For good luck’s sake smile, Ruthita,” said my grandmother. “There
you’ve sat all through breakfast lookin’ like a week o’ Sundays, with
your face as long as a yard o’ pump water. What’s the matter with you,
child? Ain’t you well?”
I saw the brightness come into Ruthita’s eyes and the lashes tremble. I
knew by the signs that directly she heard her own voice she would begin
to cry, so I answered for her.
“I can tell you what’s the matter. I upset her last night. It was nearly
twelve when I got home from my walk with Mrs. Carpenter. Ruthie’d
got herself all worked up. Thought we’d been getting drowned again or
something, didn’t you, Ruthie? It was too bad of me to keep her sitting
up so late.”
A heavy silence fell. Ruthita dropped her eyes, trying to recover her
composure. My grandmother’s face masked itself in a non-committal stare.
She gazed past me out of the window, and seemed to hold her breath; only
the faint tinkling of the gold chain against the jet of her bodice, told
how her breath came and went. She had placed her hand on the coffee-pot
as I began to speak. When I ended, it stayed there motionless. From the
bake-house across the courtyard came the bump, bang, bump of the bakers
pounding the dough into bread.
“So you stayed out with Mrs. Carpenter till nearly twelve?”
My grandmother never used dialect when she wished to be impressive. Her
tones were icily refined and haughty--
I recognized them as belonging to her company manners. She could be
crushingly aloof and dignified when her sense of the moralities was
offended. She had practised her talent for “settin’ folks down and
makin’ ’em feel like three penn’orth o’ happence” to some purpose on
grizzled sea-captains.
“Yes, till nearly twelve. It was pretty late, wasn’t it? We met some
interesting people camping on the marshlands--old friends of mine and
Ruthita’s.”
“Indeed! And you walked back from the Broads about midnight with a
married woman.”
“Oh, no. It wasn’t much after ten when we started back. Time passed
quickly; we didn’t realize how late it was getting. It didn’t matter,
except for Ruthita. It was bright moonlight. The country looked
perfect.”
“It must ha’ done,” said my grandmother sarcastically.
“It did. Some day we must try it all together.”
“And who were your interesting friends? Respectable people, no doubt, to
be camping on the marshlands.”
“They weren’t respectable. They were gipsies.” Then, turning to Ruthita,
“It was Lilith that we met. You remember Lilith of Epping Forest--that
time we ran away to get married. Fancy meeting her after all these
years! And just as I left, I saw G’liath drive up. I could swear it was
the same old caravan, Ruthie.”
Curiosity and love of romance melted my grandmother’s reserve.
“G’liath! Why, that’s the gipsy family to which Sir Charles’s mother
belonged. They must be kind o’ relatives o’ yours.”
“I suppose they must. I never thought of that. I’ll have to ask Lilith
about it. They were on their way to Yarminster Fair. We’ll run over and
see them.”
Just then the errand boy, who was minding the shop, tapped at the
keeping-room door and handed in a note for me. I saw that it was
unstamped and addressed in a handwriting that I did not recognize.
“Where did this come from?”
“It war left jist nar acrost the counter by a sarvant-gal.”
“All right.”
Ruthita was telling my grandmother all that she could remember of
Lilith. I ripped open the envelope and read:
_Something has happened. Must see you at once. Come as soon as you can.
Vi._
“Who’s your letter from?”
“From Mrs. Carpenter.”
“Mrs. Carpenter again! What does she want? It’s not more’n nine hours
since you saw her.”
“She wants my advice on--on a business matter.”
“Humph! I ’ope she may profit by it.”
As I was sauntering out of the shop Ruthita called after me in her high
clear voice, “Going to take me to Yarminster to-day, Dante?”
“Don’t know yet. I’ll tell you later.”
Until I reached the top of the street I strolled jauntily; I was sure
I was being watched. I had left an atmosphere of jealous annoyance and
baffled suspicion behind. It was absurd to be nursed and guarded by
affectionate relatives in the way I was.
