Read Ebook: In Trust: The Story of a Lady and Her Lover by Oliphant Mrs Margaret

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Ebook has 1192 lines and 159320 words, and 24 pages

'Pluck carries everything before it,' he said, with a sigh. 'I never was one of your plucky ones.'

'If you call that pluck!' cried the other, 'when a fellow thinks of nothing but himself, and goes straight before him, whatever happens.'

The curate pressed his brother's arm with tacit thanks, but he sighed even more. 'All the same it was a plucky thing to do,' he said.

The young men were seen approaching for a long time before they reached the house. 'I wonder what has happened,' said Rose; 'they walk as if they were going to a funeral; but I suppose I had better go and see that everything is ready for the game.' After all this was the important matter, and the Ashleys, though of no great consequence in themselves, were at least the only young men in the parish; and if the Woodheads came, as Rose expected, it looked a poor sort of thing to have no men. What the game was I can scarcely pretend to say. It might be croquet, or it might be lawn tennis. This is entirely a chronological question, and one upon which, as the date of this commencement is a little vague, I cannot take upon me to decide. And just as Willie and Charley approached slowly, in a solemn march, the familiar house to which they had so often turned with steps and hearts less weighted, the Woodheads appeared on the other side.

'I was sure they would come,' cried Rose; 'here are Gerty and Fanny.' These young ladies were a clergyman's daughters, and might have paired off most suitably with the Ashleys and no harm done; but perverse humanity may be so far trusted as to make sure that none of the four thought of any such sensible arrangement.

'Don't stay out here,' Miss Fanny said; 'it is the worst thing possible. Go and lie down; or, if you don't like that, sit down in the shade and take a quiet book. Have you got a novel?--if it's not an exciting one, that will do--but keep yourself perfectly quiet and never mind us. Her pulse is just a little excited--nothing to be alarmed about--if she will but go and lie down.'

The others, especially the two young men, exchanged furtive glances. Willie pressed Charley's arm with a whisper, 'Keep it up, old fellow!' Poor curate! he looked piteously at the girl whom he had not had the courage to try for. Would her cheeks have taken that lovely flush, her eye got that anxious, nervous brightness for him? Was it all a question of pluck, and who should be the first to speak? He watched her going back to the house, across the flower garden, with his lips in an unconscious foolish gape of self-renunciation and tender pity and regret. But happily that rich brown beard of his hid the imbecility of this pathetic simple gaze. And then he turned with sober resolution to the game. He cared for nothing any more now that Anne had gone. But an Englishman must play his game out whatever happens; though heaven and earth should melt away.

Nobody suspected her, nobody dreamt what Anne was about to do. That she should do anything that was not open and manifest entered into no one's idea of her. She had always been mistress of herself and all her ways, and had never quailed before the face of man. Did she feel guilty now when she thus appeared to accept the advice offered to her--appeared to consent to take shelter from the sun, and went back to the house to lie down, or take a quiet book, as was recommended? Anne was a great deal too much occupied with her own thoughts and plans to feel any of those little guilts yet. She was scarcely conscious of what she herself felt and thought. She had to carry the report of the morning to the other person, who was as much concerned as she was in it; to tell him everything, to know what he had to say, to consult with him as to what they were to do. With all this in her heart, a flood of thought, rising and falling, like waves of the sea, is it possible that she could think of what the others would say, or even of the novel aspect of her subterfuge and evasion? She could think of nothing about them, but of how to get free, to be delivered from her companions. To see him was necessary, indispensable. She had never permitted it to be supposed that she would not see him, or suffered anything to be drawn from her which could imply an intention of giving him up. Her father had said nothing on this subject. There had been neither condition nor promise. But still it was no doubt contrary to Anne's character, as it was to high honour and sincerity, that she should allow it to be supposed that she was returning to the house on account of her headache, when her intention was to go out another way and meet her lover. When she thought of it afterwards the flush of shame which came over her ran from head to foot; but at the present moment she was entirely unmoved by it. The idea did not so much as cross the threshold of her mind.

