ELEVEN P.M.
"Rachel," said Mr. Dalrymple presently, speaking her name as if he had
had it in familiar use for years, "I suppose you have broken off with
_him?_"
Rachel did not reply for a few seconds; he felt her trembling in his
arms.
"Oh, forgive me," she whispered, turning her face a hair's-breadth
nearer to his as he stooped to listen.
And then she told him all the story of her engagement, as far as her new
experiences enabled her to read it, and all the circumstances which had
combined to keep her still in captivity so long after she should have
been free.
The simple narrative gave even him, who was rather inclined to make
molehills of mountains, a sense of the difficulties of the situation,
that kept him silent for a few minutes in unwonted perplexity of mind.
"How old are you?" he asked abruptly, at last.
"I shall be nineteen in three weeks," she answered.
"You are sure you won't be twenty-one?"
"I'm sure I shan't. Why?"
"Because if you are only nineteen, I cannot carry you off and marry you,
love, which would have been the simplest way out of it."
"I should not like that way," whispered Rachel. "It would be a wrong
way."
"Yes, dear--except as a last resource. Of course we would try all the
other ways first. But we must have our rights, you know. If they won't
give them, we must take them--we must get them as we can."
"Cannot we be married until I am twenty-one?" she queried timidly.
"Not without your guardian's consent. Is there any chance of my getting
that, or any kind of toleration even, if I call on him at his office
to-morrow and use all the eloquence at my command?"
"No. Aunt Elizabeth won't let _him_ have anything to do with it."
"If I call on her, then?"
"Oh, no--not the slightest. In the first place, she won't see you. And
if she did--oh, no, you must not try--not yet! I think it would make
everything worse than it is already."
"Then you see the alternative?--a separation for perhaps two whole
years."
"If I know we are going to be so happy at the end of it----"
"Ah--at the end of it! It will be a fine test for you, Rachel."
"Why for me, any more than for you? Oh, don't talk of tests!" she
pleaded; "I only want to feel sure I shall never lose you, and I don't
mind waiting two years. If only----"
"If only what?"
"If only Mr. Kingston would go away!"
"Now listen to me," he said gently, but with his grave peremptoriness,
"you must not let another day pass without breaking off with him. You
must _send_ him away, Rachel. I am sorry for him, poor devil, but you
couldn't do him a worse wrong than let him go on deceiving himself about
you."
"Oh, do you think I would do that? Of course I will not. I can do it
_now_--now that you have come. For now I shall feel strong, and now I
can tell them why. I shall write him a letter before I go to bed, and I
shall tell Aunt Elizabeth as soon as I have sent it. But what will they
say to me? It will be dreadful."
"Poor little woman! Can't I take the dreadful part of it for you? _I_
shan't mind it."
"You can't. I know it will be better for us both if you will not have
anything to do with it just yet."
"I think I _must_ see your uncle, dear, before I go away again."
"Well--if you think it best. But it will do no good with Aunt Elizabeth.
He leaves it all to her."
Mr. Dalrymple gazed thoughtfully at the distant horizon, where little
points of yellow twinkled in the silvery obscurity of the moonshiny bay.
He was deeply troubled and perplexed about this tender little creature,
and the idea of leaving her to bear the brunt of unknown trials for his
sake, seemed too preposterous to be taken seriously. And yet what else
could he do?
"Tell me," he said presently, stroking her silky head as it lay on his
breast, "tell me what is the worst that can happen to you, Rachel?"
"The worst," sighed Rachel, "will be hearing Aunt Elizabeth tell me that
I have repaid all her generosity and kindness to me with ingratitude and
treachery."
"That will be very bad. But you will have to try and make her understand
the real right and justice of it, love. She must see it, unless she is
stone blind. She can't expect us to outrage all the laws of nature to
suit her narrow schemes. You don't think there will be anything still
worse?--that she will make your life wretched by making you feel your
dependence--that kind of thing?"
"I am not sure," said Rachel. "She has been very, very good to me; but
lately--since she has got suspicious about you--she has been hard.
