CHAPTER IX.
ELEVEN P.M
"RACHEL," said Mr. Dalrymple presently, speaking her name as if he had had it in familiar use for years, "I suppose you have broken off with him?"
Rachel did not reply for a few seconds; he felt her trembling in his arms.
"Oh, forgive me," she whispered, turning her face a hair's-breadth nearer to his as he stooped to listen.
And then she told him all the story of her engagement, as far as her new experiences enabled her to read it, and all the circumstances which had combined to keep her still in captivity so long after she should have been free.
The simple narrative gave even him, who was rather inclined to make molehills of mountains, a sense of the difficulties of the situation, that kept him silent for a few minutes in unwonted perplexity of mind.
"How old are you?" he asked abruptly, at last.
"I shall be nineteen in three weeks," she answered.
"You are sure you won't be twenty-one?"
"I'm sure I shan't. Why?"
"Because if you are only nineteen, I cannot carry you off and marry you, love, which would have been the simplest way out of it."
"I should not like that way," whispered Rachel. "It would be a wrong way."
"Yes, dear – except as a last resource. Of course we would try all the other ways first. But we must have our rights, you know. If they won't give them, we must take them – we must get them as we can."
"Cannot we be married until I am twenty-one?" she queried timidly.
"Not without your guardian's consent. Is there any chance of my getting that, or any kind of toleration even, if I call on him at his office to-morrow and use all the eloquence at my command?"
"No. Aunt Elizabeth won't let him have anything to do with it."
"If I call on her, then?"
"Oh, no – not the slightest. In the first place, she won't see you. And if she did – oh, no, you must not try – not yet! I think it would make everything worse than it is already."
"Then you see the alternative? – a separation for perhaps two whole years."
"If I know we are going to be so happy at the end of it – "
"Ah – at the end of it! It will be a fine test for you, Rachel."
"Why for me, any more than for you? Oh, don't talk of tests!" she pleaded; "I only want to feel sure I shall never lose you, and I don't mind waiting two years. If only – "
"If only what?"
"If only Mr. Kingston would go away!"
"Now listen to me," he said gently, but with his grave peremptoriness, "you must not let another day pass without breaking off with him. You must send him away, Rachel. I am sorry for him, poor devil, but you couldn't do him a worse wrong than let him go on deceiving himself about you."
"Oh, do you think I would do that? Of course I will not. I can do it now– now that you have come. For now I shall feel strong, and now I can tell them why. I shall write him a letter before I go to bed, and I shall tell Aunt Elizabeth as soon as I have sent it. But what will they say to me? It will be dreadful."
"Poor little woman! Can't I take the dreadful part of it for you? I shan't mind it."
"You can't. I know it will be better for us both if you will not have anything to do with it just yet."
"I think I must see your uncle, dear, before I go away again."
"Well – if you think it best. But it will do no good with Aunt Elizabeth. He leaves it all to her."
Mr. Dalrymple gazed thoughtfully at the distant horizon, where little points of yellow twinkled in the silvery obscurity of the moonshiny bay.
He was deeply troubled and perplexed about this tender little creature, and the idea of leaving her to bear the brunt of unknown trials for his sake, seemed too preposterous to be taken seriously. And yet what else could he do?
"Tell me," he said presently, stroking her silky head as it lay on his breast, "tell me what is the worst that can happen to you, Rachel?"
"The worst," sighed Rachel, "will be hearing Aunt Elizabeth tell me that I have repaid all her generosity and kindness to me with ingratitude and treachery."
"That will be very bad. But you will have to try and make her understand the real right and justice of it, love. She must see it, unless she is stone blind. She can't expect us to outrage all the laws of nature to suit her narrow schemes. You don't think there will be anything still worse? – that she will make your life wretched by making you feel your dependence – that kind of thing?"
"I am not sure," said Rachel. "She has been very, very good to me; but lately – since she has got suspicious about you – she has been hard. However, if the worst comes to the worst, I can go and be a governess or companion somewhere until you are ready for me."
