WHEN he stopped and turned, angry beyond measure, vexation biting deep
lines like aquafortis on his broad, good-natured face.
"That I should have been such a fool--an infernal blockheaded
fool--" shutting the iron-studded door with a kick and a
clang--"muddle-headed fool--I'll never touch a drop of whiskey
again--and that jackass, Fred--why, she's--" a lady, he would have said,
but did not dare admit to himself now that he had thought to ask her in
to "wake us up." "But what did I do? Can't think what annoyed her. Must
have been something between her and that tedious old Iden. Quite sure I
didn't do or say----" but still he could not quiet his conscience, for
if he had not by deed or word, he knew he had in thought.
He had sent for her as he might have done for any of the vulgar wenches
in the fair to amuse an idle hour, and he was ashamed of himself.
In truth, Raleigh had never seen a woman like Amaryllis Iden. Her
features were not beautiful, as general ideas go, nor had her form the
grace of full increase; indeed words, and even a portrait by a
master-hand, would have failed to carry the impression her nature had
made upon him.
It is not the particular cast of features that makes a man great, and
gives him a pre-eminence among his fellows. It is the character--the
mind.
A great genius commands attention at once by his presence, and so a
woman may equally impress by the power of her nature. Her moral strength
asserts itself in subtle ways.
I don't say for certain that it was her character that impressed
Raleigh--it might have been nothing of the sort, it might have been
_because it was so_, a woman's reason, and therefore appropriate. These
things do not happen by "why and because."
Some may say it is quite out of place to suppose a whiskey-sipping,
cutty-pipe smoking, horse-racing, bar-frequenting fellow like Raleigh
could by any possible means fall in love at first sight. But whiskey,
cutty, horse, and bar were not the real man, any more than your hat is
your head, they were mere outside chaff, he had a sound heart all the
same, a great deal sounder and better, and infinitely more generous than
some very respectable folk who are regularly seen in their pews, and
grind down their clerks and dependents to the edge of starvation.
Raleigh was capable of a good deal of heart, such as the pew-haunting
Pharisee knows not of. Perhaps he was not in love: at all events he was
highly excited.
Fred had contrived to keep old Iden from following Amaryllis by
representing that Raleigh would be sure to bring her back. The butler,
who was very well acquainted with old Iden, hastily whipped out a bottle
of champagne and handed him a brimming glass. The old gentleman, still
mouthing and bubbling over with rage, spluttered and drank, and
spluttered again, and refusing a second, would go, and so met Raleigh in
the hall.
Raleigh tried on his part to soothe the old man, and on his part the old
man tried at one and the same moment to apologize for his granddaughter
and to abuse her for her misconduct. Consequently neither of them heard
or understood the other.
But no sooner was Iden gone than Raleigh, remembering the rough crowd in
the fair, despatched the butler after him to see him safe home. It was
now growing dusky as the evening came on.
Without more ado, this young gentleman then set to and swore at Fred for
half an hour straight ahead. Fred at first simply stared and wondered
what on earth had turned his brain; next, being equally hot-tempered, he
swore in reply; then there followed some sharp recriminations (for each
knew too much of the other's goings on not to have plenty of material),
and finally they sparred. Two or three cuffs cooled their ardour, having
nothing to quarrel about; sulks ensued; Raleigh buried himself in the
papers; Fred lit a cigar and walked out into the fair. Thus there was
tribulation in the great house of the Pamments.
Grandfather Iden permitted the butler to steer him through the crowd
quietly enough, because it flattered him to be thus taken care of before
the world by a Pamment servitor. When they parted at the doorstep he
slipped half-a-sovereign in the butler's hand--he could not offer less
than gold to a Pamments' man--but once inside, his demeanour changed. He
pushed away his housekeeper, went into his especial sitting-room, bolted
the door, spread his hands and knees over the fire, and poked the coals,
grunted, poked, and stirred till smoke and smuts filled the stuffy
little place.
By-and-by there was a banging of drawers--the drawers in the bureau and
the bookcases were opened and shut sharply--writing-paper was flung on
the table, and he sat down to write a letter with a scratchy quill pen.
The letter written was ordered to post immediately, and the poking, and
stirring, and grunting recommenced. Thus there was tribulation in the
house of the head of the Idens.
Amaryllis meantime had got through the town by keeping between the
booths and the houses. Just as she left the last street Ned Marks rode
up--he had been on the watch, thinking to talk with her as she walked
home, but just as he drew rein to go slow and so speak, a heathen pig
from the market rushed between his horse's legs and spoiled the game by
throwing him headlong.
She did not see, or at least did not notice, but hastening on, entered
the fields. In coming to town that morning she had seen everything; now,
returning in her anger and annoyance, she took no heed of anything; she
was so absorbed that when a man--one of those she met going to the fair
for the evening--turned back and followed her some way, she did not
observe him. Finding that she walked steadily on, the fellow soon ceased
to pursue.
The gloom had settled when she reached home, and the candles were lit.
She gave her father the sovereign, and was leaving the room, hoping to
escape questioning, when Mrs. Iden asked who had the prize-guinea.
"I did," said Amaryllis, very quietly and reluctantly.
"Where is it? Why didn't you say so? Let me see," said Mrs. Iden.
"I--I--I lost it," said Amaryllis.
"You lost it! Lost a guinea! A spade-guinea!"
"What!" said Iden in his sternest tones. "Show it immediately."
"I can't; I lost it."
"Lost it!"
And they poured upon her a cross-fire of anger: a careless, wasteful
hussy, an idle wretch; what did she do for her living that she could
throw away spade-guineas? what would her grandfather say? how did she
suppose they were to keep her, and she not earn the value of a
bonnet-string? time she was apprenticed to a dressmaker; the quantity
she ate, and never could touch any fat--dear me, so fine--bacon was not
good enough for her--she could throw away spade-guineas.
Poor Amaryllis stood by the half-open door, her hat in her hand, her
bosom heaving, her lips apart and pouting, not with indignation but
sheer misery; her head drooped, her form seemed to lose its firmness and
sink till she stooped; she could not face them as she would have done
others, because you see she loved them, and she had done her best that
day till too sorely tried.
The storm raged on; finally Iden growled "Better get out of sight." Then
she went to her bedroom, and sat on the bed; presently she lay down, and
sobbed silently on the pillow, after which she fell asleep, quite worn
out, dark circles under her eyes. In the silence of the house, the
tom-tom and blare of brazen instruments blown at the fair two miles away
was audible.