Troy Chimneys

LADY AMERSHAM WAS seldom wrong. All that she had foretold at Colesworth came to pass within a twelvemonth. Portland resigned. Perceval succeeded him. Pronto got his place, and stuck to it for eight years.

Respectable and hard-working years were they for Pronto. He was able to drop some uncongenial acquaintance and he grew very steady. When visiting in the country he spent more evenings at his writing-desk than in the drawing-room. He was no longer obliged to sing for his supper or to put up with people who called him Pronto to his face.

Miles did not care for all this work, but otherwise had no quarrel with him. Money was laying by, Troy Chimneys grew more charming every year, and the doorway to escape stood ever open. So, at least, thought Miles. That it had been slammed, and barred, by Pronto before the house was even bought – but I must go back a little in order to explain how that came about.

Pronto, in those first years of struggle, never neglected civility in certain quarters which a less thorough fellow might have been liable to overlook. He knew that great people will often forget a promise, or a friend, unless there is someone at hand to remind them at the critical moment. This someone need not be a person of any great consequence so long as he or she is certain to be there when need arises; a poor relation, a spinster aunt, even a confidential servant will do, – any of those permanent fixtures in great houses which rate almost with the furniture. If chairs and tables could be grateful for polite attention, and could express gratitude by crying out: PRONTO! whenever his lordship is about to dispose of a piece of patronage, – then Pronto would have been very civil to the chairs and tables. He would, of course, make no parade of it, but he would pay some pleasant little compliment to the table as he took his seat at it, suggest that it has been frequently in his thoughts since he saw it last, and enquire with concern after the great scratch it got last year.

Universal geniality is so much a habit with him that he continued in it long after he had no need to do so. ‘Mr. Lufton has a kind word for everybody!’ says the housekeeper. ‘Mr. Lufton never forgets to ask after my rheumatism,’ cries the poor old cousin. ‘Mr. Lufton made a snowman for us,’ remember the children. With so many voices in his favour, Mr. Lufton is less likely to be forgotten.

No ally is more useful, in this way, than one of those supernumerary gentlewomen who sit in corners making fringe, who write notes, run errands, wash lap-dogs, play country dances, and ride backwards in the carriage. They are immensely important, and their good word should always be secured. Pronto never forgot their names and took pains to discover their tastes. If one pressed flowers, he would always contrive to bring some for her when he took a country walk; they might be the commonest of weeds, but she was pleased with the attention. If another netted a shawl, he always knew for whom it was intended and never failed to enquire after its progress. He was seldom so busy dancing that he forgot to thank the lady at the instrument.

It was as an ally of this sort that he first took notice of Miss Caroline Audley, in the early days of his servitude to fortune, when he was obliged to look very sharp about him. She was the half-sister of his friend Frank Morrill of Lingshot, in Surrey, with whom Pronto stayed a good deal about the year 1806, before he got West Malling. Morrill had two seats in his pocket and Pronto hoped to get one of them.

Miss Audley was at that time about five and twenty, but seemed older in comparison with a bevy of blooming half-sisters in their teens. She was tall, above the middle height, with light-brown hair which she wound into a grecian knot at the back of her head. Her eyes were hazel and her complexion clear, but too pale. There was nothing in her to strike one, in that house full of handsome girls. Her manner was grave, although she smiled often enough to contradict any suggestion of melancholy. Her voice, low and very clear, was seldom heard; but when she spoke all listened, for she spoke only when applied to for her opinion.

Pronto noticed that she had a good deal of influence with her half-brother. He therefore lost no time in acquainting himself with her circumstances and history. He is very adroit at getting information without seeming to ask ill-bred questions. He learnt that Captain Audley, her father and Mrs. Morrill’s first husband, had left her no fortune, that she had been engaged, seven years before, to a naval officer who had fallen in action, and that since then she had refused an offer from a clergyman. (Most of this information must have come from Louisa Morrill, a prattler of sixteen who never knew the meaning of reserve.) She was no favourite with her mother, for whom she slaved without complaint. Mrs. Morrill’s affection was entirely reserved for her second family. Gentle, pensive Caroline had always been regarded by her as, in childhood an encumbrance, and later as an unpaid servant. The half-brothers and -sisters were all fond of her, but they had been brought up to regard her as of no consequence, – her comfort or wishes were seldom considered.

Her good graces might be valuable to Pronto, and he set himself to secure them. He paid her a good deal of attention, – not so marked as to arouse expectations, he was too sharp for that, – but he certainly took more notice of her than other people did. It was no unpleasant task, for she was very conversible and a good musician, the best accompanist he ever had. He may have indicated a little more admiration than he felt; most women expect that and like it. And he had a genuine regard for her, so that Miles was not entirely banished from the scene; she had, obviously, enough taste to prefer his style to Pronto’s.

After securing West Malling he saw less of the Morrills for some years. But the intimacy revived when Perceval was succeeded by Liverpool, and Vansittart went to the Exchequer. Morrill was a connection of Vansittart and had gone into Parliament himself; he and Pronto were thrown together a good deal in their joint support of Vansittart, and from 1812 onwards Pronto was a constant visitor at Lingshot.

Mrs. Morrill was now dead and her son married. But Miss Audley was still there, doing for young Mrs. Morrill everything that she had formerly done for her mother. All the Morrill girls were married except Margaret, the eldest, but it was not to be expected that Caroline Audley would now marry; she was past thirty and an old maid. Pronto was pleased to see her again, to resume their pleasant chats and to sing to her accompaniment.

The Morrills were well-bred people of the sort now cultivated by him. They never called him by that odious name and, in fact, the protean creature least deserved it when in their house. Though possessed of considerable influence, they did not move, never aspired to move, in the highest circles. They were a good old respectable county family. Since they were not in the peerage they could be nice in their choice of acquaintance; they were not obliged to entertain a Lowestoft or invite a Crockett to keep him in the billiard-room. They only asked that Pronto should behave like a gentleman and for this Miles was grateful, though he thought them a trifle dull. The Pronto of Richmond Hill, the Pronto who sang Mary Hawker’s song at Colesworth, never showed up at Ling-shot.

He was a particular favourite with young Mrs. Morrill, who hoped to make up a match between him and Miss Margaret. The sisters-in-law did not hit it off very well, and Pronto in 1813 was far more eligible than Pronto in 1806. He had a brother an admiral, a sister married to a baronet, he was earning £4000 a year, had property in Wiltshire, a place at the Exchequer and a promising future. It was high time that he married. Many of his fair friends were agreed upon that. In houses where, seven years earlier, he would never have been tolerated as a suitor, he was now encouraged to admire those daughters who had hung too long upon the family tree. Had he wished to marry, he could have got a wife with a larger fortune and greater connections than Margaret could bring him. He was, however, in no hurry. He did not care to subject himself to the influence of any one set, and he was also, perhaps, aware that Miles might give trouble if he took a wife. Miles had kept quiet, all these years, because it was understood that he might claim his freedom some day. He had submitted to Pronto’s domestic arrangements, including the villa at St. John’s Wood (which was given up in 1814), but a wife of Pronto’s choosing was not to be imagined at Troy Chimneys.

This long truce came to an end at Easter last year. I was staying with the Morrills, and one morning I took a stroll before breakfast. Whenever I am in the country it is my habit to rise early and take a walk before Pronto comes on duty. My path took me through a beech wood; the bluebells were particularly fine that year. Pronto had taken that path the day before, with Mrs. Morrill and Margaret, and had said as much as they required in praise of so lovely a sight. But Miles could not fully enjoy it until he was alone.

Walking some way before me, down the noble aisle made by the trees, I caught sight of a young woman whom I did not recognise as staying in the house. I presumed her to be young, although I could not see her face, because of a something in her walk. How shall I describe it? Few women walk so, after the age of one and twenty. They may move with conscious grace until they are ninety, but they are marching in step with Time’s heavy foot, and they know it. Only the young, who never heard that tramp, walk as easily as the light flows on my ceilings at Troy Chimneys, can muse while skipping along, and never know that half an hour’s walk will bring them thirty minutes nearer to the end of all. This girl did not skip; she was walking slowly. I thought for a moment of my mother, who also had a something in her walk which I have already likened to the gliding of some beautiful ship. But this other, thought I, evokes a different image, – her progress is more solitary, more mysterious – one does not know whence she comes, or whither she goes – she does not appear to know it herself – she is like a cloud which floats slowly onward, not of its own will, but carried by some quiet wind unfelt upon earth. ‘Lonely as a cloud.’ I must find out who she is!

I quickened my pace so as to catch up with her. As I drew nearer I recognised, with a pang of disappointment, that grecian knot of hair. This mysterious stranger was but my old friend, Miss Audley. I had never seen her before at a moment when she thought herself alone. The enchantment dissolved and I was about to turn off into a side avenue, for I was in no mood to sacrifice my solitude, when she heard my footsteps and turned.

I hastily summoned Pronto, who was delighted at the encounter and convinced that she must find it equally gratifying. A stroll through the woods with so universal a favourite as himself could not displease her. He offered his arm and she took it. But they had not proceeded very far before he became aware that he was de trop. This meeting was unwelcome, and he knew it because he is very sensitive to atmosphere. She was tranquilly pleasant, as ever; in fact she was too much as ever. They might have been walking with a dozen people. The tone, the pace, the glances, suitable to a tête-à-tête, were missing. Miss Audley also was, apparently, in no mood to sacrifice her solitude.

