Deadham Hard Part 32

"Yes--endless. For now I have hurt you. You are trying to be good and like your usual self to me; but that doesn't take me in. I know all through me I have hurt you--quite dreadfully badly--though I never, never meant to, and haven't an idea how or why."

This was hardly comforting news to Carteret. He attempted no disclaimer; while she, after fumbling rather helplessly at the breast-pocket of her jacket, at last produced a folded letter and held it out to him.

"Whether it's treacherous or not, I am obliged to tell you," she said, with pathetic desperation. "For I can't bear any more. I can't but try my best to keep you, Colonel Sahib. And now you are hurt, I can only keep you by making you understand--just everything. You may still think me wrong; but anyhow my wrongness will be towards somebody else, not towards you.--So please read this, and don't skip, because every word helps to explain. Read it right through before you ask me any questions--that's more fair all round.--If you go across there--under the lamp, I mean--there still is light enough, I think, for you to be able to see."

And Carteret, thus admonished--partly to pacify her, partly to satisfy a very vital curiosity which stirred in him to compa.s.s the length, breadth, and height of this queer business, learn the truth and so set certain vague and agitating fears at rest--did as Damaris bade him. Standing in the conflicting gaslight and moonlight, the haunted quiet of the small hours broken only by the trample and wash of the sea, he read Darcy Faircloth's letter from its unconventional opening, to its equally unconventional closing paragraph.

"Now my holiday is over and I will close down till next Christmas night--unless miracles happen meanwhile--so good-bye--Here is a boatload of my lads coming alongside, roaring with song and as drunk as lords.--G.o.d bless you. In spirit I once again kiss your dear feet"--

Carteret straightened himself up with a jerk. Looked at Damaris sitting very still, a little sunk together, as in weariness or dejection upon the stone bench. His eyes blazed fierce, for once, with questions he burned yet dreaded to ask. But on second thoughts--they arrived to him swiftly--he restrained his impatience and his tongue. Mastering his heat he looked down at the sheet of note-paper again. He would obey Damaris, absorb the contents of this extraordinary doc.u.ment, the facts it conveyed both explicitly and implicitly, to the last word before he spoke.

Happily the remaining words were few. "Your brother," he read, "till death and after"--followed by a name and date.

At the name he stared fairly confounded. It meant nothing whatever to him.--That is, at first. Then, rising as a vision from out some subconscious drift of memory, he saw the cold, low-toned colouring of wide, smooth and lonely waters, of salt-marsh, of mud-flat and reed-bed in the lowering light of a late autumn afternoon--a grey, stone-built tavern, moreover, above the open door of which, painted upon a board, that same name of Faircloth figured above information concerning divers liquors obtainable within. Yes--remembrance grew more precise and stable.

He recalled the circ.u.mstances quite clearly now. He had seen it on his way back from a solitary afternoon's wild fowl shooting on Marychurch Haven; during his last visit to Deadham Hard.

So much was certain. But the name in its present connection? Carteret's imagination s.h.i.+ed. For, to have the existence of an illegitimate son of your oldest and dearest friend thus suddenly thrust upon you, and that by a young lady of the dearest friend's family, is, to say the least of it, a considerable poser for any man. It may be noted as characteristic of Carteret that, without hesitation, he recognized the sincerity and fine spirit of Faircloth's letter. Characteristic, also, that having seized the main bearings of it, his feeling was neither of cynical acquiescence, or of covert and cynical amus.e.m.e.nt; but of vicarious humiliation, of apology and n.o.ble pitying shame.

He came over and sat down upon the stone bench beside Damaris.

"Dear witch," he said slowly, "this, if I apprehend it aright, is a little staggering. Forgive me--I did altogether, and I am afraid rather cra.s.sly, misunderstand. But that I could hardly help, since no remotest hint of this matter has ever reached me until now."

Damaris let her hand drop, palm upwards, upon the cool, slightly rough, surface of the seat. Carteret placed the folded letter in it, and so doing, let his hand quietly close down over hers--not in any sense as a caress, but as a.s.surance of a sympathy it was forbidden him, in decency and loyalty, to speak. For a while they both remained silent. Damaris was first to move. She put the letter back into the breast-pocket of her jacket.

