THE HOUR OF WRATH
As soon as the first shot was fired, Tom Courtland struck his flag.
There was no fight in him. His career was compromised, and by now his
affairs were seriously involved. He resigned his seat; he wasn't going
to wait to be turned out, he said, either by divorce or by bankruptcy,
or by both at once. He never went home now. As a last concession to
appearances, he took a room at his club. Mrs. Bolton now urged him to
fight--since things had gone so far. Of course he would have to tell
lies! But there were circumstances in which everybody told lies! She was
ready to back him through thick and thin. If they could get Lady Harriet
into the box and cross-examine her thoroughly, they could rely on a
great deal of sympathy from a jury of husbands. It was really a good
fighting case--given the lies, of course. She urged fighting, which was
unselfish of her from one point of view, since an undefended case would
do her little real harm, while a cross-examination in open Court could
not be a pleasant ordeal for her, any more than it ought to be for
Harriet Courtland. But she liked Tom--although incurable habit had
caused her to make his affairs so involved--and she hated that Harriet
should "have a walk over." She was angry with Tom because he gave in
directly, and took it all "lying down," as she said. But Tom was broken;
he could only mutter that he did not "care a damn" what they did; it was
all over for him. His bristly hair began to turn a dull grey in these
troublesome days. When he was not with Mrs. Bolton he was haunting the
streets and parks, hoping he might meet his girls taking their walk with
the maid or with Suzette Bligh. Such stray encounters were his only
chance of ever seeing them now--the only chance of ever seeing them in
the future, he supposed, unless the Court gave him "access." And much
pleasure there would be in access, with Harriet to tell them the sort of
man he was before every such visit as the law might charingly dole out
to him! He grumbled disconsolately about everything--the suit, his
affairs, his children, the access, all of it--to Mrs. Bolton; but he did
and tried to do nothing. He was in a condition of moral collapse.
Harriet Courtland's state was even worse. She was almost unapproachable
by the children and Suzette Bligh--and none other tried to approach her.
She had no friends left. Not one of Tom's set was on her side; she had
wearied them all out. The last to keep up the forms of friendship was
Christine Fanshaw. Now that was at an end too. She had heard nothing
from Christine. From the day of John's visit there had been absolute
silence. She knew well what that meant. She brooded fiercely over what
she had done to Christine--her one remaining friend--had done not
because she wanted to hurt Christine or to lose her friendship, had done
with no reasonable motive at all, but just in blind rage, because in her
fury she wanted to strike and wound John, and this had been the readiest
and sharpest weapon. She could not get what she had done out of her
head; she was driven to see what a light it cast on the history of her
own home; it showed her the sort of woman she was. But she held on her
way, and pressed on her suit. Realising what she was bred in her no
desire to change. There was no changing such a woman as she was--a
cursed woman, as she called herself again and again. So there she sat,
alone in her room, save when her nervous children came perforce to cower
before her--alone with the ruin she had made, in bitter wrath with all
about her, in bitterest wrath with herself. She was a terror in the
house, and knew it. Nobody in the house loved her now--nay, nobody in
the world. It had come to this because of her evil rage. And the rage
was not satiated; it had an appetite still for every misfortune and
every shame which was to afflict and disgrace her husband. In that lay
now her only pleasure; her sole joy was to give pain. Yet the thought
that her girls had ceased to love her, or had come to hate her, drove
her to a frenzy of anger and wretchedness. What had they to complain of?
How dared they not love her! She exacted signs of love from them. They
dared not refuse a kiss for fear of a blow being given in its place; but
Harriet knew now why they kissed her and accepted her kisses. "Little
hypocrites!" she would mutter when they went out, accusing the work of
her own hands. But they should love her--aye, and they should hate their
father. She swore they should at least hate their father, even if they
only pretended to love her. The woman grew half mad at the idea that in
their hearts they loved their father, pitied him, thought him ill-used,
grieved because he came no more; that they were in their hearts on their
father's side and against her. She wished they were older, so that they
could be told all about the case. Well, they should be told even now, if
need be, if that proved the only way of rooting the love of their father
out of their hearts.
