THE FIRST MOVES IN THE GAME.
Some time passed away, after the memorable fête which had celebrated
the majority of Miss Meriton Baldwin of the Deane, during which, to an
uninitiated observer, the aspect of affairs in that splendid and
well-regulated mansion remained unchanged. County festivities took
place; and the importance of the young ladies at the Deane was not a
better established fact than their popularity.
With the comic seriousness which distinguished him, the Honourable
Matthew Dort had "gone in for Nelly." He visited at the Deane with
tranquil regularity, he played croquet imperturbably; only that he now
watched Eleanor's balls, and was as confident she would "croquet"
everybody as he had formerly been free from doubt about Gertrude's
prowess; he rehearsed his speeches, and uttered them with entire
self-possession. In due time he proposed to Eleanor, in the exact
terms in which he had already done Gertrude that honour: and he was
refused by her quite as definitively, but less politely than he had
been refused by her sister. On this occasion also he went home to his
mother, and related to her his defeat with a happy absence of
embarrassment.
Lady Gelston was very angry. She really did not know what the
world--and especially the young women who were in it--was coming to;
she wondered who the Baldwin girls expected to get. But of one thing
she was convinced--Matthew must have made a fool of himself somehow,
or he could not have failed in both instances. The accused Matthew did
not defend himself. Very likely he had made a fool of himself, but it
could not be helped. Neither Gertrude nor Eleanor would marry him, and
it was quite clear he could not make either of them do so. His mother
had much better not worry herself about them; and when the shooting
was over, or he was tired of it, he would "look-up that girl of Lady
Jane Tarbert's."
With this prospect, and with the intention of snubbing the Baldwins,
Lady Gelston was forced to be content. But the snubbing, though her
ladyship was an adept in the practice, did not succeed. The Baldwins
declined to perceive that they were snubbed, and the neighbourhood
declined to follow Lady Gelston's lead in this particular. The Deane
was the most popular house in the county, and the Baldwins were the
happiest and most enviable people.
This fair surface was but a deceitful seeming; at least, so far as the
sisters were concerned. An estrangement, which had had its
commencement on Gertrude's birthday, and had since increased by
insensible degrees, had grown up between them; an estrangement which
not all their efforts--made in the case of Eleanor from pride, in that
of Gertrude from wounded feeling--could hide from the notice of their
uncle and aunt, from James Dugdale and Rose Doran; an estrangement
which made each eagerly court external associations, and find relief,
in the frequent presence of others, from the constant sense of their
changed relation. James Dugdale saw this change with keen sorrow; but
when he attempted to investigate it, he was met by Gertrude with an
earnest assurance that she was entirely ignorant of its origin, and an
equally earnest entreaty that he would not speak to Eleanor about it.
It would be useless, Gertrude said, and she must put her faith in time
and her sister's truer interpretation of her.
Appeal to Eleanor was met with flat denial, and an angry refusal to
submit to interference, which in itself betrayed the evil root of all
this dissension. Gertrude was supreme, the angry sister said; _she_
was nothing. Gertrude of course could not err; all the good things of
this world were for Gertrude, including the absolute subservience of
her sister. But she might not, indeed she should not, find it quite so
easy to command _that_. A good deal of harm was done by Mrs.
Carteret, not intentionally, but yet after her characteristic fashion.
She much preferred Eleanor to Gertrude, and she made herself a
partisan of the former, by pitying her, because _she_ only could know
how little she was really to blame. Haldane treated the matter very
lightly. He regarded it as a girlish squabble, which would resolve
itself into nothing in a very short time, and at the worst would be
dissipated by a stronger feeling. So soon as a lover should appear on
the scene, their good-humoured uncle believed it would be all
right,--provided indeed they did not happen to fall in love with the
same man, and quarrel desperately about him.
Rose Doran regarded the state of things with anger and horror.
"It's just the devil's work, sir," she said to Mr. Dugdale; "puttin'
jealousy and bitterness between them two, fatherless and motherless as
they are, and no one to show them the only kind of love in which
there's no room for more or less. It's just the devil's work, and he's
doing it bravely; and Miss Nelly's to his hand, for that jealousy was
always in her; not but there's somebody behindhand, I'm sure of it,
puttin' coals on the fire."