"No, Rachel, no; you must promise to tell me if you are persecuted in any way – if you are miserable in your aunt's house – and my sister Lily will take care of you. You are not to let the worst come to the worst – do you hear? You must let me know of anything that happens, and I will come at once and see about it. Oh, my poor little one, I begin to realise what sacrifices you will have to make for me! Will you think the game was worth the candle, I wonder, when you are as old as I am?"
"Yes," said Rachel; "I know I shall – if you will be as contented with me then as you are now."
"Do you really think you have counted the cost?" he persisted anxiously. "Remember, you were going to marry Mr. Kingston, because you thought it would be nice to be rich and to live in a grand house and to wear diamonds."
"That was before I had seen you. I don't want to be rich now. Indeed, I would rather not."
"Has anybody told you how poor I am?"
"Yes," she whispered, stealing a timid hand to his shoulder. "I have been thinking of it. Beatrice says it is a mistake for poor men to marry – that they cripple their career. But I hope – I think —I shall not be any burden to you. Once I was poor, too, and I know all about it, and I can manage with a very little. I think I could help you in lots of ways, and not be a hindrance."
"A hindrance, indeed!" he interrupted. "My darling, if I had you for my companion, life would be sweet enough for me, under any circumstances. It was your comfort and happiness I was thinking of."
"I only want to be with you," she said, under her breath. "I don't care where – I don't care how."
"Really, Rachel?"
"Really, indeed."
"You are so young! Think what a number of years you have before you, in all probability. If you should lose the colour out of your life too soon, if you should have to drudge – but I won't let you drudge," he added, with a sudden touch of fierceness, "I will take care of you, and you shall have all you want. It won't be a sacrifice – not even all this" – looking round him – "if you give it up for a man you love, who has health and strength to work for you. It would make you miserable if you had it. You know it would?"
"I do know it," she responded, without a moment's hesitation.
She had finally made up her mind that after all material poverty was not the worst of life's misfortunes. Indeed, provided the element of debt were absent, she thought it might in Roden Dalrymple's company, "far from the madding crowd," in the lonely wilds of Queensland, be rather pleasant than otherwise; for it would mean the delight of working for and helping one another, and a blessed freedom from interruption and restraint in the enjoyment of that wonderful married life which would be theirs.
"But I should like to know what made you take to me," he went on, in the immemorial fashion, stroking her soft face. "I should like to know why you chose, for your first love – I am your first, am I not, Rachel?"
"You know you are. And it was no matter of choice with me – you know that, too."
"A man who made shipwreck of his fortunes for another woman almost before you were born – "
"Hush!" interrupted Rachel. "I have no rights in your past, and I don't want any. This present is mine, and that is enough for me."
"A battered old vagabond – "
"No," she persisted; "I won't allow you to call yourself a vagabond. It is bad enough to hear other people do it."
"After seeing him under what one would be inclined to consider, well, anything but favourable auspices – for how many days, Rachel?"
"Oh," she said, hiding a scarlet face, "don't remind me of that! It was too soon – but I could not help it."
"The sooner the better, my sweet – if it lasts," he responded, kissing her with solemn passion; "and I will make it last."
"Do not be afraid of that," she whispered eagerly. "I know I am young – I know one ought not to be too positive about the future – but I feel that it will be impossible to help loving you always, even if I try not to, which I certainly shan't. I am sure I began it when I saw you riding across the racecourse that day – I am sure I shall not stop any more as long as I live. I don't think there can be another man in the world like you."
And so they talked, until it occurred to one of them to wonder what the time was. Mr. Dalrymple struck a match and looked at his watch, Rachel shielding the small flame from the wind with her hand.
"Oh," she exclaimed in dismay, "what would Aunt Elizabeth say if she knew I was sitting out here at eleven o'clock at night!"
"Call it eleven p.m.," he suggested, looking at her with his slow smile; "that sounds so much better."
"Did you think it was so late? The time has flown."
"I felt it flying," he replied. "But I did not think it was so late. I'm afraid you must go home, little one. Oh, dear me, when shall we have such a time again! Will you come here to-morrow night, and tell me how you have got over your day's troubles?"
This was not a proposal that Rachel could accept comfortably, nor that he could bring himself to press upon her. But when they came to reconsider their position and necessities, it was hard to find an alternative.
