COMFORTABLE MRS. HANCOCK
It is almost doubtful whether it is right to call Heathmoor a village,
since there is something plebeian about the word, implying labourers'
cottages and public-houses and an admixture of corduroy in the trousers
of the male inhabitants with strings tied, for reasons eternally
inexplicable, below their knees. Even less is Heathmoor a town, if by
a town we denote an assemblage of houses cheek to jowl, streets with
tramways or omnibuses and a scarcity of trees and gardens. Indeed,
no known word implying the collected domicile of human beings--which
Heathmoor certainly is--will describe it, and the indication of it
necessitates a more verbose method.
It lies at so convenient a distance from the metropolis, and is served
by so swift and proper a succession of trains at those hours when
Heathmoor travels, that it combines, as its inhabitants unanimously
declare, all the advantages of town with the pleasures and fine air
of the country. Twenty minutes in a well-padded railway-carriage with
bevelled mirrors and attractive photographs of beaches and abbeys and
nice clear rivers lands the business men to whom Heathmoor almost
entirely belongs in one of the main and central arteries of the London
streets, and twenty-three minutes suffices to take them and their
wives and daughters home again after they have dined in town and
been to the play. The question of those extra minutes is a staple of
conversation in Heathmoor, and there is a great deal of high feeling
about it, for nobody can see, especially after hours of conversation on
the subject, why the railway company should not quicken up the return
trains in the evening. Another peculiarity of those otherwise admirable
trains is that the first-class carriages are invariably full and the
rest of the vehicles comparatively empty. Tickets, moreover--those mean
little oblongs of cardboard--are seldom seen, and ticket collectors
never make their demands. If some energetic young man, newly promoted,
ventures to open a first-class carriage-door between Heathmoor and
London, by the train that leaves Heathmoor at 9.6 a.m., for instance,
or the later one at 9.42 a.m., its occupants look at him in disgusted
astonishment. One, perhaps, sufficiently unbends to murmur, "Season,"
but probably no notice is taken of him till the guard, hurrying up,
gives him a couple of hot words, and apologizes to the gentlemen.
On the whole, they are not made uncomfortable by such intrusions;
interruption, in fact, rarely occurring, somewhat emphasizes the
privileged aloofness of these Heathmoor magnates, just as an occasional
trespasser in well-ordered domains makes to glow the more brightly the
sense of proprietorship. The impertinence receives but a shrug, and a
settlement behind the page of the _Financial Times_ follows.
The second of these trains, namely, the 9.42 a.m. from Heathmoor,
performs a more sociable journey, for there is less of the _Financial
Times_ in it and more of the ladies of Heathmoor, who, with business
to transact in the shops, go up to town in the morning with amazing
frequency, returning, for the most part, by an equally swift transit,
which lands them back at home again at twenty minutes past one. All the
morning, in consequence, between those hours the roads at Heathmoor,
which are level and well drained owing to its famous gravelly soil,
which renders it so salubrious a settlement, are comparatively empty,
for those who do not go to London find in their houses and gardens
sufficient occupation to detain them there till lunch-time. Once again,
between five and six the male population swarms homewards, and a row of
cabs uniformly patronized awaits the arrival of the midnight train from
town, which enables its travellers to have stayed to the very end of
most theatrical performances.
A small mercantile quarter clusters round the station, but the local
shops are neither numerous nor, as Mrs. Hancock, Colonel Fanshawe's
widowed sister, sometimes laments, "choice." Butcher, baker, and
greengrocer supply the less "choice" comforts of life, but if you
want a sweetbread in a hurry, or a bundle of early asparagus, it is
idle to expect anything of the sort. A "Court milliner," who lately
set up there behind a plate-glass window and some elegant "forms,"
has a great deal of time on her hands, and a tailor, who professes
to have the newest suitings, and to be unrivalled in the matter of
liveries, does little more than put an occasional patch in the garments
of the male inhabitants, for Heathmoor, in general, gets its apparel
from metropolitan markets, and prefers to be waited on by large and
noiseless parlourmaids. In fact, the mercantile quarter forms but an
insignificant fraction of Heathmoor residences, the bulk of which
consists of admirably comfortable and commodious villas, each standing
segregate in its acre or half-acre of garden. All along the well-kept
roads--the roads at Heathmoor seem to be washed and dusted, like
china, every morning--are situated these residences, so aptly described
as desirable, each with its gate, its laurel hedge, and small plot of
grass in front, each with its tennis-court or croquet-lawn at back,
its tiled roofs, its "tradesmen's entrance," and its crimson rambler
aspiring above the dining-room bow-window. The larger houses--those
in fact which stand on acre plots--have a stable or garage attached
to them, though all are in telephonic communication with the livery
stables that are situated on the far side of the railway-bridge, and
all are built in accordance with a certain English norm or rule,
designed to ensure solid comfort and an absence of draughts. There is
none that lacks the electric light, none in which rivers of hot and
cold water are not laid on upstairs and downstairs, none that lacks
a lavatory situated close to the front door, in which is hung up a
convincing and lucid diagram of the system of drainage. But there is
no monotony or uniformity in the appearance of these houses; some
are of brick, some of rough-cast, and all have a certain mediocre
individuality of their own--like the faces of a flock of sheep--which
renders them to the observer as various as the high-sounding names that
are so clearly printed on their front gates.
