XXXIII
HOW DICK SAID GOOD-BYE
The month was October; the day Dick's last in England. Both the day andthe month were far spent: in an hour or two it would be dark, in a weekor so it would be November. This time to-morrow the R.M.S. Rome, withDick on board, would be just clear of the Thames; this time next monthshe would be ploughing through the Indian Ocean, with nothing butAustralia to stop her.
"Last days," as a rule, are made bearable by that blessed atmosphere ofexcitement which accompanies them, and is deleterious to open sentiment.That excitement, however, is less due to the mere fact of impendingdeparture than to the providential provision of things to be done andseen to at the last moment. An uncomfortable "rush" is the best ofpain-killers when it comes to long farewells. The work, moreover, shouldbe for all hands, and last to the very end; then there is no time forlamentation--no time until the boxes are out of the hall and the cab hasturned the corner, and the empty, untidy room has to be set to rights.Then, if you like, is the time for tears.
Now Dick had made a great mistake. He had booked his passage too far inadvance. For six weeks he had nothing to think of but his voyage;nothing to do but get ready. Everything was prearranged; nothing, inthis exceptional case, was left to the last, the very luggage being sentto the boat before the day of sailing. If Dick had deliberately sethimself to deepen the gloom that shadowed his departure, he could nothave contrived things better. Maurice, for instance, with greatdifficulty obtained a holiday from the bank because it was Dick's lastday. He might just as well have stopped in the City. There was nothingfor him to do. The day wore on in dismal idleness.
About three in the afternoon Dick left the house. He was seen by theothers from the front windows. The sight of him going out without a lookor a word on his last day cut them to the heart, though Dick had beeneverything that was kind, and thoughtful, and affectionate since thatevening after his return from Yorkshire. Besides, the little family wasgoing to be broken up completely before long: Fanny was to be married inthe spring. No wonder they were sad.
Dick turned to the right, walked towards the river, turned to the rightagain, and so along the London road towards the village.
"It is the right thing," he kept assuring himself, and with suchfrequency that one might have supposed it was the wrong thing; "it isthe right thing, after all, to go and say good-bye. I should have doneit before, and got it over. I was a fool to think of shirking italtogether; that would have been behaving like a boor. Well, I'll justgo in naturally, say good-bye all round, stop a few minutes, and thenhurry back home. A month ago I couldn't have trusted myself, butnow----"
It was a joyless smile that ended the unspoken sentence. The last monthhad certainly strengthened his self-control; it had also hardened andlined his face in a way that did not improve his good looks. Yes, he waspretty safe in trusting himself now.
At the corner opposite the low-lying old churchyard he hesitated. He hadhesitated at that corner once before. He remembered the other occasionwith peculiar vividness to-day. Why should he not repeat the performancehe had gone through then? Why should he not take a boat and row up toGraysbrooke? An admirable idea! It harmonised so completely with hishumour. It was the one thing wanting to complete the satire of hishome-coming. That satire had been so thoroughly bitter that it would bea pity to deny it a finishing touch or two. Besides, it was so fittingin every way: the then and the now offered a contrast that it would be ashame not to make the most of. Then, thought Dick, his foolish hopes hadbeen as fresh and young and bright as the June leaves. Look at his bareheart now! look at the naked trees! Hopes and leaves had gone the sameway--was it the way of all hopes as well as of all leaves? His mind, aswell as his eye, saw everything in autumnal tints. Nor did he shirk theview. There is a stage of melancholy that rather encourages the cruelcontrasts of memory.
"I'll row up," said Dick, "and go through it all again. Let it do itsworst, it won't touch me now--therefore nothing will ever touch me aslong as I live. A good test!"
He did row up, wearing the same joyless smile.
He stood the test to perfection.
He did not forget to remember anything. He gave sentimentality aprincely chance to play the mischief with him. It was a rough and gustyday, but mild for the time of year; a day of neither sunshine nor rain,but plenty of wind and clouds; one of those blustering fellows, heraldsof Winter, that come and abuse Autumn for neglecting her business, andtear off the last of the leaves for her with unseemly violence andhaste. The current was swift and strong, and many a crisp leaf ofcrimson and amber and gold sailed down its broad fretted surface, to bedashed over the weir and ripped into fragments in the churning frothbelow.
