CHAPTER VIII

While the coldly gay circle were endeavouring—as most people do who discuss the problems of life—to display their own cleverness in whirling round the topic of the moment, Mr. Long and Miss Linley were walking on through Sydney Gardens, neither of them so much as glancing behind them to observe what had become of Mathews.

The expression of apprehension which had made Betsy’s face pale with the pink pallor of the blanch rose while Mr. Long was threatening Mathews, had not quite vanished. She seemed to feel that all cause for apprehension had not passed. Remembering the wild, savage way in which he had addressed her—his furious threats and his fierce passion, it seemed to her quite a miracle that he did not fly at Mr. Long’s throat before the latter had completed the sentence that he uttered, while grasping his cane in that expressive way which had so appealed to the imagination of Garrick. She had ever sought to allay by considerate words the anger which Mathews had shown upon several occasions when she had apparently favoured other suitors; her whole aim was to prevent his quarrelling openly with any of her friends, forcing them to fight him; and she had been successful in her aims to quite a remarkable degree. She was thus amazed to find that, when Mr. Long assumed the aggressive attitude, Mathews, so far from showing any disposition to fly at his throat, became absolutely passive.

It was too much for her to believe all at once, that Mathews had no intention of resenting the threats of Mr. Long; he might, she felt, be too greatly astonished at the adoption of such an attitude by an elderly man to be able to respond in his own way; but he would assuredly recover himself in a few moments, and then....

She glanced behind her and saw that the man was actually hurrying away in the direction of a distant exit from the gardens beyond the maze; and then the expression of terror which had been on her face gave way to one of astonishment. She looked at the man beside her; he was smiling quite benignly. She smiled too at his smiling.

“I cannot understand,” she cried, after giving a sigh of relief—“I cannot understand how you succeeded with him. I felt sure when you had spoken that he would.... Oh, he never spoke to me unless to utter a threat, and yet——”

“And yet he became amenable in a moment to the force of one insignificant threat on my part,” said he, when she made a pause. “Ah, dear child, you have no need to be astonished at so simple a matter. The one argument which the habitual biter appreciates to the full is the bite, therefore one should make one’s teeth meet upon his flesh, and all will be well. There is no need to be surprised at the sudden departure of this fellow; what should cause surprise is his appearance in your society. Pray, how did he ever contrive to gain such a degree of intimacy with you as enabled him to address you as he did?”

“What! is he not an officer and a gentleman of property?” cried Betsy.

“He is both. Was no further passport necessary to obtain his admission to your father’s house?” asked Long.

She shook her head.

“I am afraid that my father has never been very particular in the matter of admitting people to our house,” she replied. “Ah! that is one of the most distressing things about our life—the life of people who are dependent on the good-will of the public for their daily bread: we cannot afford to offend any one.”

“You are thereby deprived of one of the greatest luxuries in life—the pleasure of offending the offensive,” said he, smiling. “But quite apart from being cut off from this enjoyment, I really fail to see how your father’s profession —and yours—gives the right to every adventurer to your society. It is one thing to be debarred the privilege of hurting the feelings of those who should be subjected to such treatment, and quite another to admit to your house every visitor who may come thither with no further credentials than his own impudence.”

“That is what I have always felt,” said she. “I have felt that that is one of the greatest hardships of our life. But all our life is made up of these things from which I shrink. Ah, I told you all this long ago.”

“Yes, I shall not soon forget the hour when you opened your own sweet maiden heart to me,” said he. “I had long been lost in admiration of your beauty and the unspeakable charm of your singing. I fancied more than once, however, that I noticed in your manner a certain shrinking from the favours which the public are ever ready to fling upon their favourites—yes, for a time, until a fresher favourite comes before them. I felt that that expression of timidity was the one thing by which your beauty was capable of being enhanced, but I never doubted for a moment that your shrinking from the gaze of the public was part of your nature.”

“It is indeed an unhappy part of my nature; but I have not been deaf to the cruel comments which some people have made upon me in that respect,” said she, and her face became roseate at the recollection of how her timidity had been referred to as affectation.

