The Two Mrs. Scudamores/Part 2
CHAPTER IV.
The family dinner was at seven o'clock, and the family met and sat down as usual, alone. The day before this had been a cheerful meal. Mrs. Scudamore in her quiet and content had encouraged her children's talk, and their plans—what they were to do. It had been sweet for her to hear them, to feel that they were no longer to be crossed and thwarted capriciously, and that, at the same time, her own will and wish were sovereign with them, for the moment at least. It had been the pleasantest meal eaten at Scudamore for a long time. To-day, so far as Charlie knew, at least, everything was unchanged. He had exclaimed at his mother's paleness when she came into the drawing-room; but she had come down only at the last moment, when there was little time for remark.
She was dressed as carefully as usual, studiously. Amy thought, to avoid the least trace of any difference; but she was ghastly pale. Every trace of color had gone from her face. Her very lips were blanched, as if the blood had rushed back to her heart far too deeply to permit any return. A tremulous movement was in her fingers, and even now and then in her hand, as if her nerves had been jarred; otherwise she showed no sign of what had passed. Amy had watched very anxiously for the appearance of the strange visitor; but Mrs. Scudamore came down alone. Fortunately, Charlie's ignorance of all that had occurred kept him free from the restraint and painful consciousness which Amy felt upon herself. They sat down as usual; the natural routine went on, and if the mother at the end of the table felt like a somnambulist walking in a dream, neither of the two divined it. Mrs. Scudamore looked out of the frightful mist which seemed to her own consciousness to envelop her, and saw Amy's wistful eyes watching her; but Charlie was quite unconcerned, eating his soup as usual. This helped her to bear the awful weight that was upon her heart. And then the presence of the servants helped her in the story she had to tell. She began it, seizing the opportunity when Charlie paused for the third time to look at her across the flowers on the table, and ask what she had done to herself to be so pale.
"What I suppose I ought not to have done," she answered, forcing something which did duty for a smile; "talking over old affairs. 1 have not told you yet," she went on, clearing her voice, "of a visitor who arrived this afternoon—a—a relation, who will most likely stay with us—for a long time."
"Good heavens!" said Charlie, "a relation! What a terrible bore!"
Amy, who was watching her mother closely, felt disposed to check her brother's levity with indignation, but it was a help to Mrs. Scudamore. She panted as if for breath as she went on; but once more that faint watery gleam of a smile crossed her face.
"She is a lady, Charlie. I expect you to be very civil to her. She is—your aunt—the widow of your uncle Tom, who—died in America. She has been there most of her life."
"Worse luck,"said the unconcerned Charlie. "My uncle Tom, my uncle Tom? Who was he? I never heard of him, that I know of"
"Don't worry your mamma, Master Charles," whispered Woods under cover of an entrée. "He was poor master's brother, your uncle as went to America when you was a baby; that's sure enough."
"By Jove! Woods," Charlie began, with boyish resentment, and then a better instinct saved him, and Woods covered the exclamation by dropping a spoon, picking it up with confusion, and begging pardon audibly. It was a pause for which Mrs. Scudamore was grateful.
"I have invited Mrs. Thomas Scudamore," she said with a little shiver, which Amy perceived, "to stay—of course. She only came home about a month ago—about the timeI expect you to be very civil to her. I don't think that her own people are—perhaps—the kind of persons—but she herself is" Here Mrs. Scudamore made a pause, and then she shivered again, and said with a moaning sigh, "very good—oh, it is true—very good."
"She may be as good as she pleases," said Charlie; "but, mamma, whatever you may say, such a visitor will be a dreadful bore."
"She is a good woman," repeated Mrs. Scudamore, with a broken voice.
"A good woman is an appalling description," said Charlie. "One never falls back upon that primitive fact if there is anything more interesting to say. I've always noticed in my experience—mother, what's the matter? You don't mean to say you are angry?"
"Another disrespectful word of your—aunt, and I will leave the table," cried Mrs. Scudamore passionately. "If I could imagine any child of mine treating her otherwise than as she deserves"
"Good Heavens!" said Charlie again, under his breath, and he shot an inquiring glance at his sister. But Amy, trembling and miserable, kept her eyes upon her plate. The girl had never seen her mother so. They seemed to have plunged back into the old days when the fretful father put a curb up on all they said or did. Shame, distress, and terror filled Amy's heart, and silence fell upon the table, a silence which seemed to irritate Mrs. Scudamore as nothing had ever irritated her before.
"You seem to have lost your tongues all at once," she said bitterly. "If this is the consequence of so mild a claim upon your obedience, nothing more than asking you to be civil to a—near—relation, it is a bad omen for me. If you cannot accept my statement without proof"
"Mother!" cried Charlie loudly, "what can you mean? proof!"
"Yes, proof What does your grumbling mean but an insinuation that you don't believe"
"Mother, mother! what is the matter? What do you take me for?"
"I take deeds, not words," she said with feverish agitation; and then it seemed that she had nearly burst into convulsive tears, but she restrained herself.
All this time the servants went about the table softly, with the stealthy, deprecating consciousness of spectators at a domestic storm. They could not understand it any more than the children could. She was not herself, not like herself; they exchanged looks, as Amy and Charlie did. When dinner was over she gave orders peremptorily that the younger children were not to come down to dessert, and rose from the table almost before Woods had gone.