"I am glad you know, Colonel Sahib," she gravely said. "You see how difficult it has all been."

"I see--yes"--

After a pause, the girl spoke again.

"I only came to know it myself at the end of last summer, quite by accident. I was frightened and tried not to believe. But there was no way of not believing. I had lost my way in the mist out on the Bar. I mistook the one for the other--my brother, I mean, for"--

Damaris broke off, her voice failing her.

"Yes," Carteret put in gently, supportingly.

He leaned back, his arms crossed upon his breast, his head carried slightly forward, slightly bent, as he watched the softly sparkling line of surf, marking the edge of the plunging waves upon the sloping sh.o.r.e.

Vicarious shame claimed him still. He weighed man's knowledge, man's freedom of action, man's standards of the permissible and unpermissible as against those of this maiden, whose heart was at once so much and so little awake.

"For my father," she presently went on. "But still I wanted to deny the truth. I was frightened at it. For if that was true so much else--things I had never dreamed of until then--might also be true. I wanted to get away, somehow. But later, after I had been ill, and my father let him come and say good-bye to me before he went to sea, I saw it all differently, and far from wanting to get away I only longed that we might always be together as other brothers and sisters are. But I knew that wasn't possible. I was quite happy, especially after you came with us, Colonel Sahib, out here. Then I had this letter and the longing grew worse than ever. I did try to school myself into not wanting, not longing--did silly things--frivolous things, as I told you. But I can't stop wanting. It all came to a head, somehow to-night, with the dancing and music, and those foolish boys quarrelling over me--and then your showing me that--instead of being faithful to my father, I have neglected him."

"Ah, you poor sweet dear!" Carteret said, greatly moved and turning to her.

In response she leaned towards him, her face wan in the expiring moonlight, yet very lovely in its pleading and guileless affection.

"And my brother is beautiful, Colonel Sahib," she declared, "not only to look at but in his ideas. You would like him and be friends with him, though he doesn't belong to the same world as you--indeed you would. And he is not afraid--you know what I mean?--not afraid of being alive and having adventures. He means to do big things--not that he has talked boastfully to me, or been showy. Please don't imagine that. He knows where he comes in, and doesn't pretend to be anybody or anything beyond what he is. Only it seems to me there is a streak of something original in him--almost of genius. He makes me feel sure he will never bungle any chance which comes in his way. And he has time to do so much, if chances do come"--this with a note of exultation. "His life is all before him, you see. He is so beautifully young yet."

CHAPTER VIII

FIDUS ACHATES

In which final p.r.o.nouncement of Damaris' fond tirade, Carteret heard the death knell of his own fairest hopes. He could not mistake the set of the girl's mind. Not only did brother call to sister, but youth called to youth. Whereat the goad of his forty-nine years p.r.i.c.ked him shrewdly.

He must accept the disabilities of the three decades, plus one year, which divided him in age from Damaris, as final; and range himself with the elder generation--her father's generation, in short. How, after all, could he in decency go to his old friend and say: "Give me your daughter." The thing, viewed thus, became outrageous, offensive not only to his sense of fitness, but of the finer and more delicate moralities. For cradle-s.n.a.t.c.hing is not, it must be conceded, a graceful occupation; nor is a middle-aged man with a wife still in her teens a graceful spectacle. Sentimentalists may maunder over it in pinkly blus.h.i.+ng perversity; but the naughty world thinks otherwise, putting, if not openly its finger to its nose, at least secretly its tongue in its cheek. And rightly, as he acknowledged. The implication may be coa.r.s.e, libidinous; but the instinct producing it is a sound one, both healthy and just.

Therefore he had best sit no longer upon stone benches by the sounding sh.o.r.e, in this thrice delicious proximity and thrice provocative magic of the serene southern night. All the more had best not do so, because Damaris proved even more rare in spirit, exquisite in moral and imaginative quality--so he perhaps over-fondly put it--than ever before.

Carteret got on his feet and walked away a few paces, continuing to heckle himself with merciless honesty and rather unprintable humour--invoking even the historic name of Abis.h.a.g, virgin and martyr, and generally letting himself "have it hot."

