ONLY one stipulation will I make, my dearest, and that is that we shall not be married in a church.”
He was taken somewhat aback when she said this—they were sitting together among the apple blossoms of the orchard. She fancied that she felt his hand loosen slightly on hers at the moment; but it might only have been fancy.
“I thought that women always went it blind for the church and ‘The Voice that breathed o’er Eden,’ with the Wedding March to follow,” said he.
“They do. I believe that there are dozens of girls who get married solely for the sake of the ceremony,” she replied.
“And I can swear that there are thousands of men who will have nothing to do with it simply on account of the ceremony,” said he. “If there was none of that nonsense of carriages and clergymen and top hats and a new frock coat, the marriage-rate would soon go up instead of down. What has the parson to do with the thing any way?”
“He can be done without, and so can the whole service, which is really only a melancholy mockery. Oh, never, never again will I repeat those phrases formally at the bidding of a clergyman or any one else. The ‘love, honour, and obey’ will be between you and me, Jack, and two of the three will be contingencies.”
“Oh, I say!”
“I sympathize with you and all that, of course; but I can only promise to love you; the honour and obedience——”
“Oh, throw them in to make up weight!”
“They are both conditional. But we can hope for the best.... Jack, I would not go through another marriage ceremony in a church even if there was no other way of getting married. The horrible mockery! Think what would have happened if that man whom I had promised before God’s altar to honour, love, and obey had come straight to me on getting out of gaol! Could he not have claimed me as his wife?”
“Not he. There is no law that could compel you to go with him.”
“Then there was no sacred obligation implied in the vows, as they call them; and every sensible person is aware of this, and yet the mockery of repeating the words is carried on day by day. Jack, I am willing to believe that God instituted marriage, but not the marriage service according to the Church of England.”
“I agree with you, my dearest; but for the sake of peace and quiet, and all that, don’t you say that to my mother.”
“Nothing will induce me. I am not given to forcing my views on this or any other subject on people who may have feelings or prejudices in favour of the conventional. If I were to suggest to my father a marriage before a registrar or in a British Consulate he would look on me as an outcast.”
“He goes back to the Heptarchy. Yes, what you say is quite right. This little affair of ours concerns our two selves only.”
She gave him her hand and he put it to his lips, but she could not help noticing that his eyes were fixed musingly upon a promising gooseberry bush. She wondered if he was considering how he was to break the news to his mother; or was he wondering how she was to break the news to her father? Either the one problem or the other would, she knew, entail a fair amount of musing.
And that was why she sent him away—it was actually approaching noon, so quickly does a day pass when lovers who have recognized each other as such for the first time come together. They had not stirred from the apple orchard. When they had left the house immediately after breakfast there had been some talk between them about the great dairy; he avowed himself to be dying to see the dairy and she had promised to make him acquainted with all the details of it’s working. But they had not stirred from the orchard. She sat among the apple blossoms; all the world before their eyes was filled with apple blossoms; apple blossoms were trembling in the air between their eyes and the blue sky, and with every gracious breath that came among the overhanging boughs a snow of apple blossoms fluttered to their feet.
And then the high walls of the orchard gave them such a sense of security.
They never went near the dairy. Neither of them had a thought for it; even though its management was on the borders of the sublime. The first move that they made meant separating (for the time being), and they were long in making it. Of course it was she who sent him away. She thought that she would do well to meet her father alone and break the news to him.
When her lover had gone from her, she ran into the house and up the stairs that led to a small gable room with a window commanding a view of the steep lane through which he would have to pass crossing the country to the Manor. She waited breathless until he swam into her ken. He remained in her sight for the better part of three minutes, and then his occultation took place by the denseness of the foliage of the hedgerow. But that three minutes!...
Slowly she went to her own room and threw herself into an easy chair—the very one in which she had sat scarcely more than a month ago when reading the batch of American newspapers. That was the thought which came to her now, and with it came a sense of the enormous space of time that lay between the events of that day and the event of the hour in which she was living. It was impossible to believe that it was to be measured by weeks and not by years. Had she no premonition on that afternoon, when the earth was smiling in all its newly washed greenery, that the man whom she had seen for the first time that day would become so much a part of her life—a part?—nay, all—all her life? She could not remember having had such a thought suggested to her at that time; but that only made her feel that her memory was treacherous. She felt sure that she must have had such a premonition. Even though she had had a great deal to think about on that afternoon she must have had space to ask herself if she did not hope to meet him again.
She remembered how extraordinary had been her sense of relief when she had sat at this window in this same chair trying to realize the truth—trying to realize that she was once more free—that the course of life which she had planned out for herself and to which she was becoming reconciled, as men who have been sentenced to imprisonment for life become reconciled to their servitude, was to be changed—that she was free to live and to love as she pleased.
It had taken her a long time to realize the exact extent of what the news meant to her; and among the details of the vista of realization that opened itself out before her then, the figure of Jack Wingfield sitting by her side among the apple blossoms had no place. She had never so much as dreamt that within a month she should be within a step of possessing that park through which she had been walking and that house with the spacious rooms she had always admired, but, of course, in a distant and impersonal way.
Now she thoroughly realized how extraordinary was the happiness which was within her reach; but, as is usual in the case of imaginative people in similar circumstances, there came to her a cold suggestion of the possibility of disaster—a feeling that it was impossible for such happiness as hers to continue—a dread lest the cup which was being filled for her lips should be shattered before it reached them. She had experienced these pranks of Fate before now, and she had found that it was wise not to count upon anything on which she had set her heart, taking place in all the perfection in which it existed in her imagination.
That was why she now made herself miserable for some time, saying in her heart:
“It is too bright—the prospect is too full of sunshine. He will be killed in a motor accident—the house will catch fire and he will be burnt in his room—something will happen—I know it! It is not given to any girl to realize such happiness as I see before me.”
