STELFOX IS RETICENT.
Chris burst into tears.
It seemed to her as if she had betrayed him into the hands of his
enemies, and she sobbed out:
“Oh, let him go! let him go! What have you made me do?”
And all the time that she was speaking and drying her tears, Mr.
Richard, without showing any anger at his capture, kept his mild
eyes fixed upon her. When she looked up at him, with entreaties for
forgiveness in her face, he smiled quite kindly at her and stood still,
while Stelfox, keeping his hand upon his prisoner, explained:
“It’s better for him to go home quietly with me than for him to be
brought back with a bad cold, and without more consideration for his
feelings than if he was a carted deer, at five o’clock in the morning.”
But Chris was not satisfied, although Mr. Richard himself seemed
reconciled to his fate. Then Stelfox went on, exactly as if Mr.
Richard had not been present:
“I’ll tell you what you can do, miss, if you feel so sorry for him. Ask
him to come back with you to the house and he will do so without any
trouble.”
Chris was reluctant to do this for several reasons.
“But he won’t understand,” she said, softly, turning so that Mr.
Richard should not hear.
Stelfox’s straight mouth lengthened into a smile.
“Just you try him, miss,” said he.
So Chris turned again to the silent man.
“Will you come back with me to the house?” she asked, with a gesture in
the direction of the mansion.
His face lighted up at once, and as Stelfox freed his arm he turned
and walked beside her along the path through the meadow. They went
in silence, for although Chris was so full of pity and of sympathy
that she longed to express her feelings in some way, his silence made
intercourse difficult. When they reached the gate into the garden,
Stelfox came up to them.
“You had better go on by yourself, miss, now,” said he.
It was evident that Mr. Richard understood this too, for his face
clouded.
Chris held out her hand to him with a smile. He took it in both his and
held it for some seconds, while his wistful eyes gazed upon her face
with a look of despair which touched her to the quick.
When she had withdrawn her hand and run along the path for a few paces,
she heard again the weird, harsh sounds which seemed the only form of
speech of which the poor fellow was capable. Glancing round, she saw
that he was engaged in some sort of altercation with Stelfox over
which he was getting very much excited. A few moments after, Stelfox
left him and ran up to her.
“The poor young gentleman is in a great way, miss,” he said, “because
he’s afraid he won’t see you again.”
Chris drew a sharp breath. This very thought had been troubling her.
“_Can_ I see him again, Stelfox?” she asked, almost eagerly. “Would Mr.
Bradfield allow it?”
One of the dry smiles peculiar to Stelfox for a moment expanded his
features without brightening them.
“Maybe we won’t trouble him by enquiring, miss,” he said; “but if
you would care to see Mr. Richard again, though he isn’t much of a
companion for a young lady, I’m afraid, I could manage it. And I can
warrant he won’t hurt you.”
“Oh, no, I’m sure of that! I wasn’t thinking of that!”
“It will be a great kindness, miss, if you’re not afraid,” said
Stelfox, almost gratefully.
But Chris was looking in perplexity back in the direction of Mr.
Richard, who was waiting as quietly as possible by the gate.
“Tell me one thing,” said Chris in a puzzled tone. “No, I mean tell me
half-a-dozen things.”
Stelfox seemed to draw back into himself at her words.
“Won’t it do another time, miss, please?” said he, respectfully. “Mr.
Richard’s there waiting for me, and he might----”
“Oh, no, you’re not afraid of his running away now; that’s one of the
curious things in the case. And another is that you can trust him not
to hurt anybody, although I have myself seen him try to do so. And how
is it that he seems to understand what one says at one time and that
the next moment one may say something to him of which he won’t take
the least notice? And why does he make those dreadful noises, and yet
be able to make you understand what he means? It doesn’t sound like a
language that he talks at all; but is it?”
Stelfox’s face had become a discreet blank.
“Yes, it’s a foreign language, miss. One of the South African
languages, I believe. You see, he was born and brought up in South
Africa, and being as he is, not quite like other folks, he hasn’t been
able to pick up English yet, but I manage to make him out, through
being with him so much.”
Chris smiled a little as she turned to go into the house.
“Thank you very much for your explanation, Stelfox,” she said, “even
though I know it isn’t true.”
