“SIR,--I hear from Miss Baker that you were in Brighton last week, and,
drawing the inference from the fact that she came to my studio to sit
for her portrait, you accuse her of very grievous impropriety. I beg to
assure you that this is not so. At my urgent request, Miss Baker, whom
I had better say I have known for some years, consented to give me a
sitting. My intentions were purely artistic; hers were confined to a
wish to oblige an old friend, and I deeply regret that they should have
been misinterpreted, and I fear much unhappiness caused thereby.”
“Do you think that will do?”
“Yes, it is a beautiful letter.”
“Do you think so--do you really think so? Do you think I have said all?”
“You might say something--that I never even kissed you; and that you
respected me too much.”
“I will if you like, but don't you think that is implied?”
“Perhaps so; but you see he does not read many books. He hasn't time
for much reading, and you put things in a difficult way. They sound
beautiful, but I--”
“Show me.”
“Well, this 'grievous impropriety.' I know what you mean, but I couldn't
explain it.”
“Shall I say 'serious impropriety'? but grievous is the right word. You
say a grievous sin for a mortal sin. If we had done any wrong it would
have been a grievous sin; but I'll change the word if you like.”
“No, don't change it on my account; but I think he would understand an
easier word better.”
“A 'heinous impropriety'? No, that won't do. A 'serious impropriety.'
That will do. Is there anything else you would like me to alter?”
“No, I don't think there is.”
“You think this letter will convince him that there was nothing wrong?”
“I hope so; but he is a very suspicious man.”
“I will post it when I go out.” Then after a long silence: “Do you know
what time it is? It must be getting late.”
“It must be getting on for nine.”
“Then I must say good-bye; but I forgot, I want to ask you--you must be
hard up, and want some money--do you? If you do, I assure you I shall be
only too glad.”
“Well, I am rather hard up, for you know that this illness has
prevented my doing anything; and I am afraid I have lost my place at the
'Tivoli.'”
“What do you intend to do?”
“I should like to go back to London. I shall see him there, and if the
letter makes it right we may be married. I will write to you.”
“You will?--Do. Here is five pounds. I have no more about me, but if
anything should occur, you know where to write to.”
“You are very good; I don't deserve it. I don't know why you take so
much trouble about me. If he doesn't marry me I'll try to get another
place; I shall go back to the firm.”
“When do you intend to leave?”
“As soon as I am well enough, in a day or two; but you will not come
here again.”
“I had thought that I might.”
“I know; but if he were to hear that you had been here, it would be
worse than ever. You don't mind, do you? You aren't angry, are you?”
“No; good-bye, Lizzie. Write to me when you are married.” Frank walked
into the street. There was neither rage nor will in him. He was a
sorrowing creature in a bitter world. The sea was cruelly blue in the
coming night; the sky was also blue, only deeper, a red streak like
a red bar of iron stretched across the embaying land, relieving into
picturesque detail the outlines of coast-towns and villages. His eyes
rested on and drew grief from this dim distance so illusive; and for
jarring contrast, the pier hung with gaudy and gross decoration in the
blue night, and a brass band replied to the waves.
Then the clouds lifted, and when he returned to Southwick the moon was
shining and some boys pursued the resounding ball through the shadows.
He undressed with an effort, and he lay down hoping never to rise again.
Next morning he went to his studio full of resolve. His picture must
be finished for one of the winter exhibitions. He did not take up his
palette, nor did he sit at his piano for more than a few minutes; and
when he met Willy he raged against Lizzie, jeered at her vulgarity,
heaped ridicule upon her lover, the waiter; he spoke of writing a novel
on the subject; he set out her character at length; and was alarmed when
told that Maggie was ill. He must win her. She must be his wife. So he
told Willy, so he assured himself that she would. He knew that Lizzie
was nothing to him. She had left Brighton, thank God! He went to sleep,
certain he had torn this page out of his life, and he awoke to find it
still there; and day after day he continued to brood upon, and still
unable to understand its meaning, he longed to turn it over and read,
for there were other pages; but they were sealed, and he might only read
this one page.
