To sit and eat dinner alone in the large dining-room was beyond Caroline this evening. She went upstairs resolutely determining to work again, but she had reckoned without Dennis.
The maid was ripe for a good long chat. She insisted, too, on bringing up some dinner and waiting on Caroline.
Dennis found the girl looking very tired and depressed. But when she pressed this point Miss Graniger promptly declared that she had never felt better in her life.
"Tell me all that you have been doing, Dennis," she said.
Really it was a rest for her to sit and say nothing, a rest not to vex her brain with futile questioning for a while.
It amused her to hear the maid's views of things in general. Dennis's admiration for a beautiful country largely depended on how the servants were lodged and cared for in any particular house.
"This ere's a kind of paradise," she said; "down with them rich folk in Devonshire we was that crowded we didn't know how to turn round. Some of them slept in huts, but I was a bit better off than most, because Miss Camilla wanted me with her most all the time. What do you think of her, miss?" Dennis asked abruptly, "don't you find her looking simply awful? She's that shaky, I do declare, at times I can hardly get her into a frock, and for all she swears it isn't so; I'm certain sure she's got something worritin' her."
Dennis was silent a moment, then she went on: "I wouldn't say it to a soul but you, but I can't help thinking as it's that fellow Broxbourne's as is vexing her."
Caroline sat with her elbow on the table, her face shadowed by her hand.
"But isn't that rather ridiculous, Dennis?" she asked. "Why should Sir Samuel vex her?"
"Ah! my dear," said Dennis, "that's a question I'd like to answer. I wish to the Lord she'd marry and settle down; for there's no getting away from the fact that Sir Samuel's been buzzing about her ever so much of late, and it does her no sort of good." A note of exasperation came here into Dennis's voice. "Just to think of all she's got now, all what's been done for her. How she's been took out of all her difficulties, and stands on her own feet! Didn't she ought to be lively and well? I can't make it out! Why don't they marry, miss?"
"Oh, I think they will now very shortly," Caroline said. "Now, run down and have your own supper, Dennis ... it is getting late."
When the maid had gone, Caroline sat in the same attitude. She was not thinking of what Dennis had just told her, she was thinking of that deep, tender note in Haverford's voice when he had been speaking of Camilla. How he loved her! The one creature who had brought to him all that had been lacking in his life till now! How many years he must have hungered for such love. Surely now that it had come it would have its real value! Surely a love such as his could not be born only to be wasted!
"She is so dear to me," the words haunted Caroline, and when her mind jerked back and she recalled the earlier hours of this day, and the veritable anguish which she had experienced when she had looked at Camilla's changed, almost worn face, her eagerness to stand and to help him, to put an end to this indecision, this dangerous and futile waiting, seemed to burn in her veins, and quicken the beat of her heart.
"I will certainly go to London to-morrow," she said; "I feel almost inclined to pretend that I am overtaxed, that the children try me, that I want attention. She is always urging me to let her know if that should happen, and that is where she is so sweet, everything else stands on one side when she thinks there is a claim on her."
Here a sound from the nursery drew Caroline into the children's room.
It was only Baby talking in her sleep, but she sat down a little while, and in the tranquillity of the children's room some tranquillity fell on her own nerves too.
"At least I have one great joy," she said to herself as she sat there; "they all trust me. She could not give me greater proof of this than in the words she spoke to me about these dear little souls to-day."
Just then she heard some one moving in the other room, and rising, she went softly to the door. It was the maid who usually waited on her.
"I have brought you a letter, miss. It's just come. Sent over from Lea Abbey."
"Thank you," said Caroline.
She waited until the maid had made up the fire and gone out of the room, and then when she was alone she still waited.
It was very ridiculous of her, but she felt suddenly frightened.
There was nothing unusual in Camilla sending a letter at this hour. Her letters and messages arrived at any time.
"Whatisthe matter with me?" asked Caroline of herself impatiently. "I am all upside down to-day!" And then she opened the letter.
It was written in pencil; written in haste.
"I did intend not to have sent a word to any of you, but just as I am starting for London I feel I must scribble a message to you, dear little Caroline. Ask Agnes to forgive me. The fact is I cannot bring myself to write to her, and you—you little bit of a thing as you are, draw me as I have never been drawn before. I am taking a big step to-night, Caroline. It is ridiculous to suppose that you will any of you regard what I am doing as anything but madness, but I cannot help myself. Everything forces me away from what you all think the best for me; but then, you see, you none of you have known just exactly what has been passing with me. I had a great temptation to open my heart to you when we were together out on the marshes to-day, but I could not do it. Remember what I told you about the children. They won't see me for some little while, but as soon as possible they will come to me, and you, too ... if youwillcome. Tell Agnes I will write to her in a day or two, and that I am always hers lovingly, that is if she cares any longer for my love."
The initials "C. L." were scribbled under this.
Caroline put down the letter, and stood staring ahead of her, seeing nothing.
At first the full significance of what Camilla had written did not come to her. She was only conscious of that almost hopeless feeling of irresistance, of surrender to emotion, which any acutely pathetic element produces.
But this dazed, only half-conscious sensation, passed from her quickly, and then her mind began to act nervously, feverishly. She spun threads together, and with hideous clearness she remembered now the words Dennis had spoken only just a little while before.
She took up the letter again, and she read it this time deliberately.
