THE WORST SCRAPE OF ALL.
A rumour had spread in the little hamlet which had gathered about the
junction, of some travellers who had missed their train. The faintest
rumour echoes a long way in the quiet of the country, and as the village
was chiefly formed of the cottages of railway labourers and porters, it
was natural that this kind of report should travel more swiftly than
anything else. Oswald and his companion walked down the still road in
the soft dusk like two ghosts. In the mind of Agnes nothing less than
despair was supreme. What was to become of her? Shame, disgrace,
destruction, the loss of all things. How could she dare to face the
wondering women in the House? Sister Mary Jane might understand her, but
who else? And what comments there would be, and what talk! And
home--how could she go home? To spend a night at an inn at all was
something entirely strange to Agnes. But thus--all alone, and with a
gentleman; one who was not related to her, of whom she could give no
account or befitting explanation! A wild fancy seized her of flying from
him, disappearing into some corner behind a high hedge, some nook under
the trees. But this was as futile as everything else, and might be worse
than anything else. She had the bondage of custom before her, though she
had put herself into a position in which all her familiar habits were
thrown to the winds. And yet going to the inn with Oswald was about as
bad as spending a night in direful desolation in the dark corner of a
field. The one was not much better than the other! If she could have got
away at once, it was the field she would have chosen. She could have
crept into a corner in the dark, and there waited, though she might have
been frightened, till the morning broke and there was an early train.
Had she but done that at once, stolen away before he could see what she
was doing! But she could not disappear from his side now, at the risk of
being pursued and argued with and entreated and brought back. So, with
her mind in a blank of despair, not knowing what to think, she walked
close by his side between the hedgerows through the soft darkness. Oh,
what a punishment was this for the indiscretion of the day! It was
indiscretion, perhaps, but surely the punishment was more terrible than
the guilt. She drew the thick gauze veil which was attached to her
bonnet over her face. What could anyone think of her--in that dress?
Then there came into her mind, to increase her pain, an instant vivid
realisation of what her mother would say. Mrs. Burchell would judge the
very worst of any such victim of accident. ‘Why did she lose her train?’
her mother would have said. ‘Depend upon it, such things don’t happen
when people take common care.’ Agnes knew how her mother would look,
denouncing the unfortunate with hard eyes in which was no pity; and
naturally her mother was her standard. So, no doubt, people would
think--people who were respectable, who never placed themselves in
embarrassing situations. They would go further, she thought, with a
still more poignant touch of anguish--they would say that this is what
comes of religious vagaries, of sisterhoods, of attempts at being or
doing something more than other people. They would laugh and sneer, and
hold her up as an example--and oh, never, never, never, could she get
the better of this! it would cling to her all her life--never, never
could she hold up her head again!
Oswald too was full of thought, planning in his mind how he was to carry
out his intentions, his mind so overflowing with plans that he could not
talk. He had been grieved to the heart by the dilemma into which his
carelessness had plunged them. But now he began to recover, and a
certain sensation of boyish pleasure in the escapade came stealing into
his mind. He would not have acknowledged it, but still there it was. The
village was a mere collection of common cottages in yellow brick, as
ugly as it was possible to imagine; but the inn was an old roadside inn
of past times, red, with a high-pitched roof all brown with lichen,
showing the mean modernness of the others. An inquisitive landlady stood
at the door watching for them, inquisitive but good-natured, the fame of
their failure having travelled before them. Oswald strode on in advance
when he saw the woman. ‘Good evening,’ he said, taking off his hat,
which was a civility she was not used to. ‘If you are the landlady, may
I speak to you? There is a young lady here who has missed her train. She
is very much frightened and distressed. Can you give her a room and take
care of her. It is all an accident. Can you take care of her for the
night?’
‘And you too, sir?’ asked the woman.
‘Oh, never mind me. It is the young lady who is important. Yes, Miss
Burchell,’ he said, going back to Agnes, ‘here is someone who will
attend to you. I will not ask you to talk to me to-night,’ he added,
dropping his voice, ‘but do not be surprised if you find me gone in the
morning. I shall be off by the first train, and you will wait for me
here. I think you will be comfortable--everything shall be settled
directly.’
‘Oh, how can I, how can I? Mr. Meredith, it is not possible. I must bear
it. It was not our fault. I will tell them everything, and--I will go
home.’
‘Yes, darling, with your husband. What does it matter this month or
next. You have promised me one way or the other. There is no harm in
getting married,’ he said, with a breathless eagerness in his voice. ‘Is
it not by far the best thing? And then all will be settled at once.’
