wrinkles.
“I’ll talk to him,” he said. “It’s what I dread doing more than
anything on earth, for, to tell you the honest truth, I’m a thorough
coward in these things. But I’ll talk to him. I knew you were going to
ask me to do that. I knew it directly you came here. I said to myself
as soon as I saw you, ‘Hamish, my friend, you’ve got to face that man
again,’ but I’ll do it, Nance. I’ll do it. Perhaps not to-day. Yes,
I’ll do it to-day. He’ll be up at Oakguard this evening. I’ll go after
supper. It’ll be precious little supper I’ll eat, Nance, but I’ll see
him, I’ll see him!”
Nance showed her gratitude by giving him her hand and looking tenderly
into his eyes. It was Mr. Traherne who first broke the spell and
unclasped their fingers.
“You’re a good girl, my dear,” he muttered, “a good girl,” and he led
her gently to the door.
XIII
DEPARTURE
After her talk with Mr. Traherne, Nance went straight to the village
and visited the available lodging. She found the place quite reasonably
adapted to her wishes and met with a genial, though a somewhat
surprised reception from the woman of the house. It was arranged
that the sisters should come to her that very evening, their more
bulky possessions--and these were not, after all, very extensive--to
follow them on the ensuing day, as suited the convenience of the local
carrier. It remained for her to secure her sister’s agreement to this
sudden change and to announce their departure to Rachel Doorm. The
first of these undertakings proved easier than Nance had dared to hope.
During these morning hours Miss Doorm gave Linda hardly a moment of
peace. She persecuted her with questions about the events of the
preceding day and betrayed such malignant curiosity as to the progress
of the love affair with Brand that she reduced the child to a condition
bordering upon hysterical prostration. Linda finally took refuge in her
own room under the excuse of changing her dress but even here she was
not left alone. Lying on her bed, with loosened hair and wide-open,
troubled eyes fixed upon the ceiling, she heard Rachel moving uneasily
from room to room below like a revengeful ghost disappointed of its
prey. The young girl put her fingers in her ears to keep this sound
away. As she did so, her glance wandered to the window through which
she could discern heavy dark clouds racing across the sky, pursued by
a pitiless wind. She watched these clouds from where she lay and her
agitated mind increased the strangeness of their ominous storm-blown
shapes. Unable at last to endure the sight of them any longer she leapt
to her feet and, with her long bare arms, pulled down the blind. To
any one seeing her from outside as she did this she must have appeared
like a hunted creature trying to shut out the world. Flinging herself
upon her bed again she pressed her fingers once more into her ears. In
crossing the room she had heard the heavy steps of her enemy ascending
the staircase. Conscious of the vibration of these steps, even while
she obliterated the sound they made, the young girl sat up and stared
at the door. She could see it shake as the woman, trying the handle,
found it locked against her.
Nothing is harder than to keep human ears closed by force when the
faculty of human attention is strained to the uttermost. It was not
long before she dropped her hands and then in a moment her whole soul
concentrated itself upon listening. She heard Miss Doorm move away and
walk heavily to the end of the passage. Then there was a long pause of
deadly silence and then, tramp--tramp--tramp, she was back again.
“I won’t unlock the door! I won’t! I won’t! I won’t!” muttered the
girl, and as if to make certain that her body obeyed her will she
stretched herself out stiffly and clutched the iron bars above her
head. She lay like this for some minutes, her lips parted, her eyes
wildly alert and her breast rising and falling under her bodice.
Once more the door shook and she heard her name pronounced in a low
clear-toned voice.
“Linda! Linda!” the voice repeated. “Linda! I must talk to you!”
Unable to endure the tension any longer and finding the dimness of the
room more trying than the view of the sky, the girl ran to the window
and pulled up the blind as hastily as she had pulled it down. She gazed
out, pressing her face against the pane. The clouds, darker and more
threatening than ever, followed one another across the heavens like a
huge herd of monstrous beasts driven by invisible herdsmen. The Loon
swirled and eddied between its banks, its waters a pale brownish colour
and here and there, floating on its surface, pieces of seaweed drifted.
