The little flat in Chelsea, cleaned, swept and garnished by the wife of the
porter of the Mansions, received Emmy, her babe, Madame Bolivard and
multitudinous luggage. All the pretty fripperies and frivolities had been
freshened and refurbished since their desecration at alien hands, and the
place looked cheery and homelike; but Emmy found it surprisingly small, and
was amazed to discover the prodigious space taken up by the baby. When she
drew Septimus's attention to this phenomenon he accounted for it by saying
that it was because he had such a very big name, which was an excellent
thing in that it would enable him to occupy a great deal of room in the
universe when he grew up.
She busied herself all the morning about the flat, happier than she had
been for a whole year. Her days of Hagardom were over. The menacing shadow
of the finger of scorn pointing at her from every airt of heaven had
disappeared. A clear sky welcomed her as she came back to take up an
acknowledged position in the world. The sense of release from an
intolerable ban outweighed the bitterness of old associations. She was at
home, in London, among dear familiar things and faces. She was almost
happy.
When Madame Bolivard appeared with bonnet and basket undismayedly prepared
to market for lunch and dinner, she laughed like a schoolgirl, and made her
repeat the list of English words she had taught her in view of this
contingency. She could say "cabbage," "sugar," "lettuce," and ask for all
sorts of things.
"But suppose you lose your way, Madame Bolivard?"
"I shall find it, madame."
"But how will you ask for directions? You know you can't say 'Ecclefechan
Mansions.'"
Madame Bolivard made a hopeless, spluttering sound as if she were blowing
teeth out of her mouth, which in no wise resembled the name of the place
wherein she dwelt. But Madame Bolivard, as has been remarked, was a _brave
femme_; and _allons donc!_ this was the least of the difficulties she had
had to encounter during her life. Emmy bade her godspeed in her perils
among the greengrocers.
She went blithely about her household tasks, and sang and cooed deliciously
to the child lying in its bassinette. Every now and then she looked at the
clock over the mantelpiece, wondering why Septimus had not come. Only in
the depths of her heart--depths which humans in their every-day life dare
not sound too frequently--did she confess how foolishly she longed for him.
He was late. With Emmy, Septimus never broke an appointment. To insure his
being at a certain place at a certain time to meet her he took the most
ingenious and complicated precautions. Before now he had dressed overnight
and gone to sleep in his clothes so as to be ready when the servant called
him in the morning. Emmy, knowing this, after the way of women began to
grow anxious. When, therefore, she opened the flat door to him she
upbraided him with considerable tenderness.
"It was Clem Sypher," he explained, taking off his overcoat. "He sent for
me. He wanted me badly. Why, I don't know. At least I do half know, but the
other half I don't. He's a magnificent fellow."
A little later, after Septimus had inspected her morning's work in the
flat, and the night's progress in the boy's tooth, and the pretty new
blouse which she had put on in his honor, and the rose in her bosom taken
from the bunch he had sent to greet her arrival in the flat the night
before, and after he had heard of the valorous adventure of Madame Bolivard
and of a message from Hégisippe Cruchot which she had forgotten to deliver
overnight, and of an announcement from Zora to the effect that she would
call at Ecclefechan Mansions soon after lunch, and of many things of
infinite importance, Emmy asked him what Clem Sypher had been doing, and
wherein lay the particular magnificence of character to which Septimus had
alluded.
"He's awfully splendid," said Septimus. "He has given up a fortune for the
sake of an idea. He also gave me an umbrella and his blessing. Emmy"--he
looked at her in sudden alarm--"did I bring an umbrella with me?"
"You did, dear, and you put it in the stand; but what you've done with the
blessing, I don't know."
"I've got it in my heart," said he. "He's a tremendous chap."
Emmy's curiosity was excited. She sat on the fender seat and bent forward,
her hands on her knees, in a pretty girlish attitude and fixed her
forget-me-not eyes on him.
"Tell me all about it."
He obeyed and expounded Sypher's quixotism in his roundabout fashion. He
concluded by showing her how it had been done for Zora's sake.
Emmy made a little gesture of impatience.
