Complete Works of Stanley J Weyman

by Stanley J Weyman

  “I think — you did protect me,” she whispered. But oh, the effort it cost her to speak, and the thrill that passed from hand to hand, and betrayed itself in the tremor of her voice. She could not have raised her eyes or met his for her life.

  “Who would not?” he murmured, bending lower over her drooping head. “Who could be so hard as not to wish to protect you, to stand up for you? So little of a man as not to dare to? Not I! Not I, Rachel dear! If I had been in his place—”

  “I am glad you were not!” she breathed.

  “Why? Do you not think that!”

  “Oh, yes, yes! But you — might not have had a gun!” She shuddered, thinking of the risk, the danger to which he might have exposed himself.

  “But you believe that I would have — don’t you? Ah, but I know you do. I am sure that you do.”

  “I know — I know you would.” Her faith was whole, simple, perfect. And now, having found courage to speak, she found courage to try to recover her hand. “Please!” she said. “Please!”

  “Why?” his whisper was sweet in her ears. “Why, Rachel? Do you want to escape from me?”

  “But!” Confusion overcame her as she tried to recall her position, her duties, her resolve. “Oh, I must not! Indeed, indeed, I must not! I ought not to — to let you—”

  But he continued to hold her hand, and she knew, God knows how, for her eyes were averted, that his lips brushed her hair. “I wonder what you must not?” he whispered. “You do believe in me, Rachel, don’t you? You do believe that!”

  But at that the maiden in her — though one-half of her longed to hear the unspoken word — bade her defer the moment. Her modesty rose in revolt, made one last effort to escape the crisis. She struggled to her feet, though it seemed that she had to raise tons to do so. “I mustn’t listen,” she panted. “Indeed, indeed, I must not. Please, please, let me go!”

  Her eyes looked everywhere for a way of escape. But his lips were near her ear, his whisper charmed it, she had not the strength to wrest away her hand.

  “Little simpleton!” he said, in a tone that emptied the words of offence, and made them the sweetest of caresses. “Why may you not listen? Why so frightened?”

  She knew that her strength had left her, but still the woman’s instinct to put off the moment and to escape prevailed. She fluttered as the bird flutters in the tender hand that has grasped it. She must not, she must not listen. “Oh, but I am not here for this!” she stammered distractedly. “It is not right! Indeed, indeed, it is not right, Mr. Girardot! Please let me go! I want to think, I want to —

  “To think, my own?” And how the words thrilled her! “No, you want to feel! To feel! We are past thinking, my darling! We are on a happier road! We are—”

  A squeak — a small sound, but it rang in her ear like a trumpet, for it was the squeak of the baize door. A step in the passage!

  “D — n!” the tutor exclaimed.

  He was at the window in two strides. His face was almost as hot as Rachel’s, but, as his back was to the door when Lady Ellingham entered, his figure betrayed nothing. In such crises a woman’s aplomb is supposed to surpass a man’s: she is credited with higher powers of finesse and concealment. But Rachel’s inexperience was on a par with her sensibility; her being was shaken to its depths, and she could no more have faced the Countess’s eyes at that moment than have flown. She could do no more than bend her hot face over the book that she had instinctively drawn towards her.

  An eye much less acute than my lady’s must have read the signs and perceived that she had cut short a scene. But Lady Ellingham did not betray save by the flatness of her tone that she remarked anything out of the common.

  “I have followed up my note, Miss South,” she said. She paused, and then, “But I see that Mr. Girardot is with you. Perhaps, as I have something to say, he will not mind—”

  “I was just going,” he hastened to answer. His tone was even, though it lacked his usual sprightliness — he was not sufficiently master of himself to venture on that. “I am afraid,” he threw in deftly, “that Miss South is still suffering from last evening’s shock. It must have been a most trying experience.”

  “Yes,” my lady replied coldly, “it was much to be regretted. She must be, and I trust she will be, more prudent in the future.”

  She had not closed the door behind her, and the tutor, unwilling as he was to leave the girl with her, had no choice but to take the hint. He said another word or two, and bowed himself out, devoutly hoping that Rachel, at whom he dared not glance, had recovered a measure of composure.

  But poor Rachel was very far from being composed. She had managed to rise to her feet, and she stood with a hand on the table; and she did her best to meet her visitor’s gaze. But she had not the courage to do so. Even when the door had closed behind the tutor and Lady Ellingham asked courteously if she might sit, it was in a very small voice and with cheeks still glowing that she begged her to do so.

  “And pray be seated yourself, Miss South. You still look, as Mr. Girardot said, a good deal overcome. No doubt your nerves have not yet recovered from the shock. I should have come to see you last evening, but it was late when I learned the truth, and I had guests to dinner. I trust that you are not really the worse?”

  Alas, Rachel’s wits were still to find — she was no intrigante, poor child, and it was only a broken, confused word of acknowledgment that she could frame.

  “At any rate,” Lady Ellingham continued more cordially, “you don’t bear malice I hope? I am forgiven” — with a gracious movement of the head—” for my misplaced scolding? Of course, I had no idea that anything of the kind had occurred, or I should not have spoken as I did. I am told that you behaved with great courage, and were not to blame except” — this she said with a smile that drew the sting from the words—” for the imprudence of returning to the forest at so late an hour.”

