Vexed; or, The Wife's Sister/Chapter 7

IF they were rather late for dinner, Graham was not inclined to blame them; and Kitty had sent word that she was too tired to appear. The captain indulged in a little playful badinage, which they were too happy to resent, and he was at last reduced to unusual silence, failing to "get a rise out of Edward."

After dinner, however, when the three gentlemen had retired to the smoking-room, he sauntered through the open window into the garden; and, throwing away a newly lighted cigar, made for the drawing-room window. It was open, and he stood and watched Albreda at the piano. To say that he admired her was to pay no compliment to Miss Darcy.

Had he confided his opinions to a friend, he would have dwelt, probably, on her "points" with enthusiasm, and talked of "trotting her ​out" for inspection. She had certainly not shown him the amiable side of her character; but, strangely enough, he was fascinated by the very antagonism, and the belief that Edward was in the field as a "bidder" was quite enough to rouse in him a spirit of keen rivalry.

"These high-stepping thoroughbreds require the greatest caution in the breaking-in," he said to himself. "You must begin by rubbing the nose gently, and making no startling sound or actions of any kind. That was my mistake. I startled her at first, and, of course, she was unmanageable afterwards. Now I will go on the Rarey plan."

He came in through the glass door, and, standing on the long-haired mat, she did not at first hear him, but as she ended a sacred song he said—

"Thank you, Miss Darcy; I don't know when I have heard anything that has touched me so. It takes me back to my boyhood again. I had a good mother, you know."

He sighed, and then, tossing his head, slowly said, "Well, well, it's no good dwelling on the past."

Albreda had looked round hurriedly, vexed to find that she was not alone as she had supposed and not inclined to have her meditations interrupted; but she was half deceived by his tone, ​and wondered whether the song had touched a dormant chord of better feeling in the captain.

So she repressed her irritation, and said kindly, "I will sing you another if you like them. It was from a new oratorio, by Farmer. It is very beautiful and pathetic, I think."

He listened with rapt attention till the song was ended; but he had not come in for that purpose, so prevented her from singing more by beginning a conversation from which she could not well break away.

"You women have more influence over us than you are aware of," he said, drawing his seat near to the music-stool. "You know they say, 'A man is what a woman makes him.'"

"I wonder that a man should care to admit that," said Albreda, rather shortly. She was tempted to answer disagreeably, but checked herself. She might throw away an opportunity of doing him some good.

"Well, you know what I mean," continued the captain quickly, noticing a slight asperity in her tones. "A woman may help to keep a man straight if she will, or drive him to desperation by unkindness."

He thought he was on very safe ground now. He had often flattered women in this way before, and with success. They usually took the position that he assigned to them, playing the ​priestess while he was the interesting but incorrigible prodigal. He liked nothing better than a lecture from a pair of pretty lips. When he appeared penitent, an absolution was sure to follow. But looking at Albreda as she turned over the leaves of her music, something in her face made him feel that she was a priestess to be feared. If he made confessions to her, she would inflict severe penance. This was a strange woman, he thought—particularly strange, because she did not seem to see much beauty in the waywardness of men. It made his part a difficult one to play, taking away from him his most prevailing plea for consideration. It was a relief when she spoke again. "I am afraid I am sometimes a little hard in my judgment," she said, more softly, "but it always seems to me that a man lowers himself when he talks of leaning upon a woman for moral support. He is stronger than her, physically, and his moral strength ought surely to be in proportion."

The conversation was becoming too serious to please the captain.

"Are you a woman-righter?" he asked, laughing.

"No. I think I am more anxious about the rights of men; for, to tell the truth, I find it difficult to acknowledge supremacy where only physical and intellectual superiority is claimed, ​when moral strength (the only true greatness) is left to a woman as her prerogative."

She was determined to be serious, so he thought it politic to fall in with her mood.

"You are right, I do believe," he said, leaning his elbow on the piano, and smoothing his hair pensively. By this action he effectually barred her escape from the corner between the piano and the wall, and she was forced to try to make the best of a long talk with him.

The half-serious tone which he assumed, however, did not deceive her now, and at last, her patience being exhausted, she got up to go.

"Don't be in a hurry, Miss Darcy," said the captain, without moving his arm. "It is a treat to me to get a sensible woman to talk to, especially where sense and beauty are combined, which is not often the case."

