CHAPTER XIX
THE FURNACE
The bridal dress with its filmy veil still lay in its white box--a fairygarment that had survived the catastrophe. Dinah sat and looked at itdully. The light of her single candle shimmered upon the soft folds. Howbeautiful it was!
She had been sitting there for hours, after a terrible scene with hermother downstairs, and from acute distress she had passed into a state oftorpid misery that enveloped her like a black cloud. She felt almost tooexhausted, too numbed, to think. Her thoughts wandered drearily back andforth. She was sure she had been very greatly to blame, yet she could notfix upon any definite juncture at which she had begun to go wrong. Herengagement had been such a whirlwind of Fate. She had been carried offher feet from the very beginning. And the deliverance from the homebondage had seemed so fair a prospect. Now she was plunged, back againinto that bondage, and she was firmly convinced that no chance of freedomwould ever be offered to her again. Yet she knew that she had done rightto draw back. Regret it though she might again and again in the bitterdays to come, she knew--and she would always know--that at the eleventhhour she had done right.
She had been true to the greatest impulse that had ever stirredher soul. It had been at a frightful cost. She had sacrificedeverything--everything--to a vision that she might never realize. Shehad cast away all the glitter and the wealth for this far greater thingwhich yet could never be more to her than a golden dream. She had evencast away love, and her heart still bled at the memory. But she had beentrue--she had been true.
Not yet was the sacrifice ended. She knew that a cruel ordeal yet awaitedher. There was the morrow to be faced, the morrow with its renewal ofdisgrace and punishment. Her mother was furious with her, so furious thatfor the first time in her life her father had intervened on her behalfand temporarily restrained the flow of wrath. Perhaps he had seen herutter weariness, for he had advised her, not unkindly, to go to bed. Shehad gone to her room, thankful to escape, but neither tea nor supper hadfollowed her thither. Billy had come to bid her good night long ago, but,though he had not said so, he also, it seemed, was secretly disgustedwith her, and he had not lingered. It would be the same with everyone,she thought to herself wearily. No one would ever realize how terriblyhard it had all been. No one would dream of extending any pity to her.And of course she had done wrong. She knew it, was quite ready to admitit. But the wrong had lain in accepting that overweaning lover of hers,not in giving him up. Also, she ought to have found out long ago. Shewondered how it was she hadn't. It had never been a happy engagement.
Again her eyes wandered to the exquisite folds of that dress which shewas never to wear. How she had loved the thought of it and all the lovelythings that Isabel had procured for her! What would become of them all,she wondered? All the presents downstairs would have to go back. Yes, andEustace's ring! She had forgotten that. She slipped it off her fingerwith a little dry sob, and put it aside. And the necklace of pearls thatshe had always thought so much too good for her, but which would havelooked so beautiful on the wedding-dress; that must be returned. Verystrangely that thought pierced the dull ache of her heart with a merepoignant pain. And following it came another, stabbing her like a knife.The sapphire for friendship--his sapphire--that would have to go too.There would be nothing left when it was all over.
And she would never see any of them any more. She would drop out of theirlives and be forgotten. Even Isabel would not want her now that she hadbehaved so badly. She had made Sir Eustace the talk of the County. Solong as they remembered her they would never forgive her for that.
Sir Eustace might forgive. He had been extraordinarily generous. A lumprose in her throat as she thought of him. But the de Vignes, all thosewedding guests who were to have honoured the occasion, they would alllook upon her with contumely for evermore. No wonder her mother wasenraged against her! No wonder! No wonder! She would never have anotherchance of holding up her head in such society again.
A great sigh escaped her. What was the good of sitting there thinking?She had undressed long ago, and she was cold from head to foot. Yetsomehow she had forgotten or been too miserable to go to bed. Shesupposed she had been waiting for the soothing tears that did not come.Or had she meant to pray? She could not remember, and in any case prayerseemed out of the question. Her life had been filled with delight for afew delirious weeks, but it had all drained away. She did not want itback again. She scarcely knew what she wanted, save the great Impossiblefor which she lacked the heart to pray. And no doubt God was angry withher too, or she could not feel like this! So what was the good ofattempting it?
Wearily she turned to put out her candle. But ere her hand reached it,she paused in swift apprehension.
The next instant sharply she started round to see the door open, and hermother entered the room.
