THE OBSTACLE
At seven o’clock Wynyard went boldly to the Drum and inquired for the
lady who was stopping there.
Mrs. Frickett stared at him with a stony expression in her dull grey
eyes. She had heard of his airs and his impudence from Norris.
“Will she see you?” she asked, and her tone was aggressively insolent.
“Oh yes,” was the ready answer; “it’s business.”
“Oh, if it’s business----” and she gave an incredulous sniff and,
flinging open the parlour door, ushered him into the presence of his
sister.
Lady Kesters had removed her cap and motor coat, and was seated at
the table in a careless attitude, leaning her head on her hand and
smoking a cigarette. The door was exactly opposite to the taproom, and
the assembled crowd enjoyed a rare and unexpected spectacle. A woman
smoking--ay, and looking as if she were well used to it and enjoying
herself--a lady, too--there was a string of pearls round her throat,
and the hand that supported her dark head was ablaze with diamonds.
Ottinge had heard and read that females were taking to tobacco, and
here was the actual demonstration before their gloating eyes. A fine,
handsome young madam, too, with a car in the yard--ay, and a friend to
visit her! They craned over to catch a glimpse of the figure ushered
in by Mrs. Frickett. The man’s back and shoulders had a familiar look.
Why, if it wasn’t Owen, Miss Parrett’s chauffeur! The immediate result
of this astounding discovery was a deadly and expressive silence.
Since Wynyard had parted with his sister he had made up his mind to
tell her all about Aurea. He longed to share his secret with some one,
and who could be better than Leila? She would give him her sympathy
and--what was more--a helping hand; if any one could unravel a hopeless
tangle, it was she. After a little commonplace talk, in a few abrupt
sentences he commenced to state his case.
“Ah!” she exclaimed as he paused, and she dabbed the end of her
cigarette on the old oak table, “so it’s all coming out now! You show
your good sense, Owen, in confiding in _me_--two heads are better than
one. I’ve seen the young lady; she is distractingly pretty--and I think
I approve.”
“Think!” The words were a text upon which her brother delivered to his
astounded listener an address of such emotional eloquence, that she sat
and stared in bewildered silence.
As he spoke, he strode about the room, carried away by his adorable
subject--Aurea’s beauty, her cleverness, her unselfishness, her simple
and single-hearted disposition, her good influence in Ottinge, her
delicious voice, and her entrancing smile. Oh, it was a wonderful
relief to share with another the raptures so long bottled up in his own
breast!
In the middle of his discourse, the door, which was flung open to
admit “two lemonades,”--Owen had warned his sister against the deadly
Drum coffee,--revealed to a profoundly interested tap, young Owen, the
shover, “a-walkin’ and a-talkin’ and a-carryin’ on like old Billy, and
in such a takin’ as never was seen.”
“She’s his sweetheart, ’tis sure!” suggested one sightseer.
“Nay, more likely his missus,” argued another; “she was a-laughin’ at
him!”
As the door closed Leila threw her cigarette into the grate with a
quick, decided gesture, and, leaning both elbows on the table, said, as
she looked up at her brother--
“It’s an extraordinary entanglement, my dear boy. You are in love--for
the first and only time in your life. Of course I can believe as much
of that as I like!”
“You can!” His voice was sharp and combative.
“In love with an angel. I may tell you that she really is a
fellow-creature! You think she likes you, but for one solid year and
a half you may not impart to her who you are, or where you come from,
or even your name--I mean your surname. You are at liberty to inform
her that you are ‘Owen St. John Willoughby FitzGibbon’--a nice long
string!--but must never breathe the magic word ‘Wynyard.’”
“No, you know I can’t,” he answered irritably.
“You are her aunts’ servant now, though you will be, if you live, Sir
Owen Wynyard of Wynyard; but you may not give her the faintest hint, as
you must stick to your bargain with Uncle Dick and he to his with you.
Now, let me consider,” and she held up a finger: “if you speak, and
reveal your identity, and become engaged, you lose a fortune.”
“Yes,” he agreed, a trifle dryly.
“If you don’t speak, you run a great chance of losing the young lady!
