Beyond the City

Chapter 6

But this was not to be the only eventful conversation

which Mrs. Westmacott held that day, nor was the Admiral

the only person in the Wilderness who was destined to

find his opinions considerably changed. Two neighboring

families, the Winslows from Anerley, and the

Cumberbatches from Gipsy Hill, had been invited to tennis

by Mrs. Westmacott, and the lawn was gay in the evening

with the blazers of the young men and the bright dresses

of the girls. To the older people, sitting round in

their wicker-work garden chairs, the darting, stooping,

springing white figures, the sweep of skirts, and twinkle

of canvas shoes, the click of the rackets and sharp whiz

of the balls, with the continual "fifteen love--fifteen

all!" of the marker, made up a merry and exhilarating

scene. To see their sons and daughters so flushed and

healthy and happy, gave them also a reflected glow,

and it was hard to say who had most pleasure from the

game, those who played or those who watched.

Mrs. Westmacott had just finished a set when she

caught a glimpse of Clara Walker sitting alone at the

farther end of the ground. She ran down the court,

cleared the net to the amazement of the visitors, and

seated herself beside her. Clara's reserved and refined

nature shrank somewhat from the boisterous frankness and

strange manners of the widow, and yet her feminine

instinct told her that beneath all her peculiarities

there lay much that was good and noble. She smiled up at

her, therefore, and nodded a greeting.

"Why aren't you playing, then? Don't, for goodness'

sake, begin to be languid and young ladyish! When you

give up active sports you give up youth."

"I have played a set, Mrs. Westmacott."

"That's right, my dear." She sat down beside her, and

tapped her upon the arm with her tennis racket. "I like

you, my dear, and I am going to call you Clara. You are

not as aggressive as I should wish, Clara, but still I

like you very much. Self-sacrifice is all very well, you

know, but we have had rather too much of it on our side,

and should like to see a little on the other. What do

you think of my nephew Charles?"

The question was so sudden and unexpected that Clara

gave quite a jump in her chair. "I--I--I hardly ever

have thought of your nephew Charles."

"No? Oh, you must think him well over, for I want to

speak to you about him."

"To me? But why?"

"It seemed to me most delicate. You see, Clara, the

matter stands in this way. It is quite possible that I

may soon find myself in a completely new sphere of life,

which will involve fresh duties and make it impossible

for me to keep up a household which Charles can share."

Clara stared. Did this mean that she was about to

marry again? What else could it point to?

"Therefore Charles must have a household of his own.

That is obvious. Now, I don't approve of bachelor

establishments. Do you?"

"Really, Mrs. Westmacott, I have never thought of the

matter."

"Oh, you little sly puss! Was there ever a girl who

never thought of the matter? I think that a young man of

six-and-twenty ought to be married."

Clara felt very uncomfortable. The awful thought had

come upon her that this ambassadress had come to her as

a proxy with a proposal of marriage. But how could that

be? She had not spoken more than three or four times

with her nephew, and knew nothing more of him than he had

told her on the evening before. It was impossible, then.

And yet what could his aunt mean by this discussion of

his private affairs?

"Do you not think yourself," she persisted, "that a

young man of six-and-twenty is better married?"

"I should think that he is old enough to decide for

himself."

"Yes, yes. He has done so. But Charles is just a

little shy, just a little slow in expressing himself. I

thought that I would pave the way for him. Two women can

arrange these things so much better. Men sometimes have

a difficulty in making themselves clear."

"I really hardly follow you, Mrs. Westmacott," cried

Clara in despair.

"He has no profession. But he has nice tastes. He

reads Browning every night. And he is most amazingly

strong. When he was younger we used to put on the gloves

together, but I cannot persuade him to now, for he says

he cannot play light enough. I should allow him five

hundred, which should be enough at first."

"My dear Mrs. Westmacott," cried Clara, "I assure you

that I have not the least idea what it is that you are

talking of."

"Do you think your sister Ida would have my nephew

Charles?"

Her sister Ida? Quite a little thrill of relief and

of pleasure ran through her at the thought. Ida and

Charles Westmacott. She had never thought of it. And

yet they had been a good deal together. They had played

tennis. They had shared the tandem tricycle. Again came

the thrill of joy, and close at its heels the cold

questionings of conscience. Why this joy? What was the

real source of it? Was it that deep down, somewhere

pushed back in the black recesses of the soul, there was

the thought lurking that if Charles prospered in his

wooing then Harold Denver would still be free? How mean,

how unmaidenly, how unsisterly the thought! She crushed

it down and thrust it aside, but still it would push up

its wicked little head. She crimsoned with shame at her

own baseness, as she turned once more to her companion.

"I really do not know," she said.

"She is not engaged?"

"Not that I know of."

"You speak hesitatingly."

"Because I am not sure. But he may ask. She cannot

but be flattered."

"Quite so. I tell him that it is the most practical

compliment which a man can pay to a woman. He is a

little shy, but when he sets himself to do it he will

do it. He is very much in love with her, I assure

you. These little lively people always do attract

the slow and heavy ones, which is nature's device for the

neutralizing of bores. But they are all going in. I

think if you will allow me that I will just take the

opportunity to tell him that, as far as you know, there

is no positive obstacle in the way."

"As far as I know, "Clara repeated, as the widow

moved away to where the players were grouped round the

net, or sauntering slowly towards the house. She rose to

follow her, but her head was in a whirl with new

thoughts, and she sat down again. Which would be best

for Ida, Harold or Charles? She thought it over with as

much solicitude as a mother who plans for her only child.

