"I HAVE LOST SOMETHING THAT I NEVER HAD."
Throughout the foregoing scene Leonore had evinced a quickness of
perception and a delicacy beyond what might have been expected from one
so young and volatile,--but directly she was alone a revulsion of
feeling took place.
Sue had tottered from the dining-room without so much as a glance
towards herself. That was nothing. She understood, and did not in the
least resent it--since any recognition of her protecting agency would
have openly acknowledged what the hapless spinster might still hope was
only vaguely guessed at; but it was the thing itself, the incredible,
incomprehensible thing which staggered, and, it must be owned, in a
sense revolted her.
She flew out of doors. There only, out of sight and hearing, could her
bewildered senses realise what had passed, and grasp its full
significance. There only dared she give way to the spasms of passionate
amazement and incredulity which found vent in reiterated ejaculations of
Sue's name.
Sue? _Sue?_ SUE? She found herself crying it over and over again, and
each time with a fresh intonation.
Sue? It was impossible--it was unnatural--it was horrible. Sue? She
stamped her foot, and sent a pebble flying down the path.
Sue--poor old Sue--dear old Sue--"Old" Sue, whichever way you took it,
how could she, how _could_ she?
In Leo's eyes, Sue, verging on middle age, had never been young;
earliest reminiscences pictured her the same composed and tranquil
creature, with the same detachment from life as regarded herself, the
same contented absorption in the concerns of others, that was present
now to the eyes of all.
No one ever thought of Sue in connection with love or matrimony; not
even in years gone by; not even when Leo was a child.
True, she had her own niche in the family and household, and it was by
no means an unimportant one--but it was high upon a shelf as regarded
affairs of the heart.
Her dress, her habits, her punctilio in small matters--all that she did
or said marked her the typical old maid, and had done so for years out
of mind--so that the present revelation was worse than shocking, it was
cruel.
For the best part of an hour the storm raged. She found herself
repeating her father's words "preposterous!"--"outrageous!"--and
endorsing them with throbs of scorn and anger. The sister she loved, the
woman she venerated was lowered in her eyes. She was pained, as well as
shocked....
But presently there ensued a change. After all, what had poor Sue done?
Certainly she had at no time given the faintest outward indication of
her folly, till powerless to help herself; she had endured what must
have been a painful ordeal beforehand with fortitude, and there must
have been many similar occasions when calmness and self-restraint were
needed, and had never failed.
Was it not rather wonderful of Sue? The weakness was there, but she had
had strength to hide it. Maud and Sybil knew nothing of it; no one knew;
least of all the man himself.
And apparently Sue was content to have it so,--here was another marvel;
she loved and asked for nothing in return. She could go quietly on week
after week, month after month, hugging her secret,--yet its power was
such that Leo herself trembled to recall the hour that so nearly laid
it bare. It was terrible to see Sue blanch and blench; to watch the
fluttering of her lace jabot as her bosom heaved beneath. She trembled
as she had never trembled at any emotions of her own.
She perceived that love was a strange, unknown force of which she,
happily wooed, happily wedded, and sorrowfully widowed, nevertheless
knew nothing. She had loved her husband--indeed she had loved him; he
had been uniformly kind and pleasant and indulgent towards her, and she
had honestly reciprocated his attachment,--but sometimes, sometimes she
had wondered? She had heard, she had read of--more: she had never felt
it.
And vague fancies had been put aside as disloyal; reasoned away as
disturbing elements of a very real if sober felicity. She was married;
and it was wrong and wicked to imagine how things might have been if she
had never seen Godfrey, and was going about free and unfettered like
other girls?
She did not, of course she did not, wish to be free, and was ashamed to
find the thought obtruding itself; but there had been moments--and these
recurred to her now.
How strange it must be to feel as--as Sue did, for instance? To start
at the sound of a footstep, to thrill at a voice; to be wrapt in a
golden haze--oh, she knew all that could be told about that curious,
fantastic, elusive mystery, which was yet a sealed book as regarded
herself.
And was it not a little hard that it should be so? Had something been
missed out of her nature? Was she really formed without warmth, ardour,
sensibility? A smile played upon her lips.
