Miss Latimer of Bryans

Front matter

a By Eleanor C. Price, Author of "Alexia," "Red Towers," "The Little One," etc. In Three Volumes. Vol. II. London : Richard Bentley & Son, Publishers in Ordinary to Her Majesty the Queen. 1893. (All rights reserved.) CONTENTS OF VOL. II. CHACTEK PACK I. Charing Cross ... ... ... i II. The Journey ... ... ... 24 III. Paris ... ... ... ... 46 IV. In Church and Afterwards ... 73 V. At Home ... ... ... ... 94 VI. Church Corner ... ... 115 VII. A Walk from the Station ... ... 140 VIII. November ... ... ... 160 IX. Shadows ... ... ... ... 185 X. In the Lane ... ... ... 209 XI. A Resolution ... ... ... 229 XII. An Engagement ... ...

Chapter I. Charing Cross

" A traveller ! By my faith, you have great reason to be sad." IjUCY THORNE did not quite know the Rector, after all. He had not been in the train five minutes before she had dis appeared from his mind as a human being, and he only remembered the expression of her strong face as she said, "He has taken a revolver." On the way to London he was worried by many and distracting thoughts. To begin VOL. II. with, this sort of precipitate action was quite unlike him, and as soon as the first impulse was over, doubts and scruples began to croAvd into the field. Why had he led that good woman to suppose that he would or could bring her brother back ? Most likely he would not find him — he might go from Victoria, or from Cannon Street, with the reasonable idea of throwing his family off the scent. And if he was found, why should he consent to come back ?

The Rector had no hold over him of any kind ; he did not even know him as his parish priest. It was not, as far as one knew at present, a matter for the police, and therefore the Rector had no force, either moral or physical, to rely upon for help. Why Avas he starting off on such a wild-goose chase ? Then came back the remembrance of all Lucy Thorne had said and looked, of her half-A-eiled reproaches of Poppy Latimer, of those words, " He has taken a revolver." The uneasiness which seized again and again on Mr. Cantillon's mind, as he thought over all that, pushed him still irresistibly in the direction in which the train was taking him. " Not mad, but miser able ! " Poor fellow! And then there was the possibility, which had had a great deal to do with these sudden resolutions, that Poppy and her aunt might be spared some very serious annoyance if the young man's journey could be stopped.

Why was he going back to Switzerland, if not to see her again ! Sitting in his comfortable corner, the Rector felt rather like a child who had undertaken to stop a locomotive engine, so unequal did he think himself, in these cooler moments, to encountering a human creature Avild with love and despair. Yet, in these same cooler moments, though he called him self foolish and presumptuous for trying to interfere, the only alternative course still seemed impossible. He could not that after noon have Avalked quietly back across the fields to his house, leaving Miss Thorne Avith nothing but sage words to comfort her, strolling up the garden with small attentions to his flowers by the way, sitting down with Fanny's picture in the study, eating a peaceful dinner, reading an interesting book, going to bed with a comfortable, if rather sleepy conscience — while all the time that young man was tearing back to Switzerland, Avith a revolver in his pocket, and heaven knows Avhat wild ideas in his head.

No ; it was a case in Avhich the shepherd must go after the strayed sheep. And yet — "Useless, perfectly useless — uncomfortable and absurd," the poor Rector muttered. " If I catch him, which is not likely, he will ask me what right I have to interfere." And yet — to return to the child and the engine — a good deal may be done by waving a red flag. In short, the Avhole question resolved itself into "Shall I catch him?" only to appear once more in all its separate elements, with an argument on every point, which lasted till the Rector arrived at Pad dington. He was not surprised at himself, though conflicts of this kind always disturbed and saddened him. He had never flattered himself that he possessed a decided or a courageous character. If he had, Fanny Latimer would have been his wife years ago.

He always looked about him too much, before taking an irrevocable step, and was naturally afraid of any sort of violent action. A quarrel, all his life, had been to him an impossibility. He would have been like the second of those dear old hermits in the story, who, when his brother wished, for the sake of experience, to teach him and himself how to quarrel for a stone, could find nothing to say but, " If it be yours, then take it." At the same time, it must be added that indolence of spirit had much more to do with Henry Cantillon's meekness than timidity. He disliked London, and as he drove in his cab through streets beautiful Avith sunset, full of lovely effects of gold and purple mistiness which he was too much occupied to see, the futility of his mission impressed itself upon him more and more.

