Chapter X

SWEET AND BITTER;
FLOWERS AND THORNS.

MY dream of happier days was not altogether illusive. Leonard Glynne's return made a marked difference in my life at Mrs. Lyell's. The days were no longer all alike—colourless and uneventful. There were sharp contrasts between them—some were bright, some dark. I lived in those days, the young, eager life within me making itself felt by many a quick heart throb, many a thrill of pain or feverish glow of rapture that was akin to pain.

But for a while I drank of a sweet, intoxicating cup of delight. I first sipped it on the Sunday following my introduction to Leonard Glynne. He joined me as I sat in Mrs. Lyell's square, crimson-curtained pew in the old ivy-grown church at East Weylea; he walked home with me at the close of the service, and spent the remainder of the day with us. I remember how we strolled about the garden together in the afternoon whilst Mrs. Lyell rested, how he searched the strawberry bed to find for me the first ripe strawberries, and how he picked for me a rose growing against the house-wall and just beyond my reach. He was hardly more than an inch taller than myself, and this incident led to a discussion of our heights, in which he delicately conveyed to me his admiration for my tall stature. Ah, my foolish woman's mind which retains such trifles, but lets weightier matters slip!

Mrs. Lyell was too feeble to go to church. Leonard and I went again in the evening, and after service he took me for a walk. It was a cool, delicious evening. The walk was delightful to me, and I could see that he enjoyed it no less. How we talked as we went along—pure nonsense for the most part, I fear. We forgot how time was passing, and barely got back to Mrs. Lyell's in time for prayers. But the dear old lady did not seem displeased. The day ended as happily as it had begun.

The next day Leonard came in again, rather to his aunt's surprise, I thought. And throughout that week I saw him constantly. For if he did not come to the house, I somehow chanced to see him as he passed to or from the stable. Sometimes he would have a long ride before breakfast, and bring his horse in just as I was taking my morning stroll round the garden. He would be sure to catch sight of me, and, leaving Ariel to Sam's care, he would join me for a few minutes ere he returned to his lodgings.

Then, as we walked round the garden, I seldom failed to see Sarah's face pressed against the pane of her mistress's bedroom window. But I could defy her watching eyes. There was no harm in walking and talking with Leonard Glynne, my new-found friend, who understood me so perfectly, and who seemed to find as much pleasure in my company as I found in his.

One evening, I had been to the post-office in the village, and was returning to the house through the front garden, just as Leonard came in from his ride. As soon as he saw me, he checked his horse and alighted. I paused to stroke Ariel's graceful neck, and he bent his head to me so prettily as he recognised me.

"Oh, you beauty!" I exclaimed. "How lovely it must be to ride you!"

"Do you think so? Would you like to try him?" asked Leonard, eagerly. "Come, jump up; you need not be afraid; I'll lead him."

I needed little persuasion, for I had no timidity where animals were concerned. In another minute, with Leonard's assistance, I sprang on to the saddle. Then he led the horse two or three times round the garden. Ariel's paces were delightful. To me, who had never ridden anything above a rough pony, it was the height of enjoyment to be mounted on such a creature, and I said so.

"I am glad you like it," said Leonard; "you shall have a ride on him one day; I can easily borrow a side-saddle. I have no doubt Ariel will carry a lady, though I will have him tried to avoid all risk."

Of course I protested against his taking such trouble on my account, but in vain. I had already discovered that Leonard Glynne was remarkably firm of purpose. Whatever he willed to do, he did, as a rule, and it was so in this case.

In spite of Mrs. Lyell's nervous dislike to the thought of my risking my life on a horse, in spite of sundry difficulties, he would not give up the idea. He succeeded in borrowing not only a side-saddle but a habit for me. It was rather short, but I managed to adapt it to my use, and, thus equipped, I started one evening for my first ride, mounted on Ariel and escorted by Leonard Glynne, who rode a less elegant animal hired from the stables at the Stag's Head.

I was not an accomplished rider, and Leonard had to give me some instructions as we went along. I did my best to profit by them, promising that he should one day be proud of his pupil. I think we each liked our respective "róles" of teacher and learner. For me the enjoyment of that ride was perfect.

