CHAPTER XXX.
THE RECTOR SATISFIED.
‘NO, I did not get any satisfaction; I can’t say that he gave me any satisfaction,’ the Curate said.
He had put down his pipe out of deference to his father, who had come into the little den inhabited by Charley the morning after his return. Mr. Ashley’s own study was a refined and comfortable place, as became the study of a dignified clergyman; but his son had a little three-cornered room, full of pipes and papers, the despair of every housemaid that ever came into the house. Charley had felt himself more than usually that morning in need of the solace that his pipe could give. He had returned home late the evening before, and he had already had great discussions with his brother Willie as to Rose Mountford, whom Willie on a second interview had pronounced ‘just as nice as ever,’ but whom the elder had begun to regard with absolute disgust. Willie had gone off to Hunston to execute a commission which in reality was from Anne, and which the Curate had thought might have been committed to himself—to inquire into the resources of the ‘Black Bull,’ where old Saymore had now for some time been landlord, and to find out whether the whole party could be accommodated there. The Curate had lighted his pipe when his brother went off on this mission. He wanted it, poor fellow! He sat by the open window with a book upon the ledge, smoking out into the garden; the view was limited, a hedgerow or two in the distance, breaking the flatness of the fields, a big old walnut tree in front shutting in one side, a clump of evergreens on the other. What he was reading was only a railway novel picked up in mere listlessness; he pitched it away into a large untidy waste-paper basket, and put down his pipe when his father came in. The Rector had not been used in his youth to such disorderly ways, and he did not like smoke.
‘No, sir, no satisfaction; the reverse of that—and yet, perhaps, there is something to be said too on his side,’ the Curate said.
‘Something on his side! I don’t know what you mean,’ cried his father. ‘When I was a young fellow, to behave in this sort of way was disgrace to an honourable man. That is to say, no honourable man would have been guilty of it. Your word was your word, and at any cost it had to be kept.’
‘Father,’ said Charley with unusual energy, ‘it seems to me that the most unbearable point of all this is—that you and I should venture to talk of any fellow, confound him! keeping his word and behaving honourably to—— That’s what I can’t put up with, for my part.’
‘You are quite right,’ said the Rector, abashed for the moment. And then he added, pettishly, ‘but what can we do? We must use the common words, even though Anne is the subject. Charley, there is nobody so near a brother to her as you are, nor a father as I.’
‘Yes, I suppose I’m like a brother,’ the Curate said with a sigh.
‘Then tell me exactly what this fellow said.’
Mr. Ashley was wound up for immediate action. Perhaps the increased tedium of life since the departure of ‘the family’ from Mount had made him more willing, now when it seemed to have come to a climax, for an excitement of any kind.
‘It isn’t what she has a right to,’ said the Curate, painfully impartial when he had told his tale. ‘She—ought to be received like a blessing wherever she goes. We know that better than anyone: but I don’t say that Douglas doesn’t know it too——’
‘Don’t let me hear the fellow’s name!’
‘That’s very true, sir,’ said the Curate; ‘but, after all, when you come to think of it! Perhaps, now-a-days, with all our artificial arrangements, you know—— At least, that’s what people say. He’d be bringing her to poverty to please himself. He’d be taking her out of her own sphere. She doesn’t know what poverty means, that’s what he says—and she laughs at it. How can he bring her into trouble which she doesn’t understand—that’s what he says.’
‘He’s a fool, and a coward, and an idiot, and perhaps a knave, for anything I can tell!’ cried the Rector in distinct volleys. Then he cried sharply with staccato distinctness, ‘I shall go to town to-night.’
‘To town! to-night? I don’t see what you could do, sir!’ said the Curate, slightly wounded, with an injured emphasis on the pronoun, as much as to say, if I could not do anything, how should you? But the Rector shook off this protest with a gesture of impatience, and went away, leaving no further ground for remonstrance. It was a great surprise to the village generally to hear that he was going away. Willie Ashley heard of it before he could get back from Hunston; and Heathcote Mountford in the depths of the library which, the only part of the house he had interfered with, he was now busy transforming. ‘The Rector is going to London!’ ‘It has something to do with Anne and her affairs, take my word for it!’ cried Fanny Woodhead, who was so clear-sighted, ‘and high time that somebody should interfere!’
The Rector got in very late, which, as everybody knows, is the drawback of that afternoon train. You get in so late that it is almost like a night journey; and he was not so early next morning as was common to him. There was no reason why he should be early. He sent a note to Anne as soon as he was up to ask her to see him privately, and about eleven o’clock sallied forth on his mission. Mr. Ashley had come to town not as a peacemaker, but, as it were, with a sword of indignation in his hand. He was half angry with the peaceful sunshine and the soft warmth of the morning. It was not yet hot in the shady streets, and little carts of flowers were being driven about, and all the vulgar sounds softened by the genial air. London was out of town, and there was an air of grateful languor about everything; few carriages about the street, but perpetual cabs loaded with luggage—pleasure and health for those who were going away, a little more room and rest for those who were remaining.