Certainly he had been a ridiculous person, to dream of catching one special young man in London. Such a thought could never have been born, except in the deepest depths of a rural country, in absolutely bucolic minds like poor Miss Thome's and his own. " Charing Cross ! Now for two hours of noisy, interminable waiting, with a dead failure at the end of it." As he stepped out of the cab, Geoffrey Thorne, with a small bag in his hand, walked into the station before him. " Oh ! Stop him ! " exclaimed the Rector. He did not speak very loud, but loud enough to make the cabman stare, to make a policeman advance two steps, to make a porter say quickly, " Which was the gentle man you wanted stopped, sir ? " All his life, the delicate and thoughtful Oxford don had been loved by cabmen, by porters, by guards, by all those men who have been taught by long experience to " know a gentleman when they see him."

The Rector saw that Geoffrey Thorne could be caught in a moment, if he wished it. But he had hardly spoken when he remembered that, whatever happened, a scene in Charing Cross station must be avoided. Why, the thing might get into the papers ! The very slightest danger of such a misfortune, though it made him tremble at his own thoughtless ness, filled him with calmness and presence of mind. He told himself that success in this matter might be gained by quietness, and certainly in no other way. " No, no, thank you," he said to the porter. " It doesn't matter. I want to speak to him, but I can overtake him easily." It was now after half-past six ; twilight was setting in, and the station was already lighted. The Rector's eyes were confused by the dim atmosphere, by the number of moving, hurrying figures, among which they now vainly looked for Geoffrey.

" Perhaps it was not my man, after all ! " he thought. " And if I do catch him, what am I going to say to him ? It is certainly the most aAvkward business I ever Avas mixed up in. Ah ! there he is again ! " His wandering eyes had discovered the man he took for Geoffrey, standing at the book-stall turning over the leaves of a book. " Buying books ! Come ! that doesn't look like desperation." As he walked sloAvly across from his stopping-place under the clock, it occurred to him for the first time that perhaps Miss Thorne might have made a string of mistakes about her brother: that he mio-ht, after all, have inherited the sturdy good sense of his family : that his return to Switzerland might be on some artistic business of his own, quite unconnected with Poppy Latimer : for after all, his home had been abroad for some years noAv, and all his chief interests lay probably in his art life there.

To be sure, the revolver ! and Mr. Cantillon had also the evidence of his own eyes, which had been startled by Geoffrey's face in old Mr. Farrant's parlour. But the possibility of such a great misunderstanding made him Avalk very cautiously, and assume, without knowing it, an extra serenity of look and manner. He did not wish to appear like a fool in Geoffrey Thome's eyes. The young man answered by a violent start, which hardly suggested a very good conscience, to " How do you do, Mr. Thorne ? " softly spoken in quiet tones at his elbow. It was Geoffrey, no doubt : and he looked very pale, ill, and depressed. He stared at the Rector at first without knowing him, muttered something indistinct, and then said more clearly, " I think you are Mr. Cantillon." " Your parson at home. Not much wonder if you did not remember me.

We were in the same room for a few minutes yesterday — and that is all we have seen of each other." " It is more wonderful that you should have known me," said the young man. " I have a good memory for faces. And then, you know, I spent many years of my life at Oxford, and had a great many friends among undergraduates — who were all of course younger than you. But I often miss my friends. There are not many young men at Bryans — at least, not many that would care for my friendship. But I like young men — always did. And I see you and I have one taste in common, at any rate. I can never resist a book-stall. I have missed a train, once in my life, because I couldn't tear myself away. Take care you don't do the same." " No danger," said Geoffrey. " I am going to Paris to-night, and my train does not start till 8.15."

He stood staring at the books, havinolaid down the volume he had been turning over. " Wonderful, in a smoky place like this, how they manage to keep the books so clean ! It does them the greatest credit," said Mr. Cantillon. And his own eyes folloAved Geoffrey's in a much more intelligent fashion, being drawn by a much stronger power. There was something even more attractive, however, in the face and figure of the young man himself, expressing a depth of weary, stony sadness, which to ignorant eyes might have suggested indifference. Mr. Cantillon remembered vividly the bright face, with its healthy tint of reddish brown, and the clear, honest, happy eyes, which had been raised yesterday from the sketch just begun of Maggie Farrant's face, and the very first sight of which had given him a warm feeling of kindliness and pleasure.

