“Not foolishly,” the young man said, pressing Lady Penton’s hand. He was very sorry for her wistful, tremulous looks, though his heart was bounding with satisfaction and elation in his own prospects. “Not foolishly,” he half whispered, “but soon to be over. I think I can promise you that—I feel sure I can promise you that.”
“God bless you!” said Walter’s mother, “and reward you, for I can’t—oh, if you bring me back my boy, Mr. Rochford!”
“I will,” he cried, but still in a whisper. “I will! and youcanreward me, dear Lady Penton.” He kissed her hand in his emotion, which is a salutation very unusual in mild English households, and brought a little thrill, a sensation of solemnity, and strangeness, and possibilities unconceived, to her startled consciousness. Ally could not speak at all. She was half concealed in her mother’s shadow, clinging to her, still more full of strange sweet excitement and emotion. Her young eyelids seemed to weigh down her eyes. She could not look at him, but his words seemed to murmur in her ears and dwell there, returning over and over again, “You can reward me.” Ally at least, now, if not before, knew how.
“You’ve got a good horse there,” said Sir Edward, mechanically stroking the shining neck of the impatient animal, “you’ll not be long on the road.”
“No, she goes well; to-morrow then, sir, early.”
“As early as you please—you’ll have a cold drive. Thank you, Rochford.” He put out his hand to the young man with a hasty touch just as Rochford took the reins, and then turned away and shut himself up in his book-room, while the others stood watching the dash of the mare, the sudden awakening of sound in the silence, the glimmer of the lamp as the cart flew along the drive. Sir Edward retired to think it over by his dull afternoon fire, which was not made up till after tea. The night had fallen, but he did not immediately light his candles. He bent down over the dull red glow to think it over. His mind was relieved, there seemed now some possibility that this miserable anxiety might be over. But even though his object may be gained by other means, a man does not like to fail in his own person, and the chill of unsuccess was in his heart. Rochford, his man of business! well, princes themselves have to seek help from men of business. It was his trade to find out things. It was in the way of his profession that he should succeed. But then had not his ear caught something about a reward—a reward! what reward? except his charges, of course. A new contrariety came into Sir Edward’s mind, though he could not define it. He had not at all an agreeable half hour as he sat thinking it over in that dull moment before tea, over the dull book-room fire.
Allywas up very early next morning. She was always early. In a house with so many little children and so few servants, if you were not up early you were in arrears withyour work the whole day. That was her conviction always, but on many occasions, especially on dark winter mornings, it did not carry the same practical force. This day she was more certain of the necessity than ever. She scolded Anne for not sharing it, but so softly that Anne fell asleep in the middle of the little lecture. And Ally knew very well that nothing could be done, that no one could come so very early as this was. But still her mind was in great agitation, and it did her good to be up and about. About Walter? She had been very unhappy about Walter, full of distress and trouble, her heart beating at every sound, thinking of nothing else. But to-day she was, to say the least, a little more at ease about her brother. Last night they had all been more at their ease, so much so that Lady Penton had begun to talk a little about the removal, and the new furniture that would be required, and the many expenses and advantages, such as they were, of the new establishment. The expenses were what Lady Penton was most sensible of. For her own part, perhaps the advantages did not seem advantages to her. She was satisfied with the Hook. What did she want with Penton? But, at all events, she had been able to think of all this, to change the one persistent subject which had occupied her mind. And perhaps this was what had set Ally’s mind afloat. She was glad to be quite alone to think it all over, notwithstanding that Martha looked at her with no agreeable glances as she came into the dining-room before the fire was lighted.
“I just overslep’ myself, Miss Alice,” said Martha. “With helping to wash up down-stairs, and helping to get the nursery straight upstairs, a body has no time for sleep.”
“It does not matter at all, Martha,” said Ally with fervor, “I only thought I should like to arrange the books a little.”
“Oh, if that’s all, miss,” Martha said, graciously accepting the excuse.
But even Martha was a hinderance to Ally’s thoughts. She made herself very busy collecting the picture-books with which the children made up for the want of their usual walks on wet days, and which they were apt to leave about the dining-room, and ranging them all in a row onthe shelf while Martha concluded her work. But as soon as she was alone Ally’s arms dropped by her side and her activity ceased. She had put away her thoughts in Martha’s presence, as she had done in Anne’s and in her mother’s, keeping them all for her own enjoyment; but now that she was alone she could take them out and look at them. After all, they were not thoughts at all, they were recollections, anticipations, they were a sort of soft intoxication, delirium, a state too sweet to be real, yet which somehow was real—more real than the most commonplace and prosaic things. To be alone, how delightful it was, even with the fire only half alight, and reluctant to begin the work of the day, and Martha’s duster still before her. She leaned her arms on the mantel-piece and bent her head down upon them and shut her eyes. She could see best when she shut her eyes. Had any one been there Ally could not thus have shut herself up in that magical world. Her hands were rather blue with cold, if truth must be told, but she was aware of nothing but an atmosphere of warmth and softness, full of golden reflections and a haze of inarticulate happiness. She had forgotten all about that momentary movement of pride, of hesitation, which she had afterward called by such hard names, but which at the moment had been real enough; that sensation of being Miss Penton of Penton, in the presence of Mrs. Rochford and her daughter. Both the sin and the repentance had faded out of Ally’s mind. She did not ask herself anything about her suitor, whether he would satisfy her father, whether he would be thought of importance equal to the new claims of the family. Ally had gone beyond this stage, she remembered none of these things. The only external matters which affected her were the facts that for her sake he was going out into the world to bring back her brother, and that the whole horizon round her was the brighter for this enterprise. Naturally her thoughts gave it a far graver character than it possessed. It seemed something like the work of a knight-errant, an effort of self-sacrifice beautiful and terrible. He was about to leave his home, to plunge into that seething world of London, of which she had heard so many appalling things, for her brother’s, nay, for her sake. She thought of him as wandering through streets more miserable than any of the bewildering dark forests of romance. In short, all the anguishof such a search as she had read of in heart-rending stories occurred to Ally’s mind. And all this he was doing for her. It gave her a pang of delightful suffering more sweet than enjoyment, that he should be so good, so brave, and that it should be all for her.
