Leonore Stubbs

"I think you must do nothing of the kind. You will make nothing of her. I've tried. She was here just now."

"And did you not notice anything? It is not only her face; but her voice, her manner–"

"I told her she looked woebegone, and that it was no good. She frets about things that are no business of hers, if you must know," owned Sybil, reluctantly. "She has taken it into her head that Maud—that she and Paul aren't suited to each other, and has let the idea run away with her. I suppose I was stupid myself, not to put a veto upon it flat,—but the truth is I do think they are an ill-assorted couple, and can't make out how they ever came to take to each other."

"I once thought it was something else on Leo's part," said Sue, in rather a low voice. "If it is only that, I think, I hope, we are all mistaken."

"We?" cried Sybil, struck by the word.

"Because I think as you do," said Sue, quietly.

The short light of a November day was beginning to fade when Leonore, after a minute's cautious listening and watching from above, stole downstairs equipped to go out, and safely reached the garden-door without encountering any one. She was in the act of unlocking it, when Paul appeared.

"You are going out?" said he, mechanically.

"No, I am not," said she—and passed out before his eyes.

For a few minutes she ran aimlessly hither and thither, crossing and recrossing her steps, while from time to time casting furtive glances at the windows of the house, as though to see if she were being watched or not—but satisfied apparently upon this point, she made a sudden dart for the woods beyond, and was almost immediately lost to view.

Yet here again she hesitated, for the paths were numerous.

There was the one she had first trodden on her return to the Abbey three years before. She recalled the beauty, the wild freshness of that twilight hour. It had so exhilarated her that while desirous of walking soberly as befitted the occasion, she had longed to run! Her first very real but transient sorrow had worn off, and there was no one to see her—yet something restrained her. It was not kind to Godfrey's memory; he had been so good to her, so uniformly affectionate and indulgent towards her, that she would not seem to slight him even in solitude. As for the dancing blood in her veins, she told herself it was purely physical. She was so well and strong that she could not help feeling just a little happy.

And though she had often traversed the same narrow little winding path since, she had never perhaps felt quite the same again.

On the other hand, there lay the short cut to Claymount—that was Val's way. She would not take Val's way, although of late Val had ceased to frequent it. He had no object in doing so, since Leonore was never to be met with now.

Once or twice he had adverted to this, but she had replied evasively. Val did not interest her, did not amuse her any longer. He grew tiresome since he had taken to making remarks upon her altered appearance, and putting direct, awkward questions.

Things might have been worse, of course; but on the whole she would even have preferred an open rupture and well-founded resentment, to this persistent determination to know how things were with her,—and others?

Val had no liking for Paul Foster now, though at first he had professed such. He had no reason to give, and an obstinate look would come over his face if pressed. Once he had murmured something of which Leo only caught the words, "jolly deceitful,"—and the next minute he denied having spoken them.

To herself Leo owned that she had not behaved well to poor Val, having made use of him for selfish ends; but the experiment had harmed neither, and no remorse need be wasted upon it.

With George Butts it was the same; he was fair game, having come in search of her supposititious fortune, without even the excuse of an honest, jog-trot fidelity such as Val's. She had been scolded on George's account, but had not scolded herself, and had archly and triumphantly pointed out the recusant to Sue in a sly corner of a London balcony.

But young Andrews? Ah, that stung. The home truths forced from those quivering lips, the agony of those imploring eyes—she quailed before them. They pierced her already shame-embittered soul, they were her dying wounds. For she had made another suffer what she herself was suffering, and had done it wantonly. There was no excuse for her,—none. There should be no pity, no sorrow—if it were possible, no knowledge when—when all was over.

She crashed into the undergrowth.

But she could not go far; the mould was too soft, and the rotting leaves too thick and plentiful. She was forced to retrace her steps.

There was the dry track of a streamlet, along which a faint trickle oozed to the surface here and there. She tried it, but the sharp stones hurt her feet, and again she sprang into the path.

Then the sprawling arms of a bramble caught and ripped a bad tear in her skirt. Her new, black skirt—and just where a darn would show! How tiresome—how vexatious! And Bessie could not darn decently. She frowned and examined, condemning already Bessie's incapable hand, and slipshod work.

