JANET ORGREAVE
I
"Our friend is waiting for that letter to Brunt," said Arthur Dayson,
emerging from the inner room, a little later.
"In one moment," Hilda replied coldly, though she had not begun to write
the letter.
Dayson disappeared, nodding.
She resented his referring to Mr. Cannon as 'our friend,' but she did
not know why, unless it was that she vaguely regarded it as
presumptuous, or, in the alternative, if he meant to be facetious, as
ill-bred, on the part of Arthur Dayson. She chose a sheet of paper, and
wrote the letter in longhand, as quickly as she could, but with arduous
care in the formation of every character; she wrote with the whole of
her faculties fully applied. Even in the smallest task she could not
economize herself; she had to give all or nothing. When she came to the
figures--4000--she intensified her ardour, lavishing enormous
unnecessary force: it was like a steamhammer cracking a nut. Her
conscience had instantly and finally decided against her. But she
ignored her conscience. She knew and owned that she was wrong to abet
Mr. Cannon's deception. And she abetted it. She would have abetted it if
she had believed that the act would involve her in everlasting
damnation,--not solely out of loyalty to Mr. Cannon; only a little out
of loyalty; chiefly out of mere unreasoning pride and obstinate
adherence to a decision.
The letter finished, she took it into the inner room, where the three
men sat in mysterious conclave. Mr. Cannon read it over, and then Arthur
Dayson borrowed the old clerk's vile pen and with the ceremonious delays
due to his sense of his own importance, flourishingly added the
signature.
When she came forth she heard a knock at the outer door.
"Come in," she commanded defiantly, for she was still unconsciously in
the defiant mood in which she had offered the lying letter to Mr.
Cannon.
II
A well-dressed, kind-featured, and almost beautiful young woman, of
about the same age as Hilda, opened the door, with a charming gesture of
diffidence.
For a second the two gazed at each other astounded.
"Well, Hilda, of all the--"
"Janet!"
It was an old schoolfellow, Janet Orgreave, daughter of Osmond Orgreave,
a successful architect at Bursley. Janet had passed part of her
schooldays at Chetwynd's; and with her brother Charlie she had also
attended Sarah Gailey's private dancing-class (famous throughout
Turnhill, Bursley, and Hanbridge) at the same time as Hilda. She was
known, she was almost notorious, as a universal favourite. By instinct,
without taking thought, she pleased everybody, great and small. Nature
had spoiled her, endowing her with some beauty, and undeniable elegance,
and abundant sincere kindliness. She had only to smile, and she made a
friend; it cost her nothing. She smiled now, and produced the illusion,
not merely in Hilda but in herself also, that her pleasure in this very
astonishing encounter was quite peculiarly poignant.
They shook hands, as women of the world.
"Did you know I was here?" Hilda questioned, characteristically on her
guard, with a nervous girlish movement of the leg that perhaps sinned
against the code of authentic worldliness.
"No indeed!" exclaimed Janet.
"Well, I am! I'm engaged here."
"How splendid of you!" said Janet enthusiastically, with no suggestion
whatever in her tone that Hilda's situation was odd, or of dubious
propriety, or aught but enviable.
But Hilda surveyed her with secret envy, transient yet real. In the
half-dozen years that had passed since the days of the dancing-class,
Janet had matured. She was now the finished product. She had the charm
of her sex, and she depended on it. She had grace and an overflowing
goodness. She had a smooth ease of manner. She was dignified. And, with
her furs, and her expensive veil protecting those bright apple-red
cheeks, and all the studied minor details of her costume, she was
admirably and luxuriously attired. She was the usual, as distinguished
from the unusual, woman, brought to perfection. She represented no
revolt against established custom. Doubts and longings did not beset
her. She was content within her sphere: a destined queen of the home.
And yet she could not be accused of being old-fashioned. None would dare
to despise her. She was what Hilda could never be, had never long
desired to be. She was what Hilda had definitely renounced being. And
there stood Hilda, immature, graceless, harsh, inelegant, dowdy, holding
the letter between her inky fingers, in the midst of all that hard
masculine mess,--and a part of it, the blindly devoted subaltern, who
could expect none of the ritual of homage given to women, who must sit
and work and stand and strain and say 'yes,' and pretend stiffly that
she was a sound, serviceable, thick-skinned imitation man among men! If
Hilda had been a valkyrie or a saint she might have felt no envy and no
pang. But she was a woman. Self-pity shot through her tremendous pride;
and the lancinating stab made her inattentive even to her curiosity
concerning the purpose of Janet's visit.
III
"I came to see Mr. Cannon," said Janet. "The housekeeper downstairs told
me he was here somewhere."
"He's engaged," answered Hilda in a low voice, with the devotee's
instinct to surround her superior with mystery.
"Oh!" murmured Janet, checked.
Hilda wondered furiously what she could be wanting with Mr. Cannon.
Janet recommenced: "It's really about Miss Gailey, you know."
"Yes--what?"
Hilda nodded eagerly, speaking in a tone still lower and more careful.
Janet dropped her voice accordingly: "She's Mr. Cannon's sister, of
course?"
"Half-sister."
"I mean. I've just come away from seeing her." She hesitated. "I only
heard by accident. So I came over with father. He had to come to a
meeting of the Guardians here, or something. They've quarrelled, haven't
they?"
