It was soon after this that Valentine Paget's world became electrified
with the news of her engagement. Wyndham was congratulated on all
sides, and those people who had hitherto not taken the slightest notice
of a rather boyish and unpretentious young man, now found much to say
in his favor.
Yes, he was undoubtedly good-looking--a remarkable face, full of
interest--he must be clever too--he looked it. And then as to his
youth--why was it that people a couple of months ago had considered him
a lad, a boy--why, he was absolutely old for his two-and-twenty years.
A grave thoughtful man with a wonderfully sweet expression.
It was plain to be seen that Wyndham, the expectant curate of
Jewsbury-on-the-Wold, and Wyndham, the promised husband of Valentine
Paget, were totally different individuals. Wyndham's prospects were
changed, so was his appearance--so, in very truth, was the man himself.
Where he had been too young he was now almost too old, that was the
principal thing outsiders noticed. But at twenty-two one can afford
such a change, and his gravity, his seriousness, and a certain proud
thoughtful look, which could not be classified by any one as a sad
look, was vastly becoming to Wyndham.
His future father-in-law could not make enough of him, and even
Valentine caught herself looking at him with a shy pride which was not
very far removed from affection.
Wyndham had given up the promised curacy--this was one of Mr. Paget's
most stringent conditions. On the day he married Valentine he was to
enter the great shipping firm of Paget, Brake and Carter as a junior
partner, and in the interim he went there daily to become
acquainted--the world said--with the ins and outs of his new
profession.
It was all a great step in the direction of fortune and fame, and the
Rectory people ought, of course, to have rejoiced.
They were curious and unworldly, however, at Jewsbury-on-the-Wold, and
somehow the news of the great match Gerald was about to contract
brought them only sorrow and distress. Lilias alone stood out against
the storm of woe which greeted the receipt of Wyndham's last letter.
"It is a real trouble," she said, her voice shaking a good deal; "but
we have got to make the best of it. It is for Gerald's happiness. It is
selfish for us just to fret because we cannot always have him by our
side."
"There'll be no millennium," said Augusta in a savage voice. "I might
have guessed it. That horrid selfish, selfish girl has got the whole of
our Gerald. I suppose he'll make her happy, nasty, spiteful thing; but
she has wrecked the happiness of seven other girls--horrid creature! I
might have known there was never going to be a millennium. Where are
the dogs? Let me set them fighting. Get out of that, madame puss--you
and Rover and Drake will quarrel now to the end of the chapter, for
Gerald is never coming home to live."
Augusta's sentiments were warmly shared by the younger girls, and to a
great extent she even secured the sympathy of Marjory and the rector.
"I don't understand you, Lilias," said her pet sister. "I thought you
would have been the worst of us all."
"Oh, don't," said Lilias, tears springing to her eyes. "Don't you see,
Marjory, that I really feel the worst, so I must keep it all in? Don't
let us talk it over, it is useless. If Valentine makes Gerald happy I
have not a word to say, and if I am not glad I must pretend to be glad
for his sake."
"Poor old Lil!" said Marjory.
And after this little speech she teased her sister no more.
A fortnight after his engagement Gerald came to the rectory for a brief
visit. He was apparently in high spirits, and never made himself more
agreeable to his sisters. He had no confidential talks, however, with
Lilly, and they all noticed how grave and quiet and handsome he had
grown.
"He's exactly like my idea of the god Apollo," remarked Augusta. "No
wonder that girl is in love with him. Oh, couldn't I just pull her hair
for her. I can't think how Lilly sits by and hears Gerald praise her!
I'd like to give her a piece of my mind, and tell her what I think of
her carrying off our ewe-lamb. Yes, she's just like David in the Bible,
and I only wish I were the prophet Nathan, to go and have it out with
her!"
Augusta was evidently mixed in her metaphors, for it was undoubtedly
difficult to compare the same person to Apollo and a ewe-lamb.
Nevertheless, she carried her audience with her, and when now and then
Gerald spoke of Valentine he received but scant sympathy.
On the day he went away, the rector called Lilias into his study.
"My dear," he said, "I want to have a little talk with you. What do you
think of all this? Has Gerald made you many confidences? You and he
were always great chums. He was reserved with me, remarkably so, for he
was always such an open sort of a lad. But of course you and he had it
all out, my dear."
"No, father," replied Lilias. "That is just it. We hadn't anything
out."
"What--eh--nothing? And the boy is in love. Oh, yes, anyone can see
that--in love, and no confidences. Then, my dear, I was afraid of
it--now I am sure--there must be something wrong. Gerald is greatly
changed. Lilias."
"Yes," said Lilias. "I can't quite define the change, but it is there."
"My dear girl, he was a boy--now he is a man. I don't say that he is
unhappy, but he has a good weight of responsibility on his shoulders.
He was a rather heedless boy, and in the matter of concealment or
keeping anything back, a perfect sieve. Now he's a closed book.
Closed?--locked I should say. Lilias, neither you nor I can understand
him. I wish to God your mother was alive!"
"He told me," said Lilias, "that he had talked over matters with
you--that--that there was nothing much to say--that he was perfectly
satisfied, and that Valentine was like no other girl in the wide world.
To all intents and purposes Gerald was a sealed book to me, father; but
I don't understand your considering him so, for he said that he had
spoken to you very openly."
"Oh, about the arrangements between him and Paget. Yes, I consider it a
most unprecedented and extraordinary sort of thing. Gerald gives up the
Church, goes into Paget's business--early next summer marries his
daughter, and on the day of his wedding signs the deeds of partnership.
He receives no salary--not so much as sixpence--but he and his wife
take up their abode at the Pagets' house in Queen's Gate, Paget making
himself responsible for all expenses. Gerald, in lieu of providing his
wife with a fortune, makes a marriage settlement on her, and for this
purpose is required to insure his life very heavily--for thousands, I
am told--but the exact sum is not yet clearly defined. Paget undertakes
to provide for the insurance premium. I call the whole thing unpleasant
and derogatory, and I cannot imagine how the lad has consented.
Liberty? What will he know of liberty when he is that rich fellow's
slave? Better love in a cottage, with a hundred a year, say I."
"But, father, Mr. Paget would not have given Val to Gerald to live in a
cottage with her--and Gerald, he has consented to this--this that you
call degradation, because he loves Val so very, very much."
"I suppose so, child. I was in love once myself--your mother was the
noblest and most beautiful of women; that lad is the image of her.
Well, so he never confided in you, Lil? Very strange, I call it very
strange. I tell you what. Lilias, I'll run up to town next week, and
have a talk with Paget, and see what sort of girl this is who has
bewitched the boy. That's the best way. I'll have a talk with Paget,
and get to the bottom of things. I used to know him long ago at
Trinity. Now run away, child. I must prepare my sermon for to-morrow."