Most of these exceedingly comfortable houses, designed for the
complete convenience of couples with or without small families, are,
as has been said, built on half-acre or acre plots. They are all of
modern construction, with a view to the saving of domestic labour,
for Heathmoor as a place of residence for well-to-do City men is but
of late discovery. But here and there a more spacious specimen can
be encountered, and Mrs. Hancock, who found nothing choice in the
Heathmoor shops, had some ten years ago, on the death of her husband,
bought two of these acre plots, and had built thereon a house of larger
rooms, a boudoir, and a stable with coachman's quarters. Since then she
had devoted nearly all her income to rendering herself completely and
absolutely comfortable. An excellent cook, salaried at sixty pounds
a year, a sum which, according to the regular Heathmoor standard,
would be considered to be sufficient to pay the wages of a parlourmaid
also, largely contributed to her well-being, and a maid, a serious
butler with the deportment of a dean, a chauffeur, two housemaids, a
kitchen-maid, a gardener, and a daughter were all devoted to the same
mission. The daughter occupies the ultimate place in this list, not
because Edith was not loving and loved, but because on the whole her
contribution to her mother's comfort was materially less than that
of any of the others, though perhaps physically more. Indeed, she
shared in rather than subscribed to it, drove with her in her motor,
ate of the delicious food, while in the evenings she laid out her own
game of patience, without being called upon to advise or condole or
congratulate in respect of Mrs. Hancock's. It is true that the window
on Edith's side of the car was put down if her mother required a
little more air without being too close to its ingress, and put up if
Mrs. Hancock in her seat wished to avoid a draught, but she was by no
means enserfed to the ruling spirit that directed and controlled the
movements of the other dependents. Naturally she drove and dined with
her mother, read her into a comfortable doze after tea, and did all
the duties of a daughter, but she had, even when with Mrs. Hancock, an
existence and a volition of her own, which the others had not.
Indeed, there was at this present time an event maturing that promised
to provide Edith with a completer independence yet, for Mrs. Hancock
had for months been encouraging an attachment that was wholly sensible,
and, like most sensible things, could not possibly be called romantic.
Edward Holroyd, the young man in question, was very well off, being
partner in a firm of sound, steady-going brokers in the City, was
regularity itself in the persistence with which he caught the 9.6 a.m.
train to town every morning, and, as far as could be ascertained, had
never, in spite of his twenty-seven years, given any serious attention
to a girl until Mrs. Hancock firmly turned his well-featured head in
Edith's direction. He lived, furthermore, in a half-acre residence of
his own, next door to Mrs. Hancock, and this she reckoned as a solid
item among his eligibilities, for Edith would be able to give a great
deal of companionship to her mother during the hours when her husband
was in the City. Mrs. Hancock did not forget to add--to her own credit
side, so to speak--that, since Edith would thus generally lunch with
her, and drive with her afterwards, this would save her daughter
something substantial in house-books, and give her the motor-drive she
was accustomed to. It is true that her prospective husband had a motor
of his own in which it might be supposed that Edith could take the air
if so inclined, consequently Mrs. Hancock added another item to her own
credit when she reflected that if Edith drove with her there would be
effected a saving in Edward's tyre and petrol bills. This was entirely
congenial to her mind, for she delighted to make economies for other
people as well as herself, if the perfection of her own comfort was not
affected thereby.
On this genial morning of early May, ventilated by a breath of
south-west wind, and warmed by a summer sun, the dining-room windows of
Arundel--the agreeable name of Mrs. Hancock's house--were both open,
and she was sitting at a writing-table just within, fixing her plans
for the day. She always sat here after breakfast until she had seen her
cook, sent orders to her chauffeur, and read the smaller paragraphs in
the _Morning Post._ Usually the plans for the day, the marching orders,
as she habitually called them, depended completely on the weather. If
it was fine she drove in her car from twelve to a quarter-past one, and
again, after a salutary digestive pause after lunch, when she engaged
with the more solid paragraphs in the _Morning Post,_ from three till
a quarter to five. This, it must be understood, was the curriculum for
the summer; in the winter radical changes might occur; and sometimes
if the morning was fine, but promised rain later, she would start as
early as eleven, and went out--if the weather still held up--for quite
a short time in the afternoon. But she always went out twice, even
if occasionally her inclination would have been to stop at home, for
Denton, the steady chauffeur, and Lind, the serious butler, would have
thought it odd if she did not take two airings. Did she, then, go out
when she had a bad cold? No; but then she never had a bad cold.
To-day, however, being Ascension Day, the marching orders became
exceedingly complicated; and when Lind came in to say that Denton was
waiting for her commands, he received the same instructions that had
been given him last Ascension Day, but never since. These were not the
same as on Sundays and Christmas Days, because on Ascension Day Mrs.
Hancock drove in the afternoon.
"Tell Denton I shall want the car at ten minutes to eleven," she said.
"No; you had better say a quarter to--to take me to church. He must be
back there at a quarter-past twelve, or, say ten minutes past. I shall
drive this afternoon at three. Or----"
Mrs. Hancock pondered a moment, exactly as she had done on last
Ascension Day.
"Edith, dear," she said to her daughter, who was winding the clock, "I
think we had better lunch to-day at one instead of at half-past. There
will not be time to settle down to anything after church. And in that
case we had better go out this afternoon at half-past two. And lunch
will be at one, Lind. I will see Mrs. Williams now."
She paused again. This was not a usual Ascension Day pause, though
connected with it.
"I see there is a holiday on the Stock Exchange, Edith," she said, "so
perhaps Mr. Holroyd will lunch with us. Wait a moment, Lind."
She did not scribble a note, and never had done so, but wrote it very
neatly, begging pardon for so short a notice, and hoping that if--a
verbal answer was all that was required.
"I will see Mrs. Williams as soon as I get the answer, Lind," she said,
"and I will tell you then whether we shall be two at lunch or three."
