For quite three months we heard nothing of Ideala, but we were not
alarmed, as she often neglected us in this way when she was busy. At
last, however, Claudia received a note from her, written in pencil, and
in her usual style.
"It has been dull down here to a degree," she said. "I am beginning to
think we are all too respectable. Are respectability and imbecility
nearly allied, I wonder? But don't tell me; I don't want to know. All
the trouble in the world comes from knowing too much. And then, I'm so
dreadfully clever! If people take the trouble to explain things to me,
I am sure to acquire some of the information they try to impart. I
heard of the block system the other day. It sounded mysterious. I like
mystery, and I went about in daily dread of having it all made plain to
me by some officious person. One day I was sitting on a rail above the
line watching the trains. A workman came and sat down near me. It is
very hard to have a workman sit down near you and not to talk to him,
so we talked. And before I knew what was coming, he had explained the
whole of that block system to me. Only fancy! and I may never forget
it! It is quite disheartening.
"He said he was a pointsman, and I asked him if he would send a train
down a wrong line for fifty pounds. He said fifty pounds was a large
sum, and he had a mother depending on him! The people here are
delicious. I think I shall write a book about them some day.
"Have you felt the fascination of the trains? My favourite seat here is
a lovely spot just above where they pass. I can look down on them, and
into them. The line winds, rather, through meadows and between banks,
where wild flowers grow; and under an ivied bridge or two, and by some
woods. And the trains rush past--some slow, some fast; and now and then
comes one that is just a flash and roar, and I cling to the railing for
a moment till it passes, and quiver with excitement, feeling as if I
must be swept away. I look at the carriage windows, too, trying to
catch a glimpse of the people, and I always hope to see a face I know.
In that lies all the charm.
"I seem to be expected in town, and some Scotch friends have asked me
to pay them a visit _en route_. I should like to go that way above
everything; one would see so much more of the country! But I daren't go
to London while the Bishop is there. He is making a dead set at me
again (confirmation this time), and I am afraid if he heard of my
arrival he would do something rash--dance down the Row in his gaiters,
perhaps--which might excite comment even if people knew what he was
after."
And then she went on to say she had been a little out of sorts, and
very lazy, and she thought the north country air would brace her
nerves, and, if we would have her, she would like to go to us at once.
She arrived late one afternoon, and I did not see her until she came
down to the drawing-room dressed for dinner.
I had not thought anything of her illness, she made so light of it, and
I was therefore startled beyond measure when she appeared.
"Why, my dear!" I exclaimed, involuntarily, "what have they done to
you? You're a perfect wreck!"
"Well, so _I_ thought," she answered; "but I did not like to tell
you. I was afraid you might think I was trying to make much of myself--
wrecks are so interesting."
There was a large party staying in the house, and I had no opportunity
of speaking to her that evening; but the next morning she came into my
studio with a brave assumption of her old manner. I cannot tell how it
was that I knew in a moment she had broken down, but I did know it, and
I could only look at her. Perhaps something in my look showed her she
had betrayed herself, for all at once her false composure forsook her,
and she stretched out her hands to me with a piteous little gesture:
"What am I to do?" she said. "Will it always be like this?"
But I could not help her. I turned to the picture I was working at, and
went on painting without a word. By-and-by she recovered herself, and
began to talk of other things.
I blamed myself afterwards. I ought to have let her tell me then; but I
had no notion of the truth. I only thought of her husband, and I
selfishly shrank from encouraging her to speak. Complaint seemed to be
beneath her. But I know now that she never wanted to make any complaint
of him to me. It was of her new acquaintance that she longed to tell
me. She had settled the difficulty with her husband without consulting
any one. She had returned to his house, and remained there as his wife,
nominally, and because he particularly wished that the world should
know nothing of the rupture. I believe that she had done it sorely against
the grain, and only because he represented that by so doing she would
save his reputation. But from that time forward she would accept nothing
from him but house-room, for she held that no high-minded woman could
take anything from a man to whom she was bound by no tie more sacred
than that of a mere legal contract.
She was very quiet when she first came to us, but beyond that I noticed
nothing unusual in her manner, and after the first I was inclined to
think that being out of health accounted for everything. My sister
Claudia, however, was not so easily deceived. She declared that Ideala
was suffering from some serious trouble, either mental or bodily; and
as the days wore on and there was no change for the better in her, but
rather the contrary, I began to share Claudia's anxiety. Ideala grew
paler and thinner, and more nervous. She was oftenest depressed, but
occasionally had unnatural bursts of hilarity that would end suddenly
in long fits of brooding.
It seems she had at first believed that Lorrimer's absence was an
intentional slight, and the humiliation, coming as it did upon the long
train of troubles which had weakened her already both in body and mind,
nearly killed her. She had been lying for weeks between life and death,
and we had known nothing of it. But as her strength returned she began
to think she had been unjust to Lorrimer. She could account for his
absence in many ways. He had been called out suddenly, and had left no
message because he expected to be back before she arrived, but had been
detained; or perhaps he had left a message with one of the servants
whom she had not seen--there were so many about the place; or it was
just possible that he had never received her letter at all--a certain
number are lost in the post every day; and altogether it was more
difficult to think badly of him than to believe that there had been
some mistake. But still there was a doubt in her mind, and she bore the
torment of it rather than ask for an explanation which might only
confirm her worst fears.