Lady Effingham lifted her chin. “You are well up in her story!” she said.
“And then the girl went back for something that they had forgotten.”
“I suppose that also was Ann’s fault?”
“No, it was not. She had taken off her bracelet — the one I gave her, you know — and the girl took charge of it for safety, and while drying the child she laid it down and forgot it. She went back for it.”
“Then she should have done nothing of the kind!” Lady Effingham declared, glad to find some vent for her annoyance. “She should have come in and sent a man for it.”
“I suppose she thought,” the Captain suggested, watching the smoke rise from his cigar, “that if she came back without it she’d be booked for punishment.
Anyway, she bore away though it was late, and I don’t suppose she liked it. When she reached the place — it was pretty dark, and a mile from home, mind you — there were two landlubbers there, one of them a deserter by his coat, and, by God, they’d got the bracelet.”
Lady Ellingham’s attention was caught at last. “And what did she do?”
“Do? Well, she couldn’t get away — she was too close to them. So she went up as bold as brass and offered them a shilling for finding it — just as if she’d been in Berkeley Square. And nearly carried it off, the little baggage, by sheer impudence — where there wasn’t, mind you, a soul within a mile of her to help her. But when they saw the purse it was too much for them, and they snatched it, and caught hold of her and were for searching her!”
“Ah!” The listener winced. The red spots were gone from her cheeks.
“Just so,” said the Captain coolly. “It was ‘ Ah!’”
“And — what did she do then?”
“Squealed like a rabbit in a trap, only ten hundred times louder! What else could she do — against two d — d louts of gaol-birds? Luckily I was coming home with Tobin and heard her, and, thinking it was either the father of all rabbits in a trap or a woman’s pipe, I fired my gun and steered for her. She was nearly done when I came up! I’ve no doubt they’d have murdered her if I’d not.”
“The wretches!”
“They sheered off when we came up. Tobin chased, and I stood by the girl. Confounded fix I was in, Kitty, when I saw how they’d handled her, and I wished I’d kept him, for she looked like foundering, and where should I have been? However, I called her a silly little fool, and read the Articles of War to her — outstaying her leave, and so on, and she came round. I could see that she was pretty deep by the head, still, but she never let me lay a hand to her — thought me a pretty brute, no doubt! But I tell you, my dear, she’s a d — d plucky piece, as plucky as any thirteen-year-old middy that ever smuggled into a cutting-out boat. And there’s nothing beats that!”
“She’s evidently won your heart,” my lady said.
“A white-faced chit with a turn-up nose, my dear?”
“Well,” she allowed reluctantly, “perhaps I’ve — —”
“Made a mistake? You have. And to-morrow you’ll have to sing small, and set it right, Kitty.” Lady Ellingham studied the point. “The bracelet is lost, I suppose?”
“No. And I’m not sure that that is not the queerest thing of all. One of the men dropped it, when he sighted me. Well, that little girl, and the brute’s hands hardly off her, had the coolness to see it fall and tally the place. She told me where it was, and I found it.”
The Countess looked uncomfortable. She was far from being an ungenerous woman when her instincts had fair play.
“Do you know,” he resumed, looking at the end of his cigar, “I thought — from something you said last evening — that you were beginning to like her.”
“Well,” my lady admitted, “perhaps I was. More than at first. “But—”
“But what?”
“The last week or two I’ve thought that she was seeing too much of — of Mr. Girardot, if you must know. And that would not do at all. It would be the end of her as a governess. Instead of looking after Ann she’d be mooning after him. I shouldn’t wonder if that was not at the bottom of this.”
“But Girardot wasn’t there.”
“Oh, no, I don’t say—”
“But was he? Do you know?”
“I know he wasn’t. He was here. But I am speaking generally. A governess who—” She shrugged her shoulders and did not finish the sentence. “Impossible!”
The Captain rolled a loose leaf round his cigar, a feat that seemed to require all his attention. “Well, I’m going to speak generally too,” he said. “Though God knows it’s not my place to speak. Aren’t you seeing rather too much of that young man, Kitty?”
“George!”
