Ida had found her life at Laburnum Villa hard enough in all conscience
before the night of the concert, but it became still harder after Mr.
Joseph's condescending avowal of love to her and her inevitably
scornful refusal. She avoided him as much as possible, but she was
forced to meet him at the family breakfast, a meal of a cold and dismal
character, generally partaken of by the amiable family in a morose and
gloomy silence or to an accompaniment of irritable and nagging personal
criticism. Mr. Heron, who suffered from indigestion, was always at his
worst at breakfast time; Mrs. Heron invariably appeared meaner and more
lachrymose; Isabel more irritable and dissatisfied; and Joseph, whose
bloodshot eyes and swollen lips testified to the arduous character of
his "late work at the office," went through the pretence of a meal with
a sullen doggedness which evinced itself by something like a snarl if
any one addressed him.
Hitherto he had, of course, been particularly, not to say unpleasantly,
civil to Ida, but after his repulse his manner became marked by a
covert insolence which was intended to remind her of her dependent
position, and the fact that her most direct means of escape from it was
by accepting him as her lover. This manner of his, offensive as it was
intended to be, Ida could have borne with more or less equanimity; for
to her, alas! Joseph Heron seemed of very little more account then one
of the tradesmen's boys she saw occasionally coming up to the house;
but after treating her to it for a day or two in the hope of breaking
her spirit, as he would have expressed it, his manner changed to one of
insinuating familiarity. He addressed her in a low voice, almost a
whisper, so that his sister and mother could not hear, and he smiled
and nodded at her in a would-be mysterious manner, as if they were
sharing some secret.
Though Ida did not know it, it was meant to rouse Mrs. Heron's
suspicions; and it succeeded admirably. Her thin, narrow face would
flush angrily and she would look across at Isabel significantly, and
Isabel would snigger and toss her head, as if she quite understood.
Ida often went to her own room before Mr. Joseph returned at night,
but sometimes he came in before she had gone; and he made a practice of
sitting near her, even venturing on occasions to lean over the back of
her chair, his mother watching him out of the corners of her eyes, and
with her thin lips drawn down; and although Ida invariably got up and
went to another part of the room, her avoidance of Joseph did not lull
his mother's suspicions. Ida's contempt for the young man was too
profound to permit of such a sentiment as hatred--one can scarcely hate
that which one scorns--but whenever he came near her with his tobacco
and spirit-laden breath, she was conscious of an inward shudder which
closely resembled that with which she passed through the reptile house
at the Zoological Gardens.
Mr. Joseph, the house, the whole life, began to get on her nerves; and
in the solitude of her own room she spent many an anguished hour trying
to discover some way of escape. She read all the advertisements of
situations vacant in the newspaper; but all the employers seemed to
require technical knowledge and accomplishments which she did not
possess. She knew she could not teach even the youngest of children,
she was unacquainted with the mysterious science of short-hand, and had
never seen a typewriter. No one appeared to want a young lady who could
break horses, tend cattle, or run a farm; and this was the only kind of
work she could do.
So she was forced to the bitter conclusion that she would have to go on
living the life, and eat the bread of the Herons, with as much patience
as she could command, in the hope that some day "something would
happen" to release her from her bondage, which was gradually robbing
her eyes of their brightness and making her thin and listless. It
seemed that nothing ever would happen, that the weeks would drag into
months and the months into years; and one day as she toiled slowly home
from a country walk, she almost felt inclined to turn to that last
refuge of the destitute and answer one of the advertisements for a
lady's help: anything would be better than to go on living the life in
death which was her lot at Laburnum Villa.
As she approached the house, she saw that the gas was lit in the
drawing-room, and the sound of voices, in which a strange one mingled,
penetrated through the thin door as she passed through the hall to her
room. While she was taking off her hat, there came a hurried knock, and
Isabel entered in her best dress. She was flushed and in a flatter of
suppressed excitement.
"Oh, Ida, can you lend me a clean collar?" she asked, in a stage
whisper, and with a giggle which was intended to invite question; but,
as Ida had asked none, Isabel said, with another giggle: "You've heard
me speak of George Powler?"
Ida looked doubtful: Isabel had mentioned so many men, generally by
their Christian names, who were supposed to be smitten by her, that
Ida, often listening absently enough to the foolish girl's confidences,
not seldom "got mixed."