"She is gone to London," she said to herself; "that means that she will sleep there—that she will not leave till to-morrow, wherever she is going. It has all been planned out. She got rid of Dennis because Dennis might have asked questions. Lea Abbey was only one of the details, and now she is in London. Well, I shall go there, too!"
She crumpled the letter, and went quickly into the corridor. The nursery-maid was in a room a little further along.
"Please stay with the children," said Caroline; "I am going downstairs."
She ran down to the hall, and sought and found a railway guide. All at once she remembered that a guest who had once been summoned away very hurriedly from Yelverton at night had caught a train at some junction a little distance away. By so doing he had reached London at a very early hour.
Caroline decided to follow his course. The express paused at Swaile Junction somewhere before four o'clock, but she would start off now.
To have to sit there and wait till the Brentons came back, and to go into explanations was utterly beyond her. Besides, she felt half afraid that Mrs. Brenton might try to dissuade her from going, and Caroline could not endure that. It was not only the woman who called to her, it was the man who loved this woman—the man whom she loved herself—who seemed to clamour to her to stand between Camilla and what she intended to do.
She scribbled an explanation to Agnes Brenton, and slipped Camilla's letter inside.
"It may be only a chance," she wrote; "but I cannot help feeling that I shall find her in London. She will never dream that one of us would follow her, and if human hands can drag her back from this miserable mistake, I want mine to be the hands to do it."
She intended to keep Dennis in ignorance of her going, but she took one of the other maids into her confidence.
"Don't let there be any fuss," she said, "but I must get up to London as quickly as I can. I am sorry not to wait for Mrs. Brenton, but you will give her that letter. Can you manage to keep Dennis downstairs while I run up and slip on my hat and coat?"
"Yes, miss, of course. But where are you going from, there's no trains now, miss?"
"There is a train that stops at Swaile Junction somewhere between three and four, I am going to catch that."
"Swaile," said the maid; "but that's miles away, miss. How will you go?"
"Quite easily," said Caroline. "I am going to walk."
"But you'll never do it, miss. It's much too far."
"Don't talk rubbish," said Caroline, quickly. "I can walk ten, fifteen, twenty, twenty-five, or even thirty miles, if needs be. Walking does not hurt me."
As she ran down again she glanced at the clock. It was a quarter to eleven. There was ample time, although she would have to keep to the roads, because she did not know any short cut. The idea that she should be frightened amused her in a way.
"If anybody hits me, I shall hit back," she said to herself, as she gripped her umbrella and started forth.
It was not a dark night, though there was no moon.
At first the mere physical satisfaction of moving, of walking swiftly, carried Caroline along pleasurably. The fresh, sweet cold in the air was like an embrace.
She skirted the village, and ventured across one field which she knew would cut off a considerable corner. This field was studded with sheep and lambs.
The foolish creatures got up with a jerk, and ran away, complaining and fearful, as she passed swiftly beside them. In the faint, misty light the lambs looked prettier than ever.
Once on the high-road Caroline pushed on vigorously, but by degrees that unconscious sense of exhilaration which had possessed her when she had first started fell away, and she felt heart-weary and indescribably sad as she realized the purport of this solitary excursion.
How far she walked she never knew, but her feet were getting stiff and tired when at last she saw the lights of the junction in the distance. Nevertheless, she could not rest when she was in the station. She spent the time waiting for the train to come in restlessly pacing the platform.
It was about half-past six when she reached London, and put herself into a cab. The horse seemed as tired as herself, and the journey from the station interminable, but at last she had alighted at the familiar little house.
Her heart was in her throat as she rang the bell.
"Perhaps I shall have to wait a little while," she said to herself. "They never get up very early."
But, strangely enough, the door was opened to her almost immediately by the cook, whose face lit up when she saw Caroline.
"Oh, miss, I am glad to see you!" she said. "I've had such a start. He's upstairs in the drawing-room. If you'll believe me, he's been here since a quarter to six. Wouldn't be said no! But how tired you look, miss! Come in and sit down."
Caroline could not get her voice for a moment. Vaguely she remarked a strapped portmanteau standing on one of the chairs. Then she asked—
"Mrs. Lancing, is she here?"
The servant shook her head.
"No, miss, she's not here. That's what I've been telling Sir Samuel. He won't believe me. He says she's coming."
"Not here?" said Caroline.
She stepped back, and rested against the hall wall. All her strength went from her for a moment, but she rallied herself quickly, and turned into the dining-room.
"Who did you say was upstairs?" she asked.
"Sir Samuel, miss. Come here at a quarter to six, as I told you. Said as the mistress had fixed him to come. There's only me and Annie sleeping here. He rang the bell like mad; hardly gave me time to put my clothes on. Of course, the missus isn't here; she ain't expected, leastways, not by us. Did you come to meet her?"
"Yes," said Caroline; but her tone was weary, and she closed her eyes.
"Well, I've no news of her, miss. Most like she's coming. She don't always give us notice. But there, I'll go and get you a cup of tea."
At that very moment they heard the stamp of a heavy foot, and the drawing-room door was opened with a jerk.
"Now he's coming to swear at me again!"
Caroline got up, stood a moment with her eyes shut, then opened them with a jerk, and walked out of the room straight up the stairs. She took off her hat as she went. Sir Samuel Broxbourne was standing on the top stair; he frowned as he saw her. He was dressed as for travelling, in a rough tweed suit.
It was the girl who spoke first.
"What are you doing here?" she asked. "By what right do you come to the house at this time? Will you please be so good as to go at once?"
