At The Relton Arms Part 14

"Aye, sir, there be room and to spare," put in the porter, encouragingly; "you've only got to put your arms round one another all tidy an' comfortable like, an' there ain't no fear o' tumbling out.

Bless ye, sir, there be as many as six together in a cart like this on market days, all as safe and as pleasant as can be."

"An' there bain't no time to lose, Mr. Digby," added George, from the horse's head; "leastways, the end might come while we be gossipin' here, and the Lord grant him a peaceful--"

"Come and take the reins, George," interrupted Lady Joan, suddenly mounting the cart without any a.s.sistance at all, "and get in quickly, you two; there's loads of room, of course."

They began by sitting stiffly on the edge of the seat, as far away from each other as possible; but the first plunge forward of the restive pony nearly tipped up the seat and sent them all backwards, and a parting admonition from the friendly porter followed them up the road.

"Hold on tight to the lady, sirs; that be the only way of doin' it," he bawled at the top of his voice; and although it was an att.i.tude that none of the three would have chosen at that moment, they were compelled by common prudence to follow his advice; and they completed the drive in silence, sitting on the narrow seat of the little rickety cart, with their arms locked together, and their hands unavoidably clasped.

The Squire's letter to the papers was never finished, and n.o.body ever told him how many rabbits were imported annually from Holland. It was a question he repeatedly asked of those around him on the last night of his life, though he varied it, when Joan and his two sons arrived, by wanting to know when Jack was going to be married.

"Soon, quite soon," Lady Joan whispered to him rea.s.suringly, and she put her hand in Jack's to confirm the delusion. Jack knew it was a delusion, and did not press it; he had come to understand her at last.

They stood together in the library, a week after the Squire's death, on the eve of her departure for Relton.

"I was a fool ever to think you could care for me," he said sadly. The circ.u.mstances of the week they had spent together, since their meeting at the station, had completely dissipated their first feelings of awkwardness. They were almost on the dull footing of a brother and sister, who have very little in common, but who have learnt the trick of companions.h.i.+p.

"I let you think I did. It was my fault, as I told you before. Hadn't we better let it drop?" she said brusquely. "Oh, heavens! how old I am beginning to look," she added, as she caught a glimpse of herself in the gla.s.s over the mantelshelf.

"It is only because you are tired," he said, looking at her.

She laughed.

"At least you are truthful," she said, carelessly; "tell me you are not wild with me, Jack. I have treated you abominably, haven't I? If only you were not so provokingly good-tempered about it, I should feel much better, I think. I always did hate whipping a dog that didn't howl. Ah, you don't understand a bit! I believe I am rotten all through, and that is why I have dished my life so effectually. And I'm not a bit sorry, and I mean to have a good time still. Hey-day! But tell me you're not wild, Jack."

"Oh, that's all straight now. And it's much worse for you, don't you know," he said, stumbling on the truth in his slow way; "I shall do all right; don't you fret yourself about me. I ought to have known I shouldn't do for you. Digby will take you to the station, eh?"

"I am going alone," she answered abruptly, and went out into the porch, where most of the family had come to see her off. Owing to some mismanagement on the part of the handy man, who, having been the most important man in the village since the Squire's death and funeral, had completely neglected his usual work ever since, the pony needed shoeing on this particular afternoon, and Lady Joan could not be driven to the station in consequence. She persisted in her determination to walk alone, and Digby remained in awkward silence while his escort was being freely pressed upon her by his unconscious relations. Poor Lady Raleigh, more inconsequent than ever in the midst of her grief, kissed her convulsively, and poured out a confused medley of entreaties into her ear.

"You won't take anything to heart, dear, that Jack has said to you? He doesn't mean anything he says, you know, so you must believe him when he says he loves you as much as ever. He tells me it is all right, so I am not going to say anything about it; but of course you'll look on this as your home until he marries you, won't you, dear? And I a.s.sure you Jack cannot bear to be away from you a single hour, but he does like to stay in his home best, so you won't think anything of his not walking to the station with you. Of course Digby is only too pleased to go with you, and all the fields about here are crowded with dangerous bulls, and if you are not quick you will lose the train, and they never keep it for you at these country stations, you know. So you must have Digby, of course. And you are sure you understand about dear Jack? You mustn't listen to him, that's all; he says he _is_ so fond of you still, dear boy."

"Do have Digby, Joan; he doesn't leave till to-morrow, and he only hangs about the place doing nothing, and it will take him out for an hour."

This from Helen.

