CHAPTER XIV.
I took advantage of the rest of my day’s holiday to work very hard at the text I was doing for the church. I thought that Mr. Reade might call for it that day, but he did not. And the next day, which was Thursday, I finished it, and rolled it up in paper ready for sending away; but still he did not come to fetch it. Haidee and I did not go far that morning—a long walk tired her now; but in the afternoon, when lessons were over, I sauntered out into the garden, with a book in my hand, and went to my “nest,” which I had neglected to visit on the day before—a most unusual occurrence; but Mr. Rayner had forbidden me to go outside the house on that day, as I was rather feverish from the effects of the preceding night’s excitement.
I found Mona sitting among the reeds close to the pond, not far from my “nest,” crooning to herself and playing with some sticks and bits of paper. At sight of me she slid along the bank and let herself down into the mud below, as if to hide from me. When the child suddenly disappeared from my sight like that, I felt frightened lest she should fall into the water, or sink into the soft slime at the edge which she had chosen to retire into, and not be able to climb the slippery bank again. So I walked daintily through the reedy swamp which was her favorite haunt, and looked over the bank. She was busily burying in the mud, with the help of two little sticks, the bits of paper she had been playing with; and, when I bent down to speak to her, she threw herself upon her back, with her head almost in the water, and began to scream and kick. This uncalled-for demonstration made me think that she knew she was in mischief; and, leaving her for a moment to enjoy herself in her own way, I stooped and picked up one or two of the pieces of paper which formed her toys. There was writing on them in a hand I knew, and I had not made out a dozen words before I was sure that Mona had somehow got hold of a note from Mr. Laurence Reade to me.
Down I jumped in a moment, caring no more now for the mud, into which I sank to my ankles, than Mona herself. I dug up the bits she had buried, and took from her very gently those she was still clutching, though my fingers tingled to slap her. I hope it was not revenge that made me carry her indoors to be washed. Then I searched the ground where I had found her, and discovered more little bits, and under the seat of my “nest” a torn envelope directed to “Miss Christie.” I ran in, and up to my room, with my mangled treasure, carefully cleaned the fragments, and, after much labor, at last fitted them into a pretty coherent whole. The note ran, as well as I could make out—
“Dear Miss Christie,—I am so anxious about you that I must write. Is it true that”—here there was a piece missing—“an accident, that you are ill, hurt? If you are safe and well, will you pass the park in your walk to-morrow, that I may see you and know that you”—another piece missing. “I shall put this on the seat near the pond, where I know you go every evening.
“Yours very sincerely, Laurence Reade.”
It was dated “Wednesday,” and this was Thursday afternoon; so that it was this morning’s walk that he had meant. Oh, if I had only come out here last night and found the letter! I would go past the park to-morrow; but perhaps it would be too late, and he would not expect me then—he would think I was too ill to come out.
So the next morning, in our walk, I took care to pass Geldham Hall, both going and returning; but the first time I saw no one in the park, and the second time, to my surprise, I saw Mr. Rayner and Mrs. Reade sauntering along together under the trees in a very friendly manner. I had noticed that it had gradually become quite natural for the haughty Mrs. Reade to turn to Mr. Rayner as soon as we all came out of church on Sunday, and for them to have a long chat together, while her daughters looked at the people from the Alders as superciliously as before; but I did not know that he visited at Geldham Hall, still less that he and Mrs. Reade were on terms of such intimacy that she leaned on his arm as they walked along, and laughed as he talked in a much more natural and unaffected manner than her dignity generally allowed.
The next evening I had to go to tea at Mrs. Manners’, to take part in a final discussion of the arrangements for the school-treat on the following day. Mrs. Manners, who was a very simple kindly lady, greeted me with rather a perturbed manner, and introduced me half apologetically to the Misses Reade, the elder of whom was stiffer and the younger more awkward than ever as they just touched my hand and dropped it as if it had been something with claws. They were icily obliged to me for the text, and said they would not have troubled me on any account, but their brother had insisted on taking it. Then they talked about village matters to Mrs. Manners, ignoring me altogether, until two little middle-aged ladies came in, who had dressed in an antiquated fashion a number of dolls for the sale, and who, on hearing who I was, seemed rather afraid of me. The Misses Reade were very kind to them in a patronizing way; and a shy girl came in, who was better dressed, more accomplished, and who had no worse manners than the Misses Reade, but they evidently looked down upon her from a very great height. I afterwards found that she was the daughter of an attorney, and could not expect to be so fortunate as to meet the ladies from the Hall, except at the Vicar’s, which was neutral ground.