Now the eyes were dim, dark, sunken, with purple marks under them, the skin seemed to have changed colour, becominoboth sallow and grey, the cheeks had lost their healthy look and taken a sudden hollowness ; the upright shoulders had drooped, the head was bent, the voice was tired and cold. Turning over books might not indeed seem a likely employment for a man in despair : but the more Mr. Cantillon studied Geoffrey, the more strongly he felt convinced that Miss Thorne had made no mistake about her brother. He might not be mad ; he did not look mad : but miserable he certainly was. Such misery as could be read in his quiet face might very well, to some minds, suggest the way of escape that many thousands have found irresistible. Mr. Cantillon's own expression grew graver as he watched him.

Geoffrey did not seem to be aware that he was watched, or to wonder at all at the strange coincidence which had brought " his parson " to Charino- Cross station that evening. " Well now, I suppose," began the Rector, more kindly and more nervously than before,—" I suppose that you — will not let these books fascinate you too much ; for instance, you won't forget that you must dine before this long journey. I have an interested motive," he added hastily. " I am on my way to order my own dinner at the restaurant there, and it would be very pleasant — very agreeable for me — if we were to dine together." " Thank you, I don't much think I want any dinner," said Geoffrey, in a dull voice. " I have been knocking about all day, and I don't feel hungry." " Come, come, no good man ever goes without his dinner," said the Rector, with a sweet smile, — "unless it is for the sake of the poor, or self-denial, or some good reason of that kind.

On most days of the year, a man's duty is to keep himself in working order. That is your duty this evening, Mr. Thorne. Now look here. If I go in and order dinner for us both, will you promise me to come and eat it ? " Geoffrey stared at him. A little Avonder began to awake in his dreary soul : wonder at the Rector's extraordinary friendliness, not yet at the still stranger fact of his being there at all. Some men in Geoffrey's position might have felt bored and angry : Avhy could not the tiresome old fellow leave them alone ? Geoffrey had no thought of this kind. Mr. Cantillon had been able to read into the depths of a character whose foundation Avas sweetness. "You are very kind," he said dreamily. He Avas going on to repeat that he wanted nothing, but the Rector interrupted him hurriedly.

"Not at all. I'm lonely; I'm sociable. I want a companion. Only tell me — shall I find you here when I come back ? " " All right, sir. I'll look out for you," said the young man more naturally. And the Rector, with perfect confidence in his word, walked quickly aAvay. During the feAv minutes of his absence Geoffrey paced up and down near the book stall, still thinking with wonder of the kindness which made these last hours of Avaiting a little more bearable. He felt so dull, so heavy, so tired ; the sharp edge of his pain was wearing off, but the Aveight of it Avas more intolerable than ever. He thought, as people generally do, that no one had ever suffered quite such pain before. He did not blame her ; that had been settled yesterday in the woods where those afternoon and evening hours had been spent, before he knew what to do, before the whole past and present and future lay clear before him.

One could not lie for ever on one's face in dead leaves, if life was to go on at all. So he wandered home late in the evening, and escaped his family fairly well, and then lay aAvake all night thinking what he should do, but could not decide on the very best thing till after breakfast in the garden. Then it was easy to give them all the slip, to start off by the next train to London, and wait about till evening, for there was no club train in those days. And now, without knowing it, he was weak and exhausted from hunger, for he had eaten nothing worth mentioning since their early dinner at the farm the day before. When the Rector came back, Geoffrey followed him quite meekly into the restaurant, and took his place opposite to him in one of the compartments at the end of the room, which had been prepared for them.

He looked across the table at the Rector eating his soup, and as his own brain was a little strengthened by food, he found himself wondering why Lucy in her letters had never told him what a beautiful face Mr. Cantillon had, or how charming his manners were, or how he gave one, as very few men do, the impression of perfect refinement of nature, as well as perfect cultivation. The Rector himself, who was not too happy or too nervous to enjoy his dinner — he had ordered the best the restaurant could supply — watched without seeming to do so a certain life, a certain interest in outward things, returning to the deep hazel eyes that now looked at him with a little curiosity. He gave no credit to himself, but all to poor Geoffrey's dinner ; this was no distress to his gentle philosophy. He talked to him about ordinary things — politics, his father's farming, the beauties of Oxford, — and the young man answered with fair intelligence, though slowly and with an effort.

"And that revolver! Which pocket is it in ? " thought the astute Rector as he watched his captive. " I hope Ave may get through this crisis without help from that little infernal machine, my dear fellow ! " Presently he asked Geoffrey if he preferred figure to landscape-painting. :< Yes, I think I do," the young man answered. " I believe I should, that is. But the study is a much more serious matter, you know, and I could never very VOL. II. 2 well afford models. So I gave up the thought of figure, many years ago. Yes, ot course, it is more interesting. Anything human must be." He looked down suddenly, as if he had received a sudden stab of pain. It was the remembrance of something that Poppy had said to him, that moonlight evening in the orchard at Herzheim. Mr. Cantillon saw that a sore place had been touched, he did not quite know how.

