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CHAPTER XV.
"YOU'VE BROKEN MY HEART, I THINK."

The funeral was over, and it was now decent to talk about the marriage. When and where could the marriage take place?

Boldero Abbey, with all the landed estate, was virtually in other hands already, and it did not need the opening of the will to announce to the bereaved family that with the loss of a father there followed that of a home.

All their lives they had known that this must be so, but the subject was so grievous that it was hardly ever alluded to, and in a manner was lost sight of.

For his years General Boldero was a young man; he was hale, hearty, and selfish. He took good care of his health, and prognosticated for himself a green old age—anyhow his tenure of the good things of life was secure; and though unable to alter the law of entail, which permitted no female heirs in the Boldero line of descent, he foresaw in his mind's eye all his daughters married and settled, with the exception of Sue, who had her mother's fortune, and was of course to stick to him to the last.

Consequently the provision he had made for the rest was slight, and there was no doubt that the sooner they now quitted the stately mansion and broke up its large establishment, the better.

But the wedding, Maud's wedding, that was to have been so gay and splendid, what was to be done about that? The invitations were already out, and everything in such readiness that even Sue inwardly sighed. If only it could have been all happily over!

It was terrible to her that an event so momentous should take place anywhere but in the halls of her forefathers—or to speak more strictly, in the village church where Eustace Custance officiated. To him had been confided the great satisfaction afforded by the match; and when consenting to tie the knot, he had spoken warmly of Paul Foster. Paul had often sought him out, and had—but he must not say more. The general, overhearing, had warranted Paul "mulcted ".

To other sources of distress, therefore, it was added in the breast of poor Sue that Maud must seek her nuptial benediction elsewhere,—since Mr. Anthony Boldero, through his lawyer, had intimated that he would be glad to have matters arranged as soon as might be.

To each sister privately Sue had addressed herself on the point of remaining in the neighbourhood, and each had protested against the idea. No one of them could endure it.

But they had still a month's grace, and if Maud would consent to be married very, very privately, with absolutely no one present but their five selves—"Ridiculous! what are you thinking of?" cried Maud, angrily.

Her sluggish nature was roused to positive wrath by such an insulting proposition, but reading reproach in the colour which mounted to her sister's cheek, she made haste to subjoin:—

"Don't you see how very undignified it would appear to be in such a frantic hurry to secure a husband? It would almost seem as if I were afraid of losing Paul! Of course I shall wait till things can be done properly. I would not show any disrespect—I wonder that you should suggest it, Sue."

But the speaker was not perhaps as truthful as she might have been. In communing with herself, she had decided that the next best thing to being married in state from Boldero Abbey, would be a wedding in a fashionable London church. She had been a bridesmaid once at such, and to it her thoughts now reverted favourably. There need be but a short delay, and she was willing to wait. To wait would be infinitely preferable to a hole-and-corner business, with no prestige, no spectators, no one even to see her bridal array and Paul's necklace. Sue had even hinted at her not wearing the dress: "You could just go down in your travelling things, and no one need know anything about it till it was over".

"I should not degrade myself by doing anything of the kind;" said Maud, throwing up her head.

No, she would not consult Paul, Paul would of course let her decide for him,—and she did beg that no one would interfere with what after all was her affair.

Presently it was, "Paul will stay on here with us at present. He has no real claims upon him elsewhere, for as we are not to be married just yet, he can postpone making his arrangements. Perhaps we shall now be able to get a house first."

To this end she ordered down agents' lists, and illustrated magazines; also Leo came upon her in odd places posing meditatively before various articles of furniture with a paper and pencil in her hand. Leo guessed what she was doing.

She took no notice; but she wondered if any one could help noticing that, whereas Paul when he first appeared on the scene had been eager and animated over the home he hoped to form, and the life he meant to lead, he was listless and indifferent now. He assented to everything, initiated nothing. Sometimes he barely glanced at the attractive domain whose allurements were so cunningly set forth—sometimes he hung over the page so long that Leo could not help suspecting it was but a screen to hide his face.

He had lost altogether his pleasant habit of following each speaker with his eyes as the talk went round. The eyes would be glued to the floor, or fixed vacantly on some object. He would start when called to order for inattention, and thereafter be abjectly attentive.

