THWARTED PLANS.
Frank Maynard had by no means forgotten what his friend Prescott had
said to him upon the subject of Alice Heathcote. He had thought it over
constantly and with increasing annoyance, Frank could have been easily
led to do almost anything, but he was one of the worst men in the world
to drive, and this he considered to be an attempt to force him into a
marriage for which he had not the least desire. He was the more annoyed
because he was really very fond of Alice in a cousinly sort of way, and
he felt that he could never again be upon the same pleasant footing with
her as before. Had he believed for an instant that Alice regarded him in
any other light than that in which he thought of her, he might have
acted differently: but Frank had not the least personal vanity, and it
never entered his mind that Alice ever thought of him except as a sort
of brother. Altogether it was very unpleasant, and he consequently
stayed several days away from Lowndes Square, instead of paying his
almost daily visit. At last he felt that it would seem strange if he did
not go, and so started with an uncomfortable feeling, and a dogged
resolution that if he had the least opportunity he would enlighten his
uncle as to what his own views upon the subject were; knowing Captain
Bradshaw’s peppery disposition, however, he had no doubt that he would
be exceedingly irritated at finding his wishes thwarted in a matter so
very near his heart. On arriving at Lowndes Square he found his uncle
alone in the drawing-room. It was a large room, with folding-doors.
These on ordinary occasions stood open, but in cold weather were kept
closed, as Captain Bradshaw said the large room made him cold. Alice, on
her part, liked the arrangement, as the back drawing-room made a sort of
snuggery, where she could work or paint undisturbed by visitors. In the
front room Frank found his uncle.
“Well, Frank, I thought you were lost. Where have you been all this
time? It is nearly a week since you were here.”
Frank said, rather confusedly, that he had been a good deal engaged.
“Nonsense, engaged! You may be out of an evening, but you could surely
manage to run down some time in the day to see us.”
Frank knew that this was one of Captain Bradshaw’s weak points; that he
liked attention, and could bear anything better than being neglected; so
he said that he was sorry he had let so many days pass without calling,
but would come oftener in future.
“That is right, Frank,” Captain Bradshaw said, mollified. “You know we
don’t see many visitors here, and you brighten us up. It is not for
myself, but for Alice’s sake, that I like you to come down often. You
ought to be more attentive there.”
Frank thought that this was a good opportunity to express his opinion
upon that point, and he said, rather coldly;—
“I really do not see, uncle, why I should be specially attentive to
Alice. I do not think it likely that she interests herself in the
slightest degree as to my comings and goings.”
Now Captain Bradshaw was just as anxious to have a talk with Frank upon
this subject, as Frank was himself. For years this marriage between his
nephew and niece had been his pet project. He had so thoroughly settled
it in his own mind, that he believed they were equally agreed, and that
although no actual love-making might have taken place, it was a sort of
tacit engagement. He had often during Frank’s absence joked Alice about
him, and the girl’s rising colour and evasive answers more than ever
confirmed him in his opinion. Since Frank’s return, however, things had
not gone quite as he had anticipated. It was not that he doubted in the
least that all was right, for he was a good deal accustomed to have his
own way, and had beside an old-fashioned idea that in these matters
young people should do as their elders recommend. Still Frank was not so
attentive as he ought to have been under the circumstances, and it was
Captain Bradshaw’s opinion that now his nephew had had his fling, the
sooner he settled down and married Alice Heathcote the better. He had
therefore quite made up his mind to intimate his wishes to him upon the
first opportunity.
“I hardly know what you mean, Frank. If I were a young man in your
place, I should think that it would be only right and proper, under the
circumstances, that she should take a good deal of interest in what I
did.”
“What do you mean, uncle, by ‘under the circumstances?’” Frank asked,
shortly.
“Mean, Frank? Damme, I mean, of course, in the relation in which you
stand to each other.”
“I am your nephew, uncle Harry, and Alice is your niece; but I imagine
that the relationship between us is something very slight.”
“Pooh! nonsense, man!” Captain Bradshaw said, irritably; “you know what
I mean; but I will put it plainly for you, if you like. I think it
natural that Alice should feel some interest in your goings-on,
considering that you are some day going to be man and wife.”
