CHAPTER VI. HER STORY.
“Gone to be married? gone to swear a peace?
Shall Lewis have Blanche, and Blanche these
provinces?”
Which means, “shall Treherne have Lisa, and Lisa Treherne Court?”
Yes, it is to be: I suppose it must be. Though not literally “gone to be married,” they are certainly “going.”
For seven days the balance hung doubtful. I do not know exactly what turned the scale; sometimes a strong suspicion strikes me that it was Doctor Urquhart; but I have given up cogitating on the subject. Where one is utterly powerless—a mere iota in a house—when, whatever one might desire, one's opinion has not a straw's weight with anybody, what is the good of vexing one's self in vain!
I shall content myself with giving a straightforward, succinct account of the week; this week which, I cannot deny, has made a vital difference in our family. Though outwardly all went on as usual—our quiet, monotonous life, unbroken by a single “event,”—breakfast, dinner, tea, and sleep coming round in ordinary rotation; still the change is made. What a long time it seems since Sunday week.
That day, after the tumult of Saturday, when I fairly shut myself up to escape out of the way, of both suitors, the coming and the going one, —sure that neither of my sisters would particularly want me—that Sunday was not a happy one. The only pleasant bit in it was the walk home from church; when, Penelope mounting guard over the lovers, I thought it no more than right to be civil to Dr. Urquhart. In so doing, I resolutely smothered down my annoyance at their joining us, and at the young gentleman's taking so much upon himself already, forsooth: lest Captain Treherne's friend should discover that I was not in the most amiable mood possible with regard to this marriage. And in so valorously “putting myself into my pocket,”—the had self which had been uppermost all day—somehow it slipped away as my pin-cushions and pencil-cases are wont to do—slid down to the earth and vanished.
I enjoyed the walk. I like talking to Dr. Urquhart, for he seems honest. He makes one feel as if there were some solid good somewhere in the world, if only one could find it: instead of wandering among mere shams of it, pretences of heroism, simulations of virtue, selfish abortions of benevolence. It seems to me, at times, as if this present world were not unlike that place in Hades,—is it Dante's or Virgil's making?—where trees, beasts, ghosts, and all, are equally shadowy and unsubstantial. That Sunday morning, which happened to be a specially lovely one, was one of the few days lately, when things about me have seemed tangible and real. Including myself, who not seldom appear to myself as the biggest sham of all.
Dr. Urquhart left us at the gate: would not come in, though Penelope invited him. Indeed, he went away rather abruptly; I should say, rudely,—but that he is not the sort of man to be easily suspected of discourtesy. Captain Treherne declared his secession was not surprising, as he has a perfect horror of ladies' society. In which case, why did he not avoid mine? I am sure he need not have had it unless he chose: nor did he behave as if in a state of great martyrdom. Also, a lover of flowers is not likely to be a woman-hater, or a bad man, either: and those must be bad men who have an unqualified “horror” of women. I shall take the liberty, until further evidence, of doubting Captain Treherne—no novelty! The difficulty is to find any man in whom you can believe.
We spent Sunday afternoon chiefly in the garden, Lisabel and her lover strolling about together, as Penelope and Francis used to do. Penelope sat with me some time, on the terrace before the drawing-room windows; then bidding me stay where I was, and keep a look-out after those two, lest they should get too sentimental, she went indoors, and I saw her afterwards, through the parlour-window, writing—probably one of those long letters which Francis gets every Monday morning. What on earth can she find to say?
The lecture against sentimentalism was needless. Nothing of that in Lisabel. Her courtship will be of the most matter-of-fact kind. Every time they passed me, she was talking or laughing. Not a soft or serious look has there been on her face since Friday night; or, rather, Saturday morning, when my sobbing made her shed a few tears. She did not afterwards,—not even when she told what has occurred to papa and Penelope.
Penelope bore it well—if there was anything to bear, and perhaps there was—to her. It might be trying to have her youngest sister married first, and to a young man, but for whom Francis would himself long ago have been in a position to marry. He told us, on Saturday, the whole story: how, as a boy, he was meant for his uncle's heir, but late in life Sir William married. There was a coldness afterwards, till Mrs. Charteris died, when her brother got Francis this Government situation, from which we hoped so much, but which still continues, he says, “a mere pittance.” It is certainly rather hard for Francis. He had a long talk with papa, before he left, ending, as usual, in nothing.