It was not worth while to "settle" to anything when an interruption
would come so soon; and Mrs. Hancock looked quietly and contentedly
out over the garden, where Ellis was mowing the tennis-court. The
flower-beds below the window dazzled with the excellence of their
crimson tulips, and swooned with the sunny fragrance of their
wallflowers, and the hedge of espaliered apples that separated the
lawn from the kitchen-garden was pink with blooms of promise. The
rose-trees were all cut back in storage for their summer flowering; no
spike of weed was insolent on the well-kept paths or garden-beds, and
no tending that the most exacting gardener's companion could suggest
as suitable to the season had been left undone. The same flawless
neatness distinguished the dining-room from which Mrs. Hancock looked
out. Landseer prints hung quite straight on the paper of damask red.
Such chairs as were not in use stood square-shouldered to the walls;
the writing-table where she sat was dustlessly furnished with pens,
pen-wipers, pencils, sealing-wax, and all stationery appertaining; the
maroon curtains were looped back at exactly the same angle, and six
inches of green blind showed at the top of each window. Room and garden
were as _soignés_ as Mrs. Hancock's own abundant hair.
Mrs. Hancock's pass-book had been returned to her from her bankers that
morning, and she found it quite pleasant reading, pleasant enough,
indeed, to open and read again as she waited for the arrival of the
verbal message from next door. Next to devising and procuring all that
could be secured of material comforts, the occupation that, perhaps,
chiefly administered to her content was that of saving money. This
seemed to her an extremely altruistic pleasure, since, if you took
a large enough view of it, she was saving for Edith. Thus she would
always purchase anything she wanted at the place where it could most
cheaply be obtained, provided its quality was in no way inferior, and
she never omitted to lay in a replete cellar of coal during the summer
months. Anything like waste was abhorrent to her, and, though her
ordinary living expenses were excessively high, she could not secure
absolute comfort and the flawless appointment of her house at a smaller
outlay. She paid high wages to her servants and gladly defrayed their
doctors' and dentists' bills, since she wished to make it impossible
for them to think of leaving her when once she was satisfied with them,
for a change of servants was uncomfortable, and produced days of uneasy
suspense before it became certain that the new one would suit her. All
such expenses were incurred to procure comfort, and so were necessary,
but beyond them she was extremely economical and dearly liked the
secure and continued feeling of a big balance at the bank. When that
balance grew very large she made a prudent investment, often through
Edward Holroyd, and told herself that she was doing it for the sake of
Edith.
Before long came a warm acceptance of her hospitality from next door,
and, having sent for Mrs. Williams, she added mutton cutlets to the
menu, and withdrew the asparagus, as her cook was certain there was
not enough for three; then she got up from her writing-table, since
the marching orders were now completed. Her plump and pleasant face
was singularly unwrinkled, considering the fifty years that had passed
over it, yet it would perhaps have been even more singular if the years
had written on it any record of their passage. It is true that she had
married, had borne a child, and had lost a husband, but none of these
events had marred the placidity of her nature. At the most, they had
been but pebbles tossed into and swallowed up below that unruffled
surface, breaking it but for a moment with inconsiderable ripples. She
had married because she had easily seen the wisdom of becoming the
wife of a well-to-do and wholly amiable man instead of continuing to
remain the once handsome Miss Julia Fanshawe. Wisdom still continued
to be justified of her child, for she enjoyed the whole of her late
husband's income, and since her clear four thousand pounds a year was
derived from debenture stock and first mortgage bonds, it was not
likely that these fruits of prudence would wither or decay on this side
of the grave. But she did not ever distress or harass herself with
the thought of anything so comfortless as sepulchres, but devoted her
time and money to the preservation of her health, and the avoidance
of all such worries and anxieties as could possibly disturb the poise
and equilibrium of her nervous system. She was slightly inclined to
stoutness, and occasionally had rheumatic twinges in the less important
joints, but a month spent annually at Bath sufficed to keep these
little ailments in check, while the complete immunity she enjoyed there
from all household anxieties, since she lived in a very comfortable
hotel, was restorative to a nervous system that already hovered on
perfection, and enabled her to take up her home duties again--which, as
has been said, consisted in providing comfort for herself--with renewed
vigour. This visit to Bath was to take place next week, and for the
last ten days she had thought of little else than the question as to
whether she would take Denton and her motor-car with her. Last night
only she had come to the determination to do so, and consequently there
was a great deal to be thought about to-day as to cushions, luggage,
and where to lunch, for she was herself going to travel in it.
Edith had finished winding the clock when her mother got up.
"There is still half an hour before we need think of getting ready for
church, dear," she said, "and we might go on planning our arrangements
for next week. The maps are in the drawing-room, for Denton brought
them in last night, but the print is so small that I should be glad if
you would get my number two spectacles which I left in my bedroom. They
are either on my dressing-table or on the small table by my bed. Filson
will find them if you cannot put your hand on them. Oh, look; there are
two starlings pecking at the garden-beds. How bold they are with the
mowing-machine so close! I hope Ellis will scare them away from the
asparagus."
Edith managed to find the number two spectacles without troubling
Filson, and devoted her whole mind, which was as tranquil and lucid
as her mother's, to the great question of the journey to Bath. Though
the distance was something over a hundred miles, it was clearly better
to risk being a little over-tired, and compass the whole in one day,
rather than spend the night--perhaps not very comfortably--at some
half-way country inn, where it was impossible to be certain about the
sheets. After all, if the fatigue was severe a day's rest on arrival
at Bath, postponing the treatment till the day after, would set things
right. But in that case lunch must either be obtained at Reading, or,
better still, they could take it with them in a luncheon-basket, and
eat it _en route_. Denton could take his, too, and they would stop for
half an hour to eat after Reading, thus dividing the journey into two
halves. So far so good.
The question of Filson's journey was more difficult. If the day was
fine she could, of course, travel outside with Denton, but if it was
wet she would have to come inside--a less ideal arrangement with regard
to knees. In that case also Lind would have to go up to town with
the heavy luggage, and see it firmly bestowed in the Bath express at
Paddington. At this point Edith triumphantly vindicated the superiority
of two heads over one, and suggested that Filson should go up to town
with the heavy luggage, and catch the 2.30 express (was it not?) at
Paddington, thus arriving at Bath before them. Indeed, she would have
time almost to unpack before they came.
