The Benefactress
BY THE AUTHOR OF "ELIZABETH AND HER GERMAN GARDEN"
New York
THE MACMILLAN COMPANY
LONDON: MACMILLAN & CO., Ltd.
1901
_All rights reserved_
Copyright, 1901,
By THE MACMILLAN COMPANY.
Norwood Press
J. S. Gushing & Co.--Berwick & Smith
Norwood Mass. U.S.A.
Man bedarf der Leitung
Und der männlichen Begleitung.
WILHELM BUSCH.
THE BENEFACTRESS
CHAPTER I
When Anna Estcourt was twenty-five, and had begun to wonder whether the
pleasure extractable from life at all counterbalanced the bother of it,
a wonderful thing happened.
She was an exceedingly pretty girl, who ought to have been enjoying
herself. She had a soft, irregular face, charming eyes, dimples, a
pleasant laugh, and limbs that were long and slender. Certainly she
ought to have been enjoying herself. Instead, she wasted her time in
that foolish pondering over the puzzles of existence, over those
unanswerable whys and wherefores, which is as a rule restricted, among
women, to the elderly and plain. Many and various are the motives that
impel a woman so to ponder; in Anna's case the motive was nothing more
exalted than the perpetual presence of a sister-in-law. The
sister-in-law was rich--in itself a pleasing circumstance; but the
sister-in-law was also frank, and her husband and Anna were entirely
dependent on her, and her richness and her frankness combined urged her
to make fatiguingly frequent allusions to the Estcourt poverty. Except
for their bad taste her husband did not mind these allusions much, for
he considered that he had given her a full equivalent for her money in
bestowing his name on a person who had practically none: he was Sir
Peter Estcourt of the Devonshire Estcourts, and she was a Dobbs of
Birmingham. Besides, he was a philosopher, and philosophers never mind
anything. But Anna was in a less agreeable situation. She was not a
philosopher, she was thin-skinned, she had bestowed nothing and was
taking everything, and she was of an independent nature; and an
independent nature, where there is no money, is a great nuisance to its
possessor.
When she was younger and more high-flown she sometimes talked of
sweeping crossings; but her sister-in-law Susie would not hear of
crossings, and dressed her beautifully, and took her out, and made her
dance and dine and do as other girls did, being of opinion that a rich
husband of good position was more satisfactory than crossings, and far
more likely to make some return for all the expenses she had had.
At eighteen Anna was so pretty that the perfect husband seemed to be a
mere question of days. What could the most desirable of men, thought
Susie, considering her, want more than so bewitching a young creature?
But he did not come, somehow, that man of Susie's dreams; and after a
year or two, when Anna began to understand what all this dressing and
dancing really meant, and after she had had offers from people she did
not like, and had herself fallen in love with a youth of no means who
was prudent enough to marry somebody else with money, she shrank back
and grew colder, and objected more and more decidedly to Susie's
strenuous private matrimonial urgings, and sometimes made remarks of a
cynical nature to her admirers, who took fright at such symptoms of
advancing age, and fell off considerably in numbers.
It was at this period, when she was barely twenty-two, that she spoke of
crossings. Susie had seriously reproved her for not meeting the advances
of an old and rich and single person with more enthusiasm, and had at
the same time alluded to the number of pounds she had spent on her every
year for the last three years, and the necessity for putting an end, by
marrying, to all this outlay; and instead of being sensible, and talking
things over quietly, Anna had poured out a flood of foolish sentiments
about the misery of knowing that she was expected to be nice to every
man with money, the intolerableness of the life she was leading, and the
superior attractions of crossing-sweeping as a means of earning a
livelihood.
"Why, you haven't enough money for the broom," said Susie impatiently.
"You can't sweep without a broom, you know. I wish you were a little
less silly, Anna, and a little more grateful. Most girls would jump at
the splendid opportunity you've got now of marrying, and taking up a
position of your own. You talk a great deal of stuff about being
independent, and when you get the chance, and I do all I can to help
you, you fly into a passion and want to sweep a crossing. Really," added
Susie, twitching her shoulder, "you might remember that it isn't all
roses for me either, trying to get some one else's daughter married."
"Of course it isn't all roses," said Anna, leaning against the
mantelpiece and looking down at her with perplexed eyebrows. "I am very
sorry for you. I wish you weren't so anxious to get rid of me. I wish I
could do something to help you. But you know, Susie, you haven't taught
me a trade. I can't set up on my own account unless you'll give me a
last present of a broom, and let me try my luck at the nearest crossing.
