The little station looked innocent enough, with its solitary platform
and single line, its flower-borders and toy buildings;--innocent and
sleepy, awaiting a tardy train, but to Deborah it was a veritable
pillory as she stood by herself at its farthest extremity, looking
westward to the sea.
Market-day in Witham was drawing its usual votaries in their various
degrees, and for all Deborah was an object of interest as she turned an
obstinate blue-serge shoulder upon whisper and stare alike.
She knew quite well that they were talking about her. Each little knot
of folk had something to say on the subject of her late engagement. It
had been such an unexpected triumph, followed by an equally unexpected
downfall. The peripety had been so abrupt, so recent, that the district
was still gasping. Barely had it learned to look upon Deborah with
a new respect when it found her dumped back into her old obscurity,
though reflecting, perhaps, a more subtle interest, lent by the
atmosphere of scandal surrounding the whole affair.
There had been a Saturday, not so very long ago, when her progress
along the platform had been a painful pageant of success. She scarcely
knew which had hurt her most, the ill-concealed surprise or the
terrible obsequiousness. Well, to-day, at least, no one troubled her.
They left her alone, avoided her eyes, gathered in little groups and
talked of her in whispers.
She could guess what they were saying--hear the pity and the blame
so subtly intermingled. Stanley’s death alone might have earned her
commiseration; his marriage along with it had branded her. It was all
so “queer!” The dead man might have earned the intangible stigma of the
foolish word, but the living girl was left to carry it.
Dixon of Dockerneuk drove up slowly, and sauntered on to the platform.
There was interest in his reception, also, for it was well known that
he had never married because of a certain horse-dealer’s daughter
in Witham. He looked much the same, thought the curious--the big,
slow-moving man with the quiet voice and the cloak of patient and
pathetic dignity which is the hallmark of the true-bred dalesman. He
could not have taken it much to heart, after all. It was only when he
reached the railing overlooking the sea that he allowed the new hurt
look to creep back into his eyes.
He exchanged a brief good-day with Deborah, and the spectators looked
curiously at the two who had suffered so similarly under the same
upheaval, whose lives had been altered by the same act of deliberate
deceit. Deborah was acutely conscious of the isolation in which
they stood, yet she drew a little comfort from the presence of a
fellow-sufferer. She made some remark about the crops, and he answered
cheerfully; and presently the leisurely train drifted in, almost as if
washed up accidentally by the tide. Dixon opened a door, touched his
hat, and moved on to another carriage; and her heart warmed to him,
recognising his tact.
There were strangers with her by some happy accident, unaware of her
personal tragedy; but in the next carriage, and all up the train,
Deborah Lyndesay’s name had plenty of play.
A silver-haired, dapper little man, being rather sad at heart on the
subject, had of course several sharp things to say about it.
“So tiresome!” he observed to the compartment at large. “So really
_tiresome_ of people to do these things! It placed their friends
in such an awkward position. Did one bow or did one _not_ bow? Was
it kinder to pretend that they were not there? Or did one walk up,
smiling, and talk about the Insurance Act?”
A mackintosh in the corner submitted that there could be no reason
why one should not bow--always supposing that one _wished_. Most
people, under similar circumstances, obliterated themselves for a long
time, went away and lost themselves for their own sake and everybody
else’s, till the affair was forgotten. But in this case the lady under
discussion seemed to have no self-obliterating tendencies--almost
appeared, one might say, to be proud of the situation.
Silver-hair seemed a little shocked by this statement. There are canons
of good taste even in back-biting.
Hardly _proud_, surely? Of course, it was all distinctly tiresome, but,
for his own part, he had gathered from--say, the droop of her left
shoulder--that she was rather miserable.
Miserable? Of course she was miserable! This was smartness in blue
voile and a cornflower hat, somewhat damaged by a string bag. Hadn’t
she lost Crump, and gained nothing but the clinging odour of a scandal?
Such luck as hers had been quite unlikely to last. And of course she
would never have such another chance. Those weeks of triumph would have
to last her all the rest of her life.
