The Village by the River Part 22

"Then you think I ought to tell," she said a little sulkily.

"I certainly think your mistress ought to know exactly what happened.

You need not tell any one else, that I know of."

So Rose returned to the Court greatly crestfallen; and her account of the quarrel, and Tom's vague threats about Dixon's character, put Mrs.

Webster on to the right clue as to the causes of his sudden flight. He was found to have been guilty of repeated acts of dishonesty, so cleverly concealed that, but for the fear that Tom would report him, he might have gone on for years longer, respected and trusted by his employers. As the time seemed ripe for flight, however, he had taken with him the change of a big cheque that Mrs. Webster had given him to cash on the Sat.u.r.day, and which he had told her glibly that he could not get cashed until the Monday. Each fresh revelation filled Rose with misery and shame; and, behind all, was the one fact that she had kept to herself: the memory of Tom's mention of that other girl that Dixon had jilted--the crowning taunt which had hurried Dixon into showing fight.

"And it must have been true, or it would not have made him so angry,"

thought Rose.

It was a bitter pill for the vain little thing to swallow: the conviction that she had all along occupied the second place in Dixon's affections, and that he had cast her away, like that other girl, without any compunction. Tom would not have done it; and at the remembrance of him Rose's eyes filled with tears. Rose was returning from the village, whither she had been sent on a message, and she shivered a little as she pa.s.sed the scene of the last night's disaster; and her alarm found expression in a little cry when she saw Tom Burney standing there, too, and yet there was nothing to terrify her in the deprecating glance of his troubled eyes.

"Rose," he said, stretching out his hands, "I don't wonder that you hate the sight of me, but you can afford to speak kindly to me for this once? G.o.d knows I'm sorry enough for what I've done, heart sorry. I came here to look at the place again, where I nearly killed a man, just to let it burn in so that I mayn't forget."

"But--but--you can't have heard that he's not much hurt even? that he's run away and taken a lot of money that does not belong to him?"

"Oh yes," said Tom, drearily. "But that does not alter things; I can't forget that I nearly killed him--and myself."

"Oh, Tom, not that! not that!" cried Rose, for the first time pierced by a pang of keen remorse.

"Yes. I should have drowned myself if Mr. Curzon had not stopped me,"

said Tom, simply. "I was mad, I think, with misery and drink."

Then Rose understood the full meaning of the rector's words that morning.

"I did not mean to try and see you before I went away," went on Tom, brokenly; "but I'm glad of the chance to ask your forgiveness for the hurt I might have done to the man you wished to marry."

"Oh don't! please don't talk like that!" said Rose, Tom's utter self-abas.e.m.e.nt and humility rousing all her better nature. "Don't you see that it's you who ought to forgive me for the cruel way I've treated you; and if you'd died, Tom, and my wickedness had killed you, how could I have ever lifted up my head again? I see now how wicked I've been. I wanted to marry Dixon because he promised to give me everything I liked: a pretty house and a little servant, and pretty clothes and things. It was not because I loved him best."

Tom threw back his head with a little cry.

"Rose," he said, coming a step nearer. "Rose, my dear; it can't hurt to tell me now. In two days I'm going away for good and all. I have told the squire all about it, and he is going to overlook it and send me across the seas just the same as if nothing had happened; but when I'm gone, it would make me happy to know that you had ever loved me just a little bit."

"I do," said Rose. "I think I've loved you all the time."

Tom drew a long breath, but did not attempt to come closer.

"Thank you," he said, with an odd thrill in his voice. "I'll go away and think of it. It will help me to be good, for I'll have a try at that, Rose, my dear. I'll keep clear of the drink; I'm going up to the rector to-night to tell him I'm ready to sign. He asked me to do it before; and don't I wish I had listened to him! But now I'll do it without the asking."

There was some difference in Tom that Rose felt but could not define, some influence over him that was stronger than her own. She had been conscious before that she had but to speak and he would try his utmost to carry out her whim; but to-day, miserable as he was, oppressed by the weight of sin, she felt respect for a certain strength of purpose that seemed developed in him. Mr. Curzon was right; she had chosen the wrong man. Never had she valued Tom's love as she did now when she was just about to lose it.

"Then you are going directly?" she almost whispered.

"Yes; I leave here the day after to-morrow, and I sail in about a fortnight. The squire thought the sooner I was out of the way the better."

"Shall you ever come back?"

"I don't know."

"Nor ever write?" asked Rose, with a sob in her throat.

"That's as may be; I'd write to one who cared."

"I care. Write to me, please?"

She was looking at him with pleading eyes, but he would not trust himself to return her glance.

"Rose," he said, "there's not the woman now that I would ask to be my wife. I'm guilty, before G.o.d, of two black sins; but if He gives me time to live it down and earn a clean name again----"

"He will! He will!" said Rose. "And, Tom, it does not matter if it's years, I'll wait." And then she put her arms round his neck and kissed him.

His face was ashen grey; his arms ached with the longing to return her embrace and hold her close to his heart, but he let her go.

"Before G.o.d, Rose, my darling, I'll live worthy of your kiss! Maybe it won't be long before I dare return it."

The next instant he was gone, not daring to look back at her.

CHAPTER XII.

KITTY'S CHRISTMAS TREE.

"The Websters are off to London, Paul," said Sally, about two days after Tom's departure.

Paul started at the sudden mention of the name.

"I did not think they intended to go to town until after the New Year.

Mrs. Webster dilates largely upon the superiority of a Christmas in the country versus a Christmas in London; but, I suppose, it is as sincere as most of her statements?"

"I think May has had more to do with it than her mother. She says Mrs.

Webster has fussed a good deal over Dixon's flight, she trusted him so thoroughly. And May thinks it will be easier to get a good coachman in London, and that it will take off her mother's thoughts from an unpleasant subject. She now has visions of Dixon's return in company with an armed body of burglars, and prophesies cheerfully that they will all be found dead in their beds one morning, and that the house will be ransacked."

Paul laughed. "Under the circ.u.mstances Miss Webster is wise to remove her forcibly to London," he said. But he privately conjectured that May's real reason for flight lay in her desire to get away from himself. "Has anything been heard of Dixon?" he went on.

"Nothing. I don't think any very keen search has been made for him.

Mrs. Webster declares that she would far rather lose her money than appear in a court of law, or have her name bandied about in the papers.

I think, Paul, that if you approve I shall be off to London, too, when the New Year comes."

"In what capacity?" asked Paul, resignedly. "As a sister or something?"

"Oh dear, no; you know I've always wanted to join one of those settlements of girls at the East End, who work under the management of Miss Grant. She wrote a little while ago to tell me she would have a vacancy in the settlement soon after Christmas. My work would lie chiefly amongst factory girls, getting up statistics about their hours of work and their housing, and my play would be recreation evenings with them."

"But this is what you have always talked of doing. I expected you to take up quite different lines now: to district visit, and take cla.s.ses on Sundays, under the guidance and supervision of the rector."

"I don't feel the least fitted for it; I know very little about it.

Mr. Curzon thinks it would be a great pity for me to abandon the work to which I feel myself drawn. I like life in London far better than in the country."