第 七 章 · Chapter VII

.

“_Perigot_. As the bonny lasse passed by,

_Willie_. Hey, ho, bonnilasse!

_P_. She roode at me with glauncing eye,

_W_. As clear as the crystal glasse.

_P_. All as the sunny beame so bright,

_W_. Hey, ho, the sunnebeame!

_P_. Glaunceth from Phoebus’ face forthright,

_W_. So love into thy heart did streame.”

—SPENSER: _Shepard’s Calendar_.

“The kindliest symptom, yet the most alarming crisis in the ticklish

state of youth; the nourisher and destroyer of hopeful wits; * * * the

servitude above freedom; the gentle mind’s religion; the liberal

superstition.”—CHARLES LAMB.

The first sign of the unimagined snow-storm was like the transparent

white cloud that seems to set off the blue. Anna was in the secret of

Rex’s feeling; though for the first time in their lives he had said

nothing to her about what he most thought of, and he only took it for

granted that she knew it. For the first time, too, Anna could not say

to Rex what was continually in her mind. Perhaps it might have been a

pain which she would have had to conceal, that he should so soon care

for some one else more than for herself, if such a feeling had not been

thoroughly neutralized by doubt and anxiety on his behalf. Anna admired

her cousin—would have said with simple sincerity, “Gwendolen is always

very good to me,” and held it in the order of things for herself to be

entirely subject to this cousin; but she looked at her with mingled

fear and distrust, with a puzzled contemplation as of some wondrous and

beautiful animal whose nature was a mystery, and who, for anything Anna

knew, might have an appetite for devouring all the small creatures that

were her own particular pets. And now Anna’s heart was sinking under

the heavy conviction which she dared not utter, that Gwendolen would

never care for Rex. What she herself held in tenderness and reverence

had constantly seemed indifferent to Gwendolen, and it was easier to

imagine her scorning Rex than returning any tenderness of his. Besides,

she was always thinking of being something extraordinary. And poor Rex!

Papa would be angry with him if he knew. And of course he was too young

to be in love in that way; and she, Anna had thought that it would be

years and years before any thing of that sort came, and that she would

be Rex’s housekeeper ever so long. But what a heart must that be which

did not return his love! Anna, in the prospect of his suffering, was

beginning to dislike her too fascinating cousin.

It seemed to her, as it did to Rex, that the weeks had been filled with

a tumultuous life evident to all observers: if he had been questioned

on the subject he would have said that he had no wish to conceal what

he hoped would be an engagement which he should immediately tell his

father of: and yet for the first time in his life he was reserved not

only about his feelings but—which was more remarkable to Anna—about

certain actions. She, on her side, was nervous each time her father or

mother began to speak to her in private lest they should say anything

about Rex and Gwendolen. But the elders were not in the least alive to

this agitating drama, which went forward chiefly in a sort of pantomime

extremely lucid in the minds thus expressing themselves, but easily

missed by spectators who were running their eyes over the _Guardian_ or

the _Clerical Gazette_, and regarded the trivialities of the young ones

with scarcely more interpretation than they gave to the action of

lively ants.

“Where are you going, Rex?” said Anna one gray morning when her father

had set off in his carriage to the sessions, Mrs. Gascoigne with him,

and she had observed that her brother had on his antigropelos, the

utmost approach he possessed to a hunting equipment.

“Going to see the hounds throw off at the Three Barns.”

“Are you going to take Gwendolen?” said Anna, timidly.

“She told you, did she?”

“No, but I thought—Does papa know you are going?”

“Not that I am aware of. I don’t suppose he would trouble himself about

the matter.”

“You are going to use his horse?”

“He knows I do that whenever I can.”

“Don’t let Gwendolen ride after the hounds, Rex,” said Anna, whose

fears gifted her with second-sight.

“Why not?” said Rex, smiling rather provokingly.

“Papa and mamma and aunt Davilow all wish her not to. They think it is

not right for her.”

“Why should you suppose she is going to do what is not right?”

“Gwendolen minds nobody sometimes,” said Anna getting bolder by dint of

a little anger.

“Then she would not mind me,” said Rex, perversely making a joke of

poor Anna’s anxiety.

“Oh Rex, I cannot bear it. You will make yourself very unhappy.” Here

Anna burst into tears.

“Nannie, Nannie, what on earth is the matter with you?” said Rex, a

little impatient at being kept in this way, hat on and whip in hand.

