MOONSHINE.
"Miss Strange!" he exclaimed, amazed.
"Oh!" cried Barbara, "I thought you would _never_ come!"
"You wanted me! You have been waiting for me! If I had known----" And
while he spoke the strangest thoughts and possibilities shaped
themselves in his brain, and died away again. If her presence called
them up it also killed them. He saw that she was frightened. Her lip
quivered, and her eyes looked larger and a little vague. She was gazing
at him through a bright film of unshed tears.
"If I had known," he repeated confusedly, as he stepped forward. "What
is it?"
They had not shaken hands in his first astonishment, and now she still
looked up at him, and his hand dropped unheeded.
"I don't know what you will say to me," she began. "I am so very, very
sorry--I felt I must come myself and ask you to forgive me."
"_I_ forgive _you_! Why," said Reynold, his eyes shining, "it is you who
should forgive!"
Barbara started, and the hot tears dropped, and slid over her burning
blushes. She turned away, but too late to hide them. "What do you mean?"
she said. "You don't know. I haven't told you yet. What do you suppose I
have come for like this? What do you mean?"
He drew back as if he were stung.
"Well, what is it then?"
She threw two letters on the table.
"Letters? You came with those? Upon my word Miss Strange, it's very
kind----"
He stopped short, looking from the letters to her and back again.
Barbara shrank away, drawing herself together, but she resolutely fixed
her eyes upon his face.
"Why--why--" stammered Harding, turning as pale as death, and then he
dropped into a chair and began to laugh.
The letter that lay nearest to him was directed "R. Harding, Esq." in
his own handwriting.
"It is my fault!" cried Barbara. "Tell me what I have done! It is
something that matters very much! I knew it--I felt it was, the moment I
found them. I came with them directly--I was so afraid you might have
gone away. Don't laugh! Oh I know it matters dreadfully!"
Harding had had time to master himself.
"On the contrary," he said, "it doesn't matter at all."
He threw himself back in his chair, tilting it carelessly, and looking
at Barbara.
"Doesn't it?" said the girl incredulously. "Doesn't it really?"
"Not a bit; why should it? How did it happen?"
Since everything was lost, he might as well hear her talk.
"It was my fault," Barbara repeated, still doubtfully. "I told you to
put them on the hall table--it was the day we had those people to
dinner."
Reynold nodded.
"I had my apron on, I was busy. I went out to speak to the gardener, and
I thought I would give them to the boy, so I put them in my apron
pocket, yours and one of mine, and I never thought of them again."
He had balanced his chair very dexterously, and was still looking at
her.
"And they have been in that little apron pocket of yours ever since!
Dear me, Miss Strange, I hope yours wasn't an important letter. I'm
sorry for your correspondent."
"No, mine didn't matter. Mr. Harding, tell me about yours--tell me the
truth! All the time I have been waiting here--and I thought you never
_would_ come!--I have felt more and more sure that yours _did_ matter. I
can't tell why, but I am certain. Let me know the worst, please. Tell me
what I have done!"
"I don't know why you are so determined that you must have done
something dreadful. I assure you I'm not in the habit of writing such
terribly important letters as you seem to suppose."
Reynold, as he spoke, had been thinking how strange it was that people
should excite themselves about their plans for the future. What child's
play and chance it all was! You dreamed, and schemed, and worked it all
out, you made allowance for everything except what was really going to
happen, and suddenly it was all over, and there was nothing more to be
said or done. Here, for instance, was Mitchelhurst Place blown away like
a bubble! Possibly, somewhere, there might be found something in the
shape of a house, a certain quantity of stone and timber, set on the
face of the earth and called by that name, but had Reynold been opposite
the gate at that moment he would have looked at it with indifference.
_His_ Mitchelhurst Place, the one he had thought about so much, the one
he meant to give the best years of his life to win, was, it now
appeared, a house of cards. Barbara and he had been mightily interested
in setting it up, and really it had been a very lofty and presentable
edifice, till Barbara forgot to put a letter in the post, and so it all
tumbled down in a minute. It was a pity, certainly.
