Irene passed a restless night. The snatches of unrefreshing sleep which
she obtained as the hours dragged towards morning were crowded with
tumultuous dreams; she seemed to be at strife with all manner of
people, now defending herself vehemently against some formless
accusation, now arraigning others with a violence strange to her
nature. Worst of all, she was at odds with her father, about she knew
not what; she saw his kind face turn cold and hard in reply to a
passionate exclamation with which she had assailed him. The wan glimmer
of a misty October dawn was very welcome after this pictured darkness.
Yet it brought reflections that did not tend to soothe her mind.
Several letters for her lay on the breakfast-table; among them, one
from Arnold Jacks, which she opened hurriedly. It proved to be a mere
note, saying that at last he had found a house which seemed in every
respect suitable, and he wished Irene to go over it with him as soon as
possible; he would call for her at three o'clock. "Remember," he added,
"you dine with us. We are by ourselves."
She glanced at her father, as if to acquaint him with this news; but
the Doctor was deep in a leading-article, and she did not disturb him.
Eustace had correspondence of his own which engrossed him. No one
seemed disposed for talk this morning.
The letter which most interested her came from Helen Borisoff, who was
now at home, in Paris. It was the kind of letter that few people are so
fortunate as to receive nowadays, covering three sheets with gaiety and
good-nature, with glimpses of interesting social life and many an
amusing detail. Mrs. Borisoff was establishing herself for the winter,
which promised all sorts of good things yonder on the Seine. She had
met most of the friends she cared about, among whom were men and women
with far-echoing names. With her husband she was on delightful terms;
he had welcomed her charmingly; he wished her to convey his respectful
homage to the young English lady with whom his wife had become _liee_,
and the hope that at no distant time he might make her acquaintance.
After breakfast, Irene lingered over this letter, which brightened her
imagination. Paris shone luringly as she read. Had circumstances been
different, she would assuredly have spent a month there with Helen.
Well, she was going to Egypt, after--
One glance she gave at Arnold's short note. "My dear Irene"--"In haste,
but ever yours." These lines did not tempt her to muse. Yet Arnold was
ceaselessly in her mind. She wished to see him, and at the same time
feared his coming. As for the house, it occupied her thoughts with only
a flitting vagueness. Why so much solicitude about the house? In any
decent quarter of London, was not one just as good as another? But for
the risk of hurting Arnold, she would have begged him to let her off
the inspection, and to manage the business as he thought fit.
A number of small matters claimed her attention during the morning,
several of them connected with her marriage. Try as she might, she
could not bring herself to a serious occupation with these things; they
seemed trivial and tiresome. Her thoughts wandered constantly to the
house at Campden Hill, which had a tragic fascination. She had promised
to see her aunt to-day, but it would be difficult to find time, unless
she could manage to get there between her business with Arnold and the
hour of dinner. Olga was to telegraph if anything happened. A chill
misgiving took hold upon her as often as she saw her aunt's face, so
worn and woe-stricken; and it constantly hovered before her mind's eye.
The revelation made to her yesterday had caused a mental shock greater
than she had yet realised. That Mrs. Hannaford, a woman whom she had
for many years regarded as elderly, should be possessed and overcome by
the passion of love, was a thing so strange, so at conflict with her
fixed ideas, as to be all but incredible. In her aunt's presence, she
scarcely reflected upon it; she saw only a woman bound to her by
natural affection, who had fallen into dire misfortune and
wretchedness. Little by little the story grew upon her understanding;
the words in which it had been disclosed came back to her, and with a
new significance, a pathos hitherto unfelt. She remembered that Olga's
mother was not much more than forty years old; that this experience
began more than five years ago; that her life had been loveless; that
she was imaginative and of emotional temper. To dwell upon these facts
was not only to see one person in a new light, but to gain a wider
perception of life at large. Irene had a sense of enfranchisement from
the immature, the conventional.
