‘The Swinfords come back,’ Lady William said to herself, as she sat on
the little sofa in the twilight by the light of the little fire. She had
been very silent after the Plowdens withdrew, saying little except on
the subject of the frock, which was resumed as soon as these ladies were
gone. And when Mab went out, as she had a way of doing when the light
began to fail, Lady William put the work away, and sat down in the
corner of the sofa, which was the cosiest spot in the little room,
almost out of reach of the draught. This is an extremely difficult thing
to attain in small rooms where the doors and windows are at right
angles, and you never can get far enough off from one of them to avoid
the stream of cold air which pours in under the door, or from the
window, or somewhere else in the sweet uncertainty of cottage
architecture. But that end of the sofa was nearly out of the way from
them all: and there she sat when she did not go out, at that wistful
hour when it is neither night nor day. Lady William was not old enough
to like that wistful hour. She was young enough to prefer taking a run
with Mab, being, though she was Mab’s mother, quite as elastic and
strong, and as fond of fresh air and exercise as she: and she was
philosopher enough to take care not to think more than was absolutely
necessary; for I do not disguise that there were episodes in her past
life which were not pleasant to go back upon, and that the future, when
she gazed into it closely, was too precarious and alarming to inspect.
But to-day Lady William’s mind had been stirred, and so many things had
come up which forced themselves to be remembered that she had no
resource but to allow herself to think. The Swinfords! They were the
great people of the place. Their house was close to Watcham, its gates
opening upon the road a little beyond the village--and they had in her
early days exercised a great influence upon Emily Plowden’s life. A
flood of recollections poured back upon her, a succession of scenes one
after another--scenes in the house, in the park, and in the
conservatory, all about the place. She remembered even the looks of
certain eyes, glances that had been cast at herself, or even at others,
swift changes of aspect, vicissitudes of sun and shade which were more
rapid than the shadows upon the hills. What a thing it is to recollect
over twenty years and more the way one look succeeded another on a face,
perhaps gone into dulness and decay, or perhaps only changed out of
knowledge, but equally separated from us and the scenes in which we
remembered it! Lady William sat and recollected, and saw again the very
light of the days that were past, how it came through a long window and
fell upon--sometimes her own face, which was as changed as any of the
others, sometimes other faces fixed in eager regard upon hers. How
strange to think that she was the girl that stood then on the threshold
of life, so full of many emotions, so easily touched one way or another,
smiles and tears chasing each other over her face. And to think it was
all over, and everything connected with that time was as a dream! She
had met her husband there; a great many things had befallen her there;
and now here was Jane Plowden coming to ask her to call--to call, of all
things in the world, on Mrs. Swinford, as if she were an ordinary
neighbour, as if there was nothing between them that could not be told
over the tea-table among the afternoon visitors! And she had consented
to do it, which was more strange still--half for the wonder of it, half
because now they had come back, she was curious to see how things looked
across the abyss which separated now from then. Oh, as she thought of it
there rose a hundred things she wanted to know! Her busy fancy figured
how the patroness of her youth would look; what she would say; the
questions she would ask. ‘So you have settled in Watcham again--in
Watcham, after all? And you have a little girl? And you never see or
hear of---- Oh, but that is impossible--you must hear of them
constantly, for it is in the papers.’ All these things she heard Mrs.
Swinford say with the little foreign accent which was one of that lady’s
peculiarities. Then Lady William paused with a foreboding and asked
herself whether she could not avoid the meeting--whether she could have
a bad headache, or go off on a visit, or simply sit still and refuse to
move. Alas! going off on a visit is not so easy--you want money for
that, and there was nowhere she could go except for a day or two.
Neither would a bad headache last beyond a day: and as for sitting
still, that would be equally ineffectual, for if she did not go to Mrs.
