anything without advice?" One of her hands he picked up. "And did
you really think you could assault the world with the few arrows that
have so far arrived in your quiver? I fancy you must learn much more
about books and men. Don't you see that, if you want to compel the
world to listen to you, you must convince them that in some respects
you know more than they do?"
"What about the Brontës?"
"H'm.... Well, Charlotte only came off when she was writing about
what she knew--which wasn't often. And the sheer genius of Emily--
"Well, I'm your daughter, so perhaps I'm a genius like you."
"No, I am not a genius, Daphne dear--only a brain trained and
tempered for its work.... Besides, this is a more sophisticated age
than the Brontës' age.... Stands Fiction where the Brontës stood?
... I wonder some humorous editor hasn't sent me your book to review."
"I don't want any more reviews. I hope nobody writes another word
about it. I wish I'd never published it. I wish I could wipe it all
out."
He pressed the hand he was holding.
"Poor Duffy! They _have_ hit it rather hard, haven't they? But
they're an ill-conditioned race, critics."
"Daddy"--it was evident an idea had struck Daphne--"would you read
it? You're the only critic whose verdict I should consider final."
"Would I read it! Why, to tell the truth, I've been aching to ever
since I heard about it. I'll read it now. Where is it?"
"I hid them upstairs.... But you'll promise to tell me exactly what
you think, and not try to let me down lightly. An awful lot will
result from what you say."
Releasing her hand he told her to run and fetch it.
When she returned, he rose up to meet her and took the thin volume.
After studying its shape and print, he went to the book-shelves and,
pushing a squad of books towards the right, made a place for this
newcomer next to the last of his own works. For a few seconds he
studied it in this position, and then took it out again and came back
smiling to his daughter, whom he drew against him and kissed.
"I am proud you've started writing too, my dear--which is a remark I
might, without loss of dignity, have made earlier. Come now, it's
not a small thing to have a book published at twenty-one."
The tears were in Daphne's eyes.
"Oh, but they didn't do it because it was good, but only because I
was your daughter. I know it. I know it. And I know I've made both
you and me look foolish."
"No, dear. Only to fools. Besides, let me read it. Your court of
appeal may reverse the verdict."
Daphne sat upstairs till dinner time, unable to read, for she was
trying to imagine whereabouts her father was now in "Madame Rolland."
After the first bell she went down--why softly she did not know--and
quietly turned the handle of his door. He was no longer reading.
"Have you finished it?"
"Yes, dear."
"Well?"
"You want exactly what I think, as though you were nothing to me?"
"Yes."
"Duffy, young writers always think they can write about people or
places or emotions of which they know nothing. It can't be done.
Once in your story you strike a vein of truth, and though you have
over-written it, the truth can still be seen, and is not a little
appealing"--he turned his eyes back to the book. "It's in your
love-scenes. And there's a glimpse of vision, promising much despite
all these critics, in the episode at the grave-side. But the rest,
I'm afraid, is machine-made, which is what they mean by calling it
'insincere.' The result is, you get sentimental, forcing emotions
where they would not have been. And there's too much gratuitous
ornament, whereas in a perfect work of art ornament and structure are
one and the same."
Daphne nodded.
"All that's a long way of saying it's mostly bad."
"It's the work of your prentice hand, dear...."
"Oh, don't let me down lightly. I understand." She turned towards
the door. "Come on, let's go to dinner."
CHAPTER XXVI
Somewhere she came across a quotation: "Regretting not yesterday, nor
fearing to-morrow." Like a reveille, it called her to that defiant
courage of which her father had once stuttered to tell. The
reiteration of it braced her like a tonic. "I don't regret
yesterday, and I'm not going to fear to-morrow." She was going to
begin again. And this time she was going to begin right. She was
going to cut out all vulgar ambition, and all imitation of others,
and the indolence that prevented her from reading aught but the easy
and pleasant. "This time I shall do what Henry tried to make me do.
In fact, I shall write for an audience of one--Henry. Or two,
perhaps--Henry and me. I shall write what he would have approved.
To that end, I'm going to study not only books, but men. Daddy said
I must do that, too. So, as soon as possible, I'm going to get out
of this cloistered existence and experience the world." It was an
inspiring notion. She could feel glad about all that had happened,
for it seemed as if one thing in her life--and that the most
important thing left to her--was purged of its alloys, and in its
direction trued.
Though two years had passed since she had left Henry, she had no real
doubt of her love for him. Certainly his figure had gone behind a
curtain before which she could dance and laugh and play her part,
even sometimes stopping to ask herself, "Have I then ceased to love
you, Henry?" but the thought of him was always hazily present, and
often, very often, he emerged vivid and solid into her dreams, and
she who had questioned her love before would wake up with her
sadness, and be satisfied with it.
But _his_ love, what of that? For a long time she had dreaded lest
it had faded. Surely it must have done. She had been so
disastrously ignorant in those days, so _illiterate_; and her beauty
was something in which she had never believed. Why should Henry
still care to remember her? Of course, he had said on the ship that
night: "Don't profane my love by thinking that." But any one
infatuated would have believed so much. Since her good-bye letter he
had never written. What was there to show that his passion had stood
the test of years? She would never know if it had; for
notwithstanding her oft-repeated words, "Time is big," she did not
really believe they would ever meet again.
Still, she loved. Quietly, and without wreck. She had just
idealised him in her memory. No doubt he had had faults, but she had
never seen him except in the rapture of love; she was surprised how
little she knew of his real character. To her he was now the
idealised portrait of one who would have understood her dreams,
guided her work, and received the full measure of her love.
"I am going to reach through to him with a book. It may be twenty
years before it is published--it may not appear till after my death;
but one day it'll get to him."
So now to work unremittingly, and to live abundantly.
Lowered to a complete self-distrust by the unthinkable
press-cuttings, she began her studies with "An English Course for
Middle Forms," "The Story of Ancient Greece, Simply Told,"
Saintsbury's "Short History of English Literature," and "An
Introduction to Philosophy." And the initiation of this reading,
especially the brain-teasing philosophy, pleased and flattered her.
As she pursued it she could almost feel the refining of her brain,
and the strengthening of her ratiocination. It made her think of a
flower that was opening late.
She had continued to write to Roger, whose return to England had been
delayed, and his replies had spoken no more of love, though their
tenderness was as implicit as ever. And now he surprised her with a
letter sent from London, saying that he had arrived, and, at his
request, was to be transferred to a convalescent home at Brighton.
"I shall have all the days to myself. Couldn't I meet you, say at
Ditchling, on Thursday?"
This letter, in the days of her rejection by the world, filled her
with pleasure. She felt affection, nowadays, for any one who had
always liked and admired her. And in the rush of her enthusiasm she
wrote:
"Of course. I'll meet you there where first we met. Isn't that out
of a song? On the King's Highway, where it runs across Ditchling
Common, by the bramble bush. At three o' the clock."
Hesitation, before she sucked the envelope, asked: "Haven't I been a
bit too gushing? Offering to meet him like that in that sentimental
place. No." The flap went down irreparably. "I've let him do all
the gushing so far, and now he's come back I ought to make a fuss
about him.... I've been mighty high and proud all along, and Lord
knows I had nothing to be stuck up about."
This lifted the memory that she had hoped to dazzle him with her
fame, and once again the words of the shattering paragraphs troubled
her breath, but she recovered herself by repeating: "I don't regret
yesterday, and I don't fear to-morrow."
Soon she must give to Roger her final answer, "Yes" or "No." It
surprised her that, though she did not love him, the idea of being
engaged to him was full of thrills. Or did the thrills lie in just
being engaged, rather than in being engaged to Roger? ... Not
altogether.
She must think it out thoroughly, and not let her nature gallop her
into any more blunders.
Let her get her motives into the light, one by one. To assist
clearer thinking she took an empty postcard and pencil, and drew a
bisecting line, printing FOR on its left and AGAINST on its right.
For? She sucked the pencil, pushing it far back on her tongue. She
would be perfectly frank with herself. Recent rough handling, like
recent reading, had polished away a cloudiness from her brain.
The first and lowest motive was the desire to be an engaged person,
with all the notoriety it brought, and the snub for any who had
laughed at her.