"I must go to my visitor," she said, sweeping out of the room with state, that hasty wind of suppressed passion about her. She went out so hastily that Amy had not time to follow. The two sat looking after their mother equally bewildered, but with very different feelings.
"What is the matter?" said Charlie, with undisguised astonishment. "Is my mother ill? I never saw her like this before. Amy, you must know?"
"I am afraid she is ill, Charlie. Oh, don't say anything. I cannot bear to see it," said Amy, with tears; "it is so unlike mamma."
"I wish the doctor would call," said Charlie. "You should get her to go to bed. Don't you know something that you could make her take? Women used to know all about doctoring. And I am sure you could save her a great deal, Amy, if you were to try. She has been doing too much."
"Perhaps I could," said Amy doubtfully, "if you thought it were that."
"Of course it is that. You have left everything upon her," said the young man, glad to find somebody to blame. "You have left her to write all her letters and things, and do the bills, and a hundred trifles you might have spared her."
"I'll run now and see what I can do," said Amy, following her mother hastily out of the room. Amy, innocent and young as she was, had already learned the lesson women learn so soon, that a masculine conclusion of this kind is beyond the reach of argument. It satisfied Charlie. It comforted his mind to throw all the blame upon her, and to persuade himself that his mother's strange aspect had an easily removable cause. Amy could not so delude herself, but she said to herself, "What is the use of arguing?" and took the ready course thus offered her. Poor little Amy's heart was very heavy. No, it was not writing letters and reckoning up bills that had done it. It was something far more mysterious, something which she could not divine. The words she had heard at the window came back to her and made her shiver. "To save them from shame I would give my life, I would risk my soul!" O what, what could it mean?
There was no one in the drawing-room, of course, and Amy made her way wearily up-stairs, wondering where her new aunt was, wondering what sort of person she was, and what she had to do with it. She had red eyes, but that was with crying, and her nose was red, and her whole person was limp. But then her voice and touch were kind. The door of the.west room was closed as she approached it, but Stevens just then came out with a tray. "Is the lady—is my aunt there?"—"La, bless us, miss, is she your aunt?" said Stevens nodding her head and refusing further comment. Amy paused a long time at the door. Should she go in, and make acquaintance with the stranger? Should she encounter her mother there with that changed face? With a little timid reluctance to take any decisive step, she ran to her own room, just to collect herself. Amy's room communicated with her mother's. Mrs. Scudamore had been glad to have her child so near to be able to call her in at any time; but the first thing Amy saw on entering the room was that the door of communication was closed. She gave a little sharp cry involuntarily. That separation hurt her and appalled her. "Why should she shut me out?" Amy said to herself. "Me?" She felt the door; it was locked. She listened even in the great perturbation of her thoughts, but nothing was audible.
It was more than Amy could bear. "Mamma, mamma!" she cried, beating on the door. There was no answer. She had something of the Scudamore temper too, and could be hasty and even violent when she was thwarted. She lost patience. "I will come in," she said; "I will not be shut out. Mamma, you have no right to shut me out! Open the door! open the door!"
All at once the door opened wide—as if by magic, Amy thought, though it was solely the hurry of her own agitation, the tingling in her ears, the sound she was herself making, which prevented her from hearing the withdrawing of the bolt—and her mother stood very severe and grave before her.
"What is the meaning of this, Amy?" she said coldly, and Amy's head sank.
"Oh, mamma, don't go away! Don't shut yourself up; at least don't shut me out—me, mamma! There may be things you cannot talk of to the rest, but, mamma, me!" cried Amy, in a transport of love and pain. Mrs. Scudamore made a violent effort at self-control. Her whole soul was full of passionate irritation. Her impulse was to thrust her daughter away from her,—to shut out all the world. But that unreasoning cry went to her heart. Oh, if the child but knew! Tell it to her! The same thought that had moved her enemy came with a great swell and throb of pain over Mrs. Scudamore's heart.
"Amy," she said hoarsely, "child, go away. There is nothing the matter with me; or if there is it is my own business alone. Go away. I cannot be disturbed now."
Amy crept to her mother's feet and clasped her knees: "Only me!" she said, laying her soft cheek against the harsh blackness of the crape. "You can trust me, mother; let me share the trouble, whatever it is. Oh, mamma, mamma! why should you have secrets from me?"
Mrs. Scudamore trembled more than her child did as she stooped over her. "Hush, hush!" she said, "let there be an end of this. Listen, Amy—it is—papa's secret—not yours—nor mine. Now—ask me no more."
Amy shrank away with a strange look of awe. She looked wistfully into her mother's face; she acknowledged the difference. Those words which Mrs. Scudamore loathed to speak were absolutely effectual. She rose from the ground, and putting her arms round her mother's neck, clung to her silently, hiding her face. "Is it very bad?" she whispered, kissing her neck and her dress. Amy's whole soul was lost in pity.
"It is very bad," said the poor woman, with a groan; and she held her child close to her heart, which broke over her with a very tempest of love and anguish. Oh, if Amy but knew! But she should never know—not if it were at the cost of her mother's life—at the peril of her soul.