Dick rowed into the little inlet with the white bridge across it,landed, and nodded, in the spirit, to a hundred spots marked in his mindby the associations of last June; those of an older day were not thoughtof. Here was the place where Alice's boat had been when he had found herreading a magazine--and interrupted her reading--on the day after hisreturn. There were the seven poplars, in whose shadows he had foundMiles on the night of the ball, when the miscreant Pound came inquiringfor him. There was the window through which he, Dick, had leapt afterthat final scene--final in its results--with Alice in the emptyballroom. A full minute's contemplation and elaborate, cold-bloodedrecollection failed to awake one pang--it may be that, to a certainquality of pain, Dick's sense had long been deadened. Then he walkedmeditatively to the front of the house, and rang the bell--a thing hewas not sure that he had ever done before at this house.
Colonel Bristo was out, but Mrs. Parish was in. Dick would see Mrs.Parish; he would be as civil to his old enemy as to the rest of them;why not?
But Mrs. Parish received him in a wondrous manner; remorse andapology--nothing less--were in the tones of her ricketty voice and thegrasp of her skinny hand. The fact was, those weeks in Yorkshire hadleft their mark upon the old lady. They had left her older still, alittle less worldly, a little more sensible, and humbler by thepossession of a number of uncomfortable regrets. She had heard of Dick'sprobable return to Australia, long ago; but her information had beenneither definite nor authentic. When he now told her that he wasactually to sail the next day, the old woman was for the moment visiblyaffected. She felt that here there was a new and poignant regret instore for her--one that would probably haunt her for the rest of herdays. At this rate life would soon become unbearable. It is a terriblething to become suddenly soft-hearted in your old age!
"Colonel Bristo is out," said Mrs. Parish, with a vague feeling thatmade matters worse. "You will wait and see him, of course? I am sure hewill not be long; and then, you know, you must say good-bye toAlice--she will be shocked when you tell her."
"Alice?" said Dick, unceremoniously, as became such a very old friend ofthe family. "I hope so--yes, of course. Where is she?"
"She is in the dining-room. She spends her days there."
"How is she?" Dick asked, with less indifference in his manner.
"Better; but not well enough to stand a long journey, or else her fatherwould have taken her to the south of France before this. Come and seeher. She will be so pleased--but so grieved when she hears you are goingout again. I am sure she has no idea of such a thing. And to-morrow,too!"
Dick followed Mrs. Parish from the room, wishing in his heart thatconvalescence was a shorter business, or else that Alice might have theadvantages of climate that in a few days, and for evermore, would behis; also speculating as to whether he would find her much changed, butwishing and wondering without the slightest ruffling emotion. He hadsome time ago pronounced himself a cure. Therefore, of course, he wascured.
There were two fireplaces in the dining-room, one on each side of theconservatory door. In the grate nearer the windows, which were all atone end, overlooking lawn and river, a fire of wood and coal was burningbrightly. In a long low structure of basketwork--half-sofa, half-chair,such as one mostly sees on shipboard and in vera
ndahs--propped up bycushions and wrapped in plaids and woollen clouds, lay Alice, theconvalescent. There was no sign that she had been reading. She did notlook as though she had been sleeping. If, then, it was her habit toencourage the exclusive company of her own thoughts, it is little wonderthat she was so long in parting company with her weakness.
Dick stood humbly and gravely by the door; a thrill of sorrow shotthrough him on seeing her lying there like that; the sensation was onlynatural.
"Here is Mr. Richard come to--to--to ask you how you are," stammeredpoor Mrs. Parish.
Alice looked up sharply. Mr. Richard crossed the room and held out hishand with a smile.
"I hope from my heart that you are better--that you will very soon bequite better."
"Thank you. It was kind of you to come. Yes, indeed, I am almost wellnow. But it has been a long business."
