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Deadham Hard by Lucas Malet

L >> Lucas Malet >> Deadham Hard




Charles Verity waited a minute or so. He still coaxed Damaris' hand,
calmly, soothingly. And she lay very still watching him; but with
half-closed eyes, striving to prevent the tears which asked so
persistently to be shed. For her heart went out to him in a new and
over-flowing tenderness, in an exalted pity almost maternal. Never had she
felt him more attractive, more, in a sense, royally lovable than in this
hour of weariness, of moral nakedness, and humiliation.

"Not until I had rejoined my regiment in India," he presently continued,
in the same low even tones, "did I hear of the birth of her son. I have
never seen him--or made enquiries regarding him. I meant to let the
dead bury its dead in this matter. For everyone concerned it seemed best
and wisest so. Therefore all you have told me to-night comes as news to
me--and in some respects as good news. For I gather I have no reason to
be ashamed of this young man--which on your account, even more than on my
own, is so much clear gain.--But I oughtn't to have brought you here to
live at Deadham. I ought to have taken the possibility of some accidental
revelation, such as the present one, into serious account and saved you
from that. To expose you, however remotely, to the risk was both callous
and stupid on my part. I own I have a strong sentiment for this house. It
seemed natural and restful to return to it--the only house to call a
home, I have ever had. And so much has happened during the last eight or
nine-and-twenty years, to occupy my mind, that I had grown indifferent
and had practically forgotten the risks. This was selfish,
self-indulgent, lacking in consideration and reverence towards you,
towards your peace of mind, your innocence.--And for it, my darling, I
beg your forgiveness."

Damaris sat up in the bed, raised her face to be kissed.

"No--no," she implored him, "don't say that. I can't bear to have you say
it--to have you speak as if you had been, could ever be anything but
beautiful and perfect towards me. I can't have you, not even for a little
minute, step down, from the high place, which is your own, and talk of
forgiveness. It hurts me.--I begin to understand that your world, a man's
world, is different to my world--the world, I mean, in which I have been
brought up. I know what is right for myself--but it would be silly to
believe mine is the only rightness"--

"Ah!" Charles Verity murmured, under his breath, "alas! for the child
that is dead."

And leaning forward he kissed her lips.




CHAPTER X

TELLING HOW MISS FELICIA VERITY UNSUCCESSFULLY ATTEMPTED A RESCUE


With the assistance of the Miss Minetts, reinforced by a bribe of five
shillings, Theresa Bilson procured a boy on a bicycle, early the
following morning, to convey a note the twelve miles to Paulton Lacy--Mr.
Augustus Cowden's fine Georgian mansion, situate just within the Southern
boundaries of Arnewood Forest. Miss Felicia Verity, to whom the note was
addressed, still enjoyed the hospitality of her sister and
brother-in-law; but this, as Mrs. Cowden gave her roundly to understand,
must not be taken to include erratic demands upon the stables. If she
required unexpectedly to visit her brother or her niece at Deadham Hard,
she must contrive to do so by train, and by such hired conveyances as the
wayside station of Paulton Halt at this end of her journey, and of
Marychurch at the other, might be equal to supplying.

"In my opinion, Felicia, it is quite ridiculous you should attempt to go
there at all to-day," Mrs. Cowden, giving over for the moment her study
of the _Morning Post,_ commandingly told her. "If Damaris has got a cold
in her head through some imprudence, and if Charles has called Miss
Bilson over the coals for not being more strict with her, that really is
no reason why Augustus' and my plans for the afternoon should be set
aside or why you should be out in the rain for hours with your
rheumatism. I shall not even mention the subject to Augustus. We arranged
to drive over to Napworth for tea, and I never let anything interfere
with my engagements to the Bulparcs as you know. I encourage Augustus to
see as much as possible of his own people.--I have no doubt in my own
mind that the account of Damaris' illness is absurdly exaggerated. You
know how Charles spoils her! She has very much too much freedom; and
little Miss Bilson, though well-meaning, is incapable of coping with a
headstrong girl like Damaris. She ought--Damaris ought I mean--to have
been sent to a finishing school for another year at least. She might then
have found her level. If Charles had consulted me, or shown the least
willingness to accept my advice, I should have insisted upon the
finishing school. It would have been immensely to Damaris' advantage. I
have known all along that the haphazard methods of her education were
bound to have deplorable results.--But look here, Felicia, if you really
intend to go on this wild-goose-chase notwithstanding the rain, let the
boy who brought the note order Davis' fly for you on his way back. He
passes Paulton Halt. I shall not expect you before dinner to-night. Now
that is settled."

