ELIZABETH'S PRETENDERS.
PART I.
CHAPTER I.
One of the most prominent men in the great manufacturing turning town which I shall call Whiteburn, was the late Anthony Shaw. He was not wholly a self-made man; rather a self-uplifted man. His father, beginning life as a common mechanic, had amassed a considerable fortune, which he divided between his two sons. To Anthony, who had been associated with him in business during the last few years of his life, were left the iron works at Whiteburn, and the substantial house in the town. The younger son, William, a man with a limited capacity for fox-hunting and billiards, and little else to serve as a breastplate to a soft credulous heart, found himself the possessor of a hundred and fifty thousand pounds. He bought himself a small estate in an adjoining county, within reach of two packs of hounds; and, in process of time, he also bought himself a wife.
Fortune had, apparently, smiled on both brothers, each after his kind. Anthony, with his remarkable business capacity, his liberality, and his unswerving rectitude, was unquestionably the man to whom more people applied for advice and assistance than to any other in Whiteburn. In municipal matters, and on public questions, his judgment was always of great weight; it might, indeed, at one time have been said to be paramount. But that was before he had retired from business. He had not married until he was forty-five, by which time he had nearly doubled the fortune he had inherited twenty years before. The lady of his choice was a refined, fragile woman, no longer in her first youth, who bad been a governess, and had lived a great deal in France. The change from a clear sky that did not rain blacks, to the poisonous air, and canopy of smoke and cloud that were the inalienable property of Whiteburn, was afflicting to Mrs. Shaw. But she never complained. It was Anthony's unsolicited doing—the removal to that old timbered mansion, which stood folded away among the hills aloof from the blackness of the town. Here lived for fourteen years Anthony's helpmeet and worthy companion, and died, leaving an only child of twelve years to the sorrowing father's care. To both, the disappointment of having no son had been great; to Anthony it meant the alteration of all the plans he had built for the future. His brother had no child; his kindred were all dead, or dispersed beyond the seas; there was no one to succeed him in his prosperous business. Before his wife died, he began to entertain the idea of forming the concern into a company; but it was not till some years later that he actually retired.
Until her mother's death, Elizabeth had been educated by a French governess, under Mrs. Shaw's direct supervision. No longer strong enough to teach herself, she watched her child's progress with vigilance, and not wholly without anxiety. Elizabeth was remarkably clever, but she was not easy to manage, and needed very careful handling. In some respects she was more like a boy than a girl; of indomitable courage, turbulent and headstrong, but easily moved when her heart was appealed to, and of unusual constancy in her affections. She sobbed, night after night, when her old nurse left, and her resentment against the successor in this office took the form of cutting to pieces that blameless functionary's best petticoat. Poor Mrs. Shaw, lying on the sofa, and watching the clouds and sunshine chase each other across the little passionate face, beneath its thatch of dark tumbled hair, had many an uneasy moment as regarded the child's future. Her character, she saw, would greatly depend on the influences brought to bear upon it in early youth. Now, her governess was a clever woman, but lacking height or depth of thought. When her pupil began to reason as to cause and effect, to seek for motives, and to argue upon abstract principles of right and wrong, it was clear that mademoiselle would be left floundering. She was an upright woman, stuffed full of knowledge, and with a certain force of will; but the time was drawing near, as Mrs. Shaw saw, when Elizabeth, putting away childish things, would need something more than authority and subjunctive moods; she would require the contact of a strong and thoughtful mind. Without this, there was no saying what she might grow up to be.
Mrs. Shaw, upon her sofa, so pale and gentle, so devoid of moral blemish, formed a contrast to her child, which mademoiselle could never understand. "C'est comme une poule qui a couvé un canard!" she frequently exclaimed. In reality, there were qualities akin in both. Under the mother's quiet exterior was hidden a tenacity of purpose, a capacity of endurance, above all, a keen far-sighted perception, which she herself recognized in her little daughter, alongside of her impetuosity and wilfulness. Mademoiselle spoke of her pupil as "un enfant gâté." She made Elizabeth obey, but it was currently believed no one else could. Certainly, not her father. But, then, he never tried. He saw her at early morning, before he went to his office, when she ran out to the hall door and gave a piece of sugar to the horse on which he rode into town. He never failed to send for her when he returned, and there was generally an hour of romps between the father and child in the gloaming. In all this there was no question of discipline. Mrs. Shaw knew it better than any one, and, like another mother, she "laid up all these things in her heart."
