CHAPTER VII.
PRIDE CONQUERS LOVE.
Except the awful, the inexorable blank that Death leaves in the heartof the mourner, there is no vacancy of mind more agonizing than thatwhich follows the defeat of a lover and the sudden cessation of anadored companionship. To Kilrush the whole world seemed of one dullgrey after he had lost Antonia. The town, the company of which he hadlong been weary, now became actually hateful, and his only desire wasto rush to some remote spot of earth where the very fact of distancemight help him to forget the woman he loved. A man of a softer naturewould have yielded to his charmer's objections, and sacrificed hispride to his love; but with Kilrush, pride--long-cherished pride ofrace and name--and a certain stubborn power of will prevailed overinclination. He suffered, but was resolute. He told himself thatAntonia was cold and calculating, and unworthy of a generous passionlike his. She counted, perhaps, on conquering his resolve, and makinghim marry her; and he took a vindictive pleasure in the thought of hervexation as the days went by without bringing him to her feet.
"Farewell for ever," she had cried, yet had hoped, perhaps, to see himreturn to her to-morrow, like some small country squire, who thinks allEngland will be outraged if he marry beneath his rural importance, yetyields to an irresistible love for the miller's daughter or the villagebarmaid.
"I have lived through too many fevers to die of this one," Kilrushthought, and braced his nerves to go on living, though all the colourseemed washed out of his life.
While his heart was being lacerated by anger and regret, he wassurprised by the appearance of his cousin, the _ci-devant_ captainof Dragoons, of whose existence he had taken no account since hisafternoon visit to Clapham. He was in his library, a large room at theback of the house, looking into a small garden shadowed by an old brickwall, and overlooked by the back windows of Pall Mall, which lookeddown into it as into a green well. The room was lined with bookshelvesfrom floor to ceiling, and the favourite calf binding of those daysmade a monotone of sombre brown, suggestive of gloom, even on a summerday, when the scent of stocks and mignonette was blown in through theopen windows.
Kilrush received his kinsman with cold civility.
Not even in the splendour of his court uniform had George Stobartlooked handsomer than to-day in his severely cut grey cloth coatand black silk waistcoat. There was a light in his eyes, a buoyantyouthfulness in his aspect, which Kilrush observed with a pang of envy.Ah, had he been as young, Fate and Antonia might have been kinder.
George put down his hat, and took the chair his cousin indicated,chilled somewhat by so distant a greeting.
"I saw in _Lloyd's Evening Post_ that your lordship intended startingfor the Continent," he began, "and I thought it my duty to wait uponyou before you left town."
"You are very good--and Lloyd is very impertinent--to take so muchtrouble about my movements. Yes, George, I am leaving England."
"Do you go far, sir?"
"Paris will be the first stage of my journey."
"And afterwards?"
"And afterwards? Kamschatka, perhaps, or--hell! I am fixed on nothingbut to leave a town I loathe."
George looked inexpressibly shocked.
"I fear your lordship is out of health," he faltered.
"Fear nothing, hope nothing about me, sir; I am inclined to detest myfellow-men. If you take that for a symptom of sickness, why then I amindeed out of health."
"I am sorry I do not find you in happier spirits, sir, for I had adouble motive in waiting on you."
"So have most men--in all they do. Well, sir?"
Kilrush threw himself back in his chair, and waited his cousin'scommunication with no more interest in his countenance or manner thanif he were awaiting a petition from one of his footmen.
Nothing could be more marked than the contrast between the two men,though their features followed the same lines, and the hereditary markof an ancient race was stamped indelibly on each. A life of passionateexcitement, self-will, pride, had wasted the form and features of theelder, and made him look older than his actual years. Yet in thoseattenuated features there was such exquisite refinement, in thatalmost colourless complexion such a high-bred delicacy, that for mostwomen the elder face would have been the more attractive. There was apathetic appeal in the countenance of the man who had lived his life,who had emptied the cup of earthly joys, and for whom nothing remainedbut decay.
