A STAB IN THE DARK
Slander, meanest spawn of Hell;
And women's slander is the worst.
Mrs. Agar was a person incapable of awaiting that vague result called the
development of things.
Arthur had never been forced to wait for anything in his life. No longer
at least than tradespeople required, and in many cases not so long, for
Mrs. Agar had an annoying way of refusing to listen to reason. She never
allowed that laws applying to ordinary people, served more or less
faithfully by tailor or dressmaker, applied to herself or to Arthur. And
tradespeople, one finds are not always of the same mind as the Medes and
Persians--they square matters quietly in the bill. They had to do it very
quietly indeed with Mrs. Agar, who endeavoured strenuously to get the
best value for her money all through life; a remnant of Jaggery House,
Clapham Common, which the placid wealth of Stagholme never obliterated.
After the luncheon, specially prepared and laid before the Rector, this
second Rebecca awaited the result impatiently. But nothing came of it.
Although Mrs. Agar now looked upon Dora as the latest whim of the
not-to-be-denied Arthur, she could hardly consider Mr. Glynde in the
light of a tradesman retailing the said commodity, and, therefore, to be
bullied and harassed into making haste. She reflected with misgiving that
Mr. Glynde was an exponent of the tiresome art of talking over and
thinking out matters which required neither words nor thought, and saw no
prospect of an immediate furtherance of her design.
With a mistaken and much practised desire of striking when the iron was
hot, Mrs. Agar, like many a wiser person, began, therefore, to bang about
in all directions, hitting not only the iron but the anvil, her own
knuckles and the susceptibilities of any one standing in the
neighbourhood. She could not leave things to Mr. Glynde, but must needs
see Dora herself. She had in her mind the nucleus of a simple if
scurrilous scheme which will show itself hereafter. Her opportunity
presented itself a few days later.
A neighbouring family counting itself county, presumably on the strength
of never being able to absent themselves from the favoured neighbourhood
on account of monetary incapacity, gave its annual garden-party at this
time. To this entertainment the whole countryside was in the habit of
repairing--not with an idea of enjoying itself, but because everybody did
it. To be bidden to this garden-party was in itself a _cachet_ of
respectability. This indeed was the only satisfaction to be gathered from
the festivity. If the honour was great, the hospitality was small. If the
condescension was vast, the fare provided was verging on the stingy. Here
were served by half-starved domestic servants, in the smallest of
tumblers, “cups” wherein were mixed liquors, such as cider, usually
consumed by self-respecting persons in the undiluted condition and in
mugs. Upon cucumber-cup, taken in county society, as on a dinner of
herbs, one hardly expects the guest to grow convivial. Therefore at this
garden-party those bidden to the feast were in the habit of wandering
sadly through the shrubbery seeking whom they might avoid, and in the
course of such a perambulation, with a young man conversant of himself,
Dora met Mrs. Agar. Even the mistress of Stagholme was preferable to the
young man from London, and besides--there were associations. So Dora drew
Mrs. Agar into her promenade, and presently the young man got his
_congé_.
At first they talked of local topics, and Mrs. Agar, who had a fine sense
of hospitality, said her say about the cider-cup. Then she gave an
awkward little laugh, and with an assumption of lightness which did not
succeed she said:
“I hope, dear, you do not intend to keep my poor boy in suspense much
longer?”
“Do you mean Arthur?” asked Dora.
“Yes, dear. I really don't see why there should be this absurd reserve
between us.”
“I am quite willing,” replied the girl, “to hear what you have to say
about it.”
“Yes, but not to talk of it.”
“Well, I suppose Arthur has told you all there is to tell. If there is
anything more that you want to know I shall be very glad to tell you.”
“Well, of course, I don't understand it at all,” burst out Mrs. Agar
eagerly. This was quite true; neither she nor Arthur could understand how
any one could refuse such a glorious offer as he had made.
“Perhaps I can explain. Arthur asked me to marry him. I quite appreciated
the honour, but I declined it.”
“Yes, but why? Surely you didn't mean it?”
“I did mean it.”
“Well,” explained Mrs. Agar, with a little toss of the head, “I am sure I
cannot see what more you want. There are many girls who would be glad to
be mistress of Stagholme.”
And it must be remembered that she said this knowing quite well that Jem
was probably alive. There are some crimes which women commit daily in the
family circle which deserve a greater punishment than that meted out to a
legal criminal.
“That is precisely what I ventured to point out to Arthur,” said Dora,
unconsciously borrowing her father's ironical neatness of enunciation.
“But why shouldn't you take the opportunity? There are not many estates
like it in England. Your position would be as good as that of a titled
lady, and I am sure you could not want a better husband.”
“I like Arthur as a friend, but I could never marry him, so it is useless
to discuss the question.”
“But why?” persisted Mrs. Agar.
“Because I do not care for him in the right way.”
“But that would come,” said Mrs. Agar. It was only natural that she
should use an argument which is accountable for more misery on earth than
mothers dream of.
