CHAPTER III
A PEACE-MAKER
It was a very strange household that Christmas at Overfield. Mary andher husband came over with their child, and the entire party, with theexception of the duellists themselves, settled down to watch theconflict between Lady Torridon and Beatrice Atherton. Its prolongationwas possible because for days together the hostess retired into afortress of silence, whence she looked out cynically, shrugged hershoulders, smiled almost imperceptibly, and only sallied when she foundshe could not provoke an attack. Beatrice never made an assault; wasalways ready for the least hint of peace; but guarded deftly and struckhard when she was directly threatened. Neither would she ever take aninsult; the bitterest dart fell innocuous on her bright shield beforeshe struck back smiling; but there were some sharp moments of anxietynow and again as she hesitated how to guard.
A silence would fall suddenly in the midst of the talk and clatter attable; there would be a momentary kindling of glances, as from the tallchair opposite the chaplain a psychological atmosphere of peril madeitself felt; then the blow would be delivered; the weapons clashed; andonce more the talk rose high and genial over the battlefield.
* * * * *
The moment when Beatrice's position in the house came nearest to beinguntenable, was one morning in January, when the whole party wereassembled on the steps to see the sportsmen off for the day.
Sir James was down with the foresters and hounds at the further end ofthe terrace, arranging the details of the day; Margaret had not yet comeout of chapel, and Lady Torridon, who had had a long fit of silence, wasstanding with Mary and Nicholas at the head of the central stairs thatled down from the terrace to the gravel.
Christopher and Beatrice came out of the house behind, talkingcheerfully; for the two had become great friends since they had learntto understand one another, and Beatrice had confessed to him franklythat she had been wrong and he right in the matter of Ralph. She hadtold him this a couple of days after her arrival; but there had been acertain constraint in her manner that forbade his saying much in answer.Here they came then, now, in the frosty sunshine; he in his habit andshe in her morning house-dress of silk and lace, talking briskly.
"I was sure you would understand, father," she said, as they came upbehind the group.
Then Lady Torridon turned and delivered her point, suddenly andbrutally.
"Of course he will," she said. "I suppose then you are not going out,Mistress Atherton." And she glanced with an offensive contempt at thegirl and the monk. Beatrice's eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly, andopened again.
"Why, no, Lady Torridon."
"I thought not," said the other; and again she glanced at the two--"forI see the priest is not."
There was a moment's silence. Nick was looking at his wife with a faceof dismay. Then Beatrice answered smiling.
"Neither are you, dear Lady Torridon. Is not that enough to keep me?"
A short yelp of laughter broke from Nicholas; and he stooped to examinehis boot.
Lady Torridon opened her lips, closed them again, and turned her back onthe girl.
"But you are cruel," said Beatrice's voice from behind, "and--"
The woman turned once more venomously.
"You do not want me," she said. "You have taken one son of mine, and nowyou would take the other. Is not my daughter enough?"
Beatrice instantly stepped up, and put her hand on the other's arm.
"Dear Mistress," she said; and her voice broke into tenderness; "she isnot enough--"
Lady Torridon jerked her arm away.
"Come, Mary," she said.
* * * * *
Matters were a little better after that. Sir James was not told of theincident; because his son knew very well that he would not allowBeatrice to stay another day after the insult; but Chris felt himselfbound to consult those who had heard what had passed as to whetherindeed it was possible for her to remain. Nicholas grew crimson withindignation and vowed it was impossible. Mary hesitated; and Chrishimself was doubtful. He went at last to Beatrice that same evening; andfound her alone in the oak parlour, before supper. The sportsmen had notyet come back; and the other ladies were upstairs.
Beatrice affected to treat it as nothing; and it was not till Christhreatened to tell his father, that she told him all she thought.
"I must seem a vain fool to say so;" she said, leaning back in herchair, and looking up at him, "and perhaps insolent too; yet I must sayit. It is this: I believe that Lady Torridon--Ah! how can I say it?"
"Tell me," said Chris steadily, looking away from her.
Beatrice shifted a little in her seat; and then stood up.
"Well, it is this. I do not believe your mother is so--so--is what shesometimes seems. I think she is very sore and angry; there are a hundredreasons. I think no one has--has faced her before. She has been obeyedtoo much. And--and I think that if I stay I may be able--I may be somegood," she ended lamely.
Chris nodded.
