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Madam

Alas! he carried the faithful bosom which was of no use to her to cry upon, but which throbbed with pain and trouble all the same, out of doors. He was utterly cowed and subdued, not understanding her, nor himself, nor what had happened. It was the truth, she might deny it as she pleased; he had meant it for the best. But now he had done for himself, that was evident. And perhaps, after all, he was a cad to tell.

CHAPTER XXXI

Arthur Rivers had come to Clifton not to visit a new friend, but to see his own family, who lived there. They were not, perhaps, quite on the same level as the Trevanions and Mrs. Lennox, who did not know them. And so it came to pass that, after the few days which he passed at the Elms, and in which he did everything he could to obliterate the recollection of that first unfortunate reference on the night of his arrival, he was for some time in the neighborhood without seeing much of them. To the mistress of the house at least this was agreeable, and a relief. She had, indeed, taken so strong a step as to remonstrate with her brother on the subject.

“I am not quite sure that it was judicious to bring a man like that, so amusing and nice to talk to, into the company of a girl like Rosalind, without knowing who his people were,” Mrs. Lennox said. “I don’t like making a fuss, but it was not judicious—not quite judicious,” she added, faltering a little as she felt the influence of John’s eyes.

“What does it matter to us who his people are?” said John Trevanion (which was so like a man, Mrs. Lennox said to herself). “He is himself a capital fellow, and I am under obligations to him; and as for Rosalind—Rosalind is not likely to be fascinated by a man of that age; and, besides, if there had ever been any chance of that, he completely put his foot into it the first night.”

“Do you think so?” said Aunt Sophy, doubtfully. “Now you know you all laugh at Mrs. Malaprop and her sayings. But I have always thought there was a great deal of good sense in one of them, and that is when she speaks of people beginning with a little aversion. Oh, you may smile, but it’s true. It is far better than being indifferent. Rosalind will think a great deal more of the man because he made her very angry. And, as he showed after that, he could make himself exceedingly pleasant.”

“He did not make her angry.”

“Oh, I thought you said he did. Something about poor Grace—that he met her and thought badly of her—or something. I shall take an opportunity when he calls to question him myself. I dare say he will tell me more.”

“Don’t, unless you wish to distress me very much, Sophy; I would rather not hear anything about her, nor take him into our family secrets.”

“Do you think not, John? Oh, of course I will do nothing to displease you. Perhaps, on the whole, indeed, it will be better not to have him come here any more on account of Rosalind, for of course his people—”

“Who are his people?—he is a man of education himself. I don’t see why we should take it to heart whatever his people may be.”

“Oh, well, there is a brother a doctor, I believe, and somebody who is a schoolmaster, and the mother and sister, who live in—quite a little out-of-the-way place.”

“I thought you must mean a green-grocer,” said John. “Let him alone, Sophy, that is the best way; everything of the kind is best left to nature. I shall be very happy to see him if he comes, and I will not break my heart if he doesn’t come. It is always most easy, and generally best, to let things alone.”