“Man and wife, uncle? What are you thinking about? Alice and I have
about as much idea of marrying each other as we have of flying.”
“Damme, sir!” Captain Bradshaw commenced, fiercely; “but no, I will not
get angry;” and then he continued, in a tone of concentrated rage, which
showed far more than any gesticulation could have done, how angry he
was: “Do you mean to tell me, seriously, Frank Maynard, that you do not
intend to marry your cousin, Alice Heathcote?”
“Most distinctly and clearly, uncle, I do not. I like Alice exceedingly.
I love her almost as a sister. She is a dear, good girl; but I have not,
and never had, the slightest intention of marrying her.”
Captain Bradshaw sat down. He could not trust himself to speak for some
time; he knew how passionate he was, and that he should be sure to say
something which he would afterwards wish unsaid. At last, after a great
struggle with himself, he said, quietly;—
“My dear Frank, you have upset me sadly. I always thought it was an
understood thing between you, and I had set my mind on it. For years I
have planned and hoped for this. What objection can you have? It would
make me very happy. You are like a son to me, Alice like a daughter; why
can you not come together?”
“My dear uncle,” Frank said, “there is hardly anything that I would not
do to give you pleasure, but I can hardly change my present feeling for
Alice into the love I should give to a wife. I am sorry, very sorry,
that you are disappointed, but I never dreamed of such a thing. If you
had spoken about it some years sooner, I might have got to look upon it
in that way. But it is too late now.”
“But I always thought you did understand, Frank. I have watched you both
closely, and I thought you loved Alice, and I was quite sure Alice——”
Captain Bradshaw did not finish his sentence, for the folding doors
opened suddenly, and Alice Heathcote herself stood among them. Had not
the light of the winter afternoon faded out,—the room being only lit by
the deep red glow of the fire,—they would have seen that her face was
very pale, and that her cheeks were still wet with tears. However, she
gave them little time to notice this, for she moved hastily forward, and
stood between them with her back to the fire, so that her face was in
deep shadow. Then she said, trying to speak in a playful tone, but in a
voice which shook and wavered a little as she began;—
“My dear uncle, if you gentlemen want to talk secrets you should not
choose a room with folding doors, through which every word can be heard.
Not that I am sorry I heard what you said, in the first place, because I
have a right to have a voice in a matter in which I am so much
interested; and in the second, because I am able to come in and join my
voice to Frank’s in asking you to let us each go our own way. You see,
uncle, we make very good cousins, but we have no inclination to exchange
that relationship for a nearer one. Let us have our own way, uncle: you
cannot make two people love each other who have no natural inclination
that way, and we could not love you better if we were married than we do
separately.”
Captain Bradshaw was silent for a moment in astonishment, and then broke
out;—
“Damme, Alice, if I understand you at all. I always thought——”
Alice stepped forward, and laid her hands upon his shoulder, and
murmured very low, so that only he could hear her, “Hush, uncle, for
pity’s sake!” and then, more loudly, “you see, uncle, unfortunately, we
have been playing at cross-purposes; Frank and I have been caring for
each other in a brotherly and sisterly sort of way, and you, wanting it
to be something else, have all along misinterpreted what you saw. Now,
be a dear, kind uncle, as you always are, and let us have our own way.”
“Just so, uncle,” Frank put in; “you see it has all been a mistake, and
I am very glad that Alice has overheard us, because she has been able to
assure you that she agrees with me.”
Captain Bradshaw was silent for a moment, and then said softly to Alice
as he kissed her cheek;—
“You are a darling, Alice; as for you, sir,” he said, turning fiercely
upon Frank, “my opinion of you, sir, is, that you are a young fool. Yes,
sir, damme, a thorough young fool,” and with this explosion of wrath,
Captain Bradshaw strode out of the room, slamming the door behind him.
Frank gave a long whistle.
“Upon my word, Alice, this is too bad; Uncle Harry is turning a complete
tyrant in his old age. The idea of getting into a passion because you
and I, who have known each other for the last ten years, are not going
to fall in love with each other all at once to please him. It is too
absurd, upon my word.”
