THE PHOTOGRAPH AND THE ORIGINAL.
Families in which the daughters marry early and in due succession, can have but little idea of the huge, volcanic shock an engagement means in a house like Boldero Abbey.
True, it had once before gone through a like experience, but the present happy occasion was intensified by a variety of causes.
It was satisfactory, altogether satisfactory. Like good wine it needed not the bush which General Boldero had strewed so plentifully over Godfrey Stubbs's antecedents and surroundings. His future son-in-law was well-born and well-bred, and his having lately succeeded to a considerable fortune was also well known. Accordingly—we are obliged to add "accordingly"—it was in good taste to say nothing about it.
But he could show, and he did show, enough to raise a smile wherever he went. However demure his air when receiving congratulations, he could insert here and there a phrase, adroitly conceived beforehand, the point of which could not be missed—and he was rampant at home.
There he might freely puff and blow, and turn his little world upside down. Nothing, not the veriest trifles of every-day life escaped his touch; and had it not been that the sympathies of all were with him, that there was not an antagonistic member of the family or household, he would have been found unbearable.
But the change, the stir, the commotion, the heavy posts, and constant ringing of the door-bell were delightful to everybody. There was occupation for everybody. They ran against each other with busy, pre-occupied faces. They hurried, when formerly time was of no account. The writing-tables were bargained for, and Maud, all-important, retained one solely for her own use,—while the two who had fancied they would have so much to tell of their London escapade, found it so completely superseded by the new excitement, that they dismissed it from their own minds.
In short the whole atmosphere quivered with the sensation: "Who would have thought it?—who would have believed it?—" to which there was but one response: "We cannot make enough of it".
The man himself, however, had yet to be seen.
"Yes, it is very unfortunate," observed Miss Boldero, in answer to neighbourly inquiries; "Major Foster has been obliged to put off coming again. He has had another touch of fever—his long residence in hot climates has left him subject to these, and though it is nothing to be anxious about, he has to be careful. We expect him next week."
A photograph was presented in lieu of the original, and no one had anything to say against the photograph. It represented an unmistakable soldier, even if he had not been in uniform. The face was clear-cut and clean-shaven, and some might have thought it had rather a melancholy expression—but such expressions in photographs are common, and not always truthful. Leo, for one, openly admired her sister's lover.
"I do detest a smirk," she cried, gaily; "I am so glad Paul's man did not make him smirk. Were you with him when this was taken, Maud?"
No, it had been taken in London on Paul's way through; he had promised copies to his regiment, and Maud had assisted him to send these out.
Was he sorry to leave the service? She thought he was, a little.
"So you had to—to cheer him up?" rejoined Leo, inwardly laughing over the remembrance of poor Val and his perfunctory proposal. "I daresay it does cheer up people to marry them. Your knight of the lugubrious countenance——ahem!"
"I don't know what you mean," said Maud, coldly.
"Heigho! I came near a cropper that time," muttered Leo, to herself.
When she was alone she took up the photograph again and looked at it. She could have wished for Maud's sake that she was to be united to a more lively-looking individual. The eyes, she could almost swear, were sad eyes. The mouth had a droop about it.
"It would not matter if it were Sybil or me," reflected she, within herself; "but no one can ever get a word out of Maud unless she pleases, and how is she going to bucket along a solemn spouse?... She seems content with him, and awfully proud of the whole affair—but I always fancied she would end with a jolly, jovial sort of creature, who would not care two straws whether she sulked or not. Now, something in this face,"—she scanned it thoughtfully—"leads me to think that Paul would care. He has a tired look—as if there were a weight upon him. Good heavens!" quickly, "Maud isn't the person to remove a weight; she's a regular old featherbed herself, when there's nothing to stir her up. She was all right at the Fosters, no doubt, with this going on, and everybody tootling round her; but if they only knew—if he only knew what she can be like at home!...
