Читать книгу: «A Change of Air», страница 13
CHAPTER XXVII.
A Villain Unmasked
A few days after Dale's love affairs had begun to flow in a more peaceful channel the Mayor of Market Denborough had an interview with Mr. Philip Hume, and Philip emerged from the conversation with a smile of mingled amusement and perplexity on his face. The Mayor had been to the Grange; the Squire fully approved of the scheme; a hundred pounds was subscribed already, and another twenty or thirty expected. Philip was requested to act as an intermediary, and find out from Miss Fane what form she would prefer that the testimonial which Denborough intended to offer to her, in recognition of her signal gallantry, should take.
"I wanted to wait and make it a wedding present," said the Mayor, with a wink, "but the Squire thinks we had better not wait for that."
"Ah, does he?" said Philip.
"Though what Mr. Bannister's waitin' for I can't see; and I said as much to Miss Janet when I met her in the garden."
"What did she say?" asked Philip in some curiosity.
"Well, sir, now you ask me, I don't think she said anything. She seemed a bit put-out like about something."
"It couldn't have been anything you said?"
"Why, no, sir. I only said as I shouldn't be slow to move if a young lady like Miss Fane was waitin' for me – and her havin' saved my life, too."
"Good Lord!"
"Beggin' your pardon, sir?"
"Nothing, Mr. Mayor, nothing."
"You'll see Miss Fane about it? She hasn't left the Colonel's."
"Oh, yes, I suppose so. Yes, I'll see her."
Dale had gone to London, alleging that he had shopping to do, and hardly denying that his business would lie chiefly at the jeweler's. Philip was glad that he was away, for he thus could start on his mission unquestioned. He found Nellie at home, and at once plunged into the matter. Directly Nellie understood what was proposed, she jumped up, crying:
"Oh, no, they mustn't. You must stop them."
"Why, it's a very natural tribute – "
"I won't have it! I can't have it! You must tell them, Mr. Hume."
"It'll look rather ungracious, won't it? Why shouldn't you take their present?" he asked, looking at her in a half-amused way.
"Oh, no, no! You don't understand. Oh, what a wretched girl I am!" and Nellie, flinging herself in a chair, began to cry.
He sat and watched her with a grim smile, which he made an effort to maintain. But the sobs were rather piteous, and the smile gradually became very mildly ferocious, and presently vanished altogether. Presently, also, Nellie stopped crying, sat up, and stared in front of her with a dazed look and parted lips.
"Well?" said Philip.
"I won't receive the testimonial."
"Is that all you have to say?" he asked in a tone of disappointment.
"Yes," she answered, plucking nervously at her handkerchief, "that's all."
"No reason to give?"
"Tell them that there's nothing to give me a testimonial for."
"Shall I?" he asked.
Nellie glanced at him with a start, but in an instant she recovered herself.
"I mean that I would much rather no more fuss was made about what I did."
"As you please," he said coldly. "I will tell the Mayor, and get him to stop the thing."
"Is Dale at home?" she asked, as Philip rose.
"He's gone to town. Do you want to see him about anything?"
"No – nothing in particular – only – I haven't seen him for three or four days."
"Are you staying here long?"
"I am staying till Tora comes home, and then I go to her."
"Well, good-by. I'll tell the Mayor."
"Thank you so much. Good-by."
She was quite calm again by now; her sudden fit of agitation was over, and apparently she felt nothing more than a distaste for the parade of a public presentation. So easy and natural had her bearing become that Philip Hume, as he walked away, wondered if he had been on a wrong scent after all. If so, he had behaved in a very brutal —
He broke off his thoughts abruptly, to recognize and bow to Janet Delane, who whirled by in her victoria, on the way to Mount Pleasant. She seemed to be going to pay a visit to Nellie Fane. Philip, who liked to hear how things happen, regretted that he had cut his own visit short and missed Janet's entry.
