Kitabı oku: «Lettice», sayfa 3
Chapter Four.
An Old Story and a New Secret
“Good nature and good sense must ever join; To err is human; to forgive, divine.”
Pope.
It was the last evening of the young Morisons being all together at the Villa Martine, for Arthur was returning to England the following day. And a fortnight or so later, the sisters and little Auriol, under the convoy of old Bertha, were to follow him there. Lettice had gone early to her room. She was worn out, though she would not allow it, with all she had gone through during the last week or two. And since Mr Auriol had left, she had put less constraint on herself; she no longer felt the necessity of calling pride to her aid.
“I am so dreadfully sorry for Lettice,” said Nina, as she and Arthur were sitting together unwilling, though it was already late, to lose any of their few remaining hours.
“So am I,” said Arthur. “But I am sorry for ourselves too, Nina. There is no doubt that all our troubles are very much aggravated by Lettice.”
“Arthur!” exclaimed Nina. “What do you mean? How could we ever get on without her?”
“Oh, I know all that,” said the boy – for boy he still was, though nearly seventeen – weariedly.
“I know she is very good, and devoted, and clever, too; but, Nina, if she were but less obstinate and self-willed, how much happier – at least, how much less unhappy – we should be! If she had taken the advice of Godfrey Auriol, and made friends with our uncle – knowing, too, that mother wished it! Of course, I won’t allow to Godfrey that I disagree with her; at all costs, as you and I determined, we must keep together. But it is a terrible pity.”
“I don’t, however, see that for the present it makes very much difference, and in time Lettice may change.”
“Too late, perhaps,” said Arthur moodily. “It is just now that I think it does make such a miserable difference;” and as Nina looked up, with surprise and some alarm, and was just going to ask him to explain himself, he added hastily, as if eager to change the subject, “Do you know the whole story, Nina – the story of the old quarrel between my father and his family? I have heard it, I suppose; but I have got confused about it, though I didn’t like to let Godfrey see that I was so. Lettice has always been so violent about it, so determined that there was only the one way of looking at it, that it was no use asking her. And just these last days it has dawned upon me that I know very little about it. I have accepted it as a sort of legend that was not to be questioned.”
“I don’t know that there is very much to tell – not of actual facts,” said Nina. “Of course, it was all complicated by personal feeling, as such things always are. Mamma told me all; and lately, as you know, she regretted very much having not tried more to bring papa and his brother together. He, our uncle, was perfectly blameless, he was fifteen years younger than papa. Papa, you know, was grandpapa’s only son by his first marriage. His mother died young, and he, as he often said himself, was dreadfully spoilt. His father married again when he was about twelve; and though his stepmother was very good and nice, he was determined never to like her, and set himself against whatever she said, and fancied she influenced grandpapa very often, when very likely she did not. Grandpapa was in business, as, of course, you know, and very much respected, and very successful. He was of very respectable ancestry. His people had been farmers, but not at all grand. And he was the sort of man to be proud of having made his own way, and to despise those who tried to be above their real position. He had always determined that papa should follow him in his business; but, as might have been expected from a spoilt boy, papa wouldn’t; nothing would please him but going into the army.”
“Yes, I know that part of it,” said Arthur.
“There must have been stormy scenes and most miserable discussions. Any way, it ended in papa’s running away and enlisting, which by people of grandpapa’s class was thought a terrible disgrace. Then grandpapa vowed he would disinherit him, and he made a will, putting his little son Ingram entirely in papa’s place, and giving papa only a very small fortune. And always papa persisted in believing that this was his stepmother’s doing, though mamma has often told me they had no sort of proof, not even probability, that it was so. And the way she acted afterwards certainly did not seem as if she were selfish or scheming.”
“But,” interrupted Arthur, “all this has nothing to do with mamma, and she always said it was about her.”
