A STRUGGLE.
There are moments in life which are so sweet as to light up whole weeks
of gloom; and there are moments so dreadful as to make the unfortunate
actors in them tremble at the recollection to the end of their lives.
Such a moment in the life of Frank Renton was that in which he suddenly
heard the padrona’s knock at her own door. He had been as happy as a
young man could be. He had felt himself willing, and over again willing,
to give up everything without a regret, for the sake of the love he had
won, and which was, he said to himself, of everything in earth and
heaven the most sweet. This he had said to himself a hundred times over
as he hung over Alice in the first ecstasy of their betrothal. He could
not imagine how he ever could have doubted. Going to India would, as he
had said, be going to heaven. Where he went, she would be with him. He
should have her all to himself, free from any interference. They would
be free to go forth together, hand in hand, like Adam and Eve. What was
any advantage the world could give in comparison to such blessedness? He
was in the full flush of his delight when that awful knock was heard at
the door.
At the sound of it Alice started too. She clung to him first, and then
she shrank from him. ‘Oh, it is mamma!’ she cried, with sudden dismay.
Then there was a pause. Frank let go the hand he had been holding.
Nature and the world stood still in deference to the extraordinary
crisis. He turned his face, which had suddenly grown pale, to the door.
And they heard her talking as she came up the stairs, unconcerned,
laughing as if nothing had happened! ‘It will be a surprise to Alice,’
she said audibly, pausing in the passage, at the dining-room door. And
Alice shuddered as she listened. A surprise! If the padrona could but
know what a terrible surprise had been prepared for herself!
And then she came in upon them, smiling and blooming, her soft colour
heightened by a little fresh breeze that was blowing, bright from the
pleasant unusual intercourse with the outside world. ‘I am sorry you did
not come with us, Alice,’ she said. ‘It is not so hot as we thought it
was. Ah, Mr. Renton!’ and she held out her hand to him. Upon what tiny
issues does life hang. If Alice had not thought it too hot to go out,
all this might never have happened. And the mother to speak of it so
lightly, thinking of nothing more important than the walk, ignorant
what advantage had been taken of her absence! To the two guilty
creatures who knew, every word was an additional stab.
‘I came up again to-day about the same business,’ said Frank, faltering.
Alice bent trembling over her work, and said nothing. She did not go, as
was her wont, with soft, tender hands, to untie the bonnet and take off
the shawl, taking pride in her office as ‘mamma’s maid.’ She put on an
aspect of double diligence over her work, though her hands trembled so
that she could scarcely hold her needle.
Even Mrs. Severn’s unsuspicious nature was startled. She turned to Miss
Hadley, who had come in behind her, and said, half in dumb-show, with a
certain impatience, ‘What does he mean by coming so often?’
‘No good,’ answered Miss Hadley, solemnly, under her breath; which
laconic utterance amused the padrona so much, that her momentary
uneasiness flew away. She sat down smiling, turning her kind face upon
the trembling pair. ‘Poor Laurie’s brother!’ she said to herself. That
was argument enough for tolerating him and showing him all kindness.
‘Alice, how is it you are so busy?’ she said. ‘I think you might order
some tea. Though it is not so very hot, it is pleasant to get into the
shade. I hope your business has made progress, Mr. Renton,’ she added,
politely. As the padrona looked at them it became slowly apparent to
her that something was wrong. Alice had not liked the task of
entertaining a stranger all by herself; or----! But of course it must be
that. It was ill-bred of him, even though he was Laurie’s brother, to
insist on coming in when there was nobody but the child to receive him.
Mrs. Severn began to feel uncharitably towards the young man. Alice
flushed one moment, and the next was quite pale. She was reluctant to
raise her eyes, and neglected all her usual _petits soins_. When she had
to get up to obey her mother, it was with a shy avoidance of her look,
which went to the padrona’s heart. What could be the matter? Was she
ill? Had he been rude to her? But that was impossible. ‘Is there
anything wrong, my darling?’ she said, half rising from her seat.
‘Oh, no, mamma!’ said Alice, breathlessly, in a fainting voice.
The padrona gave Miss Hadley a look which meant,--Go and see what is the
matter; and then with a very pre-occupied mind turned towards Frank to
play politeness and do her social duties. ‘I hope your business has made
progress,’ she repeated, vaguely; and then it became apparent that he
was agitated too.
