WHEN Magdalen and her father met in the shrubbery Mr. Vanstone's face
showed plainly that something had happened to please him since he had
left home in the morning. He answered the question which his daughter's
curiosity at once addressed to him by informing her that he had just
come from Mr. Clare's cottage; and that he had picked up, in that
unpromising locality, a startling piece of news for the family at
Combe-Raven.
On entering the philosopher's study that morning, Mr. Vanstone had found
him still dawdling over his late breakfast, with an open letter by his
side, in place of the book which, on other occasions, lay ready to his
hand at meal-times. He held up the letter the moment his visitor came
into the room, and abruptly opened the conversation by asking Mr.
Vanstone if his nerves were in good order, and if he felt himself strong
enough for the shock of an overwhelming surprise.
"Nerves!" repeated Mr. Vanstone. "Thank God, I know nothing about my
nerves. If you have got anything to tell me, shock or no shock, out with
it on the spot."
Mr. Clare held the letter a little higher, and frowned at his visitor
across the breakfast-table. "What have I always told you?" he asked,
with his sourest solemnity of look and manner.
"A great deal more than I could ever keep in my head," answered Mr.
Vanstone.
"In your presence and out of it," continued Mr. Clare, "I have always
maintained that the one important phenomenon presented by modern society
is--the enormous prosperity of Fools. Show me an individual Fool, and
I will show you an aggregate Society which gives that highly-favored
personage nine chances out of ten--and grudges the tenth to the wisest
man in existence. Look where you will, in every high place there sits
an Ass, settled beyond the reach of all the greatest intellects in
this world to pull him down. Over our whole social system, complacent
Imbecility rules supreme--snuffs out the searching light of Intelligence
with total impunity--and hoots, owl-like, in answer to every form of
protest, See how well we all do in the dark! One of these days that
audacious assertion will be practically contradicted, and the whole
rotten system of modern society will come down with a crash."
"God forbid!" cried Mr. Vanstone, looking about him as if the crash was
coming already.
"With a crash!" repeated Mr. Clare. "There is my theory, in few words.
Now for the remarkable application of it which this letter suggests.
Here is my lout of a boy--"
"You don't mean that Frank has got another chance?" exclaimed Mr.
Vanstone.
"Here is this perfectly hopeless booby, Frank," pursued the philosopher.
"He has never done anything in his life to help himself, and, as a
necessary consequence, Society is in a conspiracy to carry him to the
top of the tree. He has hardly had time to throw away that chance you
gave him before this letter comes, and puts the ball at his foot for the
second time. My rich cousin (who is intellectually fit to be at the tail
of the family, and who is, therefore, as a matter of course, at the head
of it) has been good enough to remember my existence; and has offered
his influence to serve my eldest boy. Read his letter, and then observe
the sequence of events. My rich cousin is a booby who thrives on
landed property; he has done something for another booby who thrives on
Politics, who knows a third booby who thrives on Commerce, who can do
something for a fourth booby, thriving at present on nothing, whose name
is Frank. So the mill goes. So the cream of all human rewards is sipped
in endless succession by the Fools. I shall pack Frank off to-morrow. In
course of time he'll come back again on our hands, like a bad shilling;
more chances will fall in his way, as a necessary consequence of his
meritorious imbecility. Years will go on--I may not live to see it,
no more may you--it doesn't matter; Frank's future is equally certain
either way--put him into the army, the Church, politics, what you
please, and let him drift: he'll end in being a general, a bishop, or
a minister of State, by dint of the great modern qualification of doing
nothing whatever to deserve his place." With this summary of his son's
worldly prospects, Mr. Clare tossed the letter contemptuously across the
table and poured himself out another cup of tea.
Mr. Vanstone read the letter with eager interest and pleasure. It was
written in a tone of somewhat elaborate cordiality; but the practical
advantages which it placed at Frank's disposal were beyond all doubt.
The writer had the means of using a friend's interest--interest of no
ordinary kind--with a great Mercantile Firm in the City; and he had at
once exerted this influence in favor of Mr. Clare's eldest boy. Frank
would be received in the office on a very different footing from the
footing of an ordinary clerk; he would be "pushed on" at every available
opportunity; and the first "good thing" the House had to offer, either
at home or abroad, would be placed at his disposal. If he possessed fair
abilities and showed common diligence in exercising them, his fortune
was made; and the sooner he was sent to London to begin the better for
his own interests it would be.
"Wonderful news!" cried Mr. Vanstone, returning the letter. "I'm
delighted--I must go back and tell them at home. This is fifty times
the chance that mine was. What the deuce do you mean by abusing Society?
Society has behaved uncommonly well, in my opinion. Where's Frank?"
"Lurking," said Mr. Clare. "It is one of the intolerable peculiarities
of louts that they always lurk. I haven't seen _my_ lout this morning.
It you meet with him anywhere, give him a kick, and say I want him."
