CHAPTER IX.

Star (Christchurch), Issue 8452, 21 October 1905, Page 1

CHAPTER IX.

PUNISHMENT. | H Anthony Clyne came to a stand be- j her, and lifted his hat. ■ "I understand," he said, without hiß eyes meet hers — he was stiffitself but perhaps he too had his ■Bmotions—^" that you preferred to see hereP" . , "Yes," Henrietta answered. And girl thanked heaven that though beating of her heart had nearly H>hoked her a moment before, her tone as hard and uncompromising as He could not guess, he never guess, what strain she had put nerve and will that she might not before him; nor how often, with quivering face hidden in the pillow, Khe told hereelf, before rising, that it for once only, once only, and that she need never see agaan the man had wronged. . . H- " I do not know," he continued ■dowly, " whether you have anything to "Nothing," she answered. They ■?ere standing on the Ambleside Road, H short furlong from the inn. Leafless ■a-ees climbed the hillside above them ; Hind a rough slop© unfenoed and strewn ■vith boulderß and dying bracken ran ■kram from their feet to the lake. ■^ "Then," he rejoined,. with a scarcely Herceptible hardening of the mouth, Hj had best say as. briefly as possible I aatf come to say." ■.-,■, ■ "If you .pleas©:" ; She averted her ■yes ever co slightly— hitherto she had ■Led him regally. Now she placed Herself so that she looked across the ■rater that gleamed pale undear the mist. , . ■ Yet. even with her eyes turned from Him he did not find it quite easy to m&y'vhubh.emvisbsij. ■^n£ he was silent. At last, "I do Hot wish to upbraid you," be began, Hn & voice somewhat lower in tone. H'You have done a very foolash and very wicked, wicked thing, and one ■riiich. cannot be undone in the eyes of Hhe world. That is for all to see. You left your home and your friends your family under ciroumH^heTtumed her full face to him ■""Hare t%," she said, "empoweryou to speak to me? 1 ' *' They do not woßh to see me tfciemv. H"s°-" , . • , "Not perhaps — wish me to return to H She nodded as she looked away in sheer defiaSoe, he supposed. ■fcTdid «* &*<** that ? he did - ,?* i° the irrepressible shiver which the caused her. H He thought her, on the contrary, uprepentant, and it hardened Hiim to apeak more austerely, to &\re freer vent. . you done K -flus thing With a Hentleman, 1 ' he said, "thwe tog been, However heartless and foolash the act, Home hope that the maifcter might be straight. And some exouse for ; since a man of your own class Hnight hare dazzled you by the possesH^on «f qualities which the person you oould not have. But an elopewith a needy adventurer, withbreeding, parts or honesty — a orimand. wedded already " " H he were not wedded already, ' H&e said, "I had beepi with- him now!" His face grew a sha^e more severe, otherwise he did not heed the HT" Su|C ' 1 an "~ an actj " he said ' " Un " you in your brother's eyes to reto ihis home." He pauised an ?n- - to the family you nave I am bound — I have no op—to tell you this." "You say it as from them?" " I do. I have said, indeed, less they bade me say. And not more, believe on my honour, than the ooca»- - A young gentlewoman," continued bitterly, " brought up in country with every care, sheltered ev-ery temptation, with friends, horn*, with every comfort and ahd about to be married to gentlemaai in her own rank in life, 'secretly, clandestinely, sbamea man, the lowest of the low, on par in refinement with her own serbut less worthy ! She deceives him h«Br friendsj her family, her If" — with some emotion — I have overstated one of these things, H**" 1 forbid me!" : "Pjf»y go on," she Baid, with Ker averted. And thinking th^at she utterly hardened, utterly, wuthout thinking that her outward cairn callousness, and "that she felt he did continue. "Can she," he said, "who has been deceitful herself, complain if thft 11 deceives her? She has chosen^ a r ° r *'^ €SS oT^ature before her family etv[ 0.9^.-8 Jte-q fi^waq eg jt peAjes qon oqs *i ,jßr>n&T.ij aeq pu« and her example? If, after to thte lawless level of euoh & P 00 *" thing, she finds herself involvin Eie penalties, and her name a and a ehame to her family!" H " Is nat all? " she- «&«<*• But not quiver of the voice, not a tremour of the shoulders,' betrayed what she was feeling, what she suffered, how the brand wae burning, into her H , "That is al they bade m© say," he re^lwd in a calmer and more gentle tone. ''And that they would make arrangements— sucE arraingements as may b& possible for your ftrfcuasa. But they would not tak4 you back." ■.;■ " Arid now — what on your own aoH count?" she asked, almost flippantly. ** Someth&g, I suppose?" "Yes," He said,, answering her Slowly, and with a steady look of oon.flemhation. For in all Eonesty # the attitude shocked and astonished "I have something to say on my <nym aocouait. Something. But it is Sifficult tosay it." 'She turned To him and raised h!er feyebrows. H . "Really!" R he said. "You seem to speak so easily." ■ . B He did not remark how white, evai against the pale shimmer of the lake, H ttas the face that mocked him: and her heartlessness seemed dreadful tfl him. I'"*- he said, "to say only om fchlnf? on my own acoonnt." • "Thwe ie? only one thing you must toot say," she retoi'ted, turning on hirr 'Without- warning and speaking witlj <~»nccmfcrated cassion. _ " I liava beesL