An angry flush came into Albreda's face. The insolence of the man daring to impede her, as well as his undisguised flattery, made her feel dangerous.

"Allow me to pass, if you please," she said, looking at him steadily, with an expression of cold dislike.

He moved instantly, and at that moment Graham and Edward Foley came into the room. They had entered through the window, having ​followed the captain into the garden, expecting to find him still there.

"Hallo! so you're here already!" said Graham, coming up to them. "I suppose you were tempted in by the music?"

"No such thing; I was tempted in by the musician," said the captain, with a knowing smile at Edward. "While you two men were engrossed in your talking, I put it to myself in this way. Here is a new cigar, just lighted—cost eighteen-pence—perfect flavour; and there is a charming woman with a sweet voice, and no one to talk to. I can tell you it didn't take me long to choose between them."

"That's a rap for us," said Graham, with a sly wink at Edward, to whose confessions he had just been listening.

But Edward did not see him. He was looking beyond to Albreda, who had avoided meeting his eye as he entered. As they neared the window, he had been surprised to see her tête-à-tête with his brother, and more so when she got up and left him so hurriedly at their approach.

"He'd better not be up to any of his pranks here," he said to himself, with a threatening look at the captain.

Albreda had left the room, saying that she must go to look after her sister. By the time ​she returned, she had managed to compose her face, and met him quite naturally.

"How do you find Mrs. Heathcote?" Edward asked, walking with her to a far corner of the room, where a folding screen made a comfortable recess.

"She seems very weak, and does not rally as Graham had hoped. I think she will see a doctor to-morrow."

"I am so very sorry about her," said Edward. "It all seems so unnecessary and strange to me. How could she doubt either you or Graham?"

"One cannot reason out such things," answered Albreda. "Of course, seeing the passing of this Bill put it into her mind. I believe thousands of women must be suffering now in the same way. I can see that the bare idea of its being possible that I should ever take her place in Graham's affection made Kitty almost hate me, and no sisters ever loved each other better than we did."

"Strange," Edward answered. "I cannot make out women at all; they feel so differently from men."

"Do you think so?" asked Albreda. She had seen the captain lay down his newspaper preparatory to making a raid upon them, and she began to wonder whether it was as impossible as Edward thought for brothers to be jealous of one another if put in the same position.

​She smiled to herself as she saw Edward's brow contract as the captain came up to them. She must make the most of this tangible argument, she thought. The momentary and rather mischievous desire to tease Edward into the weakness that he could not understand in women was, however, checked in her by Captain Foley's approach.

There was a gleam in his eye as he looked at her that seemed to portend some evil design. Ever since the little episode at the piano, where this woman had again got the better of him, the captain had been plotting a revenge, and now the opportunity presented itself. With all his appreciation of himself and his faith in his powers of conquest, he could not disguise the fact that, in this case, he had been worsted. Miss Darcy disliked him; indeed, there had been a suggestion of loathing in the way in which she had first looked at him, and then turned away. She should pay for that.

In petty selfish natures hatred is not far removed from worship. The green leaves of his vanity had been stung by the gall-fly, and under each were the tiny blood-red apples that nourished the eggs of revenge.

Apparently unconscious of Albreda's return to the room, he had in reality kept a sharp watch from behind his paper, and had not missed the ​look of mutual understanding that had passed between the two as they made for the far end of the room, without sign or word spoken. Coming up to them now, he saw Albreda withdraw her hand from Edward's.

This was evidently then "a case," which he was too late to defeat, but he would take his pound of flesh for all that.

He did not look at Edward, but addressed himself to Albreda. "When are we going to finish our talk, Miss Darcy?" he said. "It was unkind of you to make off so suddenly."

Albreda was slightly confused by the question; she felt that she must answer cautiously. "I don't know what you mean, Captain Foley; the conversation was ended."

"Certainly, and very abruptly too. I never saw any one so startled."

She felt the base insinuation, but was too indignant to answer him.

"Shall we go out?" she said, turning to Edward, whose face had every appearance of gathering for a storm.

He did not speak, but got up slowly, and drew himself to his full height. It certainly gave him an unfair advantage over his brother. He put his hand on Albreda's shoulder, and said, looking full at the captain, "I don't think you are aware, Philip, that Miss Darcy and I are engaged."