The young man's highest graces were his air of frankness and highcourage, and his soldierly bearing, which three years among theMethodists had in no wise lessened. He had, indeed, in those years beenstill a soldier of the Church Militant, and had stood by John Wesley'sside on more than one occasion when the missiles of a howling mob flewthick and fast around that hardy itinerant, and when riot threatened toend in murder.
"Well, sir, your second motive--your _arriere pensee?_" Kilrushexclaimed impatiently, the young man having taken up his hat again, andbeing engaged in smoothing the beaver with a hand that shook ever soslightly.
"You told me nearly a year ago, sir," he began, hardening himselffor the encounter, "that you would never forgive me if I marriedmy inferior--my inferior in the world's esteem, that is to say--aninferiority which I do not admit."
"Hang your admissions, sir! I perfectly remember what I said to you,and I hope you took warning by it, and that my aunt found another placefor her housemaid."
"Your warning came too late. I had learnt to esteem Lucy Foreman at herjust value. The housemaid, as your lordship is pleased to call her, isnow my wife."
"Then, sir, since you know my ultimatum, what the devil brings you tothis house?"
"I desired that you should hear what I have done from my lips, not fromthe public press."
"You are monstrous civil! Well, I am not going to waste angry wordsupon you, but your name will come out of my will before I sleep; andfrom to-day we are strangers. I can hold no intercourse with a man whodisgraces his name by a beggarly marriage. By Heaven, sir, if I lovedto distraction, if my happiness, my peace, my power to endure thiswretched life, depended upon my winning the idol of my soul, I wouldnot give my name to a woman of low birth or discreditable connections!"
He struck his clenched fist upon the table in front of him with a wildvehemence that took his cousin's breath away; then, recovering hiscomposure, he asked coldly--
"Does your pious mother approve this folly, sir, and take yourhousemaid-wife to her heart?"
"My mother has shown a most unchristian temper. She has forbidden meher house, and swears to disinherit me. To have forfeited her affectionwill be ever my deep regret; but I can support the loss of her fortune."
"Indeed! Are you so vastly rich from other resources?"
"I have two hundred a year in India stock--my Uncle Matthew's bequest,and Lucy's good management promises to make this income enough forour home--a cottage near Richmond, where we have a garden and all therustic things my Lucy loves."
"Having been reared in an alley near Moorfields! I wonder how longher love of the country will endure wet days and dark nights, andremoteness from shops and market? Oh, you are still in your honeymoon,sir, and your sky is all blue. You must wait a month or two before youwill discover how much you are to be pitied, and that I was your truefriend when I cautioned you against this madness. Good day to you, Mr.Stobart, and be good enough to forget that we have ever called eachother cousins."
George rose, and bowed his farewell. The porter was in the hall readyto open the door for him. He looked round the great gloomy hall with acontemptuous smile as he passed out.
"John Wesley's house at the Foundery is more cheerful than this," hethought.
Kilrush sat with his elbows on the table and his hands clasped abovehis head in a melancholy silence.
"Which is the madman, he or I?" he asked himself.
* * * * *
The preparation for his continental journey occupied Lord Kilrush fora fortnight, during which time he waited with a passionate longing forsome sign of rele
nting from Antonia; and in all those empty days hismind was torn by the strife between inclination and a stubborn resolve.
There were moments in which he asked himself why he did not make thiswoman his wife; that unfrocked priest, that tippling bookseller's hack,his father-in-law? Did anything in this world matter to a man so muchas the joy of this present life, his instant happiness? In the hideousuncertainty of fate, were it not best to snatch the hour's gladness?
"What if I married her, and she turned wanton after a year of bliss?"he mused. "At least I should have had my day."
But then there came the dark suspicion that she had played him as theangler plays his fish, that she flung the glittering fly across hisenraptured gaze, intent on landing a coronet; that her womanly candour,her almost childlike simplicity, were all so much play-acting. Whatcould he expect of truth and honour from Thornton's daughter?
