That evening I had the satisfaction (or dissatisfaction) of beholding a
very similar condition of things to that which had occupied my attention
in my own house at Easter. All the Harleys were at Waterflag, in honor
of Willie’s birthday, including the pretty little Kate, whose first
party this was, and--a more perplexing addition--their mother. Mrs.
Harley was exactly what she had always been, but age had made her
uncertain mind more uncertain, while it increased her anxiety to have
her children “provided for,” as she called it. The colder Alice was to
Mr. Reredos, the more warmly and tenderly her mother conciliated and
courted him. Here was a good match, which might be lost for a caprice,
one might have supposed the good woman to be thinking; and it was her
duty to prevent that consummation, if possible. Mrs. Harley quite gave
herself up to the task of soothing down the temper which Alice had
ruffled, and whispering perseverance to the discouraged suitor. She
referred to him on all occasions, thrust his opinions into anything that
was going forward, contrived means of bringing him into immediate
contact with Alice, which last brought many a little sting and slight to
the unfortunate and too well-befriended lover--on the whole, conducted
herself as a nervous, anxious, well-meaning woman, to whom Providence
has not given the gift of comprehending other people’s individualities,
might be supposed likely to do. As Mrs. Harley sat in her great chair by
the fire in the Waterflag drawing-room, and looked round her upon her
children and descendants, I did not wonder that she was both proud and
anxious. There was Maurice with a new world of troublous thoughts in his
face. I could no more understand what was their cause than I could
interfere with them. Was it that dread following out of his
investigations into Truth, wherever she might lead him, which he had
contemplated with tragical but complacent placidity six months since--or
had other troubles, more material, overtaken the Fellow of Exeter? I was
somewhat curious, but how could I hope to know? Then there was Johnnie,
poor, happy, deluded boy! Miss Reredos was of the company--and while she
still saw nobody else who was more likely game, she amused herself with
Johnnie, and overwhelmed his simple soul with joy. His book and his love
together had changed him much, poor fellow; he was sadly impatient of
being spoken to as a youth, or almost as a child, in the old
sympathetic, tender custom which all his family had fallen into. He was
jealous of being distinguished in any way from other people, and took
the indulgences long accorded to his ill-health and helplessness
fiercely, as if they had been so many insults. Poor Johnnie! he thought
himself quite lifted above the old warm family affection, which clung so
close to the weakest of the flock, by this new imaginary love of his. I
wonder what that syren of his imagination felt when she saw what she had
done! I imagine nothing but amusement, and a little pleasurable thrill
of vanity. Many men made love to Miss Reredos, or had done so during the
past career of that experienced young lady; few perhaps had thrown
themselves at her feet _tout entier_, like our poor cripple Johnnie. She
felt the flattery, though she cared little about the victim. I believe,
while she foresaw quite coolly the misery she was bringing on the boy,
she yet had and would retain a certain grateful memory of him all her
life.
But it appeared that she had either tired of Maurice, or recognized as
impracticable her flirtation with that accomplished young gentleman.
They were on somewhat spiteful terms, having a little passing encounter
of pique on the one side and anger on the other, whenever they chanced
to come in contact. The pique was on the lady’s side; but as for
Maurice, he looked as if it would have been a decided relief to his
feelings to do her some small personal injury. There was a kind of snarl
in his voice when he addressed her, such as I have heard men use to a
woman who had somehow injured them, and whom they supposed to have taken
a mean advantage of her woman’s exemption from accountability. “If you
were a man I could punish you; but you are not a man, and I have to be
polite to you, you cowardly female creature,” said the tone, but not the
words of Maurice’s voice; and I could discover by that tone that
something new must have happened which I did not know of. All the more
fervently for the coolness of his mother and sisters to her, and for the
constraint and gloomy looks of Maurice, did Johnnie, poor boy, hang upon
the words and watch the looks of the enchantress--he saw nobody else in
the room, cared for nobody else--was entirely carried beyond all other
affections, beyond gratitude, beyond every sentiment but that of the
exalted boyish passion which had, to his own consciousness, changed all
his life and thoughts.
