The first visit which Bertie was able to make was to the cottage--to see
Mrs. Harley, as he said, gravely--but I fear he did not get a very
satisfactory reception. He told me he thought Alice greatly changed when
he returned; but he was not communicative on the subject, and had a
decided inclination to go back again. Perhaps the wavering, pleasant,
half-conscious sentiment, and tender youthful reminiscence, with which
Bertie came home, was the better of a little opposition to warm it into
independent life; and Alice had reason enough for a double share of
perversity and caprice, though Bertie knew nothing of that. She had
betrayed herself to me, and, for a moment, to Maurice. She thought, no
doubt, that everybody had suspected that secret of hers--and with
unconscious self-importance, that it was whispered throughout the
country with secret smiles over all her former unmarried-woman
superiority to vulgar love-affairs. Her credit was consequently very
deeply involved--she would not have smiled upon Bertie Nugent now had
it been to save his life.
Still, however, Bertie, in the pleasant leisure of his convalescence,
betook himself to Mrs. Harley’s cottage; and came home talking of
Johnnie and little Kate, and the letters from Maurice--but very little
about Alice, save chance words now and then, which showed a singularly
close observation of her habits. Sometimes he asked me puzzled questions
about those opinions of hers. Bertie, though he had been cheated once,
was not contemptuous of womenkind. He did not understand these new views
about the vulgarity of being married, and the propriety of multiplying
female occupations. I suspect he entertained the natural delusion that,
while he himself stood there, most ready and anxious, to share with her
the common course of life, private projects of her own, which turned her
aside from that primitive and ancient occupation of wife, were a little
fantastical, and extremely perplexing. But Bertie was not like Mr.
Reredos--he wanted simply to be at the bottom of it, and find out what
she meant. He was not the man to worry any woman into marrying him, or
to lay insidious siege to her friends. Ancient kindness, a lingering
recollection of her youthful sweetness and beauty, which had come softly
back to Bertie after his early love-troubles, and which had been kept
alive by the fascination of a secret delicious wonder, whether, perhaps,
_he_ might have anything to do with the fact of her remaining unmarried,
had combined to direct Bertie’s thoughts towards Alice, and to connect
her image with all the plans and intentions of his return home. In
short, the feeling upon both sides was very much alike--with both it was
a certain captivating imaginary link, far more subtle and sweet than an
understood engagement, which warmed their hearts to each other. But for
those tragical possibilities which had so deeply excited Alice, all
would have gone as smoothly as possible when our hero came home. Now the
obstacles on each side were great. On Alice’s, that dread idea of having
betrayed a secret, unsought, unreturned affection for the distant
soldier, along with the lesser but still poignant remembrance of Lady
Greenfield’s malicious report that Bertie himself had expected Cousin
Clare to have somebody in her pocket for him to marry. On Bertie’s part,
the equally dangerous chance that, deeply mortified by finding his hope
of having some share in her thoughts so entirely unfounded, as it
appeared, he might turn away sorrowfully from the theories which
influenced her, but which his simple intelligence did not comprehend.
Never matchmaker was more perplexed than I was between these two; I
dared not say a word to either--I looked on, trembling, at the untoward
course of affairs. It was Bertie who disappointed me once; for all I
could see, it was most likely to be Alice now.
When we began--which was not till another autumn restored us to
Hilfont--to be able to give some entertainments to our country
neighbors, in honor of our soldier, Alice, most cleverly and cunningly
avoided coming. She had always some admirable excuse--some excuse so
unquestionable that it would have been quite cruel to have grumbled at
it. I do not think she had been once within our house since Bertie
returned. She sent me her love, and the most dutiful messages. She was
so sorry, but she was sure her dear Mrs. Crofton would not be displeased
when she knew. I was displeased, however, and had hard ado with myself
to keep from saying as much, and declaring my conviction that she was
very unkind to Bertie. I daresay I might have done so with advantage,
though prudence and the fear of something coming of it, restrained
me--for the idea of being unkind to Bertie would, doubtless, have been
balm to Alice’s soul.
