CHAPTER XLIV.

EASE NOT PEACE.

“A dull rotation, never at a stay,

Yesterday’s face twin image of to-day.”

COWPER.

“Of what each one should be, he sees the form and rule,

And till he reach to that, his joy can ne’er be full.”

RÜCKERT.

It was very well for Margaret that the extreme quiet of the Harley

Street house, during Edith’s recovery from her confinement, gave her the

natural rest which she needed. It gave her time to comprehend the sudden

change which had taken place in her circumstances within the last two

months. She found herself at once an inmate of a luxurious house, where

the bare knowledge of the existence of every trouble or care seemed

scarcely to have penetrated. The wheels of the machinery of daily life

were well oiled, and went along with delicious smoothness. Mrs. Shaw and

Edith could hardly make enough of Margaret, on her return to what they

persisted in calling her home. And she felt that it was almost

ungrateful in her to have a secret feeling that the Helstone

vicarage—nay, even the poor little house at Milton, with her anxious

father and her invalid mother, and all the small household cares of

comparative poverty, composed her idea of home. Edith was impatient to

get well, in order to fill Margaret’s bed-room with all the soft

comforts, and pretty knick-knacks, with which her own abounded. Mrs.

Shaw and her maid found plenty of occupation in restoring Margaret’s

wardrobe to a state of elegant variety. Captain Lennox was easy, kind,

and gentlemanly; sate with his wife in her dressing-room an hour or two

every day; played with his little boy for another hour, and lounged away

the rest of his time at his club, when he was not engaged out to

dinner. Just before Margaret had recovered from her necessity for quiet

and repose—before she had begun to feel her life wanting and

dull—Edith came downstairs and resumed her usual part in the household;

and Margaret fell into the old habit of watching, and admiring, and

ministering to her cousin. She gladly took all charge of the semblances

of duties off Edith’s hands; answered notes, reminded her of

engagements, tended her when no gaiety was in prospect, and she was

consequently rather inclined to fancy herself ill. But all the rest of

the family were in the full business of the London season, and Margaret

was often left alone. Then her thoughts went back to Milton, with a

strange sense of the contrast between the life there, and here. She was

getting surfeited of the eventless ease in which no struggle or

endeavour was required. She was afraid lest she should even become

sleepily deadened into forgetfulness of anything beyond the life which

was lapping her round with luxury. There might be toilers and moilers

there in London, but she never saw them; the very servants lived in an

underground world of their own, of which she knew neither the hopes nor

the fears; they only seemed to start into existence when some want or

whim of their master and mistress needed them. There was a strange

unsatisfied vacuum in Margaret’s heart and mode of life; and, once when

she had dimly hinted this to Edith, the latter, wearied with dancing the

night before, languidly stroked Margaret’s cheek as she sat by her in

the old attitude,—she on a footstool by the sofa where Edith lay.

“Poor child!” said Edith. “It is a little sad for you to be left, night

after night, just at this time when all the world is so gay. But we

shall be having our dinner-parties soon—as soon as Henry comes back

from circuit—and then there will be a little pleasant variety for you.

No wonder it is moped, poor darling!”

Margaret did not feel as if the dinner-parties would be a panacea. But

Edith piqued herself on her dinner-parties; “so different,” as she said,

“from the old dowager dinners under mamma’s _régime_”; and Mrs. Shaw

herself seemed to take exactly the same kind of pleasure in the very

different arrangements and circle of acquaintances which were to Captain

and Mrs. Lennox’s taste, as she did in the more formal and ponderous

entertainments which she herself used to give. Captain Lennox was always

extremely kind and brotherly to Margaret. She was really very fond of

him, excepting when he was anxiously attentive to Edith’s dress and

appearance, with a view to her beauty making a sufficient impression on

the world. Then all the latent Vashti in Margaret was roused, and she

could hardly keep herself from expressing her feelings.

