Troy Chimneys

by Margaret Kennedy

  This sort of thing might have done five days earlier. Now it could not check me. I rushed on. I told her that she had become inexpressibly dear to me, that I valued her friendship more than anything on earth, that I feared I had been careless.

  As soon as she could, she broke in:

  ‘Pray don’t talk like this! You have never been careless. I value our friendship too, but if it is to continue there must not be this sort of exaggeration.’

  We were walking towards the house, for she was quite determined to end the interview.

  If I do not exaggerate, thought I, then I love her and should say so. I did not know it before; but now I must either accept her reproof or stand my ground.

  ‘It is not exaggeration,’ said I, ‘for I love you, and I mean to tell you so.’

  At that she cried out, in a kind of horror:

  ‘Oh no! No! Impossible! You forget – you forget!’

  ‘What do I forget?’

  ‘We are not young now. I am not young now. I am changed. The time is gone over for—’

  ‘You are not a twelvemonth older than I.’

  ‘For me that is all quite over – any thoughts of – you cannot mean it! You never meant to talk like this, but I provoked you by laughing at you. If you please, we will never refer to this again. Good night!’

  She slipped from me and ran into the house.

  To face the card-party, until I had regained some degree of composure, was impossible. I took a turn in the grounds, and rapidly made up my mind. I loved her. I must marry her, for she had become necessary to my happiness. I had not thought of it before, but I felt no hesitation, once the fact was clear. That I had made a fool of myself, and begun badly, troubled me a little; I did not wonder that she had thought me drunk and run away. I had taken myself by surprise. Had I known my own feelings sooner I should have declared myself in a very different manner. I should not have addressed her without considerable preparation; I had given her no warning, no grounds to suspect such an alteration in my regard for her. All that must be set right.

  Cards were over and the company was drinking tea when, at last, I returned to the house. They looked at me a little queerly, I thought, as I stammered out my apologies, – that I had been tempted by the beautiful evening and had taken quite a long walk – they must forgive me – tomorrow would imprison me once more in the noise and bustle of London, etc. etc. I don’t suppose that they believed me. They fancied that some sort of scene had taken place between Caroline and myself, which had agitated me so much that I was obliged to walk it off. Why must people have such lively imaginations?

  After tea Morrill took me off to the library. He said that he hoped Caroline had not stayed out too long, and I assured him that she had returned to the house within a very few minutes, having found it too cold, in spite of the shawl.

  ‘I am glad of it,’ he said, ‘for she might have caught a chill. She is fatigued with nursing these measles.’

  ‘She does too much,’ I cried indignantly.

  ‘Very true, but it is impossible to prevent. She has got so much into the habit of considering others before herself – however, we must learn to do without her when she goes to Vienna.’

  ‘Vienna!’

  This was news to me. I had heard nothing of it. He explained that she was to go in the autumn with Louisa, now Mrs. Egerton, and that they would spend most of the summer at Bath. Egerton was at the Congress, in some advisory capacity, but his wife had remained in England on account of recent ill health. When she followed him, Caroline was going with her.

  ‘Then she will see the sea!’ said I, very stupidly.

  That was the first thought which occurred to me. The second was that she should not see it upon this occasion, if I could prevent it. This Vienna scheme did not suit me at all.

  Morrill was talking of the advantage which the change would be to her.

  ‘She should be persuaded into a little laziness and self-indulgence,’ he said. ‘I have been trying to get her away from here ever since she inherited her fortune.’

  He looked at me, in an enquiring way, and must have seen by my countenance that this too was quite unexpected. I had always believed her to be penniless.

  ‘Since she is perfectly independent, it is nonsense that she should spend her life here, slaving for us,’ he went on. ‘We shall be sorry to lose her, and while I have a home it would always be hers if she wishes; but she should have a change. These measles for instance! Had she not been here we should have managed without her. But she is too good, – too kind. She has got out of the habit of ever wanting anything for herself.’

  ‘I did not know – I had not heard—’ was all that I could manage to say.

