Hubert had been worried and overworked of late; it had appeared to him a
good thing that he should spend a few of the spring days at Beechfield,
and try to recover in the society of his sister and his betrothed the
serenity that he had lost. But this seemed after all no easy thing to
do. He was annoyed to find himself irritated by small matters; his
equanimity, usually perfect, was soon ruffled; and, although he did not
always show any outward sign of vexation, he felt that his temper was
not quite under his own control. And it was Enid, curiously enough, who
irritated him most.
"Who is this new singer," she asked one day, "about whom people are
talking so much?"
"My dear Enid, how am I to know which singer you mean?" he said,
letting the newspaper drop from his hand, and clasping his hands
leisurely behind his head. "There are so many new singers!"
They had been having tea under the beech-tree, and, as usual, had been
left alone to do their love-making, undisturbed. Their love-making was
of a very undemonstrative character. Enid sat in one comfortable
basket-chair, Hubert in another, at a yard's distance. Their
conversation went on in fragments, interspersed by long pauses filled up
by an orchestra of birds in the branches overhead.
"I do not remember her name exactly," said Enid. "The Tollemaches were
talking about her yesterday; they heard her in town last week. 'Cynthia'
something--'Cynthia,' I remember that, because it is such an uncommon
name."
"I suppose you mean Miss Cynthia West," said Hubert, after a very long
pause.
"Yes, 'Cynthia West'--that was the name. Have you heard her?"
"Yes."
"And do you think her very wonderful?"
"She is a remarkably fine singer."
"Oh, I hope we shall hear her when we next go up to London! Aunt Leo
wants me to stay with her."
"That will be very nice," said Hubert, bestirring himself a little.
"Then you will hear all the novelties. But I would not go just yet if I
were you, London has not begun to wake up again after its winter sleep."
"What a horrible place it must be!" said Enid, with a little shiver.
"You think so? It is my home."
There was an accent in his voice which impressed Enid painfully. She
clasped her hands rather tightly together in her lap, and said, after
another pause, in a lower tone--
"I dare say I should grow fond of it if I lived there."
"As you will do, in time," said Hubert, with a smile. "You must try to
believe that you will soon be as absorbed in town-life as every other
woman; that concerts and theatres and balls will make up for green
fields and the songs of birds; that men are more interesting than brooks
and flowers; that to shop and to gossip are livelier occupations than
visiting the poor and teaching little Dick. Don't you think you can
imagine it?"
She shook her head.
"I can't imagine it; but, if I had to do it, I would try. I don't think
your picture is very attractive, if I may say so, Hubert."
"Don't you, dear? Why not?"
"It sounds so unreal. Do women pass their lives in that frivolous, vapid
way?"
"Not all of them, of course. There are women who have work to do," said
Hubert, looking idly into the distance, as if he were thinking of some
one or something that he could not see.
"Oh, yes, I know--working women--professional women--women," said Enid,
with an innocent smile, "like Cynthia West."
Hubert gave a slight start; then, to cover it, he changed his position,
bringing his arms down and crossing them on his breast.
"You might tell me what she is like," continued Enid, with more
playfulness of manner than she generally showed. "You tell me so little
about London people! Is she handsome?"
"Yes, very."
"Dark or fair?"
"Very dark."
"Is she an Englishwoman?" pursued Enid.
"I am sure I don't know. I never asked."
"You know her then?"
"What makes you ask all these questions?" said Hubert, as if he had not
heard the last. "Who has put Miss West into your head in this way?" He
looked annoyed.
Enid at once put out a caressing hand.
"I did not mean to be too inquisitive, Hubert dear. But the Tollemaches
are very musical, and they were talking a great deal about her. They
said they saw you at the concert when she came out--some Italian
teacher's semi-private concert--and they seemed to think that you knew
the whole set of people who were there."
Mentally Hubert made some uncharitable remarks on the future destiny of
the Tollemaches; but he controlled himself so far as to answer coolly--
"I know several of that set, certainly. I know Miss West a little."
"How delightful," cried Enid. "I should like to meet some of these great
artists. Will you ever be able to introduce me to her, do you think,
Hubert?"
"I think not," said Hubert, knitting his brows. He did not find himself
able to turn the subject quite as easily as he could have wished.
