Dick was astir very early next morning. He did his packing hurriedly,
and strolled out in the freshness of the early day. But not to enjoy the
morning sunshine. He walked along resolutely towards the house which
had suddenly acquired for him so painful an interest. For why? With no
intention of visiting it; with a certainty that he would see no one
there; perhaps with an idea of justifying himself to himself for flying
from its neighbourhood, for putting distance, at least the breadth of
the island, between him and that place, which he could not henceforward
get out of his mind. To think that he had come here so lightly two days
ago with his old uncle's commission, and that now no inducement in the
world, except death or hopeless necessity, could induce him to cross
that threshold. If the woman were on her death-bed, yes; if she was
abandoned by all and without other help, as well might be, as would be,
without doubt, one time or another. But for nothing else, nothing less.
He walked along under the wall, and round the dark shrubberies behind
which enveloped the house. All was quiet and peace, for the moment at
least; the curtains drawn over the windows; the household late of
stirring; no lively housewife there to rouse maids and men, and stir up
a wholesome stir of living. The young man's cheerful face was stern as
he made this round, like a sentinel, thinking of many things that were
deep in the gulf of the past. Two years of his life which looked like a
lifetime, and which were over, with all the horrors that were in them,
and done with, and never to be recalled again. He was still young, and
yet how much older than any one was aware! Twenty-seven, yet with two
lives behind him: one that of youth, to which he had endeavoured to
piece his renewed existence; and the other all complete and ended, a
tragedy, yet like many tragedies in life, cut off not by death. Not
by death, for here were both the actors again within reach of each
other,--one within the sleeping house, one outside in the fresh air of
the morning,--with a gulf like that between Dives and Lazarus, a gulf
which no man might cross, of disgust and loathing, of pain and hatred,
between.
The door in the wall opened stealthily, softly, and some one came out.
It was so early that such precautions seemed scarcely necessary. Perhaps
it was in fear of seeing him, though that was so unlikely, that Lizzie
looked round so jealously. If so, her precautions were useless, as she
stepped out immediately in front of the passenger whom she most desired
to avoid. He did not speak to her for a moment, but walked on, quickening
his pace as hers fluttered into a run, as if to escape him. "Stop," he
said at length. "You need not take the trouble to conceal yourself from
me."
"I'm not concealing--anything," said Lizzie, half angry, half sullen,
with a flush on her face. "I've done nothing wrong," she added quickly.
"I don't say you've done anything wrong; for what I can tell you may be
doing the work of an angel."
She looked up at him eagerly, and the tears sprang to her eyes. "I don't
know for that. I--I don't ask nothing but not to be blamed."
"Lizzie," he said, "you were always a good girl--and to be faithful as
you seem, may, for anything I know, be angels' work. I could not do it,
for my part."
"Oh no," she said, hurriedly. "It could not be looked for from you,--oh
no, no!"
"But think if you were to ruin yourself," he said. "The rector saw you
the other day, but he will say nothing. Yet think if others saw you."
"Sir," cried Lizzie, drawing back, "it will do me more harm and vex
granny more to see a gentleman walking by my side and talking like that,
as if he took an interest in me,--which you don't, all the same," she
added, with a little bitterness, "only for--others."
"I do," he cried, "if I could help you without harming you. But it is
chiefly for the other. I want you to act for me, Lizzie. If trouble
should come, as come, of course, it will----"
"I am none so sure. You never saw her half so pretty--and he----"
"Silence!" cried Dick, with a voice that was like the report of deep
guns. "If trouble comes, let me know. She must not want or be miserable.
There is my address. Do not apply to me unless there is absolute need;
but if that comes, write, telegraph,--no matter which; help shall come."
"And what am I to do with a gentleman's card?" said Lizzie. "Granny or
some one will be sure to see it. It will drop out of my pocket, or it
will be seen in my drawers, or something. And if I were to die it would
be found, and folks would think badly of me. I will not take your card."
"This is folly, Lizzie."
"If it is, folly's natural. I don't believe there will be any need; if
there is, I'll find you out, if you're wanted, but I won't take the
card. Will you please, sir, to walk on? I've got my character to think
of."
The girl stopped short, leaning against the corner of the wall, defying
him, though she was not hostile to him. He put back his card in his
pocket, and took off his hat, which was a recognition which brought the
colour to Lizzie's cheek.
"Go away, sir; I've got my character to think of," she said. Then she
curtsied deeply, with a certain dignity in her rustic manners. "Thank
you," she said, "all the same."
Dick walked into the rector's dining-room with little Georgie seated
on his shoulder. "Fancy where we found him, mamma," said Flo. "Buying
barley sugar from old Mrs. Bagley at the shop. What does a gentleman
want with barley sugar? He is too old. You never eat it, nor papa."
"He give it all to me," said Georgie, "and Fluffy had some. Fluffy and
me, we are very fond of Mr. Cavendish. Don't go away, Mr. Cavendish, or
come back to-morrow."
