Chapter XIII--Harold's Resolve

by Bram Stoker

　　As they went on their way Harold noticed that Leonard's breathingbecame more regular, as in honest sleep. He therefore drove slowlyso that the other might be sane again before they should arrive atthe gate of his father's place; he had something of importance to saybefore they should part.Seeing him sleeping so peacefully, Harold passed a strap round him toprevent him falling from his seat. Then he could let his thoughtsrun more freely. Her safety was his immediate concern; again andagain he thought over what he should say to Leonard to ensure hissilence.Whilst he was pondering with set brows, he was startled by Leonard'svoice at his side:'Is that you, Harold? I must have been asleep!' Harold remainedsilent, amazed at the change. Leonard went on, quite awake andcoherent:'By George! I must have been pretty well cut. I don't remember athing after coming down the stairs of the club and you and the hall-porter helping me up here. I say, old chap, you have strapped me upall safe and tight. It was good of you to take charge of me. I hopeI haven't been a beastly nuisance!' Harold answered grimly:'It wasn't exactly what I should have called it!' Then, afterlooking keenly at his companion, he said: 'Are you quite awake andsober now?''Quite.' The answer came defiantly; there was something in hisquestioner's tone which was militant and aggressive. Before speakingfurther Harold pulled up the horse. They were now crossing baremoorland, where anything within a mile could have easily been seen.They were quite alone, and would be undisturbed. Then he turned tohis companion.'You talked a good deal in your drunken sleep--if sleep it was. Youappeared to be awake!' Leonard answered:'I don't remember anything of it. What did I say?''I am going to tell you. You said something so strange and so wrongthat you must answer for it. But first I must know its truth.''Must! You are pretty dictatorial,' said Leonard angrily. 'Mustanswer for it! What do you mean?''Were you on Caester Hill to-day?''What's that to you?' There was no mistaking the defiant,quarrelsome intent.'Answer me! were you?' Harold's voice was strong and calm.'What if I was? It is none of your affair. Did I say anything inwhat you have politely called my drunken sleep?''You did.''What did I say?''I shall tell you in time. But I must know the truth as I proceed.There is some one else concerned in this, and I must know as I go on.You can easily judge by what I say if I am right.''Then ask away and be damned to you!' Harold's calm voice seemed toquell the other's turbulence as he went on:'Were you on Caester Hill this morning?''I was.''Did you meet Miss--a lady there?''What . . . I did!''Was it by appointment?' Some sort of idea or half-recollectionseemed to come to Leonard; he fumbled half consciously in his breast-pocket. Then he broke out angrily:'You have taken my letter!''I know the answer to that question,' said Harold slowly. 'Youshowed me the letter yourself, and insisted on my reading it.'Leonard's heart began to quail. He seemed to have an instinctivedread of what was coming. Harold went on calmly and remorselessly:'Did a proposal of marriage pass between you?''Yes!' The answer was defiantly given; Leonard began to feel thathis back was against the wall.'Who made it?' The answer was a sudden attempt at a blow, but Haroldstruck down his hand in time and held it. Leonard, though a fairlystrong man, was powerless in that iron grasp.'You must answer! It is necessary that I know the truth.''Why must you? What have you to do with it? You are not my keeper!Nor Stephen's; though I dare say you would like to be!' The insultcooled Harold's rising passion, even whilst it wrung his heart.'I have to do with it because I choose. You may find the answer ifyou wish in your last insult! Now, clearly understand me, LeonardEverard. You know me of old; and you know that what I say I shalldo. One way or another, your life or mine may hang on your answersto me--if necessary!' Leonard felt himself pulled up. He knew wellthe strength and purpose of the man. With a light laugh, which hefelt to be, as it was, hollow, he answered:'Well, schoolmaster, as you are asking questions, I suppose I may aswell answer them. Go on! Next!' Harold went on in the same calm,cold voice:'Who made the proposal of marriage?''She did.''Did . . . Was it made at once and directly, or after somepreliminary suggestion?''After a bit. I didn't quite understand at first what she wasdriving at.' There was a long pause. With an effort Harold went on:'Did you accept?' Leonard hesitated. With a really wicked scowl heeyed his big, powerfully-built companion, who still had his hand asin a vice. Then seeing no resource, he