Chapter Thirty Two.
Leaving the Court.
The news of the girls’ sudden flight spread to the vicarage, and brought Mrs Thornton rushing up to the Court, hot and panting, and almost incoherent with curiosity and dismay. When she heard of the trouble which was the cause of their departure, her best side came out, and she helped the girls in both word and deed through the last difficult hours. It was a comfort to find someone who agreed with their decision, and was convinced that they were acting aright in returning home, even in defiance of Uncle Bernard’s wishes.
“The maid cries, and Bates looks as if he would like to murder us, Mr Druce keeps out of the way and says nothing, and Jack Melland, who is so keen on taking his own way, has half a dozen compromises to suggest. Actually he offered to go to Liverpool himself and find out if we could be of any use if we returned! It was sweet of him, but we must be of use. There is no option in the matter, and it is not reasonable to expect mother to discuss private affairs with a stranger.”
“Of course not; but I love him for having suggested it. Of course, no one wants you to go, dear Ruth. It is a terrible collapse to all our bright schemes, but with such trouble at home you have no choice, and there is nothing gained by staying on for a few odd days. Better hurry back and bend all your energies to see what can be done to retrieve matters, and look forward to the day when you will return for good.”
Ruth shook her head hopelessly, and for once Mollie followed her example.
“Ah, that will never be! There is no more hope. We are leaving against Uncle Bernard’s wishes, and at the very worst possible time, for he is angry and upset because there is no way of finding out who opened the desk and read the draft of the will. We are all indignant at being suspected; yet it seems strange that an outsider should be so interested. It is terribly unfortunate, especially for Uncle Bernard, for he can’t help feeling his confidence shaken; and yet, so far as we can see, nothing will ever be found out.”
“Yes, it will all be explained some day,” said Mrs Thornton solemnly. “Don’t ask me how, for I can’t tell. I only know that evil deeds are the most difficult things in the world to hide, and that in the most wonderful and unexpected ways they are discovered long after hope of detection has been abandoned. It will be so in this case also. Whoever is mean and wicked enough to allow you, dear children, to bear an unjust suspicion in addition to your own trouble, will be put to the shame he deserves. As for your coming back again, I will not give up hope if you do. I can’t afford to lose all my castles in the air. It is decided that one of you is to be Lady of the Manor, and put our societies out of debt, and pay for a parish nurse, and take my dear girls about when they come home, and make life a fairy tale for us all. You have raised my expectations, and I intend to go on expecting! Seriously, dears, whatever Mr Farrell may say to you just now, in the first heat of disappointment, I cannot believe he will really think less of you for giving up your own pleasure to hurry back to your mother. Mr Melland has only himself to thank if his name is struck off the list; but you were willing and anxious to stay, and are the victims of circumstances. If I were in the squire’s place I should think all the more highly of you for your unselfish devotion, and I believe he will, though he will never confess as much in words. But time will show! Meantime, my poor dears, we will think of you every day, and pray for you that you may be shown what to do, and have strength to do it. I have had my own share of money troubles, and would never try to belittle them in my own case or in the case of others. They are very hard and sordid, and far-reaching. There was a time in my life when money seemed in the background of every thought, and I could not get away from it; but I have learnt to trust instead of worrying, and that’s the great lesson of life. It isn’t mastered in a day; it took me years to learn, and many bitter experiences, which I hope you may be spared; but try, dears, to do your best, and leave the rest with God! Then comes the ‘quiet mind’ which will keep you calm and restful through all outward troubles.”
The two young, wistful faces gazed into hers, and her eyes filled with tears of pity.
“Now tell me honestly—shall I help you best by staying, or by going away at once? I have arranged to do whichever suits you best. If you need any help.”
“Oh, thank you! The best help of all would be to stay and drive down to the station with us. The packing is all done—in a way! But I expect that in our haste we have left lots of things behind, for we worked together, and in such a hurry and confusion that we hardly knew what we were about. Poor Elsie has packed our new garments in the new trunks, and watered them with tears. I expect it will be months before they are opened. We shall have no use for such fineries now.”
“You can never tell what may happen, but if you don’t, there is no cause to grieve. They have served their day, and have given you pleasure. Never mind if you have left some oddments behind; Elsie can send them on. I never have a visitor at the vicarage that I have not to expend my substance posting toothbrushes or sponge-bags or stray garments after their departure.”
