Mount Royal Volume Ii Part 6

"Jessie is not a hired companion--she is my very dear friend."

"You choose to call her so--but she came to Mount Royal in answer to an advertis.e.m.e.nt, and my mother pays her wages, just like the housemaids.

You would rather roam about with Jessie Bridgeman, getting yourself talked about at every table d'hote in Europe--a prey for every Captain Deuceace, or Loosefish, on the Continent--than you would be my wife, and mistress of Mount Royal."

"Because nearly a year ago I made up my mind never to be any man's wife, Leonard," answered Christabel, gravely. "I should hate myself if I were to depart from that resolve."

"You mean that when you broke with Mr. Hamleigh you did not think there was any one in the world good enough to stand in his shoes," said Leonard, savagely. "And for the sake of a man who turned out so badly that you were obliged to chuck him up, you refuse a fellow who has loved you all his life."

Christabel turned her horse's head, and went homewards at a sharp trot, leaving Leonard, discomfited, in the middle of the lane. He had nothing to do but to trot meekly after her, afraid to go too fast, lest he should urge her horse to a bolt, and managing at last to overtake her at the bottom of a hill.

"Do find some gra.s.s somewhere, so that we may get a canter," she said; and her cousin knew that there was to be no more conversation that morning.

CHAPTER V.

"BUT HERE IS ONE WHO LOVES YOU AS OF OLD."

After this Leonard sulked, and the aspect of home life at Mount Royal became cloudy and troubled. He was not absolutely uncivil to his cousin, but he was deeply resentful, and he showed his resentment in various petty ways--descending so low as to give an occasional sly kick to Randie. He was grumpy in his intercourse with his mother; he took every opportunity of being rude to Miss Bridgeman; he sneered at all their womanly occupations, their charities, their church-going. That domestic sunshine which had so gladdened the widow's heart, was gone for ever, as it seemed. Her son now s.n.a.t.c.hed at every occasion for getting away from home. He dined at Bodmin one night--at Launceston, another. He had friends to meet at Plymouth, and dined and slept at the "Duke of Cornwall." He came home bringing worse devils--in the way of ill-temper and rudeness--than those which he had taken away with him. He no longer pretended the faintest interest in Christabel's playing--confessing frankly that all cla.s.sical compositions, especially those of Beethoven, suggested to him that far-famed melody which was fatal to the traditional cow. He no longer offered to make her a fine billiard-player. "No woman ever could play billiards," he said, contemptuously--"they have neither eye nor wrist; they know nothing about strengths; and always handle their cue as if it was Moses's rod, and was going to turn into a snake and bite 'em."

Mrs. Tregonell was not slow to guess the cause of her son's changed humour. She was too intensely anxious for the fulfilment of this chief desire of her soul not to be painfully conscious of failure. She had urged Leonard to speak soon--and he had spoken--with disastrous result.

She had seen the angry cloud upon her son's brow when he came home from that tete-a-tete ride with Christabel. She feared to question him, for it was her rash counsel, perhaps, which had brought this evil result to pa.s.s. Yet she could not hold her peace for ever. So one evening, when Jessie and Christabel were dining at Trevalga Rectory, and Mrs.

Tregonell was enjoying the sole privilege of her son's company, she ventured to approach the subject.

"How altered you have been lately"--lately, meaning for at least a month--"in your manner to your cousin, Leonard," she said, with a feeble attempt to speak lightly, her voice tremulous with suppressed emotion.

"Has she offended you in any way? You and she used to be so very sweet to each other."

"Yes, she was all honey when I first came home, wasn't she, mother?"

returned Leonard, nursing his boot, and frowning at the lamp on the low table by Mrs. Tregonell's chair. "All hypocrisy--rank humbug--that's what it was. She is still bewailing that fellow whom you brought here--and, mark my words, she'll marry him sooner or later. She threw him over in a fit of temper, and pride, and jealousy; and when she finds she can't live without him she'll take some means of bringing him back to her. It was all your doing, mother. You spoiled my chances when you brought your old sweetheart's son into this house. I don't think you could have had much respect for my dead father when you invited that man to Mount Royal."

