CHAPTER XXI
Another long period of home quietness, but great anxiety followed this. Bertie, of course, would not return while the crisis of affairs in India had not yet been determined; and we were so much the more anxious about him, since he had been restored to us, as it seemed, out of the very grave. Later he was seriously wounded, threatened with fever, and really in great danger, but got through that as he had through all the other perils of that murderous Indian war. He distinguished himself, too, to our great pride and delight, especially to the boundless exultation of Derwie, and gained both credit and promotion almost beyond the hopes of so young a man. But, in the meantime, we were both anxious and concerned, for we could not induce him to think that he had encountered his full share of the fighting, and might now, surely, with perfect honor and satisfaction bring his laurels home.
“If the women and the babies are all safe on board the ships,” said Derwie, who was almost as reluctant to consent to Bertie’s return before the fighting was over as Bertie himself.
During all this time I scarcely saw Alice; she avoided coming in my way; when we met, avoided speaking to me—avoided looking in my face when that was practicable—could neither forgive herself for having betrayed her feelings, nor me for having witnessed that betrayal. Altogether her feelings towards me and in my presence were evidently so uncomfortable, that out of mere charity and consideration I no longer visited Mrs. Harley’s as I had done, nor invited them to Hilfont. They still came sometimes, but not as they had done before. I began to fear that I had lost Alice, which, to be sure, was unkind of her, considering what very old friends we were; but she could not forget nor forgive either herself or me for those tears out of which she had been cheated over that supposititious grave where Bertie Nugent was not.
So that there occurred an interregnum of information, at least, if not of interest, in respect to the Harleys. Maurice was in London, struggling forward to find what place he could in that perennial battle—struggling not very successfully—for, to the amazement of all, and, above all, to his own, he was not so greatly in advance of other people, when he had done something definite to be judged by, as the Fellow of Exeter had supposed himself. Providence, in quaint, poetic justice, had deprived Maurice, for example, of that faculty of writing which he had, maybe, esteemed too highly. His admirers had prophesied great triumphs for him in the field of literature before he had tried his pen there; but it turned out that Maurice could not write, and the discovery was rather humiliating to the young man. I have no doubt he made an infinitude of other discoveries equally unpleasant. His Fellowship kept him from starving, but it aggravated his failures and the pain of them, and held up more conspicuously than might have been desired, the unexpected imperfections of “Harley of Exeter,” in whom his contemporaries had been disposed to put a great deal of faith. Nevertheless, Maurice held on bravely. I liked him better and better as he found himself out. And he bore the discovery like a man.
As for Johnnie, poor boy, who had, all uneducated and without training as he was, just that gift of putting his mind into words which his brother lacked—he had not yet come to the bitter ending of his boyish dream. He was busy with his second book, in high hope and spirits, thinking himself equally secure of fame and of love. The poor lad had forgotten entirely the difference between the present time and that past age in which literature, fresh and novel, took its most sovereign place. He thought how Fanny Burney was fêted and applauded for her early novel; he thought of Scott’s unrivalled influence and honor; and he forgot that a hundred people write books, and especially write stories, now-a-days, for one who wrote then—and that he himself was only the unconsidered member of a multitudinous tribe, over whose heads Fame soared far away. It was not wonderful—he was scarcely one and twenty yet, though he was an author, and Miss Reredos’s slave. He meant to make the lady of his love “glorious with his pen,” as Montrose did, and expected to find an equal monarchy in her heart. Poor cripple Johnnie! a sadder or more grievous folly never was.
But it surprised me to find that he, poor fellow, was never the object of his mother’s anxiety. She was sorry, with a sort of contempt for his “infatuation,” and could not for her life imagine what men could see in that Miss Reredos. Mrs. Harley was a very kind and tender mother, ready at any time to deny herself for any real gratification to her boy; but she did not make much account of his heartbreak, of which “nothing could come.” For all practical purposes Johnnie’s love-tale was but a fable—nothing could ever come of it. Anything so unlikely as that Miss Reredos would marry the cripple never entered anybody’s mind but his own. And Mrs. Harley accordingly took it calmly, save for a momentary outburst of words now and then against the cause of Johnnie’s delusion—that was all. Nothing save the bitter disappointment, the violent mortification, the youthful despair, all augmented and made doubly poignant by the ill health and infirmities of this unfortunate boy, could result from his unlucky love-fever. So his mother was calm, and made no account of that among her may troubled and anxious concerns.
