Between Two Loves/07
CHAPTER VII.
ELEANOR'S FLIGHT.
"And love the offender, yet detest the offence."
"His rod revers'd.
And backward mutters of dissevering power."
"A generous friendship no cold medium knows,
Burns with one love, with one resentment glows."
In the serenity and light of that one loving deed Jonathan went joyfully many days. He said no more to Steve, and he did not speak to Sarah, but Steve felt his good-will, and Sarah sung at her work, and looked happy and hopeful again. As it drew near to Christmas, Eleanor wrote confidently of her return to Yorkshire, and as she made fewer complaints, Jonathan trusted she was beginning to find that peace was better than strife.
But while the Askes were lingering in Paris, Eleanor gave birth to her first child, and the necessary delay was prolonged by the sudden death of the babe three weeks afterwards, and by the immoderate grief of the mother, causing a somewhat dangerous relapse in her own condition. Anthony's sorrow and disappoinment was also great, but it was modified by some considerations which the bereaved mother could not take into account. The boy had been born on French soil, it was almost a calamity in Anthony's eyes for the heir of Aske to be anything but "born Yorkshire." Such a thing had never happened before in all the records of the house, and he could not help regarding the child as in some measure a foreigner. Of course, Eleanor could not be blamed consistently for such an untoward event, and yet he felt as if it was a part of the contradiction of her nature, and that in some way or other she was responsible for the thwarting of his hopes.
Nor was Aske's sentiment one peculiar to himself. The news of his grandson's birth gave Jonathan, at the moment of its intelligence, a thrill of the proudest gratification; but his very next feeling had been one of chagrin that the boy had not been born in the stately home of which he was the heir. Still, his elation was so manifest that Ben Holden did not scruple to say, "Thou holds thy head high this morning, Jonathan. What hes lifted thee up so?"
"I am a grandfather, Ben. Mistress Aske hes a fine son."
"I am right glad it's a boy."
"So am I. My word! Won't Aske be proud? And sure enough, there's Aske's church-bells ringing! They'll hev got the news, too. Poor little chap, to be born in France, of all places in t' world!"
"Ay, it's a pity. Aske won't like it, thou may be sure o' that. Some women, nay, I may well say all women, are so contrary."
"If there was an earthquake, thou would blame women for it, Ben. It sounds spiteful in thee. Thou hed a right good mother, and two good sisters, I'm sure."
"Ay, I hed, but their kind aren't common."
"Be quiet, will ta? They are common enough. Don't thee set thysen up to think thou hed t' only good mother and sisters. Other men hev been just as lucky as thou wert. There's good women in ivery family, and if there's a bad one, like as not she's a good one that hes been spoiled by some bad man's mismanagement. I'll hev to be an out-and-out infidel before I lose my faith i' good women, Ben."
"Let t' subject drop, Jonathan. Thee and me hes other things more important to talk about. There's them white yarns Jeremiah Wade sent, they ought to be sent back to him."
"Then send 'em back; and see here, shut up t' mill at twelve o'clock, and tell t' hands I'll add half a crown to ivery one's wage this week, for the sake of t' grandson. Bless his soul, though he is half a foreigner, we must give him a welcome."
In rather less than three weeks the heir of Aske was dead, and regrets of all kinds were such a very mockery that no one spoke them. It was understood that the squire was coming home as soon as his wife was fit to travel, and the local papers made constant allusions to the preparations in progress for their return. One day, towards the end of January, Jonathan was singularly restless. It was not any business anxiety that made him so, for such troubles induced always a kind of quiet self-concentration. He knew that it was an undefined worry about his daughter that disturbed him, and he left the mill early, went home and dressed, and then ordered his carriage for Aske Hall.
His presentiment had been in some measure a true one. Aske and his wife had arrived during the afternoon, and as he entered the large and lofty vestibule he saw Anthony coming down the great stairway in dinner dress. Small and slight as he was, Jonathan could not help being struck with his aristocratic appearance: he had the manner of a man accustomed to the highest peaks of social life, mingled with that calm confidence which comes from inherited considerations. The two men met with sincere emotion and kindness. "I am particularly glad to see you, sir," said Anthony, "I have sent a groom to Burley House with the news of our arrival, but he has hardly had time to get there."
"Ney, I didn't see him. I came on my own order. How is Eleanor, poor lass?"
"Still weak and fretting. She has been longing to see you."