After he went away, Penelope did not appear till tea-time, and was “as cross as two sticks,” to use a childish expression, all evening. If these are lover's visits, I heartily wish Francis would keep away.
She was not in much better humour on Sunday, especially when, coming hastily into the parlour with a message from Lisabel, I gave her a start—for she was sitting, not writing, but leaning over her desk, with her fingers pressed upon her eyes. It startled me, too, to see her; we have grown so used to this affair, and Penelope is so sharp-tempered, that we never seem to suspect her of feeling anything. I was foolish enough to apologise for interrupting, and to attempt to kiss her, which irritated her so that we had almost a quarrel. I left the room, put on my bonnet, and went off to evening-church—God forgive me! for no better purpose than to get rid of home.
I wonder, do sisters ever love one another? Not after our fashion, out of mere habit and long familiarity, also a certain pride, which, however we differ among ourselves, would make us, I believe, defend one another warmly against strangers—but out of voluntary sympathy and affection. Do families ever live in open-hearted union, feeling that blood is blood, closer than acquaintance, friendship, or any tie in the world, except marriage? That is, it ought to be. Perhaps it may so happen, once in a century, as true love does, or there would not be so much romancing about both.
Thus I meditated, as, rather sick and sorry at heart, I returned from church, tramping through the dark lanes after papa, who marched ahead, crunching the sand and dead leaves in his usual solid, solitary way, now and then calling out to me:—
“Keep close behind me. What a pity you came to church to-night.”
It was foolish, but I think I could have cried.
At home, we found my sisters waiting tea. Captain Treherne was gone. They never mentioned to papa that he had been at Rock-mount to-day.
On Monday, he did not make his appearance. I asked Lisabel if she had expected him?
“What for? I don't wish the young man to be always tied to my apron-strings.”
“But he might naturally want to see you.”
“Let him want then. My dear little simpleton, it will do him good. The less he has me, the more he will value me.”
I observed that that was an odd doctrine with which to begin married life, but she laughed at me, and said the cases were altogether different.
Nevertheless, when Tuesday also passed, and no word from her adorer, Lisabel looked a little less easy. Not unhappy, our Lis was never seen unhappy since she was born, but just a little what we women call “fidgety;” a state of mind, the result of which generally affects other people rather than ourselves. In short, the mood for which, as children, we are whipped and sent to bed as “naughty;” as young women, petted, and pitied for “low spirits;” as elderly people, humoured on account of “nerves.”
On Wednesday morning when the post came, and brought no letter, Lisabel declared she would stay indoors no longer, but would go out for a drive.
“To the camp, as usual?” said Penelope.
Lisa laughed, and protested she should drive wherever she liked.
“Girls, will you come or not?”
Penelope declined, shortly. I said, I would go anywhere except to the camp, which I thought decidedly objectionable under the circumstances.
“Dora, don't be silly. But do just as you like. I can call at the Cedars for Miss Emery.”
“And Colin too, who will be exceedingly happy to go with you,” suggested Penelope.
But the sneer was wasted. Lisabel laughed again, smoothed her collar at the glass, and left the parlour, looking as contented as ever.
Ere she went out, radiant in her new hat and feathers, her blue cloth jacket, and her dainty little driving-gloves (won in a bet with Captain Treherne), she put her head in at my door, where I was working at German, and trying to forget all these follies and annoyances.
“You'll not go, then?”
I shook my head, and asked when she intended to be back?
“Probably at lunch: or I may stay dinner at the Cedars. Just as it happens. Good bye.”
“Lisabel,” I cried, catching her by the shoulders, “what are you going to do?”
“I told you. Oh, take care of my feather! I shall drive over to the Cedars.”
“Any further? To the Camp?”
“It depends entirely upon circumstances.”
“Suppose you should meet him?”
“Captain Treherne? I shall bow politely, and drive on.”
“And what if he comes here in your absence?”
“My compliments and regrets that unavoidable engagements deprived me of the pleasure of seeing him.”
“Lisabel, I don't believe you have a bit of heart in you.”
“Oh, yes, I have; quite as much as is convenient.”
Mine was full, and she saw it. She patted me on the shoulder good-naturedly.
