A semi-detached dwelling in a part of Hammersmith just being invaded by
the social class below that for which it was built; where, in
consequence, rents had slightly fallen, and notices of "apartments"
were beginning to rise; where itinerant vendors, finding a new market,
strained their voices with special discord; where hired pianos vied
with each other through party walls; where the earth was always very
dusty or very muddy, and the sky above in all seasons had a
discouraging hue. The house itself furnished half-heartedly, as if it
was felt to be a mere encampment; no comfort in any chamber, no air of
home. Hannaford had not cared to distribute his mementoes of battle and
death in the room called his own; they remained in packing-cases. Each
member of the family, unhappy trio, knew that their state was
transitional, and waited rather than lived.
With the surprise of a woman long bitter against destiny, Mrs.
Hannaford learnt that something _had_ happened, and that it was a piece
of good, not ill, fortune. When her brother left the house (having
waited two hours in vain for Olga's return), she made a change of garb,
arranged her hair with something of the old grace, and moved restlessly
from room to room. A light had touched her countenance, dispelling
years of premature age; she was still a handsome woman; she could still
find in her heart the courage for a strong decision.
There was no maid--Mrs. Hannaford herself laid upon the table what was
to serve for an evening meal; and she had just done so when her
daughter came in. Olga had changed considerably in the past three
years; at one-and-twenty she would have passed for several years older;
her complexion was fatigued, her mouth had a nervous mobility which
told of suppressed suffering, her movements were impatient, irritable.
But at this moment she did not wear a look of unhappiness; there was a
glow in her fine eyes, a tremour of resolve on all her features. On
entering the room where her mother stood, she at once noticed a change.
Their looks met: they gazed excitedly at each other.
"What is it? Why have you dressed?"
"Because I am a free woman. My sister is dead, and has left me a lot of
money."
They rushed into each other's arms; they caressed with tears and sobs;
it was minutes before they could utter more than broken phrases and
exclamations.
"What shall you do?" the girl asked at length, holding her mother's
hand against her heart. Of late there had been unwonted conflict
between them, and in the reaction of joy they became all tenderness.
"What I ought to have done long ago--go and live away----"
"Will it be possible, dear?"
"It shall be!" exclaimed the mother vehemently. "I am not a slave--I am
not a wife! I ought to have had courage to go away years since. It was
wrong, wrong to live as I have done. The money is my own, and I will be
free. He shall have a third of it every year, if he leaves me free.
One-third is yours, one mine."
"No, no!" said Olga drawing back. "For me, none of it!"
"Yes, you will live with me--you will, Olga! This makes everything
different. You will see that you cannot do what you thought of! Don't
speak of it now--think--wait----"
The girl moved apart. Her face lost its brightness; hardened in
passionate determination.
"I can't begin all that again," she said, with an accent of weariness.
"No! I won't speak of it now, Olga. But will you do one thing for me?
Will you put it off for a short time? I'll tell you what I've planned;
your uncle and I talked it all over. I must leave this house before
_he_ comes back, to-morrow morning. I can't go to your uncle's house,
as he asked me; you see why it is better not, don't you? The best will
be to go into lodgings for a time, and not to let _him_ know where I
am, till I hear whether he will accept the terms I offer. Look, I have
enough money for the present." She showed gold that had been left with
her by Dr. Derwent. "But am I to go alone? Will you desert me in my
struggle? I want you, dear; I need your help. Oh, it would be cruel to
leave me just now! Will you put it off for a few weeks, until I know
what my life is going to be? You won't refuse me this one thing, Olga,
after all we have gone through together?"
"For a few weeks: of course I will do that," replied the girl, still in
an attitude of resistance. "But you mustn't deceive yourself, mother.
My mind is made up; _nothing_ will change it. Money is nothing to me;
we shall be able to live----"
"I can count on you till the struggle is over?"
"I won't leave you until it is settled. And perhaps there will be no
struggle at all. I should think it will be enough for you to say what
you have decided----"
"Perhaps. But I can't feel sure. He has got to be such a tyrant, and it
will enrage him--But perhaps the money--Yes, he will be glad of the
money."