"The one who went to South Australia," Isabel went on, with an
affectation of coy shyness. "We used to see a great deal of him--at
least he used to call--before he went away; and though there really was
nothing serious between us, of course--But one doesn't like to speak of
these things, even to one's bosom friend. But he's down-stairs just
now. I just had time to run up, and he actually almost saw me on the
stairs! Yes, this one will do: you always have such good-shaped
collars, and yet you have always lived in the country! I must be quick
and hurry down: men do so hate to be kept waiting, don't they? You'll
come down presently, won't you, Ida? I'm sure you'll like him: he's so
steady: and it's a very good business. Of course, as I said, nothing
definite has passed between us, but--"
She giggled and simpered significantly; and Ida, trying to force
herself to take some interest, fastened the collar for Isabel, and
gently and with much tact persuaded that inartistic young lady to
discard a huge crimson bow which she had stuck on her dress with
disastrous results. When, some little time after, Ida went down to the
drawing-room, she found that the visitor was like most of those who
came to Laburnum Villa, very worthy people, no doubt, but uninteresting
and commonplace. This Mr. George Powler was a heavy thick-set man,
approaching middle age, with the air of a prosperous merchant, and with
a somewhat shy and awkward manner; it seemed to Ida that he looked
rather bored as he sat on one of the stiff, uncomfortable chairs, with
the mother and daughter "engaging him in conversation," as they would
have called it. His shyness and awkwardness were intensified by the
entrance of the tall, graceful girl in her black dress, and he rose to
receive the introduction with a startled kind of nervousness, which was
reasonable enough; for the young women with whom he associated were not
dowered with Ida's very palpable grace and refinement.
Ida bowed to him, made some remark about the weather, and went over
with a book to the sofa with the broken spring--and promptly forgot his
existence. But her indifference was not reciprocated; the man was
painfully aware of her presence, and after endeavouring to carry on the
conversation with Isabel, grew absent-minded and incoherent, and
presently, as if he could not help himself, got up and, edging to the
sofa nervously, sat down and tried to talk.
Ida closed her book, and, as in duty bound, was civil to him, though
not perhaps so civil as she would have been to a man of her own age and
class; but Mr. George Powler, no doubt encouraged by her gentleness,
serenity, and perfect self-possession--qualities none too common in the
class to which he belonged--grew less nervous, and, to his own
amazement, found himself talking presently quite fluently to this
distinguished-looking young lady whose entrance of the drawing-room had
struck him with awe. With instinctive courteousness and kindness, Ida
had asked him some question about South Australia, and he was led to
talk of his life there, and to describe the country.
Ida found her thoughts wandering after a few minutes, and grew
absent-minded; but Mr. George Powler was launched, on his favourite
subject, was delighted with the condescension of the beautiful and
stately listener, and did not notice that she was scarcely listening;
did not notice also that Mrs. Heron was looking discontented and
sniffing peevishly, and that Isabel's face wore an expression of
jealousy and resentment. The fact was, that the poor man had quite
forgotten the other young woman--and the other young woman knew it.
Suddenly their silence bore down upon Ida's absent-mindedness, she felt
rather than saw that something was the matter, and she got up, in the
middle of one of Mr. George Powler's fluent but badly constructed
sentences, and going over to Isabel asked her to play something.
Isabel flushed.
"Oh, you had better sing," she said; "Mr. Powler would like that
better, _I'm_ sure."
"Oh, yes; please do!" pleaded the man; and Ida, trying to conceal her
weariness and distaste, went to the piano and sang the shortest song
she knew.
Her acquiescence was unfortunate in its result, for it completed in Mr.
George Powler's bosom the havoc which her face and voice had wrought.
He pressed her to sing again, beat time with his large hand and badly
groomed head, and was enthusiastic in his praises and seemed so
disappointed when she refused, that he seconded her appeal to Isabel
with an obviously forced politeness.
Isabel went to the piano, but she was at no time a very brilliant
performer, and the poor girl was so upset by Ida's unconscious and
unwilling superiority, that she broke down in the middle of one of
those hideous drawing-room pieces which seem specially "arranged" for
the torture of those who are blessed or cursed with musical taste.
The conversation naturally lagged and languished under these
circumstances, and Mr. George Powler presently rose to take his leave.
He was not asked to remain to dinner though Mrs. Heron had intended
inviting him, and had made secret and flurried preparations. He shook
hands with Ida with marked _empressement_ and nervousness, and seemed
as if he could scarcely tear himself away.
