CHAPTER VII.
The girl turned round upon him like a fury.
‘How dare you,’ she cried, ‘make such an infamous proposal to me? I don’t believe papa ever told you to say so. I don’t believe he would have thought of such a thing if you had not put it into his head. You are not telling me the truth, Mr Hindes. What spite have you against me, that you are always trying to put a spoke in my wheel in this way. You never propose anything for my pleasure, it is always something for my pain. I believe you have taken a hatred to me, you go against me so persistently.’
‘I—I hate you, Jenny!’ stammered Hindes.
‘Yes, I feel sure you do, else why should you be forever urging papa to do something to displease me. I have seen it for years past. Every obstacle that has been thrown in my way has been by your advice. What am I to you? Why can’t you let me and my affairs alone?’
‘Why can’t I let you alone? Why am I for ever interesting myself in your affairs?’ he repeated after her. ‘Cannot you guess, Jenny; has no glimmer of the truth reached your heart during all these years? Well, then, I will tell you; it is because I love you.’
‘A nice way of loving,’ interposed the girl sarcastically.
‘Yes! you may laugh, but it will not unmake the fact. I love you, Jenny, as no one of your admirers has ever loved you yet, love you with the fire and fervour of a disappointed man, of one who knows, and has known for years past, that his love is of no avail, that it lives without hope, but still lives, burning on—loving on—because it can never die even if it would,because it would not die even if it could. Oh! my darling! I have loved you for years. Just give me one look of pity at last.’
But Jenny recoiled from him with a shudder of disgust.
‘How dare you! howdareyou!’ she panted; ‘and you pretend to be my friend, you, a married man. Oh! you have made me feel that I have sunk low indeed.’
Her look of horror and her tone of contempt stung Hindes more than a dozen lashes from her hand would have done.
‘Married!’ he exclaimed; ‘what has that to do with a man’s feelings? Am I blind, deaf, insensible, because I am married. And what about your fine scoundrel over there? You imagine he loves you. Yet, what is he? A married man, and worse than a married man, a thousand times over, for he has left a poor girl who is, to all intents and purposes, his wife, and a child who has the right to call him father, to break their hearts, and perhaps to starve down at Luton, whilst he is philanderingafter you. Ah! that has touched you, has it?’ he continued almost savagely, as he saw Jenny’s cheeks flush. ‘Well! it is the solemn truth, as I can prove to you. And she is not the only one either. Ask Philip Walcheren! You are one of many, Jenny, though you may wear the wedding-ring upon your finger.’
‘You lie!’ cried the girl vehemently; ‘I am sure you lie, and I will tell my husband every word you say, and he shall punish you for them. You want to frighten me, that is all—you are jealous of my great happiness. I have always suspected you were double-faced, and now I know it. And I hate you—I hate you. And I love my husband as much as I hate you, and nothing shall ever separate us, try as hard as you may. We will be together and together and together, until death.’
She turned, in all her beauty with a mocking smile upon her lovely face, towards him as she spoke, and stepped backwards towards the edge of the cliff. Henry Hindes’ first impulse was to catch her bythe wrist to prevent her falling over. But she wrenched it from his grasp.
‘Don’t dare to touch me, you brute!’ she cried excitedly. ‘You want to push me over the cliff now, I suppose!’
God! why did she say the word? Why did she put the idea into his excited brain? It had never entered his head before. He had never thought of her but in kindness. For years past, he had secretly cherished her image, suffering himself to indulge in beatific day-dreams of what his life might have been had Jenny been destined to spend it by his side—had permitted himself to enjoy her presence, to bask in her beauty, to be miserable when the thought crossed his mind that some day he would be assuredly called upon to relinquish her to another man, but never had he done less than love her. But now, as he held her in his power, and she laughed derisively into his face, whilst those words, ‘I hate you,’ still rung on the air, something entered into Henry Hindes that had never been there before. A wild fury that she shouldspurn him, her friend of years, and love Frederick Walcheren—a mad despair that he would never possess her beauty, and that another had the legal right to gloat over it night and day for all time—whilst he stood apart, baffled and disappointed, and then a desperate resolve to save her from further contamination and himself from a life-longing, and the devil, which is in all of us, glared out of his eyes, as with a single effort, hardly calculating what the effects would be, acting more on the impulse of what hewould do, than of what hewas doing, he pushed the girl violently from him and sent her light body hurling over the stupendous abyss which separated them from the beach below.
