“And now you understand, I think, sir?”
There were spurs imaginary jingling at Rolph’s heels, and the steel scabbard of a sabre banging about his legs, as he turned and strode away, whistling.
And then there was silence amidst the tall columnar pines, which looked as if carved out of black marble, save where the moonlight streamed through, cutting them sharply as it were, leaving some with bright patches of light, and dividing others into sections of light and darkness. There was not even a sigh now in the dark branches overhead, not a sound but the heavy, hoarse breathing of Moray Alleyne, as he stood there fighting against the terrible emotion that made him quiver.
He had listened to the coarsely brutal language of this man of athleticism, borne his taunts, his insults, as beneath him to notice, for there was another and a greater mental pain whose contemplation seemed to madden him till his sufferings were greater than he could bear.
If it had been some bright, talented man – officer, civilian, cleric, anything, so that he had been worthy and great, he could have borne it; but for Glynne, whose sweet eyes seemed day by day to be growing fuller of wisdom, whose animated countenance was brightening over with a keener intelligence that told of the workings of a mind whose latent powers were beginning to dawn, to be pledged to this overbearing brutal man of thews and sinews, it was a sacrilege; and, after standing there, forgetful of his own wrongs, the insults that he had borne unmoved, he suddenly seemed to awaken to his agony; and, uttering a bitter cry, he flung himself face downwards upon the earth.
“Glynne, my darling – my own love!”
There was none to hear, none to heed, as he lay there clutching at the soft loose pine needles for a time, and then lying motionless, lost to everything – to time, to all but his own misery and despair.
Volume Two – Chapter Two.
Attraction
A few moments later there was a faint rustling noise as of some one hurrying over the fir needles, and a lightly-cloaked figure came for an instant into the moonlight, but shrank back in among the tree-trunks.
“Rob!” was whispered – “Rob, are you there?” Alleyne started up on one elbow, and listened as the voice continued, —
“Don’t play with me, dear. I couldn’t help being late. Father seemed as if he would never go out.”
There was a faint murmur among the heads of the pines, and the voice resumed.
“Rob, dear, don’t – pray don’t. I’m so nervous and frightened. Father might be watching me. I know you’re there, for I heard you whistle.”
Alleyne remained motionless. He wanted to speak but no words came; and he waited as the new-comer seemed to be listening till a faintly-heard whistling of an air came on the still night air from somewhere below in the sandy lane.
“Ah!” came from out of the darkness, sounding like an eager cry of joy; and she who uttered the cry darted off with all the quickness of one accustomed to the woods, taking almost instinctively the road pursued by Rolph, and overtaking him at the end of a few minutes.
“Rob – Rob!” she panted.
“Hush, stupid!” he growled. “You’ve come then at last. See any one among the trees?”
“No, dear, not a soul. Oh, Rob, I thought I should never be able to come to-night.”
“Humph! Didn’t want to, I suppose.”
“Rob!”
Only one word, but the tone of reproach sounded piteous.
“Why weren’t you waiting, then? – You were not up yonder, were you?” he added sharply.
“No, dear. I’ve only just got here. Father seemed as if he would never go out to-night, and it is a very, very long way to come.”
“Hullo! How your heart beats. Why, Judy, you must go into training. You are out of condition. I can feel it thump.”
“Don’t, Rob, pray. I want to talk to you. It’s dreadfully serious.”
“Then I don’t want to hear it.”
“But you must, dear. Remember all you’ve said. Listen to me, pray.”
“Well, go on. What is it?”
“Rob, dear, I’m in misery – in agony always. You’re staying again at Brackley, and after all you said.”
“Man can’t do as he likes, stupid little goose; not in society. I must break it off gently.”
There was a low moan out of the darkness where the two figures stood, and, added to the mysterious aspect of the lane where all was black below, but silvered above by the moonbeams.
“What a sigh,” whispered Rolph.
“Rob, dear, pray. Be serious now. I want you to listen. You must break all that off.”
“Of course. It’s breaking itself off. Society flirtation, little goose; and if you’ll only be good, all will come right.”
“Oh, Rob, if you only knew!”
“Well, it was your fault. If you hadn’t been so cold and stand-offish, I shouldn’t have gone and proposed to her. Now, it must have time.”
“You’re deceiving me, dear; and it is cruel to one who makes every sacrifice for your sake.”
“Are you going to preach like this for long? Because if so, I’m off.”
