Volume Two—Chapter Four.
The “Candlestine” Interview.
Sir Philip Vining ate his dinner alone that day, for his son was an absentee. In fact, a good half-hour before the appointed time Charley Vining was in Gorse Wood walking up and down, crushing the thin grass and trampling through the undergrowth, as he vainly sought to control the impatience of his spirit.
But he was in no controllable humour, and the more he tried to beat down the feelings that troubled him, the more fretful his spirit grew. It had been a day of misery and disappointment, such as he had never thought to see, and he was bitterly mortified with his own conduct. He told himself that it was his duty to have sternly answered Laura Bray, whereas he had allowed her to go on till, as they parted, her look of intelligence seemed to intimate that she was happy and satisfied, and that he had been making love to her, when—
When? Why should he trouble himself about a light frivolous girl, who gave love tokens to a tailor’s dummy—a contemptible jackanapes? But all the same, there was no reason why he should marry Laura Bray, and give up his happy independent life.
“A fig for all womankind!” said Charley at last, out loud; “but then the poor old gentleman!”
Charley’s face darkened as he thought of his father and his wishes. What should he do? Let matters run their course?
He asked himself that last question rather grimly, as he thought of how easily he could be in accord with all Sir Philip wished. A few quiet tender words to Laura Bray, and all would go on satisfactorily. And why should he not utter them? She would be well content, and he need trouble himself no farther, but seek in his old amusements délassement and balm for the disappointment he had met with.
How plain it all was! Max had come down again on Ella’s account. Why, he had not spent so much time down at Lexville since he was a boy! Of course, the Brays would not sanction it; but, anyhow, it was another of Mr Maximilian Bray’s conquests.
“Ah, well,” said Charley, as he stood leaning against an oak, “it’s the old story: one’s boy love never does come to anything!—What, my little wood-nymph!”
“O, Charley, Charley, Charley!” cried Nelly, running up to him panting, “what shall I do? I am so, so miserable; and they think I’m in the schoolroom now; and I can’t bear it, and I hate it; and I’ve run out through the side gate and over the elm meadow like a mad girl, for they all watch me; and I stay in my bedroom most of the time; for since Miss Bedford’s gone—”
“What?” roared Charley, seizing Nelly’s arm.
“Don’t frighten me, Charley, and please don’t pinch so! That’s what I wanted to tell you. That Laura led her such a cruel life with her temper, and Max was such a horrible donkey, that she told ma she would rather not stay, and—O, O, O!” sobbed Nelly, crying out aloud, “she’s gone away, and I didn’t say good-bye; for she went early in the morning, and came and kissed me when I was asleep; and me such a thickheaded, stupid old dormouse that I never knew—knew it—or—or I’d have put my arms so tightly round her neck that I’d never have left go.”
“But where has she gone?” cried Charley fiercely.
“I don’t know,” sobbed Nelly—“nobody knows. She would not say a word even to mamma; and mamma said it was very obstinate, and that she was obstinate altogether.”
“Do you think—” said Charley huskily, and then he stopped as if he could not utter the words—“do you think she told Max?”
“Told Max!” said Nelly, almost laughingly; “no, she wouldn’t tell him. She hated him too much, for he was always worrying her, when all the time she was ever so fond of you, Charley. I knew it, though she never said so. Pah, she would never tell such a donkey as that, when she would not tell me! They think I’m very stupid; but I know well enough why she wouldn’t stay, nor yet say where she was going: it was all because of Max, so that he should not bother her any more.”
“Go on, pray!” exclaimed Charley.
“I have not got anything more to tell you,” said Nelly pitifully, “only that there was such a scene over and over again; for at the last Laury and Max both wanted her to stay, and Laury asked her over and over again; but I could see through that: it was because Max made her, for some reason of his own.”
Here was a new light altogether: Laura and Max both asking her to stay, and the poor girl led such a life that she was compelled to leave. Why had she not confided in him, then, when he had implored her to listen to him? But that ring?
Troubled in spirit, Charley began to stride up and down the wood, but only to stop once more in front of Nelly.
“When did she go?” he asked.
“Yesterday morning,” said Nelly; “but I couldn’t send you word till to-day. And now I want to ask you something, Charley.”
“Quick, then!” he said hoarsely, as he turned to go.
“Will you try and find out where Miss Bedford is gone, and then tell me when you know?”
“Yes, yes!” cried Charley, rushing off.
“Yes, yes, indeed!” cried Nelly; “that’s a pretty way to leave a lady who has given him a mysterious assignation in a wood; and—There, now—what shall I do? If I haven’t forgotten all about the pears!”