The Duchess of Rosemary Lane. A Novel

"Yes, if you put it that way, though there are pleasanter ways of expressing it."

"More polished ways, sir?"

"Yes."

"But not more truthful."

"Probably not," said Mr. Temple, with no show of irritation, though he was secretly annoyed. "Remember that self-preservation is Nature's first law."

"Which does not mean," said Arthur, flying off at a tangent, as is the way with most impulsive natures, "that we should be continually stabbing our comrades in the race, or grudging to others honours worthily won-such as yours, sir-or withholding from others a true meed of admiration because our own merits-which, of course in our own estimation, are very great-have not been so generally recognised."

"These are common phrases, Arthur. Let me warn you to beware of platitudes. No platitudinarian ever rose in the world, or made for himself more than a mediocre reputation."

"That is flying away from the argument, sir," said Arthur vivaciously.

"Very well, then. I understand you to express that you should deem yourself as fortunate if you were unsuccessful in an ambition as if you had accomplished it."

"Not quite that, sir, but in some small way I can imagine circumstances in which I should deem defeat a victory."

"Do not imagine, Arthur-or, at all events, imagine as little as you can. Action is what the world calls for, is what the world demands of its leaders. And if you can act in such a way as not to oppose an established order of things, success is all the more sure."

"There is much to admire in souls which, animated by high desires, suffer from opposing an established order of things, and are consequently not prosperous."

"You have hit a nail, Arthur," said Mr. Temple, with emphasis; "'consequently not prosperous.'"

"Exactly so, sir; you take my meaning. I see in these unprosperous men much more to admire than in successful time-servers. And remember, sir," said Arthur, who frequently showed much pertinaciousness in argument, "that the very carrying out in its integrity of the axiom that preservation is Nature's first law would rob history of its most noble and heroic examples. I hope you do not mind my expressing myself thus plainly and, as I perceive, antagonistically to your views."

"Not at all. It is better that you should speak plainly to me what is in your mind than that you should needlessly betray yourself to strangers, who would not understand you." (Arthur was about to say here that he should not be deterred from expressing himself clearly in any society, but his father anticipated the declaration, and gave him no opportunity of expressing it.) "It does one good to be able to relieve himself in confidence of the vapours that oppress him. The air becomes clearer afterwards. Notwithstanding our seeming difference, I trust that our sympathies are in common-"

"I trust so, sir."

"We speak and judge from different standpoints; I from a long and varied experience of human nature, you from the threshold of life. When you are my age, you will think exactly as I do, and will be perhaps endeavouring, as I am endeavouring now, to check in your own children the enthusiasm which blinds one with excess of light, and which almost invariably leads to false and unpractical conclusions."

Arthur pondered over these words in silence, as he sat and glanced at a newspaper, as his father was doing. The calm judicial air which Mr. Temple assumed in these arguments enabled him generally to obtain an apparent victory, but it was seldom that either of the disputants was satisfied with the result. Purposely cultivating the intimacy between himself and Arthur, so that he might counteract the enthusiasm which he feared might step in the worldly way of his son, Mr. Temple was conscious that he effected but little good, and he could not but acknowledge to himself with inward trepidation that Arthur never failed to advocate the nobler side. This acknowledgment brought to his soul a sense of deep reproach-reproach which had he not loved his son, and based all his hopes upon him, might have caused an estrangement between them. For it was Arthur's words which awoke, not exactly his conscience, but his intellectual judgment, which compelled him to admit within the recesses of his own heart that he always played the meaner and the baser part in their arguments. Sometimes he asked himself if the lad was sincere; he subjected his own life as a young man to a critical analysis, to discover whether he had been led away in his estimate of men and things as he feared Arthur was being led away. It was characteristic of the man that at this period of his life-whatever he may have done in his more youthful days-he did not juggle with himself. In his solitary musings and communings with his inner nature he admitted the truth-but the glowing and delicate promptings never passed his lips, never found utterance. So now, on looking back, he saw at a single mental glance the wide barrier which divided his passions and his enthusiasms from those of his son. This barrier may be expressed in one word: selfishness. It was this sentiment that had ruled his life, that had made him blind to the consequences he might inflict upon others by his acts. Whether it were a voluntary or involuntary guiding, by this sentiment had he been led step by step up the ladder, casting no look at the despair which lay behind him. It was otherwise with Arthur; his father recognised that his son's promptings were generous and noble, and that there was no atom of selfishness in his judgment of this and that. And when he came to this point a smile played about his lips, and a world of meaning found expression in his unuttered thought: "Arthur has not yet begun to live."