The course of Margaret’s day was this: a quiet hour or two before a late

breakfast; an unpunctual meal, lazily eaten by weary and half-awake

people, but yet at which, in all its dragged out length, she was

expected to be present, because, directly afterwards, came a discussion

of plans, at which, although they none of them concerned her, she was

expected to give her sympathy, if she could not assist with her advice;

an endless number of notes to write, which Edith invariably left to

her, with many caressing compliments as to her _eloquence du billet_; a

little play with Sholto as he returned from his morning’s walk; besides

the care of the children during the servants’ dinner; a drive or

callers; and some dinner or morning engagement for her aunt and cousins,

which left Margaret free, it is true, but rather wearied with the

inactivity of the day, coming upon depressed spirits and delicate

health.

She looked forward with longing, though unspoken interest to the homely

object of Dixon’s return from Milton; where, until now, the old servant

had been busily engaged in winding up all the affairs of the Hale

family. It had appeared a sudden famine to her heart, this entire

cessation of any news respecting the people among whom she had lived so

long. It was true, that Dixon, in her business-like letters, quoted,

every now and then, an opinion of Mr. Thornton’s as to what she had

better do about the furniture, or how act in regard to the landlord of

the Crampton Terrace house. But it was only here and there that the name

came in, or any Milton name, indeed; and Margaret was sitting one

evening, all alone in the Lennox’s drawing-room, not reading Dixon’s

letters, which yet she held in her hand, but thinking over them, and

recalling the days which had been, and picturing the busy life out of

which her own had been taken and never missed; wondering if all went on

in that whirl just as if she and her father had never been; questioning

within herself, if no one in all the crowd missed her (not Higgins, she

was not thinking of him), when, suddenly Mr. Bell was announced; and

Margaret hurried the letters into her work-basket, and started up,

blushing as if she had been doing some guilty thing.

“Oh, Mr. Bell! I never thought of seeing you!”

“But you give me a welcome, I hope, as well as that very pretty start of

surprise.”

“Have you dined? How did you come? Let me order you some dinner.”

“If you’re going to have any. Otherwise, you know, there is no one who

cares less for eating than I do. But where are the others? Gone out to

dinner? Left you alone?”

“Oh yes! and it is such a rest. I was just thinking—But will you run

the risk of dinner? I don’t know if there is anything in the house.”

“Why, to tell you the truth, I dined at my club. Only they don’t cook as

well as they did, so I thought, if you were going to dine, I might try

and make out my dinner. But never mind, never mind! There aren’t ten

cooks in England to be trusted at impromptu dinners. If their skill and

their fires will stand it, their tempers won’t. You shall make me some

tea, Margaret. And now, what were you thinking of? you were going to

tell me. Whose letters were those, god-daughter, that you hid away so

speedily?”

“Only Dixon’s,” replied Margaret, growing very red.

“Whew! is that all? Who do you think came up in the train with me?”

“I don’t know,” said Margaret, resolved against making a guess.

“Your what d’ye call him? What’s the right name for a cousin-in-law’s

brother?”

“Mr. Henry Lennox?” asked Margaret.

“Yes,” replied Mr. Bell. “You knew him formerly, didn’t you? What sort

of a person is he, Margaret?”

“I liked him long ago,” said Margaret, glancing down for a moment. And

then she looked straight up and went on in her natural manner. “You know

we have been corresponding about Frederick since; but I have not seen

him for nearly three years, and he may be changed. What did you think of

him?”

“I don’t know. He was so busy trying to find out who I was, in the first

instance, and what I was in the second, that he never let out what he

was; unless indeed that veiled curiosity of his as to what manner of man

he had to talk to was not a good piece, and a fair indication of his

character. Do you call him good-looking, Margaret?”

“No! certainly not. Do you?”

“Not I. But I thought perhaps you might. Is he a great deal here?”

“I fancy he is when he is in town. He has been on circuit now since I

came. But—Mr. Bell—have you come from Oxford or from Milton?”

“From Milton. Don’t you see I’m smoke-dried?”

“Certainly. But I thought that it might be the effect of the antiquities

of Oxford.”