"Yes, tum back to-morrow," cried the other little ones. Flo was old
enough to know that the future had vistas deeper than to-morrow. She
said, "Don't be so silly, all you little things. If he was coming back
to-morrow, why should he go to-day? He will come back another time."
"When dere's need ob him," said his little godson gravely, at which
there was much laughing. But for his part Dick did not laugh. He hid his
serious countenance behind little Dick's curly head, and thus nobody
knew that there was not upon it even a smile.
At Underwood, which is a very small village, there is no station; so
that Dick had to be driven to the railway in the waggonette, the rector
making this an occasion to give the children and the governess a drive,
so that the two gentlemen could not say much to each other. They had a
moment for a last word solely at the door of the railway carriage, in
which Warrender had already taken his place. The rector, indeed, had to
speak through the carriage window at the last moment. He said, hesitating,
"And you won't forget? Tell Mr. Cornwall if he refuses to do anything,
so as to drive these people away, it will be the kindest thing he can do
for the parish. Tell him----" But here the guard interposed to examine
the tickets, and there was a slamming of doors and a shriek of whistles,
and the train glided away.
"I think I understand what the rector means," said Warrender. "He is
speaking of _that_ house. Oh, you need not smile; nothing could be more
entirely out of my way."
"I did not smile," said Dick, who was as grave as all the judges in a
row.
"Perhaps you have not heard about it. It was there Markland spent the
last afternoon before his accident, almost the last day of his life. It
gives her a bitter sort of association with the place."
"Markland?" said Dick. "Oh yes, I remember. Lord Markland, who---- He
died, didn't he? It may not be a satisfactory household, but still he
might have gone there without any harm."
"Oh, I don't suppose there was any harm, except the love of bad company;
that seems a fascination which some men cannot resist. I don't care two
straws myself whether there was harm or not; but it is a bitter sort of
recollection for _her_."
"They were both quite young, were they not?"
"Markland was over thirty," said the young man, who was but twenty-two;
"and she is--oh, she is, I suppose, about my age."
He knew, indeed, exactly what was her age; but what did that matter to a
stranger? She was superior to him, it was true, in that as in all other
things.
"I have heard they were not very happy," Dick said. He cared no more for
the Marklands than he did for the domestic concerns of the guard who
had looked at his ticket two minutes ago; but anything answered for
conversation, which in the present state of his mind he could not exert
himself to make brilliant.
"Oh, happy!" cried Warrender. "How could they be happy? She a woman with
the finest perceptions, and a mind--such as you seldom find in a woman;
and he the sort of person who could find pleasure in the conversation
that goes on in a house like that."
Dick did not say anything for some time; he felt as though all the people
he met in these parts must go on like this, in absolute unconsciousness,
giving him blow after blow. "I don't mean to take up the cudgels for
that sort of people," he said at last; "but they are--not always stupid,
you know." But to this semi-defence his companion gave no heed.
"She was no more than a child when she was married," said Warrender,
with excitement, "a little girl out of the nursery. How was she to know?
She had never seen anybody, and to expect her to be able to judge at
sixteen----"
"That is always bad," said Dick, musing. He was like the other, full of
his own thoughts. "Yet some girls are very much developed at sixteen. I
knew a fellow once who---- And she went entirely to the bad."
"What are you talking of?" cried Warrender, almost roughly. "She was
like a little angel herself, and knew nothing different--and when that
fellow--who had been a handsome fellow they say--fell in love with her,
and would not leave her alone for a moment, I, for one, forgive her for
being deceived. I admire her for it," he went on. "She was as innocent
as a flower. Was it possible she could suspect what sort of a man he
was? It has given her such a blow in her ideal that I doubt if she will
ever recover. It seems as if she could not believe again in genuine,
unselfish love."
"Perhaps it is too early to talk to her about such subjects."
"Too early! Do you think I talk to her about such subjects? But one
cannot talk of the greatest subjects as we do without touching on them.
Lady Markland is very fond of conversation. She lets me talk to her,
which is great condescension, for she is--much more thoughtful, and has
far more insight and mental power, than I."
"And more experience," said Dick.
"What do you mean? Well, yes; no doubt her marriage has given her a sort
of dolorous experience. She is acquainted with actual life. When it so
happens that in the course of conversation we touch on such subjects I
find she always leans to the darker side." He paused for a moment,
adding abruptly, "And then there is her boy."
"Oh," said Dick, "has she a boy?"
"That's what I'm going to town about. She is very anxious for a tutor
for this boy. My opinion is that he is a great deal too much for her.
And who can tell what he may turn out? I have brought her to see that he
wants a man to look after him."
"She should send him to school. With a child who has been a pet at home
that is the best way."
"Did I say he had been a pet at home? She is a great deal too wise for
that. Still, the boy is too much for her, and if I could hear of a
tutor---- Cavendish, you are just the sort of fellow to know. I have
not told her what I am going to do, but I think if I could find some one
who would answer I have influence enough----" Warrender said this with
a sudden glow of colour to his face, and a conscious glance; a glance
which dared the other to form any conclusions from what he said, yet
in a moment avowed and justified them. Dick was very full of his own
thoughts, and yet at sight of this he could not help but smile. His
heart was touched by the sight of the young passion, which had no
intention of disclosing itself, yet could think of nothing and talk of
nothing but the person beloved.
