Читать книгу The Vicissitudes of Bessie Fairfax - Holme Lee - Страница 19

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That respite till September was indeed worth much to Bessie. Her mind was gently broken in to changes. Mr. Fairfax vanished from the scene, and Lady Latimer appeared on it more frequently. My lady even took upon her (out of the interest she felt in her old friend) to find a school for Bessie, and found one at Caen which everybody seemed to agree would do. The daughters of the Liberal member for Hampton were receiving their education there, and Mrs. Wiley knew the school.

It was a beautiful season in the Forest—never more beautiful—and Bessie rode with her father whenever he could go with her. Then young Musgrave came back from Wells. Perhaps it is unnecessary to repeat that Bessie was very fond of young Musgrave. It was quoted of her, when she was a fat little trot of seven years old and he a big boy of twelve, that she had cried herself to sleep because he had refused her a kiss, being absorbed in some chemical experiment that smelt abominably when her mother called her to bed. The denial was singularly unkind, and even ungrateful that evening, because Bessie had not screamed when he electrified her round, wee nose. She was still so tender at heart for him that she would probably have cried now if he had roughed her. But they were friends, the best of friends—as good as brother and sister. Harry talked of himself incessantly; but what hero to her so interesting? Not even his mother was so indulgent to his harmless vanities as Bessie, or thought him so surely predestined to be one of the great men of his day.

It was early yet to say that Harry Musgrave was born under a lucky star, but his friends did say it. He was of a most popular character, not too wise or good to dispense with indulgence, or too modest to claim it. At twelve he was a clumsy lad, bold, audacious, pleasant-humored, with a high, curly, brown head, fine bright eyes, and no features to mention. At twenty he had grown up into a tall, manly fellow, who meant to have his share in the world if courage could capture it. Plenty of staying power, his schoolmasters said he had, and it was the consciousness of force in reserve that gave him much of his charm. Jealousy, envy, emulation could find no place in him; he had been premature in nothing, and still took his work at sober pace. He had a wonderful gift of concentrativeness, and a memory to match. He loved learning for its own sake far more than for the honor of excelling, and treated the favors of fortune with such cool indifference that the seers said they were sure some day to fall upon him in a shower. He had his pure enthusiasms and lofty ambitions, as what young man of large heart and powerful intellect has not? And he was now in the poetic era of life.

Bessie Fairfax had speculated much and seriously beforehand how Harry Musgrave would receive the news that she was going to be a lady. He received it with most sovereign equanimity.

"You always were a lady, and a very nice little lady, Bessie. I don't think they can mend you," said he.

The communication and flattering response were made at Brook, in the sitting-room of the farm—a spacious, half-wainscoted room, with dark polished floor, and a shabby old Persian carpet in the centre of it. A very picture-like interior it was, with the afternoon sun pouring through its vine-shaded open lattice, though time and weather-stains were on the ceiling and pale-colored walls, and its scant furniture was cumbrous, worn, and unbeautiful. The farm-house had been the manor once, and was fast falling to pieces. Mr. Musgrave's landlord was an impoverished man, but he could not sell a rood of his land, because his heir was a cousin with whom he was at feud. It was a daily trial to Mrs. Musgrave's orderly disposition that she had not a neat home about her, but its large negligence suited her husband and son. This bare sitting-room was Harry's own, and with the wild greenery outside was warm, sweet, and fresh in hot summer weather, though a few damp days filled it with odors of damp and decay. It was a cell in winter, but in July a bower.

And none the less a bower for those two young people in it this afternoon. Mr. Carnegie had dropped Bessie at Brook in the morning, and young Musgrave was to escort her home in the cool of the evening. His mother and she had spent an hour together since the midday dinner, and now the son of the house had called for her. They sat one on each side of the long oak board which served young Musgrave for a study-table and stood endwise towards the middle lattice. Harry had a new poem before him, which he was tired of reading. The light and shadow played on both their faces. There was a likeness for those who could see it—the same frank courage in their countenances, the same turn for reverie in their eyes. Harry felt lazy. The heat, the drowsy hum of bees in the vine-blossoms, and the poetry-book combined, had made him languid. Then he had bethought him of his comrade. Bessie came gladly, and poured out in full recital the events that had happened to her of late. To these she added the projects and anticipations of the future.

"Dear little Bessie! she fancies she is on the eve of adventures. Terribly monotonous adventures a girl's must be!" said the conceit of masculine twenty.