They met, however, though she would not come to Hilfont--Clara Sedgwick,
who was as bold to give Bertie welcome as she had been to weep her free
sisterly tears, which there was no need to conceal, over his supposed
grave, arranged one of her very largest and grandest dinner-parties for
Bertie as soon as it was practicable. Everybody was there--Lady
Greenfield and her husband, who had all at once grown an old man, his
wife having stopped his fox-hunting long ago--and Miss Polly, and all
the Croftons, far and near, and such Nugents as could be picked up
handily; and finally, all the great people of the county, to glorify our
hero. I cannot tell by what ingenious process of badgering Alice had
been driven out of her retirement, and produced that night in the
Waterflag drawing-room. I will not even guess what cruel sisterly
sarcasms and suggestions of what people might say, had supplemented the
sisterly coaxing which were, no doubt, ineffectual; but there Alice
was--there she stood by the side of Clara’s dazzling toilette and rosy
tints, pale and clouded, in her brown silk dress--her _old_ brown silk
dress, made in a fashion which “went out” at least three years ago;
without a single ornament about her anywhere--her hair braided as
plainly as though she had just come down-stairs to make the tea, and
superintend the breakfast table--not even the pretty bouquet of delicate
flowers at her breast, which made so pretty a substitute for jewels on
little Kate’s white dress--not a bracelet nor a ring--nothing to
diversify the entire plainness of her appearance, nor a single sparkle
or gleam of reflection on neck, finger, or arm. I confess that I was
both annoyed and disappointed. Instead of doing her womanly utmost to
look well and young, as became her, Alice had exhausted all her perverse
pains in making a dowdy of herself. I cannot say she had succeeded. It
was the crisis of her life, and mind and heart were alike full of
movement and agitation. She could not prevent the excitement of her
circumstances from playing about her with a gleaming fitful light, which
made her expressive face wonderfully attractive. She could not but
betray, in despite of her cold, unadorned appearance, and the almost
prim reserve which she affected, the tumult and contest within
her--extreme emotion, so restrained that the effort of self-control gave
a look of power and command to her face, and somehow elevated and
dilated her entire figure, and so contradictory that it flashed a
hundred different meanings in a moment out of those eyes which were
defiant, sarcastic, tender, and proud, all in a glance. I am not sure
even that her plain dress did not defeat its purpose still more
palpably; it distinguished her, singularly enough, from other
people--it directed everybody’s attention to her--it suggested reasons
for that prim and peculiar attire--all which, if Alice had guessed them,
would have thrown her into an agony of shame.
Miss Reredos was also one of Clara’s great party--much against little
Mrs. Sedgwick’s will--only because it could not be helped, Mrs. Harley
being still pertinacious in favor of the Rector, who had all but given
up his own cause. And we were still engaged in the mysteries of dinner,
and there still remained all the long evening to operate in, when I
perceived that this indefatigable young lady had seriously devoted
herself to the entertainment of Bertie. He was doing his best to be
polite, the good fellow; but it was a long time before he could be
warmed into a flirtation. At last some very decided slight from Alice
irritated my poor soldier. He turned to the play beside him, and began
to amuse himself with it as so many other men had done. Thanks to Miss
Reredos, it speedily became a notable flirtation, witnessed and observed
by all the party. Alice watched it with a gradual elevation of her head,
paling of her cheeks, and look of lofty silent indignation, which was
infinitely edifying to me. What had she to do with it?--she who would
not bestow a single glance upon Colonel Nugent--who called him
perpetually by that ceremonious name--who was blind and deaf to all his
deprecating looks and allusions to youthful days. If he should flirt or
even fall in love with and marry Miss Reredos, what was that to Alice?
But, to be sure, most likely that indignation of hers was all for
Johnnie’s sake.
Poor Johnnie! He sat glaring at Bertie with furious eyes. Johnnie’s
little bit of bookish distinction disappeared and sank to nothing in
presence of Bertie’s epaulettes. Nobody felt the least interest to-day
in Mrs. Harley’s clever cripple-boy. His Laura indeed had kept him in
life, when she first arrived, by some morsels of kindness, but Laura too
had gone over to the enemy. Laura was visibly disposed to charm into her
own train that troublesome interloper, and Johnnie, who had resented and
forgiven fifty violent flirtations of his lady-love since he himself
first found new life, as he said, in her eyes, was more bitterly
resentful of this defection than he had been of any previous one. If she
and the other culprit, Bertie, could have been consumed by looks, we
should have had only two little heaps of ashes to clear away from the
Sedgwicks’ dinner-table that day in place of those two unfortunate
people; but Miss Reredos was happily non-combustible. She swept away in
all the fulness of crinoline when the inevitable moment came and we
womenkind were dismissed, insulting her unhappy young lover by a little
nod and smile addressed to him across the table, which would have been
delicious an hour ago, but was wormwood and bitterness now. Bertie, I
think, at the same moment caught Alice’s lofty, offended, indignant
glance, and brightened to see the quiet resentment in that perverse
young woman’s face. It had all the effect of sunshine upon our soldier.
At that crisis we left affairs, when we went to the drawing-room. I
confess I don’t share the often-expressed sentiment about the dulness
and absurdity of that little after-dinner interval. The young ladies and
the young gentlemen may not like it, perhaps, but when could we maturer
womenkind snatch a comfortable moment for that dear domestic talk which
you superior people call gossip, if it were not in the pleasant
relaxation of this interregnum, when the other creatures are comfortably
disposed of downstairs? But for once in my life, being profoundly
interested in the present little drama--there is always one at least
going on in a great house in the country full of visitors--I did long
that day for the coming of the gentlemen, or of Bertie, at least, the
hero at once of the situation and of the day.