Mrs. Tregonell's mild look of reproach might have touched the hardest heart; but it was lost on Leonard, who sat scowling at the lamp, and did not once meet his mother's eyes.

"It is not kind of you to say that, Leonard," she said gently; "you ought to know that I was a true and loving wife to your father, and that I have always honoured his memory, as a true wife should. He knew that I was interested in Angus Hamleigh's career, and he never resented that feeling. I am sorry your cousin has rejected you--more sorry than even you yourself can be, I believe--for your marriage has been the dream of my life. But we cannot control fate. Are you really fond of her, dear?"

"Fond of her? A great deal too fond--foolishly--ignominiously fond of her--so fond that I am beginning to detest her."

"Don't despair then, Leonard. Let this first refusal count for nothing.

Only be patient, and gentle with her--not cold and rude, as you have been lately."

"It's easy to talk," said Leonard, contemptuously. "But do you suppose I can feel very kindly towards a girl who refused me as coolly as if I had been asking her to dance, and who let me see at the same time that she is still pa.s.sionately in love with Angus Hamleigh? You should have seen how she blazed out at me when I mentioned his name--her eyes flaming--her cheeks first crimson and then deadly pale. That's what love means. And, even if she were willing to be my wife to-morrow, she would never give me such love as that. Curse her," muttered the lover between his clenched teeth; "I didn't know how fond I was of her till she refused me--and now, I could crawl at her feet, and sue to her as a palavering Irish beggar sues for alms, cringing and fawning, and flattering and lying--and yet in my heart of hearts I should be savage with her all the time, knowing that she will never care for me as she cared for that other fellow."

"Leonard, if you knew how it pains me to hear you talk like that," said Mrs. Tregonell. "It makes me fearful of your impetuous, self-willed nature."

"Self-will be----! somethinged!" growled Leonard. "Did you ever know a man who cultivated anybody else's will? Would you have me pretend to be better than I am--tell you that I can feel all affection for the girl who preferred the first stranger who came in her way to the playfellow and companion of her childhood?"

"If you had been a little less tormenting, a little less exacting with her in those days, Leonard, I think she would have remembered you more tenderly," said Mrs. Tregonell.

"If you are going to lecture me about what I was as a boy we'd better cut the conversation," retorted Leonard. "I'll go and practise the spot-stroke for half an hour, while you take your after-dinner nap."

"No, dear, don't go away. I don't feel in the least inclined for sleep.

I had no idea of lecturing you, Leonard, believe me; only I cannot help regretting, as you do, that Christabel should not be more attached to you. But I feel very sure that, if you are patient, she will come to think differently by-and-by."

"Didn't you tell me to ask her--and quickly?"

"Yes, that was because I was impatient. Life seemed slipping away from me--and I was so eager to be secure of my dear boy's happiness. Let us try different tactics, Leo. Take things quietly for a little--behave to your cousin just as if there had been nothing of this kind between you--and who knows what may happen."

"I know of one thing that may and will happen next October, unless the lady changes her tune," answered Leonard, sulkily.

"What is that?"

"I shall go to South America--do a little mountaineering in the Equatorial Andes--enjoy a little life in Valparaiso, Truxillo--Lord knows where! I've done North America, from Canada to Frisco, and now I shall do the South."

"Leonard, you would not be so cruel as to leave me to die in my loneliness; for I think, dear, you must know that I have not long to live."

"Come, mother, I believe you fancy yourself ever so much worse than you really are. This jog-trot, monotonous life of yours would breed vapours in the liveliest person. Besides, if you should be ill while I am away, you'll have your niece, whom you love as a daughter--and perhaps your niece's husband, this dear Angus of yours--to take care of you."

"You are very hard upon me, Leonard--and yet, I went against my conscience for your sake. I let Christabel break with her lover. I said never one word in his favour, although I must have known in my heart that they would both be miserable. I had your interest at heart more than theirs--I thought, 'here is a chance for my boy.'"

