Kitabı oku: «A Girl of the North. A Story of London and Canada», sayfa 10

CHAPTER XVIII

Shelton cannot be described; it lay along the river, near heavenly back waters, where reeds rustled, and the rushes sighed softly, and it was within reach of the woods.

They all went there, each one hiding their real feelings from the others, except Mrs. Cooper. Her feelings were described by the word blissful; she derived much satisfaction from the donning of her best dress every day. It was made of silk; in her youth a lady was dressed in nothing but silk. Driving every day with a footman, and having a maid to button her boots, completed her happiness. She never noticed her daughter’s depression. Sylvia had recovered. She was more silent, just as good-looking, and Mr. George hovered about her with sympathy in his eye and with sorrowful attentions.

Mr. Wainbridge, Paul, and the Member for Hackney each felt the inhabitants of the cottage were under his special protection, and each one frowned at the frequent visits of the others.

Paul had received and accepted his invitation before he had told Launa to give up Mr. Wainbridge, and he came to Shelton. All was not yet lost. Mr. Wainbridge was obviously nervous. Launa looked unhappy. To her life in the country was a relief. Of late the strain on her mind had been trying. Paul’s presence was a comfort to her, with an underlying feeling of torture, of the intolerableness of fate, life, destiny.

Mr. Wainbridge made continual demands on her feelings – demands which sometimes were hard, impossible to fulfil, especially that she should love him.

He was quite aware that he frequently asked for the impossible and obtruded himself in a way which was foolish, and before Paul he was often reckless. A mad joy because of his possession of Launa filled his mind, for he knew a mad anguish filled the breast of Paul Harvey.

To Launa Mr. Bolton was like an invigorating breeze after a hot day. He knew that she was appropriated. He expected scars from an intimacy with her, but they were worth it. He was waiting for news from Africa before formally becoming Lord Fairmouth. Meanwhile he forgot ambition and wandered about the fields with her, looking for mushrooms which he never saw, because he found her so much more delightful. She was original and charming, her voice was soft and low. Had it a sound of sadness or of joy? One day one thing, the next another. What was she – heart-whole, heart-divided, or only a woman without a heart?

Mr. Bolton found some amusement from the comedy – or was it a tragedy? – that was being played. He had no fear for his own emotions: they were pretty much the same as those possessed by the other two, and he kept them under excellent control. He sometimes wondered if ambition had any part in Miss Archer’s plans. Would he, as Lord Fairmouth, have any chance? He enjoyed most of her society. Mr. Wainbridge’s visits were uncertain, and whenever Paul and Mr. Bolton were there, Paul took Sylvia out in the canoe.

Mrs. Cooper fortunately discovered an ancient enemy living four miles away, and she drove with frequency and glory, because of the footman, to discuss the past and its joys. The enemy’s joys were present ones. Together they found argument unconvincing and therefore agreeable.

It was Sunday.

They were all walking across the fields coming from church. Launa and Mr. Bolton were first; Mr. Wainbridge had been detained by his uncle at the church door. He caught up to Mrs. Cooper, who insisted on discussing the sermon – which was on “Eternal Damnation.”

The preacher was staying at the Court – Lord Wainbridge’s place – and was specially favoured by her ladyship, who had nodded with frequency and approval at each point to which he gave utterance, and which she considered reduced her husband to ashes here, and to flames hereafter. In her theology there was nothing so quiet and peaceful as ashes afterwards. But Lord Wainbridge had not observed these signs of approval. He regarded his nephew with attention, and Miss Archer with admiration. He looked at his wife – a faded unhealthy specimen of an aristocratic worn-out family, in black bombazine and a dowdy bonnet, and he thought of the other woman and of Launa. He observed her intently; her head well carried, and her hair well dressed, her pretty soft throat – he could not see her face, but she was certainly desirable, and he had never met her. So he stopped his nephew on his way to join Miss Archer, and suggested that Hugh should come over to the Court that afternoon.

Mr. Wainbridge listened to Mrs. Cooper’s remarks in silence. He did not care about the sermon, but he did care for Launa’s society, and she would spend the afternoon with Mr. Bolton or Mr. Harvey. He regretted he had not refused his uncle’s invitation, but that gentleman had appeared so sad, so old, and Lady Wainbridge sniffed with such depressing regularity, that to have refused would have been cruel.

“I dislike that church,” said Launa to Mr. Bolton. “It already makes me feel as if religion were contemptible and as if it were merely useful to occupy old women. I am sorry I went to it to-day.”

“It would be very wrong and very radical of you to neglect your own church. A good Conservative always supports the institutions of his country,” he said.

“That is the good of being women,” she answered, looking at him with a mixture of friendship and mischief. “We are not allowed to vote, and we need not be a Conservative or anything, and as for the institutions of the country, I am not sure that I like them, or even know what they are.”

