Читать книгу: «Leonore Stubbs», страница 11

CHAPTER XIV.
PAUL GOES—AND RETURNS

"Is Paul going to stay here all the time?" abruptly demanded Leonore one day.

"That's what I want to know." Her father's voice made answer from the depths of an easy-chair; and it was a disconcerting answer, for he had been unobserved, indeed unseen. Had his head appeared above the back of the chair, Leo would have left the library as suddenly as she had entered it. She had thought Sue was alone.

"Of course if he wishes to stay, he can," proceeded the general, laying down his paper; "but it's a monstrous long time—that's to say, hum—ha—there are still three weeks till the twenty-fifth, and he has been here three weeks already."

"I am sure he is the best of guests," said Sue, gently.

"Oh, the best of guests, no doubt. Bothers nobody. Still–"

"Has anything been said?"—interposed Leo. She was drawing quick, impatient breaths, and had an air of giving battle, if not replied to as desired.

No, nothing had been said, but Sue believed–

"If you only believe, that's no good. Can't you tell him to go? Can't you say it isn't the thing for him to stay on and on?"–

"My dear Leo!"

"Highty-tighty!—" simultaneously ejaculated the general, "here's fierceness!" But he looked amused. "If Paul were your sweetheart, young lady, you wouldn't be in such a hurry to have him sent to the right-about. However, there's something in it, Sue."

Sue looked distressed. "Remember what you said when he first came, father. How repeatedly you told him to make this his headquarters,—and there is another thing. The engagement took place so soon after he and Maud met, that they could not have known very much of each other. Hardly enough, perhaps. Don't you think it is as well–"

"What is there to know?" struck in Leo, vehemently. "If they are in love, as we presume they are–" she stopped short.

"Certainly," murmured Sue.

"Why, aye, that's all that's needed, no doubt," assented the general, with a bland expression. "Leo has hit the nail upon the head. Those two are in love with each other–"

"I said 'if,'" said Leo, loudly.

"'If—well 'if,' Madam Sceptic,—but I suppose you will allow they have taken the only means in their power of showing it? Well, what more do they want but to get married as fast as they can?"

"We could not have had the wedding sooner, father," said Sue.

"I suppose not; but another three weeks of Paul—though I'm not saying a word against Paul, mind you;—only, the truth is, I have to be so confoundedly careful before him, that it's—it's a strain."

He had indeed been milder and more amicable in every-day life of late, than any one could ever remember him before.

"I like the fellow;" he now mused aloud; "he treats me as I ought to be treated—not as that young ass Purcell does. Val licks my boots and hates me: but Paul has a nice, cheerful, respectful way–"

"Oh, he has all the virtues, no doubt,"—but Leo's mocking interpolation was overborne by her father's steady tones—"We talk, and he doesn't browbeat me. You may look at each other, but I know how a gentleman should behave among gentlemen. When people are polite to me, I am polite to them. And as I know that Paul has his foibles, religious foibles, I am on my guard; while as for him, he never thrusts them on my notice. There was that day that I saw him coming across the park before breakfast, and guessed where he had been—at the early service, of course,—well, all I said when we met in the hall was, 'You must have had a nice walk?' There's tact for you. From that day to this, neither of us has ever remarked upon it."

"It was such a sneaking, shocking thing to do," said Leo, ironically.

"Eh? What? 'Pon my soul, child, that was more like Maud than you. Sneaking? Shocking? It was the sort of thing a gentleman does quietly, that's all; and it would have been in the worst possible taste to have taken any notice of what was not meant to be known."

He resumed his paper, and his daughters left the room together.

"I am sorry, Leo, that you don't like Paul," said Sue, as the door closed. She had felt for some time that she must say it, and if possible fathom to what was due a sense of tension in the air. "It is strange," continued she, "for to me and to the rest of us he appears so very lovable. Have you—what is it you find—you feel—you dislike in him, dear?"

"I find—I feel—I dislike in him—nothing. He is nothing to me. Why should my opinion be of any consequence about him?"

"You speak in such a hard voice, Leo. And you look so hard and unsympathetic whenever Paul is mentioned. Can't you tell me—you might surely tell me——?"

"I wish you would tell me when he departs? One gets tired of people in the state Paul is in, that's all."

