Some seven years after the ambitious boy left Coombe-Acton, honest
farmer Abraham, just when the old-fashioned hawthorn hedges were in
whitest bloom, sickened, turned his stolid face to the wall and died.
Gerald had been summoned, but arrived too late to see his father alive.
Perhaps it was as well it should be so, the farmer's last moments were
troubled ones and full of regret that Watercress Farm would no longer
know a Leigh. The nephew who had taken Gerald's place had turned out an
utter failure, so much so that Abraham Leigh had roundly declared that
he would be bothered with no more boys, and for the last few years had
managed his business single-handed. However, although Gerald's upheaval
of family traditions made the farmer's deathbed unhappy, he showed
that his son had not forfeited his love. All he possessed, some three
thousand pounds, was left to him. Mr. Herbert took the lease of the farm
off the young man's hands, by and by the live and the dead stock were
sold off, and Watercress Farm was waiting for another tenant.
The winding-up of the father's affairs kept Gerald in the neighborhood
of some weeks, and when it became known that Mr. Herbert had insisted
upon his taking up his quarters at the hall the simple Coombe-Acton
folks were stricken with a great wonder. Knowing nothing of what is
called the "aristocracy of art," their minds were much exercised by such
an unheard of proceeding. What had "Jerry" Leigh being doing in the last
seven years to merit such a distinction?
Nothing his agricultural friends could have understood. After picking up
the rudiments of his art in a well-known sculptor's studio, young Leigh
had been sent to study in the schools at Paris. Mr. Herbert told him
that, so far as his art was concerned, Paris was the workshop of the
world,--Rome its bazaar and showroom. So to Paris the boy went. He
studied hard and lived frugally. He won certain prizes and medals, and
was now looking forward to the time when he must strike boldly for fame.
Even now he was not quite unknown. A couple of modest but very beautiful
studies in low relief had appeared in last year's exhibition, and, if
overlooked by the majority, had attracted the notice of a few whose
praise was well worth winning. He was quite satisfied with the results
of his first attempt. In all things that concerned his art he was wise
and patient. No sooner had he placed his foot on the lowest step of the
ladder than he realized the amount of work to be done--the technical
skill to be acquired before he could call himself a sculptor. Even
now, after seven years' study and labor, he had selfdenial enough to
resolve upon being a pupil for three years longer before he made his
great effort to place himself by the side of contemporary sculptors.
Passionate and impulsive as was his true nature, he could follow and woo
art with that calm persistency and method which seem to be the surest
way of winning her smiles.
He is now a man--a singularly handsome man. If not so tall as his youth
promised, he is well built and graceful. Artist is stamped all over
him. Brow, eyes, even the slender, well-shaped hands, proclaim it. The
general expression of his face is one of calm and repose; yet an acute
observer might assert that, when the moment came, that face might depict
passions stronger than those which sway most men.
His dark hair and eyes, and something in the style of his dress, gave
him a look not quite that of an Englishman--a look that terribly vexed
poor Abraham Leigh on those rare occasions when his erratic boy paid him
a visit; but, nevertheless, it is a look not out of place on a young
artist.
This is the kind of man Gerald Leigh has grown into; and, whilst his
transformation has been in progress, Miss Eugenia Herbert has become a
woman.
Although remembering every feature of the child, who seemed in some way
associated with the day of his liberation, Gerald had not again seen
her until his father's death called him back to England. Each time he
had visited Coombe-Acton he had, of course, reported progress to Mr.
Herbert; but, shortly after the change in his life, Mr. Herbert by a
great effort of self-denial, had sent his darling away to school, and at
school she had always been when Gerald called at the Hall; but now, when
he accepted Mr. Herbert's hospitality, he found the fairy-like child
grown, it seemed to him, into his ideal woman, and found, moreover, that
there was a passion so intense that even the love of art must pale
before it.
He made no attempt to resist it. He let it master him; overwhelm him;
sweep him along. Ere a week had gone by, not only by looks, but also in
burning words, he had told Eugenia he loved her. And how did he fare?
His very audacity and disregard of everything, save that he loved
the girl, succeeded to a marvel. Eugenia had already met with many
admirers, but not one like this. Such passionate pleading, such fiery
love, such vivid eloquence were strange and new to her. There was an
originality, a freshness, a thoroughness in the love he offered her.
His very unreasonableness affected her reason. All the wealth of his
imagination, all the crystallizations of his poetical dreams, he threw
into his passion. His ecstasy whirled the girl from her mental feet; his
warmth created an answering warmth; his reckless pleading conquered. She
forgot obstacles as his eloquence overleaped them; she forgot social
distinction as his great dark eyes looked into hers, and at last she
confessed she loved him.
