The Heathcotes had prolonged their stay at Marlia a full month beyond
their first intention. It was now November, and yet they felt most
unwilling to leave it. To be sure, it was the November of Italy in one
of its most favored spots. The trees had scarcely began to shed their
leaves, and were only in that stage of golden and purple transition that
showed the approach of winter. The grass was as green, and the dog-roses
as abundant, as in May; indeed, it was May itself, only wanting the
fireflies and the violets. One must have felt the languor of an Italian
summer, with its closed-shutter existence, its long days of reclusion,
without exercise, without prospect, almost without light, to feel the
intense delight a bright month of November can bring, with its pathways
dry, its rivulets clear, its skies cloudless and blue,--to be able to be
about again, to take a fast canter or a brisk walk, is enjoyment great
as the first glow of convalescence after sickness. Never are the olive-
trees more silvery; never does the leafy fig, or the dark foliage of the
orange, contrast so richly with its golden fruit. To enjoy all these was
reason enough why the Heathcotes should linger there; at least, they
said that was their reason, and they believed it. Layton, with his
pupil, had established himself in the little city of Lucca, a sort of
deserted, God-forgotten old place, with tumble-down palaces, with
strange iron “grilles” and quaint old armorial shields over them; he
said they had gone there to study, and _he_ believed it.
Mr. O'Shea was still a denizen of the Panini Hotel at the Bagni,--from
choice, he said, but _he_ did not believe it; the Morgans had gone back
to Wales; Mr. Mosely to Bond Street; and Quackinboss was off to “do” his
Etruscan cities, the “pottery, and the rest of it;” and so were they all
scattered, Mrs. Penthony Morris and Clara being, however, still at the
villa, only waiting for letters to set out for Egypt. Her visit had been
prolonged by only the very greatest persuasions. “She knew well--too
bitterly did she know--what a blank would life become to her when she
had quitted the dear villa.” “What a dreary awaking was in store for
them.” “What a sad reverse to poor Clara's bright picture of existence.”
“The dear child used to fancy it could be all like this!” “Better meet
the misery at once than wait till they could not find strength to tear
themselves away.” Such-like were the sentiments uttered, sometimes
tearfully, sometimes in a sort of playful sadness, always very
gracefully, by the softest of voices, accompanied by the most downcast
of long-fringed eyelids.
“I am sure I don't know how May will manage to live without her,” said
Charles, who, be it confessed, was thinking far more of his own sorrows
than his cousin's; while he added, in a tone of well-assumed
indifference, “We shall all miss her!”
“Miss her,” broke in Sir William; “by George! her departure would create
a blank in the society of a city, not to speak of a narrow circle in a
remote country-house.” As for May herself, she was almost heart-broken
at the thought of separation. It was not alone the winning graces of her
manner, and the numberless captivations she possessed, but that she had
really such a “knowledge of the heart,” she had given her such an
insight into her own nature, that, but for her, she had never acquired;
and poor May would shudder at the thought of the ignorance with which
she had been about to commence the voyage of life, until she had
fortunately chanced upon this skilful pilot. But for Mrs. Morris it was
possible, nay, it was almost certain, she should one day or other have
married Charles Heathcote,--united herself to one in every way unsuited
to her, “a good-tempered, easy-natured, indolent creature, with no high
ambitions,--a man to shoot and fish, and play billiards, and read French
novels, but not the soaring intellect, not the high intelligence, the
noble ascendancy of mind, that should win such a heart as yours, May.”
How strange it was that she should never before have recognized in
Charles all the blemishes and shortcomings she now detected in his
character! How singular that she had never remarked how selfish he was,
how utterly absorbed in his own pursuits, how little deference he had
for the ways or wishes of others, and then, how abrupt, almost to
rudeness, his manners! To be sure, part of this careless and easy
indifference might be ascribed to a certain sense of security; “he knows
you are betrothed to him, dearest; he is sure you must one day be his
wife, or, very probably, he would be very different,--more of an ardent
suitor, more eager and anxious in his addresses. Ah, there it is! men
are ever so, and yet they expect that we poor creatures are to accept
that half fealty as a full homage, and be content with that small
measure of affection they deign to accord us! That absurd Will has done
it all, dear child. It is one of those contracts men make on parchment,
quite forgetting that there are such things as human affections. You
must marry him, and there's an end of it!”
Now, Charles, on his side, was very fond of his cousin. If he was n't in
love with her, it was because he did n't very well understand what being
in love meant; he had a notion, indeed, that it implied giving up
hunting and coursing, having no dogs, not caring for the Derby, or even
opening “Punch” or smoking a cigar. Well, he could, he believed, submit
to much, perhaps all, of these, but he could n't, at least he did n't
fancy he could, be “spooney.” He came to Mrs. Morris with confessions of
this kind, and she undertook to consider his case.