He stared at her, and, as she advanced, he moved mechanically on one side and let her pass, but he followed her into the drawing-room.
"I am here by appointment," he said; his tone was sullen, his manner rude. "Mrs. Lancing desires to see me."
"No person would give you an appointment for six o'clock in the morning," said Caroline.
"Ordinary people might not," he answered with a smile that was a sneer, "but this is not an ordinary house."
Caroline walked into the dismantled drawing-room.
"As Mrs. Lancing is not here," she said, "it is undesirable that you should remain."
"I shall go when I choose," was Broxbourne's answer.
Caroline shrugged her shoulders, and turned at once to leave the room, but he stood in the way.
"No," he said, "since you give orders you must know what is going on here. If Mrs. Lancing is not here, why are you here?"
"I recognize no right on your part to question me," said Caroline.
She was swayed about by the most extraordinary feelings, prominent amongst which was a sense of acute relief that almost amounted to joy. Whatever Camilla had done, wherever she was, this man at least was not with her. It was impossible for Caroline to try and piece out what probable step the other woman had taken, but at least the degradation of close association with this man was not part of her movements.
Sir Samuel eyed her with suspicion, and yet her quietness, her tired pale face, and that wonderful dignity which sat upon her so naturally, impressed him.
"I don't want to question you," he said surlily, "I only want to see her."
"She is not here," said Caroline.
"Then, where is she? You think I'm lying when I tell you that I came here by appointment; but I tell you that she fixed the hour herself. If you don't believe me, here's her note."
He held out a crumpled piece of paper. Caroline put it on one side, but she could not help seeing the writing, and she knew it only too well.
"If Mrs. Lancing has told you to come here to meet her, then I can say no more."
She moved away to the door, and once again he stood on one side and let her pass.
At that moment they heard the sound of a cab approaching in the street; it pulled up; a moment later the bell rang.
Some colour flickered into Caroline's face. She put out her hand and rested it against the door, and with that support she passed on to the landing, holding her breath to catch the first sound of the pretty voice she knew so well.
"Will she be angry with me? How will she look? What will she say?"
Thought chased thought through her brain wildly. The door was opened, but no one entered. There was a buzzing in her ears; she could not catch what passed. But as she stood there, trembling now in every limb, the cook ran up the stairs with a letter.
"For Sir Samuel, miss," she said.
Broxbourne was just behind, and he snatched the letter out of the woman's hand.
"Won't you come down, miss?" said the servant, in a hurried way. "Do come. I've made some tea for you."
But Caroline looked backwards at that moment. She had caught the sound of a muttered exclamation. She hardly knew what prompted her to send the woman away, but she did so, and she turned and went back into the drawing-room, shutting the door behind her.
Broxbourne was standing biting his moustache. His red face had turned white. He looked ugly and alarming.
"You have news from Mrs. Lancing?" Caroline said.
He looked at her, but made no answer.
The tension of her nerves gave. Caroline groped her way to a chair, sat down, and hid her face in her hands for an instant; then she looked up.
"Ientreatyou to tell me what has happened," she said brokenly. "I care for her so much. I came here because I care so much ... because I thought I could help her." Her voice was husky. "I only heard from her late last night, but I had to come, and I prayed I might not be too late. Where is——"
Broxbourne looked at her as her words died away.
"Take my word for it, she isn't worth fretting over. She can take care of herself."
There was an indescribable amount of bitterness in his voice. Something about Caroline's look had checked his rage.
"She's all right," he said roughly.
"Yes, but where is she?"
Sir Samuel laughed, and then he scowled.
"You say you heard from her, so I suppose you know all there is to know."
Caroline brushed back her hair from her tired aching brow.
"I know only this much—that she contemplated something rash and foolish.... She told me nothing, but I fancied I should find her here. That was why I came.... I wanted so much to be with her."
"You mean you've just come up from Yelverton; but how did you manage that?"
She told him, and he frowned almost unbelievingly; then he said, in that surly, bitter way—
"Well, I tell you she isn't worth it. She wouldn't care if you broke yourself up into little bits to help her. She——" There was a hard, ugly word on his lips. He stifled it, but not easily; then he said, "Mrs. Lancing is married. In this note she informs me she was married yesterday morning early to Cuthbert Baynhurst."
Caroline cried out sharply.
"It isn't true!... Oh, it isn't true!"
"I think you'll find it is," said Broxbourne shortly.
He avoided looking at Caroline. He was not over sensitive, but something about this girl made him uncomfortable.
"And if you want to know why she has done this, I am the person to tell you. She wanted to show me that she's a bit cleverer than I took her to be, and, by God! she's about done it! She's tricked me fairly; but if she thinks it ends at this she'll live to know her mistake. No one scores off me more than once in their life."
His blustering return to anger made no effect on the girl sitting rigidly in the chair.
"It can't be true," she was saying to herself wildly, over and over again. "It can't be true!"
A timid knock sounded at the door. It was the cook with a cup of tea. Sir Samuel took the tea and sent the woman away. She went unwillingly.
"I advise you to drink this," he said, advancing awkwardly enough.
But Caroline refused the tea, whilst thanking him.