And there, on the other hand, was Alice, thwarting all the wishes and
inclinations of her friends. Mrs. Harley forgave Johnnie, and turned all
her wrath for his foolishness upon Miss Reredos; but she did not forgive
Alice for those cold and brief answers, that unapproachable aspect which
daunted the Rector, comfortable and satisfactory as was his opinion of
himself. I could not help looking at these young people with a passing
wonder in my mind over the strange caprices and cross-purposes of their
period of life. Maurice, for instance--what was it that had set Maurice
all astray from his comfortable self-complacency and _dilettante_
leisure? Somehow the pleasure-boat of his life had got among the rocks,
and nothing but dissatisfaction--extreme, utter, unmitigated
dissatisfaction--was left to the young man, as I could perceive, of all
his accomplishments and perfections. Alice was thrusting ordinary life
away from her--thrusting aside love, and independence, and “an eligible
establishment,” trying to persuade herself that there were other
pursuits more dignified than the common life of woman--for--a caprice,
Clara said. Johnnie, poor Johnnie, was happy in the merest folly of
self-deception that ever innocent boy practised. Alas! and that was but
the threshold of hard, sober existence, and who could tell what bitter
things were yet in store for them? How hard is life! Perhaps Bertie
Nugent at that moment lay stark upon some Eastern field of battle;
perhaps he was pledging his heart and life to some of those
languid-lively Indian Englishwomen, ever so many thousand miles off--who
can tell? And why, because Bertie was in danger, should Alice Harley
snub that excellent young Rector, and turn from his attentions with such
an air of impatience, almost of disgust? Nobody could answer me these
simple questions. Indeed, to tell the truth, I did not ask anybody, but
quietly pursued the elucidation of them for myself.
And of course our conversation during the course of the evening ran upon
matters connected with India and the last news. Derwent and Mr. Sedgwick
held grave consultations on the political aspect of the matter and the
future government of India. Miss Reredos shuddered, and put on pretty
looks of earnest attention; Clara told the story of the conversation in
the nursery; while, in the mean time, Alice expressed her interest
neither by look nor word--only betrayed it by sitting stock-still,
taking no part in the conversation, and restraining more than was
natural every appearance of feeling. That silence would have been
enough, if there had been nothing else, to betray her to me.
But I confess I was surprised to hear the eager part which Maurice took
in the conversation, and the heat and earnestness with which he spoke.
“If there is one man on earth whom I envy it is Bertie Nugent,” said
Maurice, when Clara had ended her nursery story. “I remember him well
enough, and I know the interest Mrs. Crofton takes in him. You need not
make faces at me, Clara--I don’t think he’s very brilliant, and neither,
I daresay, does Mrs. Crofton; but he’s in his proper place.”
“Maurice, my dear, the place Providence appoints to us is always our
proper place,” said Mrs. Harley, with the true professional spirit of a
clergyman’s wife.
“Oh! just so, mother,” said the Fellow of Exeter, with a momentary
return of his old, superb, superior smile, “only, you know, one differs
in opinion with Providence now and then. Bertie Nugent, however, has no
doubt about it, I am certain. I envy him,” added the young man, with a
certain glance at me, as if he expected me to appreciate the change in
his sentiments, and to feel rather complimented that my poor Bertie was
promoted to the envy of so exalted a personage.
“I thought Mr. Maurice Harley despised soldiers,” said Miss Reredos,
dropping her words slowly out of her mouth, as if with a pleasant
consciousness that they contained a sting.
“On the contrary, I think soldiering the only natural profession to
which we are born,” said Maurice, starting with an angry flush, and all
but rudeness of tone.
“Don’t say so, please, before the children,” cried Clara. “War’s
disgusting. For one thing, nobody can talk of anything else when it’s
going on. And then only think what shoals of poor men it carries away,
never to bring them back again. Ah, poor Bertie!” cried Clara, with a
little feeling, “I wish the war were over, and he was safe home.”
“I am not sure that war is not the most wholesome of standing
institutions,” said Maurice, philosophically. “Your shoals of poor men
who go away, and never return, don’t matter much to general humanity.
There were more went off in the Irish exodus than we shall lose in
India. We can afford to lose a little blood.”
“Oh, yes, and sometimes it takes troublesome people out of the way,”
said the Rector’s sister--“one should not forget that.”
“Extremely true, and very philosophical, for a woman,” said Maurice,
with a savage look. “It drains the surplus population off, and makes
room for those who remain.”
Clara and her mother, both of them, rushed into the conversation with
the same breath as women rush to separate combatants. I should have been
very much surprised had I been more deeply interested. But at present I
was occupied with that imperturbable, uninterfering quietness with which
Alice sat at the table, saying nothing;--how elaborately unconscious and
unconcerned she looked!--that was much more important to me than any
squabble between Maurice and the Rector’s sister--or than the Rector
himself, or any one of the many and various individual concerns which,
like the different threads of a web, were woven into the quiet household
circle--giving a deep dramatic interest to the well-bred, unpicturesque
pose of the little company in that quiet English room.