"I wish I had been a boy—it must be much better fun," was the whimsical rejoinder of feminine fifteen.

"And you should have been my chum," said young Musgrave.

"That is just what I should have liked. Caen is nearer to Beechhurst than it is to Woldshire, so I shall come home for my holidays. Perhaps I shall never see you again, Harry, when I am transported to Woldshire." This with a pathetic sigh.

"Never is a long day. I shall find you out; and if I don't, you'll hear of me. I mean to be heard of, Bessie."

"Oh yes, Harry, I am sure you will. Shall you write a book? Will it be a play? They always seem to walk to London with a play in their pockets, a tragedy that the theatres won't look at; and then their troubles begin."

Young Musgrave smiled superior at Bessie's sentiment and Bessie's syntax. "There is the railway, and Oxford is on the road. I intend always to travel first-class," said he.

Bessie understood him to speak literally. "First-class! Oh, but that is too grand! In the Lives they never have much money. Some are awfully poor—starving: Savage was, and Chatterton and Otway."

"Shabby, disreputable vagabonds!" answered young Musgrave lightly.

"And Samuel Johnson and ever so many more," continued Bessie, pleading his sympathy.

"There is no honor in misery; it is picturesque to read about, but it is a sorry state in reality to be very poor. Some poets have been scamps. I shall not start as the prodigal son, Bessie, for I love not swinish company nor diet of husks."

"The prodigal came home to his father, Harry."

"So he did, but I have my doubts whether he stayed."

There was a silence. Bessie had always believed in the prodigal as a good son after his repentance. Any liberty of speculation as concerning Scripture gave her pause; it was a new thing at Beechhurst and at Brook.

Young Musgrave furled over the pages of his book. A sheet of paper, written, interlined, blotted with erasures, flew out. He laid a quick hand upon it; not so quick, however, but that Bessie had caught sight of verses—verses of his own, too. She entreated him to read them. He excused himself. "Do, Harry; please do," she urged, but he was inexorable. He had read her many a fine composition before—many a poem crowded with noble words and lofty sentiments; but for once he was reserved, firm, secret. He told Bessie that she would not admire this last effort of his muse: it was a parody, an imitation of the Greek.

"Girls have no relish for humor: they don't understand it. It is sheer profanity to them," said he. Let him show her his prize-books instead.

Bessie was too humble towards Harry to be huffed. She admired the prize-books, then changed the subject, and spoke of Lady Latimer, inquiring if he had availed himself of her invitation yet to call at Fairfield.

"No," said he, "I have not called at Fairfield. What business can her ladyship have with me? I don't understand her royal message. Little Christie went to Fairfield with a portfolio of sketches in obedience to a summons of that sort, and was bidden to sit down to dinner in the servants' hall while the portfolio was carried up stairs. Her ladyship bought a sketch, but the money was no salve for Christie's mortification. I have nothing to sell. I took warning by my friend, and did not go."

Again Bessie was dumb. She blushed, and did not know what to say. She would not have liked to hear that Harry had been set down to dinner in the servants' hall at Fairfield, though she had not herself been hurt by a present of a cheese-cake in the kitchen. She was perfectly aware that the farmers and upper servants in the great houses did associate as equals. Evidently the conduct of life required much discretion.

Less than a year ago young Christie had helped at the painting and graining of Lady Latimer's house. Somebody, a connoisseur in art, wandering last autumn in the Forest, had found him making a drawing of yew trees, had sought him in his home at the wheelwright's, had told him he was a genius and would do wonders. On the instant young Christie expected the greatest of all wonders to be done; he expected his friends and neighbors to believe in him on the strength of the stranger's prediction. Naturally, they preferred to reserve their judgment. He and young Musgrave had learnt their letters under the same ferule, though their paths had diverged since. Some faint reminiscence of companionship survived in young Christie's memory, and in the absence of a generous sympathy at home he went to seek it at Brook. A simple, strong attachment was the result. Young Christie was gentle, vain, sensitive, easily raised and easily depressed, a slim little fellow—a contrast to Harry Musgrave in every way. "My friend" each called the other, and their friendship was a pure joy and satisfaction to them both. Christie carried everything to Brook—hopes, feelings, fears as well as work—even his mortification at Fairfield, against a repetition of which young Musgrave offered counsel, wisdom of the ancients.