“Well, listen,” said Nina. “Time went on. Papa behaved splendidly, and as soon as it was possible he got a commission. And a year or two after that, he became engaged to mamma, who was the daughter of a very poor and very proud captain in the regiment. Captain Auriol, our other grandfather, liked papa, but could not bear his being connected with any one in trade; and when he gave his consent to the marriage, he said, I believe, that he would not have done so had papa been in his father’s business, and that he liked him all the better for being no longer his father’s heir. Somehow papa’s stepmother got to hear of this engagement, and, knowing how poor mamma was, and thinking papa would be feeling softened and anxious about his future, she tried to bring about a reconciliation. Mamma, before she died, had come to feel sure the poor woman did her best. She got grandpapa – Grandpapa Morison – to write to papa, recognising his bravery as a soldier, and speaking of his engagement, and offering to reinstate him in his old position if he would now allow that he had had enough of soldiering, and would enter the business. He even said that, if he would not do so, he would still receive him again – him and his wife when he should be married – and make better provision for him if he would express sorrow for the grief and disappointment he had caused him in the past. This part of the letter must have been injudiciously worded. Something was said of mamma’s poverty, which her father and she herself took offence at, when papa showed it them, and consulted them about it – not that he for a moment dreamt of giving up his profession; but he was softened, and would have been glad to be friends again. Only, unfortunately, they took it the other way, and he wrote back a letter, under Grandpapa Auriol’s direction, which offended his father so deeply that things were far worse than before. And it was for this that poor mamma always blamed herself, and this was why she said it was for her sake papa had quarrelled with his family. It came to be true, to some extent; for Grandpapa Morison after that always put all the blame on her, and spoke of her very unkindly, which came to papa’s ears, and made him furious. And when his father died, a few years afterwards, he was surprised to find that even a small portion had still been left to him; and I don’t believe he would ever have taken it, poor as he was, but for a message that was sent him with the news of his father’s death, that poor grandpapa had left him his blessing before he died. I believe that he had to thank his stepmother for this, though she did not appear in it. She must have been frightened, poor thing, and no wonder. So the only communication was through the lawyer. And that, I think,” said Nina, with a sigh, “is about all there is to tell.”
“Thank you,” said Arthur. “Nina,” he went on, after a moment’s consideration, “do you think Lettice knows it all as clearly as you do?”
“It is her own fault if she doesn’t,” said Nina, which for her was an unusually bitter speech.
“She has had just as much opportunity as I have had for hearing the whole, except that, perhaps,” – and she hesitated a moment – “perhaps that from Philip Dexter I have heard more than she about how good Uncle Ingram is, through Uncle Ingram’s having married his aunt, you know. But, Arthur, if people will see things only one way – and Lettice can turn it so, when she talks about it she almost makes me feel as if it would be wrong and mean to look at it any other way.”
“I know,” said Arthur, with a still deeper sigh than Nina’s had been. And, indeed, poor boy, he did know. His next remark surprised his sister. “I wonder,” he said, “I wonder papa disliked the idea of business.”
“Arthur!” she exclaimed.
“I do. I’m in earnest. There is nothing I should like so much. Nina, promise, swear you won’t tell any one,” he went on boyishly but earnestly, “if I tell you the truth. I would have given anything to accept that offer. I have no wish to go into the army. I don’t think I’m a coward, but the life has no attraction for me. I’ve seen so much of the other side of it. I used to think, when papa was alive, I should like it. But now – I’m not clever, Nina. I’m awfully behind-hand in several of the subjects I shall have to be examined in; and oh, Nina, the very thought of an examination makes my blood run cold. I know I shall fail, and – ”
“But why – oh, why, Arthur, did you not say all this before?” cried Nina, pale with distress.
“I dared not, that’s the truth. I’m a moral coward, if you like. I did not realise it so strongly till Godfrey told me of Uncle Ingram’s offer, and then I felt how I should like business. I think I have a sort of cleverness that would suit it. I am what is called practical and methodical, and I should like the intercourse with different countries, and the interest of it. I suppose Grandfather Morison’s tastes have come out in me. And I should like making money for all of you and for Auriol, who is sure to be a soldier. But, Nina, I dare not tell Lettice. Think of all she would say – that I was false to papa, that I was throwing away the expensive education that has been so difficult to manage; all sorts of bitter things. No, I dare not. I have tried, and even at the least hint of misgiving, that I was not fit for the army – oh, Nina, I saw what it would be. No, I must go through with it till the day that I go up for the examination, and am – ”
“What?” said Nina.
“Spun, hopelessly.”
“But you will have other chances?”
“I can’t face them. I feel that I could never face it again. Even now I dream of it with a sort of horror,” said the poor boy, raising his delicate, haggard face. “And if I fail. Oh, Nina, sometimes I think I shall drown myself.”
