if i don’t relate this quite as usual, and it is found to be different from what i generally write, it is because i know less about it than others know. the history is duffham’s; not mine. and there are diaries in it, and all kinds of foreign things. that is, foreign to me. duffham holds all the papers, and has lent them to me to use. it came about in this way.
“whilst you are picking up the sea-breezes, johnny,” he said, when i called to tell him where i was going, “you can be getting on with another paper or two for us, i hope; for we like your stories.”
“but i am going away for a rest, mr. duffham; not to work. i don’t want to be ransacking memory for materials during any holiday, and then weaving them into what you call a story. much rest that would be!”
“i’ll give you the materials for one,” he said; “plenty of them: it won’t take much weaving; you’ll have it all before your eyes. it will be nothing but play-work to you; just a bit of copying.”
“but i don’t care to put fiction on paper and send it forth as though it were true. what i tell of has mostly happened, you know.”
duffham laughed a little. “if everything told in print were as true as this, johnny ludlow, the world would have witnessed some strange events. not that you’ll find anything strange in this tale: it is quite matter-of-fact. there’s no romance about it; nothing but stern reality.”
“well, let me see the papers.”
duffham went out of the surgery, and came back with his spectacles on, and carrying some papers tied up with pink tape.
“you’ll find a sort of narrative begun, johnny,” he said, untying the tape, “for i tried my own hand at it. but i found i could not get on well. writing manuscripts is not so much in my line as doctoring patients.”
“why, here’s lady chavasse’s name in it!” i exclaimed, glancing over the papers. “is it about her?”
“you’ll see who it’s about and who it’s not about, johnny,” he answered, rolling them up again. “i should like you to retain the title i have put to it.”
“what is the title?”
duffham undid the first sheet, and held it in silence for me to read. “a tale of sin.” it took me aback. sundry considerations naturally struck me.
“i say, mr. duffham, if it is about sin, and the people are still living, how will they like to see it talked about in print?”
“you leave the responsibility to me,” he said; “i’ll take it on my own shoulders. all you have to do is to put it into ship-shape, johnny. that is a matter of course.”
and so i took the papers. but the tale is duffham’s; not mine.
to begin with, and make it explainable, we have to go ever so many years back: but it won’t be for long.
duffham’s predecessor as general practitioner at church dykely was a mr. layne. some of the poor would spell it without the “y,” “lane,” but the other was the proper way. this mr. layne was of rather good family, whilst his wife was only a small working farmer’s daughter. mr. layne lived in a pretty red-brick house, opposite to duffham’s present residence. it stood a yard or two back from the path, and had woodbines and jessamine creeping up its walls; the door was in the middle, a window on each side; and there was a side-door round the little garden-path, that opened into the surgery. the house was his own.
nearly a mile beyond the village, along the straight highway, stood the gates and lodge of a fine place called chavasse grange, belonging to sir peter chavasse. he remained an old bachelor up to nearly the end of his life. and then, when it seemed to be getting time for him to prepare for the grave, he suddenly got married. the young lady was a miss gertrude cust: as might have been read in the newspapers of the day, announcing the wedding.
but, when sir peter brought her home, the wonder to the neighbourhood was, what could have induced the young lady to have him; for she turned out to be a mere child in years, and very beautiful. it was whispered that her family, high, poor, and haughty, had wished her to make a different match; to a broken-down old nobleman, ten times richer than sir peter; but that she hated the man. sir peter had five thousand a-year, and his baronetcy was not of ancient creation. the new lady was found to be very pleasant: she went into the village often, and made acquaintance with everybody.
it was just about eight months after the marriage that sir peter died. the death was sudden. mr. layne was sent for in haste to the grange, and found he was too late. too late for sir peter: but lady chavasse, overcome with grief and terror, was in great need of his services.
there was a baby expected at the grange. not yet: in three or four months to come. and, until this child should be born, the baronetcy had to lie in abeyance. if it proved to be a boy, he would take his father’s title and fortune; if a girl, both title and fortune would lapse to some distant cousin; a young man, compared with sir peter; who was in the navy, and was called parker chavasse.
and now we must give a line or two from one of the diaries i spoke of. it is mr. layne’s: and it appears to have been partly kept as a professional note-book, partly as a private journal. at this time mr. layne was a middle-aged man, with three young children, girls; he had married later than some men do.
[from an old note-book of mr. layne’s.]
may 18th.— have had a fatiguing day. upon getting home from my visit to lady chavasse, there were five different messages waiting for me. it never rains but it pours. ten o’clock p.m., and i am dead tired; but i must write my notes before going to bed.
i wish i could get some strength and spirit into lady chavasse. this listlessness tells sadly against her. over and over again it has been on the tip of my tongue to say it may go hard with her unless she uses more exertion; but i don’t like to frighten her. nearly four months now since sir peter died, and she has never been out but to church — and to that she goes in the pony-carriage. “my lady, you ought to walk; my lady, you must walk,” say i. and it is just as though i spoke to the post at the lodge-gates.
i was much surprised by what she told me today — that there was no settlement made on her at her marriage. “do you think my baby will be a boy, mr. layne?” she asked — as if it were possible for me to tell! “if it is not,” she went on, “i shall have to turn out of my home here, and i have not another to go to in the wide world.” and then it was, seeing my surprise, that she said there had been no settlement. “it was not my husband’s intentional fault,” she continued, “and i will never have him blamed, come what will. things were unpleasant at my home, and we hurried on the marriage, he and i, so that he might take me out of it, and there was no time to get a settlement drawn up, even had we, either of us, thought of it, which we did not.” listening to this, the notion struck me that it must have been something like a runaway marriage; but i said nothing, only bade her take heart and hope for a boy. “i cannot imagine any lot in life now so delightful as this would be-that i and my baby-boy should live on in this charming place together — i training him always for good,” she continued — and a faint pink came into her delicate cheek as she said it, a yearning look into her hazel eyes. “you would help me to keep him in health and make him strong, would you not, mr. layne?” i answered that i would do my best. poor thing! she was only eighteen yesterday, she told me. i hope she’ll be able to keep the place; i hope it won’t go over her head to rough parker chavasse. and a rough-mannered man he is: i saw him once.
coming home i met thompson. the lawyer stopped, ever ready for a chat. i spoke about this expected child, and the changes its arrival might make. “it’s quite true that lady chavasse would have to turn out,” said he. “every individual shilling is entailed. books, plate, carriages — it all goes with the title. i’m not sure but sir peter’s old clothes have to be thrown in too, so strict is the entail. no settlement on her, you say, layne? my good fellow, old peter had nothing to settle. he had spent his income regularly, and there lay nothing beyond it. i’ve heard that that was one of the reasons why the custs objected to the match.” well, it seemed a curious position: i thought so as thompson went off; but i don’t understand law, and can take his word for it. and now to bed. if ——
what’s that? a carriage drawing up to the house, and the night-bell! i am wanted somewhere as sure as a gun, and my night’s rest is stopped, i suppose. who’d be a doctor? listen! there’s my wife opening the street-door. what does she call out to me? lady chavasse not well? a carriage waiting to take me to the grange? thank fortune at least that i have not to walk there.
