BROKEN OFF
One afternoon Mr. Merridew came home in a state of suppressed excitement
which was none the less manifest to Nan's first glance. It was late in
April, and he found her on the lawn behind the house. Cuckoos were
calling in the narrow avenue, now faintly dusted with palest gold;
lesser trees had reached the stage of emeralds, and a horse-chestnut on
the lawn was parading a thousand pairs of light-green gloves. The
radiant afternoon sky changed into that of a serene evening as father
and daughter stood face to face.
"Who do you think arrived in London this morning? Ralph Devenish!" he
said, speaking the name in haste as her colour went.
"Indeed!" she remarked, and bit her lip to hide the hope that she had
cherished for one instant.
"Poor fellow," continued Mr. Merridew, with his facile sympathy for the
luckless, "he is terribly upset! The last English news he had on sailing
was not later than last October; of course they touched nowhere, so he
had no idea there was war with Russia until this morning. It is his
battalion of the Grenadiers that went to the Black Sea with the rest of
the Guards two months ago; and here he has been cooling his heels in
perfect innocence at sea! Of course he reported himself without a
minute's delay to the authorities, and now awaits their pleasure in a
perfect fever of disappointment and professional ardour. He says he has
been in the service all these years without hearing an angry shot, and
now after all he may miss the fun! A gallant soldier, Nan, whatever else
he may be!"
"I should hope so," the girl said, simply and without scorn. Her mind
had not crossed the seas with Ralph. "Did he really go to the diggings?"
she asked in a constrained voice.
"Yes, and did very fairly there; what is more, my dear, he saw something
of Denis Dent."
The girl was galvanized. "Was he well?" she whispered in a breath.
"Perfectly, when Ralph left, which was only in January."
Nan filled her lungs, and for the moment her soul sang praises; but for
a moment only. If he was well, why had he never written? Her indignation
had free play for the first time in all these months; she could better
have borne to hear he had been ill, if only he were well again; for then
she could have understood, then there would have been nothing to
forgive.
"He was not only well," continued Mr. Merridew, with outward reluctance,
not altogether an affectation, "but he was doing uncommonly well--far
better than poor Ralph!"
Doing uncommonly well! And yet he could not write.
"And where is Ralph?" asked Nan, in a hard voice, and with that old hard
light in her hazel eyes.
Mr. Merridew stood covered with a guilty confusion.
"Nan, would you see him if he came to see you?"
"Of course I would. Why not? I should like to see Ralph particularly."
"My dear, he didn't know; he was greatly afraid it would be just the
other way. But since you say that, I must tell you he is within a
hundred yards of where you stand, waiting in the road to know whether
you would see him or not."
Nan was annoyed at this; it was giving romantic colour to a meeting
which should have been perfectly natural and dispassionate on both
sides; and on hers it was too dispassionate, and not natural enough, in
consequence. Yet she wore a flush which might have flattered a less vain
man than Ralph Devenish; and as for him he looked nicer than she had
ever known him, in the shabby suit which was the best that remained of
his Australian outfit, with the deep bronze upon his sallow face, and
with inches added to his splendid whiskers. There was also, in him, a
strange absence of arriere-pensee, psychologically more interesting than
she dreamed; it was he who told her of Denis, unasked, in perhaps his
second breath.
"Oh, I did decently," said Ralph, "and might have done really well had I
stuck to it. But that cousin of mine--that's the man! He had some luck,
though no more than he deserved; but when I came away he was the talk of
his gully, to say the least. If he has realized half the prophecies I
heard before I left he must be a wealthy man by this time."
"Do you mean to say he has been lucky from the beginning?" asked Nan,
her incredulity strangely tinctured with disgust; and she brightened as
perversely when she heard the truth. For it was the truth about Denis,
so far as he knew it, that Ralph told Nan this April evening. He was
cast for he knew not what part of bold duplicity; all he saw clearly was
the end, and to that he was prepared to plough his way through all
dishonour, as a traveler steels himself against every obstacle between
him and the one light twinkling through the trees. The light was very
brilliant in this sweet spring dusk, before his eyes yet not within his
reach. It dazzled him, the light of the face he loved; and love he did,
the more passionately, not the less, for the sacrifice of his honour
that he had made already in his heart. To look through the sweet English
dusk into her eyes, to hear her voice through the evensong of the dear
old English birds, was to feel a final hardening of every unscrupulous
resolve. And yet honour dies hard in the type to which Ralph Devenish
belonged; it was dying so hard in Ralph that he was glad to tell the
truth while he might, glad to speak well and kindly of the man he was to
thwart in life by fair means or by foul.
