The Strand Magazine/Volume 4/Issue 21/His Little Girl
His Little Girl; or, Worked Out.
By Pleydell North.
Author of Monsieur le Curé; and other Tales.
HE heart of an English valley; a stretch of green slope, where oaks and elms had grown through slow centuries into grandeur; and through the fields, like an arrow of silver, the clear waters of the Lean.
Down by its banks a young girl, wandering alone; singing as she went, her white gown shining in the sunlight.
What was her song, I know not. Possibly it was the effort of a very young and sympathetic nature, seeking some faint expression for a sense of joy and beauty instinctively felt.
She thought she was alone; but presently above the high reeds she saw the head and shoulders of a solitary angler. Then she stopped singing and went on cautiously.
This young lady's chaperon was sitting up among the elms sketching. She had warned her charge not to wander too far away, and of the possibility of encountering strangers; some of the "all sorts of people"—tourists and wanderers—who were said in summer to delight in fishing the waters of the Lean.
There was that, however, in the shape of the head and shoulders, seen outlined against the sky, which attracted Miss Rawdon, and she did not turn back as she might have done.
"A solitary angler."
She was very young, and the world promised to be a fairy tale, with always an impending transformation scene of entrancing possibilities. Only three weeks ago she had left school; the school-house at Norwood and the care of the two kindly Misses Lake, its mistresses, bounded all the horizon of her childish recollection. Now she was longing to come into touch with this world of wonders, the smallest incident of which promised an adventure.
When she reached a willow, half a field's length from the angler, she stopped. The trunk partly concealed her, and she could watch proceedings comfortably.
Nothing might have come of it. She might have returned to Mrs. Montresor sitting under the elms with no distinct increase of impression, beyond the outline of a hat and a pair of shoulders; but swish through the long grass came something straight in her direction.
It was an Irish terrier, as keenly excursive as herself. He had caught sight of the white gleam behind the willow trunk, and, forgetful of his master and his master's interests, of all a dog's duty, he started to investigate its meaning.
"Back, Rollo—back, you beast!"
The call was imperative; but for once Rollo paid no heed. He had the bit of something white in his mouth in a trice; the next moment, with much sagacity, he was fawning and fondling the little hand laid upon his tawny coat.
"She was young and fair."
Instinct told Miss Rawdon it would be better to come from behind her retreat; so she stood forth in the flicker of sunlight and shadow, a maiden revealed.
Her hat was in her hand, her brown hair was all tumbled and blown; the folds of her white gown hung simple and straight round her slight, lissom figure. She was young, and fair, and sweet, and the dog, fawning upon her, had nestled his muzzle in her hand.
The fisherman forgot the already startled fish; he left his line in the bushes and came towards her.
"Down, Rollo—down, you dog, you—"
Why do we love to picture the birth of the greatest joy which earth has to give out in the open, where the wind. comes laden with the songs of a thousand birds, the scents of a million of flowers that have lived and loved and died? For the sake of our poor humanity, let us still think that to love purely is to draw nearer to God—is a step forward upon the way that shall lead to His disclosing. It is at the time of this awakening of our greatest capabilities for joy or sorrow that we are most willing to believe Him near—then, and at the time of that other awakening which we are apt to call death. In both cases the issues are so tremendous, the weakness of our finality turns outward, seeking help from the Infinite.
Like death, love is no respecter of persons, time, or place—he comes upon us when and how and where he wills; but, if we may choose, let it be far from the jarring discords of the world, the flesh, and the devil—for one moment let us enter Eden, let us stand, pure, holy, unstained before God.
The fisherman had no idea that anything tremendous was happening to him as he stood, hat in hand, apologizing for his dog. Only the day had suddenly grown more fair, his heart younger, God nearer.
Ellinor thought, "What will Mrs. Montresor say? He is worth looking at." And she also felt happier; but in the meantime she must speak.
"Oh, it doesn't signify at all, thank you," looking at her soiled gown; "I love dogs, but I am afraid I have spoiled your sport."
"I have had none to-day—the sun is too bright."
The dog had by this time retreated to his master, and Ellinor felt that she must make a move in the direction of her chaperon.
"My friend is up there," she said, pointing vaguely in the direction of the trees, "and I must go back to her. I hope you will have better sport—though not a change of weather," she added, laughing gaily, "for the sake of our luncheon."
She turned away; but to lose her just then was not within the calculations of the fisherman.
"Forgive me," he said, with an air of profound anxiety, "but there is a bull up there on the hill. He is, I know, apt to take umbrage at strangers—in fact, he belongs to Sir Arthur, my father. If you will allow us, Rollo and I will see you safely over the bridge."