Gaunt, forbidding, full of purpose, she walked in, and set her candledown beside the one that Dinah had been about to extinguish.
"Get up!" she said to the startled girl. "Don't sit there gaping at me!I've come here to give you a lesson, and it will be a pretty severe one Ican tell you if you attempt to disobey me."
"What do you want me to do?" breathed Dinah.
She stood up at the harsh behest, but she was trembling so much that herknees would scarcely support her. Her heart was throbbing violently, andeach throb seemed as if it would choke her. She had seen that inflexiblygrim look often before upon her mother's face, and she knew from bitterexperience that it portended merciless treatment.
Mrs. Bathurst did not reply immediately. She went to a little table in acorner which Dinah used for writing purposes, and opened a blotter thatlay upon it. From this she took a sheet of note-paper and laid it inreadiness, found Dinah's pen, opened the ink-pot. Then, over hershoulder, she flung a curt command: "Come here!"
Dinah went, every nerve in her body tingling, her face and hands cold asice.
Mrs. Bathurst glanced at her with a contemptuous smile. "Sit down, youlittle fool!" she said. "Now, you take that pen and write at mydictation!"
Dinah shrank at the rough words. She felt like a child about to receivecorporal punishment. The vindictive force of the woman seemed to beat herdown. Writhe and strain as she might, she was bound to suffer both thepain and the indignity to the uttermost limit; for she lacked thestrength to break free.
She did not sit down however. She remained standing by the little table.
"Mother," she said through her white lips, "what do you want me to do?"
She could scarcely keep her teeth from chattering, and Mrs. Bathurstnoted the fact with another grim smile.
"What am I going to make you do would be more to the purpose, my girl,wouldn't it?" she said. "Sit down there, and you'll find out!"
Dinah leaned upon the little table to steady herself. "Tell me what it isI am to do!" she said.
"Ah! That's better." A note of bitter humour sounded in Mrs. Bathurst'svoice. "Sit down!"
She thrust out a bony hand, and gripped her by the shoulder, forcing herdownwards.
Dinah dropped into the chair, and sat motionless.
"Take your pen!" Mrs. Bathurst commanded.
She hesitated; and instantly, with a violent movement, her mothersnatched it up and held it in front of her.
"Take it!"
Dinah took it with fingers so numb that they were almost powerless.
"Now," said Mrs. Bathurst, "I will tell you what you are going to do. Youare going to write to Sir Eustace at my dictation, and tell him that youare very sorry, you have made a mistake, and beg him to forget it andmarry you to-morrow as arranged."
"Mother! No!" Dinah started as if at a blow; the pen dropped from herfingers. "Oh no! I can't indeed--indeed!"
"You will!" said Mrs. Bathurst.
Her hand gripped the slender shoulder with cruel force. She bent,bringing her harsh features close to her daughter's blanched face.
"Just you remember one thing!" she said, her voice low and menacing."You've never succeeded in defying me yet
, and you won't do it now. I'llconquer you--I'll break you--if it takes me all night to do it!"
Dinah recoiled before the unshackled fury that suddenly blazed in thegipsy eyes that looked into hers. Sheer horror sprang into her own.
"Oh, but I can't--I can't!" she reiterated in an agony. "I don't lovehim. He knows it. I ought to have found out before, but I didn't.Mother--Mother--" piteously she began to plead--"you--you can't want tomake me marry a man I don't love? You--you would never--surely--have donesuch a thing yourself!"
Mrs. Bathurst made a sharp gesture as if something had pierced her. Sheshook the shoulder she grasped. "Love!" she said. "Oh, don't talk to meof love! Do you imagine--have you ever imagined--that I married thatfox-hunting booby--for love?"
A great and terrible bitterness that was like the hunger of a famishedanimal looked out of her eyes. Dinah gazed at her aghast. What new andhorrible revelation was this? She felt suddenly sick and giddy.
Her mother shook her again roughly, savagely. "None of that!" she said."Don't think I'll put up with it, my fine lady, for I won't! What haslove to do with such a chance as this? Tell me that, you little fool! Doyou suppose that either you or I have ever been in a position tomarry--for love?"
Her face was darkly passionate. Dinah felt as if she were in the clutchesof a tigress. "What--what do you mean?" she faltered through herquivering lips.