But there was no way out of it. Good manners constrained them to walk together until they were out of the wood. But when they reached the Lingshot garden Pronto thought that he might escape. He invented a sudden errand to the stables, explained it, and took his leave with becoming grace:

‘Oh, Mr. Lufton! How hard you work! Are you really obliged to say such things before breakfast?’

In any other woman this might have been flirtatious, but it was impossible to imagine Miss Audley as a flirt. Raillery, in a friend of eleven years’ standing, is permissible. Yet Pronto felt a little foolish.

‘You are very severe!’ he complained. ‘I fear you don’t approve of compliments?’

‘Oh, yes, I like them after ten o’clock in the morning. Before that, I think we should all say and do exactly as we please.’

‘I am very sorry,’ said Miles. ‘I knew that you would rather have been alone in the wood. But I did not know how to dispose of myself. I ought to have climbed the nearest tree. I am afraid that I spoiled your ramble.’

‘Not more than I spoiled yours. We both, I fancy, had gone out alone to gaze at the bluebells, without all those Ohs! and Ahs! and endeavours to ascertain how blue they are. And now we have prevented one another, because we are altogether too polite.’

‘Exactly. But I am the worse sinner, because I told you that they were like the sea, and you did not irritate me by likening them to anything.’

‘Oh! I don’t mind the sea very much. They may be as blue as the sea for all I care, since I never saw it.’

‘I believe so. Everybody tells me that I should admire it extremely but nobody offers to take me there, and I have so little spirit that I have not yet set off in search of it myself. Is it really the colour of bluebells?’

‘Can you not? I have never been away from Lingshot for a single night, you know, since I was two years old.’

My horror amused her. She does not laugh when she is amused, but her eyes become lighter in colour. They have a kind of golden glow. I had not noticed it before. I wondered that I had not. And, while I was still pondering over this, she nodded to me and walked off.

I felt that the conversation was by no means finished, but had no chance to resume it during the day. I went into the drawing-room at least half an hour before dinner, however, in the hope that she might be early too. She generally was down and dressed before the others, in case there should be some last-minute duty or emergency, – the fish not come or the dessert to be arranged.

I was rewarded. She was there, reading by the window. I took the book from her, ascertained that it was Crabbe, and was making some remark about his work when she objected, with a trace of impatience, that we had been discussing Crabbe for eleven years. I suppose that we had, and it was ridiculous to begin upon the subject as though we had just met. But I could not explain that Pronto’s discussions did not count.

‘I will tell you something about him,’ said I, ‘which you never heard before, from me at least, because I only learnt it lately myself. I hope you don’t know it.’

I told her how Crabbe had taken the manuscript of his poems to Edmund Burke and was then unable to leave the spot where his fate might be decided. All night he paced up and down in the vicinity, watching a light in a window of Burke’s house, and playing with the fancy that the great man might be sitting up, reading his poems.

‘And so it was,’ I concluded. ‘The light was in Burke’s room. He did sit up all night. He was reading the poems.’

‘I wonder if we should like it,’ she said, ‘if the world were always as well managed as that! I believe we might think it dull. Such a story is pleasing because it is rare. Tell me another.’

She smiled and shook her head as Mrs. Baddely, young Mrs. Morrill’s mother, came in. But after dinner, when she was to play for me and we were looking over some songs, I contrived to whisper that I should walk early in the wood and that, in honesty, she owed me a story.

She walked across the room and sat down at the pianoforte. Pronto sang less like an angel than usual.

Miss Audley

IT WAS WITH some trepidation that I set forth upon my early ramble next day. She had not exactly forbidden me to join her, but she had given me to understand that she liked to be alone at that hour. I was determined, however, to find out what she had meant, and I knew of no other time in the day when I might be certain of a private interview.

I did not above half like it. Miles and Pronto were not near so distinct in my mind then as they are now, but I was keenly aware of some inner conflict and had thought that nobody suspected it save Ludovic. It was most disagreeable to suppose it common knowledge, – to imagine that jokes could be made as to ‘which’ of us might be expected to dinner. Such a fancy kept me awake for half the night.

I went towards the beech wood and found her waiting for me by the gate out of the garden. She came forward at once, more agitated than I had ever seen her, and burst into a frank apology:

‘Oh! I was hoping that you would come! I must ask your pardon for my intolerable impertinence last night. I cannot imagine what prompted me to speak so. If you have ever, yourself, talked nonsense, and regretted it, then you must forgive me!’

‘My dear Miss Audley!’ said I, drawing her arm through mine and leading her into the wood, ‘you can never in your life have talked nonsense. I can only accuse you of obscurity. Pray explain! Who are these two gentlemen whom you have known for eleven years?’

‘Oh, it is nothing – a ridiculous fancy of mine. I meant the private Mr. Lufton and the political Mr. Lufton. There is some such distinction, I imagine, in anyone who must sustain a public character.’

‘I think so. The private Mr. Lufton likes solitude and hates the world. The political Mr. Lufton never forgets his duty, and will pay compliments before breakfast.’

‘I see. I was aware of the distinction myself, but I had not thought it so obvious to my friends.’

‘Oh but it is not!’ she exclaimed quickly. ‘I assure you that nobody save myself, so far as I know, ever thought of anything so foolish.’

At this I grew easier, for it was impossible to doubt her word. I asked if she had any particular names for these two creatures, for I still feared that the hateful name of Pronto might be used at Lingshot, behind my back. She parried the question, but at last, perceiving that it had some real importance for me, confessed that she called them Lufton and The M.P.

I blushed a little, remembering how determined I had been to secure one of Morrill’s seats, and realising that she must have seen through my manœuvres. I felt that we were in an awkward situation, as though we had been dancing in a masquerade which had lasted for eleven years. Now that the masks were down, I was a little out of countenance. She was not quite what I had always supposed. I could have wished that her surprise should be equal, – that she should make some discovery concerning me. I decided that she had better learn to know Miles better; she had guessed at his existence but she could know little of his more amiable qualities.

As we sauntered through the wood I made several observations which were quite worthy of Miles but which sounded as though they came from Pronto. At every step I expected her to ask how the M.P. came to be out so early. But she listened and assented very demurely. At last, in despair, I asked for the story that she owed me, reminding her that she had promised one.

‘Something, if you please, in the style of my Crabbe story. Something with an unexpectedly happy ending.’

She reflected for a while and then she said that she would tell me the story of Billy Thatcher, a foundling, brought up by the Parish at Lingshot.

I prepared myself for a pathetic tale, for her manner was grave. It remained so throughout the whole history of Billy Thatcher, which was as unedifying a fable as ever I heard. Billy, it appeared, was a rustic rogue, drunkard, poacher and thief, who possessed a miraculous faculty for disconcerting his betters. The final episode ran something like this:

‘We therefore decided to put Billy in the stocks, as an example. But he did not remain there for above half an hour, because the London coach came in, garlanded with laurel, and drew up at the inn. It does not do so generally, you know. Everyone knew that there must have been a great victory and ran out to hear the news. Whereat Billy set up a bellow that he was a Briton too, and had as good a right as anybody to hear about his victory. It was universally allowed that he had, so the beadle was fetched, and Billy let out and brought to the coach, where he might hear the guard read the newspaper. This was a great blow to our morals at Lingshot, for nobody had ever got out of the stocks so quickly before, and all the little children were more struck by this circumstance than by any other, upon that historic day. Indeed, I am certain that when Dr. Dowling referred in his sermon, upon the following Sunday, to “the hero of Waterloo” every child in the church believed him to be talking of Billy Thatcher.’

I was lost in amazement, for I had always thought her to have little sense of the ridiculous. I remembered that I had, but two days earlier, beheld her reading Law’s Serious Call to Mrs. Baddely, who slept profoundly during the exercise but was liable to rouse if the reader desisted. The contrast between her great snores, and the austere exhortations read out to her, was one which nearly capsized my solemnity. What a good thing, I thought, that Miss Audley is not easily struck by the ludicrous! For I had not then learnt to recognise that golden glow which signified secret amusement. I am now sure that she was enjoying herself very much.

After that I met her and walked with her every morning. I have said that the Morrills, though pleasant, were a trifle dull. One could always be certain of what they would do in any circumstances, – of what they would say upon any subject. I sometimes found myself quite suffocated by this, although I liked them. I wondered why they ever troubled themselves to talk, since it was but to repeat what they had said a thousand times already. Miss Audley was never dull, one could never be quite certain of what she would say, and conversation with her was a most refreshing kind of entertainment.

These early rambles were no secret from the rest of the family, but nobody, I think, thought them surprising. We were old friends, we both liked to walk before breakfast; it was but natural that we should walk together. To suppose me her admirer would not have occurred to them. She was an established old maid in their eyes, and I an eligible bachelor with a very good opinion of his own deserts in the way of a wife. I myself was so much aware of this that I sought her company without fear of raising expectations or provoking comment. I knew her to be far too sensible to suppose that I had fallen in love with her, and I had no fear that she might fall in love with me. She said things occasionally which no woman would say to a man in whom she hoped to inspire tender feelings. She was too calm, too candid. There were none of the little pauses, the evasions, the altered tones, which betray hidden feelings of that sort.

