Back Aa

Vicissitudes of Bessie Fairfax

<h3>CHAPTER XXXI.</h3> <h3>A SUCCESS AND A REPULSE.</h3> The weather at the beginning of October was not favorable. There were gloomy days of wind and rain that Bessie Fairfax had to fill as she could, and in her own company, of which she found it possible to have more than enough. Mr. Fairfax had acquired solitary tastes and habits, and though to see Elizabeth's face at meal-times and to ride with her was a pleasure, he was seldom at her command at other hours. Mrs. Stokes was sociable and Mrs. Forbes was kind, but friends out of doors do not compensate altogether for the want of company within. Sir Edward Lucas rode or drove over rather frequently seeking advice, but he had to take it from the squire after the first or second occasion, though his contemporary would have given it with pleasure. Bessie resigned herself to circumstances, and, like a well-brought-up young lady, improved her leisure—practised her songs, sketched the ruins and the mill, and learnt by heart some of the best pieces in her aunt Dorothy's collection of poetry. Towards the middle of the month Mr. Cecil Burleigh came again, bringing his sister with him to stay to the end of it. Bessie was very glad of her society, and when her feminine acumen had discerned Miss Burleigh's relations with the vicar she did not grudge the large share of it that was given to his mother: she reflected that it was a pity these elderly lovers should lose time. What did they wait for, Mr. Forbes and his gentle Mary, Mr. Cecil Burleigh and his sweet Julia? She would have liked to arrange their affairs speedily. Mr. Cecil Burleigh went to and fro between Norminster and Abbotsmead as his business required, and if opportunity and propinquity could have advanced his suit, he had certainly no lack of either. But he felt that he was not prospering with Miss Fairfax: she was most animated, amiable and friendly, but she was not in a propitious mood to be courted. Bessie was to go to Brentwood for the nomination-day, and to remain until the election was over. By this date it had begun to dawn on other perceptions besides Mr. Cecil Burleigh's that she was not a young lady in love. His sister struggled against this conviction as long as she was able, and when it prevailed over her hopefulness she ventured to speak of it to him. He was not unprepared. "I am, after all, afraid, Cecil, that Miss Fairfax may turn out an uninteresting person," she began diffidently. "Because I fail to interest her, Mary—is that it?" said her brother. "She perplexes me by her cool, capricious behavior. Now I think her very dear and sweet, and that she appreciates you; then she looks or says something mocking, and I don't know what to think. Does she care for any one else, I should like to know?" "Perhaps she made some such discovery at Ryde for me." "She told me of your meeting with the Gardiners there. Poor Julia! I wish it could be Julia, Cecil." "I doubt whether it will ever be Miss Fairfax, Mary. She is the oddest mixture of wit and simplicity." "Perhaps she has some old prepossession? She would not be persuaded against her will." "All her prepossessions are in favor of her friends in the Forest. There was a young fellow for whom she had a childish fondness—he was at Bayeux when I called upon her there." "Harry Musgrave? Oh, they are like brother and sister; she told me so." "She is a good girl, and believes it, perhaps; but it is a brother-and-sisterhood likely to lapse into warmer relations, given the opportunity. That is what Mr. Fairfax is intent on hindering. My hope was in her youth, but she is not to be won by the semblance of wooing. She is either calmly unconscious or consciously discouraging." "How will Mr. Fairfax bear his disappointment?" "The recent disclosure of his son Laurence's marriage will lessen that. It is no longer of the same importance who Miss Fairfax marries. She has a great deal of character, and may take her own way. She is all anxiety now to heal the division between the father and son, that she may have the little boys over at Abbotsmead; and she will succeed before long. The disclosure was made just in time, supposing it likely to affect my intentions; but Miss Fairfax is still an excellent match for me—for me or any gentleman of my standing." "I fancy Sir Edward Lucas is of that opinion." "Yes, Sir Edward is quite captivated, but he will easily console himself. The squire has intimated to him that he has other views for her; the young man is cool to me in consequence." Miss Burleigh became reflective: "Miss Fairfax's position is changed, Cecil. A good connexion and a good dower are one thing, and an heiress presumptive to Kirkham is another. Perhaps you would as lief remain a bachelor?" "If Miss Fairfax prove impregnable—yes." "You will test her, then?" "Surely. It is in the bond. I have had her help, and will pay her the