"Tell me the truth," said the girl's voice again, with its soft accent
of entreaty.
"But you won't believe me! I tell you again, Miss Strange, it doesn't
matter a bit. And again, if you like! And again!"
She looked fixedly at him, and stretched out her hand towards the
letters.
"Very well," she said. "Shall I post these for you as I go back?"
He brought down his tilted chair with sudden emphasis, and sprang up.
"No!"
He had lost all, but at least his pride was safe. His mother and old Mr.
Harding need never learn how nearly they had had their way. He knew what
deadly offence he had given by the silence which would be taken for a
calculated insult, but he would a thousand times rather face their anger
than appeal to their pity with a lame story of a letter delayed.
Besides, it was too late. Old Harding was a man of his word, the place
was filled up, the chance was gone.
"No!" cried Reynold.
"There!" the girl exclaimed. "I knew it! I saw your face when you looked
at the letters first--and now again! You do not choose to tell me what I
have done. Very well, why don't you say so at once? You treat me as if
I were a baby!"
Her cheeks were flushed, her mouth quivered, she looked childishly ready
to cry.
"You do not choose to tell me what I have done." No, why should he? The
one thing he saw clearly was that the mischief was irreparable; the less
said about it, therefore, the better. There was but one avenue to
fortune and love for him, and it was closed before his eyes by this
night's revelation. Some men would have set to work at once to make
another, but not Reynold Harding. He simply accepted the decree of Fate,
and felt that he had half expected it all the time. And after all, what
_had_ Barbara done? Most likely he would have failed, even if his letter
had been duly sent. His ill-luck would have dogged him on his way to
wealth. Perhaps it was more merciful, when, with one sharp stroke, it
spared him the long struggle. What right had he to find fault with
Barbara, the timid messenger of misfortune? Was he to answer her
brutally--"You have ruined me!"--and throw the weight of his failure on
the little throbbing heart which had never been so burdened before? The
very idea was absurd. It was absurd to look back, absurd to murmur; the
dream of Mitchelhurst was over and done with, it was not worth a
withered leaf. Let it lie where it had fallen.
"Miss Strange," he said, "I assure you you are making too much of this
accident. Regrets are wasted on it. Mine was a business letter, it is
true, but the chances are that it would have come to nothing. I
hesitated a long while before I wrote it, and I am not sure it was not
a mistake. Think no more about it."
"Will you write again?" she persisted.
"Oh, we shall see. I'm going up to town to-morrow--I can settle
everything then. I don't think there will be any occasion to write."
He realised his utter severance from all his hopes when he heard himself
say that he was going back to town. The girl who stood questioning him
had kindled a strange brightness in his life, a light which revealed her
own ripe-lipped, radiant face, and then with capricious breath had blown
it out again, and left him in darkness and alone. He had lost her, and
yet, by a fantastic contradiction, she had never been half so near to
him as at that moment. "You are deceiving me!" she said, sorrowfully.
"Don't think I don't know it! Oh, if there were anything I could do to
make amends!" And in her pain and pity, and her certainty that in some
unspoken way she had wronged him more than she could understand, she
unconsciously swayed towards Reynold with her eyes and lips uplifted.
She wanted to quiet the aching of her regret. She wanted a channel
through which her over-wrought feelings, might pour in atoning
self-sacrifice.
He knew that she did not love him, though she herself was ignorant of
her own heart, but he also knew that he might have her in his arms if he
chose, acquiescent, remorseful, submissive, with her head upon his
breast. That one moment was his. Through the fierce throbbing of his
pulses he was oddly conscious of all his surroundings--the little room
which smelt of paraffin and of unused furniture, the letters lying on
the magenta table-cloth, the slippery little horse-hair sofa from which
Barbara had risen to meet him; everything was mean, dreary, and hideous.
But he had only to make one step across the patchwork rug of red and
black, only to ask her to share that hopeless future of his, and he
might take her to himself in her pliant grace, and his lips would meet
hers!
He was her master, yet he stood still drawing his breath deeply, and
eyeing the parti-coloured rug as if it were a yawning gulf between them.