As for Alice, she was still Mrs. Harley’s greatest grievance, though I was not trusted with the same confidences, nor implored to use my influence, as before. Alice was more capricious, more tantalizing, less to be reckoned on than ever. She had, I suppose, dismissed Mr. Reredos with less courtesy than the Rector believed due to him, for he went about his duties with a certain grim sullenness, like an injured man, and never permitted himself to mention her name. I was in the Rector’s ill graces, as well as in those of Alice. He could not forgive me any more than she could, for the confidence themselves had bestowed. It was rather hard upon me to be thus excommunicated for no ill-doings of my own; but I bore it as best I could, sorry for Mr. Reredos, and not doubting that, some time or other, Alice would come to herself.
It was thus, in our immediate surroundings, that we spent the time until Bertie’s return.
CHAPTER XXII
It was once more spring when Bertie returned. Spring—Easter—that resurrection time which came to our hearts with a more touching force when we received home into our peaceful house—so pale, so worn out, and yet so sunburnt and scarred with violent labors past—that Bertie, who had gone from us so strong and so bold. He had been repeatedly wounded—had suffered more than once from fever—had felt, at last, that his health was broken, and that there was little more use in him while he remained in India, and so was persuaded to come home. Derwent, kindest of friends, went to meet him at Southampton, and brought him home as tenderly as any nurse, or rather far more tenderly, with a tenderness more considerate and requiring less response than that of a woman. To see our young hero an invalid, overpowered me entirely. I quite broke down under it, comparing him with what he was, and fearing everything from the mortal paleness, thrown by his sunbrowned complexion into a ghastly yellow, which sometimes overspread his face. Derwent judged more justly—he held up his finger to me when he saw the exclamation of dismay and grief that trembled on my lips.
“He’s tired, Clare,” said my husband. “A bright fire, and an English bed and rest—that’s all Bertie wants to-night. He’ll answer all your questions to-morrow. Come, old fellow, you know your way to your old room.”
“I should think so, indeed—and thank God I am at home,” cried Bertie, with his familiar voice. With a thrill of anguish I restrained my salutations and followed quietly to see that all was comfortable for him. He protested that it was nonsense, that he could come downstairs perfectly well, that Mr. Crofton only wanted to humble his vanity; but at the same moment drew up his foot wearily upon the sofa, with a gesture that showed better than words his need of rest.
“Alas, Derwent, has it come to this?” said I, as we went downstairs.
Derwent turned round upon me, put his big hands upon my shoulders, and thrust me in before him to the handiest room. “Now, Clare,” he said, with comical solemnity, “if we are going to have any nonsense or lamentations, I’ll shut you up here till my patient’s better. The boy is as sound as I am, and would be able to ride to cover in a fortnight, if any such chances were going. Now don’t say a word—I am speaking simple truth.”
“I must trust my own eyes,” said I; “but you need not fear my indiscretion. See how I have refrained from agitating him now.”
“Agitating him! Oh!” cried Derwent, with a good-humored roar. “What stuff you speak, to be sure! He is quite able to be agitated as much as you please—there is nothing in the world but wounds and fatigue the matter with Bertie. I am afraid you are only a woman after all, Clare; but you’re not to interfere with my patient. I’ve taken him in hand, and mind you, I’m to have the credit, and bring him through.”
“But, oh, Derwent,” said I, “how pale he is!”
“If I had seen as many dreadful sights as he has, I should be pale too,” said Derwent. “Seriously, he is tired and worn out, but not ill. Don’t be sorry for him, Clare—don’t put anything in his head. Talk pleasantly. I don’t forbid the subject, for example,” said my husband, looking at me with a certain affectionate cloudy mirth, as if he had known my secret all along, “of Alice Harley, if you choose.”
I put him aside a little impatiently, and he followed me into the very late dinner, which had been deferred for the arrival of the travellers, and where Bertie’s empty chair struck me again with a little terror. But I was wise for once, and yielded to Derwent’s more cheerful opinion. On the next morning Bertie was better—he went on getting better day by day. Derwent took care of him, and attended him in a way which took me by surprise; never teasing him with questions—never gazing at him with his heart in his eyes, as we womanish creatures do, to mar the work we would give our lives to accomplish; but with his eyes always open, and his attention really missing nothing that happened, and taking account of all.