  It was the first really kind thing that the Countess had said to her, and Rachel, a little more herself, thanked her with a grateful look. “I am sorry,” she added shyly, “but I knew how much Lady Ann thought of her bracelet.”

  “Well,” my lady answered with a smile, “you paid dearly for your error. And now, if you will be so good, I should like to hear your account. Please tell me what happened — from the beginning.”

  Rachel did so, lamely at first, but with growing power as she approached the crisis. She made no attempt to hide the fears that had assailed her, but she did not dwell on them, and her listener, who had approached the interview with no strong feeling in her favour, soon found herself sharing the impression which the facts had made on her brother-in-law. She began to see the girl in a new light. She admitted, with reluctance, that there was more in her than she had judged; and even owned, with her eyes on the candid, artless face, that the child had a certain power of attraction.

  “Well, I think you were wonderfully brave,” she replied, when she had heard all. “And I am thankful that no worse came of it — very thankful. But in future, Miss South, you must think before you act. If Captain Dunstan had not come up when he did — and it was a million chances to one against it — I shudder to think what might have happened!”

  Rachel agreed meekly.

  “And now, enough of that,” Lady Ellingham continued. “You must put it away and not think of it. But” — her tone grew sensibly more formal—” there is a subject on which I wish to say a word to you. You must not take it amiss, Miss South, for I think it is my duty to say it. I am not finding fault with you, and I am sure that there is no ground for fault-finding, but I — I was sorry to find Mr. Girardot” — Rachel’s face flamed anew—” with you just now. It was natural that he should come to inquire after you, and, living as he does in the house, you must meet him occasionally. But he is a very attractive young man, with some powers of pleasing and no unwillingness to use them, and” — Lady Ellingham carefully averted her eyes from her governess—” I think it my duty to warn you in regard to him. You will be wise,
Miss South, if you see as little of him as possible. I trust that so far” — she could not be insensible to the girl’s increasing distress, even though she did not look at her—” that so far there is nothing between you?”

  Rachel was miserably conscious that her face betrayed her, and between resentment and a natural modesty she did not know what to say: whether to admit the truth or to refuse to answer. In the end and after a terrible pause, “Why,” she faltered, “do you ask me, Lady Ellingham?”

  “Why, Miss South?” The Countess’s tone was sharp with surprise. “Can you ask me? Because in your position—”

  “But am I — because I am—” Rachel could not go on. Her voice failed her. But in those half-uttered words she voiced, as she meant to voice, the protest of her kind, of her class. Because she was what she was — a governess — was she to be shut off from the joys of youth, of womanhood, of love, of marriage! Ay, even if they presented themselves?

  Singular to say, the other woman understood her, and answered her. “No,” she said, not unkindly. “No, I do not say that, though in your position peculiar discretion and prudence are expected. No. But because, as I happen to know, Mr. Girardot is not in a position to marry, and, I am confident, has no intention of marrying. If anything therefore has passed between you” — she spoke now with more feeling—” and I fear, I greatly fear from your manner that it is so, he is much, very much to blame. And for you, it is well, Miss South, that you are warned in time.”

  “But,” Rachel protested — and there was still the note of indignation in her tone, for what right had the Countess to assume that he was deceiving her—” why — why are you so certain that — that he—”

  The Countess relieved her from the difficulty of finding words. “Has he asked you to marry him?” Rachel winced. “No,” she murmured.

  “Has he spoken to you of marriage?”

  “No,” she whispered.

  “And he will not, believe me. He has no intention of doing so. And as I do not think so ill of you — indeed I think better of you, Miss South, for I see that you are not yet trained to deceive — as to believe that you are capable of listening to him on other terms, I am only doing my duty in warning you against him. You are young, younger than I thought and with less experience of the world. I give you credit for desiring to conduct yourself virtuously; your family, I am told, is respectable. I do not know what has passed between you and Mr. Girardot, but I must impress upon you” — and Lady Ellingham spoke very seriously now—” that no young girl should listen to a man, should at any rate let her feelings be known by him, until he has declared himself. That, I am confident, Mr. Girardot has not done, and will not do. And therefore I am sure that you will see the propriety of putting an end to this — this trifling at once. Otherwise—”

  But she had no need to pronounce the alternative. The mingled gravity and kindness with which she spoke broke down the girl’s resistance. Rachel burst into tears, her face hidden on her arms and all attempt at disguise laid aside. “I had better go!” she sobbed, her shoulders heaving piteously. “I had better go!”

  Lady Ellingham seemed to weigh the suggestion for some moments and to consider it dispassionately. But after a pause, “No,” she said with deliberation. “I do not think that that is necessary. I do not want to lose you, and others may have an inkling of this. It will be wiser to stay, and by your conduct to prove both to them and to him that you respect yourself. You have been frank with me, or at least,” she added with a faint smile, “as frank as I could expect; and the advice I give you, Miss South, is not only the best I can give you, but it proves my confidence in you. If I thought ill of you, it is not the advice I should give you. But I believe that now your eyes are opened you will act as self-respect dictates to you.”

