But it was not that. It was a visitor — a stranger. He had asked for the young mistress.
“Oh, dear!” Rachel exclaimed, her eyes betraying her alarm.
“Is it the gentleman who called a month or so ago?” Mrs. South asked anxiously.
But Deb could not say. She had been out when the other gentleman had called.
“Very well,” Mrs. South said. “We will follow you.” But when the maid had tripped away, “I am afraid that it is,” she said, her face grave. “Do you wish to see him, Rachel?”
“No, certainly not.”
“You don’t—”
“No, no!” with anger. “I won’t see him.”
“Very well, my dear. Then you had better turn back. I will see him.”
“And you will send him away, mother?”
“Certainly. I shall tell him that you do not wish to see him.”
“Please, please do. I won’t see him.”
“That is enough, my dear,” Mrs. South said, and leaving her daughter the mother went on alone. But as she approached the cottage her thoughts were busy and her face was sad. Rachel was acting as she would have her act, but Mrs. South had no doubt now that her conjectures were justified. This was a bad man and the cause of her daughter’s unhappiness. He was a married man, and no doubt he had trifled with her — with a sigh Mrs. South recalled his good looks and his plausible address. Well, she must be plain with him; she must be round with him while she must not betray her daughter. As she walked she planned what she would say and how she would dismiss him. The task was no light one, no pleasant one. And it had fallen to her when she least expected it.
Meanwhile Rachel, hot with indignation, turned back, and as quickly as she could placed a sandhill between herself and the cottage. She felt herself outraged by Girardot’s intrusion. It recalled things that she was bitterly anxious to forget; it brought home to her her perpetual, her hopeless weakness; it set her present folly in the worst, the most humiliating light. That the man should be so shameless, so persistent! That he should presume to follow her, to pursue her even in her mother’s house! That he should dare to ignore the wrong that he had sought to do her, and the circumstances in which they had parted! Oh, he was abominable! He was utterly, utterly bad! But — but, a small voice whispered, he was at least constant. He had not, she reflected with shame, a heart for all comers, as she, wretched, feeble, fickle girl, had! And if he suffered as she suffered? The sea-gulls wailed above her head, the scrubby grass that clothed the sandhills rustled coldly in the breeze, the sea stretched away, grey, flat, illimitable under a leaden sky; and suddenly chilled, stricken by an unhappy sense of kinship with him and of a common fate, Rachel owned the sadness of life. He suffered, and by his own fault. And she suffered, and by her own fault, for what plea, what defence had she to urge, when a woman’s pride, a woman’s reserve had twice failed her — in a twelvemonth? The waves fell on the beach at her feet, coldly, sullenly, persistently, as they had fallen for ages and would fall for ages to come. They gave her melancholy answer.
She was wandering at large, no longer blaming him but herself, when a cry reached her ears, and, glancing behind her, she saw Deb waving to her from the crest of the sandhill — it was the one on which they spread their linen to dry on washing-days. She turned and went back to meet the girl, thankful that at any rate that was over. No doubt he was gone.
She found a minute later that her relief was premature. “If you please,” the maid announced, “the mistress says, will you come in.”
“The gentleman has gone?”
“No, miss. The mistress is with him. She came out to send me.” Rachel’s heart sank. What could it mean? What could he have told her mother? She questioned Deb, but Deb was clear. The mistress had told her to find Miss Rachel and bring her in.
“Very well,” Rachel said wearily, “I will come.” And with lagging feet she followed Deb back to the cottage. If it had to be, it had to be. But what had he told her mother? What strange colour had he put on things that had induced her mother to allow, nay, to wish her to see him?
CHAPTER XXXVII
THE DULLARDS THAT MEN ARE!
HER mother was waiting for her in the porch, and their eyes met. “Oh,” Rachel murmured, “must I see him?” She clasped her hands. Every fibre in her was in revolt against the interview.