"If she had given herself to me generously, unquestioningly, I mightbelieve she loved me," he thought. "But if I married her I must forever suspect myself her dupe, the victim of a schemer's ambition, thesport of an artful coquette, to be betrayed at the first assault of ayounger lover."
No token of relenting came from Antonia; but towards the end of thesecond week Mr. Thornton called to inquire about his lordship's health,and, being informed that his lordship was about to leave England for aconsiderable time, pressed for an interview, and was admitted to hisdressing-room.
"I am in despair at the prospect of your lordship's departure," hesaid, on being bidden to seat himself. "I know not how my daughter andI will endure our lives in the absence of so valued a friend."
"I do not apprehend that _you_ will suffer much from wanting mycompany, Thornton, since you have been generally out-of-doors during myvisits. And as for your daughter, her interest in an elderly proser'sconversation must have been exhausted long ago."
"On my soul, no! She has delighted in your society--as how could she dootherwise? She has an intellect vastly superior to her age and sex, andshe had suffered a famine of intellectual conversation. I know that shehas already begun to feel the loss of your company, for she has beenstrangely dispirited for the last ten days, and that indefatigable penof hers now moves without her usual gusto."
"If she is ill, or drooping, I beg you to send for my physician, SirRichard Maningham, who will attend her on my account."
"No, no--'tis no case for Aesculapius. She is out of spirits, but notill. How far does your lordship design to extend your travels?"
"Oh, I have decided nothing. I shall stay at Fontainebleau till thecool season, and then go by easy stages to Italy. I may winter in Rome,and spend next spring in Florence."
"A year's absence! We shall sorely miss your lordship, and I am alreadytoo deeply in your debt to dare venture----"
"To ask me for a further loan," interrupted Kilrush. "We will have donewith loans, and notes of hand"--Thornton turned pale--"I wish to helpyou. Above all, I want to prevent your making a slave of your daughter."
"A slave! My dear girl delights in literary work. She would bemiserable if I refused her assistance."
"Well, be sure she does not drudge for you. I hate to think of hersolitary hours mewed in your miserable second-floor parlour, when sheought to be enjoying the summer air in some rural garden, idle andwithout a care. I want to strike a bargain with you, Thornton."
"I am your lordship's obedient----"
"Instead of these petty loans which degrade you and disgust me, I amwilling to give you a small income--say, a hundred pounds a quarter----"
"My dear lord, this is undreamed-of munificence."
"On condition that you remove with your daughter to some pretty cottagein a rural neighbourhood--Fulham, Barnes, Hampstead, any rustic spotwithin reach of your booksellers and editors--and also that you provideyour daughter with a suitable attendant, a woman of unblemishedcharacter, to wait upon her and accompany her in her walks--in a word,sir, that being the father of the loveliest woman I ever met, you donot ignore your responsibilities, and neglect her."
"Oh, sir, is this meant for a reproach, because I have suffered Antoniato receive you alone? Sure, 'twas the knowledge of her virtue and ofyour noble character that justified my confidence."
"True, sir, but there may be occasions when you should exercise apaternal supervision. I shall instruct my lawyer as to the paymentof this allowance, and I expect that you will study your daughter'sconvenience and happiness in all your future arrangements. ShouldI hear you are neglecting that duty, your income will stop, on theinstant. I must beg, also, that you keep the source of your means asecret from Miss Thornton, who has a haughtier spirit than yours, andmight dislike being obliged by a friend. And now, as I have a hundredthings to do before I leave town, I must bid you good morning."
"I go, my lord, but not till I have kissed this generous hand."
"Pshaw!"
Kilrush snatched his hand away impatiently, rang for his valet, anddismissed his grateful friend with a curt nod.
He left St. James's Square next day after his morning chocolate, in hiscoach and six, bound for Dover, determined not to return till he hadlearnt the lesson of forgetfulness and indifference.
The Infidel: A Story of the Great Revival Page 7