Presently they sat down to make a pretence of eating; it was over in a
few minutes. Mrs. Hannaford made known in detail what she had rapidly
decided with her brother. Tonight she would pack her clothing and
Olga's; she would leave a letter for her husband; and early in the
morning they would leave London. Not for any distant hiding-place; it
was better to be within easy reach of Dr. Derwent, and a retreat in
Surrey would best suit their purposes, some place where lodgings could
be at once obtained. The subject of difference put aside, they talked
again freely and affectionately of this sudden escape from a life which
in any case Mrs. Hannaford could not have endured much longer. About
nine o'clock, the quiet of the house was broken by a postman's knock;
Olga ran to take the letter, and exclaimed on seeing the address--
"Why, it's from Mr. Otway, and an English stamp!"
Mrs. Hannaford found a note of a few lines. Piers Otway had reached
London that morning, and would be in town for a day or two only, before
going on into Yorkshire. Could he see his old friends to-morrow? He
would call in the afternoon.
"Better reply to-night," said Olga, "and save him the trouble of coming
here."
The letter in her hand, Mrs. Hannaford stood thinking, a half-smile
about her lips.
"Yes; I must write," she said slowly. "But perhaps he could come and
see us in the country. I'll tell him where we are going."
They talked of possible retreats, and decided upon Epsom, which was not
far from their old home at Ewell; then Mrs. Hannaford replied to Otway.
Through the past three years she had often heard from him, and she knew
that he was purposing a visit to England, but no date had been
mentioned. After writing, she was silent, thoughtful. Olga, too, having
been out to post the letter, sat absorbed in her own meditations. They
did some hasty packing before bedtime, but talked little. They were to
rise early, and flee at once from the hated house.
A sunny morning--it was July--saw them start on their journey,
tremulous, but rejoicing. Long before midday they had found lodgings
that suited them, and had made themselves at home. The sense of liberty
gave everything a delightful aspect; their little sitting-room was
perfection; the trees and fields had an ideal beauty after Hammersmith,
and they promised themselves breezy walks on the Downs above. Not a
word of the trouble between them. The mother held to a hope that the
great change of circumstance would insensibly turn Olga's thoughts from
her reckless purpose; and, for the moment, Olga herself seemed happy in
self-forgetfulness.
The man to whom she had plighted herself was named Kite. He did not
look like a bird of prey; his countenance, his speech, were anything
but sinister; but for his unlucky position, Mrs. Hannaford would
probably have rather taken to him. Olga's announcement came with
startling suddenness. For a twelvemonth she had been trying to make
money by artistic work, and to a small extent had succeeded, managing
to sell a few drawings to weekly papers, and even to get a poor little
commission for the illustrating of a poor little book. In this way she
had made a few acquaintances in the so-called Bohemian world, but she
spoke seldom of them, and Mrs. Hannaford suspected no special intimacy
with anyone whose name was mentioned to her. One evening (a week ago)
Olga said quietly that she was going to be married.
Mr. Kite was summoned to Hammersmith. A lank, loose-limbed,
indolent-looking man of thirty or so, with a long, thin face, tangled
hair, gentle eyes. The clothes he wore were decent, but suggested the
idea that they had been purchased at second-hand; they did not fit him
well; perhaps he was the kind of man whose clothes never do fit. Unless
Mrs. Hannaford was mistaken, his breath wafted an alcoholic odour; but
Mr. Kite had every appearance of present sobriety. He seemed
chronically tired; sat down with a little sigh of satisfaction;
stretched his legs, and let his arms fall full length. To the maternal
eye, a singular, problematic being, anything but likely to inspire
confidence. Yet he talked agreeably, if oddly; his incomplete sentences
were full of good feeling; above all, he evidently meant to be frank,
put his poverty in the baldest aspect, set forth his hopes with extreme
moderation. "We seem to suit each other," was his quiet remark, with a
glance at Olga; and Mrs. Hannaford could not doubt that he meant well.