Her solitude was the circumstance which, at first, struck me most forcibly, as I came to understand her character. She had spent the whole of her life at Lingshot, had met no company, read no books, heard no conversation, save what that house afforded, yet she was completely unlike all the rest of them. She had never known a parent’s indulgent tenderness. She had been of first consequence with nobody, save for those few weeks when she had been courted by her sailor. She was then but seventeen and he one and twenty, – the nephew of a neighbouring squire. They danced together a good deal, but had, I imagine, few conversations alone. ‘A pitiful little engagement’ was her mother’s description of it. I think that he was dear to her chiefly because she was dear to him. He departed, never to return, and she, for twenty years, had been learning how to make the best of solitude. I remarked to her once that Lingshot was not, surely, the place which she would have chosen for life, had she been free to choose. She owned that it was not and that she had, at one time, suffered pangs of rebellion.

‘But then, you know, it would have made a whole family miserable, and me no happier, had I allowed myself to become a tiresome creature. It is one’s duty to be happy, I think, – as happy as one can.’

She had been equal to this duty because her principles were firm and because she had worked out for herself a strange kind of philosophy which enabled her to extract a good deal of entertainment from a life which most would have thought intolerable. She took great pleasure in observing everything minutely and in musing over what she saw. She had deliberately fostered her own solitude, – her independence from her surroundings. She once said that nothing can be truly appreciated ‘unless one withdraws oneself from it. Our preferences must always blind us.’ It was clear to me that great suffering had gone to 10rm this philosophy, but I did not wonder, when I thought of what her life had been.

Her greatest pleasure was in the strange, the unexpected and the paradoxical, – all those elements which were least in favour at Lingshot. She had also a taste for irony; in the ‘stories’ which I told her, it was always the ironic which most struck her fancy. I quarrelled with her a little for that. Irony makes me uneasy. But she liked it. She thought that it modified the sadness of the human lot; ‘since so many stories seem to be but part of some other story which we do not quite understand.’

I was sorry to have so little to tell her, for Pronto’s adventures supplied very few anecdotes of the kind that she liked. She was eager to hear of my visit to Paris, two years before, for she would have liked to travel and read all the travelling books that came her way. But I had nothing to tell her of Paris that would do, save my meeting with Princess Czerny, and those old stories of Rome and my Aunt Gussie. Of Peel, Wellington, Castlereagh and Fitzgerald, whom I had constantly met while there, I had only the most commonplace Morrill-ish tales to tell. She preferred to hear about Ullacombe and Bramfield and Ludovic reciting Wordsworth to the cows.

She, in turn, told me the history of every person in Lingshot village. Her stories were full of spirit and character. Not all of them were as cheerful as that of Billy Thatcher. She told me once that the trouble and sorrow she had witnessed among the poor had struck her so forcibly as to make her ashamed of rebellion against her own lot. One incident in particular brought tears to her eyes when she spoke of it, – a natural child sold to a man who was taking a party of children northward, to set them to work at cotton spinning.

‘I saw the little boy’s face as he was led away,’ she said. ‘I shall never forget it. So helpless! So helpless!’

Those words reminded me of Ludovic and his helpless! For a moment a great pang went through me, a kind of despair, as though some giant wave were breaking over the world, and in my ears were millions upon millions of voices sighing: Helpless! Helpless!

‘I went to my brother,’ she continued, ‘and told him that I thought we had abolished slavery upon British soil. He explained to me that it is not slavery; he said the lad would be paid for his work and could leave it if he chooses, and that I might be sure these children would be well cared for. He said it was for the boy’s own good to be taken where he could get employment. But how can we be sure? The man that took them had a dreadful face. And how could a child of seven leave his work, if he was ill treated? He looked at me, as he was led away – like a dying person – and I could do nothing. But after that I thought: What is my lot? What are my wrongs? And I think it changed me very much.’

She asked me earnestly if I thought that these children are well treated. I would not distress her by telling her that I am far from certain that they are. I tried to reassure her. I know very little about it, nor am I anxious to know more, for there is nothing to be done.

Over books we constantly fell out. She liked history, biography and travel, but she did not care much for recent poetry, although I think I might have converted her a little about that. She had never before met with anyone who understood it. But over novels she was obstinate; she could not like them. Edgeworth’s Castle Rackrent pleased her and she admired Defoe, but she objected strongly to anything sentimental, nor would she listen to my pleas for my favourites: Emma and Mansfield Park, of which she complained that they kept her continually in the parlour, where she was obliged, in any case, to spend her life. A most entertaining parlour, she allowed, but:

‘That lady’s greatest admirers will always be men, I believe. For, when they have had enough of the parlour, they may walk out, you know, and we cannot.’

In her judgments of people she was very mild. I seldom heard her censure anybody. I was soon quite easy upon the score of Pronto. So acute an observer must have discerned his insincerities, but so merciful a judge would pardon them. And then, she had never seen what he could be; in that house he was a very respectable fellow.

I was the more astonished, therefore, at her displeasure one morning when I spoke slightingly of ‘The M.P.’ and of the political world in general. She appeared to be genuinely shocked, and took me up at once, exclaiming that the political career is the finest open to any man. I laughed at her, and asked if she would have liked to be in the Cabinet, and quoted the lines:

Th’ applause of listening senates to command,

The threats of pain and ruin to despise,

To scatter plenty o’er a smiling land,

And read their history in a nation’s eyes.

‘Oh no, no!’ she said. ‘I know that you must spend most of your lives preventing bad from getting worse, a task for which you get no thanks, though it is the hardest of all.’

‘It is noble because you may speak for what is noblest in us. Manners and morals are constantly improving. We grow more nice in our notions of justice. When some great measure is to be brought in, it is not the applause of senates which signifies, it is the silent applause of a nation which has come to understand and desire it.’

She had, in fact, as exalted a notion of politics as my mother had of the Church. Her seclusion, her confinement in the narrow life of the parlour, had given her a heightened admiration for all those activities in which she, as a woman, could not share. I thought of Lady Amersham, and smiled. ‘Great measures’ had not been much in her line. But the ladies of Lingshot were not of the Brailsford sort, who had a finger in every pie. They knew little of politics and cared less. I never saw one of them reading the newspaper; it was always taken to the men’s quarters as soon as it arrived. They never joined in our discussions; politics, indeed, were avoided in their presence, and young Mrs. Morrill complained if they were not:

‘If I hear anything more about the State of the Nation, I shall be obliged to muzzle you men!’

Miss Audley would have liked to hear more. She once, a little diffidently, asked me to explain the Sinking Fund to her, for she had heard me speak upon it at Guildford, and had listened, awestruck, but unable to understand what I said. I cried for mercy and insisted that I should pay compliments before breakfast, if I were not let off the Sinking Fund. I had no idea, at that time, that she really wished to know; I thought that she asked out of civility. It took me some time really to understand her.

She credited her brother and myself with immense and disinterested zeal for the public good, the more so because she could not understand what we did, and was perplexed by the Sinking Fund. As far as Morrill was concerned, she may have done him no more than justice. He had a large fortune and was not obliged to take up any career. I think he only went into Parliament from a sense of public duty. He is an excellent fellow, but very stupid. I daresay he believes that England would be lost without a Tory Government. There is, at Lingshot, none of the cynicism to which I was accustomed at Brailsford, – a cynicism so pervading that the Amershams themselves were scarcely aware of it. For them there was but the one question: How shall we keep power in our hands?

I was surprised at Miss Audley’s naïveté and simplicity; but I thought them touching and would say nothing to disillusion her, once I knew the nature of her enthusiasm. It pleased me to know that there was a trace of enthusiasm in a character which, upon the whole, inclined a little too much the other way. She was aware of her own faulty education, and diffident in proposing an opinion upon any topic outside a woman’s sphere. While admiring ‘great measures,’ and wishing to see them introduced, she was too humble to argue with her brother when he told her, as I heard him do, that Whitbread’s scheme for National Free Education was fantastic nonsense.

It was not unpleasant to me that she should think so well of the M.P. and admire him for toiling at finance, as though he had gone to the Exchequer for the most laudable motives, rather than for an income of £4000 p.a. It must be so dull and dry, she once remarked, and yet so necessary!

Superiority of character and intellect in a woman may rouse our admiration; it is seldom likely to subdue our hearts. The better I knew her, the more I found to admire. The more I found to admire, the less likely was I to love. I valued her as a friend. I wished that she had been my sister. I delighted in her wit and in the odd, original turn of her mind. But I felt none of that enchantment which unlocks the door to passion. For one moment it had whispered to me, when I saw her walking in the beech wood and did not recognise her. That whisper was not repeated, during my Easter visit at Lingshot, although I looked forward eagerly to our morning walks.

I have, in my time, listened to unutterable nonsense from women who had the power, like ‘Circe and the sirens three,’ to take the prisoned soul and ‘in sweet madness rob it of itself.’ I never objected to this kind of larceny. I resemble most men in preferring the sirens’ song to the ‘sober certainty of waking bliss’ which we may enjoy in rational conversation with a superior woman. Nor is this preference perverse in us. Divine Providence has seen fit to make superior women something scarce, and the world, as Benedick says, must be peopled.

Miss Audley was thirty-six years old, and gave herself the freedom of a woman who has reached l’âge canonique. She accepted the world’s view that she was now too old to be loved; had she thought otherwise, she would have been more upon her guard.

