"Shall I to Honour or to Love give way?
* * * * *
For, as bright day, with black approach of night,
Contending makes a doubtful puzzling light,
So does my Honour and my Love together
Puzzle me so I can decide on neither."
SPENSER.
As time went on, as harsh winter turned into soft spring, Boringdon
tried to assure himself that his conversation with Berwick had achieved
all that he had hoped.
James Berwick was certainly less often at the Priory, but this was
doubtless owing in a measure to the fact that he had to be constantly in
London, attending to his Parliamentary duties. Even now he was far more
frequently at Chancton than he had been the year before, and Oliver was
still jealous, sometimes intolerably so, for some subtle instinct told
him that he was on a very different footing with Mrs. Rebell from that
on which she stood with Berwick. As to his own relation with the man
with whom his intimacy had once been so close, it had become, since
their conversation, that of mere formal acquaintance. Mrs. Boringdon
felt sure there had been a quarrel, but she was afraid to ask, so
taciturn, so unapproachable, had her son become.
Oliver had one subject of consolation. To the amazement of those about
her, with the exception perhaps of Doctor McKirdy, the paralysed
mistress of the Priory now caused herself to be moved down each day to
the Blue drawing-room, and this, as Boringdon of course realised, made
it very difficult for James Berwick, when at Chancton, to see much of
Mrs. Rebell alone.
* * * * *
And Barbara? To her, as to Berwick, the weeks which had immediately
followed the fire had been a time of deep content and tranquil
happiness. She was well aware that there must come a day of painful
reckoning; but, unlike Berwick, she put off the evil moment of making up
her mind as to what form that reckoning would take.
She looked back with a kind of shrinking horror to the mental struggle
she had gone through before the accident which had so wholly changed all
the circumstances of her life. Those days when she believed that Berwick
would never return to her were ill to remember. Then had come the fire,
followed by hours of physical pain and terror of death, but now she
looked back on those hours with positive gratitude, for they had surely
brought an experience nothing else could have given her.
At once, with a resistless, quiet determination which had constrained
those about Barbara into acquiescence, Berwick had established his right
to be with her. The putting on of the coal--that act of service on the
first evening--had been, so Doctor McKirdy later told himself with a
twist of his thin lips, symbolic of what was to be his attitude to the
Queen's Room and its present inmate. Berwick soon came and went as
freely as if he had been the invalid's twin brother, or he a father, and
Barbara his sick child,--with, however, the one significant exception
that both he and she refrained wholly from caress.
The old Scotchman won a deep and an abiding place in the hearts of the
two over whom he threw, during these days, the ample mantle of his
eccentricity and masterful disposition. He moved over to the Priory,
occupying a room close to Berwick's, and in some odd fashion he made
each member of the large household believe that it was by his order and
wish that Berwick was so often with his patient, concerning the extent
of whose injury many legends grew, for she was only tended by Scotch
Jean, French Léonie, Doctor McKirdy, and--James Berwick. And so it was
that, as often happens with regard to events which none could have
foretold, and which would have been described before they occurred as
clearly impossible, what went on excited, at any rate within the Priory,
no comment.
The strange situation which had arisen did not pass wholly without
outside remark. Lucy Kemp at first came daily--indeed, sometimes twice a
day--to sit with Barbara and to read to her; and though at those times
Berwick kept out of the Queen's Room, there came a moment in Barbara's
illness when she perceived, with a sad feeling of humiliation, that
Lucy's visits were being curtailed, also that she never came to the
Priory unaccompanied.
To the girl herself her father's sudden stern objection to her daily
visits to Mrs. Rebell had been inexplicable,--even more so her mother's
refusal to discuss the question. Then a word said before her by Mrs.
Boringdon, a question put to Oliver as to James Berwick's prolonged stay
at Chancton, had partly opened Lucy's eyes.
"Do you dislike my going to see Mrs. Rebell because Mr. Berwick is
there?"
