CHAPTER XI.
DR. CRAIG'S WISDOM
A friend who did not obtrude himself upon the departing travellers, but spied from the background, rubbed his hands as the train moved off.
Then as the big Boldero omnibus turned empty homewards, Dr. Craig stood still for a moment in thought, consulted his watch, and finally walked briskly up the street to his own door.
"What is it?" demanded a voice from an upper window; "forgotten anything, Humpty?"—and the attentive wife prepared to fly down.
"No, no; stay where you are." Humpty waved her back. "I have some work to do at home this morning," and he stepped into the surgery, where on this occasion his young assistant was dutifully busy.
"Hey, I'm going to send you for a run, Tommy; you can finish here when you come in. Take your bicycle, and go to Mrs. Brooks—you know the house? You don't? Well, you know Ashford Mill? It's near by. Any one will tell you the road. Call, and say I'm not coming till to-morrow if all's going on well. Of course, if I'm wanted, I can look in—let's see—some time this evening. But I don't expect I shall be wanted. And Tommy–"
"Yes, sir?"
"You needn't hurry back. Take your time, and get a breath of good air over the downs."
"Thank you, sir,"—but the dejected countenance did not brighten, and the rejoinder was mechanical. A few days before what a prospect would have opened at the above words, now it mattered not to Tommy Andrews what he did nor where he went. He continued to pound away with his back turned.
"Come, be off!" said Dr. Craig, good-naturely. "I came back on purpose to set you free. By the way—ahem!—you need not be afraid of meeting any one; you won't be tempted to break your word—not that you would, of course,—but, well, I thought I'd just mention it—the ladies are off to London."
"The—the ladies, sir?"
"The Boldero ladies. Two of them, at least,—Miss Sue and Mrs. Stubbs. I was at the station just now, and saw them go, with a pile of luggage that meant a longish stay. My boy, this ought not to be ill news to you," continued the speaker, changing his tone of assumed indifference for one of quiet sincerity; "it's only the natural ending of what ought never to have begun; and you will live to be glad it came so soon, and so conclusively. Take your time upon the road, Tommy. There's nothing to bring you in before dinner."
And at dinner Humpty was in his most genial mood. He was not as a rule genial at the midday repast, to which as often as not he hurried in late, only to hurry out again as soon as he had consumed abstractedly the portion set aside for him; but on the present occasion he subsided into his armchair at the foot of the table with a leisurely, tranquil air that spoke of a mind at ease for the time being.
He enjoyed his roast chicken and green peas. He had himself cut the asparagus and cut it bountifully. Mary was bidden to observe how asparagus ought to be cut—a couple of inches, not more, below the surface of the earth; and it should never be allowed to grow too high; the flavour was lost when it had been long above ground; furthermore, it should be carried straight from the bed to the pot—but here Mary laughed outright.
"What are you laughing at?" demanded he.
"You, who never give your food a chance! Tommy knows,"—and the careful housewife continued to laugh, looking at Tommy, "he has to put down your plate to the fire five days out of six."
"No, no, Mary."
"And often you could not tell me what's on it if I asked! And if we did not look after your digestion–"
"Well, well; I know what's good, when I have time to think about it. And since you are so keen on my digestion, have you a mind to give Tommy and me a treat?" nodding at her—"make us some coffee!"
"And we'll take it out-of-doors," continued the doctor, rising and throwing his napkin aside. "Under the trees yonder. Bring your pipe, Tommy; you and I don't often enjoy a lazy hour, but a man must break his rule sometimes. Come along,"—and he led the way.
Of course Tommy saw, and at first Tommy was inclined to resent. So he was to be treated like a child, a child who has had his toy taken from him and is to be comforted with other things? He had been allowed to go out in the sunshine—(on a bogus errand, he suspected; certainly Mrs. Brooks had not expected a medical visit that morning)—and now his inner man was being consoled and pampered, and the raw wound which still bled from the knife so unsparingly applied the day before, was to be blandly ignored. He felt both hurt and angry.
But the roast chicken was very good, and so was the currant tart with cream—and he had covered many miles on an empty stomach, and was young, and as a rule, ravenous. For the life of him he could not help clearing his plate.
