Kitabı oku: «A Mere Chance: A Novel. Vol. 3», sayfa 6
CHAPTER X.
FULFILMENT
RACHEL, who could not have dissembled if she had tried, appeared to be overwhelmed by Mr. Kingston's sudden death.
She wept herself ill, sitting now in his library chair, now in his office, now in his dressing-room, with mementoes of his domestic occupations and the homely companionship of nearly half-a-dozen wedded years around her; missing him from his accustomed place with a sense of having lost one of the best and kindest husbands that ever ungrateful woman had.
She allowed no one to touch his clothes and trinkets, or his books and pipes, or anything that he had used and cared for, but herself; and she cried over them, and kissed them, and laid them away in sacred drawers, to be treasured relics and heirlooms for her little Alfy, who was to be taught to reverence the memory of the tenderest of fathers, and to hand down to unborn generations the name and fame of the most accomplished and estimable of men.
She wandered about her great, silent house, in and out of the spacious rooms, making loving inventories of all the rich appointments, which had never had so much grace and beauty as now.
"He built this lovely place for me," she would say to herself, or perhaps say aloud to Beatrice, who was her chief companion at this time, "He had this carved dado made because I didn't like tiles; he gave me this Florentine cabinet on my twentieth birthday; he chose these hangings himself because he said they suited my complexion." Every bit of the house and its furniture was newly sanctified by some of these reminiscences.
She gathered together all his letters reverently – some had been waiting for his return from Mr. Lambert's, and were still unopened; and though many of them were addressed in the kind of handwriting that was especially calculated to arouse curiosity, she would not pry into his correspondence, nor allow anyone else to do so.
She would not read what he had evidently never intended her to read; she burnt them all without taking one of them out of its envelope, and then drove to the cemetery with a wreath of flowers for his grave.
"He was the best of husbands," she said, when to her own people she talked of him.
And Mrs. Hardy, who was truly afflicted by the family bereavement, was comforted to be able to repeat this tender formula to all the gossip of her own circle.
"He was the best of husbands. So fond of her to the last! Even when he was delirious you could see plainly his distress when she went out of the room, and his relief when she came back again. And she was so devoted! Such a thoroughly suitable marriage in every way – as if they had been made for each other! She is broken-hearted for the loss of him. And how he valued her he has plainly proved."
And here the gossips would smile decorously, and shake their heads, and say, "Yes, indeed." For they all understood what this allusion meant. It meant that Mr. Kingston had left the half of his great property absolutely at his young wife's disposal, and that she was the sole and unrestricted trustee of the rest, which was settled upon his son; which certainly did prove that he had valued her in the most conclusive manner.
But in a little while – a scandalously little while – indications that this young widow of twenty-five was not inconsolable for the loss of her elderly husband, became apparent to all but the most superficial observers.
It was not that she wore such very slight mourning – soft black silks and cashmeres that were the merest apology for weeds – for everybody knew that Mr. Kingston had had a horror of crape, and had been repeatedly heard to declare that no wife of his should wear it if he could help it.
Mrs. Hardy had explained that it was in deference to his wishes that she had defied custom in this respect; and, though there was a strong impression that she ought to have insisted on paying proper respect to his memory, in spite of him – and even that his protests against conventional suttee were never intended to include this particular case (as was very probable), but only indicated his personal distaste for harsh and unbecoming materials in ladies' apparel – the fact that it was growing the fashion to be lax and independent in these matters, saved her the verdict of the majority.
And it was not that she drove about, within two months of his death, with her veil turned back over her bonnet – in the case of a veil so transparent, it didn't make much difference whether it were up or down – leaving her youthful, lovely, rose-leaf face exposed to public view as heretofore.
It was not that she was heartless or unfeeling, or that she infringed the laws of good breeding and good taste in any distinctly and visible manner.
No one could quite say what it was, and yet everyone felt that the fact was sufficiently indicated that she was recovering from the shock of her sudden and terrible bereavement with unexpected, if not unbecoming, rapidity.
