Part 14 (1/2)
Such periods were normal there to all but Leonore. Her sisters frittered away the hours in small pursuits which led to nothing, (if we except a certain kindly care of the poor on the estate, whose interests Sue at least found of importance)--otherwise they existed, and that is all that could be said for them.
But Leonore? Well, of course she had no alternative but to tread the path prescribed for her; and the bright spring days were followed by the longer ones of summer, and again by the crisp, dewy mornings and melting twilights of early autumn, without any incident or event taking place to mark one week from another.
Such a life was foreign to all the instincts of our little girl's nature. She was quick, alert, impetuous. She was keenly alive in every fibre of her being. She effervesced with vitality. Added to which there was a strange sense of growth pulsing through every vein.
And of this all outward token had to be repressed beneath the iron hand of convention. To the outward eye there was only a forlorn little black figure stealing meekly out of view, to seek, it might be supposed, the shades of solitude for pensive, retrospective meditation, or discharging with docility such offices of charity as were presumed to be proper and becoming to her widowhood,--but for the rest, no one really knew or cared what Leo did with herself.
She was much alone--they supposed she liked to be alone. On that one day to which she grew to look back upon as _the_ day--the day on which Sue's heart stood revealed--it had indeed for a moment appeared as if the bonds which held her in their grip must break, and give birth to a new era--but the episode ended disappointingly. It was not an upheaval, it was a mere crack on the surface--and the crack gradually closed again.
”I told you that father would not always be so amenable,” said Sybil one day, not perhaps altogether ill-pleased to see her sister's face fall, and her cheek flush beneath a chilling response. ”It is no use taking it to heart, child. You do better with him than any of the rest of us do, and that ought to content you.”
And again it was: ”Sue? What should I know about Sue? She goes her own way, and we go ours,”--the tone conveying, ”and you must go yours,” as plainly as though the words had been spoken.
But Leo had no ”way” to go. She had no object on which to bend her eyes.
She had no end in view when she rose in the morning, no food for reflection at night. She drifted. Her poor little face took a wan, comfortless look,--and to herself she would wonder how, when she first returned to the home of her childhood, she could have felt so different, so foolishly hopeful and cheerful? All sorts of possibilities had seemed to lie before her then, how could they? She often sat for hours in the woods staring vacantly around, and thinking, thinking.
Had there been any human being in the big, dreary house to whom she could have poured out all the workings of a young, imprisoned soul beating against its bars, any one at this crisis to feel for and sympathise with the hapless child, any kind arm thrown around her, or hand in hers, things might have been different,--but as it was, alone she had to battle with all the subtle imaginings, the dim, confused perceptions, the fancies, the visions which haunted her.
Incredible as it may appear, she looked back upon her married life much as an emanc.i.p.ated schoolgirl regards the busy, merry past, all-sufficing at the time, but outgrown and left behind.
Leo never doubted that she had been happy,--but the thought that were it possible for her one day to wake up and find that all she had gone through of late was but a bad dream, brought no sense of longing, no pa.s.sionate thrill of desire. Instead, she shrank--yes, she shrank and hung her head, wondering if any one else so placed ever felt the same?
How was it?--why was it?
And anon she knew. It was the look on Sue's face.
In lighter vein, Leonore took to beautifying her person. As Mrs. Stubbs she had contented herself and annoyed her maid, a conscientious creature, by fulfilling its bare requirements. She had hurried through dressing-time, and been impatient of details. Anne's slow method of handling her hair was a constant worry; and now that Anne no longer existed for her, it must be owned that there was, or, to be correct, there had been up to the present, a _curly pow_ presented to the family on many occasions, which was hardly consistent with the dignity General Boldero sought to preserve.
But it chanced one day that a girl came to the house whose hair, of colour and texture similar to Leonore's own, was beautifully arranged and generally admired. It literally shone in the sun.
And as luck would have it, our heroine was caught at her worst that same afternoon; and conscious of frowsy locks tumbling about her ears, her vanity was mortified. She appeared at dinner with a fairly correct imitation of the visitor's coiffure, and every single member of the family had something to say about it: Sue's gentle, ”You have such pretty hair, dear Leo,” being the finis.h.i.+ng touch.
Thenceforth the pretty hair was brushed and brushed; and finding it still continued somewhat dry, Leo made almost her first purchase in the neighbouring town. She procured a wash--only a simple, vegetable concoction, but it answered the purpose--and there were great results.
Next, a manicure box which was among her possessions, but had lain about unused after it ceased to be a novelty, was brought into play. To confess the truth, Leo's hands were not her strong point, but hands and fingers can look better or worse according to the care bestowed on them, and there was now at least nothing to be ashamed of when she put on her rings. She began to wear her rings regularly.
And searching about for something else to do, she unearthed some weird implements, the sight of which made her laugh. With what zest she had once thrown herself into the new game of physical culture which all her friends were playing, and what fun she had thought it--for a time! Her supple joints had enabled her to accomplish feats beyond the reach of most, and she had attended drilling-cla.s.ses and fencing-cla.s.ses, and gained glory at both. She now fixed up a hook or two in her room, and found she could still do this and that, though she had lost the knack of the more difficult. To regain these, ropes and pulleys were worked vigorously,--and being once started, invention was called to aid, and there were all sorts of varied performances. Finally she volunteered to become a teacher; but though Maud and Sybil condescended so far as to look on, and even make a few half-hearted efforts, they were soon discouraged. They were not clumsy, but they were stiff; their bones were set; beside them Leo seemed to be made of elastic.
These trifles were, as we have said, the solace of our little girl's happier moods--at least they did something towards whiling away the uneventful days,--but perhaps they might almost have been better left undone, since the more healthful and beautiful she became, the more the leaven of rebellious discontent worked within.
It seemed a shame that she should be so strong and well and winsome, and there be nothing and no one to win. It was an injustice, a waste. And was it to go on for ever? Was she to go on through a long, long life--life stretches very far ahead at twenty-one--crawling on her hands and knees, when she could have stepped out so boldly, head in air?
That was the question which chiefly presented itself to Leonore's mind, as the first long year of her widowhood drew towards its close. She had never once stirred from Boldero Abbey,--for it was by no means a part of the general's programme to send her where she might meet with either friends or strangers to whom the true state of the case might leak out--and he sharply negatived a suggestion on Sue's part.
”Nonsense. Leo was never better in her life. You have only to look at her. And it would not be decent for her to be going about as the rest of you do.”
Money had been wrung from him for annual trips to London and the sea, but he had never grudged it more than now, and he had not himself moved a foot.
”I am certainly not going to pay for what I disapprove;” he set his lips grimly. ”And I not only disapprove, but I forbid Leo to go prancing out into the world.”
Wherefore Leo saw her sisters come and go, and remained stationary. But she could not be what she was, and not throw out a hint of what was for ever in her mind when at long last the year was over. It was only a little anxious word, and no one guessed how often it had hung upon the speaker's lips before it was out, nor how she wished it back directly it _was_ out. For it was met by a silence that stilled the very beating of her heart.