A Spotless Reputation

Chapter I

It would have been hard to find in England a greener or more retired spot than was The Firs, or, as some called it, Fir Cottage. Though barely half a mile from Bladford, it was quite possible for the traveller who had turned off the highroad to wander about for hours in a maze of grassy lanes, where the branches of hazel and hawthorn met overhead, and where wild straw berries climbed the banks, before discovering the little white house in the midst of the brilliant garden, whose brilliancy, indeed, was jealously guarded by beech hedges as tall as screens, and almost as opaque. The first sight of the place was wont to arouse two observations: whoever lived here must delight in flowers, and must have a horror of prying eyes. And both observations were true. Mr Cottingham was both a A lover of flowers and, if not exactly a hater, yet a shunner, of his fellow-men.

" Horticulturist and mis anthrope " would have ticketed him most correctly. During the sixteen years that he had lived here he had achieved hundreds of triumphs in gardening, and had made acquaintance with barely half-a-dozen people in the neighbouring Bladford. There were, of course, reasons for this seclusion. Mr Cottingham had grown up in easy circumstances, which, by reason of some unhappy speculations of his father's, had suddenly become painfully straitened. He was nearly thirty when there came the final crash which cost the elder (Nottingham's life, and from which nothing had been saved but an annuity for the son. It was only the crumbs of a once princely fortune, but it was enough to live on in a very small way. The son took things quietly. His childhood had been sickly, and as a man he was far from robust.

Being debarred from the more violent class of bodily exercises, and yet having fresh air continually pre scribed for him, the result had been gardening. When, therefore, he had ascertained that, despite the ruin, he could still afford his favourite occupation, — it is not an expensive one when you are your own gardener, — Mr Cottingham had contentedly retired with his baby daughter to this cottage; for he had not only been ruined, but had meanwhile married and become a widower. Since that time his life had been one lono record of the budding and blooming and seed-shedding of every species of flower that can be got to grow beneath an English sun. Owing to his ill-health he had never been a sociable man ; his financial disasters had sent him still deeper into his shell, and as the years passed, it was unavoidable that he should grow more absorbed in the society of his flowers and better able to do without that of his fellow-creatures.

With whom, besides, should he have consorted ? The Blad ford people were too common for his taste — for the constant company of roses and carnations is apt to make a man fastidious about his acquaintances — and the few landowners in the neighbourhood were too rich to be associated with comfortably. Probably Mr Cottingham knew instinctively that to have his present poverty plainly confronted with the wealth of others might disturb his state of chronic content. As yet nothing had disturbed this much: so long as he was not obliged to eat off a cracked plate, or to have his æsthetic sensibilities offended by the sight of holes in the tablecloth, he really did not feel much difference between being rich and being poor. Poverty, if only she can manage to keep a refined face, is quite bear able to such individualities as this.

It is the realistic details that distress them, not the poverty itself. Mr Cottingham never quite knew what a boon it was to him that the silver dessert -knives and the crystal finger-bowls had been saved from the wreck. Meanwhile in Mr Cottingham's carefully tended garden there had grown up a flower of another sort, which with his æsthetic tendencies he could not help admiring, but which he did not feel called upon especially to cultivate — on which, indeed, he felt a little afraid of trying his hand, since to him it was a new and strange sort of blossom. Except for the unavoidable interlude of school — since governesses were too expensive — Geraldine had seen nothing but The Firs. She and her father had lived quite separate lives, so separate that even the garden had but a second-hand interest for her, seeing that she was not allowed to do so much as tie up the roses or help in the planning of the beds — Mr Cot tingham was far too particular and far too full of private ideas and cranks to suffer any sort of inter ference; but, like her father, she too was on the whole content, although occasionally slightly bored.

Daily life was not exactly exhilarating. Katherine, the old cook, managed everything so miraculously well that there was no need to bother about house keeping, but there was always a good deal of darning to do, and always some dress or other which wanted turning. When Geraldine thought of the future she never indulged in ambitious dreams, partly, perhaps, because she was not by nature imaginative. Her reflections on the subject were generally limited to the hope that she would marry somebody who couid afford to get his stockings darned and his pocket handkerchiefs hemmed. That she was good-looking she knew, of course, being past seventeen and not a fool ; but to what exact degree she was good-looking she could not say, not having yet had the opportu nity of comparing herself with other women.

