CHAPTER V.
LONDON-BRIDGE STATION, with its whirl of traffic, seems no bad emblem of London itself: vast, confused, busy, orderly, more or less dirty; implying enormous wealth in some quarter or other; providing luxuries for the rich, necessaries for the poor; thronged by rich and poor alike, idle and industrious, young and old, men and women.
London-Bridge Station at its cleanest is soiled by thousands of feet passing to and fro: on a drizzling day each foot deposits mud in its passage, takes and gives mud, leaves its impress in mud; on such a day the Station is not attractive to persons fresh from the unfailing cleanliness of sea coast and inland country; and on such a day, when, by the late afternoon, the drizzle had done, and the platform had suffered each its worst, — on such a day Miss Charlmont and her pretty sister, fresh and fastidious from sea salt and country sweetness, arrived at the Station.
Dr. Tyke’s carriage was there to meet the train. Dr. Tyke’s coachman, footman, and horses were fat, as befitted a fat master, whose circumstances and whose temperament might be defined as fat also; for ease, good-nature, and fat have an obvious affinity.
‘Should the hood be up or down?’ The rain had ceased, and Miss Charlmont, who always described London as stifling, answered, ‘Up.’ Jane, leaning back with an elegant ease, which nature had given and art perfected, felt secretly ashamed of Catherine, who sat bolt upright, according to her wont, and would no more have lolled in an open carriage than on the high-backed, scant-seated chair of her schooldays.
The City looked at once dingy and glaring; dingy with unconsumed smoke, and glaring here and there with early-lighted gas. When Waterloo Bridge had been crossed matters brightened somewhat, and Oxford Street showed not amiss. Along the Edgware Road dirt and dinginess re-asserted their sway; but when the carriage finally turned into Notting Hill, and drove amongst the Crescents, Roads, and Gardens of that cleanly suburb, a winding-up shower, brisk and brief, not drizzly, cleared the way for the sun, and finished off the afternoon with a rainbow.
Dr. Tyke’s abode was named Appletrees House, though the orchard whence the name was derived had disappeared before the memory of the oldest inhabitant. The carriage drew up, the door swung open: down the staircase came flying a little, slim woman, with outstretched hands and words of welcome; auburn-haired, though she had outlived the last of the fifties, and cheerful, though the want of children had not ceased to be felt as a hopeless disappointment: a pale-complexioned, high-voiced, little woman, all that remained of that fair cousin Lucy of bygone years and William Charlmont.
Behind her, and more deliberately, descended her husband, elastic of step, rotund of figure, bright-eyed, rosy, white-headed, not altogether unlike a robin redbreast that had been caught in the snow. Mrs. Tyke had a habit of running on with long-winded, perfectly harmless commonplaces; but notwithstanding her garrulity, she never uttered an ill-natured word or a false one. Dr. Tyke, burdened with an insatiable love. of fun, and a ready, if not a witty, wit, was addicted to venting jokes, repartees, and so-called anecdotes; the last not always unimpeachably authentic.
Such were the hosts. The house was large and light, with a laboratory for the Doctor, who dabbled in chemistry, and an aviary for his wife, who doted on pets. The walls of the sitting-rooms were hung with engravings, not with family portraits, real or sham: in fact, no sham was admitted within doors, unless imaginary anecdotes and quotations must be stigmatized as shams; and as to these, when taxed with invention, the Doctor would only reply by his favourite Italian phrase: ‘Se non è vero è ben trovato.’
‘Jane,’ said Mrs. Tyke, as the three ladies sat over a late breakfast, the Doctor having already retreated to the laboratory and his newspaper: — ’Jane, I think you have made a conquest.’
Jane looked down in silence, with a conscious simper. Catherine spoke rather anxiously: ‘Indeed, Cousin Lucy, I have noticed what you allude to, and I have spoken to Jane about not encouraging Mr. Durham. He is not at all a man she can really like, and she ought to be most careful not to let herself be misunderstood. Jane, you ought indeed.’
But Jane struck merrily in: ‘Mr. Durham is old enough and — ahem! — handsome enough to take care of himself, sister. And, besides,’ with a touch of mimicry, which recalled his pompous manner, ‘Orpingham Place, my dear madam, Orpingham Place is a very fine place, a very fine place indeed. Our pineapples can really hardly be got rid of, and our prize pigs can’t see out of their eyes; they can’t indeed, my dear young lady, though it’s not pretty talk for a pretty young lady to listen to. — Very well, if the pines and the pigs are smitten, why shouldn’t I marry the pigs and the pines?’
