Hugh Crichton's Romance

Part 3, Chapter XVI.

Mysie.

“Oh, happy spirit, wisely gay!”

“What are you doing, Mysie?” said Florence Venning, as she came one afternoon into the Redhurst drawing-room.

“I am sewing a button on Arthur’s glove,” returned Mysie, who was sitting by herself on a low chair in the window with a smart little work-basket by her side. “Do you know, Floss, Hugh is coming back to-night? Aunt Lily had a line from him from Paris.”

“Dear me! And do you want to get the button sewn on before he comes?”

Mysie shook her head, smiling, while Flossy went on: “Seriously, Mysie, aren’t you in a great fright?”

“No!” answered Mysie, “I cannot see why I should be in a fright. You know, Flossy, I have never been at all afraid of Hugh. I know he always does what he thinks right. And he knows what is right, too.”

“Well, but suppose he says you are too young?”

“But I shall explain to him,” said Mysie, “that I am not young. Now, don’t laugh, Flossy; but I can’t help feeling that when people are so very sure of themselves as I am they must be able to make others believe in them.”

“That’s a profound remark,” said Flossy.

“I’m not at all changeable,” said Mysie, “and I know I shall be able to make Hugh understand that I am quite in earnest.” There was a peculiar intensity in her quiet voice; and as she lifted up her eyes, clear and serene, Flossy felt that they would have convinced her of anything.

“It will be very unromantic if you don’t get anything to try your constancy,” said Flossy, teasingly.

“Well, one can be very happy without romance,” said Mysie, laughing. “Romance generally means something rather uncomfortable.”

“Well,” said Flossy, in her full, dear tones, “so does love—generally. I always observe that when a girl can’t do her lessons, or can’t eat her dinner, and is dismal and rather a bore, Mary has a confidence from home about her. And if one happens to see the man he’s generally such a creature. Now, I can imagine regarding Saint Ambrose—”

“Flossy!”

“Well, of course, I mean some one like him. I think my ideal is a mixture of intellect and strong common-sense, something like King Alfred. And I greatly admire the strength of Luther and Hampden; only those people are so often on the wrong side. But you see, Mysie, I shall never meet the great man of the age, and I shall never care for anyone unless he is wiser, cleverer, and better than I am myself!”

“That would be so difficult to find,” said Mysie.

“Mysie, how dare you be so sarcastic!” cried Flossy, with a great, hearty laugh. “But I don’t care; I can do without him, and when he turns up I’ll let you know.”

“Is he to be anything like that man in your old story who never smiled?” said Mysie.

“No, no, that was a very juvenile idea. But, Mysie,” coming nearer and speaking with slight embarrassment, “there is a story and a hero in it. I wonder if you would like him.”

“Oh, do show it to me.”

“Then, you must promise not to tell Arthur. Ah, is Arthur so cool as you are about your cousin?”

“No,” said Mysie, “he says that he should say ‘no’ in Hugh’s place. But,” she concluded quietly, “that is because it is coming so near.”

“And what has become of Arthur now?”

“There’s a cricket-match between Redhurst and Oxley, and Arthur is playing. Will you come down to the ground? Aunt Lily’s there and Frederica; they went to pay a call first.”

