"Uncle John," said Ruth next morning, taking Mr. Alwynn aside after
breakfast, "we are leaving by the early train, are we not?"
"No, my love, it is quite impossible. I have several papers to identify
and rearrange."
"We have stayed a day longer than we intended as it is. Most of the
others go early. Do let us go too."
"It is most natural, I am sure, my dear, that you should wish to get
home," said Mr. Alwynn, looking with sympathetic concern at his niece;
"and why your aunt has not forwarded your letters I can't imagine. But
still, if we return by the mid-day train, Ruth, you will have plenty of
time to answer any letters that--ahem!--seem to require immediate
attention, before the post goes; and I don't see my way to being ready
earlier."
Ruth had not even been thinking of Dare and his letters; but she saw
that by the early train she was not destined to depart, and watched the
other guests take leave with an envious sigh. She was anxious to be
gone. The last evening, after the episode in the library, had been
interminably long. Already the morning, though breakfast was hardly
over, seemed to have dragged itself out to days in length. A sense of
constraint between two people who understand and amuse each other is
very galling. Ruth had felt it so. All the previous evening Charles had
hardly spoken to her, and had talked mainly to Lady Hope-Acton, who was
somewhat depressed, and another elder lady. A good-night and a flat
candlestick can be presented in a very distant manner, and as Ruth
received hers from Charles that evening, and met the grave, steady
glance that was directed at her, she perceived that he had not forgiven
her for what she had said.
She felt angry again at the idea that he should venture to treat her
with a coldness which seemed to imply that she had been in the wrong.
The worst of it was that she felt she was to blame; that she had no
right whatever to criticise Charles and his actions. What concern were
they of hers? How much more suitable, how much more eloquent a dignified
silence would have been. She could not imagine now, as she thought it
over, why she had been so unreasonably annoyed at the moment as to say
what she had done. Yet the reason was not far to seek, if she had only
known where to lay her hand on it. She was uneasy, impatient; she longed
to get out of the house. And it was still early; only eleven. Eleven
till twelve. Twelve till one. One till half-past. Two whole hours and a
half to be got through before the Stoke Moreton omnibus would bear her
away. She looked round for a refuge during that weary age, and found it
nearer than many poor souls do in time of need, namely, at her elbow, in
the shape, the welcome shape of the shy man--almost the only remnant of
the large party whose dispersion she had just been watching. Whenever
Ruth thought of that shy man afterwards, which was not often, it was
with a sincere hope that he had forgotten the forwardness of her
behavior on that particular morning. She wished to see the
picture-gallery. She would of all things like a walk afterwards. No, she
had not been as far as the beech-avenue; but she would like to go.
Should they look at the pictures first--now--no time like the present?
How pleased he was! How proud! He felt that his shyness had gone
forever; that Miss Deyncourt would, no doubt, like to hear a few
anecdotes of his college life; that a quiet man, who does not make
himself cheap to start with, often wins in the end; that Miss Deyncourt
had unusual appreciation, not only for pictures, but for reserved and
intricate characters that yet (here he ventured on a little joke, and
laughed at it himself) had their lighter side. And in the long
picture-gallery Ruth and he studied the old masters, as they had seldom
been studied before, with an intense and ignorant interest on the one
hand, and an entire absence of mind on the other.
Charles, who had done a good deal of pacing up and down his room the
night before, and had arrived at certain conclusions, passed through the
gallery once, but did not stop. He looked grave and preoccupied, and
hardly answered a question of Mr. Conway's about one of the pictures.
Half-past eleven at last. A tall inlaid clock in the gallery mentioned
the hour by one sedate stroke; the church clock told the village the
time of day a second later. They had nearly finished the pictures. Never
mind. She could take half an hour to put on her hat, and surely any
beech-avenue, even on a dull day like this might serve to while away the
remaining hour before luncheon.
They had come to the last picture of the Danvers collection, and Ruth
was dwelling fondly on a very well-developed cow by Cuyp, as if she
could hardly tear herself away from it, when she heard a step coming up
the staircase from the hall, and presently Charles pushed open the
carved folding-doors which shut off the gallery from the rest of the
house, and looked in. She was conscious that he was standing in the
door-way, but new beauties in the cow, which had hitherto escaped her,
engaged her whole attention at the moment, and no one can attend to two
things at once.
