Mrs. Devereux having departed as impressively as might be expected of a lady with a sense of injury, there was little for Chevenix to do but to follow her; for whereas Mrs. Devereux considered herself badly treated by both parties in the house, the young man had to own that he had quarrelled with his host. “I laid for Nevile,” he told Sanchia, “and he don't let me forget it, either. He don't like commentators on his text—never did. So he's making Wanless too hot to hold me.”
Sanchia, with rueful eyes, feared that this was her fault. “I'm very sorry,” she said. “On all accounts I'm very sorry. I shall miss you. It was nice to see you again.”
“See me again,” cried Chevenix, “as soon as you please; but not here—unless you feel you can make up your mind to settle down, as we call it.”
She shook her head. “I don't think I can. I think it might be wicked—as things are.”
Chevenix raised his eyebrows. “That's you all over, my dear. Other people's Right is your Wrong. Why question the decrees of the police? They tell you that you may do what you please when you're married, but not before. But you won't have that. Of course, if you can't swallow Nevile, you can't—and there's an end of it. Only,” he added, “there must be an end of it. You're in a false position—now.”
“According to you I always was,” said the candid young lady, and made him change countenance. She shirked nothing.
“I did think so once; we all did, you know. Even your bare-footed friend, What's-his-name—”
“Mr. Senhouse.”
“Beg your pardon. Mr. Senhouse, of course. Well, he didn't take it sitting down, so to speak. Did he now?”
She considered. Her eyes grew gentle over the remembrances which this name always called up. “He knew that I was right. Oh, yes. I'm sure of that. But he was frightened. He lost his nerve because—”
“Because it was you, my dear,” said Chevenix briskly. She owned soberly to that.
“I shall see your people when I get to town,” he told her. “I shall make a point of seeing Vicky and your governor. And if I could drop in upon Senhouse, by George, I'd risk it. You don't know where he is just now, I suppose?”
“He was in the Black Forest when I last heard from him,” she said, “and was going to the Caucasus—to collect plants. That was a long time ago. Three years, I should think. He doesn't write now. He's married, you know.”
“Married?” he repeated, with open eyes. “I never knew that.”
“He married a Mrs. Germain—a widow.”
Chevenix stared, then slapped his leg. “Then that accounts for it! Didn't I tell you I met him when I went out to Brindisi to see Nevile off—met him on a steamer, with a pretty woman? That was Mrs. G.—his pretty woman. Good Lord, how rum!” He laughed, staring. Then, “What on earth did he do that for? She's not his sort. And I gave myself away—confoundedly—to each of 'em in turn. You'll never believe it, but I told him that she'd always been in love with Tristram Duplessis, and then I gave her to understand what had been the matter with old Senhouse.” He exploded, then grew mighty serious. “That's rather a bore. I was counting on him, you know. I thought you might want him.”
Sanchia made no reply. About the corners of her mouth there lurked the hint of a smile, which her wistful eyes belied. Chevenix watched her, but could make nothing of it.
“He was a rum 'un,” he continued. “The first time I saw him after you came up here, was when I ran against him by chance in Norfolk somewhere. Spread abroad he was—in flannels—all his things strewn about. He had a little fire going, and a little pot on it. Doing a job of tinkering, he said, to oblige a lady. There was the lady, too, if you please, sitting on a bank, smoking a clay. She had a beard, and an old wide-awake on her head. Senhouse introduced me, I remember. He told me he was on his way North—Wastwater, I think. A planting job up there—or something. Rum chap that! Oh, one of the very rummest! He asked me a lot about you. I didn't know how much he knew, so I went very pussy. The chap was as sharp as a needle. Spotted me. He said, 'My dear sir, I don't ask you what she is doing or where she is. I ask you if she is well.' Then I told him a lot—about you, and Nevile, and all this business. I let out, I tell you. I was fairly deep in the thing—you know that I felt pretty badly, because it was my fault that you ever knew Nevile at all. Don't you suppose I've ever forgiven myself that, Sancie; never you suppose it. No, no.”
