Volume Two—Chapter Two.
An Eventful Walk.
Richard Glaire made the most of his short time for scolding, and sulked to a great extent with his cousin for the next few days, and then the tables were turned, for it came to pass one evening that all being bright and as beautiful without, as it was dull and cheerless within, Eve proposed to her aunt that they should take a walk as far as Ranby Wood.
“Do you expect to meet Mr Selwood, Eve?” said Mrs Glaire, rather bitterly.
The bitterness, was, however, unnoticed by Eve, who replied quietly—
“Oh no, aunt dear. I don’t think there is the slightest chance of that; for don’t you remember he said he was going to dine with Doctor Purley?”
“To be sure, yes; I had forgotten,” said Mrs Glaire, somewhat relieved; though had she been asked she would have been puzzled to say why.
The result was that they started, leaving the town, crossing the little hill, and reaching the pleasant paths of the wood where the lichened trunks of the old oak trees were turned to russet gold in the setting sunshine, and all above seemed so peaceful and beautiful that the tears rose to Mrs Glaire’s eyes, and she sat down upon a fallen trunk, thinking of how beautiful the world was, and how it was marred by man, through whom came the major part of the troubles that annoyed them.
“What’s that?” she exclaimed, hastily, as voices in angry contention approached.
“I don’t know, aunt,” said Eve, half rising in alarm. “Let’s go.”
“No one will interfere with us, child,” said Mrs Glaire, restraining her. “It’s Squire Gray’s keeper and young Maine,” she continued. “Why are they quarrelling?”
“I think I know, aunt,” said Eve, in an agitated voice. “Oh, surely they don’t mean to fight. It is about Jessie Bultitude: for Brough, the keeper, is always going to the farm with excuses, and it annoys John Maine.”
It was very evident, though, that they were going to fight, for just then the keeper, a great black-whiskered fellow in velveteens and gaiters, exclaimed—
“Well, look here, I’ll show you whether you’ve a raight to come across here. I ’ain’t forgot about the rabbits.”
As he spoke he began to strip off his coat, and his companion, a rather good-looking young fellow, whose face was flushed with passion, seemed disposed to imitate his example, when he caught sight of the ladies, and turned of a deeper red.
The keeper too resumed his coat, and whistling to his black retriever, who had been showing his teeth, and seemed disposed to join in the fray, he turned off into a side path and disappeared.
“Oh, John Maine!” exclaimed Eve, reproachfully, “what would Jessie think if she saw you quarrelling with that man?”
“Beg pardon, Miss, I’m sure,” said the young man, pulling off his felt hat. “It was no seeking of mine. He’s always trying to pick a quarrel with me. He is, indeed, Mrs Glaire; and he won’t be happy till he’s been well thrashed. But hadn’t you ladies—I mean—I beg your pardon, Miss Eve—hadn’t you better go back out of the wood?”
“No, thank you, John,” said Eve, smiling at the young man’s confusion. “We have only just come.”
“But it is getting damp, Miss,” said the young fellow, who was foreman at Bultitude’s farm.
“You didn’t think it was damp the other night, John, when you were up here in the wood with Jessie.”
“No, Miss, very true,” said the young man; “but perhaps Thomas Brough will come back.”
“Then,” said Mrs Glaire, quietly, “I should advise you to go back home at once, John.”
“Well, if you will have it, you will,” muttered the young man. “I did my best to stop it;” and with a rough salutation he went on his way.
“Eve, my dear, I should not go too often to Bultitude’s,” said Mrs Glaire. “Jessie is very well, but she is rather below the station you are to take, and—quick—here, come away—this way.”
She started up, and tried to drag Eve away, but she was too late; and her efforts to prevent the scene down the glade before them being seen by her young companion were in vain. For there, plainly visible in the golden glow, and framed as it were in the bower-like hazels, stood, with their backs to them, Richard Glaire and Daisy Banks.
The young couple were as motionless as those who gazed, for in an impetuous angry way, Eve had snatched herself free, and stood looking down the glade, while Mrs Glaire seemed petrified.
The next moment though, just as she was about to whisper hastily to Eve something about an accidental meeting, they saw Richard pass his arm round Daisy, who, nothing loth, allowed the embrace, and then as his lips sought hers, she threw her arms round his neck and responded to his caress.
It was a long cooing kiss, and it might have been longer, but as Richard Glaire drew Daisy closer to him, he slightly changed his position, and raising his eyes from the pretty flushed face he saw that they were observed, and started back with an oath.