Upon our last morning I told her how very much Lufton had enjoyed these rambles and reproached her for never having said two words to him before, in the course of eleven years.

‘Oh – I don’t know that I did. But I was so rude to The M.P. that he has kept away, poor man!’

‘Possibly. He has fewer cares. At what age do you put him? The M.P., you know, is five and thirty.’

‘Five years old! No, no! That is too bad! I thought you liked him better than that!’

‘But I do. He is a most agreeable playfellow, – as people of five years old often are.’

‘Always. He never changes. The M.P. has altered and aged considerably since I first met him, but not Lufton.’

Upon that note of raillery we parted and met again at the breakfast table. During the meal a small incident occurred which might be likened to the first tremor of a landslide.

She had, I knew, been greatly looking forward to a concert at Guildford that afternoon. Music was her delight and she had little opportunity of hearing it. During breakfast some casual change of plan deprived her of this pleasure. I forget how it came about – other people changed their minds – there would, after all, be no room for her in the carriage – I must have witnessed such occasions many times in eleven years, for nobody cared about her comfort. Now, for the first time, I was consumed with indignation. I knew how much she had wished to go; she had spoken of it that morning. It drove me mad to see them treat her so, since not one of them would enjoy the concert half as much. But I could do nothing. My chaise was at the door and I had my adieux to make. I could only press her hand, at parting, with a look of silent sympathy.

Even as I jumped into the carriage, I was wondering if I had not once before parted from her thus, – silently pressing her hand, and rushing from the house in the grip of some strong emotion. I searched my memory and recalled the occasion, – eighteen months earlier I had been staying at Lingshot when news reached me that my mother was no more. How could I have forgotten it? All the Morrills had been out skating except Miss Audley. I had stayed because I had letters to write. When the express from Bramfield arrived I had gone to find her, so much stunned that I knew not what I did. She ordered a carriage, sent a servant to put up my things, suggested and undertook various commissions on my behalf, and made me eat before I set out. I now remembered all her kindness and my bewilderment, – how she had given me a little flask of spirits, in case I should get very cold upon the journey, and come to the door with me with advice to my driver to avoid a certain road said to be under snowdrifts.

I supposed, I hoped, that I had thanked her. I could recall nothing save that I had pressed her hand and run speechless from the house. And then I had forgotten! I had taken her kindness for granted as the Morrills did. I had no great right to be indignant with them, and it appeared that she had some grounds for describing Lufton as very young. I had turned to her as a boy might turn to a parent, and I could remember now, with shame, that I had actually spoken to her with angry impatience when she tried to get some message clear, that she was to give to Morrill. It was some paper that was to be explained and I could do nothing save cry out:

The more I thought of it the more uneasy I became. I wished that I could be of service to her in some way, so as to atone for past neglect. I was to be at Lingshot again at Whitsun. I found myself looking forward eagerly to the visit. She should see that I did not forget. She should see that I was not ungrateful.

Caroline

I DOUBT IF it is ever safe to think frequently of a woman. Perhaps if she be over seventy years old, a shrew, and very plain, one might venture – but it would be wiser not.

When not obliged to think of other things, last summer, I thought of Caroline Audley. She haunted my imagination. I fancied conversations with her, in which she should revise a little her opinion of Lufton, – should allow him to be more manly than she had supposed. In these interviews he played the man in a very determined fashion, and she most obligingly played the woman, – refrained from those cool, friendly jibes which might have brought him down to earth. This fancied Caroline was softer, more pliant, than the actual Caroline; her superiority, though warmly acknowledged, was not allowed to obtrude.

Whitsun arrived and I set off for Surrey in quite a fever to open this new phase in our acquaintance. The auguries were good; I had written to her once or twice and sent her Christabel, which was not likely to be read at Lingshot, and, when writing to thank me, she had owned to liking it but wished that I were by to explain it to her, for that its style was new to her and she did not understand it very well. I could ask for nothing better. I was ready to explain anything to her, except the Sinking Fund.

I took with me a great package of music and new books. I looked forward to many walks and talks which should lead us – somewhere – to some understanding which should satisfy me. I had not exactly asked myself what it should be. I suppose I should have said that I wished her to do me justice. But I must really have wished that she should think of me as often as I did of her, – not justly, but because she could not help it.

Disappointment awaited me. There were no walks, – no talks. The little Morrills had the measles and she was scarcely ever out of the nursery. It was impossible to see her alone. She joined us every day at dinner and spent the evening with us, but in the mornings she was invisible.

Walks and talks might have cooled my ardour; this thwarting separation fanned it. I could do nothing save watch her covertly, when she was in the room, and listen for her voice.

I had never thought her plain. I should always have described her as singularly graceful. But, in the past, I should not have compared her with the other women in the house, who were all of them exceedingly pretty. I now found them insipid, because they were not Caroline. Mrs. Morrill made too many grimaces. Margaret had an ugly voice. The brilliance of their complexions could not be denied, but so many women have brilliant complexions! And their conversation drove me frantic.

Had the weather been fine we might all have walked out after dinner and I should have secured the opportunity for some strolls with her. But it rained. We spent every evening indoors, at music or at cards. It rained during the whole of my visit until the very last day, when the sun burst forth as we sat at dinner. I immediately called the company’s attention to the fact and suggested going out, in spite of Mrs. Baddely’s objection that the ground would still be very damp. I insisted that I must get some fresh air and that I had not yet seen the roses.

‘There are none to see,’ said Margaret. ‘They have all been dashed to pieces by the rain.’

‘Still,’ said I, ‘I think I must take a little turn. Miss Audley! Will you not take pity on me and come too? I am sure that it will do you good, for you have been more shut up than any of us.’

She thought that she might venture, though the other ladies tried to dissuade her, saying that her shoes were too thin.

I sat for as short a time as possible with Morrill over the wine, and then made for the drawing-room. Mrs. Morrill and her mother were there alone; I heard them laughing as I opened the door, but they straightened their faces as soon as they saw me. There was, however, a spark of mirth in Mrs. Morrill’s eyes as she told me that I would find Caroline and Margaret in the rose garden. Margaret had changed her mind and decided to go too.

Cursing Margaret, I made my way to the rose garden and was soon strolling round the confounded place with a lady on either arm. Caroline’s eyes were golden; she perhaps found this walk amusing. But she was too kind and too good-mannered to allow us to sulk in silence. She talked tranquilly, explaining her sister-in-law’s plans for improving the garden.

Presently Morrill appeared with a message that we should all come in, as Mrs. Baddely desired to go to cards.

‘I shall not go in just yet,’ said Caroline, ‘for I don’t mean to play cards tonight. I have a little headache, and shall go to bed early.’

‘Poor Caroline!’ said he. ‘You are wearing yourself out with those children. But don’t stay long, for it is quite chilly.’

A guest must play cards if he is bid. I had to go off with Morrill and Margaret. But, as we reached the house, I had a happy thought.

‘Your sister,’ said I, ‘should have a shawl or a cloak, if she means to stay out. Could I not take one to her? You need not wait cards for me, as you will have four without me.’

He thanked me and sent a maid for a shawl. Within two or three minutes I was on my way back to the rose garden. The sun was setting and the birds singing, as they do upon an evening after rain. She stood listening to a thrush, among the sodden rose bushes.

Pronto has shawled countless women, with that delicate solicitude which is almost a caress. For most of them he has cared not a pin. For some he has sighed in vain. One or two have been as much to him as any woman can be to Pronto. He can wrap them up with formal gallantry, with the respect that does not presume to hope, with the tenderness that speaks of conscious gratitude. But Miles had not made much work over a shawl since he danced with Edmée at Stokehampton.

Caroline looked absolutely beautiful to me just then; I may have gone out to her with the intention of explaining Christabel, but a sudden and violent impulse now rose up within me, – a desire to break through this solitude, to catch her in my arms and kiss her back to warmth and life. For she must have been another creature once, thought I. She was not always like this; not always happy alone. I hated the cold garden and the watery sunset, and the wet rose petals.

‘What nonsense it is,’ she said, ‘to think a nightingale superior to a thrush!’

‘Why yes! I wonder you have not heard them! They shout all night, and keep one awake.’

‘I have been so sorry,’ she said, ‘to miss our early walks. I had some amusing stories to tell you. When the measles burst out I was furious. But then it rained, so we could not have walked after all.’

She looked a little startled, for this could not be taken as a compliment from The M.P. It was said with too much vehemence.

After a short pause she thanked me again for the books and music that I had brought for her, promising herself much pleasure from them as soon as the measles should be over. Her manner had no power to soothe me. I suppose I must have answered very absently; I was more occupied by the light touch of her hand upon my arm than by what she said. Presently I broke out with:

‘I never thanked you for your goodness to me – when my mother – when I had to go, on that dreadful day. I have been thinking of it. I believe that I never thanked you.’

‘You sent me a note, enclosed in a letter to Mrs. Morrill. It is not surprising that you should forget. You were in great trouble and must have had to write so many letters.’

She was now, I could see, really puzzled and distressed by my manner. Perhaps she thought me drunk. We had come to a path leading to the house, and she turned to take it.

‘You are not going in!’ I cried. ‘Not yet! Not after five days without a word! Stay a little longer – I have not said anything – we have not said anything yet!’

