CHAPTER XII

The Harboroughs' and Talbot's invitation to the Manor had been for a

fortnight. Of that fortnight fully a week has already elapsed. To the

house which comes next in the Harboroughs' autumn programme John Talbot

has, by some strange oversight, not been asked. For this reason--to mark

her indignation at so flagrant a departure from the code of civilised

manners--Betty shows every symptom of an intention to throw up her

engagement.

But for once Mr. Harborough's love of sport exceeds his pliability. From

a house which possesses some of the best grousing on the Yorkshire

moors, not even the fact that his wife's admirer is not bidden to share

it can keep him; and what is more, as it is an old-fashioned house which

expects to see husband and wife together, he will make Betty go too.

Talbot's engagements are more elastic. By an easy readjustment of them

he might spare another seven days to his present quarters. It is true

that Lady Roupell has not as yet definitely asked him to prolong his

visit, but he knows that she is hardly aware whether he goes or stays;

and as to Freddy, he is always brimming over with an easy hospitality

which costs him nothing, and makes every one say what a good fellow he

is.

A whole week of absolute freedom, afternoons as well as mornings; a

whole week during which he need not pretend to be jealous--pretend to be

fond--pretend to be everything that he once was, and is not, and never

will be again! It is possible, too, that Jacob may have a relapse. In

that case, a whole week of mowing, of clipping edges, of picking

lavender, and gathering groundsel for the cage-birds! He knows that

there must always be eleven bits gathered, because there are eleven

birds, and she cannot bear one to be without. He smiles softly at this

tender-hearted puerility of hers.

And meanwhile, since she has made it clear to him that she does not

desire any more of his immediate company, he keeps himself away for two

whole days. What business has he, who can never claim any rights over

her, to expose her, by his assiduities, to the coarse gossip of a gaping

village?

But though his eye is not enriched by her, her presence and her words

are with him night and day. One of her sentences rings for ever in his

ears--'God gives us all a best, if we will only look for it.' Look for

it as he may, how can he find his best? and finding, how dare he take

hold of and make it his? His best! The best for him--does not it

apparently stare him in the face?

To shake off this chain that was once of flowers, and is now of cold

eating iron, and to walk the world a free man, free for honest work and

honest love. Ay, but to the riveting of that chain there went an oath,

from which the mere fact of his having grown tired of wearing its

fetters does not, in his opinion, release him. He is bound by an

engagement the more perversely sacred, because none can hold him to it.

Only by her with whom it was made can he be emancipated from it; and for

that emancipation how can he ask her? How can he go to her and say, 'I

have grown tired of you; I have grown fond of another woman. Let me go!'

It is only as a free gift from her hand that he can accept his

dismissal; and, of the improbability of her ever making him that gift,

his sinking spirit assures him. It is not only vanity and habit that tie

her to him. Deep in his heart he knows that, cold wife, partial mother,

bad friend as she is, to him she has been, and is, a fond and faithful

lover; that, if he were but to hold up his finger, she would toss to the

winds position, diamonds, toilettes, admirers, everything that for her

life holds of valuable, to face opprobrium and poverty by his side. He

knows that he and Franky are the two things in the world she really

loves, and for whom her foolish heart beats as truly under its worldly

'fluther' of lace and satin as did ever Cornelia's for her Gracchi, or

Lucretia's for her lord.

It is absolutely impossible that he can cut her adrift. Bitterly

unsatisfactory, wrong, senseless, and now oppressive as is the

connection that binds him to her, he must hope for none other, none

better, none dearer, as long as her and his lives last.

Such being the case, is not it the height of unwisdom to himself,

perhaps of injustice to that other woman, that he should seek her

company with the consciousness of a heart he dare not give, and a hand

he dare not offer?

This is the question that dings perpetually in his ears, as he lies down

and as he rises up, as he walks moody and alone in the park, as he

answers Lily's startling questions, and evades her broad hints; or

listens to Betty's anathemas of her man-milliner, or her petulant

lamentations over the expected loss of his society during the ensuing

week.