“I'm afraid that our old friend Brookes is having a hard time of it,”
said the General, taking the spectacles from his nose, and laying down
the _St James's_, “they are all at him tooth and nail,” and the General
laughed gleefully. “You are the young man who has upset them. The young
lady won't dress herself.”
“My dear Reggie, you shouldn't talk like that. I do hate to hear
scandal; you'll repent it,” said Mrs. Horlock, and she adroitly smoothed
the wax on the horse's quarters.
“I assure you, Mrs. Horlock, I never repeat what I hear; the guiding
principle of my life is not to repeat conversations. Particularly in
a village like Southwick, it is most essential that none of us should
repeat conversations; I have always said that.”
“Do tell me about Maggie; I hear she is very ill. What is the matter
with her? What did you say--the young lady won't dress herself?”
“My dear Reggie, I will not stay here and listen to scandal. Not a word
of it is true, Mr. Escott.”
“What is not true, Mrs. Horlock?”
“What he told you about her walking about the house with her hair down.”
“I don't think the General said anything about walking about the house
with her hair down; he said some one wouldn't dress herself. I suppose
he meant Maggie. I am sure I am sorry--I am most sorry--to hear she
is ill, but it is unjust to assume that I had anything to do with her
illness. We can speak freely among ourselves, you know. You know the
circumstances; no one is more capable of understanding the case than
you, for you are an artist. Maggie heard that I had had a model, that's
what it amounts to, and she broke off the engagement; nothing could be
more unjust, nothing could be more unwarranted.”
“It could be brought on again, I know that,” said Mrs. Horlock, and she
turned the shoulders of her horse to the light.
“We will not go into that question, Mrs. Horlock. I confine myself to
what has happened, and I say I was treated unjustly, most shamefully;
and when I have been cast aside like an old hat, I hear indirectly that
it can be made up again. I have borne quite enough, and will bear no
more. Old Brookes came down to my studio with that cad Berkins, and
forced his way in, and then forbade me the house because my dog bit
Berkins's thigh. I couldn't help it. What did he attack me for? He
didn't suppose a bull-dog would be still while his master was being
knocked on the head.”
“What should a common City man know about dogs? He wouldn't sign
the petition when I asked him, to Sir Charles Warren, to cancel the
regulations about muzzling.”
“And then they set a report going that I had set the dog on, and if I
hadn't set it on, that I hadn't called him off. As if I could! You know
what a bull-dog is, Mrs. Horlock? Is a highly-bred dog likely to let go
when he has fixed his teeth in the fleshy part of a thigh? The Brookes
are old friends of mine, and I wouldn't say a word against them for the
world; but of course it is as obvious to you as it is to me that
they are not quite the thing. I mean--you know--I would not think of
comparing them with the Southdown Road; but there is a little something.
City people are not the Peerage; there's no use saying they are. Mount
Rorke was upset; but I would not give in, and I think I should have won
his consent in the long run. After all I have borne for her sake I think
I might expect better treatment than to be thrown over, as I have said,
like an old hat; and I don't mind telling you that I do not intend to be
made a fool of in this matter; I shall turn a very deaf ear to stories
of a broken heart and failing health. I shall not cease to think of
Maggie. I loved her once very deeply, and I should have loved her always
if--But tell me, General. You know I will not repeat anything.”
“I advise you to say no more, Reggie. I will not be mixed up in any
scandal. I shall leave the room. Sally is dining here to-night; she is
only too anxious to talk of her sister. If Mr. Escott will stay and take
pot-luck with us, he will no doubt hear everything there is to hear in
the course of the evening.”
“What have we got for dinner, Ethel? I know we have got a leg of mutton,
and there is some curry.”
“Your dinners are always excellent, Mrs. Horlock. I shall be delighted
to stay. Here is Sally. Oh, how do you do, Sally? We were talking of
you.”
“I'm afraid every one is talking of me, now,” she whispered, and the big
girl passed over to Mrs. Horlock and kissed her. “How is it that no one
has seen anything of you lately?” she said, taking the seat next him.
“What have you been doing?”
“Nothing in particular. But I want to ask you about Maggie. I hear she
is very ill.”