"Zora!" she exclaimed jealously. "It's always Zora. To see how you men go
on, one would think there was no other woman in the world. Every one does
crazy things for her, and she looks on calmly and never does a hand's turn
for anybody. Clem Sypher's a jolly sight too good for her."
Septimus looked pained at the disparagement of his goddess. Emmy sprang to
her feet and put her finger-tips on his shoulders.
"Forgive me, dear. Women are cats--I've often told you--and love to scratch
even those they're fond of. Sometimes the more they love them the harder
they scratch. But I won't scratch you any more. Indeed I won't."
The sound of the latch-key was heard in the front door.
"There's Madame Bolivard," she cried. "I must see what miracle of loaves
and fishes she has performed. Do mind baby till I come back."
She danced out of the room, and Septimus sat on a straight-backed chair
beside the bassinette. The baby--he was a rather delicate child
considerably undergrown for his age, but a placid, uncomplaining little
mortal--looked at Septimus out of his blue and white china eyes and
contorted his india-rubber features into a muddle indicative of pleasure,
and Septimus smiled cordially at the baby.
"William Octavius Oldrieve Dix," he murmured--an apostrophe which caused
the future statesman a paroxysm of amusement--"I am exceedingly glad to see
you. I hope you like London. We're great friends, aren't we? And when you
grow up, we're going to be greater. I don't want you to have anything to do
with machinery. It stops your heart beating and makes you cold and
unsympathetic and prevents women from loving you. You mustn't invent
things. That's why I am going to make you a Member of Parliament--a
Conservative member."
William Octavius, who had been listening attentively, suddenly chuckled,
as if he had seen a joke. Septimus's gaze conveyed sedate reproof.
"When you laugh you show such a deuce of a lot of gum--like Wiggleswick,"
said he.
The baby made no reply. The conversation languished. Septimus bent down to
examine the tooth, and the baby clutched a tiny fistful of upstanding hair
as a reaper clutches a handful of wheat. Septimus smiled and kissed the
little crinkled, bubbly lips and fell into a reverie. William Octavius went
fast asleep.
When Emmy returned she caught an appealing glance from Septimus and rescued
him, a new Absalom.
"You dear thing," she cried, "why didn't you do it yourself?"
"I was afraid of waking him. It's dangerous to wake babies suddenly. No, it
isn't babies; it's somnambulists. But he may be one, you see, and as he
can't walk we can't tell. I wonder whether I could invent an apparatus for
preventing somnambulists from doing themselves damage."
Emmy laughed. "You can invent nothing so wonderful as Madame Bolivard," she
cried gaily. "She is contemptuous of the dangers of English marketing. 'The
people understood me at once,' she said. She evidently has a poor opinion
of them."
Septimus stayed to lunch, a pleasant meal which made them bless Hégisippe
Cruchot for introducing them to the aunt who could cook. So far did their
gratitude go that Septimus remarked that it would only be decent to add
"Hégisippe" to the baby's names. But Emmy observed that he should have
thought of that before; the boy had already been christened; it was too
late. They drank the Zouave's health instead in some fearful and wonderful
red wine which Madame Bolivard had procured from heaven knows what
purveyor of dangerous chemicals. They thought it excellent.
"I wonder," said Emmy, "whether you know what this means to me."
"It's home," replied Septimus, with an approving glance around the little
dining-room. "You must get me a flat just like this."
"Close by?"
"If it's too close I might come here too often."
"Do you think that possible?" she said, with as much wistfulness as she
dare allow herself. "Besides, you have a right."
Septimus explained that as a Master of Arts of the University of Cambridge
he had a right to play marbles on the Senate House steps, a privilege
denied by statute to persons _in statu pupillari_, but that he would be
locked up as a lunatic if he insisted on exercising it.
After a pause Emmy looked at him, and said with sudden tragicality:
"I'm not a horrible, hateful worry to you, Septimus?"
"Lord, no," said Septimus.
"You don't wish you had never set eyes on me?"
"My dear girl!" said Septimus.
"And you wouldn't rather go on living quietly at Nunsmere and not bother
about me any more? Do tell me the truth."
Septimus's hand went to his hair. He was unversed in the ways of women.
