Dynevor Terrace (Vol. II)

C >> Charlotte M Yonge >> Dynevor Terrace (Vol. II)

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21 | 22 | 23 | 24 | 25 | 26 | 27

Poor Mary! she might speak cheerfully, but her despatches were made
up with a trembling heart. Louis and Mary missed the security and
felicity that seemed so perfect with James and Isabel. In the first
place, nothing could be fixed without further letters, although the
Earl had tried to persuade Mary that her father had virtually
forfeited all claim to her obedience, and that she ought to proceed
as if in fact an orphan, and secure herself from being harassed by
him, by hastening her marriage. Of this she would not hear, and she
was exceedingly grateful to Louis for abstaining from pressing her,
as well as for writing to Mr. Ponsonby in terms against which no
exception could be taken.

Till secure of his consent, she would not consider her engagement as
more than conditional, nor consent to its being mentioned to any one.
If Isabel knew it, that was James's fault. Even the Faithfull
sisters were kept in ignorance; and she trusted thus to diminish the
wrong that she felt her secrecy to be doing to Aunt Melicent, who was
so much vexed and annoyed at her return, that she dreaded exceedingly
the effect of the knowledge of her engagement. Miss Ponsonby was
convinced that the news had been exaggerated, and insisted that but
for Lord Ormersfield's dislike, it would have been further sifted;
and she wrote to Mary to urge her coming to her to await the full
tidings, instead of delaying among her father's avowed enemies.

Mary settled this point by mentioning her promise to Mrs. Frost to
remain with her until her grandchildren should be with her; and Miss
Ponsonby's correspondence ceased after a dry, though still kind
letter, which did not make Mary more willing to bestow her
confidence, but left her feeling in her honest heart as if she were
dealing insincerely by Aunt Melicent.

The discretion and reserve rendered requisite by the concealment were
such as to be very tormenting even to so gentle a temper as that of
Louis, since they took from him all the privileges openly granted to
the cousin, and scarcely left him those of the friend. She, on whose
arm he had leant all last summer, would not now walk with him without
an escort, and, even with Mrs. Frost beside her, shrank from
Ormersfield like forbidden ground. Her lively, frank tone of playful
command had passed away; nay, she almost shrank from his confidence,
withheld her counsel, and discouraged his constant visits. He could
not win from her one of her broad, fearless comments on his past
doings; and in his present business, the taking possession of
Inglewood, the choice of stock, and the appointment of a bailiff,
though she listened and sympathized, and answered questions, she
volunteered no opinions, ahe expressed no wishes, she would not come
to see.

Poor Louis was often mortified into doubts of his own ability to
interest or make her happy; but he was very patient. If disappointed
one day, he was equally eager the next; he submitted obediently to
her restrictions, and was remorseful when he forgot or transgressed;
and they had real, soothing, comforting talks just often enough to be
tantalizing, and yet to convince him that all the other
unsatisfactory meetings and partings were either his own fault, or
that of some untoward circumstance.

He saw, as did the rest, that Mary's spirits had received a shock not
easily to be recovered. The loss of her mother was weighing on her
more painfully than in the first excitement; and the step her father
had taken, insulting her mother, degrading himself, and rending away
her veil of filial honour, had exceedingly overwhelmed and depressed
her; while sorrow hung upon her with the greater permanence and
oppression from her strong self-control, and dislike to
manifestation.

All this he well understood; and, reverent to her feeling, he laid
aside all trifling, and waited on her mood with the tenderest
watchfulness. When she could bear it, they would dwell together on
the precious recollections of her mother; and sometimes she could
even speak of her father, and relate instances of his affection for
herself, and all his other redeeming traits of character; most
thankful to Louis for accepting him on her word, and never uttering
one word of him which she could wish unsaid.