Till—remembrance came, and the torn edge flapped unheeded.

From below, where a frequented road came near at the point, there broke upon her ear sounds and voices,—children returning late from school, lingering and playing by the way—laughing and singing over their game. She crouched till they were past—then hurried forward.

At length she came to an opening in the woods; a spot whose view of the surrounding country often attracted her thither—and from habit she paused and gazed.

It was such an afternoon as she loved; a red sky, a misty landscape, the near trees still ablaze with autumn tints. In the distance a flying train threaded its way whistling; the white steam appearing and disappearing behind wooded heights and promontories.

How often had she stood thus; how familiar was the scene!—but she could not linger now.

There was something she was searching for which she did not find. She had only seen it once, and then by chance,—in the present confused whirl of her brain she could not remember landmarks, nor identify localities.

But it was there, somewhere,—and she must look, look till she found it.

A branch snapped behind, and she spun round, terrified. Who—what was that?

The woods were almost silent, birds had ceased to sing, and rabbits were in their holes. After a minute's breathless suspense, she crept on a pace or two, and listened again,—but there was not a rustle, not a sound. She fled onwards.

A pile of logs and a rough saw-pit,—yes, yes,—she knew the saw-pit, she had passed the saw-pit that other day, and Val and she had sat upon the logs. Val had kicked about the splinters at his feet, and formed them into heaps. And it was close, close by, that—oh, it was so close that she shivered and trembled, and clung to the edge of the pit as a support, and at last sank upon her knees.

But she was not praying—she was not even thinking;—there was nothing more to think about,—she rose and crept down the slope, to where lay a deep, black pool.

And out of the pool crawled a toad. Its head came first; the ugly, flat head that, but for its movement, might have been mistaken for a lump of slime,—then one long-jointed, sluggish leg, and then the other, followed by a sudden leap, and a leap, ah! the loathsome thing!—in her direction. Involuntarily she also leaped—backwards.

Not there—not just there; she shuddered as the reptile startled in its turn, turned and plunged again into the water, where, no doubt, were others of its kind, many and vile....

The stem of a bulrush shook, suggestive of hideous gambols at its roots....

The whole place looked so foul and evil that a wild desire to flee from it did actually, and as it were involuntarily, drag Leonore's nerveless feet a few yards from the edge—but there she halted, muttering to herself in broken, meaningless utterances. She thought she was goading herself back—back—back;—and she began to go back.

"Caught you up at last, Leo. What a walker you are! I followed you out, and guessed I should overtake you if I held on," continued the cheerful voice, as Paul tumbled down the bank, slipping and sliding, and steadying himself with his stick till he reached Leo's side. "A bit damp here though, isn't it?"

"Go away—go away, Paul." She tried to push him aside, he was between her and the pool.

"Sorry. I didn't mean to intrude; but, I say this is just the sort of thing to be very pleasant at the time, but–"

"Go—go!"

"But it will find out the weak spot afterwards, and then the aches and pains!"

"I shall have no aches and pains, and you—you needn't stay. I don't want you, I won't have you;" cried Leo, wildly. "Why did you come? Why did you follow me? Who gave you leave to spy upon me?"

"I took my own leave," said Paul, and dropped his cheery note, fixing his eyes steadily on hers. "You will come away—from here—with me;"—and she felt his hand close upon her arm.

She looked at it, and at him stupidly. She made no outcry.

"Come," repeated Paul.

She shook her head.

"You are going to come. That was what brought me here. Do you understand me, Leo?"

"No—no." She made a faint, weak effort to release herself.

"You must obey me."

"I shall not."

"You must obey a Higher Power than mine. In God's name I command you to leave this baleful spot."

"Paul!" But she obeyed, cowering.

In silence they moved on, neither knowing which way they trod, then suddenly: "It was you who broke that branch I heard—you who tracked me all the way—I heard something—it was you I heard? How could you?—how could you?—?" cried Leo, sobbing aloud. "Oh, to think that it was you!"