She would have liked to be alone, to sit quietly and think. She wanted
to review once more, and with fuller self-consciousness, the
circumstances which were shaping her future. But there was no leisure
for such meditation; the details of life pressed upon her, urged her
onward, as with an impatient hand. This sense of constraint became an
irritation--due in part to the slight headache, coming and going, which
reminded her of her bad night. Among the things she meant to do this
morning was the writing of several letters to so-called friends, who
had addressed her in the wonted verbiage on the subject of her
engagement. Five minutes proved the task impossible. She tore up a
futile attempt at civility, and rose from the desk with all her nerves
quivering.
"How well I understand," she said to herself, "why men swear!"
At eleven o'clock, unable to endure the house, she dressed for going
out, and drove to Mrs. Hannaford's.
Olga was not at home. Before going into her aunt's room, Irene spoke
with the nurse, who had no very comforting report to make; Mrs.
Hannaford could not sleep, had not closed her eyes for some
four-and-twenty hours; Dr. Derwent had looked in this morning, and was
to return later with another medical man. The patient longed for her
niece's visit; it might do good.
She stayed about an hour, and it was the most painful hour her life had
yet known. The first sight of Mrs. Hannaford's face told her how
serious this illness was becoming; eyes unnaturally wide, lips which
had gone so thin, head constantly moving from side to side as it lay
back on the cushion of the sofa, were indications of suffering which
made Irene's heart ache. In a faint, unsteady, lamenting voice, the
poor woman talked ceaselessly; now of the wrong that was being done
her, now of her miseries in married life, now again of her present
pain. Once or twice Irene fancied her delirious, for she seemed to
speak without consciousness of a hearer. To the inquiry whether it was
in her niece's power to be of any service, she answered at first with
sorrowful negatives, but said presently that she would like to see
Piers Otway; could Irene write to him, and ask him to come?
"He shall come," was the reply.
On going down, Irene met her cousin, just returned. To her she spoke of
Mrs. Hannaford's wish.
"I promised he should be sent for. Will you do it, Olga?"
"It is already done," Olga answered. "Did she forget? One of the things
I went out for was to telegraph to him."
They gazed at each other with distressful eyes.
"Oh, what does the man deserve who has caused this?" exclaimed Olga,
who herself began to look ill. "It's dreadful! I am afraid to go into
the room. If I had someone here to live with me!"
Irene's instinct was to offer to come, but she remembered the
difficulties. Her duties at home were obstacles sufficient. She had to
content herself with promising to call as often as possible.
Returning to Bryanston Square, she thought with annoyance of the
possibility that her father and Piers Otway might come face to face in
that house. Never till now had she taxed her father with injustice. It
seemed to her an intolerable thing that the blameless man should be
made to share in obloquy merited by his brother. And what memory was
this which awoke in her? Did not she herself once visit upon him a
fault in which he had little if any part? She recalled that evening,
long ago, at Queen's Gate, when she was offended by the coarse
behaviour of Piers Otway's second brother. True, there was something
else that moved her censure on that occasion, but she would scarcely
have noticed it save for the foolish incident at the door. Fortune was
not his friend. She thought of the circumstances of his birth, which
had so cruelly wronged him when Jerome Otway died. Now, more likely
than not, her father would resent his coming to Mrs. Hannaford's, would
see in it something suspicious, a suggestion of base purpose.
"I can't stand that!" Irene exclaimed to herself. "If he is
calumniated, I shall defend him, come of it what may!"
At luncheon, Dr. Derwent was grave and disinclined to converse. On
learning where Irene had been, he nodded, making no remark. It was a
bad sign that his uneasiness could no longer be combated with a dry
joke.
As three o'clock drew near, Irene made no preparation for going out.
She sat in the drawing-room, unoccupied, and was found thus when Arnold
Jacks entered.
"You got my note?" he began, with a slight accent of surprise.
Irene glanced at him, and perceived that he did not wear his wonted
countenance. This she had anticipated, with an uneasiness which now
hardened in her mind to something like resentment.
"Yes. I hoped you would excuse me. I have a little headache."
"Oh, I'm sorry!"
He was perfectly suave. He looked at her with a good-natured anxiety.
Irene tried to smile.
"You won't mind if I leave all that to you? Your judgment is quite
enough. If you really like the house, take it at once. I shall be
delighted."