This she refused to note on the card. But she doubted if this
disciplinary refusal amounted to writing it out of her nature.
Secondly, she would rather be married than an old maid. She liked
Roger, and would never be in love with any one else, because she was
in love with a memory. A girl didn't always get a second chance,
unless she was exceptionally beautiful and fascinating. Already she
was over twenty-one.
She wrote "Not O.M."
Thirdly, if she married she would rather be rich than poor. Roger's
was a splendid offer.
She wrote "S.O."
Then she wanted opportunities for full and varied living. Who more
than Roger could give her these? Think of the fun it would be,
fighting political battles by her husband's side, and if he got on
(as he certainly would, being the sort), what might she not see of
government and pomp; diplomacy, intrigue and the pageantry of Courts?
She wrote "Life."
Then, of course, she wanted to experience caresses and passion, and
was not displeased to find that, after the idealisation of Henry, the
thought of Roger's embraces were more stirring to her than those of
any man she had ever seen or could imagine.
She was in some doubt what word to write here, for "Love" was not the
true word, and "Passion" was crude. She put three dots.
And what really was her attitude to Roger himself, apart from his
position and all that he could give her? He was such a magnificent
creature that she would be enormously proud of him as a husband. And
she wanted to marry something big, not "a poor little soul." His
little poses she could always forgive; indeed, she would have to,
whomsoever she married, since she had never met a man who wasn't
decorated with them.
She wrote "Very proud of him."
Examining these tabulated reasons she was appalled at their
selfishness, and sucked her pencil again, while she thought: "But
isn't there some motive which is a bit nobler?" She knew there was,
and it came into the light. That creed of gentleness, which her
father had offered, had been saturating her nature during the last
two years, and the disillusion of recent weeks had helped it on its
way. Strange how mixed one's motives were! There was joy in the
thought that since Roger loved her as passionately as she had loved
Henry she would save him from her suffering by giving herself to him.
For this item she wrote, "Not to hurt."
On the AGAINST side she could only write, "Not real love."
But if she waited to write different from that she would never marry.
There was the position. Now one could only intermit thought, and
wait for what would happen.
On the Thursday afternoon she dressed with care. Wisdom told her
that she had to compete with the famous photograph, and that its
beauty was now to be regretted, for it enlarged her deficit. But her
glass, before she left it, assured her that if she came second in the
competition it was no dishonourable second.
Anticipation trembled in her as she passed through the "toll-gate" on
to Ditchling Common. She had but to turn the curve in the road and
she would probably see Roger. She saw him, walking up and down by
the blackberry clump, and waved a hand. Immediately he advanced
towards her, and she studied his figure as that of one who _might_ be
her husband. Roger had no photograph to contend with; now that he
was older, wider, browner, and perfectly dressed, he was even in
excess of her thoughts.
"Coo, he's sure to be disappointed in me," she was thinking.
But there was no disappointment in his face; rather, beneath all his
dignity, was he grinning a little sheepishly. He put out his hand.
"And how's Daphne?"
"Daphne's all right, except that she has an objection to being called
Daphne."
Roger flushed, lest he had begun by offending her, but parried with a
smile:
"Miss Bruno, am I to say?"
"Don't be silly. You know what I mean. Those who really like me
call me Duffy."
His smile broadened.
"I have dared once or twice to write so much. And I confess I was
primed up to call you by it; but when I saw you my courage leaked
away."
"Why?"
"Because you--you are older and more terrifying."
"You're a fine person to talk about being terrified of anything.
Besides, I'm nothing like you, I'm frightened to death of you."
"Is that so?" asked he, with his enigmatic grin. "Well, where are we
going? How long have you got?"
"As long as I like. You seem to forget that I've come of age since
you went away."
"Well, let's walk for a bit, and see where we arrive."
They started towards Ditchling. The guiding of the conversation lay
with Daphne, for Roger was apt to turn inwards (probably to a
rehearsal); and she saved it from the sloughs by asking him scores of
helpful questions about himself.
It was a warm afternoon with the sun unobscured; and at last he
suggested that they sit somewhere on the grass. He led the way off
the road and up the slope towards the trees. At any rough or steep
place he held out his hand, enjoying the action, as she could guess,
both from his love of gallantry and the touch of her hand. But he
was shy of choosing where they might sit together, and it was she who
finally declared herself too fagged to go farther, and promptly sat
down. Roger spread his length beside her. Then there was silence.
(No doubt he had gone in to the dress rehearsal.) He stared at the
two windmills on the skyline of the Downs; and when he spoke again it
was without bringing his eyes away.
"Duffy"--he cleared his throat--"I don't know whether it's fair to
speak to you like this the first time we see each other.... And I'm
determined to consider you first in everything.... I didn't intend
to say anything at all this first day, but somehow your letter
consenting to meet me alone made me hope I might----" He turned now
towards her, but she was looking at the close grass by her crossed
feet. "Duffy, you know what I mean. For nearly four years I've had
no doubt of my love for you. I never worried about girls till I met
you; my dreams were all of success and fame. But when I saw you the
second time at that ball, looking absolutely divine, I was routed
instantly.... And all through the war I never doubted. It was
always glorious to think of you, to picture you, and to look at your
photograph, and to hear the chaff of the other fellows when it stood
on my camp-table. Duffy, could we be engaged now?"
She had no answer, continuing to look at the grass; but as Roger said
no more, pity obliged her to speak.
"But we don't really know each other--only by two years' letters.
And you can't know me from letters. One only shows oneself at one's
best in letters."
"As I've always told you, I'm old-fashioned enough to believe that
somewhere there's a woman made for every man. And I know you are
mine."
She smiled at him.
"And as I've always told you, you're an incurable romantic."
"Perhaps I am."
"But perhaps I'm not so sure of my--my love for you. Roger, I think
I ought to tell you: I was very fond of some one else some time ago,
and I've never quite forgotten."
She had turned to look straight at him as she said this, and saw the
pain knit his brow and narrow his eyes.
"When was this?"
"Two years ago."
"And did he ask you to marry him?"
"No."
"Why? Was he a fool?"
Daphne kept silence.
"Do you expect he will ask you to marry him?"
"No."
"Why not?"
"He has married some one else."
Roger said nothing more. And Daphne, frightened by the pause, heard
herself inquiring:
"Couldn't we have a month's companionship together? I'll see you
every day if you like--and if you wouldn't mind asking me again in a
month's time----" She began to be a little afraid lest he scorned to
be temporised with. "I'm very fond of you--and proud of you."
To this he gave long thought, unwittingly lowering and raising his
jaw.
"Yes," he decided. "I want you so badly that I would rather have you
if I were only second best--but I haven't had a chance with you yet."
They spent nearly every day of that month together; and she could
only be pleased to see him working to win her love with all the care
and watchful labour he might have given to carrying a kopje in South
Africa. It was doubly to be valued from one who prided himself on
his haughtiness. He was courtesy, consideration and generosity. A
merry humour he had always had, and it made him good company. He had
bought a car, now familiar sights on the roads, and taken her long,
luxurious drives.
As the time drew nearer when she must speak again, indecision
harrowed her. This time it would be final; Roger would not go on
petitioning for ever. Sometimes she felt she was looking forward to
saying, "Yes"; sometimes, when a glimpse of his egotism made her
doubt, she would feel that she was caught gasping in a stream, since
it would be impossible, after all his kindness, to send him cruelly
away.
It fell that he proposed to her again before the month was finished.
A late afternoon as she came downstairs, dressed to drive with him as
far as the foot of Ditchling Beacon, where they were going to climb
the Downs, her father stepped out of his study and intercepted her.
"I suppose you had better see this," said he, and handed her a
press-cutting. There was something dramatically despairing about his
gesture and his return to the room. She followed him, glancing at
the slip of paper on which the cutting was pasted. It named a
journal of which she had never heard, _London Carnival_. Type and
paper were poor, and the paragraph was signed, "Our Cynical
Spectator."
"On the Dissipated Habits of a Great Critic's Criticism," ran the
headline; and the smaller print said:
"Criticism, like Charity, should sometimes live at home. But perhaps
a happy marriage between these two, and a dwelling together in the
same house, is impossible. There's such a difference in temperament.
