“The tissue of the Life to be
We weave with colours all our own,
And in the field of destiny
We reap as we have sown.”
Whittier.
|The broad staircase was covered with cocoa-nut matting, she toiled
up the slippery steps feeling dazed and giddy, groping her way more by
instinct than by sight to her own door. Her room was at the side of the
hotel, and its French window, opening on to a little balcony, looked out
over the woods of Veytaux and the distant turrets of Chillon to the
Dent du Midi. She threw herself down now into the depths of an armchair,
letting the soft air play on her hot cheeks, and staring out in a
bewildered way at the lovely view which contrasted so strangely with her
misery.
Her whole world seemed to be shaken to its foundation. Her instinct
warned her that the guardian, whose plausible talk and apparent
kindliness had long deceived her, was in no sense a man to be trusted.
And seizing the clue, which his own accusations of others had furnished
her with, she began to wonder if in some unaccountable way Bruce Wylie
himself was one of those fortune-hunters, who finding themselves in
difficulties sought to repair their losses with some heiress’ money. Her
clear insight had at once detected the false ring in his apologies
about the lost train on the previous day. He had somehow forfeited
her confidence, and the more she thought over her interview with Sir
Matthew, and the extraordinary determination he had evidently made to
marry her to his friend, the more she distrusted and dreaded them both.
It might possibly be that they had mismanaged her affairs, and were
perhaps speculating with her money. She had heard of many cases where
luckless women had been ruined by a fraudulent trustee.
Fortunately, though young and innocent, Evereld had been wisely
educated, and even in all the agitation of the moment she was able
clearly to see how foolish was the notion that in order to quiet unkind
tongues, or to satisfy the outraged feelings of Mrs. Grundy, she should
consent publicly to perjure herself, by vowing to love as a wife a man
she did not desire to marry.
Sir Matthew and Bruce Wylie had fancied that a pure-minded, proud girl
would easily be frightened into a marriage which in many respects was
outwardly desirable. Women were seldom logical, and a little novice like
Evereld could, they felt sure, be cajoled or scared or flattered into
obedience to their wishes. Sir Matthew had reserved his direct command
and the allusion to his authority as a guardian as his trump card.
He thought because she had made no reply to this speech that he had
convinced her. But Evereld knew that obedience to the truth must always
stand before obedience to any authority, and she was emphatically not
one of those plastic, weak-minded girls who furnish victims for the
modern marriage market, and allow themselves to be sacrificed to the
ambition of their parents.
There was, however, a sort of blind terror in her mind. She had read
that pathetic novel “Jasmine Leigh,” the plot of which turned on the
forcible abduction of an heiress; and now, perhaps, not unnaturally
the story returned to haunt her. Words which Ralph had spoken as to Sir
Matthew’s unscrupulous character, his utter disregard for the victims
whose ruin followed the triumphal procession of his own fame and
fortune, haunted her, too. She had thought him hard and uncharitable
when he had spoken of his godfather, but his words had impressed her
nevertheless, and she felt that they were probably not far from the
truth. Like some trapped animal, she tried desperately to think what
possible course she could take. If only that motherly Mrs. Coniston had
been in the hotel she would have told her all and asked her advice, but
she could hardly put the case in a letter, or travel to Champéry to see
her. And there was no one else to whom she could turn, unless it was Mr.
Lewisham, and she doubted if that would be a wise thing to do. Only a
woman could thoroughly understand and help her.
And then the old grief of eight years ago, to which she had grown more
or less accustomed, came back to her with an intensity of bitterness,
a new realisation of irreparable loss. “Oh Mother!” she sobbed. “Oh
Mother! Mother!”
A step on the balcony made her hastily try to check her tears. Minnie’s
room was next to hers, and the window also opened on to the little side
balcony.
“Why Evereld,” said a cheerful voice. “You dear little goose! Don’t cry.
I know all about it. Papa has told me. Don’t you be frightened. It won’t
be half so bad as you expect. You’ll soon grow very fond of Mr. Wylie.
And you shall have such a pretty wedding dress and as many of your
school friends as you like for bridesmaids. You have no idea what fun
you will have choosing your _trousseau_. We will stop in Paris on our
way home, and I can put you up to all sorts of things.”
“Don’t talk like that,” said Evereld, her tears raining down, as the
utter mockery of it all forced itself upon her.
“Do you think,” continued Minnie, “that you are the first girl who has
been obliged to give up an early love? Why it’s my firm conviction that
no one ever does marry a first love. If Papa had allowed it I should
have married a lanky curate, and we should still be waiting for the
inevitable country living which might or might not turn up. He put a
stop to it all. And I cried my eyes out just as you are doing. But I
am very much obliged to him now and mean to be very happy with Major
Gillot. Now stop crying, and I will make some tea in my etna, and later
on you shall come out with us and do ‘gooseberry.’”
“I’m afraid of meeting Mr. Wylie,” objected Evereld.
