"HE HAS COME BACK."
MMRS. READE, being satisfied that she had found out Rachel's complaint—as indeed she had—put her under treatment without delay.
On the very day of her interview with her mother in the store-room, she sought and obtained permission to take the patient home with her for a week's visit, in order to try the experiment of change and a new set ofdissipations, and to make her preliminary investigations undisturbed.
She had a charming house of her own at South Yarra, which she "kept" admirably, and where, in an unpretensious manner, she had established a littlesalonthat was a fashionable head centre in Melbourne society, and well deserved by virtue of its own legitimate merits to be so.
She was not severely orthodox in these matters, like Mrs. Hardy, who weighted her entertainments with any number of dull people, if they only happened to be in the right set; though she was quite ready to acknowledge the propriety of her mother's system in her mother's circumstances.
There was no want of refinement in her hospitality, but there was a delicateflavour of Bohemianism that, like the garlic rubbed on the salad bowl, was the piquant element that made it delightful—to those, at any rate, who were sufficiently intelligent to appreciate it.
If men and women were uninteresting, she could have nothing to do with them, though they were the very "best people;" that is to say, she limited her intercourse to those ceremonial observances which rigid etiquette demanded.
If they were clever and cultured, and otherwise respectable and well-behaved, and were capable of being fused harmoniously into the general brightness of her little circle, she was inclined to condone a multitude of sins in the matter of birth and station.
Artists of all sorts, travellers and politicians, distinguished members of every profession (so long as their own merits and accomplishments distinguished them) were welcome at her house; where they would be sure to meet the most interesting women that a judicious woman, superior to the petty weakness of her sex, could gather together.
So it was that Mrs. Edward Reade's afternoons and evenings were synonymous with all that was intellectually refreshing and socially delightful to those who were privileged to enjoy them.
But so it was, also, that Rachel, in consideration of her youth, her impressionable nature, and what were supposed to be her democratic tendencies, hadnot been allowed to know much about them hitherto.
"Now, however, the case is different," said Beatrice, authoritatively, as she sat in her little pony carriage at the front door, waiting for her cousin to come down stairs. "It will do her good to shake up her ideas a little, and draw her out of herself. And if she does take an undue interest in people of the lower orders"—looking at her mother with mocking bright eyes—"it will be so much the better. Perhaps Signor Scampadini, with that lovely tenor of his——"
"Oh, no, Beatrice. Mr. Kingston would very much dislike anything of that sort."
"Anything of what sort?" laughed Mrs. Reade. "Mr. Kingston can trustme, mamma. And we must counteract Mr. Dalrymple somehow."
"Mr. Kingston himself ought to counteract him—if there is any counteracting necessary."
"Ah!" sighed Mrs. Reade, shaking her head slightly. She said no more, but in her own mind she put that argument aside as useless.
There had been a time, indeed, when she had believed Mr. Kingston sufficient for all purposes, on the basis of Rachel's apparently modest spiritual needs; but now she knew she had been mistaken.
The girl had grown and changed since then, and the old conditions no longer fitted her. The little woman was disappointed, but she was too wise to make a fuss about it. Difficulties hadcome that she ought to have foreseen and provided for, but since they had come, they must be dealt with. "Ah!" she said, with a sigh and a smile; and that was the extent of her lamentation.
So Rachel went away with her to South Yarra, and had a brilliant week of it. The weather was warm and lovely, and the soft air full of the delicate intoxication of spring time, to which she was peculiarly susceptible.
She basked in sunshine as she rattled about Melbourne streets and suburbs in Beatrice's little basket-carriage, and as she sat in Beatrice's bow-windowed drawing-room, gossiping over afternoon tea.
She had a month's allowance of society dissipation of the most seductive descriptionin that week—music, dancing,tableaux vivants, dressing, shopping, sightseeing, swarms of gay and witty company from noon till midnight, every conceivable kind attention from her cousin, and the most flattering homage from everybody else—all in an easy and cosy way that was very charming and luxurious. It certainly cheered her up a great deal.
Wedoget cheered, against our intention and desire, against our belief almost, by these little amenities that appeal to our superficial tastes, even when we seem to ourselves to be full of trouble.
