Stephen went on in her calm, cold voice:
'Did he tell you that I had asked him to marry me?' Despite herself, as
she spoke the words a red tide dyed her face. It was not a flush; it was
not a blush; it was a sort of flood which swept through her, leaving her
in a few seconds whiter than before. Harold saw and understood. He
could not speak; he lowered his head silently. Her eyes glittered more
coldly. The madness that every human being may have once was upon her.
Such a madness is destructive, and here was something more vulnerable
than herself.
'Did he tell you how I pressed him?' There was no red tide this time,
nor ever again whilst the interview lasted. To bow in affirmation was
insufficient; with an effort he answered:
'I understood so.' She answered with an icy sarcasm:
'You understood so! Oh, I don't doubt he embellished the record with
some of his own pleasantries. But you understood it; and that is
sufficient.' After a pause she went on:
'Did he tell you that he had refused me?'
'Yes!' Harold knew now that he was under the torture, and that there was
no refusing. She went on, with a light laugh, which wrung his heart even
more than her pain had done . . . Stephen to laugh like that!
'And I have no doubt that he embellished that too, with some of his fine
masculine witticisms. I understood myself that he was offended at my
asking him. I understood it quite well; he told me so!' Then with
feminine intuition she went on:
'I dare say that before he was done he said something kindly of the poor
little thing that loved him; that loved him so much, and that she had to
break down all the bounds of modesty and decorum that had made the women
of her house honoured for a thousand years! And you listened to him
whilst he spoke! Oh-h-h!' she quivered with her white-hot anger, as the
fierce heat in the heart of a furnace quivers. But her voice was cold
again as she went on:
'But who could help loving him? Girls always did. It was such a beastly
nuisance! You "understood" all that, I dare say; though perhaps he did
not put it in such plain words!' Then the scorn, which up to now had
been imprisoned, turned on him; and he felt as though some hose of
deathly chill was being played upon him.
'And yet you, knowing that only yesterday, he had refused me--refused my
pressing request that he should marry me, come to me hot-foot in the
early morning and ask me to be your wife. I thought such things did not
take place; that men were more honourable, or more considerate, or more
merciful! Or at least I used to think so; till yesterday. No! till to-
day. Yesterday's doings were my own doings, and I had to bear the
penalty of them myself. I had come here to fight out by myself the
battle of my shame . . . '
Here Harold interrupted her. He could not bear to hear Stephen use such
a word in connection with herself.
'No! You must not say "shame." There is no shame to you, Stephen. There
can be none, and no one must say it in my presence!' In her secret heart
of hearts she admired him for his words; she felt them at the moment sink
into her memory, and knew that she would never forget the mastery of his
face and bearing. But the blindness of rage was upon her, and it is of
the essence of this white-hot anger that it preys not on what is basest
in us, but on what is best. That Harold felt deeply was her opportunity
to wound him more deeply than before.
'Even here in the solitude which I had chosen as the battleground of my
shame you had need to come unasked, unthought of, when even a lesser mind
than yours, for you are no fool, would have thought to leave me alone. My
shame was my own, I tell you; and I was learning to take my punishment.
My punishment! Poor creatures that we are, we think our punishment will
be what we would like best: to suffer in silence, and not to have spread
abroad our shame!' How she harped on that word, though she knew that
every time she uttered it, it cut to the heart of the man who loved her.
'And yet you come right on top of my torture to torture me still more and
illimitably. You come, you who alone had the power to intrude yourself
on my grief and sorrow; power given you by my father's kindness. You
come to me without warning, considerately telling me that you knew I
would be here because I had always come here when I had been in trouble.
No--I do you an injustice. "In trouble" was not what you said, but that
I had come when I had been in short frocks. Short frocks! And you came
to tell me that you loved me. You thought, I suppose, that as I had
refused one man, I would jump at the next that came along. I wanted a
man. God! God! what have I done that such an affront should come upon
me? And come, too, from a hand that should have protected me if only in
gratitude for my father's kindness!' She was eyeing him keenly, with
eyes that in her unflinching anger took in everything with the accuracy
of sun-painting. She wanted to wound; and she succeeded.
But Harold had nerves and muscles of steel; and when the call came to
them they answered. Though the pain of death was upon him he did not
flinch. He stood before her like a rock, in all his great manhood; but a
rock on whose summit the waves had cast the wealth of their foam, for his
face was as white as snow. She saw and understood; but in the madness
upon her she went on trying new places and new ways to wound:
'You thought, I suppose, that this poor, neglected, despised, rejected
woman, who wanted so much to marry that she couldn't wait for a man to
ask her, would hand herself over to the first chance comer who threw his
handkerchief to her; would hand over herself--and her fortune!'