We took a long round, passing Beechwood on the way. As we approached Beechwood Hall, I reined in my horse, and looked curiously through the iron gates, smiling to myself as I recalled the droll incident that had occurred there the day I first saw it.

"I take an interest in this place, because it is the home of my brother's friend, Ralph Dugdale," I said to my companion.

"Ralph Dugdale!" he repeated, looking at me rather fixedly. "Is he your brother's friend?"

"Yes," I said, "they are both at Trinity, and are very great friends, though Mr. Dugdale is a fellow-commoner and Edmund only a sizar."

"Then you know Dugdale, too, I suppose?" said Leonard.

"Oh, yes, I know him," was my reply. "He came to see us on the day that Mabel was married. He was so nice; I liked him very much. Do you know him?"

"Yes," said Leonard, so curtly that I asked, in surprise—

"Do you not like him?"

"Certainly. I have no cause to feel otherwise towards him. I am not intimate with Mr. Dugdale, but he appears to be a very good fellow. Everyone speaks well of him in this neighbourhood," said Leonard, with rather forced warmth, as it seemed to me.

"I knew he was good," I returned. "Do you know if he is at home now? Edmund is staying on at Cambridge for part of the vacation in order to compete for a scholarship, and he said that Dugdale talked of remaining to keep him company. Oh, I do hope Edmund will succeed."

"You are very fond of your brother," remarked Leonard.

"He is all that I have now of my very own," was my reply, rather sadly given I suppose, for Leonard's eyes seemed to soften with sympathy as he looked at me. Then, more brightly, I added, "Mrs. Lyell has invited Edmund to come to us for a few days when his examination is over, so I hope he may be able to make your acquaintance."

"Thank you," he said, cordially; "it will be a pleasure to me to know your brother."

With that, we broke into a canter.

"Our first ride has been very pleasant," said Leonard, as he helped me to dismount at Mrs. Lyell's door; "it must not be our last."

Yet it was the last.

It was exquisite pleasure I had had that evening; but I paid for it, as I paid for every hour of joy, by hours of reactionary depression. It was no settled happiness acquaintance with Leonard Glynne brought me. There were days when he did not come to the house, mornings when I lingered till the last moment in the garden without seeing him, and then the quiet hours I had to spend with Mrs. Lyell seemed almost unendurable, as I sat longing to hear that well-known ring of the bell, or straining my ears to catch the sound of Ariel's hoofs on the gravel outside. Sometimes for days that distant sound or a glimpse from a window of him riding forth was all I knew of Leonard.

When at last he appeared again, he would tell us what he had been doing during these days, how he had dined at such and such a house, or gone to a picnic, or formed one of a riding party in which there had been several ladies.

As I listened, I was conscious of a dull, aching pain at my heart. I thought it was caused by a longing to share in such amusements. I was very restless in those days. I used to roam round and round the garden till I grew weary of the confinement of its walls. I took long walks, but though I often returned tired and foot-sore, sound sleep deserted me. It was something new in my experience to find myself lying awake half the night. Naturally my studies suffered; I could not fix my mind upon my books; I seemed to be growing stupid. And yet I remained in ignorance of what these signs meant.

There was one, however, who read me and understood me better than I understood myself, and to her I owed my enlightenment when it came.

Running upstairs one evening, I paused before the landing window at the head of the staircase. This window was above the porch, and commanded a full view of the front garden, with a bit of the road and the green country beyond. The distant view, however, was spoiled by a new-looking Gothic villa, which stood just opposite Mrs. Lyell's gates, and was, as I knew, a great eyesore to her. I was not looking at this house in particular; I believe I was lingering at the window with a vague hope of seeing Leonard Glynne come up the garden, when Sarah came softly from a bedroom at the left of where I stood.

"So you are looking at the villa, miss," she said, in her smooth tones; "a pity it stands there, is it not? My mistress will never get over her dislike to seeing it. She has not cared to go into the front garden since it was built."

"It is not beautiful, certainly," I said; "it has a Londonified look, which makes it seem quite out of place at Weylea."

