“The sky is not less blue because the blind man cannot see it.”
MURIEL DALLERTON knelt on the floor of a small lodging-house room by the
fire. It was with evident difficulty that she could make it burn at all,
for the soot kept rolling down and the chimney threatened to smoke. She
had not yet accustomed herself to black hands every time she touched the
shovel.
The worst of it was she expected her uncle and guardian to tea, and she
had to confess to herself that the prospect was not pleasing.
She had lived with her uncle ever since she had been an orphan at six
years of age, and she had been sent to an expensive boarding-school and
been finished in Paris. After three triumphant London seasons, every
moment of which she had lived through with the same earnest delight that
was one of her most striking characteristics, she had come to the
conclusion that in some way or other she was wasting her life.
She had for a whole year tried every way of doing good that was
compatible with a house full of servants, a stable full of horses, and a
social position. But at every turn she met with opposition—this, that,
the other was “not nice”—not “the proper thing”—the horses couldn’t go
out—what would the servants think—she was upsetting the whole
house—people would begin to talk. She confessed herself lamentably
deficient in the sense of what was the proper thing, and on her own side
she felt she could no longer bear the strain of the double life.
She was needed all day at the club. She had organized games, classes,
recitations, employments and entertainments for men, women and children,
and all needed her personal supervision.
It was not that she was not fond of pleasure—she had immense capacities
for enjoyment. She was known by all her acquaintances as that “radiant
Miss Dallerton”—only to _live_ for pleasure that was different, and
little by little she found herself “dropped out.”
Society is very exacting: it demands the whole heart and constant
attendance at its haunts, so that when Muriel Dallerton finally
announced her intention of going to live in a model tenement next to her
club, society was careful to make plain to her that reluctantly, and
with all due respect for her ten thousand a year, until she returned to
her senses and her west-end house, society must pass her by on the other
side. Her uncle, Sir Arthur Dallerton, felt deeply what was generally
termed her “extraordinary attitude”—it cast a reflection upon him. He
missed her gracious household ways, the little attentions with which she
had surrounded him. He had, it is true, neglected her atrociously; but
up till now she had always, as he framed it, “done her duty by him.” Her
living away from him was a positive slur.
Sir Arthur Dallerton was coming this afternoon to shake her resolution,
and he had no doubt whatever of his success.
Muriel tussled with the fire, which finally consented to burn, then she
rose to her feet, brought out some tea-things, and began to toast a
muffin.
A bunch of daffodils in a cracked vase did much to improve the
appearance of the room; a touch here, and there finished it; and she had
scarcely taken off her outdoor things and washed her hands (very unused
to the work they had been put to) when a dismal slavey announced, “A
genelman to see yer, miss,” and backed almost on to the gentleman in
question, who with an exclamation of disgust pushed past her into the
room.
“My dear Muriel,” he said, “this is disgraceful!” He paused as she ran
forward to meet and relieve him of his hat and umbrella. She looked up
at him, her face beaming with smiles.
“Dear,” she laughed, “did the blackbeetle quite crush you? How horrid!
But now you’ll sit down here and have some tea. You needn’t insult that
chair by doubting it. It will bear anything I know—I saw the landlady
sit on it, and nothing happened!”
Her uncle sat down gingerly. “Were those people,” he said coldly, “down
in what I can only call a yard—a _yard_, Muriel!—the people you
imagine you have a mission amongst?”
Muriel poured out the tea. “They look as if they needed it, don’t they,
dear?” she said, handing him a cup. “There, you’ve got a _whole_ handle,
and only two chips round the rim! Yes, those were some of my people. I
hope they weren’t in your way?”
“They are extremely in my way, Muriel—extremely; I may say I am greatly
inconvenienced by them. I suppose you realize that I am alone in the
world; and yet you seem to imagine that your duty is to be among these
unpleasant characters in filthy slums instead of at home looking after
my comfort.”
Muriel smiled a little to herself as she thought of the array of
servants the great house held, of the friends and cronies at the club,
where he spent the greater part of his time. “His comfort!”—surely
there were enough people in the world already looking after that.
