LIKE THE MEMORY OF A DREAM.
Mrs. Darrell drove away from Tolldale Priory late in the afternoon,
and in a very despondent state of mind. She had done no good by her
visit to Woodlands, and it seemed painfully probable that she had done
a great deal of harm; for the unfortunate accident of a resemblance
between Laura Mason’s companion and the late George Vane had stirred
up the memories of the past in that turbid stream, the old man’s
mind. The widow scarcely opened her lips during the homeward drive.
She would fain have punished Eleanor for that unlucky chance by which
she happened to resemble the dead man, and she did not fail to remark
unpleasantly upon Miss Vane’s conduct at Woodlands.
“One would really think you wished to trade upon your likeness to Mr.
Vane, and to insinuate yourself into my uncle’s good graces, Miss
Vincent,” the widow said, rather sharply.
Eleanor blushed crimson, but did not attempt to reply to her employer’s
bitter speech. The falsehood of an assumed name was perpetually placing
her in positions against which her truthful nature revolted.
If Mrs. Darrell had been free to dismiss Eleanor Vane, she would
doubtless have done so, for the girl’s presence had now become a source
of alarm to her. There were two reasons for this sentiment of alarm.
First, the likeness which Maurice de Crespigny had discovered between
Eleanor and his dead friend, and which might prompt him at any moment
to some capricious fancy for the girl; and, secondly, the fact that
Eleanor’s beauty and fascination might not be without their effect upon
Launcelot Darrell.
The widow knew by cruel experience that her son was not a man to
surrender his lightest caprice at the entreaty of another. At
seven-and-twenty years of age he was as much a spoiled child as he had
been at seven. Ellen Darrell looked back at the bitter trials of the
past; and remembered how hard it had been to keep her son true even to
his own interests. Selfish and self-willed, he had taken his own way;
always relying upon his handsome face, his shallow versatility, his
showy accomplishments, to carry him through every difficulty, and get
him out of every dilemma; always eager for the enjoyment of the present
hour, and reckless as to any penalties to be paid in the future.
Mrs. Darrell had concentrated every feeling of her heart into one
passion: her love for this young man. Frigid and reserved to all the
rest of the world, with him she was impulsive, vehement, spontaneous;
ready to pour out her heart’s blood at his feet, if he had needed such
an evidence of her devotion. For him she was jealous and exacting;
harsh to others; desperate and unforgiving to those whom she thought
his enemies.
For Launcelot she was anxious and ambitious. The hope that her Uncle
Maurice would leave his fortune to the young man, whose boyish good
looks and precocious talents had made some impression upon him, many
years before, never entirely deserted her. But, even if that hope
should fail, her sisters were elderly women like herself. If they
succeeded in cajoling Maurice de Crespigny out of his fortune, they
must surely eventually leave it to their only nephew, Launcelot. This
was how the widow reasoned. But there was another chance which she
fancied she saw for her son’s advancement. Laura Mason, the heiress,
evidently admired the young man’s handsome face and dashing manners.
What more likely than that Launcelot might succeed in winning the hand
and fortune of that capricious young lady?
Under these circumstances Mrs. Darrell would have been very glad to
have removed Eleanor Vane out of her son’s way; but this was not easily
to be done. When the widow sounded Laura Mason upon the subject, and
vaguely hinted at the necessity of parting with Eleanor, the heiress
burst into a flood of tears, and declared passionately that she would
not live without her darling Nelly. And when Mrs. Darrell went even
further than this, and touched upon the subject in a conversation with
Mr. Monckton, the lawyer replied very decidedly that he considered Miss
Vincent’s companionship of great benefit to his ward, and that he could
not hear of any arrangement by which the two girls would be separated.
Mrs. Darrell, therefore, could do nothing but submit; in the hope that
for once her son might consent to be governed by his interests, rather
than by those erratic impulses which had led him in the reckless and
riotous days of his early youth.
She pleaded with him; entreating him to be prudent and thoughtful for
the future.
