Complete Works of Stanley J Weyman

by Stanley J Weyman

  CHAPTER XXV

  TWO IN A POST-CHAISE

  RACHEL sank dry-eyed into the corner of the chaise. The lofty lighted doorway of Queen’s Folly and the figures about it vanished, the rattle of the wheels over the forecourt changed to a dull rumble, the shadowy lines of trees flitted past. But the girl’s one, her only thought was that she was on her way at last — though indeed little time had been lost — that the grim race with death had begun.

  She counted the hours that lay before her; she measured the suspense. And the immediate past, with its doubts and fears, its passion and fever, fell away from her like a cloak put off. The persons among whom her life had lately moved, whose esteem or dislike, praise or blame had been all in all — ay, and among them even he who had caught her heart, toyed with it, and wrung it — faded into dimness, became shadows without import, mattering nothing. Only one thing mattered. The tender, lined face that had looked its last on her from the wooden porch of that humble cottage by the sea, the veined hands roughened in her service, the mother voice — these were all that concerned her now, were all her world. And she was going to lose them. Oh, that she had never left them! That she had known how to value them, how to cherish them, and with every day and hour to lay by some dear remembrance of the love that could never be replaced! Oh, the time that she had wasted!

  Tearless, staring into the darkness, she clasped hand in hand, drawing at intervals deep and painful sighs, as memory, ruthless and cruel, stabbed her, recalled impatient words, ungracious looks, a selfish act, the wilful choice of her own pleasure. Little things, lightly weighed and as quickly done with. But the sting of them rankled now, now when there might be no place for repentance, no room to make amends, no impassioned words whereby to prove her love, her boundless gratitude! Now, when the heart, so tender and so forgiving, might already be cold, and the work-worn hand lie nerveless!

  She could only pray, voiceless and wordless, pray that she might be in time! She could only send her heart — and indeed it seemed as if she could send her heart! — before her.

  She was not as yet impatient. The hour for impatience was not yet come. The end of the journey lay so far away. When it approached, then indeed she did not know how she would bear the waiting, or live through the last hour of suspense. At present she had but to endure.

  A little white-faced girl, lost in the darkness of the chaise that itself, with its feeble lights, was but a moving atom in the vast of night. Yet within her a world of emotion, of thought, of purpose, ceaselessly revolving.

  Presently she felt the carriage stop, saw lights and figures through the dim glass, perceived that they were watering the horses. Again the chaise jolted on, the lights slid back, once more the horses were pounding along the dark road. On her right a gloomy line of woods rose to a sky but a shade lighter; and, had she been in her everyday mood, her lonely position must have presented visions of peril to her mind. She would have seen in every clump of trees a highwayman, and trembled where the night was deepest. But she had passed beyond those fears.

  And this was fortunate, for ten minutes later, as she sat patient in her corner, the unexpected happened. She heard a cry — twice repeated. The carriage came slowly, and, it seemed, unwillingly to a stand. She caught a word or two. Then the door beside her was plucked open, a dark form for an instant filled the gap, sprang in. The door closed, the chaise bounded forwards, and, trembling with indignation, she uttered a cry of protest, and shrank into her corner. Her first thought was that the postboy had taken up a fare — as they did at times where they dared to take a liberty. But at night, and when she was alone!

  Before she could speak, “Do not be alarmed,” said a voice that went through her like a sword-thrust — alas, a too well-known voice. “I can explain, indeed I can explain. I heard at Salisbury—”

  She was dumb with amazement — with amazement so great that for a time it left room for no other feeling.

  “I heard at Salisbury,” he stammered, making no effort to combat the nervousness that moved him. “I was at the White Hart, and I heard that a chaise was starting for you — that it was to bring you back. I pictured you alone, in sorrow, grieving, and I could not bear — you may think it impertinent, uncalled for, wrong, if you will! But I could not bear that you should travel so — alone! I came to meet you — only, believe me, to see you safe to the coach! Only to be sure that you were not frightened, not molested, were not—”

  She had only one thought, to remain mistress of herself; and, thank God, that was easy. “It was unnecessary,” she said, her voice cold as ice. “Quite unnecessary, Mr. Girardot.”