“Well, if you think so, John.” There was a little hesitation in Mrs. Lennox’s tone, but it was not in her to enforce a contrary view. And as it was a point he insisted upon that nothing should be said to Rosalind on the subject, that, too, was complied with. It was not, indeed, a subject on which Mrs. Lennox desired to tackle Rosalind. She had herself the greatest difficulty in refraining from all discussion of poor Grace, but she never cared to discuss her with Rosalind, who maintained Mrs. Trevanion’s cause with an impetuosity which confused all her aunt’s ideas. She could not hold her own opinion against professions of faith so strenuously made; and yet she did hold it in a wavering way, yielding to Rosalind’s vehemence for the moment, only to resume her own convictions with much shaking of her head when she was by herself. It was difficult for her to maintain her first opinion on the subject of Mr. Rivers and his people. When he called he made himself so agreeable that Mrs. Lennox could not restrain the invitation that rushed to her lips. “John will be so sorry that he has missed you; won’t you come and dine with us on Saturday?” she said, before she could remember that it was not desirable he should be encouraged to come to the house. And Rosalind had been so grateful to him for never returning to the subject of the photograph, or seeming to remember anything about it, that his natural attraction was rather increased than diminished to her by that incident. There were few men in the neighborhood who talked like Mr. Rivers. He knew everybody, he had been everywhere. Sometimes, when he talked of the beautiful places he had seen, Rosalind was moved by a thrill of expectation; she waited almost breathless for a mention of Spain, for something that would recall to him the interrupted conversation of the first evening. But he kept religiously apart from every mention of Spain. He passed by the writing-table upon which the shrine in which the portrait was enclosed stood, now always shut, without so much as a glance which betrayed any association with it, any recollection. Thank Heaven, he had forgotten all that, it had passed from his mind as a mere trivial accident without importance. She was satisfied, yet disappointed, too. But it never occurred to Rosalind that this scrupulous silence meant that Rivers had by no means forgotten; and he was instantly conscious that the portrait was covered; he lost nothing of these details. Though the story had faded out of the recollection of the Clifton people, to whom it had never been well known, he did not fail to discover something of the facts of the case; and, perhaps, it was the existence of a mystery which led him back to the Elms, and induced him to accept Mrs. Lennox’s invitation to come on Saturday. This fact lessened the distance between the beautiful young Miss Trevanion, and the man whose “people” were not at all on the Highcourt level. He had thought at first that it would be his best policy to take himself away and see as little as might be of Rosalind. But when he heard that there was “some story about the mother,” he ceased to feel the necessity for so much self-denial. When there is a story about a mother it does the daughter harm socially; and Rivers was not specially diffident about his own personal claims. The disadvantage on his side of having “people” who were not in society was neutralized on hers by having a mother who had been talked of. Neither of these facts harmed the individual. He, Arthur Rivers, was not less of a personage in his own right because his mother lived in a small street in Clifton and was nobody; and she, Rosalind Trevanion, was not less delightful because her mother had been breathed upon by scandal; but the drawback on her side brought them upon something like an equality, and did away with the drawback on his, which was not so great a drawback. This, at least, was how he reasoned. He did not even know that the lady about whom there was a story was not Rosalind’s mother, and he could not make up his mind whether it was possible that the lady whom he had recognized could be that mother. But after he had turned the whole matter over in his mind, after a week had elapsed, and he had considered it from every point of view, he went over to the Elms and called. This was the result of his thoughts.

It must not be concluded from these reflections that he had fallen in love at first sight, according to a mode which has gone out of fashion. He had not, perhaps, gone so far as that. He was a man of his time, and took no such plunges into the unseen. But Rosalind Trevanion had somewhat suddenly detached herself from all other images when he came, after years of wandering, into the kind of easy acquaintance with her which is produced by living, even if it is only from Saturday to Monday, in the same house. He had met all kinds of women of the world, old and young—some of them quite young, younger than Rosalind—in the spheres which he had frequented most; but not any that were so fresh, so maidenly, so full of charm, and yet so little artificial; no child, but a woman, and yet without a touch of that knowledge which stains the thoughts. This was what had caught his attention amid the simple but conventional circumstances that surrounded her. Innocence is sometimes a little silly; or so, at least, this man of the world thought. But Rosalind understood as quickly, and had as much intelligence in her eyes, as any of his former acquaintances, and yet was as entirely without any evil knowledge as a child. It had startled him strangely to meet that look of hers, so pathetic, so reproachful, though he did not know why. Something deeper still was in that look; it was the look an angel might have given to one who drew his attention to a guilt or a misery from which he could give no deliverance. The shame of the discovery, the anguish of it, the regret and heart-breaking pity, all these shone in Rosalind’s eyes. He had never been able to forget that look. And he could not get her out of his mind, do what he would. No, it was not falling in love; for he was quite cool and able to think over the question whether, as she was much younger, better off, and of more important connections than himself, he had not better go away and see her no more. He took this fully into consideration from every point of view, reflecting that the impression made upon him was slight as yet and might be wiped out, whereas if he remained at Clifton and visited the Elms it might become more serious, and lead him further than it would be prudent to go. But if there was a story about the mother—if it was possible that the mother might be wandering over Europe in the equivocal company of some adventurer—this was an argument which might prevent any young dukes from “coming forward,” and might make a man who was not a duke, nor of any lofty lineage, more likely to be received on his own standing.

