CONSEQUENCES
The dinner-party at Little Beeding was a small affair. There were but ten
altogether who sat down at Mr. Hazlewood's dinner-table and with the
exception of the Pettifers all, owing to Dick Hazlewood's insistence,
were declared partisans of Stella Ballantyne. None the less Stella came
to it with hesitation. It was the first time that she had dined abroad
since she had left India, now the best part of eighteen months ago, and
she went forth to it as to an ordeal. For though friends of hers would be
present to enhearten her she was to meet the Pettifers. The redoubtable
Aunt Margaret had spoilt her sleep for a week. It was for the Pettifers
she dressed, careful to choose neither white nor black, lest they should
find something symbolic in the colour of her gown and make of it an
offence. She put on a frock of pale blue satin trimmed with some white
lace which had belonged to her mother, and she wore not so much as a thin
gold chain about her neck. But she did not need jewels that night. The
months of quiet had restored her to her beauty, the excitement of this
evening had given life and colour to her face, the queer little droop at
the corners of her lips which had betrayed so much misery and bitterness
of spirit had vanished altogether. Yet when she was quite dressed and
her mirror bade her take courage she sat down and wrote a note of apology
pleading a sudden indisposition. But she did not send it. Even in the
writing her cowardice came home to her and she tore it up before she had
signed her name. The wheels of the cab which was to take her to the big
house rattled down the lane under her windows, and slipping her cloak
over her shoulders she ran downstairs.
The party began with a little constraint. Mr. Hazlewood received his
guests in his drawing-room and it had the chill and the ceremony of a
room which is seldom used. But the constraint wore off at the table. Most
of those present were striving to set Stella Ballantyne at her ease, and
she was at a comfortable distance from Mrs. Pettifer, with Mr. Hazlewood
at her side. She was conscious that she was kept under observation and
from time to time the knowledge made her uncomfortable.
"I am being watched," she said to her host.
"You mustn't mind," replied Mr. Hazlewood, and the smile came back to her
lips as she glanced round the table.
"Oh, I don't, I don't," she said in a low voice, "for I have
friends here."
"And friends who will not fail you, Stella," said the old man. "To-night
begins the great change. You'll see."
Robert Pettifer puzzled her indeed more than his wife. She was plain to
read. She was frigidly polite, her enemy. Once or twice, however, Stella
turned her head to find Robert Pettifer's eyes resting upon her with a
quiet scrutiny which betrayed nothing of his thoughts. As a matter of
fact he liked her manner. She was neither defiant nor servile, neither
loud nor over-silent. She had been through fire; that was evident. But it
was evident only because of a queer haunting look which came and went in
her dark eyes. The fire had not withered her. Indeed Pettifer was
surprised. He had not formulated his expectations at all, but he had not
expected what he saw. The clear eyes and the fresh delicate colour, her
firm white shoulders and her depth of bosom, forced him to think of her
as wholesome. He began to turn over in his mind his recollections of her
case, recollections which he had been studious not to revive.
Halfway through the dinner Stella lost her uneasiness. The lights, the
ripple of talk, the company of men and women, the bright dresses had
their effect on her. It was as though after a deep plunge into dark
waters she had come to the surface and flung out her arms to the sun. She
ceased to notice the scrutiny of the Pettifers. She looked across the
table to Dick and their eyes met; and such a look of tenderness
transfigured her face as made Mrs. Pettifer turn pale.
"That woman's in love," she said to herself and she was horrified. It
wasn't Dick's social position then or the shelter of his character that
Stella Ballantyne coveted. She was in love. Mrs. Pettifer was honest
enough to acknowledge it. But she knew now that the danger which she had
feared was infinitely less than the danger which actually was.
"I must have it out with Harold to-night," she said, and later on, when
the men came from the dining-room, she looked out for her husband. But at
first she did not see him. She was in the drawing-room and the wide
double doors which led to the big library stood open. It was through
those doors that the men had come. Some of the party were gathered there.
She could hear the click of the billiard balls and the voices of women
mingling with those of the men. She went through the doors and saw her
husband standing by Harold Hazlewood's desk, and engrossed apparently in
some little paper-covered book which he held in his hand. She crossed to
him at once.
"Robert," she said, "don't be in a hurry to go to-night. I must have a
word with Harold."
"All right," said Pettifer, but he said it in so absent a voice that his
wife doubted whether he had understood her words. She was about to repeat
them when Harold Hazlewood himself approached.
"You are looking at my new pamphlet, Pettifer, _The Prison Walls must
Cast no Shadow_. I am hoping that it will have a great influence."
"No," replied Pettifer. "I wasn't. I was looking at this," and he held
up the little book.
"Oh, that?" said Hazlewood, turning away with disappointment.
"Yes, that," said Pettifer with a strange and thoughtful look at his
brother-in-law. "And I am not sure," he added slowly, "that in a short
time you will not find it the more important publication of the two."
He laid the book down and in his turn he moved away towards the
billiard-table. Margaret Pettifer remained. She had been struck by the
curious deliberate words her husband had used. Was this the hint for
which she was looking out? She took up the little book. It was a copy of
_Notes and Queries_. She opened it.
