CHAPTER VII

Round under the cliffs by the sea, facing South, are warm seats in

winter. The sun that shines there on a day of frost wraps you as in

a mantle. Here it was that Mr. Herbert Fellingham found Annette, a

chalk-block for her chair, and a mound of chalk-rubble defending her

from the keen-tipped breath of the east, now and then shadowing the

smooth blue water, faintly, like reflections of a flight of gulls.

Infants are said to have their ideas, and why not young ladies? Those

who write of their perplexities in descriptions comical in their length

are unkind to them, by making them appear the simplest of the creatures

of fiction; and most of us, I am sure, would incline to believe in

them if they were only some bit more lightly touched. Those troubled

sentiments of our young lady of the comfortable classes are quite worthy

of mention. Her poor little eye poring as little fishlike as possible

upon the intricate, which she takes for the infinite, has its place in

our history, nor should we any of us miss the pathos of it were it not

that so large a space is claimed for the exposure. As it is, one has

almost to fight a battle to persuade the world that she has downright

thoughts and feelings, and really a superhuman delicacy is required

in presenting her that she may be credible. Even then--so much being

accomplished the thousands accustomed to chapters of her when she is in

the situation of Annette will be disappointed by short sentences, just

as of old the Continental eater of oysters would have been offended at

the offer of an exchange of two live for two dozen dead ones. Annette

was in the grand crucial position of English imaginative prose. I

recognize it, and that to this the streamlets flow, thence pours the

flood. But what was the plain truth? She had brought herself to think

she ought to sacrifice herself to Tinman, and her evasions with Herbert,

manifested in tricks of coldness alternating with tones of regret,

ended, as they had commenced, in a mysterious half-sullenness. She had

hardly a word to say. Let me step in again to observe that she had at

the moment no pointed intention of marrying Tinman. To her mind the

circumstances compelled her to embark on the idea of doing so, and

she saw the extremity in an extreme distance, as those who are taking

voyages may see death by drowning. Still she had embarked.

“At all events, I have your word for it that you don’t dislike me?” said

Herbert.

“Oh! no,” she sighed. She liked him as emigrants the land they are

leaving.

“And you have not promised your hand?”

“No,” she said, but sighed in thinking that if she could be induced to

promise it, there would not be a word of leaving England.

“Then, as you are not engaged, and don’t hate me, I have a chance?” he

said, in the semi-wailful interrogative of an organ making a mere windy

conclusion.

Ocean sent up a tiny wave at their feet.

“A day like this in winter is rarer than a summer day,” Herbert resumed

encouragingly.

Annette was replying, “People abuse our climate--”

But the thought of having to go out away from this climate in the

darkness of exile, with her father to suffer under it worse than

herself, overwhelmed her, and fetched the reality of her sorrow in

the form of Tinman swimming before her soul with the velocity of a

telegraph-pole to the window of the flying train. It was past as soon as

seen, but it gave her a desperate sensation of speed.

She began to feel that this was life in earnest.

And Herbert should have been more resolute, fierier. She needed a strong

will.

But he was not on the rapids of the masterful passion. For though going

at a certain pace, it was by his own impulsion; and I am afraid I must,

with many apologies, compare him to the skater--to the skater on easy,

slippery ice, be it understood; but he could perform gyrations as he

went, and he rather sailed along than dashed; he was careful of his

figuring. Some lovers, right honest lovers, never get beyond this

quaint skating-stage; and some ladies, a right goodly number in a foggy

climate, deceived by their occasional runs ahead, take them for vessels

on the very torrent of love. Let them take them, and let the race

continue. Only we perceive that they are skating; they are careering

over a smooth icy floor, and they can stop at a signal, with just

half-a-yard of grating on the heel at the outside. Ice, and not fire nor

falling water, has been their medium of progression.

Whether a man should unveil his own sex is quite another question. If

we are detected, not solely are we done for, but our love-tales too.

However, there is not much ground for anxiety on that head. Each member

of the other party is blind on her own account.

To Annette the figuring of Herbert was graceful, but it did not catch

her up and carry her; it hardly touched her: He spoke well enough to

make her sorry for him, and not warmly enough to make her forget her

sorrow for herself.

