TO postpone the self-sacrifice of an enthusiast for weeks, or even for days, is the hardest of all tests, and a trial almost beyond the power of flesh and blood. Upheld by religious fervour, the human soul may be equal to this or any other test; but in lesser matters, and specially in those self-sacrifices prompted by generosity, which to the youthful hero or heroine seem at the first glance so inevitable, so indispensable, things which no noble mind would shrink from, the process of waiting is a terrible ordeal.
He, or still more, she, who would have given life itself, happiness, anything, everything that is most prized in existence, with a light heart, and the most perfect conviction at the moment, becomes, as the days go by, the victim of a hundred chilling doubts and questions. Her courage, like that of Bob Acres, oozes out at her finger-ends. She is brought to the bar of a thousand suppressed, yet never extinguished, reasonings.
Is it right to feign love even for her lover’s sake?—is it right to do another so great an injury as to delude him into the thought that he is making you happy, while, in reality, you are sacrificing all happiness for him? Is it right——? but these questions are so manifold and endless that it is vain to enumerate them.
Effie had been the victim of this painful process for three long lingering weeks. She had little, very little, to support her in her determination. The papers had been full of the great bankruptcy, of details of Dirom’s escape, and of the valuable papers and securities which had disappeared with him: and with a shiver Effie had understood that the scene she had seen unawares through the window had meant far more than even her sense of mystery and secrecy in it could have helped her to divine.
The incidents of that wonderful night—the arguments of the mother and sisters, who had declared that the proposed expedition would be nothing but an embarrassment to Fred—her return ashamed and miserable in the carriage into which they had thrust her—had been fatal to the fervour of the enthusiasm which had made her at first capable of anything. Looking back upon it now, it was with an overwhelming shame that she recognized the folly of that first idea. Effie had grown half-a-dozen years older in a single night. She imagined what might have happened had she carried out that wild intention, with one of those scathing and burning blushes which seem to scorch the very soul. She imagined Fred’s look of wonder, his uneasiness, perhaps his anger at her folly which placed him in so embarrassing a position.
Effie felt that, had she seen those feelings in his eyes even for a moment, she would have died of shame. He had written to her, warmly thanking her for her “sympathy,” for her “generous feeling,” for the telegram (of which she knew nothing) which had been so consolatory to him, for the “unselfishness,” the “beautiful, brave thought” she had for a moment entertained of coming to him, of standing by him.
“Thank you, dearest, for this lovely quixotism,” he had said; “it was like my Effie,” as if it had been a mere impulse of girlish tenderness, and not the terrible sacrifice of a life which she had intended it to be. This letter had been overwhelming to Effie, notwithstanding, or perhaps by reason of, its thanks and praises. He had, it was clear, no insight into her mind, no real knowledge of her at all. He had never divined anything, never seen below the surface.
If she had done what she intended, if she had indeed gone to him, he living as he was! Effie felt as if she must sink into the ground when she realized this possibility. And as she did so, her heart failed her, her courage, her strength oozed away: and there was no one to whom she could speak. Doris and Phyllis came to see her now and then, but there was no encouragement in them. They were going abroad; they had ceased to make any reference to that independent action on their own part which was to have followed disaster to the firm. There was indeed in their conversation no account made of any downfall; their calculations about their travels were all made on the ground of wealth. And Fred had taken refuge in his studio they said—he was going to be an artist, as he had always wished: he was going to devote himself to art: they said this with a significance which Effie in her simplicity did not catch, for she was not aware that devotion to Art interfered with the other arrangements of life. And this was all. She had no encouragement on that side, and her resolution, her courage, her strength of purpose, her self-devotion oozed away.
Strangely enough, the only moral support she had was from Ronald, who met her with that preternaturally grave face, and asked for Fred, whom he had never asked for before, and said something inarticulate which Effie understood, to the effect that he for one would never put difficulties in her way. What did he mean? No one could have explained it—not even himself: and yet Effie knew. Ronald had the insight which Fred, with those foolish praises of her generosity and her quixotism, did not possess.
And so the days went on, with a confusion in the girl’s mind which it would be hopeless to describe. Her whole life seemed to hang in a balance, wavering wildly between earth and heaven. What was to be done with it? What was she to do with it? Eric was on his way home, and would arrive shortly, for his sister’s marriage, and all the embarrassment of that meeting lay before her, taking away the natural delight of it, which at another moment would have been so sweet to Effie. Even Uncle John was of little advantage to her in this pause. He accompanied her in her walks, saying little. Neither of them knew what to say. All the wedding preparations had come to a standstill, tacitly, without any explanation made; and in the face of Fred’s silence on the subject Effie could say nothing, neither could her champion say anything about the fulfilment of her engagement.
Mrs. Ogilvie, on the other hand, was full of certainty and self-satisfaction.
“He has just acted as I expected, like a gentleman,” she said, “making no unpleasantness. He is unfortunate in his connections, poor young man; but I always said that there was the makings of a real gentleman in young Dirom. You see I have just been very right in my calculations. He has taken my letter in the right spirit. How could he do otherwise? He had the sense to see at once that Robert could never give his daughter to a ruined man.”
