Complete Works of Stanley J Weyman

by Stanley J Weyman

  “You were nearly drowned, or something of the kind, were you not?” she asked, after an interval during which we had both talked to others.

  “Well, not precisely. Your sister fancied I was in danger, and behaved in the pluckiest manner — so bravely that I can almost feel sorry that the danger was not there to dignify her heroism.”

  “That was like her,” she answered, in a tone just a little scornful. “You must have thought her a terrible tomboy.”

  While she was speaking there came one of those terrible lulls in the talk, and Mr. Guest, overhearing, cried: “Who is that you are abusing, my dear? Let us all share in the sport. If it’s Clare, I think I can name one who is a far worse hoyden upon occasion.”

  “It is no one of whom you have ever heard, papa,” she answered archly. “It is a person in whom Mr. — Mr. Herapath” — I had murmured my name as she stumbled— “and I are interested. Now, tell me, did you not think so?” she murmured graciously, leaning the slightest bit toward me, and opening her eyes as she looked into mine in a way that to a man who had spent the day in a dusty room in Great Scotland Yard was sufficiently intoxicating.

  “No,” I said, lowering my voice in imitation of hers. “No, Miss Guest, I did not think so at all. I thought your sister a brave little thing — rather careless, as children are apt to be, but likely to grow into a charming girl.”

  I wondered, marking how she bit her lip and refrained from assent, whether, impossible as it must seem to anyone looking in her face, there might not be something of the shrew about my beautiful neighbor. Her tone, when she spoke of her sister, seemed to import no great good will.

  “So that is your opinion?” she said, after a pause. “Do you know,” with a laughing glance, “that some people think I am like her?”

  “Yes?” I answered gravely. “Well, I should be able to judge, who have seen you both and yet am not an old friend. And I think you are both like and unlike. Your sister has very beautiful eyes” — she lowered hers swiftly— “and hair like yours, but her manner and style were very different. I can no more fancy Bab in your place than I can picture you, Miss Guest, as I saw her for the first time — and on many after occasions,” I added, laughing as much to cover my own hardihood as at the queer little figure I had conjured up.

  “Thank you,’ Mr. Herapath,” she replied with coldness, though she had blushed darkly to her ears. “That, I think, must be enough of compliments for to-night — as you are not an old friend.” And she turned away, leaving me to curse my folly in saying so much, when our acquaintance was as yet in the bud, and as susceptible to overwarmth as to a temperature below zero.

  A moment later the ladies left us. The flush I had brought to her cheek still lingered there, as she swept past me with a wondrous show of dignity in one so young. Mr. Guest came down and took her place, and we talked of the “land of berries,” and our adventures there, while the rest — older friends — listened indulgently or struck in from time to time with their own biggest fish and deadliest flies.

  I used to wonder why women like to visit dusty chambers; why they get more joy — I am fain to think they do — out of a scrambling tea up three pairs of stairs in Pump Court, than from the very same materials — and comfort withal — in their own house. I imagine it is for the same reason that the bachelor finds a singular charm in a lady’s drawing room, and there, if anywhere, sees her with a reverent mind — a charm and a subservience which I felt to the full in the Guests’ drawing room — a room rich in subdued colors and a cunning blending of luxury and comfort. Yet it depressed me. I felt alone. Mr. Guest had passed on to others and I stood aside, the sense that I was not of these people troubling me in a manner as new as it was absurd: for I had been in the habit of rather despising “society.” Miss Guest was at the piano, the center of a circle of soft light, which showed up also a keen-faced, dark-whiskered man leaning over her with the air of one used to the position. Everyone else was so fully engaged that I may have looked, as well as felt, forlorn, and meeting her eyes could have fancied she was regarding me with amusement — almost triumph. It must have been mere fancy, bred of self-consciousness, for the next moment she beckoned me to her, and said to her cavalier:

  “There, Jack; Mr. Herapath is going to talk to me about Norway now, so that I don’t want you any longer. Perhaps you won’t mind stepping up to the schoolroom — Fräulein and Clare are there — and telling Clare, that — that — oh, anything!”

