A SUGGESTION
Waymark and Julian Casti were sitting together in the former's room. It
was Saturday evening--two days after Waymark's visit to Ida. Julian had
fallen into a sad reverie.
"How is your wife?" asked his friend, after watching the melancholy
face for a while.
"She said her headache was worse to-night."
"Curiously," observed Waymark, with a little acidity, "it always is
when you have to leave home."
Julian looked up, and seemed to reach a crisis in his thoughts.
"Waymark," he began, reddening as he still always did when greatly
moved, "I fear I have been behaving very foolishly. Many a time I have
wished to speak out to you plainly, but a sort of delicacy--a wrong
kind of delicacy, I think--prevented me. I can't keep this attitude any
longer. I must tell you how things are going on, and you must give me
what help you can. And perhaps I shall be telling you what you already
know?"
"I have suspected."
"Where is the blame?" Julian broke out, with sudden vehemence. "I
cannot think that ever husband was more patient and more indulgent than
I have been. I have refused her nothing that my means could possibly
obtain. I have given up all the old quiet habits of my life that she
mightn't think I slighted her; I scarcely ever open a book at home,
knowing that it irritates her to see me reading; I do my best to amuse
her at all times. How does she reward me? For ever she grumbles that I
can't perform impossibilities,--take her to theatres, buy her new
dresses, procure for her friends and acquaintances. My wishes,
expressed or understood, weigh with her less than the least of her own
caprices. She wantonly does things which she knows will cause me
endless misery. Her companions are gross and depraved people, who
constantly drag her lower and lower, to their own level. The landlady
has told me that, in my absence, women have called to see her who
certainly ought not to enter any decent house. When I entreat her to
give up such associates, her only answer is to accuse me of
selfishness, since I have friends myself, and yet won't permit her to
have any. And things have gone from bad to worse. Several nights of
late, when I have got home, she has been away, and has not returned
till much after midnight. Hour after hour I have sat there in the
extremest misery, waiting, waiting, feeling as though my brain would
burst with its strain! I have no idea where she goes to. If I ask, she
only retorts by asking me where I spend the nights when I am with you,
and laughs contemptuously when I tell her the truth. Her suspicions and
jealousy are incessant, and torture me past endurance. Once or twice, I
confess, I have lost patience, and have spoken angrily, too angrily;
then she has accused me of brutal disregard of her sufferings. It would
hurt me less if she pierced me with a knife. Only this morning there
was a terrible scene; she maddened me past endurance by her wretched
calumnies--accusing me of I know not what disgraceful secrets--and when
words burst from me involuntarily, she fell into hysterics, and
shrieked till all the people in the house ran up in alarm. Can you
understand what this means to one of my temperament? To have my private
affairs forced upon strangers in this way tortures me with the pains of
hell. I am naturally reticent and retiring--too much so, I dare
say--and no misery could have been devised for me more dreadful than
this. Her accusations are atrocious, such as could only come from a
grossly impure mind, or at the suggestion of vile creatures. You she
hates with a rabid hatred--God only knows why. She would hate any one
who was my friend, and whose society relieved me for a moment from my
ghastly torments!"
He ceased for very exhaustion, so terribly did the things he described
work upon him.
"What am I to do, Waymark? Can you give me advice?"
Waymark had listened with his eyes cast down, and he was silent for
some time after Julian ceased.
"You couldn't well ask for advice in a more difficult case," he said at
length. "There's nothing for it but to strengthen yourself and endure.
Force yourself into work. Try to forget her when she is out of sight."
"But," broke in Julian, "this amounts to a sentence of death! What of
the life before me, of the years I shall have to spend with her? Work,
forget myself, forget her,--that is just what I _cannot_ do! My nerves
are getting weaker every day; I am beginning to have fits of trembling
and horrible palpitation; my dreams are hideous with vague
apprehensions, only to be realised when I wake. Work! Half my misery is
caused by the thought that my work is at an end for ever. It is all
forsaking me, the delight of imagining great things, what power I had
of putting my fancies into words, the music that used to go with me
through the day's work. It is long since I wrote a line of verse.
Quietness, peace, a calm life of thought, these things are what I
_must_ have; I thought I should have them in a higher degree than ever,
and I find they are irretrievably lost. I feel my own weakness, as I
never could before. When you bid me strengthen myself, you tell me to
alter my character. The resolution needed to preserve the better part
of my nature through such a life as this, will never be within my
reach. It is fearful to think of what I shall become as time goes on. I
dread myself! There have been revealed to me depths of passion and
misery in my own heart which I had not suspected. I shall lose all
self-control, and become as selfish and heedless as she is."