"I thought all that was settled long ago," he said. "I'm such a useless
creature. You give me something to think about, and the boy, and his
education, and his teeth. And he'll have whooping cough and measles and
breeches and things, and it will be frightfully interesting."
Emmy, elbow on table and chin in hand, smiled at him with a touch of
audacity in her forget-me-not eyes.
"I believe you're more interested in the boy than you are in me."
Septimus reddened and stammered, unable, as usual, to express his feelings.
He kept to the question of interest.
"It's so different," said he. "I look on the boy as a kind of invention."
She persisted. "And what am I?"
He had one of his luminous inspirations.
"You," said he, "are a discovery."
Emmy laughed. "I do believe you like me a little bit, after all."
"You've got such beautiful finger-nails," said he.
Madame Bolivard brought in the coffee. Septimus in the act of lifting the
cup from tray to table let it fall through his nervous fingers, and the
coffee streamed over the dainty table-cloth. Madame Bolivard appealed
fervently to the Deity, but Emmy smiled proudly as if the spilling of
coffee was a rare social accomplishment.
Soon after this Septimus went to his club with orders to return for tea,
leaving Emmy to prepare for her meeting with Zora. He had offered to be
present at this first interview so as to give her his support, and
corroborate whatever statement as to his turpitudes she might care to make
in explanation of their decision to live apart. But Emmy preferred to fight
her battle single-handed. Alone he had saved the situation by his very
vagueness. In conjunction with herself there was no knowing what he might
do, for she had resolved to exonerate him from all blame and to attribute
to her own infirmities of disposition this calamitous result of their
marriage.
Now that the hour of meeting approached she grew nervous. Unlike Zora, she
had not inherited her father's fearlessness and joy of battle. The touch of
adventurous spirit which she had received from him had been her undoing, as
it had led her into temptation which the gentle, weak character derived
from her mother had been powerless to resist. All her life she had been
afraid of Zora, subdued by her splendid vitality, humbled before her more
generous accomplishment. And now she was to fight for her honor and her
child's and at the same time for the tender chivalry of the odd, beloved
creature that was her husband. She armed herself with woman's weapons, and
put on a brave face, though her heart thumped like some devilish machine,
racking her mercilessly.
The bell rang. She bent over the boy asleep in the bassinette and gave a
mother's touch or two to the tiny coverlet. She heard the flat door open
and Zora's rich voice inquire for Mrs. Dix. Then Zora, splendid, deep
bosomed, glowing with color, bringing with her a perfume of furs and
violets, sailed into the room and took her into her arms. Emmy felt fluffy
and insignificant.
"How well you're looking, dear. I declare you are prettier than ever.
You've filled out. I didn't come the first thing this morning as I wanted
to, because I knew you would find everything topsy-turvy in the flat.
Septimus is a dear, but I haven't much faith in his domestic capabilities."
"The flat was in perfect order," said Emmy. "Even that bunch of roses in a
jar."
"Did he remember to put in the water?"
Zora laughed, meaning to be kind and generous, to make it evident to Emmy
that she had not come as a violent partisan of Septimus, and to lay a
pleasant, familiar foundation for the discussion in prospect. But Emmy
resented the note of disparagement.
"Of course he did," she said shortly.
Zora flew to the bassinette and glowed womanlike over the baby. A beautiful
child, one to be proud of indeed. Why hadn't Emmy dear proclaimed his
uniqueness in the world of infants? From the references in her letters he
might have been the ordinary baby of every cradle.
"Oh, you ought to be such a happy woman!" she cried, taking off her furs
and throwing them over the back of a chair. "Such a happy woman!"
An involuntary sigh shook her. The first words had been intended to convey
a gentle reproof; nature had compelled the reiteration on her own account.
"I'm happy enough," said Emmy.
"I wish you could say that with more conviction, dear. 'Happy enough'
generally means 'pretty miserable.' Why should you be miserable?"
"I'm not. I have more happiness than I deserve. I don't deserve much."
Zora put her arm round her sister's waist.
"Never mind, dear. We'll try to make you happier."