But after all, this must happen over and over again if he was to gain his point and stop this journey. The time was slipping by, too, and he did not see his way more clearly than at first. " But you have painted portraits ? " he said. " That likeness of Miss Farrant — it struck me as being cleverly begun. I think you will make a nice thing of that." " Do you ? " said Geoffrey, wearily. " No ; I have tried a few sketches of heads, but never succeeded in anything — never satisfied myself. I don't suppose that will ever be finished." " I hope so," said the Rector. " It is a pretty face, and will make a pretty picture. Of course I am ignorant, but it seemed to me that you had already caught the general effect, and very cleverly. A soft, pretty head, rather foreign looking. The complexion and hair are certainly foreign.

They are singular people. You don't know them very well, I suppose ? " " No," said Geoffrey. " I used to see them sometimes, years ago. Mr. Farrant is a queer old man. He is picturesque. He Avould make a fine portrait." " I doubt if he would allow himself to be painted," said the Rector. " Now, Miss Maggie enjoys it, and he enjoys it for her. He was quite disappointed yesterday, I think, Avhen you went off in such a hurry." "Was he?" said Geoffrey. He added, after a pause, "It ahvays seems to me strange that he should be a clergyman." " Very strange. I believe he was a tradesman's son — a clever lad, and they sent him to Cambridge. I don't mean that there was anything strange in that — the instances are many ; but I always fancy that it would have been more natural for a man of his harsh and curious character to turn to the law, or science — anything, in fact, but the Church.

However, in his day, it was the easiest way a clever man had to advancement. Not that he profited by it. I believe after his marriage he took a small parish in the Fens, but always disliked parish work, and gave it up as soon as his father died and left him some money. He had an only son, Avho Avas very wild, married badly and died young. The wife and the daughter-in-law both died, and after that my predecessor came to the rescue, you know, — poor old Mr. Martin,— and installed him and his books and his grandchild in Bryans Rectory. They were college friends. Mr. Martin was something of an oddity ; but you knoAv more about that than I do." " He Avas indeed," said Geoffrey. Mr. Cantillon's gentle voice fascinated him. The annoyance of his first allusion to the girl's portrait seemed to be softly brushed away by these reminiscences, and Geoffrey, looking more like himself, forgot his own trouble so far as to tell one or two funny stories of his father's adventures with the old rector when rates or subscrip tions had to be collected.

Mr. Cantillon listened with a smile. He had heard the stories before from William Thorne him self, who delighted in telling them ; but he did not think it necessary to confess that. At last, when dinner was quite done, when Geoffrey's eyes were a little brighter, and a tinge of colour had come back to his brown face, and he had smiled more than once, even almost laughed, over the old parish tales, and his first surprise at Mr. Cantillon's kindness had settled down into a strong and genuine liking for him — when the Rector, seeing all this, began to think that the time Avas come for speaking seriously, he was seized and vanquished by a sudden fit of nervous hesitation. It seemed now that he could have spoken better at first, when the atmosphere was tragical and the situation strained. It was certainly more difficult noAv that Geoffrey Thorne had lost some of the outward appearance of trouble, and looked and spoke more like an ordinary young man.

The Rector's heart seemed to be beating in his throat ; he was as nervous as a girl. He turned so pale, that Geoffrey, looking at him with interest, bent suddenly forward with eager eyes, and said — " I beg your pardon ! you don't feel ill ? " " No, no— many thanks ! " said the Rector, smiling, and instantly recovering himself. " This room may be rather hot, perhaps." " It is awfully hot. Shall we go outside?" said Geoffrey. " It must be nearly time for me to get my ticket." " Wait a minute. I must have the bill." Geoffrey was really annoyed when he found that the Rector considered the bill entirely his affair. But something in the elder man's manner prevented much dispute, and in answer to Geoffrey's remarks as they went out, he said — " I asked you to dine with me. I only wish it had been at Bryans ; but that is to come."

He walked along the platform very slowly. Geoffrey, now thinking more of him than of himself, glanced at him with a little anxiety, and suddenly, for the first time, began to wonder where he might be going. Did he, too, want a ticket for the Continental train ? If that Avas the case, Geoffrey did not know whether to be glad or sorry. His feelings would hardly have been a riddle in the case of any one else, but the Rector's conquest of his new friend was fast becoming complete.

