Lily was very penitent while her mother talked to her, but after
Elizabeth went away her seriousness relaxed. What harm had she done,
after all? She had not encouraged any one, or beguiled any one. When she
was spoken to, she replied civilly again. When a gentleman took off his
hat to her what could she do but give him a smile and say "Good-day to
you, sir"? Was that a sin? When they talked nonsense what did she ever
do but laugh? They got nothing from her. If they fell in love with her
it was at their own peril,--it was no fault of hers. Thus her
compunction melted away, for what harm had she done? All that day she
worked patiently and closely at the children's frocks for young Mrs
Weston at the Vicarage. She never so much as put her head out of the
window or thought of breathing the fresh air. Nothing could be more
industrious; and prettier little frocks or neater were never
manufactured. Miss Prentice had felt that it was a great compliment paid
to her by Mrs Walter Weston, who lived in London, though she was now on
a visit to her husband's father, to entrust her and not a London
workwoman with the children's frocks; and that the work should be so
satisfactory pleased her mightily. "You must mind what your mother told
you," Miss Prentice said, next morning, "but I'll not keep you from your
Sunday walk. Take your walk, but take some one with you, and mind who
you speak to, Lily." Lily promised "faithfully," solemnly. She tripped
out, looking up the street and down the street, and saw no one. Who was
likely to be in the High Street in the middle of a summer Sunday? To be
sure, there were the village people at their doors, and lads and lasses
setting out, like Lily, for their walk. She thought she would go down to
the waterside and pay a visit of benevolence and kindness to old Bess,
the wife of the old boatman who looked after the boats at the Castle.
That would be a nice walk, and yet it would be out of everybody's way.
Quite out of the way, for it was not one of her haunts, nor was "any
person" likely to look for her there. And yet such an unlikely thing
might be as that "somebody" might have something to say to old Simon
about the boats, even though it was Sunday. Thus both conscience and
fancy were satisfied--conscience, for most likely "they" would be
looking for her in an entirely different quarter; and fancy, because
there was still a possibility, a far-off unlikely chance, that
Providence might somehow bring "them" there, without intention. And when
all was done, it was a bonnie walk,--the water softly lapping on the
shore, the sunshine twinkling in all the wavelets, the green banks warm
in the afternoon light, the trees softly shading over her, covering her
path with scattered shadows. All this made the beginning of the walk
very pleasant to Lily. She had been so good that she had a secret,
half-drowsy consciousness that events would turn out to her advantage
and bring her pleasant harm--that the temptation from which she had fled
would be brought to her, without any fault of hers--perhaps no very
unusual state of mind.
This, we must pause to say, was at a period considerably later than
that treated of in the beginning of this history. Abel Murray had been
for several weeks at Landale, had been on the eve of departure, and had
stayed, doubling the originally proposed length of his visit before he
made up his mind to write to his mother, which he had done with great
precaution, sending his letter to Oxford first, that the postmark might
not betray him. In the meantime he had made himself popular in the three
great houses of the neighbourhood. Old Squire Ridley, in particular, had
adopted him among the number of his closest friends, and because of the
accident from which he had saved Roger he had been made free of the
house, and had grown into the most intimate relations with the family
generally, so that Mrs Landale playfully complained that though _her_
guest, it was the Ridleys who had the most of him--playfully: yet the
Landales, perhaps, were not quite so pleased as they still professed to
be. They had remonstrated when he talked of going away, and insisted on
the prolonging of his visit, but still there was a little soreness in
their minds as to his constant coming and going to the Castle. If it was
Roger that was the attraction, they all thought that certainly their
Charley was worth as much as Roger; and if it was Mary--oh, if it was
Mary, then it was most foolish, and more to be deplored than any other
folly could be. For what could come of that but disappointment and
trouble? Mary was engaged, and even if she had not been engaged, she
never would have had anything to say to a man who, whatever he might be
in the way of family, &c. (and nobody really knew what his family was,
whether he belonged to the Atholes or not), was certainly not a rich
man. It was madness, they all thought; but no one had a chance of saying
so or warning him against it, and day by day he spent at the Castle,
often, indeed, in company with some member of the Landale family (asked
there much oftener on his account, which was something in his favour),
but also often without. Mary was very kind to him. He had saved her
brother's life, and he pleased and amused her father, and he was very
much devoted, simply and reverentially, to herself. Mary was beginning
to perceive that she was not likely to have very much devotion from her
husband. Sir Richard was not an impassioned lover. He had taken his
wooing very easily from the first; it was more like the settlement of an
alliance between two princely families than honest loving. She was the
only person for him to marry, his fit mate; the one lady in the district
who could add something--a bluer blood, a more distinguished lineage--to
him who had so much. Therefore Sir Richard Featherstonhaugh had proposed
to Miss Ridley, and, with faint reluctance, had been accepted. There
was no passion in the business, and when Mary saw this new-comer,
silent, reverential, and devoted, with a veiled light of passion in his
eyes, she--liked it. It is a sad confession to be obliged to make. She
was like Lily, though she was so much above Lily. She was flattered--and
it softened and warmed her heart, a little chilled with the indifference
of others and with the absence of emotion in herself, to see the light
in this young man's eyes. She would not for the world have done him any
harm. If she had been able to accuse herself of having done anything to
cause this, she would never have forgiven herself for doing it; but the
mischief was done before she found out, and she felt he was happy when
he was by her side, when she spoke to him, when he had little services
to do for her. Poor fellow! and she had so much cause to be grateful to
him. Why should she not give him, it being so little, as much pleasure
as she could?