An evil case for these poor children! They had no comfort save in gentle
colourless Suzette Bligh. To all her friends she had seemed a
superfluous person. She used to be invited just to balance
dinner-parties, or on a stray impulse of kindness. But fate had found
other work for her now. The once useless superfluous woman was all the
consolation these three children had; any love they got she gave them.
She stood between them and desolation. She warned them what temper their
mother was in, whether it were safe to approach her, and with what
demeanour. More than once her love gave the meek creature courage, and
she stood between them and wrath. Lamentable as the state of affairs
was, Suzette had found a new joy in life. She took these children into
her life and her heart, and became as a mother to them. Gradually they
grew to love her.
But none the less--perhaps all the more--they tormented her, bringing to
her all the doubts and questions which were rife in their minds. The
portentous word "divorce" had come to their ears--Harriet was not
careful in her use of it. They connected it quickly with their father's
now continuous absence. Whatever else it might mean--and they thought it
meant something bad for their father, to be suffered at the hands of
their mother--they understood it at least to mean that he would be with
them no more. Suzette knew nothing at all about "access," and could only
fence feebly with their questions; they ventured to put none to Harriet.
They grew clear that their father had gone, and that they were to be
left to their mother.
One and all they declined such a conclusion. They loved Tom; they did
not love Harriet. Tom had always been a refuge, sometimes a buffer. They
had no doubt of what they wanted. They wanted to go to their father, and
to take Suzette Bligh with them. That scheme conjured up the vision of a
happy home, free from fear, where kisses would be volunteered, not
exacted, and the constant dread would be no more.
"But we daren't tell mamma that," said Sophy, in a tremble at the bare
idea.
Lucy shook her head; Vera's eyes grew wide. They certainly dared not go
to Harriet with any such communication as that. They had been shrewd
enough to see that they were expected to hate their father: Vera had
been roughly turned out of the room merely for mentioning his name.
After much consultation, carried on in a secrecy to which not even
Suzette was privy, a plan was laid. They would write to their father and
tell him that, whether he were sentenced to divorce or not, they wanted
to come and live with him--and to bring Suzette if they might.
"We won't say anything about mamma. He'll understand," Sophy observed.
Vera piped out in terror:
"But when mamma finds out?"
"We shall be gone, don't you see?" cried Lucy. "We shall ask papa to
meet us somewhere, and he'll take us with him, and then just write and
tell mamma."
"He can say we're sorry when he writes to tell mamma."
"Oh, yes, I see," said Vera. "It will be splendid, won't it? I wish we
could tell Suzette!"
The elder girls were dead against that. Suzette was a dear, but she was
too much afraid of mamma; the great secret would not be safe with her,
and if it were discovered before they were out of reach--significant
nods expressed that situation with absolute lucidity.
So Sophy--who wrote the best hand--squared her elbows and sat down to
her task in the schoolroom. A scout was posted at the foot of the
stairs, another at the top. On the least alarm the letter was to be
destroyed, and the scribe would be discovered busy on a French exercise.
"DEAREST PAPA," Sophy wrote,--
"We all send our love, and, please, we do not want to stay here now
that you have gone away. Please let us come and live with you. We
promise not to be troublesome, and Suzette might come too, might
not she, and look after us? Dearest papa, do not make us stay here.
Because we love you, and we want to come and live with you. Please
tell us where to meet you, and we will make Suzette bring us, and
you can take us home with you. Please let it be soon. We do so want
to see you. Please do not make us stay here. We each of us send you
a kiss, and are your loving daughters."
The signatures were attached, the letter closed and addressed to Tom's
club; they knew where that was, because he had taken them to see it one
Sunday morning, and they had admired the great armchairs and all the
wonderful big books. The same afternoon Lucy broke away from Suzette,
ran across to a pillar post, and dropped the important missive in. She
came back with an air of devil-may-care triumph, nodding at her sisters,
frankly refusing to tell Suzette anything about it.
