HOME LIFE
They were married one afternoon at home. Only the family was present,
and after leaving the table they walked up to "The Estate," arm-in-arm.
It could not be concealed that there was much feverish excitement.
Indeed, it was the more apparent because they wished all to go on as if
nothing were on foot.
Hardly anything had been done up at the house. Things were to
be arranged by degrees. The first room on the left was still a
sitting-room and dining-room. The next one a bedroom. The best
furniture of every description which the house contained, some of it
old and valuable, was collected there. The leather hangings on the
walls had been washed, but were not much the better for it. The heavy
carved ceiling, on the contrary, was much improved by being cleaned. An
attempt had also been made to clean the pictures, but not altogether
with success; as the frames had at the same time been regilt they
presented altogether a ghastly appearance. This was almost all that had
been done. A bath-room had been fitted up next to the bedroom, shortly
after John Kurt returned home. This was now divided, so as also to form
a dressing-room. The kitchen, on the other side of the hall which
divided the house lengthwise, was like a huge dancing-room; a new
English kitchener had been fixed there, and the newly married pair
proposed to spend a great part of their time before it.
For a few days they were quite alone, nor did they go out later on. But
one or two ladies at a time were invited. And soon they were all as
merry up there as they had been before down at the Rendalens'. Just
previous to her wedding, and for a short time afterwards, Tomasine was
thoroughly in love with John Kurt; entirely wrapped up in him,
absolutely happy, and in boisterous spirits.
But this exuberance was contrary to her nature, and did not suit her.
She looked excited and almost vulgar. She felt this when her friends
looked at her. Indeed, her glass had already told her the same thing.
It made an impression on her, but she put it aside. It returned now and
then, like a secret dread. She tried naturally to shout it down, and
only made things worse. Her friends whispered that she had become
disagreeable; she, who had pleased by her unconscious manner, was now
either strangely abstracted, or boisterous.
One small thing excited observation. None of her friends were admitted
further than the sitting-room and kitchen; all was carefully locked up.
She positively kept watch to see if they watched her. Very soon,
however, some one spied on them all. It became impossible for any one
to be alone with Tomasine without John Kurt opening the door, and
putting in his head, but no sound was heard before he made his
appearance. All the locks had been examined and oiled, and the doors
opened noiselessly. If they walked along the broad paths in the garden,
he came out unexpectedly from behind a hedge. If they whispered when he
was present, he became restless and perverse, not exactly with them,
but in such a way as to leave no doubt of his meaning. He generally
poured out his wrath over Tomasine's untidy habits. Her friends thought
either that they were in the way, or that something was going on which
they would rather be away from. They came more and more rarely.
Tomasine was the last to understand her husband's uneasiness. She
fancied at first that it was only to scare them, that he came upon them
in that way. His complaints of her untidiness were merited. One has to
_learn_ to keep everything tidy about one. Later, when there could be
no mistake, she asked herself if he were jealous of her friends. In
that case he ought to have been so before; they came oftener then than
now. Was he afraid, then? Afraid of what? That they should talk about
him? What could they say? She knew as she asked it. He was out at the
moment, so that she had time to cool down a little. It was not her
nature to come to hasty determinations, nor was it clear to her how she
ought to take it, or what rights she had, or had not, in her married
life. She had never spoken to any one on the subject, never read about
it. The pain lessened little by little as she pondered. She took up her
work again, and tried to appear as if nothing had happened. Kurt,
however, observed at once that her manner was different. From that time
forward he sometimes saw that she had been crying. Every time he came
in he asked if any one had been there. "No." Once she heard him, a
little while afterwards, ask the gardener if any one had been with "the
Missis" whilst he was out.
He was shy with her and guarded, actually uneasy. But he could not
continue this long, and without warning became impatient and rough;
then repented his violence and begged her pardon twenty times, and this
again and again.
Tomasine was not nervous, so that she was neither frightened by the
former, nor did the latter make her alter her behaviour. She was
friendly, but always reserved. So things drifted on towards a storm.
They both knew it. The changes from cold to hot became more sudden, the
squalls which preceded them heavier, the stillness and sultriness which
followed them more dangerous. Yet in the midst of it all he could be so
wonderfully kind, so naturally bright and considerate, that sometimes
she forgot all presentiments, and gave herself up to the hope that,
under her quiet guardianship, which he quite understood, their life
might at last become what she realised by an ordinary, honourable
married life.
One afternoon he came in from the garden, where he had worked all day.
He wished to change his clothes, for he was invited to a men's dinner
in the town. He went into his bedroom, took off his coat and waistcoat,
came back again and talked of taking a bath, walked up and down as
though considering something. Tomasine felt that things were not safe.
She was herself dressed to visit a friend in the town, and he looked
closely at her. She thought it would be wiser to slip away, but when he
saw that she was preparing to start, he suggested that she should wait
for him, and that they might go down together. She excused herself on
the plea that she was expected. "There would be time enough for gossip,
she could help him a little first." She inquired how. This he would not
submit to. She had no business to ask questions. Beside that, she was
not obedient. She had not learnt that yet. She ought to understand that
now she had a master, and that she must obey him "in all things." It
was the Bible itself that said so. By way of answer, she put on her
bonnet which lay ready on the table, and took up her mantle and
parasol. On this he became furious, and asked her if she thought he had
not observed her. She thought herself so much better than he was, and
was therefore constantly spying on him. It was certainly true that she
had not had the opportunities of leading the life he had, but that was
in reality the only difference between them. At the bottom she was
exactly the same as he was, precisely, so she really need not keep up
this farce any longer. This came so unexpectedly to Tomasine, that she
cried out "Boor," took up her things, and turned to leave the room. The
door leading into the hall was behind her, he sprang to it, turned the
key and, took it out. Then going to the other doors, he fastened them,
keeping the keys, and as well as this, he closed all the windows.
