Kitabı oku: «The Star-Gazers», sayfa 19

“Hayle and Captain Rolph,” said the doctor between his teeth, “what does that mean?”

He rode on to pass close by the pair, both of whom looked up, the one to give him a haughty nod of the head, the other to touch his hat and say, – “How do, doctor?”

“The parson is said to know most about the affairs of people in a parish,” thought Oldroyd; “but that will not do. It’s a mistake. We are the knowing ones. Why, I could give quite a history of what is going on around us – if I liked. Your parson kens, as the north-country folk say, a’ aboot their morals, but we doctors are well up in the mental and bodily state too. Now then, who next? Bound to say, if I take the short cut through the firs and along the grass drives, I shall meet the old major toadstool hunting, and possibly Miss Day with him.”

Oldroyd’s ideas ran upon someone else; but he put the thoughts aside, and went on very moodily for a few minutes before his thoughts reverted to their former channel.

“Safe to meet them,” he muttered, with a bitter laugh. “Well, the captain is otherwise engaged to-day. The young lady with the gentleman as I came, and papa and the gentleman as I return. Well – go on Peter – I have enough to do with my own professional affairs, and giving advice gratis on moral matters is not in my department. No mention of them in the pharmacopoeia.”

Peter responded to his rider’s adjuration to go on in his customary way – to wit, he raised his head and whisked his tail, and went on, but without the slightest increase of speed. Oldroyd turned him out of the lane, through one of the game preserves, and he rode thoughtfully on for a couple of miles, with the peculiar smell of the bracken pervading the air as Peter crushed the stems beneath his hoofs. At times, as he rode through some opening where the sun beat down heavily, there was the pungent, lemony, resinous odour of the pines wafted to his nostrils, and once it was so strong that the doctor pulled up to inhale it.

“What a lunatic I was,” he thought, “to come and settle down in a place like this. Nature wants no doctors here; she does all the work herself – except the accidents,” he added laughingly. “Poor old Hayle yonder; I don’t think she would have made so good a job of him.”

He rode on again through the hot afternoon sunshine, going more and more out of his way; but he did not see the major with his creel, neither did the lady attendant upon some of his walks make his sore heart begin beating.

He had just come to the conclusion that he had ridden all this way round for nothing, when, as he wound round a mossy carpeted drive, he saw in the distance, framed in with green against a background of sky, a couple of figures, of which one, a lady, was holding out something to the other, a gipsy-looking fellow, which he took and thrust into his pocket, becoming conscious at the same moment of the doctor’s approach.

“Looks like my young poaching friend, Caleb Kent,” thought Oldroyd, as the man touched his cap obsequiously and plunged at once in through the thick undergrowth and was gone, while the lady drew herself up and came toward him.

Oldroyd’s acquaintanceship was of the most distant kind, and he merely raised his hat as he passed, noting that the face, which looked haughtily in his, was flushed and hot as his bow was returned.

“Why, that young scoundrel has been begging. Met her alone out here in this wood,” thought Oldroyd, when he had ridden on for a few yards; and, on the impulse of the moment, he dragged the unwilling pony’s head round, and, to the little animal’s astonishment, struck his heels into its ribs and forced it to canter after the lady they had passed.

She did not hear the approach for a few minutes, but was walking on hurriedly with her head bent down, till, the soft beat of the pony’s hoofs close behind rousing her, she turned suddenly a wild and startled face.

“I beg your pardon – Miss Emlin of The Warren, I believe?” said Oldroyd, raising his hat again.

There was a distant bow.

“You will excuse my interference,” he continued; “but these woods are lonely, and I could not help seeing that man had accosted you.”

Marjorie’s face was like wax now in its pallor.

“I thought so,” said Oldroyd to himself. Then aloud, – “He was begging, and frightened you?”

“The man asked me for money, and I gave him some. No; he did not frighten me.”

A flush now came in the girl’s face, and she said eagerly, —

“Did you pass a gentleman – my cousin, Captain Rolph – in the woods?”

“Yes; about a couple of miles away. I beg pardon for my interference,” there was an exchange of bows; and each passed on.

“What a fool I am!” muttered Oldroyd. “Like a man. Jumps at the chance of playing the knight-errant. Only begged a copper or two of her; a loafing scoundrel. Phew!” he whistled, “my cousin! I’m afraid that my cousin is going to be pulled up sharp; and quite right too. Looks like a piece of jealousy there. And the fellow’s engaged. Well, it’s not my business. Go on, Peter, old man.”