Meantime young Rochford prepared, with a little trouble, it must be said, to absent himself from his business for a few days; he thought that certainly this time must be required for a mission that might not be an easy one; for if he did not know, as he said, that such escapades were the commonest thing in the world among young men, he knew very well that to bring back a young culprit was not easily accomplished, and made up his mind that he would want both courage and patience for his task. As a matter of fact, he had no idea of Walter’s motive, or of the “entanglement” which had drawn him away. He was willing enough to believe in an entanglement, but not in one so innocent and blameless; and he believed that the youth had plunged into the abyss with the curiosity and passion of youth, to feel what was to be felt and to see what was to be seen, and to make a premature dash at that tree of the knowledge of evil which has so wonderful and bitter a charm. He was ready to take a great deal of trouble for the deliverance of the boy, though not without a little shake of his head at the thought of the other young Pentons who had also taken that plunge and whom it had not been possible to rescue. He had heard his father tell how many efforts Sir Walter had made to save his sons, and with how little effect. Did it perhaps run in the blood? But Rochford was fully determined to do his best, and confident, as became a fighter in that good cause, that whoever failed, he at least would succeed. And it was quite possible that he might have been willing to help these poor people (as he called them to himself) and save the unfortunate boy, if he had not loved Ally. He was generously sorry for them all, notwithstanding his consciousness of the enormous advantage likely to spring to himself from what he could do for them. He would have done it, he thought—if they had asked him, or even if it had come evidently in his way—for them; and certainly he would have done it for Ally’s brother, whosoever that brother might have been to recommend himself to the girl he loved. There could be no doubt upon that subject. The complication which made itso infinitely useful to him to make himself useful in this way, because the girl he loved was the eldest daughter of Sir Edward Penton, and more or less out of his sphere, was after all a secondary matter—and yet it could not be denied that it was very important too. He said to himself that he would have chosen Ally from the world had she been a poor curate’s daughter, a poor governess, a nobody. But at the same time he could not but be aware that to marry Miss Penton was a great thing for him, and worth a great deal of trouble to bring about. Perhaps a man’s feelings in the matter of his love are never so unalloyed as a girl’s, to whom the love itself is everything, and with whom the circumstances tell for nothing. Or perhaps this depends upon the circumstances themselves, since a girl too has many calculations to make and much to take into consideration when she is called upon to advance herself and her family by a fortunate marriage. Rochford could not help feeling that such a connection would be a fine thing: but it was not for the connection that Ally was dear to him. He thought of her in his way with subdued rapture really stronger and more passionate, though not so engrossing, as her own, as he dashed along the river-side, his mare almost flying, his heart going faster, beating with the hope of a meeting with Ally before he should see her father—before he set off upon his mission. If Ally loved him she would find the means, he thought, to give him that recompense for his devotion; and sure enough, as he came in sight of the gate, he became aware also of a little slim figure gathering the first snow-drops in the shadow of the big laurel bushes that screened the little drive. He flung the reins to his groom and leaped out of the cart, at imminent risk of startling the other nervous, highly organized animal, who had carried him along so swiftly; but what did he care for that or any other risk? In a moment, shutting the gate behind him gingerly, notwithstanding his headlong haste, that nobody might be aware of his arrival, he was by Ally’s side.
“You are gathering flowers, Miss Penton, already!”
“Oh, Mr. Rochford, is it you? Yes; they are earlier here than anywhere. They are only snow-drops, after all.”
She looked not unlike a snow-drop herself, with a white wrapper wound round her throat, and her head, which drooped a little—but not till after she had recognized himwith a rapid glance and an overwhelming momentary blush which left her pale.
“I could think there would be always flowers wherever you trod,” he said.
“That’s poetry,” she replied, with a little tremulous laugh, in which there was excitement and a little nervous shivering from the cold. “It must have been you I heard galloping along,” she added, hurriedly, “like the wind. Are you in haste for the train?”
“I was in haste, hoping for a word with you before I started.”
“My father is expecting you, Mr. Rochford.”
“Yes; I did not mean your father. Won’t you say a kind word to me before I go?”
“Oh, if I could only thank you as I should like! Mr. Rochford, I do with my whole heart.”
“It is not thanks I want,” he said. “Ally—don’t be angry with me—if I come back—with—your brother.”
“Oh, Mr. Rochford, we will all—I don’t know what to say—bless you!”
“I don’t want blessing; nor is it the others I am thinking of. Ally, are you angry?”
He had taken in his own her cold hands, with the snow-drops in them, and was bending over them. Ally trembled so that she let her flowers fall, but neither of them paid any attention. He did not say he loved her, or anything of that kind, which perhaps the girl expected; but he said, “Ally, are you angry?” once more.
“Oh, no,” she said, in a voice that was no more than a whisper: and then the sound of a step upon the gravel made them start asunder.
It was Sir Edward, who had heard the dog-cart coming along the curve by the river, and who, restless in his anxiety, had come forth to see who it was. Both Rochford and Ally stooped down after that little start of separation to pick up the fallen flowers, and then once more their hands touched, and the same whisper, so meaningless yet so full of meaning, was exchanged—“If you are not angry, give them to me, Ally!”
Angry? no; why should she be angry? She gave him the snow-drops out of her hand, and while he ran up to meet her father was thankful to have the chance of stooping to gather up the rest. It was not so much, after all,that he had said; nothing but her name—Ally—and “Are you angry?” At what should she be angry?—because he had called her by her name? It had never sounded so sweetly, so soft, in her ears before.
“Yes, I am on my way to the station. I came to see if you had any instructions for me; if there was any—news, before I go.”
“I don’t see how there could be any news,” said Sir Edward, who had relapsed into something of his old irritation. “I didn’t expect any news. If he did not write at first, do you think it likely he would write now?”
“He might do so any day; every day makes it more likely that he should do so,” said Rochford, “in my opinion.”
“Ah, you think more favorably than I do,” said the father, shaking his head, but he was mollified by the words. He went on shaking his head. “As long as he can get on there I don’t expect him to write. I don’t expect him to come back. I don’t think you’ll find him ever so easily as you suppose. But still, you can try; I have no objection that you should try.”
“Then there is nothing more to say beyond what we settled last night?”
“Nothing that I can think of. His mother, of course, would have messages to send; she would wish you to tell him that she was anxious, and feared his falling ill, and all that; but I don’t pretend to be unhappy about his health or—anything of that sort,” said Sir Edward, hoarsely, with a wave of his hand. “You can tell him from me that he’d better come home at once; we’ll be removing presently. He had best be here when we take possession of Penton; he had best—be here—But you know very well what to say—that is, if you find him,” he added, with a harsh little laugh, “which you won’t find so easy as you think.”
“I don’t suppose it will be easy,” said Rochford; “but if it can be done I’ll do it. I’ll stay till I’ve done it. I shall not return without some news.”
“Ah, well; go, go. You are full of confidence, you young men. You think you’ve but to say ‘come’ and he will come. You’ll know better when you are as old—as old as I am. Good-bye, then, if you are going. You’ll—look in as you come back?”
“I shall come here direct, sir: and telegraph as soon as I have anything to say.”
“Good-bye, then,” said Sir Edward, stretching out his hand. He held Rochford for a moment, shaking his hand in a tremulous way. Then he said, “It must be inconvenient, leaving all your business, going away on this wild-goose chase.”
“If it were ever so inconvenient I shouldn’t mind.”
He kept swinging the young man’s hand, with a pressure which seemed every moment as though he would throw it away; then he murmured in his throat, “God bless you, then!” and dropped it, and turned back toward the house.
Rochford was left standing once more by the side of Ally, with her hands full of snow-drops, who had followed every word of this little colloquy with rapt attention. The flowers she had given him were carefully inclosed in his left hand; they were a secret between his love and him. He did not unfold them even for her to see. “Walk with me to the gate,” he said, in a voice which was half entreaty and half command. He held out his arm to her, and she took it. The little authority, the air of appropriation, was sweet to her as she thought no flattery could have been.
