Back Aa

Vicissitudes of Bessie Fairfax

<h3>CHAPTER L.</h3> <h3>FOR BETTER, FOR WORSE.</h3> Towards the end of September, Harry Musgrave and Bessie Fairfax were married. Lady Latimer protested against this conclusion by her absence, but she permitted Dora Meadows to go to the church to look on. The wedding differed but very little from other weddings. Harry Musgrave was attended by his friend Forsyth, and Polly and Totty Carnegie were the bridesmaids. Mr. Moxon married the young couple, and Mr. Carnegie gave the bride away. Mr. Laurence Fairfax was present, and the occasion was further embellished by little Christie and Janey in their recent wedding garments, and by Miss Buff and Mr. Phipps, whose cheerful appearance in company gave rise to some ingenious prophetic remarks. The village folks pronounced the newly-wedded pair to be the handsomest they had seen married at Beechhurst church for many a long year, and perhaps it was lucky that Lady Latimer stayed away, for there was nothing in Mr. Harry Musgrave's air or countenance to cheat her into commiseration. "Elizabeth looked lovely—so beautifully happy," Dora Meadows reported. "And Mr. Harry Musgrave went through the ceremony with composure: Miss Buff said he was as cool as a cucumber. I should think he is a faithless, unsentimental sort of person, Aunt Olympia." "Indeed! because he was composed?" inquired my lady coldly. Dora found it easier to express an opinion than to give her reasons for it: all that Aunt Olympia could gather from her rather incoherent attempts at explanation was that Mr. Harry Musgrave had possibly feigned to be worse than he was until he had made sure of Elizabeth's tender heart, for he appeared to be in very good case, both as to health and spirits. "He might have died for Elizabeth if she had not loved him; and whatever he is or is not, he most assuredly would never voluntarily have given up the chances of an honorable career for the sake of living in idleness even with Elizabeth. You talk nonsense, Dora. There may be persons as foolish and contemptible as you suppose, but Elizabeth has more wit than to have set her affections on such a one." Poor Dora was silenced. My lady was peremptory and decisive, as usual. When Dora had duly repented of her silly suggestion, Aunt Olympia's natural curiosity to hear everything prevailed over her momentary caprice of ill-humor, and she was permitted to recite the wedding in all its details—even to Mrs. Musgrave's silk gown and the pretty little bridesmaids' dresses. The bridegroom only she prudently omitted, and was sarcastically rebuked for the omission by and by with the query, "And the bridegroom was nowhere, then?" The bells broke out several times in the course of the day, and the event served for a week's talk after it was over. The projected yacht-voyage had been given up, and the young people travelled in all simplicity, with very little baggage and no attendant except Mrs. Betts. They went through Normandy until they came to Bayeux, where Madame Fournier was spending the long vacation at the house of her brother the canon, as her custom was. In the twilight of a hot autumnal evening they went to call upon her. Lancelot's watering-can had diffused its final shower, and the oleanders and pomegranates, grateful for the refreshing coolness, were giving out their most delicious odors. The canon and madame were sipping their café noir after dinner, seated in the verandah towards the garden, and Madame Babette, the toil of the day over, was dozing and reposing under the bowery sweet clematis at the end by her own domain. The elderly people welcomed their young visitors with hospitable warmth. Two more chairs were brought out and two cups of café noir, and the visit was prolonged into the warm harvest moonlight with news of friends and acquaintances. Bessie heard that the venerable curé of St. Jean's still presided over his flock at Caen, and occupied the chintz edifice like a shower-bath which was the school-confessional. Miss Foster was married to a brave fermier, and Bessie was assured that she would not recognize that depressed and neuralgic demoiselle in the stout and prosperous fermière she had developed into. Mdlle. Adelaide was also married; and Louise, that pretty portress, in spite of the raids of the conscription amongst the young men of her pays, had found a shrewd young innkeeper, the only son of a widow, who was so wishful to convert her into madame at the sign of the Croix Rouge that she had consented, and now another Louise, also very pretty, took cautious observation of visitors before admission through the little trap of the wicket in the Rue St. Jean. Then Madame Fournier inquired with respectful interest concerning her distinguished pupil, Madame Chiverton, of whose splendid marriage in Paris a report had reached her through her nephew. Was Monsieur Chiverton so very rich? was he so very old and ugly? was he good to his beautiful wife? Monsieur Chiverton, Bessie believed, was perfectly devoted and submissive to his wife—he was not handsome nor youthful—he had great estates and held a conspicuous position. Madame replied with an air of satisfaction that proud Miss Ada would be in her element then, for she was born to be a grand lady, and her own family was so poor that she was utterly without dot—else, added madame with some mystery, she might have found a parti in the imperial court: there had been a brave marshal who was also duke. Here the amiable old lady checked herself, and said with kind reassurance to the unambitious Bessie, "But, ma chèrie, you have chosen well for your happiness. Your Harry is excellent; you have both such gayety of heart, like us—not like the English, who are si maussade often." Bessie would not allow that the English are maussade, but madame refused to believe herself mistaken. Mr. and Mrs. Harry Musgrave still carry their