don't laugh, Flossy; but I can't help feeling that when people are so
very sure of themselves as I am they must be able to make others believe
in them."
"That's a profound remark," said Flossy.
"I'm not at all changeable," said Mysie, "and I know I shall be able to
make Hugh understand that I am quite in earnest." There was a peculiar
intensity in her quiet voice; and as she lifted up her eyes, clear and
serene, Flossy felt that they would have convinced her of anything.
"It will be very unromantic if you don't get anything to try your
constancy," said Flossy, teasingly.
"Well, one can be very happy without romance," said Mysie, laughing.
"Romance generally means something rather uncomfortable."
"Well," said Flossy, in her full, dear tones, "so does love--generally.
I always observe that when a girl can't do her lessons, or can't eat her
dinner, and is dismal and rather a bore, Mary has a confidence from home
about her. And if one happens to see the man he's generally such a
_creature_. Now, I can imagine regarding Saint Ambrose--"
"Flossy!"
"Well, of course, I mean some one like him. I think my ideal is a
mixture of intellect and strong common-sense, something like King
Alfred. And I greatly admire the strength of Luther and Hampden; only
those people are so often on the wrong side. But you see, Mysie, I
shall never meet the great man of the age, and I shall never care for
anyone unless he is wiser, cleverer, and better than I am myself!"
"That would be so difficult to find," said Mysie.
"Mysie, how dare you be so sarcastic!" cried Flossy, with a great,
hearty laugh. "But I don't care; I can do without him, and when he
turns up I'll let you know."
"Is he to be anything like that man in your old story who never smiled?"
said Mysie.
"No, no, that was a _very_ juvenile idea. But, Mysie," coming nearer
and speaking with slight embarrassment, "there _is_ a story and a hero
in it. I wonder if you would like him."
"Oh, do show it to me."
"Then, you must promise not to tell Arthur. Ah, is Arthur so cool as
you are about your cousin?"
"No," said Mysie, "he says that he should say `no' in Hugh's place.
But," she concluded quietly, "that is because it is coming so near."
"And what has become of Arthur now?"
"There's a cricket-match between Redhurst and Oxley, and Arthur is
playing. Will you come down to the ground? Aunt Lily's there and
Frederica; they went to pay a call first."
Flossy assented, and Mysie went upstairs to put on her hat. She was a
girl with a great many quiet little tastes of her own, and her room gave
opportunities for the study of them. There was something about her far
removed from the ordinary hurry and bustle of modern young-ladyhood.
She was noted in the family for always having time for everything. So
on her table lay an album and a book of photographs, set in little
paintings, and a basket containing pincushions and needle-books of
wonderful shapes and capable workmanship, besides other varieties of
fancy-work. Mysie dearly loved needlework, and secretly regretted the
days when she could have stitched Arthur's shirts for him. There were
flowers, gathered and growing, and quiet, dainty little birds--avadevats
and the like--hanging in the window; while on the mantelpiece was almost
every little possession of Mysie's short existence: the China dogs and
the China shepherds of her babyhood, the little glass tea-set and the
spun-glass boxes of advancing childhood, up to the pots and scent
bottles--her schoolfellows' presents in later years. For Mysie never
lost or broke anything, and never grew tired of anything because it was
old. She kept her big wax-doll in her wardrobe, and all her old
story-books on the shelf in company with Arthur's birthday present of
Tennyson's poems, and such and so many works of fiction as might be
expected on a young lady's book-shelves whose taste was exceedingly
correct and who was able to gratify it. Mysie had, however, two little
tastes of her own. She was fond of very sentimental poetry, which she
read, copied, and learnt by heart quietly to herself, not feeling at all
hurt if Arthur laughed at it or Flossy declared that it lowered her
spirits; but, being an exceedingly happy little person, she had somehow
a peculiar relish for faded flowers, bygone days, sad hearts, and all
such imagery. She also liked all books containing quaint and pregnant
sayings of wit or wisdom; read George Herbert and Bacon's essays; and
when asked, as a little girl, which part of the Bible she liked best to
read had replied: "The Book of Proverbs: it was so exceedingly true."