“There could not be two opinions on that subject,” said her husband, still more satisfied with himself.
“There might, I think, be many opinions,” the minister said, mildly. “If two young people love each other, and stick to it, there is no father but will be vanquished by them at the end.”
“That’s all your sentimentality,” said Mr. Ogilvie. “Let them come and tell me about their love as you call it, they would soon get their answer. Any decent young woman, let alone a girl brought up like Effie, would think shame.”
“Effie will not think shame,” said Mr. Moubray: “if the young man is equal to Mrs. Ogilvie’s opinion of him. You will have to make up your mind to encounter your own child, Robert—which is far harder work than to meet a stranger—in mortal conflict. For Effie will never take your view of the matter. She will not see that misfortune has anything to do with it. She will say that what was done for good fortune was done for bad. She will stand by him.”
“Hoots,” said Mrs. Ogilvie. “I am not ashamed to name the name of love for my part. There was no love on Effie’s side. No, no, her heart was never in it. It is just a blaze of generosity and that kind of thing. You need have no trouble so far as that is concerned. When she sees that it’s not understood, her feeling will just die out, like that lowing of thorns under the pot which is mentioned in Scripture: or most likely she will take offence—and that will be still better. For he will not press it, partly because he will think it’s not honourable, and partly because he has to struggle for himself and has the sense to see it will be far better not to burden himself with a wife.”
“If you were so sure there was no love on Effie’s side, why did you let it go on?” said Mr. Moubray with a little severity.
“Why did I let it go on? just for the best reason in the world—because at that time he was an excellent match. Was I to let her ruin the best sitting down in all the countryside, for a childish folly? No, no; I have always set my heart on doing my duty to Robert’s daughter, and that was just the very best that could be done for her. It’s different now; and here is another very fine lad, under our very hand. One that is an old joe, that she has known all her life, and might have been engaged to him but for—different reasons. Nothing’s lost, and he’s just turned up in the very nick of time, if you do not encourage her in her daft ideas, Uncle John.”
“I do not consider them daft ideas: and that Effie should go from one to another like a puppet when you pull the strings——”
“Oh, I am not a clever person; I cannot meet you with your images and your metaphors; but this I can say,” cried Mrs. Ogilvie, solemnly, “that it is just your niece’s happiness that is at stake, and if you come between her and what is just and right, the blame will be yours and not mine.”
Mr. Moubray went away very much troubled, with this in his mind. Effie had not loved Fred, and it was possible that she might love Ronald, that she might have had an inclination towards him all along; but was it possible that she should thus change—put down one and take up another—resign even the man she loved not, as no longer a good match, and accept the man she might love, because he was?
Marriage without love is a horror to every pure mind; it was to the minister the most abhorrent of all thoughts: and yet it was not so degrading, so deplorable as this. He went home to his lonely house with a great oppression on his soul. What could he say, what advise to the young and tender creature who had been brought to such a pass, and who had to find her way out of it, he could not tell how? He had nothing to say to her. He could not give her a counsel; he did not even know how to approach the subject. He had to leave her alone at this crisis of her fate.
The actual crisis came quite unexpectedly when no one thought it near. It had come to be December, and Christmas, which should have witnessed the marriage, was not far off. The Diroms were said to be preparing to leave Allonby; but except when they were met riding or driving, they were little seen by the neighbours, few of whom, to tell the truth, had shown much interest in them since the downfall. Suddenly, in the afternoon of one of those dull winter days when the skies had begun to darken and the sun had set, the familiar dog-cart, which had been there so often, dashed in at the open gates of Gilston and Fred Dirom jumped out. He startled old George first of all by asking, not for Miss, but Mrs. Ogilvie.
“Miss Effie is in, sir. I will tell her in a moment,” George said, half from opposition, half because he could not believe his ears.
“I want to see Mrs. Ogilvie,” replied the young man, and he was ushered in accordingly, not without a murmured protest on the part of the old servant, who did not understand this novel method of procedure.
The knowledge of Fred’s arrival thrilled through the house. It flitted upstairs to the nursery, it went down to the kitchen. The very walls pulsated to this arrival. Effie became aware of it, she did not herself know how, and sat trembling expecting every moment to be summoned. But no summons came. She waited for some time, and then with a strong quiver of excitement, braced herself up for the final trial and stole downstairs. George was lingering about the hall. He shook his gray head as he saw her on the stairs, then pointed to the door of the drawing-room.
“He’s in there,” said the old man, “and I would bide for no ca’. I would suffer nae joukery-pawkery, I would just gang ben!”
Effie stood on the stairs for a moment like one who prepares for a fatal plunge, then with her pulses loud in her ears, and every nerve quivering, ran down the remaining steps and opened the door.
Fred was standing in the middle of the room holding Mrs. Ogilvie’s hand. He did not at first hear the opening of the door, done noiselessly by Effie in her whirl of passionate feeling.
“If you think it will be best,” he was saying, “I desire to do only what is best for her. I don’t want to agitate or distress her—Effie!”
