"... It became a proverb, when what ought to be your election was
forced upon you, to say, `Hobson's choice.'"
_Spectator, Number 509_.
There was silence in the Romary carriage too as it made its way home,
with considerably more speed than the Withenden fly, after the ball. It
had been arranged that Mr Cheviott and his sister were not to return to
Cleavelands that evening, but to drive straight back to Romary, and it
had been arranged, too, that Captain Beverley should accompany them.
Arthur would not, on the whole, have been sorry to upset this plan, but
there was no help for it. As to how much, or how little of his conduct
in the ball-room, had been observed by his cousins, he was in ignorance,
and he fancied that he did not care. He told himself that he had acted
with deliberate intention, that it was best to bring matters to a
crisis, and have done at all costs with the restraint which of late he
had found so unendurable; but in so speaking to himself he was not
stating the real facts of the case. From first to last his behaviour to
Lilias Western had been the result of no reflection or consideration; he
had never fairly looked his position in the face, and made up his mind
as to what he was justified in doing, or how far he had a right to go;
he had simply yielded to the charm of her society, and thrown care to
the winds, trusting, like a child, that somehow or other things would
come right--something would "turn up."
And it was the secret consciousness of the defencelessness of such
conduct that made him uneasy in Mr Cheviott's presence, and made him
dread the explanation which he now fully realised must shortly take
place between them.
Alys's mood, as respects the Western sisters, was, as has been seen,
verging on the defiant. Yet a quick sensitiveness to the unexpressed
state of feelings of her two companions warned her that, at present, any
allusion to the subject was best avoided.
"I will stand by Arthur if he is in earnest," she said to herself,
resolutely, "and were Laurence twenty times over my elder brother I
would _not_ support him in any narrow-minded piece of class-prejudice,
or interference with Arthur's right to please himself. But if I am to
do any good I must first be sure that Arthur _is_ in earnest, and, till
then, I had better take care how I irritate Laurence by meddling."
So Alys cogitated, lying back in her corner of the carriage, and saying
nothing.
Suddenly Mr Cheviott's voice roused her; to her surprise he spoke very
cheerfully.
"Well, Alys, are you very tired? I think it was a mistake of the
Cleaves to have that carpet dance last night. It prevented our feeling
as fresh as might have been the case to-night."
"Yes," said Alys, "I think it was. But I did not feel tired, except
just at first, and then I was all right again."
"Carpet dances are _always_ a mistake," observed Captain Beverley,
rousing himself with some effort to join in the conversation. "People
talk rubbish about their being more `enjoyable'--what an odious word
`enjoyable' is!--than any others, but it's all nonsense. They take more
out of one than twenty balls."
"I don't think last night could have taken much out of you, Arthur. You
danced so little--not half as much as to-night," said Alys,
thoughtlessly.
"No," said Mr Cheviott, markedly, "not a quarter as much, I should
say."
Arthur said nothing, and Alys, feeling rather guilty, tried to lead the
conversation into safer channels. In this she might not have succeeded
had not her brother done his best to help her. But Arthur remained
silent, and all three were glad when at last the long drive was over and
the carriage turned in at the Romary gates.
"Good-night, Alys," said Mr Cheviott at once, and Alys obediently
kissed him and said good-night.
"Good-night, Arthur," she said, lingeringly. She felt so sorry for
Arthur somehow; she would so have liked to have seen him by himself for
a few minutes.
"Good-night, dear," he replied, but without any of his usual sunny
brightness. And Alys felt sure she heard him sigh, as, in accordance
with Mr Cheviott's suggestion that they might as well have a cigar
before going to bed, he followed his cousin into the library.
"Laurence is going to give him a `talking to,' as the boys say," thought
Alys, as she went slowly up-stairs. "And what has he done to deserve
it, and why should he submit to it? Unless, indeed, he is _not_ in
earnest, and only amusing himself, and that Laurence knows it--but I'm
sure it is not that. I cannot understand Arthur. I never before
thought him wanting in spirit."
