Red as a Rose is She: A Novel

by Rhoda Broughton

  CHAPTER XXXIII.

  Next morning St. John wakes, recovered from his ill temper, hisheadache, and all the effects of his Irish saturnalia. Perhaps, had heknown who it was that lay wakeful in a great ginger four-poster, twodoors off, his slumbers would not have been so profound. The houndsmeet twelve miles away, at Shepherds Hatch. By nine o'clock he is inthe saddle, and riding quietly along the deep Essex lanes and wetfields, with a soft, south wind blowing in his face, and the grass,crisped by the slightest possible frost, beneath the horse's hoofs.

  He is lucky enough to come in for the run of the season; has thesatisfaction of seeing many better men than himself floundering,hatless and well-watered, in a brook, or getting croppers over stiffhawthorn hedges; over all which obstacles his grey, a new investment,of whose fencing powers he and his groom had been unjustly doubtful,carries him like a bird. As to whether his ladylove may relish thisearly preference of "bold Reynolds" to herself, any more than sherelished his fatigue and headache last night, he troubles himself butlittle. He has no intention whatever of being a hen-pecked husband.When he proposed to her, he told her what he could give her, and whathe could not--what she might expect, and what she might not: nor hasthis day's desertion been any departure from his half of the bargain.Somewhere about five o'clock he is back again at Blessington, splashedfrom head to heel; his tops, in which this morning you might haveseen your face, all stained and discoloured; with a dab of mud oneach cheek, and a third on the bridge of his nose. He runs upstairslightly, whistling a tune, and has just reached the first landing,when, "Click-clack," he hears a woman's high-heeled shoes descending.It is Esther, who is walking listlessly down, with her eyes fixed on agreat picture let into the wall--a large, white woman, with her clothestumbling off, hurling her substantial person upon a spear; a young man,with arms like a blacksmith's, lying on the ground, making a profusedisplay of his charms, and, though with no very perceptible wound,evidently _in articulo mortis;_ a fat Cupid blubbering hard by--thewhole entitled "Pyramus and Thisbe."

  St. John looks upward, to see who the author of the "click-clacking"may be. "Who the devil is this pretty girl?" is his first thought. Hissecond--a thought that makes him stagger back with the colour hurryingfrom his healthy cheek--a thought full of anger, astonishment, desire,and pain--a thought that involuntarily he speaks aloud, is "Esther."

  At almost the same moment she has caught sight of him. In her case,there is no surprise; but the pain is as great, if not greater.

  "Yes, it is I," she answers, almost inaudibly, trembling all over.

  His first impulse seems to be to rush away from her, to pass quicklyupstairs; his second takes him to her side.

  "In Heaven's name, what brings _you_ here?" he asks, in a voice almostas low as her own, from intense repressed emotion.

  No answer. His voice has carried her back, across the gulf of Jack'sdeath, of her own servitude and failing health, to that night when,in the starry Felton fields, she had stood by his side, his beloved,promised wife. She is silent--struggling with a strong, vile, degradingtemptation to fling down her tired head upon the shoulder of MissBlessington's affianced husband, and weep out loud.

  "Are you on a visit here?" he asks again, with stern brevity.

  "Yes," she answers, bitterly, strengthened by his tone, in which thereis small kindness, and much wrath; "I am paid fifty pounds a year tovisit here."

  "What _do_ you mean?"

  "I am Mr. and Mrs. Blessington's 'companion.'"

  "Good God! You are here _always_, then?"

  "Always."

  A pause! Against his will his eyes dwell upon her, hungry and fierce,astonished at the alteration wrought in her whom he had once thoughtfairest among women. Faded, wasted, forlorn, to his cost he finds thathe still thinks her so.

  "Is this bondage to last all your life, then?" he inquires morecollectedly, after a few seconds.

  "Until they die, or until my voice fails."

  "And what then?"

  "I must look out for some other old people, to whom I can be ears, andvoice, and feet."