A week after his arrival, Bertie, who hitherto had been telling me, as he could, his adventures in India—dread adventures, interwoven with all the thread of that murderous history—at last broke all at once into the full tide of home talk.
“And dear old Estcourt, Cousin Clare,” said Bertie, “stands exactly as it was, I suppose; and Miss Austin as steadfast as the lime trees—and the children to keep the old park cheerful—all as it was?”
“All as it was, Bertie; but the other house ready and waiting for you.”
I looked up with a little anxiety to see the effect of what I said. Distracted with a disappointed love, Bertie had left us—ill and languid he had returned. I thought my words might recall to his mind at once his old dreams and his present weakness; and with some terror I glanced at his face. He was lying on the sofa in that bright morning room with the great bow window, from which, shining afar like a great picture, he could see all the peaceful slope of our low-country, with the river glistening in links and bends, and the cathedral towers far off, lending a graceful centre and conclusion to the scene.
Bertie did not return my glance; he lay still, with a languid ease and satisfaction in his attitude which struck me for the first time—as if he was profoundly content to be there, and felt his fatigues and pains melt away in that warmth of home. As I looked at him a warmer color rose over his brown-pale face, a pleasant glimmer woke in his eye—his whole aspect warmed and brightened—a half conscious smile came playing about his parted lips. Whatever Bertie thought upon, it was neither disappointment nor broken health.
There was a long pause—the silence was pleasant—broken only by the soft domestic sounds of a great house; brightly lay that pleasant landscape outside the window, all soft and sweet with spring; tender and pleasant was the contrast of all the scene, the care and love surrounding the soldier now, with the burning plains and cruel contests from which he had come; and thoughts, dear, warm, and tender, arose in Bertie’s heart. He paused long, perhaps, with a simple art, to conceal from me a little the link of pleasant association which had directed his thoughts that way—then, with that wavering, conscious smile, spoke—
“So Alice Harley is not married,” he said, turning on his elbow, with a pretence of carelessness, as if to get a fuller view. “How is that, Cousin Clare?”
To think that Alice Harley connected herself instinctively with the idea of Bertie’s house which was ready for him, was a pleasant thought to me; but I only answered, “There is no telling, Bertie. She might have been married two or three times had she pleased.”
“I am very glad of it,” said Bertie; “to see every pretty girl whom one used to know converted into the mother of ever so many children, makes a fellow feel old before his time. I am not so frightfully old, after all; but I fear nobody will have anything to say to a worn-out poor soldier like me.”
“Don’t be too humble, Bertie,” said I. “I don’t think, between ourselves, that Colonel Nugent is so very diffident of his own merits. On the contrary, he knows he has made a little noise in this world, is aware that people will drink his health, and fête him when he is well enough, and that all the young ladies will smile upon the hero. Don’t you think now, honestly, that this is the real state of the case?”
Bertie blushed and fell back to his old position. “Don’t be hard upon a fellow, Cousin Clare,” he said, with a slightly pleading tone—half afraid of ridicule—half conscious that little ridicule was to be expected from me.
“No indeed, quite the reverse—nobody will be hard upon you, my boy,” said I. “Huntingshire is quite ready to bestow anything you wish upon you, Bertie—anything from a seat in Parliament, up to the prettiest daughter it has, if you mean to set up your household gods in the Estcourt jointure-house.”
Bertie blushed once more, and coughed, and cleared his throat a little, as if he had some intentions of taking me into his confidence, when my boy Derwie suddenly made a violent diversion by rushing in all red and excited, and flinging himself against our soldier with all his might.
“Bertie!” shouted little Derwent, “is it true you’re going to have the Victoria Cross?”
Bertie colored violently as he recovered from that shock. I don’t believe, if he had been suddenly charged with running away, that he would have looked half as much abashed.
“Why, you know, Derwie, we’d all like it if we could get it,” he said, faltering slightly; but I knew in a moment, by the sudden movement of his head and glance of his eye, that he really did believe it possible, and that this was the darling ambition of Bertie’s heart.
