AN ASSIGNATION.
That evening Mr. Yelverton was leisurely finishing his dinner at the
club when a note was brought to him. He thought he knew the writing,
though he had never seen it before, and put it into his pocket until he
could politely detach himself from three semi-hosts, semi-guests, with
whom he was dining. Then he went upstairs rather quickly, tearing open
his letter as he went, and, arrived at the reading-room, sat down at
a table, took pen in hand, and dashed off an immediate reply. "I will
certainly be there," he wrote, in a hand more vigorous than elegant.
"I will wait for you in the German picture gallery. Come as early as
possible, while the place is quiet." And, having closed his missive
and consigned it to the bag, he remained in a comfortable arm-chair
in the quiet room, all by himself, meditating. He felt he had a great
deal to think about, and it indisposed him for convivialities. The week
since his parting with Elizabeth, long as it had seemed to him, had
not quite run out, and she had made an assignation which, though it
might have appeared unequivocal to the casual eye, was to him extremely
perplexing. She had come back, and she wanted to see him, and she
wanted to see him alone, and she asked him if he would meet her at the
Exhibition in the morning. And she addressed him as her dearest friend,
and signed herself affectionately his. He tried very hard, but he could
not extract his expected comfort from such a communication, made under
such circumstances.
In the morning he was amongst the first batch of breakfasters in the
club coffee-room, and amongst the first to represent the public at
the ticket-windows of the Carlton Palace. When he entered the great
building, it was in the possession of officials and workmen, and
echoed in a hollow manner to his solid footfall. Without a glance to
right or left, he walked upstairs to the gallery and into that cosiest
nook of the whole Exhibition, the German room, and there waited for
his mistress. This restful room, with its carpeted floor and velvety
settees (so grateful to the weary), its great Meissen vases in the
middle, and casts of antique statues all round, was quite empty of
visitors, and looked as pleasant and convenient a place of rendezvous
as lovers could desire. If only Elizabeth would come quickly, he
thought, they might have the most delicious quiet talk, sitting side
by side on a semi-circular ottoman opposite to Lindenschmidt's "Death
of Adonis"--not regarding that unhappy subject, of course, nor any
other object but themselves. He would not sit down until she came,
but strolled round and round, pausing now and then to investigate a
picture, but thinking of nothing but his beloved, for whose light step
he was listening. If his bodily eyes were fixed on the "Cloister Pond"
or "Evening," or any other of the tranquil landscapes pictured on the
wall, he thought of Elizabeth resting with him under green trees, far
from the madding crowd's ignoble strife, absolutely his own, and in a
world that (practically) held nobody but him and her. If he looked at
autumnal rain slanting fiercely across the canvas, he thought how he
would protect and shield her in all the storms that might visit her
life--"My plaidie to the angry airt, I'd shelter thee, I'd shelter
thee!" And visions of a fair morning in Thuringia, of a lake in the
Bavarian mountains, of a glacier in the Engadine, and of Venice in
four or five aspects of sunlight and moonlight, suggested his wedding
journey and how beautiful the world she had so longed to see--the world
that he knew so well--would look henceforth, if--if--
There was a step upon the corridor outside, and he turned sharply from
his contemplation of a little picture of an Isle of Wight sunrise to
meet her as she came in. She had been walking hurriedly, but in the
doorway she paused, seeing him striding towards her, and stood for a
moment confused and hesitating, overcome with embarrassment. It was a
bright morning, and she had dressed herself in a delicate linen gown,
fitting easily to the sweeping curves of her noble figure--a gown
over which Mrs. Duff-Scott had spent hours of careful thought and a
considerable amount of money, but which was so simple and unpretending
in its effects as to suggest the domestic needle and the judicious
outlay of a few shillings to those admirable critics of the other sex
who have so little knowledge of such matters and so much good taste;
and all the details of her costume were in harmony with this central
feature--her drooping straw hat, tied with soft Indian muslin under
the chin, her Swedish gloves, her neat French shoes, her parasol--and
the effect was insidious but impressive. She had got herself up
carefully for her lover's eyes, and nobody could have looked less got
up than she. Mr. Yelverton thought how much more charming was a homely
every-day style than the elaborate dressing of the ball-room and the
block, and that it was certainly evident to any sensible person that
a woman like Elizabeth needed no arts of the milliner to make her
attractive. He took her hand in a strong clasp, and held it in silence
for a moment, his left hand laid over her fine unwrinkled glove, while
he looked into her downcast face for some sign of the nature of her
errand.