  “But it was natural! Say that it was natural?” he urged. “I could not help it. You must see that it was natural — and forgive me.”

  She was trembling with indignation, but with no other feeling. That — all that was dead in her! She had not been sure of it until now — now when she heard his voice, and the only emotion that it awoke in her was anger at his untimely, his cruel intrusion. “You might have met me at Salisbury,” she said.

  “And been” — he threw all the anxiety he could into his deep voice—” been hours in an agony lest something should happen to you!”

  “That is nonsense!” she replied in the coldest of tones. “Nothing was likely to happen to me.”

  “I could not know that. How could I know that? And I could not bear the suspense, or the thought that you were in trouble and that, though I might never see you again, I might be of use to you! Might leave some kindlier remembrance behind me — go from you with at least one word of forgiveness! It was that and surely, surely it was natural that I should come if I had not a heart of stone!”

  His voice shook with the force of his pleading. But Rachel was beyond the power of that voice. She only grew harder and colder with every word that he said, with every moment that passed. She felt — and it was a proof of her inexperience — no fear. She did not suspect that he had another motive for intruding on her than that which he declared, or a purpose beyond that which he avowed. But she felt that his presence was an outrage, and that the manner in which they had parted should alone have forbidden the step that he had taken. He had not thought of her, nor of the harm that his company might do her, but only of his own gratification. And her voice was freezing when she spoke. It was wrong,” she said. “I can protect myself, Mr. Girardot. I ask you to leave me.”

  “What?” he replied. “You would have me get out here? In the road, in the night?”

  She longed passionately to be free from him, but, Then at the next stage,” she said with firmness. “You should not be here. You should not have come.”

  “I meant well,” he protested.

  But she was not moved. She did not answer. And he had at least, he reflected, made good his footing; he must not frighten her. He held himself as far from her as he could, and he was careful not to touch her. He had anticipated more alarm, more suspicion — and also more agitation. He had feared that she would discern the weak place in his tale and inquire how he came to know that she was in trouble, since the outside of the letter, even if he had seen it, could not inform him of that. But Rachel, engrossed in her grief, had forgotten that it was not known to all the world.

  Now if he could keep his seat beyond Fordingbridge, if he could lull her suspicions just a little longer — but he would not, he dared not anticipate or give his imagination rein. With his pulses beating furiously, with intoxicating pictures dancing before his eyes, he must still restrain himself, for to anticipate, to snatch at the fruit before it was ripe, would be fatal. She was so near that he could almost feel her breath upon his cheek! He had only to stretch out his hand to touch her, to take her, to cover her with kisses! But the time for that was not yet: he must crush down the temptation. He must think only of Fordingbridge. Once past that...

  It came, and came so quickly that he had little time for thought. A light or two glimmered before them, they were on the long bridge, they were passing over it with the sullen water lapp
ing the piles below them and the river mists deepening the night. They stopped abruptly before the lighted doorway of the Greyhound, and the crisis was on him. If fraud failed he must fall back on force — were it possible.

  “Surely you will let me come on to Salisbury?” he urged. “If you wish it I will leave you short of the city. But I cannot bear to leave you alone, here.”

  “No! “Rachel cried passionately. “Leave me, sir, I beg. I insist on it.”

  “But why?”

  “Mr. Girardot!” Her voice trembled with anger. “If you are a gentleman, you will leave me when I ask you. It is not fitting, it is not right, sir, that you should thrust yourself upon me.”