But the more she reflected, the more puzzled she grew, so Alys, not
being deficient in common sense, decided that she could do no good by
sitting up and tiring herself. She undressed and went to bed, and to
sleep; but, though not a principal in the drama which was being enacted
in her sight, her dreams that night were scarcely less disturbed and
troubled than those of another even more intensely interested spectator,
eight or nine miles off. On the whole, _Lilias's_ sleep that night was
far more peaceful than that of her sister Mary, or of Alys Cheviott.
For Lilias's heart was full of faith and hope, and to such dreamers
there come no uneasy visions.
Mr Cheviott led the way through the library into his own private
sitting-room beyond. The fire had been carefully attended to, and was
blazing brightly; the room looked a picture of comfort. Many and many a
time Arthur would have liked nothing better than an hour's _tete-a-tete_
over their pipes with his cousin--the cousin who, to him, represented
father and brother in one--to whom he owed all that he had ever known of
"home" and its saving associations, "all the good that was in him," as
he himself had often expressed it, for Laurence's care and affection for
the boy had been great, and he had exerted them wisely. He had won
Arthur's confidence and respect; he had never so acted as to cause him
to fret and chafe under what, in less judicious hands, he might have
been made to feel an unnatural authority.
And not a small part of Captain Beverley's present discomfort arose from
the consciousness of having deeply disappointed his cousin. He told
himself he had done no wrong, but he knew he had, thoughtlessly and
impulsively, done that, or been on the point of doing that, which would
greatly add to the difficulties and perplexities of a life much of which
had been devoted to his welfare.
And acknowledging even thus much, where was the gratitude he had so
often expressed?
He made no effort to conceal his gloom. He sat down on the first chair
that came in his way, he muttered something about his pipe being
up-stairs, "not unpacked," and declined the cigar which his cousin
hospitably offered him in its stead. Mr Cheviott quietly, filled and
lighted his own pipe, drew his chair to the fire, with even more
deliberation than usual, for his cousin's demeanour somewhat
disconcerted him.
He would have found it easier to go on with what he had to do, had
Arthur continued indifferent or even defiant. But it is hard to strike
a man that is down; it is extremely difficult to "lecture" or
remonstrate with a man who is evidently more disgusted with himself than
you can possibly be with him. For Laurence knew that Arthur was
genuinely distressed and suffering; he knew his cousin to be as
incapable of sulky or resentful temper as of dissimulation or
intentional treachery.
"Arthur," he said, at last, after smoking for a minute or two in
silence, "I wish you wouldn't look so unlike yourself; it makes it
harder for me. You must have known that this sort of thing couldn't go
on--that you were running willfully into an entanglement which, sooner
or later, must necessitate an explanation with me. You have no right to
punish _me_ for your own acts by looking as you are doing. Now the time
has come to have it out with me, there is only one thing to do--face
it."
"I am perfectly ready to face it," said Arthur, coldly, but with a
decided and sudden increase of colour in his cheeks, and sitting up
erectly on his chair.
"So much the better," said Laurence, dryly, adding to himself, "I am
glad I have roused him; we shall understand each other now.--I was
going," he continued, aloud--"I was _going_ to have prefaced what I have
to say by asking you whether you are losing your senses or your honour
and high principle, for except by supposing one or the other I cannot,
considering all, explain the way you have been going on. I was _going_
to say so, I say, but I don't now think I need, for I see you think as
badly of yourself as I could do."
"I do nothing of the kind," replied Arthur, firing up. "I don't ask you
to tell me how badly you think of me--you could hardly infer worse than
you have already expressed--but I altogether deny that I am either mad
or bad, to put it shortly. And, what's more, I have done nothing to
justify you, or any one, in speaking of me as you have done."
"You can't mention `me' and `any one' together," said Mr Cheviott,
coolly. "I am the only person living, except a lawyer or two, who
understands your position, therefore I am the only person who can judge
whether you are doing right or wrong in making love to a girl without
letting her perfectly comprehend what you have to offer her."
"And how do you know that I have not put it all before her?" exclaimed
Arthur, fiercely still.
"Because you could not do so without breaking your word," said Mr
Cheviott, "and because, too, no girl who understood your position would
encourage your suit. If she were a high-principled, unselfish girl, she
would not allow you to ruin yourself for her sake, and if she were a
calculating, selfish girl, she would have no wish to share your ruin."
