It was of course impossible for Haverford to leave London immediately
after his mother's funeral. He had to charge himself with the
arrangements of her affairs, a matter in which his half-brother should
have taken his share. But Cuthbert Baynhurst had hastened away as
quickly as he could go.
He seemed to be haunted by the dread of infection if he set foot again
in the house where his mother had suffered and died. More than this, he
had put into his mind the morbid fear that he had in him already the
seeds of this complaint which his mother had endured in silence for so
long. He was not even present at the funeral.
At the time the coffin was being lowered into the ground Camilla and he
were travelling in hot haste away from London, from England, from the
mere possibility of breathing the air the poor dead woman had breathed.
"This will be the beginning of the end," Caroline said to herself. "Her
eyes may be blinded for a little while, and he may attempt to tyrannize
through this power he has over her now, but Camilla is not his mother.
She will tire so soon, and his selfishness has no limits."
She was sitting out in the garden alone. There was a moon, and the
world was wrapped about in the hush of the summer night.
The children were asleep. They had been in a great excitement all day
because it had suddenly been decided that there was to be a departure
from the country to the sea.
Mrs. Brenton had expected to have relinquished her little charges to
the care of their mother, but this was now postponed indefinitely.
The note Camilla had scribbled just before leaving London had touched
Agnes Brenton almost in the old way.
She wrote so lovingly. One could see that her heart yearned for her
children, and yet that she could not separate herself from this new tie.
She burdened both Mrs. Brenton and Caroline with all sorts of charges
for her two little ones; above all, she entreated them pathetically to
keep her always vividly in front of her children's eyes.
"If I did not know that they were so safe with you, that they were put
completely out of the reach of Ned's people, I should never be able to
leave them."
At once Mrs. Brenton decided that they would go away from Yelverton.
"A change will be good for all of us," she declared, with something of
her old briskness. "You have never been to Normandy, have you,
Caroline? Well, prepare yourself for a delightful experience!"
On the morrow the packing would commence, and Caroline smiled half
faintly to herself as she conjured up the importance of this occasion
to Betty and Baby. How busy they would be, and what a muddle they would
make!
Caroline leaned back in the chair and closed her eyes.
It was deliciously cool and quiet. This was the moment that she loved
to be alone, when the gardens had greater beauty for her and the
healing tranquillity of the country spoke to her eloquently.
She was glad to go away, and yet it would be a wrench to leave this
place, which now seemed sown with the most precious of her thoughts,
watered with her heart's tears, and warmed with that joy which, though
it had come in secret, had remained to illumine her whole life.
She had written him a few words of sympathy. They were not framed in
the usual conventional formula; she wrote from her heart. She seemed to
know that his mother's death would have a far greater significance to
him now than at any other time; that, as he had stood and looked on his
mother, dead, there must have come a new and a deeper rush of
bitterness.
The grave Camilla had dug had been the burial-ground of all those sweet
hopes and dreams which had clustered about him like children of late.
His heart must have been barren as he had stood by his mother's grave.
She had not seen him since that most memorable evening; it did not seem
likely or probable that they should see him again before they went away.
Betty had been writing him a number of epistles. It appeared that she
required a great many things to go abroad with, and she had already
learned to turn to Rupert for the fulfilment of all her wishes. Nothing
touched Caroline so much as his attitude to the children; he was, if
possible, more tender than before. He adopted a little more serious
air, and in every sort of way made it known to all that he was their
guardian.
"I was afraid," Mrs. Brenton had said once to the girl--"I was afraid
that he might have changed in this, but I ought to have known him
better!" Another time she said, "Did I tell you he had refused to take
back a single thing he had given her? She told me all this in the first
letter she wrote from Italy, and yet even now," Mrs. Brenton added, in
a low tone, "I don't believe she grasps the full meaning of his
generosity. After telling me all this, she added that, of course, if it
had been any other man than Cuthbert she could not have kept the
jewels; but that, as Cuthbert was his brother, he had a right to share
in so much wealth."
