Kitabı oku: «I, Thou, and the Other One: A Love Story», sayfa 5
CHAPTER FIFTH
ANNABEL VYNER
The first chapter of Kate’s and Piers’ love-story was told to these stirring events. They were like a trumpet obligato in the distance thrilling their hearts with a keener zest and a wider sympathy. True, the sympathy was not always in unison, for Piers was an inflexible partisan of his own order, yet in some directions Kate’s feelings were in perfect accord. For instance, at Exham Hall and at Atheling Manor-house, there was the same terror of the mob’s firebrand, and the same constant watch for its prevention. These buildings were not only the cherished homes of families; they were houses of national pride and record. Yet many such had perished in the unreasoning anger of multitudes mad with suffering and a sense of wrong; and the Squire and the Lord alike kept an unceasing watch over their habitations. On this subject, all were unanimous; and the fears, and frights, and suspicions relating to it drew the families into much closer sympathy.
After the election was over, there was a rapid subsidence of public feeling; the people had taken the first step triumphantly; and they were willing to wait for its results. Then the Richmoor family began to consider an immediate removal to London, and, as a preparatory courtesy, gave a large dinner party at the Castle. As Kate was not yet in society, she had no invitation; but the Squire and Mrs. Atheling were specially honoured guests.
“The Squire has been of immense service to me,” said Richmoor to his Duchess. “A man so sincere and candid I have seldom met. He has spoken well for us, simply and to the point, and I wish you to pay marked attention to Mrs. Atheling.”
“Of course, if you desire it, I will do so. Who was Mrs. Atheling? Is she likely to be detrimental in town or troublesome?”
“She is the daughter of the late Thomas Hardwicke, of Hardwicke–as you know, a very ancient county family. She had a good fortune; in fact, she brought the Squire the Manor of Belward.”
“In appearance, is she presentable?”
“She was very handsome some years ago. I have not seen her for a long time.”
“I dare say she has grown stout and red; and she will probably wear blue satin in honour of her husband’s Tory principles. These county dames always think it necessary to wear their party colours. I counted eleven blue satin dresses at our last election dinner.”
“Even if she does wear blue satin, I should like you to be exceedingly civil to her.”
“I suppose you know that Piers has been at Atheling a great deal. I heard in some way that–in fact, Duke, that Piers and Miss Atheling were generally considered lovers.”
The Duke laughed. “I think I understand Piers,” he said. “These incendiary terrors have drawn people together; and there has also been the election business as well. Many perfectly necessary natural causes have taken Piers to Atheling.”
“Miss Atheling, for instance!”
“Oh, perhaps so! Why not? When I was a young man, I thought it both necessary and natural to have a pretty girl to ride and walk with. But riding and walking with a lovely girl is one thing; marrying her is another. Piers knows that he is expected to marry Annabel Vyner; he knows that for many reasons it will be well for him to do so. And above all other considerations, Piers puts his family and his caste.”
The Duke’s absolute confidence in his son satisfied the Duchess. She looked upon her husband as a man of wonderful penetration and invincible wisdom. If he was not uneasy about Piers and Miss Atheling, there was no necessity for her to carry an anxious thought on the subject; and she was glad to be fully released from it. Yet she had more than a passing curiosity about Kate’s mother. The Squire she had frequently seen, both in the pink of the hunting-field and in the quieter dress of the dinner-table. But it so happened that she had never met Mrs. Atheling; and, on entering the great drawing-room, her eyes sought the only lady present who was a stranger to her.
Mrs. Atheling was standing at the Duke’s side; and she went directly to her, taking note, as she did so, of the beauty, style, and physical grace that distinguished the lady. She saw that she wore a gown–not of blue–but of heavy black satin, that it fell away from her fine throat and shoulders, and showed her arms in all their exquisite form and colour. She saw also that her dark hair was dressed well on the top of the head in bouillonés curls, and that the only ornament she wore was among them,–a comb of wrought gold set with diamonds,–and that otherwise neither brooch nor bracelet, pendant nor ruffle of lace broke the noble lines of her figure or the rich folds of her gown. And the Duchess was both astonished and pleased with a toilet so distinguished; she assured herself in this passing investigation that Mrs. Atheling was quite “presentable,” and also probably desirable.