The one at the end of the street is badly kept. What do you think if I
started there?" What answer could anyone make to such folly?
By the time she was twenty-four, nearly all the girls who had come out
when she did were married, and she felt as though she were a ghost
haunting the ball-rooms of a younger generation. Disliking this feeling,
she stiffened, and became more and more unapproachable; and it was at
this period that she invented excuses for missing most of the functions
to which she was invited, and began to affect a simplicity of dress and
hair arrangement that was severe. Susie's exasperation was now at its
height. "I don't know why you should be bent on making the worst of
yourself," she said angrily, when Anna absolutely refused to alter her
hair.
"I'm tired of being frivolous," said Anna. "Have you an idea how long
those waves took to do? And you know how Hilton talks. It all gets
whisked up now in two minutes, and I'm spared her conversation."
"But you are quite plain," cried Susie. "You are not like the same girl.
The only thing your best friend could say about you now is that you look
clean."
"Well, I like to look clean," said Anna, and continued to go about the
world with hair tucked neatly behind her ears; her immediate reward
being an offer from a clergyman within the next fortnight.
Peter Estcourt was even more surprised than his wife that Anna had not
made a good match years before. Of course she had no money, but she was
a pretty girl of good family, and it ought to be easy enough for her to
find a husband. He wished heartily that she might soon be happily
married; for he loved her, and knew that she and Susie could never, with
their best endeavours, be great friends. Besides, every woman ought to
have a home of her own, and a husband and children. Whenever he thought
of Anna, he thought exactly this; and when he had reached the
proposition at the end he felt that he could do no more, and began to
think of something else.
His marriage with Susie, a person of whom no one had ever heard, had
brought out and developed stores of unsuspected philosophy in him.
Before that he was quite poor, and very merry; but he loved Estcourt,
and could not bear to see it falling into ruin, and he loved his small
sister, who was then only ten, and wished to give her a decent
education, and what is a man to do? There happened to be no rich
American girls about at that time, so he married Miss Dobbs of
Birmingham, and became a philosopher.
It was hard on Susie that he should become a philosopher at her expense.
She did not like philosophers. She did not understand their silent ways,
and their evenness of temper. After she had done all that Peter wanted
in regard to the place in Devonshire, and had provided Anna with every
luxury in the shape of governesses, and presented her husband with an
heir to the retrieved family fortunes, she thought that she had a right
to some enjoyment too, to some gratification from her position, and was
surprised to find how little was forthcoming. Really no one could do
more than she had done, and yet nothing was done for her. Peter fished,
and read, and was with difficulty removable from Estcourt. Anna was, of
course, too young to be grateful, but there she was, taking everything
as a matter of course, her very unconsciousness an irritation. Susie
wanted to get on in the world, and nobody helped her. She wanted to bury
the Dobbs part of herself, and develop the Estcourt part; but the Dobbs
part was natural, and the Estcourt superficial, and the Dobbses were one
and all singularly unattractive--a race of eager, restless, wiry little
men and women, anxious to get as much as they could, and keep it as long
as they could, a family succeeding in gathering a good deal of money
together in one place, and failing entirely in the art of making
friends. Susie was the best of them, and had been the pretty one at
home; yet she was not in the least a success in London. She put it down
to Peter's indifference, to his slowness in introducing her to his
friends. It was no more Peter's fault than it was her own. It was not
her fault that she was not pretty--there never had been a beautiful
Dobbs--and it was not her fault that she was so unfortunately frank, and
never could and never did conceal her feverish eagerness to make
desirable acquaintances, and to get into desirable sets. Until Anna came
out she was invited only to the big functions to which the whole world
went; and the hours she passed at them were not among the most blissful
of her life. The people who were at first inclined to be kind to her for
Peter's sake, dropped off when they found how her eagerness to attract
the attention of some one mightier made her unable to fix her thoughts
on the friendly remarks that they were taking pains to make. In society
she was absent-minded, fidgety, obviously on the look-out for a chance
of drawing the biggest fish into her little net; but, wealthy as she
was, she was not wealthy enough in an age of millionnaires, and not once
during the whole of her career was a big fish simple enough to be
caught.