With some hesitation Mrs. Kemp answered her: "Yes, my dear, that is the
reason your father does not wish you to go to the Priory so often."
And then Lucy had turned and asked one of those questions, difficult to
answer truthfully to one who, even if in her parents' eyes a child, was
yet a woman grown: "Mother, I want to ask you something. Is it very
wrong, always wrong, for a woman to like another man better than she
likes her husband? How can she help it if the man to whom she is married
is such a man as Mr. Pedro Rebell seems to be?"
But Mrs. Kemp answered with unwonted decision and sharpness: "There is a
moment--there is always a moment--when the matter is in a woman's own
hands and conscience. And in any case, Lucy, two wrongs don't make a
right!"
And with this the girl had to be content, but the question made Mrs.
Kemp more than ever determined to discontinue her daughter's growing
intimacy with poor Barbara. First Oliver Boringdon, and then James
Berwick,--this Mrs. Rebell must indeed be an unfit friend for her little
Lucy!
To Madame Sampiero, who lay at the other end of the corridor out of
which opened the Queen's Room, the doctor would sometimes declare, "I've
little mind for the part I am playing." But when she answered, with
perplexity and fear in her large blue eyes, "Why then do you play it?"
he would content himself with shrugging his shoulders, and muttering
between his teeth, "Because I'm a sentimental old fool!"
But, whatever the reason, so well had Doctor McKirdy managed the
extraordinary situation, that not till Mrs. Rebell was promoted to
getting up and coming downstairs, did the long hours spent by Berwick in
her company provoke the kind of gossip which had finally reached the
ears of Mrs. Boringdon. Even then what was repeated had been said in
jest. Was it likely, so the humble gossips of Chancton would have
declared, that such a gentleman as Mr. Berwick would fancy a lady who
was by all accounts half burnt to a cinder!
* * * * *
When Madame Sampiero had suddenly made up her mind to be moved
downstairs, Barbara knew that the old Scotchman and her god-mother had
entered into a conspiracy to put an end to what she considered her
innocent, if peculiar, intimacy with James Berwick. There took place in
her heart a silent, but none the less strong, movement of passionate
revolt,--she thought this attempt to check their friendship the more
cruel inasmuch as Berwick had to be away a good deal and could only now
and again snatch a day from London. Still, it was then, not perhaps till
then, that Mrs. Rebell began to foresee the logical outcome of the
situation into which she had allowed herself to drift.
Every day came his letters,--nearly always more than one together, by
each of the two daily posts,--but he never asked her--significant
omission--to answer them, for had she done so, all Chancton must have
known of the correspondence. And yet all the world might have seen the
letters Barbara cherished, and on which her heart lived from day to day;
they were a diary of the writer's doings, a history of what was going on
in the House, such brief, intimate notes as many a politician writes
daily to his wife.
A woman is always quicker to perceive certain danger-signals than is a
man. Barbara was aware of the change of attitude in Doctor McKirdy and
in Madame Sampiero long before Berwick noticed it. That these two could
threaten or destroy his intimacy with Mrs. Rebell had never occurred to
him as being possible. On the other hand, he had resented deeply
Boringdon's interference, and, as far as was possible, he put out of his
mind what had been undoubtedly intended as a threat. The reminder that
Pedro Rebell lived had been an outrage; that Barbara's husband was
mortal, nay, on the eve of death, a piece of information which Berwick
could have well spared. For the present he was content, as was
apparently Barbara, to let things drift on as they were.
* * * * *
But there came a day when, after a long afternoon spent by them both in
Madame Sampiero's company, Berwick asked Barbara with sudden deep
irritation, "Why is it that we never seem to be alone together? I have
hardly spoken to you since I have been here! Is it impossible for you to
leave Madame Sampiero? Is there no room in the whole of this great house
where we can talk together in peace? I have a thousand things to say to
you!"
