Complete Works of Stanley J Weyman

by Stanley J Weyman

  “But I must go,” Rachel insisted with spirit. “I am innocent of even the thought of harm, but I cannot remain in a house in which, Lord Ellingham, I am open to such charges.”

  “You are the best judge of that,” the Countess retorted. She had wonderfully changed her tone, however — she spoke almost sullenly.

  “I am. And I must judge for myself — and protect myself,” Rachel declared, and she turned to the door, her head high. But she was so shaken that she could hardly walk.

  Lord Ellingham moved as if he would have intercepted her, but apparently he thought better of it. Instead he opened the door, and when she had passed out, he closed it after her. He walked to one of the windows and stood looking through it, his back to his wife. She remained standing beside a table, feverishly tapping its surface with her fingers. But the passion had died out of her face, and had left it white and weary. For if she did not believe Rachel, at any rate she had begun to doubt. And she saw that, if she had made a mistake, then she had made a terrible mistake. She had stripped herself of her pride and her self-respect, and for nothing! She had lost all, all that remained to her. It was that thought that was beginning to press upon her — that and the silence in the room.

  At last he turned. “You have been guilty,” he said calmly but gravely, “of a great, a very great injustice, Kitty. Upon what grounds you have acted, what fancied grounds, for real ones there are none, I cannot say. I cannot even imagine.”

  “You have given me enough!” she cried.

  “Not in this case.”

  “But I have seen — I have seen with my own eyes.”

  “What?”

  “I saw you ride out with her, saw you ride back with her! Ah!” she added with a gesture of pain, as the remembrance returned to her. “But I have seen enough!”

  “You saw,” he replied sternly, “nothing that was not innocent, nothing that a candid mind could misinterpret. I will swear to that.”

  “You would have me believe that you have never wronged me?”

  “Have I said that?” It was he who was scornful now, and though he waited for an answer she did not answer. “Have I ever denied that you had wrongs?” he continued. “That I was in fault? Is it not for that reason that we live as we do?”

  “And if—” she made a desperate clutch at the heat that had inspired her five minutes before—” if with one, why not with another? Why have you stayed here? Why are you here now? You never stayed before! Why are you staying now?” With all her power she drove home the question. —

  “What is your attraction! It is not I, God knows! Then, is it not plain what it is? Do not even the servants see it, and smile and nudge one another when you — when you give your riding lessons? Riding lessons to your daughter’s governess? Do you think I am blind?”

  “In this matter you are blind,” he rejoined. “And if with one, why not with another? You have said yourself why, and if you do not see the difference I do. This girl in my daughter’s governess. And why do I stay here?” For the first time a trace of feeling broke the cold severity of his tone. “I will tell you, madam, though I had not meant to tell you yet, nor God knows in these circumstances. I expected the question, but I intended to wait until it was — heaven help me! — more kindly put — put to me in some more timely moment! However, it has been put, and I will answer it. I stayed partly because, though you may hardly credit it, and may not credit it, I have grown, if it be but a little, older and wiser. And partly because one who is a better man than I has talked to me. Ann is growing up and Bodmin will soon be more than a boy, and before they learn things, I thought — I dreamt perhaps” — he hesitated and stumbled—” that we might, if you willed it, and were it only for their sakes — place things on a better footing between us! Because a man has played the fool — and I was very young, as were you, when we married — it is not necessary that he should go on playing it. And because he has not always valued what he has, it does not follow that when his eyes are opened he may not regret what he has lost. Until to-day I have always thought that you still preserved some feeling for me, and for the children’s sake I fancied — I knew you were generous—”

  “No, weak!” She was still tapping softly on the table, she still showed an unchanged front. But there was such pain in her averted eyes, such anguish in her heart, so terrible a sense of an opportunity, an incredible, unhoped-for opportunity, lost — lost in this unhappy hour — that had he but once met her eyes, she must have broken down.

