Th’ applause of listening senates to command,
The threats of pain and ruin to despise,
To scatter plenty o’er a smiling land,
And read their history in a nation’s eyes.
‘Oh no, no!’ she said. ‘I know that you must spend most of your lives preventing bad from getting worse, a task for which you get no thanks, though it is the hardest of all.’
‘Then what is so noble in our calling?’
‘It is noble because you may speak for what is noblest in us. Manners and morals are constantly improving. We grow more nice in our notions of justice. When some great measure is to be brought in, it is not the applause of senates which signifies, it is the silent applause of a nation which has come to understand and desire it.’
She had, in fact, as exalted a notion of politics as my mother had of the Church. Her seclusion, her confinement in the narrow life of the parlour, had given her a heightened admiration for all those activities in which she, as a woman, could not share. I thought of Lady Amersham, and smiled. ‘Great measures’ had not been much in her line. But the ladies of Lingshot were not of the Brailsford sort, who had a finger in every pie. They knew little of politics and cared less. I never saw one of them reading the newspaper; it was always taken to the men’s quarters as soon as it arrived. They never joined in our discussions; politics, indeed, were avoided in their presence, and young Mrs. Morrill complained if they were not:
‘If I hear anything more about the State of the Nation, I shall be obliged to muzzle you men!’
Miss Audley would have liked to hear more. She once, a little diffidently, asked me to explain the Sinking Fund to her, for she had heard me speak upon it at Guildford, and had listened, awestruck, but unable to understand what I said. I cried for mercy and insisted that I should pay compliments before breakfast, if I were not let off the Sinking Fund. I had no idea, at that time, that she really wished to know; I thought that she asked out of civility. It took me some time really to understand her.
She credited her brother and myself with immense and disinterested zeal for the public good, the more so because she could not understand what we did, and was perplexed by the Sinking Fund. As far as Morrill was concerned, she may have done him no more than justice. He had a large fortune and was not obliged to take up any career. I think he only went into Parliament from a sense of public duty. He is an excellent fellow, but very stupid. I daresay he believes that England would be lost without a Tory Government. There is, at Lingshot, none of the cynicism to which I was accustomed at Brailsford, – a cynicism so pervading that the Amershams themselves were scarcely aware of it. For them there was but the one question: How shall we keep power in our hands?
I was surprised at Miss Audley’s naïveté and simplicity; but I thought them touching and would say nothing to disillusion her, once I knew the nature of her enthusiasm. It pleased me to know that there was a trace of enthusiasm in a character which, upon the whole, inclined a little too much the other way. She was aware of her own faulty education, and diffident in proposing an opinion upon any topic outside a woman’s sphere. While admiring ‘great measures,’ and wishing to see them introduced, she was too humble to argue with her brother when he told her, as I heard him do, that Whitbread’s scheme for National Free Education was fantastic nonsense.
It was not unpleasant to me that she should think so well of the M.P. and admire him for toiling at finance, as though he had gone to the Exchequer for the most laudable motives, rather than for an income of £4000 p.a. It must be so dull and dry, she once remarked, and yet so necessary!
Superiority of character and intellect in a woman may rouse our admiration; it is seldom likely to subdue our hearts. The better I knew her, the more I found to admire. The more I found to admire, the less likely was I to love. I valued her as a friend. I wished that she had been my sister. I delighted in her wit and in the odd, original turn of her mind. But I felt none of that enchantment which unlocks the door to passion. For one moment it had whispered to me, when I saw her walking in the beech wood and did not recognise her. That whisper was not repeated, during my Easter visit at Lingshot, although I looked forward eagerly to our morning walks.
I have, in my time, listened to unutterable nonsense from women who had the power, like ‘Circe and the sirens three,’ to take the prisoned soul and ‘in sweet madness rob it of itself.’ I never objected to this kind of larceny. I resemble most men in preferring the sirens’ song to the ‘sober certainty of waking bliss’ which we may enjoy in rational conversation with a superior woman. Nor is this preference perverse in us. Divine Providence has seen fit to make superior women something scarce, and the world, as Benedick says, must be peopled.
Miss Audley was thirty-six years old, and gave herself the freedom of a woman who has reached l’âge canonique. She accepted the world’s view that she was now too old to be loved; had she thought otherwise, she would have been more upon her guard.
Upon our last morning I told her how very much Lufton had enjoyed these rambles and reproached her for never having said two words to him before, in the course of eleven years.
‘Tell me,’ I said, ‘why did you suddenly relent?’
‘Oh – I don’t know that I did. But I was so rude to The M.P. that he has kept away, poor man!’
‘I hope that you have learnt to like Lufton better?’
‘Yes. He is not as solemn as I thought.’
‘There is not really such a very great difference between them?’
‘There is a great difference in age. Lufton is very young.’
‘Possibly. He has fewer cares. At what age do you put him? The M.P., you know, is five and thirty.’
‘For Lufton I should subtract – thirty.’
‘Five years old! No, no! That is too bad! I thought you liked him better than that!’
‘But I do. He is a most agreeable playfellow, – as people of five years old often are.’