‘Yes,’ he said; and then he came forward to her quite pale and with an
air of mingled supplication and alarm which filled her with the
profoundest bewilderment. ‘Oh, Mrs. Severn, forgive us!’ he cried. He
would have gone down on his knees had he thought that would have been
effectual; but he did not dare to go down on his knees. He stood before
her like a culprit about to be sentenced; and she looked at him with
eyes in which alarm and suspicion began to glow. There was something
wrong; but even now the mother to whom her child was indeed a child did
not guess what it was.
‘Us!’ she said; and somehow a thought of Laurie struck into the maze of
her thoughts. He could not have done anything, poor fellow, in his
exile, to call for forgiveness in this passionate way. ‘I cannot tell
what you mean,’ she cried. ‘What have I to forgive? And who are the
sinners?’ and she tried to laugh, though it was difficult enough.
‘Mrs. Severn,’ he said, ‘I would not, believe me, have taken advantage
of your absence, not willingly. She is so young. I know I ought to have
spoken to you first. I did not mean it when I came----’
‘She?’ cried the padrona, with a little cry. Not yet did she see what it
was; but instinct told her what kind of a trenchant blow was coming, and
all the blood seemed to rush back upon her heart.
‘Yes,’ said Frank, rising into the calm of passion, ‘I found her all by
herself. And I loved her so! From that first moment I saw her,--when you
called her, and she came and stood there,’ he cried, pointing vaguely at
the door; ‘and I had come to tell you I was going away. And she was
sorry. It all came upon us in a moment. How could I help telling her? I
loved her so! Forgive me for Alice’s sake.’
The padrona sat gazing at him for some moments with dilated eyes; then
suddenly she hid her face in her hands, and uttered a low, moaning cry
as of a creature in pain. All at once it had come upon her what it
meant. Frank standing there, full of anxiety, yet full of confidence,
was bewildered, not knowing what this meant in reference to himself. But
the truth was that Mrs. Severn was not thinking of him, had no room in
her mind for him at that terrible moment. It was her child she was
thinking of,--Alice, who was here half an hour ago, and now was not
here, and could never again be, for ever. It all burst upon her in an
instant, not anything remediable, as a thing might be which was
independent of the child’s own will, but voluntary, her own doing, her
choice! Something sung and buzzed in her ears; her eyes felt hot and
scorched up; sharp pulsations of pain came into her temples. ‘My
child!--my baby!--my first-born!’ she said to herself. It was as if the
earth had shaken beneath her feet, and the house had crumbled down about
her. Her whole fabric of happiness seemed to shrink up; and yet it was
not so much--not so much that she asked; not anything for herself, not
the ease, the comfort, the leisure, the pleasures, so many had. Was she
not content, more than content to work late and early, to spare herself
in nothing, to labour with both hands, as it were, never grudging? Only
her children, that was all she asked to have! And here was the first of
her children, the sweetest of all, her excellency and the beginning of
her strength, her companion, and tender consoler, and sweet
helper--gone! She gave a cry, a half-smothered moan, such as could not
be put into words. And all this time Frank stood before her, pale,
somewhat desperate, but courageous, knowing that however the mother
might be against him, the daughter was for him,--and trusting in his
fate.
When the padrona at last withdrew her hands from her face it struck her
as with a sense of offence that he should still be standing there. Why
did he, a stranger, stand and gaze at her misery? What right had he? And
then she remembered that it was this boy whom her child had chosen out
of the world, to give up her home for him. In her heart, at that moment,
the padrona hated Frank. She raised her head, and even he, though he had
no love in his eyes to enlighten him respecting the changes in her face,
saw that the lines were drawn and haggard, the colour gone, and that a
look of age and suffering had fallen upon her. But she commanded
herself. She spoke after a minute with an effort. ‘Mr. Renton, this is
a very serious matter you tell me.’ she said; ‘my daughter is a child,’
and then she had to stop and take breath, and moisten her dry lips. ‘She
is too young,--to judge what is best,--for her life. And so are you,’
she added, looking at him with a certain pity for the boy who was so
young too, and Laurie’s brother to boot; ‘you are both too young to know
what you are doing. You should not have disturbed my Alice!’ she cried,
suddenly, unable to keep in the reproach. ‘Such thoughts would never
have come into my darling’s mind. You had no right to disturb my child!’
She got up as she spoke in a blaze of momentary excitement,--anger,
grief’s twin brother, rising sudden into the place of grief. She made a
step or two away from him, and began to collect Alice’s work and fold it
up with her trembling hands, turning her back upon him, as if this
sudden piece of business she had found was the most important matter in
the world. Then she turned round, raising her hand, with an outburst of
natural eloquence. ‘She was only a child,’ she cried; ‘as much a child
as when she sat on my lap. She had not a thought that was not open to
me. I have worked for her almost all her life, watched over her, nursed
her, smiled for her when my heart was breaking,--and all in a moment,
for a young man’s vanity, my child is to be mine no longer. Why did you
not come to me fairly, like an honest enemy, and warn me what you meant
to do?’