After a time her natural shrewdness and common sense made her perceive
that her one claim to the scanty attentions she did receive was her
money. Her money had bought her Peter, and a pleasant future for her
children; it had converted a Dobbs into an Estcourt; it had given her
everything she had that was worth anything at all. Once she had
thoroughly realised this, she began to attach a tremendous importance to
the mere possession of money, and grew very stingy, making difficulties
about spending that grieved Peter greatly; not because he ever wanted
her money now that Estcourt had been restored to its old splendour and
set going again for their boy, but because meanness about money in a
woman was something he could not comprehend--something repulsive,
unfeminine, contrary to her nature as he had always understood it. He
left off making the least suggestion about Anna's education or the
household arrangements; everything that was done was done of Susie's own
accord; and he spent more and more time in Devonshire, and grew more and
more philosophical, and when he did talk to his wife, restricted his
conversation to the language of abstract wisdom.
Now this was very hard on Susie, who had no appreciation of abstract
wisdom, and who lived as lonely a life as it is possible to imagine.
Peter kept out of her way. Anna was subject to prolonged fits of chilly
silence. Susie used, at such times, to think regretfully of the cheerful
Dobbs days, of their frank and congenial vulgarity.
When Anna was eighteen, Susie's prospects brightened for a time. Doors
that had been shut ever since she married, opened before her on her
appearing with such a pretty _débutante_ under her wing, and she could
enjoy the reflected glory of Anna's little triumphs. And then, without
any apparent reason, Anna had altered so strangely, and had disappointed
every one's expectations; never encouraging the right man, never ready
to do as she was told, exasperatingly careless on all matters of vital
importance, and ending by showing symptoms of freezing into something of
the same philosophical state as Peter. Their mother had been German----a
lady-in-waiting to one of the German princesses; and their father had
met her and married her while he was secretary at the English Embassy in
St. Petersburg. And Susie, who had heard of German philosophy and German
stolidity, and despised them both with all her heart, concluded that the
German strain was accountable for everything about Peter and Anna that
was beyond her comprehension; and sometimes, when Peter was more than
usually wise and unapproachable, would call him Herr Schopenhauer--which
had an immediate effect of producing a silence that lasted for weeks;
for not only did he like her least when she was playful, but he had, as
a matter of fact, read a great deal of Schopenhauer, and was uneasily
conscious that it had not been good for him.
While Peter fished, and meditated on the vanity of human wishes at
Estcourt, Anna, with rare exceptions, was wherever Susie was, and Susie
was wherever it was fashionable to be. For a week or two in the summer,
for a day or two at Easter, they went down to Devonshire; and Anna might
wander about the old house and grounds as she chose, and feel how much
better she had loved it in its tumble-down state, the state she had
known as a child, when her mother lived there and was happy. Everything
was aggressively spruce now, indoors and out. Susie's money and Susie's
taste had rubbed off all the mellowness and all the romance. Anna was
glad to leave it again, and be taken to Marienbad, or any place where
there was royalty, for Susie loved royalty. But what a life it was,
going round year after year with Susie! London, Devonshire, Marienbad,
Scotland, London again, following with patient feet wherever the
unconscious royalties led, meeting the same people, listening to the
same music, talking the same talk, eating the same dinners--would no one
ever invent anything new to eat? The inexpressible boredom of riding up
and down the Row every morning, the unutterable hours shopping and
trying on clothes, the weariness of all the new pictures, and all the
concerts, and all the operas, which seemed to grow less pleasing every
year, as her eye and ear grew more critical. She knew at last every note
of the stock operas and concerts, and every note seemed to have got on
to her nerves.
And then the people they knew--the everlasting sameness of them, content
to go the same dull round for ever. Driving in the Park with Susie,
neither of them speaking a word, she used to watch the faces in the
other carriages, nearly all faces of acquaintances, to see whether any
of them looked cheerful; and it was the rarest thing to come across any
expression but one of blankest boredom. Bored and cross, hardly ever
speaking to the person with them, their friends drove up and down every
afternoon, and she and Susie did the same, as silent and as bored as any
of them. A few unusually beautiful, or unusually witty, or unusually
young persons appeared to find life pleasant and looked happy, but they
avoided Susie. Her set was made up of the dull and plain; and all the
amusing people, and all the interesting people, turned their backs with
one accord on her and it.
These were the circumstances that drove Anna to reflect on the problems
of life every time she was beyond the sound of Susie's voice.
