revolt is, as it always has been, within easy reach of the great; but a rector’s wife should attend upon her lord. the hon. mrs. germain watched her james’s eyebrow, waiting for the lift. it came, and her cry broke from her. “james, james, this cannot be possible!” she saw her fair realm in earthquake and eclipse.
the rector, no less disturbed, could not for the life of him avoid his humour. “alas, my dear”—one eyebrow made a hoop in his forehead—“all things are possible to amorous man.”
“amorous!” she whistled the word. “john—and that minx! you use horrible words.”
“hardly so, my dear. not horrible in a man’s regard for his wife. the state is sanctioned.”
she was beyond his quibbles. “what are we to do? heavens and earth, what can we do?”
he eyed his brother’s letter ruefully. “upon my word,” he said, “this is a facer. i could have believed anything of any man sooner than this of him. old john! exactly double her age—and she a quiet little mouse of a girl out of a cottage. woodbine cottage, eh? that’s it, you know. woodbine cottage and white muslin have done it. do you remember the valentines of our youth—gauffred edges, a pathway to a porch—the linked couple, and the little god in the air, pink as a shell? white muslin—fatal wear! he sees her so to all eternity; enskied and sainted, in muslin and a sash! confound it, constantia, i feel old.”
she was beyond his whimsies. “you may be thankful that you do. this appears to me disgusting. have we used him so ill that he should slap our faces?”
the rector indulged his eyebrows again. “diana!” he said.
she did not defend that dead lady, but even another lady diana seemed more tolerable to mrs. james. pecca fortiter, she could have said, had she had a head for tags. lady diana, sinning de race, would have been intelligible, say, to the cantacutes. but here was no sin, but merely a squalid enchantment. a doting gentleman, a peering little nobody in muslin—how should this be put, say, to the cantacutes? aberration? chivalry? romance? never romance, precisely because that was just what it was—pitiful romance. james had hit it off exactly; it was the washy, facile romance of a sixpenny valentine, of a thing that housemaids drink with their eyes. saponaceous—heavens and earth! mrs. james lifted her hands, and let them fall to her lap. “i simply cannot hold up my head in the village,” she said. “james think of the cantacutes.”
“why on earth should i think of the cantacutes?” he was testy under his trouble. “i have my brother to think of. he’s been hasty over this—which is most unlike him—and secret as well. i had no notion any such thing was going on, not the least in the world.”
it was mrs. james’s duty to confess that some notion ought to have been hers. and she did confess. “it so happens that i was speaking to him of this girl the night we dined at the park. he told me that he was interesting himself in her and i asked him to say something about tristram.”
“about tristram?” says the rector sharply. “what about tristram, pray?”
she could not but remember former warnings. “i think you will do me the justice, james. you have been told that tristram has chosen to amuse himself with her. who has not? i remember telling you about it, when, as usual, you laughed at me. i begged john to influence the girl—to induce her to respect herself—and with this result!” the rector pushed his chair away.
“you speak more truly than you know,” he said, rose and took a turn about the room. “now i understand the haste. he had been hovering, poor, foolish fellow—singeing his grey wings; but it was you, constantia, drove him to plunge. take my word for it. dear, dear, dear, this is really a great bore. i don’t know what to do, upon my word i don’t.”
“i shall speak to the girl, of course,” said mrs. james, gathering up letters and keys. it is doubtful if her husband heard her. he had stepped through the window into the garden before she had risen. “the rector’s walk,” a pleached alley of nut trees, received him; for more than an hour he might have been observed pacing it, with lowered head and hands behind his back. but mrs. germain went about her duties of the day with tight lips and eyes aglitter. at intervals her anguish betrayed itself in cries. “monstrous! monstrous!”
