CHAPTER XXVII
AT THE RAILWAY STATION
Clara stood in the waiting-room contemplating the white rails of therain-swept line. Her lips parted at the sight of Vernon.
"You have your ticket?" said he.
She nodded, and breathed more freely; the matter-of-fact question wasreassuring.
"You are wet," he resumed; and it could not be denied.
"A little. I do not feel it."
"I must beg you to come to the inn hard by--half a dozen steps. Weshall see your train signalled. Come."
She thought him startlingly authoritative, but he had good sense toback him; and depressed as she was by the dampness, she was disposed toyield to reason if he continued to respect her independence. So shesubmitted outwardly, resisted inwardly, on the watch to stop him fromtaking any decisive lead.
"Shall we be sure to see the signal, Mr. Whitford?"
"I'll provide for that."
He spoke to the station-clerk, and conducted her across the road.
"You are quite alone, Miss Middleton?"
"I am: I have not brought my maid."
"You must take off boots and stockings at once, and have them dried.I'll put you in the hands of the landlady."
"But my train!"
"You have full fifteen minutes, besides fair chances of delay."
He seemed reasonable, the reverse of hostile, in spite of hiscommanding air, and that was not unpleasant in one friendly to heradventure. She controlled her alert distrustfulness, and passed fromhim to the landlady, for her feet were wet and cold, the skirts of herdress were soiled; generally inspecting herself, she was an object tobe shuddered at, and she was grateful to Vernon for his inattention toher appearance.
Vernon ordered Dr. Corney's dose, and was ushered upstairs to a room ofportraits, where the publican's ancestors and family sat against thewalls, flat on their canvas as weeds of the botanist's portfolio,although corpulency was pretty generally insisted on, and there wereformidable battalions of bust among the females. All of them had theaspect of the national energy which has vanquished obstacles to subsideon its ideal. They all gazed straight at the guest. "Drink, and come tothis!" they might have been labelled to say to him. He was in theprivate Walhalla of a large class of his countrymen. The existing hosthad taken forethought to be of the party in his prime, and in thecentral place, looking fresh-fattened there and sanguine from theperformance. By and by a son would shove him aside; meanwhile heshelved his parent, according to the manners of energy.
One should not be a critic of our works of Art in uncomfortablegarments. Vernon turned from the portraits to a stuffed pike in a glasscase, and plunged into sympathy with the fish for a refuge.
Clara soon rejoined him, saying: "But you, you must be very wet. Youwere without an umbrella. You must be wet through, Mr. Whitford."
"We're all wet through, to-day," said Vernon. "Crossjay's wet through,and a tramp he met."
"The horrid man! But Crossjay should have turned back when I told him.Cannot the landlord assist you? You are not tied to time. I beggedCrossjay to turn back when it began to rain: when it became heavy Icompelled him. So you met my poor Crossjay?"
"You have not to blame him for betraying you. The tramp did that. Iwas thrown on your track quite by accident. Now pardon me for usingauthority, and don't be alarmed, Miss Middleton; you are perfectly freefor me; but you must not run a risk to your health. I met DoctorCorney coming along, and he prescribed hot brandy and water for a wetskin, especially for sitting in it. There's the stuff on the table; Isee you have been aware of a singular odour; you must consent to sipsome, as medicine; merely to give you warmth."
"Impossible, Mr. Whitford: I could not taste it. But pray, obey Dr.Corney, if he ordered it for you."
"I can't, unless you do."
"I will, then: I will try."
She held the glass, attempted, and was baffled by the reek of it.
"Try: you can do anything," said Vernon.
"Now that you find me here, Mr. Whitford! Anything for myself it wouldseem, and nothing to save a friend. But I will really try."
"It must be a good mouthful."
"I will try. And you will finish the glass?"
"With your permission, if you do not leave too much."
They were to drink out of the same glass; and she was to drink some ofthis infamous mixture: and she was in a kind of hotel alone with him:and he was drenched in running after her:--all this came of breakingloose for an hour!
"Oh! what a misfortune that it should be such a day, Mr. Whitford!"
"Did you not choose the day?"
"Not the weather."
"And the worst of it is, that Willoughby will come upon Crossjay wet tothe bone, and pump him and get nothing but shufflings, blank lies, andthen find him out and chase him from the house."
Clara drank immediately, and more than she intended. She held the glassas an enemy to be delivered from, gasping, uncertain of her breath.
"Never let me be asked to endure such a thing again!"
"You are unlikely to be running away from father and friends again."
She panted still with the fiery liquid she had gulped: and she wonderedthat it should belie its reputation in not fortifying her, butrendering her painfully susceptible to his remarks.
"Mr. Whitford, I need not seek to know what you think of me."
"What I think? I don't think at all; I wish to serve you if I can."
"Am I right in supposing you a little afraid of me? You should not be.I have deceived no one. I have opened my heart to you, and am notashamed of having done so."
"It is an excellent habit, they say."
"It is not a habit with me."
