Chapter XXV.

Otago Witness, Issue 1158, 7 February 1874, Page 19

Chapter XXV.

A SERIOUS CONVERSATION.

Not a word did Sylvia say to her father all through that Sunday. He was at church almost all day with the school, so the two saw very little of each other in private. Indeed, under the £>retext of a severe headache, Sylvia escaped her usual Sunday-school teaching, and afternoon and evening church, and contrived to spend the greater part of the day in the solitude of her own bedroom. There she could think in quiet ; think, perhaps, very much as Judas may have thought before he went and hanged himself.

Tt is a kind of fate in some natures to betray. Falsehood is written in the stars that rule their destiny.

Sylvia thought of Mrs. Standen's indignation, and was angry with the lady for conduct which certainly appeared inconsistent.

" She ought to have thanked me for her son's release, instead of turning upon me like that," the girl said to herself, as she meditated upon that unpleasant scene with the lady who was to have been her mother-in-law.

After all, it was something to have got the interview over — to have cleared the ground for her new engagement. Who could tell how soon Hedingham might know of that wondrous change in her position 1 It would be her desire to keep the affair a secret as long as possible. But would Sir Aubrey or her father be likely to indulge this fancy of hers ? There remained the letter to be written to Edmund — tho cruel, treacherous letter, in which, masking self-interest under an affectation of generosity, she was to give him up. His first letter to her had breathed only deepest trust and purest love. Her first letter to him would deal a death-blow to his dearest hopes.

Even though she was born to betray, it pained her to write that letter. The composition was a work of art. It would have been difficult to read between tho lines that told only of womanly forethought and self-abnegation, and to discover the mercenary spirit that prompted that renunciation. The letter seemed almost heroic. And here truth assisted falsehood. The pangs with which Sylvia surrendered her love were real enough. She did not forsake him without bitterest pain, harder to bear than the sorrow of an unselfish soul, which, out of pure magnanimity, foregoes its dearest joy. The letter was written ; and it was a relief to think that some time must elapse ere it reached Edmund Standen's hands. Tho mail would only leave Southampton ten days hence. The passage of the letter

to Demerara would take three weeks. There was breathing time therefore. "Perhaps being so entirely separated from me, and having leisure for reflection, he may have begun to regret his folly ; and my letter may come to him almost as a relief," thought Sylvia, self-excusingly. On Monday evening the schoolmaster smoked his pipe in his favourite seat in the doorway, a narrow bench inside the latticed porch. The day had been rainy, and the garden breathed the freshness and perfume that follow summer rain, sweet as incense rising from old Greek altars, when man knew no higher giver of good than Zeus and Demeter. Sylvia had left her chair by the window, and had come, work in hand, to the doorway. She stood there looking at her father curiously, as if doubtful whether to speak or be silent. " Papa, " she said at last, "you don't wish me to marry Mr. Standen V "Wish you to marry him !" exclaimed Mr. Oarew, impatiently; "why, you know that I have set my face against such a marriage, and that so far as a father can forbid anything in these days of unfilial indifference to a father's wishes, I forbid you to marry Edmund Standen." "Even if Mrs. Standen were inclined to relent, papa, and to give a reluctant consent to the marriage, and leave Edmund half her fortune ?" " Is she inclined to do that V " Yes, papa. She called here yesterday and told me so." Mr. Carew grew thoughtful. ' ' That might have altered the case considerably a week ego, " he sind ; "but it only adds a perplexing element to the business now. I see a much more brilliant chance before you — if — if —the prospect is not delusive." " So do I, papa, looking at things from a worldly point of view." "From what other point of view need you look at things 1 We don't live in the stars !" ' ' Sir Aubrey Perriam has asked me to be his wife, papa." Mr. Oarew started up from the little bench in the porch, and for the first tinie within Sylvia's memory dropped his pipe. It was a small meerschaum pipe coloured by himself, and he regarded it with an afFection which he did not often bestow upon sentient things. He picked it up carefully, looked to see if be chipped the bowl, aud then stood staring at his daughter in. silent amazement for some moments. " Sir Aubrey asked you to marry him V f he said at last. "In serious, sober earnest ? It wasn't one of those senseless speeches which elderly gentlemen make to young ladies — mere old-fashioned gallantry, eh, Sylvia V "No, indeed, papa. I think Sir Aubrey was very much in earnest. His hand trembled a little when he took mine." " And you accepted him V said the father, sharply. He was prepared for any folly from a •girl of nineteen. It is in the nature of youth to be sentimental ; and he supposed rhat his daughter must have the ordinary shire of sentimentality. " Yes, papa. I was engaged to Edmund Standen, but everything seemed to be against our marriage, so I thought " " You were wise for once in your life," cried Mr. Carew. " Why, you will be a queen, child. And I — well, I suppose I shall not be compelled to end my days as a parish schoolmaster. Why didn't you tell me this before ? Has my life been such a bright one that you need keep the sunshine of prosperity from me ?" "I — I — hardly knew how to tell yoxi, papa. Poor Edmund. It seems so hard to give up every thought of him." " Well, it's rather a sudden renunciation, certainly. However, no girl in her senses would act otherwise than you have done. Rather lucky that your sweetheart was off to Demerara." "Yes, papa. I don't think I could have accepted Sir Aubrey if Edmund had not been away. " "I suppose Sir Aubrey means to explain himself to me to-morrow." "I thiuk he is coming here to-night, papa." ' ' Then you had better clear out of the way. Wo must have our talk alone." "Very well, papa; I'll go to Mary / Peter's. I want to see the dress she's making for Miss Jane Toynbee. Oh, how nice it will be when I have new dresses of Imy own. O, bye-the-bye, papa, if Sir | Aubrey should want to fix the date of our marriage — he would hardly wish to do that yet awhilo, but if he should — make lie as far off as you can. I don't want the Standens quite to despise me, as they would if they knew that I had jilted Edmund in order to marry Sir Aubrey." " Defer the marriage ! Yes, and give Sir Aubrey time to alter his mind or to die in the interval, and then you would realise the old adage of "between two stools. No, Sylvia ; if Sir Aubrey wishes for' a short engagement I shall not ba insane enough to propose delay." Sylvia sighed, thought of all the joys that must attend tho translation from

