XIX
Tatham was returning alone from a run with the West Cumbrian hounds. TheDecember day was nearly done, and he saw the pageant of its going from apoint on the outskirts of his own park. The park, a great space of wildland extending some miles to the north through a sparsely peopled county,was bounded and intersected throughout its northerly section by varioushigh moorland roads. At a cross-road, leading to Duddon on the left, andto a remote valley running up the eastern side of Blencathra on theright, he reined up his horse to look for a moment at the sombre glowwhich held the western heaven; amid which the fells of Thirlmere andDerwentwater stood superbly ranged in threatening blacks and purples. Tothe east and over the waste of Flitterdale, that great flat "moss" inwhich the mountains die away, there was the prophecy of moonrise; apearly radiance in the air, a peculiar whiteness in the mists that hadgathered along the river, a silver message in the sky. But the wind wasrising, and the westerly clouds rushing up. The top of Blencathra wasalready hidden; it might be a wild night.
Only one luminous point was to be seen, at first, in all the wide andsplendid landscape. It shone from Threlfall Tower, a dark andindistinguishable mass amid its hanging woods.
"Old Melrose--counting out his money!"
But as the scornful fancy crossed his mind, a few other dim and scatteredlights began to prick the gloom of the fast-darkening valley. Thattwinkle far away, in the direction of St. John's Vale, might it not bethe light of Green Cottage--of Lydia's lamp?
He sat his horse, motionless, consumed with longing and grief. Yet, hardexercise in the open air, always seemed to bring him a kind of physicalcomfort. "It _was_ a jolly _run_!" he thought, yet half ashamed. Hisyoung blood was in love with life, through all heartache.
Suddenly, a whirring sound from the road on his right, and the flash ofmoving lamps. He saw that a small motor was approaching, and his marebegan to fidget.
"Gently, old girl!"
The motor approached and slowed at the corner.
"Hallo Undershaw! is that you?"
The motor stopped and Undershaw jumped out, and turned off his engine.Tatham's horse was pirouetting.
"All right," said Undershaw; "I'll walk by you a bit. Turn her up yourroad."
The beautiful mare quieted down, and presently the two were in closetalk, while the motor left to itself blazed on the lonely moorland road.
Undershaw was describing a visit he had paid that morning to old Brand,the bailiff, who was now quietly and uncomplainingly losing hold on life.
"He may go any time--perhaps to-night. The elder son's departure hasfinished him. I told the lad that if he cared to stay till his father'sdeath, you would see that he got work meanwhile on the estate; but he waswild to go--not a scrap of filial affection that I could make out!--andthe poor old fellow has scarcely spoken since he left the house. So therehe is, left with the feeble old wife, and the half-witted son, who growsqueerer and madder than ever. I needn't say the woman was verygrateful--"
"Don't!" said Tatham; "it's a beastly world."
They moved on in silence, till Undershaw resumed:
"Dixon came to the surgery this afternoon, and I understood from him thathe thinks Melrose is breaking up fast. He tries to live as usual; and histemper is appalling. But Dixon sees a great change."
"Well, it'll scarcely be possible to say that his decease 'cast a gloomover the countryside.' Will it?" laughed Tatham.
"What'll Faversham do? That's what I keep asking myself."
"Do? Why, go off with the shekels, and be damned to us! I understand thatjust at present he's paying rather high for them, which is somesatisfaction. That creature Nash told one of our men the other day thatMelrose now treats him like dirt, and finds his chief amusement instopping anything he wants to do."
"Then he'd better look sharp after the will," said Undershaw, with asmile. "Melrose is game for any number of tricks yet. But I don't judgeFaversham quite as you do. I believe he has all sorts of grand ideas inhis head about what he'll do when he comes in."
"I daresay! You need 'em when you begin with taking soiled money. Mrs.Melrose got the quarterly payment of her allowance yesterday, from anItalian bank--twenty-five pounds minus ten pounds, which seems to bemortgaged in some way. Melrose's solicitors gracefully let her knowthat the allowance was raised by twenty pounds! On fifteen poundstherefore she and the girl are expected to exist for the quarter--_and_support the old father. And yesterday just after my mother had shown methe check, I saw Faversham in Pengarth, driving a Rolls-Royce car,brand-new, with a dark fellow beside him whom I know quite well as aBond Street dealer. I conclude Faversham was taking him to see thecollections--_his_ collections!"