"I don't mean to be nasty;" repentance presently made itself felt; "and it may only be that Maud and I don't hit it off; that when I'm in a merry mood, she isn't, and vice versa—still," she shook her head sagaciously, "I'm not sure—not quite sure. It is more noticeable than it used to be. Even father gets snubbed and has to put up with it. Both Sue and Syb utterly succumb.... To think that Maud should be the one—though of course it is her looks—and besides, she herself let slip that the Fosters had got her there on purpose. Paul had come home at a loose end, desperately in need of a wife, and a home, and all the rest of it. The whole thing is clear—the only mystery,—pooh! there's no mystery....
"But it was luck for Maud," she mused on, "and I must say she appreciates her luck, and means to get the uttermost farthing out of it. How she revels in the idea of a grand wedding! And of course she will be a lovely bride—but I wonder—I hope——" once more her hand strayed towards the photograph, and she gazed at it long and searchingly, "I do hope she will make this poor man happy."
Leo, however, had the wit to keep such speculations to herself. She was only too conscious that she had not managed her own affairs so well as to give her any claim to pry into those of others, and told herself she was a little fool to keep on looking into Paul Foster's face and thinking of him as a poor man.
Directly she saw the real face, it would certainly tell a different tale. Maud breathed satisfaction over her lover's letters; obviously she had no doubts of her empire over him, and even while graciously accepting the encomiums passed by her belongings on her choice, let it be seen that she by no means considered all the good fortune to be on her side.
"Paul is deeply religious;" she announced once.
"God bless my soul!" ejaculated the general;—indeed there was a universal start, for even Sue, the good, kind Sue, could hardly be regarded as deeply religious. Every eye was bent on Maud.
"Indeed he is," proceeded she, calmly. "He made quite a mark in his regiment, and received no end of testimonials, the Fosters told me. They did not speak of it before him, but Caroline warned me—I mean told me—privately."
"Took an interest in the schools and that sort of thing, eh? Quite right, very proper;" General Boldero made an effort to recover himself. "In my day it was quite the thing for the commanding officer to back up the chaplain; but—hum, ha——that's what you mean, I suppose? You are not going to foist a parsonical gentleman upon us, young lady?" Despite the jocular tone, there was a gleam of anxiety.
"I am merely stating a fact," said Maud, stolidly.
"And I am sure we ought to be very glad," murmured Sue in her humble, peacemaking accents—but even she looked disconcerted.
"We can have Custance to meet Paul at dinner, if that will satisfy him," was the general's next; he had had a few minutes for reflection, and after rapidly weighing the pros and cons of the new development, decided to swallow it with a good grace. "Will that satisfy him, or will he want the curates too?"
"You may laugh if you choose, but it is as well you should know;" Maud drew up her neck, and retorted stiffly. "Paul has been about the world, and doesn't expect to find people all cut to the same pattern,—only I imagine I shall have to conform to his ideas after we are married, and he has set his heart on getting a house with a private chapel attached."
This was better; the general breathed again. A house with a private chapel? That meant a big house, a stately house, a house he would be proud to go to and refer to. "Oh well, a man must have his fads," quoth he, cheerfully; "and though we have got along well enough at Boldero Abbey without a private chapel, still if one had been here before my day, I don't know, 'pon my word, I don't know that I should have done away with it."
But the above conversation sent Leonore to look again at the photograph.
She was nervous, curiously nervous on behalf of this unknown Paul, of whom every day produced fresh impressions.
As time passed, he assumed a form she had not been prepared for,—and the first joyous flurry having worn off, she felt or fancied that he had in reality been no more fathomed by her sister than she by him.
It will be seen by this that Leonore had herself rapidly altered of late. She had taken to looking below the surface of things. She pondered and prophesied within herself. She perceived the drift of casual observations, and following in thought the byways of life, divined to what they might lead. In fine, her own blunders and mishaps had implanted seeds for reflection, and while less unhappy, she was infinitely more serious than before.
And for Paul Foster's appearance on the scene she grew every day more impatient.