“Uncle Arthur,” she said, “we’ve talked all this out before, haven’t we?
We don’t see it quite in the same light. I am very sorry you are not
comfortable. If the servants——”
“Muriel,” he interrupted in a raised voice, “how dare you mention
servants to me! Do you imagine that when I refer to comfort I mean
personal attendance? You have never had any heart! Mine has always been
an essentially affectionate nature. It is domestic companionship that I
desire; and now that you are of an age to be of some comfort to me, you
fly off to—Heaven knows where!—and throw me back on the servants!”
Muriel sighed gently and laid her hand on his. “Dear uncle, you have
always been so good to me. But you see you weren’t always at home, and a
girl nowadays isn’t satisfied simply in being domestic.”
“I should scarcely have imagined _you_, my niece Muriel, accusing me of
neglect! You invariably lose your temper upon these subjects, which
proves that you feel yourself to be in the wrong. You know perfectly
well that you can have any woman you want to live with you as lady
companion, but you’re so independent and obstinate——”
“That no one would live with me if you asked them,” she finished
merrily. “Ah!—but please don’t talk about this any more,” she pleaded
as he strove to begin again. “We shall never agree! I must have my work
to do. I cannot be happy without it, and I cannot do it at home. But I
only ask for nine months of it. It is April now, and in July you shall
have me back for three whole months, and do just what you like, dear.
Isn’t that a splendid bargain?”
The tea was very nice, and the buttered muffins especially were done to
a turn.
Sir Arthur Dallerton crossed his legs and leaned back in his chair
(forgetful of its former occupant). “My dear,” he said mildly, “what
will people say? Have you ever thought of that?”
“Yes, dear uncle,” said Muriel, smiling; “I have thought of it, and I
have come to the conclusion that I had better not think about it any
more. Won’t you have some more muffin?”
Sir Arthur Dallerton graciously accepted another piece. It did not occur
to him that Muriel had eaten nothing—those sort of things never did
occur to him. If it had done so he would have put it down to
hysteria—the one great refuge for the selfish.
“Mrs. le Mentier,” he pursued, “who is a very sensible woman, told me
what people were saying, and I think you ought to know of it too.”
Muriel rose and looked out of the window. It was still raining heavily.
“Well?” she said a little wearily.
“They say this is a mere whim of yours to bring Jack Hurstly to book.”
The girl by the window stood quite still. She did not see the children
in the yard below playing cheerfully in the gutter; she did not even
notice one of her most hopeful cases reel across the court in a
condition which would have filled her soul with pity and disgust two
minutes before. Her uncle thought her cold and indifferent, or possibly
sullen.
“Yes!” he said bitterly, “that is the sort of thing, Muriel, that your
conduct forces me to put up with.” Muriel faced him suddenly.
“Mrs. le Mentier,” she said quietly, “is——” she paused, “is very much
mistaken if she thinks such absurd rumors have power to affect me; and I
do not think you need be put out by what she says, for nobody who knows
either Captain Hurstly or myself would believe her.” Her uncle rose to
his feet.
“You seem to be in a very bad temper, Muriel,” he said. “I knew what
would be the result of your taking up this work. But it’s very
depressing to _me_. I shall go home—when you come to a proper frame of
mind, let me know.” She ran forward and kissed him.
“But _you_ do love me, don’t you?” she whispered.
“Of course, Muriel, if you would only give up your absurd whim.” She
drew back a little.
“Mind the stairs,” she laughed; “and oh, whatever you do, don’t tread on
the blackbeetle.” She watched him cross the yard, and bowl off in a
hansom. Somehow she felt very forlorn and lonely all by herself. She was
startled to feel a tear-drop on her hand. “Nonsense!” she said; “it’s
time for the girls’ cooking class!” She gave herself a little shake and
put on her things.
She found herself saying as she left the room, “If Jack thinks so I’ll
never, never speak to him again.” She was a little impatient at the
cooking class.