Heriot's Choice Part 46

'Only on the old sore subject. She is very unhappy, Richard; she wants you to go oftener. You do her father good.'

'But she looked pale to-night. She is not in fresh trouble, is she, Aunt Milly?'

'No, only the misunderstanding gets more every day; we must all do what we can to lighten her load.'

Richard made no answer, he seemed thinking deeply; even after Mildred left him he remained in the same place.

'One of these days she must know it, and why not now?' he said to himself, and there was a strange concentrated light in his eyes as he said it.

CHAPTER XIX

THE HEART OF COEUR-DE-LION

'At length, as suddenly become aware Of this long pause, she lifted up her face, And he withdrew his eyes--she looked so fair And cold, he thought, in her unconscious grace.

Ah! little dreams she of the restless care, He thought, that makes my heart to throb apace: Though we this morning part, the knowledge sends No thrill to her calm pulse--we are but Friends!'

Jean Ingelow.

Mildred pondered long and sorrowfully that night over her friend's trouble.

She knew it was no fancied or exaggerated recital of wrongs. The inmates of the vicarage had commented openly on the Squire's changed looks and bearing. His cordiality had always savoured more or less of condescension, but latterly he had held himself aloof from his neighbours, and there had been a gloomy reserve in his manner that had made him well-nigh unapproachable.

Irritable and ready to take offence, and quick to resent even a difference of opinion, he was already on bad terms with more than one of his neighbours. Dr. Heriot's well-deserved popularity, and his plainness of speech, had already given umbrage to his jealous and haughty temperament. It was noticed on all sides that the Doctor was a less frequent visitor at Kirkleatham House, and that Mr. Trelawny was much given to carp at any expressed opinion that emanated from that source.

This was incomprehensible, to say the least of it, as he had always been on excellent terms with both father and daughter; but little did any one guess the real reason of so inexplicable a change.

Ethel was right when she acknowledged that ambition was her father's besetting sin; the petty interests of squirearchal life had never satiated his dominant pa.s.sion and thirst for power. Side by side with his ambition, and narrow aims there was a vacuum that he would fain have filled with work of a broader type, and with a pertinacity that would have been n.o.ble but for its subtle egotism, he desired to sit among the senators of his people.

Twice had he essayed and twice been beaten, and it had been whispered that his hands were not quite clean, with the cleanness of a man to whom corruption is a hideous snare; and still, with a dogged resolution that ought to have served him, he determined that one day, and at all costs, his desire should be accomplished.

Already there were hints of a coming election, and whispered reports of a snug borough that would not be too severely contested; but Mr.

Trelawny had another aim. The Conservative member for the next borough had given offence to his const.i.tuents by bringing in a Bill for the reformation of some dearly-loved abuse. The inhabitants were up in arms; there had been much speechifying and a procession, during which sundry well-meaning flatterers had already whispered that the right man in the right place would be a certain lord of beeves and country squire, to whom the township and people were as dear as though he had first drawn breath in their midst.

Parliament would shortly be dissolved, it was urged, and Mr. Trelawny's chances would be great; already his friends were canva.s.sing on his behalf, and among them Mr. Cathcart, of Broadlands.

The Cathcarts were bankers and the most influential people, and commanded a great number of votes, and it was Edgar Cathcart who had used such strong language against the aforesaid member for meddling with an abuse which had been suffered for at least two hundred years, and was respectable for its very antiquity.

Ethel's refusal of Edgar Cathcart had inflicted a deadly blow to her father's interests, and one that he was never likely to forgive, all the more that he was shrewd enough to suspect that she had not been altogether indifferent to his fascination of manner.

Now above all things he had coveted this man for his son-in-law.

Broadlands and its hereditary thousands would have been no mean match for the daughter of a country squire. With Edgar Cathcart to back him he could have snapped his fingers at the few loyal voters who would have still rallied round their erring townsman, and from a hint that had been lately dropped, he knew the banker was ready at any moment to renew his offer; but Ethel had persisted in her refusal, and bitterly and loudly did her father curse the folly of a girl who could renounce such a position for a mere whim or fancy.