  I longed to know how much, but could not ask. He, however, was equally anxious to tell me. A relative of her father’s had died recently and left her fifteen thousand pounds. I expressed my pleasure and spoke warmly in praise of her. He responded with equal emphasis. For some time we sat there, extolling Caroline and feeling foolish, for it was obvious that the offer which he hoped I should make could not follow immediately. Delicacy must prevent me from going to the point within ten minutes of hearing about the money, especially after an acquaintance of eleven years.

  This conversation decided me against addressing her again before I left Lingshot. There must be a decent interval, and I must give myself plenty of time. I decided to wait until the Summer Recess, when I could pursue her to Bath and pay court to her, undisturbed by Miss Margaret or the measles.

  But it would not do, either, to let her suppose that I had not been serious, or that I regretted my outburst in the garden. I left Lingshot upon the following day without seeing her again, but I wrote to her from Town. I said that she must not be angry with me, that I had been too precipitate, but that I hoped soon to have an opportunity of making my peace with her, and explaining myself.

  It was not a letter which demanded an answer, and I got none.

  Pronto, meanwhile, was resolving to give up his place. The Opposition, which had tried in vain to cut Croker’s salary, succeeded with him, and sheared him of £1500. The remaining £2500 was not, in his opinion, a sufficient reward for all the work that he did. He might make a good deal more at conveyancing. Lady Amersham, had she lived, would probably have counselled caution. But that guiding hand was withdrawn, and Pronto, without it, more liable to make mistakes. He resigned and sulked within his tent, expecting his friends to do something for him. A man who has not stood upon his dignity when he ought will often mount that horse-block, in a lordly way, when no steed is in sight. Pronto’s friends thought him uncommonly lucky to have got so far. He had held a place which many of them coveted for eight years. Nor was he so indispensable as he believed. Nothing was done for him, and he began to think seriously of a return to his legal practice.

  This entirely suited Miles, who intended, as soon as possible, to lead a life of leisure with Caroline in Wiltshire. He had not quite enough laid by, though her fortune would bring the happy day a good deal nearer. He meant, during the next few years, to make as much money as he could at the Bar, living perhaps in a cottage at Hampstead, in order to retire to Troy Chimneys before he was forty.

  It is a year ago today that Pronto resigned his place! That is strange, for the interval seems much greater. So many things have happened. Miles got his coup de grâce in August. Pronto fell off his horse in November. And, during the last few weeks, whilst I have been engaged upon this swan-song, I believe that a third event may have taken place. Miles and Pronto are both finished. Who then is writing this?

  A long effort of recollection may have some strange results. I began in a mood of bitterness and self-compassion. But hope revives when I consider that there must be, hidden within me, some third person who is able thus to estimate the other two. Pronto could not have written this memoir, nor do I think would Miles have been equal to it. I know little of the fellow who writes, but I hope to know him better, for all cannot be over with him. He is but six and t
hirty; he has half the allotted span still before him, and he seems to be in tolerable spirits, in spite of the chapter which he must now bring himself to write.

  It must be finished tonight, for I shall not have much more time for such things. The Cullens are here for a few days, on their way back to Ireland, and I mean to go there with them. We are very lively at the Parsonage. I dropped a hint to Harriet on Sukey’s behalf which may, I think, bear fruit. She is, at any rate, taking a little trouble to see that Sukey has some amusement while they are here. There are parties and schemes every day, and on Friday we all go to dance at Chipping Campden.

  I am glad to have James Cullen here, for I must rely upon him in this ridiculous business with Ned. I don’t know what I should have done without him; there is nobody else in whom I could confide, or who would act for me. I told him as much of the story as was necessary, in the hope that he would agree with me, – that I need take no notice of such nonsense.

  No man ought to take a fortnight before deciding that his honour has been injured; the Statute of Limitations ought to apply to such matters. Ned knows I have done him no wrong. I suppose he has been nagged and bullied and bedevilled into pretending to think that I have. Fourteen nights with a fury who will not let him sleep till he swears he believes her! But he could have sworn, and left it at that. He was not obliged to call me out. But very stupid people suffer from a blinkered kind of logic.

