Kitabı oku: «Tempest-Driven: A Romance (Vol. 2 of 3)», sayfa 7
CHAPTER XXX
ANOTHER VISITOR
O'Brien was struck dumb. "Mrs. Davenport," he thought, in a dazed, unbelieving way-"Mrs. Davenport at Kilcash! It can't be possible. There is some mistake." Here was a complication on which he had never counted-which it would have been idle to anticipate. The position in which he found himself was perplexing, absurd. It was useless to hope any longer that Alfred was not desperately in love with this woman, who had recently been the central figure in a most notorious and unpleasant inquiry. Alfred had seen her only a few times, and could not have exchanged a word with her since that awful night. It was absurd.
"Mrs. Davenport," said Jerry, slowly, "had, I thought, gone away by this time. How do you know she is in Ireland, or on her way there? Who told you?"
Alfred smiled and sat down.
"A friend found it out for me. She did go to France for a week, but she came back the day before yesterday, and is in Ireland now. I am most anxious to see her again. Poor woman! – she must have suffered horribly."
He had observed a look of anxiety, if not disapproval, on Jerry's face, and tried to make it seem as though he took no more than a friendly interest in the widow.
"Alfred," said Jerry, slowly and seriously, "it won't do. I can see you are hard hit."
"Nonsense!" cried Alfred, gaily.
Jerry directed the conversation far afield from the subject to which Alfred would willingly have confined it.
But Alfred was not to be baffled or denied. The moment a pause occurred he broke in with:
"Jerry, you have not told me yet whether we shall start for Ireland tomorrow or not?"
"Alfred, have you ever been in love?"
"Never!" – with a laugh, a slight increase of colour, and a dull, dim kind of pride in some feeling he had, he knew not what-a feeling of comfort and exaltation.
"Because, you know, it's an awfully stupid and miserable feeling. It's not good enough to cry over or to curse over. Sighing is despicable."
"How on earth do you know anything about it, Jerry? I thought you were a woman-hater."
"Ay," said Jerry, vaguely. "Do you know of all people in the world whom I should most like to be?"
"No."
"One of Shakespeare's clowns. What digestions these clowns had! They are the only perfect all-round men I know. Mind you, they are no more fools than they choose to be. If they pleased, they could all be Chief Justices, or Archbishops, or Fishery Commissioners, or anything else fearfully intellectual they liked; but they preferred to be clowns, and kept their superb digestions, and made jokes at lovers and such-like human rubbish. Motley's the only wear."
"What on earth is the matter with you, Jerry? I never knew until now that you had a leaning towards poetry!" Alfred was gratified to find O'Brien thus bordering on the sentimental. He would have embraced with delight any chance of breaking into the most extravagant sentimentality himself. To think of O'Brien countenancing sentiment was too delicious. He added: "I don't know much about Shakespeare; but, for my part, I think his fools are awful fools."
"Why, Alfred-why?"
"Because they are so desperately wise."
"Ay," said O'Brien, in a still more desponding tone. "A fool must be a fool indeed when he chooses to be wise.
"'Why, then, O brawling love! O loving hate!
O any thing, of nothing first create!
O heavy lightness! – serious vanity!
Mis-shapen chaos of well-seeming forms!
Feather of lead, bright smoke, cold fire, sick health!
Still-waking sleep, that is not what it is!
This love feel I, that feel no love in this.
Dost thou not laugh?'"
"No," answered Alfred: "I don't see anything to laugh at. That seems a very wise speech. Is it spoken by a fool?"
"By an amateur fool, and a bad amateur fool, too. It is one of the silliest speeches in all Shakespeare. Whenever Shakespeare wanted to have a little sneer up his sleeve, and to his own self, he put the thing in rhyming couplets. Nearly all his rhyming couplets are jokes for his own delight, and for the vexation and contempt of all other men. Shakespeare did penance for his sins in his puns, and revenged his injuries on mankind in his rhyming couplets… That's your mother's voice."
"Yes," said Alfred, going to the door and opening it, "that's my mother and the girls. Come here, mother; here's Jerry O'Brien."
"Your mother and my girl," said Jerry, down low in his heart. "'Still-waking sleep, that is not what it is.' Romeo is the most contemptible figure in all history, and Juliet the most adorable." Aloud he said at that moment: "And you, Miss Paulton-how are you?"
"Quite well, thank you."
"What a low blackguard," he thought, "Shakespeare was to kill Juliet! But he killed Romeo, too, and that may have justified him in the eyes of heaven. I'd forgive him even his rhyming couplets if he'd only turn his tragic attention to those accursed Commissioners. Just fancy a lot of apoplectic fools, bursting, so to speak, with the want of knowledge of anything, and standing between that darling and me! May the maledictions of-" To Madge he said aloud, in answer to her question: "Yes, I had a very good passage across-not a ripple on the water. You have never been across?"
