by Jude Morgan
‘And be reconciled with him? Oh, Valentine, that indeed is what I most wish. It must feel strange, strange and wrong, to be at odds with him: even I feel it: already I miss him most peculiarly, or miss the thought that he will be always there.’
‘Well, I don’t know. It will not be easy: I confess I am a little stiff-necked – and he may not wish a reconciliation. – But I shall make the attempt. I shall go and see him. That at least will be the action of a sensible man instead of a Bedlamite. And if things can be settled, then – Louisa, do you think we should prepare ourselves to go home?’
She was startled, and for a moment could not speak. The word home could not help but touch her heart, especially when uttered by Valentine now, in all the attaching honesty, the frankness and rightness of feeling that she had wished to see restored. Yet a void opened up at the thought of leaving London: a sensation of something missing or unfinished that she could not account for.
‘Oh, I know it may seem that I am hurrying to quit the scene of my disgrace,’ Valentine said, with a conscious laugh. ‘The same thought has occurred to me – but then I tell myself not to give a jot what people think. I do not mean going back to Devonshire in haste, but addressing ourselves to the reality: we never supposed we would be staying with the Speddings for ever; and if I am to retrench, and begin repairing my damaged credit, then it had better be begun soon.’
‘Yes. Yes, to be sure we cannot outstay our welcome,’ Louisa said. ‘And it will be delightful to see Pennacombe again … But of course, as you say, we should not make haste. There are all the preparations to be made – and the proper leave-takings.’
Valentine agreed: still she felt him to be more urgent in his desire to begin the preparations than herself; and with the same promptness, he undertook to go at once and call on Mr Tresilian, to make the proposal he had suggested.
‘I may come back with a flea in my ear,’ he said at the door. ‘If so, we must think again.’
She did not think it likely: nor could she suppose for a moment that Mr Tresilian would press for the money; but if by some chance he did, or if Valentine still could not rest under the burden, she meant fully to repay it from her own fortune. – It was at her disposal; and she would have given a great deal more for the re-establishment of Valentine’s peace, which must include her own – and all of which, she now saw, was more dependent on that amity, openness and warmth that had always existed between them and the Tresilians than she could ever have guessed.
After an hour Valentine returned. He had not been able to see Mr Tresilian for he had gone down to Gravesend to see an old friend in the maritime line, and to look over a brig that was to be sold, and might not be back until tomorrow – though his return then was certain, for he had promised to take Kate and Miss Rose to a grand fête that was to be held in Hyde Park, to mark the departure of the Allied Sovereigns.
‘So Kate told me,’ Valentine said, ‘and I have no reason to disbelieve her. There was nothing in her reception of me to suggest Tresilian had said anything – anything of that wretched business, or spoken against me to her. That is a great relief.’
This was, in all ways, hopeful: but a clearer view of how matters stood between them must await the morrow; and in the meantime Valentine, still with a shade of melancholy about him, but with an energy that bespoke the return of his spirits, and a more sensible appreciation of his situation – of the good fortune that exceeded the ill – began those preparations of which he had spoken. He wrote to the steward at Pennacombe, enquiring as to the state of the Devonshire roads, and advising him to make the house ready for the family’s present return. – Louisa’s thoughts insisted on recurring to the Lynley household. With Pearce Lynley she felt she had come to as fair an accommodation as could be expected: she felt that, when they were all back in Devonshire, she would be able to meet him with composure and civility – even, perhaps, with the cordiality of friendship. With Francis, she was conscious of feelings at once more lively and more dubious. There had been something so dissatisfying about their late meetings. She had known he was prone to that hollow, negative mood – she did not reprove it: but to see him continually sunk in it left her feeling … not slighted, but somehow undervalued. With her, he had always been animated and generous: she had, she thought, enabled him to be himself; and it seemed perverse in him to be rejecting her influence. If she could only see him again before their departure, and try to restore it: – she hoped she was not being self-conceited in believing that it would be to his benefit.