It is well for us that we are so susceptible to light impressions, to the subtle influences of the daily commonplace, which are like delicate touches toa crude picture in their effect upon our lives; if we were not, our lives would hardly be worth having sometimes, crippled as they are with great sudden griefs and disappointments, and wasted with the lingering paralysis of spiritual loss and want.
Mrs. Reade, watching the effect of her prescription day by day, thought things were going on very nicely, and took great credit to herself. She could plainly perceive that the disturbing element in the family arrangements was no trifling ball-room fancy; but she had great faith in the girl's youth and gentle character, and in the efficacy of judicious treatment, and it seemed to her that her faith had not been misplaced.
At any rate, she justified her reputationas a clever woman by the tact she displayed in the management of her self-imposed task. No one could have done more, under the circumstances, to further the desired end. She did not have Mr. Kingston about her house too much; she thought Rachel would appreciate him more if she had time to miss him a little. Nor did she force the girl's confidence with respect to Mr. Dalrymple, or even invite it in any way—that is to say, not in any way that was apparent toher.
She took no notice of the obvious indications of her cousin's anxiety to extricate herself from her engagement, though secretly they caused her acute uneasiness. She was a kind little soul, and though quite content with amariage de convenanceherself, did not like tosee another woman driven into it against her will.
It was for Rachel's good that she should be tided over those temptations to squander a substantial future for a romantic present, which were peculiarly dangerous to a girl so undisciplined in worldly wisdom as she, and it was absolutely necessary to guard her against the machinations of profligate spendthrifts; but if shecouldhave fallen in with the excellent arrangements that had been made for her, without repugnance and suffering, what great cause for thankfulness there would have been!
So, although she never wavered in her determination to do what she considered her duty, she did it, not only with judgment, but with the utmost gentleness and consideration.
She took Rachel to call on certain shabby and faded women who had made rash marriages with poor or unsteady men, that she might see the consequences of such imprudence in the sordid tastelessness of their dress and their household furniture.
She likewise presented to her notice the charming spectacle of a young bride of fashion, as she "received" on her return from her honeymoon, surrounded by all the refinements of wealth and culture in a perfectly-appointed home.
She spoke incidentally, but often, of the habits and customs of fast young men, in general and in particular, drawing picturesque illustrations from her own experience, which tended to show that they invariably made love toevery girl they came across, and forgot all about her the moment her back was turned. She showed her poetic photographs of foreign cities; she taught her the value of old lace and china.
And by these and other insidious devices, she really contrived to do something towards weakening the impression that Mr. Dalrymple had made, and strengthening the antagonistic cause.
But when the week was over, and she took her young charge back to her mother, intending to apply for an extension of leave, that she might pursue the treatment that had proved so beneficial, alas! all her patient work was undone in a moment, like the web of the Lady of Shalott, when she left off spinning to look at the irresistible Sir Lancelot riding by.
They arrived at the Toorak house rather late in the afternoon, after a visit to the Public Library to see the last new picture, and one or two entertaining calls; and they were told that Mrs. Hardy was out, but was expected in every minute.
Rachel jumped down from the carriage first, and ran lightly up the white steps into the hall, with a pleasant greeting to the servant who admitted her; and there she stood a few seconds, to look round upon all the familiar appointments, as people do when they return home after an absence.
And as she looked, her eye fell upon a card on the hall table, which she immediately picked up.
"John," she called sharply, wheeling round upon him with a sudden fiercenessof excitement that Mrs. Reade, a dozen yards off, understood to mean disaster of some sort; "John, when did this gentleman call?"
"About half an hour ago, miss."
"Oh,John—only half an hour!"
"He said he would call again to-morrow, miss."
Mrs. Reade came softly into the hall, carelessly adjusting her long train behind her.
"Who is it, dear?" she asked. But she had already guessed who it was.
Rachel held out the little slip of pasteboard with an unsteady, shrinking hand. She could not speak. There was a great light and flush of excitement in her face, which yet was as full of fear as joy.
"Roden Dalrymple," murmured Beatrice, reading hesitatingly, as if the name were unfamiliar to her. "Is not that one of Lucilla's friends?"