"It looks ugly I grant. But I believe he'll provide for the girl as soonas he can."
"And I hope she'll refuse it!" cried Tatham. "And I believe she will.She's a girl of spirit. She talks of going on the stage. My mother hasfound out that she's got a voice, and she dances divinely. My mother'sactually got a teacher for her from London, whom we put up in thevillage."
"A lovely little girl!" said Undershaw. "And she's getting over herhardships. But the mother--" He shook his head.
"You think she's in a bad way?"
"Send her back to Italy as soon as you can. She's pining for her ownpeople. Life's been a bit too hard for her, and she never was but a poorthing. Well, I must go."
Tatham stayed his horse. Undershaw, added as though by an afterthought:
"I was at Green Cottage this morning. Mrs. Penfold's rather knocked upwith nursing her sister. She chattered to me about Faversham. He used tobe a good deal there but they've broken with him too; apparently, becauseof Mainstairs. Miss Lydia couldn't stand it. She was _so_ devoted to thepeople."
The man on horseback made some inaudible reply, and they began to talk ofa couple of sworn inquiries about to be held on the Threlfall estate bythe officials of the Local Government Board, into the housing andsanitation of three of the chief villages on Melrose's property. Thedepartment had been induced to move by a committee of local gentlemen, inwhich Tatham had taken a leading part. The whole affair had reduceditself indeed so far to a correspondence duel between Tatham, asrepresenting a scandalized neighbourhood, and Faversham, as representingMelrose.
Tatham's letters, in which a man, with no natural gift for the pen, haddeveloped a surprising amount of effective sarcasm, had all appeared inthe local press; with Faversham's ingenious and sophistical replies.Tatham discussed them now with Undershaw in a tone of passionatebitterness. The doctor said little. He had his own shrewd ideas on thesituation.
* * * * *
When Undershaw left him, Tatham rode on, up the forest lane, till againthe trees fell away, the wide valley with its boundary fells openedbefore him, and again his eye sought through the windy dusk for thefar-gleaming light that spoke to him of Lydia. His mind was full of freshagitation, stirred by Undershaw's remark about her. The idea of a breachbetween Lydia and Faversham was indeed most welcome, since it seemed torestore Lydia to that pedestal from which it had been so hard and strangeto see her descend. It gave him back the right to worship her! And yet,the notion did nothing--now--to revive any hope for himself. He kept thedistant light in view for long, his heart full of a tenderness which,though he did not know it, had already parted with much of the bitternessof unsatisfied passion. Unconsciously, the healing process was on itsway; the healing of the normal man, on whom a wound is no soonerinflicted than all the reparative powers of life rush together for itscure.
* * * *
But while Tatham, wrapped in thoughts of Lydia, was thus drawinghomeward, across the higher ground of the estate, down through the Duddonwoods, as they fell gently to the river, a little figure was hurrying,with the step of a fugitive, and half-nervous, half-exultant looksfrom side to side. The moon had risen. It was not dark in the woods, andFelicia, amid the _boschi_ of the Apuan Alps, had never been frightenedof the night or of any ill befalling her. In Lucca itself s
he might beinsulted; on the hills, never. She had the independence, and--generallyspeaking--the strength of the working girl. So that the enterprise onwhich she was launched--the quest of her father--presented itself to heras nothing particularly difficult. She had indeed to keep it from hermother and Lady Tatham, and to find means of escaping them. That shecalmly took steps to do, not bothering her head much about it.