“She will not care for you one bit—I know she never will!” said the

poor child in a sobbing whisper. She had lost all control of herself.

Rex reddened and hurried away from her out of the hall door, leaving

her to the miserable consciousness of having made herself disagreeable

in vain.

He did think of her words as he rode along; they had the unwelcomeness

which all unfavorable fortune-telling has, even when laughed at; but he

quickly explained them as springing from little Anna’s tenderness, and

began to be sorry that he was obliged to come away without soothing

her. Every other feeling on the subject, however, was quickly merged in

a resistant belief to the contrary of hers, accompanied with a new

determination to prove that he was right. This sort of certainty had

just enough kinship to doubt and uneasiness to hurry on a confession

which an untouched security might have delayed.

Gwendolen was already mounted and riding up and down the avenue when

Rex appeared at the gate. She had provided herself against

disappointment in case he did not appear in time by having the groom

ready behind her, for she would not have waited beyond a reasonable

time. But now the groom was dismissed, and the two rode away in

delightful freedom. Gwendolen was in her highest spirits, and Rex

thought that she had never looked so lovely before; her figure, her

long white throat, and the curves of her cheek and chin were always set

off to perfection by the compact simplicity of her riding dress. He

could not conceive a more perfect girl; and to a youthful lover like

Rex it seems that the fundamental identity of the good, the true and

the beautiful, is already extant and manifest in the object of his

love. Most observers would have held it more than equally accountable

that a girl should have like impressions about Rex, for in his handsome

face there was nothing corresponding to the undefinable stinging

quality—as it were a trace of demon ancestry—which made some

beholders hesitate in their admiration of Gwendolen.

It was an exquisite January morning in which there was no threat of

rain, but a gray sky making the calmest background for the charms of a

mild winter scene—the grassy borders of the lanes, the hedgerows

sprinkled with red berries and haunted with low twitterings, the purple

bareness of the elms, the rich brown of the furrows. The horses’ hoofs

made a musical chime, accompanying their young voices. She was laughing

at his equipment, for he was the reverse of a dandy, and he was

enjoying her laughter; the freshness of the morning mingled with the

freshness of their youth; and every sound that came from their clear

throats, every glance they gave each other, was the bubbling outflow

from a spring of joy. It was all morning to them, within and without.

And thinking of them in these moments one is tempted to that futile

sort of wishing—if only things could have been a little otherwise

then, so as to have been greatly otherwise after—if only these two

beautiful young creatures could have pledged themselves to each other

then and there, and never through life have swerved from that pledge!

For some of the goodness which Rex believed in was there. Goodness is a

large, often a prospective word; like harvest, which at one stage when

we talk of it lies all underground, with an indeterminate future; is

the germ prospering in the darkness? at another, it has put forth

delicate green blades, and by-and-by the trembling blossoms are ready

to be dashed off by an hour of rough wind or rain. Each stage has its

peculiar blight, and may have the healthy life choked out of it by a

particular action of the foul land which rears or neighbors it, or by

damage brought from foulness afar.

“Anna had got it into her head that you would want to ride after the

hounds this morning,” said Rex, whose secret associations with Anna’s

words made this speech seem quite perilously near the most momentous of

subjects.

“Did she?” said Gwendolen, laughingly. “What a little clairvoyant she

is!”

“Shall you?” said Rex, who had not believed in her intending to do it

if the elders objected, but confided in her having good reasons.

“I don’t know. I can’t tell what I shall do till I get there.

Clairvoyants are often wrong: they foresee what is likely. I am not

fond of what is likely: it is always dull. I do what is unlikely.”

“Ah, there you tell me a secret. When once I knew what people in

general would be likely to do, I should know you would do the opposite.

So you would have come round to a likelihood of your own sort. I shall

be able to calculate on you. You couldn’t surprise me.”

“Yes, I could. I should turn round and do what was likely for people in

general,” said Gwendolen, with a musical laugh.

“You see you can’t escape some sort of likelihood. And

contradictoriness makes the strongest likelihood of all. You must give

up a plan.”

“No, I shall not. My plan is to do what pleases me.” (Here should any

young lady incline to imitate Gwendolen, let her consider the set of

her head and neck: if the angle there had been different, the chin

protrusive, and the cervical vertebrae a trifle more curved in their

position, ten to one Gwendolen’s words would have had a jar in them for

the sweet-natured Rex. But everything odd in her speech was humor and

pretty banter, which he was only anxious to turn toward one point.)

