Wenderholme Part 20

"I know what you went down into Derbys.h.i.+re for. You didn't go to fish; you went to ask Mr. Stedman to let you marry his daughter, Miss Alice Stedman."

For the first time since he had known him, Philip Stanburne was angry with the Colonel. His face flushed at once, and he asked, in a tone which was any thing but conciliatory,--

"Do you keep spies in your regiment, Colonel Stanburne?"

"Bardly saw you accidentally just as you were coming out of Mr.

Stedman's counting-house, and between us we have made a guess at the object of your visit to Derbys.h.i.+re."

"You are very kind to interest yourself so much in my affairs."

"Try not to be angry with me. What if I _do_ take an interest in your affairs? It isn't wrong, is it? I take an interest in all that concerns you, because I wish to do what I can to be of use to you."

"You are very kind."

"You are angry with me yet; but if I had plagued you with questions about your little excursion, would it not have been more impertinent and more irritating? I thought it best to let you see that I know all about it."

"It was unnecessary to speak upon that subject until I had informed you about it."

"My dear fellow, look here. It is not in the nature of things that you _would_ tell me. You have been rejected either by the father or the daughter, and you are going to make yourself ill about it; you are ill already--you are pale, and you never eat any thing, and your face is as melancholy as a face well can be. Be a good fellow, and take me into your confidence, and we will see if we cannot put you out of your misery."

"That is a phrase commonly used by people who kill diseased or wounded animals. You are becoming alarming. You will let me live, I hope, such as I am."

The Colonel perceived that Philip was coming round a little. He waited a minute, and then went on.

"She's a very nice girl. I met her at Mr. Anison's here. I would rather you married her than one of those pretty Miss Anisons. She seems a quiet sensible young lady, who will stay at home with her husband, and not always be wanting to go off to London, and Brighton, and the Lord knows where."

Philip had had a suspicion that the Colonel was going to remonstrate with him for making a plebeian alliance, but that began to be dispelled.

To induce him to express an opinion on that point, Philip said,--

"Her father is not a gentleman, you know."

"I know who he is--a very well-to-do cotton manufacturer; and a very intelligent, well-informed man, I'm told. A gentleman! pray what _is_ a gentleman?"

"A difficult question to answer in words; but we all know what we mean by the word when we use it."

"Well, yes; but is it quite necessary to a man to be a gentleman at all?

Upon my word, I very often think that in our line of life we are foolishly rigid on that point. I have met very clever and distinguished men--men of science, and artists, and even authors--who didn't seem quite to answer to our notions of what a gentleman is; and I know scores of fellows who are useless and idle, and vicious too, and given up to nothing but amus.e.m.e.nt--and not always the most innocent amus.e.m.e.nt either--and yet all who know society would recognize them as gentlemen at once. Now, between ourselves, you and I answer to what is called a gentleman, and your proposed father-in-law, Mr. Stedman, you say doesn't; but it's highly probable that he is superior to either of us, and a deal more useful to mankind. He spins cotton, and he studies botany and geology. I wish I could spin cotton, or increase my income in any honest way, and I wish I had some pursuit. I tried once or twice: I tried botany myself, but I had no perseverance; and I tried to write a book, but I found my abilities weren't good enough for that; so I turned my talents to tandem-driving, and now I've set up a four-in-hand. By the by, my new team's coming to-morrow from London--a friend of mine there has purchased it for me."

There was a shade of dissatisfaction on John Stanburne's face as he concluded this little speech about himself. He did not seem to antic.i.p.ate the arrival of the new team with pleasure unalloyed. The price, perhaps, may have been somewhat heavy--somewhat beyond his means.

That London friend of his was a sporting character, with an ardent appreciation of horse-flesh in the abstract, and an elevated ideal. When he purchased for friends, which he was sometimes commissioned to do, he became truly a servant of the Ideal, and sought out only such realities as a servant of the Ideal might contemplate with feelings of satisfaction. These realities were always very costly--they always considerably exceeded the pecuniary limits which had been a.s.signed to him. This was his only fault; he purchased well, and none of the purchase-money, either directly or indirectly, found its way into his own pocket.

