A Mere Chance: A Novel. Vol. 2

"I think I will," said Mr. Kingston, thoughtfully. And he did.

CHAPTER XI.

UNTIL CHRISTMAS

MRS. READE was accustomed not only to give advice and to see it taken, but to see the wisdom of it justified in the success of its practical application.

Nevertheless, she was more surprised than Mr. Kingston himself at the great and good results which apparently followed her interference in his affairs. Matters were a little critical for a week or two.

Of course he "saw" Rachel, and attacked the position which she had taken up with all the forces at his command. He was, in his Mentor's judgment, indiscreetly zealous and persevering; and the almost fierce obstinacy of Rachel's resistance, which neither science nor brute force could overcome, being an altogether anomalous demonstration of character, was even more portentous.

But when presently Mr. Kingston, in a dignified and graceful letter, accepted his defeat, while at the same time clearly intimating that the withdrawal of his former pretensions in no way indicated any change in his affections and fidelity, then everything seemed to go well.

The girl was touched and grieved to the depths of her tender heart for the wrong and the trouble that she had inflicted upon him, and was in agonies of anxiety for his welfare.

"Do you think he will go back to Miss Brownlow?" she inquired one day of Beatrice, with pathetic eyes full of tears; "and, oh, do you think she will make him happy?"

She was terribly taken aback when her cousin with much asperity upbraided her with the heartlessness of the suggestion.

For a little while, having received her aunt's grudging acquiescence in the dissolution of her engagement, having sent back all her jewels, having surreptitiously despatched a note to her lover in Queensland (which she implored him not to answer) to tell him that she was honourably free, and living in the anticipation of his return, Rachel began to blossom in beauty and brightness again, like a flower that night had chilled in the warmth of morning sunshine.

It was, perhaps, a little discouraging to see how very much relieved and refreshed she was in her freedom – that she did not even hanker after her lost diamonds, and the riches and luxuries that had once been so desirable and so precious; but Mrs. Reade, as was her custom, looked below the surface of things, and found her compensations.

That the girl had recovered her balance, so to speak, and was in sound health, mentally and physically, was of the first importance in this sensible young woman's view of the case; and her eager friendliness to Mr. Kingston whenever she met him – eager in proportion to the modesty of his demands of course, and sometimes warm with impulsive tenderness such as she had never voluntarily manifested in the days of her engagement – seemed to foreshadow the most hopeful possibilities. Indeed, if Mr. Kingston behaved well, Rachel, apart from her specific misdemeanour, behaved even better.

Mrs. Hardy, outwardly conforming to her daughter's scheme, would not, or could not, disguise her resentment at the failure of the original enterprise, and visited it upon the girl, as perhaps was natural, more roughly than she would have done had Rachel been her own child or less deeply indebted to her.

She was ostentatiously cold and indifferent, or she was sarcastic, and harsh, and rude; she was rigorous to the verge of tyranny in her determination to allow no other man the smallest opportunity for improving the occasion in the manner that Mr. Kingston had indicated – withdrawing her niece from all the gay assemblies where she had hitherto disported herself with so much enjoyment and éclat, and keeping her to a petty routine of study and household duties that was made as dull and irksome as possible.

Yet Rachel, always so sensitive to both kindness and unkindness, and as much hurt by a snub as she would have been by a blow, took it all with the sweetest patience and temper.

She devoted herself to her aunt's service as she never had done before, compassing the sombre woman with every possible delicate attention that tact and thoughtfulness could devise; and she not only persevered in this amiable conduct, but kept a certain placid and gentle brightness about her, under all discouragements, for weeks and weeks together.

Mrs. Reade, as a matter of course, was greatly touched and pleased; for it was evident – as far as her sharp eyes could see – that Mr. Dalrymple was not the source of inspiration now, seeing that he had been effectually circumvented on his first attempt to renew her acquaintance, and had never been seen or heard of since. It seemed to the anxious little woman that the girl had only wanted her freedom for awhile, and that, by and bye, by the mere drift of the current, she would be borne back to the arms that were waiting for her.

