A GAME AT CHESS.
When Kate Rothwell promised to be Sidney Harding's wife she was very
honestly in love with the handsome young fellow. But this happy frame of
mind had been preceded by a period of revolt and disgust when she did
not know him, and had resolved vaguely on a marriage--any
marriage--which should fulfil certain conditions. And that she should be
in love with the man she married was not one of them. In fact, the
conditions were almost all negative ones. She had decreed that her
husband should not be a conspicuous fool, should not be vicious, should
not be repulsively vulgar, and should not be an unendurable bore. On
the other hand he should be fairly well off. She did not demand a large
fortune, she was inclined to rate the gift and prospect of making money
as something more than the possession of a certain sum which its owner
could do nothing but guard. Given a fairly cultivated man, and she felt
that she would absolutely prefer that he should be engaged in some
business which might grow and expand, stimulating the hopes and energies
of all connected with it. The sterility and narrowness of life at
Mitchelhurst had sickened her very soul. She was conscious of a fund of
rebellious strength, and she demanded liberty to develop herself,
liberty to live. She knew very well how women fared among the Rothwells.
She had seen two of her father's sisters, faded spinsters, worshipping
the family pride which had blighted them. Nobody wanted them, their one
duty was to cost as little as possible. That they would not disgrace the
Rothwell name was taken for granted. Kate used to look at their pinched
and dreary faces, and recognise some remnants of beauty akin to her own.
She listened to their talk, which was full of details of the pettiest
economy, and remembered that these women had been intent on shillings
and half-pence all their lives, that neither of them had ever had a
five-pound note which she could spend as it pleased her. And their
penurious saving had been for--what? Had it been for husband or child it
would have been different, the half-pence would have been glorified. But
they paid this life-long penalty for the privilege of being the Misses
Rothwell of Mitchelhurst. Life with them was simply a careful picking of
their way along a downward slope to the family vault, and it was almost
a comfort to think that the poor ladies were safely housed there, with
their dignity intact, while Kate was yet in her teens.
Later came the little episode of Minnie Newton and her admirer. Kate
perceived her brother's indifference to the girl's welfare, and the
brutality of his revenge on the man whose crime was his habit of
chinking the gold in his waistcoat pocket. Probably, with her finer
instincts, she perceived all this more clearly than did John Rothwell
himself. She did not actively intervene, because, in her contemptuous
strength, she felt very little pity for a couple whose fate was
ostensibly in their own hands. Minnie was not even in love with Hayes,
and Kate did not care to oppose her brother in order to force a pliant
fool to accept a fortunate chance. She let events take their course, but
she drew from them the lesson that her future depended on herself. And,
miserably as life at Mitchelhurst was maintained, she was, perhaps, the
first of the family to see that the time drew near when it would not be
possible to maintain it at all, partly from the natural tendency of all
embarrassments to increase, and partly from John Rothwell's character.
He could not be extravagant, but he had a dull impatience of his
father's minute supervision. Kate made up her mind that the crash would
come in her brother's reign.
She had already looked round the neighbourhood of her home and found no
deliverer there. Had there been any one otherwise suitable the Rothwell
pride was so notorious that he would never have dreamed of approaching
her. An invitation from a girl who had been a school friend offered a
possible chance, and Kate coaxed the necessary funds from the old
squire, defied her brother's grudging glances, and went, with a secret,
passionate resolve to escape from Mitchelhurst for ever. She saw no
other way. She was not conscious of any special talent, and she said
frankly to herself that she was not sufficiently well educated to be a
governess. Moreover, the independence which achieves a scanty living was
not her ideal. She was cramped, she was half-starved, she wanted to
stretch herself in the warmth of the world, and take its good things
while she was young.
Fate might have decreed that she should meet Mr. Robert Harding, a
successful man of business in the city, twenty years older than herself,
slightly bald, rather stout, keen in his narrow range, but with very
little perception of anything which lay right or left of the road by
which he was travelling to fortune. The beautiful Miss Rothwell would
have thanked Fate and set to work to win him. But it is not only our
good resolutions that are the sport of warring chances. Our unworthy
schemes do not always ripen into fact. Kate did not meet Mr. Robert
Harding, she met his brother Sidney, a tall, bright-eyed, red-lipped
young fellow, with the world before him, and the pair fell in love as
simply and freshly as if the croquet ground at Balaclava Lodge were the
Garden of Eden, or a glade in Arcady. In a week they were engaged to be
married, and were both honestly ready to swear that no other marriage
had ever been possible for either. To her he appeared with the golden
light of the future about his head; to him she came with all the charm
and shadowy romance of long descent, and of a poverty far statelier than
newly-won wealth. Friends reminded Sidney that with his liberal
allowance from his brother, and his prospect of a partnership at
twenty-five, he might have married a girl with money had he chosen.
