Henrietta was eighteen when she left school. Minna and Louie had gone
two or three years before, and by the time Henrietta came home, Minna
was engaged to be married. There was nothing particular about Minna. She
was capable, and clear-headed, and rather good-looking, and could dress
well on a little money. She was not much of a talker, but what she said
was to the point. On these qualifications she married a barrister with
most satisfactory prospects. They were both extremely fond of one
another in a quiet way, and fond they remained. She was disposed of
satisfactorily.
Louie was prettier and more lively. She was having a gay career of
flirtations, when Henrietta joined her. She did not at all want a
younger sister, particularly a sister with a pretty complexion. Three
years of parties had begun to tell on her own, which was of special
delicacy. She and Henrietta had never grown to like one another, and now
there went on a sort of silent war, an unnecessary war on Louie's side,
for she had a much greater gift with partners than Henrietta, and her
captives were not annexed.
But for her complexion there was nothing very taking in Henrietta.
Whoever travels in the Tube must have seen many women with dark-brown
hair, brown eyes, and too-strongly-marked eyebrows; their features are
neither good nor bad; their whole aspect is uninteresting. They have no
winning dimples, no speaking lines about the mouth. All that one can
notice is a disappointed, somewhat peevish look in the eyes. Such was
Henrietta. The fact that she had not been much wanted or appreciated
hitherto began to show now she was eighteen. She was either shy and
silent, or talked with too much positiveness for fear she should not be
listened to; so that though she was not a failure at dances and managed
to find plenty of partners, there were none of the interesting episodes
that were continually occurring on Louie's evenings, and for a year or
two her hopes were not realized. The Prince Charming she was waiting for
came not.
Sometimes Louie was away on visits, and Henrietta went to dances
without her. At one of these, as usual a strange young man was
introduced. There was nothing special about him. They had the usual talk
of first dances. Then he asked for a second, then for a third. He was
introduced to her mother. She asked him to call. He came. He talked
mostly to her mother, but it was clear that it was Henrietta he came to
see. Another dance, another call, and meetings at friends' houses, and
wherever she was he wanted to be beside her. It was an exquisitely happy
month. He was a commonplace young man, but what did that matter? There
was nothing in Henrietta to attract anyone very superior. And perhaps
she loved him all the more because he was not soaring high above her,
like all her previous divinities, but walking side by side with her.
Yes, she loved him; by the time he had asked her for the third dance she
loved him. She did not think much of his proposing, of their marrying,
just that someone cared for her. At first she could not believe it, but
by the end of the month the signs clearly resembled those of Louie's
young men. Flowers, a note about a book he had lent her, a note about a
mistake he had made in his last note; she was sure he must care for
her. The other girls at the dances noticed his devotion, and asked
Henrietta when it was to be announced. She laughed off their questions,
but they gave her a thrill of delight. All must be well.
And if they had married all would have been well. There might have been
jars and rubs, with Henrietta's jealous disposition there probably would
have been, but they would have been as happy as the majority of married
couples; she would have been happier, for to many people, even to some
women, it is not, as it was to her, the all-sufficing condition of
existence to love and be loved.
At the end of the month Louie came home. Henrietta had dreaded her
return. She had no confidence in herself when Louie was by. Louie made
her cold and awkward. She would have liked to have asked her not to come
into the room when he called, but she was too shy; there had never been
any intimacy between the sisters. Mrs. Symons however, spoke to Louie.
"A very nice young fellow, with perfectly good connections, not making
much yet, but sufficient for a start. It would do very well."
Louie would not have considered herself more heartless than other
people, but she was a coquette, and she did not want Henrietta to be
settled before her. The next time the young man came, he found in the
drawing-room not merely a very much prettier Miss Symons, that in itself
was not of much consequence, but a Miss Symons who was well aware of her
advantages, and knew moreover from successful practice exactly how to
rouse a desire for pursuit in the ordinary young man.
Henrietta saw at once, though she fought hard, that she had no chance.
"Are you going to the Humphreys to-morrow?" he said to Louie.
