"YOU'VE BROKEN MY HEART, I THINK."
The funeral was over, and it was now decent to talk about the marriage.
When and where could the marriage take place?
Boldero Abbey, with all the landed estate, was virtually in other hands
already, and it did not need the opening of the will to announce to the
bereaved family that with the loss of a father there followed that of a
home.
All their lives they had known that this must be so, but the subject was
so grievous that it was hardly ever alluded to, and in a manner was lost
sight of.
For his years General Boldero was a young man; he was hale, hearty, and
selfish. He took good care of his health, and prognosticated for himself
a green old age--anyhow _his_ tenure of the good things of life was
secure; and though unable to alter the law of entail, which permitted no
female heirs in the Boldero line of descent, he foresaw in his mind's
eye all his daughters married and settled, with the exception of Sue,
who had her mother's fortune, and was of course to stick to him to the
last.
Consequently the provision he had made for the rest was slight, and
there was no doubt that the sooner they now quitted the stately mansion
and broke up its large establishment, the better.
But the wedding, Maud's wedding, that was to have been so gay and
splendid, what was to be done about that? The invitations were already
out, and everything in such readiness that even Sue inwardly sighed. If
only it could have been all happily over!
It was terrible to her that an event so momentous should take place
anywhere but in the halls of her forefathers--or to speak more strictly,
in the village church where Eustace Custance officiated. To him had been
confided the great satisfaction afforded by the match; and when
consenting to tie the knot, he had spoken warmly of Paul Foster. Paul
had often sought him out, and had--but he must not say more. The
general, overhearing, had warranted Paul "mulcted ".
To other sources of distress, therefore, it was added in the breast of
poor Sue that Maud must seek her nuptial benediction elsewhere,--since
Mr. Anthony Boldero, through his lawyer, had intimated that he would be
glad to have matters arranged as soon as might be.
To each sister privately Sue had addressed herself on the point of
remaining in the neighbourhood, and each had protested against the idea.
No one of them could endure it.
But they had still a month's grace, and if Maud would consent to be
married very, very privately, with absolutely no one present but their
five selves--"Ridiculous! what are you thinking of?" cried Maud,
angrily.
Her sluggish nature was roused to positive wrath by such an insulting
proposition, but reading reproach in the colour which mounted to her
sister's cheek, she made haste to subjoin:--
"Don't you see how very undignified it would appear to be in such a
frantic hurry to secure a husband? It would almost seem as if I were
afraid of losing Paul! Of course I shall wait till things can be done
properly. I would not show any disrespect--I wonder that you should
suggest it, Sue."
But the speaker was not perhaps as truthful as she might have been. In
communing with herself, she had decided that the next best thing to
being married in state from Boldero Abbey, would be a wedding in a
fashionable London church. She had been a bridesmaid once at such, and
to it her thoughts now reverted favourably. There need be but a short
delay, and she was willing to wait. To wait would be infinitely
preferable to a hole-and-corner business, with no prestige, no
spectators, no one even to see her bridal array and Paul's necklace. Sue
had even hinted at her not wearing the dress: "You could just go down in
your travelling things, and no one need know anything about it till it
was over".
"I should not degrade myself by doing anything of the kind;" said Maud,
throwing up her head.
No, she would not consult Paul, Paul would of course let her decide for
him,--and she did beg that no one would interfere with what after all
was _her_ affair.
Presently it was, "Paul will stay on here with us at present. He has no
real claims upon him elsewhere, for as we are not to be married just
yet, he can postpone making his arrangements. Perhaps we shall now be
able to get a house first."
To this end she ordered down agents' lists, and illustrated magazines;
also Leo came upon her in odd places posing meditatively before various
articles of furniture with a paper and pencil in her hand. Leo guessed
what she was doing.
She took no notice; but she wondered if any one could help noticing
that, whereas Paul when he first appeared on the scene had been eager
and animated over the home he hoped to form, and the life he meant to
lead, he was listless and indifferent now. He assented to everything,
initiated nothing. Sometimes he barely glanced at the attractive domain
whose allurements were so cunningly set forth--sometimes he hung over
the page so long that Leo could not help suspecting it was but a screen
to hide his face.
