Yea, in God’s name, and Love’s, and thine, would I
Draw from one loving heart such evidence
As to all hearts, all things should signify;
Tender as dawn’s first hill-fire and intense
As instantaneous penetrating sense,
In spring’s birth hour, of other springs gone by.
ROSSETTI.
“Do you know,” said Daphne, leaning back luxuriously on a sofa in
Lilian’s boudoir, “I met an old friend of mine this afternoon in the
park, and he was very much afraid of me.” Lilian smiled affectionately.
“I wonder why an old friend always means the man we didn’t marry?” she
said; “but I don’t wonder that he was afraid of you, Daphne.”
“Well—he was!” said Daphne, ignoring her friend’s remark, “and he said
that he was going out as a missionary to India, and that he was very
happy.”
“Poor fellow!” said Lilian gently.
“I never really meant to marry him,” said Daphne. “I suppose it was what
Reggie quarrelled with me about, but I told him I was sorry, and then I
went to Overham, and it was all over. You know he wouldn’t speak to me
when I was at your mother’s, and he came to fetch me to nurse Arthur.”
Lilian sat up straight.
“Was he with my mother when you arrived?” she asked.
“Yes,” said Daphne, shuddering, “they were sitting there together. He
told me, and at first I didn’t understand—oh! it was awful! Reggie was
horribly unkind. He wouldn’t speak to me or help me a bit!” Lilian
looked at her friend thoughtfully.
“I wonder if you would tell me the truth, Daphne,” she said, “if I were
to ask you a pretty straight question?” Daphne looked startled.
“I suppose I might,” she said.
“Do you mind Reggie’s being horrid?” said Lilian. Daphne fidgeted a
moment, then she looked at her friend steadily.
“Well, yes, Lilian,” she said, “I do. No one likes to be thought
despicable by a man like Reggie.”
“I am going to see my mother this afternoon,” said Lilian. “Have you
everything you want?”
“Everything, thanks,” said Daphne. “Lilian, do you mind seeing your
mother now?” she asked her suddenly; “I have always wanted to ask
you—you don’t mind, do you? Are you still desperately unhappy?” Lilian
sat down again.
“No,” she said in a low voice, “not now.” Daphne waited. “My husband was
so very bad,” Lilian went on at last, “that it simplified matters. I
could have got a divorce any day, so he went his way, and I went mine.
There were terrible hours first. It is so hard to realize evil; one
hears of it in church on Sunday, and people talk about bad books, and
bad plays, but it is _quite_—quite different from that! You see, there
are so many other things to be considered. It gets mixed up with one’s
life; by-and-bye it becomes usual. It is easier to get used to than
good, I think; I wasn’t a bit shocked after the first year. If I had had
a child it would have been different; I should have had to leave him
then.”
“And there was never any one else?” said Daphne. Lilian played with a
book on her lap.
“Yes,” she said, in a very low voice, “there might have been someone
else. I do not know how far it would have gone. God knows I was pretty
desperate, and so was he. Then one day I went out for a drive, and we
ran over a child. Daphne, it was horrible! I thought it was dead. I took
it to the nearest hospital, and they were so good to me, the nurses—I
shall never forget! They let me stay there till the surgeons saw it, and
they came back to tell me it would live. After that I went to see it
every day, and by-and-bye I got to know such lots of darling little
children, and I have been to see them two or three times a week ever
since—that’s all.”
“And the man?” said Daphne.
“I could not give up the love of little, innocent children even for
him,” said Lilian softly. “I told him about it, and I asked him to go
away, and he did. He is married now to such a sweet, nice girl, and he
has little children of his own. I shall never have that,” said Lilian,
with the tears running down her cheeks; “only, all the little children
in the world seem mine, when I look at them!”
“Ah! Lilian! Lilian!” said Daphne. When Lilian had gone Daphne sat alone
by the fire-light thinking of her friend’s story. It was so very
different from Katherine’s. She had been to see them off, Katherine and
Bert, and the docks at Southampton had looked like Paradise to them, a
station on the way to Heaven. Katherine had tyrannized over Bert to her
heart’s content and ended by always doing what he wished, and Bert,
pretending to be badly treated, had been so immensely proud, and they
started off for their new life across the sea in the absurdest and most
childish manner possible, as if the world had been a room full of hidden
Christmas presents, and they had just set out to find them all. Daphne
had been happy when she was with them, but now the world had grown cold
and grey. It was hard to go back to Overham. Rosamonde and Miss Smith
had taken a flat in town, she and Lilian had been to see them, and, as
far as they could see, all was going on well. It seemed as if, after
all, Arthur’s sacrifice had not been as useless as he thought. She had
no excuse for staying in town any longer, and yet she felt conscious
that she was going back, unsatisfied, unrested, uninclined even for her
boys and her club, and the sight of her uncle’s loving eyes.