As to the rest of the business, there was a station on the Keswick lineclose to the gate of the park, and she had looked out a train which wouldtake her conveniently to Whitebeck, which was only half a mile fromThrelfall. From Duddon to Whitebeck took eight minutes in the train. Shewould be at Whitebeck a little after five; allowing an hour for heradventure at the Tower, and some little margin, she would catch a trainback between six and seven, which would allow of her slipping into Duddona little after seven, unnoticed, and in good time to dress for dinner.Her Italian blood betrayed itself throughout, alike in the keen pleasureshe took in the various devices of her small plot; in the entire absenceof any hampering scruples as to the disobedience and deceit which itinvolved; and in the practical intelligence with which she was ready tocarry it out. She had brooded over it for days; and this afternoon aconvenient opportunity had arisen. Her mother was in her room with aheadache; Lady Tatham had had to go to Carlisle on business.
As she hastened, almost running, through the park, she was planning, byfits and starts, what she would say to her father. But still more was thethinking of Tatham--asking herself questions about him, with littlethrills of excitement, and little throbbings of delicious fear.
Here she was, at the gate of the park. Just ten minutes to her train! Shehurried on. A few labourers were in the road coming home tired from theirwork; a few cottage doors were ajar, showing the bright fire, and thesprawling children within. Some of the men as they passed looked withcuriosity at the slim stranger; but she was well muffled up in her newfurs--Victoria's gift--and her large felt hat; they saw little more thanthe tips of her small nose and chin.
The train came in just as she reached the station. She took her ticketfor Whitebeck, and as the train jogged along, she looked out of thewindow at the valley in the dim moonrise, her mind working tumultuously.Lady Tatham had told her much; Hesketh, Lady Tatham's maid, and the oldcoachman who had been teaching her to ride, had told her more. She knewthat before she reached Whitebeck she would have passed the boundarybetween the Duddon and Threlfall estates. She was now indeed on herfather's land, the land which in justice ought to be hers some day; whichin Italy would be hers by law, or part of it anyway, whatever pranks herfather might play. But here in England a man might rob his child of everypenny if he pleased. That was strange when England was such a greatcountry--such a splendid country. "I _love_ England!" she thoughtpassionately, as she leant back with folded arms and closed eyes.
And straightway on the dusk rose the image of Tatham--Tatham onhorseback, as she had seen him set out for the hunt that morning; and shefelt her eyes grow a little wet. Why? Oh! because he was so tall andsplendid--and he sat his horse like a king--and everybody loved him--andshe was living in his house--and so, whether he would or no, he must takenotice of her sometimes. One evening had he not let her mend his glove?And another evening, when she was practising her dancing for Lady Tatham,had he not come in to look? Ah, well, wait till she could sing and danceproperly, till--perhaps--he saw her on the stage! Her newly discoveredsinging voice, which was the excitement of the moment for Lady Tatham andNetta, was to Felicia like some fairy force within her, struggling to beat large, which would some day carve out her fortunes, and bring her toTatham--on equal terms.
For her pride had flourished and fed upon her love. She no longer talkedof Tatham to her mother or any one else. But deep in her heart lay thetenacious, pursuing instinct.
And besides--suppose--she made an impression on her father--on his cruelold heart? Such things do happen. It's silly to say they don't. "I _am_pretty--and now my clothes are all right--and my hands have come nearlywhite. He'll see I'm not a girl to be ashamed of. And if my father didgive me a _dot_--why then I'd send my mother to _his_ mother! That's howwe'd do it in Italy. I'm as well-born as he--nearly--and if I had a_dot_--"
The yellow-haired girl at any rate was quite out of the way. No one spokeof her; no one mentioned her. That was all right.
And as to Threlfall and her father, if she was able to soften him at allit would not be in the least necessary to drive that bad young man, Mr.Faversham, to despair. Compromise--bargaining--settle most things. Shefell to imagining--with a Latin clearness and realism--how it might behandled. Only it would have to be done before her father died. For if Mr.Faversham once took all the money and all the land, there would be no_dot_ for her, even if he were willing to give it her. For Lord Tathamwould never take a farthing from Mr. Faversham, not even through hiswife. "And so it would be no use to me," thought Felicia, quietly, butregretfully.
Whitebeck station. Out she tripped, asked her way to Threlfall,and hurried off into the dark, followed by the curious looks of thestation-master.