compliment." Miss Burleigh regarded her brother with almost as much perplexity as she regarded Miss Fairfax. The thought passed through her mind that he did not wish even her to suspect how much his feelings were engaged in the pursuit of that uncertain young lady because he anticipated a refusal; but what she thought she kept to herself, and less interested persons did not observe that there was any relaxation in the aspirant member's assiduities to Miss Fairfax. Bessie accepted them with quiet simplicity. She knew that her grandfather was bearing the main cost of Mr. Cecil Burleigh's canvass, and she might interpret his kindnesses as gratitude: it cannot be averred that she did so interpret them, for she gave nobody her confidence, but the plea was open to her. Lady Angleby welcomed Miss Fairfax on her second visit to Brentwood as if she were already a daughter of the house. It had not entered into her mind to imagine that her magnificent nephew could experience the slight of a rejection by this unsophisticated, lively little girl. She had quite reconciled herself to the change in Bessie's prospects, and looked forward to the marriage with satisfaction undiminished: Mr. Fairfax had much in his power with reference to settlements, and the conduct of his son Laurence would be an excitement to use it to the utmost extent. His granddaughter in any circumstances would be splendidly dowered. Nothing could be prettier than Bessie's behavior during this critical short interval before the election, and strangers were enchanted with her. A few more persons who knew her better were falling into a state of doubt—her grandfather amongst them—but nothing was said to her, for it was best the state of doubt should continue, and not be converted into a state of certainty until the crisis was over. It was soon over now, and resulted in the return of Mr. Cecil Burleigh as the representative of Norminster in the Conservative interest, and the ignominious defeat of Mr. Bradley. Once more the blue party held up its head in the ancient city, and Mr. Fairfax, Mr. Chiverton, and others, their Tory contemporaries, were at ease again for the safety of the country. Mr. Burleigh the elder had come from Carisfort for the election, and he now for the first time saw the young lady of whom he had heard so much. He was a very handsome but very rustic poor squire, who troubled the society of cities little. Bessie's beauty was perfect to his taste, especially when her blushes were revived by a certain tender paternal significance and familiarity in his address to her. But when the blushes cooled her spirit of mischief grew vivacious to repel their false confession, and even Lady Angleby felt for a moment disturbed. Only for a moment, however. She wished that Mr. Burleigh would leave his country manners at home, and ascribing Bessie's shy irritation to alarmed modesty, introduced a pleasant subject to divert her thoughts. "Is there to be a ball at Brentwood or no ball, Miss Fairfax?" said she with amiable suggestion. "I think there was something mooted about a ball if my nephew won his election, was there not?" What could Bessie do but feel appeased, and brighten charmingly?—"Oh, we shall dance for joy if you give us one; but if you don't think we deserve it—" said she. "Oh, as for your deserts—Well, Mary, we must have the dance for joy. Cecil wishes it, and so, I suppose, do you all," said her ladyship with comprehensive affability. Mr. Burleigh nodded at Bessie, as much as to say that nothing could be refused her. Bessie blushed again. She loved a little pleasure, and a ball, a real ball—Oh, paradise! And Mr. Cecil Burleigh coming in at the moment she forgot her proper reticent demeanor, and made haste to announce to him the delight that was in prospect. He quite entered into her humor, and availed himself of the moment to bespeak her as his partner to open the ball. It was settled that she should stay at Brentwood to help in the preparations for it, and her grandfather left her there extremely contented. Cards of invitation were sent out indiscriminately to blue and orange people of quality; carpenters and decorators came on the scene, and were busy for a week in a large empty room, converting it and making it beautiful. The officers of the cavalry regiment stationed at Norminster were asked, and offered the services of their band. Miss Jocund and her rivals were busy morning, noon, and night in the construction of aërial dresses, and all the young ladies who were bidden to the dance fell into great enthusiasm when it was currently reported that the new member, who was so handsome and so wonderfully clever, was almost, if not quite, engaged to be married to that pretty, nice Miss Fairfax, with whom they were all beginning to be more or less acquainted. Mr. Fairfax did not return to Brentwood until the day of the dance. Lady Angleby was anxious