Swinford, Mrs. Swinford would probably come to her. She considered that
but one of two things could be done--either to go away altogether from
Watcham while the Swinfords remained there, which was, of course,
impossible--or to call with Jane as was proposed to her. She laughed at
this softly, with a little secret fright, yet sense of the ludicrous--to
call with Jane! walking in over the ashes of volcanoes (so to speak),
over the dragons’ teeth that had been sown in their time and produced
such harvests, with that incarnation of the commonplace by her side. No
doubt the ashes would be covered with Persian carpets, and Jane would
think of nothing but the future parties to be given there, and whether
perhaps young Mr. Swinford---- Lady William could not be supposed to be
particularly happy during this review of the things that had been and
the things that would have to be, but she laughed to herself again. That
eternal question could never be left out, she said to herself.
‘What are you laughing at, mother?’ said Mab, as she came in, bringing
with her a rush of cold, and that smell of the fresh air which changes
the whole atmosphere of a little room in a moment. Her whole person was
breathing it out. Her hat, which she took off when she came in, was full
of it, sending the mingled fragrance and chill into every corner of the
tiny little fire-lit room. Lady William shivered a little.
‘You have brought in the draught with you, Mab, like a gale at sea.’
‘I am sorry,’ said the girl, turning back to shut the door. And she came
to the fire and knelt down before it, and repeated, with the pertinacity
of youth, ‘What were you laughing at, mother?’
‘Nothing very much--chiefly at Aunt Jane and this new thing she has got
in her head!’
‘Oh, Aunt Jane,’ said Mab carelessly, as if that was a subject already
exhausted. Then, however, she added, still pertinacious, ‘but what is
the new thing she has got into her head?’
Lady William thought of a certain baby in a book who wanted to see ‘the
wheels go wound,’ and laughed a little once more.
‘How do you know that I can tell you?’ she said.
‘Don’t you tell me everything, mammy?’ said Mab, rubbing her head
against her mother’s arm like an affectionate puppy: and Lady William
stroked her child’s hair, which glistened with a drop or two of cold dew
upon it from the dripping branches outside.
‘You have pretty hair, Mab,’ she said softly, with praise, which was a
caress.
‘Have I? Oh, I don’t think there’s anything pretty about me,’ said the
girl. ‘What a little fool I was not to take after you, mother! It is
you who are the pretty one: and Emmy has the impudence to be a little
like you--Emmy, and not me! But never mind. What has Aunt Jane got in
her head?’
‘The pertinacious child! She has this in her head, that she wants to
drag me to-morrow to go with her and call at the Hall.’
‘Oh, is that all?’ said Mab. She felt that her lively curiosity, which
was a pleasant sensation, had been wasted. But then she added, ‘Is there
anything that makes it of importance that she should call at the Hall?’
How the child swept over the ashes of the volcanoes, raising a little
pungent dust, which got into her mother’s throat: but she laughed a
little, for Aunt Jane was always fair game.
‘Do you remember the Bennets in _Pride and Prejudice_,’ she said, ‘and
the commotion there was when Mr. Bingley first came?’
These ladies were great readers of novels, which held perhaps the first
place among the amusements of their lives: and they were happy enough to
possess an old edition of Miss Austen, which kept them, as much perhaps
from their good luck as from good taste, familiar with all she has added
to our knowledge of life, and fully prepared with an example for most
emergencies that could occur in their little world.
‘Yes,’ said Mab, a little wondering. And then she said, ‘Oh, I see. Aunt
Jane is like Mrs. Bennet, and Emmy--But Emmy is not half so nice as
Jane. And Mr. Bingley is--Oh, I see, I see----’
‘Don’t see too much,’ said Lady William, ‘for it is all in embryo; but I
should not wonder if your aunt were at present in her imagination
arranging Emmy’s trousseau, and thinking over what hymns should be sung
at the wedding. “The voice that breathed o’er Eden” is a little common.
It was sung for Susan Green only last week, who said, “No, my lady; we
ain’t got nothing to do with gardens nor apples, nor folks going about
without no clo’es.”’
It is very probable that this story was told by the artful mother with
the intention of throwing dust in the child’s eyes and leading her away
from a subject on which explanations were difficult; but, if so, she
reckoned without her Mab. The girl owned the fact of the anecdote with a
little laugh just proportioned to the occasion.