Rose was at first disposed to suspect Mrs. Carteret of this
supererogatory work, but she did not continue to suspect her. She knew
the girls so thoroughly, she was in no doubt respecting the amount of
influence their aunt could exert over them, and in Nelly's case she
was aware this was much less than in that of Gertrude. Besides, Mrs.
Doran's practical wisdom controlled her feminine suspicion; she could
not discern an adequate motive, and she therefore exonerated aunt
Lucy. But she was no less convinced that, in this unhappy matter,
Eleanor was not left alone to the unassisted promptings of her
disposition, in which Rose had early perceived the terrible taint of
jealousy. And her acute observation guided her aright before long; it
guided her to an individual whom she had instinctively distrusted in
his boyhood--to Robert Meredith.
Though she had hardly seen him for many years past, and though, in her
position in the household at the Deane, she had not come into any
contact with him of late. Rose Doran had never got over the dislike of
Robert Meredith which she had conceived at the terrible time of her
beloved mistress's death. On that occasion James Dugdale had obeyed
Margaret's instructions so faithfully and promptly, that Rose Moore
had reached the Deane in time to kneel beside her unclosed coffin, and
whisper, on her cold lips, the promise on which she had instinctively
relied,--the promise that her children should be henceforth Rose's
sacred charge and care. Among the mourners at the funeral of Mrs.
Baldwin were Hayes Meredith and his son; the former entirely absorbed
in grief for the event, and in thoughts of the future, as his secret
knowledge forced him to contemplate it; the latter, with ample leisure
of mind to look about him, to observe and admire, and with the
pleasant conviction that every one was too much occupied to take any
notice of him. He conducted himself with propriety at the funeral, and
afterwards, while he was in sight of the family; and he was far from
supposing that Rose Moore was watching his looks and his manner, on
other occasions, with mingled disgust and curiosity, and that she said
to herself, "The Lord be good to us! but I believe, upon my soul and
faith, _the boy is glad she's taken_."
Rose had never deliberately recalled this impression during all the
years which had witnessed her faithful fulfilment of her vow, but she
had never lost it; and the conviction which now came to her, during
Robert Meredith's stay at the Deane, and which gained strength with
every day which ensued on his departure, had its origin in it. Had it
needed confirmation, it would have obtained it from the utter and
peremptory rejection of her good offices, on Nelly's part, and the
burst of angry disdain with which the infatuated girl met her
suggestion, that Mr. Meredith was no friend of Gertrude's. Eleanor
Baldwin had travelled no small distance on the thorny road of evil,
when she rewarded Rose's suggestion with a haughty request, which
fired Rose's Irish blood, but with a flame quickly quenched in healing
waters of love and pity,--that she would in future remember, and keep,
_her place_.
"It's because I never forget my place, the place your mother put me
in, Miss Nelly, that I warn you," said her faithful friend.
Then Eleanor felt ashamed of herself; but pride and anger and deadly
jealousy carried the day over the wholesome sentiment, and she turned
away hastily, leaving Rose without a word.
In much more than its external meaning was that festival time of deep
importance to Gertrude and Eleanor Meriton Baldwin. It was fraught
with the fate of both. While Robert Meredith and his friend remained
at the Deane, the relation of the sisters was unchanged in appearance.
It seemed as if their mysterious quarrel had had no lasting effect.
The after estrangement was, however, its legitimate fruit, as well as
the consequence of the pernicious ideas which Robert Meredith had set
himself assiduously to cultivate in the mind of Nelly. An explanation
of the state of mind of Robert Meredith, at the termination of his
visit to the Deane, will sufficiently elucidate the quarrel of the
sisters, and its distressing results.
Robert Meredith had arrived at the Deane full of one purpose, which
had been vaguely present to his mind for some years, but to which
certain circumstances had of late lent consistency, fixedness, and
urgency. This purpose was to make himself acceptable in the eyes of
Miss Baldwin. He had hitherto troubled himself but little about the
young lady. When she should have reached her majority, his time should
have come. It had arrived; and not Mr. M'llwaine himself--who had gone
to the Deane, accompanied by the huge mass of papers to which Haldane
Carteret had found it difficult to induce his niece to give reasonable
attention--had proceeded thither with a more strictly business-like
purpose in view than that which actuated the handsome barrister.
