The journey back to London was a very strange one to Annie; she never
saw the landscape through which the train passed, she did not even
remember the faces of her fellow-passengers afterward. Her mind was
filled with fears for the future--for her own, for her husband’s, for
Lilian’s, for George’s, for that of all the family at the Grange, and
for Aubrey’s. She did hate him deeply, this man who had cheated her
into making her look upon him as the most gentle, most courteous,
brightest of companions and the most devoted of friends, when he was
really nothing but a volatile, unprincipled flirt, who made love
indifferently to her, or to a coarse woman like Miss West, or to a
little giddy creature like the girl to whom Miss Taylor had said he
was engaged. Perhaps Annie hardly dwelt enough, in her blame of Aubrey,
on the question whether she herself had done right in concealing from
him the fact that she was married, and whether, even supposing she had
been free, as he imagined her to be, he would not have been justified
in thinking no more of a lady who had dismissed him and disappeared
without a word, and in transferring his attentions to women who would
appreciate them more highly. But with all her blame was mingled sincere
anxiety for him, and unselfish sorrow that he should have fallen into
bad hands.
As for her own husband, she felt more kindly toward him now that she
was away from the daily irritation of his presence, from the fear of
his trivial jealousy, of his impossible demands. Their impossibility
she could not question. She felt that she could never return, with
the ardor which alone would content him, the passionate love she had
inspired in a nature so different from her own, and, as it seemed to
her, so antagonistic to it. The most that she could hope for was that,
if his affection should indeed remain warm until next Christmas, when
she had promised to return to him, the nine months of hard work upon
the stage which she was about to commence would have wearied her into
the semblance of contentment with a life so distasteful to her active
mind as permanent idleness at the Grange with her uncongenial husband
would be.
She had caught an earlier and faster train from Beckham than the one
by which she had intended to travel, so that she arrived in London and
drove to the house where Miss Taylor had taken apartments for her,
two hours before the time at which the landlady expected her. The
consequence was that the dirty servant who opened the door led her up
to a dingy and cheerless sitting-room on the second floor, the grate of
which was empty; and Annie’s heart sunk with a feeling of unutterable
wretchedness and desolation as she sat shivering, with her mantle
still round her, on the dusty little sofa, watching the dirty servant
as she knelt on the hearth-rug and tried, for a long time in vain, to
coax some spluttering, damp little sticks and a handful of slaty coals
into a fire. When it was sufficiently ignited to smoke violently, she
retired, satisfied, leaving Annie to cough and choke and shiver, and
wish herself back again at the Grange.
It was all her own fault that she was catching cold in an uncomfortable
lodging, instead of being well cared for in the midst of her husband’s
family. The gratification of her ambition, which had brought her to
this cheerless welcome, seemed an unsatisfactory sort of reward at this
moment for the sacrifice she had made alike of comfort and duty--for
self-reproach for her own hardness had been busy at Annie’s heart since
she received her husband’s farewell kiss that morning.
At last, after emitting gusts of black blinding smoke, each one of
which grew feebler than the last, the fire went out altogether; and
Annie was reduced by this time to too spiritless a state to ring the
bell and go through another ordeal of smoke and servant.
“I suppose they will come up at tea-time,” she thought, as she went
listlessly into the bedroom and began to unpack.
Dusk was coming on when she heard a knock at the sitting-room door.
“Come in!” she called out from where she knelt by her trunks. Then she
heard no more, and began to think she must have been mistaken, when the
knock was repeated. “Come in!” she cried a second time; and then she
heard the door open, and a man’s tread in the next room.
She rose from her knees, went in to the sitting-room, and found herself
face to face with Aubrey Cooke, who was standing in his usual stooping
attitude, looking paler and plainer than ever, with some parcels in his
hands.
He was shy, nervous, and stood there without a word to say for himself.
But the sight of a familiar face in this desolate, cheerless place had
restored Annie in a moment to life and animation.
“Mr. Cooke!” she cried, as she went forward and shook hands with him.
“How kind of you! How did you know I was coming? I am so very glad to
see you!”