The favourable impression was strengthened in that hour after dinner when ladies left to their own devices either become disagreeable or confidential. The Duchess and Mrs. Atheling fell into the latter mood, and their early removal to London was the first topic of conversation.
“We have no house in town,” said Mrs. Atheling; “but the Squire has rented one that belonged to the late General Vyner. It is in very good condition, I hear, though we may have to stay a few days at ‘The Clarendon.’”
“How strange! I mean that it is strange you should have rented the General’s house. Did you make the arrangement with the Duke?”
“No, indeed; with a Mr. Pownell who is a large house agent.”
“Mr. Pownell attends to the Duke’s London property. I am sure he will be delighted to know his old friend’s home is in such good hands. I wonder if you have heard that the Duke is General Vyner’s executor and the guardian of his daughter?”
Mrs. Atheling made a motion indicative of her ignorance and her astonishment, and the Duchess continued, “It is quite a charge everyway; but there was a life-long friendship between the two men, and Annabel will come to us almost like a daughter.”
“A great charge though,” answered Mrs. Atheling, “especially if she is yet to educate.”
“Her education is finished. She is twenty-two years of age. It is her wealth which will make my position an anxious one. It is not an easy thing to chaperon a great heiress.”
“And if she is beautiful, that will add to the difficulty,” said Mrs. Atheling.
“I have never seen Miss Vyner. I cannot tell you whether she is beautiful or not so. She joins us in London, and my first duty will be to present her at the next drawing-room.”
A little sensitive pause followed this statement,–a pause so sensitive that the Duchess divined the desire in Mrs. Atheling’s heart; and Mrs. Atheling felt the hesitancy and wavering inclination weighing her wish in the thoughts of the Duchess. A sudden, straight glance from Mrs. Atheling’s eyes decided the question.
“I should like to present Miss Atheling at the same time, if you have no objection,” she added. And Mrs. Atheling’s pleasure was so great, and her thanks so candid and positive, that the Duchess accepted the situation she had placed herself in with apparent satisfaction. Yet she wondered why she had made the offer. She felt as if the favour had been obtained against her will. She was half afraid in the very moment of the proposal that she was doing an imprudent thing. But when she had done it, she never thought of withdrawing from a position she must have taken voluntarily. On the contrary, she affected a great interest in the event, and talked of “the ceremonies Miss Atheling must make herself familiar with,” of the probable date at which the function would take place, and of the dress and ornaments fitting for the occasion. “And the young people must meet each other as soon as possible,” she continued.
Then the gentlemen entered the drawing-room, and the groups scattered. The Duchess left Mrs. Atheling; and Lord Exham took the chair she vacated. And the happy mother was far too simple, and too single-hearted to keep her pleasure to herself. She told Exham of the honour intended Kate, and was a little dashed by the manner in which he heard the news. He was ashamed of it himself; but he could not at once conquer the feeling of jealousy which assailed him. It was the first time that the image of Kate had been presented to him in company with any but Piers Exham; and it gave him real suffering to associate it with the attention and admiration her beauty was sure to challenge from all and sundry who would be present at a court drawing-room. However, he made the necessary assurances of pleasure, and Mrs. Atheling was not a woman who went motive hunting. She took a friend’s words at their face value.
Of course Kate was delighted, and the Squire perhaps more so; for though he pretended to think it “all a bit of nonsense,” he opened his purse-strings wide, and told his wife and daughter to “help themselves.” So the last few days at Atheling were set to the dreams, and hopes, and expectations of that gay social life which always has a charm for youth. The clash of party warfare, the wailing of want, the insistent claims of justice,–all these voices were temporarily hushed. They had become monotonous and, to Kate, suddenly uninteresting. What was the passing of a Reform Bill to a girl of nineteen, when there was such a thing as a court drawing-room in expectation?