When he had gone the mother and daughter sat bolt upright in their
chairs and stared before them in a pregnant silence; and Ida, wondering
what was the matter, was about to leave the room, when Mrs. Heron said
in a hard, thin voice:
"One moment, Ida, if you please."
Ida paused at the door with her book in her hand, startled from her
dreaminess by the woman's tone and manner.
"You had better close the door, Ida. I should not like the servants to
overhear what it is my duty to say to you."
Ida closed the door and stood expectantly, and Mrs. Heron continued:
"I trust I am not one to find fault unnecessarily. I know it is the
duty of a Christian to be patient and long-suffering; but there is a
limit to one's endurance, and I regret to say that you have passed that
limit. I should not be fulfilling my duty to a young person who is
under my charge if I refrained from pointing out to you that your
conduct, since you have been under our roof, has been reprehensible and
disgraceful."
Ida was too amazed for a moment to realise the full significance of the
spiteful speech; and then, as it gradually dawned upon her, the blood
rose to her face and an indignant protest rose to her lips; but she
checked it, and merely repeated the objectionable phrase.
"Yes, disgraceful," said Mrs. Heron. "I am sorry to be compelled to use
such a word to a young girl and to one in your position; and I do not
think you make matters better by pretending not to know what I mean."
"It is no pretence, Mrs. Heron," said Ida, quite calmly. "I do not in
the least know what you mean."
"Then I'll tell you," retorted Mrs. Heron, with suppressed fury. "You
are one of the most shameless flirts I ever knew."
Ida fell an almost irresistible desire to laugh; she had been tired
when she came in, Mr. George Powler's attentions had made her still
more weary, and the sight of the two women seated bolt upright and
evidently boiling over with anger, was full of a grotesque humour which
affected her hysterically. She managed to stifle the laugh, and looked
at them patiently and calmly as she stood by the mantel-piece with one
arm resting on the shelf. The unconscious ease and grace of her
attitude increased Mrs. Heron's irritation; her thin lips trembled and
her eyes grew red.
"Oh, I am not blind," she said. "I've been quite aware of your conduct
for some time past; but I have refrained from speaking to you because,
as I say, you are under my roof and I did not wish to hurt your
feelings--though I am sure you have had very little regard for ours. I
have been greatly deceived in you, Ida. I thought when you came that
you were a quiet, well-conducted young woman, and I could scarcely
believe my eyes when I first saw that I was mistaken, and that your
quietness was only slyness. I suppose you didn't think I saw that you
were trying to entrap my poor boy; but a mother's eyes are sharp, and a
mother will protect her own at any cost. Oh, you needn't try to stare
me out of countenance, or to put on that surprised and innocent look.
You may have been able to deceive me once, but you can't now. I've been
watching you, and I've seen with my own eyes your carryings on."
"Mrs. Heron--" began Ida, very quietly; but Mrs. Heron tore on with
breathless vehemence.
"I suppose you only did it for your amusement; I don't suppose you
thought there would be any good in it, that his father or I would allow
Joseph to make such a _fool_ of himself as to throw himself away upon a
girl without any means; but it's all the more shameful. You succeeded
very well; you've turned the poor boy's head and made him miserable.
It's to be hoped that it will stop there, and that he won't be driven
to drink or desperate courses, as some young men are. Of course you'll
say that you never meant anything of the kind. I'm quite prepared for
that--you can be plausible enough when you like; with that quiet,
cat-like manner of yours."
Ida had passed beyond the laughing stage by this time; her face was
pale, her eyes flashing; but she was able to say, with an appearance of
calm:
"You are quite right, Mrs. Heron; I have no hesitation in saying that I
did not wish your son to pay me any attention, much less--Oh, do you
not see how ridiculous it is?" she broke out, indignantly, and with a
little desperate laugh. Mrs. Heron's face flamed. "I don't know what
you mean by ridiculous," she snapped. "I should say Joseph was quite
good enough a match for you; and I've no doubt you think so, though you
pretend to sneer at him."
"Let me assure you, Mrs. Heron, that I have never thought of your son
as a possible husband," said Ida. "His attentions to me are more than
unwelcome--and he knows it."