And that, no doubt, is why the criticism of the great Mr. Tenter
Bruno (as, to be sure, we have observed in the case of other
punishing critics) roams abroad, and seldom spends a night at home.
Indeed, we might almost say that in his house, Charity, timid maiden,
has secured her divorce from brutal Criticism--with custody of the
child.
"The child, in this affecting tale, is Miss Daphne Bruno, the great
man's daughter; and only the great man's charity could have allowed
her nonsensical little book, 'Madame Rolland,' recently published, to
see the light of day. It was a tactical error, of course, for
whatever reviewers may be saying in print, those writers who have
been lashed heretofore by the great Bruno are enjoying a mild
hilarity. We have studied some of the notices, and detect a
praiseworthy doubt of the propriety of securing points against Mr.
Bruno by lunging foils at his daughter. For ourselves, we are less
squeamish, and judge it all to the good of literature that every book
should be submitted to the unhampered attacks of criticism, and
especially those that only win their publication by the glamour of a
famous name. For these have entered with a spurious ticket."
"Oh, Daddy! ..."
Such a note of pain rang in the words that her father came towards
her and took the cutting out of her hand. He had known all along
that he should not have shown it to her, but had been quite unable to
forego a display of his honourable wound.
"No, darling," he hurriedly enjoined, "don't take it seriously. It's
just a low papermaking copy. Nobody who matters reads it, and those
who do forget it in ten seconds."
"Oh, it's awful!" she said.
"No, no. If you're going to be an authoress, you must get used to
ridicule."
"But, Father, I'll write at once, and say you knew nothing about it.
Your reputation's much more important than mine."
"Dearest, it's all stuff and nonsense. I showed it to amuse you, not
to distress you. You certainly shall not write. People might say
that I inspired your denial. And if they think I'm going to disown
my daughter----"
His brain condemned the poor heroic; and when Daphne was gone, he
stood disquieted to think that vanity could put a stick in a man's
hand with which to strike what he loved.
Daphne went out of the house with a head dulled, as by a blow, into
confused thinking. In vain she commanded herself to get the thing in
proportion--to see that the paragraph was only a drop in the ocean of
that day's print, and already forgotten by any one less interested
than herself. The very memory of the words would flutter her heart
for a sick second.
And when she met Roger and his car by the Royal Oak, she could not
keep up the gaiety of her greeting. Throughout the drive, after
formal answers to his remarks, she would relapse into the worrying
memory. And she knew that he had observed her depression and was
respecting it.
At Ditchling they left the car, and climbed the pleasant turf of the
Downs. It was one of those gracious afternoons that, by discordance
with melancholy, increase it; an afternoon of sunlight on the great
cheeks of the hills, and wide shadows in their hollows, and clear
views to the highlands in the north, where the pine-woods were darkly
blue under a private cloud.
After a speechless climb, she agreed in mock-merriment to Roger's
suggestion that they rest for a while and enjoyed the view. She sat
down in the shelter of some tall gorse, saying formally: "This is
quite like old times, isn't it?"
Roger did not acknowledge this remark, but, sitting beside her and
idly picking the grass, inquired:
"My darling, what's the matter with you?"
In that unauthorised "My darling!" sounded a real pain; it was
manifestly the outburst of a heart charged with love and sympathy.
"Me? Nothing," assured Daphne, with a quickly acted smile. Not
wholly acted, however; because that note of love had been potent to
sound retreat to her shadows. Being loved like this by Roger was the
sunniest place in her life.
"You're miserable. You've been miserable ever since you appeared. I
can't bear you to be miserable."
"It's nothing, really." To show which, she picked up a small
snail-shell and threw it in front of her. "It was only one of those
horrible press notices; rather more pitiless than usual."
That Roger was throbbing with his love for her she knew by his
low-pitched answer:
"I wish I could find any one that would hurt you."
"But they're right," corrected Daphne. She felt quite happy now in
the sunny place. "Rather salted, but right."
"Right or wrong, I shouldn't care.... But they're not right. No one
who ridicules you could be right. You don't know what you are.
You're--there's no one fit to hold a candle to you. It sometimes
amazes me that you're so innocent of what you are. If only you could
see yourself as I see you! My darling, I never can see any one who
seems so beautiful as you, just because you're the model by which I
test everybody's beauty. If another woman's eyes are not the same
colour and shape as yours, they're imperfect. If her nose is a
different shape from yours, or the lines of her figure, they're so
far wrong.... Oh, but I forgot, I've no right, till you give it to
me, to talk to you like this...."
His closed fist was lying on the turf by his side, just between
himself and her; and Daphne, unable to answer him with words, laid
her open hand on his.
"Duffy! That means----! Oh, my darling!" He put his arm about her
waist and pulled her gently towards him. "Then may we be definitely
engaged to one another?"
She turned her face towards his, smiled, and nodded.
He kissed her, but without passion, as if he would not hurt her by
too quickly taking all his privileges.
"Are you happy, darling?"
"Yes.... I think it's wonderful that you, of all people, with the
whole world to choose from, should love me. And in spite of all you
say, I still can't see why it is.... I'm awfully proud of it,
really."
"And you love me?"
This was to be met with a smile.
"I think so. I want to be close to you. I want to be happy with
you, and to make you happy, and help you in your career. And I want
you to kiss me."
"Darling!"
This time he gathered her close, and pressed his lips on hers with
all the passion that first he had withheld.
"My beloved!" he said, as he drew back his head to look down upon her
face. "And you can't see what you are! Why, every time you look up
at me, as you did a second ago, with your huge eyes, you make me mad
for need of you. I feel I can never have you close enough--that even
hugging you is a poor apology for all that I would have--that though
you are as close to me as you are now, you are still too many miles
away."
Again he hugged her, and Daphne, in this embrace which seemed never
likely to end, found her thoughts running fast; she was already
picturing with delight the announcing of her engagement to her father
and the others at home; the congratulations that would come from all
who knew her; the inspiring future that stretched before her, with
election fights and luxurious living. She was bewildered to have
reached this point, but excited; and because excited, happy. And
when he released her, she said:
"Do you mind if we go home? I'm so longing to tell everybody."
Roger grinned, as might a staid elder amused by a child.
"Yes. Let's go back." He jumped up and helped her to her feet.
"Fancy to think we came up this hill unengaged and go down it
engaged. I wonder what we are going down to." He accompanied their
downward steps with a chain of such romantic utterances, and then
inquired: "But what do I do next? Not having been engaged before I
don't know. Do I come back with you and ask your father's
permission? I'm all for doing the proper ceremonial things. I've
always believed in ceremony. Not, though, that I should let you go
if he refused."
"Daddy won't refuse. But let me tell him, will you? Don't you come
in at all. I know how to deal with him. I'm sure you'd make a mess
of it."
He drove her, as by newly acquired right, to the gates of Old Hall
House, and she, escaping before he could kiss her good-bye, hurried
excitedly up the drive. Letting herself in, she saw Miss Carrell
standing in the lamp-lit hall.
"Is Father at home?"
Her voice trembled, and she was grateful for the half darkness.
"No, dear. But he's back to dinner. He can't be long."
"Oh, all right."
She rushed up to her room and dressed with trembling hands. Once
dressed she did not know what to do. Her head and cheeks were so
burning that she was moved to study them in the glass and trace the
visible effects of such heat. It had tinged them with wine-colour.
When she heard her father's key she gave him full five minutes by the
bedroom clock, during which her heart seemed to beat a million times,
and then walked downstairs and burst into his room. He was sitting
in his arm-chair dragging on a slipper.
"Please come in," said he.
"Father, I'm engaged to be married."
Mr. Bruno's hand left the slipper, and his foot trod down its heel.
The surprise jerked him out of his whimsical port.
"What on earth are you talking about?"
"Talking about being engaged. I got engaged this evening."
"Got engaged? But I didn't know any one was in love with you."
"Of course you didn't. I didn't proclaim it from the house-tops."
"Good God! First you write a book without my permission, and now you
say you've got engaged...." Mr. Bruno perceived that he was
recovering the authentic note of badinage. "I am too old--too old to
stay the course with you."
