LOVE’S CURFEW.
“Fayfield Junction! Change for Elveston!”
What subtle memory could there be, linked to these commonplace words,
that caused such a flood of happy thoughts to fill my brain? I
dismounted from the carriage in a state of joyful excitement for which I
could not at first account. True, I had taken this very journey, and at
the same hour of the day, six months ago; but many things had happened
since then, and an old man’s memory has but a slender hold on recent
events: I sought ‘the missing link’ in vain. Suddenly I caught sight of
a bench—the only one provided on the cheerless platform—with a lady
seated on it, and the whole forgotten scene flashed upon me as vividly
as if it were happening over again.
“Yes,” I thought. “This bare platform is, for me, rich with the memory
of a dear friend! She was sitting on that very bench, and invited me to
share it, with some quotation from Shakespeare—I forget what. I’ll try
the Earl’s plan for the Dramatisation of Life, and fancy that figure to
be Lady Muriel; and I won’t undeceive myself too soon!”
So I strolled along the platform, resolutely ‘making-believe’ (as
children say) that the casual passenger, seated on that bench, was the
Lady Muriel I remembered so well. She was facing away from me, which
aided the elaborate cheatery I was practising on myself: but, though I
was careful, in passing the spot, to look the other way, in order to
prolong the pleasant illusion, it was inevitable that, when I turned to
walk back again, I should see who it was. It was Lady Muriel herself!
[Illustration: ‘SPEND IT ALL FOR MINNIE’]
The whole scene now returned vividly to my memory; and, to make this
repetition of it stranger still, there was the same old man, whom I
remembered seeing so roughly ordered off, by the Station-Master, to make
room for his titled passenger. The same, but ‘with a difference’: no
longer tottering feebly along the platform, but actually seated at Lady
Muriel’s side, and in conversation with her! “Yes, put it in your
purse,” she was saying, “and remember you’re to spend it all for
_Minnie_. And mind you bring her something nice, that’ll do her real
good! And give her my love!” So intent was she on saying these words,
that, although the sound of my footstep had made her lift her head and
look at me, she did not at first recognise me.
I raised my hat as I approached, and then there flashed across her face
a genuine look of joy, which so exactly recalled the sweet face of
Sylvie, when last we met in Kensington Gardens, that I felt quite
bewildered.
Rather than disturb the poor old man at her side, she rose from her
seat, and joined me in my walk up and down the platform, and for a
minute or two our conversation was as utterly trivial and commonplace as
if we were merely two casual guests in a London drawing-room. Each of us
seemed to shrink, just at first, from touching on the deeper interests
which linked our lives together.
The Elveston train had drawn up at the platform, while we talked; and,
in obedience to the Station-Master’s obsequious hint of “This way, my
Lady! Time’s up!”, we were making the best of our way towards the end
which contained the sole first-class carriage, and were just passing the
now-empty bench, when Lady Muriel noticed, lying on it, the purse in
which her gift had just been so carefully bestowed, the owner of which,
all unconscious of his loss, was being helped into a carriage at the
other end of the train. She pounced on it instantly. “Poor old man!” she
cried. “He mustn’t go off, and think he’s lost it!”
“Let _me_ run with it! I can go quicker than you!” I said. But she was
already half-way down the platform, flying (‘running’ is much too
mundane a word for such fairy-like motion) at a pace that left all
possible efforts of _mine_ hopelessly in the rear.
She was back again before I had well completed my audacious boast of
speed in running, and was saying, quite demurely, as we entered our
carriage, “and you really think _you_ could have done it quicker?”
“No indeed!” I replied. “I plead ‘Guilty’ of gross exaggeration, and
throw myself on the mercy of the Court!”
“The Court will overlook it—for this once!” Then her manner suddenly
changed from playfulness to an anxious gravity.
“You are not looking your best!” she said with an anxious glance. “In
fact, I think you look _more_ of an invalid than when you left us. I
very much doubt if London agrees with you?”
“It _may_ be the London air,” I said, “or it may be the hard work—or my
rather lonely life: anyhow, I’ve _not_ been feeling very well, lately.
But Elveston will soon set me up again. Arthur’s prescription—he’s my
doctor, you know, and I heard from him this morning—is ‘plenty of ozone,
and new milk, and _pleasant society_’!”
“Pleasant society?” said Lady Muriel, with a pretty make-believe of
considering the question. “Well, really I don’t know where we can find
_that_ for you! We have so few neighbours. But new milk we _can_ manage.
Do get it of my old friend Mrs. Hunter, up there, on the hill-side. You
may rely upon the _quality_. And her little Bessie comes to school every
day, and passes your lodgings. So it would be very easy to send it.”
