It is almost needless to say that the Rector left his sister in a state
of mind in which exasperation healthily and beneficially contended with
despair. She might have been crushed altogether by his discovery; but he
had managed to mingle with that so many other sentiments that Lady
William felt herself no broken-down and miserable woman, but a creature
all full of fight and resistance--tingling, indeed, with pain, and
scorched with a fire of injury, feeling insulted and outraged to the
depths of her being, but all the same full of angry strength and force,
determined that nothing as yet was lost, and that sooner than yield
herself to the tolerance of her sister-in-law and indulgent
interpretations of her friends, who would pity and assure each other
that whatever dreadful thing had really happened, poor Emily, a mere
child at the time, was innocent--there was nothing she was not capable
of doing. To change from Lady William--in a sort, the head of the little
community--to poor Emily, was a thought which fired her blood. For that,
as well as for her child, the small motive thrusting in in the immediate
present into the foreground--there was nothing she would not do. To find
Artémise was a trifle to her roused and indignant soul. If she went out
herself on foot with a lanthorn, she said to herself with a vehemence
which soon turned into an angry laugh, she would find her. The lanthorn
and the search on foot turned it all into stormy ridicule, as the
Rector’s suggestion that the little, dingy, dark private chapel had been
burned and the books destroyed as a natural consequence of her folly in
being married there, had done. Lady William felt the laughter burst out
in the middle of the bitter pain. For the pain was bitter enough down in
the breast from which that stormy humour burst, so sharp that she could
not sit still, but went raging about like--as she said to herself--a
wild beast, pushing the crowded furniture aside, holding her hands
together as if to keep down the anguish by physical torture. A
thumbscrew or a deadly boot to crush her flesh would have been something
of a relief to her in the active anguish of her soul. Mab to hear that
her mother was---- Oh no; never that her mother was---- but only that
there was a doubt, a horrible peradventure, a failure of proof.
Lady William paused in her movement to and fro and tried to look at it
for a moment through Mab’s eyes. That is often a very good thing to do,
but a difficult. We forget nature when the question is one so
all-important as this, what a child will think of its mother. Often we
believe in an opinion too favourable, without inquiry, forgetting what a
formidable criticism is that which our children make of us from their
cradles, learning our habitual ways so much better than we know them
ourselves. But there are some ways in which the natural judgment of
candid and clear-sighted youth may give any who is unjustly accused
comfort. In the light of Mab’s eyes (though they were neither bright nor
beautiful) Lady William felt for a moment that her trouble melted away.
Mab might not see the fun--that she should see fun at such a crisis of
her life!--of James’s suggestion of the connection between the burning
of the church and the folly of the marriage: but she would be utterly
stolid like a block of stone to any idea of shame. No one could cast
suspicion upon her mother’s honour to Mab. Lady William thought she
could see the girl’s look of utter disdain on any one who could suggest
such a suspicion even by a glance. There was once a lady known to fame
who, moved by a hot fit of jealous pain and misery, left the house in
which she was being entertained, and walked home alone at night up the
long length of Piccadilly. A man who met her, moved, I suppose, by her
solitude and the unusual sight, followed, and at last addressed her.
When her attention was attracted she turned round upon him, looked at
him, and uttering the one word ‘Idiot!’ walked on, as secure as if she
had been surrounded by a bodyguard of chivalry. Somehow that incident
floated into Lady William’s memory. That was what Mab would do. She
would think, if she did not say ‘Idiot!’ and pass by, too contemptuous
almost to be angry, feeling it unnecessary to answer a word to the depth
of imbecility which was capable of such a thought.
Yes; it made her quieter, it calmed her down, it delivered her from that
worst and deepest horror, to look at it through Mab’s sensible, quiet
eyes. But when Lady William remembered that James would tolerate her,
and be kind, and that everybody else would say, ‘Poor Emily!’ the
intolerableness of the catastrophe caught her once more--and the
advantage which even her brother even James, who loved her in his way,
who would spare no trouble for her, had taken of it already. While there
was a shade, while there was a shadow of a doubt upon her, she must not
admit Leo Swinford ‘for all our sakes.’ Women do not habitually swear,
or I think Lady William would have used bad words, had she known any,
when this intolerable recollection came into her mind, just as, if she
had not been bound by the inevitable bonds of education and natural
self-control, she might have broken the china or the furniture to
relieve herself. A gentlewoman cannot do either of these things,
fortunately, or unfortunately, for her, and they are outlets which must
sometimes be of use. But the quick movement with which she dashed her
hands together when that last thought came into her mind, upset a little
table upon which was a plant, one of Mab’s especial nurslings just
shaping for flower, as well as various other nicknacks of less
importance. The sense of guilt and shame with which she saw what she had
done, the compunction with which she stooped over the broken flower-pot,
and gathered up the fortunately uninjured plant, and the specially
prepared soil in which it had been placed, and which was but dirt to
Patty, who came dashing in at the sound of the crash to set matters
right--did Lady William as much good as smashing a window or two might
have done to a poor woman out of Society. She was very penitent and much
ashamed of herself, and horribly amused all the same. To express her
rage, her injured feelings, her pride and desperation, by breaking a
flower-pot, was again where bathos and ridicule came in.