"Are you a little—envious, dear Leo? Such happiness–"

"Yes, that's it. Such happiness—Maud is welcome to it," cried Leo, with a laugh. "Very welcome, most welcome; but it's all the parade, the flutter—however, it will soon be over, thank Heaven!"—she subjoined under her breath.

No more was to be got out of her, and Sue, baffled and repelled, went her way.

She was conscious, however, of a sense of relief when the very same afternoon Paul's departure for a season was announced. He had arranged for this without consulting any one; but Maud was satisfied that business demanded his presence in London, and that there were also a few old friends to whom as a bachelor he wished to bid farewell.

It did not appear very clearly where these friends lived, and indeed an exacting fiancée might have found the brief announcement vague and unsatisfactory, but Maud's feelings were thus conveyed to her own people in private: "Paul has so much sense of what is proper and correct, that it really amounts to an intuition. I daresay he has an idea that when there is so much for me to attend to, it is better that I should be free to give myself up to it. Certainly it is a little distracting to have to remember he is waiting for a walk or ride, when one's head is in a whirl with other things."

Once she had asked Leo to take the walk instead of her—she did not do it again. Leo, with blazing eyes, declined point-blank.

"Take your man off your hands? Not I. If you're tired of him–"

"Good gracious, child, what do you mean? What things you do say? I am tired, as it happens—but not of Paul. I have been standing for hours trying on dresses, and I am not such a walker as you at any time. You are forever going out. One would have thought you would be glad of a companion."

"I might be glad of a companion—but not of Paul," retorted Leo, mimicking. "He is your Paul, not mine, and I—and we–" her lips trembled and framed no more.

"You might oblige me, I think,"—but Sue touched the speaker's arm, and Leo vanished.

"What is it?" demanded Maud, irritably. "That child is quite spoilt of late. It's since her London visit, I think. She never was like that before."

"Sometimes I think, I fancy she is not quite well." Sue gathered up some papers on the table, and proceeded. "You know what Dr. Craig said? That she was in a morbid state, artificially excited or depressed, her mind preying upon itself. He said she must be taken where her natural impulses would have freer vent–"

"Well, well; we all know what he said; you told us at the time."

"I thought she was cured, but it seems not," said Sue, in a low voice. "And your engagement has somehow–"

"If it's that, of course—but do you think it really is that?" said Maud, not without a touch of complacency. "If it is that, of course I am sorry. But at first she seemed as pleased as anybody. It was only after she saw Paul—and one would have thought that Paul—I can't understand why any one should dislike Paul."

Sue was silent.

"Paul has not offended her, has he? Has she ever said so?"

"Never. Oh, never. One can't fancy Paul offending anybody," said Sue, with a smile.

"I told him all about Leo before he came here—but he made me repeat it after he had seen her, and I know—I am sure he felt for her. Well, I shan't ask Leo to walk with him again, that's certain;"—and only half appeased she went to make ready herself.

Leo, however, had not always escaped a tête-à-tête with the person she was thus bent on avoiding. She had seen him one evening in the lower garden, and hoping she was herself unseen, had escaped into the vineries, which, however, had afforded but a poor shelter, the branches being nearly bare of leaf. Paul had seen some one within as he passed the window, and entered also.

It was not till he had done so, and shut the door after him, that he discovered whose solitude it was he had invaded, and then it was too late to retreat. He could only offer his assistance in what she was doing—gathering the crimson vine leaves which fluttered here and there—and with his stick hook down those out of reach. Then all of a sudden a heavy autumn shower rattled upon the glass roof overhead, and there was nothing for it, for the two thus caught and trapped, but to wait till it was over.

They sat down on the low staging, and at first they hardly spoke.

But presently Leo grew frightened; the long, intimate silences startled her. Suppose Paul—? No, of course not that,—but he might think her odd and rude, and even seek some sort of explanation? She started talking hurriedly, and it was nearly an hour before the sky cleared.

Thereafter Leo knew what she had to expect should she and Paul be thrown together. She had gradually felt her defences giving way, her voice had grown low and sweet, and much that was hidden in the depths of her inner being, had welled up and overflowed into his listening ear. All along she had known this would happen once the barriers were down between her and Paul Foster; even when she sought to belittle him to herself at the outset, she had a terrible underlying consciousness of it,—and looking back upon the hour, feeling over again the fragrant warmth of the atmosphere, hearing the splashing of the rain, and smelling the bitter scent of the vines, she laid her head upon her arms and cried as if her heart would break.