may 22nd.— four days, and nothing noted down. but i have been very busy, what with lady chavasse and other patients. the doubt is over, and over well. the little child is a boy, and a nice little fellow, too; healthy, and likely to live. he was born on the 20th. lady chavasse, in her gladness, says she shall get well all one way. i think she will: the mind strangely influences the body. but my lady is a little hard — what some might call unforgiving. her mother came very many miles, posting across country, to see her and be reconciled, and lady chavasse refused to receive her. mrs. cust had to go back again as she came. i should not like to see my wife treat her mother so.
may 30th.— the child is to be named geoffry arthur. sir peter had a dislike to his own name, and had said he hoped never to call a boy of his by the same. lady chavasse, mindful of his every wish, has fixed on the other two. i asked her if they were the names of relatives: she laughed and said, no; she chose them because she thought them both nice-sounding and noble names.
the above is all that need be copied from mr. layne: one has to be chary of space. little sir geoffry grew and thrived: and it was a pleasure, people say, to see how happy his mother and he were, and how she devoted herself to him. he had come to her in the midst of her desolation, when she had nothing else to care for in life. it was already seen that he would be much like his father, who had been a very good-looking man in his day. little geoffry had sir peter’s fair complexion and his dark-blue eyes. he was a sweet, tractable child; and lady chavasse thought him just an angel come down from heaven.
time went on. when geoffry was about seven years old — and a very pretty boy, with fair curls — he went out surreptitiously on a fishing expedition, fell into the pond, and was nearly drowned. it left a severe cold upon him, which his nurse, wilkins, said served him right. however, from that time he seemed to be less strong; and at length lady chavasse took him to london to show him to the doctors. the doctors told her he ought to be, for a time, in a warmer climate: and she went with him into devonshire. but he still kept delicate. and the upshot was that lady chavasse let the grange for a long term to the goldingham family, and went away.
and so, many years passed. the goldinghams lived on at the grange: and lady chavasse nearly slipped out of remembrance. mr. layne fell into ill health as he grew older, and advertised for a partner. it was duffham who answered it (a youngish man then) and they went into arrangements.
it is necessary to say something of mr. layne’s children. there were four of them, girls. the eldest, susan, married a lieutenant layne (some distant relative, who came from the west indies), and went with him to india, where his regiment was serving, taking also her next sister, eleanor. the third, elizabeth, was at home; the young one, mary, born several years after the others, was in a school as governess-pupil, or under-teacher. it is not often that village practitioners can save money, let alone make a fortune.
the next thing was, that mr. layne died. his death made all the difference to his family. mr. duffham succeeded to the practice; by arrangement he was to pay something yearly for five years to mrs. layne; and she had a small income of her own. she would not quit the house; it was hers now her husband was gone. mr. duffham took one opposite: a tall house, with a bow-window to the parlour: before that, he had been in apartments. mary layne came home about this time, and stayed there for some weeks. she had been much overworked in the school, and mrs. layne thought she required rest. she was a pleasing girl, with soft brown eyes and a nice face, and was very good and gentle; thinking always of others, never of self. old duffham may choose to deny it now he’s grown older, but he thought her superior then to the whole world.
matters were in this state when news spread that the goldinghams had received notice to quit the grange: sir geoffry, who would be of age the following year, was coming home to it with his mother. accordingly the goldinghams departed; and the place was reembellished and put in order for the rightful owner. he arrived in april with lady chavasse: and i’ll copy for you what duffham says about it. mr. layne had then been dead about two years.
[from mr. duffham’s diary.]
april 29th.— the new people — or i suppose i ought to say the old people — reached the grange yesterday, and i was called in today to the lady’s-maid — wilkins. my lady i don’t like; sir geoffry i do. he is a good-looking, slight young man of middle height, with a fair refined face and honest eyes, blue as they tell me sir peter’s used to be. an honourable, well-intentioned young fellow i am sure; affable and considerate as his mother is haughty. poor layne used to cry her up; he thought great things of her. i do not. it may be that power has made her selfish, and foreign travel imperious; but she’s both selfish and imperious now. she is nice-looking still; and though she wants but a year of forty, and her son is only one-and-twenty, they are almost like brother and sister. or would be, but for sir geoffry’s exceeding consideration for his mother; his love and deference for her are a pattern to the young men of the present day. she has trained him to be obedient, that’s certain, and to love her too: and so i suppose she has done her duty by him well. he came down the broad walk with me from the hall-door, talking of his mother: i had happened to say that the place must seem quite strange to lady chavasse. “yes, it must,” he answered. “she has exiled herself from it for my sake. mr. duffham,” he continued warmly, “you cannot imagine what an admirable mother mine has been! she resigned ease, rest, society, to devote herself to me. she gave me a home-tutor, that she might herself watch over and train me; she went to and fro between england and foreign places with me everlastingly; even when i was at oxford, she took a house a mile or two out, that we might not be quite separated. i pray heaven constantly that i may never cross her in thought, word, or deed: but live only to repay her love.” rather utopian this: but i honour the young fellow for it. i’ve only seen him for an hour at most, and am already wishing there were more like him in the world. if his mother has faults, he does not see them; he will never honour any other woman as he honours her. a contrast, this, to the contempt, ingratitude, and disrespect that some sons think it manly to show their best and truest earthly parent.
my lady is vexed, i can see, at this inopportune illness of her maid’s; for the grange is all upside down with the preparations for the grand fête to be held on the 20th of next month, when sir geoffry will come of age. wilkins has been in the family for many years: she was originally the boy’s nurse: and is quite the right hand of lady chavasse, so far as household management goes. her illness just now is inopportune.
[end, for the present, of mr. duffham’s diary.]
nothing was talked of, in the village or out of it, but the grand doings that were to usher in the majority of sir geoffry. as to lady chavasse, few people had seen her. her maid’s illness, as was supposed, kept her indoors; and some of the guests were already arriving at the grange.
one morning, when it wanted about a week to the 20th, mrs. layne, making a pillow-case at her parlour window, in her widow’s cap and spectacles, with the venetian blind open to get all the light she could, was startled by seeing lady chavasse’s barouche draw up to her door, and lady chavasse preparing to descend from it. mrs. layne instinctively rose, as to a superior, and took her glasses off: it has been said she was of a humble turn: and upon lady chavasse fixing her eyes upon her in what seemed some surprise, dropped a curtsy, and thought to herself how fortunate it was she happened to have put a clean new cap on. with that, lady chavasse said something to the footman, who banged the carriage-door to, and ordered the coachman across the road. mrs. layne understood it at once: she had come to the house in mistake for duffham’s. of course, with that grand carriage to look at opposite, and the gorgeous servants, and my lady, in a violet velvet mantle trimmed with ermine, alighting and stepping in to duffham’s, mrs. layne let fall her pillow-case, and did no more of it. but she was not prepared, when lady chavasse came out again with mr. duffham, to see him escort her over the road to her gate. mrs. layne had just time to open her parlour-door, and say to the servant, “in the other room: show her ladyship into the other room,” before she went off into complete bewilderment, and ran away with the pillow-case.
the other room was the best room. mary layne sat there at the old piano, practising. she had seen and heard nothing of all this; and rose in astonishment when the invasion took place. a beautiful lady, whom mary did not know or recognize, was holding out a delicately-gloved hand to her, and saying that she resembled her father. it was mary layne’s first meeting with lady chavasse: she had just come home again from some heavy place of teaching, finding her strength unequal to it.