The vast horizon of fens, stretching away towards Mundham, looked
almost black under the sky and the tall pines of Oakguard seemed to bow
their heads as if at the approach of some unknown menace.
The door continued to be shaken and the voice of Rachel Doorm never
ceased its appeal. Linda went back to her bed and sat down upon it,
propping her chin on her hands. There is something about the darkening
of a house by day, under the weight of a threatened storm, that has
more of what is ominous and evil in it than anything that can occur at
night. The “demon that walketh by noonday” draws close to us at these
times.
“Linda! Linda! Let me in! I want to speak to you,” pleaded the woman.
The girl rose to her feet and, rushing to the door, unlocked it
quickly. Returning to her bed she threw herself down on her face and
remained motionless. Rachel Doorm entered and, seating herself close to
Linda’s side, laid her hand upon the girl’s shoulder.
“Why haven’t you got on your frock?” she murmured. “Your arms must be
cold as ice. Yes, so they are! Let me help you to dress as I used to in
the old days.”
Linda drew herself away from her touch and with a convulsive jerk of
her body turned over towards the wall.
“It’s a pity you didn’t think over everything,” Miss Doorm went on,
“before you began this game with Mr. Renshaw. It’s begun to hurt you
now, hasn’t it? Then why don’t you stop? Tell me that, Linda Herrick.
Why don’t you stop and refuse to see him any more? What? You won’t
answer me? I’ll answer for you then. You don’t stop now, you don’t
draw back now, because you can’t! He’s got hold of you. You feel him
even now--don’t you--tugging at your heart? Yes, you’re caught, my
pretty bird, you’re caught. No more tossing up of your little chin
and throwing back your head! No more teasing this one and that with
your dainty ways--while you whistle them all down the wind. It’s
you--you--that has to come now when some one else calls, and come
quickly, too, wherever you may have run! How do you know he doesn’t
want you now? How do you know he’s not waiting for you now over there
by the pines? Take care, my girl! Mr. Renshaw isn’t a man you can play
with, as you played with those boys in London. It’ll be you who’ll do
the whining and crying this time. The day’s near when you’ll be on your
knees to him begging and begging for what you’ll never get! Did you
think that a chit of a child like you, just because you’ve got soft
hair and white skin, could keep and hold a man like that?
“Don’t say afterwards that Rachel Doorm hadn’t warned you. I say to
you now, give him up, let him go, hide yourself away from him! I say
that--but I know very well you won’t do what I say. And you won’t do
it because you can’t do it, because he’s got your little heart and
your little body and your little soul in the palm of his hand! I can
tell you what that means. I know why you press your hands against your
breast and turn to the wall. I’ve done that in my time and turned and
tossed, long nights, and got no comfort. And you’ll turn and toss, too,
and call and call to the darkness and get no answer--just as I got
none. Why don’t you leave him now, Linda, before it’s too late? Shall I
tell you why you don’t? Because it’s too late already! Because he’s got
you for good and all--got you forever and a day--just as some one, no
matter who, got Rachel once upon a time!”
Her voice was interrupted by a sudden splashing of rain against the
window and the loud moaning gust of a tremendous wind making all the
casements of the house rattle.
“Where’s Nance?” cried the young girl, starting up and leaping from the
bed. “I want Nance! I want to tell her something!”
At that moment there were voices below and the sound of a vehicle
driven to the rear of the house. Miss Doorm left the room and ran down
the stairs. Linda flung on the first dress that offered itself and
going to the mirror began hastily tying up her hair. She had hardly
finished when her sister entered. Nance stood on the threshold for a
moment hesitating, and looking anxiously at the other. It was Linda who
made the first movement.
“Take me away from here,” she gasped, flinging herself into her
sister’s arms and embracing her passionately, “take me away from here!”
Nance returned the embrace with ardour but her thoughts whirled a mad
dance through her brain. She had a momentary temptation to reveal at
once her new plan and let her sister’s cry have no other answer. But
her nobler instinct conquered.
“At once, at once! My darling,” she murmured. “Yes, oh, yes, let’s go
at once! I’ve got some money and Mr. Traherne will send me some more.
