Sally on the Rocks, page 21
Gradually the crowd thinned, and the boy realised that nothing had happened, that nothing was going to happen. Probably Mr. Bingley had got alarmed and replaced the money.
To Mr. Bingley himself it did not seem as if nothing had happened. He went home a nervous wreck. For some days he did without exercise, as he did not wish to meet anyone, but he ate just the same meals. The results were unfortunate. He felt he had Sally to blame for a severe attack of indigestion.
He was glad to remember there was a war going on. Surely one of the generals would do something to get talked about—advance or retreat—and Mr. Bingley’s unhappy adventure would pass as nine-days’ wonders always do!
His mother’s Book was less helpful than usual:
“Don’t marry the woman you intrigue with. Intrigue if you must—and then don’t marry her.”
Well, he hadn’t intrigued, and he was not going to. Bingleys didn’t.
“Don’t marry a woman who runs after you before; she will either run after somebody else once she has got you, or from you.”
Had Sally run after him? On the contrary, had she not been almost rude?
“The determined woman dares all.”
Was Sally determined, or was The Book warning him against Mrs. Dalton?
This traitor citadel that longed to surrender unconditionally! That was why he fought so hard, refused to be thrust into marriage to stop idle tongues. He wanted to marry Sally for himself, even though he could not feel as certain as he would like about the absolute correctness of the future bank-manager; but he also wanted to marry her because he knew it to be the absolutely right, sensible, and profitable thing, and because his genius mother would have approved.
He had decided he might fall in love enough to be pleasant, but not enough to be uncomfortable, and that he would fall out the moment it seemed expedient to do so. Instead he found things much more uncomfortable than pleasant; and also that, once in, one could not climb out all at once. Some driving force was literally pushing him into Sally’s arms.
Night after night he dreamed of her, the Sally of the rosy firelight, never of the grey dawn. In his dreams he loved more than was reasonable or quite seemly in one of his age and position, and was ever the Prince Charming watching over the slumbers of the Sleeping Beauty, and waiting breathlessly, thrillingly, for the magic moment when he should wake her with a kiss. He invariably awoke just before the vision materialised, and thought a little peevishly that he had not much luck in his dreams. He always awoke just a second too soon!
Once out of his dream, or lying awake in the early morning, he became more or less sensible again; and if it was a losing battle he fought, and in his heart of hearts he knew it, he still fought on.
He must have Sally, he would have Sally, cried the old Adam, to be amended by the wiser self, who said that certainly he should have Sally—not because others thought he ought to, but because he wished it, and it was right that he should.
He refused to be rushed or do anything in a hurry, and yet a burning impatience filled him. He sought safety in flight, but he could not fly from that surging insistent thing striving for life and utterance within him.
The toils were closing round Mr. Alfred Bingley.
chapter xxi
“I think he’s set on not getting better—dying belike, Miss Sally”
Mr. Lovelady was preaching, and his congregation was, for the most part, doing everything but listen. Church was the sort of place in which you thought things well out.
He preached from the text, ‘They that go down to the sea in ships, and have their business in deep waters,’ and pointed out what a new and terrible significance these words had come to mean. It was a moving little sermon, almost eloquent. It moved Mr. Bingley, for before he sat down to his luxurious repast he posted a cheque for five pounds to a sailors’ orphanage. He had a heart for the child victims of the war.
He had not spoken to Sally since the moor adventure, and it was a little difficult to greet her as if nothing had happened, with so many looking on, but he managed it well enough.
“Quite a good sermon,” he was pleased to say.
“Oh, I like the one about Lot’s wife best,” said Miss Maggie, coming up to them; “so original. One can hear it several times and still find it that. I thought it was the turn for it to-day. So unusual for a man to own a wife is bound to look back!”
Mr. Bingley shook Miss Maggie from him, so to speak, and fled. He had unfortunately to shake Sally from him also, for Miss Maggie had her in her clutches.
“How charming you look!” gushed the spinster, “so different from the other morning! How bored you must have got with his conversation.”
“Mr. Bingley can be quite amusing.”
“Really! And was the other one you got lost with amusing? How bilious he looked! I always think that the wife suffers most from her husband’s indigestion, don’t you?”
“I don’t happen to have a husband.”
“Oh, my dear, don’t give in so soon! A man like that, too—always having dead relations. He must have been born under a lucky star, as the saying is. With us, just as you think it’s about time you got an invitation to a funeral, you get one to a wedding, which simply means more of them.”
Miss Lydia came listlessly up to them.
“If the worst comes to the worst, there’s Canada, where husbands grow on every bush, they say. Oh, that’s the place for women getting on!”
Lydia wondered why it had not occurred to her to go to Canada some years back. Why must she think of everything too late, be for ever viewing the might-have-beens?
“Canada!” gasped Sally. “I had a friend who married a rancher, and I happen to know what it means. Good Lord, that’s the last thing I would do!”
“It would be your own home and your own husband,” said Miss Lydia, “and think what it would mean to him! You’d be building the Empire through your work and children—”
“Yes, and be working like a slave! Give me civilisation every time!”