Daisy turned wonderingly, and then, seeing who was watching them, she uttered a faint cry, and ran off swiftly down the mossy pathway, while, after hesitating whether he should follow her or not, and with a red spot of shame burning in each cheek, Dick took out his case, chose a cigar, nibbled off the end with an affectation of nonchalance, and striking a light, began to smoke.
“I shan’t turn tail,” he muttered. “I’m my own master, and I shall face it out.”
“Oh aunt, aunt, aunt!” moaned Eve; “is that true?”
“True! yes,” exclaimed Mrs Glaire, in a low, angry voice.
“But Dick cannot—Oh aunt, aunt, take me home—take me home.”
Poor Eve turned aside, sobbing bitterly, and covered her face with her hands to hide the hateful sight; but in vain, for there, as it were, standing out clear and bright before her, was Daisy Banks, with her soft, round little face and pouting lips, turned up to receive Richard Glaire’s kisses; and to her it seemed so horrible, so impossible, that she could not believe it true. It came upon her like a sudden shock, and she was stunned; for with all Richard’s ill-humour and extravagance, she could never believe him anything but true and honourable, and in her simple, trusting way, she asked herself if it was possible that there was a mistake.
“Give me your hand, child,” said Mrs Glaire, in a low, constrained voice; and catching that of Eve, with almost angry force; she led her on to where her son leaned nonchalantly against a tree, watching their coming.
The wood was now flooded with the rich golden sunset light, and every leaf and twig seemed turned to ruddy gold, while Dick, her young hero, the man she loved, and who was to be her husband, seemed to Eve, seen through a veil of tears, more handsome than ever she had seen him before.
And he did not love her! His love was given to Daisy Banks! Oh, no, she told herself; it was not true—it was some mistake; and with her breath coming in sobs, and her heart beating rapidly, she clung to her aunt’s hand as they approached.
Mrs Glaire stopped short when they reached the tree, and speaking in a very cold, contemptuous way, she raised her one hand at liberty, and pointing in the direction in which one of the two actors in the little comedy had fled, she said—
“Is this my son Richard?”
“No,” said Dick, with a forced laugh, and with a display of effrontery far from in keeping with his abject looks, “No—that was Daisy Banks.”
“I say, is this my son?” exclaimed Mrs Glaire, speaking in the same cold measured way.
“I suppose so,” said Dick, contemptuously. “There, don’t make a bother out here in the wood;” and he half-turned away to gaze up towards where a thrush was loudly singing its farewell to the day.
“I say is this my son?” reiterated Mrs Glaire, “who promised me upon his word of honour as a gentleman that he would see Daisy Banks no more.”
“Oh aunt,” cried Eve, with almost a shriek of pain, as these words were to her like the lifting of a veil, “did you know of this?”
“Yes,” said Mrs Glaire, sternly, “I knew, my child, that he was playing false to you, and that he was often seeing this miserable girl.”
“There, let her alone,” said Richard, defiantly.
“I knew it, Eve,” continued Mrs Glaire, speaking with suppressed anger; “but on my remonstrating, he promised me that it should all be at an end, and for the time, like a weak, foolish mother, I believed in his honour as a gentleman, and that he would keep his word to me and be faithful to you. You see how he keeps his word.”
“There, that’ll do,” cried Richard, defiantly. “I’m not going to be bullied. I like the girl, and shall marry her if I choose.”
“Liar! Coward!” exclaimed Mrs Glaire. “You would not marry her: but break the miserable girl’s heart, as you would break that of your cousin, if I would stand by and see you do the wrong.”
“Oh no, no, no, aunt—aunt—pray don’t,” sobbed Eve, interposing. “You are hard upon dear Dick, aunt. He does not care for her: it is some mistake. He cannot care for her. It is Daisy’s doing; the wicked girl has led him away. Dick, dear Dick, tell me, tell me, you don’t love her, that—that—Oh, Dick, it can’t—it can’t be true.”
She threw herself sobbing on his breast, but with a degree of force, hardly to be expected from her, Mrs Glaire drew Eve away and stood between them.
“No,” she exclaimed, “he shall not touch you; he shall never touch you again till this disgrace is wiped away, and he has shown himself in some way worthy of your love; for I will not stand by and see your future blasted by the action of a son who has proved himself a scoundrel.”
