Chapter IV: The Explanation

During the following days Miss Dearn and Rees did not meet. Somehow the girl managed that she and her cousin had their meals either before the driver came into the dining-room or after he had left it, and they did not join any of the parties going for excursions.

Mrs. Henderson was rather surprised that Iris all at once seemed tired of driving and preferred walking about in the bush instead. However, she was easy-going, and quite content either to go sightseeing in the neighbourhood or stroll about in the country surrounding the township.

But Miss Dearn was most unhappy. She was torn asunder by mortification and shame. Almost as soon as she had returned to the house after her experience in the cave, a terrible realisation of what had taken place sprang upon her. She saw her own behaviour in the glaring merciless light of reason, with every particle of weakness bared before her horrified gaze.

So she, the Hon. Iris Dearn, the proud London beauty, who had held men at bay as easily as great towering cliffs hold back the sea, supremely calm, loftily ignoring the loud advances and passionate appeals of the ocean--had fallen so low that after her faint she had actually remained in the driver’s arms--yes, a _driver’s_ arms--long after her indisposition had made it necessary to do so! It was absolutely---- But she could find no word strong enough to express her unutterable scorn and amazement at her conduct! Of course, she had felt very weak after the faint, and at first, when she had attempted to sit up, it had been impossible to do so. But afterwards she had gained strength, and it was unpardonable not to have exerted it. She did not spare herself. She did not try to put the unpalatable facts away, but faced them. Even the horror of the hideous darkness in the caves supplied no extenuating excuses to her.

She had paced her room at night in hot, impetuous rage. She had clenched her hands in agony. Her tall young form had stood heaving by the window while her splendid eyes, gleaming with angry tears, had looked out into the summer darkness. So, after all, she who had thought herself so strong, who had walked through life fearless, with clear courage, undaunted gaze, head held high, had now suddenly sunk to--_this_!

Her moral strength had ebbed out with her physical force. She had stayed in the driver’s arms from sheer cowardice, because she had been afraid of the night and all it held. His enfolding brought comfort, support, peace, and she had yielded to the subtle consolation of his touch. Some wonderful strength had emanated from him and held her.

And there had been his song!

A tremor still passed through her as she thought of that. His singing was marvellous--the most tender, exquisite thing that had ever come to her. The memory of it brought a hard aching to her throat. She had not told Amy about it, it was too sacred even to discuss with her cousin. His voice was not only delightful because of its musical beauty, but it touched deeply because it laid bare the great loftiness, the passionate warmth throbbing in the man who sang. The real man was revealed to her now. But--what must he think of her? This scorching question brought her the deepest mortification. She could never face him again--oh, the shame of it, the fierce humiliation!

She ought, of course, to pack her trunks and go away, and it rather astonished her that she did not do so. Why did she linger in a place which ought to be abhorrent to her now? She could not explain this; but she could not go away. Something held her. She was no longer quite free. Some invisible chain had been slipped round some invisible part of her and bound her to the place. She felt the soft cord, yet she did not attempt by one determined effort to break it.

Mrs. Henderson did not notice any change in her cousin, except the apparent disinclination to join the excursions she had revelled in before. The girl was a little quieter also, and at times she seemed a little paler, but that was no doubt the lassitude frequently left behind by a faint. Otherwise there was no difference. She took long strolls in the bush, smiled her bewitching, dazzling smile; laughed her rippling, silvery laughter, walked in her tall, graceful, imperious way; and yet, if Mrs. Henderson had been more keenly observant, she would have noticed that the fine colour in her cheeks was often merely a flush, and the lustre in her eyes frequently the brilliance of pain.

However, though Miss Dearn kept out of the driver’s way and had managed to evade him at meals, it was impossible to remain in the township for any length of time without meeting him. So it happened that one evening as she was returning from the post office she suddenly came face to face with him. He came out of a small cottage at the side of the store just as she was passing, so there was no chance of escape.

“Good evening, Mr. Rees,” she said, with an effort at outward composure, but perplexed at the sudden leap of her heart; “are you on your way home, too?”

He answered in the affirmative, and said he had been to see Mr. Green, who had not been well all day, and then went on to speak of other indifferent things. His manner and tone were gentle and courteous, but rather distant. He seemed anxious to show her that he remembered the gulf between them, that the episode in the cave would not make the slightest difference to their relationship, and that he would never assume any tone of intimacy on that account. It seemed to Iris, as they walked along the road, that he went out of his way to make this clear.

Then all at once it occurred to her that he must have misunderstood her motive for avoiding him. He evidently thought she shunned him because she did not wish to give him an opportunity of taking advantage of a situation many men would have regarded as a legitimate stepping-stone to familiarity. How horrible and contemptible he must have thought her conduct after all his kindness and tender concern!

Her cheeks flamed suddenly in the twilight--such a thought was intolerable!

She must undeceive him at once. It was unbearable that he should think her so base and ungrateful! But how was she to do it? It would be difficult, especially to begin.