“Rob!” in a piteous tone. “I’ve no one to turn to but you, and I’m in such trouble. What can I do if you forsake me. I came to-night because I want your help and counsel.”
“Well, what is it?”
“Father would kill me if he knew I’d come.”
“Ben Hayle’s a fool. I thought he was fond of you.”
“He is, dear. He worships me; but you’ve made me love you, Rob, and though I want to obey him I can’t forget you. I can’t keep away.”
“Of course you can’t. It’s nature, little one.”
“Rob, will you listen to me?”
“Yes. Be sharp then.”
“Pray break that off then at once at Brackley, and come to father and ask him to let us be married directly.”
“No hurry.”
“No hurry? – If you knew what I’m suffering.”
“There, there; don’t worry, little one. It’s all right, I tell you. Do you think I’m such a brute as to throw you over? See how I chucked Madge for your sake.”
“Yes, dear, yes; I do believe in you,” came with a sob, “in spite of all; and I have tried, and will try so hard, Rob, to make myself a lady worthy of you. I’d do anything sooner than you should be ashamed of me. But, Rob, dear – father – ”
“Hang father!”
“Don’t trifle, dear. You can’t imagine what I have suffered, and what he suffers. All those two long weary months since we left the lodge it has been dreadful. He keeps on advertising and trying, but no one will engage him. It is as if some one always whispered to gentlemen that he was once a poacher, and it makes him mad.”
“Well, I couldn’t help my mother turning him off.”
“Couldn’t help it, dear! Oh, Rob!”
“There you go again. Now, come, be sensible. I must get back soon.”
“To her!” cried Judith, wildly.
“Nonsense. Don’t be silly. She’s like a cold fish to me. It will all come right.”
“Yes, if you will come and speak to my father.”
“Can’t.”
“Rob, dear,” cried Judith in a sharp whisper; “you must, or it will be father’s ruin. He has begun to utter threats.”
“Threats? He’d better not.”
“It’s in his despair, dear. He says it’s your fault if he, in spite of his trying to be honest, is driven back to poaching.”
“He’d better take to it! Bah! Let him threaten. He knows better. Nice prospect for me to marry a poacher’s daughter.”
“Oh, Rob, how can you be so cruel. You don’t know.”
“Know what? Does he threaten anything else?”
“Yes,” came with a suppressed sob.
“What?”
“I dare not tell you. Yes, I must. I came on purpose to-night. Just when I felt that I would stay by him and not break his heart by doing what he does not want.”
“Talk sense, silly. People’s hearts don’t break. Only horses’, if you ride them too hard.”
Judith uttered a low sob.
“Well, what does he say?”
“That you are the cause of all his trouble, and that you shall make amends, or – ”
“Or what?”
“I dare not tell you,” sobbed the girl, passionately. “But, Rob, you will have pity on him – on me, dear, and make him happy again.”
“Look here,” said Rolph, roughly. “Ben Hayle had better mind what he is about. Men have been sent out of the country for less than that, or – well, something of the kind. I’m not the man to be bullied by my mother’s keeper, so let’s have no more of that. Now, that’s enough for one meeting. You wrote to Aldershot for me to meet you, and the letter was sent to me at Brackley, of course. So I came expecting to find you pretty and loving, instead of which your head’s full of cock-and-bull nonsense, and you’re either finding fault or telling me about your father’s bullying. Let him bully. I shall keep my promise to you when I find it convenient. Nice tramp for me to come at this time of night.”
“It’s a long walk from Lindham here in the dark, Rob, dear,” said the girl.
“Oh, yes, but you’ve nothing to do. There, I’ll think about Ben Hayle and his getting a place, but I don’t want you to be far away, Judy. – Now, don’t be absurd. – What are you struggling about? – Hang the girl, it’s like trying to hold a deer. Judy! You’re not gone. Come here. I can see you by that tree.”
There was a distant rustling, and Captain Rolph uttered an oath.
“Why, she has gone!”
It was quite true. Judith was running fast in the direction of the cottages miles away in the wild common land of Lindham, and Rolph turned upon his heel and strode back toward Brackley.
“Time I had one of the old man’s brandy-and-sodas,” he growled. “Better have stopped and talked to my saint. Ben Hayle going back to poaching! Threaten me with mischief if I don’t marry her! I wish he would take to it again.”
Rolph walked on faster, getting excited by his thoughts, and, after hurrying along for a few hundred yards, he said aloud, —
“And get caught.”
“Now for a run,” he added, a minute later. “This has been a pleasant evening and no mistake. Ah, well, all comes right in the end.”