And indeed he was confused. Here was his daughter, whom a few hours
earlier he had hurt, coming in radiant with news of her betrothal.
To think that her movements were so far from him was pain. The pain
was sharpened by this unexpected sentence that their days together
were to be numbered. But badinage must screen it all.... It would
hide, too, for her sake, any mention of the American boy.
"Whom are you engaged to?"
"To Roger Muirhead, of course."
He shook an uncomprehending head.
"Don't you remember? He came to tea with us at St. Leu two years
ago."
"But how long have you known him?"
"Oh, since he was fourteen. Off and on."
"Has he got any money to keep you with?"
"Money? Heaps. He's got a motor-car."
"Who is he? What's his father?"
"Sir Roger Muirhead."
"No? The excellent old merchant who has managed to combine
capitalism with radicalism and religion! Good gracious, Duffy, and
is his boy in love with you? Let's see, didn't he do something they
made a song about in the war?"
"Of course he did."
"And you're engaged to him?"
"Yes, please. If I may."
"You're sure you're not married to him?"
"No, darling. Only engaged. That's to say, if you'll let us be."
He shrugged his shoulders and spread his hands. Then he stood up.
"Well, well. I suppose one kisses you on these occasions. But I
must see this Roger of yours. And you're not to be married for a
year, do you see? You must have experience of each other. And we
must have the war over and Owen back."
"Oh, that'll be all right. I don't particularly want to get married."
But Mr. Bruno wasn't listening. After looking at her with a smile,
he said:
"And has Apollo come for Daphne at last? I trust that, like your
Greek original, you were not too encouraging, but fled from him into
the woods."
Daphne concealed a start. This chance sally, evoking a picture of
Roger (who was rather an Apollo) as he came seeking her under the
Montmorency trees, was so astonishingly appropriate that for a minute
she dethroned hard reason and wondered with him if, after all, there
were a destiny behind these things.
CHAPTER XXVII
Daphne was never sure in what proportion her feelings were mixed in
the days between her engagement and her marriage. Doubt would tinge
her happiness; but it was never very active, and the period, as a
whole, was flooded with a bright light of pleasure. The brightness
put out every ember of annoyance at the reception of "Madame
Rolland." If ever she desired a glowing press, she got it now. "Mr.
Tenter Bruno's daughter to wed War Hero," the paragraphs were headed;
"The Hero of Wittfontein to Wed." Two of the papers mentioned, "Miss
Daphne Bruno is herself an authoress, having produced in her
twenty-second year an artless and charming little story." But most,
thank goodness, seemed never to have heard of "Madame Rolland."
She was too happy with it all, imagining Miss Vidella, Miss Sims,
Trudy Wayne, Winnie Chatterton, and all her scattered friends reading
the news, to be more than palely jealous when the majority of the
papers occupied themselves with Roger's career or her father's. But
in her mind she hid the resolve to create a work that one day--if
only after death--would make Roger chiefly famous as the husband of
Daphne Bruno.
Roger took her to Porth Wannick, the Muirheads' house in Cornwall.
Of the romantic character of this house on the rocks Roger had often
spoken; and when she saw it, she declared that it was far more
amazing than he had painted it. You turned aside from the Penzance
Road, by the ruins of a disused mine, and went down and down a narrow
lane, passing the Porth Wannick land on your left, till you reached a
smuggler's cove, where you saw in the very rocks the tiny harbours
and docks cut by that fine buccaneering scoundrel, old Captain Helco,
for his guilty craft. The house, grey like the rocks, rose above the
largest of the tiny harbours, which was now a swimming bath for the
residents. It was not large, being but a two-storied, rectangular
mansion, under a hipped roof. But the windows were mullioned, the
central hall door was an antique purchased from a fifteenth-century
house, the gardens were laid in terraces above the rocks, and behind
them swept the farm-lands of the estate. Here, for seven months of
the year, Sir Roger played Lord Bountiful to the natives,
experimenting on his soil to see if he could make all their fortunes
by growing beet for sugar there; or by trying to cure the
conservatism of the pilchard fishers by introducing improvements in
their methods and their boats.
The placid Lady Muirhead and he received Daphne with a parental
delight. It seemed that their son, who treated his father with a
sort of feudal respect, had long told them of the girl in Sussex whom
he was determined to capture. And now he brought her there with a
hint of triumph. Lady Muirhead, probably thinking that such was her
expected part, fell in love with "the new daughter" at once; and Sir
Roger, who, when you lived with him like this, was found to be
surprisingly old, mingled in his attitude jocosity, patronal
tenderness, and a garrulous intolerance. Daphne liked them both,
only feeling ill at ease at the amount of religion Sir Roger
maintained in his house. Never did she dare to shock him or his
acquiescent lady by confessing that she had no religion at all.
In truth, she was afraid of Sir Roger, who steam-rolled you out with
his talk, though your brain saw a hundred weaknesses in his argument.
But you didn't answer him with the incisive replies that occurred to
you. It would have been like fighting against a steam-roller with a
scalpel. He was only seventy-three, but she suspected that after his
retirement from active part in the Muirhead Traders, which was his
life's creation, senility was setting in early. She wondered what
her father would think.
Mr. Bruno came down to Forth Wannick for a month, and appeared to
think a good deal, as his host tossed bits of walnut into his mouth
(one bit following another before it was really due), and, chewing
them rapidly, announced to his guest the truth on all subjects.
Little doubt he annoyed Mr. Bruno by seeing a comparison between the
creation of books and his own creation of the Muirhead Traders, and
between the fame of a great critic and the fame of a trading firm.
"I suppose some of you writers, Bruno, make a good thing of it," said
he, chewing one walnut and prospecting in the dish for another.
Mr. Bruno said it depended on what was meant by "making a good thing
of it."
"Why, making a living, of course," explained Sir Roger. "What else?"
There were those who interpreted it differently, suggested Mr. Bruno.
"Oh, stuff and nonsense, Bruno, stuff and nonsense," Sir Roger
buffered. "I know all that gammon backwards--knew it when I was
sixteen. A clever fellow like you knows at the back of your mind
that the impulse to acquire shekels and power is what makes the world
go round. Give me those fellows who acknowledge it frankly and get
on with the job."
"You can have them," answered Mr. Bruno, concealing his restiveness
behind a smile; "and no doubt they'll join your Liberal Association
down here, and the parish church."
"Yes, and why shouldn't they? Why shouldn't they?" snapped the host,
the red light appearing in his eyes.
"Why shouldn't they," echoed Mr. Bruno, "if the harmony is complete?"
"Of course it's complete--complete as you make 'em. Liberalism and
Christianity, it's all the same; it's just _Noblesse oblige_." Sir
Roger repeated the phrase: "_Noblesse oblige_."
As became the wiser man, Mr. Bruno retired from the developing battle
with a shrug. And Sir Roger rolled on.
Her father summed up Sir Roger to Daphne, when he met her next
morning before breakfast, walking on the terrace-gardens above the
rocks.
"Uncouth, dear," said he sadly. "Uncouth."
Daphne nodded, and hinted that Sir Roger was getting old.
Mr. Bruno agree, and continued without a smile:
"But what an honourable life he can look back upon! He's created the
Muirhead Traders, who operate in the East, where very large profits
are consistent with Christianity. He was telling me all about it
last night. And he's been able to retire with a great income. He's
been able to keep his boy out of it--though why he should have wanted
to I don't know--and he's going to give him three thousand a year
when he marries you."
"Golly!" exclaimed Daphne.
"Yes, a wonderful old man," reflected Mr. Bruno. "I think he must
have gone up Sinai once and been given God's final opinion on every
subject under the sun."
"Daddy!" laughed his daughter.
"Well, what else can it be, when to criticise anything he says is to
verge on blasphemy? It's a marvellous state of mind to get into,
when you can so believe in your commercialism that any questioning of
it is about equivalent to saying that Christ might have sinned. But
the boy's all right--your boy's all right. He has the grace to mix
shame with reverence in his attitude towards his parents."
Daphne was looking at the peacock which had appeared on the terrace
above.
"Gracious goodness, Duffy!" exclaimed her father, "is that a peacock?
What a very appropriate pet for Sir Roger! ... I am afraid your
father-in-law's a little vulgar. Don't you think so?"