Perceiving that his tone did not bespeak a loving mood, Sally's face
brightened, and she became at once voluble and confidential.
“Oh, we have been having no end of a time at home. Father has been
speaking of selling the place and leaving Southwick.”
“Speaking of selling the place and leaving Southwick! And where does he
think of going to live, and what is the reason of this?”
“Oh, the reason! I suppose he would say I was the reason; and where heis
going to live, that is not settled yet--probably one of the big London
hotels. He says everybody is laughing at him, and that when he meets
the young men at the station he can see them laughing at him over their
newspapers, for, according to father, they have all flirted with us.
Maggie has been saying all kinds of things against me, and I am afraid
that the Southdown Road people have been writing him anonymous letters
again. Some one--I don't know who it is--I wish I did--has been telling
him the most shocking things about Jimmy Meason and me; things in which
I assure you there is not a word of truth. You know yourself that we
have hardly spoken for nearly two years; last year, it is true, we made
it up a bit in your studio, but it didn't last long. I don't think I saw
him twice afterwards, and never alone--and now to have everything that
happened two years ago raked up and thrown in my face! I don't say
I haven't--I don't know what you'd call it, I suppose you'd call it
spooning. I admit I infinitely preferred walking about the garden with
a young man to sitting in the drawing-room and doing woolwork. I was a
silly little fool then, but I do think it hard that all this should
be raked up now. I don't know what will happen. Maggie pretends to be
frightened at me; 'tis only her nonsense to set father against me. She
won't dress herself, and she walks about with her hair down her back,
wringing her hands.”
“But what does she say? This is very bewildering. I don't understand--I
am quite lost.”
“The fact is that Maggie doesn't know what she is saying, so I suppose I
oughtn't to blame her. She is a little off her head, that's the truth
of it; but you mustn't say I said so, it will get me into worse trouble
than I am already in. She was like that once before, and had to be put
in the charge of a lady who was in the habit of dealing with excitable
people. I don't mean lunatics, don't run away with that notion. I don't
know what would happen if it got about that I was putting that about.
Maggie is very excitable, and she has been exciting herself a great deal
lately--you were the principal cause. She did all she could to get you
to make it up when you met her here at dinner--the dinner was given
for that--but you said nothing about it, and she came home in an awful
state, accusing every one of combining to ruin her. She said I was
jealous of her, that I was wild with fear that she would one day be
Lady Mount Rorke. She said father had done everything to break off her
marriage, because he did not like parting with his money. She had set
her heart on being married, and it was a terrible disappointment. She
has been disappointed two or three times. Father doesn't know what to
do. Her thoughts seem to run on that one subject. She walks about the
garden saying the most extraordinary things.”
“But tell me about the illness.”
“I don't know if I ought to tell you.”
“Oh, do!”
“I don't know how to say it. She used to say she longed to become a
mother.”
“Longed to become a mother? Well, that is the last thing--”
“You know what I mean.”
“But tell me about the illness.”
“I should call it more than being a little excited, but of course she
isn't mad. She has, however, the most curious notions. She is always a
little too imaginative at the best of times; at least, I find her so,
but now her delusions are really too absurd, and, as I have said, the
worst of it is that her thoughts run on that one thing; it really is
most unfortunate. Poor father.”
“But what are her delusions?”
“Well, I scarcely know how to tell you.”
“Try; anything can be told. It depends how it is told.”
“She thinks that the coachman has spread it all over Southwick--how
shall I say it? I don't know that I ought to tell you. Well, that
she has gone wrong with you and Berkins. I thought I should die of
laughing--the idea of Berkins was too funny for words.”
“But your father doesn't believe it?”
“Of course not.”
“He doesn't suspect me, I hope?”
“No; I am sure he doesn't. He knows Maggie doesn't know what she is
saying. But he was dreadfully put out about Berkins; he is frightened
out of his wits lest he should hear of it. But for goodness' sake don't
mention that I said anything to you about it; I am in trouble enough as
it is. Father says he can stand it no longer. I am very much afraid that
he will leave Southwick. It depends on what Aunt Mary says. He has sent
for her; she will be here to-morrow.”