He was much moved. She, by a sudden impulse, put out her hand to him. He wrung it, and said, “Thanks, Sancie; thanks, my dear.”
After a wrestling bout, he went on: “Do you know what that fellow said to me? I should like you to know it. Mind you, he was yours, body and soul, then—whatever he may be now. I think he's yours still, for that matter—but then! He never concealed it—so far as I know—from anybody. Now, listen to me.” He heard me out, never said anything till I'd done. Then he looked out over the marshes into the weather, and he said, “No harm ever came to a good woman. I shall see her again, crowned. Now, what do you say to that? Queer, isn't it?”
Sanchia blushed deeply and bent her head. Chevenix marked her confusion, and varied his tone to suit the case. He became practical. “Now, what'll he say about this new state of affairs, do you suppose?”
She lifted her head. “He will think me in the right.”
Chevenix shrugged. “There's going to be trouble,” he believed. “There's bound to be, just on that account. Nevile can be a brute when he's in the wrong, and knows it.”
Sanchia squared her jaw for trouble.
“He wants you back, you know, awfully—because you won't come. And the more he wants you the less he'll say so. That's the pride of the cobbler's dog. If he's uncomfortable, he'll scratch until he's comfortable again. And he says, 'If you can't get the best take the next best'; and runs about with Mrs. Wilmot at his heels, and is bored all the time. That's Nevile all over.” His eyes grew rounder. “You'll have to go, you know.”
She admitted that. “Yes, I must.” Then she sighed. “I don't want to go. There's such a lot to be done here.”
“Yes, yes, my dear,” said Chevenix with some irritation. “No doubt there is. But you can't afford it.”
He stammered out his next. “I should like to say, Sancie, that there's nobody on earth I respect—for whom I have more respect than for you. I don't understand your point of view—don't pretend to. But I know a fine thing when I see it. I'm not much of a chap, I know—no brains, and all that—simple, rotten chap, I know; but if we're not going to be friends I shall be unhappy.”
“We are, I hope,” she said, smiling kindly at him. She gave him her hand.
“Right, Sancie. Look here,” he said sternly. “I'll punch Nevile's head for you, if you like.”
“I shouldn't like it at all,” she assured him.
“We're old acquaintance, you know. He'd take it from me better than from anyone else—like Senhouse.”
“Mr. Senhouse would never touch him,” she was sure. He dropped in Chevenix's estimation immediately.
“Quaker, eh? I didn't know that.”
Sanchia explained. “He can't be changed in those sort of things. He would only use force against wild beasts.”
“Well,” cried Chevenix, “what do you think Nevile's going to be? My advice to you is to get out as soon as you can. And when you're in town, command me.” They parted firm friends.
Mrs. Wilmot remained, against her inmost judgment, against her maid Purcell's clear advice, for one more day. The night of Chevenix's departure she was there, and on the morrow was to be conveyed to the Trenchards', across the county. Wanless had her steadily in its score pair of eyes for twenty-four hours, as Purcell, her maid, had foreseen. “You are doing a strange thing, ma'am, permit me to say.” Purcell was an elderly spinster, who only required her own permission to say what she pleased. “You will be watched and reported. I suppose I am not in the servants' hall for nothing.” Mrs. Wilmot said feebly that she supposed she was there for meals. Purcell stiffened her wiry neck. “Meals, ma'am! In the best houses there's a second table. The butler may be there, and perhaps the valet. The lady's maid, of course. But where there's no lady, one may put up with the cook, though the cook in such houses is rarely a female. But the housekeeper here! A Miss Percival! Dines alone—or is said to—and the cook sits at the head of our table. This is no house for you, ma'am.”
The lady gave a little cry and hoisted a white shoulder. “Oh, Purcell, you are hurting me dreadfully. Do be more gentle with me. You are tearing my hair out by handfuls. What can it matter to you where Miss—where the housekeeper dines?”
