Читать книгу The Other Man - Mary Gaunt - Страница 9

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That evening Dolly frankly told her aunt and cousins of their meeting with the three young men, and was solemnly warned by Ann against the danger of holding communion with the ungodly.

"I know nothing of Dr. Finlayson," she said, "but that Maitland I have heard James Wilson speak of as a bad man. Willie will tell you how he swears at the navvies, and he has always a pipe in his mouth; and as for young Marsden, we all know how wickedly careless he is in matters connected with his soul, so different from James Wilson."

"I loves Woger," put in Vera, feeling as if an injustice had been done to her favourite.

"But Mr. Marsden is a far better workman than James Wilson, isn't he?" asked Dolly, anxious, like Vera, to vindicate her friend.

"Wilson has the true grip, the true grip," said Mr. Grant, shaking his head, solemnly, as he served out slices of cold mutton, "and what are the things of this world to the man who knows he has eternal life? Mere snares and delusions, mere snares and delusions."

Impetuous Dolly opened her mouth again, but a warning look from her sister stopped her. Ruth seemed herself to have grown very worldly wise since she had entered this family, and she saw at once that if they were to continue their pleasant friendship with young Marsden, or, indeed, with anyone else whom the Grants considered outside the pale, the least said about them the better. At the present moment beyond a word or two of disapproval they passed the matter over and said nothing about the girls' doings the day before, being entirely taken up with the consideration of the great prayer meeting to be held at Dog-leg Flat.

Ann had taken cold, was afraid she would not be able to go, and was terribly distressed thereat.

The elders of the family looked with commiserating eyes on Ann, but no one said a word save Ruth, who really was sorry for her disappointment, and ventured to hint from her own simple creed that "everything was for the best."

Ann was out of temper, and did not receive the consolation in the spirit in which it was offered, and grumbled out, just as though she had been an ordinary bad-tempered mortal with no spiritual advantages whatever—

"Much you know about it."

"I'm sorry for you, though," said Ruth gently, while Dolly, not to be outdone, remarked gravely—

"I believe it's a wile of the Evil One to get rid of you."

Ann looked at her doubtfully. The phraseology was her own, and the idea was after her own heart, but she doubted Dolly's sincerity, and she dared not cross swords with her. Once or twice already she had been worsted in an encounter of that description, so she merely said curtly—

"Probably so, but I shall go if possible and disappoint him."

However, the Evil One probably hugged himself and chuckled over his victory, for on the morrow Ann had lost her voice entirely, and her cold was really so bad that the other three started without her. They offered to take Ruth, but she accepted in such a half-hearted manner that Lily promptly told her she had better stay at home, such a lukewarm adherent would only weaken the cause, and she gladly returned to the dining-room where the invalid was sitting crouched over the fire, a rusty black shawl over her shoulders and an equally shabby purple one muffling her head. Dolly made a face as her sister entered, expressive of her extreme distaste for Ann's company, and then, though Ruth did remonstrate, insisted on her coming out for a walk, which she took care should fill up all the morning.

In the afternoon, though, there was no help for it; Ann's presence had to be put up with, and when the dinner table was cleared she betook herself to the American organ, which she began to play for the first time since she had come to Kooringa. First she played hymn tunes as more suited to the instrument, but gradually her fingers wandered off into other things, old Scotch and Irish airs to which she softly crooned the words.

"I didn't know," said Ann in a hoarse whisper, which was all her cold admitted of, "you played or sang. I hope you'll know some day the awful wickedness of wasting your time on your own bodily comforts and amusements."

"Oh, bother, Ann!" said Dolly. "What on earth were we put into this world for?"

"Not to sing profane songs."

"Well, but when one's got a good voice why shouldn't one use it. And my Maker kindly gave me a very decent contralto, and it's been well trained too. Ruth's got a good voice, too. I wonder you never noticed us at prayers. Now just listen to this."

And she began singing, clear and loud, Blumenthal's "Across the Far Blue Hills, Marie." Ruth left her sewing at the window and crossing the room joined in with her sister, and Ann listened in stolid silence. They went from one song to another, their clear young voices harmonising and blending, and for once perhaps since they had come to Kooringa were thoroughly happy.

They had been singing and playing for about an hour, when the smutty little girl who was called a kitchen-maid, but who frequently waited at table and answered the dining-room bell—the servants at Kooringa never seemed to have any fixed position, but exchanged duties at will—pushed open the door and lolling against the door-post, remarked—

"There's two gen'lemen as wants Mrs. Grant."