  “She fears herself,” he thought, and he hugged himself. Aloud, “But indeed, indeed,” he pleaded, deprecating her anger even while he persisted, “it will do you no harm if I get out short of the city. Of course,” he continued, as she seized the handle of the door, and tried to turn it, “if you appeal to the stablemen, they will put me out. But I am thinking of you, not of myself; is it worth while to have a scandal, when I have come so far to be of service, and my only desire is to see you in safety? What do you fear?”

  “Nothing!”

  “Then why,” he retorted with a flash of humour — the handle was stiff and she had failed to turn it—” do anything so desperate? Why force me to walk ten miles?”

  She hesitated, and, to gain time, he rose. “Well,” he said reluctantly, “if you will have it so! But it is an ill return — an ill return for my — my anxiety.” He pretended to feel in the darkness for the handle, and, while she waited for him to open the door and descend, the chaise moved abruptly, swung onwards from the inn door, the lights passed behind them, they were off again.

  “Oh!” she cried in helpless resentment, “you should have got out! You should have got out! It is base, sir — base of you to force yourself on me!” Her voice trembled with indignation, for she felt that he had outwitted her.

  “Base?” he repeated softly. “Base? Oh, if you knew, Rachel!”

  But his words were lost in the rumble of the wheels and she did not catch them. And after all, it mattered little, very little! She was ashamed to think that her mind should have been diverted even for a second from the object of her journey — that she should have forgotten even for a moment her mother! Her thoughts reverted to the cottage, to what might be passing there! And, alas! what might not be passing there while she bandied words about trifles that mattered not? What sacred moments, what trials of fortitude, what scenes of distress? She thought of Ruth, called, child as she was and alone, to meet such awful issues, to catch her mother’s last words, to receive the last pressure of the loved hand. Ah, with what passion, in what a sad embrace would they two meet, would they melt in one another’s arms!

  For a space — for how long Rachel never knew — she lost herself in such musings. She forgot the present, she forgot even her companion — or, if a thought of him intruded, she reproached herself. She was standing in the dear room with the latticed panes and the sloping floor and the faded dimity hangings — standing by a dying bed.

  Oh, why had she gone from her? Why had she left her mother and wasted those months that might have been spent by her side, spent in fond attendance on her, in loving care of her, in making atonement for past heedlessness?

  She was brought back and sharply to the present. A horse stumbled and, recovering itself with a scramble, jolted her in her seat. She peered out. Trees, their trunks sliding by in the lamplight, overhung the road, their branches swept the sides of the chaise. They were passing through a wood, ascending too, climbing steeply on a narrow road, a rougher road than she remembered. She tried, looking out of each window by turns, to probe the gloom, and her heart that had been so low beat a sudden alarm. Doubts assailed her, and for the first time apprehension. She tried to recall the road beyond Fordingbridge — surely there should be low meadows on her right, water-meadows stretching far on either side of the river. And no wood!— “Where are we?” she exclaimed, her words a challenge.

  Her quiescence had puzzled him, but it had been in his favour, and he had been glad to let her be. Now that the question that he knew must come sooner or later was put, he was prepared for it. “There is nothing to alarm you,” he said, “and much to relieve you. If you will listen to me — if you will listen to me for a moment, I have good news. I have the best of news, dear Rachel — for dear you are to me, though you forbid the word. News that will relieve that tender heart and dry those tears, that will—”

  “Why are we off the road?” she cried. She was frightened now — frightened at last. There was that in his honeyed tone that admitted deceit, that betrayed an abyss, that fell into line with the dark woods, the narrow road, the labouring horses.

  “I am going to tell you,” he said in the same deprecating tone. “Only — do not be angry, do not be angry with me. What I have done, what I have to confess, I have done out of love, overmastering love that I could not — that no man could have resisted! And have no fear. You are as safe with me, day or night, here or elsewhere, as—”

  “No,” she cried, clapping her hands. “Why are we off the road? That is the question. Answer it, sir! Answer it! I am going to my mother, and she is dying! Do you understand? There is not a minute to lose in folly, sir, if I would see her alive!” Her voice was hard as iron.