Robert would have despised himself as sincerely, and almost as much,
as he was in the habit of despising his neighbours, if he had been
capable of permitting sentiment to influence him in so grave an affair
as that of securing his fortune for life,--which was precisely his
purpose; and he had formed his plans totally irrespective of
Gertrude's attractions, or their possible influence upon himself. He
had two schemes in his mind, both, in his belief, equally practicable;
and he determined to be guided by circumstances as to which of the two
he should adopt. If the second should present itself as the more
advisable, an indispensable preliminary to the secure playing of the
long game it would involve was the alienation of the sisters. It could
do no harm, in any case, to make an immediate move in that direction;
and therefore Robert Meredith made it.
When Eleanor Baldwin made her escape from the ballroom on that
memorable night, leaving her sister to the cares which her superior
importance devolved upon her, Robert Meredith's eager words of
admiration, and still more expressive looks, had filled the girl's
heart--already dangerously trembling towards him--with a strange
tumultuous joy, contending with the jealous bitterness he had
contrived to implant in it. But when he and George Ritherdon bade one
another good-night at the door of George's room, after a brief
commentary upon the beauty of the morning, he had enough that was ever
in his thoughts to keep him from sleep. The comparative advantages of
the first of his plans over the second had immensely increased in his
estimation.
The beauty, the simplicity, the tender pathetic grace of Gertrude, had
struck with a strange attractive freshness upon his palled sense, and
he had awakened, with a delicious consciousness, to the conviction
that he might combine the utmost gratification of two passions by the
successful prosecution of his scheme. To make that delicate, refined,
lovely girl love him as passionately, as foolishly, as the dark
beauty, her sister, would love him, if it suited his purpose to
encourage the dawning feeling he had seen in her eyes, and felt in
every movement and word of hers during the evening, would indeed be
triumph, adding a delicious flavour to the wealth and station which
should be his. He understood now what the charm was which Gertrude's
mother, whom he had hated, had had for men,--the charm of a pure and
refined intellectuality, with underlying possibilities of intense and
exalted feeling,--these were to be divined in the depths of the clear
gray, unabashed eyes, and in the sensitive curves of a mouth as
delicate as her mother's, but less ascetic.
Had he made a favourable impression on Gertrude? Had she learned from
her sister's report to regard him with favour, and had he confirmed
that report? He did not feel comfortably certain on this point.
Gertrude had not given him any indication beyond the additional
attention which he claimed as Mr. Dugdale's particular friend. But
Robert Meredith did not trouble himself much on this point; he had
time before him, and he knew perfectly well how to use it. But it was
characteristic of the man that, though he dwelt, to his last waking
moment, upon Gertrude's beauty and charm, he thought, just as he fell
asleep, "If she thwarts me, it will all add zest to the revenge which
Miss Eleanor's eyes tell me is secure in any case."
The story of the remainder of Robert Meredith's visit may be briefly
told. Gertrude did thwart him. Not intentionally; for she, being the
most candid of girls, was wholly incapable of understanding his
double-dealing policy. She frankly regarded him as her sister's
admirer, and she unreservedly regretted that he should be so. She did
not like Robert Meredith; between him and her there was an absolute
absence of sympathy, and she shrank with an inexplicable repugnance
and fear from his looks--covert and yet bold--and from the admiration
which he insinuated, the understanding which he attempted to imply,
whenever he could take or contrive an opportunity of doing so,
unobserved and unheard by Eleanor. She avoided him whenever it was
possible, and she never remained alone with him.
Robert Meredith was a vain man--but vanity was not his ruling passion,
one or two others had precedence of it--therefore he did not fail to
see, or hesitate to confess to himself, that Gertrude had thwarted
him, that there would not be room, in the accomplishment of his
scheme; for the delicious gratification of two passions at once, and
that he would do well to fall back upon the second game, for playing
which he had the cards in his hand. It was not without intense
mortification he made this avowal to himself. He was a man to whom
failure was indeed bitter; but he speedily found consolation in musing
upon the perfection of a certain revenge which he meditated.
