The expected rain had not come, though the air was heavy and damp with
the promise of it. It hung unshed, above the thirsty country, looking
down gloomily upon the dusty roads, and the soft and straight young
grass in the meadows; waiting for the night, when the wind would moan
and cry for it, and the newborn leaves would shudder in the dark at its
coming.
At three o’clock Francie was sure that the afternoon would be fine, and
soon afterwards she came downstairs in her habit, and went into the
drawing-room to wait for the black mare to be brought to the door. She
was going to ride towards Gurthnamuckla to meet Lambert, who had gone
there some time before; he had made Francie promise to meet him on his
way home, and she was going to keep her word. He had become quite a
different person to her since the morning, a person who no longer
appealed to her admiration or her confidence, but solely and
distressingly to her pity. She had always thought of him as invincible,
self-sufficing, and possessed of innumerable interests besides herself;
she knew him now as dishonest and disgraced, and miserable, stripped of
all his pretensions and vanities, but she cared for him to-day more than
yesterday. It was against her will that his weakness appealed to her;
she would have given worlds for a heart that did not smite her at its
claim, but her pride helped out her compassion. She told herself that
she could not let people have it to say that she ran away from Roddy
because he was in trouble.
She felt chilly, and she shivered as she stood by the fire, whose
unseasonable extravagance daily vexed the righteous soul of Eliza
Hackett. Hawkins’ note was in her hand, and she read it through twice
while she waited; then, as she heard the sound of wheels on the gravel,
she tore it in two and threw it into the fire, and, for the second time
that morning, ran to the window.
It was Christopher Dysart again. He saw her at the window and took off
his cap, and before he had time to ring the bell, she had opened the
hall door. She had, he saw at once, been crying, and her paleness, and
the tell-tale heaviness of her eyes, contrasted pathetically with the
smartness of her figure in her riding habit, and the boyish jauntiness
of her hard felt hat.
“Mr. Lambert isn’t in, Sir Christopher,” she began at once, as if she
had made up her mind whom he had come to see; “but won’t you come in?”
“Oh--thank you--I--I haven’t much time--I merely wanted to speak to your
husband,” stammered Christopher.
“Oh, please come in,” she repeated, “I want to speak to you.” Her eyes
suddenly filled with tears, and she turned quickly from him and walked
towards the drawing-room.
Christopher followed her with the mien of a criminal. He felt that he
would rather have been robbed twenty times over than see the eyes that,
in his memory, had always been brilliant and undefeated, avoiding his as
if they were afraid of him, and know that he was the autocrat before
whom she trembled. She remained standing near the middle of the room,
with one hand on the corner of the piano, whose gaudy draperies had,
even at this juncture, a painful subeffect upon Christopher; her other
hand fidgeted restlessly with a fold of the habit that she was holding
up, and it was evident that whatever her motive had been in bringing
him in, her courage was not equal to it. Christopher waited for her to
speak, until the silence became unendurable.
“I intended to have been here earlier,” he said, saying anything rather
than nothing, “but there was a great deal to be got through at the Bench
to-day, and I’ve only just got away. You know I’m a magistrate now, and
indifferently minister justice--”
“I’m glad I hadn’t gone out when you came,” she interrupted, as though,
having found a beginning, she could not lose a moment in using it. “I
wanted to say that if you--if you’ll only give Roddy a week’s time he’ll
pay you. He only meant to borrow the money, like, and he thought he
could pay you before; but, indeed, he says he’ll pay you in a week.” Her
voice was low and full of bitterest humiliation, and Christopher wished
that before he had arraigned his victim, and offered him up as an
oblation to his half-hearted sense of duty, he had known that his
infirmity of purpose would have brought him back three hours afterwards
to offer the culprit a way out of his difficulties. It would have saved
him from his present hateful position, and what it would have saved her
was so evident, that he turned his head away as he spoke, rather than
look at her.
“I came back to tell your husband that--that he could arrange things
in--in some such way,” he said, as guiltily and awkwardly as a boy. “I’m
sorry--more sorry than I can say--that he should have spoken to you
about it. Of course, that was my fault. I should have told him then what
I came to tell him now.”
“He’s gone out now to see about selling his horses and the furniture,”
went on Francie, scarcely realising all of Christopher’s leniency in her
desire to prove Lambert’s severe purity of action. Her mind was not
capable of more than one idea--one, that is, in addition to the question
that had monopolised it since yesterday afternoon, and Christopher’s
method of expressing himself had never been easily understood by her.