She knew that the doctor's wife had pronounced her to be the prettiest girl in Bladford, — the idea had made her heart beat rather fast at the moment, but cool reflection soon calmed her. Was this saying much, considering the amount of sandy hair and washy blue eyes to be seen in those dead-alive streets? — for about half of that respectable town was personally related to the other half. For anything she knew, it might be the rule and not the exception to be as pretty as she was, in that big world outside, whose rumble scarcely reached her in this leafy retreat. Not that Geraldine was disposed to be indifferent to the idea of her possible beauty, but simply that her interest in the subject had not yet been awakened. If at the present she had an interest in any thing, it was in dress — perhaps a prophetic interest, foreshadowing the other.

As yet it was the dress for its own sake which interested her, and the pleasure she felt in new combinations of colours, new arrangements of trimmings, was a purely childish one, free of after-thought. Something of her father's sense of colour — trained by many years of contrasting hues and studying effects — had passed into her, some thing too of his carefulness and preciseness. She could as little as he brook unæsthetic details. The result was that, when walking up the aisle of a Sunday, she actually managed to enrage the belles of Bladford by the unaccountable air of distinction about her clothes, on which, nevertheless, they knew that she had next to nothing to spend. Her gowns had sometimes to be shabby — there was no help for that— but they always were appropriate; while occasionally she would be visited by some inspiration concerning the drap ery of a skirt, or the manner of fastening a sash, of which a West End dressmaker might well have been jealous.

Nothing, for instance, could be more appropriate than the plain white summer gown in which — with a straw hat in her hands whose trimming she was altering — she sat to-day under the shade of one of the two widespreading Scotch sirs which had given their name to the house, and yet nothing could be more inexpensive, seeing that Katherine did the washing. The tea-rose at her throat was an important touch in the picture ; indeed there could be no doubt that the choice of button-holes afforded by the flower-beds helped in no small degree to enhance the effect of Geraldine's frocks. The fashion of the gown — but no, it will be wiser to be reticent as to the exact fashion of the gown, seeing that, for reasons of my own, I prefer to leave the precise date of the events to be here recorded to the imagination of the reader.

At a little distance, yet drawing always nearer, Mr Cottingham, with gardening gloves on, was tenderly clipping his rose-bushes, wincing with every clip of the scissors, almost as though the cut had been into his own flesh. He was a small, delicate, old gentle man, with singularly perfect features and premature white hair. By the time he had finished with the first big bed he was close to the spot where his daughter sat. He looked at the second rose-bed across the walk and at the second basket-chair under the fir-tree, and appeared to be hesitating. Finally he sat down, somewhat to Geraldine's surprise: she could not remember ever before having seen her father break off in the middle of so engrossing an occupation as clipping roses. It seemed to her that he was to-day not quite so absorbed as usual.

Mr Cottingham took off his gloves and played a little with the shears in his hand. He had about him the air of a person who would like to say some thing and doesn't quite know how to begin. " I wonder," he observed presently, " whether that nice young man will not forget about those violet seeds — the new variety, you know. He promised to bring them one of these days." " Which nice young man ? " asked Geraldine. " My dear, surely we know only one who answers to the description. Mr Nolebrooke, of course." Geraldine went on stitching at the lace on her hat and made no reply. As Mr Cottingham watched her he fell to wishing that his wife were alive. Not that he was a heartbroken widower, but that he felt a little helpless at this juncture. This sort of thing was certainly far more in the mother's than in the father's line.

"Don't you find him nice?" he inquired at last, with just a touch of impatience. " Oh yes, I think he is very nice indeed," was Geraldine's ready reply, as she held out her hat critically at arm's-length. " I have been wanting to talk to you, Geraldine," began Mr Cottingham after another pause, " but you must not be startled. To tell you the truth, it seems to me that Mr Nolebrooke is a good deal struck with you. If he were not struck with something it is not likely that he would come here." Geraldine laid down her hat on her lap and looked at her father inquiringly. " But surely he came here by mistake the first time ? " " Yes, but he has been here since without any obvi ous necessity. I don't myself believe that I should ever have got those tulip-bulbs or the promise of those new violet-seeds if I hadn't happened to have a daugh ter.

Do you know, my dear, an idea has occurred to me ! I had one of my bad nights last night, and while I was tossing about and trying to make up my mind whether I would have pink or yellow asters in the oval bed this autumn, the thought quite suddenly struck me : Supposing Mr Nolebrooke were to pro pose to Geraldine ! After all, such things have happened before, and I thought I ought to prepare you for the contingency. I suppose it had not occurred to yourself before ? " "No, it had not," said Geraldine, looking a little anxious and puzzled. " Then, of course, you have not thought of what an swer you would give him. Perhaps you had better think of it now. What would you say to him, Geral dine, if he actually proposed ? " She sat staring at her hat blankly for about a minute. " Do you wish me to marry him ?

