The water-colour portrait over the mantelpiece was that of a blond
young man with hair parted in the middle and a thin moustache, made
the most of by curling at the ends, the expression on the face a
sufficiently fatuous smile. This work of art had been the result of an
acquaintance struck up between young Jalland and an impecunious teacher
of drawing in the bar parlour of a Norwich hotel; the likeness was
faithful, for it had simply been copied from a photograph, to save the
trouble of sittings, as the artist said. In those days Jalland was just
beginning his career as a commercial traveller; that he should belong to
a Volunteer corps was in the order of things. Also perfectly regular was
his acquaintance with the Kingcote family; his father exercised a number
of vocations, was auctioneer, commission agent, broker, etc., and
he frequently did business for Dr. Kingcote, who had a fondness for
dabbling in pecuniary speculations and but for this foible would
have died a richer man. When Jalland obtained a position in a London
warehouse, he at once asked Mary Kingcote to accompany him as his wife;
she was then a girl of seventeen. Her parents held the match impossible;
they forbade it. The result was that one day the girl disappeared, and
remained undiscoverable till at length she wrote to announce the fact of
her marriage.
She seemed the most unlikely girl to do such a thing. She was of a
very quiet disposition, shy with strangers, submissive to a somewhat
autocratic mother, feeble in health. Curiously, she only followed a
family precedent in risking an elopement; her mother--though Mary did
not know it--had married in the same way. Doubtless that was why Mrs.
Kingcote remained unforgiving. Her father was not a man of strong
character, though he possessed considerable ability in various
directions; his temperament was impulsive, imaginative, affectionate;
he was wholly ruled by his wife. The children of the house, Bernard
and Mary, seemed to an observer to lack something of ordinary youthful
happiness; they appeared to stand apart from their parents; to be thrown
very much upon their own resources. Dr. Kingcote saw little of them,
save on Sundays, when he was for the most part absorbed in reading; Mrs.
Kingcote, though behaving to them with all motherly care, did not win
their love, neither appeared to miss it. She was a woman to whom the
external facts of life sufficed; details-of housekeeping occupied
her all but exclusively; one would have conjectured that she made her
runaway marriage solely out of a passion for having a house of her own,
where she might rule and regulate. From the day when she heard that Mary
had married the commercial traveller her daughter’s name never passed
her lips.
As a medical student in London, Bernard Kingcote held communication with
his sister. At her entreaty he made Jalland’s acquaintance; he had known
him by sight in Norwich, but was away at his studies when the families
had grown to terms of intimacy. Bernard went to his sister’s lodgings
one Sunday, and passed the afternoon there, but he paid no second
visit. In Kingcote there existed his father’s intellect and emotional
qualities, together with a certain stiffness of moral attitude derived
from his mother. His prejudices were intense, their character being
determined by the refinement and idealism of his nature. An enemy would
have called him offensively aristocratic; only malicious ignorance
could have accused him of snobbishness. He went to meet Jalland with
instinctive repugnance; the man’s pursuit was in his eyes contemptible,
and he resented bitterly the influence such a person had been able to
obtain over Mary. On Jalland’s side there was no particular good-will;
he was prepared to stand on his rights and repel any hint of lofty
patronage. Kingcote had no disposition whatever to behave patronisingly,
but he found it beyond his power to make the least show of cordiality.
He and the representative of the great civilising agent had not a point
in common. They saw each other at the worst, and, very wisely, never saw
each other again.
The evening that followed was one of suffering for Mary, the beginning
of a martyrdom. She knew already that her hasty step had been a mistake;
to-day the slow-gathering consciousness became a fixed centre of pain.