Then Gerald Leigh came down from the clouds and realized what he had
done, and as soon as he touched the earth and became reasonable Eugenia
fancied she did not care for him quite so much.
His conscience smote him. Not only must Mr. Herbert be reckoned with,
but a terrible interval must elapse before he had fame and fortune to
lay before Eugenia. He could scarcely expect her to leave her luxurious
home in order to live _au quatrieme_ or _au cinquieme_ in Paris whilst
he completed his studies. He grew sad and downcast as he thought of
these things, and Eugenia, who liked pleasant, bright, well-to-do
people, felt less kindly disposed toward him and showed she did so.
This made him reckless again. He threw the future to the winds,
recommenced his passionate wooing, recovered his lost ground and gained,
perhaps, a little more.
But Abraham Leigh's affairs were settled up, and Gerald knew he must
tear himself from Acton Hall and go back to work. He had lingered a few
days to finish a bust of Mr. Herbert. This done he had no excuse for
staying longer.
The summer twilight deepened into night. The sculptor and Miss Herbert
stood upon the broad and gravelled terrace-walk that runs along the
stately front of Acton Hall. They leaned upon the gray stone balustrade;
the girl with musing eye was looking down on shadowy lawn and flower-bed
underneath; the young man looked at her, and her alone. Silence reigned
long between them, but at last she spoke.
"You really go to-morrow?"
"Tell me to stay, and I will stay," he said, passionately, "but next
week--next month--next year, the moment, when it does come, will be just
as bitter."
She did not urge him. She was silent. He drew very near to her.
"Eugenia," he whispered, "you love me?"
"I think so." Her eyes were still looking over the darkening garden. She
spoke dreamily, and as one who is not quite certain.
"You think so! Listen! Before we part let me tell you what your love
means to me. If, when first I asked for it you had scorned me, I could
have left you unhappy, but still a man. Now it means life or death to
me. There is no middle course--no question of joy or misery--simply life
or death! Eugenia, look at me and say you love me!"
His dark eyes charmed and compelled her. "I love you! I love you?" she
murmured. Her words satisfied him; moreover, she let the hand he grasped
remain in his, perhaps even returning the pressure of his own. So they
stood for more than an hour, whilst Gerald talked of the future and the
fame he meant to win--talked as one who has the fullest confidence in
his own powers and directing genius.
Presently they saw Mr. Herbert walking through the twilight towards
them. Gerald's hand tightened on the girl's so as to cause her positive
pain.
"Remember," he whispered; "life or death! Think of it while we are
apart. Your love means a man's life or death!"
Many a lover has said an equally extravagant thing, but Eugenia Herbert
knew that his words were not those of poetical imagery, and as she
re-entered the house she trembled at the passion she had aroused. What
if time and opposition should work a change in her feelings? She tried
to reassure herself by thinking that if she did not love him in the same
blind, reckless way, at any rate she would never meet another man whom
she could love as she loved Gerald Leigh.
The sculptor went back to Paris--to his art and his dreams of love and
fame. Two years slipped by without any event of serious import happening
to the persons about whom we are concerned. Then came a great change.
Mr. Herbert died so suddenly that neither doctor nor lawyer could be
summoned in time, either to aid him to live or to carry out his last
wishes. His will gave Eugenia two thousand pounds and an estate he owned
in Gloucestershire--everything else to his son. Unfortunately, some
six months before, he had sold the Gloucestershire property, and, with
culpable negligence, had not made a fresh will. Therefore, the small
money bequest was all that his daughter could claim. However, this
seemed of little moment, as her brother at once announced his intention
of settling upon her the amount to which she was equitably entitled. He
had given his solicitors instructions to prepare the deed.
James Herbert, Eugenia's brother, was unmarried, and at present had no
intention of settling down to the life of a country gentleman. Six weeks
after Mr. Herbert's death the greater number of the servants were paid
off, and Acton Hall was practically shut up. Eugenia, after spending
some weeks with friends in the north of England, came to London to live
for an indefinite time with her mother's sister, a Mrs. Cathcart.
Since her father's death Gerald Leigh had written to her several
times--letters full of passionate love and penned as if the writer felt
sure of her constancy and wish to keep her promise. He, too, was coming
to London. Had she wished it, he would at once have come to her side;
but as it was he would take up his quarters in town about the same time
Eugenia arrived there.