‘No, not that!’ she said, breathless too with excitement. ‘But if you
will go to the House and tell Sister Mary Jane everything--you must tell
her everything----’
‘I will,’ he said fervently. ‘Surely you may trust me. And I will bring
her to you in the afternoon. Everything shall be right. Now go, my
dearest, and rest, and don’t worry yourself. I will take all the blame
upon myself.’
‘The blame was mine too,’ she said, gravely. She strained her eyes
through the darkness to see his face. Was he taking it with levity--was
he unaware of the terrible, terrible seriousness of the whole business?
She could not bear the idea that it was anything less than tragic to him
too.
‘No, I cannot allow that. It was my folly, my thoughtlessness. But could
I be expected to think to-day? I can’t even say good-night to you,
darling. Promise me to sleep, and not to worry yourself with thinking.
By six o’clock I shall be off to set all right.’
‘To bring the Sister?’ she said, casting a soft look back at him. ‘I
shall be very, very grateful. Good-night.’
‘Good-night,’ he said. He stood in the little hall and watched her going
upstairs, her slight little figure drooping in its black drapery, the
cheerful landlady preceding her with a light. What a revolution since
the morning! Then she had been a kind of divinity worshipped at a
distance, now she was his; and not only his, but already dependent upon
him, absolutely in his hands. To do Oswald justice, this consciousness
only increased the touch of reverence which had always mingled with his
love. She was not a girl like other girls, though, indeed, full of
levity and carelessness as he was, Oswald had never been disrespectful
even of those ‘other girls,’ who were not to be mentioned in the same
breath with Agnes. She was by herself; there was no one like her. Even
in this indiscretion which she had committed--and though it was entirely
his fault yet it could not be denied that it was an indiscretion--what a
delicate veil of maidenly reserve had been about her! Still like one of
Perugino’s angels just touching earth, ready to fly if exposed to a look
or word less exquisite than her own purity. This was how he thought of
her, and it is well for all parties when young lovers think so; though
not the wildest extravagance of ‘fastness’ could be worse than what
Agnes thought of it in the silence of the little room upstairs where she
had already fallen down upon her knees by the bed, crying her heart
out, her face hidden in an anguish of shame. Oswald’s feelings were less
acute. He went out when she disappeared and sat down on the bench
outside, where two or three silent men were sitting smoking, drinking
their beer, and giving forth a fragmentary remark at intervals. There
was no light but that which streamed from the open door, and the little
red-curtained window beside it, where the same kind of dull sociable
drinking was going on. Outside, the soft night air and pale yet warm
night sky elevated the homely scene. Oswald took off his hat and exposed
his head to the fresh caressing of the air, which blew his hair about
and refreshed him body and soul. He was tired, for he had taken an
unusual amount of exercise, not to speak of the strain of mind he was
still undergoing. He took a mighty draught of beer, and felt himself
strong again. Naturally there had been no such beverage in the boat, and
even the smile of Agnes, which, though sweet was very timid, did not
sustain his strained muscles; and he had rowed hard for the last
half-hour at least, and was unaccustomed to the exertion--out of
training, as he would have said. So that altogether it was in a very
agreeable moment of repose that he set himself to a final arrangement of
his plan. He was in a scrape, no doubt; but that he was used to, and
this time what a glorious scrape it was! a fit climax to all the others
of which he had exhausted the sensations; but for Agnes indeed, and her
pain, it was, he said to himself, the very way he would have chosen to
settle his marriage. No lingering negotiations, no presentations to her
family, and sense of being on his best behaviour while they inspected
him, no fuss of presents and trousseau, and tiresome delay (to tell the
truth, no one would have enjoyed the presents and the preparations, and
all the importance of the intervening time more than Oswald; but his
easy mind easily ignored this, and took refuge in the most desirable
aspect of the alternative). The only thing he disliked in the prospect
before him was the idea of having to get up very early in the morning,
which, especially after the fatigue and excitement of this day, was a
bore to think of. Otherwise everything was ideal, he persuaded himself.
He watched a light come into a window overhead as he sat resting
enjoying the fresh air. That must be her room, bless her! Poor darling,
how pale she had grown, how frightened! But never in her sweet life to
come should there be anything to be frightened of. Thus Oswald resolved
in his tender thoughts.
‘Do you know at what hour the first train goes?’ he asked of one of the
men who were sitting by.
‘Well, master, mostly it’s at six o’clock,’ was the answer; ‘but
to-morrow, you see, being Sunday----’
‘Good heavens! Sunday!’ he said, with a cry of dismay.