A self-chastis.e.m.e.nt which may be accounted salutary, since, as he administered it, his thought again turned to a case other than his own, namely, that of Charles Verity. To p.r.o.nounce judgment on his friend's past relations with women, whether virtuous or otherwise, was no business of his. Whatever irregularities of conduct that friend's earlier career may have counted, had brought their own punishment--were indeed actually bringing it still, witness current events. It wasn't for him, Carteret, by the smallest fraction to add to that punishment; but rather, surely, to do all in his power to lighten the weight of it. Here he found safe foothold. Let him invite long-standing friends.h.i.+p, with the father, to help him endure the smart of unrequited love for the daughter. To pretend these two emotions moved on the same plane and could counter-balance one another, was manifestly absurd; but that did not affect the essence of the question. Ignoring desire, which to-night so sensibly and disconcertingly gnawed at his vitals, let him work to restore the former harmony and sweet strength of their relation. If in the process he could obtain for Damaris--without unseemly revelation or invidious comment--that on which her innocent soul was set he would have his reward.--A reward a bit chilly and meagre, it is true, as compared with--Comparisons be d.a.m.ned!--Carteret left his pacing and came back to the stone bench.

"Well, I have formed my own conclusions in respect of the whole matter.

Now tell me what you actually want me to do, and I will see how far it can be compa.s.sed, dear witch." he said.

Damaris had risen too, but she was troubled.

"Ah! I still spoil things," she wailed. "I was so happy telling you about--about Faircloth. And yet somehow I've hurt you again. I know I have."

Carteret took her by the elbow lightly, gently, carrying her onward beside him over the wide pallor of the asphalt.

"Hurt me, you vanitatious creature? Against babes of your tender age, I long ago became hurt-proof"--he gaily lied to her. "What do you take me for?--A fledgling like the Ditton boy, or poor Harry Ellice, with whose adolescent affections you so heartlessly played chuck-farthing at our incomparable Henrietta's party to-night?--No, no--but joking apart, what exactly is it you want me to do for you? Take you to Ma.r.s.eilles for the day, perhaps, to meet this remarkable young sea-captain and go over his s.h.i.+p?"

"He is remarkable," Damaris chimed in, repeating the epithet with eager and happier emphasis.

"Unquestionably--if I'm to judge both by your account of him and by the tenor of his letter."

"And you would take me? Oh! dear Colonel Sahib, how beautifully good you are to me."

"Of course, I'll take you--if"--

"If what?"

"If Sir Charles gives his consent."

He slipped Damaris' hand within his arm, still bearing her onward. The last of the long line of gas-lamps upon the esplanade, marking the curve of the bay, was now left behind. A little further and the road forked--the main one followed the sh.o.r.e. The other--a footpath--mounted to the left through the delicate gloom and semi-darkness of the wood clothing the promontory. Carteret did not regret that impending obscurity, apprehending it would be less embarra.s.sing, under cover of it, to embark on certain themes which must be embarked upon were he to bring his purpose to full circle.

"Listen, my dear," he told her, "while I expound. Certain laws of friends.h.i.+p exist, between men, which are imperative. They must be respected. To evade them, still worse, wilfully break them is to be guilty of unpardonably bad taste and bad feeling--to put it no higher.

Had your father chosen to speak to me of this matter, well and good. I should have felt honoured by his confidence, have welcomed it--for he is dearer to me than any man living and always must be.--But the initiative has to come from him. Till he speaks I am dumb. For me to approach the subject first is not possible."

"Then the whole beautiful plan falls through," she said brokenly.

"No, not at all, very far from that," he comforted her. "I gather you have already discussed it with your father. You must lay hold of your courage and discuss it again. I know that won't be easy; but you owe it to him to be straightforward, owe it to his peculiar devotion to you.

Some day, perhaps, when you are older and more ripe in experience, I may tell you, in plain language of a vow he once made for your sake--when he was in his prime, too, his life strong in him, his powers at their height. Some persons might consider his action exaggerated and fanatical.

But such accusations can be brought against most actions really heroic.

And that this action, specially in a man of his temperament, may claim to be heroic there can be, in my opinion, no manner of doubt."