"And I will be no party to making her take it against her will."
"But I think she will be willing if she is treated properly. Of course I don't want to marry her by force. I want to bring her round to like it as she used to like it. If there is nobody else, why not? And you will help me, won't you?"
Mrs. Reade looked at him with bright and friendly eyes. He was really taking it very well considering how badly he had been treated, and how extremely susceptible he was to indignities of this, or indeed any description. He certainly must be strangely in love with that perverse child, she thought – much more in love than she had ever expected to see him – to be able to put his wrongs in the background like this. He deserved to be helped.
And as far as human judgment was to be trusted, to help him would be to play Providence to Rachel.
"I will do what I can," she said kindly. "That is to say, I won't interfere, but I'll give you good advice whenever you do me the honour to ask for it."
"Thank you; I ask for it now. What do you advise me to do?"
She pondered a few moments, watching him thoughtfully.
"You are quite sure, once for all, that you think it worth while to throw yourself away on an ungrateful little monkey who doesn't appreciate you?"
"I'm quite sure I want to marry Rachel. I hope she will appreciate me, but if she doesn't – well, I want to marry her all the same."
"And are willing to take the consequences?"
"Oh, yes; I'm not afraid of consequences – once the wedding is over."
He smiled as he made this almost sacrilegious assertion, which implied a marital control of consequences that was offensive in the ears of the little woman, who liked to see husbands kept in their proper places.
"Don't boast," she said sharply, "you might find yourself in a very unpleasant position when the wedding was over. And you will, too, if you don't mind."
The dialogue was interrupted at this point. A little brougham rattled past the window on its way from the stable-yard to the front-door, and a servant came in with tea.
Mrs. Reade looked at her watch, and her guest's face fell.
"Is it five o'clock?" he exclaimed testily; "and you have not given me any advice!"
"Will you have a cup of tea?" she inquired, coolly.
"No, thank you. Must you go out this afternoon?"
"Well, I could hardly countermand the carriage now, because you are here, could I? We'll have a drive somewhere before we go in to town, and I'll give you advice as we go along."
She drank her tea standing in the middle of the room, and then leaving him to fret and fume by himself, went away to dress, and in the retirement of her own apartment to concoct a definite scheme of action.
In a few minutes she came back alert and bright, in a very charming French bonnet, and with yards of silken train behind her. She was ready for him in every sense of the word.
As soon as they were out upon the road, and she had finished buttoning a refractory glove, she said gravely, with an air of having solved all doubts,
"Now I will tell you what you must do."
"Yes?"
"You must accept Rachel's dismissal."
"What! I'm sure I shall not do anything of the kind."
Mrs. Reade laid herself back in the carriage and folded her hands.
"Very well," she said, calmly.
"No, but really – I beg your pardon – I don't understand you. Do you mean I must just give her up and have done with it? Because you know it is just that that I can't do."
"Not at all. But don't ask my opinion – "
"Oh, yes, do tell me what you mean."
"Well, I was going to suggest that you see or write to Rachel and tell her you will do what she wishes rather than distress her; but that, while leaving her free, you will consider yourself still as much bound to her as ever, and wait in hope that she will come back to you someday. That kind of thing, you know."
"Oh, yes, that is all very well. And in the meantime I shall be getting old – that is to say, I shall be losing time – and she will be sure to be run after by other men the moment my back is turned."
"It will be better to lose a little time than to worry her now," said Mrs. Reade. "If you draw off from her a little, she will miss you, and then probably she will want you, and provided you left her assured of your faithfulness, and didn't go flirting with Miss Hale and people, it would be just the kind of delicate and chivalrous consideration for her that she would appreciate. Yes, I know Rachel; it would touch her heart deeply."
"But some other fellow might get hold of her – finding she was free, you know."
"I think," said Mrs. Reade, smiling slightly, "that we may safely leave my mother to look after that."
Upon consideration Mr. Kingston thought so too. He began to see glimmerings of wisdom and reason in this proposed course.
"But your mother will have to be looked after herself," he said, breaking a little pause abruptly. "If I am not to worry Rachel, nobody else shall."
"Of course. I will look after my mother."
"And suppose," he continued presently, deep in troubled thoughts, "suppose she never renews the engagement after all?"
"Oh, well – suppose the world comes to an end to-morrow – we can't help it!"
"Do you think she will?"