“Can you manage to feel only what pleases you?” said he.

“Of course not; that comes from what other people do. But if the world

were pleasanter, one would only feel what was pleasant. Girls’ lives

are so stupid: they never do what they like.”

“I thought that was more the case of the men. They are forced to do

hard things, and are often dreadfully bored, and knocked to pieces too.

And then, if we love a girl very dearly we want to do as she likes, so

after all you have your own way.”

“I don’t believe it. I never saw a married woman who had her own way.”

“What should you like to do?” said Rex, quite guilelessly, and in real

anxiety.

“Oh, I don’t know!—go to the North Pole, or ride steeple-chases, or go

to be a queen in the East like Lady Hester Stanhope,” said Gwendolen,

flightily. Her words were born on her lips, but she would have been at

a loss to give an answer of deeper origin.

“You don’t mean you would never be married?”

“No; I didn’t say that. Only when I married, I should not do as other

women do.”

“You might do just as you liked if you married a man who loved you more

dearly than anything else in the world,” said Rex, who, poor youth, was

moving in themes outside the curriculum in which he had promised to win

distinction. “I know one who does.”

“Don’t talk of Mr. Middleton, for heaven’s sake,” said Gwendolen,

hastily, a quick blush spreading over her face and neck; “that is

Anna’s chant. I hear the hounds. Let us go on.”

She put her chestnut to a canter, and Rex had no choice but to follow

her. Still he felt encouraged. Gwendolen was perfectly aware that her

cousin was in love with her; but she had no idea that the matter was of

any consequence, having never had the slightest visitation of painful

love herself. She wished the small romance of Rex’s devotion to fill up

the time of his stay at Pennicote, and to avoid explanations which

would bring it to an untimely end. Besides, she objected, with a sort

of physical repulsion, to being directly made love to. With all her

imaginative delight in being adored, there was a certain fierceness of

maidenhood in her.

But all other thoughts were soon lost for her in the excitement of the

scene at the Three Barns. Several gentlemen of the hunt knew her, and

she exchanged pleasant greetings. Rex could not get another word with

her. The color, the stir of the field had taken possession of Gwendolen

with a strength which was not due to habitual associations, for she had

never yet ridden after the hounds—only said she should like to do it,

and so drawn forth a prohibition; her mamma dreading the danger, and

her uncle declaring that for his part he held that kind of violent

exercise unseemly in a woman, and that whatever might be done in other

parts of the country, no lady of good position followed the Wessex

hunt: no one but Mrs. Gadsby, the yeomanry captain’s wife, who had been

a kitchenmaid and still spoke like one. This last argument had some

effect on Gwendolen, and had kept her halting between her desire to

assert her freedom and her horror of being classed with Mrs. Gadsby.

Some of the most unexceptionable women in the neighborhood occasionally

went to see the hounds throw off; but it happened that none of them

were present this morning to abstain from following, while Mrs. Gadsby,

with her doubtful antecedents, grammatical and otherwise, was not

visible to make following seem unbecoming. Thus Gwendolen felt no check

on the animal stimulus that came from the stir and tongue of the

hounds, the pawing of the horses, the varying voices of men, the

movement hither and thither of vivid color on the background of green

and gray stillness:—that utmost excitement of the coming chase which

consists in feeling something like a combination of dog and horse, with

the superadded thrill of social vanities and consciousness of

centaur-power which belongs to humankind.

Rex would have felt more of the same enjoyment if he could have kept

nearer to Gwendolen, and not seen her constantly occupied with

acquaintances, or looked at by would-be acquaintances, all on lively

horses which veered about and swept the surrounding space as

effectually as a revolving lever.

“Glad to see you here this fine morning, Miss Harleth,” said Lord

Brackenshaw, a middle-aged peer of aristocratic seediness in stained

pink, with easy-going manners which would have made the threatened

deluge seem of no consequence. “We shall have a first-rate run. A pity

you didn’t go with us. Have you ever tried your little chestnut at a

ditch? you wouldn’t be afraid, eh?”