‘Well, wherever ‘ave you been a-living not to know it was Sunday. Any
fool knows that. I reckon, master, as you’ve come from abroad. They
don’t take no notice of Sundays there, I’ve heard say. It’s Sunday, and
ten o’clock is the first train; and early enough too,’ said the man, who
was a porter on the railway, and felt the hardship of the rest
disturbed.
Oswald could not find a word to say. He had forgotten this terrible
fact. It made everything doubly terrible for the moment, and it turned
all his own plans into foolishness. He sat dumb, unable to say a word,
unable even to think, his mouth open, his heart beating. What was to be
done? Now, indeed, he felt the harm of his folly; a whole day lost, and
Agnes kept in this equivocal position, and all tongues let loose. This
fairly sobered the light-hearted young man. He stole upstairs to the
little bedroom which had been prepared for him, still speechless, as
much cast down as Agnes was. What were they to do? He flung himself on
his bed in a kind of despair.
Next morning, though it was not his custom, Oswald was awake as early as
if the train had been six o’clock, as he thought. It was better not to
let her know, not to agitate her further. Having once got this idea into
his head, he went further, and resolved upon the most disinterested
course of action possible. He would go all the same, though he could do
nothing he wished to do--and carry out her will; she should be
satisfied. To do this, with newborn delicacy, he left the inn early, so
that she might suppose he had only carried out his original intention.
What would Sister Mary Jane say to him? He would be the wolf and Agnes
the lamb in her eyes. How could anyone think otherwise? But what did it
matter so long as Agnes had justice? He went up to town in the
aggravating tedium of a slow Sunday train. It was true he had come down
in a slow train the day before, but that was entirely different, there
was no tedium in it. The streets were very still when he got to town,
everybody being at church, as good Christians ought, and it was only
after repeated knockings that he got admission at the big door of the
House. The porteress gave a little scream at sight of him. ‘Oh, sir, can
you tell us anything of Miss Burchell? She never wrote to say she was
going to stay, and we’ve been that anxious about her!’
‘Can I speak to the Sister Superior?’ said Oswald, somewhat troubled in
his mind as to the reception he would receive.
‘The Sister Superior has been sent for to the mother-house, sir,’ said
the porteress. ‘She had to go yesterday. It is some meeting--nobody knew
it till yesterday. Perhaps she will be back to-morrow, but we don’t
know. Would Sister Catherine do? If it was anything about Miss
Burchell----’
‘It was the Sister Superior I wanted,’ said Oswald, and after a pause he
turned away. He would not say anything about Miss Burchell. After he had
left the House, it occurred to him that even this humble porteress would
have been better than nothing, but then it was too late. He walked about
the streets for a whole hour, questioning with himself what he ought to
do. His mother? She was very kind, but she was not without her
prejudices; and would not she recollect afterwards that her first sight
of her daughter-in-law had been at the railway inn at the junction, in a
semi-conventual dress, and a most equivocal position. If he could but
have laid hands on Cara? But on what excuse could he run away with a
second young lady? No--there was nothing for it now; he must go back to
Agnes, and tell her of his non-success, which was not his fault, and
next day he must carry out his own plan. There was nothing else for it.
He went to the chambers of a friend, not venturing to go home, and
borrowed some clothes; then went back again in the afternoon. There were
few trains, and not many people were travelling so far. He was the only
individual who got out at the junction, where already he was a person of
importance.
‘The young lady said as there was another lady coming,’ the porter said
to him, who had told him last night about the train; and the man looked
suspiciously about the carriage, in the netting and under the seat.
‘Do you think I’ve made away with her?’ said Oswald; but he trembled as
he walked down the road to the inn between the two high hedgerows. Agnes
was walking about, waiting, with wistful eyes. He saw at a glance that
she had modified her dress by some strange art not to be divined by man.
Her cloak was laid aside; her long black dress looked severely graceful
in comparison with the snippings and trimmings of fashion, but not
otherwise extraordinary. And she had a simple hat, borrowed from the
landlady’s daughter, over the warm golden brown Perugino hair. She stood
still, clasping her hands, when she saw he was alone.
‘It is no fault of mine,’ he said, going up to her in hurried apology
and desperation. Agnes grew so pale that he lost all his courage.
‘She would not come then?’ the poor girl cried, with a half-sobbing
sigh.
‘No, no; not that; she was not there. It is our bad luck. She has gone
to the mother-house, whatever that may be. What could I do? I have done
nothing but think since I left you. O Agnes, forgive me, my darling, for
having brought you into this! My own plan is the only one; but I never
thought of this--Sunday--to-morrow, to-morrow every thing can be
arranged.’