"It was I, dear Leo, sent to save you in your hour of need. You are ill—you are not yourself—you know not what you are doing;—but there is One who watches over His children, and in the hour of danger and temptation–"

"But why did he send you? Paul, do you believe you were really sent by Him?" she was awed, but scarcely subdued—"because I don't. I cannot think even God would be so cruel as to choose you——" she broke off panting.

"He chooses His own instruments, Leo. Do not let this distress you, dear little sister—I may call you 'sister,' mayn't I?—You can trust me, can you not? Lean on me," he drew her hand within his arm, "and tell me you forgive–"

"Forgive—forgive?" she sobbed afresh. "Is it I to forgive—I who have done it all? Paul, don't you know? Don't you see?"

"I only see a poor little lamb that has lost its fold."

"But the little lamb has been straying in other folds, and it was so dark there, Paul—so dark and cold,—oh, Paul, why did you stop me? Why—why did you save me? You know. You know;"—her sobs were heartrending.

He was silent.

"You were happy till you came here," said Leo, brokenly. "You loved Maud—at least you thought you did, and she, she still thinks she loves you. She–"

"Hush—no more. You must not say such things, Leo." He was calm no longer; the sweat broke out upon his brow.

"But it is the truth. Oh, it is—it is the truth."

"There are truths that must not be spoken. You must not, you shall not say what you would repent of all your life."

"Who is to speak if I do not? I am the only one–"

"Am I fallen so low that I would let you proclaim the secrets of my coward heart? If my lips are sealed, so shall yours be," he cried, in great agitation. "If I have made a terrible mistake, it is my own mistake, and I shall abide by it."

"Paul—Paul,—" she clung more closely to him. "Say you forgive me, Paul."

"There is nothing to forgive. Take care. You nearly fell, Leo. Try to look where you are going in this dim light." The accents of forced composure fell like cold lead upon her heart. She had touched him for a moment, and a nerve had vibrated to her touch—but he was slipping from her again. He continued:—

"Since your penetration has discovered–"

"Say since I found out the truth, Paul."

"That, if you will." He bent his head. "I cannot, I dare not deny it. It is the truth, God help me—God help us both."

"You and me?" she whispered, faintly.

"Maud and me. I have done her a great wrong, but it shall be the aim of my life to repair it. She shall find me a true and faithful husband–"

"You won't—you can't marry her?"

"What?" said Paul, stopping short.

"You do not love her."

"I loved her once—I shall learn to love her again."

"You will be wretched, miserable—and so will she, now that you know the truth. I would have spared you. I meant to give my life to spare you—oh, Paul, you know I did," she wept passionately—"but now, now when you yourself would not let me do it–"

"Leo?"

She wept on.

"Try to hear me. Try to understand me. Leo, there is a greater thing than Love."

"No, no, there is not—there is not."

"There is." He drew a breath, a long, deep breath. "There is Honour."

She was silent. The tears hung on her cheeks.

"I have lost all besides," said he, simply, "but I have kept that, and will keep it." He paused, and continued: "If Maud were different, other things might also be different, but you know your sister; to break faith with her would be—she could not endure it. I have taught her to believe that I am wholly hers, and she has never seen nor guessed that—that a change has come. And however acutely Maud would feel that, if she knew—which, so help me God, she never shall—she would be infinitely more distressed, more humiliated—her pride—her self-respect—no, it is not to be thought of." He was now walking on alone, and so fast that she could scarcely keep pace with him. She could catch only broken utterances—some perhaps not meant for her. It appeared as though he had forgotten her presence.

"Love? Honour?

"Love lost, much lost.Honour lost, all lost."

Honour is not lost—not yet. Happiness? That's nothing. Life is short, and there's another life to look to. A coward turns his back on the fight. A deserter falls out of the ranks. The strong should hold up the weak"—suddenly he looked round for her—"Leo?"

Leo meekly raised her eyes, overmastered, dumb. It was the hardest moment of Paul's life. One look, one word between them, and she would have been dragged down into the whirlpool from which it was his part to save her. A great convulsion shook his frame, and he set his teeth and swore, then drew her gently to his side.

"My little sister must forget all this. It is a bad dream and it is over and past. She must promise me–"

"What—Paul?"

