The Lovels of Arden by M. E. Braddon

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They had a very pleasant time of it in Germany, moving in a leisurely
way from town to town, seeing everything thoroughly without hurry or
restlessness. Young Lovel throve apace the new nurse adored him; and
faithful Jane Target was a happy as the day was long, amidst all the
foreign wonders that surrounded her pathway. Daniel Granger was contented
and hopeful; happy in the contemplation of his wife's fair young face,
which brightened daily; in the society of his boy, who, with increasing
intelligence, developed an ever-increasing appreciation of his father--the
strong arms, that tossed him aloft and caught him so skilfully; the
sonorous voice, that rang so cheerily upon his ear; the capacious pockets,
in which there was wont to lurk some toy for his delectation.

Towards the middle of November they took up their winter quarters in
Rome--not the November of fogs and drizzle, known to the denizens of
London, but serene skies and balmy air, golden sunsets, and late-lingering
flowers, that seemed loath to fade and vanish from a scene so beautiful.
Clarissa loved this city of cities, and felt a thrill of delight at
returning to it. She drove about with her two-year-old son, showing him the
wonders and glories of the place as fondly as if its classic associations
had been within the compass of his budding mind. She went on with her
art-studies with renewed vigour, as if there had been a Raffaelle fever in
the very air of the place, and made plans for copying half the pictures in
the Vatican. There was plenty of agreeable society in the city, English and
foreign; and Clarissa found herself almost as much in request as she had
been in Paris. There were art-circles in which she was happiest, and where
Daniel Granger held his own very fairly as a critic and connoisseur. And
thus the first two winter months slipped away very pleasantly, till they
came to January, in which month they were to return to Arden.

They were to return there to assist at a great event--an event the
contemplation whereof was a source of unmitigated satisfaction to Mr.
Granger, and which was more than pleasing to Clarissa. Miss Granger was
going to be married, blest with her papa's consent and approval, of course,
and in a manner becoming a damsel whose first consideration was duty. After
refusing several very fair offers, during the progress of her girlhood, she
had at last suffered herself to be subjugated by the constancy and devotion
of Mr. Tillott, the curate of New Arden.

It was not in any sense a good match. Mr. Tillott's professional income was
seventy-five pounds a year; his sole private means an allowance of fifty
from his brother, who, Mr. Tillott admitted, with a blush, was in trade. He
was neither handsome nor accomplished. The most his best friends could say
of him was, that he was "a very worthy young man." He was not an orator: he
had an atrocious delivery, and rarely got through the briefest epistle,
or collect even, without blundering over a preposition. His demeanour in
pulpit and reading-desk was that of a prisoner at the bar, without hope of
acquittal, and yet he had won Miss Granger--that prize in the matrimonial
market, which many a stout Yorkshireman had been eager to win.

He had flattered her; with a slavish idolatry he followed her footsteps,
and ministered to her caprices, admiring, applauding, and imitating all her
works and ways, holding her up for ever as the pattern and perfection of
womankind. Five times had Miss Granger rejected him; on some occasions with
contumely even, letting him know that there was a very wide gulf between
their social positions, and that although she might be spiritually his
sister, she stood, in a worldly sense, on a very remote platform from that
which it was his mission to occupy. Mr. Tillott swallowed every humiliation
with a lowly spirit, that had in it some leaven of calculation, and bore
up against every repulse; until at last the fair Sophia, angry with her
father, persistently opposed to her stepmother, and out of sorts with
the world in general, consented to accept the homage of this persevering
suitor. He, at least, was true to her; he, at least, believed in her
perfection. The stout country squires, who could have given her houses
and lands, had never stooped to flatter her foibles; had shown themselves
heartlessly indifferent to her dragooning of the model villagers; had even
hinted their pity for the villagers under that martial rule. Tillott alone
could sympathise with her, trudging patiently from cottage to cottage in
bleak Christmas weather, carrying parcels of that uncomfortable clothing
with which Miss Granger delighted to supply her pensioners.

Nor was the position which this marriage would give her, humble as it might
appear, altogether without its charm. As Mr. Tillott's wife, she would be
a very great lady amongst small people; and Mr. Tillott himself would be
invested with a reflected glory from having married an heiress. The curate
stage would, of course, soon be past. The living of Arden was in Mr.
Granger's gift; and no doubt the present rector could be bought out
somehow, after a year or so, and Mr. Tillott installed in his place. So,
after due deliberation, and after the meek Tillott had been subjected to a
trial of his faith which might have shaken the strongest, but which left
him firm as a rock, Miss Granger surrendered, and acknowledged that she
thought her sphere of usefulness would be enlarged by her union with Thomas
Tillott.

"It is not my own feelings which, I consider," remarked the maiden, in a
tone which was scarcely flattering to her lover; "I have always held duty
above those. I believe that New Arden is my proper field, and that it is a
Providence that leads me to accept a tie which binds me more closely to the
place. I could never have remained in _this_ house after Mrs. Granger's
return."

Upon this, the enraptured Tillott wrote a humble and explanatory letter to
Mr. Granger, stating the blessing which had descended upon him in the shape
of Sophia's esteem, and entreating that gentleman's approval of his suit.

It came by return of post, in a few hearty words.