Janet whirled on. Her balance of mind, delicately poised between her love and her pride, had suffered a new and severe shock from the Mayor's jocose remarks. She could not rest. She felt that she must see for herself – must see Nellie and find out why everybody thought what they did – yes, and what Nellie thought. She was full of things which she had to say to Nellie; she was prepared, if need be, again to sacrifice herself for Nellie, but the truth about it all at least she was determined to hear; on what it was, Dale's uncertain happiness again hung suspended. With her usual frankness and candor, she straightway began to tell Nellie all her story. Nellie listened in almost stony stillness.
"It's so hard to speak of," said Janet, "but yet I think we must. It is wretched to let things go on like this. At least I am wretched, and I fear he is, and – "
"I'm sure I am," said Nellie, with a forlorn laugh.
Janet came and knelt by her and took her hands.
"You too? you whom we all admire so? Oh, what a world it is! Why did I ever love him?"
"Ah, you do love him?"
"Yes. And why did I ever make him love me? Ah, Nellie, if only – "
Nellie had sprung up.
"How do you know he loves you?" she cried.
"How do I know, dear? Why, he told me."
"When? when?"
"Why, before – the day before it all happened. But since then I have felt, and I told him, that he belonged to you – I mean, dear, that it must be you now whom he must really love, and that I – "
Nellie was not listening.
"He told you before?" she asked in a low voice.
"Yes, the day before. But afterward – "
"You were actually engaged then?"
"Yes, we were."
"I never knew it. I didn't know that. Oh, how wicked I have been!"
"Wicked? What do you mean?" asked Janet, puzzled at her companion's strange behavior.
Nellie stood silent, and Janet went on.
"But I feel, I can't help feeling, that it is to you he owes his life – to you – "
"Be quiet!" cried Nellie. "Are you engaged now?"
"I – I don't know."
"Does he still love you?"
"Yes, I think so."
"Why didn't you tell me? Why did you keep me in the dark? Why did you tempt me?"
"Indeed, I don't understand."
"I didn't know he had told you. I only thought he had a fancy – Oh, and I loved him too! I did indeed!"
"I know, dear," said Janet; "and so, when you had been so brave, and I so cowardly – "
"Stop!" cried Nellie again, and as she spoke the door opened and Dale Bannister came in. He was fresh back from London, and had ridden over to see Nellie.
He stood and looked in surprise from one to the other. There was evidently something more than an afternoon call going on.
Nellie greeted his coming almost gladly.
"Ah, you are here? Then I can tell you. I can't bear it any longer. O Dale, I didn't know you had told her. Indeed I didn't, or I would never have done it;" and, carried away by her emotion, she fell on her knees before him.
"Why, Nellie, what in the world's the matter?"
"I have been wicked," she went on quickly, clinging to his hand. "I have deceived you. I have told you lies. Oh, how wicked I have been!"
Dale looked inquiringly at Janet, but she shook her head in bewilderment.
"Well, Nellie, let's sit down quietly and hear the villainy. What is it?"
She refused to let him raise her, and went on, as she was, on her knees.
"I didn't mean it at first. I didn't think of it, but when I found you all thought it, and – and you were pleased, Dale, I couldn't help it."
Dale saw the only chance of arriving at the truth was not to interrupt. He signed to Janet to keep silence.
"I came up meaning to warn you. I was afraid for you. I saw you standing by the tree, and I was running toward you, and all of a sudden I saw him, and the pistol, and – "
She paused and drooped her head. Dale pressed her hand and said:
"Well, Nellie?"
"I was afraid," she said, "and I turned and began to run away, and as I was running, it hit me." And, her confession ended, she sank into a little woebegone heap on the floor at his feet.
Dale understood now. She had been tempted by the hope of winning his love through his gratitude, and had not refused the false glory they all thrust upon her. Now she had heard her hopes were vain, that they had been vain even before that night, and in the misery of sin, and useless sin, she lay crying at his feet, not daring to look up at him.
He stood there awkwardly, as a man stands when he feels more moved than he allows himself to show.
"Poor child!" he said, with a break in his voice. "Poor child!"
Janet caught him by the arm.
"What does she say? That she didn't save you?" she whispered eagerly. "That she was running away?"
