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Flaming June

<h3>Chapter Twenty Four.</h3> “I suppose I must give them tea!” was Mrs Ramsden’s comment upon hearing of the visit which had been planned for the afternoon. Her depression was broken by a struggling sense of elation, for it was not every day that Madame deigned to accept hospitality from her neighbours. She despatched a messenger to the confectioner’s to purchase a pound of plum cake, a muffin, and half a pound of macaroons, the invariable preparations under such circumstances, and gave instructions that the best silver and china should be brought out of their hiding-places, with the finest tablecloth and d’oyleys. At three o’clock Elma discovered her removing the covers from the drawing-room cushions, and folding them neatly away in the chiffonnier. Something in the simple action touched the girl, and broke down the hard wall of reserve which had risen between her mother and herself during the past painful week. She stretched out impulsive arms, and stooped her head to kiss the troubled face. “You funny little mother! What do cushions matter? Geoffrey will never notice them, and Madame”—she hesitated, unwilling to hurt her mother’s feelings by hinting at Madame’s opinion of the satin splendours so carefully preserved from sight—“Madame won’t care! ... She is not coming to admire fancy-work!” Mrs Ramsden lifted a flushed, tear-stained face to look at her daughter standing before her, lovely and slender in the blue muslin gown which had been Cornelia’s gift. The daintiness of the dress, its unaccustomed smartness and air of fashion, seemed at the moment a presage of the threatened separation. At the sight, and the sound of the softened voice, the tears streamed afresh, and she cried brokenly— “Elma! Elma! My child! I beg you at the eleventh hour—think! consider! remember all that I have striven to teach you! ... You have prayed to resist temptation—what is the use of your prayers if they don’t avail you in your hour of need? Elma, I know it will be hard! Don’t think I shall not suffer with you—but if it is right. ... There is no happiness, my child, if we depart from the right course!” “I know it, mother,” said Elma, calmly. “If you or Madame can convince me that I should be doing wrong in marrying Geoffrey I will give him up! I promise you that, and you must promise me in return that you will try to see things from our point of view as well as your own. Remember, it’s my life that is at stake, and I’m so young! I may have such a long time to live. Some girls have a dozen fancies before they are twenty-three, but I have never thought of anyone else. ... From the first time that I met Geoffrey I knew that he was the one man for me. You have been happily married yourself, mother! Could you bear to spoil our happiness?” Mrs Ramsden winced at the sound of that significant little pronoun, which now, for the first time in twenty-three years, failed to include herself. Now she was an outsider, for her child’s heart and life alike had passed from her keeping: It is a bitter moment for all mothers; doubly bitter when, as to Mrs Ramsden, the supplanter seems unworthy of his trust. “Happiness is not everything, Elma! I hope,—I hope I am strong enough to endure even to see you suffer for your ultimate good.” She mopped her eyes with her handkerchief, while Elma turned aside, realising sadly that it was useless to prolong the discussion. Presently Geoffrey and his mother would arrive and then they would all consult together. Elma had not rehearsed her own share in the conversation; the all-important decision was in the last issue to be left to herself, and she had spoken the simple truth in saying that she wished above all things to do what was right. Her life’s training had instilled the conviction that no happiness was possible at the cost of a sacrifice of principle. If she could be once convinced that it was wrong to marry Geoffrey Greville, she would give him up as unflinchingly as any martyr of old walked to the stake, but she must be convinced on the ground of principle alone! Pride, prejudice, convention, would pass her by, leaving her unshaken in her determination to marry the man she loved. At four o’clock the great landau from the Manor drove up to the gate, and from within the shrouded windows mother and daughter watched the groom jump lightly from his seat, to shield the grey froth of Madame’s draperies as she stepped to the ground. To Mrs Ramsden the scene was an eloquent illustration of the world, the flesh and the devil; the world exemplified by the carriage with its handsome trappings, its valuable horses, and liveried attendants; the flesh by Madame—a picture of elegance in cloudy grey draperies, her silvery locks surmounted by a flower-wreathed toque, her cheeks faintly pink beneath the old lace veil—the devil!