So Nan heard of Denis's early unsuccess, and was thankful; a proud
silence she could understand and might learn to forgive. And she was
only less grateful for the way Ralph spoke of him; yet be it remembered
to Ralph's credit, or what was left of it, that his tone, if assumed,
was no device to win Nan's gratitude as it actually did.
Her satisfaction diminished as she heard of the wonderful doings on the
new claim. Yet, after all, he had only been there a fortnight when Ralph
left, and so immediate a success would in itself account for much. It
must absorb every energy and every hour.
"Hand over fist!" said Ralph, laughing genially. "That's how the fellow
was taking out the gold when I came away; at least, so I heard."
"Then you didn't see much of him yourself?"
"No, not much."
He might have added "naturally"; but the word was implied in his tone,
which itself was as natural as could be. Nan noted and admired it. She
was becoming more and more impressed with the general improvement in her
companion. But it was another thought that kept her silent as they
strolled to and fro upon the twilit sward.
"I suppose it is all in gold-dust," she speculated. "I know it is not in
nuggets."
"Oh, isn't it?" he said quickly. "Then you have heard?"
Nan bit her lip.
"No, I have not heard, and you know I haven't!" she exclaimed with more
tartness than discretion.
"My dear Nan, how could I know?" he asked, and with the utmost
readiness, though her father had lost no time in informing him of the
fact.
"I thought you must know," she said with a sigh that touched him and yet
rankled. "I beg your pardon, Ralph. As for the nuggets, he promised to
send me the first one he found, for luck; and he never broke a promise
in his life."
"Perhaps it was too big to send," said Ralph, with his new and kindly
laugh. "Or perhaps," he added, stopping in his walk, "perhaps this is
it!"
A parlour-maid was approaching with a small salver. Nan raised her
downcast eyes, and at a glance stood rooted to the spot. There was no
letter on the salver, but there was a very small brown-paper parcel,
which Nan seized and held in the half-light to her dancing eyes. And
then for one unconscious instant she pressed it with both hands to her
bosom.
"Oh, Ralph!" she cried in a voice like the song of a lark. "Did you ever
hear of such a coincidence in your life? It isn't one--it's a miracle!
Look: his writing, the Melbourne postmark: the nugget he promised me,
come as we were speaking about it, from the other end of the world!"
Ralph set his teeth grimly; he had brought these confidences on himself,
and Heaven alone knew how much more. He had not tampered with the parcel
which Jewson had given him before he left the diggings; here it was as
he had posted it in Melbourne, as it had lain in its mail-bag between
the same wooden walls which had been his own prison for the last three
months. He had no idea what the parcel contained; from Jewson's face and
manner, as he remembered them at the last, Ralph did not think it was
the nugget. But with a villain like that you never knew: he might have
gone straight over to the other side, the richer side even then.
Nan was too excited to notice Ralph's excitement, and yet it was greater
than hers. In her heart there was no longer the least suspense. This was
the nugget. She was alive once more; and the world she had maligned in
her heart, it was a dear world after all. Neither was Ralph its least
dear denizen. Here was his penknife, out in a moment, one blade open;
she never noted how it trembled as it cut the string. She was even
unaware that Ralph stood looking over her shoulder, for it was by pure
instinct that she had turned away.
Nor was there much for Ralph to see: what he first perceived was the
difference in Nan. She was standing as in stone or wax, as breathless,
as motionless, as unbending, as unalive to the eye. Over her shoulder,
as in a waxen palm, he saw the glint and glimmer of a ring with three
small stones of different hues. Then something fell, and he stooped to
pick it up. In an instant her heel was on it, crushing it into the soft
grass, but not before he had looked upon a plaited guard of finest hair.