Dale nodded, and Janet fell down beside Nellie, embracing her, and saying, half laughing, half crying: "O Nellie, how sweet, how sweet of you to have been a coward too!"
CHAPTER XXVIII.
A Vision
The lawn at Dirkham Grange was a gay scene. The Institute was opened, the luncheon consumed, the Royal Duke gone, full to the last of graciousness, though the poor fellow was hungry for solitude and cigars; and now the society of the county was unbending in friendly condescension to the society of the town, and talking the whole thing over under the trees and beside the bright flower-beds. Lord Cransford, between Janet and Dale, mingled praises of the ode with congratulations on the engagement; no one would have guessed that he shared a son's disappointment. The Mayor indifferently dissembled his exultation over the whisper of a knighthood which a hint from his Royal Highness had set running through the company. Mrs. Johnstone sat placidly in an armchair, the ruby velvet spread in careful folds, while Sir Harry Fulmer paid her compliments, and wondered where his wife was, and how soon they might go; and his wife walked with the Squire, declaring in her impetuous way that Nellie Fane's deceit was the most beautiful and touching thing she had ever heard of, whereat the Squire tugged his whisker, and said that nobody was disposed to be hard on her. Mrs. Roberts had made her first public appearance, diligently attended by Dr. Spink, who said, but was disbelieved in saying, that she still needed constant care. Nellie Fane herself had been persuaded to come, on a promise that the Mayor should not be allowed to reopen the subject of the testimonial; and Arthur Angell, in whose breast hope was once more a sojourner, had led her to a retired walk, and was reading to her a set of verses, called "Love's Crime"; and Nellie shook her head, saying that there was no inducement to be good if everyone conspired to pet and pamper the wicked.
Philip Hume sat alone under a spreading tree, looking on, and talking to nobody. The bustle of the morning, and the sumptuous midday meal worked together with the warm afternoon air and the distant sounds of the yeomanry band to make him a little drowsy, and he watched the people walking to and fro, and heard their chatter in a half-wakeful, half-sleeping state. And, strange as it seems in this workaday, skeptical age, he fell into a sort of trance, and visions of what should be were vouchsafed to him, and if the visions were not true, at least they had a look of truth.
He saw a man, handsome still, for all that his thick hair was a little thinned by time and his waistcoat was broadening, and the man read in a mellow voice lines, which Philip did not hear very plainly, about the greatness of England, the glory of the Throne, and the calmer judgment of circling years tempering the heat of youth. Then a stately dame touched him gently on the shoulder, saying that the verses were magnificent, but the carriage waited to take him to the levée; and he rose to go with a smile, not seeming to notice a pale ghost, that clenched impotent shadowy hands in wrath and with a scowl shrank away. Suddenly, across this vision came the form of Mrs. Hodge, white-haired, but cheerful and buxom as of yore, and she said: "Well, Hume, she's made Arthur a happy man at last;" and the Mayor, who somehow happened to be there, wearing on his breast a large placard, inscribed "Sir James Hedger, Knight," added, quite in his old way: "We were all wrong, Mr. Hume, sir, except you, sir, beggin' your pardon." Then the Squire's voice broke in, as though in the course of an argument, and declared that it was nonsense to attribute Dale's change of views to anything except growing wisdom; and the phantom of Colonel Smith, a copy of "The Clarion" in his hand, answered: "Bosh!" And a crowd of quite indistinguishable, well-dressed shades gathered round the Colonel, and Philip heard them talking about the inevitable gravitation of culture and intelligence. But the Colonel still answered "Bosh!" and Philip did not hear the end of the matter, nor where the truth of it lay; for presently all the forms passed away, and he saw a little room, a little dingy room, and a gray-haired, slouching fellow in an old coat, smoking an old pipe and scribbling on foolscap, scribbling away far into the night, and then sitting and musing for a solitary half hour in front of his dying fire before he went to bed. There was something in this figure that made Philip curious, and he went nearer and looked. Hush! It was himself, and —
He awoke with a start. Dale was smiling down on him with his old friendly smile, and saying to Janet Delane:
"We shall never let this old chap leave us for long, shall we, Jan?"
