|OF all the pleasant rooms--and they were many--that were to be found at
Mirk Abbey, the Library was by far the most charming. An architect might
have said that the rest of the house had been somewhat sacrificed to
it; a bookworm might have wished it gloomier and more retired; but for
a lover of literature who was also a judge of beauty, it was well-nigh
perfect. It was upon the first floor, and occupied the space of at least
three reception-rooms.
Long as it was, its excessive breadth might have been objected to, but
that the effect of this was diminished to exactly the right proportions
by huge double bookcases, which jutted out at right angles from the
walls; thus the place was broken up, as it were, into a number of little
studies, closed in upon three sides, but open, of course, towards what
in a church would be called the aisle. This aisle, still a broad space,
was set alternately with flower-vases and statues of white marble,
though none of these were so tall as to hide from one standing at
the door the view of the huge painted window at the southern end. In
summer-time, this window was swung back, and all the garden scents and
drowsy sounds--the level sweep of the scythe upon the lawn, and the
murmur of the bees in the limes--were suffered to enter in. In winter,
being closed, what light there was came glowing through the pictured
panes, or through small windows far above the level of the eye, so that,
in that well-warmed room, you could not tell that it _was_ winter.
And yet this stately apartment was seldom used in either season. Letty
would sometimes take a Godly book from that part of the place marked in
dull gold _Devotional_, but always carried it away to read in her own
chamber; and Sir Richard now and then would refresh himself in the
topographical department by taking down the _History of Wheatshire_,
where all the Family Seats were duly pictured, and the linked sweetness
of the genealogy of the owners long drawn out; but the Lisgards were
not a reading race. Moreover, when they did read, it was chiefly out of
modern books temporarily supplied by Mr Mudie, or works most glorious to
behold as to their bindings, and without which no lady's drawing-room
can be said to be complete, but which happily are rarely seen in
libraries. My Lady herself had a goodly store of books in her own boudoir, including
most of the French and English classics, all presented to her at divers
times by her late husband, and all read, if not for her own pleasure,
then for his; she therefore visited the Library more rarely than any one
except Walter, who would as soon have thought of visiting the laundry.
The last time she had gone thither was just after Miss Aynton's first
arrival, when she had taken that young lady to see some curious missals
there deposited, containing certain initial letters which Rose was
desirous of copying.
She enters it now alone upon her return from that interview with Arthur
Haldane at the Watersmeet--on a very different errand. She is no longer
the kind of somewhat stately hostess, doing her young guest a pleasure,
and at the same time perhaps taking a pardonable pride in shewing her
the gem of the Abbey--its Library--for the first time. All pride, all
stateliness, seem to have departed from that anxious face; her figure,
however, is erect as of old, and her step as firm, as she closes the
door of the vast room behind her, and walks towards its southern end.
She looks neither to left nor right, for she is in search of none of
those volumes which line the Library on either side. The place for which
she is bound is in a far corner next the window, but very indirectly
lighted by it; a small “study,” where, if such a thing as dust were
permitted to accumulate at the Abbey at all, it would certainly lie;
and where it did lie; a spot unvisited for years, ever since it had
been determined that Sir Richard's profession should be the Law, when
certain books were taken from it, and carried up to town to stock his
chambers; for over this little literary den was written Legal. Truly, as
the phrase goes, “it was not a place for a lady,” that dusky little
chamber, lined with its bulky, calf-bound volumes, mostly in series,
and often as not connected with one another by that emblem of their
contents, a spider's web. What could my Lady have come hither to
cull from such unpromising books? Is it possible that, unmindful of the
proverb, that he who is his own lawyer has got a fool for his client,
she can be in search of legal advice gratis? It is plain that she is
in doubt, alas, even where to find the information of which she is in
search. Her soft white hand wanders from tome to tome, and drags down
one after another from its dusty shelf, until she has peopled the
sunbeams anew with motes; but her large gray eyes find nothing to arrest
them as they wander over the arid pages, although they grow weary with
their task.
