CHAPTER XIII. — THE BADINAGE OF OLD FRIENDS.
The town of Holby is on the coast of Pembroke. It has a small harbour, with a light-house, and the town itself contains a few thousand people, most of them belonging to the poorer class. The chief house in the town stands on a rising ground a little outside, looking toward the water. Its size and situation render it the most conspicuous object in the neighborhood.
This house, from its appearance, must have been built more than a century before. It belonged to an old family which had become extinct, and now was occupied by a new owner, who had given it another name. This new owner was William Thornton, Esq., solicitor, who had an office in Holby, and who, though very wealthy, still attended to his business with undiminished application. The house had been originally purchased by the father of the present occupant, Henry Thornton, a well-known lawyer in these parts, who had settled here originally a poor young man, but had finally grown gray and rich in his adopted home. He had bought the place when it was exposed for sale, with the intention of founding a new seat for his own family, and had given it the name of Thornton Grange.
Generations of care and tasteful culture had made Thornton Grange one of the most beautiful places in the county. All around were wide parks dotted with ponds and clumps of trees. An avenue of elms led up to the door. A well-kept lawn was in front, and behind was an extensive grove. Every thing spoke of wealth and elegance.
On an afternoon in February a gentleman in clerical dress walked up the avenue, rang at the door, and entering he gave his name to the servant as the Rev. Courtenay Despard. He was the new Rector of Holby, and had only been there one week.
He entered the drawing-room, sat down upon one of the many lounging chairs with which it was filled, and waited. He did not have to wait long. A rapid step was soon heard descending the stairs, and in a few minutes a lady entered. She came in with a bright smile of welcome on her face, and greeted him with much warmth.
Mrs. Thornton was very striking in her appearance. A clear olive complexion and large, dark hazel eyes marked Southern blood. Her hair was black, wavy, and exceedingly luxuriant. Her mouth was small, her hands and feet delicately shaped, and her figure slender and elegant. Her whole air had that indefinable grace which is the sign of high-breeding; to this there was added exceeding loveliness, with great animation of face and elegance of manner. She was a perfect lady, yet not of the English stamp; for her looks and manner had not that cold and phlegmatic air which England fosters. She looked rather like some Italian beauty—like those which enchant us as they smile from the walls of the picture-galleries of Italy.
“I am so glad you have come!” said she. “It is so stupid here, and I expected you an hour ago.”
“Oh, if I had only known that!” said Despard. “For, do you know, I have been dying of ennui.”
“I hope that I may be the means of dispelling it.”
“As surely so as the sun disperses the clouds.”
“You are never at a loss for a compliment.”
“Never when I am with you.”
These few words were spoken with a smile by each, and a slightly melodramatic gesture, as though each was conscious of a little extravagance.
“You must be glad to get to your old home,” she resumed. “You lived here fifteen, no, sixteen years, you know.”
“Eighteen.”
“So it was. I was sixteen when you left.”
“Never to see you again till I came back,” said Despard, with some mournfulness, looking at the floor.
“And since then all has changed.”
“But I have not,” rejoined Despard, in the same tone.
Mrs. Thornton said nothing for a moment.
“By-the-way, I’ve been reading such a nice book,” she resumed. “It has just come out, and is making a sensation. It would suit you, I know.”
“What is it?”
She rose and lifted a book from the table, which she handed to him. He took it, and read the title out loud.
“Christian’s Cross.”
A strange expression passed over his face. He looked at her, holding the book out at arms’-length with feigned consternation.
“And do you have the heart to recommend this book to me, Mrs. Thornton?”
“Why not?”
“Why, it’s religious. Religious books are my terror. How could I possibly open a book like this?”
She laughed.
“You are mistaken,” she said. “It is an ordinary novel, and for the sake of your peace of mind I assure you that there is not a particle of religion in it. But why should you look with such repugnance upon it? The expression of your face is simply horror.”
“Pietistic books have been the bane of my life. The emotional, the rhapsodical, the meditative style of book, in which one garrulously addresses one’s soul from beginning to end, is simply torture to me. You see religion is a different thing. The rhapsody may do for the Tabernacle people, but thoughtful men and women need something different.”
“I am so delighted to hear such sentiments from a clergyman! They entirely accord with my own. Still I must own that your horror struck me as novel, to say the least of it.”