When Amy had been thus dismissed, calmed down, and composed in the most magical way—for, after all, the dead father's secrets, whatever they might be, were nothing in comparison to what the very lightest veil of mystery on the part of the mother would have been—Mrs. Scudamore once more closed the door. She did it very softly, that no one might hear. She drew her curtains, that no one might see, and then she gave way to a misery that was beyond control. Was there any sorrow like her sorrow? she said to herself in her anguish. She took her dead husband's miniature out of its frame, and threw it on the ground and crushed it to fragments—she cursed him in her heart. He had done this wantonly, cruelly, like the coward he was; he had known it all along—he had died knowing it, with his children by his bedside. Oh, God reward him, since man could not, the coward and villain. These were the only prayers she could say in the bitterness of her heart.
CHAPTER V.
After this terrible day things fell into their usual channel at Scudamore. The little woman who had brought so much trouble into the house, came down stairs and was known among the children as Aunt Thomas—it was the name they all gave her. She was a hesitating little woman, doubtful exceedingly as to her actions, prone to take advice, and accepting it gratefully, even from little Mary, who was but seven years old. Mary was Aunt Thomas's Christian name, and she took doubly to the child, who led her about everywhere like an obedient slave. Very soon even the grown-up children, even Amy and her brother, accepted the new relationship with the unquestioning matter-of-course facility of youth. They made no inquiries into it. They accepted Aunt Thomas with simplicity and sincerity; everything that was mysterious in it was explained by the fact that she had lived most of her life abroad. It was natural to believe that a woman whose days had been passed so far away should be ignorant of the kind of habits they had been brought up in, and the Scudamore "ways." And then it was not denied that Mrs. Thomas Scudamore had been "raised from the ranks." The children grumbled a little at first, Charlie especially, who complained to everybody but his mother that Aunt Thomas was a bore. But by degrees this passed away, and before she had been there a fortnight Aunt Thomas was the favorite of the house. She had ceased to weep; her poor little nose had recovered its natural color, and her eyes were no longer muddled. When she came to look as nature intended she should, it became evident that she was one of the women who, without a good feature, by mere stress of youth, and bloom, and smiles, are often very pretty when they are young, and who do not grow ugly, as great beauties often do, but retain a certain shadow of good looks as long as good-humor and health last them. Her eyes were kindly smiling eyes when they were not red with crying; and though the thin little curls she wore under her cap were not pretty, yet they were old-fashioned, which of itself is a quality. It was something, Charlie said, to have an aunt who had strength of mind to wear little curls half-way down her cheek. As for little Alice and Mary, they took possession of Aunt Thomas with scarcely a moment of doubt. They might be seen leading her about the park, one at each hand, every day of their lives. They seated her between them on the grass when they made daisy-chains, or fought with plantains. They called her back as if she had been a dog when she strayed away from them. She set their little bits of worsted work to rights for them, and dressed their dolls. In their society she was as gay as themselves, and almost as much like a child.
Mrs. Scudamore, however, did not settle down to the new relationship so easily. She had never been the same since that day. She had then been a young woman comparatively, notwithstanding all her troubles. Her cheek had been round; her hair as brown as Amy's. Now, not all at once, but by stealthy, imperceptible degrees, she had grown gray. Her cheek had grown hollow, her eyes sunken, her temper uncertain. Sometimes a word would rouse her into irritation; sometimes she would sit for hours together, her head bent over some pretense at work, yet doing nothing, finding in it only a shield and cover for her sadness. Sometimes, on the contrary, she would take wild fits of activity. The children, after the first, made little remark, but accepted this also, as children do accept the faults of their parents. Even Charlie was too loyal to his mother to speak openly of the change. He said with a sigh that the house was no longer "jolly;" that it was hard upon a fellow to be shut up like this, and that he wished the "long" was over, and he back at Oxford. As for Amy, who had no Oxford to go to, and whose code of duty forbade her to question whether home was or was not "jolly," she said very little, one way or another, but from the depth of her gentle heart was sorry for "poor mamma." This secret which she was carrying the weight of, which was not her own, was the thing that had done it; and a tinge of bitterness came to Amy's heart as she reflected upon this legacy which her father had left behind him. Girls who have had a hard father have two ways of regarding men,—either with disgust, as the oppressors of life, or with a longing romantic worship of an ideal, and eager hope to find somewhere the man who will contradict the tradition of misery and prove all the heart longs to believe of excellence and love. Amy was of this latter order. She was a sanguine creature, hopeful of everything; and she was as sure that it remained to her to find the prince of men, as sure as if she had been nurtured upon nothing but optimism and romantic visions. With this certainty in her mind a deeper pity stole, a more melting tenderness came over her when she thought of "poor mamma;" for Amy's ideal was something more than a hope. Since her earliest recollection she had known one who in her youthful eyes appeared the very successor and heir of the Red-Cross Knight; and this hero had been absent for some time on his travels, thus gaining the last touch of perfection. She had never said to herself that she was the Una of this reproachless gentleman; but a consciousness of some fairy link between them was very sweet at her heart—no wonder she sighed for poor mamma.