These family councils were held in the billiard-room, and when Aunt Mary
and Aunt Hester had had their tea they came along the passage, Aunt Mary
of course in front, Aunt Hester timid and freckled and with her usual
air of tracts. Uncle James stood with his back to the fire waiting
for them. Willy caught at his hair, but an expression of resignation
overspread his face, he packed his diary and accounts in brown paper and
lit a pipe.
“Now, James, let us hear about these new troubles. Something must be
done, that is clear.”
“Yes, something must be done, Mary, and I can think of nothing for it
but to leave this place. It is no longer a place for me to live in. The
Southdown Road has proved too strong for me, it has conquered me.”
“Don't speak like that, James. We must try to bear our burdens, if not
for our own sakes, for the sake of Him who died for us. He bore a very
heavy cross for us.”
“There's no use in talking to me like that, Hester, you only provoke me.
You forget what a cross two daughters are, and the Southdown Road has
become intolerable. It is more than any man can bear; I will bear it no
longer. I have borne it long enough, and am determined to get rid of it.
I am afraid there's nothing for it but to sell the place and go and live
in London.”
Aunt Hester cast her eyes into her satchel, afraid even to think that
her brother had intentionally misinterpreted her words; but Aunt Mary
laughed at the idea of the slonk-hill, as a latter-day Golgotha, with
poor Uncle James staggering beneath the weight of the Southdown Road,
young men and all, upon him. It was very irreverent. He burst into
tears, Hester moved to leave the room, but was restrained by her sister.
“My position is a most unfortunate one; since the death of poor Julia I
have had no one to turn to, there has been no restraining influence in
this house. Here am I working all day long in the City for those girls,
and when I come home in the evening I find my house full of people I
don't know. I assure you, Mary, I don't know any of the people who come
to my house. I am consulted in nothing. It is not fair--I say it is
not fair; and at my death those girls will have thirty thousand pounds
a-piece.”
“I knew you had the money, James, I knew you had,” exclaimed Aunt Mary,
and even Aunt Hester could not help casting a look of admiration on her
weeping brother.
“I say it is not fair; a man of my money should have a comfortable
home to return to. Even the Southdown Road people have that; but no
consideration is shown to me. My dinner is put back so that Sally may
continue her flirtation with Meason in the slonk. Did any one ever hear
of such a thing? A man's dinner put back so that--that--that--”
“Yes, we know all about the dinner being put back; that was three years
ago.”
“Why,” Mr. Brookes asked himself, “had he invited his sisters to his
help?” He was only adding bitterness to his bitter cup. “You have no
sympathy, Mary,” he went on; “you cannot understand the difficulties
of my position--these two girls are for ever quarrelling and fighting;
sometimes they are not even on speaking terms, but I think I prefer
their sullen looks to their violence. Sally threatened to knock her
sister down if she interfered with her young men.”
“What, again?”
“Oh, I don't know if she has threatened to beat her lately. I don't
remember when was the last time. Their various rows are all jumbled up
in my head. All I know is that Maggie says she cannot live in the house
with Sally. Maggie is very ill, she is in a very excited state, as she
was once before, when I would not consent to her marriage with--I have
forgotten his name, but it doesn't matter. Now she won't dress herself,
and she walks about the house with her hair hanging down. I know there
is nothing for it but to send her away under the charge of some lady who
has had experience in such matters. She can't remain here. She has the
strangest delusions. Among other things, she fancies the coachman has
spread it all over Southwick that she has gone wrong with Berkins
and that fellow Escott. Just fancy if Berkins--a ten thousand a year
man--should hear of it! I don't know what he would say. He would peg
into me; he is at times very hard indeed upon me. I don't say he is
not a first-rate man of business, I know he has made several excellent
investments; but for all that I do not and cannot think him competent
to advise me on all my affairs, and that's what he is always doing. He
talks of putting down that Southdown Road. I should like to see how he
would set about doing it.”