She knew she must die soon. Though never breathing a word of this to her husband, she had no self-delusion on the subject. It might be a year sooner or later, but the malady from which she suffered was fatal; she would never live to see her daughter grow up. Elizabeth was now eleven: what was best to be done for her? The question was scarcely ever absent for very long from Mrs. Shaw's mind. It would be a great wrench to Anthony to be parted from his little girl, especially when left alone in the world; but if it was for her good—if his wife made this clear to him—he would certainly not object to her being sent to school.
She heard of one that seemed to offer exceptional advantages in Elizabeth's case. The principal was a remarkable woman, of rather broad religious views (some called them "lax"), who was said to have exercised an extraordinary influence for good over several girls committed to her care. Those who shook their heads over her "laxity," went further; they declared she was altogether too unconventional in her treatment of many other subjects to please them. This argument pleaded strongly in her favour with Mrs. Shaw. Elizabeth would never stand views cut, dried, and buttered for her consumption. She would require a certain independence and flexibility of judgment, which scholastics seldom admit. The conviction grew slowly stronger and stronger in the mother's mind that here was the direction her child needed.
Elizabeth was sent from home six months before her mother died. Anthony was wholly unprepared for the blow when it fell. Like many another devoted husband, his eyes were blinded, and he never knew what she suffered. Only a few days before she died, feeling that the last change was at hand, she said to him, in her habitual slow, sweet way—
"I don't think I shall be very long here, Anthony, and I want to talk to you about Elizabeth. We did right in sending her to school. I feel sure of it now. I am only so sorry for you, dear, left quite alone; but I hope you will marry again some nice woman—she must be a very nice woman—who will be a mother to Elizabeth. It is quite natural and right that you should marry—and I hope you will have a son. But"—here she paused, and stroked the strong cold hand that lay in hers—"Elizabeth is a strange child, you know, Anthony. She may resent another's taking my place. What I want you to promise me is, that if she is not happy at home, you will not oblige her to live here with a stepmother. That would be so bad for her—so bad for her character, I mean. Let her go to her uncle for her holidays—or make any other arrangement; but don't force her to live here, when you have other ties, if she is unhappy."
It was strange to hear the poor little woman calmly discussing eventualities after her death. Anthony listened, as one in a dream. Presently he said—
"My wife, if this be true—if we are indeed to part before long—you take the best part of my life with you. Do not be troubled about the child. She will be my only companion until she marries; I promise you that."
"No; you must not say so. That is not what I meant," she interposed, with her calm decisiveness. "Your happiness is not to be sacrificed to her. You have yet many years, probably, before you; and your desire, I know, has always been that a son of yours should carry on the business. I hope it may yet be so, Anthony. I do, with all my heart."
He said nothing, and the subject was never again alluded to by either of them. But when his wife died, and the widower of fifty-seven, still a hale, vigorous man showed no disposition to choose another mate, his men-friends expressed their surprise; his women-friends—the friends of his late wife—felt distinctly aggrieved. He owed it to Elizabeth to provide her with a second mother; he owed it to himself to provide a small heir to the firm, if possible. Neither consideration, apparently, weighed with him. Or, if the latter had any weight, as it undoubtedly would have had under different circnmstances, it was counterbalanced by the dangers attending such a step. His first object in life was his child; her happiness might be imperilled, and her home rendered insupportable to her, by a stepmother. He never forgot his dead wife's words. It is true that, far from exacting his abstinence from a second union, she had urged it upon him. But she had pointed out a difficulty which he might otherwise have overlooked; and that was enough for him. The voluntary promise he had made her, though rejected, he held binding; and happily he had never any personal temptation to break it. No woman he looked upon, however fair, seemed worthy to take the place of her who was gone.
