The Case of Richard Meynell Part 49

She paused beside Catharine, wringing her hands, gathering up as it were her whole strength to pour it--slowly, deliberately--into the words that followed:

"But I--will run no risk of ruining Richard Meynell! As for me--what does it matter what happens to me! And darling Hester!--we could keep it from her--we would! She and I could live abroad. And I don't see how it could disgrace Edith and the girls--people would only say she and Ralph had been very good to me. But Richard Meynell!--with these trials coming on--and all the excitement about him--there'll be ever so many who would be wild to believe it! They won't care how absurd it is--they'll want to _crush_ him! And he--he'll _never_ say a word for himself--to explain--never! Because he couldn't without telling all my story. And that--do you suppose Richard Meynell would ever do _that_?--to any poor human soul that had trusted him?"

The colour had rushed back into her cheeks; she held herself erect, transfigured by the emotion that possessed her. Catharine looked at her in doubt--trouble--amazement. And then, her pure sense divined something--dimly--of what the full history of this soul had been; and her heart melted. She put out her hands and drew the speaker down again into the seat beside her.

"I think you'll have to let him decide that for you. He's a strong man--and a wise man. He'll judge what's right. And I ought to warn you that he'll be here probably--very soon. He wanted to see me."

Alice opened her startled eyes.

"About this? To see you? I don't understand."

"I had one of these letters--these wicked letters," said Catharine reluctantly.

Alice shrank and trembled. "It's terrible!"--her voice was scarcely to be heard. "Who is it hates me so?--or Richard?"

There was silence a moment. And in the pause the stress and tumult of nature without, the beating of the wind, and the plashing of the rain, seemed to be rushing headlong through the little room. But neither Catharine nor Alice was aware of it, except in so far as it played obscurely on Alice's tortured nerves, fevering and goading them the more.

Catharine's gaze was bent on her companion; her mind was full of projects of help, which were also prayers; moments in that ceaseless dialogue with a Greater than itself, which makes the life of the Christian. And it was as though, by some secret influence, her prayers worked on Alice; for presently she turned in order that she might look straight into the face beside her.

"I'd like to tell you"--she said faintly--"oh--I'd like to tell you!"

"Tell me anything you will."

"It was when I was so young--just eighteen--like Hester. Oh! but you don't know about Neville--no one does now. People seem all to have forgotten him. But he came into his property here--the Abbey--the old Abbey--just when I was growing up. I saw him here first--but only once or twice. Then we met in Scotland. I was staying at a house near his shooting. And we fell in love. Oh, I knew he was married!--I can never say that I didn't know, even at the beginning. But his wife was so cruel to him--he was very, very unhappy. She couldn't understand him--or make allowances for him--she despised him, and wouldn't live with him. He was miserable--and so was I. My father and mother were dead! I had to live with Ralph and Edith; and they always made me feel that I was in their way. It wasn't their fault!--I _was_ in the way. And then Neville came.

He was so handsome, and so clever--so winning and dear--he could do everything. I was staying with some old cousins in Rossshire, who used to ask me now and then. There were no young people in the house. My cousins were quite kind to me, but I spent a great deal of time alone--and Neville and I got into a way of meeting--in lonely places--on the moors.

No one found out. He taught me everything I ever knew, almost. He gave me books--and read to me. He was sorry for me--and at last--he loved me! And we never looked ahead. Then--in one week--everything happened together. I had to go home. He talked of going to Sandford, and implored me still to meet him. And I thought how Ralph and Edith would watch us, and spy upon us, and I implored him never to go to Sandford when I was at Upcote. We must meet at other places. And he agreed. Then the day came for me to go south. I travelled by myself--and he rode twenty miles to a junction station and joined me. Then we travelled all day together."

Her voice failed her. She pressed her thin hands together under the onset of memory, and that old conquered anguish which in spite of all the life that had been lived since still smouldered amid the roots of being.

"I may tell you?" she said at last, with a piteous look. Catharine bent over her.

"Anything that will help you. Only remember I don't ask or expect you to say anything."

"I ought"--said Alice miserably--"I ought--because of Mary."

Catharine was silent. She only pressed the hand she held. Alice resumed:

"It was a day that decided all my life. We were so wretched. We thought we could never meet again--it seemed as though we were both--with every station we pa.s.sed--coming nearer to something like death--something worse than death. Then--before we got to Euston--I couldn't bear it--I--I gave way. We sent a telegram from Euston to Edith that I was going to stay with a school friend in Cornwall--and that night we crossed to Paris--"

She covered her face with her hands a moment; then went on more calmly:

"You'll guess all the rest. I was a fortnight with him in Paris. Then I went home. In a few weeks Edith guessed--and so did Judith Sabin, who was Edith's maid. Edith made me tell her everything. She and Ralph were nearly beside themselves. They were very strict in those days; Ralph was a great Evangelical, and used to speak at the May meetings. All his party looked up to him so--and consulted him. It was a fearful blow to him. But Edith thought of what to do--and she made him agree. We went abroad, she and I--with Judith. It was given out that Edith was delicate, and must have a year away. We stopped about in little mountain places--and Hester was born at Gren.o.ble. And then for the last and only time, they let Neville come to see me--"

Her voice sank. She could only go on in a whisper.

"Three weeks later he was drowned on the Donegal coast. It was called an accident--but it wasn't. He had hoped and hoped to get his wife to divorce him--and make amends. And when Mrs. Flood's--his wife's--final letter came--she was a Catholic and nothing would induce her--he just took his boat out in a storm, and never came back--"

The story lost itself in a long sobbing sigh that came from the depths of life. When she spoke again it was with more strength:

"But he had written the night before to Richard--Richard Meynell. You know he was the Rector's uncle, though he was only seven years older? I had never seen Richard then. But I had often heard of him from Neville.