This course of thought took him some time, as we have said, during which his mother, a simple woman who was very proud of him, could not think why Arthur should be so slow to keep up with “his friends the Trevanions,” who ranked among the county people, and were quite out of her humble range. She said to her daughter that it was silly of Arthur. “He thinks nothing of them because he is used to the very first society both in London and abroad,” she said. “But he ought to remember that Clifton is different, and they are quite the best people here.” “Why don’t you go and see your fine friends?” she said to her son. “Oh, no, Arthur, I am not foolish; I don’t expect Mrs. Lennox and Miss Trevanion to visit me and the girls; I think myself just as good in my way, but of course there is a difference; not for you though, Arthur, who have met the Prince of Wales and know everybody— I think it is your duty to keep them up.” At this he laughed, saying nothing, but thought all the more; and at last, at the end of a week, he came round to his mother’s opinion, and made up his mind that, if not his duty, it was at least a reasonable and not imprudent indulgence. And upon this argument he called, and was invited on the spot by Mrs. Lennox, who had just been saying how imprudent it was of John to have brought him to the house, to come and dine on Saturday. Thus things which have never appeared possible come about.

He went on Saturday and dined, and as a bitter frost had come on, and all the higher world of the neighborhood was coming on Monday to the pond near the Elms to skate, if the frost held, was invited for that too; and went, and was introduced to a great many people, and made himself quite a reputation before the day was over. There never had been a more successful début in society. And a Times’ Correspondent! Nobody cared who was his father or what his family; he had enough in himself to gain admittance everywhere. And he had a distinguished look, with his gray hair and bright eyes, far more than the ordinary man of his age who is beginning to get rusty, or perhaps bald, which is not becoming. Mr. Rivers’s hair was abundant and full of curl; there was no sign of age in his handsome face and vigorous figure, which made the whiteness of his locks piquant. Indeed, there was no one about, none of the great county gentlemen, who looked so imposing. Rosalind, half afraid of him, half drawn towards him, because, notwithstanding the dreadful disclosure he had made, he had admired and remembered the woman whom she loved, and more than half grateful to him for never having touched on the subject again, was half proud now of the notice he attracted, and because he more or less belonged to her party. She was pleased that he should keep by her side and manifestly devote himself to her. Thus it happened that she ceased to ask herself the question which has been referred to in previous pages, and began to think that the novels were right, after all, and that the commodity in which they dealt so largely did fall to every woman’s lot.

