Carry drove away from Lindores in the afternoon sunshine, leaning back in her corner languidly watching the slanting light upon the autumnal trees, and the haze in which the distance was hid, soft, blue, and ethereal, full of the poetry of nature. She had about her that soft languor and delicious sense of freedom from pain which makes convalescence so sweet. She felt as if she had got over a long and painful illness, and, much shattered and exhausted, was yet getting better, in a heavenly exemption from suffering, and perfect rest. This sense of recovery, indeed, is very different from the languor and exhaustion of sorrow; and yet without any intention of hers, it veiled with a sort of innocent hypocrisy those feelings which were not in consonance with her supposed desolation and the mourning of her widowhood. Her behaviour was exemplary, and her aspect all that it ought to be, everybody felt; and though the country-side was well aware that she had no great reason to be inconsolable, it yet admired and respected her for appearing to mourn. Her fragility, her paleness, her smile of gentle exhaustion and worn-out looks, did her unspeakable credit with all the good people about. They were aware that she had little enough to mourn for, but there are occasions on which nature demands hypocrisy. Any display of satisfaction at another's death is abhorrent to mankind. Carry in her convalescence was no hypocrite, but she got the credit of it, and was all the better thought of. People were almost grateful to her for showing her husband this mark of respect. After all, it is hard, indeed, when a man goes out of this world without even the credit of a woman's tears. But Carry had no sorrow in her heart as she drove away from the door of her former home. It had not been thought right that she should go in. A widow of not yet a fortnight's standing may, indeed, drive out to get a little air, which is necessary for her health, but she cannot be supposed to be able to go into a house, even if it is her father's. She was kissed tenderly and comforted, as they took leave of her. "My darling Carry, Edith and I will drive over to see you to-morrow; and then you have the children," her mother said, herself half taken in by Carry's patient smile, and more than half desirous of being taken in. "Oh yes, I have the children," Carry said. But in her heart she acknowledged, as she drove away, that she did not even want the children. When one has suffered very much, the mere absence of pain becomes a delicious fact, a something actual, which breathes delight into the soul. Even when your back aches or your head aches habitually, to be free of that for half an hour is heaven; and Carry had the bewildering happiness before her of being free of it for ever. The world bore a different aspect for her; the air blew differently, the clouds floated with another motion. To look out over the plain, and away to the blue hills in the distance, with all their variety of slopes, and the infinite sweet depths of colour and atmosphere about them, was beyond all example delightful, quite enough to fill life and make it happy. In the heavenly silence she began to put her thoughts into words, as in her youth she had done always when she was deeply moved. Oh, who are they that seek pleasure in the world, in society, in feasts and merrymakings, when it is here, at their hand, ready for their enjoyment? This was her theme. The sunset upon the hills was enough for any one; he who could not find his happiness in that, where would he find it? Carry lay back in her corner, and felt that she would like to kiss the soft air that blew upon her, and send salutations to the trees and the sun. What could any one want more? The world was so beautiful, pain had gone out of it, and all the venom and the misery. To rest from everything, to lie still and get better, was of itself too exquisite. Carry had not for a long time written any of those little poems which Edith and Nora and some other choice readers had thought so lovely. Her tears had grown too bitter for such expression—and to feel herself flow forth once again into the sweet difficulties of verse was another delight the more. She was all alone, in deep weeds of widowhood, and almost every voice within twenty miles had within the last fortnight more than once uttered the words "Poor Lady Car!" but oh, how far from poor she felt herself! In what exquisite repose and peace was she mending of all her troubles!
