TEMPTATION.
"Is anything the matter with Leo?" said Maud, the next day. "She is in
such an odd mood; and she has scarcely left her room since morning."
"She feels the going away, I think," replied Sybil, not ill-pleased to
say it, for she was smarting beneath a fresh instance of her other
sister's callousness. "We had a talk yesterday, and I saw she was taking
it dreadfully to heart."
"Rather absurd of Leo. She was ready enough to go once; and she can't be
as much attached to the place as we are, who have never been away from
it;" and Maud looked aggrieved, as people do when others are accredited
with finer feelings than they themselves can boast of. "Paul is low
to-day, too, but I believe it is lumbago. I only hope it is, and not
another attack of fever coming on."
"That would be very inconvenient, certainly," rejoined Sybil, gravely.
It struck her that there was not much sympathy for the sufferer in
either case. "What makes you think it is lumbago?"
"He has been sitting over the fire for hours, doing nothing. When I
asked him to come and look at these plans, he said another time would
do. And you know how he is always ready to look at plans, or do anything
I wish."
"He didn't say he was unwell?"
"No, I only supposed so."
She passed on, and at the same moment Leonore appeared.
"There you are!" cried Sybil gaily. "Come along, and be sociable. You
have been a most unsociable little creature all day. Now then, aren't
you coming?"
But Leo was not coming. Obviously she was disconcerted at sight of her
sister, and shook her head as though vexed at being accosted.
"Nonsense! Don't go hiding yourself again," resumed Sybil. "What's the
use of moping? And it doesn't make it any pleasanter for the rest of us
that Paul is in the dumps in one room, and you in another. We are none
too cheerful without that."
"Where is Paul?"
"In the library. Over the fire. So Maud says, and declares he has
lumbago. I don't believe it. He simply doesn't want to be bothered with
her and her eternal 'plans'."
"You are sure he is there?"
"Go and look for yourself if you doubt Maud's word. Why? Do you want
him?"
But Leo threw her a strange look, a look of such bitter, ironical
meaning, that she appended hastily; "You are not such a little fool as
to be worrying yourself over those two and their affairs? Maud won't
thank you if you do. She is rather put out as it is, because I hinted
that you took to heart our going more than she did. I didn't _say_ so,
you know--but I should, if she had gone on much longer. However, she
went off to Paul."
"And Paul is safe, in there?"
"Paul is safe--in there. Let sleeping dogs lie. Well? Oh, Leo, you
really are too bad,--" for Leo had turned at the words, and was
remounting the staircase.
"One can't say a word to her that she doesn't vanish on the instant,"
muttered Sybil; "how I do dislike that way she has got into! And when
Maud goes, of course I shall have to take up with Leo. Hullo! Sue?"
"I was looking for Leo," said Sue.
"Did you look in the only place you were likely to find her? She has
hardly been out of her room all day."
"Has she not been out-of-doors at all? Poor child!"
"I tried to get her to come for a walk this morning, but she wouldn't."
"She seems----" said Sue, and stopped short.
"Yes, we all know what she seems, and is: in an uncommonly bad temper,
for some reason or other. There is nothing for it but to let her alone."
"I am rather anxious about her somehow, Syb."
"And now we shall have you in the blues too! For sheer pity bear up, and
don't let me be the only one--and I suppose I have feelings too. It
really is disgusting, every one giving way but me."
"I think I _must_ go and see what Leo is doing?"
"I think you _must_ do nothing of the kind. You will make nothing of
her. I've tried. She was here just now."
"And did you not notice anything? It is not only her face; but her
voice, her manner----"
"I told her she looked woebegone, and that it was no good. She frets
about things that are no business of hers, if you must know," owned
Sybil, reluctantly. "She has taken it into her head that Maud--that she
and Paul aren't suited to each other, and has let the idea run away
with her. I suppose I was stupid myself, not to put a veto upon it
flat,--but the truth is I do think they are an ill-assorted couple, and
can't make out how they ever came to take to each other."
"I once thought it was something else on Leo's part," said Sue, in
rather a low voice. "If it is only that, I think, I hope, we are all
mistaken."
"We?" cried Sybil, struck by the word.
"Because I think as you do," said Sue, quietly.
