The Incomplete Amorist

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A black figure darkened the daylight.

The two on the plough started up--started apart. Nothing more was
wanted to convince the Rector of all that he least wished to believe.

"Go home, Lizzie," he said, "go to your room," and to her his face
looked the face of a fiend. It is hard to control the muscles under a
sudden emotion compounded of sorrow, sympathy and an immeasurable
pity. "Go to your room and stay there till I send for you."

Betty went, like a beaten dog.

The Rector turned to the young man.

"Now, Sir," he said.

CHAPTER V.

THE PRISONER.

When Vernon looked back on that interview he was honestly pleased with
himself. He had been patient, he had been kind even. In the end he had
been positively chivalrous. He had hardly allowed himself to be
ruffled for an instant, but had met the bitter flow of Mr. Underwood's
biblical language with perfect courtesy.

He regretted, of course, deeply, this unfortunate misunderstanding.
Accident had made him acquainted with Miss Desmond's talent, he had
merely offered her a little of that help which between brother
artists--The well-worn phrase had not for the Rector the charm it had
had for Betty.

The Rector spoke again, and Mr. Vernon listened, bare-headed, in
deepest deference.

No, he had not been holding Miss Desmond's hand--he had merely been
telling her fortune. No one could regret more profoundly than he,--and
so on. He was much wounded by Mr. Underwood's unworthy suspicions.

The Rector ran through a few texts. His pulpit denunciations of
iniquity, though always earnest, had lacked this eloquence.

Vernon listened quietly.

"I can only express my regret that my thoughtlessness should have
annoyed you, and beg you not to blame Miss Desmond. It was perhaps a
little unconventional, but--"

"Unconventional--to try to ruin--"

Mr. Vernon held up his hand: he was genuinely shocked.

"Forgive me," he said, "but I can't hear such words in connection
with--with a lady for whom I have the deepest respect. You are heated
now, Sir, and I can make every allowance for your natural vexation.
But I must ask you not to overstep the bounds of decency."

The Rector bit his lip, and Vernon went on:

"I have listened to your abuse--yes, your abuse--without defending
myself, but I can't allow anyone, even her father, to say a word
against her."

"I am not her father," said the old man bitterly. And on the instant
Vernon understood him as Betty had never done. The young man's tone
changed instantly.

"Look here," he said, and his face grew almost boyish, "I am really
most awfully sorry. The whole thing--what there is of it, and it's
very little--was entirely my doing. It was inexcusably thoughtless.
Miss Desmond is very young and very innocent. It is I who ought to
have known better,--and perhaps I did. But the country is very dull,
and it was a real pleasure to teach so apt a pupil."

He spoke eagerly, and the ring of truth was in his voice. But the
Rector felt that he was listening to the excuses of a serpent.

"Then you'd have me believe that you don't even love her?"

"No more than she does me," said Vernon very truly. "I've never
breathed a word of love to her," he went on; "such an idea never
entered our heads. She's a charming girl, and I admire her immensely,
but--" he sought hastily for a weapon, and defended Betty with the
first that came to hand, "I am already engaged to another lady. It is
entirely as an artist that I am interested in Miss Betty."

"Serpent," said the Rector within himself, "Lying serpent!"

Vernon was addressing himself silently in terms not more flattering.
"Fool, idiot, brute to let the child in for this!--for it's going to
be a hell of a time for her, anyhow. And as for me--well, the game is
up, absolutely up!"

"I am really most awfully sorry," he said again.

"I find it difficult to believe in the sincerity of your repentance,"
said the Rector frowning.

"My regret you may believe in," said Vernon stiffly. "There is no
ground for even the mention of such a word as repentance."

"If your repentance is sincere"--he underlined the word--"you will
leave Long Barton to-day."

Leave without a word, a sign from Betty--a word or a sign to her? It
might be best--if--

"I will go, Sir, if you will let me have your assurance that you will
say nothing to Miss Desmond, that you won't make her unhappy, that
you'll let the whole matter drop."

"I will make no bargains with you!" cried the Rector. "Do your worst!
Thank God I can defend her from you!"

"She needs no defence. It's not I who am lacking in respect and
consideration for her," said Vernon a little hotly, "but, as I say,
I'll go--if you'll just promise to be gentle with her."

"I do not need to be taught my duty by a villain, Sir!--" The old
clergyman was trembling with rage. "I wish to God I were a younger
man, that I might chastise you for the hound you are." His upraised
cane shook in his hand. "Words are thrown away on you! I'm sorry I
can't use the only arguments that can come home to a puppy!"