He had lost altogether his pleasant habit of following each speaker with
his eyes as the talk went round. The eyes would be glued to the floor,
or fixed vacantly on some object. He would start when called to order
for inattention, and thereafter be abjectly attentive.
But whatever Maud said was right, and her wishes were law. She could not
make a suggestion which he was not ready to carry out; when she withdrew
from it herself he as readily withdrew. To Leo, watching from the
background, there was something unnatural, incomprehensible about it
all--something which baffled her closest scrutiny--and yet at times made
her feel as though the scrutiny itself were but foolishness, emanating
from her own disordered imagination.
She would think so for a whole day, and school herself to believe that
it was a happy day--and then something, some trifle, would occur which
made her heart leap and her hands tremble, and she found herself talking
for dear life in a meaningless jumble of words.
She would not, must not, dared not hope that Paul repented of his
choice, unless it might be that repentance were mutual, in which case?
But after a night of fitful sleep and miserable awakenings, Leo would
come down heavy-eyed and feverish, to find a prosaic, business-like
dialogue being carried on by the very individuals who had figured so
differently in the phantasms of the small hours, and her entrance would
hardly be noticed by either, so engrossed were they by each other.
Once indeed she wondered whether Paul were not a trifle too
ostentatiously engrossed? Whether it were the case that he really did
not see her slip into the vacant chair, the only vacant chair at the
table? His head was steadily turned the other way, but her sisters
addressed her and still he perceived, or affected to perceive, no
addition to the party. Was he, could he be afraid of her penetration?
Did he suspect that it went further than was convenient?
Maud was unusually animated that morning. "It really fits in
wonderfully, this plan of Aunt Charlotte's; and I must say I little
expected her to be the one to come to the rescue."
"What is the plan?" inquired Leo aside of Sybil.
"Aunt Charlotte offers us her house for the winter." Sybil also looked
excited and jubilant. "She is going abroad, and says she will leave us
everything as it stands."
"But a house in Eaton Place, and it is one of the larger houses too,"
demurred Sue, "would it not be rather expensive----?"
"Not in the least, seeing that we are to have Aunt Charlotte's servants.
It is really _most_ kind," averred Maud, with the warmest approval; "I
should not think of refusing, not for a moment. And St. Peter's close
by--" with a meaning smile to Paul--"what could be better?"
"Hi, Lion, Lion?" said he, looking under the table.
"You will close with the offer at once, Sue?" proceeded Maud, too much
elated and gratified to observe the lack of response; "don't lose a
post, in case the good lady changes her mind. How soon can we go, do you
think?"
But even the gentle Sue kindled a little beneath a note which jarred on
all, and she looked a mute reproach.
"Well? How soon?" impatiently reiterated her sister.
How soon? To leave for evermore the old familiar scenes, the peaceful
glades--every spot hallowed by memories and associations? To take a last
farewell of the only life she had ever known, to fling it aside like a
worn-out garment? Was it possible that any one, even with a bright new
existence opening before her, could be so eager to turn the page that
all she could say or think of was "How soon?"
It wounded Sue to her heart's core to hear the peremptory tone and meet
the unabashed gaze. She could not speak,--and the next minute she felt
an arm steal round her waist, and a cheek was laid on hers. It was only
Leo, but Sue never said "only Leo" from that moment. She took the little
hand and fondled it; she used it to wipe her own tears away.
"Hi, Lion, Lion?" said Paul, looking under the table again.
* * * * *
"Is it settled? Is it decided?" Later on in the day Leo, finding Sybil
by herself, returned to the mooted point.
"About London? Why, of course. When our sovereign lady gives the word of
command, don't you know there is nothing for it but to obey? Sue wrote
by the first post."
"And when are we to go? When?"
"You are as keen as Maud, I declare. Well, _I_ am rather sorry to leave
the old place----"
"When? I only ask, when?"--cried Leo shrilly.
"Do you really not care at all, Leo? I thought at breakfast you and
Sue----"
"What's the use of caring? Will caring alter things? If it would----"
but Leo caught her breath, and her hands gripped each other; "I think
you might answer a plain question without rambling on about other
things;" she subjoined as steadily as she could. "Is the time of our
departure fixed?"
"For this day week, if we can be ready in time. Sue says we can't, but
Maud says we can. Ten to one on Maud."
"This day week!"