Herbert could obtain no explanation of the singularity of her conduct

from Annette, and he went straight to her father, who was nearly as

inexplicable for a time. At last he said:

“If you are ready to quit the country with us, you may have my consent.”

“Why quit the country?” Herbert asked, in natural amazement.

Van Diemen declined to tell him.

But seeing the young man look stupefied and wretched he took a turn

about the room, and said: “I have n’t robbed,” and after more turns,

“I have n’t murdered.” He growled in his menagerie trot within the four

walls. “But I’m, in a man’s power. Will that satisfy you? You’ll tell

me, because I’m rich, to snap my fingers. I can’t. I’ve got feelings.

I’m in his power to hurt me and disgrace me. It’s the disgrace--to my

disgrace I say it--I dread most. You’d be up to my reason if you had

ever served in a regiment. I mean, discipline--if ever you’d known

discipline--in the police if you like--anything--anywhere where there’s

what we used to call spiny de cor. I mean, at school. And I’m,” said

Van Diemen, “a rank idiot double D. dolt, and flat as a pancake, and

transparent as a pane of glass. You see through me. Anybody could. I

can’t talk of my botheration without betraying myself. What good am I

among you sharp fellows in England?”

Language of this kind, by virtue of its unintelligibility, set Mr.

Herbert Fellingham’s acute speculations at work. He was obliged to lean

on Van Diemen’s assertion, that he had not robbed and had not murdered,

to be comforted by the belief that he was not once a notorious

bushranger, or a defaulting manager of mines, or any other thing that is

naughtily Australian and kangarooly.

He sat at the dinner-table at Elba, eating like the rest of mankind, and

looking like a starved beggarman all the while.

Annette, in pity of his bewilderment, would have had her father take him

into their confidence. She suggested it covertly, and next she spoke of

it to him as a prudent measure, seeing that Mr. Fellingham might find

out his exact degree of liability. Van Diemen shouted; he betrayed

himself in his weakness as she could not have imagined him. He was ready

to go, he said--go on the spot, give up Elba, fly from Old England: what

he could not do was to let his countrymen know what he was, and live

among them afterwards. He declared that the fact had eternally been

present to his mind, devouring him; and Annette remembered his kindness

to the artillerymen posted along the shore westward of Crikswich, though

she could recall no sign of remorse. Van Diemen said: “We have to do

with Martin Tinman; that’s one who has a hold on me, and one’s enough.

Leak out my secret to a second fellow, you double my risks.” He would

not be taught to see how the second might counteract the first. The

singularity of the action of his character on her position was, that

though she knew not a soul to whom she could unburden her wretchedness,

and stood far more isolated than in her Australian home, fever and chill

struck her blood in contemplation of the necessity of quitting England.

Deep, then, was her gratitude to dear good Mrs. Cavely for stepping

in to mediate between her father and Mr. Tinman. And well might she be

amazed to hear the origin of their recent dispute.

“It was,” Mrs. Cavely said, “that Gippsland.”

Annette cried: “What?”

“That Gippsland of yours, my dear. Your father will praise Gippsland

whenever my Martin asks him to admire the beauties of our neighbourhood.

Many a time has Martin come home to me complaining of it. We have no

doubt on earth that Gippsland is a very fine place; but my brother has

his idea’s of dignity, you must know, and I only wish he had been more

used to contradiction, you may believe me. He is a lamb by nature. And,

as he says, ‘Why underrate one’s own country?’ He cannot bear to hear

boasting. Well! I put it to you, dear Annette, is he so unimportant a

person? He asks to be respected, and especially by his dearest friend.

From that to blows! It’s the way with men. They begin about trifles,

they drink, they quarrel, and one does what he is sorry for, and one

says more than he means. All my Martin desires is to shake your dear

father’s hand, forgive and forget. To win your esteem, darling Annette,

he would humble himself in the dust. Will you not help me to bring these

two dear old friends together once more? It is unreasonable of your dear

papa to go on boasting of Gippsland if he is so fond of England, now is

it not? My brother is the offended party in the eye of the law. That is

quite certain. Do you suppose he dreams of taking advantage of it? He

is waiting at home to be told he may call on your father. Rank, dignity,

wounded feelings, is nothing to him in comparison with friendship.”

