“One so soon forgets a language if one doesn’t read a thoroughly idiomatic work now and then,” he said, explaining this seeming frivolity.
He kept up his connection with the popular magazines, sending them as many trifles in the drawing-room style as they could expect from him; and by this means he contrived to be well dressed and provided with pocket-money, without sponging on his father.
“All I want is the run of my teeth for the next year or so, till I have made a name,” he told his mother; “that is not much for an only son to ask of his father.”
The Vicar agreed that the demand was modest. He would have preferred a son of a more active and eager temperament—a son who would have taken to the church, or law, or medicine, or even soldiering. But it was not for him to complain if Heaven had given him a genius, instead of a commonplace plodder. It was the old story of the ugly duck, no doubt. By-and-by, the snow-white wings would unfold themselves for a noble flight, and the admiring world would acknowledge the beauty of the swan. Mrs. Clare, who adored her only son, after the manner of weak-minded mothers, was delighted to have him at home, for good, as she said, delightedly. She made his den as luxurious as her small means would allow; put up bookshelves wherever he wanted them, covered his mantelboard with velvet, and draped it with point lace of her own working, bought him cigar stands and ash trays, tobacco jars, and fusee boxes, blotting books, slippers, down pillows for his hours of lassitude, soft fluffy rugs to cover his feet when he sank on his snug little couch, prostrate after lengthened wrestling with an unpropitious muse. All that a doting mother can do to spoil a young man, Mrs. Clare did for her son; and it happened unfortunately that he was not made of that strong stuff which the sweet flatteries of love cannot corrupt.
There were certain hours when the poet was approachable. At five o’clock on those evenings when the brother and sister were not at the Manor House, Celia used to bring him a cup of coffee, and the small stock of gossip which she had been able to collect in the course of her frivolous day. She would seat herself on a hassock beside the fire, or even on the edge of the fender, and chatter gaily, while Edward lay back in his easy chair, sipping his coffee, and listening with an air of condescending indulgence.
A good deal of Celia’s talk was naturally about her friends at the Manor House. She had got over her prejudice against John Treverton, and was even enthusiastic in her praise of him. He was “quite too lovely.” As a husband she declared him “perfect.” She wished that Heaven had made her such a man.
“I really think Laura is the luckiest girl in creation!” she exclaimed. “Such a husband, such a house, such a stable, such gardens, such a rent-roll! It is almost provoking to see her take everything so quietly. I believe she is grateful to Providence, because she is dreadfully religious, you know. But her placidity almost enrages me. If I had half such good fortune I should want to jump over the moon!”
“Laura is thoroughly good style, my dear. Well-bred people never want to jump over the moon,” Edward remarked, languidly.
“Strictly fraternal,” ejaculated Celia, with a shrug.
“I am very glad to hear she is so happy,” pursued Edward, with an air of ineffable good nature. “Thank heaven, I have quite got over my old weakness about her, and can contemplate her happiness without a twinge of jealousy. But at the same time I do rather wonder that she can be thoroughly happy with a man of whose antecedents she knows nothing.”
“How can you say that, Ted? She knows who he is, and what he is. She knows that he was a lieutenant in a crack regiment, and sold out because he had run through his money—”
“Sold out just seven years ago,” interrupted Edward. “What has he been doing with himself in the meantime?”
“Knocking about London.”
“That is a very vague phrase. Seven years! He must have earned his living somehow during the greater part of that time. The money he got for his commission would not last him long. He must have had his own particular circle of acquaintances during that interval. Why are none of them forthcoming? Why is he so silent about the experiences of those seven years? Man is an egotistical animal, my dear Celia. Be sure that there is always something to be ashamed of when a man keeps silence about himself.”
“There is something rather odd about that, certainly,” assented Celia, in a musing tone. “John Treverton never talks of his past life, or, at any rate, of the time that has gone by since he left the army. I suppose he has been in London all the time, for he talks as if he were awfully disgusted with London life. If I were Laura I should insist upon knowing all about it.”
“There can be no happiness between man and wife without perfect confidence,” said Edward. “No enduring happiness, at least.”
“Poor, dear Laura,” sighed Celia. “I always said it was an ill-omened marriage; but lately I have thought that I was going to turn out a false prophet.”
“Has she ever told you what took her husband away after their marriage?”
“No, on that point she has been as silent as the grave. She told me once that he had been to Buenos Aires, called away on business. I have never been able to extort anything more out of her.”
“It must have been a curious kind of business which called a man away from his newly-wedded wife,” said Edward.
Clara nodded significantly, and looked at the fire.