She went softly into the cool and silent house. There was nobody visible in the long passages, nor in the hall through which she passed, not consciously going with any precaution, yet making little sound with her light foot. Even Mr. Mountford was out; the doors stood open, the sunshine streamed in here and there at a window making a bar of blazing whiteness across the corridor or stair. Old Saymore was in the open vestibule, full of plants and flowers, into which the great door opened. He was standing before a tall vase of white glass, almost as high as himself, in which he was arranging with great anxiety and interest a waving bouquet of tall ferns and feathery branches. Old Saymore had a soul for art, and the fancies of his young mistress stood in place of all the canons and science of beauty to his mind. He stood with his head on one side, now and then walking a few steps backward to consider the combination of his leaves like an artist before a picture, pulling one forward, pushing one back, pondering with the gravest countenance how to prop up in the middle the waving plume of sumach with which he intended to crown the edifice. He was too much absorbed in his performance to notice Anne, who for her part was too completely preoccupied by hers to see him where he stood, embowered in all that greenery, calculating and considering with the most serious countenance as if the weight of an empire was on his shoulders. As she ran down the steps he heard her for the first time, and turned round hurriedly, moved by the hope of finding a critic and adviser. But his cry of 'Miss Anne!' failed to reach her ear. Her heart was beating high, her thoughts rushing at such a rapid rate that they made a little atmosphere of sound about her, and shut out all less ethereal appeals.

After the Ashleys had left the Rectory, Mr. Cosmo Douglas for his part raised himself from the grass where he had lain so luxuriously puffing his cigar. He was more amused than distressed by the confusion he had brought among them. Charley Ashley was his friend, but the affection had been chiefly on one side. It had been, as the other very well knew, a distinction for Ashley, who was not distinguished in any other way, to be known as the friend of a personage so much more brilliant and popular than himself. Douglas had been accustomed to smile when he was asked by his admirers 'what he could see' in the good fellow who was neither clever nor gay, nor rich, nor witty, and who had, indeed, no particular recommendation except his goodness. It pleased him to attach to himself this useful, faithful, humble friend, who was always ready to stand up for him, and never likely to bring him into any scrape or trouble. And he had always been ready, he thought, to do anything for Charley--to coach him for an examination, to write an essay for him, to 'pull him through' any of the crises of a college career. But to go so far as to curb his own fancy for a girl who pleased him because Charley had set his affections in the same quarter, was a thing entirely beyond Cosmo's perceptions of the duties of friendship. And when he saw the dismal looks of his friend--his heavy dropping back upon the sympathy of Willie, his younger brother, who had never hitherto been his confidant, and the suppressed indignation towards himself of that younger and always jealous companion--he was more tickled than grieved by it. The idea that he could find a serious rival in Ashley never entered his thoughts--or, indeed, that anyone should pay the slightest regard to poor Charley while he was by. Douglas had, indeed, so much confidence in the humility of his friend that he felt his own preference of any thing or person to be a quite sufficient reason why Charley should give it up. 'He likes to give in to me,' was what he had said on many previous occasions; and he was unable to understand how any other affection could be more deeply rooted in Ashley's bosom than that which was directed to himself. Therefore he only smiled at what he supposed a momentary petulance. Good simple soul! perhaps Douglas respected his friend more that he was capable of being so badly 'hit.' But yet he could scarcely realise the possibility of it. Charley in love had not presented itself to him as a credible idea. It made him laugh in spite of himself. And as for interfering with Charley!--as if anyone could suppose it possible that Charley was a man to catch a lady's eye.

But now how far things had gone! Douglas had been a month at the Rectory, and as his eyes followed the two Ashleys along the white sun-swept road and away under the shadow of the park trees, the idea came to him, with a curious sense of expansive and enlarged being, that the masses of foliage sweeping away towards the west, amid which the two solemn wayfarers soon disappeared, would one day, in all probability, be his own. 'No, by the bye, not that; that's the entailed part,' he said to himself; then laughed again, this time partly in gentle self-ridicule, partly in pleasure, and turned his face the other way, towards Lower Lilford--for he had made himself master of the whole particulars. Facing this way, and with the laugh still on his lips, he suddenly found himself in the presence of the Rector, who had come out by his own study window at the sight of the solitary figure on the lawn. Douglas felt himself taken in the act--though of what it would have been hard to say. He grew red in spite of himself under the gaze of the Rector's mild and dull eyes.

'Have the boys left you alone? I can't think how they could be so rude,' Mr. Ashley said.