He has not yet answered it on the third day after his last visit to the

little Red House, when he meets Peggy in the lane, staggering under a

philanthropic load of framed lithographs, which he helps her to carry to

the workhouse, and to hang up on the walls, whose dreary monotony of

whitewash they agreeably and gaudily vary. He has not yet answered it

the next day, when he carries a message to her from Lady Roupell, a

message which must be preposterously long, since it takes two hours and

a half to deliver; he has not yet answered it on the day after, nor on

the day after that again, which is the last of the Harboroughs' visit.

On the afternoon of that day some business has brought Peggy reluctantly

up to the Manor, where she had not appeared for above a week. John and

Lily, as is but civil, escort her home again! It is true that Miss

Harborough has had a near shave, at the moment of setting off, of being

recaptured by her nurse--a danger from which she has been rescued only

by her own presence of mind, a presence of mind made all the acuter by

her excessive desire to flirt with John, and to overhear

what--unintended for Lilyan ears--he has to say to his companion.

'Oh, Miss Lambton!' cries she, pulling down Peggy's face in order to

whisper importantly into her ear; 'do not you think I had better come

with you? There are the stiles! I do not see,' with an affectation of

excessive delicacy, 'how you are to get over the stiles with only John

Talbot!'

Her plea is admitted as sound.

They all three spend a long dawdling afternoon at the Little House. They

take the fox out for a run in the field on his chain; and in his joy he

gallops round and round, tying all their legs together, even throwing

Miss Harborough down--an accident which fills her with delight. He

offers to play with Mink, who growls, and receives his advances with

such hauteur that he has to be reminded of the humility of his own

beginnings, and of the Dogs' Home. The snubbed fox throws himself on the

sward and pants, swishing his brush from side to side like a cross cat.

Then they restore him to his prison, at which he opens his red mouth

wide, making little angry wild noises.

After they have done with the fox, they have still the garden to water;

the kittens in the hayloft--to which they ascend, on the joint

invitation of Alfred and Lily--to see; peas to throw to the pretty prosy

pigeons, long-windedly courting in fans and pouts, and prism-coloured

throats on the dove-cot roof. And when at length her guests take their

tardy leave, Peggy is insensibly lured, step by step, into accompanying

them more than half-way home.

Into what could not such an evening lure one? Through a barley-field

first; all the pale spears slanting westward in the level sun; then a

field of old pasture, knapweeds purpling, little hawkweed clocks telling

the time in fairyland, loitering buttercups. Then a hedgerow with woody

nightshade and long blue vetch; then the green night of a little wood.

Though the sun is nearing his declension, the delicious smell that all

day long he has compelled the grass and the flowers to bring him, in

odorous tribute, still tarries, making the air rich--_acre_, as the

French say; a word for which there is no precise English equivalent. On

the farther side of the tiny forest they part; if so short a severance

can indeed be called to part. Are not they to meet again in an hour or

so, at that dinner-party at the Manor, to which both Peggy and Prue are

bidden? and even if it were not so, have not they to-morrow, and again

to-morrow, and yet to-morrow again, to look forward to? This being so,

why is it that such a curious last-time feeling clings to Talbot as he

crosses the park with his little chattering comrade, making him turn his

head again and again in futile seeking towards the sylvan gate whence

his tall and white-gowned friend has already disappeared?

On entering the house, and going through an upper passage to his room,

he is accosted by Betty's maid, who tells him that her ladyship's

headache is better; that she is on the sofa in Lady Roupell's boudoir,

and that she has expressed a wish to see him as soon as he comes in. He

follows with a guilty conscience and a sinking heart. Has he for one

moment of his long blissful afternoon remembered the headache, to which

alone he owed his freedom; the headache genuine enough--though it took

its birth from mortification and spleen--to keep her stretched in pain

and solitary darkness the livelong day? She is in semi-darkness still,

her windows closed (a headache always makes her chilly); not a glint of

apricot cloud or suave blue sky-field reaching her. A sense of pity,

largely touched with remorse, comes over him, as he takes her hand, and

says softly:

'You are better at last? Come, that is well!'

She leaves her hand, languid and rather feverish, lying in his.

'It is time that I should be better!' she says, with an impatient sigh.

'What a day I have had!--our last day!' There is such genuine grief and

regret in the accent with which she pronounces the three final words

that his remorse deepens; but that increase of self-reproach does not

make it the least more possible to him to echo her lamentation. 'I asked

Julie how often you had been to inquire after me,' continues she,

turning her eyes, innocent to-day of their usual black smouches,

interrogatively upon him; 'she said she could not remember.'