The 2.30 train was verified, and thereafter all was clear. Lind would
escort Filson and the heavy luggage to the station, and since Mrs.
Williams would be putting up lunches anyhow, Filson could take hers
as well.... But it was time to get ready for church, and the question
of cushions and cloaks for so long a drive which might be partly cold
and partly warm must wait. But certainly Denton would have to come in
either after church or in the evening, for the route, which appeared to
lie straight down the Bath road, had not been tackled at all yet.
Mrs. Hancock's religious convictions and practices, which Edith
entirely shared with her, were as comfortable as her domestic
arrangements, but simpler, and they did not occupy her mind for so many
hours daily. It must be supposed that she recognized the Christian
virtue of charity, for otherwise she would not, in the course of the
year, have knitted so large a quantity of thick scarves, made from a
cheap but reliable wool, or have sent them to the wife of her parish
clergyman for distribution among the needy. She worked steadily at them
after the short doze which followed tea, while Edith read aloud to her,
but apart from this and the half-crowns which she so regularly put into
the offertory-plate, the consideration of the poor and needy did not
practically concern her, though she much disliked seeing tramps and
beggars on the road. For the rest, a quiet thankfulness, except when
she had rheumatism, glowed mildly in her soul for all the blessings
of this life which she so abundantly enjoyed, and even when she had
rheumatism she was never vehement against Providence. She was quite
certain, indeed, that Providence took the greatest care of her, and she
followed that example by taking the greatest care of herself, feeling
it a duty to do so. For these attentions she returned thanks every
morning and evening in her bedroom, and in church on Sunday morning,
and also frequently in the evening, if fine. When rheumatism troubled
her she added a petition on the subject and went to Bath. Never
since her earliest days had she felt the slightest doubts with regard
to the religion that was hers, and dogma she swallowed whole, like
a pill. Her father had been a Canon of Salisbury, and in the fourth
and least-used sitting-room in the house, where smoking was permitted
if gentlemen were staying with her, was a glass-fronted bookcase in
which were four volumes of his somewhat controversial sermons. These
she sometimes read to herself on wet Sunday evenings, if Edith chanced
to have a sore throat. Her evening doze usually succeeded this study.
But to say that the principles of a Christian life were alien to her
would be libellous, since, though neither devout nor ascetic, she was
kind, especially when it involved no self-sacrifice, she was truthful,
she was a complete stranger to envy, slander, or malice, and was quite
unvexed by any doubts concerning the wisdom and benevolence of the
Providence in which she trusted as firmly as she trusted in aspirin and
Bath for her rheumatism.
At the church in which she was so regular an attendant, she found
both doctrine and ritual completely to her mind, even as it was to
the mind of the comfortable and prosperous inhabitants of Heathmoor
generally. No litany ever lifted up its lamentable petitions there, the
hymns were always of a bright and jovial order, unless, as in Lent,
brightness was liturgically impossible, and the vicar even then made
a habit of preaching delightfully short and encouraging sermons about
the Christian duty of appreciating all that was agreeable in life, and
told his congregation that it was far more important to face the future
with a cheerful heart than to turn a regretful eye towards the sins
and omissions of the past. To this advice Mrs. Hancock found it both
her pleasure and her duty to conform, and, indeed, with her excellent
health, her four thousand pounds a year, and her household of admirable
servants, it was not difficult to face the future with smiling
equanimity. And though, again, it would have been libellous to call
her pharisaical, for she was not the least complacent in her estimate
of herself, she would have experienced considerable difficulty in
making any sort of catalogue of her misdoings. Besides, as Mr. Martin
distinctly told them, it was mere morbidity to dwell among the broken
promises of the past. "Far better, dear friends, to be up and doing in
the glorious sunlight of a new day. Sufficient, may we not truly say,
to the day is the good thereof. Let that be our motto for the week. And
now."
And the refreshed and convinced congregation poured thankful
half-crowns into the velvet collecting pouches, and themselves into the
glorious sunlight.
Edward Holroyd, from the bow-window of his dining-room next door--like
most of the inhabitants of Heathmoor he habitually sat in his
dining-room after breakfast when not leaving for the City by the 9.6
a.m. train--saw the Hancocks' car glide churchwards at ten minutes
to eleven, and then proceeded to his drawing-room to practise on his
piano with slightly agitated hands. The agitation was partly due to
the extraordinary number of accidentals which Chopin chose to put
into the Eleventh Etude, partly to a more intimate cause, connected
with the invitation he had just accepted. For some months now--in
fact, ever since his twenty-seventh birthday--he had made up his mind
that it was time to get married, and had held himself in a position
of almost pathetic eagerness--like a man crouching for the sprint,
waiting the signal of the pistol--to fall in love. But either the
pre-ordained maiden or some psychical defect in himself had been
lacking, and he had long been wondering if there was to be any
pistol at all. If not, it was idle to maintain himself in the tense,
crouching strain. But he had no doubts whatever that he wished to be
married, and that Mrs. Hancock--when he allowed himself for a moment
to face a slightly embarrassing question--wished him to be married,
too. She constantly turned his head in one particular direction, and
that direction showed him, in house-agents' phrase, a very pleasing
prospect, which, without complacency, he believed smiled on him with an
open and even affectionate regard. But he wondered at himself for not
being of a livelier eagerness in emotional matters, for he brought to
the vocations and avocations of his busy and cheerful life a fund of
enthusiasm which was of more than normal intensity. Like the majority
of the males of Heathmoor, he rounded off days of strenuous work in
the City with strenuous amusements, and with croquet in summer and
bridge and piano-playing in the winter, filled up to the brim the
hours between the arrival of the evening train and bedtime. But the
failure of the inevitable and unique She to put in an appearance and
bewitch the eyes and the heart which were so eager to be spellbound was
disconcerting. For years he had looked for her, for years he had missed
her, and since his twenty-seventh birthday he had begun to determine to
do without her. He accepted the limitations, namely, his own inability
to fall in love, for which he could not devise a cure, and was prepared
to close gratefully with so pleasant and attractive an arrangement as
he believed to be open to him. He liked and admired Edith, her firm
and comely face, her serene content, her quiet capable ways. She was
as fond of croquet and bridge as himself, and--this was a larger
testimonial than he knew--really enjoyed his piano-playing. And if the
lightnings and thunders of romance roused no reverberating glories
in his heart, it must be remembered that romance is a shy rare bird,
coming not to nest under every eave, and that there would be a very
sensible diminution in marriage fees if every man delayed matrimony
until the blinding ecstatic light fell upon his enraptured eyes.