They had been approaching the drawing-room as they spoke, and when Anthony opened the door Burley saw his daughter ere she had any idea of his presence. The glance filled him with pity. She was dressed in deep mourning, and she lay back wearily in a large chair, with her eyes closed and her hands dropped listlessly upon her lap. Her sombre garments made the pallor of her face more conspicuous, and Jonathan's eyes were full of tears when he took her to his breast and kissed her.
Yet they had a very pleasant dinner. Aske had much to tell, and he told it well, and Eleanor diversified his narration by her comments. And while they were still at the table, several gentlemen who had heard of the squire's arrival called and joined them, and Eleanor's pale face gathered color and her eyes light, and she said with an emphasis which delighted all, that she "was glad to be home, and thought no other place half so beautiful."
About eleven o'clock there was quite a merry gathering in the great entrance-hall, where a big fire was sending banners of flame dancing up the wide chimney. Horses and gigs and carriages were being brought from the stables, and the visitors stood, hats in hand, chatting gayly of the coming hunts and balls and dinners, of their pleasure in Mrs. Aske's return, reiterating congratulations and compliments.
Jonathan watched his daughter closely as she stood on the rug of skins with one foot on the stone fender, and the blazing fire throwing fitful lights and shadows over her beautiful face and tall, black-robed figure. There was a pathos and languor about her which he had never noticed before, and which might be the result of her sickness and her mourning dress, or might spring from a heart weary with contention, accepting a fate which it deprecated, but could no longer resist.
"But I'll not meddle nor make in Aske's affairs," he thought, as he was driven rapidly home. "I'll not say to Eleanor, 'Is ta happy?' or 'Is ta no happy?' I'll never put a question to her. She looked sad enough, but then a women that hes lost her first baby can't look as if she hed it in her arms. It isn't to be expected."
He thought it best, upon the whole, not to go too often to Aske Hall, and to make his visits there at those ceremonial dinners when there was much company, and its domestic life was hid behind its social obligations. But Jonathan knew his daughter's peculiarities, and even in the atmosphere of feasting, and amid the ripple of conversation, love has quick eyes. He saw below the surface, and he divined the heart-burnings and disappointments which he would scarcely admit or give a name to, even in his inmost consciousness.
One night in March, a cold, clear, frosty night, he was sitting alone by his fireside. His dinner had been highly satisfactory, and he was serenely smoking his second pipe. The thought in his heart was Sarah Benson. He could see that his last effort to save Steve had not been altogether successful. During the Christmas week the restless man had renewed his old habits, and ever since the hard struggle to keep him at work had been manifest to Jonathan in Sarah's anxious face. That very day Steve's loom had been silent and vacant, and though he had taken no notice of the fact, Sarah's downcast eyes, and the hot flush that suffused her face when he entered the room, told him how severely she felt the shame of Steve's absence.
As he sat still, he was wondering what was the best thing to do in the case, for he had no thought of giving it up. Had he not said, until seventy times seven? And he knew well that, before he could hope to bring Sarah to his own home, there must be some certain prospect for the brother whom she conceived herself bound to watch over, not only because she loved him, but because she had kissed the promise to do so upon her mother's dying lips.
The room was still and light, its atmosphere such as befitted the handsome, thoughtful, middle-aged man, sitting so calmly smoking amid its manifold luxuries. Suddenly the door was quickly opened, and Eleanor, in a passion of weeping, flung herself at his feet, and laying her hand on his breast, sobbed out, "Oh, father! father! father! Anthony—struck me!"
Then Jonathan dashed his pipe upon the hearth, and shattered it to pieces. He raised the weeping woman in his arms, and he whispered fiercely below his breath, "I'll horsewhip him for it!"
The natural man, and the unpolished, uneducated man, asserted himself at this crisis, and would not listen to reason. "Go thee back to thy old rooms," he said, sternly; "thou shalt niver enter Aske Hall again. If that is t' way fine gentlemen treat a woman like thee, why, they won't try it twice on my lass, that's all about it."
If Aske had struck him he could have borne it better, for, as he told himself, "I would hev given him such a threshing as would hev brought him down to his right place varry quick." But he could imagine no circumstance which would excuse such an outrage on his daughter.
When he came to his breakfast-table in the morning Eleanor was waiting for him. She looked so sweet and fair that it was delightful to see her again making out his coffee, and he felt his heart thrill with a fierce sense of triumph over his son-in-law.
