The Case of Richard Meynell Part 48

Catharine, whose temptation to "scruple" in the religious sense was constant and tormenting, who recoiled in horror from what to others were the merest venial offences, in this connection asked one thing only.

Where Barron had argued that an unbeliever must necessarily have a carnal mind, Catharine had simply a.s.sured herself at once by an unfailing instinct that the mind was n.o.ble and the temper pure. In those matters she was not to be deceived; she knew.

That being so, and if her own pa.s.sionate objections to the marriage were to be put aside, then she could only judge for Mary as she would judge for herself. _Not_ to love--_not_ to comfort--could there be--for Love--any greater wound, any greater privation? She shrank, in a kind of terror, from inflicting it on Mary--Mary, unconscious and unknowing.

... The soft chatter of the fire, the plashing of the rain, filled the room with the atmosphere of reverie. Catharine's thoughts pa.s.sed from her obligations toward Mary to grapple anxiously with those she might be under toward Meynell himself. The mere possession of the anonymous letter--and Flaxman had not given her leave to destroy it--weighed upon her conscience. It seemed to her she ought not to possess it; and she had been only half convinced by Flaxman's arguments for delay. She was rapidly coming to the belief that it should have been handed instantly to the Rector.

A step outside.

"Uncle Hugh!" said Mary, springing up. "I'll go and see if there are any scones for tea!" And she vanished into the kitchen, while Catharine admitted her brother-in-law.

"Meynell is to join me here in an hour or so," he said, as he followed her into the little sitting-room. Catharine closed the door, and looked at him anxiously. He lowered his voice.

"Barron called on him this morning--had only just gone when I arrived.

Meynell has seen the letter to Dawes. I informed him of the letter to you, and I think he would like to have some talk with you."

Catharine's face showed her relief.

"Oh, I am glad--I am _glad_ he knows!"--she said, with emphasis. "We were wrong to delay."

"He told me nothing--and I asked nothing. But, of course, what the situation implies is unfortunately clear enough!--no need to talk of it.

He won't and he can't vindicate himself, except by a simple denial. At any ordinary time that would be enough. But now--with all the hot feeling there is on the other subject--and the natural desire to discredit him--" Flaxman shrugged his shoulders despondently. "Rose's maid--you know the dear old thing she is--came to her last night, in utter distress about the talk in the village. There was a journalist here, a reporter from one of the papers that have been opposing Meynell most actively--"

"They are quite right to oppose him," interrupted Catharine quickly. Her face had stiffened.

"Perfectly! But you see the temptation?"

Catharine admitted it. She stood by the window looking out into the rain.

And as she did so she became aware of a figure--the slight figure of a woman--walking fast toward the cottage along the narrow gra.s.s causeway that ran between the two ponds. On either side of the woman the autumn trees swayed and bent under the rising storm, and every now and then a mist of scudding leaves almost effaced her. She seemed to be breathlessly struggling with the wind as she sped onward, and in her whole aspect there was an indescribable forlornness and terror.

Catharine peered into the rain....

"Hugh!"--She turned swiftly to her brother-in-law--"There is some one coming to see me. Will you go?"--she pointed to the garden door on the farther side of the drawing-room--"and will you take Mary? Go round to the back. You know the old summer-house at the end of the wood-walk. We have often sheltered there from rain. Or there's the keeper's cottage a little farther on. I know Mary wanted to go there this afternoon. Please, dear Hugh!"

He looked at her in astonishment. Then through the large French window he too saw the advancing form. In an instant he had disappeared by the garden door. Catharine went into the hall, opened the door of the kitchen and beckoned to Mary, who was standing there with their little maid.

"Don't come back just yet, darling!" she said in her ear--"Get your things on, and go with Uncle Hugh. I want to be alone."

Mary stepped back bewildered, and Catharine shut her in. Then she went back to the hall, just as a bell rang faintly.

"Is Mrs. Elsmere--"

Then as the visitor saw Catharine herself standing in the open doorway, she said with broken breath: "Can I come in--can I see you?"

Catharine drew her in.

"Dear Miss Puttenham!--how tired you are--and how wet! Let me take the cloak off."

And as she drew off the soaked waterproof, Catharine felt the trembling of the slight frame beneath.