What Louis did not see, was that the very force of her own affection
was what alarmed Mary, and caused her reserve. To a mind used to
balance and regulation, any sensation so mighty and engrossing
appeared wrong; and repressed as her attachment had been, it was the
more absorbing now that he was all that was left to her. Admiration,
honour, gratitude, old childish affection, and caressing elder-
sisterly protection, all flowed in one deep, strong current; but the
very depth made her diffident. She could imagine the whole
reciprocated, and she feared to be importunate. If the day was no
better than a weary turmoil, save when his voice was in her ear, his
eyes wistfully bent on her, the more carefully did she restrain all
expression of hope of seeing him to-morrow, lest she should be
exacting and detain him from projects of his own. If it was pride
and delight to her to watch his graceful, agile figure spring on
horseback, she would keep herself from the window, lest he should
feel oppressed by her pursuing him; and when she found her advice
sought after as his law, she did not venture to proffer it. She was
uncomfortable in finding the rule committed to her, and all the more
because Lord Ormersfield, who had learnt to talk to her so openly
that she sometimes thought he confounded her with her mother, used in
all his schemes to appear to take it for granted that she should
share with him in the managing, consulting headship of the house,
leaving Louis as something to be cared for and petted like a child,
without a voice in their decisions. These conversations used to make
her almost jealous on Louis's account, and painfully recall some of
her mother's apprehensions.

That was the real secret source of all her discomfort--namely, the
misgiving lest she had been too ready to follow the dictates of her
own heart. Would her mother have been satisfied? Had not her
fondness and her desolation prevailed, where, for Louis's own sake,
she should have held back! Every time she felt herself the elder in
heart, every time she feared to have disappointed him, every time she
saw that his liveliness was repressed by her mournfulness, she feared
that she was letting him sacrifice himself. And still more did she
question her conduct towards her father. She had only gradually
become aware of the extent of the mutual aversion between him and the
Earl; and Miss Ponsonby's reproaches awakened her to the fear that
she had too lightly given credence to hostile evidence. Her
affection would fain have justified him; and, forgetting the
difficulties of personal investigation in such a case, she blamed
herself for having omitted herself to question the confidential
clerk, and having left all to Lord Ormersfield, who, cool and wary as
he ordinarily was, would be less likely to palliate Mr. Ponsonby's
errors than those of any other person. Her heart grew sick as she
counted the weeks ere she could hear from Lima.

None of her troubles were allowed to interfere with Mrs. Frost's
peace. Outwardly, she was cheerful and helpful; equable, though less
lively. Those carpets and curtains, tables and chairs, which were
the grand topics at the House Beautiful, were neither neglected nor
treated with resigned impatience. Mary's taste, counsel, and needle
did good service; her hearty interest and consideration were given to
the often-turned volume of designs for bedsteads, sofas, and window-
curtains; and Miss Mercy herself had hardly so many resources for
making old furniture new. Many of her happiest half-hours with Louis
were spent as she sewed the stiff slippery chintz, and he held the
curtain rings, while Aunt Catharine went to inspect the workmen, and
many a time were her cares forgotten, and her active spirits resumed,
while Louis acted carpenter under her directions, and rectified
errors of the workmen. It might not be poetical, but the French sky-
blue paper, covered with silvery fern-leaves, that Louis took such
pains to procure, and the china door-handles that he brought over in
his pockets, and the great map which Mary pasted over the obstinate
spot of damp in the vestibule, were the occasions of the greatest
blitheness and merriment that they shared together. Much did they
enjoy the prediction that James would not know his own house; greatly
did they delight in sowing surprises, and in obtaining Aunt
Catharine's never-failing start of well-pleased astonishment. Each
wedding present was an event;--Mr. Mansell's piano, which
disconcerted all previous designs; Lord Ormersfield's handsome plate;
and many a minor gift from old scholars, delighted to find an
occasion when an offering would not be an offence. Even Mr. Calcott
gave a valuable inkstand, in which Mrs. Frost and Louis beheld
something of forgiveness.

Isabel had expressed a wish that Mary should be one of her
bridesmaids. A wedding was not the scene which poor Mary wished to
witness at present; but she saw Louis bent on having her with him,
and would not vex him by reluctance. He had also prevailed on his
father to be present, though the Earl was much afraid of establishing
a precedent, and being asked to act the part of father on future
contingencies. There was only one bride, as he told Louis, whom he
could ever wish to give away. However, that trouble was spared him
by Mr. Mansell; but still Louis would not let him off, on the plea
that James's side of the house should make as imposing a
demonstration as possible.

Mrs. Frost was less manageable. Though warmly invited by the
Conways, and fondly entreated by her grandson, she shook her head,
and said she was past those things, and that the old mother always
stayed at home to cook the wedding dinner. She should hear all when
Clara came home the next day, and should be ready for the happy pair
when they would return for Christmas, after a brief stay at Thornton
Conway, which Isabel wished James to see, that he might share in all
her old associations.