—it was a hard word to apply to the handsome, resolute young fellow who followed his mother up the gravel path, but at the moment Geoffrey Greville appeared in Mrs Ramsden’s eyes as the destroyer of her happiness, the serpent who had brought discord into Eden! She was in truth an honest little Puritan in whose sight the good things of the world were but as snares and pitfalls. So far from feeling any pleasure in the thought that her daughter might one day reign as the great lady of the neighbourhood, the prospect filled her with unaffected dread, and the needle’s eye had been quoted almost as frequently as the serpent’s teeth, during the last week. She turned away from the window with a shudder of distress. The door opened, and Madame entered, bringing with her that faint, delicious fragrance of violets which seemed inseparable from her person. Contrary to her hostess’s expectation, she was wreathed in smiles, and even more gracious than of yore. She pressed the plump little hand extended towards her, kissed Elma on the cheek, exclaimed prettily upon the comfort of the chair to which she was escorted, and chatted about the weather as if her coming were an ordinary society call. Mrs Ramsden, being unaccustomed to the ways of fashionable warfare, was flurried and thrown off her balance by so unexpected an opening to the fray, and had hard work to answer connectedly. She was, moreover, keenly on the alert to watch the meeting between Elma and Geoffrey, whom she had not seen in each other’s company since the fatal visit to the Manor. They shook hands without speaking a word, but their eyes met, and at the sight of that look, the onlooker thrilled with a memory of long ago. That glance, that silent hand-grasp softened her heart more than a hundred arguments. It was an ocular demonstration of what had until now been merely words! The trim maid brought in the tea-tray and proceeded to set it out on the little table in front of her mistress. It was a good hour earlier than the time when the meal was served at the Manor, but the little business of handing round cups and cake broke the embarrassment of the first few minutes, and was therefore welcome to all. Elma began as usual to wait upon her guests, but Geoffrey took the plates out of her hand with an air of gentle authority, which the elder ladies were quick to note. It was the air of the master, the proprietor; as significant in its way as was Elma’s blushing obedience. Once again Mrs Ramsden felt a pang of remembrance, but Madame arched her eyebrows, and tapped her foot on the floor in noiseless irritation. It was time that this nonsense came to an end! “Well, dear people,” she began airily, “let us get to business! It’s so much wiser to talk things over quietly, when there is any misunderstanding. I thought it was so clever of Geoffrey to suggest this meeting. Letters are quite useless. One always forgets the most important things, or, if one remembers, they look so horribly disagreeable in black and white, and people bring them up against one years afterwards. Dear Elma, I’m afraid you think me a cruel old woman! I am desolated to appear so unfeeling, especially as I should certainly have fallen in love with you in Geoffrey’s place, but it’s not always a question of doing what we like in this world. I am sure your dear mother has taught you that. I said to Geoffrey: ‘Elma has such sweet, true feelings, I shall be quite satisfied to trust to her decision when the matter has been put fully before her!’” “Thank you,” said Elma, faintly. She had put down her cup, and now sat with her fingers clasped tightly together on her lap. The two elder ladies faced her from the opposite side of the room; Geoffrey fidgeted about, and finally seated himself—not by her side, as had obviously been his first impulse—but some little distance away, where he could watch the expression of her face. Mrs Ramsden pushed the tea-table aside, and fidgeted with the jet trimming on her cuff. “I—er, I think we should get on better if Mr Greville would—would kindly leave us alone!” she said awkwardly. “We are well acquainted with his arguments, and as Elma is to decide, there seems no object in his staying on. Elma will, no doubt, feel quieter and less restrained without his presence.” Madame’s murmur of agreement was interrupted by a sharp exclamation from her son. He looked flushed and angry, but Elma checked him in his turn, and answered herself, in clear, decided accents! “No, mother! I shall feel much better if Geoffrey is here. I don’t want him to go. If I am persuaded to give him up, it is only right that he should know my reasons. He will promise to listen quietly to what you have to say, as I am going to do, and not to interrupt until you have done.” She turned towards her lover with a flickering smile. “Won’t you, Geoffrey?” Geoffrey bit his moustache, and