Sir Richard, too, as in duty bound, had invited Abel to
Featherstonhaugh, and there he had found among the visitors people whom
he knew. Nowhere in all the neighbourhood was there so much society, and
so good. The great house was full of guests, and Sir Richard was not
indifferent to any one whose presence in his house was pleasant to his
visitors. But though he received him and was civil to him, he did not
like Murray. A certain suspicion in respect to him was always in his
mind. He had seen his admiration for Miss Ridley, which was a distinct
offence to the man who was going to marry her, but did not much admire
her; and he had perceived that Murray, with a similarly jealous and
displeased feeling, had seen his own eyes straying after Lily. These
were very good reasons why he should dislike him, and be on the watch
for something against him. He had made all sorts of covert inquiries
into his origin--asking if he were connected with various Murrays whom
he professed himself to know; and these inquiries had become very
unpleasant, very disagreeable to Abel, so that he felt the existence of
a _sourd_ suspicion, which, had it shown itself at first, would have
made him end his visit abruptly. But other reasons, now far more strong,
had come in, inducing him to stay. He could not tear himself away. While
he was there was he not a kind of protection to his sister? though it
seemed to him that he would rather die than acknowledge the village Lily
for his sister; and how could he banish himself for ever from the place
which held Mary Ridley? Once gone, it must be for ever--that he
knew--and thus lived on the edge of the precipice, daring the danger
which seemed to him so terrible, but with which, when his feelings were
excited, he could yet play. He had, indeed, it seemed to himself,
surmounted for the moment all the most evident dangers. No one had
recognised him, and yet he had seen many people whom he recognised; and
he had never betrayed himself, though it had been sometimes difficult
enough to keep on his guard. Was he not safe on the whole? and for
another week or two--a few precious days or moments stolen from
fate--surely there would be no risk if he should stay.
This, however, has but little to do with Lily, straying along the side
of the water, with a smile on her face, and confused happiness in her
heart. It was not happiness, it was expectation, a sense of all joyful
things that might be coming, a confusion of hope and pleasure. She
walked on with a half smile, with the shadows and sunshine flickering
over her, and the wind busy about her, blowing her ribbons here and
there, ruffling out the short locks that lurked under the braided hair
on her forehead. Lily thought this was dreadfully untidy, and gave
herself a good deal of trouble to smooth them down again, altogether
unwitting of the time when "a fringe" should be counted a beauty. The
cottage of Bess and Simon, to which she was going, lay in a little
circle, half hidden by the woods before you reached the Castle. It was a
very solitary little place, open to the lake, but shut in on three sides
by the trees, which there were low down, almost to the water's edge.
Now it was not the custom in the district to go on the water on Sundays;
but Roger was restless, and beyond rule: he had gone to church in the
morning, as in duty bound, but he had not known what to do with himself
afterwards. His mind was in a ferment and agitation about Lily, to whom
he had said everything a man can say, without eliciting any
response,--she had laughed, and she had eluded all his entreaties. No
lady would have treated him, he said to himself indignantly, as the
little village coquette had done. He was out of patience, and out of
heart--exasperated, yet ever more and more bound to her, and feeling it
impossible to break his chain. What was he to do? He had strolled down
to the beach, and thrown himself into a skiff in the restlessness of his
mind, and there he lay, swaying with the swaying of the water, floating
where it liked to take him, his oars shipped, himself lying moodily in
the boat, thinking--wondering what was to become of him, what she would
do, whether he could tear himself away and try to forget her. That
perhaps would be the best thing; but could he do it? The future was dark
enough to him, even happiness being full of pain. Happiness would be to
marry Lily--but if he married Lily, what should he do with her? how
present her to his father? how get his marriage acknowledged and
approved of? To lose her was despair; but to gain her--would that be so
very much better? Poor Roger! he knew very well that Lily had not, could
not have, any such love for him as filled his bosom for her. If she
loved him at all, it must be in so much lighter, slighter a way, no more
than liking, perhaps no more than vanity. This he knew very well by
moments--and at this moment felt it to the bottom of his heart.