But whatever Maud said was right, and her wishes were law. She could not make a suggestion which he was not ready to carry out; when she withdrew from it herself he as readily withdrew. To Leo, watching from the background, there was something unnatural, incomprehensible about it all—something which baffled her closest scrutiny—and yet at times made her feel as though the scrutiny itself were but foolishness, emanating from her own disordered imagination.

She would think so for a whole day, and school herself to believe that it was a happy day—and then something, some trifle, would occur which made her heart leap and her hands tremble, and she found herself talking for dear life in a meaningless jumble of words.

She would not, must not, dared not hope that Paul repented of his choice, unless it might be that repentance were mutual, in which case?

But after a night of fitful sleep and miserable awakenings, Leo would come down heavy-eyed and feverish, to find a prosaic, business-like dialogue being carried on by the very individuals who had figured so differently in the phantasms of the small hours, and her entrance would hardly be noticed by either, so engrossed were they by each other.

Once indeed she wondered whether Paul were not a trifle too ostentatiously engrossed? Whether it were the case that he really did not see her slip into the vacant chair, the only vacant chair at the table? His head was steadily turned the other way, but her sisters addressed her and still he perceived, or affected to perceive, no addition to the party. Was he, could he be afraid of her penetration? Did he suspect that it went further than was convenient?

Maud was unusually animated that morning. "It really fits in wonderfully, this plan of Aunt Charlotte's; and I must say I little expected her to be the one to come to the rescue."

"What is the plan?" inquired Leo aside of Sybil.

"Aunt Charlotte offers us her house for the winter." Sybil also looked excited and jubilant. "She is going abroad, and says she will leave us everything as it stands."

"But a house in Eaton Place, and it is one of the larger houses too," demurred Sue, "would it not be rather expensive–?"

"Not in the least, seeing that we are to have Aunt Charlotte's servants. It is really most kind," averred Maud, with the warmest approval; "I should not think of refusing, not for a moment. And St. Peter's close by—" with a meaning smile to Paul—"what could be better?"

"Hi, Lion, Lion?" said he, looking under the table.

"You will close with the offer at once, Sue?" proceeded Maud, too much elated and gratified to observe the lack of response; "don't lose a post, in case the good lady changes her mind. How soon can we go, do you think?"

But even the gentle Sue kindled a little beneath a note which jarred on all, and she looked a mute reproach.

"Well? How soon?" impatiently reiterated her sister.

How soon? To leave for evermore the old familiar scenes, the peaceful glades—every spot hallowed by memories and associations? To take a last farewell of the only life she had ever known, to fling it aside like a worn-out garment? Was it possible that any one, even with a bright new existence opening before her, could be so eager to turn the page that all she could say or think of was "How soon?"

It wounded Sue to her heart's core to hear the peremptory tone and meet the unabashed gaze. She could not speak,—and the next minute she felt an arm steal round her waist, and a cheek was laid on hers. It was only Leo, but Sue never said "only Leo" from that moment. She took the little hand and fondled it; she used it to wipe her own tears away.

"Hi, Lion, Lion?" said Paul, looking under the table again.

"Is it settled? Is it decided?" Later on in the day Leo, finding Sybil by herself, returned to the mooted point.

"About London? Why, of course. When our sovereign lady gives the word of command, don't you know there is nothing for it but to obey? Sue wrote by the first post."

"And when are we to go? When?"

"You are as keen as Maud, I declare. Well, I am rather sorry to leave the old place–"

"When? I only ask, when?"—cried Leo shrilly.

"Do you really not care at all, Leo? I thought at breakfast you and Sue–"

"What's the use of caring? Will caring alter things? If it would–" but Leo caught her breath, and her hands gripped each other; "I think you might answer a plain question without rambling on about other things;" she subjoined as steadily as she could. "Is the time of our departure fixed?"

"For this day week, if we can be ready in time. Sue says we can't, but Maud says we can. Ten to one on Maud."

"This day week!"

"After all, there's nothing more to be done here;" Sybil recovered herself, for in reality she was like Maud, bitten with the idea of change; "and it's doleful enough, Heaven knows. Day after day the same howling wind and rain, and nothing to talk about but Maud's houses. Maud doesn't care two straws what becomes of the rest of us, as long as she gets a fine place for herself. She won't even listen if a word's said about our affairs. Paul is too good for her, I think,"—abruptly.

