Reginald Trevanion of Highcourt had made at thirty a marriage which was
altogether suitable, and everything that the marriage of a young squire
of good family and considerable wealth ought to be, with a young lady
from a neighboring county with a pretty face and a pretty fortune, and
connections of the most unexceptionable kind. He was not himself an
amiable person even as a young man, but no one had ever asserted that
his temper or his selfishness or his uneasy ways had contributed to
bring about the catastrophe which soon overwhelmed the young household.
A few years passed with certain futile attempts at an heir which came to
nothing; and it was thought that the disappointment in respect to
Rosalind, who obstinately insisted upon turning out a girl,
notwithstanding her poor young mother’s remorseful distress and her
father’s refusal to believe that Providence could have played him so
cruel a trick, had something to do with the gradual fading away of young
Madam Trevanion. She died when Rosalind was but a few weeks old, and her
husband, whom all the neighborhood credited with a broken heart,
disappeared shortly after into that vague world known in a country
district as “Abroad;” where healing, it is to be supposed, or at least
forgetfulness, is to be found for every sorrow. Nothing was known of him
for a year or two. His brother, John Trevanion, was then a youth at
college, and, as Highcourt was shut up during its master’s absence,
disposed of his vacation among other branches of the family, and never
appeared; while Sophy, the only sister, who had married long before, was
also lost to the district. And thus all means of following the widower
in his wanderings were lost to his neighbors. When Mr. Trevanion
returned, three years after his first wife’s death, the first intimation
that he had married again was the appearance of the second Madam
Trevanion by his side in the carriage. The servants, indeed, had been
prepared by a letter, received just in time to enable them to open
hurriedly the shut-up rooms, and make ready for a lady; but that was
all. Of course, as everybody allowed, there was nothing surprising in
the fact. It is to be expected that a young widower, especially if
heartbroken, will marry again; the only curious thing was that no public
intimation of the event should have preceded the arrival of the pair.
There had been nothing in the papers, no intimation “At the British
Embassy--,” no hint that an English gentleman from one of the Midland
counties was about to bring home a charming wife. And, as a matter of
fact, nobody had been able to make out who Mrs. Trevanion was. Her
husband and she had met abroad. That was all that was ever known. For a
time the researches of the parties interested were very active, and all
sorts of leading questions were put to the new wife. But she was of
force superior to the country ladies, and baffled them all. And the calm
of ordinary existence closed over Highcourt, and the questions in course
of time were forgot. Madam Trevanion was not at all of the class of her
predecessor. She was not pretty like that gentle creature. Even those
who admired her least owned that she was striking, and many thought her
handsome, and some beautiful. She was tall; her hair and her eyes were
dark; she had the wonderful grace of bearing and movement which is
associated with the highest class, but no more belongs to it exclusively
than any other grace or gift. Between Madam Trevanion and the Duchess of
Newbury, who was herself a duke’s daughter, and one of the greatest
ladies in England, no chance spectator would have hesitated for a moment
as to which was the highest; and yet nobody knew who she was. It was
thought by some persons that she showed at first a certain hesitation
about common details of life which proved that she had not been born in
the purple. But, if so, all that was over before she had been a year at
Highcourt, and her manners were pronounced by the best judges to be
perfect. She was not shy of society as a novice would have been, nor was
her husband diffident in taking her about, as a proud man who has
married beneath him so generally is. They accepted all their invitations
like people who were perfectly assured of their own standing, and they
saw more company at Highcourt than that venerable mansion had seen
before for generations. And there was nothing to which society could
take exception in the new wife. She had little Rosalind brought home at
once, and was henceforth as devoted as any young mother could be to the
lovely little plaything of a three-years-old child. Then she did her
duty by the family as it becomes a wife to do. The first was a son, as
fine a boy as was ever born to a good estate, a Trevanion all over,
though he had his mother’s eyes--a boy that never ailed anything, as
robust as a young lion. Five or six others followed, of whom two died;
but these were ordinary incidents of life which establish a family in
the esteem and sympathy of its neighbors. The Trevanions had fulfilled
all that was needed to be entirely and fully received into the regard of
the county when they “buried,” as people say, their two children. Four
remained, the first-born, young Reginald, and his next sister, who were
at the beginning of this history fourteen and nine respectively, and
the two little ones of five and seven, who were also, to fulfil all
requirements, girl and boy.
