Mount Royal: A Novel. Volume 2 of 3

"She is looking very ill, Leonard. She has been ill for a long time. God grant we may keep her with us a few years yet, but I am full of fear about her. I go to her room every morning with an aching heart, dreading what the night may have brought. Thank God, you came home when you did. It would have been cruel to stay away longer."

"That's very good in you, Belle – uncommonly good – to talk about cruelty, when you must know that it was your fault I stayed away so long."

"My fault? What had I to do with it?"

"Everything. I should have been home a year and a half ago – home last Christmas twelvemonth. I had made all my plans with that intention, for I was slightly home-sick in those days – didn't relish the idea of three thousand miles of everlasting wet between me and those I loved – and I was coming across the Big Drink as fast as a Cunard could bring me, when I got mother's letter telling me of your engagement. Then I coiled up, and made up my mind to stay in America till I'd done some big licks in the sporting line."

"Why should that have influenced you?" Christabel asked, coldly.

"Why? Confound it! Belle, you know that without asking. You must know that it wouldn't be over-pleasant for me to be living at Mount Royal while you and your lover were spooning about the place. You don't suppose I could quite have stomached that, do you – to see another man making love to the girl I always meant to marry? – for you know, Belle, I always did mean it. When you were in pinafores I made up my mind that you were the future Mrs. Tregonell."

"You did me a great honour," said Belle, with an icy smile, "and I suppose I ought to be very proud to hear it – now. Perhaps, if you had told me your intention while I was in pinafores I might have grown up with a due appreciation of your goodness. But you see, as you never said anything about it, my life took another bent."

"Don't chaff, Belle," exclaimed Leonard, "I'm in earnest. I was hideously savage when I heard that you had got yourself engaged to a man whom you'd only known a week or two – a man who had led a racketty life in London and Paris – "

"Stop," cried Christabel, turning upon him with flashing eyes, "I forbid you to speak of him. What right have you to mention his name to me? I have suffered enough, but that is an impertinence I will not endure. If you are going to say another word about him I'll ride back to Mount Royal as fast as my horse can carry me."

"And get spilt on the way. Why, what a spitfire you are, Belle. I had no idea there was such a spice of the devil in you," said Leonard, somewhat abashed by this rebuff. "Well I'll hold my tongue about him in future. I'd much rather talk about you and me, and our prospects. What is to become of you, Belle, when the poor mother goes? You and the doctor have both made up your minds that she's not long for this world. For my own part, I'm not such a croaker, and I've known many a creaking door hanging a precious long time on its hinges. Still, it's well to be prepared for the worst. Where is your life to be spent, Belle, when the mater has sent in her checks?"

"Heaven knows," answered Christabel, tears welling up in her eyes, as she turned her head from the questioner. "My life will be little worth living when she is gone – but I daresay I shall go on living, all the same. Sorrow takes such a long time to kill any one. I suppose Jessie and I will go on the Continent, and travel from place to place, trying to forget the old dear life among new scenes and new people."

"And nicely you will get yourself talked about," said Leonard, with that unhesitating brutality which his friends called frankness – "a young and handsome woman, without any male relative, wandering about the Continent."

"I shall have Jessie."

"A paid companion – a vast protection she would be to you – about as much as a Pomeranian dog, or a poll parrot."

"Then I can stay in England," answered Christabel, indifferently. "It will matter very little where I live."

"Come, Belle," said Leonard, in a friendly, comfortable tone, laying his broad strong hand on her horse's neck, as they rode slowly side by side up the narrow road, between hedges filled with honeysuckle and eglantine, "this is flying in the face of Providence, which has made you young and handsome, and an heiress, in order that you might get the most out of life. Is a young woman's life to come to an end all at once because an elderly woman dies? That's rank nonsense. That's the kind of way widows talk in their first edition of crape and caps. But they don't mean it, my dear; or, say they think they mean it, they never hold by it. That kind of widow is always a wife again before the second year of her widowhood is over. And to hear you – not quite one-and-twenty, and as fit as a fid – in the very zenith of your beauty," said Leonard, hastily correcting the horsey turn of his compliment, – "to hear you talk in that despairing way is too provoking. Come, Belle, be rational. Why should you go wandering about Switzerland and Italy with a shrewish little old maid like Jessie Bridgeman – when – when you can stay at Mount Royal and be its mistress. I always meant you to be my wife, Belle, and I still mean it – in spite of bygones."