With which she returned to her interrupted study of the _Morning Post_.

The above pronouncement while rendering Felicia Verity somewhat uneasy,
in nowise turned her from her purpose. Her powers of sympathy were as
unlimited as they were confused and, too often, ineffective. Forever she
ran after the tribulations of her fellow creatures, pouring forth on them
treasures of eager sympathy, but without discrimination as to whether the
said tribulations were in fact trivial or profound, deserving or
deserved. That anyone under any circumstances, should suffer, be
uncomfortable or unhappy, filled her with solicitude. The loss of an
eyelash, the loss of a fortune, the loss of the hope of a lifetime
equally ranked. Illness and disease appealed to her in hardly less degree
than unfortunate affairs of the heart. She practised the detection of
extenuating circumstances as one might practise a fine art. She wallowed
in sentiment, in short; but that with such native good-breeding and
singleness of mind, as went far to redeem the said wallowings from
morbidity or other offence. Her friends and acquaintances loved her,
quite unconscionably made use of her, secretly laughed at her, grew weary
of her, declared that "of such are the Kingdom of Heaven;" and, having
successfully exploited her, turned with relief to the society of persons
frankly belonging to the kingdoms of earth. Men petted but did not
propose to her; affected to confide in her, but carefully withheld the
heart of their confessions. Tall, thin, gently hurried and bird-like, she
yet bore a quaint, almost mirthful, resemblance to her brother, Sir
Charles Verity. Such was the lady who responded, in a spirit of liveliest
charity, to Theresa's wildly waved flag of distress.

By the time Miss Verity reached Marychurch the rain amounted to a
veritable downpour. Driven by the southwesterly wind, it swept in sheets
over the low-lying country, the pallid waters, drab mud-flats, dingy
grey-green salt-marsh, and rusty brown reed-beds of the estuary. The
dusty road, running alongside this last through the hamlets of Horny
Cross and Lampit, grew hourly deeper in gritty mud. Beyond question
summer and all its dear delights were departed and the chill mournfulness
of autumn reigned in their stead.

With the surrounding mournfulness, Miss Verity's simple, yet devious,
mind played not ungratefully. For it seemed to her to harmonize with the
true inwardness of her mission, offering a sympathetic background to the
news of her niece's indisposition and the signals of distress flown by
her little _protegee_, Theresa Bilson. The note addressed to her by the
latter was couched in mysterious and ambiguous phrases, the purport of
which she failed to grasp. Theresa's handwriting, usually so neat and
precise, was wobbly, bearing unmistakable traces of severe agitation and
haste. She hinted at nothing short of catastrophe, though whether in
relation to herself, to her ex-pupil, or to Sir Charles, Miss Verity
couldn't for the life of her discover. It was clear in any case, however,
that affairs at The Hard had, for cause unknown, gone quite startlingly
astray, and that Theresa found herself entirely unequal to righting
them--hence her outcry.

Under these circumstances, it struck Miss Verity as only tasteful and
tactful that her approach to the distracted dwelling should take place
unheralded by rumble of wheels or beat of horse-hoofs, should be pitched
in a, so to speak, strictly modest and minor key. On arriving at the
front gate she therefore alighted and, bidding her grumpy and streaming
flyman take himself and his frousty landau to the Bell and Horns in
Deadham village there to await her further orders, proceeded to walk up
the carriage-drive under the swaying, dripping trees.

About fifty yards from the gate the drive turns sharply to the left; and,
just at the turn, Miss Verity suddenly beheld a tall figure clad in a
seaman's oilskins and sou'wester, coming towards her from the direction
of the house. Youth and good looks--more especially perhaps masculine
ones--whatever rank of life might exhibit them, acted as a sure passport
to Miss Verity's gentle heart. And the youth and good looks of the man
approaching her became momentarily more incontestable. His bearing, too,
notwithstanding the clumsiness of his shiny black over-garment, had a
slightly ruffling, gallantly insolent air to it, eminently calculated to
impress her swift and indulgent fancy.

The young man, on his part, calmly took stock of her appearance, as she
beat up against the wind, her flapping waterproof cloak giving very
inefficient protection to the rather girlish dove-grey cashmere dress,
picked out with pink embroidery, beneath it. At first his eyes challenged
hers in slightly defiant and amused enquiry. But as she smiled back at
him, sweetly eager, ingenuously benignant, his glance softened and his
hand went up to his sou'wester with a courteous gesture.

"What weather!" she exclaimed. "How fearfully wet!"--while her expression
testified to a flattering interest and admiration.