“i should have known you, i think, for a daughter of mr. layne’s had i met you in the street,” said lady chavasse, graciously.
mary was blushing like anything. lady chavasse thought her an elegant girl, in spite of the shabby black silk she was dressed in: very pretty too. at least, it was a nice countenance; and my lady quite took to it. mrs. layne, having collected her wits, and taken off her apron, came in then: and mary, who was humble-minded also, though not exactly in the same way that her mother was, modestly retired.
my lady was all graciousness: just as much so that morning as she used to be. perhaps the sight of mrs. layne put her in mind of the old days when she was herself suffering trouble in a widow’s cap, and not knowing how matters would turn out for her, or how they would not. she told mrs. layne that she had, unthinkingly, bid her servants that morning drive to mr. layne’s! and it was only when she saw mrs. layne at the window in her widow’s cap, that she remembered the mistake. she talked of her son geoffry, praising his worth and his goodness; she bade mrs. layne to the fête on the 20th, saying she must come and bring her two daughters, and she would take no denial. and mrs. layne, curtsying again — which did not become her, for she was short and stout — opened the front-door to her ladyship with her own hands, and stood there curtsying until the carriage had dashed away.
“we’ll go on the 20th,” she said to her daughters. “i didn’t like to say nay to her ladyship; and i should be glad to see what the young heir’s like. he was as pretty a boy as you’d wish to see. there’ll no doubt be some people there of our own condition that we can mix with, and it will be in the open air: so we shan’t feel strange.”
but when the day arrived, and they had reached the grange, it seemed that they felt very strange. whether amidst the crowds they did not find any of their “own condition,” or that none were there, mrs. layne did not know. once, they came near lady chavasse. lady chavasse, surrounded by a bevy of people that mrs. layne took to be lords and ladies — and perhaps she was right — bowed distantly, and waved her hand, as much as to say, “make yourselves at home, but don’t trouble me:” and mrs. layne curtsyed herself to a respectful distance. it was a fine bright day, very warm; and she sat on a bench in the park with her daughters, listening to the band, looking at the company, and wondering which was the heir. some hours seemed to pass in this way, and gradually the grounds grew deserted. people were eating and drinking in a distant tent — the lords and ladies mrs. layne supposed, and she did not presume to venture amongst them. presently a young man approached, who had observed from a distance the solitary group. a fat old lady in widow’s mourning; and the younger ones in pretty white bonnets and new black silks.
“will you allow me to take you where you will find some refreshment?” he said, raising his hat, and addressing mrs. layne.
she paused before answering, taken aback by his looks, as she described it afterwards, for he put her in mind of sir peter. it was as nice a face as sir peter’s used to be, clean-shaved, except for the light whiskers: and if those were not sir peter’s kindly blue eyes, why, her memory failed her. but the dress puzzled mrs. layne: he wore a dark-blue frock-coat and grey trousers, a white waistcoat with a thin gold chain passed across it and a drooping seal: all very nice and gentlemanly certainly, but quite plain. what she had expected to see the heir attired in, mrs. layne never afterwards settled with herself: perhaps purple and miniver.
“i beg your pardon sir,” she said, speaking at length, “but i think you must be sir geoffry?”
“yes, i am sir geoffry.”
“lord bless me!” cried mrs. layne.
she told him who she was, adding, as an apology for being found there, that her ladyship had invited her and her girls, and wouldn’t take a denial. geoffry held out his arm cordially to lead her to the tent, and glanced behind at the “girls,” remembering what his mother had said to him of one of them: “a sweet-looking young woman, geoffry, poor layne’s daughter, quite an elegant girl.” yes, she was sweet-looking and elegant also, geoffry decided. the elder one was like her mother, short, stout, and — geoffry could not help seeing it — commonplace. he told mrs. layne that he could remember her husband still: he spoke of a ride the doctor had taken him, seated before him on his horse; and altogether in that short minute or two won, by his true affability, the heart of the doctor’s widow.
the tent was crowded to confusion. waiters were running about, and there was much rattle of knives and forks. sir geoffry could find only two places anywhere; at which he seated mrs. layne and her daughter elizabeth, according to precedence.
“i will find you a place in the other tent, if you will come with me,” he said to mary.
she wished to refuse. she had a suspicion that the other tent was the one for the “lords and ladies,” people who were altogether above her. but sir geoffry was holding up the canvas for her to pass out, and she was too timid to disobey. he walked by her side almost in silence, speaking a courteous word or two only, to put her at her ease. the band was playing “the roast beef of old england.”
but the other tent seemed in worse confusion as far as crowding went. some one turned on her seat to accost sir geoffry: a slight, upright girl, with finely-carved features of that creamy white rarely seen, and a haughty expression in her very light eyes.
“you are being waited for, geoffry. don’t you know that you preside?”
“no; nonsense!” he answered. “there’s to be nothing of that sort, rachel; no presiding. i am going to walk about and look out for stray people. some of the strangers will get nothing, if they are not seen after. could you make room for one by you?”
“who is it?” she asked.
sir geoffry said a word in her ear, and she moved a few inches higher up. he stepped back to mary layne. she had been looking at the young lady, who was so richly dressed — in some thin material of shimmering blue and lace — and who was so utterly at her ease as to be sitting without her bonnet, which she had put at her feet.
“we have made a place for you,” said sir geoffry. “i fear you will be a little crowded. miss layne, rachel.”
mary waited to thank him before taking it. her cheeks were full of blushes, her soft dark eyes went out to his. she felt ashamed that he should take so much trouble for her, and strove to say so. sir geoffry held her hand while he answered, his own eyes looking back again.
but mary sat for some minutes before any one came to wait on her. the young lady whom sir geoffry had called rachel was busy with her own plate, and did not observe. presently, she looked round.
“dear me! what are they about? field!” she imperatively called to the butler, who was passing. he turned at once.
“my lady?”
“have the goodness to attend here,” said lady rachel, indicating the vacant space before miss layne. “this young lady has had nothing.”
“so i really am amidst the lords and ladies,” thought mary, as the butler presented her with a card of the dishes, made out in french, and inquired what she would be pleased to take. she was inexperienced and shy; and did not know where to look or what to say. lady rachel spoke to her once or twice, and was civilly distant: and so the half-hour was got over. when sir geoffry’s health was proposed by lord l., the young baronet suddenly appeared in his rightful place at the head of the table. he thanked them all very heartily in a few words; and said he hoped he should live long, as they had all just been wishing him, live that he might repay his dear mother one tithe of the sacrifices she had made, and the love she had lavished on him.
the cheers broke forth as he finished, his eyes wet with the sincerity of his feeling, the music burst out with a crash, “see the conquering hero comes,” and mary layne felt every nerve thrill within her; as if she would faint with the excess of unwonted emotion.