In another minute, however, she was rejoicing in her thought: “Never mind! Whatever may be in store for us of evil, we shall have had our day—neither Fate nor any other power of malice can make us unlive to-day. His kisses, the clasp of his arms, the sense of possessing me which he had, delighting me to feel that I had surrendered myself to him—these cannot be erased from the things that have been. The joy that is past cannot be taken away from us.”
This stimulating reflection was enough for her. She went over all the delightful incidents of the morning from the moment of her hearing his voice until that last kiss of his had left its mark upon her cheek—she could feel the brand of his ardour upon her face; it was still burning her white flesh, and she had seen its glow when she had passed the looking-glass. It was very sweet to her to recall all such incidents, even though a quarter of an hour had scarcely passed since the last had taken place; and gradually she groped her way free from the gloomy forebodings which she had forced upon herself so as to cheat Fate out of some of the malignant surprise which that power might be devising for her undoing. The roseate tint of that kiss which lay upon her face had tinted all the atmosphere of the past and the future as a drop of blood tints a basin of water, and she saw everything through this medium. When a girl believes that all her future life will be as exquisite as that of a pink flower—as exquisite as that carnation bloom which she wore on her cheek—she can have no serious misgivings—even when she hears the heavy boot of her father. A father’s boot may awaken one from a pleasing dream, but it need not portend disaster.
He was hungry and hot when she joined him in the dining-room. He had had a tiring day, and he had been compelled to wear a hat. He was a quarter of an hour too soon for the early dinner which was the rule at the farm; but still he thought that it should have been ready for him, because he was ready for it.
She managed to clip five minutes off his waiting, but he did not think it necessary to applaud her achievement. It was an excellent meal and he did ample justice to it, scarcely speaking a word—certainly no word that had not a direct bearing upon the joint before him. It was not until the cheese was being brought into the room that she noticed the marks of a smile on his face. (She wondered if he saw the marks of something else on hers.)
“A funny thing has happened,” said he. “You remember that we were talking some time ago about Mr. Dunning and his pigheadedness in letting Glyn give up his farm rather than allow him a year’s rent in starting a market garden? Well, it seems that young Wingfield has been out at the farm and has come to the conclusion that Dunning did wrong, and down he came upon Dunning like a sack of potatoes the other morning, accusing him of cheating him out of two years’ rent and so forth; and then nothing would do him but he looks up Verrall at the Manor Farm, and makes it pretty lively for everyone there, winding up by turning out Verrall neck and crop. I saw Verrall just now at Gollingford looking for a job. He gave me his version of the story; and I asked him if he hadn’t left out the part about his being drunk—I took it for granted that he had been drunk; he wasn’t many hours off being drunk at eleven this morning. He was, I fancy, mid-channel between. Wingfield is less of a fool than we fancied. Why are you laughing in that queer way, Priscilla, eh?”
“I am laughing because I was about to mention Mr. Wingfield’s name to you, in a way that may possibly make you believe that there’s a great deal more in him than you could believe, for he has been with me all the morning, and long before eight he had asked me to marry him, and I—I—gave him my word—at least, I gave him to understand that I would marry him.”
While she was speaking he had cut up his cheese. He paused with a piece on the point of his knife in the act of conveying it to his mouth. It never reached its destination. When she had spoken he did not give a start, nor did he make an exclamation; he simply lowered the point of his knife slowly until the cheese dropped off it, and then he laid the knife across his plate, staring at her all the time.
He stared at her, but he could not utter a word. She saw him make the attempt, and smiled.
“Of course I have given you a great surprise,” she said; “but I am sure that it must be a pleasant surprise, father. You did not know that I was acquainted with Jack Wingfield.”
But her speaking thus easily had not, it appeared, done much to help him. After the lapse of a minute or two, however, she saw a gleam come into his eyes. He groped for his tankard of beer on the table-cloth, for he had not taken his eyes away from her face. Nor did he do so even when he was swallowing his beer; his eyes looking over the rim of the tankard gave him a very comical look.
Her smile became a laugh, and then the blank look on his face became a very definite frown.
“I don’t see the fun in such jokes, girl,” he said moodily, and he picked up the piece of cheese in his fingers and jerked it into his mouth. “I can’t for the life of me see how you—you, with the experience you have had, can make a jest of anything that has to do with marriage.”
He pushed his chair back from the table and got upon his feet, brushing to the floor some crumbs that had clung to his knees.
“I have told you the truth, father,” she said. “I have been acquainted with Jack Wingfield for some time. I liked him very much from the first, and I could see that he came suddenly to like me. I paid a visit to his mother—such a charming woman! I expected him to come to me some of these days. He came to-day—quite early in the morning, and—I gave him breakfast; but that was, of course, afterwards. That’s the whole story.”
“Marriage—does he mean marriage—marriage? You are sure that he doesn’t mean to make a fool of you, girl?” he said in a low voice that had a good deal of meaning in it. “I have heard that he is a scamp—an empty-headed man who was expelled from college for bad conduct. Would his grandfather have tied up the estate, think you, if it hadn’t been that he knew the young fellow would make ducks and drakes of it? Does he mean marriage?”
“What else does a man mean when he asks a girl to marry him?”
“There’s such a thing as a left-handed marriage. I know these idle gentry. Game rights—some of them believe that the maidens on their estates are fair game. The rascals! Is that what’s in this youngster’s mind, do you think?”
“He brought me to see his mother.”
She spoke in a low voice, and rose from the table.
“Why didn’t he come to me in the first place?” said her father. “What business had he making advances to you before he had got my consent—tell me that?”
“I told him my story,” she replied. “Perhaps he gathered from it that, having once obeyed the commands of my parents, I should take care ever after to act on my own judgment. He talked to-day about seeing you; I told him that there was no need.”