"Yes," said Arthur, bitterly, "you put it very neatly. I am regularly
caught in a net, I know. Whichever way I turn, it is equally ruinous."
"Then what on earth did you run your head into the net for?" said Mr
Cheviott, impatiently. "You had your eyes open, you knew what you were
about."
"I did _not_," said Arthur, "I never, till now, realised how unnatural
and unbearable my position was. But you misunderstand me--I mean that
my father's absurd will entangles me hopelessly--I was not alluding to
my--my acquaintance with Miss Western--that is to be blamed for nothing
but causing me to realise the truth."
"Well, then, I wish you had not realised the truth," said Mr Cheviott.
"I think, Arthur, you forget strangely that in all this you are not the
only sufferer. Do you think _my_ position is a pleasant one?"
"No," said Captain Beverley, "I don't, but I think you exaggerate
matters. In any case, there is no question of my _ruining_ myself, or
any one else."
"How do you make that out? For by `any case' I suppose you mean in the
case of your proposing to Miss Western and her accepting you (you may
have done so already, for all I know), and your marriage following. I
don't think ruin is much too strong a word to use for what this would
bring upon you."
"You forget Hathercourt," said Captain Beverley, with some hesitation.
"Hathercourt," repeated Mr Cheviott, looking puzzled, "I don't know
what you mean."
"The Edge. Hathercourt Edge--my farm, I mean," explained Arthur, still
with a sort of hesitation in his manner.
Mr Cheviott turned upon him with more asperity than he had yet shown.
"Really, Arthur, you are too foolish," he exclaimed. "Do you mean to
say that you could live at the Edge on about fifty pounds a year--
certainly not more--for the interest of the money that was raised to pay
your debts three years ago would fully take the rest of the two or three
hundred a year that is the most you could make out of the farm, even if
you managed it far better than you are likely to do. And I have no
power to clear you from these debts out of what should be, what surely
will be, your own before very long?" He looked at Arthur anxiously as
he spoke.
"If it's ever becoming mine depends upon the marriage that my father set
his heart on taking place, it never will be mine--"
"But--" began Mr Cheviott.
"Yes, yes, I know what you are going to say. I may change, you think,
as I have changed before, but I never shall, Laurence. I never was
really in earnest before--my flirtations, even you must allow, were very
harmless; _this_ is very different, and I cannot give it up. And--and
even if I have to go away for two years--till Alys is of age--and take
my chance of _her_ remembering me, I could not owe my inheritance to a
legal quibble--I could not go through the farce of asking Alys to marry
me, even though _sure_ of her refusal, when I was heart and soul devoted
to another. And even if she--Miss Western--were married to some other
fellow by that time, it would be no better. I could not marry any one
else; and even if I could, as far as my feelings went, I could not, in
honour, refrain from telling Alys all, and--" he stopped to take breath.
"Well, what then?" said Mr Cheviott.
"Could I insult Alys by asking her to accept me _without_ my caring for
her as she should be cared for? As I now know, I never could care for
her, for she is just like the dearest of sisters to me, but _only_
that."
Mr Cheviott smiled.
"Why in the world did you not see all this two years ago, when you
persuaded me into agreeing to your selling out and setting you straight
again? Do you not remember how confident you were about never wanting
to marry any one else?"
"Any one at all, you should say. I never realised the marrying Alys. I
was sure _she_ would not wish it, and that seemed to make it all safe;
but I never, in the faintest degree, imagined my caring for any one in
_this_ way--a way which makes it simply impossible to think of ever
marrying any one else."
"You think so just now," observed Mr Cheviott, cynically, "but--"
"No, it is no passing feeling--you misjudge me altogether, Laurence; you
seem quite unable to understand me, and therefore there's no more to be
said."
"I don't see that--even supposing I am incapable of understanding your
present frame of mind--though being in love, you must allow, is not such
a very uncommon condition as you seem to think it; taking for granted,
however, that I cannot understand you, still the practical side of the
question has to be considered, and you have no one to consult but me.
In two words, what do you mean to do?"
Arthur turned his face away for a moment; then he set his elbows on his
knees and leaned his head on his hands, staring gloomily into the fire.
