NEXT day the brother and sister went out riding by themselves. The game had been but poorly preserved during Lady Car’s sway, and had not been of great importance at any time, so that Tom’s time was by no means absorbed by the shooting to be had, and Janet had begged for one long ride with him before he went back to school. It was a bright September afternoon, the air crisp with an autumnal chill, enough to make the somewhat sluggish blood thrill in the veins of the boy and girl, who were so like each other and had a certain attachment to each other—more strong, as was natural, on Janet’s side than on Tom’s. Lady Car had come out to the door to see them ride away. ‘Take care of Janet,’ she had said. Beaufort’s warning look, and her own consciousness, very different from that of Beaufort, that what she said would not bear the least weight, prevented her from saying more. But perhaps she looked more as she followed them with anxious eyes. ‘Don’t, Carry,’ her husband said as he drew her into the house—‘don’t show any distrust of the boy.’
‘Distrust?’ she said. ‘I don’t think he cares what I show.’
‘My love! don’t think so badly of the children.’
‘Oh, no; I don’t think badly of them. They are so young, they don’t know; but it is true all the same. They don’t mind how I look, Edward: which must be my blame and not theirs,’ she added, with a faint smile; ‘how should it be theirs? It is only part of the failure. Some people make no impression on—anyone. They are ineffective, like what you say of a wall-paper or a piece of furniture.’
‘These are strange things to say,’ said Beaufort, gravely.
‘Silly things,’ said Lady Car. ‘If you are not busy, let us take a stroll about the gardens. I have not been out to-day.’
She knew he was not busy, and she had given over even wishing him to be so. Desire grows faint with long deception and disappointment; but he was always kind—ready to stroll in the gardens or anything she pleased.
‘What did mother think I was going to do with you? Take you round by the Red Scaur and break your neck?’ Tom said to Janet.
‘Oh!’ cried Janet to Tom, with wide-open eyes; then added in a low tone, ‘that was where father was killed. I have never been there.’
‘And I’m not going to take you there. It’s all shut up ever since. But I’ll tell you what we’ll do, Jan. We’ll have a long spin—as far as Blackmore’s farm.’
‘Blackmore’s farm! That is the place——’
He gave a loud laugh.
‘Well, and what then? A thing may happen once and not again. They were tremendous friends of father’s. I don’t mean friends like—like the Erskines and so forth. Blackmore’s not a gentleman, but he’s a rattling good fellow. And you should just see his stables. There’s one hunter I’d buy in a minute if I had my liberty. It’s ten miles, or perhaps a little more. Perhaps you’re not up to that.’
‘Oh, yes, I’m quite up to it. But I wonder if we should go—it gets dark so soon—and perhaps mother——’
‘Oh, bother mother!’ cried the boy. ‘We can’t at our age be always stopping to consider what an old lady thinks.’
‘Mother’s not an old lady, Tom.’
‘She’s a great deal older than we are, or she couldn’t be our mother. Come, Jan, are you game for a long spin? It’s almost the last time these holidays. Hurrah, then, off we go!’ And off they went in a wild career, Janet following breathless, gasping, her dark hair flying behind her, her hat often in danger, wherever he led. She would not allow that she had any fear; but it was a long ride, and the way was confused by the cross cuts which Tom knew only imperfectly, and which made it longer, besides leading them over moors and across fields which excited their horses and kept the young riders at a full strain, to which Janet’s immature powers were quite unaccustomed. She was dreadfully dishevelled and shaken to pieces upon their arrival at the large rough establishment to which her brother had already paid many visits, and where they were received by a chorus of innumerable dogs and lounging men whose appearance was very alarming to Janet. They looked like keepers, she thought, or grooms, not like people who would naturally be greeted as friends, which was what Tom was doing, shaking hands with the big and bearded master of the house and the younger man, presumably his son, and calling out salutations in as good an imitation of the broad country dialect as he could accomplish to the others. Janet was aware that her own aspect was very wild, and she was very tired; but she clung to her saddle when that big gamekeeper approached with a mixture of pride and shame. ‘So this is your sister, Maister Tom? Charlie, cry on your mother,’ cried the man; ‘the mistress will be here in a moment, missie. Let me lift ye down.’
‘No, no,’ Janet said, ‘we can’t wait long. We must soon go back, it will be dark. Oh, Tom, we must get back.’
