A NEW AGENT.
Ally was up very early next morning. She was always early. In a house
with so many little children and so few servants, if you were not up
early you were in arrears with your work the whole day. That was her
conviction always, but on many occasions, especially on dark winter
mornings, it did not carry the same practical force. This day she was
more certain of the necessity than ever. She scolded Anne for not
sharing it, but so softly that Anne fell asleep in the middle of the
little lecture. And Ally knew very well that nothing could be done, that
no one could come so very early as this was. But still her mind was in
great agitation, and it did her good to be up and about. About Walter?
She had been very unhappy about Walter, full of distress and trouble,
her heart beating at every sound, thinking of nothing else. But to-day
she was, to say the least, a little more at ease about her brother. Last
night they had all been more at their ease, so much so that Lady Penton
had begun to talk a little about the removal, and the new furniture that
would be required, and the many expenses and advantages, such as they
were, of the new establishment. The expenses were what Lady Penton was
most sensible of. For her own part, perhaps the advantages did not seem
advantages to her. She was satisfied with the Hook. What did she want
with Penton? But, at all events, she had been able to think of all this,
to change the one persistent subject which had occupied her mind. And
perhaps this was what had set Ally’s mind afloat. She was glad to be
quite alone to think it all over, notwithstanding that Martha looked at
her with no agreeable glances as she came into the dining-room before
the fire was lighted.
“I just overslep’ myself, Miss Alice,” said Martha. “With helping to
wash up down-stairs, and helping to get the nursery straight upstairs, a
body has no time for sleep.”
“It does not matter at all, Martha,” said Ally with fervor, “I only
thought I should like to arrange the books a little.”
“Oh, if that’s all, miss,” Martha said, graciously accepting the excuse.
But even Martha was a hinderance to Ally’s thoughts. She made herself
very busy collecting the picture-books with which the children made up
for the want of their usual walks on wet days, and which they were apt
to leave about the dining-room, and ranging them all in a row on the
shelf while Martha concluded her work. But as soon as she was alone
Ally’s arms dropped by her side and her activity ceased. She had put
away her thoughts in Martha’s presence, as she had done in Anne’s and in
her mother’s, keeping them all for her own enjoyment; but now that she
was alone she could take them out and look at them. After all, they were
not thoughts at all, they were recollections, anticipations, they were a
sort of soft intoxication, delirium, a state too sweet to be real, yet
which somehow was real--more real than the most commonplace and prosaic
things. To be alone, how delightful it was, even with the fire only half
alight, and reluctant to begin the work of the day, and Martha’s duster
still before her. She leaned her arms on the mantel-piece and bent her
head down upon them and shut her eyes. She could see best when she shut
her eyes. Had any one been there Ally could not thus have shut herself
up in that magical world. Her hands were rather blue with cold, if truth
must be told, but she was aware of nothing but an atmosphere of warmth
and softness, full of golden reflections and a haze of inarticulate
happiness. She had forgotten all about that momentary movement of pride,
of hesitation, which she had afterward called by such hard names, but
which at the moment had been real enough; that sensation of being Miss
Penton of Penton, in the presence of Mrs. Rochford and her daughter.
Both the sin and the repentance had faded out of Ally’s mind. She did
not ask herself anything about her suitor, whether he would satisfy her
father, whether he would be thought of importance equal to the new
claims of the family. Ally had gone beyond this stage, she remembered
none of these things. The only external matters which affected her were
the facts that for her sake he was going out into the world to bring
back her brother, and that the whole horizon round her was the brighter
for this enterprise. Naturally her thoughts gave it a far graver
character than it possessed. It seemed something like the work of a
knight-errant, an effort of self-sacrifice beautiful and terrible. He
was about to leave his home, to plunge into that seething world of
London, of which she had heard so many appalling things, for her
brother’s, nay, for her sake. She thought of him as wandering through
streets more miserable than any of the bewildering dark forests of
romance. In short, all the anguish of such a search as she had read of
in heart-rending stories occurred to Ally’s mind. And all this he was
doing for her. It gave her a pang of delightful suffering more sweet
than enjoyment, that he should be so good, so brave, and that it should
be all for her.
Meantime young Rochford prepared, with a little trouble, it must be
said, to absent himself from his business for a few days; he thought
that certainly this time must be required for a mission that might not
be an easy one; for if he did not know, as he said, that such escapades
were the commonest thing in the world among young men, he knew very well
that to bring back a young culprit was not easily accomplished, and made
up his mind that he would want both courage and patience for his task.
As a matter of fact, he had no idea of Walter’s motive, or of the
“entanglement” which had drawn him away. He was willing enough to
believe in an entanglement, but not in one so innocent and blameless;
and he believed that the youth had plunged into the abyss with the
curiosity and passion of youth, to feel what was to be felt and to see
what was to be seen, and to make a premature dash at that tree of the
knowledge of evil which has so wonderful and bitter a charm. He was
ready to take a great deal of trouble for the deliverance of the boy,
though not without a little shake of his head at the thought of the
other young Pentons who had also taken that plunge and whom it had not
been possible to rescue. He had heard his father tell how many efforts
Sir Walter had made to save his sons, and with how little effect. Did it
perhaps run in the blood? But Rochford was fully determined to do his
best, and confident, as became a fighter in that good cause, that
whoever failed, he at least would succeed. And it was quite possible
that he might have been willing to help these poor people (as he called
them to himself) and save the unfortunate boy, if he had not loved Ally.