“Not the least in the world,” said Gwendolen. And that was true: she

was never fearful in action and companionship. “I have often taken him

at some rails and a ditch too, near—”

“Ah, by Jove!” said his lordship, quietly, in notation that something

was happening which must break off the dialogue: and as he reined off

his horse, Rex was bringing his sober hackney up to Gwendolen’s side

when—the hounds gave tongue, and the whole field was in motion as if

the whirl of the earth were carrying it; Gwendolen along with

everything else; no word of notice to Rex, who without a second thought

followed too. Could he let Gwendolen go alone? under other

circumstances he would have enjoyed the run, but he was just now

perturbed by the check which had been put on the impetus to utter his

love, and get utterance in return, an impetus which could not at once

resolve itself into a totally different sort of chase, at least with

the consciousness of being on his father’s gray nag, a good horse

enough in his way, but of sober years and ecclesiastical habits.

Gwendolen on her spirited little chestnut was up with the best, and

felt as secure as an immortal goddess, having, if she had thought of

risk, a core of confidence that no ill luck would happen to her. But

she thought of no such thing, and certainly not of any risk there might

be for her cousin. If she had thought of him, it would have struck her

as a droll picture that he should be gradually falling behind, and

looking round in search of gates: a fine lithe youth, whose heart must

be panting with all the spirit of a beagle, stuck as if under a

wizard’s spell on a stiff clerical hackney, would have made her laugh

with a sense of fun much too strong for her to reflect on his

mortification. But Gwendolen was apt to think rather of those who saw

her than of those whom she could not see; and Rex was soon so far

behind that if she had looked she would not have seen him. For I grieve

to say that in the search for a gate, along a lane lately mended,

Primrose fell, broke his knees, and undesignedly threw Rex over his

head.

Fortunately a blacksmith’s son who also followed the hounds under

disadvantages, namely, on foot (a loose way of hunting which had struck

some even frivolous minds as immoral), was naturally also in the rear,

and happened to be within sight of Rex’s misfortune. He ran to give

help which was greatly needed, for Rex was a great deal stunned, and

the complete recovery of sensation came in the form of pain. Joel Dagge

on this occasion showed himself that most useful of personages, whose

knowledge is of a kind suited to the immediate occasion: he not only

knew perfectly well what was the matter with the horse, how far they

were both from the nearest public-house and from Pennicote Rectory, and

could certify to Rex that his shoulder was only a bit out of joint, but

also offered experienced surgical aid.

“Lord, sir, let me shove it in again for you! I’s seen Nash, the

bone-setter, do it, and done it myself for our little Sally twice over.

It’s all one and the same, shoulders is. If you’ll trusten to me and

tighten your mind up a bit, I’ll do it for you in no time.”

“Come then, old fellow,” said Rex, who could tighten his mind better

than his seat in the saddle. And Joel managed the operation, though not

without considerable expense of pain to his patient, who turned so

pitiably pale while tightening his mind, that Joel remarked, “Ah, sir,

you aren’t used to it, that’s how it is. I’s see lots and lots o’

joints out. I see a man with his eye pushed out once—that was a rum go

as ever I see. You can’t have a bit o’ fun wi’out such sort o’ things.

But it went in again. I’s swallowed three teeth mysen, as sure as I’m

alive. Now, sirrey” (this was addressed to Primrose), “come alonk—you

musn’t make believe as you can’t.”

Joel being clearly a low character, it is, happily, not necessary to

say more of him to the refined reader, than that he helped Rex to get

home with as little delay as possible. There was no alternative but to

get home, though all the while he was in anxiety about Gwendolen, and

more miserable in the thought that she, too, might have had an

accident, than in the pain of his own bruises and the annoyance he was

about to cause his father. He comforted himself about her by reflecting

that every one would be anxious to take care of her, and that some

acquaintance would be sure to conduct her home.

Mr. Gascoigne was already at home, and was writing letters in his

study, when he was interrupted by seeing poor Rex come in with a face

which was not the less handsome and ingratiating for being pale and a

little distressed. He was secretly the favorite son, and a young

portrait of the father; who, however, never treated him with any

partiality—rather, with an extra rigor. Mr. Gascoigne having inquired

of Anna, knew that Rex had gone with Gwendolen to the meet at the Three

Barns.

“What is the matter?” he said hastily, not laying down his pen.

“I’m very sorry, sir; Primrose has fallen down and broken his knees.”

“Where have you been with him?” said Mr. Gascoigne, with a touch of

severity. He rarely gave way to temper.

“To the Three Barns to see the hounds throw off.”

“And you were fool enough to follow?”

“Yes, sir. I didn’t go at any fences, but the horse got his leg into a

hole.”

“And you got hurt yourself, I hope, eh!”

