Even in view of her popular magazine articles and her
literary name Janet's novel was a surprising success.
There is no reason why we should follow the example of
all the London critics except Elfrida Bell, and go into
the detail of its slender story, and its fairly original,
broadly human qualities of treatment, to explain this;
the fact will, perhaps, be accepted without demonstration.
It was a common phrase among the reviewers--though Messrs.
Lash and Black carefully cut it out of their selections
for advertisement--that the book with all its merits was
in no way remarkable; and the publishers were as much
astonished as anybody else when the first edition was
exhausted in three weeks. Yet the agreeable fact remained
that the reviewers gave it the amount of space usually
assigned to books allowed to be remarkable, and that the
_Athenian_ announced the second edition to be had "at
all book-sellers'" on a certain Monday. "When they say
it is not remarkable," wrote Kendal to Janet, "they mean
that it is not heroic, and that it is published in one
volume, at six shillings. To be remarkable--to the
trade--it should have dealt with epic passion, in three
volumes, at thirty."
To him the book had a charm quite apart from its literary
value, in the revelation it made of its author. It was
the first piece of work Janet had done from a seriously
artistic point of view, into which she had thrown herself
without fence or guard, and it was to him as if she had
stepped from behind a mask. He wrote to her about it
with the confidence of the new relation it established
between them; he looked forward with warm pleasure to
the closer intimacy which it would bring. To Janet, living
in this new sweetness of their better understanding, only
one thing was lacking--Elfrida made no sign. If Janet
could have known, it was impossible. In her review Elfrida
had done all she could. She had forced herself to write
it before she touched a line of her own work, and now,
persistently remote in her attic, she strove every night
over the pile of notes which represented the ambition
that sent its roots daily deeper into the fibre of her
being. Twice she made up her mind to go to Kensington
Square, and found she could not--the last time being the
day the _Decade_ said that a new and larger edition of
"John Camberwell" was in preparation.
Ten days after her return the maid at Kensington Square,
with a curious look, brought up Elfrida's card to Janet.
Miss Bell was in the drawing-room, she said. Yes, she
had told Miss Bell Miss Cardiff was up in the library,
but Miss Bell said she would wait in the drawing-room.
Janet looked at the card in astonishment, debating with
herself what it might mean--such a formality was absurd
between them. Why had not Elfrida come up at once to this
third-story den of theirs she knew so well? What new
preposterous caprice was this? She went down gravely,
chilled; but before she reached the drawing-room door
she resolved to take it another way, as a whim, as matter
for scolding. After all, she was glad Elfrida had come
back to her on any terms. She went in radiant, with a
quick step, holding the card at arm's length.
"To what," she demanded mockingly, "am I to attribute
the honor of this visit?" but she seized Elfrida lightly
and kissed her on both cheeks before it was possible for
her to reply.
The girl disengaged herself gently. "Oh I have come, like
the rest, to lay my homage at your feet," she said, with
a little smile that put spaces between them. "You did
not expect me to deny myself that pleasure?"
"Don't be absurd, Frida. When did you come back to town?"
"When did I come back?" Elfrida repeated slowly, watching
for the effect of her words. "On the first, I think it was."
"And this is the tenth!" Janet exclaimed; adding helplessly,
"You _are_ an enigma! Why didn't you let me know?"
"How could I suppose that you would care to know anything
just now--except what the papers tell you."
Janet regarded her silently, saying nothing. Under her
look Elfrida's expression changed a little, grew
uncomfortable. The elder girl felt the chill, the
seriousness with which she received the card upstairs,
return upon her suddenly, and she became aware that she
could not, with self-respect, fight it any longer.
"If you thought that," she said gravely, "it was a curious
thing to think. But I believe I am indebted to you for
one of the pleasantest things the papers have been telling
me," she went on, with constraint. "It was very kind--much
too kind. Thank you very much."
Elfrida looked up, half frightened at the revulsion of
her tone. "But--but your book is delightful. I was no
more charmed than everybody must be. And it has made a
tremendous hit, hasn't it?"
