The girl turned round upon him like a fury.
‘How dare you,’ she cried, ‘make such an infamous proposal to me? I
don’t believe papa ever told you to say so. I don’t believe he would
have thought of such a thing if you had not put it into his head. You
are not telling me the truth, Mr Hindes. What spite have you against
me, that you are always trying to put a spoke in my wheel in this way.
You never propose anything for my pleasure, it is always something for
my pain. I believe you have taken a hatred to me, you go against me so
persistently.’
‘_I_--I hate you, Jenny!’ stammered Hindes.
‘Yes, I feel sure you do, else why should you be forever urging papa
to do something to displease me. I have seen it for years past. Every
obstacle that has been thrown in my way has been by your advice. What
am I to you? Why can’t you let me and my affairs alone?’
‘Why can’t I let you alone? Why am I for ever interesting myself in
your affairs?’ he repeated after her. ‘Cannot you guess, Jenny; has no
glimmer of the truth reached your heart during all these years? Well,
then, I will tell you; it is because I love you.’
‘A nice way of loving,’ interposed the girl sarcastically.
‘Yes! you may laugh, but it will not unmake the fact. I love you,
Jenny, as no one of your admirers has ever loved you yet, love you
with the fire and fervour of a disappointed man, of one who knows, and
has known for years past, that his love is of no avail, that it lives
without hope, but still lives, burning on--loving on--because it can
never die even if it would, because it would not die even if it could.
Oh! my darling! I have loved you for years. Just give me one look of
pity at last.’
But Jenny recoiled from him with a shudder of disgust.
‘How dare you! how _dare_ you!’ she panted; ‘and you pretend to be my
friend, you, a married man. Oh! you have made me feel that I have sunk
low indeed.’
Her look of horror and her tone of contempt stung Hindes more than a
dozen lashes from her hand would have done.
‘Married!’ he exclaimed; ‘what has that to do with a man’s feelings? Am
I blind, deaf, insensible, because I am married. And what about your
fine scoundrel over there? You imagine he loves you. Yet, what is he?
A married man, and worse than a married man, a thousand times over,
for he has left a poor girl who is, to all intents and purposes, his
wife, and a child who has the right to call him father, to break their
hearts, and perhaps to starve down at Luton, whilst he is philandering
after you. Ah! that has touched you, has it?’ he continued almost
savagely, as he saw Jenny’s cheeks flush. ‘Well! it is the solemn
truth, as I can prove to you. And she is not the only one either. Ask
Philip Walcheren! You are one of many, Jenny, though you may wear the
wedding-ring upon your finger.’
‘You lie!’ cried the girl vehemently; ‘I am sure you lie, and I will
tell my husband every word you say, and he shall punish you for them.
You want to frighten me, that is all--you are jealous of my great
happiness. I have always suspected you were double-faced, and now I
know it. And I hate you--I hate you. And I love my husband as much as I
hate you, and nothing shall ever separate us, try as hard as you may.
We will be together and together and together, until death.’
She turned, in all her beauty with a mocking smile upon her lovely
face, towards him as she spoke, and stepped backwards towards the edge
of the cliff. Henry Hindes’ first impulse was to catch her by the
wrist to prevent her falling over. But she wrenched it from his grasp.
‘Don’t dare to touch me, you brute!’ she cried excitedly. ‘You want to
push me over the cliff now, I suppose!’
God! why did she say the word? Why did she put the idea into his
excited brain? It had never entered his head before. He had never
thought of her but in kindness. For years past, he had secretly
cherished her image, suffering himself to indulge in beatific
day-dreams of what his life might have been had Jenny been destined
to spend it by his side--had permitted himself to enjoy her presence,
to bask in her beauty, to be miserable when the thought crossed his
mind that some day he would be assuredly called upon to relinquish her
to another man, but never had he done less than love her. But now, as
he held her in his power, and she laughed derisively into his face,
whilst those words, ‘I hate you,’ still rung on the air, something
entered into Henry Hindes that had never been there before. A wild fury
that she should spurn him, her friend of years, and love Frederick
Walcheren--a mad despair that he would never possess her beauty, and
that another had the legal right to gloat over it night and day for
all time--whilst he stood apart, baffled and disappointed, and then a
desperate resolve to save her from further contamination and himself
from a life-longing, and the devil, which is in all of us, glared out
of his eyes, as with a single effort, hardly calculating what the
effects would be, acting more on the impulse of what he _would do_,
than of what he _was doing_, he pushed the girl violently from him and
sent her light body hurling over the stupendous abyss which separated
them from the beach below.
