“Yet, say, sir,” she prayed desperately, “say that you forgive me.”
“And by condoning your disobedience, encourage the sin in others? No! No,” he repeated, raising his voice, and in his anger he had no mercy on her. “My duty does not lie that way. The forgiveness that you seek will not help you, for it is not with me your punishment lies. The tie that you have formed in folly will be your punishment, and I cannot remit it. He who tempted you to dishonour your father will not, be sure, girl, long honour you. He who taught you to deceive will think it no sin to deceive you. You have given way to passion, you have set desire above duty, and he for whom you have been weak enough to do this, will be the first to despise you.”
“You say dreadful things!” she gasped. She was white to the lips.
“True things,” he replied bitterly. “And the time will come when you will know them to be true. I do not judge you. It is he who will judge you, who is judging you even now — and judging himself. Seeing day by day, girl, the burden he has laid upon his poverty, the encumbrance that, sinking under his own failings, he has taken on his shoulders.”
“It is not true!” she protested in agony — oh, he was cruel, cruel!—” You do not know him!”
He was not softened. “It is you who do not know him,” he rejoined. “But you will know him. And the fruit of disobedience that you have eaten will be as ashes in your mouth. Let my words warn you, for they will not fall to the ground.”
He left her weeping bitterly. He stalked on down the road. The meeting had to be, and he was glad that it was over, and that it had taken place out of earshot of others. For one moment, indeed, recalling her stricken face, the father came near to repenting of the things he had said. Tenderness stirred in him, and memory. But he trod down the feeling; he recalled his wrongs, her conduct, her deceit! And the moment passed.
Yet, had he looked back, he might even then have repented. He might have gone back to her and many things might have been changed. For he would have seen that the girl, after tottering a few yards, had broken down altogether. Blindly seeking the side of the road, and leaning against the rough stones of the wall, she had burst into passionate weeping.
For his words had wounded her in a sore spot, they had fallen on a heart tender and open to fear. Her husband was still her lover, ardent, kind, unwearied in service, quick to shield her from every hardship that he could avert. She could find no fault in him. He was all, she told herself, that her fondest fancy had promised. But she was not blind. Love sharpened her eyes, and she saw that there were hours when she did not exist for him, when he lost himself in thought, when his face was clouded and his mind travelled far. She watched him jealously — was it not natural? — and she knew, no one so well, when care rode him, and the hasty or impatient word would escape before he was aware. Such moments she had hitherto set down to anxiety on her account — to his reluctance to expose her to inevitable things, to humiliation, to poverty, to care. And she had put the thought of them from her, confident in his love, and prepared to suffer worse, ay, far worse things, by his side.
But her conscience was not clear, and to-day, with her father’s stern prophecies ringing, like a Jeremiad, in her ears, she trembled. Was it possible that, thinking only of herself, she had failed to realize the care, the cost, the burden which she had cast on him? And failed too to see that he now repented? The shadow on his brow, the moments of depression that she knew so well, the moody word — was it possible that there was another cause for these than that which she had imagined — and did he in his darker hours question the wisdom of the step that he had taken?
She knew that he still loved her; she was certain of that, and certain that in his happier moods she was still the sweetheart of his dreams, and the wife of his choice. But her heart was riven by the doubt, and worse, by the fear how long this would last. How long in poverty and trial would his heart be true to her? And if he did not repent now, if he repented by and by? What then?
After a time she ceased to weep, and alarmed lest she should be observed she composed herself. She took up her parcel and went on, and youth and hope began to comfort her. She told herself that if she were loving and patient — and she believed that there could be no end to her patience — she must still hold his heart.
But her own heart was full and all her womanly emotions were in play when she reached the cottage. She blessed the threshold that was home, she embraced with joy the hardships for which it stood. She raised the latch softly, and she saw that Charles was there and alone. He was at the table, poring over a map, and the sight was too much for her.
She flung herself on her knees beside him, she cast her arms about him, and the tears rained down her face. “Oh, Charles, be good to me!” she sobbed. “Be good to me! Promise, promise, you will love me always! Always, always, whatever happens! For I have only you! I have only you, now!”
The cry came from her wounded heart, and in the first moments of surprise the man, amazed by her emotion, did not understand. Yet he set himself to soothe her, stirred himself, and deeply stirred, by her appeal. “My girl, my girl, what is it?” he asked, holding her from him that he might see her face. “Look up and tell me! What is it? What has upset you?”
“I have seen my father!” she sobbed.
“Ah!” he said, “I see!” He no longer wondered at her agitation. “And he has frightened you?”
So much known, she could not keep her fears from him, though even in this moment of emotion her woman’s instinct told her that it might be wiser to be silent. “He — he said that you would tire of me,” she sobbed. “He said — oh, Charles, he said that I was a burden to you! That I had cost you too much, and — and you would see it by and by! That you would be sorry you had bur — burdened yourself with me!”
He laughed, taking it lightly. “What a piteous tale!” he said. “And a piteous girl! He said that, did he? Well, I am not surprised, dear. It is what he would say. But your father does not know me, and you do, Peggy. You do, Peggy, don’t you? And trust me?”