'If you do not love him, whom do you love?' he had said to her, and, courageous as she was, she had quailed before the sneer that had accompanied his words.

But she never guessed the thought that rose in his mind as he said them.

'She has some infatuation that makes her proof against other men's addresses,' he argued angrily with himself. 'No girl in her senses could be blind to the attraction of a man like Edgar Cathcart unless she has already given away her heart. I am not satisfied about this fellow Heriot. He comes here far too often, and she encourages him. I always thought he meant to marry Lambert's prim sister; but he is so deep there is no reading him. I shall have to pick a quarrel to get rid of him, for if he once gets an influence over Ethel, all Cathcart's chances are gone.'

Like many other narrow-minded men, Mr. Trelawny brooded over an idea until it became fixed and ineradicable. Ethel's warm reception of Dr.

Heriot, and her evident pleasure in his society, were construed as so many evidences of his own sagacity and her guilt. His only child and heiress, for whom he had planned so splendid a future, intended to throw herself away on a common country pract.i.tioner; she meant to disgrace herself and him.

The wound rankled and became envenomed, steeping his whole soul in bitterness and discontent. He was a disappointed man, he told himself--disappointed in his ambition and in his domestic affections. He had loved his wife, as such men love, next to himself; he had had a certain pride in the possession of her, and though he had ever ruled her with a rod of iron, he had mingled much fondness with his rule. But she had left him, and the sons, who had been to him as the twin apples of his eyes, had gone likewise. He had groaned and humbled himself beneath that terrible stroke, and had for a little time walked softly as one who has been smitten justly; and the pathos of his self-pity had been such that others had been constrained to feel for him, though they marvelled that his daughter, with the mother's eyes, had so little power to comfort him.

There were times when he wondered also, when his veiled coldness showed rents in it, and he owned to a certain pride in her that was not devoid of tenderness.

For it was only of late that he had fallen into such carping ways, and that the real breach was apparent. It was true Ethel had her mother's eyes, but she lacked her mother's submissive gentleness; never a meek woman, she had yet to learn the softness that disarms wrath. Her open-eyed youth found flaws in everything that was not intrinsically excellent. She canva.s.sed men and manners with the warm injudiciousness of undeveloped wisdom; acts were nothing, motives everything, and no cleanness available that had a stain on its whiteness.

In place of the plastic girlhood he expected, Mr. Trelawny found himself confronted by this daring and youthful Argus. He soon discovered Ethel's inner sympathies were in open revolt against his. It galled him, even in his pride, to see those clear, candid eyes measuring, half unconsciously and half incredulously, the narrow limits of his nature. Whatever he might seem to others, he knew his own child had weighed him in the balance of her harsh-judging youth, and found him wanting.

It was not that her manner lacked dutifulness, or that she ever failed in the outward acts of a daughter; below the surface of their mutual reserve there was, at least on Ethel's part, a deep craving for a better understanding; but even if he were secretly fond of her, there was no denying that Mr. Trelawny was uneasy in her presence; conscience often spoke to him in her indignant young voice; under those shining blue eyes ambition seemed paltry, and the stratagems and manoeuvres of party spirit little better than mere truckling and the low cunning of deceit.

It would not be too much to say that he almost feared her; that there were times when this sense of uncongeniality was so oppressive that he would gladly have got rid of her, when he would rather have been left alone than endure the silent rebuke of her presence. Of late his anger had been very great against her; the scorn with which she had defended herself against his tenacious will had rankled deeply in his mind, and as yet there was no question of forgiveness.

If he could not bend her to his purpose he would at least treat her as one treats a contumacious child. She had spoken words--rash, unadvisable, but honest words--which even his little soul had felt deeply. No, he would not forgive her; there should be no confidence, no loving intercourse between them, till she had given up this foolish fancy of hers, or at least had brought herself to promise that she would give it up; and yet, strange to say, though Dr. Heriot had become a thorn in his side, though the dread of him drove all comfort from his pillow, he yet lacked courage openly to accuse her; some latent sense of honour within him checked him from so insulting his motherless child.