"Yes, it's a wild day," he said, in answer. "I expect We've seen the last
of the sun, anyhow for this week."

The incident, though of the most casual and briefest, gave a new
direction to Miss Verity's thought. It pleased and intrigued her,
bringing a pretty blush to her thin cheeks. "Who and what can he be?" she
said to herself. "Where can I have seen him before?" And the blush
deepened. "I must really describe him to Charles and find out who he is."

This monologue brought her as far as the front door, at which, it may be
added, she--though by no means impatient--did in point of fact ring twice
before the man-servant answered it. Although Mr. Hordle had the reputation
of "being fond of his joke" in private life, in his official capacity his
manner offered a model of middle-aged sedateness and restraint. To-day
neither humour nor reserve were in evidence, but a harassed and hunted
look altogether surprising to Miss Verity. He stared at her, stared past
her along the drive, before attempting to usher her into the hall and
relieve her of her umbrella and her cloak.

"Sir Charles doesn't expect me, Hordle," she said. "But hearing Miss
Damaris was unwell I came over from Paulton Lacy at once."

"Quite so, ma'am. Sir Charles has not left his room yet. He did not reach
home till late, and he sat up with Miss Damaris the rest of the night."

"Oh! dear--did he? Then, of course, I wouldn't disturb him on any
account, Hordle. I had better see Miss Bilson first. Will you tell her
I am here?"

"I can send Laura to enquire, ma'am. But, I doubt if Miss Bilson, will
care to come downstairs at present."

"She is with Miss Damaris?"

"No, ma'am, Miss Bilson is not with Miss Damaris."

Hordle paused impressively, sucking in his under lip.

"If I might presume to advise, ma'am, I think it would be wise you should
see Miss Bilson in the schoolroom--and go up by the back staircase,
ma'am, if you don't object so as to avoid passing Miss Damaris' bedroom
door. I should not presume to suggest it, ma'am, but that our orders as
to quiet are very strict."

In this somewhat ignominious method of reaching her objective Miss
Verity, although more and more mystified, amiably acquiesced--to be
greeted, when Hordle throwing open the schoolroom door formally announced
her, by a sound closely resembling a shriek.

Entrenched behind a couple of yawning trunks, a litter of feminine
apparel and of personal effects--the accumulation of a long term of
years, for she was an inveterate hoarder--encumbering every available
surface, the carpet included, Theresa Bilson stood as at bay.

"My dear friend," Miss Verity exclaimed advancing with kindly
outstretched hands--"what is the meaning of this?"--She looked at the
miscellaneous turn-out of cupboards and chests of drawers, at the display
of garments not usually submitted to the public gaze. "Are you preparing
a rummage sale or are you--but no, surely not!--are you packing? I cannot
describe how anxious I am to hear what has occurred. My sister, Mrs.
Cowden, was extremely adverse to my facing the bad weather; but, I felt
your note could only be answered in person. Let me hear everything."

She drew Theresa from behind the luggage entrenchments, and, putting
aside an assortment of derelict hats and artificial flowers strewn in
most admired confusion on the sofa, made her sit down upon the said piece
of furniture beside her.

Whereupon, in the pensive, rain-washed, mid-day light, which served to
heighten rather than mitigate the prevailing, very unattractive and
rather stuffy disorder obtaining in the room, Theresa Bilson, not without
chokings and lamentations, gave forth the story of her--to herself quite
spectacular--deposition from the command of The Hard and its household.
She had sufficiently recovered her normal attitude, by this time, to pose
to herself, now as a heroine of one of Charlotte Bronte's novels, now as
a milder and more refined sample of injured innocence culled from the
pages of Charlotte Yonge. A narrow, purely personal view inevitably
embodies an order of logic calculated to carry conviction; and Theresa,
even in defeat, retained a degree of self-opinionated astuteness. She
presented her case effectively. To be discharged, and that in disgrace,
to be rendered homeless, cast upon the world at a moment's notice, for
that which--with but trifling, almost unconscious, manipulation of
fact--could be made to appear as nothing worse than a venial error of
judgment, did really sound and seem most unduly drastic punishment.

Miss Verity's first instinct was to fling herself into the breech; and,
directly her brother emerged from his room, demand for her _protegee_
redress and reinstatement. Her second instinct was--she didn't, in truth,
quite know what--for she grew sadly perplexed as she listened.