“Arthur, Arthur, don’t speak like that,” said Nina imploringly. “Shall I tell Lettice? I will if you like – if you are sure, quite sure of what you say.”
Arthur laid his hand on her arm. “No, no, Nina. You must promise to tell no one. I must see. Perhaps I may get on better. Mr Downe thinks I should pass if only I were less nervous. Any way, we must wait a while. If it gets too bad I will tell you first of all, and ask you to tell Lettice.”
“And we shall see you again soon. It is April now. You will be with us all the summer. Oh, Arthur, I do hope things will go on quietly, and that Lettice will not oppose Godfrey any more. They are both so determined.”
“But he has right on his side.”
“Yes, I know. But you know, Arthur, she will be of age in less than a year, and then if she chooses to defy our guardians it may come to our being all separated. For think how many years it will be before the little ones are of age.”
“Lettice would never do that,” said Arthur. “In the bottom of her heart she knows she must give in. And she loves us all too much to go too far.”
“Of course I know how she loves us. Only too much,” said Nina. “I wonder if it would not have been better if we had had no guardians? We should have got on very well, I dare say.”
“Nina,” said Arthur solemnly, “mark my words. If there had been no one to keep her in check, Lettice would have grown more and more self-willed, and I don’t know what would have become of us. Better far have all the discomfort of the last week or two than have risked anything like that.”
“If I thought it were over!” said Nina. “But you don’t know how I dread our life at Faxleham, and still worse that lady. I don’t know what to call her, for she can’t be called our governess.”
“Chaperone,” suggested Arthur.
“I suppose so. But isn’t it awful to think of her?”
Arthur could scarcely keep from laughing.
“I think that part of it would be rather fun,” he said. “I hope – though I’m by no means sure of it, mind you – but I hope she’ll still be there when I come, that I may see the skirmishing between her and Lettice.”
“If it isn’t she, it’ll be some one else,” said Nina in a depressed tone. “Godfrey Auriol said it would be impossible – absolutely unheard of – for us to live alone as Lettice wanted. Oh, Arthur, I wish you weren’t going away;” and poor Nina, allowing herself for once the indulgence of giving way to her own feelings regardless of those of others, threw her arms round her boy-brother’s neck and burst into tears. And though Arthur did his best to console her, it was, though not precisely from the same cause, with sad enough hearts that the brother and sister lay down to sleep that night.
There had been much to try them since the day that Godfrey Auriol, with nothing but good will in his heart to his young relatives, had left his smoke-dried chambers in Lincoln’s Inn, where frost and fog were still having it their own way, and came “over the sea” to the sunny brilliant south, intent on advising and assisting the sad little group. He had found things very different from what he expected, and he had gone back again depressed and dispirited, doubtful, though he had manfully stood out for victory, if he had gone the right way about it, more perplexed and disgusted with himself than he ever remembered to have been before. For he was in every sense of the word a very successful man. Starting in life with little but a good old name and a clear and well-stocked head, he was already far on the way to competency. He was made much of in whatever society he entered; he was used to being looked up to and having his opinion and advice asked. He had not married, had scarcely ever been in love – never to a fatal extent – and had acquired a habit of thinking that women were not to be too seriously considered one way or the other. “Take them the right way,” and there was never any trouble to be feared. And now when it came to the test he had ignominiously failed. For though Lettice had been obliged to give in, it had been, as she took care to tell him, only to the extent to which she was obliged to do so – not a jot further. And he had an uncomfortable, an exaggerated idea that he had been rough – what the French call “brutal” – to her.
“To her, my own cousin, and an orphan, too, whom I was prepared to care for like a sister – yes, like a sister, that first night when she seemed so sweet and gentle. And to think of the things we have said to each other since!” thought poor Godfrey, during his long solitary journey back again to whence he had come.
If Lettice could have seen into his heart I think she would have been moved to regret. And she had been very unreasonable. The “intentions” of which she had spoken no relation or guardian in the world could have approved of.
“We do not wish to return to England,” she told Godfrey calmly. “I want to spend the summer, while it is too hot here, in travelling about, and next winter we shall come back here again.”
“And under whose care?” Mr Auriol asked quietly.