"Who? Miss Gailey and Mr. Cannon? Well, you see, she quarrels with every
one." Hilda appeared to defend Mr. Cannon.
"I'm afraid she does, poor thing!"
"She quarrelled with mother."
"Really! when was that?"
"Oh! Years and years ago! I don't know when. I was always surprised
mother let me go to the class."
"It was very nice of your mother," said Janet, appreciative.
"Is she in trouble?" Hilda asked bluntly.
"I'm afraid she is."
"What?"
Janet suddenly gave a gesture of intimacy. "I believe she's starving!"
"Starving!" Hilda repeated in a blank whisper.
"Yes, I do! I do really believe she hasn't got enough to eat. She's
quarrelled with just about everybody there was to quarrel with. She
suffers fearfully with rheumatism. She never goes out--or scarcely
ever. You know her dancing-classes have all fallen away to nothing. I
fancy she tried taking lodgers--"
"Yes, she did. I understood she was very good at housekeeping."
"She hasn't got any lodgers now. There she is, all alone in that house,
and--"
"But she can't be _starving_!" Hilda protested. At intervals she glanced
at the inner door, alarmed.
"I really think she is," Janet persisted, softly persuasive.
"But what's to be done?"
"That's the point. I've just seen her. I went on purpose, because I'd
heard.... But I had to pretend all sorts of things to make an excuse for
myself. I couldn't offer her anything, could I? Isn't it dreadful?"
They were much worried, these two young maids, full of health and vigour
and faith, and pride and simplicity, by this startling first glimpse
into one of the nether realities of existence. And they loyally tried to
feel more worried than they actually were; they did their best, out of
sympathy, to moderate the leaping, joyous vitality that was in them,--
and did not succeed very well. They were fine, they were touching--but
they were also rather deliciously amusing--as they concentrated all
their resources of solemnity and of worldly experience on the tragic
case of the woman whom life had defeated. Hilda's memory rushed
strangely to Victor Hugo. She was experiencing the same utter
desolation--but somehow less noble--as had gripped her when she first
realized the eternal picture, in _Oceana Nox_, of the pale-fronted
widows who, tired of waiting for those whose barque had never returned
out of the tempest, talked quietly among themselves of the
lost--stirring the cinders in the fireplace and in their hearts.... Yet
Sarah Gailey was not even a widow. She was an ageing dancing-mistress.
She had once taught the grace of rhythmic movement to young limbs; and
now she was rheumatic.
"Nobody but Mr. Cannon can do anything," Janet murmured.
"I'm sure he hasn't the slightest idea--not the slightest!" said Hilda
half defensively. But she was saying to herself: "This man made me write
a lie, and now I hear that his sister is starving--in the same town!"
And she thought of his glossy opulence. "I'm quite sure of _that_!" she
repeated to Janet.
"Oh! So am I!" Janet eagerly concurred. "That's why I came.... Somebody
had to give him a hint.... I never dreamt of finding you, dear!"
"It is strange, isn't it?" said Hilda, the wondrous romance of things
seizing her. Seen afresh, through the eyes of this charming, sympathetic
acquaintance, was not Mr. Cannon's originality in engaging her
positively astounding?
"I suppose _you_ couldn't give him a hint?"
"Yes, I'll tell him," said Hilda. "Of course!" In spite of herself she
was assuming a certain proprietorship in Mr. Cannon.
"I'm so glad!" Janet replied. "It is good of you!"
"It seems to me it's you that's good, Janet," Hilda said grimly. She
thought: "Should _I_, out of simple kindliness and charity, have
deliberately come to tell a man I didn't know... that his sister was
starving? Never!"
"He's bound to see after it!" said Janet, content.
"Why, of course!" said Hilda, clinching the affair, in an intimate,
confidential murmur.
"You'll tell him to-night?"
Hilda nodded.
They exchanged a grave glance of mutual appreciation and understanding.
Each was sure of the other's high esteem. Each was glad that chance had
brought about the meeting between them. Then they lifted away their
apprehensive solicitude for Sarah Gailey, and Janet, having sighed
relief, began to talk about old times. And their voices grew louder and
more free.
"Can you tell me what time it is?" Janet asked, later. "I've broken the
spring of my watch, and I have to meet father at the station at
ten-fifteen."
"I haven't a notion!" said Hilda, rather ashamed.
"I hope it isn't ten o'clock."
"I could ask," said Hilda hesitatingly. The hour, for aught she knew,
was nine, eleven, or even midnight. She was oblivious of time.
"I'll run," said Janet, preparing to go. "I shall tell Charlie I've seen
you, next time I write to him. I'm sure he'll be glad. And you must come
to see us. You really must, now! Mother and father will be delighted. Do
you still recite, like you used to?"
Hilda shook her head, blushing.
She made no definite response to the invitation, which surprised,
agitated, and flattered her. She wanted to accept it, but she was
convinced that she never would accept it. Before departing, Janet lifted
her veil, with a beautiful gesture, and offered her lips to kiss. They
embraced affectionately. The next moment Hilda, at the top of the dim,
naked, resounding stair, was watching Janet descend--a figure infinitely
stylish and agreeable to the eye.