Her sympathy, in fact, split into three inconveniently distinct and
separate streams. Of these Theresa's woes still claimed the widest and
deepest, since with Theresa she was in immediate and intimate contact.
Yet the other two began to show a quite respectable volume and current,
as she pictured Damaris marooned on the Bar and Sir Charles ravished away
from the seasonable obligation of partridge shooting to take his place at
his daughter's bedside.

"But this young Captain Faircloth, of whom you speak," she presently
said, her mind taking one of its many inconsequent skippits--"who so
providentially came to the dearest child's assistance--could he, I
wonder, be the same really very interesting-looking young man I met in
the drive, just now, when I came here?"

And Miss Verity described him, while a pretty stain of colour illuminated
her cheek once more.

"You think quite possibly yes?--How I wish I had known that at the time.
I would certainly have stopped and expressed my gratitude to him. Such a
mercy he was at hand!--Poor dearest Damaris! I hope his good offices
have already been acknowledged. Do you know if my brother has seen and
thanked him?"

The expression of Theresa's round little face, still puffy and blotched
from her last night's weeping, held a world of reproachful remindings.

"Ah! no," the other cried conscience-stricken--"no, of course not. How
thoughtless of me to ask you. And"--another mental skippit--"and that you
should be forbidden the sick-room too, not permitted to nurse Damaris! My
poor friend, indeed I do feel for you. I so well understand that must
have caused you more pain than anything."

A remark her hearer found it not altogether easy to counter with
advantage to her own cause, so wisely let it pass in silence.

"I know--I know, you can hardly trust yourself to speak of it. I am so
grieved--so very grieved. But one must be practical. I think you are wise
to yield without further protest. I will sound my brother--just find out
if he shows any signs of relenting. Of course, you can understand, I
ought to hear his view of the matter too--not, that I question your
account, dear friend, for one instant. Meanwhile make all your
arrangements."

"The village!"--Theresa put in, with a note of despair this time
perfectly genuine.

"Ah, yes--the village. But if I take you away, in my fly I mean, that
will give you a position, a standing. It will go far to prevent
unpleasant gossip!"

Miss Verity's soul looked out of her candid eyes with a positive
effulgence of charity.

"Oh! I can enter so fully into your shrinking from all that. We will
treat your going as temporary, merely temporary--in speaking of it both
here and at Paulton Lacy. Of course, you might stay with your friends,
the good Miss Minetts; but I can't honestly counsel your doing so. I am
afraid Sir Charles might not quite like your remaining in Deadham
directly after leaving his house. It might be awkward, and give rise to
tiresome enquiries and comment. One has to consider those things.--No--I
think it would be a far better plan that you should spend a week at
Stourmouth. That would give us time to see our way more clearly. I know
of some quite nice rooms kept by a former maid of Lady Bulparc's. You
would be quite comfortable there--and, as dinner at Paulton Lacy isn't
till eight, I could quite well go into Stourmouth with you myself this
afternoon. And, my dear friend, you will, won't you, forgive my speaking
of this"--

Miss Verity--whose income, be it added, was anything but princely--gave
an engagingly apologetic little laugh.

"Pray don't worry yourself on the score of expense. The week in
Stourmouth must cost you nothing. As I recommend the rooms I naturally am
responsible--you go to them as my guest, of course.--Still I'll sound my
brother at luncheon, and just see how the land lies. But don't build too
much on any change of front. I don't expect it--not yet. Later, who knows
Meanwhile courage--do try not to fret."

And Miss Verity descended the backstairs again.

"Poor creature--now her mind will be more at rest, I do trust. I am
afraid Charles has been rather severe. I never think he does quite
understand women. But how should he after only being married for
three--or four years, was it?--Such a very limited experience!--It is a
pity he didn't marry again, while Damaris was still quite small--some
really nice woman who one knows about. But I suppose Charles has never
cared about that side of things. His public work has absorbed him. I
doubt if he has ever really been in love"--Miss Verity sighed.--"Yes,
Hordle, thanks I'll wait in the long sitting-room. Please let Sir Charles
know I am there, that I came over to enquire for Miss Damaris. He is
getting up?--Yes--I shall be here to luncheon, thanks."

But, during the course of luncheon, that afore-mentioned split in Miss
Verity's sympathies was fated to declare itself with ever growing
distinctness. The stream consecrated to Theresa's woes--Theresa herself
being no longer materially present--declined in volume and in force,
while that commanded by Felicia's affection for her brother soon rushed
down in spate. Perhaps, as she told herself, it was partly owing to the
light--which, if pensive upstairs in the white-walled schoolroom, might,
without exaggeration, be called quite dismally gloomy in the
low-ceilinged dining-room looking out on the black mass of the ilex
trees over a havoc of storm-beaten flower-beds--but Sir Charles struck
her as so worn, so aged, so singularly and pathetically sad. He was
still so evidently oppressed by anxiety concerning Damaris that, to hint
at harsh action on his part, or plead Theresa's cause with convincing
earnestness and warmth, became out of the question. Miss Verity hadn't
the heart for it.

