CHAPTER XXVIII.
And here I must make a confession, if I am to put my story honestly upon paper. For the events of that night produced results upon which I cannot look back with satisfaction.
True, the position in which they placed me was none of my own seeking, but forced on me by circumstance. Still, I cannot wholly excuse myself of fault. Like most men, I suppose, I possess a fair share of vanity; though, heaven knows, in my case, what with lameness, poverty, and the obscurity of my early lot, vanity had little enough, so far, to feed upon. Perhaps, on this very account, it was all the more greedy of sustenance. My rescue of Alice Dynevor was the nine days’ wonder of the College. I was acclaimed a veritable hero. This affected me but little. Granted the opportunity, a score of men, as I told them, would have done everything I had, and probably done it ten times better. Having risked my life once to save a few hounds, there was no great credit in risking it a second time to save a human being.
But the matter did not end there. It would have been better had it done so—for my conscience’ sake, and, I am afraid, for the peace of mind of others. What my kind old friend the Master said to me I shall not repeat. Still less shall I repeat what was said to me by Mrs. Dynevor. Who dare measure the tenderness of a mother’s heart or the generosity of its gratitude?
While the Lodge was refitting and rebuilding, the Master removed to a house in Trumpington Street, near the Fitzwilliam Museum, surrounded by large park-like grounds. The three ladies were still his guests; indeed, report declared they had taken up their abode with him permanently. Here I was asked to dinner often, twice a week perhaps; and told, moreover, to consider myself on the footing of an intimate friend, free to come in and out when I liked. And pleasant enough was that permission. Pleasant to a lonely man, such as I, to meet bright smiling faces, to sit and talk, or listen to music, to be petted—mothered almost—by a comely older woman, welcomed and made much of by younger ones. The whole thing was new to me—new as it was flattering and charming. I slipped into something approaching intimacy before I realised what was happening.
For, as the days went by, I could not but perceive that Alice, the girl whose life I had saved, bestowed on me very kindly glances—glances in which I, though unskilled in such language, read something deeper and—shall I say?—sweeter than mere gratitude. To her kiss—if kiss indeed it was—given under the stress of great emotion, I did not attach importance. To do so would have been, in my opinion, both unchivalrous and fatuous. But, as between man and maid, there is a light in young eyes which can hardly be mistaken by even the most cold-blooded or most ignorant. And that light I beheld, evening after evening, upon her smiling and ingenuous countenance.
She was not, as I have already said, particularly pretty, or particularly clever, or particularly anything beyond being well educated and well brought up, with the good manners which come of an amiable nature and the habit of moving in the society of her equals. But for the experiences of that fearful night I should, in all probability, have met her, parted from her, and remembrance of her would have faded from my mind altogether. As it was, I could not but observe—nor deny I took a certain pleasure in observing—that she sought and preferred my company; that when we talked she led the conversation, in as far as she knew how, to tender, earnest, fanciful subjects—such as, in those days, were called ‘sentiment’—and tried to gain a response from me. And, within certain limits, my vanity being flattered though my heart was untouched, I did respond. I had no wish to mislead her; but I was weak and self-indulgent in that, the present being agreeable, I let things drift.
I do not pretend to justify, or indeed quite to understand my own state of mind at that period. I was still under the influence of my trouble and disappointment about Hartover, the bitterness of my own inability to help the dear boy, and save him from the consequences of his own ill-judged action. I trembled for his future. I had written to him, and oh! what a letter to write. To be at once truthful and moderate required all my judgment and tact. I could not approve, yet I feared to alienate him by expression of my real feeling. My love for Nellie Braithwaite told on me, too—and the temptation to profit by Hartover’s marriage and press my own suit. Thus, perplexed and unhappy, I fell, I own, from high standards of endeavour. The things dearest to me I had failed in, or knew were beyond my grasp. A cheaper, commoner way of success and of happiness—happiness, that is, of a sort—lay open to me. Should I fling aside impossible ideals, and take it?
For I could not but observe, further, that Mrs. Dynevor, and the Master himself, looked on at my intercourse with Alice complacently enough; that the former managed adroitly to throw us together, encouraged us to sing and read together, found opportunities for leaving us alone often—and too often. After all, I was no unfit match for her daughter. I was already a fellow and tutor of my College, with the prospect of a good college living hereafter: the prospect, if the Hartover interest did fail me—and fail me, I felt pretty sure for many reasons, it would not—of presentation to the first rich living in Lord Longmoor’s gift which might fall vacant if I chose to apply for it. I was as well born as the Master. He had made his way in the world, even as I was in the act of making mine, by personal ability and scholarship. Hence, on the score of station, there could be no valid objection to my suit.
Should I then—for there were actually times when I began to ask myself this—renounce high romance, and the many sacrifices and sorrows which go along with it, and content myself with a comfortable country rectory and the company of an amiable and affectionate wife—a very respectable and respected manner of existence after all, with chances, moreover, of doing much good after a quiet unostentatious fashion?