  “You will see her alive!” he said. “You will, you will, and many times, I trust. But say, say first,” he repeated with passion, as he brought all his powers into play to move her, “say that you forgive me! That you forgive me for the trick that I have played you in the madness of my love! If I have deceived you — if I have for a moment wrung that tender breast—”

  “Mr. Girardot!” she spoke in a voice that he did not know. “If you do not tell me the truth at once I will break the window and appeal to the postboy! This is odious! This is intolerable!”

  “He would not heed you,” he replied coolly — for all must come out now, and the more quickly the better. “And it were a pity to wound that little hand. But, dear spitfire, hear me, and, as I love, forgive. Your mother is not ill. She has not been ill.” Rachel uttered a half-stifled cry. “She is as well as you are. I have deceived you — yes, I have deceived you. But if I have caused you pain, short-lived pain, think with pity — oh, Rachel, think,” he repeated with fire, “of one whose pain is lasting, who suffers and sees no cure but at your will, and who found no means of pleading with you save this! Surely, my dear, some mercy, some softness there must be in that woman’s breast!”

  But Rachel had ceased to listen. She had broken into a passion of weeping, deaf to his excuses, heedless of his presence. For the moment, in the immensity of her relief, one thing only appealed to her, one thing only was of import. Her mother lived! Her mother lived, and she would see her, would clasp the loved hand, hear again the accents of that voice. In the revulsion of her feelings and her thankfulness she lost sight of her previous fear, forgot her position, recked nothing of his presence. And even when, as she grew calmer, she fell to earth again and awoke to his voice and the desperate pleading he continued to pour into her ears — when with a shock she recognized his treachery, it was a hard pitiless anger rather than alarm that at first possessed her.

  But he did not know that; and he had triumphed too often to despair. He had welcomed her tears, not understanding their cause, for they bridged over the awkward moment, they won him time. And the more deeply she was moved, the more he hoped. In the troubled waters he looked to fish with success — the woman moved was the woman half won. So, receiving no answer, no repudiation of his suit, he was deceived into thinking that she wavered. And he was careful not to touch her, not to alarm her, though the temptation to draw her to him, to crush the slender form in his arms, to seek her lips, was almost more than he could withstand. But he did resist it: that and all would follow if he were patient. She sobbed, and he supposed that she listened. So had women sobbed and listened, and, sobbing and list
ening, had yielded. Presently she would find her voice, plead, protest, deny; and then he would know how, by gentle force, to win consent. Or, if she still would not yield, he would point out her position, the night, his presence and what the world would say of it. He would prove to her that the Rubicon was passed already, her good name gone, all lost — save love!

  He had gone through it before, proved it, tried it. Yet would he omit no precaution that experience suggested. And after all, she was at his mercy.

  They had passed out of the wood before she grew calm; they were crossing a wild common, set sparsely with undergrowth that fringed the road. And still she did not speak — but she might be wavering. He could not distinguish her face, so dark was it, but he could picture it, and, as his confidence grew, so did the lure of her form — so near that he had but to put out his hand and she was his. It was a shock when at last she spoke, and her voice rang sharp and shrewish.

  “Stop, sir, and let me out! At once! At once!” she cried.

  Her firmness took him aback. It was not what he had expected. But, “My dearest, dearest Rachel,” he protested, “it is impossible! Even were you so hard, so heartless, if you had so little feeling or pity for me—”

  “If you do not let me out,” she said wildly, “I will throw myself out!” And she struck the glass of the window. “Do you hear, sir? If you are not utterly vile, you will suffer me to get out, or you will leave me!”

  “Alone?” His tone was almost mocking now. “In this waste to perish of cold? Never! Listen, dear heart, listen! You are safe with me—”

  “I do not think so!” she retorted. “And you — do you not yet understand, sir, that I loathe you — loathe you were it for nothing else but the cruel, the heartless trick that you have played me! Let me out! Let me out, sir! Or I will throw myself out!”