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CHAPTER III



Millborne was a householder in his old district, though not in his
old street, and Mrs. Millborne and their daughter had turned
themselves into Londoners. Frances was well reconciled to the
removal by her lover's satisfaction at the change. It suited him
better to travel from Ivell a hundred miles to see her in London,
where he frequently had other engagements, than fifty in the opposite
direction where nothing but herself required his presence. So here
they were, furnished up to the attics, in one of the small but
popular streets of the West district, in a house whose front, till
lately of the complexion of a chimney-sweep, had been scraped to show
to the surprised wayfarer the bright yellow and red brick that had
lain lurking beneath the soot of fifty years.

The social lift that the two women had derived from the alliance was
considerable; but when the exhilaration which accompanies a first
residence in London, the sensation of standing on a pivot of the
world, had passed, their lives promised to be somewhat duller than
when, at despised Exonbury, they had enjoyed a nodding acquaintance
with three-fourths of the town. Mr. Millborne did not criticise his
wife; he could not. Whatever defects of hardness and acidity his
original treatment and the lapse of years might have developed in
her, his sense of a realized idea, of a re-established self-
satisfaction, was always thrown into the scale on her side, and out-
weighed all objections.

It was about a month after their settlement in town that the
household decided to spend a week at a watering-place in the Isle of
Wight, and while there the Reverend Percival Cope (the young curate
aforesaid) came to see them, Frances in particular. No formal
engagement of the young pair had been announced as yet, but it was
clear that their mutual understanding could not end in anything but
marriage without grievous disappointment to one of the parties at
least. Not that Frances was sentimental. She was rather of the
imperious sort, indeed; and, to say all, the young girl had not
fulfilled her father's expectations of her. But he hoped and worked
for her welfare as sincerely as any father could do.

Mr. Cope was introduced to the new head of the family, and stayed
with them in the Island two or three days. On the last day of his
visit they decided to venture on a two hours' sail in one of the
small yachts which lay there for hire. The trip had not progressed
far before all, except the curate, found that sailing in a breeze did
not quite agree with them; but as he seemed to enjoy the experience,
the other three bore their condition as well as they could without
grimace or complaint, till the young man, observing their discomfort,
gave immediate directions to tack about. On the way back to port
they sat silent, facing each other.

Nausea in such circumstances, like midnight watching, fatigue,
trouble, fright, has this marked effect upon the countenance, that it
often brings out strongly the divergences of the individual from the
norm of his race, accentuating superficial peculiarities to radical
distinctions. Unexpected physiognomies will uncover themselves at
these times in well-known faces; the aspect becomes invested with the
spectral presence of entombed and forgotten ancestors; and family
lineaments of special or exclusive cast, which in ordinary moments
are masked by a stereotyped expression and mien, start up with crude
insistence to the view.

Frances, sitting beside her mother's husband, with Mr. Cope opposite,
was naturally enough much regarded by the curate during the tedious
sail home; at first with sympathetic smiles. Then, as the middle-
aged father and his child grew each gray-faced, as the pretty blush
of Frances disintegrated into spotty stains, and the soft rotundities
of her features diverged from their familiar and reposeful beauty
into elemental lines, Cope was gradually struck with the resemblance
between a pair in their discomfort who in their ease presented
nothing to the eye in common. Mr. Millborne and Frances in their
indisposition were strangely, startlingly alike.

The inexplicable fact absorbed Cope's attention quite. He forgot to
smile at Frances, to hold her hand; and when they touched the shore
he remained sitting for some moments like a man in a trance.

As they went homeward, and recovered their complexions and contours,
the similarities one by one disappeared, and Frances and Mr.
Millborne were again masked by the commonplace differences of sex and
age. It was as if, during the voyage, a mysterious veil had been
lifted, temporarily revealing a strange pantomime of the past.

During the evening he said to her casually: 'Is your step-father a
cousin of your mother, dear Frances?'

'Oh, no,' said she. 'There is no relationship. He was only an old
friend of hers. Why did you suppose such a thing?'

He did not explain, and the next morning started to resume his duties
at Ivell.

Cope was an honest young fellow, and shrewd withal. At home in his
quiet rooms in St. Peter's Street, Ivell, he pondered long and
unpleasantly on the revelations of the cruise. The tale it told was
distinct enough, and for the first time his position was an
uncomfortable one. He had met the Franklands at Exonbury as
parishioners, had been attracted by Frances, and had floated thus far
into an engagement which was indefinite only because of his inability
to marry just yet. The Franklands' past had apparently contained
mysteries, and it did not coincide with his judgment to marry into a
family whose mystery was of the sort suggested. So he sat and
sighed, between his reluctance to lose Frances and his natural
dislike of forming a connection with people whose antecedents would
not bear the strictest investigation.