It was done in a second, beyond power of recall. This moment Jenny was standing before him in her mocking loveliness—and the next there was only a void, and not even the impress of her footprints on the short herbage where she had stood.
Henry Hindes remained motionless forthe space of half a minute, then sunk down into a sitting position, and trembled as if he were taken with an ague. He did not look over the cliff to see what had become of his victim. He knew but too well! He had glanced over it before he met her, and saw that it consisted of an unbroken line of chalk cliffs, leading precipitately to the shingly shore. He knew what he should see if he looked over, and he dared not look! He only sat there and shook like an aspen leaf. The clammy perspiration rose upon his face, and stood in great beads upon his brow, but he did not raise his hand to wipe it away. He only remained dumb and motionless and trembled. By-and-by some instinct warned him that he ought to move, to go back to the town, and that it would not do for him to be found sitting so close by. Upon this he tried to stand, but found he could not, so turned round and crawled away, for some distance, on his hands and knees. A fresh breeze had sprung up from the sea, and it revivedhim sufficiently to enable him to stand upon his feet, and to commence with a tottering step to find his way back again. As he did so, he hardly believed that what had happened was real. He must have drunk more than was good for him, he thought, and it was a bad dream that had overtaken him. But a backward glance made the horrid truth too plain. There was the barren cliff, deserted for the time being, whilst all the world of Dover was occupied on the beach, with bathing or flirting or play. There was the very spot where they had stood together on the close grass, besprinkled with pink thrift and stunted daisies—the same irregular edge where she had mocked him, whence he would have saved her if she had let him, but where—
‘I must pull myself together!’ thought Henry Hindes, with a violent shudder; ‘this is not the time or place for me to think about it! It was an awful accident, but nothing more—I would not have injured her for all the world, but it is anawkward time for it to have occurred, and in my presence, too—and I must take measures not to have my name implicated in the affair!’
He looked around with dimmed eyes as he argued with himself, but, far or near, he could perceive no one and no thing, except a few sheep grazing on the stunted herbage. Then he ventured near the cliff—not with his eyes towards that point where she had fallen, but turned the other way, and he saw it was quite deserted, the bathing population being at the further end of the town. Not a soul was on the beach, only a few boats were drawn up high and dry, whilst several more were dancing on the blue waters, laden with fishing nets or pleasure-seekers. The complete seclusion of the place imparted a temporary confidence to him.
‘For the children’s sake,’ he muttered to himself, as he took his way downwards; ‘for Walter’s sake, and the others and Hannah, I must be brave and calm and not betray myself. Let me see! whattime is it? Three o’clock! and I said I would return to the hotel about three. Well! I mustn’t hurry, it will look bad! I will go into a restaurant first and have my dinner!’
The thought of eating sickened him, but he persevered, and, entering the principal restaurant in the town, ordered an expensive meal. But when it was served he could not eat it. The food would have choked him. Something seemed to have closed in his throat and prevented his swallowing.
Presently an idea struck him. Calling the waiter, he said,—
‘I have some business to talk over with a friend in this town, and, as my time is short, I think it will facilitate matters if we dine together. Lay another plate and tell them to keep the dinner back till I return. I am going round to the hotel to fetch my friend. Keep the champagne in ice. I shall not be absent more than a few minutes.’
He left the restaurant as he spoke, andre-entered the vestibule of the Castle Warden Hotel.
‘Has Mrs Walcheren returned yet?’ he inquired, in an unconcerned voice.
‘No, sir; she has not. Mr Walcheren, he came home about half an hour ago, but he went out again. I really can’t say when they’ll be back, sir!’
