Читать книгу Why Paul Ferroll Killed his Wife - Caroline Clive - Страница 6

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LAURA'S anger and jealousy were almost more than she could bear. She learned to know that beating heart, that dry mouth, that distaste to food, that early waking and no more falling asleep, which make up the personal sufferings of mental anguish. She had to talk, to listen, to make music, while intensely preoccupied; and she had the pain of perceiving that Leslie grew more and more indifferent to keeping up the appearances of devotion to herself, and became, like her, absorbed by one object, but that object was not Laura Chanson.

Little incidents of this kind altered the position of the three persons whom we have presented to the reader. From a forlorn stranger, Elinor began to feel herself familiarised with persons and things, and to be aware that many were more favourable to her than the mistress of the house, whom she had looked upon as about to take the place of the Superior in her Convent.

Leslie, who had thought of nothing but amusing himself for a month or so, gradually found himself interested in a pursuit, which, at present, had the charm of novelty in the object, besides its difficulty. He reflected as little on the suffering he might inflict on the person to whom he had hitherto devoted himself, as on those which in future he might leave with the defenceless girl whom he at present worshipped; meantime, the suffering which Laura endured was very real, whether she were justified in having exposed herself to it or not. The young girl who had unconsciously taken her place was hateful to Laura; it was difficult to keep up the appearance of interest and tender protection which had been their first relation to each other. She justified her altered feelings to herself by saying that severity was necessary to teach Elinor something of the ways of the world she had to move in, and to correct the mistakes into which her Convent life led her; and, in fact, Elinor had great need of superintendence; for with all her early impressions wrecking around her, she did not know to what to cling, or where to stop, or how go back. They had laughed at her prudery, and in the innocence of her nature she did not now know what difference to make between Leslie and Laura; between Mr. Chanson, her elderly guardian, and Leslie, her young adorer. That Leslie was more good-natured to her than anybody else she was certain, and if she wanted any advice or service, she supposed that she might as well ask him for either; not to ask him would show that long-taught horror of man which she haft just recently been made ashamed of.

In this embarrassment of perception she, one morning, brought into the library a heavy packet, containing letters which she had written to her Convent; and the first person from whom she made an inquiry how to effect its transmission, was Laura. But Laura was supercilious.

"Leave it on the table, child, with the other letters. There is no need to make a fuss about posting a letter."

Elinor coloured and did as she was bid. But she was not satisfied, and after a short, silent bit of doubt, she looked round for some kinder listener, and turning her shy eyes to Mr. Leslie, saw that though he had a book in his hand, and his head was bent towards it, he was, in fact, looking at her. Elinor's colour rose again, for shame that she had been ashamed to appeal at once to him; and avoiding the appearance of mistrust for which she had been laughed at, she smiled directly that she caught his glance, and went up to him as if he had been Sister Françoise or Sister Jeanne, and in a very low voice asked him what she should do. He was fully disposed to make it a serious affair, that he might be able to confer an obligation by arranging it, and rising, took it (Elinor following him) into the recess of the window and there examined the packet.

"It will not go by the post without a little trouble," said he; "it weighs, I should think, six ordinary letters."

"I dare say; for I have written to so many of them," said Elinor.

"It must be paid before it leaves England," said Leslie. "The postman will not know how much to charge. We ought to put it into the office ourselves."

"How can I do that? It is so far to the town," said Elinor.

"Is not it possible Miss Chanson may intend to drive or ride there?" suggested Leslie.

"Shall I ask her?"

"Do;" and he watched her timid advance to Laura, whom she instinctively began to feel was not likely to look very benignantly on a request of her's.

"No, it's not possible," he heard Laura say, and he concluded that she had heard the words which he himself had used. Laura said nothing more, for or against, and went on reading her book, the pages of which she turned tempestuously. Elinor said nothing, but again looked to Leslie, who, by a gesture, invited her to return to the window.

"If you will trust me," said he, "I have thought how to manage it; since there is no chance of Miss Chanson going to the post town, I will ride over there at once, and if I go quickly, I shall be in time for the foreign mail which goes out this morning."

