“Une femme egoiste, non seulement de coeur, mais d’esprit, ne pent
pas sortir d’elle-meme. Le moi est indelible chez elle. Une veritable
egoiste ne sait meme pas etre fausse.”
—MME. E. DE GIRARDIN.
“I am come to prepare you,” said Lady Keith, putting her arm into her
brother’s, and leading him into the peacock path. “Mrs. Huntsford is on
her way to call and make a dead set to get you all to a garden party.”
“Then we are off to the Earlsworthy Woods.”
“Nay, listen, Alick. I have let you alone and defended you for a whole
month, but if you persist in shutting up you wife, people won’t stand
it.”
“Which of us is the Mahometan?”
“You are pitied! But you see it was a strong thing our appearing without
our several incumbrances, and though an old married woman like me may
do as she pleases, yet for a bridegroom of not three weeks’ standing to
resort to bazaars solus argues some weighty cause.”
“And argues rightly.”
“Then you are content to be supposed to have an unproduceably eccentric
melancholy bride?”
“Better they should think so than that she should be so. She has been
victimized enough already to her mother’s desire to save appearances.”
“You do not half believe me, Alick, and this is really a very kind,
thoughtful arrangement of Mrs. Huntsford’s. She consulted me, saying
there were such odd stories about you two that she was most anxious
that Rachel should appear and confute them; and she thought that an
out-of-door party like this would suit best, because it would be early,
and Rachel could get away if she found it too much for her.”
“After being walked out to satisfy a curious neighbourhood.”
“Now Alick, do consider it. This sort of thing could remind her of
nothing painful; Uncle George would enjoy it.”
“And fall over the croquet traps.”
“No; if you wanted to attend to him, I could take care of Rachel.”
“I cannot tell, Bessie, I believe it is pure goodnature on Mrs.
Huntsford’s part, but if we go, it must be from Rachel’s spontaneous
movement. I will not press her on any account. I had rather the world
said she was crazy at once than expose her to the risk of one of the
dreadful nights that haunted us till we came here to perfect quiet.”
“But she is well now. She looks better and nicer than I ever saw her.
Really, Alick, now her face is softer, and her eyes more veiled, and her
chin not cocked up, I am quite proud of her. Every one will be struck
with her good looks.”
“Flattery, Bessie,” he said, not ill pleased. “Yes, she is much better,
and more like herself; but I dread all this being overthrown. If she
herself wishes to go, it may be a good beginning, but she must not be
persuaded.”
“Then I must not even tell her that she won’t be required to croquet,
and that I’ll guard her from all civil speeches.”
“No, for indeed, Bessie, on your own account and Lord Keith’s, you
should hardly spend a long afternoon from home.”
“Here’s the war in the enemy’s quarters! As to fatigue, dawdling about
Mrs. Huntsford’s garden, is much the same as dawdling about my own, and
makes me far more entertaining.”
“I cannot help thinking, Bessie, that Lord Keith is more ill than you
suppose. I am sure he is in constant pain.”
“So I fear,” said Bessie, gravely; “but what can be done? He will see no
one but his old surgeon in Edinburgh.”
“Then take him there.”
“Take him? You must know what it is to be in the hands of a clever woman
before you make such a proposal.”
“You are a cleverer woman than my wife in bringing about what you really
wish.”
“Just consider, Alick, our own house is uninhabitable, and this one on
our hands—my aunt coming to me in a month’s time. You don’t ask me to
do what is reasonable.”
“I cannot tell, Bessie. You can be the only judge of what is regard of
the right kind for your husband’s health or for yourself; and see, there
is Mrs. Huntsford actually arrived, and talking to my uncle.”
“One moment, Alick: I am not going to insult myself so far as to suppose
that poor Charlie Carleton’s being at home has anything to do with your
desire to deport me, but I want you to know that he did not come home
till after we were settled here.”
“I do not wish to enter into details, Bessie,” and he crossed the lawn
towards the window where Mr. Clare and Rachel had just received Mrs.
Huntsford, a goodnatured joyous-looking lady, a favourite with every
one. Her invitation was dexterously given to meet a few friends at
luncheon, and in the garden, where the guests would be free to come and
go; there might perhaps be a little dancing later, she had secured some
good music which would, she knew, attract Mr. Clare, and she hoped he
would bring Captain and Mrs. Keith. She knew Mrs. Keith had not been
well, but she promised her a quiet room to rest in, and she wanted
to show her a view of the Devon coast done by a notable artist in
water-colours. Rachel readily accepted—in fact, this quiet month had
been so full of restoration that she had almost forgotten her morbid
shrinking from visitors; and Bessie infused into her praise and
congratulations a hint that a refusal would have been much against
Alick’s reputation, so that she resolved to keep up to the mark, even
though he took care that she should know that she might yet retract.