'Oh, Stephen! How can you say such things, think such things?' The
protest broke from him with a groan. His pain seemed to inflame her
still further; to gratify her hate, and to stimulate her mad passion:
'Why did I ever see you at all? Why did my father treat you as a son;
that when you had grown and got strong on his kindness you could thus
insult his daughter in the darkest hour of her pain and her shame!' She
almost choked with passion. There was now nothing in the whole world
that she could trust. In the pause he spoke:
'Stephen, I never meant you harm. Oh, don't speak such wild words. They
will come back to you with sorrow afterwards! I only meant to do you
good. I wanted . . . ' Her anger broke out afresh:
'There; you speak it yourself! You only wanted to do me good. I was so
bad that any kind of a husband . . . Oh, get out of my sight! I wish to
God I had never seen you! I hope to God I may never see you again! Go!
Go! Go!'
This was the end! To Harold's honest mind such words would have been
impossible had not thoughts of truth lain behind them. That Stephen--his
Stephen, whose image in his mind shut out every other woman in the world,
past, present, and future--should say such things to any one, that she
should think such things, was to him a deadly blow. But that she should
say them to him! . . . Utterance, even the utterance which speaks in the
inmost soul, failed him. He had in some way that he knew not
hurt--wounded--killed Stephen; for the finer part was gone from the
Stephen that he had known and worshipped so long. She wished him gone;
she wished she had never seen him; she hoped to God never to see him
again. Life for him was over and done! There could be no more happiness
in the world; no more wish to work, to live! . . .
He bowed gravely; and without a word turned and walked away.
Stephen saw him go, his tall form moving amongst the tree trunks till
finally it was lost in their massing. She was so filled with the tumult
of her passion that she looked, unmoved. Even the sense of his going did
not change her mood. She raged to and fro amongst the trees, her
movements getting quicker and quicker as her excitement began to change
from mental to physical; till the fury began to exhaust itself. All at
once she stopped, as though arrested by a physical barrier; and with a
moan sank down in a helpless heap on the cool moss.
* * * * *
Harold went from the grove as one seems to move in a dream. Little
things and big were mixed up in his mind. He took note, as he went
towards the town by the byroads, of everything around him in his usual
way, for he had always been one of those who notice unconsciously, or
rather unintentionally. Long afterwards he could shut his eyes and
recall every step of the way from the spot where he had turned from
Stephen to the railway station outside Norcester. And on many and many
such a time when he opened them again the eyelids were wet. He wanted to
get away quickly, silently, unobserved. With the instinct of habitual
thought his mind turned London-ward. He met but few persons, and those
only cottiers. He saluted them in his usual cheery way, but did not stop
to speak with any. He was about to take a single ticket to London when
it struck him that this might look odd, so he asked for a return. Then,
his mind being once more directed towards concealment of purpose, he sent
a telegram to his housekeeper telling her that he was called away to
London on business. It was only when he was far on his journey that he
gave thought to ways and means, and took stock of his possessions. Before
he took out his purse and pocket-book he made up his mind that he would
be content with what it was, no matter how little. He had left
Normanstand and all belonging to it for ever, and was off to hide himself
in whatever part of the world would afford him the best opportunity. Life
was over! There was nothing to look forward to; nothing to look back at!
The present was a living pain whose lightest element was despair. As,
however, he got further and further away, his practical mind began to
work; he thought over matters so as to arrange in his mind how best he
could dispose of his affairs, so to cause as little comment as might be,
and to save the possibility of worry or distress of any kind to Stephen.
Even then, in his agony of mind, his heart was with her; it was not the
least among his troubles that he would have to be away from her when
perhaps she would need him most. And yet whenever he would come to this
point in his endless chain of thought, he would have to stop for a while,
overcome with such pain that his power of thinking was paralysed. He
would never, could never, be of service to her again. He had gone out of
her life, as she had gone out of his life; though she never had, nor
never could out of his thoughts. It was all over! All the years of
sweetness, of hope, and trust, and satisfied and justified faith in each
other, had been wiped out by that last terrible, cruel meeting. Oh! how
could she have said such things to him! How could she have thought them!
And there she was now in all the agony of her unrestrained passion. Well
he knew, from his long experience of her nature, how she must have
suffered to be in such a state of mind, to have so forgotten all the
restraint of her teaching and her life! Poor, poor Stephen! Fatherless
now as well as motherless; and friendless as well as fatherless! No one
to calm her in the height of her wild abnormal passion! No one to
comfort her when the fit had passed! No one to sympathise with her for
all that she had suffered! No one to help her to build new and better
hopes out of the wreck of her mad ideas! He would cheerfully have given
his life for her. Only last night he was prepared to kill, which was
worse than to die, for her sake. And now to be far away, unable to help,
unable even to know how she fared. And behind her eternally the shadow
of that worthless man who had spurned her love and flouted her to a
chance comer in his drunken delirium. It was too bitter to bear. How
could God lightly lay such a burden on his shoulders who had all his life
tried to walk in sobriety and chastity and in all worthy and manly ways!
It was unfair! It was unfair! If he could do anything for her?
Anything! Anything! . . . And so the unending whirl of thoughts went on!
The smoke of London was dim on the horizon when he began to get back to
practical matters. When the train drew up at Euston he stepped from it
as one to whom death would be a joyous relief!