“Why should there be no need if he means to run straight? I would see that he meant right before I gave my consent. I don’t want you to be fooled by him or any other man even if he was a lord. You’re not in his station in life, and you know it. If he was making up to some one in his own station he would have to see her father first. What is there to laugh at?”
She had become rosy, and had given a laugh when he made use of the old phrase; but she could scarcely explain to him that her laugh was due to her recalling the sequel to her introduction of the same phrase a few hours earlier.
“I can’t tell you how funny—I mean how—how—no; all that I can tell you is that I have accepted Jack Wingfield and that I mean to marry him and be a good wife to him.”
“You can say that—you can talk about marrying another man before two months have passed! I’m ashamed of you.”
At first she did not know what he meant by his reference to two months—two months’ since what? Then all at once it flashed upon her that he had in his mind the incident that should have been appropriately commemorated (according to his idea) by widow’s weeds.
“I think that we had better not return to that particular matter,” she said. “We can never look at it from the same standpoint. I married once to please you and my mother; I will marry now to please myself.”
“Decency is decency, all the same, whatever your notions may be,” said he. “No daughter of mine with my consent will become engaged to a man so as to outrage every sense of decency. A year is the very shortest space of time that must elapse—even a year is too short for good taste.”
“A year and more has passed since you gave me to that man—the man you choose for me—a year since I outraged a sense that is very much higher than your sense of decency by promising to honour a wretch who was trying to accomplish my dishonour.”
“What do you mean, Priscilla? Didn’t he marry you honestly in the church? Give the man his due. I doubt if this young Wingfield’s intentions are so honourable.”
She rose from the table saying: “I will talk no more to you on this subject, father. I thought that after my year of suffering—oh, my God! what I suffered! And you could look on and know nothing of it! Was ever a girl plunged as I was into such a seven-times-heated furnace of shame? Was it nothing to me, do you think, to walk in the street and see women nudge one another as I came up—to see myself pointed out to strangers and to hear them mutter ‘Poor thing!’ or ‘What a pity she made such a fool of herself!’—to have it set down to me that I was a girl so anxious to find a husband that I jumped at the first man that offered, without making the least enquiry as to his character? I told you that when that man wrote to you for your consent—he was so scrupulous, you know, he would do nothing without your consent—I told you that I disliked him—that I distrusted him—that I could never be happy with him, and yet you put me aside as if I were not worthy of a moment’s consideration—you put my opinion aside and urged on my poor mother to make her appeal to me, the consequences of which killed her. With all that fresh in your mind—with some knowledge at least of what my sufferings for that horrible year must have been—feeling my life ruined—linked for ever to that man’s handcuffs—in spite of all this you can still question my right to choose for myself—you can still insult both me and the man whom I have promised to marry! That being so we would do well not to talk any further on this topic.”
She walked out of the room, leaving him still in his chair, his head set square upon his shoulders and his lips tight shut. He allowed her to go without a word from him. The truth was that she had given him a surprise and a shock. Never once had she accused him during the year of having failed to do his duty as a father in protecting her from the possibility of such a calamity as had befallen her. Never once had she referred to his persistence in urging her to marry Marcus Blaydon; so that he had come to fancy, first, that she had forgotten this circumstance, and, later on, that he had been all too ready to condemn himself for the part he had taken in insisting on her marrying that man. Whatever slight qualms he may have felt during the days of the man’s trial, when the infernally sympathetic newspapers were referring to his daughter as a victim, and pointing their usual moral in the direction of the necessity there was for fathers to take a stricter view of their duties as the protectors of their daughters from the schemes of adventurers—whatever qualms he may have felt about this time at the thought that, but for his persistence and his daughter’s sense of duty, Priscilla might never have been subjected to such an ordeal, had long ago waned, and he had come to think of himself once again as a model father. The thought that his daughter was about to make what worldly people would call a brilliant match, quite without his assistance, was displeasing to him. Still, he might have got over his chagrin and given his consent; but that long speech of hers had taken his breath away. It had left him staring at the tablecloth and absolutely dumfounded.
She had clearly been having a little savings bank of grievances during the year, and now she had flung the result of her thrift in his face.
It was no wonder that he remained dumb.
WAS there any reason why they should wait for a year?
That was the question which came up for discussion between them every time they met, which was usually once a day. It was, as a rule, at the hour of parting that the question came up for dispassionate consideration. And they discussed it quite dispassionately, he with his arms clasping her shoulders, and she enjoying an extremely close inspection of the sapphire in his tie, at intervals of pulling his moustache into fantastic twists, merging through this medium his identity into that of many distinguished personages, Imperial as well as Presidential, and even poetical.
“A year! Great Gloriana! What rot! A whole year? But why—why?”
“Why, indeed? But your mother—she takes the year for granted.”
“And I suppose your father would turn you out of his house if you were to marry me inside that time?”
“That would be almost certain. It is generally assumed that a year——”
And here there would be an interval—a breathless interlude in the academic consideration of that nice question in the etiquette of wedlock.
And then they got tired of discussing it, and it was relegated to the lovers’ limbo of the unnecessary.
But if there were grave reasons (in the eyes of such people as accepted the conventional as the inevitable) why they should not be married for a year, there did not seem to be any reason why the intentions of the pair should be concealed for the same period. Mr. Wingfield appeared several times in the High Street of Framsby with Miss Wadhurst beside him in his motor; and after the third time of observing so remarkable an incident, some of the onlookers made an honest attempt to account for it. The best set discussed it, and agreed that, being people of the world, they would not shake their heads in condemnation of the antics of a young reprobate. When a young reprobate has a rent roll of something approaching fifteen thousand a year his peccadilloes must be looked on with the eye of leniency.