But we know how Maud's request was met, and how one person at Boldero Abbey would fain with her own voice have bidden Maud's lover begone from it for ever.

Other voices, real voices, however, with one accord bewailed his departure when it came.

Even the general, secretly relieved, was punctiliously regretful on the surface.

"We shall soon see our gentleman back again," he observed in his best manner, "and I hope we shall often have nice long visits from you both in time to come, my dear;" addressing his bereaved daughter in accents of gracious consolation. "For myself I can never see Paul too often. But, hum—ha, no doubt at present he has done the right thing in attending to business before pleasure. Has he got any more houses in view?"

This was a subject on which he would always dilate, and it was discussed at all points as the meal proceeded. The general was unusually cheerful, as all remembered afterwards, and it was not till dessert was on the table that his spirits suddenly flagged. No, he did not want any wine; he was pettish when it was remarked that his glass was empty. Were they going to sit on forever? Well, then, why did no one rise? He would lead the way himself.

"I don't care to stay behind when I have no one to talk to," he pushed back his chair, but not far enough. "Give me an arm, one of you. Steady there—you needn't haul me along. Stop, I tell you." It was Leo's arm he held—she was the nearest to him—and he leaned upon it heavily.

He also breathed heavily. When she tried to draw him forward he tottered. His daughters looked at one another.

"Let me get you something, father?" said Sue, moving towards the sideboard;—"a little brandy?"—and with a tremulous hand she poured it out, and held it to his lips.

At the same time she gently withdrew Leo's arm, substituting her own, and Leo made no resistance. Their father looked them dazed—but the brandy momentarily revived him.

"I—suppose I go to bed, eh? I'm tired—that's what's the matter with me. Isn't that what's the matter with me, Sue? I'm tired—tired,"—his head sank upon his breast. "Tired—tired!" he muttered.

"Do not lose a moment, Maud;" said Sue, aside.

"Let me go;" said Leo, darting forward.

She was nimbler of foot than Maud—but Maud went also.

"Hey, what? Where are they all off to?" With an effort General Boldero straightened himself and made a pitiful effort to compose a face already distorted. "Where—are they going?"—the next minute he fell in a heap upon the floor.

And by the time Dr. Craig, imperatively summoned, dashed through the doorway which stood open awaiting him, all need of his presence was at an end.

"It could not have been averted, my dear Miss Sue;" in moments such as this the doctor invariably said "Miss Sue". "I have had my eye on your—your poor father for a while back. I kind of opined he was breaking. But it must have been a terrible shock for you all;"—and he shook a sympathetic head to and fro.

"Oh, Dr. Craig!"

"Aye, aye!" He patted her shoulder. "Aye, aye!"

"We were so unprepared."

"Prepared or unprepared, my dear lady, it's all the same when it comes. And it was a peaceful end—not a long, tormenting illness. Now then, who have you got to come and look after you all?"

The practical accents smote almost brutally upon her ear, and she lifted her tear-stained face to his in helpless appeal.

"You must have someone, some man, to look after things. You can't wrestle with them alone. There's that cousin of yours, the—" it was on the tip of his tongue to say, "tha heir"; for he was acquainted with all the Boldero family circumstances—but he caught himself up in time. He recalled that he had never seen the heir at the Abbey.

"Not for worlds, if you mean our cousin Anthony," said Sue, with a decision that confirmed his prudence. "He has never—we have never been on any but the most formal terms with him." (An exchange of venison and pheasants once a year had indeed been their limit, and the doctor guessed as much.)

"But he will have to come, my dear lady; and for the sake of appearances–"

"Not yet. Oh, not yet."

("Aye, it will be a bitter pill to you, poor thing, and to all of you, to have to bundle out neck and crop," inwardly cogitated the doctor)—and as he hesitated what further counsel to offer, she made her own suggestion.

"Paul would come to us, I know. He only left this morning. Oh, how little we thought when he left—but Maud knows where he is."

"Let him be sent for, then. The telegraph-office will be shut, but I daresay I could get them to open it if I went myself. Is Major Foster in London? If he is in the country, we shall have to wait till morning, I doubt."

Maud however testified that Paul was in London, and the telegram was sent.

