Part 24 (2/2)
”MARY LEt.i.tIA GREY.”
This was the letter that had flashed like a ray of sun into the scheme of things for Blanche, and whose salient portions--by which she meant those directly affecting herself--she repeated over and over. ”A very rich young man ... educated at Cambridge, I am told ... cannot blame the poor young man if he does not fall in love down here ... it would be different if you were home. He is just your style.” That meant the style of man who fell in love with her, now always younger than herself.
”Got bad news, have 'ee, or is it good?” asked Mrs. Penticost, who could contain herself in silence no longer. She gave up the pretence of dusting and stood frankly looking at her lodger.
”I--I don't quite know how to take it, Mrs. Penticost,” temporised Blanche.
”Whisht kind of news that must be,” remarked Mrs. Penticost, who had not watched Miss Grey these past weeks without getting a shrewd idea of the tendency of her thoughts and affections. ”I was wondering whether you weren't feeling glad that time's come to go--if 'ee are going along of Miss Judy?”
There was no answer to this, and Mrs. Penticost, her rosy face set in lines of determination, began again.
”Must be rare and dull for 'ee down here after London, though there was that ball in to Penzance t'other night. Dance weth Maister Ruan, ded 'ee, my dear? They do say he handles his feet some pretty. I remember when I was a maid I was all for a man who could do that. I got as far as walking arm-a-crook weth a chap wance, and, thought I, 'I won't go for to ask he to step in till I do know if he can dance wi' I.' Some trouble I ded have keepen' he quiet till there was a gala and us could dance.
Primitive Wesleyan, the gala was. He was all for me maken' up my mind long before, and I wouldn' have un till I knew, nor yet I wouldn' let un go. 'Must keep cousins weth he or he'll go off,' I thought; and so I ded, my dear, just managed it nicely. I gave the go-bye to a fine-looken chap from St. Just to dance wi' my man, and then I found that he never danced toall, and hadn't dared tell me. Mad as fire I was, and abused him worse than dung. But you couldn' ever go for to lay that complaint against Maister Ruan, nor yet any other, I should say.”
”Mr. Ruan is all that is good and splendid, of course, Mrs. Penticost,”
said Blanche, folding up her letter.
”He is that, sure 'nough, and it'll be a bad day for the woman that ever does him a hurt, him that has had enough already to turn his very heart grey in his breast. I wouldn' like to see no woman do that.”
”Mightn't it be better than making him unhappier in the long run by not doing him a hurt now, as you call it?” asked Blanche.
”If he but knew what was best for him, 'tes a sharp hurt and soon auver,” said Mrs. Penticost frankly; ”but he'm like all men, naught but a cheild that cries for the moon, and a woman as has a heart would sooner see a man getten' what he wants, even when 'tes bad for 'en, than see him eaten' his soul away with longing. There's a deal of satisfaction in maken' our own unhappiness, and a man has that to console him.”
”You are a Job's comforter,” cried Blanche, rustling out of the room.
She had heard the well-known click of the little gate, and she fled upstairs to be alone with her thoughts and her letter for a few moments before meeting Ishmael. She no longer doubted she was going to break off her engagement and leave for home the next day, but she still had to decide on the type of Blanche who should appear to him and what her manner and aspect should be. A tender grieving, shown in a pale face and quiet eyes, would probably be best ... and she could always introduce a maternal note in the very accent of her ”dear boy....”
CHAPTER XV
BLOWN HUSKS
Not for nothing had Ishmael given way to the incursion of the personal, always before so jealously kept out of his life. His desire for impersonality now only kept by him in a fierce wish to blot out his own as much as possible, to sink it in that of the beloved, to drown in hers. He was obsessed by Blanche, she filled the world for him from rim to rim; and though with his mind he still admitted the absurdity of it, could even look at his own state dispa.s.sionately, he yet had to admit the fact. It was some time since he had been near Boase, because, although the Parson never so much as hinted it, Ishmael knew he was not in sympathy with him over this. Annie he felt he could hate for her antagonism, which, as long as it had been against himself alone, he had not minded; even Va.s.sie would not yield altogether and come in on his side. Blanche had to fight the lot of them, he told himself--resentful, fearful lest they should frighten her away. But at the bottom of it all was the fear, the distrust of her which he refused to recognise.
On this morning as he went down over the fields to Mrs. Penticost's he was more uneasy than ever before--he knew it was not his imagination that she had been different these last few days; he began to be beset by vague fears to which he had not dared give form even in his own mind, much less in any speech with her. Yet since the dance he had faced the conclusion that they could not go on as they were, that Blanche must either agree to a wedding or a final parting....
He reached the cottage and had to wait awhile till Blanche, pale and grave, came to him in the little parlour.
”Come out,” he said to her. ”There's a lot of things I want to say, and I can't here. The room's too small.”
Blanche hesitated, seemed to be weighing something in her mind, and then agreed docilely; she put on a hat, and then went beside him towards the cliff. As they went Ishmael tried to take her hand, trying to capture with it some of the spirit of joy which had fled, but she was carrying a little bag, which she s.n.a.t.c.hed away; there came from it a crackle as of a letter.... They went down on to the cliff together and stood awhile in a speechless constraint among the withered bracken.
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