Comin' Thro' the Rye (Mathers)/Summer/Chapter 13
CHAPTER XIII.
Nor yet on summer's death, nor on the birth
Of trembling winter—the fairest flowers of the season
Are our carnations and streaked gilly flowers."
"What is that?" says Milly, pausing on her way upstairs.
"Can it be the ghost?" I ask, standing still to listen likewise.
Luttrell Court, like all other respectable family mansions, possesses its ghost: and an exceedingly ill-conditioned one this particular spirit is given to heaving up beds (and their occupants) in the dead of the night, dashing down cart-loads of crockery out-side chamber doors, beating members of the family with invisible whips, and boxing the ears of trembling footmen in dark corners, or so those gentlemen aver.
"I don't think a ghost could give such a substantial groan as that," I say; and indeed, as we ascend, a succession of wails, sighs, and squeaks float out to meet us, that could not reasonably be supposed to proceed from the throat of that uncanny, fleshless, bony, counterfeit of a human being, that we call a ghost. The mysterious sounds issue from the yellow room, and Milly pushes the door open, and stands on the threshold. No poor daylight spirit is answerable for the hullabaloo; but on a stool, before an open harmonium, sits a real tangible human being, who is rolling from side to side, in an ecstasy of delight at the hideous discord he is evoking. He wears a smart grey and scarlet livery, his silk calves are en evidence; he is, in short, one of the footmen, who has apparently a taste for music, and who believes Milly to be miles away at the present moment.
Some terrible instinct makes him turn his head, and standing behind him, he sees—his mistress.
"May I ask," inquires Mrs. Luttrell, "if I hired you to act as my servant or to play on my harmonium?"
The man gazes wildly at the ceiling and the floor alternately, as though he prays Heaven to either draw him up by the hair of his head, or pull him down out of sight by his heels.
"I thought you were out, madam," he stutters, casting his eyes wildly to and fro.
"Another time," says Milly; "will you make sure? Go."
He vanishes like a stone shot from a catapult.
I look at Milly in amazement at her moderation, but suddenly recollect that the detected performer is devotedly attached to the small heir of the house, and carries him about by the hour: a royal road, that, to his mistress's favour.
"That man is a character," she says, as we go away.
"He certainly has a soul above his station," I answer laughing, as I turn into my room to lay aside my hat. Shall I lay it aside, though? It is only five o'clock. I can do without my tea, and the clack of tongues in the drawing-room; besides, the gentlemen have come in early, and I have no mind to spend an hour in trying to run away from Paul Vasher. Why does he seek me so persistently, I wonder? To make a confidante of me, I suppose, but, at any rate, I have never given him the chance, and during the last week I have become so adroit at dodging and avoiding him, that I am sure I shall find my experience useful when I go home, and have to circumvent the governor.
As I stand before the table considering, my eye catches the reflection of my face in the looking-glass, and startles me, it is so pale, so sad, so dull. I used to have such a merry, saucy face, folks said; but now there are dark shadows under my eyes, and a close, folded look about my mouth, as though it rarely knew smiles or laughter now. Verily my story is writ upon my face, people will begin to pity me next, O heavens! and I must bear it, since there is no means of forcing the body into subjection, even if one can the spirit.
At the end of the corridor is a door by which the grounds can be reached, and I leave the house, and climb to the upper walks and terraces. I should like to go down to the sea, but it is too late to go alone; and upon its shore I could not be more lonely than I am up here. I come to the seat where Paul Vasher and I sat a week ago—only a week! And it seems a year. Everything looks different to what it did on that morning; a faint chill bleakness lies over the landscape, the trees shiver a little as the leaves fall rustling to the ground, the bit of sea in the distance is not blue at all, but a dull greyish-green, the birds are all cross, or asleep, and there is no pleasant hum of insects on the evening air. Perhaps it is I who am out of sorts, not Nature. When we begin to study the passions, can we indeed go hand in hand with her, as when her gentle lore and tender secrets were all the wisdom we sought, when her peaceful voice seemed satisfying and sweet to us? We cannot hear it clearly when louder and more selfish voices are beating at our ears, and echoing in our hearts. Some day I shall come back to you, oh! nurse-mother, but not now, not to-day. Give me a little while to strive with this passionate, restless heart, it will wear itself out quickly enough, never fear.