‘I am afraid that we shall not say anything very entertaining tonight. I have a headache and you should be at cards. It is sad, but that is often how things fall out when one has been looking forward to them.’

‘Entertaining – I did not come out for that! I have thought of you continually since I went away – you have been ever in my mind – you do not know, you cannot know, how much I admire you, esteem you—’

‘Oh dear yes, I think I do. I don’t suppose you have quite so good an opinion of me as I have of myself, but that, you know, is more than we can expect from any of our friends.’

This sort of thing might have done five days earlier. Now it could not check me. I rushed on. I told her that she had become inexpressibly dear to me, that I valued her friendship more than anything on earth, that I feared I had been careless.

‘Pray don’t talk like this! You have never been careless. I value our friendship too, but if it is to continue there must not be this sort of exaggeration.’

We were walking towards the house, for she was quite determined to end the interview.

If I do not exaggerate, thought I, then I love her and should say so. I did not know it before; but now I must either accept her reproof or stand my ground.

‘It is not exaggeration,’ said I, ‘for I love you, and I mean to tell you so.’

‘We are not young now. I am not young now. I am changed. The time is gone over for—’

‘For me that is all quite over – any thoughts of – you cannot mean it! You never meant to talk like this, but I provoked you by laughing at you. If you please, we will never refer to this again. Good night!’

To face the card-party, until I had regained some degree of composure, was impossible. I took a turn in the grounds, and rapidly made up my mind. I loved her. I must marry her, for she had become necessary to my happiness. I had not thought of it before, but I felt no hesitation, once the fact was clear. That I had made a fool of myself, and begun badly, troubled me a little; I did not wonder that she had thought me drunk and run away. I had taken myself by surprise. Had I known my own feelings sooner I should have declared myself in a very different manner. I should not have addressed her without considerable preparation; I had given her no warning, no grounds to suspect such an alteration in my regard for her. All that must be set right.

Cards were over and the company was drinking tea when, at last, I returned to the house. They looked at me a little queerly, I thought, as I stammered out my apologies, – that I had been tempted by the beautiful evening and had taken quite a long walk – they must forgive me – tomorrow would imprison me once more in the noise and bustle of London, etc. etc. I don’t suppose that they believed me. They fancied that some sort of scene had taken place between Caroline and myself, which had agitated me so much that I was obliged to walk it off. Why must people have such lively imaginations?

After tea Morrill took me off to the library. He said that he hoped Caroline had not stayed out too long, and I assured him that she had returned to the house within a very few minutes, having found it too cold, in spite of the shawl.

‘I am glad of it,’ he said, ‘for she might have caught a chill. She is fatigued with nursing these measles.’

‘Very true, but it is impossible to prevent. She has got so much into the habit of considering others before herself – however, we must learn to do without her when she goes to Vienna.’

This was news to me. I had heard nothing of it. He explained that she was to go in the autumn with Louisa, now Mrs. Egerton, and that they would spend most of the summer at Bath. Egerton was at the Congress, in some advisory capacity, but his wife had remained in England on account of recent ill health. When she followed him, Caroline was going with her.

That was the first thought which occurred to me. The second was that she should not see it upon this occasion, if I could prevent it. This Vienna scheme did not suit me at all.

‘She should be persuaded into a little laziness and self-indulgence,’ he said. ‘I have been trying to get her away from here ever since she inherited her fortune.’

He looked at me, in an enquiring way, and must have seen by my countenance that this too was quite unexpected. I had always believed her to be penniless.

‘Since she is perfectly independent, it is nonsense that she should spend her life here, slaving for us,’ he went on. ‘We shall be sorry to lose her, and while I have a home it would always be hers if she wishes; but she should have a change. These measles for instance! Had she not been here we should have managed without her. But she is too good, – too kind. She has got out of the habit of ever wanting anything for herself.’

I longed to know how much, but could not ask. He, however, was equally anxious to tell me. A relative of her father’s had died recently and left her fifteen thousand pounds. I expressed my pleasure and spoke warmly in praise of her. He responded with equal emphasis. For some time we sat there, extolling Caroline and feeling foolish, for it was obvious that the offer which he hoped I should make could not follow immediately. Delicacy must prevent me from going to the point within ten minutes of hearing about the money, especially after an acquaintance of eleven years.

This conversation decided me against addressing her again before I left Lingshot. There must be a decent interval, and I must give myself plenty of time. I decided to wait until the Summer Recess, when I could pursue her to Bath and pay court to her, undisturbed by Miss Margaret or the measles.

But it would not do, either, to let her suppose that I had not been serious, or that I regretted my outburst in the garden. I left Lingshot upon the following day without seeing her again, but I wrote to her from Town. I said that she must not be angry with me, that I had been too precipitate, but that I hoped soon to have an opportunity of making my peace with her, and explaining myself.

Pronto, meanwhile, was resolving to give up his place. The Opposition, which had tried in vain to cut Croker’s salary, succeeded with him, and sheared him of £1500. The remaining £2500 was not, in his opinion, a sufficient reward for all the work that he did. He might make a good deal more at conveyancing. Lady Amersham, had she lived, would probably have counselled caution. But that guiding hand was withdrawn, and Pronto, without it, more liable to make mistakes. He resigned and sulked within his tent, expecting his friends to do something for him. A man who has not stood upon his dignity when he ought will often mount that horse-block, in a lordly way, when no steed is in sight. Pronto’s friends thought him uncommonly lucky to have got so far. He had held a place which many of them coveted for eight years. Nor was he so indispensable as he believed. Nothing was done for him, and he began to think seriously of a return to his legal practice.

This entirely suited Miles, who intended, as soon as possible, to lead a life of leisure with Caroline in Wiltshire. He had not quite enough laid by, though her fortune would bring the happy day a good deal nearer. He meant, during the next few years, to make as much money as he could at the Bar, living perhaps in a cottage at Hampstead, in order to retire to Troy Chimneys before he was forty.

It is a year ago today that Pronto resigned his place! That is strange, for the interval seems much greater. So many things have happened. Miles got his coup de grâce in August. Pronto fell off his horse in November. And, during the last few weeks, whilst I have been engaged upon this swan-song, I believe that a third event may have taken place. Miles and Pronto are both finished. Who then is writing this?

A long effort of recollection may have some strange results. I began in a mood of bitterness and self-compassion. But hope revives when I consider that there must be, hidden within me, some third person who is able thus to estimate the other two. Pronto could not have written this memoir, nor do I think would Miles have been equal to it. I know little of the fellow who writes, but I hope to know him better, for all cannot be over with him. He is but six and thirty; he has half the allotted span still before him, and he seems to be in tolerable spirits, in spite of the chapter which he must now bring himself to write.

It must be finished tonight, for I shall not have much more time for such things. The Cullens are here for a few days, on their way back to Ireland, and I mean to go there with them. We are very lively at the Parsonage. I dropped a hint to Harriet on Sukey’s behalf which may, I think, bear fruit. She is, at any rate, taking a little trouble to see that Sukey has some amusement while they are here. There are parties and schemes every day, and on Friday we all go to dance at Chipping Campden.

I am glad to have James Cullen here, for I must rely upon him in this ridiculous business with Ned. I don’t know what I should have done without him; there is nobody else in whom I could confide, or who would act for me. I told him as much of the story as was necessary, in the hope that he would agree with me, – that I need take no notice of such nonsense.

No man ought to take a fortnight before deciding that his honour has been injured; the Statute of Limitations ought to apply to such matters. Ned knows I have done him no wrong. I suppose he has been nagged and bullied and bedevilled into pretending to think that I have. Fourteen nights with a fury who will not let him sleep till he swears he believes her! But he could have sworn, and left it at that. He was not obliged to call me out. But very stupid people suffer from a blinkered kind of logic.

Cullen, unfortunately, is an Irishman and therefore does not think it nonsense. Nor is he shocked at the idea of such a meeting between kinsmen. He assured me that, in Ireland, cousins fight daily. I daresay they do; they fight daily and they are all cousins.

‘Ah! Ye must meet um!’ says he. ‘If he sent ye a challunge there is nothing for ut. Ye must meet, to show ye’ve no bad feelings between ye. Wan shot, fired wide, will do to stop the ould mare’s mouth. Say no more! Pinney and I will settle ut.’

(Cullen’s brogue is not, perhaps, quite so pronounced as this. Harriet insists that he has none. But Sukey and Kitty both declare that my imitations do him no injustice.)

What Pinney thinks of the matter, I cannot imagine, nor how much of the story he knows, nor why he acts for Ned. If my surmises are true, he deserves to be a principal rather than I. There seems to be no way out of it, but I will not take such nonsense solemnly, I mean to do my best to make us all look as foolish as possible. It is the only protest that I can make against a custom which I think as barbarous as Hamlet thought his uncle’s kettledrums. If only I could make old Ned laugh when we get there – how shocked Pinney and Cullen would be! But I am afraid he will not laugh. I am afraid that he is violently angry, – because he has been bullied into doing me an injustice, and knows it, because I got him into a scrape over Ridding and robbed him of a fortnight’s sleep, because he is obliged to be furious with somebody. It would be worse for the poor old fellow to tell himself the truth; his honour has been pretty well mauled, but not by me. I daresay he wishes me dead, rather than know that he ought to be fighting Pinney.