"If she would marry me, in ignorance," he said to himself, "I should
be the Deane's master and hers; but, if she would not marry me under
any circumstances, to escape any penalty--and I begin to think that is
certain now--I have her in my power, and _all, all, all_ will be
mine."
These reflections, made by Robert Meredith during the week which was
to conclude his stay at the Deane, led him to take a certain
resolution, whose execution was fraught with immediate results to the
sisters.
A small but very animated dancing-party had taken place at the Deane;
and Robert had closely studied the demeanour of Gertrude and Eleanor
to him and to each other. The estrangement of the sisters had not then
become manifest; but he detected and exulted in it. On Gertrude's part
there was a nervous anxiety to put Eleanor forward, to consult her, to
defer to her in everything; on Eleanor's there was an affectation of
indifference, an assumption of deference, a giving of herself the
appearance of being a guest, which was in extremely bad taste, but
thoroughly delightful to Robert Meredith. If a servant asked Eleanor a
question, she pointedly referred him to her sister; she professed an
entire ignorance of Miss Baldwin's plans for the evening; she divided
herself from her in innumerable little expressive ways, which Gertrude
noted with a sick heart and a manner which betrayed painful
nervousness; and she abandoned herself to the influence of the
flattery and the insidious suggestions of the tempter to a degree
which justified him in believing that he might be entirely sure of
her, whether the pursuit of his purpose should lead him to break her
heart by marrying her sister, or crown her hopes by marrying herself.
It was Gertrude's custom to resort to the library every morning after
breakfast, and there to occupy herself with her drawing, at a table
beside a large window which opened on the lawn. She was usually
undisturbed, as Mr. Dugdale remained in his own rooms all the morning,
her uncle frequented the stable and farmyard, Eleanor devoted the
morning hours to music, and Mrs. Carteret had no attraction towards
the library. George Ritherdon had sometimes found his way thither; and
Gertrude had, on those occasions, found it not unpleasant to lay aside
her pencil, and discuss with her guest some of the contents of her
amply-stored bookshelves. But George was engaged in writing letters on
the morning which followed the before-mentioned dancing-party; and
Robert Meredith found Miss Baldwin, as he expected, alone. Gertrude
tried hard to receive him in the most ordinary way, but her
embarrassment was distressingly apparent; and he coolly showed her
that he perceived it. After a few words--she could hardly have told
what words--she collected her drawing-materials, and said something
confusedly about being waited for by Mrs. Carteret, as she rose to
leave the room. But Robert Meredith, with a bold fixed look, which, in
spite of herself, she saw and felt in every nerve, detained her; and
gravely informing her that he had purposely selected that opportunity
of finding her alone, in order to make a communication of importance
to her, requested her to listen to him. His manner was not loverlike,
it was even, under all the formality of his address, slightly
contemptuous; but she knew instantly what it was she had to listen to,
and a prayer arose in her heart by a sudden inexplicable impulse. She
resumed her seat, and leaning her arm on the table which divided her
from Robert Meredith, she shaded her eyes with her hand, and prepared
to listen to him.
It was as her instinctive dread had told her. In set phrase, and
with his bold covetous eyes fixed upon her, Meredith told her his
errand,--told her he loved her, and asked her to marry him--made
mention too of her wealth, and the risk he ran of being misinterpreted
by the world, of having base motives imparted to him--a risk more than
counterbalanced by his love, and his faith in his ability to make her
understand and believe that she was sought by him for herself alone.
Robert Meredith spoke well, and with fire and energy; but, as Gertrude
listened to him, her distress and embarrassment subsided, and she
removed the sheltering hand from her eyes. When he urgently entreated
her to reply, she said very gently:
"I should feel more pain, Mr. Meredith, in telling you that I cannot
return the preference with which you honour me, if I did not feel so
convinced that your love for me is only imaginary. Had it been real,
you would not have remembered my wealth, or cared about the opinion of
the world."
This answer staggered the man to whom it was addressed more than any
indignation could have done. He burst out into renewed protestations;
but Gertrude, with grave dignity, begged him to desist, and again
asserting that as her guardian's friend he should ever be esteemed
hers, assured him it was useless to pursue his suit. Then she rose,
and moved towards the door.