She was soon at the park gate, and passed through it with a beatingheart. She had heard of the bloodhounds; and the sound of a bark in thedistance--though it was only the collie at the farm--gave her a start ofterror.
The Whitebeck gate was but a short distance from the house, and asshe turned a corner, the Tower rose suddenly before her. She held herbreath; it looked so big, so darkly magnificent. She thought of all thetales that had been told her, the rooms full of silver and gold--the_arazzi_--the _stucchi_--the cabinets and sculpture. She had grown up inan atmosphere of perpetual bric-a-brac; she had seen the big Florentineshops; she could imagine what it was like.
There were lights in two of the windows; and the smoke from severalchimneys rose wind-beaten against the woods behind. The moon stoodimmediately over the roof, and the shadow of the house stretched beyondthe forecourt almost to her feet.
She lingered a few minutes, fascinated, gazing at this huge place whereher father lived--her father whom she had never seen since she was ababy. The moon lit up her tiny figure, and her small white face, as shestood in the open, alone in the wintry silence.
Then, swiftly, and instead of going up to the front door, she turned tothe right along a narrow flagged path that skirted the forecourt and ledto the back of the house.
She knew exactly what to do. She had planned it all with Hesketh,Hesketh, who was the daughter of a farmer on the Duddon estate, fiftyyears old, a born gossip, and acquainted with every man, woman andchild in the neighbourhood. Did not Hesketh go to the same chapel withThomas Dixon and his wife? And had she not a romantic soul, far abovefurbelows--a soul which had flung itself into the cause of the "heiress,"to the point of keeping the child's secret, even from her ladyship?Hesketh indeed had suffered sharply from qualms of conscience in thisrespect. But Felicia had spared her as much as possible, by keeping theprecise moment of her escapade to herself.
She groped her way round, till she came to a side path leading to anentrance. The path indeed was that by which Faversham had been originallycarried into the Tower, across the foot-bridge. Peering over a low wallthat bounded the path, she looked startled into an abyss of leaflesstrees, with a bright gleam of moonlit water far below. In front of herwas a door and steps, and some rays of light penetrating through theshuttered windows beside the door, showed that there was life within.
Felicia mounted the steps and knocked. No one came. At last she found abell and rang it--cautiously. Steps approached. The door was opened, anda gray-haired woman stood on the threshold.
"Well, what's your business?" she said sharply. It was evident that shewas short-sighted, and did not clearly see the person outside.
"Please, I want to speak to Mr. Melrose."
The clear, low voice arrested the old woman.
"Eh?" she said testily. "And who may you be? You cawn't see Mr. Melrose,anyways."
"I want to see him particularly. Are you Mrs. Dixon?"
"Aye--
a'am Mrs. Dixon. But aa've no time to goa chatterin' at doors wi'yoong women; soa if yo'll juist gie me yor business, I'll tell MusterFaversham, when he's got time to see to 't."
"It's not Mr. Faversham I want to see--it's Mr. Melrose. Mrs. Dixon,don't you remember me?"
Mrs. Dixon stepped back in puzzled annoyance, so as to let a light fromthe passage shine upon the stranger's face. She stood motionless.
Felicia stepped within.
"I am Miss Melrose," she said, with composure, "Felicia Melrose. You knewme when I was a child. And I wish to see my father."
Mrs. Dixon's face seemed to have fallen into chaos under the shock. Shestood staring at the visitor, her mouth working.
"Muster Melrose's daeater!" she said, at last. "T' baby--as was! Aye--yo'feature him! An' yo're stayin' ower ta Duddon--wi' her ladyship. I know.Dixon towd me. Bit yo' shouldna' coom here, Missie! Yo' canno' see yourfeyther."
"Why not?" said Felicia imperiously. "I mean to see him. Here I am in thehouse. Take me to him at once!"
And suddenly closing the entrance door behind her, she moved on toward aninner passage dimly lit, of which she had caught sight.
Mrs. Dixon clung to her arm.
"Noa, noa! Coom in here, Missie--coom in _here_! Dixon!--where are yo'?Dixon!"