"Does it?" said Elinor.

"Yes, I feel quite sure of that, and I will post and pay your letter, and make it quite sure of reaching the hands of these dear Sisters."

"Oh, will you?" said Elinor; "how very good-natured you are. Only do you not want to do something else? I am afraid this is so much trouble."

"No, a pleasure," said Leslie; then moderating his tone, he added, "I like an early ride; I want one to put me in high force this morning."

"That's very lucky," said the literal Elinor. "Tell me what it will cost," and she took out her purse. Leslie's heart smote him he saw that slender purse so slenderly provided. It was too much in keeping with the defenceless state and nature of that fair piece of human porcelain.

"Oh, not much. I will take care it goes safely."

"But I must pay it," said Elinor, earnestly. "The Reverend Mother told me never to run in debt, especially..."

"To the monster man," said Leslie, finishing the phrase she broke off, and smiling.

Elinor again was ashamed of a good lesson. She did not know what guidance to follow; plainly she felt herself laughed at, and that was painful. She slid back her purse into the pocket of her apron, and stood again like a puzzled, penitent child.

"Such a nothing of a debt," said Leslie, "only give me the letter." He took it, and moving away to Mr. Chanson's room, which opened from the library, asked him if he could have a horse, and then returning, told Laura he was going to Cantleton and inquired if he could do anything for her.

"I thought," said Laura, smiling painfully, "we were all to ride to the Hollow Glen."

"True, I had forgotten; but it will make no difference will it, if I am absent?"

"None," said Laura, "of course. One's guests, of course, amuse themselves if their host cannot do it."

Leslie gave a deprecating "No, no;" and added, "Guests who do that, are not worthy of being received; but I really have a little business."

Laura laughed scornfully, she could not repress her irritation. "Selfish business, purely?" said she, interrogating.

Elinor heard all this and was very much grieved that his good-nature to her should bring this reproach upon him. She knew it was wrong to let another suffer in one's place and spoke bravely out.

"He is not selfish, he is going to take care of my letter."

Leslie himself coloured at this sudden shifting of the ground under his feet, and Laura burst into that insolent laugh which bows down all but such as can laugh insolently in return. The moisture which precedes tears came into Elinor's eyes. She turned partly away, and Leslie could not but gaze on the innocent pretty picture she made.

"Don't let me detain you, Mr. Letter-carrier," said Laura. "I was not aware of your new office. You came here as an independent gentleman, but a new character..."

"Does what?" said Leslie, after a silent pause.

"Nay, nothing at all—only I thought you were not listening to me, your attention seemed elsewhere."

"Oh! don't doubt that whatever Miss Chanson says, or even hints, has my best attention and consideration. I'll go now—pray excuse me."

"By all means. I wish you to...do as you like," said Laura, abruptly; and he saw her lip tremble.

"Poor Elinor!" thought he, looking back, "what will you make of the scolding you are about to get." And a scolding it was, indeed. Not that Laura intended it when she began, but she lost her self-command as she talked; and the anguish which she endured, through Elinor, made her blind to the innocence, and deaf to the guileless purity of the young girl.

"I don't know, Elinor," she began, "whether you think it quite proper to send one's acquaintances all over the country on your errands; for my part, I know I should be heartily ashamed of doing so."

"Oh, my dear Miss Chanson, was it wrong?"

"Heartily ashamed, that's all I can say; and so would any one with the least sense of decency," said Laura, beginning to tremble. "But you have your own notions, doubtless."

"No, indeed, indeed!"

"And to give yourself such airs in another person's house—commanding everything as if it were your own, and more than if it were your own. The horses, the servants, the very guests, all to be at your command. You are to send our guests just to carry your letters to the post. I think what serves our letters might serve yours."

"I wish I had known—I am very, very sorry."

"What made you fix on Mr. Leslie for your confidant, pray. Was it because you found him here, interested...I mean that you thought him not likely to devote himself sufficiently to your superior merits, unless specially invited. You need not cry, it is no use to pretend one thing and do another; men are always taken in by anybody who gives themselves the trouble, and for my part, I warn you that they will only despise you, they will find out...in fact, I see through you as if you were glass."