They were on their way to the dining-room, there to be respectfully
chaperoned by McGregor, and Barbara had no answer ready. Suddenly
looking into her downcast face, he understood the unspoken answer to his
imperious questioning, and his eyes flashed wroth. And yet what could he
do? He could not, nay, he would not, ask her to stoop to any kind of
deception, to make secret assignations outside the house. On the other
hand, he no longer felt "on honour" as regarded the woman he loved; even
less was he bound to consider the feelings of Madame Sampiero.
So it came to pass that Berwick was less often at the Priory; his
letters to Barbara altered in tone, and became those of an ardent, of an
impatient lover. Sometimes Barbara wondered whether he possessed secret
means of his own for knowing all that went on at the Priory, and of
obtaining news of its inmates. Occasionally she would be surprised, even
amused, at his apparent knowledge of little incidents which occurred
during his absences. The source of his information, if it was as she
suspected, must of course be Mrs. Turke! Mrs. Rebell felt a little
afraid of the old woman, of her far-seeing, twinkling eyes, and of her
sly hilarity of manner; she kept as much as possible out of the
housekeeper's way.
To Boringdon, who came with pertinacious regularity, Barbara gave
scarcely any thought, save perhaps to wonder why Lucy Kemp was so fond
of him. In old days, when he had talked to her of politics, and of
things in which she had begun to take a new and keen interest, she had
liked to listen to him; but now he seemed tongue-tied when in her
presence, and she perceived that he was no longer on good terms with
James Berwick.
With Madame Sampiero, Barbara's relations also seemed to have become
less affectionate, less intimate, than before the fire, and this
troubled them both. Mrs. Rebell knew herself to be the subject of
anxious thought on the part of her god-mother; for what other reason
than that of protecting her from some imaginary danger had Madame
Sampiero altered the habits of dignified seclusion to which she had
remained rigidly faithful for so many years? She did not see--or was it
that she saw only too well--the force of her own past example on such a
nature as that of her god-daughter? But it was too late now to try and
separate Barbara Rebell from the one human being who made life worth
living, and sometimes the younger woman longed to tell her so.
At last there came a break in the monotony of a life which was beginning
to tell on Barbara's health and nerves. At the end of one of Berwick's
short, unsatisfactory visits, he mentioned that he would not be able to
come down again for another two or three weeks.
And when he was gone, after a cold, estranged farewell, uttered perforce
in the presence of Madame Sampiero, Barbara turned her face away to hide
her tears.
Almost at once her god-mother asked her, "Would you not like to go away,
with Léonie, to Paris for a few days?" She caught with feverish relief
at the proposal; it was good, it was more than kind, of Marraine to
suggest so delightful a plan! But she would prefer, honestly so, to go
alone, not to take the old French servant whom in her heart she well
knew the paralysed woman could ill spare. It would have been a great
pleasure to Barbara to have had the company of Lucy Kemp, but she had
not dared suggest it, being afraid of a refusal. If she could not have
Lucy for a companion, she felt she would rather go alone. And Madame
Sampiero had at last consented to this modification of her plan,--a plan
which had not met with Doctor McKirdy's approval, but as to which his
old friend, as was usually the case, got her own way.
* * * * *
And now had come the last night but one before Mrs. Rebell's departure.
She felt excited and pleased at the thought of the little holiday.
Berwick had evidently been told as soon as the household knew of her
coming journey, and yet, when writing, he had only once alluded to it,
and she had felt rather hurt, for to herself it was a matter of much
moment. This journey would be, in a sense, a pilgrimage; Barbara meant
to go to some of the places, within easy reach of Paris, where she and
her parents had spent most of their exile. During the last few days she
had passed much time in discussion with Doctor McKirdy as to what she
was to see, and in helping him to draw up a little plan of the places
she was to go to,--Versailles, St. Germains, Fontainebleau, with all of
which she had cherished associations! The moments went by so quickly
that, for the first time for many weeks, Barbara thought but little of
Berwick, and of her own strange relation to him.