Her face had recovered its light, her eyes were sparkling with their
old brightness. Aubrey got back his self-possession as he looked at
her, and began slowly laying down his parcels upon the table and taking
more from his pockets.
“Miss Taylor told me you were coming, and my unfailing instinct told
me that, being a lady, you would have forgotten to have all the
arrangements necessary for your comfort made before your arrival. Now
you shall see whether I have forgotten how to do marketing. There is
the twopenny cottage, there is the superior souchong, and there is the
oleomargarine--the very best. And that is for you.”
He gave her a little box, which she opened and found to contain ferns
and gardenias. She sat down and handled them lovingly, with the simple
pleasure of a child, and, when she looked up, she found Aubrey raking
out the coals of the extinct fire with a poker.
“Never mind; leave it alone. It is out; and, if I ring and make the
girl light it again, she will only fill the room with smoke. I am not
very cold.”
Indeed for the moment she had forgotten that she was cold; but she
shivered now and then.
“But I am. Now you shall see what it is to have a universal genius
about you. In ten minutes my art will produce from this gloomy heap of
cinders----”
“A cloud of thick black smoke which will suffocate us both. Don’t
be silly, Aubrey; do leave it alone!” said Annie, petulantly,
condescending to struggle for the poker.
But he would not let it go; so she resigned herself to watching while
he broke up the little fragile box which had held the flowers, took the
paper off his other parcels, and set to work earnestly to make a fire.
“You will look just like a sweep when you have finished,” said Annie,
with resignation.
“A little soap and water will remove all traces of the deed.”
“Oh, of course, if you like to play at maid-of-all-work!” said she,
contemptuously. Her spirits were rising again to the level of the old
days when she and he were on tour with the Comedy Company.
He rose superior to her scorn, for, after a little trouble and one or
two more gusts of smoke, the fire began to burn up brightly.
“Now ring for a kettle, and let us make tea ourselves,” said he.
She rang, the tea-things were brought up, and in a few minutes Annie,
refreshed and comforted, was listening to his account of his movements
since they last met.
“I have created two characters, invented a new soup, written a book,
cut it up myself in two papers, discovered my ideal woman two or three
times, had two bad colds and one attack of neuralgia, lost fifteen
pounds at cards, and narrowly escaped being married.”
“To one of the ideals?”
“Of course not. One never marries one’s ideal. No; this was to be the
loveliest of her sex. Happily a man turned up at the last moment who
had a prior claim to her hand, and I was saved.”
“Happy woman!”
“I see you don’t look at the case from my point of view, Miss Langton.”
“No; I take up the cause of my sex against you.”
“That is unkind. She treated me very cruelly, I assure you.”
“For which and for your consequent deliverance from the trammels of
constancy you are very grateful.”
“Do you think I am inconstant, Miss Langton?” he asked, with sudden
gravity.
“I am inclined to think so, certainly; but I look upon it as a very
fortunate provision of nature,” said she, half laughing nervously.
“Then you are wrong. If I am inconstant it is by philosophy, and not
by disposition. You know, when people have toothache very badly they
sometimes hold things that burn in their mouths, so that the small,
sharp new pain may make them forget for the moment the old dull one.”
“What a romantic simile!”
“So a man, when he has been badly treated by one woman whom he did care
for, tries to find consolation--and does so find it very often--in
flirtations with a dozen other women who have no power to make his
heart throb faster, but who can make the time pass pleasantly enough.”
“I have heard that sort of excuse from inconstant people before, and I
think it a very clever one.”
“And what excuse have you heard from the woman who was the cause of the
inconstancy?”
Annie’s cheeks flushed as she still looked steadily at the fire. He
was taking her to account for her treatment of himself. After a few
moments’ hesitation she answered, in a light tone:
“You are talking too vaguely; put before me a clear case of a woman
having done wrong to a man, which forced him to seek relief in
inconstancy, and I will plead her cause and confound you.”
“Very well. Suppose that a man had admired and shown his admiration
of a woman who had rather reserved manners to most people. Suppose
that her reserve with him had gradually given way, until she allowed
him to be her constant companion, treated him with at least the show
of complete confidence, exchanged opinions freely with him on every
subject, and allowed her apparent preference for his society to be
taken for granted.”