“Would you like me to try to proselytize you?”
“You may try if you wish. I am open to conviction; but the Church of all the ages, the Apostolic, the Catholic, has a strong hold on me.”
“You need not fear that I will ever try to loosen it. I only wish that I may see your face in Trinity Church every Sunday.”
“That happiness shall be yours,” answered Mrs. Thornton. “As there is no Catholic church here, I will give you the honor of my presence at Trinity.”
“If that is the case it will be a place of worship to me.”
He smiled away the extravagance of this last remark, and she only shook her head.
“That is a compliment, but it is awfully profane.”
“Not profanity; say rather justifiable idolatry.”
“Really, I feel overcome; I do not know what to say. At any rate, I hope you will like the book; I know you will find it pleasant.”
“Any thing that comes from you could not be otherwise,” said Despard. “At the same time it is not my habit to read novels singly.”
“Singly! Why how else can one read them?”
“I always read several at a time.”
Mrs. Thornton laughed at the whimsical idea.
“You see,” said Despard, “one must keep up with the literature of the day. I used to read each book as it came out, but at last found satiety. The best novel palls. For my own comfort I had to invent a new plan to stimulate my interest. I will tell you about it. I take ten at a time, spread them on the table in front of me, and read each chapter in succession.”
“Isn’t that a little confusing?”
“Not at all,” said Despard, gravely. “Practice enables one to keep all distinct.”
“But what is the good of it?”
“This,” replied Despard; “you see in each novel there are certain situations. Perhaps on an average there may be forty each. Interesting characters also may average ten each. Thrilling scenes twenty each. Overwhelming catastrophes fifteen each. Now by reading novels singly the effect of all this is weakened, for you only have the work of each in its divided, isolated state, but where you read according to my plan you have the aggregate of all these effects in one combined—that is to say, in ten books which I read at once I have two hundred thrilling scenes, one hundred and fifty overwhelming catastrophes, one hundred interesting characters, and four hundred situations of absorbing fascination. Do you not see what an advantage there is in my plan? By following this rule I have been able to stimulate a somewhat faded appetite, and to keep abreast of the literature of the day.”
“What an admirable plan! And do you read all books in that way? Why, one could write ten novels at a time on the same principle, and if so he ought to write very much better.”
“I think I will try it some day. At present I am busily engaged with a learned treatise on the Symbolical Nature of the Mosaic Economy, and—”
“The—what?” cried Mrs. Thornton, breathlessly. “What was that?”
“The Symbolical Nature of the Mosaic Economy,” said Despard, placidly.
“And is the title all your own?”
“All my own.”
“Then pray don’t write the book. The title is enough. Publish that, and see if it does not of itself by its own extraordinary merits bring you undying fame.”
“I’ve been thinking seriously of doing so,” said Despard, “and I don’t know but that I may follow your advice. It will save some trouble, and perhaps amount to just as much in the end.”
“And do you often have such brilliant fancies?”
“No, frankly, not often. I consider that title the one great idea of my life.”
“But do not dwell too much upon that,” said Mrs. Thornton, in a warning voice. “It might make you conceited.”
“Do you think so?” rejoined the other, with a shudder. “Do you really think so? I hope not. At any rate I hope you do not like conceited people?”
“No.”
“Am I conceited?”
“No. I like you,” replied Mrs. Thornton, with a slight bow and a wave of the hand, which she accompanied with a smile.
“And I like you,” said Despard, in the same tone.
“You could not do less.”
“This,” said Despard, with an air of thoughtful seriousness, “is a solemn occasion. After such a tender confession from each of us what remains to be done? What is it that the novels lay down?”
“I’m sure,” returned Mrs. Thornton, with the same assumed solemnity, “it is not for me to say. You must make the proposition.”
“We cannot do any thing less than fly together.”
“I should think not”
“But where?”
“And not only where, but how? By rail, by steamboat, or by canal? A canal strikes me as the best mode of flight. It is secluded.”
“Free from observation,” said Despard.
“Quiet,” rejoined Mrs. Thornton.
“Poetic.”
“Remote.”
“Unfriended.”
“Solitary.”
“Slow.”
“And, best of all, hitherto untried.”
“Yes, its novelty is undeniable.”