We’ll take the three o’clock train and be safe back in London before
night. Oh, my darling, my darling! I’m so glad! We’ll begin a new life
together--a new life.”
At the mention of the word “London” Linda’s arms relaxed their hold and
her whole body stiffened.
“No,” she gasped, pushing her sister away and pressing her hand to her
side, “no, Nance dear, I can’t do it. It would kill me. I should run
away from you and come back here if I had to walk the whole way. I
won’t see him. I won’t! I won’t! I won’t talk to him--I won’t let him
love me--but I can’t go away from here. I can’t go back to London. I
should get ill and die. I should want him so much that I should die.
No, no, Nance darling, if you dragged me by force to London I should
come back the next day somehow or another. I know I should--I feel it
_here_--as she said.”
She kept her hand still pressed against her side and gazed into
Nance’s face with a look of helpless pleading.
“We can find somewhere to live, you and I, without going far away,
somewhere where we shan’t see _her_ any more--can’t we, Nance?”
It was then, and with a clear conscience now, that the elder girl,
speaking hurriedly and softly, communicated the preparations she had
made and the fact that they were free to leave Dyke House at any moment
they chose.
“I’ve asked the man to put up the horse here for the afternoon,” she
said, “so that we shall have time to collect the things we want.
They’ll send for our trunks to-morrow.”
Linda’s relief at hearing this news was pathetic to see.
“Oh, you darling--you darling!” she cried, “I might have known you’d
save me. I might have known it! Oh, Nance dear, it was horrid of me to
say those things to you yesterday. I’ll be good now and do whatever you
tell me. As long as I’m not far away from _him_--not too far--I won’t
see him, or speak to him, or write to him! How sweet of Mr. Traherne to
let me play the organ! And he’ll pay me, too, you say? So that I shall
be helping you and not only be a burden? Oh, my dear, what happiness,
what happiness!”
Nance left her and descended to the kitchen to help Miss Doorm prepare
their midday meal. The two women, as they busied themselves at their
task, avoided any reference to the issue between them, and Nance
wondered if the man from the Admiral’s Head, who now sat watching their
preparations and speculating whether they intended to give him beer
as well as meat, had intimated to Rachel the object of his delayed
departure. When the meal was ready, Linda was summoned to share it and
the thirsty ostler, sipping lemonade with a wry countenance, at a side
table, was given the privilege of hearing how three feminine persons,
their heads full of agitation and antipathy, could talk and laugh and
eat as if everything in the wide world was smooth, safe, harmless and
uninteresting.
When the meal was over Nance and Linda once more retired to their room
and busied themselves with selecting from their modest possessions such
articles as they considered it advisable to take with them. The rest
they carefully packed away in their two leather trunks--trunks which
bore the initials “N. H.” and “L. H.” and still had glued to their
sides railway labels with the word “Swanage” upon them, reminiscent of
their last seaside excursion with their father.
The afternoon slipped rapidly away and still the threatened storm
hung suspended, the rain coming and going in fitful gusts of wind
and the clouds racing along the sky. By six o’clock it became so
dark that Nance was compelled to light candles. Their packing had
been interrupted by eager low-voiced consultation as to how they
would arrange their days when these were, for the first time in their
lives, completely at their own disposal. No further reference had been
made between them, either to Adrian or to Mr. Renshaw. The candles,
flickering in the gusty wind, threw intermittent spots of light upon
the girls’ figures as they stooped over their work or bent forward,
on their knees, whispering and laughing. Not since either of them had
arrived in Rodmoor had they been quite so happy. The relief at escaping
from Dyke House lifted the atmosphere about them so materially that
while they spoke of their lodging in the High Street and of the virtues
of Mrs. Raps, Nance began to feel that Adrian would, after all, soon
grow weary of Philippa and Linda began to dream that, in spite of all
appearances, Brand’s attitude towards her was worthy of a man of honour.
At six o’clock they were ready and Nance went down to announce their
departure to Rachel Doorm. She found their driver asleep by the kitchen
fire and, having roused him and told him to put his horse into the
trap, she went out to look for her mother’s friend.
