"I HAVE BEEN ALWAYS ALONE."
Mrs. Davenport knocked at the front door, and was shown into the back
drawing-room, where the ladies were sitting.
"I have come, Mrs. Paulton," she said, "to thank you and Mr. Paulton
and your family for the great kindness you showed me in my trouble. I
am afraid that at the time I was too intent on my own misfortunes to
say as fully as I ought what I should have felt. Indeed, to be quite
candid, I do not know exactly what I said to you or your husband, or
exactly how I felt."
Mrs. Paulton went over to her, and took the hand of the widow. O'Brien
and Paulton could hear and see everything going on in the back
drawing-room, as they approached the folding-doors slowly.
"My dear Mrs. Davenport," said Mrs. Paulton gently, as she pressed the
visitor's hand, "you must not think of the matter. We were, and are,
deeply sorry for you, and our only feeling in the matter was one of
regret at not having had an opportunity of being more useful."
This was true now. Both William Paulton and his wife were by the
inquest perfectly satisfied Mrs. Davenport had for a while suffered
from ugly suspicions because a crazy old husband had made away with
his life in a perfectly mad manner, and without being in the least
induced to the act by any fault of his wife. Every one agreed with the
jury that it had been a case of suicide while suffering from temporary
insanity.
Another thing greatly helped Mrs. Davenport into the good graces of
the Paultons. After Blake's release he stayed in London, although Mrs.
Davenport was away in France. Since the trial young Pringle had kept
Alfred informed on all matters connected with the widow.
Both Mr. and Mrs. Paulton now felt as though they had done an absolute
wrong to this woman, and Mrs. Paulton knew that her husband would be
delighted to show her any civility or kindness he could. The husband
and wife were, as their son had said, two of the kindest and most
generous people in England.
Alfred and Jerry entered the back room. She held out her hand to the
former, and thanked him for what he had done. She gave her hand to
Jerry, and said, with a wan smile:
"I owe you an apology, Mr. O'Brien, for my rudeness to you when last
we met."
"Rudeness! Mrs. Davenport!--your rudeness to me! I am shocked to hear
you say such a thing. I am shocked to think you should have for a
moment rested under so unpleasant an idea. Believe me, you were never
anything but most polite and considerate to me."
Madge admired this speech of Jerry's, for it seemed to her very
generous. She did not greatly admire Mrs. Davenport. She thought her
too grand and cold and reserved. But she did not go as far as Edith,
who positively disliked their visitor.
"I am quite clear as to my bad conduct," insisted Mrs. Davenport, with
her wan smile. "When I met you in this house the day after the--the
dreadful event, I did not speak to you, although I recognised you
instantly."
"But, Mrs. Davenport, you don't for a moment imagine I did not realise
how terribly you were tried just then?"
"It is very good of you to make such liberal allowances for my
conduct, but I fear I did not deserve your generosity; and I am more
than afraid, if you knew exactly how I felt, you would not be able to
forgive me so readily. I suppose it was owing to the state of
excitement I was in at the time that the moment I set eyes on you, Mr.
O'Brien, I looked upon you as an enemy."
"An enemy--an enemy!" cried Jerry, in surprise and confusion. "What
could have put such a notion into your mind?"
"I am sure I don't know," she answered, shaking her head slowly. "I
experienced nothing but the greatest consideration from you and every
one else here. I have since learned that I owe my introduction to Mr.
Pringle to you--to you and Mr. Paulton," she added, looking gratefully
at the young man.
Alfred coloured with delight and embarrassment. To see and hear her
was delight enough to outweigh all the troubles he had yet known; but
to feel that her voice and eyes were thanking and praising him was
intoxicating.
She was dressed in complete widow's weeds. Her face was pale, placid,
unwrinkled. Her dark eyebrows, dark eyes and lashes, and full red
mouth afforded the only breaks in colour. All the rest was pale,
delicate olive. The head had still the grand imperial carriage, the
eye the same unflinching, haughty fearlessness. The full, red lips met
closely, readily, at the clear, curved line, and parted easily,
readily. Only hints of the superlative graces of the figure came
through her heavy mantle. The hands lay clasped in suppliant ease in
the lap. Now that she was free from commanding excitement, her voice
drew attention to itself. The face and head, and the carriage and pose
of the head, were full of authority and command; the figure full of
feminine yielding gentleness. Now that the voice was unburdened by
heavy emotions, it partook at one time of the nature of the head; at
another of the nature of the figure. In giving thanks to Mrs. Paulton,
it was slow, stately, gravely harmonious; in confessing her want of
generosity to Jerry, it was low, soft, full, intensely sympathetic.
Her words had taken O'Brien quite aback. Was it divination, instinct,
that told her he had been friendly only in externals, and that he owed
her no particular goodwill? Or was it that she did not at the time of
the fatal occurrence wish any one to be near who knew much of her
former life? Could it be that if he had been absent from the inquest
some of the unpleasant events preceding her marriage would not have
been so nakedly exposed by either her or Blake? Who could tell? Not
he, certainly.
He looked from Mrs. Davenport to Alfred, and mentally pitied him.