“Yes, yes,” she assured him. “But sometimes you are — you are grave, and I don’t know what to think.” Yet already she was comforted.
“You think I may be repenting?” he said, smiling. He tightened his arm about her. “Foolish, foolish girl! Silly child! Why, your heart is leaping out of you! And all — do you know why?” He broke off, leaving the question unanswered, and when he resumed his tone was grave, and his manner more serious. “Do you know why, Peggy — why you are frightened? Why you let so little a thing upset you? Because, though you love me, you do not see me as I am. And you must learn to know me, and still to trust me; to bear with my sadness when I am sad and my impatience when I am peevish. To know me not perfect, to forgive me when the past lies heavy on me, dear, and failure and disappointment. But you must never, never doubt that I love you, Peggy. If I could wipe out the past and its consequences, if I could make myself other than I am—”
“I would not change you!” she vowed, clinging to him.
“No, I believe you. And you must believe me. You must believe that you are the one bright spot, the joy of a life that, but for you, dear, would be all shadow. Have you not redeemed me?” His voice was deep with feeling. “Redeemed me at your own cost, and dearly! Ay, dearly!”
“No! No!” she panted, stopping his mouth. “You shall not say it!”
“But it is so. And redeemed also, I hope and pray, one who after you is dearest to me. And that being so, can you doubt that I love you — were there nothing else? That in my darkest hours it is you who lighten the poverty, the failure, the disgrace that you have stooped to share?”
She covered him with kisses, and did believe, and she was comforted. And half an hour later he heard her carolling merrily, as she went about her household tasks in the rooms above, now shaking a duster, now showing her bright face at the casements that looked on the shining sea. Not that her tasks were heavy, for the men’s care left her little to do.
For
the time she was reassured. She put the ominous warning from her, she vowed that she would not remember it, that she would never in his darkest moods give thought to it again.
Yet the seed had been sown, the thought had been dropped into her mind. She was not less patient with him — and there were times when patience was needed. Rather, she was more patient. But she was watchful, and she was anxious. She laboured to cheer him and to show a gay face, and love taught her the way; and presently she became aware that she had a fellow-worker whose anxiety fell little short of hers and whose forethought, daily and hourly exercised for her, won first her gratitude and then her affection. Her eyes, open to things below the surface, pierced the meek exterior of the old Captain, and discovered how much of the peace and contentment of the home was due to one who seemed but a cipher in it. A common love taught her to know and to lean upon him. Beremouth might think him a burden and a drawback to her. Her friends might look askance upon him as a shabby, useless, cringing old man, whom necessity and his small pay and smaller pension alone rendered bearable. But Peggy knew better.
CHAPTER XV
WITH men physical daring is more common than moral courage. The very shame that compels a man to face danger is akin to the diffidence that forbids him to outrage his fellows. To women this may not apply to the same extent, but it does apply, and it was pretty quickly seen in the Beremouth neighbourhood that in her loyalty to her friend Charlotte Bicester stood alone. She found none to follow her, and few to praise her. The world took its cue from the Rector, shook its head over his girl’s delinquency, pronounced her outside the pale, and preached to its daughters on the sin of disobedience. A line must be drawn, they said. For the man, cashiered, disreputable, and of low habits — he was clearly impossible; and the girl, wilful and ill-guided, having chosen to cast in her lot with him, must abide by it. She could not be a nice girl, and to countenance her would be to place a premium on misconduct. One could not be too careful.
No doubt there were girls of Peggy’s own age who would have visited her were it only out of a romantic desire to see with their own eyes the shifts that love in a cottage entailed. But their elders, more cautious if as curious, set their veto on the notion. The result was that the young wife who had been all her life a leader among her peers, a gay buoyant spirit, more highly valued than at home, found herself as suddenly and as completely deserted as if she had been thrown on an unpeopled island. If she alighted on a dear friend in the street, the friend met her with a forced smile, uttered a few constrained and banal phrases, and, feeling the eye of a disapproving county upon her, broke away as quickly as was decent. Only Charlotte came to the cottage, and only Charlotte knew the price in the shape of scoldings and black looks that each visit cost her.
“You!” her mother would say, fanning herself furiously, “who have your own position to make! And ought to be particular, as I have told you, miss, times and times again! I declare I am that ashamed of you I can hardly look people in the face! If you were Lady Chudleigh, or the Honourable Eleanor, you might take a liberty! Being what you are, I’ve no patience with you, lowering yourself as never was! And when her own sister don’t visit her!”
“More shame to her!” was Charlotte’s undutiful answer. “And I mean to tell her so some day!”
“I hope you will do nothing of the kind! It is no business of yours, and Sir Albery, that the minx treated so shameful, our very next neighbour! I should like to know what he says to it. Silly, foolish girl, when there’s many a man been caught by a plain face that a pretty one’s jilted.”
Charlotte reddened. “He ought to go and see her himself,” she said.
“He! Him go to see her! Well, Charlotte, you are a simpleton!”
“Well, he will — before another month’s out. You see if he doesn’t, ma’am!”