“You did not wish me to refuse, Alick,” said she, struck by his grave
countenance, when she found him lying on the slope of the lawn shortly
after, in deep thought.
“No, not at all,” he replied; “it is likely to be a pleasant affair, and
my uncle will be delighted to have us with him. No,” he added, seeing
that she still looked at him inquisitively, “it is the old story. My
sister! Poor little thing! I always feel as though I wore more unkind
and unjust to her than any one else, and yet we are never together
without my feeling as if she was deceiving herself and me; and yet it
is all so fair and well reasoned that one is always left in the wrong.
I regretted this marriage extremely at first, and I am not the less
disposed to regret it now.”
“Indeed! Every one says how attentive she is to him, and how nicely they
go on together.”
“Pshaw, Rachel! that is just the way. A few words and pretty ways pass
with her and all the world for attention, when she is wherever her fancy
calls her, all for his good. It is just the attention she showed my
uncle. And now it is her will and pleasure to queen it here among her
old friends, and she will not open her eyes to see the poor old man’s
precarious state.”
“Do you think him so very ill, Alick?”
“I was shocked when I saw him yesterday. As to sciatica, that is all
nonsense; the blow in his side has done some serious damage, and if it
is not well looked-to, who knows what will be the end of it! And then, a
gay young widow with no control over her—I hate to think of it.”
“Indeed,” said Rachel, “she is so warm and bright, and really earnest in
her kindness, that she will be sure to see her own way right at home. I
don’t think we can guess how obstinate Lord Keith may be in refusing to
take advice.”
“He cut me off pretty short,” said Alick. “I am afraid he will see no
one here; and, as Bessie says, the move to Scotland would not be easy
just now. As I said, she leaves one in the wrong, and I don’t like the
future. But it is of no use to talk of it; so let us come and see if my
uncle wants to go anywhere.”
It was Alick’s fate never to meet with sympathy in his feeling of his
sister’s double-mindedness. Whether it were that he was mistaken, or
that she really had the gift of sincerity for the moment in whatever
she was saying, the most candid and transparent people in the
world—his uncle and his wife—never even succeeded in understanding his
dissatisfaction with Bessie’s doings, but always received them at
her own valuation. Even while he had been looking forward, with hope
deferred, to her residence with him as the greatest solace the world
could yet afford him, Mr. Clare had always been convinced that her
constant absence from his Rectory, except when his grand neighbours
were at home, had been unavoidable, and had always credited the outward
tokens of zealous devotion to his church and parish, and to all that was
useful or good elsewhere. In effect there was a charm about her which no
one but her brother ever resisted, and even he held out by an exertion
that made him often appear ungracious.
However, for the present the uneasiness was set aside, in the daily
avocations of the Rectory, where Alick was always a very different
person from what he appeared in Lady Temple’s drawing-room, constantly
engaged as he was by unobtrusive watchfulness over his uncle, and active
and alert in this service in a manner that was a curious contrast to his
ordinary sauntering ways. As to Rachel, the whole state of existence
was still a happy dream. She floated on from day to day in the tranquil
activity of the Rectory, without daring to look back on the past or to
think out her present frame of mind; it was only the languor and rest
of recovery after suffering, and her husband was heedfully watching her,
fearing the experiment of the croquet party, though on many accounts
feeling the necessity of its being made.
Ermine’s hint, that with Rachel it rested to prevent her unpopularity
from injuring her husband, had not been thrown away, and she never
manifested any shrinking from the party, and even took some interest in
arraying herself for it.
“That is what I call well turned out,” exclaimed Alick, when she came
down.
“Describe her dress, if you please,” said Mr. Clare, “I like to hear how
my nieces look.”
Alick guided his hand. “There, stroke it down, a long white feather in
a shady hat trimmed with dark green, velvet; she is fresh and rosy,
you know, sir, and looks well in green, and then, is it Grace’s taste,
Rachel? for it is the prettiest thing you have worn—a pale buff sort of
silky thing, embroidered all over in the same colour,” and he put a fold
of the dress into his uncle’s hand.
“Indian, surely,” said Mr. Clare, feeling the pattern, “it is too
intricate and graceful for the West.”
“Yes,” said Alick, “I remember now, Grace showed it to me. It was one
that Lady Temple brought from India, and never had made up. Poor Grace
could get no sympathy from Rachel about the wedding clothes, so she was
obliged to come to me.”