When all at once he saw a white dress fluttering, lingering along under
the flecked shadows and sunshine. And it seemed to Roger that he knew
the turn of the pretty figure, the swift yet lingering pace. He raised
himself up in a moment and seized his oars; but even while he was in the
act of moving, stopped suddenly, and, with those oars touching the
water, stayed and gazed at what was going on before his eyes. He was not
near enough to see the blue spots on the white cotton which he would
have known for Lily's Sunday gown, but he had no doubt that it was Lily;
but then, springing suddenly through the trees, came another figure, a
man, throwing a dark shadow, by Lily's side. He could hear, or thought
he could hear, her little start and scream, and saw in a moment, lighted
by jealousy and a kind of hatred which he had begun to entertain for
this inappropriate rival, that it was Featherstonhaugh. Roger set his
teeth. If it had been any other man, any man who had a right to address
her, who was free as he himself was--but Featherstonhaugh! Mary's
accepted and betrothed lover! Roger's brain and his heart seemed to take
fire. Lily gave a little scream, but she was not afraid, and Roger
looking grimly on from his boat saw her stand listening and answering
with the same half invitation, half repulsion, with which she had so
often treated himself. They stood and talked, and Roger looked on. He
could not hear what they were saying, but what he saw drove him frantic.
It made him wild even that she should stop to parley at all. Not a look,
not a gesture escaped him. He saw Featherstonhaugh put his hand on her
arm, and though Lily tossed it off with a quick movement of her elbow,
she was not angry. Then he seized her hand--but Roger could bear no
more. He swept towards them with a few hasty strokes, and dashed his
boat up upon the beach with a jar and scatter of the pebbles, springing
on to the path beside the two, almost before Featherstonhaugh had
dropped in amazement the hand which upon a second attempt he seemed to
have been allowed to take.
"I beg your pardon," said Roger, quivering with passion. "I fear I am
interrupting a _tête-à-tête_." And he glanced at the intruder who was to
be his sister's husband with suppressed fury.
A man caught in such a position cannot well look anything but foolish.
Featherstonhaugh was taken entirely by surprise. It is bad enough, in
any case, to be found in intimate discourse with a village girl; but to
be found by his rival, and his future brother-in-law, could anything be
more uncomfortable? He flushed with angry impatience and discomfiture.
"I suppose, Ridley, a man may speak, without offence to you, to any one
he meets?"
"Certainly," said Roger, taking off his hat. "I did not know that you
enjoyed this lady's acquaintance to such an extent; but, certainly, I at
least have no right to interfere."
"Oh," cried Lily, frightened, "you are angry! Why are you angry? It is
not my fault."
"It is no fault at all, I presume," said Roger, "but an agreeable
meeting, which I can only apologise for interrupting."
"You need not speak so fine for me," said Lily, rousing herself. "I was
but going to see old Bess in the cottage. I was not thinking upon
gentlemen, neither him nor another--least of all upon him," she added in
a low tone, with an accent of contempt in her voice. This tone made
Featherstonhaugh unreasonably angry, and in an equally unreasonable way
mollified Roger. She stood between them, two dark and clouded faces, her
own somewhat anxious and frightened. But Lily was no coward. "I cannot
hold you from quarrelling, if you will quarrel," she said, "but it shall
not be about me. I'm wanting none of you; but I'll speak when I'm spoken
to, whoever it is, and answer to no person for it, but my mother," said
Lily, after a pause,--"the only one in the world that has a right to
find fault with me. Good-day to you. I'm going on, as was my meaning, to
see old Bess."
And with this she swept away, simple Lily in her cotton gown, bearing
the part and aspect of a princess to the two astonished young men. They
stood as she left them staring at each other, mutually discomfited.
