Chapter XLVII

Yea, in God’s name, and Love’s, and thine, would I
Draw from one loving heart such evidence
As to all hearts, all things should signify;
Tender as dawn’s first hill-fire and intense
As instantaneous penetrating sense,
In spring’s birth hour, of other springs gone by.

ROSSETTI.

“Do you know,” said Daphne, leaning back luxuriously on a sofa in Lilian’s boudoir, “I met an old friend of mine this afternoon in the park, and he was very much afraid of me.” Lilian smiled affectionately.

“I wonder why an old friend always means the man we didn’t marry?” she said; “but I don’t wonder that he was afraid of you, Daphne.”

“Well—he was!” said Daphne, ignoring her friend’s remark, “and he said that he was going out as a missionary to India, and that he was very happy.”

“Poor fellow!” said Lilian gently.

“I never really meant to marry him,” said Daphne. “I suppose it was what Reggie quarrelled with me about, but I told him I was sorry, and then I went to Overham, and it was all over. You know he wouldn’t speak to me when I was at your mother’s, and he came to fetch me to nurse Arthur.” Lilian sat up straight.

“Was he with my mother when you arrived?” she asked.

“Yes,” said Daphne, shuddering, “they were sitting there together. He told me, and at first I didn’t understand—oh! it was awful! Reggie was horribly unkind. He wouldn’t speak to me or help me a bit!” Lilian looked at her friend thoughtfully.

“I wonder if you would tell me the truth, Daphne,” she said, “if I were to ask you a pretty straight question?” Daphne looked startled.

“I suppose I might,” she said.

“Do you mind Reggie’s being horrid?” said Lilian. Daphne fidgeted a moment, then she looked at her friend steadily.

“Well, yes, Lilian,” she said, “I do. No one likes to be thought despicable by a man like Reggie.”

“I am going to see my mother this afternoon,” said Lilian. “Have you everything you want?”

“Everything, thanks,” said Daphne. “Lilian, do you mind seeing your mother now?” she asked her suddenly; “I have always wanted to ask you—you don’t mind, do you? Are you still desperately unhappy?” Lilian sat down again.

“No,” she said in a low voice, “not now.” Daphne waited. “My husband was so very bad,” Lilian went on at last, “that it simplified matters. I could have got a divorce any day, so he went his way, and I went mine. There were terrible hours first. It is so hard to realize evil; one hears of it in church on Sunday, and people talk about bad books, and bad plays, but it is _quite_—quite different from that! You see, there are so many other things to be considered. It gets mixed up with one’s life; by-and-bye it becomes usual. It is easier to get used to than good, I think; I wasn’t a bit shocked after the first year. If I had had a child it would have been different; I should have had to leave him then.”

“And there was never any one else?” said Daphne. Lilian played with a book on her lap.

“Yes,” she said, in a very low voice, “there might have been someone else. I do not know how far it would have gone. God knows I was pretty desperate, and so was he. Then one day I went out for a drive, and we ran over a child. Daphne, it was horrible! I thought it was dead. I took it to the nearest hospital, and they were so good to me, the nurses—I shall never forget! They let me stay there till the surgeons saw it, and they came back to tell me it would live. After that I went to see it every day, and by-and-bye I got to know such lots of darling little children, and I have been to see them two or three times a week ever since—that’s all.”

“And the man?” said Daphne.

“I could not give up the love of little, innocent children even for him,” said Lilian softly. “I told him about it, and I asked him to go away, and he did. He is married now to such a sweet, nice girl, and he has little children of his own. I shall never have that,” said Lilian, with the tears running down her cheeks; “only, all the little children in the world seem mine, when I look at them!”

“Ah! Lilian! Lilian!” said Daphne. When Lilian had gone Daphne sat alone by the fire-light thinking of her friend’s story. It was so very different from Katherine’s. She had been to see them off, Katherine and Bert, and the docks at Southampton had looked like Paradise to them, a station on the way to Heaven. Katherine had tyrannized over Bert to her heart’s content and ended by always doing what he wished, and Bert, pretending to be badly treated, had been so immensely proud, and they started off for their new life across the sea in the absurdest and most childish manner possible, as if the world had been a room full of hidden Christmas presents, and they had just set out to find them all. Daphne had been happy when she was with them, but now the world had grown cold and grey. It was hard to go back to Overham. Rosamonde and Miss Smith had taken a flat in town, she and Lilian had been to see them, and, as far as they could see, all was going on well. It seemed as if, after all, Arthur’s sacrifice had not been as useless as he thought. She had no excuse for staying in town any longer, and yet she felt conscious that she was going back, unsatisfied, unrested, uninclined even for her boys and her club, and the sight of her uncle’s loving eyes.