Truth to tell, Mrs Thornton was much relieved at being allowed to accompany the girls to the station.
The Vicar’s wife possessed even more than her share of feminine curiosity, and was longing to discover in what fashion Victor Druce said good-bye to Ruth.
He was already waiting in the dining-room when she went down with the girls a few minutes later to partake of some light refreshment before starting on their long journey, and nothing could have been more unobtrusively sympathetic or attentive than the manner in which he waited upon them, anticipating every want, and ministering to it with eager hands. The room itself was so spacious that unconsciously the little party split into groups; and Mrs Thornton found herself tête-à-tête with Jack Melland, obviously in the worst of humours.
“Can you do nothing? Is there nothing you can say to knock a little common-sense into those girls’ heads? It’s the maddest trick, rushing off like this in defiance of the old man’s wishes. What can they do at home—a couple of children like that? They are better out of the way. At any rate, one of them might have stayed—Mollie, for instance—and kept things going here till she saw how things worked out. They have no right to rush off together at a moment’s notice!” he cried irritably; whereat Mrs Thornton smiled involuntarily.
“Isn’t it rather a case of people in glass houses, Mr Melland? You have set a bad example without half the excuse of these dear girls. It seems to me their plain duty to return to their parents when they are in trouble, so I have not attempted to dissuade them in any way.”
“But—” Jack made a slight but eloquent gesture of the head in Victor’s direction. “It’s such a walk over for somebody else! I can’t bear the thought of it. This place ought to belong to one of those girls—it is theirs by rights. It maddens me to see them throwing away their chance, for I’m afraid Mr Farrell will never forgive them for going against his wishes.”
“Don’t be too sure!” returned Mrs Thornton, nodding her head sagely. “Mr Farrell is not half so obstinate as he pretends, and however annoyed he may be to-day he can’t help softening when he remembers that they have put all their own pleasures and self-interests on one side to return to work and worry for their mother’s sake. If he wanted a test of character, surely nothing could be better than this! I don’t think it will be by any means a ‘walk over’ for Mr Druce. My firm belief is, that Ruth and Mollie have as good or even a better chance than they had before.”
“I say,” cried Jack cordially, “you are a brick!” He turned towards her with a bright, boyish smile, which took years off his age. “You don’t know how you have cheered me by saying that! I hated to think of them as being out of the running; but you will rub it in, won’t you? Don’t let Druce have it all his own way! Impress upon the old fellow what you said just now—unselfishness and hard work, and all that sort of thing. You will know how to do it, so as to make him see that he ought to admire the girls more for going than staying.”
Mrs Thornton smiled indulgently.
“I can try, at least. I’m only sorry that I can’t do the same for you. You have not the excuse of home troubles, and I’m afraid Mr Farrell—”
“Oh, never mind me; I don’t count! I have been out of the running from the first, and it is only through an accident that I have stayed so long. I don’t want anything from Mr Farrell but good-feeling and a fair judgment. It cut me up to say good-bye when I saw how feeble he looked. I don’t want you to plead my cause, because I relinquished my claim long ago; but if you get a chance, you might just let him know that I was genuinely sorry to leave him for his own sake.”
Jack’s manly, straightforward speech was just what Mrs Thornton expected from him, and she gladly consented to convey his message to Mr Farrell.
“I will, with pleasure,” she said, “and I shall have the chance before many days are over. Wonders will never cease! When I said just now that the squire was not so hard as he pretended, I spoke out of a full heart. What do you think of his suggesting—actually suggesting to my husband that the vicarage might need renovations, and asking him to send me up to give him my ideas! I nearly fainted when my husband told me. Now, do you think he thought of it himself, or did one of you kind creatures suggest it to him?”
“I didn’t, I know. It would have been as much as my life was worth; but I suspect Miss Mollie may have had something to do with it. She spoke pretty strongly on the subject to me, and she has the courage of her convictions.”
“Oh, that Mollie!” murmured Mrs Thornton under her breath. “I have never met her equal. The dearest, the simplest, the most affectionate of girls!” Her eyes moistened suddenly, and Jack’s face softened in sympathy as he looked across the room to where Mollie stood by her sister’s side. She met the two glances bent upon her, and walked forward in response, leaving Ruth and Victor by themselves.
Poor Ruth! Her heart beat fast with agitation and a last desperate hope born of Victor’s soft tones and regretful eyes. For the moment it seemed that the last few days must have been a nightmare, and that he really did “care”; in which case she was prepared to forgive everything—nay, more, to believe that there was nothing to forgive.
