MISS ALTIFIORLA'S ARRIVAL.
Yes;--Sir Francis Geraldine was a beast for mischief! Thinking the
matter over, he resolved that Mr. Western should not be left in the
dark as to his wife's episode. And he determined that Mr. Western
would think more of the matter if it were represented to him that
his wife had been jilted, and had been jilted unmistakably before
they two had met each other on the Continent. He was right in this.
According to the usages of the world the lady would have less to say
for herself if that were the case and would have more difficulty in
saying it. Therefore the husband would be the more bound to hear it.
Sir Francis was a beast for mischief, but he knew what he was about.
But so did not Mrs. Western when she allowed those opportunities
to pass by her which came to her for telling her story before her
marriage. In very truth she had had no reason for concealing it but
that his story had been so nearly the same. On this account she had
put it off, and put it off,--and then the fitting time had passed
by. When she was with him alone after their marriage she could not
do it,--without confessing her fault in that she had not done it
before. She could not bring herself to do so. Standing so high in his
esteem as she did, and conscious that he was thoroughly happy in his
appreciation of her feminine merit, she could not make him miserable
by descending from her pedestal to the telling of a story, which was
disgraceful in that it had not been told before.
And there was a peculiarity of manner in him of which she became day
by day more conscious. He could be very generous for good conduct
to those dependent on him, but seemed to be one who could with
difficulty forgive an injury. He wished to have everything about him
perfect, and then life should go as soft as a summer's day. He was
almost idolatrous to her in these first days of their marriage, but
then he had found nothing out. Cecilia knowing his character asked
herself after all what there was to be found out. How often that
question must occur to the girl just married. But there was nothing.
He was pleased with her person; pleased with her wit; pleased that
money should have been offered to him, and pleased that for the
present he should have declined it. He liked her dress and her
willingness to change any portion of it at his slightest hint. He
liked her activity and power of walking, and her general adaptability
to himself. He was pleased with everything. But she had the secret at
her heart.
"I wonder that you should have lived so long, and never have been in
love before," he said to her one day as they were coming home.
"How do you know?" She blushed as she answered him, but it was a
matter as to which any girl might blush.
"I am sure you were not. I should have heard it." And yet she was
silent. She felt at the moment that the time had come,--the only
possible time. But she let the moment pass by. Though she was ever
thinking of her secret, and ever wishing that she could tell it,
longing that it had been told, she could not bear that it should be
surprised from her in this way. "I think it nicer as it is," he added
as he left the room.
Then she got up and stood alone on the floor, thinking of it all.
There she stood for ten minutes thinking of it. She would follow him
and, not throwing herself on her knees--but standing boldly before
him, tell him all. There was no disgrace in it,--to have loved that
other man. Of her own conduct she was confident before all the world.
There had been so little secrecy about it that she almost had a right
to suppose that it had been known to all men. The more she tried
to bring herself to follow him and tell him, the more she assured
herself that there should be no necessity. How ought she to have told
him, and when? At every point of his story should she have made known
to him the same point in hers? "It was exactly the same with me." "I
wouldn't have my young man because he was indifferent." "With yours
there was another lover ready. That has yet to come with me." "You
have come abroad for consolation. So have I." It would have been
impossible;--was impossible. "I think it nicer as it is," he had
said, and she could not do it.
There was some security while they were travelling, and she wished
that they might travel for ever. She was happy while with him alone;
and so too was he. But for her secret she was completely happy.
Let him only be kept in the dark and he would be happy always. She
idolised him as her own. She loved him the better for thinking that
"it was nicer as it is;"--or would have done, had it been so. Why
should they go where some sudden tidings might mar his joy;--where
some sudden tidings certainly would do so sooner or later? Still they
went on and on till in May they reached his house in Berkshire,--he
with infinite joy at his heart, and she with the load upon hers.
Early in May they reached Durton Lodge, in Berkshire, and there they
stayed during the summer. Mr. Western had his house in London, and
there was a question whether they would not go there for the season.
But Cecilia had begged to be taken to her house in the country, and
there she remained. Durton Lodge was little more than a cottage, but
it was very pretty and prettily situated. When the Ascot week came
he offered to take her there, but offered it with a smile which she
understood to mean that his proposal should not be accepted. Indeed
she had no wish for Ascot or for any place in which he or she must
meet their old friends. Might it not be possible if they both could
be happy at Durton that there they might remain with some minimum of
intercourse with the world? Six months had now passed by since they
had become engaged and no good-natured friend had as yet told him the
truth. Might it not be possible that the same silence should be as
yet preserved? If years could be made to run on then he would have
become used to her, and the telling of the secret would not be so
severe.
