She had never dreamt of meeting Algernon at Brighton--it was quite by chance that she came upon him at the officers" ball when he was staying with Captain Greenaway. He asked her to dance, and she had said yes, all on a sudden, without thinking, and then she fancied he would go away; she begged him not to come again, but whenever she went out on the chain-pier before breakfast, there he was.
Why did she go thither? She hung her head. Mrs. Annesley had desired her to walk; she could not help it; she was afraid to write and tell what was going on--besides, he would come, though she told him she would not see him; and she could not bear to make him unhappy. Then, when she came home, she had been in hopes it was all over, but she had been very unhappy, and had been on the point of telling all about it many times, when mamma looked at her kindly; but then he came to the Vicarage, and he would wait for her at the bridge, and write notes to her, and she could not stop it; but she had always told him it was no use, she never would be engaged to him without papa"s consent. She had only promised that she would not marry any one else, only because he was so very desperate, and she was afraid to break it off entirely, lest he should go and marry the Principessa Bianca, a foreigner and Papist, which would be so shocking for him and his uncle. Gilbert could testify how grieved she was to have any secrets from mamma; but Mr. Cavendish Dusautoy was so dreadful when she talked of telling, that she did not know what would happen.
When he went away, and she thought it was all over--mamma might recollect how hard it was for her to keep up, and what a force she put upon herself--but she would rather have pined to death than have said one word to bring him back, and was quite shocked when Gilbert gave her his note, to beg her to let him see her that evening, before the party returned; she said, with all her might, that he must not come, and when he did, she was begging him all the time to go away, and she was so dreadfully frightened when they actually came, that she had all but gone into hysterics, or fainted away, and that was the way he came to throw the ink at her--she was so very much shocked, and so would he be--and really she felt the misfortune to the beautiful new sofa-cover as a most serious calamity and aggravation of her offence.
It was not easy to know how to answer; Albinia was scornful of the sofa-cover, and yet it was hard to lay hold of a tangible subject on which to show Lucy her error, except in the concealment, which, by her own showing, she had lamented the whole time. She had always said no, but, unluckily, her noes were of the kind that might easily be made to mean yes, and she evidently had been led on partly by her own heart, partly by the force of the stronger will, though her better principles had filled her with scruples and misgivings at every stage. She had been often on the point of telling all, and asking forgiveness; and here it painfully crossed Albinia, that if she herself had been less hurried, and less disposed to take everything for granted, a little tenderness might have led to a voluntary confession.
Still Lucy defended herself by the compulsion exercised on her, and she would hear none of the conclusions Albinia drew therefrom; she would not see that the man who drove her to a course of disobedience and subterfuge could be no fit guide, and fired up at a word of censure, declaring that she knew that mamma had always hated him, and that now he was absent, she would not hear him blamed. The one drop of true love made her difficult to deal with, for the heart was really made over to the tyrant, and Albinia did not feel herself sufficiently guiltless of negligence and imprudence to rebuke her with a comfortable conscience.
Mr. Kendal had been obliged to attend to some justice business--better for him, perhaps, than acting as domestic magistrate--and meanwhile the Vicar of Fairmead found himself forgotten. He wanted to be at home, yet did not like to leave his sister in unexplained trouble, though not sure whether he might not be better absent.
Time pa.s.sed on, he finished the newspaper, and wrote letters, and then, seeing no one, he had gone into the hall to send for a conveyance, when Gilbert, coming in from the militia parade, became the recipient of his farewells, but apparently with so little comprehension, that he broke off, struck by the dejected countenance, and wandering eye.
"I beg your pardon," Gilbert said, pa.s.sing his hand over his brow, "I did not hear."
"I was only asking you to tell my sister that I would not disturb her, and leaving my good-byes with you."
"You are not going?"
"Thank you; I think my wife will grow anxious."
"I had hoped"--Gilbert sighed and paused--"I had thought that perhaps--"
The wretchedness of his tone drove away Mr. Ferrars"s purpose of immediate departure, and returning to the drawing-room he said, "If there were any way in which I could be of use."
"Then you do not know?" said Gilbert, veiling his face with his hand, as he leant on the mantel-shelf.
"I know nothing. I could only see that something was amiss. I was wishing to know whether my presence or absence would be best for you all."
"Oh! don"t go!" cried Gilbert. n.o.body must go who can be any comfort to Mrs. Kendal."
A few kind words drew forth the whole piteous history that lay so heavily on his heart. Reserves were all over now; and irregularly and incoherently he laid open his griefs and errors, his gradual absorption into the society with which he had once broken, and the inextricable complication of mischief in which he had been involved by his debt.
"Yet," he said, "all the time I longed from my heart to do well. It was the very thing that led me into this sc.r.a.pe. I thought if the man applied to my father, as he threatened, that I should be suspected of having concealed this on purpose, and be sent to India, and I was so happy, and thought myself so safe here. I did believe that home and Mrs.
Kendal would have sheltered me, but my destiny must needs hunt me out here, and alienate even her!"