[mr. duffham’s diary.]
june 2nd.— the rejoicings are well over, and sir geoffry chavasse is his own master. in law, at any rate; but it strikes me he will never know any will but his mother’s. it’s not that he possesses none of his own — rather the contrary, i fancy; but in his filial love and reverence he merges it in hers. it is, on the one hand, good to see; on the other, one can but fancy his ideal of the fifth commandment is somewhat exaggerated. lady chavasse on her part seems bound up in him. to him there is no sign of imperiousness, no assertion of self-will: and, so far as can be seen, she does not exact deference. “geoffry, would you wish this?” she says. “geoffry, would you like the other? my darling geoffry, don’t you think it might be well to do so-and-so?” no. it is a case of genuine filial respect and love; and one can but honour lady chavasse for have gained it.
my lady has condescended to be almost confidential with me. the illness of her maid has been a long and serious one, and i have had to be a good deal at the grange. “sir geoffry is engaged to be married, mr. duffham,” she said to me yesterday, when our conversation had turned — as it often does turn — on sir geoffry. i could not help showing some surprise: and, one word leading to another, i soon grasped the whole case. not so much by what she directly said, as by the habit i have of putting two-and-two together.
conspicuous amidst the guests at the fête on the 20th of may, was lady rachel derreston: a cold, self-possessed girl, with strictly classical features, and the palest blue eyes i ever saw. it would be a very handsome face — and indeed is so — but for its cold, proud expression; she is the daughter of one of lady chavasse’s sisters, who married the earl of derreston, and is now a very slenderly-portioned widow with some expensive daughters. it is to this lady rachel that sir geoffry is engaged. the engagement is not of his own seeking, or of hers; the two mothers settled it between them when the children were young; they have been brought up to look on each other as future husband and wife, and have done so as a matter-of-course. neither of them, by what i can gather, has the slightest intention, or wish, to turn aside from fulfilling the contract: they will ratify it in just the same business manner and with the same calm feelings that they would take the lease of a house. it is not their fault: they should not have been led into it. human nature is cross and contrary as a crab: had the two young people been thrown together now for the first time, and been warned not to fall in love with each other, the chances are they would have tumbled headlong into it before the week was out: as it is, they like each other as cousins, or brother and sister, but they’ll never get beyond that. i can see. the two old sisters have a private understanding with each other — and my young lady rachel dutifully falls in with it — that after the marriage lady chavasse shall still live and rule at the grange. indeed she implied it when she let fall the words, perhaps unthinkingly —“geoffry would never marry to put me out of my home here, mr. duffham.” and i am sure that he never would.
lady rachel is here still. i often see her and sir geoffry together, indoors or out; but i have never yet seen a symptom of courtship on either side. they call each other “geoffry” and “rachel;” and are as indifferently familiar as brother and sister. that they will be sufficiently happy with a quiet, moonlight kind of happiness, is almost sure. i find that i am not at liberty to mention this engagement abroad: and that’s why i say my lady has grown confidential with me.
june 29th.— wilkins continues very ill; and it puts my lady about amazingly. the maid who has been taking wilkins’s duties, hester picker, is a country girl of the locality, goody picker’s daughter; her services being as different from those of the easy, experienced wilkins, as darkness is from light. “she manages my hair atrociously,” cried my lady to me, one day, in her vexation; “she attempted to write a note for me in answer to inquiries for the character of my late page, and the spelling was so bad it could not be sent.”
lady rachel has left. sir geoffry escorted her to her home (near bath), stayed two days there, and came back again. and glad to be back, evidently: he does not care to be long separated from his mother. the more i see of this young fellow, the more i like him. he has no bad habits; does not smoke or swear: reads, rides, drives, loves flowers, and is ever ready to do a good turn for rich or poor. “you appear to have grown up quite strong, sir geoffry,” i said to him today when we were in the greenhouse, and he leaped on a ledge to do something or other to the broken cord of the window. “oh, quite,” he answered. “i think i am stronger and heartier than most men: and i owe thanks for it to my mother. it was not only my health of body she cared for and watched over, but of mind. she taught me to love rational pursuits; she showed me how to choose the good, and reject the evil: it is she alone who has made me what i am.”
july 5th.— mary layne is going to the grange as companion to lady chavasse. “humble companion,” as my lady takes care to put it. it has been brought about in this way. wilkins is slightly improving: but it will be months before she can resume her duties about lady chavasse: and my lady has at length got this opinion out of me. “five or six months!” she exclaimed in dismay. “but it is only what i have lately suspected. mr. duffham, i have been thinking that i must take a companion; and now this has confirmed it. a humble companion, who will not object to do my hair on state occasions, and superintend picker in trimming my dresses, especially the lace; and who will write notes for me when i desire it, and read to me when sir geoffry’s not here; and sit with me if i wish it. she wouldn’t dine with us, of course; but i might sometimes let her sit down to luncheon. in short, what i want is a well-educated, lady-like young woman, who will make herself useful. do you happen to know of one?”
i mentioned mary layne. she has been wishing not to return to the heavy work and confinement of a school, where she had to sit up late, night after night, correcting exercises, and touching up drawings by gas-light. my lady caught at it at once. “mary layne! the very thing. i like the look of the girl much, mr. duffham; and of course she won’t be above doing anything required of her: layne, the apothecary’s daughter, cannot be called a gentlewoman in position, you know.”
she forgot i was an apothecary also; i’ll give her that credit. but this is a specimen of the way my lady’s exclusive spirit peeps out.
and so it is settled. and if miss mary had been suddenly offered a position in the royal household, she could not have thought more of it. “mr. duffham, i will try my very best to satisfy lady chavasse,” says she to me, in an ecstasy; “i will do anything and everything required of me: who am i, that i should be above it?” and by the glistening of her sweet brown eyes, and the rose-blush on her cheeks, it would seem that she fancies she is going into fairy-land. well, the grange is a nice place: and she is to have thirty guineas a-year. at the last school she had twenty pounds: at the first ten.
[end of the diary for the present.]
miss layne entered the grange with trepidation. she had never been inside the house, and at first thought it was fairy-land realized and that she was out of place in it. a broad flight of three or four steps led up to the wide entrance-door; the brilliant colours from the painted windows shone on the mosaic pavement of the hall; on the right were the grand drawing-rooms; on the left the dining-room and sir geoffry’s library. behind the library, going down a step or two was a low, shady apartment, its glass doors opening to a small grass plat, round which flowers were planted; and beyond it lay the fragrant herbary. this little room was called the garden-room; and on the morning of miss layne’s arrival, after she had taken off her things, hester picker (who thought almost as much of the old surgeon’s daughter as she did of my lady) curtsyed her into it, and said it was to be miss layne’s sitting-room, when she was not with my lady.
mary layne looked around. she thought it charming. it had an old turkey carpet, and faded red chairs, and a shabby checked cloth on the table, with other ancient furniture; but the subdued light was grateful after the garish july sun, and a sweetness came in from the herbs and flowers. mary stood, wondering what she had to do first, and not quite daring to sit down even on one of the old red chairs. the grange was the grange, and my lady was my lady; and they were altogether above the sphere in which she had been brought up. she had a new lilac muslin dress on, fresh and simple; her smooth brown hair had a bit of lilac ribbon in it; and she looked as pretty and ladylike as a girl can look. standing at the back, there beyond the able, was she, when sir geoffry walked in at the glass doors, his light summer coat thrown back, and a heap of small paper packets in his hands, containing seeds. at first he looked astonished: not remembering her.
“oh, i beg your pardon!” he exclaimed, his face lighting up, as he took off his straw hat. “miss mary layne, i think. i did not know you at the moment. my mother said she expected you today.”
he came round to her with outstretched hand, and then put a chair for her, just as though she had been a duchess — or lady rachel derreston. mary did not take the chair: she felt strange in her new home, and as yet very timid.
