Mrs. Lennox’s cure went on through the greater part of the month of
September, and the friendship that had been begun so successfully grew
into intimacy perhaps in a shorter time than would have been credible
had the conditions of life been less easy. In the space of two or three
days Mr. Everard had become almost a member of Mrs. Lennox’s party. He
dined with them two evenings out of three. He walked by the elder lady’s
chair when she went to her bath, he was always ready to give her his arm
when she wished it, to help her to her favorite seat in the garden, to
choose a place for her from which she could most comfortably hear the
music. All these services to herself Aunt Sophy was quite aware were the
price the young man paid for permission to approach Rosalind, to admire
and address her, to form part of her surroundings, and by degrees to
become her almost constant companion. Mrs. Lennox agreed with Mr.
Ruskin that this sort of apprenticeship in love was right and natural.
If in spite of all these privileges he failed to please, she would have
been sorry for him indeed, but would not have felt that he had any right
to complain. It was giving him his chance like another; and she was of
opinion that a lover or two on hand was a cheerful thing for a house. In
the days of Messrs. Hamerton and Rivers the effect had been very good,
and she had liked these unwearied attendants, these unpaid officers of
the household, who were always ready to get anything or do anything that
might happen to be wanted. It was lonely to be without one of those
hangers-on, and she accepted with a kind of mild enthusiasm the young
man who had begun his probation by so striking an exhibition of his
fitness for the post. It may be objected that her ready reception of a
stranger without any introduction or guarantee of his position was
imprudent in the extreme, for who could undertake that Rosalind might
not accept this suitor with more ready sympathy than she had shown for
the others? And there can be no doubt that this was the case; but as a
matter of fact Mrs. Lennox was not prudent, and it was scarcely to be
expected that she should exercise a virtue unfamiliar to her in respect
to the young man who had, as she loved to repeat, saved the lives of the
children. He was one of the Essex Everards, she made no doubt. She had
always forgotten to ask him, and as, she said, they had never got upon
the subject of his family, he had said nothing to her about them. But
there was nothing wonderful in that. It is always pleasant when a young
man does talk about his people, and lets you know how many brothers and
sisters he has, and all the family history, but a great many young men
don’t do so, and there was nothing at all wonderful about it in this
case. A young man who is at Aix for the baths, who has been at most
places where the travelling English go, who can talk like other people
about Rome and Florence, not to speak of a great many out-of-the-way
regions--it would be ridiculous to suppose that he was not “of our own
class.” Even Aunt Sophy’s not very fastidious taste detected a few wants
about him. He was not quite perfect in all points in his manners; he
hesitated when a man in society would not have hesitated. He had not
been at any university, nor even at a public school. All these things,
however, Mrs. Lennox accounted for easily--when she took the trouble to
think of them at all--by the supposition that he had been brought up at
home, most likely in the country. “Depend upon it, he is an only child,”
she said to Rosalind, “and he has been delicate--one can see that he is
delicate still--and they have brought him up at home. Well, perhaps it
is wrong--at least, all the gentlemen say so; but if I had an only child
I think I should very likely do the same, and I am sure I feel very much
for his poor mother. Why? Oh, because I don’t think he is strong,
Rosalind. He colors like a girl when he makes any little mistake. He is
not one of your bold young men that have a way of carrying off
everything. He does make little mistakes, but then that is one of the
things that is sure to happen when you bring boys up at home.”
Rosalind, who became more and more inclined as the days went on to take
the best view of young Everard’s deficiencies, accepted very kindly this
explanation. It silenced finally, she believed, that chill and horrible
doubt, that question which she had put to herself broadly when she saw
him first, which she did not even insinuate consciously now, but which
haunted her, do what she would. Was he, perhaps, not exactly a
gentleman? No, she did not ask that now. No doubt Aunt Sophy (who
sometimes hit upon the right explanation, though she could not be called
clever) was right, and the secret of the whole matter was that he had
been brought up at home. There could be no doubt that the deficiencies
which had at first suggested this most awful of all questions became
rather interesting than otherwise when you came to know him better. They
were what might be called ignorances, self-distrusts, an unassured
condition of mind, rather than deficiencies; and his blush over his
“little mistakes,” as Mrs. Lennox called them, and the half-uttered
apology and the deprecatory look, took away from a benevolent observer
all inclination towards unkindly criticism. Mrs. Lennox, who soon became
“quite fond of” the young stranger, told him frankly when he did
anything contrary to the code of society, and he took such rebukes in
the very best spirit, but was unfortunately apt to forget and fall into
the same blunder again. There were some of these mistakes which kept the
ladies in amusement, and some which made Rosalind, as she became more
and more “interested,” blush with hot shame--a far more serious feeling
than that which made the young offender blush. For instance, when he
found her sketch-book one morning, young Everard fell into ecstasies
over the sketch Rosalind had been making of the lake on that eventful
afternoon which had begun their intercourse. It was a very bad sketch,
and Rosalind knew it. That golden sheet of water, full of light, full of
reflections, with the sun blazing upon it, and the hills rising up on
every side, and the sky looking down into its depths, had become a piece
of yellow mud with daubs of blue and brown here and there, and the reeds
in the foreground looked as if they had been cut out of paper and pasted
on. “Don’t look at it. I can’t do very much, but yet I can do better
than that,” she had said, finding him in rapt contemplation of her
unsatisfactory performance, and putting out her hand to close the book.
He looked up at her, for he was seated by the table, hanging over the
sketch with rapture, with the most eager deprecation.
“I think it is lovely,” he said; “don’t try to take away my enjoyment. I
wonder how any one can turn a mere piece of paper into a picture!”
“You are laughing at me,” said Rosalind, with a little offence.
“I--laughing! I would as soon laugh in church. I think it is beautiful.