“Very absurd, Frank,” Alice said, quietly; “and now I think you had
better go, and I will go down and pacify uncle.”
Frank took up his hat, but paused as he went towards the door, and
said,—
“I hope I did not say anything rude about you, Alice? You know how much
I like you as a sister; but I was obliged to protest against his making
us man and wife, when I know that neither of us had such an idea in our
heads. You are not vexed, Alice?”
“Not vexed at all, Frank,” she said, quietly; “now, please go.”
Frank went downstairs, and out into the chilly evening air, with a
strong feeling of discontent at things in general. The whole thing was,
he assured himself, too ridiculous; still, somehow or other, he did not
feel as pleased as he had expected now that the affair was settled. By
the time he reached the Temple, however, he had recovered his usual good
temper; and going straight up into Prescott’s room, he sat down and gave
his friend an exact account of what had passed. Prescott listened with
great attention. When Frank came to the part where Alice appeared upon
the scene, Prescott almost held his breath to catch every word, and
murmured to himself,—
“Dear Alice; dear, brave girl.”
When Frank had done, he said,—
“Now, Prescott, just give me your opinion of it all; it is too bad, is
it not?”
“Do you want my honest opinion, Frank?”
“Of course I do, Prescott.”
“Very well, Frank; then I will give it you. I agree entirely with your
uncle. You are a fool, and a thorough fool.”
It would have been a very dangerous proceeding for anyone else than
Prescott to have expressed this opinion of Frank to his face. As it was,
Frank looked for a moment as if inclined to be exceedingly angry, but
glancing at Prescott’s thoughtful face as he looked into the fire, his
brow cleared again, and he said,—
“At any rate, old man, I was a fool to ask your opinion, for I might
have known beforehand what it would be. You had as good as said you were
in the plot with uncle, and advised me to marry Alice, so you are put
out by finding that you are ridiculously mistaken. I can only say, that
as you would have doubtless acted so much more wisely in the matter than
I have done, I wish you had been in my place.”
“I wish to heaven that I had been, Frank,” Prescott said, with an
earnest sadness.
“Upon my word, I wish you had, Prescott, for I do believe that you love
Alice; although why, if you do, you should have been urging me on to
marry her, is more than I can make out.”
“I wished you to marry her, Frank, because, above all things, 1 should
want to see her happy.”
“Then why in the name of fortune don’t you marry her, and make her happy
yourself, Prescott?”
“Because she would not let me, Frank.”
“Pooh, nonsense, Prescott! we know very well that she does not care for
me, thank goodness; and, therefore, it is all the more likely that she
may for you.”
Prescott did not care to pursue the subject farther, for he did not wish
his friend to see that he felt any serious interest in the matter.
When Frank Maynard had left the house in Lowndes Square, Alice Heathcote
did not for some time carry out the intention she had expressed of going
downstairs to pacify her uncle. As she sat in her low easy-chair before
the fire, not leaning back, but with her figure bowed, her hands
listlessly clasping each other, and a look of weary hopelessness upon
her face, she needed comfort too much to be able to dispense it. Alice
had suffered a severe shock; one of those shocks which cast a shade over
the whole life. The pain of a rejection—or, perhaps, more properly
speaking, the duration of that pain—is in almost exact proportion to the
amount of hope which was previously entertained. Instances are not
wanting, indeed, where a perfectly hopeless attachment has embittered a
whole existence; but those who so suffered must have been endowed either
with a peculiarly sensitive organisation, or an ill-regulated mind.