This was the text upon which he enlarged for the whole afternoon. There
was not another train till the evening, and what could they do even if
there had been trains? They had to eat the chicken which the curious
landlady had prepared, together, and went out again in the afternoon,
and sat under a tree and talked. They were miserable, or at least Agnes
was miserable--and yet happy. Oh, if she had but known, if she had but
gone on this morning, or back to Limpet Bay, where there were Sisters
and a shelter! But now! every moment compromised her more, and made it
more impossible to do anything but acquiesce in what he proposed. And so
the long, slow, weary, anxious, miserable, delicious Sunday wore to a
close; it was all these things together. They took the landlady into
their confidence, and told her all that had happened, while Agnes sat
crying. She thought even this woman would shrink from her; but the
woman, on the contrary, was deeply interested, delighted, and
flattered. There was the parsonage half a mile off, and the clergyman
the kindest old gentleman. A wedding in the house! She could not contain
herself with pride and pleasure. Crying! what was the young lady crying
about? An ‘usband that adored her instead of them nunnery places as she
never could abide to hear of. This unexpected support quite exhilarated
Oswald, and it cowed Agnes, who had no power of self-assertion left.
In this way it all came about according to Oswald’s rapid programme
which he had sketched out as soon as he knew they were too late on
Saturday night. He was so much in earnest, so eager to carry out his
plans, that, much as it went against his mind to do so, he went to town
again on Monday by the six o’clock train. As soon as the offices were
open he presented himself at the proper place (wherever that may be; I
have not the information) and got the licence. By this time he was so
much himself again, his light heart had so regained its characteristic
boyish ease, and the tragicality had gone so completely out of the
situation, that it seemed to him the best of jokes--a delightful,
practical pleasantry, a piece of charming mischief to startle all sober
people. He went about in his hansom with involuntary smiles on his lips,
the chief thing that alarmed him being the chance of meeting Edward or
Cara or someone who would know him. How startled they would be when they
knew! Poor dear little Cara, would she _feel_ it just a little? But for
the rest it was the greatest joke. To come down upon them with his
wife--his _wife_! Oswald laughed in spite of himself, half with
happiness, half with a sense of the fun. When he had got his licence
safe in his pocket--which gave a kind of legality to the whole--he went
to a famous milliner’s, and had a large boxful of things packed up. This
was a business which delighted him. He chose a little white bonnet, a
white dress, partially made, which the lady’s maid could arrange in an
hour, the smiling milliner assured him, a veil which would envelop the
figure of Agnes from top to toe, a hat in which she could travel. How
she was to be transported to London in that white silk dress it did not
occur to him to ask; for he was still young and thoughtless, though on
the eve of being married. He had never seen her surrounded by any of the
pretty finery which girls love, in nothing but her black dress and poke
bonnet. To throw the veil about her, to see her Perugino countenance
under the large leaved hat with its drooping feathers, what a
transformation it would be! And when, having done all his business, he
travelled back to the junction with his big dressmaker’s box, all
thoughts except those of delighted anticipation had gone out of Oswald’s
mind. The junction had a friendly look to him, and he walked down the
lane to the inn with the feeling of going home.
What a fortunate thing that the poor old governor had died when he did!
Poor old fellow! his son did not grudge him his existence as long as he
remained in this world, or rather in the other world across the seas in
India, where he interfered with nobody. But as he did mean to die, what
a thing it was that he should have done it just then. Oswald made a
hurried run to his banker’s while he was in town, and supplied himself
with money, that grand requisite of all extravagant and eccentric
proceedings. He was as happy as a child walking down the lane, the
porters grinning and knowing all about it, carrying the big box after
him; he had got his own portmanteau, too, with his best clothes in it,
according to the orders which he had telegraphed to the Square; and all
was ready for the wedding. Surely a stranger wedding never was. The
little cluster of houses at the junction was as much excited as if the
event had been a family one concerning each house. How did they know?
Who could say? The landlady swore it was no doing of hers. Agnes would
not wear the white silk which he had bought for her, but consented to
put on a plain white muslin which the dressmaker next door had luckily
just made for herself, and which she was free to dispose of at a profit.
And so the soft June twilight dropped and the dews fell once more, and
quite a little crowd hung about the inn, trying for a peep at ‘them.’
Only three days since they came from London in separate carriages to
meet ‘by accident’ on the sands. And now they were bridegroom and bride,
and to-morrow was their wedding-day.