“You have suffered so much from poverty, Launcelot,” she urged, “that
surely you will lose no opportunity of improving your position. Look
back, my boy; remember that bitter time in which you were lost to me,
led away by low and vicious companions, and only appealing to me when
you found yourself in debt and difficulty. Think of your Indian life,
and the years you have wasted,—you who are so clever and accomplished,
and who ought to have been so fortunate. Oh, Launcelot, if you knew
what a bitter thing it is to a mother to see her idolized child waste
every opportunity of winning the advancement which should be his by
right,—yes, by right, Launcelot, by the right of your talents. I never
reproached you, my boy, for coming home to me penniless. Were you to
return to me twenty times, as you came back that night, you would
always find the same welcome, the same affection. My love for you
will never change, my darling, till I go to my grave. But I suffer
very bitterly when I think of your wasted youth. You must be rich,
Launcelot; you cannot afford to be poor. There are some men to whom
poverty seems a spur that drives them on to greatness; but it has
clogged your footsteps, and held you back from the fame you might have
won.”
“Egad, so it has, mother,” the young man answered, bitterly; “a shabby
coat paralyzes a man’s arm, to my mind, and it’s not very easy for a
fellow to hold his head very high when the nap’s all worn off his hat.
But I don’t mean to sit down to a life of idleness, I can tell you,
mother. I shall turn painter. You know I’ve got on with my painting
pretty well during the last few years.”
“I’m glad of that, my dear boy. You had plenty of time to devote to
your painting, then?”
“Plenty of time; oh, yes, I was pretty well off for that matter.”
“Then you were not so hard worked in India?”
“Not always. That depended upon circumstances,” the young man answered,
indifferently. “Yes, mother, I shall turn painter, and try and make a
fortune out of my brush.”
Mrs. Darrell sighed. She wished to see her son made rich by a quicker
road than the slow and toilsome pathway by which an artist reaches
fortune.
“If you could make a wealthy marriage, Launcelot,” she said, “you
might afford to devote yourself to art, without having to endure the
torturing anxieties which must be suffered by a man who has only his
profession to depend upon. I wouldn’t for the world wish you to sell
yourself for money, for I know the wretchedness of a really mercenary
marriage; but if——”
The young man flung back the dark hair from his forehead, and smiled at
his mother as he interrupted her.
“If I should fall in love with this Miss Laura Mason, who, according to
your account, is to have a power of money one of these days, I should
prove myself a wise man. That’s what you mean, isn’t it, _madre mia_?
Well, I’ll do my best. The young lady is pretty, but her childishness
is positively _impayable_. What’s the amount of the fortune that is to
counterbalance so much empty-headed frivolity? Eh, mother?”
“I can’t quite answer that question, Launcelot. I only know that Mr.
Monckton told me Laura will be very rich.”
“And Gilbert Monckton, although a lawyer, is one of those
uncompromising personages who never tell a lie. Well, mother we’ll see
about it; I can’t say anything more than that.”
The young man had been standing before his easel with his palette and
brushes in his hand during this conversation, now and then adding a
touch here and there to a picture that he had been working at since his
return. He had taken up his abode in his old apartments. His mother
spent a good deal of her time with him; sitting at needlework by the
open window, while he painted; listening while, in his idler moments,
he sat at the piano, composing a few bars of a waltz, or trying to
recall the words of some song that he had written long ago; always
following him with watchful and admiring eyes, shadowed only by the
mother’s anxiety for her son’s future.
Launcelot Darrell did not seem to be altogether a bad young man. He
accepted his mother’s love with something of that indolent selfishness
common to those spoiled children of fortune upon whom an extra share
of maternal devotion has been lavished. He absorbed the widow’s
affection; and gave her in return an easy-going, graceful attention,
which satisfied the unselfish woman, and demanded neither trouble nor
sacrifice from the young man himself.
“Now, if the wealthy heiress were the poor companion, mother,” Mr.
