BREAKERS AHEAD
It was well that the stars, those bright-eyed spectators of a sleeping
world, tell no tales of us poor humans, or they might have whispered the
fact that the reasonable sober-minded Ursula Garston was holding foolish
vigil that night until the gray dawn drove her away to seek a brief rest.
But how could I sleep?--how could any woman sleep when such a revelation
had been vouchsafed her?--when a certain look, and those two words,
'Come, Ursula,' still haunted me,--that strange brief wooing, that was
hardly wooing, and yet meant unutterable things, that silent acceptance,
that simple yielding, when I put my hand in his, Giles's, and saw the
quick look of joy in his eyes?
Ah, the veil had fallen from my eyes at last: for the first time I
realised how all these weeks he had been drawing me closer to himself,
how his strong will had subjugated mine. My dislike of him had been
brief; he had awakened my interest first, then attracted my sympathy, and
finally won my respect and friendship, until I had grown to love him in
spite of myself. Strange to say, I had lost all fear of him; as I sat
holding communion with myself that night, I felt that I should never be
afraid of him again. 'Perfect love casteth out fear': is not that what
the apostle tells us? It was true, I thought, for now I did not seem to
be afraid either of Mr. Hamilton's strange stern nature, of the sadness
of his past life, or of the mysteries and misunderstandings of that
troubled household. It seemed to me I feared nothing,--not even my own
want of beauty, that had once been a trial to me; for if Giles loved me
how could such minor evils affect me?
Yes, as I sat there under the solemn starlight, with the jasmine sprays
cooling my hot cheek and the soft night breeze fanning me, I owned, and
was not ashamed to own, in my woman's heart, and with all the truth of
which I was capable, that this was the man whom my soul delighted to
honour; not faultless, not free from blame, full of flaws and
imperfections, but still a strong grand man, intensely human in his
sympathies, one who loved his fellows, and who did his life's work in
true knightly fashion, running full tilt against prejudices and the
shams of conventionality.
Often during the night I thought of my mother, and how she had told me,
laughing, that my father had never really asked her to marry him.
'I don't know how we were engaged, Ursula,' she once said, when we
were talking about Charlie and Lesbia in the twilight; 'we were at a
ball,--Lady Fitzherbert's,--and of course being a clergyman he did not
dance, but he took me into the conservatory and gave me a flower: I think
it was a rose. There were people all round us, and neither he nor I could
tell how it was done, but when he put me into the carriage I knew we were
somehow promised to each other, and when he came the next day he called
me Amy, and kissed me in the most quite matter-of-fact way. I often laugh
and tell him that he took it all, for granted.'
'Giles will come to-morrow,' I said to myself, as the first pale gleam
came over the eastern sky, 'and then I shall know all about it.' And I
fell asleep happily, and dreamt of Charlie, and I thought he was pelting
me with roses in the old vicarage garden.
'"And the evening and the morning were the first day,"' were my waking
words when I opened my eyes; for in the inward as well as the outward
creation, in hearts as well as worlds, all things become new under the
grace of such miracle. I was not the same woman that I had been
yesterday, neither should I ever be the same again. I seemed as though I
were in accord with all the harmonies of nature. 'And surely God saw that
it was good,' ought to be written upon all true and faithful earthly
attachments. I was expecting Mr. Hamilton, and yet it gave me a sort of
shock when I saw him coming up the road: he was walking very fast, with
his head bent, but his face was set in the direction of the cottage.
I sat down by the window and took out some work, but my hands trembled so
that I was compelled to lay it aside. It was not that I was afraid of
what he might say to me, for my heart had its welcome ready, but natural
womanly timidity caused the slight fluttering of my pulses.
The moments seemed long before I heard the click of the gate, before the
firm regular footsteps crunched the gravel walk; then came his knock at
my door, and I rose to greet him. But the moment I saw his face a sudden
anxiety seized me. What had happened? What made him look so pale and
embarrassed, so strangely unlike himself? This was not the greeting I
expected. This was not how we ought to meet on this morning of all
mornings.
As he shook hands with me quickly and rather nervously, he seemed to
avoid my eyes. He walked to the window, picked a spray of jasmine, and
began pulling it to pieces, all the time he talked. As for me, I sat down
again and took up my work: he should not see that I felt his coldness,
that he had disappointed me.