She had looked from her brother to her husband and back again; she
understood that the difference between the two men was the measure
of the gulf set between herself and the world to which she rightly
belonged. Her husband’s amiability became vulgar self-complacence; his
features, his demeanour, his interests, all bore the ineffaceable stamp
of vulgarity. She watched him as he moved impatiently about the room;
she anticipated the words he would shortly speak. He had never yet
behaved to her with deliberate unkindness, though honeymoon warmth
had long since given place to working-day ease of manner; matrimonial
familiarity, a snare to the most delicate of men, takes shapes one does
not care to dwell upon in the uncultured. But now, when at length the
words came, they were rough, rancorous, brutal. Mr. Jalland attempted
irony, excogitated sarcasms; finding these insufficient to his needs, he
relieved himself in the tongue of bar-parlours. Mary put in no plea
of mitigation; she bowed her head and let the torrent fall upon her,
humiliated to the core. The man understood very well what he had done,
and knew the change in her from that day forth. But he was having his
revenge.
Our modern knights of the road are subject to one grievous temptation.
Living at places of public entertainment at other people’s expense, they
acquire tastes and habits which are somewhat rudely interfered with
when a sojourn in their homes necessitates a diet and accommodation
materially differing from that of hotels. Mary had already had the
recognition of this difficulty forced upon her; in future it was to
constitute a more serious trouble. Mr. Jalland let no opportunity pass
of finding fault with his wife’s housekeeping. The meals she prepared
for him he regarded with lofty scorn, and only on being pressed
condescended to satisfy his hunger. He would mention what he had
recently partaken of at such and such a _table-d’hôte_, adding, “No
doubt you often used to have that at home, before you married me,”
his irony pointed with a grin. His journeys, fortunately, became more
extended, and Mary had sometimes weeks of loneliness; but his return was
each time a harder trial. She soon perceived that he was acquiring the
habit of drinking more than was good for him; it improved neither his
temper nor his manners. Presently he lost a place which he had long
held, lost it in some unexplained way, and was for half a year without
employment. It was then that Mary first had to appeal to her brother for
aid. She did so without consulting her husband, but he of course knew
whence came the money upon which he lived; he came ultimately to grumble
that the supplies were so restricted. From that time onwards it was
alternation of degrees of misery. Jalland’s proclivity to drink grew
more pronounced, and his health suffered noticeably. He never sank to
sheer ruffiandom; never got beyond the point of nagging at his wife;
often Mary would rather he had beaten her.
She bore everything with tearful patience, but--it was a note of
character--never once sought to soften him, never once appealed to
memories. Her nature was not passionate; it cost her nothing to refrain
from recrimination, and the mistaken impulse of her inexperienced years
never bore fruit in hatred of the man to whom she had sacrificed her
life. She was a devoted mother; her children helped her to endure. Her
husband she regarded in a spirit which the institution of marriage makes
common enough; he was an item in her existence, and had to be taken
account of, even as had the necessity of daily meals. A human being
became to her a piece of furniture, only differing from chairs
and tables in that it exacted more attention and was apt to evince
ingratitude. So it went on to the end, and, when the end came, it
brought, after the perturbations of nature, a sighing of relief....
Kingcote rose on the morning after his arrival with a determination to
quit this present abode at whatever cost. He had scarcely slept; the
atmosphere brought him bodily unrest. He knew that it was the height of
imprudence to waste money in such a juncture, but life was impossible
for him under this roof, and he could not suffer his sister to dwell
in the proximity of the woman he had seen the evening before. His first
impulse of compassion spent, the spirit of almost fierce intolerance
again took possession of him. Formerly, he had felt much in the same way
towards the uneducated people with whom he had had to come in contact,
but never with such violence of personal antipathy as Mrs. Bolt and all
her belongings excited. He understood well enough the narrowness of this
spirit; he knew that his culture should have endowed him with tolerant
forbearance; but it was a matter of temperament. He dreaded to leave his
room and descend, lest he should meet one of the Bolt family; he felt
the impossibility of behaving with decent courtesy. Aristocracy of race
cannot compare in pervasive intensity with aristocracy which comes
only of the influence of intellect and temperament. Kingcote would have
chosen death rather than an existence elbow to elbow with people such as
these he found in the house.
There was the sound of the postman coming along the street; this changed
the current of his thoughts. The knock came at the door below, and he
could no longer hold back. Mrs. Bolt was just taking letters from the
box.