Chapter II. The Journey

" Smote the chord of Self, that, trembling, passed in music out of sight." "BB CANNOT attack him now— here— L™1*3' on this platform : it is morally im possible," thought the Rector, as he walked with Geoffrey Thorne towards the booking office. "What am I to do ? He will take his ticket, and be off in half an hour. I, most foolish and futile, shall have done nothing whatever. He — and the revolver! He is an amazing young man, to be so natural with it all. Very quiet though, and still waters run deep. What am I to say ? what am I to do ? " The Journea*. 25 In answer to these questions, an idea leaped ready made into the Rector's brain. At first he Avas startled. " Is thy servant a dog?" flashed also into his mind. But after all, the idea was innocent and partly true. A sudden plan, a sudden decision Avere not sins, and need not be confessed to his fellow-man.

His bag and his pocket book were provided for such an emergency. The suggestion which had at first seemed so clever that it must be diabolic, began very soon to take rank as an angel's whisper. At the door of the booking-office Mr. Cantillon said to Geoffrey, " Do I under stand that you are on your way to Paris ? " "Yes," said the young man, gravely, looking on the floor. " To Paris, and to Switzerland. I get a train on to Berne early to-morrow. Can I do anything for you ? take your ticket anywhere ? " " To Paris, if you please," said Mr. Cantillon. " Stop a moment, though : you must go ? — you are bent on going ? " Geoffrey glanced at him, and flushed up to his hair under the look of those clear kind eyes. " Yes," he said, in a low tone. " I must go — I must." " Then we shall travel together," said Mr. Cantillon, quietly, taking out his pocket book.

He Avas very tired ; the day had been an exhausting one, and he rather dreaded the night-journey, the disturbance of all his usual and most regular habits. But the task of stopping this young fellow now was evidently beyond his poAvers. He only now hoped to bring him back from Paris, having gained his full confidence in the meanwhile. What his arguments were to be, he hardly knew. Words would be given him, he thought, and if he judged his man rightly, they would not be given in vain. At present, however, he did not feel equal to talking to him any more. He left him — his charge — smoking on the platform, and The Journea*. 27 went to rest a little in the waiting-room, promising to be back in plenty of time for the train. Leaning back in the corner of a sofa, he fell fast asleep. People going in and out did not rouse him.

At last, open ing his eyes with a start, he thought it was a dark winter's morning in his own room at Bryans. The gas was burning rather dimly, and Geoffrey Thorne was standing by the sofa. He had stood there quite still for a minute or more, watching the Rector's calm face in sleep. No care, no disappoint ment, no agony of love and grief, could ever, it seemed, have troubled that peaceful coun tenance. But in another moment, after the first surprise of waking, Mr. Cantillon's eyes and smile told Geoffrey that, if he had never felt these things, he could understand them. " Another of my temptations," he said : " falling asleep at the wrong moment. As bad as the book-stall. I had a friend in need, luckily, or I might have missed the train." Geoffrey took his bag silently. As they crossed the platform, passed through the gate, and walked down the length of the lighted train, the Rector's hand was on his arm, and the young man was wondering with awakened faculties, though he asked no questions, what was taking this dear old fellow to Paris to-night.

Could he, too, be going on to Switzerland — perhaps for some reason connected with that news, to Avhich neither of them had yet ventured an allusion in talk ! Geoffrey remembered hearing that Mr. Cantillon was one of the trustees. Per haps his consent was needed, and he would not give it without seeing Captain Nugent. Anyhow, it seemed a rather queer, sudden journey. Geoffrey never for an instant thought of his own proceedings as being responsible for Mr. Cantillon's. He did not long trouble himself with these unprofitable questionings. He chose a comfortable corner for the Rector, and established himself next to him, but did not take his place till the train started. The Rector watched him standing in the half-light at the door, and once again admired his face, the shape of his head, the broad shoulders and strong, lithe figure.

" A better specimen of human nature, I suspect " he was thinking, when his companion joined him, and the train was off almost immediately. They were not alone in their compartment, rather to the Rector's disappointment, for two other men had got in. They soon went to sleep, and, to tell the truth, he was not veiy long in following their example. Geoffrey alone remained awake, and sat gazing into vacancy, while the train rocked and bustled and thundered on its way to Dover. When they arrived there, he took his companion under his care quite naturally, guided him on board — for Mr. Cantillon's eyes failed him a good deal in the dark, and all the moving lights dazzled and perplexed him, — led him below, and settled him on a sofa in the saloon. It was a calm night, but cold and autumnal. " Thank you, thank you, my friend," said the Rector.