“Did she allow him to make love to her?”
“No, she did something more dangerous; she allowed him to make love to
every woman but her. He was too much in earnest to flirt with her, and
she must have known it.”
“I think that is an absurd conclusion to come to, that the woman must
have known he loved her because he didn’t tell her so. If women were to
go by such a rule in all cases----”
“But listen. At last one day--or rather one November night--he did let
her know in words that he loved her, and she--she made him think that
his words agitated her.”
“Perhaps they did--perhaps they agitated her disagreeably. They must
have done so, if she was unprepared for them as you have made out.”
“But later on she gave him an unmistakable proof that her liking and
trust were as strong as ever. And then again she avoided him; and,
when he insisted on an interview and an explanation, she put him off
by telling him there was an obstacle between them, but still without
telling what that obstacle was.”
“What did it matter what it was, as long as it was insurmountable? That
was all that could concern him.”
“He ought to have been told what it was, so that at least he might not
be left to think that it was merely an excuse to get rid of a man of
whom she had grown tired. But she had another surprise in store for
him; she disappeared without letting him know what had become of her.”
“And he has spent his time ever since in a vain and romantic pursuit of
her?”
“Oh, dear, no! He went back to town, furnished a new set of chambers,
and has grown more particular about his cooking.”
“And you hold him up as an object of sympathy? He is a man to whom an
offer of sympathy would be an impertinence.”
“He does not want sympathy, but justice; and, if he cannot get that,
he will have revenge--and melodramatic revenge, of course, but small,
spiteful, mean, and modern!”
“I don’t think such a threat would frighten her from you.”
“You are trying to pique me.”
“I! Oh, no! What interest can I have in the matter?”
“Can you give me your assurance that you have none?”
The sudden intensity of his manner would have forced some show of
emotion from Annie if she had not been on her guard.
“I take an interest in the affairs of any friend who has shown me as
much kindness as you have, Mr. Cooke,” said she, gravely, and with a
little stiffness.
Aubrey was silent for a few minutes.
“Thank you!” he said, dryly, after clearing his throat two or three
times.
Annie felt that the conversation had got to a difficult point, and, to
avoid the awkwardness of the pause which followed, she rose. He rose
too.
“I have intruded upon you too long, Miss Langton; you must want rest
and quiet after your long journey,” said he, in a casual-visitor’s
tone, which deceived Annie until she saw by the fading daylight that he
was as pale as death, and that his lips were quivering.
“I cannot thank you enough for coming. I should have been so very dull
here all alone on the first evening of my return, if it had not been
for your charity,” said she, with as much vivacity as she could put
into her tone and manner.
“It was my duty, you are in my ‘district.’ May I come again?” She
hesitated.
“Don’t be unkind. I’ve been very good, haven’t I?” said he, softly.
“I think you had better not come again, Mr. Cooke. It is different in
the country, you know; but here, in town, the least thing is noticed
and talked about.”
“When do you play in ‘Nathalie’?”
“I think in a fortnight or three weeks.”
“It will be longer than that. In the meantime, you won’t be rehearsing
every day, and on the off-days you will be frightfully dull--or won’t
you?”
She turned away irresolutely.
“Let me come sometimes, and I won’t abuse the permission;” and she let
him go without a definite answer.
It was quite true that she would be dull and miserable by herself; she
felt that as soon as she heard his footsteps going down-stairs. She
wanted to go to the door, call him back, and tell him to come again
soon; she even crossed the room to do so, but she turned back and sunk
into a chair, ashamed of the impulse, for she knew that there was
danger in his society. She felt that her indignation against him had
faded away, that his presence had soothed her weary, excited mind as
the presence of no other person in the world could have done, and that,
if she saw much more of him, she would inevitably come to depend upon
his companionship as she had done when they were on tour together. It
had been harmless, pleasant intercourse then; but Aubrey’s words on
that November night had changed all that; and Annie knew she ought
to have summoned courage to tell him that very afternoon what the
nature of the obstacle between them was. But it was so much pleasanter
and even easier to skate over the difficult matter of her sudden
disappearance, and to avoid the “scene” which the tragedy-manner Aubrey
had assumed when they approached this subject had threatened.
