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Chapter XXII. Morebay.

Randal did his very best to efface from Mabel’s mind any disagreeable impression which that afternoon might have left on it. He told her he was very sorry, and hoped that Dick Northcote had taken good care of her, in the easiest and pleasantest way.

‘What became of poor Mrs. Lancaster? Did she go home?’ said Mabel.

‘She meant to walk home,’ said Randal; ‘but as we came up the combe together, we met Dick and his cart rattling down. By the bye, you must have been shaken to pieces. So I left her in his charge, and he was going to pull her round to St. Denys in our boat. That would be less tiring than such a long walk.’

‘And was it all right?’ said Mabel. ‘Was he pleased?’

‘Pleased?’ said Randal, looking at her.

‘I thought you seemed to hint that he had not been quite nice to her. I fancied that was what distressed her.’

Mabel coloured, and wished she had not asked any questions. They seemed such an odd jumble altogether, these relations of Randal and Dick and Mrs. Lancaster. She was sorry to show any curiosity about them.

‘O,’ said Randal, ‘it was not Dick entirely; she has lots of things on her mind.’

To do him justice, he spoke gravely enough about Flora, though of course no one could have guessed from his manner that he, and no one else, was to be blamed page 198 for her unhappiness. But he did not seem inclined to say any more about her, and Mabel did not ask.

For several days after this Mabel saw no one but her companions at Pensand. The General left her and Randal very much alone together, and by this strange arrangement, as it might well have seemed to most people, they grew more intimate day by day. There were some subjects that they avoided: they did not talk of their neighbours; but somehow there always was plenty to talk about, and Randal never let Mabel be dull. She was amused and cheerful, and yet not quite happy, through those soft August days. Things that Randal said did not always ring true; Mabel’s instincts rebelled sometimes, though she only scolded herself for being silly. Nearly every day he took her out for a drive; they went far away into the country, through miles of lovely winding roads and lanes, where a few trees were just beginning to show a touch of gold after the long hot summer; far up the rivers, sometimes making a little picnic of their own on some terraced bank where the fern was fading. They had no more boating. Randal seemed to have taken a dislike to the river and the combe, where he had gone through so much that was unpleasant.

Perhaps he could hardly have explained to himself why he did not speak to Mabel, and make it quite sure. With all his assurance, possibly he still felt a little doubtful of her answer, and he wanted her to be perfectly used to him, and accustomed to expect everything from him, before he ran such a great risk.

During those days, though Anthony came two or three times to the Castle, he was not once allowed to see Mabel alone; and while his heart was full of uneasiness about her, there was nothing to rouse his suspicions very strongly, or to give him an excuse for speaking to Randal. Miss Northcote had hinted to him no more page 199 than he felt pretty sure of long ago. Besides, poor Anthony had played his best card and lost it; it was plain that he, at least, had no rights over Mabel’s future, though no one knew this but themselves.

Randal had every reason to be confident. A box of letters and presents, the sad memorials of those two years, had reached him from Mrs. Lancaster. Considering his own nature, it was strange that he had such faith in Flora’s honour and reticence; but he felt quite securely certain that—for her own sake, as he chose to put it—she would keep the secret still; nobody would ever know what they had been to each other. He burnt the letters late one night in his father’s study-fire; and as he watched the thin black curls that were now nothing, but had once been so much, he felt himself really a free man, and thought he might as well ask Mabel—to-morrow.

‘She is not a bad-looking girl, you know; but I wish she was fair,’ Randal confided to the dying fire.

And then came a terrible flood of recollections. Could it be only two years since he first made love to Flora in the Combe? and was any one ever so pretty as Flora? All that would not bear thinking of at night alone, with nothing to divert his mind; for it was true that even now, for some mysterious reason, after he had left her so cruelly, doing all he could to break her heart, Flora Lancaster was still to this wretched Randal the one woman in the world. But he did not give way long to these morbid thoughts. He left the study and went up-stairs, a free man, quite ready to forget all his past foolishness, and determined that before the next night came the little heiress should be engaged to him.

Randal’s continued presence at Pensand had rather a strange effect on his father. He seemed to have grown much older since Mabel first came; he was more silent, less arbitrary; he spent his time more than ever alone, page 200 and appeared willing that Randal should take the rule of everything. His manner to his young ward was unfailingly kind and pleasant, though he saw less and less of her, leaving her, like everything else, in his son’s care.

But the morning after Randal had burnt his letters, General Hawke told them at breakfast that he was going to drive to Morebay, and asked whether they liked to go with him.

‘I have business at the bank,’ he said. ‘You might show Mabel the harbour and the dockyards. You want some variety in your expeditions.’

‘Would you like it, Mabel?’ said Randal.

‘Of course she would like it,’ said the General. ‘Pensand for ever is too much for young people. And she won’t refuse me the pleasure of her company, for I am an old man, and failing fast. I may never leave Pensand again.’

Mabel looked up rather anxiously; but the General smiled at her.

‘I should like it of all things,’ she said.