  There is no piece of ill-breeding so bad to my mind as for a man who is at home in a house to flaunt his favor in the face of other guests. That young lawyer’s manner as he left her, and the smile of perfect intelligence which passed between them were such a breach of good manners as would have ruffled anyone. They ruffled me — yes, me, although it was no concern of mine what she called him, or how he conducted himself — so that I could do nothing but stand by the piano and sulk. One bear makes another, you know.

  She did not speak, and I, content to watch the slender hands stealing over the keys, would not, until my eyes fell upon her right wrist. She had put off her bracelets and so disclosed a scar upon it, something about which — not its newness — so startled me that I said abruptly, “That is very strange! Pray tell me how you did it!”

  She looked up, saw what I meant, and, stopping hastily, put on her bracelets; to all appearance so vexed by my thoughtless question, and anxious to hide the mark, that I was quick to add humbly, “I asked because your sister hurt her wrist in nearly the same place on the day when she thought I was in trouble, and the coincidence struck me.”

  “Yes, I remember,” looking at me I thought with a certain suspicion, as though she were not sure that I was giving the right motive. “I did this much in the same way. By falling, I mean. Isn’t it a hateful disfigurement?”

  No, it was no disfigurement. Even to her, with a woman’s love of conquest, it must have seemed anything but a disfigurement had she known what the quiet, awkward man at her side was thinking, who stood looking shyly at it and found no words to contradict her, though she asked him twice, and thought him stupid enough. A great longing to kiss that soft, scarred wrist was on me — and Miss Guest had added another to the number of her slaves. I don’t know now why that little scar should have so touched me any more than I then could guess why, being a commonplace person, I should fall in love at first sight, and feel no surprise at my condition, only a half consciousness (seeming fully to justify it) that in some former state of being I had met my love, and read her thoughts, and learned her moods, and come to know the bright womanly spirit that looked from her frank eyes as well as if she were an old, old friend. And so vivid was this sensation, that once or twice, then and afterward, when I would meet her glance, another name than hers trembled on my tongue and passed away before I could shape it into sound.

  After an interval, “Are you going to the Goldmaces’ dance?”

  “No,” I answered her humbly. “I go out so little.”

  “Indeed,” with an odd smile not too kindly; “I wish — no, I don’t — that we could say the same. We are engaged, I think” — she paused, her attention divided between myself and Boccherini’s minuet, the low strains of which she was sending through the room— “for every afternoon — this week — except Saturday. By the way, Mr. Herapath — do you remember what was the name — Bab told me you teased her with?”

  “Wee bonnie Bab,” I answered absently. My thoughts had gone forward to Saturday. We are always dropping to-day’s substance for the shadow of tomorrow; like the dog — a dog was it not? — in the fable.

  “Oh, yes, wee bonnie Bab,” she murmured softly. “Poor Bab!” and suddenly cut short Boccherini’s music and our chat by striking a terrific discord and laughing merrily at my start of discomfiture. Everyone took it as a signal to leave. They all seemed to be going to meet her again next day, or the day after that; they engaged her for dances, and made up a party for the law courts, and tossed to and fro a score of laughing catchwords, that were
beyond my comprehension. They all did this, except myself.

  And yet I went away with something before me — that call upon Saturday afternoon. Quite unreasonably I fancied I should see her alone. And so when the day came and I stood outside the opening door of the drawing room, and heard voices and laughter within, I was hurt and aggrieved beyond measure. There was quite a party, and a merry one, assembled, who were playing at some game as it seemed to me, for I caught sight of Clare whipping off an impromptu bandage from her eyes, and striving by her stiffest air to give the lie to a pair of flushed cheeks. The black-whiskered man was there, and two men of his kind, and a German governess, and a very old lady in a wheel-chair, who was called “grandmamma,” and Miss Guest herself looking, in the prettiest dress of silvery plush, to the full as bright and fair and graceful as I had been picturing her each hour since we parted.

