Night after night, she looked back over the vanished days – and not an event rose on her memory to distinguish them one from the other. The only interruptions to the weary uniformity of the life at St Crux, were caused by the characteristic delinquencies of old Mazey and the dogs.
At certain intervals, the original wildness broke out in the natures of Brutus and Cassius. The modest comforts of home, the savoury charms of made-dishes, the decorous joy of digestions accomplished on hearthrugs, lost all their attractions; and the dogs ungratefully left the house, to seek dissipation and adventure in the outer world. On these occasions, the established after-dinner formula of question and answer between old Mazey and his master, varied a little in one particular. ‘God bless the Queen, Mazey’, and ‘How’s the wind, Mazey?’ were followed by a new inquiry: ‘Where are the dogs, Mazey?’ ‘Out on the loose, your honour, and be damned to ’em,’ was the veteran’s unvarying answer. The admiral always sighed and shook his head gravely at the news, as if Brutus and Cassius had been sons of his own, who treated him with a want of proper filial respect. In two or three days’ time, the dogs always returned, lean, dirty and heartily ashamed of themselves. For the whole of the next day they were invariably tied up in disgrace. On the day after, they were scrubbed clean, and were formally readmitted to the dining-room. There, Civilization, acting through the subtle medium of the Saucepan, recovered its hold on them; and the admiral’s two prodigal sons, when they saw the covers removed, watered at the mouth as copiously as ever.
Old Mazey, in his way, proved to be just as disreputably inclined on certain occasions as the dogs. At intervals, the original wildness in his nature broke out: he, too, lost all relish for the comforts of home, and ungratefully left the house. He usually disappeared in the afternoon, and returned at night as drunk as liquor could make him. He was by many degrees too seasoned a vessel to meet with any disasters, on these occasions. His wicked old legs might take roundabout methods of progression, but they never failed him; his wicked old eyes might see double, but they always showed him the way home. Try as hard as they might, the servants could never succeed in persuading him that he was drunk: he always scorned the imputation. He even declined to admit the idea privately into his mind, until he had first tested his condition by an infallible criterion of his own.
It was his habit in these cases of Bacchanalian emergency, to stagger obstinately into his room on the ground floor – to take the model ship out of the cupboard — and to try if he could proceed with the never-to-be-completed employment of setting up the rigging. When he had smashed the tiny spars, and snapped asunder the delicate ropes – then, and not till then, the veteran admitted facts as they were, on the authority of practical evidence. ‘Ay! ay!’ he used to say confidentially to himself. ‘The women are right. Drunk again, Mazey – drunk again!’ Having reached this discovery, it was his habit to wait cunningly in the lower regions, until the admiral was safe in his room; and then to ascend in discreet list slippers, to his post. Too wary to attempt getting into the truckle-bed (which would have been only inviting the catastrophe of a fall against his master’s door), he always walked himself sober, up and down the passage. More than once, Magdalen had peeped round the screen, and had seen the old sailor unsteadily keeping his watch, and fancying himself once more at his duty on board ship. ‘This is an uncommonly lively vessel in a sea-way,’ he used to mutter under his breath, when his legs took him down the passage in zigzag directions, or left him for the moment, studying the ‘Pints of the Compass’, on his own system, with his back against the wall. ‘A nasty night, mind you,’ he would maunder on, taking another turn. ‘As dark as your pocket, and the wind heading us again from the old quarter.’ On the next day, old Mazey, like the dogs, was kept downstairs in disgrace. On the day after, like the dogs again, he was reinstated in his privileges; and another change was introduced in the after-dinner formula. On entering the room, the old sailor stopped short, and made his excuses, in this brief, yet comprehensive form of words, with his back against the door: ‘Please your honour, I’m ashamed of myself.’ So the apology began and ended. ‘This mustn’t happen again, Mazey,’ the admiral used to answer. ‘It sha’n’t happen again, your honour.’ ‘Very good. Come here, and drink your glass of wine. God bless the Queen, Mazey.’ – The veteran tossed off his port, and the dialogue ended as usual.