Mr. Woolcock is on the spot, and as willing as Barkis. Westmere is
close by--an ever-enticing temptation--and he has the goodwill of the
girl’s relations.”
“Yes, that’s a true bill; it’s wonderful how you grasp things.”
“What grounds have you for supposing the girl would wait for eighteen
months in absolute ignorance of who you were? Have you ever spoken to
her, as her equal?”
“Yes, once,” and he described their walk two days previously. “I stated
a similar case; I made the most of my time, and asked her what _she_
would do under such circumstances.”
“My dear Owen,”--and she looked at him with an expression of wonder in
her eyes--“I am simply staggered at your presumption!”
“Yes, so was I; but, you see, it was my only chance, and I snatched it.”
“And what did she answer. That it was evident you were an uncertified
lunatic!”
“No; she said ‘Perhaps.’”
“‘Je m’en vais, chercher un grand peut-être,’ as some one said on his
death-bed.”
“Don’t talk French--or of death-beds, Sis.”
“No, I won’t. I see that your divinity is a clever, modern young woman,
who refuses to commit herself. Look here, Owen, I won’t tease you any
more; this situation is such that it even baffles the activity of _my_
clever and contriving mind! I’m afraid I can do nothing at present;
but when we return from America, I shall make a point of cultivating
General and Mrs. Morven, on account of the girl. I’ll cultivate the
girl for your sake, and ask her to stay in Mount Street. Possibly she
may open her heart to me, and tell me everything! I have a wonderful
knack of extracting similar confidences even from my housemaids! I
shall listen sympathetically, advise sagaciously, and urge her to stick
to you!”
“Yes, I know that once you take a thing in hand, Sis, it goes like an
express train; but you will be away for six months--six months is a
long time.”
“Time!”--springing to her feet--“and talking of time, I must be off.
Ring the bell, my dear boy, and order the car at once.”
* * * * *
Miss Morven had been dining at the Manor. She had endured a long,
leaden evening playing draughts with her Aunt Bella; she played so
carelessly that Bella had repeatedly huffed her, and eventually won
with six kings to the good! After their niece’s departure, the sisters
were for once unanimous in their opinion: they had never seen Aurea
looking so well, as that night.
“What a rose-blush complexion, what clear, glowing eyes!” said Susan,
with enthusiasm.
“Yes,” agreed Miss Parrett, who was putting away the draught-board,
“she’s got _my_ skin, and her mother’s eyes. I’ve often been asked if I
were painted!” she announced, with serene complacency.
Susan felt inclined to say, “And _were_ you?” but her courage failed
her. Bella could never see a joke! She had no recollection of Bella’s
beauty--Bella’s complexion, as long as she could remember it, had
been the colour of mutton fat--but Bella was twenty-five years her
senior--and no doubt her bloom had withered early.
“The girl looks to me--as if--as if----”
“Bertie Woolcock had proposed!” supplemented Bella. “Yes, I shouldn’t
wonder.”
“No--not that.”
“Then what?” snapped her sister. “As if--and you stop; it’s a dreadful
habit not to be able to finish a sentence--it shows a weak intellect.”
“Well, since you must have it, Bella--as if she were in love.”
“So she is--with young Woolcock.”
“Nonsense,” repeated Susan, with unusual decision.
“Susan, don’t you dare to say ‘nonsense’ when _I_ say a thing is so;
you forget yourself. Aurea will be married to Herbert Woolcock before
Christmas--that is pretty well settled. And now you may lock up the
silver; I am going to bed.”
* * * * *
As Miss Morven was proceeding homewards, and, as usual, unattended (in
spite of her Aunt Bella’s repeated remonstrances), she passed the Drum,
and noticed a motor in waiting, and also a light in a conspicuous part
of the premises--the little, bulging, front sitting-room. Here two
figures were sharply outlined on the yellow blind. As Aurea looked, she
saw a man and woman standing face to face; the man put his hands on
the woman’s shoulders and stooped and kissed her. She recognised his
profile in that instant--it was the profile of Owen Wynyard!
Although brother and sister had taken leave of one another, when they
reached the car Wynyard looked up at the sky and said--
“It’s a splendid night; I believe I’ll go on with you to Brodfield, and
walk back.”