“Mine,” said Lettice, rearing her head. “Of course we have old Bertha, who will never leave us. But I am quite old enough to take care of my brothers and sisters.”
“You may think so. I don’t,” he replied drily. “Besides, it is not altogether a question of age. If you were married – ”
“I shall never marry.”
“Indeed!” Mr Auriol observed with the utmost politeness. “But that, excuse me, is a matter for your private consideration, in no way interfering with what I was saying. If, for supposition’s sake, you, or let us say Nina, who is still younger,” – and he turned to Nina with a smile which somehow made the colour rise in her cheeks – “if Nina were married to a reliable sort of man, there would be nothing against your all living together if you chose.”
“Provided the brother-in-law approved, which, in his place, I wouldn’t,” observed Arthur, in an aside.
“But as things are, why, five, ten years hence even, you could not keep house without a chaperone,” said Mr Auriol in conclusion, as if the matter were not open to a question.
A very short time before he left, Godfrey told them what he proposed as to their future home.
“I have a letter I should like to read to you,” he said to Lettice. His tone and manner seemed to her exceedingly cold; the truth was that he was most uncomfortably constrained.
“Certainly,” she replied. “Do you wish me to call Nina?”
“Perhaps it would be as well,” said Mr Auriol.
And when Nina came he read to them the description that had been sent to him of a small house a few hours’ distance from town, which seemed to him just what was wanted.
“The neighbourhood is very pretty, and there is an excellent school for Auriol, in the small town of Garford, at half-an-hour’s distance. And there are some nice families in the neighbourhood to whom I – to whom introductions could easily be got.”
“In our deep mourning,” said Lettice icily, “nothing of that kind need be taken into consideration. Besides,” she added, “if you think us so exceedingly childish and unreasonable, I should say the fewer acquaintances we make the better.”
“Lettice, oh, please don’t,” said Nina imploringly.
But Lettice had “hardened her heart.”
“We must go to that place,” she said afterwards to Nina; “we cannot help ourselves. For my part I feel perfectly indifferent as to where we live. It is like a choice of prisons – simple endurance for the time being. It is like taking medicine. I will take it because I must; but I’m not going to have it dressed up with sugar-plums and pretend it’s nice.”
“But what do you mean by ‘for the time being’?” asked Nina timidly.
To this Lettice would not reply; perhaps, though she would not own it, her ideas were really vague on the subject.
Arthur had to be up early the morning he left; and, thanks to their late talk the night before, Nina overslept herself, and Lettice, seeing her looking so tired and pale, had not the heart to wake her. She looked pale and heavy-eyed herself when Arthur found her waiting to give him his breakfast, and he felt sorry for her, and perhaps a little conscience-smitten for some of the things he had said of her.
“We shall see you again before very long,” she said; “for surely no difficulty will be put in the way of your spending your holidays with us.”
“Of course not. Who would dream of such a thing?” he said.
“I don’t know,” replied Lettice wearily; “everything has gone so strangely. I ask myself what next?”
“Lettice,” said Arthur simply, “don’t exaggerate; but, to make sure, I will speak of it to Godfrey.”
“Better you than I, certainly.”
“He likes Nina very much,” went on Arthur innocently, almost as if thinking aloud. “And he thinks her so very pretty.”
“Does he? Did he say so?” said Lettice quickly; and a curious expression, which Arthur did not observe, passed over her face.
“Oh, ever so many times. He thinks her almost an angel, I believe;” and Lettice would have liked to hear more, but there was no time.
“Arthur, you will do your best, will you not?” were her last whispered words to her brother. “Remember, if you don’t succeed, it will break my heart; and I believe,” in a still lower voice, “it would have broken papa’s and mamma’s.”
A look of intense pain came into the poor boy’s eyes, and he did not speak. Then with sudden resolution he turned to his sister.
“Yes,” he said, though his voice was unlike itself, “I will do my best.”
Chapter Five.
A Change in the Barometer
“Give her a word, good or bad, and she’d spin such a web from the hint, And colour a meaningless phrase with so vivid a lint.”
Hilda.
It was a lovely evening when the little party arrived at their destination. Many people had noticed them during their long journey, the two pretty sisters and the children, with no one but their old servant to take care of them; for their deep mourning told its own story. Many a kindly heart thought pityingly of them, and sent silent good wishes with them on their way.