And next he found himself responding with alacrity to the suggestion of coffee in the cool shade without, for the atmosphere of the little dining-room had grown somewhat warm and odorous, pervaded by hot dishes—while even a prospective tête-à-tête with his host was not altogether distasteful, since he was to be permitted to smoke.
And though he told himself he would not for worlds have Leonore's name enter into the conversation, in reality he was listening for it, waiting for it.
He had to wait however.
"It's a queer life, that of a country doctor;" the elder man laid down his pipe musingly. "A queer life—but it has its compensations. There's much to be given up, much to be done without,—there's struggle and hardship to begin with—strain and anxiety always,—but taken as a whole, it yields a satisfaction—Tommy, I often think there's no life on earth meets with such clear recompense for the outlay, be the outlay what it may."
"Yes, sir; I suppose so, sir;" absently.
"Human nature craves appreciation," the speaker slackened his big-limbed frame afresh, and puffed luxuriously, "to be watched for and welcomed and—and appreciated—there is no other word for it—wherever one goes, is something, who can deny it? One may never rise to eminence, one may be humble and obscure, as the world has it, all one's days, and yet–" again he paused.
"Yes, sir?" But at the second "Yes, sir," Dr. Craig roused himself.
"You aren't following me, Tommy. You think you knew all this before, and it sounds like a dull droning in your ears. Isn't it so, my boy?"
"I'm afraid I'm very poor company, sir. But you—you know what makes me so."
"And you would like to talk about it, and find every other subject uninteresting? Maybe you're right. What is it then? Her, I suppose?" And a faint smile, not unkindly, accompanied the last words.
"I do want you to believe that she is not to blame. I can't get over it, your saying what you did. You seemed to infer that I had been befooled and–"
"If you had, you are not the first—but let that pass. I own I cannot understand how otherwise you could have presumed to think at all about a lady so high above your head."
"I did presume, sir."
"And–?"
"And I think I showed it, sir."
"Wilfully?"
"No, unconsciously. But it was my fault—not hers."
"And you acquit her, absolutely?"
Tommy was silent, colouring.
"You would like to acquit her, and you hoped I should do so, without the need of more? You have a chivalrous soul, and you may thank God for it, young man; it is a great possession. Respecting Leonore Stubbs, I may be too hard upon her–"
"Indeed, sir, indeed–"
"I may be, but time alone will show. When she first came back here, a poor bit widow-creature, more child than woman, it would have touched a heart of stone to see her and what's more, I saw they were not going the right way to work with her. She was put into a sort of strait-jacket. She was made to appear just what the Bolderos thought she ought to appear. They made no account of the sort of lassie she really was. I saw, for I was often at the house that winter. And I think Leonore was glad to be ill sometimes—(she caught colds and chills that year)—just for the sake of having something to think about, and even old me to talk to. But of late—I don't know—I seem to fancy she's altered. She breaks loose. Her face has a kind of reckless look. And it struck me she'd been angered and fretted till she was ripe for mischief. Did she—did she let you make love to her, Tommy?"
"Never, sir. There was never a word of the kind between us. I told you so before."
"Aye; words aren't always needed. You and she were walking in a maze, and a maze neither of you had the wit to look beyond. Heaven knows where you would have found yourselves—or, rather, where you would have found yourself—if I had not brought you up sharp. But don't imagine I think the worse of you for it, Tommy; and don't you go and fret and gloom by yourself. The thing's done and can't be undone, and I'll not deny I'm sorry it is so. Still—" he rubbed his chin thoughtfully,—"perhaps you have learnt something you would have learnt no other way, and for the rest, my advice is—forget. Forget as fast as you can, for," a grim smile, "of one thing you may take your oath, Tommy Andrews, however quick you may be, the little lady who's gone to London to-day will be quicker still."
And of course Leonore was. There is no need to indicate the precise moment at which the figure of her humble village admirer faded clean out of sight after having hovered reproachfully over a few brief penitential musings, but certain it is that it vanished, to return no more.
London in the season was a revelation to our heroine. Hitherto her sole experience of it was confined to passing through, and that mainly at other periods of the year,—since it was an article of faith with her husband that one big town was as good as another, and he had all he wanted of town life at home.
So that all was new, strange, wonderful, glorious—and at first she was utterly dazzled. True, a modern girl would have laughed in her sleeve could she have heard Leo's idea of the gay world. She would have said this unsophisticated creature went nowhere and knew nothing. She would have marvelled—perhaps as much as Leo would have marvelled at her.