“I know,” he said. “You are angry, and good reason. No business of mine. But — well, I don’t like the young gentleman and I don’t trust him. He’s too clever and too glib. And” — carefully scrutinizing his cigar—” too d — d good-looking altogether. And though you don’t think, perhaps he will think, and other people will talk. And Fred — more blame to him, and more fool he! — isn’t here.”
“If he were,” she retorted, the red spots back in her cheeks, “he would never insult me even by the thought!” Her head was high.
“And he’d be right, my dear, for he’s a d — d inconsequent chap. Has the wisdom to know that his wife is ice while he thinks every other man’s wife is — tinder! I agree with him — on the first head. But Master Girardot may he of a different opinion, and if you don’t send him over to the lee side in time he’ll be forgetting himself, and one of these fine days he’ll give you a bad quarter of an hour.”
She flashed out at him, her face scarlet. “You’ve no right,” she cried passionately—” no right to say that!”
He looked at her very kindly, unmoved by the challenge. “Haven’t I?” he said. “Well, you are the judge of that. Anyway, I’ll say no more. I’ve said enough — perhaps too much. But I want to out with another thing — I’ll let the whole cable run while I am about it. I’m not defending Fred. God knows he’s to blame and the only one to blame, and he knows what I think. But, my dear, he’s young and he married very young. He fell in love with your eyes, Kitty, before he had had his splash. And he’s almost as good-looking — confound him! — as the young spark here, and he’s Ellingham and all that, and the women fall over one another for him.”
“And it is not his fault, of course!” My lady’s tone was as cold as contempt could make it. “You talk — you talk as if it was my fault that he — Oh, you make me sick!” She turned her back on the Captain and rested her hands on the mantel-shelf. Her raised foot tapped the fender.
“No, it’s his fault,” the Captain said. “And a confounded fool he is, and some day he will find it out — perhaps when it is too late. But—”
“Well?”
“He loves you.”
“Loves me? Loves me?” She turned about, her face white with passion, her eyes gleaming. “Loves me — and Lady Fanny! And that woman — at Maidenhead! And the creature that he — Oh!” she continued struggling with the indignation that choked her, “you flatter me! You flatter me too highly, George! Loves me? When his love, sir, is an insult! An outrage! A thing that makes all worse and no better. How is it possible that he should love me and go after — after those creatures?”
“Because he’s a man, my dear.” The Captain spoke with care, choosing his words. “And can love in half a dozen ways and half a dozen women at once. But don’t think that he has ever ceased to love you, or loves another woman in the same way. And he’s not — God knows I am not defending him, and he’s bad enough — but he’s not as black as he’s painted, of course” — the Captain looked ill at ease as he broached this part of his argument—” if he’d been a Joseph there’d have been no Lady Fanny and no Miss — well, I won’t name names, and I wish you didn’t know them! But Joseph’s part isn’t an easy part to play for a man in Fred’s place, my lady, and—”
“Oh, don’t — don’t
say any more!” she cried, stopping her ears. “Unless you mean to make bad worse. Are these — are these things to say to a wife? To the mother of his children? To the girl whom he took from her home at eighteen and—”
“They are not things to be said by everybody,” the Captain agreed soberly. “But they are things that someone ought to say to you — God knows I only want to keep the way open between you against the time when he will want to come back. And they are things that only an old friend can say. However, if you think, my dear, that I am sailing under false colours—” He broke off.
She stood for a full minute with her back to him, looking down into the heart of the fire; and he saw her shoulders heave. And, knowing her pride, he was scared. But presently she seemed to regain control of herself, and when she turned to him, though her lips quivered, there was a smile of unspeakable sweetness in her eyes.
“Yes, George, under the falsest colours,” she said.
“Kitty!”
“Hiding under your sea-cloak the kindest heart that ever beat! A friend? Yes, the best friend, the truest friend that an unhappy woman ever had! How indeed should I have borne these three years since he — since he changed, if I had had no friend, no support, no one to take my side, to speak between us! And don’t think,” she added with energy, “that I don’t know — for I have seen enough and learned enough of the world’s vileness in three years — that I don’t know that some in your place — ay, many — would have played another part! Would have seen in my loneliness — and God knows that I have been lonely enough! — only an occasion, an opportunity!” She paused, struggling with her emotion.