The lad thought also; he did not pause to ask himself whether his convictions were right or wrong-to those he was fixed by an unerring instinct. But he tried, with little success, to bring his views into harmony with his father's worldly wisdom. The only consolation he derived was in the reflection that there was more than one fair road to a goal. As to throwing a doubt upon his father's rectitude and honour, no shadow of such a thought crossed his mind. He felt, as his father did, that there was a barrier between them, and he mentally resolved to endeavour to break it down. He glanced at his father's immovable face and tightly-closed lips, and saw that he was occupied by musings that distressed him. "It is I," thought Arthur, "who have given him pain. He is disappointed in me. Surely it is only because we cannot arrive at an understanding." How to commence to break down this barrier? The first means were in his hands-a newspaper, the epitome of life in all its large and small aspects, from the deposing of an emperor to the celebration of a new style in bonnets, from the horrible massacre of thousands of human beings in the East of Europe to the mild kicking of his wife by a costermonger in the East of London.

He commenced in a trembling voice-for the lad was the soul of ingenuousness, and could not play a part, however small, without betraying himself-by an introductory comment on a political question of the day. Mr. Temple instantly aroused himself, and replied, without observing Arthur's agitation. Gaining confidence, Arthur proceeded, and an animated conversation ensued. Their views were again antagonistic, but there was nothing personally painful in their dissent. With the skill of long experience Mr. Temple drew Arthur out upon the theme, and the lad became eloquent, as earnestness generally is-but this eloquence, combined with this earnestness, was of a standard so high, and the language and periods in which Arthur illustrated his points were at once so powerful and polished, that Mr. Temple thrilled with exultation, and he thought, "All is well." His face cleared, his manner was almost joyous, and when the subject was exhausted he said:

"Arthur, you have afforded me great delight. I cannot express my pride and pleasure. You are an orator."

Arthur blushed and stammered; the praise unnerved him, and brought him back to sober earth.

"Yes," continued Mr. Temple, "you are an orator, and you will fall into your proper groove in life- Nay, do not interrupt me; you will verify my prediction. When a great, a noble gift is given to a man, and he knows that it is his, and when opportunity is given to him as it will be given to you, it is impossible for him to neglect it. God has given you the gift of eloquence, and you will fail in your duty if you do not properly use it. You are far in advance of me; I am accounted a good speaker, but I confess to you that I never lose myself in my words; if I did, I should become incoherent. I know beforehand what I am about to say; your words are unstudied, and are conveyed with a fire which cannot but stir your listeners to enthusiasm. That your political views differ from mine hurts me but little." Arthur raised his face to his father's in quick, affectionate response. "I am a Conservative; if your views do not undergo change, you will become a Liberal; and in this you will but march with the times. The fields are equally honourable. You will become a champion, a leader of your party. My dear boy, my fondest hopes will be realised in you."

From politics they passed to other themes, drawn from the columns of the newspaper, and then silence reigned for a little while. Mrs. Temple had left the room, and Arthur was now engaged in a column which appeared to interest him more than politics, foreign complications or the state of the money market, all of which matters had formed subject of conversation.

Presently he spoke.

"It is a great pleasure to me to be able to speak openly to you, sir, and to feel that, though you do not always agree with me, I can say exactly what is in my mind."

"Unhappily, Arthur, this kind of confidence is too rarely cultivated. It needs no cultivation in us. It already exists."

As he spoke his arm stole about Arthur's shoulder, and fondly rested there.

"You have so directed my thoughts to myself and the career before me that as I read I find myself almost unconsciously examining the relative impressions produced upon me by current events."