"You'll see very soon," she promised in mysterious triumph, and that
evening the three had a wonderful talk over the letter, speaking in low
cautious tones, agreeing that their manner must be carefully guarded,
that meekness and affection towards their mother must be the order of
the day, and that one of them must always be on the watch for the
postman's coming, lest by chance Tom's answer should fall into the hands
of the enemy.
"Would she open it?" shuddered Vera.
"I expect she would," said Sophy.
They saw the danger, and the hours were anxious. But they tasted some of
the delights of conspiracy too. And hope was on the horizon. One more
"row" could be endured if after that the doors were open to freedom.
Tom's heart was touched by the little scrawl, written on a sheet torn
from a copybook. In his broken-down state he was inclined to be maudlin
over it. He carried it to Mrs. Bolton, and showed it to her, saying that
he could not be such a bad chap after all if the little ones loved him
like that, pitying them because they were exposed to Harriet's tempers,
bewailing his own inability to help them, or to comply with their
artless request.
"I shouldn't be allowed to keep them," he said ruefully, trying to
smooth his bristly hair.
Mrs. Bolton made a show of sympathy, and was in fact sorry for him; but
she did not encourage any idea of trying to take or keep them. He
suggested smuggling them out of the jurisdiction. She was firm, if
kindly, in asking how he meant to support them. Anyhow Lady Harriet
could feed them! Tom was very much under her influence, and had no
longer the strength of will needed for any venturous plan. The
conclusion that he could do nothing was not long in coming home to him.
"But I must write to the poor little things," he said, "and tell them I
shall come and see them sometimes. That'll comfort them. I'm glad
they're so fond of me. By Jove, I haven't been a bad father, you know!"
He read Sophy's letter over again and laid it down on Mrs. Bolton's
mantelpiece; when he went back to the club he forgot it and left it
there.
There Mrs. Bolton's friend, Miss Pattie Henderson (she was not married
to Georgie Parmenter yet--negotiations were pending with his family),
found it, and it was from her that a suggestion came which appealed
strongly to Mrs. Bolton. As she drank her glass of port, Miss Henderson
opined that it would be "a rare score" to send the letter to Harriet
Courtland. "It'll make her properly furious," said Miss Pattie,
finishing her port with hearty enjoyment.
Mrs. Bolton caught at the notion. Harriet was putting her to a great
deal of annoyance, and so was Tom's refusal to stand up to Harriet. It
was meet and right that any person who was in a position to give Harriet
a dig should give it. Neither of them thought of what might be entailed
on the little folk who had dared to send the letter; in the end they had
a very inadequate idea of the terror Harriet inspired. Mrs. Bolton
laughed as she contemplated the plan.
"Just stick in a word or two of your own," Miss Pattie advised.
"Something spicy!"
Mrs. Bolton at once thought of several spicy little comments which would
add point to Sophy's letter. One was so spicy, so altogether satisfying
to Mrs. Bolton's soul, and to Miss Pattie Henderson's critical taste,
that it was irresistible. It--and Sophy's letter--were posted to Harriet
before lunch that day; and Mrs. Bolton's eyes were only opened at all to
what she had done when she told Caylesham (who had dropped in in the
afternoon), and heard him exclaim:
"But, by Jove, she'll take it out of those unhappy children, you know! I
say, you don't know Harriet Courtland, or you'd never have done that!"
His concern seemed so great that Mrs. Bolton's heart was troubled. If
she did not upbraid herself, at any rate she denounced Miss Henderson.
But what was to be done? Nothing could be done. By now the letter must
be almost in Harriet Courtland's hands. Caylesham said a few plain words
about the matter, but his words could not help now. They had, however,
one effect. They made Mrs. Bolton afraid to let Tom know what she had
done: and she persuaded Caylesham not to betray her. When Tom next came
she told him that she had accidentally burnt Sophy's letter in mistake
for one of her own.
"Well, I've sent them an answer, poor little beggars--under cover to
Suzette Bligh," said Tom. "But I'm sorry. I should have liked to keep
that letter of theirs, Flora."