‘Nonsense, Jan! Now I’ve got here I mean to stay awhile. And Blackmore’s awfully jolly; he’ll take you through the stables. Come, jump down.’
‘Cry upon your mother, Charlie,’ said Blackmore again. ‘The young leddy thinks we’re a’ men folk here, and she’s frichtened. But ye must not be frichtened, my bonnie doo. Hey, Marget, where’s the mistress? And the powney’s a’ in a lather. Pit your hand upon my shoulder if you’ll no let me lift ye down.’
When Janet saw a woman appear at the door hurrying out in a cap and a white apron, she allowed herself to be lifted from her horse, feeling all the time as if she had fallen into some strange adventures such as were described in books, not anything that would happen to girls like herself in common life. She did not know that she might not be detained, locked up somewhere, forced to sign something, or to come under some fatal obligation as happened to the heroines of some old-fashioned novels which she had found in the library at the Towers. The mist of fatigue and alarm in her eyes made her even more confused than it was natural she should be in so new and unexpected a scene. And the rough and dingy house, the clamour of the dogs, the heavy steps of the man who followed her in, the sense of her own dishevelled and disorderly condition, and of the distance from home, quite overcame poor Janet. ‘Oh, Tom, let us go home,’ she cried, in an agony of compunction and fear.
‘Is it Miss Torrance from the Towers? Dear me, but it’s a long ride for her—over long—and a wild road. But you must rest a little now you’re here, and I’ll get you a cup of tea,’ said the woman of the house. She was a fresh-coloured, buxom woman, not at all like a brigand’s housekeeper, and she smiled upon Janet with encouraging kindly looks. ‘I’m real glad to see your sister, Maister Tom; but you’re a thoughtless laddie to bring her so far, and her not accustomed to rough riding. Marget, is the kettle boiling—for the young leddie must have some tea?’
‘And you can bring in the hot water, and a’ the rest of it,’ said Blackmore, ‘for us that are no so fond of tea—eh, Maister Tom? After your ride a good glass will do ye nae harm.’
Janet sat still and gazed while these hospitable preparations were going on. The large table was covered with oilcloth, not unconscious of stains. And the men gathered round one side upon which a tray with ‘the hot water’ and a black bottle and a strange array of glasses, big and little, had been placed. This seemed the first thing thought of in the house; for Marget, the big servant-woman (everything was big), brought the tray, pushing open the door with it as she bore it in in front of her before the order had been given. And presently the fumes of the hot ‘toddy’ filled the room, pungent and strong, making Janet feel faint and sick. The men flung themselves into chairs or stood about, filling the other end of the room—a small, rough, dark crowd, with Tom in the midst. They were all very ‘kind’ to Tom, patting him on the shoulder, addressing him by name, filling his glass for him, while Janet, alone at the end of the table, looked on alarmed. The mistress was bringing out from a cupboard cups and saucers, a basin of sugar, and other preparations for tea.
‘It would do the little miss far more good to taste a glass o’ my brew, and put some colour into her cheeks,’ said the master of the house.
‘Haud your tongue, goodman, and leave the young lady to me. Tak’ you care what you’re about. You’ll get both yoursel’ and other folk into trouble if you dinna pay attention.’
‘Toots! a glass will harm naebody,’ Blackmore said.
‘I want my sister to see that mare,’ said Tom—‘that mare, you know, Blackmore, that you said you’d keep for me. I want her to see the stables. I told her all about you, and that you were tremendous friends——’
‘Ah, laddie!’ said Blackmore, ‘the sight of you brings many a thing back. Many and many’s the time that your father——’
‘I told her so,’ said Tom with his glass in his hands. ‘Here’s to all of you. And I mean to stick to father’s friends.’
‘Tom!’ cried Janet with a start. The smell of the whisky, the crowd of men, the loud voices and sound of their feet upon the floor, scarcely deadened by the thin carpet, scared her altogether. ‘Oh, Tom,’ she said, ‘I’m too tired to see anything. Let us get home—oh, let us get home!’ and overcome by excitement and confusion, Janet began to cry.
‘My bonnie dawtie,’ said the mistress, ‘wait till ye get your tea.’
‘Oh, let us get home,’ cried Janet; ‘it will soon be dark. I’m frightened to ride after it is dark. All those dreadful roads! Oh, Tom, let us get home—oh, Tom, let us get home!’