Leo did more than marvel, she was secretly shocked and disgusted on several occasions, but with the fidelity of the young to the young she said nothing to Sue. Sue thought the houses she took her young sister to all that was prudent and respectable. Some of them were rather great houses—the Bolderos, when they did seek society, moved on a high plane, and the very fact that they seldom sought it, told in their favour.
The sisters were not overwhelmed with invitations, but they had enough to gratify the elder and delight the younger. Leo did not dance; indeed, she did not know how, so the one ball to which she was bidden was declined, but the two went to a fair amount of dinner-parties, not of the most lively order, but pictorial and majestic. They were invited to opera boxes—generally on the grand tier. Leo was on the box seat of a coach occasionally. As for teas, they overran every afternoon, and concerts, bazaars, charity entertainments, Hurlingham and Ranelagh filled up the interstices.
It was in short a giddy round, and perhaps as good a cure for the sort of complaint from which our poor little girl was suffering as could have been devised.
It swept her off her feet—and in another sense swept her on to her feet.
She learned in curious ways a good deal.
Her shell was broken, and albeit the outer air was none of the purest, it served its purpose of blowing away the cobwebs that had so long encircled her outlook.
July, however, was passing, and soon, all too soon, fairy-land would vanish in a myriad of shattered sparklets, and then?
"I suppose we could not go to Cowes, Sue?" A very tempting invitation for the Cowes week had come, and there had been hints of further house-parties, and shooting-parties,—but of these latter Leo knew at once that she must not think. For Cowes, however, she would make a push. "It is so near, and we could go home as easily from there as from here,"—she murmured, wistfully. "And the Beverleys are very nice people, Sue."
"Oh, very; but—I don't know. I am afraid it would hardly do to suggest it. You see father has already been asked twice to let us stay on, and, dear Leo, he has been very good about it. Even Aunt Charlotte was surprised."
"It was Aunt Charlotte who did the trick though;" Leo wagged her head wisely. "Her sending him a card for her reception was a masterpiece. I almost wonder he didn't come up for it. Well, what about Cowes?"
"We will think it over, dear."
"I could go by myself, you know."
"No," said Sue, decidedly.
Her orders were that Leo was to go nowhere by herself, and she had more than once eaten humble pie in consequence—for her sister's sake hanging on to her skirts, a neglected and undesired appendage by the rest of the party.
Leo alone would be mindful of her, pleasant towards her. Leo was certainly growing more affectionate and considerate than of old—but Leo must not go to Cowes alone.
"I will try what I can do," said Sue, after a pause, during which she absently broke open another envelope in her hand. "I will read what Maud says of how they are getting on at home. I see she has returned from her visit to the Fosters, so perhaps–" An exclamation, quite a violent exclamation for the prim Miss Boldero, followed. Then she looked up, her face, we should like to say scarlet, or crimson, but truth compels the statement that Sue's flushes were of a deeper tint, not quite purple, but that way. Even her brow was now suffused by this tint. "Oh, Leo!"
But Leo was absorbed in a letter of her own.
"This is really—Leo—listen, Leo!"
"Well?" said Leo, absently. "Here's another idea for Cowes. However, your news first."
"Yes, indeed. You will say so when you hear it. Maud–"
"She's not coming here, is she?"—quickly.
"Maud writes to announce that she is engaged to be married."
"Good gracious!" The effect was electrical. Leo bounded from her seat and almost tore the sheet from her sister's hands. "Let me see—let me see," then reading aloud: "Major Foster—Mr. Foster's younger brother—home from India—left the army—father pleased (that's a good thing!)—and coming here next week!—Oh, Sue!–Stop, there's more," cried Leo, recovering, for the "Oh, Sue!" had been emitted with dolorous mental reference to the Cowes scheme, now obviously knocked on the head. "What's this over the page?" and she turned it in Sue's fingers; "only the man's name—Paul. She doesn't say very much, does she? I thought people usually put in something about–"
"What?" said Sue, smiling.
"About being happy, and that. Or at least about the man himself—not merely who he is, and who his people are."