As she spoke, standing before him with her arm lifted in unconscious
action, almost towering over him in the greatness of her suffering and
indignation, Frank stood lost in astonishment. Mothers, so far as he
knew, were glad to get their daughters off their hands. Such was the
tradition in all regions he had ever frequented. He had expected
difficulties, no doubt, but not of this kind. It was with a certain
consternation that he gazed at her, asking himself what it meant. It was
all real, there could be no doubt of that. But yet,--he was in Fitzroy
Square. It was not a duke’s daughter he had ventured on engaging to
himself, but a humble artist’s, who everybody would have thought would
have been glad enough to have her child provided for. This Frank knew,
or, at least, he believed he knew, was the light in which the matter
would have been regarded by sensible people. And he, though Belgravia no
doubt might have scorned him, was no such contemptible match for the
daughter of the painter. He stood surprised and discomfited, not knowing
how to reply to a woman who addressed him so strangely. Perhaps it would
be best to let her have it all her own way, and exhaust her indignation
without contradicting or opposing her; but then the passion in her face
moved the young man.
‘I never thought of coming as an enemy,’ he said, with some heat. ‘I
have loved her ever since I saw her. I am not to blame for that.’ How
could he be to blame? He had done naught in hate, but all in honour. And
thus the mother and the lover stood confronting each other, rivals; but
in a conflict which for one of them was without hope.
Then there was an interval of silence,--a truce between the foes. Frank
mechanically turned over and over the books which lay on a little table
against which he was leaning, and the padrona threw herself into her
chair trembling in her agitation. Again and again her lips forced
themselves to speak, but the effort was a vain one. She had not the
heart to speak. What was there to say? If Alice’s heart was gone from
her, then everything was gone. It was not as in old days, when she could
have forbidden an unsuitable indulgence with the certainty that after
the pain of the first few minutes the smiles would come back, the little
heart melt, and the child be herself again. Here was a serious trial
now, and the padrona’s heart was sick. She sat, not even looking at him,
with her head turned to one side, and her mind full of bitter thoughts.
This silence was worse than anything for Frank. He bore it as long as he
could, standing with his eyes fixed upon her, expecting the verdict
which was to come. Then, as she did not speak, he summoned up all his
courage. He made a few steps forward, so as to bring himself before her
eyes, and thus addressed her, with as much steadiness and calm as he
could command;--‘Mrs. Severn,’ he said, ‘could you not put yourself in
my position? I did not mean to betray myself. I meant to say good-bye,
and go away, and never trouble you more. But she was sorry, God bless
her! She looked at me, and pitied me, and I did not know what I was
saying. I will not tell you a lie, and say I regret,’ cried Frank, with
excitement; ‘but I will say I am sorry I had not the chance of speaking
to you first. Surely, surely, you will not refuse her to me for that!’
‘Refuse her to you!’ said the padrona, with an unconscious contempt;
‘refuse her to you! You cannot think it is you I am thinking of. Oh,
young man, how little you know! There is the sting of it! I would give
everything I have in the world she had never seen you; but you make me
work out my own sorrow. Can you believe I would hesitate a moment if it
were only refusing you?’ she cried, with a gesture unconsciously full of
scorn, throwing, as it were, something from her. Frank had never been
spoken to in such a tone before. He had been an important personage at
Richmont. Not so would his prayer have been received there. The wounded
_amour propre_ of his youth made itself felt in his displeasure. He went
to the nearest window, and stood staring out into the street, disgusted
with himself, and half disgusted, if the truth must be told, with all
the circumstances. He had been a fool in thus committing himself. He had
behaved like a fool in every way, and this was his reward;--not
rejection even, but scorn!
