Derwent had not yet returned, and I could understand perfectly why he
waited, uneasy for further news, or at least for some explanation of
that which we had already heard. I waited also, spending the days sadly,
but giving up hope, and consequently in a state of anxiety less painful.
Sometimes, indeed, Derwie thrust me back into my fever of suspense by
his oft-repeated wonder that there should be no news yet of that feat of
arms which had cost Bertie his life. The child could not and would not
understand how the bravest may perish by some anonymous undistinguished
shot, as well as the coward; nor believe that “Bertie had died for
nothing,” as he said. And sometimes that name which Maurice Harley
pointed out to me wavered through my memory for hours together, and
upset my calm. Captain Nicolas Hughes--who was he? I wondered, musing at
the window, with still that vague thrilling thought at my heart that it
would not surprise me to see Bertie coming across the lawn. Was he
young, perhaps, and had mother and sisters at home breaking their hearts
with an anxiety kindred to our own--or, harder still, perhaps a wife
trembling to believe that her children had no father? Alas! alas! who
could choose to be delivered one’s-self at the cost of another’s
heartbreak? God’s will be done, whatever it was! _He_ knew, though we
did not. There was nothing else to say.
A few days after I had an unexpected, and, I am grieved to say, not very
welcome visit from Mrs. Harley. I had shunned seeing her hitherto,
afraid alike of her condolences over a sorrow which I had not consented
to, or her weak encouragements of a hope in which I durst not believe.
Had it been possible to so old a friend, I would have denied myself,
when I saw the same gig in which Maurice had driven Alice--a convenient
rural vehicle belonging to a farmer close by her house--driving up once
more to Hilfont with Mrs. Harley; but as, in spite of thirty years’
close friendship, the good woman would still have set this down as a
slight to her poverty, I did not venture to refuse her admittance. She
came in with her best conventional look of sympathy, shook my hand with
emphasis, and gave me a slow lingering kiss; did all those things by
which our friends mark their profound consciousness of our sorrow, and
readiness to receive our confidence. I, for my part, was disposed to say
very little on the subject. There was no more news--nothing to say. I
was afraid to speculate, or to have any speculations upon this, which
none of us could elucidate. It was best to leave it in silence while we
waited--time enough to speak when all was secure.
Yet when I saw that Mrs. Harley’s sympathy was the merest superficial
crust overlaid upon her own perennial anxieties, I am not sure that I
was pleased. One feels it impossible that one’s friends can feel for one
fully; yet one is disappointed, notwithstanding, when one perceives how
entirely occupied they are with the closer current of their own affairs.
Mrs. Harley had no sooner expressed her feeble affliction over “the sad
calamity,” than she forsook that subject for a more interesting one; and
it was a little grievous to be called upon to adjudicate in favor of
Alice’s lover, just after I had looked with respect and sympathy on
Alice’s tears.
“My dear Mrs. Crofton, I am sure I would not for the world trouble you
with my affairs, when you are in such deep affliction,” said Mrs.
Harley, doing of course the very thing she deprecated; “but I am in
such anxiety about Alice; and really Mr. Reredos is so very urgent that
I no longer know what to say to him. I ventured to give him an
intimation, a few weeks ago, that Alice was rather inclining towards
him, as I thought--and of course the poor young man redoubled his
attentions; and now, whether it is mere perversity or dislike, or what
it is, I cannot tell, but from that time Alice has treated him with such
indifference, not to say disdain, that I am at my wit’s end.”
“It would have been better to have said nothing to the Rector without
Alice’s consent,” said I, languidly, yet not without a certain
satisfaction in piercing my visitor with this little javelin. Mrs.
Harley shook her head and wiped her eyes.
“It is so easy to say so,” said the troubled mother, “so easy to think
what is best when one’s own heart is not concerned; But if I _was_ wrong
I cannot help it now--Alice is so very unreasonable. She cannot endure
the very sight of Mr. Reredos now--it is extremely distressing to me.”
“I am very sorry to hear it, Mrs. Harley, but you know I cannot help
you,” said I.
“Oh! my dear Clare, I beg your pardon a thousand times for troubling you
when you have such distressing news, but you know quite well you are
all-powerful with Alice. Then another thing, Clara tells me that dear
Bertie--dear fellow!--I am sure I loved him like a child of my own--had
something to do with her sister’s behavior to the Rector--not that they
were in love, you know, only some old childish friendship that the dear
girl remembered when he was in danger. Do you think there is anything in
it, Clara? Can that be the reason? but you know of course it is quite
nonsense. Why, they have not met for eight years!”
“That proves it must be nonsense, to be sure,” said I; “but excuse me,
Mrs. Harley, this dear boy who is gone was very dear to me--I cannot
mingle his name in any talk about other people. I beg your pardon--I
can’t indeed.”
“Dear, dear, it is I who should beg your pardon,” cried Mrs. Harley, in
great distress; “I am sure I did not mean to be so selfish; but you used
to be very fond of Alice, Clare--fonder of her than of any one else,
though I say it. Long ago you would not have turned off anything that
was for the poor girl’s good.”