"They are London people who live in it," said Sarah. "Mr. Glynne knows them; he goes there a good deal. There is a very pretty, fashionable young lady there."

It was impossible to mistake the meaning tone in which Sarah spoke. A sharp, horrible pain clutched my heart as I heard her. The next moment my mind refused to receive her insinuation.

"I thought the villa was unoccupied," I said, with all the indifference I could assume; "the window blinds are always down, and I never see anyone pass in and out."

"It is empty now," said Sarah; "Mrs. Carsdale and her daughter are on the Continent."

"Carsdale!" I exclaimed, not without dismay, which doubtless my tone expressed. "Do the Carsdales live there?"

"Yes, miss, that is where they live; Mrs. Carsdale is an invalid, and needs constant change. They came to Weylea because she was ordered country air. There is nothing the matter with her but nervousness. My mistress thinks she would soon be better if she would rouse up and think of someone besides herself. Mrs. Carsdale called here one day, but Mrs. Lyell could not get on with her; she is not one of my mistress's sort."

"Dear me!" I said, striving to speak lightly. "I thought Mrs. Lyell loved everybody."

"So she does, miss, in a way; I have never heard her say an unkind word of Mrs. Carsdale. But I will tell you what it is, she does not like Mr. Glynne's going there so often; she is afraid lest he should care too much for Miss Carsdale, and she cannot bear the thought of his marrying a gay, worldly-minded young lady."

It was easy to understand this. I had seen with what horror Mrs. Lyell regarded everything comprised in her idea of worldliness, and her peculiar shrinking from the society of fashionable people. She had very strict notions on the subject of dress, and even my own simple black had met with some disapproval from her, because it was made according to the prevailing fashion.

I waited to hear no more of what Sarah might have to say. Doubtless she knew what a sting her words had implanted in my heart. I went into my room and closed the door. I stood for some moments with hands clasped tightly before me, forgetting what I had come to fetch. The rush of pain and despair and indignation made me suddenly aware of what had been the meaning of the half-delightful, half-painful excitement and agitation of the past week or two. How I scorned myself as I discovered the truth! To think that I had "fallen in love"—horrid expression! To think that I had given my heart to one who had only treated me with common friendship! But no, I had not fallen in love, I had simply walked into it, blinded, deluded, thrilled, without the least consciousness whither the flowery path I pursued was leading me. And now that I saw to what a pass I had been brought, my heart cried out against fate for inflicting on me such a cruel wrong.

How could I help it? The friendliness had been such as I had never known before, marked by such keen perception of my tastes, quick reading of my thought, and eager readiness to give me pleasure. Was it not hard that I must pay for its enjoyment in this heart pain!

For I had no hope that the hint Sarah had given me was mistaken; I had no reason to suppose that Leonard cared for me otherwise than as a friend. Of course it was Miss Carsdale whom he admired. Had he not joined them on the Continent? Only yesterday Mrs. Lyell had remarked that Leonard came to see her more often than he had been wont to do, and I, in my foolish vanity, had imagined that my presence accounted for his more frequent visits. Now I knew the true reason. It was because the Carsdales were still absent from home that he found more leisure to visit his aunt.

"A pretty, fashionable young lady!" How Sarah's words tormented me! Just the kind of girl to attract him, I knew, for Leonard was not in all things what his aunt would have him. He had his taint of worldliness; he was by no means perfect—kind-hearted, frank, and generous as he was. He had a high regard for the world's standard of gentlemanly decorum, and would have felt as much ashamed of failing in a point of etiquette as of committing a far graver error. He was scrupulously nice in his dress, and only his strong common sense prevented his fastidiousness from degenerating into foppery.

More than once I was aware that I had offended against his delicate sense of neatness and propriety. Once, when he drew my attention to a rent I had made in my gown whilst scrambling through the currant bushes, I told him, laughingly, that my sister Mabel would have suited him exactly, for she never tore her frocks, or did anything that was vulgar and unladylike. But though I laughed, I lost no time in mending the tear as neatly as I could, and from that day I took great pains to be neat and tidy in my person.

