A Mere Chance Volume II Part 9

So Rachel went away with her to South Yarra, and had a brilliant week of it. The weather was warm and lovely, and the soft air full of the delicate intoxication of spring time, to which she was peculiarly susceptible.

She basked in sunshine as she rattled about Melbourne streets and suburbs in Beatrice's little basket-carriage, and as she sat in Beatrice's bow-windowed drawing-room, gossiping over afternoon tea.

She had a month's allowance of society dissipation of the most seductive description in that week--music, dancing, _tableaux vivants_, dressing, shopping, sightseeing, swarms of gay and witty company from noon till midnight, every conceivable kind attention from her cousin, and the most flattering homage from everybody else--all in an easy and cosy way that was very charming and luxurious. It certainly cheered her up a great deal.

We _do_ get cheered, against our intention and desire, against our belief almost, by these little amenities that appeal to our superficial tastes, even when we seem to ourselves to be full of trouble.

It is well for us that we are so susceptible to light impressions, to the subtle influences of the daily commonplace, which are like delicate touches to a crude picture in their effect upon our lives; if we were not, our lives would hardly be worth having sometimes, crippled as they are with great sudden griefs and disappointments, and wasted with the lingering paralysis of spiritual loss and want.

Mrs. Reade, watching the effect of her prescription day by day, thought things were going on very nicely, and took great credit to herself. She could plainly perceive that the disturbing element in the family arrangements was no trifling ball-room fancy; but she had great faith in the girl's youth and gentle character, and in the efficacy of judicious treatment, and it seemed to her that her faith had not been misplaced.

At any rate, she justified her reputation as a clever woman by the tact she displayed in the management of her self-imposed task. No one could have done more, under the circ.u.mstances, to further the desired end. She did not have Mr. Kingston about her house too much; she thought Rachel would appreciate him more if she had time to miss him a little. Nor did she force the girl's confidence with respect to Mr. Dalrymple, or even invite it in any way--that is to say, not in any way that was apparent to _her_.

She took no notice of the obvious indications of her cousin's anxiety to extricate herself from her engagement, though secretly they caused her acute uneasiness. She was a kind little soul, and though quite content with a _mariage de convenance_ herself, did not like to see another woman driven into it against her will.

It was for Rachel's good that she should be tided over those temptations to squander a substantial future for a romantic present, which were peculiarly dangerous to a girl so undisciplined in worldly wisdom as she, and it was absolutely necessary to guard her against the machinations of profligate spendthrifts; but if she _could_ have fallen in with the excellent arrangements that had been made for her, without repugnance and suffering, what great cause for thankfulness there would have been!

So, although she never wavered in her determination to do what she considered her duty, she did it, not only with judgment, but with the utmost gentleness and consideration.

She took Rachel to call on certain shabby and faded women who had made rash marriages with poor or unsteady men, that she might see the consequences of such imprudence in the sordid tastelessness of their dress and their household furniture.

She likewise presented to her notice the charming spectacle of a young bride of fashion, as she "received" on her return from her honeymoon, surrounded by all the refinements of wealth and culture in a perfectly-appointed home.

She spoke incidentally, but often, of the habits and customs of fast young men, in general and in particular, drawing picturesque ill.u.s.trations from her own experience, which tended to show that they invariably made love to every girl they came across, and forgot all about her the moment her back was turned. She showed her poetic photographs of foreign cities; she taught her the value of old lace and china.

And by these and other insidious devices, she really contrived to do something towards weakening the impression that Mr. Dalrymple had made, and strengthening the antagonistic cause.

But when the week was over, and she took her young charge back to her mother, intending to apply for an extension of leave, that she might pursue the treatment that had proved so beneficial, alas! all her patient work was undone in a moment, like the web of the Lady of Shalott, when she left off spinning to look at the irresistible Sir Lancelot riding by.

They arrived at the Toorak house rather late in the afternoon, after a visit to the Public Library to see the last new picture, and one or two entertaining calls; and they were told that Mrs. Hardy was out, but was expected in every minute.