But the Rector was not in a humour to see the best side of anything. He marched along angrily, encouraging himself to be remorseless, not to mind what Anne might say, but if she pleaded for her lover, if she clung to the fellow, determining to have no mercy upon her. The best of women were such fools in this respect. They would not be righted by their friends; they would prefer to suffer, and defend a worthless fellow, so to speak, to the last drop of their blood. But all the same, though the Rector was so angry and so determined, he was also a little afraid. He did not know how Anne would take his interference. She was not the sort of girl whom the oldest friend could dictate to—to whom he could say, ‘Do this,’ with any confidence that she would do it. His breath came quick and his heart beat now that the moment approached, but ‘There is nobody so near a father to her as I am,’ he said to himself, and this gave him courage. Anne received him in a little sitting-room which was reserved to herself. She was sitting there among her papers waiting for him, and when he entered came forward quickly, holding out her hands, with some anxiety in her face. ‘Something has happened?’ she said, she too with a little catching of her breath.
‘No—nothing, my dear, nothing to alarm you; I mean really nothing at all, Anne—only I wanted to speak to you——’
She put him into a comfortable chair, and drew her own close to him, smiling, though still a little pale. ‘Then it is all pleasure,’ she said, ‘if it is not to be pain. What a long time it is since I have seen you! but we are going to Hunston, where we shall be quite within reach. All the same you look anxious, dear Mr. Ashley—you were going to speak to me——’
‘About your own affairs, my dear child,’ he said.
‘Ah!’ a flush came over her face, then she grew paler than before. ‘Now I know why you look so anxious,’ she said, with a faint smile. ‘If it is only about me, however, we will face it steadily, whatever it is——’
‘Anne,’ cried the Rector, taking both her hands in his—‘Anne, my dear child! I have loved you as if you had been my own all your life.’
She thanked him with her eyes, in which there was the ghost of a melancholy smile, but did not speak.
‘And I can’t bear to see you slighted, my dear. You are slighted, Anne, you whom we all think too good for a king. It has been growing more and more intolerable to me as the months have gone by. I cannot bear it, I cannot bear it any longer. I have come to say to yourself that it is not possible, that it must not go on, that it cannot be.’
Anne gave his hands which held hers a quick pressure. ‘Thank you,’ she said, ‘dear Mr. Ashley, for coming to me. If you had gone to anyone else I could not have borne it: but say whatever you will to me.’
Then he got up, his excitement growing. ‘Anne, this man stands aloof. Possessing your love, my dear, and your promise, he has—not claimed either one or the other. He has let you go abroad, he has let you come home, he is letting you leave London without coming to any decision or taking the place he ought to take by your side. Anne, hear me out; you have a difficult position, my dear; you have a great deal to do; it would be an advantage to you to have someone to act for you, to stand by you, to help you.’
‘So far as that goes,’ she said with a pained smile—‘no: I don’t think there is very much need of that.’
‘Listen to me, my dear. Rose has her mother; she does not want your personal care, so that is no excuse; and all that you have to do makes it more expedient that you should have help and support. None of us but would give you that help and support, oh! so gladly, Anne! But there is one whom you have chosen, by means of whom it is that you are in this position—and he holds back. He does not rush to your side imprudently, impatiently, as he ought. What sort of a man is it that thinks of prudence in such circumstances? He lets you stand alone and work alone: and he is letting you go away, leave the place where he is, without settling your future, without coming to any conclusion—without even a time indicated. Oh, I have no patience with it—I cannot away with it!’ said the Rector, throwing up his arms, ‘it is more than I can put up with. And that you should be subjected to this, Anne!’
Perhaps she had never been subjected to so hard an ordeal as now. She sat with her hands tightly clasped on the table, her lips painfully smiling, a dark dew of pain in her eyes—hearing her own humiliation, her downfall from the heights of worship and service where she had been placed all her life by those who loved her, recounted like a well-known history. She thought it had been all secret to herself, that nobody had known of the wondering discoveries, the bitter findings out, the confusion of all her ideas, as one thing after another became clear to her. It was not all clear to her yet; she had found out some things, but not all. And that all should be clear as daylight to others, to the friends whom she had hoped knew nothing about it! this knowledge transfixed Anne like a sword. Fiery arrows had struck into her before, winged and blazing, but now it was all one great burning scorching wound. She held her hands clasped tight to keep herself still. She would not writhe at least upon the sword that was through her, she said to herself, and upon her mouth there was the little contortion of a smile. Was it to try and make it credible that she did not believe what he was saying, or that she did not feel it, that she kept that smile?—or had it got frozen upon her lips so that the ghost could not pass away?
