THE WAITING SUPPER
CHAPTER I
Whoever had perceived the yeoman standing on Squire Everard's lawn in
the dusk of that October evening fifty years ago, might have said at
first sight that he was loitering there from idle curiosity. For a
large five-light window of the manor-house in front of him was
unshuttered and uncurtained, so that the illuminated room within
could be scanned almost to its four corners. Obviously nobody was
ever expected to be in this part of the grounds after nightfall.
The apartment thus swept by an eye from without was occupied by two
persons; they were sitting over dessert, the tablecloth having been
removed in the old-fashioned way. The fruits were local, consisting
of apples, pears, nuts, and such other products of the summer as
might be presumed to grow on the estate. There was strong ale and
rum on the table, and but little wine. Moreover, the appointments of
the dining-room were simple and homely even for the date, betokening
a countrified household of the smaller gentry, without much wealth or
ambition--formerly a numerous class, but now in great part ousted by
the territorial landlords.
One of the two sitters was a young lady in white muslin, who listened
somewhat impatiently to the remarks of her companion, an elderly,
rubicund personage, whom the merest stranger could have pronounced to
be her father. The watcher evinced no signs of moving, and it became
evident that affairs were not so simple as they first had seemed.
The tall farmer was in fact no accidental spectator, and he stood by
premeditation close to the trunk of a tree, so that had any traveller
passed along the road without the park gate, or even round the lawn
to the door, that person would scarce have noticed the other,
notwithstanding that the gate was quite near at hand, and the park
little larger than a paddock. There was still light enough in the
western heaven to brighten faintly one side of the man's face, and to
show against the trunk of the tree behind the admirable cut of his
profile; also to reveal that the front of the manor-house, small
though it seemed, was solidly built of stone in that never-to-be-
surpassed style for the English country residence--the mullioned and
transomed Elizabethan.
The lawn, although neglected, was still as level as a bowling-green--
which indeed it might once have served for; and the blades of grass
before the window were raked by the candle-shine, which stretched
over them so far as to touch the yeoman's face in front.
Within the dining-room there were also, with one of the twain, the
same signs of a hidden purpose that marked the farmer. The young
lady's mind was straying as clearly into the shadows as that of the
loiterer was fixed upon the room--nay, it could be said that she was
quite conscious of his presence outside. Impatience caused her foot
to beat silently on the carpet, and she more than once rose to leave
the table. This proceeding was checked by her father, who would put
his hand upon her shoulder and unceremoniously press her down into
her chair, till he should have concluded his observations. Her
replies were brief enough, and there was factitiousness in her smiles
of assent to his views. A small iron casement between two of the
mullions was open, and some occasional words of the dialogue were
audible without.
'As for drains--how can I put in drains? The pipes don't cost much,
that's true; but the labour in sinking the trenches is ruination.
And then the gates--they should be hung to stone posts, otherwise
there's no keeping them up through harvest.' The Squire's voice was
strongly toned with the local accent, so that he said 'drains' and
'geats' like the rustics on his estate.
The landscape without grew darker, and the young man's figure seemed
to be absorbed into the trunk of the tree. The small stars filled in
between the larger, the nebulae between the small stars, the trees
quite lost their voice; and if there was still a sound, it was from
the cascade of a stream which stretched along under the trees that
bounded the lawn on its northern side.
At last the young girl did get to her feet and secure her retreat.
'I have something to do, papa,' she said. 'I shall not be in the
drawing-room just yet.'
'Very well,' replied he. 'Then I won't hurry.' And closing the door
behind her, he drew his decanters together and settled down in his
chair.
Three minutes after that a woman's shape emerged from the drawing-
room window, and passing through a wall-door to the entrance front,
came across the grass. She kept well clear of the dining-room
window, but enough of its light fell on her to show, escaping from
the dark-hooded cloak that she wore, stray verges of the same light
dress which had figured but recently at the dinner-table. The hood
was contracted tight about her face with a drawing-string, making her
countenance small and baby-like, and lovelier even than before.