I did not think it was at all a pleasant party. They all chattered about parish matters, district-visiting, and the Sunday-school, and the life the curate’s wife led her husband—of which I knew nothing at all; and I went to a table at the window, where there were two large albums of photographs, and looked at them by myself. But when Mr. Manners came in there was a little stir among them, and they all smiled at him and left off their chatter, and seemed to look to him to suggest a new topic; and he said the weather looked promising for next day, and they all flew upon this new topic and worried it to death. Then, when he had said a few words to each of them, he came up to me and asked me kindly why I was sitting all alone in a corner, and sat down by me, and told me who the people in the albums were, and showed me some pictures of Swiss scenery, and talked about the places they represented. I almost wished he would not, for the other ladies did not seem pleased.
Then we had tea, and Mr. Manners made me sit by him. He went out as soon as it was over, and we all went back into the drawing-room and wrote numbers on tickets; I forget what they were for, but I remember that there was great confusion because several of the ladies made mistakes, so that, while some numbers were missed out altogether, there were a great many tickets bearing the same number. Mrs. Manners asked me if I should like to come upstairs and see the things for sale, all the rest of the ladies having seen them many times already. So we went up together, and, while we were looking at them, she said nervously—
“You have never been in a situation before, have you?”
“No, never before.”
“A governess’s position has many trials and difficulties.”
“I haven’t met with many yet. I have been fortunate,” said I, smiling.
Mrs. Manners looked at me as if she wanted to ask more than she dared; but she only said—
“Of course some families are pleasanter to live with than others. But in all there arise occasions when we must pray for guidance”—and I thought of my resolution to go—“and when we must walk circumspectly”—and I thought of the best way of treating Sarah. I only answered—
“Yes, Mrs. Manners”—very gently.
She seemed pleased by my submission, and said suddenly, as if to herself, after looking at me for a few moments—
“An honest open face!”—which made me blush—then, in a quicker, more practical tone—“You have no father, and have always lived quietly with your mother? Of course you write to her often?”
“Oh, yes.”
“So that you can have the benefit of her counsel in any difficulty?”
I hesitated. Nobody ever seemed to think of going to mamma for counsel; we always kept things from her that were likely to disturb her, because she had delicate nerves, and used to go into hysterics if anything went wrong. So I said—
“In any difficulty I should have to think and act for myself, Mrs. Manners, because writing to mamma about it would only make her cry. But I have met with no great difficulties in my life so far.”
She looked at me again, as if a little puzzled, and then said—
“I hope you will not think I am catechising you rudely; but Mr. Manners and I take a great interest in you, knowing how young and inexperienced you are to have to go out into the world alone. And he thinks I have neglected you a little. But, you see, Mrs. Rayner is so very—reserved, and lives such a secluded life, that it is not easy to form an intimacy. But I want you to feel sure, my dear Miss Christie, that, if you should want a friend’s advice at any time, you need not fear to confide in me; and Mr. Manners, being a man and your parish clergyman, could help you in cases where my woman’s judgment might be at fault.”
I thanked her with tears in my eyes; for, although there was a shade of reserve in her manner, and although I did not think it likely that I should ever experience at the Alders any trial that she could help me in—for I could not confide a family secret, like Mrs. Rayner’s suspected insanity, to anybody—yet her manner was so sincere and so earnest that I was touched by it and grateful for it.
Then we went downstairs and finished up the evening with music. The two little middle-aged ladies sang, in thin cracked voices, some duets in Italian—passionate love-songs, the words of which they did not seem to understand. The elder Miss Reade played a movement of Mozart’s “Fantasia in C minor”—but I did not recognize it until near the end—and the younger a “Galop de Salon,” with the loud pedal down all the time. Miss Lane, the attorney’s daughter, sang “Little Maid of Arcadee,” which Mrs. Manners said she should have liked if the words had not been so silly. Then I was asked to play, and I chose Schumann’s “Arabesque,” and they seemed astonished and a little scandalized because I played it by heart. I heard Miss Reade whisper—
“I don’t like her style. That great difference between forte and piano seems to me an affectation.”