Peter wagged his tail, but still there was no increase of speed; for, if ponies can think, Peter was cogitating on the fact that if he made haste home there would be time for him to go with Sinkins, the carpenter, to fetch a piece of oak from the wood; and he felt that he had done enough for one day.

Volume Three – Chapter Five.
Perturbations

Had Oldroyd been a little sooner, he would have formed a different opinion about Caleb Kent and his appealing to Marjorie for alms.

For that day, Marjorie had come down dressed for a walk – a saunter, to find a few botanical specimens, she told Mrs Rolph, who smiled and was quite content, so long as her niece settled down and made no trouble of the loss of her lover.

Marjorie did saunter as long as she was in sight, and then went off through the fir woods rapidly, her eyes losing their soft, spaniel-like, far-away look which she so often turned upon Rolph, and growing fierce and determined as she stepped out, full of the object she had in view.

For she had good reason to believe that Rolph had gone in the direction she was taking, and the desire was strong within her to come upon him suddenly, and at a time when she felt she would succeed in getting the whip-hand of him, and holding him at her mercy.

She had been walking nearly an hour fairly fast; but now, as if guided by instinct, she turned into a green, mossy path, one of the many cut among the stubbs for the sportsmen’s benefit, whether hunting or shooting their purpose was the same, and advancing now more cautiously she was looking sharply from side to side when the hazels were suddenly parted, and, with his white teeth glistening in the sunshine, and his dark eyes flashing, there stood Caleb Kent not two yards away; then not one, as he caught her wrist in his hot, brown hands, and, with a laugh, placed his face close to hers.

“You’ve been a long time coming,” he said, “but you promised, and I’ve come.”

For a few moments Marjorie stood gazing wildly at the man before her, with her brain reeling, and a strange sickening sensation attacking her, which rendered her speechless. Her lips moved, but no sound came, while the words which had passed between them thundered in her ears like the echoes of all that had been said.

Then a re-action took place, and, drawing herself up, she said quietly, —

“Well, what do you want – money?”

“No; I can get money for myself,” he said, with a laugh. “I’ve come back to you.”

She shrank from him now with a look of disgust, and shivered as she thought of the past, but recovering herself she turned upon him.

“How dare you!” she cried, with a look intended to keep him at bay.

Caleb laughed.

“Well, you are a strange girl,” he said; “hot one day, cold the next. But I don’t care; say what you like, dear.”

Marjorie started as if she had been stung at this last word, for, more than anything which had passed, it made her feel how she had fallen.

“You want to play with me and hold me off; and you are going to say you didn’t mean it.”

With an action quick as that of some wild creature, he caught her wrist again, and looked at her mockingly, but with a flashing in his eyes which made her shiver and glance quickly round.

“No,” he said, with a laugh; “no one can see. But, look here,” he whispered earnestly, “I’ve been thinking about you ever since. You don’t care for them here, and their money and fine clothes. Come away along with me – it’ll be free like – right away from everyone who knows you, and I’ll be real good to you, dear, ’pon my soul I will.”

“Loose my wrist! How dare you!” cried Marjorie; and in her alarm she wondered now that she could have been so mad with one whom she thought she could sway with a look, but who was beginning to sway her.

“How dare I? because you like me to hold you,” he whispered. “Do you think I’m a fool? Look here; you used to love him, but you hate him now, and you love me. Well, I used to love Hayle’s girl; I was mad after her, but since I’ve seen you I don’t care a straw for her, not even if I never see her again.”

“Will you loose my wrist?” cried Marjorie, in a low, angry voice.

“No – not till I like.”

“Am I to call for assistance and have you punished, sir?”

“If you like,” he said mockingly. “There, that will do. What’s the good of all this nonsense? Don’t play with me. I say you’re a lady – a beautiful lady – and I never saw a woman I liked half so well. Look here; come along with me. I’ll be like your dog, and do everything you ask me. I’ll kill him if you tell me, and Judith Hayle, too. There, you wouldn’t find one of your sort ready like that.”

Frantic with dread, Marjorie looked wildly round as she strove to free her wrist.

“Why, what a struggling little thing you are,” he whispered. “Can’t you see that I like you, and wouldn’t hurt you for the world? What’s the good of holding off like this? No one can see you; there isn’t anybody within a couple of miles of where we are, and you promised me another kiss.”

“Let me go,” cried Marjorie hoarsely. “I did not mean it. I was half wild when I said that to you. Look here; take my watch and my rings, and I have some money here. I did not mean all that. Let go or I will call for help.”