​"Indeed? that is news!" was the ready answer. "Let me congratulate you both. You kept your secret very well, Miss Darcy." He bowed and smiled, but with a leer on his face that made Albreda glad to escape from his presence.

Edward did not allude to him when they got outside; shame kept him silent, and he determined to leave it to Albreda to speak first. He expected that she would explain the insinuations thrown out by the captain; but she, too, was silent on the subject. When they came in, an hour afterwards, nothing was to be seen of their gallant tormenter—he could not stand the sight of Edward's triumph.

"The captain has taken himself off," said Graham at breakfast the next morning. "He had letters by the first post calling him away unexpectedly."

Edward and Albreda exchanged glances, but made no remark.

"The cart that has taken him will call for Dr. Binwell," continued Graham. "Kitty is feeling very low and nervous, and I shall be more satisfied to have advice about her."

So gradually had increased weakness been stealing upon Kitty, that they had ceased to be surprised when she did not appear at meals. ​Generally about noon her little figure, in a pretty white breakfast gown, would come stealing into the morning-room, noiseless as a ghost, and she would seat herself in a low chair in the window to watch for Graham. It delighted her to see Albreda's happiness, and she had already confided to her sister that, next to Graham, Edward was the nicest man she knew. Once or twice she had tried to laugh at her fears in the past; but it was too painful a subject to dwell upon even in fun, and had cost too much. This morning she came down later than usual.

Her sister had just returned from a stroll with Edward, and he, thinking they might like to be together a little, had left them to meet Graham.

They had brought in some wild flowers for Kitty; and as she lay back in her easy chair, she was lifting them one by one, not to examine them in the ruthless scientific way, tearing their delicate petals asunder to count their parts and anatomize their structure, but lovingly and tenderly drinking in the beauty of form and colour, and enjoying the dainty woodland scents of eglantine and wild honeysuckle.

A great nodding handful of red poppies and white ox-eyed daises, gathered with long stalks, was Edward's contribution, and she had laid them across her knee, not unmindful that the ​effect would be pleasing to Graham when he came in.

She had always been careful of her appearance; but once it was to please herself and her womanly vanity, of which she possessed a fair share; now everything was for Graham. If he loved the little wilful curls on her forehead, they were certainly not suppressed, but even encouraged in their waywardness. But to-day she had not been quite so careful in her toilette. She was too weary even to take the usual last glance at herself in the mirror, and to put the little finishing touches which seemed to her so necessary. Perhaps that was why her beauty had had a startling effect upon the two, as they first came upon her lying in the open window. Her bright hair, rather looser than usual, was all about her forehead in wavelets that needed no interference of skilful placing; but there was that in her position that had alarmed Albreda the moment she caught sight of her.

Kitty's attitude was always graceful, however languid; but now there was a helplessness about it that struck her sister painfully. Directly she was aware of their presence, she braced herself up, moved her hands, which had been hanging over the side of the chair, and lowered her head, which was thrown back as though the weight of ​it were too much for her failing strength. The sight of the flowers seemed to revive her still more; and, though she did not seem inclined to talk much, Albreda was thankful to see that she enjoyed them in silence. She was making a nosegay of the tiniest specimens, and holding them thoughtfully at arm's length to see how the colours blended.

"You know the doctor is coming?" she said, rather suddenly, still looking at her flowers.

"Yes, darling, so Graham told me. I hope he will soon set you up again."

"Perhaps so. I am much weaker to-day." She laid down her flowers, and threw herself back in the same listless attitude in which her sister had found her. "Are you writing home to-day, Breda?" she said, without opening her eyes.

"I can, dear, if you wish it. Have you any message to send?"

Quietly as Albreda answered, a sickening fear was stealing over her while she looked at her sister.

"I should like Dick to come. I have been thinking so much about him to-day, poor boy."

"It would be cheerful to have him, if you think he would not be too noisy for you."

Kitty did not answer. She was lying so still, that but for the quivering of her closed eyelids ​Albreda would have listened for her breathing. She would not disturb her, but sat quietly working by her side till she heard the swing of the garden gate; and then she went out to meet Graham and Edward Foley.

"Kitty is having a little sleep," she said, as they came up to the window together.