to her it was monstrous, for she saw the girl without glamour, standing amid the wreckage of a fair realm—a little governess, wickedly demure. the germain banner was rent, the germain character blotted; that carefully contrived dual empire which she shared with the cantacutes was threatened; her authority as a county lady, as rector’s wife, toppling, her throne wanting a leg. she saw herself pitied, her husband’s family the object of lifted brows. and she had been a loyal wife, and knew it, because she had honestly admired the marks of race in the germains. herself a telfer, she was of that famous norman house which lost first blood at hastings; and she never forgot it, least of all when she had married into the germains, who were county and good blood, but not noble. she remembered, she always remembered that—but she was a loyal wife. without and within, he and she were a strong contrast—he frosty, dry, and deliberate, she fiery, impulsive, storm-driven, not above the aid of tears; he lean and pale, she a plump woman and a pink. his instinct was to approve at first blush, hers to disapprove. they were good friends, and had never been more; there were no children. that had been a grievance of hers until she got into the way of saying that the germains were a dwindling race, and—“look at poor john germain!” i wish the reader to note the subtle change from complaint to complacency in mrs. james’s outlook. it marks her character. to be a barren wife through no fault of your own and to take comfort in saying that your husband comes of a dwindling stock shows that you have an eye for outline in a family. it is rather like excusing your black wyandottes, which give you no breakfast eggs—“yes, but that’s the mark of the breed.” so here—“either i have children, or my husband is no germain.” here was strong character exhibited; and all may be forgiven to strength. but weakness—mere dotage—mere desire; a landed gentleman of fifty and a girl in muslin—“monstrous! monstrous!” cried mrs. james in her bitterness.
when mary, home from the sanctuary, heard the click of the wicket, and the swish of a silk petticoat over the flagstones, she knew what was coming upon her. her colour fled, and returned redoubled, and a scare showed in her quick eyes. in a moment she called up her defences—her more than one letter—she had received a third that morning. “i shall see your father,” that said, “an hour after you receive this, my mary. if i know anything of his daughter he will not fail to confirm the signal trust which she has shown me.” she had not been very sure what he meant by “signal trust”; it must certainly be something which any girl might be proud to have. and she had something more wonderful than a letter—a ring, the most splendid she had ever seen—a great sapphire set in a lake of brilliants. she glanced at it now as, hearing the lady at the door, she slipped it off and put it in her pocket. mrs. james knocked, like a postman; and with a wild heart mary went to meet her enemy in the gate.
“ah, good-evening, mary. may i come in? thank you.” she preceded her dependant into the little parlour, sat in the chair which had most the similitude of a throne, and began at once upon her subject.
“i have called to see you in consequence of a letter which the rector received this morning from mr. germain. may i inquire if you guess—? no, indeed, i see that i need not.” the girl’s face told the tale; her eyes were cast down; inquiry of the sort was absurd. “i think, mary, that you have strange ideas; i do, indeed; and am sorry to have to add that i know where you have obtained them.” but mary had spirit, it seemed.
“i obtained them from mr. germain,” she said, with a certain defiance which may have been very natural, but had been better away. “i obtained them from him. they were not mine, i assure you.”
mrs. germain opened her mouth and shut it with a snap. she opened it again a little way to say, “the thing is impossible,” and another snap followed.
“so i told mr. germain,” said mary.
“my impression is very strong,” continued mrs. james, ignoring interruption, “that you have misunderstood mr. germain’s kindness, and strangely so. that being the case—” mary’s eyes flashed.
“i beg pardon, mrs. germain, but that is not the case. mr. germain has gone to see my parents to-day. he writes me word——”
“you will kindly allow me to finish. i believe that you misunderstood something mr. germain may have said to you—some advice, or inquiry, or offer of help; that he may have seen your error and regretted it while he was too chivalrous to undeceive you. i consider that you may be preparing a great unhappiness for yourself and for him, and i am in a position to say——”
“i beg your pardon, mrs. germain,” said mary, “but nobody is in a position to say anything to me of this but mr. germain himself.”
now this was so obviously true that even mrs. james accepted it. she had been too hasty, and while she was swallowing her chagrin mary took her opportunity.