“I got my shoulder put out, but a young blacksmith put it in again for

me. I’m just a little battered, that’s all.”

“Well, sit down.”

“I’m very sorry about the horse, sir; I knew it would be a vexation to

you.”

“And what has become of Gwendolen?” said Mr. Gascoigne, abruptly. Rex,

who did not imagine that his father had made any inquiries about him,

answered at first with a blush, which was the more remarkable for his

previous paleness. Then he said, nervously,

“I am anxious to know—I should like to go or send at once to

Offendene—but she rides so well, and I think she would keep up—there

would most likely be many round her.”

“I suppose it was she who led you on, eh?” said Mr. Gascoigne, laying

down his pen, leaning back in his chair, and looking at Rex with more

marked examination.

“It was natural for her to want to go: she didn’t intend it

beforehand—she was led away by the spirit of the thing. And, of

course, I went when she went.”

Mr. Gascoigne left a brief interval of silence, and then said, with

quiet irony,—“But now you observe, young gentleman, that you are not

furnished with a horse which will enable you to play the squire to your

cousin. You must give up that amusement. You have spoiled my nag for

me, and that is enough mischief for one vacation. I shall beg you to

get ready to start for Southampton to-morrow and join Stilfox, till you

go up to Oxford with him. That will be good for your bruises as well as

your studies.”

Poor Rex felt his heart swelling and comporting itself as if it had

been no better than a girl’s.

“I hope you will not insist on my going immediately, sir.”

“Do you feel too ill?”

“No, not that—but—” here Rex bit his lips and felt the tears

starting, to his great vexation; then he rallied and tried to say more

firmly, “I want to go to Offendene, but I can go this evening.”

“I am going there myself. I can bring word about Gwendolen, if that is

what you want.”

Rex broke down. He thought he discerned an intention fatal to his

happiness, nay, his life. He was accustomed to believe in his father’s

penetration, and to expect firmness. “Father, I can’t go away without

telling her that I love her, and knowing that she loves me.”

Mr. Gascoigne was inwardly going through some self-rebuke for not being

more wary, and was now really sorry for the lad; but every

consideration was subordinate to that of using the wisest tactics in

the case. He had quickly made up his mind and to answer the more

quietly,

“My dear boy, you are too young to be taking momentous, decisive steps

of that sort. This is a fancy which you have got into your head during

an idle week or two: you must set to work at something and dismiss it.

There is every reason against it. An engagement at your age would be

totally rash and unjustifiable; and moreover, alliances between first

cousins are undesirable. Make up your mind to a brief disappointment.

Life is full of them. We have all got to be broken in; and this is a

mild beginning for you.”

“No, not mild. I can’t bear it. I shall be good for nothing. I

shouldn’t mind anything, if it were settled between us. I could do

anything then,” said Rex, impetuously. “But it’s of no use to pretend

that I will obey you. I can’t do it. If I said I would, I should be

sure to break my word. I should see Gwendolen again.”

“Well, wait till to-morrow morning, that we may talk of the matter

again—you will promise me that,” said Mr. Gascoigne, quietly; and Rex

did not, could not refuse.

The rector did not even tell his wife that he had any other reason for

going to Offendene that evening than his desire to ascertain that

Gwendolen had got home safely. He found her more than safe—elated. Mr.

Quallon, who had won the brush, had delivered the trophy to her, and

she had brought it before her, fastened on the saddle; more than that,

Lord Brackenshaw had conducted her home, and had shown himself

delighted with her spirited riding. All this was told at once to her

uncle, that he might see how well justified she had been in acting

against his advice; and the prudential rector did feel himself in a

slight difficulty, for at that moment he was particularly sensible that

it was his niece’s serious interest to be well regarded by the

Brackenshaws, and their opinion as to her following the hounds really

touched the essence of his objection. However, he was not obliged to

say anything immediately, for Mrs. Davilow followed up Gwendolen’s

brief triumphant phrases with,

“Still, I do hope you will not do it again, Gwendolen. I should never

have a moment’s quiet. Her father died by an accident, you know.”

Here Mrs. Davilow had turned away from Gwendolen, and looked at Mr.

Gascoigne.

“Mamma, dear,” said Gwendolen, kissing her merrily, and passing over

the question of the fears which Mrs. Davilow had meant to account for,

“children don’t take after their parents in broken legs.”