"You see, I must go back to Queensland in a day or two," Mr. Dalrymple explained, when, having taken her out of her hole and dusted her skirts with his handkerchief, he led her through the labyrinth of walls into the open moonlight, and they paused, hand in hand, for a few last words. "We have an immense deal to do up there, and Gordon wants me. I must look after getting things together for you too. There is not even a roof for your head yet. But I can't bear to leave town without knowing first how matters are likely to go with you."
"If you should be obliged to do that – if I cannot see you again," said Rachel, "when will you come back?"
"I will come back in – let me see, this is October – in two months. I will be back at Christmas. I should have liked to see your uncle to-morrow, just that there should be no mistake about what I mean to do; but if you think it will make things harder for you, I won't, of course. You shall just tell Kingston what you like, and the rest of them I will enlighten when I come. By that time he will be out of the way and done with, and we shall have a straight road before us."
"Yes," said Rachel, sighing; "I think that will be best. And perhaps, by that time, Aunt Elizabeth will let you in."
"If she doesn't, I shall bombard the house."
"You will be sure to be back at Christmas?"
"If I am alive, dear, and a free agent – certainly. And I shall find you ready for me then?"
"Oh, yes!"
With this compact between them, and the giving to Rachel of her lover's town address, and very explicit directions as to where she might find him at any given hour when she might happen to want him until the day of his departure, they kissed one clinging, lingering kiss in motionless silence, and bade one another – though they did not know it – a long farewell.
"Which is your window, Rachel? Can I see it from here?"
She pointed to it in silence, it was very distinct just now in the moonshine, between two dark pine trees. She was crying a little, and she could not speak.
"I will be here to-morrow night," he said; "and if you can't come out to me, have a light in your room at twelve o'clock, darling, to let me know you are all right."
And then they separated; and Rachel felt rather than saw her way home, so dazzled with tears was she, while Roden Dalrymple at her desire remained behind and watched her.
She went straight into the house and upstairs to her room, to gather together, in a feverish hurry of renunciation, all her diamonds and jewels, which like Dead Sea apples, had suddenly become dust.
And he, long after she was gone, – long after Mrs. Hardy's carriage returned, and all the chimes in the city had rung the midnight hour – lingered where she had left him, leaning his arms on a convenient wall, watching a lighted window, and thinking. He was very happy. He had come unawares upon his happiness, when he was most in need of it, and it seemed to him that it was the best he could have had.
Anything sweeter than this fresh and simple heart, which was satisfied to invest all its wealth in him – anything brighter than the future she had spread before him – he did not want or wish for. It was the amplest compensation that he could imagine for the mistakes and disappointments of his wasted past.
And yet, though he was hardly conscious of it – though he would not have owned to it if he had been – he had a vague misgiving about her. He did not wish that she had been less easy to win; he had no fear that she was mistaking a sentimental girlish fancy for love; he did not for a moment apprehend that she would forsake or wrong him.
But there was a suggestion of untried and untested youth about all the circumstances of this sudden betrothal, as far as she had influenced them, and there was an intangible suspicion that somewhere she was weak.
He did not recognise, and therefore did not formulate, the sentiment that infused that touch of grave and sad anxiety into his happy meditations; but, nevertheless, it was there, and the time came when it was justified.
CHAPTER X.
MRS. READE'S ADVICE
RACHEL was not a heroine. She was simply a sweet and interesting girl; except that she was unusually pretty, by no means above the ordinary level of nice girls. She was better than a great many that we are acquainted with, no doubt, but she was not so good as some.
And she had, as has been already indicated, that fault which, of all faults, perhaps, is most common to girls, whether nice or otherwise – that amiable weakness that is more disastrous in its consequences than many a downright vice – she was, if not quite a coward, cowardly.
She was afraid to meet difficulties in the open, as it were – to attack the main body and scatter them, and have done with it; she sheltered herself in ambush, and made desultory attacks on flank and rear with temporary compromises, hating the thought of duplicity and longing to do right, yet most of all dreading the violent, harsh hurt to tender sensibilities (whether her own or other people's) that was inevitable in the shock of a pitched battle.