So the days passed, with no incidents more important than these to relieve their monotony, until the end of the fourth week was at hand.
On the last day, an event happened; on the last day, the long-deferred promise of the future unexpectedly began to dawn. While Magdalen was spreading the cloth in the dining-room, as usual, Mrs Drake looked in, and instructed her on this occasion, for the first time, to lay the table for two persons. The admiral had received a letter from his nephew. Early that evening, Mr George Bartram was expected to return to St Crux.
Chapter Three
After placing the second cover, Magdalen awaited the ringing of the dinner-bell, with an interest and impatience, which she found it no easy task to conceal. The return of Mr Bartram would, in all probability, produce a change in the life of the house – and from change of any kind, no matter how trifling, something might be hoped. The nephew might be accessible to influences which had failed to reach the uncle. In any case, the two would talk of their affairs, over their dinner; and through that talk – proceeding day after day, in her presence – the way to discovery, now absolutely invisible, might, sooner or later, show itself.
At last, the bell rang; the door opened; and the two gentlemen entered the room together.
Magdalen was struck, as her sister had been struck, by George Bartram’s resemblance to her father – judging by the portrait at Combe-Raven, which presented the likeness of Andrew Vanstone in his younger days. The light hair and florid complexion, the bright blue eyes and hardy upright figure, familiar to her in the picture, were all recalled to her memory, as the nephew followed the uncle across the room, and took his place at table. She was not prepared for this sudden revival of the lost associations of home. Her attention wandered as she tried to conceal its effect on her; and she made a blunder in waiting at table, for the first time since she had entered the house.
A quaint reprimand from the admiral, half in jest, half in earnest, gave her time to recover herself. She ventured another look at George Bartram. The impression which he produced on her, this time, roused her curiosity immediately. His face and manner plainly expressed anxiety and preoccupation of mind. He looked oftener at his plate than at his uncle – and at Magdalen herself (except one passing inspection of the new parlour-maid, when the admiral spoke to her) he never looked at all. Some uncertainty was evidently troubling his thoughts; some oppression was weighing on his natural freedom of manner. What uncertainty? what oppression? Would any personal revelations come out, little by little, in the course of conversation at the dinner-table?
No. One set of dishes followed another set of dishes – and nothing in the shape of a personal revelation took place. The conversation halted on irregularly, between public affairs on one side and trifling private topics on the other. Politics, home and foreign, took their turn with the small household history of St Crux: the leaders of the revolution which expelled Louis Philippe from the throne of France,1 marched side by side, in the dinner-table review, with old Mazey and the dogs. The dessert was put on the table – the old sailor came in – drank his loyal toast – paid his respects to ‘Master George’ – and went out again. Magdalen followed him, on her way back to the servants’ offices, having heard nothing in the conversation of the slightest importance to the furtherance of her own design, from the first word of it to the last. She struggled hard not to lose heart and hope on the first day. They could hardly talk again to-morrow, they could hardly talk again the next day, of the French Revolution and the dogs. Time might do wonders yet; and time was all her own.
Left together over their wine, the uncle and nephew drew their easy-chairs on eithe
r side of the fire; and, in Magdalen’s absence, began the very conversation which it was Magdalen’s interest to hear.
‘Claret, George?’ said the admiral, pushing the bottle across the table. ‘You look out of spirits.’
‘I am a little anxious, sir,’ replied George, leaving his glass empty, and looking straight into the fire.
‘I am glad to hear it,’ rejoined the admiral. ‘I am more than a little anxious myself, I can tell you. Here we are at the last days of March – and nothing done! Your time comes to an end on the third of May; and there you sit, as if you had years still before you to turn round in.’
George smiled, and resignedly helped himself to some wine.
‘Am I really to understand, sir,’ he asked, ‘that you are serious in what you said to me last November? Are you actually resolved to bind me to that incomprehensible condition?’
‘I don’t call it incomprehensible,’ said the admiral, irritably.
