The Obstacle Race by Ethel May Dell (robert munsch read aloud .txt) 📕

that the trouble?" said Juliet.
He nodded gloomily. "I hate the set she consorts with at these shows. There are some of the Fairharbour set--impossible people! But they boast of being on nodding terms with that arch-bounder Lord Saltash, and so everything is forgiven them."
Juliet suddenly stood up very straight. "I think I ought to tell you," she said, "that I know Lord Saltash. I have lived with the Farringmore family, as you know. He is a friend of Lord Wilchester's."
The squire turned sharply. "I hope you're going to tell me also that you can't endure the man," he said.
She made a little gesture of negation. "I never say that of anybody. I don't feel I can afford to. Life has too many contradictions--too many chances. The person we most despise to-day may prove our most valuable defender to-morrow."
"Heaven forbid!" said the squire. "You wouldn't touch such pitch as that under any circumstances. Besides, what do you want in the way of defenders? You're safe enough where you are."
Juliet was smiling whimsically. "But who knows?" she said. "I may be dismissed in disgrace to-morrow."
"No," he said briefly. "That won't happen. Your position here is secure as long as you consent to fill it."
"How rash of you," she said.
"A matter of opinion!" said Fielding. "How would you like to go over and see the cricket at Fairharbour this afternoon?"
She gave him a quick look. "Oh, is that the alternative to the races?"
He frowned. "I have already told you the races are out of the question."
"I see," said Juliet thoughtfully. "Then I am afraid the cricket-match is also--unless Mrs. Fielding wants to go."
"I'll make her go," said squire.
"No! No! Don't make her do anything--please!" begged Juliet. "That is just the worst mistake you could possibly make. To be honest, I would rather--much--go to the open-air concert at High Shale this evening."
"Along with those rowdy miners?" growled the squire. "I see enough of them on the Bench. Green of course is cracked on that subject. He'd like to set the world in order if he could."
"I admire his enterprise," said Juliet.
He nodded. "So do I. He's cussed as a mule, but he's a goer. He's also a gentleman. Have you noticed that?"
She smiled. "Of course I have."
"And I can't get my wife to see it," said the squire. "Just because--by his own idiotic choice--he occupies a humble position, she won't allow him a single decent quality. She classes them all together, when anyone can see--anyone with ordinary intelligence can see--that he is of a totally different standing from those brothers of his. He is on another plane altogether. It's self-evident. You see it at once."
"Yes," said Juliet.
He moved restlessly. "I would have placed him in his proper sphere if he'd consented to it. But he wouldn't. It's a standing grievance between us. That fellow Robin is a millstone round his neck. Miss Moore," he turned on her suddenly, "you have a wonderful knack of making people see reason. Couldn't you persuade him to let Robin go?"
"Oh no!" said Juliet quickly. "It's the very last thing I would attempt to do."
"Really!" He looked at her in genuine astonishment.
Juliet flushed. "But of course!" she said. "They belong to each other. How could Mr. Green possibly part with him? You wouldn't--surely--think much of him if he did?"
"I think he's mad not to," declared the squire. "But," he smiled at her, "I think it's uncommonly kind of you to take that view, all the same. I'll take you to that concert to-night if you really want to go."
"Will you? How kind!" said Juliet, turning to go. "But you won't mind if I consult Mrs. Fielding first? I must do that."
He opened the door for her. "You are not to spoil her now," he said. "She's been spoilt all her life by everybody."
"Except by you," said Juliet daringly.
And with that parting shot she left him, swiftly traversing the hall to the stairs without looking back.
The squire stood for some seconds looking after her. She had opposed him at practically every point, and yet she had not offended him.
"A very remarkable young woman!" he said again to himself as she passed out of his sight. "A very--gifted young woman! Ah, Dick, my friend, she'd make a rare politician's wife." And then another thought struck him and he began to laugh. "And she'll be equally charming as the helpmeet of the village schoolmaster. Egad, we can't have everything, but I think you've found your fate."