"Oh, isn't she nice?" hazarded Enid doubtfully. "I always fancy that the
people who sing and act in public can't be quite as nice as the people
who stay in their own home-circle. I know that you will think me very
narrow-minded to say so, but I can't help it."
"I am afraid that I do think it rather narrow-minded," said Hubert
quietly, but with a dangerous lighting of his eyes. "You must surely
know that some of these singers are as good, as noble, as womanly as any
of your sheltered young ladies in their home-circles, who have not
genius enough to make themselves talked of by the world!"
"Oh, yes, I suppose so!" said Enid, quite unconscious of the storm that
she was exciting in Hubert's breast. "But it is difficult to understand
why they prefer a public life to a private one. Do you think they really
like appearing on the stage?"
"I am sure they do," said Hubert, with a short laugh. "You cannot
understand it as yet, I suppose; you will understand it by-and-by. It
would be a very poor lookout for a novelist and playwright like myself,
Enid, if every one thought as you do."
And then he got up and walked to meet the General, who was approaching
the tea-table, and, as the two were soon deep in political matters, Enid
presently slipped away unobserved.
She felt vaguely that she had vexed or disappointed her lover; she knew
the tones of his voice well enough to feel sure that in some way she had
said what he did not approve. And yet, on reflection, she could not see
that she had given him legitimate cause of offence. She knew that he did
not agree with her in preferring country to town; or in thinking that
women who sang in public were not quite of her class; but she did not
think that he ought to be angry with her for expressing her views. He
perplexed her very much by his moments of irritation, of coldness, of
absence of mind. At times he was certainly very different. He could be
most tender, though always with the tenderness of a grown man to a
child, of a strong person towards a weak one--and this was a kind of
tenderness which did not satisfy Enid's heart. Sometimes indeed she was
thankful that it was so, feeling as if any great display of affection on
his part would be overwhelming, out of place; but at other times she
felt that his calm kindness was almost an insult to the woman whom he
had asked to be his wife. A little while back she would not have thought
so--she would have been well content with his behavior; but a new factor
had come into her life since her engagement to Hubert Lepel, some new
and agitating consciousness of power had dawned upon her, with a
revelation of faculties and influences to which she had hitherto been a
stranger; and, in presence of these novel emotions and discoveries,
Hubert was weighed in the balance and found wanting.
Meanwhile Hubert was as uncomfortable as a man could well be. He had
always meant to be faithful and tender to Enid--for whom, as he had
said, he would do anything in his power to save her from unhappiness; on
the other hand, he found the task more difficult than he had dreamed. He
had seen her first as a sweet, docile, pliable creature, ready to be
led, ready to be taught, and he had meant to mould her to his will. But,
lo and behold, the girl was not really pliable at all! She had a
distinct character, an individuality of her own, as different from any
ideal of Hubert's as ice from fire. Her inability to appreciate the
artistic side of life--as he put it to himself--her dislike to the great
town where all his interests lay--these were traits which troubled him
out of proportion to their intrinsic worth. How could he be happy with a
woman who differed from him so entirely in habits, taste, and training?
He forgot for a moment that he had asked her to marry him in order that
she might be made happy--that he had solemnly put aside from himself all
thought of personal joy. But human nature is weak, and renunciation not
always pleasant. It occurred to his mind that Enid herself might not be
very happy if married to a man with whom she was not in sympathy.
It was half with relief, half with regret, that he listened to a
monologue from the General on the subject of Enid's marriage.
"I always disapproved of early marriages," he said sapiently; "they
never turn out well. And Enid is delicate; she must not take the cares
of a household upon her until she is older and stronger. Don't ask me
for her until she is twenty-one, Hubert! She shall not marry till then
with my consent." He had never spoken so strongly before; but he was
reinforced by Flossy's recently-bestowed approval. Till within the last
few days, Flossy had been all for a speedy marriage. She said now that
she was convinced that her "dear Richard" was perfectly right, and the
General was "cock-a-hoop" accordingly. "I need not threaten; you know
very well that I have the whole control of the money that would go to
her dowry--I need say nothing more. I will have no marriage talked
about--no engagement even--for the present. Mind you, Enid is not
engaged to you, Hubert. If she thinks fit to change her mind, she may do
so."
"Certainly, sir."
"And, if you think fit to change your mind, you may do so too. Nobody
wants either of you to marry where you do not love; the worst thing in
the world!"