‘Don’t you, sir? I am to inherit your estate, unconditionally – as you have generously settled it from the first. But I am not to touch a farthing of the fortune poor Noel left you, unless I am married within a certain time. The house and lands are to be mine (thanks to your kindness), under any circumstances. But the money with which I might improve them both, is to be arbitrarily taken away from me, if I am not a married man on the third of May. I am sadly wanting in intelligence, I dare say – but a more incomprehensible proceeding I never heard of!’
‘No snapping and snarling, George! Say your say out. We don’t understand sneering in Her Majesty’s Navy!’
‘I mean no offence, sir. But I think it’s a little hard to astonish me by a change of proceeding on your part, entirely foreign to my experience of your character – and then, when I naturally ask for an explanation, to turn round coolly, and leave me in the dark. If you and Noel came to some private arrangement together, before he made his will – why not tell me? Why set up a mystery between us, where no mystery need be?’
‘I won’t have it, George!’ cried the admiral, angrily drumming on the table with the nut-crackers. ‘You are trying to draw me like a badger – but I won’t be drawn! I’ll make any conditions I please; and I’ll be accountable to nobody for them, unless I like. It’s quite bad enough to have worries and responsibilities laid on my unlucky shoulders that I never bargained for – never mind what worries: they’re not yours, they’re mine – without being questioned and cross-questioned as if I was a witness in a box. Here’s a pretty fellow!’ continued the admiral, apostrophizing his nephew in red-hot irritation, and addressing himself to the dogs on the hearth-rug for want of a better audience. ‘Here’s a pretty fellow! He is asked to help himself to two uncommonly comfortable things in their way – a fortune and a wife – he is allowed six months to get the wife in (we should have got her, in the Navy, bag and baggage, in six days) – he has a round dozen of nice girls, to my certain knowledge, in one part of the country and another, all at his disposal to choose from – and what does he do? He sits month after month, with his lazy legs crossed before him; he leaves the girls to pine on the stem; and he bothers his uncle to know the reason why! I pity the poor unfortunate women. Men were made of flesh and blood – and plenty of it, too – in my time. They’re made of machinery now.’
‘I can only repeat, sir, I am sorry to have offended you,’ said George.
‘Pooh! pooh! you needn’t look at me in that languishing way, if you are,’ retorted the admiral. ‘Stick to your wine; and I’ll forgive you. Your good health, George. I’m glad to see you again at St Crux. Look at that plateful of sponge-cakes! The cook has sent them up in honour of your return. We can’t hurt her feelings, and we can’t spoil our wine. Here!’ – The admiral tossed four sponge-cakes in quick succession down the accommodating throats of the dogs. ‘I am sorry George,’ the old gentleman gravely proceeded; ‘I am really sorry, you haven’t got your eye on one of those nice girls. You don’t know what a loss you’re inflicting on yourself – you don’t know what trouble and mortification you’re causing me – by this shilly-shally conduct of yours.’
‘If you would only allow me to explain myself, sir, you would view my conduct in a totally different light. I am ready to marry to-morrow, if the lady will have me.’
‘The devil you are! So you have got a lady in your eye, after all? Why in Heaven’s name, couldn’t you tell me so before? Never mind – I’ll forgive you everything now I know you have laid your hand on a wife. Fill your glass again. Here’s her health in a bumper. By-the-by, who is she?’
‘I’ll tell you directly, admiral. When we began this conversation, I mentioned that I was a little anxious –’
‘She’s not one of my round dozen of nice girls – aha, Master George, I see that in your face already! Why are you anxious?’
‘I am afraid you will disapprove of my choice, sir.’
‘Don’t beat about the bush! How the deuce can I say whether I disapprove or not, if you won’t tell me who she is?’
‘She is the eldest daughter of Andrew Vanstone of Combe-Raven.’
‘Who!!!’
‘Miss Vanstone, sir.’
The admiral put down his glass of wine untasted.
‘You’re right, George,’ he said. ‘I do disapprove of your choice – strongly disapprove of it.’
‘Is it the misfortune of her birth, sir, that you object to?’
‘God forbid! the misfortune of her birth is not her fault, poor thing. You know, as well as I do, George, what I object to.’
