Abington Abbey: A Novel

by Archibald Marshall

Captain Mansergh was not so affected to awkwardness by this address as might have been expected, but shook hands cheerfully all round and produced the necessary introductory remarks with great readiness. He was not so young on a closer inspection as his trim alert figure had seemed to indicate. His open rather ugly face was much weathered, but a pair of keen sailor's eyes looked out of its chiselled roughness, and his clean-cut mouth showed two rows of strong white teeth. He was taller than most sailors, but carried his calling about him even in his smart hunting-kit. He was likeable at first sight, and the Grafton girls liked him, as he stood and talked to them, in spite of the obvious fact that they were on exhibition, and that one or other of them was expected to show more than liking for him at very short notice.

They discussed it frankly enough between themselves later on. "It can't be me, you know, because I'm already engaged," said Beatrix, "and it can't be Barbara, because she's too young. So it must be you, Caroline, and I don't think you could do much better. He's really nice, and he won't be grumpy and bearish like old Sir Alexander when he gets old. That's very important. You must look ahead before you're caught. Of course when you are caught nothing makes any difference. If I thought René was going to turn into a grump when he gets old I shouldn't mind. At least I should mind, but I shouldn't want not to marry him. But I know he won't. I don't think my son Richard will either. He's much too nice."

"If neither of you want him he might do for me," said Barbara reflectively. "But I think I'd rather wait for a bit. Dad likes him very much. But I don't think he wants him for Caroline."

"He doesn't want anybody for any of us," said Caroline. "He wants to keep us. Most fathers would only be too glad to get one of us off, but he isn't like that. If he likes him to come here, I'm sure it isn't with any idea of that sort."

"I'm not so sure," said Barbara oracularly.

Pressed to explain, she advanced the opinion that their father hoped Richard Mansergh would fall in love with Beatrix, and she with him; but the idea was scouted by Beatrix almost with violence. She should love René, she said, as long as she lived, and would never, never give him up. She even became a little cross about it. She thought that her father was not quite keeping to the bargain. He made it impossible for her to talk to him about René, for whenever she tried to do so his face altered and shut down. She wanted to be able to talk to him about everything, but how could he expect it if he cut himself off from the chief thing in her life? Well, she didn't care. She loved Dad, of course, and always should, but it must make a difference later on, if he wasn't going to accept the man she had chosen for her own, the man whom she loved and trusted.

This little outburst, which was received by Caroline with a mild expostulation, and by Barbara in silence, indicated a certain constraint that was growing up between Grafton and Beatrix. He had given way, but he could not get used to the idea of her marriage, nor take it as a thing settled and bound to happen. The six months' of parting and silence must surely work some change. Beatrix's bonds would be loosened, she would see with clearer eyes.

But more than half of the time of waiting was over, and Beatrix showed no sign of having changed. She only did not talk of her lover to him because he made himself such an unreceptive vessel for her confidence. It was as she said: if she did so, his face altered and shut down; and this was the expressive interpretation of his state of mind, which shrank from the disagreeable reminder of these two, so far apart in his estimation, considering themselves as one.

His thoughts of Lassigny had swung once more towards complete antagonism. He seemed to him far older than he really was, and far more immoral than he had any just reason to suppose him to be. He resented the assurance with which this outsider had claimed his sweet white child as his fitting mate, and even the wealth and station that alone had given him that assurance. And he also resented the ease with which he had accepted his period of banishment. He would have been angry if Lassigny had tried to communicate with Beatrix directly, and would not have liked it if he had sought to do so indirectly. But he would not have liked anything that Lassigny did or didn't do. The image of him, coming to his mind, when perhaps he had been able to forget it for a time, jerked him down into a state of gloom. After a moment's silence his face would often be darkened by a sudden frown, which did not suit its habitual agreeable candour, and had seldom before been seen on it. It had been his habit to take his morning cup of tea into one of the children's rooms and chat with them, sitting on the bed, while they drank theirs. But his visits to Beatrix were always shorter than the others, because she had a photograph of Lassigny always propped up on the table by the side of her bed, so that she could see it when she first woke in the morning; and he couldn't stand that. He never sat down on her bed, because he could see the face of the photograph from it, but walked about the room, or sat in a chair some way off. And of course she knew the reason, but wouldn't put away the photograph before he came.

This was one of her little protests against his attitude; and there were others. She also could make her pretty face shut down obstinately, and did so whenever the conversation might have led naturally to mention of her lover. She almost succeeded in creating the impression that it was she who refused to have his name mentioned. At times when the family contact seemed to be at its most perfect, and the happy occupied life of the Abbey was flowing along in its pleasant course, as if its inmates were all-sufficing to one another, it would be brought up with a sudden check. There was an irritating factor at work, like a tiny stone in a shoe, that settles itself where it cannot be felt except now and then, and must eventually be got rid of. But this influence could not be got rid of. That was Grafton's trouble.