It certainly had been a trial to a young creature, whose curiosity went on growing, to live for so many weeks within a few miles of a place like Morebay, and to have seen nothing of it except the great bustling station, so near the end of her long hot journey from town. This was a fresh beautiful day, with a bright sun, and that light wind blowing which made the St. Denys country look its prettiest, ruffling the surface of its broad gleaming waters. Mabel thoroughly enjoyed the drive, especially the delightful excitement of going on board the chain-ferry, and being drawn across the Mora, horses and all, in company with several carts. Then, as they drove on towards Morebay, there was an occasional view of something blue and great, sparkling and rocking itself against the horizon. And so they came into the white town, with its broad streets and stately buildings, lying page 201 in a bold curve of the coast, between the hills and the sea, its harbour, and the mouth of its river, defended by forts and batteries; ships of every size and nation lying together inside those strong defences; great dockyards hard at work; boats darting by here and there in the sunshine with diamond flashes of spray; green and purple shadows crossing the blue of the sea; the deep green of trees on the slopes running down to the water. There was something so glorious in all the noise and brightness and colour of it, that Mabel could hardly speak for pleasure. It seemed so wonderful to have looked down on all this from that silent height of Pensand, to have seen the lights coming out in the evening, day after day, and the distant masts, and the still more distant gleam of sea, and now to find herself really in the midst of it all.

‘How beautiful, how very beautiful it is!’ she said to Randal, half under her breath.

‘Yes, it is a fine town,’ he said; ‘and one of the best situations in England.’

Randal was not quite in his usual spirits. Driving down that morning through St. Denys to the ferry they had passed Captain Cardew’s house, and in spite of himself he had been obliged to look that way. And as the carriage went slowly down the hill, Randal, sitting with his back to the horses, had seen the old Captain himself hurry out to the garden-gate, and stand there staring after it in a fixed manner which struck him as rather strange. He felt a little uncomfortable, and as if something troublesome was going to happen; and it occurred to him that the expedition of that day to Morebay might be a fortunate thing for him. If that appearance of Captain Cardew’s meant anything serious, what was to prevent him from walking in at Pensand Castle, and creating a disturbance there that might be very difficult to calm down again? If his father knew!

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And if Mabel knew! However, at present they did not know, and it was the part of a wise man to make the best of to-day. He had Mabel all to himself to-day, though it might be for the last time, and before the day was out he meant to be on such terms with her that she might stand by him and believe in him against all the world.

General Hawke went to Morebay very seldom, and thus had many people to see, and much business to do. He had brought Stevens with him, intending Randal and Mabel to be free to amuse themselves, which they found no difficulty in doing; and Randal was soon himself again in the interest of showing things to any one so fresh and so enthusiastic as Mabel. He showed her the dockyard, took her out in a boat in the harbour, and finally on board an ironclad, of which he knew some of the officers. The captain received them with a true sailor’s hospitality, and insisted on giving them luncheon. Every one on board watched Mabel with interest, as she walked on the beautiful decks, and listened smiling to her questions. She was like a little princess among the fine rough sunburnt fellows, beside whom Randal looked smaller and paler than ever, though he could not be insignificant. His manner to her was quite devoted, and Mabel certainly enjoyed being made so much of, and referred to him most naturally in everything. His friends on board saw the state of the case very plainly, and took the good-humoured interest that friends generally do; they thought it was a good thing for young Hawke. Every one knew he had been going on at a great pace in London, and most likely the old General had saved nothing. To catch a nice girl with fine eyes and seventy thousand pounds was the best thing that could happen to him; his friends were quite agreed in that, though perhaps they thought it a little hard that no one should have been allowed a chance of page 203 disputing the prize with him. But that was only to be expected from a close old beggar like the General.

Captain Stewart, of H.M.S. Fortune, was a kindhearted man, and felt sorry for the young heiress. He thought of his own daughter, very little younger than Mabel, who was hardly ever let out of her mother’s sight, and looked, at least, much better able to take care of herself. He thought it a great pity that General Hawke had not provided some chaperon for his orphan ward, instead of letting her run about alone with his good-for-nothing son, even though she might be engaged to him; and somehow the captain did not feel sure that this was the case. It was no business of his, however, and all he could do was to take good care of the girl while she was on board his ship. He showed her everything in the kindest way, explained the machinery, and how the guns were run out and fired, and told her the names of nearly all the ships in the harbour, and what their different flags meant. They were still deep in signals when Randal joined them; he had been talking to some of the other officers, more of his own age and calibre than Captain Stewart. Mabel was thoroughly sorry to leave the hospitable ship; but Randal had no intention of spending the afternoon there.

There was a fine park at Morebay, on the cliffs to the east of the harbour, where a band used to play on summer afternoons, and people walked about, played games, sat under the trees, and enjoyed the wonderful united beauty of sea and land. The short close grass of the park ran down to the edge of the great shelving red cliffs that dipped their rocky feet in the sea. On that side all the horizon was brilliant sea; on the other, chequered sunshine and shade, green turf and trees, the white terraces of Morebay rising like a great amphitheatre to the far background of blue hills.