It is a defect in a woman's character very much to be deplored, of course, and it is one that seems unpardonable to a strong-minded person.
Nevertheless, it is much more of a misfortune than a fault (and we may as well say the same, while we are about it, of all our constitutional defects, from red hair to kleptomania, since we did not choose our parents nor the social conditions to which we were born); and to Rachel, whose instinctive truthfulness and high sense of moral rectitude prompted her to struggle hard, if vainly, against it, it was purely a misfortune, and at no time in her life more so than now.
For, after turning the question over and over in her mind through all that feverish and wakeful night, she finally decided that in breaking off her engagement with Mr. Kingston she would not mention, either to him or to anyone else, the place that Mr. Dalrymple now occupied in her affections and affairs.
As no one was aware of their having met, and as he was coming back himself so soon to clear up everything much better than she could, she persuaded herself that it would be not only unnecessary, but in the highest degree inexpedient, to aggravate the inevitable pain and difficulty that was before her and all of them.
Hating his very name as they did, would she not expose her lover to insult, and his motives and actions to misconception, and probably prejudice their chances of happiness irrevocably?
And at the same time do no good whatever, but only add an element of unspeakable bitterness to the disappointment of her aunt, and to the mortification of her already ill-used and much-wronged fiancé, and, as a matter of detail, an incalculable amount of difficulty to her own sufficiently formidable task? She was certain that she would, and she felt that she could not, and need not do it.
It took her all night to mature her course of action, but having finally brought herself to believe that it was not only so much the easiest to herself, but in every way the best for all concerned, to ignore Mr. Dalrymple for the present, she committed herself to it by writing a long letter to Mr. Kingston – a tender, penitent, self-accusing letter, in which she begged him to forgive her for having discovered so much too late that they were unsuited to one another, and prayed that he might some day be happier with a better woman than it was in her power to make him, and that he would ever believe her his attached and grateful friend, without suggesting the existence or possibility of any other lover, present or to be.
The natural results followed. Mr. Kingston, seeing no sufficient reason for these sudden strong measures, refused to treat them seriously.
He was quite aware, and it troubled him deeply, that she was not happy in her engagement, and he was very jealous and suspicious of Mr. Dalrymple, whom he had seen once or twice about town; but he had set his heart upon her, as we say, with the perverse obstinacy of a fickle man who had been spoiled by women's flattery, and the more she seemed to shrink from him the more he wanted to have her, and the more he was determined not to let her go if he could possibly help it.
His love not only lacked reciprocity – without which love is never worthy to be spelt with a capital L – but it was so diluted with all sorts of vanities and egotisms that, though its flavour was there, the potent spirit was absent, and he was incapable of making a sacrifice for her happiness at the expense of his own.
When he solemnly assured himself that he loved her as he had never loved anyone before, and that he could not and would not give her up – when he declared, moreover, that he was ready to spend his future life in her service, and would take his chance of making her care for him – he not only told the truth, as far as he understood it, but perhaps he touched the highest point of heroism of which his selfish nature was capable.
All the same, the strong necessities of the case were the carrying out of the great enterprise which was symbolised by the half-built house, and the realisation of his schemes for his own enjoyment; the possession (and the securing from other men) of the most attractive, the most admired, and to him most loveable woman of his set, who had so to speak given him a legal lien upon her person; the maintenance of his social position and dignity, and the avoidance of ridicule and embarrassment.
So when he had read Rachel's letter, with a great expense of bad language in the first place, and of wise reflection subsequently, he made up his mind that it was merely the result of their Adelonga differences, which had been rankling in her sensitive heart, and not the formal resignation that he would be required to accept.
"No, no, young lady," he said to himself, as he made a careful toilet before setting forth to see her, "I have not sacrificed my liberty and all my comfortable habits, at your instigation and for your sake, to take my congé at the eleventh hour in this way."
And then he cast about in his mind anxiously for ways and means whereby he might meet and overcome this strange reluctance, which not only seemed to him a cruel injury and injustice after all he had done for her, but really distressed him acutely, and made him extremely unhappy.