'I have come very early, I am afraid,' he began, 'but I thought I ought
to let you know. Mrs. Hanbury's little girl, the lame one, Jessie, has
got badly burnt,--some carelessness or other; but they are an ignorant
set, and the child will need your care.'
'I will go at once. Where do they live?' But somehow as I asked the
question I felt as though my voice had lost all tone and sounded like
Miss Darrell's.
He told me, and then gave me the necessary instructions. 'Janet Coombe,
a servant at the Man and Plough, is ill too, and they sent up for me this
morning; it seems a touch of low fever,--nothing really infectious,
though; but the men from the soap-works are having their bean-feast, and
all the folks are too busy to pay Janet much attention.'
'I will see about her,' I returned. 'Are those the only cases, Mr.
Hamilton?' He looked round at me then, as though my quiet matter-of-fact
answer had surprised him, and for a moment he surveyed me gravely and
wistfully; then he seemed to rouse himself with an effort.
'Yes, those are the only cases at present. Thank you, I shall be much
obliged if you will attend to them. Little Jessie is a very delicate
child: things may go hardly with her.' Then he stopped, picked another
spray of jasmine, and pulled off the little starry flowers remorselessly.
'Miss Garston, I want to say something: I feel I owe you some sort of
explanation. I wish to tell you that I have only myself to blame. I have
thought it all over, and I have come to the conclusion that it is no
fault of yours that I misunderstood you. It is your nature to be kind.
You did not wish to mislead me.'
'I am not aware that I ever mislead people,' I returned, rather proudly,
for I could not help feeling a little indignant: Mr. Hamilton was
certainly not treating me well.
'No, of course not,' looking excessively pained. 'I know you too well to
accuse you of that. If I misunderstood you, if I imagined things, it was
my own fault,--mine solely. I would not blame you for worlds.'
'I am glad of that, Mr. Hamilton,' in rather an icy tone.
'No, you could not have told me: I ought to have found it out for myself.
Do you mind if I go away now? I do not feel quite myself, and I would
rather talk of this again another time. Perhaps you will tell me all
about it then.' And he actually took up his hat and shook hands with me
again. Somehow his touch made me shiver when I remembered the long
hand-clasp of the previous night,--only ten or eleven hours ago; and yet
this strange change had been worked in him.
I let him go, though it nearly broke my heart to see him look so careworn
and miserable. My woman's pride was up in arms, though for very pity and
love I could have called him back and begged him to tell me in plain
English and without reservation what he meant by his vague words. Once I
rose and went to the door, the latch was in my hand, but I sat down again
and watched him quietly until he was out of sight. I would wait, I said
to myself; I would rather wait until he came to his senses; and then I
laughed a little angrily, though the tears were in my eyes. It was
vexatious, it was bitterly disappointing, it was laying on my shoulders a
fresh burden of responsibility and anxiety. The happiness that a quarter
of an hour ago seemed within my reach had vanished and left me worried
and perplexed. And yet, in spite of the pain Mr. Hamilton had inflicted,
I did not for one moment lose hope or courage.
Something had gone wrong, that was evident. The perfect understanding
that had been between us last night seemed ruthlessly disturbed and
perhaps broken. Could this be Miss Darrell's work? Had she made mischief
between us? I wondered what part of my conduct or actions she had
misrepresented to her cousin. It was this uncertainty that tormented
me: how could I refute mere intangible shadows?
Strange to say, I never doubted his love for a moment. If such a doubt
had entered my mind I should have been miserable indeed; but no such
thought fretted me. I was only hurt that he could have brought himself
to believe anything against me, that he should have listened to her false
sophistry and not have asked for my explanation; but, as I remembered
that love was prone to jealousy and not above suspicion, I soon forgave
him in my heart.
Ah well, we must both suffer, I thought; for he certainly looked very
unhappy, fagged, and weary, as though he had not slept. If he had told me
what was wrong I would have found some comfort for him; but under such
circumstances any woman must be dumb.
He had made me understand that he did not intend to ask me to marry him,
at least just yet; that for some reason best known to himself he wished
for no further explanation with me. Well, I could wait until he was ready
to speak; he need not fear that I should embarrass him. 'Men are strange
creatures,' I thought, as I rose, feeling tired in every limb, to put on
my bonnet; but, cast down and perplexed as I was, I would not own for a
minute that I was really miserable. My faith in Mr. Hamilton was too
strong for that; one day things would be right between us; one day he
would see the truth and know it, and there would be no cloud before his
eyes. I went rather sadly about my duties that day, but I was determined
that no one else should suffer for my unhappiness, so I exerted myself to
be cheerful with my patients, and the hard work did me good.