“James, Maggie must go away; she is very highly organised, very
sensitive, and if she were to remain here, Sally might have a real
effect on her mind. It is clear the sisters don't get on together; have
you had medical advice? I told you before that you should have medical
advice about those girls; I told you to spare no expense, but to go to
a first-rate London physician and take his opinion. I said before, and I
say it again, that no girls in good health could carry on as dear Sally,
and I will include dear Maggie; for although she does not defy you to
the same extent, there is no doubt that she is too fast, too fond of
young men; her thoughts run too much in that way, and now she is ill, of
course she has delusions. You ought to have medical advice.”
“Mary, dear, the body is not everything; to cure the flesh you must
first cure the soul. I believe our dear nieces rarely, if ever, attend
church, rarely, if ever, remember that this life is not eternal and that
there is a hereafter.”
The conversation came to a pause. Presently Aunt Mary asked Willy, who
sat resigned to his fate, calm and solemn as a Buddha, his hands clasped
over his rotund stomach, if he thought that Maggie's state was one
to cause immediate anxiety, to which he replied: “My sisters think of
nothing but pleasure. The trouble girls are in a house is more than any
one would believe. Here I am, I can do nothing; every night it is
the same thing, over and over again.” And the lean man lapsed into
contemplation.
“But to come to the point, James, I want to hear about Sally. You said
in your letter that a great deal had come to light, and that you now
find that her conduct has been worse than you had ever imagined it,
even in your moments of deepest dejection. Now, I want to hear about all
this. What has she done? Let's have it in plain English. What has she
done?”
“To put it plainly, Mary,” said Mr. Brookes, wiping his tears away,
and turning his back upon his Goodall, “I don't know what she hasn't
done--everything. She is at the present moment the talk of Southwick.
The doctor here has seen her in the field at the back here with Meason
at nine o'clock at night.”
“Why did you allow her to leave the house at that hour? No young girl--”
“She always takes her dogs out in the evening; I cannot prevent her
doing that. It appears, too, that she has had Meason up in her bedroom.”
“O James, you do not mean to say that my dear niece had a man in her
bedroom!”
“Hester, dear, you have lived in a rectory and know nothing of the
world. She says it isn't a bedroom. She pushes the bed away in the
daytime, and covers it up to make it look like a couch. Besides, she
keeps birds in her room, and Flossy had her puppies there. I am not
excusing her conduct, pray do not think that, I am only telling you what
she says.”
“This is very serious. Are you quite sure? Perhaps she only meant to
show the young man her birds or puppies. Her spirit must be broken, I
can clearly see that.”
“I allow them, as you know, one hundred pounds a year apiece. Maggie
keeps none, but Sally always keeps accurate accounts of what she spends.
I asked to see those accounts, for I had heard she had been giving her
money to Meason, and she refused to let me see them. There is a sum of
twenty pounds for which she can give no explanation. Then it is well
known she gave a set of diamond studs to that fellow, and that he
pledged them for five pounds in Brighton. He boasted he had done so,
and said he intended to get plenty of money out of me before he had done
with me. After that I ask you, how can I live in this place? When I go
to the station in the morning I see these young fellows laughing at me
over the tops of their newspapers. When I come home of an evening after
a hard day's work, I find that my dinner--”
“Her spirit must be broken,” said Aunt Mary, drawing her shawl about
her, and crossing her hands. “Her spirit must be broken; she cannot be
allowed to remain here to drive dear Maggie into a lunatic asylum. I am
with you in that, James, but I cannot think you did well to let Frank
Escott slip through your fingers. Had you not talked so much about money
your daughter might have been Lady Mount Rorke.”
“Talked too much about my money? Who would talk about it, I should like
to know, if I didn't? I made it all myself. What do I care for that
lot--a stuck-up lot, pooh, pooh! twist them all round my finger. I am
not going to give my daughter to a man who cannot make a settlement upon
her.”