A passionate lover of the old-fashioned sort might possibly never
have halted to weigh these doubts; but though he was in the church
Cope's affections were fastidious--distinctly tempered with the
alloys of the century's decadence. He delayed writing to Frances for
some while, simply because he could not tune himself up to enthusiasm
when worried by suspicions of such a kind.

Meanwhile the Millbornes had returned to London, and Frances was
growing anxious. In talking to her mother of Cope she had innocently
alluded to his curious inquiry if her mother and her step-father were
connected by any tie of cousinship. Mrs. Millborne made her repeat
the words. Frances did so, and watched with inquisitive eyes their
effect upon her elder.

'What is there so startling in his inquiry then?' she asked. 'Can it
have anything to do with his not writing to me?'

Her mother flinched, but did not inform her, and Frances also was now
drawn within the atmosphere of suspicion. That night when standing
by chance outside the chamber of her parents she heard for the first
time their voices engaged in a sharp altercation.

The apple of discord had, indeed, been dropped into the house of the
Millbornes. The scene within the chamber-door was Mrs. Millborne
standing before her dressing-table, looking across to her husband in
the dressing-room adjoining, where he was sitting down, his eyes
fixed on the floor.

'Why did you come and disturb my life a second time?' she harshly
asked. 'Why did you pester me with your conscience, till I was
driven to accept you to get rid of your importunity? Frances and I
were doing well: the one desire of my life was that she should marry
that good young man. And now the match is broken off by your cruel
interference! Why did you show yourself in my world again, and raise
this scandal upon my hard-won respectability--won by such weary years
of labour as none will ever know!' She bent her face upon the table
and wept passionately.

There was no reply from Mr. Millborne. Frances lay awake nearly all
that night, and when at breakfast-time the next morning still no
letter appeared from Mr. Cope, she entreated her mother to go to
Ivell and see if the young man were ill.

Mrs. Millborne went, returning the same day. Frances, anxious and
haggard, met her at the station.

Was all well? Her mother could not say it was; though he was not
ill.

One thing she had found out, that it was a mistake to hunt up a man
when his inclinations were to hold aloof. Returning with her mother
in the cab Frances insisted upon knowing what the mystery was which
plainly had alienated her lover. The precise words which had been
spoken at the interview with him that day at Ivell Mrs. Millborne
could not be induced to repeat; but thus far she admitted, that the
estrangement was fundamentally owing to Mr. Millborne having sought
her out and married her.

'And why did he seek you out--and why were you obliged to marry him?'
asked the distressed girl. Then the evidences pieced themselves
together in her acute mind, and, her colour gradually rising, she
asked her mother if what they pointed to was indeed the fact. Her
mother admitted that it was.

A flush of mortification succeeded to the flush of shame upon the
young woman's face. How could a scrupulously correct clergyman and
lover like Mr. Cope ask her to be his wife after this discovery of
her irregular birth? She covered her eyes with her hands in a silent
despair.

In the presence of Mr. Millborne they at first suppressed their
anguish. But by and by their feelings got the better of them, and
when he was asleep in his chair after dinner Mrs. Millborne's
irritation broke out. The embittered Frances joined her in
reproaching the man who had come as the spectre to their intended
feast of Hymen, and turned its promise to ghastly failure.

'Why were you so weak, mother, as to admit such an enemy to your
house--one so obviously your evil genius--much less accept him as a
husband, after so long? If you had only told me all, I could have
advised you better! But I suppose I have no right to reproach him,
bitter as I feel, and even though he has blighted my life for ever!'

'Frances, I did hold out; I saw it was a mistake to have any more to
say to a man who had been such an unmitigated curse to me! But he
would not listen; he kept on about his conscience and mine, till I
was bewildered, and said Yes! . . . Bringing us away from a quiet
town where we were known and respected--what an ill-considered thing
it was! O the content of those days! We had society there, people
in our own position, who did not expect more of us than we expected
of them. Here, where there is so much, there is nothing! He said
London society was so bright and brilliant that it would be like a
new world. It may be to those who are in it; but what is that to us
two lonely women; we only see it flashing past! . . . O the fool, the
fool that I was!'