"After all, there's nothing more to be done here;" Sybil recovered
herself, for in reality she was like Maud, bitten with the idea of
change; "and it's doleful enough, Heaven knows. Day after day the same
howling wind and rain, and nothing to talk about but Maud's houses. Maud
doesn't care two straws what becomes of the rest of us, as long as she
gets a fine place for herself. She won't even listen if a word's said
about our affairs. Paul is too good for her, I think,"--abruptly.
Leo, who had begun to turn away, stopped short, startled.
"Oh, you don't care for him, I know," ran on Sybil at random; "but you
are the only one of us who doesn't. I often think," she lowered her
voice to caution, "I tell you what, Leo, if Paul had not fluked upon
Maud as he did, and the other Fosters had not puffed her up and prodded
him on, he never would have thought of her. She's not his style at all,
with her grandiose notions, and fondness of big people, and all that.
Just what Paul hates. Did you not see him wince when she made that
remark about Lady St. Emeraud? Maud is awfully obtuse," continued Sybil,
glad of a listener; "she never saw. But you know, Leo, even father used
to laugh at her love of swagger--though she got it from him."
"You never said this before;" muttered Leo, surprised. She had no
inclination to go away now.
"Because Maud and I--of course we have held by each other always, and I
should have gone on holding, if she had. But I am nothing to her now;"
said poor Sybil bitterly. She had a weak, shallow nature, but it was
capable of affection--and Maud's selfish withdrawal of affection, her
complete indifference to all that did not concern her own individual
interests at a time when in the natural course of things the sisters
would have been drawn together by an especially close tie, was felt as
keenly as Sybil could feel anything.
"And you think Paul----?" hesitated Leo.
"It's Paul's own look out. He may make her mend her ways. She thinks a
lot of him, of course."
"Does she--is she--is she in love with him, Syb?"
"In love with him? I suppose so--after a fashion. She's in love with
being married, and having a country house of her own, and a husband to
domineer over. And if he should come in for a title----"
"But that is not _Paul_;" said Leo, in a low voice. She had herself well
in hand, but deep down there were strange emotions at work, stirred by
the above. "Do you mean--I wish you would say what you really
mean?--I--I sometimes wonder myself----," she stopped.
"Oh, you mustn't take all this too seriously, Leo. Don't look at me as
if we were a couple of conspirators. It's no use being cross with Maud
because she is what she is. She hasn't fine feelings--no one ever
thought she had. But Paul has found that out by this time, I dare say;
and when his chance comes he can inoculate her with his. At the worst,
he has enough for both;"--and having thus summed up the situation and
relieved her feelings at the same time, Sybil turned to other matters.
"Yet even _she_ sees," cried Leo, inwardly, "she sees something, though
she does not know, does not guess what it is. And I who do, oh, how
shall I bear it,--how shall I bear it? And this is only the
beginning--they haven't yet actually begun the real thing,--they are
only looking at it, and he----?" She heard Sue's voice calling her, and
thrust aside the "he".
Sue wanted a parcel taken to the cottage of an under-gardener, who was
ill; and thought that both Henry and his wife would appreciate the
attention more if conveyed by one of themselves, than by a servant.
Would Leo go?
"And ask if Dr. Craig has been, and what he says?" further directed Miss
Boldero with a little sigh. She was thinking that perhaps this was the
last she would ever have to do with either doctor or patient, and Sue
had loved much the gentle routine of her daily life, with its easy
benefactions and ministrations,--and now all her world, all the world
of which she knew anything, lay in ruins around her.
"I'll go," said Leo, taking the parcel.
She was ready to go anywhere, and Henry's cottage was only a short way
off, one of a cluster at the edge of the lower garden,--so that even if
the rain which threatened did come on, she could find shelter--and on
this occasion safe shelter. Paul had gone for a ride, and his rides were
long; Maud explained that the exercise was good for him.
But though thus secure, there was another danger to which no thought had
been given, and Leo, whose path at this time seemed beset with pitfalls,
on emerging from one cottage room, found herself face to face with a
visitor issuing from the other. Dr. Craig had not been able to come
himself, but had sent his assistant.
The doctor had paused to rub his chin before doing so, but the summons
which stayed his own steps was imperative, and it was a hundred chances
to one against Tommy's meeting anybody. The Boldero ladies had been very
little about of late, and one of them had already visited the sick man
that day. He took the risk.