“I have heard such comments too; they came from women who were overwhelmed by their jealousy of your beauty and your genius.”

“Ah, no, not genius—I have no genius. My brother has genius. I know what it is to have genius. Tom tells me that he is in no way impressed by the presence of thousands listening to his playing on his violin. Mr. Garrick—he, too, has genius, and he has acted for Polly and myself quite as grandly as I have ever seen him act in his own play-house.”

“Your definition of genius is founded on a somewhat arbitrary basis, my dear. Indifference to the public does not invariably indicate genius. I have heard it said by some who know, that David Garrick spends the first ten minutes of his appearance on the stage every night calculating the sum of money there is in the house. That is beside the question. If you are not in the possession of genius, you have at your command a possession even more subtle, more delicate, purer—you have the sweetest soul that ever lived in woman, and every time you sing you communicate some portion of it to your hearers.”

She looked at him with some apprehension in her eyes.

“You promised me that I should never be forced to sing in public again,” she said. “Oh, surely you are not now going to tell me that you take back your promise?”

“Nay, nay, let no such apprehension weigh upon you, dear child,” said he. “Our conversation has drifted far from its starting-place. We were talking about that Mathews, and how easily he obtained admission to your father’s house. I wonder should I be wrong if I were to suggest that he was the suitor who found most favour in the eyes of your father?”

“For a time, only for a time,” she cried quickly, as if anxious to exculpate her father. “When my father became aware of how distasteful Mr. Mathews was to me, he ceased urging me to accept his proposals. Oh, I can assure you that my father has never been anxious for me to marry any one.”

“I can well believe that,” said Long drily. Only a day had passed since he had been sitting at a desk opposite to Mr. Linley, while the latter explained to him, by the assistance of certain memoranda on a sheet of paper, the exact amount of loss per annum, worked out to shillings and pence, that the withdrawal of Betsy from the concert platform would mean to her father. Mr. Long had been greatly interested in the calculation, for it represented the sum which he had agreed to pay to the devoted father by way of compensation for the loss of his daughter’s services. “And you—you have never been anxious to marry any one?” he added.

There was a little pause before she said:

“I have never been strongly tempted. I have never had a sleepless night thinking what answer I should give to the gentlemen who were good enough to ask me to marry them.”

“I feel flattered, my dear one,” said he.

“Oh no, you have no need to do so,” she cried almost eagerly, and he perceived that she had a conscientious fear of his assuming that she had disregarded many eligible suitors in favour of himself. “Oh no, indeed! I do not believe that there was any offer made to me that caused me a great pang to decline. Of course I was sorry—yes, once or twice, when I really felt that they truly loved me; but—— Oh, why should I have accepted any of them when to do so would only mean adding to my fetters?”

“Ah, why indeed? A husband is sometimes a harder taskmaster than a father. Even with your small experience of life, you must have perceived this. Well, so much for the men who professed to love you; but you must know that when we have talked about them we have dealt with one class only; we have not yet touched upon those whom you loved.”

Her face had become roseate, and it wore a troubled expression. He laughed, and she saw that the expression on his face was that of a man who is amused. Her quick ear had told her that there was no note of jealousy in his laugh.

“Pray forgive me, my dear,” he said. “Be assured that I have no intention of extorting any confession from you. Believe me, my child, I am glad of the evidence which you have given me—that sweet confusion—that sweeter blush—of your having the heart of a girl. ’Tis as natural for a girl to love as it is for her to laugh. If you had assured me that you had never loved, I feel that I should not love you as I do at this moment—as I have loved you from the first moment that I looked upon your dear face.”

“Ah, sir, I pray to God that I may one day love you as you should be loved!” she cried, and he saw that tears were in her eyes.

“As I should be loved—I ask nothing more,” he said. “That is what has always been in my mind with regard to you. Have you marvelled that I have not yet asked you to love me? I refrained, because I had told you that my sole hope in regard to yourself was to make you happy; and I knew that I should be making you unhappy if I were to impose upon you the duty of loving me. Such curious creatures we are, that when love exists only as a duty it ceases to be love. I pray to Heaven, Betsy, that you may never come to think that it is your duty to love any one—even a husband.”