"An intellectual sign, Arthur."

"Pray, sir, do not flatter me too much," said Arthur, seriously; "it produces in me a sensation which is not entirely agreeable."

"You must make allowance, Arthur, for a father's pride in his son."

"Forgive me for my remark; I forgot myself for a moment. I doubt whether I deserve the love you bestow upon me."

"You more than deserve it, my dear boy, by returning it."

"Which I do sir, heartily, sincerely. Well then, I was about to say that I find myself much more affected by the domestic and social incidents in the newspapers than by the larger historical records. For instance, neither the political crisis nor the war produces within me so strong an impression as the sad history comprised in this short paragraph."

Mr. Temple turned his head towards the paper, and glanced at the paragraph pointed out by Arthur, making no attempt to read it.

"Concerning any public person, Arthur?"

"No, sir. Concerning one whose name might never have been known but for her misfortunes."

" Her misfortunes! A woman, then?"

"A poor girl, found drowned in the river."

"Murdered?"

"She met her death by her own hands. On the river bank she had placed her child, a mere infant three or four months old. The poor girl-scarcely my age, and well-looking, the account says-must have drowned herself in the night when it was dark. First she stripped herself of her warm underclothing, and wrapped her baby in it to protect it from the cold, hoping, no doubt, that it would fall into humane hands soon after she walked to her doom. But the night passed, and the child was not discovered. By a strange fatality, within a few hours after the girl-mother was drowned, the waves washed her body on to the river's bank near to the form of her child, and when the sun shone, its light fell upon the dead mother and her living child lying side by side. There was nothing about her to prove her identity; even the initials on her clothes had been carefully removed. But a paper was found, on which was written, evidently by one of fair education: 'By my sinful act I remove myself and my shame from the eyes of a cruel world. I die in despair, unconsoled by the belief that retribution will fall upon the head of him who betrayed and deserted me.' On the head of him who betrayed her! Is it possible that such a man, after reading this record of his guilt-as perhaps he may be doing at this very moment-can enjoy a moment's happiness? Is it possible that he can sleep? Though by this dead girl's generosity his secret is safe, retribution will fall upon him-as surely as there is a heaven above us! If I discovered that ever in my life I had clasped the hand of such a man, I should be tempted to cut mine from its wrist to rid myself of the shameful contamination of his touch! What is the matter, sir? You are ill!"

"A sudden faintness, Arthur-nothing more. I have been working hard lately, and I need rest. Goodnight."

As Mr. Temple rose to leave the room, he turned from Arthur's anxious gaze a face that was like the face of a ghost.

CHAPTER XXIII

In more than one respect Mrs. Lenoir was an object of interest to her neighbours, and in some sense a mystery, which they solved after a fashion not uncommon among poor people. That she was a woman of superior breeding to themselves, and that she did not associate freely with them, would certainly, but for one consideration, have stirred their resentment against her. Mrs. Lenoir did not, to adopt their own vernacular, give herself airs. "At all events," said they, "there's nothing stuck up about her." Moving among them, with her silent ways, she exhibited no consciousness of superiority, as other women in a similar position might have done; instead of holding her head above them, she walked the streets with a demeanour so uniformly sad and humble, that the feeling she evoked was one more of pity than of resentment. There is in some humilities a pride which hurts by contact. Had this been apparent in Mrs. Lenoir, her neighbours' tongues would have wagged remorselessly in her disfavour; but the contrary was the case. There was expressed in her bearing a mute appeal to them to be merciful to her; instead of placing herself above them, she seemed to place herself below them, and she conveyed the impression of living through the sad days weighed down by a grief too deep for utterance, and either too sacred or too terrible for human communion. When circumstances brought her into communication with her neighbours, her gentleness won respect and consideration; and what was known of her life outside the boundary of the lonely room she occupied, and which no person was allowed to enter, touched their hearts in her favour. Thus, as far as her means allowed her-and indeed, although they were not aware of it, far beyond her means-she was kind to the sick and to those who were poorer than herself, and she frequently went hungry to bed because of the sacrifices she made for them. Such small help as she could give was invariably proffered unobtrusively, almost secretly; but it became known, and it did her no harm in the estimation of her neighbours.

