Moth and Rust; Together with Geoffrey's Wife and The Pitfall. Mary Cholmondeley
was the matter with her son, that he was more at ease with these undesirable companions than with the sons of his father's old friends? Why would he never accompany her on her annual pilgrimage to London?
George was one of those lethargic, vain men who say they hate London. Catch them going to London! Perhaps if efforts were made to catch them there, they might repair thither. But in London they are nobodies; consequently to London they do not go. And the same man who eschews London will generally be found to gravitate in the country to a society in which he is the chief personage. It had been so with George. Fred Black, the disreputable horse-breaker, and his companions, had sedulously paid court to him. George, who had a deep-rooted love of horse-flesh, was often at Fred's training stables. There he met Janet, and fell in love with her, as did most of Fred's associates. But unlike them, George had withdrawn. He knew he should "do" for himself with "the county" if he married Janet. And he could not face his mother. So he sulked like a fish under the bank, half suspicious that he is being angled for. So ignorant of his fellow-creatures was George that there actually had been a moment when he suspected Janet of trying to "land him," and he did not think any the worse of her.
Then, after months of sullen indecision, he suddenly rushed upon his fate. That was a week ago.
Anne left her chair as Mrs. Trefusis did not answer, and knelt down by the old woman.
"Dear Mrs. Trefusis," she said, "the girl is a nice girl, innocent and good, and without a vestige of conceit."
"She has nothing to be conceited about that I can see."
"Oh! yes. She might be conceited about marrying George. It is an amazing match for her. And she might be conceited about her beauty. I should be if I had that face."
"My dear, you are twenty times as good-looking, because you look what you are—a lady. She looks what she is—a——" Something in Anne's steady eyes disconcerted Mrs. Trefusis, and she did not finish the sentence. She twitched her hands restlessly, and then went on: "And she can't come into a room. She sticks in the door. And she always calls you 'Lady Varney.' She hasn't called a girl a 'gurl' yet, but I know she will. I had thought my son's wife might make up to me a little for all I've gone through—might be a comfort to me—and then I am asked to put up with a vulgarian."
Anne went on in a level voice: "Janet is not in the least vulgar, because she is unpretentious. Middle-class she may be, and is: so was my grandmother; but vulgar she is not. And she is absolutely devoted to George. He is in love with her, but she really loves him."
"So she ought. He is making a great sacrifice for her, and, as I constantly tell him, one he will regret to his dying day."
"On the contrary, he is only sacrificing his own pride and yours to—himself. He is considering only himself. He is marrying only to please himself, not——" Anne hesitated—"not to please Janet."
"Now you are talking nonsense."
"Yes, I think I am. It felt like sense, but by the time I had put it into words, it turned into nonsense. The little things you notice in Janet's dress and manner can be mitigated, if she is willing to learn."
"She won't be," said Mrs. Trefusis, with decision. "Because she is stupid. She will be offended directly she is spoken to. All stupid people are. Now come, Anne! Don't try and make black white. It doesn't help matters. You must admit the girl is stupid."
Anne's gentle, limpid eyes looked deprecatingly into the elder woman's hard, miserable ones.
"I am afraid she is," she said at last, and she coloured painfully.
"And obstinate."
"Are not stupid people always obstinate?"
"No," said Mrs. Trefusis. "I am obstinate, but no one could call me stupid."
"It does not prevent stupid people being always obstinate, because obstinate people are not always stupid."
"You think me very obstinate, Anne?" There were tears in the stern old eyes.
"I think, dear, you have got to give way, and as you must, I want you to do it with a good grace, before you estrange George from you, and before that unsuspecting girl has found out that you loathe the marriage."
"If she were not as dense as a rhinoceros, she would see that now."
"How fortunate, in that case, that she is dense. It gives you a better chance with her. Make her like you. You can, you know. She is worth liking."
"All my life," said Mrs. Trefusis, "be they who they may, I have hated stupid people."
"Oh! no. That is an hallucination. You don't hate George."
Mrs. Trefusis shot a lightning glance at her companion, and then smiled grimly. "You are the only person who would dare to say such a thing to me."
"Besides," continued Anne meditatively, "is it so certain that Janet is stupid? She appears so because she is unformed, ignorant, and because she has never reflected, or been thrown with educated people. She has not come to herself. She will never learn anything by imagination or perception, for she seems quite devoid of them. But I think she might learn by trouble or happiness, or both. She can feel. Strong feeling would be the turning-point with her, if she has sufficient ability to take advantage of it. Perhaps she has not, and happiness or trouble may leave her as they found her. But she gives me the impression that she might alter considerably if she were once thoroughly aroused."
"I can't rouse her. I was not sent into the world to rouse pretty horse-breakers."
If Anne was doubtful as to what Mrs. Trefusis had been sent into this imperfect world for, she did not show it.
"I don't want you to rouse her. All I want is that you should be kind to her." Anne took Mrs. Trefusis' ringed, claw-like hand between both hers. "I do want that very much."
"Well," said Mrs. Trefusis, blinking her eyes, "I won't say I won't try. You can always get round me, Anne. Oh! my dear, dear child, if it might only have been you. But of course, just because I had set my heart upon it, I was not to have it. That has been my life from first to last. If I might only have had you. You think me a cross, bitter old woman, and so I am: God knows I have had enough to make me so. But I should not have been so to you."
"You never are so to me. But you see my affections are—is not that the correct expression?—engaged."
"But you are not."
"No. I am as free as air. That is where the difficulty comes in."
"Where is the creature now?"
"In Paris. The World chronicles his movements. That is why I take in the World. If he had been in London this week, I should not—be here at this moment."
"I suppose he is enormously run after?"
"Oh yes! By others as well as by me; by tons of others younger and better looking than I am."
"Now, Anne, I am absolutely certain that you have never run a yard after him."
"I have never appeared to do so," said Anne, with her faint, enigmatical smile. "The proprieties have been observed. At least by me they have. But I have covered a good deal of ground, nevertheless."
"I don't know what he is made of."
"Well, he is made of money for one thing, and I have not a shilling. He knows that."
"He ought to be only too honoured by your being willing to think of him. In my young days a man of his class would not have had a chance."
"Millionaires get their chance nowadays."
"Then why doesn't he take it?"
"Because," said Anne, her lip quivering, "he thinks I like him for his money. He has got that firmly screwed into his head."
"As if a woman like you would do such a thing."
"Women extremely like me are doing such things