I can’t imagine how you do it. Why, there are the reflections in the
water just as you see them. I never thought before that it was so
pretty.”
“Oh!” Rosalind cried, drawing a long breath. It hurt her that he should
say so, and it hurt still more to think that he was endeavoring to
please her by saying so. “I am sure it is your kindness that makes you
praise it; but, Mr. Everard, you must know that I am not quite ignorant.
When you say such things of this daub it sounds like contempt--as if you
thought I did not know better.”
“But suppose I don’t know any better?” he said, looking up at her with
lustrous eyes full of humility, without even his usual self-disgust at
having said something wrong. “Indeed, you must believe me, I don’t. It
is quite true. Is it a fault, Miss Trevanion, when one does not know?”
What could Rosalind say? She stood with her hand put out towards the
book, looking down upon the most expressive countenance, a face which of
itself was a model for a painter. There was very little difference
between them in age, perhaps a year or so to his advantage, not more;
and something of the freemasonry of youth was between them, besides the
more delicate link of sentiment. Yes, she said to herself, it was a
fault. A man, a gentleman, should not be so ignorant. Something must be
wrong before such ignorance could be. But how say this or anything like
it to her companion, who threw himself so entirely upon her mercy? She
closed the book that had been open before him and drew it hastily away.
“I am afraid,” she said, “your eye is not good; of course it is no fault
except to think that _I_ could be so silly, that I could accept praise
which I don’t deserve.”
“Ah!” he said, “I see what you mean. You despise me for my ignorance,
and it is true I am quite ignorant; but then how could I help it? I have
never been taught.”
“Oh!” cried Rosalind again, thinking the apology worse than the fault,
bad as that was. “But you have seen pictures--you have been in the
galleries?”
“Without any instruction,” he said. “I do admire _that_, but I don’t
care for the galleries. Oh, but I never say so except to you.”
She was silent in the dreadful situation in which she found herself. She
did not know how to behave, such unutterable want of perception had
never come in her way before.
“Then I suppose,” she said, with awful calm, “the chromo-lithographs,
those are what you like? Mine is something like them, that is why you
approve of it, I suppose?”
“I like it,” he said simply, “because you were doing it that day, and
because that is where I saw you sitting when everything happened. And
because the lake and the mountains and the sky all seem yours to me
now.”
This speech was of a character very difficult to ignore and pass over as
if it meant nothing. But Rosalind had now some experience, and was not
unused to such situations. She said hurriedly, “I see--it is the
association that interests you. I remember a very great person, a great
author, saying something like that. He said it was the story of the
pictures he liked, and when that pleased him he did not think so much
about the execution. If he had not been a great person he would not have
dared to say it. An artist, a true artist, would shiver to hear such a
thing. But that explains why you like my daub. It is better than if you
really thought it itself worthy of praise.”
“But I--” here young Everard paused; he saw by her eyes that he must not
go any further, there was a little kindling of indignation in them.
Where had he been all his life that he did not know any better than
that? Had he gone on, Rosalind might not have been able to contain
herself, and there were premonitory symptoms in the air.
“I wish,” he said, “that you would tell me what is nice and what isn’t.”
“Nice! Oh, Mr, Everard!” Rosalind breathed out with a shudder. “Perhaps
you would call Michael Angelo nice,” she added, with a laugh.
“It is very likely that I might; you must forgive me. I have a relation
who laughs at me in the same way, but how can one know if one has never
been taught?”
“One is never taught such things,” it was on Rosalind’s lips to say, but
with an impatient sigh she forbore. Afterwards, when she began to
question herself on the subject, Rosalind took some comfort from the
thought that Roland Hamerton knew almost as little about art as it is
possible for a well-bred young Englishman to know. Ah! but that made all
the difference. He knew enough to have thought her sketch a dreadful
production; he knew enough to abhor the style of the chromo-lithograph.
Even a man who has been brought up at home must have seen the pictures
on his own walls. This thought cast her down again, but she began after
this to break up into small morsels adapted to her companion’s
comprehension the simplest principles of art, and to give him little
hints about the fundamental matters which are part of a gentleman’s
education in this respect, and even to indicate to him what terms are
commonly used. He was very quick; he did not laugh out at her efforts as
Roland would have done; he picked up the hints and adopted every
suggestion--all which compliances pleased Rosalind in a certain sense,
yet in another wrapped her soul in trouble, reviving again and again
that most dreadful of all possible doubts, just when she thought that it
had been safely laid to rest.
And yet all the while this daily companion made his way into something
which, if not the heart, was dangerously near it, a sort of vestibule of
the heart, where those who enter may hope to go further with good luck.
He was ignorant in many ways. He did not know much more of books than of
pictures--sometimes he expressed an opinion which took away her
breath--and he was always on the watch for indications how far he might
go; a sort of vigilance which was highly uncomfortable, and suggested
some purpose on his part, some pursuit which was of more consequence to
him than his natural opinions or traditions, all of which he seemed
ready to sacrifice at a word. Rosalind was used to the ease of society,
an ease, perhaps, more apparent than real, and this eagerness
disconcerted her greatly. It was true that it might bear a flattering
interpretation, if it was to recommend himself to her that he was ready
to make all these sacrifices, to change even his opinions, to give up
everything that could displease her. If all expedients are fair in love,
is it not justifiable to watch that no word may offend, to express no
liking unless it is sure to be in harmony with the tastes of the object
loved, to be always on the alert and never to forget the purpose aimed
at? This question might, perhaps, by impartial persons, be considered
open to a doubt, but when one is one’s self the object of such profound
homage it is natural that the judgment should be slightly biassed. And
there was a certain personal charm about him notwithstanding all his
deficiencies. It was difficult for a girl not to be touched by the
devotion which shone upon her from such a pair of wonderful eyes.