Now she was on her way to bed. She would have only two more nights in
the Queen's Room, for she had herself insisted that a humbler apartment,
but still one on the same floor as that of Madame Sampiero, should be
found for her, and the change was to take place on her return. She
looked round the beautiful room which had become to her a place of so
many memories, and as she did so a shadow came over her face. Would she
ever again be as happy as she had been in this room, so simply,
childishly content as during those days when she had lain on the great
canopied bed, while those about her ministered to her slightest
wish--when she had been the spoiled darling of Doctor McKirdy, of the
grim Scotch nurse, and last, not least, of James Berwick?
There came a knock at the door--a hesitating, low knock, very unlike
that of Jean or Léonie. Barbara suddenly felt an odd pang of fear: "Come
in," she cried loudly,--what, after all, had she to be afraid of?
There was a pause, and then Mrs. Turke, resplendent in the bright yellow
gown in which Barbara Rebell had first seen her, advanced tip-toeing
into the room. "Hush, Ma'am--I don't want anyone to hear us! Will you be
pleased to come down at once to my parlour? There's someone there been
waiting such a time, and most anxious to see you--!"
Barbara seemed in no hurry to follow the old woman; a look of suffering,
of humiliation, came over her face. Must she and Berwick stoop to this?
But Mrs. Turke was in an agony of impatience. "He's got to go back this
very night!" she whispered, and the jovial, sly look faded from her
rubicund face. "He's walked all the way from Halnakeham, that he has, in
the pouring rain, and he's wet through, that he is! Am I to tell him
that you won't come down then?" and she pretended to edge towards the
still open door.
"No," said Barbara irresolutely, "of course I am coming down--"
Mrs. Turke's account of Berwick's long walk in the rain had done its
work, and yet shame of a very keen quality almost blotted out Mrs.
Rebell's joy at the thought of seeing him, and of seeing him--the first
time for weeks--without fear of interruption.
As she went quickly down, following Mrs. Turke's ample person, and so
through the stone corridors of what had been the mediæval monastery,
Barbara's heart softened strangely. Had he not made this hurried journey
to bid her good-bye, God-speed? And she had thought he did not care--
Mrs. Turke knew her place far too well to risk being present at the
meeting in her parlour. She stopped at the foot of the short flight of
stairs leading up to her own bedroom and Berwick's old nursery, but
Barbara clung to the fat, ring-laden hand: "Do come, Mrs. Turke,--I am
sure Mr. Berwick will want to see you----"
"Bless you, _no_, Ma'am, that he won't! Why, I declare your hand's
burning! There's nothing to be afraid of, he's a most reasonable
gentleman, he wouldn't hurt a hair of your pretty head!"
And then, rather to the old housekeeper's surprise, Mrs. Rebell suddenly
let go her hand, and walked forward, alone, down the passage.
When she reached the door of the room to which she was bound, she
stopped irresolutely. But Berwick had been listening; he flung open the
door, and as she crossed the threshold he bent forward and took her
hands in a tight grip.
Barbara said nothing, but she looked at him rather sadly, and as she did
so she perceived that he was dressed in a rough shooting suit she had
often seen him wear the autumn before. She understood, without a word,
that it was worn to-night as a half disguise,--he wished no one to know
of this secret visit to the Priory,--and again a feeling of shame, of
humiliation, swept over her. And yet how glad she was to see him, how
infinitely dear he had become to her!
Suddenly she felt herself being drawn,--nay driven,--into the shelter of
his arms. His lips trembled on her closed eyelids, were pressed on the
slight scar left by the burn on her forehead, and then swiftly sought
and found her soft quivering mouth----. But even then Berwick was very
gentle with her, taking care to bruise neither the soul nor the body of
the creature who was now, at last, completely subject to his will.