While I was playing, Mr. Laurence Reade came in to take his sisters home. When I had finished, everybody looked at us as he shook hands with me in a rather distant manner; but he managed to press my hand before he let it go; so I did not mind. And everybody listened, as he said—
“We heard up at the Hall dreadful reports that you were ill, Miss Christie, and wouldn’t be able to come to the school-treat.”
“Oh, no, I wasn’t ill! One of the servants gave me a fright in the night,” said I. “I woke up and found her in my room amusing herself by ransacking my things. Then I screamed with all my might, and Mr. Rayner came up and called her out and scolded her.”
This explanation was listened to with profound attention by everybody in the room; and I was glad I had an opportunity of giving it, as I felt sure that some rumors must have got about; and it was better they should hear my version of the story. Then Mrs. Manners said she hoped Mr. Reade would not desert them at the last; and he promised to come and help, but said she must not expect him to sell pen-wipers.
“You are going to have a much grander affair than usual, I hear,” he ended—“more like a regular bazaar.”
“It sounds ungracious to say so,” she returned, rather anxiously, “but I am rather sorry that we have not kept to the old simple custom. Still, when Lady Mills offered a marquee, and to come herself and help to sell, and to bring her friends, we were obliged to make a difference. And then the band from Beaconsburgh—” She stopped, for it was old Mr. Reade who had offered to provide that.
“Ah, that’s my father’s fault!” the young man put in, laughing. “He’s a wicked old fellow, wanting to corrupt the rustic simplicity of the parish in his old age.”
His elder sister said “Laurence!” reprovingly. Mrs. Manners went on.
“And, if Lady Mills comes on the drag, she’ll bring a lot of idle young men”—Miss Lane and the younger Miss Reade looked up—“and there will be nothing to amuse them, for we have only one set of lawn-tennis—I think we must charge a penny a game for that”—in a practical tone—“and they will expect champagne and—”
“Oh, Lady Mills will bring that!” said Mr. Reade confidently, as if he had been on that drag with those idle young men himself.
“But Lady Mills and her set are not the style of people that Geldham is accustomed to,” said Mrs. Manners, in a superior tone.
“Oh, no!” assented Mr. Reade gravely.
“And they will make fun of everything; and the treat is after all for the village-people; and I don’t want those fast gentlemen from London to get talking to the village-girls.”
“I don’t think they will want to do so, Mrs. Manners, I don’t indeed,” said Mr. Reade.
“They are all good girls, those who will help at the treat—the first class at the Sunday-school.”
“Oh, those! Then I am sure you need not be afraid.”
“And they will want to amuse themselves, and take up the time of the sellers, your sisters and Miss Christie and—”
“I’ll keep them off, Mrs. Manners. The sellers shall not be teased by any impertinent and trifling young men. I’ll devote myself to looking after them.”
Simple Mrs. Manners, who had been in deep earnest all the time, began to have a suspicion that there was a lurking mirthfulness under Mr. Reade’s gravity; so she said severely—
“You will have to work, not to play, if you come, Mr. Reade, and set a good example to the others.”
“I will; but I sincerely hope they will not all follow it,” said he, in a laughing tone; then he turned and looked at me and made me blush.
And in the slight bustle of departure he whispered to me—
“Wait, and I’ll come back and take you home.”
But, when I had put on my hat and mantle, and Mrs. Manners had led me down into the drawing-room again, to say a few last words to me, and I was wondering how I could wait until Mr. Reade kept his promise and returned, I heard a ring and Mr. Rayner’s voice in the hall. I started and blushed, and Mrs. Manners stopped in her talk and looked at me very searchingly.
“Mr. Rayner must have come to fetch you home,” she said coldly.
I would not have missed the walk home with Mr. Reade for the world.
“I am afraid so,” I stammered.
She looked colder still at my confusion; but there was only one way out of it, so I burst out—
“Oh, Mrs. Manners, Mr. Reade said he would come to fetch me! What shall I do?”
“You would rather go with him?”
“Oh, yes, yes!”
Her manner changed all at once. She put her arm around me and drew me to the French window.
“There, my dear—run out there and wait at the gate on the left. That’s the way they always come from the Hall. It is a little deception, I am afraid; but there—go, child, go! He is a good lad.”
