He threw up his hands in affright, for he had turned, and we both saw it happen. He made indeed as if he would try to save it, but that was impossible; and then, while I cowered in dismay, he waved his arm to me in the direction of home — again and again. The roar of the falls drowned what he said, but I guessed his meaning. I could not help him myself, but I could fetch help. It was three miles to Breistolen, rough, rocky ones, and I doubted whether he could keep his cramped position with that noise deafening him, and the endless whirling stream before his eyes, while I was going and coming. But there was no better way I could think of; and even as I wavered, he signalled to me again imperatively. For an instant everything seemed to go round with me, but it was not the time for that yet, and I tried to collect myself, and harden my heart. Up the bank I went steadily, and once at the top set off at a run homewards.
I cannot tell at all how I did it; how I passed over the uneven ground, or whether I went quickly or slowly save by the reckoning papa made afterwards. I can only remember one long hurrying scramble; now I panted uphill, now I ran down, now I was on my face in a hole, breathless and half-stunned, and now I was up to my knees in water. I slipped and dropped down places I should at other times have shrunk from, and hurt myself so that I bore the marks for months. But I thought nothing of these things: all my being was spent in hurrying on for his life, the clamor of every cataract I passed seeming to stop my heart’s beating with very fear. So I reached Breistolen and panted over the bridge and up to the little white house lying so quiet in the afternoon sunshine, papa’s stool-car even then at the door ready to take him to some favorite pool. Somehow I made him understand in broken words that Herapath was in danger, drowning already, for all I knew, and then I seized a great pole which was leaning against the porch, and climbed into the car. Papa was not slow either; he snatched a coil of rope from the luggage, and away we went, a man and boy whom he had hastily called running behind us. We had lost very little time, but so much may happen in so little time.
We were forced to leave the car a quarter of a mile from that part of the river, and walk or run the rest of the way. We all ran, even papa, as I had never known him run before. My heart sank at the groan he let escape him when I pointed out the spot. We came to it one by one and we all looked. The ledge was empty. Jem Herapath was gone. I suppose it startled me. At any rate I could only look at the water in a dazed way, and cry quietly without much feeling that it was my doing; while the men, shouting to one another in strange, hushed voices, searched about for any sign of his fate— “Jem! Jem Herapath!” So he had written his name only yesterday in the travellers’ book at the posting-house, and I had sullenly watched him from the window, and then had sneaked to the book and read it. That was yesterday, and now! Oh, Jem, to hear you say “Bab” once more!
“Bab! Why, Miss Bab, what is the matter?”
Safe and sound! Yes, there he was when I turned, safe, and strong, and cool, rod in hand, and a quiet smile in his eyes. Just as I had seen him yesterday, and thought never to see him again; and saying “Bab” exactly as of old, so that something in my throat — it may have been anger at his rudeness, but I do not think it was — prevented me saying a word until all the others came round us, and a babel of Norse and English, and something that was neither, yet both, set in.
“But how is this?” objected my father when he could be heard, “you are quite dry, my boy?”
“Dry! Why not, sir? For goodness’ sake, what is the matter?”
“The matter! Didn’t you fall in, or something of the kind?” papa asked, bewildered by this new aspect of the case.
“It does not look like it, does it? Your daughter gave me a very uncomfortable start by nearly doing so.”
Every one looked at him for an explanation. “How did you manage to get from the ledge?” I said feebly. Where was the mistake? I had not dreamed it.
“From the ledge? Why, by the other end, to be sure, so that I had to walk back round the hill. Still I did not mind, for I was thankful that it was the plank and not you that fell in.
“I — I thought — you could not get from the ledge,” I muttered. The possibility of getting off at the other end had never occurred to me, and so I had made such a simpleton of myself. It was too absurd, too ridiculous. It was no wonder that they all screamed with laughter at the fool’s errand they had come upon, and stamped about and clung to one another. But when he laughed too — and he did until the tears came into his eyes — there was not an ache or pain in my body — and I had cut my wrist to the bone against a splinter of rock — that hurt me one-half as much. Surely he might have seen another side to it. But he did not; and so I managed to hide my bandaged wrist from him, and papa drove me home. There I broke down entirely, and Clare put me to bed, and petted me, and was very good to me. And when I came down next day, with an ache in every part of me, he was gone.