“Indeed I think you
had better not meet him with your eyes as red as that,” said Minnie with
a laugh. “There’s no need for you to see him till dinner-time, for he
has gone down to Montreux to talk over the arrangements for tomorrow
with Mamma and Lady Mount Pleasant.”
There was something comforting in Minnie’s kindly manner, though Evereld
vehemently dissented in her own mind from all her arguments. She obeyed
her, however, and stopped crying, and even found temporary comfort in
the afternoon tea which has a way of tasting so supremely good when
made by oneself abroad. Later on they walked down the Gorge de Chaudron,
where already the trees were arraying themselves in the lovely tints
of early autumn. The two lovers walked a little ahead. Evereld followed
slowly and thoughtfully, regaining her habitual strength and quietness
of mind as she walked, by slow degrees. There was something in her face
which puzzled Bruce Wylie when he met her again that evening at dinner.
She looked older, even he could have fancied thinner, since the morning.
He left her unmolested till the meal was over, but joined her directly
afterwards in the entrance hall, where in the evening people were wont
to lounge and chat unceremoniously. He was discussing thought-reading
with a young American girl and skilfully inveigled Evereld into
the conversation. In old times she had always felt an interest in
experiments of this sort; to-night she felt that not for the world would
she permit Bruce Wylie to touch her.
“Let us show Miss Upton the experiment we tried at Zermatt,” said Bruce
Wylie. “It was a brilliant success there.”
“I would rather not to-night,” said Evereld colouring. “I am tired.”
“Oh, try just once,” he said persuasively.
But she shook her head.
“I must appeal to your guardian,” he said, laughing. “Sir Matthew, we
want you to persuade your ward to do the pin-finding trick.”
Rightly or wrongly, Evereld was convinced that if she now yielded
her mind up to him he might abuse his power over her and weaken her
resistance to his other wishes. She stood at bay conscious that many
eyes were turned upon her, determined not to yield, yet puzzled as to
how she was to proceed.
“Why Evereld, dear,” said Sir Matthew in his hearty penetrating voice,
“of course you will oblige us all. You are a capital hand at this sort
of thing.”
She turned to the pretty American girl, feeling that her only chance was
to appeal to her. She seemed a clever, observant girl, surely she could
be made to understand without words.
“I am so sorry,” she said, “to be obliged to say ‘no’ to-night. But I
am tired and am going up to bed. Won’t you try the thought-reading?”
Her clear blue eyes looked straight into the bright eyes of little Miss
Upton, saying as plainly as eyes could express the thought, “Help me out
of this dilemma.” And the American responded instantly to the appeal.
“I guess I’ll try whether I can’t do it myself, Mr. Wylie,” she said,
looking up at him archly and holding out a dainty handkerchief.
“Blindfold me instead of Miss Ewart, and see if I’m not just as sharp at
finding the pin.”
She made such fun of the whole process that even Bruce Wylie himself
failed to notice that Evereld calmly walked up the broad staircase in
sight of them all, and she was safely locked into her room before any
one had bestowed a thought upon her absence.
“I shall always love American girls!” she said to herself. “How quick
she was to understand, I only wish I could thank her, but that’s
impossible. Somehow I must get away from this place. I daren’t stay
longer. If only I knew how best to escape and where to go to! There is
Mrs. Hereford. She would take care of me. But Ireland is so far away,
and I fear they would overtake me before I could get to her. Shall I
go to London and make Bridget take me away to some quiet little country
place where no one could hear of us? Or there is Southbourne, but term
will not begin till next week, and the whole house would be deserted, it
would be no use going there.” None of these plans seemed very promising.
To whom could she turn?
Restlessly pacing up and down her room, she prayed for guidance, and
almost immediately a well-known name floated into her mind. “Why!” she
exclaimed, “I wonder I never thought of that before.”
She stepped out on to the balcony, entered Minnie’s room, took from
the table a continental Bradshaw, and returning once more, sat down
resolutely to puzzle out a route as well as she could. It was no easy
matter for one unversed in the mysteries of railway guides; she found
herself terribly baffled by two places with almost exactly similar
names, and she floundered long in that wilderness of day trains and
night trains, and dark and light figures, which prove traps for the
inexperienced. If so much had not depended upon it she could have
laughed over her perplexities, but as it was she came perilously near to
crying over the Bradshaw, and nothing but dread of Bruce Wylie and the
thought of Ralph enabled her to plod on until at last she had puzzled
out her way of escape. The trains were not so favourable to her plans
as she had hoped. It was impossible to leave till the middle of the next
morning, and the journey would involve four or five changes of trains,
and a night at a hotel. It seemed impossible to go straight through to
her destination.
“If I go to a hotel,” she reflected, “I must have some sort of luggage
or they will suspect me. I will take my little handbag from here and
some cloak straps in my pocket; then at Geneva I will buy some wraps and
make up a respectable-looking bundle.”
By this time her hopes had revived and her courage had returned. She
put back the Bradshaw in Minnie’s room, closed her shutters, bolted her
window and began to make her preparations in a thoughtful, womanly way.