  But he took her as he saw her, and, “Proud, at any rate,” he rejoined. “For I have never thought you deceived, and I have given you credit for your attitude — and perhaps admired it.” He stopped and seemed at a loss. Then, “At any rate, that is why — I have stayed here. I dare say I was a fool.”

  “Or you thought me one!” She longed to alter her tone, but she could not, she could not.

  And with that he too grew harder. “In this most unfortunate matter you have been one. You have forgotten yourself, and forgotten also that, if I am not a good man — and to you I have not been without fault — I have at least some scruples.”

  “The fault is yours,” she retorted. She spoke sullenly, for she could not bend her pride. But in truth she was dying to surrender, and if he had observed her closely, he would have seen that she was trembling in every limb. “It is not your place to teach the governess to ride, to handle her reins, to ride beside her, to put her up” — with reviving indignation—” with your own hands! It is unbecoming, it is unfitting, sir. You cannot deny it.”

  He did not. He was silent, standing grave and thoughtful at some distance from her. And when after a pause he spoke he surprised her. “Has it ever occurred to you,” he said, “that George has some notion of making this girl his wife?”

  She was startled. In her jealousy she had forgotten that aspect of the case, and, for my lord, she had supposed him to be ignorant of it. Now it rose before her, and pricked her conscience. “Did he tell you so?” she asked.

  “No, but he has said enough to make me suspect it. I supposed that you might be in his confidence — if you are not, and I am mistaken, and certainly I hope that I am, for it would be a mesalliance, it alters the position. But if it be so, is it so unfitting that she should learn to ride — it was your suggestion, was it not? Or so unfitting that I should teach her?”

  She passed a hand across her brow, and, alas, reason had regained its seat, and wretched, most wretched, she wondered what madness had seized her. How — how had she come to forget George, and George’s last request and her promise to him to keep the girl with her? But that — oh, how small a thing was that! She could have borne that! She could have put that right. What she could not bear was the thought that she had cast away her long-cherished reserve and trampled her pride in the dust — for nothing! That she had flung all away in a moment, and with all, her happiness! Oh, she had indeed, indeed humbled herself! Now, if she would not make the loss final and irreparable, if she would clutch even at this last moment at hope, she must humble herself to the ground. And at length, “What do you wish me to do?” she asked.

  But his anger was still hot. He thought her sullen and fixed in her injustice. “Nothing!” he said, and the dull word rang a knell in her ears, drowning that faint murmur of joy bells that had for a moment rung in the depths of her desolate heart. “I do not wish you to do anything.”

  She forced herself to stoop lower. “If you wish,” she said, “I will go to her, and — and ask her to remain.”

  But he would not meet her. “It is for you to do what you think right,” he said.

  She winced. “You are hard,” she murmured; and indeed this was a side of him that she had never known. With all his faults he had ever been courteous, gentle, good-tempered with her.

  “It is my house and I am responsible,” he rejoined. “I think you have forgotten that. I might order, but I do not order. I leave it to you to do what you think is right.” He took out his watch — he seemed to say, “You h
ave so many minutes — I allow you so much — if you do not—” His look, his tone, his bearing, all were strange to her, harsh, compelling.

  She sighed. At last, “I will go to her,” she said.

  He opened the door for her, his watch still in his hand.

  Left alone, he began to walk up and down the room. From time to time he stood, took a trifle from a table and laid it down again, his thoughts elsewhere. Ten minutes passed. The door opened, and Lady Ellingham came in.

  “She will not stop,” she said in a dull voice.

  “Have you—”

  “I have asked her pardon.” A red spot burned in each of my lady’s cheeks.

  He was still stern, unforgiving. “The girl must not go,” he said.

  “But I have said all that!” She broke off.

  “Very well,” she said with lowered eyes. “I will try again.” She left the room.

  He returned to his pacing, until the door opened anew. “She will remain until to-morrow,” my lady announced in a lifeless tone. “She will make some excuse for leaving. I can do no more. Indeed, I cannot.”

  He rang the bell. “Then we will go to lunch,” he said. And she saw that she was still unforgiven. “It is late.” Coldly and formally he opened the door and followed her out.