Things seemed to be going on so well that Mrs. Reade, when the gaieties of the "Cup" season were over, thought she might venture to leave town for a few weeks. She wanted very much to pay a long-deferred visit to Adelonga.

She had not been there since Lucilla was a bride, and of course she had not seen the baby. She was also anxious to find out for herself "the rights" of the story that her mother had told her concerning Rachel's conduct and experiences while sojourning under her sister's roof, and if possible to make the acquaintance of some of Mr. Dalrymple's people.

So, with customary promptitude, she made her preparations. She sent for Mr. Kingston and gave him judicious advice and encouragement to direct and uphold him in her absence.

Then she interviewed Mrs. Hardy, and expressed herself so strongly on behalf of her own views as to what was right and proper in the management of Rachel's case, that they nearly came to "words."

And, finally, having fortified the position to the best of her power, she sought out Rachel herself, and, in the privacy of that little chamber at the top of the house, bade her an affectionate and reluctant good-bye.

"I don't know if my mother has told you, dear, that Lucilla wanted me very much to bring you with me," she said, when they were sitting together by Rachel's window, hand in hand.

"Did she? Dear Lucilla, how I should like to see her!" ejaculated Rachel, but not in the tone of voice that Mrs. Reade had expected.

"And I begged very hard for permission, but mamma thought it better not to interrupt your music and painting lessons again so soon. It is a great disappointment to you not to go, isn't it? At first I thought I would not tell you anything about it."

"Ah, but I am glad you told me," said Rachel; "for I must send a message to Lucilla to thank her. She knows how I loved to be at Adelonga – I think it is the sweetest place in the wide world."

"I wish I could take you," said Mrs. Reade; "but – "

"Oh, no, Beatrice, I cannot go, I know. Indeed, I would rather not. I would rather stay with Aunt Elizabeth, and go on with my lessons."

Mrs. Reade was considerably astonished and disconcerted by this evidently genuine sentiment. There was something in so ready a relinquishment of the pleasures of Adelonga, which had always been so great, and also in the tremulous eagerness with which the girl put the proposal from her – a proposal which Mrs. Reade had feared would be cruelly tantalising at this time; but it was not immediately apparent.

Rachel could not stand the silent scrutiny of her cousin's brilliant eyes. Blushing violently, she rose from the couch on which she had been sitting, and rested her arms on the window-sill, and looked out upon the sombre pine trees that stood perfectly motionless in the golden summer air.

"Do you see how that house is getting on?" she said, breaking an awkward pause. "The walls are simply rushing up. They will be ready for the roof directly."

Mrs. Reade stood on tiptoe and peeped over her shoulder.

"I wonder you have the heart to look at it," she replied.

"Oh, Beatrice!"

"I do, when you think what a wreck you have made of all the hopes and plans that that poor dear man has been building with it."

"He will build some more, and better ones, by and bye, I hope."

"Not he. Men don't do that so easily at his age."

"Oh, yes," she persisted, imploringly, "I think he will, indeed. He did it very easily with me."

"For an exceedingly good reason – because he loved you from the first. Oh, you ungrateful little monkey, it's to be hoped you'll die an ugly old maid!"

"That would be better than being the wife for years and years of a man I did not love."

"Rubbish. As if one could have everything all at once in this world. You girls think of nothing but yourselves. You don't take into account that it might be worth while to make somebody else happy."

"How could I make him happy unless I loved him, Beatrice?"

"Oh, don't talk about it. You have pleased yourself, I suppose, and he must do the best he can. He is terribly miserable as he is, poor fellow; but I daresay he'll get over it."

"Is he miserable now?" inquired Rachel anxiously. "Have you seen him lately?"

"I saw him yesterday, and he told me that his life had no value for him now that he had lost you, and that he should never live in his house unless you were the mistress of it. I shouldn't imagine he felt particularly jolly under those circumstances. However, it is no use worrying ourselves on his account," the little woman added cheerfully, seeing tears in her cousin's gentle eyes.

"But I am so sorry for him!"

"That won't help him much, my dear. And if you are happy, I suppose that is all we need care about."

"Oh, no, Beatrice!"