She thought she heard a dry chuckle behind her as she went up the steps.
Chris was more excited than she had ever been before in her life. She
did not quite understand the nature of the emotions which seemed to be
waging war upon one another within her.
Chris was going upstairs, when, as she passed the study door, it flew
open as if by a spring, and disclosed Mr. Bradfield, looking rather
ashamed of himself. He wanted to find out whether she had seen him at
the barn-door, and he hoped she had not. Chris, on the other hand, was
feeling both hurt and surprised at his having left her with the madman,
instead of coming to her rescue. While she had laughed at her mother
for thinking Mr. Bradfield must be honest because he was rough, she had
herself on the same grounds, thought he must be courageous.
“Well, what have you been doing with yourself this afternoon?” asked
he, in a jocular tone, under which she thought she detected some
uneasiness.
“Since I saw you last, Mr. Bradfield?” asked Chris, demurely; “at the
door of the barn?”
“Yes, yes,” said he, hastily; “at least, since that, and before
that--all the afternoon, I mean?”
“First I worked in the Chinese-room, making the dresses for to-morrow
night,” began Chris.
“Oh! that tomfoolery,” interrupted Mr. Bradfield. “I wouldn’t have
anything to do with it if I were you. Everything will go wrong, and
all the blame will be put on to your shoulders. I know my gushing
cousin--and her methods!”
“I can’t get out of it now, even if I wanted to,” said she, rather
ruefully. “I don’t feel myself that there will be much glory accruing
to us from the entertainment.”
“Glory? I should think not. I’m going to be miles away myself.”
“Oh! Mr. Bradfield, do you mean that? They’ll all be dreadfully
disappointed.”
“Can’t help that. Business must be considered before _pleasure_, you
know,” he added, drily.
Both were talking, as it were, to fill up the time until they were
ready for attack and defence on the subject which was occupying the
minds of both. Then, as Chris moved as if to go on her way upstairs,
Mr. Bradfield came out of his study, and shut the door.
“I’ve bought a new picture,” said he, as he invited her by gesture to
accompany him to the dining-room, “by one of these French fellows. Very
high art; gives one the creeps.”
Before they stood in front of the picture, which was one of those
heart-breaking war-pictures, tired soldiers trudging along under grey,
wet skies, which form part of the legacy of the Franco-Prussian war,
each knew that the tussle was coming.
“You take an encounter with a madman very philosophically, Miss
Christina,” said he.
“Not more philosophically than you did, Mr. Bradfield, when you looked
into the barn, and left me there with him!” cried she.
He was rather disconcerted by this retort.
“Oh--er--well,” he began, “you see, I could not quite make out, from
where I was, who was with him, and----”
“And you knew, of course, what I did not, that he would not do me any
harm.”
Mr. Bradfield seemed to find this difficult to answer. It was not until
after a minute’s reflection of an apparently unpleasant kind that he
said, rather shortly:
“I could see that he was not in one of his frenzied fits, and I thought
it best to go away quickly while the quiet mood lasted, and send
Stelfox, who knows how to manage him. Surely you don’t suppose I should
have left you alone with him if I had thought it likely he would do you
any harm?”
“No, I don’t suppose so. Only----”
“Only what?”
“I can hardly believe that he is ever so very dangerous. I can’t help
thinking he would be better if he were allowed to come out sometimes
and see people. Do you know, I think I should go mad myself if I lived
in two rooms, and never saw anybody but Stelfox!”
Chris hurried out this speech hastily, regardless of the evident fact
that the subject was extremely distasteful to Mr. Bradfield, who walked
up and down the room impatiently, with his hands behind him, and
repeatedly looked at his watch, as if he could hardly spare the time to
listen to such nonsense. When she had finished, he said, shortly:
“I am afraid you must allow me to know best. My knowledge of him dates
from many years back, you see, while yours is of the slightest possible
kind. But you yourself saw him in one of his fits, when he threw
something at you through the window. Do you want better proof than that
of his dangerous temper? And do you think a person who is born without
intelligence enough to learn to speak is fit to be trusted among other
human beings?”
“Never learned to speak!” echoed Chris, doubtfully. “Stelfox said it
was an African language he talked!”