Lastly, there was Sir William to consult her about his son and his ward.
He saw several nice and difficult points in their so-called engagement
which would require the delicate hand of a clever woman; and where could
he find one more to the purpose than Mrs. Penthony Morris?
With a skill all her own, she contrived to have confidential intercourse
almost every day with each of the family. If she wished to see Sir
William, it was only to pretend to write a letter, or look for some
volume in the library, and she was sure to meet him. May was always in
her own drawing-room, or the flower-garden adjoining it; and Charles
passed his day rambling listlessly about the stables and the farm-yard,
or watching the peasants at their work beneath the olive-trees. To aid
her plans, besides, Clara could always be despatched to occupy and
engage the attention of some other. Not indeed, that Clara was as she
used to be. Far from it. The merry, light-hearted, capricious child,
with all her strange and wayward ways, was changed into a thoughtful,
pensive girl, loving to be alone and unnoticed. So far from exhibiting
her former dislike to study, she was now intensely eager for it, passing
whole days and great part of the night at her books. There was about her
that purpose-like intentness that showed a firm resolve to learn. Nor
was it alone in this desire for acquirement that she was changed, but
her whole temper and disposition seemed altered. She had grown more
gentle and more obedient. If her love of praise was not less, she
accepted it with more graceful modesty, and appeared to feel it rather
as a kindness than an acknowledged debt. The whole character of her
looks, too, had altered. In place of the elfin sprightliness of her
ever-laughing eyes, their expression was soft even to sadness; her
voice, that once had the clear ringing of a melodious bell, had grown
low, and with a tender sweetness that gave to each word a peculiar
grace.
“What is the matter with Clara?” said Sir William, as he found himself,
one morning, alone with Mrs. Morris in the library. “She never sings
now, and she does not seem the same happy creature she used to be.”
“Can you not detect the cause of this, Sir William?” said her mother,
with a strange sparkle in her eyes.
“I protest I cannot. It is not, surely, that she is unhappy here?”
“No, no, very far from that.”
“It cannot be ill health, for she is the very picture of the contrary.”
“No, no,” said her mother again.
“What can it be?”
“Say, rather, who?” broke in Mrs. Morris, “and I 'll tell you.”
“Who, then? Tell me by all means.”
“Mr. Layton. Yes, Sir William, this is _his_ doing. I have remarked it
many a day back. You are aware, of course, how sedulously he endeavors
to make himself acceptable in another quarter?”
“What do you mean? What quarter? Surely you do not allude to my ward?”
“You certainly do not intend me to believe that you have not seen this,
Sir William?”
“I declare not only that I have never seen, but never so much as
suspected it. And have _you_ seen it, Mrs. Morris?”
“Ah! Sir William, this is our woman's privilege, though really in the
present case it did not put the faculty to any severe test.”
For a moment or two he made no reply, and then said, “And Charles--has
Charles remarked it?”
“I really cannot tell you. His manner is usually so easy and indifferent
about everything, that, whether it comes of not seeing or never caring,
I cannot pretend to guess.”
“I asked the young man here, because he was with Lord Agincourt,” began
Sir William, who was most eager to offer some apologies to himself for
any supposed indiscretion. “Agincourt's guardian, Lord Sommerville, and
myself have had some unpleasant passages in life, and I wished to show
the boy that towards _him_ I bore no memory of the ills I received from
his uncle. In fact, I was doubly civil and attentive on that account;
but as for Mr. Layton,--isn't that his name?”
“Yes; Alfred Layton.”
“Layton came as the lad's tutor,--nothing more. He appeared a pleasing,
inoffensive, well-bred young fellow. But surely, Mrs. Morris, my ward
has given him no encouragement?”
“Encouragement is a strong word, Sir William,” said she, smiling archly;
“I believe it is only widows who give encouragement?”
“Well, well,” said he, hurriedly, and not caring to smile, for he was in
no jesting mood, “has she appeared to understand his attentions?”
“Even young ladies make no mistakes on that score,” said she, in the
same bantering tone.
“And I never to see it!” exclaimed he, as he walked hurriedly to and
fro. “But I ought to have seen it, eh, Mrs. Morris?--I ought to have
seen it. I ought, at least, to have suspected that these fellows are
always on the lookout for such a chance as this. Now I suppose you 'll
laugh at me for the confession, but my attention was entirely engaged by
watching our Irish friend.”