Neville had taken a great fancy to him a year or two before, when Richard was still at college, and Neville was in the Guards. They used to talk of religion and philosophy. Neville was a great reader always--and they became great friends. So on his last night he wrote to Richard, telling him everything, and asking him to be kind to me--and Hester. And Richard--who had just been appointed to the living here--came out to the Riviera, and brought me the letter--and the little book that was in his pocket--when they found him. So you see ..."

She spoke with fluttering colour and voice, as though to find words at all were a matter of infinite difficulty:

"You see that was how Richard came to take an interest in us--in Hester and me--how he came to be the friend too of Ralph and Edith. Poor Ralph!--Ralph was often hard to me, but he meant kindly--he would never have got through at all but for Richard. If Richard was away for a week, he used to fret. That was eighteen years ago--and I too should never have had any peace--any comfort in life again--but for Richard. He found somebody to live with me abroad for those first years, and then, when I came back to Upcote, he made Ralph and Edith consent to my living in that little house by myself--with my chaperon. He would have preferred--indeed he urged it--that I should go on living abroad. But there was Hester!--and I knew by that time that none of them had the least bit of love for her!--she was a burden to them all. I couldn't leave her to them--I _couldn't!_... Oh! they were terrible, those years!" And again she caught Catharine's hands and held them tight. "You see, I was so young--not much over twenty--and n.o.body suspected anything. n.o.body in the world knew anything--except Judith Sabin, who was in America, and _she_ never knew who Hester's father was--and my own people--and Richard!

Richard taught me how to bear it--oh! not in words--for he never preached to me--but by his life. I couldn't have lived at all--but for him. And now you see--you see--how I am paying him back!"

And again, as the rush of emotion came upon her, she threw herself into a wild pleading, as though the gray-haired woman beside her were thwarting and opposing her.

"How can I let my story--my wretched story--ruin his life--and all his work? I can't--I can't! I came to you because you won't look at it as Edith does. You'll think of what's right--right to others. Last night I thought one must die of--misery. I suppose people would call it shame. It seemed to me I heard what they were all saying in the village--how they were gloating over it--after all these years. It seemed to strip one of all self-respect--all decency. And to-day I don't care about that! I care only that Richard shouldn't suffer because of what he did for me--and because of me. Oh! do help me, do advise me! Your look--your manner--have often made me want to come and tell you"--her voice was broken now with stifled sobs--"like a child--a child. Dear Mrs. Elsmere!--what ought I to do?"

And she raised imploring eyes to the face beside her, so finely worn with living and with human service.

"You must think first of Hester," said Catharine, with gentle steadiness, putting her arm round the bent shoulders. "I am sure the Rector would tell you that. She is your first--your sacredest duty."

Alice Puttenham shivered as though something in Catharine's tender voice reproached her.

"Oh, I know--my poor Hester! My life has set hers all wrong. Wouldn't it have been better to face it all from the beginning--to tell the truth--wouldn't it?" She asked it piteously.

"It might have been. But the other way was chosen; and now to undo it--publicly--affects not you only, but Hester. It mayn't be possible--it mayn't be right."

"I must!--I must!" said Alice impetuously, and rising to her feet she began to pace the room again with wild steps, her hands behind her, her slender form drawn tensely to its height.

At that moment Catharine became aware of some one standing in the porch just beyond the drawing-room of the tiny cottage.

"This may be Mr. Meynell." She rose to admit him.

Alice stood expectant. Her outward agitation disappeared. Some murmured conversation pa.s.sed between the two persons in the little hall. Then Catharine came in again, followed by Meynell, who closed the door, and stood looking sadly at the pale woman confronting him.

"So they haven't spared even you?" he said at last, in a voice bitterly subdued. "But don't be too unhappy. It wants courage and wisdom on our part. But it will all pa.s.s away."

He quietly pushed a chair toward Alice, and then took off his dripping cloak, carried it into the pa.s.sage outside, and returned.

"Don't go, Mrs. Elsmere," he said, as he perceived Catharine's uncertainty. "Stay and help us, if you will."

Catharine submitted. She took her accustomed seat by the fire; Alice, or the ghost of Alice, sat opposite to her, in Mary's chair, surrounded by Mary's embroidery things; and Meynell was between them.

He looked from one to the other, and there was something in his aspect which restrained Alice's agitation, and answered at once to some high expectation in Catharine.

"I know, Mrs. Elsmere, that you have received one of the anonymous letters that are being circulated in this neighbourhood, and I presume also--from what I see--that Miss Puttenham has given you her confidence.

We must think calmly what is best to do. Now--the first person who must be in all our minds--is Hester."

He bent forward, looking into Alice's face, without visible emotion; rather with the air of peremptory common sense which had so often helped her through the difficulties of her life.

She sat drooping, her head on her hand, making no sign.

"Let us remember these facts," he resumed. "Hester is in a critical state of life and mind. She imagines herself to be in love with my cousin Philip Meryon, a worthless man, without an ounce of conscience where women are concerned, who, in my strong belief, is already married under the ambiguities of Scotch law, though his wife, if she is his wife, left him some years ago, detests him, and has never been acknowledged. I have convinced him at last--this morning--that I mean to bring this home to him. But that does not dispose of the thing--finally. Hester is in danger--in danger from herself. She is at war with her family--with the world. She believes n.o.body loves her--that she is and always has been a pariah at home--and with her temperament she is in a mood for desperate things. Tell her now that she is illegitimate--let your sister Edith go talking to her about 'disgrace'--and there is no saying what will happen.

She will say--and think--that she has no responsibilities, and may do what she pleases. There is no saying what she might do. We might have a tragedy that none of us could prevent."

Alice lifted her head.