CHAPTER XXXII

Roland Hamerton was not one of those on whom Mr. Rivers made this favorable impression. He would fain indeed have found something against him, something which would have justified him in stigmatizing as a “cad,” or setting down as full of conceit, the new-comer about whom everybody was infatuated. Roland was not shabby enough to make capital out of the lowliness of Arthur’s connections, though the temptation to do so crossed his mind more than once; but the young man was a gentleman, and could not, even in all the heat of rivalship, make use of such an argument. There was, indeed, nothing to be said against the man whom Roland felt, with a pang, to be so much more interesting than himself; a man who knew when to hold his tongue as well as when to speak; who would never have gone and done so ridiculous a thing as he (Hamerton) had done, trying to convince a girl against her will and to shake her partisan devotion. The young fellow perceived now what a mad idea this had been, but unfortunately it is not till after the event that a simple mind learns such a lesson. Rivers, who was older, had no doubt found it out by experience, or else he had a superior instinct and was a better diplomatist, or perhaps thought less of the consequences involved. It wounded Roland to think of the girl he loved as associated in any way with a woman who was under a stain. He could not bear to think that her robe of whiteness should ever touch the garments of one who was sullied. But afterwards, when he came to think, he saw how foolish he had been. Perhaps Rosalind felt, though she could not allow it, everything he had ventured to suggest; but, naturally, when it was said to her brutally by an outsider, she would flare up. Roland could remember, even in his own limited experience, corresponding instances. He saw the defects of the members of his own family clearly enough, but if any one else ventured to point them out! Yes, yes, he had been a fool, and he had met with the fate he deserved. Rosalind had said conditionally that if it were true she would never speak to him again, but that it was not true. She had thus left for herself a way of escape. He knew very well that it was all truth he had said, but he was glad enough to take advantage of her wilful scepticism when he perceived that it afforded a way of escape from the sentence of excommunication otherwise to be pronounced against him. He stayed away from the Elms for a time, which was also the time of the frost, when there was nothing to be done; but ventured on the third or fourth day to the pond to skate, and was invited by Mrs. Lennox, as was natural, to stay and dine, which he accepted eagerly when he perceived that Rosalind, though cold, was not inexorable. She said very little to him for that evening or many evenings after, but still she did not carry out her threat of never speaking to him again. But when he met the other, as he now did perpetually, it was not in human nature to preserve an unbroken amiability. He let Rivers see by many a silent indication that he hated him, and found him in his way. He became disagreeable, poor boy, by dint of rivalry and the galling sense he had of the advantages possessed by the new-comer. He would go so far as to sneer at travellers’ tales, and hint a doubt that there might be another version of such and such an incident. When he had been guilty of suggestions of this kind he was overpowered with shame. But it is very hard to be generous to a man who has the better of you in every way; who is handsomer, cleverer, even taller; can talk far better, can amuse people whom you only bore; and when you attempt to argue can turn you, alas! inside out with a touch of his finger. The prudent thing for Roland to have done would have been to abstain from any comparison of himself with his accomplished adversary; but he was not wise enough to do this: few, very few, young men are so wise. He was always presenting his injured, offended, clouded face, by the side of the fine features and serene, secure look of the elder man, who was thus able to contemplate him, and, worse, to present him to others, in the aspect of a mad youngster, irritable and unreasoning. Roland was acutely, painfully aware that this was not his character at all, and yet that he had the appearance of it, and that Rosalind no doubt must consider him so. The union of pain, resentment, indignation at the thought of such injustice, with a sense that it scarcely was injustice, and that he was doing everything to justify it, made the poor young fellow as miserable as can be imagined. He did not deserve to be so looked upon, and yet he did deserve it; and Rivers was an intolerable prig and tyrant, using a giant’s strength villainously as a giant, yet in a way which was too cunning to afford any opening for reproach. He could have wept in his sense of the intolerable, and yet he had not a word to say. Was there ever a position more difficult to bear? And poor Roland felt that he had lost ground in every way. Ever since that unlucky interference of his and disclosure of his private information (which he saw now was the silliest thing that could have been done) there was no lingering in the fire-light, no tête-à-tête ever accorded to him. When Mrs. Lennox went to dress for dinner, Rosalind went too. After a while she ceased to show her displeasure, and talked to him as usual when they met in the presence of the family, but he saw her by herself no more. He could not make out indeed whether that fellow was ever admitted to any such privilege, but it certainly was extended to himself no more.

The neighborhood began to take a great interest in the Elms when this rivalship first became apparent, which it need not have done had Hamerton shown any command of himself; for Mr. Rivers was perfectly well-bred, and there is nothing in which distinguished manners show more plainly than in the way by which, in the first stage of a love-making, a man can secure the object of his devotion from all remark. There can be no better test of a high-bred gentleman; and though he was only the son of an humble family with no pretension to be considered county people, he answered admirably to it. Rosalind was herself conscious of the special homage he paid her, but no one else would have been at all the wiser had it not been for the ridiculous jealousy of Roland, who could not contain himself in Rivers’s presence.