Was there anything amongst Kilpatrick's glittering treasures that would tempt her to smile and kiss him, and be sorry that she had given him this heartless blow?
He felt to-day that he would spend a thousand pounds cheerfully for anything that would please her.
But at the same time he was uneasily conscious that even the largest and purest diamonds would not appreciably affect the situation.
She was no longer open to these fascinations, as she used to be; several little circumstances had convinced him of that.
It was a bad sign, he feared; but he hoped it indicated nothing more serious than that the novelty of wealth and luxury had worn off.
He recognised its existence so far that he went on his delicate mission to Toorak, trusting to his own merits and eloquence, with no bribes of any sort in his pocket.
After all, he did not see Rachel that day. She was weeping hysterically in her bedroom at the top of the house, and therefore was not presentable.
Mrs. Hardy, much excited and discomposed by the shock she had just received (on being told by Rachel that she had not only written a letter to her fiancé, to break off her engagement, but had sent it), received him in the drawing-room, and did the best that wisdom, at such short notice, suggested to repair the catastrophe which she had been powerless to prevent.
She tried to smile and joke, in a considerate and well-bred manner; she rallied him upon his misconduct in the matter of Miss Hale, which had evidently been at the bottom of all the mischief, gently pointing out to him that a sensitive nature like Rachel's, and a tender heart that loved and trusted him, could not be played with, even in the conventional fashion, with impunity.
And then she hastened to explain the suddenness and unexpectedness of this "freak;" how sure she was that it had been perpetrated under the influence of a fit of temper or dejection, or some other unhealthy condition of mind; how equally sure she was that it was already repented of – though, of course, it was not for her to give an opinion or to interfere. All of which would have been very proper and sensible, but that the effect was marred by a bubbling under-current of angry excitement that her utmost efforts could not hide.
Mr. Kingston watched and listened, with smiling self-possession. Finding that he was not to see Rachel, nor to get any fresh information, he did not prolong the interview. He had no confidence in Mrs. Hardy – few men had, in matters of this kind. He received her communications in a friendly manner, as one receives an embassy under a flag of truce; he never thought of allowing himself to be influenced by them one way or the other, or of asking her assistance and advice.
As soon as courtesy permitted, he bowed himself out of her presence, with magnanimous expressions of good-will and a request that nothing might be be said or done to distress or embarrass Rachel. And then he got into his cab thoughtfully, and went to South Yarra to call on Mrs. Reade.
It was not one of this young lady's reception days, as no one knew better than himself; nor had she left her house in pursuit of tea and gossip at other people's "afternoons," as he half expected would be the case.
The sprightly maid-servant (all Mrs. Reade's servants were maids, and all of them sprightly), who opened the door to his thundering knock, recognising a privileged friend of the family, admitted him with alacrity; and he walked into the drawing-room and found his hostess sitting there alone, nestling in one of her seductive low chairs with an open letter on her knee.
She, too, had just received the news of Rachel's escapade; the letter, full of dashing and incoherent sentences, was in Mrs. Hardy's handwriting, and had arrived half an hour ago from Toorak. But there were no signs of excitement and discomposure about this little person, who rose to meet him, looking cool and bright, with even the suspicion of a twinkle in her eyes.
"Have you come for a gossip?" she asked, looking up at him with friendly frankness. "Because if you have you had better send your cab away. I am going out at five o'clock, and I'll drive you into town."
The cab was sent away; and Mr. Kingston, with a feeling of comfort and safety about him, sat down in a bow-windowed recess, in his favourite of all the cunningly-devised chairs, and with his elbows on his knees, began to fiddle with the top of a silk sock, at the toe of which his companion was now knitting industriously.
"Is this for Ned?" he inquired, after a pause.
"Now, isn't that a superfluous question?" she replied, holding it up. "Look at the size of it. Could any foot but his fill out that enormous bag? Of course it is for Ned. Don't you know it is the new fashion for wives to knit their husband's socks? One must be in the fashion, even if one's husband is a giant."
"Very nice for one's husband. It seems beautifully soft; pretty colour, too." Then, after a pause, "Does Rachel know how to knit?"