It so happened that on the evening after Mildred's birthday, Dr. Heriot called up at Kirkleatham House to speak to Mr. Trelawny on some matter of business.

Richard was dining there, and Ethel's careworn face had relaxed into smiles at the sight of her favourite; the gloomy room seemed brightened somehow, dinner was less long and oppressive, no awful pauses of silence fell between the father and daughter to be bridged over tremblingly.

Richard's cheerful voice and ready flow of talk--a little forced, perhaps--went on smoothly and evenly; enthusiasm was not possible under the chilling restraint of Mr. Trelawny's measured sentences, but at least Ethel saw the effort and was grateful for it.

Richard was holding forth fluently on a three days' visit to London that he had lately paid, when a muttered exclamation from Mr. Trelawny interrupted him, and a moment afterwards the door-bell rang.

A shade of angry annoyance pa.s.sed over the Squire's handsome, face--his thin lips closed ominously.

'What does he want at this time of night?' he demanded, darting a suspicious glance at Ethel, whose quick ears had recognised the footsteps; her bright flush of pleasure faded away at that wrathful look; she heaved a little petulant sigh as her father left the room, closing the door sharply after him.

'It is like everything else,' she murmured. 'It used to be so pleasant his dropping in of an evening, but everything seems spoiled somehow.'

'I do not understand. I thought Dr. Heriot was so intimate here,'

returned Richard, astonished and shocked at this new aspect of things.

Mr. Trelawny's look of angry annoyance had not been lost on him--what had come to him? would he quarrel with them all? 'I do not understand; I have been away so long, you know,' and unconsciously his voice took its softest tone.

'There is nothing to understand,' replied Ethel, wearily; 'only papa and he are not such good friends now; they have disagreed in politics--gentlemen will, you know--and lately Dr. Heriot has vexed him by insisting on some sanitary reforms in some of the cottages. Papa hates any interference with his tenants, and it is not easy to silence Dr. Heriot when he thinks it is his duty to speak.'

'And sanitary reform is Dr. John's special hobby. Yes, I see; it is a grievous pity,' a.s.sented Richard, and then he resumed the old topic. It was not that he was unsympathising, but he could not forget the happiness of being alone with Ethel; the opportunity had come for which he had longed all last night. As he talked on calmly and rapidly his temples beat and ached with excitement. Once or twice he stole a furtive glance as she sat somewhat absently beside him. Could he venture it?

would not his lips close if he essayed a subject at once so sweet and perilous? As he talked he noted every trick, every gesture; the quaint fashion of her dress, made of some soft, clinging material; it had a Huguenot sleeve, he remembered--for she had told him it was designed from a French picture--and was trimmed with old Venetian point; an oddly-shaped mosaic ring gleamed on one of her long taper fingers and was her only ornament. He had never seen her look so picturesque and yet so sweet as she did that night, but as he looked the last particle of courage seemed to desert him. Ethel listened only absently as he talked; she was straining her ears to catch some sound from the adjoining room.

For once Richard's talk wearied her. How loudly the birds were chirping their good-night--would he come in and wish her good-bye as he used to do, and then linger for an hour or so over his cup of coffee? Hark! that was his voice. Was he going? And, oh! surely that was not her father's answering him.

'Hush! oh, please hush!' she exclaimed, holding out a hand as though to silence him, and moving towards the door. 'Oh, Richard, what shall we do? I knew it would come to this.'

'Come to what? Is there anything the matter? Please do not look so pale over it.' What had she heard--what new vexation was this? But as he stood beside her, even he caught the low, vehement tones of some angry discussion. There was no denying Ethel's paleness; she almost wrung her hands.

'Of course; did I not tell you? Oh, you do not know papa! When he is angry like this, he will say things that no one can bear. Dr. Heriot will never come here again--never! He is quarrelling with all his friends. By and by he will with you, and then you will learn to hate us.'

'No, no--you must not say that,' replied Richard, soothingly. With her distress all his courage had returned. He even ventured to touch her hand, but she drew it quickly away. She was not thinking of Richard now, but of a certain kind friend whose wise counsels she had learnt to value.