"She will tell us all when we meet. Maud is not much of a writer, and she is the last person to—to speak of her feelings; but I do not doubt she is happy," quoth Sue, radiantly. "Dear Maud! To think that she on her quiet visit—and at the Fosters, the last people one would have expected—and father pleased–"
"Oh, it's fine," cried Leo, kissing her, "it really is fine. If she had only waited till after the Cowes week it would have been perfect. Anyhow, we'll hie back, you and I, with something to look forward to. We shan't leave all the sweets behind, now that Maud has done the civil by us with her 'Paul'. I did hate the thought of going home before," she was running on, when something stopped her, something that sent a little cold shiver down her back. It was—yes, it was—the look. The look on Sue's face.
For quite a long while now she had lost sight of the goal once set before her eyes by this. Imagination had ceased to be fired by its memory. The three impulsive dashes made in its direction had been so utterly futile that she could only recall the first with mirth, the second with contempt, the last with shame. Val Purcell was now happily restored to his former position of friend and playmate; George Butts?—she had come across Mr. Butts in London and found him in hot pursuit of another lady; and though the thought of poor Tommy Andrews with his weak, imploring mouth and burning eyes could still evoke a twinge, it was but a passing twinge.
Tommy had certainly been found out, and Tommy's master was not a person to find out in vain. Dr. Craig had effected what no one else dared attempt, namely, her own escape from thraldom—and she did not see her co-delinquent let off, albeit after another fashion.
No, she had nothing more to fear from that quarter; and in the rush and novelty of the past few weeks, bygone follies, big and little, active and passive, dwindled to the vanishing point. If only Sue, dear, good, unconscious Sue, would not recall them!
CHAPTER XII.
THE PHOTOGRAPH AND THE ORIGINAL
Families in which the daughters marry early and in due succession, can have but little idea of the huge, volcanic shock an engagement means in a house like Boldero Abbey.
True, it had once before gone through a like experience, but the present happy occasion was intensified by a variety of causes.
It was satisfactory, altogether satisfactory. Like good wine it needed not the bush which General Boldero had strewed so plentifully over Godfrey Stubbs's antecedents and surroundings. His future son-in-law was well-born and well-bred, and his having lately succeeded to a considerable fortune was also well known. Accordingly—we are obliged to add "accordingly"—it was in good taste to say nothing about it.
But he could show, and he did show, enough to raise a smile wherever he went. However demure his air when receiving congratulations, he could insert here and there a phrase, adroitly conceived beforehand, the point of which could not be missed—and he was rampant at home.
There he might freely puff and blow, and turn his little world upside down. Nothing, not the veriest trifles of every-day life escaped his touch; and had it not been that the sympathies of all were with him, that there was not an antagonistic member of the family or household, he would have been found unbearable.
But the change, the stir, the commotion, the heavy posts, and constant ringing of the door-bell were delightful to everybody. There was occupation for everybody. They ran against each other with busy, pre-occupied faces. They hurried, when formerly time was of no account. The writing-tables were bargained for, and Maud, all-important, retained one solely for her own use,—while the two who had fancied they would have so much to tell of their London escapade, found it so completely superseded by the new excitement, that they dismissed it from their own minds.
In short the whole atmosphere quivered with the sensation: "Who would have thought it?—who would have believed it?—" to which there was but one response: "We cannot make enough of it".
The man himself, however, had yet to be seen.
"Yes, it is very unfortunate," observed Miss Boldero, in answer to neighbourly inquiries; "Major Foster has been obliged to put off coming again. He has had another touch of fever—his long residence in hot climates has left him subject to these, and though it is nothing to be anxious about, he has to be careful. We expect him next week."
A photograph was presented in lieu of the original, and no one had anything to say against the photograph. It represented an unmistakable soldier, even if he had not been in uniform. The face was clear-cut and clean-shaven, and some might have thought it had rather a melancholy expression—but such expressions in photographs are common, and not always truthful. Leo, for one, openly admired her sister's lover.
"I do detest a smirk," she cried, gaily; "I am so glad Paul's man did not make him smirk. Were you with him when this was taken, Maud?"
No, it had been taken in London on Paul's way through; he had promised copies to his regiment, and Maud had assisted him to send these out.
Was he sorry to leave the service? She thought he was, a little.
"So you had to—to cheer him up?" rejoined Leo, inwardly laughing over the remembrance of poor Val and his perfunctory proposal. "I daresay it does cheer up people to marry them. Your knight of the lugubrious countenance–ahem!"