Not one word had yet been said about Rex. In fact there had been no

anxiety about him at Offendene. Gwendolen had observed to her mamma,

“Oh, he must have been left far behind, and gone home in despair,” and

it could not be denied that this was fortunate so far as it made way

for Lord Brackenshaw’s bringing her home. But now Mr. Gascoigne said,

with some emphasis, looking at Gwendolen,

“Well, the exploit has ended better for you than for Rex.”

“Yes, I dare say he had to make a terrible round. You have not taught

Primrose to take the fences, uncle,” said Gwendolen, without the

faintest shade of alarm in her looks and tone.

“Rex has had a fall,” said Mr. Gascoigne, curtly, throwing himself into

an arm-chair resting his elbows and fitting his palms and fingers

together, while he closed his lips and looked at Gwendolen, who said,

“Oh, poor fellow! he is not hurt, I hope?” with a correct look of

anxiety such as elated mortals try to super-induce when their pulses

are all the while quick with triumph; and Mrs. Davilow, in the same

moment, uttered a low “Good heavens! There!”

Mr. Gascoigne went on: “He put his shoulder out, and got some bruises,

I believe.” Here he made another little pause of observation; but

Gwendolen, instead of any such symptoms as pallor and silence, had only

deepened the compassionateness of her brow and eyes, and said again,

“Oh, poor fellow! it is nothing serious, then?” and Mr. Gascoigne held

his diagnosis complete. But he wished to make assurance doubly sure,

and went on still with a purpose.

“He got his arm set again rather oddly. Some blacksmith—not a

parishioner of mine—was on the field—a loose fish, I suppose, but

handy, and set the arm for him immediately. So after all, I believe, I

and Primrose come off worst. The horse’s knees are cut to pieces. He

came down in a hole, it seems, and pitched Rex over his head.”

Gwendolen’s face had allowably become contented again, since Rex’s arm

had been reset; and now, at the descriptive suggestions in the latter

part of her uncle’s speech, her elated spirits made her features less

unmanageable than usual; the smiles broke forth, and finally a

descending scale of laughter.

“You are a pretty young lady—to laugh at other people’s calamities,”

said Mr. Gascoigne, with a milder sense of disapprobation than if he

had not had counteracting reasons to be glad that Gwendolen showed no

deep feeling on the occasion.

“Pray forgive me, uncle. Now Rex is safe, it is so droll to fancy the

figure he and Primrose would cut—in a lane all by themselves—only a

blacksmith running up. It would make a capital caricature of ‘Following

the Hounds.’”

Gwendolen rather valued herself on her superior freedom in laughing

where others might only see matter for seriousness. Indeed, the

laughter became her person so well that her opinion of its gracefulness

was often shared by others; and it even entered into her uncle’s course

of thought at this moment, that it was no wonder a boy should be

fascinated by this young witch—who, however, was more mischievous than

could be desired.

“How can you laugh at broken bones, child?” said Mrs. Davilow, still

under her dominant anxiety. “I wish we had never allowed you to have

the horse. You will see that we were wrong,” she added, looking with a

grave nod at Mr. Gascoigne—“at least I was, to encourage her in asking

for it.”

“Yes, seriously, Gwendolen,” said Mr. Gascoigne, in a judicious tone of

rational advice to a person understood to be altogether rational, “I

strongly recommend you—I shall ask you to oblige me so far—not to

repeat your adventure of to-day. Lord Brackenshaw is very kind, but I

feel sure that he would concur with me in what I say. To be spoken of

as ‘the young lady who hunts’ by way of exception, would give a tone to

the language about you which I am sure you would not like. Depend upon

it, his lordship would not choose that Lady Beatrice or Lady Maria

should hunt in this part of the country, if they were old enough to do

so. When you are married, it will be different: you may do whatever

your husband sanctions. But if you intend to hunt, you must marry a man

who can keep horses.”

“I don’t know why I should do anything so horrible as to marry without

_that_ prospect, at least,” said Gwendolen, pettishly. Her uncle’s

speech had given her annoyance, which she could not show more directly;

but she felt that she was committing herself, and after moving

carelessly to another part of the room, went out.

“She always speaks in that way about marriage,” said Mrs. Davilow; “but

it will be different when she has seen the right person.”

“Her heart has never been in the least touched, that you know of?” said

Mr. Gascoigne.

Mrs. Davilow shook her head silently. “It was only last night she said

to me, ‘Mamma, I wonder how girls manage to fall in love. It is easy to

make them do it in books. But men are too ridiculous.’”