Leo, who had begun to turn away, stopped short, startled.

"Oh, you don't care for him, I know," ran on Sybil at random; "but you are the only one of us who doesn't. I often think," she lowered her voice to caution, "I tell you what, Leo, if Paul had not fluked upon Maud as he did, and the other Fosters had not puffed her up and prodded him on, he never would have thought of her. She's not his style at all, with her grandiose notions, and fondness of big people, and all that. Just what Paul hates. Did you not see him wince when she made that remark about Lady St. Emeraud? Maud is awfully obtuse," continued Sybil, glad of a listener; "she never saw. But you know, Leo, even father used to laugh at her love of swagger—though she got it from him."

"You never said this before;" muttered Leo, surprised. She had no inclination to go away now.

"Because Maud and I—of course we have held by each other always, and I should have gone on holding, if she had. But I am nothing to her now;" said poor Sybil bitterly. She had a weak, shallow nature, but it was capable of affection—and Maud's selfish withdrawal of affection, her complete indifference to all that did not concern her own individual interests at a time when in the natural course of things the sisters would have been drawn together by an especially close tie, was felt as keenly as Sybil could feel anything.

"And you think Paul–?" hesitated Leo.

"It's Paul's own look out. He may make her mend her ways. She thinks a lot of him, of course."

"Does she—is she—is she in love with him, Syb?"

"In love with him? I suppose so—after a fashion. She's in love with being married, and having a country house of her own, and a husband to domineer over. And if he should come in for a title–"

"But that is not Paul;" said Leo, in a low voice. She had herself well in hand, but deep down there were strange emotions at work, stirred by the above. "Do you mean—I wish you would say what you really mean?—I—I sometimes wonder myself–," she stopped.

"Oh, you mustn't take all this too seriously, Leo. Don't look at me as if we were a couple of conspirators. It's no use being cross with Maud because she is what she is. She hasn't fine feelings—no one ever thought she had. But Paul has found that out by this time, I dare say; and when his chance comes he can inoculate her with his. At the worst, he has enough for both;"—and having thus summed up the situation and relieved her feelings at the same time, Sybil turned to other matters.

"Yet even she sees," cried Leo, inwardly, "she sees something, though she does not know, does not guess what it is. And I who do, oh, how shall I bear it,—how shall I bear it? And this is only the beginning—they haven't yet actually begun the real thing,—they are only looking at it, and he–?" She heard Sue's voice calling her, and thrust aside the "he".

Sue wanted a parcel taken to the cottage of an under-gardener, who was ill; and thought that both Henry and his wife would appreciate the attention more if conveyed by one of themselves, than by a servant. Would Leo go?

"And ask if Dr. Craig has been, and what he says?" further directed Miss Boldero with a little sigh. She was thinking that perhaps this was the last she would ever have to do with either doctor or patient, and Sue had loved much the gentle routine of her daily life, with its easy benefactions and ministrations,—and now all her world, all the world of which she knew anything, lay in ruins around her.

"I'll go," said Leo, taking the parcel.

She was ready to go anywhere, and Henry's cottage was only a short way off, one of a cluster at the edge of the lower garden,—so that even if the rain which threatened did come on, she could find shelter—and on this occasion safe shelter. Paul had gone for a ride, and his rides were long; Maud explained that the exercise was good for him.

But though thus secure, there was another danger to which no thought had been given, and Leo, whose path at this time seemed beset with pitfalls, on emerging from one cottage room, found herself face to face with a visitor issuing from the other. Dr. Craig had not been able to come himself, but had sent his assistant.

The doctor had paused to rub his chin before doing so, but the summons which stayed his own steps was imperative, and it was a hundred chances to one against Tommy's meeting anybody. The Boldero ladies had been very little about of late, and one of them had already visited the sick man that day. He took the risk.

But he would not have taken it if he had guessed how great the risk was; nor perhaps would young Andrews have gone, had he fore-seen the effect upon himself of that beautiful, mournful, childish face, whose expression?—A cry escaped him. A mad interpretation of it possessed him. His promise? He threw his promise to the winds. No man could keep a promise when confronted with—even to himself he did not say with what,—but before Leonore could escape, or prevent it, the pent-up torrent was loosed.