"She must promise me—solemnly—before God, in Whose Presence we are"—he looked up, the sky was clear and shining overhead—"that she will never—mark me, Leo, never—as long as life lasts, allow herself to think of cutting it short again. Before God, Leo!"

He lifted her hand, still fast in his, as though invoking the Unseen Presence, and almost inaudibly she repeated after him the words of the promise.

"We must hasten home now," said Paul, with a rapid transition to another tone. "The short cut from Claymount is somewhere hereabouts," looking round—"and we shall get back," he took out his watch, "before the house is shut up, if we walk briskly. You can walk, can't you? I mean, of course you will have to walk, but can you step out? If you would care to have an arm–"

"I can walk quite well, thank you—but, oh, Paul, just this—mayn't I say it–?"

"Better not, dear." The word slipped out; he was unconscious of it, but she heard. They hurried home.

CHAPTER XVII.

A KNIGHT TO THE RESCUE

"No, you don't—and don't you think it."

Somebody, and that a formidable personage, had been a witness of the scene just narrated.

We would not for a moment call poor Val Purcell an eavesdropper au naturel, but he certainly had a talent for picking up by the wayside things which did not exactly belong to him.

Val, as we know, was not quite like other people.

It was only now and then that he showed this; in the ordinary give and take of society he passed muster well enough, and no one would more readily have spurned the notion of doing what others did not do—that being the poor boy's code of conduct,—yet he is not to be hardly judged if occasionally it failed him at a pinch. Wherefore if when passing through the Abbey woods on the afternoon in question, he heard voices and crept near to peep and listen, let it be believed that the feeling which arrested his footsteps was in its way innocent. His curiosity was roused, and he had a hearty sympathy with sylvan lovers; so if Jack and Jill were courting, there was no reason why he should not see which Jack and Jill it was? He would not tell tales, not he.

But when, instead of the expected rustic figures, his starting eyes beheld Paul Foster and—not Paul's betrothed—not the girl with whom alone he had a right to wander in that dim solitude at that mystic hour—but Leonore, Leonore who was nothing, or should have been nothing to her sister's lover, curiosity gave place to another feeling.

So how? He would spy if he chose.

He would jolly well discover what the devil those two were about? They were up to no good hiding away by themselves in the woods, and, damnation! holding each other's hands.

That beast Paul—he had always thought him a beast—no, he hadn't, but he did now—so he was playing a double game, was he? Engaged to Maud, and flirting with Leo under the rose?

Leo could flirt, of course; she had made a fool of himself once,—but he had got it into his head that she rather disliked Paul;—she had never cracked him up as the rest did,—oh, she was a cunning, crafty little jade, and he would put a spoke in her wheel, be hanged if he didn't!

The undergrowth was so thick at the point to which Paul had half led, half dragged his trembling companion at this juncture, that it was easy for a third person to draw very near unperceived,—and though much that now passed was unintelligible to one not possessed of the key of the mystery, Val heard enough.

He did not indeed hear any love-making,—but instinct guided him straight to the mark which another by reasoning might have failed to reach. He was as fully convinced that Maud had been supplanted as if he had heard the fact avowed a hundred times; and though he stole off, afraid to linger, before Paul's final adjuration which might have puzzled and mystified him, he had got as much as his brain could carry, and got it in very good order.

The next day he presented himself at Boldero Abbey. His plan of campaign, conned over and over with ever-increasing wrath and valour, was not confided to gran. Gran had never liked Maud, and in old days he would often affect a hopeless passion for the latter for the sake of getting amusement out of the old lady. Then an argument would ensue, and he very nearly felt the passion. He could not see that one Boldero was not as good as another; and as he could not be bluntly told that Leonore had money while her sister had not, he held to it that gran was prejudiced to the point of injustice. Accordingly he kept his own counsel now, and plumed himself thereon mightily.

And Fortune favoured him; for though all the ladies were at home, the one he sought was by herself in the drawing-room, when he was ushered in.

"I say, it's you I want," said Val, immediately. "Look here, Maud, I want to see you alone, and without any one's knowing. Where are the others?"

"Sue and Sybil are out–"

"But I was told they were in!"

