Chapter Eight.
A Narrow Escape.
Suddenly Jean wrapped herself in a mantle of reserve. Not even to Vanna, her chosen confidante, did she express surprise at Gloucester’s sudden appearance, or make one single comment, favourable or the reverse. Driving home in Mrs Rendall’s carriage, she maintained her fair share in the conversation, and betrayed no sign of embarrassment. That she was embarrassed Vanna knew by the tone of her voice, which was wont to take a higher, shriller note on such occasions; but neither Gloucester nor Miggles was likely to recognise so subtle a betrayal. The old lady was evidently greatly taken with the new acquaintance, and invited him to dinner at the end of the drive.
“We are only three women, very dull for a young man, but as you are alone in the inn—so unhomelike, inn-parlours!—if you would care to dine at seven o’clock, pot luck, just a simple meal! Don’t dress; it’s a picnic life down here, and the girls like to run about as long as it keeps light.”
Miggles had reigned as mistress of Mr Goring’s home for so many years that, failing the second wife’s presence, she still managed the household, without any attempt at interference from her old pupil. Jean had no ambition for domestic responsibilities; looking after a house was dull, stodgy work, Miggles liked it, then for goodness’ sake let her do it; she had no wish to exercise her prerogative. It was Miggles, therefore, who gave the newcomer his first invitation to the Cottage, but when Robert’s eyes turned to the girl with an involuntary question, Jean was ready with a gracious support.
“We are very quiet, as Miss Miggs says. Next week father brings down the family, and it will be livelier; but if you care to risk it, we shall be pleased.”
“Seven o’clock. Thank you!” said Robert simply. He took his leave for the time being, and the ladies entered the Cottage.
“We had better get our letters written, as we shall not have time later on,” said Jean calmly. Even when seated with Vanna at the same writing-table she made no reference to the event of the afternoon. It might have been the most natural thing in the world for Robert Gloucester to leave his old friends in less than a week after his return from India, in order to have the privilege of fishing with a strange elderly gentleman. When the letters were finished, she talked on indifferent subjects, gaily, lovingly, intimately as ever, yet with a certain carriage of the head, a set of the lips which seemed to send forth an unspoken warning, “Until now my heart has lain bare before you, but to-day there has entered into it something so intimate, so sacred, that it cannot be revealed to any human gaze. Touch me not!” And Vanna understood, and was silent.
Robert Gloucester came back to dinner and sat at the head of the table opposite Miggles, the two girls seated one on either side. A bowl of roses stood in the centre of the table; roses twined round the framework of the opened window; tiny sprays of roses wandered over the muslin of Jean’s gown. They talked of books, of pictures, of foreign lands, of things extraordinary, and things prosaic. When Robert recounted experiences abroad, the two girls questioned him as to scenery and environment, and Miggles wished to know what he had had to eat, and if there was any means of drying his clothes.
Gloucester also entered into details about his business life, and the failure of his investments, explaining his present monetary position with an incredible frankness.
“It seemed an awfully good thing, perfectly sound, but it came a jolly big crash. I was fortunate to get out of it as well as I did. I haven’t been fortunate in my speculations. Between them I’ve dropped almost all my capital. I have a share or two in a bank paying rattling good interest, and the firm pay me a fair salary, and that’s all that is left.”
“Oh, we know you don’t mean that,” laughed Miggles easily. “It will all go on quite nicely, I am sure, and you will be settling down and marrying, of course.”
“Of course,” said Robert Gloucester.
There was something so exquisitely unusual about his frank avowal of poverty that Vanna had hard work to keep a straight face. What to another man would have been a secret between himself and his banker weighed so heavily on Robert Gloucester’s candid soul that he must needs blurt it out on the first possible occasion. Vanna knew intuitively the exact workings of his mind: he had come down to Seacliff to woo Jean for his wife. Jean must know from the beginning exactly what he had to offer; not for a single evening could she be allowed to think of him in a setting which did not exist. “He had not been lucky in his speculations.” Unnecessary explanation! It was from guileless natures such as his that the fraudulent made their hoards. The national savings bank would be the only safe resting-place for Robert Gloucester’s money.
When the simple meal was over the two girls accompanied their guest into the garden and sat beside him while he smoked. He neither offered cigarettes to them, nor did they dream of providing them on their own account. In the seventies it was still a rare and petrifying experience to see a young girl smoke. The heroine of to-day is depicted to us as making dainty play with her cigarette, or blowing smoke-rings with unequalled grace. If the tips of her fingers are also stained yellow with nicotine, and her clothes diffuse an atmosphere of a smoking-carriage, these details are mercifully concealed. Jean and Vanna at least had no hankerings after this masculine amusement.