But there came to her a great trouble in regard to her letters from
Exeter. Miss Altifiorla would fill hers with long statements about
Sir Francis which had no interest whatsoever, but which required to
be at once destroyed. She soon learnt in her married life that her
husband had no wish to see her letters. She would so willingly have
shown them to him, would have taken such a joy in asking for his
sympathy, such a delight in exposing Miss Altifiorla's peculiar views
of life, that she lost much by her constrained reticence. But this
necessity of destroying papers was very grievous to her. Though she
knew that he would not read the letters without her permission, still
she must destroy them. In every possible way she endeavoured to
silence her correspondent, not answering her at first; and then
giving her such answers as were certainly not affectionate. But in
no way would Miss Altifiorla be "snubbed." Then after a while she
proposed to come and stay a week at Durton Lodge. This was not to
be endured. The very thought of it filled poor Mrs. Western's heart
with despair. And yet she did not like to refuse without telling her
husband. Of Miss Altifiorla she had already made mention, and Mr.
Western had been taught to laugh at the peculiarities of the old
maid. "Pray do not have her," she said to him. "She will make you
very uncomfortable, and my life will be a burden to me."
"But what can you say to her?"
"No room," suggested Cecilia.
"But there are two rooms."
"I know there are. But is one to be driven by a strict regard for
literal truth to entertain an unwelcome friend? Miss Altifiorla
thought that I ought not to have married you, and as I thought I
ought we had some words about it."
"Whom did she want you to marry?" asked Mr. Western with a laugh.
"Nobody. She is averse to marriage altogether."
"Unless she was the advocate of some other suitor, I do not see that
I need quarrel with her. But she is your friend and not mine, and if
you choose to put her off of course you can do so. I would advise you
to find something more probable than the want of a bedroom in a house
in which one is only occupied."
There was truth in this. What reason could she find? Knowing her
husband's regard to truth she did not dare to suggest any reason
to her friend more plausible than the want of a room, but still
essentially false. She was driven about thinking that she would get
her husband to take her away from home for awhile--for two or three
days. The letter remained unanswered, when her husband suggested
to her that she had better write. "Could we not go somewhere?" she
replied with a look of trouble on her brow.
"Run away from home on account of Miss Altifiorla?" said he. She was
beginning to be afraid of him and knew that it was so. She did not
dare to declare to him her thoughts and was afraid at every moment
that he should read them.
"Then I must just tell her that we can't have her."
"That will be best,--if you have made up your mind. As far as I am
concerned she is welcome. Any friend of yours would be welcome."
"Oh, George, she would bore you out of your life!"
"I am not so easily bored. I am sure that any intimate friend of
yours would have something to say for herself."
"Oh, plenty."
"And as for her having been an advocate for single life, she had not
seen me and therefore her reasons could not have been personal. There
are a great many young women, thirty years old and upwards, who take
up the idea. They do not wish to subject themselves,--perhaps because
they have not been asked by the right person."
"I don't think there have been any persons here. Not that she is bad
looking."
"Perhaps you think I shall fall in love with her."
"I'd have her directly. But she is the last person in the world I
should think of."
"I can get on very well with anyone who has an idea. There is at
any rate something to strike at. The young lady who agrees with
everything and suggests nothing, is to me the most intolerable. At
any rate you had better make up your mind at once or you'll have her
here before you know where you are."
It was this which did, indeed, happen. On the day after the last
conversation Mrs. Western wrote her letter. In it she expressed her
sorrow that engagements for the present prevented her from having
the power to entertain her friend. No doubt the letter was cold and
unfriendly. As she read it over to herself she declared that she
would have been much hurt to have received such a letter from her
friend. But she declared again that under no circumstances could
she have offered herself as Miss Altifiorla had done. Nevertheless
she felt ashamed of the letter. All of which, however, became quite
unnecessary, when, in the course of the afternoon, Miss Altifiorla
appeared at Durton Lodge. She arrived with a torrent of reasons. She
had come up to London on business which admitted of no excuse. She
was sure that her friend's letter must have gone astray,--that letter
which for the last three days she had been expecting. To return from
London to Exeter without seeing her dear friend would be so unfeeling
and unnatural! She must have come to Durton Lodge or must have
returned to Exeter. In fact, she so put it as to make it appear
impossible that she should not have come.
"My dear Miss Altifiorla," said Mr. Western, "I am sure that Cecilia
is delighted to see you. And as for me, you are quite welcome." But,
as a fact, there she was. There was no sending her away again;--no
getting her out of the house without a sojourn of some days. Whatever
mischief she might do might be done at once. There could be no doubt
that she would begin to talk of Sir Francis Geraldine and declare the
secret which it was now the one care of Cecilia's mind to keep away
from her husband. It mattered not that her presence there showed her
to be vulgar, impertinent, and obtrusive. There she was, and must be
dealt with as a friend, or as an enemy. Again Cecilia almost made up
her mind as to the better course. Let her go to her husband and tell
him all, and tell him also why it was that she told him now. Let her
endure his anger, and then there would be an end of it. There was
nothing else as to which she had need to dread him.