This was, of course, unless he was deliberately withholding himself from her, in apprehension of where his inclination might lead: unless he was setting a guard on his heart, for fear that it was close to being taken. Absurd, Louisa thought: but, still, it would be better to know it was absurd, by demonstration and evidence. Willingly would she have called at Brook Street to seek it – but Sophie and Mrs Spedding, plainly used to her crying off, had gone out without troubling to ask her to accompany them, Tom was involved in the grave and awful business of being barbered, and Valentine was preoccupied. She would not slip out alone: not because of the impropriety but because she simply felt there had been enough hole-in-the-corner doings of late. Let all be openness, directness and truth, she thought – including between Francis Lynley and herself – and she would be content.
Such was the state of her thoughts when she closed her eyes that night: and such when she opened them, to discover that a letter had been pushed under her bedroom door.
Chapter XXII
Louisa’s first troubled conjecture – that Valentine had taken some new step which he only dared confide to her in writing – was quickly disposed of. The hand on the envelope was Sophie’s. Calmer now, she opened the letter in the expectation of some choice gossip that her cousin could not await breakfast to tell her.
My dear, dear Louisa [it began], I write in the utmost haste – and have a thousand things to think of – but cannot entirely fix my mind on any of them, until I have taken a moment to acquaint you, my dearest cousin, with what has most happily befallen me. – Louisa, I am running away this night to be married. Is it not prodigious?
Having read so far, Louisa was seized with such a violent trembling that the letter blurred before her eyes. ‘No, no – it can’t be—’ she burst out aloud: swiftly her mind conjured the image, and recoiled from it. Gone to Gravesend for the night? – Ah, no: Mr Tresilian had gone with Sophie: she had completed her conquest, and he had plunged himself into that terrible error, of which her heart had been misgiving her so long, but which only now presented itself in the full force of alarm, regret and reprehension. With the greatest difficulty did she restrain her shaking hand, sufficient to continue reading the letter.
I can hardly convey how excited and transported I am – I declare I am almost dizzy – and black and blue from the continual pinching of myself to be sure I am awake; but so it is, my dear cousin, and so I know you will find it, when the time comes for you to find an equal happiness. I know you, of all sweet people, will understand why we are going away to marry. Mama is the most indulgent creature alive: still she might fret and worry, as the attachment is so recently formed (as if that could ever count for anything! as if love cares for the calendar!) – and though our families are now well acquainted, the match may be felt as not the most desirable that could be had. And so rather than put her to the trouble of weighing it and talking of it, we think it best to do it this way. It is presenting her with a fait accompli – as I always did when I made the list of dinner-guests for her, and she would look at it and say, ‘Yes, those are the very people I wished to invite’ – God bless her a thousand times. I have besides a mighty impatient eager spirit – I wonder if you have noticed? – and it is so very thrilling to think of slipping away, and returning as a married woman. Yes, I am romantic – and you I know do not disapprove it. Nor do I fear that you will fault my choice, or fail to wish me happiness. You have been on familiar terms with him yourself: – you will recall my teas
ing you about him, indeed: but you were always so very firm, so quietly collected, in denying any special feeling in that quarter, that I have no anxiety on that score – and feel sure you will be able to meet Francis and me, when we are Mr and Mrs Lynley, with gladness and pleasure – and will be able to call him cousin with all the kindly affection you have ever shown to me – your loving – half-distracted
SOPHIE
P.S. I have written Mama separately. Tom too. He will call me a blockhead.
For some minutes – for a time of which she had no conception – Louisa sat on the edge of her bed, still holding the letter. She did not tremble now. Alarm and dread had given way to a dull, stony astonishment, which did not agitate but deadened her, until she felt it almost physically impossible to move from this spot.
Francis Lynley, and Sophie. There was no struggle to put the pieces of this puzzle together: they came easily to the hand. Sophie admired him – perhaps not more than several other gentlemen; but it would have taken very little return on his part to strengthen her feeling, and plainly that return had been made. Sophie had a comfortable fortune; and so, his object of a rich marriage had been achieved.