All the rest of the party journeyed to London on a November day; and,
in gaslight and gloom, they deposited Mary at her aunt's house in
Bryanston Square.

Gaslight was the staple of Hymen's torch the next morning. London
was under one of the fogs, of which it is popularly said you may cut
them with a knife. The church was in dim twilight; the bride and
bridegroom loomed through the haze, and the indistinctness made
Clara's fine tall figure appear quite majestic above the heads of the
other bridesmaids.

The breakfast was by lamp-light, and the mist looked lurid and grim
over the white cake, and no one talked of anything but the
comparative density of fogs; and Mr. Mansell's asthma had come on,
and his speech was devolved upon Lord Ormersfield, to whom Louis had
imprudently promised exemption.

What was worse, Lady Conway had paired them off in the order of
precedence; and Louis was a victim to two dowagers, between whom he
could neither see nor speak to Mary. He was the more concerned,
because he had thought her looking depressed and avoiding his eye.

He tried to believe this caution, but he thought she was also eluding
bis father, and her whole air gave him a vague uneasiness. The whole
party were to dine with Lady Conway; and, trusting in the meantime to
discover what was on her spirits, be tried to resign himself to the
order of the day, without a farther glimpse of her.

When the married pair took leave, Walter gave his sister a great hug,
but had no perception of his office of handing her downstairs; and it
was Fitzjocelyn who gave her his arm, and put her into the carriage,
with an augury that the weather would be beautiful when once they had
left the fog in London.

She smiled dreamily, and repeated, 'beautiful,' as though all were so
beautiful already to her that she did not so much as perceive the
fog.

James pressed his hand, saying, 'I am glad you are to be the one to
be happy next.'

'You do not look so,' said Clara, earnestly.

The two sisters had come partly downstairs, but their London habits
had restrained them from following to the street-door, as Clara had
done; and now they had rushed up again, while Clara, with one foot on
the staircase, looked in her cousin's face, as he tried to smile in
answer, and repeated, 'Louis, I hoped you were quite happy.'

'I am,' said Louis, quickly.

'Then why do you look so grave and uneasy?'

'Louis!' said an entreating voice above, and there stood Mary--'Pray
say nothing, but call a cab for me, please. No, I am not ill-
indeed, I am not--but I cannot stay!'

'You look ill! It has been too much for you! Clara, take her--let
her lie down quietly,' cried Louis, springing to her side.

'Oh no, thank you-no,' said Mary, decidedly, though very low; 'I told
Lady Conway that I could not stay. I settled it with Aunt Melicent.'

'That aunt of yours--'

'Hush! No, it is for my own sake--my own doing. I cannot bear it
any longer! Please let me go!'

'Then I will take you. I saw the brougham waiting. We will go
quietly together.'

'No, that must not be.'

'I was thoughtless in urgtng you to come. The turmoil has been too
much. My poor Mary! That is what comes of doing what I like instead
of what you like. Why don't you always have your own way? Let me
come; nay, if you will not, at least let Clara go with you, and come
back.'

Mary roused herself at last to speak, as she moved downstairs--'You
need not think of me; there is nothing the matter with me. I
promised Aunt Melicent to come home. She is very kind--it is not
that.'

'You must not tell me not to think. I shall come to inquire. I
shall be with you the first thing tomorrow.'

'Yes, you must come to-morrow,' said Mary, in a tone he could not
interpret, and a tight lingering grasp on his hand, as he put her
into his father's carriage.

He stood hesitating for a moment as it drove off; then, instead of
entering the house, walked off quickly in the same direction.

Clara had stood all the time like a statue on the stairs, waiting to
see if she were wanted, and gazing intently, with her fingers
clasped. When both were gone she drew a long breath, and nodded with
her head, whispering to herself, in a grave and critical voice--'That
is love!'

She did not see Fitzjocelyn again till nearly dinner-time; and, as he
caught her anxious interrogating eye, he came to her and said, very
low, 'I was not let in; Miss Ponsonby was engaged. Miss Mary lying
down--I believe they never told her I was there.'

'It is all that aunt--horrid woman!'

'Don't talk of it now. I _will_ see her to-morrow.'

Clara grieved for him whenever she saw him called on to exert himself
to talk; and she even guarded him from the sallies of his young
cousins. Once, when much music and talk was going on, he came and
sat by her, and made her tell him how fondly and affectionately she
had parted with her schoolfellows; and how some of her old foes had
become, as she hoped, friends for life; but she saw his eye fixed and
absent even while she spoke, and she left off suddenly. 'Go on,' he
said, 'I like to hear;' and with a manifest effort he bent his mind
to attend.

