A DISMISSAL.
_O thou of little faith, what hast thou done?_
Lucy has always since maintained that the days which followed Lord
Watergate's communication were the very worst that she ever went
through. The fluctuations of hope and fear, the delays, the prolonged
strain of uncertainty coming upon her afresh, after all that had already
been endured, could be nothing less than torture even to a person of her
well-balanced and well-regulated temperament.
"To have to bear it all for the second time," thought poor Gertrude,
whose efforts to spare her sister could not, in the nature of things, be
very successful.
A terrible fear that Lucy would break down altogether and slip from her
grasp, haunted her night and day. The world seemed to her peopled with
shadows, which she could do nothing more than clutch at as they passed
by, she herself the only creature of any permanence of them all. But
gradually the tremulous, flickering flame of hope grew brighter and
steadier; then changed into a glad certainty. And one wonderful day,
towards the end of March, Frank was with them once more: Frank, thinner
and browner perhaps, but in no respect the worse for his experiences;
Frank, as they had always known him--kind and cheery and sympathetic;
with the old charming confidence in being cared for.
"And I was not there," he cried, regretful, self-reproachful, when Lucy
had told him the details of their sad story.
"I thought always, 'If Frank were here!'"
"I think I should have killed him," said Frank, in all sincerity; and
Lucy drew closer to him, grateful for the non-fulfilment of her wish.
They were standing together in the studio. It was the day after Jermyn's
return, and Gertrude was sitting listlessly upstairs, her busy hands
for once idle in her lap. In a few days April would have come round
again for the second time since their father's death.
What a lifetime of experience had been compressed into those two years,
she thought, her apathetic eyes mechanically following the green garment
of the High School mistress, as she whisked past down the street.
She knew that it is often so in human life--a rapid succession of
events; a vivid concentration of every sort of experience in a brief
space; then long, grey stretches of eventless calm. She knew also how it
is when events, for good or evil, rain down thus on any group of
persons.--The majority are borne to new spheres, for them the face of
things has changed completely. But nearly always there is one, at least,
who, after the storm is over, finds himself stranded and desolate, no
further advanced on his journey than before.
The lightning has not smitten him, nor the waters drowned him, nor has
any stranger vessel borne him to other shores. He is only battered, and
shattered, and weary with the struggle; has lost, perhaps, all he cared
for, and is permanently disabled for further travelling. Gertrude smiled
to herself as she pursued the little metaphor, then, rising, walked
across the room to the mirror which hung above the mantelpiece. As her
eye fell on her own reflection she remembered Lucy Snowe's words--
"I saw myself in the glass, in my mourning dress, a faded, hollow-eyed
vision. Yet I thought little of the wan spectacle.... I still felt life
at life's sources."
That was the worst of it; one was so terribly vital. Inconceivable as it
seemed, she knew that one day she would be up again, fighting the old
fight, not only for existence, but for happiness itself. She was only
twenty-five when all was said; much lay, indeed, behind her, but there
was still the greater part of her life to be lived.
She started a little as the handle of the door turned, and Mrs. Maryon
announced Lord Watergate. She gave him her hand with a little smile:
"Have you been in the studio?" she said, as they both seated themselves.
"Yes; Jermyn opened the door himself, and insisted on my coming in,
though, to tell you the truth, I should have hesitated about entering
had I had any choice in the matter--which I hadn't."
"Lucy has picked up wonderfully, hasn't she?"
"She looks her old self already. Jermyn tells me they are to be married
almost immediately."
"Yes. I suppose they told you also that Lucy is going to carry on the
business afterwards."
"In the old place?"
"No. We have got rid of the rest of the lease, and they propose moving
into some place where studios for both of them can be arranged."
"And you?"
"It is uncertain. I think Lucy will want me for the photography."
"Miss Lorimer, first of all you must do something to get well. You will
break down altogether if you don't."
Something in the tone of the blunt words startled her; she turned away,
a nameless terror taking possession of her.
"Oh, I shall be all right after a little holiday."
"You have been looking after everybody else; doing everybody's work,
bearing everybody's troubles." He stopped short suddenly, and added,
with less earnestness, "_Quis custodet custodiem?_ Do you know any
Latin, Miss Lorimer?"
She rose involuntarily; then stood rather helplessly before him. It was
ridiculous that these two clever people should be so shy and awkward;
those others down below in the studio had never undergone any such
uncomfortable experience; but then neither had had to graft the new
happiness on an old sorrow; for neither had the shadow of memory
darkened hope.
Gertrude went over to the mantelshelf, and began mechanically arranging
some flowers in a vase. For once, she found Lord Watergate's presence
disturbing and distressing; she was confused, unhappy, distrustful of
herself; she wished when she turned her head that she would find him
gone. But he was standing near her, a look of perplexity, of trouble, in
his face.
"Miss Lorimer," he said, and there was no mistaking the note in his
voice, "have I come too soon? Is it too soon for me to speak?"
She was overwhelmed, astonished, infinitely agitated. Her soul shrank
back afraid. What had the closer human relations ever brought her but
sorrow unutterable, unending? Some blind instinct within her prompted
her words, as she said, lifting her head, with the attitude of one who
would avert an impending blow--
"Oh, it is too soon, too soon."
He stood a moment looking at her with his deep eyes.
"I shall come back," he said.
"No, oh, no!"
She hid her face in her hands, and bent her head to the marble. What he
offered was not for her; for other women, for happier women, for better
women, perhaps, but not for her.
When she raised her head he was gone.
The momentary, unreasonable agitation passed away from her, leaving her
cold as a stone, and she knew what she had done. By a lightning flash
her own heart stood revealed to her. How incredible it seemed, but she
knew that it was true: all this dreary time, when the personal thought
had seemed so far away from her, her greatest personal experience had
been silently growing up--no gourd of a night, but a tree to last
through the ages. She, who had been so strong for others, had failed
miserably for herself.
Love and happiness had come to her open-handed, and she had sent them
away. Love and happiness? Oh, those will o' the wisps had danced ere
this before her cheated sight. Love and happiness? Say rather, pity and
a mild peace. It is not love that lets himself be so easily denied.
Happiness? That was not for such as she; but peace, it would have come
in time; now it was possible that it would never come at all.
All the springs of her being had seemed for so long to be frozen at
their source; now, in this one brief moment of exaltation, half-rapture,
half-despair, the ice melted, and her heart was flooded with the stream.
Covering her face with her hands, she knelt by his empty chair, and a
great cry rose up from her soul:--the human cry for happiness--the
woman's cry for love.
[Illustration: Decoration]