Sometimes she would ask herself, with a wonder which enhanced the sweetness, Was it really all over—all over—come to an end, this nightmare which had blotted out heaven and earth? Was it possible? never to come back to her again round any corner, never to have any more power over her. Henceforward to be alone, alone—what word of joy! It is a word which has different meanings to different people. To many in Carry's position it is the very knell of their lives—to her there was a music in it beyond the power of words to say. Her weakness had brought that misery on herself: and now, was it possible that she was to fare so much better than she deserved, to get rid of it for ever? She drew a long breath, and imagined how different things might have been: she might have lived to be an old woman under that yoke; she might never have got free—her mind, nor her imagination, nor her life. She shuddered to think what might have been. But it was over, ended, finished, and she was free—done with it for ever. She had not deserved this; it was a happiness which it was scarcely possible to realise. Poor Carry, futile even in her anticipations of relief! It never occurred to her that the two little children to whom she was returning—now all her own, she was so foolish as to think—were pieces of Torrance, not done with, never to be done with as long as her life lasted; but she was as unconscious of that, as incapable of thinking of any harm to come from those round-faced, stolid babies, as—any other mother could be.
Thus she was driving along, very happy, very still, exhausted and languid and convalescent, with all the beautiful world before her, full of consolation and peace, when Trouble set out to meet her upon her way. Poor Lady Car! she had suffered so much,—did not life owe her a little quiet, a breathing moment—long enough to get better in—quite better, as we say in Scotland—and get the good of her deliverance? Indeed it seemed so: but to different souls different experiences. Some would have escaped, would have gone on softly, never quite getting over the dismal preface of their life to the sight of spectators, but in reality tasting the sweetness of repose—till the inevitable moment came, as it does to all, when the warfare has to be taken up again. But to Carry there was left no interval at all. She so delicate, so sensitive, all her nerves so highly strung, quiet would have been everything for her. But quiet she was not to have. Trouble set out from the gate of Dalrulzian while she rolled softly along to meet it, unconscious, thinking of nothing which could justify that sudden apparition—not a feeling in her going out towards it, or provoking the sight. The trouble which thus approached Lady Car was in the shape of Edward Beaufort, his tall figure slightly stooping, yet in the full vigour of manhood, his countenance gently despondent, a habitual sigh hanging, as it were, about him; the ends of his luxuriant beard lightly moved by the breeze. He walked somewhat slowly, musing, with nothing particular to do, and Carry caught sight of him for some time before they met. She gave a low cry and sat upright. Her convalescent heart lying so still, so sweetly silent and even in its gentle beatings, like a creature that had been hurt, and was coming softly to itself, leaped up with a bound and spring, and began to go again like a wild thing, leaping, palpitating, pulling at its leash. The first movement was terror—for though her tyrant was gone, the tradition of him was still upon her, and she could not get rid of the instinct all at once. "My God!" she said to herself in the silence, clasping her hands, "Edward!" with something of the wild passion of alarm which John Erskine had once seen. But then all in a moment again this terror subsided. Her sense of convalescence and repose flew away like the wind. A wild flood of joy and happiness rushed into her heart. "Edward!"—for the first time, feeling herself carried away by a drowning and dazzling tide of life, which blinded and almost suffocated her, Carry realised in one moment what it meant to be free. The effect was too tremendous for any thought of prudence, any hesitation as to what his sentiments might be, or what was suitable to her own position. She called to the coachman to stop, not knowing what she did, and with her head and her hands stretched out from the window, met him as he came up.
For the first moment there was not a word said between them, in the excess of emotion, he standing below, she looking out from above, her white face surrounded by the widow's livery of woe, but suddenly flushed and glowing with life and love, and a kind of triumphant ecstasy. She had forgotten what it meant—she had not realised all that was in it; and now it burst upon her. She could not think, scarcely breathe—but held out her hands to him, with that look beyond words to describe. And he took them in the same way, and bent down his face over them, silent, not saying a word. The coachman and footman on the box thought it was excess of feeling that made this meeting so silent. They were sorry for their mistress, who was not yet able to meet any one with composure; and the low brief conversation that followed, sounded to them like condolence and sympathy. How astounded the men would have been, and the still landscape around them, with its houses hidden in the trees, and all its silent observers about, had they known what this colloquy actually was.
"Edward!" was the first word that was said—and then "Carry! Carry! but I ought not to call you so."
"Oh, never call me anything else," she cried; "I could not endure another name from you. Oh, can you forgive me, have you forgiven me? I have paid for it—bitterly, bitterly! And it was not my fault."