I was puzzled by Vi’s note. I worked out all kinds of conjectures as I
jostled my way through fisher-girls and sailors up the High Street.
I was shown into the room at the back of the black flint house, which
overlooked the sea. The windows were open wide; wind fluttered the
curtains. Breakfast things were only partially cleared from the table.
Upstairs I could hear Dorrie’s piping voice and, now and then, could
catch a phrase of what she was saying.
“Let me thee him too, Vi. Oh, pleath. No, I don’t want to play wiv
Annie. I want to play wiv Dante.”
Then I heard the thump, thump, thump of Dorrie stumping from stair to
stair by way of protest, and the heavy step of Annie taking her forcibly
to the kitchen.
Vi descended a moment later. She entered without eagerness, shutting the
door carefully behind her. There was never anything of hurry or neglect
in her appearance; she always looked fresh and trimly attired. The high
color in her usually pale cheeks was the only sign of perturbation.
She crossed the room towards me with a slow, swaying motion, and halted
a foot away, holding out her hand. I took it in mine, pressing it
gently. Her mouth was quivering. She was making an effort to be formally
polite and was not succeeding. The soft rustling of her skirts, the
slow rise and fall of her bosom, her delicate fragrance and timid
beauty--everything about her was bewilderingly feminine. What arguments,
I wondered, what campaigns of caution, what capitulations of wild
desires to duty were going on behind that smooth white forehead? My grip
on her hand tightened; I drew her to me. Her cold remoteness added to my
yearning.
“What is it? Why did you send for me? You’ve changed since last night.”
She drew her hand free from mine. I saw that, for the first time since I
had known her, she was wearing a band of gold upon her wedding-finger.
“It’s all over, Dante.”
She whispered the words, wringing her hands and staring away from me out
to sea. I slipped my arm about her shoulder. “It can never be all over,
dearest.”
For answer she handed me a letter. It bore a United States stamp and was
addressed to her in a bold, emphatic, perpendicular hand which revealed
the writer’s vigorous determination of character.
“From my husband. Read it.”
Standing a little apart from her at the window, I drew out a carefully
folded letter. It was dated from Sheba, Massachusetts, nine days
previous to its arrival. While I read it, I watched her stealthily, how
she stood charmingly irresolute, twisting the gold-band off and on her
finger.
_My dearest Vi:_
_I have written you many times, asking you to fix definitely the day of
your return. You’ve put me off with all kinds of excuses. Latterly you
have not even referred to my question. My dear child, don’t think I
blame you; you probably have your own reasons for what you are doing.
But people are beginning to talk about us here. For your own sake you
ought to return. We’ve always tried to play fair by one another. You
were always game, Vi; and now it’s up to you._
_I’m lonely. I want my little Dorrie. Most of all I want my wife. I
can’t stand this absence much longer. On receipt of this send me a cable
“Coming,” followed by the date of your sailing. If I don’t receive such
a cable within ten days of mailing this letter, I shall jump on a boat
and come over. I don’t distrust you, but I’m worn out with waiting.
Can’t you understand how I want you? Nothing in the world matters to me,
my child, except you._
_Your affectionate husband,_
_Randall._
I re-folded it methodically and returned it to the envelope. I tried to
picture this man who had sent it. He was manifestly elderly. Probably he
was portly, a trifle pompous and genially paternal in his manners. What
volumes his trick of calling her “my child” revealed concerning their
relations. I contrasted him with Vi. Vi with her eager youth, her
passion to taste life’s rapture, her slim white body so alluring and
so gracious, her physical fineness, her possibilities for bestowing and
receiving natural joy. If I let her go, she would slowly lose her
zest for life. She would forget that she was a woman and would sink
prematurely into stolid middle-age. Her possibilities of motherhood
would slip from her untaken and never to be renewed. The little rascals,
with golden hair and features which should perpetuate her beauty, would
never be born to her. Those children should be hers and mine. _Hers and
mine_. How the words beat upon my brain! They were like the fists of
little children, battering against the closed doors of existence. It
was monstrous that the justice of this husband’s claim to her should be
based on his injustice in having married her.