At last, however, they seem to have been more fortunate. For the first
time, my Lady takes her seat beside the slanting desk, and with her head
supported by her hands, like one who is in need of all her wits, she
reads on patiently enough. She cons the matter over twice or thrice,
then sighs, and putting a thin slip of paper in the book to mark the
place, returns it to its shelf, and pursues her search as before. Out of
several score of volumes, four only seem to have served her purpose, and
even from them it is evident that she has gleaned no comfort, but rather
confirmation of some fear. Her face is more hopeless than it was a while
ago; her sigh--and she sighs deep and often--has despair in it, as
well as sorrow. From her wearied eyes, as she gazes upon the opened
casement--through which comes a dreamy music in the flutter of the young
leaves on a neighbouring elm, and the silver leap of the fountain on the
lawn--tear follows tear, although she knows it not, and glides down the
new-made furrows in her cheeks.
The luncheon gong was beaten an hour ago, and then was taken out into
the garden for her especial behoof, and beaten again; but my Lady heard
it not. She has neither eyes nor ears for the present at all. She is
thinking of some Future more dark and terrible than death itself, a day
of dishonour and disgrace, that is creeping slowly but surely upon her
and hers. The young leaves babble of it already, and the fountain with
its talking water, and every whispering breath of April wind; and now
she listens to them; and now she tries in vain to think and think;
and now she listens to them perforce again. They are comforters these
mysterious voices, and do but pretend to prattle of her woes, in order
that they may woo her to oblivion; for presently the tired arms can no
more bear the burden of that piteous face, but sink down on the desk,
and on those soft and rounded cushions droops the careworn head; and the
eyelids that have scarce shut throughout the livelong night, nor through
many a night before, are closed in slumber. The bee-music, the falling
water, and the lullaby of the April leaves, through Nature's kindly
hands, have given my Lady a nepenthe draught; and, thanks to it, she has
forgotten her woes; nay, more, it has substituted for them joys borrowed
from the unreturning Past, which, while we tarry in Dreamland, are as
real as any.
My Lady is once more a fisherman's daughter, upon the banks of Blea.
The river that flows beside her father's door is almost as salt as
the sea itself, and twice a day the sea itself comes up and fills the
creeks, and sets afloat the boats and colliers that lie sideways on the
oozy beach. When it retires, she longs to be taken with it, for ere
that tide can reach the open sea, it must needs pass by the port of
Bleamouth, where her lover Ralph dwells. Young as she is, she has been
wooed by others, and they better matches than this roving sailor, who,
although he has saved a little money, does not know, says her father,
how to keep it; and when that is gone, how will he keep himself save by
going to sea again; much more, then, how will he keep wife Lucy and a
household? But these wise sayings are naught in Lucy's ears, in which
love whispers always its smooth prophecies, and Ralph's rich laugh
dispels the old man's forebodings, or plays upon them as though they
were the very strings of mirth.
As handsome and stout-hearted a lad he is as ever was fitted to make his
own way through the world; able enough to thrust to left and right all
jostling compeers, and by no means one to lack or to let those dear
to him lack, while bread is to be got by sweat of brow. A smile comes
o'er my Lady's face, and makes it young again, the while she dreams;
for now she sees his signals in the coming boat, and now himself, and
now he leaps ashore, and clasps her with his stalwart arm, and now her
fingers play with the dark locks that curl above his tanned and manly
brow. 'Tis more than half a lifetime back--but she knows not that--and
the colour comes again to the wan cheek as though it were a maiden's,
and once more love awakens in her widowed heart. He speaks; but ere his
tongue can shape the words, a sense of doubt begins to perplex and pain
her. She is a girl, and yet a woman in the vale of years; a fisher's
daughter though a lady bred, with all the circumstances of rank and
wealth about her; the voice is her lover's voice, and yet sounds
strangely like another's; she is on the borderland 'twixt waking
and sleeping, where, as in a dissolving view, the coming and the passing
pictures interlace and exchange features, and the Dream and the Reality
struggle together for life. Some one is speaking, however, that
is certain, and the voice, as no woman can doubt, is tremulous and
love-laden.
“And yet, Rose--for I may call you Rose, may I not?--beautiful as
these pictures are, I do not think they are more exquisite than those
which you have painted yourself.”
“You flatter me, Sir Richard,” returned a second voice, with which
my Lady was no better acquainted than with the first; for although she
could not but be aware of who the speakers were, since they addressed
one another by their names, she did not recognise her own son's
speech, so changed it was from its ordinary polite but icy tones; while
Rose Aynton's, upon the other hand, generally so quiet and submissive,
were tinged with a mocking bitterness. If Sir Richard Lisgard was really
about to lay his fortune at the feet of this penniless girl, it seemed
strange indeed that she should reply to him in so unnatural a key.