After they had landed from the Fortune, Randal took page 204 Mabel into the park, thinking that she might rest there very pleasantly for an hour. He found a place a little apart from the people, a bench under a group of tall firs that overlooked the sea, and here they sat down. Randal was rather thoughtful, and perhaps more silent than usual, though there was plenty to say about all they had seen. It was Mabel’s opinion that she had never in her life spent a more delightful day.

‘You are very good to say that,’ said Randal. ‘Yes, these things are interesting to any one who has not seen them before. I hope I have not tired you.’

‘O no! how could I be tired? I have been amused all the time.’

‘The most tiring process in the world, it is generally thought,’ said Randal.

‘I have not had enough of it to tire me. I really can’t imagine what it would be, to be bored by seeing things. One hears that people are, but indeed I can’t understand it,’ said Mabel, smiling.

‘There is something sad, as well as pleasant, in hearing you say that.’

‘Why sad?’

‘Because it sounds as if your life had been such a very dull one.’

‘O, I don’t know. Perhaps it is a good thing not to see things too soon. One enjoys them all the more, I think. I am quite contented. One can’t expect to understand everything.

This last little bit of moralising was addressed to herself, in answer to the little doubtful misgiving that told her she was not quite contented.

‘What do you want to understand?’ said Randal.

‘You!’ Mabel felt half-inclined to say; but she did not. She only shook her head, smiling, and looked away over the sea.

Randal sat and gazed at the slight figure, the dark page 205 delicate profile, the long black eyelashes, all so clearly defined against the background of sea and sky. It did not seem a very hard fate to ask this girl to marry him. And yet it was one of the hardest things he had ever had to do in his life.

‘Mabel,’ he said, ‘did you hear what my father said this morning, about being an old man, and failing fast?’

‘Yes,’ she said, looking round instantly. ‘But he didn’t mean it, did he?’

‘O yes, he meant it. And you must see yourself that it is a fact. Seventy-nine is old, and he had a very hard life of it in India, when he was a young man. And it is quite evident to me—I should have thought it must be so to every one—how fast he has been going downhill lately. Even since you came he talks less, walks less, sleeps more, in fact gets older every day. He is perfectly aware of it all himself, and he thinks it as well that we should know it too.’

There was real sorrow in Mabel’s face. ‘I have been very horrid and selfish,’ she said. ‘I have thought of no one but myself all this time.’

‘Nonsense, dear Mabel. Your manner to him has always been charming,’ said Randal gently. ‘His own daughter, if he had one, could not have been more thoughtful or more attentive to all his little whims. It is I who ought to reproach myself. Haven’t you often stood up for him, when I have accused him of not being kind enough to you? Don’t look so sorrowful, Mabel. It is a compliment to my father, but he wouldn’t like it, all the same.’

‘But do you really think he is ill?’ said Mabel.

‘Not ill. Only old. It is the weakness that belongs to old age, and then if any illness does come, there is nothing to stand against it. And he seems to have grown old and weak so quickly somehow. Understand, page 206 I don’t want you to frighten yourself. I only want to warn you, and myself too, that we must not expect him to live for ever, and then—’

A silence, through which they heard the soft splash of waves on the rocks far below.

‘And then, Mabel,’ Randal went on, for she did not speak or look at him, ‘will you be glad to leave the old house where we have spent such happy days this summer? Must we go off on our different ways, and cease to be anything to each other? Or when my father goes, shall he leave two children to miss him instead of one? What do you say, Mabel darling?’

Mabel sat quite still, in a wild maze of strangely conflicting feelings. She did like Randal very much indeed, and Pensand was the only home she had ever known; she could not say that she cared for any other man or any other place. Handsome, graceful, agreeable, kind and thoughtful from the first day of their acquaintance, and now, apparently, in love with her, there seemed to be everything in his favour, and nothing against him. Still, as she sat there blushing, and hardly able to see anything clearly in that mist of confusion, she was aware of the little doubt that Randal often brought into her mind. She did not quite understand him; she was never sure that he was in earnest, and had often wondered what it was that brought a shadow into his face sometimes, when he did not know she was looking at him. Of course he interested her; and yet she had often wished that his eyes were not so dark and deep, but more like Dick Northcote’s, blue and frank, and open as the day.

‘What are you thinking of, Mabel, all this time? Is there so much doubt about it?’ said Randal, beginning to feel a little anxious. ‘Is it quite a new idea to you? I assure you that since the first day we met I have thought of nothing else:’

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Mabel had a way of honestly forgetting her own advantages, and it did not occur to her that this devotion was not quite all for herself.

‘O, I am so surprised,’ she said, in a very low voice. ‘I can’t understand it.’

‘What can’t you understand, dearest?’ said Randal tenderly. ‘But I don’t care about that. I only want you to believe what I say, that my whole life depends on the answer you give me now. Turn your face this way, Mabel. Look at me and trust me, dear.’

Mabel did turn towards him, but their eyes did not meet. They were caught by the most unwelcome appearance of a rough-looking elderly man, whose red face and reddish-gray whiskers seemed all bristling with anger, as he came round the trees suddenly, and stood in front of them. He had a light stick in his hand, and with this he struck Randal sharply on the shoulder.

‘Stand up, sir, and answer me!’ he cried. ‘You are a jilt and a coward!’