In the saloon of a homeward-bound steamer, twenty-four hours from port,
and that port Southampton, a lady sat writing letters. Her age was
about thirty; her face was rather piquant than pretty; she had the air
of a person far too intelligent and spirited to be involved in any life
of mere routine, on whatever plane. Two letters she had written in
French, one in German, and that upon which she was now engaged was in
English, her native tongue; it began "Dearest Mother."
"All's well. A pleasant and a quick voyage. The one incident of it
which you will care to hear about is that I have made friends--a real
friendship, I think--with a delightful girl, of respectability which
will satisfy even you. Judge for yourself; she is the daughter of Dr.
Derwent, a distinguished scientific man, who has been having a glimpse
of Colonial life. When we were a day or two out I found that Miss
Derwent was the object of special interest; she and her father had been
the guests of no less a personage than Trafford Romaine, and it was
reported that the great man had offered her marriage! Who started the
rumour I don't know, but it is quite true that Romaine _did_ propose to
her--and was refused! I am assured of it by a friend of theirs on
board, Mr. Arnold Jacks, an intimate friend of Romaine; but he declared
that he did not start the story, and was surprised to find it known.
Miss Derwent herself? No, my dear cynical mamma! She isn't that sort.
She likes me as much as I like her, I think, but in all our talk not a
word from her about the great topic of curiosity. It is just possible,
I fear, that she means to marry Mr. Arnold Jacks, who, by the bye, is a
son of a Member of Parliament, and rather an interesting man, but, I am
quite sure, not the man for _her_. If she will come down into Hampshire
with me may I bring her? It would so rejoice your dear soul to be
assured that I have made such a friend, after what you are pleased to
call my riff-raff foreign intimacies."
A few words more of affectionate banter, and she signed herself "Helen
M. Borisoff."
As she was addressing the envelope, the sound of a book thrown on to
the table just in front of her caused her to look up, and she saw Irene
Derwent.
"What's the matter? Why are you damaging the ship's literature?" she
asked gaily.
"No, I can't stand that!" exclaimed Irene. "It's too imbecile. It
really is what our slangy friend calls 'rot,' and very dry rot. Have
you read the thing?"
Mrs. Borisoff looked at the title, and answered with a headshake.
"Imagine! An awful apparatus of mystery; blood-curdling hints about the
hero, whose prospects in life are supposed to be utterly blighted. And
all because--what do you think? Because his father and mother forgot
the marriage ceremony."
The other was amused, and at the same time surprised. It was the first
time that Miss Derwent, in their talk, had allowed herself a remark
suggestive of what is called "emancipation." She would talk with
freedom of almost any subject save that specifically forbidden to
English girls. Helen Borisoff, whose finger showed a wedding ring, had
respected this reticence, but it delighted her to see a new side of her
friend's attractive personality.
"I suppose in certain circles"--she began.
"Oh yes! Shopkeepers and clerks and so on. But the book is supposed to
deal with civilised people. It really made me angry!"
Mrs. Borisoff regarded her with amused curiosity. Their eyes met. Irene
nodded.
"Yes," she continued, as if answering a question, "I know someone in
just that position. And all at once it struck me--I had hardly thought
of it before--what an idiot I should be if I let it affect my feelings
or behaviour!"
"I think no one would have suspected you of such narrowness."
"Indeed I hope not!--Have you done your letters? Do come up and watch
Mrs. Smithson playing at quoits--a sight to rout the brood of cares!"
In the smoking-room on deck sat Dr. Derwent and Arnold Jacks,
conversing gravely, with subdued voices. The Doctor had a smile on his
meditative features; his eyes were cast down he looked a trifle
embarrassed.
"Forgive me," Arnold was saying, with some earnestness, "if this course
seems to you rather irregular."
"Not at all! Not at all! But I can only assure you of my honest
inability to answer the question. Try, my dear fellow! _Solvitur
quaerendo_!"
Jacks' behaviour did, in fact, appear to the Doctor a little odd. That
the young man should hint at his desire to ask Miss Derwent to marry
him, or perhaps ask the parental approval of such a step, was natural
enough; the event had been looming since the beginning of the voyage
home. But to go beyond this, to ask the girl's father whether he
thought success likely, whether he could hold out hopes, was scarcely
permissible. It seemed a curious failure of tact in such a man as
Arnold Jacks.