The Colonel did not dwell, as he might have been expected to do, upon the subject of the horses--he returned almost immediately to that of matrimonial alliances.

"It's not very difficult to make a guess at the cause of Mr. Stedman's opposition. Bardly tells me he's a most tremendous Protestant, earnest to a degree, and you, my dear fellow, happen to be a Catholic. You'll have to let yourself be converted, I'm afraid, if you really want the girl."

"A man cannot change his faith, when he has one, because it is his interest to do so. I would rather you did not talk about that subject--at least, in that strain. You know my views; you know that nothing would induce me to profess any other views."

"Bardly tells me he doesn't think Stedman will give in, so long as you remain a Catholic."

"Very well."

"Yes, it may be very well--it may be better than marrying. It's a very good thing, no doubt, to marry a good wife, but I'm not sure that the condition of a bachelor isn't really better than that of the most fortunate husband in the world. You see, Philip (excuse me calling you by your Christian name; I wish you'd call me John), you see a married man either cares about his wife or he doesn't. If he doesn't care about her, what's the use of being married to her? If, on the other hand, he _does_ care about her, then his happiness becomes entirely dependent upon her humors. Some women--who are very good women in other respects--are liable to long fits of the sulks. You omit some little attention which they think is their due; you omit it in pure innocence, because your mind is very much occupied with other matters, and then the lady attributes it to all sorts of imaginary motives--it is a plan of yours to insult her, and so on. Or, if she attributes it to carelessness, then your carelessness is itself such a tremendous crime that she isn't quite certain whether you ought ever to be forgiven for it or not; and she hesitates about forgiving you for a fortnight or three weeks, and then she decides that you shall be forgiven, and taken into her grace and favor once more. But by the time this has been repeated twenty or thirty times, a fellow gets rather weary of it, you know. It's my belief that women are divided into two cla.s.ses--the sulky ones and the scolds. Some of 'em do their sulking in a way that clearly shows it's done consciously, and intentionally, and artistically, as a Frenchwoman arranges her ribbons. The great object is to show you that the lady holds herself in perfect command--that she is mistress of her own manner in every thing; and this makes her manner all the more aggravating; because, if she is so perfectly mistress of it, why doesn't she make it rather pleasanter?"

"It's rather a gloomy picture that you have been painting, Colonel, but every lover will believe that there is _one_ exception to it."

"Of course he will. You believe Miss Alice Stedman is the exception; only, if you can't get her, don't fret about her. She seems a very admirable young lady, and I should be glad if you married her; because, if you don't, the chances are that you will marry somebody else not quite so suitable. But if I could be quite sure that you would remain a bachelor, and take a rational view of the immense advantages of bachelorhood, I shouldn't much regret Mr. Stedman's obduracy on your account."

These views of the Colonel's were due, no doubt, to his present position with Lady Helena. The causes which were gradually dividing them had been slowly operating for several years, but the effects which resulted from them were now much more visible than they had ever previously been.

First they had walked together on one path, then the path had been divided into two by an all but invisible separation--still they had walked together. But now the two paths were diverging so widely that the eye began to measure the s.p.a.ce between them, and as it measured the s.p.a.ce widened. It is as when two trains leave some great railway station side by side. For a time they are on the same railroad, but after a while you begin to perceive that the distance from your own train to the other is gradually widening; and on looking down to the ground, which seems to flow like a swift stream, you see a streak of green between the two diverging ways, and it deepens to a chasm between two embankments; and after that they are separated by s.p.a.ces ever widening--s.p.a.ces of field and river and wood--till the steam of the other engine has vanished on the far horizon.

John Stanburne's offers of a.s.sistance were very sincere, but what, in a practical way, could he do? He could not make Mr. Stedman come round by asking him to Wenderholme. There were plenty of people at Sootythorn who would have done any thing to be asked to Wenderholme, but Mr. Stedman was not one of them. Him the blandishments of aristocracy seduced not; and there was something in his looks, even when you met him merely by accident for an hour, as the Colonel had met him at Arkwright Lodge, which told you very plainly how obdurate he would be where his convictions were concerned, and how perfectly inaccessible to the most artful and delicate coaxing. So the Colonel's good offices were for the present very likely to be confined to a general willingness to do something when the opportunity should present itself.