It was an object he had talked of laughingly, at first: then, lately, when she had alluded to it, he had disdained it with all apparent seriousness. So, either one of two things must be the truth: either he had attached himself to Sophie because of her money, or he had fallen headlong in love with her. Perhaps some middle ground might be admitted – that he had been drawn by her undeniable personal attractions, and then drawn still closer by her wealth. But what weighed most heavily, in Louisa’s mind, was this scheme of running away to be married. Sophie willingly responded to the excitement of it, but Louisa doubted she had originated it. To run away and be married was to forestall objection and prevention: it was to make sure of her.
Well, then, it was so. And if there were anything to dismay or disturb in this event, it must only be that general, mild apprehension felt on behalf of a couple beginning their life on a hasty footing, and with a less than sincere attachment. Sophie was of age, and knew the world: this was no seduction of an innocent heiress. Whatever happened besides, they would not be poor; and Louisa suspected that Sophie’s temperament was of that kind most resistant to unhappiness, in which no amount of pains prevent the seeking out of compensatory pleasures.
And after all, as Sophie said in the letter, Louisa had no claim on Francis Lynley, explicit or unacknowledged. She was not in love with him: she had said so; and, as this news most emphatically showed, Francis Lynley was not at all in love with her.
The strange paralysis of limb, will and feeling – if not of thought – persisted; but at last the sounds of voices and commotion downstairs made her force herself upright. She dressed as quickly as she could, and went down to the very temperate, Spedding-like uproar that Sophie’s elopement had created.
In the breakfast-room Tom and Mrs Spedding had been comparing their letters, and quizzing the servants; and on Louisa’s arrival it must all be gone through again – though to little result. Sophie had left similarly affectionate notes for her mother and brother, with the same announcement: she was going off to marry Lieutenant Lynley. Where or when could not be devised; but it was certain that she, and a fair quantity of her luggage, was gone, and that no one in the household, above or below stairs, had heard her go. A nocturnal escape, for someone of Sophie’s sleepless habits and light tread, was not difficult to achieve: a carriage waiting round the corner must be presumed, and indeed the housekeeper had located a stable-boy across the way who could swear to having seen it: though on second thoughts it might have been, he added, with more imagination than helpfulness, a coal-dray, a watchman, or a very large dog.
‘Oh, my dear nephew, what a sorry pickle you find us in!’ cried Mrs Spedding, when Valentine joined them. ‘What a set we are! You will not believe the romantic surprise Sophie has sprung upon us. Really, these children will be the death of me!’
She looked, however, more flustered than truly distressed; and once Valentine had been apprised of the facts, and had expressed his concern for Mrs Spedding’s trouble, he sensibly took on the responsibility of ordering breakfast to be laid. Tom, meanwhile, kept on shaking his head, picking up his letter, reading out the words ‘Dear Tom’, then laying it down and shaking his head again; and at last said, with blushing heaviness: ‘Well, the thing above all to be hoped is that this is what it appears to be. That is, they are to be married. If Lieutenant Lynley’s intentions are not strictly honourable, then – then I shall have some pretty hard words to say to him, trust me. Not that I suspect anything of the kind, you know – for he is a capital fellow: never knew a better. I only wish I had smoked it before: but Sophie’s a devilish sly one.’
‘That is to be hoped indeed,’ Valentine said, ‘but pray, Aunt, do not give yourself any unnecessary anxiety. There is surely nothing known of Lieutenant Lynley’s character that would suggest a base design. I have never heard anything – and I am sure Louisa has not.’
The episode of the girl at his grandmother’s house, in his youth, was naturally in her mind; it evinced the same impulsiveness, the same susceptibility to the urge of the moment: – but still she believed that calculation had driven him, more than passion, in this undertaking. He had everything to gain from marrying Sophie: much to lose, in credit and reputation, from betraying her. ‘I have not,’ she said. ‘But the thing we need to be certain of is where they have gone. Sophie being of age, there is no need for Gretna Green; but unless they have had the foresight to have the banns called in a local church, which seems unlikely, they must surely procure a licence, whether in London or elsewhere.’