But he would not have taken it if he had guessed how great the risk was;
nor perhaps would young Andrews have gone, had he fore-seen the effect
upon himself of that beautiful, mournful, childish face, whose
expression?--A cry escaped him. A mad interpretation of it possessed
him. His promise? He threw his promise to the winds. No man could keep a
promise when confronted with--even to himself he did not say with
what,--but before Leonore could escape, or prevent it, the pent-up
torrent was loosed.
At first she was petrified,--then flared up. What was the meaning of
this? What was she to think? Was Mr. Andrews beside himself? Did he know
what he was saying?
Still he poured forth, deaf and blind. Oh, how he had longed for this
moment!--the thought of it, the hope of it, had kept him alive through
all the wretched, wretched months of separation,--and she, how had she
endured--?
"I can endure no more," cried Leonore, with almost a scream. "Be
quiet--be quiet--they will hear you,--don't you know that they will hear
you?"
"What if they do?" He was past that. "You are here. We are together.
That is enough." He seized her hand, but she fought and struggled, and
eventually wrenched herself free. "You--you _dare_?" she panted.
"Oh, I dare--now. I dare anything now."
"You dare to forget who you are? And who I am?"
"Yes, even that. It is nothing when we love each other"--and again he
laid hold of her.
"Let me go--let me go."
"But----?"
"If you have not altogether lost your senses, Mr. Andrews, you will
leave me this moment--this moment;" she stamped her foot,--"and never,
never cross my path again."
"But, Leonore--?"
"Leonore? Oh, this is too insulting--" a burst of tears. "What have I
done to be thus degraded?--" and she shook the hand torn from his grasp
as though it had been poisoned.
"What have you done? You do not understand----"
"I understand enough--too much." With an effort she changed her tone to
one of infinite disdain. "You are under some strange hallucination, Mr.
Andrews, which alone can account for this extraordinary, intolerable
behaviour. If my father had been alive--but I am still his daughter, and
you, what are _you_?"
The words in themselves might still have failed to arrest him, but the
look, the gesture, the withering emphasis on the "_you_?"--he stood
still, and after a moment, staggered a step across the pathway like a
drunken man.
"If you confess it was all a delusion," resumed Leonore, in slightly
modified accents, for she was now only eager to put an end to the scene,
and a twinge of pity made itself felt, "if you allow that you have
utterly misinterpreted a little ordinary civility--well, perhaps it was
more than civility, call it kindness if you will--I will try to
forget,--but you also must forget, and never breath a word of this
again."
"But--but----" he faltered. Then staggered afresh, unrestrainedly, it
might almost have been thought ostentatiously. It was not a pretty
spectacle.
"For Heaven's sake, pull yourself together," cried Leonore, with a sense
of repulsion. "Be ashamed of this. Own that you are ashamed of it. Own
that I never gave you cause to think--that you have been dreaming----"
"Hush. I am awake now," said the young man, slowly. And he turned his
burning eyes upon her till she shrank, but this time neither from fear
nor loathing; it was a new sensation which made itself disagreeably
felt. Was she indeed as innocent as she said? Was there not a faint
horrible suspicion of bluster in her fury of contempt and repudiation?
She was silent, struggling with herself.
"You have broken my heart, I think," said Tommy, in the same slow, dull
tone. "You have done what I was told you would do. You have played with
me, as others of your kind have played with others of mine. God forgive
you for your cruelty, but I--I am awake now,----" and again he muttered
to himself like a man in a dream.
"Mr. Andrews, can you say?--stop, I suppose you can. Wait a moment; let
me speak. I was lonely, unhappy, absorbed in myself and the empty
weariness of my life when--when I met you. I read in your face that
you--well, say it was my fault, say it was," suddenly impetuous--"at
most it was but a passing folly, and it was over almost before it had
begun. If it is any satisfaction to you now, I will say that I
am--sorry. I can do no more."
"No, you can do no more. It is much for a great lady to go so far. It is
the usual thing, I suppose;--" and again his mentor's words, "She was
sorry, _so_ sorry," echoed in the speaker's ears--"and the--the episode
is at an end. Again I say God forgive you, Mrs. Stubbs, for I never
can."
He was gone, and she rushed homewards, stumbling over every pebble in
her path.