He was touched, and for that reason, in his dissatisfaction withhimself, not unwilling to hurt. "We take our turn, Miss Middleton. I'mno hero, and a bad conspirator, so I am not of much avail."
"You have been reserved--but I am going, and I leave my characterbehind. You condemned me to the poison-bowl; you have not touched ityourself"
"In vino veritas: if I do I shall be speaking my mind."
"Then do, for the sake of mind and body."
"It won't be complimentary."
"You can be harsh. Only say everything."
"Have we time?"
They looked at their watches.
"Six minutes," Clara said.
Vernon's had stopped, penetrated by his total drenching.
She reproached herself. He laughed to quiet her. "My dies solemnes aresure to give me duckings; I'm used to them. As for the watch, it willremind me that it stopped when you went."
She raised the glass to him. She was happier and hoped for some littleharshness and kindness mixed that she might carry away to travel withand think over.
He turned the glass as she had given it, turned it round in putting itto his lips: a scarce perceptible manoeuvre, but that she had given itexpressly on one side.
It may be hoped that it was not done by design. Done even accidentally,without a taint of contrivance, it was an affliction to see, and coiledthrough her, causing her to shrink and redden.
Fugitives are subject to strange incidents; they are not vessels lyingsafe in harbour. She shut her lips tight, as if they had stung. Therealizing sensitiveness of her quick nature accused them of a loss ofbloom. And the man who made her smart like this was formal as a railwayofficial on a platform.
"Now we are both pledged in the poison-bowl," said he. "And it has thetaste of rank poison, I confess. But the doctor prescribed it, and atsea we must be sailors. Now, Miss Middleton, time presses: will youreturn with me?"
"No! no!"
"Where do you propose to go?"
"To London; to a friend--Miss Darleton."
"What message is there for your father?"
"Say I have left a letter for him in a letter to be delivered to you."
"To me! And what message for Willoughby?"
"My maid Barclay will hand him a letter at noon."
"You
have sealed Crossjay's fate."
"How?"
"He is probably at this instant undergoing an interrogation. You mayguess at his replies. The letter will expose him, and Willoughby doesnot pardon."
"I regret it. I cannot avoid it. Poor boy! My dear Crossjay! I did notthink of how Willoughby might punish him. I was very thoughtless. Mr.Whitford, my pin-money shall go for his education. Later, when I am alittle older, I shall be able to support him."
"That's an encumbrance; you should not tie yourself to drag it about.You are unalterable, of course, but circumstances are not, and as ithappens, women are more subject to them than we are."
"But I will not be!"
"Your command of them is shown at the present moment."
"Because I determine to be free?"
"No: because you do the contrary; you don't determine: you run awayfrom the difficulty, and leave it to your father and friends to bear.As for Crossjay, you see you destroy one of his chances. I should havecarried him off before this, if I had not thought it prudent to keephim on terms with Willoughby. We'll let Crossjay stand aside. He'llbehave like a man of honour, imitating others who have had to do thesame for ladies."
"Have spoken falsely to shelter cowards, you mean, Mr. Whitford. Oh, Iknow.--I have but two minutes. The die is cast. I cannot go back. Imust get ready. Will you see me to the station? I would rather youshould hurry home."
"I will see the last of you. I will wait for you here. An express runsahead of your train, and I have arranged with the clerk for a signal; Ihave an eye on the window."
"You are still my best friend, Mr. Whitford."
"Though?"
"Well, though you do not perfectly understand what torments have drivenme to this."
"Carried on tides and blown by winds?"
"Ah! you do not understand."
"Mysteries?"
"Sufferings are not mysteries, they are very simple facts."
"Well, then, I don't understand. But decide at once. I wish you to haveyour free will."
She left the room.
Dry stockings and boots are better for travelling in than wet ones, butin spite of her direct resolve, she felt when drawing them on like onethat has been tripped. The goal was desirable, the ardour was damped.Vernon's wish that she should have her free will compelled her to soundit: and it was of course to go, to be liberated, to cast off incubusand hurt her father? injure Crossjay? distress her friends? No, and tentimes no!
She returned to Vernon in haste, to shun the reflex of her mind.
He was looking at a closed carriage drawn up at the station door.
"Shall we run over now, Mr. Whitford?"
"There's no signal. Here it's not so chilly."
"I ventured to enclose my letter to papa in yours, trusting you wouldattend to my request to you to break the news to him gently and pleadfor me."
"We will all do the utmost we can."
"I am doomed to vex those who care for me. I tried to follow yourcounsel."
"First you spoke to me, and then you spoke to Miss Dale; and at leastyou have a clear conscience."
"No."
"What burdens it?"
"I have done nothing to burden it."
"Then it's a clear conscience."
"No."