"Why should you care so much?" asked Broxbourne; in that sullen way. "She's tricked you as well as me, and everybody else. I tell you, you don't know her. She's the sort of woman who looks like an angel, and has no more heart or conscience than—than my boot has. She's clever, though; I'll give her that much. By Gad! to think she should have had me like this! But if she thinks she's settled with me, she's a lot out. I wish her joy of Mr. Baynhurst. They're a good match. After sponging all he knew on the other chap, he walks off with the woman and the money. Well, I'll take pretty good care the beautiful Camilla don't show her face here again very soon. She may trick me; but she isn't out of the wood, for all that." He was getting excited now. "If I've held my tongue all this while, there's nothing to prevent my speakin' now.... And I think it's on the cards that our dear friends may have their honeymoon excursion brought to an end a little sooner than they expect. Forgery is a nasty offence, Miss Graniger.... It means seven years."
Caroline looked at him with strained, incredulous, and miserable eyes.
"What do you mean?" she whispered.
"I mean that your dear friend Camilla is nothing better than a common thief; that she robbed me of four hundred pounds a year and a half ago."
Caroline's lips turned white.
"I will not believe you," she said; but the man hardly heard her.
He was wound up; the whole venom of his wrath was let loose. Stamping to and fro, he laid bare the history of the last few weeks; coarsely, brutally he told the truth, ending with the part that had brought him to the house this morning.
Caroline's very soul went out in an agony of pity for the woman who had been tortured by this man. If only she had known! If only Camilla had turned for help to her!
Once started, Broxbourne seemed to have no end to his vituperation.
"She thinks I'll never do it, but she might know me a little bit better. I'll soon show her! I tell you straight, when I leave this house I go to my lawyer, and give him orders to start proceedings right away."
Caroline got up; her hat, her gloves rolled to the ground. She was breathing hardly. Scarcely realizing what she was doing, she moved awkwardly, almost stiffly, to the door and stood against it. Her movement, her attitude drew his attention; he turned and looked at her. His face was swollen now with the force of his increasing rage. He was almost shouting out his words. As he paused, his chest heaved as though he had just been through some violent exertion.
Caroline looked at him steadily.
"Please do not make so much noise; the servants will think you are killing me, and—and I have done nothing to deserve that."
Broxbourne frowned, stood for a moment looking at her in an uncertain way, and then sat down heavily.
"I beg your pardon," he said. He wiped his brow. "I'll do it," he said, hardly conscious that he was speaking. "A little prison life will teach her a lot of things she ought to know."
The girl standing at the door, shaking in every limb, could have cried aloud her passionate abhorrence for him; but something stronger than anger and hate dominated her; it was fear. Strung up as he was, he was ripe for some quick and terrible revenge. Even now she could see his purpose was strengthening; in a few hours' time the world would be blazoned with this sorry, this miserable story. Camilla's pathetic face—Rupert—Agnes Brenton—the children limned themselves in turn before Caroline's eyes.
Though she would have given her life to have denied his accusation, she knew it was true. So much was explained now—so much—so much!
As Broxbourne made a move as if to get up, she commenced speaking indistinctly, half wildly.
"You have said a most terrible thing. You have accused this—my friend of a great crime, and you mean to have her punished. Why? Not for any honourable or upright reason, but because you are so angry with her that you are like a madman, and want to strike at her somehow, you don't care how. That seems to me to be very paltry."
Broxbourne wiped his brow again.
"Oh, indeed; I never asked for your opinion!" he said.
"I never asked you to go into a frenzy of rage," Caroline answered; "one good turn deserves another. If you try to frighten me out of my life, I am at liberty to tell you what I think of you; and what I think is not pleasant."
Sir Samuel sat down again, and looked at her steadily. She had a defiant—a picturesque air, standing against the door.
"I don't care what any one thinks," he said. "I'm the best judge of my own actions."
"Are you?" Caroline laughed. "Well, then, there must be something very wrong with you, even a schoolboy knows it is only a coward who hits a woman." She caught her breath. "I should not have taken you to be a coward, Sir Samuel."
He put his eyeglass into his eye, and looked at her again.
His anger began to subside. As he fixed Caroline with a steady gaze, he unconsciously settled his collar, and fingered his tie.
"You're an odd sort of girl. Always thought you couldn't say 'Boo' to a goose, and here you are going at me as if you were made of fire."
Caroline laughed, such a tired, miserable laugh.
"You have never spoken to me before," she said.
"No, by Jove! but I've wanted to, many a time. I'm sure I've looked at you hard enough. First time I saw you, that night you threw my glove back at me, do you remember? I took a fancy to you."
"Really!" said Caroline.
Her heart was quaking. She was horribly afraid of him, but this fear was as nothing compared to that withering, awful one of a few moments before. She moved away from the door, turning the handle, and pulling it open as she went.
"Yes, really; but you know it; every pretty woman knows her own power."
He made her change colour; she was very interesting.
He was not sure that her head was not prettier than Camilla's; and her eyes were glorious. His critical glance travelled over her body; the lines were perfect; she stood so well. When he arrived at her feet, and saw her mud-stained boots, he frowned.
"You're not only pretty, but you're a good sort, though you do call me a coward," he said jerkily. "I tell you what. I like grit, and you've got plenty of it. It isn't every woman, let me tell you, that would walk nine miles through the country in the dead of the night, just to stand by another woman! I didn't take it in at first, but, by Jove! I do now. I'll shake hands with you, Miss Graniger."
He got up. Caroline seemed to grow suddenly very small.
"I—I cannot shake hands with you, Sir Samuel," she said, hoping her voice would not desert her altogether.
"Why?"
"Because I am afraid of you."