But again, when she found herself with him, he was happy, and jocund,
and jested with her about her friend. She could not get him into the
humour in which it was proper that he should be told. She did not
tell him, and went down to dinner with the terrible load about her
heart. Three or four times during the evening the conversation was
on the point of turning to matters in which the name of Sir Francis
Geraldine would surely be mentioned. With infinite care, but without
showing her care, she contrived to master the subject, and to force
her friend and her husband to talk of other things. But the struggle
was very great, and she was aware that it could not be repeated. The
reader will remember, perhaps, the stern thoughts which Miss Holt
had entertained as to her friend when her friend had thought proper
to give her some idea of what her duty ought to be in regard to her
present husband. She remembered well that Miss Altifiorla had written
to her, asking whether Mr. Western had forgiven "that episode."
And her mother, too, had in writing dropped some word,--some word
intended to be only half intelligible as to the question which Miss
Altifiorla had asked after the wedding breakfast. She knew well what
had been in the woman's mind, and knew also what had been in her own!
She remembered how proudly she had disdained the advice of this woman
when it had been given to her. And yet now she must go to her and ask
for mercy. She saw no other way out of her immediate trouble. She
did not believe but that her friend would be silent when told to be
silent; but yet how painfully disgraceful to her, the bride, would be
the telling.
She went up to Miss Altifiorla's room after she had gone for the
night, and found her friend getting into bed, happy with the
assistance of a strange maid. "Oh, my dear," said Miss Altifiorla,
"my hair is not half done yet; are you in a hurry for Mary?"
"I will go to my own room," said Mrs. Western, "and when Mary will
tell me that you are ready I will come to you. There is something
I have to tell you." She had not been five minutes in her own room
before Mary summoned her. The "something to be told" took immediate
hold of Miss Altifiorla's imagination, and induced her to be ready
for bed with her hair, we may suppose, "half done."
"Francesca," said Mrs. Western, as soon as she entered the room, "I
have a favour to ask you."
"A favour?"
"Yes, a favour." She had come prepared with her request down to the
very words in which it should be uttered. "I do not wish you, while
you remain here, to make any allusion to Sir Francis Geraldine."
Miss Altifiorla almost whistled as she heard the words spoken. "You
understand me, do you not? I do not wish any word to be said which
may by chance lead to the mention of Sir Francis Geraldine's name. If
you will understand that, you will be able to comply with my wishes."
Her request she made almost in the stern words of an absolute order.
There was nothing humble in her demeanour, nothing which seemed to
tell of a suppliant. And having given her command she remained quiet,
waiting for an answer.
"Then this was the reason why you didn't answer me. You did not want
to see me, and therefore remained silent."
"I did not want to see you. But it was not on that account that I
remained silent. I should have written to you. Indeed I have written
to you, and the letter would have gone to-day. I wrote to you putting
you off. But as you are here I have to tell you my wishes. I am sure
that you will do as I would have you."
"I have to think of my duty," said Miss Altifiorla.
Then there came a black frown on Mrs. Western's brow. Duty! What duty
could she have in such a matter, except to her? She suspected the
woman of a desire to make mischief. She felt confident that the woman
would do so unless repressed by the extraction from her of a promise
to the contrary. She did believe that the woman would keep her
word,--that she would feel herself bound to preserve herself from the
accusation of direct falsehood; but from her good feeling, from her
kindness, from her affection, from that feminine bond which ought to
have made her silent, she expected nothing. "Your duty, Francesca,
in this matter is to me," said Mrs. Western, assuming a wonderful
severity of manner. "You have known me many years and are bound to me
by many ties. I tell you what my wishes are. I cannot quite explain
my reasons, but I do not doubt that you will guess them."
"You have kept the secret?" said Miss Altifiorla with a devilish
mixture of malice, fun, and cunning.
"It does not matter what I have done. There are reasons, which made
me wish to avoid your immediate coming. At the present moment it
would interfere gravely with his happiness and with mine were he
to learn the circumstances of Sir Francis Geraldine's courtship.
Of course it is painful to me to have to say this to you. It is so
painful that to avoid it I have absolutely written to you telling you
not to come. This I have done not to avoid your coming, which would
otherwise have been a pleasure to me, but to save myself from this
great pain. Now you know it all, and know also what it is that I
expect from you."
Miss Altifiorla listened to this in silence. She was seated in
an easy bedroom chair, clothed from head to foot in a pale pink
dressing-gown, from which the colour was nearly washed out; and her
hair as I have said was "half done." But in her trouble to collect
her thoughts she became quite unaware of all accessories. Her dear
friend Cecilia had put the matter to her so strongly that she did
not quite dare to refuse. But yet what a fund of gratification might
there not be in telling such a story under such circumstances to
the husband! She sat silent for a while meditating on it, till Mrs.
Western roughly forced a reply from her lips. "I desire to have your
promise," said Mrs. Western.
"Oh, yes, of course."
"You will carefully avoid all allusion to the subject."
"Since you wish it, I will do so."
"That is sufficient. And now good-night."
"I know that I am doing wrong," said Miss Altifiorla.
"You would indeed be doing wrong," said Mrs. Western, "if you were
to take upon yourself to destroy my happiness on such a matter after
having been duly warned."