SHOWING HOW ISABEL LOWND TOLD A LIE
On the following morning, — Christmas morning, — when she woke, her headache was gone, and she was able, as she dressed, to make some stern resolutions. The ecstasy of her sorrow was over, and she could see how foolish she had been to grieve as she had grieved. After all, what had she lost, or what harm had she done? She had never fancied that the young man was her lover, and she had never wished, — so she now told herself, — that he should become her lover. If one thing was plainer to her than another, it was this — that they two were not fitted for each other. She had sometimes whispered to herself, that if she were to marry at all, she would fain marry a clergyman. Now, no man could be more unlike a clergyman than Maurice Archer. He was, she thought, irreverent, and at no pains to keep his want of reverence out of sight, even in that house. He had said that Christmas was a bore, which, to her thinking, was abominable. Was she so poor a creature as to go to bed and cry for a man who had given her no sign that he even liked her, and of whose ways she disapproved so greatly, that even were he to offer her his hand she would certainly refuse it? She consoled herself for the folly of the preceding evening by assuring herself that she had really worked in the church till she was ill, and that she would have gone to bed, and must have gone to bed, had Maurice Archer never been seen or heard of at the parsonage. Other people went to bed when they had headaches, and why should not she? Then she resolved, as she dressed, that there should be no signs of illness, nor bit of ill-humour on her, on this sacred day. She would appear among them all full of mirth and happiness, and would laugh at the attack brought upon her by Barty Crossgrain’s sudden fear in the pulpit; and she would greet Maurice Archer with all possible cordiality, wishing him a merry Christmas as she gave him her hand, and would make him understand in a moment that she had altogether forgotten their mutual bickerings. He should understand that, or should, at least, understand that she willed that it should all be regarded as forgotten. What was he to her, that any thought of him should be allowed to perplex her mind on such a day as this?
She went downstairs, knowing that she was the first up in the house, — the first, excepting the servants. She went into Mabel’s room, and kissing her sister, who was only half awake, wished her many, many, many happy Christmases.
“Oh, Bell,” said Mabel, “I do so hope you are better!”
“Of course I am better. Of course I am well. There is nothing for a headache like having twelve hours round of sleep. I don’t know what made me so tired and so bad.”
“I thought it was something Maurice said,” suggested Mabel.
“Oh, dear, no. I think Barty had more to do with it than Mr. Archer. The old fellow frightened me so when he made me think I was falling down. But get up, dear. Papa is in his room, and he’ll be ready for prayers before you.”
Then she descended to the kitchen, and offered her good wishes to all the servants. To Barty, who always breakfasted there on Christmas mornings, she was especially kind, and said something civil about his work in the church.
“She’ll ’bout brek her little heart for t’ young mon there, an’he’s naa true t’ her,” said Barty, as soon as Miss Lownd had closed the kitchen door; showing, perhaps, that he knew more of the matter concerning herself than she did.
She then went into the parlour to prepare the breakfast, and to put a little present, which she had made for her father, on his plate; — when, whom should she see but Maurice Archer!
It was a fact known to all the household, and a fact that had not recommended him at all to Isabel, that Maurice never did come downstairs in time for morning prayers. He was always the last; and, though in most respects a very active man, seemed to be almost a sluggard in regard to lying in bed late. As far as she could remember at the moment, he had never been present at prayers a single morning since the first after his arrival at the parsonage, when shame, and a natural feeling of strangeness in the house, had brought him out of his bed. Now he was there half an hour before the appointed time, and during that half-hour she was doomed to be alone with him. But her courage did not for a moment desert her.
“This is a wonder!” she said, as she took his hand. “You will have a long Christmas Day, but I sincerely hope that it may be a happy one.”
“That depends on you,” said he.
“I’ll do everything I can,” she answered. “You shall only have a very little bit of roast beef, and the unfortunate pudding shan’t be brought near you.” Then she looked in his face, and saw that his manner was very serious, — almost solemn, — and quite unlike his usual ways. “Is anything wrong?” she asked.
“I don’t know; I hope not. There are things which one has to say which seem to be so very difficult when the time comes. Miss Lownd, I want you to love me.”
“What!” She started back as she made the exclamation, as though some terrible proposition had wounded her ears. If she had ever dreamed of his asking for her love, she had dreamed of it as a thing that future days might possibly produce; — when he should be altogether settled at Hundlewick, and when they should have got to know each other intimately by the association of years.
“Yes, I want you to love me, and to be my wife. I don’t know how to tell you; but I love you better than anything and everything in the world, — better than all the world put together. I have done so from the first moment that I saw you; I have. I knew how it would be the very first instant I saw your dear face, and every word you have spoken, and every look out of your eyes, has made me love you more and more. If I offended you yesterday, I will beg your pardon.”
“Oh, no,” she said.
