Chapter VII: Father and Child

Meredith Vyner stole back to his study, after having overheard a portion of the foregoing scene, like one who has just received a sentence of death. He loved his wife with the unreasoning idolatry of one who has centred all his affections on a single object. His children had been gradually estranged from him, his wife had taken their place in his heart, and now she was listening to the vows of another!

What he had heard was enough to make him fear the worst. Her refusal to listen to Marmaduke, and her offer of a purely sisterly regard, although it assured him that at present she was resolved not to forget her duty, gave him no assurance that such prudence would long continue. Could she restrict herself to that sisterly love? Could she know that one so young, so handsome, so imposing, loved her, and not at last yield to his love?

He would snatch her from the danger by taking her at once from London. Away from her lover, she might forget him, or he might seek another. It was necessary to take a decided step.

When Mrs. Vyner came into his study, he at once assumed an unusual tone of command, and informed her that it was his pleasure they should at once return to the country.

"My dear Meredith, what are you thinking of? The country! We cannot leave town in the height of the season."

"I have my reasons," he said, with as much dignity as he could assume.

"And I have mine for not going."

"But I insist upon it."

She seated herself in one of the easy chairs, and said, quietly,--

"You will not insist when you have heard me. This very morning, Mr. Ashley has made a foolish declaration of love to me."

He was thunderstruck. The quiet matter-of-fact style in which she communicated this intelligence, was indeed a masterpiece of adroitness. There are moments in our lives when audacity is prudence; and this was one, when nothing but an audacious avowal could, by anticipating, defeat the accusation she knew he would bring forward. She lost nothing by avowing it, as she was certain he already knew it; but, on the other hand, by anticipating him, she was enabled to give her own colouring to the appearances which condemned her.

"I see your surprise," she added; "you little expected it, nor did I. You thought he was attached to Violet; I thought so too; and as I am sure Violet is attached to him, I have set my mind upon the match. But now, look here: I received his declaration without anger and without encouragement. I told him I would love him as a sister, and made him promise, on pain of instantly refusing to see him, to cease all such language, and to crush all such hopes. Did I act rightly?"

"Yes--very--very."

"But, suppose I run away into the country, what will he imagine? That I am afraid of him, afraid of myself; that I love him, and avoid him. Do you wish him to think _that_? You do not. Then we remain."

"But ... and you ... will you continue to see him?"

"Why not? If I am to avoid him let it be done at once. If not, let us treat him as if he had never made that silly declaration. He will soon get over this. It is only a passing fancy. He saw me a mere girl, wedded to one old enough to be my father, and imagined, as all men would imagine, that I should be easily persuaded to forget what was due to my husband, and to myself. I have undeceived him. My coldness and firmness will soon cure him. He will then think of Violet."

She ceased. He took vast pinches of snuff in an agitated absent manner, but made no remark. She perceived that she had gained the day, and left him to his reflections.

Bitter enough those reflections were. The explicit avowal had staggered him--had taken from him the very weapon he was to use; but it had in no way alleviated his jealous anguish. He could not answer her--yet could not satisfy himself. The reference she had made to his age still rung in his ears, and told him plainly that his rival would one day be happy.

That afternoon Violet and Rose returned. He received them with unwonted tenderness, for his heart ever yearned to those whom he had excluded from it, and he felt bitter remorse for having sacrificed them to his wife. Violet was peculiarly dear to him at this moment. He felt for her misplaced attachment, and remembered how ill she had been treated at home. He folded her to his breast, with a lovingness which brought the tears into her eyes, and as she sat down on his knee, one arm around his neck, delighted with this change in his manner, she divined at once the real cause of the change. As it was Mrs. Vyner who had estranged him from her, so must it be Mrs. Vyner who had brought back his love.

It was a touching sight to see this parent and child united by a common sorrow, mutually pitying and mutually comforting each other, having in one embrace forgotten all that had once been distrust and coldness, and now possessed by that overflowing love which, in its exaggeration, desires to atone for past coldness.

It was not what they said; for few words passed between them; it was their eloquent looks, significant pressure of hands, convulsive embraces, and tones pregnant with meaning. The father mutely demanded forgiveness, and the child demanded a continuance of love.

After an hour of this intense emotion they grew calmer, and began to talk of indifferent things. From time to time they hovered about the name of Marmaduke, and betrayed, in their very recurrence to the subject, and hesitation in speaking openly of it, how predominant it was in their minds. At last they ventured on the name. It is impossible to convey an idea of the conversation which ensued, because it was conducted in phrases of the most guarded vagueness, but made full of meaning by the looks which accompanied them. Slowly, but irresistibly, the conviction came upon her, that her father had discovered his wife's guilty passion; or, at least, _suspected_ it. Her object, therefore, was, if possible, to persuade him that Marmaduke came there for herself; and she even went so far as to laugh faintly at his efforts to make himself agreeable to Mrs. Vyner, by way of using a stepmother's influence in his favour.

Her voice shook, as she uttered this heroic falsehood.

He gazed at her with mournfulness; a tear rolled down his cheek; his heart swelled as he sobbed out,--

"My poor child! my poor child!"

He dared not undeceive her, dared not tell her what he knew.

She saw that she was not believed, but little did she know the mournful pity with which her supposed credulity filled him.

It was a relief to her when the dinner-bell rang, and put an end to their interview.

He saw her depart, and sat sighing deeply, wholly bewildered at the inextricable difficulties of his position; and when Mrs. Vyner came in, and chatted away about the opera, to which they were going that night, as if nothing whatever had occurred, he almost felt as if he had just awakened from a dream-troubled sleep.