She raised her voice. A chair was pushed back in the kitchen, on theother side of the passage. An old man who, to judge from his aspect, hadbeen roused by his wife's call from a nap after his tea, appeared in adoorway.
Mrs. Dixon drew Felicia toward him, and into the kitchen, as he retreatedthither. Then she shut and bolted the door.
"This is t' yoong lady!" she said in a breathless whisper to her husband."Muster-Melrose's daeater! She's coom fra Duddon. An' she's fer seein' herfeyther."
Old Dixon had grown very pale. But otherwise he showed no surprise. Helooked frowning at Felicia.
"Yo' canno' do that, Miss Melrose. Yo'r feyther wunna see yo'. He's anowd man noo, and we darena disturb him."
Felicia argued with the pair, first quietly, then with a heaving breast,and some angry tears. Dixon soon dropped the struggle, so far as wordswent. He left that to his wife. But he stood firmly against the door,looking on.
"You shan't keep me here!" said Felicia at last with a stamp. "I'll callsome one! I'll make a noise!"
A queer, humorous look twinkled over Dixon's face. Then--suddenly--hemoved from the door. His expression had grown hesitating--soft.
"Varra well, then. Yo' shall goa--if you mun goa."
His wife protested. He turned upon her.
"She shall goa!" he repeated, striking the dresser beside him. "Herfeyther's an old man--an' sick. Mebbe he'll be meetin' his Maeaker face toface, before the year's oot; yo' canno' tell. He's weakenin' fasst. An'he's ben a hard mon to his awn flesh and blood. There'll be a reckonin'!An' the Lord's sent him this yan chance o' repentance. I'll not stan' i'the Lord's way--whativer. Coom along, Missie!"
And entirely regardless of his wife's entreaties, the old Methodistresolutely opened the kitchen door, and beckoned to Felicia. He was lamenow and walked with a stick, his shoulders bent. But he neither paused,nor spoke to her again. Murmuring to himself, he led her along the innerpassage, and opened the door into the great gallery.
A blaze of light and colour, a rush of heated air. Felicia was dazzled bythe splendour of the great show within--the tapestries, the pictures, thegleaming reflections on lacquer and intarsia, on ebony or Sevres. But theatmosphere was stifling. Melrose now could only live in the temperatureof a hothouse.
Dixon threw open a door, and without a word beckoned to Felicia to enter.He hesitated a moment, evidently as to whether he should announce her;and then, stepping forward, he cleared his throat.
"Muster Melrose, theer's soom one as wants to speak to you!"
"What do you mean, you old fool!" said a deep, angry voice on the otherside of a great lacquer screen; "didn't I tell you I wasn't to bedisturbed?"
Felicia walked round the screen. Dixon, with an excited look at her,retired through the door which he closed behind him.
"Father!" said Felicia, in a low, trembling voice.
An old man who was writing at a large inlaid table, in the midst of aconfusion of objects which the girl's eyes had no time to take in, turnedsharply at the sound.
The two stared at each other. Melrose slowly revolved on his chair, penin hand. Felicia stood, with eyes downcast, her cheeks burning, her handslightly clasped.
Melrose spoke first.
"H'm--so they've sent _you_ here?"
She looked up.
"No one sent me. I--I wished to see you--before we went away; because youare my father--and I mightn't ever see you--if I didn't now. And I wantedto ask you"--her voice quivered--"not to be angry any more with motherand me. We never meant to vex you--by coming. But we were so poor--andmother is ill. Yes, she _is_ ill!--she is--it's no shamming. Won't youforgive us?--won't you give mother a little more money?--and won'tyou"--she clasped her hands entreatingly--"won't you give me a _dot_? Imay want to be married--and you are so rich? And I wouldn't ever troubleyou again--I--"
She broke off, intimidated, paralyzed by the strange fixed look of theold wizard before her--his flowing hair, his skullcap, his white andsunken features. And yet mysteriously she recognized herself in him. Sherealized through every fibre that he was indeed her father.
