A CENTRE OF LIFE.
There are periods in life, and especially in the early part of it, when
all existence gets, as it were, out of focus, and instead of some great
and worthy centre, takes to circling round some point of outwardly
frivolous meaning, some little axis of society entirely unfit to be the
turning-point of even the smallest world of human concerns. This had
come to be the case with the Vernons in those lingering weeks of winter
just before Christmas. That the young, gay, foolish--nay, absurd--house
on the hill inhabited by Algernon Merridew and his wife should become to
all of this important family the chief place, not only in Redborough,
but for a time, in the world, was the most curious fact imaginable; but
yet it was so. To Edward it was the one place in the world where he was,
as he hoped, free from observation and able to do as he pleased; which
meant--where he was entirely free from Catherine, and need have no fear
of any interruption from her to his amusement, or his pleasure, or, if
you like it better, his love: to Hester it was the place where she had
been recognised as part possessor in her own person, like the others, of
the honours due to her family, and where the homage, to which a young
woman sufficiently endowed has a right, was first given to her; if it
had a more close attraction still as the place where she met Edward,
that was a dream as yet unacknowledged to her own heart. Harry, on the
other hand, had a double interest--neither of them of a very cheerful
kind--one of which was the necessity of standing by his sister, who his
good sense told him was embarked in a very perilous way, and whose
husband was quite incapable of controlling or guiding her erratic
course; and the other was the painful fascination of watching Edward and
Hester through all the vicissitudes of their quarrellings and makings
up--the hours they would spend together, followed by other hours in
which they would mutually scowl at each other and did not speak. Harry
knew, poor fellow, by a sort of instinct common to the rejected, that
the quarrels were as ominous, or more so, than the intimacy. Hester had
never quarrelled with himself, they had been on the best terms, alas, as
they were now! But Edward she would pass with flushed cheek and shining
eye: she would address him with haughty reluctance when it was necessary
to speak to him, and mark her reluctance with a decision which was never
employed towards those for whom she cared nothing. Harry's eyes were
opened, and he understood the duel between them. The only mistake he
made was in the belief that it had gone further than the preliminary
stage. He could not believe it possible that no explanation had taken
place between them.
And of all people to be interested in Ellen's silly parties, who should
be seized with an intense desire to know all about them but Catherine
Vernon herself? She did know more about them than any one else who was
not present, and than a great many who were present. Her suspicions had
been roused by various indications of something occult in Edward's mind.
He was no longer on his guard to the incredible extent which had been
common with him; his mind was agitated with new hopes and fears--the
chance of being able to be altogether independent of Catherine had made
him relax in his caution, and there had been moments when, in all the
stir and elation of his new life, he had been on the eve of disclosing
everything. Habitual prudence had saved him, but yet there had been
something in his aspect which had roused Catherine's suspicions. They
had been, as she thought, in such entire sympathy before, that she was
deeply affected by this feeling, which she could not explain to
herself--this sense of being in sympathy no longer. And it was all since
Ellen's absurd parties began, and he began to meet at them, _that_ girl,
born for the confusion of all her plans, Catherine thought. There were
evenings when the strongest temptation to order her carriage instead of
going to bed, and to go suddenly--unexpected--to Ellen's party, and see
with her own eyes what was going on, would come over her mind. But there
was in Catherine's mind, along with her suspicions, that terror to have
them confirmed, which so often goes with love when it begins to tremble
in this way. Had she gone, Edward would have declared contemptuously
(within himself) that it was all of a piece with her usual watchfulness,
and the perfection of her system--not being able to divine that
Catherine would have given the world to find herself in the wrong, and
shrank from proving herself to be in the right. In the meantime she was
kept informed of what was going on more or less by various people, and
above all by Emma Ashton, whose information, though largely leavened by
a great deal about herself which did not much interest her hearer, also
afforded revelations about other people, especially Hester. Emma had
become a constant visitor at the Grange. She was allowed to prattle for
hours, and Catherine was always kind to her. Her insignificance, her
little egotisms, her straightforward aim at her own advancement, did not
call forth the amused contempt of that observer of the human comedy as
they would have done in any other specimen. Catherine's tradition in
favour of her mother's kindred covered this little person with a shield.
But those who were not aware of this fond superstition wondered and
scorned. And the feeling of the Redborough community was not in Emma's
favour.