The position of Rosalind between these two men was a little different from the ordinary ideal. The right thing to have done in her circumstances would have been, had she “felt a preference,” as it was expressed in the eighteenth century, to have, with all the delicacy and firmness proper to maidenhood, so discouraged and put down the one who was not preferred as to have left him no excuse for persisting in his vain pretensions. If she had no preference she ought to have gently but decidedly made both aware that their homage was vain. As for taking any pleasure in it, if she did not intend in either case to recompense it—that would not be thought of for a moment. But Rosalind, though she had come in contact with so much that was serious in life, and had so many of its gravest duties to perform, was yet so young and so natural as not to be at all superior to the pleasure of being sought. She liked it, though her historian does not know how to make the admission. No doubt, had she been accused of such a sentiment, she would have denied it hotly and even with some indignation, not being at all in the habit of investigating the phenomena of her own mind; but yet she did not in her heart dislike to feel that she was of the first importance to more than one beholder, and that her presence or absence made a difference in the aspect of the world to two men. A sense of being approved, admired, thought much of, is always agreeable. Even when the sentiment does not go the length of love, there is a certain moral support in the consciousness in a girl’s mind that she embodies to some one the best things in humankind. When the highest instincts of love touch the heart it becomes a sort of profanity, indeed, to think of any but the one who has awakened that divine inspiration; but, in the earlier stages, before any sentiment has become definite, or her thoughts begun to contemplate any final decision, there is a secret gratification in the mere consciousness. It may not be an elevated feeling, but it is a true one. She is pleased; there is a certain elation in her veins in spite of herself. Mr. Ruskin says that a good girl should have seven suitors at least, all ready to do impossibilities in her service, among whom she should choose, but not too soon, letting each have a chance. Perhaps in the present state of statistics this is somewhat impracticable, and it may perhaps be doubted whether the adoration of these seven gentlemen would be a very safe moral atmosphere for the young lady. It also goes rather against the other rule which insists on a girl falling in love as well as her lover; that is to say, making her selection by chance, by impulse, and not by proof of the worthiest. But at least it is a high authority in favor of a plurality of suitors, and might be adduced by the offenders in such cases as a proof that their otherwise not quite excusable satisfaction in the devotion of more than one was almost justifiable. The dogma had not been given forth in Rosalind’s day, and she was not aware that she had any excuse at all, but blushed for herself if ever she was momentarily conscious of so improper a sentiment. She blushed, and then she withdrew from the outside world in which these two looked at her with looks so different from those they directed towards any other, and thought of neither of them. On such occasions she would return to her room with a vague cloud of incense breathing about her, a sort of faint atmosphere of flattered and happy sentiment in her mind, or sit down in the firelight in the drawing-room, which Aunt Sophy had left, and think. About whom? Oh, about no one! she would have said—about a pair of beautiful eyes which were like Johnny’s, and which seemed to follow and gaze at her with a rapture of love and devotion still more wonderful to behold. This image was so abstract that it escaped all the drawbacks of fact. There was nothing to detract from it, no test of reality to judge it by. Sometimes she found it impossible not to laugh at Roland; sometimes she disagreed violently with something Mr. Rivers said; but she never quarrelled with the visionary lover, who had appeared out of the unknown merely to make an appeal to her, as it seemed, to frustrate her affections, to bid her wait until he should reveal himself. Would he come again? Should she ever see him again? All this was unreal in the last degree. But so is everything in a young mind at such a moment, when nature plays with the first approaches of fate.

“Mr. Rivers seems to be staying a long time in Clifton,” Mrs. Lennox said one evening, disturbing Rosalind out of these dreams. Roland was in the room, though she could scarcely see him, and Rosalind had been guilty of what she herself felt to be the audacity of thinking of her unknown lover in the very presence of this visible and real one. She had been sitting very quiet, drawing back out of the light, while a gentle hum of talk went on on the other side of the fire. The windows, with the twilight stars looking in, and the bare boughs of the trees waving across, formed the background, and Mrs. Lennox, relieved against one of those windows, was the centre of the warm but uncertainly lighted room. Hamerton sat behind, responding vaguely, and intent upon the shadowed corner in which Rosalind was. “How can he be spared, I wonder, out of his newspaper work!” said the placid voice. “I have always heard it was a dreadful drudgery, and that you had to be up all night, and never got any rest.”

“He is not one of the principal ones, perhaps,” Roland replied.