“He asked me to tell you,” said Clare, not looking up from the fly she was tying at the window, “that he thought you were the bravest girl he had ever met.”
So he understood now, when others had explained it to him. “No, Clare,” I said coldly, “he did not say that exactly; he said ‘the bravest little girl.’” For indeed, lying upstairs with the window open, I had heard him set off on his long drive to Laerdalsören. As for papa, he was half-proud and half-ashamed of my foolishness, and wholly at a loss to think how I could have made the mistake.
“You’ve generally some common-sense, my dear,” he said that day at dinner, “and how in the world you could have been so ready to fancy the man was in danger, I — can — not — imagine!”
“Papa,” put in Clare, suddenly, “your elbow is upsetting the salt.”
And as I had to move my seat just then to avoid the glare of the stove which was falling on my face, we never thought it out.
II
HIS STORY
I was not dining out much at that time, partly because my acquaintance in town was limited, and something too because I cared little for it. But these were pleasant people, the old gentleman witty and amusing, the children, lively girls, nice to look at and good to talk with. The party had too a holiday flavor about them wholesome to recall in Scotland Yard: and as I had thought, play-time over, I should see no more of them, I was proportionately pleased to find that Mr. Guest had not forgotten me, and pleased also — shrewdly expecting that we might kill our fish over again — to regard his invitation to dinner at a quarter-to-eight as a royal command.
But if I took it so, I was sadly wanting in the regal courtesy to match. What with one delay owing to work that would admit of none, and another caused by a cabman strange to the ways of town, it was twenty-five minutes after the hour named, when I reached Bolton Gardens. A stately man, so like the Queen’s Counsel, that it was plain upon whom the latter modelled himself, ushered me straight into the dining-room, where Guest greeted me very kindly, and met my excuses by apologies on his part — for preferring, I suppose, the comfort of eleven people to mine. Then he took me down the table, and said, “My daughter,” and Miss Guest shook hands with me and pointed to the chair at her left. I had still, as I unfolded my napkin, to say “Clear, if you please,” and then I was free to turn and apologize to her, being a little shy, and, as I have said, a somewhat infrequent diner out.
I think that I never saw so remarkable a likeness — to her younger sister — in my life. She might have been little Bab herself, but for her dress and some striking differences. Miss Guest could not be more than eighteen, in form almost as fairy-like as the little one, with the same child-like, innocent look on her face. She had the big, gray eyes, too, that were so charming in Bab; but in her they were more soft and tender and thoughtful, and a thousand times more charming. Her hair too was brown and wavy: only, instead of hanging loose or in a pig-tail anywhere and anyhow in a fashion I well remembered, it was coiled in a coronal on the shapely little head, that was so Greek, and in its gracious, stately, old-fashioned pose, so unlike Bab’s. Her dress, of some crea
my, gauzy stuff, revealed the prettiest white throat in the world, and arms decked in pearls, and, so far, no more recalled my little fishing-mate than the sedate self-possession and assured dignity of this girl, as she talked to her other neighbor, suggested Bab making pancakes and chattering with the landlady’s children in her strangely and wonderfully acquired Norse. It was not Bab in fact: and yet it almost might have been: an etherealized, queenly, womanly Bab. Who presently turned to me —
“Have you quite settled down after your holiday?” she asked, staying the apologies I was for pouring into her ear.
“I had until this evening, but the sight of your father is like a breath of fiord air. I hope your sisters are well.”
“My sisters?” she murmured wonderingly, her fork half-way to her pretty mouth and her attitude one of questioning.
“Yes,” I said rather puzzled. “You know they were with your father when I had the good fortune to meet him. Miss Clare and Bab.”
“Eh?” dropping her fork on the plate with a great clatter.
“Yes, Miss Guest, Miss Clare and Miss Bab.”
