CHAPTER XI.
‘WHY WAS MY CRESSID THEN SO HARD TO WIN?’
Slowlyand gradually health and strength came back to Beatrix Harefield. The family life at the Vicarage was a new thing to her. It was a new thing to live in a house where everybody was cheerful, and where people seemed fond of her. The library was her favourite room, and Mr. Dulcimer her chosen companion. Whether he was silently absorbed in his book, or laid it down, as he did very often, to talk to her, Beatrix found his society all-sufficient. She read and studied at a table he had allotted to her, apart from him, and yet near him. Under his guidance she read the books that filled her mind with the best material; she climbed from height to height upon the hills of knowledge. New worlds opened to her that she had never dreamed of, and she went in and found that there werepleasant regions in those strange worlds. Science, which she had only known as a name, opened its treasure-house for her. Art, which she had known almost as vaguely, was revealed to her, with all its mysteries and beauties, unknown to the ignorant. And Poetry, best and sweetest of all, in her mind, opened the door to a fairy-land of inexhaustible delight. She did not forget Cyril, but she learned to look with a calm disdain upon her maligners in Little Yafford, and she was almost happy.
Before the end of March Mrs. Dulcimer had broken altogether with Miss Coyle, after rebuking that ancient sibyl, in no measured phrase, for her want of charity.
‘I shall never drop in to tea here again,’ said Mrs. Dulcimer. ‘No, Miss Coyle, not if we both were to live for a hundred years.’
‘I shall be very sorry for that,’ replied Miss Coyle, sitting very erect behind her oval tea-tray, and with her gaze fixed upon her silver teapot, marked with King George’s pigtail, and an heirloom; ‘but I cannot alter my opinion, even,’ witha tremulous movement of her cannon curls, ‘for the privilege of retaining Mrs. Dulcimer’s friendship. I can only say, and I shall say so while the power of speech is left me, that Miss Harefield is a young person I would never consent to receive in my house—no, not if her thousands were millions.’
‘Fortunately Miss Harefield does not want to come into your house,’ retorted Mrs. Dulcimer, very red and angry, and with all her frillings and puffings in agitation. ‘Thousands, indeed! Do you suppose Beatrix Harefield’s fortune has any influence with Mr. Dulcimer or me?’
‘I don’t presume to speculate upon Mr. Dulcimer’s motives or yours, but I believe the coroner’s jury would have come to a very different verdict if Miss Harefield had been poor and a stranger. Look at the men who were on the jury. Why, there was Haslope the grocer, who has served the Water House ever since he has been in trade; and Ridswell the upholsterer, who had the order for the funeral. Slavish creatures who have fattened upon the Harefield family! Of coursethey would not condemn the daughter of their patron.’
‘What proof can you bring against her?’
‘Enough to hang her if she had been anybody else,’ said Miss Coyle. ‘Why did she buy that laudanum?’
‘For her own use.’
‘Ah!’ said Miss Coyle.
There is a great deal of meaning in the monosyllable ‘Ah!’ if it be uttered with a grave shake of the head, a tightening of thin lips, and a prolongation of tone.
‘I don’t think there is any Christian feeling in Little Yafford,’ exclaimed Mrs. Dulcimer, drawing on a tight glove, and bursting it in a ruinous manner.
‘Except at the Vicarage,’ sneered Miss Coyle.
‘The place is given over to a pack of prying old maids and spiteful old bachelors.’
‘Thank you,’ said Miss Coyle, with withering sarcasm.
She rose to accompany Mrs. Dulcimer to the door. She was not going to fail in politeness, even to a departing foe.
‘Good afternoon, and good-bye,’ said the Vicar’s wife, walking along the little garden path with an air of shaking the dust of Miss Coyle’s tenement from off her shoes.
From this time forward Mrs. Dulcimer took Beatrix under her wing. She forgot that she too had shared the dark suspicions of Little Yafford. It was in her mind as if those suspicions had never been. She was a woman who lived from hand to mouth. Her ideas were the ideas of to-day; yesterday’s convictions went for nothing. She told Rebecca that she was disgusted with the people of Little Yafford for their infamous conduct to Beatrix; and Rebecca, who, though of too sterling metal to be a time-server, loved to please her mistress, went over to Miss Harefield’s party, and defended her stoutly at all kitchen tea parties.
And Sir Kenrick—Sir Kenrick, who had always despised her slanderers, was now Beatrix Harefield’s most ardent champion. He had begun by thinking that she would make an admirable mistress of Culverhouse Castle; he ended by beingvery sure that she would make an adorable wife. He left off fishing for sulky pike in the reedy pools and inlets of the winding river, and spent his days hanging about the Vicarage, idle and happy, and very much in the way of other people’s industry. The lynx eyes of Mrs. Dulcimer, trained to see very far into all budding loves, were quick to perceive the state of affairs. She was delighted, and forgot that she had ever abandoned her plans for the union of the impoverished Culverhouse estate, and the fat fields and rich pastures of the Harefield property. It seemed to her the realization of her own idea. She took Kenrick’s young affection under her protection; she smiled fondly upon the unconscious Beatrix. She was full of Machiavellian schemes for leaving the two young people in each other’s society. The end of Kenrick’s leave was drawing near. Things were getting desperate, Mrs. Dulcimer thought. It must be now or never. She even went so far as to tell Kenrick so.