that it should be the occasion of bringing her nephew's courtship to a climax, and she gave reasons for the expediency of having the whole affair carried through to a conclusion without unnecessary delays. Sir Edward Lucas had been intrusive this last week, and Miss Fairfax too good-natured in listening to his tedious talk of colliers, cottagers, and spade husbandry. Her ladyship scented a danger. There was an evident suitability of age and temper between these two young persons, and she had fancied that Bessie looked pleased when Sir Edward's honest brown face appeared in her drawing-room. She had been obliged to ask him to her ball, but she would have been thankful to leave him out. Mr. Fairfax heard all his old friend had to urge, and, though he made light of Sir Edward, it was with a startling candor that he added, "But woman's a riddle indeed if Elizabeth would give her shoe-tie for Cecil." Lady Angleby was so amazed and shocked that she made no answer whatever. The squire went on: "The farce had better pause—or end. Elizabeth is sensitive and shrewd enough. Cecil has no heart to give her, and she will never give hers unless in fair exchange. I have observed her all along, and that is the conclusion I have come to. She saw Miss Julia Gardiner at Ryde, and fathomed that old story: she supposes them to be engaged, and is of much too loyal a disposition to dream of love for another woman's lover. That is the explanation of her friendliness towards Cecil." "But Julia Gardiner is as good as married," cried Lady Angleby. "Cecil will be cruelly disappointed if you forbid him to speak to Miss Fairfax. Pray, say nothing, at least until to-night is over." "I shall not interfere at the present point. Let him use his own discretion, and incur a rebuff if he please. But his visits to Abbotsmead are pleasant, and I would prefer not to have either Elizabeth annoyed or his visits given up." "You have used him so generously that whatever you wish must have his first consideration," said Lady Angleby. She was extremely surprised by the indulgent tone Mr. Fairfax assumed towards his granddaughter: she would rather have seen him apply a stern authority to the management of that self-willed young lady, for there was no denial that he, quite as sincerely as herself, desired the alliance between their families. Mr. Fairfax had not chosen a very opportune moment to trouble her ladyship's mind with his own doubts. She was always nervous on the eve of an entertainment at Brentwood, and this fresh anxiety agitated her to such a degree that Miss Burleigh suffered a martyrdom before her duty of superintendence over the preparations in ball-room and supper-room was accomplished. Her aunt found time to tell her Mr. Fairfax's opinions respecting his granddaughter, and she again found time to communicate them to her brother. To her prodigious relief, he was not moved thereby. He had a letter from Ryde in his pocket, apprising him on what day his dear Julia was to become Mrs. Brotherton; and he was in an elastic humor because of his late success—just in the humor when a man of mature age and sense puts his trust in Fortune and expects to go on succeeding. Perhaps he had not consciously endeavored to detach his thoughts from Julia, but a shade of retrospective reverie had fallen upon her image, and if she was lost to him, Elizabeth Fairfax was, of all other women he had known, the one he would prefer to take her place. He was quite sure of this, though he was not in love. The passive resistance that he had encountered from Miss Fairfax had not whetted his ardor much, but there was the natural spirit of man in him that hates defeat in any shape; and from his air and manner his sister deduced that in the midst of uncertainties shared by his best friends he still kept hold of hope. Whether he might put his fate to the touch that night would, he said, depend on opportunity—and impulse. Such was the attitude of parties on the famous occasion of Lady Angleby's ball to celebrate her nephew's successful election. Miss Fairfax had been a great help to Miss Burleigh in arranging the fruit and the flowers, and if Mrs. Betts had not been peremptory in making her rest a while before dinner, she would have been as tired to begin with as a light heart of eighteen can be. The waiting-woman had received a commission of importance from Lady Angleby (nothing less than to find out how much or how little Miss Fairfax knew of Miss Julia Gardiner's past and present circumstances), and accident favored her execution of it. A cheerful fire blazed on the hearth in Bessie's room; by the hearth was drawn up the couch, and a newspaper lay on the couch. Naturally, Bessie's first act was to take it up, and when she saw that it was a Hampton Chronicle she exclaimed with pleasure, and asked did Mrs. Betts receive it regularly from her friends?