“Well,” he said coolly, “call for help. I’m not afraid; you are, and you won’t call – I know better than that. Look here, you know what you said.”

She looked sharply round and shuddered.

“Yes,” she said huskily, “but I was mad and foolish then. It was in an angry fit. I didn’t mean it.”

“Didn’t you?” he said, looking at her with a cunning smile. “How easily you people can lie. You did mean it, and you made me a promise, and you’re going to keep it.”

“No, no,” she cried wildly.

“You are,” he said, “and I’m going to be paid. I’m only waiting for my chance.”

“I tell you no,” cried Marjorie. “I did not mean it.”

“You meant it then, and you mean it now, and I’m going to keep my word when I can. I’m not a fool. Do you think I don’t know why it all is? Not so blind as all that, my dear. It’s plucky of you, and I like you the better for it, and some day you’ll tell me how glad you are that – pst! someone coming,” he whispered, completely altering his manner and tone bowing obsequiously, and whining out an appeal to the dear kind lady to bestow a trifle on a poor young man out of work.

That night Marjorie lay awake thinking, half-repentant, half-glad; the latter feeling increasing till there was a glow of triumph in her eyes as she seemed to be gazing down upon Glynne, cast off by her cousin, her enemy and rival no longer, but an unhappy despairing object humbled at her feet.

Volume Three – Chapter Six.
Facing the Unknown

The time was drawing nigh, and Sir John and his brother were sitting over their wine, when the former began upon matters connected with the wedding. Rolph had only left them that day, and was to return the next morning to meet them at the church, in company with a brother officer, ready to act as his best man. Then the wedding over, the happy pair were to start for the Continent; and Brackley would be left to the brothers, both of whom looked blank and dispirited as they asked themselves what they were to do when the light of the place had gone.

And that was how the conversation first began. Sir John sighing, and saying that he should miss Glynne very much indeed.

“Of course, I give lots of attention to my pigs and sheep, and the rest of them,” he said dolefully; “but Brackley won’t be the same, Jem, old fellow, when she’s gone. I shall miss her dreadfully.”

“Yes,” said the major, raising his claret to his lips, and setting the glass down again untouched, “we shall miss her dreadfully.”

Then, after a long conversation, Sir John had touched upon the subject of his brother’s treatment of the bridegroom, and his conduct at the wedding.

They sat sipping their claret for some time, Sir John being very silent; and at last the long pause was followed by the major saying, —

“Well, don’t let’s leave our darling. I suppose I may say ‘our darling,’ Jack?”

“My dear brother!” exclaimed Sir John, grasping his hand.

“I say then, don’t let’s leave our darling alone any longer. We shall have plenty of time to sip our wine of nights when we are alone, Jack. Let’s go and let her pour out tea for us for what will pretty well be the last time.”

“Hah! yes!” said Sir John, rising slowly, “for pretty well the last time, Jem, and – and – ”

Sir John stopped short, for his voice broke, and the nerves in his fine florid face quivered.

The major laid one hand upon his brother’s shoulder in good old schoolboy fashion, caught his right hand in his own, and remained gripping it warmly – a strong, firm, sympathetic grip, full of brotherly feeling; but he spoke no word.

Sir John was the first to break the silence. “Thank you, Jem,” he said, “thank you, Jem. It’s very weak and childish of me at my time of life, but it touches me home; it touches me the harder, too, that she is my only child; and – and – and, Jem, my lad, don’t jump upon me – I must own it to you now, and I will – I feel that I am making a great mistake.”

“Thank God!” cried the major fervently.

“Jem!”

“I say, thank God,” cried the major, “that you see the truth at last, Jack, before it is too late.”

“No, no, Jem,” said Sir John sadly; “I have not seen it before it is too late. It is too late. We cannot alter it now. I am in honour bound. I cannot interfere.”

“Hang honour!” cried the major excitedly. “I’d give up all the honour in the world sooner than that girl’s life should be blighted. Jack, Jack, my dear brother, we are old men now. We’ve had our fling of life. Let’s think of our darling’s happiness, and not of what the world thinks of us.”

“Too late, Jem! too late!” said Sir John.

“I tell you it is not too late, Jack. Hang it man, I’ll do anything. I’ll challenge and shoot this confounded Rolph sooner than he shall have her.”

“Don’t talk nonsense, Jem – don’t talk nonsense. I’ve sounded Glynne well, and it is too late.”

“What! Do you mean to tell me that she would insist upon having him if you forbade it?” cried the major.

“She thinks that she is bound to him, and that it is impossible to retract, even if she wished.”

