Read Ebook: Mr. Carteret and Others by Gray David

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Ebook has 618 lines and 19191 words, and 13 pages

Nevertheless, he still protested that it was absurd, that the affair was over. Even if there were no Wynford, he knew that she would never change her mind; and, then, there was Wynford. Even now he was sitting beside her only because her eyes were sightless, because she herself was away. When she came back, it would be trespass to remain. He was in another's place. It was Wynford who ought to have found her.

If he could have stolen away he would have done so. But that being impossible, he fell to watching her as if she were not herself, but a room that she had once lived in--a room that he too had known, that was delightful with associations and fragrant with faint memory-stirring perfumes. And yet, though the tenant seemed to be away, was it not after all her very self that was before him? There was the treasure of her brown hair, with the gold light in it, tumbled in heaps about her head; there was the face that had been for him the loveliness of early morning in gardens, that had haunted him in the summer perfume of clover-fields and in the fragrance of night-wrapped lawns. There was the slim, rounded figure that once had brought the blood into his face as it brushed against him. There were the hands whose touch was so smooth and cool and strong. Presently he found himself wiping the mud from her cheek as if he were enacting a ritual over some holy thing. He looked around. No human being was in sight. The afternoon sun shone mildly. In the hedgerow some little birds twittered pleasantly, and sang their private little songs.

Suddenly she opened her eyes. She looked up at him, knew him, and smiled.

"Hello, Carty," she said in her low, vibrant tones. A thrill ran through him. It was the way it used to be.

"You've had a bad fall," he said. "How do you feel?"

A little laugh came into her eyes. "How do I look?" she murmured.

"You're coming out all right," he said; "but you mustn't talk just yet."

"If I want to," she said slowly. Her eyes laughed again. "If I want to, I'll talk."

"No," said Mr. Carteret.

"Hear him boss!" she murmured. She looked up at him for a moment, and then her eyes closed. But it was not the same. The lashes lay more lightly, and a tinge of color had come into her cheeks. He sat and watched her, his mind a confusion, a great gladness in his heart.

In a little while she opened her eyes as before. "Hello, Carty," she began, but Mr. Carteret's attention was attracted by the sound of wheels in the lane. He saw an old pha?ton, driven by a farmer, coming toward them.

The man saw him, and stopped. "Is this the place where a lady was hurt?" he asked.

"Yes," said Mr. Carteret. "How did you know?"

"A boy told me," said the farmer.

"I see," said Mr. Carteret.

At first she was independent and persisted in walking to the trap by herself. But as they drove off, she began to sway, and caught herself on his arm. After a moment she looked at him helplessly; a little smile shone in her eyes and curved the corners of her mouth. At the next jolt her head settled peacefully upon his shoulder. Her eyes closed. She seemed to be asleep.

They drove on at a walk, the led horses following. The shadows lengthened, the gold light of the afternoon grew more golden. They passed through the ancient village of Tibberton and heard the rooks calling in the parsonage trees. They passed through Normanhurst Park, under oaks that may have sheltered Robin Hood, and the rooks were calling there. In the silent stretches of the road they heard the first thrushes and the evening singing of the warblers. And every living thing, bird, tree, and grass, bore witness that it was spring.

For two hours Mr. Carteret hardly breathed. He was riding in the silver bubble of a dream; a breath, and it might be gone. At the Abbey, perforce, there was an end of it. He roused her quietly, and she responded. She was able to walk up the steps on his arm, and stood till the bell was answered. When he left her in the confusion inside she gave him her hand. It had the same cool, smooth touch as of old, but its strength was gone. It lay in his hand passive till he released it. "Good night," he said, and hurrying out, he mounted his horse and rode away. He passed some people coming back from hunting, and they seemed vague and unreal. He seemed unreal himself. He almost doubted if the whole thing were not illusion; but on the shoulder of his scarlet coat clung a thread that glistened as the evening sun fell upon it, and a fragrance that went into his blood like some celestial essence.

When he got home, the afterglow was dying in the west. The rooks were hushed, the night was already falling, and the lamps were lit. As he passed through his hallway, there came the touch of a cold nose and the one little lick upon his hand. "Get down, Penwiper," he said unthinkingly, and went on.

That week, before they let her see people, Mr. Carteret lived in a world that had only its outward circumstances in the world where others lived. He made no attempt to explain it or to justify it or yet to leave it. Several of his friends noticed the change in him, and ascribed it to the vague abstraction of biliousness.

It was a raw Sunday afternoon and he was standing before the fire in the Abbey library, when Miss Rivers came noiselessly, unexpectedly, in. Mrs. Ascott-Smith, who was playing piquet with the Major, started up in surprise. Miss Rivers had been ordered not to leave her room till the next day.

