JANET went upon no more expeditions with Tom. His lie struck her like a shot, going through all her defences. She had almost lied for him, according to Charlie Blackmore’s instructions; lied, or at least suppressed the truth, giving her mother to understand that there was no purpose at all in their ride, but only that they had gone too far—to save him, that he might not be blamed. But when Tom arrived with his lie all ready, in which there was no hesitation, Janet, standing aghast looking on, too much startled to contradict him or say a word, felt as if he had suddenly landed a blow at her, flung an arrow like the savages she had read of—which went through and through, cutting not only to her heart, but to the last refuge of her intelligence, the recesses of her not too lively brain. It was not only pain, but a painful desire to understand, which moved her. Why did he do it? What did he mean by it? It seemed almost impossible to believe that it was only the familiar childish effort to clear himself by blaming her. ‘It’s Janet—it’s not me.’ She had said herself in the nursery days, ‘It’s not me—it’s Tom,’ in the sudden shock of a fault found out. Was that all he meant, or was it something more? Tom’s explanation afterwards did not mend matters.
‘Well!’ he said, ‘it was you—you know you wanted to see the mare. I told you you weren’t game for it, but you swore you were. And whose fault was it but yours for breaking down and letting it all out?—spoiling my fun in every way. For the Blackmores are as proud as the devil——’
‘Don’t speak like that,’ cried Janet with a shudder.
‘They are though, just as proud as the devil, though they’re nothing but horse-coupers. I knew I was done for when I said that I had given my word. The old man fired up like a rocket, and I’ll never be able to go there any more, which is all your fault.’
‘But, Tom; if you gave your word——’
‘Don’t be silly,’ cried Tom, ‘that’s not like giving your honour between you and another man. What’s Beau? he’s like one of the masters in school. They know you don’t mean it; they know you’ll get out of it if you can, and they’re always on the watch. Not the least like another fellow of your own sort that you give your honour to. Of course I should keep that. But mother or Beau is quite different. You’re forced to do that, and they know you never mean to keep it all the time.’
This reasoning silenced Janet, though it did not convince her. She did not know what reply to make. A boy’s code of honour was a thing she did not understand, and she had always been accustomed to serious discrepancies between his ideas of what was meant by a promise and her own. Their training had been the same, but Janet had always dumbly in the depths of her mind put a different meaning to words from that which Tom adopted. It was possible that his point of view might be right—for him—about giving one’s word to a master, or to Beau; but her mind returned to the question that concerned herself with a keener sentiment.
‘I don’t know about that,’ she said; ‘but you needn’t surely have said it was me?’
‘Why, I did it—to please you!’ cried Tom. ‘I thought you’d rather. They can’t do anything to you. And you never promised. And they can do a deal to me,’ said the boy reflectively. ‘They can stop all my fun—or nearly. They’ve got all my money, and whatever I say it does matter. People will take Beau’s word sooner than mine. But they can do nothing to you, a girl at home. Mother would never put you on bread and water, or shut you up in your room, or that sort of thing. You’ll have a jaw, and that will be all. Now they would never let me off with a jaw. I thought you’d be the first to say I should put it upon you, Jan.’
Once more Janet was silenced. She felt vaguely that to take it upon herself and to have the blame thrown upon her by another were two different things: but at the same time she felt the imputation of not having put herself in the breach at once to defend her brother. She had done so to her own consciousness, falteringly putting forth Charlie Blackmore’s fib. But Tom did not know that, and he thought her ungenerous, wanting to vindicate herself, not ready to screen him, so that she was silenced on all sides of the question, and could not make any stand. But in her heart Janet still felt the startling pang with which she heard him make his excuse. No doubt there had been already similar crises in her life: but she was no longer in the nursery age. This made her less anxious for his company during the rest of his stay before he went back to school, though Janet was staunch to his side, and refused to breathe a word to his disadvantage, even during the serious ‘jaw’ which she received. Lady Car’s ‘jaw’ however was very mild. She put her arm around the passively resisting girl, and talked to her of what was a woman’s duty. ‘A sister is such a thing for a boy,’ she said. ‘Often when he will not listen to anybody with authority he will listen to his sister; if, instead of going with him on wild expeditions, she tries to persuade him the other way—rather to go with her.’
Janet listened with a great sense of wrong in her heart, but she restrained everything that would harm Tom. All that she said was—
‘We went out merely for a ride, mother. We did not mean—to go anywhere.’
‘I am willing to believe that, Janet,’ said Lady Car. And there the incident ended, but not the effects of it. Nothing more followed indeed till Tom had gone, but the next day after that, Janet, going to her cousin’s at Dalrulzian, where she was allowed to ride alone upon the old pony, suddenly came upon Charlie Blackmore walking along the road. She recognised him with a leap of her heart. Oh, would he stop and talk? Oh, what would he say to her and she to him? It was with terror, yet with a thrill of pleasure as well, that Janet saw him start, as if he had suddenly seen her, and stand still until she came up. He meant to keep up the acquaintance it was clear.