"Well, my love," he murmured eagerly, "what is it? Don't keep me in
suspense. Is it yes or no, Elizabeth?"
Her embarrassment melted away before the look he bent upon her, as a
morning mist before the sun. She lifted her eyes to his--those honest
eyes that he could read like a book--and her lips parted in an effort
to speak. The next instant, before a word was said, he had her in
his arms, and her mouth met his under the red moustache in a long,
and close, and breathless kiss; and both of them knew that they were
to part no more till their lives' end. While that brief ceremony of
betrothal lasted, they might have been in the black grotto where they
kissed each other first, so oblivious were they of their surroundings;
but they took in presently the meaning of certain sounds in the gallery
on the other side of the curtain, and resumed their normal attitudes.
"Come and sit down," said Mr. Yelverton, drawing her into the room.
"Come and let's have a talk." And he set her down on the velvet ottoman
and took a seat beside her--leaning forward with an arm on his knee
to barricade her from an invasion of the public as far as possible.
His thoughts turned, naturally enough, to their late very important
interview in the caves.
"We will go back there," he said, expressing his desire frankly. "When
we are married, Elizabeth, we will go to your old home again together,
before we set out on longer travels, and you and I will have a picnic
to the caves all alone by ourselves, in that little buggy that we drove
the other day. Shall we?"
"We might tumble into one of those terrible black holes," she replied,
"if we went there again."
"True--we might. And when we are married we must not run any
unnecessary risks. We will live together as long as we possibly can,
Elizabeth."
She had drawn off her right glove, and now slipped her hand into
his. He grasped it fervently, and kneaded it like a lump of stiff
dough (excuse the homely simile, dear reader--it has the merit of
appropriateness, which is more than you can say for the lilies and
jewellery) between his two strong palms. How he did long for that dark
cave!--for any nook or corner that would have hidden him and her from
sight for the next half hour.
"Why couldn't you have told me a week ago?" he demanded, with a thrill
in his deep voice. "You must have known you would take me then, or
you would not have come to me like this to-day. Why didn't you give
yourself to me at first? Then we should have been together all this
time--all these precious days that we have wasted--and we should have
been by the sea at this moment, sitting under those big rocks, or
wandering away into the bush, where nobody could interfere with us."
As he spoke, a party of ladies strolled into the court, and he leaned
back upon his cushioned seat to wait until they were gone again. They
looked at the pictures, with one eye on him, dawdled up and down for
five minutes, trying to assert their right to be there if they chose;
and then, too uncomfortably conscious of being _de trop_, departed.
After which the lovers were alone again for a little while. Mr.
Yelverton resumed possession of Elizabeth's hand, and repeated his
rather cruel question.
"Didn't you know all along that it must come to this?"
"A week ago I did not know what I know now," she replied.
"Ah, my dear, you knew it in your heart, but you would not listen to
your heart."
He thought he understood it all, perfectly. He pictured her regret and
hungry longing for him after he was gone, how she had fought against
it for a time, and how it had precipitately driven her to Melbourne at
last, and driven her to summon him in this importunate fashion to her
side. It was exactly what he would have done, he thought, had he been
in her place.
"Mr. Yelverton--"
She was beginning to speak seriously, but he stopped her. "No," he
said, "I am not going to be called Mr. Yelverton by _you_. Never again,
remember. My name is Kingscote, if you wish to know. My people at home,
when I had any people, called me King. I think you might as well call
me King--it will keep your dear name alive in the family when you no
longer answer to it yourself. Now"--as she paused, and was looking at
him rather strangely--"what were you going to say?"
"I was going to say that I have not wasted this week since you went
away. A great deal has happened--a great many changes--and I was helped
by something outside myself to make up my mind."
"I don't believe it--I don't believe it, Elizabeth. You know you love
me, and you know that, whatever your religious sentiments may be,
you would not do violence to them for anything _less_ than that. You
are taking me because you love me too well to give me up--for any
consideration whatever. So don't say you are not."
