A Widow's Tale, and Other Stories

by Mrs. Oliphant

That afternoon she passed him without knowing, without one thought. She had left Miss Prentice's house full of difficulty and doubt. To take Lily away instantly seemed out of the question. The dressmaker was very busy, and frowned at the idea of losing a "hand," and Lily's fair face clouded at the very thought. What could Elizabeth do? She asked Miss Prentice to be careful, and entreated Lily, with her heart in her mouth, as she said, "Oh, to mind what she was doing, and to let nobody make free with her bonny name!" And then she went away sadly, her mind full of thought, her heart full of care, and brushed against her son Abel in the village street and never knew him. He recognised her in a moment, and very strangely the young man looked to his friends, who thought he had been taken ill. His countenance fell, and took upon it a ghastly hue; large drops of perspiration hung on his forehead. He stumbled as he crossed the street, and was like to fall. "It is a faintness," he said, with a dismal smile. But Elizabeth went on her way straight, and with her heart sore and full of thought. She was too full of care to see him, though he was in her way.

CHAPTER VII.

Lily was very penitent while her mother talked to her, but after Elizabeth went away her seriousness relaxed. What harm had she done, after all? She had not encouraged any one, or beguiled any one. When she was spoken to, she replied civilly again. When a gentleman took off his hat to her what could she do but give him a smile and say "Good-day to you, sir"? Was that a sin? When they talked nonsense what did she ever do but laugh? They got nothing from her. If they fell in love with her it was at their own peril,—it was no fault of hers. Thus her compunction melted away, for what harm had she done? All that day she worked patiently and closely at the children's frocks for young Mrs Weston at the Vicarage. She never so much as put her head out of the window or thought of breathing the fresh air. Nothing could be more industrious; and prettier little frocks or neater were never manufactured. Miss Prentice had felt that it was a great compliment paid to her by Mrs Walter Weston, who lived in London, though she was now on a visit to her husband's father, to entrust her and not a London workwoman with the children's frocks; and that the work should be so satisfactory pleased her mightily. "You must mind what your mother told you," Miss Prentice said, next morning, "but I'll not keep you from your Sunday walk. Take your walk, but take some one with you, and mind who you speak to, Lily." Lily promised "faithfully," solemnly. She tripped out, looking up the street and down the street, and saw no one. Who was likely to be in the High Street in the middle of a summer Sunday? To be sure, there were the village people at their doors, and lads and lasses setting out, like Lily, for their walk. She thought she would go down to the waterside and pay a visit of benevolence and kindness to old Bess, the wife of the old boatman who looked after the boats at the Castle. That would be a nice walk, and yet it would be out of everybody's way. Quite out of the way, for it was not one of her haunts, nor was "any person" likely to look for her there. And yet such an unlikely thing might be as that "somebody" might have something to say to old Simon about the boats, even though it was Sunday. Thus both conscience and fancy were satisfied—conscience, for most likely "they" would be looking for her in an entirely different quarter; and fancy, because there was still a possibility, a far-off unlikely chance, that Providence might somehow bring "them" there, without intention. And when all was done, it was a bonnie walk,—the water softly lapping on the shore, the sunshine twinkling in all the wavelets, the green banks warm in the afternoon light, the trees softly shading over her, covering her path with scattered shadows. All this made the beginning of the walk very pleasant to Lily. She had been so good that she had a secret, half-drowsy consciousness that events would turn out to her advantage and bring her pleasant harm—that the temptation from which she had fled would be brought to her, without any fault of hers—perhaps no very unusual state of mind.