I must remember that Cullen, though he constrains me to go through with this ridiculous farce, is also constraining Ned to satisfy his rage with ‘wan shot, fired wide,’ instead of trying to kill me. All customs have had their uses. I can understand that this one may have played its part in taming man.

I am giving them as much trouble as possible. I quite refuse to have a surgeon brought into it. Cullen is such a stickler for etiquette, he was for getting one, but there is none to be had save old Hankey, from Ribstone Priors, and he could never keep his mouth shut. The story would be all over the country in twenty-four hours. And in any case, what is a surgeon to do, if we are not to be hitting one another? To be sure, if we take to firing wide, we might hit Cullen or Pinney! A bow at a venture is ever perilous. I mean to wear my blue coat for the occasion. It is thoroughly unsuitable.

I must call her mine, for nobody knows what she is, better than I. And how the end came I must now set down, in spirits so altered that there seems to be no resemblance between the story I set out to tell and that which I have told. I had expected this last chapter to be blotted with tears.

Seared in heart, and lone, and blighted,

More than this I scarce can die!

But truth is healing. The effort of recollection has forced me to do justice to her, and, in doing it, there is such balm, such freedom of the spirit, that I could almost call myself happy, were I not obliged to remember what she suffered. I may have deserved my whipping. She never did. The story may be a sad one, but the sadness is for her. There is in it some of the irony which she found to be a solace; she may have been right. Our story may be ‘part of another story which we do not quite understand.’ Some other person, reading it many years hence, might interpret it better.

Manet Sors Tertia

WHEN PARLIAMENT ROSE I set off for Bath in the best of spirits. I was pretty sure that Caroline would take me, though some persuasion might be necessary. I might have to overcome some scruples on her part, for which I honoured her, in consenting to so unequal a match. For, in the world’s view, it was unequal. Younger, handsomer and richer women were very ready to have me. Upon the whole I was glad that she had but fifteen thousand pounds; had it been fifty, Pronto would have been accused of marrying an old maid for her money. As it was, he might be exposed to some ridicule, and she would shrink from that.

She must be made to understand my real views, my true tastes, my contempt for the world that I was quitting. To live with her at Troy Chimneys, amid books, friends and music, to listen to the nightingale and watch the river, – I could imagine no purer happiness. Our tastes just suited; I felt that we were made for one another, and it seemed impossible that she should not feel it too, once she understood my plan.

That she should immediately love me, with the ardour which I now felt for her, I did not expect. I had promised myself that she should, when she was my wife. Had I married for ambition only, and without passion, I should not have been content unless I could excite it in my wife. No woman, so far as I know, has ever had cause to complain of my address, if I set myself to win her.

Very few misgivings beset me as I drove westward. I foresaw no difficulties which might not be overcome, although I did not hope to be accepted immediately. I must not bring down upon myself a definite negative at the outset; persistence after an outright refusal is inconsiderate and ill-bred. It should not too soon appear that she was my first object in coming to Bath; I was to be there, ostensibly, to settle some business at Troy Chimneys, and I meant to go to work very cunningly. She had had my letter, written after Whitsun, and I hoped that she had reflected upon it. So far as I was concerned she might go on reflecting for a little while longer. It would do her no harm to wonder if, and when, I meant to reopen the subject. A little suspense, some fluttering of the spirits, would be good for my calm, sensible Caroline.

I should, in the meantime, gradually unfold my plans to her. I should apprise her fully of the kind of life which I meant shortly to lead, before inviting her to share it. If possible, I should get her to Troy Chimneys, for I was certain that she would be delighted with the house.

Much must depend upon the tact and good-nature of Mrs. Egerton. I hoped that Morrill might have dropped a hint to her; he knew of my hopes, for I had confided them to him before I left town; he had been delighted and had evidently thought it an excellent match for Caroline.

Upon arrival I dined, took a turn by the river, and then, having nothing better to do, went to the play. The piece was King Lear, and my thoughts flew instantly to Caroline, for she and I had once discussed this work. (Ah, Caroline! When did my thoughts not fly to you? The most unlikely objects could evoke you. An old man in the Haymarket crying: White Sand! White Sand! thrilled my heart, because one day, during that frustrated visit at Whitsun, I heard your voice upon the staircase desiring a servant to bring white sand.) She had never seen King Lear upon the stage, but she reprehended the custom of uniting Edgar and Cordelia in the last scene; she insisted that Shakespeare’s original intention should be respected and that Cordelia should die. I maintained that this conclusion is too barbarous for the refined taste of our age, to which she replied that the whole play is too barbarous for our age. She might be right. But some parts of it are so fine that I should be sorry never to have heard them upon the stage.

I came late and Lear was cursing Goneril as I took my seat. The theatre was insufferably hot and the candlelight dazzled me, after the cool dusk of the streets. Ludovic has an impracticable notion that plays should be acted in the dark, – no lights save upon the stage. This, says he, would force the audience to watch the actors and prevent them from looking at one another. But, apart from the impossibility of continually extinguishing and relighting candles, I should not think much of acting which depended upon such a device. An actor of genius should oblige his audience to watch him. If they may look at nothing else, it is putting him to very little trouble.

This Lear was inferior, – a ranting, spouting fellow who nearly blew the feathers from Goneril’s head. I am glad, I thought, that Caroline does not see this. Immediately after, I caught sight of her, sitting in a box with Mrs. Egerton. Her eyes were fixed upon the stage.

My heart did all those things that are proper. There is an exquisite pleasure in watching a woman one loves when she is unaware of it, – her thoughts far away. I had never been able thus to watch Caroline since I saw her wandering in the beech wood and began to love, without knowing that it was she.

The house appeared to like Lear better than I did. When he got to the ‘serpent’s tooth,’ loud applause broke out, which he acknowledged before he away! awayed! himself off. Caroline, who had been all stillness and attention, frowned a little and changed her posture, as though she did not like the interruption. Her sister also turned, looked about her, and caught sight of me. She started, smiled, acknowledged my bow, half glanced at Caroline who was still watching the actors, and then smiled to me again. Thirty seconds assured me that she knew all and was my ally. Lear came ranting on again a moment later but, as soon as we had got rid of him for that scene, she beckoned to me to join them in their box. I went immediately, for Goneril and Albany were unable to hold the house, – a buzz of talk had broken out and several people had set off to visit their friends. Nothing could have been better for me; things were arranging themselves charmingly. I was spared the awkwardness of a first call in Devonshire Crescent, and hoped now to go there by invitation.

What Caroline’s feelings might be was not apparent. She had got command of her countenance by the time that I reached their box. They had risen to curtsy to me upon my arrival but we all sat down immediately and Mrs. Egerton whispered to me that we must not talk, since her sister preferred to listen to the play. I said that I was always happy to be guided by Miss Audley’s taste, and for the rest of the piece remained as silent as I could, without incivility to Mrs. Egerton. I knew that any play must be a treat to Caroline, for she had seen so few. This improved as it went on. The recognition between Lear and Cordelia was truly affecting; it cannot help but be so. Mrs. Egerton had recourse to her pocket-handkerchief. Caroline, I could see, was quite transported. At the words: You do me wrong to take me out o’ the grave she gave a great start and after that sat as though she held her breath; whereat I must unconsciously have held my breath too, for at that last Forget and forgive! we both drew a long sigh.

We did not stay for the farce, but walked out together into the warm summer night, where I took my leave, happy to know myself invited to dine upon the following day. I felt this easy opening of the campaign to be a most favourable augury. I had been able to explain my presence in Bath, and to express the hope of seeing them as often as they would allow it.

Dinner next day went off with equal smoothness. Mrs. Egerton made no attempt to thrust us upon one another; she treated me as her brother’s friend rather than as Caroline’s suitor. She could not have entered into my views, or understood my tactics, more thoroughly had I explained them to her in so many words. I think, though, that she thought it diverting to act chaperon to a sister so much her senior, for whom she could never have expected to perform such an office.

Nothing happened, during the next day or two, to advance or retard matters. Mrs. Egerton encouraged my visits. Caroline was her usual calm friendly self, though she talked more than I liked of her pleasure in going to Vienna. I began, indeed, to regard Vienna as my chief obstacle; she had so much wished to travel that she might sigh a little at relinquishing such an opportunity. I felt that seclusion at Troy Chimneys might not strike her as a great improvement upon seclusion at Lingshot, unless I could take her to see the house and to fall in love with it as I had. To get them both there became my principal object. The school was closed for the summer holidays, but I had been over to see the Kings, who had begged me to bring my friends to dine and spend the day, whenever we might please. Mrs. Egerton forwarded the plan, declaring herself devoured with curiosity to see my house.

I insisted that we should set off very early. I wished the morning sun still to be upon the river, so that they might see the reflection in the house, though I had not mentioned this beforehand. It was a surprise which I was saving for Caroline. The ladies were driven and I rode beside them, ecstatic in the prospect of seeing my beloved girl walk into my beloved house. For some reason I pictured her walking all alone up the path to the door, and vanishing into the shadows of the long room, – walking some way before me and unconscious of me, as she had walked in the wood. She was to be so much enraptured with the house that she could think of nothing else. Where Mrs. Egerton and the Kings were to be I did not ask. They were obligingly to vanish and Caroline, ‘lonely as a cloud,’ was to walk up the path to her home.

But of course that could not be. The Kings came out to meet us at the gate. We walked up the path in a chattering group, made the more boisterous by a couple of dogs which leapt and yapped and were reproved by the Kings.

The house is now delightful; my improvements have been well set off by Mrs. King’s good taste. They use the long room as a schoolroom, and reserve the two parlours on the river side of the house for their own use. King took me through to his, at once, to show me some letter that he had had about tithes. When we returned to the other, we found Mrs. King and Mrs. Egerton absorbed in the amazing discovery that they were both acquainted with the same Mrs. Rylands. Caroline sat in the window-seat, her eyes upon the ceiling. She had discovered my secret. I went over to her at once and said, in a low voice:

Mrs. Egerton’s bonnet ribbons nodded closer and closer to Mrs. King’s cap. This Mrs. Rylands must have been of extraordinary interest to them. What experts in intrigue all women are! They were keenly aware, I am sure, that Caroline and I were whispering together. I will engage that Mrs. King’s opinion was half formed before I had handed the ladies from the carriage; she only waited to find out which was Miss Audley and which Mrs. Egerton.

Later she took us over the whole house. Mrs. Egerton was loud in her praises. My girl said less, but I could see that she was charmed. I grew very happy. I determined that I would take her a walk forthwith, by the river, and let her know the chief of my plans, – that I meant to be living there entirely in a year or two.

After a luncheon, we set out upon this walk. Mrs. Egerton declared for sitting in the shade of my little mulberry tree, which has come on very well, though it is not yet the great old tree that I fancied when I first pictured the house. Mrs. King sat with her, and King, who at first proposed to walk with Caroline and myself, was somewhat peremptorily despatched by his wife to look for some books. I took Caroline through a door in the wall beyond the old wing, which led us into the orchard. Here I showed her the fruit trees that I had planted, and got her approval for leaving some old cherries, which were too large to net from the birds, but which I had preserved for the sake of the blossom.

We then sauntered on to the path which leads through the meadows by the river. I now began upon my revelation.

Caroline was slow to understand me. She seemed to have great difficulty in believing that I genuinely meant to throw up my career. When convinced of it, she made no attempt to conceal her dismay.

Perceiving that her response was not quite what I had expected, I asked her outright if she did not think that such a change would be a happy one for me.

‘You cannot mean it!’ she exclaimed, in obvious distress. ‘This is one of Lufton’s sudden impulses. I am sure that you will think better of it. It is a little setback that you are out of a place, and this has discouraged you. But you are certain to get another; you will go on and go higher. You cannot mean to throw it all away at five and thirty!’

I assured her that I could, – that I had never cared for politics save as a road to fortune, that The M.P. was abhorrent to me, that I meant to be Lufton for the rest of my life, and that she should applaud me for it, since she and Lufton were very good friends.

‘But I could not like a permanent Lufton,’ she objected. ‘Is he not very idle? Forgive me if I am being too frank, but you have asked for my opinion.’

‘I cannot believe that you would be happy for long with no serious occupation. Perpetual leisure may look tempting when one is over-tasked. But when you have it you will weary of it. What should you do here all day long? “Sit upon the ground, and tell sad stories of the deaths of kings”?’

‘Because it would not content you. I am sure that it would not, for you are very ambitious. Indeed, I can understand why you love this house, and you might surely soon spend some part of your time here. But to seclude yourself completely now– No, no! Wait for twenty years! Then your mulberry tree will be so grown that it will give shade to all these friends whom you mean to invite.’

We were both of us, by now, not a little agitated and perplexed. Our saunter by the river had become a strange, unequal sort of progress. Sometimes we would halt and then one or the other would make a sudden start forward again.

I said, with some heat, that The M.P. was a scheming fellow, insincere in his professions and seldom disinterested in his friendships. To this she assented more readily than I liked, though I wished her to assent.

‘I have,’ she agreed, with something like a sigh, ‘and regretted it. But I realise that something of that must be a necessary evil in public life. It is to be excused in a man who must rise entirely by his own exertions, as you have.’

‘You were obliged to secure interest – to get a seat,’ she said hastily. ‘You may have scolded yourself for making use of … for resorting to artifice which was something beneath you … for making professions which … but against that you must put your energy, – your usefulness, the high opinion in which you are held. There is so much to be done! Now that the wars are over, I am sure that great measures will be brought forward, in which you must wish to play a part!’

‘Oh, I do not know. It is for you to know that. A great many things seem to be very wrong; they could not be set right during the wars, but now there is an opportunity.’

‘And you condone disgusting artifice in a man, so long as he is righting wrongs?’

‘Not entirely,’ she said, after a slight pause. ‘I merely mean that you are too hard upon The M.P. You censure his faults but you do not recognise his virtues.’

‘And you, I think, are very hard upon Lufton, who is by far the better creature. You must agree that he is better. He has chafed under this bondage for years. He has made a thousand plans for escape.’

‘I know that he resolves and re-resolves, “in all the magnanimity of thought.” What else does he do?’

The dispute continued. She would not yield. Gently, but firmly, she gave me to understand that she thought Lufton my bad angel. His sincerity and his fine feelings led to nothing. The M.P. for all his contemptible qualities, which she owned to disliking, was, in her view, the more respectable creature of the two.

I had asked for her opinion, and I am now convinced that she went no further, in the way of criticism, than a friend is entitled to do, when consulted. But, at the time, I was mortally offended.

The shock was very great. I did not pause to consider how much must be unknown to her. She had never seen Pronto at his worst, and could not therefore perceive how much cause Miles had to revolt. I had myself allowed her to believe that my political ambitions were more disinterested than was actually the case. And all the origins of this conflict within me were hidden from her. They were, at that time, far from clear to me, – the part played by Lady Amersham, the effect of Edmée’s betrayal, the young louts at Winchester who presumed to despise parsons’ sons. I felt that she was shattering my dearest hopes, exalting all that was worst in me, and deriding all that was best. And I daresay that I should feel so still, had I not rashly ventured upon this memoir.

‘If you really think all this,’ said I, deeply mortified, ‘I am sorry for it. It had been my hope to persuade you – I meant to ask you if you would not share my life here. I had no idea that you would consider it so despicable.’

A declaration in such terms deserved no reply. She turned away and walked quickly towards the orchard. After a moment I followed her and started upon some kind of apology. But my resentment was so great that I only made matters worse. I told her, almost in an accusing tone, that I loved her, could not be happy without her, had hoped that she would like my house but was willing to live anywhere she pleased, so long as she would marry me. If a husband in the Cabinet would content her, I would do my best to get there, though I could make no promises.

‘Mr. Lufton! Pray let us have no more of this. I am very sorry indeed if I have caused you pain. But I cannot marry you. Whatever feelings you entertain for me – and they seem to be strange ones – I cannot return them. It would never be in my power.’

‘I begin to believe you,’ cried I. ‘If you loved me, you would do me more justice.’

I added other reproaches. Why had she treated me with such encouraging friendliness, if she did not mean me to love her?

‘How could I suppose that you would ever think of such a thing?’ she cried. ‘Why should I not have been friendly? We had known one another for years, and the difference in our situations – you were as fully alive to that as I, until a very short time ago.’

The M.P. might have taken his rejection with more dignity. But she had wounded Lufton, and he seemed to be intent upon proving that he was ‘very young.’

We were now got to the door into the front court. I tried to pull myself together, to mount my high horse, to end the scene in a more stately way.

But at that I got a look from her which silenced me, – a look between laughter and tears, so full of friendly reproach, so like her, that my full loss burst upon me. This was Caroline, my Caroline! She was not to be mine! She had refused me!

We joined the others, dined, and returned to Bath. Mrs. King and Mrs. Egerton talked at dinner with excessive animation. They must have guessed that all had gone amiss and were covering up. We took leave of Troy Chimneys. We got over the long miles of the homeward road. I did not suffer any extreme pangs as yet, for I had taken refuge in anger. Most men will do so, if they have the choice between rage and pain. For rage, while it lasts, can supply a kind of substitute for high spirits, – a destructive glee which renders the sufferer immune from any other sensation. As I rode home beside the carriage I revelled in it. Very well, cried I to myself, very well! It does not signify! I don’t care! I shall show that I don’t care! ‘I will do such things – what they are yet I know not’ – it is she who will suffer, not I! She will be very sorry for it. Nobody else will marry her. Thank God I discovered her true character in time. I had thought her worthy of me; I was willing to take her without a penny, though she is no beauty and a year older than I. I gave her credit for soul and sensibility. She has none. Worldly success – that she can understand, and nothing else. All women are alike.

We reached the house. I handed my ladies from their carriage and saw the door close behind them.

Here the story should have ended, for we never met again. Would – I was going to write: Would to God that it had! But I will not say that. The events of the following day have caused me months of anguish, but I will not regret them, since they taught me to honour her as she deserves.

This painful sequel I owe to Mrs. Egerton, who sent me a note, early next morning, begging me to come and see her, as there was something very particular which she wished to say to me. She should be all alone; Caroline was so much fatigued by yesterday’s excursion that she was remaining in bed for the day.

I could not very well refuse this request, although I knew what it meant. Mrs. Egerton was going to try her hand at reconciliation. I was determined not to relent, but it suited my wounded consequence that somebody should apologise for the treatment I had received, – that somebody should placate and flatter me. She would certainly feel that her sister had refused an unexpectedly good offer, and she would give my version of the story to Frank Morrill. I set off for Devonshire Crescent, determined to play the injured man.

She received me with looks of sympathetic concern and with that suppressed enjoyment which all women display upon such occasions. I am sure that she was sorry, but the opportunity of intervention did not displease her. She liked to be playing a role. Most women prefer an unhappy love affair; one that runs too smooth does not interest them. In this they differ very much from us, I think. They can positively enjoy a painful situation, and will discuss it endlessly. Feeling, in their eyes, exists to be dissected rather than obeyed. If a man confides to his friend that his love does not prosper, the friend is very sorry for it and gives what comfort and counsel he can, but he does not enjoy the conversation and wishes it over. To a woman the conversation itself furnishes a pleasing interest.

Mrs. Egerton had something to tell me which she could no longer keep to herself, though she had no business to tell it. I am not at all sure if she even thought that it would do much good, but she insisted that it might, in order to justify such unreserve. If her object was to make me profoundly miserable, she certainly succeeded.

She told me at once that she knew all. She had taxed Caroline with having refused me, and Caroline had admitted it.

‘But,’ said she, ‘I have sent for you, because I am convinced that she does not know her own heart.’

Mine beat a little quicker at that. I was not softened, but I wished that Caroline might feel some regret.

‘Oh, I daresay. But listen! I know that she fell very much in love with you when you first came to my brother’s house – many, many years ago now. I really forget how many.’

At this my blood froze, and a pang of absolute terror assailed me, as though I had suddenly found myself stepping over a precipice. I knew immediately that it was true. Conviction seized me and would not let me go.

‘Nobody perceived it except myself,’ continued Mrs. Egerton. ‘Nor have I spoken of it to anyone. But I was a sharp-eyed girl, and I flatter myself that I did not miss much of what went on about me. She could not conceal everything from me. Besides, at first, I really thought that you might be falling in love with her. You talked to her so much, and praised her playing, and took more notice of her than most of the men did.’

‘Oh I don’t accuse you of trifling with her. Your attentions were never marked enough for that. But I thought it odd that you should notice her so much, and I therefore watched you both pretty closely, and I could soon see that you were everything to her. I am not in the least surprised at that. You have a very taking way with you, as I expect you know. I don’t suppose that she had ever met a man who talked to her so much, or considered her tastes, or entered into her ideas. That poor boy who courted her long before – I am sure he had not half your power to make himself agreeable. My mother always said that he only took notice of her because all the smarter girls had slighted him. But, if you will allow me to be perfectly frank, you were quite captivating in those days. I don’t mean to suggest that you cannot be captivating now. But you are now more a man of the world, and I think it would be a little bit more clear what your feelings really are. In those days, you were so boyish and impulsive and poetical – even I could not be sure that you meant nothing until I noticed that you never went beyond a certain point, – the point that would have committed you. She should have noticed that too, of course. It was very simple of her. But then, you know, she understood little about flirtation. She did not go out very much, and in the years when one flirts I suppose that she had been mourning for her poor sailor. It only broke upon her gradually that you meant nothing. You ceased coming to us at one time, although you were invited. And of course you would have come, if you had cared for her. I forget what year it was, – that you were to have come and did not?’

‘Ah yes! It was the year of Tilsit! Because we heard of that upon the same day that we heard you were not coming, – my brother was so gloomy about Tilsit, and we girls were all so gloomy at the prospect of a summer with no Lufton, you cannot imagine how dismal we all were, – well that is a very long time ago! Ten years! But Caroline became an altered creature. She cried herself to sleep every night. I know, because we shared a bedchamber. She would wait until she thought I slept, and then the sobs broke out. I knew her better than to say anything. But often I would pretend to be asleep when I was not, so that the poor thing might be free to cry—’

‘I only do it for her good,’ said she complacently. ‘She fell into a sort of melancholy, after that, from which I think she has never recovered. Yet she would always defend you, if you were criticised. My mother – I betray no secrets, for I think you must have guessed that you were no favourite there – my mother sometimes said little things in your disfavour. But Caroline defended you. I remember that once she said–’

Here Mrs. Egerton pulled up, aware that her indiscretion was running away with her. But I knew, without being told, what must have passed. Frank Morrill’s mother had accused me of having come there solely in order to secure the family interest; once I had got West Malling, I would not trouble to visit Lingshot. And Caroline, on my behalf, had said that such expedients are to be excused in a man who must rise by his own exertions. I had already heard her excuses for Pronto, – the excuses which her generosity had found for him, after he had broken her heart.

I cannot bear this, I said to myself. I cannot bear to think of it. I must not think of it. I shall go mad if I do. I need not, for it is all over. She has refused me. We have parted. I must forget her as soon as possible. That is better than thinking about it.

‘She would not have refused me yesterday,’ said I, ‘if any feeling of that sort had remained.’

‘Oh yes. It is very natural. Consider that for years she has been forbidding herself to love you – telling herself that she does not—’

‘She is far too frank and sensible to deceive herself. And too generous to bear a grudge. Had she still cared for me, I think that she would have accepted me.’

‘Ah! You think so because you are a man. I am a woman, and I understand her better.’

They always say this and we always swallow it. We should get on with them much better, I think, if we never allowed them to explain each other, for, when they do, they lead us into a maze from which there is no escape.

I should not have listened to her. I should have resigned myself to that frightful truth which gripped me, – that my chance with Caroline had come and gone long since, – that, in her exalted resolution, she had forgiven me far too well. The girl who had loved me ten years before was lost beyond recall; the woman she might have become, had I loved her then, was lost too. The surviving Caroline had learnt to cherish solitude, – she was not for me, not for any man.

But I allowed myself to be talked into a kind of hope, against reason, against feeling, – since, between us, we settled upon a picture of Caroline which did her little justice. She did not know her own mind. She did not know her own heart. There might be a little resentment, it was very natural, which had prompted her to inflict pain upon one who had caused her so much. She had not meant what she said. She would soften when she knew of my remorse. With patience, I might still prevail.

I was the more ready to listen since this kind of reasoning did away with certain mortifying memories. I was able to forget those strictures upon Lufton, and set them all down to the reproaches of a wounded heart. We had a long discussion. We must have been closeted together for above two hours, for Mrs. Egerton had a great deal of very good advice, once she had prevailed upon me to listen. She thought it better that I should leave Bath for the present, giving Caroline a little time for reflection and regret. She herself would meanwhile be my constant advocate, and would engage to let me know when to return.

We were still in the midst of this sanguine conspiracy when Caroline’s note was brought in.

The servant said that a boy had left it at the door, saying that a lady, travelling post to London, had given him a shilling to deliver it at Devonshire Crescent by midday.

‘Travelling post to London!’ cried Mrs. Egerton, breaking the seal. ‘But this is Caroline’s hand!’

She looked at it, turned pale, cried out and thrust it into my hand before rushing from the room. Bells were rung, maids ran up and down stairs, – the whole house echoed with cries and exclamations, as it became plain that Caroline was gone. She had slipped out, with a small travelling bag, while I was closeted with her sister, had hired a post-chaise, and quitted Bath.

Whilst all this clamour proceeded I stood in the drawing-room, reading and re-reading her note:

I am going to London. Pray send my clothes to Lingshot. You shall have my direction when I know what it will be. I choose to live by myself for a while.

Nancy tells me that you have sent for Mr. Lufton. I know you too well not to guess what you mean to tell him, and I cannot bear to see either of you again. You have no right to betray me, and no right to give him this needless pain. You do me wrong to take me out of the grave. Tell him to forget – forget and forgive.

I tried to forget, because I did not wish to forgive. I spent the autumn in a reckless, angry mood, refusing to think, determined to remember nothing.

Then came my accident, my illness, and the eclipse of Pronto, which left me no defence against memory.

But why should I have feared it? This long reverie of recollection has brought me more of good than evil. It has raised my mother from the shades, an image no longer dim, but as a light which shone like heaven upon my childhood. Hawker has returned to me, as I first knew him, I have seen Ludovic galloping over the downs, I have remembered why I love Newsome and Kitty so much. Beyond all other blessings, – my beloved girl has been restored to my heart. Where she may be now, I know not; but wherever she is, God go with her.

But genuine love must prize the past,

And memory wakes the thoughts that bless;

They rose the first – they set the last.

What shall I do now? I do not trouble myself greatly over that. It will follow, – it will follow as the night must follow day. To know himself is the first thing that a man must do before he dies. It is not all, but it is the first.

There must be no more of these boyish starts, – no more dreams of going to sea, no more attempts to fly the world. Miles has compounded too often with Pronto in that way, and set a Harry Ridding against the pangs of conscience. I trust that this business of Ridding’s may be the last of his exploits. The feelings which prompted these impulsive actions must, and shall, be put to a more effective use. ‘There is much to be done.’ I will no longer cry: Helpless! ‘A duty that I may be happy to fulfil.’ I shall find it. I have still half of my life before me.

It was daylight when I began this last chapter. Now it is dark, and a young crescent moon has appeared above the trees in the park. Down in the lane I can hear voices and low laughter. Harriet, Sukey and Anna are strolling there; I can see their white dresses glimmer among the shadows.

They have just spied me at my window and are calling to me to turn my money in my pocket and kiss my hand to the new moon.

MEMOIR: 1808-1818

Lingshot

Miss Audley

Caroline

Manet Sors Tertia