"Come and sit by the fire," she said tenderly.

Alice sank into the chair that was offered her, her eyes fixed on Catharine. Every feature in the delicate oval face was pinched and drawn.

The struggle with wild weather had drained the lips and the cheeks of colour, and her brown hair under her serge cap fell limply about her small ears and neck. She was an image not so much of grief as of some unendurable distress.

Catharine began to chafe her hands--but Alice stopped her--

"I am not cold--oh no, I'm not cold. Dear Mrs. Elsmere! You must think it so strange of me to come to you in this way. But I am in trouble--such great trouble--and I don't know what to do. Then I thought I'd come to you. You--you always seem to me so kind--you won't despise--or repulse me--I know you won't!"

Her voice sank to a whisper. Catharine took the two icy hands in her warm grasp.

"Tell me if there is anything I can do to help you."

"I--I want to tell you. You may be angry--because I've been Mary's friend--when I'd no right. I'm not what you think. I--I have a secret--or--I had. And now it's discovered--and I don't know what I shall do--it's so awful--so awful!"

Her head dropped on the chair behind her--and her eyes closed. Catharine, kneeling beside her, bent forward and kissed her.

"Won't you tell me?" she said, gently.

Alice was silent a moment. Then she suddenly opened her eyes--and spoke in a whisper.

"I--I was never married. But Hester Fox-Wilton's--my child!"

The tears came streaming from her eyes. They stood in Catharine's.

"You poor thing!" said Catharine brokenly, and raising one of the cold hands, she pressed it to her lips.

But Alice suddenly raised herself.

"You knew!"--she said--"You knew!" And her eyes, full of fear, stared into Catharine's. Then as Catharine did not speak immediately she went on with growing agitation, "You've heard--what everybody's saying? Oh! I don't know how I can face it. I often thought it would come--some time.

And ever since that woman--since Judith--came home--it's been a nightmare. For I felt certain she'd come home because she was angry with us--and that she'd said something--before she died. Then nothing happened--and I've tried to think--lately--it was all right. But last night--"

She paused for self-control. Catharine was alarmed by her state--by its anguish, its excitement. It required an effort of her whole being before the sufferer could recover voice and breath, before she hurried on, holding Catharine's hands, and looking piteously into her face.

"Last night a woman came to see me--an old servant of mine who's nursed me sometimes--when I've been ill. She loves me--she's good to me. And she came to tell me what people were saying in the village--how there were letters going round, about me--and Hester--how everybody knew--and they were talking in the public-houses. She thought I ought to know--she cried--and wanted me to deny it. And of course I denied it--I was fierce to her--but it's true!"

She paused a moment, her pale lips moving soundlessly, unconsciously.

"I--I'll tell you about that presently. But the awful thing was--she said people were saying--that the Rector--that Mr. Meynell--was Hester's father--and Judith Sabin had told Mr. Barron so before her death. And they declared the Bishop would make him resign--and give up his living.

It would be such a scandal, she said--it might even break up the League.

And it would ruin Mr. Meynell, so people thought. Of course there were many people who were angry--who didn't believe a word--but this woman who told me was astonished that so many _did_ believe.... So then I thought all night--what I should do. And this morning I went to Edith, my sister, and told her. And she went into hysterics, and said she always knew I should bring disgrace on them in the end--and her life had been a burden to her for eighteen years--oh! that's what she says to me so often!

But the strange thing was she wanted to make me promise I would say nothing--not a word. We were to go abroad, and the thing would die away.

And then--"

She withdrew her hands from Catharine, and rising to her feet she pressed the damp hair back from her face, and began to pace the room--unconsciously--still talking.

"I asked her what was to happen about Richard--about the Rector. I said he must bring an action, and I would give evidence--it must all come out.

And then she fell upon me--and said I was an ungrateful wretch. My sin had spoilt her life--and Ralph's. They had done all they could--and now the publicity--if I insisted--would disgrace them all--and ruin the girls' chances of marrying, and I don't know what besides. But if I held my tongue--we could go away for a time--it would be forgotten, and n.o.body out of Upcote need ever hear of it. People would never believe such a thing of Richard Meynell. Of course he would deny it--and of course his word would be taken. But to bring out the whole story in a law-court--"