And next day ensued a scene familiar, alas! to many. Scared looks, noiseless footsteps, muffled whispers—strangeness, dreariness, everywhere. And there were questions that could not be asked, and anxious thoughts that must not appear,—and with the future knocking at the door, the present must be all-in-all.

The present, however, with its multifarious demands, brought the relief of occupation to every member of the family except Leonore.

She was indeed willing, more than willing to do her part; but the elder three had been so long habituated to thinking of her as a childish, inconsequent creature, not yet out of leading strings, that each severally rejected her overtures, and she could only wander aimlessly from room to room, and gaze from the windows—from one window in particular.

"You will catch cold, Leo, if you stand in that draught," said Maud, passing along the corridor, where a chill current of air made itself felt. "Go into the library, child; a good fire is wasting itself upon nobody there."

But Leo did not go into the library. The library was snug and comfortable—the most comfortable room in the house,—but it commanded no view. The high trees of the shrubbery shut out the park beyond; and the short, straight road to the village, the road by which every one was coming and going now, was also entirely hidden.

When Maud reappeared, the watcher was still at her post,—but as she was in the act of putting down the open window—(perhaps she had heard an approaching step?)—remonstrance was not renewed. Instead, Maud came and looked herself.

"It is very strange of Paul;" she mused aloud.

No word from Paul had yet come, and now we can guess why Leo stood where she did.

"He mayn't have got the telegram;" she adventured.

"It would have been returned if he had not. Besides, Dr. Craig said it would be delivered last night, and Paul was not likely to be out at night."

Still the hours passed, and no answer came.

Nor did any come the next day, and the next.

"You are sure about the address, I suppose?" queried Sue, at last. She had not liked to make the suggestion before, since Maud, correct to a degree, was apt to resent any suspicion of carelessness or inaccuracy,—but the outlook was growing serious. A fresh telegram had been despatched, and Paul had also been written to,—it was inexplicable that he should remain silent, unless a mistake had been made somewhere.

"I am quite sure;" replied Maud briefly, and no more was said.

It was the evening of the third day, and darkness was falling outside. Leo, who had been waiting for this, had stolen outside, permitted, even urged thereto, by Sue, touched and consoled by what she took for a reflex of her own grief upon her young sister's face—and she had got some way from the house, when, in the deepening shadows beyond, she saw Paul coming.

Her first impulse was as usual to fly, but a second brought her swiftly to his side. She must see, must hear, must know at once—a maddening curiosity prevailed over every other feeling.

And it was immediately, if superficially met. He was eager to explain—while looking back on it she could not see that he had explained anything. He had received no communication, he had heard no tidings till the same day at noon, and had started by the first train, which he had barely had time to catch.

So far all was clear, but the how or the why was left untouched,—and he was hurriedly asking her to speak, begging for information, ejaculating expressions of sympathy, and reiterating regrets all the way back to the house, as if he found it impossible to take in all the sad details, for she was asked the same questions over and over again.

It was not till Leo was alone that she had a moment wherein to ask herself—Was she glad—was she sorry—was she relieved or bitterly disappointed that there was no trace of that mystery secretly conjured up during the past dreadful days? She had pondered, and fancied—oh, how cruel she had been, forever dwelling on the possibility that she might never need to see Paul Foster again;—yet now the joy of it—the pain of it—the bliss of it—the misery of it,—every throb of her veins was at once ecstasy and torture.

Paul was here—to be avoided; he must be met—and shunned; his voice would soothe—and stab; his touch would heal—and burn.

How had she ever borne the blank without him? The dreary vacuum which nothing could fill? The hopelessness, the emptiness of it all?

He was here, but looking ill—thinner than before—with a drawn, haggard countenance, and restless eyes. She could not but say to herself that even a kind heart, suffering for the sufferings of others, hardly accounted for such manifestations of grief. It was not to be supposed that General Boldero had during a few weeks' acquaintance so endeared himself to his future son-in-law that his death, however sudden and unexpected, was more than a shock. Leonore was tolerably sure that if her father had not been also Maud's father, he would not even have been acceptable to Paul as a friend. He could not be; the two were dissimilar throughout,—even Valentine Purcell, less intelligent than other people, had discovered as much.

Yet in four days—for it was but four days since the departing traveller had been gaily ushered forth from the doorstep on which he now stood, he had changed so visibly that—Where had he been during those four days? she found herself asking of herself anew.