As for Mary Middleham, it behoved her to cool her hot cheeks and quench the fires in her eyes as soon as she might, for within a few minutes of Mr. Germain’s departure she must set out again. She had been bidden to the Wakes for supper, and the Wakes lived five miles away. Without changing her dress, she mounted her bicycle and was off. She rode fast, but her thoughts outstripped her. She tried to look cool, but the fire throbbed and gleamed. It was not possible but she must recall every stage in the journey of the week that was passing—a week in which there had not been a day without some signal mark of Mr. Germain’s attention. He had “noticed” her; he had “noticed” her and her peddling affairs every day since the school-treat. His interest had increased, and was increasing; she could not credit it, but still less could doubt it. What in the world did the good gentleman mean? What did he see in her, what want of such as she was? Things of the sort had happened before; Mr. Duplessis was a gentleman, but he was different, quite different. He was, to say the least of it, a younger gentleman, and age was a leveller. “Fun” was to be expected from such as he; but no more. Her conscience had to be put to sleep where Mr. Duplessis was concerned. But Mr. Germain was good and great, wise and—well, middle-aged—a landlord, almost a nobleman. There was no question of “fun” there, or of conscience either—it was all wild surmise. Could he mean anything? One answer to that only: he must. Then, what under Heaven could he mean but one thing? And that was flat absurdity—impossible of belief. And yet—! So her little careful mind, scared out of its bearings, beat and boxed the compass as her heart drove it.
She had a shrewd eye for that form of flattery which girls call “attentions”; for the education of her world cultivates the fibres of sense, and she had been upon it from her seventeenth to this her four-and-twentieth year. Never a year of the seven but her wits had been strung by some affair or another, scarcely one but she had supposed herself within hail of that hour of moment, had seen before her a point beyond which there was no seeing. “If he asks me, I must answer him. And how?” Mostly he had not; and, after a drowning interval, she had presently discovered herself heart-whole, conscience-clean, with no wounds visible, no weals or bruises to ache their reminders. Then it had all begun again—da capo.
She was very woman to the extremities. Nothing more feminine than she had ever been taken from the side of man, or been more strongly inclined to go back again. Nothing else in life really interested her but the attitude of men—of this man or that man—towards her. That was why work was task-work, and daily intercourse (without an implication) like meat without salt. Instinct had swallowed her up; her mind was a slave, her heart not yet born. She knew nothing whatever of passion; nobody had ever evoked that. She had been touched, interested, flattered, excited, but never in love in her whole life. Love, indeed, in its real sense, was a sealed book; but curiosity absorbed her, and she was as responsive to the flatteries of attention as a looking-glass to breath. Though she was what we call a coquette by nature, she had no vanities, no vulgar delight in flaunting her conquests before the envious. On the contrary, she was secretive, hoarded her love-affairs, preferred to be wooed in the dark. Her philosophy was really very simple and, I say, perfectly innocent. She loved to be loved, sought out, desired. If she was pretty, it was good to be claimed; if she was not, it was better. So all was for the best.
Sitting erect in her saddle, with squared shoulders, open-breasted to the fanning airs, it was clear that she was pleased, and that throbbing heart and coursing blood became her. She had never looked so well or so modest. Her lips were parted, but her eyes were veiled by those heavy lids and deep lashes which to Duplessis spoke strongly of desire, and to Mr. Germain of virgin bashfulness. A smile lay lurking at the corners of her mouth, ready to flash and dart as her thought was stirred. She was not thinking—perhaps she was incapable of it—she was playing with thought. What had he been doing with her to-day? What was he going to do with her the day after to-morrow? It was all very extraordinary. He liked her, he tried to please her—and so far well; but he was not like Mr. Duplessis, never looked at you as he did, as if he was angry that you were not a morsel. It wasn’t that at all: well then, what was it? The milestones flew by between Misperton and Whiteacre; she was received by the buxom Miss Wakes with kisses and smiles; but her questions were not solved, and her excitement must vent itself in sallies.
So it did. Young Mr. Perivale, the auctioneer’s son, was dumb before her, went down like a stricken steer. She teased him, dazzled him, inflamed his face and tied his tongue. She chattered, sang snatches of songs, scribbled on the piano, flashed and loomed, dared greatly to a point, and then turned to fly. She sat on Sally’s lap and ate apples, allowed Letty to whisper secrets in a corner and quarrel with Kitty who should have her next; sedately conscious of her good looks, she sat downcast all of a sudden and let herself be adored—and then of the suddenest she fled them all and went with Mr. Wake to visit a sick mare, to pity and to serve, to hold the twitch for him while he administered a ball. The end of such flights may be imagined; a pursuit, a capture in the shrubbery, her waist a prisoner, and a panting declaration from young Perivale of the state of his feelings.
She seemed heartless to him. She escaped his arm, and, “Oh, no, Mr. Perivale, I really couldn’t,” she told him, when he asked, “Could she care for him?” and looked to snatch a kiss. Which did she mean—that she couldn’t? Both, it seemed. She handled him lightly; but she thoroughly understood the game, and her ease was that of a skilled practitioner. Mr. Perivale was hurt, and, it may be, forgot himself. He told her fairly that her head had been turned. “That’s what it is,” he said, with hot eyes and a sore tongue, “we’re not good enough for you now. The great folks have taken you up. You think they mean something—and perhaps they do. But it’s not what you think it is.”