Flossy assented, and Mysie went upstairs to put on her hat. She was a girl with a great many quiet little tastes of her own, and her room gave opportunities for the study of them. There was something about her far removed from the ordinary hurry and bustle of modern young-ladyhood. She was noted in the family for always having time for everything. So on her table lay an album and a book of photographs, set in little paintings, and a basket containing pincushions and needle-books of wonderful shapes and capable workmanship, besides other varieties of fancy-work. Mysie dearly loved needlework, and secretly regretted the days when she could have stitched Arthur’s shirts for him. There were flowers, gathered and growing, and quiet, dainty little birds—avadevats and the like—hanging in the window; while on the mantelpiece was almost every little possession of Mysie’s short existence: the China dogs and the China shepherds of her babyhood, the little glass tea-set and the spun-glass boxes of advancing childhood, up to the pots and scent bottles—her schoolfellows’ presents in later years. For Mysie never lost or broke anything, and never grew tired of anything because it was old. She kept her big wax-doll in her wardrobe, and all her old story-books on the shelf in company with Arthur’s birthday present of Tennyson’s poems, and such and so many works of fiction as might be expected on a young lady’s book-shelves whose taste was exceedingly correct and who was able to gratify it. Mysie had, however, two little tastes of her own. She was fond of very sentimental poetry, which she read, copied, and learnt by heart quietly to herself, not feeling at all hurt if Arthur laughed at it or Flossy declared that it lowered her spirits; but, being an exceedingly happy little person, she had somehow a peculiar relish for faded flowers, bygone days, sad hearts, and all such imagery. She also liked all books containing quaint and pregnant sayings of wit or wisdom; read George Herbert and Bacon’s essays; and when asked, as a little girl, which part of the Bible she liked best to read had replied: “The Book of Proverbs: it was so exceedingly true.”

With every possibility of being an idle young lady Mysie was really useful and industrious, good, and pious—in the simplest meaning of that much abused word. She was a far more developed person than her lover, young as she was; and she loved him with all the force of old association, sisterly admiration and anxiety, mingling with the newer and sweeter dependence on his talents and his counsel. She believed in him, but her instinct was to advise him and to take care of him and to think of what was good for him, even while his opinions had unconsciously moulded many of her own; and to please him was her greatest delight.

Carefully she arranged her little hat, with its wild-rose trimming, and settled her pretty summer dress before she rejoined Flossy and started with her for the cricket-field, where several ladies and other spectators were already watching Arthur making runs in a white flannel suit edged with scarlet, which Mysie thought exceedingly becoming.

Mrs Crichton made room for them on a bench beside her. Frederica and Flossy began to compare notes of the runs; while Mysie sat in the bright sun, dreamily contemplating her lover’s prowess. Some of the cricketers came up to speak to them; one of the Oxley curates, in black trousers and a grey shirt, eagerly pointed out to Flossy the performance of a mutual protégé. Mrs Harcourt, the wife of the old rector of Redhurst, made the welcome announcement that she had ordered afternoon tea to be brought into the field. Mysie’s Redhurst Sunday scholars curtseyed and smiled at her from a distance; and the far more elegant damsels of Oxley, who absorbed all Flossy’s unprofessional efforts in the way of teaching, made her gracious bows, and offered her an opportunity of studying how to dress, or not to dress, hair of every shade of black, brown, flaxen, and auburn. A detachment from Oxley Manor, headed by Clarissa and the German governess, appeared at a discreet distance. Mysie became aware that Arthur saw her, and was making his thirtieth run under the inspiring influence of her eyes when a tall shadow fell on the dry, sunny grass, and a well-known voice said, “Well, mother, how are you?”

“My dear Hugh! How you surprised me; we did not expect you till dinner time!”

“I came half-an-hour ago; and finding you were all down here I thought I would follow you.”

“Quite right. How are you, and have you enjoyed yourself?”

“Very well; and I have enjoyed myself exceedingly,” said Hugh.

“Where’s Jem?”

“In London, to-day, I believe, but we did not travel back together. He wanted to see some other places.”

“And Civita Bella was charming? You are sunburnt, Hugh.”

“Civita Bella is a very charming place, with sun enough to burn anyone. How d’ye do, Mysie? I did not see you.”

Mysie put her hand into Hugh’s and felt her courage sink to her toes.

“I’m very well, Hugh, thank you,” she said, in a small voice; and then she perceived that Arthur had caught sight of his cousin, found himself “out,” he hardly knew how, and came over towards them with his face much more crimson than exertion need have made it.

“Well, Arthur, I congratulate you,” said Hugh. “On your degree,” he added, as Arthur started and looked blank.

“Oh, I forgot,” said Arthur, as he turned his back on Hugh and Mysie, in an awkward boyish way, and began to talk vehemently to the two Miss Dickensons, daughters of the Oxley doctor, with whom he had been sometimes accused of flirting; while Hugh turned to receive various greetings. To all this he had looked forward, and his manner and look did him credit, for, as his mother said, “he seemed as if he had never been away.”