The fiat having gone forth to this effect, the members of the best set looked indulgently into the shop windows when they noticed the approach of the motor with the silly young man and the foolish young woman side by side. This was very advanced, the best set thought—it put them on a level of tact with the best set in Trouville or Monte Carlo, where they understood such incidents were quite usual. But of course when the mothers came upon Mr. Wingfield when he was alone, they did not fail to recognize him or to do their best to induce him to accompany them home to tea. Equally as a matter of course when they met Priscilla they either looked across the street or at the telegraph wires between the roofs in front of them. The elderly ones sniffed, and the younger ones sneered.
But when one day Miss Wadhurst appeared by the side of Mrs. Wingfield in her victoria the impression produced in Framsby was indescribable. It was paralysing. A four-line whip was passed round the members of the best set calling them to their places in the front row of the pavilion seats at the Tennis and Croquet Club to discuss the situation.
“The poor old lady! She could have no idea of what has been going on!”
“It would be an act of duty—certainly of charity—to give her a hint.”
“Or write her a letter—not necessarily signed—charity is sometimes all the more effective when bestowed anonymously.”
“That girl is artful enough for anything.”
“And pushing enough for anything. Did you notice how she was always throwing herself in the way of the Countess at the Open Meeting?”
“Surely Mr. Possnett will think it his duty to warn Mrs. Wingfield.”
(The Reverend Osney Possnett was the Vicar of Athalsdean.)
So the discussion of the grave and disturbing social question went on among the members of the front row; and the caterer, observing askance the amount of tea and tea cake incidentally consumed, made up his mind that if another question came forward demanding the same amount of sustenance as that—whatever it was—which was now being dealt with, he would be compelled to increase hisper capitacharge from sixpence to ninepence.
And then, just when they were warming on the question, stimulated by copious cups, the effect of which all the cucumber sandwiches failed to neutralize, Rosa Caffyn entered the pavilion with Mrs. Bowlby-Sutherst, and asked for tea for two.
Mrs. Gifford, the wife of the Colonial Civil Servant, who was the leader of the best set, was quick to perceive her opportunity. She knew that Rosa Caffyn was, in the face of all opposition, the friend of Priscilla Wadhurst, and so might be made the means of conveying to that young woman some idea of the grave scandal that her conduct was exciting. She rose from her place and hurried to Rosa’s table.
“We have just been discussing a very disagreeable incident,” she remarked, after greeting the girl and Mrs. Bowlby-Sutherst.
“Oh, then we have arrived quite opportunely to give you a chance of discussing a very delightful one,” cried Mrs. Bowlby-Sutherst.
“We have not heard any delightful one,” said Mrs. Gifford.
“What, do you mean to say that you have not heard that that pretty Miss Wadhurst, the girl with that wonderful hair, you know, is engaged to Jack Wingfield? Why, where have you been living? Don’t you take in theMorning Post?No? Oh, well, I suppose it would not contain much to interest you.”
Mrs. Bowlby-Sutherst was very much of the county; she was indifferent to Framsby’s “sets.” She watched with malicious interest the collapse of the leader of the best and resumed her revelation.
“Oh, yes; it was in thePostthis morning, ‘A marriage is arranged,’ and the rest of it. I knew that you would all be glad to hear of it, but I thought that you would be the first to get the pleasant news. Rosa and I are driving to the Manor to offer our felicitations. Miss Wadhurst is staying there with Mrs. Wingfield. It’s so nice when a handsome and clever girl like that is making a good match; and the poor girl deserves something good as a set-off against that unlucky affair of hers.”
“She is a clever young woman,” said Mrs. Gifford spitefully. “Oh, yes, a very clever young woman! I hear that she milks her father’s cows.”
“Oh, my dear Mrs. Gifford, you are very far behind the times,” laughed Rosa. “Nobody milks cows nowadays. You might as well talk of Priscilla using one of the old barrel churns. It’s all done by machinery.”
“And will you have some of the machine-made in your tea, Rosa?” asked Mrs. Bowlby-Sutherst, poising the jug over the cups which had just been brought to the table.
“Thank you—that’s enough,” said Rosa. “And let me offer you some of the machine-made butter on the machine-made bread.”
“I think I’ll try a hand at a hand-made sandwich,” said Mrs. Bowlby-Sutherst. “There’s a joke in that somewhere, I feel—can you catch it?”
“Hand-made sandwiches made by the handmaid of the caterer—is that it?” asked Rosa after a thoughtful frown—the frown of the habitual prize acrostic-solver and anagram-maker of the English vicarage.
Mrs. Gifford felt rather neglected when the two others laughed together quite merrily. She rather thought that she would take a stroll round the grounds.
“One of the cats,” whispered Rosa.
“The leader of the tabbies,” assented Mrs. Bowlby-Sutherst. “But don’t you make any mistake, my dear: although she’s wild to hear that your friend is doing so well for herself——”
“And for Mr. Wingfield.”
“And for Mr. Wingfield—in spite of that, you may rest perfectly certain that she will leave cards with pencilled congratulations upon the Manor people as early as possible to-morrow. Another sandwich?”
And that prognosis turned out to be correct. Several members of the best set called at the Manor the next day and left congratulatory cards. They had in view the possibility of futurefêtesat the Manor; they would do any reasonable amount of calling or crawling to get invited to a garden-party given by a county person; and Miss Wadhurst was to be promoted over the heads of a large number of aspirants to a position in the county.
Although there were a certain number of persons who affirmed that she was showing very doubtful taste indeed in becoming engaged to any one, even a man with a rent roll of something like fifteen thousand a year, within a few months after receiving the news of the death of the other man, still Miss Wadhurst got quite a large number of cards of the same nature from ladies who had done their best to keep her in her place in the past, and who were clearly hoping that their failure to do so would prejudice her in their favour in the days to come.