  Cullen, unfortunately, is an Irishman and therefore does not think it nonsense. Nor is he shocked at the idea of such a meeting between kinsmen. He assured me that, in Ireland, cousins fight daily. I daresay they do; they fight daily and they are all cousins.

  ‘Ah! Ye must meet um!’ says he. ‘If he sent ye a challunge there is nothing for ut. Ye must meet, to show ye’ve no bad feelings between ye. Wan shot, fired wide, will do to stop the ould mare’s mouth. Say no more! Pinney and I will settle ut.’

  (Cullen’s brogue is not, perhaps, quite so pronounced as this. Harriet insists that he has none. But Sukey and Kitty both declare that my imitations do him no injustice.)

  What Pinney thinks of the matter, I cannot imagine, nor how much of the story he knows, nor why he acts for Ned. If my surmises are true, he deserves to be a principal rather than I. There seems to be no way out of it, but I will not take such nonsense solemnly, I mean to do my best to make us all look as foolish as possible. It is the only protest that I can make against a custom which I think as barbarous as Hamlet thought his uncle’s kettledrums. If only I could make old Ned laugh when we get there – how shocked Pinney and Cullen would be! But I am afraid he will not laugh. I am afraid that he is violently angry, – because he has been bullied into doing me an injustice, and knows it, because I got him into a scrape over Ridding and robbed him of a fortnight’s sleep, because he is obliged to be furious with somebody. It would be worse for the poor old fellow to tell himself the truth; his honour has been pretty well mauled, but not by me. I daresay he wishes me dead, rather than know that he ought to be fighting Pinney.

  I must remember that Cullen, though he constrains me to go through with this ridiculous farce, is also constraining Ned to satisfy his rage with ‘wan shot, fired wide,’ instead of trying to kill me. All customs have had their uses. I can understand that this one may have played its part in taming man.

  I am giving them as much trouble as possible. I quite refuse to have a surgeon brought into it. Cullen is such a stickler for etiquette, he was for getting one, but there is none to be had save old Hankey, from Ribstone Priors, and he could never keep his mouth shut. The story would be all over the country in twenty-four hours. And in any case, what is a surgeon to do, if we are not to be hitting one another? To be sure, if we take to firing wide, we might hit Cullen or Pinney! A bow at a venture is ever perilous. I mean to wear my blue coat for the occasion. It is thoroughly unsuitable.

  What a tale this would have been to tell my Caroline!

  I must call her mine, for nobody knows what she is, better than I. And how the end came I must now set down, in spirits so altered that there seems to be no resemblance between the story I set out to tell and that which I have told. I had expected this last chapter to be blotted with tears.

  Seared in heart, and lone, and blighted,

  More than this I scarce can die!

  There should have been pages upon pages in that strain.

  But truth is healing. The effort of recollection has forced me to do justice to her, and, in doing it, there is such balm, such freedom of the spirit, that I could almost call myself happy, were I not obliged to remember what she suffered. I may have deserved my whipping. She never did. The story may be a sad one, but the sadness is for her. There is in it some of the irony which she found to be a solace; she may have been right. Our story may be ‘part of another story which we do not quite understand.’ Some other person, reading it many years hence, might interpret it better.

  Manet Sors Tertia

  WHEN PARLIAMENT ROSE I set off for Bath in the best of spirits. I was pretty sure that Caroline would take me, though some persuasion might be necessary. I might have to overcome some scruples on her part, for which I honoured her, in consenting to so unequal a match. For, in the world’s view, it was unequal. Younger, handsomer and richer women were very ready to have me. Upon the whole I was glad that she had but fifteen thousand pounds; had it been fifty, Pronto would have been accused of marrying an old maid for her money. As it was, he might be exposed to some ridicule, and she would shrink from that.

  She must be made to understand my real views, my true tastes, my contempt for the world that I was quitting. To live with her at Troy Chimneys, amid books, friends and music, to listen to the nightingale and watch the river, – I could imagine no purer happiness. Our tastes just suited; I felt that we were made for one another, and it seemed impossible that she should not feel it too, once she understood my plan.

