During the whole of the drive back to Geldham it was old Mr. Reade
who talked to me, and not Laurence, who drove along, silent and grave,
pulling my cloak affectionately up to my throat every now and then,
and watching me as I talked to his father, but scarcely speaking
himself at all. When we got to the gate of the Alders, he jumped out,
carefully lifted me down, and, telling his father to drive on home, as
he should walk the rest of the way, he came inside the gate with me.
“Violet,” he said very gravely, “I am afraid I have been foolish in
agreeing to my father’s wishes, and I am more anxious about you than I
can tell. The Alders is no fit place for you. I can see quite well now
what I could not when I was blinded by my passion last night, that you
are so good and innocent that evil seems to have no power over you;
but yet-- And--and it is just that which makes you so sweet; and I
don’t want to spoil it, open your eyes, and all that.” He was playing
nervously with my hand, holding it against his breast, and looking
into my eyes so miserably, poor fellow! “Look here, Violet!” said he
suddenly, as if struck by a happy thought. “If any man, while I am
away, tells you you are nice, and tries to make you think he is very
fond of you--no matter who it is--Mr. Rayner or--or my father, or any
man--don’t take any notice, and don’t believe them.”
But poor Laurence was more innocent than I if he thought I did not
know what he meant. He was jealous of Mr. Rayner, and I could not
persuade him how absurd it was.
I said, “Very well, Laurence;” but he was not satisfied. He went on
trying to justify himself--not to me--he wanted no justification in my
eyes--but to himself.
“What could I do, when my old dad offered to do so much for me, but
let him have his way? But it was wrong, I know. Our engagement ought
to have been open from the first; and his weakness in not daring to
face my mother was no worse than mine in giving way to him. And now I
am tortured lest my weakness should be visited on you, child; for I
cannot even write to you openly, and, if I enclose letters to you to
my dear old blundering dad, you will certainly never get them.”
“Why not send them to Mrs. Manners, Laurence? Then they would be quite
safe. And you don’t mind her knowing, do you? I think she guesses
something already,” said I, smiling, remembering how she sent me to
the gate to meet him on the previous Friday evening, the very night
when he first told me he loved me.
He caught at the suggestion eagerly.
“That is a capital idea, my darling! I’ll go to her before breakfast
to-morrow morning and ask her to look after you as much as she can
while I am away. I don’t think she is very fond of my sisters--I wish
they were nicer for your sake, my darling, especially Maud. I wish
some one would marry her; but no one is such a fool.”
“Oh, Laurence, she is your sister!”
“I can’t help that; I wish I could. Alice, the little one, isn’t half
so bad; it is only being with Maud that spoils her. If ever you get
Alice alone, you will find she is quite nice.”
I had already had proof of that, and I told him so.
“But one can’t confide in her, because she would tell everything to
Maud, and Maud to my mother. You have no idea what the tyranny of
those two women is like; my father dreads and I avoid them. My mother
thinks she holds my destiny in her hand; but she is mistaken; and
within the next six weeks she must find it out; for, if she wishes to
stay abroad longer, she will have to stay alone. By the third week in
November I shall be back in England, and before the month is out you
must be my wife, my darling.”
“Oh, Laurence, so soon!”
“So soon? Why, it is a century off! I shall be gray-headed if we wait
another week. I am not sure where we shall stay; but to-morrow night I
will bring you an address that you can always write to. It is that of
a friend of mine--I forget the number of the street, but you shall
have it; and I shall be sure to get your letters. Now, if anything
happens to alarm you, or you are ill, or anything, you are to write at
once, and I will return to Geldham without delay. And, my darling--”
We were interrupted by the sound of a carriage coming up the drive; it
was Doctor Lowe’s brougham returning from the house. I went to the
carriage-window, and he told me that Haidee was suffering at present
only from a bad feverish cold, but that we must be careful with her,
for it might turn to something worse, and he should call again to see
her in the morning. He said that the child’s chest was weak, that the
damp place was the worst thing for her, and that he should like to see
her parents to advise them to take her away to some drier climate, as
soon as she was well enough to be moved.
“Mind, she mustn’t be moved yet,” said he. “She is very well where she
is--nice warm room, high out of the damp. But the lower part of the
house strikes like a vault.”
“What would he say if he could go into the left wing?” I thought to
myself.
“There was only a silly little servant up there with the child. She
says that is your room.”
