Presently they all assembled in the hall--a miserable party. The door of
the breakfast-room stood open, but no one went near it. They stood in a
knot, all huddled together, speaking almost in whispers. Considering
that everybody in the house now knew that Madam had never been in bed at
all, that she must have left Highcourt secretly in the middle of the
night, no precaution could have been more foolish. But Mrs. Lennox had
not realized this; and her anxiety to silence scandal was extreme. She
stood quite close to her brother, questioning him. “But what do you
mean? How could Reginald do it? What did he imagine? And, oh! couldn’t
you put a stop to it, for the sake of the family, John?”
Young Reginald stood on the other side, confused between anger and
ignorance, incapacity to understand and a desire to blame some one.
“What does she mean by it?” he said. “What did father mean by it? Was it
just to make us all as wretched as possible--as if things weren’t bad
enough before?” It was impossible to convey to either of them any real
understanding of the case. “But how could he part the children from
their mother?” said Aunt Sophy. “She is their mother, their mother; not
their stepmother. You forget, John; she’s Rosalind’s stepmother.
Rosalind might have been made my ward; that would have been natural; but
the others are her own. How could he separate her from her own? She
ought not to have left them! Oh, how could she leave them?” the
bewildered woman cried.
“If she had not done it the children would have been destitute, Sophy.
It was my business to make her do it, unless she had been willing to
ruin the children.”
“Not me,” cried Reginald, loudly. “He could not have taken anything from
me. She might have stuck to me, and I should have taken care of her.
What had she to be frightened about? I suppose,” he added after a pause,
“there would have been plenty--to keep all the children too--”
“Highcourt is not such a very large estate, Rex. Lowdean and the rest
are unentailed. You would have been much impoverished too.”
“Oh!” Reginald cried, with an angry frown; but then he turned to another
side of the question, and continued vehemently, “Why on earth, when she
knew papa was so cranky and had it all in his power, why did she
aggravate him? I think they must all have been mad together, and just
tried how to spite us most!” cried the boy, with a rush of passionate
tears to his eyes. The house was miserable altogether. He wanted his
breakfast, and he had no heart to eat it. He could not bear the solemn
spying of the servants. Dorrington, in particular, would come to the
door of the breakfast-room and look in with an expression of mysterious
sympathy for which Reginald would have liked to kill him. “I wish I had
never come away from school at all. I wish I were not going back. I wish
I were anywhere out of this,” he cried. But he did not suggest again
that his mother should have “stuck to” him. He wanted to know why
somebody did not interfere; why this thing and the other was permitted
to be done. “Some one could have stopped it if they had tried,” Reginald
said; and that was Aunt Sophy’s opinion too.
The conclusion of all was that Mrs. Lennox left Highcourt with the
children and Rosalind as soon as their preparations could be made, by
way of covering as well as possible the extraordinary revolution in the
house. It was the only expedient any of these distracted people could
think of to throw a little illusion over Mrs. Trevanion’s abrupt
departure. Of course they were all aware everything must be known. What
is there that is not known? And to think that a large houseful of
servants would keep silent on such a piece of family history was past
all expectation. No doubt it was already known through the village and
spreading over the neighborhood. “Madam” had been caught meeting some
man in the park when her husband was ill, poor gentleman! And now, the
very day of the funeral, she was off with the fellow, and left all her
children, and everything turned upside down. The older people all knew
exactly what would be said, and they knew that public opinion would
think the worst, that no explanations would be allowed, that the
vulgarest, grossest interpretation would be so much easier than anything
else, so ready, so indisputable--she had gone away with her lover. Mrs.
Lennox herself could not help thinking so in the depths of her mind,
though on the surface she entertained other vague and less assured
ideas. What else could explain it? Everybody knew the force of passion,
the way in which women will forsake everything, even their children,
even their homes--that was comprehensible, though so dreadful. But
nothing else was comprehensible. Aunt Sophy, in the depth of her heart,
though she was herself an innocent woman, was not sure that John was not
inventing, to shield his sister-in-law, that incredible statement about
the will. She felt that she herself would say anything for the same
purpose--she would not mind what it was--anything rather than that
Grace, a woman they had all thought so much of, had “gone wrong” in such
a dreadful way. Nevertheless it was far more comprehensible that she had
“gone wrong” than any other explanation could be. Though she had been a
woman upon whom no breath of scandal had ever come, a woman who overawed
evil speakers, and was above all possibility of reproach, yet it was
always possible that she might have “gone wrong.” Against such hazards
there could be no defence. But Mrs. Lennox was very willing to do
anything to cover up the family trouble. She even went the length of
speaking somewhat loudly to her own maid, in the hearing of some of the
servants of the house, about Mrs. Trevanion’s “early start.” “We shall
catch her up on the way,” Mrs. Lennox said. “I don’t wonder, do you,
Morris, that she went by that early train? Poor dear! I remember when I
lost my first dear husband I couldn’t bear the sight of the house and
the churchyard where he was lying. But we shall catch her up,” the
kind-hearted hypocrite said, drying her eyes. As if the housemaids were
to be taken in so easily! as if they did not know far more than Mrs.
