THE PLUNGE
When Cicely had allowed the maid who was waiting for her to unfasten her
bodice, she sent her away and locked the door after her. During the
evening she had sketched in her mind a portrait of herself sitting by
the open window and thinking things over calmly. It seemed to be the
thing to do in the circumstances.
But she could not think calmly. She could not even command herself
sufficiently to go on with her undressing. The evening had been one long
strain on her nerves, and now she could only throw herself on her bed
and burst into tears. She had an impulse to go in to her mother and tell
her everything, and perhaps only the fact that for the moment her
physical strength would not allow her to move held her back.
After a time she became quieter, but did not regain the mastery of her
brain. She seemed to be swayed by feeling entirely. The picture of her
mother, calm and self-contained, kneeling at her long nightly devotions,
faded, and in its place arose the image of the man who had suddenly
shouldered his way into her life and with rude hands torn away the
trappings of convention that had swathed it.
He attracted her strongly. He stood for a broad freedom, and her revolt
against the dependence in which she lived was pointed by his contempt
for the dull, easy, effortless life of the big country house. Her mind
swayed towards him as she thought of what he had to offer her in
exchange--adventure in unknown lands; glory, perhaps not wholly
reflected, for there had been women explorers before, and her strong,
healthy youth made her the physical equal of any of them; comradeship in
place of subjection. She weighed none of these things consciously; she
simply desired them.
There came to her the echo of her brother's speech as she had come up
the stairs: "And let us see what he can do." He stood before her in his
rugged strength, not very well dressed, his greying head held upright,
his nostrils slightly dilated, his keen eyes looking out on the world
without a trace of self-consciousness; and beside him stood Dick in his
smart clothes and his smoothed down hair, coolly ignoring all the big
things the man had done, and proposing to hold over his opinion of him
till he saw whether he could snap off a gun quickly enough to bring down
a high pheasant or a driven partridge. If he could pass that test he
would be accepted without further question as "a good fellow." His other
achievements, or perhaps more accurately the kind of renown they had
brought him, would be set against his lack of the ordinary gentleman's
upbringing. If he could not, he would still be something of an outsider
though all the world should acclaim him. Dick's careless speech--she
called it stupid--affected her strangely. It lifted her suitor out of
the ruck, and made him bulk bigger.
She got up from her bed and took her seat by the open window, according
to precedent. She had seen herself, during the evening, sitting there
looking out on to the moonlit garden, asking herself quietly, "What am I
going to do?" weighing the pros and cons, stiffening her mind, and her
courage. And she tried now to come to a decision, but could not come
anywhere near to laying the foundation of one. She had not the least
idea what she was going to do, nor could she even discover what she
wanted to do.
She got up and walked about the room, but that did not help her. She
knelt down and said her prayers out of a little well-worn book of
devotions, and made them long ones. But it was nothing more than
repeating words and phrases whose meaning slipped away from her. She
prayed in her own words for guidance, but none came. There existed only
the tumult of feeling.
She heard her father and brother come up to bed and held her breath in
momentary terror, then breathed relief at the thought that if they
should, unaccountably, break into her room, which they were not in the
least likely to do, they could not know what was happening to her, or
make her tell them. They went along the corridor talking loudly. She had
often been disturbed from her first sleep by the noise the men made
coming up to bed. She heard a sentence from her father as they passed
her door. "They would have to turn out anyhow if anything happened to
me."
Dick's answer was inaudible, but she knew quite well what they were
discussing. It had been discussed before her mother and herself, and
even the twins and Miss Bird, though not before the servants, during the
last few days. Lord and Lady Alistair MacLeod, she a newly wed American,
had motored through Kencote, lunched at the inn and fallen in love with
the dower-house. Lady Alistair--_he_ would have nothing to do with
it--had made an offer through the Squire's agent for a lease of the
house, at a rental about four times its market value. The Squire did not
want the money, but business was business. And the MacLeods would be
"nice people to have about the place." All that stood in the way was
Aunt Ellen and Aunt Laura. They could not be turned out unless they were
willing to go, but the Squire knew very well that they _would_ go if he
told them to. There was a nice little house in the village which would
be the very thing for them if he decided to accept the tempting offer.
He would do it up for them. After all, the dower-house was much too
large and there were only two of them left. So it had been discussed
whether Aunt Ellen, at the age of ninety-three, and Aunt Laura, at the
age of seventy-five, should be notified that the house in which they had
spent the last forty years of their lives, and in which their four
sisters had died, was wanted for strangers.