If, in this moment of trouble and humiliation, he would place himself by her side, nothing that she could do in the future would be enough to prove her gratitude and devotion. But, alas! even as Mollie turned away, Victor’s manner altered, and he became nervous and ill at ease. The long, eloquent glances which had been safe enough in the presence of a third person could not be risked in a tête-à-tête, and Ruth’s hopes died a final death. She sat trying to eat her sandwiches, and feeling as if every bite would choke her, while Victor feebly struggled with commonplaces.
The sound of carriage-wheels could be heard drawing near to the door; the last, the very last moment had arrived! Ruth raised her beautiful, sad face and gazed steadily at Victor, and he stopped short in the middle of a sentence, and turned guiltily aside. He could not meet her eyes.
After that all was bustle and confusion—servants crowding to say good-bye, villagers bobbing farewell curtseys at their doors, elaborate regrets and hopes for a speedy return from acquaintances at the little station, tears from Mrs Thornton, and a last glimpse of Victor’s tall figure standing motionless on the platform; then they were off, and Jack tactfully busied himself behind his newspaper until the first painful moments were past.
When he ventured to lower the screen, both girls were perfectly composed and dry-eyed, gazing out of their respective windows. His eyes turned from Ruth to dwell upon Mollie at the further end of the carriage. The fashionable young woman had disappeared, and he saw again the simple girl in shabby serge coat and close-fitting hat with whom he had travelled weeks before, yet there was a difference which his fastidious eyes were quick to note, a dainty precision in the way the clothes were worn, a perfection of detail, a neatness of coiffure.
Mollie was too clever and adaptive to have missed the lessons of the last few weeks, and the change of expression was even more marked. The audacious school-girl had disappeared, and in her place sat a woman, with a grave, set face, and eyes that stared into space, seeing things that were far away.
Jack’s heart contracted with a stab of pain. He dropped his paper, and with one long step crossed the carriage and seated himself by her side. Ruth turned in her seat to stare more persistently out of her window, and the clattering of the train made it impossible to overhear a conversation.
“Mollie!” said Jack softly.
She turned her head and looked at him, neither startled nor smiling, but with a patient sadness, the sight of which brought with it yet another stab.
“For Heaven’s sake, Mollie, don’t look like that! Things will right themselves again, or you may find that they are not so bad as you expect. In any case, there’s a pleasure in helping to pull them straight. It may be a tug just at first, but that only means more satisfaction in the end. Don’t look so sad! I can’t bear to leave you looking like that.”
Mollie gave a flickering smile. She had not been thinking of business troubles, but naturally Jack could not guess that.
“Once on a time—do you remember?—you wished that I could be serious. You should not complain because your wish is fulfilled,” she said slowly; and Jack put up a protesting hand.
“Don’t! don’t! I was a fool! I didn’t know what I was saying. You were made to be happy; you should always be happy if I could arrange it for you.”
Mollie smiled again, but with the same obvious effort.
“I hope you will be happy,” she said; “I hope some day we may hear good news from you. I don’t mean about money; you can guess what I mean.”
“Yes,” said Jack gravely; and there was silence for another five minutes, while the train approached nearer and nearer to the junction at which he was to alight, to catch the express for town.
“I hope I shall hear good news of you, too,” he said at last. “You will be busy at first, and there may not be much to tell, but later on—in a few weeks’ time, when you see how things are going—will you let me know? I shall be so interested to hear; and at any time if I can do anything, if you need anything done in town, or if I could help by coming North, you would be doing me a good turn by letting me know. I mean it, Mollie; it is not a polite form of speech.”
“I know; thank you; I will promise,” said Mollie, with, for the first time, a little break in her composure. Her lip trembled in a pathetic, childlike fashion, and, as if afraid of herself, she bent forward and addressed a pointed question to Ruth.
Ten minutes later the junction was reached, and Jack stood outside the carriage saying his last farewells. Ruth talked persistently in a high, cheerful voice, and Jack bit his moustache and cast furtive glances at Mollie’s white face. She smiled at him bravely as the train steamed away, and waved her hand, calling out, “Good luck! good luck!” Then they turned, the two poor girls, and clasped each other tightly.
“Oh, Lucille, my poor Lucille!”
“Berengaria, Berengaria, how horribly it hurts!”