With every possibility of being an idle young lady Mysie was really
useful and industrious, good, and pious--in the simplest meaning of that
much abused word. She was a far more developed person than her lover,
young as she was; and she loved him with all the force of old
association, sisterly admiration and anxiety, mingling with the newer
and sweeter dependence on his talents and his counsel. She believed in
him, but her instinct was to advise him and to take care of him and to
think of what was good for him, even while his opinions had
unconsciously moulded many of her own; and to please him was her
greatest delight.
Carefully she arranged her little hat, with its wild-rose trimming, and
settled her pretty summer dress before she rejoined Flossy and started
with her for the cricket-field, where several ladies and other
spectators were already watching Arthur making runs in a white flannel
suit edged with scarlet, which Mysie thought exceedingly becoming.
Mrs Crichton made room for them on a bench beside her. Frederica and
Flossy began to compare notes of the runs; while Mysie sat in the bright
sun, dreamily contemplating her lover's prowess. Some of the cricketers
came up to speak to them; one of the Oxley curates, in black trousers
and a grey shirt, eagerly pointed out to Flossy the performance of a
mutual protege. Mrs Harcourt, the wife of the old rector of Redhurst,
made the welcome announcement that she had ordered afternoon tea to be
brought into the field. Mysie's Redhurst Sunday scholars curtseyed and
smiled at her from a distance; and the far more elegant damsels of
Oxley, who absorbed all Flossy's unprofessional efforts in the way of
teaching, made her gracious bows, and offered her an opportunity of
studying how to dress, or not to dress, hair of every shade of black,
brown, flaxen, and auburn. A detachment from Oxley Manor, headed by
Clarissa and the German governess, appeared at a discreet distance.
Mysie became aware that Arthur saw her, and was making his thirtieth run
under the inspiring influence of her eyes when a tall shadow fell on the
dry, sunny grass, and a well-known voice said, "Well, mother, how are
you?"
"My dear Hugh! _How_ you surprised me; we did not expect you till
dinner time!"
"I came half-an-hour ago; and finding you were all down here I thought I
would follow you."
"Quite right. How are you, and have you enjoyed yourself?"
"Very well; and I have enjoyed myself exceedingly," said Hugh.
"Where's Jem?"
"In London, to-day, I believe, but we did not travel back together. He
wanted to see some other places."
"And Civita Bella was charming? You are sunburnt, Hugh."
"Civita Bella is a very charming place, with sun enough to burn anyone.
How d'ye do, Mysie? I did not see you."
Mysie put her hand into Hugh's and felt her courage sink to her toes.
"I'm very well, Hugh, thank you," she said, in a small voice; and then
she perceived that Arthur had caught sight of his cousin, found himself
"out," he hardly knew how, and came over towards them with his face much
more crimson than exertion need have made it.
"Well, Arthur, I congratulate you," said Hugh. "On your degree," he
added, as Arthur started and looked blank.
"Oh, I forgot," said Arthur, as he turned his back on Hugh and Mysie, in
an awkward boyish way, and began to talk vehemently to the two Miss
Dickensons, daughters of the Oxley doctor, with whom he had been
sometimes accused of flirting; while Hugh turned to receive various
greetings. To all this he had looked forward, and his manner and look
did him credit, for, as his mother said, "he seemed as if he had never
been away."
Poor Hugh! When miles away from Civita Bella he had come to himself, as
it were, after the passion of rage and grief in which he had left the
city, he had resolved to cut the past seven weeks out of his life and to
let them leave no trace behind. No one knew anything about them but
James, who could well be trusted to keep the secret at home; they were
utterly apart from all the rest of his life, and they should remain so.
All their joy and all their pain should be buried for ever. These few
short days should not influence all the rest of his life. What
difference could it make to Redhurst and Oxley that a little Italian
girl had made a fool of him? He had plenty of interests which remained
unaltered, and this thing should be, what James had called it, a foolish
holiday incident that was over and done. This resolution, though
prompted by resentment, was agreeable to common-sense; and Hugh was not
likely to betray himself. He knew that he must suffer a certain amount
of pain, and then he supposed it would be over; if not he must bear it.
What was there to see here while he waited for the train? A cathedral:
he would go and see it.
And a girl offered him a great bouquet of roses and oleanders, such as
Violante had put in the china bowl. Hugh turned off with a sharp
refusal; but suddenly thought: "What, if after all I was mistaken! If I
had waited one moment longer--" and the torment of that doubt, which yet
was not strong enough to prompt any measure for its own satisfaction,
haunted him and fretted him as the actual sorrow could not do, for it
was a doubt of himself.