Seeing he was not to be moved in anything that concerned his pocket,
Aunt Mary returned to the consideration of what was to be done with
Sally. “From what you tell me it is clear that Sally must not remain in
Southwick a day longer than can be helped. I will take her with me to
Woburn; and I think she had better go abroad as soon as we can hear
of some one in whose charge we can place her. But it must not be a sea
voyage--there is nothing more dangerous than to be on board a ship for
a young girl who is at all inclined to be fast. All are thrown so much
together. The cabins open out one into the other, and there is always
a looking for something--a handkerchief, a bunch of keys, a lot of
stooping and playing, twiddling of moustaches,” said Aunt Mary, with a
peal of laughter.
“Mary, dear, we should not speak lightly of wickedness.”
“It was so that all the mischief was done when Emily Evans was sent out
to the Cape--it was all done on board a ship. You remember the Evanses,
James?--you ought to, you used to flirt pretty desperately with Lucy,
the younger sister.” And then Aunt Mary rattled off into interminable
tales concerning the attachment contracted on board a ship in
particular, its unfortunate consequences, how it brought about a divorce
later on by sowing the seeds of passion (Aunt Mary always pronounced
the word “passion” in her narratives with strong emphasis), in the young
girl's heart; and at various stages of her discourse she introduced
fragments of the family history of the Evanses; she followed the
wanderings of the different sisters from Homburg to Paris, from Paris
to Scotland, from Scotland to the Punjab, explaining their different
temperaments by heredity, which led her back into the obscure and
remote times of grandfathers and grandmothers, and, having finally lost
herself, she said: “What was I talking about? You have been listening to
me, James, what was I talking about?”
Till the end of a week the discussion was continued. Aunt Mary tried
hard to reconcile all parties to their different lots, and, as is usual
in such cases, without attaining any result. And yet Aunt Mary went with
her sister to see Frank in his studio. Willy accompanied them, and when
they left he complained bitterly of how his time was wasted. “Regularly
every evening, just as I am sitting down to work, I hear them coming
along the passage. First of all they go to get their grog--squeak,
squeak, pop. I know it all so well. Then they come in with their
tumblers, and they sit down on the sofa, and they begin.--I don't know
what is to be done with dear Sally, unless we can send her abroad in the
care of some relation. How is dear Maggie to-day? I hope I shall be able
to induce her to put on her frock to-morrow, and come for a drive with
me in the carriage. What a trouble young girls are in the house, to be
sure. Then father begins to groan, and pulls out his handkerchief; he
is quite alone, he has no one he can depend upon, then he laughs, 'Well,
well, I suppose it will be all the same a hundred years hence.' So it
goes on night after night. Here am I starting a big business, and I
haven't a room to work in. Just as I am adding up a long column of
figures, perhaps when I am within three of the top, Aunt Mary asks me
a question, and it has to be gone over again. It is most provoking,
there's no denying that it is most provoking.” Frank agreed that nothing
could be more provoking than to be interrupted when you were within
three of the top of a long column of figures. On the following day he
heard that the aunts had left, taking Sally with them. They had promised
their brother to find a lady who would take dear Maggie under her
care--one who would soon wean her from dressing-gowns and delusions, and
restore her to staid remarks and stays; and hopes were entertained that
the Manor House would not have to be sold after all.
But many days had not sped when an event occurred that precipitated
the five acres into the jaws of the builders. Meason had sailed for
Melbourne, and his sister, thinking that some of Sally's letters might
be of use to Mr. Brookes, offered to surrender them upon the receipt
of a cheque for one hundred pounds--a very modest sum, she urged,
considering the character of the letters, most of which concerned
artfully laid plans to meet in the train going or coming from London.
Mr. Brookes called on the shade of dear Julia, but he was not a man to
be blackmailed--he had made all his money himself, and on that point
was immovable. He prepared to leave Southwick. He looked fondly on his
glass-houses, and despairingly on his Friths, Goodalls, and Bouguereaus,
and he wondered if they would look as well in the new rooms as in the
old, and what sum they would realise if he were to include them in the
auction; for an auction was necessary. Mr. Brookes did not thus decide
to abandon his acres without many a sob, nor is it certain that the
final step would have been taken if the gentle builder had not gilded
his insidious hand, and if certain rumours were not about that the
villas in the Southdown Road were not letting, and that Southwick would
never be anything but what it was, a dirty little village--half suburb,
half village.