The Daughters of Danaus Part 22

"I would try again to-night, Hubert," she said in a low voice.

He was silent for a moment, twirling the ta.s.sel of the curtain.

"There is nothing to be really alarmed at in her ideas, regrettable as they are. She is young. That sort of thing will soon wear off after she is married."

Temperley flung away the ta.s.sel.

"She doesn't know what she is talking about. These high-flown lectures and discussions have filled all their heads with nonsense. It will have to be rooted out when they come to face the world. No use to oppose her now. Nothing but experience will teach her. She must just be humoured for the present. They have all run a little wild in their notions. Time will cure that."

"I am sure of it," said Hubert tolerantly. "They don't know the real import of what they say." He hugged this sentence with satisfaction.

"They are like the young Russians one reads about in Turgenieff's novels," said Henriette--"all ideas, no common-sense."

"And you really believe----?"

Henriette's hand was laid comfortingly on her brother's arm.

"Dear Hubert, I know something of my s.e.x. After a year of married life, a woman has too many cares and responsibilities to trouble about ideas of this kind, or of any other."

"She strikes me as being somewhat persistent by nature," said Hubert, choosing a gentler word than _obstinate_ to describe the quality in the lady of his affections.

"Let her be as persistent as she may, it is not possible for any woman to resist the laws and beliefs of Society. What can she do against all the world? She can't escape from the conditions of her epoch. Oh! she may talk boldly now, for she does not understand; she is a mere infant as regards knowledge of the world, but once a wife----"

Henriette smiled and shook her head, by way of finish to her sentence.

Hubert mused silently for some minutes.

"I could not endure that there should be any disturbance--any eccentricity--in our life----"

"My dear boy, if you don't trust to the teaching of experience to cure Hadria of these fantastic notions, rely upon the resistless persuasions of our social facts and laws. Nothing can stand against them--certainly not the fretful heresies of an inexperienced girl, who, remember, is really good and kind at heart."

"Ah! yes," cried Hubert; "a fine nature, full of good instincts, and womanly to her finger-tips."

"Oh! if she were not that, _I_ would never encourage you to think of her," cried Henriette with a shudder. "It is on this essential goodness of heart that I rely. She would never be able, try as she might, to act in a manner that would really distress those who were dear to her. You may count upon that securely."

"Yes; I am sure of it," said Hubert, "but unluckily" (he shook his head and sighed) "I am not among those who are dear to her."

He rose abruptly, and Henriette followed him.

"Try to win her to-night," she murmured, "and be sure to express no opposition to her ideas, however wild they may be. Ignore them, humour her, plead your cause once more on this auspicious day--the last of the old year. Something tells me that the new year will begin joyously for you. Go now, and good luck to you."

"Ah! here you are," cried Mr. Fullerton, "we were wondering what had become of you. You said you wished to see a reel. Mrs. McPherson is so good as to play for us."

The kindly old Scottish dame had come, with two nieces, from a distance of ten miles.

A thrill ran through the company when the strange old tune began.

Everyone rushed for a partner, and two long rows of figures stood facing one another, eager to start. Temperley asked Hadria to dance with him.

Algitha had Harold Wilkins for a partner. The two long rows were soon stepping and twirling with zest and agility. A new and wilder spirit began to possess the whole party. The northern blood took fire and transfigured the dancers. The Temperleys seemed to be fashioned of different clay; they were able to keep their heads. Several elderly people had joined in the dance, performing their steps with a conscientious dexterity that put some of their juniors to shame. Mr.

Fullerton stood by, looking on and applauding.

"How your father seems to enjoy the sight!" said Temperley, as he met his partner for a moment.

"He likes nothing so well, and his daughters take after him."

Hadria's reels were celebrated, not without reason. Some mad spirit seemed to possess her. It would appear almost as if she had pa.s.sed into a different phase of character. She lost caution and care and the sense of external events.

When the dance was ended, Hubert led her from the hall. She went as if in a dream. She would not allow herself to be taken beyond the sound of the grotesque old dance music that was still going on, but otherwise she was unresisting.

He sat down beside her in a corner of the dining-room. Now and then he glanced at his companion, and seemed about to speak. "You seem fond of your national music," he at last remarked.

"It fills me with bewildering memories," she said in a dreamy tone. "It seems to recall--it eludes description--some wild, primitive experiences--mountains, mists--I can't express what northern mysteries.

It seems almost as if I had lived before, among some ancient Celtic people, and now, when I hear their music--or sometimes when I hear the sound of wind among the pines--whiffs and gusts of something intensely familiar return to me, and I cannot grasp it. It is very bewildering."