"You mark my words," somebody would say to somebody else, when Mrs. Kingston's carriage went flashing by, and she turned to bow to them, perhaps with her serene, sweet, grave smile; "you mark my words – that woman will be married again by this time next year. I don't know what makes me think so, but I am sure of it. There is a look in her face as if she were going to make herself happy."
The person addressed, being a man, would probably reply that the odd thing would be if she did not make herself happy (and generally he suggested that by remaining a widow she would be most likely to secure that object), with youth and beauty, leisure and liberty, and ten thousand a year to do what she liked with; and that he sincerely hoped she would be.
Being a woman, she was more likely than not to look after Rachel and her carriage with solemn severity, and wonder how it was that that poor, dear, foolish man never could see that the girl cared nothing at all about him, and had only married him for his money.
Mrs. Hardy was becoming aware of this state of public opinion with respect to her niece's conduct – which had been so extremely proper hitherto – and was herself conscious of the subtle change that had taken place, and was uneasily wondering what it indicated, when one day Rachel came to see her.
It was eleven o'clock on a warm summer morning, just before Christmas; and the young widow walked over through the gardens and the back gate, wearing a light, black cambric dress and a shady straw hat, looking – Mrs. Hardy thought, glancing up at her from her writing-table in a cool corner of the now transformed drawing-room – unusually well and strikingly young and girlish.
"Well, my dear, how are you? And where's Alfy? Have you not brought him with you?"
Rachel put her arm over her aunt's shoulder, and kissed her affectionately.
"I haven't brought him to-day, because I wanted to have a little quiet talk," she said. "Are you very busy, auntie?"
Mrs. Hardy was busy – she always was, from breakfast until lunch time; but she was impressed by a certain gentle gravity in Rachel's voice and manner, and understood that there was something of importance to be attended to. So she gathered up her papers, told her visitor to take off her hat and sit down, and inquired anxiously what was the matter.
"There is nothing the matter," said Rachel, with a little hesitation. "But, auntie dear, I am going to – do something, and I would not do it without telling you first."
She sat upon the edge of a chair, and leaned her arms on a corner of the writing-table; and she looked into the elder woman's face with wistful, longing, pleading eyes.
Mrs. Hardy had faint, instinctive premonitions.
"Well, my dear," she replied a little brusquely, "I shall be glad to advise you to the best of my power. But you are your own mistress now, you know." Then after a little pause, she said anxiously, "What is it you are going to do?"
"Auntie," faltered Rachel, "auntie – you know all about Mr. Dalrymple?"
"Rachel– my dear– you don't mean to say – ! And your poor husband not six months in his grave!"
"Not yet," said Rachel, suddenly becoming composed and collected. "Though I do not believe that I ought to put it off. But presently, auntie – as soon as you would think it right – I want to marry Mr. Dalrymple. And in the meantime he is waiting for me to send him a message – he has asked me to write – we want to have the comfort of some sort of recognised engagement, if it is ever so quiet – "
"Oh, Rachel, don't ask me to have anything to do with such a thing! Only think what poor Graham would say if he could know! And he left little Alfy in your hands – and he left all that money to you – little thinking what you would do with it!"
"He knew – he knew," said Rachel. "He has already sanctioned it. Dear, good husband! He left me the money without any conditions if I married again, and he knew I should do this. It was understood between us when he died. Aunt Elizabeth, I think he wished to make reparation to Roden and me. Don't you wish it, too? Only think, it is six years – six whole years – that poor Roden has been lonely in Queensland, without any brightness or comfort in his life; and, though he has loved me just the same, he has never attempted to do – what you would not have wished him to do – all that time. It is six years this very week, Aunt Elizabeth, since he sent Mr. Gordon down to you."
"And if he had come himself," said Mrs. Hardy, passionately, beginning to break down and cry, "I should not have let him see you – I would not have allowed you to have him. Oh, child, child! when you have grown-up daughters to look after and manage for, you will understand that I tried to do my best for you – you will think less hardly of me then."
Rachel jumped up from her chair, and kneeling down flung her warm young arms about the sobbing woman.