"She is just a horrid little spy," Ellen cried. "I know she goes and
tells Aunt Catherine everything. I shouldn't have her if I could help
it; but everybody knows now that she is Aunt Catherine's relation, and
they are all civil to her."
"She cannot do us any harm, Nelly," said her husband, "we are not afraid
of any spy, I hope."
"Oh, don't talk so much nonsense, Algy," cried Ellen. "Of course she
can't do us any harm; but I hate spies for all that."
They were wrong so far that Emma was not at all a spy. Of all the
interminable discourses she poured out upon Catherine, the far greater
part was about herself; only unfortunately the part that interested her
auditor was not that about herself, but the much smaller portion in
which, quite unconscious and without any evil motive, she dropped here
and there a chance hint as to the others.
"And whom did you say Edward was dancing with?" Catherine would say.
"Oh, I was not talking of Mr. Edward, but of young Mr. Merridew, who is
always very attentive. That was our third dance together, and I did feel
it was a great pity there were no chaperons, because I should have asked
her, if I had been with any one, whether it wasn't rather, you know--for
I wouldn't for the world do anything to get myself talked about."
"I thought you had been talking about Edward," Catherine said.
"Oh dear no. It was whether three dances together wasn't perhaps a
little---- for I always feel the responsibility of belonging to the
family, Cousin Catherine, and I wouldn't for the world do anything----it
is quite different with gentlemen. Mr. Edward was just carrying on as
usual."
"But, Emma, you must tell me what you mean by 'carrying on.'"
"Oh, I don't mean any harm," Emma would say. "I wonder what young Mr.
Merridew is--if he is well off, and all that? Hester has cousins all
round to tell her what's best, and of course she does not need to be on
her p's and q's, like me."
Catherine had to follow a mazy, vague, and wandering clue thus, through
acres of indifferent matter, and to piece together broken scraps of
information which were never intended to affect her at all. But they did
affect her sometimes so powerfully that she had her hand actually on the
bell, not only that evening but on several other occasions, to intimate
that she should want the carriage at ten o'clock--a proceeding which
would have convulsed the household at home, and carried consternation to
the recipients of the unlooked-for honour. But, on further
consideration, Catherine always succeeded in subduing herself, often
sadly enough saying to herself that it would be time enough when he told
her--Why should she go out to meet trouble? Her heart so took her
strength from her, and changed her natural temperament, that Catherine
restrained herself, with a shrinking, which nobody who knew her would
have believed in, from any contact with irresistible fact, and decided
that rather than find out the vanity of her confidence it was better to
be deceived.
Thus the house on the hill which flaunted forth every Thursday evening
the great lamps of its lighted windows and the lines of Chinese lanterns
in the conservatory, became the centre for the moment of a great deal of
life and many anxious thoughts. It turned Ellen's head with pride and
delight when she received indications of this, which indeed came to her
on all sides. When a shade of alarm crossed Algernon's face at the
amount of the bills, she took a lofty position which no man pretending
to any spirit could have gone against. "Goodness, Algy, how can you look
so glum about a pound or two, when you see we are doing a great work?"
Ellen said. "Well! if it is not more important than mothers' meetings, I
don't know what words mean: and Mr. Ransom says the mothers' meetings
are a great work." Algernon laughed, but he, too, felt a thrill of
pride. To have made the house, which though it was Ellen's was a
Merridew house, and his own, into a centre for the great Vernon family,
was, if not a great work, at least an extraordinary local success, such
as old Merridew's son could never have hoped to attain to. And indeed
Algernon's remonstrances about the bills were of the feeblest
description. He was too much devoted to his wife to have interfered with
her, even had not the balance of moral force been on her side; and he
was proud of the extravagance and the commotion and the way in which the
elders shook their heads. It is pleasant to make a sensation, and
Algernon was comforted by the knowledge that he had already made a
little money by his stockbroking transactions, and hoped to make a great
deal more.