So I ran swiftly across the lawn in the dusk, afraid of Mr. Rayner’s seeing me, and up the path between the laurel hedges which led to the side gate. The path curved just at the end, and I heard the gate swing to; but I could not stop myself. And, as Mr. Reade dashed round the corner, running too, I fell against him, and then panted out, “I beg your pardon,” very much confused. He had caught me by the arms, and he did not let me go, but held them very gently, while he said—
“Miss Christie! Pray don’t apologize. Where were you running?”
“I—I was going home,” I stammered in a low voice.
“But that is not the way.” A pause—then very softly—“Were you coming to meet me?”
“N-o,” said I, half crying, and disengaging myself.
It was so humiliating to have been caught running to meet Mr. Reade.
“No? I had hoped you were. For I’ve been running like a race-horse to meet you.”
I said nothing.
“Why did you want to run home so fast alone, when I had promised to come and fetch you?”
“I—I didn’t want to trouble you.”
“That was very kind of you. But, if I happen not to mind the trouble, may I see you home now I am here? Or would you prefer to go alone?”
“I would rather go alone, thank you,” said I, though it was heart-breaking to have to say it. But I thought it was time to show some spirit, for I saw that Mr. Reade did not believe me.
He stepped aside to let me pass, and raised his hat very stiffly; then his manner changed all at once.
“Why, you are crying! My darling, I didn’t mean to make you cry!”
I could not stop him—I did try—but he was so much bigger than I that he had his arms around me before I could get away.
“Oh, Mr. Reade, let me go!” I said, frightened.
But, as I held up my face to say it, he kissed me, and, after that, of course it did not matter, for I knew that he loved me and that I was safe with him.
I remember every word that he said to me as we walked towards the Alders that night; but, if I were to write it down, it would read just like the same thing over and over again, and not at all as it sounded to me.
We did not go straight back, but a longer way round, for fear the grass should make my feet wet; and we passed the front gate and went on to the side gate that led past the stables. And there Laurence left me, for I did not want that spiteful Sarah to see him with me. I went through into the shrubbery, so happy that I could scarcely keep from singing softly to myself. But, as I came close to the stables, I left off, for fear Mr. Rayner, who might be in his room, as it was now quite dark, should hear me, and want to know how I got back and why I was so late; and just then I could not have told him. I wanted to slip upstairs to my room without seeing any one, and go straightway to sleep with the remembrance of Laurence and his last kiss all fresh and undisturbed in my mind. Then I thought I should dream of him.
But I was disappointed. For close under the stable-wall I saw two men’s figures, neither of them Mr. Rayner’s, and one of them held a dark lantern. I was frightened, for they made no noise, and I thought they walked like thieves; so I crept in among the trees and watched them. One of them softly tried the door of the harness-room, through which one had to pass to get to the upper story where Mr. Rayner slept. Then they came away and walked first down the path a little way towards the house, and then up it towards where I crouched among the trees. They sauntered cautiously, but slowly, as if waiting for some one. I did not feel much afraid of their seeing me, for I knew I was well concealed; but I was eager to get out and alarm the house, and I dared not move while they were in sight. But, when they came close, I recognized in one Tom Parkes, Sarah’s lover, and in the other, much to my surprise, the gentleman who had visited Mr. Rayner after tea one evening, whose conversation with Sarah in the plantation had so surprised me by its familiar tone.
The moon, which had now risen high, fell full upon his face as he passed, and I had a better opportunity than before of observing him. He was rather short, of slim neat build, fair, clean-shaven, with gray eyes and an imperturbable expression of face. He had an overcoat and a big comforter over his arm, and was, as he had been before, very carefully dressed. When they were just opposite to me, they turned back, and, just as they got to the harness-room door again, Sarah came quickly from the house with a key, let them in, and followed herself. And in another minute Mr. Rayner passed me from the road and let himself in after them. I waited a few moments in wonder at this strange scene; it seemed to me that I was always seeing curious things at the Alders. But I had something pleasanter to think about than mysterious night-visitors, and I ran quickly and lightly down the path to the house, where Jane, very sleepy, and surprised at my being so late, let me in.
But that last adventure spoilt my dreams. I did indeed dream of Laurence; but I dreamt that I was carried away from him by burglars.