“I’ll follow your advice, with pleasure,” I said; “and I’ll go and
arrange about it tomorrow. I know Arthur will want a walk.”
“You’ll find it quite an easy walk—under three miles, I think.”
“Well, now that we’ve settled that point, let me retort your own remark
upon yourself. I don’t think _you’re_ looking quite your best!”
“I daresay not,” she replied in a low voice; and a sudden shadow seemed
to overspread her face. “I’ve had some troubles lately. It’s a matter
about which I’ve been long wishing to consult you, but I couldn’t easily
write about it. I’m _so_ glad to have this opportunity!”
“Do you think,” she began again, after a minute’s silence, and with a
visible embarrassment of manner most unusual in her, “that a promise,
deliberately and solemnly given, is _always_ binding—except, of course,
where its fulfilment would involve some actual _sin_?”
“I ca’n’t think of any other exception at this moment,” I said. “That
branch of casuistry is usually, I believe, treated as a question of
truth and untruth——”
“Surely that _is_ the principle?” she eagerly interrupted. “I always
thought the Bible-teaching about it consisted of such texts as ‘_lie not
one to another_’?”
“I have thought about that point,” I replied; “and it seems to me that
the essence of _lying_ is the intention of _deceiving_. If you give a
promise, fully _intending_ to fulfil it, you are certainly acting
truthfully _then_; and, if you afterwards break it, that does not
involve any _deception_. I cannot call it _untruthful_.”
Another pause of silence ensued. Lady Muriel’s face was hard to read:
she looked pleased, I thought, but also puzzled; and I felt curious to
know whether her question had, as I began to suspect, some bearing on
the breaking off of her engagement with Captain (now Major) Lindon.
“You have relieved me from a great fear,” she said; “but the thing is of
course _wrong_, somehow. What texts would _you_ quote, to prove it
wrong?”
“Any that enforce the payment of _debts_. If _A_ promises something to
_B_, _B_ has a claim upon _A_. And _A_’s sin, if he breaks his promise,
seems to me more analogous to _stealing_ than to _lying_.”
“It’s a new way of looking at it—to me,” she said; “but it seems a
_true_ way, also. However, I won’t deal in generalities, with an old
friend like you! For we _are_ old friends, somehow. Do you know, I think
we _began_ as old friends?” she said with a playfulness of tone that ill
accorded with the tears that glistened in her eyes.
“Thank you very much for saying so,” I replied. “I like to think of you
as an _old_ friend,” (“—though you don’t look it!” would have been the
almost necessary sequence, with any other lady; but she and I seemed to
have long passed out of the time when compliments, or any such
trivialities, were possible.)
Here the train paused at a station, where two or three passengers
entered the carriage; so no more was said till we had reached our
journey’s end.
On our arrival at Elveston, she readily adopted my suggestion that we
should walk up together; so, as soon as our luggage had been duly taken
charge of—hers by the servant who met her at the station, and mine by
one of the porters—we set out together along the familiar lanes, now
linked in my memory with so many delightful associations. Lady Muriel at
once recommenced the conversation at the point where it had been
interrupted.
“You knew of my engagement to my cousin Eric. Did you also hear——”
“Yes,” I interrupted, anxious to spare her the pain of giving any
details. “I heard it had all come to an end.”
“I would like to tell you how it happened,” she said; “as that is the
very point I want your advice about. I had long realised that we were
not in sympathy in religious belief. His ideas of Christianity are very
shadowy; and even as to the existence of a God he lives in a sort of
dreamland. But it has not affected his life! I feel sure, now, that the
most absolute Atheist _may_ be leading, though walking blindfold, a pure
and noble life. And if you knew half the good deeds——” she broke off
suddenly, and turned away her head.
“I entirely agree with you,” I said. “And have we not our Saviour’s own
promise that such a life shall surely lead to the light?”
“Yes, I know it,” she said in a broken voice, still keeping her head
turned away. “And so I told him. He said he would believe, for _my_
sake, if he could. And he wished, for _my_ sake, he could see things as
I did. But that is all wrong!” she went on passionately. “God _cannot_
approve such low motives as that! Still it was not _I_ that broke it
off. I knew he loved me; and I had _promised_; and——”
“Then it was _he_ that broke it off?”
“He released me unconditionally.” She faced me again now, having quite
recovered her usual calmness of manner.
“Then what difficulty remains?”
“It is _this_, that I don’t believe he did it of his own free will. Now,
supposing he did it _against_ his will, merely to satisfy my scruples,
would not his claim on me remain just as strong as ever? And would not
my promise be as binding as ever? My father says ‘no’; but I ca’n’t help
fearing he is biased by his love for me. And I’ve asked no one else. I
have many friends—friends for the bright sunny weather; not friends for
the clouds and storms of life; not _old_ friends like you!”