'Oh!' thought Clara, as she went up that night--'why will the days
one most expects to be happy turn out so much otherwise? However, he
will manage to tell me all about it when he and his father take me
home to-morrow.'

CHAPTER IV.

OUTWARD BOUND.

The voice which I did more esteem
Than music in her sweetest key--
Those eyes which unto me did seem
More comfortable than the day--
Those now by me, as they have been,
Shall never more be heard or seen.
GEORGE WITHER.

In suspense and impatience, Fitzjocelyn awaited the end of his
father's breakfast, that he might hasten to learn what ailed Mary.
The post came in, vexing him at first merely as an additional delay,
but presently a sound of dissatisfaction attracted his notice to the
foreign air of two envelopes which had been forwarded from home.

'Hem!' said the Earl, gravely, 'I am afraid this fellow Ponsonby will
give us some trouble.'

'Then Mary had heard from him!' cried Louis. 'She was keeping it
from me, not to spoil the day. I must go to her this moment--'but
pausing again, 'What is it? He cannot have had my letter!'

'No, but he seems to have anticipated it. Puffed up as they are
about these speculations, he imagines me to have brought Mary home
for no purpose but to repair our fortunes; and informs me that, in
the event of your marriage, she will receive not a farthing beyond
her mother's settlements. I am much obliged! It is all I ever
thought you would receive; and but for me, it would have been in the
bottom of some mine long ago! Do you wish to see what he says?'

Louis caught up the missive. It was the letter of a very angry man,
too violent to retain the cold formality which he tried to assume.
'He was beholden to his lordship for his solicitude about his
daughter. It was of a piece with other assistance formerly rendered
to him in his domestic arrangements, for which he was equally
obliged. He was happy to inform his lordship that, in this instance,
his precautions had been uncalled for; and referred him to a letter
which he would receive from Mr. Dynevor by the same mail, for an
explanation of the circumstances to which he referred. He had been
informed, by undoubted authority, that Lord Fitzjocelyn had done his
daughter the honour of soliciting her hand. It might console his
lordship to learn that, should the union take place, the whole of his
property would be secured to Mrs. Ponsonby, and his daughter's sole
fortune would be that which she inherited by her mother's marriage
settlements. Possibly this intelligence might lead to a cessation of
these flattering attentions.'

'Mrs. Ponsonby! he can mention her in the same sentence with Mary's
mother!' said the Earl.

Louis turned pale as he read, and scarcely breathed as he looked up
at his father, dreading that he might so resent the studied affronts
as to wish to break off the connexion, and that he might have him
likewise to contend with; but on that score he was set at rest. The
Earl replied to his exclamation of angry dismay, 'It is little more
than I looked for. It is not the first letter I have had from him.
I find he has some just cause for offence. The marriage is less
disgraceful than I had been led to believe. Here is Oliver Dynevor's
testimony.'

Oliver Dynevor's was a succinct business-like letter, certifying his
cousin that he had been mistaken in his view of the marriage. Dona
Rosita de Guzman was an orphan of a very respectable family, who had
come to spend the year before her intended noviciate at the house of
an uncle. She was very young, and Mr. Dynevor believed that the
marriage had been hastened by her relations making her feel herself
unwelcome, and her own reluctance to return to her convent, and that
she might not be aware how very recently Mr. Ponsonby had become a
widower. For his own part, he was little used to ladies' society,
and could form no judgment of the bride; but he could assure Lord
Ormersfield that she had been guilty of no impropriety; she was
visited by every one; and that there was no reason against Mary
Ponsonby associating with her.

'What could the clerk be thinking of?' exclaimed Louis.

'My first impression was not taken from the clerk. What I heard
first, and in the strongest terms, was from the captain of a ship at
Valparaiso. In fact, it was in the mouth of all who had known the
family. Robson neither confirmed nor contradicted, and gave me the
notion of withholding much from regard for his employer. He lamented
the precipitation, but seemed willing to make excuses. He distinctly
said, he would not take it on himself to recommend Miss Ponsonby's
continuing her journey. He was right. If I had known all this, I
should still have brought her home. I must write an apology, as far
as her character is concerned; but, be that as it may, the marriage
is atrocious--an insult--a disgrace! He could not have waited six
weeks--'

'But I must go to Mary!' cried Louis, as though reproaching himself
for the delay. 'Oh! that she should have forced herself to that
wedding, and spared me!'

