THE LOVERS' GROVE
A little matter now kindled a great fire, and a woman's reasonable
irritation, which he had himself created, produced for Raymond Ironsyde
a very complete catastrophe.
His aunt, indeed, was not prone to irritation. Few women preserved a
more level mind, or exhibited that self-control which is a prime product
of common-sense; but, for once, it must be confessed that Jenny broke
down and did that which she had been the first to censure in another.
The spark fell on sufficient fuel and the face of the earth was changed
for Raymond before he slept that night.
For his failure to answer her urgent appeal, his contemptuous disregard
of the strongest letter she had ever written, annoyed her exceedingly.
It argued a callous indifference to her own wishes and a spirit of
extraordinary unkindness. She had been a generous aunt to him all his
life; he had very much for which to thank her; and yet before this
pressing petition he could remain dumb. That his mind was disordered she
doubted not; but nothing excused silence at such a moment.
After lunch on this day Daniel spent some little while with his aunt,
and then when a post which might have brought some word from Raymond
failed to do so, Jenny's gust of temper spoke. It was the familiar case
of a stab at one who has annoyed us; but to point such stabs, the ear of
a third person is necessary, and before she had quite realised what she
was doing, Miss Ironsyde sharply blamed her nephew to his brother.
"The most inconsiderate, selfish person on earth is Raymond," she said
as a servant brought her two letters, neither from the sinner. "I asked
him--and prayed him--to see me to-day about a subject of the gravest
importance to him and to us all; and he neither comes nor takes the
least notice of my letter. He is hopeless."
"What's he done now?"
"I don't know exactly--at least--never mind. Leave it for the minute.
Sorry, I was cross. You'll know what there is to know soon enough. If
there's trouble in store, we must put a bold face on it and think of
him."
"I rather hoped things were going smoother. He seems to be getting more
steady and industrious."
"Perhaps he reserved his industry for the works and leaves none for
anything else, then," she answered; "but don't worry before you need."
"You'll tell me if there's anything I ought to know, Aunt Jenny."
"He'll tell you himself, I should hope. And if he doesn't, no doubt
there will be plenty of other people to do so. But don't meet trouble
half way. Shall you be back to tea?"
"Probably not. I'm going to Bridetown this afternoon. I have an
appointment with Best. He was to see some machinery that sounded all
right; but he's very conservative and I can always trust him to be on
the safe side. One doesn't mean to be left behind, of course."
"Always ask yourself what your father would have thought, Daniel. And
then you'll not make any mistakes."
He nodded.
"I ask myself that often enough, you may be sure."
* * * * *
An hour later the young man had driven his trap to the Mill and listened
to John Best on the subject of immediate interest. The foreman decided
against any innovation for the present and Daniel was glad. Then he
asked for his brother.
"Is Mister Raymond here?"
"He was this morning; but he's not down this afternoon. At least he
wasn't when I went to his office just before you came."
"Everything's all right, I suppose?"
Mr. Best looked uncomfortable.
"I'm afraid not, sir; but I hate talking. You'd better hear it from
him."
Daniel's heart sank.
"Tell me," he said. "You're one of us, John--my father's right hand for
twenty years--and our good is your good. If you know of trouble, tell me
the truth. It may be better for him in the long run. Miss Ironsyde was
bothered about him, to-day."
"If it's better for him, then I'll speak," answered Best. "He's a very
clever young man and learning fast now. He's buckling to and getting on
with it. But--Sabina Dinnett, our first spinner, gave notice on
Saturday. She's not here to-day."
"What does that mean?"
"You'd better ask them that know. I've heard a lot of rumours, and they
may be true or not, and I hope they're not. But if they are, I suppose
it means the old story where men get mixed up with girls."
Daniel was silent, but his face flushed.
"Don't jump to the conclusion it's true," urged the foreman. "Hear both
sides before you do anything about it."
"I know it's true."
Mr. Best did not answer.
"And you know it's true," continued the younger.