"MY DEAR TILLOTT,--Yes; with all my heart! I have always thought you
a good fellow; and I hope and believe you will make my daughter a
good husband. Mrs. Granger and I will be home in three weeks, in
time to make all arrangements for the wedding.--Yours, &c.

"DANIEL GRANGER."

"Ah," said Miss Granger, when this epistle was shown her by her triumphant
swain, "I expected as much. I have never been anything to papa since his
marriage, and he is glad to get rid of me."

The Roman season was at its height, when there arose a good deal of talk
about a lady who did not belong to that world in which Mrs. Granger lived,
but who yet excited considerable curiosity and interest therein.

She was a Spanish dancer, known as Donna Rita, and had been creating a
_furore_ in St. Petersburg, Paris, Vienna, all over the civilised world, in
fact, except in London, where she was announced as likely to appear during
the approaching season. She had taken the world by storm by her beauty,
which was exceptional, and by her dancing, which made up in _chic_ for
anything it may have lacked in genius. She was not a Taglioni; she was only
a splendid dark-haired woman, with eyes that reminded one of Cleopatra, a
figure that was simply perfection, the free grace of some wild creature of
the forest, and the art of selecting rare and startling combinations of
colour and fabric for her dress.

She had hired a villa, and sent a small army of servants on before her to
take possession of it--men and women of divers nations, who contrived to
make their mistress notorious by their vagaries before she arrived to
astonish the city by her own eccentricities. One day brought two pair of
carriage horses, and a pair of Arabs for riding; the next, a train of
carriages; a week after came the lady herself; and all Rome--English
and American Rome most especially--was eager to see her. There was an
Englishman in her train, people said. Of course, there was always some
one--_elle en mange cinq comme ca tous les ans_, remarked a Frenchman.

Clarissa had no curiosity about this person. The idle talk went by her like
the wind, and made no impression; but one sunny afternoon, when she was
driving with her boy, Daniel Granger having an engagement to look at a
new picture which kept him away from her, she met the Senora face to
face--Donna Rita, wrapped in sables to the throat, with a coquettish
little turban-shaped sable hat, a couple of Pomeranian dogs on her
lap--half reclining in her barouche--a marvel of beauty and insolence. She
was not alone. A gentleman--the Englishman, of course--sat opposite to her,
and leant across the white bear-skin carriage-rug to talk to her. They were
both laughing at something he had just said, which the Senora characterised
as "_pas si bete._"

He looked up as the two carriages passed each other; for just one brief
moment looked Clarissa Granger in the face; then, pale as death, bent down
to caress one of the dogs.

It was George Fairfax.

It was a bitter ending; but such stories are apt to end so; and a man with
unlimited means, and nothing particular to do with himself, must find
amusement somehow. Clarissa remained in Rome a fortnight after this, and
encountered the Senora several times--never unattended, but never again
with George Fairfax.

She heard the story afterwards from Lady Laura. He had been infatuated, and
had spent thousands upon "that creature." His poor mother had been half
broken-hearted about it.

"The Lyvedon estate spoiled him, my dear," Lady Laura said conclusively.
"He was a very good fellow till he came into his property."

Mr. Fairfax reformed, however, a couple of years later, and married a
fashionable widow with a large fortune; who kept him in a whirl of society,
and spent their combined incomes royally. He and Clarissa meet sometimes in
society--meet, touch hands even, and know that every link between them is
broken.

And is Clarissa happy? Yes, if happiness can be found in children's voices
and a good man's unchanging affection. She has Arden Court, and her
children; her father's regard, growing warmer year by year, as with
increasing age he feels increasing need of some one to love him; her
brother's society now and then--for Mr. Granger has been lavish in
his generosity, and all the peccadilloes of Austin's youth have been
extinguished from the memories of money-lenders and their like by means of
Mr. Granger's cheque-book.

The painter can come to England now, and roam his native woods unburdened
by care; but though this is very sweet to him once in a way, he prefers a
Continental city, with its _cafe_ life, and singing and dancing gardens,
where he may smoke his in the gloaming. He grows steadier as he grows
older, paints better, and makes friends worth making; much to the joy of
poor Bessie, who asks no greater privilege than to stand humbly by, gazing
fondly while he puts on his white cravat, and sallies forth radiant, with a
hot-house flower in his button-hole, to dine in the great world.

But this is only a glance into the future. The story ends in the orthodox
manner, to the sound of wedding bells--Miss Granger's--who swears to love,
honour, and obey Thomas Tillott, with a fixed intention to keep the upper
baud over the said Thomas in all things. Yet these men who are so slavish
as wooers are apt to prove of sterner mould as husbands, and life is all
before Mrs. Tillott, as she journeys in chariot and posters to Scarborough
for her unpretentious honeymoon, to return in a fortnight to a bran-new
gothic villa on the skirts of Arden, where one tall tree is struggling
vainly to look at home in a barren waste of new-made garden. And in the
servants' hall and housekeeper's room at Arden Court there is rejoicing,
as when the elder Miss Pecksniff went away from the little village near
Salisbury.

For some there are no marriage bells--for Lady Geraldine, for instance, who
is content to devote herself unostentatiously to the care of her sister's
neglected children--neglected in spite of French and German governesses,
Italian singing masters, Parisian waiting-maids, and half an acre or so
of nursery and schoolroom--and to wider charities: not all unhappy, and
thankful for having escaped that far deeper misery--the fate of an unloved
wife.

THE END