“i am not sure what lady chavasse would wish me to do,” she ventured to say, believing it might be looked upon as next door to a crime to be seen idle, in a place where she was to receive thirty guineas a-year. “there appears to be no work here.”
“get a book, and read!” cried sir geoffry. “i’ll find you one as soon as i have put up these seeds. a box of new novels has just come from town. i hope you will make yourself at home with us, and be happy,” he added, in his kindness.
“thank you, sir; i am sure i shall.”
he was putting up the seeds, when lady chavasse entered. she had a way of taking likes and dislikes, and she never scrupled to show either. on this first day, it seemed that she did not know how to make enough of mary. she chose to forget that she was only to be the humble companion, and treated her as a guest. she carried her in to take luncheon with herself and sir geoffry; she made her play and sing; she showed her the drawing-rooms and the flower-gardens, and finally took her out in the barouche. she certainly did not ask her in to dinner, but said she should expect her to come to the drawing-room afterwards, and spend the evening. and miss layne, not ignorant of the customs obtaining in great houses, dressed herself for it in her one evening dress of white spotted muslin, and changed the lilac ribbon in her hair for blue.
so that, you perceive, the girl was inaugurated at the grange as a young lady, almost as an equal, and not as a servant — as lady chavasse’s true opinion would have classed her. that was mistake the first. for it led sir geoffry to make a companion of miss layne; that is, to treat her as though she belonged to their order; which otherwise he certainly would not have done. had miss layne been assigned her true place at first — the place that lady chavasse meant her to fill, that of an inferior and humble dependent — sir geoffry, out of simple respect to the girl and to his mother, would have kept his distance.
as the time passed on they grew great friends. lady chavasse retained her liking for mary, and saw no harm in the growing intimacy with sir geoffry. that was mistake the second. both of them were drifting into love; but lady chavasse dreamt it not. the social gulf that spread itself between sir geoffry chavasse, of chavasse grange, and mary layne, daughter of the late hard-worked village apothecary, was one that lady chavasse would have said (had she been asked to think about it) could never be bridged over: and for this very reason she saw no danger in the intercourse. she regarded mary layne as of a totally different caste from themselves, and never supposed but sir geoffry did so too.
and so time went on, on the wings of love. there were garden walks together and moonlight saunterings; meetings in my lady’s presence, meetings without it. sir geoffry, going in and out of the garden-parlour at will, as he had been accustomed to do — for it was where all kinds of things belonging to him were kept: choice seeds, his fishing-rods, his collection of butterflies — would linger there by the hour together, talking to mary at her work. and, before either of them was conscious of the danger, they had each passed into a dream that changed everything about them to paradise.
of course, sir geoffry, when he awoke to the truth — that it was love — ought to have gone away, or have contrived to get his mother to dismiss miss layne. he did nothing of the sort. and for this, some people — duffham for one — held him even more to blame than for anything that happened afterwards. but how could he voluntarily blight his new happiness, and hers? it was so intense as to absorb every other feeling; it took his common sense away from him. and thus they went dreaming on together in that one spring-time (of the heart, not of the weather), and never thought about drifting into shoals and pitfalls.
in the autumn my lady went to the seaside in cornwall, taking mary as her maid, and escorted by her son. “will you do for me what i want while i am away? i do not care to be troubled with picker,” she had said; and mary replied, as in duty bound, that she would. it is inconvenient to treat a maid as a lady, especially in a strange place, and mary found that during this sojourn lady chavasse did not attempt it. to all intents and purposes mary was the maid now; she did not sit with her lady, she took her meals apart; she was, in fact, regarded as the lady’s-maid by all, and nothing else. lady chavasse even took to calling her “layne.” this, the sudden dethroning of her social status, was the third mistake; and this one, as the first, was my lady’s. sir geoffry had been led to regard her as a companion; now he saw her but as a servant. but, servant or no servant, you cannot put love out of the heart, once it has possession of it.
at the month’s end they returned home: and there mary found that she was to retain this lower station: never again would she be exalted as she had been. lady chavasse had tired of the new toy, and just carelessly allowed her to find her own level. except that miss layne sat in the garden-parlour, and her meals were served there, she was not very much distinguished from hester picker and the other servants; indeed, picker sometimes sat in the parlour too, when they had lace, or what not, to mend for my lady. geoffry in his heart was grieved at the changed treatment of miss layne; he thought it wrong and unjust; and to make up for the mistake, was with her a great deal himself.
things were in this position when lady chavasse was summoned to bath: her sister, lady derreston, was taken ill. sir geoffry escorted her thither. picker was taken, not miss layne. in the countess’s small household, mary, in her anomalous position — for she could not be altogether put with the servants — would have been an inconvenience; and my lady bade her make herself happy at the grange, and left her a lot of fine needlework to get through.
leaving his mother in bath, sir geoffry went to london, stayed a week or so, and then came back to the grange. another week or two, and he returned to bath to bring his mother home. and so the winter set in, and wore on. and now all that has to be told to the paper’s end is taken from diaries, duffham’s and others. but for convenience’ sake, i put it as though the words were my own, instead of copying them literally.
spring came in early. february was not quite at an end, and the trees were beginning to show their green. all the month it had been warm weather; but people said it was too relaxing for the season, and they and the trees should suffer for it later. a good deal of sickness was going about; and, amongst others who had to give in for a time, was duffham himself. he had inflammation of the lungs. his brother luke, who was partner in a medical firm elsewhere, came to church dykely for a week or two, to take the patients. luke was a plain-speaking man of forty, with rough hair and a good heart.
the afternoon after he arrived, an applicant came into the surgery with her daughter. it was mrs. layne, but the temporary doctor did not know her. mrs. layne never did look like a lady, and he did not mistake her for one: he thought it some respectable countrywoman: she had flung a very ancient cloak over her worn morning gown. she expressed herself disappointed at not seeing mr. duffham, but opened the consultation with the brother instead. mrs. layne took it for granted she was known, and talked accordingly.
her daughter, whom she kept calling mary, and nothing else, had been ailing lately; she, mrs. layne, could not think what was the matter with her, unless it was the unusually warm spring. she grew thinner and weaker daily; her cheeks were pale, her eyes seemed to have no life in them: she was very low in spirits; yet, in spite of all this, mary had kept on saying it was “nothing.” my lady chavasse — returning home from london yesterday, whither she had accompanied her son a week or two ago, and whom she had left there — was so much struck with the change she saw in mary, who lived with her as humble companion, mrs. layne added, in a parenthesis, that she insisted on her seeing dr. duffham, that he might prescribe some tonics. and accordingly mary had walked to her mother’s this afternoon.
mr. luke duffham listened to all this with one ear, as it were. he supposed it might be the warm spring, as suggested. however, he took mary into the patients’ room, and examined her; felt her pulse, looked at her tongue, sounded her chest, with all the rest of it that doctors treat their clients to; and asked her this, that, and the other — about five-and-twenty questions, when perhaps five might have done. the upshot of it all was that mary layne went off in a dead faint.
“what on earth can be the matter with her?” cried the alarmed mother, when they had brought her round.
mr. luke duffham, going back to the surgery with mrs. layne, shut the doors, and told her what he thought it was. it so startled the old lady that she backed against the counter and upset the scales.
“how dare you say so, sir!”
“but i am sure of it,” returned mr. luke.
“lord be good to me!” gasped mrs. layne, looking like one terrified out of her seven senses. “the worst i feared was that it might be consumption. a sister of mine died of it.”