“And a good income,” giggled Miss Maggie, “and someone to pay the piper. Well, after a night on the moors—”
“You can get lost with anybody—”
“So it seems,” agreed the spinster, “so it seems!”
Mr. Lovelady came out of church, and Sally went off with him. He was looking very tired.
She slipped her arm through his, and began in her energetic fashion to post up the hill.
“My dear,” said Mr. Lovelady, a little breathlessly, “there is no great hurry.”
“Sorry, dear. Why, it seems only the other day you used to race me up this hill, and win!”
“Rather a long day, I think,” he sighed. He knew he would never race up a hill again. Each time he felt walking up it more. “My dearest, I’m so thankful that absurd gossip has died down about you and Bingley, and that you are not encouraging his attentions any more. He’s not worthy of my Sally.”
She squeezed his arm. “Oh, blind Lovey! Ducky darling, do you think I could have a pair of shot silk stockings, and those new high boots? Something chaste and striking. They strike you first, and you think how chaste afterwards. If you really can afford them?”
He afforded them, though they seemed to him very small and trifling details to cost so much. “It will be awkward if you marry a poor man,” he said thoughtfully.
Sally’s mouth closed tightly. She had no intention of doing anything of the sort. Three thousand pounds per annum, with more to come, was not poverty.
“You’re not out for romance at thirty-one; it’s business,” she thought. She made an impatient sound. That wretched man again! Why should his eyes haunt her so? What was it they asked of her all the time?
She went off to the moors to see.
On the way she ran into Miss Maggie, who had a sheaf of letters for the post, and thrust them hastily into the slit as Sally appeared.
“What a coincidence, meeting you again!” she said. “We always seem to be coming across each other, don’t we? You off to the moors, and I posting letters!” She seemed very amused.
Ever since she had chanced upon her ‘clue’ she had been extremely busy running the scent to earth. She wrote to the managers of certain Italian hotels, explaining how she had lost sight of some very dear friends for years, but had last heard of them at such a place on such a date. Their name was Thompkins, a honeymoon couple, and their description so and so. She inclosed an International coupon and addressed envelope with each letter, and begged to be favoured with a reply.
The replies were slow in coming, and some of them were disappointing. It was taking time, but on the whole she was satisfied. She considered she was getting enough evidence for a divorce case, if necessary. She wanted it all in black and white. Poor Mrs. Randal, what a shock, but kinder that she should be told!
In the meanwhile she was very friendly to Sally, and encouraged her in the pursuit of Mr. Bingley. That also fitted in with her plans. She liked to see her victims crashing down from a great height.
“What a lot of letters you write, and such long ones!” said Sally unsuspiciously. “It bores me.”
“We poor spinsters have to do something,” said Miss Maggie deprecatingly, “even Lydia is knitting. She is knitting something for a soldier, poor fellow!—one of those sort of things one can’t get in or out of. She says they are not fussy in the trenches, and that it will keep him warm. It will certainly keep him busy. Talking about being busy, how Mrs. Dalton has launched out in clothes lately! Do you know, she has practically no money at all, but is putting it all into Mr. Bingley. It’s to be hoped that he won’t prove one of those bubble speculations that blow up when you least expect it. My dear, why don’t you accept the poor man?”
Sally made the obvious answer, “It’s usual to wait to be asked.”
“He’s walking about like a cat on hot bricks. One knows what that means. He gave Nina a box of chocolates with a dove on the box the other day. So touching!”
“Were they good chocolates?” asked Sally. “So often the picture is the best part.”
“The very best; the dear child was dreadfully sick twice. The devotion between them is really most touching. Such a pity you haven’t something like that—a dear little brother, say.”
Sally laughed.
“How gay you always are, whatever comes or goes. Such a light heart! After all, it is better for a woman to be too light than too heavy—better for having a good time, I mean. How you must miss Paris and Italy and your naughty, naughty pictures! Well, if you are going on the moors, we may as well go as far as the house together. Won’t you come in and have tea?”
“No, thank you.”
Miss Maggie gave her arm a playful pinch. “You do love the moors, don’t you? So many attractions! Naughty girl!”
Then she went into the house, and had a long gossip with Mrs. Gillet’s daughter, who acted as their maid-of all-work, and preferred Miss Maggie to the others. She was always ready to come into the kitchen for a talk, and made very little work in the house. Give her hot cakes for tea, and plenty of them, and Miss Maggie stood up for you through thick and thin!
Meanwhile Sally hurried on her errand, feeling very nervous and anxious about it, but hopeful of finding Robert Kantyre at home, as it was Sunday, and coming to some explanation. If there were any signs of insobriety she would return at once, and never seek him out again. It was horrible to think she should be haunted like this by a man who not only drank, but who had insulted her.
As she passed Moor-end Farm, Gillet came out of the door and ran after her. “Oh, Miss Sally, I’m rare glad you’ve come up,” he exclaimed thankfully; “I didn’t know what to do or nothink. Pore chap!”