Annette thought of the blow which had felled him, and spoke the truth of

her heart in saying, “He is very generous.”

“You understand him.” Mrs. Cavely pressed her hand. “We will both go to

your dear father. He may,” she added, not without a gleam of feminine

archness, “praise Gippsland above the Himalayas to me. What my Martin

so much objected to was, the speaking of Gippsland at all when there was

mention of our Lake scenery. As for me, I know how men love to boast of

things nobody else has seen.”

The two ladies went in company to Van Diemen, who allowed himself to

be melted. He was reserved nevertheless. His reception of Mr. Tinman

displeased his daughter. Annette attached the blackest importance to

a blow of the fist. In her mind it blazed fiendlike, and the man who

forgave it rose a step or two on the sublime. Especially did he do

so considering that he had it in his power to dismiss her father and

herself from bright beaming England before she had looked on all the

cathedrals and churches, the sea-shores and spots named in printed

poetry, to say nothing of the nobility.

“Papa, you were not so kind to Mr. Tinman as I could have hoped,” said

Annette.

“Mart Tinman has me at his mercy, and he’ll make me know it,” her father

returned gloomily. “He may let me off with the Commander-in-chief. He’ll

blast my reputation some day, though. I shall be hanging my head in

society, through him.”

Van Diemen imitated the disconsolate appearance of a gallows body, in

one of those rapid flashes of spontaneous veri-similitude which spring

of an inborn horror painting itself on the outside.

“A Deserter!” he moaned.

He succeeded in impressing the terrible nature of the stigma upon

Annette’s imagination.

The guest at Elba was busy in adding up the sum of his own impressions,

and dividing it by this and that new circumstance; for he was totally

in the dark. He was attracted by the mysterious interview of Mrs.

Cavely and Annette. Tinman’s calling and departing set him upon

new calculations. Annette grew cold and visibly distressed by her

consciousness of it.

She endeavoured to account for this variation of mood. “We have been

invited to dine at the house on the beach to-morrow. I would not have

accepted, but papa... we seemed to think it a duty. Of course the

invitation extends to you. We fancy you do not greatly enjoy dining

there. The table will be laid for you here, if you prefer.”

Herbert preferred to try the skill of Mrs. Crickledon.

Now, for positive penetration the head prepossessed by a suspicion is

unmatched; for where there is no daylight; this one at least goes about

with a lantern. Herbert begged Mrs. Crickledon to cook a dinner for him,

and then to give the right colour to his absence from the table of Mr.

Tinman, he started for a winter day’s walk over the downs as sharpening

a business as any young fellow, blunt or keen, may undertake;

excellent for men of the pen, whether they be creative, and produce, or

slaughtering, and review; good, then, for the silly sheep of letters and

the butchers. He sat down to Mrs. Crickledon’s table at half-past six.

She was, as she had previously informed him, a forty-pound-a-year cook

at the period of her courting by Crickledon. That zealous and devoted

husband had made his first excursion inland to drop over the downs to

the great house, and fetch her away as his bride, on the death of her

master, Sir Alfred Pooney, who never would have parted with her in life;

and every day of that man’s life he dirtied thirteen plates at dinner,

nor more, nor less, but exactly that number, as if he believed there

was luck in it. And as Crickledon said, it was odd. But it was always a

pleasure to cook for him. Mrs. Crickledon could not abide cooking for

a mean eater. And when Crickledon said he had never seen an acorn, he

might have seen one had he looked about him in the great park, under the

oaks, on the day when he came to be married.

“Then it’s a standing compliment to you, Mrs. Crickledon, that he did

not,” said Herbert.

He remarked with the sententiousness of enforced philosophy, that no

wine was better than bad wine.

Mrs. Crickledon spoke of a bottle left by her summer lodgers, who

had indeed left two, calling the wine invalid’s wine; and she and her

husband had opened one on the anniversary of their marriage day in

October. It had the taste of doctor’s shop, they both agreed; and as

no friend of theirs could be tempted beyond a sip, they were advised,

because it was called a tonic, to mix it with the pig-wash, so that it

should not be entirely lost, but benefit the constitution of the pig.