"No, never. I should very much like to go," she said, as she sat down on a chair, adjusted her mantle, and looked up in his face.
"Oh, you ought to go over," he said; "the scenery is romantic."
He thought "romantic" might be too strong for Mrs. Paulton, so he added hastily:
"And the garden produce-owing," he added, in explanation, "to the humidity of the climate."
He felt rather foolish, and that he had been saying very foolish things. But then he didn't care. He did not want to shine before her: she was the beacon of his hope.
"Perhaps," she said, looking up, "father might take us over next summer, or the summer after."
She looked up in his face again. It was desperately provoking.
"Or the summer after," thought Jerry, with a pang. "Does that girl sitting there, three feet away from me, and who doesn't think I care for her a bit, imagine for a moment that I am going to let her wander about all the earth with that respectable old gentleman, her father, till the crack of doom? Nonsense! She isn't a bit good-looking," he thought, looking down into her eyes, and when she lowered her eyes, gazing devoutly at her hat-"she isn't a bit good-looking-not half as good-looking as Edith, and Edith is no beauty. But still, I think, I'd feel excellently comfortable if the others would go away, and I might put my arm round her and try to persuade her that she was happy because I did so."
"You find Alfred almost quite well again?" asked Mrs. Paulton genially of Jerry.
"Oh, yes. He is almost as well as ever, and of course will be better than ever in a little while."
"A few whiffs of sea air will put me on my legs once more," said Alfred, with abounding cheerfulness. "I feel as if the very look of the sea would set me all right."
"You unfortunate devil!" thought Jerry. "Are you so bad as that? Oh, for the mind of one of those plaguey clowns! Falstaff was the only man who ever enjoyed life thoroughly-Falstaff and Raffaelle. What was the burden of flesh carried by Falstaff compared to this 'feather of lead!' What were all the jealousies which surrounded Raffaelle's career compared to my jealousy of the hat that touches her hair, or the glove that touches her cheek!"
"You will of course stay with us while you are in London," said Mrs. Paulton. "I told Alfred to be sure to say that we insisted upon your doing so, and the silly boy forgot it."
"Oh, he'll stay, mother," answered Alfred. "He'll stay with us while he's in London."
The invalid gave a glance at Jerry. The latter understood it to be an appeal for a very brief respite indeed from travelling. Jerry was in no small difficulty as to what he should say or how he should act. He would like to stop at Carlingford House a month, a year. Even a month was out of the question. But it was too bad that Alfred should be in such a violent hurry to go away. He believed Madge's brother had no suspicion that Madge was particularly dear to him. Still, common hospitality would scarcely allow a man to hurry a guest away from under his own roof after twenty-four hours' stay, particularly when that friend had come several hundred miles to do his host a good turn. No, hospitality would not allow a man to do it, but love would. He, Jerry, could not plead fatigue. That would be grotesque in a healthy young man. He would not lie and say he had business in London which would keep him a few days there, and yet it was shameful and ridiculous that after a whole month of separation he should be obliged to fly from her almost before he had time to get accustomed to the music of her voice. What delicious music it did make in his hungry ears! He would ask Alfred, without any explanation, if the day after to-morrow would not suit him quite as well as tomorrow.
He made a sign to Alfred, and the two young men passed through the folding doors into the front drawing-room. Here a bright fire burned. Alfred went to the fire-Jerry to the window. The latter looked out, started, and said slowly:
"Alfred, there's a visitor coming up the garden."
"All right," said Alfred without interest.
"And it's a woman."
"All right."
"And it's Mrs. Davenport."
"What!"
In a second Alfred was by Jerry's side.
Jerry laughed softly.
"All right?" he repeated in an interrogative voice.
Alfred's face blazed, but he did not speak or move.
CHAPTER XXXI
"I HAVE BEEN ALWAYS ALONE."
Mrs. Davenport knocked at the front door, and was shown into the back drawing-room, where the ladies were sitting.
"I have come, Mrs. Paulton," she said, "to thank you and Mr. Paulton and your family for the great kindness you showed me in my trouble. I am afraid that at the time I was too intent on my own misfortunes to say as fully as I ought what I should have felt. Indeed, to be quite candid, I do not know exactly what I said to you or your husband, or exactly how I felt."
Mrs. Paulton went over to her, and took the hand of the widow. O'Brien and Paulton could hear and see everything going on in the back drawing-room, as they approached the folding-doors slowly.