"If Henrietta's crinoline will leave any room in the carriage," answered
Louie, "I shall try to get a little corner, perhaps under the seat, or
one could always run behind. I crushed--see, what did I crush?--a little
teeny-tiny piece of flounce one terrible evening; didn't I, Henrietta?
And I was never allowed to hear the last of it."
She smiled a special smile, only given to the most favoured of her
partners. The young man thought how pretty this sisterly teasing was on
the part of the lovely Miss Symons; Henrietta saw it in another light.
"My crinolines are not larger than yours, you know they are not."
"Methinks the lady doth protest too much, don't you, Mr. Dockerell?"
"And you always take the best seat in the carriage, so it is nonsense to
say ..."
He noticed for the first time how loud her voice was.
"Please let us change the conversation," said Louie gently, "it can't be
at all interesting for Mr. Dockerell. I am ready to own anything you
like, that you don't wear crinolines at all, if that will please you."
"If there is any difficulty, could not my mother take one of you
to-morrow night?" (It was Louie he looked at.) "She is staying with me
for a week. Couldn't we call for you? It would be a great pleasure."
"Oh, thank you," began Henrietta.
"Really," said Louie, "you make me quite ashamed of my poor little joke.
I don't think we have come quite to such a state of things that two
sisters can't sit in the same carriage. I hear you are a most alarmingly
good archer, Mr. Dockerell, and I want to ask you to advise me about my
bow, if you will be so kind." To be asked advice, of course, completed
the conquest.
Mr. Dockerell had not been so much in love with Etta as with marrying.
It took him a very short time to change, but when he had made his offer
and Louie had discovered that he was too dull a young man for her, he
did not transfer his affections back to Henrietta. She would gladly have
taken him if he had. He left the neighbourhood, and not long after
married someone else.
In this grievous trouble Henrietta did not know where to turn for
comfort. Mrs. Symons was one of those women who are much more a wife
than a mother. She could enter into all Mr. Symons' feelings quite
remarkably, even his most out-of-the-way masculine feelings, but her
daughters, who on the whole were very ordinary young women, she did not
understand. Perhaps Henrietta was not altogether ordinary, but after all
it is not exceptional to want to be loved. Nor did Mrs. Symons care
particularly for her daughters; she liked her sons much better, she
would perhaps have been happier without daughters; and she liked
Henrietta the least, connecting her still with those disagreeable
childish interviews when Henrietta had been brought down, black and
sulky, to be scolded.
Henrietta was now passing through what is not an extraordinary
experience in a woman's life. She had loved and been loved, and then had
been disappointed. Her mother in her distress was no more comfort than,
I was going to say, the servants, but she was much less, for Ellen, now
Mrs. Symons' maid, gave poor Henrietta some of the sympathy for which
she hungered.
Evelyn was away, her parents had consented to her being educated with
the little friend abroad, and if she had been at home, she was only
fourteen, too young to be of much use. However Henrietta poured out her
bitterness to her in a long letter, and Evelyn wrote back full of loving
sentiment and sentimentality. Henrietta wrote also to Miranda, and had a
sympathetic letter in answer, most sympathetic, considering that Miranda
had just consummated a triumphant engagement to the son of an earl.
Mrs. Symons could not help thinking that Henrietta had stupidly muddled
her affairs, and wasted the good chance which had been contrived for
her. This was the view she presented to her husband, so that though they
tried not to show it in their manner, they both felt a little
aggrieved.
It was to William that she turned, though she remembered clearly the
disappointing interview of her childhood. William, now a solicitor in
London, came home for a few days' holiday. The Sunday of his visit was
wet. When Mr. and Mrs. Symons were both asleep in the drawing-room, he
and Henrietta sat in the former school-room, and kept up friendly
small-talk about the neighbourhood. There was something so solid and
comfortable about his face that she felt she must tell him. She wanted
to lean on someone; she had not, she never had, any satisfaction, any
pride in battling for herself. Yet she knew that William's face was
deceptive; it would be much better not to speak. She determined,
therefore, that she would say very little, and speak as coolly as she
could. She began, but before she could stop herself, the whole story was
out, and much more than the story, unbridled abuse of Louie, who was
William's favourite sister. She only stopped at last, because her sobs
made it impossible to speak.