It was quite a new idea to Daphne, and worried her for a day or two.
But the scales fell to Roger's side again when the news came through
of his adoption as Liberal Candidate for the Middle East Division of
Sussex. Eagerly they read together the little stack of Sussex papers
that reported the meeting of the Liberal Council, or commented on its
choice. The Radical _Gazetteer_ was gushing:
"The Middle East Division is to be congratulated on their new Liberal
candidate. This constituency, predominantly agricultural, is one of
the most difficult for Liberalism to win. But now with the adoption
of Captain Muirhead, all the signs point to a great and resounding
Liberal victory at the next general Election. That desirable event,
we hope, will not be long delayed, believing that the Balfour
administration is as much discredited here as it is in the great
industrial centres. All that was needed was to secure a popular and
able candidate. Captain Muirhead has everything in his favour. He
has been familiar with the district since childhood, one of his
father's houses being situated within its bounds. He is engaged to
the daughter of one of its most distinguished residents. His war
reputation will effectually quench any pro-Boer nonsense...."
And another paper said:
"If Captain Muirhead is able to wrest this stronghold from its Tory
masters it will give him a magnificent start in his Parliamentary
career."
And another:
"One must not omit the signal advantages possessed by Mr. Muirhead in
his beautiful fiancée. All the world knows that he is engaged to the
talented and charming Miss Daphne Bruno. Perhaps it is not for us to
express our hope that, when the election comes she will be, not his
_fiancée_, but his wife. If she inherits her father's gifts, and his
witty radicalism, she will be an invaluable lieutenant for the
gallant captain."
"Oh, I shall never be able to speak in public," interjected Daphne,
"if that's what they mean. But I shall love doing everything else."
"By Jove!" said Roger, who did not always listen to his _fiancée_.
"We simply must win, after all this puff."
"Oh, rather!" agreed Daphne. "Let's begin nursing the constituency
at once."
He gave her a kiss in acknowledgment of her enthusiasm.
"When will there be a general election?" she asked, while still in
his arms.
He grinned down at her proudly.
"A question that interests me much more is, when will you marry me?"
"Oh, not yet. I'm much more interested in politics. It's such fun
being engaged. There's no hurry, is there?"
At this Roger released his hold and turned away.
"I can't understand girls," said he. "They seem differently made
from men."
Daphne knew that he was slightly hurt about something.
"Why, what's the matter now?" she laughed. "Oh, I know I've said
something wrong."
"Oh, if you don't understand, you don't.... That's where the trouble
lies. If you wanted me in the way I want you, you would understand."
"Of course I want you, Roger."
"My dear, you don't understand the meaning of 'want.'"
"But Daddy said we weren't to get married at once."
"We could have got over that.... Well, never mind; it's only another
way of saying you're cold."
"Oh, I'm not," denied she, for it was one of her prides that she was
an ardent nature. The "Oh, I'm not," a Cockneyism into which she
fell when indignant, made Roger frown.
"Yes," she added hastily, "I know I said that like a Cockney serving
girl." (She would borrow her father's phrases, and air them as her
own.) "I got it from talking too much to the servants when I was a
kid. However, what were we saying? I'm not cold. I'm ardent."
Once again he took her into his arms and smiled down tolerantly upon
her.
"Surely you're the most innocent girl that ever got engaged."
It was rather annoying, this assumption that she was a fool, and she
retorted:
"I'm not innocent at all. I know everything and exactly what you
mean."
His hold relaxed a shade, and she realised that this, too, had
disappointed him. She was seeing in his mingled thoughts what he
himself hardly knew to be there: that while he desired her much, he
wanted her to be innocent--for somehow an innocent girl gave more to
men's desire.
Panic stirred sometimes as (she supposed) with every engaged girl;
but she was too excited and happy, on the whole, to let it come far
into consciousness. Once, however, it escaped her guard, and ran
about riotously. She had spoken lightly of religion. Roger was
annoyed--less, she suspected, from the strength of his own religion
than because he thought she ought to be converted, like a princess
marrying a foreign king, to the traditional religion of her
sovereign's house. And she said forthwith:
"I know I'm going to shock you, Roger; but this is the truth. The
only reason I want to be married in church is because it's always
done, and a registry office sounds horrid. And I want to wear a
white dress and have a crowd of people there."
Roger's features palpably tightened.
"It's no good being angry.... You ought to be pleased with me for
trusting you and being so open. I could quite easily lie about it.
But the plain truth is, that I haven't got any religion."
Roger then began an irreproachable homily on the necessity of some
religion in life, but before he got very far, Daphne, irritated,
burst in:
"But, Roger dear, frankly now. What's the sense of you preaching
Christianity to me? I know you for what you are, and I'm fond of you
for what you are. And I know you to be ambitious (just as I am), and
that you like everything of the best (as I'm sure I do), and that you
like to be on top and to flatter yourself you don't easily play
second-fiddle. Well, that's all perfectly delightful, but it's not
Christianity."
Roger wrinkled his brow to think out an answer; but she had thought
it out quicker, and knew what he was going to say.
"I don't know that you're right, Duffy. There must be 'top-men' in
the world. Only it's the duty of the men on top to care for their
workers and servants all they can, and so to serve them."
"Well, I'll be a Christian, if that's all it is--so long as I'm one
of the top-dogs."
He let her rebelliousness pass, only grinning, as if he could afford
to wait in the knowledge that the time would come when he, with his
stronger mind, would be able to mould her to the pattern he desired.
It was rather like the grin one might give to a pet dog who tried to
get a stick out of one's hand.
Panic was running in Daphne, while she thought that life seemed to be
made up of making mistakes, going too far with them, being too gentle
to turn back, and accepting as punishment a ruthless life-sentence.
She was rather frightened, though pretending to be delighted, with
the big house in Fettes Gardens, South Kensington, which Sir Roger
had offered them as a wedding present. As she walked up its four or
five stories, and calculated that it would require a butler and four
or five women servants, she wondered how ever she would be able to
manage them. She felt very little different from what she had done
in Miss Vidella's form-room; and how could a schoolgirl command this
battleship? The similar houses to left and right frightened her with
a picture of their wealthy and competent ladies. So did the tall
well-bred houses opposite, on the other side of the railed-in
gardens. "I feel like a pea in a pod too big for it," she thought.
But she was careful not to show her feelings to Roger, lest he found
her even more inadequate.
"I'll do it. I'll manage it. After all, these terrible women next
door, and the dowagers over the road, must have started somewhere."
They married Daphne at St. Patrick's, Fettes Gardens, in the August
after the signing of peace with the Boers, when Owen had returned to
play an exceedingly important and well-dressed part in the
ceremonies. She was very proud of her men. Who there looked like
her father, on whose arm she was, or Roger, who took her at the
chancel steps, or Owen, who had appointed himself vicar's warden and
master pew-opener? At sixty-two her father's hair, not at all to his
displeasure, had gone quite white, but his tall figure was as slender
and neat as Owen's. She enjoyed the excitements to the full, and
only felt a warming of the eyes when, on going to her carriage to
drive to the station, Hollins, who had hardly taken her eyes from the
bride all the afternoon, cried as she hugged and kissed her, saying:
"The meaning 'll have gone of life, Miss Duffy, with you gone. The
meaning 'll sort have somehow gone out of life. God bless you, dear.
God bless you." Her father just kissed her, patted her on the
shoulder, and made a joke.
He delayed on the steps, however, to watch the carriage receding
along the road towards the first corner. That carriage, of which he
could see only the hinderparts and the horse's twinkling heels, was
taking Daphne out of his range and beyond his call. His jaw jerked
forward at the thought. The stream of life, so he put it, had
brought her to him where he drifted, and running rapidly on, like the
unsentimental thing it was, had floated her away before he had hardly
touched her; and he would never catch her now. Pain and bewilderment
sat uncomfortably at his heart. "I missed her. I missed her
somehow." A variant of something Daphne had often uttered of late,
with crumpled brow, seemed the best expression of what he was
feeling: "I don't know. One doesn't learn how to adjust oneself to
life till it's nearly time to die."