“Ah, you are too good to me—too considerate!” she cried. “Every time that you speak to me as you have just spoken, you overwhelm me with remorse.”

“With remorse? Does that mean that you love some one else?”

“It means that I do not love you as I should—as you expect to be loved—as you have a right to expect that I should.”

“Ah, dear girl, how do you know how I expect to be loved?”

“I know well how you should be loved, and I fear that I have deceived you.”

“Nay, I never asked you if you loved me. If I had done so, and you had answered ‘Yes,’ you would have made at least an attempt to deceive me. I do not say, mind you, that I would have been deceived. I have been speaking just now of what is natural in a girl. Do you think that I fancy it is natural in a girl who is not yet twenty to fall in love with a man who is more than thrice her age?”

“Surely ’tis not impossible?”

“Ah, the little note of hope that I detect in your inquiry shows me how conscientious a young woman you are—how determined you are to give me every chance, so to speak. But I do not wish you to think of me in that way. I do not want you to try to love me.”

“Not to try to love you—not to try?”

“Even so; because love to be love must come without your trying to love. Is that too hard a saying for you, Miss Betsy?”

“It is not too hard a saying; what is hard is the matter to which it refers—you would not have me do my best to love you?”

“Even so. Do you believe that you will find it so very hard to refrain from such an attempt?”

“I have promised to marry you.”

“And, believe me, I would not have you keep your promise unless you are sure that you can love me without trying. You must try not to try.”

She gave a laugh, but checked it abruptly before it had run its course. She became graver than ever as she walked along by his side. She was silent, and there was a dimness over her eyes which made their liquid depths seem more profound.

“Pray tell me what there is on your mind, my Betsy,” he said. “Tell me, what is the thought which weighs upon you?”

“Alas!” she cried, “I did not know that you were so good a man.”

“Nor am I,” he said. “Believe me, I am not nearly so good as that; but even if I were, is that any reason why the reflection should weigh you down, or cause your eyes to become tremulous?”

She shook her head, but made no attempt to speak.

He did not urge her to speak. They had reached a green lane just outside the gardens—a graceful acknowledgment of the privileges of Nature on the outskirts of artificiality. There was a warm sigh of wild thyme in the air. A bee hovered drowsily upon the scent. Two yellow butterflies whirled in their dance above a bank of primroses.

He pointed them out to her.

“The butterflies have an aëry dance of their own, and so have the dragon-flies,” he said. “I have watched them by my lake. Did I tell you that there is a tiny lake in my grounds? One can see its gleam from the windows of the house. It is pleasant to stand at the top of the terrace-steps and look across the greensward to the basin of my lake. Very early in the summer morning the deer come to drink there; I have seen the graceful creatures trooping through the dawn, and every now and again a hind would stop for a moment to scratch its neck with a delicate hind-foot, and then bound onward to join its brethren.”

Still she did not speak. The butterflies fluttered past her face, but she did not follow them with her eyes.

“Sweet one, I grow alarmed,” he said; “pray tell me all that is on your mind—in your heart. I think I can promise you that its weight will be lessened when you have told me of it.”

“Alas!” she said, “nothing can lessen my fault—my shame.”

“That is a word which I will not allow any one to speak in connection with you,” he said. “You cannot frighten me, my dear; I have looked into your eyes.”

“I have been guilty—I am ashamed. I gave you my promise, not because I loved you, or because I hoped to love you, but solely because singing in public had become so great a terror to me that I welcomed the earliest chance that came of freeing myself. Let me take back my promise. I am unworthy of so good a man.”

“And that is your whole confession?”

“Ah! is it not enough? I tell you that I gave you my promise only because I was selfish. I was ready to sacrifice you so that I might gain my own ends.”

“Ah, surely that were to pay too heavy a price for your freedom!” said he. “What! you were willing to submit to the rule of an elderly and arbitrary husband so that you might escape from the irksome flatteries of the crowds of discriminating people who have always delighted to do you honour? Do you wonder that I ask you if you do not think that you offered too high a price for what you hoped to gain?”

