"I WANT YOU"
TO say that both Mrs. Wharnecliffe and Thorold were very uneasy about
their young protégé would be to state it very mildly.
If Mrs. Wharnecliffe had not had her husband in bed with one of his
bad attacks of gout, she would have gone up to town herself and taken
Gentian under her motherly wing. She knew Mrs. St. Lucas, and was well
aware of her happy-go-lucky Bohemian propensities.
As to Thorold, he thought about Gentian night and day; he longed to
cast prudence and diffidence to the winds, and go up to London and
fetch her down to Cornwall, where she could once more be under his
protecting care. But when he had written to her, he waited patiently,
dreading, yet sometimes almost longing, to receive a summons from her.
And then about the middle of July it came.
A telegram was handed to him as he was starting to meet his manager at
the mine, one morning about ten o'clock.
It was very brief.
"I want you—Gentian."
He flung a few things into his suit-case, borrowed Mr. Muir's car and
caught the morning express from Liskeard to town. She had wired to him
from a country inn just outside Maidenhead. He did not get there till
about six o'clock. The landlady came to the door at once.
"You'll be the young lady's cousin or guardian, so she tells me. She
ought to be in bed, but she's on the couch in the best parlour. Come
this way, please."
"Is she ill—an accident—what is the matter?
"The doctor says 'tis a marvel: she's escaped with bruises and a
sprained wrist. She was pitched right out of the car, and found
underneath it."
"Who was with her?"
"Nobody, she drove herself down from town, and turning a corner ran
into some felled trees. I always do say that for a reckless driver,
give me a young lady!"
Thorold said nothing. He followed her to a small dingy parlour at the
back of the house, and there, covered with an old plaid shawl, upon a
horsehair couch, lay Gentian. An ugly bruise and plastered cut on her
forehead and a bandaged wrist were the only evidences of her accident,
but she looked white and shaken, and could only faintly smile as she
looked up at him.
"I knew you would come. I told the landlady so."
He stood looking down upon her with his kind eyes.
"Do your friends know where you are?"
"No. I have run away from them."
It was so like Gentian, that Thorold could have smiled, had he been
less concerned about her.
And then she held out her unhurt hand to him, and when she had got hold
of his hand, clutched it as if she could never let it go, and burst
into a flood of tears.
He stood silent beside her, for he knew that her tears would relieve
her, and then he said gently:
"Don't bother to talk. I'll wait to be told things till you're feeling
better, but I must let Mrs. St. Lucas know where you are, and I would
like to see the doctor."
"Don't tell Mrs. St. Lucas, don't! He will come down and make a fuss.
We were going up to Chester and York—a kind of tour—and I won't go, and
he'll be angry."
She was struggling to get the better of her tears.
"I must wire to relieve their anxiety, but I won't say where you are.
I will say you are returning home with me. I will write later when you
can give me details."
He left the room. He was always prompt and practical. When he returned,
he had seen the doctor, wired to Mrs. St. Lucas, and ordered a nice
little dinner to be sent into the parlour for himself and Gentian. He
had also got a room for himself at an hotel in Maidenhead.
He found Gentian looking much better and brighter.
"It's all right now you are here," she said, "I'm ready to explain all."
"Not yet. We will have some food first. What a fortunate thing you were
so near this inn!"
"Yes; one of the ostlers heard the crash and ran out. It was only just
round the corner. Such a corner! They ought to have put up warning
lights, but I suppose I was reckless—I felt so."
She could not eat much, she said her head was bad, but she drank a cup
of tea, and she looked up at him pathetically when he helped her back
to the couch.
"If only I was feeling well, how much we could enjoy ourselves!" she
said.
A little later the meal was carried away, and then he drew up a chair
to her side, and with her hand lightly clasping his she told her story.
"Do you know Mr. Buchan? He is very amusing, and alive to his
finger-tips, and he's a passionate, magnificent violinist. He loves
his violin like nothing in the world, and he amuses himself with
everybody else. He liked me, and he was awfully nice, and respectful
and courteous, and all he ought to be, until we had finished our London
recitals. Then he was tired and his nerves were on edge, and he would
take me about to places I did not like, and he began to take liberties,
called me by my Christian name, and was always taking hold of me, and
talking in a silly inane fashion. He thought I liked it, until one day
I made myself very angry and showed him that I did not intend to be
treated so. Then he did it to tease me.
"The night before last, Mrs. St. Lucas had a dinner engagement
somewhere, and I was feeling tired. I had not been in bed before two
or three in the morning for a whole week. He came in about dinner time
and wanted me to go to the Ritz with him. I refused, and then he said
he should stay at home with me. I am quite sure he took too much whisky
at dinner, for when he came into the drawing-room afterwards, he reeked
of it, and he began to be most objectionable, calling me his 'darling
girl' and trying to kiss me. I walked straight away from him and locked
myself up in my bedroom.