“He will be against me,” said Rochford, holding her hand close, bending over her in the shade of the laurels. “And I don’t wonder. But if I come back successful perhaps they will think me worthy of a reward. Ally, darling, you thank me for going, when it is all mercenary, for my own interest—”
“Oh, no, no—no.”
“It is—to win you. I am not good enough for you, I know that, but I can not give up this dear hope. Will you stand by me if they refuse?”
She made no reply. How could she make any reply? She held his arm tight, and drooped her head. She had never stood against them in her life. She was aghast at the thought. Everything in life had been plain to her till now. But her eyes were dazzled with the sudden new light, and the possibility of darkness coming after it. The confusion of betrothal, refusal, delight, dismay, all coming together, bewildered her inexperienced soul. “No, no, no,” she murmured; “oh, no; they will never be against us.”
“No,” he cried, in subdued tones of triumph; “notagainstus, if you will stand by me. Ally! then it is you and I against the world!”
And then there was the glitter and glimmer before her eyes, the impatient mare tossing her nervous head, the wintery sun gleaming in the harness, in the horse’s sleek coat, in the varnish of the dog-cart: and then the sudden rush of sound, and all was gone like a dream. Like a dream—like a sudden phantasmagoria, in which she too had been a vision like the rest, and heard and saw and done and said things inconceivable. To turn back after that on everything that was so familiar and calm, to remember that she must go and put into water the snow-drops, which were already dropping limp in the hand that he had kissed—that she must face them all in the preoccupation of her thoughts—was almost as wonderful to Ally as this wonderful moment that was past. “You and I against the world.” And those other shorter words that meant so little apparently, “Ally—you are not angry?” kept murmuring and floating about her, making an atmosphere round her. Would the others hear her when she went in? That fear seized upon Ally as she drew near the door, coming slowly, slowly along the path. They would hear the words, “Ally, are you angry?” but would they know what that meant? she said to herself in her dream as she reached the door. No, no; they might hear them, but they would not understand—that was her secret between her love and her. To think that in such little words, that look so innocent, everything could be said!
But nobody took any notice of Ally when she went in at last. They were all occupied with their own affairs, and with the one overpowering sentiment which made them insensible to other things. Ally went into the midst of them with her secret in her eyes like a lamp in a sanctuary, but they never perceived it. She put her snow-drops in water, all but two or three which she took to her room with her, feeling them too sacred even to be worn, even to be left for Anne to see. But where could she put them to keep them secret? She had no secret places to keep anything in, nor had she ever known what it was to have a secret in all her innocent life. How, oh, how was she to keep this?
Asa matter of fact she did not keep it at all.
The others were very anxious, lost in their thoughts, their minds all quivering with anxiety and hope and fear, but still there were moments when the tension relaxed a little. It was very highly strung at first while the excitement of Rochford’s departure and of Sir Edward’s encounter with him was still in the air, but by degrees this died away, and a sense of increased serenity, of greater hope, released their souls from that bondage. Lady Penton after a long silence began again to talk a little about the new house.
“I don’t know what we can do with these poor old things in Penton,” she said; “such a beautiful house as it is, everybody says, and so many pretty things in it: and all we have is so shabby. Ally, you are the only one that has seen it.”
“Yes, mother,” said Ally, waking up as from a dream.
“What do you think, my dear? you ought to be able to tell me. I suppose there is scarcely a room in the house so small as this?”
“I—don’t think I paid any attention.”
“No attention!—to a house which was to be our own house.”
“But no one thought then it was to be our own house,” cried Anne, coming to the rescue. “And you know Ally did not enjoy it, mother.”
“Oh, yes,” cried Ally, suddenly waking up, feeling once more the brightness of pleasure that had come with the sight ofhim; how he had found her neglected and made a princess of her, a little queen! Was it possible that she could ever have forgotten that?
“Well, not at first,” said Anne; “you didn’t like Cousin Alicia, which I don’t wonder at. Mab didn’t like her either. Mother, if Mab comes back and insists on coming to live with us, what shall you do?”
“I wish you would not be so nonsensical,” said Lady Penton, with a little vexation, “when I was talking of thefurniture. Why should Mab—” she paused a moment, struck by a recollection, and then wound up with a sigh and a shake of her head. “Why should not Walter have a try?” The words came back to her mind vaguely, just clear enough to arouse a keener consciousness of the prevailing subject which her mind had put aside for the moment. Ah! poor Wat! poor Wat! how could his mother think or speak of anything while his fate hung in the balance? But then she reflected on the new agent who had been sent out into the world in search of him, a young man who knew the ways of young men. This reflection gave her more comfort than anything. She clung to the idea that young men spoke a language of their own among themselves, and that only they understood each other’s way. She resumed with another sigh.
“I don’t suppose we have anything in our possession that is fit to be put into the drawing-room, Ally. I remember it in old days, the very few times I ever was there: but they say it is far more splendid now than it was before. Do you think that chiffonier would do?” The chiffonier had been the pride of Lady Penton’s heart. It was inlaid, and had a plate-glass back. She looked at it fondly where it stood, not very brilliant in fact, but making the shabby things around look a little more shabby. She had always felt it was thrown away amid these surroundings, and that to see it in a higher and better sphere would be sweet and consolatory; but Lady Penton was aware that taste had changed greatly since that article was constructed, and that perhaps the decorations of the great drawing-room at Penton might be out of harmony with ameublebelonging to another generation, however beautiful it might be in itself.
“I—don’t know,” said Ally, looking at the well-known article with her dreamy eyes; “there was nothing like it—I think: I didn’t notice—”
“You don’t seem to have noticed anything, my dear,” her mother said.
Oh, if Ally could but say what it was that had been most delightful to her at Penton! But then she remembered with overpowering shame how she had shrunk from the ladies who had been so good to her; how she had felt the elation of her new superiority; how she had been a snob in all the horror of the word. And she was silent, crushed byremorse and confusion. Fortunately Lady Penton’s mind was taken up by other things.
“I think,” she said, “the chiffonier will do. It is large, too large, for this little room; it will fill one side of the wall very nicely. And perhaps some of the chairs, if they are newly covered; but as for curtains and carpets and all that, everything must be new. It is dreadful to think of the expense. I don’t know how we are ever to meet it. Ally, what sort of carpets are there now? Oh, no doubt beautiful Persian rugs and that sort of thing—simple Brussels would not do. Is it a polished floor with rugs, or is it one of those great carpets woven in one piece, or is it—My dear, what’s the matter? There is no need to cry.”
“I—don’t remember—it is so stupid of me,” said Ally, with the tears in her eyes.
“You are nervous and upset this morning; but we must all try and take a little courage. I have great confidence in Mr. Rochford—oh, great confidence! He is very kind and so trustworthy. You can see that only to look into those nice kind eyes.”
“Oh, mother dear!” cried Ally, flinging her arms about Lady Penton’s neck, giving her a sudden kiss. And then the girl slid away, flying upstairs as soon as she was safely out of sight, to cry with happiness in her own room where nobody could see.
“There is something the matter with Ally this morning,” said her mother; “she is not like herself.”