Barbara tried to withdraw herself from his arms, but he still held her
to him with a passion of mute feeling in his eyes; and then, while
looking down at her strangely, as if wishing to see into her very heart,
he suddenly exclaimed "Barbara, this can't go on! What is to happen to
you and to me? As long as they left us alone I was content--ah no, not
content, but submissive. But now? Do you think it is pleasant for me to
do what I have had to do to-night,--to come here like a thief? While I
was waiting for you, I told myself that doubtless you would refuse to
come down. I had no right to ask you to come to me. It is I--I--who
should always come to you----"
He had released her, and drawn himself away. Now he was speaking with a
tired bitterness which frightened her, and in a moment the desire to
soothe, to comfort him, drove out from her every thought of self. "Of
course I came down,--I will always come when you want me," she smiled at
him with a look of shy, wistful tenderness.
"Will you? Always? Is that true? Oh! Barbara, if I could only believe
you mean those words, I could find courage to ask you--to say to
you----"
"What do you want to say to me?" Her voice sank to a whisper; then,
seized with a sudden rush of love, of pity, of self-abnegation, she
added, "Nay, I will tell you! You have come to ask of me what Lord
Bosworth must once have come to ask of Madame Sampiero, and, like her, I
will say, yes,--" she covered her face with her hands.
And then she listened, very quietly, while Berwick told her, with broken
words of passionate gratitude and endearment, of the plan which he had
scarcely dared to believe he would have courage to propose. She knew he
had a house, an old hunting lodge built by Louis XIII., on the edge of
the Forest of St. Germains. It was a curious solitary pavilion, bought
by his father as a very young man, and dear to Berwick and his sister as
having been the scene,--the speaker's accents became more deeply
tender,--of their parents' honeymoon. Within a drive of this enchanting
spot was the little town of Poissy, where the mail train could be made
to stop and where, the day after to-morrow, he would be waiting--
Barbara sat listening. She had raised her head and was staring straight
before her. Berwick looked at her with entreating eyes--"It is close to
Paris! Besides, they know you will be moving about."
"It is not that," she spoke with difficulty, hardly knowing why she felt
so torn by conflicting feelings of shame and pain. Perhaps it was only
because the evocation of St. Germains brought the presence of her mother
before her.
She tried to tell herself that she had known that this would--nay,
must--happen. The battle had been fought and lost before to-night.
During the long solitary days Barbara had just lived through, she had
acknowledged that she could not give up Berwick,--rather than that they
must inevitably come to do what Lord Bosworth and Madame Sampiero had
done. And yet this discussion, the unfolding of this plan, filled her
with humiliation and misery. "When I come back," she said, looking at
him, for the first time straight in the eyes, "I shall have to tell my
god-mother--and--and Doctor McKirdy the truth."
"You will do what you wish. We shall both do exactly what you think
right, my dearest!" Berwick could hardly believe in his own amazing good
fortune, and yet he also felt ill at ease. "Barbara," he said suddenly,
"before I go--and I ought to be going now, for I shall cross to France
to-morrow--I want to tell you something----"
"Something else?" there was a tone of appeal in her voice.
"Yes, it will not take long. Perhaps I ought to have begun by doing so.
Some time ago Oliver Boringdon made me a curious confidence. He told me
that, were you ever free to marry, he meant to make you an offer, and if
you refused,--he was good enough to intimate that he thought this quite
possible,--to go on doing so at intervals unless you became the wife of
another man!"
Barbara looked at him, and then began to laugh helplessly, though the
words had jarred on her horribly. "Oliver Boringdon? You can't have
understood; how dared he say such a thing--about me?" and the tears ran
down her cheeks.
"Nay, he was right, perhaps, to say what he did. In any case I am sure
you ought to know--it was my duty to tell you."
"But why?" cried Barbara. "Why?"
"A sop," he said with sudden sharpness, "to my own conscience."
But conscience proved an unappeased, upbraiding companion during James
Berwick's four-mile walk to Halnakeham station.