The motor overtook Miss Morven as she reached the Rectory gate; here
she stood for a moment in the shadow of the beech trees, and as the
car and its occupants swung into the full light of the last lamp (oil)
in Ottinge, she had a view of the back of the woman’s head--a woman
talking eagerly to her companion, who faced her in an easy attitude,
cigar in hand. The man was her aunts’ chauffeur. As the car glided by,
he laughed an involuntary, appreciative, and familiar laugh that spoke
of years of intimacy--a laugh that pierced the heart of its unseen
listener with the force and agony of a two-edged sword.
For a moment the girl felt stunned; then she began to experience the
shock of wounded pride, of insulted love, of intolerable humiliation.
So the dark-haired lady was “the Obstacle!” That impassioned
declaration on Yampton Hill had been--what? Mr. Wynyard was merely
experimenting on her credulity; he wished to discover how far he might
go, how much she would believe? A gay Hussar, who had got into such
trouble that he was compelled to hide his whereabouts and name, until
he could return to the world after a decent interval of obscurity and
repentance! Meanwhile, he played the mysterious adorer, and amused
himself with “a country heart,” _pour passer le temps_.
And yet--and yet--when she recalled his steadfast eyes, the tremulous
ardour of his bearing in the garden, and, on the hillside, he had
looked in desperate earnest.
“Yes,” jeered another voice, “and in deadly earnest in the Drum window!”
And she? She had actually believed that he was hopelessly in love; and
she, who had been ready to stand by him against all her kindred, who
had blushed and trembled before his eyes and voice, had kissed her own
glove where his lips had pressed it! As these memories raced through
her brain an awful sensation of sinking down into the solid earth
possessed her. Aurea groped blindly for the gate and rested her head
upon it. It seemed to her as if, under the shade of those beeches, a
something not of this world, some terrible and relentless force, had
fought and wrested from her, her unacknowledged hopes, and her happy
youth.
Half an hour later she toiled up the drive with dragging, unsteady
steps. Prayers were over when she entered the library--a white ghost of
herself, and, with a mumbled apology, she went over and bade her father
good-night, and touched his cheek with lips that were dry and feverish.
He, simple, blind man, absorbed in proofs, barely lifted his head, and
said--
“Good-night, my child, sleep well!”
And his child, evading Norris with a gesture of dismissal, hurried to
the seclusion of her own apartment, and locked the door.
Three days later, Miss Morven left home somewhat unexpectedly; but it
was conceded even by her Aunt Bella that the shock of Captain Ramsay’s
death had upset the girl. She wanted a change, and a lively place and
lively society would divert her mind.
Wynyard had not once seen her since their never-to-be-forgotten walk,
and the news of her departure came as a shock--although his outward
composure was admirable--when he was informed that Miss Morven had
left home, to be followed by her father. The Rector would return in
three weeks, but Ottinge was not likely to see his daughter for a
considerable time. Miss Davis had taken over the surplices, Miss Jones
the girls’ sewing-class, and Miss Norris the altar flowers.
Wynyard put artful and carefully guarded inquiries, respecting her
niece, to his friend, Miss Susan, who was never reticent, and talked as
long as she found a sympathetic and intelligent listener.
“Well, indeed, Owen, I must confess Miss Morven’s going was a great
surprise,” she volunteered, in a burst of confidence, as she swiftly
snipped off dead leaves. “I’d no idea of it till she came to me on
Wednesday, and asked me to help her pack, and take over some of her
parish accounts. She looked pale and not a bit like herself; though
she said she was all right, I didn’t believe her. It struck me she had
had some sort of shock, she looked as if she hadn’t slept, but she
wouldn’t see the doctor, and was quite vexed at the idea. Dr. Boas told
me it was really the reaction of the dreadful tragedy that she and I
witnessed. So I’m glad she’s gone, though I miss her terribly!”
And what was her loss to his? Wynyard had believed he was on the point
of establishing a firm if inarticulate understanding--at least he had
shown his colours, and she had said “Perhaps.” This morsel of comfort
was all that remained to him; and oh, the many, many things that he
could and should have said during that memorable walk! These unspoken
sentences tormented him with cruel persistency. Had he wasted the
opportunity of a lifetime?