“Oh, he mustn’t think of doing that!” exclaimed Christopher, horrified
that she should think him a Shylock, demanding so extreme a measure of
restitution; “it wasn’t the actual money question that--that we
disagreed about; he can take as long as he likes about repaying me. In
fact--in fact you can tell him from me that--he said something this
morning about giving up the agency. Well, I--I should be glad if he
would keep it.”
He had stultified himself now effectually; he knew that he had acted
like a fool, and he felt quite sure that Mr. Lambert’s sense of
gratitude would not prevent his holding the same opinion. He even
foresaw Lambert’s complacent assumption that Francie had talked him
over, but he could not help himself. The abstract justice of allowing
the innocent to suffer with the guilty was beyond him; he forgot to
theorise, and acted on instinct as simply as a savage. She also had
acted on instinct. When she called him in she had nerved herself to ask
for reprieve, but she never hoped for forgiveness, and as his intention
penetrated the egotism of suffering, the thought leaped with it that, if
Roddy were to be let off, everything would be on the same footing that
it had been yesterday evening. A blush that was incomprehensible to
Christopher swept over her face; the grasp of circumstances relaxed
somewhat, and a jangle of unexplainable feelings confused what
self-control she had left.
“You’re awfully good,” she began half hysterically. “I always knew you
were good; I wish Roddy was like you! Oh, I wish I was like you! I can’t
help it--I can’t help crying; you were always too good to me, and I
never was worth it!” She sat down on one of the high stiff chairs, for
which her predecessor had worked beaded seats, and hid her eyes in her
handkerchief. “Please don’t talk to me; please don’t say anything to
me--” She stopped suddenly. “What’s that? Is that anyone riding up?”
“No. It’s your horse coming round from the yard,” said Christopher,
taking a step towards the window, and trying to keep up the farce of
talking as if nothing had happened.
“My horse!” she exclaimed, starting up. “Oh, yes, I must go and meet
Roddy. I mustn’t wait any longer.” She began, as if unconscious of
Christopher’s presence, to look for the whip and gloves that she had
laid down. He saw them before she did, and handed them to her.
“Good-bye,” he said, taking her cold, trembling hand, “I must go too.
You will tell your husband that it’s--it’s all right.”
“Yes. I’ll tell him. I’m going to meet him. I must start now,” she
answered, scarcely seeming to notice what he said, and withdrawing her
hand from his, she began hurriedly to button on her gloves.
Christopher did not wait for further dismissal, but when his hand was on
the door, her old self suddenly woke.
“Look at me letting you go away without telling you a bit how grateful I
am to you!” she said, with a lift of her tear-disfigured eyes that was
like a changeling of the look he used to know; “but don’t you remember
what Mrs. Baker said about me, that ‘you couldn’t expect any manners
from a Dublin Jackeen.’?”
She laughed weakly, and Christopher, stammering more than ever in an
attempt to say that there was nothing to be grateful for, got himself
out of the room.
After he had gone, Francie gave herself no time to think. Everything was
reeling round her as she went out on to the steps, and even Michael the
groom thought to himself that if he hadn’t the trap to wash, he’d put
the saddle on the chestnut and folly the misthress, she had that
thrimulous way with her when he put the reins into her hands, and only
for it was the mare she was riding he wouldn’t see her go out by
herself.
It was the first of June, and the gaiety of the spring was nearly gone.
The flowers had fallen from the hawthorn, the bluebells and primroses
were vanishing as quietly as they came, the meadows were already
swarthy, and the breaths of air that sent pale shimmers across them,
were full of the unspeakable fragrance of the ripening grass. Under the
trees, near Rosemount, the shadowing greenness had saturated the
daylight with its gloom, but out among the open pastures and meadows the
large grey sky seemed almost bright, and, in the rich sobriety of tone,
the red cattle were brilliant spots of colour.
The black mare and her rider were now on thoroughly confidential terms,
and, so humiliatingly interwoven are soul and body, as the exercise
quickened the blood in her veins, Francie’s incorrigible youth rose up,
and while it brightened her eyes and drove colour to her cheeks, it
whispered that somehow or other happiness might come to her. She rode
fast till she reached the turn to Gurthnamuckla, and there, mindful of
her husband’s injunctions that she was not to ride up to the house, but
to wait for him on the road, she relapsed into a walk.