“i must tell you, please, that you cannot be more surprised than i was when mr. germain spoke to me as he did. i had never dreamed of such a thing; it is not likely that i should. he had been all that’s kind to me ever since the school-treat—even now i can hardly believe that any one could be so kind; but when he—when he spoke to me—asked me if i could care for him—in that way—i vow to you i could not answer him. i was most stupid—i was confused and could not collect my thoughts. and i never did collect them,” she cried with a sudden burst of confession, “and never answered him at all—except by crying, which any girl would have done, i think; and then he—well, then he k——”
mrs. james shut her eyes tight. “i know what you are going to say. no! no! be silent, i beg.”
mary put her hand to her throat, as if she was being choked. her eyes shone like jet. “i hope that you will be just to me, mrs. germain, i do hope so. i know that you put all the blame on me, but it is unfair to do that. what could i do? if he spoke to me kindly, must i not answer kindly? if he came to see me, how could i refuse to see him? if he invited me to walk with him, what could i say, or do? and then—when he asked me, did i care for him—and—and—oh, i must say it!—kissed——”
“ah!” said mrs. germain, with a spasm. “oh, wicked, wicked!”
mary flamed. “i am not wicked, mrs. germain, and i must ask you not to call me so. mr. germain would not like it at all. you cannot believe him to be wicked; and if he did what he did he had good reason. and now i will tell you that i never answered his question, and have not known how to answer it.”
“answer it, girl! you prevaricate. answer it—in the face of his letter to my husband!”
“mr. germain has been more than kind,” said mary, losing ground, “and—and——”
“and mr. duplessis has been more than kind, i believe,” said mrs. james—and her words were knives. the girl quailed. “pray, how much more kindness is my family to show you?”
mary was now very cold. “one member of it,” she said, “will show me none—will not show me even justice. mr. duplessis has no claim——”
“claim!” cried the great lady, red as fire, “what claim should he wish to make? i think you have lost your senses.” she may well have lost patience, courage, and a good sense. she stamped her foot.
“i wish you would leave me alone, mrs. germain. you are cruel to me, and unjust. i have done you no harm—no, but always my duty, and you know that very well. you drive me into corners—you make me say things—i am very unhappy—please leave me.” she covered her eyes to hide the tears which pricked her.
mrs. james was not to be melted by such a device. “if you are to be impertinent, i shall certainly leave you,” she said. “this matter, however, cannot be left as it is. the rector must see you about it. good-evening.”
but when the unaccountable rector received the report from his wife he was pleased to show temper. “i think you have acted foolishly, constantia, and more—i think you have acted with great want of consideration, i had almost said with want of respect for my brother. you have read his letter; you know how he stands towards mary; and you rate her as if she were a servant caught in a fault. really, that won’t do. i must make amends. preposterous! that my brother’s affianced wife should be treated like a kitchenmaid! you have no right—no earthly right—to say to her what you would not dream of saying to my brother. heavens! to john germain! head of one of the best families in england! tst, tst! i am very vexed.”
he must have been, for he went early to the cottage and asked for mary. when she appeared before him, flushed and with all her defences out, he held out his hand to her, drew her towards him and kissed her. “so we are to know you in a new capacity, my dear,” he said. “i shall be very ready for that.” her tears gathered; one brimmed over and fell, but did not scald.
“oh, mr. germain—” she began—and ended there with a choke.
“my dear, i’ll tell you this—you have won a true man. i know my brother better than you do, at present, and you may take my word for that.”
“thank you, thank you,” was all that she could say.
“one thing more: you will be welcome at the rectory. you mustn’t take anything that has been said to you amiss. you know that when we are taken aback sometimes we don’t always—well, i’ll ask you. has anybody ever made you jump? eh? somebody has? very well, weren’t you rather cross for a minute? confess that you were. my dear, we all are; but it don’t mean anything.”
“no, no, indeed. oh, mr. germain, i don’t know what to do about all this!”
“your duty, my dear, to god and man. it’ll be before you every day: all you have to do is to take it up.”
“yes, yes, i know. but—mr. germain, i’m frightened—really. i’m ignorant and stupid—and of course i’m different from——”
“you’ve a pretty way of confessing it, at any rate,” said the rector. “it will all come right, i hope. you are very quick, i can tell—you’ll learn your lesson in no time. i know you are a charming young lady, and believe a good one. there’s not much more than that in any one that i’ve ever seen in these parts. now don’t be offended with me if i say that you are going to have a good husband, and ask you to deserve him.”