This, we must pause to say, was at a period considerably later than that treated of in the beginning of this history. Abel Murray had been for several weeks at Landale, had been on the eve of departure, and had stayed, doubling the originally proposed length of his visit before he made up his mind to write to his mother, which he had done with great precaution, sending his letter to Oxford first, that the postmark might not betray him. In the meantime he had made himself popular in the three great houses of the neighbourhood. Old Squire Ridley, in particular, had adopted him among the number of his closest friends, and because of the accident from which he had saved Roger he had been made free of the house, and had grown into the most intimate relations with the family generally, so that Mrs Landale playfully complained that though her guest, it was the Ridleys who had the most of him—playfully: yet the Landales, perhaps, were not quite so pleased as they still professed to be. They had remonstrated when he talked of going away, and insisted on the prolonging of his visit, but still there was a little soreness in their minds as to his constant coming and going to the Castle. If it was Roger that was the attraction, they all thought that certainly their Charley was worth as much as Roger; and if it was Mary—oh, if it was Mary, then it was most foolish, and more to be deplored than any other folly could be. For what could come of that but disappointment and trouble? Mary was engaged, and even if she had not been engaged, she never would have had anything to say to a man who, whatever he might be in the way of family, &c. (and nobody really knew what his family was, whether he belonged to the Atholes or not), was certainly not a rich man. It was madness, they all thought; but no one had a chance of saying so or warning him against it, and day by day he spent at the Castle, often, indeed, in company with some member of the Landale family (asked there much oftener on his account, which was something in his favour), but also often without. Mary was very kind to him. He had saved her brother's life, and he pleased and amused her father, and he was very much devoted, simply and reverentially, to herself. Mary was beginning to perceive that she was not likely to have very much devotion from her husband. Sir Richard was not an impassioned lover. He had taken his wooing very easily from the first; it was more like the settlement of an alliance between two princely families than honest loving. She was the only person for him to marry, his fit mate; the one lady in the district who could add something—a bluer blood, a more distinguished lineage—to him who had so much. Therefore Sir Richard Featherstonhaugh had proposed to Miss Ridley, and, with faint reluctance, had been accepted. There was no passion in the business, and when Mary saw this new-comer, silent, reverential, and devoted, with a veiled light of passion in his eyes, she—liked it. It is a sad confession to be obliged to make. She was like Lily, though she was so much above Lily. She was flattered—and it softened and warmed her heart, a little chilled with the indifference of others and with the absence of emotion in herself, to see the light in this young man's eyes. She would not for the world have done him any harm. If she had been able to accuse herself of having done anything to cause this, she would never have forgiven herself for doing it; but the mischief was done before she found out, and she felt he was happy when he was by her side, when she spoke to him, when he had little services to do for her. Poor fellow! and she had so much cause to be grateful to him. Why should she not give him, it being so little, as much pleasure as she could?

Sir Richard, too, as in duty bound, had invited Abel to Featherstonhaugh, and there he had found among the visitors people whom he knew. Nowhere in all the neighbourhood was there so much society, and so good. The great house was full of guests, and Sir Richard was not indifferent to any one whose presence in his house was pleasant to his visitors. But though he received him and was civil to him, he did not like Murray. A certain suspicion in respect to him was always in his mind. He had seen his admiration for Miss Ridley, which was a distinct offence to the man who was going to marry her, but did not much admire her; and he had perceived that Murray, with a similarly jealous and displeased feeling, had seen his own eyes straying after Lily. These were very good reasons why he should dislike him, and be on the watch for something against him. He had made all sorts of covert inquiries into his origin—asking if he were connected with various Murrays whom he professed himself to know; and these inquiries had become very unpleasant, very disagreeable to Abel, so that he felt the existence of a sourd suspicion, which, had it shown itself at first, would have made him end his visit abruptly. But other reasons, now far more strong, had come in, inducing him to stay. He could not tear himself away. While he was there was he not a kind of protection to his sister? though it seemed to him that he would rather die than acknowledge the village Lily for his sister; and how could he banish himself for ever from the place which held Mary Ridley? Once gone, it must be for ever—that he knew—and thus lived on the edge of the precipice, daring the danger which seemed to him so terrible, but with which, when his feelings were excited, he could yet play. He had, indeed, it seemed to himself, surmounted for the moment all the most evident dangers. No one had recognised him, and yet he had seen many people whom he recognised; and he had never betrayed himself, though it had been sometimes difficult enough to keep on his guard. Was he not safe on the whole? and for another week or two—a few precious days or moments stolen from fate—surely there would be no risk if he should stay.