"I cannot wonder," he thought, "at his falling in love with her. If I
were in his shoes, I don't know what might happen to me. Fortunately I
am safe."
He glanced gratefully at Madge.
She could not understand exactly what he meant by his eyes; but she
knew they were not eyes of disapproval or dislike, and so she looked
down because she would have liked to look up.
A general and desultory talk was going on. Alfred felt quite well
already. Notwithstanding his feeble state, he felt the strength of ten
men against all the world. He felt towards her a worshipful tenderness
he could not describe--did not want to describe, only wanted to enjoy.
When one is sailing in the sun over a summer bay, who wants to analyse
the light, and hear of the solar spectrum? When one is at the opera,
who cares about the number of vibrations it takes to produce a certain
note? When one is in love, who cares to analyse the charm? Delight is
not so plentiful in the world that we need pick it to pieces. Alfred
would not try to find out why he was supremely happy in her presence.
His happiness was enough for him. Others might say what they pleased
of her. All he would say was "Let me be near her."
Of the two friends, O'Brien was the more robust by far. His nature was
sturdy, almost aggressive. He had a hatred of what he called
"tinkering his opinions." He could be as straightforward and downright
as any other man alive. He could stick to his opinions, and had a
contempt for consequences. In manner he was a trifle arrogant. It was
this feeling of independence and self-assertion which made him feel
but slightly attracted towards Mrs. Davenport, and which often
repelled him from her.
"If she were my wife," he thought, "there would be two masters in the
house, and it would end in my throwing her out of a window--an act
which would no doubt import unpleasantness into our household. And yet
if she thought well of wheedling me, she could. A man could never be
her husband. Davenport was her owner. If ever she marries again, it
will be a master or a slave. Poor Alfred would make a fine master for
such an Amazon! But it's downright brutal of me to call her an Amazon.
After all, it would be a very terrible thing to be loved by that
woman. I think if I were married to her, I'd rather she hated me and
mastered me, always provided it was not I who went through that
window. When you find yourself continually thinking of a woman you are
not in love with, it's a bad sign of the woman, as a rule."
Alfred had been of service to her--service however slight--on the
evening of that terrible catastrophe. He had seen her aidless, alone,
helpless, dismayed. Her voice that night struck the keynote of the
music she had awakened in his heart. To those who did not know her
well--to those who had not seen her in difficulty and despair, her
outward seeming might be one of command and victory. But he had found
her distracted with horror, had lent her aid, and seen her relieved by
his own act. He had, in however humble a way, played the part of
protector. He had seen the feminine, the dependant side of her nature
revealed. She might be stately, commanding, self-sufficient, imperious
to others. To him she would always be the woman who once leaned upon
his manhood. Her beauty, her grace, her commanding stateliness might
draw other admirers to her side; to him the child-like helplessness of
her womanhood lent the charm which could never die or fade away, and
brought him more close to her heart than if he had sat and worshipped
at her feet for years. He had been the donor of little in her
distress; he would be the donor of all he had or could command in the
world for her protection and peace.
While the ladies and the two young men were chatting soberly together,
Mr. Paulton came in. He was unfeignedly delighted to see Mrs.
Davenport. He had never been easy in his mind since that day she left
his roof in the depth of her misery. Although she had gone away of her
own free will and of her own independent initiative, he was unable to
rid himself of the feeling that he expelled this woman from his roof
when she most needed friendship and protection. She had come out of
the ordeal of the trial purified, if purification were necessary; and
public opinion, of which he stood in great respect, not only held him
justified in the countenance he had given her, but applauded him
loudly for his bold, open-handed help to a lonely woman in a strange
place.
"And what are your plans for the future?" asked the old man in his
most solicitous voice. "If I, or any of us, can be of the least
service to you, I hope you will command us."
She thanked him sadly, and said that all which any one could do for
her he had already done. She had gone to France for a short time to
calm herself after the late excitement, but she could not content
herself abroad.
"My life, Mr. Paulton, up to this, has been tempest-tossed, although
little may have been seen of the disturbance. I am weary of strife,
and yearn for quiet. Kilcash is not a very lively place, but it seems
to me that I have within the past couple of months had enough of
excitement to satisfy me for the rest of my time."
He smiled, and shook his head in gallant expostulation.
"No doubt," he said, "a little rest in your old home will be grateful
and beneficial to you; but we must see you again. We have not so many
friends that we can afford to lose you."
"I am a very new friend," she said sadly.
Alfred would have given ten years of his life to tell her she was
dearer to them than all the other friends they had in the world. His
father said:
"The depth of friendship is not to be measured by years only, or,
indeed, chiefly. Some people have the faculty of making better friends
in an hour than others can in a lifetime. We were brought together
under most peculiar and distressing circumstances, and you have won
all our love." He took her hand with paternal cordiality. "If we are
so unfortunate as not to find a little place in your heart, it must be
owing to some defect on our part--owing to the want in us of some
faculty which could enlist your regard. It is not, I am sure, my dear
madam, from any lack of desire to win your confidence and good will."