"That was not her own suggestion," Caroline had said quickly.
Her thoughts hovered pityingly about Camilla this night, and about the
memory of the woman who was just dead.
That year in his mother's house had taught her to know Cuthbert
Baynhurst through and through.
His desertion now of his duty, his cowardice and exacting selfishness
were made doubly contemptible, when she remembered his mother's
clinging love, her heart-whole devotion, her pride in him.
"He is not worthy to be walked on by Rupert," Caroline determined
hotly. And at that very moment some one spoke her name, and, starting
violently, she turned to find Rupert himself standing just behind her
chair.
"Do forgive me," he said quickly, realizing how much he had startled
her. "Mrs. Brenton sent me to find you. She told me you are always out
here at this time."
"I fancied I was quite alone," said Caroline nervously; then she added,
"Have you been here long? Did you motor down?"
He said "Yes."
Their hands had clasped and unclasped.
"I felt I must come down and see you all before you fly away. In
particular, I want to speak to you."
"Yes," said Caroline.
"Are you tired?" Haverford asked rather abruptly. "Shall we walk?"
She got up at once.
"It is so delightful out here at this time. I will take you to
Betty's garden. There is a rose waiting for you, Mr. Haverford. It
was going to be sent by post in a box to-morrow. I don't know that I
dare pick it, but you may look at it."
As they passed under the interlacing branches of the trees, he said--
"I thought you would like to know that my mother spoke of you several
times. She has bequeathed to you some odds and ends of jewellery which
I fancy must have belonged to your mother. I cannot say that she spoke
kindly," he said, with half a sigh; "but at least she remembered."
"It grieved me," said Caroline, in a low voice, "to know that she
suffered so much."
He sighed.
"At times it was terrible. What stuff some of you women are made of!
She had her faults, my poor mother, but she had marvellous qualities.
In some ways you remind me of her, only you are not in the least
masculine."
When they reached Betty's garden he knelt down and put his lips to the
rose.
"Tell her I have been here, that I have left a kiss for her. I won't
pick it. Dear little creature, let her send it on, if she wants to."
"But are you going back to-night?" Caroline asked.
In her white muslin gown she looked wraith-like, part of the mist which
hovered like a white veil over the ground.
"I think so. I have a sort of fever in my bones.... I want to be moving
all the time." Then quite abruptly he turned, and put his hand on her
shoulder. "There is something else I want to say to you."
She trembled and drew back, and he at once removed his hand.
"Yes?"
"I am told that Sir Samuel Broxbourne has been coming here very often
of late, coming apparently for the purpose of seeing you."
"Who has told you this?" Caroline asked very coldly.
"It has been told me by a friend, and from the very best of reasons."
"I know Mrs. Brenton is everything that is kind and good," said the
girl, in a hard and cold tone; "yet I fail to see why she should
approach you on such a matter as this."
"Do you?" said Haverford. "She does it because she knows that I have
the right to know what is passing with you, the right to enter into all
that is important in your life. You are in my charge, subject to my
command for the next two years."
Caroline laughed half bitterly and half weakly.
"Oh, don't let us talk such nonsense!" she exclaimed, and she moved
away, but he followed her.
"It is not nonsense," he spoke irritably. "I have established myself as
your guardian, and by my mother's will you are bequeathed to my care,
therefore I have a right to put questions to you which might seem
impertinent if asked by anybody else."
"I think Mrs. Brenton makes a mistake," said Caroline, still walking on.
"In what way?"
"Sir Samuel is an old friend of the house, he has been in the habit of
coming here freely, I understand; why, therefore, should it be supposed
that he comes now only because of me?"
"I don't know why, but I hope to God he does not come for that reason!"
His voice grew harder. "You know what I think of this man; I have
spoken to you freely about him, and, better than that, your own
instinct, which has carried you to such rare judgments, must tell you
that he is no fit associate for a girl. I was going to say for any
decent woman."