“You know I am as fond of Alice as ever I was--what do you want me to
do?” cried I.
“Oh, nothing, Clare, dear--nothing but a little good advice,” said Mrs.
Harley. “If it should happen to be dear Bertie whom she has set her
thoughts upon, just because he was in danger, as girls will do, and
refusing other eligible offers, and throwing away quite a satisfactory
match and suitable establishment, wouldn’t you speak to her, dear Clare?
Her dear papa had such confidence in you that you would always be a
friend to his girls--he said so many a time, long before we knew what
was going to happen. You have such influence with all my children, Mrs.
Crofton--almost more than their mother has. Do represent to Alice how
much she’s throwing away--and especially, alas! _now_.”
This emphasis was rather too much for my patience.
“You forget,” I said, “that Alice is able to judge for herself--she is
not a girl now”----
“She is seven and twenty, Mrs. Crofton--do you mean to reproach her with
her age?” said Mrs. Harley, with an angry color rising on her face.
“Reproach her! for what?” said I, constrained to laugh in the midst of
my grief. “Why will you tease Alice, and yourself, and me? She is very
well--she is,” I added, with a little gulp, swallowing my better
knowledge, “quite contented and happy--why will you torture her into
marrying? She is quite satisfied to be as she is.”
“Ah, Clare--but I have so many children to provide for!” cried poor Mrs.
Harley, with a gush of tears.
This silenced me, and I said no more. But Mrs. Harley had not exhausted
her budget of complaints.
“And Maurice,” said this unfortunate mother; “after the education he has
had, and all the money and pains that have been expended on
him--Maurice, I do believe, Mrs. Crofton, will do something violent one
of these days; he will go into business, or,” with another outburst of
tears, “set himself to learn a trade.”
“Surely nothing quite so bad as that,” said I, with as much sympathy as
I could summon up.
“Ah, you don’t know how he speaks--if you could only hear him; and the
troubles in India and this last dreadful news have had such an effect
upon Maurice,” said Mrs. Harley; “you would suppose, to hear him speak,
that the poor soldiers had suffered all the more because he was doing
nothing. Such nonsense! And instead of going into the Church in a proper
and dignified manner, like his dear father, I see nothing better for it
but that he’ll make a tradesman of himself.”
“But it would be satisfactory to see him doing something for
himself--improving his own position; he can never settle and make a
home for himself while he has only his Fellowship. Don’t you think
Maurice is right?” said I, keeping up the conversation from mere
politeness, and already sufficiently tired of the interruption it made.
“He has his mother’s house,” said Mrs. Harley, a little sharply, “and he
has the position of a gentleman,” she added a moment after, in a
faltering, apologetic tone. Good, troubled woman! She had come to that
age of conflicting interests when the instincts of the heart do not
always guide true. She wanted--very naturally--to see her daughter
provided for; and so, if she could, would have persuaded Alice into an
unwilling marriage. She could not bear to see her son derogating from
the “position” which his father’s son ought to fill; and as he would not
go into the Church, she would fain have condemned the young man to
shrivel up into the dreary dignity of a College Don. Poor Mrs.
Harley!--that was all that the philosophy of the affections instructed
her to do.
She had scarcely left me half an hour when I was startled by the
appearance of the Rector. He was grave and pale, held my hand in his
tight grasp, and made his professions of sympathy all very properly and
in good taste. But his looks and his tone aggravated a sick impatience
of sympathy which began to grow about my heart. I began to comprehend
how people in deep and real grief, might grow disgusted with the
conventional looks expected from them, and learn an almost levity of
manner, to forestall those vulgar, dreary sympathies; and this sympathy,
too, covered something very different--something a great deal nearer to
the Rector’s heart.
“It may seem to you a very indelicate question--I beg your pardon, Mrs.
Crofton--I ask it with great diffidence--but I do not hesitate to
confess to you that my own happiness is deeply concerned,” said Mr.
Reredos, blushing painfully--and I knew at once, and recognized with a
certain thrill of impatience and disgust, what he was going to ask;
“Miss Harley and the late Captain Nugent were almost brought up
together, I have heard; will you forgive me asking if there was any
attachment--any engagement between them?”
“_Colonel_ Nugent, please!” said I, I fear rather haughtily; “and it is
surely premature to say the late, as I trust in Heaven we shall yet have
better news.”
“I beg your pardon,” repeated the Rector, quickly, “I--I was not
aware--but might I ask an answer to my question?”
“If there was any engagement between Alice and my dear Bertie?--none
whatever!” cried I, with all my might--“nothing of the kind! Pardon me,
you have _not_ been delicate--you have _not_ considered my feelings--if
Alice has been unfavorable to you, it is for your own merits, and not on
his account.”
I was half sorry when I saw the grave, grieved, ashamed expression with
which this other young man turned away. He bowed and was gone almost
before I knew what I had said--I fear not without an arrow of
mortification and injured pride tingling through the love in his heart.