"You were very considerate--a day after the fair. Don't you think it would have been better to be wise before the event, and not to have invited that c.o.xcomb to Mount Royal?"

He came again and again to the charge, always with fresh bitterness. He could not forgive his mother for this involuntary wrong which she had done to him.

After this he went off to the solitude of the billiard-room, and a leisurely series of experiments upon the spot-stroke. It was his only idea of a contemplative evening.

He was no less sullen and gloomy in his manner to Christabel next morning at breakfast, for all his mother had said to him overnight. He answered his cousin in monosyllables, and was rude to Randie--wondered that his mother should allow dogs in her dining-room--albeit Randie's manners were far superior to his own.

Later in the morning, when Christabel and her aunt were alone, the girl crept to her favourite place beside Mrs. Tregonell's chair, and with her folded arms resting on the cushioned elbow, looked up lovingly at the widow's grave, sad face.

"Auntie, dearest, you know so well how fondly I love you, that I am sure you won't think me any less loving and true, if I ask you to let me leave you for a little while. Let me go away somewhere with Jessie, to some quiet German town, where I can improve myself in music, and where she and I can lead a hard-working, studious life, just like a couple of Girton girls. You remember, last year you suggested that we should travel, and I refused your offer, thinking that I should be happier at home; but now I feel the need of a change."

"And you would leave me, now that my health is broken, and that I am so dependent on your love?" said Mrs. Tregonell, with mild reproachfulness.

Christabel bent down to kiss the thin, white hand that lay on the cushion near her--anxious to hide the tears that sprang quickly to her eyes.

"You have Leonard," she faltered. "You are happy, are you not, dearest, now Leonard is at home again?"

"At home--yes, I thank G.o.d that my son is under my roof once more. But how long may he stay at home? How much do I have of his company--in and out all day--anywhere but at my side--making every possible excuse for leaving me? He has begun, already, to talk of going to South America in the autumn. Poor boy, he is restless and unhappy; and I know the reason.

You must know it too, Belle. It is your fault. You have spoiled the dream of my life."

"Auntie, is this generous, is this fair?" pleaded Christabel, with her head still bent over the pale wasted hand.

"It is natural at least," answered the widow, impetuously. "Why cannot you care for my boy, why cannot you understand and value his devotion?

It is not an idle fancy--born of a few weeks' acquaintance--not the last new caprice of a battered _roue_, who offers his worn-out heart to you when other women have done with it. Leonard's is the love of long years--the love of a fresh unspoiled nature. I know that he has not Angus Hamleigh's refinement of manner--he is not so clever--so imaginative--but of what value is such surface refinement when the man's inner nature is coa.r.s.e and profligate. A man who has lived among impure women must have become coa.r.s.e; there must be deterioration, ruin, for a man's nature in such a life as that," continued Mrs. Tregonell, pa.s.sionately, her resentment against Angus Hamleigh kindling as she thought how he had ousted her son. "Why should you not value my boy's love?" she asked again. "What is there wanting in him that you should treat him so contemptuously? He is young, handsome, brave--owner of this place of which you are so fond. Your marriage with him would bring the Champernowne estate together again. Everybody was sorry to see it divided. It would bring together two of the oldest and best names in the county. You might call your eldest son Champernowne Tregonell."

"Don't, Auntie, don't go on like that," entreated Christabel, piteously: "if you only knew how little such arguments influence me: 'the glories of our rank and state are shadows, not substantial things.' What difference do names and lands make in the happiness of a life? If Angus Hamleigh had been a ploughman's son, like Burns--nameless--penniless--only just himself, I should have loved him exactly the same. Dearest, these are the things in which we cannot be governed by other people's wisdom. Our hearts choose for us; in spite of us. I have been obliged to think seriously of life since Leonard and I had that unlucky conversation the other day. He told you about it, perhaps?"

"He told me that you refused him."