"No, you will not," said Waymark encouragingly. "This crisis will pass
over, and strength will be developed. We have a wonderful faculty for
accommodating ourselves to wretchedness; how else would the world have
held together so long? When you begin to find your voice again, maybe
you won't sing of the dead world any longer, but of the living and
suffering. Your thoughts were fine; they showed you to be a poet; but I
have never hidden from you how I wished that you had been on my side.
Art, nowadays, must be the mouthpiece of misery, for misery is the
key-note of modern life."
They talked on, and Julian, so easily moulded by a strong will, became
half courageous.
"One of her reproaches," he said, "is just; I can't meet it. If I
object to her present companions it is my duty to find her more
suitable ones. She lives too much alone. No doubt it is every husband's
duty to provide his wife with society. But how am I to find it? I am so
isolated, and always have been. I know not a soul who could be a friend
to her."
Waymark grew thoughtful, and kept silent.
"One person I know," he said presently, and in a cautious way, "who
might perhaps help you."
"You do?" cried Julian eagerly.
"You know that I make all sorts of queer acquaintances in my
wanderings. Well, I happen to know a girl of about your wife's age,
who, if she were willing, would be just the person you want. She is
quite alone, parentless, and almost without friends. She lives by
herself, and supports herself by working in a laundry. For all this,
she is by no means the ordinary London work-girl; you can't call her
educated, but she speaks purely, and has a remarkably good
intelligence. I met her by chance, and kept up her acquaintance. There
has been nothing wrong--bah! how conventional one is, in spite of
oneself!--I mean to say there has been nothing more than a pleasant
friendship between us; absolutely nothing. We see each other from time
to time, and have a walk, perhaps a meal, together, and I lend her
books. Now, do you think there would be any way of getting your wife to
accept her society, say of an evening now and then? Don't do anything
rash; it is of course clear that _you_ must have no hand in this. I
must manage it if it is to be done. Naturally, I can't answer at once
for the girl's readiness; but I believe she would do what I asked her
to. Do you think it is worth entertaining, this idea?"
"I do, indeed; it would be salvation, I really believe."
"Don't be too sanguine, Casti; that's another of your faults. Still, I
know very well that this girl could cure your wife of her ill
propensities if any living creature could. She is strong in character,
admirably clear-headed, mild, gentle, womanly; in fact, there is
perhaps no one I respect so much, on the whole."
"Respect, only?" asked Julian, smiling.
"Ye-es; yes, I believe I am perfectly honest in saying so, though I
couldn't have been so sure about it some little time ago. Our
relations, no doubt, are peculiar; on her side there is no more warmth
than on mine"--Waymark tried so to believe--"and indeed her clear sight
has no doubt gauged me fairly well at my true value."
"What is her name?"
"Ida Starr."
"What!" cried Julian startled. "That is a strange thing! You have
noticed the scar on Harriet's forehead?"
"Well?"
"Why, it was a wound given her at school by a girl of that very name! I
remember the name as well as possible. It was a blow with a slate dealt
in passion--some quarrel or other. They were both children then, and
Ida Starr left the school in consequence."
"Is it possible that it is the same person?" asked Waymark, wondering
and reflecting.
"If so, that puts a new difficulty in our way."
"Removes one, I should have thought"
"Harriet is not of a very forgiving nature," said Julian gravely.
"I shouldn't have supposed she was; but a long time has gone by since
then, and, after all, one is generally glad to see an old
school-fellow."
At this point the conversation was interrupted by a knock at the door,
followed by the announcement that a gentleman named O'Gree wished to
see Mr. Waymark. Waymark smiled at Julian.
"Don't run away," he said. "You ought to know O'Gree in the flesh."
The teacher came into the room with a rush, and was much taken aback at
the sight of a stranger present. Perspiration was streaming profusely
from his face, which was aglow with some great intelligence. After
being introduced to Casti, he plunged down on a chair, and mopped
himself with his handkerchief, uttering incoherencies about the state
of the weather. Waymark made an effort to bring about a general
conversation, but failed; O'Gree was so preoccupied that any remark
addressed to him had to be repeated before he understood it, and Julian
was in no mood for making new acquaintances. So, in a few minutes, the
latter took his hat and left, Waymark going with him to the door to
speak a few words of encouragement.
"The battle's won!" cried O'Gree, with much gesticulation, as soon as
Waymark returned. "The campaign's at an end!--I'm sorry if I've driven
your friend away, but I was bound to tell you."