"If you were a younger man," said Vernon slowly, "your words would not
have been thrown away on me. They would have had the answer they
deserved. I shall not leave Long Barton, and I shall see Miss Desmond
when and how I choose."

"Long Barton shall know you in your true character, Sir, I promise
you."

"So you would blacken her to blacken me? One sees how it is that she
does not love her father."

He meant to be cruel, but it was not till he saw the green shadows
round the old man's lips that he knew just how cruel he had been. The
quivering old mouth opened and closed and opened, the cold eyes
gleamed. And the trembling hand in one nervous movement raised the
cane and struck the other man sharply across the face. It was a
hysterical blow, like a woman's, and with it the tears sprang to the
faded eyes.

Then it was that Vernon behaved well. When he thought of it afterwards
he decided that he had behaved astonishingly well.

With the smart of that cut stinging on his flesh, the mark of it
rising red and angry across his cheek, he stepped back a pace, and
without a word, without a retaliatory movement, without even a change
of facial expression he executed the most elaborately courteous bow,
as of one treading a minuet, recovered the upright and walked away
bareheaded. The old clergyman was left planted there, the cane still
jigging up and down in his shaking hand.

"A little theatrical, perhaps," mused Vernon, when the cover of the
wood gave him leave to lay his fingers to his throbbing cheek, "but
nothing could have annoyed the old chap more."

However effective it may be to turn the other cheek, the turning of it
does not cool one's passions, and he walked through the wood angrier
than he ever remembered being. But the cool rain dripping from the
hazel and sweet chestnut leaves fell pleasantly on his uncovered head
and flushed face. Before he was through the wood he was able to laugh,
and the laugh was a real laugh, if rather a rueful one. Vernon could
never keep angry very long.

"Poor old devil!" he said. "He'll have to put a special clause in the
general confession next Sunday. Poor old devil! And poor little Betty!
And poorest me! Because, however, we look at it, and however we may
have damn well bluffed over it, the game _is_ up--absolutely up."

When one has a definite end in view--marriage, let us say, or an
elopement,--secret correspondences, the surmounting of garden walls,
the bribery of servants, are in the picture. But in a small sweet
idyll, with no backbone of intention to it, these things are
inartistic. And Vernon was, above and before all, an artist. He must
go away and he knew it. And his picture was not finished. Could he
possibly leave that incomplete? The thought pricked sharply. He had
not made much progress with the picture in these last days. It had
been pleasanter to work at the portrait of Betty. If he moved to the
next village? Yes, that must be thought over.

He spent the day thinking of that and of other things.

The Reverend Cecil Underwood stood where he was left till the man he
had struck had passed out of sight. Then the cane slipped through his
hand and fell rattling to the ground. He looked down at it curiously.
Then he reached out both hands vaguely and touched the shaft of the
plough. He felt his way along it, and sat down, where they had sat,
staring dully before him at the shadows in the shed, and at the steady
fall of the rain outside. Betty's mackintosh was lying on the floor.
He picked it up presently and smoothed out the creases. Then he
watched the rain again.

An hour had passed before he got stiffly up and went home, with her
cloak on his arm.

Yes, Miss Lizzie was in her room--had a headache. He sent up her
breakfast, arranging the food himself, and calling back the maid
because the tray lacked marmalade.

Then he poured out his own tea, and sat stirring it till it was cold.

She was in her room, waiting for him to send for her. He must send for
her. He must speak to her. But what could he say? What was there to
say that would not be a cruelty? What was there to ask that would not
be a challenge to her to lie, as the serpent had lied?

"I am glad I struck him," the Reverend Cecil told himself again and
again; "_that_ brought it home to him. He was quite cowed. He could do
nothing but bow and cringe away. Yes, I am glad."

But the girl? The serpent had asked him to be gentle with her--had
dared to ask him. He could think of no way gentle enough for dealing
with this crisis. The habit of prayer caught him. He prayed for
guidance.

Then quite suddenly he saw what to do.

"That will be best," he said; "she will feel that less."

He rang and ordered the fly from the Peal of Bells, went to his room
to change his old coat for a better one, since appearances must be
kept up, even if the heart be breaking. His thin hair was disordered,
and his tie, he noticed, was oddly crumpled, as though strange hands
had been busy with his throat. He put on a fresh tie, smoothed his
hair, and went down again. As he passed, he lingered a moment outside
her door.