answered:'I did not! That does not mean that I won't, though!' he addeddefiantly. To his surprise Harold suddenly released his hand. Therewas a grimness in his tone as he said:'That will do! I know now that you have spoken the truth, sober aswell as drunk. You need say no more. I know the rest. Most men--even brutes like you, if there are any--would have been ashamed evento think the things you said, said openly to me, you hound. Youvile, traitorous, mean-souled hound!''What did I say?''I know what you said; and I shall not forget it.' He went on, hisvoice deepening into a stern judicial utterance, as though he werepronouncing a sentence of death:'Leonard Everard, you have treated vilely a lady whom I love andhonour more than I love my own soul. You have insulted her to herface and behind her back. You have made such disloyal reference toher and to her mad act in so trusting you, and have so shown yourintention of causing, intentionally or unintentionally, woe to her,that I tell you here and now that you hold henceforth your life inyour hand. If you ever mention to a living soul what you have toldme twice to-night, even though you should be then her husband; if youshould cause her harm though she should then be your wife; if youshould cause her dishonour in public or in private, I shall kill you.So help me God!'Not a word more did he say; but, taking up the reins, drove on insilence till they arrived at the gate of Brindehow, where he signedto him to alight.He drove off in silence.When he arrived at his own house he sent the servant to bed, and thenwent to his study, where he locked himself in. Then, and then only,did he permit his thoughts to have full range. For the first timesince the blow had fallen he looked straight in the face the changein his own life. He had loved Stephen so long and so honestly thatit seemed to him now as if that love had been the very foundation ofhis life. He could not remember a time when he had not loved her;away back to the time when he, a big boy, took her, a little girl,under his care, and devoted himself to her. He had grown into thebelief that so strong and so consistent an affection, though he hadnever spoken it or even hinted at it or inferred it, had become apart of her life as well as of his own. And this was the end of thatdreaming! Not only did she not care for him, but found herself witha heart so empty that she needs must propose marriage to another man!There was surely something, more than at present he knew of or couldunderstand, behind such an act done by her. Why should she askEverard to marry her? Why should she ask any man? Women didn't dosuch things! . . . Here he paused. 'Women didn't do such things.'All at once there came back to him fragments of discussions--in whichStephen had had a part, in which matters of convention had been dealtwith. Out of these dim and shattered memories came a comfort to hisheart, though his brain could not as yet grasp the reason of it. Heknew that Stephen had held an unconventional idea as to the equalityof the sexes. Was it possible that she was indeed testing one of hertheories?The idea stirred him so that he could not remain quiet. He stood up,and walked the room. Somehow he felt light beginning to dawn, thoughhe could not tell its source, or guess at the final measure of itsfulness. The fact of Stephen having done such a thing was hard tobear; but it was harder to think that she should have done such athing without a motive; or worse: with love of Leonard as a motive!He shuddered as he paused. She could not love such a man. It wasmonstrous! And yet she had done this thing . . . 'Oh, if she had hadany one to advise her, to restrain her! But she had no mother! Nomother! Poor Stephen!'The pity of it, not for himself but for the woman he loved, overcamehim. Sitting down heavily before his desk, he put his face on hishands, and his great shoulders shook.Long, long after the violence of his emotion had passed, he sat theremotionless, thinking with all the power and sincerity he knew;thinking for Stephen's good.When a strong man thinks unselfishly some good may come out of it.He may blunder; but the conclusion of his reasoning must be in themain right. So it was with Harold. He knew that he was ignorant ofwomen, and of woman's nature, as distinguished from man's. The onlywoman he had ever known well was Stephen; and she in her youth and inher ignorance of the world and herself was hardly sufficient tosupply to him data for his present needs. To a clean-minded man ofhis age a woman is something divine. It is only when in later lifedisappointment and experience have hammered bitter truth into hisbrain, that he begins to realise that woman is not angelic but human.When he knows more, and