'Not rude at all, sir. It is I who am rude. I was lazy, and promised to follow them when I had finished my--novel.' Happily, he recollected in time that he had been holding one in his hand. 'I am going now,' he added. 'I dare say I shall catch them up before they get to the house.'

'I was afraid they were leaving you to take care of yourself--that is not our old-fashioned way,' said the old clergyman. 'I wish you a pleasant walk. It is a fine afternoon, but you will find the road dusty. I advise you to go over the meadows and round the lower way.'

'That is just how I intended to go.'

'Very sensible. The boys always take the high road. The other takes you round by the Beeches, much the prettiest way; but it is longer round, and that is why they never use it. A pleasant walk to you,' Mr. Ashley said, waving his hand as he went back to the house.

Douglas laughed to himself as he took the path through the meadows which Mr. Ashley had indicated. The Rector had not as yet interested himself much in what was going on, and the simplicity with which he had suggested the way which the lovers had chosen, and which led to their trysting-place, amused the intruder still more. 'If he but knew!' Douglas said to himself, transferring to the old clergyman the thoughts that filled the mind of his son, by a very natural heightening of his own importance. And yet, to tell the truth, had Mr. Ashley known, it would have been a great relief to his mind, as releasing Charley from a great danger and the parish from a possible convulsion. To know this, however, might have lessened the extreme satisfaction with which Douglas set out for the meeting. He went slowly on across the green fields, all bright in the sunshine, across the little stream, and up the leafy woodland road that led to the Beeches, his heart pleasantly agitated, his mind full of delightful anticipations. Anne herself was sweet to him, and his conquest of her flattered him in every particular. Happiness, importance, wealth, an established place in the world, were all coming to him, linked hand in hand with the loves and joys which surrounded the girl's own image. He had no fear of the consequences. Remorseless fathers were not of his time. Such mediaeval furniture had been cleared out of the world. He expected nothing from this meeting but acceptance, reconciliation, love, and happiness.

THE BEECHES.

He threw the cigar away when she was within a short distance of the spot, and went to meet her with triumphant pleasure.

'My faithful Anne--my true love,' he said as he met her. And Anne came to him; her eyes shining, her lips apart with eagerness. What a meeting it was! No tame domestic reception and hubbub of family excitement could compare with it. How glad and flattered he felt that it was a clandestine indulgence, and that papa had not vulgarised everything by giving his consent! Then they sat down upon the knoll, arm linked in arm, and clasping each other's hands. There was the peaceful house within sight, and the party on the green terrace absorbed in their inferior amusement, in complete ignorance, not knowing what romance was going on, scarcely out of their range of vision, under the trees. All these experiences served to enhance the delight of his position. For the first few minutes he attached less importance to the words which Anne said.

'But you do not seem to understand me. My father will not consent.'

'But they are not vulgar symbols. Yes, I am happy too. I am not afraid of anything. But, Cosmo, you must listen, and you must understand. My father refuses his consent.'

'For how long?' he said with a smile. 'I also should like to refuse you something for the pleasure of being persuaded to forswear myself. I think papa is right. I should hold out as long as you would put any faith in the delusion of my resistance.'

'It is no delusion,' said Anne, shaking her head. 'You must not think so. It is very serious. He has threatened me. There was no make-believe in his mind, Cosmo.'

'Threatened you? With what? Ah! so should I if I thought you were going to desert me.'

'You will not see how serious it is! I do not believe he will give in, Cosmo. He has threatened me that if I persevere he will leave everything he has to leave, away from me.'

'Away from you? But he has no power to do that,' said the young man. 'It is skilful of him to try your faithfulness--but he might have tried it by less conventional means.'

'Yes, he has the power,' said Anne, neglecting the other part of this speech. 'He has power over everything, except, indeed, the entail; and I believe he will do what he says. My father is not a man at all likely to try my faithfulness. He knows me, for one thing.'

'And knows you true as steel,' said Cosmo, looking admiringly in her face and still quite unimpressed by the news.

'Knows that I am not one to give way. He knows that very well. So here is something for your serious consideration. No, indeed, it is no joke. You must not laugh. We must face what is before us,' said Anne, endeavouring to withdraw her hand and half offended by his unbelief.

'I said nothing about being shut up in my room; but it is quite certain,' said Anne, with a little heat, 'that if I oppose him in this point my father will take all that ought to come to me and give it to Rose.'