poverty to wealth, and' submitted. She put on her hat, and ran off to spend half an hour among the cuttings of silk and lining and open papers of pins which bestrewed Mary Peter's humble apartment on a busy evening. What would poor Mary Peter say if she heard of this new engagement ? There had been talk enough and astonishment enough about Edmund Standen's subjugation. But this latter conquest was as far above the first as yonder evening star, shining softly above the cypress, surpasses the feeble lustre of village lamps. Sylvia did not mean to tell her humble confidante about the change in her circumstances yet awhile. Mr. Carew had not been alone ten minutes before he heard the click of the latch, and the garden gate opened to admit Sir Aubrey Perriam. The schoolmaster had been wondering, with sore perplexity, whether that proposal, whereof Sylvia had just informed him, had been really a serious offer, or only one of those florid meaningless compliments which gentlemen of the old school are apt to indulge in. The sight of that grey-haired figure in the summer dusk set his heart beating at a gallop. The whole thing had seemed too good to be true. " But this appearance of the baronet seemed to confirm Sylvia's statement.

James Carew emptied the ashes out of his pipe, and dropped the treasure into the pocket of his well-worn velveteen shooting jacket. Sir Aubrey came up the garden path. " Good evening, Mr. Carew," said the visitor, in his low bland tones. "All alone? Miss Carew is out, I suppose," he added, looking into the parlour through the wide open casement. " Yes, Sylvia has gone to see one of her friends in the village. She has very few friends, poor child ; and the one or two ahe does associate with are hardly congenial spirits. But my poor girl has a soft, clinging nature ; and must have something to Jove. ' ' • ' I regret to lose the pleasure of seeing her," said Sir Aubrey, " yet I am not very sorry she is absent. I want to have a little serious talk with you, Mr. Carew. Your daughter has told you the motive of this visit, perhaps. " "She hinted at something, which I could hardly believe possible. I thought my poor child, in utter ignorance of the world, might naturally mistake gallantry for — for "

" For affection," said Sir Aubrey. "I am not skilled in the art of gallantry, Mr. Carew, and when I spoke to your daughter the other night — too hastily, perhaps — I spoke straight from my heart. " " And your words went straight home to hers, Sir Aubrey," answered the schoolmaster, with feeling. ' ' Need I say how deeply I feel the honour you have conferred upon my daughter. Yet when I reflect upon the disparity " " In our ages ?" said Sir Aubrey quickly. ' ' No, Sir Aubrey, in your social position. If I objected to my daughter's union with a banker's son, whose family opposed the marriage — have I not still stronger reason to object to a marriage which all the county will condemn ?''