But of all these Rosalind had remained, if that may be said of a
step-child when a woman has a family of her own, the favorite, the
mother’s constant companion, everything that an eldest girl could be.
Neither the one nor the other ever betrayed a consciousness that they
were not mother and daughter. Mr. Trevanion himself, when in his
capricious, irritable way he permitted any fondness to appear, preferred
Reginald, who was his heir and personal representative. But Rosalind was
always by her mother’s side. But for Russell, the nurse, and one or two
other injudicious persons, she would probably never have found out that
Madam was not her mother; but the discovery had done good rather than
harm, by inspiring the natural affection with a passionate individual
attachment in which there were all those elements of choice and
independent election which are the charm of friendship. Mrs. Trevanion
was Rosalind’s example, her heroine, the perfect type of woman to her
eyes. And, indeed, she was a woman who impressed the general mind with
something of this character. There are many good women who do not do so,
who look commonplace enough in their life, and are only known in their
full excellence from some revelation afterwards of heroism unknown. But
Mrs. Trevanion carried her diploma in her eyes. The tenderness in them
was like sunshine to everybody about her who was in trouble. She never
was harsh, never intolerant, judged nobody--which in a woman so full of
feeling and with so high a standard of moral excellence was
extraordinary. This was what gave so great a charm to her manners. A
well-bred woman, even of an inferior type, will not allow a humble
member of society to feel himself or herself _de trop_; but there are
many ways of doing this, and the ostentatious way of showing exaggerated
attention to an unlucky stranger is as painful to a delicate mind as
neglect. But this was a danger which Mrs. Trevanion avoided. No one
could tell what the rank was of the guests in her drawing-room, whether
it was the duchess or the governess that was receiving her attentions.
They were all alike gentlewomen in this gracious house. The poor, who
are always the hardest judges of a new claimant of their favor, and who
in this case were much set on finding out that a woman who came from
“abroad” could be no lady, gave in more reluctantly, yet yielded too
like their betters--with the exception of Russell and the family in the
village to which she belonged. These were the only enemies, so far as
any one was aware, whom Madam possessed, and they were enemies of a
visionary kind, in no open hostility, receiving her favors like the
rest, and kept in check by the general state of public opinion. Still,
if there was anything to be found out about the lady of Highcourt, these
were the only hostile bystanders desirous of the opportunity of doing
her harm.
But everything had fallen into perfect peace outside the house for
years. Now and then, at long intervals, it might indeed be remarked in
the course of a genealogical conversation such as many people love, that
it was not known who Mrs. Trevanion the second had been. “His first wife
was a Miss Warren, one of the Warrens of Warrenpoint. The present
one--well, I don’t know who she was; they married abroad.” But that was
all that now was ever said. It would be added probably that she was very
handsome, or very nice, or quite _comme il faut_, and so her defect of
parentage was condoned. Everything was harmonious, friendly, and
comfortable outside. The county could not resist her fine manners, her
looks, her quiet assumption of the place that belonged to her. But
within doors Mrs. Trevanion soon came to know that no very peaceful life
was to be expected. There were people who said that she had not the look
of a happy woman even when she first came home. In repose her face was
rather sad than otherwise at all times. Mr. Trevanion was still in the
hot fit of a bridegroom’s enthusiasm when he brought her home, but even
then he was the most troublesome, the most exacting, the most fidgety
of bridegrooms. Her patience with all his demands was boundless. She
would change her dress half a dozen times in an evening to please him.