The two gentlemen made their appearance immediately, and, greatly to Ruth's astonishment, she saw they were Dr. Finlayson and Mr. Maitland. Very distinctly she remembered having told the latter that her aunt and cousins would be away all day—could he have forgotten it—she hardly thought so. However, he advanced confidently into the room, followed by the doctor.

"How do you do, Miss Grant?" he said. "Your maid tells me your aunt and cousins are away. Still, when we heard you were here we ventured to come in."

"I'm sure we are very glad to see you," said Ruth truthfully, "but one of my cousins is at home. Ann," she said, turning towards the ungraceful figure huddled over the fire, "these are the gentlemen I told you about—the gentlemen we met yesterday—Mr. Maitland, Dr. Finlayson."

It certainly was hard on Ann. Her plain, hard face was plainer than usual by reason of the unbecoming cold; she could hardly raise her voice above a hoarse whisper, and whether she liked it or no, she was being introduced to the man she had told Ruth she specially objected to. She dragged the purple shawl more closely round her face and prepared for the fray.

"I'm making the railway across a corner of your father's run, Miss Grant," said Maitland, "and it seemed only civil I should call on him, especially after I met your cousins yesterday."

"I don't see the necessity myself," said Ann. "We have made it a practice never to hold communion with the mammon of unrighteousness."

"Indeed, Miss Grant. I hardly understand you. Hold communion with the mammon of unrighteousness; I beg your pardon, but what on earth is the meaning of that?"

Ann fairly glared at him from beneath the purple shawl. The soft manner and pleasant smile which won Ruth aggravated her intensely.

"Men like you," she said in her hoarse whisper, "are the mammon of unrighteousness."

"I'm sorry," he said, smiling, "to have fallen under your displeasure, for I'm afraid you don't mean that as praise. Really, Miss Grant, I'm not such a bad fellow, and I should like you to think better of me than that. Tell me what my offence is and I'll try and mend it."

"You are a man of the world," said Ann, softening a little. "How long since you have thought of higher things? How long since you have been in the house of God at all?"'

"Well," said Dick Maitland good-humouredly, "if you mean by that how long since I have been to church I won't be so very bad in your eyes. I was in Ballarat last Sunday, and went to S. Alphius—twice, too; I wanted to hear the wonderful preacher they've got there."

"Mammon of unrighteousness, mammon of unrighteousness," said Ann, clinging to the phrase as to a talisman. "You call S. Alphius the house of God? I call it a popery shop—a place where the real spiritual life is sacrificed to the grossest materialism."

Maitland sighed. He was getting weary of this conversation.

"You have the courage of your opinions, Miss Grant," he remarked. "I'm sorry I can't persuade you to think well of me." Then feeling he had done his duty he turned to Ruth and remarked, "You were singing as we came in."

But Ann had not done with him yet.

"Mullin's Hill," she said, "thanks to you and your men is now a sink of iniquity."

Maitland sighed again. It was evident he wasn't going to have a chance of speaking to Ruth this afternoon, but he took up the cudgels in defence of his men.

"They're not bad fellows," he said, "a bit rowdy perhaps when the drink's in them, but not bad fellows take them on the whole."

"There it is," said Ann solemnly. "Mr. Maitland, do you know anything of the curse of strong drink?"

Ruth looking at Maitland saw him flush to the roots of his hair. Over all his face the hot blood rushed painfully, and she felt that, somehow or other, Ann's random shaft had gone straight home. The self-possessed young fellow looked wretchedly guilty and uncomfortable, and she hardly knew why, but with an impetuosity worthy of Dolly herself, she rushed to the rescue.

"Oh, Ann," she said, "where's the good of bothering about strong drink. Now, really, Mr. Maitland doesn't look as if he went on the spree every Saturday night, does he? But I should think he was thirsty now. Ar'n't you going to give our guests any tea?"

For a moment Ann did not answer, the hospitality she had been bred in struggling with her dislike and distrust of strangers, but hospitality gained the day.

"Tell Jane to bring some tea, then," she said somewhat sullenly. "We allow no strong drinks in this house, Mr. Maitland."

After tea Maitland ventured to suggest that the girls should sing them a song, which they did, and then it was discovered that the doctor had a very fine baritone voice, and he sang for them, and then Ruth sang by herself, and Dolly by herself, and Maitland, who had no voice, listened appreciatively to them all; and so the afternoon slipped away unnoticed; till the doctor drawing his watch out declared with a start it was past 5 o'clock, and high time they were on their way back to Mullin's Hill.

"Good-bye, Miss Grant," said Maitland, shaking hands with Ann. "I shall think over what you said, and I hope you will let me come and see you again."