"But I'm perfectly well," said the girl; "I couldn't stand it any longer. They wouldn't so much as tell me the day of the month." Then for the first time she saw Mr. Carteret. "Why, Carty!" she exclaimed. "How nice it is to see you!"

"Thank you," he answered. Their eyes met, and he felt his heart beating. As for Miss Rivers, she flushed, dropped her eyes, and turned to Mrs. Ascott-Smith.

"My dear young lady," said the Major, impressively, as he glanced through his cards, "it is highly imprudent of you to disobey the doctor. Always obey the doctor. I once knew a charming young lady--"

"I hope I'm not rude," she interrupted, "but I might as well die of concussion as die of being bored."

"But you had such a very bad toss, my dear," said Mrs. Ascott-Smith.

"What one doesn't remember, doesn't trouble one," observed the girl. "In a sense it hasn't happened." She paused and then went on with a carelessness that was a little overdone: "What did happen, anyway? The usual things, I fancy? I suppose somebody picked me up and brought me home."

Mr. Carteret's face was a mask.

"But you remember that!" exclaimed Mrs. Ascott-Smith.

"I don't remember anything," said Miss Rivers, "until one evening I woke up in bed and heard the rooks calling in the park."

"My dear," said Mrs. Ascott-Smith, "you said good-by to him in the hallway, and thanked him, and then you walked up-stairs with a footman at your elbow."

Mr. Carteret walked toward the window as if he were watching the pheasant that was strutting across the lawn.

Mrs. Ascott-Smith folded her cards in her hand and looked at the girl in amazement. "Mr. Carteret found you in a field," she said, "not far from Crumpelow Hill and brought you home. You said good-by to him."

At the mention of Mr. Carteret's name the girl's hand felt for the back of a chair, as if to steady herself. Then, as the color rushed into her face, aware of it, she stepped back into the shadow. Mrs. Ascott-Smith continued to gaze. Presently Miss Rivers turned to Mr. Carteret. "This is a surprise to me," she said in a voice like ice. "How much I am in your debt, you better than any one can understand."

He turned as if a blow had struck him, and looked at her. Her eyes met his unflinchingly, colder than her words, withering with resentment and contempt. Mrs. Ascott-Smith opened her cards again and began to count: "Tierce to the king and a point of five," she muttered vaguely. Her mind and the side glance of her eyes were upon the girl and the young man. What did it mean? "A point of five," she repeated.

Mr. Carteret hesitated a moment; he feared to trust his voice. Then he gathered himself and bowed to Mrs. Ascott-Smith. "I have people coming to tea; I must be off. Good night." His impulse was to pass the girl with the formality of a bow, but he checked it. With an effort he stopped. "Good night," he said and put out his hand. Her eyes met his without a glimmer of expression. She was looking through him into nothing. His hand dropped to his side. His face grew white. He went on and out. As the door closed behind him he heard Mrs. Ascott-Smith counting for the third time, "Tierce to the king, and a point of five."

He reached his house. In his own hallway he was giving orders that he was not at home when he felt the cold nose and the one little lick, and looking down, he saw the sad eyes fixed upon his. He went down the passageway to the smoking-room, and the patter of following feet was at his heels. He closed the door, dropped into a chair, gave a nod of assent, and Penwiper jumped into his arms.

When he could think, he constructed many explanations for the mystery of her behavior, and dismissed them successively because they did not explain. Why she should resent so bitterly his having brought her home was inexplicable on any other ground than that she was still out of her head. He would insist upon an explanation, but, after all, what difference could it make? Whatever reason there might be, the important fact was that she had acted as she had. That was the only fact which mattered. Her greeting of him when she first opened her eyes, the drive home, the parting in the hallway, were all things that had never happened for her. For him they were only dreams. He must force them out into the dim region of forgotten things.

On the next Tuesday he saw her at the meet--came upon her squarely, so that there was no escaping. She was pale and sick-looking, and was driving herself in a pony trap. He lifted his hat, but she turned away. After he had ridden by, he turned back and, stopping just behind her, slipped off his horse. "Sally," he said, "I want to speak to you."

She looked around with a start. "I should prefer not," she answered.

"You must," he said. "I have a right--"

"Do you talk to me about your right?" she said. Her gray eyes flashed.

He met her anger steadily. "I do," he replied. "You can't treat me in this way."

"How else do you deserve to be treated?" she demanded fiercely.

"What do you mean?" he said.

"You know what I mean," she retorted. "You know what you did."

"What I did!" he exclaimed. "What have I done?"

"Why do you act this way, Carty?" she said wearily. "Why do you make matters worse?"

He looked at her in perplexity. "Don't you believe me," he said, "when I tell you that I don't know what you mean?"

"How can I believe you," she answered, "when I have the proof that you do?"

"The proof?" he echoed. "What proof?"

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