Talbot blesses the wisely ambiguous maid; and, to hide his confusion,

stoops his head over the hand, which he still--since it is evidently

expected of him--holds.

'I wish my inquiries could have made you better,' says he, taking--and

feeling with shame that he is taking--a leaf out of Julie's book. 'I am

afraid that you will not be able to come down to dinner.'

'Oh, but I shall!' returns she sharply. 'Why do you think I shall not?

Is the wish father to the thought?'

He laughs constrainedly, taking refuge in what is often the best

disguise, truth.

'Yes, that is it!'

'Milady would never forgive me,' pursues she, rolling her head

restlessly about upon the cushions, 'if I left her to struggle with the

natives alone; I am sure I have not the heart to struggle with any one!

Oh, how miserable I am! John!'--laying her other hand on his, and

clasping it between both hers--'how _am_ I to get through the next

fortnight?'

Talbot wonders whether the burning blush that he feels searing him all

through his body shows in his face, whether he looks the double-faced

cur that he feels. Probably he does not, or else the faint light helps

him; for she goes on unsuspiciously:

'You have never told me where you have decided to go to-morrow--to the

Mackintoshes or the Delaneys? If you ask my advice,' with a rather

showery smile, 'I should say the Delaneys; for you will be less well

amused there, and have more time to think of me! Remember that you have

not given me your address; give it me now, lest you should forget it!'

The tug of war has come. He would rather have put it off until her

headache was gone--until he could meet her upon more equal terms. What

chance has a man against a woman lying on a sofa with her eyes full of

tears, and a handkerchief wetted with eau-de-Cologne tied round her

aching brows? None. His hesitation is so obvious that she cannot but

notice it.

'Well,' she says, with some sharpness, 'why do not you answer me? Where

is the difficulty?'

He laughs artificially.

'The difficulty,' he says, trying to speak carelessly--'the difficulty

is that there is no difficulty. You have my address already. I am going

to stay here!'

He has deposited his box of dynamite: he has now only to wait for the

explosion. But for twenty or thirty heart-beats she remains entirely

silent, and, at the end of that time, only repeats his own words:

'To--stay--here!'

'Yes.'

Another silence. He begins to wish that the explosion would come. It

would at least be better than this. She has sat up on her sofa, and

pushed back the wet bandage from her damp and straightened hair. She has

neither belladonna nor rouge. He has always strongly deprecated and even

reviled the use of either; and yet he cannot help thinking, though he

hates himself for so thinking, that she looks old and haggard without

them.

'And this,' says she at last, speaking between her teeth in a low voice,

'is your delicate way of intimating to me that I am superseded!'

He has risen to his feet. They stand staring each at each in the

twilight room, the one not whiter than the other. How much worse it is

than he had feared! Close outside the window a robin is piping blithely.

A stupid wonder flashes across his mind as to whether he is one of those

for whom Peggy scatters crumbs on her window-sill.

'I think that that is a question not worth answering,' he replies,

trying to speak calmly.

'But all the same it must be answered,' rejoins she, with symptoms of

rising excitement. 'You shall not leave the room until it is answered.'

'Will you please to repeat it then in a more intelligible form?' asks

he, with a forced composure.

For a moment she glares at him with dead-white face and shining eyes;

then, rising from her sofa, flings herself into his arms.

'How can you expect me to say such words twice?' cries she, bursting

into a tempest of tears; 'but if it is so, tell me the truth. You have

always blamed me for not speaking truth; learn your own lesson: tell me

the truth. Is it all over--all at an end?'

She has withdrawn herself again from him, and now stands holding him at

arm's length, a hand upon each shoulder, her dimmed eyes fixed upon his

face, searching for the least sign of faltering or evasion upon it. But

she finds none.

'You know,' he answers, in a low quiet voice, whose gentleness is the

cover for a bottomless depression, 'that there will never be an end to

it until you make one.'

Something in his tone dries her tears.

'Then why do you want to stay here?' asks she, her voice still shaking

from her late gust of passion.