scowled heavily. “I’ll—do my best!” he said slowly. “I’m not going away in any case. It’s preposterous to suppose that I could be absent while such a discussion was going on. Elma knows that this is a matter of life and death to me. If you persuade her to give me up, it will be sending me straight to the devil!” Mrs Ramsden’s eyes flashed with anger. “If an earthly love is the only incentive you have to follow the paths of righteousness, Mr Greville, that is a poor inducement to me to give my child into your care! I have brought her up to put principle first of all. It is my chief objection to yourself that your character is not worthy of the trust!” “My dear lady, he is not a pickpocket! You speak as if he were a hardened criminal,” cried Madame, with an irritated laugh. “Geoffrey may not be a saint, but I assure you that, considered as a young man of the world, he is quite a model specimen! He has been an excellent son. There have been no debts; no troubles of any kind. Absolutely, at times I have accused him of being almost too staid. ... One can only be young once!...” “I think you and Mrs Ramsden have somewhat different standards, mother,” put in Geoffrey quietly. He turned towards the last-mentioned lady, bending forward and speaking with deliberate emphasis. “I quite agree with you, Mrs Ramsden, that I am unworthy of your daughter. I wish I had been a better man for her sake. With her to help me I hope I might become a man more after your own heart. As my mother says, I have so far been a respectable member of society, for the things which you condemn in me are after all matters of opinion, but at this moment I stand at the parting of the ways. If you give me Elma, I shall look upon her as a sacred trust, and shall be a better man for her sake. I must be a better man with her beside me! ... If you refuse; if she refuses”—he shrugged expressively—“you empty my life of all I value. The responsibility will be upon your shoulders!” “That is not true! You can depute to nobody the responsibility of your own soul,” Mrs Ramsden began solemnly, but Madame interrupted with an impatient gesture. “I thought Geoffrey was not to interfere! For pity’s sake don’t let us waste time talking sentiment! We are here to discuss this matter in a sensible, business manner. Let us begin at once, and not waste time!” To her surprise Elma met her glance with a smile. A happy, composed little smile, which brought the dimples into her soft cheeks. Really the child was wonderful! Her quietness and self-possession were in delightful contrast with her mother’s flustered solemnity. Madame returned the smile, with restored equanimity, and felt a thrill of artistic satisfaction. “I am afraid Geoffrey and I hardly look at our engagement from a business point of view!” said Elma, slowly. “It is a matter of sentiment with us, and we are not a bit ashamed of it, but I must answer mother first. ... Mother, dear, you are shocked because Geoffrey says he would not be good without me, but when you were young, when you were careless, and enjoyed things which you disapprove of now, was there no good influence in your life which helped you to be strong? It may have been a companion, or a book, or a sermon—one of a hundred things—but when it came, weren’t you thankful for it? Didn’t you hold close to it and fear lest it should go? I am Geoffrey’s influence! I’m glad and proud that it is so. If I can help him in one little way, I’d rather do it than anything else in all the world! When he feels like that about me, I should think it very, very wrong to give him up.” “Elma, my dear, these are specious arguments! You are deceiving yourself, and preparing a bitter awakening! Mr Greville does not even understand what he is promising. His ideas and yours are different as night from day; the same words convey different meanings to you and him. You would find as you talked together that there was a gulf between you on every serious subject.” “No, mother, dear, there is no gulf. We agree—we always agree! I am amazed to find how marvellously we agree,” said Elma, simply. Geoffrey’s eyes flashed a look at her; a look of adoring triumph. Madame screwed her lips on one side, and stared markedly at a corner of the ceiling. Mrs Ramsden wrung her hands in despair. “Elma, you pray every night to be delivered from temptation—consider what your position would be if you married Mr Greville! Ask yourself if you are strong enough to resist pride and selfishness, and absorption in the things of this world. Many would say that it was a great match for you, but I would rather see you settled in a cottage with enough money for your daily needs. It is easier for a camel—” Elma interrupted quickly. “I don’t think you need be afraid, mother. I love beautiful things, but truly and honestly I believe they are good for me! It is a little difficult to