Such a parting, however, is sadly apt to lead to future meetings.
Notwithstanding his smouldering quarrel with Fred, which was always
ready to burst out afresh, Dr Rider would not give up coming to St
Roque's. He came to some clandestine arrangement with Mrs Smith, of
which nobody ever was aware, and which he himself was rather ashamed of
than otherwise; and he attended Freddy with the most dutiful exactness
till the child was quite restored. But all this time Nettie put on a
coat of armour, and looked so thoroughly unlike herself in her unusual
reserve and propriety, that the doctor was heartily discouraged, and
could go no further. Besides, it would not be positively correct to
assert that--though he would gladly have carried her off in the drag
anywhere, to the end of the world, in the enchantment of the moment--he
was just as ready to propose setting up a new household, with Fred and
his family hanging on to it as natural dependants. That was a step the
doctor was not prepared for. Some people are compelled to take the prose
concerns of life into full consideration even when they are in love, and
Edward Rider was one of these unfortunate individuals. The boldness
which puts everything to the touch to gain or lose was not in this young
man. He had been put to hard encounters enough in his day, and had
learned to trust little to chance or good fortune. He did not possess
the boldness which disarms an adverse fate, nor that confidence in his
own powers which smooths down wounded pride, and accounts even for
failure. He was, perhaps it is only right to say, not very capable of
heroism: but he was capable of seeing the lack of the heroic in his
own composition, and of feeling bitterly his own self-reproaches, and
the remarks of the world, which is always so ready to taunt the very
cowardice it creates. After that moment in which he could have dared
anything for her and with her, it is sad to be obliged to admit that
perhaps Dr Edward too, like Nettie, withdrew a little from that climax
of feeling. Not that his heart grew colder or his sentiments changed;
but only that, in sight of the inevitable result, the poor young fellow
paused and pondered, obeying the necessity of his nature. People who
jump at conclusions, if they have to bear the consequences of folly
often enough, are at least spared those preliminary heartaches. Dr
Rider, eager as love and youth could make him, was yet incapable of
shutting his eyes to the precipice at his feet. That he despised himself
for doing so, did not make the matter easier. These were the limits of
his nature, and beyond them he could not pass.
Accordingly matters went on in this dangerous fashion for many weeks
longer. The fire smouldered, strengthening its pent-up flames. Day by
day malicious sprites of thought went out behind Dr Rider in his drag,
leading him into the wildest calculations, the most painful complication
of schemes. If Fred and his family could only be persuaded to return to
Australia, his brother thought--if any bribe within Edward's means could
tempt the ruined man to such a step; and when he was there, why there
was Providence to take care of the helpless unlovely household, and
necessity might compel the wretched father to work for his children.
Such were the vain projects that revolved and fermented through the
doctor's agitated brain as he went among his patients. Luckily he
had a very favourable and well-disposed lot of sick people at that
crisis--they all got well in spite of the doctor, and gave their own
special cases and his anxiety all the credit for his grave looks; and
all these half-finished streets and rough new roads in the east end of
Carlingford were sown thick with the bootless suggestions of Dr Rider's
love and fears. The crop did not show upon the vulgar soil, but gave
lurking associations to every half-built street corner which he passed
in his rounds many a day after, and served at this present momentous era
to confuse doubly the chaos of his thoughts.
At last one night the crisis came. Spring had begun to show faintly in
the lengthening days--spring, that so often belies itself, and comes
with a serpent's tooth. Dr Rider on that particular day had met Dr
Marjoribanks at some meeting convened in the interests of Carlingford.
The old physician had been very gracious and cordial to the young
one--had spoken of his own declining health, of his possible retirement,
of the excellent prospects which a rising young man in their profession
had in Carlingford; and, finally, had asked Dr Rider to go with him next
day to see an interesting patient, and advise as to the treatment of the
case.
The young doctor was more pleased than he could or would have told any
one; and, with a natural impulse, seized the earliest moment to direct
his steps towards St Roque's.
