CHAPTER XL.
DOROTHY AND ROWLAND.
Such was the force of law and custom in Raglan that as soon as anycommotion ceased things settled at once. It was so now. The minds of themarquis and lord Charles being at rest both as regarded the gap in thedefences of the castle and the character of its inmates, the very nextday all was order again. The fate of Amanda was allowed gradually toooze out, but the greater portion both of domestics and garrisoncontinued firm in the belief that she had been carried off by Satan.Young Delaware, indeed, who had been revelling late--I mean in thechapel with the organ--and who was always the more inclined to believe athing the stranger it was, asserted that he SAW devil fly away withher--a testimony which gained as much in one way as it lost in anotherby the fact that he could not see at all.
To Scudamore her absence, however caused, was only a relief. She hadceased to interest him, while Dorothy had become to him like anenchanted castle, the spell of which he flattered himself he was theknight born to break. All his endeavours, however, to attract from her asingle look such as indicated intelligence, not to say response, weredisappointed. She seemed absolutely unsuspicious of what he sought,neither, having so long pretermitted what claim he might once haveestablished to cousinly relations with her, could he now initiate anyintimacy on that ground. Had she become an inmate of Raglan immediatelyafter he first made her acquaintance, that might have ripened tosomething more hopeful; but when she came she was in sorrow, nor feltthat there was any comfort in him, while he was beginning to yield tothe tightening bonds mistress Amanda had flung around him. Nor since hadhe afforded her any ground for altering her first impressions, orfavourably modifying a feature of the portrait lady Margaret hadpresented of him.
Strange to say, however, poorly grounded as was the original interest hehad taken in her, and little as he was capable of understanding her, hesoon began, even while yet confident in his proved advantages of personand mind and power persuasive, to be vaguely wrought upon by thesuperiority of her nature. With this the establishment of her innocencein the eyes of the household had little to do; indeed, that threatenedat first to destroy something of her attraction; a passionate, yielding,even erring nature, had of necessity for such as he far more enchantmentthan a nature that ruled its own emotions, and would judge such as mightbe unveiled to it. Neither was it that her cold courtesy and kindindifference roused him to call to the front any of the more valuableendowments of his being; something far better had commenced:unconsciously to himself, the dim element of truth that flitted vaporousabout in him had begun to respond to the great pervading and enroundingorb of her verity. He began to respect her, began to feel drawn as if byanother spiritual sense than that of which Amanda had laid hold. Hefound in her an element of authority. The conscious influences to whosetriumph he had been so perniciously accustomed, had proved powerlessupon her, while those that in her resided unconscious were subduing him.Her star was dominant over his.
At length he began to be aware that this was no light preference, nopassing fancy, but something more serious than he had hithertoknown--that in fact he was really, though uncomfortably andunsatisfactorily, in love with her. He felt she was not like any othergirl he had made his shabby love to, and would have tried to make betterto her, but she kept him at a distance, and that he began to findtormenting. One day, for example, meeting her in the court as she wascrossing towards the keep,--
'I would thou didst take apprentices, cousin,' he said, 'so I might beone, and learn of thee the mysteries of thy trade.'
'Wherefore, cousin?'
'That I might spare thee something of thy labour.'
'That were no kindness. I am not like thee; I find labour a thing to becourted rather than spared; I am not overwrought.'
Scudamore gazed into her grey eyes, but found there nothing tocontradict, nothing to supplement the indifference of her words. Therewas no lurking sparkle of humour, no acknowledgment of kindness. Therewas a something, but he could not understand it, for his poor shapelesssoul might not read the cosmic mystery embodied in their depths. Hestammered--who had never known himself stammer before, broke the jointsof an ill-fitted answer, swept the tiles with the long feather in hishat, and found himself parted from her, with the feeling that he had notof himself left her, but had been borne away by some subtle forceemanating from her.
Lord Herbert had again left the castle. More soldiers and more muststill be raised for the king. Now he would be paying his majesty a visitat Oxford, and inspecting the life-guards he had provided him, now backin South Wales, enlisting men, and straining every power in him to keepthe district of which his father was governor in good affection andloyal behaviour.
Winter drew nigh, and stayed somewhat the rush of events, clogged thewheels of life as they ran towards death, brought a little sleep to theworld and coolness to men's hearts--led in another Christmas, and lookedon for a while.
Nor did the many troubles heaped on England, the drained purses, theswollen hearts, the anxious minds, the bereaved houses, the ruptures,the sorrows, and the hatreds, yet reach to dull in any large measure themerriment of the season at Raglan. Customs are like carpets, for everwearing out whether we mark it or no, but Lord Worcester's patriarchalprejudices, cleaving to the old and looking askance on the new, causedthem to last longer in Raglan than almost anywhere else: the old werethe things of his fathers which he had loved from his childhood; the newwere the things of his children which he had not proven.