Hindes took out his card and wrote on it in a very shaky hand:—
‘I have called twice to-day to see you, with a message from home, and hoped to have persuaded you to lunch with me at the Tivoli Restaurant; but my time is up, and I must return to town. Will write in a day or two.H. H.’
‘I have called twice to-day to see you, with a message from home, and hoped to have persuaded you to lunch with me at the Tivoli Restaurant; but my time is up, and I must return to town. Will write in a day or two.
H. H.’
‘Give this to Mrs Walcheren on her return, please,’ he said to the waiter, and took his way, as best he could, back to the Tivoli.
There he forced himself to eat a little and drink a good deal, and, calling for the bill, gave the waiter a liberaltip, and departed in a cab to the station.
He had done all he could. He should tell the Cramptons, he had called twice to interview Mrs Walcheren and been unsuccessful each time, and he had waited about Dover till four o’clock. It was Saturday, and he could not spend Sunday away from his wife and children. They would surely say that he had done all that was necessary, and more than they had required from him. He had tried to see her twice, and he had failed; they must wait now until Jenny wrote to them herself.
‘Until Jenny wrote to them herself!’ As the thought crossed his mind, Henry Hindes sunk back into the corner of the railway carriage, in the same comatose state in which he had been on the downs. The train flew screeching through the evening air, on its way to London, but time and place were alike unheeded by him.
Had it been a dream—an unholy, lurid nightmare—or was it reality?
When he reached ‘The Old Hall,’ it was nine o’clock. He told his wife he had stayed to dine in town, but, in truth, he had been wandering about the streets, hardly conscious of what he was doing, until the time warned him that each hour he delayed would make it more difficult to account for his prolonged absence. So he dragged himself home, and the effort he made to look like a man who was rather disgusted for having been foolish enough to take a lot of trouble for nothing, sat upon him much as a clown’s paint would sit upon a corpse. Hannah was naturally all sympathy for his disappointment and failure, and Hindes was compelled to take refuge in gruffness, to elude her searching inquiries.
‘My dearest, how ill you look, and how tired you seem. This has been a trying day for you, I am sure. So fond as you are of dear Jenny, too. And did you really not see her?’
‘I have told you already half-a-dozentimes, Hannah, that I called twice at the Castle Warden Hotel to see her, but she was out each time, so was he, so there was nothing to be done but to return home. I did not relish the idea of wasting a Sunday in hanging about Dover, perhaps with the same result, when I might be at home with you and the chicks.’
‘Dear Henry,’ said his wife, ‘you are always so considerate of us. Still, for Jenny’s sake—if it were to lead to a reconciliation between her and her parents, I would give you up for even a longer time than that. You might have written her a letter, Henry, though.’
‘Ididwrite, just a scribble on my card, to say I had hoped to get her to lunch with me at the Tivoli Restaurant, when we could have talked the unhappy matter over together; indeed, I had ordered lunch for two, but she was not in and they couldn’t say when she would be in, so I was obliged reluctantly to come back without seeingher. But I don’t suppose it would have been of any use. What girl would give up her lover the day after her wedding? It was a mad scheme, and quixotic in me to set out on such an errand.’
‘No; don’t say that dear, for I am sure the old people will be glad hereafter, to think that you did all you could to bring them together.’
Henry Hindes started.
‘“Hereafter?”’ he echoed; ‘what do you mean by “hereafter?”’
‘Nothing, my dearest, only you surely do not think the Cramptons will hold out for ever, do you? And, when they are reconciled to Jenny and we are all happy again, I am sure they will be pleased to remember (and so will she), thatyouwere the first to try and bring them together.’
‘Oh, yes, yes! I see!’ replied her husband, as he passed his handkerchief over his brow.