It is clear "what was the matter," in medical phrase, with this
handsome and lively young man. At heart he was an idealist, but one
ready to capitulate, to surrender to beleaguering common sense. He was
ready to sacrifice his dreams, a somewhat serious offence in a world
where true dreamers are so rare. By nature he was a true dreamer, but
accumulating wealth and the dense comfort of life at Heathmoor had
done much to rouse him, though in music he still saw the fiery fabric,
unsubstantial and receding. In performance he was quite execrable, in
imagination of the highest calibre. Through all his patient and heavy
strumming he heard the singing of the immortal bird, and even his
reputation as a piano-player in the drawing-rooms of Heathmoor had not
made him lose his profound appreciation of his own incompetence. But in
music alone was he worthy any more of the title of a dreamer; to-day
he stood pen in hand ready to sign the greatest capitulation to common
sense that a man is ever called upon to make, for he was ready to
give up the image of the invisible conjectured She that stood faintly
glimmering in the inmost chamber of his heart and throw it open for a
charming enemy to enter.
It was not long before he gave up his attempts on the piano, for this
invitation to lunch next door had caused him to take a definite
resolution which upset all steadiness and concentration, and, lighting
a pipe, he strolled out into his garden. He had not room there for a
full-sized croquet lawn, and had contented himself with three or four
hoops of ultra-championship narrowness, through which, with the fervour
of the true artist, he was accustomed to practise various awkward
hazards. But here, again, as by the piano, desire failed, and, with
an extinguished pipe, he sat down on a garden-seat, and experienced a
sharp attack of spurious middle-age, such as is incidental to youth,
regretting, as youth does, the advent of the middle-age, which in
reality is yet far distant. He had completely made up his mind to
propose to Edith that day, believing, without coxcombry, that he would
be accepted, believing also that the future thus held for him many
years of health and happiness, with the addition, no slight one, of
a charming and inalienable companion whom he liked and admired. Yet
something, the potentiality of the fire which had never yet been lit in
him, caused him an infinite and secret regret for the step which was
now as good as taken. He longed for something he had never experienced,
for something of which he had no real conception, but of which he
felt himself capable, for, as the flint owns fire in its heart, but
must wait to be struck, he felt that his true destiny was not to be
but a stone to mend a road, or, at the best, to be mortared into a
house-wall, with all his fiery seed slumbering within him. Yet ... what
if there was no fire there at all? He had long held himself ready,
aching, you might say, for the blow that should evoke it, and none had
struck him into blaze.
It was not surprising that the approaching motor-drive to Bath loomed
conversationally large at lunch, and Edward proved weighty in debate.
He had a sharp, decisive habit in social affairs; his small change of
talk was bright and fresh from the mint, and seemed a faithful index to
his keen face and wiry, assertive hair.
"Quite right not to break the journey, Mrs. Hancock," he said. "Most
country hotels consist of feather-beds, fish with brown sauce, and
windows over a stable-yard. But if you do it in one journey, get most
of it over before lunch. I should start by ten at the latest."
Mrs. Hancock consulted a railway time-table.
"Then Filson will have to be finished with her packing at half-past
nine," she said. "The heavy luggage must go to the station in the car
before we start."
"Have it sent in a cab afterwards," suggested Holroyd.
Mrs. Hancock pondered over this.
"I don't think I should like that, should I, Edith?" she said. "I
should prefer to see it actually leave the house. Or can I trust Lind
and Filson? Edith, dear, remember to remind me to take the patience
cards in my small bag. There is room to lay out a patience on the
folding-table in the car, and it will help to pass the time."
"And have you got footstools?" asked Edward.
Over Mrs. Hancock's face there spread a smile like the coming of dawn.
Here was a comfort that had never occurred to her.
"_What_ a good idea!" she said. "I have often felt a little strained
and uncomfortable in the knees when motoring for more than an hour or
two. Very likely it was just the want of a footstool. Remind me to take
out my bedroom footstool in the car this afternoon, Edith, to see if it
is the right height. You _are_ helpful, Mr. Holroyd. I never thought of
a footstool."
His next half-dozen suggestions, however, showed that Mrs. Hancock had
thought of a good deal already, including a Thermos flask of coffee,
a contour map of the country, and a stylograph pen in case she found
that she had left anything behind, and wanted to write a postcard _en
route_. Postcards she always carried in a green morocco writing-case.
"Filson must take a postcard, too," she said, "ready directed to Lind,
in case anything goes wrong with the luggage. That is a good idea. She
will be very comfortable, do you not think, Mr. Holroyd, in a nice
third-class compartment for ladies only. I am often tempted to go
third-class myself, when I see how cheap and comfortable it is."
Edward felt quite certain that this was a temptation to which Mrs.