"It's rather a responsibility, you know. Suppose we wait till
to-morrow?"
Irene's nerves could not endure an argument. She gave a strange laugh,
and exclaimed:
"Are you afraid of responsibilities? In this case, you must really face
it. Screw up your courage."
Decidedly, Arnold was not himself. He liked an engagement of banter; it
amused him to call out Irene's spirit, and to conquer in the end by
masculine force in guise of affectionate tolerance. To-day he seemed
dull, matter-of-fact, inclined to vexation; when not speaking, he had a
slightly absent air, as if ruminating an unpleasant thought.
"Of course I will do as you wish, Irene. Just let me describe the
house----"
She could have screamed with irritation.
"Arnold, I entreat you! The house is nothing to me. I mean, one will do
as well as another, if _you_ are satisfied."
"So be it. I will never touch on the subject again."
His tone was decisive. Irene knew that he would literally keep his
word. This was the side of his character which she liked, which had
always impressed her; and for the moment her nerves were soothed.
"You will forgive me?" she said gently.
"Forgive you for having a headache?--Will it prevent you from coming to
us this evening?"
"I should be grateful if you let me choose another day."
He did not stay very long. At leave-taking, he raised her hand to his
lips, and Irene felt that he did it gracefully. But when she was alone
again, his manner, so slightly yet so noticeably changed, became the
harassing subject of her thought. That the change resulted from
annoyance at the scandal in her family she could not doubt; such a
thing would be hard for Arnold to bear. When were they to speak of it?
Speak they must, if the affair went on to publicity. And, considering
the natural difficulty Arnold would find in approaching such a subject,
ought not she to take some steps of her own initiative?
By evening, she saw the position in a very serious light. She asked
herself whether it did not behove her to offer to make an end of their
engagement.
"Your aunt has brain fever," said Dr. Derwent, in the library after
dinner. And Irene shuddered with dread.
Early next morning she accompanied her father to Mrs. Hannaford's. The
Doctor went upstairs; Irene waited in the dining-room, where she was
soon joined by Olga. The girl's face was news sufficient; her mother
grew worse--had passed a night of delirium. Two nurses were in the
house, and the medical man called every few hours. Olga herself looked
on the point of collapse; she was haggard with fear; she trembled and
wept. In spite of her deep concern and sympathy, Irene's more
courageous temper reproved this weakness, wondered at it as unworthy of
a grown woman.
"Did Mr. Otway come?" she asked, as soon as It was possible to converse.
"Yes. He was a long time in mother's room, and just before he left her
your father came."
"They met?"
"No. Uncle seemed angry when I told him. He said, 'Get rid of him at
once!' I suppose he dislikes him because of his brother. It's very
unjust."
Irene kept silence.
"He came down--and we talked. I am so glad to have any friend near me!
I told him how uncle felt. Of course he will not come again----"
"Why not? This is _your_ house, not my father's!"
"But poor mother couldn't see him now--wouldn't know him. I promised to
send him news frequently. I'm going to telegraph this morning."
"Of course," said Irene, with emphasis. "He must understand that _you_
have no such feeling----"
"Oh, he knows that! He knows I am grateful to him--very grateful----"
She broke down again, and sobbed. Irene, without speaking, put her arms
around the girl and kissed her cheek.
Dr. Derwent and his daughter met again at luncheon. Afterwards, Irene
followed into the library.
"I wish to ask you something, father. When you and Arnold spoke about
this hateful thing, did you tell him, unmistakably, that aunt was
slandered?"
"I told him that I myself had no doubt of it."
"Did he seem--do you think that _he_ doubts?"
"Why?"
Irene kept silence, feeling that her impression was too vague to be
imparted.
"Try," said her father, "to dismiss the matter from your thoughts. It
doesn't concern you. You will never hear an allusion to it from Jacks.
Happen what may"--his voice paused, with suggestive emphasis--"you have
nothing to do with it. It doesn't affect your position or your future
in the least."