"It is art you are in pursuit of, not pomps and vanities? Then keep clear of Fairfield. The first thing for success in imaginative work is a soul unruffled: what manner of work could you do to-day? You will never paint a stroke the better for anything Lady Latimer can do for you; but lay yourself open to the chafe and fret of her patronage now, and you are done for. Ten, twenty years hence, she will be harmless, because you will have the confidence of a name."

"And she will remember that she bought my first sketch; she will say she made me," said young Christie.

"You will not care then: everybody knows that a man makes himself. Phipps calls her vain-glorious; Carnegie calls her the very core of goodness. In either case you don't need her. There is only one patron for men of art and literature in these days, and that is the General Public. The times are gone by for waiting in Chesterfield's ante-room and hiding behind Cave's screen."

Harry recited all this for Bessie's instruction. Bessie was convinced that he had spoken judiciously: the safest way to avoid a fall is not to be in too much haste to climb. It is more consistent with self-respect for genius in low estate to defend its independence against the assaults of rich patrons, seeking appendages to their glory, than to accept their benefits, and complain that they are given with insolence. It is an evident fact that the possessors of rank and money value themselves as of more consequence than those whom God has endowed with other gifts and not with these. Platitudes reveal themselves to the young as novel and striking truths. Bessie ruminated these in profound silence. Harry offered her a penny for her thoughts.

"I was thinking," said she, with a sudden revelation of the practical, "that young Christie will suffer a great deal in his way through the world if he stumble at such common kindness as Lady Latimer's." And then she told the story of the cheese-cake. "I beheld my lady then as a remote and exalted sphere, where never foot of mine would come. I have entered it since by reason of belonging to an old house of gentry, and I find that I can breathe there. So may he some day, when he has earned a title to it, but he would be very uncomfortable there now."

"And so may I some day, when I have earned a title to it, but I should be very uncomfortable there now. Meanwhile we have souls above cheese-cakes, and don't choose to bear my lady's patronage."

Bessie felt that she was being laughed at. She grew angry, and poured out her sentiments hot: "There is a difference between you and young Christie; you know quite well that there is, Harry. No, I sha'n't explain what it consists in. Lady Latimer meant to encourage him: to see that she thinks well enough of his sketches to buy one may influence other people to buy them. He can't live on air; and if he is to be a painter he must study. You are not going to rise in the world without working? If you went to her house, she would make you acquainted with people it might be good for you to know: it is just whether you like that sort of thing or not. I don't; I am happier at home. But men don't want to keep at home."

"Already, Bessie!" cried Harry in a rallying, reproachful tone.

"Already what, Harry? I am not giving myself airs, if that is what you mean," said she blushing.

Harry shook his head, but only half in earnest: "You are, Bessie. You are pretending to have opinions on things that you had never thought of a month ago. Give you a year amongst your grandees, and you will hold yourself above us all."

Tears filled Bessie's eyes. She was very much hurt; she did not believe that Harry could have misunderstood her so. "I shall never hold myself above anybody that I was fond of when I was little; they are more likely to forget me when I am out of sight. They have others to love." Bessie spoke in haste and excitement. She meant neither to defend herself nor to complain, but her voice imported a little pathos and tragedy into the scene. Young Musgrave instantly repented and offered atonement. "Besides," Bessie rather inconsequently ran on, "I am very fond of Lady Latimer; she has nobody of her own, so she tries to make a family in the world at large."

"All right, Bessie—then she shall adopt you. Only don't be cross, little goosey. Let us go into the garden." Young Musgrave made such a burlesque of his remorse that Bessie, wounded but skin-deep, was fain to laugh too and be friends again. And thereupon they went forth together into the bosky old garden.

What a pleasant wilderness that old garden was, even in its neglected beauty! Whoever planted it loved open spaces, turf, and trees of foreign race; for there were some rare cedars, full-grown, straight, and stately, with feathered branches sweeping the grass, and strange shrubs that were masses of blossom and fountains of sweet odors. The flower-borders had run to waste; only a few impoverished roses tossed their blushing fragrance into the air, and a few low-growing, old-fashioned things made shift to live amongst the weeds. But the prettiest bit of all was the verdant natural slope, below which ran the brook that gave the village and the manor their names. The Forest is not a land of merry running waters, but little tranquil streams meander hither and thither, making cool its shades. Three superb beeches laved their silken leaves in the shallow flood, and amongst their roots were rustic seats all sheltered from sun and wind. Here had Harry Musgrave and Bessie Fairfax sat many a summer afternoon, their heads over one poetry-book, reading, whispering, drawing—lovers in a way, though they never talked of love.