“Ho,” said Purcell, “little or nothing—to me, ma'am. I cannot help my thoughts. But I keep them to myself. Not one word in this house—downstairs—of Miss Percival. Not one word. They keep their mouths shut, I promise you, and their eyes open. But what you will, you will. As for Mr. Ingram, the less I say the better.”
“Much the better,” said Mrs. Wilmot, fretfully wriggling under the comb.
That fine afternoon—April budding into May—this lady listened to Ingram in the garden. Of all sounds in the world the sweetest music for her ear was made by a man's voice embroidering the theme—“You are lovely, you are cruel, I die.” Ingram's descant on the golden phrase was querulous, after his manner. He took his lover's smarts, as one must suppose them, hardly. As thus: “You are lovely—but what's that to me, if I can't touch you? You sting my eyes, you inflame, you wound—or I think you do; here am I, tied by the leg to a dead woman—for dead to me she is, the she-cat Sanchia—looking at you because I can't help myself. You are soft and lax, you purr when I stroke you; I could make a pet of you. Was ever a man of property and station in such a case?”
“You are cruel—because, though I could put out my hand and take you, yet you expect me to do it. That's all over, for me. I've done that sort of thing—Sanchia knows. Now I must trouble you to advance. I'm sick of life on these terms: you could make life worth living. I must really trouble you: sorry to seem languid, but I am languid. You, with your fine sensibilities, ought to be the first to feel that; but no: you wait, looking exquisite, with eyes like blue-black water, and a mouth, a mouth like a flower. You soft gossamer beauty, I could crush you where you hover; but you won't come and be crushed. Certainly, you are cruel.”
I die. He avoided that. It was absurd. She thought for one moment that he hinted it when he said, shrugging off his ranges of hot-house—“Good of their kind, I fancy. But what good are they to me—a solitary beggar? I never go into 'em, you know. I thought I should take an interest when I had 'em put up. It looked like it—But now! who cares whether I go into 'em or not? Who cares whether I live or die?” There had been a pathetic ring there.
She had murmured a gentle rebuke; her eyes had brimmed, reproaching him. It was then that he had taken her hand, at the going-out from the fig-house. “Ruth,” he had said, “my kind, pretty Ruth.” Then he stooped his head and kissed her. Through three pairs of doors Glyde, in the peachhouse, had seen the act, and paused in his spraying. It was over in a minute. The pair strolled away and passed out of the walled-garden. Glyde, who had turned very white, compressed his lips and went back to his work—like a machine. Presently a light step made him start, look guardedly up, watch and wait. Sanchia, bare-headed, fresh and debonnaire, came in, like a stream of west wind. Her eyes beamed her health and pleasure. “Oh, Struan,” she said, “do come and see the Susianas. They are on the very point of opening. Do come. There's nobody about. They've gone down to the river.”
He could not face her, knowing what he knew. But he could not resist her either. “I'll come,” he said, and followed her.
She went gaily and eagerly. “You've never done so well with them as this year. I counted a dozen. Huge! I felt rather miserable this morning; I've been worried rather. I thought I would just see what they would do for me. They made me feel ashamed of myself. Their strength, their contentedness—just to grow, and be strong and well! Nothing more. What else ought we to want? Food—the sun—strength to grow! Isn't that enough?” She was echoing Senhouse here, and felt an added glow to remember it. He had been much in her thoughts since her last exchange with Chevenix.
Out of the warm brown soil, sheltered by the eaves, the iris clump made a brave show. Its leaves like grey scimitars, its great flower-stems like spears. Stiffly they reared, erect, smooth, well-rounded, and each was crowned with the swollen bud of promise. She displayed them proudly, she counted them, made him check her counting. She glowed over them, fascinated by their virile pride. Struan watched her more than her treasures. He was pale still, and bit his lip; had nothing to say.
She knelt and took one of the great stalks tenderly in her hand. A kind of rapture, was upon her, a mystic's ecstasy. She passed her closed hand up and down, feeling the stiff smoothness: she clasped and pressed the bursting bud. “Feel it, Struan, feel it,” she said. “It's alive.” He turned, shaking, away.