At first she was petrified,—then flared up. What was the meaning of this? What was she to think? Was Mr. Andrews beside himself? Did he know what he was saying?

Still he poured forth, deaf and blind. Oh, how he had longed for this moment!—the thought of it, the hope of it, had kept him alive through all the wretched, wretched months of separation,—and she, how had she endured—?

"I can endure no more," cried Leonore, with almost a scream. "Be quiet—be quiet—they will hear you,—don't you know that they will hear you?"

"What if they do?" He was past that. "You are here. We are together. That is enough." He seized her hand, but she fought and struggled, and eventually wrenched herself free. "You—you dare?" she panted.

"Oh, I dare—now. I dare anything now."

"You dare to forget who you are? And who I am?"

"Yes, even that. It is nothing when we love each other"—and again he laid hold of her.

"Let me go—let me go."

"But–?"

"If you have not altogether lost your senses, Mr. Andrews, you will leave me this moment—this moment;" she stamped her foot,—"and never, never cross my path again."

"But, Leonore—?"

"Leonore? Oh, this is too insulting—" a burst of tears. "What have I done to be thus degraded?—" and she shook the hand torn from his grasp as though it had been poisoned.

"What have you done? You do not understand–"

"I understand enough—too much." With an effort she changed her tone to one of infinite disdain. "You are under some strange hallucination, Mr. Andrews, which alone can account for this extraordinary, intolerable behaviour. If my father had been alive—but I am still his daughter, and you, what are you?"

The words in themselves might still have failed to arrest him, but the look, the gesture, the withering emphasis on the "you?"—he stood still, and after a moment, staggered a step across the pathway like a drunken man.

"If you confess it was all a delusion," resumed Leonore, in slightly modified accents, for she was now only eager to put an end to the scene, and a twinge of pity made itself felt, "if you allow that you have utterly misinterpreted a little ordinary civility—well, perhaps it was more than civility, call it kindness if you will—I will try to forget,—but you also must forget, and never breath a word of this again."

"But—but–" he faltered. Then staggered afresh, unrestrainedly, it might almost have been thought ostentatiously. It was not a pretty spectacle.

"For Heaven's sake, pull yourself together," cried Leonore, with a sense of repulsion. "Be ashamed of this. Own that you are ashamed of it. Own that I never gave you cause to think—that you have been dreaming–"

"Hush. I am awake now," said the young man, slowly. And he turned his burning eyes upon her till she shrank, but this time neither from fear nor loathing; it was a new sensation which made itself disagreeably felt. Was she indeed as innocent as she said? Was there not a faint horrible suspicion of bluster in her fury of contempt and repudiation? She was silent, struggling with herself.

"You have broken my heart, I think," said Tommy, in the same slow, dull tone. "You have done what I was told you would do. You have played with me, as others of your kind have played with others of mine. God forgive you for your cruelty, but I—I am awake now,–" and again he muttered to himself like a man in a dream.

"Mr. Andrews, can you say?—stop, I suppose you can. Wait a moment; let me speak. I was lonely, unhappy, absorbed in myself and the empty weariness of my life when—when I met you. I read in your face that you—well, say it was my fault, say it was," suddenly impetuous—"at most it was but a passing folly, and it was over almost before it had begun. If it is any satisfaction to you now, I will say that I am—sorry. I can do no more."

"No, you can do no more. It is much for a great lady to go so far. It is the usual thing, I suppose;—" and again his mentor's words, "She was sorry, so sorry," echoed in the speaker's ears—"and the—the episode is at an end. Again I say God forgive you, Mrs. Stubbs, for I never can."

He was gone, and she rushed homewards, stumbling over every pebble in her path.

CHAPTER XVI.
TEMPTATION

"Is anything the matter with Leo?" said Maud, the next day. "She is in such an odd mood; and she has scarcely left her room since morning."

"She feels the going away, I think," replied Sybil, not ill-pleased to say it, for she was smarting beneath a fresh instance of her other sister's callousness. "We had a talk yesterday, and I saw she was taking it dreadfully to heart."