‘Dear, dear – what a naughty creature she is, putting us to such trouble!’ sighed Mrs Spedding. ‘And what she will do for new clothes, I can’t think! And then where are they to live? I do not mean they will not be welcome here, to be sure. I have nothing to say against Lieutenant Lynley: he is rather charming, and perfectly well-bred – and as my poor girl is plainly head over heels with him, I am the last person in the world to stand in the way of her happiness. But I do not suppose he is a man of fortune. He is a younger son, after all; and he is stood down from the army. But, then, the Lynleys are a very good family: and intimately known to you, my dears, my Devonshire connections – and so there is much to be said for the match; and I think we must simply forgive Sophie for this confusion she has thrown upon us, and hope for the best.’
Thus Mrs Spedding reasoned herself into tolerable comfort: too fond of her daughter to be indifferent to her welfare, but too averse to unpleasantness even to imagine a threat to it. The discussion went on, rather inconsequentially, though Valentine tried to bring it to some sort of order; and Louisa found that drab petrifaction coming over her again. She felt, in so far as she felt anything, that she wanted to pull the covers over her head and go to sleep for a long time, and then wake to something different: but what the something different might be she could not conceive.
Valentine was just suggesting that they should make some communication to Mr Lynley at Brook Street, when his name was announced. He came in all composure, succinctness and purpose: it was what was wanted, Louisa thought, and she was in some sort glad to see him; though in another she had the greatest difficulty in meeting his eye.
‘Mrs Spedding. I must omit formalities. The letters I see before you, and the disorder I observed in the hall, convince me that you know all.’
‘Quite so, sir; and I hope you will forgive the disorder, and forgive likewise that my reception of you is not all I could wish,’ said Mrs Spedding, glancing doubtfully at her coiffure in the pier-glass. ‘We are all in a taking, and I hardly know what is to be done.’
‘First, ma’am, let me offer my apologies for the trouble and distress you have been put to. I knew nothing of my brother’s intention in this: nor perhaps was I in a position to prevent it; still, I feel a responsibility, as head of the family, and have not stayed a moment longer than w
as necessary, in putting enquiries in train, before coming to you. Let me state what I know: then we may compare. I last saw Francis yesterday evening, when he complained after dinner of a headache, and retired early. I awoke this morning to the news that his bed had not been slept in, and found a letter addressed to me: short, and containing little besides the information that he had contracted a secret engagement to Miss Spedding, and that they were gone away to be married.’
‘Oh, my dear sir, this exactly corresponds with our own case,’ cried Mrs Spedding, as if at the discovery of some curious and pleasant coincidence. ‘Though Sophie writes me very affectionately – and assures me of the great warmth of her attachment to your brother: which, believe me, I am not at all in doubt of.’
‘I see. It is, of course, my hope that – regrettable as the circumstances are – my brother’s attachment is of an equal firmness, now that they have acted upon this resolution. It is not that I have any particular reason to doubt it –’ his eye seemed about to alight on Louisa’s at that ‘– but I cannot tell: he is not accustomed to speak to me of such things. I have, perhaps, been too little receptive in the past for him to feel that such a confidence would be welcomed. Nevertheless, if I may say this without infringing delicacy, you must feel an anxiety lest the rashness of this act is not the worst of it: lest the intention of marriage be unfulfilled. It has given me the most acute concern; but there is that in his letter in which I find a ground for cautious hopefulness. He alludes to my own coming nuptials, and – to use his own words – promises to beat me for once, and be the first to introduce his bride to our grandmother. I believe I may have mentioned her: Mrs Poulter, a widow of large fortune, residing in Nottinghamshire. Francis has always been the favourite with her –’ he coloured, and in that flush, and in the involuntary phrase, Louisa saw much ‘– that is, a favourite with her – used to her indulgence, and secure in her approval. If they marry, it must be by licence. Mrs Poulter is related to the bishop of the see; and so may be of great assistance to them. Even in other ways. I do not think that my grandmother could receive Francis and his bride without wishing to do something generous for them. So I conclude that everything – both convenience and interest – will take him, take them, to Nottinghamshire.’