Roger, who had confronted his rival in all the rigour of righteous wrath
a minute before, feeling himself so ridiculously in the wrong that he
did not know what to say. Featherstonhaugh took advantage of his sudden
downfall.
"I hope you see the mistake of a too hasty judgment?" he said.
"Mistake!" cried Roger, roused. "Mistake about her, if you like, who
shames us with her innocence; but none about you. Have a care,
Featherstonhaugh! If you think I will stand by and see one woman duped,
and another played with----"
"You do me immense credit," said the other, with a pale smile. "I never
knew I was such a Lothario."
"By heaven I will teach you then," cried Roger, setting his teeth, "if
you put yourself in my way."
"And what is that royal road?" Featherstonhaugh asked, controlling
himself and driving the other to fury. Roger had advanced a step, his
eyes glaring, his throat dry with excitement--when an unthought-of
interruption came. A trim figure of an old man, bowed but precise,
moving slowly along the upper path beneath the trees, came suddenly in
sight. It was the old vicar, Mr Weston, who had christened both of them
and all the parish beside. The sound of his steady, measured old
footstep rang against their excited ears like the very steps of Time
himself. They fell apart by instinct, they composed their looks and
banished from their voices all sign of the enmity with which they had
turned on each other. Mr Weston was not deceived. He had heard high
words as he came up, and had even seen the threatening looks of the two
young men, and divined that they were on the edge of a quarrel, though
he did not know what kind it was. The very sight of him stopped
everything. Ridley was already conscious that to quarrel with his future
brother-in-law about Lily was not a thing that was possible. Passion is
a fine thing, and all-prevailing, people think; but when it can bring
nothing but ridicule and social ignominy, men very rarely indulge their
passion. His hand, which had been raised to emphasise his words, if
nothing more, fell by his side, his angry countenance cleared. "What,
Roger!" said the old man, "and you, Sir Richard! then I shall have
company for the rest of the way. But you must come to me, for I cannot
go to you."
The vicar had not been out for weeks before. He had been ill, and had
been shut up in his own room during all the course of summer. This was
the first day he had been able to go out. He was walking slowly, with
evident weakness, enjoying the air and the landscape, but making slow
progress. "I shall be glad of an arm from one of you," he said, as the
young men obeyed him and scrambled up the bank from the beach. How could
they disobey such a call? He had all the authority of tradition, of
natural respect, and conventional propriety in his favour. They would
each have made a considerable sacrifice rather than allow him to
perceive any struggle. His calm assumption of friendship between them
subdued them more than any remonstrance. "You have been on the water, I
see?" he said. "Think you it is a good example for you to set, the two
chief men in the county?"
"You must blame me only; Featherstonhaugh is perfectly innocent," said
Roger, quickly.
"Only because it did not occur to me," said Featherstonhaugh. "I cannot
pretend to have been better employed."
"Ah, lads, lads," said the old man. "I will take your arm, Roger, if you
please. You will be foolish, whatever we elder folks may say. We learn
to give ourselves no needless trouble as we grow old. And to wear
yourselves out rowing on a warm day like this, instead of creeping
quietly along a sunny bank as I do--but I don't suppose you are likely
to mind me."
And he went on talking quietly, leaning heavily on Roger's arm, talking
meaningly, though he veiled his meaning, taking it for granted that they
were two friends, two brothers, as they ought to have been. Thus he led
them with him to the Castle, neither of them venturing upon a word which
was in opposition to the _rôle_ he assigned them. Once, indeed, it
occurred to Featherstonhaugh to take advantage of the interruption and
to go home; for it was not particularly agreeable to him to visit his
betrothed wife, under the risk of being exposed by her brother. But
unfortunately this blessed fancy, which might have been the saving of
all of them, though thus suggested by some good angel, was never carried
out. He went on, unconscious that he was going to his fate.
The meeting with the squire and Mary was cordial and friendly. They were
both anxious to show their pleasure at the sight of the vicar, and Mary
gave her brother to understand that she would be personally offended
should he steal away, as he had been too much in the habit of doing.