Again I formed my mental picture of him, formed it with the cruel
sarcasm of youth. His body was deteriorated; his skin puckered and
yellow; the fine lines of suppleness and straightness gone; the muscles
flabby and jaded. Then I looked at her: gold and ivory, with poppies for
a mouth. Sweet and nobly chaste. A woman to set a man on fire--to drive
him to the extremes of sorrow or gladness. A woman to sin for.
I turned from the window and took one step towards her. I could feel her
body throbbing against mine. The fierce sweet ecstasy of my delight hurt
her. I saw nothing but her eyes. All else in the world was darkness.
“Let me go,” she panted.
“Do you want to go?” I whispered.
She sank her head on my shoulder. Her arms were about my neck. I could
only see her golden hair. Her answer came to me broken and muffled. “No,
no, no.”
I carried her to the sofa and knelt beside her.
“You won’t ever despise me, will you?”
How absurd her question sounded.
Without any reference to our ultimate purpose, we set about making our
plans. We must get away from Ransby. We must not be seen together any
more that day. We would meet at the station that evening, and travel up
to London together by the train leaving Ransby at six-thirty-eight. Our
plans went no further.
Now that all had been arranged, a new embarrassment arose between us--a
sweet shamefulness. She clung to me, yet she cast down her eyes, her
cheeks encrimsoned, not daring to look me in the face. We touched one
another shyly and shuddered at the contact. Our hearts were too full for
words, our thoughts too primitively intimate to be expressed. The veils
had dropped from our eyes. The mystery of mysteries lay exposed. We saw
one another, natural in our passions--exiles from society. No artificial
restraints stood between us; in our conduct with one another we were
free to be governed by our own desires.
A scurry of little feet in the passage. The sound of heavier ones
pursuing. We sprang apart. Dorrie entered, running with her arms
stretched out towards me. “Catch me, Dante. Don’t let her get me.”
The rueful face of Annie appeared in the doorway; her plump arms covered
to the elbows with flour. “If ’ee please, mum,” she said, “it warn’t
no fault o’ mine. She nipped out afore I could get a-holt o’ her, while
I war a-makin’ o’ the pudden.”
“You’re juth horwid,” cried Dorrie. “Go ’way. I want to thpeak to
Dante.”
She scrambled on my knee, clutching tightly to my coat till Annie had
vanished. Then she tossed her curls out of her eyes, and told me all
that she and Ruthita had done together on the previous evening. While
she was talking, I watched Vi, trying to realize the seemingly
impossible truth that she had promised herself to me, and would soon be
mine. A host of bewildering images rushed through my mind as I gazed
into the future. I was amazed at myself that I should feel no fear of
the step which we contemplated.
“Old thtupid,” cried Dorrie in an aggrieved voice, “you weren’t
lithening.”
She smoothed her baby fingers up and down my face, coaxing me to give
her my attention.
“Sorry, little lady, but I must be going. You must tell me all about it
some other time.”
“All wite,” she acquiesced contentedly; “it’s a pwomith.”
Vi accompanied me to the door.
“To-night.”
“To-night.”
“What wath you thaying?” asked Dorrie.
“Nothing, my darling.”
My grandmother was sitting behind her counter, knitting, when I entered.
She sank her chin and looked at me humorously over her spectacles.
“Well, my man of business, did she take your advice?”
“Of course. Why shouldn’t she? She’s seen my grannie, and knows how
she’s profited by it.”
“Clever boy,” she retorted. “Who made your shirt? When a man of business
is born among the Cardovers, pears’ll grow on pines. Look at your
father. Look at the Spuffler. Look at yourself. I hope she won’t act on
it. What was it?”
“Can’t tell you now. I find I’ve got to run up to London to-night and
I’ve promised to take Ruthie to Yarminster. There’s only just time.”