The years slid by. He gave less time to his business, which was too firmly established to call for much personal supervision, and divided the leisure that he gained between his public duties in the town and certain philanthropic schemes which he had started. He was generally alone; but occasionally his brother or a friend stayed with him, and once or twice Mrs. William Shaw accompanied her husband on these visits. She had not been long married at that time, and was an unknown quantity to her brother-in-law. He knew she was a half-pay captain's daughter, who had been brought up at Boulogne, and that it was considered a wonderful "catch" for her when she married William. She was certainly a very pretty woman, of the fair fluffy order of woman, with a touch of the Angora cat, and china-blue eyes. Her movements, too, were graceful, but feline. She gave one the notion of always playing with a worsted ball, as she flung herself upon the sofa, showing her tiny feet, or bounded across the room, or flung her white arm round her niece. One thing was un-catlike: she never scratched, or showed any indication of cruelty or spite; on the contrary, she seemed good nature and sprightliness personified. Her appearance in the neighbourhood of Whiteburn was always a great social event. She was regarded as a walking advertisement of the last fashions, and took infinite pains to please not only the dullest men, but the dowdiest women. The favourable impression she made on Anthony as a kindly little creature, with now and again flashes of unlooked-for brightness, was no doubt strengthened by the affection she manifested for Elizabeth. Having no children of her own, she declared that she felt like a mother to her niece.
Elizabeth was then nearly sixteen. During the three years which had intervened since her mother's death, she had returned to Whiteburn every six months; and these holidays were the most delightful weeks of Anthony's solitary life. The girl was growing rapidly, and promised to be very tall. It was difficult to say if she would be good-looking or not; at present she was angular and abrupt in movement. But her mind and her character had alike developed. She was already a delightful companion to her father, and gave him no trouble. They took long rides; they read Walter Scott together of an evening. Anthony had always loved literature and art, and his child inherited his tastes. He had a fine library, and some good modern pictures—chiefly French; and for these Elizabeth had always shown a fondness. To her father's surprise, he found that she had now acquired a considerable proficiency in drawing. She more than once said to him, "I wish I could be a painter—that is what I should like best." And Anthony smiled—indulgently. He remonstrated when he found her seated on a tub in the yard, sketching one of the stable-boys in his shirtsleeves. He felt somehow or other it was not quite "the thing," though it was difficult to explain to her exactly why. Anthony was a curious man; he was reluctant to remove the bloom from a fresh young mind by conventional ideas of "propriety," but he was not above wincing at the thought of what his neighbours might say. Elizabeth wished to take portraits of all the household, beginning with the aged housekeeper, and ending with the tall footman of five and twenty. She opened her black eyes wide when her father said he must draw the line at the footman. She could not understand why youth should not be immortalized by her pencil as well as age—sex being an accident of no importance. But she yielded with an astonishingly good grace. Time was when she would have rebelled; she only looked at her father now, more in sorrow than in anger. She loved him dearly; she would not vex him for the world; but there were, of course, points upon which sixteen was more enlightened—had wider views—than sixty could be expected to possess.
There were, in fact, in many of their discursive talks together, certain avenues down which Elizabeth would fearlessly plunge, till she found herself pulled up by a dead wall.
"I suppose you are an agnostic, father?" she said tentatively, one day, as they rode alongside a burn among the hills. "Most clever men are, I am told."
He was too startled to reply for a minute or two. Then he said, "I believe in God, and in a future life—where I shall meet your mother again, Bessie. Don't let any one shake you in that belief, my dear. As to the rest, it is not a subject for discussion, I think." And turning in his saddle, he drew her attention to the purple cloud-shadows flitting across the face of the hills on the other side of the valley.
Another time she asked him if he thought a man and his wife ought to continue to live together when there was no longer any love between them.
"Have they not sworn to take each other for 'better or worse'?" he replied.
"But if the man breaks his part of the contract, is the woman bound to keep hers?" the girl continued.
"Certainly," he replied, hurriedly. "There is one law for men and another for women. It would be very dangerous to the community if it were otherwise. You must learn to understand that fact, my dear. Look at that sunset. Glorious! We shall have a fine day to-morrow."