Her voice was weak, and the hand she held out to him seemed so thin andwasted that he took it as one would handle a piece of dainty, delicateporcelain. Her hair, too, was cut short like a boy's. This was as muchas he noticed at the moment. The firelight played so persistently uponher face that, for aught he could tell, she might be either pale asdeath or bathed in blushes. For the latter, however, he was not in theleast on the look-out.
"Won't you sit down?" said Alice. "Papa will come in presently, and hewill be so pleased to see you; and you will take tea with us. Have youbeen away?"
"No," said Dick, feeling awkward because he had made no inquiriespersonally since the return of the Bristos from Yorkshire, now some daysback. "But I have been getting ready to go." He put down his hat on thered baize cover of the big table, and sat down a few chairs further fromAlice than he need have done.
"What a capital time to go abroad," said Alice, "just when everything isbecoming horrid in England! We, too, are waiting to go; it is I that amthe stumbling-block."
So she took it that he was only going on the Continent. Better enlightenher at once, thought Dick. Mrs. Parish had disappeared mysteriously fromthe room.
"This time to-morrow," Dick accordingly said, "I shall be on board theRome."
The effect of this statement upon Alice was startling.
"What!" cried she, raising herself a few inches in suddenly arousedinterest. "Are you going to see them off?"
"See whom off?" Dick was mystified.
"My dear good nurse--the first and the best of my nurses--and herbrother the Sergeant."
"Do you mean Compton?"
"Yes. They sail in the Rome to-morrow."
"So the brother," Dick thought to himself, "is taking the sister back toher own people, to be welcomed and forgiven, and to lead a better kindof life. Poor thing! poor thing! Perhaps her husband's death was thebest thing that could have befallen her. She will be able to startafresh. She is a widow now."
Aloud, he only said: "I am glad--very glad to hear it."
"Did you know," said Alice, seeing that he was thinking more than hesaid, "that she was a widow?"
"Yes," said Dick.
It was plain to him that Alice did not know whose widow the poor womanwas. She suspected no sort of bond between the woman who had nursed herand the man who had made love to her. She did not know the baseness ofthat love on his part. This was as it should be. She must neversuspect; she must never, never know.
"Yes," said Dick slowly, "I knew that."
"Oh!" cried out Alice. "How dreadful it all was! How terrible!"
"Ay," said Dick, gravely; "it was that indeed."
There was a pause between them. It was Alice who broke it.
"Dick," she said frankly--and honest shame trembled through herutterance--"I want to ask your pardon for something--no, you shall notstop me! I want to tell you that I am sorry for having saidsomething--something that I just dimly remember saying, but somethingthat I know was monstrous and inexcusable. It was just before--but I wasaccountable enough to know better. Ah! I see you remember; indeed, youcould never forget--please--please--try to forgive!"
Dick felt immensely uneasy.
"Say no more, Alice. I deserved it all, and more besides. I wasfearfully at fault. I should never have approached you as I did, mydiscovery once made. I shall never forgive myself for all that hashappened. But he took me in--he took me in, up there, playing thepenitent thief, the--poor fellow!"
His voice dropped, his tone changed: many things came back to him in arush.
"Papa has told me the whole history of the relations between you," Alicesaid quietly, "and we think you behaved nobly."
"There was precious little nobility in it," Dick said grimly. Nor wasthere any mock modesty in this. He knew too well that he had donenothing to be proud of.
There was another pause. Dick broke this one.
"Forgive me," he said, "if I refer to anything very painful, but I amgoing away to-morrow, and--there was something else you said, just afteryou administered that just rebuke to me. You said you would tell us whatMiles had said to you. Now I do not mean it as presumption, but we areold friends"--she winced--"and I have rather suspected that he made someconfession to you which he never made to anyone else. There was a lot ofgold----"
Alice interrupted him in a low voice.
"I would rather not tell you what he said; it was nothing to do withanything of that kind."
