A CYCLE OF MOODS.
But the girl herself chose to think otherwise. That was her perversity.
She could now see excuses for her own ill-treatment in the past, but
none for the revenge she had just taken on the man who had treated her
badly. A revenge it had certainly been, plotted systematically, and
carried out from first to last in sufficiently cold blood. But already
she was ashamed of it. So sincerely ashamed was Christina, now that she
had completed her retaliation and secured her triumph, that she very
much exaggerated the evil she had done, and could imagine no baser
behavior than her own. She had, indeed, felt the baseness of it while
yet there was time to draw back, but the memory of her own humiliation
had been her goad whenever she hesitated; and then the way had been made
irresistibly easy for her. But this was no comfort to her now. Neither
was that goad any excuse to her self-accusing mind; for she could feel
it no longer, which made her wonder how she had ever felt it at all. Her
judgment was obscured by the magnitude of her meanness in her own eyes.
The revulsion of feeling was as complete as it was startling and
distressing to herself.
In her trouble and excitement that night it became necessary for her to
speak to someone, and she spoke with unusual freedom to Ruth, who
displayed on this occasion, among others, a really lamentable want of
tact. Tiny sought to explain her trouble: it was not that she could
possibly care for Lord Manister again, or dream of marrying him under
any circumstances (Ruth said nothing to all this), but that she half
believed he really cared for her (Ruth was sure of it), in his own way
(Ruth seemed to believe in his way); and in any case she was very sorry
for him. So was Ruth. In all the circumstances the sorrow of Ruth might
well have received a less frank expression than she thought fit to give
it.
But it is only fair to say that this did not occur to Ruth. She was in
and out of the room until at last Christina was asleep, and dreaming of
the hall windows ablaze against the sunset, while again and again in
her sleep the warm, broken voice of Lady Dromard turned hard and cold.
Ruth watched her affectionately enough as she slept, and consoled
herself for her own disappointment by the reflection that at least they
understood one another now. Therefore it was a rude shock to her when
Christina came down next day and would hardly look at any of them.
Her mood had changed; it was now her worst. She was pale still, but her
expression was set, and there was a quarrelsome glitter in her eyes; the
fact being that she was a little tired of chastising herself, and
exceedingly ready to begin on some second person. So Erskine himself was
badly snubbed at his own breakfast table, and when Tiny afterward took
herself into the kitchen garden Ruth followed her for an explanation, in
the fullness of her confidence that they understood one another at last.
No explanation was given, Tiny merely remarking that she was sorry if
she had been rude, but that she was in an evil state all through, and
unfit for human society. To Ruth, however, this only meant that Tiny was
unfit to be alone. So Ruth remained in the kitchen garden too, and was
good enough to resume gratuitously her consolations of the night before.
But in a very few minutes she returned, complaining, to her husband.
"My dear," said he at once, "you oughtn't to have gone near her. Above
all, you shouldn't have broached the subject of her affairs; you should
have left that to her. She seems considerably ashamed of herself, and
though I must say I think that's absurd, you can't help liking her the
better for it. She surprised us all, but she surprised herself too,
because she has found that she can't strike a blow without hurting
herself at least as badly as anybody else; and that shows the good in
her. Personally, I think the blow was justified; but that has nothing to
do with it. The point is that if she's mortified about the whole
concern, as is obviously the case, it must increase her mortification to
know that we know all about it, and that she herself has told us. Which
applies more to me than to you. It was natural she should tell you; she
only told me because I happened to be the first person she saw, and I
can quite understand her hating me by this time for listening. We must
ignore the whole matter except when it pleases her to bring it up, and
then we must let her make the running."
"I hate people to require so much humoring!" exclaimed Ruth, with some
reason.
"Well, I must say I'm glad that _you_ don't," her husband said prettily.
"As to Tiny, her faults are very sweet, and her moods are really
interesting--but I'm thankful they don't run in the family!"
He seemed thankful.
"Yet you're a wonderful man for understanding other people," returned
Ruth as prettily; and her eyes were full of admiration.
"Ah, well! Tiny's not like other people. I think she must enjoy
startling one. Our best plan is to expect the unexpected of her from
this time forth, and to let her be until she comes to herself."