She touched his shoulder for a moment with her cheek. "Oh, I do love
you, I do love you!" she murmured, drawing a long, sighing breath.
He knew it well, and he did not know how to bear to sit there, unable
to respond to her touching confession. He could only knead her hand
between his palms.
"And you are going to trust me, my love--me and yourself? You are not
afraid now?"
"No, I don't think I am afraid." She caught her breath a little, and
looked grave and anxious as she said it, haunted still by the feeling
that duty meant sacrifice and that happiness meant sin in some more or
less insidious shape; a habit of thought in which she, like so many
more of us, had been educated until it had taken the likeness of a
natural instinct. "I don't think I am afraid. Religion, as you say,
is a living thing, independent of the creeds that it is dressed in.
And--and--you _must_ be a good man!"
"Don't begin by making that an article of faith," he returned promptly.
"To set up for being a good man is the last thing I would dream of.
Like other men, I am good as far as I was born and have been made so,
and neither more nor less. All I can take credit for on my own account
is that I try to live up to the light that has been given me."
"What can anyone do more?" she said, eagerly. "It is better than
believing at haphazard and not trying at all--which is what so many
good people are content with."
"It seems better to me," he said.
"I will trust you--I will trust you," she went on, leaning towards
him as he sat beside her. "You are doing more good in the world than
I had even thought of until I knew you. It is I who will not be up to
the mark--not you. But I will help you as much as you will let me--I
am going to give my life to helping you. And at least--at least--you
believe in God," she concluded, yearning for some tangible and definite
evidence of faith, as she had understood faith, wherewith to comfort
her conscientious soul. "We are together in _that_--the chief thing of
all--are we not?"
He was a scrupulously truthful man, and he hesitated for a moment.
"Yes, my dear," he said, gravely. "I believe in God--that is to say,
I _feel_ Him--I lean my littleness on a greatness that I know is all
around me and upholding me, which is Something that even God seems a
word too mean for. I think," he added, "that God, to me, is not what He
has been taught to seem to you."
"Never mind," she said, in a low voice, responding to the spirit rather
than the letter of his words. "Whatever you believe you are sure to
believe thoroughly, and if you believe in God, your God must be a true
God. I feel it, though I don't know it."
"You feel that things will all come right for us if we have faith in
our own hearts, and love and trust each other. So do I, Elizabeth."
There was nobody looking, and he put his arm round her shoulder for a
moment. "And we may consider our religious controversy closed then? We
need not trouble ourselves about that any more?"
"I would not say 'closed.' Don't you think we ought to talk of _all_
our thoughts--and especially those that trouble us--to each other?"
"I do--I do, indeed. And so we shall. Ours is going to be a real
marriage. We shall be, not two, but one. Only for the present we may
put this topic aside, as being no longer an obstruction in the way of
our arrangements, mayn't we?"
"Yes," she said. And the die was cast.
"Very well, then." He seemed to pull himself together at this point,
and into his fine frame and his vigorous face a new energy was infused,
the force of which seemed to be communicated to the air around her, and
made her heart beat more strongly to the quicker pulse of his. "Very
well, then. Now tell me, Elizabeth--without any formality, while you
and I are here together--when shall we be married?"
The question had a tone of masterful command about it, for, though
he knew how spontaneous and straightforward she was, her natural
delicacy unspoiled by artificial sentiment, he yet prepared himself
to encounter a certain amount of maidenly reluctance to meet a man's
reasonable views upon this matter. But she answered him without delay
or hesitation, impelled by the terrors that beset her and thinking of
Patty's awful warnings and prophesyings--"I will leave you to say when."
"Will you really? Do you mean you will _really?_" His deep-set eyes
glowed, and his voice had a thrilling tremor in it as he made this
incredulous inquiry. "Then I say we will be married soon--_very_
soon--so as not to lose a day more than we can help. Will you agree to
that?"
She looked a little frightened, but she stood her ground. "If you
wish," she whispered, all the tone shaken out of her voice.
"If _I_ wish!" A palpitating silence held them for a moment. Then "What
do you say to _to-morrow?_" he suggested.
She looked up at him, blushing violently.