Friends also mentioned to Kate, with bated breath, that the Hardings'
father, dead twenty years earlier, had been a pork-butcher. Sidney
laughed, and Kate turned away in scorn. She was absolutely glad that
she could make what the world considered a sacrifice for her darling.
At Mitchelhurst her engagement, though not welcomed, was not strongly
opposed. John Rothwell sneered as much as he dared, but he knew his
sister's temper, and it was too like his own for him to care to trifle
with it. So he stood aside, very wisely, for there was a touch of the
lioness about Kate with this new love of hers, and he saw mischief in
the eyes that were so sweet while she was thinking about Sidney. It was
at that time that she spoke her word of half-scornful sympathy to
Herbert Hayes.
And in a year her married life, with all its tender and softening
influences, was over. An accident had killed Sidney Harding before he
was twenty-five, before his child was born, and Kate was left alone in
comparatively straitened circumstances. For her child's sake she endured
her sorrow, demanding almost fiercely of God that He would give her a
son to grow up like his dead father, and when the boy was born she
called him Reynold. Sidney was too sacred a name; there could be but one
Sidney Harding for her, but she remembered that he had once said that he
wished he had been called Reynold, after his father.
It was pathetic to see her dark eyes fixed upon the baby features,
trying to trace something of Sidney in them, trying hard not to realise
that it was her own likeness that was stamped upon her child. "He is
darker, of course," she used to say, "but--" He could not be utterly
unlike his father, this child of her heart's desire! It was not
possible--it must not be--it would be too monstrous a cruelty. But month
by month, and year by year, the little one grew into her remembrance of
her brother's solitary boyhood, and faced her with a moody temper that
mocked her own. No one knew how long she waited for a tone or a glance
which should remind her of her dead love, remind her of anything but the
old days that she hated. None ever came. The boy grew tall and slim,
handsome after the Rothwell type, with a curious instinctive avidity for
any details connected with Mitchelhurst and his mother's people. He
would not confess his interest, but she divined it and disliked it. And
Reynold, on his side, unconsciously resented her eternal unspoken demand
for something which he could not give. He would scowl at her over his
shoulder, irritated by his certainty that her unsatisfied eyes were upon
him. Mother and son were so fatally alike that they chafed each other
continually. Every outbreak of temper was a pitched battle, the
combatants knew the ground on which they fought, and every barbed speech
was scientifically planted where it would rankle most.
A crisis came when it was decided that Reynold should leave school and
go into his uncle's office. The boy did not oppose it by so much as a
word; but as he stood, erect and silent, while Mr. Harding enlarged on
his prospects, he looked aside for a moment, and Kate's keener eyes
caught his contemptuous glance. To her it was an oblique ray, revealing
his soul. He despised the Hardings; he was ashamed of his father's name.
She did not speak, but in that moment with a pang of furious anguish she
chose once and for ever between her husband and her son, and sealed up
all her tenderness in Sidney's grave.
Reynold's stay in Robert Harding's office was short, but it was not
unsatisfactory while it lasted. He never professed to like his work, but
he went resignedly through the daily routine. He was not bright or
interested, but he was intelligent. What was explained to him he
understood, what was told him he remembered, as a mere matter of
course. He acquiesced in his life in a city counting-house, as his
grandfather at Mitchelhurst had acquiesced in his narrow existence
there. It seemed as if the men of the family were apathetic and weary by
nature, and only Kate had had energy enough to revolt.
An unexpected chance, the freak of a rich old man who had business
relations with Robert Harding, and who remembered Sidney, made Reynold
the possessor of a small legacy a few months after he had entered his
uncle's service. He at once announced his intention of going to Oxford.
Of course, as he said, without his mother's consent he could not go till
he was of age, and if she chose to refuse it he must wait. Kate
hesitated, but Mr. Harding, who was full of schemes for the advancement
of his own son, did not care for an unwilling recruit, and the young
fellow was coldly permitted to have his way. His mother, in spite of
her disapproval, watched his course with an interest which she would
never acknowledge. Was he really going to achieve success in his own
fashion, perhaps to make the name she loved illustrious?
Nothing was ever more commonplace and unnoticeable than Reynold's
university career. He spent his legacy, and came back as little changed
as possible. It seemed as if he had felt that he owed himself the
education of a gentleman, and had paid the debt, as a mere matter of
course, as soon as he had the means. "What do you propose to do now?"