"Whatever did ta do to him, Eleanor, to make him lift his hand to thee?" he asked.
Her bright eyes scintillated, and with a shrug of her shoulders, she looked steadily at her father, and answered with an inimitable air of mockery, "I laughed at him." And under the fascination of her eyes and manner Jonathan set down his cup, and echoed the laugh whose image was on her face. He might have then understood how a man of Anthony Aske's passionate temper had been laughed into an irritation that was almost irresponsible. But he would not permit himself to listen to any suggestion that would excuse Aske's offence.
After reading his mails at the mill he called in Ben Holden. "Ben," he said, as he planted himself squarely on the hearthrug—"Ben, my daughter came back to me last night."
"Does ta mean she hes left her husband?"
"Ay, I do."
Ben walked to the window and looked out. After a minute's reflection, he turned to Burley and said, "Send her home, Jonathan."
"I'll not. Why—a—Aske struck her!"
"I'll be bound she deserved it."
For in Ben's opinion Aske had committed no very heinous offence. Englishmen had a legal right to chastise their disobedient wives, and if Solomon had extended the rod to them as well as to the children, Ben would have had a much higher opinion of him as the wisest of men.
"Still, I say, send her home," he added.
"Thou may give good counsel, but I'm none fool enough to take it."
"Mind this, Burley, them that pick a quarrel wi' Aske will get more than they bargain for. The Askes are a fell lot. Squire Anthony is little, but ivery bit o' that little is Aske."
"I hev a good cause to quarrel wi' him."
"Thou art angry now, and thou is telling lies to thysen. Leisure a bit, and see what Aske will say about his wife. I'll warrant he hed a good cause to quarrel wi' her."
"I won't; not I."
"Thou won't do right, and thou won't take wrong, Varry well. Thou is ravelling a bonny hank for thysen to loosen. Of course, thou is big enough to give Aske a threshing, if ta likes to do it, but in ivery other way Aske is for more than a match for thee."
"That is to try yet."
"Dear me! They say when owt goes wrong i' families the devil blesses himsen; he would be busy enough last night. Is ta going ta keep him busy? Take my advice now, if ta niver takes it again, and send Mistress Aske to her own home. Thou hes no business at all to harbor her."
"Hevn't I ? We'll try that. I won't send her home, niver!"
"Then send for Aske and hev it out wi' him. I'll be bound he's varry little to blame."
"I won't do it."
"Then write for him."
"Not I—not a line."
"Then tak' thy own way. What did ta ask me about it for? Did ta think because I took thy wages I would tell thee to do what is both wrong and foolish? Thou might hev known Ben Holden better."
"Don't thee quarrel wi' me now, Ben. I hev trouble enough without that one."
"Say no more, Jonathan. Thou art sure to do right in t' long run. Did ta notice Steve Benson was away again yesterday?"
"Ay, I did. I don't know whativer's to be done to save t' lad. If thou art spoiling to be giving good advice, Steve is needing it badly, Ben, and happen he'll take it better than me."
The quarrel between Anthony and his wife had risen about such a trifle as the wearing of a sapphire necklace; but, as it usually happens, the apparent trifle represented things hr more important. On that night they were going to Squire Bashpoole's to dinner. The squire was Anthony's uncle on his mother's side, and before his marriage Aske had been a very frequent visitor at Bashpoole Manor House, and there had been a general opinion that he intended to marry his cousin, Jane Bashpoole. That young lady had also been a great favorite with Anthony's mother, and had understood from her that she was to inherit the sapphire set which was among the Aske jewels.
But if Anthony had one opinion about the estate more fixed and prominent than any other, it was the idea of keeping intact whatever belonged to Aske as a family property. Of the house, the land, the timber, the plate, the jewels, he was only a steward for those who should succeed him. The young lady's claim was no clearer than a supposition, grounded probably upon her own strong desire, and Squire Bashpoole thoroughly agreed with his nephew in his reluctance to alienate any portion of the family belongings. And though "Cousin Jane" had been prevailed upon to accept a similar necklace as a gift from Cousin Anthony, she still felt the Aske sapphires to be a painful subject, and it had required tact, as well as generosity, on Anthony's part to atone for his apparent niggardliness.