* * * * *
The short light of a November day was beginning to fade when Leonore,
after a minute's cautious listening and watching from above, stole
downstairs equipped to go out, and safely reached the garden-door
without encountering any one. She was in the act of unlocking it, when
Paul appeared.
"You are going out?" said he, mechanically.
"No, I am not," said she--and passed out before his eyes.
For a few minutes she ran aimlessly hither and thither, crossing and
recrossing her steps, while from time to time casting furtive glances at
the windows of the house, as though to see if she were being watched or
not--but satisfied apparently upon this point, she made a sudden dart
for the woods beyond, and was almost immediately lost to view.
Yet here again she hesitated, for the paths were numerous.
There was the one she had first trodden on her return to the Abbey three
years before. She recalled the beauty, the wild freshness of that
twilight hour. It had so exhilarated her that while desirous of walking
soberly as befitted the occasion, she had longed to run! Her first very
real but transient sorrow had worn off, and there was no one to see
her--yet something restrained her. It was not kind to Godfrey's memory;
he had been so good to her, so uniformly affectionate and indulgent
towards her, that she would not seem to slight him even in solitude. As
for the dancing blood in her veins, she told herself it was purely
physical. She was so well and strong that she could not help feeling
just a little happy.
And though she had often traversed the same narrow little winding path
since, she had never perhaps felt quite the same again.
On the other hand, there lay the short cut to Claymount--that was Val's
way. She would not take Val's way, although of late Val had ceased to
frequent it. He had no object in doing so, since Leonore was never to be
met with now.
Once or twice he had adverted to this, but she had replied evasively.
Val did not interest her, did not amuse her any longer. He grew tiresome
since he had taken to making remarks upon her altered appearance, and
putting direct, awkward questions.
Things might have been worse, of course; but on the whole she would even
have preferred an open rupture and well-founded resentment, to this
persistent determination to know how things were with her,--and others?
Val had no liking for Paul Foster now, though at first he had professed
such. He had no reason to give, and an obstinate look would come over
his face if pressed. Once he had murmured something of which Leo only
caught the words, "jolly deceitful,"--and the next minute he denied
having spoken them.
To herself Leo owned that she had not behaved well to poor Val, having
made use of him for selfish ends; but the experiment had harmed neither,
and no remorse need be wasted upon it.
With George Butts it was the same; he was fair game, having come in
search of her supposititious fortune, without even the excuse of an
honest, jog-trot fidelity such as Val's. She had been scolded on
George's account, but had not scolded herself, and had archly and
triumphantly pointed out the recusant to Sue in a sly corner of a
London balcony.
But young Andrews? Ah, _that_ stung. The home truths forced from those
quivering lips, the agony of those imploring eyes--she quailed before
them. They pierced her already shame-embittered soul, they were her
dying wounds. For she had made another suffer what she herself was
suffering, and had done it wantonly. There was no excuse for her,--none.
There should be no pity, no sorrow--if it were possible, no knowledge
when--when all was over.
She crashed into the undergrowth.
But she could not go far; the mould was too soft, and the rotting leaves
too thick and plentiful. She was forced to retrace her steps.
There was the dry track of a streamlet, along which a faint trickle
oozed to the surface here and there. She tried it, but the sharp stones
hurt her feet, and again she sprang into the path.
Then the sprawling arms of a bramble caught and ripped a bad tear in her
skirt. Her new, black skirt--and just where a darn would show! How
tiresome--how vexatious! And Bessie could not darn decently. She frowned
and examined, condemning already Bessie's incapable hand, and slipshod
work.
Till--remembrance came, and the torn edge flapped unheeded.
From below, where a frequented road came near at the point, there broke
upon her ear sounds and voices,--children returning late from school,
lingering and playing by the way--laughing and singing over their game.
She crouched till they were past--then hurried forward.
At length she came to an opening in the woods; a spot whose view of the
surrounding country often attracted her thither--and from habit she
paused and gazed.
It was such an afternoon as she loved; a red sky, a misty landscape, the
near trees still ablaze with autumn tints. In the distance a flying
train threaded its way whistling; the white steam appearing and
disappearing behind wooded heights and promontories.
How often had she stood thus; how familiar was the scene!--but she could
not linger now.
There was something she was searching for which she did not find. She
had only seen it once, and then by chance,--in the present confused
whirl of her brain she could not remember landmarks, nor identify
localities.