Lennox did, who thus lent herself to a falsehood! When the children came
down, dressed in their black frocks, with eyes wide open and full of
eager curiosity, Mrs. Lennox was daunted by the cynical air with which
Sophy, her namesake and godchild, regarded her. “You needn’t say
anything to me about catching up mamma, for I know better,” the child
said, vindictively. “She likes somebody else better than us, and she has
just gone away.”
“Rosalind,” Mrs. Lennox cried, in dismay, “I hope that woman is not
coming with us, that horrible woman that puts such things into the
children’s heads. I hope you have sent Russell away.”
But when the little ones were all packed in the carriage with their
aunt, who could not endure to see any one cry, there was a burst of
simultaneous weeping. “I neber love nobody but Nana. I do to nobody but
Nana,” little Johnny shouted. His little sister said nothing, but her
small mouth quivered, and the piteous aspect of her face, struggling
against a passion of restrained grief, was the most painful of all.
Sophy, however, continued defiant. “You may send her away, but me and
Reginald will have her back again,” she said. Aunt Sophy could scarcely
have been more frightened had she taken a collection of bombshells with
her into the carriage. The absence of mamma was little to the children,
who had been so much separated from her by their father’s long illness;
but Russell, the “Nana” of their baby affections, had a closer hold.
With these rebellious companions, and with all the misery of the family
tragedy overshadowing her, Rosalind made the journey more sadly than any
of the party. At times it seemed impossible for her to believe that all
the miseries that had happened were real. Was it not rather a dream from
which she might awaken, and find everything as of old? To think that she
should be leaving her home, feeling almost a fugitive, hastily,
furtively, in order to cover the flight of one who had been her type of
excellence all her life: to think that father and mother were both gone
from her--gone out of her existence, painfully, miserably; not to be
dwelt upon with tender grief, such as others had the privilege of
enduring, but with bitter anguish and shame. The wails of the children
as they grew tired with the journey, the necessity of taking the
responsibility of them upon herself, hushing the cries of the little
ones for “Nana,” silencing Sophy, who was disposed to be impertinent,
keeping the weight of the party from the too susceptible shoulders of
the aunt, made a complication and interruption of her thoughts which
Rosalind was too inexperienced to feel as an alleviation, and which made
a fantastic mixture of tragedy and burlesque in her mind. She had to
think of the small matters of the journey, and to satisfy Aunt Sophy’s
fears as to the impossibility of getting the other train at the
junction, and the risk of losing the luggage, and to persuade her that
Johnny’s restlessness, his refusal to be comforted by the anxious
nursery-maid, and wailing appeals for Russell, would wear off by and by
as baby-heartbreaks do. “But I have known a child fret itself to death,”
Mrs. Lennox cried. “I have heard of instances in which they would not be
comforted, Rosalind; and what should we do if the child was to pine, and
perhaps to die?” Rosalind, so young, so little experienced, was
overwhelmed by this suggestion. She took Johnny upon her own lap, and
attempted to soothe him, with a sense that she might turn out a kind of
murderer if the child did not mend. It was consolatory to feel that,
warmly wrapped, and supported against her young bosom, Johnny got
sleepy, and moaned himself into oblivion of his troubles. But this was
not so pleasant when they came to the junction, and Rosalind had to
stumble out of the carriage somehow, and hurry to the waiting train with
poor little Johnny’s long legs thrust out from her draperies. It was at
this moment, as she got out, that she saw a face in the crowd which gave
her a singular thrill in the midst of her trouble. The wintry afternoon
was falling into darkness, the vast, noisy place was swarming with life
and tumult. She had to walk a little slower than the rest on account of
her burden, which she did not venture to give into other arms, in case
the child should wake. It was the face of the young man whom she had met
in the park--the stranger, so unlike anybody else, about whom she had
been so uncomfortably uncertain whether he was or not-- But what did that
matter? If he had been a prince of the blood or the lowest adventurer,
what was it to Rosalind? Her mind was full of other things, and no man
in the world had a right to waylay her, to follow her, to trace her
movements. It made her hot and red with personal feeling in the midst of
all the trouble that surrounded her. He had no right--no right; and yet
the noblest lover who ever haunted his lady’s window to see her shadow
on the blind had no right; and perhaps, if put into vulgar words, Romeo
had no right to scale that wall, and Juliet on her balcony was a forward
young woman. There are things which are not to be defended by any rule,
which youth excuses, nay, justifies; and to see a pair of sympathetic
eyes directed towards her through the crowd--eyes that found her out
amid all that multitude--touched Rosalind’s heart. Somehow they made her
trouble, and even the weight of her little brother, who was heavy, more
easy to bear. She was weak and worn out, and this it was, perhaps, which
made her so easily moved. But the startled sensation with which she
heard a voice at her side, somewhat too low and too close, saying, “Will
you let me carry the child for you, Miss Trevanion?” whirled the softer
sensation away into eddies of suspicion and dark thrills of alarm and
doubt. “Oh, no, no!” she cried, instinctively hurrying on.