“She is not at all like herself,” said Anne, with a little pursing up of her lips, as one who should say, “I could an I would.”
“What do you think it is, Anne? Do you know of anything?”
“I don’t know,” said Anne, “but I guess. Mother—I think it’s Mr. Rochford.”
“Mr. Rochford!” Lady Penton replied; and then in a moment the whole passed before her like a panorama. How could she have been so dull? It had occurred to her as possible before old Sir Walter’s death, and she had not been displeased. Now things were different; but still—“What will your father say?” she exclaimed. “Oh, I am afraid I have been neglecting Ally thinking of her brother. What will your father say?”
“If that sort of thing is going to be,” said Anne, sententiously, “do you think anything can stop it, mother? I have always heard that the more you interfere the stronger it becomes. It has to be if it’s going to be.”
Lady Penton did not make any reply to this wisdom, but she was greatly moved. First Walter and then Ally! The children become independent actors in life, choosing their own parts for good, or, alas! perhaps for evil. She stole upstairs after a little interval and softly opened the door of Ally’s room, where the girl was sitting half crying, smiling, lost in the haze of novelty and happiness: her mother looked at her for a moment before she said anything to make her presence known. Ah, yes, it was very clear Ally had escaped, she had gone away from the household in which she was born, the cares and concerns of which had hitherto been all the world to her, into another sphere, a different place, a little universe of her own, peopled but by the two, the beginners of a new world. Lady Penton stood unseen, contemplating the girl’s dreamy countenance, so abstracted from all about her with a complication of new and strange emotions. Her little girl! but now separate, having taken the turn that made her life a thing apart from father and mother. The child! who had in a moment become a woman, an individual with her fate and future all her own. The interest of it, the pride of it, in some respects the pity of it, touches every maturer soul at such a sight—but when it is a woman looking at her own little girl! She came into the room very softly and sat down beside Ally upon the little white bed and put her tender arms about the young creature in her trance; and Ally, with one low cry, “Mother!” flung herself upon the breast which had always been her shelter. And there was an end of the secret—so far as such a secret can be told. The mother did not want any telling, she understood it all. But, notwithstanding her sympathy for her child, and her agreement in Anne’s inspiration and conviction that such a thinghasto be if it is going to be, she kept reflecting to herself, “What will her father say?” all the time in her heart.
This was destined to be a day of excitement in many ways. Just before the family meal (which Lady Penton, with a sense of all the changes now surging upward in their family life, had begun to speak of with a little timidity as“the children’s dinner”) one of the Penton carriages came to the door, and Mab burst in, all smiles and delight. “Am I in time for dinner?” she said. “Oh, Lady Penton, you will let me come to dinner? May I send the carriage away and tell them to come back for me? When must they come back for me? Oh, if you only knew how I should like to stay.” It was very difficult for these kind people to resist the fervor of this petition. “My dear, of course we are very glad to have you,” Lady Penton said, with a little hesitation. And Mab plunged into the midst of the children with cries of delight on both sides. Horry possessed himself at once of her hand, and found her a chair close to his own, and even little Molly waved her spoon in the stranger’s honor, and changed her little song to “Mady, Mady,” instead of the “Fader, fader!” which was the sweetest of dinner-bells to Sir Edward’s ears. When dinner was over, Mab got Lady Penton into a corner and poured forth her petition. “Oh, may I come and stay! Uncle Russell is going away, and Aunt Alicia is not at all fond of me. She would not like it if I went with them, and where can I go? My relations are none of them so nice as you. You took me in out of kindness when I didn’t know where to go. I have a lot of money, Lady Penton, they say, but I am a poor little orphan girl all the same.”
“Oh, my dear,” said Lady Penton, “nobody could be more sorry than I am; and a lot of money does not do very much good to a little girl who is alone. But, Mab, I have so many to think of: and we have not a lot of money, and we have to live accordingly. Though Sir Edward has Penton now, that does not make things better, it rather make them worse. Even in Penton we shall live very simply, perhaps poorly. We can not give you society and pleasures like your other friends.”
“But I don’t want society and pleasure. Pleasure! I should like to take care of Molly, and make her things and teach her her letters. I should; she is the dearest little darling that ever was. I should like to run about with the boys. Horry and I are great friends, oh, great friends, Lady Penton. At Penton you will have hundreds of rooms; you can’t say it is not big enough. Oh, let me come! Oh, let me come! And then my money—” But here Mab judiciously stopped, seeing no room for any consideration about her money. “You wouldn’t turn me from the door if I was a beggar, a little orphan,” she cried.
“Oh, my dear! No, indeed, I hope not; but this is very different. Mab, though I am not much set upon money (but I am afraid I am too, for nothing will go without it), yet a rich girl is very different from a poor girl. You know that as well as I.”
“The poor girl is much better off,” cried Mab, “for people are kind to her; they take her in, they let her stay, they are always contriving to make her feel at home; but the wretched little rich one is put to the door. People say, ‘Oh, we are always glad to see you;’ but they are not, Lady Penton! They think, here she comes with her money. As if I cared about my money! Take me for Molly’s nurse or her governess. Ally will be going and marrying—”
“What do you know about that?” Lady Penton said, grasping her arm.
“I! I don’t know anything about it; but of course she will, and so will Anne; and it might happen that you would be glad to have me, just to look after the children a little after the weddings were over, and help you with Molly. Oh, you might, Lady Penton, it is quite possible; and then you would find out that I am not a little good-for-nothing. I believe I am really clever with children,” Mab cried, flinging herself down on her knees, putting her arms about Lady Penton’s waist. “Oh, say that I may stay.”
When she had thus flung herself upon Lady Penton’s lap, Mab suddenly raised her round rosy cheek to the pale one that bent over her. They were by themselves in a corner of the drawing-room, and nobody was near. She said in a whisper, close to the other’s ear, “I saw Mr. Penton in town yesterday. He was looking quite well, but sad. I was—oh, very impertinent, Lady Penton. Forgive me. I stopped the carriage, though I am sure he did not want to speak to me. I told him that you were not—quite well—that you were so pale—and that everybody missed him so. Don’t be angry! I was very impertinent, Lady Penton. And he said he was going home directly—directly, that was what he said. I said you would be sure not to tell him in your letters that you were feeling ill, but that you were. And so you are, Lady Penton; you are so pale. But he is coming directly, that was what he said.”
“Oh, my little Mab!” Lady Penton cried. She gave the little girl a sudden kiss, then put her hands with a soft resoluteness upon Mab’s arms and loosed their clasp. It was as if the girl had pushed open for a moment a door which closed upon her again the next. “Yes,” she said, “my son is coming home. He has stayed a little longer than we expected, but you should not have tried to frighten him about his mother. I am not ill. If he comes rushing back before his business is done, because you have frightened him about me, what shall we do to you, you little prophet of evil?” She stooped again and kissed the girl, giving her a smile as well. But then she rose from her seat. “As soon as we get in to Penton you must come and pay us a long visit,” she said.