But when a month had passed and the people of Framsby had almost ceased discussing the question of the advancement of Miss Wadhurst, there came a faint rumour to the effect that therapprochementbetween the young couple was not quite so complete as it had been. They were no longer seen together either on foot or in the motor, and while heads were being shaken and significant winks exchanged, the definite announcement was made (by Mrs. Gifford) that a final rupture had taken place. The engagement was broken off, and the principals to that pencilled contract had separated.
A small and discreet commission of enquiry made their report on the subject, the tenor of which removed any doubt that might possibly remain on any mind. Investigations proved that the young man had elected to run away; and the fact that his mother had affirmed that he had gone on business, even specifying this business and alleging that he was endeavouring to find a substitute for Mr. Dunning, the agent, whose health had unfortunately broken down, necessitating his taking a long voyage, suggested that she had had a hand in the breaking off of the engagement. As for the young woman, it was thought very natural that she should desire to avoid the humiliation of meeting, under altered conditions, her Framsby friends, whose cards of congratulation she had never so much as acknowledged.
Rosa Caffyn knew all about her, and when interrogated, said that Priscilla had gone to pay a visit to a girl friend of hers in Dorsetshire, who was at the point of leaving England with her father, a major-general in the army, about to take up an appointment in the Bengal Presidency. This was Rosa’s story, and every one acknowledged that Rosa was a staunch friend to Priscilla, unfortunate though the latter had been; for she was ready to deny the breaking off of the engagement—to be exact, she had not quite gone so far as to deny it in so many words: being the daughter of a parson, however, she was sufficiently adroit in choosing words which by themselves expressed what was the truth, and could not be regarded as compromising, should it be found out, later on, that they had been the means of promulgating a falsehood. “Every one knows how guarded clergymen can be in this way,” said Mrs. Gifford and her friends.
Rosa’s exact words, when questioned, were these:—“She said nothing to me about the engagement being broken off.”
Oh, yes; Rosa was a staunch friend, but it could do her no good to suggest in this way that the engagement was still unbroken; the whole truth was bound to come out eventually.
Of course, Mrs. Wingfield could not be asked directly if there was any truth in the report. Being a semi-invalid she was rarely at home to any of the Framsby people. But as ten days had passed and her son had not yet returned to the Manor, it might surely be assumed that the lady’s story about her son’s expedition in search of a new agent was partaking of the character of Rosa Caffyn’s statement. Estate agents were not so rare as black swans, they said; a man on the look-out for one could certainly manage to obtain a specimen in less than ten days.
Then there was Farmer Wadhurst; he was a straightforward man and a man of business, and though officially connected with the church, yet without that adroitness at misleading through the medium of verbally accurate phrases, which—according to Framsby’s best set—is characteristic of parsons and the members of their families—Mr. Wadhurst might be approached on the subject of his daughters engagement. But Mr. Wadhurst was not easy of approach on social matters, though always ready to talk of “cake.” He had his theories regarding this form of confectionery for milch kine, and was always ready to say which breed should take the cake, and in what quantities. But he quickly repelled the approach of such persons as came to congratulate him on the engagement of his daughter—a fact that caused them to wink at their friends and say that that was the right position for a yeoman to take up in respect of his daughter’s engagement to the young squire. He was not going to stand congratulations on such a thing. He was an English yeoman and he paid his way, and he wasn’t the man to regard an alliance with the Manor as a tremendous thing for him or his daughter either. He knew all about the Wadhursts, and he knew all about the Wingfields, and he wasn’t going to truckle down to any Wingfields, or, for that matter, to the Duke himself; no, not he.
This was Farmer Wadhurst. But someone, stimulated by a desire to find out the exact truth, managed to approach him—a tradesman who enjoyed the Gifford custom.
“We haven’t seen your young lady about of late, sir,” he remarked when the business excuse had been completed. “We hope that she’s well, and nothing wrong, sir.”
“You could hardly have seen her here, for she’s been in Dorset for the past fortnight, and so far as I know she’s in good health,” said Farmer Wadhurst. But in the act of leaving the shop a thought seemed to occur to him. He turned round, and looked at the tradesman suspiciously.
“What did you mean by that?” he asked.
“Mean by what?”
“By ‘nothing wrong’? What do you suspect is wrong?”
The man held up horny hands of protest.
“Bless your heart! Mr. Wadhurst, you musn’t take me up like that,” he cried. “I meant nought more’n or’nary remark. I’d be the last man in Framsby to hint at ought being wrong; I would indeed, sir, as I hope you know. I’ve all’ays said that in this case it is the man that’s the really lucky one, and I don’t care who knows it, Mr. Wadhurst.”
Mr. Wadhurst gave a searching glance at the man, and then left the shop. He was not quite satisfied with the explanation which the man had given him of his use of that very ordinary phrase. “Nothing wrong—nothing wrong—we hope there’s nothing wrong”—the words buzzed about him all the time he was walking down the High Street. “Nothing wrong!” Why, what could there be wrong? What could there be wrong? What sort of gossip was going about? Who had been saying that anything was wrong?
He went down the street to where his dogcart was waiting for him, and mounting to his seat, drove off in the direction of the farm; but before he had gone more than half a mile along the road he turned his horse about, and drove quickly back to Framsby. He pulled up at the post office, and, descending, entered the place and, after a considerable amount of thought, composed and wrote out a telegram.
Then he mounted his dogcart and drove off to his farm.
It was barely ten o’clock the next morning when Mrs. Wingfield, telling her maid that she felt that this was going to be one of her good days, got her seat moved out of the shady part of the terrace into the region of the fitful sunlight that had followed a liquid dawn. The day was a grey one, with lazy pacing clouds very high up in the air; and the occasional glimpses of tempered brilliance which the land was allowed between the folds of the billowy vapour, were very grateful to the lady. She had letters and a book and a writing-case.