"I wish I could see myself and know how I have offended you," said Elinor, weeping.

"Me offended! oh, dear me, not I! Mr. Leslie is as perfectly indifferent to me, as you are. I only warn you for your own sake that you are acting as not another young girl in all the whole of England would dare to act."

So saying, Laura fled from the room, for she could contain herself no longer; and while Elinor wept silently in the library, Laura sobbed aloud in her boudoir, the door of which she had banged behind her and fastened with a double turn of the key.

Elinor had a guiltless conscience in her favour, and recovered first; but she was very unhappy, and being ignorant as to what she had done wrong she resolved first to beg Mr. Leslie's pardon, and then to entreat his assistance in explaining to her the course of conduct which would be doing right. She stole up the back staircase to her room; bathed her face as she had often done in the pupils' room in the Convent, when she had been scolded and wanted to avoid the imputation of resenting the scolding; and putting on her bonnet and gray cloak, went dejectedly down again, and glided by the most sequestered ways she could find, towards the gate of the park by which she believed Mr. Leslie would return. Here she sat down, patiently to wait for him, and screened herself from observation by choosing her seat among some drooping elms, whose long branches, as one sees sometimes with the elm tree, had turned downwards soon after leaving the stem, and bowed themselves to the ground, as if kneeling.

But, patient as she was, and used to waiting, the length of time she remained there, during which there was nothing coming, made her first uneasy, and at last anxious. She got up and walked into the road, whence she could command a long sight of the highway beyond the gates, and still, when all was blank, returned to her seat, and resumed the paper-mark she was plaiting in the shape of a cross. The woman who kept the lodge had seen this manoeuvre more than once, and at last, in the civility of her heart, came out as Elinor again looked down the road, and asked if she was pleased to be waiting for some body.

"No," said Elinor; "only I think Mr. Leslie will return this way from Cantleton;" and as she said his name, she blushed deeply as young girls will do, at sight or at speaking of a young acquaintance of the opposite sex, though as heart-whole as a bird just fledged, on the edge of its nest.

The old woman laughed in a motherly way. "Oh! that's it," said she. "I did not know, miss; you will be pleased to forgive me," and she withdrew to her cottage, and Elinor to her tree, puzzled again, and but half liking what she did not understand in the old woman.

It was an hour and a half after she had come to the spot, when she heard the trot of horses' feet, at which her heart gave a bound, but directly the sound of wheels became audible, and the next bound of her heart was what might be called in the opposite direction. She went further under the trees, and saw Laura and others on horseback, and a carriage following, all making towards the Lodge at a good, exhilarating pace. As they approached it, she perceived Mr. Leslie coming in the opposite direction, and both parties stopped and had some communion together. What they said she did not know, but she perceived some laughter, some gestures of expostulation, and that Laura, after great apparent earnestness, suddenly jerked away her horse, and set off at an actual gallop; while Mr. Leslie, who she supposed had refused their invitation to join them, waved his hand to them, and came alone, and slowly, along the road in the park.

Without the least hesitation or embarrassment, Elinor came forward from the trees, and caught his sight, making a motion inviting him to speak to her. He immediately rode up to the place where she stood, and dismounting, eagerly told her what he really had done, and a great deal more which he claimed to have done for her. Elinor was more and more troubled, and as soon as he would hear her, professed her regret at having thus employed him, in so penitent a manner, that the tears again rose to her eyes, and in his heart arose a tender pity, which made him ready to fall down at her feet, and raise her by his humble love above all claim and all necessity for pity.

"I who have been so happy to be employed by you! who felt it such a kindness on your part to a man who has no friends, who wants so much a little sympathy, who would be glad to earn a kind 'Thank you' at any sacrifice, much more by the merest commonplace service. Ah, Miss Ladylift! ah, Elinor! do not talk so, do not think in this way. Who can have led you to such thoughts?"

"Alas! Miss Chanson was very angry with me. She told me no girl in England would be so bold, especially with you."

"Did she; was it any consideration for me. Did she tell you that it was from consideration—from any regard to me, then?"

