Imprudence Part 17

"Prudence," he said, "you aren't for keeping it up, are you? I've apologised. I'm really awfully sorry. Let bygones be bygones, won't you? I wish I hadn't made such an a.s.s of myself. You surprised and delighted me. I didn't think you'd take it like that."

"Major Stotford," Prudence returned with her face averted, "I have never given you permission to use my name."

He reddened angrily, turned his attention to the steering and made no response. Nothing further pa.s.sed between them. He let the car out, taking, with a recklessness that at another time would have made the girl nervous, the sharp curves of the winding road. Had they met any traffic along the road his driving would have caused an accident, as it was he nearly ran down a cyclist whom they overtook, and who saved himself and his machine by riding into the hedge.

Prudence's heart stood still on perceiving the cyclist. She had taken one swift look at him as they rushed past, had met his eyes fully, eyes in which indignation yielded to amazement and a most unflattering criticism as they rested upon her face, which from white flamed swiftly to a shamed distressed crimson in the moment of mutual recognition.

The Rev Ernest Jones extricated himself and his bicycle from the hedge and pursued the racing car. Why he pursued it he could not have explained; he had certainly no hope of overtaking it, and he had no idea that the car would come to a standstill shortly after pa.s.sing him. He discovered it half a mile further on at the bottom of the hill, with Major Stotford standing beside it, and Prudence in the road, holding her bicycle which the man at the inn had brought out for her. These proceedings were nothing short of astounding. Mr Jones felt they needed explaining. He put on a fresh spurt, and in a cloud of dust rode almost into Prudence, and alighted.

Major Stotford uttered an exclamation of disgust and started to beat the dust from his clothes, while Prudence silently regarded her brother-in-law, and he in turn surveyed the general grouping with manifest disfavour in his curious eyes.

"You are riding home," he said to Prudence, not in the manner of a question, but simply stating a fact. "I will accompany you--when you are ready."

"I am ready now," she answered, and led her bicycle into the middle of the road.

Major Stotford, still beating the dust from his clothes, did not look round. Mr Jones held his bicycle ready; he had no intention of mounting until he had seen Prudence in the saddle. Instantly with the placing of her foot on the pedal, Major Stotford swung round and approached her. He held out his hand to her.

"Just for appearances," he said in an undertone. "You must... It's too silly... parting like that--before him."

She shook hands gravely. He put his hand to his cap and stepped back.

"Good-bye," he called after her. "Sorry you couldn't come for a longer spin. I'm off to-morrow."

He paid no attention to Mr Jones, who was already in pursuit of Prudence, and ringing his bell fussily; he turned his back on him and went into the inn for the purpose of washing some of the curate's dust from his throat, reflecting while he did so that, had Prudence been more reasonable, she would have avoided the parson. Despite the fact that he felt annoyed with her, he regretted the complication of the meeting which he foresaw would create new difficulties for her.

"He'll tell of course," he mused. "He's the sneaking sort of little cad who feels it his special mission in life to use the lash where he can.

Well, she ran into it, poor little Imprudence!"

CHAPTER TWENTY ONE.

Mr Jones was spared the necessity of describing the conditions under which he had met Prudence by Prudence's own frank confession immediately on her arrival at the house. She was either too proud to appeal to Mr Jones' generosity, or she did not credit him with the possession of this quality. He had quite expected an appeal from her, urging him to secrecy in the matter, and was a little uncertain as to the att.i.tude he should adopt. But he was fully determined to improve the occasion with spiritual advice and a little brotherly reproof; also he intended that she should thoroughly appreciate his magnanimity in shielding her from the consequences of her very indiscreet behaviour. And she spoilt his pleasing role by refusing to give him the cue. This annoyed him, and showed him plainly that his first duty was to his father-in-law, who had every right to be informed of his daughter's indiscretions. He followed Prudence into the drawing-room, the sense of responsibility sitting heavily upon him, and was received by Mr Graynor and by his sisters-in-law with marked cordiality.

"You should have arrived earlier," Agatha said. "The tea is cold.

Where is Matilda?"

"I didn't come from home," he answered. "I've just cycled in from Hatchett. I've had tea, thanks."

And then Prudence's bombsh.e.l.l was delivered.

"So have I," she said. "I met Major Stotford, and we had tea at a Cyclists' Rest."

"You _did what_?"

On any other occasion the scandalised horror in Agatha's voice would have roused Prudence to a defiant retort; but the afternoon's experience had subdued her spirit; she felt too crushed and miserable to resent her sister's amazed anger, or to heed the exchange of significant glances between the others. She was dimly aware that her father rose and approached her, but the pained displeasure of his look left her unmoved.