But what a match! Scarcely had he gone, when the mother began her
dissuasions, and from that moment there was misery.
For Olga, Mrs. Hannaford had always been ambitious. The girl was
clever, warm-hearted, and in her way handsome. But for the disastrous
father, she would have had every chance of marrying "well." Mrs.
Hannaford was not a worldly woman, and all her secret inclinations were
to romance, but it is hard for a mother to dissociate the thought of
marriage from that of wealth and respectability. Mr. Kite, well-meaning
as he might be, would never do.
To-day there was truce. They talked much of Piers Otway, and in the
afternoon, as had been arranged by letter, both went to the railway
station, to meet the train by which it was hoped he would come--Piers
arrived.
"How much improved!" was the thought of both. He was larger, manlier,
and though still of pale complexion had no longer the bloodless look of
years ago. Walking, he bore himself well; he was self-possessed in
manner, courteous in not quite the English way; brief, at first, in his
sentences, but his face lit with cordiality. On the way to the ladies'
lodgings, he stole frequent glances at one and the other; plainly he
saw change in them, and perhaps not for the better.
Mrs. Hannaford kept mentally comparing him with the scarecrow Kite. A
tremor of speculation took hold upon her; a flush was on her cheeks,
she talked nervously, laughed much.
Nothing was to be said about the flight from home; they were at Epsom
for a change of air. But Mrs. Hannaford could not keep silence
concerning her good fortune; she had revealed it in a few nervous
words, before they reached the house.
"You will live in London?" asked Otway.
"That isn't settled. It would be nice to go abroad again. We liked
Geneva."
"I must tell you about a Swiss friend of mine," Piers resumed. "A man
you would like; the best, jolliest, most amusing fellow I ever met; his
name is Moncharmont. He is in business at Odessa. There was talk of his
coming to England with me, but we put it off; another time. He's a man
who does me good; but for him, I shouldn't have held on."
"Then you don't like it, after all?" asked Mrs. Hannaford.
"Like it? No. But I have stuck to it--partly for very shame, as you
know. I've stuck to it hard, and it's getting too late to think of
anything else. I have plans; I'll tell you."
These plans were laid open when tea had been served in the little
sitting-room. Piers had it in mind to start an independent business,
together with his friend Moncharmont; one of them to live in Russia,
one in London.
"My father has promised the money. He promised it three years ago. I
might have had it when I liked; but I should have been ashamed to ask
till a reasonable time had gone by. It won't be a large capital, but
Moncharmont has some, and putting it together, we shall manage to
start, I think."
He paused, watching the effect of his announcement. Mrs. Hannaford was
radiant with pleasure; Olga looked amused.
"Why do you laugh?" Piers asked, turning to the girl.
"I didn't exactly laugh. But it seems odd. I can't quite think of you
as a merchant."
"To tell you the truth, I can't quite think of myself in that light
either. I'm only a bungler at commerce, but I've worked hard, and I
have a certain amount of knowledge. For one thing, I've got hold of the
language; this last year I've travelled a good deal in Russia for our
firm, and it often struck me that I might just as well be doing the
business on my own account. I dreamt once of a partnership with our
people; but there's no chance of that. They're very close; besides,
they don't make any serious account of me; I'm not the type that gains
English confidence. Strange that I get on so much better with almost
any other nationality--with men, that is to say."
He smiled, reddened, turned it off with a laugh. For the moment he was
his old self, and his wandering eyes kept a look such has had often
been seen in them during that month of torture three years ago.
"You are quite sure," said Mrs. Hannaford, "that it wouldn't be better
to use your capital in some other way?"
"Don't, don't!" Piers exclaimed, tossing his arm in exaggerated dread.
"Don't set me adrift again. I've thought about it; it's settled. This
is the only way of making money, that I can see."
"You are so set on making money?" said Olga, looking at him in surprise.
"Savagely set on it!"
"You have really come to see that as the end of life?" Olga asked,
regarding him curiously.