"You would have done better not to trouble me again!" said Melrose, withslow emphasis. "Your mother seems to pay no attention whatever to what Isay. We shall see. So you want a _dot_? And, pray, what do you want a_dot_ for? Who's going to marry you? Tatham?"
The tone was more mocking than fierce; but Felicia shrank under it.
"Oh, no, _no_! But I _might_ want to marry," she added piteously. "And inItaly--one can't marry--without a _dot_!"
"Your mother should have thought of these things when she ran away."
Felicia was silent a moment. Then, without invitation, she seated herselfon the edge of a chair that stood near him.
"That was so long ago," she said timidly--yet confidingly. "And I was ababy. Couldn't you--couldn't you forget it now?"
Melrose surveyed her.
"I suppose you like being at Duddon?" he asked her abruptly, withoutanswering her question.
She clasped her hands fervently.
"It's like heaven! They're so good to us."
"No doubt!"--the tone was sarcastic. "Well, let them provide for you. Whogave you those clothes? Lady Tatham?"
She nodded. Her lip trembled. Her startled eyes looked at him piteously.
"You've been living at Lucca?"
"Near Lucca--on the mountains."
"H'm. Is that all true--about your grandfather?"
"That he's ill? Of course, it's true!" she said indignantly. "We don'ttell lies. He's had a stroke--he's dying. And we could hardly give himany food he could eat. You see--"
She edged a little closer, and began a voluble, confidential account oftheir life in the mountains. Her voice was thin and childish, but sweet;and every now and then she gave a half-frightened, half-excited laugh.Melrose watched her frowning; but he did not stop her. Her bright eyesand brows, with their touches of velvet black, the quick movement of herpink lips, the rose-leaf delicacy of her colour, seemed to hold him.Among the pretty things with which the room was crowded she was theprettiest; and he probably was conscious of it. Propped up against theFrench bureau stood a Watteau drawing in red chalk--a _sanguine_--he hadbought in Paris on a recent visit. The eyes of the old connoisseur wentfrom the living face to the drawing, comparing them.
At last Felicia paused. Her smiles died away. She looked at himwistfully.
"Mother's awfully sorry she--she offended you so. Won't you forgive hernow--and poor Babbo--about the little statue?"
She hardly dared breathe the last words, as she timidly dropped her eyes.
There were tears in her voice, and yet she was not very far fromhysterical laughter. The whole scene was so fantastic--ridiculous! Theroom with
its lumber; its confusion of glittering things; this old manfrowning at her--for no reason! For after all--what had she done? Eventhe _contadini_--they were rough often--they couldn't read or write--butthey loved their grandchildren.
As he caught her reference to the bronze Hermes, Melrose's face changed.He rose, stretching out a hand toward a bell on the table.
"You must go!" he said, sharply. "You ought never to have come. You'llget nothing by it. Tell your mother so. This is the second attack she hasmade on me--through her tools. If she attempts another, she may take theconsequences!"
Felicia too stood up. A rush of anger and despair choked her.
"And you won't--you won't even say a kind word to me!" she said, panting."You won't kiss me?"
For answer, he seized her by the hands, and drew her toward the light.There, for a few intolerable seconds he looked closely, with a kind ofsavage curiosity, into her face, studying her features, her hair, herlight form. Then pushing her from him, he opened that same drawer in theFrench cabinet that Undershaw had once seen him open, fumbled a little,and took out something that glittered.
"Take that. But if you come here again it will be the worse for you, andfor your mother. When I say a thing I mean it. Now, go! Dixon shall takeyou to the train."
Felicia glanced at the Renaissance jewel in her hand--delicate Venus ingold and pearl, set in a hoop of diamonds. "I won't have it!" she said,dashing it from her with a sob of passion. "And we won't take your moneyeither--not a farthing! We've got friends who'll help us. And I'll keepmy mother myself. You shan't give her anything--nor my grandfather. Soyou needn't threaten us! You can't do us any harm!"
She looked him scornfully over from head to foot, a little fury, withblazing eyes.
Melrose laughed.