"I know. Of course you would. I'm sorry," said Mrs. Bolton, now feeling
very uncomfortable, although she had not lost her pleasure at the idea
of giving Harriet such a fine dig.
Tom's letter reached its destination first, and Suzette read it to the
little girls. It was a kind and a good letter. He told them to behave
well towards their mother, and to love her. He said he was obliged to be
away from them now, but presently he would see them and hoped to see
them very often, and that they were not to forget to go on loving him,
because he loved them very much.
Suzette's voice broke a little over the letter, and the children
listened in an intent and rather awed silence. They were divided between
relief that an answer had come safely, and depression at what the answer
was. But they understood--or thought they did--that if they were good
they would presently be allowed to see their father very often.
"That's what he means, isn't it?" Lucy asked Suzette.
"Yes, dear, that's it," Suzette told her, not knowing what else to tell
her.
"We'd better burn papa's letter," Sophy suggested.
There was no difference of opinion about that. Vera was accorded the
privilege of putting it in the fire, and of stamping carefully on the
ashes afterwards.
"Because," she said, justifying this precaution, "you remember the story
where the man was found out just because he didn't stamp on it after
he'd burnt it, Sophy!"
This was the last day on which Tom Courtland was entitled to put in a
defence to his wife's suit. He had made no sign. Harriet was the fiercer
against him. His ruin was not enough; she desired herself to see it made
visible and embodied in a trial whose every word and proceeding should
aggravate his shame and satisfy her resentment. She had nursed the
thought of that, making pictures of him and of the woman undergoing the
ordeal and being branded with guilt while all the world looked on. Now
Tom refused her this delight; there would be no trial, because he would
not fight.
It was a fine moment for the letter to arrive. The mine was all laid,
only the match was wanting. Harriet was dressing for dinner when it
came; her maid Garrett was doing her hair before the glass. As she read,
Garret saw a sudden change come over her face--one quick flush, then a
tight setting of her lips. Garrett knew the signs by experience.
Something in that letter had upset her ladyship. Warily and gently
Garrett handled her ladyship's hair; if she blundered in her task now,
woe to her, for her ladyship's temper was upset.
"Dearest papa, do not make us stay here. Because we love you and want to
come and live with you"----"Please do not make us stay here."
That was the truth of it, that was what they really thought, these
little hypocrites who came and kissed her so obediently every morning
and evening, those meek little creatures with their "Yes, mamma dear,"
"No, dear mamma," accepting all her commands so docilely, returning her
kisses so affectionately. All that was a show, a sham, a device for
deluding her, for keeping her quiet, while they laid their vile
plots--none the less vile for being so idiotic--and sent their love to
"dearest papa"--to that man, to Flora Bolton's lover--while they gave
Flora Bolton the means of mocking and of triumphing over her.
She sat very still for awhile, but Garrett was not reassured. Garrett
knew that the worst fits of all took a little time in coming. They
worked themselves up gradually.
"Is that to your ladyship's satisfaction?" asked Garrett, as she put the
last touches to her work.
"No, it isn't," snarled Harriet. "No, don't touch me again. Let it
alone, you clumsy fool."
Garrett went and took up the evening dress. Harriet Courtland rose and
stood for a moment with Sophy's letter to Tom in her hand.
"I'm going to the schoolroom for a few minutes. Wait here," she said to
Garrett, and walked out of the room slowly, taking the letter with her.
Another slip of paper she tore into shreds as she went; that was Mrs.
Bolton's comment on the situation, as "spicy" and as vulgar as she and
Miss Pattie Henderson could make it. Yet Harriet was not now thinking of
Mrs. Bolton.
Garrett stood where she was for a moment, then stole cautiously after
her mistress. She knew the signs, and a morbid curiosity possessed her.
She would have a sensational story to retail downstairs, if she could
manage to see or hear what happened--for beyond a doubt something had
put her ladyship in one of her tantrums. Pity for the children struggled
with Garrett's seductive anticipations of a "scene."