Poor Hugh! When miles away from Civita Bella he had come to himself, as it were, after the passion of rage and grief in which he had left the city, he had resolved to cut the past seven weeks out of his life and to let them leave no trace behind. No one knew anything about them but James, who could well be trusted to keep the secret at home; they were utterly apart from all the rest of his life, and they should remain so. All their joy and all their pain should be buried for ever. These few short days should not influence all the rest of his life. What difference could it make to Redhurst and Oxley that a little Italian girl had made a fool of him? He had plenty of interests which remained unaltered, and this thing should be, what James had called it, a foolish holiday incident that was over and done. This resolution, though prompted by resentment, was agreeable to common-sense; and Hugh was not likely to betray himself. He knew that he must suffer a certain amount of pain, and then he supposed it would be over; if not he must bear it. What was there to see here while he waited for the train? A cathedral: he would go and see it.

And a girl offered him a great bouquet of roses and oleanders, such as Violante had put in the china bowl. Hugh turned off with a sharp refusal; but suddenly thought: “What, if after all I was mistaken! If I had waited one moment longer—” and the torment of that doubt, which yet was not strong enough to prompt any measure for its own satisfaction, haunted him and fretted him as the actual sorrow could not do, for it was a doubt of himself.

He had always been grave, and he was too strong and vigorous for trouble to tell easily on his health; so his appearance struck no one as unnatural, while he answered his mother’s enquiries about the Tollemaches, and described the beauties of Civita Bella—rather proud to find that he could do it so easily. Moreover, the home party had an absorbing interest of their own; and as soon as the match had ended, in the triumph of Redhurst, Mrs Crichton took her son’s arm to walk home with him, and Mysie and Arthur slipped away by a different path through the lanes.

Arthur put out his hand and took hold of Mysie’s, and they walked on for a bit hand in hand—a fashion Mysie favoured, perhaps as reminding her of holiday afternoons, when Arthur’s big-boy companionship had been so flattering and delightful to the little school-girl. The air was scented with meadow-sweet and with hay; the elms, in full leaf, threw heavy shadows across their path; a thrush was singing; the church clock chimed half-past six; everything was full of peaceful beauty. Mysie looked shyly into Arthur’s eyes, and then they both laughed; they were not really afraid or in suspense as to their fate, only Arthur wished that the decisive interview was over. “Suppose, for the sake of supposing,” he said, “that Hugh was really to act the cruel parent and send me away. What should you do, Mysie?”

“I don’t know,” said Mysie, lightly. “If he locked me up I think I should give in to him.”

“Then I should blow my brains out!” said Arthur. “I don’t know why I am talking such nonsense,” he added. “I know there is no reasonable likelihood of any interference; but sometimes, Mysie, it comes over me to think what have I done to deserve, what so few fellows get—my first love—nothing in the way? Everything in my life has gone well with me.”

“We must be very good,” said Mysie, in a low voice.

Arthur half shook his head. He was not given to talk about himself, or even to think much about himself from a critical point of view, but he felt that life had been made uncommonly easy to him, by circumstances, by temperament, and by the lodestar of Mysie’s love; and it, perhaps, proved that he was not spoiled by prosperity; since, with the stirring of the deepest feeling that he had ever known, there came a profound sense of these blessings and an almost exaggerated conviction of the absence of effort by which they had been attained.

“I have done nothing to deserve any of it,” he thought. “My work was pleasant to me. How could I go wrong with her before my eyes?” The kind actions, the ready aid which won much affection, the quick interest in all around him which made him helpful and useful everywhere—what had these ever cost him? More pains, perhaps, and more virtuous effort than he remembered or thought worth mentioning; but it was true that Arthur’s was a gracious nature, so kindly and genial that, though his life had been singularly blameless, he had hardly been conscious of aims above the average.

Mysie cut into the heart of his perplexity.

“I think it would be very ungrateful,” she said, “not to be glad that we are happy. We should be very thankful to God for it, and try to make other people happy, too; and trials are sure to come in this life,” she added, in her sweet, fearless, untried voice.