And this made an end of Mab’s attempt to interfere in the affairs of the family of which she was so anxious to become a member. She went away to the children with her head hanging, and in a somewhat disconsolate condition. But, being seized upon by Horry, who had a great manufacture of boats on hand, and wanted some one to make the sails for him, soon forgot, or seemed to forget, the trouble, and became herself again. “I am coming to live with you when you go to Penton,” she said.
“Hurrah! Mab is coming to live with us!” shouted the little boys, and soon this great piece of news ran over the house.
“Mad’s tumming! Mad’s tumming!” little Molly joined in with her little song.
And this new proposal, which was so strange and unlikely, and which the elder members looked upon so dubiously, was carried by acclamation by the little crowd, so to speak, of the irresponsible populace—the children of the house.
The day had been an exhausting day. When the winter afternoon fell there was throughout the house more than usual of that depressed and despondent feeling which is natural to the hour and the season. Even Mab’s going contributed to this sensation. The hopefulness of the morning, when all had felt that the sending out of the new agent meant deliverance from their anxiety, had by this time begun to sink into the dreary waiting to which no definite period is put, and which may go on, so far as any one knows, day after day. Sir Edward had withdrawn to the book-room, very sick at heart and profoundly disappointed,disgusted even not to have had a telegram, which he had expected from hour to hour the entire day. Rochford had not found Walter, then, though he was so confident in his superior knowledge. After all, he had sped no better than other people. There was a certain solace in this, but yet a dreary, dreadful disappointment. He sat over his fire, crouching over it with his knees up to his chin, cold with the chill of nervous disquietude and anxiety, listening, as the ladies had done so long—listening for the click of the gate, for a step on the gravel—for anything that might denote the coming of news, the news which he had never been able to bring himself, but which Rochford had been so sure of sending, only, as it seemed, to fail.
Lady Penton was in the drawing-room. She spent this dull hour often with her husband, but to-day she did not go to him. She could not have been with him and keep Ally’s secret, and she was loath to give him the additional irritation of this new fact in the midst of the trouble of the old. She said to herself that if Rochford succeeded in his search, if he sent news, if he brought Walter home, that then everything would be changed; and in gratitude for such a service his suit might be received. She did not wish to expose that suit to an angry objection now. Poor lady! she had more motives than one for this reticence. She would not make Ally unhappy, and she would not permit anything to be said or done that might lessen the energy of the lover who felt his happiness to depend on his success. It was because of her habit of spending this hour between the lights in the book-room with her husband that she was left alone in the partial dark, before the lamp was brought or the curtains drawn. She had gone close to the window when it was too dark to work at the table, but now her work had dropped on her lap, and she was doing nothing. Doing nothing! with so much to think of, so many, many things to take into consideration. She sat and looked out on the darkening skies, the pale fading of the light, the dull whiteness of the horizon, and the blackness of the trees that rose against it. The afternoon chill was strong upon her heart; she had been disappointed too—she too had been looking for that telegram, and her heart had sunk lower and lower as the night came on. That Walter should be found was what her heart prayed and longed for, and now there was another reason, for Ally’s sake, that the lover might claimhis reward. But the day was nearly over, and, so far as could be told, the lover, with all his young energy, was as unsuccessful as Edward himself. So far as this went, their thoughts were identical, but Lady Penton’s, if less sad, were more complicated, and took in a closer net-work of wishes and hopes. She sat at the window and looked out blankly, now and then putting up her hand to dry her eyes. She could cry quietly to herself in the dark, which is a relief a man can not have.
What a sad house! with heavy anxiety settling down again, and the shadow of the night, in which even the deliverer can not work, nor telegrams come. There was a spark of warmer life upstairs, where the girls had lighted their candle, and where the tremendous secret which had come to Ally was being shyly contemplated by both girls together in wonder of so great and new a thing. And on the nursery there was plenty of cheerfulness and din. But down-stairs all was very quiet, the father and mother in different rooms thinking the same thoughts. Lady Penton wept out those few tears very quietly. There was no sound to betray them. It had grown very dark in the room and her eyes were fixed on the wan light that lingered outside. She had no hope now for a telegram. He would not send one so late. He must have written instead of telegraphing. He had found nothing, that was clear.
She had said this to herself for the hundredth time, and had added for perhaps the fiftieth that it was time to go and dress, that it was of no use lingering, looking for something that never came, that she had now a double reason to be calm, to have patience, to take courage, when it seemed to her that something, a dark speck, flitted across the pale light outside. This set her heart beating again. Could it be the dispatch after all? She listened, her heart jumping up into her ears. Oh! who was it? Nothing? Was it nothing? There was no sound. Yes, a hurried rustle, a faint stir in the hall. She rose up. Telegraph boys make a great noise, they send the gravel flying, they beat wild drums upon the door. Now there was nothing, or only a something fluttering across the window, the faintest stir at the open door.
What was it? a hand upon the handle turning it doubtfully, slowly; then it was pushed open. Oh, no; no telegraph boy. She flew forward with her whole heart in heroutstretched hands. Some one stood in the dark, looking in, saying nothing, only half visible, a shadow, no more. “Wat!Wat!” the mother cried.
Whatdoes it matter what a mother says? especially when she is a powdered and pomaded woman like Mrs. Sam Crockford, altogether unable to comprehend, much less interpret, the fair and brilliant creature who is her daughter. How strange that anything so sweet and delightful as Emmy should come from such a woman—one from whom the heart recoiled, who was offensive to every sense, with those white, unwholesome, greasy hands, the powder, the scent, the masses of false hair, the still falser and more dreadful smile. Walter said to himself as he left her with that nausea which always overwhelmed him at the sight of her, that he would not take what she said as having anything to do with Emmy. No; her existence was a sort of an offense to Emmy; it might, if that were possible, throw a cloud over her perfection, it might make a superficial admirer pause to think, could she ever in her young beauty come to be like that? A superficial admirer, Walter said to himself—not, of course, a true lover such as he was, to whom the suggestion was odious and abominable. Like that! oh, never, never! for Emmy had soul, she had heart in her loveliness; never could the actress have resembled her, never could she resemble the actress. He wondered if that woman could be her mother. Such people stole children, they got hold of them in strange ways. Emmy might have been taken in her childhood from some poor mother of a very different kind. She might have strayed away from her home and been found by vagrants: anything rather than believe that she was that woman’s daughter, who, to crown all her artificialities, was mercenary too. Or even if it might really be so, what did it matter? is there not often no resemblance between the mother and the child, the mother elderly, faded, meretricious, trying hard to keep up an antiquated display of dreadful charms, seductions that filled the mind with loathing; the daughter, oh, so different, so young and fresh, so full of youth and sweetness and everything that is delightful, everything that is most fascinating. When he thought of Emmy the young man’s heart, which had been so outraged, grew soft again. If it came to a decision, how very different would Emmy’s deliverance be. Yet Emmy had discouraged him too, she had thought of secondary things. She had been sorry that he should lose anything for her sake, he who was so ready to lose all. She had even scoffed a little sweetly at his fortune, the ten thousand pounds, which would not, she declared, be more than four hundred a year. Four hundred a year would be plenty, Walter thought; they could live somewhere quietly in the depths of the country enjoying each other’s society, desiring nothing else to make them happy. Would Emmy care for that? she who so loved London. A number of people loved London so, did not know what to do out of it, people who were the very best, the most highly endowed of all, poets, philosophers—it was no reproach to her that she should be among that number. He was not one of them himself, but then he was, he knew, a dull fellow, a rustic. Poor Walter went about the streets all day thinking these thoughts. He knew he was not so clever as she was; but yet they had always understood each other: not like that dreadful woman whom nothing could make him understand. He would not accept her decision whatever she said—he would not believe her even—probably what she had said about his father was untrue; how should his father have got there? No, no, it was not true, any more than it was true that Emmy had permitted her mother to interfere. There was some one else whom the old woman preferred, he said, miserably, to himself, and that was the entire cause of it, not that Emmy meant to cast him off—oh no, no!