Mr. Clare's opinion of his son's habits might have been expressed
more politely as to form; but, as to substance, it happened, on that
particular morning, to be perfectly correct. After leaving Magdalen,
Frank had waited in the shrubbery, at a safe distance, on the chance
that she might detach herself from her sister's company, and join him
again. Mr. Vanstone's appearance immediately on Norah's departure,
instead of encouraging him to show himself, had determined him on
returning to the cottage. He walked back discontentedly; and so
fell into his father's clutches, totally unprepared for the pending
announcement, in that formidable quarter, of his departure for London.
In the meantime, Mr. Vanstone had communicated his news--in the first
place, to Magdalen, and afterward, on getting back to the house, to
his wife and Miss Garth. He was too unobservant a man to notice that
Magdalen looked unaccountably startled, and Miss Garth unaccountably
relieved, by his announcement of Frank's good fortune. He talked on
about it, quite unsuspiciously, until the luncheon-bell rang--and then,
for the first time, he noticed Norah's absence. She sent a message
downstairs, after they had assembled at the table, to say that a
headache was keeping her in her own room. When Miss Garth went up
shortly afterward to communicate the news about Frank, Norah appeared,
strangely enough, to feel very little relieved by hearing it. Mr.
Francis Clare had gone away on a former occasion (she remarked), and had
come back. He might come back again, and sooner than they any of them
thought for. She said no more on the subject than this: she made no
reference to what had taken place in the shrubbery. Her unconquerable
reserve seemed to have strengthened its hold on her since the outburst
of the morning. She met Magdalen, later in the day, as if nothing had
happened: no formal reconciliation took place between them. It was one
of Norah's peculiarities to shrink from all reconciliations that were
openly ratified, and to take her shy refuge in reconciliations that were
silently implied. Magdalen saw plainly, in her look and manner, that she
had made her first and last protest. Whether the motive was pride, or
sullenness, or distrust of herself, or despair of doing good, the result
was not to be mistaken--Norah had resolved on remaining passive for the
future.
Later in the afternoon, Mr. Vanstone suggested a drive to his eldest
daughter, as the best remedy for her headache. She readily consented to
accompany her father; who thereupon proposed, as usual, that Magdalen
should join them. Magdalen was nowhere to be found. For the second time
that day she had wandered into the grounds by herself. On this occasion,
Miss Garth--who, after adopting Norah's opinions, had passed from the
one extreme of over-looking Frank altogether, to the other extreme
of believing him capable of planning an elopement at five minutes'
notice--volunteered to set forth immediately, and do her best to
find the missing young lady. After a prolonged absence, she returned
unsuccessful--with the strongest persuasion in her own mind that
Magdalen and Frank had secretly met one another somewhere, but without
having discovered the smallest fragment of evidence to confirm her
suspicions. By this time the carriage was at the door, and Mr. Vanstone
was unwilling to wait any longer. He and Norah drove away together; and
Mrs. Vanstone and Miss Garth sat at home over their work.
In half an hour more, Magdalen composedly walked into the room. She was
pale and depressed. She received Miss Garth's remonstrances with a weary
inattention; explained carelessly that she had been wandering in the
wood; took up some books, and put them down again; sighed impatiently,
and went away upstairs to her own room.
"I think Magdalen is feeling the reaction, after yesterday," said
Mrs. Vanstone, quietly. "It is just as we thought. Now the theatrical
amusements are all over, she is fretting for more."
Here was an opportunity of letting in the light of truth on Mrs.
Vanstone's mind, which was too favorable to be missed. Miss Garth
questioned her conscience, saw her chance, and took it on the spot.
"You forget," she rejoined, "that a certain neighbor of ours is going
away to-morrow. Shall I tell you the truth? Magdalen is fretting over
the departure of Francis Clare."
Mrs. Vanstone looked up from her work with a gentle, smiling surprise.
"Surely not?" she said. "It is natural enough that Frank should be
attracted by Magdalen; but I can't think that Magdalen returns the
feeling. Frank is so very unlike her; so quiet and undemonstrative; so
dull and helpless, poor fellow, in some things. He is handsome, I
know, but he is so singularly unlike Magdalen, that I can't think it
possible--I can't indeed."
"My dear good lady!" cried Miss Garth, in great amazement; "do you
really suppose that people fall in love with each other on account of
similarities in their characters? In the vast majority of cases, they do
just the reverse. Men marry the very last women, and women the very last
men, whom their friends would think it possible they could care about.
Is there any phrase that is oftener on all our lips than 'What can have
made Mr. So-and-So marry that woman?'--or 'How could Mrs. So-and-So
throw herself away on that man?' Has all your experience of the world
never yet shown you that girls take perverse fancies for men who are
totally unworthy of them?"
"Very true," said Mrs. Vanstone, composedly. "I forgot that. Still it
seems unaccountable, doesn't it?"
