Читать книгу Mignonette - Bowen Marjorie - Страница 9

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Francis Shermandine was also concerned with love. He was austere and studious, and had lived in uncommon peace and luxury, indulging all his fastidious tastes and elegant talents, for his uncle, Sir Timothy, had received him into his life and made him his heir. For a long time Sir Timothy had been urging him to marry, he had felt it his duty to obey; now he thought that it might also be his inclination. She might be the woman, he reflected. Barbara Lawne.

She possessed the essential qualities, she was gentle, kind, pliant, well bred, intelligent; her family was "good enough." Sir Timothy had told him that the Lawnes were gentlemen of coat armor before Walter Lawne built Stone Hall and founded the shipping firm.

Also she shared his interests. He was quick to see that her enthusiasm was not feigned, and he knew it was rare to find these inclinations in a woman. His compassion was aroused by her loveliness and her candor. And she was defenseless. In the first few moments, when she had stood by his drawing table, he had guessed all her simple history.

Thus far the musings of Francis Shermandine were prosaic, a mere casting over of worldly prospects, but love was in his mind as powerfully as it was in hers, only whereas she was sure of her need of it and shaken by her secret hope of it, he wondered if it would be any regret if he never felt it, if he never came to feel for Barbara Lawne more than affection and respect.

Francis had always protested Sir Timothy's insistence that he should marry, as his sisters had married, for a fair, honorable settlement in life. He liked work, he liked dreams. But Barbara Lawne had caught his fancy, he might term it that. And Sir Timothy had argued that her request to see Mirabile, her coming suddenly on them in their solitude, had seemed like one of those events that men pride themselves on being the work of destiny. Neither the baronet nor his nephew saw the skillful matchmaking hand of Caroline Atwood in the meeting that seemed to have taken place so casually.

The day and the place had their enchantment for the young man also. He had deliberately brought her to Niton Church in order to provoke the magic of the place.

She did not mar it, for all her ugly black clothes, her old-fashioned jet ornaments. She was delicately colored with the sweet English delicacy, faint tints of amber in her hair, of coral in her lips, of the native hazel nut in her eyes, the endearing, ancient similes were justified in her case. He liked the broad, noble brow, and narrowed lids; her height and proportions were perfect.

Why disappoint the old man any longer? he thought. I shall do no better.

He was not an adventurous or hopeful spirit, and in everything except his special interests, indolent.

Neither was he vain, but he believed that he could make her contented with what he had to offer. He regretted that she had, according to Sir Timothy's vague report, a large fortune, but there were honest ways of disposing of money and he was sure that she would be willing to help him to soften distress. There was so much misery in the world, though he could not face it, the weight of it was always over his spirit, perhaps he could be bolder in enduring the pains of others with this gentle creature's encouragement.

She was walking slowly over the daisies, not troubling him with speech. The amber-colored wallflowers branching out of the stones above her head, the blue speedwell hanging by her hand, above her the sunshine like a canopy of light. He crossed over to her and asked her how long she had lived in Portsmouth. He knew this famous town but slightly.

"All my life. In Stone Hall at Portsea."

"You have an affection for the place?"

"Perhaps. The walk on the ramparts, under the elms, is agreeable in summer, with the view of the Haven and the hills beyond. But the town has so formal an air with so many barracks, government offices, and docks."

"My uncle is growing timber for the navy here, in the island, but I never took any interest in that."

"Oh, then he came to see my father on that business? I thought it was for the figureheads."

"That, too. I know that he has set them up in his grounds at Judith Spinney. He has a fantastic taste. But he is shrewd also, and for any extravagance will earn money from the estate."

"I know nothing about such matters. I am ashamed of that; I have always taken ease, luxury, for granted."

"So have I—as a man I have no excuse. My mother married an officer in the Indian Army, who left me nothing."

They seemed to try to outvie one another in generosity, in disclaiming any merit. They had been idle, dream-ridden, he with his passion for architecture and painting, she with her passive abnegation, he with his uncle's money behind him, she with her father's; for both of them death had made an ample space, removing her brother, sister, mother, his parents, his cousin and aunt, Sir Timothy's children and wife. All the provision these would have enjoyed had they lived had now come to them. They confessed themselves abashed. Barbara had not concerned herself with her father's affairs partly because he had always sternly, even contemptuously, refused to speak of home. When business guests dined at Stone Hall only commonplace was spoken of during the stately meal. Visits to the handsome offices near the quay gates, on the road to the dockyard and the Gun Wharf, were not allowed.

Barbara admitted, also, that the shipping in the harbor did not attract her; the dockyards and wharf represented to her scenes of toil, hardship, and confusion. The ships seen close had a repulsive foulness, the sailors were coarse, ugly, frightening; the buildings of the blockhouse, arsenal, customs, and offices of the various brokers and government, naval and military, grim and depressing. Only when the sailing ships, clippers, men o' war, frigates, and brigs were in the blue purple distance did they appear desirable, romantic.

"I do some charitable work," she explained, half-ashamed of a life that seemed so dull and indolent. "Stone Hall is in St. Peter's Square, near the Gun Wharf, and in the Old Rope Walk is an institute for poor children—" She paused, unable to complete the sentence. She went so seldom to the Old Rope Walk, because she disliked to see the tired faces of the drilled children. She saw that money was sent regularly, her father had always supported all the local charities—but it was easy for rich people to send money. "I mean to do better than I have done!" she exclaimed, startled out of her shyness by the vehemence of her resolution.

