GAINING TIME.
Not long does Mr. Pilgrim content himself with undeclared and
silent homage. The day comes, too soon for Sibyl, when he opens the
floodgates of his passion. He is a very different wooer from the
honest-minded English gentleman, Sir Wilford Cardonnel, and Sibyl
finds her position more painful than it has ever been yet.
He follows her into the garden one June evening after dinner, when
twilight is creeping over Redcastle, purpling the foliage in Sir John
Boldero’s park, and spreading a faint gray shadow over the brilliant
flower-beds on Mr. Trenchard’s lawn.
‘Why always avoid me?’ asks Joel tenderly, as Sibyl quickens her pace
at his coming.
‘I think the reason is obvious,’ she says.
She has constrained herself to be civil to him since that
remonstrance of her uncle’s, but to-night the tenderness of his
tone, its oily smoothness, its hypocritical sweetness, irritates her
beyond all bearing.
‘You mean that my presence is disagreeable to you.’
‘You may construe my remark in that way if you please. I may respect
you as my uncle’s friend, but you really give me a little too much of
your society for me to value you on your own account.’
‘But it is on my own account that I seek to be valued, Sibyl. A fig
for the respect you pay your uncle’s friends! Give me love for love,
truth for truth.’
‘Love!’ she echoes scornfully.
‘Yes, love; am I so revolting a person that the word sounds obnoxious
from my lips? Yes, Sibyl, love. You know that I love you devotedly,
passionately, with the kind of love that can conquer obstacles and
win its wish in spite of all opposing influences. There is nothing
to oppose me but your own obdurate heart. Your uncle’s most ardent
desire is that you should be my wife.’
‘You have worried him into expressing such a desire,’ replies Sibyl;
‘but I do not believe that it is really his wish. His ardent desire
before you came here was that I should marry Sir Wilford Cardonnel.’
‘Sir Wilford Cardonnel has no claim upon your uncle’s affection--can
never be to him what I am.’
‘Whatever you may be to my uncle, I only know that the effect of your
presence has been to alter him strangely for the worse. There has
been no happiness in this house since you have lived in it.’
Happily for Sibyl, she does not see the vindictive look--a look of
wrath that is almost deadly--which Joel Pilgrim turns upon her after
this speech. Her eyes are fixed on the shadowy line of woodland which
shuts out the world beyond Sir John Boldero’s park.
Joel takes time before replying to these uncomplimentary remarks, and
his voice when he does reply has all its familiar blandness,--that
oily smoothness which is so hateful to Sibyl.
‘Why do you say these hard things to me, Sibyl?’ he asks. ‘Is it to
prove my love--to test my forbearance, and gauge the depth of my
devotion by my power to endure your insults?’
‘I have no wish to insult you,’ replies Sibyl, feeling that she
has gone a little too far, and that this scene may be used to her
disadvantage with her uncle. ‘We might be good friends if you would
only leave me alone. I do not interfere with you. I am not jealous
of your influence with my uncle. Why do you follow me about and
persecute me with attentions which, as I have candidly told you, are
disagreeable to me?’
‘Why does the sunflower turn to the sun? I follow you because I love
you, and because I have sworn to win love for love.’
‘That you will never do.’
‘Yes, Sibyl, love will come by-and-bye with time and custom, when you
are my wife.’
‘That day will never dawn.’
‘Yes, it will, Sibyl. You have played your cards too well to throw
up the game just at the last, when you are close upon winning. Come,
we will abandon poetical similes and lovers’ talk, and settle the
subject like a man and woman of the world. With all your sweetness
there is a touch of worldly wisdom about you, Sibyl. We will speak
plainly. You have set your heart upon inheriting your uncle’s
fortune, a prize worth winning, I grant--a diamond not to be found
in every mine. You have wound yourself about the old man’s heart,
and have made yourself dear to him. You stand a good chance of being
heiress to that incalculable wealth. But I come upon the scene, an
adventurer, you think, perhaps, and one who seeks to deprive you of
that vast inheritance. You are wrong, Sibyl. I have never schemed
to inherit Stephen Trenchard’s fortune; but he and I have certain
business relations, and he is necessary to me. He is fond of me too,
after his own fashion--just as he is fond of you--and he has made
up his mind that we two shall be one. If you thwart that desire you
hazard his favour, nay, I will go so far as to say that I know your
refusal to gratify this wish would lead him to alter his will.’
‘And you know that he has made a will in my favour?’ cries Sibyl,
betrayed into a question which, after a moment’s reflection, she
feels ashamed at having asked, of this man most of all.
‘Yes,’ replies Mr. Pilgrim, deliberately. ‘I know that Stephen
Trenchard has bequeathed the bulk of his fortune to you; nay, I
may go so far as to say his entire fortune. Your sisters will be
disappointed, I fear, but you have made yourself the favourite, you
see.’
‘And he is soon to die,’ reflects Sibyl. ‘If I offend him now by
absolutely refusing to marry this man I shall lose all. If I can gain
time--a very little time, perhaps--all will be mine.’
