A RASH PROMISE.
There was of course no opposition to Rachel's engagement. Mr. Hardy,
away from his office, was simply Mrs. Hardy's husband, not because he
had no will of his own, but because he acknowledged her superior
capacity for the management of that complicated business called getting
on in the world, to which they had both devoted their lives for so many
years.
Mrs. Reade, who next to her mother was the greatest "power" in the
family, approved of the match highly, though she had herself proposed to
be Mrs. Kingston at an earlier stage of her career; but she had a good
deal to say before she would allow it to be considered a settled thing.
In the first place she had a serious talk with the bridegroom-elect, in
which she demanded on Rachel's behalf certain guarantees of good
behaviour when he should have become a married man. She was a clever
little clear-headed woman, full of active energies, for which the
minding of her own business did not supply employment; and being blessed
with plenty of self-confidence and much good sense and tact, she
contrived to give her friends a great deal of assistance with theirs,
without giving them offence at the same time.
Occasionally she came across another strong-minded woman who objected to
interference; but the men never objected. They rather liked it, most of
them.
Mr. Kingston, at any rate, thought it was very pleasant to be lectured
in a maternal manner by a woman five feet high, who was just thirty
years younger than he was; and he made profuse and solemn promises that
he would be "a good boy," and take the utmost care of the innocent young
creature who had confided her happiness to his charge. And then she
fetched Rachel away to spend the day with her, and, over a protracted
discussion of afternoon tea, gave _her_ some valuable advice as to the
conduct of her affairs.
"You know," she said, with much gravity and decision, "it is always best
to look at these things in a practical way. Mr. Kingston is, no doubt, a
splendid match, and not a bad fellow, as men go; but it is no use
pretending that he won't be a great handful. He has been a bachelor too
long. The habit of having his own way in everything will have become his
second nature. I doubt if anyone could properly break him of it now, and
I am sure _you_ could not."
"I should not try," said Rachel, smiling. "I should like my husband,
whoever he was, to have his own way."
Mrs. Reade shook her head.
"It doesn't answer, my dear. What is the use of a man marrying if his
wife doesn't try to keep him straight? And if you give in to him in
everything, he only despises you for it."
"But, Beatrice," Rachel protested, "all men don't want keeping straight,
do they? It seems to me that every case is different from every other
case. One is no guide for another."
"I know it isn't. I'm only thinking of your case. And I want to make you
understand it. You don't know him as well as I do, and you don't know
anything about married life. If you run into it blindfold, and let
things take their chance, then--why, then it is too late to talk about
it. Everything depends upon how you begin. You must begin as you mean
to go on."
"And how ought I to begin?" inquired Rachel, still smiling. She could
not be brought to regard this momentous subject with that serious
attention which it demanded.
"Well, _I_ should take a very high hand if it were my case--but you are
not like me. I should put a stop to a great deal that goes on now at
_once_, and get it over, while the novelty and pleasure of his marriage
was fresh and my influence was supreme. I should try to make him as
happy as possible, of course, for both our sakes. I'd humour him in
little things. I'd never put him out of temper, if I could help it. But
I would keep him well in hand, and on no account put up with any
nonsense. If they see you mean that from the beginning, they generally
give in; and by and bye they are used to it, and settle down quietly and
comfortably, and you have no more trouble."
Rachel's smiling face had been growing grave, and her large eyes
dilating and kindling.
"Oh, Beatrice," she broke out, "that is not marriage--not my idea of
marriage! How can a husband and wife be happy if they are always
watching each other like two policemen? And they marry on purpose to be
happy. I think they should love one another enough to have no fear of
those treacheries. If they are not alike--if they have different tastes
and ways--oughtn't they to be companions whenever they _can_ enjoy
things together, and help each other to get what else they want. Love
should limit those outside wants--love should make everything safe. If
that will not, I don't think anything else will. I should never have the
heart to try anything else, if that failed."
Mrs. Reade gazed with intense curiosity and interest at this girl, with
her young enthusiasm and her old-world philosophy. She was so surprised
at the unexpected element introduced into the dialogue, that for a few
minutes she could not speak. Then she put out her hand impulsively and
laid it on Rachel's knee.
"Is _that_ how you feel about Mr. Kingston?" she exclaimed, earnestly.
"My dear, I beg your pardon. I did not know how things were. If you
think of your marriage in that way, pray forget all I have been saying,
and act as your own heart dictates. That will be your safest guide."
So Rachel was engaged with satisfaction to all concerned. She
conscientiously believed that she loved her elderly _fiance_, and that
she would be very happy with him; and the rest of them thought so
too--himself of course included.
The winter wore away, full of peace and pleasure. The interesting event
was public property, and the engaged pair were feted and congratulated
on all sides, and enjoyed themselves immensely.
Rachel had her diamond ring, and a diamond bracelet into the bargain,
with a promise of the "necklace of stars, strung together," on her
wedding day: and her aunt in consideration of her prospective
importance, bought her the coveted sealskin jacket.
Black Agnes was made over to her entirely, and she rode and jumped
fences to her heart's content. She went to the opera whenever she liked.
She was the belle of all the balls; and in the best part of Melbourne
her splendid home was being prepared for her, where she was to reign as
a queen of beauty and fashion, with unlimited power to "aggravate other
women"--which is supposed by some cynics to be the highest object of
female ambition.
And Mr. Kingston bore with extreme complacency the jokes of his club
friends on his defection from that faith in the superior advantages of
celibacy, which he and some of them had held in common; for he knew they
all admired his lady-love extravagantly, if they did not actually go so
far as to envy him her possession. And he attended her wherever she went
with the utmost assiduity.