Kate inquired. He answered listlessly that he had secured a situation as
under-master in a school. And for three or four years he had maintained
himself thus, making use of his mother's house in holiday time, or in
any interval between two engagements, but never taking anything in the
shape of actual coin from her. She suspected that he hated his
drudgery, but he never spoke of it.
Thus matters might have remained if it had not been for Robert Harding's
son. The old man, whose dream had been to found a great house of
business which should bear his name when he was gone, was unlucky enough
to have an idle fool for his heir. Reynold's record was not brilliant,
but it showed blamelessly by the side of his cousin's folly and
extravagance. Mr. Harding hinted more than once that his nephew might
come back if he would, but his hints did not seem to be understood.
Little by little it became a fixed idea with him that Reynold alone
could save the name of Harding, and keep his cousin from utter ruin. He
recognised a kind of scornful probity in his nephew, which would secure
Gerald's safety in his hands, and perhaps he exaggerated the promise of
Reynold's boyhood. At last he stooped to actual solicitation. Kate gave
the letter to her son, silently, but with a breathless question in her
eyes.
The old man offered terms which were almost absurdly liberal, but he
tried to mask his humiliation by clothing the proposal in dictatorial
speech. He gave Reynold a clear week in which to consider his reply, and
almost commanded him to take that week. But Mr. Harding wrote, if in ten
days he had not signified his acceptance, the situation would be filled
up. He should give it, with the promise of the partnership, to a distant
connection of his wife's. "Understand," said the final sentence, "that I
speak of this matter for the first and last time."
"I think," said Reynold, looking round for writing materials, "that I
had better answer this at once."
"Not to say 'No!'" cried Kate. "You shall not!" She stood before him,
darkly imperious, with outstretched hand. It seemed to her as if the
whole house of Harding appealed to her son for help. He was asked to do
the work that Sidney would have done if he had lived. "You shall not
insult him by refusing his offer without a moment's thought--I forbid
it!" she exclaimed.
"Very well," said Reynold. "I will wait." He turned aside to the
fire-place, and stood gazing at the dull red coals.
His mother followed him with her glance, and after a moment's silence
she made an effort to speak more gently. "He is your father's brother,"
she said.
"Yes," Reynold replied, in an absent tone. "Such an offer couldn't come
from the other side."
The words were a simple statement of fact, the utterance was absolutely
expressionless, but a sudden flame leapt into Kate's eyes. "Answer when
and as you please!" she cried. Her son said nothing.
He was waiting at the time to hear about a tutorship which had been
mentioned to him. The matter was not likely to be settled immediately,
and the next morning he appeared with his bag in his hand, and announced
that he was going into the country for a few days, and would send his
address. In due time the letter came with "Mitchelhurst" stamped boldly
on it, like a defiance.
When Barbara Strange bade young Harding go and make his fortune, she did
not know the curious potency of her advice. The words fell, like a gleam
of summer sunshine, across a world of stony antagonisms and smouldering
fires. And, with all the bright unconsciousness of sunshine, they
transformed it into a place of life and hope. She had called her little
cross her talisman, but Harding's talisman--for there are such
things--was the folded letter in his pocketbook. As she stood beside
him, flushed, eager, radiant, pleading with him, "Could not you care for
Mitchelhurst, _if_--" she awakened a sudden craving for action, a sudden
desire of possession in his ice-bound heart. To any other woman he could
have been only Reynold Harding, a penniless tutor, recognised, perhaps,
as a kind of degenerate offshoot of the Rothwell tree. But to Barbara he
was the one remaining hope of the old family of which she had thought so
much; he was the king who was to enjoy his own again, and her shining
glances bade him go and conquer his kingdom without delay. And in
Mitchelhurst Church, as he stood among his dead people, with the rain
beating heavily on--
"The lichen-crusted leads above,"
he had made up his mind. He would cast in his lot with the Hardings till
he should have earned the right to come back to the Rothwells'
inheritance. He would do it, but not for the Rothwells' sake--for a
sweeter sake--breathing and moving beside him in that place of tombs. He
looked up at the marble countenance of his wigged ancestor, considering
it thoughtfully, yet not asking himself if that dignified personage
would have approved of his resolution. Reynold, as he stared at the
aquiline features, wondered idly whether the lean-faced gentleman had
ever known and loved a Barbara Strange, and whether he had kissed her
with those thin, curved lips of his. Of course they were not as grimy
and pale in real life as in their sculptured likeness. And yet it was
difficult to picture him alive, with blood in his veins, stooping to
anything as warm and sweet as Barbara's damask-rose mouth. It seemed to
Reynold that only he and Barbara, in all the world, were truly alive,
and he only since he had known her.