"My dear Mrs. Davenport," said Mrs. Paulton gently, as she pressed the visitor's hand, "you must not think of the matter. We were, and are, deeply sorry for you, and our only feeling in the matter was one of regret at not having had an opportunity of being more useful."
This was true now. Both William Paulton and his wife were by the inquest perfectly satisfied Mrs. Davenport had for a while suffered from ugly suspicions because a crazy old husband had made away with his life in a perfectly mad manner, and without being in the least induced to the act by any fault of his wife. Every one agreed with the jury that it had been a case of suicide while suffering from temporary insanity.
Another thing greatly helped Mrs. Davenport into the good graces of the Paultons. After Blake's release he stayed in London, although Mrs. Davenport was away in France. Since the trial young Pringle had kept Alfred informed on all matters connected with the widow.
Both Mr. and Mrs. Paulton now felt as though they had done an absolute wrong to this woman, and Mrs. Paulton knew that her husband would be delighted to show her any civility or kindness he could. The husband and wife were, as their son had said, two of the kindest and most generous people in England.
Alfred and Jerry entered the back room. She held out her hand to the former, and thanked him for what he had done. She gave her hand to Jerry, and said, with a wan smile:
"I owe you an apology, Mr. O'Brien, for my rudeness to you when last we met."
"Rudeness! Mrs. Davenport! – your rudeness to me! I am shocked to hear you say such a thing. I am shocked to think you should have for a moment rested under so unpleasant an idea. Believe me, you were never anything but most polite and considerate to me."
Madge admired this speech of Jerry's, for it seemed to her very generous. She did not greatly admire Mrs. Davenport. She thought her too grand and cold and reserved. But she did not go as far as Edith, who positively disliked their visitor.
"I am quite clear as to my bad conduct," insisted Mrs. Davenport, with her wan smile. "When I met you in this house the day after the-the dreadful event, I did not speak to you, although I recognised you instantly."
"But, Mrs. Davenport, you don't for a moment imagine I did not realise how terribly you were tried just then?"
"It is very good of you to make such liberal allowances for my conduct, but I fear I did not deserve your generosity; and I am more than afraid, if you knew exactly how I felt, you would not be able to forgive me so readily. I suppose it was owing to the state of excitement I was in at the time that the moment I set eyes on you, Mr. O'Brien, I looked upon you as an enemy."
"An enemy-an enemy!" cried Jerry, in surprise and confusion. "What could have put such a notion into your mind?"
"I am sure I don't know," she answered, shaking her head slowly. "I experienced nothing but the greatest consideration from you and every one else here. I have since learned that I owe my introduction to Mr. Pringle to you-to you and Mr. Paulton," she added, looking gratefully at the young man.
Alfred coloured with delight and embarrassment. To see and hear her was delight enough to outweigh all the troubles he had yet known; but to feel that her voice and eyes were thanking and praising him was intoxicating.
She was dressed in complete widow's weeds. Her face was pale, placid, unwrinkled. Her dark eyebrows, dark eyes and lashes, and full red mouth afforded the only breaks in colour. All the rest was pale, delicate olive. The head had still the grand imperial carriage, the eye the same unflinching, haughty fearlessness. The full, red lips met closely, readily, at the clear, curved line, and parted easily, readily. Only hints of the superlative graces of the figure came through her heavy mantle. The hands lay clasped in suppliant ease in the lap. Now that she was free from commanding excitement, her voice drew attention to itself. The face and head, and the carriage and pose of the head, were full of authority and command; the figure full of feminine yielding gentleness. Now that the voice was unburdened by heavy emotions, it partook at one time of the nature of the head; at another of the nature of the figure. In giving thanks to Mrs. Paulton, it was slow, stately, gravely harmonious; in confessing her want of generosity to Jerry, it was low, soft, full, intensely sympathetic.
Her words had taken O'Brien quite aback. Was it divination, instinct, that told her he had been friendly only in externals, and that he owed her no particular goodwill? Or was it that she did not at the time of the fatal occurrence wish any one to be near who knew much of her former life? Could it be that if he had been absent from the inquest some of the unpleasant events preceding her marriage would not have been so nakedly exposed by either her or Blake? Who could tell? Not he, certainly.
He looked from Mrs. Davenport to Alfred, and mentally pitied him.
"I cannot wonder," he thought, "at his falling in love with her. If I were in his shoes, I don't know what might happen to me. Fortunately I am safe."
He glanced gratefully at Madge.
She could not understand exactly what he meant by his eyes; but she knew they were not eyes of disapproval or dislike, and so she looked down because she would have liked to look up.