She found Rachel standing on the tow path gazing gloomily at the river.
She was bareheaded and the wind, wailing round her, fluttered a wisp of
her grey hair against her forehead. Beneath this her sunken eyes seemed
devoid of all light. She turned when she heard Nance’s step, her heavy
skirt flapping in the wind as she did so, like a funereal flag.
“I see,” she said, pointing at the light in the sisters’ room where the
figure of Linda could be observed passing and repassing, “I see you’re
taking her away. I suppose it’s because of Mr. Renshaw. May I ask--if
it’s of any interest to you that I should care at all--what you’re
going to do with her? She’s been--she and her mother--the curse of _my_
life, and I fancy she’s now going to be the curse of yours.”
Nance wrapped herself more tightly in a cloak she had picked up as she
came out and looked unflinchingly into the woman’s haggard face.
“Yes, we’re going away--both of us,” she said. “We’re going to the
village.”
“To live on air and sea-water?” inquired the other bitterly.
“No,” rejoined Nance gently, “to live in lodgings and to work for
our living. I’ve got a place already at the Pontifex shop and Mr.
Traherne’s going to pay Linda for playing the organ. It’ll be better
like that. I couldn’t let her go on here after what happened yesterday.”
Her voice trembled but she continued to look Miss Doorm straight in the
face.
“You were away on purpose yesterday, Rachel,” she said gravely, “so
that those two might be together. It was only some scruple, or fear, on
Mr. Renshaw’s part that stopped him meeting her in the house. How often
this has happened before--his seeing her like this--I don’t know, and I
don’t want to know--I only pray to God that no harm’s been done. If it
_has_ been done, the child’s ruin’s on _our_ head. I cannot understand
you, Rachel, I cannot understand you.”
Miss Doorm’s haggard mouth opened as if to utter a cry but she breathed
deeply and restrained it. Her gaunt fingers twined and untwined
themselves and the wind, blowing at her skirt, displayed the tops of
her old-fashioned boots with their worn, elastic sides.
“So she’s separated us, has she?” she hissed. “I thought she would.
She was born for that. And it’s nothing to you that I’ve nursed you
and cared for you and planned for you since you were a baby? Nothing!
Nothing at all! She comes between us now as her mother came before.
I knew it would happen so! I knew it would! She’s just like her
mother--soft and clinging--soft and white--and this is the end of it.”
Her voice changed to a low, almost frightened tone.
“Do you realize that her mother comes to me every night and sits
looking at me with her great eyes just as she used to do when Linda
had been rude to me in the old days? Do you realize that she walks
backwards and forwards outside my door when I’ve driven her away? Do
you realize that when I go to bed I find her there, waiting for me,
white and soft and clinging?”
Her voice rose to a kind of moan and the wind carried it across the
empty road and tossed it over the fields.
“And she speaks, too, Nance. She says things to me, soft, clinging,
crying things that drive me distracted. One day, she told me _that_
only last night, one day she’s going to kiss me and never let me
go--going to kiss me with soft, pleading, terrified lips through all
eternity, kiss me just as she did once when Linda lost my beads. You
remember my beads, Nance? Real jade, they were, with funny red streaks.
I often see them round her neck. They’ll be round her neck when she
kisses me, jade, you know, my dear, with red streaks. I shall see
nothing else then, nothing else while we lie buried together!”
She lowered her voice to a whisper.
“It was the Captain who brought them. He brought them over far seas. He
brought them for me, do you hear--for me! But they’re always round her
neck now, after that day.”
Nance listened to this wild outburst with a set stern face. She had
always suspected that there was something desperate and morbid about
Rachel’s attachment to her father but never, until this moment, had she
dreamed how far the thing went. She looked at the woman’s face now and
sighed and with that sigh she flung to the blowing wind the covenant
between herself and her own mother. All the girl’s natural sanity and
sense of proportion were awake now and she stiffened her nerves and
hardened her heart for what she had to do.
“Between a vow to the dead,” she thought, “and the safety of the
living, there can be only one choice for me.”
“So you’re going away,” began Miss Doorm again. “Well, go, my dear, go
and leave me! I shan’t trouble the earth much longer after you’re gone.”