As she withdrew, Irene was uneasily conscious of altered relations with
her father. The change had begun when she wrote to him announcing her
engagement; since, they had never conversed with the former freedom,
and the shadow now hanging over them seemed to chill their mutual
affection. For the first time, she thought with serious disquiet of the
gulf between old and new that would open at her marriage, of all she
was losing, of the duties she was about to throw off--duties which
appeared so much more real, more sacred, than those she undertook in
their place. Her father's widowerhood had made him dependent upon her
in a higher degree than either of them quite understood until they had
to reflect upon the consequences of parting; and Irene now perceived
that she had dismissed this consideration too lightly. She found
difficulty in explaining her action, her state of mind, her whole self.
Was it really only a few weeks ago? To her present mood, what she had
thought and done seemed a result of youth and inexperience, a condition
long outlived.
When she had sat alone for half an hour in the drawing-room, Eustace
joined her. He said their father had gone out. They talked of
indifferent things till bedtime.
In the morning, the servant who came into Irene's room gave her a note
addressed in the Doctor's hand. It contained the news that Mrs.
Hannaford had died before daybreak. Dr. Derwent himself did not appear
till about ten o'clock, when he arrived together with his niece. Olga
had been violently hysterical; it seemed the wisest thing to bring her
to Bryanston Square; the change of surroundings and Irene's sympathy
soon restored her to calm.
At midday a messenger brought Irene a letter from Arnold Jacks. Arnold
wrote that he had just heard of her aunt's death: that he was deeply
grieved, and hastened to condole with her. He did not come in person,
thinking she would prefer to let this sad day pass over before they
met, but he would call to-morrow morning. In the meantime, he would be
grateful for a line assuring him that she was well.
Having read this, Irene threw it aside as if it had been a tradesman's
circular. Not thus should he have written--if write he must instead of
coming. In her state of agitation after the hours spent with Olga, this
bald note of sympathy seemed almost an insult; to keep silence as to
the real cause of Mrs. Hannaford's death was much the same, she felt,
as hinting a doubt of the poor lady's innocence. Arnold Jacks was
altogether too decorous. Would it not have been natural for a man in
his position to utter at least an indignant word? It might have been as
allusive as his fine propriety demanded, but surely the word should
have been spoken!
After some delay, she replied in a telegram, merely saying that she was
quite well.
Olga, as soon as she felt able, had sat down to write a letter. She
begged her cousin to have it posted at once.
"It's to Mr. Otway," she said, in an unsteady voice. And, when the
letter had been despatched, she added, "It will be a great blow to him.
I had a letter last night asking for news--Oh, I meant to bring it!"
she exclaimed, with a momentary return of her distracted manner. "I
left it in my room. It will be lost-destroyed!"
Irene quieted her, promising that the letter should be kept safe.
"Perhaps he will call," Olga said presently. "But no, not so soon. He
may have written again. I must have the letter if there is one. Someone
must go over to the house this evening."
Through a great part of the afternoon, she slept, and whilst she was
sleeping there arrived for her a telegram, which, Irene did not doubt,
came from Piers Otway. It proved to be so, and Olga betrayed nervous
tremors after reading the message.
"I shall have a letter in the morning," she said to her cousin, several
times; and after that she did not care to talk, but sat for hours busy
with her thoughts, which seemed not altogether sad.
At eleven o'clock next morning, Arnold Jacks was announced. Irene, who
sat with Olga in the drawing-room, had directed that her visitor should
be shown into the library, and there she received him. Arnold stepped
eagerly towards her; not smiling indeed, but with the possibility of a
smile manifest in every line of his countenance. There could hardly
have been a stronger contrast with his manner of the day before
yesterday. For this Irene had looked. Seeing precisely what she
expected, her eyes fell; she gave a careless hand; she could not speak.
Arnold talked, talked. He said the proper things, and said them well;
to things the reverse of proper, not so much as the faintest reference.
This duty discharged, he spoke of the house he had taken; his voice
grew animated; at length the latent smile stole out through his eyes
and spread to his lips. Irene kept silence. Respecting her natural
sadness, the lover made his visit brief, and retired with an air of
grave satisfaction.