"Shall we two ever walk together in this garden again, Harry?" said Bessie, breaking a sentimental silence with a sigh as she gazed at the sun-dimmed horizon.

"Many a time, I hope. I'll tell you my ambition." Young Musgrave spoke with vivacity; his eyes sparkled. "Listen, Bessie, and don't be astonished. I mean some day to buy Brook, and come to live here. That is my ambition."

Bessie was overawed. To buy Brook was a project too vast for her imagination. The traditions of its ancient glories still hung about it, and the proprietor, even in his poverty, was a power in the country. Harry proceeded with the confession of his day-dreams: "I shall pull down the house—if it does not fall down of itself before—and build it up again on the original plan, for I admire not all things new. With the garden replanted and the fine old trees left, it will be a paradise—as much of a paradise as any modern Adam can desire. And Bessie shall be my Eve."

"You will see so many Eves between now and then, Harry, that you will have forgotten me," cried Bessie.

Harry rejoined: "You are quite as likely to be carried away by a bluff Woldshire squire as I am to fall captive to other Eves."

"You know, Harry, I shall always be fondest of you. We have been like real cousins. But won't you be growing rather old before you are rich enough to buy Brook?"

"If I am, you will be growing rather old too, Bessie. What do you call old—thirty?"

"Yes. Do you mean to put off life till you are thirty?"

"No. I mean to work and play every day as it comes. But one must have some great events to look forward to. My visions are of being master of Brook and of marrying Bessie. One without the other would be only half a good fortune."

"Do you care so much for me as that, Harry? I was afraid you cared for little Christie more than for me now."

"Don't be jealous of little Christie, Bessie. Surely I can like you both. There are things a girl does not understand. You belong to me as my father and mother do. I have told you everything. I have not told anybody but you what I intend about Brook—not even my mother. I want it to be our secret."

"So it shall, Harry. You'll see how I can keep it," cried Bessie delighted.

"I trust you, because I know if I make a breakdown you will not change. When I missed the English verse-prize last year (you remember, Bessie?) I had made so sure of it that I could hardly show my face at home. Mother was disappointed, but you just snuggled up to me and said, 'Never mind, Harry, I love you;' and you did not care whether I had a prize or none. And that was comfort. I made up my mind at that minute what I should do."

"Dear old Harry! I am sure your verses were the best, far away," was Bessie's response; and then she begged to hear more of what her comrade meant to do.

Harry did not want much entreating. His schemes could hardly be called castles in the air, so much of the solid and reasonable was there in the design of them. He had no expectation of success by wishing, and no trust in strokes of luck. Life is a race, and a harder race than ever. Nobody achieves great things without great labors and often great sacrifices. "The labor I shall not mind; the sacrifices I shall make pay." Harry was getting out of Bessie's depth now; a little more of poetry and romance in his views would have brought them nearer to the level of her comprehension. Then he talked to her of his school, of the old doctor, that great man, of his schoolfellows, of his rivals whom he had distanced—not a depreciatory word of any of them. "I don't believe in luck for myself," he said. "But there is a sort of better and worse fortune amongst men, independent of merit. It was the narrowest shave between me and Fordyce. I would not have given sixpence for my chance of the scholarship against his, yet I won it. He is a good fellow, Fordyce: he came up and shook hands as if he had won. That was just what I wanted: I felt so happy! Now I shall go to Oxford; in a year or two I shall have pupils, and who knows but I may gain a fellowship? I shall take you to Oxford, Bessie, when the time comes."

Bessie was as proud and as pleased in this indefinite prospect as if she were bidden to pack up and start to-morrow. Harry went on to tell her what Mr. Moxon had told him, how Oxford is one of the most beautiful of cities, and one of the most famous and ancient seats of learning in the world (which she knew from her geography-book), and there, under the beeches, with the slow ripple at their feet, they sat happy as king and queen in a fairy-tale, until the shadow of Mrs. Musgrave came gliding over the grass, and her clear caressing voice broke on their ears: "Children, children, are you never coming to tea? We have called you from the window twice. And young Christie is here."