Volume Two – Chapter Three.
A Search
About a couple of hours earlier there was a ring at the gaunt-looking gate at the Firs, and that ring caused Mrs Alleyne’s Eliza to start as if galvanised, and to draw her feet sharply over the sanded floor, and beneath her chair.
Otherwise Eliza did not move. She had been darning black stockings, and as her feet went under her chair, she sat there with the light – a yellow and dim tallow dip, set up in a great tin candlestick – staring before her, lips and eyes wide open, one hand and arm covered with a black worsted stocking, the fingers belonging to the other arm holding up a stocking needle, motionless, as if she were so much stone.
Anon, the bell, which hid in a little pent-house of its own high up on the ivied wall, jangled again, and a shock of terror ran through Eliza’s body once more, but only for her to relapse into the former cataleptic state.
Then came a third brazen clanging; and this time the kitchen door opened, and Eliza uttered a squeal.
“Why, Eliza,” cried Lucy, “were you asleep? The gate bell has rung three times. Go and see who it is.”
“Oh, please, miss, I dursn’t,” said Eliza with a shiver.
“Oh, how can you be so foolish!” cried Lucy. “There, bring the light, and I’ll come with you.”
“There – there was a poor girl murdered once, miss,” stammered Eliza, “at a gate. Please, miss, I dursn’t go.”
“Then I must go myself,” cried Lucy. “Don’t be so silly. Mamma will be dreadfully cross if you don’t come.”
Eliza seemed to think that it would be better to risk being murdered at the gate than encounter Mrs Alleyne’s anger, so she started up, caught at the tin candlestick with trembling hand, and then unbolted the kitchen door loudly, just as the bell was about to be pulled for the fourth time.
“You speak, please, miss,” whispered the girl. “I dursn’t. Pray say something before you open the gate.”
“Who’s there,” cried Lucy.
“Only me, Miss Alleyne,” said a well-known voice. “I was coming across the common, and thought I’d call and see how your brother is.”
Lucy eagerly began to unfasten the great gate, but for some reason, probably best known to herself, she stopped suddenly, coloured a little, and said – almost sharply, —
“Quick, Eliza, why don’t you open the gate?”
Thus adjured, the maiden unfastened the ponderous lock, and admitted Philip Oldroyd, who shook hands warmly with Lucy, and then seemed as if he were about to change her hand over to his left, and feel her pulse with his right.
“We always have the gate locked at dusk,” said Lucy, “the place stands so lonely, and – ”
“You feel a little nervous,” said Oldroyd, smiling, as they walked up to the house.
“Oh, no!” said Lucy, eagerly; “I never think there is anything to mind, but the maid is terribly alarmed lest we should be attacked by night. My brother is out,” she hastened to say, to fill up a rather awkward pause. “He is taking one of your prescriptions,” she added, archly.
“Wise man,” cried Oldroyd, as they passed round to the front door and went in. “I suppose he will not be long?”
“Oh, no!” said Lucy, eagerly; “if you will come in and wait, he is sure to be back soon.”
Then she hesitated, and hastened to speak again, feeling quite uncomfortable and guilty, as if she had been saying something unmaidenly – as if she had been displaying an eagerness for the young doctor to stop – when all the time she told herself, it was perfectly immaterial, and she did not care in the least.
“Of course I can’t be sure,” she added, growing a little quicker of speech; “but I think he will not be long. He has gone round by the pine wood.”
“Then I should meet him if I went that way,” said Oldroyd, who had also become rather awkward and hesitant.
“Oh, yes; I think you would be sure to meet him,” cried Lucy eagerly.
“Thanks,” said Oldroyd, who felt rather vexed that she should be eager to get rid of him; “then perhaps I had better go.”
“But of course I can’t tell which way he will come back,” cried Lucy, hastily; “and you might miss him.”
“To be sure, yes,” said Oldroyd, taking heart again; “so I might, and then not see him at all.” And he looked anxiously at Lucy’s troubled face over the tin candlestick, ornamented with drops of tallow that had fallen upon its sides, while Eliza slowly closed the front door, and gazed with her lips apart from one to the other.
Lucy was all repentance again, for in a flash her conscience had told her that she had seemed eager, and pressed the doctor to stay.
An awkward pause ensued, one which neither the visitor nor Lucy seemed able to break. Each tried very hard to find something to say, but in vain.
“How stupid of me!” thought Lucy, angrily.