“I certainly did not encourage him to come,” said she to herself, with
a twinge of conscience. “Of course it does not really matter whether
he comes or not, except that Harry would make a silly fuss if he
knew that anybody who was at all young or nice came to see me. But
there is nothing really for him to be jealous about; and, after all,
I cannot shut myself up quite like a nun just because my husband is
ill-tempered.”
So, when Aubrey called two days afterward, and had the sense not to
make any allusion to his love-grievances, she was very glad to see him,
and flattered herself with the thought that he understood that there
was no further question of a warmer sentiment than friendship between
them. In this belief she was justified, for Aubrey had decided upon his
line of conduct, and fell into the position of brotherly old friend in
the most natural manner in the world.
After a few visits, during none of which did Aubrey recall, by word
or look, his old love or its disappointment, she fell into her former
perfectly open and unreserved manner with him, and felt unspeakably
grateful to him for the good sense which had restored the old frank
companionship between them. She grew happy again, attributed the change
in her spirits to the prospect of her speedy reappearance on the stage,
and wondered how she could have remained so long away from it. Under
the influence of these brighter feelings she wrote an affectionate
letter to her husband, with a little compunction at not having
responded more warmly to his kindness when she was at the Grange.
Two days later, as Aubrey was leaving her sitting-room, where he had
spent the greater part of the afternoon, after bringing her some books
from Mudie’s, he met the servant coming up the stairs, followed by
a tall, fair young man. Annie’s voice had just called out, “I shall
expect you then!” and Aubrey had scarcely closed the door behind him,
when the servant reached the top stair.
He stood on one side to let them pass, but the fair young man sent the
servant down-stairs by a few words spoken in a low voice, and stood
face to face with Aubrey just outside Miss Langton’s door.
“These are Miss Langton’s apartments, I believe?” said the stranger.
“Yes,” answered Aubrey, deciding, as he looked at the angry face and
impatient movements of the man in front of him, that this was some
bumpkin admirer of the clever young actress, who looked upon him as a
rival.
“And you are one of Miss Langton’s friends, I suppose?”
“I have the honor of being one of her oldest friends,” said Aubrey,
coolly.
A deep flush spread over the face of the other man, who was evidently
keeping himself in check by a strong effort of self-control.
“May I ask what your name is?” he asked, curtly.
“By what right do you ask such a question which cannot concern you?”
“That is my affair; and you need not make such a mystery about it,
because I know who you are. Your name is Cooke--Aubrey Cooke!”
“Well, what then?”
“What then? Why, my name is Harold Braithwaite!”
But this announcement produced none of the effect he evidently
expected. The pale, ugly young man still returned his look quite
steadily, without expressing any sort of emotion.
“I dare say it is,” said he, simply--“why not?”
“Look here,” said the stranger, dropping his voice till it became a
growl of passion. “I don’t want a scene here. You had better go.”
But Aubrey stood his ground very calmly.
“I am no more anxious for a scene than you are, I assure you. But, as
you are a complete stranger to me, and can produce no authority for
dismissing me, I must decline to move until I have given you a little
piece of advice. Don’t venture to dismiss a lady’s friends without her
authority----”
“I don’t use her authority; I use my own.”
“And you think that will be enough for me?”
“I think it ought to be.”
“Do you know who the lady is you are speaking about so confidently?”
“Yes. You know her as Miss Langton, the actress.”
“And you?”
“As Annie Braithwaite--my wife!”
Aubrey stood the shock well, but not too well for the other man to see
that his announcement was a terrible surprise. This conversation had
been carried on in low tones; but, as Harry raised his voice on his
last words, Annie, in the sitting-room, had recognized it; and she
opened the door and faced the two men, white and trembling.
“Harry!” said she, in a low voice.
“Is it true, then, that this man is your--husband?” asked Aubrey.
“Yes,” answered she, hanging her head, and without looking at him.
“I must apologize for my discourtesy,” said Aubrey, still white and
shaking, turning, without another look at her, to Harry. “I had always
understood that Mr. Braithwaite--was a short man;” and, raising his
hat, he went down-stairs.