"My own auntie," she exclaimed fondly, "if I could think hardly of you I should be ashamed to live. I know you tried to do your best for me – of course I know it! It is always a mistake to deceive people, but I deceived you, too, not telling you all I had done. I know you were right to keep me away from him knowing only what you knew. If he had been wicked, as you thought, and I had had it all my own way, what would have become of me? But now – now that you know he is good – "
"Ah, my dear, I don't know it! Remember that dreadful duel! And how can you tell that he doesn't want you now for your money? He has none of his own, and you have a great fortune that he could squander as he liked. Everyone will say that it was for the sake of your money."
"It would sooner have been that the money would have kept him from me," said Rachel softly. "Once I was afraid of that. But afterwards I was ashamed that I could have any fears. We understand each other better. Aunt Elizabeth, Beatrice knows that he is good – Beatrice believes in him – and my dear Graham gave me leave to make him happy. Won't you consent to it, too?"
"Well, if poor Graham gave you leave it is not for me to interfere, I suppose. But you won't let anyone know you are engaged so soon?"
"It need only be known to ourselves, auntie."
"And you'll promise me you won't get married again under the year, at the very earliest?"
"Yes, dear Aunt Elizabeth, I will promise you that. If I can go and stay at Adelonga for a little, and take Alfy – "
"Is he down at the Digbys?"
"Yes, auntie."
"Perhaps that will be the best plan," said Mrs. Hardy, sighing. "It is a quiet place, and out of the way, if only Lucilla doesn't gossip about it."
CHAPTER XI.
CONCLUSION
MRS. THORNLEY was a little scandalised like her mother, at first, not by Rachel's desire to marry again – for that she should do so, as a rich young widow of twenty-five, "left" by a husband just forty years her senior, was generally anticipated as a matter of course – but by the too early announcement of those wishes and intentions which conventional decorum forbade a woman to dream of until "the year" was up.
Very speedily, however, she forgot to be shocked by anything of this kind, and devoted herself ardently to the furtherance of her cousin's happiness.
She had had Mr. Dalrymple at Adelonga after his accident, and had nursed him for about a month of his convalescence; and since that time both she and John had had a strong feeling of friendship for him, not much less than that which they had always had for their favourite, Mrs. Digby.
They had condoned all the errors of his earlier years (even the great duel, which Mr. Gordon had assured them was the worst episode in a reckless but not dishonourable career, and was in itself unstained by any mean or vicious motives), and they had proved the sincerity of their respect and regard for him by allowing their son Bruce to "chum" with him in Queensland.
And now, being put in possession of all the facts relating to his and Rachel's love affairs, Lucilla entered eagerly into the arrangements which Rachel herself, without a blush of shame, suggested for bringing the long-parted lovers together again.
"Oh, yes, my darling," she wrote hurriedly, by return of post, "pray do come and spend all the summer with us. Mamma says that as it is so very, very soon we must be careful to keep it quite quiet, but John wishes me particularly to tell you that, in his opinion, you are quite right.
"We both like Mr. Dalrymple very much, and we think he has behaved so very well. And John says he is not at all a spendthrift now, whatever he may have been once, and he thinks really that he will take care of your money and not squander it away (only he says you must let him arrange things for you on your marriage – which must take place at Adelonga – so as to be quite on the safe side); for they have had both floods and droughts very badly at their place in Queensland, and yet they have made it pay, which John says he never expected. Bruce thinks so much of the property and the way it has been managed, that I am sure he will want to go in with Mr. Gordon if Mr. Dalrymple will let us buy him out (perhaps he won't now the meat-freezing is going to do such great things.) But these are details to talk of presently. We must get you here first.
"If you can come on Tuesday, do. John will meet you at the train. I have written to Mr. Dalrymple to come the next day, for you must not be excited and upset until you have had time for a good rest after your journey. I am having the blue south room got ready for you – the one you used to like – and the large dressing-room next to it for dear little Alfy. I don't think you ought to send away your maid. Won't it look odd after being used to one for so long? I have plenty of room for her as well as for the nurse, &c., &c."