Betty watching with red eyes and swollen lips saw him enter the fly,
saw him give an order, heard the door bang. The old coachman clambered
clumsily to his place, and the carriage lumbered down the drive.

"Oh, how cruel he is! He might have spoken to me _now_! I suppose he's
going to keep me waiting for days, as a penance. And I haven't really
done anything wrong. It's a shame! I've a good mind to run away!"

Running away required consideration. In the meantime, since he was out
of the house, there was no reason why she should not go downstairs.
She was not a child to be kept to her room in disgrace. She bathed her
distorted face, powdered it, and tried to think that the servants,
should they see her, would notice nothing.

Where had he gone? For no goal within his parish would a hired
carriage be needed. He had gone to Sevenoaks or to the station.
Perhaps he had gone to Westerham--there was a convent there, a
Protestant sisterhood. Perhaps he was going to make arrangements for
shutting her up there! Never!--Betty would die first. At least she
would run away first. But where could one run to?

The aunts? Betty loved the aunts, but she distrusted their age. They
were too old to sympathise really with her. They would most likely
understand as little as her step-father had done. An Inward Monitor
told Betty that the story of the fortune-telling, of the seven stolen
meetings with no love-making in them, would sound very unconvincing to
any ears but those of the one person already convinced. But she would
not be shut up in a convent--no, not by fifty aunts and a hundred
step-fathers!

She would go to Him. He would understand. He was the only person who
ever had understood. She would go straight to him and ask him what to
do. He would advise her. He was so clever, so good, so noble. Whatever
he advised would be _right_.

Trembling and in a cold white rage of determination, Betty fastened on
her hat, found her gloves and purse. The mackintosh she remembered had
been left in the shed. She pictured her step-father trampling fiercely
upon it as he told Mr. Vernon what he thought of him. She took her
golf cape.

At the last moment she hesitated. Mr. Vernon would not be idle. What
would he be doing? Suppose he should send a note? Suppose he had
watched Mr. Underwood drive away and should come boldly up and ask for
her? Was it wise to leave the house? But perhaps he would be hanging
about the church yard, or watching from the park for a glimpse of her.
She would at least go out and see.

"I'll leave a farewell letter," she said, "in case I never come back."

She found her little blotting-book--envelopes, but no paper. Of
course! One can't with dignity write cutting farewells on envelopes.
She tore a page from her diary.

"You have driven me to this," she wrote. "I am going away, and in time
I shall try to forgive you all the petty meannesses and cruelties of
all these years. I know you always hated me, but you might have had
some pity. All my life I shall bear the marks on my soul of the bitter
tyranny I have endured here. Now I am going away out into the world,
and God knows what will become of me."

She folded, enveloped, and addressed the note, stuck a long hat-pin
fiercely through it, and left it, patent, speared to her pin-cushion,
with her step-father's name uppermost.

"Good-bye, little room," she said. "I feel I shall never see you
again."

Slowly and sadly she crossed the room and turned the handle of the
door. The door was locked.

Once, years ago, a happier man than the Reverend Cecil had been Rector
of Long Barton. And in the room that now was Betty's he had had iron
bars fixed to the two windows, because that room was the nursery.

* * * * *

That evening, after dinner, Mr. Vernon sat at his parlour window
looking idly along the wet bowling-green to the belt of lilacs and the
pale gleams of watery sunset behind them. He had passed a disquieting
day. He hated to leave things unfinished. And now the idyll was ruined
and the picture threatened,--and Betty's portrait was not finished,
and never would be.

"Come in," he said; and his landlady heavily followed up her tap on
his door.

"A lady to see you, Sir," said she with a look that seemed to him to
be almost a wink.

"A lady? To see me? Good Lord!" said Vernon. Among all the thoughts of
the day this was the one thought that had not come to him.

"Shall I show her in?" the woman asked, and she eyed him curiously.

"A lady," he repeated. "Did she give her name?"

"Yes, Sir. Miss Desmond, Sir. Shall I shew her in?"

"Yes; shew her in, of course," he answered irritably.

And to himself he said:

"The Devil!"

CHAPTER VI.

THE CRIMINAL.

If you have found yourself, at the age of eighteen, a prisoner in your
own bedroom you will be able to feel with Betty. Not otherwise. Even
your highly strung imagination will be impotent to present to you the
ecstasy of rage, terror, resentment that fills the soul when locked
door and barred windows say, quite quietly, but beyond appeal: "Here
you are, and here, my good child, you stay."

