That talk with Lord Hurdly made a distinct epoch in their relations
to each other. Neither ever referred to it, but it had left its
impress upon both. To Bettina it gave the assurance that she had done
all that could possibly be required of her, in her desire to come to
a true and amicable understanding with her husband, and, after it,
she had a greater sense of freedom. To Lord Hurdly it gave an insight
into Bettina's nature which he had not had before. He found her to
be possessed of a power of caustic speech which, he was bound to
acknowledge, had made him feel uncomfortable. He felt also that
he had not succeeded in asserting his supremacy over her quite
so conclusively as he could have wished. He had, moreover, an
uncomfortable warning, from the recollection of her words and looks,
that it might be better for him to think twice in future before
crossing swords with her. He was a man who hated opposition, and who
was quite unused to dealing with it in his own house. He was still
master, and his sovereignty no one had even questioned. As he desired
to keep this so, he did not care to enter into any further discussion
with Bettina. There were circumstances not beyond his conceiving
which might cause him a greater loss of prestige than any already
endured, and the thought of these made him careful to avoid coming
again into close quarters with Bettina.
This position on his part led to an attitude toward his wife which
might have been interpreted agreeably, since he no longer seemed to
watch her so narrowly as he had done. He seemed, without speaking on
the subject, to give her rather more freedom, and he never again
referred to her interest in the Indian famine or in the doings of
Horace Spotswood.
Yet Bettina had the same uncomfortable sense of being criticised and
held to strict account. She felt as if evidence were rolling up
against her which might one day be brought before her all at once.
She had, however, acquired a thirst for some knowledge of things
beyond her own narrow interests, which was not to be calmed except by
indulgence. When she looked about her in the great throbbing life of
London, she found so many objects which seemed absolutely to stand
waiting for her interest and participation that she was soon caught
in the strong movement of woman's work in social life in its wider
and deeper meaning.
No sooner was it found that Lady Hurdly was willing to interest
herself in such matters than they came crowding upon her. It was a
new and delightful consciousness to her that she might become part of
the power that was working against the evil in the world, and she
threw herself into the effort with spirit and enthusiasm.
Life became better for her after that. The importance of her position
was borne into her in a new and better way. By being Lady Hurdly she
might hope, perhaps, to do some little service in bettering the lots
of those who were at the other extreme of life's scale from her,
whereas if she had remained in her former position she would have had
as little value at one end as at the other.
Apart from these considerations of pure altruism was the sweet
thought that she was drawing nearer to her mother in spirit, now that
she was trying so hard to give help to others; and sometimes another
thought would come. This was that, far apart as their lives must be,
she was trying to do in her sphere what Horace was doing in his, and
perhaps with the same hope in the heart of each--namely, that the
record of the future might help to compensate for the mistakes and
wrong-doings of the past. She found herself passionately hoping that
he had flung his evil past behind him, just as she was trying to
throw hers.
Under these changed conditions, Bettina's second season in London was
unlike the first in both its object and its results. From some
unknown and unquestioned source she was becoming penetrated with the
"scorn for miserable aims that end with self," and by the time that
she was ready to return to Kingdon Hall her life had become so
informed with its new purpose that she looked forward to the leisure
which her removal there would give with real satisfaction in its
opportunity for better work. Besides, she had now in view a personal
supervision of the affairs on the Kingdon Hall estate, which she was
eager to enter into. She had awakened to the duty of looking after
the interests of tenants and the good of the parish.
Whether she would have the approval of her husband in such work or
not she was unable to guess. So far, beyond a rather cynical and
distant observation of her new interests he had never interfered, but
she guessed that the probable explanation of this fact was that he
felt that her prominence in philanthropic activities, which had been
approved by the best society, was a new way of reflecting glory upon
himself.
For, as time had passed and Bettina had got a truer insight into the
man she had married, the fact had confronted her that he was egoistic
to the last degree. His cold neutrality of manner veiled this to most
people, but to her keen and constant observation the length and
breadth of his egoism were at times almost sickening.
She was therefore not unprepared for what happened when she began her
visiting among the poor at Kingdon and her investigation into the
needs of her husband's tenants. She had gone to work openly about it,
and he had taken no notice; but one morning, when he was about to
leave for a few days' hunting in one of the neighboring counties, he
said to her, at the moment of departure:
"I want to tell you that I do not approve of the innovations which
you are beginning to make in the management of affairs on the estate.