However, if the worst comes to the worst, I can go and be a governess or
companion somewhere until you are ready for me."
"No, Rachel, no; you must promise to tell me if you are persecuted in
any way--if you are miserable in your aunt's house--and my sister Lily
will take care of you. You are not to let the worst come to the
worst--do you hear? You must let me know of anything that happens, and
I will come at once and see about it. Oh, my poor little one, I begin to
realise what sacrifices you will have to make for me! Will you think the
game was worth the candle, I wonder, when you are as old as I am?"
"Yes," said Rachel; "I know I shall--if you will be as contented with me
then as you are now."
"Do you _really_ think you have counted the cost?" he persisted
anxiously. "Remember, you were going to marry Mr. Kingston, because you
thought it would be nice to be rich and to live in a grand house and to
wear diamonds."
"That was before I had seen _you_. I don't want to be rich now. Indeed,
I would rather not."
"Has anybody told you how poor I am?"
"Yes," she whispered, stealing a timid hand to his shoulder. "I have
been thinking of it. Beatrice says it is a mistake for poor men to
marry--that they cripple their career. But I hope--I think--_I_ shall
not be any burden to you. Once I was poor, too, and I know all about it,
and I can manage with a very little. I think I could help you in lots of
ways, and not be a hindrance."
"A hindrance, indeed!" he interrupted. "My darling, if I had you for my
companion, life would be sweet enough for me, under any circumstances.
It was your comfort and happiness I was thinking of."
"I only want to be with you," she said, under her breath. "I don't care
where--I don't care how."
"_Really_, Rachel?"
"Really, indeed."
"You are so young! Think what a number of years you have before you, in
all probability. If you should lose the colour out of your life too
soon, if you should have to drudge--but I won't let you drudge," he
added, with a sudden touch of fierceness, "I will take care of you, and
you shall have all you want. It _won't_ be a sacrifice--not even all
this"--looking round him--"if you give it up for a man you love, who has
health and strength to work for you. It would make you miserable if you
had it. You know it would?"
"I do know it," she responded, without a moment's hesitation.
She had finally made up her mind that after all material poverty was not
the worst of life's misfortunes. Indeed, provided the element of debt
were absent, she thought it might in Roden Dalrymple's company, "far
from the madding crowd," in the lonely wilds of Queensland, be rather
pleasant than otherwise; for it would mean the delight of working for
and helping one another, and a blessed freedom from interruption and
restraint in the enjoyment of that wonderful married life which would be
theirs.
"But I should like to know what made you take to me," he went on, in the
immemorial fashion, stroking her soft face. "I should like to know why
you chose, for your first love--I am your first, am I not, Rachel?"
"You _know_ you are. And it was no matter of choice with me--you know
that, too."
"A man who made shipwreck of his fortunes for another woman almost
before you were born----"
"Hush!" interrupted Rachel. "I have no rights in your past, and I don't
want any. This present is mine, and that is enough for me."
"A battered old vagabond----"
"No," she persisted; "I won't allow you to call yourself a vagabond. It
is bad enough to hear other people do it."
"After seeing him under what one would be inclined to consider, well,
anything but favourable auspices--for how many days, Rachel?"
"Oh," she said, hiding a scarlet face, "don't remind me of that! It was
too soon--but I could not help it."
"The sooner the better, my sweet--if it lasts," he responded, kissing
her with solemn passion; "and I will _make_ it last."
"Do not be afraid of that," she whispered eagerly. "I know I am young--I
know one ought not to be too positive about the future--but I _feel_
that it will be impossible to help loving you always, even if I try not
to, which I certainly shan't. I am sure I began it when I saw you riding
across the racecourse that day--I am sure I shall not stop any more as
long as I live. I don't think there can be another man in the world like
you."
And so they talked, until it occurred to one of them to wonder what the
time was. Mr. Dalrymple struck a match and looked at his watch, Rachel
shielding the small flame from the wind with her hand.
"Oh," she exclaimed in dismay, "what would Aunt Elizabeth say if she
knew I was sitting out here at eleven o'clock at night!"