It is the same thing in all relations of life. If a man hopes to attain
a large fortune by the death of a relation, or by a fortunate
speculation, or successful invention, he will form plans for the future,
and build greatly upon his expectations. It will be a great shock, then,
when he finds that the money is left to another, or the speculation or
invention turns out a failure; but it will not rankle in his mind, will
not permanently affect his whole career in life as it would do had a
banker, with whom he had placed a similar sum of money, failed. It needs
certainty, or that strong belief which is the same as certainty, to make
the loss of a fortune, or the failure of a love-dream, cast a permanent
blight over a life. Had Alice Heathcote doubted Frank’s feelings for
her, she might still have loved him truly, she might have dreamed happy
dreams, and built fairy castles of love and happiness. But she never
would have quite given way to her love; she would have known that her
dreams were but visions which might never come true, and that her
castles were but baseless fabrics after all. Had she then found out that
Frank did not love her, she would have felt it as a very great pain; she
would have mourned over her vanished dreams, and her ruined castles, but
the wound, deep as it might have been, would have healed over in time,
and left but a slight scar. But she had believed, believed surely, that
her love was returned, and so had given her whole heart, and nursed her
love until it had become a part of her very being. Many things had
assisted to cause this delusion. For so many years, almost ever since
she could remember, she had looked up to him as her protector and
adviser. He had always seemed fond of her, and, having no sister of his
own, had petted and made very much of her; and Frank had a warm kindly
way about his manner and talk which might very well deceive a young girl
into the belief that his affection was love. While he was abroad, too,
he had written so often and so affectionately, that, judging his
feelings by her own, she had believed that he loved her. But most of all
she had been deceived by her uncle’s manner and talk. The little hints
and innuendos he frequently threw out, the way in which he had seemed to
consider that it was a settled thing, had impressed her with the idea
that Frank had spoken to him upon the subject before he left England,
and was only waiting until his return to ask her formally. And so she
had given her whole heart, trustingly and confidingly, and it was now a
terrible shock to find that she had been mistaken after all. She could
not blame him; she knew now that her eyes were opened, that he had never
spoken or looked as a cousin, thrown with her as he had been, might not
have done. Nor could she blame herself; for she felt that it would,
under the circumstances, have been next to impossible for her not to
have misinterpreted him. She could only lament her mistake, and feel
with grief and bitterness, that her bright hopes and dreams had all
faded away, that her castles which had seemed so solid had fallen, and
that there was nothing to take their place; that dreaming and hoping
were over for her, and the light of her life gone out for ever. So she
sat there, and looked with a dull pain into the fire; the slight fingers
twined in and out round each other, the lips, folded together to keep in
the cry of grief she could hardly repress, yet quivering restlessly,
while from time to time great tears rolled down from the long lashes.
For a long while she sat thus; sometimes quite quiet, at others swaying
herself backwards and forwards. At last, when the clock upon the mantel
struck six, she roused herself with a weary sigh that was almost a wail,
passed her hands slowly across her forehead and back over the hair by
her temples, and then, dropping them listlessly by her side, passed out
and up to her own room. She did not come downstairs until the dinner was
announced; but when she did there were few signs upon her face of the
hard struggle she had gone through. Captain Bradshaw, on the other hand,
had by no means recovered the equability of his temper. He was
throughout dinner in a state of explosion. He swore at the footman in an
unusual way, and sent fiery messages to the cook, until she was, as she
expressed it, so flustered she did not know what she was doing. Even the
footman, accustomed as he was to his master’s outbreaks, felt aggrieved.
“He is just the very image of an Indian tiger, cook. I have been with
him a good many years now, but I never did know him so awful
cantankerous as he is to-day. He ain’t a bad master, the Captain,
noways, but flesh and blood can’t put up with him; not white flesh and
blood, black might; I shall tell him in the morning he must provide
himself elsewhere.”
“Why didn’t you tell him now?” the cook asked sarcastically. “I would,
right off.”
“I don’t think you would now, cook; I wouldn’t, no, not if he were to
swear ten times wuss at me. He’s a regular old tiger, when his temper’s
up, he is; and if any one were to say anything to him it would be a
dreadful business; pretty nigh as much as one’s life were worth, I
should say. Lor’ bless you, he would think nothing of taking up a poker
or a candlestick, or a soup tureen, or anything which happened to come
handy to him at the time.”
“And what does Miss Alice say to it all, James?”
“She is a right down good one, she is,” the footman said, admiringly;
“she does all she can, but to-day he’s too fierce even for her. She
ain’t looking quite herself neither. She did try once or twice to smooth
him down a bit, but, bless you, when he’s in such a tantrum as he is
to-day, nothing short of a strait-waistcoat and a cold bath would smooth
him down.”