Once and again as the time passed by, Robert looked fixedly at Vanna, and grey eyes and brown exchanged an unspoken duel. “Leave us alone!” entreated the brown. “You know; you understand! As you are wise be merciful...”
“Not one step!” replied the grey. “Here I am, and here I stay. This is my post, and I will stick to it.”
“Be hanged to your post! You take too much upon yourself. Hand over your post to me. Think of the difficulties, the contrivings, the explainings I have had to undergo before getting away from town!”
“You had no business to leave...”
Vanna stuck obstinately to her guns, and at last Gloucester abandoned his efforts. Another man would have been angry, impatient, would have eyed her with cold antagonism, but Robert betrayed no irritation. Rather did his brown eyes dilate with mischievous amusement as they met her own.
“Please yourself,” they seemed to say. “Do your little best. Erect your puny barriers. A day or two more or less—what does it matter? The end is sure.”
The Cottage with its sloping garden was perched high on the side of one of two outstanding cliffs which formed a deep, narrow bay. So far did these chalk-walls jut out, so narrow was the space between, that the view from the land had a confined, stage-like effect. The coast-line on either side was completely hidden from sight, only the blue-green waters stretched ahead, but these waters were one of the highways of a nation’s life, and o’er its surface all kinds of craft passed to and fro, in endless panorama. When the tide was up, the great steamers could safely take the inshore channel, while near at hand, and looking as if one could, in nautical language, “throw a biscuit aboard,” the smaller craft plied their way to and fro. Now it would be a small sailing barge, with captain, mate, and crew, comprised in one single hand, anon a white-sailed yacht, with gleaming brass-work and spotless paint, or a coasting collier, grimy and drab, her screw out of water, as she churned her homeward way. In fine weather coasting passenger-boats ventured near shore, while farther off the pilot-boats of many nations could be discerned, decked with gay strings of signalling flags, and the busy tugs plied far and near, endlessly on the watch for chances of salvage.
One misty day as Jean sat perched alone on the edge of the railed-in garden, at a point from which she could have dropped a stone into the sea beneath, a smooth grey keel glided noiselessly round the corner of the cliff, and another, and yet a third—low-built, ominous-looking monsters, the colour of the fog, the colour of the waves, Her Majesty’s battleships, each bearing on board its complement of seven hundred men. To-night, as the daylight faded slowly away, the different lights at sea attracted the watching eye. From the left came a merry, starlike twinkle, as from a faithful friend who kept firmly to his post; beyond him in the dim distance was the humourist, who for ten seconds on end indulged in a stony stare, then darkened, gave two cunning winks, and so again to his stare. Right ahead was the big revolving light which, like a constable afloat, divided the traffic—“This way for the river, that for the North Sea!” High over all swung the rays from the great lighthouse on the downs.
Presently round the farther cliff came a great ocean liner, its cabin windows showing out a blaze of light, the throb, throb of its engines heard distinctly in the distance, a floating city, bearing home an army of men: the man who had toiled and reaped his reward; the man who had toiled and failed, the idler, the drone, the remittance man back again to prey on his friends; the bridegroom speeding to his bride; the trembler, to whom the wires had flashed a message of tragedy; the sinner, fleeing from justice, the pleasure lover seeking a new world. Those brilliantly lighted rooms held them all. Up the long channel they sailed; past the shifty sand-banks, past the hidden rocks; gliding smoothly along the beaten track, while the captain stood on his bridge and grew pale beneath his tan. Until the dangerous channel was navigated, he would not leave his post.
The three who were seated on the garden bench watched the great vessel in silence until she disappeared behind the cliff.
“A week ago,” said Robert softly, “a week ago I was steaming along this very coast. Only one little week!”
He broke off suddenly, and there was no response, but Vanna felt Jean’s fingers twitch within her arm. Was she too beginning to realise the bearing of this week upon her own life?
During the days which elapsed before Mr and Mrs Goring and the two schoolboys arrived at the Cottage, Jean kept sedulously by her friend’s side, and allowed Robert Gloucester no chance of a tête-à-tête. Instead of being ordered to keep her distance, as on the occasion of Piers Rendall’s visit, Vanna was held firmly by the arm, invited to join every expedition, considered so necessary that, without her company no expedition could be faced. Where Jean went, Vanna must needs go also; who wished to see one, must see the other also.
