There was one more letter from Jehane. She wrote that Ocky had just
returned from London, where he had been on important business. She
understood that he had been too hurried to be able to visit Topbury. He
was working very hard--too hard for his health. He was overambitious.
While she was writing he had come in to tell her that he was off
again to London. Then followed domestic chatter: how Glory was taking
music-lessons so that she might play to her father when she grew older;
and how Eustace had a new tricycle; and how Riska already had an eye for
the boys. This was the last letter, very foolish and very brave--then
silence and suspense.
The days dragged by. Nights stayed long and the sun rose late. In the
mornings the fields, which lay in front of the Terrace, were blanketed
in sulphurous mist through which bare trees loomed spectral. Railings
and walls and pavements were damp as though fear had caused them to
sweat.
All night Nan and Barrington, lying side by side, feigned sleep or slept
restlessly. Both were afraid to voice their dread lest, when spoken, it
should seem more actual. Once, when a hansom jingled out of the distance
and halted outside their house, they started up together listening. The
fare alighted and walked a few doors down; again they drew breath.
“Why, Nan, little lady, did I wake you?”
“No, I was awake. I thought---- I thought it was I who had made you
rouse.”
“I've not slept a wink since I lay down.”
“Neither have I.”
As he clasped her in the dark, he could feel her trembling. He held her
tightly to him, laying his face against hers on the pillow. Again they
both were listening.
“What makes you so frightened?”
He whispered the question.
“Always thinking, always thinking---- of the future and what may
happen.”
She commenced to sob, pressing her forehead against his breast.
He tried to soothe her. “You mustn't, Pepperminta. You mustn't really;
it hurts. I'll think for you. I always have. Now close your eyes and get
some rest.”
And she closed her eyes and lay very tense. Hours and hours later London
began to growl. Presently the door of the servants' bedroom opened; the
stairs creaked; the house was filled with stealthy sounds. At last she
drowsed.
When her husband had tiptoed out to his bath, she rose hastily and
commenced to dress. She must get down before him. He must be spared if
the message was there; she must read it first.
The dining-room was in dusk these November mornings. At the end of the
room the fire burnt red and before it Kay and Peter warmed their hands.
Not until she had run through the letters did she greet them. Then, for
their sakes, she tried to appear cheerful. Barrington, on entering, cast
one swift look in her direction and realized that the end was not yet.
Absentmindedly they took their places at the table, scarcely thankful
for this respite from certainty.
The children soon apprehended that all was not well; their high clear
voices were hushed--they spoke in whispers. Peter was fourteen; he had
guessed the meaning of blank spaces on the walls from which some of the
favorite pictures had vanished. The Dutch landscape by Cuyp was still
there above the blue couch, against the background of dark oak-paneling.
Across its glass the flickering reflection of the fire danced, lighting
up the placid burgher as he walked with his ladies on the bank of the
gray canal. Peter noticed how his father's eyes rested on it--a sure
sign that he was troubled.
Almost by stealth Peter would push back his chair and nudge his sister.
Miss Effie Jacobite gave her lessons in the mornings; on his way to
school he had to leave Kay at her house. Shouldering his satchel, he
would lead her out into the misty streets; then at last he would dare to
raise his voice in laughter.
At the departure of the children, Barrington would break off from the
train of thought he had been following, and was incessantly following:
_had he done right by Ocky?_ The door would bang; through the long dark
day Nan would sit alone, and speculate and wonder.
What was happening? Had the smash been postponed? Had Ocky wriggled
round the corner by borrowing secretly from other people's friends?
Billy searched the faces of his business acquaintances and Nan the faces
of their Topbury circle in an effort to make them tell.
Toward afternoon the fog would roll up from the city, dense and yellow.
Footsteps on the Terrace would come suddenly out of nowhere; their
makers were shadows. Nan, rising uneasily, would go to the window;
they might be footsteps of pursuers or of bringers of bad tidings. Even
Grace's policeman filled her with panic when he paused for an instant
outside the house. His tread was the tread of Justice, ponderous and
unescapable.
With the return of the children her oppression lifted. Later Billy's key
would grate in the latch. She was in the hall to meet him before he had
crossed the threshold. “Any news?” The servants must not hear her; she
spoke beneath her breath.