She had scarcely settled herself down among her cushions before she heard the sound of wheels on the carriage drive—she could not have heard it if her chair had remained on the shady part of the terrace. Then came the sound of a man’s voice—imperative—insistent—set off by the murmured replies of the butler. The insistence became more insistent, and the replies louder—more staccato. Then the butler appeared on the terrace.
“Mr. Wadhurst is here, ma’am—says his business is important. I told him that you were not at home to anyone in the morning unless by appointment; but he said it was very important—in fact that he must see you, ma’am. I did my best to put him off—-I did indeed, ma’am; it was no use. He’s not easy put off. So I said I would see if you would. If not, ma’am, I’ll——-”
“Certainly I’ll see Mr. Wadhurst,” said Mrs. Wingfield when the butler had murmured his explanations to her. “Ask him to be good enough to come on the terrace. Draw that cane chair closer.”
“Very good, ma’am,” said the butler, retiring with dignity and leaving the lady to wonder what Farmer Wadhurst could possibly want with her at that hour of the morning. She had never seen Farmer Wadhurst.
She saw him now. A large man with big bones, a slight stoop and a suggestion of Saxon sandiness about his hair and beard.
She rose to greet him, and the butler once more retired.
“I am very pleased to meet you, Mr. Wadhurst,” she said. “I think it is very likely that, if you had not come here to me, I should have ventured to pay you a visit.”
“What, have you heard something?” he asked eagerly.
“Heard something? Well, nothing more than your daughter told me, Mr. Wadhurst,” she replied. “But, surely, if my son and your daughter have made up their minds, you and I should not turn cold shoulders to them. Priscilla, I know, feels deeply your——”
“Where’s your son to-day, ma’am?” cried Farmer Wadhurst, interrupting the gracious words of the lady. “Where is he to-day, and where has he been for the past fortnight?”
“He has been in several places,” she replied. “He went to look after an agent—Mr. Dunning has left us—it was very awkward—first to Buckinghamshire, then to Lincoln. I got a letter from him yesterday from Sandy-cliffe; he is having some yachting—a week of yachting. I fancy he saw his chance now that Priscilla is visiting her friend. I don’t think he would have been so ready if she——”
“Read that,” cried the man, interrupting her once again, laying a telegram—almost flinging it—on the table before her.
“What is this?” she enquired, looking about for herpince-nez. “It is a telegram from Jack. What—what—oh, don’t tell me that something has happened—that he is hurt—something dreadful—that you were sent to break it to me.”
“Read it,” he said. “Something dreadful! Maybe not so dreadful to you; not so strange either. You are his mother; you may have heard something like it about him before.”
She had found her glasses, and picked up the telegram with shaking fingers.
“Priscilla no longer here left week yesterday?
“What does this mean?” she asked. “She was staying with Miss Branksome at Lullton Priory. Is this from General Branksome?”
“I got wind of something being wrong,” said he, “and I telegraphed last evening to the Branksomes asking if she was with them. That’s the answer I got. You know what it means. But I warned her. God knows I did my duty by her in warning her against him. She would not listen to me.”
“I don’t know what you are thinking of. Can you not tell me what it is that is in your mind? You surely do not suppose that Priscilla—that my son—-”
“What’s in my mind is that your son is a scoundrel, ma’am—that’s what’s in my mind—a rank, foul scoundrel! He has induced her to run away with him, and for the past week they have been living together as man and wife, wherever he is.”
“You lie, sir; I tell you, you lie. My son may have his faults, but he was never a seducer of women.”
“Then he has begun now; every wickedness must have a start. He has started with my daughter. I knew that he meant no good. I warned her—God knows that I warned her, not once, but twice—every time that I’d a chance of words with her. It wasn’t often of late; she had a way of stalking out of the room every time that I opened my lips to warn her against him.”
“Mr. Wadhurst, you are mistaken. I feel certain that you are mistaken,” she cried. “What object could he have in carrying out so shocking a scheme? There was no obstacle in the way of their marriage. I had received Priscilla as a daughter.”
He smiled. “Mothers know nothing of the ways of their sons,” he said. “I’ve known some that looked on their sons as saints, when all the time——”
“I don’t care what you knew,” she said. “I know my son, and let me add that I also know your daughter—apparently I know her a good deal better than you ever knew her. Don’t behave like a fool Mr. Wadhurst. Don’t waste your time in this foolish way—every moment may be precious. Priscilla may have gone to pay another visit; but on the other hand, something may have happened to her. She may be in danger. One reads of such things in the papers, never fancying that they may one day happen to our own friends—in our own families. No time should be lost in making enquiries. I will telegraph to my son, and you may be sure that he will do his best—he will know what should be done. He would be distracted at the thought that she is in danger.”
Mr. Wadhurst smiled more bitterly than before. “In danger! She has been in danger from the first moment she set eyes upon him. An evil hour it was—an evil hour. What have I done that these evils should fall upon me?” He had turned away from the lady, and was standing with his hand clenched over the crumpled telegram as if he was addressing the carved satyrs’ heads on the stone vases that stood on the piers of the balustrade. “What have I done that these things should happen to me?” He seemed to have an idea that Providence kept books on a proper system of double entry, and every now and again, by the aid of a competent staff of recording angels, posted up the ledgers and struck balances. Farmer Wadhurst could not understand how, if this was done systematically, he should be so badly treated. He believed that he had still a large balance to his credit.
“Don’t waste any more time; it may be precious,” suggested the lady again; and he turned upon her with an expression of fierceness.
“I’ll take your advice,” he cried. “I’ll not waste any more time. I’ll find her—and him—and him. I know where to look for her; wherever he be, she’ll be there too. I’ll go to her—and him.”