“I wish I had bitten my tongue out before I had said what I did about Christmas Day. I do, indeed. I only meant, in a half-joking way, to — to — to ——. But I ought to have known you wouldn’t like it, and I beg your pardon. Tell me, Isabel, do you think that you can love me?”
Not half an hour since she had made up her mind that, even were he to propose to her, — which she then knew to be absolutely impossible, — she would certainly refuse him. He was not the sort of man for whom she would be a fitting wife; and she had made up her mind also, at the same time, that she did not at all care for him, and that he certainly did not in the least care for her. And now the offer had absolutely been made to her! Then came across her mind an idea that he ought in the first place to have gone to her father; but as to that she was not quite sure. Be that as it might, there he was, and she must give him some answer. As for thinking about it, that was altogether beyond her. The shock to her was too great to allow of her thinking. After some fashion, which afterwards was quite unintelligible to herself, it seemed to her, at that moment, that duty, and maidenly reserve, and filial obedience, all required her to reject him instantly. Indeed, to have accepted him would have been quite beyond her power. “Dear Isabel,” said he, “may I hope that some day you will love me?”
“Oh, Mr. Archer, don’t,” she said. “Do not ask me.”
“Why should I not ask you?”
“It can never be.” This she said quite plainly, and in a voice that seemed to him to settle his fate forever; and yet at the moment her heart was full of love towards him. Though she could not think, she could feel. Of course she loved him. At the very moment in which she was telling him that it could never be, she was elated by an almost ecstatic triumph, as she remembered all her fears, and now knew that the man was at her feet.
When a girl first receives the homage of a man’s love, and receives it from one whom, whether she loves him or not, she thoroughly respects, her earliest feeling is one of victory, — such a feeling as warmed the heart of a conqueror in the Olympian games. He is the spoil of her spear, the fruit of her prowess, the quarry brought down by her own bow and arrow. She, too, by some power of her own which she is hitherto quite unable to analyse, has stricken a man to the very heart, so as to compel him for the moment to follow wherever she may lead him. So it was with Isabel Lownd as she stood there, conscious of the eager gaze which was fixed upon her face, and fully alive to the anxious tones of her lover’s voice. And yet she could only deny him. Afterwards, when she thought of it, she could not imagine why it had been so with her; but, in spite of her great love, she continued to tell herself that there was some obstacle which could never be overcome, — or was it that a certain maidenly reserve sat so strong within her bosom that she could not bring herself to own to him that he was dear to her?
“Never!” exclaimed Maurice, despondently.
“Oh, no!”
“But why not? I will be very frank with you, dear. I did think you liked me a little before that affair in the study.” Like him a little! Oh, how she had loved him! She knew it now, and yet not for worlds could she tell him so. “You are not still angry with me, Isabel?”
“No; not angry.”
“Why should you say never? Dear Isabel, cannot you try to love me?” Then he attempted to take her hand, but she recoiled at once from his touch, and did feel something of anger against him in that he should thus refuse to take her word. She knew not what it was that she desired of him, but certainly he should not attempt to take her hand, when she told him plainly that she could not love him. A red spot rose to each of her cheeks as again he pressed her. “Do you really mean that you can never, never love me?” She muttered some answer, she knew not what, and then he turned from her, and stood looking out upon the snow which had fallen during the night. She kept her ground for a few seconds, and then escaped through the door, and up to her own bedroom. When once there, she burst out into tears. Could it be possible that she had thrown away forever her own happiness, because she had been too silly to give a true answer to an honest question? And was this the enjoyment and content which she had promised herself for Christmas Day? But surely, surely he would come to her again. If he really loved her as he had declared, if it was true that ever since his arrival at Kirkby Cliffe he had thought of her as his wife, he would not abandon her because in the first tumult of her surprise she had lacked courage to own to him the truth; and then in the midst of her tears there came upon her that delicious recognition of a triumph which, whatever be the victory won, causes such elation to the heart! Nothing, at any rate, could rob her of this — that he had loved her. Then, as a thought suddenly struck her, she ran quickly across the passage, and in a moment was upstairs, telling her tale with her mother’s arm close folded round her waist.
In the meantime Mr. Lownd had gone down to the parlour, and had found Maurice still looking out upon the snow. He, too, with some gentle sarcasm, had congratulated the young man on his early rising, as he expressed the ordinary wish of the day. “Yes,” said Maurice, “I had something special to do. Many happy Christmases, sir! I don’t know much about its being happy to me.”
“Why, what ails you?”
“It’s a nasty sort of day, isn’t it?” said Maurice.
“Does that trouble you? I rather like a little snow on Christmas Day. It has a pleasant, old-fashioned look. And there isn’t enough to keep even an old woman at home.”
“I dare say not,” said Maurice, who was still beating about the bush, having something to tell, but not knowing how to tell it. “Mr. Lownd, I should have come to you first, if it hadn’t been for an accident.”