“oh, mr. germain!”—her tears fell freely—“i do want to be good—i do mean to try!”
“bless you, my dear, i’m quite sure of that,” said he, and gave her another kiss.
he told his wife that evening definitely that they must make the best of it, and gave her to understand that john’s wife must be taken at john’s valuation. if john chose to marry a kitchenmaid, that kitchenmaid was ipso facto on the germain level; so also if john had selected an archduchess. a germain could pick up or pull down, said the rector in effect. but he also announced that he should go to town on the morrow—which weakened his decree.
so he did, and was away two days—an interval of time during which mary went grimly about her duties and mrs. germain faced the problem of the cantacutes. this lady may be pitied, who felt her crown slipping and throne rocking on its degrees. her loyalty to the family into which she had been married was sapped; she did not see how germain character was to be admired if it betrayed a germain into such a vagary. her husband, her temperate, frosty james, was involved; for the first time in her life she was tempted to work against him. she could do that, mind you; she had the weapon to her hand, a double-edged tool—tristram. a hint to tristram at pau and he would be here—and once here, should he look upon mary as she believed he would, as the lion on a lamb printed by his paw, why, what chance had john germain against him? that villainy she could practise if she chose; but she knew it was a villainy, and that she was no villain. then there was another way, not villainous—nay, was it not a duty? she could tell john germain what she knew of tristram and hint at more than she knew. a germain would shiver at such a tarnish on his ideal—she could see john shut his eyes as the spasm passed over him; but there was this difficulty about it, that she could not write to him without her husband’s knowledge—nay, without his approbation—whereas, what more natural than that she should deplore with her cousin laura duplessis this miserable state of affairs? mrs. james was no villain; she was merely a proud woman touched on a raw. her security, her comfort, her authority, her self-esteem were all threatened by an act of dotage; what else was this infatuation of john germain’s, pray? and there are sophistries to help the very best of us. had there been nothing between tristram and mary, mrs. duplessis would have been invited to sympathize; and there was nothing, after all. tristram, with his high connexions, his talents, and his superb air—and a little sly teacher! the thing was absurd! fully convinced of its absurdity, mrs. james marched down to the cottage, and found her cousin duplessis arranged on a sofa with a white lace mantilla over her head; her hand-bell in easy call, and a smelling-bottle attached to her wrist by a little chain.
mrs. duplessis had been handsome, and remembered it. everything about her person reminded her of that—her languor, her elegance, her thin hands, her fine complexion, her tall son. “how i survived the birth of that great boy passes my comprehension. my nerves, you know! my dear hector, all fire as he was, had the tact of a woman. ‘m’amie,’ he said, ‘never again; or i accuse myself of murder. hence-forward i am a monk.’ he kept his word, but it killed him. do not men die for women? my poor, brave hector!” apart from these tender reminiscences, she had her poverty to cherish, to tinge with dignity, to show burnished—with a lovely patina like old lacquer. “we live wretchedly, as you can see, my dear soul; but we pay our way and hold our heads up. we only owe to ourselves, and are indulgent creditors. tristram, i suppose will marry: il doit se ranger, vraiment. but he says that we can afford leisure—our only luxury! the good cantacutes are most kind, and hertha a really charming girl. . . . why is it that young men cannot see where their fortune lies? cynicism? arrogance? ingratitude? i ask myself these questions.”
she was enormously interested in the news, and gratified. “my poor soul, what a blow! john germain, of all humdrum persons in the world—and the girl not even pretty, you say. clever, though. have you broken it to emily cantacute? i don’t envy you that task.”
“it’s not done yet,” said mrs. james grimly.
“oh, my dear, but it is,” her cousin replied acutely. “john germain is just the man to be in opposition. pride, you know. we all have that. he would call it chivalry.”
“do you know how far tristram might be concerned in this?” mrs. james inquired shortly; mrs. duplessis narrowed her eyes and slowly shut them.