“What’s takin’ you to London? You didn’t say anythin’ about it this
marnin’.” She dropped her knitting in her lap. “Dante, is it anythin’ to
do with her?”
“Partly.”
She beckoned me nearer to her. I leant over the counter. She glanced
meaningly towards the door of the keeping-room. I stooped lower till our
heads nearly touched. “You’d better stay there, laddie,” she whispered.
“I’ve been thinkin’ and usin’ me eyes. This ain’t no place fur you at
present. She’s gettin’ too fond of you and you of her. I know.” She
nodded. “I’ve been through it. I watched your pa at it.”
“At what?”
“At what you and Mrs. Carpenter are doin’. Don’t pretend you’re a fool,
Dante, ’cause you’re not--and neither is your old grannie.”
Just then Ruthita looked out of the keeping-room. I was glad of the
excuse to cut this dangerous conversation short. “Hurry up, Ruthie; get
on your togs. I’m going to drive you over to Yarminster.”
When she had gone, my grandmother turned to me again. “And there’s
another of ’em. Lovers can’t keep their secrets to theirselves
nohow--they give theirselves away with every breath. Did ye see the way
she flushed wi’ pleasure? She’s a tender little maid. If you made her
unhappy, though she’s none o’ my body, I’d never forgive ye, Dante. If
you don’t intend to marry ’er, be careful.”
“Rubbish,” I exclaimed and went out into the street to fetch round a
dog-cart from the livery-stables.
“Aye, rubbish is well enough,” was my grandmother’s final retort; “but
broken eggs can’t be mended. No more can broken hearts.”
There was just room enough on the front-seat to take the two of us. As
I drove down the street I saw Ruthita come out of the shop and stand
waiting on the pavement. She looked modest and pretty as a sprig of
lavender. There was always something quaintly virginal about her, as
though she had stepped out of an old English love-song. Her eyes were
unusually bright this morning with the pleasure of anticipation. With
subtle flattery, she had put on one of the gowns I had bought her. It
was her way of saying, “This day is to be mine and yours.”
“Don’t I do you proud?” she laughed, using one of Vi’s Americanisms.
“No, you don’t,” I said, with pretended harshness, “I can’t think where
you got such a dunducketty old dress from.”
“A man gave it me. Didn’t he show bad taste?”
“He showed himself a perfect ass. Now, if I were to buy you a dress,
Ruthie, which of course I shan’t----”
“Here, get off with you, you rascals. What’re you a-doin’, blockin’ up
my pavement?”
Grandmother Cardover stood in the doorway, her hands folded beneath her
black satin apron, her keys jangling. The gray cork-screw curls from
under her cap were wobbling; her plump little body was shaking with
enjoyment. All her crossness and caution on Vi’s account were gone at
seeing Ruthita and myself together. We started up at a smart trot. As
we turned the corner into the High Street, we looked back. She was still
there, gazing after us.
By the road which follows the coast, Yarminster is eight miles from
Ransby. I turned inland by a roundabout route; I wanted to pass through
Woadley.
My spirits ran high with the thought of what was to happen shortly.
I was in a mood to be gay. Clouds were flying high. The country lay
windswept and golden in the sunshine. The air had the sharp tang of
autumn--the acrid fragrance which foretells the decay of foliage. A
pleasant melancholy lurked in the reds and yellows of woods and hedges.
Tops of trees were already growing thin of leaves where the gales had
harried them. Pasturing in harvested fields, flocks of sheep lent
a touch of grayness to the landscape. Here and there overhead gulls
hovered, or slid down the sky on poised wings, as though brooding on the
summer that was gone.
Ruthita and I spoke of Lilith, recalling childhood’s days. We
laughed over our amazement at discovering that her back was no longer
humpy--that her baby had left her. Then we fell to wondering whether she
had ever been married and what was her story. Our conversation became
intimate and confessional. I had never known much of Ruthita’s secret
thoughts.