“And I’ll go with you,” she said, rising. “I’ll go with you to Sandycliffe, and he will, I know, confide in me. He is certain to know where she is to be found; but if he does not, he will know what should be done. He would be distracted if anything were to happen to her.”
He seemed to be startled by the suggestion. He looked at her for several seconds; then his eyes fell.
“You think that I mean to kill him?” he said in a low voice.
“No,” she replied. “You would not try to kill him unless you-found them together, and I am confident that they are not together.”
“You need not be afraid for him—it is not him that I mean to kill.”
“I am afraid neither for him nor for her, Mr. Wadhurst.”
“Come, then, if you’re not afraid. It’s only a two-hour journey to the coast. There’s a train in forty minutes from now—no, half an hour from now. I’ve been here ten minutes. I looked it up. You will catch that train if you mean to come. I’ll make sure of it myself.”
He spoke almost roughly, and when he had spoken he turned round and strode away. She called to him, begging him to come back, but he paid no attention to her. He seemed anxious to make it plain to her that he refused to recognize the fact that they were acting in concert in this business—to make it plain that he was going for one purpose, and she for quite another. She felt that he was a nasty man—a detestable man. She liked Priscilla not merely because Jack loved her, but also because Priscilla embodied all that she considered admirable in a girl; but now she wished with all her heart that she had never come across her son’s track.
She perceived that there was no time to lose if she meant to catch the 10.47 train from Framsby to Gallington Junction, where one changed for Sandycliffe.
She also perceived that it would never do to allow that man to go alone to the place. She was positive that Jack and Priscilla were not together, but she distrusted Mr. Wadhurst. She had no confidence in his powers of deduction or in his self-restraint. She saw as in a picture the meeting between that man and her son—she could hear the irritating words that the former would speak—-the sharp and contemptuous replies of the other—exasperation on both sides, and then perhaps blows—blows or worse.
It would not do to miss that train.
She had set the household moving within a minute or two, and the motor was ordered to be at the door in ten minutes. Her maid was overwhelmed at the very idea of a start like this at a moment’s notice. She began to remonstrate, but her mistress was peremptory; and amazed her by the vehemence with which she commanded her to hold her tongue and get out a travelling dress. It was only by much straightforward speaking that the flight was accomplished in good time, and the railway station reached with four minutes to spare. The maid found such a period all too short for the full expression of her grievances in being compelled to start on a journey in her house-dress with a most inappropriate wrap to conceal its true character as far as possible—it was too short a space of time for her purpose, but she certainly did her best.
At first Mrs. Wingfield thought that Mr. Wadhurst had not arrived at the station. He was nowhere to be seen. It was not until the train had come in, and Mrs. Wingfield and her maid had taken their seats, that the man appeared—he had hidden himself in the goods office, utilizing his time by an enquiry regarding some crates of machinery which he expected. He went past the first-class carriages without looking into any compartment. When the change was being made at the junction she failed to see him. But when Sandyclifle was reached she found that he had travelled in a second-class compartment, that was next to her first-class carriage. He took no notice of her, but walked with those long strides of his out of the station in front of her.
He was in a position to take notice of her when she met him face to face coming out of the hotel door when she was at the point of entering.
“Go in and make your enquiries, ma’am,” he said grimly. “You will find out whether your opinion or mine of your son is the true one.”
“What, is it possible that—that—he—they——”
“They are here. Make your enquiries.”
He went away, and she entered the hotel and hastened to the office.
Oh, yes; Mr. Wingfield was staying there, the young lady said.
“Alone?” asked the mother.
“Only Mrs. Wingfield. They will be in for lunch at one. They have been sailing since morning,” was the reply.
Mrs. Wingfield could scarcely walk so far as the coffee-room. When she managed to do so, she found that her maid had justified the character she had always borne for thoughtfulness: a slice of cold chicken and a small bottle of dry Ayala were on the table in front of her.
“You must eat and drink now,” she said. “This promised to be one of your good days; but that rush to the train and that long journey will go far to make it one of your worst if we are not careful.”
Of course the maid knew, as did every one at the Manor, of the ridiculous visit of Farmer Wadhurst, and she was one of the few who guessed rightly what was its purport. She was fully aware of all that was meant by this breathless flight to the coast, and, as she had had something like forty years’ experience of the world and the wickedness of men and the credulity of women and the ambiguity of the word Love, she had never for a moment doubted what would be the issue of this journey. It was not at all necessary for Mrs. Wingfield to say to her, as she did while the champagne was creaming in the glass:
“Walters, Mr. Wingfield is here, and I have just learned that Miss Wadhurst is here also—you saw Mr. Wadhurst and you will know, I am sure, that it would never do for them to meet.”
“It must be prevented at any cost, ma’am,” acquiesced Walters. “Where’s Mr. Wingfield and Miss Wadhurst just now?”
“They are out sailing; they will be here for lunch at one. It is necessary that I should meet them.”
“Quite so, ma’am. It’s a pity; but you’ll do it. This is one of your good days. To-morrow will most likely be one of your worst. But it can’t be helped.”
“It cannot be helped. If I were to fail to meet them before—before anyone else can meet them—there would be no more good days for me in the world, Walters.”
“Drink the champagne, ma’am, and rest quite still for half an hour and you’ll be able to do it without risk.”
Mrs. Wingfield obeyed her. She took some mouthfuls of the chicken and then drank two glasses of the champagne. Her maid had spied a comfortable chair overlooking the tennis lawns close at hand and the sea in the distance. To this she led Mrs. Wingfield, and there she left her with a wrap about her knees, to wait for her anxious half-hour.
The day was less grey at Sandyclifife than it had been at the Manor, and certainly the air was cooler. A breeze was blowing shorewards, bearing in every breath the sweet salt smell of the Channel. It came very gratefully to that poor weary lady sitting there waiting for what the next hour should bring to her.