—if so, she should like to read it, for the sake of knowing what went on in the Forest. "No, miss, it only comes a time by chance: that came by this afternoon's post. I have barely glanced through it. I expect it was sent by my cousin to let me know the fine wedding that is on the tapis at Ryde—Mr. Brotherton, her master, and Miss Julia Gardiner." "Miss Julia Gardiner!" exclaimed Bessie in a low, astonished voice. Mrs. Betts, with an indifference that a more cunning young lady than hers would have felt to be carefully prepared, proceeded with her information: "Yes, miss; you met the lady, I think? The gentleman is many years older, but a worthy gentleman. And she is a most sweet lady, which, where there is children to begin with, is much to be considered. She has no fortune, but there is oceans of money on his side—oceans." Bessie did not jump to the conclusion that it was therefore a mercenary marriage, as she had done in another case. She forgot, for the moment, her interest in the Forest news, and though she seemed to be contemplating her beautiful dress for the evening laid out upon the bed, the pensive abstraction of her gaze implied profounder thoughts. Mrs. Betts busied herself with various little matters—sewed on faster the rosette of a white shoe, and the buttons on the gloves that were to be worn with that foam of silvery tulle. What Bessie was musing of she could not herself have told; a confused sensation of pain and pity was uppermost at first. Mrs. Betts stood at a distance and with her back to her young mistress, but she commanded her face in the glass, and saw it overspread slowly by a warm soft blush, and the next moment she was asked, "Do you think she will be happy, Mrs. Betts?" "We may trust so, miss," said the waiting-woman, still feigning to be fully occupied with her duties to her young lady's pretty things. "Why should she not? She is old enough to know her mind, and will have everything that heart can desire—won't she?" Bessie did not attempt any answer to this suggestive query. She put the newspaper aside, and stretched herself with a sigh along the couch, folding her hands under her cheek on the pillow. Her eyes grew full of tears, and so she lay, meditating on this new lesson in life, until Mrs. Betts warned her that it was time to dress for dinner. Miss Fairfax had by this date so far accustomed herself to the usages of young ladies of rank that Mrs. Betts was permitted to assist at her toilette. It was a silent process this evening, and the penetration of the waiting-woman was at fault when she took furtive glances in the mirror at the subdued face that never smiled once, not even at its own beauty. She gave Lady Angleby an exact account of what had passed, and added for interpretation, "Miss Fairfax was surprised and sorry, I'm sure. I should say she believed Miss Julia Gardiner to be attached to somebody else. The only question she asked was, Did I think she would be happy?" Lady Angleby could extract nothing out of this. Every one was aware of a change in Bessie when she went into the drawing-room; she felt as one feels who has heard bad news, and must conceal the impression of it. But the visible effect was that her original shyness seemed to have returned with more than her original pride, and she blushed vividly when Mr. Cecil Burleigh made her a low bow of compliment on her beautiful appearance. Mr. Fairfax had enriched his granddaughter that day with a suite of fine pearls, once his sister Dorothy's, and Bessie had not been able to deny herself the ornament of them, shining on her neck and arms. Her dress was white and bright as sea-foam in sunshine, but her own inimitable blooming freshness made her dress to be scarcely at all regarded. Every day at this period added something to her loveliness—the loveliness of youth, health, grace, and a good nature. When dinner was over the three young people adjourned to the ball-room, leaving Lady Angleby and Mr. Fairfax together. Miss Burleigh and Bessie began by walking up and down arm-in-arm, then they took a few turns in a waltz, and after that Miss Burleigh said, "Cecil, Miss Fairfax and you are a perfect height to waltz together; try the floor, and I will go and play with the music-room door open. You will hear very well." She went off quickly the moment she had spoken, and Bessie could not refuse to try the floor, but she had a downcast, conscious air under her impromptu partner's observation. Mr. Cecil Burleigh was in a gay, light mood, as became him on this public occasion of his election triumph, and he was further elated by Miss Fairfax's amiable condescension in waltzing with him at his sister's behest; and as it was certainly a pleasure to any girl who loved waltzing to waltz with him, they went on until the music stopped at the sound of carriage-wheels. "You are fond of dancing, Miss Fairfax?" said her cavalier. "Oh yes," said Bessie with a pretty upward