“What’s come to me?” thought Oldroyd; the only idea beside being that he ought to ask Lucy about her health, only he could not, for it would seem so professional. So he looked helplessly at her, and she returned his look half indignantly, while the candle was held on one side, and Eliza gaped at them wonderingly.
Mrs Alleyne ended the awkward pause by opening the dining-room door, and standing there framed like a silhouette.
“Oh, is it you, Mr Oldroyd?” she said, quietly.
“Yes, good evening,” exclaimed the young doctor, quickly, like one released from a spell; “as I told Miss Alleyne here, I was coming close by, and I thought I would call and see how Mr Alleyne is.”
“We are very glad to see you,” said Mrs Alleyne, with grave courtesy. “Pray come in, Mr Oldroyd,” and Lucy uttered a low sigh of satisfaction.
“Of course this is not a professional visit, Mrs Alleyne,” said Oldroyd; and then he wished he had not said it, for Mrs Alleyne’s face showed the lines a little more deeply, and there was a slight twitching about her lips.
“I am sorry that Mr Alleyne has not yet returned,” she said, and as soon as they were seated, she smiled, and tried to remove the restraint that had fallen upon them in the dreary room.
“I am very grateful to you, Mr Oldroyd,” she said; “my son is wonderfully better.”
“And would be in a position to laugh all doctors in the face, if he would carry out my prescriptions a little more fully,” said Oldroyd. “But we must not be too hard upon him. I think it is a great thing to wean him from his studies as we have.”
“You dreadfully conceited man,” thought Lucy. “How dare you have the shamelessness to think you have done all this! I know better. No man could have done it – there.”
“Did you speak, Miss Alleyne?” said Oldroyd, looking round suddenly, and finding Lucy’s eyes intent upon him.
“I? No,” cried Lucy, flushing; and then biting her lips with annoyance, because her cheeks burned, “I was listening to you and mamma.”
“It is quite time Moray returned,” said Mrs Alleyne, anxiously glancing towards the closed window.
“Yes, mamma; we shall hear his step directly,” said Lucy.
“He does not generally stay so long,” continued Mrs Alleyne, going to the window to draw aside the curtain and look out. “Did he say which way he would go, Lucy?”
“Yes, mamma. I asked him, and he said as far as the fir wood.”
“Ah, yes,” responded Mrs Alleyne; “he says he can think so much more easily among the great trees – that his mind seems able to plunge into the depths of the vast abysses of the heavens.”
“I don’t believe he does think about stars at all,” thought Lucy. “I believe he goes there to stare across the park, and think about Glynne.”
A feeling of elation made the girl’s heart glow, and her eyes sparkle, as she more and more began to nurse this, one of the greatest ideas of her heart. It was an exceedingly immoral proceeding on her part, for she knew that Glynne was engaged to be married to Captain Rolph; but him she utterly detested, she told herself, and that it was an entire mistake; in fact, she assured herself that it would be an act of the greatest benevolence, and one for which she would receive the thanks of both parties all through her lifetime – if she could succeed in breaking off the engagement and marrying Glynne to her brother.
The conversation went on, but it was checked from time to time by Mrs Alleyne again rising to go to the window, and this movement on her part always had the effect of making Lucy’s eyes drop immediately upon her work; and, though she had been the minute before frankly meeting Oldroyd’s gaze in conversation, such remarks as he addressed to her now were answered with her look averted, as she busied herself over her sewing.
“Moray never stayed so late as this before,” said Mrs Alleyne, suddenly, turning her pale face on those who were so wrapped in their own thoughts that they had almost forgotten the absentee.
“No, mamma,” cried Lucy, reproaching herself for her want of interest; “he is an hour later.”
“It is getting on towards two hours beyond his time,” cried Mrs Alleyne, in despairing tones. “I am very uneasy.”
“Oh, but he has only gone a little farther than usual, mamma, dear,” cried Lucy; “pray don’t be uneasy.”
“I cannot help it, my child,” cried Mrs Alleyne; “he who is so punctual in all his habits would never stay away like this. Is he likely to meet poachers?”
“Let me go and try if I can meet him,” said Oldroyd, jumping up. “Poachers wouldn’t touch him.”
“Yes, do, Mr Oldroyd. I will go with you,” cried Lucy, forgetting in her excitement that such a proposal was hardly etiquette. But neither mother nor daughter, in their anxiety, seemed to have the slightest idea of there being anything extraordinary at such a time.