It was twilight when Dr Edward went down the long and rather tiresome
line of Grange Lane. These garden-walls, so delicious in their bowery
retirements within, were not interesting outside to the pedestrian. But
the doctor's attention was so speedily riveted on two figures eagerly
talking near Mr Wodehouse's garden-door, that the long sweep of wall
seemed but a single step to him as he hurried along. Those two figures
were unquestionably Nettie for one, and Mr Wentworth for another.
Handsome young coxcomb, with all his Puseyitical pretences! Was Lucy
Wodehouse not enough for him, that he must have Nettie too? Dr Rider
hurried forward to interrupt that meeting. He was actually turning with
her, walking slowly back again the very way he had just come! Edward's
blood boiled in his impatient veins. He swept along in a whirlwind of
sudden wrath. When he came up to them Nettie was talking low, and the
curate's lofty head was bent to hear her in a manner which, it is
probable, Lucy Wodehouse would no more have admired than Edward Rider.
They came to a sudden pause when he joined them, in that particular
conversation. The doctor's dread civility did not improve matters. Without
asking himself what cause he had, this amiable young man plunged into
the wildest jealousy without pause or interval. He bestowed upon Nettie
the most cutting looks, the most overwhelming politeness. When the three
had marched solemnly abreast down the road for some few minutes, the
curate, perhaps with an intuition of fellow-feeling, perceiving how the
matter was, stopped short and said good-bye. "I will make inquiries, and
let you know next time I pass the cottage," said Mr Wentworth; and he
and the doctor took off their hats, not without deadly thoughts on one
side at least. When the young clergyman left them, Nettie and her sulky
cavalier went on in silence. That intrepid little woman was not in her
usual spirits, it appeared. She had no talk for Dr Edward any more than
he had for her. She carried a multiplicity of little parcels in her
hands, and walked with a certain air of fatigue. The doctor walked on,
stealing silent looks at her, till his heart melted. But the melting of
his heart displayed itself characteristically. He would not come down
from his elevation without suffering her to see how angry he was.
"I fear I interrupted an interesting conversation--I that have so little
hope of equalling Mr Wentworth. Priests are always infallible with women,"
said the doctor, betraying his ill-temper in vulgar sneers.
"I was asking him for some one to teach the boys," said Nettie. "Johnnie
ought to have his education attended to now. Mr Wentworth is very
good-tempered, Dr Edward. Though he was just going to knock at Miss
Wodehouse's door when I met him, he offered, and would have done it if
you had not come up, to walk home with me. Not that I wanted anybody to
walk home with me; but it was very kind," said Nettie, with rising
spirit.
"I am afraid I am a very poor substitute for Mr Wentworth," said the
jealous doctor, "and I don't pretend to be kind. But I am surprised to
find Miss Underwood walking so late. This is not a road for a lady by
herself."
"You know I don't mind in the least for the road," said Nettie, with a
little indignation. "How wonderfully cross you are sometimes! If you are
going as far as the Cottage," she added, with a little sigh of fatigue,
"will you please carry some of these things for me! I could not get out
sooner, I have been so busy to-day. It is wonderful how much needlework
it takes to keep three children going, and how many little jobs there
are to do. If you take this parcel, carry it carefully, please: it is
something for my bonnet. There! Don't be absurd. I am quite able to walk
by myself, thank you--I'd rather, please!"
This remonstrance was called forth by the fact that the relenting
doctor, much moved by having the parcels confided to his care, had drawn
the little hand which gave them within his arm, a proceeding which
Nettie distinctly disapproved of. She withdrew her hand quickly, and
walked on with much dignity by his side.
"I can carry your parcels," said Edward, after a little pause, "but you
will not let me help yourself. You take the heaviest burdens upon your
shoulders, and then will have no assistance in bearing them. How long
are these children of Fred's--detestable little imps!--to work you to
death?"
"You are speaking of _my_ children, sir!" cried Nettie, with a little
blaze of resentment. "But you don't mean it, Dr Edward," she said, a
moment after, in a slightly coaxing tone. "You are tired and cross after
your day's work. Perhaps it will be best, if you are very cross, not to
come down all the way to the Cottage, thank you. I don't want you to
quarrel with Fred."