"It does seem unlucky," said William, "very unlucky. I should talk it
over with mother."
"Mother thinks it was my own fault. I know she does."
"Well--um--write to Minna; yes, you might write to Minna."
"Minna is only interested in the baby. She hardly ever writes; besides,
she never cared about me at all. She would be glad."
"Oh, well, I shouldn't think it was worth while taking it to heart. Just
go out to plenty of dances and be jolly; you mustn't mope. If you can
get Aunt Mercer to give you a bed, I'll take you to the play. That will
do you all the good in the world."
"It's very kind of you, William."
"Oh, that's all right. Well," going to the window, "it's no good staying
in all the afternoon, it makes one so hipped. I shall take a turn and
look in on Beardsley on my way back. Tell mother not to wait supper for
me."
She knew she had better have said nothing. He hated the recesses of the
heart being revealed, particularly those special recesses of a woman's
heart; he had thought her unmaidenly. But he was sorry for her; he took
her to the play, a rousing farce, for he was one of those who naively
consider that two hours of laughing can compensate for months of misery,
and even be a remedy. He gave her a brooch also, and said to his
mother, "I think Etta gets low by herself, now Minna is married and
Louie is away. Why shouldn't she go for some visits?"
It may seem strange that Henrietta should have spread broadcast a grief
which most people would keep hidden in their own hearts. But it is one
of the saddest things about lonely people, that, having no proper
confidant, they tell to all and sundry what ought never to be told to
more than one. When, however, the overmastering desire for sympathy had
passed, words cannot express her regret that she had spoken. For years
and years afterwards it would suddenly come upon her, "I told him and he
despised me," and she would beat her foot on the floor with all her
might, in a useless transport of remorse.
Both Louie and Henrietta had felt it was wiser not to see too much of
one another after Mr. Dockerell's proposal. Louie had gone away for a
month or six weeks, and when she came back, Henrietta went for a long
visit to Minna.
With two babies, the youngest very delicate, Minna was completely
absorbed. She was emphatically Mrs. Willard now, not Minna Symons. Mrs.
Symons had told her something of Henrietta's circumstances, and Minna
considered that the best balm would be her babies. So they might have
been for people with a natural admiration for babies, but this Henrietta
had not got. If Minna's children had been neglected she would have loved
them dearly, but when they were surrounded by the jealous care of
mother, nurse, nursemaid, and (if any space was left for him) father,
there was nothing for her but to look on as an outsider.
It was during this visit that she heard of the young man's engagement.
She did not realize, till she heard, how tightly she had been clinging
to the hope that he might come back. Close following on that came the
news that Louie was engaged to a most amiable and agreeable colonel.
This made her more bitter, if it was possible to be more bitter, against
Louie than before. Louie was not merely let off scot-free for what she
did, but was to have every happiness given to her. Why? The old problem
of her Confirmation year pressed itself on her, only now she felt less
mournful and more acrid.
Her troubles made her peevish and disagreeable, as was apparent from
Minna's kindly admonition.
"I think," said she, as they sat sewing one morning, "that I really
ought to warn you not to talk quite so loud and so positively. I don't
like saying anything, but of course I am older than you, and that is the
sort of thing that spoils a girl's chances. Men don't like it. And your
temper--even Arthur noticed it, and he is not at all an observant man. I
daresay you hardly realize the importance of a good temper, Etta, but in
my opinion it makes more difference in life than anything else."
Henrietta came back three days before Louie's wedding. Louie repented
the injury she had done, and on the last night she came into Henrietta's
room and apologized. "You know, Etty, I am very sorry, very, very sorry.
Of course I had no idea how you felt about him. He wasn't the sort of
man one could take very seriously, at least that was what I thought.
Anyhow I wouldn't worry about it any more, for you know I think he
cannot have been very seriously touched, or he would have made some
effort to see you again, surely, after his little episode with me."
Louie felt more than her words conveyed, but she could not demean
herself to show too much.
"Perhaps you didn't mean it unkindly," said Henrietta; "I shall try to
believe you, but you've wrecked my life."
"Etta is so exaggerated and hysterical," said Louie afterwards, talking
things over. But as a matter of fact Henrietta spoke only the sober
truth.