“Marriage is one.”

“With or without love? For love is not an institution.”

“Sometimes; well, you know as well as I do that we can get on without love.”

“Love,” said Launa, “is the thing in life, it is – ”

“What do you love?”

“Whom? What? I love life and movement – the wind and the sea. The being alive to-day is joy. Look at the grass, the river, the water! If I could only be at ‘Solitude,’ to smell the air as it comes across that sweep of woods!”

“To smell it alone?”

“Alone,” she replied.

“You arrange life on a basis of love.” He laughed. “It is not always fine. In winter the wind is cold and it shrieks unpleasantly; it is not warm like love – real love – and then there is success. Not to-day, nor to-morrow, but in a month or a year you would, I think, grow weary of your paradise alone.”

“Why did you laugh?”

“At myself and your basis of love.”

His philosophy kept him amused, because he was aware of his own foolishness. If there was a certain amount of pain in the laughter no one noticed it. The others caught up to them.

“I do not like that preacher,” said Mrs. Cooper.

“He is one of my aunt’s favourites,” answered Mr. Wainbridge. “She says his descriptions of hell are so reviving for the sinner.”

“So is lunch,” said Launa, “and I am hungry.”

After lunch Mr. Wainbridge followed Launa to her own sitting-room. He intended to conduct a parting. Emotions brighten the desert of life.

He put his arms round her.

“I like your necktie and your pin,” she said.

“I will give you the pin.”

He took it out and handed it to her.

“Here, dearest.”

“Now go and sit there. It is too hot for – ”

“You never kiss me or let me kiss you.”

“I hate kissing – indiscriminate kissing.”

“You will not always hate it,” he answered. “I must go, I want to settle things with my uncle. You will accept their invitation to stay there?”

He found it best to forget the day she had asked him to set her free. She remembered it and his confession always.

“Not yet. I could not leave here until Mrs. Cooper and Sylvia go.”

“You will have me with you there all day – it will be perfect.”

“Nothing is perfect,” she answered. “You will be back – when?”

“After dinner. How I wish I could stay here now, but my uncle is so lonely. Good-bye.”

He put his arms round her gently and she let him – he stifled her, while he protected her. To suffer any embrace was unusual for her. He was still, glad to hold her. She was sorry he was leaving her; with him near, certain things were impossible – he was an anchor. But there was the rest of the afternoon and Paul.

“Institutions are good sometimes,” she said.

“That is obscure to me. Good-bye.”

And Launa sang a little song to herself:

 
“Love light come, light go,
Love light come, light go.”
 

As it was the fashion to observe love critically, with unbelief, she would do it too.

Paul came in at the window. He had a book in his hand.

“I am lonely,” he said. “May I stay? I never see you alone now, Launa.”

“Are the others all right? We will talk about the war. Where is Mrs. Cooper?”

“They are all asleep, Sylvia too. Bolton is writing letters, answering the bundle he got this morning. Wainbridge, thank Heaven, has gone to see his uncle.”

“Probably to arrange about our marriage.”

She seated herself opposite him and said this rather defiantly. She wanted to remember Mr. Wainbridge and her marriage.

“You are not married yet… To-day is ours.”

“What shall we do now? You and I?”

“You and I,” he repeated, with joy. “Talk. Be glad we are together.”

“And can talk – about Canada.”

“Yes, about Canada,” he replied. “The products or the people?”

“The people,” she answered slowly.

“We will talk of the women.”

“Yes,” she said.

“About you, for you are a woman.”

“I wish I were not.”

“Why?”

“Because – because men have so much the best of it… Do men like independent women? No, men like them clinging. What does a clinging woman do?”

“I don’t take the faintest interest in inscrutable women,” he replied. “Come out and sit among the pine trees and think of ‘Solitude’ and the lake – ”

“And forget everything except now which is ours?” she said.

“Come then – come.”

CHAPTER XIX

The Court, the ancestral home of the Wainbridges, was purchased by the present owner’s father (with the furniture and the portraits) from a family whose possessions consisted of a very ancient title and many debts. Common sense was not included in their inheritance. That they could ever live with a plain cook and a house-parlourmaid and pay their debts never occurred to them.

The Court was built in a circular shape, with what Lady Wainbridge called “heathen pillars,” and a long flight of steps led up to the door. The gardens were beautiful and the flowers took prizes at shows. The house was dreary and not clean. The servants were celebrated for their piety, therefore other virtues were not required; most of them were “reclaimed.”

Lord Wainbridge was in the garden when his nephew arrived. Lady Wainbridge considered fresh air on Sunday a sin, except what little was imbibed when going to and from church in a brougham at eleven o’clock. She held a “Gospel Reunion” in the drawing-room after lunch, which her husband refused to attend.