"I understand," he said softly.
"Give me another week or two," said Beatrice, "I will do my best."
"You have worked a miracle with Meg," said Chris. "I believe you canwork another. I will not tell my father; and the others shall noteither."
* * * * *
A wonderful change had indeed come to Margaret during the last month.Her whole soul, so cramped now by circumstances, had gone out inadoration towards this stranger. Chris found it almost piteous to watchher--her shy looks, the shiver that went over her, when the brilliantfigure rustled into the room, or the brisk sentences were delivered fromthose smiling lips. He would see too how their hands met as they sattogether; how Margaret would sit distracted and hungering for attention,eyeing the ceiling, the carpet, her embroidery; and how her eyes wouldleap to meet a glance, and her face flush up, as Beatrice throw her asoft word or look.
And it was the right love, too, to the monk's eyes; not a rival flame,but fuel for divine ardour. Margaret spent longer, not shorter, time ather prayers; was more, not less, devout at mass and communion; and herwhole sore soul became sensitive and alive again. The winter had passedfor her; the time of the singing-birds was come.
* * * * *
She was fascinated by the other's gallant brilliance. Religion for thenun had up to the present appeared a delicate thing that grew in theshadow or in the warm shelter of the cloister; now it blossomed out inBeatrice as a hardy bright plant that tossed its leaves in the wind andexulted in sun and cold. Yet it had its evening tendernesses too, itssubtle fragrance when the breeze fell, its sweet colours andoutlines--Beatrice too could pray; and Margaret's spiritual instinct, asshe knelt by her at the altar-rail or glanced at the other's face as shecame down fresh with absolution from the chair in the sanctuary wherethe chaplain sat, detected a glow of faith at least as warm as her own.
She was astonished too at her friend's gaiety; for she had expected, sofar as her knowledge of human souls led to expect anything, a quietconvalescent spirit, recovering but slowly from the tragedy throughwhich Margaret knew she had passed. It seemed to her at first as ifBeatrice must be almost heartless, so little did she flinch when LadyTorridon darted Ralph's name at her, or Master More's, or flicked hersuddenly where the wound ought to be; and it was not until the guest hadbeen a month in the house that the nun understood.
They were together one evening in Margaret's own white little room abovethe oak parlour. Beatrice was sitting before the fire with her armsclasped behind her head, waiting till the other had finished her office,and looking round pleased in her heart, at the walls that told theirtale so plainly. It was almost exactly like a cell. A low oak bed,red-blanketted, stood under the sloping roof, a prie-dieu beside it, anda cheap little French image of St. Scholastica over it. There was atable, with a sheet of white paper, a little ink-horn and two quillsprimly side by side upon it; and at the back stood a couple of smallbound volumes in
which the nun was accumulating little by little privatedevotions that appealed to her. A pair of beads hung on a nail by thewindow over which was drawn an old red curtain; two brass candlestickswith a cross between them stood over the hearth, giving it a faintresemblance to an altar. The boards were bare except for a strip ofmatting by the bed; and the whole room, walls, floor, ceiling andfurniture were speckless and precise.
Margaret made the sign of the cross, closed her book, and smiled atBeatrice.
"You dear child!" she answered.
Margaret's face shone with pleasure; and she put out her hand softly tothe other's knee, and laid it there.
"Talk to me," said the nun.
"Well?" said Beatrice.
"Tell me about your life in London. You never have yet, you know."
An odd look passed over the other's face, and she dropped her eyes andlaid her hands together in her lap.
"Oh, Meg," she said, "I should love to tell you if I could. What wouldyou like to hear?"
The nun looked at her wondering.
"Why--everything," she said.
"Shall I tell you of Chelsea and Master More?"
Margaret nodded, still looking at her; and Beatrice began.
It was an extraordinary experience for the nun to sit there and hearthat wonderful tale poured out. Beatrice for the first time threw openher defences--those protections of the sensitive inner life that she hadraised by sheer will--and showed her heart. She told her first of herlife in the country before she had known anything of the world; of herfather's friendship with More when she was still a child, and of hisdeath when she was about sixteen. She had had money of her own, and hadcome up to live with Mrs. More's sisters; and so had gradually slippedinto intimacy at Chelsea. Then she described the life there--the orderedbeauty of it all--and the marvellous soul that was its centre and sun.She told her of More's humour, his unfailing gaiety, his sweet cynicismthat shot through his talk, his tender affections, and above all--forshe knew this would most interest the nun--his deep and resolutedevotion to God. She described how he had at one time lived at theCharterhouse, and had seemed to regret, before the end of his life, thathe had not become a Carthusian; she told her of the precious parcel thathad been sent from the Tower to Chelsea the day before his death, andhow she had helped Margaret Roper to unfasten it and disclose thehair-shirt that he had worn secretly for years, and which now he hadsent back for fear that it should be seen by unfriendly eyes or praisedby flattering tongues.