"What do I mean?" Mrs. Bathurst broke into a sudden brutal laugh. "Ha!What do I mean?" she said. "I'll tell you, shall I? Yes, I'll tell you!I'll show you the shame that I've covered all these years. I mean that Imarried because of you--for no other reason. I married because I'd beenbetrayed--and left. Now do you understand why it isn't for you to pickand choose--you who have been the plague-spot of my life, the thorn in myside ever since you first stirred there--a perpetual reminder of what Iwould have given my very soul to forget? Do you understand, I say? Do youunderstand? Or must I put it plainer still? You--the child of myshame--to dare to set yourself up against me!"
She ended upon what was almost a note of loathing, and Dinah shudderedfrom head to foot. It was to her as if she had been rolled in pitch. Shefelt overwhelmed with the cruel degradation of it, the unspeakable shame.
Mrs. Bathurst watched her anguished distress with a species of bittersatisfaction. "That'll take the fight out of you, my girl," she said. "Orif it doesn't, I've another sort of remedy yet to try. Now, you start onthat letter, do you hear? It'll be a bit shaky, but none the worse forthat. Write and tell him you've changed your mind! Beg him humble-like totake you back!"
But Dinah only bowed her head upon her hands and sat crushed.
Mrs. Bathurst gave her a few seconds to recover her balance. Then againmercilessly she shook her by the shoulder.
"Come, Dinah! I'm not going to be defied. Are you going to write thatletter at once? Or must I take stronger measures?"
And then a species of wild courage entered into Dinah. She turned at lastat bay. "I will not write it! I would sooner die! If--if this thing istrue, it would be far easier to die! I couldn't marry any man now who hadany pride of birth."
She was terribly white, but she faced her tormentor unflinching, her eyeslike stars. And it came to Mrs. Bathurst with unpleasant force that shehad taken a false step which it was impossible to retrace. It was thenthat the evil spirit that had been goading her entered in and took fullpossession.
She gripped Dinah's shoulder till she winced with pain. "Mother, you--youare hurting me!"
"Yes, and I will hurt you," she made answer. "I'll hurt you as I've neverhurt you yet if you dare to disobey me! I'll crush you to the earthbefore I will endure that from you. Now! For the last time! Will youwrite that letter? Think well before you refuse again!"
She towered over Dinah with awful determination, wrought up to a pitch offury by her resistance that almost bordered upon insanity.
Dinah's boldness waned swiftly before the iron force that countered it.But her resolution remained unshaken, a resolution from which no power onearth could move her.
"I can't do it--possibly," she said.
"You mean you won't?" said Mrs. Bathurst.
Dinah nodded, and gripped the table hard to endure what should follow.
"You--mean--you won't?" Mrs. Bathurst said again very slowly.
"I will not." The white lips spoke the words, and closed upon them. Dinahsat rigid with apprehension.
Mrs. Bathurst took her hand from her shoulder and turned from her. Thecandle that had been burning all the evening was low in its socket. Shelifted it out and went to the fireplace. There were some shavings in thegrate. She pushed the lighted candle end in among them; then, as the fireroared up the chimney, she turned.
An open trunk was close to her with the dainty pale green dress thatDinah had worn the previous evening lying on the top. She took it up, andbundled the soft folds together. Then violently she flung it on to theflames.
Dinah gave a cry of dismay, and started to her feet. "Mother! What areyou doing? Mother! Are you mad?"
Mrs. Bathurst looked at her with eyes of blazing vindictiveness. "If youare not going to be married, you won't need a trousseau," she saidgrimly. "These things are quite unfit for a girl in your station. ForLady Studley they would of course have been suitable, but not for such asyou."
She turned back to the open trunk with the words, and began to sweeptogether every article of clothing it contained. Dinah watched her inhorror-stricken silence. She remembered with odd irrelevance how once inher childhood for some petty offence her mother had burnt a favouritedoll, and then had whipped her soundly for crying over her loss.
She did not cry now. Her tears seemed frozen. She did not feel as if shecould ever cry again. The cold that enwrapped her was beginning to reachher heart. She thought she was getting past all feeling.
So in mute despair she watched the sacrifice of all that Isabel's lovingcare had provided. So much thought had been spent upon the delicatefinery. They had discussed and settled each dainty garment together. Shehad revelled in the thought of all the good things which she was towear--she who had never worn anything that was beautiful before. Andnow--and now--they shrivelled in the roaring flame and dropped into greyash in the fender.