"The only thing that happens to me of the kind is that curious sense of having done a thing before. Strange to say, I feel it now. This moment is not new to me."

Hadria gave a startled glance at her companion, and shuddered.

"I suppose it is all pre-ordained," she said. He was puzzled, but more hopeful than usual. Hadria might almost have accepted him in sheer absence of mind. He put the thought in different terms. He began to speak more boldly. He gave his view of life and happiness, his philosophy and religion. Hadria lazily agreed. She lay under a singular spell. The bizarre old music smote still upon the ear. She felt as if she were in the thrall of some dream whose events followed one another, as the scenes of a moving panorama unfold themselves before the spectators. Temperley began to plead his cause. Hadria, with a startled look in her eyes, tried to check him. But her will refused to issue a vigorous command. Even had he been hateful to her, which he certainly was not, she felt that she would have been unable to wake out of the nightmare, and resume the conduct of affairs. The sense of the importance of personal events had entirely disappeared. What did it all matter? "Over us stars and under us graves." The graves would put it all right some day. As for attempting to direct one's fate, and struggle out of the highways of the world--midsummer madness! It was not only the Mrs. Gordons, but the Valeria Du Prels who told one so. Everybody said (but in discreeter terms), "Disguise from yourself the solitude by setting up little screens of affections, and little pompous affairs about which you must go busily, and with all the solemnity that you can muster."

The savage builds his mud hut to shelter him from the wind and the rain and the terror of the beyond. Outside is the wilderness ready to engulf him. Rather than be left alone at the mercy of elemental things, with no little hut, warm and dark and stuffy, to shelter one, a woman will sacrifice everything--liberty, ambition, health, power, her very dignity. There was a letter in Hadria's pocket at this moment, eloquently protesting in favour of the mud hut.

Hadria must have been appearing to listen favourably to Temperley's pleading, for he said eagerly, "Then I have not spoken this time quite in vain. I may hope that perhaps some day----"

"Some day," repeated Hadria, pa.s.sing her hand across her eyes. "It doesn't really matter. I mean we make too much fuss about these trifles; don't you think so?" She spoke dreamily. The music was jigging on with strange merriment.

"To me it matters very much indeed. I don't consider it a trifle," said Temperley, in some bewilderment.

"Oh, not to ourselves. But of what importance are we?"

"None at all, in a certain sense," Temperley admitted; "but in another sense we are all important. I cannot help being intensely personal at this moment. I can't help grasping at the hope of happiness. Hadria, it lies in your hand. Won't you be generous?"

She gave a distressed gesture, and seemed to make some vain effort, as when the victim of a nightmare struggles to overcome the paralysis that holds him.

"Then I may hope a little, Hadria--I _must_ hope."

Still the trance seemed to hold her enthralled. The music was diabolically merry. She could fancy evil spirits tripping to it in swarms around her. They seemed to point at her, and wave their arms around her, and from them came an influence, magnetic in its quality, that forbade her to resist. All had been pre-arranged. Nothing could avert it. She seemed to be waiting rather than acting. Against her inner judgment, she had allowed those accursed practices to go on. Against her instinct, she had permitted Henriette to become intimate at Dunaghee; indeed it would have been hard to avoid it, for Miss Temperley was not easy to discourage. Why had she a.s.sured Hadria so pointedly that Hubert would not misinterpret her consent to renew the practices? Was it not a sort of treachery? Had not Henriette, with her larger knowledge of the world, been perfectly well aware that whatever might be said, the renewal of the meetings would be regarded as encouragement? Did she not know that Hadria herself would feel implicated by the concession?

Temperley's long silence had been misleading. The danger had crept up insidiously. And had she not been treacherous to herself? She had longed for companionship, for music, for something to break the strain of her wild, lonely life. Knowing, or rather half-divining the risk, she had allowed herself to accept the chance of relief when it came. Lack of experience had played a large part in the making of to-night's dilemma.

Hadria's own strange mood was another ally to her lover, and for that, old Mrs. McPherson and her reels were chiefly responsible. Of such flimsy trifles is the human fate often woven.

"Tell me, did you ask your sister to----?"

"No, no," Hubert interposed. "My sister knows of my hopes, and is anxious that I should succeed."

"I thought that she was helping you."

"She would take any legitimate means to help me," said Hubert. "You cannot resent that. Ah, Hadria, why will you not listen to me?" He bent forward, covering his face with his hands in deep dejection. His hope had begun to wane.

"You know what I think," said Hadria. "You know how I should act if I married. Surely that ought to cure you of all----."