Young Christie came forward with a bow and a blush to shake hands. He had dressed himself for Sunday to come to Brook. He had an ingenuous face, but plain in feature. The perceptive faculties were heavily developed, and his eyes were fine; and his mouth and chin suggested a firmness of character.

Mr. Musgrave, who was absent at dinner, was now come home tired from Hampton. He leant back in his chair and held out a brown hand to Bessie, who took it, and a kiss with it, as part of the regular ceremony of greeting. She slipped into the chair set for her beside him, and was quite at home, for Bessie was a favorite in the same degree at Brook as Harry was at Beechhurst. Young Christie sat next to his friend and opposite to Bessie. They had many things to say to each other, and Bessie compared them in her own mind silently. Harry was serene and quiet; Christie's color came and went with the animation of his talk. Harry's hands had the sunburnt hue of going ungloved, but they were the hands of a young man devoted to scholarly pursuits; Christie's were stained with his trade, which he practised of necessity still, wooing art only in his bye-hours. Harry's speech was decisive and simple; Christie's was hesitating and a little fine, a little over-careful. He was self-conscious, and as he talked he watched who listened, his restless eyes glancing often towards Bessie. But this had a twofold meaning, for while he talked of other things his faculty of observation was at work; it was always at work as an undercurrent.

Loveliness of color had a perpetual fascination for him. He was considering the tints in Bessie's hair and in the delicate, downy rose-oval of her cheeks, and the effect upon them of the sunshine flickering through the vine leaves. When the after-glow was red in the west, the dark green cloth of the window-curtain, faded to purple and orange, made a rich background for her fair head, and he beheld in his fancy a picture that some day he would reproduce. On the tea-table he had laid down a twig of maple, the leaves of which were curiously crenated by some insect, and with it a clump of moss, and a stone speckled in delicious scarlet and tawny patches of lichen-growth—bits of Nature and beauty in which he saw more than others see, and had picked up in his walk by Great-Ash Ford through the Forest to Brook.

"I live in hope of some lucky accident to give me the leisure and opportunity for study; till then I must stick to my mechanical trade of painting and graining," he was saying while his eyes roved about Bessie's face, and his fingers toyed first with the twig of maple and then with the pearled moss. "My father thinks scorn of art for a living, and predicts me repentance and starvation. I tell him we shall see; one must not expect to be a prophet in one's own country. But I am half promised a commission at the Hampton Theatre—a new drop-scene. My sketch is approved—it is a Forest view. The decision must come soon."

Everybody present wished the young fellow success. "Though whether you have success or not you will have a share of happiness, because you are a dear lover of Nature, and Nature never lets her lovers go unrewarded," said Mrs. Musgrave kindly.

"Ah! but I shall not be satisfied with her obscure favors," cried little Christie airily.

"You must have applause: I don't think I care for applause," said young Musgrave; and he cut Bessie a slice of cake.

Bessie proceeded to munch it with much gravity and enjoyment—Harry's mother made excellent cakes—and the father of the house, smiling at her serious absorption, patted her on the shoulder and said, "And what does Bessie Fairfax care for?"

"Only to be loved," says Bessie without a thought.

"And that is what you will be, for love's a gift," rejoined Mr. Musgrave. "These skip-jacks who talk of setting the world on fire will be lucky if they make only blaze enough to warm themselves."

"Ay, indeed—and getting rich. Talk's cheap, but it takes a deal of money to buy land," said his wife, who had a shrewd inkling of her son's ambition, though he had not confessed it to her. "Young folks little think of the chances and changes of this mortal life, or it's a blessing they'd seek before anything else."

Bessie's face clouded at a word of changes. "Don't fret, Bessie, we'll none of us forget you," said the kind father. But this was too much for her tender heart. She pushed back her chair and ran out of the room. For the last hour the tears had been very near her eyes, and now they overflowed. Mrs. Musgrave followed to comfort her.

"To go all amongst strangers!" sobbed Bessie; and her philosophy quite failed her when that prospect recurred in its dreadful blankness. Happily, the time of night did not allow of long lamentation. Presently Harry called at the stair's foot that it was seven o'clock. And she kissed his mother and bade Brook good-bye.

The walk home was through the Forest, between twilight and moonlight. The young men talked and Bessie was silent. She had no favor towards young Christie previously, but she liked his talk to-night and his devotion to Harry Musgrave, and she enrolled him henceforward amongst those friends and acquaintances of her happy childhood at Beechhurst concerning whom inquiries were to be made in writing home when she was far away.