"Call it eleven p.m.," he suggested, looking at her with his slow smile;
"that sounds so much better."
"Did you think it was so late? The time has flown."
"I _felt_ it flying," he replied. "But I did not think it was so late.
I'm afraid you must go home, little one. Oh, dear me, when shall we have
such a time again! Will you come here to-morrow night, and tell me how
you have got over your day's troubles?"
This was not a proposal that Rachel could accept comfortably, nor that
he could bring himself to press upon her. But when they came to
reconsider their position and necessities, it was hard to find an
alternative.
"You see, I must go back to Queensland in a day or two," Mr. Dalrymple
explained, when, having taken her out of her hole and dusted her skirts
with his handkerchief, he led her through the labyrinth of walls into
the open moonlight, and they paused, hand in hand, for a few last words.
"We have an immense deal to do up there, and Gordon wants me. I must
look after getting things together for you too. There is not even a roof
for your head yet. But I can't bear to leave town without knowing first
how matters are likely to go with you."
"If you _should_ be obliged to do that--if I _cannot_ see you again,"
said Rachel, "when will you come back?"
"I will come back in--let me see, this is October--in two months. I will
be back at Christmas. I should have liked to see your uncle to-morrow,
just that there should be no mistake about what I mean to do; but if you
think it will make things harder for you, I won't, of course. You shall
just tell Kingston what you like, and the rest of them I will enlighten
when I come. By that time he will be out of the way and done with, and
we shall have a straight road before us."
"Yes," said Rachel, sighing; "I think that will be best. And perhaps, by
that time, Aunt Elizabeth will let you in."
"If she doesn't, I shall bombard the house."
"You will be _sure_ to be back at Christmas?"
"If I am alive, dear, and a free agent--certainly. And I shall find you
ready for me then?"
"Oh, yes!"
With this compact between them, and the giving to Rachel of her lover's
town address, and very explicit directions as to where she might find
him at any given hour when she might happen to want him until the day of
his departure, they kissed one clinging, lingering kiss in motionless
silence, and bade one another--though they did not know it--a long
farewell.
"Which is your window, Rachel? Can I see it from here?"
She pointed to it in silence, it was very distinct just now in the
moonshine, between two dark pine trees. She was crying a little, and she
could not speak.
"I will be here to-morrow night," he said; "and if you _can't_ come out
to me, have a light in your room at twelve o'clock, darling, to let me
know you are all right."
And then they separated; and Rachel felt rather than saw her way home,
so dazzled with tears was she, while Roden Dalrymple at her desire
remained behind and watched her.
She went straight into the house and upstairs to her room, to gather
together, in a feverish hurry of renunciation, all her diamonds and
jewels, which like Dead Sea apples, had suddenly become dust.
And he, long after she was gone,--long after Mrs. Hardy's carriage
returned, and all the chimes in the city had rung the midnight
hour--lingered where she had left him, leaning his arms on a convenient
wall, watching a lighted window, and thinking. He was very happy. He had
come unawares upon his happiness, when he was most in need of it, and it
seemed to him that it was the best he could have had.
Anything sweeter than this fresh and simple heart, which was satisfied
to invest all its wealth in him--anything brighter than the future she
had spread before him--he did not want or wish for. It was the amplest
compensation that he could imagine for the mistakes and disappointments
of his wasted past.
And yet, though he was hardly conscious of it--though he would not have
owned to it if he had been--he had a vague misgiving about her. He did
not wish that she had been less easy to win; he had no fear that she was
mistaking a sentimental girlish fancy for love; he did not for a moment
apprehend that she would forsake or wrong him.
But there was a suggestion of untried and untested youth about all the
circumstances of this sudden betrothal, as far as she had influenced
them, and there was an intangible suspicion that somewhere she was
weak.
He did not recognise, and therefore did not formulate, the sentiment
that infused that touch of grave and sad anxiety into his happy
meditations; but, nevertheless, it was there, and the time came when it
was justified.