"The end? Oh, dear no! The means of life, only the means!"
Olga was about to put another question, but she met her mother's eye,
and kept silence. All were silent for a space, and meditative.
They went out to walk together. Looking over the wide prospect from the
top of the Downs, the soft English landscape, homely, peaceful, Otway
talked of Russia. It was a country, he said, which interested him more
the more he knew of it. He hoped to know it very well, and
perhaps--here he grew dreamy--to impart his knowledge to others. Not
many Englishmen mastered the language, or indeed knew anything of it;
that huge empire was a mere blank to be filled up by the imaginings of
prejudice and hostility. Was it not a task worth setting before
oneself, worth pursuing for a lifetime, that of trying to make known to
English folk their bugbear of the East?
"Then this," said Olga, "is to be the end of your life?"
"The end? No, not even that."
On their return, he found himself alone with Mrs. Hannaford for a few
minutes. He spoke abruptly, with an effort.
"Do you see much of the Derwents?"
"Not much. Our lives are so different, you know."
"Will you tell me frankly? If I called there--when I come south
again--should I be welcome?"
"Oh, why not?" replied the lady, veiling embarrassment. "I see."
Otway's face darkened. "You think it better I shouldn't. I understand."
Olga reappeared, and the young man turned to her with resolute
cheerfulness. When at length he took leave of his friends, they saw
nothing but good spirits and healthful energy. He would certainly see
them again before leaving England, and before long would let them know
all his projects in detail. So he went his way into the summer night,
back to the roaring world of London; one man in the multitude who knew
his heart's desire, and saw all else in the light thereof.
For three days, Mrs. Hannaford and her daughter lived expectant; then
arrived in answer to the letter left behind at Hammersmith. It came
through Dr. Derwent's solicitor, whose address Mrs. Hannaford had given
for this purpose. A curt, dry communication, saying simply that the
fugitive might do as she chose, and would never be interfered with.
Parting was, under the circumstances, evidently the wise course; but it
must be definite, legalised; the writer had no wish ever to see his
wife again. As to her suggestion about money, in that too she would
please herself; it relieved him to know her independent, and he was
glad to be equally so.
For all that, Lee Hannaford made no objection to receiving the portion
of his wife's income which she offered. He took it without thanks,
keeping his reflections to himself. And therewith was practically
dissolved one, at least, of the innumerable mock marriages which burden
the lives of mankind. Mrs. Hannaford's only bitterness was that in law
she remained wedded. It soothed her but moderately to reflect that she
was a martyr to national morality.
She was pressed to come and stay for a while in Bryanston Square, but
Olga would not accept that invitation. Her mother's affairs being
satisfactorily settled, the girl returned to her fixed purpose; she
would hear of no further postponement of her marriage. Thereupon Mrs.
Hannaford took a step she feared to be useless, but which was the only
hope remaining to her. She wrote to Kite; she explained to him her
circumstances; she asked him whether, out of justice to Olga, who might
repent a hasty union, he would join her (Mrs. Hannaford) in a decision
to put off the marriage for one year. If, in a twelvemonth, Olga were
still of the same mind, all opposition should be abandoned, and more
than that, pecuniary help would be given to the couple. She appealed to
his manhood, to his generosity, to his good sense.
And, much to her surprise, the appeal was successful. Kite wrote the
oddest letter in reply, all disjointed philosophising, with the gist
that perhaps Mrs. Hannaford was right. No harm in waiting a year;
perhaps much good. Life was a mystery; love was uncertain. He would get
on with his art, the only stable thing from his point of view.
From her next meeting with her lover, Olga came back pale and wretched.
"I must go and live alone, mother," she said. "I must go to London and
work. This life would be impossible to me now."
She would hear of nothing else. Her marriage was postponed; they need
say no more about it. If her mother would let her have a little money,
till she could support herself, she would be grateful; but she must
live apart. And so, after many tears it was decided. Olga went by
herself into lodgings, and Mrs. Hannaford accepted her brother's
invitation to Bryanston Square.