"What everybody says nobody should believe," ventured Best. "What
happened was this--Sabina came in on Saturday afternoon, when I was
working in my garden, and gave notice. Not a month, but to go right
away. Of course I asked her why, but she wouldn't tell me. She was as
happy as a lark about it, and what she said was that I'd know the reason
very soon and be the first to congratulate her. Of course, I thought she
was going to be married. And still I hope she is. That's all you can
take for truth. The rest is rumour. You can guess how a place like this
will roll it over their tongues."
"I'll go and see Mister Churchouse."
"Do, sir. You can trust him to be charitable."
Daniel departed; but he did not see Ernest Churchouse. The antiquary was
not at home and, instead, he heard Mrs. Dinnett, who poured the
approximate truth into his ears with many tears. His brother had
promised to marry Sabina, but on hearing the girl was with child, had
apparently refused to keep his engagement.
Then it was Daniel Ironsyde's turn to lose his temper. He drove straight
to North Hill House, found his brother in the garden with Estelle
Waldron, took him aside and discharged him from the Mill.
Raymond had been considering the position and growing a little calmer.
With a return of more even temper, he had written to Miss Ironsyde and
promised to be with her on the following evening without fail. He had
begged her to keep an open mind so far as he was concerned and he hoped
that when the time came, he might be able to trust to her lifelong
friendship. What he was going to say, he did not yet know; but he
welcomed the brief respite and was in a good temper when his brother
challenged him.
The attack was direct, blunt and even brutal. It burst like a
thunder-bolt on Raymond's head, staggered him, and then, of course,
enraged him.
"I won't keep you," said Daniel. "I only want to know one thing. Sabina
Dinnett's going to have a baby. Are you the father of it, or aren't
you?"
"What the devil business is that of yours?"
"As one of my mill hands, I consider it is my business. One thinks of
them as human beings as well as machines--machines for work, or
amusement--according to the point of view. So answer me."
"You cold-blooded cur! What are you but a machine?"
"Answer my question, please."
"Go to hell."
"You blackguard! You do a dirty, cowardly thing like this, despite my
warnings and entreaties; you foul our name and drag it in the gutter and
then aren't man enough to acknowledge it."
The younger trembled with passion.
"Shut your mouth, or I'll smash your face in!" he cried.
His sudden fury calmed his brother.
"You refuse to answer, and that can only mean one thing, Raymond. Then
I've done with you. You've dragged us all through the mud--made us a
shame and a scandal--proud people. You can go--the further off, the
better. I dismiss you and I never want to see your face again."
"Don't worry--you never shall. God's my judge, I'd sooner sweep a
crossing than come to you for anything. I know you well enough. You
always meant to do this. You saved your face when my father robbed me
from the grave and left me a pauper--you saved your face by putting me
into the works; but you never meant me to stop there. You only waited
your chance to sack me and keep the lot for yourself. And you've jumped
at this and were glad to hear of this--damned glad, I'll bet!"
Daniel did not answer, but turned his back on his brother, and a minute
or two later was driving away. When he had gone, the panting Raymond
went to his room and flung himself on his bed. Under his cooling anger
again obtruded the old satisfaction--amorphous, vile, not to be
named--that he had felt before. This brought ultimate freedom a step
nearer. If ostracism and punishment were to be his portion, then let him
earn them. If the world--his world--was to turn against him, let the
reversal be for something. Poverty would be a fair price for liberty,
and those who now seemed so ready to hound him out of his present life
and crush his future prospects, should live to see their error. For a
time he felt savagely glad that this had happened. He regretted his
letter to his aunt; he thought of packing his portmanteau on the instant
and vanishing for ever; yet time and reflection abated his dreams. He
began to grow a little alarmed. He even regretted his harsh words to his
brother before the twilight fell.
Then his mind was occupied with Sabina; but Sabina had wounded him to
the quick, for it was clear she and her mother had shamelessly published
the truth. Sabina, then, had courted ruin. She deserved it. He soon
argued that the disaster of the day was Sabina's work, and he dismissed
her with an oath from his thoughts. Then he turned to Miss Ironsyde and
found keen curiosity waken to know what she was thinking and feeling
about him. Did she know that Daniel had dismissed him? Could she have
listened to so grave a determination on Daniel's part and taken no step
to prevent it?