"Unaccountable, because it happens every day!" retorted Miss Garth,
good-humoredly. "I know a great many excellent people who reason
against plain experience in the same way--who read the newspapers in the
morning, and deny in the evening that there is any romance for writers
or painters to work upon in modern life. Seriously, Mrs. Vanstone, you
may take my word for it--thanks to those wretched theatricals, Magdalen
is going the way with Frank that a great many young ladies have gone
before her. He is quite unworthy of her; he is, in almost every respect,
her exact opposite--and, without knowing it herself, she has fallen
in love with him on that very account. She is resolute and impetuous,
clever and domineering; she is not one of those model women who want a
man to look up to, and to protect them--her beau-ideal (though she may
not think it herself) is a man she can henpeck. Well! one comfort is,
there are far better men, even of that sort, to be had than Frank. It's
a mercy he is going away, before we have more trouble with them, and
before any serious mischief is done."
"Poor Frank!" said Mrs. Vanstone, smiling compassionately. "We have
known him since he was in jackets, and Magdalen in short frocks. Don't
let us give him up yet. He may do better this second time."
Miss Garth looked up in astonishment.
"And suppose he does better?" she asked. "What then?"
Mrs. Vanstone cut off a loose thread in her work, and laughed outright.
"My good friend," she said, "there is an old farmyard proverb which
warns us not to count our chickens before they are hatched. Let us wait
a little before we count ours."
It was not easy to silence Miss Garth, when she was speaking under the
influence of a strong conviction; but this reply closed her lips. She
resumed her work, and looked, and thought, unutterable things.
Mrs. Vanstone's behavior was certainly remarkable under the
circumstances. Here, on one side, was a girl--with great personal
attractions, with rare pecuniary prospects, with a social position which
might have justified the best gentleman in the neighborhood in making
her an offer of marriage--perversely casting herself away on a penniless
idle young fellow, who had failed at his first start in life, and who
even if he succeeded in his second attempt, must be for years to come in
no position to marry a young lady of fortune on equal terms. And there,
on the other side, was that girl's mother, by no means dismayed at the
prospect of a connection which was, to say the least of it, far from
desirable; by no means certain, judging her by her own words and looks,
that a marriage between Mr. Vanstone's daughter and Mr. Clare's son
might not prove to be as satisfactory a result of the intimacy between
the two young people as the parents on both sides could possibly wish
for!
It was perplexing in the extreme. It was almost as unintelligible as
that past mystery--that forgotten mystery now--of the journey to London.
In the evening, Frank made his appearance, and announced that his father
had mercilessly sentenced him to leave Combe-Raven by the parliamentary
train the next morning. He mentioned this circumstance with an air
of sentimental resignation; and listened to Mr. Vanstone's boisterous
rejoicings over his new prospects with a mild and mute surprise. His
gentle melancholy of look and manner greatly assisted his personal
advantages. In his own effeminate way he was more handsome than ever
that evening. His soft brown eyes wandered about the room with a melting
tenderness; his hair was beautifully brushed; his delicate hands hung
over the arms of his chair with a languid grace. He looked like a
convalescent Apollo. Never, on any previous occasion, had he practiced
more successfully the social art which he habitually cultivated--the art
of casting himself on society in the character of a well-bred Incubus,
and conferring an obligation on his fellow-creatures by allowing them to
sit under him. It was undeniably a dull evening. All the talking fell to
the share of Mr. Vanstone and Miss Garth. Mrs. Vanstone was habitually
silent; Norah kept herself obstinately in the background; Magdalen was
quiet and undemonstrative beyond all former precedent. From first to
last, she kept rigidly on her guard. The few meaning looks that she cast
on Frank flashed at him like lightning, and were gone before any one
else could see them. Even when she brought him his tea; and when, in
doing so, her self-control gave way under the temptation which no woman
can resist--the temptation of touching the man she loves--even then,
she held the saucer so dexterously that it screened her hand. Frank's
self-possession was far less steadily disciplined: it only lasted as
long as he remained passive. When he rose to go; when he felt the warm,
clinging pressure of Magdalen's fingers round his hand, and the lock of
her hair which she slipped into it at the same moment, he became awkward
and confused. He might have betrayed Magdalen and betrayed himself, but
for Mr. Vanstone, who innocently covered his retreat by following
him out, and patting him on the shoulder all the way. "God bless you,
Frank!" cried the friendly voice that never had a harsh note in it for
anybody. "Your fortune's waiting for you. Go in, my boy--go in and win."
"Yes," said Frank. "Thank you. It will be rather difficult to go in and
win, at first. Of course, as you have always told me, a man's business
is to conquer his difficulties, and not to talk about them. At the same
time, I wish I didn't feel quite so loose as I do in my figures. It's
discouraging to feel loose in one's figures.--Oh, yes; I'll write and
tell you how I get on. I'm very much obliged by your kindness, and very
sorry I couldn't succeed with the engineering. I think I should have
liked engineering better than trade. It can't be helped now, can it?
Thank you, again. Good-by."
So he drifted away into the misty commercial future--as aimless, as
helpless, as gentleman-like as ever.