"I do think she will – honestly, I do – if you are patient and gentle, and do as I tell you. She will be dull and lonely; she will miss you about her, and not only you, but many pleasant things that are associated with you; she will bethink herself that she has treated you badly – as indeed she has – and she is so tender-hearted that it will fret her. And if she sees you occasionally, not in season and out of season, but now and then, at opportune times, and you do her little voluntary services in a delicate and unobtrusive way – then some of these days, seeing you still, she will suddenly think that she loves you, and – well, then it will be all right, you know."
"Oh, I hope so!" he broke out, with a deep, impatient sigh – though it was not a great deal to hope for when it came to be reckoned up. "But how long will she be reaching that point?"
"It depends."
"And we were to have been married in a couple of months – three at the most. Upon my honour, it is too bad!"
"I shouldn't be surprised if you were married quite as soon as you arranged to be," Mrs. Reade proceeded calmly, building this comfortable theory upon the conviction that Mr. Dalrymple, in spite of his persistence in calling at Toorak, was not the kind of man to remain faithful to a ball-room fancy, nor to undertake anything so expensive and so respectable as matrimony under the most favourable conjunction of circumstances; and feeling sure that Rachel, with her clinging, impulsive nature, finding her desires frustrated in this direction, would be under an imperious necessity to seek – or, at any rate, to accept – support elsewhere. "If I had her with me for six weeks, I think I would not mind risking a small bet – "
"Can't you have her with you?" Mr. Kingston interposed eagerly.
"No, I fear not. My mother would not consent to let her go from home just now. The situation is too grave. But even as things are, if you manage the child properly, I don't at all despair of seeing you married – or, at any rate, engaged again – before the year is out. Very far from it."
"I would give a thousand pounds at this moment if I could be certain that that would be," sighed Mr. Kingston, plaintively.
"Only you must do what I tell you. I assure you, if you want to succeed, that is your best, if not your only chance. Will you do what I tell you?"
"I will see Rachel first."
"Of course. See her and give her plainly to understand what a pain and disappointment it is to you to give her up, and that you only do it for her sake. Perhaps, if you talk it over with her, she will cancel her letter, and it will be all right at once; in which case you had better arrange for your marriage as quickly as possible. But if it should be otherwise – if she should still press for a dissolution of her engagement – let her go for a little while. It need not be for long."
"I think I will," said Mr. Kingston, thoughtfully. And he did.
CHAPTER XI.
UNTIL CHRISTMAS
MRS. READE was accustomed not only to give advice and to see it taken, but to see the wisdom of it justified in the success of its practical application.
Nevertheless, she was more surprised than Mr. Kingston himself at the great and good results which apparently followed her interference in his affairs. Matters were a little critical for a week or two.
Of course he "saw" Rachel, and attacked the position which she had taken up with all the forces at his command. He was, in his Mentor's judgment, indiscreetly zealous and persevering; and the almost fierce obstinacy of Rachel's resistance, which neither science nor brute force could overcome, being an altogether anomalous demonstration of character, was even more portentous.
But when presently Mr. Kingston, in a dignified and graceful letter, accepted his defeat, while at the same time clearly intimating that the withdrawal of his former pretensions in no way indicated any change in his affections and fidelity, then everything seemed to go well.
The girl was touched and grieved to the depths of her tender heart for the wrong and the trouble that she had inflicted upon him, and was in agonies of anxiety for his welfare.
"Do you think he will go back to Miss Brownlow?" she inquired one day of Beatrice, with pathetic eyes full of tears; "and, oh, do you think she will make him happy?"
She was terribly taken aback when her cousin with much asperity upbraided her with the heartlessness of the suggestion.
For a little while, having received her aunt's grudging acquiescence in the dissolution of her engagement, having sent back all her jewels, having surreptitiously despatched a note to her lover in Queensland (which she implored him not to answer) to tell him that she was honourably free, and living in the anticipation of his return, Rachel began to blossom in beauty and brightness again, like a flower that night had chilled in the warmth of morning sunshine.
It was, perhaps, a little discouraging to see how very much relieved and refreshed she was in her freedom – that she did not even hanker after her lost diamonds, and the riches and luxuries that had once been so desirable and so precious; but Mrs. Reade, as was her custom, looked below the surface of things, and found her compensations.