The door opened, and she started at the lapse of time. Lilian had come
back, and it was their last evening.
“Oh! come and talk to me,” she said; “I want someone to talk to me!” The
words died on her lips, for it was not Lilian, but Reggie who stood at
the door.
“I—I am awfully sorry,” he stammered, “but Mrs. Courtney told me to
come in; I met her at a squash somewhere, and she told me you were at
home——”
“And that I would be delighted to see you, I suppose?” said Daphne
icily, but she sat down again.
“No—no!” said Reggie. “_I_ told her—_that_, the other way round, you
know!”
“You seem a little involved,” said Daphne coldly. There was an awkward
silence; Reggie watched her face with eager, unembarrassed eyes, and
Daphne, knowing that there was a change, became the more anxious not to
commit herself.
“I say,” said Reggie at last, “it’s ages since I’ve seen you, isn’t it?”
“I believe it is two months,” said Daphne; “I have not thought it long.”
Her manner plainly inferred that she would have liked it to be
indefinitely longer. Reggie’s eyes twinkled; she looked irresistible
when she was angry, the fire-light showed the gleam of her eyes—and the
impatient tapping of her foot.
“That awfully nice friend of yours has gone and got married to that
American chap, hasn’t she?” he asked her cheerfully.
“Yes,” said Daphne, and she seemed to think it a sufficient answer.
“My mother is to be married,” he began in a graver tone, “to David
Grey.”
“Oh, Reggie!” said Daphne quickly, “I’m so sorry!” Then she could have
bitten her tongue out at her indiscretion—Reggie moved into a chair
nearer her—she had forgotten he was so tall.
“Thank you—dear,” he said. Daphne blushed, but she kept her face
steadily from him; she had made a false step, and she had to pay the
forfeit. The room was singularly quiet; in the street below the cries of
evening papers, and a belated muffin-bell came up to them quite clearly.
“Daphne,” Reggie said in quite a different tone, “I’m afraid you’ll
think me an awful cur for what I am going to tell you, but you’ll
listen, won’t you? You won’t be dreadfully angry till I’ve quite
finished?”
“You’re very inconsistent in your use of my name,” she said, taking a
fire-shield from the mantelpiece.
“Ah—listen,” he exclaimed impatiently—“and please promise?” There was
a queer little smile round Daphne’s lips, but it did not matter—she had
the fire-shield in position.
“I don’t see quite what difference it makes,” she said, “but, of course,
I’ll promise you not to get angry _until_ you’re finished.” Reggie drew
a long breath.
“It’s going to be horribly difficult to tell you,” he said. “Well, that
day I came over to fetch you back. Lady Middleton was there, and she
told me—she told me——”
“What did she tell you?” cried Daphne, her eyes flashing.
“Remember your promise,” he reminded her. “She told me—lies about you
and that surgeon chap.”
“What were they?” asked Daphne.
“I sha’n’t tell you,” said Reggie.
“Oh—and you believed them?” she cried.
“Yes, I believed them,” said Reggie.
“And you dare to come here and tell me so?”
“Yes, Daphne,” said Reggie, “I know they aren’t true, and—and I
couldn’t help coming.” He laid his hand over hers, and pleaded with her
with his eyes. Daphne sprang to her feet.
“Oh! and you wish to flirt with me, do you?” she cried. “I can imagine
you would think me a fit subject! You ‘couldn’t help coming’—that was a
pretty way of putting it, Lord Cheston.” Then, as it came over her,
_who_ had failed her, that he had always been, even when she was angry
with him, the man she trusted and relied upon, she had hard work to
fight back her tears. “Oh, Reggie! Reggie!” she said, “I did think you
were a better sort of man! I know I’ve been horrid, and I’ve done lots
of wrong things, and I behaved dreadfully with Arthur! (Oh! not what
Vera told you, of course, though even that was more his doing than
mine!) But in spite of it all, I thought that you were my friend, that
you respected me—that I could trust you! Please go before I say what I
shall be sorry for—I will not think of this again. I will only remember
that you were kinder to me once!”
