She went out into the garden alone one evening after dinner, as it was her wont to do almost every evening, leaving Mr. Lovel dozing luxuriously in his easy-chair by the fire — she went out alone in the chill gray dusk, and paced the familiar walks, between borders in which there were only pale autumnal flowers, chrysanthemums and china asters of faint yellow and fainter purple. Even the garden looked melancholy in this wan light, Clarissa thought. She made the circuit of the small domain, walked up and down the path by the mill-stream two or three times, and then went into the leafless orchard, where the gnarled old trees cast their misshapen shadows on the close-cropped grass. A week-old moon had just risen, pale in the lessening twilight. The landscape had a cold shadowy beauty of its own; but to-night everything seemed wan and cheerless to Clarissa.
She was near the gate leading into Arden Park, when she heard a crackling of withered leaves, the sound of an approaching footstep. It was Mr. Granger, of course. She gave a sigh of resignation. Another evening of the pattern which had grown so familiar to her, that it seemed almost as if Mr. Granger must have been dropping in of an evening all her life. The usual talk of public matters — the leaders in that day’s Times, and so on. The usual request for a little music; the usual inquiries about her recent artistic studies. It was as monotonous as the lessons she had learned at Madame Marot’s seminary.
“Is my life to go on like that for ever?” she asked herself.
The step came a little nearer. Surely it was lighter and quicker than Daniel Granger’s — it had a sharp martial sound; it was like a step she had learned to know very well in the gardens of Hale Castle.
“He is at Baden,” she said to herself.
But the beating of her heart grew faster in spite of that tranquillizing assurance. She heard an unaccustomed hand trying the fastening of the gate, then a bolt withdrawn, the sharp light step upon the turf behind her, and in the next moment George Fairfax was by her side, among the weird shadows of the orchard trees.
He tried to draw her towards him, with the air of an accepted lover.
“My darling!” he said, “I knew I should find you here. I had a fancy that you would be here, waiting for me in the pale moonlight.”
Clarissa laughed — rather an artificial little laugh — but she felt the situation could only be treated lightly. The foolish passionate heart was beating so fast all the time, and the pale face might have told so much, if the light of the new-risen moon had not been dim as yet.
“How long do you suppose I have been waiting at this spot for you, Mr.
Fairfax?” she asked lightly. “For six weeks?”
“Six weeks! Yes, it is six weeks since I saw you. It might be six years, if I were to measure the time by my own impatience. I have been at Nice, Clarissa, almost ever since that night we parted.”
“At Nice! with Lady Laura and Lady Geraldine, I suppose, I thought they were going to Baden.”
“They are at Baden; but I have not been with them. I left England with my mother, who had a very bad attack of her chronic asthma earlier than usual this year, and was ordered off to the South of France, where she is obliged to spend all her winters, poor soul. I went with her, and stayed till she was set up again in some measure. I was really uneasy about her; and it was a good excuse for getting away from Hale.”
Clarissa murmured some conventional expression of sympathy, but that was all.
“My darling,” said George Fairfax, taking her cold hand in his — she tried to withdraw it, but it was powerless in that firm grasp—”My darling, you know why I have come here; and you know now why my coming has been so long delayed. I could not write to you. The Fates are against us, Clarissa, and I do not expect much favour from your father. So I feared that a letter might do us mischief, and put off everything till I could come. I said a few words to Laura Armstrong before I left the Castle — not telling her very much, but giving her a strong hint of the truth. I don’t think she’ll be surprised by anything I may do; and my letters to Geraldine have all been written to prepare the way for our parting. I know she will be generous; and if my position with regard to her is rather a despicable one, I have done all I could to make the best of it. I have not made things worse by deceit or double-dealing. I should have boldly asked for my freedom before this, but I hear such bad accounts of poor Geraldine, who seems to be dreadfully grieved by her father’s loss, that I have put off all idea of any direct explanation for the present. I am not the less resolved, however, Clarissa.”