"I don't know what you mean," said Maud, coldly.
"Heigho! I came near a cropper that time," muttered Leo, to herself.
When she was alone she took up the photograph again and looked at it. She could have wished for Maud's sake that she was to be united to a more lively-looking individual. The eyes, she could almost swear, were sad eyes. The mouth had a droop about it.
"It would not matter if it were Sybil or me," reflected she, within herself; "but no one can ever get a word out of Maud unless she pleases, and how is she going to bucket along a solemn spouse?… She seems content with him, and awfully proud of the whole affair—but I always fancied she would end with a jolly, jovial sort of creature, who would not care two straws whether she sulked or not. Now, something in this face,"—she scanned it thoughtfully—"leads me to think that Paul would care. He has a tired look—as if there were a weight upon him. Good heavens!" quickly, "Maud isn't the person to remove a weight; she's a regular old featherbed herself, when there's nothing to stir her up. She was all right at the Fosters, no doubt, with this going on, and everybody tootling round her; but if they only knew—if he only knew what she can be like at home!…
"I don't mean to be nasty;" repentance presently made itself felt; "and it may only be that Maud and I don't hit it off; that when I'm in a merry mood, she isn't, and vice versa—still," she shook her head sagaciously, "I'm not sure—not quite sure. It is more noticeable than it used to be. Even father gets snubbed and has to put up with it. Both Sue and Syb utterly succumb.... To think that Maud should be the one—though of course it is her looks—and besides, she herself let slip that the Fosters had got her there on purpose. Paul had come home at a loose end, desperately in need of a wife, and a home, and all the rest of it. The whole thing is clear—the only mystery,—pooh! there's no mystery....
"But it was luck for Maud," she mused on, "and I must say she appreciates her luck, and means to get the uttermost farthing out of it. How she revels in the idea of a grand wedding! And of course she will be a lovely bride—but I wonder—I hope–" once more her hand strayed towards the photograph, and she gazed at it long and searchingly, "I do hope she will make this poor man happy."
Leo, however, had the wit to keep such speculations to herself. She was only too conscious that she had not managed her own affairs so well as to give her any claim to pry into those of others, and told herself she was a little fool to keep on looking into Paul Foster's face and thinking of him as a poor man.
Directly she saw the real face, it would certainly tell a different tale. Maud breathed satisfaction over her lover's letters; obviously she had no doubts of her empire over him, and even while graciously accepting the encomiums passed by her belongings on her choice, let it be seen that she by no means considered all the good fortune to be on her side.
"Paul is deeply religious;" she announced once.
"God bless my soul!" ejaculated the general;—indeed there was a universal start, for even Sue, the good, kind Sue, could hardly be regarded as deeply religious. Every eye was bent on Maud.
"Indeed he is," proceeded she, calmly. "He made quite a mark in his regiment, and received no end of testimonials, the Fosters told me. They did not speak of it before him, but Caroline warned me—I mean told me—privately."
"Took an interest in the schools and that sort of thing, eh? Quite right, very proper;" General Boldero made an effort to recover himself. "In my day it was quite the thing for the commanding officer to back up the chaplain; but—hum, ha–that's what you mean, I suppose? You are not going to foist a parsonical gentleman upon us, young lady?" Despite the jocular tone, there was a gleam of anxiety.
"I am merely stating a fact," said Maud, stolidly.
"And I am sure we ought to be very glad," murmured Sue in her humble, peacemaking accents—but even she looked disconcerted.
"We can have Custance to meet Paul at dinner, if that will satisfy him," was the general's next; he had had a few minutes for reflection, and after rapidly weighing the pros and cons of the new development, decided to swallow it with a good grace. "Will that satisfy him, or will he want the curates too?"
"You may laugh if you choose, but it is as well you should know;" Maud drew up her neck, and retorted stiffly. "Paul has been about the world, and doesn't expect to find people all cut to the same pattern,—only I imagine I shall have to conform to his ideas after we are married, and he has set his heart on getting a house with a private chapel attached."
This was better; the general breathed again. A house with a private chapel? That meant a big house, a stately house, a house he would be proud to go to and refer to. "Oh well, a man must have his fads," quoth he, cheerfully; "and though we have got along well enough at Boldero Abbey without a private chapel, still if one had been here before my day, I don't know, 'pon my word, I don't know that I should have done away with it."