For some time the two men admired the roses; they were late ones, and a new kind.

“I did not come to see Miss Archer,” said the elder man, “because you never asked me to do so. You made no formal announcement of your engagement to me.”

“Launa has been in mourning for her father. Nothing is settled – yet.”

“It will be soon? I am tired of this life,” said Lord Wainbridge. “I want to be free. I am going to make this place over to you, Hugh.”

His nephew started.

“To me? I cannot express my sense of your goodness to me.”

“Get married soon,” answered his uncle; “when there is an heir I shall feel happy. Your aunt dislikes the Court, and after you marry I shall not feel the need of being even respectable. I can live as I like.”

“You are too good to me. I cannot tell you what I feel.”

He felt his thanks were poor, stilted, and feeble, but he did not know how to express himself better.

“I should like to come and see Miss Archer.”

“Call her Launa,” said his nephew… “You believe in marriage?”

“I believe in yours, of course, and in my own – we all believe in what is. Marriage exists – is it a failure? For individuals sometimes, for the many – no, I suppose not, for they still marry. You will be happy.”

“I hope so.”

“I admired Miss Archer – she is a living girl. Your aunt will also go to see her – I believe this week is a week of solitude and seclusion with your aunt, but afterwards she will go. You must prepare Miss Archer for some disagreeableness and loud prayers. Your aunt is afflicted in that way on these interesting occasions.”

“Yes,” said the other.

“I should like to have Launa here to stay for a few days; but I fear she might not be very happy. What is your opinion?”

“I will tell her. I am sure she will be grateful to you for all your kindness to us both, but – she is uncertain, and aunt Jane’s remarks might affect her.”

“Uncertain! She loves you? I felt sure when I saw her that it was love. Why is she uncertain?”

“I do not know.. perhaps I am wrong. Girls often are.. odd.”

“Sometimes I have hoped you would marry someone with a title, but I like that girl. I received the announcement of your engagement with indifference – it seemed to be only the binding of another man; but now – ”

“You wish my marriage to take place soon? You feel as if it would leave you freer – ”

“It would make you happier, and me also. I should not be backward about settlements.”

“My aunt may die, and you probably will marry again – ”

Lord Wainbridge shook his head.

“No. I shall settle two thousand a year on Miss Archer. She has money, also, I understand?”

“You really desire my marriage?”

“Certainly.”

“Then I will arrange it as quickly as possible.”

“And I may come and see Launa?”

“My dear uncle, do not ask if you may. I am so grateful, more than grateful to you. I hope, and I am sure Launa will feel as I do, that you will make a second home with us.”

And so they parted.

For some days after his conversation with his uncle Mr. Wainbridge found that solitary discourse with his beloved was impossible. She eluded him, and his news grew stale and lost its power of delighting him. Launa had killed his triumph. She let him kiss her forehead sometimes, but they had no twilight walks and no talks.

Any reminder of their approaching marriage was received by her in silence, and he discovered that whereas formerly his love for a woman always cooled at the idea of the approach of matrimony – his pre-matrimonial love was but a star which paled before the heat and light of the rising hymeneal sun. Now his love was the sun, hot sun, which dried up and withered everything; it made his life one intense longing for her. His passion mastered him; everything was subservient to it. He was possessed by one idea, and longed to marry her and soon. He wanted her for his own – absolutely – body and soul. She did not love as he loved; he would kiss her into it – kiss her to know nothing but his love for her. Oh, God, that it should take so long, and need so much patience!

If Launa were only alone! There were Harvey and Bolton – and Paul he feared most of all. He was a prey to uncomfortably apprehensive thoughts, and all day long he had to talk of the garden or of croquet, while the sun of desire was burning him up, and the days were a weariness.

One day Launa was writing letters.

He came in.

“Allein,” he quoted, “zum ersten mal allein.”

She rose hurriedly and glanced at the door which he had shut. It was raining; the windows were closed.

“I am seriously thinking of looking after my affairs in Canada. It would be a long journey,” she said.

“In Canada?” he repeated. “What about your promise to me? Our marriage?”

“I thought you had forgotten about marriage. It is some time since we talked of love – we have talked very little about marriage.”

She undid her scent bottle on her chatelaine.

“Dearest,” he murmured, taking her hand while his heart beat tumultuously. He thought she was jealous, even though he knew she did not love him as he loved her, yet he believed, with the invincible belief of man, that she could be jealous of him. “You must not go to Canada alone. We will go there on our honeymoon!”

This proposition, sweet as it appeared to him, evidently did not raise any feeling of exhilaration in her.

“Canada is too far away for a honeymoon. You would have nothing to do there.”

“We will go to Paris.”

“Very well,” she replied.