“I’ll believe it when I see it!” was Lady Bicester’s conclusion. “Silly romantic girl, do you think because you’ve no proper pride he hasn’t?” And again, with irritation: “I should like to know what he thinks of your goings on, miss! You ought to be well shook!”
Charlotte made a face. And a Sunday or two later — but that was well on in the autumn — she kept her word, as far as Augusta was concerned. The two girls met after service and walked towards the Rectory together. As they paused before the arch that led into the garden Charlotte delivered her mind with her usual abruptness. “Augusta,” she said, “why don’t you go and see Peggy? Surely it is time you did.”
Augusta smiled. “You think so?” she said in the tone that never failed to irritate the other.
“Of course I do! Or I should not say so.”
“Well, I think otherwise, my dear. My duty to my father comes first.”
“It’s your duty to make it up.”
“But not,” Augusta replied shrewdly, “to fail to make it up and so make matters worse.”
“But the thing is done. Why don’t you make the best of it?”
“Done! It is done, unfortunately. Done so ill that it may not be possible to make any best of it,” Augusta retorted. She was armed at all points. She had thought the matter out, and was not to be ruffled.
“Well, I think you are very hard,” Charlotte urged. “Your own sister, and your only sister!”
“And a naughty sister, and a rash sister, my dear! And what is more to the point, a very ungrateful and a very undutiful daughter, Charlotte.”
“But you’ve heard of the prodigal son, haven’t you? He was received by his father and—”
“Ah, on that, you must speak to her father!” Augusta replied, feeling that she was having the best of it. “I am guided by him. And he has to think of more than his daughter!”
Charlotte fired a parting shot. “Well, I don’t think you will ever follow her example, Augusta.”
Augusta’s reply — she had an angelic temper — took the form of an invitation to cake and wine — extended after a sweeping glance had apprised the speaker that Wyke had gone home.
Charlotte did not accept, but, silly girl, left in a huff; with the intention, the other suspected, of overtaking Sir Albery. In this she did Charlotte an injustice, but as a matter of fact as the girl drove homeward she did overtake him, and on the impulse of the moment she pulled up. To no one else would the idea of pressing him to call on the girl who had jilted him have seemed anything but absurd. But Charlotte was in a class by herself; she was very angry, and the deed was done before she had weighed it.
“Sir Albery,” she said abruptly, “why don’t you go and see Peggy? There’s not a soul goes near her. She might be a leper by the way she is treated.”
He turned as red as a sunburnt complexion permitted him to turn. He stared at the girl, and to tell the truth he was not a little provoked. She read his feelings, and “There,” she said before he could reply. “Now I’ve done it! I suppose I ought not to have spoken. But I couldn’t help it, and mother will be mad with me!”
“Wait a minute,” he said. He hesitated. “Perhaps you will give me a lift?”
She nodded and he climbed up. She drove on, flustered for once, and for Charlotte shy. “I know I am dreadfully forward,” she said penitently. “I speak before I think, you know.”
“You haven’t thought — that perhaps her husband may not like it?”
“Who — oh, Peggy’s husband? I think he has more sense. I like him.” Charlotte never considered whether what she said would please. “I believe you would like him too, Sir Albery, if you knew him better.”
“Is he — is he good to her?” he asked in a low voice.
“Very good,” Charlotte said stoutly. “And the old man is a darling. And the place is — it’s not so bad as you’d think, indeed it isn’t. But she is as lonely as an owl. She sees no one from week’s end to week’s end, and no one goes near her. I think it’s a shame!”
“Why does not her sister?”
“She won’t! That’s Augusta all over!”
He expressed no opinion, and Charlotte felt more sensibly th
an before that she had blundered. That was not a thing that she could keep to herself, and “I wish I had not spoken,” she said. “Mother says I am a fool!”
“A very kind fool,” he replied, smiling in spite of himself. “But I think that you have not considered what you are asking me to do, Miss Bicester. Or how distasteful it may be to — to do it. I could not go there without ripping up things that are better left alone, and seeing things that I would rather forget.”
Charlotte yielded. “Then don’t go,” she said. “Please forget what I said. Of course, I had no right to ask you.”
“The right of a very good friend to her,” he replied. “You have that right, and I admit it. I am sure you meant well. But I cannot forget the past, nor what I hoped. Nor what I have suffered,” he added in a lower tone.
“But you would not punish her — for that!” the girl pleaded.
“God forbid! And God forbid that I should say that it was her fault. But I suffered,” he went on, driven to confide to this girl what he had never thought to confide to anyone. “And if I do what you ask, and I go there and see her poor and — and pinched and changed, I must suffer afresh.” Then, looking steadily ahead, “I loved her, you see,” he said.
Charlotte found a lump in her throat. “I’m a beast!” she muttered. “I ought to have more thought!”
“No,” he answered, smiling in spite of his pain. “It does you honour. But tell me one thing. Is he sober now?”
“As a judge, as far as I know!”
“But you might not know?”
“But he drinks water. Indeed he does! They all do!”
Wyke shook his head. “That looks bad,” he said seriously. “I don’t like that. It’s unnatural. Water? Good heavens!”
Complete Works of Stanley J Weyman Page 756