"Mrs. St. Lucas came home very late, so I determined to tell her about
it in the morning. I did not know quite what to do, for she had made
all arrangements to go to Vienna, and of course Mr. Buchan was going
too, and I suddenly felt sick and disgusted with it all. I hardly
slept—worrying through things and not seeing how I could back out of
it, or get away from them. Then in the morning I heard from Mrs. St.
Lucas' maid when she called me that Mrs. St. Lucas had gone down to
Richmond with a party of friends for the day. It was just like her. She
left a message saying she would be back early in the evening. I asked
the maid if Mr. Buchan were out or in, and she gave me a note from him."
Gentian paused, then with her head held very proudly, she went on:
"If he had apologized for his behaviour, I would very likely have
forgiven him on condition he never offended in that way again, but his
note was sentimental drivel, just flattering me, and saying that the
earth could do better without the sun than he could without me, and he
ended by saying he wanted to take me down the river for the day. Would
I be kind and come? I sent a message by the maid to say that I was not
well and was going to have a quiet day in my room. And then after I had
heard him leave the flat, and angrily tell the maid he would not be in
till late, it suddenly struck me what I could do!
"In a few minutes I was out of bed and dressed, and had got to the
nearest garage. I hired a car without thinking of where I was going.
I only knew I must get away from it all. I remembered as I was going
through the streets, that Waddy had a married sister in Wiltshire. She
came to her funeral, and I thought for the sake of Waddy that she might
take me in. And then, just as I came here, I ran into some trees half
across the road. I'm not smashed up myself, perhaps it would be better
for you and others if I were, but the car is an utter wreck, and I
shall have to pay an awful sum at the garage, I suppose. I didn't know
what to do, and then I thought of you. And if you can square it up with
them now, I'll pay you back by instalments. If it takes a lifetime to
do it, I will!"
She glanced up at him feverishly.
Thorold responded at once.
"I'll write to them to-night, they must know, of course. Now what do
you want to do?"
There was silence. Gentian leant back against a very hard cushion and
looked up at him gravely.
"What do you advise me to do?" she said.
"I think the best thing for you to do is to go to bed and have a good
night's rest. You look as if you badly need it. I'll come round after
breakfast, and if you feel fit, I'll take you to Mrs. Wharnecliffe, who
is really anxious about you. She told me you had left off writing to
her."
"Oh, I haven't written to anyone—except perhaps you—and you haven't
heard very often, have you?"
"We'll talk over things to-morrow. I do not know whether you want to
break entirely with these new friends of yours. But don't worry your
head over them. Now I am going. Good night. The landlady says she has a
comfortable bedroom for you."
"Oh, what does it matter where I sleep! I'm only a plague and bother
to all my friends. Good night. You're like one of your Cornish Tors—I
wish—I wish I could be so immovably serene!"
Thorold left her—and acting upon his advice, Gentian went up to her
bedroom and got into an old-fashioned fourpost bed with a feather
mattress. As she put down her head upon her pillow, she said to herself
determinedly:
"I shan't think of Vernon or his sister. I shall wipe them off my mind.
I shall only dream and think of that peaceful Cornish valley by the
sea, and of Cousin Thor moving about in it trying to shoulder all the
people's burdens. He is shouldering mine, and I will leave him to do
it. He never fails me."
Sleep came to her very soon in spite of aching wrist and limbs. She met
Thorold at the breakfast table the next morning looking much more like
herself. And she had recovered her spirits. Meeting his intent gaze she
asked him lightly:
"Am I looking an awful guy? I feel as if I have been in a football
scrimmage."
"You are very thin," said Thorold gravely. "I suppose it is the result
of the life you have been leading—late hours and excitement."
"I have only had six weeks of it, barely that."
"It's long enough to have brought lines to your face which were not
there before."
"You're not complimentary. You never are to me. But I have got nervy
and cross in London. I always hated towns. I told you so when you came
and took Waddy and me away from it. The air is used up, and people get
in one's way, and are nasty, and then that rouses nastiness in me."
"Well, now we must talk matters over. You have been too hasty and
impetuous in running away like this! Do you want to end all this
musical life? Will you be content to settle down quietly away from it
all?"
"I never want to get away from music. I could not be happy without a
piano or organ, but I never want to see Mr. Buchan again, never. He
thinks of nobody but himself, and thinks he can treat me anyhow!"
Gentian's cheeks grew hot and red as she thought of her last interview
with Vernon, and of his letter following it.
"I don't know where I am to live," she went on with a plaintive tone in
her voice. "I could never go back to the Miss Buchans. Now I see that I
treated them badly, for they have been very kind to me. But Mr. Buchan
made me write to them and definitely refuse to go back to them. And I
can't stay very long with Mrs. Wharnecliffe."