‘Give me your answer, Sibyl,’ pleads Joel. ‘I am ready to forgive
all the cruel things you have said. A woman’s hard words signify but
little. Tell me that you will be my own sweet wife, that I may go
back to India by-and-bye, with a fair princess from the west--fairer
than a dream to Indian eyes. Give me hope, Sibyl.’
‘Give me time,’ replies Sibyl. ‘I have told you that--that I do not
understand you--that the idea of your affection is at present most
painful to me. Give me time to overcome what is perhaps an unworthy
prejudice on my part. I would make any possible sacrifice to please
my uncle, who has been very good to me. With time, perhaps----’
‘So be it,’ says Joel, offering her his hand, that small, cold
hand, whose touch she so much dislikes. ‘Shake hands upon that, my
princess. I will wait. You have no idea how patient I can be if I see
my way clear to the end. Let Fortune say to me such or such a prize
is there for you to win, and I will win it. I will win you, my love,
if conquest lies within the limits of the possible.’
‘And you will not torment me with attentions which----’
‘Which only increase your prejudice against me. No, Sibyl, I will
sink the lover and be only the man of the world. I will say to
myself, “My love knows that it is her interest to overcome her
distaste for me, that to refuse my hand is to throw away fortune. I
have only to be patient. All good things come to him who can wait,
like yonder moon which pierces that summer cloud, and shines upon
some belated traveller, just when the way seemed darkest.” Come,
Sibyl, let us go back to our dear uncle--my uncle as well as yours,
by-and-bye. The dew is falling, and your English compounds--or
gardens, as you call them--are so damp.’
They go back to the drawing-room, where Stephen Trenchard sits
reading by a brilliant carcel lamp, and the look which Sibyl turns
upon him is perhaps the most awful look that has ever scrutinized
his face, for it is the gaze of one who watches for the tokens of
death. Is that true which they all say? she wonders despairingly. Is
the forecast shadow of the end dark upon his face already? Does that
grayish tinge which overspreads the sallower tint beneath, mean only
the slow advance of age? or is it the awful hue of swift approaching
death? She cannot tell. He is so fitful in his health and spirits,
feeble to helplessness to-day, full of restless activity to-morrow.
He looks up from his newspaper as they enter from the garden.
‘Well, young people, have you been enjoying the moonlight?’
‘Yes, we have had a pleasant stroll, the pleasantest I have had since
I came to England. I never saw a moonrise that shone upon such
content as I feel to-night,’ answers Joel.
Sibyl tries not to shudder too obviously.
‘Shall I read to you, uncle?’ she asks, feeling that even the money
article will be better than lover-like speeches from the lips of Joel
Pilgrim.
‘No, my dear, I have finished my _Times_. You and Joel can play
chess.’
It is a game of skill in which Joel excels and which Sibyl utterly
detests. He has taught her to play just tolerably, and she would
rather play chess with him--the game engaging all his faculties and
exercising all his cunning--than hear him talk; so she takes her
place at the board submissively, and Joel’s tawny hands arrange the
stately carven images, castles on elephants, Indian potentates for
kings, Indian warriors for pawns, and Brahmins for bishops.
For a little while after this interview in the garden Sibyl’s life is
more endurable, for Mr. Pilgrim’s attentions are less marked. He does
not follow her from room to room so persistently as he did before
his declaration. He allows her to ride alone, horsemanship being an
exercise which he cordially dislikes. She has leisure in which to
brood upon the difficulties that hem her in, and calculate upon the
hour which will bring her release.
But this period of repose does not last long. One morning her uncle
sends Podmore to summon her to his study. She finds him seated at
his table, which is littered with papers and letters, and before him
lies that oblong volume which she saw on the night after the races,
through the glass door, and which she supposes to be a ledger.
Joel Pilgrim stands by the window, very serious of aspect, his tawny
countenance a shade paler than usual.
‘I have sent for you to discuss a very important subject, Sibyl,’
begins Mr. Trenchard, ‘one that is vital to you and Joel.’
‘Yes, uncle Stephen,’ she answers falteringly, feeling as if she were
expected to reply in some wise.
‘Sit down, my dear. We may have much to say to each other;’ and Sibyl
sinks into the nearest chair, dreading to hear the rest. ‘The last
mail has brought Joel some unpleasant--I should rather say some
unexpected--news about his business in Calcutta. He will have to
return to India almost immediately.’
Joel gnaws his nether lip and turns his face away from the speaker,
perhaps to hide that vindictive look in eye and lip. Sibyl’s heart
beats furiously, but her agitation is full of joy. Heaven has sent
her a reprieve. Her tormentor is obliged to depart. There will be an
end of that hateful question about marriage.
‘Yes, my dear, our poor Joel has to return to Calcutta by the next
steamer, or the first steamer that he can be ready for, and he does
not want to go back alone. You understand, Sibyl.’
Very ghastly is the change in Sibyl’s face as she looks at her uncle,
struck speechless by this sudden revulsion from gladness to despair.
‘You understand, my dear?’ repeats Stephen Trenchard.