‘But I can’t refuse her anything!’ the padrona said with a sigh, that
came out of the very bottom of her heart. There was the sting of it. She
could not turn away, as impulse would have made her, the lover whom she
felt to be her enemy. There was the child to be considered. It was no
plain and easy matter to be decided upon in an arbitrary way. Fathers
and mothers have refused their children’s wishes before now for their
good. Daughters have been even shut up in their rooms, starved,
imprisoned, bullied into giving up the undesirable suitor, as everybody
knows. But these courses were not open to the padrona. She could no more
have stood by and seen her child suffer than she could have flown. The
one was as much an impossibility of nature as the other. She could not
refuse Alice the desire of her heart. Oh, gentle heavens! to think it
could be the desire of that tender creature’s heart to go away from her
home where she had been cherished since ever she was born,--from her
mother, who had loved and shielded her for all her sixteen years,--away
to the end of the world with a young man, whom six months before she had
never seen! And she not a woman with any weariness in her heart, nor a
girl of adventurous instincts, curious and longing for the unknown, but,
on the contrary, the purest womanly domestic child, caring little about
all the noises of the great world without,--only sixteen, a soft,
contented creature, happy in all the little business of her limited
life! There was the wonder,--a thing not new, familiar every day;--and
yet ever miraculous, a wonder and a portent to the padrona, as if it had
never happened before.
It was just then that Alice came faltering into the room. She had cried
and leaned her head on Miss Hadley’s breast when she was questioned what
was the matter; but she would not tell even that faithful friend until
mamma knew. Her faithful friend, indeed, was at no great loss. Her eyes
were sharp enough to make up the lack of all suspicion in the innocent
household. She divined the truth, and she also divined the scene that
must be going on in the drawing-room. ‘I knew this was what would come
of it,’ she allowed herself to say,--which was but natural; and she led
Alice back to the door, though it was against her will. ‘My love, these
two will never agree without you.’ she said, and stayed outside with
that purest self-denial of the secondary spectator, burning with
curiosity and interest, yet giving way to the chief personages
concerned, which is so often seen among women. She would not even go
into the dining-room, where she might have seen or heard something, but
stayed outside in the passage, having carefully closed all the doors. So
far as she herself was concerned, Miss Hadley was not Frank’s enemy.
When a man spoke out she respected him, as she always said. It was only
when he shilly-shallied that she had a contempt for him;--and to have
one of them provided for would no doubt be a great matter. Such, taking
Frank’s theory of what was proper and natural, was Miss Hadley’s way of
thinking; but she knew only too well how impracticable Mrs. Severn could
be.
Alice went in faltering, changing colour, ready to sink to the ground
with innocent shame-facedness, but as much unaware of the struggle going
on in her mother’s mind as if she had been a creature of a different
species. When she had made a few steps into the room, she paused, and
gave a quick timid glance at the two, who were both stirred by her
approach. The padrona rose, and gazed at her child, who had thus left
her side, while Frank started forward to place himself by her. This was
the last touch, which the mother could not bear. She darted to Alice’s
side, put him away with her hand, took the girl into her arms, and
holding her fast, gazed into her face. ‘Alice,’ she said, ‘is it true?
Never mind any one but me. Look at me,--at your mother, Alice. Tell me
the truth,--the truth, my darling! Can it be? Do you want to go with
him, and leave us all,--the boys, and Edith, and all that love you? Is
it true? Do you want to leave me, my child?’ cried the mother, in a
voice of anguish. And she stood holding her fast, reading the answer
before it came in her eyes, in the modulations of her lips,--elevated to
such a height of passionate feeling as she had never known before in all
her life.
Nor was it a less trial for the young inexperienced creature, knowing
nothing of passion, who was held thus in the grip of despair.
Fortunately, Alice could not understand the full force of the tempest in
her mother’s heart. ‘Oh, mamma, how can you think I want to leave you?’
she cried, with tears; and Frank, listening, felt with a pang that he
was cast aside. Then she paused. ‘But, oh, mamma, dear!’ said Alice,
with a soft, pleading, breathless tone, melodious like the cooing of a
dove,--‘oh, mamma, dear!’--and she slid her tender arm round her
mother’s neck, changing her attitude to one of utter supplication,--‘you
have Edie and the boys, and my dearest love for ever and ever. And he
has nobody; and he says,---- Will you only hear what he says? It is not
fancy. He wants me most.’
It was not more than a minute that they stood thus clinging together,
but Frank thought it an hour. He was left out of the matter. It was they
who had to decide a question so momentous to them. And then he became
aware that the padrona had cast her arms round her child to support
herself, and was weeping wildly upon Alice’s shoulder. No need for any
further questions. They had changed characters for the moment. The
girl’s slight figure tottered, swayed, steadied itself, supporting with
a supreme effort the weight of the mother’s yielding and anguish; and
Alice gave him a look over that burthen,--a look of such pain and
sweetness and confidence, that Frank’s heart was altogether melted.
‘Look what I have to bear,--what I have to give up for you!’ it seemed
to say;--a pathetic glance; and yet there was in it the triumph of the
new love rooting and establishing itself upon the ruins of the old.