That the girl had recovered her balance, so to speak, and was in sound health, mentally and physically, was of the first importance in this sensible young woman's view of the case; and her eager friendliness to Mr. Kingston whenever she met him – eager in proportion to the modesty of his demands of course, and sometimes warm with impulsive tenderness such as she had never voluntarily manifested in the days of her engagement – seemed to foreshadow the most hopeful possibilities. Indeed, if Mr. Kingston behaved well, Rachel, apart from her specific misdemeanour, behaved even better.
Mrs. Hardy, outwardly conforming to her daughter's scheme, would not, or could not, disguise her resentment at the failure of the original enterprise, and visited it upon the girl, as perhaps was natural, more roughly than she would have done had Rachel been her own child or less deeply indebted to her.
She was ostentatiously cold and indifferent, or she was sarcastic, and harsh, and rude; she was rigorous to the verge of tyranny in her determination to allow no other man the smallest opportunity for improving the occasion in the manner that Mr. Kingston had indicated – withdrawing her niece from all the gay assemblies where she had hitherto disported herself with so much enjoyment and éclat, and keeping her to a petty routine of study and household duties that was made as dull and irksome as possible.
Yet Rachel, always so sensitive to both kindness and unkindness, and as much hurt by a snub as she would have been by a blow, took it all with the sweetest patience and temper.
She devoted herself to her aunt's service as she never had done before, compassing the sombre woman with every possible delicate attention that tact and thoughtfulness could devise; and she not only persevered in this amiable conduct, but kept a certain placid and gentle brightness about her, under all discouragements, for weeks and weeks together.
Mrs. Reade, as a matter of course, was greatly touched and pleased; for it was evident – as far as her sharp eyes could see – that Mr. Dalrymple was not the source of inspiration now, seeing that he had been effectually circumvented on his first attempt to renew her acquaintance, and had never been seen or heard of since. It seemed to the anxious little woman that the girl had only wanted her freedom for awhile, and that, by and bye, by the mere drift of the current, she would be borne back to the arms that were waiting for her.
Things seemed to be going on so well that Mrs. Reade, when the gaieties of the "Cup" season were over, thought she might venture to leave town for a few weeks. She wanted very much to pay a long-deferred visit to Adelonga.
She had not been there since Lucilla was a bride, and of course she had not seen the baby. She was also anxious to find out for herself "the rights" of the story that her mother had told her concerning Rachel's conduct and experiences while sojourning under her sister's roof, and if possible to make the acquaintance of some of Mr. Dalrymple's people.
So, with customary promptitude, she made her preparations. She sent for Mr. Kingston and gave him judicious advice and encouragement to direct and uphold him in her absence.
Then she interviewed Mrs. Hardy, and expressed herself so strongly on behalf of her own views as to what was right and proper in the management of Rachel's case, that they nearly came to "words."
And, finally, having fortified the position to the best of her power, she sought out Rachel herself, and, in the privacy of that little chamber at the top of the house, bade her an affectionate and reluctant good-bye.
"I don't know if my mother has told you, dear, that Lucilla wanted me very much to bring you with me," she said, when they were sitting together by Rachel's window, hand in hand.
"Did she? Dear Lucilla, how I should like to see her!" ejaculated Rachel, but not in the tone of voice that Mrs. Reade had expected.
"And I begged very hard for permission, but mamma thought it better not to interrupt your music and painting lessons again so soon. It is a great disappointment to you not to go, isn't it? At first I thought I would not tell you anything about it."
"Ah, but I am glad you told me," said Rachel; "for I must send a message to Lucilla to thank her. She knows how I loved to be at Adelonga – I think it is the sweetest place in the wide world."
"I wish I could take you," said Mrs. Reade; "but – "
"Oh, no, Beatrice, I cannot go, I know. Indeed, I would rather not. I would rather stay with Aunt Elizabeth, and go on with my lessons."
Mrs. Reade was considerably astonished and disconcerted by this evidently genuine sentiment. There was something in so ready a relinquishment of the pleasures of Adelonga, which had always been so great, and also in the tremulous eagerness with which the girl put the proposal from her – a proposal which Mrs. Reade had feared would be cruelly tantalising at this time; but it was not immediately apparent.
Rachel could not stand the silent scrutiny of her cousin's brilliant eyes. Blushing violently, she rose from the couch on which she had been sitting, and rested her arms on the window-sill, and looked out upon the sombre pine trees that stood perfectly motionless in the golden summer air.