  She dropped me a stately courtesy. “Will you play the part of Miss Carolina Wilhelmina Amelia Skeggs, Mr. Herapath, while I act honest Burchell, and say ‘Fudge!’ or will you burn nuts and play games with neighbor Flamborough? You will join us, won’t you? Clare does not so misbehave every day, only it is such a wet afternoon and so cold and wretched, and we did not think there would be any more callers — and tea will be up in five minutes.”

  She did not think there would be any more callers! Something in her smile belied the words and taught me that she had thought — she had known — that there would be one more caller — one who would burn nuts and play games with her, though Rome itself were afire, and Tooley Street and the Mile End Road to boot.

  It was a simple game enough, and not likely, one would say, to afford much risk of that burning the fingers which gave a zest to the Vicar of Wakefield’s nuts. One sat in the middle blind-folded, while the rest disguised their own or assumed each other’s voices, and spoke one by one some gibe or quip at his expense. When he succeeded in naming the speaker, the detected satirist put on the poke, and in his turn heard things good — if he had a conceit of himself — for his soul’s health. Now this rôle unhappily soon fell to me, and proved a heavy one, because I was not so familiar with the other’s voices as were the rest; and Miss Guest — whose faintest tones I thought to have known — had a wondrous knack of cheating me, now taking off Clare’s voice, and now — after the door had been opened to admit the tea — her father’s. So I failed again and again to earn my release. But when a voice behind me cried with well-feigned eagerness:

  “How nice! Do tell me all about a fire!”

  Though no fresh creaking of the door had reached me, nor warning been given of an addition to the players, I had not the smallest doubt who was the speaker; but exclaimed at once, “That is Bab’ Now I cry you mercy. I am right this time. That was Bab!”

  I looked for a burst of applause and laughter, such as had before attended a good thrust home, but none came. On the contrary, with my words so odd a silence fell upon the room that it was clear that something was wrong, and I pulled off my handkerchief in haste, repeating, “That was Bab, I am sure.”

  But if it was, I could not see her. What had come over them all? Jack’s face wore a provoking smile, and his friends were clearly bent upon sniggering. Clare looked horrified, and grandmamma gently titillated, while Miss Guest, who had risen and half turned away toward the windows, seemed to be in a state of proud confusion. What was the matter?

  “I beg everyone’s pardon by anticipation,” I said, looking round in a bewildered way, “but have I said anything wrong?”

  “Oh, dear no!” cried the fellow they called Jack, with a familiarity that was in the worst taste — as if I had meant to apologize to him! “Most natural thing in the world!”

  “Jack, how dare you!” exclaimed Miss Guest, stamping her foot.

  “Well, it seemed all right. It sounded very natural, I am sure.”

  “Oh, you are unbearable! Why don’t you say something, Clare?”

  “Mr. Herapath, I am sure that you did not know that my name was Barbara.”

  “Certainly not,” I cried. “What a strange thing!”

  “But it is, and that is why grandmamma is looking so shocked, and Mr. Buchanan is wearing threadbare an old friend’s privilege of being rude. I freely forgive you if you will make allowance for him. And you shall come off the stool of repentance and have your tea first, since you are the greatest stranger. It is a stupid game, after all!”

  She would hear no apologies from me. And when I would have asked why her sister bore the same name, and thus excused myself, she was intent upon tea-making, and the few moments I could with decency add to my call gave me scant opportunity. I blush to think how I eked them out, by what subservience to Clare, by what a slavish anxiety to help even Jack to muffins — each piece I hoped might choke him. How slow I was to find hat and gloves, calling to mind with terrible vividness, as I turned my back upon the circle, that again and again in my experience an acquaintance begun by a dinner had ended with the consequent call. And so I should have gone — it might have been so here — but that the door-handle was stiff, and Miss Guest came to my aid as I fumbled with it. “We are always at home on Saturdays, if you like to call, Mr. Herapath,” she murmured carelessly, not lifting her eyes — and I found myself in the street.