“Dante,” she cried, “why did they leave us to find out everything?”
I slowed the horse down to a walk. “I know what you mean, Ruthie.
They brought us up on fables. They left us to fight with all kinds of
fantastic imaginings. They allowed us to infer that so many things were
shameful. D’you remember what a fuss they made when they found that the
Bantam had kissed you?”
She nodded, casting down her eyes. “I’ve never got over it. It’s made me
awkward with men--self-conscious and afraid of...”
“And yet they were kind to us, Ruthie.”
“But they never treated us honestly,” she said sadly.
That same intense look, a look almost of hunger, which transformed her,
came into her face--the look which the flash-light had revealed to me
that night on the denes. Sudden fear of what we might say next made
me shake up the horse. The jolting of the wheels prevented us from
conversing save by raising our voices.
We passed a man on the road. He shouted after us.
At first I thought he was chaffing. He kept on shouting.
“Why don’t you stop?” said Ruthita. “We may have dropped something.”
We had turned a bend. I looked back, but could not see him. I halted
until he should come up. A big-framed man in a shooting-jacket, gaiters,
and knickerbockers came swinging round the corner. I was surprised to
recognize in him Lord Halloway.
“Halloa,” he shouted, “you’re going in my direction. Would you mind
giving me a lift as far as Woadley?”
“Not at all,” I said. “This horse is restive. I can’t leave the reins. I
suppose you can lower the back-seat without help.”
He drew level on the far-side from me and stood with his hand resting on
the splashboard, gazing at Ruthita. “My sister,” I said shortly.
While he lowered the back and drew but the seat, he explained himself.
“I’m going to Woadley to look after some farms my father owns round
there.” What he was really saying was, “I’m not going to try to cut you
out with Sir Charles, so you needn’t fear me.”
His manner was friendly. He had gained a high color with his walking. He
looked brilliantly handsome and manly, with just that touch of indolence
about him that gave him his charm. Without being warned, no one would
have guessed that he was a rake. In his presence even I disbelieved half
the wild tales of dissipation I had heard narrated of him. Yet, when my
distrust of him was almost at rest, he would arouse it with his inane,
high-pitched laugh.
When he had clambered in and we had started, I began to tell him, for
the sake of conversation, where we were traveling. At the mention of
Lilith, he interrupted.
“Lilith! Lilith! Seem to remember the name. Was she ever in these parts
before? There was a little girl named Lilith, who used to camp with
the Goliaths, the gipsies, on Woadley Ham. They haven’t been there for
years. I recall her distinctly. She was wild and dark. I used to watch
her breaking in ponies when I was a boy stopping with Sir Charles.”
“She must be the same.”
“You might tell her that you met me, when you see her,” he said. “She
was the pluckiest little horsewoman for her age I ever saw. She could
ride anything. I can see her now, gripping a young hunter I had with her
brown bare legs, fighting his head off. It’s odd that you should have
mentioned her.”
He tailed off into his giggling girlish laugh.
Little by little he commenced to address his remarks exclusively to
Ruthita. This was natural, for I could not turn round to converse with
him because of attending to the horse. I observed him out of the corner
of my eye, and began to understand the secret of his power over women.
For one thing he talked entirely to a woman, bestowing on her an
intensity of attention which many would consider flattering. Then again
he put a woman at her ease, drawing her out and speaking of things which
were within her depth. Most of the topics which he drifted into were
personal. When he mentioned himself, he lowered his voice as if he were
confessing. When he mentioned her, his tones became earnest.
I was surprised to see how Ruthita, usually so reticent, lowered her
guard to his attack. She twisted round on her seat, that she might watch
him. Her face grew merry and her eyes twinkled with fun and laughter.
She was being, what she had declared she never was--natural with a man.