When he stopped at last, half frightened by his own vehemence, and alarmed at her calm, Anne was some time without making any reply. At last she said, speaking with some difficulty, her lips being dry: ‘Mr. Ashley, some of what you say is true.’
‘Some—oh, my dear, my dear, it is all true—don’t lay that flattering unction to your soul. Once you have looked at it calmly, dispassionately——’
Here Anne broke forth into a little laugh, which made Mr. Ashley hold out his hands in eager deprecation, ‘Oh, don’t, my darling, don’t, don’t!’
‘No,’ she said, ‘no, no—I will not laugh—that would be too much. Am I so dispassionate, do you think? Able to judge calmly, though the case is my own——’
‘Yes, Anne,’ cried the old Rector; his feelings were too much for him—he broke down and sobbed like a woman. ‘Yes, my beautiful Anne, my dearest child! you are capable of it—you are capable of everything that is heroic. Would I have ventured to come to you but for that? You are capable of everything, my dear.’
Anne waited a little longer, quite silently, holding her hands clasped tight. One thing she was not capable of, and that was to stand up. Whatever else she might be able to do, she could not do that. She said under her breath, ‘Wait for a moment,’ and then, when she had got command of herself, rose slowly and went to the table on which her papers were. There she hesitated, taking a letter out of the blotting-book—but after a moment’s pause brought it to him. ‘I did not think I should ever show—a letter—to a third person,’ she said with confused utterance. Then she went back to her table, and sat down and began to move with her hands among the papers, taking up one and laying down another. The Rector threw himself into the nearest chair and began to read.
‘Dear Cosmo,—You will think it strange to get a long letter from me, when we met this morning; and yet, perhaps, you will not think it strange—you will know.
‘In the first place let me say that there are a great many things which it will not be needful to put on paper, which you and I will understand without words. We understand—that things have not been lately as they were some time ago. It is nobody’s fault; things change—that is all about it. One does not always feel the same, and we must be thankful that there is no absolute necessity that we should feel the same; we have still the full freedom of our lives, both I and you.
‘This being the case, I think I should say to you that it seems to me we have made a mistake. You would naturally have a delicacy in saying it, but women have a privilege in this respect, and therefore I can take the initiative. We were too hasty, I fear; or else there were circumstances existing then which do not exist now, and which made the bond between us more practicable, more easily to be realised. This is where it fails now. It may be just the same in idea, but it has ceased to be possible to bring anything practicable out of it; the effort would involve much, more than we are willing to give, perhaps more—I speak brutally, as the French say—than it is worth.
‘In these uncertainties I put it to you whether it would not be better for us in great friendship and regret to shake hands and—part? It is not a pleasant word, but there are things which are much less pleasant than any word can be, and those we must avoid at all hazards. I do not think that your present life and my present life could amalgamate anyhow—could they? And the future is so hazy, so doubtful, with so little in it that we can rely upon—the possibilities might alter, in our favour, or against us, but no one can tell, and most probably any change would be disadvantageous. On the other hand, your life, as at present arranged, suits you very well, and my life suits me. There seems no reason why we should make ourselves uncomfortable, is there? by continuing, at the cost of much inconvenience, to contemplate changes which we do not very much desire, and which would be a very doubtful advantage if they were made.
‘This being the case—and I think, however unwilling you may be to admit it, to start with, that if you ask yourself deep down in the depths of your heart, you will find that the same doubts and questions, which have been agitating my mind, have been in yours, too—and that there is only one answer to them—don’t you think my suggestion is the best? Probably it will not be pleasant to either of us. There will be the talk and the wonderings of our friends, but what do these matter?—and what is far worse, a great crying out of our own recollections and imaginations against such a severance—but these, I feel sure, lie all on the surface, and if we are brave and decide upon it at once, will last as short a time as—most other feelings last in this world.
‘If you agree with me, send me just three words to say so—or six, or indeed any number of words—but don’t let us enter into explanations. Without anything more said, we both understand.
‘Your true friend in all circumstances,
‘ANNE.’