It was a small periodical magazine made up of printed questions which
contributors sent in search of information and answers to those questions
from the pens of other contributors. Mrs. Pettifer glanced through the
leaves, hoping to light upon the page which her husband had been
studying. But he had closed the book when he laid it down and she found
nothing to justify his remark. Yet he had not spoken without intention.
Of that she was convinced, and her conviction was strengthened the next
moment, for as she turned again towards the drawing-room Robert Pettifer
looked once sharply towards her and as sharply away. Mrs. Pettifer
understood that glance. He was wondering whether she had noticed what in
that magazine had interested him. But she did not pursue him with
questions. She merely made up her mind to examine the copy of _Notes and
Queries_ at a time when she could bring more leisure to the task.
She waited impatiently for the party to break up but eleven o'clock had
struck before any one proposed to go. Then all took their leave at once.
Robert Pettifer and his wife went out into the hall with the rest, lest
others seeing them remain should stay behind too; and whilst they stood a
little apart from the general bustle of departure Margaret Pettifer saw
Stella Ballantyne come lightly down the stairs, and a savage fury
suddenly whirled in her head and turned her dizzy. She thought of all the
trouble and harm this young woman was bringing into their ordered family
and she would not have it that she was innocent. She saw Stella with her
cloak open upon her shoulders radiant and glistening and slender against
the dark panels of the staircase, youth in her face, enjoyment sparkling
in her eyes, and her fingers itched to strip her of her bright frock, her
gloves, her slim satin slippers, the delicate white lace which nestled
against her bosom. She clothed her in the heavy shapeless garments, the
coarse shoes and stockings of the convict; she saw her working
desperately against time upon an ignoble task with black and broken
finger-nails. If longing could have worked the miracle, thus at this hour
would Stella Ballantyne have sat and worked, all the colour of her faded
to a hideous drab, all the grace of her withered. Mrs. Pettifer turned
away with so abrupt a movement and so disordered a face that Robert asked
her if she was ill.
"No, it's nothing," she said and against her will her eyes were drawn
back to the staircase. But Stella Ballantyne had disappeared and Margaret
Pettifer drew her breath in relief. She felt that there had been danger
in her moment of passion, danger and shame; and already enough of those
two evils waited about them.
Stella, meanwhile, with a glance towards Dick Hazlewood, had slipped back
into the big room. Then she waited for a moment until the door opened and
Dick came in.
"I had not said good-night to you," she exclaimed, coming towards him and
giving him her hands, "and I wanted to say it to you here, when we were
alone. For I must thank you for to-night, you and your father. Oh, I have
no words."
The tears were very near to her eyes and they were audible in her low
voice. Dick Hazlewood was quick to answer her.
"Good! For there's need of none. Will you ride to-morrow?"
Stella took her hands from his and moved across the room towards the
great bay window with its glass doors.
"I should love to," she said.
"Eight. Is that too early after to-night?"
"No, that's the good time," she returned with a smile. "We have the day
at its best and the world to ourselves."
"I'll bring the same horse round. He knows you now, doesn't he?"
"Thank you," said Stella. She unlatched the glass door and opened it.
"You'll lock it after me, won't you?"
"No," said Dick. "I'll see you to your door."
But Stella refused his company. She stood in the doorway.
"There's no need! See what a night it is!" and the beauty of it crept
into her soul and stilled her voice. The moon rode in a blue sky, a disc
of glowing white, the great cedar-trees flung their shadows wide over the
bright lawns and not a branch stirred.
"Listen," said Stella in a whisper and the river rippling against its
banks with now a deep sob and now a fairy's laugh sang to them in notes
most musical and clear. That liquid melody and the flutter of a bird's
wings in the bough of a tree were the only sounds. They stood side by
side, she looking out over the garden to the dim and pearly hills, he
gazing at her uplifted face and the pure column of her throat. They
stood in a most dangerous silence. The air came cool and fresh to their
nostrils. Stella drew it in with a smile.
"Good-night!" She laid her hand for a second on his arm. "Don't
come with me!"
"Why not?"
And the answer came in a clear whisper:
"I am afraid."
Stella seemed to feel the man at her side suddenly grow very still.
"It's only a step," she went on quickly and she passed out of the window
on to the pathway. Dick Hazlewood followed but she turned to him and
raised her hand.
"Don't," she pleaded; the voice was troubled but her eyes were steady.
"If you come with me I shall tell you."
"What?" he interrupted, and the quickness of the interruption broke the
spell which the night had laid upon her.
"I shall tell you again how much I thank you," she said lightly. "I shall
cross the meadow by the garden gate. That brings me to my door."
She gathered her skirt in her hand and crossed the pathway to the edge of
the grass.
"You can't do that," exclaimed Dick and he was at her side. He stooped
and felt the turf. "Even the lawn's drenched. Crossing the meadow you'll
be ankle-deep in dew. You must promise never to go home across the
meadow when you dine with us."
He spoke, chiding her as if she had been a mutinous child, and with so
much anxiety that she laughed.