But what excited the greatest curiosity and the most frequent comment was the strange fancy which possessed her of seeking out young girls who were sweethearting, and voluntarily rendering them just that kind of service which they were likely most to value-ministering to their innocent vanities in a manner which they regarded as noble and generous. Mrs. Lenoir was a cunning needlewoman, and in the cutting out of a dress had no equal in the neighbourhood. She possessed, also, the art rare among Englishwomen, of knowing precisely the style, colours, and material which would best become the girl she desired to serve. To many such Mrs. Lenoir would introduce herself, and offer her services as dressmaker, stipulating beforehand that she should be allowed to work for love, and not for money. The exercise of this singular fancy made her almost a public character; and many a girl who was indebted to her, and whose wooing was brought to a happy conclusion, endeavoured gratefully to requite her services by pressing an intimacy upon her. Mrs. Lenoir steadily repelled every advance made in this direction. She gave them most willingly the work of her hands, but she would not admit them to her heart, nor would she confide her sorrows to them. She received their confidences, and sympathised with and advised them; but she gave no confidence in return.

Had they been cognisant of the life that was hidden from them, they might have declared her to be mad. This silent, reserved, and strangely-kind woman was subject to emotions and passions which no human eye witnessed, which no human breast shared. In the solitude of her poorly-furnished attic, she would stand motionless for hours, looking out upon the darkness of the night. At these times, not a sound, not a movement escaped her; she was as one in a trance, incapable of motion. And not unlikely, as is recorded of those who lie in that death-like sleep, there was in her mind a chaos of thought, terrible and overwhelming. It was always in the night that these moods took possession of her. It was a peculiar phase of her condition that darkness had no terrors for her. When dark shadows only were visible, she was outwardly calm and peaceful; but moonlight stirred her to startling extravagances. She trembled, she shuddered, her white lips moved convulsively, she sank upon her knees, and strove, with wildly-waving hands, to beat away the light. But she was dominated by a resistless force which compelled her to face the light, and draw from it memories which agonised her. The brighter and more beautiful was the night, the keener was her pain, and she had no power to fly from it. If she awoke from sleep, and saw the moon shining through the window, she would hide her eyes in the bedclothes, with tears and sobs that came from a broken heart, and the next moment her feeble hands would pluck the clothes aside, so that she might gaze upon the peaceful light which stabbed her like a knife. She was ruled by other influences, scarcely less powerful. Moonlight shining on still waters; certain flowers; falling snow-all these terribly disturbed her, and aroused in full force the memories which tortured her. Had her neighbours witnessed her paroxysms on on these occasions, they would have had the fairest reason for declaring that Mrs. Lenoir was mad.

She lived entirely out of the world; read no newspapers; played a part in no scandals; and the throbs of great ambitions which shook thrones and nations never reached the heart, never touched the soul of this lonely woman, who might have been supposed to be waiting for death to put an end to her sorrows.

A few weeks after she had made Lizzie's dress, Mrs. Lenoir was sitting as usual alone in her room. She was not at work; with her hand supporting her face, she was gazing with tearful eyes upon three pictures, which she had taken from a desk which stood open on the table. This desk was in itself a remarkable possession for a woman in her position in life. It was inlaid with many kinds of curious woods, and slender devices in silver; it was old, and had seen service, but it had been carefully used. The three pictures represented sketches of a beautiful face, the first of a child a year old, the second the child grown to girlhood, the third the girl grown to womanhood. The pictures were painted in water-colours, and the third had been but recently sketched. Over the mantelshelf hung a copy of this last picture, which-as was the case with all of them-though the hand of the amateur was apparent, evidenced a loving care in its execution. Long and with yearning eyes did Mrs. Lenoir gaze upon the beautiful face; had it been warm and living by her side, a more intense and worshipping love could not have been expressed by the lonely woman. The striking of eight o'clock from an adjacent church roused her; with a sigh that was like a sob, she placed the pictures in her desk, and setting it aside, resumed the needlework which she had allowed to fall into her lap.