As she slackened her pace, all the thoughts that she had been riding
away from came up with her again. What claim had Roddy on her now? She
had got him out of his trouble, and that was the most he could expect
her to do for him. He hadn’t thought much about the trouble he was
bringing on her; he never as much as said he was sorry for the disgrace
it would be to her. Why should she break her heart for him and Gerald’s
heart too?--as she said Hawkins’ name to herself, her hands fell into
her lap, and she moaned aloud. Every step the mare was taking was
carrying her farther from him, but yet she could not turn back. She was
changed since yesterday; she had seen her husband’s soul laid bare, and
it had shown her how tremendous were sin and duty; it had touched her
slumbering moral sense as well as her kindness, and though she rebelled
she did not dare to turn back.
It was not till she heard a pony’s quick gallop behind her, and looking
back, saw Hawkins riding after her at full speed, that she knew how soon
she was to be tested. She had scarcely time to collect herself before he
was pulling up the pony beside her, and had turned a flushed and angry
face towards her.
“Didn’t you get my note? Didn’t you know I was coming?” he began in hot
remonstrance. Then, seeing in a moment how ill and strange she looked,
“What’s the matter? Has anything happened?”
“Roddy came home yesterday evening,” she said, with her eyes fixed on
the mare’s mane.
“Well, I know that,” interrupted Hawkins. “Do you mean that he was
angry? Did he find out anything about me? If he did see the note I wrote
you, there was nothing in that.” Francie shook her head. “Then it’s
nothing? It’s only that you’ve been frightened by that brute,” he said,
kicking his pony up beside the mare, and trying to look into Francie’s
downcast eyes. “Don’t mind him. It won’t be for long.”
“You mustn’t say that,” she said hurriedly. “I was very wrong yesterday,
and I’m sorry for it now.”
“I know you’re not!” he burst out, with all the conviction that he felt.
“You can’t unsay what you said to me yesterday. I sat up the whole night
thinking the thing over and thinking of you, and at last I thought of a
fellow I know out in New Zealand, who told me last year I ought to
chuck the army and go out there.” He dropped his reins on the pony’s
neck, and took Francie’s hand. “Why shouldn’t we go there together,
Francie? I’ll give up everything for you, my darling!”
She feebly tried to take her hand away, but did not reply.
“I’ve got three hundred a year of my own, and we can do ourselves
awfully well on that out there. We’ll always have lots of horses, and
it’s a ripping climate--and--and I love you, and I’ll always love you!”
He was carried away by his own words, and, stooping his head, he kissed
her hand again and again.
Every pulse in her body answered to his touch, and when she drew her
hand away, it was with an effort that was more than physical.
“Ah! stop, stop,” she cried. “I’ve changed--I didn’t mean it.”
“Didn’t mean what?” demanded Hawkins, with his light eyes on fire.
“Oh, leave me alone,” she said, turning her distracted face towards him.
“I’m nearly out of my mind as it is. What made you follow me out here? I
came out so as I wouldn’t see you, and I’m going to meet Roddy now.”
Hawkins’ colour died slowly down to a patchy white.
“What do you think it was that made me follow you? Do you want to make
me tell you over again what you know already?” She did not answer, and
he went on, trying to fight against his own fears by speaking very
quietly and rationally. “I don’t know what you’re at, Francie. I don’t
believe you know what you’re saying. Something must have happened, and
it would be fairer to tell me what it is, than to drive me distracted in
this sort of way.”
There was a pause of several seconds, and he was framing a fresh
remonstrance when she spoke.
“Roddy’s in great trouble. I wouldn’t leave him,” she said, taking
refuge in a prevarication of the exact truth.
Something about her told Hawkins that things were likely to go hard with
him, and there was something, too, that melted his anger as it rose; but
her pale face drew him to a height of passion that he had not known
before.
“And don’t you think anything about _me_?” he said with a breaking
voice. “Are you ready to throw me overboard just because he’s in
trouble, when you know he doesn’t care for you a tenth part as much as I
do? Do you mean to tell me that you want me to go away, and say good-bye
to you for ever? If you do, I’ll go, and if you hear I’ve gone to the
devil, you’ll know who sent me.”
The naïve selfishness of this argument was not perceived by either.