It made her restless and anxious during the two weeks occupied by their removal from Atheling, and their settlement in London. And though the great city was full of wonder and interest, and the new splendours of the Vyner mansion very satisfactory, yet she could not enjoy these things until there was some token that the Duchess remembered, and intended to fulfil her promise. If only Piers had been in London! But Piers had been detained in Yorkshire, and was not expected until the formal opening of Parliament, so that Kate could only speculate, and wish, and fear, and in so doing discount her present, and forestall her future pleasures. So prodigal is youth of happiness and feeling!
However, at the end of October, Mrs. Atheling received a letter from the Duchess. It reminded her of the drawing-room, and asked Miss Atheling’s presence that evening in order to meet Miss Vyner, and consult with her about the dresses to be worn. The visit was to be perfectly informal; but even an informal visit to Richmoor House was a great event to Kate. And how pretty she was when she came into her father’s and mother’s presence, dressed for the occasion! Mrs. Atheling looked at her with a smile of satisfaction, and the Squire instantly rose, and took her on his arm to the waiting carriage. This carriage was the Squire’s pet extravagance, and there was not a more splendidly-appointed equipage in London. Its horses were of the finest that Yorkshire breeds; the servant’s liveries irreproachable in taste; and when he saw his daughter’s white figure against its rich, blue linings he was satisfied with his outlay.
Richmoor House was soon reached, and Kate looked with wonder at its noble frontage, and its stone colonnades. How much greater was her wonder when she stepped into its interior vestibule! This vestibule was eighty-two feet long, by more than twelve feet wide; it was ornamented with Doric columns and fine carvings, and at each end there was a colossal staircase. Up one of these stately ways Kate was conducted into a gallery full of fine paintings, and forming the corridor on which the one hundred and fifty rooms appropriated to the use of the family opened. Here, one servant after another escorted her, until she was left with a woman-in-waiting, who led her into a tiring-room and then assisted Kate’s own maid to remove her mistress’s wrap and hood, and tie in pretty bows her white satin sandals. The simple girl felt as if she was in a dream, and she accepted all this attention with the calm composure of a dream-maiden. It was just like one of the old fairy tales she used to live in. She was an enchanted princess in an enchanted castle, and all she had to do, was to be passive in the hands of her destiny. Transient and illogical as this feeling was, it gave to her manner a singular air of serene confidence, and the Duchess noticed and approved it. She was relieved at once from any apprehension of anything malapropos in The Presence.
She went forward to meet Kate, and was both astonished and pleased at her protegée’s appearance. The white llama in which she was gowned, its simple trimming of white satin, and its pretty accessories of white slippers and gloves satisfied both the pride and the taste of the Duchess. Any less attention to costume she would have felt as a want of respect towards herself; any more extravagant display would have indicated vulgar display and a due want of subordination to her own rank and age. But Kate offended no feeling, and she took her by the hand and led her down the long room. At its extremity there was a group of girls: one was standing; the others were sitting on a sofa before her. The eyes of all were fastened on Kate as she approached; but she was not disturbed by this scrutiny. She had all the strength and assurance which comes from a proper and moderate toilet; and she was even competent to do her own share of observation.
The three girls sitting on the sofa offered no points of remark or speculation. They were the three Ladies Anne, Mary, and Charlotte Warwick; and all alike had the beauty of youth, the grace of noble nurture, and the pretty garments indicative of their station. But the young lady standing was of a different character. Her personality pervaded the space in which she stood; she domineered with a look; and Kate knew instinctively that this girl was Annabel Vyner. The knowledge came with a little shock, a sudden failing of heart, a presentiment. She had given her hand with a pleasant impulse, and without consideration, to the Ladies Warwick; she did not offer it to Annabel; and yet she was not aware of the omission. All of these girls were intending to make a Court début, and at that moment were discussing its necessities. Kate at first took little part in this discussion. Mrs. Atheling had already decided on the costume she thought most suitable for her daughter; and Kate was quite satisfied with her choice. Miss Vyner was however dictating to Lady Charlotte Warwick what she ought to wear; and Kate watched with a curious wonder this girlish oracle, laying down laws for others her equal in age, and far more than her equal in rank and social position.