"Cross! Nettie, you are enough to drive twenty men distracted!" cried
the poor doctor. "You know as well as I do what I have been dying to
say to you these three months past; and to see you go on with these
confounded children without so much as a glance for a fellow who----"
"Don't speak like that," cried Nettie, with brilliant female instinct;
"you'll be sorry for it after; for you know, Dr Edward, you have _not_
said anything particular to me these three months past."
This touch gave the last exasperation to the agitated mind of the
doctor. He burst forth into a passionate outbreak of love and anger,
curiously mingled, but too warm and real to leave Nettie much coolness
of observation under the circumstances. She took the advantage over
him which a woman naturally does in such a case. She went on softly,
trembling sufficiently to her own consciousness, but not to his,
suffering him to pour out that torrent without interruption. She made
no answer till the whole agitated self-disclosure was complete. In the
interval she got a little command of herself, and was able to speak when
it came to her turn.
"Dr Edward," said Nettie, solemnly, "you know it is impossible. If we
cared for each other ever so much, what could we do? I am not free
to--to make any change; and I know very well, and so do you, that you
never could put up with Fred and Susan and the children, were things as
you say ten times over. I don't mean I don't believe you. I don't mean I
might not have been pleased had things been different. But you know it
is just plainly impossible. You know your own temper and your own
spirit--and perhaps you know mine as well. No, no--we cannot manage it
anyhow, Dr Edward," said Nettie, with a little sigh.
"Is this all you have to say to me?" cried the astonished lover.
"I am sure I do not know what else to say," said Nettie, with
matter-of-fact distinctness. "I don't need to enter into all the
business again, and tell you how things stand; you know as well as I
do. One may be sorry, but one must do what one has to do all the same."
A painful pause followed. Nettie, with all her feminine acuteness, could
not divine that this calm way of treating a business which had wrought
her companion into such a pitch of passion, was the most humiliating
and mortifying possible to a man in whose bosom love and pride were so
combined. He tried to speak more than once, but could not. Nettie said
nothing more--she was uneasy, but secure in the necessity of her own
position. What else could she do or say?
"Then, I presume, this is my answer," said the doctor, at last, gulping
an amount of shame and anger which Nettie could not conceive of, and
which the darkness concealed from her sight.
"Oh, Dr Edward, what can I say?" cried the girl; "you know it all as
well as I do. I cannot change it with a word. I am very, very sorry,"
said Nettie, faltering and startled, waking to a sudden perception of
the case all at once, by reason of catching a sudden gleam of his eyes.
They came to a dead stop opposite each other, she half frightened and
confused, he desperate with love and rage and mortification. By this
time they had almost reached the cottage door.
"Don't take the trouble to be sorry. I'll--oh, I'll get over it!" cried
the doctor, with a sneer at himself and his passion, which came out of
the bitterness of his heart. Then, after a pause--"Nettie!" cried the
young man--"Nettie! do you see what you are doing?--do you choose Fred
and those wretched imps instead of your own life and mine? You are not
so indifferent as you think you are. We shall never get over it, neither
you nor me. Nettie, once for all, is this all you have to say?"
"If I were to say all the words in the language," said Nettie, after a
pause, with a breathless indistinctness and haste, "words will not change
_things_ if we should break our hearts."
The open door, with the light shining out from it, shone upon them at
that moment, and Mrs Smith waiting to let the young lady in. Neither of
the two dared face that sudden gleam. The doctor laid down his parcels
on the step, muttered something, which she could not distinguish, into
Nettie's agitated ear, and vanished back again into the darkness. Only
now was Nettie awaking to the sense of what had happened, and its real
importance. Perhaps another minute, another word, might have made a
difference--that other word and minute that are always wanting. She
gazed out after him blankly, scarcely able to persuade herself that
it was all over, and then went in with a kind of stupefied, stunned
sensation, not to be described. Edward Rider heard the door shut in the
calm silence, and swore fierce oaths in his heart over her composure and
cold-heartedness. As usual, it was the woman who had to face the light
and observation, and to veil her trouble. The man rushed back into the
darkness, smarting with wounds which fell as severely upon his pride as
upon his heart. Nettie went in, suddenly conscious that the world was
changed, and that she had entered upon another life.