A mild herd were grazing on the hill. They showed no signs of ferocity; but it was impossible to say where the bull might be hiding. And why should this pleasant-mannered person tell a story?
She felt rather amused. The first young man to whom she had spoken, and, lo, he was walking composedly at her side!
"Is this land your father's? I hope we are not trespassing?'
"Oh, dear no—no end of people come here to sketch the ruins."
"I am Miss Rawdon, of Firholt," said Ellinor, a little stiffly. She did not care to be confounded with "no end of people."
"Oh," he said, eagerly, "I know. Your father has bought that property—a splendid property it is, too."
"I am expecting my father to-night."
"That's jolly for you," he said sympathizingly. "At least, I suppose it is."
She looked at him gravely. How was it that she felt she could say to this stranger what was in her heart.
"Is it not strange?" she said, almost below her breath. "I have never seen him—that I can remember. I have been at school all these years, and he has been in America."
"Well, that is rather a stunner—to drop all at once into a parent when you are full grown; but I expect it will be all right."
He smiled at her so kindly that the commonplace words seemed the deepest sympathy. By this time she had taken his image with some clearness into her mind, as she never again quite lost it. A tall, well-made man of thirty, with kind, grey eyes that smiled pleasantly; a broad and rather high forehead, where the hair already grew a little thin about the temples. The rest of the features were straight and finely cut; the chin slightly pointed.
"Somebody would have liked to paint him," she thought; "one of those old men, Velasquez or Rembrandt."
They had reached the bridge, and the vision of Mrs. Montresor, standing up and looking for her charge, presented itself. Catching sight of her in her present alarming vicinity, she hurried forward.
"There is my friend," said Ellinor, "Mrs. Montresor. Will you come and be introduced to her?"
She felt pleased at the consternation visible on her guardian's face as she drew near.
"This is Mr. Peyton, Mrs. Montresor; he has kindly protected me from a ferocious bull in the other field. It seems we are upon Sir Arthur Peyton's ground."
"I am very much obliged to Mr. Peyton; but you should not have wandered so far away, Ellinor, and you are quite heated. Come and sit down."
"I hear you have been drawing the ruins. I dabble in colour a little myself," said Peyton. He seemed to have no intention of leaving. He went back with them to the shade of the elm trees, and stayed chatting, directing most of his conversation to Mrs. Montresor, until Jacky (the page) appeared with the luncheon basket, prompted by his own inner cravings. Then at last Mr. Peyton remembered the claims of his fishing tackle. He held Ellinor's hand for a moment as he said farewell.
"I hope we may soon meet again," he said. "My mother has been meaning to call upon you; but she has scarcely been able to leave the house for some weeks."
When he was gone they spread the snowy cloth upon the grass, and such a collation as women love, cold chicken, and a fresh young lettuce, a bottle of Sauterne, and crisp pastry sheltering green gooseberries.
"She lay with her head resting against Mrs. Montresor's knee." Afterwards Ellinor lay with her head resting against Mrs. Montresor's knee, gazing up through the trellis work of green to the blue depths beyond. She dreamed peacefully a vague, fanciful dream, half pleasant retrospection, half anticipation. She felt that her morning's encounter had broken the isolation of her life. Strange that it should happen upon this day, of all others; for its close was to reveal to her her one near link with her kind—the unknown father who yet had shaped her destiny. Miss Rawdon was distinctly an heiress, the sum of her expectations had been vaguely hinted at as nearly half a million. She had stepped from her school life to this glorious independence; to be mistress of Firholt, "the place in Hampshire" bought and fitted up for her reception. And the royal giver of all this was her father, known only through letters delivered to her through the medium of Miss Lake.
Her school days had been watched over vicariously by Messrs. Ridgway and Smithson, solicitors; but now, he was coming—the being who should crown his gifts with his presence.
She had often pictured him. Tall she fancied him, with hair turning iron grey; perhaps a little stoop; tired from the toil of the years in which he had amassed the wealth which he was coming to share with his little girl. That was the name he gave her in his letters. Short letters they had been, explaining little, but often repeating his desire that she should fully qualify herself for the position it would be hers to fill—telling her that all the hopes and desires of the writer's heart were centred upon his little girl, and that he was always "her affectionate father, Matthew Rawdon."
To-day her dreams were clearer than ever. They seemed a very foreshadowing of his presence. It was the restlessness of expectation which had drawn her to persuade Mrs. Montresor to come out to spend these last hours in the open fields.