‘Is Mr. Swinford quite--young?’ said Mab doubtfully. ‘And then there is
his mother, who lives with him----’
‘Well, yes, I suppose that is the right way of putting the case,’ said
Lady William. ‘He lived with his mother when I knew them--and as for his
age, I remember him a little boy.’
‘Oh,’ said Mab, with partial satisfaction, ‘but you were young yourself
then. I think I saw somebody in the village just now who may have
been--this gentleman. He was in a big coat, all fur, and shiny
shoes--fancy shiny shoes for going through the mud at Watcham! And he
was as old, I should think, as--as old as--Uncle James’s last curate,
the one who was _locum tenens_, and who did not stay--Oh, over thirty at
the least. Now Mr. Bingley cannot have been more than twenty-five. I am
sure he was not more than twenty-five--and I don’t call that very
young.’
‘Leo Swinford must be over thirty, as you say. He was about nine or ten
when I was eighteen--a great difference then, but perhaps, as you say,
not so great a difference now. Who is that, Mab, at the gate?’ It showed
how Lady William had been roused and disturbed by this afternoon’s
intelligence that she should be thus moved by the idea of any one at the
gate.
‘If you please, my lady,’ said Patty, the little maid, putting in her
curly head once more; ‘it’s a gentleman as I never see before. Nayther
the Rector, nor the Curate, nor the General, nor nobody as I know; and
he has got fur round his neck like a female,’ said Patty, with a cough
which covered a laugh. ‘It’s just like the thing as they call a
victorine. I never see it on nobody but a female before.’
‘Let him come in, Patty,’ said Lady William. She gave a swift glance at
the candles on the mantelpiece, and then she decided not to light them.
‘Mab, get up and take a seat like a rational creature. You will soon
have your curiosity satisfied, it appears.’
She said to herself that she did not care for Leo Swinford, not a bit!
It was his mother, not he, who had affected her former life. He had been
a boy, and now he would be a man, just like the others. It showed that
they meant to be civil that she should send him so soon. This was the
only point of view in which Lady William regarded the visit; but that
was the point of view which affected her mind most. She cared no more
for Leo Swinford in himself than for any curate in the diocese--which
was almost the only other specimen of young man which she was likely to
see. She drew back into her corner, which was so near the fire that it
was deep in shade, the reflection going quickly through her mind that
_her_ first question would be, How does she look? is she much altered?
does she look old? That was what his mother would want to know. But she
should be baulked in that desire at least. The firelight flickered
about, making a pleasant ruddy half-light in the little room. It danced
about Mab, coming and going, giving a note of colour to her light hair,
and showing the round youthful curve of her cheeks without any
insistence upon the overfulness of her chubby, childish figure. It was
very favourable to the child, this ruddy, picturesque, uncertain light.
These thoughts flashed through Lady William’s mind in the moment that
elapsed before Patty threw open the door again, and with a loud voice
announcing, ‘The gentleman, my lydy,’ shut it again smartly upon herself
and the sudden chilly draught from outside. And then the scene changed,
and the principal figure became, not Lady William and her thoughts any
longer, but a solid shadow in the midst of the firelight, a man,
unaccustomed intruder here, bringing with him a faint odour of cigars,
and that sort of contradictory atmosphere which comes into a feminine
household with the very breath of an unknown being of this unhabitual
kind. It was an embarrassing position for a stranger; at least, it would
have been an embarrassing position for most men. But Leo Swinford was
not one of those who allow themselves to be affected by circumstances.
He made a bow vaguely directed towards the corner, drawing his heels
together after the manner of France, and then spoke in the easiest tone,
though his words expressed the embarrassment which he did not at all
feel.
‘I am under a double disadvantage,’ he said, ‘and how am I to come out
of it? I came prepared to say that I feared you would not remember me,
and now you cannot even see me. Never mind. I am Leo Swinford, and you
cannot have forgotten altogether that name.’
‘No,’ said Lady William. She held out to him from the shade a hand which
looked very white in the ruddy light. ‘I heard this afternoon that you
had come home,’ she said, ‘and your name was on our lips.’