"Rather absurd of Leo. She was ready enough to go once; and she can't be as much attached to the place as we are, who have never been away from it;" and Maud looked aggrieved, as people do when others are accredited with finer feelings than they themselves can boast of. "Paul is low to-day, too, but I believe it is lumbago. I only hope it is, and not another attack of fever coming on."

"That would be very inconvenient, certainly," rejoined Sybil, gravely. It struck her that there was not much sympathy for the sufferer in either case. "What makes you think it is lumbago?"

"He has been sitting over the fire for hours, doing nothing. When I asked him to come and look at these plans, he said another time would do. And you know how he is always ready to look at plans, or do anything I wish."

"He didn't say he was unwell?"

"No, I only supposed so."

She passed on, and at the same moment Leonore appeared.

"There you are!" cried Sybil gaily. "Come along, and be sociable. You have been a most unsociable little creature all day. Now then, aren't you coming?"

But Leo was not coming. Obviously she was disconcerted at sight of her sister, and shook her head as though vexed at being accosted.

"Nonsense! Don't go hiding yourself again," resumed Sybil. "What's the use of moping? And it doesn't make it any pleasanter for the rest of us that Paul is in the dumps in one room, and you in another. We are none too cheerful without that."

"Where is Paul?"

"In the library. Over the fire. So Maud says, and declares he has lumbago. I don't believe it. He simply doesn't want to be bothered with her and her eternal 'plans'."

"You are sure he is there?"

"Go and look for yourself if you doubt Maud's word. Why? Do you want him?"

But Leo threw her a strange look, a look of such bitter, ironical meaning, that she appended hastily; "You are not such a little fool as to be worrying yourself over those two and their affairs? Maud won't thank you if you do. She is rather put out as it is, because I hinted that you took to heart our going more than she did. I didn't say so, you know—but I should, if she had gone on much longer. However, she went off to Paul."

"And Paul is safe, in there?"

"Paul is safe—in there. Let sleeping dogs lie. Well? Oh, Leo, you really are too bad,—" for Leo had turned at the words, and was remounting the staircase.

"One can't say a word to her that she doesn't vanish on the instant," muttered Sybil; "how I do dislike that way she has got into! And when Maud goes, of course I shall have to take up with Leo. Hullo! Sue?"

"I was looking for Leo," said Sue.

"Did you look in the only place you were likely to find her? She has hardly been out of her room all day."

"Has she not been out-of-doors at all? Poor child!"

"I tried to get her to come for a walk this morning, but she wouldn't."

"She seems–" said Sue, and stopped short.

"Yes, we all know what she seems, and is: in an uncommonly bad temper, for some reason or other. There is nothing for it but to let her alone."

"I am rather anxious about her somehow, Syb."

"And now we shall have you in the blues too! For sheer pity bear up, and don't let me be the only one—and I suppose I have feelings too. It really is disgusting, every one giving way but me."

"I think I must go and see what Leo is doing?"

"I think you must do nothing of the kind. You will make nothing of her. I've tried. She was here just now."

"And did you not notice anything? It is not only her face; but her voice, her manner–"

"I told her she looked woebegone, and that it was no good. She frets about things that are no business of hers, if you must know," owned Sybil, reluctantly. "She has taken it into her head that Maud—that she and Paul aren't suited to each other, and has let the idea run away with her. I suppose I was stupid myself, not to put a veto upon it flat,—but the truth is I do think they are an ill-assorted couple, and can't make out how they ever came to take to each other."

"I once thought it was something else on Leo's part," said Sue, in rather a low voice. "If it is only that, I think, I hope, we are all mistaken."

"We?" cried Sybil, struck by the word.

"Because I think as you do," said Sue, quietly.

The short light of a November day was beginning to fade when Leonore, after a minute's cautious listening and watching from above, stole downstairs equipped to go out, and safely reached the garden-door without encountering any one. She was in the act of unlocking it, when Paul appeared.

"You are going out?" said he, mechanically.

"No, I am not," said she—and passed out before his eyes.

For a few minutes she ran aimlessly hither and thither, crossing and recrossing her steps, while from time to time casting furtive glances at the windows of the house, as though to see if she were being watched or not—but satisfied apparently upon this point, she made a sudden dart for the woods beyond, and was almost immediately lost to view.

Yet here again she hesitated, for the paths were numerous.