This was like a confession of love for him, as if she admitted that he inspired her to try to make something honest of her life, if not noble; she was too timid to aspire to anything other than the commonplace.

Francis Shermandine smiled tenderly. He was touched by her enthusiasm, he believed her to be a faultless creature who had given up the best of her youth in ungrudging service to others. It was he who felt that he was indolent, perhaps useless. He had been waiting too complacently for dead men's shoes. Often he had felt that prick. Sir Timothy was all that was generous but he kept a tight hand on the reins of his own kingdom; each of his estates had a capable steward, and Francis, as heir presumptive, was never allowed to interfere—"You will have more authority when you are married." His uncle would offer this, authority, as a bribe. Francis had often thought, and said, that at fifty-five years of age, Sir Timothy might himself marry again, but the baronet had been harshly emphatic here. "If you have forgotten your aunt, I have not."

"When do you return to Stone Hall?"

"Soon. I have lost my delightful companion, Caroline Atwood."

"You must have a deal of tedious business with Mr. Bompast."

"Yes, and I shall have for some time."

They left the ancient chapel. The air had an added brightness as if the seasons were shifting, spring into summer, at this very moment, and the buds instantly breaking into richer flowers, the trees into stronger leaf, the sky tingeing with a deeper blue.

Why don't I make sure of her now? mused Francis Shermandine. I shall never meet anyone I like better.

But convention hindered him. Their acquaintance was too short; she was so recently bereaved. And in his heart he was sure of her already, her dovelike passivity gave him confidence that she would not resist his sincere offer. Besides, he liked to dally over what was a delightful episode. Though not in love, and aware of this, yet the prospect of marriage with this amiable woman filled him with something of love's tenderness.

"Will you come with me to Quarr Abbey?" he asked. "You might make some sketches."

Barbara knew that she ought to refuse. She flushed with disappointment, like a child who must deny a tempting pleasure.

"Bring your maid and a picnic basket," he added. "And I will ask Sir Timothy to accompany us."

Barbara colored painfully, relieved of her social embarrassment, yet fearful that she had exposed her intense desire for a further meeting. "My mourning," she objected, "it is too soon."

"I am sure that your doctor would advise you to take these little excursions, Miss Lawne. You have been mewed up so long."

"He is not here for me to ask him and I am quite well."

They passed out of the churchyard and he gave, she thought, a sidelong look at the gravestones, from many of which the inscriptions were defaced by spreading orange and silver lichens.

"Will you waste another summer?" he asked in a tone from which all formality had now gone.

This question held, for Barbara, a note of warning. She felt a touch of panic. She must be older than he was, she was not a girl, hardly even young. She had given the dead so much, almost all she had. Perhaps this was her last chance of getting what she wanted most. She also glanced at the gravestones. Life seemed to contract about her. In a short while she also would be gone, and, if she were not courageous, empty handed.

"I shall be pleased to come, of course," she said, without disguise. "You know, I have no other diversion."

"But you hesitate, not being used to making decisions, I know—I feel lethargic, also, but mine is the inertia of the lotus eater, you are merely overtired."

"Oh, I don't think so!" Then, bewildered, like a bird let out of a cage into the sunlight, "How powerful the sun has become—do you notice it?"

"Yes, I like it."

She returned to the carriage while he went to the White Lion for water for her flowers. She felt a passion of gratitude that he had gravely undertaken this foolishness for her, without comment.

It was a pause of pure happiness for her as she watched him from between the linen curtains of the carriage. She forgot to try to hold down her heart; she allowed it to rejoice.

Surely he is—concerned—with me? He is kind, thoughtful; he wants to see me again. Oh, if I could go to Quarr Abbey without this mourning, at least without this heavy veil.

She regarded him with so much gratitude that she forgot also the impiety of disregarding her dead father so soon. Francis Shermandine, she liked the name, and the man's thin face and thick reddish hair, the high nose, and the sensitive mouth, the eyes, very bright for so much poring over drawing and reading, green-brown and humorous under the rather heavy brows. He was well made and easy in his movements, indeed he possessed all the merits she had ever desired in a man. For his qualities, she had a trusting nature, and though she knew evil existed, hardly believed in it; she was prepared to give, humbly, her entire life to this stranger, with complete faith in his virtues. But convention checked her as it had checked him. She instinctively held off anything more than these subtle and delicate promises for the future. The range of her feeling did not include any instant felicity, all was vague, warm, and soothing.

She wished well to all the world, she smiled at the old driver lazily flicking his whip, at the stout little horse stamping the ground, at the children passing along the village street, at the birch trees blowing showers of glistening leaves by the ancient massive font, and her shortsighted eyes peered for further objects of love. She wanted to give money to the man, oats to the horse, sweets to the children, as she had given the costly petticoats to Harding for saying that Francis Shermandine had looked at her alone.

He returned with a wide-mouthed jar full of water and put the drooping orchis in, setting the jar on the floor of the carriage.

"They will soon revive," he said.

She was too pleased to speak as they drove to the Sandyrock Hotel. She smiled faintly, nodding slightly to the sea birds that flew overhead, at the wild roses in the briars in the sheltered hollows of the cliff, at the white butterfly that for an instant rested on her black glove.