"I thought you came to get a _dot_ out of me," he said, with liftedbrows, admiring her in spite of himself. "You seem to have a good spiceof the Melrose temper in you. I'm sorry I can't treat you as you seem towish. Your mother settled that. Well--that'll do--that'll do! We can'tbandy words any more. Dixon!"
He touched the hand-bell beside him.
Felicia hurried to the door, sobbing with excitement. As she reached itDixon entered. Melrose spoke a few peremptory words to him, and she foundherself walking through the gallery, Dixon's hand on her arm, while hemuttered and lamented beside her.
"'And the Lord hardened Pharaoh's heart.' Aye, it's the Lord--it's theLord. Oh! Missie, Missie--I was a fool to let yo' in. Yo've been nowt buta new stone o' stumblin'; an' the Lord knows there's offences enoofalready!"
Meanwhile, in the room from which his daughter had been driven, Melrosehad risen from his seat, and was moving hither and thither, every now andthen taking up some object in the crowded tables, pretending to look atit, and putting it down again. He was pursued, tormented all the while byswarming thoughts--visualizations. That child would outlive him--herfather--perhaps by a half century. The flesh and blood sprung from hisown life, would go on enjoying and adventuring, for fifty years, perhaps,after he had been laid in his resented grave. And the mind which wouldhave had no existence had he not lived, would hold till death theremembrance of what he had just said and done--a child's only remembranceof her father.
He stood, looking back upon his life, and quite conscious of some fatalelement in the moment which had just gone by. It struck him as a kind ofmoral tale. Some men would say that God had once more, and finally,offered him "a place of repentance"--through this strange and tardyapparition of his daughter. A ghostly smile flickered. The man of theworld knew best. "Let no man break with his own character." That was thereal text which applied. And he had followed it. Circumstance and his ownwill had determined, twenty years earlier, that he had had enough ofwomen-kind. His dealings with them had been many and various! But at agiven moment he had put an end to them forever. And no falsesentimentalism should be allowed to tamper with the thing done.
At this point he found himself sinking into his chair; and must needsconfess himself somewhat shaken by what had happened. He was angry withhis physical weakness, and haunted in spite of himself by the hue andfragrance of that youth he had just been watching--there--at the cornerof the table--beside the Watteau sketch. He sat staring at thedrawing....
Till the threatened vitality within again asserted itself; beat off thebesieging thoughts; and clutched fiercely at some new proof of its ownstrength. The old man raised himself, and laid his hand on the telephonewhich connected his room with that of Faversham.
How, in Dixon's custody, Felicia reached the station, and stumbled intothe train, and how, at the other end, she groped her way into the gatesof Duddon and began the long woodland ascent to the castle, Felicia neverafterward knew. But when she had gone a few steps along the winding driveWhere the intermittent and stormy moonlight was barely enough to guideher, she felt her strength suddenly fail her. She could never climb thelong hill to the house--she could never fight the wind that was risingin her face. She must sit down, till some one came--to help.
She sank down upon a couch of moss, at the foot of a great oak-tree whichwas still thick with withered leaf. The mental agitation, and the sheerphysical fatigue of her mad attempt had utterly worn out her barelyrecovered strength. "I shall faint," she thought, "and no one will knowwhere I am!" She tried to concentrate her will on the resolution not tofaint. Straightening her back and head against the tree, she clasped herhands rigidly on her knee. From time to time a wave of passionaterecollection would rush through her; and her heart would beat so fast,that again the terror of sinking into some unknown infinite would stringup her will to resistance. In this alternate yielding and recoil, thisphysical and mental struggle, she passed minutes which seemed to herinterminable. At last resistance was all but overwhelmed.
"Come to me!--oh, do come to me!"
She seemed to be pouring her very life into the cry. But, probably, thewords were only spoken in the mind.
* * * * *
A little later she woke up in bewilderment. She was no longer on themoss. She was being carried--carried firmly and speedily--in some one'sarms. She tried to open her eyes.
"Where am I?"
A voice said:
"That's better! Don't be afraid. You'd fainted I think. I can carry youquite safely."