There had been some talk of their staying a day or two in London, in which case Mr Auriol would have met them. But this Lettice, the ruling spirit, vetoed.
“Let us get straight to that place,” she said, “and have it over.”
What she meant Nina did not very well understand. She supposed her to refer to the meeting with Miss Branksome, the lady-companion, or “chaperone,” whom Mr Auriol had engaged, and who was to await them at Faxleham Cottage. Nina herself was not without some anticipatory awe of this person, but it was tempered by a strong feeling of pity. And once, when she alluded to her in speaking to Lettice, she was almost amazed to find that her sister shared the latter.
“Poor woman!” said Lettice gravely, “she has undertaken a hard task. I could almost find it in my heart to be sorry for her.”
Nina could not help smiling as she replied, “But it need not be a hard task, Lettice; not – not unless we make it so for her.”
“False positions are always hard,” said Lettice oracularly. “She is coming to take care of us, and we don’t want or need to be taken care of.”
Then, a moment after, she surprised Nina by asking her to write to Mr Auriol to tell him when they were starting, and when they expected to reach Faxleham, as she had promised to let him know.
“I am so tired,” she said, which was an unusual confession, “and I should be so glad if you would do it for me. Besides, he likes you so much better than me; he will be pleased to get a letter from you.”
“I don’t think he really likes me better,” said Nina innocently. “I am not clever enough for him. If he had met you – differently – I am sure he would have liked you best.”
Lettice did not answer. But a moment or two later, as she was leaving the room, she spoke again on the same subject.
“You’ll let me see your letter before you send it, won’t you?” she said. “Don’t be afraid that I shall be vexed if you write cordially. I don’t want him to think us ungrateful. It isn’t his fault.”
Nina could scarcely believe her ears. What could be coming ever Lettice? She wished Arthur were at hand to talk over this wonderful change, which she felt completely unable to explain. But it was not Nina’s “way” to trouble or perplex herself about problems which, as she said to herself, would probably sooner or later solve themselves. In this, as in most other characteristics, she was a complete contrast to her sister.
She wrote the letter – a pretty, girlish, almost affectionate little letter it was – and brought it to Lettice for approval. The elder sister read it, smiling once or twice in a manner that would have puzzled Nina had she been given to puzzling.
“Yes,” said Lettice, “it will do very well;” and she was turning away, when Nina stopped her.
“Lettice,” she began.
“Well?”
“I wanted to tell you – yesterday, when I was out with Bertha, we – I – met Mr Dexter. It is the first time I have seen him since our – our mourning.”
“I think it was very inconsiderate of him to speak to you in the street,” said Lettice. “Here, too, where everything one does is observed.”
“It was only for one instant,” said Nina, appealingly. “He asked me to tell you – they are leaving to-morrow morning – to tell you that he will call this evening to say good-bye, and he hopes he may see us.”
Lettice’s face had grown harder.
“I thought they were already gone,” she said, as if speaking to herself. Then second thoughts intervened. “I suppose we must see him. I don’t want to be rude. Besides, he is a friend of Godfrey’s. Yes; perhaps you had better tell Marianne that if he calls she can let him in.”
The permission was not too gracious, but it was more than Nina had hoped for.
“It is evidently for Godfrey’s sake,” she reflected. “And yet, when he was here, Lettice was so seldom the least pleasant to him.”
Philip did call. He was nervous, and yet with a certain determination about him that impressed Lettice in spite of herself, and she felt exceedingly glad to hear him repeat that he and his sister were leaving the next morning.
“I shall look forward to seeing you again, before very long, in England,” he said manfully, as he got up to go.
“I don’t know much about our plans,” said Lettice, and her tone was not encouraging. “We have only taken a house for the summer. I don’t know what we shall do then.”
“Faxleham is not so very far from my part of the country,” said Philip.
“Is it not?” said Lettice suspiciously; and she looked at Mr Dexter in a way that made the young man’s face flush slightly. He was one of those fair-complexioned men who change colour almost as quickly as a girl, and whose good looks are to themselves entirely destroyed by their persistent boyishness. At five and twenty he looked little more than nineteen.
“But I am not likely to be there for the next twelve months,” he continued coldly, and with a certain dignity. “My place has been let for some years, and the lease will not expire till the spring. No; if I see you at Faxleham or elsewhere I must come expressly.”