Her calmness maddened him.

“Launa, darling, try to love me. I care for you so much; you are all the world to me. I love you – I love you!”

He took her in his arms, and it had all the appearance of a passionate, willing embrace. Paul was just going to open the window to come in. Launa did not see him – he turned round and walked away, and Mr. Wainbridge let her go.

“Don’t do that,” she said. “I hate it, loathe it, and if it were not for you and my pity – my pity, do you hear? I would.. Sit there and talk rationally. I am a cold stone. I hate love-making, and you are going to be my husband. Have you forgotten the conversation you and I had at Victoria Mansions?”

He sat down by her, and did not answer her question. Instead, he told her all that Lord Wainbridge had said.

“Darling! my beloved! May I tell him it will be soon? Our marriage.”

“Soon?” she repeated drawing away her hand… “I am so lonely, and you are no help. I wish I had someone to help me.”

“Let me.”

“You can’t; don’t you see that? Well, no matter. Will you wait until after lunch – until this evening? Then I will give you an answer.”

“My uncle is anxious to know you. He has been so good to us. We will repay him by being good to him. He needs it.”

“I know; I know.”

“Have you seen the Times?” asked the Member for Hackney, advancing with assurance and sitting down. The Times, he knew, was in the drawing-room; he had just put it down. He had also seen Paul Harvey’s face as he passed the window. Mr. Bolton had no particular feeling for Paul except that of wishing him out of the way. Harvey’s countenance looked as if he meant to go – somewhere. Such a resolution could only portend various developments with Mr. Wainbridge.

Mr. Bolton had just heard and seen in the Times, that he was beyond all doubt Lord Fairmouth.

Miss Cooper had hay fever for two days; no doubt this was due to the second crop of hay having just been cut. Her mother explained this at great length. Sylvia suffered intensely, and her eyes were very red. Everyone pitied her, and she stayed all day in her room; Mrs. Cooper could not stay with her for long, because hay fever is infectious.

“Poor Fairmouth is really dead,” said the Member for Hackney.

“And you are Lord Fairmouth now,” said Launa slowly.

She was thinking of something else; but it appeared to him as if her meditations were about him and his good fortune.

“Yes,” he replied.

Mr. Wainbridge left the room. The house was very quiet. He looked for Paul, but he could not find him. Paul had gone away in the canoe.

Mr. Wainbridge, therefore, was obliged to control the irresistible desire to confide in Paul, and in him only. Paul took such an interest in Launa, so did Lord Fairmouth, but Mr. Wainbridge did not fear him.

It was after dinner, during which meal Mrs. Cooper again discussed hay fever, and the depression consequent thereupon. Mr. Wainbridge was very silent. Lord Fairmouth recommended eucalyptus, and Launa looked pale, even anxious. Paul and the canoe had not returned, and it was growing dark, with a strong wind from the north-east. After dinner she was very restless and wandered about, then she began to play the piano.

Lord Fairmouth went away to write, and Mrs. Cooper retired to bed. She had old-fashioned ideas as to lovers, and regarded them as something almost indecent, requiring constant and frequent privacy.

Launa played on. The wind was shrieking, and then roaring through the tree tops. At last it gave a sudden scream and a yell. She jumped up, and her hands fell on the keys with a crash. A door banged, and a gust of wind clamoured against the window and howled outside.

“Where is Paul?”

She had been playing a Chopin study – number XI.

“Chopin is sometimes hysterical,” said Mr. Wainbridge.

“Here I am, Launa,” and Paul came in. “You were frightened. The wind is making a tremendous noise. When I opened the front door it was howling and shrieking, and nearly blew the lamps out.”

He took both her hands, and held them firmly. Her colour had come back, and she breathed quickly. There was a pause. Mr. Wainbridge strolled across the room.

“Launa, now is the time to tell Harvey your decision. When shall we be married?”

Paul let her hands go.

“When?” he asked. “Before I return to Canada? I am going soon.”

“In September,” said Mr. Wainbridge.

“Yes,” said Launa. “Paul, you have not forgotten your promise. You will give me away?”

Mr. Wainbridge gave a sigh of relieved tension. He had dreaded something different. The wind and the étude had affected his nerves also.

After he retired to his bed that night he remembered that Launa had said she was going to Canada. Paul had said so too. Had there been anything in this mutual resolve to go to Canada. Would he have lost her? The possibility – nay, the certainty – of this showed him his proposal for their marriage was only just in time. Her indifference was not the least of her attractions for him.

In two days Lord Wainbridge came to see her. They talked of the weather and of marriage, both of them changeable varieties, and of absorbing interest.

Lord Fairmouth went up to town, and as he went he remembered the Fisheries. Launa and he had talked very little about them. He had left the House of Commons, and she was going to be married.