  But, ah, the silence of that meal! It fell drop by drop on my lady’s heart, quenching with its chill the trembling flame of hope that had sprung up, damping down the tiny spark that had begun to glow, leaving all cold, lifeless, desolate — more lifeless, more desolate, more hopeless than before. The children, warned of trouble, stole to their places and stayed their chatter. Even Ann, daunted for once, sat humped and on guard, stealing shrewd glances from under the penthouse of her black locks and storing her mind with reflections which she would retail later. “Crikey, but there has been a rumpus!” was the gist of them. The men waited with servile care, went to and fro soft-footed, while Bowles, standing impassive behind his mistress’s chair — but what Bowles thought Mrs. Jemmett learned over a thimbleful of Garland’s port an hour later.

  “I’m afraid it’s serious this time, ma’am,” he said, shaking his head. “It won’t surprise me if it’s a break-up. And to think that two like you and me, Mrs. Jemmett, should be shivering in their places for such a chit as that. Oh, woman, woman, what a sight of harm you do!”

  “And here was I,” Mrs. Jemmett reflected sagely, “thinking all the time as it was the Captain!”

  “A daughter of mischief, ma’am, that’s what she be! There’s no other name for her.”

  “And his lordship seemed put out, did he, Bowles?”

  “Tragic, ma’am, tragic! A nether millstone. And her ladyship never looked off her plate and ate no more than a sparrow. She’s sorted him for once, I wager. I fear, I fear it’ll be a separation this time, Mrs. J.”

  “Well, it’s no more than he’s earned!” the housekeeper sighed. “I’d like to sort him myself. As for that minx — Well?” she asked sharply. “What now?”

  Priscilla had put in her head. “If you please, Mrs. Jemmett, can Miss South have some string?”

  “String?” the housekeeper said ungraciously. “What does she want with string?”

  “If you please, ma’am, she’s packing and—”

  “Packing?” Very, very nearly did Mrs. Jemmett give away to an inferior that a thing was passing in that house of which she was ignorant. But she was a woman of resource and she saved herself. “Of course she is! But what does she want with string?” she rejoined.

  “She’s broke a strap and—”

  Grudgingly the housekeeper gave out the string, and saw the door close on the underling. Then, “Wish she may hang herself with it!” she said. “Well, she’ve brought her pigs to a pretty market! However, you may make yourself easy now. My lady’s won, seemingly.”

  “And I’m thankful,” the butler agreed. “Yet I know it’s weak, but she’d a way with her, that girl — I could almost find it in my heart to be sorry for her.”

  “Well, I never, Bowles! And it is but a minute since you were calling her a daughter of mischief and heaven knows what!”

  The butler sighed. “I couldn’t bear the thought we might be parted, ma’am.”

  “It’s news to me we were ever joined!” Mrs. Jemmett answered tartly, her colour rising. She looked at the clock and bustled to her feet. “There! I’ve my work to do, if you’ve none. I can’t stay gossiping here all day.”

  “You’re hard, ma’am, hard,” Bowles pleaded.

  “I suppose I’ve not a way with me!” said Mrs. Jemmett.

  CHAPTER XXXIII

  IN THE STABLE COURT

  RACHEL did not doubt that she was wise to go.

  She might have made out a case for staying; she might have argued with some plausibility that in resisting my lady’s overtures to remain she was yielding to a resentment natural but short-sighted. And doubtless that was the light in which Lady Ellingham must view her action. But Rachel knew better, and though she had plenty of leisure in which to weigh the matter, she never doubted what course she ought to take.

  But she did regret, and very sorely, the necessity that was laid upon her. The schoolroom which had once seemed so bare and unhomelike now stretched friendly arms to her. The shabby old globe and the ink-stained table which she had often eyed with distaste now seemed to be things which she could not leave without pain. It was a harbour of refuge that she was quitting, dear if dull, and if lonely, safe; and more than once she asked herself for what she was exchanging it. If she would not be a burden on her mother’s slender resources, she must quickly find another situation; and that found she must face the chill of new surroundings, the reluctant welcome, the curious looks of strangers. That would be, that must be, if she went, her fate.

