AN AUTUMN HOLIDAY.
I have large estates in Hertfordshire and the adjoining counties, free
of land tax. Some noble marquis, I am assured, lays claim to the bare
loam, the ploughed fields, the turnips; but who counts mere mud? The
rest is mine, to do as I will with. He may keep his rents: ’tis for me
to enjoy the green lawns, the huge buttressed beech-trees, the broad
circles of shade where drowsy sheep lie huddled: I own the stripling
streams that break against sharp stones in the sloping stickles, or
expand on the shallows between into placid pools, skimmed over by
water-beetles who dart and dance nimbly in interlacing whirligigs. The
sky overhead is mine, mine the road under foot; the scent of rain-wetted
earth; the broken song of the thrushes, the startled scream of the jay
as he bursts through the rustling oak-leaves, the long sweep of the
swift launching himself on the air from the battlements of the
church-tower. All these I own, by virtue of my freehold in the saddle of
my bicycle.
Such a Sabine farm costs nought to manage; it gives pure delight without
counter-poise of trouble. I visited mine often, both on summer evenings
and on Saturday afternoons or Sundays. Early in my time at Romeo’s a
whimsical fancy seized me (being ever irresponsible) to spend my Sabbath
mornings in such churches within easy reach of London as were dedicated
to my chosen ally, St. Nicholas. I ran them down with care in an
Anglican Directory. If the day were doubtful, I strayed no farther
afield than to St. Nicholas Cole Abbey, in the City, where in a dark bay
of the aisle I prayed the prayer now nearest to my heart, which I leave
you to guess. Often as my patron had failed me at a pinch, still oftener
had he proved kind; I was prepared to give him one more chance of
distinguishing himself. But if the day promised to be fair, I got under
weigh betimes, and was spinning down the roads that lead northward out
of town while the smocked milkman still stood balanced by frothing pails
in the meadows. London lay, a vast blur, behind me. Cows on the common
chewed the cud of penury. Their eye was pensive. Commissioner Lin showed
a nasty Jack-in-office disposition to disturb them. He was called to
heel with difficulty. Then I would seek some country church, with low
tower and wooden lych-gate, where St. Nicholas still bore sway, spite of
iconoclast or Puritan, to pour out my heart’s wish to I know not what
Power that compels the universe.
It was my wont to lean the bicycle meanwhile against the churchyard yew
or some convenient tombstone, leaving the Commissioner in charge. He was
well fitted for the task by his unregenerate monopolist views on private
property, backed up by a fine row of persuasive white arguments.
These weekly trips made me careless of holiday. I waited to take my
summer outing till it should suit Romeo’s convenience. I was so much his
personal secretary that I must delay my vacation till he could take his;
and it had long been arranged that he should put it off till late
September—his partner having desired to go away in August.
Romeo never alluded again to that evening at the Savoy; but I knew it
had brought him nought but disappointment. He had desired to include me
within his mother’s sphere, and Cornelia, gathering up her Roman robe,
had declined. Yet from that time he was more deferential and more
courteous, if possible, than even his wont.
It was decided that his holiday should begin on the fifteenth of
September. As the time drew near, Romeo grew visibly distressed and
depressed. The spring failed in his step. I fancied he was suffering
some internal conflict. His manner was distraught; he sat at times as if
he hardly heard what was passing. It was plain to see he was struggling
within himself; irreconcilable feelings drew him alternately in opposite
directions.
On the fourteenth he came down to the office as usual, but sat gloomy
and moody. He did not tell us whither he was bound: nay, more, he gave
orders that no letters should follow him. He made some mystery of his
destination. At three o’clock he went home, bidding me good-bye with
more reserve than was his wont. He kept his glance averted. I could see
he was fighting hard to avoid breaking down. This holiday must mean much
to him. He could not look me in the face to bid me good-bye. The tremor
of his eyelids was as of one who holds back tears with difficulty. I
wished him a pleasant trip. He answered a hurried “Thank you,” and
rushed out to his carriage.
If I had known where he was going I think I should have followed him.
As the thought passed through my mind, Puck came in for some money out
of hand. It was my duty to keep the petty cash for Romeo’s personal
office expenditure. “I want nine shillings, miss,” the boy said;
“Baedeker’s ‘North Italy’ and Hare’s ‘Venice.’”