Miss Lovel turned her face towards him for the first time, and looked at him with a proud steady gaze. She had given her promise, and was not afraid that anything, not even his tenderest, most passionate pleading, could ever tempt her to break it; but she knew more and more that she loved him — that it was his absence and silence which, had made her life so blank, that his coming was the event she had waited and watched for day after day.
“Why should you break faith with Lady Geraldine?” she asked calmly.
“Why! Because my bondage has been hateful to me ever since I came to Hale.
Because there is only one woman I will have for my wife — and her name is
Clarissa Lovel!”
“You had better keep your word, Mr. Fairfax. I was quite in earnest in what I said to you six weeks ago. Nothing in the world would ever induce me to have any part in your breach of faith. Why, even if I loved you—” her voice trembled a little here, and George Fairfax repeated the words after her, “Even if you loved me — I could never trust you. How could I hope that, after having been so false to her, you could be true to me?”
“Even if I loved you. Tell me that you do love me — as I have hoped and dreamed — as I dared to believe sometimes at Hale, when my wedding-day was so near, that I seemed like some wretch bound to the wheel, for whom there is no possibility of escape. That is all over now, darling. To all intents and purposes I am free. Confess that you love me.” This was said half tenderly, half imperiously — with the air of a conqueror accustomed to easy triumphs, an air which this man’s experience had made natural to him. “Come, Clarissa, think how many miles I have travelled for the sake of this one stolen half hour. Don’t be so inexorable.”
He looked down at her with a smile on his face, not very much alarmed by her obduracy. It seemed to him only a new form of feminine eccentricity. Here was a woman who actually could resist him for ten minutes at a stretch — him, George Fairfax!
“I am very sorry you should have come so far. I am very sorry you should have taken so much trouble; it is quite wasted.”
“Then you don’t like me, Miss Lovel,” still half playfully — the thing was too impossible to be spoken of in any other tone. “For some reason or other I am obnoxious to you. Look me full in the face, and swear that you don’t care a straw for me.”
“I am not going to swear anything so foolish. You are not obnoxious to me. I have no wish to forfeit your friendship; but I will not hear of anything more than friendship from your lips.”
“Why not?”
“For many reasons. In the first place, because there would be treason against Lady Geraldine in my listening to you.”
“Put that delusion out of your mind. There would be no treason; all is over between Lady Geraldine and me.”
“There are other reasons, connected with papa.”
“Oh, your father is against me. Yes, that is only natural. Any more reasons, Clarissa?”
“One more.”
“What is that?”
“I cannot tell you.”
“But I insist upon being told.”
She tried her uttermost to avoid answering his questions; but he was persistent, and she admitted at last that she had promised not to listen to him.
“To whom was the promise given?”
“That is my secret.”
“To your father?”
“That is my secret, Mr. Fairfax. You cannot extort it from me. And now I must go back to papa, if you please, or he will be sending som
e one to look for me.”
“And I shall be discovered in Mr. Capulet’s orchard. Ten minutes more, Clarissa, and I vanish amidst the woods of Arden, through which I came like a poacher in order to steal upon you unawares by that little gate. And now, my darling, since we have wasted almost all our time in fencing with words, let us be reasonable. Promises such as you speak of are pledges given to the winds. They cannot hold an hour against true love. Listen, Clary, listen.”
And then came the pleading of a man only too well accustomed to plead — a man this time very much in earnest: words that seemed to Clarissa full of a strange eloquence, tones that went to her heart of hearts. But she had given her promise, and with her that promise meant something very sacred. She was firm to the last — firm even when those thrilling tones changed from love to auger.
All that he said towards the end she scarcely knew, for there was a dizziness in her brain that confused her, and her chiefest fear was that she should drop fainting at his feet; but the last words of all struck upon her ear with a cruel distinctness, and were never forgotten.
