MRS. READE'S ADVICE.
Rachel was not a heroine. She was simply a sweet and interesting girl;
except that she was unusually pretty, by no means above the ordinary
level of nice girls. She was better than a great many that we are
acquainted with, no doubt, but she was not so good as some.
And she had, as has been already indicated, that fault which, of all
faults, perhaps, is most common to girls, whether nice or
otherwise--that amiable weakness that is more disastrous in its
consequences than many a downright vice--she was, if not quite a coward,
cowardly.
She was afraid to meet difficulties in the open, as it were--to attack
the main body and scatter them, and have done with it; she sheltered
herself in ambush, and made desultory attacks on flank and rear with
temporary compromises, hating the thought of duplicity and longing to do
right, yet most of all dreading the violent, harsh hurt to tender
sensibilities (whether her own or other people's) that was inevitable in
the shock of a pitched battle.
It is a defect in a woman's character very much to be deplored, of
course, and it is one that seems unpardonable to a strong-minded person.
Nevertheless, it is much more of a misfortune than a fault (and we may
as well say the same, while we are about it, of all our constitutional
defects, from red hair to kleptomania, since we did not choose our
parents nor the social conditions to which we were born); and to Rachel,
whose instinctive truthfulness and high sense of moral rectitude
prompted her to struggle hard, if vainly, against it, it was purely a
misfortune, and at no time in her life more so than now.
For, after turning the question over and over in her mind through all
that feverish and wakeful night, she finally decided that in breaking
off her engagement with Mr. Kingston she would not mention, either to
him or to anyone else, the place that Mr. Dalrymple now occupied in her
affections and affairs.
As no one was aware of their having met, and as he was coming back
himself so soon to clear up everything much better than she could, she
persuaded herself that it would be not only unnecessary, but in the
highest degree inexpedient, to aggravate the inevitable pain and
difficulty that was before her and all of them.
Hating his very name as they did, would she not expose her lover to
insult, and his motives and actions to misconception, and probably
prejudice their chances of happiness irrevocably?
And at the same time do no good whatever, but only add an element of
unspeakable bitterness to the disappointment of her aunt, and to the
mortification of her already ill-used and much-wronged _fiance_, and, as
a matter of detail, an incalculable amount of difficulty to her own
sufficiently formidable task? She was certain that she would, and she
felt that she could not, and need not do it.
It took her all night to mature her course of action, but having finally
brought herself to believe that it was not only so much the easiest to
herself, but in every way the best for all concerned, to ignore Mr.
Dalrymple for the present, she committed herself to it by writing a
long letter to Mr. Kingston--a tender, penitent, self-accusing letter,
in which she begged him to forgive her for having discovered so much too
late that they were unsuited to one another, and prayed that he might
some day be happier with a better woman than it was in her power to make
him, and that he would ever believe her his attached and grateful
friend, without suggesting the existence or possibility of any other
lover, present or to be.
The natural results followed. Mr. Kingston, seeing no sufficient reason
for these sudden strong measures, refused to treat them seriously.
He was quite aware, and it troubled him deeply, that she was not happy
in her engagement, and he was very jealous and suspicious of Mr.
Dalrymple, whom he had seen once or twice about town; but he had set his
heart upon her, as we say, with the perverse obstinacy of a fickle man
who had been spoiled by women's flattery, and the more she seemed to
shrink from him the more he wanted to have her, and the more he was
determined not to let her go if he could possibly help it.
His love not only lacked reciprocity--without which love is never worthy
to be spelt with a capital L--but it was so diluted with all sorts of
vanities and egotisms that, though its flavour was there, the potent
spirit was absent, and he was incapable of making a sacrifice for her
happiness at the expense of his own.
When he solemnly assured himself that he loved her as he had never loved
anyone before, and that he could not and would not give her up--when he
declared, moreover, that he was ready to spend his future life in her
service, and would take his chance of making her care for him--he not
only told the truth, as far as he understood it, but perhaps he touched
the highest point of heroism of which his selfish nature was capable.