“tristram never gives confidences,” she said, in a carefully fatigued voice. “on such a matter i had rather he did not.”
mrs. james would have none of this.
“my dear laura, we are alone. i think i know tristram well enough to say that he has interested himself in the girl. no doubt he has flattered her; i think she has been grateful. it would not be surprising if he were unprepared for such a change of affairs.”
“on the contrary,” said mrs. duplessis, “judging by what you seem to think of her, i should imagine that he might be prepared for anything. to be sure, there is john germain——”
“john germain and tristram are not good friends; i happen to know.”
“ah,” said mrs. duplessis, “that throws some light.”
“perhaps it does,” mrs. james returned; “but i should not like to say where it throws it.” she had a shrewd suspicion that she and her cousin might be in the beam. there was a taint in all this.
the rector came back that night greatly bothered. more than once in the course of the evening he threw up his hands. “my poor, good brother! heaven help us all!”
“i found him inalterably fixed,” he told his wife, “and perfectly complacent. his serenity confounded me, put me to shame. he sees his happiness as clearly before him as you see his misery. he loves the child for the very things which you dislike in her. you say that she is common, and i cannot contradict you. he says that simplicity can grace any station. ignorant we call her—he says, it shall be my privilege to teach. you call her sly; he protests. but so is the hunted hare. he says that the thought of a young girl struggling single-handed with a world of satyrs from her sixteenth year freezes his blood. you class her with them: all satyrs together, you say. constantia, i tell you that his folly is more noble than our wisdom. i boast myself a christian, but what am i in truth if not a very pharisee? ‘lord, i thank thee that i am not as one of these’! is this christian?”
“it seems to me common gratitude,” said his wife. “pray, did you tell him that the girl was compromised?” the rector frowned.
“naturally, i did not, since i neither knew it, nor believed it. compromised, constantia! that is a dangerous word to use. that involves a good name.”
“it does indeed, james. it involves ours. i tell you that the girl is stale.” she might as well have shot him—she had never done herself more fatal mischief.
he seemed hardly able to look at her, nor did she know him when he did. “do you dare speak so of any woman born? to the brother of this girl’s—do you dare? you have shocked me beyond expression.”
she was certainly frightened—but she had her duty to do. “i am sorry to have displeased you. i spoke advisedly. i hope that i always do that.”
his pride was stinging him. he spoke now as if he were her enemy—coldly, as if he hardly knew the woman.
“if, as i am bound to believe, you are speaking with knowledge which i do not possess, i must ask you to let me share it. this is a very serious matter both to john and to mary. with whom do you say she is compromised?”
two and two make four, of course—but two shadows and two cannot make four plump facts. mrs. james knew that she had gone too far. she had little but suspicion behind her. “i think that tristram has made love to her,” she said, and rehearsed the scene of the garden. as she put it now, the rector made a wry face.
“this, at its worst, is discreditable to tristram. i see your point now. mary, you suggest, has had experiences. all girls have them, i suppose, and certainly are not always the worse for them. you must have something worse than this to excuse your strong words.”
mrs. james had. she poured out all the garner of a year’s eye-harvest, this young man and that young man—a moonlight encounter—god knows what not. and—“mrs. seacox told me,” she said, “that mary used to be a great deal in the company of young rudd. she had seen them kissing.” a sudden flood of disgust engulfed the rector of misperton brand. he turned shortly on his heel and paced the carpet. midway back he stopped.
“i can’t tell you how i sicken at all this gossip—this traffic of nods and winks. it amounts to little at its worst. i will have no more of it. it is my duty to believe the best of my neighbours; i have not the eyes of mrs. seacox, nor, i hope, her understanding. i believe mary to be a modest and virtuous young woman, and you have told me nothing to vary that opinion. such matters—matters! they are nothing but nasty surmises—are intensely distasteful to me; i will hear no more.” he went into his study and shut the door. all the germains were squeamish.
rather hard on mrs. james. and so was felt to be the result of her elaborate disclosure to the cantacutes. this was that hertha de speyne went down in person and invited the girl to tea—and that lady cantacute called her “a nice little thing.”