While this conversation was passing below, Alice Heathcote was having by
no means a pleasant time of it upstairs. Captain Bradshaw had taken his
usual place by the fire, with his port wine upon a small table beside
him, while Alice sat down opposite, with a piece of fancy work in her
hands as an excuse for idleness. For a little time after the servant had
left the room, there was silence, and then Captain Bradshaw, after
drinking off a glass of wine, and pouring himself out another, said,
with great deliberation,—
“And now, Alice, I shall be glad if you will give me an explanation of
all this; for, damme, if I can make head or tail of it.”
“My dear uncle,” Alice said, cheerfully, “I don’t know that there is
anything to explain. You see, Frank and I do not want to marry each
other, and although I believe that parents and guardians have a right to
put a veto upon marriages of which they do not approve, I confess that I
do not think their power extends to the point of compelling two strongly
objecting parties to marry each other.”
Captain Bradshaw rubbed his forehead with his handkerchief, and then
performed the same operation with great violence all over his head,
brushing up his short grey hair into a state of the wildest and most
aggressive looking confusion. It was not that he was actually hot, but
it was a trick he had acquired in India, and was a certain sign, with
him, of great irritation.
“But I always looked upon it as a settled thing, Alice; I have set my
mind upon it for years, and I always felt sure that you were fond of
him. I don’t know what to make of it; but if you do care for him, Alice,
by Gad, he shall marry you, or, at any rate, he shall be made most
thoroughly to understand that not one penny of my money shall he ever
have if he does not.”
“Thank you very much, uncle,” Alice said, smiling quietly; “but you see
I should not particularly care about being married to a man who only
took me as an incumbrance with my money and yours.”
“But, Alice,” her uncle said impatiently, “I do not understand why you
took his part to-day, and so rendered all I said of no avail. I was sure
you cared for him. You never attempted to deny it when I spoke to you
upon the subject, and now you upset all the force of my arguments, and
confirm that young jackanapes in his refusal to listen to my wishes, by
saying that you are mutually indifferent to each other.”
“My dear uncle,” Alice said, very gravely, “the whole of the unfortunate
position has been brought about by your deceiving yourself in the first
place; and in the second, by the very unfair and unjustifiable way in
which you have deceived me.”
“Upon my word, Alice,” Captain Bradshaw said, astonished at this sudden
attack upon himself, and replacing untasted upon the table the wine he
was in the act of raising to his lips, “I do not understand what you
mean.”
“This is what I mean, uncle. You all along thought and hoped that Frank
and I would some day take a fancy to each other. About that I have no
reason to complain, nor that you deceived yourself into believing that
things were turning out as you wished. What you were wrong in, my dear
uncle, was, to have spoken to me as you did about Frank. What could I
think? I could not suppose it possible that you were doing so merely
upon the strength of your hopes upon the subject. I naturally concluded
that you were in his confidence, that you had talked the matter over
before he left England, and that although he or you might have thought
it wrong to ask me to enter upon an engagement at the age of eighteen,
and just as he was leaving England for two or three years, still that he
perfectly intended to propose for me upon his return. What else could I
think, uncle?”
Captain Bradshaw was silent. He felt that he had been wrong, and that
without sufficient cause he had led his niece to believe that Frank
loved her, and had thus greatly endangered the happiness of his
favourite. Once feeling himself to be wrong, no one could be more ready
to admit it than Captain Bradshaw.
“Upon my word, Alice,” he said, earnestly, “I never looked upon it in
that light. I see that what you say is true, and that I have behaved
like an old fool, as I am, in the matter. But even now it may not be too
late—even now I may be able to persuade Frank——”
“My dear uncle, you forget that I could not accept him under such
conditions, and beside that, few men are less likely to be persuaded or
forced in a matter of this sort than Frank is. It would be folly upon my
part to pretend that I do not like him very much. I always believed that
he cared for me; and I daresay, had he been very attentive when he
returned, and made pretty speeches, and behaved well, I should not have,
thrown any serious obstacle in the way of the fulfilment of your pet
project. As it is, I find now that I have been mistaken all along as to
the whole affair, and all I have to do is, to make myself as comfortable
as possible under the circumstances.”