But it was there, somewhere,--and she must look, look till she found
it.
A branch snapped behind, and she spun round, terrified. Who--what was
that?
The woods were almost silent, birds had ceased to sing, and rabbits were
in their holes. After a minute's breathless suspense, she crept on a
pace or two, and listened again,--but there was not a rustle, not a
sound. She fled onwards.
A pile of logs and a rough saw-pit,--yes, yes,--she knew the saw-pit,
she had passed the saw-pit that other day, and Val and she had sat upon
the logs. Val had kicked about the splinters at his feet, and formed
them into heaps. And it was close, close by, that--oh, it was so close
that she shivered and trembled, and clung to the edge of the pit as a
support, and at last sank upon her knees.
But she was not praying--she was not even thinking;--there was nothing
more to think about,--she rose and crept down the slope, to where lay a
deep, black pool.
And out of the pool crawled a toad. Its head came first; the ugly, flat
head that, but for its movement, might have been mistaken for a lump of
slime,--then one long-jointed, sluggish leg, and then the other,
followed by a sudden leap, and a leap, ah! the loathsome thing!--in her
direction. Involuntarily she also leaped--backwards.
Not there--not just there; she shuddered as the reptile startled in its
turn, turned and plunged again into the water, where, no doubt, were
others of its kind, many and vile....
The stem of a bulrush shook, suggestive of hideous gambols at its
roots....
The whole place looked so foul and evil that a wild desire to flee from
it did actually, and as it were involuntarily, drag Leonore's nerveless
feet a few yards from the edge--but there she halted, muttering to
herself in broken, meaningless utterances. She thought she was goading
herself back--back--back;--and she began to go back.
* * * * *
"Caught you up at last, Leo. What a walker you are! I followed you out,
and guessed I should overtake you if I held on," continued the cheerful
voice, as Paul tumbled down the bank, slipping and sliding, and
steadying himself with his stick till he reached Leo's side. "A bit damp
here though, isn't it?"
"Go away--go away, Paul." She tried to push him aside, he was between
her and the pool.
"Sorry. I didn't mean to intrude; but, I say this is just the sort of
thing to be very pleasant at the time, but----"
"Go--go!"
"But it will find out the weak spot afterwards, and then the aches and
pains!"
"_I_ shall have no aches and pains, and you--you needn't stay. I don't
want you, I won't have you;" cried Leo, wildly. "Why did you come? Why
did you follow me? Who gave you leave to spy upon me?"
"I took my own leave," said Paul, and dropped his cheery note, fixing
his eyes steadily on hers. "You will come away--from here--with
me;"--and she felt his hand close upon her arm.
She looked at it, and at him stupidly. She made no outcry.
"Come," repeated Paul.
She shook her head.
"You are going to come. That was what brought me here. Do you understand
me, Leo?"
"No--no." She made a faint, weak effort to release herself.
"You must obey me."
"I shall not."
"You must obey a Higher Power than mine. In God's name I command you to
leave this baleful spot."
"Paul!" But she obeyed, cowering.
In silence they moved on, neither knowing which way they trod, then
suddenly: "It was you who broke that branch I heard--you who tracked me
all the way--I heard something--it was _you_ I heard? How could
you?--how could you?--?" cried Leo, sobbing aloud. "Oh, to think that it
was _you_!"
"It was I, dear Leo, sent to save you in your hour of need. You are
ill--you are not yourself--you know not what you are doing;--but there
is One who watches over His children, and in the hour of danger and
temptation----"
"But why did he send _you_? Paul, do you believe you were really sent by
Him?" she was awed, but scarcely subdued--"because _I_ don't. I cannot
think even God would be so cruel as to choose _you_----" she broke off
panting.
"He chooses His own instruments, Leo. Do not let this distress you, dear
little sister--I may call you 'sister,' mayn't I?--You can trust me, can
you not? Lean on me," he drew her hand within his arm, "and tell me you
forgive----"
"Forgive--forgive?" she sobbed afresh. "Is it I to forgive--I who have
done it all? Paul, don't you _know_? Don't you _see_?"
"I only see a poor little lamb that has lost its fold."
"But the little lamb has been straying in other folds, and it was so
dark there, Paul--so dark and cold,--oh, Paul, why did you stop me?
Why--why did you save me? You know. _You know_;"--her sobs were
heartrending.