Hawkins felt his position to be almost noble, and did not in the least
realise what he was asking Francie to sacrifice for him. He had even
forgotten the idea that had occurred to him last night, that to go to
New Zealand would be a pleasanter way of escaping from his creditors
than marrying Miss Coppard. Certainly Francie had no thought of his
selfishness or of her own sacrifice. She was giddy with struggle; right
and wrong had lost their meaning and changed places elusively; the only
things that she saw clearly were the beautiful future that had been
offered to her, and the look in Roddy’s face when she had told him that
wherever he had to go she would go with him.
The horses had moved staidly on, while these two lives stood still and
wrestled with their fate, and the summit was slowly reached of the long
hill on which Lambert had once pointed out to her the hoof-prints of
Hawkins’ pony. The white road and the grey rock country stretched out
before them, colourless and discouraging under the colourless sky, and
Hawkins still waited for his answer. Coming towards them up the tedious
slope was a string of half-a-dozen carts, with a few people walking on
either side; an unremarkable procession, that might have meant a
wedding, or merely a neighbourly return from market, but for a long,
yellow coffin that lay, hemmed in between old women, in the midmost
cart. Francie felt a superstitious thrill as she saw it; a country
funeral, with its barbarous and yet fitting crudity, always seemed to
bring death nearer to her than the plumed conventionalities of the
hearses and mourning coaches that she was accustomed to. She had once
been to the funeral of a fellow Sunday-school child in Dublin, and the
first verse of the hymn that they had sung then, came back, and began to
weave itself in with the beat of the mare’s hoofs.
“Brief life is here our portion,
Brief sorrow, short-lived care,
The life that knows no ending,
The tearless life is there.”
“Francie, are you going to answer me? Come away with me this very day.
We could catch the six o’clock train before any one knew--dearest, if
you love me--” His roughened, unsteady voice seemed to come to her from
a distance, and yet was like a whisper in her own heart.
“Wait till we are past the funeral,” she said, catching, in her agony,
at the chance of a minute’s respite.
At the same moment an old man, who had been standing by the side of the
road, leaning on his stick, turned towards the riders, and Francie
recognised in him Charlotte’s retainer, Billy Grainy. His always
bloodshot eyes were redder than ever, his mouth dribbled like a baby’s,
and the smell of whisky poisoned the air all around him.
“I’m waitin’ on thim here this half-hour,” he began, in a loud drunken
mumble, hobbling to Francie’s side, and moving along beside the mare,
“as long as they were taking her back the road to cry her at her own
gate. Owld bones is wake, asthore, owld bones is wake!” He caught at the
hem of Francie’s habit to steady himself; “be cripes! Miss Duffy was a
fine woman, Lord ha’ maircy on her. And a great woman! And divil blasht
thim that threw her out of her farm to die in the Union--the dom
ruffins.”
As on the day, now very long ago, when she had first ridden to
Gurthnamuckla, Francie tried to shake his hand off her habit; he
released it stupidly, and staggering to the side of the road, went on
grumbling and cursing. The first cart, creaking and rattling under its
load of mourners, was beside them by this time, and Billy, for the
benefit of its occupants, broke into a howl of lamentation.
“Thanks be to God Almighty, and thanks be to His Mother, the crayture
had thim belonging to her that would bury her like a Christian.” He
shook his fist at Francie. “Ah--ha! go home to himself and owld
Charlotte, though it’s little thim regards you--” He burst into drunken
laughter, bending and tottering over his stick.
Francie, heedless of the etiquette that required that she and Hawkins
should stop their horses till the funeral passed, struck the mare, and
passed by him at a quickened pace. The faces in the carts were all
turned upon her, and she felt as if she were enduring, in a dream, the
eyes of an implacable tribunal; even the mare seemed to share in her
agitation, and sidled and fidgeted on the narrow strip of road, that
was all the space left to her by the carts. The coffin was almost
abreast of Francie now, and her eyes rested with a kind of fascination
on its bare, yellow surface. She became dimly aware that Norry the Boat
was squatted beside it on the straw, when one of the other women began
suddenly to groan and thump on the coffin-lid with her fists, in
preparation for a burst of the Irish Cry, and at the signal Norry fell
upon her knees, and flung out her arms inside her cloak, with a gesture
that made her look like a great vulture opening its wings for flight.
The cloak flapped right across the mare’s face, and she swerved from the
cart with a buck that loosened her rider in the saddle, and shook her
hat off. There was a screech of alarm from all the women, the frightened
mare gave a second and a third buck, and at the third Francie was shot
into the air, and fell, head first, on the road.