She would start off with him on a sudden wild expedition at half an
hour’s notice, without a word or even look of annoyance. And when the
exuberance of love wore off, and the exactions continued, with no longer
caresses and sweet words, but blame and reproach and that continual
fault-finding which it is so hard to put up with amiably, Mrs. Trevanion
still endured everything, consented to everything, with a patience that
would not be shaken. It was now nearly ten years since the heart-disease
which had brought him nearly to death’s door first showed itself. He had
rheumatic fever, and then afterwards, as is so usual, this terrible
legacy which that complaint leaves behind it. From that moment, of
course, the patience which had been so sweetly exercised before became a
religious duty. It was known in the house that nothing must cross or
agitate or annoy Mr. Trevanion. But, indeed, it was not necessary that
anything should annoy him; he was his own chief annoyance, his own
agitator. He would flame up in sudden wrath at nothing at all, and turn
the house upside down, and send everybody but his wife flying, with
vituperations which scarcely the basest criminal could have deserved.
And his wife, who never abandoned him, became the chief object of these
passionate assaults. He accused her of every imaginable fault. He began
to talk of all she owed him, to declare that he married her when she had
nothing, that he had taken her out of the depths, that she owed
everything to him; he denounced her as ungrateful, base, trying to
injure his health under pretence of nursing him, that she might get the
power into her own hands. But she would find out her mistake, he said;
she would learn, when he was gone, the difference between having a
husband to protect her and nobody. To all these wild accusations and
comments the little circle round Mrs. Trevanion had become familiar and
indifferent. “Pegging away at Madam, as usual,” Mr. Dorrington, the
butler, said. “Lord, I’d let him peg! I’d leave him to himself and see
how he likes it,” replied the cook and housekeeper. No one had put the
slightest faith in the objurgations of the master. To Rosalind they were
the mere extravagances of that mad temper which she had been acquainted
with all her life. What her father said about his wife was about as
reasonable as his outburst of certainty that England was going to the
devil when the village boys broke down one of the young trees. She did
not judge papa for such a statement. She cried a little at his
vehemence, which did himself so much harm, and laughed a little
secretly, with a heavy sense of guilt, at his extravagance and
exaggerations. Poor papa! it was not his fault, it was because he was so
ill. He was too weak and ailing to be able to restrain himself as other
people did. But he did not mean it--how could he mean it? To say that
mamma wanted to break his neck if she did not put his pillow as he liked
it, to accuse her of a systematic attempt to starve him if his luncheon
was two minutes late or his soup not exactly to his taste--all that was
folly. And no doubt it was also folly, all that about raising her from
nothing and taking her without a penny. Rosalind, though very much
disturbed when she was present at one of these scenes, yet permitted
herself to laugh at it when it was over or she had got away. Poor papa!
and then when he had raged himself into a fit of those heart-spasms he
was so ill; how sad to see him suffering so terribly, gasping for
breath! Poor papa! to think that he did so much to bring it on himself
was only a pity the more.
Thus things had gone on for years. When Dr. Beaton came to live in the
house there had been a temporary amendment. The presence of a stranger,
perhaps, had been a check upon the patient; and perhaps the novelty of a
continual and thoroughly instructed watcher--who knew how to follow the
symptoms of the malady, and foresaw an outburst before it came--did
something for him; and certainly there had been an amendment. But by
and by familiarity did away with these advantages. Dr. Beaton exhausted
all the resources of his science, and Mr. Trevanion ceased to be upon
his guard with a man whom he saw every day. Thus the house lived in a
forced submission to the feverish vagaries of its head; and he himself
sat and railed at everybody, pleased with nothing, claiming every
thought and every hour, but never contented with the service done him.
And greater and greater became the force of his grievances against his
wife and his sense of having done everything for her; how he had stood
by her when nobody else would look at her, how he had lifted her out of
some vague humiliation and abandonment, how she owed him everything, yet
treated him with brutal carelessness, and sought his death, were the
most favorite accusations on his lips. Mrs. Trevanion listened with a
countenance that rarely showed any traces of emotion. She had shrunk a
little at first from these painful accusations; but soon had come to
listen to them with absolute calm. She had borne them like a saint, like
a philosopher; and yet within the last month everybody saw there had
been a change.