When he went back into the lanes alone, after leaving her at the gate,
the full meaning of the decision which had swiftly and strangely
reversed the whole drift of his life rushed upon him and bewildered him.
He hastened away like one in a dream. It was as if he had broken through
an encircling wall into light and air. Ever since his boyhood he had
held his fancy tightly curbed, he had reminded himself by night and day
that he had nothing, was nothing, would be nothing; in his fierce
rejection of empty dreams he had chosen always to turn his eyes from the
wonderful labyrinthine world about him, and to fix them on the dull grey
thread of his hopeless life. Now for the first time in his remembrance
he relaxed his grasp, and his fancy, freed from all control, flashed
forward to visions of love and wealth. He let it go--why should he
hinder it, since he had resolved to follow where it led? In this sudden
exaltation his resolution seemed half realised in its very conception,
and as he gathered the berries from the darkening hedgerows he felt as
if they were his own, the first-fruits of his inheritance. He hurried
from briar to briar under the pale evening sky, tearing the rain-washed
sprays from their stems, hardly recognising himself in the man who was
so defiantly exultant in his self-abandonment. Nothing seemed out of
reach, nothing seemed impossible. When the darkness overtook him he went
back with a triumphant rhythm in his swinging stride, feeling as if he
could have gathered the very stars out of the sky for Barbara.
This towering mood did not last. It was in the nature of things that
such loftiness should be insecure, and indeed Reynold could hardly have
made a successful man of business had it been permanent. It would not do
to add up Barbara and the stars in every column of figures. But the
very fact of passing from the open heavens to the shelter of a roof had
a sobering effect, the process of dressing for dinner recalled all the
commonplace necessities of life, and in his haste he had a difficulty
with his white necktie, which was distinctly a disenchantment. The
shyness and reserve which were the growth of years could not be shaken
off in a moment of passion. They closed round him more oppressively than
ever when he found himself in the yellow drawing-room, face to face with
Mr. Hayes, and, being questioned about his walk, he answered stiffly and
coldly, and then was silent. Yet enough of the exaltation remained to
kindle his eyes, though his lips were speechless, when he caught sight
of Barbara standing by the fireside, with a cluster of blood-red berries
in her hair, and another nestling in the dusky folds of lace close to
her white throat. The vivid points of colour held his fascinated gaze,
and seemed to him like glowing kisses.
He had a game of chess with his host after dinner. As a rule he was a
slow and meditative player, scanning the pieces doubtfully, and
suspecting a snare in every promising chance. But that evening he played
as if by instinct, without hesitation. Everything was clear to him, and
he pressed his adversary closely. Mr. Hayes frowned over his
calculations, apprehending defeat, though the game as yet had taken no
decisive turn. Presently Barbara came softly sweeping towards them in
her black draperies, set down her uncle's coffee-cup at his elbow, and
paused by Harding's side to watch the contest. Her presence sent a
thrill through him which disturbed his clear perception of the game. It
made a bright confusion in his mind, such as a ripple makes in lucid
waters. He put out his hand mechanically towards the pawn which he had
previously determined to move.
"Dear me!" said Barbara, strong in the traditional superiority of the
looker-on, "why don't you move your bishop?"
Reynold moved his bishop.
Quick as lightning Mr. Hayes made his answering move, and, when it was
an accomplished fact, he said--
"Thank you, Barbara."
Reynold and Barbara looked at each other. The aspect of affairs was
entirely changed. A white knight occupied a previously guarded square,
and simply offered a ruinous choice of calamities.
"Oh, what have I done?" the girl exclaimed.
Reynold laughed his little rough-edged laugh.
"Nothing," he said. "Don't blame yourself, Miss Strange. You only asked
me why I didn't move my bishop. I ought to have explained why I
_didn't_. Instead of which--I _did_. It certainly wasn't your fault."
Barbara lingered and bit her under-lip as she gazed at the board.
"I've spoilt your game," she said remorsefully. "I think I'd better go
now I've done the mischief."
"No, don't go!" Harding exclaimed, and Mr. Hayes, rubbing his hands,
chimed in with a mocking--
"No, don't go, Barbara!"
The girl looked down with an angry spark in her eyes.
"Well, I'll give you some coffee," she said to the young man; "you
haven't had any yet."
"And then come back, Barbara!" her uncle persisted.