gayety of heart wherever they go. They are not fashionable people, but people like to know them. They have adopted Italy for their country, and are most at home in Florence, but they do not find their other home in England too far off for frequent visits. They are still only two, and move about often and easily, and see more than most travellers do, for they charter queer private conveyances for themselves, and leave the beaten ways for devious paths that look attractive and often turn out great successes. It was during one of these excursions—an excursion into the Brianza—that they not long ago fell in with a large party of old friends from England, come together fortuitously at Bellagio. Descending early in the evening from the luxuriant hills across which they had been driving through a long green June day, they halted at the hospitable open gate of the Villa Giulia. There was a pony-carriage at the door, and another carriage just moving off after the discharge of its freight. "Oh, Aunt Olympia, look here! Mr. Harry Musgrave and Elizabeth!" cried a happy voice, and there, behold! were my Lady Latimer and Dora—Lady Lucas now—and Sir Edward; and turning back to see and asking, "Who? who?" came Mr. Oliver Smith and his sisters, and Mr. Cecil Burleigh and his dear Julia. To Bessie it was a delightful encounter, and Harry Musgrave, if his enthusiasm was not quite so eager, certainly enjoyed it as much, for his disposition was always sociable. My lady, after a warm embrace and six words to Elizabeth, said, "You will dine with me—we are all dining together this evening;" and she communicated her commands to one of the attendants. It was exactly as at home: my lady took the lead, and everybody was under her orders. Bessie liked it for old custom's sake; Mrs. Cecil Burleigh stood a little at a loss, and asked, "What are we to do?" The Cecil Burleighs were not staying at the Villa Giulia—they were at another hotel on the hill above—and the Lucases, abroad on their wedding-tour, were at a villa on the edge of the lake. They had been making a picnic with Lady Latimer and her party that day, and were just returning when the young Musgraves appeared. The dinner was served in a room looking upon the garden, and afterward the company walked out upon the terraces, fell into groups and exchanged news. My lady had already enjoyed long conversations with Mr. Cecil Burleigh and Sir Edward Lucas, and she now took Mr. Harry Musgrave to talk to. Harry slipped his hand within his wife's arm to make her a third in the chat, but as it was information on Roman politics and social reforms my lady chiefly wanted, Bessie presently released herself and joined the wistful Dora, who was longing to give her a brief history of her own wooing and wedding. Before the tale was told Sir Edward joined them in the rose-bower whither they had retreated, and contributed some general news from Norminster and Abbotsmead and the neighborhood. Lady Angleby had adopted another niece for spaniel, vice Mrs Forbes promoted to Kirkham vicarage, and her favorite clergyman, Mr. Jones, had been made rural dean; Mrs Stokes had a little girl; Mrs. Chiverton was carrying on a hundred beneficent projects to the Woldshire world's wonder and admiration: she had even prevailed against Morte. "And I believe she would have prevailed had poor Gifford lived; she is a most energetic woman," Sir Edward said. Bessie looked up inquiringly. "Mr. Gifford died of malignant fever last autumn," Sir Edward told her. "He went to Morte in pursuit of some incorrigible poacher when fever was raging there, and took it in its most virulent form; his death proved an irresistible argument against the place, and Blagg made a virtue of necessity and razed his hovels." Bessie heard further that her uncle Laurence Fairfax had announced the principle that it is unwise for landowners to expect a direct profit from the cottages and gardens of their laboring tenants, and was putting it into practice on the Kirkham estates, to the great comfort and advantage of his dependants. "My Edward began it," whispered Dora, not satisfied that her husband should lose the honor that to him belonged. "Yes," said Bessie, "I remember what sensible, kind views he always took of his duties and responsibilities." "And another thing he has done," continued the little lady. "While other men are enclosing every waste roadside scrap they dare, he has thrown open again a large meadow by the river which once upon a time was free to the villagers on the payment of a shilling a head for each cow turned out upon it. The gardens to the new cottages are planted with fruit trees, and you cannot think what interest is added to the people's lives when they have to attend to what is pleasant and profitable for themselves. It cannot be a happy feeling to be always toiling for a master and never for one's own. There! Edward has taken himself off, so I may tell you that there never was anybody so good as he is, so generous and considerate." Dora evidently regarded her spouse with serious, old-fashioned devotion and honor. Bessie smiled. She could have borne an equal tribute to her dear Harry, and probably if Mrs. Cecil Burleigh had been as effusive as these young folks, she might have done the same; for while they talked in the rose-bower Mr. Cecil Burleigh and his wife came by, she leaning on his arm and looking up and listening as to the words of an oracle. "Is she not sweet? What a pity it would have been had those two not married!" said Dora softly, and they passed out of sight. "Come out and see the roses," Lady Latimer said to Elizabeth through the window early next morning. "They are beautiful with the dew upon them." Harry Musgrave and his wife were at breakfast, with a good deal of litter about the room. Botanical and other specimens were on the window-sill, on the table was a sheaf of popular Italian