"I think it much better for a woman not to marry, father," persisted Elizabeth, regardless of the sunset.
"Nonsense, Bessie! You will think very differently some day, when you fall in love."
"I shall never fall in love," said Elizabeth; then added sententiously, "I think falling in love is all nonsense."
Her father laughed heartily, but she continued with perfect gravity—
"I shall live with you, here—we two alone; only I should like to go to London for a time, and learn to paint; and then I shall come back here and paint magnificent pictures. You smile, father. Why not? Why shouldn't I become famous? There was Elisabetta Sirani—and Angelica Kauffmann; and I'm sure I could paint in time better than her."
"I say! where's your grammar, Bessie?" laughed her father. "When I went to school, I was taught to say, 'better than she;' but I suppose that is obsolete. Well, I am glad to see you are ambitious. Ambition of the right sort—the ambition to excel in whatever you undertake—is a good thing. And you are not too humble," he added, with an amused glance at her dark, glowing face; "which, perhaps, is better than having no confidence in yourself, and therefore no decision."
"You don't think I am conceited, father, do you?"
"No, I don't. But it seems to me you have an enormous belief in your own capacity—that is different from conceit—and it may be, you know, that you are mistaken. So many are. The gift 'to see ourselves as others see us' is given to few."
"I am one of the few," she said quickly. "I know I am ugly and awkward. I know I am a fool at mathematics, and can hardly do a rule-of-three sum. I am sometimes shaky in my grammar (as you see); and I have no ear for music—none whatever. It is of no use my continuing to learn the piano; I shall never play decently. But I understand what I read. I am rather quick at languages; and I have a talent—yes, father, I know I have a talent—for drawing, and I shall paint well some day; I am determined I will."
Mr. William Shaw saw his niece more frequently than his wife did, and they got on excellently well together. She was too shrewd not to gauge his intellect justly, or to demand from him more than he was capable of producing. But they went together into the farmyard, and he instructed her as to pigs and shorthorns; and he held forth in the stable as to the points of his brother's horses, and he taught her to drive tandem and to play billiards; and their talk together was always of country things. In a way, they were great friends. He became really fond of the girl, who would be the natural heiress to his own as well as his brother's fortune, and whom he had once regarded as a terribly spoilt child. It cannot be said that, even now, she accommodated herself to every one's society as she did to her uncle's. To some of the elders of Whiteburn she seemed "a savage kind of a gurl;" while their sons declared that Anthony Shaw's daughter had no more manners than a cow, and that "it would require every shilling of her money, by-and-by, to make a fellow look at her." It must be confessed that these strictures were not altogether unmerited. Elizabeth's general demeanour towards strangers at this time was not encouraging. Unless she took a fancy to a visitor, or that something which fell from him in conversation with her father interested her, she remained silent, and scarcely answered when spoken to. The feminine desire to please was conspicuously absent in the girl's composition at present, and her father noted it with regret.
Mrs. William Shaw, however, did not complain of this. She declared that dear Bessie's "shyness" was only natural at her age. She knew she would turn out quite charming by-and-by, and she assured Anthony he need be under no apprehension as to his daughter growing up plain.
He replied most truly that he had none. He liked his child's expressive face; but whether others would like it two or three years hence never troubled him. As to her "shyness," he told his sister-in-law it was quite a mistake to fancy Elizabeth was shy. She had not yet learned the discipline of life—the expediency, in intercourse with others, of appearing interested in the uninteresting; that was all.
Mrs. William smiled. She always smiled when she did not know exactly what to say.