He found himself deeply concerned at being flung out of his brother's
business. The more he weighed all that this must mean and its effect
upon his future, the more overwhelmed he began to be. He had worked very
hard of late and put all his energy and wits into spinning. He was
beginning to understand its infinite possibilities and to see how,
Daniel's trust once won, he might have advanced their common welfare.
From this point he ceased to regret his letter to Miss Ironsyde, but was
glad that he had written it. He now only felt concerned that the
communication was not penned with some trace of apology for his past
indifference to her wishes. He began to see that his sole hope now lay
with his aunt, and the supreme point of interest centred in her attitude
to the situation.
He despatched a second letter, confirming the first, and expressing
some contrition at his behaviour to her. But this rudeness he declared
to have been the result of peculiarly distressing circumstances; and he
assured her, that when the facts came to her ears, she would find no
difficulty in forgiving him.
Their meeting was fixed for the following evening, and until it had
taken place, Raymond told nobody of what had happened to him. He went to
work next morning, to learn indirectly whether Best had heard of his
dismissal; but it seemed the foreman had not. The circumstance cheered
Raymond; he began to hope that his brother had changed his mind, and the
possibility put him into a sanguine mood at once. He found himself full
of good resolutions; he believed that this might prove the turning
point; he expected that Daniel would arrive at any moment and he was
prepared frankly to express deep regret for his conduct if he did so.
But Daniel did not come.
Sabina constantly crossed Raymond's mind, to be as constantly dismissed
from it. He was aware that something definite must be done; but he
determined not even to consider the situation until he had seen his
aunt. A hopeful mood, for which no cause existed, somehow possessed him
upon this day. For no reason and spun of nothing in the least tangible,
there grew around him an ambient intuition that he was going to get out
of this fix with the help of Jenny Ironsyde. The impression created a
wave of generosity to Sabina. He felt a large magnanimity. He was
prepared to do everything right and reasonable. He felt that his aunt
would approve the line he purposed to take. She was practical, and he
assured himself that she would not consent to pronounce the doom of
marriage upon him.
In this sanguine spirit Raymond went to Bridport and dined at 'The
Tiger' before going to see his aunt at the appointed time. And here
there happened events to upset the level optimism that had ruled him all
day. Raymond had the little back-parlour to himself and Richard Gurd
waited upon him. They spoke of general subjects and then the older man
became personal.
"If you'll excuse me, Mister Raymond," he said, "if you'll excuse me, as
one who's known you ever since you went out of knickers, sir, I'd
venture to warn you as a good friend, against a lot that's being said in
Bridetown and Bridport, too. You know how rumours fly about. But a good
deal more's being said behind your back than ought to be said; and
you'll do well to clear it up. And by the same token, Mister Motyer's
opening his mouth the widest. As for me, I got it from Job Legg over the
way at 'The Seven Stars'; and he got it from a young woman at Bridetown
Mills, niece of Missis Northover. So these things fly about."
Raymond was aware that Richard Gurd held no puritan opinions. He
possessed tolerance and charity for all sorts and conditions, and left
morals alone.
"And what did you do, Dick? I should think you'd learned by this time to
let the gossip of a public-house go in at one ear and out of the other."
"Yes--for certain. I learned to do that before you were born; but when
things are said up against those I value and respect, it's different.
I've told three men they were liars, to-day, and I may have to tell
thirty so, to-morrow."
Raymond felt his heart go slower.
"What the deuce is the matter?"
"Just this: they say you promised to marry a mill girl at Bridetown
and--the usual sort of thing--and, knowing you, I told them it was a
lie."
The young man uttered a scornful ejaculation.
"Tell them to mind their own business," he said. "Good heavens--what a
storm in a teacup it is! They couldn't bleat louder if I'd committed a
murder."
"There's more to it than to most of these stories," explained Richard.
"You see it sounds a very disgraceful sort of thing, you being your
brother's right hand at the works."
"I'm not that, anyway."
"Well, you're an Ironsyde, Mister Raymond, and to have a story of this
sort told about an Ironsyde is meat and drink for the baser sort. So I
hope you'll authorise me to contradict it."
"Good God--is there no peace, even here?" burst out Raymond. "Can even a
man I thought large-minded and broad-minded and all the rest of it, go
on twaddling about this as if he was an old washer-woman? Here--get me
my bill--I've finished. And if you're going to begin preaching to people
who come here for their food and drink, you'd better chuck a pub and
start a chapel."