But the above conversation sent Leonore to look again at the photograph.
She was nervous, curiously nervous on behalf of this unknown Paul, of whom every day produced fresh impressions.
As time passed, he assumed a form she had not been prepared for,—and the first joyous flurry having worn off, she felt or fancied that he had in reality been no more fathomed by her sister than she by him.
It will be seen by this that Leonore had herself rapidly altered of late. She had taken to looking below the surface of things. She pondered and prophesied within herself. She perceived the drift of casual observations, and following in thought the byways of life, divined to what they might lead. In fine, her own blunders and mishaps had implanted seeds for reflection, and while less unhappy, she was infinitely more serious than before.
And for Paul Foster's appearance on the scene she grew every day more impatient.
Perhaps she was altogether mistaken about him, and the being of her imagination would prove so unlike the reality that doubts and misgivings would fly to the winds, made ridiculous by a very ordinary individual, devoid of all the mystery, all the glamour cast over him in day-dreams?
If so, of course she would be glad; it would be the best possible thing to happen; and yet? "I shall have to get rid of this Paul from my thoughts somehow," she decided. "He worries me. If he would only come and be done with it!"
It was evident that Maud attached a certain éclat to her lover's piety; she recurred to the subject more than once.
"It is all very well for father to make light of it, but I do hope he understands that it is no joke with Paul. Paul is very sensible, and never thrusts his opinions on other people, but no one ever thinks of laughing at them to him."
"It is only father's way," began Sue, distressed; but her sister continued, unheeding. When Maud had a thing to say she was not to be defrauded of saying it, and she had now got the ear of the house in the shape of two other attentive listeners.
"What I mean is that father always seems to think that it is only clergymen who really care about religion. He looks upon it as their trade,—oh, he does, Sue—and he would be the first to be down on them if they neglected their trade,—but as for other people, particularly other men's caring—and Paul does care, that's the unfortunate part of it."
"Why unfortunate, dear Maud?" said Sue, gently.
"Oh, I only mean lest he and father should clash," explained Maud with perfect coolness. "I am not speaking of my own feelings. I don't mind." After a pause she subjoined: "You might give father a hint, Sue."
"And what about asking Mr. Custance to dinner?" struck in Sybil, who had hearkened to the above uneasily, yet with a different sort of uneasiness from that which made poor Sue breathe an unconscious sigh. "It might create a good impression. Well?"
"It wouldn't take Paul in for a moment," said Maud. "Still," she hesitated and looked over her shoulder as she was leaving the room, "a third person might be of use on the first evening after dinner. Just as you like about that," and she passed out with the air of a queen. She felt every inch a queen in those days.
"So it wouldn't take Paul in for a moment?" The words raised a new question in Leonore's mind. If Paul where his deeper feelings were concerned were thus acute and clear-sighted, how came it that he was so blind otherwise? Ah, there she was at it again! Back to her old dilemma—to the bogie which had just been torn in tatters during a merry feminine conclave, in which wedding preparations and wedding clothes had formed the chief objects of discussion.
It was so obvious that no one else had any arrière pensée as regarded the bridegroom elect, that she had suppressed her own successfully for the time being, and entered eagerly into all the details which even Maud condescended to be sociable over.
Maud had been quite sociable and pleasant over everything that morning. She had read bits of Paul's letter aloud; she had permitted herself to be bantered, even rather mischievously bantered, by Leo; and altogether was so approachable and communicative, that the reference to her lover's religious views and her desire that these should be respected, fell out naturally. Why then should Leo be perplexed anew?
By the time Paul actually arrived, she told herself she was sick to death of him, and everything about him....
And before the first interview was over she was jeering at herself for her fussiness. The man was well enough, but he fell from his pedestal the moment he approached. No, he was not like his presentment. Maud had declared it did not do him justice—Leo thought differently. She ran him up and down with her eye, and though she conceded his stature and general outline to be correctly rendered, there was a disappointing lack of effect; he had not the air of a hero; he had not the lofty, melancholy bearing and inscrutable countenance which was to set him apart from his fellows, a mark for furtive looks and whispers. His brow was not worn and furrowed. His smile was not forced and fleeting.