In a moment he had dropped her stepmother’s hand and made a hurried step towards the apparition, pale, breathless, almost speechless with emotion, at the door. He was pale too, subdued, serious, very different from the easy and assured youth who had so often met her there.
“Effie! my dearest, generous girl!”
“Oh, Fred! what has become of you all this time? did you think that I was like the rest?”
“Now, Effie,” said Mrs. Ogilvie, “you are just spoiling everything both for him and for yourself. What brought you here? you are not wanted here. He has plenty on his mind without you. Just you go back again where you came from. He has told me all he wants to say. You here just makes everything worse.”
Fred had taken her hands into his. He looked into her eyes with a gaze which Effie did not understand.
“To think you should be willing to encounter even poverty and misery for me!” he said; “but I cannot take you at your word. I cannot expose you to that struggle. It must be put off indefinitely, my sweetest girl: alas, that I should have to say it! when another fortnight, only two weeks more, should have made us happy.”
He stooped down and kissed her hands. There was a tone, protecting, compassionate, respectful in his voice. He was consoling her quite as much as himself.
“Postponed?” she said faltering, gazing at him with an astonishment which was mingled with dismay.
“Alas, yes, my generous darling: though you are willing, I am not able to carry out our engagement: that is what I have been explaining. Don’t think it is not as bad for me as for you.”
“As bad for me, as for you,” the blood rushed to Effie’s countenance in a wild flood of indignation and horror. As bad for him as for her! She stood aghast, her eyes fixed upon his, in which there was, could it be? a complaisance, a self-satisfaction mingled with regret.
Fred had not the least conception of the feeling which had moved her. He knew nothing about the revolution made in all her thoughts by the discovery of his ruin, or of her impassioned determination to stand by him, and sacrifice everything to his happiness. No idea of the truth had entered his mind. He was sorry for her disappointment, which indeed was not less to him than to her, though, to be sure, a girl, he knew, always felt it more than a man. But when Effie, in her hurt pride and wounded feeling, uttered a cry of astonishment and dismay, he took it for the appeal of disappointment and replied to it hastily:
“It cannot be helped,” he said. “Do you think it is an easy thing for me to say so? but what can I do? I have given up everything. A man is not like the ladies. I am going back to the studio—to work in earnest, where I used only to play at working. How could I ask you to go there with me, to share such a life? And besides, if I am to do anything, I must devote myself altogether to art. If things were to brighten, then, indeed, you may be sure—— without an hour’s delay!”
She had drawn her hands away, but he recovered possession of one, which he held in his, smoothing and patting it, as if he were comforting a child. A hundred thoughts rushed through her mind as he stood there, smiling at her pathetically, yet not without a touch of vanity, comprehending nothing, without the faintest gleam of perception as to what she had meant, sorry for her, consoling her for her loss, feeling to his heart the value of what she had lost, which was himself.
Her dismay, her consternation, the revulsion of feeling which sent the blood boiling through her veins, were to him only the natural vexation, distress, and disappointment of a girl whose marriage had been close at hand, and was now put off indefinitely. For this—which was so natural—he was anxious to console her. He wanted her to feel it as little as possible—to see that it was nobody’s fault, that it could not be helped. Of all the passionate impulses that had coursed through her veins he knew nothing, nothing! He could not divine them, or understand, even if he had divined.
“At best,” he said, still soothing her, patting her hand, “the postponement must be for an indefinite time. And how can I ask you to waste your youth, dearest Effie? I have done you harm enough already. I came to let you know the real state of affairs—to set you free from your engagements to me, if,” he said, pressing her hand again, looking into her face, “you will accept——”
His face appeared to her like something floating in the air, his voice vibrated and rang about her in circles of sound. She drew her hand almost violently away, and withdrew a little, gazing at him half stupified, yet with a keen impatience and intolerance in her disturbed mind.
“I accept,” she said hoarsely, with a sense of mortification and intense indignant shame, which was stronger than any sensation Effie had ever felt in her life before.
That was what he thought of her; this man for whom she had meant to sacrifice herself! She began hastily to draw off the ring which he had given her from her finger, which, slight as it was, seemed to grow larger with her excitement and tremulousness, and made the operation difficult.
“Take it,” she said, holding out the ring to him. “It is yours, not mine.”
“No, no,” he said, putting back her extended hand softly, “not that. If we part, don’t let it be in anger, Effie. Keep that at least, for a recollection—for a token——”
She scarcely heard what words he used. It was he who had the better of it, she felt. She was angry, disappointed, rejected. Was not that what everybody would think? She held the ring in her hand for a moment, then let it drop from her fingers. It fell with a dull sound on the carpet at his feet. Then she turned round, somehow controlling her impulse to cry out, to rush away, and walked to the door.
“I never expected she would have shown that sense and judgment,” said Mrs. Ogilvie, after she had shown the visitor, whose exit was even more hasty than his arrival, and his feelings far from comfortable, to the door. She sat down at her writing table at once with that practical sense and readiness which never forsook her.
“Now I will just write and ask Ronald to his dinner,” she said.