Mr. Gurd was stricken dumb. A thousand ghosts from the grave had not
startled him so much as this rebuke. Indeed, in a measure, he felt the
rebuke deserved, and it was only because he held the rumour of Raymond's
achievements an evil lie, that he had cautioned the young man, and with
the best motives, desired to put him on his guard. But that the story
should be true--or based on truth--as now appeared from Raymond's anger,
had never occurred to Richard. Had he suspected such a thing, he must
have deplored it, but he certainly would not have mentioned it.
He went out now without a word and held it the wisest policy not to see
his angry customer again that night. He sent Raymond's account in by a
maid, and the young man paid it and went out to keep his appointment
with Miss Ironsyde.
But again his mood was changed. Gurd had hit him very hard. Indeed, no
such severe blow had been struck as this unconscious thrust of
Richard's. For it meant that an incident that Raymond was striving to
reconcile with the ways of youth--a sowing of wild oats not destined to
damage future crops--had appeared to the easy-going publican as a thing
to be stoutly contradicted--an act quite incompatible with Raymond's
record and credit. Coming from Gurd this attitude signified a great
deal; for if the keeper of a sporting inn took such a line about the
situation, what sort of line were others likely to take? Above all, what
sort of line would his Aunt Jenny take? His nebulous hopes dwindled. He
began to fear that she would find the honour of the family depended not
on his freeing himself from Sabina, but the contrary.
And he was right. Miss Ironsyde welcomed him kindly, but left no shadow
of doubt as to her opinion; and the fact that the situation had been
complicated by publicity, which in the last resort he argued, by no
means turned her from her ultimatum.
"Sit down and smoke and listen to me, Raymond," she began, after kissing
him. "I forgive you, once for all, that you could be so rude to me and
fail to see me despite my very pressing letter. No doubt some whim or
suspicion inspired you to be unkind. But that doesn't matter now. That's
a trifle. We've got to thresh out something that isn't a trifle,
however, for your honour and good name are both involved--and with
yours, ours."
"I argue that a great deal too much is being made of this, Aunt Jenny."
"I hope so--I hope everything has been exaggerated through a
misunderstanding. Delay in these cases is often simply fatal, Raymond,
because it gives a lie a start. And if you give a lie a start, it's
terribly hard to catch. Sabina Dinnett came to see me on Sunday
afternoon and I trust with all my heart she told me what wasn't true."
He felt a sudden gleam of hope and she saw it.
"Don't let any cheerful feeling betray you; this is far from a cheerful
subject for any of us. But again, I say, I hope that Sabina Dinnett has
come to wrong conclusions. What she said was this. Trust me to be
accurate, and when I have done, correct her statement if it is false.
Frankly, I thought her a highly intelligent young woman, with grace of
mind and fine feeling. She was fighting for her future and she did it
like a gentlewoman."
Miss Ironsyde then related her conversation with Sabina and Raymond knew
it to be faithful in every particular.
"Is that true, or isn't it?" she concluded.
"Yes, it's perfectly true, save in her assumption that I had changed my
mind," he said. "What I may have done since, doesn't matter; but when I
left her, I had not changed my mind in the least; if she had waited for
me to act in my own time, and come to see you, and so on, as I meant to
do, and broken it to Daniel myself, instead of hearing him break it to
me and dismiss me as though I were a drunken groom, then I should have
kept my word to her. But these things, and her action, and the fact that
she and her fool of a mother have bleated the story all over the
county--these things have decided me it would be a terrible mistake to
marry Sabina now. She's not what I thought. Her true character is not
trustworthy--in fact--well, you must see for yourself that they don't
trust me and are holding a pistol to my head. And no man is going to
stand that. We could never be married now, because she hates me. There's
another reason too--a practical one."
"What?"
"Why, the best. I'm a pauper. Daniel has chucked me out of the works."
Miss Ironsyde showed very great distress.
"Do you honestly mean that you could look the world in the face if you
ruin this woman?"
"Why use words like that? She's not ruined, any more than thousands of
other women."