Mrs. Scudamore avoided Mrs. Thomas's society as much as possible; but when they were together she treated her with a deference which nobody could understand. She deferred to her in everything; she gave up her own convenience, her own way, to hers, whenever she had a chance. That, it is true, was not very often; for Mrs. Thomas was very humble, very deprecating, taking nothing upon herself; and considerably frightened of her sister-in-law, she would steal away to the nursery, or to her own room, when Mrs. Scudamore came down stairs. They were rarely together; but when it happened that they were together Mrs. Scudamore's temper was, perhaps, more uncertain than usual. She exhorted the children to be good to their aunt and seek her society; but yet, it appeared, could not bear to see them respond to her injunctions. A shadow would cross her face when she saw little Mary dragging the kind aunt after her, demanding with unceremonious freedom everything from her. Whatever her object was in establishing Mrs. Thomas in her family, she had accomplished it; and now she could not bear the result. A concealed bitterness was in every word she said—a sword was in her heart. She resisted even the love of her own. Sometimes, even, she would send her little girls harshly away, bidding them go to Aunt Thomas, "as you call her."
This was done once in Amy's presence, and Mrs. Scudamore's bitter repentance and regret for having thus betrayed herself were terrible to the grieved and confused mind of poor Amy. "She is Aunt Thomas, is not she, mamma?" she had cried in her first surprise. "Yes, yes," Mrs. Scudamore said with sharp pain, which Amy did not understand. She could not even stop when Aunt Thomas came in, but went on in spite of herself. "She is a stranger to you," she cried, only half conscious what she was saying, "but already she takes my place, even with you."
"Oh mamma!" cried Amy, too much stunned for further speech.
"Yes," said Mrs. Scudamore, beside herself, turning her passionate pale face to the interloper. "Oh why, why is it? We ought to have been enemies and hated each other—that was natural; anything was natural but this."
"But I don't hate you," said Mrs. Thomas, with the restrained ghost of a sob. What was in Mrs. Scudamore's face? Was it hatred? Was it enmity? This thing at least is certain, it was pain—pain like that Prometheus felt when the vulture was gnawing at his heart. She rose and hurried from the room, with her heart swelling as if it would burst. And no one knew why it was. Amy, who would have felt as if she were betraying her mother had she consulted even Aunt Thomas upon the subject, could not help looking at her wistfully at this strange moment. The little woman put up her hands with a kind of terror.
"Oh, don't ask me any questions. Don't ask me!" she cried. "It has been her own doing, bringing me here, and I am content. I am quite happy; only ask me no questions, for I will not say a word."
"I could not ask any question about mamma," said Amy proudly, "except from mamma herself."
And Aunt Thomas dried her eyes, and nodded and grew bright again. "I am not one of the clever ones," she said, "and I have been long out of the world, and they say I am weak-minded;—but if you don't do wrong. Amy, it is always my opinion things will come right at the end."
"I hope so, Aunt Thomas," said Amy in her ignorance.
"And we are not doing wrong," said the little woman, "no—thinking it over from every side, as I do every night of my life—no, I can't think we are wrong. But, Amy, don't ask me any questions, for I will tell you nothing, not if you were to keep on asking me for ever and ever."
Once more Amy looked at her wistfully. Whatever it was, this secret which weighed on her mother was known to this stranger and not to Mrs. Scudamore's own child. The thought made Amy's heart sick.
All this time she had said nothing about Mr. Tom Furness—she had not given her mother his message—she had kept perfect silence as to her interview with him. This was partly because Mrs. Scudamore had been out of the way at the moment, and a thing which is not told at first gathers difficulties and embarrassments about it every hour it waits. And he had not returned. This curious fact was one of the chief causes, had Amy but known it, of her mother's anxiety. His silence looked as if some plot were brewing, and Mrs. Scudamore knew, though her children did not, how precarious her position was. Aunt Thomas had been about two months in the house, and autumn had come before there was any news of him. And then he came as suddenly as he had done at first, startling the whole house. Amy had been out with Aunt Thomas on an expedition down to the village when he made his appearance. He came upon them quite unexpectedly, appearing round the corner with his air of swagger, yet conscious inferiority. Mrs. Thomas saw him first; she gave a sudden start, and clutched at Amy's dress for protection. "Oh don't leave me, my dear, don't leave me," she cried. "Here is Tom."
"Who is Tom?" said Amy, haughtily, feeling all the blood of all the Scudamores in her veins. But Amy's fit of pride did not last long; and with a certain half-guilty sense of curiosity she gave her companion her arm, feeling herself on the verge of some discovery. She did not even lift the thick gauze veil over her face, and the stranger did not recognize her. This fact increased her half-painful, half-exciting certainty that something was about to be found out.
"Ah, auntie!" Mr. Tom said, jauntily flourishing his cane, "here you are again. You have given us all the slip, but natural affection is not to be balked, you perceive."
"I am sure I am glad to see any one, Tom," faltered Mrs. Thomas.
"You would be much more glad, I should think, never to see me again," he replied; "but don't flatter yourself, auntie. I took your case in hand, and I will see you through it, whether you choose or not. I have not been idle since I was last here."
Mrs. Thomas trembled more and more with every word. "I am glad to hear you have not been idle, Tom; I hope it has been nice work. I always felt sure you would make your way."
The stranger laughed an insolent laugh. "You are not clever enough for that sort of thing," he said. "You know well enough what my work has been. I have been finding out all about you."
"I am not afraid of anything that can be found out about me," she said, with a flush of indignation, and then added, faltering, "I am doing nothing wrong."