“And I thought you did not know one of my things from another,” said
Rachel. “Do you really mean that you care?”
“Depend upon it, he does, my dear,” said Mr. Clare. “I have heard him
severely critical on his cousins.”
“He has been very good in not tormenting me,” said Rachel, nestling
nearer to him.
“I apprehended the consequences,” said Alick, “and besides, you never
mounted that black lace pall, or curtain, or whatever you call it, upon
your head, after your first attempt at frightening me away with it.”
“A cap set against, instead of at,” said Mr. Clare, laughing; and
therewith his old horse was heard clattering in the yard, and Alick
proceeded to drive the well-used phaeton about three miles through
Earlsworthy Park, to a pleasant-looking demesne in the village beyond.
As they were turning in at the gate, up came Lady Keith with her two
brisk little Shetlands. She was one mass of pretty, fresh, fluttering
blue and white muslin, ribbon, and lace, and looked particularly well
and brilliant.
“Well met,” she said, “I called at the Rectory to take up Rachel, but
you were flown before me.”
“Yes, we went through the Park.”
“I wish the Duke would come home. I can’t go that way now till I have
called. I have no end of things to say to you,” she added, and her
little lively ponies shot ahead of the old rectorial steed. However, she
waited at the entrance. “Who do you think is come? Colin Keith made
his appearance this morning. He has safely captured his Ouralian bear,
though not without plenty of trouble, and he could not get him on
to Avonmouth till he had been to some chemical institution about an
invention. Colin thought him safe there, and rushed down by the train to
see us. They go on to-morrow.”
“What did he think of Lord Keith?” said Alick, in the more haste because
he feared something being said to remind Rachel that this was the assize
week at Avoncester.
“He has settled the matter about advice,” said Bessie, seriously; “you
cannot think what a relief it is. I mean, as soon as I get home, to
write and ask Mr. Harvey to come and talk to me to-morrow, and see if
the journey to Edinburgh is practicable. I almost thought of sending an
apology, and driving over to consult him this afternoon, but I did
not like to disappoint Mrs. Huntsford, and I thought Rachel would feel
herself lost.”
“Thank you,” said Rachel, “but could we not go away early, and go round
by Mr. Harvey’s?”
“Unluckily I have sent the ponies home, and told the close carriage to
come for me at nine. It was all settled, and I don’t want to alarm Lord
Keith by coming home too soon.”
Alick, who had hitherto listened with interest, here gave his arm to
Rachel, as if recollecting that it was time to make their entree. Bessie
took her uncle’s, and they were soon warmly welcomed by their kind
hostess, who placed them so favourably at luncheon that Rachel was too
much entertained to feel any recurrence of the old associations with
“company.” Afterwards, Bessie took her into the cool drawing-room, where
were a few ladies, who preferred the sofa to croquet or archery, and
Lady Keith accomplished a fraternization between Rachel and a plainly
dressed lady, who knew all about the social science heroines of whom
Rachel had longed to hear. After a time, however, a little girl darted
in to call “Aunt Mary” to the aid of some playfellow, who had met with
a mishap, and Rachel then perceived herself to have been deserted by
her sister-in-law. She knew none of the other ladies, and they made no
approaches to her; an access of self-consciousness came on, and feeling
forlorn and uncomfortable, she wandered out to look for a friend.
It was not long before she saw Alick walking along the terrace above
the croquet players, evidently in quest of her. “How is it with you?” he
anxiously asked; “you know you can go home in a moment if you have had
enough of this.”
“No, I want nothing, now I have found you. Where is your uncle?”
“Fallen upon one of his oldest friends, who will take care of him, and
well out of the way of the croquet traps. Where’s my Lady? I thought you
were with her.”
“She disappeared while I was talking to that good Miss Penwell! You must
be pleased now, Alick, you see she is really going to see about going to
Scotland.”
“I should be better pleased if she had not left that poor old man alone
till nine o’clock.”
“She says that when he has his man Saunders to read to him—”
“Don’t tell me what she says; I have enough of that at first hand.”
He broke off with a start. The terrace was prolonged into a walk beyond
the screen of evergreens that shut in the main lawn, and, becoming a
shrubbery path, led to a smooth glade, on whose turf preparations had
been made for a second field of croquet, in case there should have been
too many players for the principal arena. This, however, had not been
wanted, and no one was visible except a lady and gentleman on a seat
under a tree about half-way down on the opposite side of the glade.