He would not cross it, he would say no word of love or of reproach to
spoil her after-life, but his soul was bitter as gall. At that moment he
felt himself strong enough to give up everything, but he could not be
tender. Was she in later days to remember him vaguely as a poor sullen
fellow whose schemes and talk came to nothing, who was too helpless to
make his way in the world? Was she, perhaps, to try to do something for
him--to recommend him, for instance, to some friend who wanted a tutor
for a dull boy? Was she to give him her little dole of pity and
friendship? No, by Heaven! he would not have that, when he might have
taken herself. Why should he suffer in silence, and not inflict one
answering touch of pain, if only that he might feel his power to wound?
She was trying him too cruelly with that innocent offer of atonement,
which meant so much more than she understood.
Because he would not speak the "Marry me, Barbara!" which was at his
very lips, he controlled his voice and asked with an air of polite
inquiry, "What is it that you so kindly wish to do for me?"
"What? Oh, I don't know!" she faltered in confusion. "What _can_ I do?
I don't know. Only if there were anything--if there ever could be----"
He looked at her, gravely at first, then with a smile that deepened
slowly. She met his glance with her appealing eyes, but she could not
meet his smile. Its derision reached her like a stinging lash, and she
shrank away. "I _wish_ I had never come!" she said in a low tone. All
her sweet compassionate longing was driven back upon her heart by his
mocking smile, and turned to something that choked her. "I wish I
hadn't!" she repeated in a stifled voice, and went towards the door,
eager to escape.
Reynold perceived that he had succeeded admirably. It seemed unlikely
that Barbara would ever come to him again.
A sudden roar of wind in the chimney startled them both, and recalled
him to some consciousness of the outer world. He took his hat from the
table, and held the door for her to pass.
"Good-bye," she panted, still with her eyes averted.
"I'm coming with you."
"No, you are not!"
"Pardon me, but I think I am."
"No!" Barbara repeated. He smiled, but followed her. She turned on the
stairs in angry helplessness and faced him. "But I would rather you
didn't!" she exclaimed.
"Did you come alone?"
"Yes, and I can go back alone."
"But Mr. Hayes--what did he say?"
"He is out, he didn't know. Oh!" with a terrified glance, "if he should
be back first!"
Harding unlatched the outer door, and she flew out into the rushing
wind. He was at her side in a moment. "Take my arm," he said.
"I won't!" cried the girl, angrily. "Why don't you leave me when I ask
you?"
"Because you can't go all through Mitchelhurst alone this stormy
night--and so late," said Reynold, raising his voice to dominate an
especially furious gust.
Barbara caught at Mrs. Simmonds's railings to steady herself. "Thank
you!" she shouted, "it's very kind of you to remind me that I ought not
to be here at this time of night!" She felt as if her words were torn
out of her mouth and whirled away. She ended with something that sounded
like a sob, but she herself hardly knew what it was, or what became of
it.
"Nonsense!" said Reynold, as if he were hailing her from an almost
hopeless distance. "You _must_ let me see you safely to the gate." The
gust subsided a little. "You must indeed," he added in a more natural
tone.
"Will you leave me?" she persisted. "It's all I ask you!"
"Very well," he answered, angrily. "But I suppose Mitchelhurst Street is
as free to me as to you, and I don't see that you can want more than
half of it. Take whichever side you please, and I'll go the other."
"Good night," she said, ignoring this declaration. He waited only to
ascertain her intention, and then strode across the way to the further
path.
They walked through the village in this fashion, two dusky shapes,
grotesquely blown and hustled by the strong wind. A capricious blast,
catching Barbara's dress, would send her scudding helplessly for a few
yards before she could regain her self-control. The tall figure on the
other side of the road, clutching at his hat, would quicken his long
steps to keep up with her involuntary increase of speed. When she
contrived to pull herself up he slackened his pace, timing his movements
with shadow-like accuracy and persistence.