This, however, has but little to do with Lily, straying along the side of the water, with a smile on her face, and confused happiness in her heart. It was not happiness, it was expectation, a sense of all joyful things that might be coming, a confusion of hope and pleasure. She walked on with a half smile, with the shadows and sunshine flickering over her, and the wind busy about her, blowing her ribbons here and there, ruffling out the short locks that lurked under the braided hair on her forehead. Lily thought this was dreadfully untidy, and gave herself a good deal of trouble to smooth them down again, altogether unwitting of the time when "a fringe" should be counted a beauty. The cottage of Bess and Simon, to which she was going, lay in a little circle, half hidden by the woods before you reached the Castle. It was a very solitary little place, open to the lake, but shut in on three sides by the trees, which there were low down, almost to the water's edge.

Now it was not the custom in the district to go on the water on Sundays; but Roger was restless, and beyond rule: he had gone to church in the morning, as in duty bound, but he had not known what to do with himself afterwards. His mind was in a ferment and agitation about Lily, to whom he had said everything a man can say, without eliciting any response,—she had laughed, and she had eluded all his entreaties. No lady would have treated him, he said to himself indignantly, as the little village coquette had done. He was out of patience, and out of heart—exasperated, yet ever more and more bound to her, and feeling it impossible to break his chain. What was he to do? He had strolled down to the beach, and thrown himself into a skiff in the restlessness of his mind, and there he lay, swaying with the swaying of the water, floating where it liked to take him, his oars shipped, himself lying moodily in the boat, thinking—wondering what was to become of him, what she would do, whether he could tear himself away and try to forget her. That perhaps would be the best thing; but could he do it? The future was dark enough to him, even happiness being full of pain. Happiness would be to marry Lily—but if he married Lily, what should he do with her? how present her to his father? how get his marriage acknowledged and approved of? To lose her was despair; but to gain her—would that be so very much better? Poor Roger! he knew very well that Lily had not, could not have, any such love for him as filled his bosom for her. If she loved him at all, it must be in so much lighter, slighter a way, no more than liking, perhaps no more than vanity. This he knew very well by moments—and at this moment felt it to the bottom of his heart.

When all at once he saw a white dress fluttering, lingering along under the flecked shadows and sunshine. And it seemed to Roger that he knew the turn of the pretty figure, the swift yet lingering pace. He raised himself up in a moment and seized his oars; but even while he was in the act of moving, stopped suddenly, and, with those oars touching the water, stayed and gazed at what was going on before his eyes. He was not near enough to see the blue spots on the white cotton which he would have known for Lily's Sunday gown, but he had no doubt that it was Lily; but then, springing suddenly through the trees, came another figure, a man, throwing a dark shadow, by Lily's side. He could hear, or thought he could hear, her little start and scream, and saw in a moment, lighted by jealousy and a kind of hatred which he had begun to entertain for this inappropriate rival, that it was Featherstonhaugh. Roger set his teeth. If it had been any other man, any man who had a right to address her, who was free as he himself was—but Featherstonhaugh! Mary's accepted and betrothed lover! Roger's brain and his heart seemed to take fire. Lily gave a little scream, but she was not afraid, and Roger looking grimly on from his boat saw her stand listening and answering with the same half invitation, half repulsion, with which she had so often treated himself. They stood and talked, and Roger looked on. He could not hear what they were saying, but what he saw drove him frantic. It made him wild even that she should stop to parley at all. Not a look, not a gesture escaped him. He saw Featherstonhaugh put his hand on her arm, and though Lily tossed it off with a quick movement of her elbow, she was not angry. Then he seized her hand—but Roger could bear no more. He swept towards them with a few hasty strokes, and dashed his boat up upon the beach with a jar and scatter of the pebbles, springing on to the path beside the two, almost before Featherstonhaugh had dropped in amazement the hand which upon a second attempt he seemed to have been allowed to take.

"I beg your pardon," said Roger, quivering with passion. "I fear I am interrupting a tête-à-tête." And he glanced at the intruder who was to be his sister's husband with suppressed fury.

A man caught in such a position cannot well look anything but foolish. Featherstonhaugh was taken entirely by surprise. It is bad enough, in any case, to be found in intimate discourse with a village girl; but to be found by his rival, and his future brother-in-law, could anything be more uncomfortable? He flushed with angry impatience and discomfiture.