Winter had come somewhat suddenly upon the city, and snow had fallen earlier than usual. One candle supplied the room with light, and a very small fire with warmth. For an hour Mrs. Lenoir worked with the monotony of a machine, and then she was disturbed by a knock at the door. She turned her head, but did not speak. The knock was repeated, and a voice from without called to her.

"Are you at home, Mrs. Lenoir?"

"Yes, Lizzie."

"Let me in."

"I will come to you."

Mrs. Lenoir went to the door, which was locked, and, turning the key, stepped into the passage.

"Well, Lizzie?"

"But you must let me in, Mrs. Lenoir. I want to tell you something, and I can't speak in the dark."

"Lizzie, you must bear with my strange moods. You know I never receive visitors."

"To call me a visitor! And I've run to tell you the very first! Mrs. Lenoir, I have no mother."

Lizzie's pleading conquered. She glided by Mrs. Lenoir, and entered the room. Mrs. Lenoir slowly followed. Lizzie's face was bright, her manner joyous. "Guess what has happened, Mrs. Lenoir!"

Mrs. Lenoir cast a glance at Lizzie's happy face.

"You will soon be married, Lizzie."

"Yes," said Lizzie, with sparkling eyes, "it was all settled this evening. And do you know, Mrs. Lenoir, that though I've been thinking of it and thinking of it ever since me and Charlie have known each other, it seems as if something wonderful has happened which I never could have hoped would come true. But it is true, Mrs. Lenoir. In three weeks from this very day. It's like a dream."

Mrs. Lenoir had resumed her work while Lizzie was speaking, and now steadily pursued it as the girl continued to prattle of her hopes and dreams.

"You will make my dress, Mrs. Lenoir?"

"Yes, Lizzie."

"And you'll let Charlie pay for the making?"

"You must find another dressmaker, then. What I do for you I do for-"

"Love!"

"If you like to call it so, Lizzie. At all events I will not take money for it."

"You are too good to me, Mrs. Lenoir. I can't help myself; you must make my dress, because no one else could do it a hundredth part as well, and because, for Charlie's sake, I want to look as nice as possible. And that's what I mean to do all my life. I'll make myself always look as nice as I can, so that Charlie shall never get tired of me. But one thing you must promise me, Mrs. Lenoir."

"What is that, Lizzie?"

"You'll come to the wedding."

Mrs. Lenoir shook her head.

"I go nowhere, as you know, Lizzie. You must not expect me."

"But I have set my heart upon it, and Charlie has too! I am always talking to him of you, and he sent me up now especially to bring you, or to ask if he may come and see you. 'Perhaps she'll take a bit of a walk with us,' said Charlie. It has left off snowing-"

Mrs. Lenoir shuddered.

"Has it been snowing?"

"Oh, for a couple of hours! The ground looks beautiful; but everything is beautiful now." Lizzie looked towards the window. "Ah, you didn't see the snow because the blind was down. Do come, Mrs. Lenoir."

"No, Lizzie, you must not try to persuade me; it is useless."

"But you are so much alone-you never go anywhere! And this is the first time you have allowed me to come into your room. You are unhappy, I know, and you don't deserve to be. Let me love you, Mrs. Lenoir."

"Lizzie, I must live as I have always lived. It is my fate."

"Has it been so all your life? When you were my age, were you the same as you are now? Ah, no; I can read faces, and yours has answered me. I wish I could comfort you."

"It is not in your power. Life for me contains only one possible comfort, only one possible joy; but so remote, so unlikely ever to come, that I fear I shall die without meeting it. Leave me now; I have a great deal of work to get through to-night."

Lizzie, perceiving that further persuasion would be useless, turned to leave the room. As she did so, her eyes fell upon the picture of the girl-woman hanging over the mantelshelf. With a cry of delight she stepped close to it.

"How beautiful! Is it your portrait, Mrs. Lenoir, when you were a girl? Ah, yes, it is like you."

"It is not my portrait, Lizzie."

"Whose then? Do you know her? But of course you do. What lovely eyes and hair! It is a face I could never forget if I had once seen it. Who is she?"