He was generously sorry for them all, notwithstanding his consciousness
of the enormous advantage likely to spring to himself from what he could
do for them. He would have done it, he thought--if they had asked him,
or even if it had come evidently in his way--for them; and certainly he
would have done it for Ally’s brother, whosoever that brother might have
been to recommend himself to the girl he loved. There could be no doubt
upon that subject. The complication which made it so infinitely useful
to him to make himself useful in this way, because the girl he loved was
the eldest daughter of Sir Edward Penton, and more or less out of his
sphere, was after all a secondary matter--and yet it could not be denied
that it was very important too. He said to himself that he would have
chosen Ally from the world had she been a poor curate’s daughter, a poor
governess, a nobody. But at the same time he could not but be aware that
to marry Miss Penton was a great thing for him, and worth a great deal
of trouble to bring about. Perhaps a man’s feelings in the matter of his
love are never so unalloyed as a girl’s, to whom the love itself is
everything, and with whom the circumstances tell for nothing. Or perhaps
this depends upon the circumstances themselves, since a girl too has
many calculations to make and much to take into consideration when she
is called upon to advance herself and her family by a fortunate
marriage. Rochford could not help feeling that such a connection would
be a fine thing: but it was not for the connection that Ally was dear to
him. He thought of her in his way with subdued rapture really stronger
and more passionate, though not so engrossing, as her own, as he dashed
along the river-side, his mare almost flying, his heart going faster,
beating with the hope of a meeting with Ally before he should see her
father--before he set off upon his mission. If Ally loved him she would
find the means, he thought, to give him that recompense for his
devotion; and sure enough, as he came in sight of the gate, he became
aware also of a little slim figure gathering the first snow-drops in the
shadow of the big laurel bushes that screened the little drive. He flung
the reins to his groom and leaped out of the cart, at imminent risk of
startling the other nervous, highly organized animal, who had carried
him along so swiftly; but what did he care for that or any other risk?
In a moment, shutting the gate behind him gingerly, notwithstanding his
headlong haste, that nobody might be aware of his arrival, he was by
Ally’s side.
“You are gathering flowers, Miss Penton, already!”
“Oh, Mr. Rochford, is it you? Yes; they are earlier here than anywhere.
They are only snow-drops, after all.”
She looked not unlike a snow-drop herself, with a white wrapper wound
round her throat, and her head, which drooped a little--but not till
after she had recognized him with a rapid glance and an overwhelming
momentary blush which left her pale.
“I could think there would be always flowers wherever you trod,” he
said.
“That’s poetry,” she replied, with a little tremulous laugh, in which
there was excitement and a little nervous shivering from the cold. “It
must have been you I heard galloping along,” she added, hurriedly, “like
the wind. Are you in haste for the train?”
“I was in haste, hoping for a word with you before I started.”
“My father is expecting you, Mr. Rochford.”
“Yes; I did not mean your father. Won’t you say a kind word to me before
I go?”
“Oh, if I could only thank you as I should like! Mr. Rochford, I do with
my whole heart.”
“It is not thanks I want,” he said. “Ally--don’t be angry with me--if I
come back--with--your brother.”
“Oh, Mr. Rochford, we will all--I don’t know what to say--bless you!”
“I don’t want blessing; nor is it the others I am thinking of. Ally, are
you angry?”
He had taken in his own her cold hands, with the snow-drops in them, and
was bending over them. Ally trembled so that she let her flowers fall,
but neither of them paid any attention. He did not say he loved her, or
anything of that kind, which perhaps the girl expected; but he said,
“Ally, are you angry?” once more.
“Oh, no,” she said, in a voice that was no more than a whisper: and then
the sound of a step upon the gravel made them start asunder.
It was Sir Edward, who had heard the dog-cart coming along the curve by
the river, and who, restless in his anxiety, had come forth to see who
it was. Both Rochford and Ally stooped down after that little start of
separation to pick up the fallen flowers, and then once more their hands
touched, and the same whisper, so meaningless yet so full of meaning,
was exchanged--“If you are not angry, give them to me, Ally!”
Angry? no; why should she be angry? She gave him the snow-drops out of
her hand, and while he ran up to meet her father was thankful to have
the chance of stooping to gather up the rest. It was not so much, after
all, that he had said; nothing but her name--Ally--and “Are you angry?”
At what should she be angry?--because he had called her by her name? It
had never sounded so sweetly, so soft, in her ears before.
“Yes, I am on my way to the station. I came to see if you had any
instructions for me; if there was any--news, before I go.”
“I don’t see how there could be any news,” said Sir Edward, who had
relapsed into something of his old irritation. “I didn’t expect any
news. If he did not write at first, do you think it likely he would
write now?”
