A VISIT TO MISS IRONSYDE
On the following day Raymond did not appear at breakfast, and Estelle
wondered at so strange an event.
"He's going for a long walk with me this afternoon," she told her
father. "It's a promise; we're going all the way to Chilcombe, for me to
show him that dear little chapel and the wonderful curiosity in it."
"Not much in his line, but if he said he'll go, he'll go, no doubt,"
answered her father.
They went to church together presently, for Waldron observed Sunday. He
held no definite religious opinions; but inclined to a vague idea that
it was seemly to go, because it set a good example and increased your
authority. He believed that church-going was a source of good to the
proletariat, and though he did not himself accept the doctrine of
eternal punishment, since it violated all sporting tenets, he was
inclined to think that acceptation of the threat kept ignorant people
straight and made them better members of society. He held that the
parson and squire must combine in this matter and continue to claim and
enforce, as far as possible, a beneficent autocracy in thorpe and
hamlet; and he perceived that religion was the only remaining force
which upheld their sway. That supernatural control was crumbling under
the influences of education he also recognised; but did his best to stem
the tide, and trusted that the old dispensation would at least last out
his time.
On returning from worship they found Raymond in the garden, and when
Estelle reminded him of his promise, he agreed and declared that he
looked forward to the tramp. He was cheerful and apparently welcomed
Estelle's programme, but there happened that which threatened to
interfere with it.
Waldron had retired to his study and a new book on 'The Fox Terrier,'
which he reserved for Sabbath reading, and Estelle and Raymond were just
setting out for Chilcombe when there came Sabina. She had called to see
her lover and entered the garden in time to stop him. She had never
openly asked to see him in this manner before, and Raymond was quick to
mark the significance of the change. It annoyed him, while inwardly he
recognised its reasonableness. He turned and shook hands with her, and
Estelle did the same.
"We're just starting for Chilcombe," she said.
Sabina looked her surprise. She had been expecting Raymond all the
morning, to bring the great news to Ernest Churchouse, and was puzzled
to know why he had not come. She could not wait longer, and while her
mother advised delay, found herself unable to delay.
Now she perceived that Raymond had made plans independently of her.
"I was coming in this evening," he said, in answer to her eyes.
"May I speak to you a moment before you start with Miss Waldron?" she
asked, and together they strolled into Estelle's rose garden where still
a poor blossom or two crowned naked sprays.
"I don't understand," began the girl. "Surely--surely after yesterday?"
"I'd promised to go for this walk with her."
"What then? Wasn't there all the morning? My mother and I didn't go to
church--expecting you every minute."
"You must keep your nerve, Sabina--both of us must. You mustn't be
hysterical about it."
She perceived how mightily his mood had changed since their leave-taking
of the day before.
"What's the matter?" she asked. "I suppose your people have not taken
this well."
"They don't know yet--nobody does."
"You didn't tell them?"
"Things prevented it. We must choose the right moment to spring this.
It's bound to knock them over for a minute. I'm thinking it all out.
Probably you don't quite realise, Sabina, what this means from their
point of view. The first thing is to get my aunt on my side; Daniel's
hopeless, of course."
She stared at him.
"What in God's name has come over you? You talk as though you hadn't a
drop of blood in your veins. Were you deaf yesterday? Didn't you hear me
tell you I was with child by you? 'Their point of view'! What about my
point of view?"
"Don't get excited, my dear girl. Do give me credit for some sense. This
is a very ticklish business, and the whole of our future--yours, of
course, quite as much as mine--will depend on what I do during the next
few days. Do try to realise that. If I make a mistake now, we may repent
it for fifty years."
"What d'you call making a mistake? What choice of action have you got if
you're a gentleman? It kills me--kills me to hear you talking about
making a mistake; and your hard voice means that you think you've made
one. What have I done but love you with all my heart and soul? What have
I ever done to make you put other people's points of view before mine?"
"I'm not--I'm not, Sabina."
