the hansom went quickly through the streets, and took them, as gerard had said, to that quiet northern end of the park where scarcely a breath of the world’s life is ever drawn.
they got out and wandered into the little-frequented paths, by this time destitute even of the children and nursemaids whom they would have found at an earlier hour.
both the young people felt that they were enjoying a sort of surreptitious picnic, an unconventional, ridiculous tête-à-tête which was all the more pleasant and all the more exciting from the fact that they stood each on the defensive towards the other: rachel still affecting a haughty indignation at his suspicions; gerard humble but unconvinced of the truth of her story.
“well,” she said, breaking the silence, “you told me you were going to bring me here to talk. what are we to talk about?”
“i don’t care. talk about anything, as long as i can hear you speak.”
“but you don’t believe what i say!”
he hesitated.
[70]“what does that matter?” he asked at last.
she stopped short and faced him, but there was no longer any pretense at fierceness in her tone. she was argumentative, and she was charming.
“i don’t like to be disbelieved,” she said; “and i’m not used to it. i resent it, indeed; for you can’t respect a person whom you don’t believe.”
“oh yes, you can. i don’t quite believe something you told me half an hour ago, but i respect and admire you more than any woman i ever met.”
“but that’s inconsistent!”
“very likely.”
“you can’t really respect a woman whom you believe to be incapable of speaking the truth.”
“of course one couldn’t. but i don’t think anything of the kind about you. i think that you have told me what is not true, but i take it that you had your own reasons for doing so, and you are in no way bound to tell me anything but what you please.”
miss davison seemed surprised and touched by these words, and said—
“i suppose you think that is very magnanimous.”
“no; very silly. if it were any other woman but you, miss davison, i shouldn’t be such a fool.”
“your compliments are rather left-handed; don’t you think so?”
“they are not meant to be compliments at all. i tell you quite plainly, without any compliment, that i admire you more than any woman i have ever met,[71] and that i am ready to accept from you conduct which i should think dangerous and absurd in anybody else.”
“how is my conduct dangerous and absurd? do you mean in coming here with you?”
“no,” said he, smiling. “i mean i think it is dangerous to go about disguised only just enough to be recognized easily by people who know you. and absurd not to confess your little secret at once to me, who, as you must see for yourself, am much too far gone to be capable of anything but the most extravagant rapture at being trusted by you.”
he had done with reserve now, and he told her steadily and straightforwardly his story, in tones which left no doubt as to the genuineness of his feeling.
“you are right,” she said softly, after a pause, “to call yourself silly.”
“well, won’t you take pity on my feeble intellect and tell me—something more?”
she shook her head.
“i’ve told you,” she said stubbornly, “all there is to tell. if you’ve inveigled me here in the hope of getting anything more out of me than i’ve told you, you have miscalculated, and you have wasted your time.”
“no, i haven’t,” he said softly. “i’m enjoying myself very much. i can talk to you, i can look at you, and i—can ask you things.”
[72]she did not ask him what things, but became quiet and subdued, and occupied with the landscape. he was seeing her in new circumstances, in a new light, and the change from talkativeness and brilliancy to a singular tranquillity interested and delighted him.
“and you can disbelieve the answers,” she said softly.
“i don’t know. it doesn’t follow, as i’ve told you, that because i don’t quite understand one answer you’ve given me that i might never understand you.”
“i said believe, not understand.”
“same thing. if i were to ask you whether you’d ever cared for anybody, i might perhaps believe your answer, if you would give me one?” he suggested diffidently.
“well, i haven’t. i haven’t had time to think about that sort of thing,” said miss davison, in a matter-of-fact tone.
“really? never?”
“word of honor. of course you can’t say that. or, if you did, i shouldn’t believe you.”
“why should i be disbelieved more than you on such a point?”
“because it’s one, i think, upon which no man tells the truth to a woman.”
“don’t you think you will ever care for anybody?”
she hesitated, and once again that pretty, faint tinge of pink color came into her cheeks.
[73]“i don’t say,” she answered, in a dreamy and gentle tone, “that it might not be possible. but it would make no difference. i have laid down a plan of life, and i mean to keep to it. the sort of sentiment you mean has no place in it.”
“but why not? isn’t there any pleasure in—the sort of sentiment i mean?”
“oh, yes, i daresay there is. in fact,” and a faint smile appeared on her face, one of those charming smiles that flitted over her face from time to time so lightly that they illuminated the eyes rather than stretched the muscles of the mouth, “i may say i’m sure of it.”
“then why be so stoical?”
“well, because, for one thing, i’m convinced that the better i’m known the less i’m likely to be loved—”
“that i deny!”
she turned upon him with pretty scorn.
“what matters your denial?” she said. “i know!”