  She stood a while, looking down with a softened face at the girl, expecting, perhaps, that she would answer. But Rachel had no strength to speak. Humiliation whelmed her like a flood; and after a moment’s thought the elder woman slowly left the room. A moment later she reopened the door, but it was only to say, “Ann will not come to you to-day.”

  On the stairs, however, my lady paused. “I think — I think she is a good girl,” she reflected. “But I wonder if I have done rightly! The man is in the house. I cannot prevent them meeting.” And once she turned as if she would go back, and during that pause Rachel’s lot in this world hung in the balance. But the Countess did not go back.

  CHAPTER XII

  IN SOCIETY

  ANN sprawled in her chair with her sharp, merciless eyes fixed on her governess. “My eye,” she said, “you do look a ghost, Miss South. You’re not the same! You look like Ellingham when he’s cut to the world! You might tell me! Tell me about the shock mother says you had! And the robbers. The bracelet was mine, and I ought to know.”

  “Well,” Rachel replied sharply, “you will not know — at any rate in lesson-time. You will go on with your dictation. ‘Ces barbares qui esperaient de surprendre la ville.’”

  “I’ll bet they surprised you, by gum!” Ann muttered rebelliously as, with the red tip of her tongue protruding, she languidly transcribed the sentence. “You might say they did, Miss South?”

  “‘Furent eux-memes surpris et deconcertes.’”

  But Ann’s pen hung idle. “Were they discon — disconcerted,” she asked cunningly, “when Uncle George came up?”

  “Take it down at once!” Rachel insisted, tapping the table impatiently.

  “Oh, now, you know,” the incurable one protested, “mother told you to be patient with me! And you are not being patient, you know! You are not the same at all. You are quite gashly. One day I thought you nearly pretty — only one day, you know,” Ann added guardedly. “But now you are gashly. I hope I shall never have a shock to make me ugly.”

  “Go on this minute!” Rachel scolded. “Full stop. ‘ Les sujets d’Alceste, animes par l’exemple et par les ordres de Mentor—’”

  Ann, her tongue still in evidence, penned the words reluctantly. But that done, “Give this cheek a little red,” she whispered impudently. “One would not sure be gashly when one’s dead! Yes?” Then, seeing that poor Rachel’s thoughts had wandered and that she was not attending, “No, you’re not the same at all,” she said. “You’re ever so different.”

  And alas! Ann was right. Rachel was not the same. Yesterday hopeful and innocent, a-tiptoe with the quivering sense that, within the forbidden chamber on the threshold of which she hung expectant, things unknown, but beautiful and radiant, might await her. To-day, one day older, and yet in that one day apprised — the door ajar now — that within the chamber were other things not beautiful, not glorious: pangs and aches and jealousy and disappointment — clouds that overhung and might in one moment ruin the scene.

  She was changed; but not so completely changed that even with the door ajar she did not cling to the illusion — that she did not try to blind herself to the spectres, of which she now had a glimpse. And it is certain that, if Lady Effingham had known when she paused on the stairs the direction in which the girl’s thoughts would run during the next twenty-four hours, she would have retraced her steps to the schoolroom and revoked her decision.

  For love is an absorbing passion, selfish, exclusive, dominating, and from the innocent heart of inexperience it is hardly to be washed by all the waters of all the seas. For the time Rachel had been overwhelmed. The painfulness of her position, and shame at hearing her heart’s secret discovered in bald words — these and the authority of the elder woman had overcome and silenced her. She had been unable to resist, unable to protest. And for some hours she had lain prostrate, crushed by the conviction that she had deceived herself, that he had but played with her and made sport of her — and that henceforth life with all its joys and colour was at an end for her.

  And of course she had fancied that her heart was broken. But not many hours passed before hope began to raise its head, and with it faith in her lover. How did Lady Ellingham know? How could she kn
ow? Memory, at once painful and alluring, recalled the fervour of his voice, the glow of his eyes, the passion that had enveloped her and wrapped her in a delicious confusion — recalled above all the caress that had brushed her hair! And no! her heart cried, he was not playing with her. He was not deceiving her! He could not be. She would not believe it. He would come to her presently; he would come the moment that he could, and he would speak, and she would be happy. Yes, he would come to her. A few hours, and all would be well, and her heart would sing with joy.

  And he was in the house, there was nothing to keep him from her. He might seize any opportunity, he might come at any time. And when he came she would be strong, she would let no false shame stand between them. Lady Ellingham’s cruel words, her plain speaking, had stripped her of that.

  Yes, he would surely, surely come! But suspense is painful, and doubt more painful still, and even while she listened to Ann’s chatter she lost herself in counting the hours that had elapsed. For with every succeeding hour the question, When would he come? and presently, the question, Why did he not come? pressed more heavily upon her, began to harass her and torment her. She lived only in expectation, and was alike indifferent to Ann’s pin-pricks, which did but tease the surface, and blind and deaf to the happenings about her.