I really began to feel uncomfortable. Her color rose, and she looked me in the face in a half-proud, half-fearful way as if she resented the inquiry. It was a relief to me, when, with some show of confusion, she at length stammered, “Oh, yes, I beg your pardon, of course they were! How very foolish of me. They are quite well, thank you,” and so was silent again. But I understood now. Mr. Guest had omitted to mention my name, and she had taken me for some one else of whose holiday she knew. I gathered from the aspect of the table and the room that the Guests saw a good deal of company, and it was a very natural mistake, though by the grave look she bent upon her plate it was clear that the young hostess was taking herself to task for it: not without, if I might judge from the lurking smile at the corners of her mouth, a humorous sense of the slip, and perhaps of the difference between myself and the gentleman whose part I had been unwittingly supporting. Meanwhile I had a chance of looking at her unchecked; and thought of Dresden china, she was so frail and pretty.
“You were nearly drowned, or something of the kind, were you not?” she asked, after an interval during which we had both talked to others.
“Well, not precisely. Your sister fancied I was in danger, and behaved in the pluckiest manner — so bravely that I can almost feel sorry that the danger was not there to dignify her heroism.”
“That was like her,” she answered in a tone just a little scornful. “You must have thought her a terrible tomboy.”
While she was speaking there came one of those dreadful lulls in the talk, and Mr. Guest overhearing, cried, “Who is that you are abusing, my dear? Let us all share in the sport. If it’s Clare, I think I can name one who is a far worse hoyden upon occasion.”
“It is no one of whom you have ever heard, papa,” she answered, archly. “It is a person in whom Mr. — Mr. Herapath—” I had murmured my name as she stumbled— “and I are interested. Now tell me, did you not think so?” she murmured, graciously leaning the slightest bit towards me, and opening her eyes as they looked into mine in a way that to a man who had spent the day in a dusty room in Great Scotland Yard was sufficiently intoxicating.
“No,” I said, lowering my voice in imitation of hers. “No, Miss Guest, I did not think so at all. I thought your sister a brave little thing, rather careless as children are apt to be, but likely to grow into a charming girl.”
I wondered, marking how she bit her lip and refrained from assent, whether, impossible as it must seem to any one looking in her face, there might not be something of the shrew about my beautiful neighbor. Her tone when she spoke of her sister seemed to impart no great goodwill.
“So that is your opinion?” she said, after a pause. “Do you know,” with a laughing glance, “that some people think I am like her.”
“Yes?” I answered, gravely. “Well, I should be able to judge, who have seen you both and yet am not an old friend. And I think you are both like and unlike. Your sister has very beautiful eyes” — she lowered hers swiftly— “and hair like yours, but her manner and style were very different. I can no more fancy Bab in your place than I can picture you, Miss Guest, as I saw her for the first time — and on many after occasions,” I added, laughing as much to cover my own hardihood as at the queer little figure I had conjured up.
“Thank you, Mr. Herapath,” she replied, with coldness, though she had blushed darkly to her ears. “That, I think, must be enough of compliments, for to-night — as you are not an old friend.” And she turned away, leaving me to curse my folly in saying so much, when our acquaintance was as yet in the bud, and as susceptible to over-warmth as to a temperature below zero.
A moment later the ladies left us. The flush I had brought to her cheek still lingered there, as she swept past me with a wondrous show of dignity in one so young. Mr. Guest came down and took her place, and we talked of the “land of berries,” and our adventures there, while the rest — older friends — listened indulgently or struck in from time to time with their own biggest fish and deadliest flies.