But it was two or three days after this before he succeeded in seeing her. Either there was a conspiracy on her mother’s part, into which she, guileless, fell, or else the mother had acquired an ascendency over her, and was able to curb the natural instincts, to restrain the sweeter impulses of her daughter. That it could be Emmy’s fault he would not allow. He haunted the place morning and evening, and on Saturday afternoon, which had been his moment of bliss. It was on that day that he met her at last. He met her hurrying out, dressed as she usually was when he was allowed to take her to the country or to make someexpedition with her. She had just stopped to call out something before closing the door, about the hour of her return—he thought he heard her say nine o’clock, and it was little past noon. She was going somewhere, then, but not with him. He turned after her as she went lightly along, with the easy skimming step which he had so often compared to every poetic movement under heaven. It filled him with despair to see it now, and to feel that she was going along like this, upon some other expedition, not in his company, though she must know to what darkness of despondence and solitude she was leaving him. “Emmy,” he cried, hurrying after her. He thought she started a little, but only quickened her pace. She was not, however, to escape him so—that was a vain expectation on her part. He quickened his pace too, and came up to her, close to her, and caught at her elbow in his eagerness and impatience. She turned round upon him with a face very unlike that which had so often smiled upon the foolish boy. She plucked her arm away from his touch. “Oh,” she said, with a tone of annoyance, “you here!”
“Where should I be, Emmy, but where you are? You were going to send for me, to meet me—”
She looked at him with impatience. “No,” she said, “I wasn’t going to do anything of the kind; I have got something very different to do.”
“I have always been ready to do whatever you wanted,” he said, “to go where you pleased, and you know this has been my reward—this Saturday afternoon, after waiting, waiting, day by day—”
“Who wanted you to wait? Mr. Penton, that was your doing. You must understand that I’m not going to be made a slave to you.”
“A slave,” cried the poor boy, “to me!”
“Well, what is it better? I can’t move a step but you are at my heels. What I’ve always held by is doing what I like and going where I like. I never could put up with bondage and propriety like some people; but you dog my steps, you watch everything I do—”
“Emmy!”
“Well, is that all you have to say? Emmy! yes, that’s my name; but you can’t crush me by saying ‘Emmy!’ to me,” she said, with a little breathless gasp, as of one who had seized the opportunity to work herself up into a fit ofcalculated impatience. She stopped here, perhaps moved by his pale face, and ended by a little laugh of ridicule. “Well, that’s natural enough, don’t you think?”
“I don’t know what is natural,” he said. “I have thrown off all that. Emmy, are you going to abandon me after all?”
“After all!—after what? I suppose you mean after all the great things you’ve done for me? What has it been, Mr. Penton? You’ve followed me here, you’ve watched me that I couldn’t take a step, or speak a word. No, I am not going with you any more. You must just make up your mind to it, Mr. Walter Penton. I’ve got other things in hand. I’ve other—I’ve—well, let us be vulgar,” she cried, with a wild little laugh, “I’ve got other fish to fry.”
The poor young fellow kept his eyes fixed upon her—eyes large with dismay and trouble.
“You are not going with me anymore! You can’t mean it!—you don’t mean it, Emmy!”
“But I do. It’s been all nonsense and romance and folly. I didn’t mind just for amusement. But do you think I am going to let you, with next to nothing, and expectations—expectations! what could your expectations be?—your father may live for a century! Do you think I’m going to let you stand in my way, and keep me from what’s better? No—and no again and again. I mean nothing of the sort. I mean what’s best for myself. I am not going with you any more.”
“Not going with me!” he said, in a voice of misery: “then what is to become of me?—what am I to do?”
“Oh, you’ll do a hundred things,” she said, tapping him on the arm; “go home, for one thing, and make your peace. It’s far better for you. It’s been folly for you as well as me. Go and take care of your ten thousand pounds. Ten thousand pounds! What do you think of as much as that a year? Take care of it, and you’ll get a nice little income out of it, just enough for a young man about town. And don’t be tyrannized over by your people, and don’t let any one say a word about marrying. You’re too young to be married. I’m your only real friend, Walter. Yes, I am. I tell you, don’t think of marrying—why should you marry?—but just have your fling and get a little fun while you can. That’s my last advice to you.”
He walked on with her mechanically, not able to speak, until she got impatient of the silent figure stalking by her side, struck dumb with youthful passion and misery.
She stopped suddenly and confronted him with hasty determination. “You’re not,” she said, “coming another step with me!”
“Where am I to go? what am I to do: I have lived,” he cried, “only for you!”
“Then it’s time to stop that!” she said. “Go away—go clean away; it will—it will damage me if you’re seen with me! Now there, that’s the truth! I was so silly as to allow it for your sake before, now I’ve learned better. Mr. Penton, it will be harming me if you come another step. Now, do you understand?”
Did he understand? He stopped, and gazed at her with his blank face. “It will be harming you! But you belong to me, you are going to be my wife!”
“No, no, no!” she cried; “that is all folly: I never meant it. Good-bye, and for Heaven’s sake go away, go away!”
She gave an alarmed glance round toward the end of the street. It seemed to Walter that he too saw something vaguely—a tali spidery outline, a high phaeton, or something of the sort. She broke into a little run suddenly, waving her hand to him. “Good-bye!” she cried; “good-bye; go away!” and left him standing stupefied with wonder, with incredulous conviction, if such words can be put together. He felt in the depths of his heart that she had abandoned him, but he could not believe it. No, he could not believe it, though he knew it was true. A sort of instinct of chivalry lingered in the poor lad’s heart, wrung and bleeding as it was. He could not harm her, he could not spy on her, he could not interfere with her will, whatever she might do to him. He turned his back upon the spidery tall phaeton. If that was the thing that was to carry her away from him he would not spy, he would not put himself in her way. So long as she did what she liked best! He turned with his heart bleeding, yet half stupefied with trouble, and walked away.
Poor Walter walked and walked all the rest of the afternoon; he did not know where he went or how, his mind was stupid with suffering. And then came Sunday, when without her the blank was more complete than on any otherday. He had not the heart even to seek another interview. On Sunday afternoon he went past the house, and the high phaeton stood at the door. What more could be said? And yet another day or two passed, he did not know how many, before Mab stopped the little brougham in which she was driving and called to him in the street as he went mooning along with his head down in dull and helpless despondency.