"Ah, you are thinking how forward I am!" she exclaimed, drawing her
hand from his.
"Elizabeth," he remonstrated, with swift energy, "did I not ask
you, ever so long ago, not to be conventional? Why should I think
you forward? How can you be forward--with _me?_ You are the most
delicate-minded woman I ever knew, and I think you are showing yourself
so at this moment--when anything short of perfect truth and candour
would have disappointed me. Now, I am quite serious--will you marry
me to-morrow? There is no reason why you should not, that I can see.
Just think of it, calmly. Mrs. Duff-Scott gave her consent a fortnight
ago--yes, she gave it privately, to _me_; and Patty and Nelly, I know,
would be delighted. As for you and me, what have we--honestly, what
_have_ we--to wait for? Each of us is without any tie to be broken by
it. Those who look to us will all be better off. I want to get home
soon, and you have taken me, Elizabeth--it will be all the same in the
end--you know that no probation will prove us unfit or unwilling to
marry--the _raison d'être_ of an engagement does not exist for us. And
I am not young, my love, and life is short and uncertain; while you--"
"I am not young either," she interrupted. "I shall soon be thirty."
"Shall you? I am glad of it. Well, think of it then--_why_ should we
not do it, so exceptionally circumstanced as we are? We can take the
afternoon train to somewhere--say to Macedon, to live up there amongst
the mountains for a little while--till we decide what next to do, while
our sisters enjoy themselves with Mrs. Duff-Scott. I can make all
arrangements to-day, except for wedding cake and bridesmaids--and we
would rather be without them. Come here to-morrow morning, my darling,
as soon as the place is open, in that same pretty gown that you have
got on now; and we will take a cab and go and get married peaceably,
without all the town staring at us. I will see Mrs. Duff-Scott and make
it all right. She shall meet us at the church, with the girls, and the
major to give you away. Will you? Seriously, _will_ you?"
She was silent for some time, while he leaned forward and watched her
face. He saw, to his surprise, that she was actually thinking over
it, and he did not interrupt her. She was, indeed, possessed by the
idea that this wild project offered safety to them both in face of the
impending catastrophe. If she could not secure him in the possession of
his property before he was made aware that he had lost it, she might
anticipate his possible refusal to let her be his benefactor, and the
hindrances and difficulties that seemed likely to sunder them after
having come so near to each other. She lifted her eyes from the carpet
presently, and looked into his.
"Do you mean that you _will?_" he exclaimed, the fierceness of his
delight tempered by a still evident incredulity.
"I will," she said, "if--"
"Hush--hush! Don't let there be any ifs, Elizabeth!"
"Yes--listen. If Mrs. Duff-Scott will freely consent and approve--"
"You may consider _that_ settled, anyhow. I know she will."
"And if you will see Mr. Brion to-night--"
"Mr. Brion? What do we want with Mr. Brion? Settlements?"
"No. But he has something to tell you about me--about my
family--something that you _must_ know before we can be married."
"What is it? Can't _you_ tell me what it is?" He looked surprised and
uneasy. "Don't frighten me, Elizabeth--it is nothing to matter, is it?"
"I don't know. I hope not. I cannot tell you myself. He will explain
everything if you will see him this evening. He came back to Melbourne
with us, and he is waiting to see you."
"Tell me this much, at any rate," said Mr. Yelverton, anxiously; "it is
no just cause or impediment to our being married to-morrow, is it?"
"No. At least, I don't think so. I hope you won't."
"_I_ shan't if _you_ don't, you may depend upon that." He made up
his mind on the spot that there were some shady pages in her family
history that a sense of honour prompted her to reveal to him before
he married her, and congratulated himself that she was not like the
conventional heroine, who would have been too proud to make him happy
under such circumstances. "I am not afraid of Mr. Brion, if you are
not," he repeated. "And we will shunt him for the present, with your
permission. Somehow I can't bring myself to think of anybody just now
except you and me." The picture galleries were pretty full by this
time, and the public was invading the privacy of the German Court
rather freely. "Come and let us walk about a little," he said, rising
from the ottoman, "and enjoy the sensation of being alone in a crowd."