Was she then not inviting? Was there nothing desirable, attractive,
alluring--nothing to create in another the feeling which might have
awakened her own slumbering soul?
It might be so, and yet----
Again her thoughts reverted to Sue; to the staid, gaunt elderly
Sue,--and with a new and sharp sensation. Sue had not waited to be
sought; Sue could give without asking to receive--she envied Sue from
the bottom of her soul.
To her own small public Leo, before her widowhood, had always appeared
the gayest of the gay. It was her _role_ to be jocund and amusing, and
no one took her seriously. But there was another side to her character
which she had always been at pains to conceal, partly because it would
have met with but scant sympathy from others, partly because she was
afraid of it herself,--and of late she had been more and more conscious
of the existence of this undercurrent of thought and feeling.
Even had there been no cause for sadness, she would frequently have felt
sad. The influences of Nature moved her. Certain sights and sounds
oppressed her. From her dreams she often woke in tears.
And now that the first fury as regarded Sue had spent itself, this
causeless dejection of spirit took its place. She was no longer bitter
against Sue; she would have liked to take her sister to her heart and
comfort her. She would have liked--oh, how she would have liked--to
confide to her, to some one, to any one the dim confused tumult of
half-formed regrets and yearnings--"Oh, I have lost something that I
never had!"--she cried aloud.
* * * * *
But who so bold and merry as this elfin Leo an hour afterwards?
"I have brought Mr. Custance in to tea, father. Oh, father, I want you;
I have heaps of things to ask you about. I'm always forgetting them,
because you are so seldom in at tea. I met Mr. Custance marching off in
another direction," continued Leo, looking round, "but I just marched
him up here instead,"--and she awaited applause.
It was a masterstroke, and so Sybil pronounced it afterwards. "No one
but you would have dared, you audacious imp," she shook the strategist
by the shoulder. "After that rumpus!"
"It was rather a shame dragging the poor innocent man into the rumpus,
and Sue was really hurt," quoth Leo, with a guileless air. "There was
nothing for it but to make use of her _permission_, and not only 'see
the rector' but haul him along."
She had told herself that nothing would so effectually do away with any
fear of self-betrayal on Sue's part, as this easy introduction of a
guest never less expected and perhaps never more welcome. She had
waylaid the well-known figure from whom she had formerly fled, and her
end was attained.
But the general was not to be allowed to interfere with it, and he heard
himself forthwith accosted. "Father, I wish you'd tell me; I was out in
the woods just now, and a bird was singing----"
"Very wonderful, I'm sure. A bird usually sings in a garret, or a
cellar, of course."
"Don't you laugh at me, father; you know about birds, and I don't; and I
really do want you to tell me why one should sing, and the others not,
at this time of year?"
"Tell you that? _I_ can't. They're made so." But the general did not
speak as gruffly as usual, and emboldened, she proceeded.
"Well, but what bird is it that sings--sings just as if it were summer?"
"A robin, of course, you ignorant little thing. Given a bit of sunshine,
a robin will sing all the year round."
"Oh," said Leo, profoundly attentive, "all the year round, will he? Why,
I wonder?"
"If you come to 'whys' you may 'why' for ever. Why does a swallow build
on a housetop and a lark in a meadow? Why does a stork stand on one
leg----"
"Oh, and I saw a heron to-day," cried she vivaciously. "Now where did
that heron come from?"
"From Lord St. Emeraud's heronry. They often fly over here in the
winter."
"What for, father?"
"Bless my soul, Leo, how can I tell you what for? What's all this sudden
interest in natural history about? Get a book and read it up,"--and he
was turning away, but this was just what he was not to do.
"Can't you sit down and talk to me a little?" quoth Leo, plaintively; "I
don't care for those kind of books much. And you could tell me a lot I
want to know; about seabirds, for instance. I never can understand how
some can swim and some can't. And then there are the birds that go away
in the autumn----"
"Stop--stop!"
"And there are the other kinds of birds----"
"Of course there are. What's all this hullabaloo about birds for?" He
was half disposed to be pugnacious, but even a fighting-cock could
hardly have quarrelled with Leonore in this vein. She was so unconscious
of giving offence, so friendly and sociable, had such a little smiling
way of her own, that even General Boldero was won upon, and, indeed, had
never looked so little disagreeable in his life.