Elizabeth found she had fewer subjects in common with her aunt than with her uncle; but Mrs. William was more than kind—she was pressing in her invitations to Farley Manor. And then she was so pretty to look at, and wore such lovely colours!—colours which would be so beautiful in a picture, but which the girl felt that she would never dare to wear; in short, there was so much to admire, or to be grateful for, in her aunt, that Elizabeth knew she ought to reciprocate more warmly than she did Mrs. William Shaw's demonstrations of affection. There was a grey parrot called "Coco" at Farley, who had clearly been bred in the kitchen, before he was promoted to a perch in the drawing-room, and became the object of Mrs. Shaw's caresses. Elizabeth was always amused by the bird's culinary remarks, but her affections were not engaged by the cynical old epicurean with his head on one side, cutting into a conversation with the injunction, "Don't put too much sugar in." When he ejaculated, after a pause, "Keep stirring," Elizabeth declared he was as caustic as Pope; but for her part she loved better the robin who twittered on the window-sill—the Burns among the birds. Mrs. Shaw, on the other hand, found in "Coco" an unfailing source of entertainment and delight. She hovered about his perch, she scratched his venerable head, she walked about the room with him on her shoulder, she gave him red peppers—there was no end to the graceful little blandishments she lavished. And then she was hilariously shocked at all his pungent observations. Elizabeth often thought that, artistically, they would make a pretty picture; morally, they were a curious study to the girl.
All this took place during a visit she and her father paid to Farley Manor, when she was nearly seventeen.
Upon that occasion she met for the first time a man who was to exercise a considerable influence upon her after-life. Colonel Wybrowe was five and thirty, of uncommon height and strength, and great distinction of appearance. He was undeniably very handsome, and would have been perfectly so, but for a cast in his left eye, which detracted from the beauty of his face. The beauty, indeed, was almost effeminate in its regularity, except the mouth, which was partially concealed by a long fair moustache. His colouring was splendid—so Elizabeth said; indeed, for splendour of appearance, she could only compare him with a Life-Guardsman whom she had once seen in Hyde Park, and who had appeared unto her as a god. This colonel had curious manners, unlike any she had encountered in her short journey through the world. He took little notice of her, and the ease and assurance with which he moved and spoke, seemed to imply perfect indifference as to the effect he might produce. At the same time, his courtesy was high-bred, almost old-fashioned in punctiliousness; apparently inherent, as though he would equally have held open the door for the housemaid, or stooped to pick up her broom; and this had more attraction for Elizabeth than had she believed them to be special acts of courtesy to herself. He was as much a chivalrous type as a splendid model. His very standing aloof attracted her, in an impersonal and curious way. Several other young men came and went during that week at Farley Manor, but none other intangled himself in her recollection. Her aunt was a capital hostess, inasmuch as she was always devising schemes of entertainment, and never out of temper. Anthony did not quite like her manners occasionally with some of her guests; her skittishness appeared to him ill suited to a matron; but, then, he was old-fashioned, perhaps, and had not moved with the age. She was so kind to Elizabeth—so anxious that her niece should appear to the best advantage; and under her roof and tutelage so much of the girl's roughness was being smoothed away. His sister-in-law seldom read anything but the Morning Post or the World. She had no love of art, and, except that she liked animals, and rode well, no two women could have more dissimilar tastes than she and Elizabeth. But Mrs. William, in her light frothy way, could be very amusing, and the girl had a strong sense of humour. With her companions at school her spirits at times were high, but Anthony himself had seldom seen her so light-hearted, apparently—so like what a girl of her years should be—as she was during this visit.
I dwell on the fact, because the impression left on his mind materially affected the whole conduct of subsequent events. It was just after this that he resolved to turn the flourishing business, of which up till now be had been the sole proprietor, into a joint-stock company, and to retire. I have already said that, since his widowerhood, he had given less time to his own personal business, and more to public works. Why, indeed, should he continue a concern in which there was no one to succeed him? He could realize now a large fortune for Elizabeth. She would leave school in another year, and they should travel abroad. He never yet had had leisure to take her further than Paris. He now would be free to visit all the great galleries of Europe, which the girl longed to see; for her pursuit of art was keener than ever. She had received her first lessons in oils, and there could no longer be a doubt that her confidence in her own powers was justified; she had decided talent. The devoted father's chief thought, since her mother's death, had been his daughter's happiness. Living at Whiteburn all the year round was probably not the best means to secure that. He must cut himself, comparatively, adrift from his old moorings.
And he did so. By the end of the following year the transaction was completed, which transferred the concern into the hands of a company, and left him a fortune of over three hundred thousand pounds.