Hancock had never yielded, and lunch proceeded in silence for a few
moments. Then, since nobody was able to make any further suggestion
whatever which could lead to additional comfort or security on this
momentous journey, Mrs. Hancock allowed herself to be drawn into other
topics, still not unconnected with Bath, such as the efficacy of the
waters, and the steepness of the hills which surrounded it, which,
however, with Denton's careful driving and the new brakes she had had
fitted to her car, presented no unmanning terrors.
"I shall be there," she said, "exactly four weeks, so as to get back
early in June. Bath is very hot in the summer, but I do not mind that,
and the hotel rates are more reasonable then. After that we shall be
occupied, for my niece, Elizabeth Fanshawe, will arrive almost as soon
as I return. She will be with me till she goes back to India to her
father in October."
Out of the depths of half-forgotten memories an image, quite vague and
insignificant, broke the surface of Holroyd's mind.
"Was she not with you two years ago?" he asked. "A tall, dark girl with
black hair."
"Fancy your remembering her! I so envy a good memory. Edith, dear,
remind me to get the piano tuned. I will write from Bath. Elizabeth
is for ever at the piano now, so my brother tells me. She will enjoy
hearing you play, Mr. Holroyd. Well, if everybody has finished, I am
sure you will like to have a cigarette in the garden. Edith will take
you out and show you the tulips."
It must not be supposed that this arrangement was to be dignified into
the name of manoeuvre on Mrs. Hancock's part, except in so far that
after lunch she liked to skim the larger paragraphs of the _Morning
Post,_ comfortably reclining on the sofa in her private sitting-room.
She was not a person of subtle perceptions, and it had certainly
never occurred to her that Holroyd had come to lunch that day with
his purpose formed; she only wanted to read the _Morning Post,_ and,
as usual, to throw him and Edith together. As for Edith, she had been
quite prepared a dozen times during this last month to listen with
satisfaction to his declaration, and to give him an amiable affirmative
on the earliest possible occasion. Each time that her mother arranged
some similar little _tête-à-tête_ for them she felt a slight but
pleasurable tremor of excitement, but was never in the least cast down
when it proved that her anticipations were premature. She was perfectly
aware of her mother's approval, and it only remained to give voice to
her own. She had long ago made up her mind that she would sooner marry
than remain single, and she had never dreamed or desired that it should
be any other man than this who should conduct her to the goal of her
wishes. That she was in any degree in love with him--if the phrase
connotes anything luminous or tumultuous--it would be idle to assert;
but equally idle would it be to deny that, according to the manner of
her aspirations, he seemed to her an ideal husband. For ten adolescent
years--for she was now twenty-four--she had lived in the stifling and
soul-quelling comfort of her mother's house, and it would have been
strange if the dead calm and propriety of her surroundings had not
bred in her a corresponding immobility of the emotions, for there is
something chameleon-like in the spirit of every girl not powerfully
vitalized; it assimilates itself to its surroundings, and custom and
usage limn the hues, which at first are superficial and evanescent,
into stains of permanent colour. Passion and deep feeling, so far from
entering into Edith herself, had never even exhibited themselves in the
confines of her horizons; she had neither experienced them nor seen
others in their grip. But she thought--indeed, she was certain--that
she would like to be mistress in the house where Edward Holroyd was
master. She felt sure she could make herself and him very comfortable.
She went out, hatless like him, into the warm bath of sun and
south-west wind, and they passed side by side up the weedless
garden-path. All Nature, bees and bright-eyed birds and budding
flowers, was busy with the great festival of spring and mating-time;
nothing was barren but the salted weedless path, so carefully
defertilized. The tulips were a brave show, and in their deep bed
below the paling a border of wallflowers spun a web of warm, ineffable
fragrance. Ellis, returned from his midday hour, was still engaged with
the clicking mowing machine on the velvet-napped lawn, and they went on
farther till the gravel of the paths of the flower-garden was exchanged
for the cinders of the kitchen patch, and the hedge of espaliers hid
them from the house. Then he stopped, and a moment afterwards she
also, smoothing into place a braid of her bright brown hair. And
without agitation came the question, without agitation the reply.
Indeed, there was nothing for two sensible young people to be agitated
about. Each was fond of the other, neither had seen any one else more
desirable, and over the hearts of each lay thick the cobwebs of comfort
and motor-cars and prosperous affairs and unimpassioned content. Only
as he spoke he felt some vague soul-eclipse, some dispersal of a dream.
Then he drew her towards him and kissed her, and for one moment below
the cobwebs in her heart something stirred, ever so faintly, ever so
remotely, connected with the slight roughness of his close-shaven face,
with the faint scent of soap, of cigarette. But it did not embarrass
her.
They stood there for a moment looking into each other's faces, as if
expecting something new, something revealed.
"Shall we tell your mother now?" he asked.
Still she looked at him; he was not quite the same as he had been
before.
"Oh, in a minute or two," she said.
Suddenly he felt that he had to stir himself somehow into greater
tenderness, greater----But he felt disappointed; it had all been
exactly as he had imagined.
"I am very happy," he said. "I have thought about this moment so much,
Edith."
It was the first time he had used her name.
"Edward!" she said, looking straight at him. "Edward! No, I don't think
I shall call you Edward. I must have a name of my own for you."
At the moment the sound of a gong from within the house droned along
the garden.
"The motor is round," she said.
This time it was he who delayed, though without passion.
"Your mother will not mind waiting a minute," he said.
"No. What else have you to say to me?"
"Everything; nothing."
She laughed.
"There is not time for the one," she said, "and no time is required for
the other. Besides, all the time that there is is ours now."
In all her life she had never phrased a sentence so neat, so nearly
epigrammatic. Its briskness was the fruit of the stimulus that had come
to her.