"No! no! She said she did not care for you—it was all on my own account."

"Ha! ha!" said Leslie, "she said so. Then I think it is time for me to go away."

"You go away! are you then really angry with me?"

"Oh! I beseech you, do not say, do not think such harsh, hard words," said Leslie, taking her hand, and gently leading her further into the wood.

They walked on together side by side, deeply engaged in conversation, in which Elinor's defencelessness touched Leslie's heart with more of good emotion than he had known could dwell there. Yet he enjoyed involving her in a situation which depended upon himself to make it safe or dangerous, and which, at all events, was one in which she compromised herself with the prudent, and those who had more habit of the world than she. He perceived her perfect innocence of every such notion, and was every moment renewing a compact with himself to hold her in reverence. Yet he secured her hand on his arm—he could not keep himself from touching the fingers that lay there, from gently pressing the arm which touched his own. A trifling circumstance did more to check him than all his good resolutions. This was his horse, whose bridle he held, and whose uneven pace had constantly to be regulated; sometimes it would start forward, and annoy its master with a threatened invasion of his toes; sometimes stop to snatch at a bough, and when jerked on again, would shake its head, and flourish in the air in a manner dangerous to its safe keeping by the bridle.

Elinor's attention was diverted from her own griefs, and Leslie's sympathy, by the manoeuvres of the horse. With the tears in her eyes, she was provoked to laughter at its perversity; and when most grateful for Leslie's assurance of friendship and support, could not help turning their talk to the horse's entertaining movements. Leslie hated the animal; and, at last, to keep the conversation in the train which pleased him, he invited Elinor to sit down beneath a tree far and deep in the wood; where, having fastened his tiresome animal to one at a distance, he returned and placed himself by her, distant from all the eyes that should have been guarding her, and undefended by any inward consciousness of being where she needed defence.

"When I am gone," he said, "and go I must, will you think of me?—will you remember the friend to whom you can always apply?"

"Yes, yes!" said Elinor; "there is no danger that I should do otherwise, for it is you only who tell me what I ought to do, who show me kindly where I am wrong."

"And if you want advice," said Leslie—and there he hesitated, whether indeed to ask her to enter into secret correspondence with him.

"I can write to you, if you will tell me your direction," said Elinor.

"Divine Elinor!" cried Leslie, carried away with delicious surprise; and suddenly lifting the hand he held to his lips, he kissed it fervidly, so that in astonishment she drew it away, and a smile came for an instant over her mouth.

Leslie looked down at her with delight; he drew still nearer to her, when the sound of rustling boughs smote his ear, and then the voice of the Squire—of Mr. Chanson, of Elinor's guardian—broke upon them.

"Hey!—what's this? You and Miss Ladylift out in the wood, here?"—he was not a man of words.

Leslie started up; Elinor kept her seat.

"Yes; I came this way to enjoy the shade, and Miss Ladylift had done the same. I met with her a moment ago, and was about to show her the nearest way home."

Elinor listened with wonder. She thought certainly Leslie had forgotten that she had come to meet him near the lodge, and that they had spent an hour in walking to the spot together, without any reference to going home; however, she heard him as children hear their elders say things they have themselves been taught not to say, and unconsciously they take a lesson in the difference between learning and practising.

Mr. Chanson asked no more; he only held out his arm to her, and said,

"Come home with me. Laura ought to have been with you." He had a fishing-rod in the other hand, and had been making his way to the brook.

"Miss Chanson is out riding," said Elinor.

"And why did not you go? What made you wander to this out-of-the-way place?"

Elinor hesitated; she did not like to say she had been scolded, and had crept away.

Mr. Chanson thought she had made an appointment with Leslie, and that her embarrassment came from that consciousness.

"Well, well!" said he. "Mr. Leslie, you had better look after your horse. That's your best way home—along the green path, there. I'll take her over the brook by the foot-bridge. Now then!"

And he walked forward, Elinor very willing to go with him, but looking back to see how Leslie got up to the horse, which was drawing away, and shying at his approach.

"Never mind that," said the Squire; "you must not be wandering about in this style. I'll talk to Laura."