At last, "Laurence," he broke out, "I don't know _what_ to do. There,
now you have it all; you may despise and sneer at me as you like, I
can't help it. I deserve it, and yet I _don't_ deserve it, but that's
the long and the short of it. I do not, in the very least, know what to
do, or what is right to do."
To his surprise, Mr Cheviott suddenly leaned forward, took his pipe out
of his mouth, and held out his hand. Half mechanically Arthur took it,
and Laurence grasped his cousin's hand warmly.
"We shall understand each other now," he said, heartily. "When it comes
to wishing to do right _now_, whatever mistakes you have made before, we
come upon firm ground. Shall I tell you, Arthur, what seems to me the
only thing for you to do?"
"What?" said Arthur, listlessly.
"Go away--quite away, for two years at least, if not more."
"But not without explaining the reason to--to the Westerns?" said
Captain Beverley, looking up quickly.
"Explaining!" repeated Mr Cheviott, with a shade of contempt in his
tone, "what in this world could you explain? Think of the position you
would put the girl in by letting her understand the real state of the
case! What _could_ she say or do? Her promising to wait for you would
be ruin to you, and her throwing you over, should you distinctly propose
to her, would seem to her--if she be what you believe her--shameful. I
suppose you have _not_ done anything definite? You are not engaged to
her?"
"No," said Arthur, reluctantly. "She couldn't exactly bring me up for
breach of promise, if that's what you think her capable of," he went on,
with a half-bitter laugh; "but I consider myself _more_ bound to her
than if we were engaged. Then I should have given her a right to assert
herself, then she could insist on my explaining myself. My going away,
as you propose, Laurence, seems to me the meanest, most dishonourable
attempt at sneaking out of the whole affair--and, good Heavens, what
will they think of me?"
"Hardly so badly as they will think of _me_," thought Mr Cheviott,
while a vision of the pale indignation of Mary Western's honest face
flashed before his eyes. But he said nothing.
"Laurence, I say, what _will_ they think of me?" repeated Arthur,
impatiently.
Mr Cheviott took his pipe out of his mouth again, and, in his turn,
stared into the fire.
"It can't be helped; it's the only thing to do," he replied, decidedly.
Captain Beverley got up and walked excitedly up and down the room.
"What will Alys, even, think of me?" he exclaimed. "She knows enough to
suspect more. Laurence, is there nothing--are you certain there is
nothing that can be done to get me out of this cursed complication?
Would there be no use in getting another opinion upon the will?"
Mr Cheviott shook his head.
"None whatever. You know that as well as I do," he replied. "There is
only one thing that would free you."
"What?" exclaimed Captain Beverley, eagerly, stopping short and facing
his cousin.
"Alys's death," said Mr Cheviott.
Arthur shuddered.
"For shame, Laurence," he said, angrily. "Do you think it's good taste,
or good feeling either, to sneer in that way when you must--when you
cannot but see what all this is to me?"
"It is not _pleasant_ to myself," observed Mr Cheviott, "which never
seems to occur to you, as I said before. My allusion to Alys's death
should remind you of this. As things are, nothing--really nothing else
than the death of the creature dearest to me on earth can clear _me_
from the odious position I am placed in."
Arthur looked at his cousin, first with surprise--it was so seldom
Laurence talked of himself or of his own feelings--then gradually with a
dawning of sympathy in his kindly eyes.
"Laurence," he exclaimed, softly. That was all, and for a few moments
there was silence.
"Did no one know of what my father was doing when he made that insane
codicil? Could no one have prevented it--he was with your father at the
time?" said Arthur, presently.
"No one knew of it," replied Mr Cheviott, "not even his own lawyer; he
must have had a consciousness that it would be disapproved of. I think
the idea of saving you from the sort of marriage he had made himself had
become a monomania with him--that, and the wish to repay to his sister's
child, in some way, what she had done for him. He knew little Alys
would not be rich (her coming into Aunt Bethune's money was never
thought of then), and he was so extraordinarily fond of the child."
"Couldn't he have left her half his money unconditionally?"
"I wish he had--_now_," said Laurence.
"But what do you mean by a wish to repay to his sister what she had done
for him?"
"You know surely that my mother made over nearly all she had to him?
Long ago, before your uncle's death gave him Lydon and all his money.