‘You object to her sister?’
‘Certainly! The most liberal man alive might object to her sister, I think.’
‘It’s hard, sir, to make Miss Vanstone suffer for her sister’s faults.’
‘Faults, do you call them? You have a mighty convenient memory, George, where your own interests are concerned.’
‘Call them crimes, if you like, sir – I say again, it’s hard on Miss Vanstone. Miss Vanstone’s life is pure of all reproach. From first to last, she has borne her hard lot with such patience, and sweetness, and courage, as not one woman in a thousand would have shown in her place. Ask Miss Garth, who has known her from childhood. Ask Mrs Tyrrel, who blesses the day when she came into the house –’
‘Ask a fiddlestick’s end! I beg your pardon, George – but you are enough to try the patience of a saint. My good fellow, I don’t deny Miss Vanstone’s virtues. I’ll admit, if you like, she’s the best woman that ever put on a petticoat. That is not the question –’
‘Excuse me, admiral – it is the question, if she is to be my wife.’
‘Hear me out, George; look at it from my point of view, as well as your own. What did your cousin Noel do? Your cousin Noel fell a victim, poor fellow, to one of the vilest conspiracies I ever heard of – and the prime mover of that conspiracy was Miss Vanstone’s damnable sister. She deceived him in the most infamous manner; and as soon as she was down for a handsome legacy in his will, she had the poison ready to take his life. This is the truth – we know it from Mrs Lecount, who found the bottle locked up in her own room. If you marry Miss Vanstone, you make this wretch your sister-in-law. She becomes a member of our family. All the disgrace of what she has done; all the disgrace of what she may do – and the Devil who posseses her, only knows what lengths she may go to next – becomes our disgrace. Good Heavens, George, consider what a position that is! Consider what pitch you touch, if you make this woman your sister-in-law.’
‘You have put your side of the question, admiral,’ said George resolutely; ‘now let me put mine. A certain impression is produced on me by a young lady, whom I meet with under very interesting circumstances. I don’t act headlong on that impression, as I might have done if I had been some years younger – I wait, and put it to the trial. Every time I see this young lady, the impression strengthens; her beauty grows on me, her character grows on me; when I am away from her I am restless and dissatisfied; when I am with her I am the happiest man alive. All I hear of he
r conduct from those who know her best, more than confirms the high opinion I have formed of her. The one drawback I can discover, is caused by a misfortune for which she is not responsible – the misfortune of having a sister who is utterly unworthy of her. Does this discovery – an unpleasant discovery, I grant you – destroy all those good qualities in Miss Vanstone for which I love and admire her? Nothing of the sort – it only makes her good qualities all the more precious to me by contrast. If I am to have a drawback to contend with – and who expects anything else in this world? – I would infinitely rather have the drawback attached to my wife’s sister, than to my wife. My wife’s sister is not essential to my happiness, but my wife is. In my opinion, sir, Mrs Noel Vanstone has done mischief enough already – I don’t see the necessity of letting her do more mischief, by depriving me of a good wife. Right or wrong, that is my point of view. I don’t wish to trouble you with any questions of sentiment. All I wish to say is, that I am old enough, by this time, to know my own mind – and that my mind is made up. If my marriage is essential to the execution of your intentions on my behalf, there is only one woman in the world whom I can marry – and that woman is Miss Vanstone.’
There was no resisting this plain declaration. Admiral Bartram rose from his chair without making any reply, and walked perturbedly up and down the room.
The situation was emphatically a serious one. Mrs Girdlestone’s death had already produced the failure of one of the two objects contemplated by the Secret Trust. If the third of May arrived, and found George a single man, the second (and last) of the objects would then have failed in its turn. In little more than a fortnight, at the very latest, the Banns must be published in Ossory church – or the time would fail for compliance with one of the stipulations insisted on in the Trust. Obstinate as the admiral was by nature, strongly as he felt the objections which attached to his nephew’s contemplated alliance, he recoiled in spite of himself, as he paced the room and saw the facts on either side, immovably staring him in the face.
No Name Page 72