They stood for a minute looking at her before they went in. It was a picture that they were loth to disturb. Her head had fallen slightly to one side, rendering less apparent the signs of prostration. The poppies and ox-eyed daisies lay across her lap, and on her breast sprays of honeysuckle and briar roses.

Then Graham stepped in quickly. "Is she asleep?" he said, in a tone of alarm, laying his hand on her forehead. She sighed and moved her head slightly, then opened her eyes, and they rested upon him, but for the moment apparently without recognition.

"Were you asleep, dear one?" he asked, bending over her, and kissing her tenderly.

She was still looking at him, but did not answer. There was a puzzled, bewildered expression in her face.

"She's ill, I think, Breda," he said, still holding her, but turning his head. "Get something to restore her—quick!"

But before her sister could move, she had ​lifted herself in the chair and looked round. "Is that you, Breda? and you, Graham? How funny! I think I must have been asleep; and yet it wasn't quite like sleep."

The wonder in her face was turning to fear, so Graham soothed her, holding her head to his bosom. "I think you were a little faint, dearest; but you are better now."

"I don't think I'm better, Gray; I feel very ill." She was trembling violently, and seemed to cling to him for protection from herself.

All his strength returned upon him with the sight of her weakness; and again he felt, as he clasped her, that he could make her strong by the mere force of his concentrated will.

"I will take care of you, my little Kitty," he said, talking to her as if she were a child. "I shall not leave you again as long as this weakness lasts."

She was sobbing now, and there were convulsive gasps that she found it hard to control; but, for her husband's sake, she tried to be brave; and at last, when the sobs had subsided, looked up with a tearful smile and said, "How silly and weak I am! I think I had better be sent to bed like a naughty child."

"I think it would be the best place for you," said Graham; and he lifted her up in his arms, and carried her to her room.

​Not long afterwards the doctor arrived; and, having paid a short visit, and given Graham some directions, he ran downstairs, evidently in a hurry to get off to another patient. Albreda caught him before he started, and was much encouraged by the cheerful way in which he spoke of Mrs. Heathcote.

"I apprehend no occasion for alarm," he said. "It is a weakness that I quite trust will soon pass off. Your sister has received some severe shock which has affected her nervous system generally, and produced great bodily prostration. Keep her as cheerful and free from anxiety of any kind as you can. I shall call again in a day or two, in case there should be any change in the symptoms; but I anticipate none."

Graham sat with Kitty all the afternoon; she wanted no one else. She could not bear reading, but lay and watched him as he puzzled over his netting. He was making a tennis net, and was too exact to tolerate any mistakes in it. At last he came to a hopeless bungle. Try as he might, he could not get it right; so he threw back his head impatiently.

"Are you giving it up, Gray?" asked Kitty.

"No, not I. 'Perseverando' is our family motto; and if the thing can be done, I will do it."

​"That is like you, Gray; but there are knots that no man can undo."

Graham recognized by the tone that her mind had travelled to something beyond his tennis net.

"In life, yes. We can only pray God to disentangle what man has dared to meddle with."

He looked up at her, lying so white and prostrate. He had to thank man for the cruel complications which had cost them so dear.

The threads of life run easily, when worked on the God-given pattern. Warp and woof there must be, contrary as to direction; but though every stitch form a cross, as long as it is perfect there will be no painful tangle, no straining and stretching of the fibre. But man tires of the monotony of weaving the fine linen of the saints. With nervous fingers he twists the threads and pulls them tight, or leaves them loose to suit his purposes. Here he will introduce colour even—something warmer than the pure snow of righteousness, be it never so dazzling. Red and purple lines of passion interrupt the cool whiteness of the growing garment. It will never become the saints, or suit the climate of heaven. Sell it in Vanity Fair for what it is worth! This is a garment spotted by the flesh.

Our marriage laws, as arranged by God, were holy and honourable.

​Where the lines form a cross, the marriage knot should be tied. But the cross must be perfect, and this can be only when the threads start from opposite directions. I see an unsightly bungle—a mixing of parallel threads; I have lost all trace of the warp and woof—there are no perfect crosses. The marriage knot is loose. It will soon be a slip-knot, and after that comes the question, "Is it worth the tying?"

God save us from such dire consequence!