The Marriage of William Ashe. Mrs. Humphry Ward
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with his deepest character. He had an inbred love of the difficult, the unconventional in life, of all that piqued and stimulated his own superabundant consciousness of resource and power. And he had a tenderness of feeling, a gift of chivalrous pity, only known to the few, which was in truth always hungrily on the watch, like some starved faculty that cannot find its outlet. The thought of this beautiful child, in the hands of such a mother as Madame d'Estrées, and rushing upon risks illustrated by the half-mocking attentions of Geoffrey Cliffe, did in truth wring his heart. With a strange imaginative clearness he foresaw her future, he beheld her the prey at once of some bad fellow and of her own temperament. She would come to grief; he saw the prescience of it in her already; and what a waste would be there!
No!—he would step in—capture her before these ways and whims, now merely bizarre or foolish, stiffened into what might in truth destroy her. His pulse quickened as he thought of the development of this beauty, the ripening of this intelligence. Never yet had he seen a girl whom he much wished to marry. He was easily repelled by stupidity, still more by mere amiability. Some touch of acid, of roughness in the fruit—that drew him, in politics, thought, love. And if she married him he vowed to himself, proudly, that she would find him no tyrant. Many a man might marry her who would then fight her and try to break her. All that was most fastidious and characteristic in Ashe revolted from such a notion. With him she should have freedom—whatever it might cost. He asked himself deliberately, whether after marriage he could see her flirting with other men, as she had flirted that day with Cliffe, and still refrain from coercing her. And his question was answered, or rather put aside, first by the confidence of nascent love—he would love her so well and so loyally that she would naturally turn to him for counsel; and then by the clear perception that she was a creature of mind rather than sense, governed mainly by the caprices and curiosities of the intelligence, combined with a rather cold, indifferent temperament. One moment throwing herself wildly into a dangerous or exciting intimacy, the next, parting with a laugh, and without a regret—it was thus he saw her in the future, even as a wife. "She may scandalize half the world," he said to himself, stubbornly—"I shall understand her!"
But his mother?—his friends?—his colleagues? He knew well his mother's ambitions for him, and the place that he held in her heart. Could he without cruelty impose upon her such a daughter as Kitty Bristol? Well!—his mother had a very large experience of life, and much natural independence of mind. He trusted her to see the promise in this untamed and gifted creature; he counted on the sense of power that Lady Tranmore possessed, and which would but find new scope in the taming of Kitty.
But Kitty's mother? Kitty must, of course, be rescued from Madame d'Estrées—must find a new and truer mother in Lady Tranmore. But money would do it; and money must be lavished.
Then, almost for the first time, Ashe felt a conscious delight in wealth and birth. Panache? He could give it her—the little, wild, lovely thing! Luxury, society, adoration—all should be hers. She should be so loved and cherished, she must needs love in turn.
His dreams were delicious; and the sudden fear into which he fell at the end lest after all Kitty should mock and turn from him, was only in truth another pleasure. No delay! Circumstances might develop at any moment and sweep her from him. Now or never must he snatch her from difficulty and disgrace—let hostile tongues wag as they pleased—and make her his.
His political future? He knew well the influence which, in these days of universal publicity, a man's private affairs may have on his public career. And in truth his heart was in that career, and the thought of endangering it hurt him. Certainly it would recommend him to nobody that he should marry Madame d'Estrées' daughter. On the other hand, what favor did he want of anybody? save what work and "knowing more than the other fellows" might compel? The cynic in him was well aware that he had already what other men fought for—family, money, and position. Society must accept his wife; and Kitty, once mellowed by happiness and praise, might live, laugh, and rattle as she pleased.
As to strangeness and caprice, the modern world delights in them; "the violent take it by force." There is, indeed, a dividing-line; but it was a love-marriage that should keep Kitty on the safe side of it.
He stood lost in a very ecstasy of resolve, when suddenly there was a sharp movement outside, and a flash of white among the yew hedges bordering the formal garden on which his windows looked. The night outside was still and veiled, but of the flash of white he was certain—and of a step on the gravel.
Something fell beside him, thrown from outside. He picked it up, and found a flower weighted by a stone, tied into a fold of ribbon.
"Madcap!" he said to himself, his heart beating to suffocation.
Then he stole out of his room, and down a small, winding staircase which led directly to the garden and a door beside the orangery. He had to unbolt the door, and as he did so a dog in one of the basement rooms began to bark. But there could be no flinching, though the whole thing was of an imprudence which pricked his conscience. To slip along the shadowed side of the orangery, to cross the space of clouded light beyond, and gain the darkness of the ilex avenue beyond was soon done. Then he heard a soft laugh, and a little figure fled before him. He followed and overtook.
Kitty Bristol turned upon him.
"Didn't I throw straight?" she said, triumphantly. "And they say girls can't throw."
"But why did you throw at all?" he said, capturing her hand.
"Because I wanted to talk to you. And I was restless and couldn't sleep. Why did you never come and talk to me this afternoon? And why"—she beat her foot angrily—"did you let me go and play billiards alone with Mr. Cliffe?"
"Let you!" cried Ashe. "As if anybody could have prevented you!"
"One sees, of course, that you detest Mr. Cliffe," said the whiteness beside him.
"I didn't come here to talk about Geoffrey Cliffe. I won't talk about him! Though, of course, you must know—"
"That I flirted with him abominably all the afternoon? C'est vrai—c'est ab-sol-ument vrai! And I shall always want to flirt with him, wherever I am—and whatever I may be doing."
"Do as you please," said Ashe, dryly, "but I think you will get tired."
"No, no—he excites me! He is bad, false, selfish, but he excites me. He talks to very few women—one can see that. And all the women want to talk to him. He used to admire Miss Lyster, and now he dislikes her. But she doesn't dislike him. No! she would marry him to-morrow if he asked her."
"You are very positive," said Ashe. "Allow me to say that I entirely disagree with you."
"You don't know anything about her," said the teasing voice.
"She is my cousin, mademoiselle."
"What does that matter? I know much more than you do, though I have only seen her two days. I know that—well, I am afraid of her!"
"Afraid of her? Did you come out—may I ask—determined to talk nonsense?"
"I came out—never mind! I am afraid of her. She hates me. I think"—he felt a shiver in the air—will do me harm if she can."
"No one shall do you harm," said Ashe, his tone changing, "if you will only trust yourself—"
She laughed merrily.
"To you? Oh! you'd soon throw it up."
"Try me!" he said, approaching her. "Lady Kitty, I have something to say to you."
Suddenly she shrank away from him. He could not see her face, and had nothing to guide him.
"I haven't yet known you three weeks," he said, over-mastered by something passionate and profound. "I don't know what you will say—whether you can put up with me. But I know my own mind—I shall not change. I—I love you. I ask you to marry me."
A silence. The night seemed to have grown darker. Then a small hand seized his, and two soft lips pressed themselves upon it. He tried to capture her, but she evaded him.