Again Mr. Tom Furness laughed, and it seemed to Amy as if his laugh woke up echoes all over the country—echoes which mocked and sneered as he did—as if they too had some occult knowledge. "I admire your conscience, auntie," he said. "Not wrong to give yourself out for some one else; to call yourself out of your name?—but you don't suppose you take me in with your masquerade. And there are more interests than yours involved. This sort of nonsense is not going to last. I should think by this time you ought to be tired of it yourself, and I'm come to make a change."
"Sir," said Amy, interposing, as she felt Mrs. Thomas quiver and shake, "you forget whom you are talking to. You may be a relation, but you have no right to talk to my aunt so."
The man started, and as she threw back her veil, and looked at him with indignation in her face, a sudden change came over him. He took off his hat; his manner altered all at once.
"I beg your pardon, Miss Scudamore," he said, "I did not know you were there."
Amy took courage from this sudden victory. It gave her—how could she help it?—a certain thrill of satisfaction to see her own power.
"Indeed, I don't think it matters whether I am here or not," she said more softly. "Aunt Thomas is very kind; we ought to be good to her all the same."
"Aunt Thomas!" he said, with a laugh which was subdued, but still offensive to Amy's sensitive ear; and then he drew half a step nearer. "It is odd, is it not, that she should be aunt both to you and to me?"
"Yes; it is strange," said Amy, lifting her head with a certain haughtiness. It was not only strange, it seemed intolerable, looking at the man. "Let us go home," she said, suddenly. "Mamma will not allow Aunt Thomas to be troubled. Don't tremble—we are near home."
"I am going with you, if you will allow me," said Mr. Tom Furness. "I have business with Mrs. Scudamore too."
Mrs. Thomas was leaning all her weight upon Amy, so that the girl could scarcely support her. At these words she let go her hold, and turning to her nephew with upraised hands, burst suddenly into tears.
"Oh, Tom, Tom, please don't! You think you are right; but surely, surely I must know best!"
"You know best? Why, auntie, you don't know your own mind for two minutes together," he said, with an air of levity. "Come, now, take it easy; we must not trouble Miss Scudamore with this business of ours."
"Oh, Tom!" cried the poor lady, "go away, for heaven's sake; it shall be none the worse for you—it will be better for you. I shall have it in my power to do something at once. Oh, Tom! why will you torture me? I have never been cruel to you. I will meet you anywhere to talk it all over; but for pity's sake go now—don't come to Scudamore. Anywhere but here."
He did not look at her; he showed no signs of being affected by her appeal. He looked at Amy—at her wondering, wistful face, and the paleness that had come over it, and with his eyes on her he answered, slowly, "Of all places in the world, it is to Scudamore I wish to come."
Mrs. Thomas drew herself away from her young companion. She stood before him trembling, crying, wringing her hands. "Oh, Tom, if I ever was good to you in my life—if I ever showed you any kindness—oh, Tom, Tom!"
He kept looking at Amy, not at her, and it was either because of some wistful respectfulness in his look, or because she was absorbed in the question which was evidently such an important one, but Amy felt no offense at his gaze. She did not much notice it, in fact. She watched with a keen sense that something monstrous, something more than she could judge of, was involved.
"Aunt, it is of no use speaking; I am going with you," he said. "But perhaps, if you all please, it may be for good, and not for harm."
CHAPTER VI.
That day was a memorable one at Scudamore: memorable in more ways than one, and to more than one member of the household. For when Amy entered the drawing-room she found some one there who drove Mr. Tom Fuiness and all the rest of the world out of her head for full five wonderful minutes. He was sitting by her mother, but with his eyes fixed on the door, and a glad gleam in them as she appeared. He had been traveling for more than a year, and before he went away Amy had been too young to be disturbed in her tranquillity by a love-tale—or so at least Rex Bayard thought. He did not know that he had any place but that of an old friend in Amy's heart; but she knew in some magical way that she was queen of his—or, at least, possible queen. And here he was looking for her, making a special new world for her within the other. Everything else went out of Amy's head; she had to subdue her joy, her sweet consciousness, the flush of exquisite shy feeling that came over her, to look as if she were "very glad to see him again," and no more; to behave herself, in short, as a girl trained under her mother's eyes in all the fine decorums of womanly self-restraint ought to behave, lest he should see that her heart was beating, and the light in her eyes dancing with this sudden, warm, unlooked-for flush of delight.
She had sat down, keeping her mother between them, with a girl's shy, sweet artifice, taking refuge in Mrs. Scudamore's shadow, and had been listening to his voice, asking him pleasant, meaningless questions for five minutes before she bethought herself. Five minutes she supposed, but time went quickly just then with Amy. Mrs. Scudamore, too, was cheered and brightened by Rex's presence. She was looking almost like her former self The cloud had lightened off her face. For a moment she had been overcast by the fear that Mrs. Thomas was going to follow Amy into the room; but when no one appeared Mrs. Scudamore opened her heart to the pleasure of the moment. Poor heart! It had ached enough,—this one moment it might surely take rest. She talked as she had not talked for months. She seemed to have thrust off her burden—the shadow that hung over her. There were Rex's travels to discuss, and all that he had been doing. Now he was to settle down at home, and that too had to be discussed. Mrs. Scudamore thrust her own miseries away from. her. The young man had grown up at her knee, yet not young enough to be a child to her, with something rather of that half-way stage between a son and a brother, which is so pleasant a relationship. He was a full-grown man, and so on her own level; and yet he was young, and so on her child's level. How Mrs. Scudamore brightened up! She would not even allow herself to think of what might be coming. She took the pleasure of the moment, the only one she had allowed herself to taste for so long.