“Mr. Penton! Mr. Penton!” The little soft voice calling him roused Walter from the stupor of his despair. He knew nobody in town. It was a wonder to him that any one should know him—should take the trouble to call him. And then Mab’s little fresh face stabbed him with innocent cheerful looks. He was not learned enough to know that these innocent looks knew a great deal, and suspected much more harm than existed, in their precocious society knowledge.
Mab was bent upon doing what she could to bring him back, and she fully realized all the difficulty; but she looked like a child delighted to see her country acquaintance.
“And oh, how is Lady Penton?” she cried.
“My mother?” gasped Walter, taken altogether by surprise.
Then Mab told him that little story about Lady Penton’s health. “She will of course make light of it when she writes,” said the artful little girl. “But oh, she looks so ill and so pale!” (So she does, the little romancer said to herself in her heart; it is quite, quite true!) “Oh, Mr. Penton, do make her see the doctor! do make her take care of herself! You could do it better than any one—because you know the others don’t notice the great, great change; they see her every day.”
“I will!” cried poor Wat. “Thank you—thank you a thousand times for telling me!”
It gave him a reason for going home, and he did so want a reason, poor boy! His own wretchedness did not seem cause enough; and how was he ever to be forgiven for what he had done? But his mother! He would not wait to think, he would not let himself consider the matter. His mother! And what if she should die! Death had never entered that happy house. It seemed to him the most horrible of all possibilities. He did not even pause to go back to his hotel. Oh, how glad he was of the compulsion, to be thus sent home, to have a reason for going! He went flying, without taking time for thought.
And when Lady Penton threw herself upon him, calling “Wat,Wat,” with that great outcry, he forgot all about his wrong-doing and his need of pardon. He caught her in his arms and cried, “Mother, are you ill?—Mother, are you better?” as if there were no other trouble or anxiety but this in the world.
“Oh, Wat! oh, Wat!” she cried, unable on her side to think of anything but that he had come back and she had him in her arms again: and for a minute or two no more was said. Then he led her tenderly back to a chair and placed her in it, and knelt down beside her.
“Mother, you have been ill—”
“No; oh, no, my dear.” And then she remembered Mab’s little alarm (dear little Mab! if it should be her doing). “At least,” she said, “my dearest boy, there is nothing the matter with me that the sight of you will not cure.”
“Oh, mother,” he cried, “that you should have to say that, that I should have been the cause—”
“Hush, hush,” she said, pressing him to her; “it is all over, Wat, my own boy. You have come home.”
She asked him no questions, she did not even say that he was forgiven: and the youth’s heart swelled high. “I think I have been mad,” he said.
But she only replied, kissing him, “My own boy, you have come home.” And what more was there to be said.
This transport all passed in the dark, with no light in the room except the paleness of twilight in the windows, the dull glow from the fire, which was an ease and softening to the meeting. And then with the lighting of the cheerful lamps the knowledge spread through the house—Wat has come home.
“Already!” cried Ally, with a flush of radiant joy that was more than for her brother.
“Already,” Sir Edward said, with a frown that belied the sudden ease of his heart. To say what that relief was is beyond the power of words. The dark book-room, where he sat with his head in his hands and all the world dark round him, suddenly became light. A load was lifted from his shoulders and from his soul; his mind was freed as from chains. But after that first blessed release and relief asensation of humiliation, almost of resentment, came into his mind. “Already,” he said. He had tramped about London for days and days and found nothing. Rochford had gone and seen and overcome the same day.
“Edward,” said Lady Penton, who, though so still, so tremulous after the prodigal’s return, had yet felt the other anxiety spring up as soon as the first was laid, “I am sorry for Mr. Rochford. I fear he was making this the foundation for a great many hopes. He expected to find Walter and bring him home, and thus gain our favor for—something else.”
“Well,” said Sir Edward with his frown, “it is astonishing to me how he’s done it. It looks like collusion. I suppose it’s only a piece of luck, a great piece of luck.”
“He has not done it at all,” said Lady Penton, “Wat has not so much as seen him. He has had nothing to do with it at all.”
The cloud rolled off Sir Edward’s brow: he gave expression to the delightful relief of his mind in a low laugh.
“I thought,” he said, “nothing would come of it, he was so cock-sure. I thought from the first nothing would come of it: but of course you were all a great deal wiser than I. So he came home of himself when he was tired? Let me see the boy.”
Rochfordcame back in a sadly humbled condition of mind. He was indeed summoned back by a telegram which told him that all was well and his services unnecessary, and returned trailing his arms, so to speak, very much cast down, beginning to say to himself that the Reading solicitor was not at all likely to be considered a fit match for Sir Edward Penton’s daughter now that all chance of special service to the family was over. Young idiot! why, after staying away so long, couldn’t he have stayed a little longer? Why not have helped somebody by his folly instead of simply dropping from the skies when it suited him in his egotism and selfishness? Rochford came back deeply humiliated, deeply despondent. He too had tramped about London one weary and dismal day, and withdisgust had recognized that his mission was not so easy as he had supposed. He had gone to the post-office which Walter had given as his address, and had made what inquiries were possible, and then had hung about hoping that Walter would come to fetch his letter, like those sportsmen who hang about the pools where their big game go to drink. But no one came; and in the morning had arrived that telegram—“All well: further search unnecessary. Has returned home.” Confound him! Why, after making everybody miserable, could he not have stayed another day? Rochford came home very despondent, taking the blackest view of affairs. If he had but acted with more prudence in the end of the year—if he had but pushed on matters and got that bargain accomplished before Sir Walter had been stricken with his last illness!—then the Pentons, though they would still have had the baronetcy, would not have been a great county family, and Ally, without fortune to speak of, would have made nomésalliancein marrying a man who could keep her in luxury though he was but the family man of business. But now, though the fortune was scarcely greater, the position was very different. The mother was very artless, but still she knew enough to know that girls so attractive, with the background of Penton behind them, even if they had not a penny, were not to be thrown away on men like himself. Such was the tenor of his thoughts as he came back. He had expected to return with trumpets sounding and colors flying, bringing back in triumph the wanderer, and having a certain right to his recompense. He came now silent and shamed, an officious person who had offered more than he could perform, who had thrust his services upon those who did not require them. He had not even the courage to see Ally before he went in humbled to her father. It was his duty to tell Sir Edward all that had happened, but he had scarcely a doubt as to what must follow. He would be sent away, he felt sure; probably he would not be allowed to speak to her at all—he the man of business, and she the princess royal, the eldest daughter of the house.
But, to his relief as well as surprise, Sir Edward met him with an unclouded countenance. He gave him a warm grasp of the hand. He said, “Well, Rochford, all’s well that ends well. You see it was all settled more easily than you supposed.”
“You can’t doubt, Sir Edward, that I am most glad it should be so.”
“Oh, yes, I’m sure you are; glad—but a little disappointed, eh?—it’s quite natural: you were so cock-sure. That is the worst of you young men. You think we elder ones are all ninnies; you think we don’t know what we are about. And you are so certain that you sometimes take us in, and we think so too. But you see you are wrong now and then,” said Sir Edward, with high satisfaction, “and it turns out that it is we who are in the right.”