I was tired when I reached home, and I spent rather a dreary evening: it
was impossible to settle to my book. I could not help remembering how I
had called this a new day. As I prayed for Mr. Hamilton that night, I
could not help shedding a few tears; he was so strong, all the power was
in his hands; he might have saved me from this trouble. Then I remembered
that we were both unhappy together, and this thought calmed me; for the
same cloud was covering us both, and I wondered which of us would see the
sunshine first.
I do not wish to speak much of my feelings at this time: the old adage,
that 'the course of true love never runs smooth,' was true, alas, in my
case; but I was too proud to complain, and I tried not to fret overmuch.
Most women have known troubled days, when the current seems against them
and the waves run high; their strength fails and they seem to sink in
deep waters. Many a poor soul has suffered shipwreck in the very sight
of the haven where it would fain be, for man and woman too are 'born to
trouble as the sparks fly upward.'
Sometimes my pain was very great; but I would not succumb to it. I worked
harder than ever to combat my restlessness. My worst time was in the
evening, when I came home weary and dispirited. We seemed so near, and
yet so strangely apart, and it was hard at such times to keep to my old
faith in Mr. Hamilton and acquit him of unkindness.
'Why does he not tell me what he means? Do I deserve this silence?' I
would say to myself. Then I remembered his promise that he would speak
to me again about these things, and I resolved to be brave and patient.
I was longing to see Gladys, but she did not come for more than ten days.
And, alas! I could not go up to Gladwyn to seek her. This was the first
bitter fruit of our estrangement,--that it separated me from Gladys.
Lady Betty had gone away the very next day to pay a two months' visit to
an old school-fellow in Cornwall: so Gladys would be utterly alone. Uncle
Max was still in Norwich, detained by most vexatious lawyer's business:
so that I had not even the solace of his companionship. If it had not
been for Mr. Tudor, I should have been quite desolate. But I was always
meeting him in the village, and his cheery greeting was a cordial to me.
He always walked back with me, talking in his eager, boyish way. And I
had sometimes quite a trouble to get rid of him. He would stand for a
quarter of an hour at a time leaning over the gate and chatting with me.
By a sort of tacit consent, he never offered to come in, neither did I
invite him. We were both too much afraid of Miss Darrell's comments.
In all those ten days I only saw Mr. Hamilton once, for on Sunday his
seat in church had been vacant.
I was dressing little Jessie's burns one morning, and talking to her
cheerfully all the time, for she was a nervous little creature, when I
heard his footstep outside. And the next instant he was standing beside
us.
His curt 'Good-morning; how is the patient, nurse?' braced my faltering
nerves in a moment, and enabled me to answer him without embarrassment.
He had his grave professional air, and looked hard and impenetrable. I
had reason afterwards to think that this sternness of manner was assumed
for my benefit, for once, when I was preparing some lint for him, I
looked up inadvertently and saw that he was watching me with an
expression that was at once sad and wistful.
He turned away at once, when he saw I noticed him, and I left the room as
quickly as I could, for I felt the tears rising to my eyes. I had to sit
down a moment in the porch to recover myself. That look, so sad and
yearning, had quite upset me. If I had not known before, past all doubt,
that Mr. Hamilton loved me, I must have known it then.
We met more frequently after this. Janet Coombe was dangerously ill, and
Mr. Hamilton saw her two or three times a day. And, of course, I was
often there when he came.
He dropped his sternness of manner after a time, but he was never
otherwise than grave with me. The long, unrestrained talks, the friendly
looks, the keen interest shown in my daily pursuits, were now things of
the past. A few professional inquiries, directions about the treatment,
now and then a brief order to me, too peremptory to be a compliment,
not to over-tire myself, or to go home to rest,--this was all our
intercourse. And yet, in spite of his guarded looks and words, I was
often triumphant, even happy.
Outwardly, and to all appearance, I was left alone, but I knew that it
was far otherwise in reality. I was most strictly watched. Nothing
escaped his scrutiny. At the first sign of fatigue he was ready to take
my place, or find help for me. Mrs. Saunders, the mistress of the Man and
Plough, told me more than once that the doctor had been most particular
in telling her to look after me. Nor was this all.