“If there ever was a dear little dolt, its name is Theodora Johnston. Why, child, at the worst, what harm am I doing? Merely showing a young fellow, who, I must say, is behaving rather badly, that I am not breaking my heart about him, nor mean to do it.”
“But I thought you liked him?”
“So I do; but not in your sentimental sort of way. I am a practical person. I told him, exactly as papa told him, that if he came with his father's consent, I would be engaged to him at once, and marry him as soon as he liked. Otherwise, let him go! That's all. Don't fret, child, I am quite able to take care of myself.”
Truly, she was! But I thought, if I were a man, I certainly should not trouble myself to go crazy after a woman,—if men ever do such a thing.
Scarcely was my sister gone, than I had the opportunity of considering that latter possibility. I was called downstairs to Captain Treherne. Never did I see an unfortunate youth in such a state of mind.
What passed between us I cannot set down clearly; it was on his side so incoherent, on mine so awkward, and uncomfortable. I gathered that he had just had a letter from his father, refusing consent, or at least insisting on the delay of the marriage, which his friend Dr. Urquhart also advised. Exceedingly obliged to that gentleman for his polite interference in our family affairs, thought I.
The poor lover seemed so much in earnest that I pitied him. Missing Lisabel, he had asked to see me, in order to know where she was gone.
I told him, to the Cedars. He turned as white as a sheet.
“Serves me right, serves me right, for my confounded folly and cowardice. I never will take anybody's advice again. What did she think of my keeping away so long? Did she despise—hate me?”.
I said my sister had not confided to me any such opinion of him.
“She shall not meet Granton, that fool—that knave—that—— Could I overtake her before she reaches the Cedars?”
I informed him of a short cut across the moor, and he was out of the house in two minutes, before Penelope came into the drawing-room.
Penelope said I had done exceedingly wrong—that to send him after our Lisa, and allow her to be seen driving with him about the country, was the height of indecorum—that I had no sense of family dignity, or prudence, or propriety—was not a woman at all, but a mere sentimental hookworm.
I answered, I was glad of it, if to be a woman was to resemble the women I knew best.
A bitter, wicked speech, bitterly repented of when uttered. Penelope has a sharp tongue, though she does not know it; but when she rouses mine, I do know it, therefore am the more guilty. Many an unkind or sarcastic word that women drop, as carelessly as a minute seed, often fructifies into a whole garden-full of noisome weeds, sprung up,—they have forgotten how,—but the weeds are there. Yet still I cannot always command my tongue. Even, sometimes, when I do, the effort makes me think all the more angrily of Penelope.
It was not now in an angry, but a humbled spirit, that, when Penelope was gone to her district visiting—she does far more in the parish than either Lis or I—I went out alone, as usual, upon the moor.
My moorlands looked dreary; the heather is fading from purple to brown; the Autumn days are coming on fast. That afternoon they had that leaden uniformity which always weighs me down; I felt weary, hopeless—longed for some change in my dull life; wished I were a boy, a man—anything, so that I might be something—do something.
Thus thinking, so deeply that I noticed little, a person overtook, and passed me. It is so rare to meet anyone above the rank of a labourer hereabouts, that I looked round; and then saw it was Dr. Urquhart. He recognised me, apparently—mechanically I bowed, so did he, and went on.
This broke the chain of my thoughts—they wandered to my sister, Captain Treherne, and this Dr. Urquhart, with whom, now I came to think of it—I had not done so in the instant of his passing—I felt justly displeased. What right had he to meddle with my sister's affairs—to give his sage advice to his obedient young friend, who was foolish enough to ask it? Would I marry a man who went consulting his near, dear, and particular friends as to whether they were pleased to consider me a suitable wife for him? Never! Let him out of his own will love me, choose me, and win me, or leave me alone.
So, perhaps, the blame lay more at Mr. Treherne's door than his friend's—whom I could not call either a bad man or a designing man—his countenance forbade it. Surely I had been unjust to him.
He might have known this, and wished to give me a chance of penitence, for I shortly saw his figure reappearing over the slope of the road, returning towards me. Should I go back? But that would seem too pointed, and we should only exchange another formal bow.
I was mistaken. He stopped, bade me “Good morning,” made some remarks about the weather, and then abruptly told me that he had taken the liberty of turning back because he wanted to speak to me.