They delayed no further, but went back to the house, where Mrs. Hancock
was already waiting. She did not attempt to appear surprised at their
news, but, placidly delighted at it, kissed them both, and took it for
granted that Edward would come in to dine with them that evening. Then,
since there was no use in vain repetitions, she reverted to the topic
which had to be considered at once.
"Let me see," she said. "I think the motor is round, and Filson has
brought down the footstool from my bedroom to see if it is the right
height. A quarter to eight, then, dear Edward, to-night; we shall be
quite alone, and if you will come in half an hour sooner I have no
doubt that you will find my darling dressed and waiting to talk to
you. Fancy what a lot you will have to say to each other now! And
then, after dinner, as you are drinking your glass of port, I shall
claim you for a little conversation, while we send Edith to wait in
the drawing-room. Oh, I see you have brought the footstool from the
spare room as well, Filson. That _was_ well thought of, as they are of
different heights, and one might suit if the other did not. Let me get
in, and see which suits me best.... Now try them one on top of the
other, Filson. Well, really I think that is the most comfortable of
all. Edith, dear, are you ready? And I have brought down my patience
cards, and if I put them into the pocket under the window at once I
can dismiss them from my mind. There! A quarter-past seven, then, dear
Edward, for a chat before dinner. Yes, leave the footstools in the car,
Filson, and we will measure the height when I come back."
Denton was standing with the door knob in his hand, waiting for orders.
"You might take us first to Slough, Denton," she said, "so that we
shall see what the road is like before we join the Bath road next week,
and then we can go through the Beeches. We are ten minutes late in
starting, but if we are a little late for tea it won't matter for once
in a way. Tell Mrs. Williams, Lind, that we may be ten minutes late for
tea."
Mrs. Hancock habitually wore a perfectly natural and amiable smile on
her pleasant face, except when her rheumatism gave her an exceptional
twinge, or, more exceptionally yet, Mrs. Williams was not quite up to
the mark. To-day the discovery of the footstools and Edith's engagement
seemed to her to be touching examples of the care of Providence, and
she was beamingly conscious of the variety of pleasant objects and
topics in the world. She laid her hand in Edith's as the car started.
"And now I want to hear all--all about it, darling," she said. "Oh,
look, there are two magpies! Is not that lucky? And will you let your
window quite down, dear? It is so warm and pleasant this afternoon. I
will have mine just half-way up. There! That is nice! And now I want to
hear all about it."
Edith returned the affectionate pressure of her mother's hand.
"It was all so sudden, mother," she said, "and yet I was not at all
startled. He--Edward stopped when we reached the kitchen-garden, and so
I stopped, too. And, without any speeches, he just asked me, and I said
'Yes' at once, as I had always meant to. And then he said he was very
happy, and kissed me."
Mrs. Hancock thought that Denton was driving a little too fast, as if
he meant to make up the lost ten minutes, but she checked herself from
calling down the tube to him.
"My dearest!" she said. "You will never forget the first kiss given you
by the man who loves you. Oh, what a jolt!"
The jolt decided her, and she called to Denton not to go quite so fast.
Then she pressed Edith's hand again.
"Tell me more, dear," she said. "Had you expected it at all?"
Edith looked at her with complete candour.
"Oh, yes!" she said. "And that is why it seemed so natural when it
came."
The faintest flush glowed on her face.
"But I never liked him so much before as when he kissed me," she said.
"It did not make me feel at all awkward. I used to think that if such
a thing ever happened to me I should not know which way to look. But
it all seemed quite natural. Our tastes agree in so many things,
too--music and croquet and so on. That is a good thing, is it not?"
Mrs. Hancock beamed again.
"My dear, of course," she said. "Community of taste is half
the"--battle, she was going to say--"half the strength and joy of
marriage. Oh, here we are in Slough already. Turn to the right,
Denton, and go through Burnham Beeches. Yes, what games of croquet
you will have, and what music. I will get a gate made in the paling
between his garden and ours, so that there will be no need to go round
by the front door and ring the bell. I dare say Ellis could do it, or
even if I had to get a carpenter it would be but a trifle anyhow, and
I certainly shall not permit Edward to pay half of it, however much he
may insist. Bless you, my darling! I feel so happy and contented about
it. Look, there is a Great Western express. What a pace they go!"
Edith usually gave excellent attention to the various bright objects
which continually caught and pleased her mother's eye. But to-day she
wandered, or rather, did not wander.
"It was wonderful," she said. "I hadn't guessed."
But her mother had other things as well to think about.
"Edward was quite right," she said. "A footstool, or rather one on top
of another, makes all the difference. I shall order a very thick one
from the stores, sending the height I require. And I think I must give
a little dinner-party before I go to Bath, dear, just to tell a few
friends our news. I wish the asparagus was a little more forward. How
lovely the beeches are! And look at those sweet little birds! Are they
thrushes, I wonder, or what? And what do you guess they are saying to
each other? I will ask Mr. Beaumont, I think, and the Martins and Mr.
and Mrs. Dobbs. It will not do to have it on Wednesday if we start
early on Thursday, as we shall find plenty of little jobs on the last
evening, and it will be wise to get to bed early if we are to motor
all next day. It must be Tuesday. Perhaps the asparagus will have come
popping up, if the hot weather holds. Darling, I cannot tell you how
pleased I am! And what an excitement for your cousin Elizabeth. Fancy
if she was a bridesmaid before she went back to India! What a lot she
would have to tell to Uncle Robert! We shall soon have to begin to
think when it is to be."
Mrs. Hancock said no more on this subject, for the fact was that she
had not made up her mind when she wished the marriage to take place.
She had vaguely contemplated going to Egypt with her daughter next
winter, and she could not offhand balance the disadvantages of going
alone (in case she settled that Edith should be married first), with
the advantage of saving the expenses of taking her. Then a brilliant
possibility struck her. Edward might be induced to come too, in which
case the marriage must certainly take place first. Since then he would,
of course, pay for Edith. But all this required consideration.