“It won’t do,” Oldroyd had been saying to himself, “even if it should prove that I’m not a conceited ass to think such things, and she – bless her sweet, bright little face – ever willing to think anything of me, I should be a complete scoundrel to try and win her. Let me see, what did I make last year by my practice? Twenty-eight pounds fifteen, and nine pounds of it still owing, and likely to be owing, for I shall never get a sou. Then this year, what shall I take? Well, perhaps another five pounds on account of her brother’s illness. I must be mad.”
“Yes,” he said, after a pause, “I must be mad, and must have been worse to come down here to this out-of-the-way place, where there is not the most remote chance of my getting together a practice. No, it won’t do, I must play misogynist, and be as cold towards the bright little thing as if I were a monk.”
As these thoughts ran through his mind, others came to crowd them out – thoughts of a snug little home, made bright by a sweet face looking out from door or window to see him coming back after a long, tiring round. What was enough for one was enough for two – so people argued. That was right enough as regarded a house, but doubtful when it came to food, and absurd if you went as far as clothing.
“No, it would never do,” he said to himself, “I could not take her from her home to my poor, shabby place.”
But as he thought this he involuntarily looked round Mrs Alleyne’s dining-room, that lady being at the window, and he could not help thinking that, after all, his cottage-like home was infinitely preferable to this great, gaunt, dingy place, where anything suggestive of any comfort was out of the question.
“Yes, she would be more comfortable,” he muttered; “and – there, I’m going mad again. I will not think such things.”
Just then Lucy came in ready for starting, and all Philip Oldroyd’s good intentions might have been dressed for departure as well. Certainly, they all took flight, as he followed the eager little maiden into the hall.
“Pray – pray let me have news of him directly you find him, Mr Oldroyd,” cried Mrs Alleyne, piteously. “Run back yourself. You cannot tell what I suffer. Something must have happened.”
“You shall know about him directly, Mrs Alleyne,” replied Oldroyd. “But pray make your mind easy, nothing can have happened to him here. The worst is that he may have gone to the Hall.”
“No, he would not have gone there without first letting me know.”
“Don’t come to the gate, mamma,” cried Lucy. “There, go in; Mr Oldroyd will take care of me, and we’ll soon bring the truant back, only pray be satisfied. Come, Mr Oldroyd, let us run.”
The next minute they were outside the gate, and hurrying down the slope to the common, over whose rugged surface Lucy walked so fast that Oldroyd had to step out boldly. Here the sandy road was reached, and they went on, saying but little, wanting to say but little, for, in spite of all, there was a strange new ecstatic feeling in Lucy’s bosom; while, in spite of his honesty something kept whispering to Oldroyd that it would be very pleasant if they were unable to find Alleyne for hours to come.
He was not to be gratified in this, though, for at the end of a quarter of an hour’s walking, when they came opposite to the big clump of pines, Lucy proposed that they should go up there.
“I know how fond he is of this place,” she said, rather excitedly; “and as its clearer now, I should not be at all surprised to find him here watching the moon, or the rising of some of the stars.”
“We’ll go if you wish it,” said Oldroyd, “but it seems a very unlikely place at a time like this.”
“Ah, but my brother is very curious about such things,” said Lucy, as she left the road, and together they climbed up till all at once she uttered a faint cry —
“Look! there – there he is!”
“Why, Alleyne! Is that you?” cried Oldroyd, as in the full moonlight they saw a dark figure rise from the foot of a pine, and then come slowly towards them silently, and in the same vacant fashion as one in a dream.
“Moray, why don’t you speak?” cried Lucy, piteously. “Why, you’ve not been to sleep, have you?” and she caught his arm.
“Sleep?” he said, in a strangely absent manner.
“Yes, asleep? Poor mamma has been fretting herself to death about you, and thinking I don’t know what. Make haste.”
“Are you unwell, Alleyne?” said Oldroyd, quietly; and the other looked at him wistfully.
“No – no,” he said at length; “quite well – quite well. I have been thinking – that is all. Let us make haste back.”
Lucy and Oldroyd exchanged meaning glances, and then the former bit her lip, angry at having seemed to take the young doctor into her confidence; and after that but little was said till they reached The Firs, where Mrs Alleyne was pacing the hall, ready to fling her long, thin arms round her son’s neck, and hold him in her embrace as she tenderly reproached him for the anxiety he had caused.
“She doesn’t seem to trouble much about little Lucy,” thought the doctor. “Well, so much the more easy for any one who wanted her for a wife.”