“But Bevan told me!” cried Derwie—“he told me about those gates, you know, that you and the rest blew up. Mamma, listen! There were six of them, forlorn-hope men, Bevan says”–
“Ah, Derwie, hush!—four of them sleep yonder, the brave fellows!—four privates, who could not hope for distinction like me,” cried Bertie, with that same profound awe and compunction, contrasting his own deliverance with the calamity of others, which had once stricken me.
“A private can have the Victoria Cross as well as a general,” cried Derwie, clapping his hands; “and more likely, Bevan says—for a general commands and doesn’t fight.”
“That is true—God save the Queen!” cried Bertie. “If Corporal Inglis gets it, Derwie—and he ought—we’ll illuminate.”
“If you get it,” said Derwie, “you deserve it all the same. Mamma, they blew up the gates with gunpowder; they went close—so close that”–
“Boh!” cried Bertie; “mamma read all about it in the papers. It was nothing particular—it only had to be done, that’s all. Now, Derwie, don’t you know when a thing has to be done somebody must do it?”
“Yes, I know,” said Derwie, “perfectly well. When mamma says must I always go directly—don’t I, mamma?—and if I were as big as you I wouldn’t mind being killed either. When you were killed, Bertie—that time you know when everybody thought so—oh, what a crying there was!”
“Was there?” asked Bertie, with a softened tone, putting his arm round the eager child.
But a new point of interest in those human studies which were so dear to him had suddenly seized upon Derwie’s imagination. He turned abruptly to me.
“Mamma, didn’t Alice come once and cry? I saw her go away with such red eyes; and she never came again, and never looked like her own self when she did come,” said my boy, with a courageous disregard of grammar. “What is that for? Wasn’t she glad when Bertie came alive again, and it was only poor Captain Hughes?”
“Hush, Derwie, my boy—you don’t understand these things. I was deeply grieved for that poor Captain Hughes, Bertie—I almost felt as if, in our great anxiety for you, his fall was our fault.”
But Bertie was not thinking of Captain Hughes. He was looking intently at me with that wavering color in his cheeks and an eager question in his eyes. When I spoke, my words recalled him a little, and he put on a grave look, and murmured something about the “poor fellow!” or “brave fellow!” I could not tell which—then looked at me again, eager, with a question hovering on his lips. The question of all others which I was resolute not to answer. So I gathered up my work remorselessly, put it away in my work-table, jingled my keys, told him I would see if the newspaper had come yet, and left the room without looking round. He might find that out at Alice’s own hands if he wished it—he should not receive any clandestine information from me.
CHAPTER XXIII
The first visit which Bertie was able to make was to the cottage—to see Mrs. Harley, as he said, gravely—but I fear he did not get a very satisfactory reception. He told me he thought Alice greatly changed when he returned; but he was not communicative on the subject, and had a decided inclination to go back again. Perhaps the wavering, pleasant, half-conscious sentiment, and tender youthful reminiscence, with which Bertie came home, was the better of a little opposition to warm it into independent life; and Alice had reason enough for a double share of perversity and caprice, though Bertie knew nothing of that. She had betrayed herself to me, and, for a moment, to Maurice. She thought, no doubt, that everybody had suspected that secret of hers—and with unconscious self-importance, that it was whispered throughout the country with secret smiles over all her former unmarried-woman superiority to vulgar love-affairs. Her credit was consequently very deeply involved—she would not have smiled upon Bertie Nugent now had it been to save his life.