Indiscretion was not one of Anthony's failings, but it had happened that in some hour of post-nuptial confidence the young husband had told Eleanor of the dispute. Perhaps he hoped the knowledge would induce her to forego the pleasure of wearing them under circumstances when they would be likely to annoy the disappointed claimant. The hope was neither extravagant nor unnatural, and hitherto Eleanor had scrupulously regarded it. But on that unfortunate day a series of small domestic annoyances had wrought her into a most provoking mood of mingled mockery and defiance. When she was nearly dressed Anthony came to hurry her movements, and, as men are apt to do, he enforced his wishes with a sweeping condemnation of the unpunctuality and unreliability of women.
Her jewel-case was open, and on the topmost tray the sapphire set sparkled. Her eyes fell upon it as Anthony spoke, and the devil prompted her answer, "I am ready if you will clasp my necklace."
"Not that, Eleanor! Not that necklace, certainly!"
"I intend to wear this and no other."
"I have told you that my cousin Jane wanted it."
"Very impertinent and greedy of her!"
"And to wear it to Bashpoole would be an insult, not only to her, but also to my uncle and aunt."
"Nevertheless, I shall wear it."
"You shall not."
"I beg your pardon, I shall!"
She stood defiantly before him in her rich black satin gown, with the glinting stones in hand. Her beauty was so compelling, his admiration of her so deep, and his love for her so great, that almost under any other circumstances he would have acknowledged her right to order her own toilet. But he could not insult his nearest kin and lose the friendship of two generations for the wearing of a necklace, and he told her so tn plain and positive terms.
She answered him by a scornful mimicry of the words, "my cousin Jane!" and a ripple of contemptuous laughter. Then she lifted the jewels to her white throat herself, and Anthony caught her hands and took them from her. This act of authority was followed by an angry dispute, and finally Eleanor declared that Aske had struck her hand, and she lifted the sapphires and flung them from her with passionate hate and scorn. They were scattered hither and thither, and Anthony, troubled beyond measure at the whole dispute, stooped to gather up the precious fragments. In that interval Eleanor went down-stairs, and finding the carriage waiting, entered it, and gave the order "to Burley House."
At first his wife's escapade did not much trouble him. He sent an apology to Bashpoole, and sat down in his private parlor to calm and collect his thoughts. On the return of the coachman he was satisfied that she had gone to her father, and he believed Jonathan Burley would at once bring her back to her home and duty. When it got so late that he was forced to abandon this hope for the night, he still never thought of blaming Jonathan. He supposed that Eleanor had been either too sick or too angry to reason with, and that he had judged it better for all parties to "take counsel of their pillows."
All the next day he walked restlessly about, listening to every footstep, straining his eyes to catch the first sight of Jonathan's carriage coming through the park. When the night fell he could hardly believe in the disappointment of the day. That his wife would really desert him and go back to her father was too improbable, too dreadful an idea to even give form to. It did indeed creep like an icy, black shadow across his thoughts at intervals, but he put it angrily and positively away. A disgrace of that kind he felt it impossible to contemplate; besides, he loved Eleanor. Uneasy as life was with her, it would be intolerably empty without her.
Another day went anxiously by in watching, waiting, hoping, and fearing. He began to be angry with Burley. If he was unable to make his daughter do right, he thought he should have come to Aske and discussed the situation with him. The third day he could endure the suspense no longer. He wrote to Eleanor and sent a groom with the letter, directing him to wait for the answer. The letter was short, but very much to the purpose:
"My dear Wife,—Will you please to return home at your earliest convenience? If you will tell Simmonds when you will be ready, I will come with the carriage for you.
The few words touched the recreant wife. She knew how much Anthony must have suffered ere he condescended to write them, and her heart went out to meet her husband. Now, when a woman is led by her heart she is very seldom led wrong. Eleanor's first instinct was to sit down and write, "Come at once, dear Anthony." But, instead of obeying it, she began to reason, and so got to floundering in a quagmire of suppositions.
She told herself that this was a crisis in her matrimonial affairs, and that if she gave way too easily, the whole battle might be to fight over again. She concluded that if Aske loved her well enough to humble himself so far, he would go further; far enough, indeed, to render his future subservience to her will a certainty. An answer which would bring about such a desirable result was difficult to compose. No answer was better than a blundering one, for silence neither asked too much nor surrendered too much. She resolved upon it.
"There is no answer," said a servant to the waiting groom; but oh! what a sad, troubled face watched him galloping down the long avenue with the unkind message. If Anthony could only have seen the wistful eyes with their one great tear welling from their troubled depths, he would have needed no other message. "No answer, sir." The words smote him like a buffet and brought the hot blood into his face, and made his heart tremble. He had no idea of such persistence of angry temper in Eleanor, and he felt sure that her father was encouraging her disobedience.