“Of course there are scoundrels enough,” he said gloomily. “We’re never out of hail of them ashore.
But you don’t think, Kitty, that I ever—”
“Never! Never, George, thank God! You have been to both of us the best, the truest of brothers. You have the right to say anything, all that you will, and I will hear it gratefully, oh, most gratefully!”
“Then do you believe me, my dear,” he replied quietly, “when I say that he is not as black as he is painted. But he is foolish enough to set his pride, once he broke with you, on seeming worse than he is. He’s that kind of fool. Yet with it all he has never ceased to love you, and I’ll wager a guinea to a ship-biscuit there are times when he could cut his throat with thinking of the old days. And some time he’ll come back to you, as to his last port, and ask you to save him. And — and, Kitty, it is this I want to say to you — don’t make it too hard for him when the time comes.”
But at that her pride revolted. “Oh!” she cried, “you ask too much! When he is sated with his light-o’-loves I am to meet him half-way, smile on him, take him back! Oh, you are monstrous! No, George, you ask too much! And love? He loves me — still? What kind of love can that be that leaves me here to eat my heart out while he — while he — Oh, no — a thousand times no! We are better, far better, as we are! Let him keep his Lady Fannys and his — I will not soil my lips with their names. And let me keep my self-respect.”
The Captain was silent, sitting gloomy in his chair. He had said his say and had not looked for much more at present. “Convoy’s sailing wide,” he thought. “But they’ve got their orders, and by and by they’ll come into line.” He had smoked out his cigar, and, as he rose to throw the end into the fire, he touched her on the shoulder. “Well, I’ve fired across your bows, my dear,” he said, putting his thought into words. “And the rest is for you. But as to that little girl?”
“With the turn-up nose?” she said, with a queer laugh, as she surreptitiously dabbed her eyes. “You’ve your orders as to that too, I suppose.”
“She deserved something better than she got. And you’ll see to it, I am sure.”
“This is the second time I’ve had to sing small. It was Mr. Girardot last time.”
“Oh! So he—”
“Begged her off? Yes. I was for sending her away when I found her here. And now it is you, George.”
“Well, I am not surprised,” he said slowly. “It’s what I should have expected of him. But that’s her look-out. You may be sure that I’m not making up to her.”
“I hope he is not,” my lady said, and her face was grave.
CHAPTER XI
THE SURPRISE
A LITTLE chit of a governess shedding angry tears in the darkness of her room because she has been wronged, and excitement will find its vent! A young girl crying passionately in the night that she doesn’t care! That she doesn’t care! That she is glad to go, glad to leave this inhuman place, these cruel people! That it is all for the best if it does part her from the — the only being who has been kind to her, has been companion, tormentor, tease and friend, all in one! Not an heroic figure this, that, nursing its grievance, will not even take in the meal that Priscilla, the schoolroom maid, has placed in pitying mood outside the door.
But, alas, with the morning light a figure grown even less heroic — grown pale and dull and heavy-eyed. For when indignation, a fine warming fire, sinks to grey ashes it casts a chill. A pitiful chit, this, that, on second thoughts, does care: that sees before her a long miserable journey, and a tale of failure to be told at the end of it! That, as she tries to swallow her breakfast, chokes, because — though it is of course all for the best — she will never again break her fast in this dull little room that he has made bright. Because she will never again hear his step in the passage, see him enter with quizzing eyes, hear his gay laugh, his errand — that is but to droll with her, or cheer her, to make some pleasant appointment, to drop a laughing, flattering word that brings the blood to her face.
Yes, it is all for the best, she tells herself. But how flat and grey, endless and unbroken is the vista before her! How low her heart as she faces it, and with unwilling eyes stares down its length! She will return to her home, but the thought has lost its joy. Home itself has lost its warm hues, its welcoming face, its comfort.
Priscilla’s voice roused her from her reverie. Priscilla had entered to take away. “You didn’t see her ladyship’s note, miss?”