‘Miss Torrance, I scarcely hoped I would have had this chance. It seemed ower good to be true.’
‘Oh, yes, it is me,’ said Janet, embarrassed.
‘You need not tell me that; I saw it was you as far off as een could carry,’ said Charlie, forgetting his dramatic start. ‘I hope you are quite well; but I need not ask, for you’re blooming like any rose.’
Janet felt herself grow red in reply to this compliment. She knew that she was usually pale, and did not bloom like the rose, but it was kind of him to say so. She had a consciousness that in books girls had generally things like this said to them, and she was not ill pleased.
‘I hope,’ said Charlie, ‘all passed off well, Miss Janet, yon night.’
‘Oh, yes,’ said Janet, ‘quite well.’
‘Mr. Tom never came back to bid us good-bye; and ’deed it was better not, for there’s always a rabble of loose fellows about a stable-yard, and he was just as well away. Young lads at his age are better to keep out of mischief—as long as they can.’
‘Tom has gone back to school,’ said Janet demurely.
‘Dod,’ cried Charlie, ‘it’s a droll thing to hear of a lad going back to school that’s man-grown like Mr. Tom. I had the care of all the beasts on my hands at his age; but he’ll be going in for Parliament and that kind o’ thing, and much learning, no doubt.’
‘Oh, no,’ said Janet; ‘he says it’s too much sap. He would like to be with the horses best.’
‘And are you fond of horses too, Miss Janet?’ said Blackmore with an ingratiating tone. ‘We’ve got a bonnie wee beast yonder that would just do for you. If Mr. Tom were the master himsel’ I would ask his leave to send it over to let you try it. It’s a bonnie little thing just fit for your riding. But I daur not take such a liberty,’ said Charlie, ‘while the auld folk are there.’
‘My mother is not old,’ said Janet with some indignation.
‘Na; not her ladyship; but there’s more than her. I would like to let you see that little beastie, Miss Janet. Some day if I should be this way with her—would you mount and try? You’re too good a rider for an old brute like that.’
‘Oh, mother would not be pleased,’ cried Janet alarmed.
‘It would do her ladyship no harm, for she need never know.—I’ll take my chance; if you will but say ye would like to see her.’
‘Oh——’ said Janet. But someone just then appeared on the road, and Blackmore took off his hat and hurried away. The girl was much disturbed by this encounter, but there was something in the little mystery of it that pleased her. She went on to Dalrulzian with her heart beating a little, thinking that Mr. Charlie was very kind. He was a man much older than Tom—almost twice as old. And he was a handsome fellow in his velvet coat, with a blue tie which was very becoming, and blue eyes which seemed to say a great many things which confused Janet. Next day she went out for a little along that quiet road with a faint expectation, wondering if perhaps—it might be possible? and lo, there was Charlie on horseback leading the most charming pony. He jumped off his horse when he saw her, and fastening it to a tree, showed her all the beauties of the other. ‘What ails ye to jump on,’ he said, ‘and I’ll take ye for a ride, not far, nothing to tire you?’
‘Oh, I am not so easily tired,’ said Janet, her eyes lighting up, ‘but I have no habit—and then mother——’
‘Her ladyship will be none the wiser,’ said Charlie, ‘and she knows I would take good care of you. She would never mind.’
‘Do you think so?’ said the girl. And in a moment—it seemed but a moment—she was pacing along by the side of the big horse, every movement of which was restrained to harmony with her pony’s smaller paces. Janet had been Tom’s victim to follow at his pace—to do what he pleased. She had never before known the delight of being cared for, considered as the first object. She rode for an hour by Blackmore’s side, excited, delighted, half persuaded that she was a fairy princess, with everything that was beautiful and pleasant made for her use.
This happened again and again, and nobody found it out. It was thought at the Towers that she had taken to wandering in the woods in her loneliness now that Tom had gone away, and though Lady Car remarked a changing colour, and that Janet’s eyes sometimes were bright and sometimes dreamy, yet nothing like suspicion of any secret ever crossed her mind. No such thing entered the mind of anyone. And already the household was full of preparations for going away, which absorbed everybody. The first of October was the last day before the departure of the family from the Towers, and Janet stole out unobserved as usual, for her last ride. Never had the pony carried her so lightly; never had the little escapade been so delightful: they came back slowly side by side, lingering, unwilling to acknowledge that it was over. ‘I’ll keep the pony for you, Miss Janet,’ said Blackmore. ‘Nobody shall touch her but myself. She shall be kept like a lady, like the bonnie lady she belongs to, till you come back.’
‘Oh, but Mr. Charlie,’ cried Janet, ‘you must not do that. They would not let me buy her, and I’ll have no money of my own for a long time—not for five years.’
‘Money!’ he cried; ‘did you suppose I was thinking of money? Ye do me great injustice, Miss Janet—but it’s no fault of yours.’
‘Oh,’ she cried, ‘it was because you said she was mine. Now she cannot be mine unless I buy her—and I cannot buy her. Oh, what have I said wrong? I did not mean to say anything wrong.’