Fortunately she had had no expenses in Switzerland, and still carried
about her the eighteen five pound notes which Bridget had counselled her
not to leave behind. In her purse she had also an English sovereign and
a little Swiss silver money. “I need not change a note till I get
to Geneva, that is a comfort,” she reflected, and having carefully
destroyed all her letters and packed a few necessaries into her bag, she
crept to bed and did her best to sleep, but not very successfully.
The next morning she could most truthfully plead a headache as an excuse
for not attending Lady Mount Pleasant’s picnic, indeed she remained in
bed; and looked so white and tired when Janet and Minnie came to see her
that they reported her as quite unfit for the expedition, and only in a
state to be left quiet and alone.
“Well,” said Sir Matthew, with a look of annoyance, “it can’t be
helped. She will be right enough to-morrow when her decision is made and
everything has settled down quietly.”
Bruce Wylie, who had fully intended to settle matters during the course
of that day, was forced to acquiesce, and since Lady Mount Pleasant and
her contingent had arrived from Montreux, and the carriages were at the
door, there was no time for further discussion.
Evereld stole to her window as soon as she heard the sound of wheels and
just caught a sideway glimpse of the picnic party driving off. Then in
breathless haste she dressed, put a letter which she had written to
Sir Matthew on the previous night in a place where it would quickly be
found, bolted her door on the inner side, stepped out of the window and
closed both it and the jalousies behind her and went through Minnie’s
room to the corridor beyond. A chambermaid was sweeping the matting, she
smiled in a friendly fashion and asked if mademoiselle was better.
“I still have a headache,” said Evereld, “and am going out of doors. If
you see Miss Mactavish to-night when she returns, please say I do not
wish to be disturbed.”
She ran quickly down the stairs, encountering nobody; in the bureau she
caught sight of the manager’s head, but he had his back turned to the
door and did not see her, he was giving out a library book to an old
lady who was accounted the greatest gossip in Glion. Mercifully she,
too, was absorbed and did not look up.
Evereld walked quietly through the garden; over her dark blue serge
dress she wore a little blue capuchin cape with red-lined hood, her
sailor hat, and long gauze travelling veil were of the quietest. She was
beginning to hope that she should encounter none of the people staying
in the hotel when, within a stone’s throw of the cable railway station,
she came across Dick Lewisham and little Miss Upton.
“Are you better?” said the American kindly. “Your friends told us you
were quite knocked up and could not go to the picnic.”
“My head aches still,” said Evereld, “but--but please don’t tell them
that you saw me going out.”
It is almost impossible for a naturally open and truthful person to
carry out a secret scheme without some confidante. Evereld liked and
trusted both these acquaintances, and she yielded to that craving for
sympathy, that longing for straightforward speech which was perhaps more
natural than strictly prudent.
“I could not go to the picnic because I must avoid Mr. Wylie,” she said
in a low voice. “My guardian is trying to force me to marry him, and I
mean to escape to other friends who will take care of me.”
“Did I not tell you how it would be?” said Dick Lewisham.
“Yes,” she faltered, “you were quite right; and now there is nothing for
me to do but to get away at once.”
“Remember,” he said, “that you promised to ask my help if you were in
any difficulty.”
“Yes,” said Evereld. “Perhaps now you would just take my ticket to
Territet.”
“Let us all come down to Territet together,” said Miss Upton, “it will
be less noticeable than your going quite alone.”
Before many minutes were passed the three were gliding down the steep
incline, and Evereld grew light hearted to think that the difficult
first step had proved so successful.
“Are you sure,” said Dick Lewisham, “that you can get to your friends
without difficulty?”
“Quite sure, thank you,” she said bravely.
“We will not ask you a single question beyond that,” he continued, “for
the less we know the better. If they put us through any very severe
catechism, the utmost we will admit is that you were in the hotel garden
before lunch this morning.”
“It’s quite a romance,” said little Miss Upton, rubbing her hands with
satisfaction, “and as I shall want to have the third volume, please send
it over to me at Boston as soon as it’s complete. There’s my card.”
“I will be sure to write,” said Evereld, “and thank you so very much for
helping me, both last night and this morning, too. I shall never forget
you.”
They walked a little way beyond the station in the direction of Montreux
until they reached a confectioner’s.
“I am going in here to get some food for my journey,” said Evereld, “I
will wish you good bye;” she gave her hand to each of them, shyly
thanked Dick Lewisham for his help, and entered the shop.
“End of the second volume,” said Miss Upton with a comical expression on
her bright face. “Nothing remains for us, Mr. Lewisham, but to kill time
by a row on the lake. Take me to see Chillon; nothing but an old and
venerable castle will fill up this awful blank, or rouse my interest.”
“Oh, we shall have some good fun to-night or to-morrow morning,” said
Dick Lewisham, “Messrs. Wylie and Mactavish wall furnish us with some
capital sport. I only hope no harm will happen to that brave little
girl.”