He had always been grave, and he was too strong and vigorous for trouble
to tell easily on his health; so his appearance struck no one as
unnatural, while he answered his mother's enquiries about the
Tollemaches, and described the beauties of Civita Bella--rather proud to
find that he could do it so easily. Moreover, the home party had an
absorbing interest of their own; and as soon as the match had ended, in
the triumph of Redhurst, Mrs Crichton took her son's arm to walk home
with him, and Mysie and Arthur slipped away by a different path through
the lanes.
Arthur put out his hand and took hold of Mysie's, and they walked on for
a bit hand in hand--a fashion Mysie favoured, perhaps as reminding her
of holiday afternoons, when Arthur's big-boy companionship had been so
flattering and delightful to the little school-girl. The air was
scented with meadow-sweet and with hay; the elms, in full leaf, threw
heavy shadows across their path; a thrush was singing; the church clock
chimed half-past six; everything was full of peaceful beauty. Mysie
looked shyly into Arthur's eyes, and then they both laughed; they were
not really afraid or in suspense as to their fate, only Arthur wished
that the decisive interview was over. "Suppose, for the sake of
supposing," he said, "that Hugh was really to act the cruel parent and
send me away. What should you do, Mysie?"
"I don't know," said Mysie, lightly. "If he locked me up I think I
should give in to him."
"Then I should blow my brains out!" said Arthur. "I don't know why I am
talking such nonsense," he added. "I know there is no reasonable
likelihood of any interference; but sometimes, Mysie, it comes over me
to think what have I done to deserve, what so few fellows get--my first
love--nothing in the way? Everything in my life has gone well with me."
"We must be very good," said Mysie, in a low voice.
Arthur half shook his head. He was not given to talk about himself, or
even to think much about himself from a critical point of view, but he
felt that life had been made uncommonly easy to him, by circumstances,
by temperament, and by the lodestar of Mysie's love; and it, perhaps,
proved that he was not spoiled by prosperity; since, with the stirring
of the deepest feeling that he had ever known, there came a profound
sense of these blessings and an almost exaggerated conviction of the
absence of effort by which they had been attained.
"I have done nothing to deserve any of it," he thought. "My work was
pleasant to me. How could I go wrong with _her_ before my eyes?" The
kind actions, the ready aid which won much affection, the quick interest
in all around him which made him helpful and useful everywhere--what had
these ever cost him? More pains, perhaps, and more virtuous effort than
he remembered or thought worth mentioning; but it was true that Arthur's
was a gracious nature, so kindly and genial that, though his life had
been singularly blameless, he had hardly been conscious of aims above
the average.
Mysie cut into the heart of his perplexity.
"I think it would be very ungrateful," she said, "not to be glad that we
are happy. We should be very thankful to God for it, and try to make
other people happy, too; and trials are sure to come in this life," she
added, in her sweet, fearless, untried voice.
"You shall have few, my darling, if I can keep them away. But you are
right; and it would be strange, indeed, if one were not thankful--for
you."
"The _Christian Year_ says," said Mysie, in her free, simple way:
"`Thankful for all God takes away,
Humbled by all He gives--'
"That is what you meant, isn't it?"
Arthur listened, half in admiration of Mysie's goodness--he thought, as
others like him have done, his lady-love so good--and half with the
shyness of young manhood of devotional, apart from theological,
language.
"Nothing so saintly, I fear, as that," he said. "But I see what the
last part means. What!"--as Mysie started and shrank up to him--"not
afraid of cows, still, my little one!"
"N-o," said Mysie, doubtfully, as half-a-dozen cows and a couple of
woolly little calves turned out of a field, noisily and quickly. "No;
it is very silly, and I am almost cured; but I did not expect them."
Arthur put a protecting arm around her, very willing to forgive the fear
that made her cling to him.
"Flossy does tease me so about it; but I shall always hate cows and
strange dogs and guns," said Mysie, in whom a sort of physical timidity
contrasted strangely with her quiet self-possession in other ways.
"You must not walk by yourself if they frighten you, darling," said
Arthur; "but these are very harmless beasts. Come, here's the
garden-gate--and there's Hugh. Tastes differ, but a herd of buffaloes
would be a trifle; here goes!"
Mysie vanished, and Arthur advanced towards his cousin, into whose ears
Mrs Crichton had already poured the whole story.