“So much so,” said Mrs. Thornton, “that it overwhelms one. It is a bright, original idea, and in these days of commonplace is it not creditable? The idea is mine, Sir, and I will match it with your—what?—your Symbolical Nature of the Mosaic Cosmogony.”
“Economy.”
“But Cosmogony is better. Allow me to suggest it by way of a change.”
“It must be so, since you say it; but I have a weakness for the word Economy. It is derived from the Greek—”
“Greek!” exclaimed Mrs. Thornton, raising her hands. “You surely are not going to be so ungenerous as to quote Greek! Am I not a lady? Will you be so base as to take me at a disadvantage in that way?”
“I am thoroughly ashamed of myself, and you may consider that a tacit apology is going on within my mind whenever I see you.”
“You are forgiven,” said Mrs. Thornton.
“I can not conceive how I could have so far forgotten myself. I do not usually speak Greek to ladies. I consider it my duty to make myself agreeable. And you have no idea how agreeable I can make myself, if I try.”
“I? I have no idea? Is it you who say that, and to me?” exclaimed Mrs. Thornton, in that slight melodramatic tone which she had employed thus far, somewhat exaggerated. “After what I told you—of my feelings?”
“I see I shall have to devote all the rest of my life to making apologies.”
“No. Do not make apologies. Avoid your besetting sins. Otherwise, fond as I am of you”—and she spoke with exaggerated solemnity—“I must regard you as a failure.”
The conversation went on uninterruptedly in this style for some time. It appeared to suit each of them. Despard’s face, naturally grave, assisted him toward maintaining the mock-serious tone which he chose to adopt; and Mrs. Thornton’s peculiar style of face gave her the same advantage. It pleased each to express for the other an exaggerated sentiment of regard. They considered it banter and badinage. How far it was safe was another thing. But they had known one another years before, and were only resuming the manner of earlier times.
Yet, after all, was it safe for the grave Rector of Holby to adopt the inflated style of a troubadour in addressing the Lady of Thornton Grange? Neither of them thought of it. They simply improved the shining hour after this fashion, until at length the conversation was interrupted by the opening of folding-doors, and the entrance of a servant who announced—dinner.
On entering the dining-room Despard was greeted with respectful formality by the master of the house. He was a man of about forty, with the professional air of the lawyer about him, and an abstracted expression of face, such as usually belongs to one who is deeply engrossed in the cares of business. His tone, in spite of its friendliness, was naturally stiff, and was in marked contrast to the warmth of Mrs. Thornton’s greeting.
“How do you like your new quarters?” he asked, as they sat down.
“Very well,” said Despard. “It is more my home, you know, than any other place. I lived there so many years as school-boy with Mr. Carson that it seems natural to take up my station there as home.”
Mr. Thornton relapsed into his abstraction while Despard was speaking, who directed the remainder of his conversation to Mrs. Thornton.
It was light, idle chat, in the same tone as that in which they had before indulged. Once or twice, at some unusually extravagant remark, Mr. Thornton looked up in perplexity, which was not lessened on seeing their perfect gravity.
They had a long discussion as to the meaning of the phrase “the day after to-morrow.” Despard asserted that it meant the same as eternal duration, and insisted that it must be so, since when to-morrow came the day after it was still coming, and when that came there was still the day after. He supported his theory with so much earnestness that Thornton, after listening for a while, took the trouble to go heavily and at length into the whole question, and conclude it triumphantly against Despard.
Then the subject of politics came up, and a probable war with France was considered. Despard professed to take no interest in the subject, since, even if an invasion took place, clergymen could do nothing. They were exempt from military duty in common with gaugers. The mention of this brought on a long discussion as to the spelling of the word gauger. Despard asserted that nobody knew how it was spelled, and that, from the necessities of human nature, it was simply impossible to tell whether it was gauger or guager. This brought out Thornton again, who mentioned several law papers in which the word had been correctly written by his clerks. Despard challenged him on this, and, because Thornton had to confess that he had not examined the word, dictionary in hand, he claimed a victory over him.
Thornton, at this, looked away, with the smile of a man who is talking unintelligible things to a child.
Then followed a long conversation between Despard and Mrs. Thornton about religion, art, music, and a miscellaneous assemblage of other things, which lasted for a long time. At length he rose to go. Mrs. Thornton went to a side-table and took up a book.