Without hesitation she brushed across the grass to the tree under
which the young man stood concealed. The moment she had reached him
he enclosed her form with his arm. The meeting and embrace, though
by no means formal, were yet not passionate; the whole proceeding was
that of persons who had repeated the act so often as to be
unconscious of its performance. She turned within his arm, and faced
in the same direction with himself, which was towards the window; and
thus they stood without speaking, the back of her head leaning
against his shoulder. For a while each seemed to be thinking his and
her diverse thoughts.
'You have kept me waiting a long time, dear Christine,' he said at
last. 'I wanted to speak to you particularly, or I should not have
stayed. How came you to be dining at this time o' night?'
'Father has been out all day, and dinner was put back till six. I
know I have kept you; but Nicholas, how can I help it sometimes, if I
am not to run any risk? My poor father insists upon my listening to
all he has to say; since my brother left he has had nobody else to
listen to him; and to-night he was particularly tedious on his usual
topics--draining, and tenant-farmers, and the village people. I must
take daddy to London; he gets so narrow always staying here.'
'And what did you say to it all?'
'Well, I took the part of the tenant-farmers, of course, as the
beloved of one should in duty do.' There followed a little break or
gasp, implying a strangled sigh.
'You are sorry you have encouraged that beloving one?'
'O no, Nicholas . . . What is it you want to see me for
particularly?'
'I know you are sorry, as time goes on, and everything is at a dead-
lock, with no prospect of change, and your rural swain loses his
freshness! Only think, this secret understanding between us has
lasted near three year, ever since you was a little over sixteen.'
'Yes; it has been a long time.'
'And I an untamed, uncultivated man, who has never seen London, and
knows nothing about society at all.'
'Not uncultivated, dear Nicholas. Untravelled, socially unpractised,
if you will,' she said, smiling. 'Well, I did sigh; but not because
I regret being your promised one. What I do sometimes regret is that
the scheme, which my meetings with you are but a part of, has not
been carried out completely. You said, Nicholas, that if I consented
to swear to keep faith with you, you would go away and travel, and
see nations, and peoples, and cities, and take a professor with you,
and study books and art, simultaneously with your study of men and
manners; and then come back at the end of two years, when I should
find that my father would by no means be indisposed to accept you as
a son-in-law. You said your reason for wishing to get my promise
before starting was that your mind would then be more at rest when
you were far away, and so could give itself more completely to
knowledge than if you went as my unaccepted lover only, fuming with
anxiety as to how I should be when you came back. I saw how
reasonable that was; and solemnly swore myself to you in consequence.
But instead of going to see the world you stay on and on here to see
me.'
'And you don't want me to see you?'
'Yes--no--it is not that. It is that I have latterly felt frightened
at what I am doing when not in your actual presence. It seems so
wicked not to tell my father that I have a lover close at hand,
within touch and view of both of us; whereas if you were absent my
conduct would not seem quite so treacherous. The realities would not
stare at one so. You would be a pleasant dream to me, which I should
be free to indulge in without reproach of my conscience; I should
live in hopeful expectation of your returning fully qualified to
boldly claim me of my father. There, I have been terribly frank, I
know.'
He in his turn had lapsed into gloomy breathings now. 'I did plan it
as you state,' he answered. 'I did mean to go away the moment I had
your promise. But, dear Christine, I did not foresee two or three
things. I did not know what a lot of pain it would cost to tear
myself from you. And I did not know that my stingy uncle--heaven
forgive me calling him so!--would so flatly refuse to advance me
money for my purpose--the scheme of travelling with a first-rate
tutor costing a formidable sum o' money. You have no idea what it
would cost!'
'But I have said that I'll find the money.'
'Ah, there,' he returned, 'you have hit a sore place. To speak
truly, dear, I would rather stay unpolished a hundred years than take
your money.'
'But why? Men continually use the money of the women they marry.'
'Yes; but not till afterwards. No man would like to touch your money
at present, and I should feel very mean if I were to do so in present
circumstances. That brings me to what I was going to propose. But
no--upon the whole I will not propose it now.'
'Ah! I would guarantee expenses, and you won't let me! The money is
my personal possession: it comes to me from my late grandfather, and
not from my father at all.'