Still, however, Bertie, in the pleasant leisure of his convalescence, betook himself to Mrs. Harley’s cottage; and came home talking of Johnnie and little Kate, and the letters from Maurice—but very little about Alice, save chance words now and then, which showed a singularly close observation of her habits. Sometimes he asked me puzzled questions about those opinions of hers. Bertie, though he had been cheated once, was not contemptuous of womenkind. He did not understand these new views about the vulgarity of being married, and the propriety of multiplying female occupations. I suspect he entertained the natural delusion that, while he himself stood there, most ready and anxious, to share with her the common course of life, private projects of her own, which turned her aside from that primitive and ancient occupation of wife, were a little fantastical, and extremely perplexing. But Bertie was not like Mr. Reredos—he wanted simply to be at the bottom of it, and find out what she meant. He was not the man to worry any woman into marrying him, or to lay insidious siege to her friends. Ancient kindness, a lingering recollection of her youthful sweetness and beauty, which had come softly back to Bertie after his early love-troubles, and which had been kept alive by the fascination of a secret delicious wonder, whether, perhaps, he might have anything to do with the fact of her remaining unmarried, had combined to direct Bertie’s thoughts towards Alice, and to connect her image with all the plans and intentions of his return home. In short, the feeling upon both sides was very much alike—with both it was a certain captivating imaginary link, far more subtle and sweet than an understood engagement, which warmed their hearts to each other. But for those tragical possibilities which had so deeply excited Alice, all would have gone as smoothly as possible when our hero came home. Now the obstacles on each side were great. On Alice’s, that dread idea of having betrayed a secret, unsought, unreturned affection for the distant soldier, along with the lesser but still poignant remembrance of Lady Greenfield’s malicious report that Bertie himself had expected Cousin Clare to have somebody in her pocket for him to marry. On Bertie’s part, the equally dangerous chance that, deeply mortified by finding his hope of having some share in her thoughts so entirely unfounded, as it appeared, he might turn away sorrowfully from the theories which influenced her, but which his simple intelligence did not comprehend. Never matchmaker was more perplexed than I was between these two; I dared not say a word to either—I looked on, trembling, at the untoward course of affairs. It was Bertie who disappointed me once; for all I could see, it was most likely to be Alice now.
When we began—which was not till another autumn restored us to Hilfont—to be able to give some entertainments to our country neighbors, in honor of our soldier, Alice, most cleverly and cunningly avoided coming. She had always some admirable excuse—some excuse so unquestionable that it would have been quite cruel to have grumbled at it. I do not think she had been once within our house since Bertie returned. She sent me her love, and the most dutiful messages. She was so sorry, but she was sure her dear Mrs. Crofton would not be displeased when she knew. I was displeased, however, and had hard ado with myself to keep from saying as much, and declaring my conviction that she was very unkind to Bertie. I daresay I might have done so with advantage, though prudence and the fear of something coming of it, restrained me—for the idea of being unkind to Bertie would, doubtless, have been balm to Alice’s soul.
They met, however, though she would not come to Hilfont—Clara Sedgwick, who was as bold to give Bertie welcome as she had been to weep her free sisterly tears, which there was no need to conceal, over his supposed grave, arranged one of her very largest and grandest dinner-parties for Bertie as soon as it was practicable. Everybody was there—Lady Greenfield and her husband, who had all at once grown an old man, his wife having stopped his fox-hunting long ago—and Miss Polly, and all the Croftons, far and near, and such Nugents as could be picked up handily; and finally, all the great people of the county, to glorify our hero. I cannot tell by what ingenious process of badgering Alice had been driven out of her retirement, and produced that night in the Waterflag drawing-room. I will not even guess what cruel sisterly sarcasms and suggestions of what people might say, had supplemented the sisterly coaxing which were, no doubt, ineffectual; but there Alice was—there she stood by the side of Clara’s dazzling toilette and rosy tints, pale and clouded, in her brown silk dress—her old brown silk dress, made in a fashion which “went out” at least three years ago; without a single ornament about her anywhere—her hair braided as plainly as though she had just come down-stairs to make the tea, and superintend the breakfast table—not even the pretty bouquet of delicate flowers at her breast, which made so pretty a substitute for jewels on little Kate’s white dress—not a bracelet nor a ring—nothing to diversify the entire plainness of her appearance, nor a single sparkle or gleam of reflection on neck, finger, or arm. I confess that I was both annoyed and disappointed. Instead of doing her womanly utmost to look well and young, as became her, Alice had exhausted all her perverse pains in making a dowdy of herself. I cannot say she had succeeded. It was the crisis of her life, and mind and heart were alike full of movement and agitation. She could not prevent the excitement of her circumstances from playing about her with a gleaming fitful light, which made her expressive face wonderfully attractive. She could not but betray, in despite of her cold, unadorned appearance, and the almost prim reserve which she affected, the tumult and contest within her—extreme emotion, so restrained that the effort of self-control gave a look of power and command to her face, and somehow elevated and dilated her entire figure, and so contradictory that it flashed a hundred different meanings in a moment out of those eyes which were defiant, sarcastic, tender, and proud, all in a glance. I am not sure even that her plain dress did not defeat its purpose still more palpably; it distinguished her, singularly enough, from other people—it directed everybody’s attention to her—it suggested reasons for that prim and peculiar attire—all which, if Alice had guessed them, would have thrown her into an agony of shame.