" Do you imagine, sir, that I exist only to please my neighbours ?" cried Sir Aubrey, haughtily. " The lady I choose for my wife, sir, ascends at once to my own level, and let me see any gentleman in this county who will presume to disparage her. Come, Mr. Carew, let us discuss this subject from a business point of view. I have pro£>osed for your daughter's hand, and she has done me the honour to accept me without reserve. The preliminaries of the marriage are all that you and I have to settle." " Will you take a seat, Sir Aubrey, and allow me to light the candles 1" said Mr. Carew, leading the way into the dusky parlour. "You needn't light candles. Wo can talk just as well in the twilight," said the visitor, seating himself just within the doorwayMr. Carew was not sorry to remain in that friendly half-light. Who could tell what questions the baronet might intend to ask him — questions upon which his daughter's future fortune might depend — questions which might tax his ingenuity to the uttermost to answer satisfactorily. It was some advantage to keep his face in ( the shadow. " When a man of my age makes such a proposal as I have made to your daughter, " bogan Sir Aubrey, "it is only natural to Buppose that he ia moved by a deep and powerful feeling. I have heard of love as swift and sudden as this love of mine, and ridiculed it, many a time before today. I now confess, in all humility, that I underrated the power of the god. He has avenged himself upon my infidelity, and has transformed the unbeliever into a fanatic." He paused, sighed gently, as if regretting l«is own abasement, and then went on in the same half-meditative tone. "You say the county which haa its own standard of right, will take objection to my marriage with your daughter, Mr.

Carew. I am prepared for that. I will go further, and say I know that they will ridicule my infatuation — set me down as a dotard, at fifty-seven years of age, laugh at the old man and his fair young wife. In answer to all this I can only say that I knew my own heart, and that it is not mere admiration for your daughter's beauty which has influenced my conduct. I should despise myself could 1 think that I had been caught by a pretty face ; like the brainless moth which seeks its destruction in the flame that dazzles and allures it. No, Mr. Carew, I love your daughter honestly and sincerely, in all purity and truth ; and I am willing to trust the remnant of my days to her keeping. "

"Nay, Sir Aubrey, at fifty-seven a man has hardly passed the prime of life." "Have you any objection to offer to this marriage, sir ?" asked Sir Aubrey, with a stately condescension ; as if fully aware that the question was an empty courtesy. "Objection! lam deeply honoured by your choice. I feel more pride than I can venture to express, lest I should lapse into seeming servility." "Not another word, Mr. Carew. I feel that however humble your present position may be you were born to occupy a better one. "

" I was, Sir Aubrey. My father was a \ merchant of some standing, who sent me to Eton and Oxford, and suffered me to marry and begin life with the idea that I was a man of independent means. His failure and death within three years of my poor Sylvia's birth left me a pauper. This employmeut, humble though it is, was the best that offered itself to the j ruined Oxonian, who had neither trade nor profession. You may say, perhaps, that I might in all these years have endeavoured to improve my condition. I can only answer that whatever energies I have ever had were deadened by the blow that reduced me from delusive affluence to actual poverty. The little I can earn here has sufficed to maintain my child and myself. The retired life has suited my habits and inclinations ; and I have never taken arms against a sea of troubles, but have rather preferred the obscurity of this peaceful haven." "I understand," said Sir Aubrey. " And you had no wife to share or lighten your struggles. She died before your misfortunes ?" "Yes, my wife was dead." "I inferred as much." ! There was a pause. Sir Aubrey had something more to say, but hardly knew how to say it. He was a rich man, and he had told himself that this Mr. Carew might entertain an exaggerated notion of a wealthy bridegroom's liberality. He might count upon profiting to some large extent by his daughter's union with the lord of the manor. It was for Sir Aubrey to undeceive him at once on this jjoint. "Your daughter having done me the honour to accept me, and their being no I impediment to our marriage, it appears to me, Mr. Carew, that the event cannot take place too soon — unless, indeed, Sylvia should desire a delay ; a wish which I should infinitely regret, for where there is so great a disparity of years that wish might indicate uncertainty of purpose. "_ "My daughter has no such wish, Sir Aubrey," replied Mr. Carew, promptly ; " but a woman can hardly pass from the position of my daughter to that of your wife without some trifling preparations in way of trousseau. " "Of course. But in all her arrangements I hope Miss Carew will remember that I am a man of the simplest habits ; that I can see hardly .any society, and that ! I utterly abhor the frivolities of fashion.' ' ' 1 have no doubt that she will be proud to be ruled by your superior judgment in all things," replied the schoolmaster, who was beginning to feel a shade of anxiety. There had been, so far, not a syllable, that hinted at any improvement in his own circumstances. Sir Aubrey had not uttered the important word settlement. And it was a word Mr. Carew felt could hardly issue from his lips. To betray his expectation of profit from the marriage would seem like bargaining for the price of his daughter. While he was meditating thus, somewhat uncomfortably, Sir Aubrey relieved his doubts by becoming business-like. " With regard to settlements," he said, ' ' I conclude that as you can give nothing to your daughter, you will not entertain any exaggerated expectations upon that ' point. I will freely own to you that Ido not understand, or approve the modern I system of making a wife independent of - her husband. Dependence is one of woman's sweetest attributes — her most winning charm. I should not like my wife — were she a nobleman's daughter — to possess an independent income during my lifetime. 1 shall, therefore, settle nothing upon Sylvia." I Mr. Carew's heart grew heavy. Why, at this rate Edmund Standen might have been a better match than Sir Aubrey.