“Yes, Doctor Lowe.”
“And is it true that Mrs. Rayner sleeps on the ground-floor?”
“Yes, quite true.”
“Well, then, you may think yourself lucky, young lady. For, if I lived
in that house, I should let the people I wanted to get rid of sleep at
the bottom, and keep the top for myself.”
“Mrs. Rayner will have the ground-floor of the left wing to herself.”
“Ah, well, there is no accounting for tastes; and, if Mrs. Rayner has
a fancy for building her own sepulchre, why, there is nobody very
eager to prevent her, I dare say!” said he dryly.
The Doctor was an old bachelor, famed for his rudeness as much as for
his skill. Mr. Rayner did not like him, I knew; and on that account I
had had at first some doubts about sending for him; but, as he was
well known to be by far the best doctor in Beaconsburgh, I had
resolved to risk it. Now I began to repent having done so.
“Is that young Reade? Is that you, Laurence?” said the Doctor, peering
out of the carriage-window into the deep shadow of the trees behind
me.
Laurence came forward.
“Yes, Doctor Lowe.”
“Oh, ah! Come to inquire about the sick child, I suppose?”
“No, Doctor Lowe. I drove back from Beaconsburgh with my father and
this lady, after calling upon you, and I am saying good-by to her, as
I am going abroad and shall not see her again until a few days before
she becomes my wife,” said he, in a low voice, but very proudly, with
his hand on my shoulder.
“Wife, eh?”--incredulously.
“But it is a secret.”
“Oh, ah, of course!”--knowingly. “So this is the Miss Christie I’ve
heard so much about!” And he deliberately put on his spectacles and
stared at me in the faint moonlight. “Well, she wouldn’t have turned
the heads of the men when I was young.”
We both laughed at the old man’s rudeness.
“I have no doubt heads were harder to turn then, Doctor Lowe,” said
Laurence dryly.
“Well, take care some one else doesn’t turn hers while you are away!”
said the Doctor, glaring at him ferociously; and he told the coachman
to drive on, and drew up the window sharply.
This last hit struck poor Laurence as an evil omen; and, when I told
him that I must go in now, and that I should see him again on the
morrow, he flung his arms around me in such distress that I did not
know what to say to comfort him.
“See what clever Doctor Lowe thinks of your Mr. Rayner, Violet,” said
he, looking anxiously into my eyes. “Now listen, my darling. Don’t
trust him, don’t trust anybody while I am away, and don’t believe what
anybody may tell you about me. What would you do if they showed you
the certificate of my marriage to another woman, Violet?”
“Oh, Laurence, you are not going away to be married, are you?”
“No, child, no; and, if any one tells you so, you will know it is a
lie. And, if you get no letters, and they tell you I am dead--”
“Oh, Laurence, don’t!”
“Why, that will be a lie too! I shall be alive and single all the next
six weeks, and at the end of that time I shall come back and marry
you; and, if you want me, I shall come back before, my own darling!
Good-by, good-by!”
He kissed me again and again, then tore himself from my arms, and
dashed away without daring even to look at me again; and, tearful and
trembling, I turned to go back to the house. But Laurence’s terrible
excitement had communicated itself to me, and I staggered down the
drive, hardly able to see where I was going; and, when I had got to
the bottom, with only the lawn at the side and the gravel-space in
front between me and the house, I stopped for a moment, and clung to a
birch-tree for support while I dried my eyes before presenting myself
at the front door. I had told Jane to come down and open it for me
when she heard my ring; and I hoped with all my heart that it would be
she, and that that horrid Sarah would not have taken it into her head
to sit up, for I did not want her to see my tear-stained face.
But, just as I was going to leave the shelter of the trees and cross
the gravel-space to the portico, I stopped, for I saw in the gloom a
figure making its way across the lawn towards the back of the house.
It was coming from the path among the trees which led to the stables.
I strained my eyes, but there was a cloud passing before the moon, and
I could only see that it was a man, and that he was carrying what
looked like a small trunk; and it seemed heavy.