The fact was that Arnold for the first time in his life, had turned
coward. Having drifted into a situation which he had always regarded as
undesirable, and had felt strong enough to avoid, he lost his head, and
clutched rather wildly at the first support within reach. That Irene
Derwent should become his wife was not a vital matter; he could
contemplate quite coolly the possibility of marrying some one else, or,
if it came to that, of not marrying anyone at all. What shook his
nerves was the question whether Irene would be sure to accept him.
Six months ago, he had no doubt of it. He viewed Miss Derwent with an
eye accustomed to scrutinise, to calculate (in things Imperial and
other), and it amused him to reflect that she might be numbered among,
say, half a dozen eligible women who would think it an honour to marry
him. This was his way of viewing marriage; it was on the woman's side a
point of ambition, a gratification of vanity; on the man a dignified
condescension. Arnold conceived himself a brilliant match for any girl
below the titled aristocracy; he had grown so accustomed to magnify his
place, to regard himself as one of the pillars of the Empire, that he
attributed the same estimate to all who knew him. Of personal vanity he
had little; purely personal characteristics did not enter, he imagined,
into a man's prospects of matrimony. Certain women openly flattered
him, and these he despised. His sense of fitness demanded a woman
intelligent enough to appreciate what he had to offer, and sufficiently
well-bred to conceal her emotions when he approached her. These
conditions Miss Derwent fulfilled. Personally she would do him credit
(a wife, of course, must be presentable, though in the husband
appearance did not matter), and her obvious social qualities would be
useful. Yet he had had no serious thought of proposing to her. For one
thing, she was not rich enough.
The change began when he observed the impression made by her upon
Trafford Romaine. This was startling. Romaine, the administrator of
world-wide repute, the man who had but to choose among Great Britain's
brilliant daughters (or so his worshippers believed), no sooner looked
upon Irene Derwent than he betrayed his subjugation. No woman had ever
received such honour from him, such homage public and private. Arnold
Jacks was pricked with uneasiness; Irene had at once a new value in his
eyes, and he feared he had foolishly neglected his opportunities. If
she married Romaine, it would be mortifying. She refused the great
man's offer, and Arnold was at first astonished, then gratified. For
such refusal there could be only one ground: Miss Derwent's "heart" was
already disposed of. Women have "hearts"; they really do grow fond of
the men they admire; a singular provision of nature.
He would propose during the voyage.
But the voyage was nearly over; he might have put his formal little
question fifty times; it was still to be asked--and he felt afraid.
Afraid more than ever, now that he had committed himself with Dr.
Derwent. The Doctor had received his confession so calmly, whereas
Arnold hoped for some degree of effusiveness. Was he--hideous
doubt--preparing himself for an even worse disillusion?
Undoubtedly the people on board had remarked his attentions; for all he
knew, jokes were being passed, nay, bets being made. It was a serious
thing to proclaim oneself the wooer of a young lady who had refused
Trafford Romaine; who was known to have done so, and talked about with
envy, admiration, curiosity. You either carried her off, or you made
yourself fatally ridiculous. Half a dozen of the passengers would
spread this gossip far and wide through England. There was that
problematic Mrs. Borisoff, a frisky grass widow, who seemed to know
crowds of distinguished people, and who was watching him day by day
with her confounded smile! Who could say what passed between her and
Irene, intimates as they had become? Did they make fun of him? Did they
_dare_ to?
Arnold Jacks differed widely from the common type of fatuous young man.
He was himself a merciless critic of fatuity; he had a faculty of
shrewd observation, plenty of caustic common sense. Yet the position
into which he had drifted threatened him with ridiculous extremes of
self-consciousness. Even in his personal carriage, he was not quite
safe against ridicule; and he felt it. This must come to an end.
He sought his moment, and found it at the hour of dusk. The sun had
gone down gloriously upon a calm sea; the sky was overspread with
clouds still flushed, and the pleasant coolness of the air foretold
to-morrow's breeze on the English Channel. With pretence of watching a
steamer that had passed, Arnold drew Miss Derwent to a part of the deck
where they would be alone.
"You will feel," he said abruptly, "that you know England better now
that you have seen something of the England beyond seas."
"I had imagined it pretty well," replied Irene.
"Yes, one does."
Under common circumstances, Arnold would have scornfully denied the
possibility of such imagination. He felt most unpleasantly tame.
"You wouldn't care to make your home out yonder?"