It was done in a second, beyond power of recall. This moment Jenny was
standing before him in her mocking loveliness--and the next there was
only a void, and not even the impress of her footprints on the short
herbage where she had stood.
Henry Hindes remained motionless for the space of half a minute, then
sunk down into a sitting position, and trembled as if he were taken
with an ague. He did not look over the cliff to see what had become
of his victim. He knew but too well! He had glanced over it before
he met her, and saw that it consisted of an unbroken line of chalk
cliffs, leading precipitately to the shingly shore. He knew what he
should see if he looked over, and he dared not look! He only sat there
and shook like an aspen leaf. The clammy perspiration rose upon his
face, and stood in great beads upon his brow, but he did not raise
his hand to wipe it away. He only remained dumb and motionless and
trembled. By-and-by some instinct warned him that he ought to move,
to go back to the town, and that it would not do for him to be found
sitting so close by. Upon this he tried to stand, but found he could
not, so turned round and crawled away, for some distance, on his hands
and knees. A fresh breeze had sprung up from the sea, and it revived
him sufficiently to enable him to stand upon his feet, and to commence
with a tottering step to find his way back again. As he did so, he
hardly believed that what had happened was real. He must have drunk
more than was good for him, he thought, and it was a bad dream that had
overtaken him. But a backward glance made the horrid truth too plain.
There was the barren cliff, deserted for the time being, whilst all
the world of Dover was occupied on the beach, with bathing or flirting
or play. There was the very spot where they had stood together on the
close grass, besprinkled with pink thrift and stunted daisies--the same
irregular edge where she had mocked him, whence he would have saved her
if she had let him, but where--
‘I must pull myself together!’ thought Henry Hindes, with a violent
shudder; ‘this is not the time or place for me to think about it! It
was an awful accident, but nothing more--I would not have injured her
for all the world, but it is an awkward time for it to have occurred,
and in my presence, too--and I must take measures not to have my name
implicated in the affair!’
He looked around with dimmed eyes as he argued with himself, but,
far or near, he could perceive no one and no thing, except a few
sheep grazing on the stunted herbage. Then he ventured near the
cliff--not with his eyes towards that point where she had fallen, but
turned the other way, and he saw it was quite deserted, the bathing
population being at the further end of the town. Not a soul was
on the beach, only a few boats were drawn up high and dry, whilst
several more were dancing on the blue waters, laden with fishing nets
or pleasure-seekers. The complete seclusion of the place imparted a
temporary confidence to him.
‘For the children’s sake,’ he muttered to himself, as he took his way
downwards; ‘for Walter’s sake, and the others and Hannah, I must be
brave and calm and not betray myself. Let me see! what time is it?
Three o’clock! and I said I would return to the hotel about three.
Well! I mustn’t hurry, it will look bad! I will go into a restaurant
first and have my dinner!’
The thought of eating sickened him, but he persevered, and, entering
the principal restaurant in the town, ordered an expensive meal. But
when it was served he could not eat it. The food would have choked
him. Something seemed to have closed in his throat and prevented his
swallowing.
Presently an idea struck him. Calling the waiter, he said,--
‘I have some business to talk over with a friend in this town, and,
as my time is short, I think it will facilitate matters if we dine
together. Lay another plate and tell them to keep the dinner back till
I return. I am going round to the hotel to fetch my friend. Keep the
champagne in ice. I shall not be absent more than a few minutes.’
He left the restaurant as he spoke, and re-entered the vestibule of
the Castle Warden Hotel.
‘Has Mrs Walcheren returned yet?’ he inquired, in an unconcerned voice.
‘No, sir; she has not. Mr Walcheren, he came home about half an hour
ago, but he went out again. I really can’t say when they’ll be back,
sir!’