"Yes," said Rachel, drawing a long breath and speaking softly. "He was at Adelonga when we were there. He went away to Queensland, but—he has come back."
"Evidently he has. What a pity we missed him. He may have brought us some news from Adelonga. Oh, dear me, don't you want your tea very badly? I do. John go and get us some tea, will you?"
Mrs. Reade did not intend to commit herself to any course of action until she had time to think over this new and most embarrassing complication, so she dismissed Mr. Dalrymple from the conversation.
Rachel turned the card about in her hands, reading its inscription over and over again. She was going to carry it away; but she reluctantly went back and laid it where she had found it. Then she followed Beatrice into the drawing-room like one in a dream.
The little woman watched her closely from the corner of her bright eyes, and she was terribly alarmed. She had had no idea until now what a formidable person this Roden Dalrymple was. The girl was in a quiver of excitement from head to foot. She wandered restlessly about the room, vaguely fiddling at the furniture and ornaments; she could not control her agitation.
John brought in the teapot, and Mrs. Reade peeled her gloves from her small white hands, and rolling them into asoft ball, tossed them down amongst the cups and saucers. She began to pour out the tea in silence, wondering what in the world she had better do.
The silence was broken by the sound of carriage wheels crunching up the drive. Rachel came to a standstill in the middle of the room, and listened with a rigid intensity of expectation that was quite as painful to her companion as her more demonstrative emotion had been.
They heard the bustle of Mrs. Hardy's arrival, heard John open the front door, heard the sweep of silken draperies in the hall. And then they heard a familiar voice, raised several notes above its ordinary pitch.
"John!"
"Yes'm."
"When did this gentleman call?"
"About an hour after you left'm."
"Did you tell him we were all out?"
"Yes'm. And he'll call again to-morrow, he says."
"Oh, indeed—will he! You'll just tell him,wheneverhe calls, that I am not at home, John—thatnobodyis at home. Do you hear? That gentleman is not to be admitted."
"Oh, you stupid woman!" Mrs. Reade sighed to herself, not meaning to be disrespectful, but grudging to see delicate work marred by inartistic hands.
And then she looked at Rachel, and realised the catastrophe that had occurred. All the colour had gone out of the sensitive face, all its agitation,all the soft, submissive tenderness that had characterised it hitherto. She looked straight before her, with stern eyes full of indignant passion, and with her lips set in a hard, thin line.
The meek little child, who had been so easy to manage, was going to assert the rights of womanhood, and to take the conduct of her affairs into her own hands.
"THE LIGHT THAT NEVER WAS ON SEA OR LAND."
MMR. DALRYMPLE was in Melbourne for almost the whole of the time that he had intended to spare from his partner and his property in Queensland, which was nearly three weeks, and he never once succeeded in communicating with Rachel, which was the special mission on which he had come down.
He called at the Toorak house again and again, and was alwaystold that the ladies were not at home.
There was not much else that he could do at this stage of courtship, knowing nothing of Rachel's circumstances in connection with Mr. Kingston, and having had no definite assurances of her disposition towards himself; but he did this persistently, until he became suddenly aware that Mrs. Hardy did not mean to admit him.
Then he wrote a short note to Mr. Gordon, containing certain instructions in the way of business, and an intimation that he might have to stay in town longer than he had anticipated, and, therefore, was not to be calculated upon at present.
Having despatched which, he addressed himself to the matter he had in hand, with a quiet determination to carry it through, sooner or later, by some means.
It was not his way to plot and scheme clandestinely, but being driven to do it, he did it promptly and with vigour.
He wrote a long letter to Rachel, reviewing with delicate significance the position in which they had stood to one another on the day of their parting at Adelonga, and formally offering himself for her acceptance; and he begged her to appoint some time and place where, if she were willing, she could give herself and him an opportunity for coming to a mutual understanding.
This letter he did not put into the post, being naturally distrustful of Mrs. Hardy, but he carried it in his pocket ready for any chance that might enable him to deliver it with his own hands—for which chance he began to search with diligence in every place of public resort where Rachel would be likely to appear.
Rachel, in the meantime, was distracted with suspense and misery. She saw all possibilities of a legitimate meeting relentlessly and effectually circumvented.