“I am afraid that I have done a great deal of harm,” the old man said,
sadly, “and I can only say that I did not do it wilfully, for I
certainly deceived myself as much as I did you; but that is a very poor
consolation to me when I reflect that my thoughtless folly has made you
miserable.”
“Not miserable, uncle,” Alice said, speaking as cheerfully as she could,
though she had very hard work to prevent herself from breaking down and
going off in a fit of crying. “Not quite so bad as that. It has been a
little shock for me, but I shall soon get over that. But, please, do not
speak about it any more. At any rate, Frank is not to blame in the
matter. You could not renew it with him without letting out that we have
both been deceiving ourselves about it; and it would, of course, be very
painful for me to know that he even guessed that it was so.” So saying,
Alice went across and kissed her uncle. “That is settled, then?”
“Ay, ay, Alice. I do not see that I can say no to you. I have made so
much mischief that the least I can do is to let you have your own way
now. As for Frank, I repeat what I told him to-day—that he is a thorough
fool not to have fallen in love with the dearest and best girl in the
world.”
Alice was satisfied, for she had gained more than she had anticipated,
knowing well how obstinate her uncle was when he had once set his mind
upon anything. Indeed, it was only the thought, that the pain he knew
Alice must be feeling was caused by his own error, which made Captain
Bradshaw, as a sort of reparation, give up his long-cherished plans and
hopes.
And so, as far as taking active measures were concerned, the matter
dropped; but not from the thoughts of either. Captain Bradshaw could not
forgive Frank all at once, for having thwarted his plans, and made Alice
unhappy; nor could he forgive himself for the share he had taken in the
affair. For although Alice tried hard to seem cheerful when with her
uncle,—though she talked more, and smiled more frequently than had been
her wont,—she could not deceive him, now that he was really watching
her. Her voice was not always steady and under her command; she spoke in
a forced way, very unlike her former merry talk; and above all, the
smile never went farther than her lips—never lit up the rest of her
face. Over that a cloud had fallen. It was difficult to say what the
change was, but it was as if the light had suddenly gone out. Her uncle
tried to be very kind to her, but at this time he did not make matters
easy for her. The very tone of kindness and commiseration in which he
spoke to her was in itself a trial; while with every one else he was so
terribly bad tempered that he made the lives of all around him a burden
to them.
Frank called a few days afterwards, and Captain Bradshaw hardly spoke to
him; but Frank had made up his mind that his uncle must be allowed time
to work off his disappointment, and appeared to take no notice of this,
but chatted with Alice as usual.
These first visits of Frank’s were a great trial to Alice, but she had
at least the satisfaction of knowing that he did not even guess what the
state of her heart was, and was therefore able to get on with him better
than she had expected to have done. At first, too, Frank made his calls
as short as possible, for with his uncle in a state of extreme
irritation, they were by no means pleasant visits. After a fortnight or
so Captain Bradshaw began to calm down, and things gradually resumed
their old footing, except that Alice still looked pale and wan, and her
voice was no longer to be heard singing snatches of old ballads as she
moved about the house. But of this Frank knew nothing, and put down her
altered looks partly to the annoyances he conceived that she had to bear
from his uncle’s temper.
It was after one of these visits he said to Prescott,—
“I think, Prescott, it would be a great thing if I were to go away for a
little while. I have been thinking on my way back, that if I were to
write to Teddy Drake, and offer to pay him a visit, it would be very
good fun, and would give my uncle time to get into a better temper. As
long as I am in town I must call regularly, and that keeps the sore
open; whereas, if I go away only for a fortnight it will calm him down a
little. I shall be very glad to see Teddy, too, for I have not seen him
since I came back.”
“I think it is a very good plan, Frank. Do you know his address?”
“Oh, yes. Teddy and I exchange letters once a year or so. I will write
at once, Prescott. I shall be very glad to get away for awhile, for I am
heartily sick of this London life.”
END OF VOL. I.
BRADBURY, EVANS, AND CO., PRINTERS, WHITEFRIARS.
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TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES
1. Changed ‘easily lead’ to ‘easily led’ on p. 264.
2. Silently corrected typographical errors.
3. Retained anachronistic and non-standard spellings as printed.
4. Enclosed italics font in _underscores_.