glance. She had enjoyed that waltz extremely; her natural animation was reviving, too buoyant to lie long under the depression of melancholy, philosophic reverie. The guests were received in the drawing-room, and began to arrive in uninterrupted succession. Mr. and Mrs. Tindal, Lord and Lady Eden, Mr. and Mrs. Philip Raymond, Mr. Maurice and Miss Lois Wynyard, Mrs. Lefevre and Miss Jean Lefevre, Mr. and Mrs. Chiverton, Colonel Stokes and his wife, and Sir Edward Lucas with an architectural scheme in his pocket; however, he danced none the worse for it, as Miss Fairfax testified by dancing with him three times. She had a charming audacity in evading awkward partners, and it was observed that she waltzed only with the new member. She looked in joyous spirits, and acknowledged no reason why she should deny herself a pleasure. More than once in the course of the evening she flattered Lady Angleby's hopes by telling her it was a most delicious ball. Mr. Fairfax contemplated his granddaughter with serene speculation. Lady Angleby had communicated to him the results of Mrs. Betts's inquisition. At a disengaged moment he noticed a wondering pathos in Bessie's eyes, which were following Mr. Cecil Burleigh's agile movements through the intricate mazes of the Lancers' Quadrilles. His prolonged gaze ended by attracting hers; she blushed and drew a long breath, and seemed to shake off some persistent thought. Then she came and asked, like a light-footed, mocking, merry girl, if he was not longing to dance too, and would he not dance with her? He dismissed her to pay a little attention to Mrs. Chiverton, who sat like a fine statue against the wall, unsought of partners, and Bessie went with cheerful submission. Her former school-rival was kind to her now with a patronizing, married superiority that she did not dislike. Mrs. Chiverton knew from her husband of the family project for Miss Fairfax's settlement in life, and as she approved of Mr. Cecil Burleigh as highly as her allegiance to Mr. Chiverton permitted her to approve of anybody but himself, she spoke at some length in his praise, desiring to be agreeable. Bessie suffered her to go on without check or discouragement; she must have understood the drift of many things this evening which had puzzled her hitherto, but she made no sign. Miss Burleigh said to her brother when they parted for the night that she really did not know what to think or what to advise, further than that Sir Edward Lucas ought to be "set down," or there was no guessing how far he might be tempted to encroach. Miss Fairfax, she considered, was too universally inclined to please. Mr. Cecil Burleigh had no clear resolve of what he would do when he went to walk in the garden the next morning. He knew what he wanted. A sort of paradoxical exhilaration possessed him. He remembered his dear Julia with tender, weary regret, and gave his fancy license to dwell on the winsomeness of Bessie. And while it was so dwelling he heard her tuneful tongue as she came with Miss Burleigh over the grass, still white with hoar-frost where the sun had not fallen. He advanced to meet them. "Oh, Cecil, here you are! Mr. Fairfax has been inquiring for you, but there is no hurry," said his sister, and she was gone. Bessie wore a broad shady hat, yet not shady enough to conceal the impetuous blushes that mantled her cheeks on her companion's evasion. She felt what it was the prelude to. Mr. Cecil Burleigh, inspired with the needful courage by these fallacious signs, broke into a stammering eloquence of passion that was yet too plain to be misunderstood—not reflecting, he, that maiden blushes may have more sources than one. The hot torrent of Bessie's rose from the fountain of indignation in her heart—indignation at his inconstancy to the sweet lady who she knew loved him, and his impertinence in daring to address herself when she knew he loved that lady. She silently confessed that to this upshot his poor pretences of wooing had tended from the first, and that she had been wilfully half blind and wholly unbelieving—so unwilling are proud young creatures to imagine that their best feelings can be traded on—but she was none the less wrathful and scornful as she lifted her eyes, dilated with tears, to his, and sweeping him a curtsey turned away without a single word—without a single word, yet never was wooer more emphatically answered. They parted and went different ways. Bessie, thinking she would give all she was worth that he had held his peace and let her keep her dream of pity and sympathy, took the shrubbery path to the village and Miss Hague's cottage-lodgings; and Mr. Cecil Burleigh, repenting too late the vain presumption that had reckoned on her youth and ignorance, apart from the divining power of an honest soul, walked off to Norminster to rid himself of his heavy sense of mortification and discomfiture. Miss Burleigh