Emmy submitted to the caress for a while and then freed herself gently. She
did not reply. Not all the trying of Zora and all the Ladies Bountiful of
Christendom could give her her heart's desire. Besides, Zora, with her
large air of smiling _dea ex machina_ was hopelessly out of tone with her
mood. She picked up the furs.
"How lovely. They're new. Where did you get them?"
The talk turned on ordinary topics. They had not met for a year, and they
spoke of trivial happenings. Emmy touched lightly on her life in Paris.
They exchanged information as to their respective journeys. Emmy had had a
good crossing the day before, but Madame Bolivard, who had faced the
hitherto unknown perils of the deep with unflinching courage, had been
dreadfully seasick. The boy had slept most of the time. Awake he had been
as good as gold.
"He's the sweetest tempered child under the sun."
"Like his father," said Zora, "who is both sweet tempered and a child."
The words were a dagger in Emmy's heart. She turned away swiftly lest Zora
should see the pain in her eyes. The intensity of the agony had been
unforeseen.
"I hope the little mite has a spice of the devil from our side of the
family," added Zora, "or it will go hard with him. That's what's wrong with
poor Septimus."
Emmy turned with a flash. "There's nothing wrong with Septimus. I wouldn't
change him for any man in the world."
Zora raised surprised eyebrows and made the obvious retort:
"Then, my dear, why on earth don't you live with him?"
Emmy shrugged her shoulders, and looked out of the window. There was a
block of flats over the way, and a young woman at a window immediately
opposite was also looking out. This irritated her. She resented being
stared at by a young woman in a flat. She left the window and sat on the
sofa.
"Don't you think, Zora, you might let Septimus and myself arrange things as
we think best? I assure you we are quite capable of looking after
ourselves. We meet in the friendliest way possible, but we have decided to
occupy separate houses. It's a matter that concerns ourselves entirely."
Zora was prepared for this attitude, which she had resolved not to
countenance. She had come, in all her bravery, to bring Emmy to her senses.
Emmy should be brought. She left the bassinette and sat down near her
sister and smiled indulgently.
"My dearest child, if you were so-called 'advanced people' and held all
sorts of outrageous views, I might understand you. But you are two very
ordinary folk with no views at all. You never had any in your life, and if
Septimus had one he would be so terribly afraid of it that he would chain
it up. I'm quite certain you married without any idea save that of sticking
together. Now, why haven't you?"
"I make Septimus miserable. I can't help it. Sooner than make him unhappy I
insist upon this arrangement. There!"
"Then I think you are very wicked and heartless and selfish," said Zora.
"I am," said Emmy defiantly.
"Your duty is to make him happy. It would take so little to do that. You
ought to give him a comfortable home and teach him to realize his
responsibilities toward the child."
Again the stab. Emmy's nerve began to give way. For the first time came the
wild notion of facing Zora with the whole disastrous story. She dismissed
it as crazy.
"I tell you things can't be altered."
"But why? I can't imagine you so monstrous. Give me your confidence,
darling."
"There's nothing to give."
"I'm sure I could put things right for you at once if I knew what was
wrong. If it's anything to do with Septimus," she added in her unwisdom and
with a charming proprietary smile, "why, I can make him do whatever I
like."
"Even if we had quarreled," cried Emmy, losing control of her prudence, "do
you suppose I would let _you_ bring him back to me?"
"But why not?"
"Have you been so blind all this time as not to see?"
Emmy knew her words were vain and dangerous, but the attitude of her
sister, calm and confident, assuming her air of gracious patronage,
irritated her beyond endurance. Zora's smile deepened into indulgent
laughter.
"My dearest Emmy, you don't mean to say that it's jealousy of me? But it's
too ridiculous. Do you suppose I've ever thought of Septimus in that way?"
"You've thought of him just as you used to think of the bob-tailed sheep
dog we had when we were children."
"Well, dear, you were never jealous of my attachment to Bobbie or Bobbie's
devotion to me," said Zora, smilingly logical. "Come, dear, I knew there
was only some silly nonsense at the bottom of this. Look. I'll resign every
right I have in poor Septimus."
Emmy rose. "If you call him 'poor Septimus' and speak of him in that tone,
you'll drive me mad. It's you that are wicked and heartless and selfish."