Vernon's shoulders jerked. Our patience with an innocent duplicity inwomen is measured by the place it assigns to us and another. If he hadliked he could have thought: "You have not done but meditated somethingto trouble conscience." That was evident, and her speaking of it wasproof too of the willingness to be dear. He would not help her. Man'sblood, which is the link with women and responsive to them on theinstant for or against, obscured him. He shrugged anew when she said:"My character would have been degraded utterly by my staying there.Could you advise it?"
"Certainly not the degradation of your character," he said, black onthe subject of De Craye, and not lightened by feelings which made himsharply sensible of the beggarly dependant that he was, or pooradventuring scribbler that he was to become.
"Why did you pursue me and wish to stop me, Mr. Whitford?" said Clara,on the spur of a wound from his tone.
He replied: "I suppose I'm a busybody; I was never aware of it tillnow."
"You are my friend. Only you speak in irony so much. That was irony,about my clear conscience. I spoke to you and to Miss Dale: and then Irested and drifted. Can you not feel for me, that to mention it is likea scorching furnace? Willoughby has entangled papa. He schemesincessantly to keep me entangled. I fly from his cunning as much asfrom anything. I dread it. I have told you that I am more to blame thanhe, but I must accuse him. And wedding-presents! and congratulations!And to be his guest!"
"All that makes up a plea in mitigation," said Vernon.
"Is it not sufficient for you?" she asked him timidly.
"You have a masculine good sense that tells you you won't be respectedif you run. Three more days there might cover a retreat with yourfather."
"He will not listen to me. He confuses me; Willoughby has bewitchedhim."
"Commission me: I will see that he listens."
"And go back? Oh, no! To London! Besides, there is the dining with Mrs.Mountstuart this evening; and I like her very well, but I must avoidher. She has a kind of idolatry . . . And what answers can I give? Isupplicate her with looks. She observes them, my efforts to divert themfrom being painful produce a comic expression to her, and I am acharming 'rogue', and I am entertained on the topic she assumes to beprincipally interesting me. I must avoid her. The thought of her leavesme no choice. She is clever. She could tattoo me with epigrams."
"Stay . . . there you can hold your own."
"She has told me you give me credit for a spice of wit. I have notdiscovered my possession. We have spoken of it; we call it yourdelusion. She grants me some beauty; that must be hers."
"There's no delusion in one case or the other, Miss Middleton. You havebeauty and wit; public opinion will say, wildness: indifference to yourreputation will be charged on you, and your friends will have to admitit. But you will be out of this difficulty."
"Ah--to weave a second?"
"Impossible to judge until we see how you escape the first. And I haveno more to say. I love your father. His humour of sententiousness anddoctorial stilts is a mask he delights in, but you ought to know himand not be frightened by it. If you sat with him an hour at a Latintask, and if you took his hand and told him you could not leave him,and no tears!--he would answer you at once. It would involve a day ortwo further; disagreeable to you, no doubt: preferable to the presentmode of escape, as I think. But I have no power whatever to persuade. Ihave not the 'lady's tongue'. My appeal is always to reason."
"It is a compliment. I loathe the 'lady's tongue'."
"It's a distinctly good gift, and I wish I had it. I might havesucceeded instead of failing, and appearing to pay a compliment."
"Surely the express train is very late, Mr. Whitford?"
"The express has gone by."
"Then we will cross over."
"You would rather not be seen by Mrs. Mountstuart. That is her carriagedrawn up at the station, and she is in it."
Clara looked, and with the sinking of her heart said: "I must braveher!"
"In that case I will take my leave of you here, Miss Middleton."
She gave him her hand. "Why is Mrs. Mountstuart at the station to-day?"
"I suppose she has driven to meet one of the guests for herdinner-party. Professor Crooklyn was promised to your father, and hemay be coming by the down-train."
"Go back to the Hall!" exclaimed Clara. "How can I? I have no moreendurance left in me. If I had some support!--if it were the sense ofsecretly doing wrong, it might help me through. I am in a web. I cannotdo right, whatever I do. There is only the thought of saving Crossjay.Yes, and sparing papa.--Good-bye, Mr. Whitford. I shall remember yourkindness gratefully. I cannot go back."
"You will not?" said he, tempting her to hesitate.
"No."
&
nbsp; "But if you are seen by Mrs. Mountstuart, you must go back. I'll do mybest to take her away. Should she see you, you must patch up a storyand apply to her for a lift. That, I think, is imperative."
"Not to my mind," said Clara.
He bowed hurriedly, and withdrew. After her confession, peculiar toher, of possibly finding sustainment in secretly doing wrong, herflying or remaining seemed to him a choice of evils: and whilst shestood in bewildered speculation on his reason for pursuing her--whichwas not evident--he remembered the special fear inciting him, and sofar did her justice as to have at himself on that subject. He had donesomething perhaps to save her from a cold: such was his onlyconsolatory thought. He had also behaved like a man of honour, takingno personal advantage of her situation; but to reflect on it recalledhis astonishing dryness. The strict man of honour plays a part that heshould not reflect on till about the fall of the curtain, otherwise hewill be likely sometimes to feel the shiver of foolishness at his goodconduct.