s eccentric will.’
‘I’m afraid that can never be,’ answered Laura, with a sigh. ‘Mr.
Treverton will never be able to think of me as he might of any other
woman. I must always seem to him an obstacle to his freedom and his
happiness. He is constrained to assume an affection for me, or to
surrender a splendid fortune. If he is mercenary he will not hesitate.
He will take the fortune and me, and I shall despise him for his
readiness to accept a wife chosen for him by another. No, dear Mr.
Clare, there is no possibility of happiness for John Treverton and me.’
‘My dear child, if you are convinced that you cannot be happy in this
marriage, you are free on your part to refuse him,’ said the vicar.
Laura’s pale cheek crimsoned.
‘That would be to doom him to poverty, and to frustrate his cousin’s
wish,’ she answered, falteringly. ‘I should hate myself if I could be
so selfish as to do that.’
‘Then, my dear girl, you must resign yourself to the alternative:
and if John Treverton and you are not as passionately in love as the
young people who defy their parents and run away to Gretna Green to
be married--or did when I was a young man--you may at least enjoy a
sober kind of happiness, and get on as well together as the princes and
princesses whose marriages are arranged by cabinet councils and foreign
powers.’
‘Do you know anything about Mr. Treverton?’ asked Laura, thoughtfully.
‘Very little. He is an only son--an only child, I believe. His father
and mother died while he was a boy, and he became a ward in Chancery.
He had a nice little property when he came of age, and ran through
it nicely, after the manner of idle young men without friends to
advise and guide them. He began his career in the army, but sold out
after he had spent his money. I have no idea what he has been doing
since--living by his wits, I’m afraid.’
So it was settled that Laura was to remain at the Manor-house, with
so many of the old servants as would suffice to keep things in good
order--the servants to be paid and fed at the expense of the estate,
Laura to maintain herself out of her own modest income. She was a young
lady of particularly independent temper, and upon this point she was
resolute.
‘The money is nobody’s money at present,’ she said. ‘I will not touch a
penny of it.’
Sad as were the associations of the house, dreary as was the blank left
in the familiar rooms by the absence of one revered figure, dismal as
was the silence which that voice could never break again, Laura was
better pleased to stay in her old home than she would have been to
leave it. Even the mute, lifeless things among which she had lived so
long had some part of her love, some hold upon her heart. She would
have felt herself a waif and stray in a stranger’s house. Here she felt
always at home. If the rooms were haunted by the shadow of the dead,
the ghost was a friendly one, and looked upon her with loving eyes. She
had never thwarted, or neglected, or wronged her adopted father. There
was no remorse mingled with her grief. She thought of him with deepest
sadness, but without pain.
The vicar was anxious that Miss Malcolm should have a companion. There
were plenty of homeless young women--women of spotless reputation and
genteel connections--who would no doubt have been delighted to be
her unsalaried companion, for the sake of a pleasant home. But Laura
declared that she wanted no companion.
‘You must think me very empty-minded if you suppose I cannot endure
my life without a young woman of the same age to sit opposite me and
answer to all my idle fancies like an echo, or to walk out with me and
help me admire the landscape, or to advise me what I should order for
dinner,’ she said. ‘No, dear Mr. Clare, I want no companion, except
Celia now and then. You will let her come and see me very often, won’t
you?’
‘As often as you like, or as often as she can be spared from her parish
work,’ answered the vicar.
‘Ah, you are all such hard workers at the Vicarage,’ exclaimed Laura.
‘Some of us work hard enough, I believe,’ answered Mr. Clare, with a
sigh. ‘I wish my son could make up his mind to work a little harder.’
‘That will come in good time.’
‘I hope so, but I am almost tired of waiting for that good time.’
‘He is clever and artistic,’ said Laura.
‘His cleverness allowed him to leave the University without a degree,
and his artistic faculties will never help him to a living,’ answered
the vicar, bitterly.
This only son of the vicar’s was a thorn in his side. Edward Clare was
everybody’s favourite, and nobody’s enemy but his own. That was what
the village said of him. He was good-looking, clever, agreeable, but he
had no ballast. He was a feather to be blown by every puff of wind. He
had never been able to discover the work which he had been sent into
the world to do, but he had speedily found out the work for which he
was not adapted. At the University he discovered that the curriculum of
an English classical education was not fitted to the peculiar cast of
his mind. How much better he could have done at Heidelberg or Bonn! But
when he made this discovery he had wasted three years at Oxford, and
had cost his father something very close to a thousand pounds.
The vicar wanted his only son to go into the Church, and Edward had
been educated with that view, but after failing to get his degree,
Edward found out that he had a conscientious repugnance to the Church.
His opinions were too broad.
‘A man who admires Ernest Renan as warmly as I do has no right to be a
parson,’ said Edward, with agreeable frankness; so poor Mr. Clare had
to submit to the disappointment of his most cherished hopes, because
his son admired Renan.
After having made up his mind upon this point Edward stayed at home,
read a good deal in a desultory way, wrote a little, sketched a little
in fine weather, fished, shot, and dawdled away life in the pleasantest
manner, finding his days never so sweet as when they were spent at the
Manor-house.
Jasper Treverton had warmly esteemed the vicar, and he had liked the
son for the father’s sake. Edward had always been welcome at the
Manor-house while the old man lived, and as Edward’s sister was Laura
Malcolm’s chosen friend, it was natural that the Oxonian should be very
often in Laura’s society.
But now his visits to the good old house where he had felt himself so
completely at home, the library in which he had read, the garden in
whose formal walks he had delighted to smoke, were suddenly restricted.
Miss Malcolm had given him to understand, through his sister, that she
considered herself no longer at liberty to receive him. Her friendship
for him was in no wise lessened, but it would not do for him to drop in
at all hours, or to spend half his afternoons in the library, as in the
days that were gone.