"Yes," said Mrs. Reade, calmly; "we both learned together while she was staying with me, and she does it much quicker than I do. I suppose you are thinking you would like to participate in the benefits of the fashion too?" she added, lifting her face suddenly, with a quick look in her bright eyes that was like the opening of a masked battery.
"If I thought that Rachel would ever knit socks for me, for the pleasure of it – " He paused with a change and break in his voice, regarding her wistfully.
Mrs. Reade immediately made a sheaf of her needles, wound them up in the sock, and impaled her ball of silk upon them. "Tell me," she said, folding her hands on her knees in a business-like manner, "tell me, what has Rachel been doing?"
"Don't you know? She has written to me to break off our engagement."
"What for?"
"I can't imagine – she doesn't say. I thought you might be able to help me to find that out."
Mrs. Reade looked at him in silence for a few seconds, kindly and gravely. Even she felt herself a little at a loss as to what course to pursue.
"What have you done?" she asked abruptly.
"Nothing. I went up to see her just now, but I was disappointed. She could not, or would not, come in. I rather fancy your mother had been scolding her."
"I have no doubt she had. She doesn't approve of independence on the part of young people."
"I won't have her scolded," Mr. Kingston broke out, with sudden vehemence. "If I like to blame her, that is another matter. I won't have her set against me by other people. Nothing would make her hate me more than that kind of thing."
Mrs. Reade felt the justice of this protest, but she did not see fit to discuss her mother's little mistakes. "What are you going to do?" she inquired.
"Do you mean am I going to take my dismissal in this off-hand way? No, certainly not. After all the time we have been engaged – after all that has come and gone between us – after all the preparations that have been made – it would be too preposterous! I should be the laughing-stock of the colony."
"That would be very sad," said Mrs. Reade, with her head on one side.
"Now be a good little woman, and don't jeer at me – I didn't come to you for that. You know – or you ought to know – that I am horribly upset and miserable about all this business, and that I want you to help me."
"I don't see how I can help you," she said.
"Tell me about Rachel. What is the matter with her? What does she mean?"
"Well, evidently she means that she doesn't want to marry you," sighed Mrs. Reade. "Tiresome child, why didn't she think of it before?"
"Why should she think of it now? Oh, yes, I know she has not been keen about it for some time, as she should have been. But she has not seemed to dislike it; she has looked forward to it as much a matter of course as – as it has been to all the rest of us. And I felt so sure it would be all right – that I could make her as happy as possible – when we were once married and she had settled down!"
It was not often that Mrs. Reade was perplexed, but now – between her duty to her family, her strong affection for Rachel, and her desire to assist her friend – she really did not know what to do. While she was silent, struggling with the dilemma in her active mind, Mr. Kingston went on.
"It is since she went to Adelonga that she has changed so much. Haven't you noticed?"
"You did not behave very well to her at Adelonga, you know."
"Who told you that? Did she?"
"Never mind who told me. There is never any secrecy about your proceedings – I will give you that credit. You treated her very badly at Lucilla's ball."
"Not worse than she treated me," he began, impetuously; and then he paused and looked at his hostess. He was gentleman enough to shrink from discussing Rachel's misdeeds in connection with "that Dalrymple fellow," but he longed to find out how much her wise cousin and late companion knew. Mrs. Reade fingered her knitting with a placid and impenetrable face.
"Tell me – you know Rachel so intimately – do you think – "
"Do I think what?"
"That there is anyone she cares for – more than she cares for me?"
He was impelled, against his better judgment, to ask this awkward question. Mrs. Reade gathered herself together, so to speak; it was one of those sudden emergencies that inspire a brave woman.
"If I thought she cared for anyone who was a better man, and could make her happier than you," she said deliberately, looking him straight in the face, "she should have him, or it would not be my fault."
"But she does not?"
"So far as I know she does not. But," she was an honest little woman, and it gave her a pang to mislead him, even though she did it for what seemed to her a good end, "but, at the same time, no doubt she does not care for you as she ought to do."
"I hope that will come," he said cheerfully.
If only Mr. Dalrymple did not stand in his way, he felt all difficulties manageable.
"It is a great risk; you ought to think well before you take it."
"I have thought well."