Mrs. South’s face wore a flush, and she looked worried and anxious. But her reply was decisive. “Yes, you must see him,” she said. “That is quite certain. But — but oh, my dear,” she continued, speaking with deep feeling, yet in a low voice, for the door of the parlour was only a pace away, “think before you speak. And don’t, don’t, my darling” — she laid a timid hand on her daughter’s arm—” let a fancy, such as I fear you have, blind you to — I don’t say your duty, Rachel, I don’t dare, for I don’t know all and I fear to press you. But promise me, promise me, my own, that you will not act hastily.”
Rachel wondered. Surely, surely her mother, who knew her, might trust her to do right in so clear a case. And yet that mother was trembling with anxiety. “I have only one thing to say,” she replied coldly. “You must know that, mother.”
“Yet, oh, my dear, think!” And as Rachel turned to enter the parlour, Mrs. South caught her again by the sleeve — she did not seem able to let her go. “I fear to say too much, for I am in the dark. It has come as a great surprise to me. Yet it seems so — oh, I don’t know how to say it, but” — she folded her in a hasty embrace—” may God guide you rightly! He seems to me a good man, and if I could believe—”
Rachel cut her short. “He is not a good man,” she said. “And I have only one thing to say to him. I have not fallen to that extent,” with a look of reproach. “You may trust me, mother!” And heedless of a last appeal that Mrs. South would have urged, she passed with a firm step into the parlour and closed the door. The ordeal would be painful, but she was determined that it should be short.
He had been pacing the narrow room, but he had heard her step in the porch, and when she entered he was standing, looking through the latticed window. He had put off his cloak, that very cloak which had a cherished place in her memory, and a single glance should have informed Rachel who he was. But so strong was the fixed idea that for a whirling second or two her mind rejected the impossible, and she fancied that her sight deceived her.
Then — she knew. She grasped the certainty that the last person in the world whom she had expected to see had turned and with his back to the light was looking at her; and in the first rapture of surprise, of seeing him, of being in the same room with him, of being about to hear his voice, the blood fled from her face. She gripped the back of a chair, and dizzy with emotion supported herself by it. “Captain Dunstan!” she ejaculated.
The man’s eyes devoured her, but his heart sank. For he had told himself, while he waited and his gaze roved over the humble ornaments, the household things that her touch had hallowed — he had told himself with craft that if she blushed when she saw him, all would be well — he would have his heart’s desire. But seeing, instead of a blush, a white startled face, he told himself that all was wrong. Still he was no faint heart and he rallied. “Yes,” he said. “You see, I have come to see you in your home. I fear I have taken you by surprise.”
“My mother did not say—” she stammered, halted. “Of course — I did not expect you.” Then with an effort, “Won’t you sit down?” In an agony of nervousness Rachel turned, apparently to draw up the chair by which she stood, but in truth to hide the burning colour that now flooded her face. She need not have troubled herself, however; for as, summoning all her self-control, she faced him, her eyes fell on the empty sleeve pinned to his breast, and again her blood ebbed and her eyes filled. “Oh!” she exclaimed. “I am sorry!”
He understood. “About this?” he said briskly, shaking the stump. “Pooh, it’s cheap at the price! They take me for Nelson in the street. A little awkward, as it is the right arm, you know. But” — for a moment hi
s dark keen eyes dwelt on her—” I hope to replace it to-day.”
She did not follow this, but, thank Heaven, she was regaining some control of herself. They were now seated, and, “I suppose that you are staying in the neighbourhood — with Lady Elizabeth, perhaps?” she murmured, in as commonplace a tone as she could manage. But why, oh why did not her mother come in?
“No,” he replied in his downright fashion. “I’m not staying with Lady Elizabeth. I came to see you.” She was hopelessly at sea. What could he mean, and why did he look at her so oddly? It was impossible that he had taken that long journey to see her! She must have misunderstood him, or — yes, that must be it. He brought some message, an invitation to return, perhaps, from Lady Ellingham. And seizing in her embarrassment on the thought, “Lady Ellingham?” she murmured. “She is well, I hope?”
“She was yesterday.”
“And — and Lady Ann?”
“Ann? Oh, Ann is never ill. She is like me.”