I used to wonder why women like to visit dusty chambers; why they get more joy — I am fain to think they do — out of a scrambling tea up three pairs of stairs in Pump Court, than from the very same materials — and comfort withal — in their own house. I imagine it is for the same reason that the bachelor finds a singular charm in a lady’s drawing-room, and there, if anywhere, sees her with a reverent mind. A charm and a subservience which I felt to the full in the Guests’ drawing-room — a room rich in subdued colors and a cunning blending of luxury and comfort. Yet it depressed me. I felt alone. Mr. Guest had passed on to others and I stood aside, the sense that I was not of these people troubling me in a manner as new as it was absurd: for I had been in the habit of rather despising “society.” Miss Guest was at the piano, the centre of a circle of soft light, which showed up also a keen-faced, dark-whiskered man leaning over her with the air of one used to the position. Every one else was so fully engaged that I may have looked, as well as felt, forlorn, and meeting her eyes could have fancied she was regarding me with amusement — almost triumph. It must have been mere fancy, bred of self-consciousness, for the next moment she beckoned me to her, and said to her cavalier:
“There, Jack, Mr. Herapath is going to talk to me about Norway now, so that I don’t want you any longer. Perhaps you won’t mind stepping up to the schoolroom — Fräulein and Clare are there — and telling Clare, that — that — oh, anything.”
There is no piece of ill-breeding so bad to my mind as for a man who is at home in a house to flaunt his favor in the face of other guests. That young lawyer’s manner as he left her, and the smile of perfect intelligence which passed between them, were such a breach of good manners as would have ruffled any one. They ruffled me — yes, me, although it was no concern of mine what she called him, or how he conducted himself — so that I could do nothing but stand by the piano and sulk. One bear makes another, you know.
She did not speak; and I, content to watch the slender hands stealing over the keys, would not, until my eyes fell upon her right wrist. She had put off her bracelets and so disclosed a scar upon it, something about which — not its newness — so startled me that I said abruptly: “That is very strange! Pray tell me how you did it?”
She looked up, saw what I meant, and stopping hastily, put on her bracelets; to all appearance so vexed by my thoughtless question, and anxious to hide the mark, that I was quick to add humbly, “I asked because your sister hurt her wrist in nearly the same place on the day when she thought I was in trouble, and the coincidence struck me.”
“Yes, I remember,” looking at me, I thought, with a certain suspicion, as though she were not sure that I was giving the right motive. “I did this much in the same way. By falling, I mean. Isn’t it a hateful disfigurement?”
No, it was no disfigurement. Even to her, with a woman’s love of conquest, it must have seemed anything but a disfigurement ha
d she known what the quiet, awkward man at her side was thinking, who stood looking shyly at it and found no words to contradict her, though she asked him twice, and thought him stupid enough. A great longing to kiss that soft, scarred wrist was on me — and Miss Guest had added another to the number of her slaves. I don’t know now why that little scar should have so touched me any more than I then could guess why, being a commonplace person, I should fall in love at first sight, and feel no surprise at my condition, but only a half consciousness (seeming fully to justify it) that in some former state of being I had met my love, and read her thoughts, and learned her moods; and come to know the bright womanly spirit that looked from her frank eyes as well as if she were an old, old friend. And so vivid was this sensation, that once or twice, then and afterwards, when I would meet her glance, another name than hers trembled on my tongue and passed away before I could shape it into sound.
After an interval, “Are you going to the Goldmace’s dance?”
“No,” I answered her, humbly. “I go out so little.”
“Indeed,” with an odd smile not too kindly; “I wish — no I don’t — that we could say the same. We are engaged, I think—” she paused, her attention divided between myself and Boccherini’s minuet, the low strains of which she was sending through the room— “for every afternoon — this week — except Saturday. By the way, Mr. Herapath — do you remember what was the name — Bab told me you teased her with?”
“Wee bonnie Bab,” I answered absently. My thoughts had gone forward to Saturday. “We are always dropping to-day’s substance for the shadow of to-morrow; like the dog — a dog was it not? — in the fable.”
“Oh, yes, wee bonnie Bab,” she murmured softly. “Poor Bab!” and suddenly cut short Boccherini’s music and our chat by striking a terrific discord and laughing merrily at my start of discomfiture. Every one took it as a signal to leave. They all seemed to be going to meet her again next day, or the day after that; they engaged her for dances, and made up a party for the law courts, and tossed to and fro a score of laughing catch-words, that were beyond my comprehension. They all did this, except myself.
Complete Works of Stanley J Weyman Page 328