Perhaps she was altogether mistaken about him, and the being of her imagination would prove so unlike the reality that doubts and misgivings would fly to the winds, made ridiculous by a very ordinary individual, devoid of all the mystery, all the glamour cast over him in day-dreams?
If so, of course she would be glad; it would be the best possible thing to happen; and yet? "I shall have to get rid of this Paul from my thoughts somehow," she decided. "He worries me. If he would only come and be done with it!"
It was evident that Maud attached a certain éclat to her lover's piety; she recurred to the subject more than once.
"It is all very well for father to make light of it, but I do hope he understands that it is no joke with Paul. Paul is very sensible, and never thrusts his opinions on other people, but no one ever thinks of laughing at them to him."
"It is only father's way," began Sue, distressed; but her sister continued, unheeding. When Maud had a thing to say she was not to be defrauded of saying it, and she had now got the ear of the house in the shape of two other attentive listeners.
"What I mean is that father always seems to think that it is only clergymen who really care about religion. He looks upon it as their trade,—oh, he does, Sue—and he would be the first to be down on them if they neglected their trade,—but as for other people, particularly other men's caring—and Paul does care, that's the unfortunate part of it."
"Why unfortunate, dear Maud?" said Sue, gently.
"Oh, I only mean lest he and father should clash," explained Maud with perfect coolness. "I am not speaking of my own feelings. I don't mind." After a pause she subjoined: "You might give father a hint, Sue."
"And what about asking Mr. Custance to dinner?" struck in Sybil, who had hearkened to the above uneasily, yet with a different sort of uneasiness from that which made poor Sue breathe an unconscious sigh. "It might create a good impression. Well?"
"It wouldn't take Paul in for a moment," said Maud. "Still," she hesitated and looked over her shoulder as she was leaving the room, "a third person might be of use on the first evening after dinner. Just as you like about that," and she passed out with the air of a queen. She felt every inch a queen in those days.
"So it wouldn't take Paul in for a moment?" The words raised a new question in Leonore's mind. If Paul where his deeper feelings were concerned were thus acute and clear-sighted, how came it that he was so blind otherwise? Ah, there she was at it again! Back to her old dilemma—to the bogie which had just been torn in tatters during a merry feminine conclave, in which wedding preparations and wedding clothes had formed the chief objects of discussion.
It was so obvious that no one else had any arrière pensée as regarded the bridegroom elect, that she had suppressed her own successfully for the time being, and entered eagerly into all the details which even Maud condescended to be sociable over.
Maud had been quite sociable and pleasant over everything that morning. She had read bits of Paul's letter aloud; she had permitted herself to be bantered, even rather mischievously bantered, by Leo; and altogether was so approachable and communicative, that the reference to her lover's religious views and her desire that these should be respected, fell out naturally. Why then should Leo be perplexed anew?
By the time Paul actually arrived, she told herself she was sick to death of him, and everything about him....
And before the first interview was over she was jeering at herself for her fussiness. The man was well enough, but he fell from his pedestal the moment he approached. No, he was not like his presentment. Maud had declared it did not do him justice—Leo thought differently. She ran him up and down with her eye, and though she conceded his stature and general outline to be correctly rendered, there was a disappointing lack of effect; he had not the air of a hero; he had not the lofty, melancholy bearing and inscrutable countenance which was to set him apart from his fellows, a mark for furtive looks and whispers. His brow was not worn and furrowed. His smile was not forced and fleeting.
Obviously he was a bashful man, unused to finding himself the centre of attraction, and almost painfully desirous of acquitting himself well when needs must. When spoken to by a fresh voice, he jerked himself in the speaker's direction with an almost perceptible start, and flushed beneath his tan like a boy.
The position, it must be owned, was trying; Leonore had protested against it beforehand. But her father and Maud were against her, ruling that all should be assembled and the arrival made an affair of state—in fact neither would have missed it for the world.
"But Paul?" Leo had ventured doubtfully.
"You may leave Paul to me," said Maud.