Hindes took out his card and wrote on it in a very shaky hand:--
‘I have called twice to-day to see you, with a message from home, and
hoped to have persuaded you to lunch with me at the Tivoli Restaurant;
but my time is up, and I must return to town. Will write in a day or
two.
H. H.’
‘Give this to Mrs Walcheren on her return, please,’ he said to the
waiter, and took his way, as best he could, back to the Tivoli.
There he forced himself to eat a little and drink a good deal, and,
calling for the bill, gave the waiter a liberal tip, and departed in a
cab to the station.
He had done all he could. He should tell the Cramptons, he had called
twice to interview Mrs Walcheren and been unsuccessful each time, and
he had waited about Dover till four o’clock. It was Saturday, and he
could not spend Sunday away from his wife and children. They would
surely say that he had done all that was necessary, and more than
they had required from him. He had tried to see her twice, and he had
failed; they must wait now until Jenny wrote to them herself.
‘_Until Jenny wrote to them herself!_’ As the thought crossed his mind,
Henry Hindes sunk back into the corner of the railway carriage, in the
same comatose state in which he had been on the downs. The train flew
screeching through the evening air, on its way to London, but time and
place were alike unheeded by him.
Had it been a dream--an unholy, lurid nightmare--or was it reality?
When he reached ‘The Old Hall,’ it was nine o’clock. He told his wife
he had stayed to dine in town, but, in truth, he had been wandering
about the streets, hardly conscious of what he was doing, until the
time warned him that each hour he delayed would make it more difficult
to account for his prolonged absence. So he dragged himself home, and
the effort he made to look like a man who was rather disgusted for
having been foolish enough to take a lot of trouble for nothing, sat
upon him much as a clown’s paint would sit upon a corpse. Hannah was
naturally all sympathy for his disappointment and failure, and Hindes
was compelled to take refuge in gruffness, to elude her searching
inquiries.
‘My dearest, how ill you look, and how tired you seem. This has been a
trying day for you, I am sure. So fond as you are of dear Jenny, too.
And did you really not see her?’
‘I have told you already half-a-dozen times, Hannah, that I called
twice at the Castle Warden Hotel to see her, but she was out each time,
so was he, so there was nothing to be done but to return home. I did
not relish the idea of wasting a Sunday in hanging about Dover, perhaps
with the same result, when I might be at home with you and the chicks.’
‘Dear Henry,’ said his wife, ‘you are always so considerate of us.
Still, for Jenny’s sake--if it were to lead to a reconciliation between
her and her parents, I would give you up for even a longer time than
that. You might have written her a letter, Henry, though.’
‘I _did_ write, just a scribble on my card, to say I had hoped to get
her to lunch with me at the Tivoli Restaurant, when we could have
talked the unhappy matter over together; indeed, I had ordered lunch
for two, but she was not in and they couldn’t say when she would be in,
so I was obliged reluctantly to come back without seeing her. But I
don’t suppose it would have been of any use. What girl would give up
her lover the day after her wedding? It was a mad scheme, and quixotic
in me to set out on such an errand.’
‘No; don’t say that dear, for I am sure the old people will be glad
hereafter, to think that you did all you could to bring them together.’
Henry Hindes started.
‘“Hereafter?”’ he echoed; ‘what do you mean by “hereafter?”’
‘Nothing, my dearest, only you surely do not think the Cramptons will
hold out for ever, do you? And, when they are reconciled to Jenny and
we are all happy again, I am sure they will be pleased to remember (and
so will she), that _you_ were the first to try and bring them together.’
‘Oh, yes, yes! I see!’ replied her husband, as he passed his
handkerchief over his brow.