He laughed forcedly and pressed her hand. 'There are more reasons
why I cannot tear myself away,' he added. 'What would become of my
uncle's farming? Six hundred acres in this parish, and five hundred
in the next--a constant traipsing from one farm to the other; he
can't be in two places at once. Still, that might be got over if it
were not for the other matters. Besides, dear, I still should be a
little uneasy, even though I have your promise, lest somebody should
snap you up away from me.'
'Ah, you should have thought of that before. Otherwise I have
committed myself for nothing.'
'I should have thought of it,' he answered gravely. 'But I did not.
There lies my fault, I admit it freely. Ah, if you would only commit
yourself a little more, I might at least get over that difficulty!
But I won't ask you. You have no idea how much you are to me still;
you could not argue so coolly if you had. What property belongs to
you I hate the very sound of; it is you I care for. I wish you
hadn't a farthing in the world but what I could earn for you!'
'I don't altogether wish that,' she murmured.
'I wish it, because it would have made what I was going to propose
much easier to do than it is now. Indeed I will not propose it,
although I came on purpose, after what you have said in your
frankness.'
'Nonsense, Nic. Come, tell me. How can you be so touchy?'
'Look at this then, Christine dear.' He drew from his breast-pocket
a sheet of paper and unfolded it, when it was observable that a seal
dangled from the bottom.
'What is it?' She held the paper sideways, so that what there was of
window-light fell on its surface. 'I can only read the Old English
letters--why--our names! Surely it is not a marriage-licence?'
'It is.'
She trembled. 'O Nic! how could you do this--and without telling
me!'
'Why should I have thought I must tell you? You had not spoken
"frankly" then as you have now. We have been all to each other more
than these two years, and I thought I would propose that we marry
privately, and that I then leave you on the instant. I would have
taken my travelling-bag to church, and you would have gone home
alone. I should not have started on my adventures in the brilliant
manner of our original plan, but should have roughed it a little at
first; my great gain would have been that the absolute possession of
you would have enabled me to work with spirit and purpose, such as
nothing else could do. But I dare not ask you now--so frank as you
have been.'
She did not answer. The document he had produced gave such
unexpected substantiality to the venture with which she had so long
toyed as a vague dream merely, that she was, in truth, frightened a
little. 'I--don't know about it!' she said.
'Perhaps not. Ah, my little lady, you are wearying of me!'
'No, Nic,' responded she, creeping closer. 'I am not. Upon my word,
and truth, and honour, I am not, Nic.'
'A mere tiller of the soil, as I should be called,' he continued,
without heeding her. 'And you--well, a daughter of one of the--I
won't say oldest families, because that's absurd, all families are
the same age--one of the longest chronicled families about here,
whose name is actually the name of the place.'
'That's not much, I am sorry to say! My poor brother--but I won't
speak of that . . . Well,' she murmured mischievously, after a pause,
'you certainly would not need to be uneasy if I were to do this that
you want me to do. You would have me safe enough in your trap then;
I couldn't get away!'
'That's just it!' he said vehemently. 'It IS a trap--you feel it so,
and that though you wouldn't be able to get away from me you might
particularly wish to! Ah, if I had asked you two years ago you would
have agreed instantly. But I thought I was bound to wait for the
proposal to come from you as the superior!'
'Now you are angry, and take seriously what I meant purely in fun.
You don't know me even yet! To show you that you have not been
mistaken in me, I do propose to carry out this licence. I'll marry
you, dear Nicholas, to-morrow morning.'
'Ah, Christine! I am afraid I have stung you on to this, so that I
cannot--'
'No, no, no!' she hastily rejoined; and there was something in her
tone which suggested that she had been put upon her mettle and would
not flinch. 'Take me whilst I am in the humour. What church is the
licence for?'
'That I've not looked to see--why our parish church here, of course.
Ah, then we cannot use it! We dare not be married here.'
'We do dare,' said she. 'And we will too, if you'll be there.'
'IF I'll be there!'
They speedily came to an agreement that he should be in the church-
porch at ten minutes to eight on the following morning, awaiting her;
and that, immediately after the conclusion of the service which would
make them one, Nicholas should set out on his long-deferred
educational tour, towards the cost of which she was resolving to
bring a substantial subscription with her to church. Then, slipping
from him, she went indoors by the way she had come, and Nicholas bent
his steps homewards.