"Heaven forbid!"
This was better. It sounded like emphatic rejection of Trafford
Romaine, and probably was meant to sound so.
"I myself," he pursued absently, "shall always live in England. If I
know myself, I can be of most service at the centre of things.
Parliament, when the moment arrives----"
"The moment when you can be most mischievous?" said Irene, with a
glance at him.
"That's how you put it. Yes, most mischievous. The sphere for mischief
is growing magnificent."
He talked, without strict command of his tongue, just to gain time;
spoke of expanding Britain, and so on, a dribble of commonplaces. Irene
moved as if to rejoin her company.
"Don't go just yet--I want you--now and always."
Sheer nervousness gave his voice a tremor as if of deep emotion. These
simple words, which had burst from him desperately, were the best he
could have uttered--Irene stood with her eyes on the darkening horizon.
"We know each other pretty well," he continued, "and the better we know
each other, the more we find to talk about. It's a very good
sign--don't you think? I can't see how I'm to get along without you,
after this journey. I don't like to think of it, and I _won't_ think of
it! Say there's no need to."
Her silence, her still attitude, had restored his courage. He spoke at
length like himself, with quiet assurance, with sincerity; and again it
was the best thing he could have done.
"I am not quite sure, Mr. Jacks, that I think about it in the same way."
Her voice was subdued to a very pleasant note, but it did not tremble.
"I can allow for that uncertainty--though I have nothing of it myself.
We shall both be in London for a month or so. Let me see you as often
as I can, and, before you leave town, let me ask whether the doubt has
been overcome."
"I hold myself free," said Irene impulsively.
"Naturally."
"I do you no wrong if it seems to me impossible."
"None whatever."
His eyes were fixed on her face, dimly beautiful in the fading shimmer
from sea and sky. Irene met his glance for an instant, and moved away,
he following.
Arnold Jacks had never known a mood so jubilant. He was saved from the
terror of humiliation. He had comported himself as behoved him, and the
result was sure and certain hope. He felt almost grateful, almost
tender, towards the woman of his choice.
But Irene as she lay in her berth, strangely wakeful to the wash of the
sea as the breeze freshened, was frightened at the thought of what she
had done. Had she not, in the common way of maidenhood, as good as
accepted Arnold Jacks' proposal? She did not mean it so; she spoke
simply and directly in saying that she was not clear about her own
mind; on any other subject she would in fact, or in phrase, have
reserved her independence. But an offer of marriage was a thing apart,
full of subtle implications, needing to be dealt with according to
special rules of conscience and of tact. Some five or six she had
received, and in each case had replied decisively, her mind admitting
no doubt. As when to her astonishment, she heard the frank and large
confession of Trafford Romaine; the answer was an inevitable--No! To
Arnold Jacks she could not reply thus promptly. Relying on the easy
terms of their intercourse, she told him the truth; and now she saw
that no form of answer could be less discreet.
For about a year she had thought of Arnold as one who _might_ offer her
marriage; any girl in her position would have foreseen that
possibility. After every opportunity which he allowed to pass, she felt
relieved, for she had no reply in readiness. The thought of accepting
him was not at all disagreeable; it had even its allurements; but
between the speculation and the thing itself was a great gap for the
leaping of mind and heart. Her relations with him were very pleasant,
and she would have been glad if nothing had ever happened to disturb
them.
When her father suggested this long journey in Arnold's company, she
hesitated. In deciding to go, she said to herself that if nothing
resulted, well and good; if something did, well and good also. She
would get to know Arnold better, and on that increase of acquaintance
must depend the outcome, as far as she was concerned. She was helped in
making up her mind by a little thing that happened. There came to her
one day a letter from Odessa; on opening it, she found only a copy of
verses, with the signature "P.O." A love poem; not addressed to her,
but about her; a pretty poem, she thought, delicately felt and
gracefully worded. It surprised her, but only for a moment; thinking,
she accepted it as something natural, and was touched by the tribute.
She put it carefully away--knowing it by heart.
Impertinence! Surely not. Long ago she had reproached herself with her
half-coquetry to Piers Otway, an error of exuberant spirits when she
was still very young. There was no obscuring the fact; deliberately she
had set herself to draw him away from his studies; she had made it a
point of pride to show herself irresistible. Where others failed in
their attack upon his austere seclusion, _she_ would succeed, and
easily. She had succeeded only too well, and it never quite ceased to
trouble her conscience. Now, learning that even after four years her
victim still remained loyal, she thought of him with much gentleness,
and would have scorned herself had she felt scorn of his devotion.