"I am sorry to disappoint everybody," said Lady Joan, in her clearest, most composed tones; "but if I did lose the train, Digby would not be of the least use to me in producing another one; and I'm afraid I am not nearly unselfish enough to burden myself with his company for the good of the community; so good-bye, sir;" and she gave him a straight look out of her eyes as she held out her hand. It was the first time she had spoken directly to him since they had parted that night in Pont Street, and he avoided her eyes.

"Good-bye. They seem very anxious to burden you with my presence, don't they?" he said, with a forced laugh; "all luck to the book."

"Thanks. I will send it to you in instalments for criticism."

He was the last to remain in the porch, watching her across the fields; and there was not a criminal in the kingdom with whom he would not gladly have changed places at that moment.

"I shall go up to-night, I think, and surprise Norah," he muttered presently. There was a dull consolation in the idea of meeting the woman who had acquired the habit of being glad to see him; and he felt a little better when he packed his bag upstairs.

The baby was in bed when he walked into the flat, and Norah was having her solitary meal in the dining-room.

"Why are you here to-night?" she asked him, as he held her to him more closely than usual. There was a gleam in the eyes he had almost despised lately for not being more observant, but he did not notice it as he kissed her softly. "So Joan went away to-day, did she?" she added.

"Joan? Did she write to you?" he asked quickly.

"Oh, no. But I knew," and she nodded at him.

"How did you know, wise woman?" he said playfully.

"Because you have come home, of course," she replied, and laughed outright. He laughed too; but there was not a pleasant ring in his merriment and it was short-lived.

"What has come over you, childie?" he said, beginning to feel vaguely alarmed.

She had disengaged herself from his arms, and was walking away to the window.

"Oh, nothing. Only it is a pity you leave your coats about. I should never have known if you had not been so careless. At least, I fancy I have known all the winter," she added dreamily, as if to herself.

"Known what?" he asked in a voice he did not seem to recognize. But he knew; and he felt rather worse than when he had stood in the porch that afternoon, watching Joan over the fields. "What a h.e.l.lish sport marriage is!" he added in a bitter undertone.

She heard him, and came back to his side.

"Digby."

"Well? I don't want you to touch me, if you would rather not," he said roughly, and did not look at her.

"I want to tell you," she went on softly. "I found Joan's letter, and I read it as a matter of course; I thought it was about--oh, never mind what. That was the day you went down to Murville; and I could not speak to you then. It has been so dreadful waiting for you to come back, Digby. Are you not going to look at me, now you have come?"

He turned round bewildered, and saw her eyes full of tears.

"Good G.o.d, Norah, do you mean you can know that, and--?"

"Yes, dear. I think I know more than you. I think I know how you have been feeling lately, and all the winter. But I did not know it was as bad as this, and when I read that letter--do you know how I felt? I think I must tell you, Digby; I have had something to bear too, you know. I felt first that something terrible had come between you and me, something that wanted pus.h.i.+ng away with all my might; and I couldn't do it alone, Digby, and you--you were not there to help me. And then--I only felt sorry for you. I have just longed for you to come back that I might put my arms round you and comfort you, and tell you that I knew.

Digby, don't turn away like that."

"But--it is inconceivable--do you know what you are saying? Do you know that if that letter had not been written, I should have--?" He paused, for he could not bring himself to finish the sentence. But she sprang away from him suddenly, and stood in front of him in the middle of the room, with her hands clasped at the back of her head, and a blaze of triumph in her eyes.

"No, no, not that!" she cried; "never that! I knew it could not be. If I had thought you capable of that, should I be speaking to you now like this? Do you think women are such fools then? _I_ know, _she_ knew--that you were not capable of it, that you never meant it, that it was one of your queer impulses that make me love you so madly, and that she can never forgive in you. _That_ is why she wrote you that letter. _That_ is why you are mine now, mine, mine, mine!"

The musician fell in love more thoroughly that afternoon than he had ever fallen in love before.

He fell in love with his own wife.

"We must have Joan up to stay with us; she could write nicely at the table in the dining-room, couldn't she?" said Norah, when they began to talk rationally again. They felt wonderfully fond of Joan this evening.

"Oh, do you think so? I fancy she'll be all right down at Relton for the present," he answered. He was feeling that he could do with his wife for a good long time now.

"It's just as you like, dear. And do you know, baby is so wonderfully good now she has nearly all her teeth, that I believe you would find the study quiet enough to write music in. It has been very uncomfortable for you lately, hasn't it?" said she.

"Oh, it's been all right. And I don't think I want to write music much.

I say, do you think baby will take to me now?" said he.