  So carelessly she said it that, with a sudden change of feeling, I vowed I would not call. Why should I? Why should I worry myself with the sight of those other fellows parading their favor? With the babble of that society chit-chat, which I had so often scorned, and — and still scorned, and had no part or concern in. They were not people to suit me or do me good. I would not go, I said, and repeated it firmly on Monday and Tuesday; on Wednesday only so far modified it that I thought at some distant time to leave a card — to avoid discourtesy; on Friday preferred an earlier date as wiser and more polite, and on Saturday walked shame-faced down the street, and knocked and rang and went upstairs — to taste a pleasant misery. Yes, and on the next Saturday too, and the next, and the next; and that one on which we all went to the theater, and that other one on which Mr. Guest kept me to dinner. Aye, and on other days that were not Saturdays, among which two stand high out of the waters of forgetfulness — high days, indeed — days like twin pillars of Hercules, through which I thought to reach, as did the seamen of old, I knew not what treasures of unknown lands stretching away under the setting sun. First that one on which I found Barbara Guest alone and blurted out that I had the audacity to wish to make her my wife; and then heard, before I had well — or badly — told my tale, the wheels of grandmamma’s chair outside.

  “Hush!” the girl said, her face turned from me. “Hush, Mr. Herapath! You don’t know me, indeed. You have seen so little of me. Please say nothing more about it. You are completely under a delusion.”

  “It is no delusion that I love you, Barbara!” I cried.

  “It is! it is!” she repeated, freeing her hand. “There, if you will not take an answer — come — come at three to-morrow. But mind, I promise you nothing — I promise nothing,” she added feverishly, and fled from the room, leaving me to talk to grandmamma as best, and escape as quickly as, I might.

  I longed for a great fire that evening, and, failing one, tired myself by tramping unknown streets of the East End, striving to teach myself that any trouble to-morrow might bring was but a shadow, a sentiment, a thing not to be mentioned in the same breath with the want and toil of which I caught glimpses up each street and lane that opened to right and left. In the main, of course, I failed; but the effort did me good, sending me home tired out, to sleep as soundly as if I were going to be hanged next day, and not — which is a very different thing — to be put upon my trial.

  “I will tell Miss Guest you are here, sir,” the man said. I looked at all the little things in the room which I had come to know well — her work basket, the music upon the piano, the table easel, her photograph, and wondered if I were to see them no more, or if they were to become a part of my everyday life. Then I heard her come in, and turned quickly,
feeling that I should learn my fate from her greeting.

  “Bab!” The word was wrung from me perforce. And then we stood and looked at one another, she with a strange pride and defiance in her eyes, though her cheek was dark with blushes, and I with wonder and perplexity in mine. Wonder and perplexity that quickly grew into a conviction, a certainty that the girl standing before me in the short-skirted brown dress with tangled hair and loose neck-ribbon was the Bab I had known in Norway; and yet that the eyes — I could not mistake them now, no matter what unaccustomed look they might wear — were Barbara Guest’s!

  “Miss Guest — Barbara,” I stammered, grappling with the truth, “why have you played this trick upon me?”

  “It is Miss Guest and Barbara now,” she cried, with a mocking courtesy. “Do you remember, Mr. Herapath, when it was Bab? When you treated me as a kind of toy and a plaything, with which you might be as intimate as you liked; and hurt my feelings — yes, it is weak to confess it, I know — day by day and hour by hour?”

  “But, surely, that is forgiven now?” I said, dazed by an attack so sudden and so bitter. “It is atonement enough that I am at your feet now, Barbara!”

  “You are not,” she retorted hotly. “Don’t say you have offered love to me, who am the same with the child you teased at Breistolen. You have fallen in love with my fine clothes and my pearls and my maid’s work, not with me! You have fancied the girl you saw other men make much of. But you have not loved the woman who might have prized that which Miss Guest has never learned to value.”

  “How old are you?” I said hoarsely.

  “Nineteen!” she snapped out. And then for a moment we were both silent.