Who could it be at this time of night? For it was between eleven and
twelve o’clock. Was it Tom Parkes paying a late visit to Sarah,
knowing the master was away? Or was it the mysterious servant Gordon,
thinking Mr. Rayner was at home? Or was it a burglar? But then a
burglar, I argued to myself, would hardly be likely to carry things to
the house he was going to rob, but rather to take things away; and the
trunk he was carrying seemed to be heavy already. He had disappeared
behind the back of the house by this time, and, as I was curious to
know what would happen next, I waited, trembling, creeping in among
the trees, and in a few minutes had the satisfaction of seeing him
reappear, followed by Sarah. And, the cloud having passed over the
face of the moon, I saw that it was indeed Tom Parkes; and then I
would have given the world to know what he had brought her.
The impression which Sarah’s talk with the stranger in the plantation
had given me of Tom’s desperate wickedness had faded a good deal from
my mind by this time; but this strange sight revived it. What if
Tom--placid, stolid-looking, honest-faced Tom, as I had once thought
him--were in reality a thief? And what if Sarah, in her master’s
absence, had been persuaded by him to take care of stolen property?
There had been something stealthy in his manner of sneaking across the
lawn in the shadow with his burden which had suggested this thought;
but, on the other hand, was it not much more probable that he had been
turned off at Denham Court, and had brought some of his own personal
property, intending to take up his abode at the Alders for a few days,
in the master’s absence? The all-powerful Sarah might even dare that,
relying upon her power of making herself unpleasant for the rest of
the household to keep her secret.
They disappeared up the stable path, and I took the opportunity to
dart across the gravel-space to the front door and ring as gently as I
could. Jane came down in a few minutes, very sleepy, and let me in.
“Sarah’s been asking where you were, miss, and, as I let the Doctor
in, I told her you came back with him. I guessed as you’d come back
safe, miss, when the Doctor said as how a young gentleman was with
you,” said Jane, with elaborate archness.
I told her to go to bed as fast as she could; and, when I had followed
her upstairs and seen her into the nursery, I went softly to the head
of the kitchen stairs, and, as I heard no sound and saw no light, I
slipped down with my candle. The side-door by which Sarah and Mr.
Rayner used to go to and from the stables was ajar, and just inside
was a small old brown portmanteau. I did not dare to go all the way
down to inspect it closely, as I own I should have liked to do; but in
the view I got of it, as I held my candle over my head and peered at
it curiously, it struck me that I had seen it before somewhere. Then I
turned and fled guiltily upstairs to my room. Haidee was sleeping, and
looked less feverish than when I went away. Jane had built up the fire
carefully, so that it might keep in all night, and placed the drink
the Doctor had ordered on a little table beside the child. Her bed had
been placed at the right-hand side of the fireplace, facing the door,
and my screen had been put round the back to shut out all draught from
the windows. I was very tired, and the moment I laid my head on my
pillow I fell soundly asleep, and did not wake until the morning.
Haidee was already awake, and undoubtedly better.
“How did you sleep, darling?” said I, sitting on the bed and kissing
her.
“Oh, beautifully, Miss Christie! I hardly ever woke up once, and when
I did I watched the beautiful fire; I could just see it when I lay
with my head so. It is so nice and warm up here. I wish mamma was up
here; I should like to be up here always. I think I should have nice
dreams up here, not like the ones I have downstairs.”
And she closed her eyes, as if to shut out the thought of something.
“You shall stay up here till you are quite well again, darling,” said
I, inwardly resolving to beg that she might sleep in my room
permanently.
“Miss Christie, you know you dream sometimes with your eyes wide open,
just as if you were awake? I dreamt a dream like that last night.”
“That was because you were ill, darling. When people are ill, they
dream like that.”
“Do they--quite plain, like as if it was all quite real?”
“Yes; sometimes they think they see people and talk to people.”
“That was like my dream. I dreamt it was while I was looking at the
fire that the door there opened quite gently and softly, just as if it
moved quite of itself, and then I saw papa’s face, and he had in his
hand something red and sparkling; and, just when the door came quite
wide open, I thought I sat up in bed, and he looked at me. And then
the door seemed to shut quite softly again, and I didn’t hear
anything--and that was all.”
“That wasn’t really a dream, darling. It was just a fancy because you
were ill.”
“Not a dream! Papa didn’t really come, did he?”
“Oh, no, darling! Papa is away in London. See, the door is locked.”
And I got up off the bed and went to the door, and showed her that it
was so. Haidee leant back thoughtfully.
“Dreams are very strange things, I think. And to dream of nice things
is just as good as if they really happened. And to dream of horrid
things--cries and moans and things--is dreadful!”--and she shuddered.