"Oh!" said Amy all at once, with a start of recollection. Her mother looked at her, and before a word had been said felt that the good moment was at an end.
"What is it?" she asked, with the grayness of sudden pain falling over her animated face.
"Oh, mamma, I beg your pardon! I forgot, and I wish I could have forgotten still," said Amy, in a low confused tone; "mamma, there is some one in the library."
"I know," said Mrs. Scudamore, with a voice of despair. She put her two hands together, as if to hold herself up—or did she pray, sitting deadly still for one moment and no more, with her head a little lifted, her whole face rigid. Then she drew a long, heavy sigh, and then slowly, reluctantly, rose from her seat. "I must leave you now for a few minutes," she said, and went out of the room, as if she were going to her execution, with death already in her face.
"Is there anything wrong?" asked Bayard, amazed; "is Mrs. Scudamore ill? What has happened? May I know?"
Upon which poor Amy, who had been obliged to restrain herself so long, and who was now, for the first time since she had awakened to all these unexpected troubles, by the side of one whose sympathy was certain—poor Amy suddenly covered her face with her hands and fell a-crying, overcome by the misery and the happiness together. One she could have borne, but the two together were more than she could bear.
"Oh, I cannot tell, I cannot tell!" she said. "I think my heart will break. I don't know what it is, but it is killing mamma."
"Tell me what it is," said the young lover, drawing closer to her. To make it easier, he told her something first,—how he loved her; how he had thought of her wherever he went. Now he had come back for her. It all came upon Amy like a sweet surprise—a delicious miracle; and yet she knew it was coming—but only some time, not now.
Thus there were two scenes going on within the agitated house, both of which penetrated down to the very depths of nature in the persons concerned. In the library Mrs. Scudamore was alone with Furness. She had sent Mrs. Thomas away, half in contempt, half in pity. "Let me manage it in my own way," she said. "There is nothing gained by your remaining, nothing but pain to yourself;" and she had confronted the assailant all alone. She had brought against him every weapon that was in her power. She had set her face like a rock; she had refused to believe what in the depths of her heart she knew to be true. She had not yielded—would not yield her pretensions for a moment. She was carrying out her formula to the last letter; at the risk of her life, to the peril of her soul, she would fight out this last supreme battle.
And then Mrs. Scudamore was taken by surprise all at once by an unexpected proposal he made to her—a proposal to remove his opposition altogether; to become as fast a friend as he had been an enemy; to consent to everything she could ask. He made this proposal when she was in the fullest strain of opposition, denying and resisting everything. It had the strangest effect upon her. She had been fighting the battle of despair, though she had kept so brave a front, and here was a way of escape. A sudden extraordinary pang of relief seized her. She had been on the strain so long that escape seemed to be the greatest, the only good which life could give. Had the man meant falsely, he would have found out her weakness by this means. She sank into a chair; her nerves relaxed; a cry came from her heart, and though the next moment she braced herself to her old sternness, it was impossible to disguise that first movement of hope. Her eyes were dazzled and blinded by the prize held out to her—safety! It was not herself she was thinking of—heaven knows—for herself she felt it would be easy to go away and hide her stricken head and be heard of no more. But the children—Charlie and his birthright—the girls and their honor—oh, what a temptation it was! She would have risked her soul to buy the deliverance, but the price asked for it was not her soul, nor her life—it was her child.
"I feel as if I could worship her," said Tom Furness; "give her to me and I'll make her happy. I never saw anyone like her. It's a folly, for I know if I held out we could have everything. But for her sake I'll give in; I'll consent to destroy the papers. I'll even take auntie off your hands; I can manage that. So long as you'll give her to me—with her just fortune, of course."
Mrs. Scudamore forgot herself in this sudden opening out of the darkness. "My child is the dearest thing I have in the world; I would give all I have rather than sacrifice Amy," she said.
"How do you know it would sacrifice Amy? She was awfully civil, as civil as she could be the first time I was here,—and I'd make her a good husband. I'm as fond of her as any man could be. I'd rather have her without a penny than any girl I ever saw with a great fortune. Though mind, I must have her fortune too, for her own sake. Now, there's my proposal. I'm acting like a fool, for I might have everything, and most likely her too; but it's my fancy, and I mean to please my eye if I should grieve my heart. Now this is what I propose. If you accept, we're friends for ever; we'll make a bonfire of everything, and you're my mother-in-law, whom I am bound to defend; but if not"
He stopped short with a tone of irritation, for Mrs. Scudamore had shuddered at the title. His mother-in-law! Good heavens! But on the other side—all the results surged up upon her, all the possibilities. Not one of the family but would suffer; Charlie most bitterly and terribly, in such a way that he would be ruined before he began life; and Amy herself would be miserably injured. It would be as good as a renunciation of all prospects for her; and even the little girls, the two innocent creatures in the nursery. It would be ruin, destruction, misery to all. She sat silent, with all this passing before her, forgetting the man's very presence in the excitement of the offer he had made. What was it he asked? A sacrifice, a sacrifice bitter and sad—but such a sacrifice as had been made before now. An Iphigenia, an Andromeda—perhaps not so bad—to save the rest. And Amy was the kind of girl to make a sacrifice; she could do it, though it would rend her heart. Poor Mrs. Scudamore had lived without love herself; it was a hideous life, yet she had come through it and found a compensation in her children. She had done it without any grand motive, but Amy's motive would be the sublimest that ever woman had,—to save her family,-—their honor, their credit, their very life. She gave him no answer as he stood before her, but she sat and pondered, with a hot red flush upon her cheek. Before she had half done thinking he pressed her for an answer. How could she sacrifice her child? and how could she—how could she give up this possible escape?