‘Maister Tom,’ said the mistress, ‘it’s true she says. It’s not fit for a bit thing like her to be gallopin’ a’ those uncivilised roads in the dark. Charlie shall put in one of the horses in the dog-cart and drive her hame.’
‘That will I,’ said Charlie, rising with a great deal of noise. He was the best looking of the young men, and he put down his steaming glass with alacrity. ‘I’ll put in Spanker, and she’ll gang like the wind.’
‘Ye’ll have to be very canny with her, for she’s awfu’ fresh,’ said another of the men.
‘Don’t be a fool, Jan,’ cried the boy; ‘she’ll ride home fast enough. And I’m not going to have it; do you hear, Charlie? What’s the good of making a fuss? I’m not going to have it,’ he cried, stamping his foot. ‘Do you want to get me into a row? Why, I as good as gave my word——’
He stopped short himself, and they all paused. Janet too, hastily choking the sob in her throat, gazed at him with a startled look.
‘Maybe it was never to come back here that ye gave your word, Mr. Tom?’ said Blackmore rising up; ‘I would guess that by the looks of ye. Well, ye’ll keep your word, my young man; at least, ye’ll as near keep it as is possible now. Charlie, out with the cairt, man! what are ye waiting for? and take the young lady hame. It was nane of her own will, that’s clear, that brought her here. Ye can say that; if it was his fault, it’s clear that it was nane of hers. Ye had better take him on behint, and we’ll send the horses back the morn.’
‘By Jove,’ shouted Tom, ‘I’ll not be taken on behind! I’ll ride my own horse or I’ll not stir a step—and catch me ever coming out with her again,’ he cried with an oath which made the heart which was beating so wildly in Janet’s breast drop down, down to her shoes. But when she found herself in the dog-cart by Charlie Blackmore’s side, wrapped up warm, and flying like the wind, behind Madam Spanker who was so fresh, Janet’s sensations turned into a consciousness of bien-être which was very novel and very sweet. She had been persuaded to take the cup of tea. She had even eaten a bit of scone with fresh butter and marmalade, which was very good. A warm shawl was wrapped round her shoulders; and the delicious sensation of repose and warmth over her tired limbs, while yet sweeping at so great a pace over the country, with the wind in her face and the long darkling roads flying past, was delightful to Janet. The sound of Tom’s horse’s hoofs galloping, now behind, now in advance, added to the sense of supreme comfort and pleasure. She had been so tired, and the prospect of riding back had been so terrible. She felt as if flying through the air, which caressed her cheek, as, warmly tucked in by Charlie Blackmore’s side, she was carried home. Charlie was very ‘kind’—almost unnecessarily kind. He spoke loud in her ear, with intonations at which Janet wondered vaguely, finding them very pleasant. He told her a great many things about himself, how he had never intended to stay at home ‘among the beasts’: how he had been a session at college and meant to go back again: how he had once hoped to be something very much better than a horse-couper like his father, and how to-day all his ambition had come back. Swept along so lightly, so smoothly, with such ease, with such warmth and comfort, almost leaning against Charlie Blackmore’s strong shoulder, with his voice in her ear, and the sweetness of the wind in her face, Janet felt herself held in a delightful trance almost like sleep, yet which was not sleep, or how could she have felt the pleasure that was in it? It was only when the drive was almost over, and the mare made a whirl into the avenue, scarcely to be held in till the gates were opened, and, flying after that momentary enforced pause like an arrow under the dark waving of the trees, that her heart suddenly sprang up with a sickening throb at the thought of what mother would say. Janet had been in a sort of paradise. She came down now in a moment to all the anguishes of earth. She broke in upon something Charlie Blackmore was saying with the utmost inattention and inconsequence. ‘Can you hear Tom?’ she said. ‘Oh, where is he? Tom, Tom!’
‘He is just behint us; don’t be frightened. He is all safe,’ said Charlie, casting a glance behind.
The mare made a start at this moment, and, straining at the curb, bounded on again. Someone had come out upon the road almost under her nose—a dark figure, which just eluded the wheel, and from which came a voice almost echoing Janet’s—
‘Is that Tom?’
‘Oh, it’s me, Beau,’ cried Janet wildly, ‘and Tom’s behind.’ She was carried on so quickly that half the words were lost.
‘Was that your stepfather? They will be anxious about ye. I would say’—Charlie made a little pause to secure her attention—‘I would say you were passing near our place, never thinking ye had come so far, and that my mother came out to ye, seeing ye so tired, and bid me to bring you hame in the cairt—that’s what I would say.’