CHAPTER VI
RECONCILIATION

The luncheon-gong rang through the house with a tremendous booming, and Vera Fielding, sitting limply in a chair by her open window, closed her eyes with drawn brows as if the sound were too much for her overwrought nerves. The tempest of three hours before had indeed left her spent and shaken, and an unacknowledged tincture of shame mingling with her exhaustion did not improve matters. She had wept away her fury, and a dull resentment sat heavily upon her. She had entered upon the second stage of the conflict which usually lasted for some days,--days during which complete silence reigned between her husband and herself until he either departed to town to end the tension or his wrath boiled up afresh cowing her into a bitter submission to his will which brought nothing but misery to them both.
The last deep notes of the gong died away, and Vera's eyes half-opened again. They dwelt restlessly upon the brilliant patch of garden visible under the lowered sun-blind. The splendour of the June world without served to increase the wretchedness of her mood by contrast. The sultry heat seemed to weigh her down. Life was one vast oppression and bondage. She was weary to the soul.
Juliet had gone down to aid Cox in the selection of something tempting for her luncheon. She had every intention of refusing it whatever it was. Who as miserable as she could bear to eat anything--unless forced to do so by brutal compulsion?
Her head throbbed painfully. Her nerves were stretched for the sound of her husband's step in the adjoining room. She wished she had told Juliet to lock the communicating door, though she hardly expected him to come in upon her a second time. Even his wrath had its limits. It seldom gathered to its full height twice in a day.
She was trying to comfort herself with this reflection when suddenly she heard him enter his room, and in a moment all her lassitude vanished in so violent an agitation that she found herself gasping for breath. Still she told herself that he would not come in. It had always been his habit to leave her severely alone after a battle. He would not come in! Surely he would not come in. And then the handle of the intervening door turned, and she sank back in her chair with a sick effort to appear indifferent.
She did not look at him as he came in. Only by the quick heaving of her breast which was utterly beyond control did she betray her knowledge of his presence. Her face was turned away from him. She stared down into the dazzling sunlight with eyes that saw nothing.
He came to her, halted beside her. And suddenly a warm sweet fragrance filled the air. She looked round in spite of herself and found a bunch of exquisite lilies-of-the-valley close to her cheek. She lifted her eyes with a great start.
"Edward!"
His face was red. He looked supremely ill at ease. He pushed the flowers under her nose. "Take 'em for heaven's sake!" he said irritably. "I hate the things myself."
She took them, too amazed for comment, and buried her face in their perfumed depths.
He stood beside her, impatiently clicking his fingers. There fell an uncomfortable silence, during which Vera gradually remembered her dignity and at length laid the flowers aside. Her agitation had subsided. She sat and waited noncommittally for the new situation to develop. Even in their engagement days he had never brought her flowers, and any overture from him after a quarrel was a thing unknown.
She waited therefore, not looking at him, and in a few moments, very awkwardly, with obvious reluctance, he spoke again.
"I don't think we want to keep this up any longer, do we? Seems a bit senseless, what? I'm ready to forget it if you are."
Again, she was taken by surprise, for his voice had a curious urgency that made her aware that he for one had certainly had enough of it, and there was that in her which leaped in swift response. But it was not to be expected of her that she should be willing to bury the hatchet at a moment's notice after the treatment she had received, and she checked the unaccountable impulse.
"There are some things that it is not easy to forget," she said coldly.
His demeanour changed in an instant. "Oh, all right," he said, "if you prefer to sulk!"
He swung upon his heel. In a moment he would have been gone; but in that moment the inner force that Vera had ignored suddenly sprang above every other emotion or consideration. She put out a quick hand and stayed him.
"I am not sulking! I never sulk! But I can't behave--all in a moment--as if nothing had happened. Edward!"
It was her voice that held pleading now, for he made as if he would leave her in spite of her detaining hold. She tightened her fingers on his arm.
"Edward, please!" she said.
He stopped. "Well?" he said gruffly. Then, as she said nothing further, he turned slowly and looked at her. Her head was bent. She was striving for self-control. Something in her attitude went straight to the man's heart. She looked so small, so forlorn, so pathetic in her struggle for dignity.
On a generous impulse he flung his own away. "Oh, come, my dear!" he said, and stooping took her into his arms. "I'm sorry. There!"
She clung to him then, clung closely, still battling to check the tears that she knew he disliked.
He kissed her forehead and patted her shoulder with a queer compunction that had never troubled him before in his dealings with her.
"There!" he said. "There! That's all right, isn't it? We shall have Miss Moore in directly. Where's your handkerchief?"
She found it and dried her eyes with her head against his shoulder. Then she lifted a still quivering face to his. "Edward,--I'm--just as sorry as you are," she said, with a catch in her voice.
He kissed her again, wondering a little at his own softened feelings. "All right, my girl. Let's forget it!" he said. "You have a good lunch and you'll feel better! What are they giving you? Champagne?"
"Oh no, of course not!"
"Well, why not? It's the very thing you want. Just the occasion. What? You sit still and I'll go and see about it!" He put her down among her cushions, but she clung to him still. "No, don't go for a minute!" she said, with a shaky smile. "It's so good to have you--kind to me for once."
"Good gracious!" he said, but half in jest. "Am I such a brute as all that?"
She pushed back her sleeve and mutely showed him the marks upon her arm.
He looked, and his brows drew together. "My doing?"
She nodded. "Last night--when--when I said--something you didn't like--about Mr. Green."
He scowled a moment longer, then abruptly stooped, took the white arm between his hands and kissed it. "I'll get a stick and beat you the next time," he said. "You remember that--and be decent to Green, see?"
The kiss belied the words, covering also a certain embarrassment which Vera