"Stay," she said feebly, "stay over to-night. I cannot give you an answer all at once. If you stay, and dine with us, in the evening I can tell you. Oh, it is a hard price—a bitter price!"
"By Jove you are complimentary," he said; "but I'll stay all the same. It is the only price I will take."
And sighing she went away from him, as sighing she had come; butseeing one gleam of light through the darkness, seeing some hope. Amy had never been wooed as yet. How could any one tell what the girl's fancy might be? And the man loved her in his way. And—it was the only hope. Now that there was a hope, Mrs. Scudamore seemed to become more and more sensible of the awful gulf on the brink of which she stood. It was not only ruin, more than that—more awful, more total destruction than anything which concerned worldly goods alone. She shuddered as she thought of it, now that it was possible to escape. She left the man who had so much in his power, with her head full of his proposal, and went back to the drawing-room. But Amy and her lover had strayed away out of the room, and therefore Mrs. Scudamore's terrible hope was not brought to an end. She went and shut herself up in her own room, and brooded upon it. That one should suffer to deliver many was a rule of the universe. The first and greatest who had ever borne the name of man had done it, and so many after Him had done it. To suffer vicariously for some one else, that some one else might go free—why it was nothing unusual, it was a law of the world. And Amy was the girl to do it; she would never hesitate to do it. She would accept it as natural and fit that she should suffer to save her family, as her mother felt she would have done had she been in her place. Amy would do it—and oh! was it possible? was there peace beyond this raging storm which enveloped her mother's life? Could this hurricane pass over? and was it possible that again everything would be as it had been? But no—alas, no! Never would these three months be obliterated. Neither tears nor blood could wash out the mark; but it might be covered over, covered for ever, so that no one should guess where it had been.
Mrs. Scudamore remained in her room till dinner. She did not give any importance to Rex Bayard. No doubt she thought, if she thought about him at all, that he had gone long ago. She had imagined once—was it a hundred years ago? that her pretty Amy was very fair and sweet in the young man's eyes. But what were such levities as a boy's or a girl's fancy to her now? She did not even think of that in the agitation and excitement of this moment. Rex Bayard faded from her mind altogether; and when Amy ran up late to dress, and would have come to her mother with her confession, Mrs. Scudamore sent her away hastily. "You are very late," she said; "I will speak to you after dinner, Amy; there is no time now. It was thoughtless, very thoughtless, to be so late. How could you tell what I might have to talk to you about? But make haste, there is no time to lose."
She did not observe Amy's brilliant cheeks, nor her eyes, dewy and abashed with happiness. Happiness! Mrs. Scudamore had forgotten how it looked. Her heart was very sore, and throbbing with feverish pain. She was in haste now to go down again to see her enemy, who was willing to save her,—to see him again and to persuade herself that Amy might be brought to endure him, that the child might not be wretched. He was young, he was well-looking enough, and he adored her. Surely Amy would do it, she was such a child, so yielding, so facile, so dutiful. Surely she would do it; and the bargain would be made, and safety and honor bought and paid for. Amy had seen nobody; she would have no terrible comparison to make in her own mind between him and others. She had never been wooed before, and probably the strange new gift of love thus bestowed upon her would touch the child's heart, and she would be, at least, not very unhappy—not unhappy, pleased perhaps and flattered—her vanity, if not her heart, contented. Oh if this only might be the case! For surely Amy would do it—of that there could be no doubt.
CHAPTER VII.