" she asked at last. " Yes — that is to say, I should wish you to wish it. You see, you will have to marry some day, and this young man strikes me as particularly suitable. He is not only gentlemanlike and highly educated, but he has excellent connections, and it is quite evident that he is well off. And besides," added Mr Cottingham as an after-thought, " he gives me the impression of being both honest and honourable." " Why must I marry some day ? " Mr Cottingham moved in his chair and uneasily clicked the garden -shears. This sort of talk, with the serious side of life having to be faced, was the very thing he hated. "What do you imagine you can do if you do not marry ? " he asked, in an invalid's fretful tone. " I won't live for ever ; even as it is I have held out ever so much longer than any one expected, but I'm not likely to turn into an octogenarian.

And have you ever reflected upon what is to become of you after wards ? The annuity expires at my death, and you know that even this house is not ours. Where do you mean to go to then ? I suppose you wouldn't enjoy becoming a dressmaker's apprentice ? " Geraldine sat quite still, trying to think out the situation. This vista, opened so suddenly before her, had frightened her a little. Her father watched her curiously. He felt he could not do more ; indeed he had, for him, done wonders already. Besides, it went against all his notions of delicacy to press her to a decision, however anxious he might feel as to the result. The idea which had come to him last night in the interlude of planning two beds had struck him as the solution of the only serious difficulty he had ever had to deal with unaided.

A grown-up daughter was an ornamental but a distinctly inconvenient item in his household. It was impossible to take her " out," and to keep her in would surely not be fair, either to her or to himself, because — barring miracles — how was he in this way ever to get her off his hands ? This young man, who in consequence of a blunder about an address had walked in here one afternoon, not a month ago, seemed to have been dropped direct from heaven. In every way he appeared to meet the re quirements of the case. Of course Mr Cottingham could have no knowledge of his character, but the impression he made was agreeable, and besides he knew the name to be a good one, and he saw that his man ners were all right. More was not required to satisfy the paternal conscience. " If you don't marry him you will have to marry somebody else," he mused aloud, following his own course of reflections.

" One of those Bladford people, and then you will have children with Bladford man ners and sandy hair, and I could not possibly stand that " The garden -gate clicked, and as Mr Cottingham looked round he saw a tall, fair-haired man in a light tweed coat coming up the path. Father and daughter looked at one another quickly with something of a guilty start.

Chapter II

This was the fifth time, all in all, that Walter Nole brooke had been inside the gate of The Firs. Five meetings are not much, but he knew now that even the first had been enough to decide his fate. He had been fancy-free when, but three weeks ago, he came to stay with aii aunt in this neighbourhood. The aunt was rather dull company ; but being seized with a certain weariness of town life and a certain craving for green fields, which visited him periodically, he had selected this place of refuge, not only because it was literally the greenest place he knew in England, but because in other respects likewise it was just the place he wanted. A stately old lady, who got up late and did not expect conversation of him, who filled her house only at the regulation times, and spent the rest of the year in doctoring the cottagers for five miles round, and — last but not least — an excellent trout stream in the neighbourhood, — nothing surely could promise more repose.

It had been to this last-named propensity of his aunt's that Nolebrooke owed his acquaintance with the Cottingham household, for although she did not expect him to talk, she occasionally pressed him into her service as errand-boy. "You will find the house without difficulty," she had said to him one day early in July, when feeling too gouty herself to take a drive. "A small white house not more than half a mile south of Bladford, and down a lane. Ask any one you meet where Mrs Bell lives. The poor creature is mismanaging her baby entirely, and if anything can still save it, it is these powders." " Very well," said Nolebrooke, without much relish. It was impossible to refuse, seeing that he had just announced his intention of going into Bladford for some fresh gut, — and on his legs, since he wanted a walk.

When, finally, he found a small white house down a lane at the right distance from Bladford, he walked in boldly, although it certainly struck him that, though modest in its appearance, it did not look exactly like the place where powders for a sick infant would be likely to be sent. The blaze of flowers on all sides disconcerted him still further, as also did the small hothouse in one corner ; but by this time he was already within the gate, and probably perceived, so there was nothing for it but to persevere. Aud then it was that, turning a corner, he came quite suddenly upon a young girl, standing in the midst of a bed of tall white lilies and with a sheaf of the freshly gathered flowers on her arm. In her white dress, and with the white flowers reaching to her waist, she was so dazzling an apparition that Nolebrooke stood still on the instant, as though to lose nothing of this wonderful picture.