“where shall i send the medicine to?” inquired the doctor.
“anywhere. over the way, if you like,” continued mrs. layne, in her perturbation.
“certainly. where to, over the way?”
“to my house. don’t you know me? i am the widow of your brother’s late partner. this unhappy child is the one he was fondest of; she is only nineteen, much younger than the rest.”
“mrs. layne!” thought luke duffham, in surprise, “i wish i had known; i might have hesitated before speaking plainly. but where would have been the good?”
the first thing mrs. layne did, was to shut her own door against mary, and send her back to the grange in a shower of anger. she was an honest old lady, of most irreproachable character; never needing, as she phrased it, to have had a blush on her cheek, for herself or any one belonging to her. in her indignation, she could have crushed mary to the earth. whatever it might be that the poor girl had done, robbed a church, or shot its parson, her mother deemed that she deserved hanging.
mary layne walked back to the grange: where else had she to go? broken-hearted, humiliated, weak almost unto death, she was as a reed in her mother’s hands, yielding herself to any command given; and only wishing she might die. lady chavasse, compassionating her evident suffering, brought her a glass of wine with her own hand, and inquired what mr. duffham said, and whether he was going to give her tonics. instead of answering, mary went into another faint: and my lady thought she had overwalked herself. “i wish i had sent her in the carriage,” said she kindly. and while the wish was yet upon her lips, mrs. layne arrived at the grange, to request an audience of her ladyship.
then was commotion. my lady talked and stormed, mrs. layne talked and cried. both were united in one thing — heaping reproaches on mary. they were in the grand drawing-room — where my lady had been sitting when mrs. layne was shown in. lady chavasse sat back, furious and scornful, in her pink velvet chair; mrs. layne stood; mary had sunk on the carpet kneeling, her face bent, her clasped hands raised as if imploring mercy. this group was suddenly broken in upon by sir geoffry — who had but then reached the grange from town. they were too noisy to notice him. halting in dismay he had the pleasure of catching a sentence or two addressed to the unhappy mary.
“the best thing you can do is to find refuge in the workhouse,” stormed lady chavasse. “out of my house you turn this hour.”
“the best thing you can do is to go on the tramp, where you won’t be known,” amended mrs. layne, who was nearly beside herself with conflicting emotions. “never again shall you enter the home that was your poor dead father’s. you wicked girl! — and you hardly twenty years old yet! but, my lady, i can but think — though i know we are humble people, as compared with you, and perhaps i’ve no right to say it — that sir geoffry has not behaved like a gentleman.”
“hold your tongue, woman,” said her ladyship. “sir geoffry ——”
“sir geoffry is at least enough of a gentleman to take his evil deeds on himself, and not shift them on to others,” spoke the baronet, stepping forward — and the unexpected interruption was startling to them all. my lady pointed imperatively to the door, but he stood his ground.
it was no doubt a bitter moment for him; bringing home to him an awful amount of self-humiliation: for throughout his life he had striven to do right instead of wrong. and when these better men yield to temptation instead of fleeing from it, the reacting sting is of the sharpest. the wisest and strongest sometimes fall: and find too late that, though the fall was so easy, the picking-up is of all things most difficult. sir geoffry’s face was white as death.
“get up, mary,” he said gently, taking her hand to help her in all respect. “mrs. layne,” he added, turning to face the others; “my dear mother — if i may dare still to call you so — suffer me to say a word. for all that has taken place, i am alone to blame; on me only must it rest, the fault ——”
“sin, sir,” interrupted mrs. layne.
“yes. thank you. sin. the sin lies with me, not with mary. in my presence reproach shall not be visited on her. she has enough trouble to bear without that. i wish to heaven that i had never — mrs. layne, believe me,” he resumed, after the pause, “no one can feel this more keenly than i. and, if circumstances permit me to make reparation, i will make it!”
sir geoffry wanted (circumstances permitting, as he shortly put it) to marry mary layne; he wished to do it. taking his mother into another room he told her this. lady chavasse simply thought him mad. she grew a little afraid of him, lest he should set her and all high rules of propriety at nought, and do it.
but trouble like this cannot be settled in an hour. lady chavasse, in her great fear, conciliated just a little: she did not turn miss layne out at once, as threatened, but suffered her to remain at the grange for the night.
“in any case, whatever may be the ending of this, it is not from my family that risk of exposure must come,” spoke sir geoffry, in a tone of firmness. “it might leave me no alternative.”
“no alternative?” repeated lady chavasse. “how?”
“between my duty to you, and my duty to her,” said sir geoffry. and my lady’s heart fainted within her at the suggested fear.
they were together in the library at chavasse grange, lady chavasse and her only son geoffry. it was early morning; they had sat in the breakfast-room making a show of partaking of the morning meal, each of them with that bitter trouble at the heart that had been known only — to my lady, at least — since the previous day. but the farce of speaking in monosyllables to one another could not be kept up — the trouble had to be dealt with, and without delay; and when the poor meal could not be prolonged by any artifice, sir geoffry held open the door for his mother to pass through, and crossed the hall with her to the library. shut within its walls they could discuss the secret in safety; no eye to see them, no ear to hear.
sir geoffry mechanically stirred the fire, and placed a chair for his mother near it. the weather appeared to be changing. instead of the unseasonable relaxing warmth that had been upon the earth up to the previous day, a cold north-east wind had set in, enough to freeze people’s marrow. the skies were grey and lowering; the trees shook and moaned: winter was taking up his place again.
so much the better. blue skies and brightness would hardly have accorded with sir geoffry’s spirit. he might have to endure many cruel visitations ere he died, but never a one so cruel as this. no evil that heaven can send upon us, or man inflict, is so hard to bear as self-reproach.
if ever a son had idolized a mother, it had surely been geoffry chavasse. they had been knit together in the strongest bonds of filial love. his whole thought from his boyhood had been her comfort: to have sacrificed himself for her, if needs must, would have been a cheerful task. when he came of age, not yet so very many months ago, he had resolved that his whole future life should be devoted to promote her happiness — as her life had been devoted to him in the days of his sickly boyhood. her wishes were his; her word his law; he would have died rather than cause her a moment’s pain.
and how had he, even thus early, fulfilled this? look at him, as he leans against the heavy framework of the window, drawn back from it that the light may not fall on his subdued face. the brow is bent in grievous doubt; the dark-blue eyes, generally so honestly clear, are hot with trouble; the bright hair hangs limp. yes; he would have died rather than bring his mother pain: that was his true creed and belief; but, like many another whose resolves are made in all good faith, he had signally failed, even while he was thinking it, and brought pain to her in a crushing heap. he hated himself as he looked at her pale countenance; at the traces of tears in her heavy eyes. never a minute’s sleep had she had the previous night, it was plainly to be seen; and, as for him, he had paced his chamber until morning, not attempting to go to rest. but there was a task close before him, heavier than any that had gone before; heavier even than this silent repentance — the deciding what was to be done in the calamity; and sir geoffry knew that his duty to his mother and his duty to another would clash with each other. all the past night he had been earnestly trying to decide which of the two might be evaded with the least sin — and he thought he saw which.
lady chavasse had taken the chair he placed for her; sitting upright in it, and waiting for him to speak. she knew, as well as he, that this next hour would decide their fate in life: whether they should still be together a loving mother and son; or whether they should become estranged and separate for ever. he crossed to the fireplace and put his elbow on the mantelpiece, shielding his eyes with his hand. just a few words, he said, of his sense of shame and sorrow; of regret that he should have brought this dishonour on himself and his mother’s home; of hope that he might be permitted, by heaven and circumstances, to work out his repentance, in endeavouring daily, hourly constantly, to atone to her for it — to her, his greatly-loved mother. and then — lifting his face from the hand that had partially hidden it — he asked her to be patient, and to hear him without interruption a little further. and lady chavasse bowed her head in acquiescence.