It was nearly five o'clock when they started on their homeward drive. On reaching Firholt they were met by the housekeeper with the news that Mr. Rawdon had already arrived—two hours before his time. Ellinor waited for no comment, she flew up the steps, and across the hall, to the small drawing-room where, she was told, he was awaiting her.
An older woman would have paused—tried to prepare herself for the meeting—Ellinor thought only of the end of suspense. She threw open the door.
He had seen the carriage drive up, heard her coming; he was standing in the middle of the room awaiting her.
"Father!" then she stopped short.
Was this he—this her father? There must be some mistake. A small man stood there. His right hand held the wrist of his left, as if seeking support even from himself. One foot shuffled nervously over the other. His clothes hung loosely, and set badly. He was spare and thin; his scant hair was iron-grey and stubbly, inclined to stand upright; his beard was stubbly also, and apparently of recent growth. Above all, he did not look a gentleman. He came forward and spoke. His voice was a redeeming point; it was soft and musical—coming from such a man, it was a surprise. So were his eyes, when he lifted them as he drew near. Habitually they were downcast. He came, leaving the custody of his own wrist, and rubbing his hands together.
"Is this," he said," is this my little girl?"
She lifted her head and blushed. Was it for him, or for her thoughts of him?
"Yes, father, I am Ellinor."
He leant forward and kissed her brow—he had no occasion to stoop. As he did so, his eyes met hers. She saw them, wistful, pleading, as though asking forgiveness for she knew not what, perhaps for his presence. Her heart reproached her; everything was his, even herself. It was a relief when Mrs. Montresor came in. If she felt surprise, she was too clever to show it, and her somewhat effusive greeting gave Ellinor time to recover herself. She gave her father his tea; he begged her to. His face lit up at every small office she performed for him. He watched her, he gloated over her, her freshness, her sweetness, her beauty.
"My little girl," he said to himself, more than once, hugging his own wrist. Mrs. Montresor saw the strained look upon the girl's face, the trembling of her hands among the tea-cups. As soon as the function was over, she proposed to conduct Mr. Rawdon over his own house.
"Messrs. Ridgway and Smithson were so good as to consult me about the arrangements," she said. "I hope they will meet with your approval."
"Sure to do that, ma'am—sure to do that," he answered.
"Ellinor, dear," said Mrs. Montresor, "you look tired. Had you not better go and take your hat off? Meet us in the long gallery. We will wait for you there."
Ellinor was thankful for the respite, for the chance of solitude. In safety within her own room, she flung herself upon her bed; she was overwrought, over-excited, and her dismay found vent in ready tears, a fit of childish, heartbroken sobbing.
"Was this her father?"
"What should she do? What should she do? Who was he? What was he? And the Peytons were coming to call!"
Then, the fit of crying over, and being a child still, and simple in her ways, she knelt beside the bed, and prayed for strength to do her duty. When Mrs. Montresor came to seek her nearly an hour later, she was sitting calmly by the window.
"You should have come down, Ellinor," she said, busying herself about the room; "your father was disappointed."
"I was very tired, dear Monty. I am sorry."
There was a quiet, constrained tone in young voice that was new to it. Mrs. Montresor was a good woman, but of coarser stuff than her charge. She went over to her side. "Tut, dear child—don't fret—he has kind eyes—you must take care of him—£300,000—he's a prince compared to many a man I've seen fêted for half the money."
Ellinor drew back a little.
"It is time to dress for dinner," she said. "I mustn't vex my father by being late. Is he gone to his room?".
Instinct had revealed to her her lesson. There was a burden she must stoop to carry, but to the world she must walk upright.
With curious consistency she chose the handsomest dinner dress in her wardrobe for her toilette; one which she had put aside as unfitting her years. The train and bodice were of grey velvet, falling open in front over a petticoat of brocade and old lace. Indeed, it was better suited for a woman of forty; but, when her maid had gathered her hair into a tight knot on the top of her little head, and she had fastened a great bunch of roses in her bosom, she looked a quaint and dainty lady, and moved with a newly born dignity pretty to see. She glanced at herself in the pier-glass. "Had it been different," she thought, "I could have put on my white gown. I could have remained young. Now I see why he educated me; I must make it up to him."
He was waiting for her in the large drawing-room; not in evening dress, but wearing a loose black coat and white waistcoat. He looked at her with pride, almost with awe, as, her head held high, she swept into the room. The dinner passed off better than she had hoped. She noted that he was cautious and quick of observation. He watched her and Mrs. Montresor from beneath his eyelids, and followed their lead; also he talked little.