“But doesn’t she wish to run back from this wretched business?”

“No, she does not wish to run back from her promise.”

“I don’t believe it,” cried the major, over whose white forehead the veins stood up like a pink network.

“It is true all the same,” said Sir John sadly. “If she had but expressed the slightest wish, I’d have seen Rolph, even at this eleventh hour, and, as he would have called it, the match should be off.”

“I will go and see her myself, Jack. I don’t want to insult you, my dear brother, but she does look up to me and my opinion a little. Let me try and win her to my way of thinking, and let’s get this wretched business stopped. She would never be happy, I am sure.”

“Go and see her, Jem, by all means.”

“You give me your leave?”

“I do.”

The major uttered a sigh of relief, and smoothing his beard, and with his eyes beaming, he walked straight into the drawing-room, where Glynne was seated, looking very pale and beautiful, with her head resting upon her soft white hand, gazing full at the lamp. Marjorie and three lady friends were in the drawing-room, but they had evidently, out of respect for the young girl’s saddened state, retired to the end of the room, where they were engaged in conversation in a low tone of voice.

Glynne did not stir as the major entered, for she was deep in thought; but she turned to him with a sweet, grave smile as he laid his hand upon hers.

“Will you come into the conservatory, my dear?” he said gently. “I want to talk to you.”

She rose without a word, and laid her hand upon his arm, letting her uncle lead her into the great, softly-lit corridor of flowers; while, as the major realised the difficulties of the task he had before him, he grew silent, so that they had walked nearly to the end before he spoke.

“My dear child,” he said, in a husky, hesitating voice, for, though he had often dashed with his men at the charge full into the dangers of the battlefield, he felt a peculiar sensation of nervous dread now at having to broach the business upon which he had come.

“My dear child,” he began again.

“My dear uncle,” she answered, tenderly.

“You know my feelings respecting your approaching marriage?”

She looked up at him sadly, and the tears stood in her eyes.

“Yes, uncle, dear, I know,” she replied slowly.

“Well, your father has now come over to my side, and he gives me his consent to see you, to win from you – ”

“Hush, uncle – dear uncle,” said Glynne softly. “I know you love me – dearly, as if I were your own child.”

“I do, I do indeed,” he cried.

“Then pray spare me all these painful words.”

“Plain words to save you pain in the future,” he said tenderly.

“It is too late, uncle. I told my father that. It is too late.”

“No, no, my darling, it is not too late,” cried the major excitedly. “You are afraid of the talk and scandal. Bah! let them talk and scandalise till they get tired. What is it to us? Look here; we’ll start for the Continent to-morrow, and stay away till this business is forgotten. A nine days’ wonder, my child. There, there, you consent. By George, we’ll be off to-night —now. I’ll go and order the carriage at once. It will be round by the time you have got a few things together in a bag.”

“Stop, uncle, dear uncle.”

“No, no; your father will go with us, too.”

Glynne shook her head, and, putting one arm round his neck, kissed the old man fondly.

“Hush, dear,” she said; “you forget. I cannot – I will not hear another word. I am determined that I will hold to my promise.”

“But, Glynne, my child,” cried the major appealingly.

“It is too late – it is too late,” responded Glynne. “And now, uncle, if you love me, spare me further suffering.”

He waited for a few minutes, and resumed the attack, but without effect; and just as he was gazing despairingly in his niece’s face Sir John entered, looking inquiringly at both, when Glynne went smilingly to his side at once, and laid her hands upon his breast.

“Dear father,” she said tenderly, “let my last few hours at home be undisturbed by pain.”

“My darling,” said Sir John softly, “you are mistress here. Jem, old fellow, you have spoken.”

“Delivered my charge, Jack, and failed. I retire broken from the field.”

Glynne held out her hand to him, and when he took it she leaned towards him to kiss his lips.

About an hour later Mason the maid learned a secret which she afterwards confided to her intimates in the servants’ hall.

Mason went up to Glynne’s bedroom to carry there a lately-arrived packet containing a portion of her mistress’s trousseau.

She had hardly entered the room when she noted that the door connecting it with Glynne’s little study was ajar, and a sigh taught her that it was occupied.

“I’ll take it in, and she’ll open it at once,” thought Mason, who was burning with curiosity to see the contents of the package; and, going lightly across to the door, she pressed it open, and then stood petrified at the scene before her.

For Glynne was kneeling before a chair with her face buried in her hands sobbing violently, while in piteous tones she breathed out the agony of her heart in the wild appeal, —

“Heaven help me and give me strength! It is more than I can bear.”