There are some names which are regal in their mere simplicity of a few letters. This signature seemed like Anne Princess, or Anne Queen to the eyes of the old man who read it. He sat with the letter in his hands for some time after he had read to the end, not able to trust his voice or even his old eyes by any sudden movement. The writer all this time sat at her table moving about the papers. Some of the business letters which were lying there she read over. One little note she wrote a confused reply to, which had to be torn up afterwards. She waited—but not with any tremor—with a still sort of aching deep down in her heart, which seemed to answer instead of beating. How is it that there is so often actual pain and heaviness where the heart lies, to justify all our metaphorical references to it? The brain does not ache when our hearts are sore; and yet, they say our brains are all we have to feel with. Why should it be so true, so true, to say that one’s heart is heavy? Anne asked herself this question vaguely as she sat so quietly moving about her papers. Her head was as clear as yours or mine, but her heart—which, poor thing, means nothing but a bit of hydraulic machinery, and was pumping away just as usual—lay heavy in her bosom like a lump of lead.
‘My dear child, my dear child!’ the old Rector said at length, rising up hastily and stumbling towards her, his eyes dim with tears, not seeing his way. The circumstances were far too serious for his usual exclamation of ‘God bless my soul!’ which, being such a good wish, was more cheerful than the occasion required.
‘Do you think that is sufficient?’ said Anne, with a faint smile. ‘You see I am not ignorant of the foundations. Do you think that will do?’
‘My dear, my dear!’ Mr. Ashley said. He did not seem capable of saying any more.
With that Anne, feeling very like a woman at the stake—as if she were tied to her chair, at least, and found the ropes, though they cut her, some support—took the letter out of his hand and put it into an envelope, and directed it very steadily to ‘Cosmo Douglas, Esq., Middle Temple.’ ‘There, that is over,’ she said. The ropes were cutting, but certainly they were a support. The papers before her were all mixed up and swimming about, but yet she could see the envelope—four-square—an accomplished thing, settled and done with; as perhaps she thought her life too also was.
‘Anne,’ said the old Rector, in his trembling voice, ‘my dear! I know one far more worthy of you, who would give all the world to know that he might hope——’
She put out one hand and pushed herself away from the table. The giddiness went off, and the paper again became perceptible before her. ‘You don’t suppose that I—want anything to do with any man?’ she said, with an indignant break in her voice.
‘No, my dear; of course you do not. It would not be in nature if you did not scorn and turn from—— But, Anne,’ said the old Rector, ‘life will go on, do what you will to stand still. You cannot stand still, whatever you do. You will have to walk the same path as those that have gone before you. You need never marry at all, you will say. But after a while, when time has had its usual effect, and your grief is calmed and your mind matured, you will do like others that have gone before you. Do not scorn what I say. You are only twenty-two when all is done, and life is long, and the path is very dreary when you walk by yourself and there is no one with you on the way.’
Anne did not say anything. It was her policy and her safety not to say anything. She had come to herself. But the past time had been one of great struggle and trial, and she was worn out by it. After a while Mr. Ashley came to see that the words of wisdom he was speaking fell upon deaf ears. He talked a great deal, and there was much wisdom and experience and the soundest good sense in what he said, only it dropped half-way, as it were, on the wing, on the way to her, and never got to Anne.
He went away much subdued, just as a servant from the hotel came to get the letters for the post. Then the Rector left Anne, and went to the other part of the house to pay his respects to the other ladies. They had been out all the morning, and now had come back to luncheon.
‘Mr. Douglas is always so good,’ Mrs. Mountford said. ‘Fortunately it is the long vacation; but I suppose you know that; and he can give us almost all his time, which is so good of him. It was only the afternoons in the winter that we could have. And he tells Rose everything. I tell her Mr. Douglas is more use to her than any governess she ever had.’
‘Is Anne never of your parties?’ the Rector said.
‘Oh, Anne! she is always busy about something, or else she says she is busy. I am sure she need not shut herself up as she does. I wish you would speak to her. You are an old friend, and always had a great influence over Anne. She is getting really morose—quite morose—if you will take my opinion,’ said Mrs. Mountford. Rose was almost as emphatic. ‘I don’t know what she has against me. I cannot seal myself up as she does, can I, Mr. Ashley? No, she will never come with us. It is so tiresome; but I suppose when we are in the country, which she is always so fond of, that things will change.’
Just then Anne came into the room softly, in her usual guise. Mr. Ashley looked at her half in alarm. She had managed to dismiss from her voice and manner every vestige of agitation. What practice she must have had, the Rector said to himself, to be able to do it.
‘I hope you have had a pleasant morning,’ she said. She did not avoid Cosmo, but gave him her hand as simply as to the rest. She addressed him little, but still did not hesitate to address him, and once the Rector perceived her looking at him unawares with eyes full of the deepest compassion. Why was she so pitiful? Cosmo did not seem to like the look. He was wistful and anxious. Already there was something, a warning of evil, in the air.