My heart gave a quick bound. I had surprised his objective. I am an
erratic creature. In one second my mind was made up. I should follow
him.
I had still the twelve guineas I had received for my story. Thank
heaven, I am improvident. The _bourgeois_ vice of thrift is one from
which my family has never suffered: the Puritan blood in our veins must
have been too generously diluted. Besides, have I not learned from more
modern political economy that saving is the source of all the evils of
capitalism?—and do I not give thanks daily that I show not the faintest
tendency to develop in that direction? I have made up my mind never to
be a capitalist; and, up to date, I see every chance of my keeping my
resolution. So I decided to spend my twelve guineas like a man, to
please myself, leaving Providence or St. Nicholas to make good the
deficiency. This is called faith, and is a cardinal virtue.
I gave Romeo two clear days’ start, lest I should travel along with him
and seem to be dogging him; then I set out alone on my way to Venice.
I am nothing, if not frank. Therefore I do not seek to deny the truth
that I went to Italy on purpose to follow Romeo.
“Unwomanly!” you say. What a false convention!
Yes, I am always frank; I think the day has almost come for frankness.
Men novelists have depicted us as men wish us to be; we have meekly and
obediently accepted their portrait: to some extent, even, we have
striven, against the grain, to model ourselves upon it. A man’s ideal is
the girl that shrinks; the sweetly unconscious girl, who scarce knows
she loves, till his strong arm glides round her, and he clasps her to
his heart: then, with a sudden awakening, she awakens to the truth, and
knows she has loved him long, loved him from the beginning. That, I say,
is a man’s woman. Her purity, her maidenly modesty, are quite
unapproachable by concrete feminine humanity. She is too delicate in
mind ever to dream that she can love spontaneously, of her own mere
motion. She loiters in the shade; she waits to be wooed; she is coy,
undecided, shrinking, timid.
There was a time, I suppose, when such women were common. I do not
know—for have I not Shakespeare to the contrary? But the type was once
true, I dare say, and widely distributed. Still, has not time altered
it? In the world in which we live men are no longer ardent. We scarce
affect to conceal the fact that they grow shy of marriage. As a
necessary consequence, women have changed too; the woman of this age
often knows she loves, knows it poignantly, breathlessly, and must use
those weapons which the world allows her if she would gain the affection
of the man who has taken her maiden fancy. She cannot by open means
pursue him, I admit; but she has recourse to the immemorial feminine
devices of ruse and stratagem.
I have Shakespeare on my side, I say, because I remember Rosalind. A man
drew her; yet I see in her pure woman. She loves; she knows she loves;
she longs frankly for her lover. And that is the way with women as I
have found them.
Why did I follow Romeo? Why did Rosalind fly to the forest of Arden?
Only once—scarcely once—had Romeo seen me as I was: that evening of
the dinner. At the office, what was I but the type-writer girl? If I
could meet him in Italy, he would know me as myself; we could talk more
freely; he might pluck up heart of grace to break the ice, and tell me
he loved me.
For I knew he was fond of me. I could not now doubt it. When he talked
to me, it was with those unmistakable sidelong glances which a woman’s
heart can interpret. Often he broke off suddenly. But his mother was
against me; his mother wished him to marry Lady Donisthorpe’s dear Meta.
In London, I knew, I had little chance to prevail over that perfect
lady. But in Venice—ah, what miracles may not happen in Venice!
Mirage of the lagoons, you show men everything!
I had not set foot in the enchanted city since my father took me when I
was a girl of sixteen; but I remembered it well; I knew every refluent
ditch of it. I could have found my way, on foot, through little aimless
lanes that wander in and out, from the Piazza to the Ghetto.
If Romeo met me there by accident—if we loitered together among those
churches and galleries—if I told him of my saints, if I pointed him out
my best-beloved pictures, surely the struggle within him would be
settled in my favour. He would prefer my wayward Gypsy-American fantasy
to dear Meta’s insipid graces of the perfect lady. He would know which
he preferred, in spite of his mother and Lady Donisthorpe’s crude
advertisements.
My one regret was, that I could not take Mr. Commissioner and Elsie with
me.