He is silent. Her words find an echo in his own heart. Why indeed? Seen

in the hell-light of his renewed bondage, his plan for that one little

halcyon week ahead seems to him to have been a monstrosity of folly and

unreason. How could he, for even a moment, have entertained it?

Betty has sat down again upon the sofa; and wiping rather viciously the

eyes in which an ireful light is flashing, she says softly, as if she

were saying something rather pleasant:

'I am sure you would not wish to hurt _her_, or blight _her_ young

affections; and yet it seems to me that you are on the high-road to do

both.'

He writhes, but he could not speak, if flaying alive were to be the

penalty of his dumbness.

'I do not think'--still in that silky key--'that you have any right to

turn the poor thing's head with attentions such as she has probably

never received before.'

At that he laughs out loud, and insultingly:

'Turn her head! Ha! ha!'

'It is very amusing, no doubt,' rejoins Betty, her false suavity giving

way to a most real fury, breast heaving, and colour rising, 'and such

hilarity becomes you extremely; but, as she has probably never seen any

one more attractive than the village apothecary, it would be no great

excess of coxcombry on your part to suppose that you might be his

successful rival.'

But this taunt fails to extract any reply. Exasperated by her insuccess

in driving him into angry speech, she goes on:

'I do not think you have had to complain of her rigour; how many

days'--with an innocent air of inquiry--'has she allowed you to mow her

lawn, and milk her cow, and feed her pig for her? Six? Seven? I suppose

you have been with her to-day, too?'

At that he unwisely abandons his fortress of silence, and speaks:

'You had better ask Lily; you have set her on more than once as a spy.

Have your child in and ask her!'

To this cold and withering taunt her own weaker sarcasms succumb; and

again abandoning all self-control, she bursts into an agony of weeping,

burying her head in the sofa-cushions, and convulsed from head to foot

by her sobs.

'Is it any wonder,' she moans, 'that I do not want to see the only thing

I have in the world go from me? What am I saying?'--pulling herself up

suddenly--'how dare I say the only thing? have not I my Franky? I shall

always have my Franky!'

The grief of her tone is so poignant and so real that his heart softens

to her, despite her former gibes. He lays his hand upon her shoulder.

'What is all this about?' he asks kindly. 'You know as well as I do that

you will have me--such as I am--as long as you choose to keep me!'

'Then you will not stay here?' cries she precipitately, quitting her

desperate posture, and springing back with startling suddenness into

life and animation again; 'then you will go to-morrow?'

There is a pause. He walks to the window. Through it there comes the

peaceful sound of bleating sheep; and the distant sharp bark of a little

dog. Can it be Mink? He has a sharp bark. Poor little Mink! He will

probably never see Mink again. And to-morrow, according to Peggy, Mink

had promised to tell them all about the Dogs' Home!

He smiles transiently at the recollection of her childish jest. How many

things they were to have done to-morrow! Then he walks slowly back from

the window and says:

'I will go to-morrow!'

Perhaps there is something in the tone of this concession which takes

away from the value of it, for Betty begins to sob again; this time more

in wrath than in sorrow.

'I do not think you need make such a favour of it; I do not think it is

much to ask, considering all things--considering how I have

com--com--compromised my reputation for your sake for the last five

years!' cries she hysterically.

He does not defend himself; only a thought, whose want of generosity

shocks him, flashes across his mind, that that was already a _fait

accompli_ when he had first made her acquaintance.

'_We_ know that there is no harm in our friendship,' pursues she, a

slight red staining her tear-washed cheeks; 'but nobody else knows it.

The world is always only too pleased to think the worst, and in one

sense'--again mastered by her emotion--'it is right! I would have given

up _anything--everything_ for you--you know I would! and you--you--will

give up _nothing_ for me, not even such a trifle as this!'

Once again pity gets the upper hand of him; but a pity crossed by such a

bottomless regret and remorse at having let himself slide into this

tangled labyrinth of wrong, when honour and dishonour have changed

coats, and he does not know which is which, as the Lost Souls in Hell,

if such there be, might feel in looking back upon their earthly course.

'You are right,' he says; 'we must do the best we can for each other! We

must not make life harder for one another than it already is. I will do

what you wish! I ought! I will! Such a trifle, too!'