Darrell said, presently, working away with his brush as he spoke,
“your scheme would be charming. Eleanor Vincent is a glorious girl; a
little bit of a spitfire, I should think, quiet and gentle as she is
with us; but a splendid girl; just the sort of wife for an indolent
man; a wife who would rouse him out of his lethargy and drive him on to
distinction.”
Yes, Launcelot Darrell, who had never in his life resisted any
temptation, or accepted any guidance except that of his own wishes, was
led by them now; and, instead of devoting himself to the young heiress,
chose to fall desperately in love with her fair-haired companion. He
fell in love with Eleanor Vane; desperately, after his own fashion. I
doubt if there was any great intensity in the young man’s desperation;
for I do not believe that he was capable of any real depth of feeling.
There was a kind of hollow, tinselly fervour in his nature which took
the place of true passion. It may be that with him all emotions—love
and remorse, penitence, pity, regret, hate, anger, and revenge—were
true and real so long as they lasted. But all these sentiments were
so short-lived, by reason of the fickleness of his mind, that it was
almost difficult to believe even in their temporary truth.
But Eleanor Vane, being very young and inexperienced, had no power
of analyzing the character of her lover. She only knew that he was
handsome, accomplished, and clever; that he loved her, and that it was
very agreeable to be loved by him.
I do not believe that she returned the young man’s affection. She was
like a child upon the threshold of a new world: bewildered and dazzled
by the glorious aspect of the unknown region before her; beguiled and
delighted by its beauty and novelty. All the darker aspects of the
great passion were unknown to her, and undreamed of by her. She only
knew that on the cheerless horizon that had so long bounded her life,
a new star had arisen—a bright and wonderful planet, which for a while
displaced the lurid light that had so long shone steadfastly across the
darkness.
Eleanor Vane yielded herself up to the brief holiday-time which
generally comes once in almost every woman’s life, however desolate and
joyless the rest of that life may be. The holiday comes,—a fleeting
summer of gladness and rejoicing. The earth lights up under a new sun
and moon; the flowers bloom into new colours and scatter new perfumes
on the sublimated atmosphere; the waters of the commonest rivers change
to melted sapphires, and blaze with the splendour of a million jewels
in the sunshine. The dull universe changes to fairyland; but, alas! the
holiday-time is very short: the children grow tired of paradise, or are
summoned back to school; the sun and moon collapse into commonplace
luminaries; the flowers fade into every-day blossoms; the river flows a
grey stream under a November sky; and the dream is over.
Launcelot Darrell had been little more than a fortnight in his
mother’s house when he declared his love for Miss Mason’s companion.
The young people had been a great deal together in that fortnight;
wandering in the grassy lanes about Hazlewood, and in the shadowy woods
round Tolldale Priory, or on breezy hills high up above the lawyer’s
sheltered mansion. In hope of an alliance between Launcelot and Gilbert
Monckton’s ward, Mrs. Darrell was obliged to submit to the necessity
which threw her son very much into the society of the companion as well
as of the heiress.
“He will surely never be so foolish as to thwart my plan for his
future,” thought the anxious mother. “Surely, surely, he will consent
to be guided by his own interests. Gilbert Monckton must know that it
is only likely an attachment may arise between Launcelot and Laura. He
would not leave the girl with me unless he were resigned to such an
event, and ready to give his consent to their marriage. My son is poor,
certainly; but the lawyer knows that he has some hope of inheriting a
great fortune.”
While the mother pondered thus over her son’s chances of advancement,
the young man took life very easily; spending his mornings at his
easel, but by no means over-exerting himself; and dawdling away his
afternoons in rustic rambles with the two girls.
Laura Mason was very happy in the society of this new and brilliant
companion. She was bewitched and fascinated by Mr. Darrell’s careless
talk; which sounded very witty, very profound, sarcastic, and eloquent
in the ears of an ignorant girl. She admired him and fell in love with
him, and wearied poor Eleanor with her very unreserved rhapsodies about
the object of her affection.