I thought, whatever will Penelope say! This escapade will be more “improper” than Lisabel's, though my friend is patriarchal in his age and preternatural in his gravity. But the mischievous spirit, together with a little uncomfortable surprise, went out of me when I looked at Dr. Urquhart. In spite of himself, his whole manner was so exceedingly nervous that I became quite myself, if only out of compassion.
“May I presume on our acquaintance enough to ask you a question—simple enough, but of great moment to me. Is Captain Treherne at your house?”
“No.”
“Has he been there to-day?”
“Yes.”
“I see, you think me extremely impertinent.”
“Not impertinent, but more inquisitive than I consider justifiable in a stranger. I really cannot engage to answer any more questions concerning my family or acquaintance.”
“Certainly not. I beg your pardon. I will wish you good morning.”
“Good morning.”
But he lingered.
“You are too candid yourself not to permit candour in me—may I, in excuse, state my reasons for thus interrupting you?”
I assented.
“You are aware that I know, and have known all along, the present relations of my friend Treherne with your family?”
“I had rather not discuss that subject, Doctor Urquhart.”
“No, but it will account for my asking questions about Captain Treherne. He left me this morning in a state of the greatest excitement. And at his age, with his temperament, there is no knowing to what a young man may not be driven.”
“At present, I believe, to nothing worse than the Cedars, with my sister as his charioteer.”
“You are satirical.”
“I am exceedingly obliged to you.”
Dr. Urquhart regarded me with a sort of benignant smile, as if I were a naughty child, whose naughtiness partly grieved, and partly amused him.
“If, in warrant of my age and my profession, you will allow me a few words of serious conversation with you, I, in my turn, shall be exceedingly obliged.”
“You are welcome.”
“Even if I speak about your sister and Captain Treherne?”
There he roused me.
“Doctor Urquhart, I do not see that you have the slightest right to interfere about my sister and Captain Treherne. He may choose to make you his confidant—I shall not: and I think very meanly of any man who brings a third person, either as umpire or go-between, betwixt himself and the woman he professes to love.” Doctor Urquhart looked at me again fixedly, with that curious, half-melancholy smile, before he spoke.
“At least, let me beg of you to believe one thing—I am not that go-between.”
He was so very gentle with me in my wrath, that, perforce, I could not be angry. I turned homeward, and he turned with me; but I was determined not to give him another syllable. Nevertheless, he spoke.
“Since we have said thus much, may I be allowed one word more? This matter has begun to give me extreme uneasiness. It is doing Treherne much harm. He is an only son, the son of his father's old age: on him much hope rests. He is very young—I never knew him to be serious in anything before. He is serious in his attachment—I mean in his ardent desire to marry your sister.”
“You think so? We are deeply indebted to him.”
“My dear young lady, when we are talking on a matter so important, and which concerns you so nearly, it is a pity to reply in that tone.”
To be reproved in this way by a man and a stranger! I was so astonished that it made me dumb. He continued:—
“You are aware that, for the present, Sir William's consent has been refused?”
“I am aware of it.”
“And indignant, probably. Yet there are two sides to the subject. It is rather trying to an old man, when his son writes suddenly, and insists upon bringing home a daughter-in-law, however charming, in six weeks; natural, too, that the father should urge,—'Take time to consider, my dear boy.'”
“Very natural.”
“Nay, should he go further, and wish some information respecting the lady who is to become one of his family—desire to know her family, in order to judge more of one on whom are to depend his son's happiness and his house and honour, you would not think him unjust or tyrannical?”
“Of course not. We,” I said, with some pride, alas! more pride than truth, “we should exact the same.”
“I know Sir William, well, and he trusts me. You will, perhaps, understand how this trust and the—the flexible character of his son, make me feel painfully responsible. Also, I know what youth is when thwarted. If that young fellow should go wrong, it would be to me—you cannot conceive how painful it would be to me.”
His hands nervously working one over the other, the sorrowful expression of his eyes, indicated sufficient emotion to make me extremely grieved for this good-hearted man. I am sure he is good-hearted.
I said I could not, of course, feel the same interest that he did in Captain Treherne, but that I wished the young man well.
“Can you tell me one thing; is your sister really attached to him?”
This sudden question, which I had so many times asked of myself—ought I to reply to it? Could I? Only by a prevarication.
“Mr. Treherne is the best person from whom to obtain that information.”