Once or twice, when I had been singing in the summer twilight, I had
risen suddenly to lower a blind or admit Tinker, and had seen a tall,
dark figure moving away behind the laurel bushes, and knew that it was
Mr. Hamilton returning from some late visit and lingering in the dusky
road to listen to me.
After I had discovered this for the third time, I began to think he came
on purpose to hear me. My heart beat happily at the thought. In spite of
his displeasure with me, he could not keep away from the cottage.
After this I sang every evening regularly for an hour, and always in
the gloaming: it became my one pleasure, for I knew I was singing to him.
Now and then I was rewarded by a sight of his shadow. More than once I
saw him clearly in the moonlight. When I closed my piano, I used to
whisper 'Good-night, Giles,' and go to bed almost happy. It was a little
hard to meet him the next morning in Janet's room and answer his dry
matter-of-fact questions. Sometimes I had to turn away to hide a smile.
Gladys's first visit was very disappointing. But everything was
disappointing in those days. She had her old harassed look, and seemed
worried and miserable, and for once I had no heart to cheer her, only I
held her close, very close, feeling that she was dearer to me than ever.
She looked in my face rather inquiringly as she disengaged herself, and
then smiled faintly.
'I could not come before, Ursula; and you have never been to see me,' a
little reproachfully, 'though I looked for you every afternoon. I have no
Lady Betty, you know, and things have been worse than ever. I cannot
think what has come to Etta. She is always spiteful and sneering when
Giles is not by. And as for Giles, I do not know what is the matter with
him.'
'How do you mean?' I faltered, hunting in my work basket for some silk
that was lying close to my hand.
'That is more than I can say,' she returned pointedly. 'Have you and
Giles had a quarrel, Ursula? I thought that evening that you were the
best of friends, and that--' But here she hesitated, and her lovely eyes
seemed to ask for my confidence; but I could not speak even to Gladys of
such things, so I only answered, in a business-like tone,--
'It is true that your brother does not seem as friendly with me just now;
but I do not know how I have offended him. He has rather a peculiar
temper, as you have often told me: most likely I have gone against some
of his prejudices.' I felt I was answering Gladys in rather a reckless
fashion, but I could not bear even the touch of her sympathy on such a
wound. She looked much distressed at my reply.
'Oh no, you never offend Giles. He thinks far too much of you to let
any difference of opinion come between you. I see you do not wish me
to ask you, Ursula; but I must say one thing. If you want Giles to tell
you why he is hurt or distant with you,--why his manner is different, I
mean,--ask him plainly what Etta has been saying to him about you.'
I felt myself turning rather pale. 'Are you sure that Miss Darrell has
been talking about me, Gladys?'
'I have not heard her do so,' was the somewhat disappointing reply, for
I had hoped then that she had heard something. 'But I was quite as sure
of the fact as though my ears convicted her. I have only circumstantial
evidence again to offer you, but to my mind it is conclusive. You parted
friends that evening with Giles. Correct me if I am wrong.'
'Oh no; you are quite right. Your brother and I had no word of
disagreement.'
'No; he left the house radiant. When he returned, which was not for an
hour,--for he and Etta were out all that time in the garden, and they
sent Lady Betty in to finish her packing,--he was looking worried and
miserable, and shut himself up in his study. Since then he has been in
one of his taciturn, unsociable moods: nothing pleases him. He takes no
notice of us. Even Etta is scolded, but she bears it good-humouredly
and takes her revenge on me afterwards. A pleasant state of things,
Ursula!'
'Very,' I returned, sighing, for I thought this piece of evidence
conclusive enough.
'Now you will be good,' she went on, in a coaxing voice, 'and you will
ask Giles, like a reasonable woman, what Etta has been saying to him?'
'Indeed, I shall do no such thing,' I answered. And my cheek began to
flush. 'If your brother is ungenerous enough to condemn me unheard, I
shall certainly not interfere with his notions of justice. Do not trouble
yourself about it, Gladys. It will come right some day. And indeed it
does not matter so much to me, except it keeps us apart.'
Now why, when I spoke so haughtily and disagreeably, and told this little
fib, did Gladys suddenly take me in her arms and kiss me most sorrowfully
and tenderly?
'One after another!' she sighed. 'Oh, it is hard, Ursula!' But I would
not let her talk any more about it, for I was afraid I was breaking down
and might make a goose of myself: so I spoke of Eric, and told her that
I had written to Joe Muggins without success, and soon turned her
thoughts into another channel.