But when the family arrived, the chaperonage could no longer be preserved. The Cottage was crowded to its fullest limit. Miggles was busy with household affairs. Mr Goring, his wife, the two schoolboys, all made their own demands on the girls’ time. If Jean were bidden to accompany her father for a walk along the downs, Vanna must needs hunt for crabs among the rocks below. If Vanna was writing letters to tradespeople, Jean must run to the village and order cakes for tea. Young girls should make themselves useful; a daughter should be ready to wait on her father; a sister should be glad to amuse her brothers in their holidays. In these days it was worth while for an occupant of the inn-parlour to keep a sharp lookout on the winding path leading from the cliff to the village, for if by chance a girl’s graceful form were seen descending, there was time to snatch hat and stick, and reach the corner of the road at the same moment as herself.
Jean, intercepted on her way to fulfil a commission, and without possibility of escape, would promptly adopt an air of freezing dignity, reply in monosyllables, and hurry through her work in the shortest possible space of time; but no amount of coldness, of snubbing, or neglect could damp the ardour of Gloucester’s pursuit. Before a week was past, the budding romance was discerned not only by the different members of the household, but by the village en bloc; and while parents discussed prospects and settlements, and the schoolboys planned holiday visits to “Jean’s house,” Mrs Jones of the general stores moved the position of a row of sweet-bottles in the shop window, in order to enjoy a better view of the daily encounter, and the boatmen waiting impatiently for customers consulted their watches on the appearance of either of the interesting couple, and indulging an apparently ingrained habit, bet pennies together concerning the time which would elapse before the advent of “t’other,” And still Jean wrapped herself in her mantle of reserve, and refused to mention Gloucester’s name even in private conclave with her friend.
Piers Rendall often walked over to the Cottage to spend some hours of the day with his friends, and, strange as it might appear, the two young men seemed mutually attracted to each other. Vanna believing them both to be in love with the same girl, was constantly watching for signs of jealousy and irritation, but none appeared. If Piers was occasionally somewhat silent and distrait, the fact did not interfere with his transparent enjoyment of Gloucester’s company; while Robert himself seemed to take a positive pride and pleasure in the knowledge of the other’s devotion.
“He admires her desperately, doesn’t he? Every one does. There are dozens of fellows head over heels in love with her, I suppose. Scores! She must be kept busy refusing them, poor fellows! Hard lines for a girl, especially when she is so sweet and sensitive, and sympathetic, and—”
Vanna threw up her hand with a comical little grimace of appeal.
“That’s enough, that’s enough! Three adjectives are quite a good allowance for one sentence. Spare me the rest. Miss Goring has a charming disposition, and she is duly appreciated. That’s settled. Now we’ll talk of something else. How did the fishing go this morning? A good haul?”
They looked at each other and laughed with mischievous enjoyment. Each time they found themselves alone the same thing happened. Gloucester persistently endeavoured to talk about Jean; Vanna as persistently turned the subject. On both sides the contest was conducted with absolute good humour. It was as amusing as a game, in which each tried to outwit the other, to set for him an unconscious trap and pitfall.
To-day they walked along the country lanes, Jean and Piers Rendall ahead, Miggles bringing up the rear, with a schoolboy hanging on each arm. These two lads, Jack and Pat, adored the old woman who had been their confidante and mentor from their earliest years, and there was literally no end to the sympathetic interest which she bestowed upon them. Father and mother might weary of eternal cricket and sixth-form reminiscences, and impatiently suggest bed or a book. Jean might, and did, wax frankly cross and bored, but Miggles never failed to produce a due display of surprise; never denied the expected admiration, nor shirked a question which gave the conversation a new turn of life. At this moment Vanna could hear Pat’s voice reeling off the everlasting details:
“Smith, major, was bowling his hardest—he’s a terror to bowl—and the pitch was fast, and a ball got up, and got me on the shoulder—”
“Dear, dear, think of that! And you went on playing? You are brave! And made a fine score too, I’ll be bound!”
How much of Miggles’s happiness did she owe to this blessed capacity for sympathy in the interests of others?
The destination of this afternoon’s walk was a little wood lying about a mile inland, and as a short cut across country, Jean and Piers led the way through a farmyard, and thence on to a winding lane, sunk deep between two hedgerows, fragrant with honeysuckle and wild rose. To right and left lay the fields belonging to the farm; pleasant fields of wheat and corn, of delicate, green-eared barley, of sweet-smelling beans.