So he wrote to Burley. He explained the cause of dispute, and requested him to send his daughter back to Aske without further delay; "it would avoid trouble and scandal." Jonathan always answered his letters promptly and fully, and he went around no bush with his son-in-law.
"Eleanor has been unhappy for nearly two years," he said. "She has come back to my house for shelter and protection, and, please God, I'll give it to her as long as I have a roof to cover her, or an arm to shield her. A man that will strike a woman isn't fit to live with a woman; and by what I can hear and understand, my lass was struck for a very little thing. It is a poor go if she can't dress herself as she wants to, and it always seemed to me as if she did her duty uncommon well that way. I never asked her to come home, &r from it; but I won't turn her out of her old home, nor I won't send her back to Aske. That's all about it, and I am thine as thou wishes it,
On the receipt of this letter Aske rode over to Burley Mills at once. The interview began badly. He offered his hand on entering, and Jonathan refused it.
"Nay," he said, "I'd rather not. It's happen t' varry hand that struck my Eleanor."
"Let me explain, sir."
"For sure, if ta can."
Then Aske went over the whole story of the sapphires; adding that, in the climax of the dispute he might have struck his wife's hand. "She said so, but he was too much excited to be certain of anything; and, indeed, he was inclined to think they were both without clear recollection of what passed."
"I don't think any better of thee, Aske, for trying to sneak out of a fault that-a-way. It would be a deal more manly to say, 'I struck my wife when I was in a passion, and I'm 'shamed of mysen for it.' And. let me tell thee, thou has far o'ermuch to say about thy cousin, Jane Bashpoole. It's likely thy wife is a bit jealous of her, and Eleanor's feelings ought to be more to thee than thy cousin Jane's and all of t' Bashpoole lot together."
"I made what apology seemed most truthful to me, Burley; and I am the last man in the world to sneak out of any quarrel. If you push me too far you will find that out."
"Thou can't frighten me, Aske."
"I don't want to frighten you. Will you send my wife home?"
"Nay, then I won't!"
"You are harboring a wrong, sir; and I could force you to do right."
"Could ta? Do it, then. I'm harboring thy wife. If she's a wrong, thou made her one. And as for forcing me to do anything I don't want to do, try it. Thou will find thou hes got t' wrong bull by t' horns."
"I say your conduct is shameful, sir; ungentlemanly and unfatherly."
"I say thou art a liar. I say it again and again! Strike me with that whip thou art fingering if ta dares to. I'll break it to bits ooer thee if ta does."
Fortunately, at this juncture Ben Holden entered. In fact, Ben had been hanging round, fearful of the very thing which had happened, and quite determined at all risks to save his friend from disgracing himself by a physical attack on a man little more than half his size and weight He put his hand on Jonathan's shoulder, and said, "Master Burley, mind what thou art doing. Squire, will ta be kind enough to take thysen away as soon as possible? It will be t' best for both of you."
"One word more, Burley; send my wife home."
"She was my daughter long before she was thy wife; she shall stay with me if she wants to."
At these words Aske left the room. He was white as ashes, but no one could doubt the enmity and rage which he veiled beneath his calm exterior. "He is in for a hard fight, Jonathan," said Ben; "and I'm feared we are none able for him."
"Fight, indeed! There's none in him."
"Thou wilt find out thou art much mistaken. They will need to hev long arms that fight Aske, and a long patience, and a long purse. T' Askes hev been in Airedale since King Stephen's time, and nobody iver got the better of them yet."
"Wheniver there is a Job in trouble, he'll find plenty of thy kind o' comforters. Let me alone, Ben. I hev done right, and I know it."
"Thou hes done wrong, and thou knows it. Go thee after Aske, and make friends with him; and send Madame Aske to her proper place, and save thysen and iverybody round thee lots o' sorrow and shame."
"Dost ta think I'm such a coward as that?"
"Nay, but it would be t' bravest thing iver thou did. And I tell thee, coward or no coward, thou can't fight Anthony Aske."
"I'll try to, anyway. So now, Ben, be quiet with thee. Thou can be a wise man, and a brave man, if ta wants to, and look out for thysen."
"Thou knows better than that. Thou knows I'll stick to thee, right or wrong, good or bad, to, t' varry last."