Mrs. Montresor was right in her prediction that the county would call. Before Mr. Rawdon had been a fortnight at Firholt the carriages began to roll up the drive with considerable frequency. Ellinor took her line. She was a little on the defensive, dignified, very quiet, defying criticism. In the daytime she dressed with marked plainness, in the evenings with marked splendour. It was wonderful where the girl had learnt that she could no longer afford to be childish.
Among the first comers were the Peytons; Guy, with his mother. Sir Arthur was laid up with the gout. The visit was not altogether a success. Mr. Rawdon was at home, and there were no other visitors. He always struck strangers in the light of a surprise. He stood in front of Lady Peyton, clasping and unclasping his wrist, shuffling his feet, replying in short, jerky sentences to her efforts at conversation, and calling her "Ma'am." Guy, after the first shock, was constrained and polite; a different man from the pleasant stranger Ellinor had chatted to in the fields.
She wondered, did he repent having brought his mother to the house. She imagined bitterly the criticisms that would occupy the drive home—could she have been present in body, as she was in imagination, she would scarcely have been reassured. Guy was moody and silent, and his mother looked at him anxiously. She had divined something beneath his anxiety that she should call upon these new people. "You had better go, my dear," her husband had said; "£300,000! and if he should really take a fancy to the girl, and she is presentable! We want the money badly enough, goodness knows. In fact, he must marry money."
Lady Peyton had not thought it wise to repeat this advice to her son; now she was feeling very much put out. The girl was well enough, more than presentable, and showed her good sense in her dress. But the man! What a price to pay for the old estate!
She turned suddenly to her son, after thinking of these things in silence for a quarter of an hour.
"What a man!" she said, irritably. "He is like some small City clerk on a hundred a year—a badger!"
"He might be worse," said Guy, nervously; "he might be obtrusive."
"I don't know that it would be worse. You would expect a man with nearly half a million of money to be assertive—but this creature—one asks, who can he be? How did he come by it? He hasn't the brain—he doesn't look one in the face—he is mean as well as low bred!"
It was seldom Lady Peyton spoke with so much vehemence; she was terribly put out, and she overshot the mark. The following day Guy again called at Firholt; rode over alone; he remembered a suggestion he wished to make to Mr. Rawdon about the fishing. He had thought over the situation; had weighed and justly appreciated the change in the girl which had perplexed him the day before, and thrown him out. He saw her determination not to be taken apart from her father, and it turned admiration into a serious and tender respect. He felt a chivalrous desire to atone to the girl who so bravely set herself to cast aside her frivolities and lightheartedness, and fight society with this terrible little man by her side.
He found Ellinor sitting under the brown beeches on the lawn. Mr. Rawdon was not at home, which, perhaps, was a relief to everyone concerned. Tea was brought out under the trees, and Mrs. Montresor came with her work. Perhaps the threatened destruction of an intercourse which had promised so much made its renewal sweeter. At any rate, from that afternoon the story of these two people ran with even facility to its climax. Guy Peyton asked Ellinor to be his wife in a simple, straightforward way about three months after their first meeting. Tragedy and parting seemed so far removed from their fate, when once the difficulty of her parentage was faced and accepted, that there was no occasion for much protestation. The undoubtingness of their love made it simple in expression; they knew that it dated from the day they had met by the Lean, and Rollo had effected their introduction. Sir Guy and Lady Peyton were forced into cordiality, for the dower offered by Mr. Rawdon was simply magnificent. The £300,000 proved no dream; it was solidly invested, and he proposed to settle almost the entire sum upon his daughter on her wedding-day, retaining only a sufficiency to supply the most simple needs. He also signified his intention of vacating Firholt for her use.
"Perhaps," he said, gently, "he would visit her occasionally—for himself rooms in town would be more to his taste." He explained this to Sir Arthur, who felt compelled to remonstrate, although secretly he thought the arrangement in every way admirable. Lady Peyton was exultant. With Mr. Rawdon's withdrawal, the one fatal drawback to the marriage was removed. But Matthew Rawdon said nothing of his plans to his daughter.
It was within a few months of the date fixed for the wedding that a great dinner was given at Firholt. At the last moment a note arrived from Lady Peyton; could Ellinor find room at the table for a friend, an American on a visit to Europe, who had appeared suddenly at the Hall, bringing letters of introduction impossible to neglect?
They were among the last to arrive. Ellinor was receiving to-night in the great drawing-room, and she looked fit to reign there. She wore a dress of golden-hued chiffon. Across her bosom and on the skirt were sprays of daisies, and the heart of every daisy was a blazing sapphire—a type of the girl's nature she was totally unaware of.