"Afraid?" he laughed almost good-humouredly. "Oh, come, I won't believe that, I don't believe you could be afraid of anything or anybody!"
Caroline looked at him, and looked away.
"You are very strong and fierce, and I think you can be cruel."
He laughed again.
"All granted; but I shan't hurtyou. I give you my word I won't."
Caroline bit her lip.
"If you hurt Camilla, you will hurt me horribly."
He frowned sharply.
"That's another matter," he said.
"No, it is all one; I love her. I love her children." Caroline's voice broke.
"Don't cry," said Broxbourne, drawing a little nearer.
She shrank away from him, but not visibly. Her heart was beating in her throat.
The last remnant of anger had gone from his expression, his eyes were softer, his hands moved restlessly. Her white quivering face had more significance to him than mere prettiness in this moment. He had measured her will already in many an abortive attempt to attract her.
There had been an element of contempt in her indifference, in her cold rejection of his admiration, that had given her a lasting place in his thoughts. It gratified him strangely now to feel that he could move her, that he had beaten down that barrier of indifference. To a considerable degree, this surrender as it were to his power helped to reinstate him.
He was not likely to forget for many a day that he had been outwitted, made a fool of by a woman whom he imagined he had under his thumb, but there was more than a passing sensation of satisfaction and even pleasure in the realization that he could wring tears from such a girl as Caroline, that he had broken down such a proud spirit as hers.
He approached her a step nearer, but an interruption came to this little scene at this moment.
As Caroline had opened the door the cook, who had been hovering outside on the staircase (really nervous as to what was passing) made her appearance.
"Don't you think as you ought to have some breakfast, miss, and rest a bit? There'll be a message perhaps from Mrs. Lancing by-and-by."
Caroline picked up her hat and her gloves.
"Thank you, I will come," she said.
"Look here," said Broxbourne, following her quickly and scowling at the servant, "I'd like to say something more to you about this. When can I see you?"
She leaned against the doorway and rested with her eyes shut for half a moment, then she looked at him.
"I am going back to Yelverton now, directly."
He paused a moment, and then he said, in a dogged sort of way—
"Then I'll go to Yelverton, too. Now I'll take myself off."
As he passed her, Caroline put out her hand and caught his arm feebly.
"Sir Samuel, you will not——" words failed her.
There was a pompous air about him as he answered that broken sentence.
"I will do nothing till I have seen you again. Will that please you?"
She could only bend her head. As he went heavily down the stairs her eyes closed again.
Like a blind, broken-down creature, she turned into the drawing-room once more, and as she fell into a chair she lay there inert, too prostrate to move or even to think consciously for a little while at least.
The dark green blind flapped lazily to and fro against the lower part of the open window, letting in occasional streaks of golden light, and stirring the delicate fronds of the fern that, with a pot of heliotrope and some bowls of flowers, stood on the table at the foot of the bed.
Caroline lay and watched for those fugitive glimpses of sunshine and sun-bathed trees.
It must be very lovely out in the garden, so she mused, dreamily; only it was such a long, long way to get there, and here it was so pleasantly restful, so calm, so conducive to dreams.
A great many birds had congregated on the big beech tree close to her windows; there was a swallow's nest just under the eaves of the roof, and a great twittering went on every now and then. Caroline could picture the cluster of yellow, wide-open beaks, and the industrious mother voyaging backwards and forwards, always with some toothsome morsel for one of those hungry mouths in her own beak.
"I think tiny swallows are very greedy," she said to herself, sleepily. "They are never satisfied."
And some one answered her—a small voice, from the floor, apparently.
"Caloline ... Caloline ... is you going to wake up.... Oh,dowake up, Caloline!"
The voice was plaintive almost to tears.
Caroline opened her eyes, paused, and then, with an effort, pushed herself forward, resting on her elbow.
"Is there somebody there?" she asked, in such a funny, wavering voice.
For answer a very hot and a very small hand came creeping over the white sheet like a little mouse.
"It's me ... Babsy.... They've sented me away all the time, nasty unkind peoples. But I crawled in, and Idowant you, Caloline."
"Climb up," said Caroline, faintly.
It was a stupendous undertaking, entailing much slipping and dragging at the bed-clothes, but at last a small, hot, dishevelled little person had crawled close to the pillow and was kissing the white face lying there and cuddling a weak hand and arm as if it were a doll.
And then confidences followed.
"Betty's dog has comed; he's a awful duck, but she won't let me have nothing of him. Isn't she selfish?"
"I will give you a dog, sweetheart."
"A really one?"
"A real one."
"Nice,dearCaloline!"
The little soft face pressed close to the white one.
"But not a wool-fur dog?"
"No, a real one."
Baby lay and stared dreamily about the room.
"I'll give him jam," she said.
Caroline laughed.
"Fancy a real dog eating jam!"
"Fancy a real growned-up thing going to sleep for all the days."
"I am very sorry," said Caroline, humbly.
The door was pushed open here in the softest way possible, and a voice whispered cautiously from the aperture——
"Baby.... Baby...."
Baby giggled, and put her finger up in a warning fashion, but Betty was not deceived.
"I know you're here," she said, "and you didn't ought to come. You know what Aunty Brenny said. You was to leave Caroline alone."
"Nasty thing!" said Baby, suddenly, in abusive fashion.
Caroline said, "Hush!" but this brought Betty straight to the bed. It took her just a minute to climb and nestle down on the other side.
"How long has she been here, little pickle?" she demanded.