Charles did not come any farther; but, standing in the door-way, he
called to the shy man who went to him, and the two talked together for a
few moments. Ruth gazed upon the cow until it became so fixed upon the
retina of her eye that, when she tried to admire an old Florentine
cabinet near it, she still saw its portrait; and when, in desperation,
she turned away to look out of the window across the sky and sloping
park, the shadow of the cow hung like a portent.
A moment later Mr. Conway came hurrying back to her much perturbed, to
say he had quite forgotten till this moment, had not in the least
understood, in fact, etc. Danvers' gray cob, that he had thoughts of
buying, was waiting at the door for him to try--in fact, had been
waiting some time. No idea, upon his soul--
Ruth cut his apology short before he had done more than flounder well
into it.
"You must go and try it at once," she said with decision; and then she
added, as Charles drew near: "I have changed my mind about going out. It
looks as if it might turn to rain. I shall get through some arrears of
letter-writing instead."
Mr. Conway stammered, and repeated himself, and finally rushed out of
the gallery. Ruth expected that Charles would accompany him, but he
remained standing near the window, apparently engaged like herself in
admiring the view.
"It struck me," he said, slowly, with his eyes half shut, "that Conway
proved rather a broken reed just now."
"He did," said Ruth. She suddenly felt that she could understand what it
was in Charles that exasperated Lady Mary so much.
He came a step nearer, and his manner altered.
"I sent him away," he said, looking gravely at her, "because I wished to
speak to you."
Ruth did not answer or turn her head, though she felt he was watching
her. Her eyes absently followed two young fallow-deer in the park,
cantering away in a series of hops on their long stiff legs.
"I cannot speak to you here," said Charles, after a pause.
Ruth turned round.
"Silence is golden sometimes. I think quite enough has been said
already."
"Not by me. You expressed yourself with considerable frankness. I wish
to follow your example."
"You said I was unjust at the time. Surely that was sufficient."
"So insufficient that I am going to repeat it. I tell you again that you
are unjust in not being willing to hear what I have to say. I have seen
a good deal of harm done by misunderstandings, Miss Deyncourt. Pride is
generally at the bottom of them. We are both suffering from a slight
attack of that malady now; but I value your good opinion too much to
hesitate, if, by any little sacrifice of my own pride, I can still
retain it. If, after your remarks yesterday, I can make the effort (and
it _is_ an effort) to ask you to hear something I wish to say, you, on
your side, ought not to refuse to listen. It is not a question of
liking; you _ought_ not to refuse."
He spoke in an authoritative tone, which gave weight to his words, and
in spite of herself she saw the truth of what he said. She was one of
those rare women who, being convinced against their will, are _not_ of
the same opinion still. It was ignominious to have to give way; but,
after a moment's struggle with herself, she surmounted her dislike to
being overruled, together with a certain unreasoning tenacity of opinion
natural to her sex, and said, quietly:
"What do you wish me to do?"
Charles saw the momentary struggle, and honored her for a quality which
women seldom give men occasion to honor them for.
"Do you dislike walking?"
"No."
"Then, if you will come out-of-doors, where there is less likelihood of
interruption than in the house, I will wait for you here."
She went silently down the picture-gallery, half astonished to find
herself doing his bidding. She put on her walking things mechanically,
and came back in a few minutes to find him standing where she had left
him. In silence they went down-stairs, and through the piazza with its
flowering orange-trees, out into the gardens, where, on the stone
balustrade, the peacocks were attitudinizing and conversing in the high
key in which they always proclaim a change of weather and their innate
vulgarity to the world. Charles led the way towards a little rushing
brook which divided the gardens from the park.
"I think you must have had a very low opinion of me beforehand to say
what you did yesterday," he remarked, suddenly.
"I was angry," said Ruth. "However true what I said may have been, I had
no right to say it to--a comparative stranger. That is why I repeat that
it would be better not to make matters worse by mentioning the subject
again. It is sure to annoy us both. Let it rest."