Her father had taken up his favourite position with his back to one of the fireplaces, and she stood near him. Mr. Rawdon had improved during the last few months. He shuffled less; his clothes, thanks to Ellinor, were irreproachable, and, especially since his daughter's engagement, he had grown daily more calm.
The Peytons were announced.
Sir Arthur and Lady Peyton, Mr. Peyton, and Mr. ———; the name was lost.
Ellinor saw a spare, tall man, keen-faced and vigilant. He was bowing before her. She heard a slow, slightly nasal monotone beginning—
"I must apologize, Miss Rawdon—" He had reached the slight elevation of the last syllable, when an irresistible impulse made her turn from him to her father.
Matthew Rawdon had grown deadly pale. He had leant back against the mantel, clutching himself nervously.
"Father!"
He gave a swift motion of the hand, bidding her be still, and with an effort recovered himself.
A moment later she heard again the American's voice.
"You have a fine place here, Mr. Rawdon, one of the finest I should say in this fine country."
Her father made some inaudible reply; the curious pallor was still upon his face, but dinner was announced; she had no chance of speaking to him. During dinner she watched him anxiously. She saw that he was more than usually nervous; that he drank a good deal of wine. Once or twice she caught a penetrating glance, swift and direct, thrown by the American to that end of the table.
Throughout she seemed to hear above every other sound the slight rise and fall of that slow, clear monotone, and felt she hated the man. It was a relief and reassuring to turn her head and catch Guy's smile, and she was thankful when she could give the signal for withdrawal.
After the ladies had gone, the American had the field to himself. His metallic bell gradually silenced the other men, and he got the ear of the table.
Mr. Rawdon's chief merits as a host were that he gave good wine, good dinners, and left his guests entire freedom. He usually headed the table in silence, with the result that, on the present occasion, his white, exhausted face escaped remark, except from Guy Peyton. Matthew Rawdon had now something more than toleration from his future son-in-law—partly on Ellinor's account, partly on his own.
The unobtrusive self-effacement of the little man appealed strongly to those who came within his immediate influence. The American was dilating on the fortunes made and lost on the other side of the Atlantic.
"A curious case," he was saying, "a curious case I knew once—a poor, wretched little clerk in an office in Boston city—he had a wife and child and one hundred and fifty pounds a year. One fine day he presented a cheque at a bank, signed by one of the best known names in the city—a cheque for three hundred dollars. The cheque was a forgery, sir—a forgery! The man was caught, trying to escape to Europe, and sent to prison. He had been speculating, gambling—buying small shares out of petty economies; everything failed. When he had no more, he forged a name. Poor little chap, he threw himself at the feet of the man he had wronged and begged for mercy; but he went to the hulks—his wife died of a broken heart.
"Now, sir, for the re-markable point. While that man was serving his time, some darned sentimental fool died, and left him every penny of his co-lossal fortune. His time served out, the man went to Europe, where he was unknown, to spend his money. When I saw him again, sir, he was about to ally himself, through his daughter, to one of the oldest and proudest families of this proud old country. He had changed two letters of his name. The name of the clerk, sir, was Daw—"
There was a sound as of a blow, a clatter of silver and glass. The host had fallen forward in his chair; his body lay across the table, the arms stretched out.
"Where is my father?"
Guy Peyton was by Ellinor's side in the drawing-room. Nearly half an hour had elapsed since the abrupt conclusion of the American's story. Mr. Rawdon had been carried from the table, but Guy had taken care that no rumour of alarm should reach Ellinor until he himself could go to her.
"He is not quite himself; he is in the library."
"What is the matter? Why was I not told? I must go to him."
"The host had fallen forward in his chair."
"It is not serious. My father is with him. It was a slight faintness, Don't let people imagine anything has gone wrong. I asked Mrs. Montresor to go down."
"Are you sure? Would he rather I stayed here?"
"I am quite sure he would rather you stayed here, and I also, Ellinor."
She obeyed him, but she was uneasy with foreboding, especially when Sir Arthur did not return, and longed to see the last of her guests, that she might be free.
In the library lay the master of Firholt. He had shrunk in this last hour. He was more wizened; his hands and feet seemed drawing themselves up into clothes that had suddenly grown loose and baggy; his face was livid, even to the lips. He lay with his eyes closed.
Sir Arthur Peyton was walking up and down the room, limping still from the gout, his face working; he was in a terrible passion.