“Look here, Daphne,” Reggie interrupted her, “I haven’t finished;
perhaps you will think this worse cheek than all the rest. But I can’t
help it; it’s better for you to know the truth than what you are
thinking now. I came here because I love you, because I have always
loved you. Long before you got engaged to David, and all that rot. I
didn’t tell you before, partly because it wouldn’t have been any use,
and partly because I didn’t want to marry you the—the way I thought you
_were_, you know. I think a woman owes it to her husband not to be a
flirt; that was why I jawed you so about it, d’you remember?”
“Y—es, I remember,” said Daphne in a quieter voice.
“And, oh, you took it beautifully,” he went on, “and I saw that you
weren’t really a flirt at all. You simply couldn’t help it. It was just
that you were so awfully fetching, you know. You don’t mind my saying
that, do you? because it’s what I really think, and I was coming to see
you at Overham, only I heard that you would be at Lady Middleton’s and
then—— Oh, Daphne, I haven’t hurt you, have I?” He moved towards her,
but she only shook her head. “I say—Daphne,” he exclaimed in amazement,
“you—you don’t care, do you?”
“Of course not,” said Daphne; “why should I? Please go away, Reggie,
you’ve hurt me horribly. I—I don’t know how much you haven’t hurt me!
And you can’t possibly want to marry a woman who has been engaged
twice—and encouraged other men, and been a horrid little flirt. You
said I was a horrid little flirt yourself!”
“Oh! I didn’t, Daphne,” he implored, “honour bright!”
“And even if you do want to marry me, how—how do you know that I care
for you?” Daphne finished with a rush.
“I don’t,” said Reggie, “but I’m here to find out.”
“Then all I can say is,” said Daphne, with great asperity, “that if you
don’t know by now, I don’t think you ever _will_ find out—and I had
better tell you——” Reggie was quite close to her now; he took both her
hands.
“Look here!” he said, “what are you marrying me for?” Daphne met his
eyes bravely, but her lips trembled a little.
“Because I love you,” she said, “and for no other reason whatever.” He
bent his head and kissed her hands very gently and tenderly. “Reggie,”
she whispered, “I—I loved Arthur, too.”
“Then he was a very lucky fellow,” said Reggie; “but I’m glad he’s
dead,” he added to himself, as Lilian opened the door.
“My dear people,” said Lilian, “why on earth haven’t you rung for
light?”
“Oh! I thought we—had,” said Daphne. Lilian looked at them and smiled.
* * * * *
“I really think,” said Mrs. Fordington, “that you might have remembered
about that penny reading-book, Daphne; now I shall have to send for it
and pay the postage. Still, of course, I am very glad to hear that you
are going to make a great marriage. I hope Lord Cheston is a good young
man, as well as a peer.”
“I hope so, too,” said Daphne, as her aunt left the room. Then she
turned to her uncle. “I am trusting to my feelings,” she said with a
little smile. “Tell me, is it right?” Her uncle looked at her for a
moment or two before he answered:
“I am inclined to think it is the best thing in the world,” he said at
last. “And ‘every good and every perfect gift cometh from above’; you
are awake now, I think, Daphne, so you will remember that!”
“And understand?” said Daphne very softly.
“And understand,” said her uncle. There came a silence between them, and
then her uncle, with his eyes turned, to a little picture of Dora, spoke
again. “You must let love go the whole way,” he said, “not stop at
Death, which is only one of the Station Houses of the Soul. Be very sure
that whatever comes to you of darkness or pain, nothing, either from
above or below, can take from you the knowledge that ‘The same goal is
still on the same track.’”
“And that is immortality?” said Daphne. Her uncle did not answer her in
words; he looked out of the window over the autumn fields, now fast
losing their last touch of summer life. Then he smiled back at her.
“We shall have the everlasting spring,” he said.
THE END.
PRINTED BY KELLY’S DIRECTORIES LTD., LONDON AND KINGSTON.
TRANSCRIBER NOTES
Misspelled words and printer errors have been corrected. Where multiple
spellings occur, majority use has been employed.
Punctuation has been maintained except where obvious printer errors
occur.
[The end of _The Master Hope_ by Phyllis Bottome]