"We haven't time to fret over other people's troubles," Mrs. Reade proceeded, in what Rachel thought an exceedingly heartless manner; "life is too short."

"But, Beatrice – "

"Now, I can't talk about Mr. Kingston any more. I have all my packing to do yet, and I must run away and see after it. Good-bye, dearest child. Mind you write often. I wish you were going with me – I can't bear to leave you behind."

Rachel flung her arms round her small cousin with characteristic fervour.

"When do you think you will come home again?" she inquired tremulously, almost in a whisper.

"I can't say, dear, exactly."

"Before Christmas, won't you?"

"I think so; it will all depend on circumstances."

"Oh, do be back by Christmas," Rachel pleaded, with an almost tragic eagerness. "It would be dreadful if Christmas came and you were so far away!"

"Am I so necessary to the festivities of the season?" laughed Mrs. Reade, much touched and flattered. "Well, I'll see what I can do. Suppose I try and bring Lucilla and the children back, and make a regular family gathering of it?"

"Oh, if you could!" sighed Rachel.

All the terrors of her time of trial would be gone, she thought, if she could have these two faithful cousins beside her.

So Mrs. Reade went off by the morning train, tolerably easy in her mind. She took her big husband with her, "to keep him," as she said, "out of mischief;" and she stayed away much longer than she had intended to do. She was delighted with Adelonga, and with her sister's companionship.

Ned, also, while being kept in order, enjoyed himself excessively; and as long as he was "good" in the matter of his besetting sin, his lady and mistress liked him to enjoy himself. There were plenty of bush gaieties in the shape of sporting meetings and balls, and the time slipped away rapidly, as time at Adelonga usually did.

A dance at the Digbys' gave Mrs. Reade the desired opportunity for making the acquaintance of Mr. Dalrymple's people, and she learned a few facts with respect to that gentleman which, while considerably aggravating her alarm, tended to modify and dignify the impressions of him that her mother had given her.

Lucilla showed her a fine photograph of his powerful, melancholy, highbred face, and she was quite overcome by it.

"Oh, dear me!" she said to herself, with a sort of angry dismay, "it is no wonder that Rachel was infatuated. If I had had attentions from that man – little as I am given to falling in love – I think I should have been as bad as she."

When Christmas came the sisters were still at Adelonga. Lucilla could not leave home, and persuaded Beatrice not to leave her. They contented themselves with sending pretty presents and many loving messages and excuses to their relatives in Melbourne, and plunged into a series of festive entertainments that lasted for several weeks.

Then suddenly, as she was dressing for a ball, Mrs. Reade was startled to receive a letter from her mother, begging her to return to town at once, as Rachel was very ill.

CHAPTER XII.

"THE GROUND-WHIRL OF THE PERISHED LEAVES OF HOPE."

MRS. READE lost no time in obeying her mother's summons. In two days she was back in Melbourne, and having given ten minutes to the inspection of her domestic affairs, and refreshed herself with tea and bread and butter, she went on to Toorak in the carriage that had brought her from the station, without even waiting to change her travelling-dress.

At Toorak she found things in a most discouraging and deplorable condition – as they never would have been, she told herself, had she remained in town.

Mrs. Hardy, who met her in the hall, and took her to her own room for elaborate explanations, was herself a most puzzling and unsatisfactory feature in the case, for she made it evident to her daughter's keen perception that something more had happened than was accounted for in her rather disconnected narrative, and that she did not intend to disclose what it was.

There was a touch of nervous recklessness and defiance in the way she spoke of Rachel's illness – as if the poor child had crowned a systematic series of misdemeanours by falling ill on purpose – and of her hearty regret that she had ever had anything to do with such a perverse and ungrateful girl, which conveyed to Mrs. Reade the impression that her cousin had in some way been persecuted, or had at any rate, been subjected to more heroic treatment than her own judgment and advice had sanctioned.

Under such circumstances it was, perhaps, natural that her mother should be somewhat reserved, since to be fully confidential would be to confess that she had made mistakes; but this sudden reversal of old habits, occurring at this important crisis in the family fortunes, was a serious aggravation of the already sufficient difficulties that the little woman had to deal with.