"You are very good – very forgiving," said Christabel, with most irritating placidity, "but unfortunately I never meant to be your wife then – and I don't mean it now."

"In plain words, you reject me?"

"If you intend this for an offer, most decidedly," answered Christabel, as firm as a rock. "Come, Leonard, don't look so angry; let us be friends and cousins – almost brother and sister – as we have been in all the years that are gone. Let us unite in the endeavour to make your dear mother's life happy – so happy, that she may grow strong and well again – restored by perfect freedom from care. If you and I were to quarrel she would be miserable. We must be good friends always – if it were only for her sake."

"That's all very well, Christabel, but a man's feelings are not so entirely within his control as you seem to suppose. Do you think I shall ever forget how you threw me over for a fellow you had only known a week or so – and now, when I tell you how, from my boyhood, I have relied upon your being my wife – always kept you in my mind as the one only woman who was to bear my name, and sit at the head of my table, you coolly inform me that it can never be? You would rather go wandering about the world with a hired companion – "

"Jessie is not a hired companion – she is my very dear friend."

"You choose to call her so – but she came to Mount Royal in answer to an advertisement, and my mother pays her wages, just like the housemaids. You would rather roam about with Jessie Bridgeman, getting yourself talked about at every table d'hôte in Europe – a prey for every Captain Deuceace, or Loosefish, on the Continent – than you would be my wife, and mistress of Mount Royal."

"Because nearly a year ago I made up my mind never to be any man's wife, Leonard," answered Christabel, gravely. "I should hate myself if I were to depart from that resolve."

"You mean that when you broke with Mr. Hamleigh you did not think there was any one in the world good enough to stand in his shoes," said Leonard, savagely. "And for the sake of a man who turned out so badly that you were obliged to chuck him up, you refuse a fellow who has loved you all his life."

Christabel turned her horse's head, and went homewards at a sharp trot, leaving Leonard, discomfited, in the middle of the lane. He had nothing to do but to trot meekly after her, afraid to go too fast, lest he should urge her horse to a bolt, and managing at last to overtake her at the bottom of a hill.

"Do find some grass somewhere, so that we may get a canter," she said; and her cousin knew that there was to be no more conversation that morning.

CHAPTER V

"BUT HERE IS ONE WHO LOVES YOU AS OF OLD."

After this Leonard sulked, and the aspect of home life at Mount Royal became cloudy and troubled. He was not absolutely uncivil to his cousin, but he was deeply resentful, and he showed his resentment in various petty ways – descending so low as to give an occasional sly kick to Randie. He was grumpy in his intercourse with his mother; he took every opportunity of being rude to Miss Bridgeman; he sneered at all their womanly occupations, their charities, their church-going. That domestic sunshine which had so gladdened the widow's heart, was gone for ever, as it seemed. Her son now snatched at every occasion for getting away from home. He dined at Bodmin one night – at Launceston, another. He had friends to meet at Plymouth, and dined and slept at the "Duke of Cornwall." He came home bringing worse devils – in the way of ill-temper and rudeness – than those which he had taken away with him. He no longer pretended the faintest interest in Christabel's playing – confessing frankly that all classical compositions, especially those of Beethoven, suggested to him that far-famed melody which was fatal to the traditional cow. He no longer offered to make her a fine billiard-player. "No woman ever could play billiards," he said, contemptuously – "they have neither eye nor wrist; they know nothing about strengths; and always handle their cue as if it was Moses's rod, and was going to turn into a snake and bite 'em."

Mrs. Tregonell was not slow to guess the cause of her son's changed humour. She was too intensely anxious for the fulfilment of this chief desire of her soul not to be painfully conscious of failure. She had urged Leonard to speak soon – and he had spoken – with disastrous result. She had seen the angry cloud upon her son's brow when he came home from that tête-à-tête ride with Christabel. She feared to question him, for it was her rash counsel, perhaps, which had brought this evil result to pass. Yet she could not hold her peace for ever. So one evening, when Jessie and Christabel were dining at Trevalga Rectory, and Mrs. Tregonell was enjoying the sole privilege of her son's company, she ventured to approach the subject.

"How altered you have been lately" – lately, meaning for at least a month – "in your manner to your cousin, Leonard," she said, with a feeble attempt to speak lightly, her voice tremulous with suppressed emotion. "Has she offended you in any way? You and she used to be so very sweet to each other."