All the same, the strong necessities of the case were the carrying out
of the great enterprise which was symbolised by the half-built house,
and the realisation of his schemes for his own enjoyment; the possession
(and the securing from other men) of the most attractive, the most
admired, and to him most loveable woman of his set, who had so to speak
given him a legal lien upon her person; the maintenance of his social
position and dignity, and the avoidance of ridicule and embarrassment.
So when he had read Rachel's letter, with a great expense of bad
language in the first place, and of wise reflection subsequently, he
made up his mind that it was merely the result of their Adelonga
differences, which had been rankling in her sensitive heart, and not the
formal resignation that he would be required to accept.
"No, no, young lady," he said to himself, as he made a careful toilet
before setting forth to see her, "I have not sacrificed my liberty and
all my comfortable habits, at your instigation and for your sake, to
take my _conge_ at the eleventh hour in this way."
And then he cast about in his mind anxiously for ways and means whereby
he might meet and overcome this strange reluctance, which not only
seemed to him a cruel injury and injustice after all he had done for
her, but really distressed him acutely, and made him extremely unhappy.
Was there anything amongst Kilpatrick's glittering treasures that would
tempt her to smile and kiss him, and be sorry that she had given him
this heartless blow?
He felt to-day that he would spend a thousand pounds cheerfully for
anything that would please her.
But at the same time he was uneasily conscious that even the largest
and purest diamonds would not appreciably affect the situation.
She was no longer open to these fascinations, as she used to be; several
little circumstances had convinced him of that.
It was a bad sign, he feared; but he hoped it indicated nothing more
serious than that the novelty of wealth and luxury had worn off.
He recognised its existence so far that he went on his delicate mission
to Toorak, trusting to his own merits and eloquence, with no bribes of
any sort in his pocket.
After all, he did not see Rachel that day. She was weeping hysterically
in her bedroom at the top of the house, and therefore was not
presentable.
Mrs. Hardy, much excited and discomposed by the shock she had just
received (on being told by Rachel that she had not only written a letter
to her _fiance_, to break off her engagement, but had _sent_ it),
received him in the drawing-room, and did the best that wisdom, at such
short notice, suggested to repair the catastrophe which she had been
powerless to prevent.
She tried to smile and joke, in a considerate and well-bred manner; she
rallied him upon his misconduct in the matter of Miss Hale, which had
evidently been at the bottom of all the mischief, gently pointing out to
him that a sensitive nature like Rachel's, and a tender heart that loved
and trusted him, could not be played with, even in the conventional
fashion, with impunity.
And then she hastened to explain the suddenness and unexpectedness of
this "freak;" how sure she was that it had been perpetrated under the
influence of a fit of temper or dejection, or some other unhealthy
condition of mind; how equally sure she was that it was already repented
of--though, of course, it was not for her to give an opinion or to
interfere. All of which would have been very proper and sensible, but
that the effect was marred by a bubbling under-current of angry
excitement that her utmost efforts could not hide.
Mr. Kingston watched and listened, with smiling self-possession. Finding
that he was not to see Rachel, nor to get any fresh information, he did
not prolong the interview. He had no confidence in Mrs. Hardy--few men
had, in matters of this kind. He received her communications in a
friendly manner, as one receives an embassy under a flag of truce; he
never thought of allowing himself to be influenced by them one way or
the other, or of asking her assistance and advice.
As soon as courtesy permitted, he bowed himself out of her presence,
with magnanimous expressions of good-will and a request that nothing
might be be said or done to distress or embarrass Rachel. And then he
got into his cab thoughtfully, and went to South Yarra to call on Mrs.
Reade.
It was not one of this young lady's reception days, as no one knew
better than himself; nor had she left her house in pursuit of tea and
gossip at other people's "afternoons," as he half expected would be the
case.
The sprightly maid-servant (all Mrs. Reade's servants were maids, and
all of them sprightly), who opened the door to his thundering knock,
recognising a privileged friend of the family, admitted him with
alacrity; and he walked into the drawing-room and found his hostess
sitting there alone, nestling in one of her seductive low chairs with an
open letter on her knee.
She, too, had just received the news of Rachel's escapade; the letter,
full of dashing and incoherent sentences, was in Mrs. Hardy's
handwriting, and had arrived half an hour ago from Toorak. But there
were no signs of excitement and discomposure about this little person,
who rose to meet him, looking cool and bright, with even the suspicion
of a twinkle in her eyes.