Out of the corner of my eye I saw one thing which displeased me
immensely. With apparent unconsciousness, Halloway’s arm was slipping
farther and farther along the back of the seat against which Ruthita
rested. A little more, and it would have encircled her. But before that
was accomplished, he stopped short, leaving nothing to complain of. He
was simply steadying himself in a jolting dog-cart.
We entered Woadley and passed the tall gates of the Park. I had a
glimpse of the Hall through the trees, and the peacocks strutting where
the gardens began and the meadowland left off. I smiled to myself as
I wondered what would happen if Sir Charles should meet Halloway and
myself together. Two miles out of Woadley Ruthita and my cousin were
still industriously chatting. I had my suspicions as to the urgency of
his errand. Then the arm slid an inch further along the back-rail of the
seat. That inch made his attitude barely pardonable. I reined in.
“Didn’t you say you were going to Woadley?”
“Why, yes,” he laughed. “I have to get out at the next cross-road and
walk. The farms are over in that direction.”
He swept a belt of woodland vaguely. He lied consummately. His face told
me nothing.
“Well, here’s the next cross-road.”
My manner was churlish. He refused to acknowledge anything hostile in my
tones.
“I’m awfully grateful to you,” he said; “you’ve saved me a long walk
and I’ve enjoyed your company immensely.” As he spoke the last words
he smiled directly into the eyes of Ruthita. “I shall hope to meet Miss
Cardover again--perhaps at Oxford.”
I did not think it necessary to tell him that Ruthita’s surname was
not Cardover but Favart. We watched him stride away, clean-limbed and
splendid--a man who had sinned discreetly and bore no physical marks of
his shortcomings.
At last Ruthita spoke. “I don’t think I like him.”
“You didn’t let him know it.”
“He made me forget. He made me remember I was a woman. No man’s ever
spoken to me as he spoke.”
“He’s a clever fellow to make you forget the esplanade and Lottie.”
“Now you’re angry,” she laughed, and snuggled closer.
We entered the old marketplace of Yarminster where the Fair was being
held. Leaving our horse at _The Anchor_ to be baited, we threaded our
way between booths and whirligo-rounds. Presently I heard a familiar
cry, “Two shies a penny. Two shies a penny. Every ball ’its a
cocoanut. Down she goes. Walk up. Walk up. Two shies a penny.”
Dodging up and down behind the pitch, was G’liath, not much altered. The
gaudy woman was absent; it was Lilith who was serving out the balls to
the country bumpkins.
“Here’s Ruthita,” I said. “You remember the little girl in the Forest?”
She went on catching the wooden balls which G’liath returned to her.
Trade was busy. Between reiterating his call, she conversed with us.
“I remember. (Two shies a penny). It doesn’t seem long ago. (Every ball
’its a cocoanut. Walk up). How long is it?”
“The best part of fourteen years.”
It was difficult to carry on a conversation under the circumstances.
“I wanted to ask you about last night,” I whispered. “When’ll you be
free?”
“Not until midnight.”
I saw Ruthita listening, so I changed the subject. “By the way, we met
someone who knew you when you were a girl at Woadley. He wanted to be
remembered to you.”
Her handsome face darkened. “A man?” she asked.
“My cousin, Lord Halloway.”
She halted and looked round on me in proud astonishment. “Oh!” she
gasped, and renewed her calling.
Ruthita broke in to tell her of my good fortune. She did not pay much
attention at first. Then it seemed to dawn on her. “So he’s out of it,
and you’ll be master at Woadley Hall?”
“Yes.” I lowered my voice. “And then you must come back to Woadley Ham.
You were good to me once, Lilith.”
“I never forget.” There was a look of the old kindness in her eyes as
she said it. “When you need me, I shall come.”
The crowd pressed about us, curious to overhear, surprised at seeing
gentlefolks so chatty with a gipsy hussy. She signed to us to go. We
drew off a few paces, looking on, recalling that night at Epping, when
we fled from Dot-and-Carry-One and came to G’liath’s encampment.
Shortly after that the clock of St. Nicholas boomed three, and we
departed.