“The great O'Shea!” exclaimed Mrs. Morris, laughing.
“And to tell you the truth, I never could exactly satisfy myself whether
he came here to ogle my ward, or win Charley's half-crowns at
billiards.”
“I imagine, if you asked him, he 'd say he was in for the 'double
event,'” said she, with a laugh.
“And, then, Mrs. Morris,” added he, with a sly smile, “if I must be
candid, I fancied, or thought I fancied, his attentions had another
object.”
“Towards me!” said she, calmly, but in an accent as honest, as frank,
and as free from all concern as though speaking of a third person. “Oh,
that is quite true. Mr. Layton also made his little quiet love to me as
college men do it, and I accepted the homage of both, feeling that I was
a sort of lightning-conductor that might rescue the rest of the
building.”
Sir William laughed as much at the arch quietness of her manner as her
words. “How blind I have been all this time!” burst he in, angrily, as
he reverted to the subject of his chagrin. “I suppose there's not
another man living would not have seen this but myself.”
“No, no,” said she, gently; “men are never nice observers in these
matters.”
“Well, better late than never, eh, Mrs. Morris? Better to know it even
now. Forewarned,--as the adage says,--eh?”
In these little broken sentences he sought to comfort himself, while he
angled for some consolation from his companion; but she gave him none,--
not a word, nor a look, nor a gesture.
“Of course I shall forbid him the house.”
“And make a hero of him from that moment, and a martyr of her,” quietly
replied she. “By such a measure as this you would at once convert what
may be possibly a passing flirtation into a case of love.”
“So that I am to leave the course free, and give him every opportunity
to prosecute his suit?”
“Not exactly. But do not erect barriers just high enough to be
surmounted. Let him come here just as usual, and I will try if I cannot
entangle him in a little serious flirtation with myself, which
certainly, if it succeed, will wound May's pride, and cure her of any
weakness for him.”
Sir William made no reply, but he stared at the speaker with a sort of
humorous astonishment, and somehow her cheek flushed under the look.
“These are womanish artifices, which you men hold cheaply, of course;
but little weapons suit little wars, Sir William, and such are our
campaigns. At all events, count upon my aid till Monday next.”
“And why not after?”
“Because the Peninsular and Oriental packet touches at Malta on
Saturday, and Clara and I must be there in time to catch it.”
“Oh no; we cannot spare you. In fact, we are decided on detaining you.
May would break up house here and follow you to the Pyramids,--the Upper
Cataracts,--anywhere, in short. But leave us you must not.”
She covered her face with her handkerchief, and never spoke, but a
slight motion of her shoulders showed that she was sobbing. “I have been
so uncandid with you all this time,” said she, in broken accents. “I
should have told you all,--everything. I ought to have confided to you
the whole sad story of my terrible bereavement and its consequences; but
I could not. No, Sir William, I could not endure the thought of
darkening the sunshine of all the happiness I saw here by the cloud of
my sorrows. When I only saw faces of joy around me, I said to my heart,
'What right have I, in my selfishness, to obtrude here?' And then,
again, I bethought me, 'Would they admit me thus freely to their hearth
and home if they knew the sad, sad story?' In a word,” said she,
throwing down the handkerchief, and turning towards him with soft and
tearful eyes, “I could not risk the chance of losing your affection, for
you might have censured, you might have thought me too unforgiving,--too
relentless!”
Here she again bent down her head, and was lost in an access of fresh
afflictions.
Never was an elderly gentleman more puzzled than Sir William. He felt
that he ought to offer consolation, but of what nature or for what
calamity he could n't even guess. It was an awkward case altogether, and
he never fancied awkward cases at any time. Then he had that unchivalric
sentiment that elderly gentlemen occasionally will have,--a sort of half
distrust of “injured women.” This was joined to a sense of shame that it
was usually supposed by the world men of his time of life were always
the ready victims of such sympathies. In fact, he disliked the situation
immensely, and could only muster a few commonplace remarks to extricate
himself from it.
“You'll let me tell you everything; I know you will,” said she, looking
bewitchingly soft and tender through her tears.
“Of coarse I will, my dear Mrs. Morris, but not now,--not to-day. You
really are not equal to it at this moment.”
“True, I am not!” said she, drying her eyes; “but it is a promise, and
you 'll not forget it.”
“You only do me honor in the confidence,” said he, kissing her hand.
“A thousand pardons!” cried a rich brogue. And at the same moment the
library door was closed, and the sound of retreating steps was heard
along the corridor.
“That insufferable O'Shea!” exclaimed she. “What will he not say of us?”