Miss Vyner was not beautiful; but she possessed an irresistible fascination. She was large, and rather heavy. She reminded one of a roughhewn granite statue of old Egypt; and she was just as magnificently imposing. Her hair was long, and strong, and wavy; her eyes very black and intrepid, but capable of liquid, languishing expressions, full of enchantment. Her nose, though thick and square at the end, had wide, sensitive nostrils; and her fine, red lips showed white and dazzling teeth. But it was the sense of power and plenitude of life which she possessed which gave her that natural authority, whose influence all felt, and few analysed or disputed.
She was quite aware that standing was a becoming posture, and that it gave to her a certain power over the girlish figures who seemed to sit at her feet. It was not long, however, before Kate felt an instinctive rebellion against the position assigned her; she knew that it put her in an unfair subordination; and she rose from her chair, and stood leaning against the Broadwood piano at her side. The action arrested Miss Vyner’s attention. She stopped speaking in the middle of a sentence, and, looking steadily at Kate, said suavely, as she pushed the chair slightly,–
“Do sit down, Miss Atheling.”
“No, thank you,” answered Kate. “I have been sitting all day. I am tired of sitting.”
Then Annabel gave her a still more searching look, and something came into Kate’s eyes which she understood; for she smiled as she went on with her little dictation; but the thought in her heart was, “So you have thrown down the glove, Miss Atheling!”
Nothing however of this incipient defiance was noticeable; and Annabel’s attention was almost immediately afterwards diverted from her companions. For in the middle of one of her fine descriptions of an Indian court, she observed a sudden loss of interest, and a simultaneous direction of every glance towards the upper end of the room. The Duchess was approaching, and with her, a young man in dinner costume. A crimson flush rushed over Kate’s neck and face; she dropped her eyes, but could not restrain the faint smile that came and went like a flash of light.
“It is Lord Exham,” she said in a low voice to Anne Warwick; and the Ladies nodded slightly, and continued a desultory conversation, they hardly knew what about. But Annabel stood erect and silent. She glanced once at Kate, and then turned the full blaze of her dazzling eyes upon the advancing nobleman. For once, their magnetic rays were ineffectual. The Duchess, on her son’s arrival, had notified him of the ladies present; and Kate Atheling was the lodestar which drew his first attention. He had in the button-hole of his coat a few Michaelmas daisies, and after speaking to the other ladies, he put them into Kate’s hand, saying, “I gathered them in Atheling garden. Do you remember the bush by the swing in the laurel walk? I thought you would like to have them.” And Kate said “thank you” in the way that Piers perfectly understood and appreciated, though it seemed to be of the most formal kind.
The dinner was a family dinner, but far from being tiresome or dull. The Duke and Lord Exham had both adventures to tell. The latter in passing through a little market-town had seen the hungry people take the wheat from the grain-market by force, and said he had been delayed a little by the circumstance.
“But why?” asked the Duchess.
“There were some arrests made; and after all, one cannot see hungry men and women punished for taking food.” There was silence after this remark, and Kate glanced at Exham, whose veiled eyes, cast upon the glass of wine he held in his hand, betrayed nothing. But when he lifted them, they caught something from Kate’s eyes, and an almost imperceptible smile passed from face to face. No one asked Exham for further particulars; and the Duke hurriedly changed the subject. “Where do you think I took lunch to-day?” he asked.
“At Stephen’s,” answered the Duchess.
“Not likely,” he replied. “I am neither a fashionable officer, nor a dandy about town. If I had asked for lunch there, the waiters would have stared solemnly, and told me there was no table vacant.”
“As you want horses, perhaps you went to Limmers,” said Exham.