Angry as he was, Mr. Bradfield burst into an uncontrollable laugh at
this. Then, at once recovering his gravity, he said quickly:
“Stelfox is an old woman! Never mind what he says. When you want to
know anything, come to me.”
“I want to know something now, Mr. Bradfield, please.”
“Well, what is it?”
“Whether my mother has told you I’m going to be a hospital nurse?”
“A what?”
“A nurse at one of the London hospitals.”
“What on earth do you want to do that for?”
She hesitated a little before replying, in some embarrassment:
“Well, you see, in spite of all your kindness, it is rather a difficult
position for me here, isn’t it? Or rather, it isn’t any position at
all. I’m not a servant, and I’m not a visitor, and I’m not a daughter
of the house, but I’m treated as all three----”
“Who treats you as a servant?” interrupted Mr. Bradfield, angrily. “At
least, you needn’t tell me. Of course it’s my pretentious old porpoise
of a cousin! I’ll give her a talking-to she won’t forget in a hurry!
But why do you trouble your head about the maunderings of a snob?”
“I don’t trouble my head more about her treatment than about yours,
Mr. Bradfield,” answered Chris, smiling. “I shouldn’t mind being a
parlour-maid here at all. Your parlour-maids have rather a good time of
it, I think. And I shouldn’t mind being a visitor, nor a daughter; but
a combination of the duties of all three is too much for one pair of
feminine hands, and one simple feminine understanding.”
“Oh! And who’s to take care of my china when you’re gone?”
“Miss Graham-Shute.”
“Which one?”
“Rose. Mrs. Graham-Shute says dusting would spoil the shape of Lilith’s
hands.”
“And who is to play the piano in the evenings?”
“Oh, Mrs. Shute herself could do that.”
Mr. Bradfield groaned.
“Shade of Instruction-book Hamilton! What has the piano done that it
should be exposed to that?” he exclaimed. Then, turning to Chris with
a frown, he went on, “You say I have been kind to you. Well, don’t you
know that you are here to protect me from these people? I told you so
when you first came.”
“But you didn’t quite mean it! You like them really, or you wouldn’t
have asked them to spend Christmas with you!”
“I like them--in moderation. But now the old lady has made up her mind
to settle down here, I see that I’m in for too much of a good thing. I
shall have to forbid them the house, or they will be in and out like
rabbits all day long.”
“You won’t be too rigorous, will you? For the sake of the poor girls?”
“You like the girls, then?”
“I’m sorry for them. One is rather spoilt, the other is rather
down-trodden.”
“And the son? He’s been making love to you, hasn’t he?”
“Yes.”
“You take it very coolly. Has he asked you to marry him?”
Chris laughed.
“Why, no, Mr. Bradfield. He’s only a boy, and I’ve only known him two
days!”
Mr. Bradfield glanced at her, looked away quickly, took up his stand on
the hearth-rug, and drummed on his chin with his fingers.
Chris looked at the door, and hoped he would let her go. She had an
idea what these signs might portend.
“It wouldn’t surprise me now,” he began, in a rather nervous tone, “to
hear of a man wanting to marry you when he had only known you two days.
But it would surprise me,” he went on, with a little awkward laugh, “to
hear that he had plucked up courage to ask you.”
Before he had reached the last word, Chris was at the door. But Mr.
Bradfield reached it nearly as soon as she.
“No, no, I want to ask you a question before you go. Tell me, you’ve
had offers of marriage made to you before now, haven’t you?”
“Oh, yes, I have, but--but I don’t like them; I don’t like them at all.
It’s very unpleasant, you know,” she went on rapidly, looking anywhere
but at him, “to have to say things people don’t want to hear.”
“Well, I suppose,” said Mr. Bradfield, who was not to be put off now
that he had strung himself up to the required pitch, “the man will come
some day to receive an answer which is not unpleasant?”
Chris shook her head doubtfully.
“Perhaps. I don’t know.”
“You say you’ve had plenty of offers?”
“I didn’t say that. I said I had had some.”
“Any from men like--like me?”
Chris glanced at him quickly, and shook her head with a little smile,
half demure, half mischievous. She answered decidedly:
“No, not at all like you. In the first place, they hadn’t any of them
sixpence; in the second place, they were mostly boys, at least what I
call boys,” she added, in a tone of patronage.