When the winter was nearly over, an event occurred in the Hardy family
which made a change in this state of things. Mrs. Thornley, the second
daughter, who lived in the country, having married a wealthy landowner,
who preferred all the year round to manage his own property, presented
Mrs. Hardy with her first grandchild; and being in rather delicate
health afterwards, wrote to beg her mother to come and stay with her,
and of course to bring Rachel.
To this invitation Mrs. Hardy responded eagerly by return of post, and
bade Rachel pack up quickly for an early start. Rachel was delighted
with the prospect, even though it involved her separation from her
betrothed; and her preparations were soon completed. Mr. Hardy was
handed over to his daughter Beatrice, "to be kept till called for;" one
old servant was placed in charge of the Toorak house, and others on
board wages; and Mrs. Hardy, paying a round of farewell calls, intimated
to her friends that she was likely to make a long visit.
Rachel rose early on the day of her departure. It was a very lovely
morning in the earliest dawn of spring, full of that delicate,
delicious, champagny freshness which belongs to Australian mornings.
She opened her window, while yet half dressed, to let in the sweet air
blowing off the sea.
Far away the luminous blue of the transparent sky met the sparkle of the
bluer bay, where white sails shone like the wings of a flock of
sea-birds. Below her, spreading out from under the garden terraces, far
and wide, lay Melbourne in a thin veil of mist and smoke, beginning to
flash back the sunshine from its spiky forest of chimney stacks and
towers. And close by, through an opening in the belt of pinus insignis
which enclosed Mr. Hardy's domain, and where just now a flock of king
parrots were noisily congregating after an early breakfast on almond
blossoms, she could see the dusty mess surrounding the nucleus of her
future home, and the workmen beginning their day's task of chipping and
chopping at the stones which were to build it; even they were
picturesque in this glorifying atmosphere. How bright it all was! Her
heart swelled with childish exultation at the prospect of a journey on
such a day.
As for Mr. Kingston, to be left behind to stroll about Collins Street
disconsolately by himself, just now she did not give him a thought.
Two or three hours later, however, when she and her aunt, accompanied by
"Ned"--who had no office, unfortunately for him, and was therefore
driven by his wife to make himself useful when opportunity
offered--arrived at Spencer Street, there was Mr. Kingston on the
platform waiting to see the last of her. If she was able to leave him
without any severe pangs of regret and remorse, he for his part was by
no means willing to let her go.
"You will write to me often," he pleaded, when, having placed her in a
corner of the ladies' carriage, he rested his arms on the window for a
last few words. Mrs. Hardy was leaning out of the opposite window,
deeply interested in the spectacle of an empty Williamstown train
patiently waiting for its passengers and its engine.
"Yes," said Rachel slowly; "but you must remember I shall be in the
country, and shall have no news to make letters of."
"I don't want news," he replied with a shade of darkness in his eager
face. "Pray don't give me news--that's a kind of letter I detest. I
want you to write about yourself."
"I--I have never had many friends," she stammered, "and I am not used to
writing letters. You will be disappointed with mine--and perhaps ashamed
of me."
"What rubbish! Do you think I shall be critical about the grammar and
composition? Why, my pet, if you don't spell a single word right I
shan't care--so long as you tell me you think of me, and miss me, and
want to come back to me."
"Oh," said Rachel bridling, "I know how to _spell_."
Here a railway official shouldered them apart in order to lock the door,
and Mr. Kingston demanded of him what he meant by his impudence. Having
satisfied the claims of outraged dignity, he again leaned into the
window, and put out his hand for a tender farewell.
"Good-bye, my darling. You _will_ write often, won't you? And mind now,"
with one of his Mephistophelian smiles, "you are not to go and flirt
with anybody behind my back."
"I never flirt," said Rachel severely.
"Nor fall in love with handsome young squatters, you know."
"Don't talk nonsense," she retorted, melting into one of her sunny
smiles. "If you can't trust me, why do you let me go?"
"I would not, if I had the power to stop you--you may be quite sure of
that. But you will promise me, Rachel?"
"Promise you what?"
"That you will be constant to me while you are away from me, and not
let other men----"
She lifted her ungloved hand, on which shone that ring "full of
diamonds" which he had given her, and laid it on his mouth--or rather on
his moustache.
"Now you'll make me angry if you go on," she said, with a playfully
dignified and dictatorial air. "No, I won't hear any more--I am ashamed
of you! after all the long time we have been engaged. As if I was a girl
of _that_ sort, indeed!"
Here the signal was given for the train to start, and Mrs. Hardy came
forward to make her own adieux, and to give her last instructions to her
son-in-law, who had been meekly standing apart.
As they slowly steamed out of the station, Rachel rose and comforted her
bereaved lover with a last sight of her fair face, full of fun and
smiles.
"Good-bye," she called gaily; "I promise."
"Thank you," he shouted back.
He lifted his hat, and kissed the tips of his fingers, and stood to
watch the train disappear into the dismal waste that lay immediately
beyond the station precincts. Then he walked away dejectedly to find his
cab. He had grown very fond of his little sweetheart, and he anticipated
the long, dull days that he would have to spend without her.
He wished Mrs. Hardy had been a little more definite as to the time when
she meant to bring her home. It was not as if he were a young man, with
any quantity of time to waste. However, he had her assurance that she
would be true to him under any temptations that should assail her in his
absence; and though too experienced to put absolute faith in that, it
greatly cheered and consoled him. He stepped into his hansom, and told
the driver to take him to Toorak, that he might see how the house where
they were going to live together was getting on.