She turned her face to the river and remained motionless, watching the
flowing water. The heavy weight of the threatening storm, the storm
that seemed as though some powerful earth-god, with uplifted hand,
were holding back its descent, had destroyed all natural and normal
daylight without actually plunging the world into darkness. A strange
greenish-coloured shadow, like the shadow of water seen through water,
hung over the trees of the park and the opposite bank of the river.
The same greenish shadow, only touched there with something darker
and more mysterious, brooded over the far fens out of which, in the
remote distance, a sort of reddish exhalation indicated the locality
of the Mundham factories. The waters of the Loon--as Rachel and Nance
looked at them now--had a dull whitish gleam, like the gleam of a dead
fish’s eye. The sense of thunder in the air, though no sound of it had
yet been heard, seemed to evoke a kind of frightened expectancy. The
smaller birds had been reduced to absolute stillness, their twitterings
hushed as if under the weight of a pall. Only a solitary plover’s
scream, at rare intervals, went whirling by on the wind.
“Come back, come in, will you?” said Nance at last, “and say good-bye
to us, Rachel. I shall come and see you, of course. We shall not be far
away.”
She stretched out her hand to help her down the slope of the
embankment. Rachel made no response to this overture but followed her
in silence. No sooner, however, had they entered the garden and closed
the little gate behind them, than the woman fell on her knees on the
ground and caught the girl round the waist.
“Nance, my treasure!” she cried pitifully, “Nance, my heart’s baby!
Nance, oh, Nance, you won’t leave me like this after all these years?
No, I won’t let you go! Nance, you can’t mean it? You can’t really mean
it?”
The wind, blowing in gusts about them, made the gate behind them swing
open on its hinges. Rachel’s dishevelled tress of grey hair flapped
like a tattered piece of rag against the girl’s side.
“Look,” the woman wailed, “I pray you on my knees not to desert me! You
don’t know what you’re doing to me. You don’t, Nance, you don’t! It’s
all my life you’re taking. Oh, my darling, won’t you have pity? You’re
the only thing I’ve got--the only thing I love. Nance, Nance, have pity
on me!”
Nance, with tears in her eyes but her face still firm and hard-set,
tried to free herself from the hands that held her. She tried gently
and tenderly at first but Rachel’s despair made the attempt difficult.
Then she realized that this appalling tension must be brought at all
costs to an end. With a sudden, relentless jerk, she tore herself
away and rushed towards the house. Rachel fell forward on her face,
her hands clutching the damp mould. Then she staggered up and raised
her hand towards the lighted window above at which Linda’s figure was
clearly visible.
“It’s you--it’s you,” she called aloud, “it’s you who’ve done
this--who’ve turned my heart’s darling against me, and may you be
cursed for it! May your love turn to poison and eat your white
flesh! May your soul pray and pray for comfort and find none!
Never--never--never--find any! Oh, you may well hide yourself! But _he_
will find you. Brand will find you and make you pay for this! Brand and
the sea will find you. Listen! Do you hear me? Listen! It’s crying out
for you now!”
Whether it was the sudden cessation of her voice, intensifying the
stillness, or a slight veering of the wind to the eastward, it is
certain that at that moment, above the noise of the creaking gate and
the rustling bushes, came the sound which, of all others, seemed the
expression of Rodmoor’s troubled soul. Linda herself may not have heard
it for at that moment she was feverishly helping Nance to pile up their
belongings in the cart. But the driver of their vehicle heard it.
“The wind’s changing,” he remarked. “Can you hear that? That’s the
darned sea!”
The trap carrying the two sisters was already some distance along the
road when Nance turned her head and looked back. They had blown out
their candles before leaving and the kitchen fire had died down so
that there was no reason to be surprised that no light shone from any
of the windows. Yet it was with a cold sinking of the heart that the
girl leaned forward once more by the driver’s side. She could not help
seeing in imagination a broken figure stumbling round the walls of that
dark house, or perhaps even now standing in their dismantled room alone
amid emptiness and silence, alone amid the ghosts of the past.
XIV
BRAND RENSHAW