"The way to find the Devil behind the Cross, is to cower beneath it in weak idolatry, instead of grasping it in courageous faith," said Mr.
Ferrars. "Such faith would have made you trust yourself implicitly to your father. Then you would either have gone forth in humble acceptance of the punishment, or else have stayed at home, free, pardoned, and guarded; but, as it was, no wonder temptation followed you, and you had no force to resist it."
"And so all is lost! Even dear little Maurice can never be trusted to me again! And his mother, who would, if she could, be still merciful and pitying as an angel, she cannot forget to what I exposed him! She will never be the same to me again! Yet I could lay down my life for any of them!"
Mr. Ferrars watched the drooping figure, crouching on his chairs, elbows on knees, head bowed on the supporting hands, and face hidden, and, listening to the meek, affectionate hopelessness of the tone, he understood the fond love and compa.s.sion that had often surprised him in his sister, but he longed to read whether this were penitence towards G.o.d, or remorse towards man.
"Miserable indeed, Gilbert," he said, "but if all were irretrievably offended, there still is One who can abundantly pardon, where repentance is true."
"I thought"--cried Gilbert--"I thought it had been true before! If pain, and shame, and abhorrence could so render it, I know it was when I came home. And then it was comparative happiness; I thought I was forgiven, I found joy and peace where they are promised"--the burning tears dropped between his fingers--but it was all delusion; not prayers nor sacraments can shield me--I am doomed, and all I ask is to be out of the way of ruining Maurice!"
"This is mere despair," said Mr. Ferrars. "I cannot but believe your contrition was sincere; but steadfast courage was what you needed, and you failed in the one trial that may have been sent you to strengthen and prove you. The effects have been terrible, but there is every hope that you may retrieve your error, and win back the sense of forgiveness."
"If I could dare to hope so--but I cannot presume to take home to myself those a.s.surances, when I know that I only resolve, that I may have resolutions to break."
"Have you ever laid all this personally before Mr. Dusautoy?"
"No; I have thought of it, but, mixed up as this is with his nephew and my sister, it is impossible! But you are a clergyman, Mr. Ferrars!" he added, eagerly.
Mr. Ferrars thought, and then said,
"If you wish it, Gilbert, I will gladly do what I can for you. I believe that I may rightly do so."
His face gleamed for a moment with the light of grateful gladness, as if at the first ray of comfort, and then he said, "I am sure none was ever more grieved and wearied with the burden of sin--if that be all."
"I think," said Mr. Ferrars, "that it might be better to give time to collect yourself, examine the past, separate the sorrow for the sin from the disgrace of the consequences, and then look earnestly at the sole ground of hope. How would it be to come for a couple of nights to Fairmead, at the end of next week?"
Gilbert gratefully caught at the invitation; and Mr. Ferrars gave him some advice as to his reading and self-discipline, speaking to him as gently and tenderly as Albinia herself. Both lingered in case the other should have more to say, but at last Gilbert stood up, saying,
"I would thankfully go to Calcutta now, but the situation is filled up, and my father said John Kendal had been enough trifled with. If I saw any fresh opening, where I should be safe from hurting Maurice!"
"There is no reason you and your brother should not be a blessing to each other."
"Yes, there is. Till I lived at home, I did not know how impossible it is to keep clear of old acquaintance. They are good-natured fellows--that Tritton and the like--and after all that has come and gone, one would be a brute to cut them entirely, and Maurice is always after me, and has been more about with them than his mother knows. Even if I were very different, I should be a link, and though it might be no great harm if Maurice were a tame mamma"s boy--you see, being the fellow he is, up to anything for a lark, and frantic about horses--I could never keep him from them. There"s no such great harm in themselves--hearty, good-natured fellows they are--but there"s a worse lot that they meet, and Maurice will go all lengths whenever he begins.
Now, so little as he is now, if I were once gone, he would never run into their way, and they would never get a hold of him."
Mr. Ferrars had unconsciously screwed up his face with dismay, but he relaxed it, and spoke kindly.
"You are right. It was a mistake to stay at home. Perhaps your regiment may be stationed elsewhere."
"I don"t know how long it may be called out. If it were but possible to make a fresh beginning."
"Did you hear of my brother"s suggestion?"
"I wish--but it is useless to talk about that. I could not presume to ask my father for a commission--Heaven knows when I shall dare to speak to him!"
"You have not personally asked his pardon after full confession."
"N-o--Mrs. Kendal knows all."
"Did you ever do such a thing in your life?"
"You don"t know what my father is."
"Neither do you, Gilbert. Let that be the first token of sincerity."
Without leaving s.p.a.ce for another word, Mr. Ferrars went through the conservatory into the garden, where, meeting the children, he took the little one in his arms, and sent Maurice to fetch his mamma. Albinia came down, looking so much heated and hara.s.sed, that he was grieved to leave her.
"Oh, Maurice, I am sorry! You always come in for some catastrophe," she said, trying to smile. "You have had a most forlorn morning."
"Gilbert has been with me," he said. "He has told me all, my dear, and I think it hopeful: I like him better than I ever did before."