Infinite bliss rushed in upon the girl's fluttering sense. She was toofeeble, too weak, to struggle. Instead she let her head sink on Tatham'sshoulder. Her right hand clung to his coat.
The young man mounted the hill, marvelling at the lightness of the burdenhe held; touched, embarrassed, yet sometimes inclined to laugh or scold.What had she been about? He had come in from hunting to find her absencejust discovered, and the house roused. Victoria and Cyril Boden wereexploring other roads through the garden and park; he had run down thelong hill to the station lodge in case the theory started at once byVictoria that she had escaped, unknown to any one, in order to force aninterview with her father should turn out to be the right one.
Presently a trembling voice said in the darkness, while some soft curlsof hair tickled his cheek:
"I've been to Threlfall. Will Lady Tatham be very angry?"
"Well, she was a bit worried," said Tatham, wondering if the occasionought not to be improved. "She guessed--you might have gone there.There's bad weather coming--and she was anxious what might happen to you.Ah! there's the rain!"
Two or three large drops descended on Felicia's cheek as it lay upturnedon his shoulder; a pattering began on the oak-leaves overhead; themoonlight was blotted out, and when Felicia opened her eyes, it was on aheavy darkness.
"Stupid!" cried Tatham. "Why didn't I think of bringing a mackintoshcape?"
"Mayn't I walk?" asked Felicia, meekly. "I think I could."
"I expect you'd better not. You were pretty bad when I found you. It's notrouble to me to carry you, and I know every inch of these roads."
And indeed by now he would have been very loath to quit his task. Therewas something tormentingly attractive in
this warm softness of the girl'stiny form upon his breast. The thought darted across him--"If I had everheld Lydia so!" It was a pang; but it passed; and what remained was atenderness of soul, evoked by Lydia, but passing out now beyond Lydia.
Poor little foolish thing! He supposed she had been trampled on, as hismother had been. But his mother could defend herself. What chance hadthis child against the old tyrant! An eager, protective sympathy--awarm pity--arose in him; greatly quickened by this hand and arm thatclung to him.
The rain began to drive against them.
"Do you mind getting wet?" he said laughing, almost in her ear.
"Not a bit! I--I didn't mean to give any trouble."
The tone was penitent. Tatham, forgetting all thoughts of admonition,reassured her.
"You didn't give any. Except--Your mother of course was very anxiousabout you."
"But I couldn't tell her!" sighed the voice on his shoulder. "She'd havestopped it."
Tatham smiled unseen.
"I'm afraid your father wasn't kind to you," he said, after a pause.
"It was horrible--horrible!" The little body he held shuddered closer tohim. "Why does he hate us so? and I lost my temper too--I stamped at him.But he looks so old--so old! I think he'll die soon."
"That would be happiest," said Tatham, gravely.
"I told him we would never take any money from him again. I must earnit--I will! Your mother will lend me a little--for my training. I'll payit back."
"You poor child!" he murmured.
At that moment they emerged upon the last section of the broad avenueleading to the house. And the electric light in the pillared porch threwlong rays toward them.
"Please put me down," said Felicia, with decision. "I can walk quitewell."
He obeyed her. But her weakness was still such, that she could only walkwith help. Guiding, supporting her, he half led, half carried her along.
As they reached the lighted porch, she looked up, her face sparkling withrain, a touch of mischief in her hollow-ringed eyes.
"How much will they scold?"
"Can't say, I am sure! I think you'll have to bear it."
"Never mind!" Her white cheeks dimpled. "It's Duddon! I'd rather bescolded at Duddon, than petted anywhere else."
Tatham flushed suddenly. So did she. And as the door opened Feliciawalked with composure past the stately butler.
"Is Lady Tatham in the library?"
Netta Melrose, full of fears, wept that evening over her daughter's rashdisobedience. Victoria administered what reproof she could; and Feliciawas reduced to a heated defence of herself, sitting up in bed, with apair of hot cheeks and tearful eyes. But when all the lights were out,and she was alone, she thought no more of any such nips and pricks. Thenight was joy around her, and as she sank to sleep; Tatham, in dream,still held her, still carried her through the darkness and the rain.