What complicated her task still further was the discovery that Mr. Kingston was again a frequent visitor at the house, and a strong suspicion that he was cognisant of those unauthorised measures – whatever they were – which she was not to hear of. The only thing she could hope for was that Rachel would make a clean breast of all her secrets.

"And if she trusts me, I will stand her friend against them all," declared the baffled conspirator to herself, as she sat and listened to her mother's tangled story.

It appeared that Rachel's first signs of illness had become apparent very soon after the Reades had left town. She began to fade in colour and to fail in appetite, and grew nervous, flighty, and restless; and, upon investigation, it was discovered that she had lost the habit of sleeping as a healthy girl should sleep at night.

The family doctor was called in, who, amongst other remedies prescribed a return to horse exercise, which, since the breaking-off of her engagement, had been abandoned; and Mr. Kingston thereupon begged so earnestly that she would ride Black Agnes again, that she reluctantly consented to do so to please him.

Mr. Kingston behaved most delicately, it was explained, and did not force himself upon her in her rides. She always went out with William. "Always," however, turned out to be only twice, and on both occasions the carriage had accompanied her with Mr. Kingston in it.

Just before Christmas she refused to ride any more, and she behaved in the most rude and ill-bred manner to Mr. Kingston. On Christmas Day she was very aggravating – in what way did not appear – and Mrs. Hardy had to "speak" to her; and the result was that she flew into a violent passion, and then had a fit of hysterics, and then fainted dead away, and did not come round for nearly five minutes.

"I don't recognise Rachel in any of those performances," remarked Mrs. Reade. "Why did you not send for me then, mother?"

"Because I thought it was nothing but a temporary attack. The weather was sultry – she was full of whims and fancies. What could you have done if you had come? And she was better again next day."

"Well?"

"Well, then, when I was doing all I could to nurse and take care of her, she went out of a warm room one night, and rambled about the garden or somewhere in a heavy dew, and got her feet wet. Wasn't it too bad? I could have shaken her when I saw her come in, with a face as white as ashes, and chilled to her very bones!"

"She caught cold, I suppose?"

"Of course she did. And then she had a touch of fever – what else was to be expected? Her pulse was very high, and she was excited, and inclined to be delirious – indeed, we had as much as we could do to manage her. It did not last long, and it was really nothing but the consequences of her imprudence, the doctor said – and there was a little low kind of fever going about just now – and he did not think her constitution was very strong. He says she will soon be all right, with care; and indeed, the fever is quite allayed since I wrote to you, and any little danger that there might have been is over. But she keeps low. She doesn't seem to gain strength – and no wonder, considering we can't get her to eat anything. I am glad you have come back; perhaps you will have more influence with her than I have."

"I suppose I may go up?" Mrs. Reade inquired, after a pause. Her mother gave her permission readily; it was a great surprise and relief to her to find herself spared the searching cross-examination which she had rather uneasily looked forward to.

"You had better put on your bonnet and have a drive," the young lady proceeded, pausing with her hand on the door. "It will do you good, after being in the house so much. I don't want the horses taken out, and they will only scratch holes in the gravel if they stand here doing nothing. I am not going away till dinner time."

"Thank you, my dear, I think I will," said Mrs. Hardy. Mrs. Reade went upstairs to Rachel's room, and without knocking, opened the door softly.

It was a bright January afternoon, but the heat of the day was over, and a sea breeze was springing up. The window was open, and the chintz curtains softly rustling to and fro. There was a magnificent bouquet on a table at the foot of the bed; the air was full of the perfume of roses; a few flies were buzzing over a plate of strawberries set on a chair at Rachel's side.

The invalid was lying on a sofa, in a white dressing-gown, in an attitude of extreme languor, asleep. One hand holding a fan had dropped beside her; the other was under her head. Her dark gold hair was loose and tumbled, and curling in damp rings on her temples; her face was flushed and thin; there were hollows and shadows under the tired closed eyes. She looked as if she had been ill for months.

Mrs. Reade, examining her attentively as she knelt by the sofa, was deeply shocked and concerned. Never would she have gone away to Adelonga if she could have foreseen this! And never should the poor little thing be harried and worried, as she had evidently been, again, if she had any power to prevent it – no, not though twenty Mr. Kingstons and all their twenty fortunes were at stake.