“He might do so any day; every day makes it more likely that he should
do so,” said Rochford, “in my opinion.”
“Ah, you think more favorably than I do,” said the father, shaking his
head, but he was mollified by the words. He went on shaking his head.
“As long as he can get on there I don’t expect him to write. I don’t
expect him to come back. I don’t think you’ll find him ever so easily as
you suppose. But still, you can try; I have no objection that you should
try.”
“Then there is nothing more to say beyond what we settled last night?”
“Nothing that I can think of. His mother, of course, would have messages
to send; she would wish you to tell him that she was anxious, and feared
his falling ill, and all that; but I don’t pretend to be unhappy about
his health or--anything of that sort,” said Sir Edward, hoarsely, with a
wave of his hand. “You can tell him from me that he’d better come home
at once; we’ll be removing presently. He had best be here when we take
possession of Penton; he had best--be here--But you know very well what
to say--that is, if you find him,” he added, with a harsh little laugh,
“which you won’t find so easy as you think.”
“I don’t suppose it will be easy,” said Rochford; “but if it can be done
I’ll do it. I’ll stay till I’ve done it. I shall not return without some
news.”
“Ah, well; go, go. You are full of confidence, you young men. You think
you’ve but to say ‘come’ and he will come. You’ll know better when you
are as old--as old as I am. Good-bye, then, if you are going.
You’ll--look in as you come back?”
“I shall come here direct, sir: and telegraph as soon as I have anything
to say.”
“Good-bye, then,” said Sir Edward, stretching out his hand. He held
Rochford for a moment, shaking his hand in a tremulous way. Then he
said, “It must be inconvenient, leaving all your business, going away on
this wild-goose chase.”
“If it were ever so inconvenient I shouldn’t mind.”
He kept swinging the young man’s hand, with a pressure which seemed
every moment as though he would throw it away; then he murmured in his
throat, “God bless you, then!” and dropped it, and turned back toward
the house.
Rochford was left standing once more by the side of Ally, with her hands
full of snow-drops, who had followed every word of this little colloquy
with rapt attention. The flowers she had given him were carefully
inclosed in his left hand; they were a secret between his love and him.
He did not unfold them even for her to see. “Walk with me to the gate,”
he said, in a voice which was half entreaty and half command. He held
out his arm to her, and she took it. The little authority, the air of
appropriation, was sweet to her as she thought no flattery could have
been.
“He will be against me,” said Rochford, holding her hand close, bending
over her in the shade of the laurels. “And I don’t wonder. But if I come
back successful perhaps they will think me worthy of a reward. Ally,
darling, you thank me for going, when it is all mercenary, for my own
interest--”
“Oh, no, no--no.”
“It is--to win you. I am not good enough for you, I know that, but I can
not give up this dear hope. Will you stand by me if they refuse?”
She made no reply. How could she make any reply? She held his arm tight,
and drooped her head. She had never stood against them in her life. She
was aghast at the thought. Everything in life had been plain to her till
now. But her eyes were dazzled with the sudden new light, and the
possibility of darkness coming after it. The confusion of betrothal,
refusal, delight, dismay, all coming together, bewildered her
inexperienced soul. “No, no, no,” she murmured; “oh, no; they will never
be against us.”
“No,” he cried, in subdued tones of triumph; “not against _us_, if you
will stand by me. Ally! then it is you and I against the world!”
And then there was the glitter and glimmer before her eyes, the
impatient mare tossing her nervous head, the wintery sun gleaming in the
harness, in the horse’s sleek coat, in the varnish of the dog-cart: and
then the sudden rush of sound, and all was gone like a dream. Like a
dream--like a sudden phantasmagoria, in which she too had been a vision
like the rest, and heard and saw and done and said things inconceivable.
To turn back after that on everything that was so familiar and calm, to
remember that she must go and put into water the snow-drops, which were
already dropping limp in the hand that he had kissed--that she must face
them all in the preoccupation of her thoughts--was almost as wonderful
to Ally as this wonderful moment that was past. “You and I against the
world.” And those other shorter words that meant so little apparently,
“Ally--you are not angry?” kept murmuring and floating about her, making
an atmosphere round her. Would the others hear her when she went in?
That fear seized upon Ally as she drew near the door, coming slowly,
slowly along the path. They would hear the words, “Ally, are you angry?”
but would they know what that meant? she said to herself in her dream as
she reached the door. No, no; they might hear them, but they would not
understand--that was her secret between her love and her. To think that
in such little words, that look so innocent, everything could be said!
But nobody took any notice of Ally when she went in at last. They were
all occupied with their own affairs, and with the one overpowering
sentiment which made them insensible to other things. Ally went into the
midst of them with her secret in her eyes like a lamp in a sanctuary,
but they never perceived it. She put her snow-drops in water, all but
two or three which she took to her room with her, feeling them too
sacred even to be worn, even to be left for Anne to see. But where could
she put them to keep them secret? She had no secret places to keep
anything in, nor had she ever known what it was to have a secret in all
her innocent life. How, oh, how was she to keep this?