“Come now, be a sensible woman! In Oxford, I could have managed all the

landlords in the place, and had my own way, with half the trouble your

Milton landlord has given me, and defeated me after all. He won’t take

the house off our hands till next June twelve-month. Luckily, Mr.

Thornton found a tenant for it. Why don’t you ask after Mr. Thornton,

Margaret? He has proved himself a very active friend of yours, I can

tell you. Taken more than half the trouble off my hands.”

“And how is he? How is Mrs. Thornton?” asked Margaret hurriedly and

below her breath, though she tried to speak out.

“I suppose they’re well. I’ve been staying at their house till I was

driven out of it by the perpetual clack about that Thornton girl’s

marriage. It was too much for Thornton himself, though she was his

sister. He used to go and sit in his own room perpetually. He’s getting

past the age for caring for such things, either as principal or

accessory. I was surprised to find the old lady falling into the

current, and carried away by her daughter’s enthusiasm for

orange-blossoms and lace. I thought Mrs. Thornton had been made of

sterner stuff.”

“She would put on any assumption of feeling to veil her daughter’s

weakness,” said Margaret in a low voice.

“Perhaps so. You’ve studied her, have you? She doesn’t seem over fond of

you, Margaret.”

“I know it,” said Margaret. “Oh, here is tea, at last!” exclaimed she,

as if relieved. And with tea came Mr. Henry Lennox, who had walked up to

Harley Street after a late dinner, and had evidently expected to find

his brother and sister-in-law at home. Margaret suspected him of being

as thankful as she was at the presence of a third party, on this their

first meeting since the memorable day of his offer, and her refusal at

Helstone. She could hardly tell what to say at first, and was thankful

for all the tea-table occupations, which gave her an excuse for keeping

silence, and him an opportunity for recovering himself. For, to tell the

truth, he had rather forced himself up to Harley Street this evening,

with a view of getting over an awkward meeting, awkward even in the

presence of Captain Lennox and Edith, and doubly awkward now that he

found her the only lady there, and the person to whom he must naturally

and perforce address a great part of his conversation. She was the first

to recover her self-possession. She began to talk on the subject which

came uppermost in her mind, after the first flush of awkward shyness.

“Mr. Lennox, I have been so much obliged to you for all you have done

about Frederick.”

“I am only sorry it has been so unsuccessful,” replied he, with a quick

glance towards Mr. Bell, as if reconnoitring how much he might say

before him. Margaret, as if she read his thought, addressed herself to

Mr. Bell, both including him in the conversation, and implying that he

was perfectly aware of the endeavours that had been made to clear

Frederick.

“That Horrocks—that very last witness of all, has proved as unavailing

as all the others. Mr. Lennox has discovered that he sailed for

Australia only last August; only two months before Frederick was in

England, and gave us the names of——”

“Frederick in England! you never told me that!” exclaimed Mr. Bell in

surprise.

“I thought you knew. I never doubted you had been told. Of course, it

was a great secret, and perhaps I should not have named it now,” said

Margaret, a little dismayed.

“I have never named it to either my brother or your cousin,” said Mr.

Lennox, with a little professional dryness of implied reproach.

“Never mind, Margaret. I am not living in a talking, babbling world, nor

yet among people who are trying to worm facts out of me; you needn’t

look so frightened because you have let the cat out of the bag to a

faithful old hermit like me. I shall never name his having been in

England; I shall be out of temptation, for no one will ask me. Stay!”

(interrupting himself rather abruptly). “Was it at your mother’s

funeral?”

“He was with mamma when she died,” said Margaret, softly.

“To be sure! To be sure! Why, some one asked me if he had not been over

then, and I denied it stoutly—not many weeks ago—who could it have

been? Oh! I recollect!”

But he did not say the name; and although Margaret would have given much

to know if her suspicions were right, and it had been Mr. Thornton who

had made the enquiry, she could not ask the question of Mr. Bell, much

as she longed to do so.