Hugh had listened, but he was annoyed and unsympathetic.
"Arthur is too young."
"Oh, my dear Hugh, so much the better. Your dear father was very little
older, and I only wish I could see you--"
"Mysie has a right to a wider out-look."
"But, my dear, she quite _adores_ him; she always did. And she is the
most constant little creature. There cannot be a word against Arthur."
"Oh, no; he is exceedingly well-conducted," said Hugh, dryly.
"And what a pity to come between young people! It always does them
harm, even where it's inevitable. Disappointments are very bad things."
"Most people have to survive them. However, mother, if you are
satisfied on Mysie's behalf, I can have nothing to say. I see Arthur.
I'll get it over at once."
Hugh crossed the lawn, but had he wished to win Mysie for himself he
could hardly have felt a bitterer pang of jealousy than that which came
upon him as he looked at Arthur's gladsome eyes and heard the proud
satisfaction in his tones through all their embarrassment.
"I have nothing to say, Hugh, but that we have chosen each other. I
think I can make her happy, and I will do my best to be helpful to you,
and to place myself in a less unequal position as regards her fortune."
"As mother consents," said Hugh, "I cannot have a different opinion; but
as regards the Bank, you must know your own mind, and I shall not
consent to your taking any place there till you have taken time to
consider of it. It is not exciting work nor satisfying, if you are
ambitious."
"I repeat," said Arthur, "I have chosen my lot in life. I want Mysie,
and Oxley, and the Bank, if you'll have me; and Heaven knows I think
myself a lucky fellow!"
"You know," said Hugh, "by the terms of my father's will you have the
offer, but I should wish you to consider well of it."
"Oh, I'll consider," said Arthur, in rather an off-hand manner; "but why
lose time? And you'll be very busy and want help now Simpson's getting
past his work."
"Thank you." Hugh paused, and then said, he hardly knew how
ungraciously: "I shall not interfere with you: you can, of course, do as
you like. I believe I ought to speak to Mysie; but, of course, you know
what she will say."
Arthur laughed joyously, little knowing how the gay, confident sound
smote on Hugh's ears.
"You're _very_ good, old fellow," he said. "Don't imagine I think my
good fortune a matter of course. But I want to hear all your
adventures. We have set upon you before you have even had your dinner,
which is cruel. How many girls did Jem fall a victim to? Have you
brought him home safe?"
"Jem took very good care of himself. But, as you say, it is dinner
time. I must see if my things have come."
"You've never wished me good luck! Well, you have assured it to me,
which is better."
"Oh, yes," said Hugh; "I wish you joy, and certainly would not be the
means of interfering with your good fortune."
PART THREE, CHAPTER SEVENTEEN.
SMOOTH WATERS.
"--The old June weather,
Blue above lane and wall."
"You are quite sure of your own mind, Mysie?"
"Yes, Hugh. I am quite certain."
"Because I ought to set before you that you might do much better for
yourself. You have seen very few people, and I ought not to let you act
upon impulse," said Hugh, in the driest of voices.
Mysie had been prepared for this appeal; and, though she blushed crimson
and kept her eyes on her lap, she replied, not by protestations, but by
the arguments which she thought ought to prove convincing. Hugh had
called her into the study, a little room looking out on the garden, and
more or less appropriated to himself. There was another room which all
the young men shared when at home, and where pipes, guns, dogs, and
books were to be found in wild confusion; but this was Hugh's sanctum,
where he wrote letters and transacted business and possibly read the
highly-respectable volumes that lined its wails. Mysie sat in a great
leather chair by the window, with the flickering sun on her bright brown
hair and the shadows of the roses on her gay green and white dress.
"I know," she said modestly, but quite clearly, "that perhaps some one
richer than Arthur might--might meet me by-and-by."
"Exactly," said Hugh.
"But then, Hugh, you cannot be sure of that, and what would it matter,
when--when my mind was made up?"
"If you know your own mind, Mysie."
"I might not know it if I had only just met him. People often make
mistakes then. But--but--"
"Well," said Hugh, kindly, as she stammered and stopped, "what is it,
Mysie? Don't be afraid. I only want to know your thoughts exactly."
