“How should a girl hear a call of that kind? It’s the men that count in that, not the women—never the women. If I had had a son, he would have heard it. You have been a good daughter to me, Deborah, but it takes a man to understand these things.”
He went back into the garden after that, forgetting that he had said nothing of Mrs. Stanley, and for a long time Deb stood rigid, gazing into vacancy, the candlesticks clasped in her arms. All the hidden longing of her childhood, all the repressed passion of her later years, rose and swept over her in a flood, and sobbed and tore at her heart. Not even her father, living in such close communion with her, had guessed at the motive of her whole being. If only she had been a boy—ah, if only she had been a boy! But she was nothing but a helpless, useless, girl, and soon, very soon, perhaps, she would be in exile, as the boy need never have been. She was a girl, and she would have to go. She gripped the candlesticks tighter. In that moment she swore to marry Christian, no matter what the rash act might bring—pain, shame, or lifelong remorse; and the ironic gods, who await our flashes of complete decision to hound on their instant refutation, loosed their leash.
She had avoided him since the concert, disappearing along side-roads and sending down messages of excuse when he called; but all that was over. She would avoid him no more. This one means of restitution was left to the girl who ought to have been a boy.
At last she drew a long, sobbing breath and stirred, setting down the candlesticks and reaching for the forgotten note. Its contents came as a sharp surprise, for they requested her attendance upon Mrs. Lyndesay at her earliest possible convenience.
Her first impulse was to let the command—for it was nothing less—pass unnoticed, but she reflected that, under the circumstances, such flagrant independence would scarcely be wise. She could marry Christian, of course, in the face of his mother’s opposition, but the situation was more than likely to be sufficiently unpleasant, in any case, and only folly would deliberately add to it. She dressed slowly, knowing she would go, but debating the point impatiently, nevertheless, and turning even at the gate on a sharp impulse of resentment and defiance. An old hawker, passing, lifted his ragged whip and shook it at her with a toothless smile.
“Never turn back, lady!” the old voice creaked across the wall. “It’s bad luck to turn when you’ve once started. You’ll not prosper, lady! You’ll rue it before morning!”
She laughed, waving her hand after the rattling cart, and forgot the superstition on the spot; but later—that very night—the warning came back to her, knife-edged.
Still, the incident had shaken her out of her morbid self-introspection, and she walked rapidly to Crump, refusing stoutly to fear what lay before her. It was foolish to cross bridges until you came to them, and the unexpected might prove pleasant, after all. Perhaps an apology for the slight on her father—but even her sudden change of mood could not show her Mrs. Lyndesay apologising to anybody about anything.
Nettie appeared from the stable-yard as she approached, and came to meet her. She wondered whether Deborah knew of her recent interview, but as the girl said nothing, she guessed that the old man had not told, and she held her peace. Not until years after he was dead, did she tell Roger Lyndesay’s daughter of the little scene she had held sacred so long.
“I don’t know why you were asked,” she observed, as they went up the approach together. “She never mentions you to me, you know, and I can’t exactly make a point of discussing you. I was just asked to deliver the note, that was all. It’s ripping of you to come, I think. Wild horses wouldn’t have dragged me if she’d treated me as she’s treated you.”