‘Faint heart never won fair lady,’ she said. ‘I know she likes you.’
‘I hope you won’t think me conceited if I agree with you, but I really think she does,’ said Kenrick, remembering that curious fainting fit on the first evening of Miss Harefield’s visit.
He took heart of grace next day, finding Beatrix alone in the library an hour or so before the late tea. It was a windy afternoon, late in March, the sky dull and gray, the wood fire glowing redly, Beatrix seated in her low chair beside the hearth, with a book on her lap, deep in thought.
‘I don’t wonder you admire Pascal,’ she said, without looking up, as Kenrick came towards the hearth. ‘His is a most delicate wit.’
‘I am sorry to say I don’t know anything about the gentleman,’ said Kenrick. ‘Did he write plays or novels?’
‘I beg your pardon. I thought you were Mr. Dulcimer.’
‘You took me for a better man than I am. All those rows of sober old books are Greek to me—worse than Greek, for I do know that by sight. I wonder that you can find so muchhappiness in this dry-as-dust collection of the dear Vicar’s.’
‘I don’t know about happiness,’ answered Beatrix, with a faint sigh. ‘I find forgetfulness. I suppose that is almost as good.’
‘There cannot be much in your young life that you can wish to forget,’ said Kenrick.
‘There is very little in it that I care to remember.’
‘Erase it altogether from your memory then, and begin a new life from to-day,’ said Kenrick, flinging himself head foremost into a gulf of uncertain issues, like the diver who plunges into the fatal deep to win the king’s daughter. ‘Let the beginning of a brighter and happier life date from to-day. You are one of those flowers of earth which seem to be born to blush unseen. You, who are so worthy of love and admiration, have lived hidden from those who could admire and appreciate. But if a real and unmeasured love in the present can compensate for your losses in the past, that love is yours, Beatrix. I love you as I never thought I should love. I did not know that it was in my nature to feel as stronglyas I feel for you. Stop—do not answer me too quickly,’ he cried, reading rejection in her look as she turned to him with the firelight shining on her face. ‘You will say, perhaps, “I am rich and you are poor. How am I to believe in your truth?”’
‘I am not capable of thinking meanly of you,’ answered Beatrix. ‘But you ask me what is impossible. I have made up my mind never to marry.’
‘Will you tell me the reason?’
‘That is my secret.’
‘I am not to be answered so easily, Beatrix. I love you too well to lose you without a struggle. I have spoken too soon, perhaps. I have been too precipitate. But I am to go back to India in a few weeks, and I should like to return with a new happiness—with at least the promise of your love.’
‘I have no love to give you. If you could see into the bottom of my heart, you would be horrified at its emptiness. The warmest feeling I have is gratitude to my friends the Dulcimers. Yes, I think that is the only human feeling you would discover in my heart. That is why I like to live among thesebooks. They are a world in themselves. They give me delight, and ask no love in return.’
‘But I am not like the books, Beatrix; I ask for your love, and I shall not be easily denied.’
And then he told her his dream about Culverhouse Castle. How she was to reign there—not like his mother, in silence and seclusion, but in all the power of youth, beauty, and wealth, a queen of county society, the centre and focus of a happy world of her own, loved, admired, and revered.
‘I,’ exclaimed Beatrix—‘I, who have been suspected of poisoning my father?’
‘That shameful slander has never penetrated beyond this contemptible hole,’ said Kenrick, very disrespectful to Little Yafford in the warmth of his indignation. ‘For God’s sake, Beatrix, do not let that foul scandal weigh in your mind. Perhaps that is the reason you reject me,’ he added, slow to believe that he had been mistaken when he fancied himself beloved.
‘No,’ answered Beatrix, ‘but the only man I ever loved rejected me for that reason.’
‘Oh,’ said Kenrick, deeply mortified.
After this confession he could no longer doubt that he had mistaken Beatrix’s feelings towards him. He was silent for some minutes, and then he exclaimed suddenly,—
‘That man was my cousin Cyril?’
‘He was.’
‘Then my cousin Cyril is a mean hound.’
‘Do you want me to hate you?’ cried Beatrix, angrily. ‘He is not mean. He is all that is good and noble. Why should his pure life be sullied by the taint that has fallen upon mine? He, a clergyman, could not afford to take a wife whom men have suspected of evil. He is like Cæsar. His wife must be above suspicion. He loved me once. He will love me always, perhaps, a little better than all other women, as I shall love him to the end of life above all other men. But he has chosen something better in this life than a woman’s love. He has given himself to the service of God. No unholy thing must come within the veil of the temple. Nothing stained, not even with the suspicion of sin, must enter there. A priest’s wife must be spotless.’
‘If he could suspect you,’ exclaimed Kenrick, vindictively, ‘he is unworthy——’
‘Oh, for pity’s sake do not suggest that,’ interrupted Beatrix. ‘I cannot believe that he could suspect me, having once known and loved me. It was not his suspicion, but the evil thoughts of others, that parted us.’