And that came to pass quite in good time. Having effaced herself all the
morning and again during the afternoon, and having been grotesquely
polite to the others (when it was necessary to speak to them) at midday
dinner, Tiny appeared at tea in another frock and flying signals of
peace. She seemed anxious to acquiesce with things that were said. So
Erskine forced jokes which were sufficiently terrible in themselves,
but they served a good purpose very well. Christina recovered her old
form, and after tea made a winsome assault upon no less redoubtable a
defender of his own inclinations than her brother Herbert. Him she
successfully importuned to take her to church in the evening, although
not to the church close at hand, where there was never, necessarily, any
service in the rector's absence. Tiny, however, had heard from her
friends in the village of a gifted young Irishman who wore a stole and
held forth extempore in a neighboring parish; they found their way to it
across the twilight fields. They did not return till after nine, when
Christina seemed much brighter than before. Her brightness, however, was
seemingly more grateful to Mr. than to Mrs. Holland, who enticed her
brother into the garden after supper, to ask him whether Tiny had not
mentioned Lord Manister.
"Why, yes, she did just mention him," said Herbert; "but that's all. I
wasn't going to say a word about the joker, and just as we came back to
the drive here she got a hold of my arm and thanked me for not having
asked her any questions; so I was glad I hadn't. She said she wasn't by
any means proud of herself, and that she wanted to forget the whole
thing, if we'd only let her. She doesn't want to be bothered about it by
anybody. Those were her very words, as we came up the drive. She was
jolly enough all the way there, talking mostly about Wallandoon. You'll
have noticed how keen she is on the station ever since she went up there
with the governor last April; I think the old place was a treat to her
after Melbourne, to tell you the truth."
Ruth nodded, as much as to say that she knew. She asked, however,
whether Tiny had talked also of Wallandoon on the way home.
"No; she was a bit quiet on the way home. I think the sermon must have
made an impression on her, but I didn't hear it myself; I put in a sleep
instead. In the hymns, though, she sang out immense--by ghost, as if she
meant it! I rather wished I'd heard the sermon," remarked Herbert
thoughtfully, "because it seemed to set her thinking. I believe she's
given to thinking of those things now and then; I shouldn't be surprised
to see her go religious some day, if she don't marry; I'd rather she
did, too, than marry a thing like Manister!"
The next day was their last at Essingham, for which not even Ruth could
grieve, in view of recent events. The day, however, was its own
consolation; it was cold and dull and damp, though not actually wet, so
that Erskine, who spent the greater part of the morning in front of a
barometer, had hopes of some final sets in the afternoon, when the
Willoughbys were coming to say good-by. Nor was he disappointed when the
time arrived, though the court was dead and the light bad; his own
service was the more telling under these conditions. But to the two
girls, who had been brought up to better things, it was a repulsive day
from all points of view, and they were very glad to spend the morning in
packing up before a hearty fire.
"This is the kind of thing that makes one sigh for Wallandoon," Tiny
happened to say once as she stood looking out of the window at gray sky
and sullied trees. The thought was spoken just as it came into her head
with an imaginary beam of bush sunshine. There was no other thought
behind it--no human mote in that sunbeam certainly. But Ruth had raised
her head swiftly from the trunk over which she was bending, and she
knelt gazing at her sister's back as a dog pricks its ears.
"Why Wallandoon? Why not Melbourne?"
"Because I have had enough of Melbourne," replied Christina quietly, and
without turning round.
"I thought you took so kindly to it?"
"Perhaps I did; I have taken kindly to many things that were bad for me
in my time. And that's all the more reason why I should hanker after
Wallandoon. I only wish we could all go back there to live!"
"Well, I must say I shouldn't care to live there now," remarked Ruth,
with a little laugh; "and I don't see how you could like it either,
after civilization."
"Ah, that's because you never cared for the station as I did," replied
Christina, with her back still turned; "you liked the veranda better
than the run, and you hated the dust from the sheep when you were
riding. I can smell it now! Just think: they'll be in the middle of
shearing by this time. They were going to have thirty-six shearers on
the board, and they expected the best clip they've had for years. Can't
you hear the blades clicking and the tar boys tearing down the board,
and the bales being heaved about at the back of the shed--or see the
fleeces thrown out on the table and rolled up and bounced into the
bins--and father drafting in a cloud of dust at the yards? Can't I!
Many's the time I've brought him a mob of woollies myself. And how good
the pannikin of tea was, and the shearer's bun! I can taste 'em now. You
never cared for tea in a pannikin. Yet perhaps if you'd ever gone back
to see the place since we left it, as I did, you might be as keen on it
as I am. I own I wasn't so keen when we lived there. When I went back
and saw it the other day, though, I thought it the best place in the
world; and you would, too."