Dick's question had not been unpremeditated. He had had his ownconviction as to the "confession" Alice had listened to; he only wantedthat conviction confirmed. Now, by her hesitation and her refusal toanswer, it was confirmed. Miles had proposed marriage on the way fromMelmerbridge Church, and been accepted! Well, it was a satisfaction tohave that put beyond doubt. He had put his question in rather anunderhand way, but how was he to do otherwise? He had got his answer;the end justified the means.
"Pray don't say another word," said Dick impulsively. "Forgive me forprying. Perhaps I can guess what he said."
Alice darted at him a swift glance, and saw his meaning in a flash.
"Do not get up," said she quietly, for Dick was rising to go. "Since itis possible that you may guess wrong, I will tell you all. I insist intelling you all! Here, then, are the facts: Mr. Miles scarcely spoke aword on the way from church, until suddenly, when we were almost insight of home, he--he caught hold of my hand."
Dick knew that already. He was also quite sure that he knew what wascoming. It was no use Alice going on; he could see that she was nervousand uncomfortable over it; he reproached himself furiously for makingher so; he made a genuine effort to prevail upon her to say no more. Invain; for now Alice was determined. Seeing that it was so, he got upfrom his chair and walked over to the windows, and watched the brownleaves being whisked about the lawn and the sky overhead turning adeeper grey.
Alice continued in a voice that was firm for all its faintness:
"I suppose I looked surprised, and taken aback, and indignant, but heheld my hand as if his was a vice, and still we walked on. Then I lookedat him, and he was pale. Then he stared down upon me, closely and long,as if he meant to read my soul, and a great shudder seemed to passthrough him. He almost flung my hand away from him, and faced me in theroad. We were then on that little bridge between two hills, not far fromthe shooting-box: you will remember it. 'Miss Alice,' he said, 'I am avillain! a scoundrel! an impostor. I have never been fit to speak toyou, and I have dared to take your hand. But I find I am a shade lessblack than I thought myself a minute ago; for what I meant to say to youI would not say now to save my soul, if I had one! Good-bye; you willsee no more of me. Whatever you may one day hear of me--and you mustbelieve it all, for it is every word true--remember this: that, bad as Istill am, I am less bad than I was before I knew you, and I have foundit out this instant. Go, leave me, run home; you shall never see meagain. I shall go at once from this place, and I leave England in twodays. Do you hear? Go, leave me alone--go! And God go with you!' Hisvoice was breaking, his wild looks frightened me, but I answered him. Ihad my suspicions, as I told him, but I did not tell him that you putthem into my head. What I did s
ay to him was this: 'Whatever you havedone, whatever you may do, you did one thing once that can never, nevergrow less in my eyes!' I meant his saving of my father's life; and withthat I ran away from him and never looked round. That is every word thatpassed. I can never forget them. As to what happened afterwards, youknow more than I."
Alice's own voice shook; it was hollow, and hoarse, and scarcely audibleat the end. As for Dick, he stood looking out of the window at thewhirling leaves, with not a word to say, until an involuntary murmurescaped him.
"Poor Miles!"
The girl's answer was a low sob.
Then here was the truth at last. The innocence and purity of the youngEnglish girl had awed and appalled that bold, desperate, unscrupulousman at the last moment. On the brink of the worst of all his crimes hisnerve had failed him, or, to do him better justice, his heart hadsmitten him. Yes, it must have been this, for the poor fellow loved herwell. His last thought was of her, his last, dying effort was for her,his life's blood ran out of him in her service!
But Alice! Had she not loved him when he spoke? Had she not given herheart to him in the beginning? Had she not tacitly admitted as much inthis very room? Then her heart must be his still; her heart must be hisfor ever--dead or living, false or true, villain or hero. Poor Alice!What a terrible thing for a girl to have so misplaced her love. Dickfelt his heart bleeding for her, but what could he do? He could donothing but go back to Australia, and pray that some day she might getover it and be consoled. Now that he thought of it, he had not told herabout Australia. He had tried twice, and each time been interrupted. Itmust be done now.
"By-the-bye," he began (it was after a long silence, and the room wasfilled with dusk, and the fire burning low), "I didn't tell you, afterall, how it is that I shall be aboard the Rome this time to-morrow. Itis not to see off Compton and his sister, because until you told me Ididn't know they were going. Can't you guess the reason?"