And I began to walk quicker, as a hint that this very odd conversation had lasted quite long enough.
“I shall not detain you two minutes,” my companion said, hastily. “It is a strange confidence to put in you, and yet I feel I may. Sir William wrote to me privately today. On my answer to his enquiries his consent will mainly depend.”
“What does he want to know? If we are respectable; if we have any money; if we have been decently educated, so that our connection shall not disgrace his family?”
“You are almost justified in being angry; but I said nothing of the kind. His questions only referred to the personal worth of the lady, and her personal attachment to his son.”
“My poor Lisa! That she should have her character asked for like a housemaid! That she should be admitted into a grand family, condescendingly, on sufferance!”
“You quite mistake,” said Doctor Urquhart, earnestly. “You are so angry, that you will not listen to what I say. Sir William is wealthy enough to be indifferent to money. Birth and position he might desire, and his son has already satisfied him upon yours; that your father is a clergyman, and that you come of an old English family.”
“We do not; we come of nothing and nobody. My grandfather was a farmer; he wrote his name Johnson, plain, plebeian Johnson. We are, by right, no Johnstons at all.”
The awful announcement had not the effect I anticipated. True, Doctor Urquhart started a little, and walked on silently for some minutes, but when he turned his face round it was quite beaming.
“If I did tell this to Sir William, he is too honourable a man not to value honour and honesty in any family, whether plebeian, as you call it, or not. Pardon me this long intrusion, with all my other offences. Will you shake hands?”
We did so—quite friendly, and parted.
I found Lisabel at home. By some chance, she had missed the Grantons, and Captain Treherne had missed her; I know not of which accident I was the most glad.
Frankly and plainly, as seemed to me best, I told her of my meeting Doctor Urquhart, and of all that had passed between us; saving only the fact of Sir William's letter to him, which, as he said it was “in confidence,” I felt I was not justified in communicating even to my sister.,
She took everything very easily—laughed at Mr. Treherne's woes, called him “poor fellow,” was sure all would come right in time, and went upstairs to dress for dinner.
On Thursday she got a letter from him which she gave me to read—very passionate, and full of nonsense. I wonder any man can write such rubbish, or any woman care to read it—still more to show it. It gave no information on facts—only implored her to see him; which, in a neat little note, also given for my perusal, Lisabel declined.
On Friday evening, just after the lamp was lit and we were all sitting round the tea-table, who should send in his card with a message begging a few minutes' conversation with Mr. Johnston, but Doctor Urquhart? “Max Urquhart, M.D.”—as his card said. How odd he should be called “Max.”
Papa, roused from his nap, desired the visitor to be shown in, and with some difficulty I made him understand that this was the gentleman Mrs. Granton had spoken of—also—as Penelope added ill-naturedly, “the particular friend of Captain Treherne.”
This—for though he has said nothing, I am sure he has understood what has been going on—made papa stand up rather frigidly when Doctor Urquhart entered the parlour. He did so, hesitatingly, as if coming out of the dark night, the blaze of our lamp confused him. I noticed he put his hand to shade his eyes.
“Doctor Urquhart, I believe Mrs. Granton's friend, and Captain Treherne's?”
“The same.”
“Will you be seated?”
He took a chair opposite; and he and papa scanned one another closely. I caught, in Dr. Urquhart's face, that peculiar uneasy expression about the mouth. What a comfort a beard must be to a nervous person!
A few commonplace remarks passed, and then our visitor asked if he might speak with papa alone. He was the bearer of a message—a letter in short—from Sir William Treherne, of Treherne Court.
Papa said, stiffly—he had not the honour of that gentleman's acquaintance.
“Sir William hopes, nevertheless, to have the honour of making yours.”
Lisabel pinched me under the table; Penelope gazed steadily into the tea-pot; papa rose and walked solemnly into his study—Doctor Urquhart following.
It was—as Lisa cleverly expressed it—“all right.” All parties concerned had given full consent to the marriage.
Captain Treherne came the day following to Rockmount, in a state of exuberant felicity, the overplus of which he vented in kissing Penelope and me, and requesting us to call him “Augustus.” I am afraid I could willingly have dispensed with either ceremony.
Doctor Urquhart, we have not seen again—he was not at church yesterday. Papa intends to invite him to dinner shortly. He says he likes him very much.