“So stupid!” Silver-hair murmured worriedly. “So upsetting to do these
startling things! Of course she was a Lyndesay and a lady, and she
played the organ quite nicely, but after all one of the professions
would have been more suitable--say, a nice, quiet country solicitor.
It was all very awkward for her friends. And she wasn’t even wearing
mourning for him! What _he_ wanted to know, was--what was one to _do_?”
“Give her time,” said Mackintosh in the corner. “We haven’t seen
the end of things yet. She’s a pretty girl, and she must have had
a way with her, or Stanley would never have looked at her. We all
know that!” (Mackintosh’s forbears having washed for Crump, she was
naturally in a position to speak familiarly.) “Give her time! There’s
still a Lyndesay of Crump!”
Cornflower admired her perspicacity with a meaning smile.
“Oh, of course, _that_ will be the next thing! She is certain to make
the attempt. But Christian will not easily be caught. Christian, I have
reason to know, has a fancy in _quite_ another direction!”
Cornflower had a daughter of her own, who had had the felicity of being
yanked through a hedge by Christian, out basset-hunting. What more was
needed?
Silver-hair looked uncomfortable. Cornflower and Mackintosh did not
appear to him to be keeping to the rules of the game.
“Of course one did not wish to be _unkind_,” he murmured, “but how
much nicer it would be for everybody if these things didn’t _happen_!
One felt one would like to show a little sympathy, only it was so
_awkward_! Surely she ought to have known that he was married? It was
her duty to know that sort of thing, seeing that she hadn’t a mother to
make inquiries.”
A quiet little girl sitting beside him dropped a library book firmly
on his feet, and he picked it up with inward reproach. After all, it
wasn’t quite the thing to talk scandal in front of anybody so innocent
and demure as Verity Cantacute contrived to look, in spite of her
twenty-three years. He was fond of Verity, too, and valued her opinion
highly in a strictly unconfessed fashion. He knew quite well why she
had dropped the book, though he would not have admitted it for worlds.
“Ah!” Cornflower said meaningly. “A mother’s interference is not always
particularly welcome! Occasionally, a mother can be counted a positive
nuisance; and, in _this_ case----”
Verity dropped an umbrella, this time, a sharp-pronged thing that
caught Cornflower on the ankle, and hurt her horribly. An umbrella is
an excellently subtle weapon of offence, if you know how to use it
artistically. Silver-hair, while applauding mentally, was nevertheless
of opinion that Verity had interfered somewhat arbitrarily. After all,
Cornflower ought to have known, if anybody did, exactly how much of a
nuisance a mother _could_ be!
Deborah was just in front of him as they left the station in the swirl
of the Saturday stream, and something about her--probably her left
shoulder--smote his ridiculously soft heart a second time. He attached
himself to her to observe how tiresome it was of the weather to look
like drawing to thunder when he had a tennis-party at stake. Deb smiled
unwillingly. She had always liked him, but she had her prickles out for
the whole world, this morning.
“And the dust!” Silver-hair loved a grievance as cats love cream.
“Personally, he expected an attack of appendicitis, any day, from
swallowing so much ground limestone! Might he carry her basket for
her, by any chance?”
Deborah gave him a real smile this time.
“You can just go and talk to somebody else,” she said. “I’m not
going to have any St. Georges convoying _me_ up the town. This is my
treadmill, and I mean to keep it to myself.” She nodded at Smith’s as
they passed. “You ordered a book there, last week, if you remember. Go
in and ask about it.”
She stepped adroitly in front of a passing lorry, and was lost to him,
and he drifted meekly into Smith’s, wondering vaguely if he could have
done anything different. He had meant to be kind, and she had not
really been rude--he was not sure that she hadn’t meant to be grateful.
How tiresome these situations were!
It seemed to Deb that the whole of Westmorland was shopping that
morning, for almost every busy car and sleek carriage held somebody
she knew. Slinker had given a reception in her honour, a short time
before, and an envious County had shaken her warmly by the hand.