"Be true to your profession of good Samaritan, my dear Felicia," he
begged her with a certain rueful humour, "and take the poor foolish
woman off my hands. Plant her where you like, so long as it is well out
of my neighbourhood. She has made an egregious fiasco of her position
here. As you love me, just remove her from my sight--let this land have
rest and enjoy its Sabbaths in respect of her at least. I'll give you a
cheque for her salary, something in excess of the actual amount if you
like; for, heaven forbid, you should be out of pocket yourself as a
consequence of your good offices.--Now let us, please, talk of some less
unprofitable subject."

Brightly, sweetly eager, Miss Verity hastened to obey, as she believed,
his concluding request.

"Ah! yes," she said, "that reminds me of something about which I do so
want you to enlighten me.--This young Captain Faircloth, who so
opportunely appeared on the scene and rescued darling Damaris, I believe
I met him this morning, as I walked up from the front gate. I wondered
who he was. His appearance interested me, so did his voice. It struck me
as being so quaintly like some voice I know quite well--and I stupidly
cannot remember whose."

The coffee-cups chattered upon the silver tray as Hordle handed it to
Miss Verity.

"You spoke to him then?" Sir Charles presently said.

"Oh! just in passing, you know, about the weather--which was phenomenally
bad, raining and blowing too wildly at the moment. I supposed you had
seen him. He seemed to be coming away from the house."

Charles Verity turned sideways to the table, bending down a little over
the tray as he helped him. The coffee splashed over into the saucer; yet
it was not the hand holding the coffee-pot, but those holding the tray
that shook. Whereupon Charles Verity glanced up into the manservant's
face, calmly arrogant.

"Pray be careful, Hordle," he said. And then--"Is Miss Verity right in
supposing Captain Faircloth called here this morning?"

"I beg your pardon, Sir Charles. Yes, Sir Charles, he did."

"What did he want?"

"He came to enquire after Miss Damaris, Sir Charles. I understood him to
say he was going away to sea shortly."

"Did he ask for me?"

"No, Sir Charles," rather hurriedly; and later, with visible effort to
recapture the perfection of well-trained nullity.--"He only asked after
Miss Damaris."

"When he calls again, let me know. Miss Damaris wishes to see him if she
is sufficiently well to do so."

"Very good, Sir Charles."

And during this conversation, Felicia felt keenly distressed and
perplexed. It made her miserable to think evil of anyone--particularly an
old and trusted servant. But from the moment of her arrival Hordle's
manner had seemed so very strange. Of course it was horrid even to
suspect such a thing; but was it possible that he over-indulged
sometimes, that he, in plain English, drank? Poor dear Charles--if he
knew it, what an additional worry! It really was too deplorable.--Anyway
she could alleviate his worries to a certain extent by carrying Theresa
off. She would do so at once.--Was there an evening train from
Stourmouth, which stopped at Paulton Halt? Well--if there wasn't she must
get out at Marychurch, and drive from there. She only trusted she would
be in time to dress for dinner. Harriet was such a stickler for
etiquette.

From all which it may be deduced that the confessions, made to Miss
Verity to-day, had this in common with those habitually heard by
her--that the point of the story had been rather carefully left out.




CHAPTER XI

IN WHICH DAMARIS RECEIVES INFORMATION OF THE LOST SHOES AND
STOCKINGS--ASSUMPTION OF THE GOD-HEAD


As Darcy Faircloth prophesied, the wild weather lasted throughout that
week. Then, the rain having rained itself out, the wind backed and the
skies cleared. But all to a different mode and rhythm. A cold white sun
shone out of a cold blue sky, diapered, to the north above the indigo and
umber moorland and forest, with perspectives of tenuous silken-white
cloud. Land and sky were alike washed clean, to a starkness and nakedness
calling for warm clothing out of doors, and well-stoked fires within.

At the beginning of the next week, invited by that thin glinting
sunshine--beneath which the sea still ran high, in long, hollow-backed
waves, brokenly foam-capped and swirling--Damaris came forth from her
retreat, sufficiently convalescent to take up the ordinary routine of
life again. But this, also, to a changed mode and rhythm, having its
source in causes more recondite and subtle than any matter of fair or
foul weather.