"I'm ashamed of you, Raymond. I hope to God you've never said a thing so
base as that to anybody but me. And if I thought you meant it, I think
it would break my heart. But you don't mean it. You loved the girl and
you are an honourable man without a shadow on your good name so far.
You loved Sabina, and you do love her, and if you said you didn't a
thousand times, I should not believe it. You're chivalrous and generous,
and that's the precious point about you. Granted that she made a
mistake, is her mistake to wreck her whole life? Just think how she
felt--what a shock you gave her. You part with her on Saturday the real
Raymond, fully conscious that you must marry her at once--for her own
honour and yours. Then on Sunday, you are harsh and cruel--for no
visible reason. You frighten her; you raise up horrible fears and
dangers in her young, nervous spirit. She is in a condition prone to
terrors and doubts, and upon this condition you came in a surly mood and
imply that you yourself are changed. What wonder she lost her head? Yet
I do not think that it was to lose her head to come to me. She had often
heard you speak of me. She knew that I loved you well and faithfully.
She felt that if anybody could put this dreadful fear to rest, I should
be the one. Don't say she wasn't right."
He listened attentively and began to feel something of his aunt's view.
"Forgive her first for coming to me. If mistaken, admit at least it was
largely your own fault that she came. She has nothing but love and
devotion for you. She told nothing but the truth."
He asked a question, which seemed far from the point, but none the less
indicated a coming change of attitude. At any rate Jenny so regarded it.
"What d'you think of her?"
"I think she's a woman of naturally fine character. She has brains and
plenty of sense and if she had not loved you unspeakably and been very
emotional, I do not think this could have happened to her."
She talked on quietly, but with the unconscious force of one who feels
her subject to the heart. The man began to yield--not for love of
Sabina, but for love of himself. For Miss Ironsyde continued to make
him see his own position must be unbearable if he persisted, while first
she implied and finally declared, that only through marriage with Sabina
could his own position be longer retained.
But he put forward his dismissal as an argument against marriage.
"Whatever I feel, it's too late now," he explained. "Daniel heard some
distorted version of the truth in Bridetown, and, of course, believed
it, and came to me white with rage and sacked me. Well, you must see
that alters the case if nothing else does. Granted, for the sake of
argument, that I can overlook the foolish, clumsy way she and her mother
have behaved and go on as we were going, how am I to live and keep a
wife on nothing?"
"That is a small matter," she answered. "You need not worry about it in
the least. And you know in your heart, my dear, you need not. I have had
plenty of time to think over this, and I have thought over it. And I am
very ready and willing to come between you and any temporal trouble of
that sort. As to Daniel, when he hears that you are going to marry and
always meant to do so, it must entirely change his view of the
situation. He is just and reasonable. None can deny that."
"You needn't build on Daniel, however. I'd rather break stones than go
back to the Mill after what he said to me."
"Leave him, then. Leave him out of your calculation and come to me. As I
tell you, I've thought about it a great deal, and first I think Sabina
is well suited to be a good wife to you. With time and application she
will become a woman that any man might be proud to marry. I say that
without prejudice, because I honestly think it. She is adaptable, and, I
believe, would very quickly develop into a woman in every way worthy of
your real self. And I am prepared to give you five hundred a year,
Raymond. After all, why not? All that I have is yours and your
brother's, some day. And since you need it now, you shall have it now."
At another time he had been moved by this generosity; to-night, knowing
what it embraced, he was not so grateful as he might have been. His
instinct was to protest that he would not marry Sabina; but shame
prevented him from speaking, since he could advance no decent reason for
such a change of mind. He felt vaguely, dimly at the bottom of his soul
that, despite events, he ought not to marry her. He believed, apart from
his own intense aversion from so doing now, that marriage with him would
not in the long run conduce to Sabina's happiness. But where were the
words capable of lending any conviction to such a sentiment? Certainly
he could think of none that would change his aunt's opinion.
Sullenly he accepted her view with outward acknowledgment and inward
resentment. Then she said a thing that nearly made him rebel, since it
struck at his pride, indicated that Miss Ironsyde was sure of her
ground, showed that she had assumed the outcome of their meeting before
the event.
First, however, he thanked her.