Her face grew inexpressibly soft and loving as she talked; more thanonce her black eyes filled with tears, and her voice faltered; and thenun sat almost terrified at the emotion she had called up. It was hardlypossible that this tender feminine creature who talked so softly ofdivine and human things and of the strange ardent lawyer in whom bothwere so manifest, could be the same stately lady of downstairs whofenced so gallantly, who never winced at a wound and trod so bravelyover sharp perilous ground.
"They killed him," said Beatrice. "King Henry killed him; for that hecould not bear an honest, kindly, holy soul so near his own. And we areleft to weep for him, of whom--of whom the world was not worthy."
Margaret felt her hand caught and caressed; and the two sat in silence amoment.
"But--but--" began the nun softly, bewildered by this revelation.
"Yes, my dear; you did not know--how should you?--what a wound I carryhere--what a wound we all carry who knew him."
Again there was a short silence. Margaret was searching for some word ofcomfort.
"But you did what you could for him, did you not? And--and even Ralph, Ithink I heard--"
Beatrice turned and looked at her steadily. Margaret read in her facesomething she could not understand.
"Yes--Ralph?" said Beatrice questioningly.
"You told father so, did you not? He did what he could for Master More?"
Beatrice laid her other hand too over Margaret's.
"My dear; I do not know. I cannot speak of that."
"But you said--"
"Margaret, my pet; you would not hurt me, would you? I do not think Ican bear to speak of that."
The nun gripped the other's two hands passionately, and laid her cheekagainst them.
"Beatrice, I did not know--I forgot."
Beatrice stooped and kissed her gently.
* * * * *
The nun loved her tenfold more after that. It had been before a kind ofpassionate admiration, such as a subject might feel for a splendidqueen; but the queen had taken this timid soul in through thepalace-gates now, into a little inner chamber intimate and apart, andhad sat with her there and shown her everything, her broken toys, herfailures; and more than all her own broken heart. And as, after thatevening, Margaret watched Beatrice again in public, heard her retortsand marked her bearing, she knew that she knew something that the othersdid not; she had the joy of sharing a secret of pain. But there was onewound that Beatrice did not show her; that secret was reserved for onewho had more claim to it, and could understand. The nun could not haveinterpreted it rightly.
* * * * *
Mary and Nicholas went back to Great Keynes at the end of January; andBeatrice was out on the terrace with the others to see them go. Jim, thelittle seven-year-old boy, had fallen in love with her, ever since hehad found that she treated him like a man, with deference and courtesy,and did not talk about him in his presence and over his head. He waswalking with her now, a little apart, as the horses came round, andexplaining to her how it was that he only rode a pony at present, andnot a horse.
"My legs would not reach, Mistress Atherton," he said, protruding asmall leather boot. "It is not because I am afraid, or father either. Irode Jess, the other day, but not astride."
"I quite understand," said Beatrice respectfully, without the shadow oflaughter in her face.
"You see--" began the boy.
Then his mother came up.
"Run, Jim, and hold my horse. Mistress Beatrice, may I have a word withyou?"
The two turned and walked down to the end of the terrace again.
"It is this," said Mary, looking at the other from under her plumed hat,with her skirt gathered up with her whip in her gloved hand. "I wishedto tell you about my mother. I have not dared till now. I have neverseen her so stirred in my life, as she is now. I--I think she will doanything you wish in time. It is useless to feign that we do notunderstand one another--anything you wish--come back to her Faithperhaps; treat my father better. She--she loves you, I think; and yetdare not--"
"On Ralph's account," put in Beatrice serenely.
"Yes; how did you know? It is on Ralph's account. She cannot forgivethat. Can you say anything to her, do you think? Anything to explain?You understand--"
"I understand."