"We'll talk over plans with her," said Thorold hastily. "I think you
had better write yourself to both Mr. Buchan and his sister. They have
been kind to you. Don't shirk it. You are not a child, and must be able
to have the courage of your convictions."
Gentian looked at him with laughter in her eyes.
"You are just the same as ever. Very kind when I am in trouble, but so
quick to dictate to me and correct my faults. When I sweep people out
of my life, I do it with one good swish of the broom, and never give my
reasons. Why should I?"
"I think it would be more courteous and more straightforward if you
were to do so."
"What! To tell Mrs. St. Lucas that her brother is detestable to me!"
"No, that is not necessary."
Gentian jumped up from the breakfast table. "I'll write with the
greatest pleasure. No one can say that I am afraid of them."
She seized hold of her writing-case, sat down and scribbled off two
hasty notes which she handed to Thorold to read before she placed them
in their envelopes.
"DEAR MRS. ST. LUCAS,—
"I hope you were not anxious about me. I would have explained had you
been home. I have had enough of town life. Your brother and I have had
words—I don't feel I care about being with him any more. I have played
for him at his two big Recitals, and that is all I came up for. I shall
never change my mind, but I thank you for your kind hospitality and
hope you will enjoy Vienna. Please send my luggage to Mrs. Wharnecliffe
and forgive my hasty departure.
"Yours gratefully,
"GENTIAN BRENDON."
"DEAR MR. BUCHAN,—
"I feel you will have given your sister an explanation of my
disappearance. Please do not think that all girls are alike, and that I
understand such talk and behaviour as yours. Your letter is offensive
to me. What have I done to make you write in such a style? I hope we
shall never meet again. I should have been happier if I had never known
you.
"I can't describe myself anything but a disgusted and disillusioned
acquaintance,
"GENTIAN BRENDON."
Thorold handed them back to her with a very grave face.
"Well, you don't approve of them?"
"I think you might write to him differently. With a little more
dignity. After all, he may have only expressed what he felt for you—you
are too severe."
"Oh, men always side with men."
"I am trying to be just and fair," said Thorold. "Give his note back to
me."
Gentian tore it to pieces, then dashed off another epistle.
"DEAR MR. BUCHAN,—
"I am sorry that I felt obliged to come away from town. Your attitude
lately has stopped our friendly intercourse, and I think it wiser to
end my visit to your sister.
"Thanking you for all your past kindness,
"Yours sincerely,
"GENTIAN BRENDON."
"That is better," was Thorold's comment. "Now we'll post these at once,
and get them off our mind. There's a train we can catch in an hour's
time. The doctor wants to see you once more. I see him coming along the
road now."
"Oh, I don't want doctors," said Gentian impatiently.
But she was persuaded to see him, and he was able to bandage her wrist
afresh.
"You want a good rest. Your nerves are overstrained," he told her. "Why
will you young people burn the candle at both ends! Then if illness or
accident comes, you have no resisting force to overcome them."
"I consider I've weathered through my accident in splendid fashion,"
she said.
He shook his head.
"Your pulse does not tell me so. Take it quietly. You will feel your
bruises for some days, but you have had a wonderful escape."
In an hour's time Gentian was sitting opposite Thorold in a railway
carriage.
He talked to her a great deal about Cornwall; of its traditions and
folklore and history. He persistently refused to discuss any future
plans with her and she was content, for the time being, to live in the
present.
Mrs. Wharnecliffe received Gentian with her usual warmth of welcome.
"The very bad penny has returned to you," said Gentian softly and
contritely.
"I almost felt it would be so," was Mrs. Wharnecliffe's response. "Your
heart was so set on going, that I felt it would be wise to let you go;
but I had a presentiment that it would be a failure."
They had had luncheon in the train. Sitting out under the big acacia
tree on the lawn, Gentian poured out her story. Mrs. Wharnecliffe
smiled at times at her childishness, yet was surprised with her quick
comprehension and discernment. She saw that Vernon Buchan had wearied
her long before the actual break with him, and she was thankful for it.
Thorold left them alone for a considerable time; then, when he joined
them, Mrs. Wharnecliffe said she must finish writing some letters.
"We will have tea out here," she said. "I shall not be long."
Thorold took a garden chair and pulled out his pipe, but he did not
light it. He looked at Gentian in a funny, diffident kind of way.
"Now shall we talk plans?" he said.
"Yes," said Gentian with a sigh; "but you'll be very clever if you can
find a home for me anywhere, I must work; but what to do, and how to
earn money, I do not know. I suppose I must try and give music lessons,
but I am not very patient."
Thorold cleared his throat.