Mrs. Scudamore was taken aback, she could scarcely have told why, by the appearance of Rex Bayard in the drawing-room when she came down to dinner. It is true he was an old friend, and sufficiently intimate in the house to stay to dinner without a very formal invitation; but still the sight of him annoyed her. She had come down late, as she generally did now, and the whole party was there, so that no immediate explanation could be offered. "I asked him to stay, mamma," said Amy timidly, whispering in her ear. "Oh, it is quite right," answered Mrs. Scudamore coldly. She was not angry, but she was put out; for her own guest, the man she had asked to stay, was by this unexpected step put to such a disadvantage as his patroness in this terrible emergency would have done much to save him from. It does not always happen that high family or good blood stamp themselves either upon the countenance or bearing of their possessors; indeed it is as common as not that the reverse is the case, and a stranger generally finds it hard to tell which is the peer and which is the plebeian. But there are cases in which the difference is as strongly marked as the highest idealism could require, and Rex Bayard was as near the typical representative of an English gentleman as it is easy to find. His ease and perfect good-breeding showed at once, as by an illumination, the awkwardness, the forced familiarity which was not easy, the pretension and vulgarity of the other. They brought each other out, as a painter would say. Tom Furness had never been so much Tom Furness the attorney, Tom Furness the would-be swell, as Rex's appearance by his side made him; and Sir Reginald Bayard had never looked so much a fils de croisé as he did with Tom's shadow bringing him into full relief. This was all Mrs. Scudamore thought of for the moment; but it was enough to add a shade of additional annoyance to the conflict of misery in her heart. She avoided Rex, she could not tell why, with a feeling of irritation that was uncontrollable. His mere presence did it. Why was he here, making the contrast visible, tempting Amy to vain comparisons—comparisons every way vain, for was not Tom Furness Amy's fate? She could marry no one else. Mrs. Scudamore felt that she could not, dared not, permit her child to enter a spotless, honorable family. She could marry no one except this man. To this point her thoughts had already come. She made Rex walk in to dinner with Mrs. Thomas, to his wonder and dismay, and took, with a shudder, the arm of the other. "It is to be a bargain, I hope," her odious companion said to her audibly as they went from one room to the other; and Rex looked back at her over his shoulder with the most curious, wondering, wistful look. He, too, wished to speak to her, if it had been any night but this!
He did manage to speak to her during dinner, which terrible meal seemed to the miserable woman as if it would never end. "May I see you for ten minutes in the library before I leave?" Rex whispered. "Oh yes," she said dully. She did not even ask herself what he could want. For the rest, Mr. Tom Furness filled up all the gaps during dinner with his mere presence. He was contemptuously jocular to his aunt, admiringly familiar to Amy, and, though she awed him, took an air of bon camarade with Mrs. Scudamore, which humbled her more than anything she had yet encountered. "You and I know better," he would say, appealing to her. "We are up to all that sort of thing, you and I," with an insufferable nod of complacence and assurance. How dreadful it was! The dinner seemed to last a year. And even when they left the table there was Amy looking at her with a little important face, as if she knew something. What could the child know? She could not have divined surely, could not suspect the fate which was coming on herself.
"I hope you will not judge poor Tom hardly," said Mrs. Thomas when they had got to the drawing-room. It was rarely that she addressed of her own accord the mistress of the house. But to-night her womanish senses had perceived her nephew's inappropriateness in the place, and she could not refrain from an apology. "He has not been used to it, and he was a little excited and anxious to please, and afraid."
"He does very well," said Mrs. Scudamore. "There is nothing to make excuses for; I think he did perfectly well."
"You are very kind, I am sure," said Mrs. Thomas, retreating into a corner almost out of sight. "Oh how kind mamma is," thought Amy to herself. "Though she looks a little stern at times, how good she is! for if ever there was a horrible, wretched, shocking—" And then the girl came and fluttered about her mother, watching to make sure that Aunt Thomas was out of the way, and scheming with panting breath and beating heart how she was to begin her tale. Her movements caught her mother's eye, and chafed her, in her irritated condition. "Amy, pray sit down; you worry me with your restlessness," she said fretfully, and thus poor Amy subsided too, not daring to speak.
"If you please, ma'am," said Woods, "Sir Reginald is waiting in the library," and he held the door solemnly open to admit Tom Furness, who appeared behind him. Amy sprang up and kissed her mother as she went out. She did not explain herself, and Mrs. Scudamore asked no questions. But oh, to be left here with this man, while Rex was pleading his cause so near! Fortunately, however, Amy thought Rex's cause could not need much pleading. Mamma was fond of him too; mamma had known him all his life; mamma had been fond of his mother. To plead that cause would be no hard matter. And yet Amy could not but wonder what her mother would say. Would she be sorry to think that she was going to lose her child? Would she say they were both too young? Would she scold him for speaking to Amy first? Or would she give him a motherly kiss and send him to fetch her child? The girl's mind was full of these thoughts when she was left alone with Mrs. Thomas and her nephew, and her impatience and abstraction were evident. "My dear, I am afraid you are not well," said Aunt Thomas, putting down to her nephew's account the cloudy look which had come over the young face she was beginning to love. "Miss Amy is thinking of some one," said Mr. Tom Furness with an attempt at raillery, which he accomplished with even more awkwardness than his wont; for though he thought it gallant, and indeed his duty to be jocular and make innuendoes, he had too much awe of Amy to be at ease in the attempt. "Thanks, I am quite well," she said, growing red with a hauteur which he had not yet seen in her. What she would have given to get clear of those two! to rush away from them and await somewhere in the silence her mother's decision; or rather, as she herself put it, to wait till her mother should send for her. But that was impossible. She had to remain and to be civil to them, listening to everything, and feeling every muffled sound which was half audible in the distance going through her heart.
Mrs. Scudamore went to the library to meet Rex, without having once realized what he might have to say to her. She moved about in such a cloud of her own troubles, such an atmosphere of all-absorbing feverish care, that she had lost all insight into other people's feelings. She moved along dully, not touched even by the thought that it was a strange thing for Rex Bayard to seek such an interview with her. Her imagination was too busy with her own affairs to have any leisure for speculation on such a subject. He came up to her eagerly when she entered the library, and took her hand in both of his; he looked into her face anxiously, trying to read its expression. "Dear Mrs. Scudamore," he said, "you know what I want to say to you. I am sure you know."