“Nothing. Nothing yet.”
The children no longer called to one another as they went about their
play. They tiptoed and looked up anxiously when addressed. No urging was
necessary to send them to bed--bed was escape to a less ominous world.
Muffled, muffled! Everything was cloaked and muffled.
As Peter put two and two together, pain grew into his eyes; even when
others seemed to have forgotten, the expression in his eyes was judging.
Only Romance was unaffected by the sense of foreboding. The servants
felt it and discussed it in the kitchen, wondering whether the master
was losing money. But Romance, with cat-like self-satisfaction, went on
bearing kittens and so did her daughter, Sir Walter Scott, who came by
her name through an accident regarding her sex.
A month had gone by.
“Should I write to Jehane?” she asked her husband.
“I wouldn't. If you do, we shall have Ocky back on our hands. Perhaps he
may pull things together now that he knows that he stands by himself. If
he does, it'll make a man of him. Anyhow, if she finds out and needs our
help, she'll send for us.”
But the silence proved too much for Nan. One morning, on the spur of the
impulse, she packed a bag, left a note for her husband and set off for
Sandport. On the journey through sodden country and mud-splashed towns,
she fought for courage, straining out into eternity to pluck the hem
of God's mantle which, when her faith had touched, was continually
withdrawn beyond reach of her hand.
She had rung the bell and stood waiting on the steps of Madeira Lodge.
No one answered. She thought she heard the pit-a-pat of feet on the
other side of the door. She rang again and took a pace back to glance up
at the front of the house. As she did so, she saw a curtain move before
a window--move almost imperceptibly. A minute later the door was flung
open by Jehane; Nan saw the children grouped behind her in the passage.
“Well?”
The tone of her voice was flat and unfriendly.
“I thought I'd come and see you, Janey. Only made up my mind this
morning.”
“Did you? What made you do that?”
Nan flushed and her voice faltered. She had not expected this hardness
and defiance. She had come full of pity. “I came because I was nervous.
You hadn't written for more than a month. I hope---- I hope,----”
“Come inside,” said Jehane. “I can't talk to you out there. You can stop
your hoping.”
Once inside, the appearance of the house told its story. It looked
bare. From the sideboard the silver--mostly presents of Jehane's first
marriage--had vanished. The walls were stripped of all ornaments which
had a negotiable value. In the drawing-room there was an empty space
where there had once been a piano. Only the carefully curtained windows
kept up the pretence of trim prosperity. Jehane led Nan from room to
room without a word and the children, shuffling behind, followed.
“Now you've seen for yourself,” she said, “and a nice fool you must
think me after my letters. I've lied for him and sold my jewelry for
him. I've done without servants. I've crept out at night like a thief to
the pawnbrokers, when there wasn't any money and there were debts to be
settled. And the last thing I heard before he left was that he'd stolen
the thousand pounds I lent him. And this---- this is what I get.”
“Before he left?”
“A month ago, after my last letter to you. You needn't pretend to be
surprised, because you're not. You suspected. That's what brought you.”
Nan felt faint with the shock of the realization. She tottered and
stretched out her hands to save herself. Glory ran forward and put
her arm round her. “Dear Auntie.” Nan drew Glory's head against her
shoulder, sobbing. “Oh my dear, my poor little girl!”
Jehane looked on unmoved, merely saying in her hard flat voice, “If
there's any crying or fainting to be done, seems to me I'm the person to
do it. But I'm past all that.”
Nan quieted herself. “It so shocked me. I--I didn't mean to make a fuss.
But won't you tell me how it all happened?”
“Nothing to tell. It's just Ocky with his lies and promises.”
“Oh, don't say that before the children about their father.”
“I'll say what I like; they're my children. They've seen everything.”
Nan looked round and saw sympathy only in the eyes of Glory. Moggs,
balancing herself by her mother's skirts, piped up and spoke for the
rest, “Farver's a naughty man.” Even her mother was startled by the
candor of this endorsement; turning sharply, she caused Moggs to tumble
on the floor with a bump. Moggs began to yell.
Grateful for a diversion in any form, Nan knelt and comforted the little
girl. Jehane watched her indifferently, as though all capacity for
kindness had left her.