She was kept under such strict surveillance that she did not even see her lover's face, except on one occasion, when she was at the opera, and when, sitting between her auntand Mr. Kingston, she was afraid to lift her eyes to look at him.
She could do nothing in her own behalf, while she was uncertain of his intentions. She felt herself more and more hopelessly in the toils of her engagement, as day by day, Mr. Kingston—who yet had mysteriously changed somehow—became more and more obtuse to the state of her mind towards him, and more and more persistently affectionate and amiable, and as day by day, Mrs. Hardy, grown hard and unsympathetic, impressed more and more strongly upon her the fact that she was a penniless and friendless orphan who owed everything that she had to her.
And all the time she loathed the very sound of Mr. Kingston's voice and the very touch of his hand, with an unreasoning passion of repugnance that she had never thought it possible she could feel for one who had been so kind to her; and as a natural consequence—or cause—she was consumed with a sleepless fever of expectation and longing for that other lover whom she loved.
But such a state of things could not last, and after all it came to an end much sooner than either of them expected.
There came a night when Mr. and Mrs. Hardy had to go to a stately dinner party which did not include young girls. A most lovely night it was, in perhaps the loveliest monthof the year, when there was no need to put candles in the carriage lamps, and no need for a fire in the big green drawing-room, where between seven and eight o'clock Rachel was left to amuse herself, in apparent safety, until bed time. A young moon shone in at the open windows before the mellow daylight was gone, as Mrs. Hardy, in rustling silk and tinkling jewels, entered to say good-night.
The evening wind went whispering round the house, ruffling a thousand tufts of bougainvillea that embossed the outer wall, and breathing into the dim room the sweetness of early roses and the fresh fragrance of the sea.
To Rachel, ever afterwards, it wasthe most beautiful night that the world had known.
"Now, my dear, John will light the gas for you—two burners will do to-night, John—and you can practise your music undisturbed. Don't leave the windows open any longer; it will be chilly by and bye. And don't sit up late. Good-night."
"Good-night, auntie," responded Rachel.
She proffered the regulation kiss in an absent manner, nodded with a smile to her uncle, who was waiting outside, and stood on the threshold of a French window to watch the carriage until it passed out of the gates and disappeared.
Then instead of going to practise her music, she went out and satdown on the top of one of the square pedestals that flanked the steps of the terrace upon which the window opened, and clasped her hands about her knees.
John left the window open for her, lit the gas and the piano candles, returned to find her still sitting in the same place, as if she had not stirred, and went away to make his own arrangements for a pleasant evening.
Half an hour later she was wandering about the garden, heedless of the chill that was creeping on with nightfall, and looking before her with eyes so full of dreams that they did not see where she was going to—gliding up and down the level terraces like a ghost in the duskytwilight, with the silver of the moonshine on her golden hair.
And then, by mere mechanical submission to the force of habit, she found herself presently at that back gate which overlooked "the house," leaning her arms upon the upper rail, and staring at the low ridges of gleaming wall a few dozen yards off, which were rising as it seemed to her, with the rapidity of magic from the foundations that had taken so long to do, the stony embodiment of a relentless fate.
It was very quiet there to-night. No swarms of carpenters, and bricklayers, and stonemasons; no idle boys gaping at them over the fence; no people walking and driving about the road.
She tried the gate, and found it locked; then she climbed lightly over it, and holding up her skirts, stole across the strip of arid waste that lay between it and the nucleus of the building which was once to have been her palace, and now could only be her prison-house, eager to discover anything she could that would indicate the real progress that was being made.
She threaded her course daintily through heaps of brick and stone and brokendébris; she entered the skeleton house by its gaping porch, and she wandered about the labyrinth of its passages and vestibules, feeling her way with cautious feet and outstretched hands, until she came to her own boudoir; and there she sat down ona joist of the flooring, and laid her face on her knees and cried.
The sweetness of the solitary night, quite as much as the sight of all those permanently-adjusted ground-floor door and window frames, melted her into these sudden tears, full as she was of the aching rapture of her love and trouble, which needed but a touch to overflow. The possibility of a human spectator of her emotion never for a moment occurred to her.