“Let me think a little,” I said: and for some minutes we walked on in
silence, while, pained to the heart at seeing the bitter trial that had
come upon this pure and gentle soul, I strove in vain to see my way
through the tangled skein of conflicting motives.
“If she loves him truly,” (I seemed at last to grasp the clue to the
problem) “is not _that_, for her, the voice of God? May she not hope
that she is sent to him, even as Ananias was sent to Saul in his
blindness, that he may receive his sight?” Once more I seemed to hear
Arthur whispering “_What knowest thou, O wife, whether thou shalt save
thy husband?_” and I broke the silence with the words “If you still love
him truly——”
“I do _not_!” she hastily interrupted. “At least—not in _that_ way. I
_believe_ I loved him when I promised; but I was very young: it is hard
to know. But, whatever the feeling was, it is dead _now_. The motive on
_his_ side is Love: on _mine_ it is—Duty!”
Again there was a long silence. The whole skein of thought was tangled
worse than ever. This time _she_ broke the silence. “Don’t misunderstand
me!” she said. “When I said my heart was not _his_, I did not mean it
was any one else’s! At present I feel bound to _him_; and, till I know I
am absolutely free, in the sight of God, to love any other than him,
I’ll never even _think_ of any one else—in _that_ way, I mean. I would
die sooner!” I had never imagined my gentle friend capable of such
passionate utterances.
I ventured on no further remark until we had nearly arrived at the
Hall-gate; but, the longer I reflected, the clearer it became to me that
no call of Duty demanded the sacrifice—possibly of the happiness of a
life—which she seemed ready to make. I tried to make this clear to _her_
also, adding some warnings on the dangers that surely awaited a union in
which mutual love was wanting. “The only argument for it, worth
considering,” I said in conclusion, “seems to be his supposed
_reluctance_ in releasing you from your promise. I have tried to give to
that argument its _full_ weight, and my conclusion is that it does _not_
affect the rights of the case, or invalidate the release he has given
you. My belief is that you are _entirely_ free to act as _now_ seems
right.”
“I am _very_ grateful to you,” she said earnestly. “Believe it, please!
I ca’n’t put it into proper words!” and the subject was dropped by
mutual consent: and I only learned, long afterwards, that our discussion
had really served to dispel the doubts that had harassed her so long.
We parted at the Hall-gate, and I found Arthur eagerly awaiting my
arrival; and, before we parted for the night, I had heard the whole
story—how he had put off his journey from day to day, feeling that he
_could_ not go away from the place till his fate had been irrevocably
settled by the wedding taking place: how the preparations for the
wedding, and the excitement in the neighbourhood, had suddenly come to
an end, and he had learned (from Major Lindon, who called to wish him
good-bye) that the engagement had been broken off by mutual consent: how
he had instantly abandoned all his plans for going abroad, and had
decided to stay on at Elveston, for a year or two at any rate, till his
newly-awakened hopes should prove true or false; and how, since that
memorable day, he had avoided all meetings with Lady Muriel, fearing to
betray his feelings before he had had any sufficient evidence as to how
she regarded him. “But it is nearly six weeks since all that happened,”
he said in conclusion, “and we can meet in the ordinary way, now, with
no need for any painful allusions. I would have written to tell you all
this: only I kept hoping from day to day, that—that there would be
_more_ to tell!”
“And how should there be _more_, you foolish fellow,” I fondly urged,
“if you never even go near her? Do you expect the offer to come from
_her_?”
Arthur was betrayed into a smile. “No,” he said, “I hardly expect
_that_. But I’m a desperate coward. There’s no doubt about it!”
“And what _reasons_ have you heard of for breaking off the engagement?”
“A good many,” Arthur replied, and proceeded to count them on his
fingers. “First, it was found that she was dying of—something; so _he_
broke it off. Then it was found that _he_ was dying of—some other thing;
so _she_ broke it off. Then the Major turned out to be a confirmed
gamester; so the _Earl_ broke it off. Then the Earl insulted him; so the
_Major_ broke it off. It got a good deal broken off, all things
considered!”
“You have all this on the very best authority, of course?”
“Oh, certainly! And communicated in the strictest confidence! Whatever
defects Elveston society suffers from, _want of information_ isn’t one
of them!”
“Nor _reticence_, either, it seems. But, seriously, do you know the real
reason?”
“No, I’m quite in the dark.”
I did not feel that I had any right to enlighten him; so I changed the
subject, to the less engrossing one of “new milk,” and we agreed that I
should walk over, next day, to Hunter’s farm, Arthur undertaking to set
me part of the way, after which he had to return to keep a
business-engagement.