explain, but ugly things—inartistic things, jar! They make me feel cross and discontented, while beauty is a joy! I need not become proud and self-engrossed because the things around me are beautiful and rich with associations. On the contrary, they ought to do me good. I’d love them so, and be so thankful, that I should want other people to enjoy them, too. It isn’t riches themselves that one cares for—it is the things that riches can give!” Madame had been watching the girl’s face as she spoke, her own expression kindling in sympathy with views so entirely in accordance with her own, but at the last sentence her brows knitted. “It’s not a case of riches, my dear!” she said quickly. “I don’t think you understand the position. Geoffrey is a poor man. The estate brings in little more than half what it did in his father’s time, and the expense of keeping it up increases rather than diminishes, as the buildings grow older. He ought to marry money. All these years we have lived in the expectation of a marriage which would pay up old scores, and put things on a better basis for the future. If he marries a girl without money he will have to face constant anxiety and trouble.” Elma turned to her mother, her delicate brow puckered in anxiety. “I shall have some money, shan’t I, mother? You told me that father left some provision for me on my marriage!” “You are to have three thousand pounds paid down if you marry with my consent. My income is largely derived from an annuity, Mrs Greville, but there will be about another five thousand to come to Elma after death.” Madame bowed her head in gracious patronage. “Very nice, I’m sure! A very nice little sum for pin money, but quite useless for our purposes. Don’t hate me, Elma—I am the most unmercenary of women—Geoffrey will tell you that I am always getting into debt!—but when a man is the owner of a property—which has descended to him from generations of ancestors, his first duty is to it. Noblesse oblige! It is not right to allow it to fall into disrepair for a matter of sentiment!” Elma sat with downcast looks considering the point, while Geoffrey devoured her face with hungry eyes. Mrs Ramsden’s face had flushed to a painful red, and she passed her handkerchief nervously round her lips. She could bear to torture her child herself, but not to sit by and hear another woman follow in her own footsteps. The silence lasted for a long minute before Elma replied by asking a question on her own behalf. “Can it be right for a man to marry one woman for money, when he has given his heart to another?” Mrs Greville tossed her head with another impatient little laugh. “His heart! Ah, my dear, a man’s heart is an adaptable commodity! He ‘gives it,’ as you say, many times over in the course of his life. He is far more likely to love a wife whose money brings him ease and comfort, than one for whose pretty face he has sacrificed his peace!” Elma turned to her lover and looked deep into his eyes. With a strong effort he had resisted breaking into the conversation before now, but his face was more eloquent than words. She smiled at him, a tender little smile of encouragement. “I am very economical. I would help Geoffrey to save. I have not been accustomed to luxuries, so it would cost me nothing to do without them, and he says he doesn’t care. Don’t think I am selfish, Mrs Greville, please! I am thinking of Geoffrey first, but I believe he would be happier living quietly with me, and looking after the estate himself, instead of paying an agent to do it, than if he sold himself for money and ease. We love each other very much. We need nothing more than just to be together.” Geoffrey turned aside and stared out of the window. The two mothers exchanged helpless glances. “Elma!” said Mrs Ramsden, sharply, “have you no pride? It is hard enough for me to sit by and listen. Are you not ashamed to force yourself upon a family where you are not wanted? When I have looked forward to your marriage, I have always imagined that you would be welcomed with open arms. For your own position you are well dowered. I have been proud of you all your life—too proud, perhaps—it would be a bitter blow to me to see you married on sufferance. If you have no other feeling in the matter, does not your pride come to your aid?” “Mother, I’m going to marry Geoffrey, not his family! He can take care of his wife!” “The child is right!” said Madame, quickly. “Geoffrey’s wife, whoever she may be, will be treated with every respect. It is not the judgment of others which she need dread, but the judgment of her own heart. Listen to me, child! You are a sweet thing, and I love you for your devotion to my boy. As I told you before, I should be in love with you in his place, but I’m an old woman, and I know the world! Geoffrey is not used to work and economy; for a little time, while the first glamour