"Is this a final answer, Miss Baldwin?" asked Meredith.
"Quite final, Mr. Meredith."
"Stay a moment. May I hope you will not add to the mortification of
this refusal the injury of making it known to Mr. Dugdale or Mrs.
Carteret, indeed to any one? I confess I could hardly endure the
ridicule or the compassion which must attend a rejected suitor of the
heiress of the Deane."
There was a devil's sneer in his voice and on his face; but Gerty took
no heed of it, as she replied, with quiet dignity,
"We have a code of honour also, we women, Mr. Meredith; and you may be
quite sure I shall never so far offend against it as to mention this
matter to _any one_." Then she added, with a sweet smile, in which her
perfect incredulity regarding his professions was fully though
unconsciously expressed:
"I will leave you now; and I hope you will forget all this as soon and
as completely as I shall."
Robert Meredith followed her with his eyes as she left the room, and
passing along the terrace, went down into her flower-garden, and
lingered there, utterly oblivious of him; and a deadly feeling of
hatred, such hatred as springs most profusely from baffled passion,
arose in his heart, and blossomed into sudden strength and purpose.
"Yes," he muttered; "you have taken up the thread of your mother's
story, and you shall spin it out to some purpose. A little while, and
Eleanor will be of age; and then, my fine heiress of the Deane,
then we shall see who has won to-day. A little while, and if I
can only keep Oakley quiet till then, I am safe. Safe! more than
safe,--triumphant, victorious!"
It was on the next day that Nelly, intoxicated by the artful
flatteries of Robert Meredith, and tortured by the jealousy which he
had fostered, taunted her sister with the powerlessness of money to
purchase love. The taunt fell harmlessly on Gertrude's pure and
upright heart; but it startled her, uttered by her sister. How had
Nelly come by such knowledge, and why did she apply it to her? She
hastily asked her why; and to her astonishment was answered, that in
one treasure at least Nelly was richer than she was--the treasure of a
brave and true man's love! The reply shook Gertrude like a reed. There
was indeed one man who answered to this description; there was one man
to win whose love would be the most blissful lot which Heaven could
bestow. There was one man, who never, by word or deed or look, had
implied to Gertrude Baldwin that such a lot might be hers--had her
sister won _him_? Well indeed might she exult, if she were so
supremely blest, and hold not Gertrude only, but all womankind her
inferiors. Pale and breathless, she awaited the complete elucidation
to be expected from Eleanor's taunting wrath, and it came. It came,
not as her fearful shrinking heart had foreboden, but in the avowal
that Eleanor spoke of Robert Meredith.
With the passing away of the great pang of terror that had clutched at
her heart, Gertrude was again calm and clear-sighted; but she was
deeply grieved. She felt how unworthy was the man her sister loved,
how baseless her belief that she possessed his affections. She was far
from being able to comprehend such a nature as that of Robert
Meredith; but she had a vague consciousness that, in his binding her
to secrecy respecting his proposal to her, there had been a
treacherous intent; and though she would not break her promise, she
appealed to her sister on grounds and terms which a little more
knowledge of human nature would have taught her must be in vain. Then
came the inevitable result, a bitter and lasting quarrel, and an
ineradicable belief on Eleanor's part that Gertrude's refusal to
credit Meredith's love for her sister arose from the most despicable
motives--pride, envy, and jealousy. Where was the sisterly love, where
was the unbroken confidence of years now? Blasted by the fierce breath
of passion, poisoned by the insidious art of the tempter.
So a treacherous appearance of calm and happiness existed at the Deane
during the months which succeeded the departure of the friends, and
none but those concerned were aware of two circumstances which had
entirely changed the lives of the bright and beautiful sisters. One
was the fact that Eleanor Baldwin was secretly betrothed to Robert
Meredith, with the understanding that on her coming of age she would
marry him, with or without the consent of her relatives. The other was
that the plodding industrious barrister George Ritherdon, who carried
back to his chambers in the Temple more than one unaccustomed
sensation, had taken with him, unconsciously, the unasked heart of the
young mistress of the Deane.