All the little familiar objects, the intimate associations of the
furniture of a room that has been for years your boudoir as well as
your sleeping room, all the decorations that you fondly dreamed gave to
your room a _cachet_--the mark of a distinctive personality,--these
are of no more comfort to you than would be strange bare stone walls
and a close unfamiliar iron grating.

Betty tried to shake the window bars, but they were immovable. She
tried to force the door open, but her silver buttonhook was an
insufficient lever, and her tooth-brush handle broke when she pitted
it in conflict against the heavy, old-fashioned lock. We have all read
how prisoners, outwitting their gaolers, have filed bars with their
pocket nail-scissors, and cut the locks out of old oak doors with the
small blade of a penknife. Betty's door was only of pine, but her
knife broke off short; and the file on her little scissors wore itself
smooth against the first unmoved bar.

She paced the room like a caged lioness. We read that did the lioness
but know her strength her bars were easily shattered by one blow of
her powerful paw. Betty's little pink paws were not powerful like the
lioness's, and when she tried to make them help her, she broke her
nails and hurt herself.

It was this moment that Letitia chose for rapping at the door.

"You can't come in. What is it?" Betty was prompt to say.

"Mrs. Edwardes's Albert, Miss, come for the Maternity bag."

"It's all ready in the school-room cupboard," Betty called through the
door. "Number three."

She resisted an impulse to say that she had broken the key in the lock
and to send for the locksmith. No: there should be no scandal at Long
Barton,--at least not while she had to stay in it.

She did not cry. She was sick with fury, and anger made her heart beat
as Vernon had never had power to make it.

"I will be calm. I won't lose my head," she told herself again and
again. She drank some water. She made herself eat the neglected
breakfast. She got out her diary and wrote in it, in a handwriting
that was not Betty's, and with a hand that shook like totter-grass.

"What will become of me? What has become of _him_? My step-father must
have done something horrible to him. Perhaps he has had him put in
prison; of course he couldn't do that in these modern times, like in
the French revolution, just for talking to some one he hadn't been
introduced to, but he may have done it for trespassing, or damage to
the crops, or something. I feel quite certain something has happened
to him. He would never have deserted me like this in my misery if he
were free. And I can do nothing to help him--nothing. How shall I live
through the day? How can I bear it? And this awful trouble has come
upon him just because he was kind to another artist. The world is
very, very, very cruel. I wish I were dead!" She blotted the words and
locked away the book. Then she burnt that farewell note and went and
sat in the window-seat to watch for her step-father's return.

The time was long. At last he came. She saw him open the carriage door
and reach out a flat foot, feeling for the carriage step. He stepped
out, turned and thrust a hand back into the cab. Was he about to hand
out a stern-faced Protestant sister, who would take her to Westerham,
and she would never be heard of again? Betty set her teeth and waited
anxiously to see if the sister seemed strong. Betty was, and she would
fight for her liberty. With teeth and nails if need were.

It was no Protestant sister to whom the Reverend Cecil had reached his
hand. It was only his umbrella. Betty breathed again.

Well, now at least he'll come and speak to me: he must come himself;
even _he_ couldn't give the key to the servants and say: "Please go
and unlock Miss Lizzie and bring her down!"

Betty would not move. "I shall just stay here and pretend I didn't
know the door was locked," said she.

But her impatience drove her back to the caged-lioness walk and when
at last she heard the key turn in the door she had only just time to
spring to the window-seat and compose herself in an attitude of
graceful defiance.

It was thrown away.

The door only opened wide enough to admit a dinner tray pushed in by a
hand she knew. Then the door closed again.

The same thing happened with tea and supper.

It was not till after supper that Betty, gazing out on the pale watery
sunset, found it blurred to her eyes. There was no more hope now. She
was a prisoner. If He was not a prisoner he ought to be. It was the
only thing that could excuse his silence. He might at least have gone
by the gate or waved a handkerchief. Well, all was over between them,
and Betty was alone in the world. She had not cried all day, but now
she did cry.

* * * * *

Vernon always prided himself on having a heart for any fate, but this
was one of the interviews that one would rather have avoided. All day
he had schooled himself to resignation, had almost reconciled himself
to the spoiling of what had promised to be a masterpiece. Explications
with Betty would brush the bloom off everything. Yet he must play the
part well. But what part? Oh, hang all meddlers!