"I think," said poor Mysie, though with much confusion, "that I ought to
say them, as you seem to think it is I who have the advantage. I could
never give Arthur up, and there will be plenty of time for you to see,
as he says he thinks that--that--there must be a year at least. I would
promise to tell you if I did change, and _I_ should not mind not being
_called_ engaged to him, though he wishes it. I hope you believe me,
because I know it depends on that."
"Yes, Mysie," said Hugh, "I believe you. You mean to say nothing can
change your love for Arthur, no one could over-persuade you, no one
could frighten you; you are so sure of it and of him that you don't care
for any outward tie to bind you?"
"Yes," said Mysie, rather appalled at the emphasis with which this
speech was uttered, but holding bravely to her colours; "that is what I
mean. For you see, Hugh, we know all about each other so well."
"Then, Mysie, I shall not consider it necessary to make any opposition."
Mysie got up and said: "Thank you, Hugh," and slowly moved away. She
thought Hugh would have congratulated her and kissed her, as he had done
all her life on set occasions; but he let her go in silence, and, left
alone, stood staring into the empty grate with bitter thoughts in his
heart. Here was _this_ girl had won her way by her own fearless
confidence, her absolute trust in herself and her lover. How fortune
smiled on the wishes of this pair! How sure might Arthur be of his
happy future! He turned restlessly round and, looking out of the
window, saw Mysie run down the garden-path with flying feet, saw Arthur
spring up from the grass, meet her, and draw her away into the
shrubbery; heard the low murmur of their voices, and the gay, careless
laughter, called forth by the reaction from Mysie's anxiety and
suspense. It was but a fortnight since he, too, had laughed idly and
carelessly over Violante's flowers; but a fortnight since he, too, had
thought himself happy in his love. But he had lost his faith in the
poor child who was all unknown and unvouched for, and she had had no
power to stand up for herself. The difference between this perfectly
simple, straightforward engagement and the foolish, impossible dream
from which he told himself that it was well to wake struck him forcibly.
It was the contrast between good and ill fortune, between success and
failure. There were times when Hugh felt utterly miserable, and when
the profound silence in which his short, wild love-story was buried was
intolerable to him--thankful as he was for it in cooler moments; times
when he longed so to hear Violante's name that he felt the wildest
desire to tell his foolish secret. It is needless to say that he never
did tell it, not being of a confiding nature; but concealment is nearly
as fatal, in many cases, to the temper as to the complexion; and poor
Hugh was unaccountably and unromantically cross. Why, when Arthur was
teaching his Skye terrier to jump over a stick, did Hugh feel that if
that little beast jumped over at exactly the same height once more he
must wring its neck? Why, when his mother complained that the rabbits
had eaten her carnations, did he positively assert that no mortal rabbit
could possibly have come near them. And was it not unworthy of him to
feel so exceedingly irritated when Arthur produced the corpse of the
offender, having shot it from his bedroom window the next morning in the
act of eating the one remaining shoot? Why should he oppose the Mayor
of Oxley on the subject of gas and the Rector of Redhurst about the new
schools? He advocated neither physical nor mental darkness, and when he
became aware that he was resting his objections on the colour of the
bricks proposed to be used in the building he pulled himself up and gave
in with a good grace. But, surely, anyone with ordinary self-control
would not allow these trifles to irritate him. Hugh sometimes felt a
dim suspicion that, though he had a very good self on the whole,
controlling it was not his strong point. Moreover, Mrs Crichton had
made the engagement an occasion for a great deal of country summer
gaiety, and Hugh was persecuted by croquet and archery-parties, picnics
and dances. He was usually very particular in what he called "doing his
duty to society;" but now these things were intolerable to him; and,
worst of all, perhaps, was the sunshiny, peaceful mirth of the happy
love-story that was working itself out beside him. Arthur shrewdly
suspected that there was something amiss with his cousin; but they were
not on terms for him to invite a confidence, and he contented himself
with the idea of consulting Jem, and by taking on himself, with
unobtrusive good-nature, all the trouble of the many small arrangements
that devolve on the young men of a country house in times of unusual
gaiety, even to entertaining the visitors when Hugh might have been free
from business and when a stroll with Mysie would have been far
preferable to himself.
"Hugh doesn't like it," he would say; "and I think he's rather out of
sorts; so we mustn't bother him."
Hugh rewarded him by wondering how he could care for such trifles, and
by somewhat despising the comfortable, unsentimental terms of the two
lovers, even while he envied them only too bitterly.