Here was a chatterbox certainly, and he had all the dislike of a
suspicious, stupid man for chatterboxes. He despised them--with an
inkling that they despised him. When he did talk, he wished to lead the
talk,--and such was the feeling he inspired in the neighbourhood, that
he was gladly allowed to do so. No one cared to put him into ill-humour,
since he was only tolerable when bland; furthermore, he was not worth
argument and opposition.
Hence it was a new thing to be appealed to for information, and though
not qualified to give it, he was the last to suppose as much. About the
subject in question he knew just what he could not help knowing, and
what Leo herself knew a great deal better,--but her object was attained,
and the "hullabaloo" protested against, chained him to her side.
The tea-table was now spread, and he glanced towards it, but quick as
lightning she struck in.
"Do let us bring our tea here, father. Just you and me. The others can
amuse Mr. Custance, he can't need us too."
"Eh?" said the astonished general. Some one wanted to talk to him, and
to him alone? He hardly knew what to do with so flattering an
invitation.
But as he was obviously expected to respond to it, he followed to the
tea-table, and for a minute awaited his turn in patience. Then, as Leo,
having helped herself, returned to the sofa and he was still unattended
to, he began to frown.
"Pray, Miss Boldero, am I to have no tea? Take care, what you are
about." For, strange to say, he had been unperceived, and Sue, flurried
by the sudden demand, and in haste to meet it, contrived to catch the
handle of the cream jug in her wide lace sleeve, with the result that
her father's caution came too late; the jug overturned, and cream flowed
apace.
Had it been milk it would have spread faster and farther, but even as
it was, there was a mess displeasing to the eye, and the offender in her
endeavours to remedy it, made matters worse. The wet lace swished hither
and thither.
"Ugh!" cried the general, retreating with a glance at his trousers.
"Ring the bell--no, here"--and he produced a clean pocket-handkerchief,
and unfolded it.
"Well done, father!" piped a clear voice at his side, and a small hand
whipped the handkerchief from him, and deftly used it.
"It's you, is it?" quoth the general, actually laughing.
Do what he would, he could not escape from Leo that day. Here she was
back at his elbow, and he was not even allowed to hector Sue for her
awkwardness and abuse her sleeves, he was withdrawn so swiftly from the
scene of action.
"We'll have this little table between us," quoth Leo, planting it handy
for him, "and we'll enjoy ourselves, and they can talk to their
rector,"--with gleeful assumption of having secured a superior
attraction.
"He is just their sort, but he isn't mine,"--and she peeped slily from
under her eyelashes.
"You mischievous puss!" But as she patted the sofa, and he finally sat
down, General Boldero felt in a curious way young, and attracted against
his will.
Could it really be his own daughter who was thus exerting herself for
his entertainment, and his alone? Hitherto, he had never given Leo a
thought in the way of desiring her company, and certainly would not have
done so now, if let alone,--but since he was not let alone, but was
plied with a perfect cross-fire of questions, comments, and what not,
while all the time the speaker gave him the whole of her attention, and
the full play of her saucy eyes, he was bound to own himself amused.
He was so well amused that he never once glanced towards the rest of the
party, nor would Leo do so, lest he should follow suit.
She was, however, nimble-witted, and could contrive for her own
purposes. She could stoop to pick up a fallen glove: she could search
the carpet for something else which was not there. By these means she
learnt that there was no longer a quartet assembled in a central part of
the room; that Maud and Sybil had resumed occupations in distant
corners, leaving the visitor to Sue; and that Sue--she longed to look at
Sue, but refrained.
Sue sat on in her large armchair, with her back to the light. Her
companion's hand rested on the back of the chair.
Seen from Leo's standpoint, the bent shoulders and thin neck were
aggressively apparent against the light--for a pale winter sunset lit up
the sky without, and the two figures were silhouetted sharply--but Sue?
what did Sue see?
Apparently what satisfied her, what transformed the world around her.
For Leo, rising at last, as all rose, and drawing near with a curiosity
which had also in it a great and passionate envy, beheld upon her
sister's face the look which she sought, the look which she was never to
forget. Again her heart cried out, and would not be silenced: "I have
lost something that I never had!"