He went to a quiet hotel, and from there transacted by letter such
business matters as were necessary to save pain and trouble to others. As
for himself, he made up his mind that he would go to Alaska, which he
took to be one of the best places in the as yet uncivilised world for a
man to lose his identity. As a security at the start he changed his
name; and as John Robinson, which was not a name to attract public
attention, he shipped as a passenger on the _Scoriac_ from London to New
York.
The _Scoriac_ was one of the great cargo boats which take a certain
number of passengers. The few necessaries which he took with him were
chosen with an eye to utility in that frozen land which he sought. For
the rest, he knew nothing, nor did he care how or whither he went. His
vague purpose was to cross the American Continent to San Francisco, and
there to take passage for the high latitudes north of the Yukon River.
* * * * *
When Stephen began to regain consciousness her first sensation was one of
numbness. She was cold in the back, and her feet did not seem to exist;
but her head was hot and pulsating as though her brain were a living
thing. Then her half-open eyes began to take in her surroundings. For
another long spell she began to wonder why all around her was green. Then
came the inevitable process of reason. Trees! It is a wood! How did I
come here? why am I lying on the ground?
All at once wakened memory opened on her its flood-gates, and overwhelmed
her with pain. With her hands pressed to her throbbing temples and her
burning face close to the ground, she began to recall what she could of
the immediate past. It all seemed like a terrible dream. By degrees her
intelligence came back to its normal strength, and all at once, as does
one suddenly wakened from sleep to the knowledge of danger, she sat up.
Somehow the sense of time elapsed made Stephen look at her watch. It was
half-past twelve. As she had come into the grove immediately after
breakfast, and as Harold had almost immediately joined her, and as the
interview between them had been but short, she must have lain on the
ground for more than three hours. She rose at once, trembling in every
limb. A new fear began to assail her; that she had been missed at home,
and that some one might have come to look for her. Up to now she had not
been able to feel the full measure of pain regarding what had passed, but
which would, she knew, come to her in the end. It was too vague as yet;
she could not realise that it had really been. But the fear of discovery
was immediate, and must be guarded against without delay. As well as she
could, she tidied herself and began to walk slowly back to the house,
hoping to gain her own room unnoticed. That her general intelligence was
awake was shown by the fact that before she left the grove she remembered
that she had forgotten her sunshade. She went back and searched till she
had found it.
Gaining her room without meeting any one, she at once change her dress,
fearing that some soil or wrinkle might betray her. Resolutely she put
back from her mind all consideration of the past; there would be time for
that later on. Her nerves were already much quieter than they had been.
That long faint, or lapse into insensibility, had for the time taken the
place of sleep. There would be a price to be paid for it later; but for
the present it had served its purpose. Now and again she was disturbed
by one thought; she could not quite remember what had occurred after
Harold had left, and just before she became unconscious. She dared not
dwell upon it, however. It would doubtless all come back to her when she
had leisure to think the whole matter over as a connected narrative.
When the gong sounded for lunch she went down, with a calm exterior, to
face the dreaded ordeal of another meal.
Luncheon passed off without a hitch. She and her aunt talked as usual
over all the small affairs of the house and the neighbourhood, and the
calm restraint was in itself soothing. Even then she could not help
feeling how much convention is to a woman's life. Had it not been for
these recurring trials of set hours and duties she could never have
passed the last day and night without discovery of her condition of mind.
That one terrible, hysterical outburst was perhaps the safety valve. Had
it been spread over the time occupied in conventional duties its force
even then might have betrayed her; but without the necessity of nerving
herself to conventional needs, she would have infallibly betrayed herself
by her negative condition.
After lunch she went to her own boudoir where, when she had shut the
inner door, no one was allowed to disturb her without some special need
in the house or on the arrival of visitors. This 'sporting oak' was the
sign of 'not at home' which she had learned in her glimpse of college
life. Here in the solitude of safety, she began to go over the past,
resolutely and systematically.
She had already been so often over the memory of the previous humiliating
and unhappy day that she need not revert to it at present. Since then
had she not quarrelled with Harold, whom she had all her life so trusted
that her quarrel with him seemed to shake the very foundations of her
existence? As yet she had not remembered perfectly all that had gone on
under the shadow of the beech grove. She dared not face it all at once,
even as yet. Time must elapse before she should dare to cry; to think of
her loss of Harold was to risk breaking down altogether. Already she
felt weak. The strain of the last forty-eight hours was too much for her
physical strength. She began to feel, as she lay back in her cushioned
chair, that a swoon is no worthy substitute for sleep. Indeed it had
seemed to make the need for sleep even more imperative.
It was all too humiliating! She wanted to think over what had been; to
recall it as far as possible so as to fix it in her mind, whilst it was
still fresh. Later on, some action might have to be based on her
recollection. And yet . . . How could she think when she was so tired
. . . tired . . .
Nature came to the poor girl's relief at last, and she fell into a heavy
sleep . . .
It was like coming out of the grave to be dragged back to waking life out
of such a sleep, and so soon after it had begun. But the voice seemed to
reach to her inner consciousness in some compelling way. For a second
she could not understand; but as she rose from the cushions the maid's
message repeated, brought her wide awake and alert in an instant:
'Mr. Everard, young Mr. Everard, to see you, miss!'