She passionately resented her position of dependence on Susie, and she
passionately resented the fact that the only way to get out of it was to
marry. Every time she had an offer, she first of all refused it with an
energy that astonished the unhappy suitor, and then spent days and
nights of agony because she had refused it, and because Susie wanted her
to accept it, and because of an immense pity for Susie that had taken
possession of her heart. How could Peter live so placidly at Susie's
expense, and treat her with such a complete want of tenderness? Anna's
love for her brother diminished considerably directly she began to
understand Susie's life. It was such a pitiful little life of cringing,
and pushing, and heroically smiling in the face of ill-treatment. No one
cared for her in the very least. She had hundreds of acquaintances, who
would eat her dinners and go away and poke fun at her, but not a single
friend. Her husband lived on her and hardly spoke to her. Her boy at
Eton, an amazing prig, looked down on her. Her little daughter never
dreamed of obeying her. Anna herself was prevented by some stubborn
spirit of fastidiousness, evidently not possessed by any of her
contemporaries, from doing the only thing Susie had ever really wanted
her to do--marrying, and getting herself out of the way. What if Susie
were a vulgar little woman of no education and no family? That did not
make it any the more glorious for the Estcourts to take all they could
and ignore her existence. It was, after all, Susie who paid the bills.
Anna pitied her from the bottom of her heart; such a forlorn little
woman, taken out of her proper sphere, and left to shiver all alone,
without a shred of love to cover and comfort her.
It was when she was away from Susie that she felt this. When she was
with her, she found herself as cold and quiet and contradictory as
Peter. She used, whenever she got the chance, to go to afternoon service
at St. Paul's. It was the only place and time in which all the bad part
of her was soothed into quiet, and the good allowed to prevail in peace.
The privacy of the great place, where she never met anyone she knew, the
beauty of the music, the stateliness of the service offered every day in
equal perfection to any poor wretch choosing to turn his back for an
hour on the perplexities of life, all helped to hush her grievances to
sleep and fill her heart with tenderness for those who were not happy,
and for those who did not know they were unhappy, and for those who
wasted their one precious life in being wretched when they might have
been happy. How little it would need, she thought (for she was young and
imaginative), to turn most people's worries and sadness into joy. Such a
little difference in Susie's ways and ideas would make them all so
happy; such a little change in Peter's habits would make his wife's life
radiant. But they all lived blindly on, each day a day of emptiness,
each of those precious days, so crowded with opportunities, and
possibilities, and unheeded blessings, and presently life would be
behind them, and their chances gone for ever.
"The world is a dreadful place, full of unhappy people," she thought,
looking out on to the world with unhappy eyes. "Each one by himself,
with no one to comfort him. Each one with more than he can bear, and no
one to help him. Oh, if I could, I would help and comfort everyone that
is sad, or sick at heart, or sorry--oh, if I could!"
And she dreamed of all that she would do if she were Susie--rich, and
free from any sort of interference--to help others, less fortunate, to
be happy too. But, since she was the very reverse of rich and free, she
shook off these dreams, and made numbers of good resolutions
instead--resolutions bearing chiefly on her future behaviour towards
Susie. And she would come out of the church filled with the sternest
resolves to be ever afterwards kind and loving to her; and the very
first words Susie uttered would either irritate her into speeches that
made her sorry, or freeze her back into her ordinary state of cold
aloofness.
If Susie had had an idea that Anna was pitying her, and making good
resolutions of which she was the object at afternoon services, and that
in her eyes she had come to be merely a cross which must with heroism be
borne, she probably would have been indignant. Pitying people and being
pitied oneself are two very different things. The first is soothing and
sweet, the second is annoying, or even maddening, according to the
temperament of the patient. Susie, however, never suspected that anyone
could be sorry for her; and when, after a party, before they went to
bed, Anna would put her arms round her and give her a disproportionately
tender kiss, she would show her surprise openly. "Why, what's the
matter?" she would ask. "Another mood, Anna?" For she could not know how
much Anna felt the snubs she had seen her receive. How should she? She
was so used to them that she hardly noticed them herself.
It was when Anna was twenty-five, and much vexed in body by efforts to
be and to do as Susie wished, and in soul by those unanswerable
questions as to the why and wherefore of the aimless, useless existence
she was leading, that the wonderful thing happened that changed her
whole life.