'To Rose!' a shade of dismay stole over Cosmo's face. 'But I thought,' he said--showing an acquaintance with the circumstances which after, when she thought of it, surprised Anne--'I thought your fortune came from your mother, not from Mr. Mountford at all.'

'And so it does; but it is all in his hands; my mother trusted in my father entirely, as she was of course quite right to do.'

'As it must have been the height of imprudence to permit her to do!' cried Douglas, suddenly reddening with anger. 'How could the trustees be such fools? So you, like the money, are entirely in Mr. Mountford's hands?'

All at once the tone had ceased to be that of a lovers' interview. Anne, startled and offended, this time succeeded in drawing her hand out of his.

'Yes,' she said, with a chill of surprise in her voice, 'entirely in his hands.'

What was going to follow? Under the great beechen boughs, through the warm summer sunshine there seemed all at once to breathe a wintry gale which penetrated to the heart.

This sudden cloud was dissipated in a moment by another laugh, which rang almost too loudly among the trees. 'Well,' he said, drawing her arm through his again, and holding the reluctant hand clasped fast, 'what of that? Because you are in his hands, Anne, my own, do you think I am going to let you slip out of mine?'

The sun grew warm again, and the air delicious as before. Two on one side, and all the world on the other, is not that a perfectly fair division? So long as there are two--if there should come to be but one, then the aspect of everything is changed. Anne's hands clasped between two bigger ones all but disappeared from view. It would be hard, very hard, to slip out of that hold; and it was a minute or two before she regained possession of what Cosmo had called the vulgarer symbols, words. Without recurrence to their aid between people who love each other, how much can be said!

'That is all very well,' said Anne, at last; 'but whatever we may do or say we must come back to this: My father has promised to disinherit me, Cosmo, and he will not go back from his word.'

'Disinherit! the very word sounds romantic. Are we in a novel or are we not? I thought disinherit was only a word for the stage.'

Had she but known how keenly under his levity he was discussing that question within himself! But he went on, still half laughing as if it were the best joke in the world.

'Give up--I would not give up a dog!' cried Anne, impetuously; 'and Cosmo, you!'

'I like you infinitely better,' cried Anne, with proud fervour, 'that you are Douglas of nowhere, but stand upon yourself--the father of your own fortunes. That is the thing to be proud of--if one has ever any right to be proud.'

There are some cases in which there is no policy like the naked truth. Anne held up her hands to stop him as he went on, exclaiming softly, 'Cosmo, Cosmo!' in various tones of reproach and horror. Then at last she stopped him practically, by putting one of her hands upon his mouth--an action which made her blush all over with tender agitation, pleasure, and shame.

'How can you say such things? Cosmo! I will not hear another word.'

'Am I anything but an interloper? How is any man worth calling a man to let you sacrifice yourself to him, Anne?'

'I shall soon think it is you that want to throw me over,' she said.

This shifted the tragic issue of the question and put him more at ease. If it could but be brought back to the general ground, on which mutual professions of fidelity would suffice and time could be gained! So far as that went, Cosmo knew very well what to say. It was only the practical result that filled him with alarm. Why had he been so hasty in declaring himself? The preliminaries of courtship may go on for years, but the moment an answer has been asked and given, some conclusion must be come to. However, it is always easy to answer a girl when she utters such words as these. He eluded the real difficulty, following her lead, and so filled up the time with lovers' talk that the hour flew by without any decision. They talked of the one subject in a hundred different tones--it was all so new, and Anne was so easily transported into that vague and beautiful fairyland where her steps were treading for the first time. And she had so much to say to him on her side; and time has wings, and can fly on some occasions though he is so slow on others. It was she who at the end of many digressions finally discovered that while they had been talking the green terrace below had become vacant, the company dispersed. She started up in alarm.

'They have all gone in. The game is over. How long we must have been sitting here! And they will be looking for me. I was obliged to say I had a headache. Indeed I had a headache,' said Anne, suddenly waking to a sense of her subterfuge and hanging her head--for he had laughed--which was a failure of perception on his part and almost roused her pride to arms. But Cosmo was quick-sighted and perceived his mistake.

'Do not talk nonsense, Cosmo; but I must go home.'

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