"Of course, it is amazingly good and kind. I don't like to accept it.
But I suppose it would hurt you more if I didn't than if I do. It's a
condition naturally that I marry Sabina--I quite understand that. Well,
I must then. I might have been a better friend to her if I hadn't
married; and might love her better and love her longer for that matter.
But, of course, I can't expect you to understand that. I only want to be
sporting, and a man's idea of being sporting isn't the same--"
"Now, now--you're forgetting and talking nonsense, Raymond. You really
are forgetting. A man's idea of being 'sporting' does not mean telling
stories to a trusting and loving girl, does it? I don't want anybody to
judge you but yourself. I am perfectly content to leave it to your own
conscience. And very sure I am that if you ask yourself the question,
you'll answer it as it should be answered. So sure, indeed, that I have
done a definite thing about it, which I will tell you in a moment. For
the rest you must find a house where you please and be married as soon
as you can. And when Daniel understands what a right and proper thing
you're doing, I think you'll very soon find all will be satisfactory
again in that quarter."
"Thank you, I'm sure. But don't speak to him yet. I won't ask for
favours nor let you, Aunt Jenny. If he comes to me, well and good--I
certainly won't go to him. As to Sabina, we'll clear out and get married
in a day or two."
"Not before a Registrar," pleaded Miss Ironsyde.
"Before the Devil I should think," he said, preparing to leave her.
She chid him and then mentioned certain preparations made for this
particular evening.
"Don't be cross any more, and let me see you value my good will and
love, Ray, by doing what I'm going to ask you to do, now. So sure was I
that, when the little details were cleared up, you would feel with me,
and welcome your liberty from constraint, and return to Sabina with the
good news, that I asked her to meet you to-night--this very night, my
dear, so that you might go home with her and make her happy. She had tea
with me--I made her come, and then she went to friends, and she will be
in the Lovers' Grove waiting for you at ten o'clock--half an hour from
now."
His impulse was to protest, but he recognised the futility for so doing.
He felt baffled and cowed and weary. He hated himself because, weakened
by poverty, an old woman had been too much for him. He clutched at a
hope. Perhaps by doing as his aunt desired and going through with this
thing, he would find his peace of mind return and a consciousness that,
after all, to keep his promise was the only thing which would renew his
self-respect. It might prove the line of least resistance to take this
course. He felt not sorry at the immediate prospect of meeting Sabina.
In his present mood that might be a good thing to happen. Annoyance
passed, and when he did take leave it was with more expressions of
gratitude.
"I don't know why you are so extraordinarily good to me," he said. "I
certainly don't deserve it. But the least I can do is throw up the
sponge and do as you will, and trust your judgment. I don't say I agree
with you, but I'm going to do it; and if it's a failure, I shan't blame
you, Aunt Jenny."
"It won't be a failure. I'm as sure as I'm sure of anything that it will
be a splendid success, Raymond. Come again, very soon, and tell me what
you decide about a house. And remember one thing--don't fly away and
take a house goodness knows where. Always reckon with the possibility--I
think certainty--that Daniel will soon be friendly, when he hears you're
going to be married."
He left her very exhausted, and if her spirits sank a little after his
departure, Raymond's tended to rise. The night air and moonlight brisked
him up; he felt a reaction towards Sabina and perceived that she must
have suffered a good deal. He threw the blame on her mother. Once out of
Bridetown things would settle down; and if his brother came to his
senses and asked him to return, he would make it a condition that he
worked henceforth at Bridport. A feeling of hatred for Bridetown
mastered him.
He descended West Street until the town lay behind him, then turned to
the left through a wicket, crossed some meadows and reached a popular
local tryst and sanctity: the Lovers' Grove. A certain crudity in the
ideas of Miss Ironsyde struck Raymond. How simple and primitive she was
after all. Could such an unworldly and inexperienced woman be right? He
doubted it. But he went on through the avenue of lime and sycamore trees
which made the traditional grove. Beneath them ran pavement of rough
stones, that lifted the pathway above possible inundation, and,
to-night, the pattern of the naked boughs above was thrown down upon the
stones in a black lace work by the moon. The place was very still, but
half a mile distant there dreamed great woods, whence came the hooting
of an owl.