Caroline was silent for a long time. Suddenly she said--
"All women are unreasonable, you know; that is a tradition, and
sometimes they see things in a light that is hidden to you men. I don't
suppose Sir Samuel is a paragon of perfection, but, at the same time, I
don't think he is half so bad as he has been painted. At least he is
very harmless, and rather amusing."
Rupert Haverford looked at her, and a great amazement which bordered on
pain took possession of him.
"You like him?" he said, going to the point in his peculiarly direct
way.
Caroline shrugged her shoulders.
"I really think I do, but I am not sure; at any rate, I don't bother
myself about it very much." Her tone was flippant. "How you _do_ love
catechising!" she said. It might have been Camilla speaking.
They passed up the garden again in silence; beyond the wide expanse of
lawn the house stood hospitably open. Lights gleamed everywhere, Mr.
Brenton's tall figure with stooping shoulders was coming slowly towards
them.
"Well," Haverford said, in a cold, dry way, "if you regard him in this
uncertain way it is easier for me to act."
Caroline looked round sharply. There was indignation in her tone.
"How do you mean ... act?"
"I mean I shall take steps to prevent this acquaintance from becoming
an intimate one. However much it may annoy you, the fact remains that I
am your guardian, and that until you are twenty-one you are not free to
do anything of which I do not approve, and I assuredly do _not_ approve
of your friendship with this man."
Caroline paused and caught her breath.
"This surveillance," she said coldly, "is not only very ridiculous, it
is very objectionable. You may arrogate to yourself a certain authority
where my money is concerned, but in the matter of choosing my friends I
demand absolute liberty. Please understand I can recognize no law you
may make in this." She stood a few seconds, then she said "Good night"
abruptly, and she walked away from him quickly. Indeed, halfway across
the lawn she broke into a run, and had gained the house almost before
he realized she was gone.
Mr. Brenton called out something to her as she passed him so fleetly,
but she made no answer.
"What's wrong with Caroline?" he asked as he reached Rupert Haverford.
The young man sat down, and did not reply for a moment; then he said
shortly--
"I have been speaking to her about Broxbourne."
"Oh!" said Mr. Brenton. He stretched himself comfortably in another
chair. "That's what my wife has been putting you up to, I suppose?
Aggie has worked herself into a rare state over this business of Sammy.
You know, my dear fellow," Dick Brenton said, in his pleasant, tranquil
voice, "I don't quite go with you both. I know Sammy is a bit wild, his
father was before him, but he will settle down. He's got the nicest old
mother in the world. Seems to me he is in earnest."
"The thing is preposterous," said Rupert Haverford, in his decisive
way. "I am not speaking of his position, his title, or his family; it
is the man himself I abhor. I should be sorry to see any woman I care
about married to him."
"Well, my experience teaches me," said Mr. Brenton, after a little
silence, "that these things right themselves. I don't suppose Caroline
gives Sammy two thoughts, but, on the other hand, she may. I am rather
sorry you spoke."
"I am not," said Haverford shortly. A moment later he said, "I thought
she was unusually sensible, and able to take care of herself; but I see
now I have made a mistake."
He was extraordinarily disturbed. If he had not questioned her himself
he would not have believed this thing. There had been something so
fresh and clear to him about Caroline, she had matched himself in
straightforwardness; her word had been charged with truth, and over and
again she had given evidence of such unusual qualities that he had
unconsciously endowed her with wisdom beyond her years, and regarded
her mental outlook as peculiarly well balanced. Not even the great
overthrow of his life's sweetest task had moved him more sharply than
he was moved now. Indeed, then he had been partially prepared. As he
had put it himself to Caroline, he had felt that the creature he loved
was slipping gradually but surely out of his grasp; he had been
conscious that the butterfly he had caught and chained was fluttering
restlessly (albeit the chain was a glittering one), and he had nerved
himself for the pronouncement that his love was wearying, his devotion
exacting. And when all this had come, he had met it quietly, as
something that was inevitable. But he had suffered none the less.
All things he had expected from Camilla except the thing she had done.