The clouds were flying in such quick succession that for some time there
was no decided break through which the moon might show her face. The
heavens were a vast moving canopy, glimmering with diffused light, that
grew to spectral whiteness now and again, when the veil was thin over
the hidden orb. Harding blessed the obscurity which might save Miss
Strange from the wondering comments of Mitchelhurst. They only met three
or four men, fighting their homeward way against the wind, and, country
fashion, keeping the centre of the road. One of these caught sight of
Reynold, and, staring at him, shouted a jovial "Good night," to which
the young man, glad to monopolise his attention, made a courteous reply,
while the slim little figure, on the other side of the way, stole along
in the shadow of the houses unobserved. Presently they passed beyond the
village street and turned into the road which led up to the Place, where
the high banks sheltered them a little, and they did not meet the wind
so directly. Barbara kept to the hedgerow on the left, Reynold skirted
that on the right, and though the narrower way enforced a rather closer
companionship, they walked with an air of indifference as serene as the
stormy night permitted.
When they reached the little slope at the gate, Harding halted. Barbara
had to cross the road, and while she did so he stood perfectly still,
not attempting to lessen the distance between them by one step. The wild
noise of the blast in the tree tops made a kind of rushing accompaniment
to the silence. All at once the ragged clouds parted, and the moon
sailed suddenly into a blue rift. Everything became coldly and
brilliantly distinct, even to the lock of the wrought-iron gate, towards
which Barbara stretched an ungloved hand. As she touched it she
hesitated.
"Mr. Harding," she said.
There was a lull between two gusts, and the fury which had preceded it
made it seem like an absolute and charmed tranquillity. Reynold advanced
at her summons with a slightly exaggerated obedience. The moon was at
his back and his black shadow seemed to hurry before him, to throw
itself at the girl's feet, and then to slip past her through the iron
bars, as if it would creep into Mitchelhurst Place, and take possession
by stealth.
"Why did you make me angry?" said Barbara in a tremulous voice. "Why did
we come through the village in this idiotic way?"
"I was under the impression that you declined my escort," he replied,
with conscious meekness.
"You make me behave rudely--_why_ do you? I went to your lodgings to
tell you how sorry I was, and to ask your pardon for my carelessness,
and it seems as if I went for nothing but to quarrel. Any one would
think so. Perhaps you think so?"
"No," said Reynold, smiling, "I don't. And it isn't a very serious
quarrel, is it?"
"Don't sneer at me any more, or you will make me hateful!" cried
Barbara. "I can't bear it! I will never ask you again if there is
anything I can do--never! You needn't have shown me how you despised me:
you might have been a little kinder when I went to you like that!"
She swallowed down a sob.
"Really I'm very sorry if anything I said--" he began.
"Oh never mind now what you said or did! I know it, and that's
enough. I won't give you another chance, but I won't quarrel. It
hurts me, it's horrid, it's worse than Uncle Hayes. Do let us part
friends--or--or--something like friends--not in this miserable way!"
"With all my heart."
She took her hand from the gate and turned towards him.
"Say you forgive me then! For everything!"
"Ah! that I can't do," Reynold replied, finding a kind of distorted
pleasure in playing with her earnestness. "I'm not sure, yet, that there
is anything to forgive."
"Forgive me on the chance!"
"Oh no, I couldn't presume to do that! It would be a chance whether
_you_ forgave _me_ afterwards for my impertinence."
A sudden blast nearly sent her tottering into his arms. She recovered
herself, looked at him in speechless indignation as if he had ordered
it, pushed open the gate, and the black tracery of bars swung back into
its place, dividing them.
Reynold stood where she had left him, gazing after her. She went a
little way up the drive, and then lingered, half turning as if she
thought some one had called. The ground on which she stood was dry and
white in the moonshine, and dappled with fantastic, moving shadows. The
little old trees fought against the wind, swaying their bare, misshapen
arms above her head. The stone balls on either side of the entrance
gleamed like skulls in the pale light, guarding the avenue to the
sepulchral house, with its glassy rows of windows. For a moment the
picture was as clear as day, with Barbara standing in the middle of the
road; then a great wave of stormy cloud rolled up and overtopped the
moon, and in the dusky confusion she vanished.