He was silent.
"You were happy till you came here," said Leo, brokenly. "You loved
Maud--at least you thought you did, and she, she still thinks she loves
you. She----"
"Hush--no more. You must not say such things, Leo." He was calm no
longer; the sweat broke out upon his brow.
"But it is the truth. Oh, it is--it is the truth."
"There are truths that must not be spoken. You must not, you shall not
say what you would repent of all your life."
"Who is to speak if I do not? I am the only one----"
"Am I fallen so low that I would let _you_ proclaim the secrets of my
coward heart? If _my_ lips are sealed, so shall _yours_ be," he cried,
in great agitation. "If I have made a terrible mistake, it is my own
mistake, and I shall abide by it."
"Paul--Paul,--" she clung more closely to him. "Say you forgive me,
Paul."
"There is nothing to forgive. Take care. You nearly fell, Leo. Try to
look where you are going in this dim light." The accents of forced
composure fell like cold lead upon her heart. She had touched him for a
moment, and a nerve had vibrated to her touch--but he was slipping from
her again. He continued:--
"Since your penetration has discovered----"
"Say since I found out the truth, Paul."
"That, if you will." He bent his head. "I cannot, I dare not deny it. It
_is_ the truth, God help me--God help us both."
"You and me?" she whispered, faintly.
"Maud and me. I have done her a great wrong, but it shall be the aim of
my life to repair it. She shall find me a true and faithful husband----"
"You won't--you can't marry her?"
"What?" said Paul, stopping short.
"You do not love her."
"I loved her once--I shall learn to love her again."
"You will be wretched, miserable--and so will she, now that you know the
truth. I would have spared you. I meant to give my life to spare
you--oh, Paul, you know I did," she wept passionately--"but now, now
when you yourself would not let me do it----"
"Leo?"
She wept on.
"Try to hear me. Try to understand me. Leo, there is a greater thing
than Love."
"No, no, there is not--there is not."
"There is." He drew a breath, a long, deep breath. "There is Honour."
She was silent. The tears hung on her cheeks.
"I have lost all besides," said he, simply, "but I have kept that, and
will keep it." He paused, and continued: "If Maud were different, other
things might also be different, but you know your sister; to break faith
with her would be--she could not endure it. I have taught her to believe
that I am wholly hers, and she has never seen nor guessed that--that a
change has come. And however acutely Maud would feel that, if she
knew--which, so help me God, she never shall--she would be infinitely
more distressed, more humiliated--her pride--her self-respect--no, it is
not to be thought of." He was now walking on alone, and so fast that she
could scarcely keep pace with him. She could catch only broken
utterances--some perhaps not meant for her. It appeared as though he had
forgotten her presence.
"Love? Honour?
"Love lost, much lost.
Honour lost, all lost."
Honour is not lost--not yet. Happiness? That's nothing. Life is short,
and there's another life to look to. A coward turns his back on the
fight. A deserter falls out of the ranks. The strong should hold up the
weak"--suddenly he looked round for her--"Leo?"
Leo meekly raised her eyes, overmastered, dumb. It was the hardest
moment of Paul's life. One look, one word between them, and she would
have been dragged down into the whirlpool from which it was his part to
save her. A great convulsion shook his frame, and he set his teeth and
swore, then drew her gently to his side.
"My little sister must forget all this. It is a bad dream and it is over
and past. She must promise me----"
"What--Paul?"
"She must promise me--solemnly--before God, in Whose Presence we
are"--he looked up, the sky was clear and shining overhead--"that she
will never--mark me, Leo, _never_--as long as life lasts, allow herself
to think of cutting it short again. Before God, Leo!"
He lifted her hand, still fast in his, as though invoking the Unseen
Presence, and almost inaudibly she repeated after him the words of the
promise.
"We must hasten home now," said Paul, with a rapid transition to another
tone. "The short cut from Claymount is somewhere hereabouts," looking
round--"and we shall get back," he took out his watch, "before the house
is shut up, if we walk briskly. You can walk, can't you? I mean, of
course you will have to walk, but can you step out? If you would care to
have an arm----"
"I can walk quite well, thank you--but, oh, Paul, just this--mayn't I
say it----?"
"Better not, dear." The word slipped out; he was unconscious of it, but
she heard. They hurried home.