“No, it would never come.”
Mrs. Agar gave a cunning little laugh, and paused so as to lend
additional weight to her next remark.
“That is a dangerous thing for a girl to say.”
“Is it?” inquired Dora indifferently.
“Yes, because they can never be sure, unless--”
“Unless what? I am quite sure.”
“Unless there is some one else,” said Mrs. Agar, with an exaggerated
significance suggestive of the servants' hall.
Dora did not answer at once. They walked on for a few moments in silence,
passing other guests walking in couples. Then Dora replied with a
succinctness acquired from her father:
“Generalities about women,” she said, “are always a mistake. Indeed, all
generalities are dangerous. But if you and Arthur care to apply this to
me, you are at liberty to do so. Whatever generalities you apply and
whatever you say will make no difference to the main question. Moreover,
you will, perhaps, be acting a kinder part if you give Arthur to
understand once for all that my decision is final.”
“As you like, dear, as you like,” muttered Mrs. Agar, apparently
abandoning the argument, whereas in reality she had not yet begun it.
“How do you do, dear Mrs. Martin?” she went on in the same breath, bowing
and smiling to a lady who passed them at that moment.
“Of course,” she said, returning in a final way to the question after a
few moments' silence, “of course I do not believe all I hear; in fact, I
contradict a good deal. But I have been told that gossips talked about
you a good deal last year, at the time of Jem's death. I think it only
fair that you should know.”
“Thank you,” said Dora curtly.
“Of course, dear, _I_ didn't believe anything about it.”
“Thank you,” said Dora again.
“I should have been sorry to do so.”
Then Dora turned upon her suddenly.
“What do you mean, Aunt Anna?” she asked with determination.
“Oh, nothing, dear, nothing. Don't get flurried about it.”
“I am not at all flurried,” replied Dora quietly. “You said that you
would be sorry to have to believe what gossips said of me last year at
the time of Jem's death--”
“Dora,” interrupted Mrs. Agar, “I never said anything against you in any
way; how can you say such a thing?”
“And,” continued Dora, with an unpleasant calmness of manner, “I must ask
you to explain. What did the gossips say, and why should you be sorry to
have to believe it?”
Mrs. Agar's reluctance was not quite genuine nor was it well enough
simulated to deceive Dora.
“Well, dear,” she said, “if you insist, they said that there had been
something between you and Jem--long, long ago, of course, before he went
out to India.”
Dora shrugged her shoulders.
“They are welcome to say what they like.”
Mrs. Agar was silent, awaiting a second question.
“And why should you be sorry to believe that?” inquired the girl.
“I--I hardly like to tell you,” said Mrs. Agar, in a low voice.
Dora waited in silence, without appearing to heed Mrs. Agar's reluctance.
“I am afraid, dear,” went on the elder lady, when she saw that there was
no chance of assistance, “that we have been all sadly mistaken in Jem. He
was not--all that we thought him.”
“In what way?” asked Dora. She had turned quite white, and her lips were
suddenly dry and parched. She held her parasol a little lower, so that
Mrs. Agar could not see her face. She was sure enough of her voice. She
had had practice in that.
“In what way was Jem not all that we thought him?” she repeated evenly,
like a lesson learnt by heart.
Mrs. Agar stammered. She tried to blush, but she could not manage that.
“I cannot very well give you details. Perhaps, when you are older. You
know, dear, in India people are not very particular. They have peculiar
ideas, I mean, of morals--different from ours. And perhaps he saw no harm
in it.”
“In what?” inquired Dora gravely.
“Well, in the life they lead out there. It appears that there was some
unfortunate attachment. I think she was married or something like that.”
“Who told you this?” asked Dora, in a voice like a threat.
“A man told Arthur at Cambridge--one of poor Jem's fellow-officers. The
man who brought home the diary and things.”
Having once begun Mrs. Agar found herself obliged to go on. She had not
time to pause and reflect that she was now staking everything upon the
possibility of Jem's death subsequent to the disaster in which he was
supposed to have perished.
Dora did not believe one word of this story, although she was quite
without proof to the contrary. Jem's letters had not been frequent, nor
had they been remarkable for minuteness of detail respecting his own
life. Mrs. Agar had done her best to put a stop to this correspondence
altogether, and had succeeded in bringing about a subtle reserve on both
sides. She had persistently told Jem that Dora was evidently attached to
Arthur, and that their marriage was only the question of a few years. Of
this Jem had never found any confirmatory hint in Dora's letters, and
from some mistaken sense of chivalry refrained from writing to ask her
point-blank if it were true.
“And why,” said Dora, “do you tell me this? In case what the gossips said
might be true?”
“Ye-es, dear, perhaps it was that.”
“So as to save me from cherishing any mistaken memory?”
“Yes, it may have been that.”
And Mrs. Agar was surprised to see Dora turn her back upon her as if she
had been something loathsome to look upon, and walk away.