‘I don’t see why there should be such restrictions among old friends,’
said Edward, with an injured air. ‘Laura and I are like sister and
brother.’
‘Very likely, Ned, but then, you see, everybody knows you and Laura are
not brother and sister, and I think there are a good many people in
Hazlehurst who think that you feel something a good deal stronger than
brotherly regard for her. If she and I were drowning, I know which of
us you would try to save.’
‘_You_ can swim,’ growled Edward, remembering Talleyrand’s famous
answer. ‘Well, I suppose I must submit to fate. Miss Malcolm no doubt
considers herself engaged to the mysterious heir, who does not seem
in any hurry to begin his courtship. If old Treverton had bequeathed
such a chance to me I should have seized upon my opportunity without an
instant’s hesitation.’
‘I admire the delicacy which prompts Mr. Treverton to keep in the
background just at first,’ said Celia.
‘How do you know that it is delicacy which restrains him,’ exclaimed
Edward. ‘How do you know that it is not some entanglement--some
degrading connection, perhaps--or at any rate a previous engagement of
some kind which ties his hands, and hinders his advancement with Laura?
No man, unless so constrained, would be besotted enough to neglect such
an opportunity, or to hazard his chances of success. If he offends
Laura, she is just the kind of girl to refuse him, fortune and all.’
‘I don’t think she would do that, except upon very serious grounds,’
said Celia. ‘Laura has a strong sense of duty, and she believes it her
duty to her adopted father to assist in carrying out his wishes. I
believe she would sacrifice her own inclination to that duty.’
‘That’s going far,’ said Edward, discontentedly. ‘I begin to think that
she has fallen in love with this fellow, meteoric as was his appearance
here.’
‘He stayed nearly a fortnight,’ remarked Celia, ‘and Laura saw him
several times. I don’t mean to say that she is in love with him. She
has too much common sense to fall in love in that rapid way--but I am
sure she does not dislike him.’
‘Oh, when love begins common sense ends. I dare say she is in love with
him. Hasn’t she told you as much now, Celia? Girls like to talk about
such things.’
‘What do you know about girls?’
‘Oh, nothing. I’ve got a sister who is one of the breed; a model always
at hand to draw from. Come, now, Celia, be sisterly for once in your
life. What has Laura told you about John Treverton?’
‘Nothing. She is particularly reserved upon the subject. I know that it
is a painful one for her, and I rarely approach it.’
‘Well, he is a lucky dog. I never hated a fellow so much. I have an
instinctive idea that he is a scoundrel.’
‘Are not instinctive ideas convictions that jump with our own
inclinations?’ speculated Celia, philosophically. ‘I am heartily sorry
for you, Ned dear, for I know you are fond of Laura, and it does seem
hard to have her willed away from you like this. But seriously now,
would you be pleased to marry her with no better portion than her own
little income?’
‘Six thousand in Consols,’ said Edward, meditatively. ‘That would not
go very far with a young man and woman of refined tastes. We might
love each other ever so dearly, and be ever so happy together, but
I’m afraid we should starve, Celia, and that our children’s only
inheritance would be their legal claim on their own parish. I thought
that wicked old man would leave her handsomely provided for.’
‘You had no right to think that, knowing that he had pledged himself to
leave her nothing.’
‘Oh, there would always have been a way of evading that. I call his
will absolutely shameful--to force a high-spirited girl to take a
husband of his choosing--a fellow whom he had never seen when he made
the stipulation.’
‘He took care to see young Mr. Treverton before he died. I dare say if
he had not been favourably impressed he would have altered his will at
the last moment.’
This conversation took place nearly four months after Jasper
Treverton’s death. The hedgerows were growing green; the birds had
eaten the last of the crocuses; the violets were all in bloom in
the shrubbery borders, the grass grew fast enough to require weekly
shearing, and the Manor-house garden was a pleasant place to walk in,
full of budding trees and opening blossoms, and the songs of birds,
telling each other rapturously that spring had come in earnest, and
that winter days and a stony-hearted, frost-bound earth were things of
the past.
Edward Clare believed himself the most ill-used of young men. He was
good-looking--nay, according to the general judgment of his particular
circle, remarkably handsome; he was cleverer and more accomplished than
most young men of his age and standing. If he had done nothing as yet
to distinguish himself it was not for lack of talent, he told himself
complacently. It was only because he had never yet put his shoulder to
the wheel. He did not consider that duty strongly called upon every man
to do his uttermost part in the labour of moving that mighty wheel. A
clever young man, like himself, might stand on one side and watch other
fellows toiling at the job, knowing that he could do it ever so much
better if he only cared to try.
Four years ago, when he first went to Oxford, he had made up his mind
that he was to be Laura Malcolm’s husband. Of course Jasper Treverton
would leave her a handsome fortune, most likely his entire estate.
There must be a dozen ways of evading that ridiculous oath. The old man
might make over his property to Laura by deed of gift. He might leave
it to trustees for her use and benefit. In some manner or other she
would be his heiress. Edward felt very sure of that, seeing as he did
Jasper’s deep love of his adopted daughter. So when he found himself
falling in love with Laura’s sweet face and winning ways, the young
Oxonian made no struggle against Cupid, the mighty conqueror. To fall
in love with Laura was the high road to fortune, infinitely better than
Church or Bar. But he was in no hurry to declare himself--he was not an
impulsive young man; slow and cautious rather. To make Laura an offer
and be rejected would mean banishment from her society. He thought she
liked him, but he wanted to be very sure as to the strength of her
feelings before he declared himself her lover. His position as her
friend was too advantageous to be lightly hazarded.