However, as they came within sight of the house, and would not have many more minutes together, she made a courageous plunge.

“Mr. Rees, there is something I want to say to you. I have wanted to say it ever since--since--that afternoon.” She ceased abruptly as if words failed her.

He waited a moment for her to continue, but, as she did not do so, he broke the silence by saying: “I was under the impression you would rather not speak to me at all.”

So he _had_ misunderstood! The hot colour surged into her face again.

“Oh, I am so sorry,” she said in troubled tones, forgetting her own embarrassment in her eagerness to explain what he must have regarded as a cruel slight. She must be very frank with him, nothing but a full confession would be adequate now; so she continued: “I only avoided you--because--because---- Oh, Mr. Rees,” she faltered with deep agitation, “can’t you understand how I should feel after--behaving so--so--unpardonably--can’t you imagine how ashamed I should feel--how afraid to meet you? Oh, after all your kindness the other day--a kindness I shall never forget--it is dreadful to think that you misunderstand me! I will be perfectly open with you--I owe you that; I have only kept out of your way because I--felt too horribly ashamed--too mortified to face you--and--I have been so miserable, I have hardly been able to sleep for the awful shame of it.”

They had reached the house now.

“Miss Dearn, would you mind coming down this lane for a few minutes--we can’t talk here near the house.” There was a perceptible unsteadiness in his voice.

Silently they turned down the narrow track fenced on both sides by great hawthorn hedges.

When they were a little distance from the main road Rees said: “You don’t know how grateful I feel because you have explained this to me. It was indeed good of you, especially when it was so difficult.” His tones showed he was deeply moved, though he spoke very quietly. “Let me thank you, Miss Dearn. But,” he came a little closer to her, “why are you ashamed? There is absolutely nothing for you to be ashamed about.”

“But I behaved most disgracefully.”

They had stopped walking. She stood before him contrite, ashamed, as superb, as beautiful in her humiliation as she had been in her graciousness and her fine appreciation of his bravery.

“Don’t say that, Miss Dearn,” and there was entreaty in his manner. “You were only frightened; and every other human being who was not used to those caves would have been terrified at being left alone so far underground in the dark.”

“Yes, but I was not alone, I had you--there was no excuse for me,” she reminded him dejectedly.

“Still there were only two of us, and that is not like being with a big party. Anyhow, most people would have been dreadfully nervous, even if there had been many others with them.”

She shook her head sadly. “You make most generous allowances for me; still, of course, you must know that none of them is sufficient to excuse such conduct. I had no right to be so terrified and, even if I were afraid, I should not have showed it and--fainted and--placed you in such--an--awkward position.” She finished heroically but with downcast eyes, her long velvet lashes quivering on her flushed cheeks.

“Please don’t look at it in that way,” he pleaded; “to me it was the highest honour and most sacred privilege to be there to help you. So don’t distress yourself about it--it hurts me more than I can say to see you so troubled because of--of--what I did.”

“No, no, not because of what _you_ did,” she interrupted him hastily. “You were only kind, so exquisitely good to me--” her voice grew low on the last words--“I am only so grieved that I should have made it necessary.”

Just then they heard running footsteps behind them, and, as they turned, they saw a little girl making her way pantingly towards them.

“Mr. Rees,” she called when she was still a few paces away, “Miss Green sent me to fetch you--her father has had another attack. Some boys at the corner said you had gone up here with a lady,” she finished breathlessly as she reached them.

“I am afraid I must go,” said the driver reluctantly: “there is no doctor here. Miss Green is all alone and her father is such a heavy man she can’t manage him by herself.”

As he spoke they began to walk back to the main road. When they reached the corner Miss Dearn held out her hand to Rees, and, as he held it for a moment, he said, “I am so sorry to have to go. Please promise me that you will not distress yourself over that matter again. Believe me there is not the slightest need; will you promise?”

“I will try.”

“And will you let things be just as they were before, and let me take you for drives whenever you want to go, and--talk to me--sometimes--as you used to do?”

“Yes, of course,” she responded eagerly; “I can promise it shall not make any difference in _that_ way.”

“I am asking you not to let it make a difference in _any_ way.”

“Are you sure it will not make a difference to you either?” asked Miss Dearn a little shyly, but meeting his eyes bravely.

“No--not in the least,” he began reassuringly, then his tones changed suddenly, “that is--I--I shall----”

“Miss Green told me to ask you to hurry,” interrupted the child.

“I must go, then. Good-night, Miss Dearn; please do what I asked.”

“I will try; good-night.”

He hastened towards the little shop a short distance along the road, while Iris turned slowly into the house. She looked once more at his well-built, retreating form as it grew blurred in the soft, violet-tinted twilight.

“That afternoon in the cave has evidently made some difference to him too,” she thought to herself; “I wonder in what way--if only he had finished that sentence I might have known.”