The ladies of Kingdon Hall, heretofore, have left these matters to
their husbands, and I prefer that you do the same. I mention it now
so that I may see no signs of interference on my return."
It was not at all unusual for him to take this tone with her, and he
was following his usual custom in speaking to her in a moment of
haste, whenever he had anything unpleasant to say. He could, in this
way, end the conversation where he chose, and she saw that he had no
intention of lingering now. The cart was at the door, and he had on
his overcoat and even his hat, and stood drawing on and buttoning his
gloves, with an unlighted cigar between his teeth. His eyes were bent
upon his task, under frowning brows.
His cool and careless words, which her knowledge of him taught her
were the veneering for an inexorable resolution, gave her a shock of
disappointment. She did not often take a humble tone with him, but
there was humility as well as entreaty in her voice as she now said,
"You won't forbid my going to see the tenants, and making things a
little better for them, if I can, will you?"
"I forbid all interference," he answered, in a tone that made her
feel that he relished the exercise of his power. "You can safely
leave the affairs of my tenants to me. They have fared sufficiently
well in my hands so far."
At one time these words and tones would have provoked a sharp retort,
but Bettina had so far changed since the early months of her marriage
that the thoughts of her own wrongs and indignities were now less
insistent than the troubles of these poor people, which she had hoped
to be able to alleviate.
"Oh, indeed you are mistaken!" she said, urgently. "You do not know
how much they need what a very little money and effort would supply
them with. Don't refuse to let me help them. It is a thing so near to
my heart."
She saw his face grow harder.
"It is also," he said, "near my pocket. Going in for charity is all
very well, if it amuses you, and I did not interfere with your doing
so in London. Here, however, it is different. The time has come to
stop it."
His words hurt her pride, and she felt, too, that he liked the
position of being entreated by her. She had an instinct to retort
sharply, but another instinct was stronger. She was feeling what was
a new sensation to her--a willingness to humble her pride that others
might be benefited.
"I have never given money without first satisfying myself that you
approved it," she said, "and I will promise you to regulate my public
charities in future strictly in accordance with whatever limitations
you may set. But don't refuse to let me work a little here--it will
not take much money--among the poor at our very doors."
Instead of softening him, as she had hoped that this attitude of
humility would do, her words seemed to have the opposite effect. She
had a feeling, all at once, that he enjoyed making her appeal to him,
because it would give him the still greater pleasure of refusing.
He did not answer at once. It seemed to please him to keep her
waiting. His gloves were now neatly fastened on his long thin hands,
and with great deliberation he took out his match-box and proceeded
to light his cigar. She noticed that he did not ask permission to do
so, as he would certainly have done at one time--as he would also,
undoubtedly, at one time have removed his hat while talking to her.
Still, these signs of a diminished deference toward her touched her
lightly compared with the importance which she attached to his answer
to her question.
She watched him narrowing his eyes, to avoid the smoke which he was
now puffing from his just-lighted cigar, and waited for him to speak.
Always scrupulously careful in small things, he walked to the window
to throw away the end of the extinguished match. It suddenly came
over her that he did not intend to answer her last words.
Perhaps he wanted to make her urge him further. At this her heart
rebelled. She would not. Still, the idea of his going off for several
days, leaving the question unsettled, was too annoying to
contemplate. As he moved toward the door she said:
"You have not answered me."
"I beg your pardon," he said, with chill politeness. "I answered you
in the beginning. I wish you to leave the management of the tenants'
affairs where they properly belong--with me."
So saying, he lifted his hat, bowed, and went.
Bettina stood where he had left her, trembling with indignation from
the sense of being treated tyrannically by a person who exercised an
arbitrary power over her which she could not dispute. What had she
ever done to deserve such treatment at his hands? How dared he treat
her so?
With the new-born instinct of rectitude within her she tried to see
if there was any reasonable ground for the real dislike of her which
now seemed to be in her husband's mind. With every desire to be
honest, she could think of none except the fact that she had not
answered to his rein. He could hardly resent her not loving him, for
he had married her without asking that; and besides, what did he know
of love, as she was now beginning to comprehend it? No, it was not
that which he resented in her; it was the fact that, although she
chose to conform to him in outward things, he had never obtained the
mastery of her in the manner which, to his ideas, befitted the
relationship of Lord and Lady Hurdly. She thought of the picture of
his meek little mother and masterful-looking father.