"Thanks, I believe it is doing a fair amount of credit
to its publishers. They are very pushing people."
"How delicious it must feel!" Elfrida said. Her words
were more like those of their ordinary relation, but her
tone and manner had the aloofness of the merest
acquaintance. Janet felt a slow anger grow up in her. It
was intolerable, this dictation of their relation. Elfrida
desired a change--she should have it, but not at her
caprice. Janet's innate dominance rose up and asserted
a superior right to make the terms between them, and all
the hidden jar, the unacknowledged contempt, the irritation,
the hurt and the stress of the year that had passed rushed
in from banishment and gained possession of her. She took
just an appreciable instant to steady herself, and then
her gray eyes regarded Elfrida with a calm remoteness in
them which gave the other girl a quick impression of
having done more than she meant to do, gone too far to
return. Their glances met, and Elfrida's eyes, unquiet
and undecided, dropped before Janet's. Already she had
a vibrant regret.
"You enjoyed being out of town, of course," Janet said.
"It is always pleasant to leave London for a while, I
think."
There was a cool masterfulness in the tone of this that
arrested Elfrida's feeling of half-penitence, and armed
her instantly. Whatever desire she had felt to assert
and indulge her individuality at any expense, in her own
attitude there had been the consciousness of what they
owed one another. She had defied it, perhaps, but it had
been there. In this it was ignored; Janet had gone a step
further--her tone expressed the blankest indifference.
Elfrida drew herself up.
"Thanks, it was delightful. An escape from London always
is, as you say. Unfortunately, one is obliged to come
back."
Janet laughed lightly. "Oh, I don't know that I go so
far as that. I rather like coming back too. And you have
missed one or two things, you know, by being away."
"The Lord Mayor's Show?" asked Elfrida, angry that she
could not restrain the curl of her lip.
"Oh dear, no! That comes off in November--don't you
remember? Things at the theatres chiefly. Oh, Jessie,
Jessie!" she went on, shaking her head at the maid who
had come in with the tray, "you're a quarter of an hour
late with tea! Make it for us now, where you are, and
remember that Miss Bell doesn't like cream."
The maid blushed and smiled under the easy reproof, and
did as she was told. Janet chatted on pleasantly about
the one or two first nights she had seen, and Elfrida
felt for a moment that the situation was hopelessly
changed. She had an intense, unreasonable indignation.
The maid had scarcely left the room when her blind search
for means of retaliation succeeded.
"But one is not necessarily wholly Without diversions in
the provinces. I had, for instance, the pleasure of a
visit from Mr. Cardiff."
"Oh yes, I heard of that," Janet returned, smiling. "My
father thought that we were being improperly robbed of
your society, and went to try to persuade you to return,
didn't he? I told him I thought it a shocking liberty;
but you ought to forgive him--on the ground of his
disappointment."
The cup Elfrida held shook in its saucer, and she put it
down to silence it. Janet did not know, did not suspect,
then. Well, she should; her indifference was too maddening.
"Under the circumstances it was not a liberty at all.
Mr. Cardiff wanted me to come back to marry him."
There! It was done, and as brutally as possible. Her
vanity was avenged--she could have her triumphs too. And
instant with its gratification came the cold recoil of
herself upon herself, a sense of shame, a longing to
undo.
Janet took the announcement with the very slightest
lifting of her eyebrows. She bent her head and stirred
her teacup meditatively, then looked up gravely at Elfrida.
"Really?" she said. "And may I ask--whether you _have_
come back for that?"
"I--I hardly know," Elfrida faltered. "You know what I
think about marriage--there is so much to consider."
"Doubtless," Janet returned. Her head was throbbing with
the question why this girl would not go--go--_go!_ How
had she the hardihood to stay another instant! At any
moment her father might come in, and then how could she
support the situation? But all she added was, "I am afraid
it is a matter which we cannot very well discuss." Then
a bold thought came to her, and without weighing it she
put it into words. The answer might put everything
definitely--so definitely--at an end.