Suzette Bligh was reading a story aloud in the schoolroom when Harriet
marched in. She held the letter in her hand. The children could make,
and had leisure to make, no conjecture how the catastrophe had come
about, but in a flash all the little girls knew that it was upon them.
The letter and their mother's face told them. They sat looking at her
with terrified eyes.
"So you don't want to stay here?" she said sneeringly. "You want to go
to your dearest papa? And you dare to write that! Who wrote it? Was it
you, Lucy?"
"I--I didn't write it, mamma dear," said Lucy.
Suzette rose in distress.
"Dear Lady Harriet----" she began.
"Hold your tongue. So you wrote it, Sophy. Yes, I see now it's your
writing. Oh, but you were all in it, I suppose. So you love your papa?"
Garrett had stolen to within two or three yards of the door now, and it
stood half open. She could hear all and see something of what happened.
"So you love your papa?"
Sophy had most courage. Desperate courage came to her now.
"Yes, we do."
"And you want to go to him?"
"Yes, mamma."
"And you don't love me? You don't want to stay with me?"
Sophy glanced for a moment at her sisters.
"Papa's so kind to us," she said.
"And I'm not kind?" asked Harriet with a sneering laugh. "When you're
older, my dears, thank me for having been kind--really kind. It's really
kind to teach you not to play these tricks--these mean and disgraceful
little tricks."
All the children rose slowly and shrank back. They tried to get behind
Suzette Bligh. Harriet laughed again when she saw the manœuvre.
"You needn't stay, Suzette," she said. "I know how to manage my own
children."
Suzette was very white, and was trembling all over; it seemed as if her
legs would hardly support her.
"What are you going to do?"
"It's no business of yours. They know very well. Leave me alone with
them."
It was a terrible moment for timid Suzette. But love of the children had
laid hold of her heart, and gave her strength.
"I can't go, Lady Harriet," she said in a low voice. "I can't leave you
alone with them--not now."
"Not now?" cried Harriet fiercely.
"You're--you're not calm now. You're not fit----"
"You'd stand between me and my own children?"
"Dear Lady Harriet, I--I can't go away now." For she remembered so
vividly all that the children's reminiscences, their nods and nudges,
had hinted to her; she realised all the things which they had not told
her; and she would not leave them now.
Her resistance set the crown to Harriet Courtland's rage. After an
instant's pause she gave a half-articulate cry of anger, and rushed
forward. Suzette tried to gather the children behind her, and to thrust
the angry woman away. But Harriet caught Sophy by the arm and lifted her
midway in the air. Garrett came right up to the door and peeped through.
"So you love papa and not me?"
Sophy turned her pale, terrified little face up to her mother's. The
worst had happened, and the truth came out.
"No, we--we hate you. You're cruel to us; we hate you, and we love
papa."
Harriet's grip tightened on the child's arm. Sophy's very audacity kept
her still for a moment. But at the next she lifted her higher in the
air. Suzette sprang forward with a cry, and Garrett dashed into the
room, shrieking, "Don't, don't, my lady!"
They were too late. The child was flung violently down; her head struck
the iron fender; she rolled over and lay quite still, bleeding from the
forehead. Suzette and Garrett caught Harriet Courtland by the arms. A
low, frightened weeping came from the other two little girls.
Harriet stood for a moment in the grasp of the two women who sought to
restrain her and would have thrown themselves upon her had she tried to
move. But restraint was no more necessary. Sophy had ransomed her
sisters, and lay so quiet, bleeding from the head. In a loud voice
Harriet Courtland cried, "Have I killed her? Oh, my God!" and herself
broke into a tempest of hysterical sobbing. She fell back into Garrett's
arms, shuddering, weeping, now utterly collapsed. Suzette went and knelt
by Sophy.
"No, she's not dead, but it's no fault of yours," she said.
Harriet wrenched free from Garrett and flung herself on her knees by the
table, stretching her arms across it and beating her forehead on the
wood. The two children looked at her, wondering and appalled.