Her face was the most wonderful of all; yet, strangely enough, what he first felt at sight of it was not delight, but pain — that sharp, warning pain which sometimes visits us prophetically at the moment when we stand face to face with the incarnation of our fate. He had been in various countries, but he could not remember ever before having seen anything like this face — not in Paris, not in Vienna, certainly not in London. Dark haired, grey-eyed women he had known, indeed, in plenty, but never one who had been dark-haired and grey-eyed in just this indescribable, irresistible fashion — never one whose head was set upon her shoulders at exactly this marvellous angle, or the lines of whose figure took such sudden and violent possession of his imagination. He was no longer a boy, and yet there came over him for one moment that inexpressible flurry of the senses, that feeling of rapturous alarm, which very young or very sensitive men are apt to feel at sight of a beautiful woman.

His unprepared ness, no doubt, had something to do with his emotion. Here he had been with his mind fixed on a sick baby and powders, while now he stood face to face with what looked like the presiding goddess of these brilliant flower-beds. The mistake about the address had soon been cleared up, but Mrs Bell did not get her powders that day. After an introduction and an apology, Nolebrooke had succeeded in opening communication with the master of the premises, who opportunely appeared on the scene, and thus gained a quarter of an hour's time during which to feast his eyes upon the girl in white. A diplomatic training has undoubted advantages, and perhaps it was because his eyes had been sharpened by his occupation that Nolebrooke was enabled more readily to grasp the situation. The gardening gloves and a miniature rake had put him on the scent, with the result that the conversation turned quite naturally upon flowers, and that before he took his leave some thing had been said about a new variety of Dutch tulips which his aunt's gardener had just imported, and which unavoidably aroused Mr Cottingham's curiosity.

To the tulips it was that he owed his second sight of the woman who had taken such complete possession of his thoughts ; and after that, verbenas and chrysanthemums had each served their turn as pre texts for visits. A visitor was indeed an unprece dented experience at The Firs, but in his delight over his new acquisitions Mr Cottingham had lost sight of the oddness of the occurrence, until roused to the situation by that thought which had come to him in the night. Each visit had been to Walter Nolebrooke a new link in the chain that was binding him. He was a man of the world and also of experience, although only just past thirty, and, the first shock of emotion being weathered, he could see quite plainly whither he was drifting, and immediately set to questioning himself severely as to whether he had any right to drift further.

Pecuniarily, indeed, he was well enough off to marry a penniless wife, neither had he any sort of objection to marriage in the abstract; indeed it had been with a half-formed sort of idea of "looking about" him that he had recently made a temporary exchange into the Foreign Office, in order to have a year at home. His nature, however, was eminently ambitious, and he knew well that in his career, of all others, a wife requires to be carefully chosen. Would this girl, who had lived so abnormally retired a life, this violet grown up in the shade, be able to stand the glare of the great world ? She was not shy in the sense of even the faintest awkwardness in speech or movement; on the contrary, she seemed remarkably collected for her age — so much he had been able to gather in these few visits ; but she was such a mere child, so ignorant of everything that lay outside this tiny circle, so evidently free from the usual ambitious yearnings of girlhood, and, moreover, so averse to anything noisy or obtrusive — as he had once or twice had occasion to observe.

No doubt she would make an ideal wife in the most ideal sort of marriage the sort of marriage for which at moments a longing would seize him as keen as his hunger for green fields and trees. But a diplomatist has not only his family, he also has his career, to live for. Would she fill the post in his mind ? He must get to know her better before he could finally decide : thus invariably had his reflections hitherto ended, and another visit had followed with out his having decided anything except that to look at her was a delight. And now matters were beginning to press, for this visit of to-day would probably have to be the last but one before his return to London. The seeds of the " new violet " were in his pocket, and in his mind the newly freshened-up resolution of observing the girl more critically and coming to some sort of decision.

Ten minutes passed before Mr Cottingham felt him self justified in resuming his clipping of the rose bushes. Appearances were now surely saved, and whether or not he was right in his surmises, there could be no harm in leaving these two alone for a bit. " Would you not like to walk about a little ? " asked Geraldine, suddenly. She knew why her father had left her alone with Mr Nolebrooke, and an alarm had seized her lest he might know it too. The idea offended something within her. To walk about with him appeared to her to be less conspicuous than to sit still near him here. There would be more inter ruptions in walking, and she wanted to gain time, B since she had not yet considered what her answer to him should be. Nolebrooke felt that he would rather have sat still and watched her pure profile against the black fir branch behind, but she had risen already, and he followed perforce.