% MLJ* A 4I ( X9Wt M as wicked as you say. And wrat T have done in my folly and in ffij— rou call it wickedness — may be a disgrace to my family. It may be as foolish as you say. lam only, nineteen. I may have been, I don't know about that, very wicked - But I have done nothing, nothing, sir " — she raised her head proudly — " to disgrace myself personally. Do you believe that?" And then he did notice how white she was. " If you tell me that, I do believe it," she said gravely. "You must believe it," she rejoined with sudden vehemence. "Or you wrong me more cruelly than I have wronged you!" " I do believe it," he said, conquered for the time by a new emotion. "Then now I will hear you," she answered, her tone sinking again. "I will hear what you wish to say. Not that it will bend me. I have injured you. I own it, and I am sorry for it on your account. On my own I am unhappy, but I had been more unhappy ..had I married you. You have been frank, let me be frank," she continued, her eyes alight, her tone almost imperious. "You sought not a wife, but a mother for your child I A .woman, a little better bred than a nurse, to whom you could entrust the otic being, the only being, you love, with leos chance of its contamination," she laughed icily, "by the lower orders! If you had any other motive in choos-' ing me it was that I was your second cousin, of your own respectable family, and you did not derogate. But you forgot that I was young and a woman, as you were a man. You said no word of love to me, you begged for no favour; when you entered a room, you sought my eye no more than another's, you had no more softness for me than for another ! If you courted me at all it was before others, and if you talked to me at all it was from a height of wise dullness, and about things I did not understand and things I hated ! Until," she continued viciously, "at last I hated you I What could be more natural? What did you expect?" A little colour had stolen into his face under the lash of her reproaches. He tried to seem indifferent, but he could not. His tone was forced and constrained when he answered. "You have strange ideas," he said. "And you have but two!" she retorted. "Politics and your boy! I cared," with concentrated bitterness, " for neither !" "That stung him to anger and retort. " I cen imagine it,'" he said. " Your likings appear to be on a different plane." " They are at least not confined to fifty families!" she rejoined. "I do not think myself divine," she continued with feverish iro£y, "and all below me clay ! Ido not think because I and all about me are dull and stupid that all the world is dull and ptupid ? talking eternally about," and she deliberately mocked his tone — " ' the license of the Press!' and 'i?he imminence of anarchy!' To talk," with supreme scorn, " of the license of the Pres3 and the imminence of anarchy to a girl of nineteen ! It was at least to make the way very smooth for another!" He looked at her in silence, frowning. - Her frankness was an outrage on his dignity— and he, of all men, loved his dignity. But it surprised him at least as much ps it shocked him- He remembered the girl sometimes silly, sometimes demure, to whom he had cast the handkerchief ; and he had not been more astonished if a sheep had stood up and barked at him. He was here, prepared to meet a frightened, weeping, shamefaced child, iniploring pardon, imploring mediation; and he found this! He was here to upbraid, and she scolded him. She marked with unerring eye the joints in his armour, and with her venomous woman's tongue she planted darts that he knew would rankle — rankle long after she was gone and he was alone; And a faint glimpse of the truth broke on him. Was it possible that he had misread the girl whom he had deemed characterless—when she was not shy? Was it possible that he had undervalued her and slighted her? Was it possible that, while he had been judging her and talking down to her, she had been judging him and laughing in her sleeve? The thought was not pleasant to a proud nature. And there was ariother thing he hid to weigh. If she were so different in fact from the conception h© had formed of her, the course which had occurred to him as the best, and whioh he was going to propose for her, might not b& the best. . But he put that from him. A name for firmness at times compels a man to obstinacy. It was so now. He set his jaw more stiffly, and " Will you hear me now?" he asked. "If there is anything more to be -said," she replied. She spoke wea-rily over her shoulder. "I think there is," he rejoined stubbornly, "one thing. It will not keep you long. It refers to your future. There is a course which I think may be taken and may be advantageous to you." , « "If," she cried impetuously, -V it is to take me back to those • " On the contrary," he replied. He was not unwilling to wound one who had shown hereelf bo unexpectedly capable of offenoe. " That is quite past," he continued. "There is no longer any question of that. The course I suggest is not without its disadvantages. It may not,, at fireb sight, be more acceptable to you than returning to your home. But I trust you have learnt a lesson, and will now be guided." After saying which he coughed and hesitated, and at length, after twice pulling up hie cravat; " I think," he said—" th» matter is som-ewlmt delicate — that I had better write what I have in my mind." Tinder the dead weight of depression which tad succeeded to passion, curiosity stirred faintly in her. But " As you please," she said. " The more," he continued stiffly, " as in the immediate present there is nothing to be done. And therefore there is no haste. Until this"— he made a wry face, the thing was so hateful to him— "this inquiry is at an end, and yon are free to leave, nothing but preliminaries can bS dealt with; those settled, however, I think there should be no delay. But you shall hear from me within the week." "Very well." And after a. eliglit pause, " That is all !" '/That is all, I think." Yet he did not go. And she continued to stand with her shoulder turned towards him. He was a man of strong prejudices, and the habit of command had rendered him in some degree callous. But he was neither un^ kind by nature, nor, in spite of the story Walterson had told of him, inhuman in practice; And to leave a young girl thus, to leave her without a word of leave-taking or regret, seemed even tojhM, nowyit came, to the