The door opened, and she started at the lapse of time. Lilian had come back, and it was their last evening.

“Oh! come and talk to me,” she said; “I want someone to talk to me!” The words died on her lips, for it was not Lilian, but Reggie who stood at the door.

“I—I am awfully sorry,” he stammered, “but Mrs. Courtney told me to come in; I met her at a squash somewhere, and she told me you were at home——”

“And that I would be delighted to see you, I suppose?” said Daphne icily, but she sat down again.

“No—no!” said Reggie. “_I_ told her—_that_, the other way round, you know!”

“You seem a little involved,” said Daphne coldly. There was an awkward silence; Reggie watched her face with eager, unembarrassed eyes, and Daphne, knowing that there was a change, became the more anxious not to commit herself.

“I say,” said Reggie at last, “it’s ages since I’ve seen you, isn’t it?”

“I believe it is two months,” said Daphne; “I have not thought it long.” Her manner plainly inferred that she would have liked it to be indefinitely longer. Reggie’s eyes twinkled; she looked irresistible when she was angry, the fire-light showed the gleam of her eyes—and the impatient tapping of her foot.

“That awfully nice friend of yours has gone and got married to that American chap, hasn’t she?” he asked her cheerfully.

“Yes,” said Daphne, and she seemed to think it a sufficient answer.

“My mother is to be married,” he began in a graver tone, “to David Grey.”

“Oh, Reggie!” said Daphne quickly, “I’m so sorry!” Then she could have bitten her tongue out at her indiscretion—Reggie moved into a chair nearer her—she had forgotten he was so tall.

“Thank you—dear,” he said. Daphne blushed, but she kept her face steadily from him; she had made a false step, and she had to pay the forfeit. The room was singularly quiet; in the street below the cries of evening papers, and a belated muffin-bell came up to them quite clearly. “Daphne,” Reggie said in quite a different tone, “I’m afraid you’ll think me an awful cur for what I am going to tell you, but you’ll listen, won’t you? You won’t be dreadfully angry till I’ve quite finished?”

“You’re very inconsistent in your use of my name,” she said, taking a fire-shield from the mantelpiece.

“Ah—listen,” he exclaimed impatiently—“and please promise?” There was a queer little smile round Daphne’s lips, but it did not matter—she had the fire-shield in position.

“I don’t see quite what difference it makes,” she said, “but, of course, I’ll promise you not to get angry _until_ you’re finished.” Reggie drew a long breath.

“It’s going to be horribly difficult to tell you,” he said. “Well, that day I came over to fetch you back. Lady Middleton was there, and she told me—she told me——”

“What did she tell you?” cried Daphne, her eyes flashing.

“Remember your promise,” he reminded her. “She told me—lies about you and that surgeon chap.”

“What were they?” asked Daphne.

“I sha’n’t tell you,” said Reggie.

“Oh—and you believed them?” she cried.

“Yes, I believed them,” said Reggie.

“And you dare to come here and tell me so?”

“Yes, Daphne,” said Reggie, “I know they aren’t true, and—and I couldn’t help coming.” He laid his hand over hers, and pleaded with her with his eyes. Daphne sprang to her feet.

“Oh! and you wish to flirt with me, do you?” she cried. “I can imagine you would think me a fit subject! You ‘couldn’t help coming’—that was a pretty way of putting it, Lord Cheston.” Then, as it came over her, _who_ had failed her, that he had always been, even when she was angry with him, the man she trusted and relied upon, she had hard work to fight back her tears. “Oh, Reggie! Reggie!” she said, “I did think you were a better sort of man! I know I’ve been horrid, and I’ve done lots of wrong things, and I behaved dreadfully with Arthur! (Oh! not what Vera told you, of course, though even that was more his doing than mine!) But in spite of it all, I thought that you were my friend, that you respected me—that I could trust you! Please go before I say what I shall be sorry for—I will not think of this again. I will only remember that you were kinder to me once!”