‘I’ll sweep it all up, my lady,’ cried Patty, ‘and there won’t be no
harm.’
‘Miss Mab’s leaf-mould? No, you shan’t do anything of the kind. Find me
another flower-pot, and let us gather it all up carefully, and put it
back.’
‘Miss Mab’s full of fads,’ said Patty, under her breath.
But Lady William did not allow herself such freedom of criticism, and
she had scarcely gathered up the mould and built it securely round the
plant in the new pot before Mab came in. ‘Oh, are you filling it up with
fresh mould, mother?. My poor auricula! It will never produce a prize
bloom now, and I had such hopes.’
‘You ungrateful child! when I have gathered up every scrap of your
famous mould with my own dirty hands!’
‘Poor mother,’ cried Mab, ‘that can never bear to dirty her hands! let
me see them.’
Mab kissed the fingers which Lady William held out, smiling. ‘After all
it is clean dirt, nice mould carefully made, and with everything nice in
it both for the colour and the health. Mother, your hands are a little
like the auriculas, velvety and soft.’
‘And brown, and purple,’ said Lady William, laughing. Who is it that
says that if we would not cry we must laugh? Heaven knows how true it
is.
‘It must have been Patty that did it,’ said Mab. ‘That child will never
learn to take care. And, oh! the little Dresden shoe is broken that I
got off the Christmas tree, and the silver things all scattered. I wish
Patty might get a whipping; it is the only thing that would make her
take care.’
‘Whip me, then, Mab, for it was I. I was vexed and angry----’
‘You! angry, mother?’
‘It is not a thing that never happens, Mab.’
‘No, said Mab judicially; ‘it is not a thing that never happens: but it
only happens when you are put out. And I should like to know what had
put you out.’
‘Nothing,’ said Lady William, with a smile.
‘Oh! mother; you may say that to other people--but to me! Of course, I
shall find out.’
‘It was something your uncle James said to me, Mab.’
‘Oh!’ said Mab, satisfied; ‘I am not surprised if he was in it. He does
say such strange things. But he means well enough. Come out, then,
mother, for a walk. That always does you more good than anything.’
‘It is too early; it is not noon yet. It is dissipated going away from
one’s work at this time of the day.’
But the conclusion was that the two ladies did go out, and went to the
river-side, where Lady William sat down on a bench by the landing-place,
while Mab made certain investigations in respect to the boats. It was a
fine morning, but not over bright--one of those gray days in the
beginning of May, when Nature seems to veil herself capriciously by way
of making the after-glory more glorious. The day was gray, with breaks
of quiet light, not bright enough to be called sunshine, through the
clouds, and all the new foliage tempered and softened in its fresh
greenness of spring by the neutral tints that enveloped everything. The
river flowed quietly upon its way, stopping for nothing, indifferent
whether overhead there was sunshine or clouds, working away at the tall
growing reeds on the edge, and sweeping round them, pushing them back
out of its way, sapping the camp-shedding on the other side, hollowing
out the bank that intruded into the current. The soft, strong flowing
carries one’s thoughts with it, whatever they may be, and Lady William
gradually gave way to that silent coercion, and let her more painful
reflections escape her, and the thoughts she could not get rid of swell
round and round her mind like the circles of the stream. The scenery was
not remarkable at that point. From the river, indeed, the pretty little
landing-place, with its bit of green bank, its marshalled boats, and the
old red-and-white houses behind, made a delightful touch of life and
colour: but to the spectators on the bank there was nothing exciting to
be seen, only the grassy shore opposite, the trees, a brown cow or two
coming down to the river, or a passing boat full of travellers, or of
merrymakers, as the chance might be. How softening, pacifying, composing
it was! Mab’s voice talking to the boatman on the river’s edge came
softly through the harmonious air. Who can think, in the mild calm of
such a day, of confusion, or trouble, or shame?
‘I am in much luck,’ said Leo Swinford’s voice behind her, ‘to find you
here; you are not usually to be found out in the morning.’
‘No,’ said Lady William, telling him the reason with a burst of assumed
cheerfulness. ‘It is possible that all Mab’s hopes of her auricula are
spoiled by my fault; yet she forgives me,’ she said. Then suddenly she
put forth her hand and gripped his arm, with a change on her face--‘Leo,
where is Artémise? Find me Artémise!’
‘What is the matter, dear lady?’ he said.
‘Ah! it is of no importance what is the matter. I will tell you
afterwards. It is only this, that I must find Artémise--if I take a
lanthorn myself and go out and search for her.’
‘Ah! you laugh,’ he said, ‘and I am relieved. It is Mrs. Mansfield you
mean--is she Mansfield now?--I think not, nor can I tell what her name
is. Certainly I can find her. I saw her once, as I told you--twice--here
in this village, as if she were living here; and then she came to see my
mother. I am sure she has been with my mother since; but I have not seen
her again.’