“Oh, if you could but know what I have felt, what I still feel about this life which I have been forced to lead, you would pity me and perhaps forgive me for the wrong which I offered to you! But no one seems to understand that it is just because I feel singing to be so great a gift, so divine a gift, that I shrink from exercising whatever of that gift has been given to me by God, only for the amusement of people who are incapable of understanding anything of the beauty—of the real meaning of music. Oh, I tell you, Mr. Long, I have felt, every time I have sung for such people, as if I were guilty of a great profanation of something that is quite holy. Indeed, I tell you the truth, and, knowing it, I think that you will forgive me for promising to marry you in order to escape from a life that had become quite intolerable to me.”

She had put out an appealing hand to him, speaking her last sentence, and he took it in both his own hands, looking tenderly into her face.

“My child,” he said, “your confession reveals nothing to me. Can you fancy for a moment that I have lived in the world for sixty years and yet believe that I could be attractive to a young girl full of a young girl’s dreams of the joy of life, which is the joy of love? Some men of my age undoubtedly are capable of cherishing such an illusion. People refer to them as ‘old fools.’ I think that within the past two days I have noticed on many faces the expression—a mingling of amusement and indignation—worn by the faces of people who have just exclaimed, or who are about to exclaim, ‘Old fool!’ Well, I may be an old fool for trying an experiment which involves the assumption that looking at happiness through another man’s eyes is in itself the truest form of happiness; but however this may be, I was not so senile as to believe that when you honoured me by accepting my offer, you loved me with the natural love of a young girl for a young man. You confided in me upon one occasion when I pressed you to answer some questions which I ventured to put to you, that it was a torture to you to face the public, and that you were awaiting the return of your brother from Italy, in great hope that he would be able to persuade your father to permit your withdrawal from a career which, however brilliant it promised to be, was more than distasteful to you. I confess to you, my dear, that I thought I saw my chance in this circumstance, and I too awaited the return of your brother with great interest. I knew that I had it in my power to save you from all that you dreaded, and also to save you from all that I dreaded—to save you from becoming the victim of some such unscrupulous fellow as that Mathews. Well, I have great hope that all I thought possible will be accomplished. So far, I can assure you, I am satisfied with the progress of events toward the end which I have always had in view—that end being to make you happy.”

“But I want to make you happy; you are so good—so noble.”

“I know you do, my child, and I have let you into the secret of the only way by which you can make me happy.”

“Oh no, no! you have not said a word about your own happiness—you have talked about nothing but mine.”

“Dear child, in talking about your happiness I have talked about my own. In endeavouring to compass your happiness I have been altogether selfish, for I have been seeking to realise my own. Now, my sweet one, we shall talk no more on this subject. I only ask you to remember that my aim is to see you happy. In what direction you may find that happiness is a question which I dare not try to answer for you; you will have to work out the answer for yourself.”

He stooped over her hand and raised it to her lips. But hers lay limp in his own. She gave him the idea that she did not quite accept this closure of their conversation.

“You have not made me understand all that I think I should know,” she said. “My mind is still vague; you have not even said that you forgive me for deceiving you, for agreeing to marry you when all that I hoped for was, not to make you happy, but to escape from the life which I was forced to lead.”

“I positively refuse to say another word,” he cried.

“But you forgive me—can you?”

“I could forgive you anything, my dear, except your persistency in the belief that you stand in need of my forgiveness. Now we must hasten on to our destination; and if you see any of the modish people nudge each other whispering, ‘Old fool!’ as we pass, you will only smile, knowing as you now do that they are the fools and that I am none.”

She did not move from where she was standing, and a puzzled expression was on her face—an unsatisfied expression—not, however, quite a dissatisfied one. Once or twice her lips parted as if she were about to speak, but some minutes had passed before she found her voice; then she said:

“I do not understand more than one thing, and that is that you are the best and noblest man who lives in the world, and that I shall never deceive you.”

“It is not in your nature to deceive any one,” said he. “Some people—they are, however, few—are so gifted by nature.”