Now Millborne was not so soundly asleep as to prevent his hearing
these animadversions that were almost execrations, and many more of
the same sort. As there was no peace for him at home, he went again
to his club, where, since his reunion with Leonora, he had seldom if
ever been seen. But the shadow of the troubles in his household
interfered with his comfort here also; he could not, as formerly,
settle down into his favourite chair with the evening paper,
reposeful in the celibate's sense that where he was his world's
centre had its fixture. His world was now an ellipse, with a dual
centrality, of which his own was not the major.

The young curate of Ivell still held aloof, tantalizing Frances by
his elusiveness. Plainly he was waiting upon events. Millborne bore
the reproaches of his wife and daughter almost in silence; but by
degrees he grew meditative, as if revolving a new idea. The bitter
cry about blighting their existence at length became so impassioned
that one day Millborne calmly proposed to return again to the
country; not necessarily to Exonbury, but, if they were willing, to a
little old manor-house which he had found was to be let, standing a
mile from Mr. Cope's town of Ivell.

They were surprised, and, despite their view of him as the bringer of
ill, were disposed to accede. 'Though I suppose,' said Mrs.
Millborne to him, 'it will end in Mr. Cope's asking you flatly about
the past, and your being compelled to tell him; which may dash all my
hopes for Frances. She gets more and more like you every day,
particularly when she is in a bad temper. People will see you
together, and notice it; and I don't know what may come of it!'

'I don't think they will see us together,' he said; but he entered
into no argument when she insisted otherwise. The removal was
eventually resolved on; the town-house was disposed of; and again
came the invasion by furniture-men and vans, till all the movables
and servants were whisked away. He sent his wife and daughter to an
hotel while this was going on, taking two or three journeys himself
to Ivell to superintend the refixing, and the improvement of the
grounds. When all was done he returned to them in town.

The house was ready for their reception, he told them, and there only
remained the journey. He accompanied them and their personal luggage
to the station only, having, he said, to remain in town a short time
on business with his lawyer. They went, dubious and discontented--
for the much-loved Cope had made no sign.

'If we were going down to live here alone,' said Mrs Millborne to her
daughter in the train; 'and there was no intrusive tell-tale
presence! . . . But let it be!'

The house was a lovely little place in a grove of elms, and they
liked it much. The first person to call upon them as new residents
was Mr. Cope. He was delighted to find that they had come so near,
and (though he did not say this) meant to live in such excellent
style. He had not, however, resumed the manner of a lover.

'Your father spoils all!' murmured Mrs. Millborne.

But three days later she received a letter from her husband, which
caused her no small degree of astonishment. It was written from
Boulogne.

It began with a long explanation of settlements of his property, in
which he had been engaged since their departure. The chief feature
in the business was that Mrs. Millborne found herself the absolute
owner of a comfortable sum in personal estate, and Frances of a life-
interest in a larger sum, the principal to be afterwards divided
amongst her children if she had any. The remainder of his letter ran
as hereunder:-


'I have learnt that there are some derelictions of duty which cannot
be blotted out by tardy accomplishment. Our evil actions do not
remain isolated in the past, waiting only to be reversed: like
locomotive plants they spread and re-root, till to destroy the
original stem has no material effect in killing them. I made a
mistake in searching you out; I admit it; whatever the remedy may be
in such cases it is not marriage, and the best thing for you and me
is that you do not see me more. You had better not seek me, for you
will not be likely to find me: you are well provided for, and we may
do ourselves more harm than good by meeting again.

'F. M.'


Millborne, in short, disappeared from that day forward. But a
searching inquiry would have revealed that, soon after the Millbornes
went to Ivell, an Englishman, who did not give the name of Millborne,
took up his residence in Brussels; a man who might have been
recognized by Mrs. Millborne if she had met him. One afternoon in
the ensuing summer, when this gentleman was looking over the English
papers, he saw the announcement of Miss Frances Frankland's marriage.
She had become the Reverend Mrs. Cope.

'Thank God!' said the gentleman.

But his momentary satisfaction was far from being happiness. As he
formerly had been weighted with a bad conscience, so now was he
burdened with the heavy thought which oppressed Antigone, that by
honourable observance of a rite he had obtained for himself the
reward of dishonourable laxity. Occasionally he had to be helped to
his lodgings by his servant from the Cercle he frequented, through
having imbibed a little too much liquor to be able to take care of
himself. But he was harmless, and even when he had been drinking
said little.

March 1891.






Life's Little Ironies by Thomas Hardy
Category:
19th century fiction

Short stories
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