"You own to it that this man's story is true; that you have plotted to bring disgrace upon an honourable house; added crime to crime, the taint of it to fall upon the children of my son?"
The shrivelled fiture on the couch trembled.
"I believed that it would never become known. I did it for her."
"Known or not known, the disgrace was there—the d——— disgrace! Good God! how can I tell what Guy will do! The exposure alone—"
"Must that exposure come?" said Mr. Rawdon, faintly.
"Come? who is to prevent it?" said the man of title. "The scandal will half kill Lady Peyton. To be sure I have stopped that, ——— American's mouth for the present. No one but he and myself know for certain."
A faint tinge of colour was coming back to Mr. Rawdon's face. He reached a cordial that was upon a table near, and drank it. Then he stood upright. There was a touch of dignity in his bent figure, his thin hands were folded quietly, his feet shuffled no more.
"Sir Arthur, when I forged that cheque, my wife was dying, and I had no money—I had begged five pounds from the father of the man who dined at my table today, and he refused it; then I used his name. Now I am going to beg once more—for my daughter—for Ellinor. Stop this thing from becoming public; save her from knowing. It will be better for you, too; and I—I will go to-night. I cannot stay here. I will write to her—telling her that the love of the old roving life is upon me—what you will. I cannot live long; I know it. The attack I had to-night was from the heart."
"And my son?"
"Tell him if you think it right; do as you like. Send him abroad. I will tell Ellinor she must wait for my return, but let it fall upon her gradually—gently; do not break her heart."
There was something in the absolute simplicity of the man's pleading that touched Sir Arthur's heart—not an unkindly one; also the plan proposed seemed the best for them all.
He did not know that Matthew Rawdon looked to the possibility that, with his selfeffacement, his crime might be forgiven—to his little girl; that he hoped much from Guy's strength and Sir Arthur's need of that £300,000.
"The shrivelled figure on the couch trembled."
Sir Arthur hesitated. "I think," he said, slowly, at last, "it will be the best plan."
"You consent, then? You can assure this man's silence—"
"I consent. And as for Mr.—Mr.———, yes, I can silence him."
When at length Ellinor was rid of her guests, she went to seek her father. She found that he had gone to his room, and that the door was locked.
He answered back to her inquiries that he was better—anxious to sleep; she might go to bed without fear. She went back to Guy, who was waiting in the drawing-room. He had declined a seat in his mother's carriage, and meant to ride home. Ellinor slipped her arms about his neck—
"Guy, what is the matter to-night? Something has happened, or is going to happen. What is it?"
He gathered her in his arms, crushing the chiffons of her yellow gown—
"Nothing but your own nervous fears, sweetheart."
"Guy, we have never talked much about our love. Tell me now how much you love me."
"An idle question, Nell. I love you, dear. If you were alone, and poor—"
"And dishonoured—say dishonoured. Guy."
He paused a moment, then said quietly—
"And dishonoured, Nell—outwardly; in your own pure heart you never could be—you are mine; the one woman for whom, by God's help, I live or die."
She clung to him—
"Thank you, Guy."
"It is nonsense," he said; "it is you who give me everything. If I loved you less I could not take it. You believe that, Nell?"
"Indeed, I do."
She lifted up her face to say good-night. Suddenly he caught her back to his arms.
"Oh, my love, my love, I almost wish these things might come upon you, that I might prove it."
When the quiet darkness of night had settled down upon Firholt, the door of its master's room opened softly. Treading as a thief in his own house, Mr. Rawdon stole out. He glided, a small dark blot, through passages where a faint moonlight from time to time illuminated his shrinking figure, until he reached the door of his daughter's room.
He paused, listening. All was so quiet within, he ventured to turn the handle.
The stillness told him that Ellinor was asleep. Treading on tip-toe he stole across to the bed. There was sufficient light for him to see her face plainly, and, stooping over her, he kissed her lightly on the forehead for the last time.
The poor little outcast was crying; a tear was rolling down his cheek, but he wiped it away, lest it should fall upon her and waken her, following the light touch of his kiss. As it was she stirred a little in her sleep, and he drew back behind the curtain. He waited a few moments, then, without venturing to touch her again, he stole away out into the night. Early the next morning Mrs. Montresor came to Ellinor's room with a letter. She looked grave and anxious.
Matthew Rawdon had written to her, begging her to be herself the bearer of a letter to his daughter, and to break the news of his departure.
"How is my father?" asked Ellinor. "Has John been to him—have you heard?"
"Your father has been called away suddenly on business, dear child. He has written; here is his letter."