“I am the merest fool and schoolboy to take this matter so deeply to heart,” he said, with a scornful laugh, “when the reason of my rejection is so obvious. What I saw at Hale Castle might have taught me wisdom. Even with my improved prospects I am little better than a pauper compared with Daniel Granger. And I have heard you say that you would give all the world to win back Arden Court. I will stand aside, and make way for a wealthier suitor. Perhaps we may meet again some day, and I may not be so unfortunate as my father.”
He was gone. Clarissa stood like a statue, with her hands clasped before her face. She heard the gate shut by a violent hand. He was gone in supreme anger, with scorn and insult upon his lips, believing her the basest of the base, the meanest of the mean, she told herself. The full significance of his last words she was unable to understand, but it seemed to her that they veiled a threat.
She was going back to the house slowly, tearless, but with something like despair in her heart, when she heard the orchard gate open again. He had come back, perhaps, — returned to forgive and pity her. No, that was not his footstep; it was Mr. Granger, looking unspeakably ponderous and commonplace in the moonlight, as he came across the shadowy grass towards her.
“I thought I saw a white dress amongst the trees,” he said, holding out his hand to her for the usual greeting. “How cold your hand is, Miss Lovel! Is it quite prudent of you to be out so late on such a chilly evening, and in that thin dress? I think I must ask your papa to lecture you.”
“Pray don’t, Mr. Granger; I am not in the habit of catching cold, and I am used to being in the gardens at all times and seasons. You are late.”
“Yes; I have been at Holborough all day, and dined an hour later than usual. Your papa is quite well, I hope?”
“He is just the same as ever. He is always more or less of an invalid, you know.”
They came in sight of the broad bay window of the parlour at this moment, and the firelight within revealed Mr. Lovel in a very comfortable aspect, fast asleep, with his pale aristocratic-looking face relieved by the crimson cushions of his capacious easy-chair, and the brown setter’s head on his knee. There were some books on the table by his side, but it was evident that his studies since dinner had not been profound.
Clarissa and her companion went in at a half-glass door that opened into a small lobby next the parlour. She knew that to open the window at such an hour in the month of October was an unpardonable crime in her father’s eyes. They went into the room very softly; but Mr. Lovel, who was a light sleeper, started up at their entrance, and declared with some show of surprise that he must have been indulging in a nap.
“I was reading a German critic on Aeschylus,” he said. “Those Germans are clever, but too much given to paradoxes. Ring the bell for tea, Clary. I didn’t think we should see you to-night, Granger; you said you were going to a dinner at Sir Archer Taverham’s.”
“I was engaged to dine with Sir Archer; but I wrote him a note this morning, excusing myself upon the plea of gout. I really had a few twinges last night, and I hate dinner-parties.”
“I am glad you have so much wisdom. I don’t think any man under a Talleyrand or an Alvanley can make a masculine dinner worth going to; and as for your mixed herds of men and women, every man past thirty knows that kind of thing to be an abomination.”
The rosy-faced parlour-maid brought in the lamp and the tea-tray, and Clarissa sat quietly down to perform her nightly duties. She took her seat in the full light of the lamp, with no evidence of emotion on her face, and poured out the tea, and listened and replied to Mr. Granger’s commonplace remarks, just the same as usual, though the sound of another voice was in her ear — the bitter passionate sound of words that had been almost curses.
* * * * *
CHAPTER XXIV.
“IT MEANS ARDEN COURT.”
The time went by, and Daniel Granger pursued his wooing, his tacit undemonstrative courtship, with the quiet persistence of a man who meant to win. He came to Mill Cottage almost every evening throughout the late autumn and early winter months, and Clarissa was fain to endure his presence and to be civil to him. She had no ground for complaint, no opportunity for rebellion. His visits were not made ostensibly on her account, though friends, neighbours, and servants knew very well why he came, and had settled the whole business in their gossiping little coteries. Nor did he take upon himself the airs of a lover. He was biding his time, content to rejoice in the daily presence of the woman he loved; content to wait till custom should have created a tie between them, and till he could claim her for his wife by right of much patience and fidelity. He had an idea that no woman, pure and true as he believed this woman to be, could shut her heart against an honest man’s love, if he were only patient and faithful, single-minded and unselfish in his wooing.