  "Good God! And what _can_ be your motive?"

  "One _must_ live."

  "I had thought the world wide enough for two people to walk apart," hesays, with almost a groan. "I have entreated God that I might neverlook on your face again, and this is how my prayer is answered."

  Another pause. "Tick-tack--tick-tack--tick-tack," goes a clock in thegallery overhead.

  "You look extremely ill!"

  "Do I?"

  "You are wonderfully altered!"

  "Yes, I know it!"

  "What is it ails you?"

  "Nothing."

  "What does _this_ mean?"--touching her black dress with a jealouspang of fear that his innocent rival, the "lout who gave her thesixpenny Prayer Book, and inscribed his name with a crooked pin onthe fly-leaf," is numbered with the dead; and that the hollow cheeks,dejected droop of the head, and crape-covered garments are for him.

  The tears crowd into her eyes; they know the way there so well now. Sheturns away, and leans against the banisters to hide them.

  A light breaks in upon him. He remembers that she had a brother, hergirlish rhapsodies about whom used to make him rather impatient.

  "I see," he says, in a softer tone; "forgive me for asking."

  Encouraged by his voice, she lifts her face towards him with a tearfulsmile.

  "You may be satisfied, I think," she says, simply. "You have had yourrevenge; I have been punished almost enough."

  Revenge is sweet, they say; but at this moment I do not think that St.John finds it so.

  "You did not know that I was here?" she asks, presently.

  "Know it!" he repeats, passionately. "Not I. Do you suppose I wouldhave come within a hundred miles of this house if I had known it?"

  "I will try to keep out of your way," she answers, meekly.

  "For God's sake, do! It is the most merciful thing that you can do forboth of us."

  "I would leave this place to-day, if I could," she answers, humblyraising her wistful, deprecating eyes to his; "but I cannot. My dailybread is here--yours is not. Why cannot you go?"

  He hesitates. "I ought, I suppose," he answers, doubtfully. "I will, ifyou wish it."

  "It is as _you_ wish," she replies.

  Footmen are passing to and fro, through the hall, busy withpreparations for dinner; any moment Mr. Gerard's blue-and-white angelmay come sweeping downstairs and surprise them.

  "I have not congratulated you yet, Mr. Gerard," Esther says, timidly.

  "Congratulated me!--what upon?" he asks, absently, staring vacantly ather.

  "Upon your engagement to Miss Blessington."

  A shade crosses his face. "Oh yes, to be sure! I had forgotten. Thanks!you are very good, I'm sure."

  "I hope you will be very happy--_quite_ happy."

  "Thanks. Wish that I may be Prime Minister, or Commander-in-Chief,or something equally probable, while you are about it," he says,sardonically.

  "I wish you to be happy," she repeats, gently, "and I hope that is notimprobable."

  "Such a wish in your mouth is something like a butcher with his knifeat its throat wishing a sheep a long life!"

  A guilty sense of hypocrisy in wishing him happy whom, less thanforty-eight hours ago, she had been congratulating herself on hiscertain misery, keeps her dumb.

  "Why could not you have sent me word that you were here, and I wouldhave kept away?" he asks, flashing angrily upon her.

  "I asked Miss Blessington to tell you, but she forgot."

  He turns away with a muttered exclamation, not benedictory towards hisbetrothed, between his teeth.

  "I will try to be as little annoyance to you as I can," says the poorchild, in bitter mortification. "You will be out hunting most of theday, I daresay, and, except when I am waiting upon either Mr. and Mrs.Blessington, I am not often downstairs."

  He takes no notice of her submissive speech, but stands, with his eyesmoodily downcast, upon the white stone
of the cold carpetless stairs.

  "Believe me, I would go away, if I could," she says, piteously. "I didnot wish to be in your way; but I had nowhere to go to."

  A shade of pity softens his stern face.

  "Are they kind to you?" he asks abruptly.