street-songs collected in various cities, and numerous loose leaves of manuscript. Harry had decided that Bellagio was a pleasant spot to rest in for a week or so, and Bessie had produced their work in divers kinds. They were going to have a delightful quiet morning of it, when my lady tapped on the glass and invited Elizabeth out to admire the roses. "Don't stay away long," whispered Harry to his wife, rising to pay his compliments. He did not reseat himself to enjoy his tranquil labors for nearly an hour, and Bessie stood in her cool white dress like a statue of Patience, hearing Lady Latimer discourse until the sun had evaporated the dew from the roses. Then Miss Juliana and Miss Charlotte appeared, returning from a stroll beyond the bounds of the garden, and announced that the day was growing very hot. "Yes, it is almost too hot to walk now; but will you come to my room, Elizabeth? I have some photographs that I am sure would interest you," urged my lady. She seemed surprised and displeased when Harry entreated comically that his wife might not be taken away, waving his hand to the numerous tasks that awaited them. "We also have photographs: let us compare them in the drowsy hours of afternoon," said he; and when Bessie offered to hush his odd speeches, he boldly averred that she was indispensable: "She has allowed me to get into the bad habit of not being able to work without her." My lady could only take her leave with a hope that they would be at leisure later in the day, and was soon after seen to foregather with an American gentleman as ardent in the pursuit of knowledge as herself. Afterward she found her way to the village school, and had an instructive interview with an old priest; and on the way back to the Villa Giulia, falling in with a very poor woman and two barefooted little boys, her children, she administered charitable relief and earned many heartfelt blessings. The review of photographs took place in the afternoon, as Harry suggested, and in the cool of the evening, after the table d'hôte, they had a boat on the lake and paid the Lucases a visit before their departure for Como. Then they sauntered home to their inn by narrow, circuitous lanes between walled gardens—steep, stony lanes where, by and by, they came upon an iron gate standing open for the convenience of a man who was busy within amongst the graves, for this was the little cemetery of Bellagio. It had its grand ponderosity in stone and marble sacred to the memory of noble dust, and a throng of poor iron crosses, leaning this way and that amidst the unkempt, tall grasses. Lady Latimer walked in; Harry Musgrave and Bessie waited outside. My lady had many questions to ask of the gardener about the tenants of the vaults beneath the huge monuments, and many inscriptions upon the wall to read—pathetic, quaint, or fulsome. At length she turned to rejoin her companions. They were gazing through a locked grate into a tiny garden where were two graves only—a verdant little spot over which the roses hung in clouds of beauty and fragrance. An inscription on a slab sunk in the wall stated that this piece of ground was given for a burial-place to his country-people by an Englishman who had there buried his only son. The other denizen of the narrow plat was Dorothea Fairfax, at whose head and feet were white marble stones, the sculpture on them as distinct as yesterday. Bessie turned away with tears in her eyes. "What is it?" said my lady sharply, and peered through the grate. Harry Musgrave had walked on. When Lady Latimer looked round her face was stern and cold, and the pleasant light had gone out of it. Without meeting Elizabeth's glance she spoke: "The dead are always in the right; the living always in the wrong. I had forgotten it was at Bellagio that Dorothy died. Has Oliver seen it, I wonder? I must tell him." Yes, Oliver had been there with his other sisters in the morning: they had not forgotten, but they hoped that dear Olympia's steps would not wander round by that way. However, my lady made no further sign except by her unwonted silence. She left the Villa Giulia the following day with all her party, her last words to Elizabeth being, "You will let me know when you are coming to England, and I will be at Fairfield. I would not miss seeing you: it seems to me that we belong to one another in some fashion. Good-bye." Bessie went back to Harry over his work rather saddened. "I do love Lady Latimer, Harry—her very faults and her foibles," she said. "I must have it by inheritance." "If you had expressed a wish, perhaps she would not have gone so suddenly. She appears to have no object in life but to serve other people even while she rules them. Don't look so melancholy: she is not unhappy—she is not to be pitied." "Oh, Harry! Not unhappy, and so lonely!" "My dear child, all the world is lonely more or less—she more, we less. But doing all the good she can—and so much good—she must have many hours of pure and high satisfaction. I am glad we have met." And Bessie was glad. These chance meetings so far away gave her sweet intervals of reverie about friends at home. She kept her tender heart for them, but had never a regret that she had left them all for Harry Musgrave's sake. She sat musing with lovely pensive face. Harry looked up from his work again. The sky was heavenly serene, there was a cool air stirring, and slow moving shadows of cloud were upon the lake. "I am tired of these songs just now," said Harry, rising and stepping over to the window where his wife sat. "This is a day to find out something new: let us go down the garden to the landing and take a boat. We will ask for a roll or two of bread and some wine, and we can stay as late as we please." Bessie came out of her dream and did his bidding with a grace. And that was the day's diversion. THE END. <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.