‘Poor Mrs Crampton and Miss Bostock were over here this afternoon,’
continued Mrs Hindes. ‘They said they should go mad if they had no one
to talk to about it. I don’t think they are half so angry with Jenny as
her father is. Of course, they say she has been very naughty, and her
papa is quite right not to forgive her in a hurry, but they evidently
think in the long run, he will find he cannot live without her. “It
would be ridiculous,” Mrs Crampton said, “and most wicked if they
cast off their only child, however wrong she might be.” She is afraid
it will be a long time before Mr Crampton forgives Mr Walcheren or
consents to receive him at “The Cedars,” because of his being a Papist,
but as for their darling, she declared if papa did not ask her up next
week, she should go down to Dover to see her herself. I believe there
is a great deal more in the old lady than we have given her credit for,
Henry, and that she will have her own way in this matter, whatever her
husband may say. But you are not feeling well, dear, surely? I never
remember to have seen you look so white before. Are you sure that you
made a good dinner in town? Or will you have a brandy-and-soda? You
must have something, your looks quite frighten me.’
Mr Hindes pulled himself together and sat straight up on the sofa.
‘Don’t be a fool,’ he began, but, seeing the consternation which his
rudeness evoked, he added, ‘don’t worry me, Hannah. This has been a
very fatiguing day, and, I may say, a very distressing one into the
bargain. I cannot look on this matter in the same bright light as you
do. Mrs Crampton may be very brave and determined, but she has her
match in her husband, and I never knew him to go from his word yet.
And the girl inherits her determination from him. I do not believe she
was from home when I called to-day. I believe I was denied on purpose.
They anticipated my errand, naturally, and declined to have a scene,
which there undoubtedly would have been if Mr Walcheren and I had been
brought in contact. I believe the young man to be a regular scoundrel,
and I should have told him so. After which, I suppose, I should never
have spoken to either of them again.’
‘Oh, I don’t believe Jenny would really quarrel with you, whatever
you said, Henry. She is too fond of you for that. She is an impetuous
little creature and says a great deal more than she means, but she has
often told me how highly she thinks of your friendship, and how she
felt sure that, whatever happened, _you_ would always stick by her and
help her out of all her scrapes.’
‘There, there, hold your tongue, that will do!’ exclaimed her husband,
as he rose and walked slowly towards the door. ‘I want to see my boy
before I sleep to-night,’ and he took his way, closely followed by his
wife, to the nursery.
The two little girls were very pretty creatures, who combined the best
points in both father and mother, but the boy, by one of these freaks
of Nature which have been mentioned before, was like neither of them,
but rejoiced in a particularly ugly mug of his own invention. He lay
asleep in a magnificent cot which his father had had carved for him on
the occasion of his birth, covered with a finely embroidered quilt; his
black eyes were closed, but his little snub nose, swarthy complexion,
and wide mouth, formed a sorry contrast to the lace and linen which
enveloped them. No prince of the realm could have been more luxuriously
surrounded than was Master Walter Hindes. His sisters were lying in
their beds close by, their fair hair straying over their pillows, but
their father hardly glanced at them as he crossed the room and bent
over the carved cot at the further end. As he gazed at his sleeping
son and heir, all the stolid feelings of despair which had occupied
his mind during the day seemed to fade away and leave a wealth of
passionate love behind them. He stooped down closely and laid his face
against that of the slumbering child.
‘My son, my son,’ he murmured, but as the words left his lips, though
heard by no one but himself, a vision of Jenny’s face rose before
him--of Jenny’s mocking face, as she stood on the edge of the precipice
and defied him--and, with a sudden impulse, he drew forth his silk
handkerchief and wiped his kiss off his child’s brow.
‘What is that for, my dear?’ asked Mrs Hindes, with a low laugh.
‘A fly--a gnat--’ he stammered, ‘it might disturb Wally in his sleep,’
and he withdrew, at the same moment, from the child’s bed.
‘Won’t you look at Elsie and Laurie?’ whispered the mother, as she
passed her arm through his, and pulled him gently towards the girls’
bed. ‘They have been such good maids all day; I took them with me for
a drive to call on old Miss Buckstone this afternoon, and she was
delighted with them; she wants us to let them go and spend a whole day
with her.’
‘And not Wally?’ said Henry Hindes, quickly.
‘Well, she did not ask Master Wally, and she would regret it, I fancy,
if she did. He is rather a handful away from home, dearest, you know,
and too much used to have his own way; we really must not spoil him so
much, or he may come to the same sad end as poor Jenny.’