“No. I met a party of gentlemen and ladies going to Whitbread’s Brewery, and I went with them. We had a steak done on a hot malt shovel, and plenty of stout to wash it down. There were quite a number of visitors there; it has become one of the sights of London. Then I rode as far as the Philosophical Society, and heard a lecture on a new chemical force.”
“The Archbishop does not approve of your devotion to Science,” said the Duchess, reprovingly.
“I know it,” he answered. “All our clergy regard Science as a new kind of sin. I saw the Archbishop later, at a very interesting ceremony,–the deposition in Whitehall Chapel of twelve Standards taken in Andalusia by the personal bravery of our soldiers.”
“I wish I had seen that ceremony,” said Kate.
“And I wish I had myself been one of the heroes carrying the Standard I had won,” added Annabel.
The Duke smiled at the pretty volunteers, and continued, “It was a very interesting sight. Three royal Dukes, many Generals and foreign Ambassadors, and the finest troops in London were present. We had some good music, and a short religious service, and then the Archbishop deposited the flags on each side of the Altar.”
“I like these military ceremonies,” said the Duchess. “I shall not forget the Proclamation of Peace after Waterloo. What a procession of mediæval splendour it was!”
“I remember it, though I was only a little boy,” said Exham. “The Proclamation was read three times,–at Temple Bar, at Charing Cross, and at The Royal Exchange. The blast of trumpets before and after each reading!–I can hear it yet!”
“And the Thanksgiving at St. Paul’s after the procession was just as impressive,” continued the Duchess. “The Prince Regent and the Duke of Wellington walked together, and Wellington carried the Sword of State. It was a gorgeous festival set to trumpets and drums, and the roll of organ music, and the seraphic singing of ‘Lo! the conquering hero comes.’ The Duke could have asked England for anything he desired that day.”
“Yet he is very unpopular now,” said Kate, timidly. “Even my father thinks he carries everything with too high a hand.”
“His military training must be considered, Miss Atheling,” said the Duke. “And the country needs a tight rein now.”
“He may hold it too tight,” said Exham, in a low voice.
Then the conversation was turned to the theatres, and while they were talking, Squire Atheling was introduced. He had called to escort his daughter home; and after a short delay, Kate was ready to accompany him. The Duke and the Squire–who were deep in some item of political news–went to the entrance hall together; and Lord Exham took Kate’s hand, and led her down the great stairway. It was now lighted with a profusion of wax candles in silver candelabra. They were too happy to speak, and there was no need of speech. Like two notes of music made for each other, though dissimilar, they were one; and the melody in the heart of Piers was the melody in the heart of Kate. The unison was perfect; why then should it be explained? Very slowly they came down the low broad steps, hardly feeling their feet upon them; for spirit mingled with spirit, and gave them the sense of ethereal motion.
When they reached the vestibule, Kate’s maid advanced and threw round her a wrap of pink silk, trimmed with minever; and as Piers watched the shrouding of her rose-like face in the pretty hood, a sudden depression came like a cloud over him. Oh, yes! True love has these moments of deep gloom, in which intense feeling suspends both movement and speech. He could only look into the warm, secret foldings of silk and fur which hid Kate’s beauty; he had not even the common words of courtesy at his command; but Kate divined the much warmer “good-night” that was masked by the formal bow and uncovered head.
After the departure of the Athelings, father and son walked silently up the stairs together; but at the top of them, the Duke paused and said, “Piers, the King opens Parliament on the Second of November. We have only three days’ truce. Then for the fight.”
“We have foemen worthy of our steel. Grey–Durham–Brougham–Russel and Graham. They will not easily be put down.”
“We shall win.”
“Perhaps. The House of Lords is very near of one mind. Will you come to my smoking-room and have a pipe of Turkish?”
“I must see the ladies again; afterwards I may do so.”