Miss Reredos was also one of Clara’s great party—much against little Mrs. Sedgwick’s will—only because it could not be helped, Mrs. Harley being still pertinacious in favor of the Rector, who had all but given up his own cause. And we were still engaged in the mysteries of dinner, and there still remained all the long evening to operate in, when I perceived that this indefatigable young lady had seriously devoted herself to the entertainment of Bertie. He was doing his best to be polite, the good fellow; but it was a long time before he could be warmed into a flirtation. At last some very decided slight from Alice irritated my poor soldier. He turned to the play beside him, and began to amuse himself with it as so many other men had done. Thanks to Miss Reredos, it speedily became a notable flirtation, witnessed and observed by all the party. Alice watched it with a gradual elevation of her head, paling of her cheeks, and look of lofty silent indignation, which was infinitely edifying to me. What had she to do with it?—she who would not bestow a single glance upon Colonel Nugent—who called him perpetually by that ceremonious name—who was blind and deaf to all his deprecating looks and allusions to youthful days. If he should flirt or even fall in love with and marry Miss Reredos, what was that to Alice? But, to be sure, most likely that indignation of hers was all for Johnnie’s sake.
Poor Johnnie! He sat glaring at Bertie with furious eyes. Johnnie’s little bit of bookish distinction disappeared and sank to nothing in presence of Bertie’s epaulettes. Nobody felt the least interest to-day in Mrs. Harley’s clever cripple-boy. His Laura indeed had kept him in life, when she first arrived, by some morsels of kindness, but Laura too had gone over to the enemy. Laura was visibly disposed to charm into her own train that troublesome interloper, and Johnnie, who had resented and forgiven fifty violent flirtations of his lady-love since he himself first found new life, as he said, in her eyes, was more bitterly resentful of this defection than he had been of any previous one. If she and the other culprit, Bertie, could have been consumed by looks, we should have had only two little heaps of ashes to clear away from the Sedgwicks’ dinner-table that day in place of those two unfortunate people; but Miss Reredos was happily non-combustible. She swept away in all the fulness of crinoline when the inevitable moment came and we womenkind were dismissed, insulting her unhappy young lover by a little nod and smile addressed to him across the table, which would have been delicious an hour ago, but was wormwood and bitterness now. Bertie, I think, at the same moment caught Alice’s lofty, offended, indignant glance, and brightened to see the quiet resentment in that perverse young woman’s face. It had all the effect of sunshine upon our soldier. At that crisis we left affairs, when we went to the drawing-room. I confess I don’t share the often-expressed sentiment about the dulness and absurdity of that little after-dinner interval. The young ladies and the young gentlemen may not like it, perhaps, but when could we maturer womenkind snatch a comfortable moment for that dear domestic talk which you superior people call gossip, if it were not in the pleasant relaxation of this interregnum, when the other creatures are comfortably disposed of downstairs? But for once in my life, being profoundly interested in the present little drama—there is always one at least going on in a great house in the country full of visitors—I did long that day for the coming of the gentlemen, or of Bertie, at least, the hero at once of the situation and of the day.
The first to come upstairs was Johnnie Harley. For some time past he had rather affected, as a manly practice, the habit of sitting to the last after dinner. This day he was burning to discharge the fulness of his wrath upon Miss Reredos, so he lost no time, anxious to be beforehand with his new rival. Miss Reredos had already posed herself at a table, covered with a wealth of prints and photographs, these sentimental amusements being much in her way.
“I have come to have my turn,” said Johnnie, savagely. I was seated within hearing, and, I confess, felt no very strong inducement to withdraw from my position. Perhaps Johnnie did not see me—Miss Reredos did, and certainly did not care. “I am come to have my turn, and to tell you that I can’t be content to take turns—especially with that empty fellow Nugent, whom you seem, like all the rest, to have taken so great a fancy to.”