He was foolish as a young man, foolish and desperately extravagant, and
but for what my mother did to save him, I don't believe Lydon would ever
have been his. His brother was just the sort of man to have passed him
over, had there been any sort of disgrace."
"What an unlucky set we have been!" said Arthur.
"And then he finished up by that wretched marriage," pursued Laurence,
without noticing his cousin's remark, "and in that again my mother was
the only one to stand by him. He had reason enough for gratitude to
her, if only he had taken a different way of showing it."
"Does Alys know _anything_ of all this?" asked Arthur. "_Nothing_; and
she never must. It has been my great aim to prevent it. _However_
things turn out, she must never know. You see that, Arthur, surely? I
can depend upon you?" said Mr Cheviott, speaking more eagerly and
vehemently than he had yet done.
"You have my promise; what more would you have?" replied Arthur,
regretfully. "Yes," he continued, after a pause, "I suppose it would
never do for her to know, but it is frightful to think how she will
misjudge me--almost as bad as to think of the others. Laurence," he
went on, "I must do one thing--I must write to say good-bye to Mrs
Western; they have been awfully kind to me--at least, I may say I am
_obliged_ to go away."
Mr Cheviott smiled grimly.
"I am to have my full share of the credit of this nice piece of work, I
see," he said to himself. "Well, so best, perhaps."--"Oh, yes, I
suppose you must say something of the kind," he added, aloud, and at
these words Arthur felt a slight sensation of relief. What might he not
contrive to say by _not_ saying, in this note he had obtained permission
to write? What might not Lilias, as clearheaded as she was
true-hearted, Lilias, clairvoyant with "the eyes of the mind," read
between the lines of this poor little note on which so much was to hang;
yes, for a minute or two Arthur felt a shade less hopelessly wretched.
"Laurence," he said, after a little pause, and with some energy in his
tone, "you will not, at least, coerce me in any way as to where or how I
spend these two years?"
"How do you mean?" said Mr Cheviott, cautiously, with perhaps even a
shade of suspiciousness in his tone. But Arthur did not resent, if he
perceived it; he looked up into his cousin's face, and somehow the sight
of his own plead more in his favour than any words. All the comeliness
and colour, all the boyish heartiness, seemed to have faded away out of
his features as if by magic; in their stead there was a pale, almost
haggard look of anxiety which touched Mr Cheviott inexpressibly. He
turned away uneasily.
"It's altogether too bad," he muttered to himself; "it is altogether
wrong. Here am I made to feel almost as if it were all _my_ doing, and
Arthur with all the heart and spirit crushed out of him, poor fellow!
And, after all, he has not done anything wrong--all the result of his
father's folly; it is altogether too bad. Far better have left him
penniless from the beginning."
But Mr Cheviott was not in the habit of allowing his feelings, however
righteous, to run away with him. In a moment or two he replied quietly
to his cousin's question.
"I have no wish to coerce you about anything," he said, weariedly; "I
only want to decide how to make the best of a bad business. Where would
you like to go?"
"_Like_ to go? Nowhere," said Arthur, bitterly. "Where I would have a
chance of doing any good is the question. I was thinking I might do
worse than take to studying farming, and that sort of thing,
systematically--go to Cirencester or one of those agricultural colleges,
eh?"
"With a view to settling down at the Edge?" said Laurence, maliciously.
"No, but with a view to getting an agency--the agency of an estate, I
mean, once Alys is of age. I don't see anything unreasonable in that.
If Alys doesn't sell Lydon, perhaps she will take me into
consideration."
"Don't sneer, Arthur; it is not Alys's fault," said Mr Cheviott. "I
don't think your idea _is_ an unreasonable one," and relieved to find
his cousin so practically inclined, he went on to discuss the rival
merits of the various agricultural colleges.
It was daylight, or dawn, at least, before the cousins separated, but,
tired as he was, Captain Beverley did not go to bed till he had written
and rewritten half a dozen times the conceded note of farewell to Mrs
Western.
And in the end he, in despair, copied over the first and decided to send
it.
"It is merely catching at a straw," he said to himself. "Far better
give up every hope of her at once, but I _cannot_."
He left Romary the following afternoon, but his note was not sent to
Hathercourt Rectory till late that evening.