point, barbarous. The road stretched i lonely on either ei<t& of them, the ■ woods were brown and sad and almost j leafless, the lake below them mirrored ; the unchanging grey above, or Ic6t itself in dreary rniet. And he remembered her in surroundings bo different ! \ He remembered how she had been rear- • ed, by whom encircled, amid what plen- : itude! And though he did not guess that the slender figure standing thus mute and forlorn would haunt him by night and by day for weeks to come, and harry and torment him with dumb reproaches — he still had not the heart to go without one gentler word. And so " No, there is one thing, 53 , he said, his voice shaking very slightly, " I would like to add — I would like you to know. It is that after next week I shall be at Rysby in Cartmel — Rysby ■ Hall — for about a month. It is not more than two miles from the foot of the lake, and if you are still here and i need advice " "Thank you." " or help, I would like you to know that I am there." "That I may apply to you?" she said. without turning her head. He could not tell •whether at -last there were tears in her voice, or whe- , ther she were merely drawing him on to flout him. "I meant that," he said coldly. "Thank you." Certainly there was a queer sound in her voice. He paused awkwardly. "There is nothing more, I think?" he said. " Nothing, thank you." " Very well," h© returned. "Then you will hear from me upon the matter 1 mentioned — in a day or two. Goodbye." He went then — awkwardly. He felt himself, in spite of his .arguments, in spite of his anger, in spite 6t the wrong which she had done hian, and the disgrace which she had brought on his name — he felt himself something of a cur. She was little mor« than a child, little. more than a child ; and he had not understood her ! Even now he had no notion how often that plea would ring .in his ears, and harass him and keep him wakeful. And Henrietta? She had told herself before the interview that with" it the worst would be over. But as she heard hie footsteps pass slowly, away, down the road, and grow fainter and fainter, the pride that Bad supported her under his eyes sank low. A sense of her loneliness, so cruel' that it wrung her heart, so cruel that she could have run after Mm and begged him to punish her, to punish her as he pleased, • if be would not leave her deserted, gripped her throat and brought salt tears to her '. eyes. The excitement was over, the flatness remained ; the failure, and the grey skies and leaden water and dying bracken. And she was alone; alone for always. She had defied him, she had defied them all, she had told him that whatever happened she would not go back, she would not be taken back. But she knew now that she had lied.' And she crossed the road her step unsteady, and stumbled blindly up the woodland path above the road, until she came to a place where she knew that she was hidden. - There she flung herself down on her face and cried passionately, stifling her sobs in the green damp moss. She had done wrong. She had done cruel wrong to him. But she was only nineteen, and she was being punished 1 She was Tvoinor Tvnnisliftfl 1