‘Say!’ cried Janet, fully roused up. ‘Do you mean that I should tell mother that? But it would be a lie.’
‘’Deed, and so it would,’ said the young man with a shamefaced laugh. ‘But to make an excuse for yourself is aye pardonable, do ye no think? And then it would save Mr. Tom. Be you sure now my father knows he’s given his word against it, he shall never be asked into our house more.’
‘Oh,’ said Janet, ‘I could not say anything I had made up. When the moment comes and mother looks at me, I can only say—what has happened.’
‘But nothing has happened,’ said Charlie. ‘Except,’ he added, ‘one thing, that I’ll maybe tell you about some day. But that has happened to me, and not to you. Miss Janet, you’ll not forget me clean altogether?’
‘Oh, how should I forget you,’ cried Janet with a sob, ‘when I know I shall get into such dreadful trouble as I never was in before in all my life! Oh, mother!’
The girl had thrown off her wraps and tumbled down from the dog-cart, almost before it had stopped, into the middle of the group on the steps, which consisted of Lady Car, wrapped in a great shawl, her sister, and half the servants in the house.
‘Janet! Oh, where have you been? And where is Tom? What has happened?—tell me,’ cried Lady Car, taking her daughter by the arms and gazing into her eyes with an agonised question. The arrival of the cart at such headlong speed seemed to give a sort of certainty to all the fears that had been taking shape among the watchers.
‘Oh, Mozer!’ Janet cried, her childish outcry coming back in the extremity of her apprehension and consciousness. But Charlie Blackmore, with his wits about him, called out from the cart, ‘There’s nothing wrong. Mr. Tom he’s just behind. They’ve ridden owre far and wearied themselves. Mr. Tom he’s just behind. But my mare’s fresh—she’ll no’ stand. Let go her head, dash ye! Do ye hear? She’ll no stand.’
The little incident of the mare whirling round, the gravel flying under her feet, the groom recoiling backwards, turning an unintentional summersault upon the grass, made a pause in which everybody took breath.
‘Thank God!’ cried Lady Car, ‘if that’s all. Is that all? You are not concealing anything, dear?’
Janet stood in the hall when she had managed to twist out of her mother’s hold. Her eyes had a wild sparkle in them, dazzled from the night; her hair was hanging dank about her shoulders; her hat tied on with Mr. Blackmore’s handkerchief. She looked dazed, speechless, guilty, with fear in her face and in her soul. She looked as if she might be—have had the habit of being—struck and beaten, standing trembling before her mother, who had never harmed a fly in all her gentle life.
‘Mother, we went too far; and then the—woman came out—the—the lady, and said I was too tired. He was to drive me home.’
‘Well! and that was all? God be thanked there has been no accident! But where is Tom?’
‘Mr. Tom is just coming up the avenue, my lady,’ said one of the men.
‘Then all is right, and there was really nothing to be afraid of,’ said Lady Car, with an agitated laugh.
Was Janet to be let off so easily? She stood watching her mother with uneasy alarm, while all attention was diverted to Tom, who jumped off his horse in a similar pale suspicion and fear, but with brows more lowering and eyes half shadowed by the eyelids. Tom had made up his mind as he came along what he was to do. He did not wait for the outburst of scolding which he expected. ‘It wasn’t my fault,’ he said, with a gleam of his shadowed eyes to where Beaufort was coming in behind him. ‘She had made up her mind she would see the mare, and I had to take her. I knew it was too far.’
Janet stood aghast with her mouth open taking in every word. A cry of protest rose up in her breast, which she had just comprehension enough to stifle. ‘Never mind just now, my boy,’ said Beaufort; ‘all’s well that ends well: but you have given your mother a great fright. You can tell me after how it was.’
‘I’d better tell you at once,’ Tom repeated. ‘She had set her heart on seeing the mare. There was no harm, I suppose, in telling her about the mare. And I thought she was more game than she is. That’s all about it. I thought we could have gone into the stables without seeing—the people you made me promise about, Beau. But I couldn’t help it when I saw how tired she was. And Charlie drove her home—that’s all.’
The cry of protest in Janet’s throat did not get utterance, but it produced a gasp of horror and astonishment as she stood staring in her mother’s face. She could not look at Tom. Lady Car was looking at him unsuspectingly with her faint smile—that smile which Janet felt meant something more than anyone thought. And there was no more said.