The young men had carried on their transactions with considerable
vigour, though with little risk so far as Algernon and Harry were
concerned. But Edward's was a different case. The venture upon which he
had pondered with so much anxiety had turned out favourably, and he had
gone on without telling his secret to any one, with a general amount of
success which had made the operation of risking other people's money
seem quite natural to him--a process without any practical consequences
at all, except the accumulation of a good deal of money under his own
name, which is one of the happiest of sensations. To his temperament
indeed it is by no means certain that the vicissitudes of the career in
which he had embarked, the tragic suspense in which he was occasionally
held, and the transport of deliverance that followed, were not in
themselves the highest pleasures of which he was capable. And even so
early in his career as this, such crises would come. He had self-command
enough not to betray himself when these moments arrived, and though
there were eyes keen enough to see that something had produced a change
in him, they were, as has been seen in Catherine's case, deceived as to
the cause of his perturbation. Hester did not have so many opportunities
of studying him, and she had no clue to the business complications in
which he was involved; but she had many thoughts on her own mind as to
the reason of all the commotion which she saw vaguely, without
understanding it. Some of the members of the general society, strangers
who sometimes perceive a departure from habit which does not strike the
most intimate, had said of Edward on more than one occasion, that he
must be in love. Was he in love? Hester had felt that a look was
directed to herself when this was said, and that a suppressed laugh had
run round the little group. She was herself agitated by tumults which
she could not understand, commotions in which Edward was certainly
involved, and his name thus mentioned brought the blood to her cheek.
Was he in love? She did not want to turn the question upon herself, to
bring the matter to any conclusion, one way or another. He was very pale
that evening, yet would flush, as she herself did, growing red in a
moment and then pale again; and there was a watchful air about him as of
a man who expected to hear something or see some one whom nobody else
looked for. A man who was in love did not behave so. He was absorbed in
the being whom he loved. He is not absorbed in me, the girl said to
herself involuntarily, then blushed, as if her thought had been found
out. Edward came up to her at this moment, which made her confusion the
greater.
"Why do you change colour so? What is the matter?" he said to her.
"It is you who are changing colour," said Hester, not knowing how else
to defend herself.
Instead of contradicting her, or throwing off the accusation, he
suddenly took her hand and drew it through his arm.
"It is true," he said. "I have something on my mind. You were going to
dance this waltz with me. Come into the hall, it is cool there, and let
us talk instead?"
Every inch of available space in the house was given up to the
accommodation of the guests, and the hall was filled, like the
conservatory, with plants, among which little groups of two could find
corners. Edward established Hester in one of these, and placed a chair
for himself, so as to cut her off from everybody.
"You are the only one that can understand," he said. "I can speak to
you. Don't mind me if I look like a fool. I am too anxious to talk."
"What is it?" she said, with a tremour of sympathetic anxiety.
"It is only business," he said, "but it is business so unexpected that
even beside you I am obliged to think of it. Can a man say more than
that?" he asked with something in his eyes which Hester had never seen
there so distinctly before, and which silenced her. One great emotion
clears the way for another. Edward in the commotion of his being was
almost ready to rush into words that, being said, would have turned his
life upside down, and shattered all his present foundations. He was
saved by an incident which was of the most ordinary commonplace kind.
There came a violent ring at the door which was within half a dozen
steps of the spot where they sat. Half a dozen heads immediately
protruded from among the little banks of foliage to see what this odd
interruption could mean, for all the guests had arrived, and it was not
late enough for any one to go away. Hester saw that all the colour ebbed
immediately out of Edward's face. He did not even attempt to say a word
to her, but sat perfectly still, slightly turned towards the door, but
not looking out, awaiting whatever might come. It seemed to Hester that
never in her life had she so understood the power of fate, the moment
when Nature and life seem to stand still before some event. A minute
after, the footman came up and handed a telegram to Edward. He tore it
open with trembling hands. The next moment he jumped up from his seat
with a suppressed cry of triumph. "Hurrah!" he said, and then with a
laugh which was very unsteady held out the despatch to her. All that it
contained were the words "All right." But somehow it was not to these
words that Hester's eyes confined themselves. "From Ashton, London----"
she said without knowing that she did so, before he thrust the pink
paper into his pocket. "Come along," he said, "the waltz is not half
over. We shall be in time yet." And for the rest of the evening Edward
was in wild spirits, dancing every dance. He even asked the girls to
take him with them in their fly as far as the Grange in his reckless
exhilaration, and as he got out in the darkness, Hester felt a kiss upon
her hand. This startled her still more than the telegram. "Till
to-morrow," he said as they rumbled away.
"What does he mean by till to-morrow? He must be coming to make you an
offer to-morrow--that is how they do. It often happens after a
dance--when it is going to happen," Emma said in the darkness, with a
little sigh.