“I ask nothing but to relieve you,” he said.
“Oh, thanks! I am much obliged to you, but it is impossible. It would
wake him,” she said hurriedly, not looking up.
“You think me presumptuous, Miss Trevanion, and so I am; but it is
terrible to see you so burdened and not be able to help.”
This made her burden so much the more that Rosalind quickened her steps,
and stumbled and almost fell. “Oh, please,” she said, “go away. You may
mean to be kind. Oh, please go away.”
The nursery-maid, who came back at Mrs. Lennox’s orders to help
Rosalind, saw nothing particular to remark, except that the young lady
was flushed and disturbed. But to hurry along a crowded platform with a
child in your arms was enough to account for that. The maid could very
well appreciate such a drawback to movement. She succeeded, with the
skill of her profession, in taking the child into her own arms, and
repeated Mrs. Lennox’s entreaties to make haste. But Rosalind required
no solicitation in this respect. She made a dart forward, and was in the
carriage in a moment, where she threw herself into a seat and hid her
face in her hands.
“I knew it would be too much for you,” said Aunt Sophy, soothingly. “Oh,
Thirza is used to it. I pity nurses with all my heart; but they are used
to it. But you, my poor darling, in such a crowd! Did you think we
should miss the train? I know what that is--to hurry along, and yet be
sure you will miss it. Here, Thirza, here; we are all right; and after
all there is plenty of time.” After a pause Aunt Sophy said, “I wonder
who that is looking so intently into this carriage. Such a remarkable
face! But I hope he does not mean to get in here; we are quite full
here. Rosalind, you look like nothing at all in that corner, in your
black dress. He will think the seat is vacant and come in if you don’t
make a little more appearance. Rosalind-- Good gracious, I believe she
has fainted!”
“No, Aunt Sophy.” Rosalind raised her head and uncovered her pale face.
She knew that she should see that intruder looking at her. He seemed to
be examining the carriages, looking for a place, and as she took her
hands from her face their eyes met. There was that unconscious
communication between them which betrays those who recognize each other,
whether they make any sign or not. Aunt Sophy gave a wondering cry.
“Why, you know him! and yet he does not take his hat off. Who is it,
Rosalind?”
“I have seen him--in the village--”
“Oh, I know,” cried little Sophy, pushing forward. “It is the gentleman.
I have seen him often. He lived at the Red Lion. Don’t you remember,
Rosalind, the gentleman that mamma wouldn’t let me--”
“Oh, Sophy, be quiet!” cried the girl. What poignant memories awoke with
the words!
“But how strange he looks,” cried Sophy. “His hat down over his eyes,
and I believe he has got a beard or something--”
“You must not run on like that. I dare say it is quite a different
person,” said Aunt Sophy. “What made me notice him is that he has eyes
exactly like little Johnny’s eyes.”
It was one of Aunt Sophy’s weaknesses that she was always finding out
likenesses; but Rosalind’s mind was disturbed by another form of her
original difficulty about the stranger. It might be forgiven him that he
hung about her path, and even followed at a distance; it was excusable
that he should ask if he could help her with the child; but having thus
ventured to accost her, and having established a sort of acquaintance by
being useful to her, why, when their eyes met, did he make no sign of
recognition? No, he could not be a gentleman! Then Rosalind awoke with
horror to find that on the very first day after all the calamities that
had befallen her family she was able to discuss such a question with
herself.