‘Poor Mrs Crampton and Miss Bostock were over here this afternoon,’ continuedMrs Hindes. ‘They said they should go mad if they had no one to talk to about it. I don’t think they are half so angry with Jenny as her father is. Of course, they say she has been very naughty, and her papa is quite right not to forgive her in a hurry, but they evidently think in the long run, he will find he cannot live without her. “It would be ridiculous,” Mrs Crampton said, “and most wicked if they cast off their only child, however wrong she might be.” She is afraid it will be a long time before Mr Crampton forgives Mr Walcheren or consents to receive him at “The Cedars,” because of his being a Papist, but as for their darling, she declared if papa did not ask her up next week, she should go down to Dover to see her herself. I believe there is a great deal more in the old lady than we have given her credit for, Henry, and that she will have her own way in this matter, whatever her husband may say. But you are not feelingwell, dear, surely? I never remember to have seen you look so white before. Are you sure that you made a good dinner in town? Or will you have a brandy-and-soda? You must have something, your looks quite frighten me.’
Mr Hindes pulled himself together and sat straight up on the sofa.
‘Don’t be a fool,’ he began, but, seeing the consternation which his rudeness evoked, he added, ‘don’t worry me, Hannah. This has been a very fatiguing day, and, I may say, a very distressing one into the bargain. I cannot look on this matter in the same bright light as you do. Mrs Crampton may be very brave and determined, but she has her match in her husband, and I never knew him to go from his word yet. And the girl inherits her determination from him. I do not believe she was from home when I called to-day. I believe I was denied on purpose. They anticipated my errand, naturally, and declined to have a scene, which thereundoubtedly would have been if Mr Walcheren and I had been brought in contact. I believe the young man to be a regular scoundrel, and I should have told him so. After which, I suppose, I should never have spoken to either of them again.’
‘Oh, I don’t believe Jenny would really quarrel with you, whatever you said, Henry. She is too fond of you for that. She is an impetuous little creature and says a great deal more than she means, but she has often told me how highly she thinks of your friendship, and how she felt sure that, whatever happened,youwould always stick by her and help her out of all her scrapes.’
‘There, there, hold your tongue, that will do!’ exclaimed her husband, as he rose and walked slowly towards the door. ‘I want to see my boy before I sleep to-night,’ and he took his way, closely followed by his wife, to the nursery.
The two little girls were very pretty creatures, who combined the best points in both father and mother, but the boy, by one of these freaks of Nature which have been mentioned before, was like neither of them, but rejoiced in a particularly ugly mug of his own invention. He lay asleep in a magnificent cot which his father had had carved for him on the occasion of his birth, covered with a finely embroidered quilt; his black eyes were closed, but his little snub nose, swarthy complexion, and wide mouth, formed a sorry contrast to the lace and linen which enveloped them. No prince of the realm could have been more luxuriously surrounded than was Master Walter Hindes. His sisters were lying in their beds close by, their fair hair straying over their pillows, but their father hardly glanced at them as he crossed the room and bent over the carved cot at the further end. As he gazed at his sleeping son and heir, all the stolid feelings of despair which had occupied his mind during the day seemedto fade away and leave a wealth of passionate love behind them. He stooped down closely and laid his face against that of the slumbering child.
‘My son, my son,’ he murmured, but as the words left his lips, though heard by no one but himself, a vision of Jenny’s face rose before him—of Jenny’s mocking face, as she stood on the edge of the precipice and defied him—and, with a sudden impulse, he drew forth his silk handkerchief and wiped his kiss off his child’s brow.
‘What is that for, my dear?’ asked Mrs Hindes, with a low laugh.
‘A fly—a gnat—’ he stammered, ‘it might disturb Wally in his sleep,’ and he withdrew, at the same moment, from the child’s bed.
‘Won’t you look at Elsie and Laurie?’ whispered the mother, as she passed her arm through his, and pulled him gently towards the girls’ bed. ‘They have been such good maids all day; I took them with me for a drive to call on old Miss Buckstone this afternoon, and she wasdelighted with them; she wants us to let them go and spend a whole day with her.’
‘And not Wally?’ said Henry Hindes, quickly.
‘Well, she did not ask Master Wally, and she would regret it, I fancy, if she did. He is rather a handful away from home, dearest, you know, and too much used to have his own way; we really must not spoil him so much, or he may come to the same sad end as poor Jenny.’