"What! without telling me? And he was so ill last night!"
"Mr. Rawdon stole out."
Matthew Rawdon, in writing for the last time to his daughter, had characteristically avoided much self-expansion.
He spoke of his absence as necessary even for her own well-being, and begged her in the matter of her marriage to be guided by the wishes of Sir Arthur and Lady Peyton until his return.
Ellinor read his words in silence. She felt that some heavy blow had fallen, although as yet she could not realize its extent or nature; also she was wounded and amazed. Her father had already formed his plans and discussed them with Sir Arthur when she bade him good-night at his door, and had said no word to her. It seemed that he had purposely avoided seeing her. Had she known of his secret farewell, her pain would have been less. She might have turned to Mrs. Montresor for comfort. Now she was silent and tearless.
She had scarcely left the breakfast-room when Lady Peyton arrived. Sir Arthur had taken his wife into his counsels, and she fully agreed in keeping such secrecy as might still be possible. It was a hard blow for her; the sense of shame, of having been duped, added to the disappointment, the overthrow of all her plans, made it almost unbearable.
She frankly expressed a wish that Mr. Rawdon or Dawson might never be heard of again—might put an end to himself—"it is the only thing left for the little wretch to do with any decency," she explained.
It was easy to induce the American to hold his tongue. He had done mischief enough already in satisfying a feeling of personal animosity. He had no wish to see the doors of a society he was eager to enter closed against him, as Sir Arthur assured him would infallibly be the case did he bring down further scandal upon his present hosts.
It was clear that the breaking off of the engagement must come from Ellinor—there was no knowing what Guy's chivalrous notions might lead him into doing—and Lady Peyton drove over to Firholt in the morning, while her son thought her still in her room.
Her visit was a short one.
She entreated Ellinor for her own sake not to seek to know the reasons of her father's conduct; she told her that his last express wishes, left with Sir Arthur, had been that the marriage should be put off until his return, and implored her, for Guy's sake, to be guided by them.
"And his return when will that be?" asked the girl, with blanched face.
"I—no one, I think, exactly knows."
"And it is for Guy's sake you ask me this?"
"Indeed it is—to save him from the consequences of a fatal mistake—from an irreparable wrong."
"And this mistake—it was my father's?"
"Yes."
Ellinor walked to the window. Was she to lose everything at one blow—father, lover—all that life held for her? "You are sure? This is best for Guy—is it to save him?" she asked again at last.
"I am quite sure."
The girl walked over to the writing-table without another word.
"You will know that my father has left me suddenly," she wrote. "I believe Sir Arthur and Lady Peyton know more of the cause than I—I learn that it is his wish that our marriage should be delayed until his return. No one knows when that will be. For your own sake I write to give you your freedom. I was mad to ask of you what I did last night forget it, Guy. Do you think I am cold-hearted that I write so? I think I am dead—I can feel nothing."
When she had finished Lady Peyton was prepared to leave.
"I will send this", Ellinor said; "John shall ride over at once."
"You are a brave woman, Ellinor." She kissed the girl's cheek. It occurred to her that there were things even more potent than wealth to wipe out inherited stain.
Sir Arthur had purposely detained his son that morning, talking over matters totally unconnected with the topic uppermost in both minds. Guy had just escaped and was mounting to ride over to Firholt when Ellinor's letter was put into his hand. He was thunderstruck and furiously angry. Although perfectly aware that something had gone seriously wrong, he had waited, determined that his father should take the initiative, and equally determined that nothing should induce him to give up Ellinor. What he was not prepared for was that his mother should get the start of him, and deal the blow through the hand of his love. He went straight to Sir Arthur, the letter in his hand.
"You knew of this, sir? My mother has seen Ellinor this morning." The elder man felt uncomfortable. There was an unpleasant look of conspiracy about the affair; but, Ellinor having proved reasonable, secrecy was no longer an object, and he told his son simply the whole story. Carefully as he detailed his own action in the matter, it was not difficult to read between the lines. The anger of the younger man deepened.
"Very well, sir," he said, when his father paused. "I more than half guessed the truth last night. In the face of it I renewed word to Miss Rawdon. You have thought fit to hound away her father, to treat me like a child, and coerce Ellinor into breaking with me, working on her sense of honour. I can only say if she will not marry me, I will marry no woman alive."
Then he took his hat and went out, over to Firholt. Ellinor came down to him, a haggard, white-faced woman.
"Ellinor, what do you mean—?"
"You know what I mean."
"Don't you know it is simply impossible to separate yourself from me?.