On my way I have pulled a handful of late carnations, and some of Shakespeare's streaked gillyflowers, and I am smelling at them idly, when a fragrant whiff of another sort floats up to me—that of a cigar. This is a remote corner, and people rarely come up so high as this, so I give it no thought, and have closed my tired eyes, and am looking inward at the vista stretching out before me of endless, empty, dull to-morrows, when footsteps, brushing through the short grass, make me open them suddenly, and there stands Paul Vasher.
For a moment I stare at him without speaking, then—"I think I have been asleep!" I say, starting up; "and it must be past five o'clock, time to go in!" As I turn to go he puts out his hand and lays it on my arm.
"Is this game of hide-and-seek to go on for ever?" he asks sternly (a moment ago his face was overspread with a swift gladness.) "Am I always to be avoided by you in this way, morning, noon, and night?" (I am in for it!—he is determined to make a listening gooseberry of me, will-he nill-he.)
"If you call drinking tea———" I begin; then, looking up by accident and catching his eye, I stop short; evasions are always worse than useless with him.
"Your tea can wait," he says; "and you shall not go until you have answered me."
"Shall not! Who will prevent me?"
"I will."
For a moment I look straight at his resolute face and bent brows; then I sit down again and wait for him to begin.
"I want to know," he says, standing before me, "what you mean by behaving in this way to me?"
My hands are locked fast together, my gillyflowers lie in my lap my cheeks could grow no paler than they were before if only my lips will keep steady, and my eyes tell no secrets———
"In what way, Mr. Vasher?"
"In never speaking to or looking at me; in never giving me a single chance of a few words alone with you—though Heaven knows I have worked hard enough to compass it. Could you have treated an enemy with more coldness and disdain? And I have been your friend, Nell, for many long years."
Yes, I have been wrong, as usual. I ought to have met him just the same as I did before he told me his story; instead of which, I have left him to guess the miserable truth; and now, no doubt, he pities me. . . . But I could not do the other; my strength did not go so far as that.
"You have always been my friend," I say gently. "I know it, but—you will not be angry with me?"
"Angry? No!"
"When you told me that you loved somebody, I thought you would always want to be talking about her, like other lovers, and that you would expect me to listen; and I always was a bad listener; any one who talks as much as I do, must be; and so—and so I avoided you. Besides, you can always think of her, you know, and that must be better than praising her to me, who never saw her."
"And this is the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth?" he says. Then, as I do not answer, for his searching voice arraigns me before my own conscience as having answered disingenuously: "Would it bore us so much if we were to exchange confidences—you about him, I about her?"
"Make as many as you please to me." I answer steadily, "and I will listen; but I have none to give you in return."
"None?"
"None."
"You used not to be so secret."
"Am I bound to give an account of myself to you?"
"I will have no more of this miserable uncertainty," he says suddenly. "Tell me, Nell, are you engaged to that man at Silverbridge?"
"That is a matter that concerns myself only."
"Are you, or are you not?" he asks again, while the veins rise in his forehead like cords, and his hand clenches.
I may as well tell him, after all; why should there be any mystery over it? It can make no possible difference to him or any one else.
"No. But there is a kind of promise between us.”
"A kind of promise? Tell me what it is?"
"When I was fourteen I gave him my word of honour that when I was eighteen years old and six months I would marry him if———
"If!" he repeats quickly. "Go on!"
"I did not see any one I liked better."
"Indeed! And are the six months up?"
"No."
He draws a deep breath; and then in the voice of a man who puts a strong restraint upon himself, says, "Tell me one thing now: Do you love him?"
"You ask too much," I answer, turning my pale face away. "What is it to you whether I love him or no?"