“And” — she knew that she was talking absurdly, but in her confusion and her fear of silence she felt that she must go through every member of the family—” and Lord Ellingham?”
“Fred? Oh, he’s all right. And the boy. But I didn’t come to talk about them.”
“The forest,” she said faintly, “must be looking lovely now.”
“I hope you will judge for yourself.” He straightened himself and stood up. After all, it was not much worse than a cutting out! —
“I didn’t come to talk about that either.”
He glanced darkly at her, and suddenly it was borne in upon Rachel that he too was not at his ease; and the discovery steadied her. “I came,” he continued, looking at her and looking away again, “to rig a jury-arm, if you understand — two for one, if you understand, my dear. But it is a business I’ve no experience of. I know very well the port I am bound for, but I don’t know how to lay the course unless you’ll help me. But — you don’t know what I am talking about?”
“No,” Rachel confessed. She was looking at him with troubled eyes, and her heart was thumping painfully. It was impossible, oh, it could not be! And yet his manner was so odd.
“No, of course you don’t.” He began to pace this way and that, jerking the stump of the right arm. “How the devil should you? Eh? How should you? I’ve flown no colours. But do you remember that night at Whitsbury, Miss South? There!” — to himself—” I hope to God that’s the last time! Well, I made up my mind that night that I’d found the wife that — that would suit me — if I could get her. But, mind you, it’s no light thing to take a wife, and I am no youngster to take up with the first perticoat on the Hard; and I said to myself, ‘I’ll haul off a bit, and see if I am in the same mind.’ And I’ve waited and I’m more of that mind than ever. And you may be sure, my dear, that I’m no Dutch ketch, veering and falling off when the wind shifts a point, and where my hand goes my heart goes with it, and stays. I can’t make pretty speeches, as they make ‘em in drawing-rooms, but I stick by what I say. And,” hesitating, “if you don’t feel that you can take me at once — and, d — n it all, why should you? — I’ll haul off for a month and come back when you’re ready.”
Rachel’s heart thumped no longer. She understood at last, and faced him with steadfast eyes, marvelling at her own firmness. The trouble would come later, when every blunt word that he had said, burnt in on her heart, would smart to agony. But for the moment she was firm, almost cold. Already she had made up her mind what she must answer, what was the only thing that she could answer. Yet — yes, she must have it clear. “I don’t think that I understand,” she said.
“But, confound it, I’ve been plain. Too plain, perhaps? And I’ve spoken to your mother.”
For a moment her voice failed her. Ah, but how good, how generous he was. Then, “Do you mean,” she said, “that you are asking me to be your wife, Captain Dunstan?”
“I’ve said so, haven’t I? Plump and plain. I meant to.”
“Yes. But I couldn’t believe it. I couldn’t believe,” she continued firmly, “that you could be so imprudent, so unwise. For,” with a pale smile, “I might have accepted you, you know. The honour you do me is so great, so very great for one in my position, and you have so much to offer, that I might have been foolish enough to accept you, sir — not loving you. But I cannot be so unworthy of your good opinion. What you suggest is impossible. There is too great,” she paused, marvelling anew at her own coolness, “there is far too great a distance between us, between Captain Dunstan and his sister’s governess, for — for it to be possible for any happiness to come of it. This — this is my home, and I love it and am at ease in it. But you couldn’t be at home in it, nor I be happy or at home at Queen’s Folly — among those to whom I do not belong. You know” — for a moment her voice trembled perilously—” there are flowers that will only grow on the north side of the wall.”
“Fudge!” he cried.
Rachel shook her head. “No,” she said, “it is the best of sense.”
“Then you don’t care for me!” He turned away, turned abruptly and looked through the window; while Rachel sat stiffly in her chair, clutching herself lest even now pain should wring a cry from her. But it would soon be over — soon, and he would be gone.
He turned again. “Well, I don’t know why the devil you should,” he said, “as I never signalled you. It is my fault. But see here, my girl, couldn’t you? I don’t say love me at once, but couldn’t you like me? Couldn’t you like me well enough to sign articles by and by?”