Mr. Gascoigne laughed a little, and made no further remark on the

subject. The next morning at breakfast he said,

“How are your bruises, Rex?”

“Oh, not very mellow yet, sir; only beginning to turn a little.”

“You don’t feel quite ready for a journey to Southampton?”

“Not quite,” answered Rex, with his heart metaphorically in his mouth.

“Well, you can wait till to-morrow, and go to say good-bye to them at

Offendene.”

Mrs. Gascoigne, who now knew the whole affair, looked steadily at her

coffee lest she also should begin to cry, as Anna was doing already.

Mr. Gascoigne felt that he was applying a sharp remedy to poor Rex’s

acute attack, but he believed it to be in the end the kindest. To let

him know the hopelessness of his love from Gwendolen’s own lips might

be curative in more ways than one.

“I can only be thankful that she doesn’t care about him,” said Mrs.

Gascoigne, when she joined her husband in his study. “There are things

in Gwendolen I cannot reconcile myself to. My Anna is worth two of her,

with all her beauty and talent. It looks very ill in her that she will

not help in the schools with Anna—not even in the Sunday-school. What

you or I advise is of no consequence to her: and poor Fannie is

completely under her thumb. But I know you think better of her,” Mrs.

Gascoigne ended with a deferential hesitation.

“Oh, my dear, there is no harm in the girl. It is only that she has a

high spirit, and it will not do to hold the reins too tight. The point

is, to get her well married. She has a little too much fire in her for

her present life with her mother and sisters. It is natural and right

that she should be married soon—not to a poor man, but one who can

give her a fitting position.”

Presently Rex, with his arm in a sling, was on his two miles’ walk to

Offendene. He was rather puzzled by the unconditional permission to see

Gwendolen, but his father’s real ground of action could not enter into

his conjectures. If it had, he would first have thought it horribly

cold-blooded, and then have disbelieved in his father’s conclusions.

When he got to the house, everybody was there but Gwendolen. The four

girls, hearing him speak in the hall, rushed out of the library, which

was their school-room, and hung round him with compassionate inquiries

about his arm. Mrs. Davilow wanted to know exactly what had happened,

and where the blacksmith lived, that she might make him a present;

while Miss Merry, who took a subdued and melancholy part in all family

affairs, doubted whether it would not be giving too much encouragement

to that kind of character. Rex had never found the family troublesome

before, but just now he wished them all away and Gwendolen there, and

he was too uneasy for good-natured feigning. When at last he had said,

“Where is Gwendolen?” and Mrs. Davilow had told Alice to go and see if

her sister were come down, adding, “I sent up her breakfast this

morning. She needed a long rest.” Rex took the shortest way out of his

endurance by saying, almost impatiently, “Aunt, I want to speak to

Gwendolen—I want to see her alone.”

“Very well, dear; go into the drawing-room. I will send her there,”

said Mrs. Davilow, who had observed that he was fond of being with

Gwendolen, as was natural, but had not thought of this as having any

bearing on the realities of life: it seemed merely part of the

Christmas holidays which were spinning themselves out.

Rex for his part thought that the realities of life were all hanging on

this interview. He had to walk up and down the drawing-room in

expectation for nearly ten minutes—ample space for all imaginative

fluctuations; yet, strange to say, he was unvaryingly occupied in

thinking what and how much he could do, when Gwendolen had accepted

him, to satisfy his father that the engagement was the most prudent

thing in the world, since it inspired him with double energy for work.

He was to be a lawyer, and what reason was there why he should not rise

as high as Eldon did? He was forced to look at life in the light of his

father’s mind.

But when the door opened and she whose presence he was longing for

entered, there came over him suddenly and mysteriously a state of

tremor and distrust which he had never felt before. Miss Gwendolen,

simple as she stood there, in her black silk, cut square about the

round white pillar of her throat, a black band fastening her hair which

streamed backward in smooth silky abundance, seemed more queenly than

usual. Perhaps it was that there was none of the latent fun and

tricksiness which had always pierced in her greeting of Rex. How much

of this was due to her presentiment from what he had said yesterday

that he was going to talk of love? How much from her desire to show

regret about his accident? Something of both. But the wisdom of ages

has hinted that there is a side of the bed which has a malign influence

if you happen to get out on it; and this accident befalls some charming

persons rather frequently. Perhaps it had befallen Gwendolen this

morning. The hastening of her toilet, the way in which Bugle used the

brush, the quality of the shilling serial mistakenly written for her

amusement, the probabilities of the coming day, and, in short, social

institutions generally, were all objectionable to her. It was not that

she was out of temper, but that the world was not equal to the demands

of her fine organism.