  That she should immediately love me, with the ardour which I now felt for her, I did not expect. I had promised myself that she should, when she was my wife. Had I married for ambition only, and without passion, I should not have been content unless I could excite it in my wife. No woman, so far as I know, has ever had cause to complain of my address, if I set myself to win her.

  Very few misgivings beset me as I drove westward. I foresaw no difficulties which might not be overcome, although I did not hope to be accepted immediately. I must not bring down upon myself a definite negative at the outset; persistence after an outright refusal is inconsiderate and ill-bred. It should not too soon appear that she was my first object in coming to Bath; I was to be there, ostensibly, to settle some business at Troy Chimneys, and I meant to go to work very cunningly. She had had my letter, written after Whitsun, and I hoped that she had reflected upon it. So far as I was concerned she might go on reflecting for a little while longer. It would do her no harm to wonder if, and when, I meant to reopen the subject. A little suspense, some fluttering of the spirits, would be good for my calm, sensible Caroline.

  I should, in the meantime, gradually unfold my plans to her. I should apprise her fully of the kind of life which I meant shortly to lead, before inviting her to share it. If possible, I should get her to Troy Chimneys, for I was certain that she would be delighted with the house.

  Much must depend upon the tact and good-nature of Mrs. Egerton. I hoped that Morrill might have dropped a hint to her; he knew of my hopes, for I had confided them to him before I left town; he had been delighted and had evidently thought it an excellent match for Caroline.

  Upon arrival I dined, took a turn by the river, and then, having nothing better to do, went to the play. The piece was King Lear, and my thoughts flew instantly to Caroline, for she and I had once discussed this work. (Ah, Caroline! When did my thoughts not fly to you? The most unlikely objects could evoke you. An old man in the Haymarket crying: White Sand! White Sand! thrilled my heart, because one day, during that frustrated visit at Whitsun, I heard your voice upon the staircase desiring a servant to bri
ng white sand.) She had never seen King Lear upon the stage, but she reprehended the custom of uniting Edgar and Cordelia in the last scene; she insisted that Shakespeare’s original intention should be respected and that Cordelia should die. I maintained that this conclusion is too barbarous for the refined taste of our age, to which she replied that the whole play is too barbarous for our age. She might be right. But some parts of it are so fine that I should be sorry never to have heard them upon the stage.

  I came late and Lear was cursing Goneril as I took my seat. The theatre was insufferably hot and the candlelight dazzled me, after the cool dusk of the streets. Ludovic has an impracticable notion that plays should be acted in the dark, – no lights save upon the stage. This, says he, would force the audience to watch the actors and prevent them from looking at one another. But, apart from the impossibility of continually extinguishing and relighting candles, I should not think much of acting which depended upon such a device. An actor of genius should oblige his audience to watch him. If they may look at nothing else, it is putting him to very little trouble.

  This Lear was inferior, – a ranting, spouting fellow who nearly blew the feathers from Goneril’s head. I am glad, I thought, that Caroline does not see this. Immediately after, I caught sight of her, sitting in a box with Mrs. Egerton. Her eyes were fixed upon the stage.

  My heart did all those things that are proper. There is an exquisite pleasure in watching a woman one loves when she is unaware of it, – her thoughts far away. I had never been able thus to watch Caroline since I saw her wandering in the beech wood and began to love, without knowing that it was she.

  The house appeared to like Lear better than I did. When he got to the ‘serpent’s tooth,’ loud applause broke out, which he acknowledged before he away! awayed! himself off. Caroline, who had been all stillness and attention, frowned a little and changed her posture, as though she did not like the interruption. Her sister also turned, looked about her, and caught sight of me. She started, smiled, acknowledged my bow, half glanced at Caroline who was still watching the actors, and then smiled to me again. Thirty seconds assured me that she knew all and was my ally. Lear came ranting on again a moment later but, as soon as we had got rid of him for that scene, she beckoned to me to join them in their box. I went immediately, for Goneril and Albany were unable to hold the house, – a buzz of talk had broken out and several people had set off to visit their friends. Nothing could have been better for me; things were arranging themselves charmingly. I was spared the awkwardness of a first call in Devonshire Crescent, and hoped now to go there by invitation.