Mistaken precaution; he would have taken the first opportunity to get
away, and go back to the beach and waylay Lily on her return, had it not
been for this warning and for that attraction of hostility which kept
him fascinated to the place in which his adversary was. But Mary's
senses were too fine not to perceive that there was storm in the air,
that her brother and her lover were on anything but friendly terms--that
they never addressed each other, never even looked at each other, and
showed every symptom of a recent quarrel. The relations between them had
been sufficiently strained and difficult before, and she was anxious and
watchful. To keep them together, to beguile them into talk, to interest
one in the other, was her womanish way of mending matters. Even in
ordinary cases of incompatibility of temper it is better to leave things
alone; but an anxious woman is slow to think so. She was glad and
relieved when more visitors arrived, being Charley Landale and Murray,
who now haunted the house at all times and seasons. Abel had never met
old Mr Weston before. The vicar had been ill, as we have said, and the
meeting now was quite unexpected. Murray had become foolhardy,--he had
ceased to take his usual precautions. A man who has passed his own
mother unrecognised on Saturday, how is he likely to fear a stranger on
Sunday? He came in quite fearlessly, giving himself up to the pleasure
of Mary Ridley's presence. She welcomed him as a most happy diversion in
the smouldering discord of the moment, and eagerly introduced him to the
vicar. "This is Mr Murray, whom I am sure you have heard of," she said.
"Yes, I have heard of him: Mr Murray, the great Oxford scholar you have
all been talking of. I'm a little blind, and a little deaf, and you must
forgive an old man. There is a youth at one of your colleges I would
like to ask you about. By the way, he's of your own name; I forget what
his college is. Abel Murray, a young man from this parish. God bless
us!" cried the vicar, with a sudden start.
"What is the matter, sir?" cried Mary; "you are over-tired; you are
unwell."
"No, no, nothing of the kind. It was just a sudden fancy. Perhaps you
may know the young man I am asking about, Mr Murray? It's your own
name."
There was a distinct pause in Abel's mind. The others were not conscious
of it; but to him it seemed as distinct a pause as that which falls upon
a criminal when he has to say Guilty or Not guilty. A choice seemed to
be thrust upon him--truth or falsehood, good or evil. And yet the blood
had begun to hurry so wildly through his veins, the mad heart-piston to
thump so loudly, that nothing but a confusion and giddy darkness was
round him, through which his voice came not like his own voice, as if
some one else spoke. "There are many of the name," he said; "it is not
an unusual one. You don't remember his college? Had you done so all
would have been easy enough."
"No, I don't remember the college," said the vicar, gravely. He sat
staring at the young man with his dim eyes, studying him in every
feature. "He was a handsome lad, dark and handsome like the rest of his
family. I saw his mother selling her butter the last Saturday I was
about before my illness, and I told her how satisfied we were. He is a
credit to the parish. We have never had a prodigy before that I'm aware
of. And son of a poor woman, that sells her butter (and very good butter
it is) in the market at Waterside, it's a great credit to him to have
done so well. Strange, now, when I think of it, in this light, there's a
great resemblance----"
Mechanically Abel turned his head to the light, but there was nothing
but giddy darkness in his own eyes. The room swam round him, a pale mist
full of inquisitive faces. "By Jove! that will be the brother of the
pretty girl in the village--the Lily of Waterside, as they call her. I
had forgotten her brother. I wonder what was his college?" said Charley,
carelessly. He spoke lightly, meaning little as he was in the habit of
speaking--when all at once his eyes caught his friend's agitated
colourless face. In a moment Charley stopped short; his countenance
changed, his under lip dropped, he stared at Murray with a face of blank
dismay.
They were all looking at him now, every eye fixed upon him--the vicar
peering with contracted eyelids, for he was short-sighted. Abel's lips
were so dry that he could scarcely speak. The harsh laugh, which he
could not restrain when he was excited, broke from him in spite of
himself--"The college! yes, that seems the essential point," he said.
How they all stared. God help him! unhappy wretch! He stood up unawares,
feeling as if he hung suspended by some waving thread of chance over an
abyss. Now he was falling in wild vertigo, misery, and shame. "My lad,"
said the vicar, very pitifully, yet authoritatively, in the way in which
it was natural to address Elizabeth Murray's son, "I hope there's no
intention to deceive in what you've done. Why should you try to conceal
what all can see--that you are Abel Murray yourself?"
He gave one wild glance round him. They were all staring at him, the
room turning round, the light changed to darkness, nothing but a mist of
terrible, upbraiding, wondering faces. Then he became sensible of one
which was an embodied insult, a sneer, a smile, a look which spoke
enjoyment of his misery. That drove him out of himself: he struck a
blind blow towards the insulting face, and with a cry, half moan, half
yell, half laugh of despair and madness, turned and dashed through the
circle. Who might be in his way he knew not, and how he got out of the
room he knew not. He turned his back upon them all, and dashed wildly
out of the house.