"All right. Let me have a description of the manoeuvres."
"Look here, my boy," said O'Gree, with sudden solemnity, "you've never
been very willing to talk to me about her. Now, before I tell you
anything, I want to know this. _Why_ wouldn't you tell me how you first
got to know her, and so on?"
"Before I answer, I want to know this: have you found out why I
wouldn't?"
"Yes, I have--that is, I suppose I have--and from her own lips, too!
You knew her when she lived near the Strand there, eh?"
"I did."
"Well now, understand, my boy. I don't want to hear anything
disagreeable; in fact, I won't listen to anything disagreeable;--all I
want to know is, whether I may safely tell you what she has told me. If
you don't know it already, there's no need to talk of it."
"I understand, and I don't think you can tell me anything I'm not well
aware of."
"Sure, then, I will tell you, and if there's another girl as brave and
honest as Sally in all this worruld, I'll be obliged if you'll make me
acquainted with her! Well, you know she has a Saturday afternoon off
every month. It hasn't been a very cheerful day, but it couldn't be
missed; and, as it was too rainy to walk about, I couldn't think of any
better place to go to than the British Museum. Of course I wanted to
find a quiet corner, but there were people about everywhere, and the
best we could manage was in the mummy-room. We looked at all the
mummies, and I told her all I knew about them, and I kept thinking to
myself: Now, how can I work round to it? I've tried so often, you know,
and she's always escaped me, somehow, and I couldn't help thinking it
was because I hadn't gone about it in the proper way. Well, we'd been
staring at a mummy for about a quarter of an hour, and neither of us
said anything, when all at once a rare idea came into my head. 'Sally,'
I said, glancing round to see that there was no one by, 'that mummy was
very likely a pretty girl like you, once.' 'Do you think so?' she said,
with that look of hers which makes me feel like a galvanic battery. 'I
do,' I said, 'and what's more, there may once have been another mummy,
a man-mummy, standing by her just as I am standing by you, and wanting
very much to ask her something, and shaking in his shoes for fear he
shouldn't get the right answer.' 'Did the mummies wear shoes when they
were alive?' she asked, all at once. 'Wear shoes!' I cried out. 'I
can't tell you, Sally; but one thing I feel very sure of, and that is
that they had hearts. Now, suppose,' I said, 'we're those two
mummies--' 'I'm sure it's bad luck!' interrupted Sally. 'Oh no, it
isn't,' said I, seeing something in her face which made me think it was
the opposite. 'Let me go on. Now, suppose the one mummy said to the
other, "Sally--"' '_Were_ the girl-mummies called Sally?' she
interrupted again. 'Sure I can't say,' said I, 'but we'll suppose so.
Well, suppose he said, "Sally if I can hit on some means of making a
comfortable home here by the Nile,--that's to say, the Thames, you
know,--will you come and keep it in order for me, and live with me for
all the rest of our lives?" Now what do you think the girl-mummy would
have answered?'"
Waymark laughed, but O'Gree had become solemn.
"She didn't answer at once, and there was something very queer in her
face. All at once she said, 'What has Mr. Waymark told you about me?'
'Why, just nothing at all,' I said, rather puzzled. 'And do you know,'
she asked then, without looking at me, 'what sort of a girl I am?'
Well, all at once there came something into my head that I'd never
thought of before, and I was staggered for a moment; I couldn't say
anything. But I got over it. 'I don't want to know anything,' I said.
'All I know is, that I like you better than I ever shall any one else,
and I want you to promise to be my wife, some day.' 'Then you must let
me tell you all my story first,' she said. 'I won't answer till you
know everything.' And so she told me what it seems you know. Well, if I
thought much of her before, I thought a thousand times as much after
that! And do you know what? I believe it was on my account that she
went and took that place in the shop."
"Precisely," said Waymark.
"You think so?" cried the other, delighted.
"I guessed as much when she met me that day and said I might let you
know where she was."
"Ha!" exclaimed O'Gree, with a long breath.
"And so the matter is settled?"
"All but the most important part of it. There's no chance of my being
able to marry for long enough to come. Now, can you give me any advice?
I've quite made up my mind to leave Tootle. The position isn't worthy
of a gentleman; I'm losing my self-respect. The she-Tootle gets worse
and worse. If I don't electrify her, one of these days, with an
outburst of ferocious indignation, she will only have my patience to
thank. Let her beware how she drives the lion to bay!"
"Couldn't you get a non-resident mastership?"
"I must try, but the pay is so devilish small."
"We must talk the matter over."