“Look here, Daphne,” Reggie interrupted her, “I haven’t finished; perhaps you will think this worse cheek than all the rest. But I can’t help it; it’s better for you to know the truth than what you are thinking now. I came here because I love you, because I have always loved you. Long before you got engaged to David, and all that rot. I didn’t tell you before, partly because it wouldn’t have been any use, and partly because I didn’t want to marry you the—the way I thought you _were_, you know. I think a woman owes it to her husband not to be a flirt; that was why I jawed you so about it, d’you remember?”

“Y—es, I remember,” said Daphne in a quieter voice.

“And, oh, you took it beautifully,” he went on, “and I saw that you weren’t really a flirt at all. You simply couldn’t help it. It was just that you were so awfully fetching, you know. You don’t mind my saying that, do you? because it’s what I really think, and I was coming to see you at Overham, only I heard that you would be at Lady Middleton’s and then—— Oh, Daphne, I haven’t hurt you, have I?” He moved towards her, but she only shook her head. “I say—Daphne,” he exclaimed in amazement, “you—you don’t care, do you?”

“Of course not,” said Daphne; “why should I? Please go away, Reggie, you’ve hurt me horribly. I—I don’t know how much you haven’t hurt me! And you can’t possibly want to marry a woman who has been engaged twice—and encouraged other men, and been a horrid little flirt. You said I was a horrid little flirt yourself!”

“Oh! I didn’t, Daphne,” he implored, “honour bright!”

“And even if you do want to marry me, how—how do you know that I care for you?” Daphne finished with a rush.

“I don’t,” said Reggie, “but I’m here to find out.”

“Then all I can say is,” said Daphne, with great asperity, “that if you don’t know by now, I don’t think you ever _will_ find out—and I had better tell you——” Reggie was quite close to her now; he took both her hands.

“Look here!” he said, “what are you marrying me for?” Daphne met his eyes bravely, but her lips trembled a little.

“Because I love you,” she said, “and for no other reason whatever.” He bent his head and kissed her hands very gently and tenderly. “Reggie,” she whispered, “I—I loved Arthur, too.”

“Then he was a very lucky fellow,” said Reggie; “but I’m glad he’s dead,” he added to himself, as Lilian opened the door.

“My dear people,” said Lilian, “why on earth haven’t you rung for light?”

“Oh! I thought we—had,” said Daphne. Lilian looked at them and smiled.

* * * * *

“I really think,” said Mrs. Fordington, “that you might have remembered about that penny reading-book, Daphne; now I shall have to send for it and pay the postage. Still, of course, I am very glad to hear that you are going to make a great marriage. I hope Lord Cheston is a good young man, as well as a peer.”

“I hope so, too,” said Daphne, as her aunt left the room. Then she turned to her uncle. “I am trusting to my feelings,” she said with a little smile. “Tell me, is it right?” Her uncle looked at her for a moment or two before he answered:

“I am inclined to think it is the best thing in the world,” he said at last. “And ‘every good and every perfect gift cometh from above’; you are awake now, I think, Daphne, so you will remember that!”

“And understand?” said Daphne very softly.

“And understand,” said her uncle. There came a silence between them, and then her uncle, with his eyes turned, to a little picture of Dora, spoke again. “You must let love go the whole way,” he said, “not stop at Death, which is only one of the Station Houses of the Soul. Be very sure that whatever comes to you of darkness or pain, nothing, either from above or below, can take from you the knowledge that ‘The same goal is still on the same track.’”

“And that is immortality?” said Daphne. Her uncle did not answer her in words; he looked out of the window over the autumn fields, now fast losing their last touch of summer life. Then he smiled back at her.

“We shall have the everlasting spring,” he said.

THE END.

PRINTED BY KELLY’S DIRECTORIES LTD., LONDON AND KINGSTON.

TRANSCRIBER NOTES

Misspelled words and printer errors have been corrected. Where multiple spellings occur, majority use has been employed.

Punctuation has been maintained except where obvious printer errors occur.

[The end of _The Master Hope_ by Phyllis Bottome]