“You shall have few, my darling, if I can keep them away. But you are right; and it would be strange, indeed, if one were not thankful—for you.”

“The Christian Year says,” said Mysie, in her free, simple way:

”‘Thankful for all God takes away,
Humbled by all He gives—’

“That is what you meant, isn’t it?”

Arthur listened, half in admiration of Mysie’s goodness—he thought, as others like him have done, his lady-love so good—and half with the shyness of young manhood of devotional, apart from theological, language.

“Nothing so saintly, I fear, as that,” he said. “But I see what the last part means. What!”—as Mysie started and shrank up to him—“not afraid of cows, still, my little one!”

“N-o,” said Mysie, doubtfully, as half-a-dozen cows and a couple of woolly little calves turned out of a field, noisily and quickly. “No; it is very silly, and I am almost cured; but I did not expect them.”

Arthur put a protecting arm around her, very willing to forgive the fear that made her cling to him.

“Flossy does tease me so about it; but I shall always hate cows and strange dogs and guns,” said Mysie, in whom a sort of physical timidity contrasted strangely with her quiet self-possession in other ways.

“You must not walk by yourself if they frighten you, darling,” said Arthur; “but these are very harmless beasts. Come, here’s the garden-gate—and there’s Hugh. Tastes differ, but a herd of buffaloes would be a trifle; here goes!”

Mysie vanished, and Arthur advanced towards his cousin, into whose ears Mrs Crichton had already poured the whole story.

Hugh had listened, but he was annoyed and unsympathetic.

“Arthur is too young.”

“Oh, my dear Hugh, so much the better. Your dear father was very little older, and I only wish I could see you—”

“Mysie has a right to a wider out-look.”

“But, my dear, she quite adores him; she always did. And she is the most constant little creature. There cannot be a word against Arthur.”

“Oh, no; he is exceedingly well-conducted,” said Hugh, dryly.

“And what a pity to come between young people! It always does them harm, even where it’s inevitable. Disappointments are very bad things.”

“Most people have to survive them. However, mother, if you are satisfied on Mysie’s behalf, I can have nothing to say. I see Arthur. I’ll get it over at once.”

Hugh crossed the lawn, but had he wished to win Mysie for himself he could hardly have felt a bitterer pang of jealousy than that which came upon him as he looked at Arthur’s gladsome eyes and heard the proud satisfaction in his tones through all their embarrassment.

“I have nothing to say, Hugh, but that we have chosen each other. I think I can make her happy, and I will do my best to be helpful to you, and to place myself in a less unequal position as regards her fortune.”

“As mother consents,” said Hugh, “I cannot have a different opinion; but as regards the Bank, you must know your own mind, and I shall not consent to your taking any place there till you have taken time to consider of it. It is not exciting work nor satisfying, if you are ambitious.”

“I repeat,” said Arthur, “I have chosen my lot in life. I want Mysie, and Oxley, and the Bank, if you’ll have me; and Heaven knows I think myself a lucky fellow!”

“You know,” said Hugh, “by the terms of my father’s will you have the offer, but I should wish you to consider well of it.”

“Oh, I’ll consider,” said Arthur, in rather an off-hand manner; “but why lose time? And you’ll be very busy and want help now Simpson’s getting past his work.”

“Thank you.” Hugh paused, and then said, he hardly knew how ungraciously: “I shall not interfere with you: you can, of course, do as you like. I believe I ought to speak to Mysie; but, of course, you know what she will say.”

Arthur laughed joyously, little knowing how the gay, confident sound smote on Hugh’s ears.

“You’re very good, old fellow,” he said. “Don’t imagine I think my good fortune a matter of course. But I want to hear all your adventures. We have set upon you before you have even had your dinner, which is cruel. How many girls did Jem fall a victim to? Have you brought him home safe?”

“Jem took very good care of himself. But, as you say, it is dinner time. I must see if my things have come.”

“You’ve never wished me good luck! Well, you have assured it to me, which is better.”

“Oh, yes,” said Hugh; “I wish you joy, and certainly would not be the means of interfering with your good fortune.”