“you don’t know what love is—i must say the word,” said he with passion. “i’ve tried to call it everything else, but the real name must come. i love you, rachel, i’ve told you so, and the more i know you the more i love you.”
“yes, because i take care you shan’t know me beyond a certain point; and i never mean to. no. let me have my say now,” she went on, as he tried to interrupt her. “i’m not a bit ungrateful for your[74] feeling: i don’t pretend not to be pleased. i am pleased. i like you, and if i were a different sort of woman i should find it easy enough to go farther; but i don’t mean to. no, no, no;” and with every repetition of the word her voice grew firmer. “just listen to me, mr. buckland,” and she looked steadily into his face. “if you were to know more, if i were to tell you all the truth about myself, i’m satisfied that you would never feel a spark of anything like sentiment—the sort of sentiment we mean—again. no, look incredulous if you like; be incredulous if you like. in fact, i’d rather you should be incredulous about it; but it’s the plain truth all the same. although we had a little wrangle this afternoon about something you fancied you saw, and that i explained in a way you didn’t like, it is absolutely true that there is something to be known about me which would make an insurmountable barrier between us. now don’t think me hard and unfeeling: i’m neither the one nor the other really. but i am other things that the ideal should not be, and one of those things i’ll confess to you. i’m proud: not rightly proud, but wrongly proud. and that alone is enough to stand up and divide us—forever.”
even as she spoke, and as it were instinctively, she held out her hand, stretching it to its utmost distance from her, as if she were warding him off. something in her face, her voice, her manner, made the gesture so[75] significant that gerard felt as if he had received a blow.
“and now good-bye,” said she; “and i thank you for having suggested this walk—and this talk. i am glad we have had the opportunity of speaking out frankly. now, in the future, all will be plain.”
he would have burst out into an eloquent appeal to her to be open with him, to tell him what was troubling her, to take into her whole confidence the man who loved her, who was ready to give his life for her; but miss davison, with her usual cleverness, had seen and taken advantage of the approach of a group of people, foreigners on their way to the albert memorial, to make an effectual barrier against a continuation of their talk.
she insisted on going with the stream of people, and he had to follow her, bewildered, distressed, and silent, until they turned into the high road, when she made him put her into another hansom, and shaking hands with him, drove away in the direction of sloane street, with a wholly conventional farewell.
gerard went home to his rooms, puzzled, distressed, and perplexed as he had never been before.
not a bit nearer the solution of the mystery which surrounded miss davison than he had been before.
there was the puzzle, that she could talk to him, could be frank with him—up to a certain point, but that she could keep her own counsel perfectly, almost[76] uncannily, and as it were hold him off while certainly at the same time keeping him on.
for, mystery or no mystery, he was now more in love with her than ever.
he made an attempt to see her, by calling at lady jennings’ house, but he saw only the old lady, and heard that the young one was out.
he haunted the streets looking for a glimpse of her, but for some time in vain.
but as in london no one can remain untraced for long, and as miss davison, in her own proper person, was not the sort of woman to remain long unseen, in the very last days of july he caught sight of her as she got out of lady jennings’ victoria at the door of one of the big stores.
she was, he thought, more exquisitely dressed than ever, in the palest blue batiste—of course he did not know that it was batiste, he simply called it “bluey stuff”—with a big hat and belt of deepest sapphire color. she wore a row of pearls round her neck, a watch studded with pearls and diamonds on her breast, and in her hat were pins set with real stones.
he thought she looked the daintiest fairy princess he had ever seen; and the long cloak which she carried over her arm, of silk of the sapphire shade lined with the pale blue, was a garment which even ignorant male eyes could admire.
he followed her into the stores, but kept at a good[77] distance, wondering whether she would condescend to see him, and whether he should get snubbed.
she was buying largely, in one of the most crowded compartments of the establishment, where real lace handkerchiefs and dainty and expensive trifles made of lace were being disposed of at “sale prices” which scarcely seemed so “alarming” as they were described to be.
at last she caught gerard’s eye, and he saw her falter and turn pale as she handled, with a connoisseur’s fingers, a beautiful shawl of modern point lace.
he wondered whether she was going to cut him; but she did not. she was evidently confused at the sight of him, but she recovered herself, shook hands, and then, asking him to get her a packet of postcards, and to meet her outside with them, dismissed him on what he saw to be an errand invented to get rid of him.
he was disturbed, perplexed, but that was no new experience where miss davison was concerned. he went obediently to do her bidding, hoping for a few minutes’ talk to compensate him for his docility.
but as he went back towards the department where he had left her, he met one of the employés hurrying out, saying excitedly under his breath to another—
“tell the commissionaire to go for a policeman. we’ve got hold of our swell shop-lifter at last.”