On the Tuesday, Rachel, with Alfy and his nurse, arrived, having dismissed some of her servants and put the rest on board wages, having packed up her most precious china and art treasures, and swathed her splendid upholstery in sheets of brown holland, prepared to spend any length of time at Adelonga that circumstances would admit of.
It was a beautiful day in January, rather too hot for travelling in comfort, but pleasant and breezy about the Adelonga-hills and the bosky garden that sheltered the old house. It was the same old house still, Rachel was thankful to see. Mr. Thornley had been building with brick and stone in town, and so had been content to leave to his country seat, the picturesque charm of its wooden walls and its medley of low roofs and gables; and now it stood embowered in cool vine leaves and sweet-scented creepers, with great trees of pink oleander, which loved the sultry midsummer, nestling up against it, and making broad splashes of sunny colour amid the sombre richness of evergreen shrubs – a sort of earthly paradise in Rachel's eyes. Lucilla was standing on the verandah, surrounded by all her family (except her grown-up step daughter, Isabel, who had been sent on a visit to an aunt in Sydney to be "out of the way") waiting to greet her welcome guest; and Rachel, jumping down from the buggy, and flinging herself into those faithful arms, felt that she had been a wandering prodigal in strange countries for half a dozen years, and was on the threshold of home again.
"But, oh," she said to herself, when having seen little Alfy tucked up in his cot, and having, maidless, with her own hands, laid away her clothes in drawers and wardrobes, she began to dress for dinner, "what could have made Lucilla imagine that waiting for him for twenty-four hours would rest me?"
The long hours passed, however, as the longest hours do, and the evening of Wednesday drew on with a flaming crimson sunset; and Rachel listened for the sound of buggy wheels on distant bush tracks, and was deafened by the noise of her own loud-beating heart.
"They are coming," whispered Lucilla, creeping with the stealth of a conspirator into her cool, dim drawing-room, where the young widow stood, bright-eyed and pale, in her black gown, steadying herself with a hand on the piano.
"Shall I send him in to you by himself, dear, or would he think that was bad taste – a too open and vulgar way of recognising the state of affairs?"
"Oh, no, he would think not it vulgar," replied Rachel, smiling slightly through her air of solemn and rapt abstraction. "You must send him by himself, Lucilla, please – this once."
The buggy came into the garden and passed the window. Lucilla, outside on the verandah, welcomed her guest with effusive inquiries after Mrs. Digby's health and welfare, and that of all the little Digbys' respectively; Mr. Thornley gave loud directions to the servants about the portmanteau that was to be carried to the green gable room. And then the buggy went to the stable-yard; there was a few minutes' silence; and the door of the drawing-room opened quietly, and Roden Dalrymple came in.
He had changed a little in the four years since she had seen him last; his ruddy moustache was a little more grizzled, and the lines in his sun-tanned forehead were stronger and deeper.
She was changed, too; there was a matronly grace and maturity in the roundness of her shapely figure and in the reposeful softness of her face, that had been wanting in the beauty, fresh and delicate as he remembered it, of her earlier girlish years.
But the only change they recognised in one another was their deeper capacity for understanding the worth and the meaning of such an experience as this, when, with his back against the closed door, and her hands about his neck, he held her in both arms clasped close to his breast, and they drank together in one moment of speechless passion the solace and the sweetness of all the kisses that they should have had.
In the evening Lucilla sat down to the piano, to play some of Beethoven's sonatas to her husband. It was a lovely moonshiny summer night, and some of the windows stood open, letting in the fragrance of jessamine and tobacco, and a quantity of tiny moths and gnats.
Mr. Thornley, having taken his coffee and his cigarette upon the verandah, lying all along on a bamboo easy chair, stayed there to listen and doze in obscurity, with his handkerchief thrown over his bald head to keep off the mosquitoes.
For a few minutes Mr. Dalrymple stood behind his hostess; but, finding that she played from memory, and therefore did not want leaves turned over for her, he left the piano, and crossing the room, stooped down to Rachel as she sat in a low chair dreamily fanning herself.