“Good mornin’, Mr. Kingcut; ’ope you’ve slep’ well,” she said, pressing
her hand to her side and panting as usual. “It take me just ’ere,” she
explained; “comin’ up them stairs from the kitchen is too much for me.
I’m allus hawful bad in the cold weather. Here’s a letter for you.
And, Mr. Kingcut, I wanted to say that if there was anythink as me or
my ’usband or my son could do----”
“I thank you,” Kingcote broke in. “I believe Mrs. Jalland will make all
necessary arrangements. I really don’t think we shall need to trouble
you.”
He was turning away, but checked himself to add:
“I hear, Mrs. Bolt, that my sister is in your debt for certain things
you have supplied to her lately. Will you kindly let me have an account
as soon as you are able?”
“Oh, we ain’t a-goin’ to talk of _that_, Mr. Kingcut! A cup o’ tea, and
a basin of broth. Of course I’ve kep’ a little account, but there’s no
hurry about that.”
“If you please, I should like to settle the account immediately, as soon
as you can conveniently let me have it.”
He went into the sitting-room, and closed the door. The two children
were sitting before the fire, and the cloth was laid for breakfast; he
nodded pleasantly to the youngsters, but did not speak. The letter he
held was from Isabel; there were three sheets. He had just finished
reading it when Mary came in with breakfast on a tray. He greeted her
joyously.
“I suppose you young men go to school this morning?” he asked his
nephews. “Come and eat a good breakfast, and prepare for your labours.”
To the astonishment of the children, he helped them to some of the fried
bacon; they gazed at their mother before venturing to eat. Little by
little this uncle gained upon them; they looked at him as if they liked
him.
When they had left the house, he held a long talk with his sister, and
told her of his intention to seek immediately another dwelling.
“We’ll go farther out, where you can get fresh air; I have an idea where
I shall look for rooms. I’m afraid we must restrict ourselves in the
matter of space, but that will be better borne where the sky is visible.
You leave me free to choose?”
The same day he began his search, and was absent for several hours
without hopeful result. No one would set forth gaily upon such an
excursion, and to Kingcote the task was revolting; Mrs. Bolt was
so often met with, and so seldom any one capable of inspiring human
confidence. When he got back wearied, midway in the afternoon, Mary
was out. On the sitting-room table he found a rather dirty envelope
addressed to himself, but not closed; in it was a sheet of note-paper,
folded awry, whereon was written the account of moneys due, which he
had asked for. It was a remarkable document, alike in conception and
execution; badly written, worse spelt, frequently difficult to decipher
at all. However, the sum total at the end stood in plain enough figures:
one pound, sixteen shillings, and eightpence three farthings. There was
nothing alarming in this demand; the point which exacted attention was
the way in which the total was constructed. Beginning with a lump
sum, Mrs. Bolt debited her tenant in five days’ “attendance,” at three
shillings a day; the remainder of the charge consisted of innumerable
items of petty expenditure, each assigned to its day. It would be: “One
cup tee, 3d.; one basern brorth, 5d.; fetchin docter, 3d.; bread and
buter for childern, 3d.,” and so on. Kingcote at first regarded this
bill with disgust, then he was able to see the humorous side of the
situation, and broke into loud laughter. Mrs. Bolt, who had her ear at
the door, heard the laughter, and, attributing it to the smallness of
her demand, promised to “give it” her husband for having deemed further
extortion unadvisable.
Mary came in shortly, bringing several parcels; the exertion of walking
a very brief distance was too much for her strength, she sank on a chair
in exhaustion. Kingcote held the bill behind his back.
“You told me, I think,” he said, with a natural smile, “that Mrs. Bolt
had shown you great kindness the last few days, in doing little services
for you, and so on?”
“She has, really; I was ashamed to ask for so much.”
“To ask? Ah, then you agreed with her to give you regular service?”