What was the use? It was impossible that he could really care for one so ungainly as myself.

"A pretty, fashionable young lady!"

How the words stung me! As I repeated them, I caught sight of my reflection in the mirror, and the words seemed to mock my short rough locks, my sallow skin, my long neck, and general gauntness.

"Well," I said to myself, stoically, "I am glad that I know the truth. I might have gone on like this for weeks. But now I know, I can, and I will, conquer this folly."

With that I resolved that I would henceforth think as little as possible of Leonard Glynne; he should be to me no more than a mere acquaintance. And gathering myself together in the strength of that resolve, I went downstairs, challenged Mrs. Lyell to a game of draughts, and sat down to play as if I cared for nothing so much as for the game. Alas! It was not easy to crush thought, and whilst I was struggling with myself there came the sharp, decided ring I knew so well, followed in a few minutes by the entrance of Leonard Glynne.

Weak was my self-control. My heart beat tumultuously; I was trembling, and my hand was cold when I gave it to him.

"We had better give up our game now, my dear," said Mrs. Lyell.

"Oh, no!" I remonstrated. "I am sure Mr. Glynne will excuse us if we finish it. A few moves will now decide the issue."

Of course, he begged us to go on. He came and stood behind my chair to watch the game. Could I forget for a moment that he was there? I made a false move which delivered two of my pieces into Mrs. Lyell's hands. Leonard told me that I might yet win if I were careful; but I was far too disturbed in mind to profit by his hint. Another mistake and the game was Mrs. Lyell's.

"Whatever were you thinking of?" said Leonard. "You had the advantage, you ought to have won."

"I daresay; but I am stupid tonight," was my lame excuse.

I took my needlework and began sewing desperately, as if it were of the utmost importance that I should finish the apron I was making for Mrs. Lyell's Dorcas basket. I hardly raised my head once, nor contributed a word to the talk Leonard was having with his aunt. At other times I had experienced a subtle delight in meeting the quick, flashing glances Leonard would give me as he talked; now I dared not look at him.

Suddenly he turned to me, "By the way, Miss Carmichael, I have been thinking that we might have another ride now the weather seems settled again. Would it suit you to go on Saturday evening?"

The colour flew into my face. I was obliged to look at him now, but my eyes fell almost immediately, as I said hurriedly, "No, thank you, it is very kind of you, but I cannot go on Saturday."

"Well, then, we must make it one day next week. Tell me what day will suit you best."

"You must excuse me," I faltered, in sore distress and confusion; "I do not think it will be well for me to ride any more."

"You are quite right, my dear," put in Mrs. Lyell, "I do not like the idea of your riding; it is running a great risk. Horsemanship is all very well for men, who have more strength and courage, but I do not think it becoming to our sex."

I was silent. It was all I could do to keep on sewing with the consciousness that Leonard's eyes were fixed on me with a grave, questioning gaze.

"Do you mean," he asked, after a minute, "that you do not wish to ride again? Would you rather not?"

"Yes," I said, firmly, though it cost me an indescribable effort; "I would rather not."

"Very well," he said, and his tones were cold and hard; "of course it must be as you wish."

He was proud and quick tempered, and I had offended him. Oh, what would I have given at that moment to recall my words! How I longed to explain that I was not ungrateful, that I valued his kindness, and should enjoy the ride above all things!

A few minutes later, he rose to go. He shook hands with me rather ceremoniously. Against my will, as it seemed, my eyes were drawn to his, and I read mingled reproach and wonder in his gaze.

And what of my feelings when he was gone—what of the night that followed? No need to record the bitterness of those hours. Suffice to say I did not find it easy to be a stoic and ignore the pain that tore my heart.

Several days, days full of heavy hours, passed without my seeing Leonard Glynne. Sunday did not bring him, for he had gone to spend the day with friends in London. On Monday morning I saw him from my bedroom window walking in the garden. He cast several glances towards the house. My heart told me that he was looking for me, but I only drew back into the shelter of the curtains, and did not venture downstairs till he had disappeared.

Two days later, from an upper window, I saw him ride forth on Ariel. How well both man and horse looked! Leonard was a graceful rider, and never appeared to more advantage than when on horseback. My heart ached as I watched him ride out of sight.