‘Why not?’ cried Mrs. Tyke with a laugh; but Miss Charlmont, looking disturbed, rejoined: ‘Why not, certainly, if you like Mr. Durham; but do you like Mr. Durham? And, whether or not, you ought not to laugh at him.’
Jane pouted: ‘Really one would think I was a child still! As to Mr. Durham, when he knows his own mind and speaks, you may be, quite sure I shall know my own mind and give him his answer. — Orpingham Place, my dear Miss Catherine, the finest place in the county; the finest place in three counties, whatever my friend the Duke may say. A charming neighbourhood, Miss Catherine; her Grace the Duchess, the most affable woman you can imagine, and my lady the Marchioness, a fine woman — a very fine woman. But they can’t raise such pines as my pines; they can’t do it, you know; they haven’t the means, you know. — Come now, sister, don’t look cross; when I’m Mrs. Durham you shall have your slice off the pigs and the pines.’
CHAPTER VI.
EVERILDA STELLA, poor Lucy’s unconscious rival, had married out of the schoolroom. Pretty she was not, but with much piquancy of face and manner, and a talent for private theatricals. These advantages, gilded, perhaps, by her reputation as presumptive heiress, attracted, to her a suitor, to Whose twenty years’ seniority she felt no objection. Mr. Hartley wooed and won her in the brief space of an Easter holiday; and bore her, nothing loth, to London, to enjoy the gaieties of the season. Somewhat to the bridegroom’s annoyance, Mr. Durham accompanied the newly-married couple to town, and shared their pretty house at Kensington.
Alan Hartley, a favourite nephew of Dr. Tyke, had, as we know, been very intimate at his house in old days. Now he was proud to present his little wife of sixteen to his uncle and aunt, though ‘somewhat mortified at having also to introduce his father-in-law, whose pompous manners, and habit of dragging titled personages into his discourse, put him to the blush. Alan had dropped Everilda, and called his wife simply Stella; her father dubbed her Pug; Everilda she was named, in accordance with the taste of her peerage-studious mother. This lady was accustomed to describe herself as of a north-country family — a Leigh of the Leazes; which conveyed an old-manorial notion to persons unacquainted with Newcastle-on-Tyne. But this by the way: Mrs. Durham had died before the opening of our tale.
At their first visit they were shown into the drawing-room by a smiling maid-servant, and requested to wait, as Dr. and Mrs. Tyke were expected home every moment. Stella looked very winning in her smart hat and feather and jaunty jacket, and Alan would have abandoned himself to all the genial glow of a bridegroom, but for Mr. Durham’s behaviour. That gentleman began by placing his hat on the floor between his feet, and flicking his boots with a crimson silk pocket-handkerchief. This done, he commenced a survey of the apartment, accompanied by an apt running comment, — ‘Hem, no pictures — cheap engravings; a four-and-sixpenny Brussels carpet; a smallish mirror, wants regilding.. Pug, my pet, that’s a neat antimacassar: see if you can’t carry off the stitch in your eye. A piano — a harp; fiddlestick!’
When Dr. and Mrs. Tyke entered, they found the Hartleys looking uncomfortable, and Mr. Durham red and pompous after his wont; also, in opening the door, they caught the sound of ‘fiddlestick!’ All these symptoms, with the tact of kindness, they ignored. The. bride was kissed, the father-in-law taken for granted, and Alan welcomed as if no one in the room had looked guilty.
‘Come t
o lunch and take a hunch,’ said the Doctor, offering his arm to Stella. ‘Mother Bunch is rhyme, but not reason; you shall munch and I will scrunch — that’s both. “Ah!
you may well look surprised,” as the foreign ambassador admitted when the ancient Britons noticed that he had no tail. But you won’t mind when you know us better; I’m no worse than a barrel-organ.’ — .