To-day, it was remarkable how many motor-folk seemed interested in
the fit of their chauffeur’s coat, how many traps carried people
hunting for something on the floor. Lady Metcalfe, stopping outside
the fish-shop as Deb came up, discovered instantaneously that what she
really wanted was stockings. The Bracewell girls, hunting hats in Miss
Clayton’s, remembered in a flurry that they had been instructed to
purchase tooth-powder; while the Hon. Mrs. Stalker made no bones about
the matter at all, but, having walked straight into Deb’s arms, merely
remarked to the sky that she desired sausages, and glided over her.
Deborah, reflecting, was not sure that hers wasn’t the kindest method,
after all.
Coming out into the main street, the Crump stanhope passed her, with
Christian on the box, but she was very busy doing sums inside her
purse, and people who didn’t know her thought she must be either blind
or stupid to ignore the compliment of so gallant a salute. Apparently
she had seen nothing; yet she knew that at Christian’s side had sat
a dark girl in trim black, and a wave of fierce feeling swept over
her--for the woman in question was Slinker’s wife.
She was at Crump, now--Deb knew that. Mrs. Lyndesay had sent for her,
acknowledged her--more, insisted on keeping her! As Slinker’s wife
she had taken her place in the County; as Slinker’s wife she drove
at his brother’s side; while the girl he had wooed in such arrant
deceit walked stubbornly alone, with a high head and eyes that looked
singularly straight in front of her.
When they came back again, Slinker’s wife had the reins, and pulled
up cleverly in the crowded street close to where Deb’s passage was
obstructed by a wood-cart. Christian, swinging quickly down, caught her
as she looked round for means of escape.
“You cut me!” he said reproachfully, taking her hand in spite of her.
“I don’t deserve it, and you know I don’t. You might at least have had
the decency to stop and ask after the puppy.”
“I’ll wire for the latest bulletin,” she responded, moving away
instantly in a distinctly uncomplimentary fashion. “You’ll excuse me,
won’t you? I’m chasing a scrubbing-brush.” But Christian detained her.
“I want you to do something for me,” he said hurriedly,--“oh, please!
It’s just this”--his voice was uneven and embarrassed--“Nettie--Miss
Stone--er--that is--Slinker’s wife, you know--wants to know if you’ll
be kind enough to know her. He--she--I give you my word, she’s an
awfully good sort--that is to say--you won’t regret it!”
Deb stopped short enough now, regarding him incredulously.
“You wish to introduce me to--to that woman?” she asked, her voice very
low. “You ask me to speak to her--in this crowd----?”
Christian cast a glance of easy indifference round him. “These don’t
count, dear old things! She’s my horse-dealer, as I thought. I’ve known
her all my life. I wish you would--don’t you think----?” He saw Deb’s
face, then, and stopped.
“Oh, how _dare_ you!” she exclaimed, her voice shaking in spite of her.
“How dare you even think of it? You must know that you insult me by the
very suggestion!”
She swept a glance of outrage and pain from Christian’s troubled face
to the figure on the box; caught the earnest gaze of a pair of bright
brown eyes, then plunged into the traffic and was gone. Christian
watched her disappear before he climbed back miserably, and Slinker’s
wife shook the reins lightly, and proceeded down the full thoroughfare.
“That was a mistake!” she said, nodding cheerfully here and there to
a well-known face. “You can’t have been very tactful, Christian, my
child. But anyway it was a mistake, and I’d no business to suggest it.
Still, we’ll do it yet, see if we don’t! Trust Nettie Stone for that!”
She drove on gently, smiling, very sure of herself; but at the corner
of Redman Street the horses swerved without just cause, as if the
hand on the reins had tightened unawares. Dixon of Dockerneuk was
standing on the pavement, and he raised his eyes as she passed above
him--Stanley Lyndesay’s widow. She laid her hand on Christian’s arm as
he stared worriedly at his boots, and he looked up quickly, wondering
at the shake in her voice.
“Laker dear,” she was saying with a smile, “I rather think Slinker was
a mistake, too!”