A mosquito settled upon the girl's white arm, and the light brush of the finger that removed it wakened her. She drew a deep breath, and opened her eyes languidly; then seeing her visitor, she stared at her for a second in a dazed and startled way; and then to Mrs. Reade's great embarrassment and distress, she suddenly flung herself into her arms, and broke into the wildest weeping.

"Now, Rachel! Now, my dearest child – "

But it would have been as hopeless to try and stop the Falls of Niagara as this tide of passion at the flood; seeing which, Mrs. Reade waited for the ebb in silence. By the time it came the girl was completely exhausted; she seemed to have the merest fragment of strength.

"Now," said Beatrice, when she had sponged her face and hands and otherwise taken steps to revive and soothe her, "now tell me what all this is about. I know you are in some great trouble, and I have come home on purpose to help you."

"No one can help me!" Rachel cried, despairingly, tears rushing afresh into her hot eyes.

"Oh, nonsense. Just tell me what is the matter, and see if I can't. Are they trying to make you marry Mr. Kingston? Because I can soon send him about his business."

"No; Mr. Kingston is very kind now. He sends me flowers every day. He does not worry me. He is very considerate and thoughtful. For I think he – knows."

"Well, and now I want to know. Is it about – someone else? Is it about Mr. Dalrymple?"

"Who told you?" the girl demanded, with sharp entreaty. "Oh, Beatrice, what have you heard? Did Mrs. Digby tell you anything about him? Is he in Queensland? Is he alive? What is he doing?"

Mrs. Reade replied that she had heard nothing of Mr. Dalrymple beyond the fact that he was believed to be in Queensland, and doing well.

"If he had not been, they must have known," said Rachel. "Oh, my love, if I could see you for myself just once."

She began to cry again, more bitterly than before, and to wring her hands. There was a fierce excitement in her grief and despair that for a moment stunned the little woman who had never known what it was to be in love.

And then Rachel told all the story of her clandestine engagement, as the reader already knows it, without any reservations. The dénouement was exactly what Mrs. Reade expected – "And he never came!"

"Poor little thing!" she ejaculated pitifully.

"I was as certain that he would come as that Christmas would come," said Rachel, reckless in her confessions now that she had begun to open her heart. "And there was a strange gentleman here, and he was shut up a long time with Aunt Elizabeth, and I thought it was he – "

"Are you sure it was not he?"

"Quite sure. When he was going away I ran out into the garden and watched for him; he was an ugly little man. And if it had been Roden, and he had wanted to see me, he would not have allowed himself to be sent away."

"That would have depended on mamma; wouldn't it?"

"Oh, no. He would never have let her send him away; and Aunt Elizabeth says, solemnly, that he never came."

"You told her about him then?" asked Mrs. Reade.

"Beatrice, I was nearly mad – I don't know what I said. She was very angry – she always hated him. But I did not care – I was too miserable to care. And I made her swear that he had never come; and now – it is nearly February – now I know he didn't. I don't want anybody to tell me."

Mrs. Reade put all these revelations into her mental crucible, and in a few seconds she had the product ready. On presenting it to Rachel, wrapped up in the gentlest language, it came to this simply – that "it was always the way with men of that kind."

"He is not like other men," said Rachel. "I do not blame him. I have thought of it, over and over and over, every night and every day, and I know why it was. I ran after him, Beatrice – I took him before he offered himself to me – I had only seen him once or twice when I showed him I loved him, and made him think I wanted him – he did not ask me to be his wife until I had given myself to him already! I did not think of it then, but I see it clearly now. I dragged him into it – I gave him no choice. And now he is away, and he thinks about it, and he knows I am not enough for him. How should I be enough —I for such a man as that? Oh, that happy woman, who died in his arms! Oh, how I wish I had been she!"

"Well," said Mrs. Reade, after a pause, trying to speak cheerfully, but feeling profoundly disheartened; "you ought not to have had anything to do with lovers and marriages at your time of life, and you must just give up thinking of such things until you are older and wiser."