“Come to me first! What accident?”
“Yes; only I found Miss Lownd down here this morning, and I asked her to be my wife. You needn’t be unhappy about it, sir. She refused me point blank.”
“You must have startled her, Maurice. You have startled me, at any rate.”
“There was nothing of that sort, Mr. Lownd. She took it all very easily. I think she does take things easily.” Poor Isabel! “She just told me plainly that it never could be so, and then she walked out of the room.”
“I don’t think she expected it, Maurice.”
“Oh, dear no! I’m quite sure she didn’t. She hadn’t thought about me any more than if I were an old dog. I suppose men do make fools of themselves sometimes. I shall get over it, sir.”
“Oh, I hope so.”
“I shall give up the idea of living here. I couldn’t do that. I shall probably sell the property, and go to Africa.”
“Go to Africa!”
“Well, yes. It’s as good a place as any other, I suppose. It’s wild, and a long way off, and all that kind of thing. As this is Christmas, I had better stay here to-day, I suppose.”
“Of course you will.”
“If you don’t mind, I’ll be off early to-morrow, sir. It’s a kind of thing, you know, that does flurry a man. And then my being here may be disagreeable to her; — not that I suppose she thinks about me any more than if I were an old cow.”
It need hardly be remarked that the rector was a much older man than Maurice Archer, and that he therefore knew the world much better. Nor was he in love. And he had, moreover, the advantage of a much closer knowledge of the young lady’s character than could be possessed by the lover. And, as it happened, during the last week, he had been fretted by fears expressed by his wife, — fears which were altogether opposed to Archer’s present despondency and African resolutions. Mrs. Lownd had been uneasy, — almost more than uneasy, — lest poor dear Isabel should be stricken at her heart; whereas, in regard to that young man, she didn’t believe that he cared a bit for her girl. He ought not to have been brought into the house. But he was there, and what could they do? The rector was of the opinion that things would come straight, — that they would be straightened not by any lover’s propensities on the part of his guest, as to which he protested himself to be altogether indifferent, but by his girl’s good sense. His Isabel would never allow herself to be seriously affected by a regard for a young man who had made no overtures to her. That was the rector’s argument; and perhaps, within his own mind, it was backed by a feeling that, were she so weak, she must stand the consequence. To him it seemed to be an absurd degree of caution that two young people should not be brought together in the same house lest one should fall in love with the other. And he had seen no symptoms of such love. Nevertheless his wife had fretted him, and he had been uneasy. Now the shoe was altogether on the other foot. The young man was the despondent lover, and was asserting that he must go instantly to Africa, because the young lady treated him like an old dog, and thought no more about him than of an old cow.
A father in such a position can hardly venture to hold out hopes to a lover, even though he may approve of the man as a suitor for his daughter’s hand. He cannot answer for his girl, nor can he very well urge upon a lover the expediency of renewing his suit. In this case Mr. Lownd did think, that in spite of the cruel, determined obduracy which his daughter was said to have displayed, she might probably be softened by constancy and perseverance. But he knew nothing of the circumstances, and could only suggest that Maurice should not take his place for the first stage on his way to Africa quite at once. “I do not think you need hurry away because of Isabel,” he said, with a gentle smile.
“I couldn’t stand it, — I couldn’t indeed,” said Maurice, impetuously. “I hope I didn’t do wrong in speaking to her when I found her here this morning. If you had come first I should have told you.”
“I could only have referred you to her, my dear boy. Come — here they are; and now we will have prayers.” As he spoke, Mrs. Lownd entered the room, followed closely by Mabel, and then at a little distance by Isabel. The three maid-servants were standing behind in a line, ready to come in for prayers. Maurice could not but feel that Mrs. Lownd’s manner to him was especially affectionate; for, in truth, hitherto she had kept somewhat aloof from him, as though he had been a ravening wolf. Now she held him by the hand, and had a spark of motherly affection in her eyes, as she, too, repeated her Christmas greeting. It might well be so, thought Maurice. Of course she would be more kind to him than ordinary, if she knew that he was a poor blighted individual. It was a thing of course that Isabel should have told her mother, equally a thing of course that he should be pitied and treated tenderly. But on the next day he would be off. Such tenderness as that would kill him.