The first to come upstairs was Johnnie Harley. For some time past he had
rather affected, as a manly practice, the habit of sitting to the last
after dinner. This day he was burning to discharge the fulness of his
wrath upon Miss Reredos, so he lost no time, anxious to be beforehand
with his new rival. Miss Reredos had already posed herself at a table,
covered with a wealth of prints and photographs, these sentimental
amusements being much in her way.
“I have come to have my turn,” said Johnnie, savagely. I was seated
within hearing, and, I confess, felt no very strong inducement to
withdraw from my position. Perhaps Johnnie did not see me--Miss Reredos
did, and certainly did not care. “I am come to have my turn, and to tell
you that I can’t be content to take turns--especially with that empty
fellow Nugent, whom you seem, like all the rest, to have taken so great
a fancy to.”
“Colonel Nugent is not an empty fellow--he is a very agreeable man,”
said Miss Reredos, calmly.
“Oh! and I am not, I suppose?” cried the reckless and embittered boy.
“You certainly are not always agreeable,” answered poor Johnnie’s false
love, quite blandly; “and as for being a _man_ at all---- We have
really had quite enough of this, thank you, Master Harley. One tires of
these scenes--they don’t answer when they are repeated every day.”
“No--not when there is better sport going!” cried poor Johnnie. “I see
it all now--you have only been making game of me all the time.”
“Did you ever suppose anything else?” asked the witch coldly. I think it
must have been Johnnie’s transport of passion which made the floor
thrill, as I felt under my chair. I heard a furious muttered
exclamation--then a long pause. The passion changed, and a great sob
came out of Johnnie’s boyish heart.
“You don’t mean what you say--Laura, Laura!” groaned the poor lad. I
could have---- well, to be sure I am only a vindictive woman, as women
are. I don’t know what I could not have done to her, sitting calm and
self-satisfied there.
“It is quite time this should be over,” said the virtuous Miss Reredos;
“I was not making game of you; but I certainly was amusing myself, as I
thought you were doing, also. Why, I am three or four years older than
you--you silly boy!--don’t you know?”
She might have said five or six years, which would have been nearer the
truth, but it mattered nothing to Johnnie.
“I could be as good a man as _him_ for your sake,” he cried, with a
gasp. Miss Reredos only played with the fan which dangled from her
wrist.
“Say you did not mean it, Laura,” whispered the unfortunate boy again.
But Laura shook her head.
“No, no--it has gone quite far enough. Oh! I’m not angry--but, dear,
dear, don’t you see it’s no use. You are a great deal--at least you are
younger than I am--and we have nothing, neither of us--and besides”----
“Besides I am a cripple, and you don’t love me!” cried Johnnie, wildly.
“I can’t contradict it,” said Circe with a toss of her head.
Another fierce exclamation, a hurried dash across the room, a wondering
little scream from Clara, across whose ample skirts her brother plunged,
as he rushed half frantic away, ended this episode. Clara rose up,
startled and nervous, to look after him--and I had to restrain myself
from the same impulse; but Circe sat calm among her photographs, and
made no sign. After a few moments’ interval Clara went tremulously after
him. I could only settle myself on my chair again. The poor cripple
boy--tenderest and merriest of the flock--whom all the rest had guarded
so jealously!--they could do nothing for him now. He, too, like all the
rest of us, had his burden to bear alone.
But I sat on thorns, fearing to see Bertie, when he came upstairs,
resume his flirtation with “that witch from the Rectory,” whom Maurice
had so truly named. He did not, to my great satisfaction--but remained
very quiet, refusing, great lion as he was, to roar--and looking as
plaintive and pathetic as it was possible for Bertie’s honest face,
unused to simulation of any kind, to look. I fancy the poor fellow
imagined--a forlorn hope of that good, simple mind of his, which
certainly was not original in its expedients--that Alice might possibly
be influenced more favorably by his pitiful looks.
Seeing this, I undertook a little management of that very refractory
young person myself.
“Alice, you will come to Hilfont on my birthday, as you have always
done--won’t you?--that will be in a fortnight,” said I.
“If you please, Mrs. Crofton,” said Alice, very demurely.
“You know I please; but I don’t please that you should promise, and then
send me such a clever, pretty, reasonable excuse when the time comes,
that I cannot say a word against it, but only feel secretly that it is
very unkind.”
“Unkind! to _you_, Mrs. Crofton!” cried Alice, with a little blush and
start.
“To me--who else?--it is for _my_ birthday that I ask you to come,” said
I, with an artful pretense of feeling offended; “but really, if you
treat me as you have done before, I shall be disposed to believe there
is _some reason_ why you refuse so steadily to come.”
“You may be quite sure I will not stay away,” said Alice, with great
state.
She sat by me for half an hour longer, but we did not exchange a dozen
words. She said “nothing to nobody” all the remainder of the evening;
she looked just a little cross as well, if the truth must be told.