"Do you see how that house is getting on?" she said, breaking an awkward pause. "The walls are simply rushing up. They will be ready for the roof directly."
Mrs. Reade stood on tiptoe and peeped over her shoulder.
"I wonder you have the heart to look at it," she replied.
"Oh, Beatrice!"
"I do, when you think what a wreck you have made of all the hopes and plans that that poor dear man has been building with it."
"He will build some more, and better ones, by and bye, I hope."
"Not he. Men don't do that so easily at his age."
"Oh, yes," she persisted, imploringly, "I think he will, indeed. He did it very easily with me."
"For an exceedingly good reason – because he loved you from the first. Oh, you ungrateful little monkey, it's to be hoped you'll die an ugly old maid!"
"That would be better than being the wife for years and years of a man I did not love."
"Rubbish. As if one could have everything all at once in this world. You girls think of nothing but yourselves. You don't take into account that it might be worth while to make somebody else happy."
"How could I make him happy unless I loved him, Beatrice?"
"Oh, don't talk about it. You have pleased yourself, I suppose, and he must do the best he can. He is terribly miserable as he is, poor fellow; but I daresay he'll get over it."
"Is he miserable now?" inquired Rachel anxiously. "Have you seen him lately?"
"I saw him yesterday, and he told me that his life had no value for him now that he had lost you, and that he should never live in his house unless you were the mistress of it. I shouldn't imagine he felt particularly jolly under those circumstances. However, it is no use worrying ourselves on his account," the little woman added cheerfully, seeing tears in her cousin's gentle eyes.
"But I am so sorry for him!"
"That won't help him much, my dear. And if you are happy, I suppose that is all we need care about."
"Oh, no, Beatrice!"
"We haven't time to fret over other people's troubles," Mrs. Reade proceeded, in what Rachel thought an exceedingly heartless manner; "life is too short."
"But, Beatrice – "
"Now, I can't talk about Mr. Kingston any more. I have all my packing to do yet, and I must run away and see after it. Good-bye, dearest child. Mind you write often. I wish you were going with me – I can't bear to leave you behind."
Rachel flung her arms round her small cousin with characteristic fervour.
"When do you think you will come home again?" she inquired tremulously, almost in a whisper.
"I can't say, dear, exactly."
"Before Christmas, won't you?"
"I think so; it will all depend on circumstances."
"Oh, do be back by Christmas," Rachel pleaded, with an almost tragic eagerness. "It would be dreadful if Christmas came and you were so far away!"
"Am I so necessary to the festivities of the season?" laughed Mrs. Reade, much touched and flattered. "Well, I'll see what I can do. Suppose I try and bring Lucilla and the children back, and make a regular family gathering of it?"
"Oh, if you could!" sighed Rachel.
All the terrors of her time of trial would be gone, she thought, if she could have these two faithful cousins beside her.
So Mrs. Reade went off by the morning train, tolerably easy in her mind. She took her big husband with her, "to keep him," as she said, "out of mischief;" and she stayed away much longer than she had intended to do. She was delighted with Adelonga, and with her sister's companionship.
Ned, also, while being kept in order, enjoyed himself excessively; and as long as he was "good" in the matter of his besetting sin, his lady and mistress liked him to enjoy himself. There were plenty of bush gaieties in the shape of sporting meetings and balls, and the time slipped away rapidly, as time at Adelonga usually did.
A dance at the Digbys' gave Mrs. Reade the desired opportunity for making the acquaintance of Mr. Dalrymple's people, and she learned a few facts with respect to that gentleman which, while considerably aggravating her alarm, tended to modify and dignify the impressions of him that her mother had given her.
Lucilla showed her a fine photograph of his powerful, melancholy, highbred face, and she was quite overcome by it.
"Oh, dear me!" she said to herself, with a sort of angry dismay, "it is no wonder that Rachel was infatuated. If I had had attentions from that man – little as I am given to falling in love – I think I should have been as bad as she."
When Christmas came the sisters were still at Adelonga. Lucilla could not leave home, and persuaded Beatrice not to leave her. They contented themselves with sending pretty presents and many loving messages and excuses to their relatives in Melbourne, and plunged into a series of festive entertainments that lasted for several weeks.
Then suddenly, as she was dressing for a ball, Mrs. Reade was startled to receive a letter from her mother, begging her to return to town at once, as Rachel was very ill.