A DECISIVE MOMENT.
But when this little adventure was over, it made no difference to the
longing and eagerness in the boy’s heart. Indeed, he wanted to see her
more than ever, to find out from her who this fellow was, what he had to
do with her, why he was seeking her. Could it be possible that she felt
any interest in such a creature? that she--might have married him,
perhaps. Could this be? He had spoken as if it was he who had been the
prize. She had been sent away in order not to be a danger for him.
Walter snapped the branch of a tree he had seized hold of as if it had
been a twig, as the thought passed through his mind. And then he was
seized with a half-hysterical fit of laughter. Him, that fellow! that
little beast! that cad! that--There were no words that could express his
contempt and scorn and merriment, but it was not merriment of a
comfortable kind. When his laugh was over, he went round and round the
house without seeing any one--all was closed, the doors shut, nobody at
the windows, nothing at all stirring. One or two people passed, and
looked wondering to see him wander about, up and down like a ghost; but
he neither saw her nor any trace of her. The red glitter went out of the
windows, the sun sunk lower and lower, and then went out, leaving
nothing but the winter gray which so soon settled toward night. And by
and by Walter found himself compelled by the force of circumstances to
turn his back upon the cottage, and go down the steep road again toward
home. The force of circumstances at this particular moment meant the
family tea--and the strange, tragical, foolish complication of his own
high romance and enthusiasm of love, for which he was ready to defy
anything--and the youthfulness and childishness of his position, which
made it criminal for him not to be in for tea--was one of those things
which confuse with ridicule all that is most serious in the world. He
saw with an acute pang how absurd it was; but he could not emancipate
himself. The thought of the family consternation, the question on all
sides, Where is Wat? his father’s irritation, and his mother’s wonder,
and the apologies of the girls, and the suggestions of accident, of some
catastrophe, something terrible to account for his non-appearance, were
all quite visible and apparent to him; and the grotesque incompatibility
of these bonds, with the passionate indulgence of his own will and wish
upon which his mind was fixed. He saw all these circumstances also with
a curious faculty, half of sympathy, half of repulsion, through the eyes
of the little visitor, the little intruder, the girl who had suddenly
become a member of the household, and who was there observing
everything. She would remark the unwillingness with which he appeared,
and she would remark, he felt certain, his absence both before and
after, and would ask herself where he went, a question which, so far as
Walter was aware, not even his mother had begun to ask as yet. He had an
instinctive conviction that Mab would ask it, that she would see through
him, that she would divine what was in heart. And when they all met
about the homely table once more,--the children intent upon their
bread-and-butter, the mother apportioning all the cups of tea, the
milk-and-water to some, the portions of cake,--Walter seemed to himself
to be taking part in some scene of a comedy curiously interposed between
the acts of an exciting drama.
A cold world, out of doors, spreading all around, with the strangest
encounters in it, with understandings and misunderstandings which made
the blood run cold, and sent the heart up bounding into high passion and
excitement, into feverish resolve and wild daring, and the madness of
desperation--and in the very midst a sudden pause, the opening of a
door, and then the confused chatter of the children, the sound of the
teacups, the lamp which smelled of paraffin, the bread-and-butter,--how
laughable it was, how ridiculous, what a contrast, what a slavery, how
petty in the midst of all the passions and agitations that lay around!
Presently, Walter, in his boyish ingenuousness, began to feel a little
proud that he, so simple as he sat there in the fumes of the household
tea, was in reality a distracted yet well-nigh triumphant lover, meaning
to put his fortune to the touch that very night, to pledge his new life
and all it might bring. They thought him nothing more than a lad to be
sent to school again, to be guided at their will, when he was a man and
on the eve of an all-important decision, about to dispose of his
existence.
He caught Mab’s eyes as this thought swelled in his mind. They were not
penetrating or keen eyes; they were blue, very soft, smiling,
child-like, lighted up with amused observation, noticing everything. But
Walter felt them go through him as none of the other accustomed familiar
eyes did. _She_ saw there was something more than usual about him. She
would divine when he disappeared that his going away meant something.