"Not yet," said Charles, dryly. "As a comparative stranger, I want to
know,"--stopping and facing her--"exactly what you mean by saying that
she, Lady Grace, did not understand the rules of the game."
"I cannot put it in other words," said Ruth, her courage rising as she
felt that a battle was imminent.
"Perhaps I can for you. Perhaps you meant to say that you believed I was
in the habit of amusing myself at other people's expense; that--I see
your difficulty in finding the right words--that it was my evil sport
and pastime to--shall we say--raise expectations which it was not my
intention to fulfil?"
"It is disagreeably put," said Ruth, reddening a little; "but possibly I
did mean something of that kind."
"And how have you arrived at such an uncharitable opinion of a
comparative stranger?" asked Charles, quietly enough, but his light eyes
flashing.
She did not answer.
"You are not a child, to echo the opinion of others," he went on. "You
look as if you judged for yourself. What have I done since I met you
first, three months ago, to justify you in holding me in contempt?"
"I did not say I held you in contempt."
"You must, though, if you think me capable of such meanness."
Silence again.
"You have pushed me into saying more than I meant," said Ruth at last;
"at least you have said I mean a great deal more than I really do. To be
honest, I think you have thoughtlessly given a good deal of pain. I dare
say you did it unconsciously."
"Thank you. You are very charitable, but I cannot shield myself under
the supposition that at eight-and-thirty I am a creature of impulse,
unconscious of the meaning of my own actions."
"If that is the case," thought Ruth, "your behavior to me has been
inexcusable, especially the last few days; though, fortunately for
myself, I was not deceived by it."
"If you persist in keeping silence," said Charles, after waiting for her
to speak, "any possibility of conversation is at an end."
"I did not come out here for conversation," replied Ruth. "I came, not
by my own wish, to hear something you said you particularly desired to
say. Do you not think the simplest thing, under the circumstances, would
be--to say it?"
He gave a short laugh, and looked at her in sheer desperation. Did she
know what she was pushing him into?
"I had forgotten," he said. "It was in my mind all the time; but now you
have made it easy for me indeed by coming to my assistance in this way.
I will make a fresh start."
He compressed his lips, and seemed to pull himself together. Then he
said, in a very level voice:
"Kindly give me your whole attention, Miss Deyncourt, so that I shall
not be obliged to repeat anything. The deer are charming, I know; but
you have seen deer before, and will no doubt again. I am sorry that I am
obliged to speak to you about myself, but a little autobiography is
unavoidable. Perhaps you know that about three years ago I succeeded my
father. From being penniless, and head over ears in debt, I became
suddenly a rich man--not by my father's will, who entailed every acre of
the estates here and elsewhere on Ralph, and left everything he could to
him. I had thought of telling you what my best friends have never known,
why I am not still crippled by debt. I had thought of telling you why,
at five-and-thirty, I was still unmarried, for my debts were not the
reason; but I will not trouble you with that now. It is enough to say
that I found myself in a position which, had I been a little younger,
with rather a different past, I should have enjoyed more than I did. I
was well received in English society when, after a lapse of several
years and a change of fortune, I returned to it. If I had thought I was
well received for myself, I should have been a fool. But I came back
disillusioned. I saw the machinery. When you reflect on the vast and
intricate machinery employed by mothers with grown-up daughters, you may
imagine what I saw. In all honesty and sincerity I wished to marry; but
in the ease with which I saw I could do so lay my chief difficulty. I
did not want a new toy, but a companion. I suppose I still clung to one
last illusion, that I might meet a woman whom I could love, and who
would love me, and not my name or income. I could not find her, but I
still believed in her. I went everywhere in the hope of meeting her,
and, if others have ever been disappointed in me, they have never known
how disappointed I have been in them. For three years I looked for her
everywhere, but I could not find her, and at last I gave her up. And
then I met Lady Grace Lawrence, and liked her. I had reason to believe
she could be disinterested. She came of good people--all Lawrences are
good; she was simple and unspoiled, and she seemed to like me. When I
look back I believe that I had decided to ask her to marry me, and that
it was only by the merest chance that I left London without speaking to
her. What prevented me I hardly know, unless it was a reluctance at the
last moment to cast the die. I came down to Atherstone, harassed and
anxious, tired of everything and everybody, and there," said Charles,
with sudden passion, turning and looking full at Ruth, "there I met
_you_."