"You are. You used to understand me so well and know what was in my mind
before I spoke, and now--now before this--the greatest thing in the
world for me--you--"
"Talk quietly, for goodness' sake. You don't want all Bridetown to hear
us."
"You can say that? And you go out walking with a child and--"
"Look here, Sabina, you must pull yourself together, or else you stand a
very good chance of bitching up our show altogether," he answered
calmly. "This thing has got to be carried out by me, not you; and if you
are not going to let me do it my own way, then so much the worse for
both of us. I won't be dictated to by you, or anybody, and if you're not
contented to believe in me, then I can only say you're making a big
mistake and you'll very soon find it out."
"What are you going to do, then?" she asked, "and when are you going to
do it? I've a right to know that, I suppose?"
"To think you can talk in that tone of voice to me--to me of all
people!"
"To think you can force me to! And now you'll say you've seen things in
me you never thought were there, and turn it over in your mind--and--and
oh, it's cowardly--it's cruel. And you call yourself an honourable man
and could tell me and swear to me only yesterday that I was more to you
than anything else in the world!"
"D'you know what you're doing?" he asked. "D'you want to make
me--there--I won't speak it--I won't come down to your level and forget
myself and say things that I'd break my heart to think of afterwards. I
must go now, or that girl will be wondering what the deuce has happened.
She's told her father already that you weren't happy or something; so I
suppose you must have been talking. I'll come in this evening. You'd
better go home now as quick as you can."
He left her abruptly and she sat down shaking on a stone seat, to
prevent herself from falling. Grief and terror shared her spirit. She
watched him hurry away and, after he was gone, arose to find her legs
trembling under her. She went home slowly; then thoughts came to her
which restored her physical strength. Her anger gave place to fear and
her fear beckoned her to confide in somebody with greater power over
Raymond than her own.
She returned to her mother, described her repulse and then declared her
intention of going immediately to see Miss Ironsyde. She concentrated
her thoughts on the lady, of whom Raymond had often spoken with
admiration and respect. She argued with herself that his aunt would only
have to hear her story to take her side; she told herself and her mother
that since Raymond had feared to approach his aunt, Sabina might most
reasonably do so. She grew calm and convinced herself that not only
might she do this, but that when Raymond heard of it, he would very
possibly be glad that the necessity of confession was escaped. His Aunt
Jenny was very fond of him, and would forgive him and help him to do
right. Sabina found herself stronger than Raymond, and that did not
astonish her, for she had suspected it before.
Her mother, now in tears, agreed with her and she started on foot for
Bridport, walked quickly, and within an hour, reached the dwelling of
the Ironsydes--a large house standing hidden in the trees above the
town.
Miss Ironsyde was reading and looking forward to her tea when Sabina
arrived. She had heard of the girl through Ernest Churchouse, but she
had never met her and did not connect her in any way with Raymond. Jenny
received her and was impressed with her beauty, for Sabina, albeit
anxious and nervous, looked handsome after her quick walk.
"I've heard of you from your mother and Mr. Churchouse," said Miss
Ironsyde, shaking hands. "You come from him, I expect. I hope he is
well? Sit down by the fire."
Her kindly manner and gentle face set the younger at ease.
"He's quite well, thank you, miss. But I'm here for myself, not him. I'm
in a great deal of terrible anxiety, and you'll excuse me for coming, I
do hope, when I explain why I've come. It was understood between me and
Mr. Raymond Ironsyde very clearly yesterday that he was going to tell
you about it. He left me yesterday to do so. But I've seen him to-day
and I find he never came, so I thought I might venture to come even
though it was Sunday."
"The better the day, the better the deed. Something is troubling you.
Why did not my nephew come, if he started to come?"
"I don't know. Indeed, he should have come."
"I'm afraid he starts to do a great many things he doesn't carry
through," said Jenny, and the words, lightly spoken, fell sinister on
Sabina's ear.
"There are some things a man must carry through if he starts to do
them," she said quietly, and her tone threw light for Raymond's aunt.