"No!"
What could be the meaning of that quick gasp from the other side of theroom that preceded the faint monosyllable?
"I will tell you: it is because I sail for Australia myself to-morrow! Iam going back to the bush."
There was a slight shiver of the basketwork chair. Then all was still;and Dick watched evening gather over the flat Ham fields across theriver. The next tones from near the fireplace had a steely ring aboutthem.
"Why are you going back?"
"Because I have found England intolerable."
"I thought you were going to get on so well in England?"
"So did I."
Another silence. Dick drummed idly upon the pane with his fingers. Therewas certainly a degree of regret in Alice's tone--enough to afford him avague sense of gratitude to her.
"Is it not a terrible disappointment to your family?"
"I suppose it is," said Dick uneasily.
"And can you lightly grieve those who love you?"
She spoke as earnestly as though she belonged to that number herself;but, thought Dick, that must be from the force of her woman's sympathyfor women. There was a slight catch in her voice, doubtless from thesame cause. Could it be from any other cause? Dick trembled in the duskby the window at the thought. No; it could not be. No; he did not wishit. He would not have her relent now. It was too late. He had set hismind on going; his passage was booked, his luggage was on board; nothingcould unsettle him now. Was it not admitted in the beginning that he wasan obstinate fellow? Besides, hope had been out of the range of hisvision these many weeks. When a faint spark of hope burned on thehorizon, was it natural that he should detect it at once? Yet her tonesmade him tremble.
As for Alice, her heart was beating with wild, sickening thuds. Shefelt that she was receiving her just deserts. Dick was as cold to hernow as she had been cold to Dick before; only far colder, for she hadbut been trying him. Ah! but Nemesis was cruel in her justice! And she,Alice, so faint, so weary, so heartsick, so loveless, so full ofremorse, so ready to love! And this the last chance of all!
"Is there nothing that could stop you from going now?"
"Nothing."
"Nothing at all?"
"No consideration upon earth!"
"Ah, you have taken your passage!"
"That's not it!"
He was indignant. A paltry seventy guineas!
"Then what is? It must be that you've made up your mind, and would notunmake it--no matter who asked you."
The slightest stress imaginable was laid upon the relative.
Dick was leaning against the window-ledge for support. His brain waswhirling. He could scarcely believe his ears. There was a tearfultenderness in her voice which he could not, which he dared notunderstand.
"What do you mean?" he asked hoarsely.
"I mean that--that you--that I----"
The words ended in inarticulate sobs.
"Do you mean that you ask me to stay in England?"
Dick put this question in a voice that was absolutely stern, though itquivered with suppressed agitation. There was no answer: sobs were noanswer. He crossed the room unsteadily, fell on his knees at her side,and took both her hands in his. Then he repeated the same question--inthe same words, in the same tones.
The answer came in a trembling whisper, with a fresh torrent of tears:
"What if I did?"
"The Rome might sail without me."
A tearful incredulous smile from Alice.
"Do you tell me to stay? I stay or go at your bidding. Darling! you knowwhat that means to us two?"
No answer.
"Speak! Speak, Alice, for I cannot bear this! The Rome would sailwithout me!"
* * * * *
Alice did speak. The Rome did sail without him.
Transcriber's Notes:
Passages in italics were indicated by _underscores_.
Small caps were replaced with ALL CAPS.
Throughout the document, the oe ligature was replaced with "oe".
Throughout the dialogues, there were words used to mimic accents ofthe speakers. Those words were retained as-is.
On page 8, the quotation mark was deleted after "on this side of theroad."
On page 68, the word "looee" was replaced with "cooee".
On page 92, a quotation mark was placed after "deducted from yourallowance this evening."
On page 158, "not this young follow" was replaced with "not this youngfellow".
On page 168, "bunshrangers" was replaced with "bushrangers".
On page 184, a quotation mark was added after "and the older suitor."
On page 201, "Cousin Philip has been a long voyage" was replaced with"Cousin Philip has been on a long voyage".
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