That the delirious joy that might well be at her heart should not be
altogether repressible, was to be expected, and that her tongue should
falter in endeavouring to conceal her triumph; but there was that in
the young girl's accents different from anything that could be thus
explained. Instead of trembling and hesitation in her speech, there was
sheer scorn. Perhaps my Lady should have come forth at once from where
she sat an involuntary eavesdropper; but it must be allowed that the
temptation to remain was very great. Moreover, there were reasons why
she could not explain her own presence in that particular portion of the
Library; and again, should she disclose herself, the young people would
feel no less uncomfortable than though they should even discover at last
that their interview had not been so solitary as they imagined, for how
did she know what had occurred while she was sleeping, and how should
she persuade Miss Rose, even if her word was sufficient for Richard,
that she _had_ been sleeping during that critical period? True, if it
was certain that the offer about to be made would be accepted, as
indeed there was every likelihood that it would be, it was highly
expedient--for various reasons known to my Lady--that she should step
forward, and prevent matters from going further; but so strange did the
girl's voice strike upon her experienced ear, that Lady Lisgard waited
in hopes of she scarce knew what--some almost miracle that might make
her personal interposition unnecessary. At the same time her curiosity
became so excessive during the protracted pause that followed Rose's
“You flatter me,” that she ventured to peer round the corner of the
recess wherein she sat, which was now far more in shade than when she
had entered it at noon.
They were standing not very far from her--those two unconscious young
people--in front of a huge portfolio, which leant against a statue of
Cupid and Psyche. The old, old tale of love which the sculpture typified
was evidently being anew repeated by one at least of the living pair.
Sir Richard, who had been turning over the pictures, kept his hand
mechanically on one of them, but his eyes were fixed with a winning
softness; which even his mother had never seen in them before, upon his
fair companion. Through one of the small western windows, the last gleam
of the dying sun had found its way, and rested upon his crisp brown
curls; his manly face glowed in a golden haze, while in his eyes there
beamed a light that no sun can give, and mellower than the rays of moon
or star.
“I do not flatter you, sweet Rose,” he said; “I love you.”
She too had one hand upon the picture, and but for it, it seemed for
a moment as though she would have fallen, so deadly pale she grew the
while he spoke. Her eyelids quivered, and then slowly sank like two
white rose-leaves on her cheek; while her unoccupied hand fell from her
pale lips, and hung down by her side quite motionless.
“She cannot give him nay,” thought Lady Lisgard; “the girl is
overcome with her great joy.”
“Why do you not speak, dear Rose?” continued Sir Richard; “or may
I take your silence for consent, and thus set loving seal”-----
He moved towards her, and round her dainty waist had placed his arm,
when she sprang from him like a frightened fawn, who, although so
seeming tame that it will hover nigh, and even follow one, darts off in
terror when we strive to caress it.
“No, Sir Richard, no,” cried she; “I cannot marry you--I dare not;
and I will not. You are much too proud and arrogant for me.”
“But not _to_ you, Rose,” pleaded the young man earnestly. “You
shall be my mistress, I your servant always. If I have ever been proud
to you, I pray you to forgive it. I do beseech your pardon. It seemed
at first that I was right to be so. You do not understand how one like
me----”
“So well born and so rich,” interrupted the young girl quietly,
looking up into his face with steady gaze. “Yes, I understand that
well, Sir Richard; and I, on the other hand, a dependent girl, so
inferior to the sort of bride that you had a right to look for; it was
well to keep me at a respectful distance.”
“No, not so, Rose,” cried the other hastily; “I swear that you
are inferior to no woman whom I have ever seen. But I did not wish-----I
thought, at first, that it would not be for your happiness”----
“And your first thought was right, Sir Richard,” broke in the other
bitterly. “When you said to yourself, I will not encourage this young
girl to think it possible that she should ever be the mistress of Mirk
Abbey, you were wise. You did right to hold yourself aloof, to behave
with studied stiffness and formality, to let me know though I might
worship your exalted station, and admire your handsome face”----
“Rose! Rose!”
“Ay, it is Rose now, but it was Miss Aynton then,” continued she,
beating her foot upon the floor. “You determined, I say, within
yourself that I should never so forget our relative positions as to
misconstrue any attentions you might please to pay me; you held yourself
so high, and stooped so condescendingly when you did stoop, that, upon
my part at least, you resolved to nip the young beginnings of love, if
such there should be, in their very bud. And, Sir Richard Lisgard, you
succeeded.”