“You sha’n’t dream of anything dreadful while you are up here with me,
darling,” said I, soothing the little delicate fanciful creature, and
wondering whether some of the cries she spoke of had not been real,
and not only dreams.
For I was beginning since last night, when I had witnessed her real
feeling about her child, to be very sorry for Mrs. Rayner, and to
wonder whether I could not draw nearer to her in some way through
Haidee, and, through understanding her better, learn to sympathize
with her still more. Her misery had seemed so real, and, on the other
hand, I had never seen her so utterly broken down and helpless. When
once the mask of cold self-control which she usually wore had
disappeared, she seemed such a weak thing that it appeared scarcely
possible that she could have such a force of obstinacy in her as Mr.
Rayner had described her to possess. Mad or sane, I should never be
afraid of her again. I only felt utterly sorry for her, and anxious to
let her know how much I longed in some way to cheer her dull life. Why
was she so reticent to her husband? What if I, being a woman, and
having now established, through my care of her child, some claim on
her gratitude, could win my way to her heart altogether, persuade her
to leave Geldham for a time, and meet Mr. Rayner on his return with
the triumphant news that at last his wife was ready to break through
her apathy and come back into the world of men again? The thought made
my heart beat faster, and I longed to begin my delicate work at once.
But I was disappointed. I had all my meals by myself that day, except
tea, which I had upstairs with Haidee, for Sarah said Mrs. Rayner was
too unwell to leave her room. When we had finished tea, I still sat
upstairs by my pupil’s bedside, and my high spirits at the thought of
Laurence’s expected visit infected her, and she laughed and chattered
to me in a fashion very unusual with her. At last I heard the
front-door bell ring, and my heart seemed to stand still with joyful
anticipation. But no one came upstairs to fetch me, and, after a few
minutes’ breathless waiting, I ran downstairs, unable to bear the
suspense any longer. I met Sarah in the hall.
“Who was that, Sarah?” asked I, too much excited to think of a decent
subterfuge.
“Only one of Gregson’s boys asking for Mr. Rayner, miss.”
Strange that Gregson’s boy should come to the front door, I thought.
I could not go upstairs again. It was half-past six; and at half-past
seven I was to be at my “nest,” if Laurence had not come before. I
thought that hour would never end. It seemed to me to be getting very
dark too. When the hands of the schoolroom clock pointed to twenty
minutes past, I put on my shawl, and had opened the window to go out,
when Sarah came in.
“If you please, miss, would you mind helping me with the store-list?
Mrs. Rayner is too ill to do it, and it has to be posted to-morrow
morning.”
“Oh, Sarah, won’t it do in--in half an hour?” said I breathlessly.
“Mrs. Rayner will want me then, miss. It won’t take you more than five
minutes.”
I followed her out of the room, suppressing my impatience as well as I
could. But the task really did not seem to take long. In what appeared
to be about a quarter of an hour I was free, and I dashed into the
garden, through the plantation, towards my “nest.”
I had not looked at the clock again, but surely it was very dark for
half-past seven! Yet Laurence was not there! And, as I stood wondering
whether something was wrong, I heard the church-clock strike eight.
What awful mistake had I made? Was he gone? Should I really not see
him again? A bit of paper half hidden in the grass, not on my seat,
but under it, caught my eye. It was a leaf torn from a pocket-book. On
it was scrawled in pencil, in Laurence’s handwriting--
“Good-by, my darling! Remember what I prophesied last night, and, if
no other warning will serve you, take this one. I called at the Alders
at seven, and was told by Sarah that you were tired out with watching
by Haidee, and were asleep. I come here to-night, and you are not
here. I know it is a trick, and I know who is at the bottom of it.
When I left you last night, there were two men in a cart outside the
stable-gate of the Alders. If anything happens, write. Write to me at
the following address.” Then followed the address, and the scrawl
ended with--“I have spoken to Mrs. Manners. Good-by, my darling! Take
care of yourself for the next six weeks, and you shall never need to
take care of yourself again.
“Your devotedly loving Laurence.”
I kissed the note, thrust it into the front of my frock, and fled into
the house and into the schoolroom. Sarah was just turning away from
the mantelpiece; and by the clock it was just four minutes past eight.
How the time had flown between my leaving the schoolroom with Sarah
and my going into the garden!