‘What sad end? What do you mean by saying that?’ demanded Henry Hindes, for the second time that evening.
‘Why, marry without our consent, to be sure, Henry; what else could I mean? Though I hope her marriage may have a happy ending after all. I shall always believe in it and pray for it, until it comes to pass.’
‘Yes, yes, pray for it, Hannah,’ replied her husband. ‘I don’t believe much in prayer myself, but if anybody should ever be heard, it is you! You have been agood wife to me, my dear, I seem to see it more plainly to-night than I have ever done before.’
‘Ah! that’s because of this trouble about poor Jenny; it has regularly upset us all. Shall you go over and see the Cramptons to-night, Harry?’
‘No, no, I couldn’t. I have had enough bother already,’ replied Hindes, shrinking from the idea.
‘Of course, and perhaps they will not expect it; but you must write to them, for they will be anxiously expecting to hear some news of your journey.’
‘So they will,’ he answered, as if the idea had only just struck him; ‘well, I will not write, I will go,’ and he rose to get his hat and stick, then suddenly turning to Hannah, he added,—‘it’s a fine night, will you go with me?’
She looked surprised at the request, but answered readily,—
‘With pleasure, dear, if you will wait whilst I put on my hat and mantle.’
The brief walk to ‘The Cedars’ wasaccomplished in silence, but, as they reached the house, Hindes said to his wife,—
‘Don’t repeat anything I told you; leave me to tell my own story, I want to save them as much pain as possible.’
They found the three old people sitting together and looking very forlorn. Mr Crampton had recovered his temper of the morning, and was seated in an arm-chair, huddled up behind his newspaper, and professed to take no interest in the conversation that ensued. The two women flew at Henry Hindes as soon as he appeared.
‘Oh, dear Mr Hindes! did you see her? What news do you bring us? Do not keep us in suspense; we implore you! Is she well? What did she say?’
‘My dear friends,’ he answered, with assumed jocularity; ‘one at a time, if you please, and you must prepare yourselves for a disappointment. I haven’t seen her at all! I called twice at thehotel and they were out each time. What else could we expect? I’m afraid I went down on a wild goose chase. Such a lovely day! Where should a bride and bridegroom be but out of doors! I am afraid we must have patience till next week. Then, if Mr Crampton wishes it, I will go down again and make a second attempt to interview them.’
‘Oh, dear, dear; Iamdisappointed,’ sighed Mrs Crampton; ‘for I feel sure, if you had seen darling Jenny, that all would have been right!’
‘Don’t talk nonsense,’ interposed her husband. ‘How can anything be right again since she has elected to marry that scoundrel? The jade has made her own bed, and she may lie on it, and I hope it’ll be a deuced hard one, too!’
‘Don’t say that,’ replied Henry Hindes, quickly; ‘if it should be hard it is notyouthat will make it so! I scribbled a line to her on my card to say I hadbrought her a message from home, so, if I am not very much mistaken, you will receive another letter from her before long.’
‘Dear Mr Hindes, how can we ever thank you enough for the trouble you have taken on our behalf,’ said Mrs Crampton, as she slid her slender hand in his; ‘you are the truest and best friend we have. God bless you!’
But he could not stand the gentle pressure of her hand, nor the grateful intonation of her voice.
‘Don’t speak about it, please!’ he answered, pulling his hand out of hers almost roughly; ‘I wish—I wish I could have done more, but—but—Come! Hannah!’ he exclaimed, interrupting himself; ‘we must go home! It is late, and my two journeys have tired me. Good-night, Mrs Crampton! Good-night to everybody! we must leave the further discussion of the matter to another time,’ and, with a hasty nod all round, he left the room.
He did appear very tired when they reached their home, very exhausted and overdone, but his condition did not tend to give him a good night’s rest. On the contrary, long after Hannah had sunk into the dreamless sleep which waits on a good conscience joined to a good digestion, her unhappy husband lay wide awake staring into the darkness, and starting at every shadow that lurked in the corners of the room.