The wooliness had gone from Caroline's brain.
"Don't tease her, darling," she urged, and she smoothed Baby's downy cheek soothingly as she spoke.
"Sheisa pickle," retorted Betty. "A horrid pickle."
Caroline made haste to avert a battle.
"Watch the blind," she said, "and you will see the sunbeam fairy sail into the room."
But Betty had no use for fairies this afternoon.
"My dog's got a silver collar. He's called Box."
"Who brought him?" asked Caroline, in a low voice.
"Oh, Rupert, of course!"
The girl's heart gave a bang. She tried to remember when it was that she had staggered into this cool, restful bed with that aching torture in her brow and eyes.
"He will bite," said Betty.
And Baby whispered eagerly——
"Mine will, too, won't he?"
"I think I will get up," said Caroline; but Betty at once assumed a sitting posture.
"You can't," she said, "you're clothes have all been took away."
"Then I'll wear yours," said Caroline.
She was trembling all over! How stupid of her to have been ill. How long had she been shut up in this room?
The children began with bursts of laughter to dress her up in imagination in their garments.
She listened to them, hearing nothing; then she began to question again——
"You're the grown-up young lady, Betty," she said. "What has been going on downstairs? Did ... did ... Rupert really come?"
"Really and truly," said Betty. "He said he was awful sorry you was ill. Aunty Brenny's been 'plaining, too. Oh, Caroline, youmustget well by Saturday! Cook's sister Flo is going to be married. Cook's making a cake. You will let me and Baby go, won't you? We want to carry her train."
"Is that all the news?" asked Caroline.
The child puckered her brow and nodded her head, and then said——
"Oh no. Somethin' else. Mummy sent us each a watch; a real living watch, Caroline; and she's gone to some mountains, and she's very well, and she's got a new name, and it isn't Rupert's and she wants us to say our prayers for her every night."
The little voice on Caroline's right began to murmur these devotional offices, but she stopped sharply halfway, because Betty exclaimed——
"Rupert's going to send my pony down here, and a donkey for Baby. Do you want your letters?" suddenly asked Betty. "There's a 'eap waiting."
The heap turned out to be two. One with a foreign postmark, and one with the address of a London club stamped on the envelope.
"I know who that's from," said Betty, with a laugh, "that's Sammy. Oh, he's been down here, too! And what do you think? Baby asked him for a shilling!"
A voice from the staircase called both children to attention.
They slid off the bed like two culprits.
"Please ask Dennis if she will come to me," Caroline said, and Betty paused to shrug her shoulders.
"Can't! Dennis is went to mummy." Then she said—"When did she go, Baby? I don't remember 'xactly."
"I think it was the day after this day," said Baby, after some reflection.
"Well, please," said Caroline, "I should like my clothes."
The moment she was alone she sat forward, and with trembling fingers tore open Broxbourne's letter, the other she slipped under her pillow; she was not strong enough to read what Camilla had written just yet.
Sir Samuel was not skilful with his pen; his letter was brief.
"Dear Miss Graniger,
"I ran down as I said I should, and was awfully sorry to hear you were knocked over. I'll be down again soon, but I thought I would scribble you a word to say I shall keep my promise till I see you again."
Caroline's hand closed over the letter, and she lay back and let the nervous beat steady down in her heart and pulses.
The blind still flapped to and fro, but the golden streak had moved. A blackbird was piping in the clear air; she could hear the children's voices from the garden. The room had the same tranquil air as before, but the soft reposeful element had passed away; Caroline's eyes were closed, but she neither slept nor dreamed.
Remembrance was with her again, and with remembrance, heartache, yearning, and regret.
In June, when the gardens at Yelverton were glorious with roses (and Caroline's one task seemed to be hunting the children out of the strawberry-beds), Cuthbert Baynhurst and his wife returned to town.
They did not do this voluntarily; it was literally to see his mother die that Cuthbert was summoned back to England.
Rupert Haverford himself wrote the message that brought his half-brother home.
He himself was on the eve of sailing for the United States when his mother's condition became so serious.
He had promised Mrs. Brenton to spend one night at Yelverton before leaving for America, but of course all his arrangements were upset.
"It is impossible to describe to you the suffering my poor mother is enduring just now," he wrote. "She is amazingly brave, and her brain is as active as ever. It sounds cruel to say it, but I almost regret this, for she persists in fatiguing herself. Only yesterday she worked for three hours."
Another time he wrote—
"She has been very ill for some time, how ill no one but she herself has known; but undoubtedly she has hastened matters to the present crisis by her unhappiness about Cuthbert's marriage. It was a great shock to her; she craves for him, and seems to torture herself with vain and unreasonable jealousy. I am most unhappy about her.... It is a bitter thing to feel that I have not the gift of ministering to her!"
All these letters passed into Caroline's hands.
Usually she read them out in the garden, and when she was alone.
She was well again, but very restless in these days. After that nervous breakdown Mrs. Brenton endeavoured to treat her as a kind of invalid, but she quickly abandoned this as a hopeless undertaking, and indeed the girl very speedily picked up her colour and her strength. But she was changed; her calm, determined, practical mood was gone altogether.
There were times when Mrs. Brenton was puzzled by her manner, and nothing was more difficult for her to understand than the friendship which appeared to have sprung up between Caroline and Sir Samuel Broxbourne.
Sir Samuel was always turning up at Yelverton at unexpected moments.
