Chapter IX: THE VILLA (continued)

Meanwhile the day had passed for Vera like a strange sweet dream, too rapid, too full of feeling to be understood. The novelty and the strangeness and the complication of emotions so suddenly introduced into her young life, which had been carefully trained to know no emotions at all, involved her in a secret bewilderment, so that she did not seem to know what she was saying, or on what she was treading, whether enchanted ground, or air, or clouds. When she was about to follow the rest indoors, Fane, who was with her, begged so hard that she would stay, that Vera, not unwilling, though a little doubtful as to whether she ought, softly sat down again on the rustic seat under the lime trees, which were so sweet in the dimness of the night. Fane said nothing for a few minutes; he let the silence and charm of the night steal into the girl’s soul.

“I wanted to drive on for ever this morning,” at last he said softly; “what a mistake it was! But now, if this night would only last for ever! I don’t know what more one could wish for. Do you remember ‘The Last Ride?’”

“What is ‘The Last Ride?’” said Vera, wondering if it was very very ignorant of her not to know.

“It is a poem of Mr. Browning’s.”

“I don’t think I like poetry,” said Vera, shyly. “It seems dreadful to say so, but one ought to be honest. It is so stiff and so formal, not like anything natural.”

“What have you read? I think I could show you some you would like.”

“I have read some of Pope, and Miss Campbell is very fond of Young’s ‘Night Thoughts’ and Kirke White--and a little Cowper. I like Cowper best, but----”

“Ah!” he said. “Shall I tell you about the ‘Last Ride?’ It is very different from Pope. It is a poor lover whom his lady has refused. He loves her, but she does not love him; yet, though she does not love him, she is sweet and gracious, and will not refuse the last thing he asks of her,--one last ride with him. And so they set out; and as they go along he keeps comforting himself all the way, knowing every step is nearer the end--‘Perhaps the world may end to-night.’”

“And what happens?” asked Vera, eagerly.

“Nothing happens; the ride may be going on still, for all one knows.”

Vera was silent. She was too young to understand how this ending of the world might have helped the hapless lover. She sat quite still, in shy wonder, feeling sad for him; wishing that the lady had relented, which would have been better than the world ending; her thoughts entirely carried away even from the present enchantment. Then her companion spoke again; his voice was very soft and naturally melodious, and there was a certain pleading in the tone:

“I wonder,” he said, “if I am to be sent away to-night.”

“To be sent away?”

“Miss Meadows brought me. She is not going till to-morrow. She is as good as gold, but she is apt to forget details.”

“Oh, shall I run in and ask?” cried Vera. “How disagreeable for you to be kept here. I will run and tell her.”

“No, indeed, you shall not run anywhere to serve me. It is I who will run--wherever you please--to do anything you please. But don’t be satirical or hard upon me. The dreadful thing will be to be sent away. I prefer to keep out of the way till it is too late.”

Again Vera did not quite understand, and was silent, thinking it best not to commit herself. But she began to be a little uneasy about sitting here quite alone while everybody else had gone in. It was strangely pleasant--so warm, yet so cool, so fresh and dewy, the house so near with all its lights, yet the stillness so perfect. Would it be right, though, if not so pleasant, to go back to the house?

“Can you see, beyond the garden, the lights scattered about in the houses,” he said, “and up in the sky the stars? I don’t know which I like best.”

“Oh, Mr. Fane, the stars!”

“Do you think so?--but see, every one of these little lights, twinkling away far down at the foot of the hill, means something. There are people there talking, living--with a story of one kind or another--and love. Is it not pleasant,” he said, as she made no answer, “to sit here and watch it all--all the other people going on with their living, and we looking on?”

“But we are living, too,” said Vera, startled.

“Beginning to live----”

He did not say any more. And how still it was--every little rustle in the leaves audible, though there was so much life and sound close at hand! Vera began to feel a little frightened. All these strangenesses seemed coming to a climax. She gave a little start when some watchful bird made a stir among the branches and got up. “I think mamma may want me. I think we should go in,” she said.

More than half the people were gone, however, when they went in, and the last train was gone, and there was nothing for it but to offer Mr. Fane, whom Elinor Meadows confessed she had forgotten, a bed. Vera, coming in shy and dazzled by the lights, did not quite listen to all that was said; but to know that he was going to stay was pleasant. He sat down by her again, while her mother was occupied with the last of the departing groups. Somehow she seemed to know him better than any one--better even than her mother, to whom she was so much a stranger; and here indoors, with so many people about, it was easier to talk. She confessed to him with a little blush that she had never been here before.

“Is it not strange?” she said, “it is home, as much as the Square, and yet I don’t know it. People are not often like that. I suppose you used to live with your mother when you were young, as young as I am--most people do.”

“Most people do, but I did not, for my mother was dead. I was very lonely--my brother a great deal older than myself, and no one else belonging to me.”