One last effort — but it was cruel, cruel to ask so much of her. “No,” she answered slowly — and, ah, the pain it cost her, for she knew that with that word she barred the door that she had already closed on her happiness. “I am sure, Captain Dunstan, that I can never like you better than I do now. Or feel differently towards you. I am quite sure of that.”
“Well,” he answered, “that’s flat. That’s plain.” He averted his eyes and stared at the wall. “I’ve a letter here from Kitty for you, but” — to himself—” no, why should I plague the girl with it? If she don’t like me, that’s all. Only,” turning almost savagely and looking down his long sharp nose at her, “if it’s that d — d Girardot, I’ll break his neck, d’you hear? He’s not fit to clean your shoes.”
“It is not,” she said dully. “I care nothing for him.”
“Nor for me,” he answered gloomily. Then after a pause, “Well, there it is.” He held out his hand.
“I’m obliged to you for your honesty. Yes, damme, I am. You are what I thought you and what I knew you were, and I can’t say more. Oh, d — n it, good-bye, and God bless you, and — don’t let me make a fool of myself!”
She put a cold hand into his, and he wrung it so hard that at another time she must have cried out. Then he turned to the door. She watched him struggle left-handed with the latch — he did not seem to see well — watched him open the door at last and go out. She watched him dumbly, though it needed all her strength to hold back the cry of anguish that rose to her lips, the cry that would even now she knew bring him back to her side.
But when the door was shut upon him her strength failed. She could bear no more. As she heard his retreating footsteps she flung herself face downwards on the chair on which she had sat, and dry sobs shook her form, tore her bosom, stifled her. Oh, it was too much! Too much had been asked of her. And perhaps, perhaps she was wrong! Perhaps she had flung away her happiness for a scruple, a fancy, a figment of mistaken honour! If it were so!
He had found no one in the passage — the mother had fled upstairs to pray — and with a stern face he had struggled into his cloak and stalked away. He made with rapid strides for the little hamlet where he had left his post-chaise, and from which he had walked with joyous anticipation, with so hopeful a heart. Well it was over. All over!
But when he had placed fifty yards between himself and the cottage his hand, thrust into the pocket of his cloak, encountered his sister-in-law’s letter, a
nd he stood. “Yes,” he muttered, frowning at the grey waste of sea that splashed sadly at his feet. “She may as well see what they think of her. It is but fair.” He turned about with his usual abruptness, and as rapidly as he had come he retraced his steps. He strode through the porch, he saw no one, and careless, as ever, of ceremony and intent only on his purpose, he opened the parlour door.
She did not hear him, much less see him. But he saw her. He looked down at the grief-racked little form, he heard the long slow sobs that shook it, he gazed spell-bound at the slender white nape and the mass of fair curls cast in abandonment on the outstretched arms that grasped the chair! And, dull as he had been, he was no longer deceived. He read the meaning of it, and no change from cloud to sunshine sweeping over the heather-clad slope of a hill in autumn was more wonderful than the change that transformed his plain face. At last, “You little liar!” he said. “You little liar!”
The words were a thunder-clap. She looked up incredulous, confounded. Her eyes met his, and was it her fault if her piteous face betrayed the truth? If it told him what he knew already, if surprised and convicted, she had not a word to say, but, snatched up, had no longer the will to struggle or the breath to speak or lips to deny. If all the foolish wall of pretence that she had built up with anguish fell at a touch and left her on his breast.
“But I never, never lied to you,” she protested a little later. “I only said that I could never love you better than I did. And it was true, sir.”
“Like, you said, like, you little trickster!”
“Well, perhaps it was only liking,” she replied demurely, but she did not deceive him twice. “Only, oh dear,” and a cloud came over her happy, blushing face, “what will they say of it at the Folly? They will think you mad, and me — I do not know,” she cried, shrinking, “what they will think of me.”
“Who?”
“All of them, sir. Lady Ellingham and Lord Ellingham and — and all.”
Complete Works of Stanley J Weyman Page 742