A rolling stone

by B. M. Croker

Fortunately, with a superhuman effort, he pulled himself together, steadied his racing pulses, and thrust the dreadful idea behind him, as he struggled to the end of his task, and presently placed Miss Morven high and dry on the road beside her relative. Then, leaving the rescued ladies to one another’s company, he set off to a village two miles distant to hunt up some conveyance.

As Wynyard tramped along in his wet clothes, he had it out with his ego. For all his youth and hot blood, he had always a cool power of judgment—as far as his own acts were concerned—and he was now prepared to discuss the present situation with himself. Since he had held Miss Aurea’s light form in his arms, felt her sweet breath on his cheek, he knew there was no use in playing the ostrich, and that he was hopelessly in love—had been in love since the very first time he had set eyes upon her! Looking back at the matter, calmly and dispassionately, he realised that it was not on account of Leila’s disappointment that he stayed on, and did not throw up his situation—as Miss Parrett’s exasperating behaviour so often tempted him to do. He remained at Ottinge solely to be near Aurea; it was for Aurea that he kept his temper, slaved in the garden, and sang in the choir; yet he could not say a word to Aurea, or endeavour to ingratiate himself like other more fortunate young men; he had his bond to remember, and his hands were tied—yes, and his tongue too. Was ever any fellow in such a fix? And such was the contrariness of life, he had gone about the world when he was free, and had never once met a girl he thought of twice—and here he was always thinking of Aurea, yet dared not disclose his feelings; meanwhile, some luckier fellow would come along and make up to her and marry her! And at the thought he stopped and ground his heel into the earth with savage force.

There was Bertie Woolcock, rolling in money, heir to that fine place; and he would have one year and ten months’ start, whilst he was left at the post! Oh, it was enough to drive him mad to think of! Well, Bertie had never held her in his arms, at any rate,—he had; how she had trembled, poor darling! Yes, he was that to the good.

“Mean beast!” apostrophising himself; “when you know that the girl could not help herself, and would have given everything she possessed to get out of such a dilemma!” What would Leila say? Should he tell her? No; she would only laugh (he could hear her laugh) and ask, “What are you going to marry on, even if Uncle Dick lets you off?”

He had two pounds two shillings a week, and if he made love to her niece, Miss Parrett would naturally and properly send him about his business. Oh, it was all an infernal muddle—there was no way out of it—nothing to do but hide his feelings and bide his time; the wild, haunting refrain of an old negro camp hymn came into his head, “And hold the Lion down! and hold the Lion down!” Well, he was holding the lion down, and a thundering hard job he found it!

He had no reason to suspect that Aurea ever thought of him—why should she? She was always polite, gracious—no more. His only little scrap of comfort lay in the fact that he believed Miss Susan liked him—liked him really, in a nice, sentimental, proper, old-maid fashion! She was romantic, so said her niece, who bantered her on her passion for promoting love-affairs and love-matches—he had heard her taunt her playfully with the fact. Undoubtedly Miss Susan was his good friend, and that was the sole morsel of comfort he could offer himself!

Presently Wynyard reached a sleepy little village, unearthed a carrier’s cart, horse, and man, and returned to the place where the two ladies were awaiting him with the liveliest impatience.

That evening, at nine o’clock, Miss Susan, who had deposited her niece at the Rectory, arrived at home in a carrier’s cart—the sole available mode of conveyance. Her sister, who had been roaming about the hall and passages, accompanied by Mrs. Ramsay, wringing her hands and whimpering that “Susan had been killed,” was considerably relieved. But, as soon as her fears were subdued, she became frightfully excited respecting the fate of her beautiful motor, which, by all accounts, had been left standing in the middle of a river—five miles from home.

“Oh, I assure you it will be all right, Bella; please don’t worry yourself. Owen will manage.”

“Owen, indeed!” she echoed angrily; “it’s my opinion that he manages you—you think a great deal too much of that young man; there’s something at the back of him—it would never surprise me if some day he went off with that motor, and we never saw him again.”