"Have you come for a gossip?" she asked, looking up at him with friendly
frankness. "Because if you have you had better send your cab away. I am
going out at five o'clock, and I'll drive you into town."
The cab was sent away; and Mr. Kingston, with a feeling of comfort and
safety about him, sat down in a bow-windowed recess, in his favourite of
all the cunningly-devised chairs, and with his elbows on his knees,
began to fiddle with the top of a silk sock, at the toe of which his
companion was now knitting industriously.
"Is this for Ned?" he inquired, after a pause.
"Now, isn't that a superfluous question?" she replied, holding it up.
"Look at the size of it. Could any foot but his fill out that enormous
bag? Of course it is for Ned. Don't you know it is the new fashion for
wives to knit their husband's socks? One must be in the fashion, even if
one's husband is a giant."
"Very nice for one's husband. It seems beautifully soft; pretty colour,
too." Then, after a pause, "Does Rachel know how to knit?"
"Yes," said Mrs. Reade, calmly; "we both learned together while she was
staying with me, and she does it much quicker than I do. I suppose you
are thinking you would like to participate in the benefits of the
fashion too?" she added, lifting her face suddenly, with a quick look in
her bright eyes that was like the opening of a masked battery.
"If I thought that Rachel would ever knit socks for me, for the pleasure
of it----" He paused with a change and break in his voice, regarding her
wistfully.
Mrs. Reade immediately made a sheaf of her needles, wound them up in the
sock, and impaled her ball of silk upon them. "Tell me," she said,
folding her hands on her knees in a business-like manner, "tell me, what
has Rachel been doing?"
"Don't you know? She has written to me to break off our engagement."
"What for?"
"I can't imagine--she doesn't say. I thought _you_ might be able to help
me to find that out."
Mrs. Reade looked at him in silence for a few seconds, kindly and
gravely. Even she felt herself a little at a loss as to what course to
pursue.
"What have you done?" she asked abruptly.
"Nothing. I went up to see her just now, but I was disappointed. She
could not, or would not, come in. I rather fancy your mother had been
scolding her."
"I have no doubt she had. She doesn't approve of independence on the
part of young people."
"I won't have her scolded," Mr. Kingston broke out, with sudden
vehemence. "If I like to blame her, that is another matter. I won't
have her set against me by other people. Nothing would make her hate me
more than that kind of thing."
Mrs. Reade felt the justice of this protest, but she did not see fit to
discuss her mother's little mistakes. "What are you going to do?" she
inquired.
"Do you mean am I going to take my dismissal in this off-hand way? No,
certainly not. After all the time we have been engaged--after all that
has come and gone between us--after all the preparations that have been
made--it would be _too_ preposterous! I should be the laughing-stock of
the colony."
"That would be very sad," said Mrs. Reade, with her head on one side.
"Now be a good little woman, and don't jeer at me--I didn't come to you
for that. You know--or you ought to know--that I am horribly upset and
miserable about all this business, and that I want you to help me."
"I don't see how I can help you," she said.
"Tell me about Rachel. What is the matter with her? What does she mean?"
"Well, evidently she means that she doesn't want to marry you," sighed
Mrs. Reade. "Tiresome child, why didn't she think of it before?"
"Why should she think of it now? Oh, yes, I know she has not been keen
about it for some time, as she should have been. But she has not seemed
to _dislike_ it; she has looked forward to it as much a matter of
course as--as it has been to all the rest of us. And I felt so sure it
would be all right--that I could make her as happy as possible--when we
were once married and she had settled down!"
It was not often that Mrs. Reade was perplexed, but now--between her
duty to her family, her strong affection for Rachel, and her desire to
assist her friend--she really did not know what to do. While she was
silent, struggling with the dilemma in her active mind, Mr. Kingston
went on.
"It is since she went to Adelonga that she has changed so much. Haven't
you noticed?"
"You did not behave very well to her at Adelonga, you know."
"Who told you that? Did she?"