There was a pause for a moment or two. Then Mr. Lennox said, addressing

himself to Margaret, “I suppose as Mr. Bell is now acquainted with all

the circumstances attending your brother’s unfortunate dilemma, I cannot

do better than inform him exactly how the research into the evidence we

once hoped to produce in his favour stands at present. So, if he will do

me the honour to breakfast with me to-morrow, we will go over the names

of these missing gentry.”

“I should like to hear all the particulars, if I may. Cannot you come

here? I dare not ask you both to breakfast, though I am sure you would

be welcome. But let me know all you can about Frederick, even though

there may be no hope at present.”

“I have an engagement at half-past eleven. But I will certainly come if

you wish it,” replied Mr. Lennox with a little after-thought of extreme

willingness, which made Margaret shrink into herself, and almost wish

that she had not proposed her natural request. Mr. Bell got up and

looked around him for his hat, which had been removed to make room for

tea.

“Well!” said he, “I don’t know what Mr. Lennox is inclined to do, but

I’m disposed to be moving off homewards. I’ve been a journey to-day, and

journeys begin to tell upon my sixty and odd years.”

“I believe I shall stay and see my brother and sister,” said Mr. Lennox,

making no movement of departure. Margaret was seized with a shy awkward

dread of being left alone with him. The scene on the little terrace in

the Helstone garden was so present to her, that she could hardly help

believing it was so with him.

“Don’t go yet, please Mr. Bell,” said she, hastily. “I want you to see

Edith; and I want Edith to know you. Please!” said she, laying a light

but determined hand on his arm. He looked at her, and saw the confusion

stirring in her countenance; he sate down again, as if her little touch

had been possessed of resistless strength.

“You see how she overpowers me, Mr. Lennox,” said he. “And I hope you

noticed the happy choice of her expressions; she wants me to ‘see’ this

cousin Edith, who, I am told, is a great beauty; but she has the honesty

to change her word when she comes to me—Mrs. Lennox is to ‘know’ me. I

suppose I am not much to ‘see,’ eh, Margaret?”

He joked, to give her time to recover from the slight flutter which he

had detected in her manner on his proposal to leave; and she caught the

tone, and threw the ball back. Mr. Lennox wondered how his brother, the

Captain, could have reported her as having lost all her good looks. To

be sure, in her quiet black dress, she was a contrast to Edith, dancing

in her white crape mourning, and long floating golden hair, all softness

and glitter. She dimpled and blushed most becomingly when introduced to

Mr. Bell, conscious that she had her reputation as a beauty to keep up,

and that it would not do to have a Mordecai refusing to worship and

admire, even in the shape of an old Fellow of a College, which nobody

had ever heard of. Mrs. Shaw and Captain Lennox, each in their separate

way, gave Mr. Bell a kind and sincere welcome, winning him over to like

them almost in spite of himself, especially when he saw how naturally

Margaret took her place as sister and daughter of the house.

“What a shame that we were not at home to receive you,” said Edith.

“You, too, Henry! though I don’t know that we should have stayed at home

for you. And for Mr. Bell! for Margaret’s Mr. Bell——”

“There is no knowing what sacrifices you would not have made,” said her

brother-in-law. “Even a dinner-party! and the delight of wearing this

very becoming dress.”

Edith did not know whether to frown or to smile, but it did not suit Mr.

Lennox to drive her to the first of these alternatives; so he went on.

“Will you show your readiness to make sacrifices to-morrow morning,

first by asking me to breakfast, to meet Mr. Bell, and secondly, by

being so kind as to order it at half-past nine, instead of at ten

o’clock? I have some letters and papers that I want to show to Miss Hale

and Mr. Bell.”

“I hope Mr. Bell will make our house his own during his stay in London,”

said Captain Lennox. “I am only so sorry we cannot offer him a bedroom.”