Yet with all Dr. Tyke’s endeavour to be funny, and this time it cost him an effort, and with all his wife’s facile commonplaces, two of the guests seemed ill at ease. Alan felt, as it were with every nerve, the impression his father-in-law must produce, while Stella, less sensitive for herself, was out of countenance for her husband’s sake. Mr. Durham, indeed, was pompous and unabashed as ever; but whilst he answered commonplace remarks by remarks no less commonplace, he appeared to be, as in fact he was, occupied in scrutinizing, and mentally valuing, the plate and china.
‘Charming weather,’ said Mrs. Tyke, with an air of intelligent originality.
‘Yes, ma’am; fine weather, indeed; billing and cooing weather; ha! ha! ‘with a glance across the table.’ Now I dare say your young ladies know what to do in this weather.’
‘We have no children,’ and Mrs. Tyke whispered, lest her husband should hear. Then, after a pause, ‘I dare say Orpingham Place was just coming into beauty when you left.’
Mr. Durham thrust his thumbs into his waistcoat-pockets, and leaned back for conversation. ‘Well, I don’t know what to say to that, — I don’t indeed; I don’t know which the season is when Orpingham Place is not in beauty. Its conservatories were quite a local lion last winter — quite a local lion, as my friefid the Duke remarked to me; and he said he must bring the Duchess over to see them, and he did bring her Grace over; and I gave them a luncheon in the largest conservatory, such as I don’t suppose they sit down to every day. For the nobility have blood, if you please, and the literary beggars are welcome to all the brains they’ve got ‘(the Doctor smiled, Alan winced visibly);’ but you’ll find it’s us city men who’ve got backbone, and backbone’s the best to wear, as I observed to the Duke that very day when I gave him such a glass of port as he hasn’t got in his cellar. I said it to him, just as I say it to you, ma’am, and he didn’t contradict me; in fact, you know, he couldn’t.’
After this it might have been difficult to start conversation afresh, when, happily, Jane entered, late for luncheon, and with an apology for her sister, who was detained elsewhere. She went through the necessary introductions, and took her seat between Dr. Tyke and Mr. Durham, thus commanding an advantageous view of the bride, whom she mentally set down as nothing particular in any way.
Alan had never met Jane before. He asked her after Miss Charlmont and Lucy, after Lucy especially, who was ‘a very charming old friend’ of his, as he explained to Stella. For some minutes Mr. Durham sat silent, much impressed by Jane’s beauty and grace; this gave people breathing-time for the recovery of ease and good humour; and it was not till Dr. Tyke had uttered three successive jokes, and every one, except Mr. Durham, had laughed at them, that the master of Orpingham Place could think of any remark worthy of his attractive neighbour; and then, with much originality, he too observed, — ’ Charming weather, Miss Jane.’
And Jane answered with a smile; for was not this the widower of Orpingham Place?
That Mr. Durham’s conversation on subsequent occasions gained in range of subject, is clear from Jane’s quotations in the last chapter. And that Mr. Durham was alive to Jane’s fascinations appeared pretty evident, as he not only called frequently at Appletrees House, but made up parties, to which Dr. and Mrs. Tyke, and the Miss Charlmonts, were invariably asked.
CHAPTER VII.
GAIETY in London, sadness by the sea.
Lucy did her very best to entertain Miss Drum with the cheerfulness of former visits; in none of which had she shown herself more considerate of the old lady’s tastes than now. She made breakfast half-an-hour earlier than usual; she culled for her interesting scraps from the newspaper; she gave her an arm up and down the Esplanade on sunny days; she reclaimed the most unpromising strayed stitches in her knitting; she sang her old-fashioned favourite ballads for an hour or so before tea-time, and after tea till bed-time played energetically at backgammon: yet Miss Drum was sensible of a change. All Lucy’s efforts could not make her cheeks rosy and plump, and her laugh spontaneous; could not make her step elastic or her eyes bright.
‘It is easy to ridicule a woman nearly thirty years old for fancying herself beloved without a word said, and suffering deeply under disappointment: yet Lucy Charlmont was no contemptible person. However at one time deluded, she had never let a hint of her false hopes reach Mr. Hartley’s observation; and however now disappointed, she fought bravely against a betrayal of her plight. Alone in her own room she might suffer visibly and keenly, but with any eye upon her she would not give way. Sometimes it felt as if the next moment the strain on her nerves might wax unendurable; but such a next moment never came, and she endured still. Only, who is there strong enough, day after day, to strain strength to the utmost, and yet give no sign?