“Here,” said she, “is the little book you lent me; I ought to have sent it, but I thought you would come for it.”
“And so I will,” said he, “some day.”
“Come for it to-morrow.”
“Will you be at home?”
{Illustration: “MRS. THORNTON, WALKING TO THE WINDOW, LOOKED OUT."}
“Yes.”
“Then of course I’ll come. And now I must tear myself away. Good-night!”
On the following day, at about two o’clock, Despard called again. Mrs. Thornton had been writing, and the desk was strewn with papers.
“I know I am disturbing you,” said he, after the usual greetings. “I see that you are writing, so I will not stay but a moment. I have come, you know, after that little book.”
“Indeed, you are not disturbing me at all. I have been trying to continue a letter which I began to my brother a month ago. There is no hurry about it.”
“And how is Paolo?”
“I have not heard for some time. I ought to hear soon. He went to America last summer, and I have not had a word from him since. My letter is of no importance, I assure you, and now, since you are here, you shall not go. Indeed, I only touched it a minute ago. I have been looking at some pictures till I am so begrimed and inundated with dust that I feel as though I had been resolved into my original element.”
And she held up her hands with a pretty gesture of horror.
Despard looked at her for a moment as she stood in her bright beauty before him. A sudden expression of pain flashed over his face, succeeded by his usual smile.
“Dust never before took so fair a form,” he said, and sat down, looking on the floor.
“For unfailing power of compliment, for an unending supply of neat and pretty speeches, commend me to the Rev. Courtenay Despard.”
“Yet, singularly enough, no one else ever dreamed that of me.”
“You were always so.”
“With you.”
“In the old days.”
“Now lost forever.”
Their voices sank low and expressive of a deep melancholy. A silence followed. Despard at last, with a sudden effort, began talking in his usual extravagant strain about badgers till at last Mrs. Thornton began to laugh, and the radiancy of their spirits was restored. “Strange,” said he, taking up a prayer-book with a peculiar binding, on which there was a curiously intertwisted figure in gilt. “That pattern has been in my thoughts and dreams for a week.”
“How so?”
“Why, I saw it in your hands last Sunday, and my eyes were drawn to it till its whole figure seemed to stamp itself on my mind. See! I can trace it from memory.” And, taking his cane, he traced the curiously involved figure on the carpet.
“And were your thoughts fixed on nothing better than that?”
“I was engaged in worship,” was the reply, with marked emphasis.
“I must take another book next time.”
“Do not. You will only force me to study another pattern.”
Mrs. Thornton laughed lightly, and Despard looked at her with a smile.
“I’m afraid your thoughts wander,” she said, lightly, “as mine do. There is no excuse for you. There is for me. For you know I’m like Naaman; I have to bow my head in the temple of Baal. After all,” she continued, in a more serious voice, “I suppose I shall be able some day to worship before my own altar, for, do you know, I expect to end my days in a convent.”
“And why?”
“For the purpose of perfect religious seclusion.”
Despard looked at her earnestly for a moment. Then his usual smile broke out.
“Wherever you go let me know, and I’ll take up my abode outside the walls and come and look at you every day through the grating.”
“And would that be a help to a religious life?”
“Perhaps not; but I’ll tell you what would be a help. Be a Sister of Charity. I’ll be a Paulist. I’ll devote myself to the sick. Then you and I can go together; and when you are tired I can assist you. I think that idea is much better than yours.”
“Oh, very much, indeed!” said Mrs. Thornton, with a strange, sad look.
“I remember a boy and girl who once used to go hand in hand over yonder shore, and—” He stopped suddenly, and then hastily added, “and now it would be very sad, and therefore very absurd, in one of them to bring up old memories.”
Mrs. Thornton suddenly rose, and, walking to the window, looked out. “I wonder if it will rain to-day!” she said, in a sweet voice, full of a tremulous melancholy.
“There are very dark clouds about,” returned Despard, mournfully.
“I hope there will not be a storm,” she rejoined, with the same sadness. Her hands were held tightly together. “Some things will perish if a storm comes.”
“Let us pray that there may be calm and peace,” said Despard.
She turned and looked at him for a moment. Strange that these two should pass so quickly from gayety to gloom! Their eyes met, and each read in the face of the other sadness beyond words.