What a fire that was that blazed on the hall-hearth under the greatchimney, which, dividing in two, embraced a fine window, then againbecoming one, sent the hot blast rushing out far into the waste ofwintry air! No one could go within yards of it for the fierce heat ofthe blazing logs, now and then augmented by huge lumps of coal. Andwhen, on the evenings of special merry-making, the candles were lit, themusicians were playing, and a country dance was filling the length ofthe great floor, in which the whole household, from the marquis himself,if his gout permitted, to the grooms and kitchen-maids, would take part,a finer outburst of homely splendour, in which was more colour thangilding, more richness than shine, was not to be seen in all the island.
On such an occasion Rowland had more than once attempted nearer approachto Dorothy, but had gained nothing. She neither repelled nor encouragedhim, but smiled at his better jokes, looked grave at his silly ones, andaltogether treated him like a boy, young--or old--enough to betroublesome if encouraged. He grew desperate, and so one night summonedup courage as they stood together waiting for the next dance.
'Why will you never talk to me, cousin Dorothy?' he said.
'Is it so, Mr. Scudamore? I was not aware. If thou spoke and I answerednot, I am sorry.'
'No, I mean not that,' returned Scudamore. 'But when I venture to speak,you always make me feel as if I ought not to have spoken. When I callyou COUSIN DOROTHY, you reply with MR. SCUDAMORE.'
'The relation is hardly near enough to justify a less measure ofobservance.'
'Our mothers loved each other.'
'They found each other worthy.'
'And you do not find me such?' sighed Scudamore, with a smile meant tobe both humble and bewitching.
'N-n-o. Thou hast not made me desire to hold with thee much converse.'
'Tell me why, cousin, that I may reform that which offends thee.'
'If a man see not his faults with his own eyes, how shall he see themwith the eyes of another?'
'Wilt thou never love me, Dorothy?--not even a little?'
'Wherefore should I love thee, Rowland?'
'We are commanded to love even our enemies.'
'Art thou then mine enemy, cousin?'
'No, forsooth! I am the most loving friend thou hast.'
'Then am I sorely to be pitied.'
'For having my love?'
'Nay; for having none better than thine. But thank God, it is not so.'
'Must I then be thine enemy indeed before thou wilt love me?'
'No, cousin: cease to be thine own en
emy and I will call thee myfriend.'
'Marry! wherein then am I mine own enemy? I lead a sober life enough--asthou seest, ever under the eye of my lord.'
'But what wouldst thou an' thou wert from under the eye of thy lord? Iknow thee better than thou thinkest, cousin. I have read thy title-page,if not thy whole book.'
'Tell me then how runneth my title-page, cousin.'
'The art of being wilfully blind, or The way to see no farther than onewould.'
'Fair preacher,--' began Rowland, but Dorothy interrupted him.
'Nay then, an' thou betake thee to thy jibes, I have done,' she said.
'Be not angry with me; it is but my nature, which for thy sake I willcontrol. If thou canst not love me, wilt thou not then pity me alittle?'
'That I may pity thee, answer me what good thing is there in theewherefore I should love thee.'
'Wouldst thou have a man trumpet his own praises?'
'I fear not that of thee who hast but the trumpet--I will tell thee thismuch: I have never seen in thee that thou didst love save for thepastime thereof. I doubt if thou lovest thy master for more than thyplace.'
'Oh cousin!'
'Be honest with thyself, Rowland. If thou would have me for thy cousin,it must be on the ground of truth.'
Rowland possessed at least good nature: few young men would have borneto be so severely handled. But then, while one's good opinion of himselfremains untroubled, confesses no touch, gives out no hollow sound,shrinks not self-hurt with the doubt of its own reality, hostilecriticism will not go very deep, will not reach to the quick. The thingthat hurts is that which sets trembling the ground of self-worship, laysbare the shrunk cracks and wormholes under the golden plates of theidol, shows the ants running about in it, and renders the foolish smileof the thing hateful. But he who will then turn away from his imaginedself, and refer his life to the hidden ideal self, the angel that everbeholds the face of the Father, shall therein be made whole and sound,alive and free.
The dance called them, and their talk ceased. When it was over, Dorothyleft the hall and sought her chamber. But in the fountain court hercousin overtook her, and had the temerity to resume the conversation.The moth would still at any risk circle the candle. It was a stillnight, and therefore not very cold, although icicles hung from the mouthof the horse, and here and there from the eaves. They stood by themarble basin, and the dim lights and scarce dimmer shadows from many anupper window passed athwart them as they stood. The chapel was faintlylighted, but the lantern-window on the top of the hall shone like ayellow diamond in the air.
'Thou dost me scant justice, cousin,' said Rowland, 'maintaining that Ilove but myself or for mine own ends. I know that love thee better thanso.'