finds that she is like himself, human andlimited but with qualities of purity and sincerity and endurancewhich put his own to shame, he realises how much better a helpmateshe is for man than could be the vague, unreal creations of hisdreams. And then he can thank God for His goodness that when Hemight have given us Angels He did give us women!Of one thing, despite the seeming of facts, he was sure: Stephen didnot love Leonard. Every fibre of his being revolted at the thought.She of so high a nature; he of so low. She so noble; he so mean.Bah! the belief was impossible.Impossible! Herein was the manifestation of his ignorance; anythingis possible where love is concerned! It was characteristic of theman that in his mind he had abandoned, for the present at all events,his own pain. He still loved Stephen with all the strength of hisnature, but for him the selfish side ceased to exist. He was tryingto serve Stephen; and every other thought had to give way. He hadbeen satisfied that in a manner she loved him in some way and in somedegree; and he had hoped that in the fulness of time the childishlove would ripen, so that in the end would come a mutual affectionwhich was of the very essence of Heaven. He believed still that sheloved him in some way; but the future that was based on hope had nowbeen wiped out with a sudden and unsparing hand. She had actuallyproposed marriage to another man. If the idea of a marriage with himhad ever crossed her mind she could have had no doubt of her feelingtoward another. . . . And yet? And yet he could not believe thatshe loved Leonard; not even if all trains of reasoning should end byleading to that point. One thing he had at present to accept, thatwhatever might be the measure of affection Stephen might have forhim, it was not love as he understood it. He resolutely turned hisback on the thought of his own side of the matter, and tried to findsome justification of Stephen's act.'Seek and ye shall find; knock and it shall be opened to ye' hasperhaps a general as well as a special significance. It is bypatient tireless seeking that many a precious thing has been found.It was after many a long cycle of thought that the seeking and theknocking had effectual result. Harold came to believe, vaguely atfirst but more definitely as the evidence nucleated, that Stephen'sact was due to some mad girlish wish to test her own theory; to proveto herself the correctness of her own reasoning, the fixity of herown purpose. He did not go on analysing further; for as he walkedthe room with a portion of the weight taken from his heart he noticedthat the sky was beginning to quicken. The day would soon be uponhim, and there was work to be done. Instinctively he knew that therewas trouble in store for Stephen, and he felt that in such an hour heshould be near her. All her life she had been accustomed to him. Inher sorrows to confide in him, to tell him her troubles so that theymight dwindle and pass away; to enhance her pleasures by making him asharer in them.Harold was inspirited by the coming of the new day. There was workto be done, and the work must be based on thought. His thoughts musttake a practical turn; what was he to do that would help Stephen?Here there dawned on him for the first time the understanding of acertain humiliation which she had suffered; she had been refused!She who had stepped so far out of the path of maidenly reserve inwhich she had always walked as to propose marriage to a man, had beenrefused! He did not, could not, know to the full the measure of suchhumiliation to a woman; but he could guess at any rate a part. Andthat guessing made him grind his teeth in impotent rage.But out of that rage came an inspiration. If Stephen had beenhumiliated by the refusal of one man, might not this be minimised ifshe in turn might refuse another? Harold knew so well the sincerityof his own love and the depth of his own devotion that he wassatisfied that he could not err in giving the girl the opportunity ofrefusing him. It would be some sort of balm to her wounded spirit toknow that Leonard's views were not shared by all men. That therewere others who would deem it a joy to serve as her slaves. When shehad refused him she would perhaps feel easier in her mind. Of courseif she did not refuse him . . . Ah! well, then would the gates ofHeaven open . . . But that would never be. The past could not beblotted out! All he could do would be to serve her. He would goearly. Such a man as Leonard Everard might make some newcomplication, and the present was quite bad enough.It was a poor enough thing for him, he thought at length. She mighttrample on him; but it was for her sake. And to him what did itmatter? The worst had come. All was over now!