“They say,” she went on, caressing the bud, “that this is really the Lily of the Annunciation. It's a symbol, I've read. Gabriel held one in his hand when he stood before Our Lady. Did you know that?”
Glyde broke out. “Don't. Don't. Come away. I must speak to you—quickly—if I dare. Come away from here.”
He spoke fiercely, meaning what he said. Grave, sobered, she rose and followed him. He drew her after him to the yew-tree walk, to the enclosure at its end, where the leaden Faun capered and grinned. There he faced her.
“You must leave this place,” he said shortly. She looked to the ground.
“I know,” she replied in a low voice.
“Every moment you stop here insults you, puts shame upon you. Shame! And on you! It's not bearable. It's not to be suffered. I'll not suffer it for one.”
At this she lifted her head and reproved him by a look. It was mild, queenly mild, but not weak. Remote from him and his world, it said, “I can't hear you.”
He understood it so. “Who says I may not speak to you? Who else is to speak to you if I don't? How can you bear yourself and speak nothing? Is it natural?” He seemed on the point of angry tears; with a gesture infinitely kind she bore with him. Her hand just touched his arm.
“Dear Struan,” she said, “I know how nice you mean to be to me; I am very grateful to you. Of course I am going away. I have brought everything on myself, and must bear the consequences by myself. But I have been happy here, lately, and shall be most unhappy to go. I have so many friends here.” Then, after looking at him, reflecting, she added, “Of course I know that you care.”
“Care!” he cried out, scornfully. “Do you think that I've watched you, in and out, for three years without caring? Do you think that I have schooled myself to put up with—with him—without caring? And when I thought that he was coming back here to—to prove himself an honourable man—I thanked the Lord. Yes, I did that. I was ready to go when I knew he was coming back for that. I told you I would go—and I meant it. I should have cut my heart out and left it here, and gone away—clean away, glorifying and praising God. But—oh, it's hideous, hideous! You are discarded—you! Cast off—you! Peerless as you are—you! Oh, my Saviour, what's this?” He broke away, and sobbed. He dashed his arm over his eyes in a rage with himself. She was very gentle with him now.
She put her hand on his shoulder, and though he shook it off, put it there again. “You hurt me, Struan, really. If you are my friend, you shouldn't doubt me. I don't feel about it as you do, you know.”
He lifted his head at the challenge. “Then you should,” he said. “Dog that he is. He's insulting you. He had better have died than do as he does. Damn him, he shall pay for it.” She shook her head, smiling rather dismally.
“I can't talk to you any more if you don't understand why I can't talk to you,” she said. “There are things which friends cannot do for each other—which we have to do alone.”
The lad gasped and made a step towards her. He could not control himself—he shook.
“Not you—never you. I'll die for you—and you know it.” She looked at him full, then left him.
Mrs. Wilmot stayed for the better part of a week longer than she had intended, and then, perceiving by subtle but unmistakeable signs that she would wiselier go, went. To Wanless that had been a week of strain; the air was charged with trouble. One could not have pointed to anything—it was beyond the range of weathercock or glass; but everybody felt it. Sanchia, graver than she was wont to be, pushed herself sharply from duty to duty, and avoided sympathy by a dry manner. Or she was obtuse, affecting a foolish interest in trivialities. She never went into the garden, and saw nothing of young Glyde. Mrs. Benson, glooming thunder from her brows, Minnie with scare in her russet eyes turned Purcell's feasts into fasts. The wiry tire-woman, to do her justice, was as uncomfortable as any of them; but loyalty spurred her to feats of endurance undreamed of by any but servants. They, in a world of their own, where speech is rare, and skins rarer, where everything must be done by glances and hints, are perhaps more aware of themselves than any other children of men. They are for ever judging their betters; how shall they escape from judgment of each other? Judge not, says the Book; but if you pry for vice, what can you be yourself but a prying-ground? So Purcell agonised, and felt her very vitals under the hooks. The case was past praying for. She suffered and was dumb.