"Is Jack Swift managing it now?" Ruth asked indifferently.
"You knew he was."
"Really I'm afraid I don't know much about it; but if you're so fond of
the place as all that, Tiny, I should just marry Jack Swift, and live
there ever after."
"I suppose you're joking," said the young girl rather scornfully; "but
in case you aren't perhaps it will relieve you to hear that, if ever I
do marry, I shall marry a man--not a place."
And she turned round and stared hard through another window, which
commanded a view of the Mundham gates and grounds; and Ruth made no more
jokes; but neither, on the other hand, did Tiny expatiate any further on
the attractions of station life at Wallandoon.
The Willoughbys came in the afternoon, when Mrs. Willoughby was severely
disappointed, owing to the rudeness of Christina, who had disappeared
mysteriously, although she knew that these people were coming. Mrs.
Willoughby had seen her last leaving the cricket ground at Mundham under
the wing of Lady Dromard--Mrs. Willoughby had looked forward immensely
to seeing her again. But Christina had gone out, and none knew whither;
the visitor's idea was some private engagement at the hall; and this was
not the only idea she expressed, a little too freely for the entire ease
of Christina's sister. Happily they were only ideas. Mrs. Willoughby
knew nothing.
Tiny, as it turned out later, had spent the whole afternoon in the
village, saying good-by to her friends there. Ruth found this rather
difficult to believe, as she had heard so little of the friends in
question. Nevertheless it was strictly true, and Tiny had taken tea with
Mrs. Clapperton, whose tears she had kissed away when they said good-by;
but that was only the end of a scene which would have been a revelation
to some who prided themselves on knowing their Tiny as well as anyone
could know so unaccountable a person. At dinner that evening she seemed
chastened and subdued, yet her temper, certainly, had never been
sweeter. It was noticeable that, while she had a responsive smile for
most things that were said, she made fun of nothing herself; and she was
far too fond of making fun of everything. But for two whole days her
moods had come and gone like the shadows of the clouds when sun and wind
are strong together; and the last of her whims was not the least
puzzling at the time. Later Ruth read it to her own extreme
satisfaction; but at the time it did seem odd to her that anyone should
desire a walk on so chilly and unattractive a night. Yet when they had
left the men to themselves this was what Tiny said she would like above
all things. And Ruth, who humored her, had her reward.
For she found herself being led through the churchyard; and when she
hesitated as they came to the notice to trespassers, Tiny muttered in a
dare-devil way:
"Lady Dromard gave me leave to come this way whenever I liked, and I
mean to make use of my privilege while I can. I want to see the hall
once again--it has a sort of fascination for me!"
More amazed than before, Ruth followed her leader up the western slope
of Gallow Hill. The night was so dark that they heard the rustle of the
beeches on top before they could discern their branches against the sky;
and standing under them presently, panting from their climb, they gazed
down upon a double row of warm lights embedded in blackness. These were
the hall windows, in even tier, with here and there one missing, like
the broken teeth of a comb. Outline the building had none; only the
windows were bitten upon a sable canvas in ruddy orange and glimmering
yellow, from which there was just enough reflection on the lawn and
shrubs to chain them to earth in the mind of one who watched.
"Only the windows," murmured Tiny musingly. "Those windows mean to haunt
me for the rest of my time."
"I wish it were moonlight," Ruth said. "I wish we could see everything."
"No, I like it best as it is," remarked Tiny, after further meditation.
"It leaves something to your imagination. Those windows are going to
leave my imagination uncommonly well off!"
They stood together in silence, and the beeches talked in whispers above
them. When Ruth spoke next she whispered too, as though they were just
outside those lighted windows:
"Yet you would rather live at Wallandoon than anywhere else on earth!"
Tiny said nothing to that; but after it, at a distance, there came a
sigh.
"What's the matter, Ruth?"
"I'd rather not tell you, dear; it might make you angry."
"I think I like being made angry just at present," said Christina, with
a little laugh; "but you've spiked my guns by saying that first; you are
quite safe, my dear."
"Then I was thinking--I couldn't help thinking--that one day you might
have been mistress----"
"Of the windows? Then it's high time we turned our backs on them! That's
just what I was thinking myself!"