The family took no heed of his absence--he had gone out to take a turn,
they would say; perhaps his father would grumble that he ought to be at
his books. But only that little stranger would divine that Walter’s
absence meant a great deal more--that it meant a romance, a poem, a
drama, and that it consumed his entire life.
The dispersing of the children, the game of play permitted to Horry and
the small brothers, the going to bed of the rest, made a moment of
tumult and agitation. And in the midst of this Walter stole out
unperceived into the clear air of the night. It was clear as a crystal,
the sky shining, almost crackling with a sudden frost, the stars
twinkling out of their profound blue, with such a sharp and icy
brilliancy as occurs only now and then in the hardest winter. The air
was so clear and exhilarating that Walter did not find it cold; indeed
he was too much excited to be sensible of anything save the refreshment
and keen restorative pinch of that nipping and eager atmosphere.
As he hurried up the hill the blood ran riot in his veins, his heart
seemed to bound and leap forward as if it had an independent life. He
found himself under the hedge of Crockford’s cottage in a few minutes,
with the feeling that he had flown or floated there, though his panting
breath told of the rush he had actually made. The moon, which had but
newly risen, was behind the cottage, and consequently all was black
under the hedge, concealing him in the profoundest darkness.
He was glad to pause there in that covert and ante-chamber of nature to
regain command of himself, to get his breath and collect his
thoughts--to think how he was to make his presence known. She had
somehow divined that he was there on other nights, but this was a more
important occasion, and he felt that he would be justified in defying
all the restrictions put upon him, and letting even the Crockfords, the
old people of the house, know that he was there. It was true that the
idea of old Crockford daunted him a little. The old man had a way of
saying things; he had a penetrating, cynical look. But it would be
strange indeed, Walter reflected, if he who was not afraid of fate, who
was about to defy the world in arms, should be afraid of an old
stone-breaker on the roads.
The thought passed through his mind, and brought a smile to his face as
he stood in the dark, recovering his breath. All was perfectly silent in
the night around. The village had shut itself up against the cold. There
was nobody near. The heat and passion in Walter’s being seemed to stand
like an image of self-concentrated humanity, independent of all the
influences about, indifferent, even antagonistic, throbbing with a
tremendous interest in the midst of those petty personal concerns of
which the world thought nothing, but in himself a world higher than
nature, altogether distinct from it. The little bit of shadow swallowed
him up, yet neither shadow nor light made any difference to the mind
which felt all moons and stars and the whole system of the universe
inferior to its own burning purpose and intense tumultuous thoughts.
But while he stood there, indifferent to the whole earth about him, a
little sound of the most trivial character suddenly caught his ear, and
made every nerve tingle. It was a sound no more important than the click
of the latch of the cottage door. Had she heard him, then, though he was
not aware of having made any sound? Had she divined him with a mind so
much more sensitive than that of ordinary mankind? He stood holding his
breath, listening for her step, imagining it to himself, the little skim
along the pavement, the touch when she paused, firm yet so light. He
heard it in his thoughts, in anticipation: but in reality that was not
what he heard. Something else sounded in his ears which made his veins
swell and his heart bound, yet not with pleasure--a voice which seemed
to affront the stillness and offend the night, a voice without any
softness or grace either of tone or words--something alive and hostile
to every feeling in his heart, and which seemed to Walter’s angry fancy
to jar upon the very air. And then there followed a sound of steps; they
were coming to the gate. She was with him, accompanying him, seeing him
off. Was it possible? Walter made a step forward and clinched his fist;
he then changed his mind and drew back.
“Anyhow, you’ll think it over,” said the voice of the man whom he had
met on the road. “It’s a good offer. It ain’t every day you’ll get as
good. A good blow-out and a good breakfast, and all that, would suit me
just as well as you. I ain’t ashamed of what I’m doing; and you’d look
stunning in a veil and all that. But what’s the good of making a fuss?
It’s fun, too, doing a thing on the sly.”
And was it _her_ voice that replied?
“Yes, it’s fun. I don’t mind that, not a bit. I should just like to see
it put on the stage. You and me coming in, and your mother’s look. Oh,
her look! that’s what fetches me!”