The blood rushed to her face, and she hastily interposed, "I don't see
any necessity to bring my name in."
"Perhaps not," he returned, recovering himself instantly;
"unfortunately, I do."
"You expect too much of my vanity," said Ruth, her voice trembling a
little; "but in this instance I don't think you can turn it to account.
I beg you will leave me out of the question."
"I am sorry I cannot oblige you," he said, grimly; "but you can't be
left out. I only regret that you dislike being mentioned, because that
is a mere nothing to what is coming."
She trusted that he did not perceive that the reason she made no reply
was because she suddenly felt herself unable to articulate. Her heart
was beating wildly, as that gentle, well conducted organ had never
beaten before. What was coming? Could this stern, determined man be the
same apathetic, sarcastic being whom she had hitherto known?
"From that time," he continued, "I became surer and surer of what at
first I hardly dared to hope, what it seemed presumption in me to hope,
namely, that at last I had found what I had looked for in vain so long.
I had to keep my engagement with the Hope-Actons in Scotland; but I
regretted it. I stayed as short a time as I could. I did not ask them to
come here. They offered themselves. I think, if I have been to blame, it
has not been in so heartless a manner as you supposed; and it appears to
me Lady Hope-Acton should not have come. This is my explanation. You can
add the rest for yourself. Have I said enough to soften your harsh
judgment of yesterday?"
Ruth could not speak. The trees were behaving in the most curious
manner, were whirling round, were swaying up and down. The beeches close
in front were dancing quadrilles; now ranged in two long rows, now
setting to partners, now hurrying back to their places as she drew near.
"Sit down," said Charles's voice, gently; "you look tired."
The trunk of a fallen tree suddenly appeared rising up to meet her out
of a slight mist, and she sat down on it more precipitately than she
could have wished. In a few seconds the trees returned to their places,
and the mist, which appeared to be very local, cleared away.
Charles was sitting on the trunk beside her, looking at her intently.
The anger had gone out of his face, and had given place to a look of
deep anxiety and suspense.
"I have not finished yet," he said, and his voice had changed as much as
his face. "There is still something more."
"No, no!" said Ruth. "At least, if there is, don't say it."
"I think I would rather say it. You wish to save me pain, I see; but I
am quite prepared for what you are going to say. I did not intend to
speak to you on the subject for a long time to come, but yesterday's
event has forced my hand. There must be no more misunderstandings
between us. You intend to refuse me, I can see. All the same, I wish to
tell you that I love you, and to ask you to be my wife."
"I am afraid I cannot," said Ruth, almost inaudibly.
"No," said Charles, looking straight before him, "I have asked you too
soon. You are quite right. I did not expect anything different; I only
wished you to know. But, perhaps, some day--"
"Don't!" said Ruth, clasping her hands tightly together. "You don't know
what you are saying. Nothing can make any difference, because--I am
engaged."
She dared not look at his face, but she saw his hand clinch.
For an age neither spoke.
Then he turned his head slowly and looked at her. His face was gray even
to the lips. With a strange swift pang at the heart, she saw how her few
words had changed it.
"To whom?" he said at last, hardly above a whisper.
"To Mr. Dare."
"Not that man who has come to live at Vandon?"
"Yes."
Another long silence.
"When was it?"
"Ten days ago."
"Ten days ago," repeated Charles, mechanically, and his face worked.
"Ten days ago!"
"It is not given out yet," said Ruth, hesitating, "because Mr. Alwynn
does not wish it during Lord Polesworth's absence. I never thought of
any mistake being caused by not mentioning it. I would not have come
here if I had had the least idea that--"
"You cannot mean to say that you had never seen that I--what I--felt for
you?"
"Indeed I never thought of such a thing until two minutes before you
said it. I am very sorry I did not, but I imagined--"
"Let me hear what you imagined."
"I noticed you talked to me a good deal; but I thought you did exactly
the same to Lady Grace, and others."
"You could not imagine that I talked to others--to any other woman in
the world--as I did to you."