‘No indeed, uncle.’
‘You have promised to be Joel’s wife----’
‘No, uncle, I gave no promise,’ she falters with white lips. ‘I only
said that I would try to like him better--that----’
‘Bah! that’s a girl’s vague way of putting it. You women always
beat about the bush. Joel looks upon it as a promise, and so do I.
It is a settled thing. You and Joel are to be man and wife, thus
fulfilling the dearest wish of my heart, as Joel’s oldest friend and
your nearest kinsman. By this means you will mutually enjoy all I
have to bequeath. In a word, I have set my heart upon this marriage,
Sibyl, and it cannot take place too soon. Joel’s recall to India is a
reason why it should take place immediately. Joel will lose no time
in obtaining the licence. Let me see--this is Tuesday. When does the
next Peninsular and Oriental leave Southampton, Joel?’
‘On Monday.’
‘Good; you can be married on Saturday. You can go to York for the
licence this afternoon, Joel.’
‘But, uncle Stephen, so soon--in a few days--it is impossible.’
‘Nonsense, child! nothing is impossible to men of business, like Joel
and me.--We have managed more difficult things than this in our
time, haven’t we, Joel?’
A sardonic laugh is Joel’s only answer. Persistent as he has been
in his wooing, his air this morning is not exactly suggestive of
delight, or of that entrancement which should belong to triumphant
love.
‘But you are so ill, uncle,--I could not leave you.’
‘I am flattered by the affectionate thought, but I am not so ill as
you suppose. And the idea that I have made you and Joel happy will be
better than medicine.’
‘My trousseau, uncle,--my outfit? To go to India at a few days’
notice! I assure you that any one would tell you it is impossible.’
‘Any one might tell me any absurdity, but I should not be obliged to
believe them. Do not let us have any more young ladylike objections,
Sibyl. The matter is settled. Joel will go to York by the two o’clock
train, and I will write to Mr. Chasubel to give notice of the wedding
on Saturday. As to trousseau, as you call it, you must have finery
enough to last your lifetime, I should think, judging from the
length of your bill at Carmichael’s; and now go, my dear; Joel and I
have business matters to discuss for the next half-hour. Joel, salute
your bride.’
Mr. Pilgrim intercepts Sibyl at the door, and takes her hand. He
draws her towards him, as if about to kiss her on the lips, but there
is something in her look so repellent, nay, so abhorrent, that even
his audacity is checked. He falls back a little, and raises her hand
to his lips, and with this ceremonious salutation lets her go.
‘You are not a very warm lover, Joel,’ says Stephen Trenchard, with
a sneer, when the door has closed upon his niece. ‘The sun of the
tropics doesn’t seem to have infused much of its fire into your
veins.’
‘You see me at a disadvantage,’ replies the other, seating himself at
the table, and examining one of those numerous documents with a moody
attentiveness that suggests trouble. ‘The girl hates me.’
‘And you hate the girl. Is that it?’
‘No. I think her one of the loveliest women I ever saw; a prize
worth winning at some cost of self-abasement. But her detestation for
me is a little too obvious, and I must confess that I am somewhat
less eager to win her than I was a few weeks ago.’
‘Before I made certain confidences, eh, Joel? Never mind. I told
you I would make her marry you, and you see I mean to keep my word.
Loving or loathing will make very little difference to you, I take
it. You will know how to make her obey you. You will have a pretty
wife to uphold your position in Calcutta--a good card to play always
where fools abound, as they do in the City of Palaces. And you will
have the handling of my fortune.’
‘I ought to be grateful,’ replies Joel, coldly, with his eyes still
bent upon a column of figures.
‘And now, Joel, let us be business-like. I think you will confess
that I have gone into your affairs thoroughly this morning. There has
been no impatience. I have not been betrayed into one angry word, but
I have arrived at a conclusion, and I shall abide by it.’
‘And that is----’
‘I must have ten thousand pounds from you between this and Saturday
at nine in the morning. Just two hours before your wedding. Or
else----’
‘Or else what?’
‘The house of Pilgrim and Company will go down like a vessel that
breaks her back--straight to the bottom, Joel.’
‘It is quite impossible.’
‘Not to a man of business, Joel. To great generals and clear-headed
commercial men there is nothing impossible. We only print the word in
our dictionaries for the weak and brainless portion of humanity.’
‘It is not to be done.’
‘It is to be done, and it must be done,’ retorts Stephen Trenchard,
bringing down his clenched fist upon the open ledger, ‘ten thousand
pounds in hard cash, Joel--a drop out of the ocean, a brand from the
burning. Borrow it, raise it how or where you can, among your English
connections, but understand I must have it on Saturday morning, or
before Saturday afternoon I shall have telegraphed to my solicitors
in Calcutta, and the house of Pilgrim will be doomed.’
‘After all the money I have earned for you in the past?’
‘That past is long gone by, Joel--it is the pluperfect. You have been
sucking my blood like a vampire for the last three years, and have
left me all but bloodless. I must have that ten thousand pounds.’