Raymond stood to listen, and when the bird was silent, he heard a
footfall ring on the paving-stones and saw Sabina coming to him. At
heart she had been fearful that he would not appear; but this she did
not whisper now. Instead she pretended confidence and said, "I knew
you'd come!"
He responded with fair ardour and tried to banish his grievances against
her. He assured her that all her alarm and tribulation were not his
fault, but her own; and her responsive agreement and servile tact, by
its self-evidence defeated its own object and fretted the man's nerves,
despite his kindly feelings. For Sabina, in her unspeakable thankfulness
at the turn of events, sank from herself and was obsequious. When they
met he kissed her and presently, holding his hand, she kissed it. She
heaped blame upon herself and praised his magnanimity; she presented the
ordinary phenomena of a happy release from affliction and fear; but her
intense humility was far from agreeable to Raymond, since its very
accentuation served to show his own recent actions in painful colours.
He told her what his aunt was going to do; and where a subtler mind had
held its peace, Sabina erred again and praised Miss Ironsyde. In truth,
she was not at her best to-night and her excitement acted unfavourably
on Raymond. He fought against his own emotions, and listened to her
high-strung chatter and plans for the future. A torrent of blame had
better suited the contrite mood in which she met him; but she took the
blame on her own shoulders, and in her relief said things sycophantic
and untrue.
He told her almost roughly to stop.
"For God's sake don't blackguard yourself any more," he said. "Give me a
chance. It's for me to apologise to you, surely. I knew perfectly well
you meant nothing, and I ought to have had more imagination and not
given you any cause to be nervous. I frightened you, and if a woman's
frightened, of course, she's not to be blamed for what she does, any
more than a man's to be blamed for what he does when he's drunk."
This, however, she would not allow.
"If I had trusted you, and known you could not do wrong, and remembered
what you said when I told you about the child--then all this would have
been escaped. And God knows I did trust you at the bottom of my heart
all the time."
She talked on and the man tired of it and, looking far ahead, perceived
that his life must be shared for ever with a nature only now about to be
revealed to him. He had seen the best of her; but he had never seen the
whole truth of her. He knew she was excitable and passionate; but the
excitation and passion had all been displayed for him till now. How
different when she approached other affairs of life than love, and
brought her emotional characteristics to bear upon them! A sensation of
unutterable flatness overtook Raymond. She began talking of finding a
house, and was not aware that his brother had dismissed him.
He snatched an evil pleasure from telling her so. It silenced her and
made her the more oppressively submissive. But through this announcement
he won temporary release. There came a longing to leave her, to go back
to Bridport and see other faces, hear other voices and speak of other
things. They had walked homeward through the valley of the river and, at
West Haven, Raymond announced that she must go the remainder of the way
alone. He salved the unexpected shock of this with a cheerful promise.
"I sleep at Bridport, to-night," he said, "and I'll leave you here,
Sabina; but be quite happy. I dare say Daniel will be all right. He's a
pious blade and all that sort of thing and doesn't understand real life.
And as some fool broke our bit of real life rather roughly on his ear,
it was too much for his weak nerves. I shan't take you very far off
anyway. We'll have a look round soon. I'll go to a house agent or
somebody in a day or two."
"You must choose," she said.
"No, no--that's up to you, and you mustn't have small ideas about it
either. You're going to live in a jolly good house, I promise you."
This sweetened the parting. He kissed her and turned his face to
Bridport, while she followed the road homeward. It took her past the old
store--black as the night under a roof silvered by the moon. A strange
shiver ran through her as she passed it. She could have prayed for time
to turn back.
"Oh, my God, if I was a maiden again!" she said in a low voice to
herself.
Then, growing calmer and musing of the past rather than the future, she
asked herself whether in that case she would still be caring for
Raymond; but she turned from such a thought and smothered the secret
indignation still lying red-hot and hidden under the smoke of the things
she had said to him that night.
On his way to Bridport, the man also reflected, but of the future, not
the past.
"I must be cruel to be kind," he told himself. What he exactly meant by
the assurance, he hardly knew. But, in some way, it assisted
self-respect and promised a course of action likely to justify his
coming life.