George Fairfax kept his word. From the hour of that bitter parting he made no sign of his existence to Clarissa Lovel. The Armstrongs were still in Germany when December came, and people who had any claim upon Lady Laura’s hospitality lamented loudly that there were to be no gaieties at the Castle this year. It was the second Christmas that the family had been absent. Mr. Fairfax was with them at Baden most likely, Clarissa thought; and she tried to hope that it was so.
Christmas came, and Miss Lovel had to assist at Miss Granger’s triumphs. That young lady was in full force at this time of year, dealing out blankets of the shaggiest and most uncompromising textures — such coverings as might have suited the requirements of a sturdy Highlander or a stalwart bushranger sleeping in the open air, but seemed scarcely the pleasantest gifts for feeble old women or asthmatic old men — and tickets representative of small donations in kind, such as a quart of split-peas, or a packet of prepared groats, with here and there the relief of a couple of ounces of tea. Against plums and currants and candied peel Miss Granger set her face, as verging on frivolity. The poor, who are always given to extravagance, would be sure to buy these for themselves: witness the mountain of currants embellished with little barrows of citron and orange-peel, and the moorland of plums adorned with arabesques of Jamaica ginger in the holly-hung chandler’s shop at Arden. Split-peas and groats were real benefits, which would endure when the indigestible delights of plum-pudding were over. Happily for the model villagers, Mr. Granger ordered a bullock and a dozen tons of coal to be distributed amongst them, in a large liberal way that was peculiar to him, without consulting his daughter as to the propriety of the proceeding. She was very busy with the beneficent work of providing her special protégées with the ugliest imaginable winter gowns and frocks. Clarissa, who was eager to contribute something to this good work, had wounded her fingers desperately in the manufacture of these implacable fabrics, which set her teeth on edge every time she touched them. Mr. Lovel would not even allow them to be in the room where he sat.
“If you must work at those unspeakably odious garments, Clarissa,” he said, “for pity’s
sake do it out of my presence. Great Heavens! what cultivator of the Ugly could have invented those loathsome olive-greens, or that revolting mud-colour? evidently a study from the Thames at low water, just above Battersea-bridge. And to think that the poor — to whom nature seems to have given a copyright in warts and wens and boils — should be made still more unattractive by such clothing as that! If you are ever rich, Clarissa, and take to benevolence, think of your landscape before you dress your poor. Give your old women and children scarlet cloaks and gray petticoats, and gratify your men with an orange neckerchief now and then, to make a patch of colour against your russet background.”
There were dinner-parties at Arden Court that winter, to which Mr. Lovel consented to take his daughter, obnoxious as he had declared all such festivities to be to him. He went always as a concession to his host’s desires, and took care to let Daniel Granger know that his going was an act of self-sacrifice; but he did go, and he gave his daughter a ten-pound note, as a free-will offering, for the purchase of a couple of new dresses.
Clarissa wondered not a little at the distinction with which her father and herself were treated by every one who met them at Mr. Granger’s house. She did not know that a good deal of this attention was given to the future mistress of Arden Court, and that, in the eyes of county people and Holborough gentry alike, she stood in that position. She did not know that her destiny was a settled business in every one’s mind except her own: that her aunt Oliver and the Rector, quite as much as her father, looked upon her marriage with Daniel Granger as inevitable. Mr. Lovel had been careful not to alarm his daughter by any hint of his convictions. He was very well satisfied with the progress of affairs. Daniel Granger was too securely caught for there to be any room for fear of change on his part, and Daniel Granger’s mode of carrying on the siege seemed to Mr. Lovel an excellent one. Whatever Clarissa’s feelings might have been in the beginning, she must needs succumb before such admirable patience, such almost sublime devotion.
Delphi Works of M. E. Braddon Page 552