"When is this prohibition to be removed?" asked Hubert. "It seems to me
a little hard upon--upon us both."
"If Enid is stronger, I will allow her to be engaged in a year's time,"
said the General, "but not before; and I shall tell her so."
The first time that Hubert found himself alone with Enid he said--
"The General seems to have changed his mind about our engagement, Enid."
"Yes; he told me so," she answered meekly.
"He says we are not to consider ourselves engaged."
"Yes."
"I am very sorry that he should take that view----"
"Don't be sorry, please!" she said, quickly interrupting him. "I think
that it is better so."
"Better, Enid?"
"Yes. He says that I am not strong--and it is true. I feel very weak
sometimes, not strong enough to bear much, I am afraid. If I were to
become an invalid, I should not marry." She spoke gently, but with great
resolution.
"That is all a morbid fancy of yours," said Hubert. "You will be better
soon. After this summer, the General talks of winter in the Riviera.
That will do you all the good in the world."
"I think not," she answered quietly. "I am afraid that I am not so
likely to recover as you think. And, if not, nothing on earth will
induce me to marry any man. Remember that, Hubert--if I am not better, I
will not marry you. I intend to join the sisters at East Winstead."
"It is that meddling parson who is at the bottom of this, I'll swear!"
said Hubert angrily, quitting her side and pacing about the room. He
noticed that at his words the color rose in the girl's pale cheeks.
"If you mean Mr. Evandale," she said, "I can assure you that he has
never said a word to me about East Winstead. It is entirely my own
wish."
"My dear child," said Hubert, halting in front of her, "the last thing
we want is to force your wishes in any direction. If, for instance, you
wish to throw me over and be a nun, do so by all means. I only ask you
to be true to yourself, and to see that you do not act on impulse, or so
as to blight the higher impulses of your nature. I can say no more."
Enid looked at him wistfully, and seemed inclined to speak; but the
entrance of her uncle at that moment put a stop to further conversation,
and the subject was not reopened before Hubert's return to town.
"No engagement--free to do as I please." The words hummed themselves in
Hubert's mind to the accompaniment of the throbs of the steam-engine all
the way back to London. What did it mean? What did Enid herself mean?
Was it not a humiliating position for a man to be in? Was it fair either
to him or to the girl? Did it not mean, as a matter of fact, that Flossy
had been mistaken, and that Enid was not in the least in love with him?
He could not say that she had been especially affectionate of late.
Passively gentle, sweet, amiable, she always was, but not emotional, not
demonstrative. At that moment Hubert would have given ten years of his
life to know what was in her heart--what she really meant, and wanted
him to do.
Arrived at Charing Cross Station, he seemed uncertain as to his
movements. He hesitated when the porter asked him what he should do with
his luggage, and gave an order which he afterwards contradicted.
"No," he said, "I won't do that. Put my things on a cab. All right!
Drive to No.--Russell Square."
This was his home-address; but, when there, he did not go up-stairs. He
told his landlady to send his things to his room, and not to expect him
back to dinner, as he meant to dine at his club.
He did so; but after dinner his fitful hesitancy seemed to revive. He
smoked a cigarette, talked a little to one of his friends, then went out
slowly and, as it seemed, indecisively into the street, and called a
hansom-cab. Then his indecision seemed to leave him. He jumped in,
shouted an address to the driver, and was driven on to a quiet square in
Kensington, where he knocked at the door of a tall narrow house, only
noticeable in the daytime by reason of the masses of flowers in the
balcony, and at night by the rose-colored blinds, illuminated by the
light of a lamp, in the drawing-room windows.
The servant who opened the door welcomed him with a smile, as if his
face was well known to her. He passed her with a word of explanation,
and marched up-stairs to the first-floor, where he tapped lightly at the
drawing-room door, and then, without waiting, walked into the room.
A girl in a red dress, who had been kneeling on the rug before the fire,
rose to her feet as he came in and uttered a blithesome greeting.
"At last!" she said. "So here you are, monsieur! I was wondering what
had become of you, and thought you had deserted me altogether!"
"Could I do that?" said Hubert, in a tone in which mock gallantry was
strangely mingled with a tenderness which was altogether passionate and
earnest. "Do you really think that I ever could do that?"
The girl he spoke to was Cynthia West.