"Rachel," he whispered, "is the lapageria in blossom now?"
"I don't know, Roden – I don't think so," she replied.
"Shall we go and see?"
She rose at once, and they went together into the curtained alcove and through the noiseless swing door.
"Where is our seat?" he said, taking her hand as soon as they were alone, and leading her down the dim alleys, over-arched with fern trees, and filled with broken shadows of the gigantic fronds. "I hope it is in the same place."
It was in the same place, but the place was stiller and darker than it used to be – built all round and about with gnarled masses of cork, feathered in every crevice with maiden hair, and roofed with drooping leaves.
There was just moonlight enough to enable them to find it, and when they found it they sat down side by side, and Rachel laid her head on one of her lover's broad shoulders and her hand on the other; and they remained there for several minutes without moving or speaking, listening to the far-off sound of the piano, more perfectly at rest than either of them had ever imagined it possible to be in this world.
Mr. Dalrymple spoke first, drawing a long breath.
"Must we be separated any more, Rachel? Can't we be married now – this week – to-morrow – and go away from everybody quietly? It seems like tempting Providence to lose sight of one another again – to lose one hour more than we can help of what we have been kept out of all this time."
"It does – it does," assented Rachel. "But I promised Aunt Elizabeth that I would be a widow for a year."
"You were a widow for me – how many years?"
"I know, Roden, I know. I do not do it willingly. But other people – other things – have to be considered."
"Six months more! Child, no one has any right to demand such an enormous sacrifice of us. Who knows how long we may live to be together as we want to be together? Can we afford to throw away six months on the top of six years for the sake of mere sham propriety, knowing the worth of every hour as we do?"
"Roden," said Rachel gently, after a pause, "it shall be just as you like. If you think we ought not to wait, we will not. I can explain to Aunt Elizabeth."
And then he recognised his responsibilities.
"No," he said, "I think perhaps we had better wait – though there is no sense or justice in it. We'll pay Mrs. Grundy the heaviest price that she has swindled honest people of for many a day, and then we'll take it out with interest. But you will do something for me in the meantime?"
"There is nothing I could do for you that I should not want to do for myself, Roden."
"You won't go quite away, will you? You'll stay here till I have to leave, and then you'll come and stay a long while with Lily? You'll let me have sight of you, and keep watch over you, until the waiting time is up?" There was no answer required for this question. What they could do for one another they would, as both well knew. He held her tightly in his arms, covering half her face with his great moustache. "And when the time is up we will not wait one hour – not one," he said, with sudden, strong passion. "That very day, Rachel, I shall take you away to Queensland, where nobody can reach us and nothing can interfere with us. When at last I do get you, I will have you – for a little while at all events – absolutely and wholly to myself."
And Rachel prayed that she might be permitted to live until that "little while" should come.
It seemed, in this moment of anticipation, something that it would be presumptuous for a mortal woman to hope for, much less to expect.
And should Love, when all is said and done, be the ruler and lord of all – supreme arbiter of the destinies of purblind creatures, not one in ten, perhaps not one in fifty, of whom have the faculty to see him and know him as he is?
Should the passion of wayward girls defy the wisdom and wishes of parents and guardians, who have learned in long years of costly experience something of the potentialities of this many-sided life?
Should all risks of poverty and social ignominy, with their long train of trials and temptations, involving the welfare of innocent relatives and unborn children, be dared in an irrevocable moment of enthusiasm for one's faith in the eternal fidelity of any man or woman?
Like many other questions that trouble us in this world, wherein nothing seems quite right and nothing altogether wrong, we are constrained to leave it for the history of future ages, that we shall never see, to answer.
Knowing only what we know, we must not say "yes" – we cannot say "no." We have not sufficient light for any such generalities.
But when one finds this unique treasure of human life, to whom it is, with respect to his tangible earthly possessions, what the pearl of great price was to the merchantman of Scripture, there seems no better thing for him to do than to sell all that he has to buy it, so long as he sells only what is absolutely his own, and none of the rights and privileges that belong to other people.