“nothing remains for me but to marry miss layne,” he began: and my lady, as she heard the expected avowal, bit her compressed lips “it is the only course open to me; unless i would forfeit every claim to honour, and to the respect of upright men. if you will give your consent to this, the evil may be in a degree repaired; nothing need ever be known; mary’s good name may be saved — mine, too, if it comes to that — and eventually we may be all happy together ——”
“do not try me too much, geoffry,” came the low interruption.
“mother, you signified that you would hear me to the end. i will not try you more than i can help; but it is necessary that i should speak fully. all last night i was walking about my room in self-commune; deliberating what way was open, if any, that it would be practicable to take — and i saw but this one. let me marry her. it will be easy of accomplishment — speaking in reference to appearances and the world. she might go for a week or two to her mother’s; for a month or two, if it were thought better and less suspicious; there is no pressing hurry. we could then be married quietly, and go abroad for a year or so, or for longer; and come back together to the grange, and be your dutiful and loving children always, just as it was intended i and rachel should be. but that you have liked mary layne very much, i might have felt more difficulty in proposing this.”
“i have liked her as my servant,” said lady chavasse, scornfully.
“pardon me, you have liked her as a lady. do you remember once saying — it was when she first came — that if you had had a daughter you could have wished her to be just like mary layne. before i ever saw her, you told me she was a sweet, elegant young woman; and — mother — she is nothing less. oh, mother, mother!” continued sir geoffry, with emotion, “if you will but forget your prejudices for my sake, and consent to what i ask, we would endeavour to be ever repaying you in love and services during our after-life. i know what a great sacrifice it will be; but for my sake i venture to crave it of you — for my sake.”
a great fear lay upon lady chavasse: it had lain on her ever since the previous day — that he might carry this marriage out of his own will. so that she dared not answer too imperatively. she was bitterly hurt, and caught her breath with a sob.
“do you want to kill me, geoffry?”
“heaven knows that i wish i had been killed, before i brought this distress upon you,” was his rejoinder.
“i am distressed. i have never felt anything like it since your father died. no; not once when you, a child of seven, were given over in illness, and it was thought you would not live till morning.”
sir geoffry passed his hand hastily across his eyes, in which stood the hot tears. his heart was sore, nearly unto breaking; his ingratitude to his mother seemed fearfully great. he longed to throw himself at her feet, and clasp her knees, and tell how deep for her was his love, how true and deep it always would be.
“though the whole world had united to deceive me, geoffry, i could never have believed that you would do so. why did you pretend to be fond of rachel?”
“i never pretended to be fonder of rachel than i was. i liked her as a cousin, nothing more. i know it now. and — mother”— he added, with a flush upon his face, and a lowering of the voice, “it is better and safer that the knowledge should have come to me before our marriage than after it.”
“nonsense,” said lady chavasse. “once married, a man of right principles is always safe in them.”
sir geoffry was silent. not very long ago, he had thought himself safe in his. with every word, it seemed that his shame and his sin came more glaringly home to him.
“then you mean to tell me that you do not like rachel ——”
“that i have no love for her. if — if there be any one plea that i can put forth as a faint shadow of excuse for what has happened, it lies in my love for another. faint it is, heaven knows: the excuse, not the love. that is deep enough: but i would rather not speak of it to you — my mother.”
“and that you never will love rachel?” continued lady chavasse, as though he had not interposed.
“never. it is impossible that i can ever love any one but mary layne. i am grateful, as things have turned out, that i did not deceive rachel by feigning what i could not feel. neither does she love me. we were told to consider ourselves betrothed, and did so accordingly; but, so far as love goes, it has not been so much as mentioned between us.”
“what else have you to say?” asked lady chavasse.
“i might say a great deal, but it would all come round to the same point: to the one petition that i am beseeching you to grant — that you will sanction the marriage.”
lady chavasse’s hands trembled visibly within their rich lace frills, as they lay passive on her soft dress of fine geranium cashmere. her lips grew white with agitation.
“geoffry!”
“my darling mother.”
“i have heard you. will you hear me?”
“you know i will.”
“more than one-and-twenty years ago, my husband died within these walls; and i— i was not eighteen, geoffry — felt utterly desolate. but, as the weeks went on, i said my child will be born, if god permit, and he will bring me comfort. you were born, geoffry; you did bring me comfort: such comfort that i thought heaven had come again. you best know, my son, what our life has been; how we have loved each other: how pleasantly time has flown in uninterrupted happiness. i have devoted myself, my time, my energies, everything i possessed, to you, my best treasure; i have given up the world for you, geoffry; i had only you left in it. is it fitting that you should fling me from you now; that you should blight my remaining days with misery; that you should ignore me just as though i were already dead — and all for the sake of a stranger?”
“but ——”
“i have not finished, geoffry. for the sake of a stranger, whom a few months ago neither you nor i had ever seen? if you think this — if you deem that you would be acting rightly, and can find in your heart to treat me so, why, you must do it.”
“but what i wish and propose is quite different!” he exclaimed in agony. “oh, mother, surely you can understand me — and the dilemma i am placed in?”
“i understand all perfectly.”
“ah yes!”
“geoffry, there is no middle course. you must choose between me and —her. once she and i separate — it will be today — we can never meet again. i will not tolerate her memory; i will never submit to the degradation of hearing her named in my presence. our paths lie asunder, geoffry, far as the poles: hers lies one way, mine another. you must decide for yourself which of them you will follow. if it be mine, you shall be, as ever, my dear and honoured son, and i will never, never reproach you with your folly: never revert to it; never think of it. if it be hers, why, then — i will go away somewhere and hide myself, and leave the grange free for you. and i— i dare say — shall not live long to be a thorn in your remembrance.”
she broke down with a flood of bitter sobs. geoffry chavasse had never seen his mother shed such. the hour was as trying to her as to him. she had loved him with a strangely selfish love, as it is in the nature of mothers to do; and that she should have to bid him choose between her and another — and one so entirely beneath her as lady chavasse considered mary layne to be-was gall and wormwood. never would she have stooped to put the choice before him, even in words, but for her dread that he might be intending to take it.
“it is a fitting end, geoffry — that this worthless girl should supplant me in your home and heart,” she was resuming when her emotion allowed; but geoffry stood forward to face her, his agitation great as her own.
“an instant, mother: that you may fully understand me. the duty i owe you, the allegiance and the love, are paramount to all else on earth. in communing with myself last night, as i tell you i was, my heart and my reason alike showed me this. if i must choose between you and mary layne, there cannot be a question in my mind on which side duty lies. in all honour i am bound to make her my wife, and i should do it in all affection: but not in defiance of you; not to thrust rudely aside the love and obligations of the past one-and-twenty years. you must choose for me. if you refuse your approval, i have no resource but to yield to your decision; if you consent, i shall thank you and bless you for ever.”
a spasm of pain passed across the mouth of lady chavasse. she could not help saying something that arose prominently in her mind though it interrupted the question.