It was a typical English lane; a perfect English afternoon, not typical, alas! except so far as it demonstrated the perfection to which our erratic climate can occasionally attain. The sky overhead was deeply, uncloudedly blue; the sea in the distance the clear, soft green of an aquamarine, sparkling with a thousand points of light; all that the eye could see was beautiful and harmonious; all that the ear could hear, peaceful and serene; laughter, happy voices, the soaring notes of a lark; all things animate and inanimate seemed to speak of peace and happiness; and then suddenly, horribly, the scene changed. What had appeared the distant lowing of cattle, swelled into a threatening roar; a man shouted loudly, and his call was echoed by many voices, by a clamour of sound, by high, warning cries. From the far end of the narrow lane came the sound of galloping feet—heavy, thundering feet seeming to shake the ground; light, racing feet pursuing; swifter footsteps, which were yet mysteriously left behind. Borne on the air came the cries of men’s voices, and ever and anon that deep, dull roar. Nearer and nearer drew the danger, but the tall hedges hid it from sight.
Jean and Piers turned hurriedly back; Miggles and the boys hurried forward to where Vanna and Gloucester stood, the centre of the group. The two men exchanged swift, anxious glances, divining, without consultation, the nature of the danger—a bull, escaped from its chain, rushing towards them. What could be done?
The towering hedges gave no chance of escape, and so far as the eye could reach there was neither gate nor entrance into the fields. Before there was time to consult or to issue directions, the danger was upon them. With incredible swiftness, within as it seemed one moment from the time when the first cry had burst upon their ears, the danger was at hand.
Round a corner of the road the huge beast rushed into view; a terrible, nerve-shattering sight, filling up, as it seemed, the whole space of the narrow path, pawing the earth, sending up clouds of dust, bellowing with rage and fear. Breathless with horror, they stood and watched it come.
And then a strange thing happened. At that moment of strain and terror the thoughts of the four elders of the little party flew instinctively towards Jean. Danger and Jean! Death and Jean! The idea was insupportable. Jean, who was in herself the embodiment of youth, of health, of joy. The woman who had been to her as a second mother; the girl who was her lifelong friend; the man who until now had been the most favoured of her admirers, turned with a common impulse to succour Jean, and Jean, white-faced, trembling, primitive woman, stripped in one moment of conventions and pretence, indifferent, oblivious of them all, leapt forward into Gloucester’s arms.
They closed round her; she clung to him, hiding her head on his breast; he pressed a hand on her hair, screening her eyes till the danger should have passed. In another moment it was upon them. An agonised gasp of fear passed from one to another. The danger was past!
The great brute went plunging down the lane, his head bent low, his small eyes blinking, foam upon his lips; in his anxiety to escape his pursuers, taking no heed of the figures flattened against the hedge. With shouts and oaths, brandished sticks and panting breath, the farm hands galloped in his rear. They passed out of sight, and the quiet lane, sunk beneath its flowering hedges, regained its wonted peace.
Not so the human beings for whom that moment had been fraught with such startling emotions. Jean’s revulsion of feeling was as swift as the impulse which had preceded. Hardly had the pursuit clattered by than she had wrenched herself from Robert’s grasp, and with crimson cheeks and haughtily tilted head, taken shelter by Miggles’s side. Vanna, still trembling, leant back against the hedge, gazing from side to side. Robert Gloucester turned and walked down the lane, following the line of pursuit. She caught a glimpse of his face as he went—radiant, aglow! At the other man she would not look. Sympathy for his discomfiture and pain withheld her gaze. She knew exactly how Piers Rendall would look at this moment: his eyes brilliantly hard, his lips a-twitch. For her own sake she would not look. She hated to see that twitch.
Miggles leant against the hedge, and burst into unrestrained tears. Blessed Miggles, who could always be trusted to come to the rescue! Her sobs, her tears, her simple oblivion to the subject which was engrossing the minds of her companions were the saving of the situation.
“Oh, my dear Jean—a bull! A runaway bull! Never in all my life—and to think that to-day, of all others. This narrow lane! Oh dear! Oh dear! Your poor dear father! If you had worn your red dress! It might so easily have happened! Thank God! thank God! Your arm, dear, your arm. I do so tremble! My poor old heart feels as if it would burst. What a Providence! What a Providence!”
“What a wicked, wretched man to leave the gate unlocked! I’ll ask father to have him discharged at once,” cried Jean hotly. “It’s wicked, criminal carelessness. We might all have been killed.”
From the bottom of the hedge crawled the scratched and blackened figures of the two schoolboys.
“I say!” gasped Jack, breathless. “What a lark! What a blooming lark!”