It could _not_ be her, not her! and yet the voice was hers; and the
subdued peal of laughter had in it a tone which he had felt to thrill
the air with delight on other occasions; but not now. The man laughed
more harshly, more loudly; and then they appeared at the gate in the
moonlight. He so near them, unable to stir without betraying himself,
was invisible in the gloom. But the light caught a great white shawl in
which she had muffled herself, and made a sort of reflection in the tall
shiny hat.
They stood for a minute there, almost within reach of his hand.
“Don’t you stand chattering,” she said; “it’s time for your train; and I
tell you it’s a mile off, and you’ll have to run.”
“There’s plenty of time,” said he. “I should just like to know who was
that young spark that sent me off out of my way to-day. I believe it’s
some one that’s sweet upon you too, and as you’re holding in hand--”
“Nonsense,” she said, “I see nobody here.”
“Oh, tell that to--them that knows no better; see nobody; only every
fellow about that’s worth looking at; as if I didn’t know your little
ways!”
She laughed a little, not displeased; and then said, “There’s nobody
worth looking at; but let me again say, go; the old man will be out
after me. He won’t believe you’ve got a message from mother; he doesn’t
now. He doesn’t believe a word I say.”
“No more should I if I was in his place. Oh, I know your little ways.
You’ll have to give them over when we’re married, Em. It’s a capital
joke now, don’t you know, but when we’re married--”
“We’re not married yet,” she said, “and perhaps never will be, if you
don’t mind.”
“Oh, I say! When we’ve just settled how it’s to be done, and all about
it! But look here, don’t you have anything to say to that young ’un in
the knickerbockers. He’s cute, whoever he is. He might have put me off
the scent altogether. I couldn’t have done it cleverer myself. Don’t let
him guess what’s going on. He’s just the one, that fellow is, to let the
old folks know, and spoil our fun.”
“Look here,” said the girl, “I warn you, Ned, you’ll lose your train.”
“Not I. I’ll make a run for it. Good-bye, Em!”
Great heavens! did he dare to touch her, to approach his head with the
shiny hat still poised upon it to hers. The grotesque horror overwhelmed
Walter as he stood trembling with rage and misery. There was a little
murmuring of hushed words and laughter, and then a sudden movement: “Be
off with you,” she said, and the man rushed away through the gleams of
the moonlight, his steps echoing along the road. She stood and looked
after him, with her white shawl wrapped round her head and shoulders,
moving from one foot to the other with a light buoyant movement as if to
keep herself warm. The motion, the poise of her figure, the lingering,
all seemed to speak of pleasure. Walter stood in the dark with his teeth
set and his hand clinched, and misery fierce and cruel in his soul. It
seemed impossible to him to suffer more. He had touched the very bottom
of the deepest sea of wretchedness; the bitterness of death he thought
had gone over him, quenching his very soul and all his projects. His
love, his hopes, his wishes seemed all to have melted into one flame of
fury, fierce rage, and hate, which shook his very being. It seemed to
Walter that he could almost have murdered her where she stood within
three paces of him; and if the veil of darkness had been suddenly
withdrawn the boldest might have shuddered at the sight of that
impersonation of wrath, standing drawn back to keep himself quiet, his
hand clinched by his side, his eyes blazing as they fixed upon her,
within reach of the unconscious watcher, so light and pleased and easy,
not knowing the danger that was so near. Her head was turned away from
him watching her lover--her lover!--as he rattled along the road; and
when Walter made a sudden step forward out of the shade, she started
with a suppressed alarmed cry and wail of terror.
“Mr. Penton! you here!”
“Yes. I’ve been here--too long.”
“Oh, Mr. Penton,” cried the girl, “you’ve heard what we’ve been saying!
Do you call that like a gentleman to listen to what people are saying?
You have no right to make any use of it. You did not put us on our
guard. You have no right to make any use of what you heard when we
didn’t know.”
Walter came up to her, close to her, and put his hand upon the fleecy
whiteness of her shawl, into which it seemed to sink as into snow.
“Will you tell me this?” he said. “You are one person to old Crockford,
another to _him_, another to me. Which is you?”