No other of her wooers had ever written her a poem; no other was
capable of it. It gave Piers a distinction in her mind which more than
earned her pardon.
But--poor fellow!--he must surely know that she could never respond to
his romantic feeling. It was pure romance, and charming--if only it did
not mean sorrow to him and idle hopes. Such a love as this, distant,
respectful, she would have liked to keep for years, for a lifetime. If
only she could be sure that romance was as dreamily delightful to her
poet as to her!
The worst of it was that Piers Otway had suffered a sad wrong, an
injustice which, when she heard of it, made her nobly angry. A month
after the death of the old philosopher at Hawes, Mrs. Hannaford
startled her with a strange story. The form it took was this: That
Piers, having for a whispered reason no share in his father's
possessions, had perforce given up his hopes of commercial enterprise,
and returned to his old subordinate position at Odessa. The two
legitimate sons would gladly have divided with him their lawful due,
but Piers refused this generosity, would not hear of it for a moment,
stood on his pride, and departed. Thus Mrs. Hannaford, who fully
believed what she said; and as she had her information direct from the
eldest son, Daniel Otway, there could be no doubt as to its
correctness. Piers had behaved well; he could not take alms from his
half-brothers. But what a monstrous thing that accident and the law of
the land left him thus destitute! Feeling strongly about it, Irene
begged her aunt, when next she wrote to Odessa, to give Piers, from
her, a message of friendly encouragement; not, of course, a message
that necessarily implied knowledge of his story, but one that would
help him with the assurance of his being always kindly remembered by
friends in London.
Six months after came the little poem, which Irene, without purposing
it, learnt by heart.
A chapter of pure romance; one which, Irene felt, could not possibly
have any relation to her normal life. And perhaps because she felt
that so strongly, perhaps because her conscience warned her against the
danger of still seeming to encourage a lover she could not dream of
marrying, perhaps because these airy nothings threw into stronger
relief the circumstances which environed her, she forthwith made up her
mind to go on the long journey with her father and Arnold Jacks. Mrs.
Hannaford did not fail to acquaint Piers Otway with the occurrence.
And those two months of companionship told in Arnold's favour. Jacks
was excellent in travel; he had large experience, and showed to
advantage on the highways of the globe. No more entertaining companion
during the long days of steamship life; no safer guide in unfamiliar
lands. His personality made a striking contrast with the robustious
semi-civilisation of the colonists with whom Irene became acquainted;
she appreciated all the more his many refinements. Moreover, the
respectful reception he met with could not but impress her; it gave
reality to what Miss Derwent sometimes laughed at, his claim to be a
force in the great world. Then, that eternal word "Empire" gained
somewhat of a new meaning. She joked about it, disliking as much as
ever its baser significance but she came to understand better the
immense power it represented. On that subject, her father was emphatic.
"If," remarked Dr. Derwent once, "if our politics ever fall into the
hands of a stock-jobbing democracy, we shall be the hugest force for
evil the poor old world has ever known."
"You think," said Irene, "that one can already see some danger of it?"
"Well, I think so sometimes. But we have good men still, good men."
"Do you mind telling me," Miss Derwent asked, "whether our
fellow-traveller seems to you one of them?"
"H'm! On the whole, yes. His faults are balanced, I think, by his
aristocratic temper. He is too proud consciously to make dirty
bargains. High-handed, of course; but that's the race--the race. Things
being as they are, I would as soon see him in power as another."
Irene pondered this. It pleased her.
On the morning after Arnold's proposal, she knew that he and her father
had talked. Dr. Derwent, a shy man, rather avoided her look; but he
behaved to her with particular kindliness; as they stood looking
towards the coast of England, he drew her hand through his arm, and
stroked it once or twice--a thing he had not done on the whole journey.
"The brave old island!" he was murmuring. "I should be really disturbed
if I thought death would find me away from it. Foolish fancy, but it's
strong in me."
Irene was taciturn, and unlike herself. The approach to port enabled
her to avoid gossips, but one person, Helen Borisoff, guessed what had
happened; Irene's grave countenance and Arnold Jacks' meditative smile
partly instructed her. On the railway journey to London, Jacks had the
discretion to keep apart in a smoking-carriage. Dr. Derwent and his
daughter exchanged but few words until they found themselves in
Bryanston Square.