‘What sad end? What do you mean by saying that?’ demanded Henry Hindes,
for the second time that evening.
‘Why, marry without our consent, to be sure, Henry; what else could I
mean? Though I hope her marriage may have a happy ending after all. I
shall always believe in it and pray for it, until it comes to pass.’
‘Yes, yes, pray for it, Hannah,’ replied her husband. ‘I don’t believe
much in prayer myself, but if anybody should ever be heard, it is
you! You have been a good wife to me, my dear, I seem to see it more
plainly to-night than I have ever done before.’
‘Ah! that’s because of this trouble about poor Jenny; it has regularly
upset us all. Shall you go over and see the Cramptons to-night, Harry?’
‘No, no, I couldn’t. I have had enough bother already,’ replied Hindes,
shrinking from the idea.
‘Of course, and perhaps they will not expect it; but you must write to
them, for they will be anxiously expecting to hear some news of your
journey.’
‘So they will,’ he answered, as if the idea had only just struck him;
‘well, I will not write, I will go,’ and he rose to get his hat and
stick, then suddenly turning to Hannah, he added,--‘it’s a fine night,
will you go with me?’
She looked surprised at the request, but answered readily,--
‘With pleasure, dear, if you will wait whilst I put on my hat and
mantle.’
The brief walk to ‘The Cedars’ was accomplished in silence, but, as
they reached the house, Hindes said to his wife,--
‘Don’t repeat anything I told you; leave me to tell my own story, I
want to save them as much pain as possible.’
They found the three old people sitting together and looking very
forlorn. Mr Crampton had recovered his temper of the morning, and was
seated in an arm-chair, huddled up behind his newspaper, and professed
to take no interest in the conversation that ensued. The two women flew
at Henry Hindes as soon as he appeared.
‘Oh, dear Mr Hindes! did you see her? What news do you bring us? Do not
keep us in suspense; we implore you! Is she well? What did she say?’
‘My dear friends,’ he answered, with assumed jocularity; ‘one
at a time, if you please, and you must prepare yourselves for a
disappointment. I haven’t seen her at all! I called twice at the hotel
and they were out each time. What else could we expect? I’m afraid I
went down on a wild goose chase. Such a lovely day! Where should a
bride and bridegroom be but out of doors! I am afraid we must have
patience till next week. Then, if Mr Crampton wishes it, I will go down
again and make a second attempt to interview them.’
‘Oh, dear, dear; I _am_ disappointed,’ sighed Mrs Crampton; ‘for I feel
sure, if you had seen darling Jenny, that all would have been right!’
‘Don’t talk nonsense,’ interposed her husband. ‘How can anything be
right again since she has elected to marry that scoundrel? The jade has
made her own bed, and she may lie on it, and I hope it’ll be a deuced
hard one, too!’
‘Don’t say that,’ replied Henry Hindes, quickly; ‘if it should be hard
it is not _you_ that will make it so! I scribbled a line to her on my
card to say I had brought her a message from home, so, if I am not
very much mistaken, you will receive another letter from her before
long.’
‘Dear Mr Hindes, how can we ever thank you enough for the trouble you
have taken on our behalf,’ said Mrs Crampton, as she slid her slender
hand in his; ‘you are the truest and best friend we have. God bless
you!’
But he could not stand the gentle pressure of her hand, nor the
grateful intonation of her voice.
‘Don’t speak about it, please!’ he answered, pulling his hand out
of hers almost roughly; ‘I wish--I wish I could have done more,
but--but--Come! Hannah!’ he exclaimed, interrupting himself; ‘we must
go home! It is late, and my two journeys have tired me. Good-night, Mrs
Crampton! Good-night to everybody! we must leave the further discussion
of the matter to another time,’ and, with a hasty nod all round, he
left the room.
He did appear very tired when they reached their home, very exhausted
and overdone, but his condition did not tend to give him a good night’s
rest. On the contrary, long after Hannah had sunk into the dreamless
sleep which waits on a good conscience joined to a good digestion, her
unhappy husband lay wide awake staring into the darkness, and starting
at every shadow that lurked in the corners of the room.