It was over at last. Only the wedding-dress remained. But as Mrs.Bathurst laid merciless hands upon this also, Dinah uttered a bitter cry.
"Oh, not that! Not that!"
Her mother paused. "Will you wear it to-morrow if Sir Eustace will haveyou?" she demanded.
"No! Oh no!" Dinah tottered back against her bed and covered her eyes.
She could not watch the destruction of that fairy thing. But it went soquickly, so quickly. When she looked up again, it had crumbled away likethe rest, and the shimmering veil with it. Nothing, nothing was left ofall the splendour that had been hers.
She sank down on the foot of the bed. Surely her mother would besatisfied now! Surely her lust for vengeance could devise no furtherpunishment!
She was nearing the end of her strength, and she was beginning to knowit. The room swam before her dizzy sight. Her mother's figure loomedgigantic, scarcely human.
She saw her poke down the last of the cinders and turn to the door. Therewas a pungent smell of smoke in the room. She wondered if she would everbe able to cross that swaying, seething floor to open the window. Sheclosed her eyes and listened with straining ears for the closing of thedoor.
It came, and following it, a sharp click as of the turning of a key. Shelooked up at the sound, and saw her mother come back to her. She wascarrying something in one hand, something that dangled and east asnake-like shadow.
She came to the cowering girl and caught her by the arm. "Now get up!"she ordered brutally. "And take the rest of your punishment!"
Truly Dinah drank the cup of bitterness to the dregs that night. Mentallyshe had suffered till she had almost ceased to feel. But physically herpowers of endurance had not been so sorely tried. But her nerves werestrung to a pitch when even a sudden movement made her tingle, and upon
this highly-tempered sensitiveness the punishment now inflicted upon herwas acute agony. It broke her even more completely than it had broken herin childhood. Before many seconds had passed the last shred of herself-control was gone.
Guy Bathurst, lying comfortably in bed, was aroused from his firstslumber by a succession of sharp sounds like the lashing of a loosenedcreeper against the window, but each sound was followed by an anguishedcry that sank and rose again like the wailing of a hurt child.
He turned his head and listened. "By Jove! That's too bad of Lydia," hesaid. "I suppose she won't be satisfied till she's had her turn, but Ishall have to interfere if it goes on."
It did not go on for long; quite suddenly the cries ceased. The othersounds continued for a few seconds more, then ceased also, and he turnedupon his pillow with a sigh of relief.
A minute later he was roused again by the somewhat abrupt entrance of hiswife. She did not speak to him, but stood by the door and rummaged in thepockets of his shooting-coat that hung there.
Bathurst endured in silence for a few moments; then, "Oh, what on earthare you looking for?" he said with sleepy irritation. "I wish you'd go."
"I want your brandy flask," she said, and her words came clipped andsharp. "Where is it?"
"On the dressing-table," he said. "What have you been doing to thechild?"
"I've given her as much as she can stand," his wife retorted grimly. "Butyou leave her to me! I'll manage her."
She departed with a haste that seemed to denote a certain anxietynotwithstanding her words.
She left the door ajar, and the man turned again on his pillow andlistened uneasily. He was afraid Lydia had gone too far.
For a space he heard nothing. Then came the splashing of water, and againthat piteous, gasping cry. He caught the sound of his wife's voice, butwhat she said he could not hear. Then there were movements, and Dinahspoke in broken supplication that went into hysterical sobbing. Finallyhe heard his wife come out of the room and close the door behind her.
She came back again with the brandy flask. "She's had a lesson," sheobserved, "that I rather fancy she'll never forget as long as she lives."
"Then I hope you're satisfied," said Bathurst, and turned upon his side.
Yes, Dinah had had a lesson. She had passed through a sevenfold furnacethat had melted the frozen fountain of her tears till it seemed thattheir flow would never be stayed again. She wept for hours, wept till shewas sick and blind with weeping, and still she wept on. And bitter shameand humiliation watched beside her all through that dreadful night,giving her no rest.
For she had gone through this fiery torture, this cruel chastisement ofmind and body, all for what? For love of a man who felt nought butkindness for her,--for the dear memory of a golden vision that wouldnever be hers again.