Herbert sipped at the remaining bottle, and finding himself in the

superior society of an old Manzanilla, refilled his glass.

“Nothing I knows of proves the difference between gentlefolks and poor

persons as tastes in wine,” said Mrs. Crickledon, admiring him as she

brought in a dish of cutlets,--with Sir Alfred Pooney’s favourite sauce

Soubise, wherein rightly onion should be delicate as the idea of love in

maidens’ thoughts, albeit constituting the element of flavour. Something

of such a dictum Sir Alfred Pooney had imparted to his cook, and

she repeated it with the fresh elegance of, such sweet sayings when

transfused through the native mind:

“He said, I like as it was what you would call a young gal’s blush at a

kiss round a corner.”

The epicurean baronet had the habit of talking in that way.

Herbert drank to his memory. He was well-filled; he had no work to do,

and he was exuberant in spirits, as Mrs. Crickledon knew her countrymen

should and would be under those conditions. And suddenly he drew his

hand across a forehead so wrinkled and dark, that Mrs. Crickledon

exclaimed, “Heart or stomach?”

“Oh, no,” said he. “I’m sound enough in both, I hope.”

“That old Tinman’s up to one of his games,” she observed.

“Do you think so?”

“He’s circumventing Miss Annette Smith.”

“Pooh! Crickledon. A man of his age can’t be seriously thinking of

proposing for a young lady.”

“He’s a well-kept man. He’s never racketed. He had n’t the rackets in

him. And she may n’t care for him. But we hear things drop.”

“What things have you heard drop, Crickledon? In a profound silence

you may hear pins; in a hubbub you may hear cannon-balls. But I never

believe in eavesdropping gossip.”

“He was heard to say to Mr. Smith,” Crickledon pursued, and she lowered

her voice, “he was heard to say, it was when they were quarreling over

that chiwal, and they went at one another pretty hard before Mr. Smith

beat him and he sold Mr. Smith that meadow; he was heard to say, there

was worse than transportation for Mr. Smith if he but lifted his finger.

They Tinmans have awful tempers. His old mother died malignant, though

she was a saving woman, and never owed a penny to a Christian a hour

longer than it took to pay the money. And old Tinman’s just such

another.”

“Transportation!” Herbert ejaculated, “that’s sheer nonsense,

Crickledon. I’m sure your husband would tell you so.”

“It was my husband brought me the words,” Mrs. Crickledon rejoined with

some triumph. “He did tell me, I own, to keep it shut: but my speaking

to you, a friend of Mr. Smith’s, won’t do no harm. He heard them under

the battery, over that chiwal glass: ‘And you shall pay,’ says Mr.

Smith, and ‘I sha’n’t,’ says old Tinman. Mr. Smith said he would have

it if he had to squeeze a deathbed confession from a sinner. Then old

Tinman fires out, ‘You!’ he says, ‘you’ and he stammered. ‘Mr. Smith,’

my husband said and you never saw a man so shocked as my husband at

being obliged to hear them at one another Mr. Smith used the word damn.

‘You may laugh, sir.’”

“You say it so capitally, Crickledon.”

“And then old Tinman said, ‘And a D. to you; and if I lift my finger,

it’s Big D. on your back.”

“And what did Mr. Smith say, then?”

“He said, like a man shot, my husband says he said, ‘My God!’”

Herbert Fellingham jumped away from the table.

“You tell me, Crickledon, your husband actually heard that--just those

words?--the tones?”

“My husband says he heard him say, ‘My God!’ just like a poor man shot

or stabbed. You may speak to Crickledon, if you speaks to him alone,

sir. I say you ought to know. For I’ve noticed Mr. Smith since that day

has never looked to me the same easy-minded happy gentleman he was when

we first knew him. He would have had me go to cook for him at Elba, but

Crickledon thought I’d better be independent, and Mr. Smith said to me,

‘Perhaps you’re right, Crickledon, for who knows how long I may be among

you?’”

Herbert took the solace of tobacco in Crickledon’s shop. Thence, with

the story confirmed to him, he sauntered toward the house on the beach.