The carriage turned the corner, and old Sir Roger called: "Come on,
Bruno; it's all over now." (Detestable the way he called you
"Bruno," as if he were your equal!) He turned and walked over the
doormat into the house. The chaff and laughter of the guests was
beginning to sound hollow, and the whole assembly to show its
fractures, now that its centre had been driven away. Mr. Bruno
thought of his home, and his study, and his books; and made an excuse
for returning to them.
CHAPTER XXVIII
Daphne, though she concealed it, was very proud of the circumstances
of her married life. She was proud of her big house and its fine
furniture; of having so much money in her purse (Roger gave her an
incredible allowance), of her shopping at the great stores; and of
giving her name as Mrs. Muirhead.
These were the pleasures; but there were worries, too. The
housekeeping, though she tried to approach it light-heartedly, was a
permanent anxiety; she knew nothing about it. Mistress of one
man-servant and four women, she had no talent whatever for ordering
them about. Instead of issuing commands as one accustomed to
authority, she caught herself throwing out hints of what it would be
nice for them to do. She could hear the weakness in her hesitating
speech, and wondered if they perceived it too, and laughed at her.
This nervousness she had tried to conceal from her husband, but one
evening at dinner, when she had asked the butler: "Would you mind
getting the other cruet? Yes, thank you very much. It's
downstairs," Roger said:
"Dearest, I don't think there's any need for you to petition the
servants to do quite reasonable duties." The criticism was eased by
a kind smile.
Daphne, determined, like him, to avoid any friction in these early
marriage days, decided to accept the rebuke merrily.
"But I'm in mortal terror of them."
Roger shrugged.
"Then our household will inevitably be run in a slovenly way. Of
that I'm quite sure. I'm the last person, as you know, to suggest
bullying one's servants, but I believe it's happier in the end for
everybody, if they're disciplined."
"All right," said Daphne, with a slight heart-sinking, "I'll try."
She was as much at sea with her social duties--her calls, and her
entertaining at home. Dinners! She had never been to one before
marriage. How on earth were they created? She felt sure that she
was doing something wrong, and these fashionable women would
criticise her among themselves. And they had no right to, she
thought angrily; life was something bigger than their silly little
conventions, and she had as many brains as any of them--more than
most.
Roger made her worse, for it was quite obvious, though he thought it
tactfully concealed, that he was putting her through a course in
social demeanour. When talking enthusiastically at their meals
together, she would emphasise with her arm or point; and he would
hint that the best people didn't do that. She spoke too loud when
excited, and laughed too shrilly, he said. And certain words such as
"Lordy," and "Crikey!" and "Coo!" he ruled out as impossible. In
fact, he was evidently pained at this discovery of "no polish" in his
wife.
The result was that if her deportment-master came into her
drawing-room, she was reduced to the awkwardness of a school-girl.
His merry conversation and ease of manners she guessed to be partly
paraded as a demonstration of how these things were done; and his
thoughtful silence when their visitors had left to be the symptom of
his disappointment at her failure. Once at a convention
_tête-à-tête_ dinner, he said deliberately:
"You don't seem to have much social gift, darling, do you?"
"Haven't I?" said she, hurt. "How do you mean?"
"Why, you never say anything. You look divine, of course; but you
seem to have no subjects of conversation."
"Oh, but I think I could talk the hind leg off a donkey with people
of my own age, and in an easier setting. But I'm frightened of all
your dames. You see, I feel so young." She leaned her elbows on the
table. "Do you know, I can't realise I'm married. I can't see any
difference in myself from when I went to school and played the fool.
I feel just the same."
"And you look it," agreed Roger, fetching down her left hand from
where it was meeting the right, under her chin, and holding it
lovingly on the table. He kept it, till the entrance of the butler
obliged him to withdraw his own, guiltily and humorously, on to his
lap.
This hand-holding and mutually understood jest were typical of their
relation. They were good friends. And Roger was a model (as he
meant to be) of courtesy. He was never brusque with her. The way he
assisted her from carriage or omnibus, or helped her on with her
cloak after the theatre, or considered her needs at meals, or opened
the door for her when she left a room (even when they were alone)
showed that he delighted to honour his wife as the queen among women.
And she--she felt grateful to him for having married her, and was
resolved that throughout his life he must have all his dues.
And yet she knew that he was always contrasting his own home with
others better "run," and her over-awed shyness with the aplomb and
ready wit of other hostesses. She knew it more than ever when he
appeared to have abandoned the deportment-course in favour of silence.
This silence was like a perpetual rebuke. And when one day he was
studying a parliamentary Blue Book, whose very appearance seemed to
show the difference between the width of his interests and hers (and
perhaps was not unwillingly displayed to that end), she sat alone by
the window, and stared into Fettes Gardens.
"Yes, I see where I've failed him. One doesn't see it till
afterwards. I never knew I was going to dislike and rather despise
the social hum-drum. I am always ready to picture myself in any
large occupation, and doing it better than anybody else; when the
plain fact is that I am without social gifts. I'm only an artist,
like father, and probably a smaller one.... But I must get into
these household duties. I must get into things, and not let him
down. It's only fair to him."
So she set about it with renewed vigour. She kept elaborate books of
accounts, drew up exceedingly neat programmes for the servants'
labours, bought books on etiquette (surreptitiously), diligently read
the papers so as to know what was being talked about, watched with
unremitting care over her husband's wardrobe, and at all social
assemblies studied the behaviour and the vocabulary of the vivacious
ladies who did not disappoint their husbands. And her rapid
improvement, manifest to herself, greatly encouraged her.
But the havoc it made of her writing and reading was an abiding
disquiet. And one morning at breakfast, when she read in the
book-reviews, to which she always turned first, of a young woman
writer's triumph, her mouth squared, and, dropping the paper, she
sipped her coffee in dejection.
Roger noticed, and rested his hand on hers.
"What's the matter, dearest?"
"Nothing." She looked up brightly.
"Yes there is. You look wretched, as you can sometimes."
"I'm depressed, I suppose.
"Depressed? What have you got to be depressed about?"
Perhaps his features had tightened a little. Had she hurt him by so
poor a compliment as to be depressed sometimes? He raised surprised
eyebrows.
"I can't see what you've got to be depressed about."
Jarred, she answered with a note of anger.
"I know you can't."
"Well, what is it?"
She slightly tossed her head.
"Oh, sometimes I can't help thinking of all I dreamed I was going to
do. And time passes, and I do nothing."
"Do nothing!" echoed Roger, covering his injury with a smile. "Well,
you're only twenty-three, and you're married and have a fine house
and most luxuries. I don't think you've started badly."
"Oh, but I meant in the writing way. I intended to--to read all the
literature in the world and then write. I set myself too big a task,
I suppose."
Roger ruminated over his toast and marmalade, and decided after two
or three minutes that he was right in being offended.
"Your trouble, Duffy, I think, is that you want all the advantages of
married life, and all the advantages of freedom----"
"No, it's not----"
"Please let me go on. _I_ accept the disadvantages, and there _are_
a few, though you may not think it. There are some things that
haven't turned out just as I thought, but I've resigned myself to
them philosophically."
She flushed at this frank statement, and said nothing.
With the greater ease that came to her in domestic and social duties,
however, she found that, with system, quite a number of hours in the
week could be secured for her reading. Yes, she had been a little
panicky. And as book after book returned to her shelves read, and
not only read but understood, she felt again the improvement in her
mind, its finer tempering and wider reach. Her taste advanced with
every month, so that the memory of certain parts of "Madame Rolland"
made her catch her breath with dismay. And the more she read, the
more avenues of learning opened before her, and the more she sought
to snatch studious hours from the day. Fancy if she could become
equal in knowledge to her father! And to Henry!
And then with a spasm of apprehension she suspected that she was
going to have a child. Soon she knew.
It was useless to tell herself she ought to feel differently about
it; she didn't, and there was the truth. She didn't want the child.
Not yet. For years it would smash up such study and such writing as
she wanted to do. And it might be the first of many! No good to
tell herself that the feeling was unnatural; she knew it was
perfectly natural; the whole force of her had been directed to a
different channel. And because of this there had lingered in her
mind the flattering conviction, a last romantic delusion, that she
was not one of those who bore children easily. It had been
encouraged by her early immunity.