A general and desultory talk was going on. Alfred felt quite well already. Notwithstanding his feeble state, he felt the strength of ten men against all the world. He felt towards her a worshipful tenderness he could not describe-did not want to describe, only wanted to enjoy. When one is sailing in the sun over a summer bay, who wants to analyse the light, and hear of the solar spectrum? When one is at the opera, who cares about the number of vibrations it takes to produce a certain note? When one is in love, who cares to analyse the charm? Delight is not so plentiful in the world that we need pick it to pieces. Alfred would not try to find out why he was supremely happy in her presence. His happiness was enough for him. Others might say what they pleased of her. All he would say was "Let me be near her."
Of the two friends, O'Brien was the more robust by far. His nature was sturdy, almost aggressive. He had a hatred of what he called "tinkering his opinions." He could be as straightforward and downright as any other man alive. He could stick to his opinions, and had a contempt for consequences. In manner he was a trifle arrogant. It was this feeling of independence and self-assertion which made him feel but slightly attracted towards Mrs. Davenport, and which often repelled him from her.
"If she were my wife," he thought, "there would be two masters in the house, and it would end in my throwing her out of a window-an act which would no doubt import unpleasantness into our household. And yet if she thought well of wheedling me, she could. A man could never be her husband. Davenport was her owner. If ever she marries again, it will be a master or a slave. Poor Alfred would make a fine master for such an Amazon! But it's downright brutal of me to call her an Amazon. After all, it would be a very terrible thing to be loved by that woman. I think if I were married to her, I'd rather she hated me and mastered me, always provided it was not I who went through that window. When you find yourself continually thinking of a woman you are not in love with, it's a bad sign of the woman, as a rule."
Alfred had been of service to her-service however slight-on the evening of that terrible catastrophe. He had seen her aidless, alone, helpless, dismayed. Her voice that night struck the keynote of the music she had awakened in his heart. To those who did not know her well-to those who had not seen her in difficulty and despair, her outward seeming might be one of command and victory. But he had found her distracted with horror, had lent her aid, and seen her relieved by his own act. He had, in however humble a way, played the part of protector. He had seen the feminine, the dependant side of her nature revealed. She might be stately, commanding, self-sufficient, imperious to others. To him she would always be the woman who once leaned upon his manhood. Her beauty, her grace, her commanding stateliness might draw other admirers to her side; to him the child-like helplessness of her womanhood lent the charm which could never die or fade away, and brought him more close to her heart than if he had sat and worshipped at her feet for years. He had been the donor of little in her distress; he would be the donor of all he had or could command in the world for her protection and peace.
While the ladies and the two young men were chatting soberly together, Mr. Paulton came in. He was unfeignedly delighted to see Mrs. Davenport. He had never been easy in his mind since that day she left his roof in the depth of her misery. Although she had gone away of her own free will and of her own independent initiative, he was unable to rid himself of the feeling that he expelled this woman from his roof when she most needed friendship and protection. She had come out of the ordeal of the trial purified, if purification were necessary; and public opinion, of which he stood in great respect, not only held him justified in the countenance he had given her, but applauded him loudly for his bold, open-handed help to a lonely woman in a strange place.
"And what are your plans for the future?" asked the old man in his most solicitous voice. "If I, or any of us, can be of the least service to you, I hope you will command us."
She thanked him sadly, and said that all which any one could do for her he had already done. She had gone to France for a short time to calm herself after the late excitement, but she could not content herself abroad.
"My life, Mr. Paulton, up to this, has been tempest-tossed, although little may have been seen of the disturbance. I am weary of strife, and yearn for quiet. Kilcash is not a very lively place, but it seems to me that I have within the past couple of months had enough of excitement to satisfy me for the rest of my time."
He smiled, and shook his head in gallant expostulation.
"No doubt," he said, "a little rest in your old home will be grateful and beneficial to you; but we must see you again. We have not so many friends that we can afford to lose you."
"I am a very new friend," she said sadly.
Alfred would have given ten years of his life to tell her she was dearer to them than all the other friends they had in the world. His father said:
"The depth of friendship is not to be measured by years only, or, indeed, chiefly. Some people have the faculty of making better friends in an hour than others can in a lifetime. We were brought together under most peculiar and distressing circumstances, and you have won all our love." He took her hand with paternal cordiality. "If we are so unfortunate as not to find a little place in your heart, it must be owing to some defect on our part-owing to the want in us of some faculty which could enlist your regard. It is not, I am sure, my dear madam, from any lack of desire to win your confidence and good will."