It appeared that Paul had brought a dog, and to Leo it was excruciatingly funny to see General Boldero with this dog. He would have Lion brought in—he from whose path all the animals belonging to the lower stratum of household society fled by instinct—and his efforts to coax the big, gentle creature from beneath his master's chair were continuous. Whenever conversation flagged, Lion was admired and petted. Finally he made a joke. Leo and Lion? Ha, ha, ha! Upon which Paul raised his eyes which were mainly bent upon the ground, and Leo saw them fully for the first time. They were dark grey and very soft. They had an infinite amount of expression, and although she certainly could not call them sad at the moment, she felt that they might once have been so and might be so again.
But she was not anxious to speak to Paul, and every one else was. By Maud, as was natural, he was chiefly appropriated, but he listened to every remark that was made, and without opening his lips took as it were a leading part in the conversation.
General Boldero was eager to describe his shooting; he had planned how to put its best side forward, and, while deprecating its merits as superlative, to leave no doubt as to its being superior to that of his neighbours.
He hoped Paul would not expect too much; on the other hand, such as it was, and it was not—hum, ha—to be exactly despised, it had been carefully saved up for him.
"You are very good, sir," said Paul, gratefully.
"I was coming home from church last Sunday morning," continued the general—and stopped, apparently to pick up his stick which slipped, but in reality to let the words sink in—"we walk across the fields from church, it cuts off a mile—and I marked a covey of sixteen. That's not a bad covey, is it?"
"It is so long since I shot in England, sir, that I am afraid I hardly know a large covey from a small one."
"You have been tracking bigger game. I envy you that. But we poor stay-at-homes must be content with what we can get. Valentine Purcell—that's a young neighbour of ours—walked home from church with me on Sunday, and he was astonished at the size of our coveys. We are to shoot his, later on in the week."
Having thus twice brought in that he had been at church, though the tenor of his speech was partridge-shooting, the general felt that he had acquitted himself to admiration, and cast a glance of triumph at Maud. Maud had been apprehensive of his manners forsooth? He hoped he knew better than to tread on any one's toes; and a man who could afford to give his daughter a handsome establishment and was on the look-out for a house with a private chapel attached, had every right to his consideration.
He had decreed that no official mention should be made of the family party having been augmented at dinner.
"It's the custom in French houses for the abbé to appear without invitation when he pleases. A very good custom; I wish it prevailed in England," he alleged unblushingly. "As it doesn't, it is not our fault if Custance only comes when he's asked; and I should certainly—Paul would certainly, eh, Maud?—You needn't look stupid, my dear," with a sudden touch of irritation. "You know very well what I mean."
And as she did and the rest did likewise, it was left to himself to say easily as the party broke up: "We have only our good rector to meet you to-night; he is quite l'ami intime here, as I am sure you will agree with me the clergyman of the parish ought to be. Squire and parson hand in hand, eh?"
"And now I think I have settled that," quoth General Boldero to himself.
He had shot both his bolts; and though for a moment dismayed by the reflection that he had no more in reserve, there was consolation in the hope that no more would be required of him. Paul was evidently a gentlemanly fellow who would avoid unpleasant subjects.
The general opinion of Paul, though it took a different form, was equally favourable.
No sooner had the lovers disappeared in orthodox fashion, than encomiums broke out all round. They compared him with people they knew; he was like one man but taller—he reminded them of another but he was handsomer. Perhaps he was not strictly handsome, but certainly he was distinguished looking. If his nose were not a little on one side, it would be a good nose. Sue had not noticed that it was on one side; she thought it a very good nose as it was. Sue was even more enthusiastic than Sybil. Sybil lamented the absence of a moustache. Let a mouth be ever so good, a moustache was an improvement,—whereat her father stroked his own and agreed with her.
In the midst of it all, Leonore slipped aside, and passed into the next room where the photograph was. She was going to convince herself of its being unlike, absolutely unlike, the original. She was going to discover, point by point, wherein lay the contrast, and abandon for ever the old Paul, thus replaced by the new.
The old Paul looked at her, and she started.
For the new Paul had looked, just once, for a single passing minute, the same.