The hour was at hand--the hour to which Miss Herbert had for two years
looked forward with strangely mingled feelings--when her friends must be
told that she intended to marry the young, and as yet unknown sculptor,
Gerald Leigh, the son of her father's late tenant farmer, Abraham.
She loved him still. She felt sure of that much. If time and absence had
somewhat weakened the spell he had thrown over her proud nature, she
knew that unless the man was greatly changed the magic of his words
and looks would sway her as irresistibly as before. She loved him, yet
rebelled against her fate.
Her father had died ignorant of what had passed between his daughter
and the young artist. Many a time Eugenia had tried to bring herself to
confess the truth to him. She now regretted she had not done so. Mr.
Herbert's approval or disapproval would have been at least a staff by
which to guide her steps. He had suspected nothing. The few letters
which passed between the lovers had been unnoticed. Their love was as
yet a secret known only to themselves.
She loved him, but why had he dared to make her love him? Or, why was
he not well-born and wealthy? Could she find strength to face, for his
sake, the scorn of her friends?
She must decide at once. She is sitting and thinking all these things in
her own room at Mrs. Cathcart's, and in front of her lies a letter in
which Gerald announces his intention of calling upon her to-morrow. She
knows that if she receives him she will be bound to proclaim herself his
affianced wife.
He called. She saw him. Mrs. Cathcart was out, So Eugenia was alone
when the servant announced Mr. Leigh. She started and turned pale. She
trembled in every limb as he crossed the room to where she stood. He
took her hand and looked into her face. He spoke, and his rich musical
voice thrilled her.
"Eugenia, is it life or death?"
She could not answer. She could not turn her eyes from his. She saw the
intensity of their expression deepen; saw a fierce yearning look come
into them, a look which startled her.
"Is it life or death?" he repeated.
His love conquered. "Gerald, it is life," she said.
Drunk with joy, he threw his arms around her and kissed her until the
blushes dyed her cheeks. He stayed with her as long as she would allow,
but his delight was too delicious to permit him to say much about his
plans for the future. When at last she made him leave her, he gave her
the number of a studio at Chelsea, which he had taken, and she promised
to write and let him know when he might call again.
They parted. Eugenia walked to the window, and for a long time looked
out on the gay thoroughfare, now full of carriages going to and
returning from the park. Of course, she loved Gerald dearly; that was
now beyond a doubt. But what would she have to go through when the
engagement was announced? what had she to look forward to as his wife?
Must love and worldly misery be synonymous?
The current of her thoughts was interrupted by the arrival of another
visitor--her brother. James Herbert was a tall young man, faultlessly
dressed, and bearing a general look of what is termed high breeding. He
bore a likeness to his father, but the likeness was but an outward one.
By this time he was a cold cynical man of the world. He had not lived
the best of lives, but, being no fool, had gained experience and
caution. He was clever enough to study human nature with a view of
turning his knowledge to account. Eugenia had some pride of birth;
her brother had, or affected, a great deal more. He was by no means
unpopular; few men could make themselves more agreeable and fascinating
than James Herbert when it was worth his while to be so. In his way he
was fond of his sister; certainly proud of her beauty; and she, who knew
nothing of his true nature, thought him as perfect as a brother can be.
He kissed her, complimented her on her good looks, then sat down and
made himself pleasant. She answered his remarks somewhat mechanically,
wondering all the time what effect her news would have upon him. She
hated things hanging over her head, and had made up her mind to tell him
of her intentions, if not to-day the next time she met him.
"The lawyers have almost settled your little matter," he said. "It's
lucky for you I made up my mind at once; things haven't turned out so
well as we expected."
She thanked him--not effusively, as if he was doing no more than she had
a right to expect. Yet the thought flashed across her that before she
took his bounty she was by honor compelled to make him acquainted with
what she proposed doing.
"By-the-bye, Eugenia," said Herbert, "you know Ralph Norgate?"
"Yes. He called a day or two ago. I did not see him."
"Well, I expect he'll soon call again. He has been forcing his
friendship on me lately. In fact--I'd better tell you--his mind is made
up--you are to be the future Lady Norgate. Now you know what to look
forward to."
Her face flushed. Her troubles were beginning.
"But, James," she stammered, "I was just going to tell you--I am already
engaged."
He raised his eyebrows. To express great surprise was against his creed,
and the idea that Eugenia was capable of disgracing herself did not
enter his head.
"So much the worse for Norgate," he said. "Who is the happy man?"
"You will be angry, very angry, I fear." She spoke timidly. His manner
told her she had good grounds for fear. His mouth hardened, but he still
spoke politely and pleasantly.