She rose to her full height, and pointed at him with her white hand
contemptuously; her swan-like bosom moved, with rapid ebb and flow,
in angry scorn; her curling lips gave wormwood to her words. And yet,
although he felt her biting speech, the young man thought he had never
seen her half so beautiful, half so worthy to be his wife.
“It is you who are proud now, Rose,” returned he, speaking with
effort. “I did not think that I could ever have heard such words from
a woman's lips, and yet have sought to woo her. It is your turn
to play the tyrant; but though, by Heaven, you look every inch a
queen”----
“I thank you, sir,” interrupted the girl coldly; “but you need say
no more. There is no necessity to offer me that one more chance which
your generosity suggests to you. However incomprehensible and audacious,
coming from these humble lips, may such an answer sound, Sir Richard
Lisgard is refused.”
“Rose, dear Rose,” cried the young man passionately; “if this be
punishment, do not push it, I pray you, further than I can bear. There
is something in your face in such ill accordance with your speech,
that I cannot yet despair. Is it not possible, sweet girl, that at some
future time--not now, but when you have seen how humble and devoted I
can be, that you may teach your heart to love me?”
“No.” A full and rounded word, without a flaw of doubt to mar its
clearness; a sentence irreversible; a judgment against which he felt
there could be no appeal.
“But look you, Rose,” continued the baronet huskily; “it is said
that the true love grows after marriage. Suppose I am content to wed you
on that chance, as in very truth I am. Look you, the scene is fair you
behold through yonder window, and all that you see is mine. The Abbey,
too, is mine, or will be so at my mother's death.” [A shadow of pain
flits across my Lady's face, to hear her son speak thus so lightly of
that loss, to please a girl whom he has not known six months, and who
does not even love him.] “I have broad acres, girl, fields, farms--a
goodly rent-roll. My wife--the Lady Lisgard--will have more than enough
of wealth to maintain her high position. Rose! have you no ambition?”
Miss Aynton here again grew strangely agitated; once more her cheeks
grew pale, and her limbs trembled beneath her.
“Wretched girl! can she indeed be going to sell herself?” thought my
Lady.
“There is nothing,” pursued the wooer, perceiving his advantage,
“which will be out of your reach. You will mix with those same
persons to whose society you have been already accustomed, but in a very
different relation towards them; you will be their equal in station,
and they will be compelled to acknowledge that superiority in all other
respects which they have refused to see in you while a mere dependent on
your aunt's caprice. You will be enabled, I do not say to repay scorn
for scorn--for your sweet nature is incapable of such revenge--but
to extend to those who have wounded you forgiveness; to return each
kindness fiftyfold.”
“Sir Richard Lisgard,” replied the young girl, speaking slowly, but
with great distinctness, “my answer has been given you already. It
is true that your last arguments moved me, but not for the reason you
imagine. I can marry you neither for love nor for money. You pique
yourself, I think, on being a gentleman; being so, you will cease to
press me further. I am conscious of the honour you have done me in this
matter, and I thank you; but I decline your offer.”
The young man bowed, but without speaking. His features, which had
softened to an extraordinary degree throughout their interview, began to
assume a look even haughtier than before; his pride was all the greater
since he had forced himself to stoop in vain.
“I have only one thing, then, to request, Miss Aynton,” said he
after a long silence. “I trust that you will not permit what has just
occurred to curtail your stay at Mirk. It is understood that you are to
remain here until after the celebration of--of my majority.” He could
scarcely get the word out, poor fellow: he had looked forward so to her
loving sympathy upon that proud occasion, which now seemed emptied of
all its happy auguries.
“Do not fear, Sir Richard,” returned the girl with pity; “no one
shall know that the heir of Mirk has met with this disappointment. I
will remain here, since you wish it. Your behaviour towards me needs no
alteration to conceal the fact that you have ever been my lover.”
He had once more so reinstated himself in his proof-armour of pride,
that the young baronet was not even aware that this last shaft had any
barb.
“I thank you, Miss Aynton,” said he frigidly; “if at any time
it should be within my power to do you or yours a service, please to
command me to the uttermost.”
He bowed, and strode away; she heard him close the door, neither softly
nor in anger, and then his measured step upon the carpetless oaken stair
without.
“I have not broken his heart, that's certain,” muttered Rose
Aynton, with a crooked smile; “the lover was lost in the patron soon
indeed.”