‘With your mother is not the question. Your mother, I fear, Leo, would
rather I did not see her. She likes no one to meddle with those she
cares for.’
‘Does she really care for this woman?’
‘Can you ask me? They are near relations, and dear friends, and love
each other.’
‘Are you sure of all that?’ he said; ‘from my mother I have never
heard----’
‘But it is true.’
‘The last I suppose is true,’ said Leo reluctantly. ‘My mother is fond
of her--though why----’
Lady William gave him a look, as if there might be two sides to the
question; then she said: ‘It is of the utmost importance to me to see
her, Leo--and soon. Will you give me your attention, and remember it is
no mere wish--for an old friend.’
‘An old friend! I cannot conceive that she should ever have been a
friend of yours.’
‘Yet, more than that; I desire to see her more than the dearest friend I
have in the world.’
‘Your bidding shall be done, dear lady: should I go myself and take the
lanthorn--as you say. But that will not be necessary. I shall find her;
I hope, more easily--or whatever else you are pleased to wish for,’ he
added in a lower tone. ‘That is too easy. Set me some task that will
prove what I can do.’
Lady William cast at him a keen look from under her eyelids. She
remembered her brother’s adjuration, ‘for all our sakes.’ ‘A romantic
task,’ she said, ‘that would prove what you could do is quite different.
I ask my friend to help me in a way I really want; but no one ever
wanted a white cat that would go through a ring--or was it a shawl? I
forget.’
‘I never thought,’ he said, with an uneasy laugh, ‘that you would send
me off in search of a white cat.’
‘I might, though,’ she said, ‘if the white cat would turn out an
enchanted princess and make you happy all your life after--which I hope
is what will happen one of these days. And my gracious nephew, Leo, did
he leave you as he said?’
Leo replied with another question: ‘How does Miss Mab like it that she
is to be an heiress? I have not seen her to ask her.’
‘You can see her at once. She is there, you see, with her friends the
boatmen; but you must not ask her, please, for she knows nothing of
heiress-ship as yet.’
‘Ah!’ he said, ‘you are afraid to turn her head.’
‘I am not at all afraid of her head, but I am afraid of other things.
Tell me, why did he come here? The Pakenhams are not generous people,
and they are not rich, and I should have known nothing of Lord John’s
fortune. Was it out of kindness to his cousin, whom he did not know,
that he came here?’
‘Ah, who can tell?’ said Leo. ‘He thought, perhaps, that you were sure
to see it in the papers.’
‘But even then I should not have known that Mab had any right.’
‘Who can tell?’ said Leo again, shaking his head, ‘what are the motives
of these people who are above rule, who do not require to behave like
ordinary mortals? He thought, perhaps, yes, of his little cousin--he
thought, perhaps, most likely of himself. He might have thought with all
that fortune that it might be well if Miss Mab, perhaps, should--what do
you call it?--take a fancy to him, and return it all to his pocket,
which is not too full. How can you tell what any one’s motives are, not
to speak of a Lord Will?’
‘It is true,’ said Lady William, with a sigh; ‘but I suppose my best
course now is to wait--to take no steps till I hear from the lawyers.’
‘Perhaps, instead, your own lawyer----’
‘Ah, I have had so little need of one--of course there is a man of
business who used to manage my father’s affairs. One does not seem to
care,’ she said, with a faint laugh, ‘we poor people, who have nothing
but our poverty--to confide all our affairs even to such a man.’
‘Ah, but they are not men--they are like priests. There is a seal as of
the confessional upon their lips. I should not have thought you, who are
so transparent, so open, would have had such a scruple.’
This was a little duel, though neither suspected the object of the
other. Lady William was eager to find out from Leo what ‘the family’ had
intended to do by sending that messenger, and Leo was eager to persuade
Lady William to confide in him, to show him what her difficulty was, and
how far the broken revelations of his mother’s attack upon her were
true. But neither ventured to unravel the motive which was foremost in
their minds. Both endeavoured to extract the information which the other
had no intention of revealing. But to the spectators who were looking
on, the two people on the bench, who were in reality thus resisting and
eluding each other, had an air of great and tender intimacy as they sat
together, each turned towards the other, pursuing their mutual
investigations by the study, not only of what was said, but what was
looked, by the betrayals of the eyes as well as of the tongue. Even Mab,
returning from her long talk with old George the boatman, was a little
struck by the absorbed attention of Leo to her mother, and of her mother
to Leo. With what interest they were talking; seeing no one else that
was near; paying no attention to anything that passed! Lady William was
not wont to lose herself thus in conversation. She had always an eye for
what was going on; for the passing boats on the river, or even for the
clouds and brightness of the sky--and much more for her little girl who
was hanging about anxious to join her, yet daunted a little by this too
animated, too eager talk. Mab had heard a stray word here and there on
the subject of Leo Swinford and his visits, to which she had paid no
attention, but such words will sometimes linger without any desire of
hers in a little girl’s ear.