All this rather long and old-fashioned speech was said with a sweet,
benevolent chivalry which would have silenced and abashed any one
who felt disposed to regard it as too fine and elaborate for a
drawing-room scene of our own day. "Bravo, sir!" cried Alfred. He was
a good, affectionate son, and had always been on the best terms with
his father; but he never felt absolutely proud of the old man before.
He coloured with pleasure. This simple homage of the old man touched
all--Mrs. Davenport herself--as something sacred. The tears stood in
his wife's eyes. What a privilege it was to own the love and share the
confidences of such a gentle and generous heart! "I am sure," said
Mrs. Paulton, scarcely able to keep her tears back, "that you will
always think of us as of old friends. I know you will make up out of
your own goodness whatever you may find wanting in us."
Mrs. Paulton took the widow's other hand in both hers.
Mrs. Davenport opened her lips as if to speak, but no words came. Then
slowly and mutely the tears formed in her eyes and fell down upon her
black dress. Alfred and O'Brien withdrew into the front room and
closed the folding doors; the two girls stole noiselessly away.
Mr. Paulton moved to the window. Mrs. Davenport's head gradually sank
on her chest; she breathed heavily, and swayed slightly to and fro.
She rose slowly.
"I must go now," she said.
"No, no; you must not. You must stay with us. You are too lonely."
She looked fearfully into the other woman's eyes.
"I have been alone since I was born, and I am afraid."
"Afraid of what?" asked Mrs. Paulton, anxiously.
She thought the fear must have some connection with the widow's recent
trial.
"I am afraid of companionship."
Mrs. Paulton rose and stood before her guest, gazing wonderingly into
the dark, fathomless, tearful eyes, now startled, looking as though
they expected to see a strange, disturbing object.
"Come with me to my room." She nodded towards her husband. "We shall
be quieter there."
"I cannot. I must get back. I am going"--a shudder--"home this
evening."
Mr. Paulton turned round and said:
"You shall not go to-night. You must not leave us so soon. Go with my
wife; she will comfort you. You have an hour between this and
luncheon."
The beautiful woman raised her face.
"Forgive me, Mr. Paulton. I have as much hatred of anything like a
scene as any one else, but I feel--I feel a bit broken--broken down. I
am not so young as I look. I am thirty-four; but in all my life I have
lived alone, within myself, and your kindness--the kindness of you and
Mrs. Paulton has been too much for me. It may sound strange, but
kindness is unkindness to me. I shall be better when I find myself
alone once more. I am used to such companionship--none other.
Good-bye."
He went to her, and took her again by the hand.
"Hush, child--hush! I will not have you leave us to-day. If we have
been able to do a little for you, do you a little for us. Stay with us
this one day, if no more--only this one day."
"No, no; I cannot. Good-bye."
"Wait!" he said, holding up his hand and approaching the folding doors
that opened into the front room. "It is a long and lonely journey to
the south of Ireland. Perhaps we can find you an escort--company." He
passed into the front room. The two young men were seated at the
window looking out on the little garden between the house and the
road. "You re going to Ireland, to Kilcash, Alfred--when?"
"We were thinking of going soon, sir; but----"
He paused and looked at his friend. He knew his father well, and
guessed that he had asked the lonely woman to stay with them for a
while. His father had indeed said more than once he wished an
opportunity of this kind might occur.
"Can you go to-morrow? Mrs. Davenport wants to go to-night; but if you
can manage to go to-morrow she may be induced to stay to-night with
us."
"We shall only be too happy, sir," said Alfred, turning away to hide
his satisfaction.
"Very good. We shall say to-morrow evening," said the old man, as he
withdrew into the back room and shut the doors. He went to where the
two women stood. "It is all settled. We will not ask you to do too
much for us this time. Mr. O'Brien and my son are starting for the
south of Ireland to-morrow. They are going to the village near which
you live--Kilcash--and will leave you at your own gate."
"Mr. O'Brien and Mr. Paulton going to Kilcash! Surely this is arranged
for me--at the moment."
"No, indeed; it has been settled for weeks. You see"--he smiled, and
imported some gaiety into his voice--"Fate is stronger than you. You
would not ask them to set off at once--to-night? Mr. O'Brien arrived
in London only last night, and I could not dream of asking him to
start again for Ireland this evening. Besides, Alfred, I am sure,
could not get ready in time, and you must not go alone. Take her
upstairs now, Kate, and make her rest till luncheon. Take her away,
Kate."
"But," she persisted, as Mrs. Paulton guided her reluctant steps to
the door, "I am used to being alone."
"Not travelling alone. I must have my way this time."
"But I really am used to travelling alone."
"Then we must insist upon this being an exception. Now, we never allow
any arguments in this house."
He opened the door for the two ladies. Mrs. Davenport shook her head
mournfully, and suffered herself to be led out of the room by Mrs.
Paulton.
END OF VOL. II.
* * * * * * * * * *
CHARLES DICKENS AND EVANS, CRYSTAL PALACE PRESS.
End of Project Gutenberg's Tempest-Driven (Vol. II of 3), by Richard Dowling