  "Yes--oh yes--quite kind."

  "And what, in God's name," he says, slowly, as if the question wereforced from him against his will, by the slender fragility of herfigure, by the pallid delicacy of her face--"And what, in God's name,can have induced your friends to allow you to accept such a situation,for which you are about as well fitted as I for the archbishopric ofCanterbury?"

  "I have not many friends, and I did not ask the advice of the few Ihave."

  "They ought to have given it unasked," he says, gruffly.

  "So they did, but I did not take it."

  "Well, it is no business of mine," he says, harshly, ashamed and angryat himself for his temporary lapse into friendliness. "God knows I havehad as good reason to hate you, and wish you ill, as ever man had! I_have_ hated you," he says, with fierce heartiness, "during the lastthree months, as I should not have thought it possible to hate anythingso weak and tender. I _hope_ I hate you still!"

  Remembering how much deeplier she had sinned against that other, andwith how godlike a fulness and freedom he had pardoned her, she feelsher heart rise up against him.

  "The worse case I see you in, the more I ought to rejoice--the more I_should_ have rejoiced yesterday," he continues, with rapid passion;"and yet--and yet--"

  He passes his hand across his forehead, pushing the hair away; andnot even the dab of mud on his nose can hinder the expression of hiscountenance from having something of a tragical pathos in it.

  "And yet what?" she asks, tremulously, moving a step nearer to him.

  "And yet, for the life of me, while I am _with_ you, I cannot. When Iam away from you, I can remember what you _are;_ when I am with you, Isee only what you seem. Esther! Esther! why, in God's name, don't thetwo tally better?"

  "Whether they tally or not can be of but little concern to you now, Mr.Gerard," she answers, with some exasperation.

  His brown cheek flushes into shamed angry-red.

  "You are right," he says, stiffly. "It _is_ no concern of mine; I amsorry I needed reminding."

  "Why must we waste time digging that poor old past out of its grave?"she says, with persuasive gentleness, as her hand lays itself lightly,as if half afraid of being shaken off, upon his scarlet sleeve. "Whycannot we let bygones, that" (with a sigh) "are so completely bygones,be bygones? I did you an injury once--not an irreparable one, youwill allow, since it is already repaired" (smiling half-scornful,half-melancholy); "and my whole life since has been a punishment--OGod! _what_ a punishment!" (putting her hand for a second over hereyes). "I am tired of being punished now. We shall see very little ofone another henceforth, but that little might as well be in civility asin incivility--mightn't it?"

  "Civility!"--he repeats, without much of that quality in histone--"civility between you and me! And what would that end in, pray?It would be oversweet at first, and bitterer than wormwood afterwards,as our former _civility_ was. No--no! we will have no sophisms, noabsurd Platonisms here! God forbid my thrusting myself into temptationagain! We will say 'good morning' and 'good evening' to one another, aspeople would remark it if we did not. But for the rest, let us hold ourtongues and keep apart; and as soon as I can do it, without excitinggreat question, you may rely upon my going; and then we shall have donewith one another for good, I pray God!"

  She bends her head submissively. "You are right, I think."

  "Click-clack--click-clack," come other high-heeled shoes; "swish!swish!" a long dress trails along. From the heaven of the upper regionsthe blue-and-white angel is in the act of descent. Without anotherword, the two part--the woman going quickly down, the man as quickly up.

  "Good morning, Conny! Rather late in the day to say 'good morning,'isn't it?"

  This is his greeting, accompanied with a rather constrained laugh, tohis future proprietor.

  "So you and Miss Craven have been renewing your acquaintance upon thelanding?" replies the divinity, smiling a little inquisitively. "I waslooking down at you from the gallery; you looked so picturesque!"

  "If being cased from top to toe in black mud is picturesque, I ameminently so," answers he, looking down at his legs to hide a transientexpression of confusion. "Well, good-bye for the present; I suppose Imust be going to adorn for this unearthly meal."