And then, against my will, I lift my eyes to his, which are deep and tender with a warm love-light . . . though he is speaking to me, he is thinking of her; and somehow the thought of her riches and my heart-bareness unnerves me, and my lips quiver, and slow, painful tears fill my eyes.
"You poor little white blossom," he says, casting himself down on the seat beside me. "Nell, Nell! are you fretting after that Silverbridge man!"
He is looking into my face with a passion of eagerness that startles me, still thinking of her, I suppose.
"I will be good," I say, as two big tears fall with a heavy splash on my clasped hands. "Do not be afraid, I am not going to cry any more. . . . I will listen to you patiently, if you would like to have a comfortable talk about her."
"I shall keep you to your word presently," he says; "meanwhile you have not answered my question."
"I will not," I answer with spirit. (How dare he torment me in this way?)
"Will you make me a promise then?"
"Tell me what it is first."
"I cannot. Will you promise?"
There is nothing more to tell—he knows about George; is it worth while to bandy words about a trifle? And I am longing to get away.
"I promise," I say, listlessly.
"Then, when we are both at Silverbridge—for I have a fancy for hearing you tell me where I met you first, in the field of rye—you will tell me the name of the man you love."
I sit silent, pale as death. Is it kind, or manly, or fair of him to trap me thus?
"I break my promise," I say, firmly, "although I never broke one before."
"It is too late now," he says; "you are bound. You never failed in truth yet, Nell; are you going to begin now?"
But I do not answer.
"I think I never told you the name of my little girl? I will tell it you when you keep your promise to me—when we stand face to face in the place where I saw you first."
Ay! I see the scene clearly enough, the two figures, the shamed confession, the truth uttered as before God, the cart before the horse—the amazement of the man, who, with all his faults, was never vain or coxcomb. But that hour shall never come to either him or me.
Although I have asked you so many questions," he says, "you have never asked me one about my sweetheart. Why do you not?"
"How tall is she?" I ask, looking up at the chilly leaves as they rustle softly down—down—down, like silk, to the ground. Since he wishes to talk, I will put him through a whole catechism of questions, and, by haphazard, I begin with the one that loveless Elizabeth asked of her beautiful rival Mary.
"Just as high as my heart."
"Of what colour is her hair?"
"Brown, with a warm ruddy golden tinge running through it; it is all over little billows and cunning waves and ripples—the softest, prettiest head!"
"And her eyes?"
"She has two sweet, serious, saucy, tender grey eyes; they tell a different story every minute, but they are always true to her thoughts, which are honest; her face is the mirror of her heart, which is pure."
"Is she fair?"
"She has the whitest, softest neck and throat and hands I ever saw. She looks as though she were made to be kissed and spoiled.”
"And her mouth?"
"Not very little, but the sweetest I ever saw; and she has a dimple set at each corner."
"Is she merry?"
"She laughs more than she sighs, but I have seen her sad . . so sad. . . ."
And so this is why he has taken notice of me; this is why he has sought my society—because I am a plain likeness of, because I reminded him of her. My hair, too, is rich brown; and I have green eyes, while hers are grey—not much difference there; and I used to have some dimples, I think, not so very long ago.
"And does she love you?"
"I will tell you that when you tell me what you have promised to tell."
"And you love her?" I ask, while a bitter, jealous pain creeps about my heart, and stabs it through and through, while every pulse of my body seems to stand still awaiting his answer. . . .
"Do I not? God knows!"
"You are a brave man," I say, smiling with pale lips. "Are you not afraid to risk your life's happiness so utterly?"
"Is any man wise who loves? But I am not afraid: she is honest to the core, and could no more play one false than she could alter her innocent face."
"God send you happiness with her!" I say, gently, and rising, I go away through the silent glades, and leave him sitting there alone, with his pleasant thoughts for company, and, maybe, a pictured girl-face to murmur fond love-words over—to press close kisses on, with a chafed, angry impatience that the warm living lips are not under his own instead of the silent painted ones.