"I should like to offer you a home," he said; "but I doubt if you
would—"
"Oh, where? Not in Cornwall with you? As your housekeeper?"
He shook his head.
"Oh, no."
Gentian's face fell.
Then he put his pipe in his pocket, and took her slim little hand in
his.
"Am I too old and stodgy for you, Gentian? Too dull and commonplace to
make you happy? Would you care to come down to Cornwall and make me one
of the happiest men there?"
"Are you asking me to marry you?" whispered Gentian, her blue eyes
glowing as she looked up into his rather agitated face.
"I am asking you to be my wife," he said very solemnly.
Her face broke up into ripples of laughter. Then a tender softness came
over it.
"Cousin Thor, you're a darling! Do you really mean it?"
"Would I joke on such a subject?"
"I never, never thought you'd care enough for me. Why, I like you
better than anyone else in the world! You're not asking me out of pity?"
Thorold had drawn her into his arms.
"There's no pity in my heart," he said softly, "only immense love. And
it has been there for a long, long time, only I thought I was too old
for you."
"You're not a bit old, you're everything that I want. Did you know how
I felt about you?"
"Tell me."
But Gentian had suddenly become shy. "I will one day, but not yet."
Mrs. Wharnecliffe, looking out of her morning-room, suddenly rang her
bell, and gave orders that tea was to be delayed half an hour. At the
end of that time, she walked out to the acacia tree, and received the
news with great equanimity.
"And now do you think all your troubles are at an end, Gentian?" she
asked, smiling.
"Troubles?" repeated the girl with shining eyes. "Oh, indeed they are!
The whole world is changed to me. Now, Mrs. Wharnecliffe, I shall have
a right to go off to Cornwall as often as I like, and a right to have
my say in his house, and everything that concerns him. I have a right
to look after him in every way. How I've longed to do it! I can hardly
believe it is true! Just think. An hour ago I had no hope—no certainty
or knowledge of what was to become of me—I was lonely and miserable. I
had made a mess of my affairs in town—I had offended the Misses Buchan,
I felt you and Cousin Thor did not know what to do with me, and looked
upon me as an incubus—an obstacle to your peace of mind! I felt he was
going back to his mine, and Miss Muir meant to marry him. And here in
this peaceful garden I was at the end of everything. When Cousin Thor
said he wanted to talk plans, I thought I should be placed in some
awful family, or have a stiff, starched chaperon. I haven't had time to
think things out yet. I hardly know if I stand on my head or my heels.
Do you think he really and truly means what he says? He's the sort that
might sacrifice his whole life from compassion or pity on somebody. And
that somebody would be me! You know him very well."
But Thorold interrupted:
"Do you doubt my word?" he asked her softly.
And Gentian gazed at him with tender smiling eyes.
"No, you couldn't tell a lie. You've done for yourself, Cousin Thor,
for good or evil you have got me now. Mrs. Wharnecliffe, are you in
your heart of hearts the least bit sorry for him?"
"I should be, if I did not know you both very intimately. I know he
will satisfy all your requirements, Gentian, and it is in your power to
satisfy his."
"Here we are, taking all the romance and beauty out of it, and
deliberately discussing it in cold blood," said Gentian. "I shall be
as bold as brass, and say it out loud: I love him, Mrs. Wharnecliffe,
and he loves me. Nothing else matters, nothing. If his mine burst up
to-morrow, and we had to live in two rooms on bread and cheese, I would
be singing for joy in my heart."
"And now we will have tea," said Mrs. Wharnecliffe, laughing, "and for
the present, Gentian, bread and cheese is not your portion. May I say
this, that you are a very fortunate girl. I don't think you know what I
think of your Cousin Thorold."
"Yes I do—he's a tower of strength. I told him once my ideal of a
husband, and he's the only man that has fulfilled it. I want some
one like a rock for steadiness and reliability, he must never fail
me, never deceive me, never disappoint me. And his soul must be the
strongest part of him; for mine is the weakest. And you know his side
of the bargain. A scatter-brained, changeable, impetuous, well-meaning,
but altogether selfish bubble—just a frothy bubble. But—" here sudden
fire leaped to her eyes—"I'll do better, and I'll spend my life in
making him happy. He never thinks of himself, he has always thought
first of others. I will think first of him."
"You embarrass me," said Thorold.
Mrs. Wharnecliffe gave a turn to the conversation.
"Personalities will now be avoided," she said playfully. "What is more
to the purpose is—how long will you be able to stay here, Thorold?"
"I must get back to-morrow night."
They began to discuss plans. But Gentian's glowing animation died down.
She sat with clasped hands round her knees, gazing dreamily across the
sunny lawn.
She felt that this was the golden hour in her life, and as her eyes
wandered up to the deep blue sky above her, she wondered if her
faithful friend would be allowed to know the great happiness that had
come to her.