It did not seem to her to matter particularly what happened, or what they thought of her; she was past caring about such things.

"I thought I had given you quite clearly to understand that I did not wish you to pursue the acquaintance with Major Stotford," Mr Graynor said. Prudence's eyes fell. "I believed I could trust you," he added reproachfully; "and you don't even respect my wishes."

"I will in future," she answered with unusual meekness. "It seemed ungracious to refuse after his kindness."

"More particularly when it was against your own inclination," broke in Agatha.

Mr Graynor raised a protesting hand.

"Not now," he said. "We will speak of this later."

And with a word of apology to Mr Jones, he left the room. Prudence followed him into the hall.

"Daddy, I'm sorry," she said, and caught at his sleeve; but, for the first time within her memory, he repulsed her.

"I don't want to hear any more," he said. "You have annoyed me exceedingly."

He went on, leaving Prudence to realise the enormity of her conduct, and the hopelessness of expecting forgiveness in this quarter. She had offended him deeply. She ran upstairs and locked herself in her bedroom and sought relief from tears.

The exasperating part of the affair lay in the wholly unnecessary att.i.tude of inflexible veto adopted by her family. Prudence was not likely to repeat her mistake. Experience teaches its own lessons, and her experience had been sufficiently humiliating without any additional disgrace. She bore for a time with this state of affairs: when the general hostility became insupportable she set her mind to work to discover a remedy. As a result of this mental activity, Mr Edward Morgan received one morning the letter for which he had so long and so patiently waited.

Mr Morgan read the letter in the privacy of his office, smiled, re-read it, examined it from all angles, and promptly proceeded to answer it, a light of satisfaction illumining his features as he wrote.

And yet there was in the briefly worded note not much that a man could have twisted into any meaning conveying particular encouragement; nevertheless, the invitation for which he had waited had come at last; that sufficed for Mr Morgan.

"It is so dull," Prudence had written. "When are you coming to pay your promised visit?"

His answer read:

"My dear Miss Prudence,--

"I was delighted to get your letter. It would be selfish on my part to say that I am rejoiced to know you feel dull; but at least I cannot express sincere regret since the admission is followed by what I have been hoping for ever since we parted--your permission to visit you again. I am coming immediately. I was only waiting for just this dear little letter.

"Yours very truly,--

"Edward Morgan."

"Oh!" exclaimed Prudence when she read this letter, and bit her lip in vexation, her face aflame at the thought that she had taken the irrevocable step, and brought very close the moment for the great decision of her life.

She knew that he would ask her to marry him, that he would take her consent for granted; and, although in sending the letter she had decided upon taking this step, now that the thing was upon her she felt reluctant and afraid.

"You've done it now," she told herself, for the purpose of stiffening her resolution. "You ought to have realised your doubts sooner. It is impossible to draw back."

Impossible to draw back! The finality of the phrase gripped her imagination with the startled sensation of a lost cause. She had burnt her boats. The prospect ahead was not entirely lacking in fascination; but she wished none the less that some kind of raft might discover itself on which she could retreat conveniently if the alternative proved very distasteful. The thought of being kissed by Mr Morgan, as Major Stotford had kissed her, the idea of giving any man the right to so kiss her, filled her with sick apprehension. The whole process of love-making thrilled her with disgust.

She leaned from her window and looked out upon the glistening darkness of the wet November night, and her thoughts became detached from present complexities, and attuned themselves to memories that were becoming old.

They were nearly two years old, but they wore the stark vividness of very recent things. She allowed her fancy to riot unchecked around these bitter-sweet memories of a romance which had started from slumber only to fall back again into sleep, a sleep no longer sound and reposeful but disturbed by haunting dreams, dreams that were elusive and disconnected, and which belonged to the might-have-been. There was no shrinking from these dreams; they floated before her mind arrayed in the gracious beauty of simple and sincere emotions. The thought of love, of pa.s.sion even, in this connection, had no qualm of revulsion in it. To be held in strong arms a willing captive, to be kissed by lips to which her own responded, that was a different matter. There would be no sense of shame in that, only a great wonder and a vast content.

"Dreams! dreams!" Prudence murmured, and listened to the falling of the rain without--wet darkness everywhere, the dismal darkness of a winter world sodden with the sky's incessant weeping.

She clenched her hands upon the wet sill, and felt the rain drops on her hair.

"He is out there in the sunshine," she thought; "and I'm here in the dark and the rain alone. It is easy to forget when the sun shines always."