With these words they parted, and Piers went dreamily along the state corridor. In its dim, soft light, he suddenly saw Miss Vyner approaching him. He was thinking of Kate; but he had no wish to escape Annabel. He was even interested in watching her splendid figure in motion. Only from some Indian loom had come that marvellous tissue of vivid scarlet with its embroidery of golden butterflies. It made her look like some superb flower. She smiled as she reached Piers, and said,–
“I only am left to wish you a ‘good-night and happy dreams.’The Ladies Warwick were sleepy, the Duchess longing to be rid of such a lot of tiresome girls, and I–”
“What of ‘I’?” he asked with a sudden, unaccountable interest.
“I am going to the Land where I always go in sleep. I shut my eyes, and I am there.”
“Then, ‘Good-night.’”
“Good-night.” She put her little, warm, brown hand, flashing with gems, into his; and then with one long, unwinking gaze–in which she caught Piers’ gaze–she strangely troubled the young man. His blood grew hot as fire; his heart bounded; his face was like a flame; and he clasped her hand with an unconscious fervour. She laughed lightly, drew it away, and passed on. But as she did so, the Indian scarf she had over her arm trailed across his feet, and thrilled him like some living thing. He had a sense of intoxication, and he hurried forward to his own room, and threw himself into a chair.
“It is that strange perfume that clings around her,” he said in a voice of controlled excitement. “I perceived it as soon as I met her. It makes me drowsy. It makes me feverish–and yet how delicious it is!” He threw his head backward, and lay with closed eyes, moving neither hand nor foot for some minutes. Then he rose, and began to walk about the room, lifting and putting down books, and papers, and odd trifles, as they came in the way of his restless fingers. And when at last he found speech, it was to reproach himself–his real self–the man within him.
“You, poor, weak, false-hearted lover!” he muttered bitterly. “Piers Exham! You hardly needed temptation. I am ashamed of you! Ashamed of you, Piers! Oh, Kate! I have been false to you. It was only a passing thought, Kate; but you would not have given to another even a passing thought. Forgive me. O Thou Dear One!”
“Thou Dear One!” These three words had a meaning of inexpressible tenderness to him. For one night,–when as yet their Love was but learning to speak,–one warm, sweet July night, as they stood under the damask roses, he said to Kate,–
“How beautiful are the words and tones which your mother uses to the Squire. She does not speak thus to every one.”
“No,” replied Kate. “To strangers mother always says ‘you.’ To those she loves, she says ‘thou.’”
And Piers answered, “Dear–if only–” and then he let the silence speak for him. But Kate understood, and she whispered softly,–
“Thou Dear One!”
It seemed to Piers as if no words to be spoken in time or in eternity could ever make those three words less sweet. They came to his memory always like a sigh of soft music on a breath of roses. And so it was at this hour. They filled his heart, they filled his room with soft delight. He stood still to realise their melody and their fragrance, the music of their sweet inflections, the perfume of their pure and perfect love.
“Thou Dear One!” He said these words again and again. “It has always been Kate and Piers! Always I and Thou– and as for the Other One–”
This mental query, utterly unthought of and uncalled for, very much annoyed him. Who or What was it that suggested “The Other One”? Not himself; he was sure of that. He went to his father, and they talked of the King, and the Ministers, and the great Mr. Brougham, whom both King and Ministers feared–but all the time, and far below the tide of this restless conversation, Piers heard this very different one,–
“I and Thou!”
“And the Other One.”
“There is no ‘Other One.’”
“Annabel.”
“No.”
“If Annabel were Destiny?”
“Will is stronger than Destiny.”
“If Annabel should be Will.”
“Love is stronger than Will.”
“It is Kate and Piers.”
“And the Other One.”
He grew impatient at this persistence of an idea that he had not evoked, that he had, in fact, denied. But he could not exorcise it. His very dreams were made and mingled of the two girls,–Kate, whom he loved, Annabel, who came like a splendid destiny to trouble love. In the pageant of sleep, he lost that will-power which controlled his life; he was tossed to-and-fro between blending shadows: Kate was Annabel; Annabel was Kate; and the fretful, unreasonable drama went on through restless hours, always to the same tantalising refrain,–
“I, Thou, and the Other One!”