‘What a good thing for me,’ he said, ‘save that it does not at all test
your recollection, which I had pleased myself with thoughts of trying.
But it is all the same. Do not send for lights, and as you cannot see
me, next time we meet I can put my question with equal force.’
‘I see you very well,’ said Lady William, ‘and I should not have known
you. How could I? You were a child, and now you are a man. And I was a
girl, and now I am an old woman. Your mother will see innumerable
changes. How is she? It was kind of her to send you to see me so soon.’
‘Ah!’ said the visitor, ‘I said I was at a double disadvantage, but it
seems there are more. She did not send me to see you, dear lady. I came
on my proper feet, and by my proper will. Mamma is not changed, but she
no longer sends little Leo on her errands. He has certain instincts of
his own.’
‘Well, then, it was a kind instinct that brought you here,’ said Lady
William.
‘I am not so sure of that--an instinct very kind to myself: I foresee
little pleasure in the society of home, you will not be offended if I
say so. But there was one quarter in which I knew I could indemnify
myself, so long as you permit it, madame.’
He spoke very much like a Frenchman throughout, Mab thought, who sat
breathlessly looking on, rather hostile but exceedingly curious,
thinking it was as good as a play; but the ‘madame’ was altogether
French, not that harsh ‘madam’ of the English, which comes at you like a
stone, and which may mean more animosity than respect.
‘We have not, indeed, much variety here,’ said Lady William; ‘you will
soon exhaust our little resources. But then we are not very far from
town, and I advise you to keep the house full. After Paris, Watcham! It
is perhaps rather too much of a difference, unless you have a very
strong head.’
‘My head is indifferent strong. I can stand a good deal in the way of
change, from ten degrees below zero to twenty over it. Ah! I forgot you
go by that other impossible standard of Fahrenheit here. You have not
presented me to the young lady whom I see by glimpses, as if we were all
in a fairy tale.’
‘My daughter, Mab; and, as you have already divined Mab, the gentleman
whom we were talking of, and who remains in my mind ten years old, in a
velvet suit, with lace, and, I believe, curls----’
He waved his hand. ‘Spare me the curls, they were the _supplice_ of my
early days. Picture to yourself, Miss Mab--Mab! how curious to put Miss
before that name! One might as well say Miss Titania.’
‘One does sometimes in this day of fantastic names. There are Miss Enids
and Miss Imogenes.’
‘I was saying, picture to yourself a very plain little boy, with very
common hair, exactly like every other little boy’s, only worse--in long
curls upon his wretched shoulders! they made my life a burden to me.
Mamma is a most interesting woman--not at all like other people--I am
exceptionally happy in having had such a companion for my life--but so
long as I was a child there were drawbacks. By degrees things right
themselves,’ he added after a brief dramatic pause. ‘I have no longer
curls, nor am I sent to call, and we have solved the problem of having
two independent rulers in one house.’
There was another pause, which Lady William did not herself wish to
break. Perhaps his voice, the atmosphere about him, produced
recollections that were too strong for her: or perhaps Leo Swinford by
himself did not interest Lady William. It was Mab who blurted forth
suddenly, with a juvenile instinct of relieving the tension of the
silence, a piece of information.
‘I saw you just now in the village, Mr. Swinford. I wondered if it was
you. We don’t see many strangers in the village--at least at this time
of the year. I said to myself: unless it is some one from the Hall, I
don’t know who it can be.’
‘Some one from the Hall is very vague, Miss Mab--Queen Mab, if I may say
so. I hope you had heard of me, myself, an individual, before that vague
conjecture arose.’
‘No, I can’t say I had,’ said Mab bluntly. ‘Mother said something to-day
to Aunt Jane about Leo wanting a wife; but then, you see, I didn’t know
who Leo was.’
‘If that is the only attitude in which I am to be presented to my new
world! but I don’t want a wife,’ he added plaintively, addressing
himself to the dark corner in which Lady William was seated. ‘However, I
am Leo,’ he added, turning to the girl again with such a bow as Mab had
never seen before.