"I?" cried Zora, aghast.
"Yes, you. You accept the love and adoration of the noblest gentleman that
God ever put into the world, and you treat him and talk of him as if he
were a creature of no account. If you were worthy of being loved by him, I
shouldn't he jealous. But you're not. You've been so wrapped up in your own
magnificence that you've not even condescended to notice that he loved you.
And even now, when I tell you, you laugh, as if it were preposterous that
'poor Septimus' could ever dare to love you. You drive me mad."
Zora drew herself up angrily. To make allowances for a silly girl's
jealousy was one thing; it was another to be accused in this vehement
fashion. Conscious of her innocence, she said:
"Your attack on me is entirely unjustifiable, Emmy. I have done nothing."
"That's why," retorted Emmy quickly. "You've done nothing. Men are
sacrificing their lives and fortunes for you, and you do nothing."
"Lives and fortunes? What do you mean?"
"I mean what I say," cried Emmy desperately. "Septimus has done everything
short of laying down his life for you, and that he would have done if
necessary, and you haven't even taken the trouble to see the soul in the
man that was capable of it. And now that something has happened which you
can't help seeing you come in your grand way to put it all to rights in a
minute. You think I've turned him out because he's a good-natured worry
like Bobbie, the bob-tailed sheep dog, and you say, 'Poor fellow, see how
pitifully he's wagging his tail. It's cruel of you not to let him in.'
That's the way you look at Septimus, and I can't stand it and I won't. I
love him as I never dreamed a woman could love a man. I could tear myself
into little pieces for him bit by bit. And I can't get him. He's as far
removed from me as the stars in heaven. You could never understand. I pray
every night to God to forgive me, and to work a miracle and bring him to
me. But miracles don't happen. He'll never come to me. He can't come to me.
While you have been patronizing him, patting him on the head, playing Lady
Bountiful to him--as you are doing to the other man who has given up a
fortune this very morning just because he loves you--while you've been
doing this and despising him--yes, you know you do in your heart, for a
simple, good-natured, half-witted creature who amuses himself with crazy
inventions, he has done a thing to save you from pain and shame and
sorrow--you, not me--because he loved you. And now I love him. I would give
all I have in life for the miracle to happen. But it can't. Don't you
understand? It can't!"
She stood panting in front of Zora, a passionate woman obeying elemental
laws; and when passionate women obey elemental laws they are reckless in
speech and overwhelming in assertion and denunciation. Emmy was the first
whom Zora had encountered. She was bewildered by the storm of words, and
could only say, rather stupidly:
"Why can't it?"
Emmy thew two or three short breaths. The notion had come again. The
temptation was irresistible. Zora should know, having brought it on
herself. She opened the door.
"Madame Bolivard!" she cried. And when the Frenchwoman appeared she pointed
to the bassinette.
"Take baby into the bedroom. It will be better for him there."
"_Bien, madame_," said Madame Bolivard, taking up the child. And when the
door had closed behind her Emmy pointed to it and said:
"That's why."
Zora started forward, horror stricken.
"Emmy, what do you mean?"
"I'll tell you. I couldn't with him in the room. I should always fancy that
he had heard me, and I want him to respect and love his mother."
"Emmy!" cried Zora. "Emmy! What are you saying? Your son not respect
you--if he knew--do you mean...?"
"Yes," said Emmy, "I do--Septimus went through the marriage ceremony with
me and gave us his name. That's why we are living apart. Now you know."
"My God!" said Zora.
"Do you remember the last night I was at Nunsmere?"
"Yes. You fainted."
"I had seen the announcement of the man's marriage in the newspaper."
She told her story briefly and defiantly, asking for no sympathy,
proclaiming it all _ad majorem Septimi gloriam_. Zora sat looking at her
paralyzed with helplessness, like one who, having gone lightly forth to
shoot rabbits, suddenly comes upon a lion.
"Why didn't you tell me--at the time--before?"
"Did you ever encourage me to give you my confidence? You patted me on the
head, too, and never concerned yourself about my affairs. I was afraid of
you--deadly afraid of you. It sounds rather silly now, doesn't it? But I
was."