She did come back, flushed and defiant, determined to fight the battle
to the last. But for her obstinacy Mr. Hayes would have had an easy
triumph, for young Harding's defence collapsed utterly. Apparently he
could not play a losing game, and a single knock-down blow discouraged
him once for all. Barbara, taking her place by his side, showed twice
his spirit, and at one time seemed almost as if she were about to
retrieve his fallen fortunes. Mr. Hayes ceased to taunt her, and sat
with a puckered forehead considering his moves. He kept his advantage,
however, in spite of all she could do, and presently unclosed his lips
to say "Check!" at intervals. But it was not till he had uttered the
fatal "Mate!" that his face relaxed. Then he got up, and made his niece
a little bow.
"Thank you, Barbara!" he said, and walked away to the fire-place.
The young people remained where he had left them. Barbara trifled with
the chessmen, moving them capriciously here and there. Reynold, with his
head on his hand, did not lift his eyes above the level of the board,
but watched her slim fingers as they slipped from piece to piece, or
lingered on the red-stained ivory. She brought back all their slain
combatants, and set them up upon the battle-field.
"I wish I hadn't meddled!" she said suddenly. "I spoilt your game."
She spoke in a low voice, and Reynold answered in the same tone,
"What _did_ it matter?"
"No, but I hate to be beaten. I wanted you to win."
"Well," said he, still with his head down, "you set me to play a bigger
game to-day."
"Ah!" said Barbara, decidedly. "I won't meddle with that!"
"No?" he said, looking up with a half-hinted smile. Her cheeks were
still burning with the excitement of her long struggle, and her bright
eyes met his questioning glance.
"Perhaps you think I can't help meddling?" she suggested.
"Perhaps you can't. You are superstitious, aren't you? You believe in
amulets and that kind of thing--or half believe. Perhaps you are
foredoomed to meddle, and destiny won't let you set me down to the game
and go quietly away."
Barbara was holding the king between her fingers. She replaced it on its
square so absently, while she looked at Reynold, that it fell. His words
seemed to trouble her.
"Well, if this game is an omen, you had better not _let_ me meddle," she
said at last.
"How am I to help it?"
"Thank you!" she exclaimed resentfully; "I'm not so eager to interfere
in your affairs as you seem to take for granted!"
"Indeed I thought nothing of the kind. I thought we were talking of
destiny. And, you see, you were good enough to take a little interest
this afternoon."
She uttered a half-reluctant "Yes." She had a dim feeling that she was,
in some inexplicable way, becoming involved in young Harding's fortunes.
The notion half-frightened, half-fascinated her. When they began their
low-voiced talk she had unconsciously leaned a little towards him. Now
she did not precisely withdraw, but she lifted her face, and there was a
touch of shy defiance in the poise of her head.
Mr. Hayes, as he stood by the fire, was warming first one little
polished shoe, and then the other, and contemplating the blazing logs.
"Barbara," he said suddenly, "did we have this wood from Jackson? It
burns much better than the last."
Barbara was the little housekeeper again in a moment. She crossed the
room, and explained that it was not Jackson's wood, but some of a load
which Mr. Green had asked them to take. "You said I could do as I
pleased," she added, "and I thought they looked very nice logs when they
came."
"Green--ah! Jacob Green knows what he's about. Made you pay, I dare say.
No, no matter." The girl's eyes had gone to a little table, where an
account-book peeped out from under a bit of coloured embroidery. "I'm
not complaining; I don't care about a few extra shillings, if things are
good. Get Green to send you some more when this is burnt out."
Reynold had risen when Barbara left him, and after lingering for a
moment, a tall black and white figure, in the lamplight by the
chessboard, he followed her, and took up his position on the rug. The
interruption to their talk had been unwelcome, but it was not, in
itself, unpleasant. He liked to see Barbara playing the part of the
lady of the Place. It was a sweet foreshadowing of the home, the dear
home, that should one day be. There should be logs enough on the hearths
of Mitchelhurst in October nights to come, and, though the fields and
copses round might be wet and chill, the old house should be filled to
overflowing with brightness and warmth and love. Some wayfarer, plodding
along the dark road, would pause and look up the avenue, and see the
lights shining in the windows beyond the leafless trees. Reynold
pictured this, and pictured the man's feelings as he gazed. It was
curious how, by a kind of instinct, he put himself in the outsider's
place. He did not know that he always did so, but in truth he had never
dreamed anything for himself till Barbara taught him, and his old way of
looking at life was not to be unlearnt in a day. Still he was happy
enough as he stood there, staring at the fire, and thinking of those
illuminated windows.
He could not sleep when he went to bed that night. The head which he
laid on the chilly softness of his pillow was full of a joyous riot of
waking visions, and he closed his eyes on the shadows only to see a
girl's shining glances and rose-flushed cheeks.