"Yes, she was all honey when I first came home, wasn't she, mother?" returned Leonard, nursing his boot, and frowning at the lamp on the low table by Mrs. Tregonell's chair. "All hypocrisy – rank humbug – that's what it was. She is still bewailing that fellow whom you brought here – and, mark my words, she'll marry him sooner or later. She threw him over in a fit of temper, and pride, and jealousy; and when she finds she can't live without him she'll take some means of bringing him back to her. It was all your doing, mother. You spoiled my chances when you brought your old sweetheart's son into this house. I don't think you could have had much respect for my dead father when you invited that man to Mount Royal."

Mrs. Tregonell's mild look of reproach might have touched the hardest heart; but it was lost on Leonard, who sat scowling at the lamp, and did not once meet his mother's eyes.

"It is not kind of you to say that, Leonard," she said gently; "you ought to know that I was a true and loving wife to your father, and that I have always honoured his memory, as a true wife should. He knew that I was interested in Angus Hamleigh's career, and he never resented that feeling. I am sorry your cousin has rejected you – more sorry than even you yourself can be, I believe – for your marriage has been the dream of my life. But we cannot control fate. Are you really fond of her, dear?"

"Fond of her? A great deal too fond – foolishly – ignominiously fond of her – so fond that I am beginning to detest her."

"Don't despair then, Leonard. Let this first refusal count for nothing. Only be patient, and gentle with her – not cold and rude, as you have been lately."

"It's easy to talk," said Leonard, contemptuously. "But do you suppose I can feel very kindly towards a girl who refused me as coolly as if I had been asking her to dance, and who let me see at the same time that she is still passionately in love with Angus Hamleigh? You should have seen how she blazed out at me when I mentioned his name – her eyes flaming – her cheeks first crimson and then deadly pale. That's what love means. And, even if she were willing to be my wife to-morrow, she would never give me such love as that. Curse her," muttered the lover between his clenched teeth; "I didn't know how fond I was of her till she refused me – and now, I could crawl at her feet, and sue to her as a palavering Irish beggar sues for alms, cringing and fawning, and flattering and lying – and yet in my heart of hearts I should be savage with her all the time, knowing that she will never care for me as she cared for that other fellow."

"Leonard, if you knew how it pains me to hear you talk like that," said Mrs. Tregonell. "It makes me fearful of your impetuous, self-willed nature."

"Self-will be – ! somethinged!" growled Leonard. "Did you ever know a man who cultivated anybody else's will? Would you have me pretend to be better than I am – tell you that I can feel all affection for the girl who preferred the first stranger who came in her way to the playfellow and companion of her childhood?"

"If you had been a little less tormenting, a little less exacting with her in those days, Leonard, I think she would have remembered you more tenderly," said Mrs. Tregonell.

"If you are going to lecture me about what I was as a boy we'd better cut the conversation," retorted Leonard. "I'll go and practise the spot-stroke for half an hour, while you take your after-dinner nap."

"No, dear, don't go away. I don't feel in the least inclined for sleep. I had no idea of lecturing you, Leonard, believe me; only I cannot help regretting, as you do, that Christabel should not be more attached to you. But I feel very sure that, if you are patient, she will come to think differently by-and-by."

"Didn't you tell me to ask her – and quickly?"

"Yes, that was because I was impatient. Life seemed slipping away from me – and I was so eager to be secure of my dear boy's happiness. Let us try different tactics, Leo. Take things quietly for a little – behave to your cousin just as if there had been nothing of this kind between you – and who knows what may happen."

"I know of one thing that may and will happen next October, unless the lady changes her tune," answered Leonard, sulkily.

"What is that?"

"I shall go to South America – do a little mountaineering in the Equatorial Andes – enjoy a little life in Valparaiso, Truxillo – Lord knows where! I've done North America, from Canada to Frisco, and now I shall do the South."

"Leonard, you would not be so cruel as to leave me to die in my loneliness; for I think, dear, you must know that I have not long to live."

"Come, mother, I believe you fancy yourself ever so much worse than you really are. This jog-trot, monotonous life of yours would breed vapours in the liveliest person. Besides, if you should be ill while I am away, you'll have your niece, whom you love as a daughter – and perhaps your niece's husband, this dear Angus of yours – to take care of you."

"You are very hard upon me, Leonard – and yet, I went against my conscience for your sake. I let Christabel break with her lover. I said never one word in his favour, although I must have known in my heart that they would both be miserable. I had your interest at heart more than theirs – I thought, 'here is a chance for my boy.'"