There was the one she had first trodden on her return to the Abbey three years before. She recalled the beauty, the wild freshness of that twilight hour. It had so exhilarated her that while desirous of walking soberly as befitted the occasion, she had longed to run! Her first very real but transient sorrow had worn off, and there was no one to see her—yet something restrained her. It was not kind to Godfrey's memory; he had been so good to her, so uniformly affectionate and indulgent towards her, that she would not seem to slight him even in solitude. As for the dancing blood in her veins, she told herself it was purely physical. She was so well and strong that she could not help feeling just a little happy.

And though she had often traversed the same narrow little winding path since, she had never perhaps felt quite the same again.

On the other hand, there lay the short cut to Claymount—that was Val's way. She would not take Val's way, although of late Val had ceased to frequent it. He had no object in doing so, since Leonore was never to be met with now.

Once or twice he had adverted to this, but she had replied evasively. Val did not interest her, did not amuse her any longer. He grew tiresome since he had taken to making remarks upon her altered appearance, and putting direct, awkward questions.

Things might have been worse, of course; but on the whole she would even have preferred an open rupture and well-founded resentment, to this persistent determination to know how things were with her,—and others?

Val had no liking for Paul Foster now, though at first he had professed such. He had no reason to give, and an obstinate look would come over his face if pressed. Once he had murmured something of which Leo only caught the words, "jolly deceitful,"—and the next minute he denied having spoken them.

To herself Leo owned that she had not behaved well to poor Val, having made use of him for selfish ends; but the experiment had harmed neither, and no remorse need be wasted upon it.

With George Butts it was the same; he was fair game, having come in search of her supposititious fortune, without even the excuse of an honest, jog-trot fidelity such as Val's. She had been scolded on George's account, but had not scolded herself, and had archly and triumphantly pointed out the recusant to Sue in a sly corner of a London balcony.

But young Andrews? Ah, that stung. The home truths forced from those quivering lips, the agony of those imploring eyes—she quailed before them. They pierced her already shame-embittered soul, they were her dying wounds. For she had made another suffer what she herself was suffering, and had done it wantonly. There was no excuse for her,—none. There should be no pity, no sorrow—if it were possible, no knowledge when—when all was over.

She crashed into the undergrowth.

But she could not go far; the mould was too soft, and the rotting leaves too thick and plentiful. She was forced to retrace her steps.

There was the dry track of a streamlet, along which a faint trickle oozed to the surface here and there. She tried it, but the sharp stones hurt her feet, and again she sprang into the path.

Then the sprawling arms of a bramble caught and ripped a bad tear in her skirt. Her new, black skirt—and just where a darn would show! How tiresome—how vexatious! And Bessie could not darn decently. She frowned and examined, condemning already Bessie's incapable hand, and slipshod work.

Till—remembrance came, and the torn edge flapped unheeded.

From below, where a frequented road came near at the point, there broke upon her ear sounds and voices,—children returning late from school, lingering and playing by the way—laughing and singing over their game. She crouched till they were past—then hurried forward.

At length she came to an opening in the woods; a spot whose view of the surrounding country often attracted her thither—and from habit she paused and gazed.

It was such an afternoon as she loved; a red sky, a misty landscape, the near trees still ablaze with autumn tints. In the distance a flying train threaded its way whistling; the white steam appearing and disappearing behind wooded heights and promontories.

How often had she stood thus; how familiar was the scene!—but she could not linger now.

There was something she was searching for which she did not find. She had only seen it once, and then by chance,—in the present confused whirl of her brain she could not remember landmarks, nor identify localities.

But it was there, somewhere,—and she must look, look till she found it.

A branch snapped behind, and she spun round, terrified. Who—what was that?

The woods were almost silent, birds had ceased to sing, and rabbits were in their holes. After a minute's breathless suspense, she crept on a pace or two, and listened again,—but there was not a rustle, not a sound. She fled onwards.

A pile of logs and a rough saw-pit,—yes, yes,—she knew the saw-pit, she had passed the saw-pit that other day, and Val and she had sat upon the logs. Val had kicked about the splinters at his feet, and formed them into heaps. And it was close, close by, that—oh, it was so close that she shivered and trembled, and clung to the edge of the pit as a support, and at last sank upon her knees.