"I never blamed you. I have forgiven you always. My suffering is not older than my forgiveness."
"You were always better than I;" and then she added eagerly, not pausing to think, carried on by that new tide that had caught her, "it is over; it is all over now."
It was on his lips to say Thank God—but he reflected, and did not say it. He had held her hands all the time. There was nobody to see them, and the servants on the box were sympathetic and silent. Then he asked, "Will they let me go to you now?"
"You will not ask any leave," she said hastily—"no leave! There are so many things I have to say to you—to ask your pardon. It has been on my heart to ask your pardon every day of my life. I used to think if I had only done that, I could die."
"No dying now," he said, with her hands in his.
"Ah," she cried, with a little shudder, "but it is by dying I am here."
He looked at her pitifully with a gaze of sympathy. He was prepared to be sorry if she was sorry. Even over his rival's death Edward Beaufort felt himself capable of dropping a tear. He could go so far as that. Self-abnegation is very good in a woman, but in a man it is uncalled for to this degree. He could put himself out of the question altogether, and looked at her with the deepest sympathy, ready to condole if she thought proper. He was not prepared for the honesty of Carry's profound sense of reopening life.
"You have had a great deal to bear," he said, with a vague intention of consoling her. He was thinking of the interval that had elapsed since her husband's death; but she was thinking of the dismal abyss before, and of all that was brought to a conclusion by that event.
"More than you can imagine—more than you could believe," she said; then paused, with a hot blush of shame, not daring to look him in the face. All that she had suffered, was not that a mountain between them? She drew her hands out of his, and shrinking away from him, said, "When you think of that, you must have a horror of me."
"I have a horror of you!" he said, with a faint smile. He put his head closer as she drew back. He was changed from the young man she had known. His beard, his mature air, the lines in his face, the gentle melancholy air which he had acquired, were all new to her. Carry thought that no face so compassionate, so tender, had ever been turned upon her before. A great pity seemed to beam in the eyes that were fixed with such tenderness upon her. Perhaps there was not in him any such flood of rosy gladness as had illuminated her. The rapture of freedom was not in his veins. But what a look that was! A face to pour out all your troubles to—to be sure always of sympathy from. This was what she thought.
Then in the tremor of blessedness and overwhelming emotion, she awoke to remember that she was by the roadside—no place for talk like this. Carry had no thought of what any one would say. She would have bidden him come into the carriage and carried him away with her—her natural support, her consoler. There was no reason in her suddenly roused and passionate sense that never again must it be in any one's power to part them. Nor did she think that there could be any doubt of his sentiments, or whether he might still retain his love for her, notwithstanding all she had done to cure him of it. For the moment she was out of herself. They had been parted for so long—for so many miserable years—and now they were together. That was all—restored to each other. But still, the first moment of overwhelming agitation over, she had to remember. "I have so much to tell you!" she cried; "but it cannot be here."
"When shall I come?" he said.
Carry's impulse was to say "Now, now!" It seemed to her as if parting with him again would be tempting fate. For the first time since she had got her freedom, she put forth all her powers consciously, and controlled herself. It seemed to her the utmost stretch of self-denial when she said, "To-morrow," with a long-drawn breath, in which her whole being seemed to go out to him. The next moment the carriage was rolling along as it had done before, and Carry had dropped back into her corner, but not as she was before. Her entire world was changed. The glow of life which had come back to her was something which she had not known for years. It belonged to her early bloom, when she had no thought of ever being Lady Car or a great personage. It belonged to the time when Edward Beaufort was the lord of the ascendant, and nobody thought him beneath the pretensions of Carry Lindores. The intervening time had rolled away and was no more. She put her hands over her eyes to shut out everything but this that had been, and was, in spite of all obstacles. Her heart filled all the silence with tumultuous joyful beating. It was all over, the prison-time of her life—the evil time—gone like a bad enchantment—past and over, leaving no sign. It seemed to her that she could take up her life where she laid it down six years ago, and that all would be as though this interruption had never been.