‘Then he is a coward,’ cried Kenrick, honestly angry. ‘A man’s choice of his wife is a question of life or death for himself. He is both craven and fool if he allows other people to be the arbiters of his fate.’
‘But you do not understand,’ urged Beatrix, pleading for the man who had broken her heart. ‘It is his office——’
‘His office be——’
He might have said something very shocking if Mrs. Dulcimer had not come in at this moment. She found Beatrix in tears, and Kenrick pacing up and down the room with a distracted air. These two facts indicated that something decisive had happened, and Mrs. Dulcimer saw from Kenrick’s face that the something was of an unsatisfactory nature.
‘How provoking!’ she thought. ‘It really seems as if no plan of mine is to succeed.’
Beatrix did not appear at the tea-table. She sent an apology by Rebecca. She had a headache, and would go to bed early. Kenrick was absent-minded, and out of spirits. The meal, usually so cheerful, was eaten in silence; Mr. Dulcimer had picked up a queer little seventeenth century copy of Boileau at Great Yafford that morning, and looked at the tail-pieces and initials as he took his tea.
‘Stop and smoke your cigar here, Ken,’ said Mrs. Dulcimer when tea was over, and Sir Kenrick was about to follow his host to the library.
‘But don’t you dislike smoke in this room?’
‘Not for once in a way. Your cigars are very mild, and Rebecca will air the room well to-morrow morning. I want to have a chat with you.’
‘Delighted,’ said Kenrick, sitting down opposite Mrs. Dulcimer’s work-table.
He had a shrewd suspicion of what was coming, but he felt that it would comfort him to pour his woes into a friendly ear. He knew very well thatMrs. Dulcimer had set her heart upon his marrying Miss Harefield.
‘What had you been doing to make Beatrix cry?’ asked the Vicar’s wife, coming straight to the point.
‘I had asked her to be my wife.’
‘What, they were tears of joy then?’ cried Mrs. Dulcimer.
‘Quite the contrary. She had rejected me flatly.’
‘Oh, Kenrick! But why?’
‘She did not condescend to enter very minutely into her reasons, but I believe the principal one is that she doesn’t care for me.’
‘Oh, Kenrick,’ cried Mrs. Dulcimer, in exactly the same tone as before. ‘What a pity!’
‘Yes, it’sregrettable. If my first thought were her fortune and the good it would do to Culverhouse, I should deserve my fate. But that is only my second thought. I love her very dearly. If she were the poorest little nursery governess in the county I should love her just the same, and would take her back to India with me, and work for her and be happy with her all the days of my life.’
‘But her money would pay off those mortgages;as Lady Culverhouse she would have a leading position in your part of the country.’
‘She would be admired and adored,’ said Kenrick.
‘It would be in every way such a suitable match,’ protested Mrs. Dulcimer, a remark she was in the habit of making about every pair of young people whose footsteps she wished to direct to the hymeneal altar. ‘Really human nature is very perverse.’
She remembered how ignominiously she had failed in her desire to benefit Cyril and Bella; and here was this more important scheme apparently doomed to failure.
‘It is very difficult to serve one’s fellow-creatures,’ she said presently. ‘But this is not a business to be given up lightly, Kenrick. This foolish girl is Mr. Dulcimer’s ward, and it is his duty to see her advantageously settled in life. Now Clement is the very last man to think of such a thing. He considers he has done his duty when he has given Beatrix the run of his library.’
‘Yes,’ said Kenrick. ‘It is dear Dulcimer’s onlyfault to consider books the beginning, middle, and end of life.’
‘Something must be done,’ declared Mrs. Dulcimer, with a sudden accession of energy. ‘Beatrix ought to marry, and she ought to marry a man of position. I cannot imagine a more suitable husband than yourself. Come, Kenrick, be frank with me. You have not told me everything. There must be some other reason. Don’t you remember an admission Beatrix made at that dreadful inquest? There was a love affair of which her father disapproved. Nothing but a prior attachment could prevent her accepting you. I feel convinced it must be that.’
‘It is that,’ answered Kenrick. ‘You can keep a secret, I suppose, Mrs. Dulcimer?’
‘My dear Kenrick, I have kept hundreds.’
This was true, but Mrs. Dulcimer forgot to add how short a time she had kept them. The Vicar’s wife’s secret of to-day was the town-crier’s secret of to-morrow.
‘Then I’ll trust you with the clue to the mystery. There is a prior attachment—to my cousin Cyril.’
‘Good heavens!’ exclaimed Mrs. Dulcimer. ‘Then that is why he was so indifferent to poor Bella Scratchell, the very girl for him.’
‘He is a contemptible cur,’ said Kenrick.
He went on to abuse his cousin roundly. It was a good thing for him, no doubt, that Cyril had behaved so badly, for it gave Kenrick just the chance that Beatrix would put the false lover out of her mind and marry the true one. He told Mrs. Dulcimer everything.
‘Something must be done,’ she said finally, and she made up her mind that she, Selina Dulcimer, was the right person to undertake the task.