  It was all loss, though she was determined to go, and did not falter. But amid her regrets, that which rose up at once most bitter and most sweet was the thought of one who, she felt sure, had he been at the Folly, would not have let her suffer injustice. Captain Dunstan had helped her in worse straits, and he would have helped her in this strait. Of that she was certain, not asking herself what he could have done more than my lord had done, or how he would have intervened; but simply and blindly assured that before the Captain all difficulties would have vanished and that in some way he would have served her and saved her.

  But that certainty was in truth the very thing that determined Rachel. She was no longer the simple girl that she had been, and she understood what this feeling meant; and the discovery, late made, frightened as much as it shamed her. It was not only that between her and her benefactor, between her and his people, there yawned a wide gulf, sloping indeed on his side but a fatal precipice on hers — that peril Lady Ellingham had made abundantly clear to her; but between her and him there lay also her past weakness, her stupendous folly, her whole history since he had known her — memories and a history that burned her face with shame. To lose her heart, to misplace her affections, twice in a twelvemonth! Oh, it was indeed time, it was indeed well that she should go and learn wisdom in another place.

  For dimly, yet with a true instinct, Rachel saw that if she stayed, unhappiness worse than that which she now suffered awaited her. And this, though she was even now very wretched, very sad as she sat with her few possessions packed and the schoolroom’s friendly face making dumb appeal to her. And Ann’s farewell, the child’s naive “Oh, you silly old thing, why do you go?” even her impulsive hug, though it meant much from Ann, whose nature, hard as nails, made any show of affection a tribute, was too casual, too careless to bring comfort to a heart that hungered for some warmer, some more human farewell.

  “But I am only the governess!” she thought. “And — and no one cares now he is gone! In a month there will be another, and I shall be forgotten!”

  And she had still an hour to wait. She was leaving an hour before noon.

  In truth, had she known it, the girl was filling a far larger place in the thoughts of the house than she i
magined. Hidden away in her solitude, she was troubling the peace of two persons. My lord would in any case have found it difficult to ignore one who had worked up so tragic a crisis between him and his wife; but he was further oppressed by the sense that the girl was being wronged. He was young enough and, to do him justice, generous enough to be heated by this; and his indignation on his own account — for no man resents a baseless accusation so fiercely as he who has been guilty elsewhere — was not lessened by the fact that the sufferer was a woman and young. He was still very far from forgiving his wife; even a night had not cooled him to that point, and having taken breakfast in forbidding silence, he had wandered forth to pervade the stables, finding fault where no fault was and a terror to grooms and stablemen. No horse was to-day shod to his liking, the chestnut was too fine, Medea’s legs should have been bandaged, the bay’s hocks were as big as bedposts, the oats were d — d rubbish! Even Coker, usually master in his own domain, wilted before him. He wandered in and out, a circling thunder-cloud, and all who could escape slid round corners. Bodmin, approaching in an unwary hour, was styled an untidy young cub and sent back to the house to button his gaiters.

  But if my lord was restless and moody, his discontent having its source deeper than the governess’s matter, though he laid it on that, my lady was still more unhappy. For she knew what she wanted. She knew what hope had in a most unlooked-for hour sprung up from the barren soil and she knew by what act of folly, of incredible folly, she had nipped the shoot!

  She paced her room with parted lips and heaving breast, and found no rest. Her pride all fallen from her, she would have torn her tender flesh if by so doing she could have undone her act. If she had thought that by a further abasement, however humiliating, she could move that stubborn girl upstairs, who had in a moment of time grown into so formidable, so fatal an obstacle, she would not have spared herself. But she had taken Rachel’s measure, she was certain that prayer would be futile, and she could only hope — but with a sinking, anguished heart — that when the girl was gone the breach, this new breach, might be healed.