Zora made no protest against the accusation. She sat quite still, her eyes
fixed on the foot of the bassinette, adjusting her soul to new and
startling conceptions. She said in a whisper:
"My God, what a fool I've been!"
The words lingered a haunting echo in her ears. They were mockingly
familiar. Where had she heard them recently? Suddenly she remembered. She
raised her head and glanced at Emmy in anything but a proud way.
"You said something just now about Clem Sypher having sacrificed a fortune
for me. What was it? I had better hear everything."
Emmy sat on the fender stool, as she had done when Septimus had told her
the story, and repeated it for Zora's benefit.
"You say he sent for Septimus this morning?" said Zora in a low voice. "Do
you think he knows--about you two?"
"It is possible that he guesses," replied Emmy, to whom Hégisippe Cruchot's
indiscretion had been reported. "Septimus has not told him."
"I ask," said Zora, "because, since my return, he has seemed to look on
Septimus as a sort of inspired creature. I begin to see things I never saw
before."
There was silence. Emmy gripped the mantelpiece and, head on arm, looked
into the fire. Zora sat lost in her expanding vision. Presently Emmy said
without turning round:
"You mustn't turn away from me now--for Septimus's sake. He loves the boy
as if he were his own. Whatever wrong I've done I've suffered for it. Once
I was a frivolous, unbalanced, unprincipled little fool. I'm a woman
now--and a good woman, thanks to him. To live in the same atmosphere as
that exquisite delicacy of soul is enough to make one good. No other man on
earth could have done what he has done and in the way he has done it. I
can't help loving him. I can't help eating my heart out for him. That's my
punishment."
This time the succeeding silence was broken by a half-checked sob. Emmy
started round, and beheld Zora crying silently to herself among the sofa
cushions. Emmy was amazed. Zora, the magnificent, had broken down, and was
weeping like any silly fool of a girl. It was real crying; not the shedding
of the tears of sensibility which often stood in her generous eyes. Emmy
moved gently across the room--she was a soft-hearted, affectionate
woman--and knelt by the sofa.
"Zora, dear."
Zora, with an immense longing for love, caught her sister in her arms, and
the two women wept very happily together. It was thus that Septimus,
returning for tea, as he was bidden, found them some while afterwards.
Zora rose, her lashes still wet, and whipped up her furs.
"But you're not going?"
"Yes. I'll leave you two together. I'll do what I can. Septimus--" She
caught him by the arm and drew him a step or two towards the door. "Emmy
has told me everything. Oh, you needn't look frightened, dear. I'm not
going to thank you--" Her voice broke on the laugh. "I should only make a
fool of myself. Some other time. I only want to say, don't you think you
would be more--more cosy and comfortable if you let her take care of you
altogether? She's breaking her heart for love of you, Septimus, and she
would make you happy."
She rushed out of the room, and before the pair could recover from their
confusion they heard the flat door slam behind her.
Emmy looked at Septimus with a great scare in her blue eyes. She said
something about taking no notice of what Zora said.
"But is it true?" he asked.
She said with her back against the wall:
"Do you think it very amazing that I should care for you?"
Septimus ran his hands vehemently up his hair till it reached the climax of
Struwel Peterdom. The most wonderful thing in his life had happened. A
woman loved him. It upset all his preconceived notions of his place in the
universe.
"Yes, I do," he answered. "It makes my head spin round." He found himself
close to her. "Do you mean that you love me"--his voice grew tremulous--"as
if I were an ordinary man?"
"No," she cried, with a half laugh. "Of course I don't. How could I love an
ordinary man as I love you?"
Neither could tell afterwards how it happened. Emmy called the walls to
witness that she did not throw herself into his arms, and Septimus's
natural timidity precluded the possibility of his having seized her in his;
but she stood for a long, throbbing time in his embrace, while he kissed
her on the lips and gave all his heart into her keeping.
They sat down together on the fender seat.
"When a man does that," said Septimus, as if struck by a luminous idea, "I
suppose he asks the girl to marry him."
"But we are married already," she cried joyously.
"Dear me," said Septimus, "so we are. I forgot. It's very puzzling, isn't
it? I think, if you don't mind, I'll kiss you again."