"My dear girl, don't discount my displeasure; tell me who it is?"
"His name is Gerald Leigh."
"A pretty name, and one which sounds familiar to me. Now, who is Gerald
Leigh?"
"He is a sculptor."
"Ah! now I know. Son of that excellent old tenant of my father's. The
genius he discovered on a dungheap. Eugenia, are you quite mad?"
"He will be a famous man some day."
Herbert shrugged his shoulders in a peculiarly irritating way.
"Let him be as famous as he likes. What does it matter?"
"The proudest family may be proud of allying themselves to a great
artist."
Herbert looked at his sister with a pitying but amused smile. "My poor
girl, don't be led astray by the temporary glorification of things
artistic. When these fellows grow talked about we ask them to our houses
and make much of them. It's the fashion. But we don't marry them.
Indeed, as they all begin in the lower ranks of life, like your friend,
they are generally provided with wives of their own station, who stay at
home and trouble no one."
She winced under the sting of his scorn. He saw it, and knew he was
pursuing the right treatment for her disease.
"Now, this young Leigh," he continued. "What will he be for years and
years? A sort of superior stone-cutter. He will make what living he
can by going about and doing busts of mayors and mayoresses, and other
people of that class, who want their common features perpetuated.
Perhaps he might get a job on a tombstone for a change. Bah! Of course
you have been jesting with me, Eugenia. I shall tell Norgate to call as
soon as possible."
"I shall marry Gerald Leigh," said Eugenia, sullenly. All the same the
busts and tombstones weighed heavily upon her.
"That," said her brother, rising, and still speaking with a smile, "I
am not the least afraid of, although you are of age and mistress of two
thousand pounds. You are not cut out to ornament an attic. I need not
say I must countermand that settlement. It must wait until you marry
Norgate or some other suitable man."
He kissed her and walked carelessly away. To all appearance the matter
did not cause him a moment's anxiety. He was a clever man, and flattered
himself he knew how to treat Eugenia; human nature should be assailed at
its weakest points.
His carelessness was, of course, assumed; for, meeting Mrs. Cathcart as
she drove home, Eugenia's news was sufficiently disturbing to make him
stop the carriage, seat himself beside his aunt, and beg her to take
another turn in the park, during which he told her what had transpired.
They were fitting coadjutors. Mrs. Cathcart was delighted to hear of Sir
Ralph's overtures, and was shocked to find that Eugenia was entangled
in some low attachment. She quite agreed that the girl must be led, not
driven; must be laughed, not talked, out of her folly. "Girls nearly
always make fools of themselves once in their lives," said Mr. Cathcart,
cynically.
"They do," said James Herbert, who knew something about the sex. "All
the same, Eugenia shall not. Find out all about the fellow, where he
lives, and all the rest of it. She doesn't know I've told you about
this. Keep a sharp lookout for any letters."
So the next day, when Eugenia and her aunt were together, the latter, a
skilled domestic diplomatist, commenced operations by regretting that
Mr. Herbert, although so fond of statuary, had never employed a sculptor
to make his own bust. Mrs. Cathcart spoke so naturally that Eugenia fell
into the trap, and informed her that Mr. Herbert's likeness had been
taken in clay two years ago by a young sculptor then staying at Acton
Hall. It had been done for pleasure, not profit, but her father had
always intended to order a copy in marble. Mrs. Cathcart was delighted.
Did Eugenia know where the young man could be found?
Eugenia did know. She told her with a tinge of color on her cheeks,
and took advantage of the opportunity, and perhaps soothed her spirit
somewhat by expatiating on what a great man her lover was to become.
Mrs. Cathcart, in return, spoke of geniuses as struggling, poverty
stricken persons, to befriend whom was the one great wish of her life.
It was indeed pleasant for Miss Herbert to hear her aunt speak of her
lover as she might of a hard-working seamstress or deserving laundress.
She had not yet written to Gerald. She must find strength to throw off
her brother's scorn and the busts and tombstones before she again met
her lover.
Sir Ralph Norgate called that morning. He was a man of about forty. Not
ill-looking, but with the unmistakable appearance of one who had led a
hard life. He was rich, and of fine old family. It was clear to Mrs.
Cathcart that he meant business. Eugenia had met him several times last
year, and it was no news to her that he was her ardent admirer. She was
very cold towards him to-day, but Mrs. Cathcart did not chide her. She,
clever woman, knew that men like Norgate value a prize at what it costs
them to win it. So the baronet came, stayed his appointed time, then
went away, presumably in fair train to a declaration by and by.