“I know it’s very bold and wicked and horrid to fall in love with
anybody before they fall in love with one, you know, Eleanor,” the
young lady said, in not very elegant English; “but he is so handsome
and so clever. I don’t think any one in the world could help loving him.
“‘I have no hope in loving thee,
I only ask to love;
I _ber_-rood upon my silent heart,
As on its nest a dove;’”
added Miss Mason, quoting that favourite poet of all desponding lovers,
poor L. E. L.
I think Mr. Monckton’s ward rather enjoyed the hopelessness of her
attachment. The brooding upon her silent heart was scarcely an accurate
exposition of her conduct, as she talked reams of sentiment to Eleanor
upon the subject of her unrequited affection. Miss Vane was patient and
tender with her, listening to her foolish talk, and dreading the coming
of that hour in which the childish young beauty must be rudely awakened
from her rose-coloured dream.
“I don’t want to marry him, you know, Eleanor,” the young lady said; “I
only want to be allowed to love him. You remember the German story in
which the knight watches the window of his lost love’s convent cell.
I could live for ever and ever near him; and be content to see him
sometimes; or to hear his voice, even if I did not see him. I should
like to wear boy’s clothes, and be his page, like Viola, and tell him
my own story, you know, some day.”
Eleanor remembered her promise to Gilbert Monckton, and tried sometimes
to check the torrent of sentimental talk.
“I know your love is very poetical, and I dare say it’s very true, my
pet,” she said; “but do you think Mr. Darrell is quite worth all this
waste of affection? I sometimes think, Laura dear, that we commit a sin
when we waste our best feelings. Suppose by-and-by you should meet some
one quite as worthy of your love as Launcelot Darrell; some one who
would love you very devotedly; don’t you think you would look back and
regret having lavished your best and freshest feelings upon a person
who——”
“Who doesn’t care a straw for me,” cried the heiress, half crying.
“That’s what you mean, Eleanor Vincent. You mean to insinuate that
Launcelot doesn’t care for me. You are a cruel, heartless girl, and you
don’t love me a bit.”
And the young lady bemoaned her disappointment, and wept over the
hardships of her lot; very much as she might have cried for any new
plaything a few years before.
It was upon a burning August morning that Launcelot Darrell declared
himself to Eleanor Vane. The two girls had been sitting to him for a
picture,—Eleanor as Rosalind, and Laura as Celia,—a pretty feminine
group. Rosalind in her womanly robes, and not her forester’s dress of
grey and green; for the painter had chosen the scene in which Celia
promises to share her cousin’s exile.
This picture was to be exhibited at the Academy, and was to make Mr.
Darrell’s fortune. Laura had been called from the room to attend to
some important business with a dressmaker from Windsor, and Eleanor and
Launcelot were alone.
The young man went on painting for some time, and then, throwing down
his brush with a gesture of impatience, went over to the window near
which Eleanor sat, on a raised platform covered with a shabby drapery
of red baize.
“Do you think the picture will be a success, Miss Vincent?” he asked.
“Oh yes, I think so, and hope so; but I am no judge, you know.”
“Your judgment must be as good as the public judgment, I should think,”
Launcelot Darrell answered, rather impatiently. “The critics will try
to write me down, I dare say, but I don’t look to the critics to buy my
picture. They’ll call me crude and meretricious, and hard and cold, and
thin and grey, I’ve no doubt; but the best picture, to my mind, is the
picture that sells best, eh, Miss Vincent?”
Eleanor lifted her arched eyebrows with a look of surprise; this very
low view of the question rather jarred upon her sense of the dignity of
art.
“I suppose you think my sentiments very mercenary and contemptible,
Miss Vincent,” said the painter, interpreting the expression of her
face; “but I have lived out the romance of my life; or one part of
that romance, at any rate; and have no very ardent aspiration after
greatness in the abstract. I want to earn money. The need of money
drives men into almost every folly; farther, sometimes: into follies
that touch upon the verge of crime.”