"Never mind who told me. There is never any secrecy about your
proceedings--I will give you that credit. You treated her very badly at
Lucilla's ball."
"Not worse than she treated me," he began, impetuously; and then he
paused and looked at his hostess. He was gentleman enough to shrink from
discussing Rachel's misdeeds in connection with "that Dalrymple fellow,"
but he longed to find out how much her wise cousin and late companion
knew. Mrs. Reade fingered her knitting with a placid and impenetrable
face.
"Tell me--you know Rachel so intimately--do you think----"
"Do I think what?"
"That there is anyone she cares for--more than she cares for me?"
He was impelled, against his better judgment, to ask this awkward
question. Mrs. Reade gathered herself together, so to speak; it was one
of those sudden emergencies that inspire a brave woman.
"If I thought she cared for anyone who was a better man, and could make
her happier than you," she said deliberately, looking him straight in
the face, "she should have him, or it would not be my fault."
"But she does not?"
"So far as I know she does not. But," she was an honest little woman,
and it gave her a pang to mislead him, even though she did it for what
seemed to her a good end, "but, at the same time, no doubt she does not
care for you as she ought to do."
"I hope that will come," he said cheerfully.
If only Mr. Dalrymple did not stand in his way, he felt all difficulties
manageable.
"It is a great risk; you ought to think well before you take it."
"I have thought well."
"And I will be no party to making _her_ take it against her will."
"But I think she will be willing if she is treated properly. Of course I
don't want to marry her by force. I want to bring her round to like it
as she used to like it. If there is nobody else, why not? And you _will_
help me, won't you?"
Mrs. Reade looked at him with bright and friendly eyes. He was really
taking it very well considering how badly he had been treated, and how
extremely susceptible he was to indignities of this, or indeed any
description. He certainly must be strangely in love with that perverse
child, she thought--much more in love than she had ever expected to see
him--to be able to put his wrongs in the background like this. He
deserved to be helped.
And as far as human judgment was to be trusted, to help him would be to
play Providence to Rachel.
"I will do what I can," she said kindly. "That is to say, I won't
interfere, but I'll give you good advice whenever you do me the honour
to ask for it."
"Thank you; I ask for it now. What do you advise me to do?"
She pondered a few moments, watching him thoughtfully.
"You are quite sure, once for all, that you think it worth while to
throw yourself away on an ungrateful little monkey who doesn't
appreciate you?"
"I'm quite sure I want to marry Rachel. I hope she will appreciate me,
but if she doesn't--well, I want to marry her all the same."
"And are willing to take the consequences?"
"Oh, yes; I'm not afraid of consequences--once the wedding is over."
He smiled as he made this almost sacrilegious assertion, which implied a
marital control of consequences that was offensive in the ears of the
little woman, who liked to see husbands kept in their proper places.
"Don't boast," she said sharply, "you might find yourself in a very
unpleasant position when the wedding was over. And you will, too, if you
don't mind."
The dialogue was interrupted at this point. A little brougham rattled
past the window on its way from the stable-yard to the front-door, and a
servant came in with tea.
Mrs. Reade looked at her watch, and her guest's face fell.
"Is it five o'clock?" he exclaimed testily; "and you have not given me
any advice!"
"Will you have a cup of tea?" she inquired, coolly.
"No, thank you. _Must_ you go out this afternoon?"
"Well, I could hardly countermand the carriage now, because you are
here, could I? We'll have a drive somewhere before we go in to town, and
I'll give you advice as we go along."
She drank her tea standing in the middle of the room, and then leaving
him to fret and fume by himself, went away to dress, and in the
retirement of her own apartment to concoct a definite scheme of action.
In a few minutes she came back alert and bright, in a very charming
French bonnet, and with yards of silken train behind her. She was ready
for him in every sense of the word.
As soon as they were out upon the road, and she had finished buttoning
a refractory glove, she said gravely, with an air of having solved all
doubts,
"Now I will tell you what you must do."
"Yes?"
"You must accept Rachel's dismissal."
"_What!_ I'm sure I shall not do anything of the kind."
Mrs. Reade laid herself back in the carriage and folded her hands.
"Very well," she said, calmly.