"I supposed," said Ruth, simply, "that you talked gayly to Lady Grace
because it suited her; and more gravely to me, because I am naturally
grave. I thought at the time you were rather clever in adapting yourself
to different people so easily; and I was glad that I understood your
manner better than some of the others."
"Better!" said Charles, bitterly. "Better, when you thought that of me!
No, you need not say anything. I was in fault, not you. I don't know
what right I had to imagine you understood me--you seemed to understand
me--to fancy that we had anything in common, that in time--" He broke
into a low wretched laugh. "And all the while you were engaged to
another man! Good God, what a farce! what a miserable mistake from first
to last!"
Ruth said nothing. It was indeed a miserable mistake.
He rose wearily to his feet.
"I was forgetting," he said; "it is time to go home." And they went back
together in silence, which was more bearable than speech just then.
The peacocks were still pirouetting and minuetting on the stone
balustrade as they came back to the garden. The gong began to sound as
they entered the piazza.
To Ruth it was a dreadful meal. She tried to listen to Mr. Conway's
account of the gray cob, or to the placid conversation of Mr. Alwynn
about the beloved manuscripts. Fortunately the morning papers were full
of a recent forgery in America, and a murder in London, which furnished
topics when these were exhausted, and Charles used them to the utmost.
At last the carriage came. Mr. Alwynn and Mr. Conway simultaneously
broke into incoherent ejaculations respecting the pleasure of their
visit; Ruth's hand met Charles's for an embarrassed second; and a moment
later they were whirling down the straight wide approach, between the
columns of fantastically clipped hollies, leaving Charles standing in
the door-way. He was still standing there when the carriage rolled under
the arched gate-way with its rampant stone lions. Ruth glanced back
once, as they turned into the road, at the stately old house, with its
pointed gables and forests of chimneys cutting the gray sky-line. She
saw the owner turn slowly and go up the steps, and looked hastily away
again.
"Poor Danvers!" said Mr. Alwynn, cheerfully, also looking, and putting
Ruth's thoughts into words. "He must be desperately lonely in that house
all by himself; but I suppose he is not often there."
And Mr. Alwynn, whose mind had been entirely relieved since Ruth's
engagement from the dark suspicion he had once harbored respecting
Charles, proceeded to dilate upon the merits of the charters, and of the
owner of the charters, until he began to think Ruth had a headache, and
finding it to be the case, talked no more till they reached, at the end
of their little journey, the door of Slumberleigh Rectory.
"Is it very bad?" he asked, kindly, as he helped her out of the
carriage.
Ruth assented, fortunately with some faint vestige of truth, for her hat
hurt her forehead.
"Then run up straight to your own room, and I will tell your aunt that
you will come and have a chat with her later on, perhaps after tea, when
the post will be gone." Mr. Alwynn spoke in the whisper of stratagem.
Ruth was only too thankful to be allowed to slip on tiptoe to her own
room, but she had not been there many minutes when a tap came to the
door.
"There, my dear," said Mr. Alwynn, putting his head in, and holding some
letters towards her. "Your aunt ought to have forwarded them. I brought
them up at once. And there is nearly an hour to post-time, and she won't
expect you to come down till then. I think the headache will be better
now, eh?"
He nodded kindly to her, and closed the door again. Ruth sat down
mechanically, and began to sort the packet he had put into her hands.
The first three letters were in the same handwriting, Dare's large vague
handwriting, that ran from one end of the envelope to the other, and
partly hid itself under the stamp.
She looked at them, but did not open them. A feeling of intense
lassitude and fatigue had succeeded to the unconscious excitement of the
morning. She could not read them now. They must wait with the others.
Presently she could feel an interest in them; not now.
She leaned her head upon her hand, and a rush of pity swept away every
other feeling as she recalled that last look at Stoke Moreton, and how
Charles had turned so slowly and wearily to go in-doors. There was an
ache at her heart as she thought of him, a sense of regret and loss. And
he had loved her all the time!
"If I had only known!" she said to herself, pressing her hands against
her forehead. "But how could I tell--how could I tell?"
She raised her head with a sudden movement, and began with nervous
fingers to open Dare's letters, and read them carefully.