On Friday evening I was sitting with my books in the library. I had not long returned from town, whither I had been to take my lessons. My work had been ill done during the past week, and my arithmetic master had not been pleased with me. I had come back vexed both with him and myself. I was brooding now over a difficult problem he had set me to work out. He had given me some explanations, but I had failed to grasp their significance, and now I found, to my mortification, that I could make nothing of the sum before me. It was foolish of me to attempt it when I was weary and dispirited. My head ached, I was sick at heart; life seemed just then too hard to be borne. I said to myself that I was hopelessly stupid; I should never be capable of teaching others; at best I could only hope to drudge through life as a nursery governess.

And then a bitter wave of depression swept over me; I fancied that a life of loneliness lay before me, and that I should be bereft of all whom I most tenderly loved. With a sob, I pushed aside the puzzling arithmetic book, my head fell on my hands, and I indulged in a flood of weeping.

As I thus gave way, I heard the hall door softly and quickly opened and closed, a step crossed the hall, and before I could recover myself, Leonard Glynne stood beside me.

"Why, Dorothy!" he said, and his low, gentle tones were inexpressibly soothing. "What is the meaning of this?"

He had never called me Dorothy before; but I did not think of that till afterwards. It seemed right and natural now that he should so address me. But his kindness had at first the effect of making my tears flow more freely. I could not speak; I could only shake my head and sign to him to leave me.

"I cannot go away till you tell me what is the matter," he said, firmly. "Are you in trouble? Shall I call Mrs. Lyell?"

"No, no," I managed to say, some vehemence, "it is nothing; it is only that I am silly. Don't call anyone, please."

"There must be some cause; it is not like you to cry for nothing."

By this time I was heartily ashamed of myself, and made a determined effort to conquer my emotion.

"Indeed, it is next to nothing," I said. "You will laugh when I tell you. I was bothered over this sum, and my head ached, and I was vexed to find myself so stupid, so I cried."

But he did not laugh. There was a grave, tender look in his eyes as they rested on me, though after a minute he said, playfully—

"Did you think that crying would be likely to clear your brain? Come, let me see this formidable sum. It is some years since I left school, but I hope I have not forgotten all I learned there. Perhaps I can help you."

So saying, he drew up a chair beside me, took paper and pencil, and waited for me to show him my difficulty. Like most men of business, he was quick at figures. He saw his way at once to the heart of the problem. In a few minutes, the sum was stated and worked out to its right conclusion, I having been made to follow him through every process.

"There!" he said, as he threw down his pencil triumphantly. "Was that worth crying about?"

"Of course not," I said; "but I can't regret that I cried, for it has brought me your help. Thank you very, very much. I see it all so clearly now. I shall be able to work out the other examples, so Mr. Oesten will not be displeased with me."

"What an ogre he must be, if the thought of his displeasure melts you to tears!"

"Oh, no, he is not an ogre, and I cried more because I was so vexed at my own stupidity than from any fear of his anger."

"Stupidity, indeed! That is a word you have no right to apply to yourself. Now, promise me that you will cry no more over your sums, but if you come to any difficulty, you will tell me and let me help you. I can't profess to teach like Mr. Oesten, but I have no doubt we could puzzle the things out together. Come, let it be a compact."

"Indeed, you are very, very kind," I said, "and if you really do not mind the trouble, I should be so glad of your help."

"Mind the trouble!" he repeated significantly. "As if it were not a pleasure to me to help you! You don't know how I felt when, glancing in at the window, I saw you crying in that desperate way."

As he spoke, his eyes met mine. There was that in his gaze that both thrilled and fascinated me so that I could not at once withdraw my eyes from his. It seemed a long while that we looked at each other with that peculiar gaze in which soul meets soul. Then my eyes fell, and, to hide my confusion, I began hurriedly to gather my books together, saying that I must go to Mrs. Lyell. But I was almost too happy to know what I was doing. Sarah, Miss Carsdale, and every cause of grief was forgotten. At that moment, I felt sure that Leonard loved me.

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