And they sauntered out into the corridor, and down the stairs, and up
and down the long nave, side by side--a distinguished and imposing if
not strictly handsome couple--passing shoals of people, and bowing now
and then to an acquaintance; mixing unsuspected with the common herd,
and hugging the delicious consciousness that in secret they were alone
and apart from everybody. They talked with more ease and freedom than
when _tête-à-tête_ on their settee upstairs.
"And so, by this time to-morrow, we shall be man and wife," Mr.
Yelverton said, musingly. "Doesn't your head swim a little when you
think of that, Elizabeth? _I_ feel as if I had been drinking, and I
am terribly afraid of finding myself sober presently. No, I am not
afraid," he continued, correcting himself. "You have given me your
promise, and you won't go back on it, as the Yankees say, will you?"
"If either of us goes back," said Elizabeth, unblushingly; "it won't be
me."
"You seem to think it possible that _I_ may go back? Don't you flatter
yourself, my young friend. When you come here to-morrow, as you will,
in that pretty cool gown--I stipulate for that gown remember--"
"Even if it is a cold day?--or pouring with rain?"
"Well, I don't know. Couldn't you put a warm jacket over it? When you
come here to-morrow, I say, you will find me waiting for you, the
embodiment of relentless fate, with the wedding ring in my pocket. By
the way--that reminds me--how am I to know the size of your finger? And
you have not got your engagement ring yet! I'll tell you what we'll do,
Elizabeth; we'll choose a ring out of the Exhibition, and we'll cheat
the customs for once. The small things are smuggled out of the place
all day long, and every day, as you may see by taking stock of the show
cases occasionally. We'll be smugglers too--it is in a good cause--and
I'll go so far as to use bribery and corruption, if necessary, to get
possession of that ring to-day. I'll say, 'Let me have it now, or I
won't have it at all,' and you will see they'll let me have it. I will
then put it on your finger, and you shall wear it for a little while,
and then I will borrow it to get the size of your wedding ring from it.
By-and-bye, you know, when we are at home at Yelverton--years hence,
when we are old people--"
"Oh, don't talk of our being old people!" she interrupted, quickly.
"No, I won't--it will be a long time yet, dear. By-and-bye, when we are
at home at Yelverton, you will look at your ring, and think of this
day, and of the German picture gallery--of the dear Exhibition which
brought us together, and where you gave yourself to me--long after I
had given myself to _you_, Elizabeth! It is most appropriate that your
engagement ring should be got here. Come along and let us choose it.
What stones do you like best?"
They spent nearly an hour amongst the jewellery of all nations before
Mr. Yelverton could decide on what he liked. At last he selected from
a medley of glittering trinkets a sober ring that did not glitter,
and yet was rare and valuable--a broad, plain band of gold set with
a lovely cameo carved out of an opal stone. "There is some little
originality about it," he said, as he tried it on her finger, which it
fitted perfectly, "and, though the intaglio looks so delicate, it will
stand wear and tear, and last for ever. That is the chief thing. Do you
like it? Or would you rather have diamonds?"
She had no words to say how much she liked it, and how much she
preferred it to diamonds. And so, after a few severe struggles, carried
on in a foreign tongue, he obtained immediate possession of his
purchase, and she carried it away on her finger.
"Now," said he, looking at his watch, "are you in any great hurry to
get home?"
She thought of her non-existent trousseau, and the packing of her
portmanteau for her wedding journey; nevertheless, she intimated her
willingness to stay a little while longer.
"Very well. We will go and have our lunch then. We'll join the _table
d'hôte_ of the Exhibition, Elizabeth--that will give us a foretaste
of our Continental travels. To-morrow we shall have lunch--where? At
Mrs. Duff-Scott's, I suppose--it would be too hard upon her to leave
her literally at the church door. Yes, we shall have lunch at Mrs.
Duff-Scott's, and I suppose the major will insist our drinking our
healths in champagne, and making us a pretty speech. Never mind, we
will have our dinner in peace. To-morrow evening we shall be at home,
Elizabeth, and you and I will dine _tête-à-tête_, without even a single
parlourmaid to stand behind our chairs. I don't quite know yet where
I shall discover those blessed four walls that we shall dine in, nor
what sort of dinner it will be--but I will find out before I sleep
to-night."