“I think nothing about it, I assure you,” she cried, with her head high.
“You think nothing of Mr. Germain in the cricket-field—like a codfish on a bank? Nothing of Mr. Duplessis glaring at you fit to break you? You think these very fine attentions? You’ll excuse me, Miss Middleham, but I know the world.”
“Oh, you may believe what you please of me,” said she, flushing up; “but I hope you’ll believe what I’ve told you just now.”
“I’ll accept it, whether or no—,” said Mr. Perivale, and bade her good-night. Left to herself, in the shrubbery, she shed some tears: spret? injuria form?. The result of the scene was a supper eaten in subdued silence and the prospect of five miles home, unescorted. She disliked being about in the dark; imagination pictured beauty defenceless and man ranging hungrily. There was a moon, which made it worse. You can only see how dark it is on a moonlight night. No question, however, but she must go.
She made her farewells and set out, her spirits quelled, her little joys all dashed by the quarter-hour’s strife, and a victory which seemed not worth the having. The wind had died down; it was a perfectly still night, close and hot. The very moon seemed hot—heavy, full and burnt yellow—midway up its path. Soon she too was hot, and walking up Faraway Hill got hotter. Her hair loosened and sagged on her neck; her thin muslin gown clung about her knees; she felt tumbled and blowsed, was as near cross as she could ever be, and had spirits like lead—no elation to be got out of the wonderful week, no high-heart hopes for the day after to-morrow, no wild surmises. Atop of the great hill she stopped for breath, fanned herself with her handkerchief, and put up her hair again. Then she mounted and began the short descent to Cubbingdean.
She had not gone a hundred yards before she felt the dull shock and gritty strain which betokens a punctured wheel. This seemed too much, but, dismounting, she found it too true. Disaster on the heels of discomfort; here she was with four fine miles to walk, alone, in the dark, the scorn and reproof of a young Perivale! And part of her way led over Mere Common, where gipsies often encamped, and lay abroad at this season of the year, sleeping, lurking with dogs, doing wickedness in couples. Her heart began to beat at the thought of all this—and what wickedness they might do, and how the dogs would scuffle and tear; but there was no help for it. She had passed this way but three hours ago—and how gay it had looked in the golden sunlight of the late afternoon! Ah, but then her thoughts had been golden, and music in her heart. A snatch came back of the song which had been on her lips; stale jingle it seemed to her now. There had been no gipsies, though, on the Common; comfort in that.
After Cubbingdean, where a little river runs over the road, you climb again between hedgerows and orchards; then comes a piece of woodland on either side, and beyond that you are on Mere Common, which is more than a mile across and half as much again in length. Mary tiptoed through the wood with a knocking heart and, taking breath, addressed herself to the proof before her. She had not, so far, met a living soul, unless pheasants have souls, and hares. These light-foot beasts had made her jump more than enough, and set the pulses at her temples beating like kettle-drums. Her mind was beset by terrors; she had to bite her lip sharply to keep herself to her task.
The wooded road opened, the trees thinned out; now she was on the Common, indeed, and saw the ghostly lumps of furze—each in its shroud—on either hand, with the mist irradiate upon them. She saw the ribbon of white road tapering to a point—and midway of that, beside it, dead in her way, a bright and steady light. At this apparition she stopped short, gazing in panic, her eyes wide, lips apart. Somebody was there! somebody was there—and what could she do?
She had plenty of spirit for the ordinary encounters of daylight. Over-confident young Mr. Perivale, impudent Sunday scholars, young men who took liberties, found their level; Mrs. James herself would not care to go too far. But in the dark her imagination rode her; she then became what indeed she seemed to one at least of her admirers—the hunted nymph cowering in covert, appealing only for the mercy of men. So now, before this terrible light, glimmering there steady and on the watch, her knees began to shake, her eyes to grow dim. She dared not pass it—so much she confessed; she must make a wide cast, and slip by it through the furze.
She plunged desperately in and struck out to the left of the road. Almost immediately the furze was level with her head, often over it; and she had but one arm free to fend it off. It scratched her cheeks, tore her frock, pulled her hair all about her shoulders; she felt the hairpins part and fall. As for the accursed bicycle, it seemed to be battling on its own account like a mad thing, contesting every inch of ground, clinging to every root, sticking in every hollow. Her breath went, and her strength after it, but still she fought and panted. Amazing contrast between what she had been at seven o’clock, and was now at half-past ten! Impossibly fair seemed the spent day, impossibly serene her panic heart. Bitter regret for what was so lovely and so far away started the tears again; she bit her lip, forced herself on; but at last, pushing with all her might between two ragged clumps, she was caught up sharp, felt a stinging pain on her shin, her ankle gripped by something which cut to the bone. She tottered and fell forward upon her bicycle, and as she went down the ring of fire holding her ankle bit and burned—and Mary shrieked.
She had done herself no service by her détour, for she heard a man cry, “Hulloa—I’m coming,” and resigned herself to utter fate. God send him kind!—what were these terrible teeth at her ankle? She felt out to reach it—a wire! She was in a hare-wire, set, no doubt by this ruffian who was coming to her now. She heard him labouring through the bushes, and held her breath; and then again he called—“Where are you? Don’t be afraid.” That was a good voice surely! That was a young man’s voice—not a gipsy’s. Comforted, perhaps interested, she crouched, holding her caught ankle, and waited.