‘Has he always been as young as that?’
‘Always. He never changes. The M.P. has altered and aged considerably since I first met him, but not Lufton.’
Upon that note of raillery we parted and met again at the breakfast table. During the meal a small incident occurred which might be likened to the first tremor of a landslide.
She had, I knew, been greatly looking forward to a concert at Guildford that afternoon. Music was her delight and she had little opportunity of hearing it. During breakfast some casual change of plan deprived her of this pleasure. I forget how it came about – other people changed their minds – there would, after all, be no room for her in the carriage – I must have witnessed such occasions many times in eleven years, for nobody cared about her comfort. Now, for the first time, I was consumed with indignation. I knew how much she had wished to go; she had spoken of it that morning. It drove me mad to see them treat her so, since not one of them would enjoy the concert half as much. But I could do nothing. My chaise was at the door and I had my adieux to make. I could only press her hand, at parting, with a look of silent sympathy.
Even as I jumped into the carriage, I was wondering if I had not once before parted from her thus, – silently pressing her hand, and rushing from the house in the grip of some strong emotion. I searched my memory and recalled the occasion, – eighteen months earlier I had been staying at Lingshot when news reached me that my mother was no more. How could I have forgotten it? All the Morrills had been out skating except Miss Audley. I had stayed because I had letters to write. When the express from Bramfield arrived I had gone to find her, so much stunned that I knew not what I did. She ordered a carriage, sent a servant to put up my things, suggested and undertook various commissions on my behalf, and made me eat before I set out. I now remembered all her kindness and my bewilderment, – how she had given me a little flask of spirits, in case I should get very cold upon the journey, and come to the door with me with advice to my driver to avoid a certain road said to be under snowdrifts.
I
supposed, I hoped, that I had thanked her. I could recall nothing save that I had pressed her hand and run speechless from the house. And then I had forgotten! I had taken her kindness for granted as the Morrills did. I had no great right to be indignant with them, and it appeared that she had some grounds for describing Lufton as very young. I had turned to her as a boy might turn to a parent, and I could remember now, with shame, that I had actually spoken to her with angry impatience when she tried to get some message clear, that she was to give to Morrill. It was some paper that was to be explained and I could do nothing save cry out:
‘What does it signify? Oh what does it signify?’
The more I thought of it the more uneasy I became. I wished that I could be of service to her in some way, so as to atone for past neglect. I was to be at Lingshot again at Whitsun. I found myself looking forward eagerly to the visit. She should see that I did not forget. She should see that I was not ungrateful.
I thought about her frequently, during the next few weeks.
Caroline
I DOUBT IF it is ever safe to think frequently of a woman. Perhaps if she be over seventy years old, a shrew, and very plain, one might venture – but it would be wiser not.
When not obliged to think of other things, last summer, I thought of Caroline Audley. She haunted my imagination. I fancied conversations with her, in which she should revise a little her opinion of Lufton, – should allow him to be more manly than she had supposed. In these interviews he played the man in a very determined fashion, and she most obligingly played the woman, – refrained from those cool, friendly jibes which might have brought him down to earth. This fancied Caroline was softer, more pliant, than the actual Caroline; her superiority, though warmly acknowledged, was not allowed to obtrude.
Whitsun arrived and I set off for Surrey in quite a fever to open this new phase in our acquaintance. The auguries were good; I had written to her once or twice and sent her Christabel, which was not likely to be read at Lingshot, and, when writing to thank me, she had owned to liking it but wished that I were by to explain it to her, for that its style was new to her and she did not understand it very well. I could ask for nothing better. I was ready to explain anything to her, except the Sinking Fund.
I took with me a great package of music and new books. I looked forward to many walks and talks which should lead us – somewhere – to some understanding which should satisfy me. I had not exactly asked myself what it should be. I suppose I should have said that I wished her to do me justice. But I must really have wished that she should think of me as often as I did of her, – not justly, but because she could not help it.
Disappointment awaited me. There were no walks, – no talks. The little Morrills had the measles and she was scarcely ever out of the nursery. It was impossible to see her alone. She joined us every day at dinner and spent the evening with us, but in the mornings she was invisible.
Walks and talks might have cooled my ardour; this thwarting separation fanned it. I could do nothing save watch her covertly, when she was in the room, and listen for her voice.
I had never thought her plain. I should always have described her as singularly graceful. But, in the past, I should not have compared her with the other women in the house, who were all of them exceedingly pretty. I now found them insipid, because they were not Caroline. Mrs. Morrill made too many grimaces. Margaret had an ugly voice. The brilliance of their complexions could not be denied, but so many women have brilliant complexions! And their conversation drove me frantic.
Had the weather been fine we might all have walked out after dinner and I should have secured the opportunity for some strolls with her. But it rained. We spent every evening indoors, at music or at cards. It rained during the whole of my visit until the very last day, when the sun burst forth as we sat at dinner. I immediately called the company’s attention to the fact and suggested going out, in spite of Mrs. Baddely’s objection that the ground would still be very damp. I insisted that I must get some fresh air and that I had not yet seen the roses.