“Ah! my brother is only two years older than I. But then if one never sees them it comes to just the same thing. I was very lonely, too. Never anybody to play with,” said Vera, tears coming into her eyes out of pity for the forlorn little self whom she had conjured up. “Nobody to talk to--except Miss Campbell. I remember,” she went on, changing involuntarily into a soft laugh; “I got the poor servants into sad trouble because I told papa they had a party and I danced. Oh! how nice that party was! I was only eight. It couldn’t have done me much harm, could it?”

“Evidently it has not done you any harm,” said Fane. “Nothing could do you any harm. I ran wild as I liked, and no one was shocked.”

“Ah!” cried Vera again, with a sigh, “you boys are so much better off than girls. Nobody says you ought to be still, never to talk, never to be remarked. It is hard always to be obliged to remember that one is a girl. Miss Campbell always says, ‘You forget yourself,’ when that is just what I would like to do. Forget all about me! Why should one always be obliged to think about one’s self?”

“When there are so many other people that would be too glad to do it for you!” said Fane--a speech which, like many others, was lost upon Vera. But the fountain of her confidences was opened, and she went on almost without a pause.

“It is now so many years since Miss Campbell came, and I have been obliged to be so good. I don’t think I was good before. And when I go back again I shall have to begin once more, and try not to forget myself, and to speak low, and to keep in the background, and not ‘to be remarked.’ Why should any one remark me?” cried Vera. “It is very hard upon us poor girls, you must allow, Mr. Fane.”

“And when do you go back?”

“To-morrow!” she said, with a long-drawn breath, a sigh so pathetic, that it was all he could do, notwithstanding his profound sympathy, not to laugh.

“I wonder if I might call,” he said. “I should like to bring you some books. I should like to try to amuse--Miss Campbell a little. Do you think I might come?”

“Miss Campbell!” said Vera, somewhat disappointed; then she recollected that it would still be better than nothing to be amused even at second hand. “Papa never said nobody was to call. People do call, not very amusing people, and if it is Miss Campbell you want to see----”

“Yes, of course it is Miss Campbell,” he said, laughing.

Upon which Vera understood, and laughed and blushed, and between the two this seemed the very best of jokes. They kept laughing at it at intervals as they went on talking.

“I am the victim of a romantic but hopeless passion,” said Fane. “If Miss Campbell will not smile upon me, what will become of me?” and it seemed to Vera that the humor was exquisite. All at once Miss Campbell and the Square seemed to be suffused with the same rosy light which made the villa such a world of enchantment. Elinor Meadows looked back at them, somewhat uneasily, wondering if it was quite right, if Oswald was quite to be trusted, if he knew where he was leading that innocent child. She became frightened at her own handiwork. Mrs. Tremenheere, on the other side, heard the laugh, and looked gratefully at the young stranger who called forth so merry a laugh from Vera. Thus tolerated and protected, the two young creatures felt secure in their corner, and talked and smiled, and poured out their hearts to each other, they could not tell why, and were more happy than they could say.

Next day was quieter, but still more sweet. They went out, the whole little party, and strayed about the lanes, and visited the school where Edward, still very absent, showed them everything, and saw the boys playing cricket as on that wonderful day which had made a new beginning to Vera’s life.

It was late in the evening when they returned to town, their party increased by the addition of one of Mrs. Tremenheere’s neighbors. It was not at all the same as the drive down. That had been merry, brilliant, a little company of three all united in one. This was different. You cannot lean across a carriage to talk in the dimness of the night, though two who are seated next each other may say much. The lady who sat by Miss Meadows had a great deal of conversation, and occupied her so, that at the end of the journey she half apologized to Vera.

“I have never been able to say a word to you,” said Elinor. “That tiresome woman! You must forgive me, my dear.”

Vera forgave her very freely. She leant back upon the soft cushions, quite indifferent to the fact that she had her back to the horses. She could not see him very well in the dusk, but she could see how he looked at her, which is different. Why should he look so, as nobody else ever looked? It was strange, but it was pleasant; and he spoke so low, not to disturb the others, that she had to lean her head towards him to hear. And once by accident (he begged her pardon for it) their fingers just touched; and she heard him say to himself softly,

“Perhaps the world may end to-night.”

Vera would not have acknowledged for the world that she had heard it, but she began to understand now what these words which had seemed so strangely unsatisfactory and unintelligible meant. Alas! When they came to Hyde Park Square, and the steps were let down, and the door opened, and old Jervis appeared on the threshold waiting for her, had not the world indeed suddenly come to an end? When the door shut upon that fairy chariot, and she was left standing in the half-lighted, dull, drab, too-familiar hall, the very heart seemed to die out of Vera’s bosom. She shivered all over, feeling cold, and would have liked to cry.

“Is anything wrong, Miss?” said Jervis, sympathetically.

“Oh, no, no, nothing!” cried Vera, with a sob in her throat; and stole softly up-stairs, a forlorn little white ghost. Alas! the world had ended--but not in the poet’s way.