And the astounding conviction of her disloyalty had been hardly more
startling than this curious phase of her nature which Caroline had
revealed this night.
He had, like Agnes Brenton, found it possible to pardon in Camilla
many, many things that would have been unforgivable in others, because
he took her mental construction into consideration first of all;
because he regarded her as a child, a headstrong, foolish, sweet,
irresponsible child, with all the innocence that belongs to extreme
youth, and because he knew she had been from the beginning surrounded
by the most disastrous influences. And Camilla had shown him how
mistaken he had been to treat her with such tender thought.
So now with Caroline. He had placed her apart; he realized now that he
had thought of her as something fragrant and beautifying, and with her
own lips she had confessed herself capable of a sympathy for a man who
was brutal, vulgar, coarse in heart and mind.
Were all women so framed? Or was it merely his destiny to be denied
knowledge of woman in her true personification? The woman of sweetest
compassion and bravest comradeship; that figure of nobility and modesty
of whom poets had sung from ages uncounted and for whose purity and
honour men had died in centuries gone. His mother had shown him one
side of the picture, Camilla the reverse; now Caroline added her touch.
He sat a long time after Mr. Brenton had smoked his cigar and gone
indoors. He was both angry and miserable. His feeling, as he had
approached Yelverton that evening, had been one nearly akin to
pleasure. He was glad to meet Agnes Brenton, glad to see Caroline
again; and after the first greeting Mrs. Brenton had swept him into a
fresh element for trouble and regret. "The fault is in myself," he
mused, "it must be so. I am in my wrong groove; that's what is at the
bottom of it all."
He delivered himself up wholly in this moment to that old yearning to
shake off the trammels of his present existence, to be stripped of all
that made the world envy him.
For a brief while he had sunned himself in the glory of a false
paradise, and for that brief while the clamour of his old ambitions had
been silenced, the weighty responsibility of his money had been changed
into satisfaction. But once that glory had been darkened his spirit had
gone back with a rush to the old habits, the old desires.
It was, perhaps, inevitable that he should turn against this
environment of wealth and luxury, of soft raiment and cultivated
beauty, since he had been taught the hollowness of this social life,
since trickery and selfishness, lies and banalities, had swept so
destructively across his path. Not that he condemned wholesale; he made
distinctions. There was good everywhere. These very people whose guest
he was this night were in themselves the surest testimony to that.
Brought in contact now with all sorts and conditions of people, he was
quick to recognize that there were hearts as honest and as simple in
the ranks of the moneyed class as in any other walk of life.
Nevertheless, Haverford's real sympathies were with those who worked;
it seemed to him there must always be more possibility for finding gold
in the natures of those who toiled and suffered and even died together
in their grind to put bread into the mouths of their children, than
could be possible to the idlers and the well-cared-for.
Back in the old days he had seen many an evidence of this golden nature
packed away in a rough frame, an uncouth personality.
And the women of those old days, was not their history such as to place
them apart for honour and admiration? Why, he could bring back memories
now of fidelity, and courage, and dogged endurance among those working
women that made his eyes wet and his heart thrill as he recalled them.
And he remembered, too, that till this night there had always been
something about Caroline Graniger to remind him of those people who had
been once so dear to him, to whom his heart still turned, despite their
recent churlish treatment of him; who made such a close bond between
his boyhood and his present self.
Yes, Caroline had surely possessed something of the simplicity, that
quiet, reticent strength of those North Country people. He was
conscious now of how much he had relied on her. He got up with a sigh
at last, and before he went indoors he made his way to Betty's little
garden again. He stooped and touched the rose once more with his lips,
but it seemed as if the fragrance had gone from the flower, as if the
soft beauty of the garden had lost something. Certain it was that as he
slowly moved under the trees he had a sense of loss heavily upon him,
as if in the flitting away of that girl's white-robed figure, not
merely the little world about him was robbed of a potent charm, but
that there had gone with her a sympathy, an influence that all
unconsciously had suggested to him consolation.