‘My dear,’ said Miss Drum, contemplating Lucy over her spectacles and across the backgammon-board one evening when the eyes looked more sunken than ever, and the whole face more haggard, ‘I am sure you do not take exercise enough. You really must do more than give me an arm on the Esplanade; all your bloom is gone, and you are much too thin. Promise me that’ you will take at least one long walk in the day whenever the weather is not unfavourable.’
Lucy stroked her old friend’s hand fondly: ‘I will take walks when my sisters are at home again; but I have not you here always.’
Miss Drum insisted: ‘Do not say so, my dear, or I shall feel bound to go home again; and that I should not like at all, as we both know. Pray oblige me by promising.’
Thus urged, Lucy promised, and in secret rejoiced that for at least an hour or two of the day she should thenceforward be alone, relieved from the scrutiny of those dim, affectionate eyes. And truly she needed some relief. By day she could forbid her thoughts to shape themselves, even mentally, into words, although no effort could banish the vague, dull sorrow which was all that might now remain to her of remembrance. But by night, when sleep paralysed self-restraint, then her dreams were haunted by distorted spectres of the past; never alluring or endearing — for this she was thankful — but sometimes monstrous, and always impossible to escape from. Night after night she would awake from such dreams’, struggling and sobbing, with less and less conscious strength to resume daily warfare.
Soon she allowed no weather to keep her indoors at the hour for walking, and Miss Drum, who was a hardy disciple of the old school, encouraged her activity. She always sought the sea, not the smooth, civilised esplanade, but the rough, irreclaimable shingle; — to stray to and fro till the last moment of her freedom; to and fro, to and fro, at once listless and unresting, with wide, absent eyes fixed on the monotonous waves, which they did not see. Gradually a morbid fancy grew upon her that one day she should behold her father’s body washed ashore, and that she should know the face: from a waking fancy, this began to haunt her dreams with images unutterably loathsome. Then she walked no more on the shingle, but took to wandering along green lanes and country roads.
But no one struggling persistently against weakness falls to overcome: also, however prosaic the statement may sound, air and exercise will take effect on persons of sound constitution. Something of Lucy’s lost colour showed itself, by fits and starts at first, next steadily; her appetite came back, however vexed she might feel at its return; at last fatigue brought sounder sleep, and the hollow eyes grew less sunken. This refreshing sleep was the turning-point in her case; it supplied strength for the day, whilst each day in its turn brought with it fewer and fewer demands upon her strength. Seven weeks after Miss Drum exacted the promise, Lucy, though graver of aspect, and at heart sadder than before Alan Hartley’s wedding, had recovered in a measure her look of health
and her interest in the details of daily life. She no longer greatly dreaded meeting her sisters when at length their much-prolonged absence should terminate; and in spite of some nervousness in the anticipation, felt confident that even a sight of Mr. and Mrs. Hartley would not upset the outward composure of her decorum.
Miss Drum triumphed in the success of her prescription, and brought forward parallel instances within her own experience. ‘That is right,’ she would say, ‘my dear; take another slice of the mutton where it is not overdone. There is nothing like exercise for giving an appetite, only the mutton should not be overdone. You cannot remember Sarah Smith, who was with me before your dear mother entrusted you to my care; but I assure you three doctors had given her over as a confirmed invalid when I prescribed for her;’ and the old lady laughed gently at her own wit. ‘I made her take a walk every day, let the weather be what it might; and gave her nice, juicy mutton to eat, with a change to beef, or a chicken, now and then for variety; and very soon you would not have known her for the same girl; and Dr. Grey remarked, in his funny way, that I ought to be an M.D. myself.’ Or, again: ‘Lucy, my dear, you recollect my French assistant, Mademoiselle Leclerc, what a fine, strong young woman she was when you knew her. Now when she first came to me she was pale and peaking, afraid of wet feet or an open window; afraid of this, that, and the other, always tired, and with no appetite except for sweets. Mutton and exercise made her what you remember; and before she went home to France to marry an old admirer, she thanked me with tears in her eyes for having made her love mutton. She said “love” when she should have said “like;” but I was too proud and pleased to correct her English then, I only answered, “Ah, dear Mademoiselle, always love your husband and love your mutton.”‘
Delphi Complete Poetical Works of Christina Rossetti Page 83