During their absence abroad, Mrs. Hannaford had been keeping house for
them. With brief intervals spent now and then in pursuit of health, she
had made Bryanston Square her home since the change in her
circumstances two years ago. Lee Hannaford held no communication with
her, content to draw the modest income she put at his disposal, and
Olga, her mother knew not why, was still unmarried, though declaring
herself still engaged to the man Kite. She lived here and there in
lodgings, at times seeming to maintain herself, at others accepting
help; her existence had an air of mystery far from reassuring.
On meeting her aunt, Irene found her looking ill and troubled. Mrs.
Hannaford declared that she was much as usual, and evaded inquiries.
She passed from joy at her relatives' return to a mood of silent
depression; her eyes made one think that she must have often shed tears
of late. In the past twelvemonth she had noticeably aged; her beauty
was vanishing; a nervous tremor often affected her thin hands, and in
her speech there was at times a stammering uncertainty, such as comes
of mental distress. Dr. Derwent, seeing her after two months' absence,
was gravely observant of these things.
"I wish you could find out what's troubling your aunt," he said to
Irene, next day. "Something is, and something very serious, though she
won't admit it. I'm really uneasy about her."
Irene tried to win the sufferer's confidence, but without success. Mrs.
Hannaford became irritable, and withdrew as much as possible from sight.
The girl had her own trouble, and it was one she must needs keep to
herself. She shrank from the next meeting with Arnold Jacks, which
could not long be postponed. It took place three days after her return,
when Arnold and Mrs. Jacks dined in Bryanston Square. John Jacks was to
have come, but excused himself on the plea of indisposition. As might
have been expected of him, Arnold was absolute discretion; he looked
and spoke, perhaps, a trifle more gaily than usual, but to Irene showed
no change of demeanour, and conversed with her no more than was
necessary. Irene felt grateful, and once more tried to convince herself
that she had done nothing irreparable. In fact, as in assertion, she
was free. The future depended entirely on her own will and pleasure.
That her mind was ceaselessly preoccupied with Arnold could only be
deemed natural, for she had to come to a decision within three or four
weeks' time. But--if necessary the respite should be prolonged.
Eustace Derwent dined with them, and Irene noticed--what had occurred
to her before now--that the young man seemed to have particular
pleasure in the society of Mrs. Jacks; he conversed with her more
naturally, more variously, than with any other lady of his friends; and
Mrs. Jacks, through the unimpeachable correctness of her exterior,
almost allowed it to be suspected that she found a special satisfaction
in listening to him. Eustace was a frequent guest at the Jacks'; yet
there could hardly be much in common between him and the lady's elderly
husband, nor was he on terms of much intimacy with Arnold. Of course
two such excellent persons, such models of decorum, such examples of
the English ideal, masculine and feminine, would naturally see in each
other the most desirable of acquaintances; it was an instance of social
and personal fitness, which the propriety of our national manners
renders as harmless as it is delightful. They talked of art, of
literature, discovering an entire unanimity in their preferences, which
made for the safely conventional. They chatted of common acquaintances,
agreeing that the people they liked were undoubtedly the very nicest
people in their circle, and avoiding in the suavest manner any severity
regarding those they could not approve. When Eustace apologised for
touching on a professional subject (he had just been called to the
Bar), Mrs. Jacks declared that nothing could interest her more. If he
ventured a jest, she smiled with surpassing sweetness, and was all but
moved to laugh. They, at all events, spent a most agreeable evening.
Not so Mrs. Hannaford, who, just before dinner, had received a letter,
which at once she destroyed. The missive ran thus:
"DEAR MRS. HANNAFORD--I am distressed to hear that you suffer so in
health. Consult your brother; you will find that the only thing to do
you good will be a complete change of climate and of habits. You know
how often I have urged this; if you had listened to me, you would by
now have been both healthy and happy--yes, happy. Is it too late? Don't
you value your life? And don't you care at all for the happiness of
mine? Meet me to-morrow, I beg, at the Museum, about eleven o'clock,
and let us talk it all over once more. Do be sensible; don't wreck your
life out of respect for social superstitions. The thing once over, who
thinks the worse of you? Not a living creature for whom you need care.
You have suffered for years; put an end to it; the remedy is in your
hands. Ever yours,
D.O."