A man who has been injured acquires an importance, a gravity, which no
other circumstances can give him; and the tone of his misery was in
Walter’s voice. He imposed upon her and subdued her in spite of herself.
She shrunk a little away from him and began to cry.
“It is not my fault! I never asked you to notice me. I never pretended I
was any one--not your equal--not--”
“Which is you?’ he said. Through the soft shawl he reached her arm at
last, and grasped it firmly, yet with a weakening, a softening. How
could he help it when he felt her in his power? Through her shawl, and
through the mist of rage and bitterness about him, the quick-witted
creature felt how the poor boy’s heart was touched, and began to melt at
the contact of her arm.
“Which--is me? Oh,” she cried, “you don’t know me--you don’t know my
circumstances, or you would not ask. You don’t know what I come from,
nor how I have been surrounded all my life. It is the best that is me!
It is, whatever you may think.”
Her arm quivered in his grasp; her slight figure seemed to vibrate so
near to him. It appeared to his confused brain that her whole being
swayed and wavered with the appeal he made to her. She lifted her face
to his, and that too was quivering in every line. She was entirely in
his power, to be shaken, to be annihilated at his will, and he had the
power over her of right as well as of strength.
“The best--I don’t know which is the best. I came up to tell you--to ask
you--to let you decide. And I find you with a man who--is going to marry
you.”
“He thinks so, perhaps; but a man can’t marry one without one’s own
consent.”
“Your consent! You seemed to agree to everything he said!” cried the
young man in his rage. “A fellow like that! A cad--a--And I waiting
here--waiting to see you--oh!” He flung her arm from him, almost
throwing her off her balance. But when he saw her totter, compunction
seized the unhappy boy. “You make me a brute!” he cried; “I’ve hurt
you!” and felt as if, in the stillness of the night, and the despair of
his heart, his voice sounded like a wild beast’s cry.
“You have hurt me--only in my heart,” she said. “Oh, but listen. I know
it all looks bad enough; but you listened to him, and you must listen to
me. You think he’s not good enough for me, Mr. Penton; but a little
while ago he was thought far too good, and I--perhaps I thought so, too.
Not--oh, not now. Wait a minute before you cry out. Who had I ever seen
that was better? I had heard of other kind of people in books, but
either I thought they didn’t live now, or at least they were far, far
out of my reach. I never knew a gentleman till--till--”
“Her voice died away; it had been getting lower, softer, complaining,
pleading--now it seemed to die away altogether, fluttering in her
throat.
“Till?” Waiter’s voice too was choked by emotion and excitement. The
strong current of his thoughts and wishes, so violently interrupted,
found a new channel and flooded all the obstructions away. Till--! Could
anything be more pathetic than this confusion and self-revelation? “You
did not tell him so,” he said, with a remnant of his wrath--a sort of
rag of resentment, which he caught at as it flew away. “You let him
believe it was he; you made him understand--”
“Mr. Penton,” she cried, “listen. What am I to do? You’ve sought me out,
you’ve been far too kind; but I can’t let myself be a danger to you too.
You know it never, never would be allowed if it were known you were
coming here to me. And now that I’ve known you, how can I bear living
here and not seeing you? It was the only charm, the only pleasure--Oh,
I’m shameless to tell you, but it’s true.”
“Emmy,” said the lad, in his infatuation, laying once more his hand on
her arm, but this time trembling himself with feeling and tenderness,
“if it’s true, how could you--how could you let that man--”
“Mr. Penton, just hear me out. He can take me away from this, and give
me a home, and take me out of the way of harming you. Oh, don’t you see
how I am torn asunder! If I throw him over there’s no hope for me. Oh,
what am I to do? What am I to do?”
Walter was moved beyond himself with an impulse of enthusiasm, of
devotion, which seemed to turn his feeling in a moment into something
sacred--not the indulgence of his own will, but the most generous of
inspirations. He put his arm round her, and supported her in her
trembling and weakness.
“Emmy,” he said, his young voice ineffably soft and full of
tears--“Emmy, darling, we’ll find a better way.”