"Oh! then you admit that the poor boy is in love with you, that he has
told you? You see, you can't deceive me; I knew it. I wonder you aren't
ashamed of yourself; at any rate, having caused trouble in the house
that shelters you, that you haven't shame enough to refrain from
flirting, before our very eyes, with the first man that appears."
Ida stared at her in amazement, too great for the moment to permit of
resentment.
"What is this you accuse me of?" she asked. "Oh, pray, pray, do not be
so unreasonable, so unjust!"
Mrs. Heron wagged her head, as one who is not to be deceived by any
affectation of innocence.
"No, thank you, Ida!" she exclaimed. "That won't do for us. We've seen
it with our own eyes, haven't we, Isabel?"
Isabel took out her handkerchief and began to whimper.
"I should never have thought it of you, Ida," she sobbed. "And with
George, too! And I'd only just told you that--that there had been
things between us. I do think you might have left him alone."
Ida was half distracted.
"But you really cannot mean it!" she pleaded. "I have done nothing,
said nothing. You surely do not complain of his speaking to me, of his
being simply civil and polite! Heaven knows I had no desire to exchange
a word with him. I would not have come down if Isabel had not asked me,
and I had thought you would have considered it rude of me to remain
upstairs. Oh, what can I say to convince you that you are mistaken,
that I never gave a thought to this gentleman--I forget his name--that
I do not care if I never see him again, and that--Isabel, surely you do
not think me capable of the--vulgarity, the stupidity, with which your
mother charges me!"
Isabel's sniffs and sobs only grew louder, and her demonstrative misery
worked Mrs. Heron to a higher pitch of resentment and virtuous
indignation.
"That is right, Isabel, do not answer her. It is all pretence and
deceit on her part. She knows very well that she was doing her best to
attract his attention, smiling and making eyes at him, and attempting
to catch him just as she has caught poor Joseph."
Ida's slight figure sprang erect, her face grew crimson and her eyes
flashed with a just wrath which could no longer be suppressed.
"I think you must be mad," she said in a low voice. "Indeed, you must
be mad, or you would not insult me in this way. If I were guilty of the
conduct of which you accuse me, I should not be fit to live, should not
be fit to remain in any respectable house."
"You are guilty," retorted Mrs. Heron. "And as to your being fit to
remain under this roof--and it was a respectable and happy one until
you came--you are the best judge. I shall inform your cousin John of
what has passed--it is my duty to do so--and he shall decide whether
you are to remain, a firebrand, and a disturber of the peace of a
Christian household. It is my duty to protect my poor boy."
At that moment the hall door was opened and closed, and the "poor boy,"
after shuffling about in the hall for a moment or two, opened the
drawing-room door. His hat was on the back of his head, one end of his
collar was unfastened, his face was flushed, and there was mud on his
coat, as if he had fallen--which he had. He lurched into the room with
a tipsy leer, and nodded to them with an affectation of extreme
sobriety, which is unfortunately always assumed by the individual who
is hopelessly intoxicated. Mrs. Heron rose with outstretched hands.
"Oh, Joseph, are you ill? My poor boy!"
"Ill?" he repeated, with a hiccough. "No, I'm not ill. Yes, I am,
though; it's mental worry, it's a 'arassed 'eart;" he looked at Ida and
shook his head reproachfully. "_She_ knows, but she don't care--But
whatsh the matter," he broke off, staring at Isabel, who was still
struggling with her sniffs and sobs. "Whatsh up? Whatsh Isabel cryin'
for? Ida been cryin' too? Look 'ere, I won't shtand that. If they've
bin ill-treating you, Ida, my dear, you shay so, and I'll know the
reashon why. You come to me, my dear."
He lurched towards Ida, and as she drew back with a shudder of horror
and loathing, Isabel and his mother caught the wretched young man by
the arm, and with cries of alarm and commiseration, endeavoured to
soothe him.
"Don't speak to her, don't think of her; she's not worth it!" said Mrs.
Heron. "She's not worth any sensible man's thoughts, least of all a man
like you, Joseph. You are ill, you must come to bed!"
"Stuff an' 'umbug," he hiccoughed, as he struggled feebly with them,
and cast enamoured and would-be reassuring glances at Ida's white and
stern face. "She's a shplendid girl; she's a good girl; finest gal I
know; and she an' me undershtand one another; twin shouls. We've kep'
our secret from you, mother, but the time has come--the time has come
to reveal the truth. I love Ida. It'sh no good your frowning at me like
that; I shay I love Ida."