Past the geranium and verbena beds they sauntered, towards where a gorgeous hedge of hollyhocks stood against a yet more gorgeous sunset sky. The scent of heliotrope and mignonette made the air deliriously heavy. There was not much said between them, for Geraldine had too little practice in conversation to be talkative ; while Nolebrooke had only to enter this garden in order to fall into a state of dreamy silence, infinitely blissful, but not con ducive to sociableness or even to thought. In vain was he attempting to sharpen his powers of observa tion and to rally the arguments which but this morn ing had appeared to stand against the project of this marriage. He could remember none of them now, and all that his powers of observation were able to show him was that one little ringlet of her cloudy hair was curling over her ear, and that the forefinger of her ungloved hand showed one tiny red mark near the tip.

He did not know that it was the mark of a needle-prick, but the sight of it awoke in him the insane desire to seize that little finger and press one quick, strong kiss upon it, there, just upon the spot where sat that tiny speck. With such force did the idea take possession of his mind, that he felt compelled to turn away his eyes for fear of having to yield to the absurd impulse. " Papa expects a great deal of the asters this year," Geraldine observed at last. " It must he delightful for you to live always in this world of blossoms. All women are fond of flowers, I think, although, to be sure, some of them prefer artificial ones." " Yes, I am very fond of flowers, their colours are so delicious to look at ; but I am not allowed to gather them as I like. Papa is so particular, you know." "That must be rather tantalising," he said, and again relapsed into silence.

" The lilies are over, I suppose," he observed, absently, after a minute. " You were gathering lilies on the day when I first saw you — don't you remember?" " Was I ? It can only have been for the church, then. I am not allowed to touch them unless there is some especial reason." "It must have been about here," said Nolebrooke, looking round him. " Are there none remaining ? " " Oh no ; there is nothing but pansies about here now, you see. I wonder if I might gather one for my dress ? They are quite open, and this tea-rose is falling to pieces." She stooped towards the pansies, and as she did so the tea-rose rained its petals from her throat. Nolebrooke stood and watched them fall over her white skirt like a swarm of pale yellow butterflies fluttering to the ground, and saw how the delicate colour mounted to her cheek as she bent downwards.

Since her eyes were upon the pansies he could allow his own to rest upon as much of her face as he could see sideways. And as he stood thus, drinking in every line of beauty, alone with her to all intents and purposes— since the click of the garden-shears was scarcely audible over here — and, as the slanting sun set light stealing in between the hollyhocks touched her hair and the curve of her young throat, there came over him the same sensation of breathless ex citement which had seized him when first he saw her on this spot only a few weeks ago. Within the same minute she stood upright with a golden-brown pansy in her hand. "That ought to look well against white, ought it not ? " she asked with perfect simplicity, forgetting for the moment that he was a possible suitor. " Give me that flower," said Nolebrooke, abruptly ; " I must have it."

She looked at him, a little astonished at his tone, but she held out the flower obediently. Then, before he could account to himself for what he was doing, he had taken both the flower and the hand which held it, and was covering the slender fingers with passionate kisses. In the very first instant she was evidently too startled to resist, but in the next already she had shrunk back, and was standing opposite to him with wild eyes and white lips and with a curious mixture of terror and of pain upon her face. The sight of it brought Nolebrooke partially back to his senses. He remembered that he had said nothing, and that possibly she did not understand. " I love you, Geraldine," he said, in a deep, unsteady voice. " Will you be my wife ? " She only shrank a little farther away, still staring at him with panic-stricken eyes.

Nolebrooke began to accuse himself of having frightened this child in an unjustifiable manner. Vaguely he wondered what there could be in his face to produce that look upon hers. With a strong effort he attempted to control himself, at least out wardly. " I have been too sudden," he said in a gentler tone. " Forgive me ; tell me only whether there is any hope for me. I have loved you from the first time I saw you. Do you think you could ever like me well enough to marry me ? " " You — you must let me think," stammered the girl, recovering herself. " It has come so suddenly, and then I did not think that it would come in this way. " Then the possibility of its coming has occurred to you before ? " " Not to me, but to my father," said Geraldine, truthfully. " Only this afternoon he told me that I ought to be prepared for this."