At last the delicate beauty, seeing Adonis faint in the chase—for Ingram, as a lover, was languid and gloomy—was helped into her lacy draperies, helped into the carriage, driven to the station; and Ingram, on horseback, rode by her side. He helped her into the train, stored her with magazines, kissed her mouth, revolted at her tears, and returned sulkily, with hard-rimmed eyes, at a foot's pace to his halls. Midway of the carriage-drive, instinctively, he tightened the rein; for Glyde stepped out of the undergrowth some ten paces ahead, and stood, waiting for him. He was dressed, not for the garden (in shirt-sleeves and baize), but in his blacks, and had a soft felt hat on his head, basin-shaped, with the brim over his eyes. “Now what the devil does that chap want, play-acting here?” was Ingram's enquiry of the Universe.
Glyde, as the horse drew level, came within touch of his flank, and told Ingram that he wished to speak with him.
“Eh?” said Ingram; and then, “oh, what a nuisance.” He felt himself injured. “Well, what is it, Glyde?”
Glyde said, “I wish to give notice, if you please.” The manner of address was curt and offensive.
“Oh, do you?” Ingram said. “Well, then, you had better do it in the proper way. See Miss Percival about it, will you?” He pressed his knees in as if to continue his way.
Glyde, however, stood by the horse's head.
“I have seen Miss Percival about it, Mr. Ingram,” he said. “I saw her—a week ago. And now I've got to see you about it.”
Ingram looked at him sharply—a sudden stiffening of the spine; spine stiff and eyes sharp, acting together. What he saw made him the more alert.
“What on earth do you mean?” he asked.
“I'll tell you,” said Glyde. “I'm free of your service from this minute, so I'll tell you. I say that you are a damned scoundrel, and that you know it.” A concentration of many grudges, kept very still, as by white heat, characterised this remarkable speech.
Ingram blenched. “By George, my man,” he said, “you'll have to make that good.”
Glyde said, “And I will. You have behaved, you are behaving, like a dog in this house; and you're to take a dog's wages.”
Ingram jumped in his saddle, rose in his stirrups. “By God,” he said, “by God—” but he said no more.
Glyde sprang up at him where he stood above his saddle, unseated—sprang up at him, took him by the shoulders and then dropping, pulled him off his horse. The freed animal, startled, kicked out, shook his head, and cantered gaily homewards. Glyde, having Ingram on the ground, took him by the collar of his jacket and belaboured him with his open hand. He cuffed him like a schoolboy, boxed him about the ears and face, shook him well, and then cast him into the young bracken of his own avenue. “There's for you, seducer,” he said; and that done, he walked steadily up the road towards the lodge gates.
Ingram, on his feet, in a rage which was the most manly he could have suffered, went after him at a run, and caught him up. “You blackguard,” he said, and panted. “Turn and fight with me.”
Glyde stopped. “I'll not fight with you, Ingram,” was his measured reply, “because I've that in me which would kill you. No mercy for you there. You can go as you please; you can send me to gaol or not; but you shan't get me hanged. I've something to do with my life—as much of it as you leave me; and I want it.” As Ingram glared at him, crimson now, with bulging eyes and teeth at lips, the other went on. “I'm going no farther to-day than my lodging. Your police will find me there when you send 'em. I shan't fight them, because I can't afford it; and I shan't fight you, dog that you are, for the same reason.” Ingram cursed, and sprang at him, but Glyde stiffened his arm and held him off. Master was no match for man, and felt no better for the knowledge of that. It did serve, however, to bring him to his senses. He saw that he was making an ass of himself.
“You'll hear more of this,” he said, and turned and walked rapidly back to the house.
Mortification inflamed his rage; his furious walking blew into it a sense of incurable injury. Injury, shocked pride, and animal heat altogether made a devil of him. He went directly to his own room, and rang the bell. “Send Miss Percival to me,” he told Minnie, “at once.”
Then he waited for her, with a face like a rat.
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