"You see, you have become rather precious to me," he added.
Though the month was July she that night was all April, half tears, half
laughter. The smile passed from her lips and she raised her hands to her
face with the swiftness of one who has been struck.
"What's the matter?" he asked, and she drew her hand away.
"Don't you understand?" she asked, and answered the question herself.
"No, why should you?" She turned to him suddenly, her bosom heaving, her
hands clenched. "Do you know what place I fill here, in my own county?
Years ago, when I was a child, there was supposed to be a pig-faced woman
in Great Beeding. She lived in a small yellow cottage in the Square. It
was pointed out to strangers as one of the sights of the town. Sometimes
they were shown her shadow after dusk between the lamp and the blind.
Sometimes you might have even caught a glimpse of her slinking late at
night along the dark alleys. Well, the pig-faced woman has gone and I
have taken her place."
"No," cried Dick. "That's not true."
"It is," she answered passionately. "I am the curiosity. I am the freak.
The townspeople take a pride in me, yes, just the same pride they took in
her, and I find that pride more difficult to bear than all the aversion
of the Pettifers. I too slink out early in the morning or late after
night has fallen. And you"--the passion of bitterness died out of her
voice, her hands opened and hung at her sides, a smile of tenderness
shone on her face--"you come with me. You ride with me early. With you I
learn to take no heed. You welcome me to your house. You speak to me as
you spoke just now." Her voice broke and a cry of gladness escaped from
her which went to Dick Hazlewood's heart. "Oh, you shall see me to my
door. I'll not cross the meadow. I'll go round by the road." She stopped
and drew a breath.
"I'll tell you something."
"What?"
"It's rather good to be looked after. I know. It has never happened to me
before. Yes, it's very good," and she drew out the words with a low laugh
of happiness.
"Stella!" he said, and at the mention of her name she caught her hands up
to her heart. "Oh, thank you!"
The hall-door was closed and all but one car had driven away when they
turned the corner of the house and came out in the broad drive. They
walked in the moonlight with a perfume of flowers in the air and the big
yellow cups of the evening primroses gleaming on either side. They walked
slowly. Stella knew that she should quicken her feet but she could not
bring herself to do more than know it. She sought to take into her heart
every tiniest detail of that walk so that in memory she might, years
after, walk it again and so never be quite alone. They passed out through
the great iron gates and turned into the lane. Here great elms overhung
and now they walked in darkness, and now again were bathed in light. A
twig snapped beneath her foot; even so small a thing she would remember.
"We must hurry," she said.
"We are doing all that we can," replied Dick. "It's a long
way--this walk."
"You feel it so?" said Stella, tempting him--oh, unwisely! But the spell
of the hour and the place was upon her.
"Yes," he answered her. "It's a long way in a man's life," and he drew
close to her side.
"No!" she cried with a sudden violence. But she was awake too late. "No,
Dick, no," she repeated, but his arms were about her.
"Stella, I want you. Oh, life's dull for a man without a woman; I can
tell you," he exclaimed passionately.
"There are others--plenty," she said, and tried to thrust him away.
"Not for me," he rejoined, and he would not let her go. Her struggles
ceased, she buried her face in his coat, her hands caught his shoulders,
she stood trembling and shivering against him.
"Stella," he whispered. "Stella!"
He raised her face and bent to it. Then he straightened himself.
"Not here!" he said.
They were standing in the darkness of a tree. He put his arms about her
waist and lifted her into an open space where the moonlight shone bright
and clear and there were no shadows.
"Here," he said, and he kissed her on the lips. She thrust her head back,
her face uplifted to the skies, her eyes closed.
"Oh, Dick," she murmured, "I meant that this should never be. Even
now--you shall forget it."
"No--I couldn't."
"So one says. But--oh, it would be your ruin." She started away from him.
"Listen!"
"Yes," he answered.
She stood confronting him desperately a yard or so away, her bosom
heaving, her face wet with her tears. Dick Hazlewood did not stir.
Stella's lips moved as though she were speaking but no words were
audible, and it seemed that her strength left her. She came suddenly
forward, groping with her hands like a blind person.
"Oh, my dear," she said as he caught them. They went on again together.
She spoke of his father, of the talk of the countryside. But he had an
argument for each of hers.
"Be brave for just a little, Stella. Once we are married there will be no
trouble," and with his arms about her she was eager to believe.
Stella Ballantyne sat late that night in the armchair in her bedroom, her
eyes fixed upon the empty grate, in a turmoil of emotion. She grew cold
and shivered. A loud noise of birds suddenly burst through the open
window. She went to it. The morning had come. She looked across the
meadow to the silent house of Little Beeding in the grey broadening
light. All the blinds were down. Were they all asleep or did one watch
like her? She came back to the fireplace. In the grate some torn
fragments of a letter caught her eyes. She stooped and picked them up.
They were fragments of the letter of regret which she had written earlier
that evening.
"I should have sent it," she whispered. "I should not have gone. I should
have sent the letter."
But the regret was vain. She had gone. Her maid found her in the morning
lying upon her bed in a deep sleep and still wearing the dress in which
she had gone out.