“Oh, no,” she professed in surprise. “It was all her kindness; she
pressed it on me. She’s really kind-hearted when you’re in need.”
“Remarkably so,” said her brother, laughing again. “Pray glance your eye
over that.”
(Mrs. Bolt had crept to the door when she heard Mary enter; not a word
escaped her.)
Mary looked down each of the pages, her amazement increasing; at the end
she raised her eyes in indignation. Women always take small extortion
more seriously than men, and their sense of humour is generally
defective.
“Bernard! How _can_ she do such a thing? Oh, I should be ashamed!”
“No doubt you would, my dear sister; you and Mrs. Bolt are of somewhat
different clay.”
She began to contest items.
“No, no, we wont talk about it,” Kingcote said, taking the dirty paper
from her hands.
“You will pay it?”
“Oh, certainly; and I beg you will not speak of it again. Only, let it
be a piece of experience, and remember that people of that class are a
species of dirty object, much to be avoided. Whilst we are here, we will
keep the doors of our rooms shut and the windows open. Morally speaking,
that is; literally, the weather is too bad.”
So he ended with a laugh, and went on to speak of his ill success during
the day. They talked till the children came in from school. Kingcote was
studying his sister, consciously inquiring into her character, which
he had never understood, had scarcely had a chance of getting to
understand. Though little things in her speech and way of thought now
and then jarred on him, showing the influence of sordid circumstances,
he was surprised at the extent to which she had preserved the tone
and manner of a lady. Mary seemed to inherit her mother’s power
of resistance to all that had no connection with the few and plain
principles of her nature. Her mother’s individuality had exerted itself
to active purpose; Mary had perhaps shown even more firmness in a
passive way. She had, in truth, a considerable share of obstinacy,
operative, her life being what it was, only for good. In the protection
of her children from every kind of ill she exercised incessant care,
never failing, for instance, to take them herself to school and fetch
them home again. She held, moreover, with the utmost tenacity to
the forms of religious faith and practice which she had known from
childhood; they did not appear to aid her much morally, but still were
of mechanical use in preserving the continuity of her life. It was only
on the surface that she was weak; she was susceptible to every kind of
suffering, but had a corresponding power of enduring. Few women could
have lived as she had done, from seventeen to seven-and-twenty, and have
preserved so much cleanliness of soul.
She could not pardon Mrs. Bolt, whose offence, in her eyes, consisted
far more in the extortion practised on her brother than in a display of
unabashed sordidness. To that good woman’s surprise, Mary refrained from
intercourse with her throughout the fortnight that she remained in the
house.
For it took so long to discover a new abode and have it prepared for
tenants. After several days of search, Kingcote at length found rooms of
which he determined to make a trial. They were in Highgate, not far from
the pleasant road which leads across the valley to Hampstead; four rooms
and an underground kitchen, the rest of the house being occupied by
an engraver and his family, not intolerable beings. Of his own bedroom
Kingcote would also make a study; that left a common sitting-room. He
bought such additional furniture as was needed (the Jallands had long
ago been obliged to sell much that they once possessed), and made the
appearance of a modest home. The removal was happily accomplished, and
our friend thanked Heaven in once more breathing unpolluted air.
He wished to exercise all delicacy in regard to his sister’s feelings,
and so, after arranging the heavy furniture of her sitting-room, he said
to her: “I will leave you to put up what ornaments you like.” It was
more than generous, bearing in mind certain objects which had graced the
former parlour. Mary did not fail to understand him. The dial-bellied
man was never seen again, nor mentioned (it had been Jalland’s
purchase), and the specimens of British infancy were hung in the boys’
bedroom.
“We can’t afford good pictures,” Kingcote said, looking round the bare
walls, “so we will have none. Perhaps I may now and then pick up a print
that will do.”
For some days he took it for granted that the water-colour portrait had
been hung by Mary in her own bedroom; but, when he at length found
an opportunity of peeping in, behold it was not there! she had only
preserved an illuminated cross. He turned away with a deep feeling of
gladness in his heart. The past was done with.