Sally felt herself turn white and sick. She was too late, he had passed through the ever-open door this time. Now, too late, she realised what she had seen in his eyes; he was asking her to help him, to save him, and she had left him to his fate.
Gillet caught her by the arm. “Oh, Miss Sally, you be took queer!”
“No, no, I’m all right now. You mean Mr.—you mean White? He’s dead?” Her stiff lips could hardly frame the words.
“Not dead yet, miss, but going that way. He won’t help hisself.”
“How did it happen?”
“Oh, I didn’t notice naught at first. Then one day when he was working he crumpled up like with pain; but he come next day, and said it was naught. But he was took worse, and yesterday we had to carry him to The Hut, and there he lies, miss, not saying anything, but looking awful.”
“Poison?” she got out.
“Oh no, some of his innards gone wrong-like. Maybe this here appendicitus, but he won’t see no doctor.”
“He must.”
“You talk to him, Miss Sally. It’s wonderful the power you have over him. You mind the last time you come up to talk to him about the drink? I thought he was set in it, that nothink would save him, but arter you spoke to him, not a drop did he touch.”
Sally stood very still for a moment, her face whiter than ever. “Are you sure?” she got out at last.
“I could take my oath upon it in a court of law. Don’t look so upset, missie, maybe you can help him again and make him see the doctor, and put some heart in him.”
“Yes, yes, he must see Dr. Hill.”
“You see, it’s like this. I think he’s set on not getting better—dying belike, Miss Sally.”
Sally ran to The Hut.
chapter xxii
“Will you stay with me to the end?”
She was almost as panic-stricken as when she had run from the cattle. On each occasion it seemed like running a race with death—and losing.
She looked in at the cracked window-pane, fearing she knew not what; perhaps a still form lying under a sheet, and the last long silence; but it had not come to that yet. The door into the inner room was open, and a pale face lay on a pillow with closed eyes. Robert Kantyre certainly looked ill, but he did not seem to be in pain.
He seemed to know by instinct that she had noiselessly entered The Hut, for his eyes opened instantly. There was the same haunting appeal in them.
“I never thought to see you again,” he said weakly.
Sally sat down on a chair by the bed, and took his hand in both hers. “That was a very silly thing to think,” she said reproachfully.
His hand trembled. “I offended beyond forgiveness.”
“You did not offend at all,” she retorted, “that was somebody else, a somebody you have conquered and overthrown. Gillet told me. I think you are splendid; I wish I could be fine like that. I can only dimly guess what the struggle must have meant. And now, poor dear, you have the last heroic fight before you—to get well and strong.”
Robert’s face had lightened at her first words, but now the light died out of it, and an intense weariness took its place.
“I would not take the other way out now,” he said, “but this makes everything so simple.”
“It will be cowardice again, all the same,” she scolded; “the line of least resistance, suicide to all intents and purposes. Of course you are ill, but think how strong you are. We are going to pull you through whether you like it or not, but don’t throw all the work on us. Gillet is waiting outside, and I am going to send him for Dr. Hill.”
Robert half raised himself. “I won’t see him!” he cried angrily.
“Oh yes, you will, and you’ll like him too.” She went outside and gave Gillet the message.
“You don’t allow a fellow body or soul of his own,” burst out the patient when she returned. “It’s been like that from the moment I saw you.”
“And it’s going on like that, or till you are out of the wood,” she returned, “and there’s a sound mind in a sound body. Have you any idea what is wrong?”
“It feels like an old bullet broken loose, or something. The pain is very sudden, both going and coming, and seems to move about. When I got it fifteen years ago I was warned drink might set up mischief.”
“You will tell Dr. Hill? You need not tell him anything else. People do not guess the truth, but they do suspect you are not a real working-man. You are free from pain now?”
“Yes, just numb after the last attack.”
“Is it bad?”
He did not answer for a moment; then he said, “It isn’t pleasant.”
It was indeed excruciating. He had never been ill in his life, and this, his first experience of weakness, seemed to him extreme. A young giant with the strength of an ox now unable to raise his head. That could mean only one thing—death. The fainting weariness too, that was its preliminary. He wished it were over. He felt he had only to ‘let go’ to be done with life. Yet Sally’s black eyes, so soft, so vital, seemed as if they sought to drag him back. Back to what? To horrible memories, outlawry, a shameful and intolerable existence. He would not look in Sally’s eyes any longer. To be quite on the safe side he closed his own. At the same time his grasp tightened on the girl’s hand.
“You are going to do your best?” she said insistently.
“That’s not much use if one’s hour has struck, Sally,” the named slipped out unconsciously, “you will stay with me to the end?”
Sally turned white and sick, and was horribly afraid. Then she flicked his hand lightly, and said, “End—what end? I never heard such rubbish! I will go away and stay away if you are going to play the coward.” She got up as if to go. “Now I name my price. I’ll stay with you as much as you like if you’ll play the game like a soldier and fight and fight.”
“Oh, very well,” he grumbled crossly. His hand felt for hers.
She sat down again and took it in her own. “You must keep quiet and not talk any more till Dr. Hill comes.”