“Oh!” The three-cornered note had lain beside her plate, but, absorbed in her wretchedness, she had not seen it. Her heart fluttered as she took it to the window that she might read it unwatched. And yet — she hastened to tell herself — it was no doubt only to say when her ladyship would see her.
But the note said more than this, and warmth stole through the desolate heart as she read it. “Lady Ellingham regrets that under a misapprehension of the facts she blamed Miss South in a manner which she now knows was not justified. She desires to recall what was said and trusts that Miss South is not the worse for her dangerous experience. Lady Ellingham will in the course of to-morrow see Miss South, as she desires to learn from her own mouth the details of her adventure.”
It was not over-warm, but, coming from Lady Ellingham, it seemed to Rachel a surprising atonement. The past, her wrongs, her mortification, were forgotten, and for a moment the future glowed, all changed, transfigured, glorified. This dull dear little room was still to be hers — her home. She would meet him, see him, hear him.
Then cold wisdom plucked at her skirts, reminded her and warned her. If it were really for the best that she should go, she ought to seize on this pretext, slight but sufficient. She ought to use it and go. She ought to wrest herself from the cunning spell that held her in its toils and that a few hours ago seemed to her awakened eyes to promise nothing but unhappiness.
But, alas, the spell appeared in another light now, wrought differently, wrought speciously, promised not unhappiness but — if only she were prudent — the pleasure of a dear friendship. She had only — so it assured her — to stop herself at that point, and surely she could stop herself. Was she her mother’s daughter, and had she not sufficient pride and self-respect to control her feelings, and to stay where he stayed? Surely she had, surely she was not so weak, so unmaidenly, so wanting in pride. And though he had said nothing — at this point Rache
l’s thoughts grew confused and she trembled — was it certain that he — that he never would? And was she to make that impossible? To put from her the chance of happiness so great that it made her giddy, simply because she distrusted her own strength?
She leant her hot face against the cold panes of the window. Of course he meant nothing — nothing! How foolish she was! Still, was it possible that some day — ?
She plucked herself from the thought, and forced herself to read the letter again. But all tended the same way. “It was he who spoke for me,” she thought. “Oh, I am sure of it. It is to him I owe this!” And her heart melted towards him, and was as water. How good he was, how staunch, how true! When no one had dared to speak for her, he had braved her ladyship’s anger and stood by her, and defended her. And made all clear. She had him to thank for it! She was sure of it.
And when, with the letter still in her hand, and Priscilla barely gone from the room, she heard his step, his step that she would have known among a hundred, and when he entered, not gaily, but with kind and anxious looks, was it wonderful that she felt herself tremble? Or that he read in her downcast conscious face something that he had never read in it before, and at which his heart bounded?
But he was too wary and too experienced to frighten her, and he began as he had planned to begin. “You poor, poor little thing!” he said, without a tinge of his usual persiflage. “And I hear that they scolded you, bullied you. Oh, it was monstrous, it was barbarous! They must have hearts of iron! You had suffered so much, gone through so much, a savage would have pitied you! Sit!” He pushed up her chair, and laying a gentle hand on her shoulder, he forced her to take it, while her eyes, raised to his, put in an unconscious plea for forbearance. “Sit, I insist on it!” he continued warmly. “I will not hear a word until you do. I felt for you — ah, but you know that I felt for you! I could not sleep for thinking of their hardness, their injustice!”
She strove her utmost to control herself. She strove to struggle against his tenderness, against the solicitude that enveloped her as in a warm garment, against the melting influence of his voice, his eyes. She tried to murmur something — something about his kindness, and Lady Ellingham, and she tried to say it as she would have said it yesterday. But her mood and the man and his nearness were all against her, and her pleading eyes told a tale in spite of herself. Before she knew how it came about he was sitting on the table beside her chair, her hand in his; he was soothing her, comforting her. “A little, little thing!” he said, leaning over her blushing averted face, his voice itself a caress, and with just so much of jest in his tone as lightened its meaning. “A little, little thing!” he repeated fondly. “Not fit to stand alone!”
Complete Works of Stanley J Weyman Page 718