Rachel jumped down from the carriage first, and ran lightly up the white steps into the hall, with a pleasant greeting to the servant who admitted her; and there she stood a few seconds, to look round upon all the familiar appointments, as people do when they return home after an absence.

And as she looked, her eye fell upon a card on the hall table, which she immediately picked up.

"John," she called sharply, wheeling round upon him with a sudden fierceness of excitement that Mrs. Reade, a dozen yards off, understood to mean disaster of some sort; "John, when did this gentleman call?"

"About half an hour ago, miss."

"Oh, _John_--only half an hour!"

"He said he would call again to-morrow, miss."

Mrs. Reade came softly into the hall, carelessly adjusting her long train behind her.

"Who is it, dear?" she asked. But she had already guessed who it was.

Rachel held out the little slip of pasteboard with an unsteady, shrinking hand. She could not speak. There was a great light and flush of excitement in her face, which yet was as full of fear as joy.

"Roden Dalrymple," murmured Beatrice, reading hesitatingly, as if the name were unfamiliar to her. "Is not that one of Lucilla's friends?"

"Yes," said Rachel, drawing a long breath and speaking softly. "He was at Adelonga when we were there. He went away to Queensland, but--he has come back."

"Evidently he has. What a pity we missed him. He may have brought us some news from Adelonga. Oh, dear me, don't you want your tea very badly? I do. John go and get us some tea, will you?"

Mrs. Reade did not intend to commit herself to any course of action until she had time to think over this new and most embarra.s.sing complication, so she dismissed Mr. Dalrymple from the conversation.

Rachel turned the card about in her hands, reading its inscription over and over again. She was going to carry it away; but she reluctantly went back and laid it where she had found it. Then she followed Beatrice into the drawing-room like one in a dream.

The little woman watched her closely from the corner of her bright eyes, and she was terribly alarmed. She had had no idea until now what a formidable person this Roden Dalrymple was. The girl was in a quiver of excitement from head to foot. She wandered restlessly about the room, vaguely fiddling at the furniture and ornaments; she could not control her agitation.

John brought in the teapot, and Mrs. Reade peeled her gloves from her small white hands, and rolling them into a soft ball, tossed them down amongst the cups and saucers. She began to pour out the tea in silence, wondering what in the world she had better do.

The silence was broken by the sound of carriage wheels crunching up the drive. Rachel came to a standstill in the middle of the room, and listened with a rigid intensity of expectation that was quite as painful to her companion as her more demonstrative emotion had been.

They heard the bustle of Mrs. Hardy's arrival, heard John open the front door, heard the sweep of silken draperies in the hall. And then they heard a familiar voice, raised several notes above its ordinary pitch.

"John!"

"Yes'm."

"When did this gentleman call?"

"About an hour after you left'm."

"Did you tell him we were all out?"

"Yes'm. And he'll call again to-morrow, he says."

"Oh, indeed--will he! You'll just tell him, _whenever_ he calls, that I am not at home, John--that _n.o.body_ is at home. Do you hear? That gentleman is not to be admitted."

"Oh, you stupid woman!" Mrs. Reade sighed to herself, not meaning to be disrespectful, but grudging to see delicate work marred by inartistic hands.

And then she looked at Rachel, and realised the catastrophe that had occurred. All the colour had gone out of the sensitive face, all its agitation, all the soft, submissive tenderness that had characterised it hitherto. She looked straight before her, with stern eyes full of indignant pa.s.sion, and with her lips set in a hard, thin line.

The meek little child, who had been so easy to manage, was going to a.s.sert the rights of womanhood, and to take the conduct of her affairs into her own hands.

CHAPTER VIII.

"THE LIGHT THAT NEVER WAS ON SEA OR LAND."

Mr. Dalrymple was in Melbourne for almost the whole of the time that he had intended to spare from his partner and his property in Queensland, which was nearly three weeks, and he never once succeeded in communicating with Rachel, which was the special mission on which he had come down.

He called at the Toorak house again and again, and was always told that the ladies were not at home.