Rochford did not fail to remark to himself in passing, that though he might be wrong he saw very little reason for the assertion that Sir Edward was right. But he was too much cast down for argument. He said, “The chief thing is that your anxiety is relieved. I am very glad of that—though I should have liked better to have had a hand in doing it.” And then he drew himself together as best he could. “There is another subject, Sir Edward, that I wished to speak to you about.”
“Yes, very likely; but you must hear first about Walter. So far as I can make out it has been a mere escapade, and he has been mercifully saved from committing himself, from—compromising his future. We can’t be thankful enough for that. He comes back free as he went away, and having learned a lesson, I hope, an important lesson. We mean to say nothing about it, Rochford. You’ll not take any notice: I’m sure we can trust in you.”
“I hope so,” said the young man; and then he repeated, “Sir Edward, there is another subject—”
“You don’t look,” said Sir Edward, rubbing his hands with internal satisfaction, “so cock-sure about that.”
This was not very discouraging if he had retained sufficient presence of mind to see it. But he was out of heart as well as out of confidence, and everything seemed to him to be of evil augury. “No, indeed,” he said, “I am far from being sure. I feel that what I am going to ask will seem to you very presumptuous: and if it were not that my whole heart is in it and all my hopes—”
“Ah, you use such words lightly, you young men—”
“I don’t use them lightly. If I could help it I would put off speaking to you. I would try whether it were notpossible to find some way of recommending myself—of making you think a little better of me.”
“If you suppose,” cried Sir Edward, benignly, “that I think less of you because you were not successful about Walter you are quite mistaken, Rochford. You had not time to do anything. He left town almost as soon as you arrived in it. I never expect impossibilities, even when they are promised,” he added, with a nod of his head.
“It is I that am looking for impossibilities, Sir Edward. I can’t think how I could have been so bold. I have been letting myself think that perhaps—that if you could be got to take it into consideration—that, that in short—”
And Mr. Rochford, crimsoning, growing pale, changing from one foot to another, looking all embarrassment and awkwardness, came to a dead stop and could find nothing more to say.
“What is it? You seem to have great difficulty in getting it out. What have I in my power that is so important, and that you are so shy about?”
“I am shy, that is just the word. You will think me—I don’t know what you will think me—”
“Get it out, man. I can’t tell till I know.”
“Sir Edward,” said Rochford, more and more embarrassed, “your daughter—”
“Oh, my daughter! Is that how it is?” It is not to be supposed that a day had elapsed after Walter’s return and the relief of mind that followed it without some communication passing between Lady Penton and her husband on the second of the subjects that had excited her so deeply.
“Sir Edward,” said the young man, “Miss Penton’s family and position are of course superior to mine. It all depends on the way these matters are looked upon. Some people would consider this an insuperable obstacle. Some do not attach much importance to it. Ideas have changed so much on this subject. My grandfather, as perhaps you are aware, married a Miss Davenport of Doncaster. But I don’t know how you may look on that sort of thing.”
“I don’t exactly see the connection,” said Sir Edward; “your grandfather’s marriage was a good while ago.”
“Yes, when prejudices were a great deal stronger than now. Though they exist in some places, I have the strongest reason to believe that among the best people they are nolonger held as they used to be. Eva Milton married a Manchester man that had no education to speak of at all.”
“Are you arguing the question on abstract principles?” said Sir Edward, who was nursing his foot, and looking half-amused, half-bored. His companion was too anxious to be able to judge what this look meant, and he was sadly afraid of irritating the authority in whose hands his happiness lay.
“Oh, no, not at all,” he cried, anxiously: “I wanted to remind you, sir, that it was not the first time that such things had been done. It’s no abstract question: all that I look forward to in life depends on it. I am not badly off, as I can prove to you if you will let me. I could keep my wife, if I had the good fortune to—to—make sure of that—surrounded by everything that belongs to her sphere. There should be nothing wanting in that way. I could make settlements that would be, I think, satisfactory.”
“Is that how you talked to Ally?” said Sir Edward, a perception of the humor of the situation breaking in. “How astonished she must have been!” His mind was so unusually at ease that he was ready to smile even in the midst of an important arrangement like this.
“To Ally!” cried Rochford, startled by the reference, and in his confusion unable to see how much it was in his favor. “No, sir,” he said, eagerly, “not a word! Do you think I would fret her delicate mind with any such suggestions? No. She is far above all that. She knows nothing about it. I may not be worthy of her, but at least I know how to appreciate her. She has heard nothing like this from me.”
“But I suppose you must think that what you did say was not without effect, and that the appreciation is not all on your side? You don’t mind fretting my delicate mind, it appears,” said Sir Edward; and then, in a sharper tone, “How far has this matter gone?”
“Sir Edward,” stammered the young man: his anxiety stupefied instead of quickening his senses; he seemed able to perceive nothing that was not against him, “I—I—”
“You don’t give me very much information,” repeated the father. “Can’t you tell me how far this matter has gone?”
Rochford was a keen man of business. He was not to beoverpowered by the most powerful judge or the most aggravating jury. He was in the habit of stating very clearly what he wanted to say. But now he stood before this tribunal stammering, without a word to say for himself. “Sir Edward,” he repeated, “if I had taken time to think I should have felt that you ought to have been consulted first. But in an unguarded moment—my—my feelings got the better of me. I saw her unexpectedly alone. And then,” he added with melancholy energy, “I thought, I confess, that if I could be of use, if I could find and bring back—”
“I see,” said Sir Edward, “that was why you undertook so much. It was scarcely very straightforward, was it, to profess all that interest in the brother when it was the sister you were thinking of all the time?”
“Perhaps it might not be straightforward,” owned the unsuccessful one; “and yet,” after a pause, “it was no pretense. I was interested, if you will let me say so, in—all the family, Sir Edward. I should have been too glad—to be of any use: even if there had been no—even if there had not existed—even if—”
“I see,” said the stern judge again: and then there was a dreadful pause. Circumstances alter much, but not even the advanced views of the nineteenth century can alter the position in which a young lover stands before the father of the girl he loves—a functionary perhaps a little discredited by the march of modern ideas, but who nevertheless has still an enormous power in his hands, a power which the feminine heart continues to believe in, which is certainly able to cause a great deal of discomfort and inconvenience, if nothing else. Rochford stood thoroughly cowed, with his eyes cast down, before this great arbiter of fate, although after a while, as the silence continued, there began to crop up in his mind suggestions, resolutions: how nothing should make him resign his hopes; how only Ally herself could loose the bond between them, how he would take courage to say to the father that however much they respected him his decision would not be absolute, that on the contrary it could be resisted, that the two whose happiness was involved—that the two—the two—words which made his heart jump with a sudden throb in the midst of this horrible uncertainty—would stand against the world together not to be sundered. All these heroic thoughtsgathered in his mind as he stood awaiting the tremendous parental decision, which came in a form so utterly unexpected, so bewildering, that he could only gasp, and for a moment could not reply. This was what Sir Edward said: