Heart and Cross

“You had better write a poem yourself, Maurice, and show what you can do,” cried the indignant Clara; “it is so grand to be a critic, and so easy! Nobody can write to please you, nobody can speak to please you—I should just like to see you do something yourself, Maurice, that we could criticise as well.”

Maurice laughed, poising in his hand the pretty new poetry-book which Mr. Sedgwick had brought down from London to his wife. He looked so superior and so triumphant, that even his grave brother-in-law was provoked.

“Maurice is not so foolish,” said Mr. Sedgwick, “as long as he doesn’t do anything he may be a Shakespeare for anything we know. You girls may worship him as such now, if you please—there he sits quite ready to receive your homage; but if he really ventured into print, Maurice would be only Maurice Harley—just himself, like the rest of us—might even find a critic in his turn, as such is the fate of mortals. No, no, you may be sure Maurice won’t commit himself; he’s a great deal too wise for that.”

Maurice laughed a somewhat constrained laugh, and coloured slightly. Perhaps a touch of conscience made Mr. Sedgwick’s sarcasm tell—he threw down the book with a little petulance.

“Far be it from me to object to Clara’s tastes. Thanks to my sisters, I know pretty well what young ladies like in the shape of poetry,” said Maurice; “they all admire the Newdigates. There was a time when I found Alice in tears over one of these distinguished poems—and that not so very many years ago.”

“Oh! don’t be so dreadfully satirical!” said Miss Reredos, who was beginning to tire of Johnnie and his stereoscope. “I am sure that year that mamma and I went to Commemoration with Clement there was the sweetest thing imaginable—and so charmingly read too—and I have a copy of it now; but, oh! I know why Mr. Harley does not like the Newdigate,” cried the Rector’s sister, clasping her soft hands, “he’s a Cambridge man!”

“Exactly,” said Maurice, recovering himself at once, for he was quite disposed to take Miss Reredos for his antagonist; “you know the jealousy which exists between us. Your brother and I preserve an outside appearance of civility, out of respect to Mrs. Crofton and the presence of the ladies, but nobody can doubt for a moment how we hate each other in our hearts.”

“I say, do you though?” cried the small voice, down at Maurice Harley’s elbow, of my son Derwie, who was, unluckily, at that moment advancing with the rest of the little troop to say good-night. “Do you hate the Rector, Maurice?—he’s the clergyman, you know—he can’t do anything wrong; so he can’t hate you—why do you hate him?—is he cleverer than you are? Stand up a moment, please—I don’t think he’s quite as tall.”

This interruption Derwent made with the most perfect sincerity and earnestness, unconsciously guessing at the only reasons which could make a person so accomplished as Maurice Harley hate anybody. Everybody laughed except the individual questioned, who shot a glance of wrath at my boy, and eyed Mr. Reredos with a sort of contemptuous inquiry. Could any one, even a child, imagine the new rector to be cleverer than the ineffable Maurice? He sank down again in the chair from which Derwie had dragged him, laughing with a very bad grace. Then all the broken currents of talk going on in the room, suffered a little ebb and pause. Little rosy faces clustered close about Clara Sedgwick, about Alice and myself, and old Miss Polly, holding up rose-lips full of kisses. Mr. Crofton shook hands with Derwie, and turned him off with an affectionate grasp upon his shoulders, declaring, with a fondness beyond caresses, that he was too old to be kissed. Then we all paused, looking after them as they trooped out of the room. Miss Reredos, full of something clever to say in the way of an attack upon Maurice—Maurice himself too self-conscious to be diverted by that pretty procession, and Johnnie, who was hanging over his stereoscope, and following the Rector’s sister with his eyes, were the only persons in the room who did not watch with a smile and an increased warmth at heart these beautiful children disappearing, one by one, from the door. Mr. Reredos’s face shone, and he cast sidelong glances at Alice. He was young, in his first romance of love, not yet spoken. His heart was moved in him with an unconscious blessing to the children; visions of a house of his own, musical with such voices, stole into the Rector’s soul—I could see it in his face.

And was it to be so? There was no side glance from the eyes of Alice, reciprocating those of Mr. Reredos—no consciousness, as she stood by the table watching the children, of any future such as that which sparkled in the young Rector’s eyes. She stood calmly watching them, nodding and smiling to Derwent, and her little niece Clary, who, hand in hand, were the last to leave the room—the maiden aunt, only a little more independent of the children than their mother—almost as much beloved by them—the young, unmarried woman, gravely cogitating the necessities of her class of age, and feeling much superior to the vanities of love-making, without a single palpitation in her of the future bride, the possible mother. So, at least, it seemed.

CHAPTER VII

That evening—it was the first of her visit to Hilfont, and a perfectly natural thing, considering the long affection between us—I paid Alice a long visit in her own room. I might have done so, even if I had been conscious of nothing to inquire about, nothing to suggest. It was rather late when we all came up-stairs, and when I had seen Miss Polly safely established in her easy chair by her fire, and eluded as well as I could the story about Elinor’s (to wit, Lady Greenfield, Sir Willoughby’s wife, once Mrs. Herbert Nugent, my cousin, and Bertie’s aunt) letter—I turned back to the bright chamber near my own, which was always called Miss Harley’s room. Alice was sitting rather listlessly by the table, reading. She looked tired, and did not seem overmuch to enjoy her book. She was very glad to see me come in, and, I suspect, to be delivered from her own thoughts, which it was clear enough she could not quite exorcise by means of literature; for it was not a novel, which there is some hope in, but a wisdom-book, much esteemed by the superior classes—one of those books which, if it has any power at all, excites one into contradiction, by conclusions about human nature in general, which we can all form our own opinions upon. I suspect Alice could not keep her attention to it, hard though she tried.

When we had talked over indifferent matters for some time, my curiosity, which I might have dignified with the title of anxiety, too, roused me to closer inquiries than, perhaps, were quite justifiable. I knew that after Mr. Reredos had spoken—unless, indeed, he happened to be accepted—Alice’s lips were closed for ever on the subject, so I wickedly took advantage of my opportunities.

“Perhaps ere long I shall have to congratulate you,” said I, “and you may be sure it would be a great matter for me to have you so very near. We should make famous neighbors, Alice, don’t you think? I may well be anxious about your decision, my dear, for my own sake.”

“Mrs. Crofton, I do not understand you,” said Alice, in a little dismay, looking very curiously and wistfully in my face; then, after a little pause, a deep color suffused her cheeks, she started, and moved her hand impatiently upon the table, as if in sudden passion with herself, and then added, coldly, with an inexpressible self-restraint and subdued bitterness, which it was hard to understand: “Pray tell me what you mean?”

The contrast of her tone, so suddenly chilled and formal, with the burning color and subdued agitation of her face, struck me wonderfully. “My dear child,” said I, “I have no right to ask—I don’t want to interfere—but you are sure to have this question submitted to you, Alice, and can’t be ignorant of that now, that it has come so far. Cannot you think what I mean?”

Alice paused a moment, then she cast rather a defiant glance at me, and answered, proudly: “If any one has been forming foolish plans about me, Mrs. Crofton, the responsibility is not mine—I know I am not to blame.”

“That may be very true,” said I, “but I am not speaking of responsibility. Don’t you think, dear, that this is important enough to be taken into consideration without any impatience of personal feeling? Deciding one’s life by the ordeal of marriage is a human necessity it appears. You are a clergyman’s daughter—no way could you fill a better or more congenial place than as a clergyman’s wife. If I were you I should not conclude at once, because, perhaps, in the meantime, of your own accord, you have not quite fallen in desperate love with your lover. My dear, you think I am dreadfully common-place, but I cannot help it. Think, Alice!—you want a life for yourself—a house belonging to you, and you only—you do! Don’t say no—everybody does; think! Won’t you take all this into consideration before you decide?”

“Because I am going to have ‘an offer,’ and perhaps I never may have another—because I am not so young now as to be able to throw away my chances—and it is you who say so!” cried Alice, throwing at me an angry, bitter, scornful glance. Perhaps, if she had yielded more to my arguments, I might have found it harder than I did now.

“You humiliate me,” she cried again: “if I want a life of my own, I want to make it myself; a house of my own?—no I have no ambition for that.”

“But you falter a little when you say so,” said I, taking cruel advantage of her weakness. “Now, we are not going to discuss the disabilities of women. It is just as impossible for an unmarried man to have what I call a house of his own as it is for you; and as for the privilege of choice—good lack, good lack! much use it seems about to be to poor Mr. Reredos! My dear child, don’t be foolish—there is your brother Maurice with the most complete of educations, and no lack of power to make use of it. What is he going to do with himself? Where are the great advantages he has over his sister? I can’t see them. But no, that’s not the question. The Rector is a good man; he is young, he is well off; he is agreeable. Your dearest friend could not choose a more suitable life for you than that you would have at the Hilfont Rectory. Now, Alice, think. Are you going to make up your mind to throw away all this, and a good man’s happiness besides?”

“Oh, Mrs. Crofton! Mrs. Crofton! and it is you who say so!” said poor Alice, with looks which certainly must have consumed me had I been of combustible material—“this is from you!”

“And why not, my dear?” said I, meekly. “Am not I next to your mother, Alice?—next oldest friend?—and next interested in your welfare?”

“If you mean that you have a right to say anything you please to me,” said Alice, seizing my hand and kissing it in a quick revulsion of feeling, “it is true to the very farthest that you choose to stretch it; but that is not what you mean. Oh, dear Mrs. Crofton!” said the poor girl with a rising blush and a certain solemn indignation wonderful to me—“I can only say it again; of all persons in the world that I should have had such words from you!”

With which exclamation she suddenly cast a guilty, startled look upon me as if she had betrayed something and hid her face in her hands. How did she know what was in my heart?—how could she tell that I was arguing against my own dear and long-cherished plans, which I had made it a point of honor never to hint in the remotest manner to her? But here we approached the region where another word was impossible. She would not have uttered a syllable of explanation for her life—I dared not, if I meant to have any comfort in mine; I said nothing to her by which it was possible to infer that I understood what she meant. I absolutely slurred over the whole question—here we had reached the bound.

“Well, dear,” said I, “don’t distress yourself so very much about it—you must decide according to your own will and not to mine; only do think it over again in the fresh morning before the Rector gets an opportunity of speaking to you. Good night, Alice—don’t sit reading, but go to sleep!”

She raised her face to me, and leant her cheek a little more than was quite needful against mine as I kissed her—and so we parted without another word between us. Possibly, we women talk a great deal on most occasions; sometimes, however, we show a singular faculty for keeping silent. Next morning, Alice and I met each other as if we had never spoken a word which all the world might not hear. We interchanged no confidences, looked no looks of private understanding. Indeed, surely nothing had passed between us—all the world might have listened and been none the wiser. What had a momentary emphasis, a sudden look to do with the matter? Alice spoke nothing but her usual sentiments, and I did not say a word inconsistent with mine.

CHAPTER VIII

The next morning was Easter Sunday. I have no doubt Mr. Reredos would have been glad enough to add a private joy of his own to the rejoicings of the festival, and might not have thought it unsuitable to declare himself even on that morning could he have had a chance. However, there was not very much time before Church hours, and to be sure the Rector ought to have been thinking of something else. It was a true Easter morning, full of sunshine and that new life of spring born out of death and darkness which to every heart must bear a certain charm. Is it something of a compensation to the sorrowful that all the wonderful silent symbols of Nature speak to them with a special force which does not belong to the happy? We were all dwelling at ease, people untroubled—our hearts were glad in the sunshine, which to us looked like a promise of permanence and peace unclouded. Only far off with an apprehension of the thoughts, and not of the heart, did the meaning of the feast which we were keeping occur to us. To Derwent and myself this was perhaps the happiest time of our lives. Perhaps to us the Resurrection was little more than an article of belief—I think we thus paid something for our happiness. At all events it did not jar upon us to perceive a certain agitation in the Rector’s tones—a certain catching of his breath in the little pleasant sermon, not without some small sentences in it specially meant for the ear of Alice, but perfectly “suited to the occasion,” which Mr. Reredos delivered. Everybody was very attentive, save Maurice Harley. Maurice had some liberal and lofty objections to the Athanasian creed; he sat down and amused himself reading the Gunpowder Plot Service with secret smiles of criticism, while his neighbors round him murmured forth with a universal rustic voice that strenuous confession of the faith—and he sketched a bracket (we were rather proud of our Church) while Mr. Reredos preached his sermon, and comported himself generally as a highly superior man, attending Church out of complacency to his friends, might be expected to do.

Next day I fear Mr. Reredos ascertained beyond question what he had to expect from Alice Harley. With a look of stormy agitation, strongly restrained, he let me know on the Monday that it was quite necessary for him to return to the Rectory. He had some sick people to attend to, who demanded his presence in his own house. I did not say that there was only half a mile of distance between the Rectory and the Hall—I acquiesced in his explanations, and accepted his apologies. Miss Reredos, however, was much more difficult to manage. I heard him tell her in a low tone that she must get ready to go; and the young lady’s answer of astonishment, and resistance, and total ignorance of any reason why her pleasure should be balked, was audible enough to everybody in the room.

“Go away! Leave Hilfont!” she exclaimed with a gasp of amazement. “Why should we go away? Mrs. Crofton was good enough to ask us for a week, and I am sure you could do your duty quite as well here as at the Rectory. Oh, please, Mrs. Crofton, listen! The only sick people I know of are that old man at the turnpike, and his blind daughter—he could visit them quite as well going from Hilfont as from the Rectory. I believe this is the nearest of the two.”

“Oh, but Mr. Williams from the little chapel goes to see old Johnnie Dunn,” interrupted little Derwie; “he was there yesterday, and Martha’s quite well now, and goes to chapel like anything. Miss Reredos, do you know Martha wasn’t always blind? she used to work and make dresses when she was young. Once she lived in Simonborough and learned her trade, and I suppose it was there she learned to go to chapel. Martha says they’re not Church-folks at all. I don’t think they want Mr. Reredos to go there.”

“You’re not very complimentary, Derwie,” said the Rector, with a slight quiver of his lip, which I recognized as a sign of the passion and deep excitement in which he was. With that wild pain and mortification tugging at his heart, it would have been a relief to him to burst out in an ebulition of rage or impatience against somebody, and I instinctively put out my hand to protect my boy. “But it is sometimes my duty to go where they don’t want me,” he added, with a laugh as significant, “and with many regrets and many thanks to Mrs. Crofton we must still go back to-day. Laura, get ready, please.”

In pity for the unfortunate Rector, who, I saw, longed to escape from the room, the inquisitive looks of Mrs. Clara, who was present, and the distinct statement from Derwie, which I knew to be impending, to the effect, that of his own certain knowledge nobody was ill in the village, I interposed, and we made a compromise—the Rector left us and his sister stayed. Miss Reredos was profoundly pleased with the arrangement. Perhaps her dear Clement did not confide to her his private reasons for so hasty a return, and I am not sure that she was not quite as well satisfied with his absence, which might have possibly spoiled her own particular sport—or interfered with it at least. So he went away with a certain impetus and haste upon him—his romance come to an effectual end, and his sensations somewhat bitter. He was not lackadaisical, but savage, as men are under their mortifications when they are no longer in their first youth. I daresay, if one could have read his thoughts, there were ferocious denunciations there against the women who beguile a man to commit himself so fatally, which would have been very unjust to poor Alice. I am afraid it is very cold-hearted of me to speak so lightly of a serious disappointment, which this certainly was to Mr. Reredos. I have no doubt he was really unhappy; but I thought it a good symptom that the unhappiness took a savage turn.

Miss Reredos left behind, pursued, as I have said, her own sport. She was prettier than I thought her at first—she had a little of that teasing wit which clever young ladies exercise upon attractive young men, and she had a strong sentimental reserve, much more in keeping with her pale complexion and black ringlets than the lighter mood. A couple of days had not passed over us before we all perceived that the poor lame boy, Johnnie Harley, was hopelessly taken in her toils. Just at first nobody had paid particular attention to the intercourse between these two. It was very kind of Miss Reredos to talk to the unfortunate young man, and interest herself about his pictures, and listen to his dreams; and so wonderful a prominence has one’s actual self to one’s own eyes, however unselfish, that I believe Alice was quite of opinion that Miss Reredos, expecting to be connected with the family by-and-by, was paying all these friendly attentions to Johnnie by way of conciliating herself. Nothing could be further from the intentions of the Rector’s sister. She was strongly of opinion that each man for himself was the most satisfactory rule, and being possessed of that spirit of conquest which some women have by nature, commenced her operations from the moment of entering the house. I do not think she could help it, poor girl—it was natural to her. There were in Hilfont only two persons accessible to her charms—Maurice, in every way an eligible victim, and poor cripple Johnnie, to whom, one could have supposed, not even a coquettish girl at a loss for a prey, would have had the heart to offer her sweet poison. But the heart, I fear, has little to do with such concerns, and almost before the suspicions of the other women of the party, from myself downward, were awakened, the mischief was done. Miss Reredos, we had no difficulty in perceiving, had set her heart upon the subjugation of Maurice, whether for any personal reason, or for sport, or as a means of retaliation, it was difficult to tell; and really I was not in the least concerned about the peace of mind of the Fellow of Exeter. But Johnnie! we all rose up together to his defence, with secret vows of self-devotion. All the women of us guarded him about, shielding his little table and his stereoscope from the approach of the enemy—even Di, tall, timid, and twelve years old, stood by the lad with a natural instinct. But we were too late. He answered Miss Polly, I fear, rather sharply, turned his back upon myself, and gave Mrs. Clara a brotherly push away from him. He wanted none of us—he wanted only the Siren who was charming the poor boy among such rocks and quicksands as his frail boat had never yet ventured upon. When Miss Reredos addressed herself to Maurice, his unfortunate brother turned savage looks upon that all-accomplished young man. In our first indignation we were all rather cold to Miss Reredos, and Johnnie, quick-sighted as his infirmities helped to make him, perceived it in a moment, and resented the neglect, which of course he attributed to our envy of her perfections. Then we tried artifice instead, and Clara, sister of the victim, got up a very warm sudden regard for the enchantress, whose opinion she sought upon everything; but this Miss Reredos speedily discovered, exposed, and exulted in; there was no help for it—the damage which was done, was done, and could not be repaired.

Meanwhile the flirtation with Maurice did not advance so satisfactorily—he was so much accustomed to admire himself, that the habit of admiring another came slowly to him; and then, as Miss Reredos took the initiative, and did not spare to be cleverly rude to the young man, he, taking advantage of his privileges, was cleverly rude to her in reply, from which fashionable mode of beginning, they advanced by degrees to closer friendship, or, at least, familiarity of address. Alice looked on at all this with the most solemn disapproval—it was amusing to see the dead gravity of her glances towards them, the tacit displeasure, and shame, and resentment on account of “her sex!” Poor Alice took the responsibility on her own shoulders; she watched the levity of the other girl, who did not resemble herself in a single particular, with a solemn sense of being involved in it, which struck me as the oddest comicality I had seen. Could anybody suppose Maurice Harley concerned about another man’s shortcomings, only because the culprit was a man, and one of his own sex? If it had not been so entirely true and sincere, it would have been absurd—this championship of Alice; only women ever dream of such an esprit de corps—but she maintained it with such absolute good faith and solemn gravity, that while one laughed one loved her the better. There she sat, severe in her youthful virtue, gravely believing herself old, and past the period of youth, but in her heart as high-flying, as obstinate, as heroical as if she were seventeen. Mrs. Clara knew nothing of that romance; perhaps there are delicate touches of feminine character, which only show themselves to perfection in the “unmarried woman”—the woman who has come to maturity without having the closer claims of husband and children to charm her out of her thoughts and theories—though it is only in a very gracious subject that such an example as Alice Harley could be produced.

CHAPTER IX

“Well, really!” said little Mrs. Sedgwick, bridling with offended virtue, “I don’t think I am very hard upon a little innocent flirting—sometimes, you know, there’s no harm in it—and young people will amuse themselves; but really, Mrs. Crofton, that Miss Reredos is quite ridiculous. I do wonder for my part how men can be so taken in!—and our Maurice who is so clever!—and she is not even pretty—if she had been pretty one could have understood.”

“My dear Clara,” said I, “perhaps it is not very complimentary to your brother, but I do think the most sensible thing Maurice could do would be to fall in love. I don’t say of course with Miss Reredos; but then, you see, we can’t choose the person. If he fell desperately in love and made a fool of himself, I am sure I should not think any worse of him, and it would do him no harm.”

Both the sisters drew up their shoulders a little, and communicated between each other a telegraphic glance of displeasure. Between themselves they could be hard enough upon Maurice, but, after the use of kinsfolk, could not bear the touch of a stranger.

“Really, I cannot say I should be very grateful to Maurice for such a sister-in-law,” said Clara, with a toss of her head.

“I don’t think there is very much to fear,” said Miss Polly. “Do you know what little Derwie told me yesterday? He said a poor woman in the village had three or four children ill with the hooping-cough—at least so I understood the child from the sound he made to show me what it was. Now, I really think if I were you, Clare, I would not let that child wander so much about the village. Neither Di nor Emmy has ever had hooping-cough, and I shall be almost frightened to let them go out of doors.”

“Oh, I assure you it’s nothing, Miss Polly!” cried Clara—“mine had it two years ago—even the baby—and took their walks just the same in all weathers; and they must have it one time or other, you know—and such great girls as your two nieces! Our children all got over it perfectly well. Though Hugh says I am ridiculously timid, I never was the least afraid. Their chests were rubbed every night, and they had something which Hugh said it was polite to call medicine. Oh, I assure you there’s nothing to be at all afraid of! especially at this time of the year.”

“I daresay that’s very true, my dear,” said Miss Polly, who took little Clara’s nursery instructions and assurances in very good part, “but it isn’t always so. There’s my poor little nephew, little Willoughby—dear, dear! to think what a strong man his father is, and how delicate that poor child looks! I can’t help thinking sometimes it must be his mother’s fault; though to be sure they have the best of nurses, and Lady Greenfield can’t be expected to make a slave of herself; that poor dear little soul was very ill with the hooping-cough. Clara—all children are not so fortunate as your pretty darlings; and that reminds me, Clare, that you have never seen Elinor’s letter yet; she mentions her nephew in it, as I think I told you; so, though it’s almost all about Emmy, my dear children’s mother, if you’ll wait a minute I’ll just bring it down.”

Saying which Miss Polly left the room. Alice sat rather stiffly at her work and looked very busy—so very busy that I was suspicious of some small gleam of interest on her part touching the contents of Lady Greenfield’s letter.

“Miss Polly does not love Lady Greenfield too much,” said Clara, laughing; “but,” she added, with a little flush of angry anticipation, “it’s nothing to laugh at after all. Suppose Maurice were to marry Miss Reredos! Oh, Mrs. Crofton, isn’t it shocking of you to put such dreadful thoughts in one’s head! Fancy, Alice! and to settle down hereabout—to be near us!—I am sure I could never be civil to her: and what do you suppose mamma would say?”

“Maurice has nothing but his fellowship,” said Alice.

“Well, to be sure, that is some comfort,” said Clara; “but then I daresay he might get a living if he tried, and Hugh could even”–

Here Miss Polly came in with her letter, so we did not hear at that moment what could be done by Hugh, who, in the eyes of his little wife, was happily a person all-powerful.

“My dear,” said Miss Polly, laying down the letter in her lap, and making a little preliminary lecture in explanation, “you remember that Emmy, my niece, two years ago, married again. Well, you know, one couldn’t well blame her. She was only one and twenty, poor little soul, when she was left with these two children; and I was but too glad to keep the little girls with me, so she was quite what people call without encumbrance, you see. So she married that curate whom she had met at Fenosier. Well, it’s no use disguising it—Lady Greenfield and I are perhaps not such great friends as we ought to be, and Emmy has a temper of her own, and is just the weak-minded sort of little soul that will worry herself to death over those slights and annoyances that good near neighbors can do to each other—she ought to know better, after all she’s gone through. So here’s a letter from Elinor, telling me, of course, she’s as innocent as the day, and knows nothing about it—and so sorry for poor dear little Emmy—and so good and sweet-tempered herself, that really, if I were as near to her as Emmy is, I do believe I should do her a mischief. There’s the letter, Clare; you can read that part about Bertie out aloud if you please—perhaps the girls might like to hear it.”