"I don't know," she said stiffly. "You belong to this world."

"Of course, of course," he said soothingly, hardly knowing what he meant. It was curious how anxious he felt to propitiate the daughter of the house and to make sure this afternoon should not be his last at Kooringa. "But let me come again, you will, won't you," and Ann answered dubiously.

"Come if you like."

She stopped behind in the warm room while Ruth and Dolly hospitably accompanied them to the front door.

"Ann wasn't very gushing, was she, Mr. Maitland?" said Dolly, as her sister, for almost the first time that afternoon, gave her attention to the doctor.

"No, she wasn't," he said lugubriously, and his eyes wandered, as Dolly was quick to see, to Ruth's fair face.

"Will you come again?"

"How can I?" he asked. "Miss Grant gave me no encouragement."

"Well, I presume you don't care much about seeing Miss Grant."

Maitland looked at her a moment as if in doubt, then answered emphatically,—

"I don't care if I never set eyes on her again."

"Then I presume you'd like to see Ruth and me again?"

"I would indeed," more emphatically still.

"Well, if you should happen to be riding by Davey's Swamp somewhere about 4 to-morrow I shouldn't be at all astonished if you came upon us. But if you wish to see Ruth I'd advise you not to say I told you where we'd be or she certainly won't be there."

"Thank you, Miss Dolly," said Maitland gratefully.

They were on the verandah by this time, and the men unhitched their horses from the verandah post.

"Good bye," said Maitland to Ruth. "I have had such a pleasant afternoon, thanks to you, Miss Grant—at least, no, your cousin is Miss Giant, isn't she? May I call you Miss Ruth?"

The old Jewish name sounded pleasantly on his lips, and she answered half shyly—"Yes, yes, I like that much best."

Riding away from the house together in silence both men were probably thinking of the two pretty lonely girls they had found set in such uncongenial surrounding. They had admired them yesterday, and both knew they would have lived next door to Mr. and Mrs. Grant for years without ever dreaming of calling on them, but for the discovery that they had two pretty nieces. Even then the doctor would never have dared to come only his bolder companion had over-persuaded him, and now he was wondering in his own mind whether he had not done a very foolish thing. It was evident Maitland admired Ruth, admired her more probably than even he himself had divined, and knowing as he did all Maitland's sad history, the doctor asked himself again whether he had not done a foolish thing.

Ruth was very sweet and bright and charming, just the sort of girl a man might love and marry. He admired her himself, but she was not likely to fall in love with him—and if she did—well, if she did—the cautious Scotchman felt his heart beating at the bare idea of such a thing—he knew very well he would fall in love with her, even though he had only seen her twice. But with Maitland it was different. He was a handsome fellow whom all the girls looked at and courted, as women will court the man who takes their fancy—he had never been so much taken with anyone as he had with Ruth Grant. And was there not danger for her? She saw no man—she lived a lonely life—was it not more than probable that—that—two good-looking, charming young people, evidently a little taken with each other, and oh, the pity of it—the pity of it—Maitland was not a free man. The doctor stole a glance at his companion as they trotted along side by side, picking their way over the stony plain. He thought the handsome face looked grave and sad, and a great pity filled his heart to think so fair a life should be already spoiled. And yet it was no reason why another life as fair should be ruined. Maitland was weak, he knew, fatally weak, and then he asked abruptly—

"Maitland, where's your wife now?"

Dick Maitland started as if he had been shot. Had he, too, been thinking of that wife of his?

"Just starting from England, I believe," he said, turning his face away.

"And she—is she all right now?"

"Is a woman who drinks ever safe?" asked Maitland, bitterly. Then with a sudden burst of passion he added—

"Oh, Alick, Alick, that woman has cursed my life. For the last eight years she has made it a hell upon earth for me."

"Poor boy," said Finlayson, pityingly, "poor boy. You were such a boy when you married her."

"I was old enough to know better—quite old enough—and you warned me. I remember how angry I was. I have made my bed, and now I must not complain if I have to lie on it."

"You'll live with her again when she comes out?"

"I can't—I can't," he made answer; "Alick, I can't;" and there was imploring treaty in his tones, as if he would have said, "For Heaven's sake, don't judge me harshly."

They rode on for some time in silence. Vainly the taciturn doctor sought for some word of sympathy, but none came to his lips, and at last he spoke out abruptly the thought that had been in his mind ever since they had left Kooringa.

"Dick," he said, "you ought to tell those girls you're a married man," and Dick Maitland answered never a word.