When peace was restored, Nan said, “You're coming home with me, all of
you.”
“We're not.”
“Why not?”
“My husband may return. If he doesn't, I must stay here and keep up
appearances till he gets safely out of the country. Heaven knows what
he's done!---- And it's likely that I'd come to Topbury to be laughed
at! _You_ may want me, but what about Billy? You've both known this
for a month, and you couldn't even send me a line. Come to Topbury! No,
thank you!”
There was so much to be explained and explanations were so tangled. Nan
saw nothing for it but to make a clean breast. When she told Jehane of
the years of borrowing that had been going on behind her back, she was
justifiably angry.
“So you knew all the time! And for three years it was practically you
and Billy who were running this house! And you kept me in ignorance! I
must say, you've a queer way of showing friendship!”
“We did it because--because we were afraid, if you knew, you wouldn't
love him. And then matters would have been worse.”
“Love him! I've not loved him since we married. He started playing
the fool directly after the wedding before the train moved out of the
station. I knew then that I'd have to be ashamed of him always. I knew
what I'd done for myself. He killed my love within an hour of making me
his wife---- But how you must have amused yourselves, knowing what
you did, when you received my letters about his getting on in the
world--_his progress!_ My God! how you must have laughed, the two of
you! Every time he gave me a present it was your money.”
All this before the children!
She threw herself down on a couch and gave way to hysterics, wrenched
with sobs, screaming with unhappy merriment, clutching at her breast and
throwing back her head. The children began to cry, hiding in corners
of the room, terrified. Only Glory kept her nerve and, following Nan's
directions, fetched water to bathe her mother's face and hands.
When the insane laughter had spent itself, Jehane lay still with eyes
closed, panting. Shame took the place of harshness. Nan asked whether
there were any stimulants in the house; when a half-emptied bottle was
brought from the cupboard, Jehane gesticulated it away with disgust.
“I couldn't touch it. It's Ocky's.” It was all that was left of his
“medicine.”
Nan persuaded Glory to take the children out of the room. She seated
herself by the couch in silence, stroking Jehane's forehead.
Presently the bitter woman's eyes opened. They regarded her companion
steadily, with an expression of sad wonder. “You're still beautiful. I'm
old already.”
Nan began to protest in little birdlike whispers; she was so nervous
lest she should give offence. She was interrupted. “Even your voice is
young. People who don't want to love you have to---- And I always longed
to be loved.” She raised herself on her elbow, brushing back the false
hair. “You've had the goodness of life; I've had the falseness. Things
aren't fair.”
151
“No, they're not fair,” Nan assented. “God's been hard on you, poor old
girl.”
“God! Oh, yes!” Jehane spoke the words gropingly, as though
recollecting. “Ah, yes! God! He and I haven't been talking to one
another lately. The cares of this world---- the cares of this world----
What is that passage I'm trying to remember?”
“It's about the sower who sows the good seed, but the cares of this
world rise up and choke it unless it falls on fruitful land. It's
something like that.”
Jehane looked at Nan vaguely, only half-comprehending. “Fruitful land!
That's the difficulty. I was never fruitful land---- Tell me, why did
you marry Billy?”
“Why? I never thought about it.”
“Think about it now. Why was it?”
“I suppose because I loved him and wanted to help him.”
Jehane's elbow slipped from under her. She lay back, staring at the
ceiling, looking gaunt and faded, as though she had passed through a
long illness. “To help him! When I loved I wanted to be helped. God's
not been hard on me, little Nan; I've been hard on myself. I'm a hard
woman. I've got what I deserved. And Ocky---- He was a fool. He had no
mind--never read anything. He was clumsy and liked vulgar people best.
But, perhaps, he's my doing. Perhaps!”
Seeing that she had grown passive, Nan stole out to give the children
their supper and to put them to bed. That night, the first time since
Cassingland, she and Jehane slept together. The light had been put out
for some time and Nan was growing drowsy, when Jehane spoke.
“Madeira Lodge! It's funny. A house built on sand! A house built on----
That's what we came here to do for other people; we've done it for
ourselves. O God, spare my little children, my----”
Nan took her in her arms and soothed her.