But what could it bring to her except disaster? The man had told her that he had no intention of making an attempt to punish her son; but what did it matter about the man or his intentions? It was not the consequences of the act that troubled her, it was the sin of the act.
The thought that a son of hers—her only son—should be guilty of anything so base, so cruel, so mean, so selfish, made her feel sadder than she would have felt had the news been brought to her that he was dead.
She felt that so long as she lived there would cling to her the consciousness that she had brought into the world a son who had been guilty of an act of vice which she could never condone. That was what her whole future would be—clouded with that consciousness, when she had been hoping so much that was good for the days to come.
And then, like every other good woman who is a mother of sons whose feet have strayed from the straight road, she began to think if she had any reason to reproach herself for his lapse. Had anything that she had said or done led up to his commission of the baseness? Was she to be reproached because of the ease with which she had withdrawn whatever distaste she had at first felt for the idea of his wishing to marry a girl who was not socially in his own rank of life? Surely not. If she had opposed his wishes as so many other mothers would have done, she might find reason for some self-reproach; but she had been kind and sympathetic and had taken the girl to her heart; and yet this was how he had shown his appreciation of her kindness—of her ridding herself of every prejudice that she might reasonably have had in regard to his loving of a girl situated as Priscilla was. This was how he was rewarding her!
The impression of which she was conscious at that moment was only one of disappointment—supreme disappointment—such disappointment as one may feel at the end of one’s life on finding out that the object for which one has lived and laboured from the beginning to the end is absolutely worthless. She felt sad, not angry. She felt that if her son were to appear before her she could weep, but she could not denounce him.
While she sat there thinking over the whole matter, her tears began to fall before she became aware of it; and it was while she was holding her handkerchief to her eyes that they came up, her son and Priscilla, walking across the springy turf of the lawn so that she heard no sound of their approach.
When she removed all the tears that a handkerchief can remove—it only touches the outward ones—they were standing before her.
She did not cry out; she did not start. She only looked at them and turned away her head.
“Speak to her,” said he in a low voice, and he too turned away his face from the accusation of his mother’s tears.
Priscilla took a step forward and knelt before her, leaning across her knees with caressing arms about her waist.
“You will forgive us, dearest mother,” she said. “You will forgive me because I did it out of love for him, and you will forgive him because he did it out of love for me. Whichever of us is most to blame you will forgive the most because that one is the one that loved the most.”
The mother looked down at the lovely thing that pressed against her knees. She laid a hand upon her shoulder, and at the touch the girl’s eyes became full of tears. The other felt them warm on the hand that she was pressing to her lips.
There was a long silence.
“Mother,” he said at last, for he noticed that some of the guests of the hotel were strolling about the further edge of the lawn, and they might choose to enter the dining-room by the French window that opened behind his mother’s chair. “Mother, you will not blame either of us. We had both the same feeling that we should make sure of such happiness as we saw awaiting us lest it should be snatched from us by that malignant Fate which delights to spoil a man’s prospects when they seem brightest. That was why I forced Priscilla to marry me on the sly.”
“I knew that you would detest the very name of a registrar, and I could never bring myself to face the ceremony in the church,” said Priscilla. “But indeed I will be as good a daughter to you as if the Church had had a voice in the ceremony. Bless me, even me also, O my mother, and our marriage will be blessed.”
Then the mother fell on her neck, kissing her, and saying:
“It is I who have to ask your forgiveness, dear. I cannot tell you what—I thought—base—base! Oh, my darling, you have made me so happy; you did what was right. I will never accuse you again.”
She was looking up smiling through her tears as she held out a hand to her son.
“I knew that you would not be like other women,” he said. “You are the best woman in the world—the best mother that a man with a mind for wickedness could have. You don’t know all that you have kept me out of. But why did you come to us to-day, mother? Did you suspect—great Gloriana! Here’s your father, Priscilla. A regular family party—what!” Mrs. Wingfield the elder laughed quite spitefully—quite triumphantly as Mr. Wadhurst hurried across the lawn. He had spent half an hour on the beach waiting for the approach of a yacht that was standing off and on in the light breeze. He could not know that the hotel people had made a mistake and that Mr. and Mrs. Wingfield had not left the shore.
He was hurrying across the lawn, and on his face there was a look which his daughter was able to interpret. That was why she spoke before he had time to utter a word.
“Father,” she said, “I don’t think that you ever met my husband, though I daresay you know him by sight as well as he knows you. Jack, this is my father.”
He looked at her and then at him. His mouth was very tightly closed. He stood quite a yard away from them and ignored Jack’s very cordial salutation.
“You must forgive these light-headed young people, Mr. Wadhurst,” said Mrs. Wingfield the elder. “But it was really very naughty of them to take the law into their own hands and get married by a registrar instead of going properly to the church.”
“Married!” said the churchwarden. “Married within three months of the death of her husband! You did well to do it in that hole-and-corner way; for you knew me too well to hope that I would give my consent.”
“That’s quite true,” said she. “But I told you long ago that I had made up my mind that a woman’s marriage is her own affair, not her father’s. I had one experience of the union that receives the blessing of the father and the blessing of the Church.”
He looked at her. His mouth was tightly shut once again.
“Look here, Mr. Wadhurst,” cried Jack. “We’re just going in to lunch. If you didn’t give your consent to our marriage, you have still time to give us your blessing. Hurry up. The lobsters in the dining-room will be becoming anxious.”
He still kept his eyes fixed upon his daughter. He did not seem to hear Jack speaking. But the moment that Jack had said his last word, Mr. Wadhurst glanced at him, and then, turning round, walked straight across the lawn.
They watched him in silence until he became occulted by the pavilion.
“The lobsters will be getting impatient,” said Jack, helping his mother to her feet.