'I am coming with you,' said the Earl. 'She will require my personal
assurance that all this makes no difference to me.'

'I am more afraid of the difference it may make to her,' said Louis.
'You have never believed how fond she is of her father.'

On arriving, they were ushered into the room where Miss Ponsonby was
at breakfast, and a cup of tea and untasted roll showed where her
niece had been. She received them with stiff, upright chillness; and
to their hope that Mary was not unwell, replied--'Not very well. She
had been over-fatigued yesterday, and had followed her advice in
going to lie down.'

Louis began to imagine a determination to exclude him, and was
eagerly beginning to say that she had asked him to come that morning-
-could she not see him? when the lady continued, with the same
severity--'Until yesterday, I was not aware how much concern Lord
Fitzjocelyn had taken in what related to my niece.'

At that moment, when Louis's face was crimson with confusion and
impatience, the door was softly pushed ajar, and he heard himself
called in low, hoarse tones. Miss Ponsonby was rising with an air of
vexed surprise, but he never saw her, and, hastily crossing the room,
he shut the door behind him, and followed the form that flitted up
the stairs so fast, that he did not come up with her till she had
entered the drawing-room, and stood leaning against a chair to gather
breath. She was very pale, and her eyes looked as if she had cried
all night, but she controlled her voice to say, 'I could not bear
that you should hear it from Aunt Melicent.'

'We had letters this morning, dearest. Always thinking for me! But
I must think for you. You can hardly stand--'

He would have supported her to the sofa, but she shrank from him;
and, leaning more heavily on the chair, said--'Do you not know,
Louis, all that must be at an end?'

'I know no such thing. My father is here on purpose to assure you
that it makes not the slightest difference to him.'

'Yours! Yes! But oh, Louis!' with a voice that, in its faintness
and steadiness, had a sound of anguish--'only think what I allowed
him to make me do! To insult my father and his choice! It was a
mistake, I know,' she continued, fearing to be unjust and to grieve
Louis; 'but a most dreadful one!'

'He says he should have brought you home all the same--' began Louis.
'Mary, you must sit down!' he cried, interrupting himself to come
nearer; and she obeyed, sinking into the chair. 'What a state you
are in! How could you go through yesterday? How could you be
distressed, and not let me know?'

'I could not spoil their wedding-day, that we had wished for so
long.'

'Then you had the letter?'

'In the morning. Oh, that I had examined farther! Oh, that I had
never come home!'

'Mary! I cannot hear you say so.'

'You would have been spared all this. You were doing very well
without me--as you will--'

He cried out with deprecating horror.

'Louis!' she said, imploringly. 'Oh, Louis! do not make it harder
for me to do right.'

'Why--what? I don't understand! Your father has not so much as
heard how we stand together. He cannot be desiring you to give me
up.'

'He--he forbids me to enter on anything of the sort with you. I
don't know what made him think it possible, but he does. And--'
again Mary waited for the power of utterance, 'he orders me to come
out with Mrs. Willis, in the Valdivia, and it sails on the 12th of
December!'

'But Mary, Mary! you cannot be bound by this. It is only fair
towards him, towards all of us, to give him time to answer our
letters.'

Mary shook her head. 'The only condition, he says, on which he could
allow me to remain, would be if I were engaged to James Frost.'

'Too late for that, certainly,' said Louis; and the smile was a
relief to both. 'At any rate, it shows that he can spare you. Only
give him time. When he has my father's explanation--and my father is
certain to be so concerned at having cast any imputation on a lady.
His first thought was to apologize--'

'That is not all! I remember now that dear mamma always said she did
not know whether he would consent. Oh! how weak I was ever to
listen--'

'No, Mary, that must not be said. It was my presumptuous, inveterate
folly that prevented you from trusting my affection when she might
have helped us.'

'I don't know. It would have caused her anxiety and distress when
she was in no state for them. I don't think it did,' said Mary,
considering; 'I don't think she ever knew how much I cared.'

The admission could only do Louis's heart good, and he recurred to
his arguments that her father could be persuaded by such a letter as
he felt it in him to write.

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21 | 22 | 23 | 24 | 25 | 26 | 27