"But I shall settle two or three thousand & yoar — say, five thousand — upon my widow. When I die Sylvia shall have

t tat income and the Dower House, now let off, and worth two hundred a year." " Sir Aubrey," said the schoolmaster with a dignified air, " far be it from me I to dispute the justice or the generosity of any decision you may arrive at. lam certainly inclined to think that for my daughter's future comfort, and your exemption from small -worries, it might have been wise for you to settle upon her some moderate allowance in the way of pin money, were it only three or four hundred a year, which would have made her independent, so far as concerns a woman's tr. fling requirements." "A woman's trifling requirements," echoed Sir Aubrey ; " you don't mean to tell me that your daughter, brought up in this cottage, would require three or four hundred a year to buy gowns or bonnets V " Certainly not, Sir Aubiey. But charity makes a large item in a lady's expenditure, and Sylvia, as the mistress of Perriam, could hardly come to you for every half-crown she wanted to give to a sick cottager." " Good heavens, sir," cried the baronet, ' ' do you suppose that I cannot make my wife an allowance of pocket money, when she is my wife, without binding myself to pay her so jnany hundreds a year upon a piece of stamped parchment before Ij marry her? I will amply provide for your daughter in the event of my death, but I will never consent to render her independent of my bounty during my lifetime." " The schoolmaster murmured a vague assent, but felt more and more uncomfortable. "How am Ito profit by such a marriage ?" he wondered. "Aml to sit in the gate like Mordecai, and to be not a jot better off for my daughter's advancement." Again Sir Aubrey came to his relief. "As regards yourself, Mr. Carew," he began, graciously, ' ' I have reflected that it could hardly be satisfactory to you to occupy your present position — honourable as that position is — when your daughter is Lady Perriam. I shall therefore request you to accept a hundred a year, which I shall be very happy to remit to you by quarterly payments, in lieu of your present stipend, and which will enable you to live in quiet independence " the baronet was about to say "elsewhere," but cheeked himself lest the phrase should sound like a sentence of banishment, — " in any locality moat agreeable to yourself." "You are very good, Sir Aubrey. I place my future entirely at your disposal/ answered the schoolmaster. A hundred a year ! A poor pittance, although twice as good as my present income," he thought, deeply disappointed by tho baronet's narrow views on the subject of settlements. He had fancied that an elderly lover would be lavish—ready to empty his coffers at the feet of his idol. And here was Sir Aubrey, driving as hard a bargain as if he had been Shadrach Bain cheapening a herd of store oxen at Monkhampton cattle fair. A hundred a year ! It seemed a pitiful result of such a wondrous event as the baronet's subjugation. Mr. Carew could only comfort himself with the idea that Sylvia, once married, must assuredly acquire some power over her husband's purse, and that it would, be hard if her father were not something the better for her altered fortunes. " You spoke just now of Sylvia's trousseau," said Sir Aubrey, who felt more at his ease now that he had expounded his views ; "I have not forgotten that necessity. Perhaps you will contrive to give your daughter this little packet without offending her delicacy. It contains a hundred pounds in bank notes." James Carew took the small parcel, and his faded face flushed faintly at the mere thought of its contents. How long it was since he had held so much money in his hand. Tho clay had been when a hundred pounds would have made a very insignificant item in the vast sum of his needs, but of late years sovereigns had been as drops of his heart's blood, so dear had it cost him to part with them. " I shall be obliged if you will bear in mind what 1 said just now about simplicity of attire," said Sir Aubrey, when Mr. Carew had murmured his acknowledgment of the lover's first gift. " A woman cannot be too plainly dressed for my taste ; nor does Sylvia's beauty need adornment." Sylvia opened the gate while her elderly lover was speaking, and came across the dusky garden. Sir Aubrey went out to meet her, almost as eager as if he had been twenty-five instead of fifty-seven. Business-like and deliberate as he" had been in the adjustment of monetary questions, he became enthusiastic at the sight of Sylvia. "My sweet one," he said, detaining her in the garden, " I have seen your father; and settled everything. And now I want you to name the happy day that is to mako ua one." . That sudden appeal made Sylvia tremble. What, was her doom so near 1 Sho