"I don't know how you feel about it, Warrender," he said, "but if I had
a--friend whom I prized so much, I should not introduce another fellow
to be near her constantly, and probably to--win her confidence, you
know; for a lady in these circumstances must stand greatly in need of
some one to--to consult with, and to take little things off her hands,
and save her trouble, and--and all that."
"That is just what I am trying to do," said Warrender. "As for her
grief, you know--which isn't so much grief as a dreadful shock to her
nerves, and the constitution of her mind, and many things we needn't
mention--as for that, no one can meddle. But just to make her feel that
there is some one to whom nothing is a trouble, who will go anywhere, or
do anything----"
"Well: that's what the tutor will get into doing, if you don't mind.
I'll tell you, Warrender, what I would do if I were you. I'd be the
tutor myself."
"I am glad I spoke to you," said the young man. "It is very pleasant to
meet with a mind that is sympathetic. You perceive what I mean. I must
think it all over. I do not know if I can do what you say, but if it
could be managed, certainly---- Anyhow, I am very much obliged to you
for the advice."
"Oh, that is nothing," said Dick; "but I think I can enter into your
feelings."
"And so few do," said Warrender; "either it is made the subject of
injurious remarks--remarks which, if they came to her ears, would--or
a succession of feeble jokes more odious still, or suggestions that
it would be better for me to look after my own business. I am not
neglecting my own business that I am aware of; a few trees to cut down,
a few farms to look after, are not so important. I hope now," he added,
"you are no longer astonished that the small interests of the University
don't tell for very much in comparison."
"I beg you a thousand pardons, Warrender. I had forgotten all about the
University."
"It does not matter," he said, waving his hand; "it does not make the
least difference to me. It would not change my determination in any way,
whatever might depend upon it; and nothing really depends upon it. I
can't tell you how much obliged I am to you for your sympathy, Cavendish."
He added, after a moment, "It is doubly good of you to enter into my
difficulties, everything being so easy-going in your own life."
Cavendish looked at his companion with eyes that twinkled with a sort
of tragic laughter. It was natural for the young one to feel himself
in a grand and unique position, as a very young man seized by a _grande
passion_ is so apt to do; but the fine superiority and conviction that
he was not as other men gave a grim amusement to the man who was so
easy-going, whose life was all plain sailing in the other's sight. "All
the more reason," he said, with a laugh, "being safe myself, that I
should take an interest in you." He laughed again, so that for the
moment Warrender, with momentary rage, believed himself the object of
his friend's derision. But a glance at Cavendish dispelled this fear,
and presently each retired into his corner, and they sat opposite to
each other saying nothing, while the long levels of the green country
flew past them, and the clang of the going swept every other sound away.
They were alone in their compartment, each buried in his thoughts: the
one in all the absorption of a sudden and overwhelming passion, not
without a certain pride in it and in himself, although consciously
thinking of nothing but of _her_, going over and over their last
interviews, and forming visions to himself of the future; while the
other, he who was so easy-going, the cheerful companion, unexpectedly
found to be so sympathetic, but otherwise somewhat compassionately
regarded as superficial and commonplace by the youth newly plunged into
life,--the other went back into those recollections which were his,
which had been confided to none, which he had thought laid to rest
and half forgotten, but which had suddenly surged up again with so
extraordinary a revival of pain. The presence of Warrender opposite to
him, and the unconscious revelation he had made of the condition of his
own mind and thoughts, had transported Dick back again for a moment into
what seemed an age, a century past, the time when he had been as his
friend was, in the ecstasy of a youthful passion. He remembered that;
then with quick scorn and disdain turned from the thought, and plunged
into the deep abysses of possibility which he now saw opening at his
feet. He had said to himself that the past was altogether past, and that
he could begin in his own country, far from the associations of his
brief and unhappy meddling with fate, a new existence, one natural to
him, among his own people, in the occupations he understood. He had not
understood either himself or life in that strange, extravagant essay
at living which he had made and ended, as he had thought, and of which
nobody knew anything. How could he tell, he asked himself now, how much
or how little was known? Was anything ever ended until death had put the
finis to mortal history?
These young men sat opposite to each other, two excellent examples of
the well-born, well-bred young Englishman, admirably dressed, with that
indifference to and ease in their well-fitting garments, that easy and
careful simplicity, which only the Anglo-Saxon seems able to attain to
in such apparel; Warrender, indeed, with something of that dreamy look
about the eyes which betrays the abstraction of the mind in a realm of
imagination, but nothing besides which could have suggested to any
spectator the presence of either mystery in the past or danger in the
future, beyond the dangers of flood or field. They were both above the
reach of need, but both with that wholesome necessity for doing which
is in English blood, and all the world before them--public duty and
private happiness, the inheritance of the class to which they belonged.
Yet to one care had come in the guise of passion; and the other was
setting out upon a second beginning, no one knew how heavily laden and
handicapped in the struggle of life.