As the Brentons had known him since he was a boy he was outside the category of guests; but though Mrs. Brenton was hospitality itself, she really chafed a little at his constant visits, and if she could only have imagined that he was indirectly or directly connected with what she in her plain-spoken way called Camilla's "wickedness," he would have found himself shut out of Yelverton in particularly quick time.
As it was, very little of what went on in Broxbourne's world found its way to Mrs. Brenton's ears, and she was in happy ignorance of the fact that when Camilla had broken her traces in that startling fashion, Broxbourne had been as much an object of curiosity to a certain section of society as Rupert Haverford himself.
Nevertheless she gave him very little encouragement to come so often; but Sir Samuel was, happily for himself, thick-skinned.
"Whatdoyou find to talk about, you two?" she asked Caroline on one occasion, almost irritably; and the girl had shrugged her shoulders.
"I listen," she said; and then, with an effort, she had added, "Sir Samuel amuses the children. He is always inventing some marvellous games."
"Yes," said Mrs. Brenton, thoughtfully; "but it is not a bit like Sammy Broxbourne to spend his time inventing games to amuse children."
Caroline's eyes had flashed, and she had laughed for a moment.
"I expect he finds the country air refreshing after town."
"Is it possible," Mrs. Brenton said to her husband after this little conversation, "is it possible that Sammy has fallen in love with Caroline?"
Mr. Brenton closed his book with his finger in it to keep the place.
"It does not seem improbable," he said; and then he added, "Caroline is a very sweet girl."
To which his wife retorted—
"Do you think I don't know that? She is much too sweet for a man like Sammy."
In a vague sort of way this question of Broxbourne seemed to divide Caroline and Mrs. Brenton. The older woman resented, not unnaturally, the fact that the girl should not confide in her.
"Of course if he is in love, and he wants to marry her, it might be foolish to do anything to prevent it. Though he is not very nice himself, he has a very nice position, and his people are the kindest creatures in the world. It would be what the world would call a wonderful marriage for Caroline, I suppose. Butdoeshe want to marry her? And would she have him?" Here Mrs. Brenton had to shrug her shoulders hopelessly. "I should have thought he would have been the last man on earth to attract her."
And Caroline was perfectly well aware of what was passing in the other woman's mind. It was one of the many little prickly burdens which she carried in her heart in these days.
If it could have been possible to have shared this trouble with Agnes Brenton, she would have done it gladly; but she knew that Camilla's disloyalty had worked far deeper into the heart of this woman, who had loved her with the anxious love of a mother for so many years, than even Agnes Brenton herself realized.
Mrs. Brenton had never set Camilla on a pedestal; she had never proclaimed her faultless, but she had never ceased to find reasonable excuses for all the mistakes that the younger woman had made.
Her love had always been tempered by her judgment. She had forgiven more in Camilla than she would have been able to forgive in other people; but she could not easily pardon that act of betrayal, that deliberate renunciation of right, of honour, and of duty.
Caroline was by no means sure that if she were to have lain before Mrs. Brenton the facts which Sir Samuel had disclosed to her that sad and strange morning, she would have received any suggestion of help. On the contrary, it seemed to her that Camilla's old friend might have been more definitely estranged, as assuredly she would have been made more miserable were she to have listened to that story of temptation and weakness and dishonour.
Caroline herself, though she pitied, also condemned.
Undoubtedly the woman had been sorely tried; she must have endured a veritable torture at Broxbourne's hands, but surely (Caroline argued now), surely she owed the man who had loved her so wonderfully, too big a debt of gratitude to have exposed him so needlessly to the heart suffering and humiliation she had brought upon him?
"What she ought to have done," Caroline said over and over again to herself, "was, firstly, to have broken her engagement, then if he had pressed her for an explanation, she could have told him the truth. I know this must have seemed too hard for her to do, but I know, too, that such love as he had for her can work miracles. If she had only thrown herself on his hands for protection, I am convinced he would have stood by her. As it is, she has lost him, she has lost Agnes Brenton, and she has sold herself into a worse bondage than any she ever had in the past!"
And still though she judged, and even condemned, Caroline could not detach herself from this woman. In her turn she owed a heavy debt to Camilla, a debt that was sweet to pay, that claimed from her the best she had to give.
The same spirit that had sent her out into the night, eagerly defiant of fatigue, loneliness, or any possible danger, merely to stand beside this helpless, lovable woman, animated her still. She could not shut out of her remembrance the pleading patheticness of Camilla's look the last time they had met, and though they were now parted by an irrevocable barrier, she remained still acutely sensitive to the spell exercised by that creature of wayward moods and tenderest influences.
*****
When Mrs. Cuthbert Baynhurst reached London, she at once wired to Yelverton, announcing her arrival, and desired that the children might be taken to town the following day to meet her.
To Caroline she sent a little pleading note, in which she asked the girl to bring the children herself.
"She has at least the grace not to suggest coming here," said Mrs. Brenton, with a laugh that had the sound of tears in it.
Then she looked at Caroline.
"You will go?" she said in a low voice; and Caroline said—
"Yes."
The Cuthbert Baynhursts were installed naturally in one of the best suites of one of the largest and most sumptuous hotels.
It was so strange, so natural, and yet so unreal to see Camilla again!
She looked marvellously well; that fretted, excited, nervous air had gone entirely.
As Betty phrased it—
"You looksopretty, mummy darling, just like a new, young girl."