saw her brother go down the road, and knew what had happened, and such a pang came with the certainty that only then did she realize how great had been her former confidence. She stood a long while at her window, listening and watching for Miss Fairfax's return to the house, but Bessie was resting in Miss Hague's parlor, hearing anecdotes of her father and uncles when they were little boys, and growing by degrees composed after her disturbing emotion. She wished to keep the morning's adventure to herself, or, if the story must be told, to leave the telling of it to Mr. Cecil Burleigh; and when she went back to the house, the old governess accompanying her, she betrayed no counsel by her face: that was rosy with the winter cold, and hardly waxed rosier when Lady Angleby expressed a wish to know what she had done with her nephew, missing since breakfast. Bessie very simply said that she had only seen him for a minute, and she believed that he had gone into the town; she had been paying a long-promised visit to Miss Hague. Mr. Cecil Burleigh, reappearing midway the afternoon, was summoned to his aunt's closet and bidden to explain himself. The explanation was far from easy. Lady Angleby was profoundly irritated, and reproached her nephew with his blundering folly in visiting Miss Julia Gardiner in Miss Fairfax's company. She refused to believe but that his fascination must have proved irresistible if Miss Fairfax had not been led to the discovery of that faded romance. Was he quite sure that the young lady's answer was conclusive? Perfectly conclusive—so conclusive that he should not venture to address her again. "Not after Julia's marriage?" his sister whispered. Lady Angleby urged a temporary retreat and then a new approach: it was impossible but that a fine, spirited girl like Miss Fairfax must have ambition and some appreciation of a distinguished mind; and how was her dear Cecil to support his position without the fortune she was to bring him? At this point Mr. Cecil Burleigh manifested a contemptuous and angry impatience against himself, and rose and left the discussion to his grieved and disappointed female relatives. Mr. Fairfax, on being informed of the repulse he had provoked, received the news calmly, and observed that it was no more than he had anticipated. Towards evening Bessie felt her fortitude failing her, and did not appear at dinner nor in the drawing-room. Her excuses were understood and accepted, and in the morning early Mr. Cecil Burleigh conveyed himself away by train to London, that his absence might release her from seclusion. Before he went, in a consultation with his aunt and Mr. Fairfax, it was agreed that the late episode in his courtship should be kept quiet and not treated as final. Later in the day Mr. Fairfax carried his granddaughter home to Abbotsmead, not unconsoled by the reflection that he was not to be called upon to resign her to make bright somebody else's hearth. Bessie was much subdued. She had passed a bad night, she had shed many tears, and though she had not encountered one reproach, she was under the distressing consciousness that she had vexed several people who had been good to her. At the same time there could not be two opinions of the wicked duplicity of a gentleman who could profess to love and wish to marry her when his heart was devoted to another lady: she believed that she never could forgive him that insult. Yet she was sorry even to tears again when she remembered him in the dull little drawing-room at Ryde, and Miss Julia Gardiner telling him that she had forgotten her old songs which he liked better than her new ones; for it had dawned upon her that this scene—it had struck her then as sad—must have been their farewell, the finis to the love-chapter of their youth. Bessie averted her mind from the idea that Miss Julia Gardiner had consented to marry a rich, middle-aged gentleman who was a widower: she did not like it, it was utterly repugnant, she hated to think of it. Oh, that people would marry the right people, and not care so much for rank and money! Lady Angleby's loveliest sister had forty years ago aggrieved her whole family by marrying the poor squire of Carisfort; and Lady Angleby had said in Bessie's hearing that her sister was the most enviable woman she knew, happy as the day was long, though so positively indigent as to be thankful for her eldest daughter's half-worn Brentwood finery to smarten up her younger girls. It must indeed be a cruel mistake to marry the wrong person. So far the wisdom and sentiment of Bessie Fairfax—all derived from observation or most trustworthy report—and therefore not to be laughed at, although she was so young. <hr /> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

1 of 2

2 of 2

Update Required To play the media you will need to either update your browser to a recent version or update your Flash plugin.