All this rather long and old-fashioned speech was said with a sweet, benevolent chivalry which would have silenced and abashed any one who felt disposed to regard it as too fine and elaborate for a drawing-room scene of our own day. "Bravo, sir!" cried Alfred. He was a good, affectionate son, and had always been on the best terms with his father; but he never felt absolutely proud of the old man before. He coloured with pleasure. This simple homage of the old man touched all-Mrs. Davenport herself-as something sacred. The tears stood in his wife's eyes. What a privilege it was to own the love and share the confidences of such a gentle and generous heart! "I am sure," said Mrs. Paulton, scarcely able to keep her tears back, "that you will always think of us as of old friends. I know you will make up out of your own goodness whatever you may find wanting in us."
Mrs. Paulton took the widow's other hand in both hers.
Mrs. Davenport opened her lips as if to speak, but no words came. Then slowly and mutely the tears formed in her eyes and fell down upon her black dress. Alfred and O'Brien withdrew into the front room and closed the folding doors; the two girls stole noiselessly away.
Mr. Paulton moved to the window. Mrs. Davenport's head gradually sank on her chest; she breathed heavily, and swayed slightly to and fro. She rose slowly.
"I must go now," she said.
"No, no; you must not. You must stay with us. You are too lonely."
She looked fearfully into the other woman's eyes.
"I have been alone since I was born, and I am afraid."
"Afraid of what?" asked Mrs. Paulton, anxiously.
She thought the fear must have some connection with the widow's recent trial.
"I am afraid of companionship."
Mrs. Paulton rose and stood before her guest, gazing wonderingly into the dark, fathomless, tearful eyes, now startled, looking as though they expected to see a strange, disturbing object.
"Come with me to my room." She nodded towards her husband. "We shall be quieter there."
"I cannot. I must get back. I am going" – a shudder-"home this evening."
Mr. Paulton turned round and said:
"You shall not go to-night. You must not leave us so soon. Go with my wife; she will comfort you. You have an hour between this and luncheon."
The beautiful woman raised her face.
"Forgive me, Mr. Paulton. I have as much hatred of anything like a scene as any one else, but I feel-I feel a bit broken-broken down. I am not so young as I look. I am thirty-four; but in all my life I have lived alone, within myself, and your kindness-the kindness of you and Mrs. Paulton has been too much for me. It may sound strange, but kindness is unkindness to me. I shall be better when I find myself alone once more. I am used to such companionship-none other. Good-bye."
He went to her, and took her again by the hand.
"Hush, child-hush! I will not have you leave us to-day. If we have been able to do a little for you, do you a little for us. Stay with us this one day, if no more-only this one day."
"No, no; I cannot. Good-bye."
"Wait!" he said, holding up his hand and approaching the folding doors that opened into the front room. "It is a long and lonely journey to the south of Ireland. Perhaps we can find you an escort-company." He passed into the front room. The two young men were seated at the window looking out on the little garden between the house and the road. "You re going to Ireland, to Kilcash, Alfred-when?"
"We were thinking of going soon, sir; but-"
He paused and looked at his friend. He knew his father well, and guessed that he had asked the lonely woman to stay with them for a while. His father had indeed said more than once he wished an opportunity of this kind might occur.
"Can you go to-morrow? Mrs. Davenport wants to go to-night; but if you can manage to go to-morrow she may be induced to stay to-night with us."
"We shall only be too happy, sir," said Alfred, turning away to hide his satisfaction.
"Very good. We shall say to-morrow evening," said the old man, as he withdrew into the back room and shut the doors. He went to where the two women stood. "It is all settled. We will not ask you to do too much for us this time. Mr. O'Brien and my son are starting for the south of Ireland to-morrow. They are going to the village near which you live-Kilcash-and will leave you at your own gate."
"Mr. O'Brien and Mr. Paulton going to Kilcash! Surely this is arranged for me-at the moment."
"No, indeed; it has been settled for weeks. You see" – he smiled, and imported some gaiety into his voice-"Fate is stronger than you. You would not ask them to set off at once-to-night? Mr. O'Brien arrived in London only last night, and I could not dream of asking him to start again for Ireland this evening. Besides, Alfred, I am sure, could not get ready in time, and you must not go alone. Take her upstairs now, Kate, and make her rest till luncheon. Take her away, Kate."
"But," she persisted, as Mrs. Paulton guided her reluctant steps to the door, "I am used to being alone."
"Not travelling alone. I must have my way this time."
"But I really am used to travelling alone."
"Then we must insist upon this being an exception. Now, we never allow any arguments in this house."
He opened the door for the two ladies. Mrs. Davenport shook her head mournfully, and suffered herself to be led out of the room by Mrs. Paulton.