That night, when Roger lay by her side and was about to embrace her,
she said abruptly:
"Roger, I'm frightfully afraid I'm going to have a baby. Oh, what on
earth am I going to do with a baby? I don't want it.... I don't
want it...."
He removed his arm from her, and said nothing at all.
Knowing that she had angered him, and anxious to hear his voice, she
persisted:
"Oh, you might sympathise with me, Roger. What on earth am I to do
about it?"
At last he spoke.
"Really, Duffy, you do hurt me sometimes. I always thought that a
wife when she had such a piece of news came with joy to her husband.
At least, so I've always read.... I can't make it out. Either you
are different from most women, or women are very different from what
they appear in books."
He heard her sigh, and felt sorry for her.
"Why should it upset you so?"
"Oh, Roger, I don't want one just now. Not just now. Not so soon."
He emitted a sound of disgust, and answered vaguely:
"What a humbug it all is! What a fool's paradise we men live in!"
"But don't you see what bad luck it is to me?"
"No, I don't. I confess I can't.... I can't see your point of view
at all. As I told you once before, you seem to have entered marriage
with an eye to all the advantages, and a determination to avoid all
the handicaps."
"I think the motives of all of us are pretty mixed; but what's the
good of throwing stones, when we're being punished for it?"
"Let me finish what I was saying. A girl who gets married and then
whines because a child appears really does drive rather blindly at
life."
"Oh, yes. Yes, I know," agreed Daphne.
CHAPTER XXIX
During the months of malaise and sickness that followed she was
conscious of a relapse from all those things that in the last few
years had brought some goodness and direction to her life. She no
longer cared for the defiant courage and the pity transcending God's
which her father had set before her. She no longer cared about
giving a generous return to Roger for all he had given to her, or
about excusing his faults because hers were the same in kind. More
than this, she not only eluded these motions towards goodness; she
actively fought against them. When a clear thought whispered that
her rebelliousness was disproportionate to its cause, she silenced
and drove it away. If her new habit of combating indolence asserted
itself and bade her be up and about a work, she deliberately sat down
and did nothing, thus to snub it. All thoughts that would give her
the right to criticise Roger she encouraged; he had pursued her
remorselessly, and dazzled her out of her senses into marrying him;
and she didn't love him--she loved Henry; Henry only and always; her
studies and her writing were for Henry--nay, they _were_ Henry; and
Roger was enforcing his power to snatch her from them. When a
moment's interest and a tremor like love stirred for the coming
child, she repressed it firmly, resolved to dislike this little
jailer of Roger's.
Self-consciousness haunted her as she grew larger. She would keep
seated, if possible, when visitors came; she walked very quickly out
of rooms; over shop-counters she stooped slightly. Not the smallest
of her disappointments was the knowledge that she would never be able
to wear her new clothes, because, when she could fit them again, they
would be out of fashion. And her figure, which had always been the
admiration of her father and Henry, might never be so small again.
More children would arrive, and she would become matronly. Roger had
made her slough off her youth, and leave it behind for ever. And she
was only twenty-three.... And Henry might come again.
What did she know about the management of a baby? Not even how they
were dressed. She bought pattern journals which showed pictures and
gave the patterns of frocks for the new-born child. Dully she went
and bought the materials they detailed, and gave up her afternoons to
making the robes.
One day her husband came in and saw her engaged on this work; and,
picking up the little long robe, with its lace edges and ribbons, he
smiled with pleasure and kissed the crown of her head. Probably he
was touched to see her doing this work herself, but said no word of
approval for fear of offence. He had great ideas of treating her, at
this important stage, with the utmost consideration.
That he should think she had abandoned her right to irritation
annoyed Daphne, so she purposely said:
"Oughtn't we to think about getting a nurse for this infant of yours?"
"There's plenty of time, isn't there?" inquired he. "There are
enough about."
"We want to get a good one." Daphne, needle between her lips, held
up the garment, ostensibly to examine it, really to give an ease to
her words. "Because I tell you plainly, I'll bear this child for
you, but as soon as it's arrived, I'm going to give it up to a nurse
who can look after it all day and give it its bottle."
"But dear----" he began, and stopped.
She laid down her sewing, and asked:
"What were you going to say?"
"Oh, it's no good worrying you yet awhile.... I was only going to
ask if you weren't going to--suckle it yourself. My mother nursed
me. She told me so."
Daphne felt like saying: "But that's about the thing she'd do best.
I don't suppose she ever had any ambition in her life apart from
you," but she only said, rather timidly, for she had never overcome a
fear of Roger:
"Well, I'm not going to. There's not such a great difference between
bottle-babies and the others as all that. After all, I shall only be
twenty-four years older than my son or daughter, and I've a duty to
myself as well as to it."
Roger held his peace, but walked with displayed disappointment out of
the room.
"Oh, walk away if you like," thought Daphne.
She completed all the garments and filled a white basket with them,
rather proud of her handiwork. Why she had made and broidered every
garment herself was not clear; in part, it was self-martyrdom; in
part, the simplicity of her childhood made lordly buying unnatural to
her; in part, too, and she knew it, there was a concealed idea of
self-punishment for the unkind hostility.
Now that the time drew closer, she wished it would come quickly and
be over. She looked forward to being small again, and free from
sickness and pain. "As soon as it's over, I'm going to have a real
good time." A brilliant idea had abated some of the gloom. Hollins!
Why hadn't she thought of Hollins before? The happiness it would
give old Hollins! Hollins came, and they enjoyed long talks
together. The old servant smiled and shook her head when Daphne
declared: "Do you know, I dislike this child intensely. I shall hand
it over to you and a nurse."
"Shall I tell you something, dear?" said Hollins. "Your mamma used
to talk to me about a lot of things she didn't talk to no one else
about; and she told me that she hadn't wanted you at all, but she no
sooner saw you than--well, she loved you so, she wouldn't 'ave called
the queen her cousin."
Daphne looked at the table-top, and then jumped up. "But mother was
quite different from me, I've always imagined. She was that sort.
No, I shall hand over the kid to you and the nurse and be free. I
wish it would come quickly.... Yes, I think I nearly hate it...."
"Nearly ain't half-way," said Hollins.
Roger wanted her to be very careful with herself, and to act as the
decorous invalid. But she refused to do anything of the kind, going
about the day's occupations as if she expected nothing. And he, ever
eager for romantic feelings, began to marvel at her courage. This
admiration reached its topmost pitch when one afternoon, two weeks
before the marked day, as they were sitting together talking, she
suddenly got up and said: "I think I'll go and lie down. And, Roger
dear, I think perhaps you'd better get the doctor."
He jumped up to help her to her room, but she said: "It's all right.
I'm all right. You arrange for the doctor and the nurse," and walked
easily and quickly up the stairs. With a rapid heart Roger hurried
to his telephone.
Then he walked up and down the dining-room, sincerely feeling all
that it was written he should feel at such an hour.
Self-dramatisation was there, but he was not conscious of it. He was
praying: "O God, make it all right for her. Don't let it hurt her
too much!" There was no sound upstairs in her room--no periodical
moaning, such as he had supposed was usual. Once or twice, fearful
lest this silence boded ill, he walked up to the room, and saw her
lying in bed and ready to smile up at him, as cosily as if it were a
late morning and she too comfortable to get up. Another time he
found her out of bed and in the adjoining dressing-room, seeing that
everything was ready there for the nurse. No word or strain of
feature suggested that she was knowing pain.
The wheels of the doctor's carriage were heard outside, and Roger
himself opened the door to him. It was a satisfaction, though
unrecognised, to show the doctor the calm and dignity with which he
met the threatening hours. But the doctor, by his unhurried manner,
seemed to disperse all exaggerated seriousness.
"Your baby's impatient to be up and abroad," said he.
"Yes, it's a hit earlier than we expected," admitted Roger, not quite
sure if he liked jesting at such a moment--whether these doctors
didn't get rather coarse. But the words "your baby," seeming for the
first time to mean something alive, thrilled him. "Yes, two weeks
early."
"Quite so. The little blighter!" said the doctor, wiping his boots
on the mat.
"I've 'phoned for the nurse."
The doctor nodded.