‘There are none to see,’ said Margaret. ‘They have all been dashed to pieces by the rain.’
‘Still,’ said I, ‘I think I must take a little turn. Miss Audley! Will you not take pity on me and come too? I am sure that it will do you good, for you have been more shut up than any of us.’
She thought that she might venture, though the other ladies tried to dissuade her, saying that her shoes were too thin.
‘I shall put on thick ones,’ she said.
I sat for as short a time as possible with Morrill over the wine, and then made for the drawing-room. Mrs. Morrill and her mother were there alone; I heard them laughing as I opened the door, but they straightened their faces as soon as they saw me. There was, however, a spark of mirth in Mrs. Morrill’s eyes as she told me that I would find Caroline and Margaret in the rose garden. Margaret had changed her mind and decided to go too.
Cursing Margaret, I made my way to the rose garden and was soon strolling round the confounded place with a lady on either arm. Caroline’s eyes were golden; she perhaps found this walk amusing. But she was too kind and too good-mannered to allow us to sulk in silence. She talked tranquilly, explaining her sister-in-law’s plans for improving the garden.
Presently Morrill appeared with a message that we should all come in, as Mrs. Baddely desired to go to cards.
‘I shall not go in just yet,’ said Caroline, ‘for I don’t mean to play cards tonight. I have a little headache, and shall go to bed early.’
‘Poor Caroline!’ said he. ‘You are wearing yourself out with those children. But don’t stay long, for it is quite chilly.’
A guest must play cards if he is bid. I had to go off with Morrill and Margaret. But, as we reached the house, I had a happy thought.
‘Your sister,’ said I, ‘should have a shawl or a cloak, if she means to stay out. Could I not take one to her? You need not wait cards for me, as you will have four without me.’
He thanked me and sent a maid for a shawl. Within two or three minutes I was on my way back to the rose garden. The sun was setting and the birds singing, as they do upon an evening after rain. She stood listening to a thrush, among the sodden rose bushes.
‘How did you get away?’ said she. ‘Oh! A shawl for me! Clever Lufton!’
I put it carefully round her shoulders.
Pronto has shawled countless women, with that delicate solicitude which is almost a caress. For most of them he has cared not a pin. For some he has sighed in vain. One or two have been as much to him as any woman can be to Pronto. He can wrap them up with formal gallantry, with the respect that does not presume to hope, with the tenderness that speaks of conscious gratitude. But Miles had not made much work over a shawl since he danced with Edmée at Stokehampton.
Caroline looked absolutely beautiful to me just then; I may have gone out to her with the intention of explaining Christabel, but a sudden and violent impulse now rose up within me, – a desire to break through this solitude, to catch her in my arms and kiss her back to warmth and life. For she must have been another creature once, thought I. She was not always like this; not always happy alone. I hated the cold garden and the watery sunset, and the wet rose petals.
She stood still for a moment longer, listening to the thrush.
‘What nonsense it is,’ she said, ‘to think a nightingale superior to a thrush!’
‘Do you have nightingales at Lingshot?’
‘Why yes! I wonder you have not heard them! They shout all night, and keep one awake.’
Then she turned and took my arm, with the old frank friendliness.
‘I have been so sorry,’ she said, ‘to miss our early walks. I had some amusing stories to tell you. When the measles burst out I was furious. But then it rained, so we could not have walked after all.’
‘I was never more disappointed in my life!’ cried I.
She looked a little startled, for this could not be taken as a compliment from The M.P
. It was said with too much vehemence.
After a short pause she thanked me again for the books and music that I had brought for her, promising herself much pleasure from them as soon as the measles should be over. Her manner had no power to soothe me. I suppose I must have answered very absently; I was more occupied by the light touch of her hand upon my arm than by what she said. Presently I broke out with:
‘I never thanked you for your goodness to me – when my mother – when I had to go, on that dreadful day. I have been thinking of it. I believe that I never thanked you.’
She looked her astonishment.
‘But that was the winter before last!’
‘So much the worse, for I never thanked you.’
‘Oh yes! Yes you did!’
‘I wrote to you after? From Bramfield?’
‘You sent me a note, enclosed in a letter to Mrs. Morrill. It is not surprising that you should forget. You were in great trouble and must have had to write so many letters.’
She was now, I could see, really puzzled and distressed by my manner. Perhaps she thought me drunk. We had come to a path leading to the house, and she turned to take it.
‘You are not going in!’ I cried. ‘Not yet! Not after five days without a word! Stay a little longer – I have not said anything – we have not said anything yet!’
‘I am afraid that we shall not say anything very entertaining tonight. I have a headache and you should be at cards. It is sad, but that is often how things fall out when one has been looking forward to them.’
‘Entertaining – I did not come out for that! I have thought of you continually since I went away – you have been ever in my mind – you do not know, you cannot know, how much I admire you, esteem you—’
‘Oh dear yes, I think I do. I don’t suppose you have quite so good an opinion of me as I have of myself, but that, you know, is more than we can expect from any of our friends.’
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