The day fixed for the ceremony of presentation of colors was now rapidly approaching, and the invitations had all been sent out. It was the Colonel's especial desire that this should take place at Wenderholme, and the whole regiment was to arrive there the evening before, after a regular military march from Sootythorn. The Colonel had invited as many guests of his own as the house could hold; and, in addition to these, many of the Sootythorn people, and one family from Whittlecup, were asked to spend the day at Wenderholme Hall, and be witnesses of the ceremony. The Whittlecup family, as the reader has guessed already, was that from Arkwright Lodge; and it happened that whilst the Colonel was talking with Philip Stanburne about his matrimonial prospects, Mr.

Joseph Anison came to the Blue Bell to call upon his young friend.

Philip and the Colonel were both looking out of the window when he came, and before he entered the room, the Colonel found time to say, "Take Anison into your confidence--_he_'ll be your best man, he knows Stedman so well. Let me tell him all about it, will you? Do, now, let me."

Philip consented, somewhat reluctantly, and Mr. Anison had not been in the room a quarter of an hour before the Colonel had put him in possession of the whole matter. Mr. Anison's face did not convey very much encouragement. "John Stedman is very inflexible," he said, "where his religious convictions are in any way concerned, and he is very strongly Protestant. I will do what I can with him. I don't see why he should make such a very determined opposition to the match--it would be a very good match for his daughter--but he is a sort of man that positively enjoys sacrificing his interests and desires to his views of duty. If I've any advice to offer, it will be to leave him to himself for a while, and especially not to do any thing to conciliate him. His daughter _may_ bring him round in her own way; she's a clever girl, though she's a quiet one--and she can manage him better than anybody else."

When Mr. Anison got back to Arkwright Lodge, he had a talk with Mrs.

Anison about Philip's prospects. "_I_ shouldn't have objected to him as a son-in-law," said the husband; "he'll be reasonable enough, and let his wife go to her own church."

"I wish he'd taken a fancy to Madge," said Mrs. Anison.

"Have you any particular reason for wis.h.i.+ng so? Do you suspect any thing in Madge herself? Do you think she cares for him?"

Mrs. Anison looked grave, and, after a moment's hesitation, said, "I'm afraid there _is_ something. I'm afraid she _does_ think about him more than she ought to do. She is more irritable and excitable than she used to be, and there is a look of care and anxiety on her face which is quite painful sometimes. And yet I fancy that when Alice was here she rather encouraged young Stanburne to propose to Alice. She did it, no doubt, from anxiety to know how far he would go in that direction, and now he's gone farther than she wished."

CHAPTER XXV.

WENDERHOLME IN FESTIVITY.

At length the eve of the great day arrived on which the Twentieth Royal Lancas.h.i.+re was to possess its colors--those colors which (according to the phrase so long established by the usage of speech-making subalterns) it was prepared to dye with all its blood--yes, to the very last drop thereof.

Lady Helena had had a terribly busy time during the whole week.

Arrangements for this ceremony had been the subject of anxious planning for months before; and during her last stay in London her ladys.h.i.+p had been very active in seeing tradesmen accustomed to create those temporary splendors and accommodations which are necessary when great numbers of people are to be entertained. Mr. Benjamin Edgington had sent down so many tents and marquees that the park of Wenderholme presented the appearance of a rather extensive camp. The house itself contained even more than the amount of accommodation commonly found in houses of its cla.s.s, but every chamber had its destined occupant. A great luncheon was to be given in the largest of the marquees, and the whole regiment was to be entertained for a night and a day.