However it might be, Rex saw an awful majesty about her as she entered

and put out her hand to him, without the least approach to a smile in

eyes or mouth. The fun which had moved her in the evening had quite

evaporated from the image of his accident, and the whole affair seemed

stupid to her. But she said with perfect propriety, “I hope you are not

much hurt, Rex; I deserve that you should reproach me for your

accident.”

“Not at all,” said Rex, feeling the soul within him spreading itself

like an attack of illness. “There is hardly any thing the matter with

me. I am so glad you had the pleasure: I would willingly pay for it by

a tumble, only I was sorry to break the horse’s knees.”

Gwendolen walked to the hearth and stood looking at the fire in the

most inconvenient way for conversation, so that he could only get a

side view of her face.

“My father wants me to go to Southampton for the rest of the vacation,”

said Rex, his baritone trembling a little.

“Southampton! That’s a stupid place to go to, isn’t it?” said

Gwendolen, chilly.

“It would be to me, because you would not be there.” Silence.

“Should you mind about me going away, Gwendolen?”

“Of course. Every one is of consequence in this dreary country,” said

Gwendolen, curtly. The perception that poor Rex wanted to be tender

made her curl up and harden like a sea-anemone at the touch of a finger.

“Are you angry with me, Gwendolen? Why do you treat me in this way all

at once?” said Rex, flushing, and with more spirit in his voice, as if

he too were capable of being angry.

Gwendolen looked round at him and smiled. “Treat you? Nonsense! I am

only rather cross. Why did you come so very early? You must expect to

find tempers in dishabille.”

“Be as cross with me as you like—only don’t treat me with

indifference,” said Rex, imploringly. “All the happiness of my life

depends on your loving me—if only a little—better than any one else.”

He tried to take her hand, but she hastily eluded his grasp and moved

to the other end of the hearth, facing him.

“Pray don’t make love to me! I hate it!” she looked at him fiercely.

Rex turned pale and was silent, but could not take his eyes off her,

and the impetus was not yet exhausted that made hers dart death at him.

Gwendolen herself could not have foreseen that she should feel in this

way. It was all a sudden, new experience to her. The day before she had

been quite aware that her cousin was in love with her; she did not mind

how much, so that he said nothing about it; and if any one had asked

her why she objected to love-making speeches, she would have said,

laughingly, “Oh I am tired of them all in the books.” But now the life

of passion had begun negatively in her. She felt passionately averse to

this volunteered love.

To Rex at twenty the joy of life seemed at an end more absolutely than

it can do to a man at forty. But before they had ceased to look at each

other, he did speak again.

“Is that last word you have to say to me, Gwendolen? Will it always be

so?”

She could not help seeing his wretchedness and feeling a little regret

for the old Rex who had not offended her. Decisively, but yet with some

return of kindness, she said,

“About making love? Yes. But I don’t dislike you for anything else.”

There was just a perceptible pause before he said a low “good-bye,” and

passed out of the room. Almost immediately after, she heard the heavy

hall door bang behind him.

Mrs. Davilow, too, had heard Rex’s hasty departure, and presently came

into the drawing-room, where she found Gwendolen seated on the low

couch, her face buried, and her hair falling over her figure like a

garment. She was sobbing bitterly. “My child, my child, what is it?”

cried the mother, who had never before seen her darling struck down in

this way, and felt something of the alarmed anguish that women, feel at

the sight of overpowering sorrow in a strong man; for this child had

been her ruler. Sitting down by her with circling arms, she pressed her

cheek against Gwendolen’s head, and then tried to draw it upward.

Gwendolen gave way, and letting her head rest against her mother, cried

out sobbingly, “Oh, mamma, what can become of my life? there is nothing

worth living for!”

“Why, dear?” said Mrs. Davilow. Usually she herself had been rebuked by

her daughter for involuntary signs of despair.

“I shall never love anybody. I can’t love people. I hate them.”

“The time will come, dear, the time will come.”

Gwendolen was more and more convulsed with sobbing; but putting her

arms round her mother’s neck with an almost painful clinging, she said

brokenly, “I can’t bear any one to be very near me but you.”

Then the mother began to sob, for this spoiled child had never shown

such dependence on her before: and so they clung to each other.