"Miss Desmond," said the landlady; and he braced his nerves to meet a
tearful, an indignant or a desperate Betty.

But there was no Betty to be met; no Betty of any kind.

Instead, a short squarely-built middle-aged lady walked briskly into
the room, and turned to see the door well closed before she advanced
towards him.

He bowed with indescribable emotions.

"Mr. Eustace Vernon?" said the lady. She wore a sensible short skirt
and square-toed brown boots. Her hat was boat-shaped and her abundant
hair was screwed up so as to be well out of her way. Her face was
square and sensible like her shoulders, and her boots. Her eyes dark,
clear and near sighted. She wore gold-rimmed spectacles and carried a
crutch-handled cane. No vision could have been less like Betty.

Vernon bowed, and moved a chair towards her.

"Thank you," she said, and took it. "Now, Mr. Vernon, sit down too,
and let's talk this over like reasonable beings. You may smoke if you
like. It clears the brain."

Vernon sat down and mechanically took out a cigarette, but he held it
unlighted.

"Now," said the square lady, leaning her elbows on the table and her
chin on her hands, "I am Betty's aunt."

"It is very good of you to come," said Vernon helplessly.

"Not at all," she briskly answered. "Now tell me all about it."

"There's nothing to tell," said Vernon.

"Perhaps it will clear the ground a little if I say at once that I
haven't come to ask your intentions, because of course you haven't
any. My reverend brother-in-law, on the other hand, insists that you
have, and that they are strictly dishonourable."

Vernon laughed, and drew a breath of relief.

"I fear Mr. Underwood misunderstood,--" he said, "and--"

"He is a born misunderstander," said Miss Julia Desmond. "Now, I'm
not. Light your cigarette, man; you can give me one if you like, to
keep you in countenance. A light--thanks. Now will you speak, or shall
I?"

"You seem to have more to say than I, Miss Desmond."

"Ah, that's because you don't trust me. In other words, you don't know
me. That's one of the most annoying things in life: to be really an
excellent sort, and to be quite unable to make people see it at the
first go-off. Well, here goes. My worthy brother-in-law finds you and
my niece holding hands in a shed."

"We were not," said Vernon. "I was telling her fortune--"

"It's my lead now," interrupted the lady. "Your turn next. He being
what he is--to the pure all things are impure, you know--instantly
draws the most harrowing conclusions, hits you with a stick.--By the
way, you behaved uncommonly well about that."

"Thank you," said Vernon, smiling a little. It is pleasant to be
appreciated.

"Yes, really very decently, indeed. I daresay it wouldn't have hurt a
fly, but if you'd been the sort of man he thinks you are--However
that's neither here nor there. He hits you with a stick, locks the
child into her room--What did you say?"

"Nothing," said Vernon.

"All right. I didn't hear it. Locks her in her room, and wires to my
sister. Takes a carriage to Sevenoaks to do it too, to avoid scandal.
I happen to be at my sister's, on my way from Cairo to Norway, so I
undertake to run down. He meets me at the station, and wants me to go
straight home and blackguard Betty. But I prefer to deal with
principals."

"You mean--"

"I mean that I know as well as you do that whatever has happened has
been your doing and not that dear little idiot's. Now, are you going
to tell me about it?"

He had rehearsed already a form of words in which "Brother artists"
should have loomed large. But now that he rose, shrugged his shoulders
and spoke, it was in words that had not been rehearsed.

"Look here, Miss Desmond," said he, "the fact is, you're right. I
haven't any intentions--certainly not dishonourable ones. But I was
frightfully bored in the country, and your niece is bored, too--more
bored than I am. No one ever understands or pities the boredom of the
very young," he added pensively.

"Well?"

"Well, that's all there is to it. I liked meeting her, and she liked
meeting me."

"And the fortune-telling? Do you mean to tell me you didn't enjoy
holding the child's hand and putting her in a silly flutter?"

"I deny the flutter," he said, "but--Well, yes, of course I enjoyed
it. You wouldn't believe me if I said I didn't."

"No," said she.

"I enjoyed it more than I expected to," he added with a frankness that
he had not meant to use, "much more. But I didn't say a word of
love---only perhaps--"

"Only perhaps you made the idea of it underlie every word you did
speak. Don't I know?" said Miss Desmond. "Bless the man, I've been
young myself!"

"Miss Betty is very charming," said he, "and--and if I hadn't met
her--"

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