"I'll take you up, then, to the wife," said Roger.
He escorted him upstairs, and pointed to the door of the silent room.
The doctor passed in, and Roger was left on the landing.
Again he prayed: "O God, make it all right for her! And don't let it
hurt." The praying worked on him so that he nearly broke up; but he
preserved his outward dignity. He heard himself saying: "My little
Duffy, my beloved, I can't bear to think of you suffering.... My
God, I've been hard with you sometimes...."
And as he walked downstairs, he paused sometimes and stood on the
step with his hand on the balustrade, staring at the memory of some
moment when he had hurt her with his--his discipline. At last he
reached the long dining-room again, and, standing by the window with
his hands behind his back, gazed into the darkening street. "If the
worst were to happen----" But there his power to think broke down,
retiring defeated upon itself.
Upstairs Daphne lay in her pain. She was not groaning, through fear
of her husband's thinking her a coward; but her breaths, as the pains
seized her, were short, staccato intakes, like the breaths after
sobs. At the time of the doctor's entry she was in the pull of such
a pain. She felt him take her by the wrist, and was disposed to
burst into tears. Instead, she smiled a sick greeting, closed her
eyes, and continued her short, sharp gasps.
O God, was there ever such pain? Never, never again would she have a
child. "I wish I'd never married. I am caught for life. I may say
I'll never have another child, but I shall. Unless I commit suicide
after this, and escape from life because it's too hard and
frightening. Does every one of my age look back on a life blundered
with and blundering? It wasn't all my fault. I'd only been in
contact all my childhood with people who never faced up to anything
as it really was--excepting Father, and he never spoke.... So that I
ran into things with the comfortable idea that luck would make them
all right--instead of seeing that my fate would be mathematically
what I shaped it.... The love of being talked about and the desire
for life and luxury made me marry Roger. It was a blunder, and very
wrong, I dare say--but one _does_ make mistakes and be selfish at
twenty-one ... the punishment is too unrelenting ... too
everlasting.... Henry ... I'd have gone through this for Henry....
Henry, why couldn't we have fought together for the truth of how to
live? ... Does _any_ girl reach motherhood with a scheme of living,
other than drifting? ... Oh, my God!" It was as if all the mental
pain in her life had assembled to be present in this culminating
agony. "Oh, Doctor!"
Over. Rush of relief, so wonderful as itself to hurt. "It's over
and I'm free again." She lay with eyes closed in this luxury and
freedom from pain. She had forgotten the child, there being no cry
to remind her; or if there had been she had not noticed it. At last,
sighing with repletion of luxury, she opened her eyes and looked
inquiringly for the doctor. He was not in the room, but there was a
nurse, a young woman, pleasant and round-faced, who smiled at her.
"That's right. Why, you're a wonder! You hardly turned a hair."
Daphne, pleased with this tribute, answered:
"Oh, it really wasn't half as bad as I expected."
The nurse smiled meaningly.
The doctor told a different tale. "You're so strong, you see."
There came a cry from the neighbourhood of the fire; and it repeated
itself, and ceased.
"Would you like to see her?" asked the nurse.
"Oh, is it a girl?"
"I should think it was. And a little beauty."
The nurse walked away to the crib; and Daphne, though unexcited and
not free of her former hostility, undoubtedly felt an interest to see
what she had produced.
"There!" said the nurse.
For a new-born baby, it was a pleasing face that Daphne saw in the
blanketed bundle held above her eyes. There was no frown, nor was it
mottled or over-coloured. The lids were down, and the lashes
distinctly visible. Something in the lip and chin reminded her of
Roger. But the downy hair was much fairer than his could ever have
been.
"I've seen worse," she pronounced.
"Seen worse!" echoed the nurse, taking back the baby. "And I was
wondering if I had ever seen a better."
Later Roger was brought in, and he kissed her, declaring that she
looked in radiant health. She smiled, liking all this tribute to her
physical strength and her fortitude. "You'd better go and look at
your daughter," said she. And Roger, after staring into the crib for
a long time, came back to her bed and asked her what she thought of
"the little rat." Probably he was wanting her to express a different
attitude to that which she had adopted before its birth, but she
replied:
"I suppose, if it were any one else's, I should say it was rather
adorable."
He pretended to smile, unwilling to argue just now.
"And Heaven knows," continued Daphne, "what's going to happen to her
with no one to love her. I feel a compassion for her, if that's any
comfort to you."
"Well, you mustn't talk too much, I expect. And I think _I_'ll be
considering a night's rest."
"Is it night, then?" inquired Daphne, for the room had long been lit,
and she had known nothing of the gathered dark behind the blinds, or
counted the passing of time in this bright illumination.
"It's only a quarter to midnight," said Roger, as he stooped to kiss
her. "Good night, dearest."
"Good night, my dear."
Not at once, not as her mother had done, did Daphne succumb to the
thing that trembled within her whenever she saw her daughter's face.
The admiration of all who looked at Evie--"Evie" for no obvious
reason had leapt into Daphne's mind as the fitting name for this
little fair thing--the genuine, sometimes startled admiration of
visitors helped it. But it was a remark of Hollins that bade it go
forward to its conquest. It was late at night, and Hollins,
relieving the nurse, had brought Evie to her mother for the eleven
o'clock feed. Sitting up in bed, quite eager for another glimpse of
the little face, Daphne took and held her daughter. She stared down
at it, bewildered as to who this little stranger was--so complete in
every feature, with such manicured filbert nails on the wrinkled
fingers. Baring her breast, she gave it to the searching mouth.
Then turning to Hollins, she asked with a smile: "How long do you
expect me to go on doing this? Not for interminable months, I hope."
"It's worth doing, dear," answered Hollins. "I reckon there are few
things better worth while."
Daphne turned her head and looked at Evie again. Her heart
quickened, as if something, battened down, had been allowed to well
up in it. The plain truth, she knew, was that she loved this Evie
with a trembling love. As she admitted the thought, exhilaration
glowed in her; and though she felt she suddenly wanted to lie down
and meditate on a lot of things, she suspended thought, keeping only
the exhilaration.
Then the child was taken away by Hollins, and the light put down, and
she could lie and think.
The image of Evie was with her. "She's going to be intelligent.
Anybody can see that from her brow and her eyes. She must have all I
didn't have--carefully watched childhood, and an education of the
highest, with a proper training of her taste and a proper
disciplining of her mind. I must watch her every moment myself."
That inherent scepticism whispered: "But probably every parent has
had these thoughts. Probably mother did. Probably father did, and
wearied. I dare say Evie's story will only be a repetition of
mine.... But no. I mustn't--I shan't go back on this vow.... I
shall try to get on with my books as well, but if I can't do both,
Evie shall come first."
She lay awake a long time, abandoning her mind to those clearer parts
that had always been there. She wanted to locate some basic error
that was responsible for the most of her blunders. She seemed to
find it at last--where, indeed, Henry had found it--in her ever
present sense of the spectator, that mastering sense of a world
looking on. One could not be real when the spectator was the first
consideration. Did she inherit it from her father? Was it in part a
legacy from the poseurs who had surrounded her youth? No, probably
everybody in the world was tainted with it. But people like herself
and her father, who could see it for what it was, ought to be big
enough to shake themselves free. What a subtle poison, and how
difficult to trace!--for often the spectator was oneself, and the
deluding of that limited audience nearly complete! She could see the
succession of "attitudes" it had produced in her life; her early
masculinity, her facile adorations, her insincere religion, her
wilful publication of "Madame Rolland," her showy marriage with
Roger, and so recently as yesterday her pretended dislike of her
child. A few things in her life seemed true and independent of it;
her humble love for Henry, her new conceptions of her art, and her
late ideas of courage, pity, and grateful generosity to Roger. And
now, as pure as any, came her love for Evie.
Brilliantly clear it all seemed that night to Daphne, as the clock
ticked the hours away. One was only happy when, regardless of
applause, one was making something, giving something, or enjoying
intimacy with whoso understood. Making--giving--intimacy--these were
the real things. Looking at others, instead of others looking at
you. So dear was it that she felt in sight of a liberation from her
past. If only--if only she could one day lose the spectator, she
would shed like a single garment the poseur and the slave.