The shade was her own dark-gold; it seemed to Devenish that the very
curl of her ringlets was preserved in the plaited wisp which he saw for
an instant in the grass. He had the tact to pretend he had not seen it,
to turn away and search further afield. But in his heart he was raging
and railing against the author of this unforeseen infamy. What a
devilish dodge! What a cruel and what a dastardly deception! Had he
known of it he never would have posted the thing; and yet, now that he
did know, was he to tell her? If so, what was he to tell?
The parcel might have been made up by Denis, for all Ralph actually
knew. Denis might be false for all he knew, the traditional sailor with
the wife in every port. Ralph's heart lightened at the thought; after
all, how could he know? It was the triumph of a diabolical genius that
he could know nothing absolutely, that he could lay this unction to his
soul at every step, if he lacked the pluck to look his villainy in the
face. And for the moment his embarrassment made Ralph Devenish as mean a
villain as crawled the earth.
Nan was speaking. She might have been yards away instead of inches. He
heard her faintly as he groped.
"What are you doing? I found what I dropped. Thanks for troubling. I am
going in, I think. There--there was no letter after all." So she
explained the heart-break in her voice; nothing else would have betrayed
her.
She found herself in her room. The candles were lighted. Yes, that was
her face, and she could look in it calmly, more calmly than many a time
in her suspense. Her shame was not deeper than it had been ever since
the day of her deplorable escape from kindly death. To know the worst is
often less terrible than to fear it. That is one of Nature's mercies,
and Nan felt it in a moment. She was blessed with the strong heart and
the clear eye. She saw everything that was to be seen of her case, and
she flinched at nothing that she saw. Only, as she sat before her glass
in the chilly candle-light, she seemed to be looking upon another
person, and into another heart.
An hour later she was shining with a hard radiance at the little
dinner-table. Fine wines were brought up in the wanderer's honour; for
once Nan let them fill her glass. Her mood was not unlike that of Ralph.
He was equally determined to talk and not to think. They rattled on
together like the oldest and the warmest friends. She sympathized with
his disappointment and anxiety about the war, but hoped they would not
send him out too soon, and could have groaned when he told her with airy
cunning that it was quite on the cards that they might not meet again.
He took her out of herself; he also gave her an unreasonable sense of
retaliation. She certainly desired to see him again, and told him so
frankly when he left.
Mr. Merridew was too puzzled to enjoy the other sensations which knocked
for admittance to his mind. Devenish had told him nothing of the garden
incident, partly from instinctive discretion, partly from a reluctance
to enlarge the circle of his dupes before he must; but no sooner was he
gone than Nan beckoned her father into the drawing-room and shut the
door behind them both.
"Here is a ring," she said. "I want you to keep it for me in your
safe--at least, for Mr. Dent."
It was not the ring that had traveled back to her from Ballarat. It was
his father's ring, that Denis had lent her. And she had worn it about
her neck since landing in England, because that was the way he was
forced to wear hers, and it was nearer her heart, but away from prying
eyes. Mr. Merridew took it between finger and thumb.
"Mr. Dent!" he echoed. "What in the world has happened?"
"Nothing terrible; only our engagement is broken off."
"You have heard from him, then?"
"Yes, this evening."
"And this is how he breaks his insulting silence!"
Already the father was trembling with rage and indignation; the girl was
curiously serene.
"He doesn't even break it," she said. "He simply does what we arranged
that either of us should do if we ever changed. And he is quite right."
"Right!" cried Mr. Merridew. "Quite right? Is the girl gone mad? The
heartless blackguard, the insolent snob! But you are well rid of him,
you are well rid."
Nan recoiled, stricken but roused. "You hurt me once by reminding me of
things," she said quickly, in a low and passionate voice. "Don't hurt me
more by forcing me to remind you of them. We made our own arrangement in
the after saloon on board the _Memnon_ when we said good-bye. It has
nothing to do with anybody else, and nobody else can say a word against
him if I do not."
"And don't you?" he cried. "And do you mean to say you don't?"
"Not a syllable," said the girl. "He has done the honest thing."
"The honest thing!"
"He could not pretend if he would."
"And you don't despise him for it--you have no contempt for him?"
Nan looked steadily on her father's horror.
"I honour him for it, as I always have," she said.