'For thine own sake, I would, might I but believe it, be glad of theassurance. But--'
Amanda's behaviour to her having at last roused counter observation andspeculation on Dorothy's part, she had become suddenly aware that therewas an understanding between her and Rowland. It was gradually, however,that the question rose in her mind: could these two have been thenightly intruders on the forbidden ground of the workshop, andafterwards the victims of the water-shoot? But the suspicion grew to allbut a conviction. Latterly she had observed that their behaviour to eachother was changed, also that Amanda's aversion to herself seemed to havegathered force. And one thing she had found remarkable--that Rowlandrevealed no concern for Amanda's misfortunes, or anxiety about her fate.With all these things potentially present in her mind, she came all atonce to the resolution of attempting a bold stroke.
'--But,' Dorothy went on, 'when I think how thou didst bear thee withmistress Amanda--'
'My precious Dorothy!' exclaimed Scudamore, filled with a sudden gush ofhope, 'thou wilt never be so unjust to thyself as to be jealous of her!She is to me as nothing--as if she had never been; nor care I forsoothif the devil hath indeed flown away with her bodily, as they will haveit in the hall and the guard-room.'
'Thou didst seem to hold friendly enough converse with her while she wasyet one of us.'
'Ye-e-s. But she had no heart like thee, Dorothy, as I soon discovered.She had indeed a pretty wit of her own, but that was all. And then shewas spiteful. She hated thee, Dorothy.'
He spoke of her as one dead.
'How knewest thou that? Wast thou then so far in her confidence, and artnow able to talk of her thus? Where is thine own heart, Mr. Scudamore?'
'In thy bosom, lovely Dorothy.'
'Thou mistakest. But mayhap thou dost imagine I picked it up that nightthou didst lay it at mistress Amanda's feet in my lord's workshop in thekeep?'
Dorothy's hatred of humbug--which was not the less in existence thenthat they had not the ugly word to express the uglier thing--enabled herto fix her eyes on him as she spoke, and keep them fixed when she hadended. He turned pale--visibly pale through the shadowy night, norattempted to conceal his confusion. It is strange how self-convictionwill wait upon foreign judgment, as if often only the general consciencewere powerful enough to wake the individual one.
'Or perhaps,' she continued, 'it was torn from thee by the waters thatswept thee from the bridge, as thou didst venture with her yet againupon the forbidden ground.'
He hung his head, and stood before her like a chidden child.
'Think'st thou,' she went on, 'that my lord would easily pardon suchthings?'
'Thou knewest it, and didst not betray me! Oh Dorothy!' murmuredScudamore. 'Thou art a very angel of light, Dorothy.'
He seized her hand, and but for the possible eyes upon them, he wouldhave flung himself at her feet.
Dorothy, however, would not yet lay aside the part she had assumed asmoral physician--surgeon rather.
'But notwithstanding all this, cousin Rowland, when trouble came uponthe young lady, what comfort was there for her in thee? Never hadst thouloved her, although I doubt not thou didst vow and swear thereto anhundred times.'
Rowland was silent. He began to fear her.
'Or what love thou hadst was of such sort that thou didst encourage inher that which was evil, and then let her go like a haggard hawk. Thoumarvellest, forsooth, that I should be so careless of thy merits! Tellme, cousin, what is there in thee that I should love? Can there be lovefor that which is nowise lovely? Thou wilt doubtless say in thy heart,"She is but a girl, and how then should she judge concerning men andtheir ways?" But I appeal to thine own conscience, Rowland, when I askthee--is this well? And if a maiden truly loved thee, it were all one.Thou wouldst but carry thyself the same to her--if not to-day, thento-morrow, or a year hence.'
'Not if she were good, Dorothy, like thee,' he murmured.
'Not if thou wert good, Rowland, like Him that made thee.'
'Wilt thou not teach me then to be good like thee, Dorothy?'
'Thou must teach thyself to be good like the Rowland thou knowest in thybetter heart, when it is soft and lowly.'
'Wouldst thou then love me a little, Dorothy, if I vowed to be thyscholar, and study to be good? Give me some hope to help me in the hardtask.'
'He that is good is good for goodness' sake, Rowland. Yet who can failto love that which is good in king or knave?'
'Ah! but do not mock me, Dorothy: such is not the love I would have ofthee.'
'It is all thou ever canst have of me, and methinks it is not like thouwilt ever have it, for verily thou art of nature so light that any windmay blow thee into the Dead Sea.'
From a saint it was enough to anger any sinner.
'I see!' cried Scudamore. 'For all thy fine reproof, thou too canstspurn a heart at thy feet. I will lay my life thou lovest the roundhead,and art but a traitress for all thy goodness.'
'I am indeed traitress enough to love any roundhead gentleman betterthan a royalist knave,' said Dorothy; and turning from him she soughtthe grand staircase.