As they sat at breakfast, they all tried to be very gracious to each other. Mabel was sharp enough to know that something special had happened, but could not quite be sure what it was. Isabel struggled very hard to make little speeches about the day, but cannot be said to have succeeded well. Her mother, who had known at once how it was with her child, and had required no positive answers to direct questions to enable her to assume that Isabel was now devoted to her lover, had told her girl that if the man’s love were worth having, he would surely ask her again. “I don’t think he will, mamma,” Isabel had whispered, with her face half-hidden on her mother’s arm. “He must be very unlike other men if he does not,” Mrs. Lownd had said, resolving that the opportunity should not be wanting. Now she was very gracious to Maurice, speaking before him as though he were quite one of the family. Her trembling maternal heart had feared him, while she thought that he might be a ravening wolf, who would steal away her daughter’s heart, leaving nothing in return; but now that he had proved himself willing to enter the fold as a useful domestic sheep, nothing could be too good for him. The parson himself, seeing all this, understanding every turn in his wife’s mind, and painfully anxious that no word might be spoken which should seem to entrap his guest, strove diligently to talk as though nothing was amiss. He spoke of his sermon, and of David Drum, and of the allowance of pudding that was to be given to the inmates of the neighbouring poor-house. There had been a subscription, so as to relieve the rates from the burden of the plum-pudding, and Mr. Lownd thought that the farmers had not been sufficiently liberal. “There’s Furness, at Loversloup, gave us half-a-crown. I told him he ought to be ashamed of himself. He declared to me to my face that if he could find puddings for his own bairns, that was enough for him.”
“The richest farmer in these parts, Maurice,” said Mrs. Lownd.
“He holds above three hundred acres of land, and could stock double as many, if he had them,” said the would-be indignant rector, who was thinking a great deal more of his daughter than of the poor-house festival. Maurice answered him with a word or two, but found it very hard to assume any interest in the question of the pudding. Isabel was more hard-hearted, he thought, than even Farmer Furness, of Loversloup. And why should he trouble himself about these people, — he, who intended to sell his acres, and go away to Africa? But he smiled and made some reply, and buttered his toast, and struggled hard to seem as though nothing ailed him.
The parson went down to church before his wife, and Mabel went with him. “Is anything wrong with Maurice Archer?” she asked her father.
“Nothing, I hope,” said he.
“Because he doesn’t seem to be able to talk this morning.”
“Everybody isn’t a chatter-box like you, Mab.”
“I don’t think I chatter more than mamma, or Bell. Do you know, papa, I think Bell has quarrelled with Maurice Archer.”
“I hope not. I should be very sorry that there should be any quarrelling at all — particularly on this day. Well, I think you’ve done it very nicely; and it is none the worse because you’ve left the sounding-board alone.” Then Mabel went over to David Drum’s cottage, and asked after the condition of Mrs. Drum’s plum-pudding.
No one had ventured to ask Maurice Archer whether he would stay in church for the sacrament, but he did. Let us hope that no undue motive of pleasing Isabel Lownd had any effect upon him at such a time. But it did please her. Let us hope also that, as she knelt beside her lover at the low railing, her young heart was not too full of her love. That she had been thinking of him throughout her father’s sermon, — thinking of him, then resolving that she would think of him no more, and then thinking of him more than ever, — must be admitted. When her mother had told her that he would come again to her, she had not attempted to assert that, were he to do so, she would again reject him. Her mother knew all her secret, and, should he not come again, her mother would know that she was heart-broken. She had told him positively that she would never love him. She had so told him, knowing well that at the very moment he was dearer to her than all the world beside. Why had she been so wicked as to lie to him? And if now she were punished for her lie by his silence, would she not be served properly? Her mind ran much more on the subject of this great sin which she had committed on that very morning, — that sin against one who loved her so well, and who desired to do good to her, — than on those general arguments in favour of Christian kindness and forbearance which the preacher drew from the texts applicable to Christmas Day. All her father’s eloquence was nothing to her. On ordinary occasions he had no more devoted listener; but, on this morning, she could only exercise her spirit by repenting her own unchristian conduct. And then he came and knelt beside her at that sacred moment! It was impossible that he should forgive her, because he could not know that she had sinned against him.
There were certain visits to her poorer friends in the immediate village which, according to custom, she would make after church. When Maurice and Mrs. Lownd went up to the parsonage, she and Mabel made their usual round. They all welcomed her, but they felt that she was not quite herself with them, and even Mabel asked her what ailed her.
“Why should anything ail me? — only I don’t like walking in the snow.”
Then Mabel took courage. “If there is a secret, Bell, pray tell me. I would tell you any secret.”
“I don’t know what you mean,” said Isabel, almost crossly.
“Is there a secret, Bell? I’m sure there is a secret about Maurice.”
“Don’t, — don’t,” said Isabel.
“I do like Maurice so much. Don’t you like him?”
“Pray do not talk about him, Mabel.”
“I believe he is in love with you, Bell; and, if he is, I think you ought to be in love with him. I don’t know how you could have anybody nicer. And he is going to live at Hundlewick, which would be such great fun. Would not papa like it?”
“I don’t know. Oh, dear! — oh, dear!” Then she burst out into tears, and walking out of the village, told Mabel the whole truth. Mabel heard it with consternation, and expressed her opinion that, in these circumstances, Maurice would never ask again to make her his wife.
“Then I shall die,” said Isabel, frankly.