“Look here, mother,” cried Richard, hotly, “I’m not going to stand all this. You want me to marry Eve, and I shall marry her some day; but if I choose to be a bit gay first I shall. I’m my own master and shall do as I like.”
“Worse and worse!” exclaimed Mrs Glaire, whose voice was now an angry whisper. “Not one blush of shame—not one word of sorrow or humility before the pure, sweet, forgiving girl, whose feelings you have outraged. I ask myself again—as I could almost say, thank God your father is not alive to know it!—is this my son?”
“There, confound your heroics!” exclaimed Richard, impatiently.
“You say I want you to marry Eve, and that some day you will,” continued Mrs Glaire. “Disabuse your mind, Richard, for I do not wish you to many Eve, and marry her you shall not.”
“There, that’ll do,” cried Richard; “I’ve had enough of this. Here, come along with me, Evey. I’ll walk home with you and explain all.”
He tried to take Eve’s hand, to draw through his arm, but she drew back from him, looking cold and pale, while her eyes dilated, and she shuddered slightly.
“Here, walk home with me, you little silly,” he continued.
“No—no—no,” said Eve, slowly, as she turned from him, and clinging to Mrs Glaire’s arm, she hid her face upon her aunt’s shoulder, as in those few moments her girlhood’s innocent belief and trust in her cousin passed away, and with the eyes of a woman she for the first time saw him in his true character.
“As you like,” said Richard, flippantly, and assuming an injured tone. “You’ll be sorry for this.”
No one answered him, for Mrs Glaire drew Eve’s arm through hers, and without a word they walked hastily home.
“Damn it all!” exclaimed Richard, taking the cigar from his mouth, and throwing it impatiently down. “How cursedly unlucky. Well, I don’t care: they must have known it some day. Evey will soon forget it all, and I shall easily get round the old woman with a bit of coaxing. Now where’s little Daisy?”
He walked hastily down the path by which she had fled, knowing only too well that it led farther into the wood, and feeling sure that he should find her waiting for him to join her.
He was quite right, for before long he came upon her, sitting down and crying as though her heart would break.
“Hallo! little pet,” he cried; and she started up in a frightened way at his words, “what have you got to cry about? I’m the one that ought to bellow. See what a wigging I’ve had.”
“Oh, Mr Richard!” sobbed Daisy.
“There, Mister Richard again,” he cried, catching her in his arms.
“Then Dick, dear Dick, there must be no more of this, I shall never be able to hold my face up in the place again.”
“Stuff!” he cried, “come along.”
“No, no,” she sobbed. “I’m going straight home now.”
“Just as you like,” he said, cavalierly, and he took out his cigar-case.
“Don’t be angry with me, Dick, please; for I’m so unhappy,” sobbed the girl.
“You’ve got nothing to be unhappy about, I’m sure,” he said. “It’s only what, I told you. The old woman won’t stand it, and we shall have to make a bolt. You see it now yourself.”
“Ah, but father—mother, Dick.”
“They’ll soon come round, like my old lady will.”
“But I couldn’t go, Dick, dear Dick. Do pray speak to father.”
“Not I,” said the young fellow, coolly.
“Then let me, pray let me.”
“No, nor I shan’t let you do that neither. He won’t mind; and I’m not going to be talked to and patted on the back and that sort of stuff. If you love me as you say you do, you’ll listen to what I say.”
Daisy looked at him uneasily, and then turned away her face, sobbing to herself, “Oh, dear.”
“Now then,” continued Dick, “let’s finish our walk.”
“No, no,” sobbed Daisy, “I must go back home now.”
“Not yet you won’t,” he said, angrily.
“But indeed, indeed I must, Dick, dear Dick. Pray don’t speak crossly to me.”
“You get worse and worse,” he said. “There’s always some silly excuse ready.”
“But I must—indeed I must go home now, Dick,” cried Daisy, imploringly.
“And I say you shan’t yet,” said the young man, half angrily, half laughing; and then—“Curse it—there’s that Tom Podmore again, with young Maine. Did you know he was coming?”
“No, no: indeed no,” cried the girl, reproachfully.
“He’s always watching us,” cried Richard, and catching Daisy’s arm, he walked with her rapidly down a path leading to one of the outlets of the wood, where they parted, Daisy hurrying home to be received with a quiet nod by her father, who was just going out, while her mother looked at her curiously as she went to take off her things.