She grew serious.
"Tell me," she said. "I know my nephew very well and have his interests
greatly at heart. He is somewhat undisciplined still and has had to face
certain difficulties and problems, not much in themselves, but much to
one with his temperament."
Then Sabina, who felt that she might be fighting for her life, set out
to tell her story. She proved at her best and spoke well. She kept her
temper and chose her words. The things that she had thought to speak,
indeed, escaped her, but her artless and direct narrative did not fail
to convince the listener.
"You're more to him than anybody in the world, but me," she said; "but
I'm first, Miss Ironsyde. I must be first now. Even if to-day he had
been different--but what seemed so near yesterday is far off to-day. He
was harsh to-day. He terrified me, and I felt you'd think no worse of me
than you must, if I ventured to come. I don't ask you to believe
anything I say until you have seen him; but I'm not going to tell you
anything but the sacred truth. Thanks to Mr. Churchouse I was well
educated, and he took kind pains to teach me when I was young and
helped me to get fond of books. So when Mr. Raymond came to the Mill, he
found I was intelligent and well mannered. And he fell in love with me
and asked me to marry him. And I loved him very dearly, because I had
never seen or known a man with such a beautiful face and mind. And I
promised to marry him. He wished it kept secret and we loved in secret
and had great joy of each other for a long time. Then people began to
talk and I begged him to let it be known we were engaged; but he would
not. And then I told him--yesterday--that it must be known and that he
must marry me as quickly as he could, for right and honour. And he
seemed very glad--almost thankful I thought. He rejoiced about it and
said it was splendid news. Then he left me to come straight to you and I
was happy and thankful. But to-day I went to see him and he had changed
and was rough to me and said he must choose his own time! This to me,
who am going to be mother of his child next year! I nearly fainted when
he said that. He told me to go; and I went. But I could not sit down
under the shock; I had to do something and thought of you. So I came to
implore you to be on my side--not only for my sake, but his. It's a very
fearful thing--only I know how fearful, because I know all he's said and
promised; and well I know he meant every word while he was saying it.
And I do humbly beg you, miss, for love of him, to reason with him and
hear what he's got to say. And if he says a word that contradicts what
I've said, then I'll be content for you to believe him and I'll trouble
you no more. But he won't. He'll tell you everything I've told you. He
couldn't say different, for he's truthful and straight. And if it was
anything less than the whole of my future life I wouldn't have come. But
I feel there are things hidden in his mind I can't fathom--else after
what I told him yesterday, he never, never could have been cruel to me,
or changed his mind about coming to see you. And please forgive me for
taking up your time. Only knowing that you cared for him so much made
me come to you."
Miss Ironsyde did not answer immediately. Her intuition inclined her to
believe every word at its face value; but her very readiness to do so
made her cautious. The story was one of every day and bore no marks of
improbability; yet among Raymond's faults she could not remember any
unreasonable relations with the other sex. It had always been one bright
spot in his dead father's opinion that the young man did not care about
drink or women, and was not intemperate, save in his passion for
athletic exercises and his abomination of work. It required no great
perception to see that Sabina was not the type that entangles men. She
had a beautiful face and a comely figure, but she belonged not to the
illusive, distracting type. She was obvious and lacked the quality which
attracts men far more than open features, regular modelling and steady
eyes. It was, in fact, such a face as Raymond might have admired, and
Sabina was such a girl as he might have loved--when he did fall in love.
She was apparently his prototype and complement in directness and
simplicity of outlook; that Miss Ironsyde perceived, and the more she
reflected the less she felt inclined to doubt.
Sabina readily guessed the complex thoughts which kept the listener
silent after she had finished, and sat quietly without more speech until
Jenny chose to answer her. That no direct antagonism appeared was a
source of comfort. Unconsciously Sabina felt happier for the presence of
the other, though as yet she had heard no consoling word. Miss Ironsyde
regarded her thoughtfully; then she rose and rang the bell. Sabina's
heart sank for she supposed that she was to be immediately dismissed,
and that meant defeat in a quarter very dangerous. But her mind was set
at rest, for Jenny saw the fear in her eyes.