However, Mr. Roden Dalrymple had also taken it into his head to have an after-dinner walk in the moonlight, and happening for a very good reason, to be prowling about in this neighbourhood, he had seen the slender little figure gliding across the open space between the back gate and the new building,and he had guessed in a moment whose it was.
And so, as Rachel sat with her feet in subterranean darkness, her hands clasping her knees just above the level of the floor that was to be, and her face hidden in her lap, she heard a sound, suggestive of midnight robbers and murderers, that for a moment paralysed her timid heart; and then a voice, calling her softly,
"Miss Fetherstonhaugh! Do not be frightened. It is only I—Roden Dalrymple."
He came in through the gap of the doorway, while she stared at him and held her breath; he stepped swiftly and lightly from joist to joist until he reached the corner where she was sitting.
Then he sat down beside her quietly, as if he were taking a place she had been keeping for him; and the next moment—with no question asked and no explanation given—they were sealing the most sacred of all contracts irrevocably, in the silence of the solemn night.
It was well for Rachel that, with all his faults, Roden Dalrymple was not the reprobate he was supposed to be, but a man of stainless honour, in whose keeping the welfare of an ignorant and imprudent girl was safe; for—from the day when she went into the conservatory with him in the first hours of their acquaintance, stranger as he was, and she the most modest of girls, simply because he asked her—she had laid herself, metaphorically, at hisfeet—too simple and single in all her aims and impulses not to love unreservedly when she began to love at all, too strong in her young enthusiasm for her own ideals to be hampered by doubts either of herself or him, too thoroughly natural and ingenuous to disguise her heart or to bend it to the yoke of conventional law and order.
Now she gave herself up at once, turning to meet his outstretched arms, lifting her face to his strong and eager kisses with a passionate responsiveness and abandonment that, while it infinitely quickened his love and gratitude, showed him plainly that all the responsibility of her future happiness would rest with him.
"Oh," she said, with a long sighing sob, "I have wanted you so!"
"Have you, indeed?" he replied, tightening his arms about her with a gesture that was more significant than speech. "My little love, you shall never want me any more, if I can help it."
These were the terms of their "initial marriage ceremony."
And it is just to Mr. Dalrymple to say that he not only never took the slightest advantage of the irregularities that she innocently allowed, but—at any rate, not until long afterwards—he never even saw them.
That they were candid and truthful in themselves and to one another was from the first the essential bond between them, otherwise unlike as they were; and to him the absence of the usual maidenly reticence and reluctancedisplayed on these occasions indicated, all circumstances considered, rather a finer delicacy of nature than the ordinary, and never the faintest suspicion that she held the treasures of love and womanhood cheaply, even for his sake.
Feeling no need of further explanation—understanding one another, by that subtle sense which defies analysis, that instinctive recognition of spiritual kinship which, in its early development, was to them what is called "love at first sight," but which had in it the germs of a true companionship and comradeship that might defy all the accidents of time and chance—they sat for a few blessed silent moments side by side, she with her young head leaning trustfully againsthis worn brown face, not wanting to speak, unwilling even to think of all the difficulties that lay in ambush around them, ready to break into this ineffable peace with the breaking of the silence; looking over a low window-sill before them into the quiet night, with grave and happy eyes—at Melbourne, lying in a glorified haze of twilight beneath them, and at the silver of the sea beyond.
ELEVEN P.M.
"
RRACHEL," said Mr. Dalrymple presently, speaking her name as if he had had it in familiar use for years, "I suppose you have broken off withhim?"
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 lethimhave 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 Idon'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 mustsendhim 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 itnow—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 tellAunt 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?Ishan'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 Imustsee 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, andthe 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 suither 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 thathappens, 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 youreallythink 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 seenyou. 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—Ishall 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. Itwon'tbe 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?"
"Youknowyou 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 scarletface, "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 willmakeit 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 Ifeelthat 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 occurredto 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."
"Ifeltit 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 mehow 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 headyet. But I can't bear to leave town without knowing first how matters are likely to go with you."
"If youshouldbe obliged to do that—if Icannotsee 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 besureto 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 youcan'tcome 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 andupstairs 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 therewas 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.