He looked at Lettice and she at him. It was a tacit throwing down of the gauntlet on his part, and angry as she felt, it yet made her respect the young man whom hitherto she had spoken of so contemptuously as a boy. She bade him good-bye with courtesy, not to say friendliness, much to Nina’s relief, and even carried her attention so far as to accompany him to the door, talking busily all the time of the details of his journey, so that, as she flattered herself, there was no opportunity for any last words between him and her sister. And as she went upstairs, where Bertha was already beginning the packing – such a sad packing! the hundred and one little possessions of their mother to cry over and wonder what to do with – all the bright-coloured belongings with which, full of the hopefulness of inexperienced youth, they had left England in the autumn, to consign to the bottom of the trunks and wish they could be put out of sight for ever – she said to herself, not without self-congratulation at her perspicacity, that it was evidently time for that to be put a stop to. And she would have been strengthened in her opinion had she known that at that very moment Nina, leaning sadly on the balcony —she had not gone to the door with Philip – was cheered by the sight of his face, as, passing up the street instead of down, certainly not the nearest way to his home, he stood still for a moment on the chance of seeing her again, and, lifting his hat, called out softly, not “goodbye” but “au revoir.”
Lettice wondered at Nina’s good spirits that evening.
“Evidently she does not, as yet, care much about him. She was so very young when she first met him – how unfortunate it was! – and was, no doubt, flattered by his attention. But she cannot but see how superior Godfrey Auriol is – how much more of a man– and then by-and-by it will be easy to suggest how mother would have liked it. One of her own name, and altogether so closely connected with her!”
And the imaginary castle in the air which Lettice had constructed for her sister’s happiness assumed more and more imposing and attractive proportions. Lettice had such faith in herself as an architect; she knew so much better than people themselves the sort of castle they should live and be happy in.
So that, on her side, Nina wondered at Lettice’s improved spirits during the last few days at Esparto, and even through the journey. For, besides the other recommendations of the project she had built upon such slender foundations, Lettice felt that there was a good deal of magnanimity in herself for approving of and encouraging such an idea.
“It shows I am not prejudiced,” she said to herself with satisfaction. “And if dear mamma could but know it, she would see how ready I am to sacrifice any personal feelings of mine when hers would have been concerned. For, of course, though Godfrey is not actually connected with the Morisons, he has entirely ranged himself on their side.”
We have wandered a long way from the evening of the arrival at Faxleham, but perhaps it was necessary to explain how it came to pass that the outer sunshine was matched by greater inward serenity than might, all things considered, have been expected.
It was, as I said, a most lovely evening. The drive from the station at Garford was through pretty country lanes, where the hedges were at their freshest, untouched as yet by summer dust, and the wild roses and honeysuckle were already in bud, giving promise of their later beauty. And to the young travellers, after their several months’ absence in different scenery, the sweet, homely beauty of their own country was very attractive.
“Is it not pretty? So peaceful and yet bright! Just think how mamma would have liked it!” exclaimed Nina; and, though Lettice did not speak, she pressed her sister’s hand sympathisingly.
The children, of course, were in ecstasies, though once or twice they glanced up at Lettice, half ashamed of their own delight; but she smiled back at them so kindly that they were quickly reassured; and a whisper which she overheard of Lotty’s gave her greater pleasure than she could have expressed.
“Lettice is getting like mamma,” the child said. “When she is so kind, she always makes me think of mamma.”
And Lettice always was kind when she felt thoroughly pleased with herself, as she did just now. If only her foundation had been the rock of real principle, and not the sands of passing moods and impulses!
“Don’t you think, Lettice,” said Nina, in a low voice, venturing a little further – “don’t you think we are going to be happy – at least, peaceful – here?”
Lettice had not the heart to repulse her.
“I shall be very glad, dear, if you feel so,” she said, “and I am sure I want to make the best of things. If – if there were not that unhappy Miss Branksome looming in the distance – in the nearness, rather! I know exactly what she will be like. I know those decayed gentlewomen so well. Tall and lank and starved-looking, always having headaches and nerves, and tears in her eyes for nothing, and yet everlastingly interfering. Of course, she must interfere. It’s her business; it’s what she’s there for.”