"Mr. Kendal went to remonstrate with you, too, didn't
he? It must have been very troublesome and embarrassing--"
Janet stopped. Elfrida had turned paler, and her eyes
greatened with excitement. "_No,_" she said, "I did not
see Mr. Kendal. What do you mean? Tell me!"
"Perhaps I have no right. But he told me that he had seen
you, at Cheynemouth."
"He must have been in the audience," Elfrida returned,
in a voice that was hardly audible.
"Perhaps."
For a moment there was silence between them--a natural
silence, and no dumbness. They had forgotten about
themselves in the absorption of other thoughts.
"I must go," Elfrida said, with an effort; rising. What
had come to her with this thing Janet had told her? Why
had she this strange fullness in the beating of her heart,
this sense, part of shame, part of fright, part of
happiness, that had taken possession of her? What had
become of her strained feeling about Janet? For it had
gone, gone utterly, and with it all her pride, all her
self-control. She was conscious only of a great need of
somebody's strength, of somebody's thought and interest
--of Janet's. Yet how could she unsay anything? She held
out her hand, and Janet took it. "Good-by, then," she
said.
"Good-by; I hope you will escape the rain." But at the
door Elfrida turned and came back. Janet was mechanically
stirring the coals in the grate.
"Listen!" she said. "I want to tell you something about
myself."
Janet looked up with an inward impatience. She knew these
little repentant self-revealings so well.
"I know I'm a beast--I can't help it. Ever since I heard
of your success I've been hating it! You can laugh if
you like, but I've been _jealous_--oh, I'm not deceived;
very well, we are acquainted, myself and I! It's pure
jealousy--I admit it. I despise it, but there it is. You
have everything; you succeed in _all_ the things you
do--you suffocate me--do you understand? _Always_ the
first place, always the attention, the consideration,
wherever we go together. And your pretence--your _lie_
--of believing my work as good as yours! I believe it
--yes, I do, but you _do not_. Oh, I know you through
and through, Janet Cardiff! And altogether," she went on
passionately, "it has been too much for me. I have not
been able to govern it. I have yielded, _miserable_ that
I am. But just now I felt it going away from me, Janet--"
She paused, but there was no answer. Janet was looking
contemplatively into the fire.
"And I made up my mind to say it straight out. It is
better so, don't you think?"
"Oh yes, it is better so."
"I hate you sometimes--when you suffocate me with your
cleverness--but I admire you _tremendously_ always. So
I suppose we can go on, can't we?"
"Ah!" Elfrida cried, noting Janet's hesitation with a
kind of wonder--how should it be exacted of her to be
anything more than frank? "I will go a step further to
come back to you, my Janet. I will tell you a secret--the
first one I ever had. Don't be afraid that I shall become
your stepmother and hate me in advance. That is too
absurd!" and the girl laughed ringingly. "Because--I
believe I am in love with John Kendal!"
For answer Janet turned to her with the look of one
pressed to the last extremity. "Is it true that you are
going to write your own experiences in the _corps de
ballet?_" she asked ironically.
"Quite true. I have done three chapters already. What
do you think of it? Isn't it a good idea?"
"Do you really want to know?"
"Of course!"
"I think," said Janet slowly, looking into the fire,
"that the scheme is a contemptible one, and that you are
doing a very poor sort of thing in carrying it out."
"Thanks," Elfrida returned. "We are all pretty much alike,
we women, aren't we, after all! Only some of us say so
and some of us don't. But I shouldn't have thought you
would have objected to my small rivalry _before the
fact!_"
Janet sighed wearily, and looked out of the window. "Let
me lend you an umbrella," she said; "the rain has come."
"It won't be necessary, thanks," Elfrida returned. "I
hear Mr. Cardiff coming upstairs. I shall ask him to take
care of me as far as the omnibuses. Good-by!"