CHAPTER VIII
IN WHICH IS EXHIBITED HOW A PRACTICAL MAN AND A DIVINING WOMAN LEARN TO
RESPECT ONE ANOTHER
'You see, you are my crutch,' Lady Dunstane said to him,—raising the
stick in reminder of the present.
He offered his arm and hurriedly informed her, to dispose of dull
personal matter, that he had just landed. She looked at the clock. 'Lukin
is in town. You know the song: "Alas, I scarce can go or creep While
Lukin is away." I do not doubt you have succeeded in your business over
there. Ah! Now I suppose you have confidence in your success. I should
have predicted it, had you come to me.' She stood, either musing or in
weakness, and said abruptly: 'Will you object to lunching at one
o'clock?'
'The sooner the better,' said Redworth. She had sighed: her voice
betrayed some agitation, strange in so serenely-minded a person.
His partial acquaintance with the Herculean Sir Lukin's reputation in
town inspired a fear of his being about to receive admission to the
distressful confidences of the wife, and he asked if Mrs. Warwick was
well. The answer sounded ominous, with its accompaniment of evident pain: 'I think her health is good.'
Had they quarrelled? He said he had not heard a word of Mrs. Warwick for
several months.
'I—heard from her this morning,' said Lady Dunstane, and motioned him to
a chair beside the sofa, where she half reclined, closing her eyes. The
sight of tears on the eyelashes frightened him. She roused herself to
look at the clock. 'Providence or accident, you are here,' she said. 'I
could not have prayed for the coming of a truer' man. Mrs. Warwick is in
great danger . . . . You know our love. She is the best of me, heart and
soul. Her husband has chosen to act on vile suspicions—baseless, I could
hold my hand in the fire and swear. She has enemies, or the jealous fury
is on the man—I know little of him. He has commenced an action against
her. He will rue it. But she . . . you understand this of women at
least;—they are not cowards in all things!—but the horror of facing a
public scandal: my poor girl writes of the hatefulness of having to act
the complacent—put on her accustomed self! She would have to go about, a
mark for the talkers, and behave as if nothing were in the air-full of
darts! Oh, that general whisper!—it makes a coup de massue—a gale to
sink the bravest vessel: and a woman must preserve her smoothest front; chat, smile—or else!—Well, she shrinks from it. I should too. She is leaving the country.'
'Wrong!' cried Redworth.
'Wrong indeed. She writes, that in two days she will be out of it. Judge
her as I do, though you are a man, I pray. You have seen the hunted hare. It is our education—we have something of the hare in us when the hounds are full cry. Our bravest, our best, have an impulse to run. "By this, poor Wat far off upon a hill." Shakespeare would have the divine comprehension. I have thought all round it and come back to him. She is one of Shakespeare's women: another character, but one of his own:—another Hermione! I dream of him—seeing her with that eye of steady flame. The bravest and best of us at bay in the world need an eye like his, to read deep and not be baffled by inconsistencies.'
Insensibly Redworth blinked. His consciousness of an exalted compassion
for the lady was heated by these flights of advocacy to feel that he was
almost seated beside the sovereign poet thus eulogized, and he was of a
modest nature.
'But you are practical,' pursued Lady Dunstane, observing signs that she
took for impatience. 'You are thinking of what can be done. If Lukin were
here I would send him to The Crossways without a moment's delay, on the
chance, the mere chance:—it shines to me! If I were only a little
stronger! I fear I might break down, and it would be unfair to my
husband. He has trouble enough with my premature infirmities already. I
am certain she will go to The Crossways. Tony is one of the women who
burn to give last kisses to things they love. And she has her little
treasures hoarded there. She was born there. Her father died there. She
is three parts Irish—superstitious in affection. I know her so well. At
this moment I see her there. If not, she has grown unlike herself.'
'Have you a stout horse in the stables?' Redworth asked.