“and you can deem the apothecary layne’s daughter fit to mate with sir geoffry chavasse?”
“no, i do not. under ordinary circumstances, i should never have thought of such a thing. this unhappy business has a sting for me, mother, on many sides. will you give me your decision?” he added, after a pause.
“i have already given it, geoffry — so far as i am concerned. you must choose between your mother, between all the hopes and the home-interests of one-and-twenty years, and this alien.”
“then i have no alternative.”
she turned her gaze steadily upon him. a sob rose in his throat as he took her hands, his voice was hoarse with emotion.
“to part from her will be like parting with life, mother. i can never know happiness again in this world.”
but the decision was irrevocable. what further passed between sir geoffry and his mother in the remaining half-hour they spent together, how much of entreaty and anguish was spoken on his side, how much of passionate plaint and sorrow on hers, will never be known. but she was obdurate to the last letter: and sir geoffry’s lot in life was fixed. mary layne was to be sacrificed: and, in one sense of the word, himself also: and there might be no appeal.
lady chavasse exacted from him that he should quit the grange at once without seeing miss layne, and not return to it until mary had left it for ever. anything he wished to say to her, he was to write. on lady chavasse’s part, she voluntarily undertook to explain to miss layne their conversation faithfully, and its result; and to shield the young lady’s good name from the censure of the world. she would keep her for some time longer at the grange, be tender with her, honour her, drive out with her in the carriage so that they might be seen together, subdue her mother’s anger, strive to persuade mr. luke duffham that his opinion had been mistaken, and, in any case, bind him down to secrecy: in short, she would make future matters as easy as might be for mary, as tenaciously as though she were her own daughter. that she promised this at the sacrifice of pride and of much feeling, was indisputable; but she meant to keep her word.
however miserable a night the others had passed, it will readily be imagined that mary layne had spent a worse. she made no pretence of eating breakfast; and when it was taken away sat at her work in the garden-parlour, trying to do it; but her cold fingers dropped the needle every minute, her aching brow felt as though it were bursting. good-hearted hester picker was sorry to see her looking so ill, and wished the nasty trying spring, hot one day, cold the next, would just settle itself down.
mary rose from her chair, and went upstairs to her own bedroom for a brief respite: in her state of mind it seemed impossible to stay long quiescent anywhere. this little incidental occurrence frustrated one part of the understanding between sir geoffry and his mother — that he should quit the house without seeing miss layne. in descending, she chanced to cross the end of the corridor just as he came out of his mother’s room after bidding her farewell. the carriage waited at the door, his coat was on his arm. mary would have shrunk back again, but he bade her wait.
“you must allow me to shake her hand, and say just a word of adieu, mother; i am not quite a brute,” he whispered. and lady chavasse came out of her room, and tacitly sanctioned it.
but there was literally nothing more than a hand-shake. miss layne, standing still in all humility, turned a little white, for she guessed that he was being sent from his home through her. sir geoffry held her hand for a moment.
“i am going away, mary. my mother will explain to you. i have done my best, and failed. before heaven, i have striven to the uttermost, for your sake and for mine, to make reparation; but it is not to be. i leave you to my mother; she is your friend; and you shall hear from me in a day or two. i am now going to see mrs. layne. good-bye: god bless you always!”
but, ere sir geoffry reached the hall, lady chavasse had run swiftly down, caught him, and was drawing him into a room. the fear had returned to her face.
“i heard you say you were going to call on mrs. layne. geoffry, this must not be.”
“not be!” he repeated, in surprise. “mother, i am obeying you in all essential things; but you cannot wish to reduce me to an utter craven. i owe an explanation to mrs. layne almost in the same degree that i owe it to you; and i shall certainly not quit church dykely until i have given it.”
“oh, well — if it must be,” she conceded, afraid still. “you — you will not be drawn in to act against me, geoffry?”
“no power on earth could draw me to that. you have my first and best allegiance; to which i bow before every other consideration, before every interest, whether of my own or of others. but for that, should i be acting as i am now? fare you well, mother.”
she heard the carriage-door closed; she heard sir geoffry’s order to the footman. even for that order, he was cautious to give a plausible excuse.
“stop at mrs. layne’s. i have to leave a message from her ladyship.”
the wheels of the carriage crunched the gravel, bearing off sir geoffry in the storm of sleet — which had begun to fall — and lady chavasse passed up the stairs again. taking the hand of mary — who had stood above like a statue — never moving — she led her, gently enough, into her dressing-room, and put her in a comfortable chair by the fire; and prepared for this second interview.
briefly, lady chavasse recounted what she had to say. sir geoffry had found himself obliged to choose between miss layne and her, his mother. mary layne sat with her hands before her face, and acknowledged that, if it came to such a choice, he had chosen rightly. and then, in forcible language, because it came from her heart, my lady drew a picture of the life-long happiness she and her son had enjoyed together, of her devotion and sacrifices for him, of his deep love and reverence for her: and she quietly asked mary to put herself in imagination in her place, and say what her feelings would have been had a stranger come in to mar this. had she any right to do this? — lady chavasse asked her — would she be justified in destroying the ties of a life, in thrusting herself between mother and son? — in invoking a curse, his mother’s curse, on him? my lady did not spare her: but she spoke in no angry tone, rather in a piteous and imploring one: and mary, feeling as if matters were being put to her own better feeling, sobbed, and shook, and shrunk within herself, and could have knelt at lady chavasse’s feet for pardon in her distress and humiliation.
and that was the end of the wretched business — as duffham phrases it in his diary — so far as the grange and its people were concerned. mary layne stayed, perforce, two or three weeks longer at the house, and my lady made much of her: she took her out daily in her carriage; she said to her friends, in the hearing of her servants and the sympathizing hester picker, how vexatious it was that the relaxing, unseasonable weather had brought out the delicacy that was latent in miss layne’s constitution, and that she feared she must let her go away somewhere for a change. mary submitted to all. she was in such a self-abased frame of mind that had my lady desired her to immolate herself on a blazing pyre, she would have gone to it meekly. my lady had interviews with mrs. layne, and with duffham (who had got well then), and with his brother luke. at the two or three weeks’ end, miss elizabeth layne came by appointment to the grange, and she and mary were driven to the nearest station in my lady’s own carriage on their way to the seaside: or to elsewhere, as it might be. and never an ill breath, in the grange or out of it, transpired to tarnish the fair fame of mary layne.
but my lady was not honest in one respect. the letter that arrived for mary from sir geoffry a day or two after his departure, was never given to her. my lady knew she might trust her son implicitly; he could only be straightforward and keep his word in all things; nevertheless, she deemed the fire the safest place for the weighty epistle of many sheets. on the other hand, mary wrote to sir geoffry, saying that the alternative he had chosen was the only one possible to him. nothing, no prayers of his, she said, would have induced her to put herself between him and his mother, even had he so far forgotten his duty as to urge it. it was a good and sensible letter, and none but a good and unselfish girl could have written it.
so that ended the dream and the romance. and i hope the reader does not forget that it is duffham’s diary that’s telling all this, and not i. for though dreams and romance seem to be in duffham’s line, they are not in mine.