The weather, fortunately, was most propitious, the only objection to it being the heat, and the consequent dust on the roads. Once fairly out of Sootythorn, the Colonel gave permission to march at ease, and the men opened their jackets and took their stiff collars off, and began to sing and talk very merrily. They halted, too, occasionally, by the banks of clear streams, and scattered themselves on the gra.s.s, drinking a great deal of water, there being fortunately nothing stronger within reach. At the half-way house, however, the Colonel gave every man a pint of ale, and drank one himself, as he sat on horseback.

It was after sunset when they reached Wenderholme, and the men marched into the park--not at ease, as they had marched along the road, but in fairly good military order. Lady Helena and a group of visitors stood by the side of the avenue, at the point where they turned off towards the camp. A quarter of an hour afterwards the whole regiment was at supper in the tents, except the officers, who dined at the Hall, with the Colonel's other guests, in full uniform. The dining-room presented a more splendid and animated appearance than it had ever presented since the days of John Stanburne's grandfather, who kept a pack of hounds, and received his scarlet-coated companions at his table. And even the merry fox-hunters of yore glittered not as glittered all these majors and captains and lieutenants. Their full uniforms were still as fresh as when they came from the tailor's. They had not been soiled in the dust of reviews, for the regiment had never been reviewed. The silver of the epaulettes was as brilliant as the brilliant old plate that covered the Colonel's hospitable board, and the scarlet was as intense as that of the freshest flower with which the table was decorated. It was more than a dinner--it was a stately and magnificent banquet. The Stanburnes, like many old families in England, had for generations been buyers of silver plate, and there was enough of the solid metal in the house to set up a hundred showy houses with electro. Rarely did it come forth from the strong safes where it reposed, eating up in its unprofitable idleness the interest of a fortune. But now it glittered once again under the innumerable lights, a heterogeneous, a somewhat barbarous, medley of magnificence.

Lady Helena, without being personally self-indulgent--without caring particularly about eating delicately or being softly clad--had a natural taste for splendor, which may often be independent both of vanity and the love of ease. Human pomp suited her as the pomp of nature suits the mind of the artist and the poet; instead of paralyzing or oppressing her, it only made her feel the more perfectly at home. John Stanburne had known beforehand that his clever wife would order the festivities well, and he had felt no anxiety about her management in any way, but he had not quite counted upon this charming gayety and ease. There are ladies who, upon occasions of this kind, show that they feel the weight of their responsibility, and bring a trouble-clouded visage to the feast. They cannot really converse, because they cannot really listen.

They hear your words, perhaps, but do not receive their meaning, being distracted by importunate cares. Nothing kills conversation like an absent and preoccupied hostess; nothing animates it like her genial and intelligent partic.i.p.ation. Surely, John Stanburne, you may be proud of Helena to-night! What would your festival have been without her?

He recognizes her superiorities, and admires them; but he would like to be delivered from the little inconveniences which attend them. That clear-headed little woman has rather too much of the habit and the faculty of criticism, and John Stanburne would rather be believed in than criticised. Like many other husbands, he would piously uphold that antique religion of the household which sets up the husband as the deity thereof--a king who can do no wrong. If these had been his views from the beginning--if he had wanted simple unreasoning submission to his judgment, and unquestioning acceptance of his actions--what a mistake he made in choosing a woman like Lady Helena! He who marries a woman of keen sight cannot himself expect to be screened from its keenness. And this woman was so fearless--shall we say so proud?--that she disdained the artifices of what might have been a pardonable hypocrisy. She made John Stanburne feel that he was living in a gla.s.s case,--nay, more, that she saw through his clothes--through his skin--into his viscera--into his brain. You must love a woman very much indeed to bear this perpetual scrutiny, or she must love you very much to make it not altogether intolerable. The Colonel had a reasonable grievance in this, that in the presence of his wife he found no moral rest. But her criticisms were invariably just. For example, in that last cause of irritation between them--that about the horses--Lady Helena had been clearly in the right.

It was, to say the least, a want of good management on the Colonel's part to have all the carriage-horses at Sootythorn on the day of her arrival. And so it always was. She never made any observation on his conduct except when such an observation was perfectly justified--perfectly called for, if you will; but then, on the other hand, she never omitted to make an observation when it was called for.