"That's Grier's laziness. He has grown intolerably lazy of late. As he is under notice to go, he won't put himself out of his way for any one of us, and says 'At Home' or 'Not at Home,' just as it suits him, without taking the trouble of finding out."

"Where are they gone?" demanded Val, as usual diverted from his course by any chance observation. Despite the purpose with which he was big, he could not help feeling inquisitive as to which house in the neighbourhood was being honoured.

"Only to the rectory," said Maud, indifferently; "but they are there, and there they will stay for ages. It is a sort of farewell visit. What do you want to see me about?"

"Stop a bit. There's Leo. Is she—where is she?"

"In bed. She caught a chill yesterday going out in the damp."

"You are sure she is not out in the damp again, to-day?" said Val, significantly, and gave his companion what he considered a meaning look. "Hey? Are you sure of that, Maud?"

"As I was with her five minutes ago, I think I may be," retorted Maud, and convinced by this preamble that Leo, not herself, was the real object of the visit, she was less gracious than before. "I thought you said it was me you wanted?"—she threw out, however.

"So it is. I don't want Leo—not a bit. I don't want her ever again, that's more. You'd say the same if you'd seen what I saw. Give me time, and I'll tell you all about it. That's what I came for."

"Really, Val, I—it's not the thing, you know, to come to one of us with complaints of the other. If you have any fault to find with Leo, you must say so to herself."

"You wait till you hear. You won't be so keen for me to go to Leo–"

"But I really can't," said Maud, rising. Her pride revolted at the idea of being the confidant of some silly quarrel, which did not concern her in the slightest. "I don't know anything about it, and I don't want to know. Do talk of other things."

"What? When I came here on purpose–?"

"Hush,—you needn't be excited. Of course if you are determined to speak, you had better speak and be done with it; but I warn you I shan't take your part, or any one's part–"

"As long as you don't take Paul's part," cried he, with a flash of inspiration, "the rest doesn't matter."

"Paul's part?" For very amazement Maud fell into her chair again, and stared at the speaker as though he had struck her a blow. "What—what did you say? Did you say 'Paul's part'?"

"Yes, I did—I did say just that. I told you you'd jolly well better hear me out instead of being so infernally supercilious. Oh, I say, I'm sorry I said that, Maud; I'm—I'm sorry for you altogether."

"You speak in enigmas, Val,"—but her laugh was a little forced; his earnestness and persistency told; and then there was "Paul's part"?

"He is—but look here, you needn't mind what he is. Don't you take it to heart–"

"I know what Paul is, thank you," haughtily.

"That's just what you don't–"

"Excuse me, Val–"

"Excuse me, Maud–"

"You are impertinent now, I shall listen no longer."

"Listen no longer? You haven't even begun to listen. Confound it, you shouldn't treat a fellow like this, when a fellow is doing all he can for you, and feels for you as—as I do. You know I've always been fond of you, Maud," softening, "and I've come to say that if you'll marry me instead–"

"Have you gone crazy, Val?" But vanity whispered a flattering solution of the problem, and his ear detected an opening. To the same suggestion Leo had cried "Nonsense!" and although affronted at first, he had ultimately accepted the "Nonsense!" with philosophy,—but he had weapons in reserve now, and would soon show that he was not "crazy". No, damn it, he was not "crazy". The idea!

With the rush of a torrent he told his tale.

"And you saw this—and you heard this?" said Maud, at last. "You did not dream it? You—you are sure you did not dream it?"

"I'll take my solemn Davy I saw it all, and heard it all. Leo is a little cat; and as for Paul, to think that he should dare—but I say, Maud, you will checkmate him, won't you?"

"Hush;" she waved him back, for he had pressed forward. "Let me think—let me think. If this is true—but it isn't, it can't be true,—" and she pressed her hands upon her forehead. A thousand trifles, insignificant in themselves, which had secretly perplexed and chafed her spirit of late, rushed back upon her memory. Paul had lost the air of a happy lover. He had become moody, silent, solitary in his habits. He had, it is true, obeyed to the strictest extent the dictates of custom, but there were moments which in the retrospect maddeningly bore out Val's accusation. He had played—he was still playing her false? She was, or would be, a laughing-stock? She quailed and faltered.