The presence of the children relieved the situation to a great extent, yet both Caroline and Cuthbert Baynhurst's wife felt the strain of this meeting sharply.
"You're going to stay with me a day or two?" said Camilla, entreatingly. "It will be sweet to have you." Then with a flash of her old merriment, "remember we are cousins now."
Caroline shook her head.
"I am afraid I must go back this evening; but the children will be all right with Dennis."
And Camilla bit her lip.
"Of course, if you must go, you must go." Then she added, restlessly, "I hope we shall not stay here more than a few days ourselves. It was horrible coming at all. And then I am so afraid this illness will upset Cuthbert. He is so sensitive. I have entreated him not to stay longer than a few minutes in his mother's room. I wish he need not go in at all. Cancer is such an awful thing."
Then she shuddered.
Caroline said nothing. She had no reason to care one way or another about Mrs. Baynhurst, but it was impossible for her to withhold her pity in such an hour as this; because she knew, none better, the hopelessness of the mother's passionate love for her second child, and because it had been a creed with Octavia Baynhurst to sneer at womanly weakness, and suffering; to deny almost scornfully the terrors of death.
And now death had come upon her—and what a death!
There was a tragedy to Caroline in the thought of that fine intellect, that strong nature, surrendering itself to the ravages of the most appalling disease the human frame can know.
As the children danced off to another room to find Dennis, and they were alone, Camilla turned and stretched out both her hands to the girl.
"Have I lost you, Caroline?" she said; "you look at me so strangely, your eyes hurt me. I have always clung to the hope that you would never change, that you would always love me."
Caroline paused a moment, and then took the hands for an instant.
"Are you happy?" she asked in a low voice.
The look that flashed into the other woman's face was a revelation to her.
"So happy," she said. "Oh, Caroline, it is all the beginning over again, only better, truer, and, please God, more lasting! Caroline, I love him. He is so young, so beautiful, so full of poetry, he makes life quite different! Oh, I love him, and I never thought I should love any one again after Ned."
Caroline turned away; her lips quivered.
"Then we who care for you must be content," she said. There was a bitter and yet a sad note in her voice.
Cuthbert Baynhurst's wife stood and looked at her.
"Of course," she said a little hardly, "I know you think I did a dreadful thing, and I will tell you one thing, Caroline, that I wish from the bottom of my heart that I could have come by this happiness in a different way. I don't want to excuse myself, for I have no excuse, but equally I don't want you or anybody else to make up things that don't exist. Don't for instance, run away with the idea that Rupert is breaking his heart about me. He is much too prosaic, too stolid, too commonplace. You saw for yourself how calmly he took the whole thing. If he had been another sort of man, well!" she laughed, "there might have been four inches of steel for Cuthbert, and perhaps a bullet through my brain."
Caroline turned and looked at her coldly.
"How can you speak so foolishly. What do you know of his heart? You have never understood him; even when you had the life of his life in your hands you sneered at him as poor and paltry. Make a mockery of him to others if you will, but not to those who know what sort of man he is. It is pitiful; it makes your wrong so much, much worse."
Camilla looked almost frightened. Her lip quivered, and tears gathered in her eyes.
"Oh, don't speak to me like that," she said brokenly. "Do you think I don't know how good he is—how more than good; his generosity won't bear talking about; but you don't know all, Caroline. If you did, perhaps you would judge me more mercifully."
There was a little pause.
Caroline made no answer; she turned aside sharply, and walked to one of the long windows. Though she had spoken so quietly, so coldly, a wild sort of passion swirled about her; her heart beat so violently she felt almost suffocated.
Camilla moved across to her.
"Caroline, darling," she said pleadingly. She put her hand on Caroline's shoulder, and as the girl still said nothing she gave a quick sigh.
"Well," she said, letting her hand slip down, "whatever any one else may think, Rupert himself ought not to reproach me. For I was absolutely honest with him. I always told him I was not half good enough for him. There was no deception, my dear Caroline, and he chose to do what he did with his eyes open. I don't mind betting you anything you like that he is ever so much happier now that I am off his hands," Camilla declared. "Our marriage would have been the most awful failure of modern times."
She came back to the girl by the window, and gave her a little shake.
"You know you love me, and you shan't be angry with me, Caroline."
There was a mist in Caroline's eyes. She turned, and would have spoken, but at that moment Dennis looked in at the door and called to her mistress.
"If you please, ma'am, I think you'd better come to Mr. Baynhurst. He's in the other room. I'm afraid something bad has happened."
Camilla stumbled in her haste to get out of the room, and almost immediately she was back again.
"I'm sorry," she said indistinctly, nervously; "but I think the children had better not stop. Cuthbert's mother is dead. She died an hour ago. Try not to let them be disappointed, Caroline. Tell them they shall see me very soon, perhaps to-morrow. It seems awfully unkind to send them away, poor little souls, but he is in a terrible state. I must be with him. It would be so miserable for the children here."
Indeed the children seemed glad to go. They kissed their mother, who held them to her in a passionate, nervous kind of way, and then let Dennis put on their hats, and went away with Caroline, dancing as they went.
Outside in the hot sunshine they clamoured for food.
"I can smell beef," said Betty, wrinkling up her pretty nose. "I thought we was going to have a lovely dinner, and we didn't have none. Oh, Caroline, I am so hungry."
And Baby chimed in with the same remark.
Caroline hoisted them both into a cab, and they drove to the station. There she regaled them with lunch, and by the middle of the afternoon they were back at Yelverton.