This delighted Mr. Bradfield. Nobody could reproach him with being a
boy.
“And you didn’t care for any of them?”
“Oh, yes, I did. For some of them. In a way.”
“Well, do you think you could ever care for me--in a way, in any way?”
Chris did not want to be unkind, but she shook her head decidedly.
“Oh, Mr. Bradfield, what do you want to ask me for? I couldn’t help
seeing you were going to, you know, and I’ve been trying to put off the
e--I mean, I’ve been trying to stave it off. I wanted you to see it was
no use, and that’s one of the reasons why I wanted to go away and be a
hospital nurse. So it isn’t my fault, really.”
“No, it’s my misfortune,” said Mr. Bradfield, shortly. “But I think
you’re very silly.”
“Yes, and my mother will think so too, that’s the worst of it,” said
Chris, ruefully.
“And don’t you think the opinion of two people like your mother and me
is worth more than yours?” asked Mr. Bradfield, good-humouredly.
Chris, though she was glad that he was not angry, did not like the way
in which he took her refusal. For he treated it as a joke, as a matter
of no consequence, and he stood very close to her, and stared at her,
as she told her mother afterwards, in a way she did not like. This
manner of receiving her answer piqued her, while it perhaps frightened
her a little.
“I think my opinion is worth the most,” she answered, with the colour
rising in her cheeks, “for I can act upon mine, while you can’t act
upon yours.”
Mr. Bradfield drew back a little way, amused, surprised, and pleased at
her spirit.
“You’re not afraid of being married against your will, then?”
At this rather ironically put question, the very soul of pretty Chris
seemed to flash through her eyes.
“No, indeed I’m not.”
Then Mr. Bradfield, who had lost his nervousness, and who went about
his wooing with a will now that he had fairly started, changed his
tone. In a voice which had become surprisingly tender--or which perhaps
only sounded tender because he did not shout so much as usual--he
said----
“Wouldn’t you like to make a man happy, little Chris?”
She was too womanly to hear this speech quite unmoved, even from a man
she did not care about. So she evaded it.
“I don’t think a woman can make a man happy,” she said.
“I don’t think every woman could. But I’m sure you could; at least, you
could make _me_ happy.”
“Well, if I really have the power of giving happiness, which I very
much doubt,” said Chris, laughing, “I think I ought to exercise it on
some man who hasn’t so many sources of happiness as you have already,
Mr. Bradfield.”
“Sources of happiness,” echoed he scoffingly. “And, pray, what are
they?”
“You have your collection, your curiosities, your pictures, your first
editions!”
“All sources of torment, not of happiness. I can honestly say that
I suffer more if I find that old General Wadham has a duplicate of
anything I buy, than I should rejoice over the discovery of a new and
genuine Raphael. I buy, I collect, to pass away the time.”
“But you can do so much good, and give so much pleasure. Doesn’t that
make you happy?”
“Not a bit.”
“Yet you are very kind-hearted. You give away a great deal in charity,”
objected Chris, incredulously. “It makes you happy to help the poor and
needy,” she ended, feeling that she was talking rather like a tract.
“No, it doesn’t. I help ’em to get rid of ’em!” rejoined Mr. Bradfield,
tartly. “I hate the poor and needy. I’ve been poor and needy myself,
and,” he wound up with a sudden viciousness in his tone, “I know just
how they feel towards me, because I remember how I used to feel towards
anyone better off than myself.”
Chris was almost frightened. For Mr. Bradfield’s private feelings
had, for the moment, run away with him, and he showed the girl,
unconsciously, into a dark corner of his mind, which it would have
been better for him to have kept hidden while his wooing lasted. She
felt as if she had overheard something not intended for her ear, and
it was almost with the manner of an eavesdropper who has been caught
in the act, that she moved towards the door. She had long since lost
the position she had taken up by it, having been followed up by her
unwanted admirer, until she was back again by the fireplace. He seemed
to become aware of her intention to escape quite suddenly, but he had
apparently lost the wish to detain her.
As she opened the door, he only called out----
“Good-bye, Miss Christina. But mind, I shall make you give me another
answer by-and-by.”
Chris pretended not to hear.