When the padrona came to herself she called Frank Renton to her. It was
not that she had fainted or become unconscious; but that, when a
woman,--or a man either for that matter,--is suddenly called upon to
sound the profoundest depths of suffering within her,--or his,--own
being, a mist comes upon external matters, confusing place and fact, and
above all, time, which goes fast or slow according to our consciousness.
It might have been years, so far as she could tell, since she came in
cheerfully from her walk, fearing no evil. She had been engaged in some
awful struggle against her spiritual enemies, principalities and powers,
such as she had never yet encountered; and all unprepared, unarmed for
the conflict! She came to herself, lying back in her chair exhausted as
if with an illness, without strength enough left to feel the full force
of any calamity. She called Frank Renton to her, holding out her hand.
‘Sit down here and let me speak to you,’ she said. ‘I am to listen to
what you have to say. And I will listen,--but not now. Such a thing had
never entered into my mind. I thought the child was safe for years. I
thought she was all mine,--my consolation. I have had so much to do, it
seemed but fair I should have a consolation. But there is nothing fair
in this world. And now it is you who have her heart, and not me,--and I
don’t know you even. To be sure you are Laurie’s brother. Mr. Renton, if
you will come back to me another time, when I have got a little used to
it, I will hear everything you have to say.’
‘Thanks!’ said Frank, not knowing what answer to make, being utterly
confused in his own mind, and as much out of his depth in every way as a
young man could be. And he would have taken the hand she held out to him
in token of amity,--but Mrs. Severn was not equal to any such signs of
friendship.
‘It will be for another time,’ she said, sitting upright in her chair,
and drawing back a little. ‘If I had received any warning;--but you
have only met two,--three times;--is that all?’ she said, with a sudden
spasm in her voice.
‘And at Richmont,’ said Frank, divided between offence and humility.
Alice had left the room again, and the two were alone.
‘And at Richmont,’ the padrona repeated with a heavy sigh. ‘I might have
known. But you don’t know my child,’ she added, with sudden energy. ‘You
have seen her pretty face and heard her music, and it is those you care
for,--that is all. And there are others as pretty, and who play as well.
You cannot know my child.’
‘Look here, Mrs. Severn,’ cried Frank, driven wild in his turn; ‘I have
loved her since the first moment I saw her under those curtains. Was it
my doing? I was listening to the music, not thinking of any one; and you
called Alice, and she came. And I have been struggling against it ever
since. I will tell you the truth. I was to marry money,--everybody had
made up their minds to it. I was to have a rich wife and give up India,
and live a life that would suit me much better at home. That is the
truth. And I tried,--tried hard to carry it out. But I had seen Alice,
and I could not. To-day when I came I meant to try to say good-bye. I
meant it honestly, upon my life. And that other girl is prettier, if you
will speak so,’ cried the young man, with a kind of brutality, ‘than
Alice. Judge if it is only for that----’
‘Then you will repent,’ said the padrona, blazing up into an
inconsistent jealousy and resentment. ‘Believe me, Mr. Renton, it is far
better to carry out your intention, and leave my penniless girl alone.’
The young man started up with a muttered oath. The moment of passion was
over, but that of mutual exasperation had come. The light of battle
kindled in the padrona’s eyes. She would have been glad to be rid of him
at any price; and yet,--inconsistent woman,--though she hated him for
loving Alice, the thought that he had struggled against that love, the
thought that her child had been put in competition with another, set her
all a-flame. ‘By heaven, you do me injustice!’ cried Frank. ‘Why will
you misunderstand what I say? Let me tell you everything from the
beginning. Is it just to judge me unheard? I am Laurie’s brother, whom
you are fond of; and Alice is mine as well as yours. She has no doubt of
me. Why cannot we be friends, we two? I should be your son----’
‘It must be for another time,’ said the padrona, letting her voice
relapse into languor.
The sense of exhaustion had been thoroughly real when she expressed it
before; but now, it must be allowed, it was exasperating. The elastic
soul had touched the ground, and rebounded ever so little. But she had
rebounded in a perverse, and not an amiable way. It was not the calm of
despair, but an active wretchedness in which there was hope. And Frank,
too, got set on edge, as she was, and left the house with but one soft
word from Alice to console him as he went, flaming with opposition and
resentment. He could turn the tables on her yet, if he were to try. He
could make her regret her interference, if he would. And then a
visionary Alice glided into the young man’s imagination, holding out her
soft arms. Vex her because her mother was vexatious to him? Ah, no! not
for the world!