The young man’s face darkened suddenly as he spoke. He was silent for
a few moments, not looking at his companion, but away out of the open
window into vacancy, as it seemed.
The memory of Gilbert Monckton’s words flashed back upon Eleanor’s
mind. “There is a secret in Launcelot Darrell’s life,” the lawyer had
said; “a secret connected with his Indian experience.” Was he thinking
of that secret now, Eleanor wondered. But the painter’s face brightened
almost as suddenly as it had been overshadowed. He flung back his head
with an impetuous gesture. It seemed almost as if he had cast some
imaginary burden from off his shoulders by that sudden movement.
“I want to earn money, Miss Vincent,” he said. “Art in the abstract is
very grand, no doubt. I quite believe in the man who stabbed his model
in order to get the death-agony for his picture of the Crucifixion; but
I must make art subservient to my own necessities. I must earn money
for myself and my wife, Eleanor. I might marry a rich woman, perhaps,
but I want to marry a poor one. Do you think the girl I love will
listen to me, Eleanor? Do you think she will accept the doubtful future
I can offer her? Do you think she will be brave enough to share the
fortunes of a struggling man?”
Nothing could be more heroic than the tone in which Launcelot Darrell
spoke. He had the air of a man who means to strive, with the sturdy
devotion of a martyr, to win the end of his ambition, rather than
that of a sanguine but vacillating young gentleman who would be ready
to fling himself down under the influence of the first moment of
despondency, and live upon the proceeds of the pawning of his watch,
while his unfinished picture rotted upon the canvas.
He had something of George Vane’s nature, perhaps; that fatally hopeful
temperament common to men who are for ever going to do great things,
and for ever failing to achieve even the smallest. He was one of those
men who are perpetually deluding other people by the force of their
power of self-delusion.
Self-deluded and mistaken now, it was scarcely strange if he deceived
Eleanor Vane, who was carried away by the impetuous torrent of words in
which he told her that he loved her, and that the future happiness of
his life depended upon the fiat which must issue from her lips.
Only very faltering accents came from those tremulous lips. Miss
Vane was not in love; she was only bewildered, and perhaps a little
bewitched, by the painter’s vehemence. He was the first young,
elegant, handsome, and accomplished man with whom she had ever been
thrown much in contact. It is scarcely wonderful, then, if this
inexperienced girl of eighteen was a little influenced by the ardour of
his admiration—by the eloquence of his wild talk.
She had risen from her seat in her agitation, and stood with her back
to the sunlit window, trembling and blushing before her lover.
Launcelot Darrell was not slow to draw a flattering inference from
these signs of womanly confusion.
“You love me, Eleanor,” he said; “yes, you love me. You think, perhaps,
my mother would oppose our marriage. You don’t know me, dearest, if
you can believe I would suffer any opposition to come between me and
my love. I am ready to make any sacrifice for your sake, Eleanor. Only
tell me that you love me, and I shall have a new purpose in life; a new
motive for exertion.”
Mr. Darrell held the girl’s two hands clasped in both his own, as he
pleaded thus, using hackneyed phrases with a vehement earnestness that
gave new life to the old words. His face was close to Eleanor’s, with
the broad light of the sunny summer sky full upon it. Some sudden
fancy—some vague idea, dim and indistinct as the faint memory of a
dream whose details we strive vainly to recall—flashed into the mind
of George Vane’s orphan daughter as she looked into her lover’s black
eyes. She recoiled from him a little; her eyebrows contracted into a
slight frown: her blushes faded out with the effort which she made to
seize upon and analyze that sudden fancy. But her effort was vain:
transient as a gleam of summer lightning the thought had flashed across
her brain, only to melt utterly away.
While she was still trying to recall that lost idea, while Launcelot
Darrell was still pleading for an answer to his suit, the door of
the painting-room was pushed open—it had been left ajar by volatile
Miss Mason, most likely—and the widow entered, pale, stern, and
sorrowful-looking.