The lady was in blue and white; the gentleman would hardly have been
recognised by Rachel but for the start and thrill of her husband’s arm,
and the flush of colour on his usually pale cheek, but, ere he could
speak or move, the lady sprang up, and came hastening towards them
diagonally across the grass. Rachel saw the danger, and made a warning
outcry, “Bessie, the hoop!” but it was too late, she had tripped over
it, and fell prone, and entirely unable to save herself. She was
much nearer to them than to her late companion, and was struggling to
disengage herself when Alick reached her, lifted her up, and placed her
on her feet, supporting her as she clung fast to him, while he asked if
she were hurt.
“No, no,” she cried. “Don’t let him come; don’t let him call any one,
don’t,” she reiterated, as Mr. Carleton hovered near, evidently much
terrified, but not venturing to approach.
Alick helped her to another garden chair that stood near. She had been
entangled in her dress, which had been much torn by her attempt to rise,
and hung in a festoon, impeding her, and she moved with difficulty,
breathing heavily when she was first seated.
“I don’t know if I have not twisted myself a little,” she said, in
answer to their anxious questions, “but it will go off. Rachel, how
scared you look!”
“Don’t laugh,” exclaimed Rachel, in dread of hysterics, and she plunged
her hand into Alick’s pocket for a scent-bottle, which he had put there
by way of precaution for her, and, while applying it, said, in her full,
sedate voice, keeping it as steady as she could, “Shall I drive you
home? Alick can walk home with his uncle when he is ready.”
“Home! Thank you, Rachel, pray do. Not that I am hurt,” she added in her
natural voice, “only these rags would tell tales, and there would be an
intolerable fuss.”
“Then I will bring the carriage round to the road there,” said Alick. “I
told Joe to be in readiness, and you need not go back to the house.”
“Thank you. But, oh, send him away!” she added, with a gasping shudder.
“Only don’t let him tell any one. Tell him I desire he will not.”
After a few words with Mr. Carleton, Alick strode off to the stables,
and Rachel asked anxiously after the twist.
“I don’t feel it; I don’t believe in it. My dear, your strong mind is
all humbug, or you would not look so frightened,” and again she was
on the verge of hysterical laughing; “it is only that I can’t stand a
chorus of old ladies in commotion. How happy Alick must be to have
his prediction verified by some one tumbling over a hoop!” Just then,
however, seeing Mr. Carleton still lingering near, she caught hold of
Rachel with a little cry, “Don’t let him come, dear Rachel; go to him,
tell him I am well, but keep him away, and mind he tells no one!”
Rachel’s cold, repellent manner was in full force, and she went towards
the poor little man, whose girlish face was blanched with fright.
She told him that Lady Keith did not seem to be hurt, and only wished
to be alone, and to go home without attracting notice. He stammered
out something about quite understanding, and retreated, while Rachel
returned to find Bessie sitting upright, anxiously watching, and she
was at once drawn down to sit beside her on the bench, to listen to the
excited whisper. “The miserable simpleton! Rachel, Alick was right. I
thought, I little thought he would forget how things stand now, but
he got back to the old strain, as if—I shall make Lord Keith go to
Scotland any way now. I was so thankful to see you and Alick.” She
proceeded with the agitated vehemence of one who, under a great shock,
was saying more than she would have betrayed in a cooler and more
guarded mood, “What could possess him? For years he had followed me
about like a little dog, and never said more than I let him; and now
what folly was in his head, just because I could not walk as far as the
ruin with the others. When I said I was going to Scotland, what business
had he to—Oh! the others will be coming back, Rachel, could we not go
to meet the carriage?”
The attempt to move, however, brought back the feeling of the strain of
which she had complained, but she would not give way, and by the help
of Rachel’s arm, proceeded across the grass to the carriage-drive,
where Alick was to meet them. It seemed very far and very hot, and her
alternately excited and shame-stricken manner, and sobbing breath,
much alarmed Rachel; but when Alick met them, all this seemed to pass
away—she controlled herself entirely, declaring herself unhurt, and
giving him cheerful messages and excuses for her hostess. Alick put the
reins into Rachel’s hands, and, after watching her drive off, returned
to the party, and delivered the apologies of the ladies; then went in
search of his uncle. He did not, however, find him quickly, and then he
was so happy with his old friend among a cluster of merry young people,
that Alick would not say a word to hasten him home, especially as
Rachel would have driven Bessie to Timber End, so that it would only be
returning to an empty house. And such was Mr. Clare’s sociableness and
disability of detaching himself from pleasant conversation, that the
uncle and nephew scarcely started for their walk across the park in time
for the seven o’clock service. Mr. Clare had never been so completely
belated, and, as Alick’s assistance was necessary, he could only augur
from his wife’s absence that she was still at Timber End with his
sister.