‘That I’m sure of,’ said Charlie, ‘and maybe you’re too young to understand that the pony’s yours and her master’s yours, and not a penny wanted—but something else.’
Janet was greatly bewildered by the look in his eyes. She glanced at him, then turned her eyes away. She could not think what had happened. He was not angry. He looked quite kind; almost more kind than ever. But she could not look at him any more (she said to herself) than she could look at the sun shining. He was leaning down towards her from his big horse, and Janet felt very uncomfortable, confused, and distressed.
‘Oh, but you must not,’ she said—‘not keep her for me. It is very kind, and I will never forget it, to let me ride her—and she is a delightful pony. But I could not take her as a present, and I could not buy her, and you must just—you must just—never mind, for I cannot help it. Oh, I am afraid it has been all wrong,’ cried Janet, though she could not tell why.
‘Not a bit,’ said Charlie Blackmore. ‘It’s been the happiest time I’ve had all my life, and if you will never forget, as you say——’
‘How should I forget?’ said Janet. ‘You have been so very kind, and she is the most delightful pony I ever saw. But please let us go home now, for they will be sure to miss me, and everything is in a confusion; for it is our last day.’
‘That’s just the very reason why I would like to keep you a little longer,’ said Charlie; ‘for what am I to do after you’re gone? I will just wait and think long till you come back. It’s a long, long time till next year, and I’m feared you’ll never think more of me, or the pony, when you’re gone.’
‘Oh yes I will, indeed I will,’ said Janet. ‘Oh, Mr. Charlie, let us get back. I am afraid somebody will see us—and mother will be vexed.’
‘Well, if it must be so—here we are at the little gate,’ he said with a sigh. He got off his horse and fastened it, and then lifted her off the pony. ‘What are ye going to give me for my hire,’ he said, holding her for a moment. ‘I’ve been a good groom to ye. Just a kiss for my pains before you go.’
‘Oh!’ cried Janet, wrenching herself away. Fright and shame and anger gave her wings. She darted in at the little gate which gave access to a side path towards the back of the house, and fled without ever looking back. But she had not gone far when she ran full upon Beaufort, who was going tranquilly along across the park, just where the path debouched. She was upon him before either of them perceived. Janet was flushed with shame and terror, and her eyes full of tears. She gave a cry of alarm when she saw who it was.
‘Janet! What’s the matter? You look as if something had happened.’
‘Oh!’ she cried, with a long breath. ‘It is nothing, Beau. I was only frightened!’
‘Who frightened you?’ he said. ‘What’s the matter? Why, child, you are trembling all over. Are you running from anyone?’
‘N—— no!’ said Janet, drawing herself away from his observation—and it flashed into her guilty mind that she had passed some cows peacefully grazing. ‘I was frightened—for the cows,’ she said.
‘The cows!’ It was greatly in Beaufort’s way that he was too much a gentleman to be able to suggest to anyone, especially a lady, that what she said was not true. He said with some severity, ‘I did not know you were so nervous. You had better go at once to your mother. She has been looking for you everywhere.’ He took off his hat in a grave way which made Janet more ashamed than ever, and went on without even looking back. She threw herself down on the grass when he was out of sight, and cried in a wild tumult and passion which she herself did not understand. Beau did not believe her. What did he think; what would he say? But this was not what made Janet cry.
Mr. Beaufort walked on startled to the gate, and when he emerged upon the road he saw someone riding off in the distance, a tall figure on a tall horse, which he thought he recognised; for Charlie Blackmore was a very well-known figure. The horseman was leading a pony with a lady’s saddle. Beaufort did not put two and two together, being too much bewildered by the suggestion of something mysterious that darted through his mind. But he shook his head as he walked along, and said ‘Poor Carry!’ under his breath.
Lady Car did not see Janet till she had bathed her eyes and calmed herself down. She had not, however, quite effaced the traces of her agitation. Her mother called her, and put an arm round her—‘Janet, I can see you have been crying. Is it because you’re sorry to go away?’
‘Yes, mother,’ said Janet trembling.
‘It is very strange,’ said Lady Car, ‘and I am glad. Oh, I wish we could feel alike, dear, you and I. I used to think a girl would always follow her mother. The boy might take his own way, but the girl——. Why are you so fond of the Towers, dear?’
Janet trembled, for she was not thinking of the Towers, nor was she sorry, but only startled, and frightened, and confused. But she dared not throw herself on her mother, and tell her what was in her mind. She said dully, with a summoning of old artificial enthusiasms which would not answer to her call, ‘I suppose it is because we were born here.’
‘Perhaps that is a reason,’ Carry said.
‘And then it’s father’s house, and it will be Tom’s,’ said the girl.
Her mother loosed her arm faintly with a sigh. ‘Yes, my dear, these are all good reasons,’ she said, resuming her habitual gentle calm. She had not been able to help making another little futile effort to draw her child to herself. And it had not been successful, that was all she knew. She could not have guessed with what tumultuous passion that young bosom was beating, nor how difficult it had been for Janet to keep down her agitation and say no more.