had thought it a grand thiDg to he Lady Perriam, ifrhile that change of fortune appeared still distant. She had forsworn * herself — renounced her lover — become a I renegade. Yet at the near approach of that brilliant fortune for which she itad sacrificed all lesser things, there came a revulsion of feeling. If she could by any possibility have drawn back at this last moment, she would have done it, recalled her renunciation of Edmund, become once more the happy girl who had pillowed her head upon her lover's breast, and felfc herself brave enough to face even poverty for his sake. But it was all too late for turning back. Sir .Aubrey's patrician hand had drawn hers gently through his arm with an air of proprietorship. "Let it be as soon as possible, my dear," he said, in a tone that was half lover-like, half -fatherly, "the autumn will soon be upon us, and I should like to spend September in Paris. lam always, glad to get away from the falling leaves. " Paris seemed a name of enchantment to* this untravelled girl. Not Damascus, Balsora, or Bagdad — no city she ever read of in the Arabian Nights — could have more, the sound of a fairy tale. " I should like to see Paris," she said, forgetting her tardy remorse. " We will spend our honeymoon there, love !" replied the baronet, who had made up his mind about it before he came to woo. It would be an inexpensive honeymoon. Lodgement in his entresol would cost him nothing. There would be some slight difference in the terms of his contract with the traiteur who supplied his table. ' ' Your father agrees with me that there is no motive for delay, except for the brief time you may require to h.tve two> or three dresses made," said Sir Aubrey. " We will be married very quietly in yonder church some morning, before any of the village gossips have had time to discover our intention. " " That will be nice," said Sylvia, somewhat listlessly, " but I should have liked a few months delay." " A few months ! What for !" The question was embarrassing. " How can you be sure that you really care for me — that your regard for me is more than a passing fancy ?" she faltered after a pause. ' ' I have no doubt as to my feelings, " replied Sir Aubrey, witli offended dignity. "Perhaps it is you who are doubtful aboxit yours. " "No, indeed !" cried Sylvia quickly. ! Not for worlds must she olfend him. I Was not the die cast ? She might keep back her letter to Edmund, which was not yet posted, but she could not undo her interview with Mrs. Standen. The next mail would doubtless carry a full account of that interview to her lover. And was it likely he would forgive her for havingrejected his mother's offered friendship—for having renounced him deliberately in the very hour of his mother's relenting ! Sylvia felt that Edmund was lost to her, and that there was nothing for her between marriage with Sir Aubrey and ignominious downfall. .Reflection showed her that her own interest demanded a speedy marriage. What would be her position if Edmund came back and denounced, her ? He might be cruel enough to tell Sir Aubrey how fondly she had loved him ; with repeated vows she had sworn to be true. What might not a betrayed lover do to proclaim her baseness '? The best possible shelter would be Sir Aubrey's name. No one would dare to assail or to insult Sir Aubrey Perriam's wife. "Come, Sylvia," said the baronet tenderly, " If you love me ever so little you will not ask for delay. It is in your power to make my life happy. Why should not my happiness begin as soon as it can ? Remember, my sweet one, when you accepted my offer the other night you linked your life with mine. You can hardly unlink it again, unless you really repent your promise." "No, no. I do not repent. I am honoured, proud, happy, in the knowledge of your love." "Then we will be married this day month," said Sir Aubrey, sealing the bond with a courteous kiss. Sylvia made no objection. It is not for the beggar girl to dictate to King Cophetua. (To be continued.)