"I'm ringing for tea," she said. "I will ask you to stop and drink a cup
with me. You've had a long walk."
Then came tears; but Sabina felt such weakness did not become her and
smothered them.
"Thank you, gratefully, Miss Ironsyde," she said.
Tea was a silent matter, for Jenny had very little to say. Her speech
was just and kind, however. It satisfied Sabina, whose only concern was
justice now. She had spoken first.
"I think--I'm sure it's only some hitch in Mr. Raymond's mind. He's been
so wonderful to me--so tender and thoughtful--and he's such a gentleman
in all he does and says, that I'm sure he never could dream of going
back on his sacred word. He wants to marry me. He'll never tell you
different from that. But he cannot realise, perhaps, the need--and yet I
won't say that neither, for, of course, he must realise."
"Say nothing more at all," answered Jenny. "You have said everything
there was to say and I'm glad you have come to me and told me about it.
But I'm not going to say anything myself until I've seen my nephew. You
are satisfied that he will tell me the truth?"
"Yes, I am. Don't think I don't trust him. Only if there's something
hidden from me, he might explain to you what it is, and what I've done
to anger him."
Miss Ironsyde did not lack experience of men and could have thrown light
on Sabina's problem; but she had not the heart. She began to suspect it
was the girl's own compliance and his easy victory that had made Raymond
weary before the reckoning. There is nothing more tasteless than paying
after possession, unless the factors combine to make the payment a
pleasure and possession an undying delight. Miss Ironsyde indeed guessed
at the truth more accurately than she knew; but her sympathies were
entirely with Sabina and it was certain that if Raymond, when the time
came, could offer no respectable and sufficient excuse for a change of
mind, he would find little support from her.
Of her intentions, however, she said nothing, nor indeed while Sabina
drank a cup of tea had Miss Ironsyde anything to say. She was not
unsympathetic, but she was guarded.
"I will see Raymond to-morrow without fail," she said when Sabina
departed. "I share your belief, Miss Dinnett, that he is a truthful and
straightforward man. At least I have always found him so. And I feel
very sure that you are truthful and straightforward too. This will come
right. I will give you one word of advice, if I may, and ask one
question. Does anybody know of your engagement except my nephew and
myself?"
"Only my mother. Yesterday he told me to go straight home and tell her.
And I did. Whether he's told anybody, I don't know."
"Be sure he has not. He would tell nobody before me, I think. My advice,
then, is to say nothing more until you hear from him, or me."
"I shouldn't, of course, Miss Ironsyde."
"Good-bye," said the other kindly. "Be of good heart and be patient for
a few hours longer. It's hard to ask you to be, but you'll understand
the wisdom."
When Sabina had gone, Miss Ironsyde nibbled a hot cake and reflected
deeply on an interview full of pain. The story--so fresh and terrific to
the teller--was older than the hills and presented no novel feature
whatever to her who listened. But in theory, Jenny Ironsyde entertained
very positive views concerning the trite situation. Whether she would be
able to sustain them before her nephew remained to be seen. She already
began to fear. She saw the dangers and traversed the arguments. Though
free from class prejudice, she recognised its weight in such a
situation. A break must mean Sabina's social ruin; but would union mean
ruin to Raymond? And if the problem was reduced to that, what became of
her theories? She decided that since her theories were based in
righteousness and justice, she must prefer his downfall to the woman's.
For if, indeed, he fell as the result of a mistaken marriage, he would
owe the fall to himself and his attitude after the event. He need not
fall. A tendency to judge him hardly, however, drew Jenny up. He had yet
to be heard.
She went to her writing-desk and wrote him a letter directing him to see
her on the following day without fail. "It is exceedingly important, my
dear boy," she said, "and I shall expect you not later than ten o'clock
to-morrow morning."