Indeed, there were many things which would need a great deal of careful
thought. Chief among them, already blotting out the beauty of the
beeches, was the whole question of settlements. Edith would naturally
inherit the whole of her mother's money at her death (an event to be
contemplated with only the most distant recognition), and Mrs. Hancock
had no intention of making serious inroads into her income, which,
handsome as it was, did not more than provide her with everything
she wanted, and enable her to put by a nice round sum of money every
year. This she was so much accustomed to do that it was unreasonable
to expect her at her age to break so prudent and long-established a
habit. But all this must depend to some extent on Edward's attitude
and expectations. She had no doubt that, for his part, he would do all
that was generous, which would obviate the necessity of being very
open-handed herself. Living next door, Edith would be able to come in
to lunch every day when he was in the City, and enjoy her motor-drive,
as usual, without any expense. The croquet-lawn, too, would be quite at
Edward's disposal.... Practically, she was presenting the young couple
with a motor-car, a lunch daily, and a croquet-lawn, kept in excellent
order by Ellis, straight away. Then there were wedding presents to be
thought of, which would be a great expense; and Elizabeth was going
to spend four months at least with her--an additional drain.... Mrs.
Hancock began to feel quite worried and pressed for money, as she was
accustomed to do when, having made some considerable investment, she
found she had not more than two or three hundred pounds lying at her
bank.
Edward arrived, as had been already agreed, half an hour before dinner,
and found Edith, already dressed, waiting for a lover's talk in the
drawing-room. Lind had seen that the housemaids had completed the
evening toilet of the room, and strict injunctions had been issued that
the two were not to be disturbed. Edward kissed her again as soon as
they were left alone, but after that no interruption, however sudden,
would have surprised a fiery scene. Both were placid, content, happy,
undisturbed by strong emotion, and unembarrassed by its absence. But
though as yet no surface signs gave indication, the evenly hung balance
had begun to quiver. Once more his kiss woke in her a tremor of dim
agitation, while inwardly he wondered, though as yet unembarrassed,
at his own want of emotion. Not for a moment did he regret what he
had done; he was happy in the event of the day, but only a little
surprised, a little scornful of himself for finding that he felt so
precisely as he had anticipated that he would feel. He had not expected
to be inflamed with sudden rapture, and was not. Dimly he saw that the
adventure to which they were committed promised more to her than it
did to him, and he was ashamed of that. Yet to him it had its definite
promise. This charming girl whom he liked, whom he admired, with whom
he was in sympathy, had consented to share his life with him. To no
one would he have so willingly offered himself as to her who had so
willingly accepted him. His horizon, such as it was, was filled with
her.... Only he wondered, and that but vaguely, what lay over that
horizon's rim. But he found no difficulty in framing his lips to the
sense and nonsense of lover's talk.
"I have been too happy all the afternoon to do anything," he said. "I
have just sat and strolled and thought and waited."
He possessed himself of her hand, and told himself how capable it was,
yet how soft, how pretty. Hitherto he had not given many thoughts to
hands; now he realized that this particular one concerned him. He
admired it; it was strong and fine.
"Ah, I am having a bad influence upon you already," said she, "if I
make you idle."
Suddenly it appeared to him a wonderful and beautiful thing that he
and a charming girl should be saying these intimate things, and his
response was almost eager.
"I was only idle from happiness," he said. "Isn't it all wonderful?
Would you have had me go to tea with some foolish people whom I did not
want to see?"
"I make you misanthropic as well. But I'm not ashamed if I make you
happy."
Something stirred within her, some new beating pulse. She came a little
closer to him.
"You looked so nice, Edward," she said, "this afternoon, when you
stopped and spoke. But I couldn't bear your tie. I shall knit you one
the same shade of brown as your eyes. I will do it at Bath."
"It is a great nuisance your going to Bath," he said. "Must you really
go? I want you here. But the tie will be lovely."
"Oh, conceit," she said, "after I have told you it is to be the colour
of your eyes."
"I forgot that. Aren't you being rather malicious?"
He looked up from her hand to her face. Never before had he noticed
how bright and abundant was her hair, how delicate the line of black
eyebrow. He corrected himself.
"Malicious, did I say?" he asked. "I meant--I meant delicious. And,
talking of eyes, I must give you a turquoise engagement ring for the
day, and a sapphire one for the evening."
"What has that to do with eyes?" she asked.
"Everything. Yours are light blue in the sunlight, and dark blue at
night."
"I feel as if I ought to apologize. But I don't think I shall; it
wasn't my fault."
"I don't insist," said he. "But I insist on knowing one thing. When?"
"When? What do you mean?" she asked.
"Look me in the face, and say you don't know."
Edith laughed--a happy little quiver of a laugh that she had never
heard yet.
"I could if I liked," she said. "But I don't choose to. If you mean----"
"That is exactly what I mean."
"How can you know before I have said it?" she asked.
"I can. Do say what I mean."
Again she laughed.
"When shall we be married was what you meant."
She looked extremely pretty and rather shy. He had never noticed before
how fine was her mouth, how fine and fair the curve of her upper lip.
"Yes, sapphire and turquoise," he said. His lips said it, his brain
said it.
The sonorous tones of the Chinese gong, manipulated with so cunning a
crescendo and diminuendo by Lind, boomed through the house. Immediately
afterwards Mrs. Hancock's tread, noticeably heavy, was heard on the
stairs. She hummed some little nameless ditty in warning. Edith got up.
"Dinner already?" she said.
Edward, perhaps, was not quite so much surprised at the swiftness of
the passage of this half-hour.
"Before you have answered my question," he said as the door opened.