Harold had seemed to her to be in many ways the noblest

and the best young man whom she had known. If ever she

was to love a man it would be such a man as that. But

she must not think of herself. She had reason to believe

that both these men loved her sister. Which would be the

best for her? But perhaps the matter was already

decided. She could not forget the scrap of conversation

which she had heard the night before, nor the secret

which her sister had refused to confide to her. If Ida

would not tell her, there was but one person who could.

She raised her eyes and there was Harold Denver

standing before her.

"You were lost in your thoughts," said he, smiling.

"I hope that they were pleasant ones."

"Oh, I was planning," said she, rising. "It seems

rather a waste of time as a rule, for things have a way

of working themselves out just as you least expect."

"What were you planning, then?"

"The future."

"Whose?"

"Oh, my own and Ida's."

"And was I included in your joint futures?

"I hope all our friends were included."

"Don't go in," said he, as she began to move slowly

towards the house. "I wanted to have a word. Let us

stroll up and down the lawn. Perhaps you are cold. If

you are, I could bring you out a shawl."

"Oh, no, I am not cold."

"I was speaking to your sister Ida last night." She

noticed that there was a slight quiver in his voice, and,

glancing up at his dark, clear-cut face, she saw that he

was very grave. She felt that it was settled, that he

had come to ask her for her sister's hand.

"She is a charming girl," said he, after a pause.

"Indeed she is," cried Clara warmly. "And no one who

has not lived with her and known her intimately can

tell how charming and good she is. She is like a sunbeam

in the house."

"No one who was not good could be so absolutely happy

as she seems to be. Heaven's last gift, I think, is a

mind so pure and a spirit so high that it is unable even

to see what is impure and evil in the world around us.

For as long as we can see it, how can we be truly happy?"

"She has a deeper side also. She does not turn it to

the world, and it is not natural that she should, for she

is very young. But she thinks, and has aspirations of

her own."

"You cannot admire her more than I do. Indeed, Miss

Walker, I only ask to be brought into nearer relationship

with her, and to feel that there is a permanent bond

between us."

It had come at last. For a moment her heart was

numbed within her, and then a flood of sisterly love

carried all before it. Down with that dark thought which

would still try to raise its unhallowed head! She turned

to Harold with sparkling eyes and words of pleasure upon

her lips.

"I should wish to be near and dear to both of you,"

said he, as he took her hand. "I should wish Ida to be

my sister, and you my wife."

She said nothing. She only stood looking at him with

parted lips and great, dark, questioning eyes. The

lawn had vanished away, the sloping gardens, the brick

villas, the darkening sky with half a pale moon beginning

to show over the chimney-tops. All was gone, and she was

only conscious of a dark, earnest, pleading face, and of

a voice, far away, disconnected from herself, the voice

of a man telling a woman how he loved her. He was

unhappy, said the voice, his life was a void; there was

but one thing that could save him; he had come to the

parting of the ways, here lay happiness and honor, and

all that was high and noble; there lay the soul-killing

round, the lonely life, the base pursuit of money, the

sordid, selfish aims. He needed but the hand of the

woman that he loved to lead him into the better path.

And how he loved her his life would show. He loved her

for her sweetness, for her womanliness, for her strength.

He had need of her. Would she not come to him? And then

of a sudden as she listened it came home to her that the

man was Harold Denver, and that she was the woman, and

that all God's work was very beautiful--the green sward

beneath her feet, the rustling leaves, the long orange

slashes in the western sky. She spoke; she scarce knew

what the broken words were, but she saw the light of joy

shine out on his face, and her hand was still in his as

they wandered amid the twilight. They said no more

now, but only wandered and felt each other's presence.

All was fresh around them, familiar and yet new, tinged

with the beauty of their new-found happiness.

"Did you not know it before?" he asked. "I did not

dare to think it."

"What a mask of ice I must wear! How could a man

feel as I have done without showing it? Your sister at

least knew."

"Ida!"

"It was last night. She began to praise you, I said

what I felt, and then in an instant it was all out."

"But what could you--what could you see in me? Oh,

I do pray that you may not repent it!" The gentle heart

was ruffled amid its joy by the thought of its own

unworthiness.

"Repent it! I feel that I am a saved man. You do

not know how degrading this city life is, how debasing,

and yet how absorbing. Money for ever clinks in your

ear. You can think of nothing else. From the bottom of

my heart I hate it, and yet how can I draw back without

bringing grief to my dear old father? There was but one

way in which I could defy the taint, and that was by

having a home influence so pure and so high that it may

brace me up against all that draws me down. I have felt

that influence already. I know that when I am talking to

you I am a better man. It is you who, must go with

me through life, or I must walk for ever alone."

"Oh, Harold, I am so happy!" Still they wandered

amid the darkening shadows, while one by one the stars

peeped out in the blue black sky above them. At last a

chill night wind blew up from the east, and brought them

back to the realities of life.

"You must go in. You will be cold."

"My father will wonder where I am. Shall I say

anything to him?"

"If you like, my darling. Or I will in the morning.

I must tell my mother to-night. I know how delighted she

will be."

"I do hope so."

"Let me take you up the garden path. It is so dark.

Your lamp is not lit yet. There is the window. Till

to-morrow, then, dearest."

"Till to-morrow, Harold."

"My own darling!" He stooped, and their lips met for

the first time. Then, as she pushed open the folding

windows she heard his quick, firm step as it passed down

the graveled path. A lamp was lit as she entered the

room, and there was Ida, dancing about like a mischievous

little fairy in front of her.

"And have you anything to tell me?" she asked, with

a solemn face. Then, suddenly throwing her arms round

her sister's neck, "Oh, you dear, dear old Clara! I am

so pleased. I am so pleased."