“Thank you. I am much obliged to you. You would only think me a churl if

you had, for I should decline it, I believe, in spite of all the

temptations of such agreeable company,” said Mr. Bell, bowing all round,

and secretly congratulating himself on the neat turn he had given to his

sentence, which, if put into plain language, would have been more to

this effect: “I couldn’t stand the restraints of such a proper-behaved

and civil-spoken people as these are: it would be like meat without

salt. I’m thankful they haven’t a bed. And how well I rounded my

sentence! I’m absolutely catching the trick of good manners.”

His self-satisfaction lasted him till he was fairly out in the streets,

walking side by side with Henry Lennox. Here he suddenly remembered

Margaret’s little look of entreaty as she urged him to stay longer, and

he also recollected a few hints given him long ago by an acquaintance of

Mr. Lennox’s, as to his admiration of Margaret. It gave a new direction

to his thoughts. “You have known Miss Hale for a long time, I believe.

How do you think her looking? She strikes me as pale and ill.”

“I thought her looking remarkably well. Perhaps not when I first

came—now I think of. But certainly, when she grew animated, she looked

as well as ever I saw her do.”

“She has had a great deal to go through,” said Mr. Bell.

“Yes! I have been sorry to hear of all she has had to bear; not merely

the common and universal sorrow arising from death, but all the

annoyance which her father’s conduct must have caused her, and then——”

“Her father’s conduct!” said Mr. Bell, in an accent of surprise. “You

must have heard some wrong statement. He behaved in the most

conscientious manner. He showed more resolute strength than I should

ever have given him credit for formerly.”

“Perhaps I have been wrongly informed. But I have been told, by his

successor in the living—a clever sensible man, and a thoroughly active

clergyman—that there was no call upon Mr. Hale to do what he did,

relinquish the living, and throw himself and his family on the tender

mercies of private teaching in a manufacturing town; the bishop had

offered him another living, it is true, but if he had come to entertain

certain doubts, he could have remained where he was, and so had no

occasion to resign. But the truth is, these country clergymen live such

isolated lives—isolated, I mean, from all intercourse with men of equal

cultivation with themselves, by whose minds they might regulate their

own, and discover when they were going either too fast or too slow—that

they are very apt to disturb themselves with imaginary doubts as to the

articles of faith, and throw up certain opportunities of doing good for

very uncertain fancies of their own.”

“I differ from you. I do not think they are very apt to do as my poor

friend Hale did.” Mr. Bell was inwardly chafing.

“Perhaps I used too general an expression in saying ‘very apt.’ But

certainly, their lives are such as very often to produce either

inordinate self-sufficiency, or a morbid state of conscience,” replied

Mr. Lennox with perfect coolness.

“You don’t meet with any self-sufficiency among the lawyers, for

instance?” asked Mr. Bell. “And seldom, I imagine, any cases of morbid

conscience.” He was becoming more and more vexed, and forgetting his

lately-caught trick of good manners. Mr. Lennox saw now that he had

annoyed his companion; and as he had talked pretty much for the sake of

saying something, and so passing the time away while their road lay

together, he was very indifferent as to the exact side he took upon the

question, and quietly came round by saying: “To be sure, there is

something fine in a man of Mr. Hale’s age leaving his home of twenty

years, and giving up all settled habits, for an idea which was probably

erroneous—but that does not matter—an untangible thought. One cannot

help admiring him, with a mixture of pity in one’s admiration, something

like what one feels for Don Quixote. Such a gentleman as he was too! I

shall never forget the refined and simple hospitality he showed to me

that last day at Helstone.”

Only half-mollified, and yet anxious, in order to lull certain qualms of

his own conscience, to believe that Mr. Hale’s conduct had a tinge of

Quixotism in it, Mr. Bell growled out—“Aye! And you don’t know Milton.

Such a change from Helstone! It is years since I have been at

Helstone—but I’ll answer for it, it is standing there yet—every stick

and every stone as it has done for the last century, while Milton! I go

there every four or five years—and I was born there—yet I do assure

you, I often lose my way—aye, among the very piles of warehouses that

are built upon my father’s orchard. Do we part here? Well, good-night,

sir; I suppose we shall meet in Harley Street to-morrow morning.”