"What are you thinking of?" she asked, turning deadly white, and taking
off her spectacles. She forgot her bonnet.
"You shall learn for once what you really are," he answered, and to her
consternation he called her by the worst name which can be given to a
woman. And, as he spoke, he came so close to her that she could feel
his breath on her face. He said things which stung her like scalding
water. It was to such a wretch she had given herself. Her close
proximity and the scent of her best clothes gave him an inspiration.
Like lightning it flashed upon him, that the time had come to humble
her. She thought too much of herself, as she stood there with her
strong figure. She dared to wish to be independent. She was his--his
thing. He could do whatever he liked with her. But she put herself on
the defensive. He warned her first. He asked what she was thinking
of--of coercing _him?_ She! Suddenly he screamed out, "I am not afraid
of your cat's eyes."
Now a fight began in the old Kurt house--between a Kurt and his wife,
with all the strength possessed by two human beings--and on his side
with the recklessness which disappointed love of rule and thwarted will
can give: entirely alone, with closed windows and doors, and without a
word uttered. The table was overthrown, and everything on it spilt or
broken, chairs were knocked over, the new sofa pushed far out along the
floor. Down they went themselves, but were up again directly. They got
across to the other side of the room, knocking against the heavy clock;
it swayed and fell, striking him on the shoulder and head, so that he
was obliged to pause and recover himself. She had time to try a door,
or at least to alter her position, but she did neither; she looked at
herself, for she had hardly a whole garment upon her. Her hair hung
dishevelled about her, and she felt pain in her head. The only thing
she did, however, was to free herself from the remains of her
crinoline, which she threw from her, and which caught in the legs of
the table. She felt that she was bleeding. He had struck her on the
mouth and nose, and the scratches smarted. They set to again. This time
he knocked her down at once, but he gained little by it. For he was not
so much stronger than she, that he could afford to expend his strength
without soon losing all that he had gained. Hardly was one of her hands
free before she was near him again. She was as agile as a cat; he moved
slowly. He was breathless, and deadly white, as if he were going to
faint. She saw this as she stood before him, in her rags. She was
breathing hard as well, but could still go on. He now heard her speak
for the first time. It was all she could do to say between her gasps
for breath: "Won't you--try--once--more?" He went backwards towards a
chair, the only one left standing, and sank down on it. He did not look
at her, but sat there, panting and overcome. It was some time before
one or two long breaths showed that he was beginning to recover
himself. She placed herself by the stove, holding her rags about her,
and asked him to open the bedroom door; she wanted to get some clothes.
He did not answer. She scoffed at his utter weakness and misery. He
listened without a word; he pointed at her, and his face expressed how
hideous she was. His spite at last gave him words. She looked, he said,
as she stood there in her rags and with her hair torn, like the
roughest and most disgusting of drunken women. But he put no colour
into what he said, nor a single oath. "Can't you swear now?" she asked.
He took this quietly; merely got up and walked slowly to the bedroom;
took the key out of his pockets, and opened the door. As he went in he
looked at her, then fastened it behind him, leaving her standing there.
She heard him go into the bathroom and take a shower bath, and then
dress himself. She sat down and waited. After a long time he came out
again, ready for the dinner, locked the door behind him and withdrew
the key, put his hands in his pockets, and began to whistle. He went
past her, across the overthrown furniture and other litter on the
floor, without attempting to pick up anything, finally striding over
the clock-case to reach the outer door. "You will find plenty to amuse
you here," he said. He unlocked the door and locked it again outside.
She heard him take away the key.
All the people about the place thought that they had both gone out, for
everything was fastened--even the sitting-room doors, which was not, as
a rule, done. By nine o'clock perfect silence reigned over the
homestead, both within and without. It was late in August, and there
was no moon.
At ten o'clock a man walked hurriedly up the avenue. He saw no light in
any part of the great building. He mounted the steps and entered the
hall, where the darkness obliged him to grope his way to the room-door.
He was evidently unfamiliar with the place. He knocked, but received no
answer. He tried the door, it was fast. He knocked again, thundered,
waited, but no one came. Again he knocked, louder than before, and
called "Tomasine."
"Yes," was answered at once from within.
A moment later, close by the door, "Is that you, father?"
"Can you not open the door?"
He knew by her voice that she was crying.
"Where is the key, then?"
"John took it with him when he went out."
A moment's silence, and then the question, "Has he locked you in,
then?"
"Yes," was the answer amid her sobs.
She heard him turn away again and descend the steps, and, to her
astonishment, go away without a single word.
She needed some one so much. It was unbearable. She began to feel
frightened, for it must have some meaning. Why did he go? Where was he
going? To meet Kurt! What would happen? The blood began to circulate
again in her half-clad body, for as Kurt had left her she still
remained. She hurried to the window, but could see nothing, and at the
same moment she heard some one on the steps again. She ran to the door,
but could not tell by the footsteps who was coming, they advanced so
cautiously.
"Is it you, father?" she asked.
"Yes, it is I, with the keys," he answered.
He came in, and she fell sobbing on his breast. She began to speak, but
he interrupted her.
"Yes, yes, you have nothing more to be frightened about." Then he told
her plainly and shortly that John Kurt was dead. "They are now at the
steps, with the body."
Partly from her father, partly at a later time from other people, she
learned that John Kurt had eaten and drunk heavily at dinner, becoming
more and more excited. On leaving the table he swore by life and death
that he would go to a disreputable house. That would be such devilish
good fun for Tomasine. They tried to control him, but he became
perfectly beside himself, staggered forward, and fell dead.
No floral temple was built on the steps for John Kurt to be laid in.