"No, but really--I beg your pardon--I don't understand you. Do you mean
I must just give her up and have done with it? Because you know it is
just that that I can't do."
"Not at all. But don't ask my opinion----"
"Oh, yes, _do_ tell me what you mean."
"Well, I was going to suggest that you see or write to Rachel and tell
her you will do what she wishes rather than distress her; but that,
while leaving her free, you will consider yourself still as much bound
to her as ever, and wait in hope that she will come back to you someday.
That kind of thing, you know."
"Oh, yes, that is all very well. And in the meantime I shall be getting
old--that is to say, I shall be losing time--and she will be sure to be
run after by other men the moment my back is turned."
"It will be better to lose a little time than to worry her now," said
Mrs. Reade. "If you draw off from her a little, she will miss you, and
then probably she will want you, and provided you left her assured of
your faithfulness, and didn't go flirting with Miss Hale and people, it
would be just the kind of delicate and chivalrous consideration for her
that she would appreciate. Yes, I know Rachel; it would touch her heart
deeply."
"But some other fellow might get hold of her--finding she was free, you
know."
"I think," said Mrs. Reade, smiling slightly, "that we may safely leave
my mother to look after that."
Upon consideration Mr. Kingston thought so too. He began to see
glimmerings of wisdom and reason in this proposed course.
"But your mother will have to be looked after herself," he said,
breaking a little pause abruptly. "If _I_ am not to worry Rachel,
nobody else shall."
"Of course. I will look after my mother."
"And suppose," he continued presently, deep in troubled thoughts,
"suppose she never renews the engagement after all?"
"Oh, well--suppose the world comes to an end to-morrow--we can't help
it!"
"Do you think she will?"
"I do think she will--honestly, I do--if you are patient and gentle, and
do as I tell you. She will be dull and lonely; she will miss you about
her, and not only you, but many pleasant things that are associated with
you; she will bethink herself that she has treated you badly--as indeed
she has--and she is so tender-hearted that it will fret her. And if she
sees you occasionally, not in season and out of season, but now and
then, at opportune times, and you do her little voluntary services in a
delicate and unobtrusive way--then some of these days, seeing you still,
she will suddenly think that she loves you, and--well, then it will be
all right, you know."
"Oh, I hope so!" he broke out, with a deep, impatient sigh--though it
was not a great deal to hope for when it came to be reckoned up. "But
how long will she be reaching that point?"
"It depends."
"And we were to have been married in a couple of months--three at the
most. Upon my honour, it _is_ too bad!"
"I shouldn't be surprised if you were married quite as soon as you
arranged to be," Mrs. Reade proceeded calmly, building this comfortable
theory upon the conviction that Mr. Dalrymple, in spite of his
persistence in calling at Toorak, was not the kind of man to remain
faithful to a ball-room fancy, nor to undertake anything so expensive
and so respectable as matrimony under the most favourable conjunction of
circumstances; and feeling sure that Rachel, with her clinging,
impulsive nature, finding her desires frustrated in this direction,
would be under an imperious necessity to seek--or, at any rate, to
accept--support elsewhere. "If I had her with me for six weeks, I think
I would not mind risking a small bet----"
"_Can't_ you have her with you?" Mr. Kingston interposed eagerly.
"No, I fear not. My mother would not consent to let her go from home
just now. The situation is too grave. But even as things are, if you
manage the child properly, I don't at all despair of seeing you
married--or, at any rate, engaged again--before the year is out. Very
far from it."
"I would give a thousand pounds at this moment if I could be certain
that that would be," sighed Mr. Kingston, plaintively.
"Only you must do what I tell you. I assure you, if you _want_ to
succeed, that is your best, if not your only chance. Will you do what I
tell you?"
"I will see Rachel first."
"Of course. See her and give her plainly to understand what a pain
and disappointment it is to you to give her up, and that you only do it
for her sake. Perhaps, if you talk it over with her, she will cancel her
letter, and it will be all right at once; in which case you had better
arrange for your marriage as quickly as possible. But if it should be
otherwise--if she should still press for a dissolution of her
engagement--let her go for a little while. It need not be for long."
"I think I will," said Mr. Kingston, thoughtfully. And he did.