"You must not marry me."
"Nonsense, I mean to marry you."
She clasped her hands and rested the open palms upon his shoulder, looking into his face, her strained, tired eyes meeting his. "Guy, I must find him—find my father."
"Do you love him best?"
"No, but if I married you, even if your father and mother consented, if I could escape from doing you shameful injury, he would keep away, thinking that so we might be happy. I should have his long pain, perhaps his death upon my heart."
"Dear love, I will find him; then we will go away together, he and you and I."
"No, no, it is impossible. Your mother would be heartbroken; and she trusts me."
"She did wrong to appeal to you. If we had been married, they must have accepted everything; there would have been no alternative, and it is the same thing."
"Guy, what has he done?"
"Nothing, love, that has not long ago been wiped out."
But Ellinor kept her word. Guy must go, and she would wait for her father's homecoming.
Guy also kept his word. He told her that he held himself bound, that he would seek Matthew Rawdon through the world and bring him back. In the meantime Ellinor refused to receive his letters or write to him.
The months went by, and Matthew Rawdon did not come, nor Guy. Lady Peyton and Sir Arthur began to console themselves with the thought that the little man must be dead, and to weary for their son. Ellinor advertised, sought the aid of a private inquiry office, all to no avail. She lived on quietly at Firholt with Mrs. Montresor, seldom going into society. She had grown into a grave, slightly reserved woman.
Every evening she went down to a path she loved, shadowed in spring by lilacs, laburnums, and guelder-roses; behind these a plantation of laurels. On the other side it was open to the park. She used to fancy that some evening in the dusk her waiting would be ended, and she should see her father coming.
After two years someone came; not her father, but Guy.
He had been to the house first, and took her unawares. Until she saw him, she did not know the exceeding bitterness of her loneliness and longing; she stretched out her arms with a cry.
"Sweetheart," he said presently, "there must be no more parting between you and me. My people can't stand out any longer—the loneliness of the old place has proved too much for them. I will not stay here without you, and they are ready to welcome you."
"But my father. If he came back would they welcome him? And, until he does, how can I break my word?"
"Listen, love—they think, we all think—Nell, I have tried every means to find him, and failed." There was a rustling among the laurel leaves. "It is only a bird," said Guy, feeling that she started.
"You think," she almost whispered, "that he is—dead?—without saying good-bye—without a word to me? Oh, Guy, whatever he has done I loved him. How can I be happy in the fruit of his pain—to die deserted and alone?"
He tried to comfort her. Would not the greatest wish, the one keen desire of the lost man's heart be fulfilled if she were beloved and happy?
"In the dusk there crept out a small, dark figure."
Together they walked towards the house; when they were out of sight the laurels rustled once more, and in the dusk there crept out a small, dark figure, unshaven, ragged, and forlorn. A beggar, surely! And the beggar knelt and kissed the dust which the young girl's feet had trodden.
In the morning one of the gardeners came up to the house with a grave face, and asked to see Mrs. Montresor.
"If you please, ma'am, there's a man, a tramp, he looks like; a poor, half-starved creature, he's lying dead among the laurels down by the shrubbery walk."
"Good God! The poor man! Who can he be?"
The man's face was working; he was twirling his cap in his hands. He leaned forward and whispered—
"Ma'am, I think, I al—most think—it's the master, Mr. Rawdon."
So for the second time the master of Firholt came home.
They carried the small, light figure to the house, to his own room, a strange contrast to its luxurious fittings.
There Ellinor went to him, and shut the door.
"Father! father! Oh, why will you not speak to me? Say once more, 'My little girl.'"
But Matthew Rawdon, the forger, would never speak again. Medical examination showed that he had been dead for many hours, the immediate cause of death being an old and deeply-seated heart disease, increased by suffering and want. He seemed to have been leading the life of a vagrant, but how and where he had succeeded in so completely hiding himself never came to light. The story of his death was hushed up, as had been that of his crime. Lady Peyton carefully talked of him as "highly eccentric," and explained that it was entirely owing to his eccentricity that her son's marriage had been postponed. The odd little man had started off in such an unaccountable manner, and Ellinor had been so resolute in abiding by his wish that she should await his return.
Well, he had come, and he was dead, and there was an end of it. No one had much interest in ferreting out the truth of his story. When the days of her mourning were ended, Ellinor married very quietly.
Sometimes in the summer evenings she takes her children to her father's grave, hoping that he is in some way conscious of the fidelity of her recollection.
She knows what was his crime—surely long ago worked out—and prays that its shadow may never fall upon those she loves.