“Oh, he must be a principal! John would not have brought a man here who is nothing particular to begin with, if he had not been a sort of a personage in his way.”

“Well, then, perhaps he is too much of a principal,” said Hamerton; “perhaps it is only the secondary people that are always on duty; and this, you know, is what they call the silly time of the year.”

“I never knew much about newspaper people,” said Aunt Sophy, in her comfortable voice, something like a cat purring by the warm glow of the fire. “We did not think much of them in my time. Indeed, there are a great many people who are quite important in society nowadays that were never thought of in my time. I never knew how important a newspaper editor was till I read that novel of Mr. Trollope’s—do you remember which one it is, Rosalind?—where there is Tom something or other who is the editor of the Jupiter. That was said to mean the Times. But if Mr. Rivers is so important as that, how does he manage to stay so long at Clifton, where I am sure there is nothing going on?”

“Sometimes,” said Hamerton, after a pause, “there are things going on which are more important than a man’s business, though perhaps they don’t show.”

There was something in the tone with which he said this which called Rosalind out of her dreams. She had heard them talking before, but not with any interest; now she was roused, though she could scarcely tell why.

“That is all very well for you, Roland, who have no business. Oh! I know you’re a barrister, but as you never did anything at the bar— A man, when he has money of his own and does not live by his profession, can please himself, I suppose; but when his profession is all he has, nothing, you know, ought to be more important than that. And if his family keep him from his work, it is not right. A mother ought to know better, and even a sister; they ought not to keep him, if it is they who are keeping him. Now, do you think, putting yourself in their place, that it is right?”

“I can’t fancy myself in the place of Rivers’s mother or sister,” said Roland, with a laugh.

“Oh, but I can, quite! and I could not do such a thing; for my own pleasure injure him in his career! Oh, no, no! And if it was any one else,” said Aunt Sophy, “I do think it would be nearly criminal. If it was a girl, for instance. Girls are the most thoughtless creatures on the face of the earth; they don’t understand such things; they don’t really know. I suppose, never having had anything to do themselves, they don’t understand. But if a girl should have so little feeling, and play with a man, and keep him from his work, when perhaps it may be ruinous to him,” said Mrs. Lennox—when she was not contradicted, she could express herself with some force, though if once diverted from her course she had little strength to stand against opposition—“I cannot say less than that it would be criminal,” she said.

“Is any one keeping Mr. Rivers from his work?” said Rosalind, suddenly, out of her corner, which made Mrs. Lennox start.

“Dear me, are you there, Rosalind? I thought you had gone away” (which we fear was not quite true). “Keeping Mr. Rivers, did you say? I am sure, my dear, I don’t know. I think something must be detaining him. I am sure he did not mean to stay so long when he first came here.”

“But perhaps he knows best himself, Aunt Sophy, don’t you think?” Rosalind said, rising up with youthful severity and coming forward into the ruddy light.

“Oh, yes, my dear, I have no doubt he does,” Mrs. Lennox said, faltering; “I was only saying—”

“You were blaming some one; you were saying it was his mother’s fault, or perhaps some girl’s fault. I think he is likely to know much better than any girl; it must be his own fault if he is wasting his time. I shouldn’t think he was wasting his time. He looks as if he knew very well what he was about—better than a girl, who, as you were saying, seldom has anything to do.”

“Dear me, Rosalind, I did not know you were listening so closely. Yes, to be sure he must know best. You know, Roland, gossip is a thing that she cannot abide. And she knows you and I have been gossiping about our neighbors. It is not so; it is really because I take a great interest; and you too, Roland.”

“Oh, no, I don’t take any interest,” cried Hamerton, hastily; “it was simple gossip on my part. If he were to lose ever so much time or money, or anything else, I shouldn’t care!”

“It is of no consequence to any of us,” Rosalind said. “I should think Mr. Rivers did what he pleased, without minding much what people say. And as for throwing the blame upon a girl! What could a girl have to do with it?” She stood still for a moment, holding out her hands in a sort of indignant appeal, and then turned to leave the room, taking no notice of the apologetic outburst from her aunt.