lasted, he might be contented enough, but he would weary in the end. He would surely weary, and then—how would you feel? When you saw him restless and discontented; longing to leave you and fly back to his old life, would you feel no remorse? Love’s young dream does not last for ever, my pretty child.” “No,” said Elma, quietly; “dreams don’t last, but sometimes the awakening is better! You have known Geoffrey all his life, Mrs Greville, and it seems presumptuous to pretend that I know him even better, but I can—feel! You believe he would tire of me, and long to get back to his old luxurious life. You think he would love me very much for a little time and then be indifferent and careless, and that I should feel it was my own fault; but you are wrong. Indeed, indeed, you are wrong! He is your son—has he ever failed you? You say yourself that he has been good and true. You would trust him for your own future. Do you think he would be less loyal to his own wife? I am not at all afraid. I am like you—I trust Geoffrey!” As she finished speaking she turned towards her lover and held out her hand towards him, and in two strides Geoffrey was by her side; was on his knees beside her, holding that little hand pressed between both his own, turning to look at his mother with triumphant eyes; with eyes ashine with something deeper than triumph. Geoffrey on his knees! Tears in Geoffrey’s eyes! Madame stared in amaze, then broke into a sudden excited laugh. “Bravo, Elma! Bravo, Geoffrey! Congratulations, my dears. Thank heaven you have a mother who knows when she is well beaten!” She rose from her seat and crossed the room to where the girl sat. “Bravo, little Elma! I like to see a good fighting spirit. You will make Geoffrey a charming wife, and I shall be proud of my daughter.” She took Elma’s disengaged hand and pressed it between her own, and the girl smiled a happy response, but Geoffrey was oblivious of her presence, his eyes fixed upon his love’s face, with the rapt, adoring gaze with which a knight of old may have gazed upon the vision of the grail. His mother looked at him, and her lips quivered. Artificial and frivolous though she was, her only son was dear to her heart. Since the hour of his birth he had been to her as a pivot round which the world revolved. Her son—the last of the Grevilles who had owned the Manor since the days of the Tudors. To be alienated from him would be the bitterest grief which life could bring. Her grip tightened on the girl’s hand. “Elma!” she cried urgently. “I am Geoffrey’s mother. He is yours now, and will be swayed by you, but he has been mine for thirty-three years. If I have taken part against you, it has been because I believed it was best for him. I have lost, and you have won. You will be his wife, the mistress of the Manor. I don’t grudge you your success, but don’t—don’t bear me a grudge! Don’t turn my boy against me!” “Mrs Greville!” gasped Elma, breathlessly. “Mrs Greville!” She pulled her hand from Geoffrey’s grasp, and rose swiftly to her feet. “Oh, please don’t think that I could be so mean! I want him to love you more, not less. I want to be a real daughter! You must not think that I am going to drive you from your place. You must stay on at the Manor, and let me learn from you. There is so much that I shall have to learn. I shall be quite satisfied to be allowed to help!” “Silly child!” said Madame, smiling. She lifted her delicate, ringed hand and stroked the girl’s cheeks with kindly patronage. “You don’t know what you are talking about, my dear, but I do—fortunately for us all! Geoffrey’s wife must have no divided rule. You need not trouble your pretty head about me. Norton palls at times even to a Greville, and I shall enjoy my liberty. I’ll go out and spend a cold weather with Carol; I’ll have a cosy little flat in town, and do the theatres. I’ll enjoy myself gadding about, and come down upon you now and then when I want a rest, but I’ll never live with you, my dear; be sure of that!” “It’s rather early to make plans, mater. Things will arrange themselves. Elma and I will always try to make you happy,” said Geoffrey, bluntly. He, too, had risen, and stood by his mother’s side; flushed, triumphant, a little shamefaced at the remembrance of his late emotion; but transparently and most radiantly happy. “I’ll do all in my power to be a good son to you, and to Mrs Ramsden also if she will allow me!” He was the first of the three to remember the existence of the little woman in the background; the little woman who was sobbing into her handkerchief, shedding bitter tears because, forsooth, her daughter had secured the biggest match in the country-side, and was about to become a Greville of Norton Manor! <hr></div> <div class="bodytext"> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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