That was not the only thing that had been discussed. The question of
what would be done in various departments of family and estate business
when the Squire should have passed away--his prospective demise being
always referred to by the phrase, "if anything should happen to me"--was
never shirked in the least; and Dick, who would reign as Squire in his
stead, until the far off day when something should happen to _him_, took
his part in the discussion as a matter of course. These things were and
would be; there was no sense in shutting one's eyes to them. And one of
the things that would take place upon that happening was that Mrs.
Clinton, and Cicely, if she were not married, and the twins, would no
longer have their home at Kencote, unless Dick should be unmarried and
should invite them to go on living in his house. He would have no legal
right to turn Aunt Ellen and Aunt Laura out of the dower-house, if they
still remained alive, but it had been settled ever since the last death
amongst the sisters that they would make way. It would only be
reasonable, and was taken for granted.
And now, as it seemed, her father and brother had made up their minds to
exercise pressure--so little would be needed--to turn out the poor old
ladies, not for the sake of those who might have a claim on their
consideration, but for strangers who would pay handsomely and would be
nice people to have about the place. Cicely burned with anger as she
thought of it.
* * * * *
Two o'clock struck from the clock in the stable turret. Cicely opened
her door softly, crept along the corridor and through a baize door
leading to a staircase away from the bedrooms of the house. At the foot
of it was a door opening into the garden, which she was prepared to
unlock and unbolt with infinite care to avoid noise. But the
carelessness of a servant had destroyed the need of such caution. The
door was unguarded, and with an unpleasant little shock she opened it
and went out.
The night was warm, and the lawns and trees and shrubs of the garden lay
in bright moonlight. She hurried, wrapped in a dark cloak, to the place
from which she had fled from Mackenzie in the afternoon. She felt an
impulse of shrinking as she saw his tall figure striding up and down on
the grass, but she put it away from her and went forward to meet him.
He gave a low cry as he turned and saw her. "My brave little girl!" he
said, and laid his hands on her shoulders for a moment, and looked into
her face. He attempted no further love-making; his tact seemed equal to
his daring. "We have come here to talk," he said. "When we have made our
arrangements you shall go straight back. I wouldn't have asked you to
come out here like this if there had been any other way."
She felt grateful. Her self-respect was safe with him. He understood
her.
"Will you come with me?" he asked, and she answered, "Yes."
A light sprang into his eyes. "My brave little queen of girls!" he said,
but held himself back from her.
"What time can you get out of the house without being missed for an hour
or two?" he asked.
She stood up straight and made a slight gesture as if brushing something
away, and thenceforward answered him in as matter-of-fact a way as he
questioned her.
"In the afternoon, after lunch," she said.
"Very well. There is a train from Bathgate at four o'clock. Can you walk
as far as that?"
"Oh yes."
"You can't go from here, and you can't drive. So you must walk. Is there
any chance of your being recognised at Bathgate?"
"I am very likely to be recognised."
He thought for a moment. "Well, it can't be helped," he said. "If there
is any one in the train you know you must say you are going up to see
Mrs. Walter Clinton. Graham has told me all about her and your brother."
"I shan't be able to take any luggage with me," she said.
"No. That is a little awkward. We must trust to chance. Luck sides with
boldness. You can buy what you want in London. I have plenty of money,
and nothing will please me better than to spend it on you, little girl."
His tone and his eyes became tender for a moment. "I shall be on the
platform in London to meet you," he said. "I shall be surprised to see
you there until you tell me there is nobody to fear. I hate all this
scheming, but it can't be helped. We must get a start, and in two days
we shall be married. Don't leave any word. You can write from London to
say you are going to marry me. I'll do the rest when we are man and
wife."
Cicely's eyes dropped as she asked, "Where shall I be till--till----"
"Till we're married? My little girl! It won't be very long. There is a
good woman I know. I'll take you there and she will look after you. I
shall be near. Leave it all to me and don't worry. Have you got money
for your journey?"
"Yes, I have enough."
"Very well. Now go back, and think of me blessing the ground you walk
on. You're so sweet, and you're so brave. You're the wife for me. Will
you give me one kiss?"
She turned her head quickly. "No," he said at once. "I won't ask for it;
not till you are mine altogether."
But she put up her face to him in the moonlight. "I'm yours now," she
said. "I have given myself to you," and he kissed her, restraining his
roughness, turning away immediately without another word to stride down
the grass path into the darkness of the trees.
Cicely looked after him for an instant and then went back to the house
and crept up to her room.