"I do not know how I dare say all this," went on Mary blushingfuriously, "but I must thank you too for what you have done for mysister. It is wonderful. I could have done nothing."
"My dear," said Beatrice. "I love your sister. There is no need forthanks."
A loud voice hailed them.
"Sweetheart," shouted Sir Nicholas, standing with his legs apart at themounting steps. "The horses are fretted to death."
"You will remember," said Mary hurriedly, as they turned. "And--Godbless you, Beatrice!"
Lady Torridon was indeed very quiet now. It was strange for the othersto see the difference. It seemed as if she had been conquered by the oneweapon that she could wield, which was brutality. As Mr. Carleton hadsaid, she had never been faced before; she had been accustomed to regarddevoutness as incompatible with strong character; she had never beenresisted. Both her husband and children had thought to conquer byyielding; it was easier to do so, and appeared more Christian; and sheherself, like Ralph, was only provoked further by passivity. And now shehad met one of the old school, who was as ready in the use of worldlyweapons as herself; she had been ignored and pricked alternately, andwith astonishing grace too, by one who wa
s certainly of that tone ofmind that she had gradually learnt to despise and hate.
Chris saw this before his father; but he saw too that the conquest wasnot yet complete. His mother had been cowed with respect, as a dog thatis broken in; she had not yet been melted with love. He had spoken toMary the day before the Maxwells' departure, and tried to put this intowords; and Mary had seen where the opening for love lay, through whichthe work could be done; and the result had been the interview withBeatrice, and the mention of Ralph's name. But Mary had not a notion howBeatrice could act; she only saw that Ralph was the one chink in hermother's armour, and she left it to this girl who had been so adroit upto the present, to find how to pierce it.
Sir James had given up trying to understand the situation. He had for solong regarded his wife as an irreconcilable that he hoped for nothingbetter than to be able to keep her pacified; anything in the nature of aconversion seemed an idle dream. But he had noticed the change in hermanner, and wondered what it meant; he hoped that the pendulum had notswung too far, and that it was not she who was being bullied now bythis imperious girl from town.
He said a word to Mr. Carleton one day about it, as they walked in thegarden.
"Father," he said, "I am puzzled. What has come to my wife? Have you notnoticed how she has not spoken for three days. Do you think she dislikesMistress Atherton. If I thought that--"
"No, sir," said the priest. "I do not think it is that. I think it isthe other way about. She did dislike her--but not now."
"You do not think, Mistress Atherton is--is a little--discourteous andsharp sometimes. I have wondered whether that was so. Chris thinks not,however."
"Neither do I, sir. I think--I think it is all very well as it is. Ihope Mistress Atherton is to stay yet a while."
"She speaks of going in a week or two," said the old man. "She has beenhere six weeks now."
"I hope not," said the priest, "since you have asked my opinion, sir."
Sir James sighed, looked at the other, and then left him, to search forhis wife and see if she wanted him. He was feeling a little sorry forher.
* * * * *
A week later the truth began to come out, and Beatrice had theopportunity for which she was waiting.
They were all gathered before the hall-fire expecting supper; thepainted windows had died with the daylight, and the deep tones of thewoodwork in gallery and floor and walls had crept out from the gloominto the dancing flare of the fire and the steady glow of the sconces.The weather had broken a day or two before; all the afternoon sheets ofrain had swept across the fields and gardens, and heavy cheerlessclouds marched over the sky. The wind was shrilling now against thenorth side of the hall, and one window dripped a little inside on to thematting below it. The supper-table shone with silver and crockery, andthe napkins by each place; and the door from the kitchen was set widefor the passage of the servants, one of whom waited discreetly in theopening for the coming of the lady of the house. They were all there butshe; and the minutes went by and she did not come.
Sir James turned enquiringly as the door from the court opened, but itwas only a wet shivering dog who had nosed it open, and now creptdeprecatingly towards the blaze.
"You poor beast," said Beatrice, drawing her skirts aside. "Take myplace," and she stepped away to allow him to come. He looked gratefullyup, wagged his rat-tail, and lay down comfortably at the edge of thetiles.
"My wife is very late," said Sir James. "Chris--"
He stopped as footsteps sounded in the flagged passage leading from theliving rooms; and the next moment the door was flung open, and a womanran forward with outstretched hands.
"O! mon Dieu, mon Dieu!" she cried. "My lady is ill. Come, sir, come!"
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